Can someone please suggest some paranormal bts imagines? I'm talking vampire, werewolf, gumiho, ghost, etc. but heavy on the vampire! Doesn't matter the member I love them all. Please and thank you!
in the near future, women lost all rights and are treated mainly as sex objects. it's a bleak existence, especially with the memory of how the world used to be just four years ago. you cannot come to terms with the extreme dehumanisation, shocked by the still new conditions - which are further disrupted when a powerful man buys you for permanent use.
tags: soft yoongi x difficult, abrasive, rough, cynical fem!reader, slowburn, (slightly) avoidant yoongi, very slow hurt/comfort, super soft mafia daddy yoongi, murderous yoongi, mythology, classic arts, dystopia, taming, psychology
warnings: the word rape is used across this work many times, but there are no scenes or descriptions, only mentions of the fact and conversations about it. + murder, violence, the burn is real slow. suicidal behaviour, severe PTSD, eating disorder, puking, psychological oppression, dead dove for the sexist world where women are enslaved, derogatory nicknames, illness, light torture, depictions of blood and wounds, description of scars, moral corruption, detachment from violence, normalisation of voilence, perverted trauma response, mega grey morals
in this chapter: suicide attempt
word count: 4690
The light hit his retina, and he hated it. The ray hurt him. His nose was filled with the smell of flesh. He side-eyed Titi but didn't say anything, moving his gaze away again lest he had the urge to vomit. Focusing on girls was barely more pleasurable; fluorescent skin with the undertone of plastic, a dead mermaid standing upright with the tension in the shoulders. Most of them were like that, with empty faces, and it irritated him. After years of irritation and the constant bottling of negative emotions, he couldn't figure out anymore, what was the exact object that pissed him off.
The stiff old armchair - you'd think in an establishment where you pay fifty-two million won for whores, the accommodation and service is better. The old faux leather, chipped under his bare wrist, irritated the skin, and he moved his hand onto his lap, and Titi took this movement as a sign to slow down the platform. They all spun on it like cows for sale, with unnaturally wide spread legs - for balance. Stiff, scared, because they were all naked, all shades of skin, but even the darkest ones shone like bulbs in the dimmed ultraviolet because Titi sprayed them thinking they were more attractive like that. He was a bit hungry, keeping his mouth closed so that he wouldn't say something impolite; his eyes dragging off bodies that kept spinning in front of him. Four years ago, he would've killed Titi and all the security and then he would've stood here in the middle of this room with the knife in his hand and a bunch of poor naked girls, not knowing what the fuck to do with them.
Now he has completely submitted to the jadedness, the exhaustion and cynicism. No more. No deeds. No cigarettes. And no fucking edible food in this place; and the worst, the saddest thing was they all now looked the same. Regardless of the eye slant, the shade of skin, the length of legs, the shape of hands and bodies - they were all identical with the same dead look in the eyes. Through darkness, he could see their scars, incredibly, also many of them in the same spots. Faces, bellies, necks and thighs. One of them had a scar on her temple, like a ripple on the water, hysterical blood stuffed away beneath the rough patch of flesh. Yoongi frowned in interest. He sighed with relief: she was stunning. Finally, it wasn't an error in his brain after all this time, but simply an issue of preference. His vision cleared, and, without making a fuss, he sank his eyes into her, into her body parts, natural like breaths; into her grim face which changed the expression immediately. As soon as she saw his direct gaze, she knew she's done for. She will be getting bought. And her eyes went steely, hooded. The tint of despair covered the eyeballs, hiding the colour. But Yoongi could not help but drink the sight of her: the soft shoulders, the straight collarbones; the way the lines of her stomach stayed unmoving even when her chest visibly went up with a sharp inhale. The thighs: he wanted to grab them, he wanted to do everything that a man can do to a woman when he doesn't wish her to be dead. Draw his lips along her waist, feel the warm skin under his hands - just for once; he was able to delude himself that this will be different. He will earn this. The soft thin skin in of her underknee. The barely audible squeal of bones. To see her breasts change shape as he lies on her back. To fight her as he is trying to get her to hug.
He blinked not to let his eyes go dry, gazing at her back as she moved away, the look of haunted alertness on her face. The horror of being chosen. The dramatic features could not be beaten out of her expression; her face stayed vivid through all this; he gestured to stop the stupid wheel, and the girls were released to leave. They stepped away soundlessly, in such orderly manner that, he thought, they wouldn't run even if the doors were wide open. Maybe, not her. The hostility in her eyes was unbearable, the hatred, it made him incredibly hard and incredibly hurt, because he hasn't done anything yet. The hatred she had for the whole humankind was palpable, and it sounded like a call for a challenge to him, trained for fighting. It egged him up. He felt in love. With that, irritation grew. Titi kept them walking around like objects, with no clothes, so that clients would evaluate stock quickly, so that there wouldn't be later complaints. As if those beautiful lighter textured lines on their thighs were defects. As if their asymmetrical eyes were lesser. With the infatuation hitting him for one of them, all the women suddenly seemed stunning to him again. He remembered for a second that they, too, used to have individualities and freedoms, that they were humans just like him. That sacred notion bore no sense in this reality, though. Yoongi was happy to acquire the tunnel goal of saving at least only one. One is better than zero. Her hair will look healthy again once she goes off those drugs Titi pumps them with, and starts eating normal food. Once she gains some weight, and the hip bones sink back in. Once the angry haunted look changes for at least disbelief.
He turned his face to Titi, who scrunched his shoulders mistakenly, while trying to seem dignified. The man stepped to him unhurriedly, making one of Yoongi's personal assistants roll their eyes. Those guys had no patience whatsoever, and usually, when they emoted like this, Yoongi snickered. Now he was trying to hold his breath so that he wouldn't retch at the proximity of Titi. Pimp smelt like overripe peach, burnt caramel and cigarette smoke. Yoongi had quit some time ago and suffered greatly. Everything, everything about this guy was enraging. Maybe it was hypocritical of him; after all, he reached for his phone into his pants pocket.
"How much for number seven?"
"Forty thousand dollars", Titi replied, then closed his eyes. "Sorry, that would be seventy million".
Obviously, she was worth it. A beautiful human is worth the numbers that banks cannot operate. But from the market point of view, Yoongi could not help but wonder. A pad was shoved into his hand with the profile. He read off the age and the colour of her eye, the amount of previous clients that used her and brought back, before Titi acquired her for permanent sale. All the scars, the injuries, the sicknesses, the skin imperfections, the hair placement, the allergies and the picture of teeth lined up in a small box, painting a picture of someone who would cost much, much less.
He looked up at Titi who read his mind and made an apologetic face.
"Why so expensive?"
"Maybe you would like to look at number three..." his finger tried to swipe the page, and Yoongi slapped it away lightly. Their hands looked neon in the shine of the pad. At the contact with Titi's skin, Yoongi's desire to kill him grew so much that it almost drowned out the sensation of the boner.
"She has awful temperament... if that's what you like", Titi muttered.
"Why so expensive?" Yoongi repeated, without getting mad.
"Feisty. She fights back. Smart. And still tight. See, only four customers, and one of them never fucked her, but you will want to see the body again, she has these numb spots and scars and..." Yoongi looked away, and that made him shut up.
"I'm paying".
"I don't accept returns".
Yoongi gave the pad back patiently and nodded, unwilling to repeat himself again. It's been four years, and seemingly he should have gotten used to this, to this new world, to the death of conscience. After all, his life and job were not connected to women, and he personally never committed atrocities against them, so he was clean. As clean as someone who stands by and watches, of course.
But he was doing a good thing now. In his own way and in his own world, slowly, without expecting results any time soon - or ever. But there was no god to watch and punish, or even judge - it was all just money and pleasure, and nothing else.
He liked that you didn't visibly look horrified like some others.
He liked that you were equally angry.
🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃
You started to shake when Titi came into the small round room. He brought with him the smell of burnt caramel that made you nauseous in the van before, and now again, tenfold. You were about to fold in half and vomit on the silky dark-red carpet, looking like black blood in the fucking stripclub light.
