#s2l

[daechwitatamic]

HOLY - part one || LC

HOLY

Lee Chan x fem!reader angst smut fluff fictional medieval setting, some elements of omegaverse, s2l

NSFW - minors DNI

Summary: You have lived your whole life at the convent on Isla Fidei, an initiate of the church longing to become an Acolyte, chosen and loved by The One. Piety, devotion, and obedience mark your years… until you see a beautiful alpha across the courtyard, bringing everything you’ve ever wanted into a new perspective. Maybe you didn’t want to be chosen and loved by The One. Maybe you just wanted to be loved at all. Part One WC: ~25k

Part One Warnings: while the religion here is fictional there is the heavy presence of religion/religious rules and imagery/talk of sinning and forgiveness - reader essentially lives in a convent, horny jail prison cells, some elements of omegaverse (see A/N below), fever and pain depictions, reader experiences panic attacks/trauma from a specific ritual and this is depicted once and referenced many times, depictions of near-drowning, corporeal punishment (reader is slapped by authority figures once or twice nothing more serious than that), the church absolutely does murder for the sake of control, themes of churches preying on vulnerable members of society which is entirely fictional and not at all a statement about anything!!!!, swearing, angst, yearning, masturbation (f.), Chan nicknames reader Angel because it stresses her out (A SIN!!!) and he likes to push her buttons and then it sticks, an eRECtion!!, some over-the-pants hand stuff (m. receiving), chan does in fact cum in his pants once lol, kissing

A/N: big thank you to @sailorsoons and @eoieopda for beta-ing and listening to me yap about it a lot i love yall <3

A quick note about the elements of omegaverse present in this fic: heat/rut cycles, a personal "scent" from a scent gland, the act of "scenting"/rubbing to make your person smell like you, the presence of self-lubrication called "slick" but tbh it isn't written as more than a normal vagina-haver would experience no one is leaking copious fluids i just use the term, allusions to alpha or omega instincts to protect or listen to your mate If I did not list it, it is not present in this fic.

heavily recommend shuffling the playlist for the vibes!!

Part One

I walk only where Alpha guides me; the path will be true and my soul shall not wander. I sing when Omega smiles; my song tells the mountains of Their love. 

Your mind can be so very far away, even as your voice recites the words. The memorization is as mindless as breathing - just as you don’t have to guide your lungs to pull air in and send air out, you don’t have to direct your voice to follow the inflections with the crowd around you. It just does, as it has thousands of times before.

You are shoulder to shoulder with Sistre Sparrow and Sistre Pele, the line of girls and women carrying on beyond them on either side. Rows of girls and women before you. Rows of girls and women behind you. All of you in a long, formless, muted navy - and frankly, itchy - tunic that reaches the tops of your humble shoes. All of you with a white coif covering your heads. All of you with your hands folded piously. All of you reciting the sacred chant in perfect time.

To your right, Sistre Pele’s voice is slightly off-key, as always. She probably can’t hear herself. Sistre Pele is old enough to be your grandmother. She has been here longer than you, and you’ve been here over twenty-five years already. 

On your left, Sistre Sparrow is only mouthing the words. She came when you were a teen. Her family asked the church to take her, to free her from her sinful ways. She’s nearly a year younger than you, but still the closest to your age in the Abbat. As such, you’ve always been assigned to room together, sit together, and do work rotations together. 

One time, when you were both still young and unsure about each other, you’d asked her what she did to cause her family to send her here. Her grin had been full of the Devil. 

“What didn’t I do?” she asked, sounding suddenly worldly and dangerous and not at all younger than you. “Drank, cussed, lied, argued and talked back, ran when I was supposed to walk, whistled in the house and sang songs that weren’t hymns. What they shipped me off for was kissing the farmhand, though. He was a beta. Handsome. I still think of him, sometimes.”

Sistre Sparrow is your closest friend in the Abbat, but you are wholly frightened of who she used to be.

You are sometimes weak, and give into feelings of jealousy that she’s kissed someone before. These moments of weakness are always followed by a cleanse, so that your soul can carry on untainted.

Your family didn’t send you away to correct your sinful ways - you weren’t even of an age to walk yet when you’d been taken by boat to Isla Fidei to become an initiate. You’re not sure why your family didn’t, or couldn’t, keep you. Sometimes you want to wonder about it, but -

It doesn’t do to question, Sistre Pele told you many years ago, when you were younger and more oft to sin. The One wanted you here, as Their daughter, and so here you are. 

Sistre Pele is right. It doesn’t do to question. You are here.