You knew what he was going to say, and still turned away, clawing at one more safe moment, pretending that whatever you've just seen was a trick of light and a spurt of overthinking. The slits for eyes on that man in the armchair scared you; a lot of things scared you. Fear was now all the life. You looked at the other girls, both those who you liked and disliked, with hope. Any petty fights and disagreements among them were better than whoever sat in that armchair. His face was white like a wall. He looked dangerous. Scary. Horrifying. You have never met his kind, and yet you knew his kind. Oh god, oh god he looked terrifying. His relaxed back, and his peaceful hands, and the slits for eyes, and the slick hair, and the empty expression - you've lived enough, both in the old world and the new one, to know that kind of person. Even though it was dark, even though he hadn't moved, you felt he made eye contact with you, and clung on you like a worm. Never in the last four years have you gotten the ice daggers of goosebumps that covered your skin when he looked at you.
You were done for.
Titi called your number.
He never addressed you by names. Blind in one eye, he knew he would persevere anyway, even though it's been too little time for human women not to fight back. He knew he was as safe as a credit card inside a rich man's pocket. Even though he was severely injured, he was loyal to the system, he was a fan of it, and he called you by numbers instead of names, pretending as if you'd all forgotten them in just four years.
The most shocking thing was that some women did.
You had never reacted when called by the number before, but now there was no use struggling anymore. Maybe you would have to struggle for the last time soon, and you needed to save mental strength.
Without looking around, you put on the robe over your shoulders. You didn't have any other clothes: you were rarely outside. All movement seemed to happen in between warm cars and warm rooms; never exposed to the sun; transported safely and into the comfortable spaces that were not made comfortable for you.
Every time for the last year now, when you got nervous, your right temple hurt like a bitch. You didn't touch it, knowing that pressing it with fingers, even cold ones, only amplified the pain.
The robe was perfumed, silky. This was one thing you could choose yourself: the scent on your robe. Rainforest orchid and blue cactus. The funny part was, though, that you did not care much when choosing. What did it matter when every time you were in contact with a human now, they infected you with their smell instead, and most of the times it was not pleasant at all.
You didn't want to think about that white-faced man at all, not about his smell, not about his money, not about his eyes. The only relevant thing, as you left the room, saying nothing to Titi, followed by the inexpressive eyes of the girls, was what he was going to do to you.
At some point you stopped thinking about the ways you could possibly outpower men, and started computing quick ways to kill yourself. Some motherly voice deep inside your head scolded you for it every time: giving up is shameful. It's unladylike. You must push through, you must find an escape.
Now, though, she said quietly: maybe? He is fucking scary. The primal fear pushed you, with the coming calm, to think of the myriad of variants of how you can end your life before reaching his house - if that's a house he is taking you to.
The huge clubhouse was still lit with the pale bluish light, with human figures scattered like ghosts, oblong-triangular, men in suits. It was vomit-inducingly banal, gross: a businessman buying a body, surrounded by his henchmen, hiding in the dark.
He stood half-turned away next to the armchair, only making sure that you're out and are being pushed forward by Titi. Horror would've paralyzed your feet, but the sudden anger stroke you again, like minutes before. The type of indiscernible anger that doesn't even discriminate anymore; just a mass of blind rage that kills all fright. If you have to die, then you will, and there's nothing bad about it. But you were determined to die on your terms. It was almost pleasant, to think of how you are going to deprive him of the pleasure of torturing you; and that's what your guess would be, with this one. He looked lazy as he walked; his broad back and the uneven stride, as if he limped just a little bit, made your mind rush to the opposite direction. Calm like a volcano, with deeply evil thoughts and some twisted desires. You wished you had been just an unthinking animal not to understand things. You regretted being so passionate about books before the change happened. You couldn't stop fantasizing about swallowing your own hair.
Titi pushed you in the shoulder for the last time: it was his way of saying goodbye. He never spoke with you like he did with the other girls; deemed it pointless. You never spoke with him either, when you had energy, you simply spat obscenities at him as it was new casual language. With the others, he would give advice. Pretend like he had the girl's interest on his mind, as he leaned over their shoulder and whisper something. You always guessed it was some kind of advice on how to satisfy the customer and not immediately get yourself crippled. You never found out because Titi was a permanent seller: he sold girls for good and didn't accept them back. The previous one, Samyoung, rented you out and took you back, and even took care of you after. You spoke to him the same way you did with Titi.
Suddenly, the man disappeared out of the door, and two of his workers guided you on. Security guards or assistants - it didn't matter much as they all looked identical.
You stepped away from Titi - and thus the life you've led for the last four years, was severed, so simply. No more girls' faces, no more Titi's voice, no more "holding house" rooms, no more travels in the warm cars. Maybe, the last one.
You felt nothing about it like you felt nothing about most things lately. What can an object feel? As you stepped into the windy street and looked up shortly, the golden cold raindrops attacked your eyes, and you thought about darting. But a pair of hands grabbed you by the forearms. Maybe Titi told them about you: that you still act out. That you are a nuisance. That you are unbearable to be with. That you cost so much because you scream.
There were two cars sitting snugly on the street, pressed against the curb being sprayed with the mellow rain. The few steps over, an umbrella sprung open above your head, cutting your view from the world. Cutting you from the water. They didn't push; instead, they led you firmly, the way that made you drag your feet. It was blind, and the others always said it was stupid of you; that maybe underneath it all you've had a death wish for a while, because every action provoked a reaction.
The only thing that happened when you tried to stop, was the further movement. Instead of getting angry, the faceless men, copies of their boss, simply lifted you up by your shoulders, letting the toes of your shoes drag, and kept walking.
The door opened, a black mouth with white outlining. Through the far window on the other side, reddish of the street shone through, and inside. Surprised by their lack of aggression, you got inside without being motivated.
Your bare knees didn't squeal on soft leather. Instead, they slightly dipped in, just like your palms. You sat quickly, not exposing your back for too long, and felt trapped.
All of a sudden, you were left almost alone - with a driver at the wheel only. They did everything softly: the door closed with a click, and the silence was prickled with pointed drops of the rain on the roof. The windows acquired this orange tint... you felt like you were being drugged. The moment lasted so long it seemed like you were drifting. You shook yourself awake: your bare body with not even underwear, clothed just in a silky robe, in the cloud of your own body mist, was tense in the middle of the backseat in the quiet car. You were trying not to look at the profile of the driver, and moved behind him. His eyes were cast at the wheel, and nothing moved. The reason was the car right in front. Black window hid the owner. You started shaking again. The seconds you spent observing and marvelling now seemed foolish, as if you could have changed anything. Why were they not moving? Was he going to suddenly get into your car? You looked at the door and manually locked it. No reaction from the driver. No sound: he hasn't moved a shoulder. You leaned across and locked the other door, then grouped again behind his seat. It smelt like you thoroughly now. You liked to bathe in the body mist that was now left with the girls... you had no items of your own, just the dark-brown robe.
It felt like an eternity of you just sitting, trembling more and more each second, before the engine started softly. You didn't see him move an arm; maybe he clicked a button. The backlights of the car in front glowed white, and the vehicle started moving.
It glided across the rain-soaked city. You rarely saw it anymore, since mostly Titi transported you all in a van with no windows and let inside through the back doors.
The capital changed seemingly overnight; or it looked tragically more beautiful in the rain. Tall buildings looked cleaner than ever; asphalt glistened, and it was all chocolate and dark-blue. Deep sky shot up and was invisible. In the central streets, young laurel trees stood separately, as if they were shy to approach anything; they were taunting you. You couldn't have sex with a laurel tree. If you cut it down, it would not produce a sound; they looked immortal even if they weren't. The cars moved past them like they weren't interested.
From a distance, you saw the opera house - standing engulfed in light, surrounded by the shreds of the buildings near it. From there, as you sank deeper into the seat, the discord started being more obvious. The car passed a chain of closed stores, but even the ugly iron bars covering the broken windows and unlocked doors, looked neat in the rain. It must have been stronger while you were inside.
You leaned back, unable to move anymore. The cloud-white light filled your eyes, and you closed them. The smell of blue cactus and the sweet tint of the orchid accompanied you right until the car gradually stopped. Then you came back to reality. Where you had to decide what to do - and quickly.
You looked out. As the door opened, chill night air busted inside, taking your tiny safe haven and distorting it.
The house stood, lit by the warm lamps, stretching on like a caterpillar. The men moved like all their steps were choreographed. Not a word, only the synchronised and unhurried floating. They hovered by, not standing too close, but like a school of fish, or a living labyrinth, opening only where you were supposed to walk.
Nobody told you to move it, and you didn't see the owner. Just the small entrance, rows of grass below your feet, the warm yellow light and some intricate shadows cast by the trees at the door. The night stole the scale of everything. You walked like in a dream. No matter how hard you tried to stay alert, their utter silence unnerved you, creating the feeling of a hoax. They stayed outside as the door opened, and you entered a large hall. The furniture here was cubic, but woodlike. Small chairs were clad in fabric. Shape and beige pillars around: disfigured room, larger on the left than on the right. Not a single symmetrical thing, like you were in a dwelling of a whimsical architect. Titi always told you that you ponder too much for a whore. And you always tried to hurt him, somehow, anyhow, for opening his mouth. He always tried to pretend you are supposed to bow your head and submit, but even from the most calculating, cold point of view, four years of this were not enough to lose humanity...
Somebody who you supposed was a house keeper, appeared out of the door to the side. This house will be hard to run from; the entrance was counter-intuitive, the door seemingly existed in the middle of the wall. When you saw his calm face, unrelatedly, you thought about how soon this world order will crumble. You can't exist long while having half of your population incarcerated. You can't continue on as a species whilst killing off those who give birth to your people. You can't thrive while committing ultimate crimes, while soaking in such hatred. You didn't know why this butler made you think of that again. He didn't look evil; none of them did. He was just like other staff: reserved, confident, unhurried. He even had something feminine about him, in his face, in the way he smiled not too widely, which came off as more honest. It was more of a polite stretch of lips.
"y/n, I can take you to one of the bedrooms: we can look on our way, so you choose one for yourself".
You stood numb, relaxed arms with the clutched fists by your sides, listening to what's happening behind you.
"Where's the guy?" you asked. The soft furniture devoured the sound of your voice like the words never fell out of your mouth.
"Mr. Min? Would you like to see him?"
You got a twitch in your upper lip. There it is: the death wish. It wasn't hard to be brave anymore: sure, you had your moments of fear, but when faced with the enemy himself, it really stopped to matter. There was no pain anymore, you thought, that you would consider. And if it went south - you would run your head first into that sharp outstanding shelf edge to the left of his shoulder. There was no pain anymore, that a man could inflict on you, that you wouldn't counter on yourself.
"Yeah", you mimicked the butler, "I would like to see the dude who just bought me. Let's stop pretending I'm a guest".
The man was quiet for a while. He looked at you with a soft expression of hurt, as if you had been rude at a classy event. He was upset, but gathered himself quickly. He had a broad, flat face, and would be considered ugly without his expensive shirt and the gel in his hair.
"Mr. Min requested that you are left alone to acclimatise a little tonight. He said he will be busy until morning".
You changed feet and looked around again. One shelf went up to the ceiling. There were several plants on it, close to the door. On the other side, the hall grew into a further corridor that led inside the house. The butler, whose name you didn't care for, turned and gestured towards it. The formality sickened you.
You stepped towards him, both your hands stiff, and pushed him in the shoulder. The man's eyes grew a little as he looked at you. You expected a rude order. You were sort of used to the rude orders by now: at least they hinted at what the other party wanted. Now that he was silent, you both stood in the middle of a big, well-lit, strangely (objectively) cosy room. He looked at you, and you looked at him. Then he turned around, feigning offense, and walked away into the corridor.
You realised that the mind has been colonised after all. You wanted a fight, or an instruction. Now, left to yourself, you had no idea what to do.
The robe slid across your body lightly, the silk threatening to open up any second. You had to fasten it constantly. You walked back to the entrance door, tightening the belt, and pulled on the handle. It was locked.
Picking up a pot from the shelf, you looked at the plant, and pathetically couldn't throw it into the window. You settled on a bottle that you stood on your tiptoes for; it was heavy, the wine splashing inside. Your arm trembled. You swung, and threw it into the dark glass spotted with raindrops from the outside.
As the bottle bounced with a dull idiotic sound, it nearly hit you in the face.
You were battling your own brain that was demanding that you feel stupid. Your lips were a mess: bitten, tasting of iron. The scent of blue cactus and the orchid floated in the room again as your body started heating up. Finally, the proper panic hit - and then ended abruptly. You can kill yourself right now. No mind games, no politeness or the illusion of peace can delude you into thinking you are safe here. The man with the white face did not look like a human. There were no humans left in this new world: all of them were either victims or predators. You yourself weren't a good person anymore.
You picked up the bottle again and now aimed for the bare portion of the wall where exposed concrete was supposedly tastefully contrasting with the greenery on the shelf.
The sound of the cracking glass was as dull, non-echoing, as before. Dark-red splashed on the carpet you didn't realise you stood on.
Before anything else could happen, stunned at the long-forgotten smell of wine, you ran up to the broken pieces and grabbed one.
You were not interested in finding out who the fuck he was. You did not care for the things he was planning to do with you. You didn't even care what name stood behind Mr. and right before Min. It wasn't dramatic thinking: you knew you would get hurt in here. So you hurt yourself first. It was the only sensible thing to do. The mother voice in your head sighed, talking you into it gently, as the pain stung your arm. You pushed the piece harder, as it turned out more complicated to break the vein.
"Somebody is coming!" she warned. This someone pinched you in the shoulder. You tragically failed to die.
in the near future, women lost all rights and are treated mainly as sex objects. it's a bleak existence, especially with the memory of how the world used to be just four years ago. you cannot come to terms with the extreme dehumanisation, shocked by the still new conditions - which are further disrupted when a powerful man buys you for permanent use.
tags: soft yoongi x difficult, abrasive, rough, cynical fem!reader, slowburn, (slightly) avoidant yoongi, very slow hurt/comfort, super soft mafia daddy yoongi, murderous yoongi, mythology, classic arts, dystopia, taming, psychology
warnings: the word rape is used across this work many times, but there are no scenes or descriptions, only mentions of the fact and conversations about it. + murder, violence, the burn is real slow. suicidal behaviour, severe PTSD, eating disorder, puking, psychological oppression, dead dove for the sexist world where women are enslaved, derogatory nicknames, illness, light torture, depictions of blood and wounds, description of scars, moral corruption, detachment from violence, normalisation of voilence, perverted trauma response, mega grey morals + as the work is ongoing, god knows i will update this list, smut is to be expected
author's note: it was extremely hard to write in some parts even tho i brought it on myself voluntarily. i initially thought about a quickie on how the prolonged "peaceful" incarceration affects the state of mind and gradually kills the alertness; wanted to explore whether feelings between the captor and the victim are even possible in such circumstances if you exclude the stockholm syndrome. but as it usually happens to me, this world started growing environment and took me to a very dark place that was pretty horrifying. i also gotta shout out @n33mesis and her story in which yoongi buys the reader off her boyfriend the core concept of which ig never left my mind!
!!! i am using my perma tag list for this one, so write a comment or let me know in any way if you want to be untagged: @kam9404 , @ryryvna , @mar-lo-pap , @kiki-zb , @onyxthornseer , @icantsleephomesick
hiii, I just re read your siren drabble for jimin! could we maybe get part 2?<3
Yeahhh lots of people were anticipating that— Ive been fighting with where I want to take it. Heres a part two for you lovely. Warning for the tiniest bit of violence (he is a monster after all)
siren. Jimin sfw.
Jimin's tail curls around your waist like a living silk, his blue scales catching the faint glow from above. The water around you pulses with movement as Jin and the others drift closer, their silhouettes like ribbons in the blurry water. The pressure of the ocean feels different now; it doesn't crush you— it cradles you, held in place by the magic he bled into your lungs. Your unease doesn’t waver as tugs you downward, guiding your body toward a canyon of glowing coral. As you descend, the light from the surface dims, replaced by the bioluminescent hum of the surrounding plants.
The other siren rise from their hiding places, their eyes reflecting the strange, alien beauty of their figure. Six of them- a dangerous ratio against one human. This was what Jimin meant by home.
There's something trance-like about what you're witnessing. Its already foreign enough that you're deep enough in the ocean to touch the floor. You're caught up in your own head, too preoccupied to listen as his companions flock around you and inspect their first human up close. Your mind swirls with their strange observations.
“She has no fins…”
“How do humans balance on these?” You feel one brush your leg.
“No patterns. No scales, no color….” Another touched your shoulders. “This covering is strange,” hands tug at the soaked fabric of your clothes.
Jimin must've gotten impatient, because in a flash of bubbles and foam he's warned them to back off.
“Enough. Shes my catch.”