After the service, you think, even as your voice recites another psalm in time with the women around you, I will eat supper with the Sistres, and then I will make my rounds. If I finish early, perhaps I can sit in the garden before I sleep.

It is yet another an hour before the evening service ends. You watch the sun set by degrees through the chapel’s stained glass windows. The sides of the chapel glow red, green, blue, and yellow - depicting scenes of The One as both Alpha and Omega, surrounded by anointed Acolytes that came before you. To your left, Acolyte Johanna is martyred on a pyre. To your right, Acolyte Ren saves a group of children from a rising flood.

You will be an Acolyte someday. Perhaps you will get your own stained glass window. Maybe initiates who come long after you’re gone will watch the sun sink lower behind your own image, and feel at peace, as you do now. 

It is a thought that brings you much comfort.

You hope to graduate from initiate to Acolyte soon. Sistre Pele, despite her many years - her grey hair and her stooping shoulders - was never called to be an Acolyte. It is not Their will. There is still hope for you, even though your thirtieth year is closer now than your twentieth. You have been pure. You have been devoted. You have never kissed or run when you were supposed to walk or sang songs that weren’t hymns. (You have cussed, and whistled indoors. You asked for cleansing for both. The One forgives. The One knows you are but a mortal girl.)

Sistre Sparrow will always be an initiate like Sistre Pele, due to her life before the Abbat. But that’s a thought you keep to yourself. Unkindness is a sin.

At the front of the chapel is an altar, draped in white cloth. Above it, the stained glass is more intricate than those on the chapel’s sides. This central display uses more colors, gives more detail to the image. It depicts The One, half stern leader and half smiling nurturer. The One reaches open hands towards you. Sometimes, initiates and Acolytes are so filled with Their spirit that they raise their arms and reach back towards the image in the glass, as if their hands could touch.

The sun has dipped below The One by the time the Abbess has intoned the final note of the benediction. You use your right hand to tap your forehead, your sternum, your diaphragm - my head, my heart, my soul are Theirs - and then turn smartly to follow Sistre Pele out of the wooden pew and into the aisle. 

There are three sections of pews in the chapel. You are among the Sistres on the left. The boys and men, the Prognati, are in identical rows on the far right. The center is filled with a mix of men and women, omegas and alphas - The One’s most beloved followers, the chosen Acolytes.  When you are graduated to an Acolyte, you will sit in the center with them. 

It will be the closest you have ever been to a man, or an alpha, without bars between you.

When you were young, you thought that women could only be be omegas and men could be only be alphas. You’d never seen any different, since the church takes only initiates who fit this criteria. It was Sistre Sparrow who taught you otherwise, who told you that outside of the church - away from Isla Fidei or any of the other keeps of the church scattered throughout the land - men and women can be born as any of the sub-genders.

“They can mate with whoever they want, too,” Sistre Sparrow had whispered.  You’d been near the river, filling earthen pots with fresh water to haul on a cart back to the Abbat. You were quite alone at the river, and still she whispered. The river runs with Omega’s tears. The One could be listening, even here. You’d flushed hot, embarrassed at the mention of mating, tempted to dip your hands in the river water and hold them to your face to relieve the burn.

“It doesn’t have to be a man and a woman,” she’d said. “Doesn’t have to be an alpha and an omega either. My mother is a beta - Father’s an omega. They always said it didn’t matter, not to them.”

“They sound so…” You’d trailed off, voice full of wonder. Open-minded, had been the end of that thought. Or perhaps, modern. You didn’t choose a word. Just having parents to speak of left you a bit in awe. The bonus of parents who aren't the fixed binary the church has taught you, the only way you’ve ever known, is beyond what your little mind can handle.

Sistre Sparrow had smiled at you in that way she does when she thinks you’ve said something funny on accident.

“They were,” she agreed, “until they sent me here.”

“We’re lucky here,” you’d countered. “Alpha protects us and Omega raises us. We are safe and loved with The One.”

“Sometimes talking to you makes me want to jump off the cliffs,” Sistre Sparrow had told you, matter-of-fact. You weren’t offended. Sistre Sparrow loves you, just like you love her. It’s just that she is as afraid of your devotion as you are of her sinful past.

Everything you know about mates comes from Sistre Sparrow. It’s partly that the Abbat and the Sistres hadn’t taught you about it - but it was also that you hadn’t cared to be curious. Like Sistre Pele said - you are here now. Part of being here means staying chaste, letting your heats burn away your sins each season, and letting Omega’s tears leave your spirit washed anew with each cleansing ritual when the heat fades from your skin again.