The fins along the length of his tail are flared wide like a betta's. You flinch slightly at the motion. All of the other siren scatter at his show of dominance.
“What… does that mean?” You inquire hesitantly, hoping it’s not what the folklore usually insinuates.
“It means I don’t want to share. If they want a human they catch it themselves.”
Not… helpful. He extends his webbed hand to you and you take it. What else were you going to do, try and swim away?
Further into the tangles of plants and coral is an alcove you can only assume is his. He lets go of you and disappears inside briefly only to return with.. you gaze down at his open palms.
Pearls. Lots of them. He strings them up nicely around your neck.
“For me?” You ask, rubbing the individual pearls between your fingers. He nods. “Do you like them?” He lashes his tail slightly, his fins flared. He was expecting approval.
“I mean… they’re beautiful, thank you, I guess I just don’t understand.”
He furrows a brow. You watch, fascinated as he lashes his tail, the fins flaring a different, richer color.
“They’re for you,” he expresses, desperate. “I want you— I love you. I want you to want me.”
He was courting you. Of course— it’s starting to make sense now.
“Jimin, that is so, so sweet but…” you try to let him down gently. He keens: a sharp, dissatisfied sound like a dolphin as he crowds your space again. He takes your face between webbed fingers and you panic.
“Why not?” His gaze is locked on your lips. “You wait for me at the shore!” He expresses. “You wait for me every night…” he frets.
“I’m not a siren.” You reason, placing one hand over his. You can see the discomfort in his eyes.
“I don’t care.” He thumbs over your bottom lip. “There’s nobody else- none of my kind compare to you. My songs are for you, my… my treasure is for you, my nest is for you,” he expresses. You look just past his features at the alcove he came from. All this time you’ve been visiting him, he thought you wanted to be with him. His song wasn’t just for luring prey- it was to find someone.
“Please?”
The silence you offer him is worse than rejection. His fins flare, ego bruised, as his loving hands move to your neck instead. You’re losing the ability to breathe.
“Jimin-“ you protest, bubbles stealing your breath as water enters your lungs. “Wait!” You choke out. He’s watching you drown.
You grasp at him and, after several long minutes of struggling he finally presses his lips to yours for mercy.
“Ill do it,” you gasp, out of breath. “Ill do it, I accept-“
His arms find their way around your waist, his soft, cold skin eagerly pressed against yours. When he kisses you again you don’t fight it, you kiss back. Your arms find comfort snaked around his shoulders as he practically devours you in a state of need.
The taste of him becomes your entire world: salt, aloe, and a desperate, consuming hunger.
The pearls he gave you clink softly against each other between your bodies as he drags you closer, eliminating every inch of space. His tongue flicks against yours, tasting the surrender in your mouth. Despite yourself, you find it easy to respond with equal fervor, your fingers digging into the slick scales of his shoulders. The fear that once paralyzed you has twisted; its easy to forget what he is if you close your eyes and let it happen.
"My human," he breathes against your mouth, the words vibrating through your lips. "My beautiful, perfect human." His tail wraps around your legs. His touch becomes bolder, his webbed fingers sliding beneath the hem of your shirt to explore the sensitive skin of your stomach.
“You’re never going back to the surface,” he admits eagerly, lost in the satisfaction of it all. “I wont let you.”
I’ve fallen victim to your taekook drabbles… can we get something angsty, maybe jealousy???
usually I write jealousy where one person is angry about it— this time, I wanted to make the reader a little more fainthearted. Here’s Tae and Jungkook both realizing their baby is jealous and kissing it better 🤍
heartaches. taekook sfw
Jealousy between the three of you wasn't typically a problem. Taehyung and Jungkook both were very attentive, very patient, generous lovers. There was always plenty of affection to go around, you almost never got that aching twist of envy. Not with other girls, not with fans, not with anyone.
But... sometimes. Sometimes Taehyung spent a little too long showering Jungkook in murmured praise in the warm light of your home. Sometimes Jungkook preferred to throw himself on Taehyung all night. Sometimes he bottled things up too tightly and preferred to dump it all out in Taehyung's strong, capable arms.
Sometimes you got the feeling all they really wanted was each other.
You didn't want to feel this way. It was eating you alive, moment by painstaking moment. Shoving it down anymore was useless. There was no more room for setting the feeling aside.
-
Taehyung was singing along and pacing to a love song Jungkook put on as he made dinner for the three of you. He got caught up in the moment, wrapping his arms around Jungkook's waist from behind and swaying side to side.
"Dance with me," He offers, kissing the spot behind Jungkook's ear.
"I can't, I'm busy." Jungkook sets his spoon down.
"It can wait- come on, you like this song." Taehyung urges and Jungkook gives in. He's got a shy smile on his face.
"I love you."
"I know- I love you more."
"You can't love me more."
You look up from your phone; the kitchen table feels cold and lonely. They aren't even trying to rope you into their nonsense. It just comes naturally for them to cling to each other.
You look back down at your phone but it's not distracting you the way you need. You may as well be invisible, since all Taehyung can see is the way Jungkook lights up his life or whatever corny banter they're spewing at each other in attempt to be the better lover.
"Can you guys stop it?" You chime against your better judgement. Jungkook looks at you from over Taehyung's shoulder, his hand tightening around his boyfriends at the sound of tension.
Taehyung looks too- he's more confused than anything. "What, baby?"
"I said can you stop it." You repeat, your voice more hurt than it was before. "I get it, you're perfect for each other and only each other." You bitterly state, "You don't have to do it in front of me."
"Honey, what-" Jungkook drops his hold on Taehyung. He stops to turn the stove on the lowest setting so dinner doesn't burn but then he's practically jogging over to you so he can kneel by your dining chair. "We love you- we love you so much, baby."
You can't help it. The tears come before you can say anything more. Your fingers dig into the skin of your knees as you go rigid with discomfort. Jungkook puts one of his hands over yours.
"We love you," He repeats. "I promise we love you, it's not intentional-"
"You always do that." You express, struggling to look at him. "You pick each other and then I'm just... here."
Taehyung wants to help but he's stuck. From his perspective this is all out of seemingly nowhere. Jungkook glances at him for help but ultimately chooses to stick by your side.
"I'm sorry you feel like we don't love you." he decides to say, "I, for one, love you just as much as I love Taehyung and would do anything to show you that. Can I make it up to you?"
You glance up at Taehyung, teary-eyed. He seems ashamed. "I had no idea you felt left out, honey. I don't mean to exclude you."
"You do." You pout, not answering Jungkook's question. "You spend every single day with Jungkook. You work with him, you don't even see me as much as you see him and you still pick him!"
"It comes naturally to me." Taehyung says; Jungkook stills, catching on that what he said might have just made this worse. He squeezes your hand.
"And I don't?" You counter, more upset.
"He doesn't mean it like that, baby." Jungkook insists. "I- come here, c'mere..." He puts an arm out to hold you and you barely react when he pulls you closer. Jungkook presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"You come naturally to me." He reassures you, pressing another kiss to you. "I think about you all the time, especially when I'm gone." another.
Taehyung decides to redeem himself by following Jungkook's lead. He joins his boyfriend on the opposite side of you.
"We talk about you all the time." Taehyung adds. "I stay up late with Jungkook sometimes wishing you could travel with us."
Your receive a kiss from Tae and again from Jungkook on your other side. It's overwhelming. Your sniffles and tears start turning into reluctant laughter.
"There we go- I missed that pretty smile," Jungkook praises. You can't escape the two of them as they keep showering you with love.
"What are you even jealous for?" Taehyung pokes at you. "As if you aren't royalty to us."
Jungkook nods. You protest, "I'm not jealous I was just hurt."
"It's because I make Jungkook do silly stuff with me, huh?" Taehyung suggests. "Do you want to be my dance partner instead?" He coaxes you out of your seat. Jungkook stands.
"No, It's not.. always that, Tae."
"C'mon. Don't cry. Make him be the third wheel instead. Next time- just shove him out of the way and demand a turn." Taehyung suggests playfully. Jungkook goes back to where they were originally by the counter with a incredulous shake of his head.
there's a book booth in your city. for weeks, you exchange books with who you believe to be one single person - because nowadays barely anybody reads anymore.
how can you fall in love with someone just by the way they write you little messages under the front covers? sooner or later you have got to meet...
word count: 5809
music: masterpieces on repeat
1996
Min Sujin had a difficult labour. Fourteen hours of insidious and painful tugging as if the baby was wrestling inside; all functional muscles went stiff, and she couldn't push; child was like a cork in her, refusing to get out. Profusely bleeding, she finally gave birth to Jungho after the night of collective struggle: four nurses assisted while the OB pulled and pulled him. Jungho came out feet first, and blue like a violet; the only reason they were sure he's alive was his loud, unhappy scream.
Such a scream has never been heard in the Seoul Central by a newborn. He screamed, and screamed, like his lungs were at least four times bigger, the formed "AAAAA" sounded way too sentient. And even the eyes, dark-black-rainy, kept darting around the room, with the pointed, completely mindful focus. Minji the nurse froze in the corner of the room, transfixed and terrified; she was a bit more supersitious than the rest. Looking at this... creature? the bleeding, the broken left hip, the abnormally deep blackout of the mother all slid into place. OB Park was a professional, though; sure, somewhere beneath the scrubs he got the shivers when the little Jungho stared at him with the little, toothless mouth open. But OB proceeded to follow the usual sequence of care. Jungho was washed, weighed, attributed to the Min family, and then laid on the chest of the poor, bloodless woman. She was pumped with painkillers so much that they doubted about letting her feed at first. But even then, Jungho refused the breast. He just kept screaming, tirelessly, so loudly that the morning nurse came to the room thinking something horrible had happened. Father, Jungho Kim senior, finally made it and went absolutely pale upon seeing the state of his wife. The doctors witnessed the swift movie of emotions sliding across his face, and through his brain: horror, empathy, blind rage at first, undirected at anyone; and then finally joy about the baby, and in a second - confusion and worry. He asked if the newborn child is supposed to produce such sounds. Nobody hurt him; the baby was healthy; a bit smaller than they expected, but well within the normal range. Skin was becoming pink; his head was covered with pitch-black hair, and his tiny fingers formed fists. The only eerie things were his endless, uninterrupted, unhappy shrieking. And the gaze, full of terror, staring right into people's eyes.
It went on for the whole first week of his life. Then he suddenly went quiet - and his eyes lost the insidious focus.
From then on he was an agreeable little baby.
1998
Sujin liked calling her son Jung for short, and, as she had been an international journalist before pregnancy, often switched to Jungmann jokingly as it meant "young man" in German which she spoke perfectly.
Jungho Kim senior had a tech business, very often away from home, and he especially appreciated his son named after him. He would often say that at least one Jungho should always keep the mom company. The boy was developing adequately; by his second birthday he could kick the orange ball against the wall very well. Mom was gradually teaching him to clean the room off the toys and say longer phrases. The first word he ever said was "sky", and the parents changed the wallpaper in his room to blue. He seemed to like it a lot. First birthday, of course, was quite uneventful; he still drooled all over his little t-shirt with huge cookies and chocolate chips. A year later, he woke up in a bit of a bad mood and looked around like he did when he wanted something. Mom invited friends of the family, a couple of kids from the nieghbourhood; they had red misty glasses for lemonade, and the cake was passed around on colourful paper plates. Jungho was already capable of understanding that he was being celebrated. When the adults sat in half-circle and took other kids onto their laps, and sang the birthday song, Jungho suddenly went very dark.
He crossed his arms on his chest and at first looked at his mom angrily. Someone laughed; his eyebrows were getting thick, and they looked funny.
"I am Yoongi", he said.
The room went quiet for a second.
"No-o, you are Kim Jungho", his mother chanted softly. But the boy wouldn't have it. It took all the parents a couple of minutes to realise that Jungho did not pick up that name from a movie or off a jar of honey; there were no cartoons with the characters named Yoongi, and in the books he was read, the stories were always about a Fox, an Elephant, a Dog or a Whale.
He was frustrated with Sujin not taking him seriously, and the birthday party quickly turned into a domestic horror. He fell on the floor; with the zeal of a four year old who is starting to discover desires and boundaries, he was banging fists on the carpet, tears spraying out of his eyes in jet streams.
"I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi!"
He wouldn't stop, just like when he was born. The poor boy has become so exhausted in two hours that he could barely keep his eyes open. His parents were extremely worried. He refused water, cake, hugs. As his father carried him to bed, he kept muttering "I am Yoongi I am Yoongi I am Yoongi" feverishly. He would not say anything else. He was clearly fighting his own body that was submitting to sleep.
A doctor came round and found no fever or poisoning, or inflammation. When Jungho woke up the next morning, he stopped reacting to his name. It was a blood-freezing callback to his state when he just came to the world. The same gaze. Piercing, non-childish, focused. Even vengeful. He wouldn't do anything or answer anything if he was called Jungho, no matter how much his parents pleaded.
Several days later they gave up. They looked at each other; father's eye was twitching. And suddenly thought - well, so what? Whether he is Jungho or Yoongi, what does it matter? He is still our only son. They tried it. Yoongi sounded alien, a bit colder, bluer than Jungho. Jungho senior shrugged; his son wanted to be Yoongi. So they used Yoongi. They gave it some time and tried Jungho over months, but every time the boy ignored that word like it didn't exist to him anymore.
Eventually, a year later, they legally changed his name to Yoongi Min. It didn't sound bad at all.
2006
Yoongi excelled at school but had troubles with his behaviour. By ten, he started displaying signs of conduct disorder, or rather even, behavioural abnormalities that weren't yet alarming enough to call specialists. Distracted and a bit lazy in one class, he would get diabolically focused in another, and there was no pattern to it. One day he loved biology and hated PE, the next, he couldn't stand English but wanted to do more literature. If called upon or disturbed during his focus episodes, he would throw a fit and swing his fists around, so sincerely offended that someone entered his personal space, that the volume reached critical. More and more often Yoongi wasn't able to regulate his emotions; when something upset him, he would scream; when something made him happy, he would scream, too. When angry, he invented new words to curse with, like "unfathomaginable", and his parents quietly suspected he might be a very disturbed genius, or going through some trauma he wasn't talking about. He made friends quickly and forgot about them the next day; in his school backpack he always had at least three books from home that he frantically switched between during the recesses. School psychologist said he was hyperactive and -reactive, and needed more discipline. Yet discipline wasn't necessarily the problem: he liked his bed tucked and made, always woke up at the same time, and listened well to his parents. He did not have attachment issues, loyal and loving to his mom and dad, but sometimes way too independent in his own choices. Peace was what he lacked. As he was growing, it seemed like something inside of him always threatened to burst; it was bubbling just beneath his skin; he had too much energy, or none at all. They took him to basketball, and he liked it. Shortest in the team, with the round head that spun seemingly all 360 degrees, he was actually the fastest. He made his legs work mercilessly, running the whole time. His knees were excellent for jumping, he compensated for his height with the incredible bursts of power that he put into his throws. Dad insisted that Yoongi goes to the public swimming pool too, and learns to swim. He even went with him once and watched as his son makes laps tirelessly, there and back, there and back, and then just suddenly snaps and goes to the bottom like a rock.
He started getting depressed. Yoongi liked doing homework and always did more; he started getting twitches and ticks, his eyes running all over the room as if he wanted to consume more information. He read all the books that he could find in his parents' home library; scanned the pages of economics manuals blindly even though he didn't understand anything. He was getting nightmares that made him shriek in the middle of the night, and often Jungho senior, who weirdly never stopped thinking about himself as such, had to give prolonged explanations of the difference between dream and reality. When Yoongi had one, he would wake up completely glassy eyed, with the expression that no parent wants to see. It was full of suffering, as if he lived each of those nightmares in full, and managed to become old inside that dream, and then was forced to go back. He would insist he saw extinctions, asteroids falling on Earth, people killing each other, the roar of fire. They stopped showing him any movies for a while, suspecting that each impression, each creative idea, Yoongi absorbed like a sponge, and his nervous system wasn't capable of handling it.
After a year of this, they finally took him to a specialist, and the doctor said Yoongi seems too smart for his age, too sensitive, with disregulation of emotions, very acute ADHD and nictophobia. The medication he prescribed didn't work; it only made Yoongi distracted and cranky at school.
He kept telling his parents about the dreams of space, the dangers of pulsars and the irresponsibility of people. Jungho senior frantically searched through his books for one where Yoongi could read about such atrocities. Yoongi got absolutely fixated on pulsars and kept talking about them, knowing little, understanding very vaguely what they are, but talking nevertheless.
He liked birds.
In the most boring classes, when he managed to have a good day, he drew birds in his notebooks. Some teachers collected those pages to complain to his parents. Sujin especially liked it when Yoongi drew hummingbirds.
He was seemingly good at everything, and nothing at the same time; he would read a book and talk about it like he understood the underlying ideas, too mature for a ten year old; and the next day, if mother brought it up again, Yoongi couldn't remember the names of the main characters.
He was a beautiful, forgetful, very passionate child. His parents were in love with him and suffered the most because of the nightmares that absolutely ruined all his nights.
Once he finally managed to distantly articulate what it feels like inside his head, he said,
"It's like something is leaking".
2011
It was always his birthday. Every year, some shit would happen that would completely ruin the day. Yoongi disliked his birthdays for that reason and stopped celebrating when he turned thirteen. On the thirteenth of June in 2011, he just spent all day in his room. Dad said mom has always been too lenient with him, spoiling, making too many exceptions for him. She would, for example, never make him go to school on his birthdays. Since he was born in the early morning, he would always get in a bad mood even before he woke up.
That year was especally weird, and maybe even heavy, though.
The first hour, he was unresponsive.
He lay in bed in the same position as she saw him last night, half-turned on his back, with his eyes open, staring into the ceiling. Mouth slightly open, the breath was coming out, but he ignored all her attempts at talking. Sujin got worried really quick; she was by now very used to springing into action immediately. She yanked his shoulder, and Yoongi thrahsed in bed like a sock doll. He didn't blink. Then she noticed how tense his throat is; she pulled down the blanket and saw his fists clenched. Teeth gritted so hard that jaw went blade-sharp. His thighs were tense, like the whole body went into shock.
She fell on the way to the kitchen, to the phone. Jungho, it's something neurotoxic. Maybe he was bitten by an insect, the window above his bed is open all the time. Maybe it's some gas from the street, she didn't know, but if he is paralyzed, his lungs will stop functioning soon and he will choke.
She called the ambulance. Father left the office and took the taxi home. The city was full of traffic; hot summer made people faint in parks. Trees stood withered along the streets, there was no rain in weeks. Ambulance took thirty minutes to arrive, and Jungho came even later. But what the doctors witnessed was not a paralyptic kid in bed; now he sat on the floor in his room, tugging himself by the hair, with his distressed mother holding him.
He kept whispering "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck" with the same frequency as he once took up about his name. He was having a mental breakdown. Stood up - and fell. He did not see his own room; he was hospitalized and put to sleep with sedatives. Poor mother. He was such a beautiful child, with so much potential that was incarcerated in his head aimlessly.
He slept for two days now, still refusing to communicate.
When he finally woke up, his bed was surrounded by balloons that his classmates had brought. The word in school was, Yoongi had been bitten by an encephalitis bearing tick and now would either soon become a vegetable, or a superhero.
He became neither. Yoongi demanded a pen and a notebook and was ferociously writing the whole day, snapping every time mom or dad tried to look. He kept writing, sometimes muttering "what the fuck" through his teeth. His girlfriend came round to see how he was doing, and he said he didn't remember dating her. She got very offended and broke up with him, and he looked sincerely surprised that he was dating someone at all.
"Aren't your schools intense as hell", he asked his mom, "how did I have time for a girlfriend?"
The only good thing that came out of that event was that Yoongi seemingly finally grew out of his episodes.
He became overall more closed-up and less sociable, but at least nightmares did not make him scream anymore.
He would come to the breakfast table and observe his parents like they were respected fellow colleagues, and talk about space. Space was his favourite, right after birds and basketball.
At sixteen, after years of unimaginable mental anguish, he finally managed to streamline his attention towards the things he wanted to do: science. Sports. And writing. In one year, he has written thousands of pages of something he never let anybody see under the fear of volcanic rage. He muttered to himself. From under the door, the parents could hear he was talking to himself. About career. And about planes. About pulsars. And somebody named Jimin.
2016
He called his mom every day. Yoongi clung to his parents, sometimes with such urgency as if something bad had happened. If he hadn't got the scholarship in America, he would have stayed living with them until the end of times. Sometimes he struggled to make his own breakfast. At eighteen, on his birthday, naturally, he started having migraines. So sometimes he was half-blind all day. The only reason he managed to cope with his studies in MIT was that he seemed to orient naturally in sciences like he invented and discovered them all. Did tests asleep. Knew all the answers to all the tricky questions. Breezed through the first year, getting piles of extracurricular work from teachers who noticed his spark and now wanted to milk a pioneer out of him.
Nobody knew what's going on inside the warzone of his brain, and the only hook he had to peace was calling home. He would tell her about every bird he met that day. What colour were the wings, and the length of the tail, and how it soared above and how jealous he was. He said he was scared of the coming birthday. She asked why.
"I am turning twenty", he replied. Sujin kindly chuckled. Maturity, adulthood, it's always scary.
"No", he cut her off, "it's the fifth year again".
She long gave up trying to pull the clear answers out of him. With time, she has worked out the wisdom to be grateful that Yoongi is so attached to her and Jungho. That he still trusts them enough to tell them about the incoherent dreams, and pains, and fears that have no basis in reality.
"You can always come home", she reminded him, "America shall wait. Nobody will expel you even if you skip a week".
He said it doesn't matter whether he lies comatose at home or at the dorms in Illinois. Then he started rambling that everything is going not according to the plan, and that he needs to find some Taehyung; no, scratch that, actually he isn't interested in Taehyung. But he needs to find something, and after he finds that something, he will find the guilty party who will answer for all this mess, and when that party is found, he will... he will...
"What will you do?" Sujin asked, just playing along.
"I will write them a very long letter!"
He gasped into the phone.
"And maybe tear their heads off. Because I know the conversation was about fours. Fours", he grumbled.
Yoongi did not know that his parents had become somewhat of a head unit in expertise on schizophrenia. He did not know that some of the methods they used to regulate his moods, were schizophrenia-adjacent therapy. That the vitamins they tried giving im when he was sixteen, was the antipsychosis medication. That only made him throw up for three days. As the years passed, Sujin had less and less confidence that it was schizophrenia. Yoongi did not suffer from constant voices in his head; or hallucinations; the katatonic states only happened on his birthdays, every year, like a clock. Birthday syndrome. He never drank; never tried doing drugs; all the drugs in his body were always the meds his concerned parents tried on him, that always failed. It was like he had an inherent aversion to substances, never tried alcohol at parties and wasn't interested in weed until he moved to America and met the local students.
He confessed to his mother that weed actually helped with migraines and even calmed down his brain a little at times.
"Why is the fifth year important?" she asked. "You have hard time every birthday".
"It gets progressively worse", he complained.
"But usually?"
Interrogating him about it was like wandering in the darkness.
"Usually it's just noise and a lot, a lot of... complicated thougths".
"Like what?"
Yoongi sighed deeply. The bedsheets whispered into the phone.
"Why did I do this to myself..."
"It's not your fault, Yoongi, never was. You are very different from the others".
That warranted a colourful chuckle.
"You have no idea. I miss you".
Sujin always started sobbing when he said stuff like that.
"I miss you too, and I love you very much".
He's been getting very mature, very serious lately. His voice, it was acquiring depth and calmness that you usually hear in people who are preparing to die. Sujin didn't think anything like that would happen, but her heart hasn't been peaceful in at least ten years.
"You and Jungho, you are very patient people, you know".
She frowned.
"It's dad".
"Yea, I mean. Yeah. You and dad".
On his birthday, he went no contact and only called after seven days. He couldn't stop laughing into the phone, hysterically, exclaiming something about balloons, fucking balloons, star-crossed enemies.
2024
"Accuracy. Ten out of ten", he muttered, "even all the hobbies. Even the books".
The phone recording him, lying on the table, reflected the lamp standing above his head.
"But assholes, we made an error in the clamp in neurotransmitter number..." he laughed in an evil way, leafing through his notebook. "Wa-ait, I will find it. I will fucking find it. You think it was necessary to upload even the names and numbers of neurotransmitters? You think I wouldn't have survived without this fucking information? If you wanted me to open the hole, Yoongi, maybe you should've come here yourself".
He paused, staring at his pages, realising the fallacy of his anger.
"Anyway, for the future reference, it's the NHG neurotransmitter number eighteen. It just. Shot through, and instead of four parts, all memories got broken down into yearly pieces. Thanks for that".
He was getting awful blisters on his index finger from writing like a madman every day, and for some reason, never learnt to enjoy typing shit on the computer. Working on it was perfectly fine - but he didn't like writing reports, memories or messages with the keyboard. It scared him irrationally, as if he was losing a part of himself. And having himself - that was vital.
The night before his birthday he broke up with his situationship who was unhappy anyway. He was unfit for dating. Couldn't give that devotion that women need. Or men. Everybody needs commitment, it's what humans find comfort in. Yoongi has always been all over the place, and for the first time in his life, he was excited to find out why. He knew by now that tomorrow, there will be the last upload ever.
In fact he was incredibly happy, even if scared a little. He did not know what that last chip was. Maybe that his mission on this planet was to start a genocide. Maybe that he was actually a spawn of the devil. But after tomorrow - no more noise. No more nightmares. No more paralysis. Just one more stamp to tear off, - and he is free one way or another. Free to finally do what he had sent himself to do here: work with plasma. Solve equations. Open the door. Perfect the M-theory. Make history. And marry?
He went to sleep fully knowing that the next week will be hell for him. He tried to get enough sleep before eight o'clock in the morning, ready for the last dash. He kept the alien faces of his friends in his mind, wondering if the coming morning will finally fill the void in his chest.
He was itching to love something, or somebody; he had a good suspicion, with everything he has recalled now, that it all came down to something very simple.
──────── · · · ────────
When you were little, you and Jungkook, you gathered an impressive collection of stones from the beach. It was just one hour away from the city, and parents took you often. At some point, maybe after you left for university, it went missing. Most likely mom got rid of it. But it was a bit harrowing how a large collection of beach stones, pink, milky, bluish, yellow, grey, red and black, just disappeared one day. Poof. Gone. Years of work collecting, picking, fighting over, drying them with your shirts and wetting them again.
Strange how, when a disaster happens, everything just instantaneously vanishes. This is how Jungkook's first girlfriend died. Standing on the pavement, then, a mass of metal and drunkenness swept her away in less than a second, and she was nowhere to be found.
He didn't speak to mom for weeks when the stones disappeared, and he never spoke about Ryu at all after her death.
He was finely attuned to grief. And didn't make fun of you when you couldn't stop crying.
He just loaded you into the car and took you to the sea again. The weather was now better, stable. When you didn't want to leave as the night came, you just slept in his black KIA and had breakfast from the nearest fast-food place.
Your ass hurt sitting on the stones, then went numb.
You wished your confusion would do the same. Slide into numbness, turn into incredulousness, and in the end, dissipate like an awkward misunderstanding.
You told him several times he can't do skipping stones in these waves, but Jungkook didn't back down. One by one, he picked just about every more or less flat stone and threw it into the water, and you watched. He was crawling closer to you again, rubbing his elbow.
"I have to go to work tomorrow..." he said, showing his teeth against the wind. Mauve hour gave his skin pleasant tan. There were a lot of milky stones around.
"And you, too. Unless you've decided to live on this beach like a homeless person?"
He crash-landed next to you on his ass and regretted it immediately.
"Let's go home".
"We can watch sunset".
"What are you chewing?"
He drew a plastic pack from his trousers pocket. It was sour jellies, and you shook your head no.
After a while, you began again, like a broken record, the thing you've said a thousand times over these two days.
"I just don't get it, I don't... who would blow it up? What has happened?"
"I think it was to do with that burned encyclopedia", Jungkook said seriously, "it was a premonition of sorts. A warning".
"From who?"
"Physics".
He picked up a stone and licked it. Then threw it in the water.
"You think the wormhole was volatile?"
"Their air?"
"Someone did it?"
He shrugged.
"Could be anything".
His eyes were scanning the unobservable vastness of the sea in front.
"You're thinking something", you nudged him angrily.
"What I'm thinking is too out there".
"Oh man, but the wormhole leading into another fucking dimension where futuristic alien people live, isn't?"
He pursed his lips, finally annoyed with you. The wind lovingly moved the curls on his forehead.
"What is it, what, you think something reacted with something? Like in Fly?"
"You know Standard Model, right?"
"More or less", you squirmed, trying to remember the details. Also, it was too fresh. Yoongi must know everything about it. He knows about the developed version of it. It's too raw.
"How there are protons, and positrons, and then if there's an electron, there's also a selectron".
You employed all your brain, but all it could do now was scream. Tear itself apart. You went back to the holding mode.
"Maybe their whole universe is made of antimatter", Jungkook said. "Maybe Yoongi sent something that he wasn't supposed to".
"In that case the very first book would've destroyed everything, since it's antimatter".
Your brother shrugged.
"Life field theory. Only living cells react".
"That's not anti-antimatter then".
You saw he was just as heartbroken as you. Something very precious was taken away from him. He was looking at the sea with his lower lip protruding, with a slight pout, like he was waiting for a ship to show up, and it wasn't coming.
You watched the sunset that seemed unusually beautiful, like it was a compensation. The clouds softly blended, letting the sun radiation slide around them, changing colours.
Driving away from the beach felt like you both gave something up, like you lost and came to terms with it and retreated tucking the tails under.
And the worst thing was, the pictures of Tang and smeraldo flowers were still on your kitchen table, against the flower vase.
In the morning of the next day, you were getting dressed for work, and your eye kept falling back on them like they were a gravestone.
It was stupid. Stupid, right, to cry yourself to sleep over this. Over the electric :) you'll never see again.
You got off the bus on the Pacho-ro to walk to the office past the place of explosion.
Three days later, it was still cordoned off with the yellow barriers, and the crater itself was covered with some fucking - you didn't know, you were tired of constantly thinking, analyzing, building theories, you were tired. It was fucking covered. Because a girl died in that booth, they said it blew up when she entered.
You slowed down around the barriers without noticing, your eyes on the ugly grey bulge on the ground. They haven't even brought the scaffolding for the tall glass building to fix the windows.
The mix of variegated people slid in and out of your vision field. The sun was hidden away behind thin clouds on top of the guardian trees. In between the moving bodies, somebody waved at you.
We always think that someone is waving at us if they are located on the direct line of view. You looked behind your shoulder, expecting to see someone waving back.
They stood there, while other people floated around, busy and a little faster in the morning, before the office hour started.
You craved coffee, and this person was half way to the coffeeshop on the other side of the street. The tropical-banana-palm place closed down for now, because all the glass was blown up inside it.
He waved again and then started moving towards you, and you took out an earbud to make absolutely sure there is no one else engaged around.
This guy beelined towards you, simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your female brain started profiling him immediately. Dark long hair tucked away behind his ears, and with a pair of eyes that seemed to shine even from ten steps away. He suddenly looked happy, incredibly happy, and it infected you before you could decide for yourself.
You knew, you knew this wasn't the end. This was all a lie, a performance, and by now you couldn't be sure if it's good, bad, neutral, embarrassing. He just ambushed you, and you were too caught off guard to react.
The last thing you saw were his soft features. Trustworthy, smart face with a childish grin that exposed his square teeth. Then he crashed on you, grabbing you in a hug, and then you knew.
Not how, or what the fuck, or where from, or by what means - he smelt like Yoongi. He moaned into your ear like Yoongi. His hand grabbing you by the shoulder looked like the hand that could produce incredibly organised, straight lines of text. He called your name several times with the joy which you thought had been locked away forever.
The sheer whiplash made you press yourself into him, your mouth agape, and the collar of his shirt got in between your teeth. He even tasted like Yoongi.
"How", you gasped, "how... how..."
Like an owl.
His face was hopping in front of you, and he was so much more good-looking than you imagined that it was infuriating. The pulsation in your head screamed, and all feelings streamlined, like colours, into one ray of white confusion, albeit pleasant.
"You... through the blast..."
"No, I waited", he chuckled, almost tearfully, "I waited for a while", and he laughed again, and then the mouth closed up on you and kissed.
It was like soaring and drowning at the same time; your head went dizzy.
"Where-Have-You-Been?!" he yelled then, holding your head in his hands like in a pillory. Your lips burned. "I thought you were fucking dead!"
You batted your eyes. Your brain was working ashamedly slowly.
"We went away to sea with Jungkook", you uttered. You were consumed completely by studying him. His strong neck. His full cheeks. He couldn't be older than thirty, at the very worst. His eyes in the shape of a smile. His mouth was so full, panting, curved elegantly.
"What the hell", you whispered.
"Oh, okay, I've been looking for you for a week, I tried to prevent the explosion, but guess it's destiny? It happened at a different time now..."
Oh, he yapped a lot, too. His mouth was comparatively smaller on his face, and the more he grimaced, the cuter he got, with two absolutely round nostrils, like a big, begrudged cat.
You touched his hair, tugged on a strand, trying it in between your fingers.
"Are all people in your dimension so handsome?" you asked, feeling incredibly stupid.
"Oh, no", his palm wrapped around yours. It was warm. You finally started listening to him.
"I'm a local. I live in San Francisco".
"I don't get it", you mumbled.
"That's alright", his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulder, and he guided you into the completely different direction from your office.
In different circumstances such vapid affection wouldn't be allowed even from your brother. Even from Hanadi. But you were completely mesmerized by him, by the part of you that would not adhere to any physical, logical, rational description; you were instantly in love with him, gaping up at his face with your lower jaw completely unhinged.
"I will tell you, alright?" he placed a kiss on your temple, long, wet, maybe leaving a hickey.
"I can't believe we did it", he hopped as he walked, his hips moving too much, so you had to adjust to his stride. Your fingers clutched onto his pale narrow wrist, but looked comically small compared to his large palm, relaxed but closed over your collarbone.
"Yoongi?" you tried his name out loud. He looked at you with those dark, intensely focused eyes that betrayed something uncontrollable in him.
"You got a book for me today?" he asked.
You both stopped, because you pulled on your bag. He refused to let go of you, hooking his finger around the ears of the tote bag, as if he was afraid something would yank you away.
You never took out the book, couldn't bring yourself to take it out, and then forgot. You showed him the Lost Birthday.
He finally broke contact to take it with both hands, like it was something completely sacred. As he lowered his head to stare at the beige cover with a green dragon, his black bangs were let loose over his face.
"This book has one story about a princess who went crazy about the moon and was crying every night because her father couldn't get it for her birthday", you said quietly.
He looked again at you, milky smooth face, his two eyes - each a half of the moon.
"Didn't want it bad enough", he smiled.
You finally caught up, registering that this is, in fact, Mr. Physics with the electric handwriting, only, in flesh - so you touched his throat, warm and with tiny, soft hairs on the back, and he didn't pull away. He blinked slowly, shut up and stared at you. Then you pulled him again, placing the book flat in between you.
hiii, hope you’re doing amazing<3 not sure if you’re taking up requests again, but I just had this thought for something with either jk, tae or yoongi or literally anyone about them sitting down and reader passing by and them pulling her into their lap, like having the need to have her close to them, and maybe like snuggling into her neck and hugging her by the waist? I’m touch starved
I am taking requests again— although Ive been quite slow to write lately, no longer posting 2/3 times every day haha.
I hope you dont mind that Ive made this Taehyung. There is a similar fic to this already featuring JK here.
Close contact. Taehyung sfw.
Home is lively this afternoon; a record from Taehyung’s jazz collection turns lazily on the table. He’s sitting with the rest of his bandmates, not participating as the rest of the boys squabble over uno (he had won first; now the rest are passionate about second place).
You enter the room with a drink— one for you, one for him. He sticks an arm out instantly, hooking it as best as he can around your waist.
“There you are,” he smiles lightly, thumb tracing the curve of your side. “Come here.”
“With everyone here visiting?”
He makes a face. “Yes,” Tae adds, as if the question was ridiculous. “Nobody cares, baby, just sit."
You hesitate a second too long and he makes the decision for you, carefully pulling you closer inch by agonizing inch until you give in.
You take a second to set the drinks down on the table in front of you and spin back to him. Meeting his eyes you're met with nothing but satisfaction. Taehyung's attention flicks idly to the game on your right: Jin just blocked Jungkook's turn for the fourth time in a row. You're starting to wonder how many skips he could possible have in a deck. Did they even shuffle before replaying? Jungkook dramatically falls back in agony.
"Who do you think is winning?" You mumble to Taehyung, head resting gently against his. He's turning over the fabric of your shirt in his hands.
"... Yoongi." Taehyung responds, moving his head just enough to kiss you on the cheek. "He hasn't said anything all game but he has two cards left."
You nod, watching as Taehyung's prediction comes close to true.
"Uno."
"Somebody stop him- Hobi hyung, change the color."
"I don't have a red two!"
You sigh, closing your eyes briefly as the chaos continues. "How much longer are they going to be over?"
"Why, baby?" Taehyung asks. "Tired?" He squeezes you, trying to get you to just give in and hug him, maybe rest your head on his shoulder.
"Maybe a little," You confess, slow to shift in his lap. He rests his head against your shoulder when you get pulled closer.
"I'll send them home soon, okay?" He kisses your shoulder briefly. "I'll let you get ready for bed while I clean up."
You sigh; whatever cologne he's wearing smells good and his body is so warm it's making you impossibly more tired. "Do you have to get up early tomorrow?"
He pauses at your question, "I don't have to," He offers, distracted by peppering your skin with more kisses.
"Good, because I want to be just like this..." You add, "as long as possible."
"We can make that happen." He promises. You jolt a little when there's an uproar at the coffee table. Yoongi won.
"Third place- third place third place." Jungkook insists, much to the other boys' dismay.
"You aren't winning third place." Jimin retorts. "look at your hand. You just want to beat Jin-hyung."
"Fine." He throws his hand playfully on the table. Three wild cards. He was so close. The boys burst into laughter.
They start cleaning up, getting the silent understanding that Taehyung was about done hosting. He smiles appreciatively at Namjoon who takes the vinyl off the table to slide it back in its place. He tries to pry you off of him to help and you cling tighter.
"Baby," He warns in fond annoyance.
"Just one more minute," You bargain. "I'm so tired."
He rubs your back and shoulders. "You can't fall asleep in my lap. C'mon."
"ughhh..... but you love me.."
Taehyung gives your forehead a quick kiss. "Alright- I'm taking you to bed myself." He readjusts his grip, standing with you in his hold. "Because I love you."
hiii love, how are you?? 🥹🥹 I know you're really busy with lots and lots of requests, but if you have some time, can you write a taekook fluff where the reader tells them she just passed in her dream college? I just did and I still can't believe it! 🥹🥹🥹💖💖💖
first of all IM SO PROUD OF YOU and so are they. Dropped everything for the special occasion I hope you enjoy lovely!!!
celebrations. taekook sfw.
Taehyung hears it first; your desk chair roll back, laptop closed, the opening and shutting of the bedroom door.
He smacks Jungkook’s arm: he’s sprawled out on the couch, not at all paying attention to the anime he put on an hour ago.
“What? Im watching,” he says, eyes barely torn from his screen.
“No, did you hear that?” Taehyung corrects, craning his neck to peek at the stairs. You come down them a moment later, jumping the last step in an act of pure unadulterated joy.
You stop at the bottom of the steps.
“How did it go?” Taehyung asks— impatient to hear the news.
“They got back to me,” you begin, knowing the anticipation was killing him. Jungkook finally straightens out to listen.
“And?”
“And Im….. going to my dream college.”
“They let you in!” Jungkook chimes, standing instantly. He puts his arms out so you can dive right into them. When you get a good hold he spins you around. “Congratulations, baby..”
Taehyung drapes his arms over your shoulders the second Jungkook sets you down. “Thats my girl— we told you it was going to be fine, didn’t we?”
“Im- so- proud- of- you!” Jungkook says between kisses to any inch of skin he can reach. “You’ve always been so smart.” Jungkook adds in agreement.
A giddy laugh escapes you as you bask in their sudden attention. The weight of the last few sleepless nights hunched over applications and the anxiety of waiting finally leaves you,.
"I honestly thought they'd reject me after that essay," you admit, wiping at a stray tear that threatens to spill from the relief washing over your body. "I kept re reading the email like I was hallucinating….”
Jungkook’s eyes are bright with genuine pride. "No no no no, you were going to get in no matter what.”
“What do you want to do to celebrate?” Taehyung suggests, changing the subject. They boys look at each other as if they come to the same idea. “Now that you have time to relax..”
“I guess I didn’t think about what I would do if I got in…” you distract yourself, gazing down at where Jungkook’s hands rest. You grab one of them idly.
“I have a few ideas,” Jungkook gazes at Taehyung over your shoulder, raising his eyebrows. Taehyung smiles knowingly.