You will never settle down with a mate, either. Initiates and Acolytes alike forsake mortal companionship and devote themselves fully to The One. Sistre Sparrow curls her lip about it, but to you the idea never feels like a loss.

The line of Sistres moves slowly towards the door, nearly at a shuffle. It gives you time to take in the familiar room where you’ve spent so many waking hours. The walls around you are painted white, the only color in the room coming from the sunlight that comes through the stained glass, pitching green and red and blue on the otherwise naked walls.

The smell of pine overwhelms, mixed with a touch of heady incense. The humble chapel’s floors are wooden and worn beneath your feet, the same grooved boards that initiates and Acolytes have tread for centuries. It makes you feel connected to them, walking where they walked, praying where they prayed. 

You file through the chapel and out into the keep’s courtyard. You’re pleasantly surprised to find that it is still light out here, despite how low the sun has crawled. It is a sign that spring is truly here - the days growing longer, the darkness and the cold of winter chased away by The One’s will once again.

Ahead of you is the Abbat proper, which does shame to the wooden chapel. The Abbat is built with brown stone, and it splits the keep into one side for Sistres and another side for Prognati. It is the middle ground, the place where the Acolytes are free to mix. It represents the duality of The One - Alpha and Omega, together. 

It is adorned with a bell tower, which you’ve always feared to climb. You don’t like heights. One of many mortal weaknesses you can claim.

To your left, the Prognati file out of another door, heading from the chapel to their own dining hall. The alphas - boys and men - only mix with the omegas, the Sistres, inside the chapel. It is the only time that The One permits the initiate groups to share space. 

You keep your chin tucked down as you walk, but you can’t help a curious glance towards the Prognati’s line of bodies. Alphas, and men, are a mystery to you. You are more familiar with ducks, to be honest.

A young alpha catches your eye. He’s golden in the setting sunlight, dark hair swinging over his brow. His features are sharp - jawline, mouth, eyes all look ready to cut you to pieces. His eyes meet yours and crinkle slightly. One corner of his mouth lifts, just a touch, and then he looks down again, following the Prognati in front of him as their line peels off to the left, to their own buildings.

You’ve never seen him before. But then again, you don’t spend much time looking. That’s inviting the Devil in, as the Acolytes say.

You push away any other thought about the young alpha. You don’t have the energy to ask for a cleansing ritual tonight. Impure thoughts will have no foothold here, not tonight.

You sup in silence, the wooden bench beneath your thighs cold and unyielding. Sistre Pele eats on your right. Sistre Sparrow eats on your left. You chew bread and cheese and wash it down with water pulled from the river. You chew vegetables you helped grow in the Abbat’s gardens. 

You do not think about that alpha. You do not consider the playful glint in his eyes. 

That’s the Devil, you think firmly. If he’s got the Devil in his eyes, he’ll never become an Acolyte. 

(He was beautiful.)

You sip at your water and recite a psalm in your head. You do not feel like dunking your head in river water tonight. 

After supper, you go down into the storage tunnel. It connects the Sistres’ dining hall, the Prognati’s dining hall, and the Abbat proper, which sits in the center between them. In one of the storerooms, there are earthen pots full of cool river water. Some days, your job is to fill empty pots at the river and restock these rooms. Some days, your job is to take water to different areas on Isla Fidei to distribute it.

Tonight is the latter. You check the chalkboard in the dim, damp hallway to see your assignment, your heart sinking when you read the words rut cells. 

“You have such a tender heart,” Sistre Sparrow snickers. 

You frown at her, sideways. “Don’t gloat. You’ve got stable duty.”

“Yes, but with Sistre Old-as-Dirt. It’ll take us all night to finish.”

“Unkindness is a sin,” you remind her. 

Your partner for the night is Sistre Cole, who has only been here a few months. She doesn’t speak much, which you appreciate. Rumors had spread when she first arrived that she was an unwed mother, that she was an addict, that she’d joined willingly from the mainland, wooed by The One’s promise to shelter, to wash away past mistakes, to give a fresh start - as many are. 

You don’t particularly care what she did before. You care if she holds you up on your work rotation - which she doesn’t. 

It’s you who falters at the doorway of the hall of rut cells. 

“Go on,” Sistre Cole whispers behind you.

“Sorry,” you breathe back. “It’s just - the noise. It frightens me.”

“So pray.” Sistre Cole jabs her ladle into your spine and you shuffle forward. 

When the homilies speak of Hell, this is what you imagine, every time. The hall is lined on both sides by small, windowless cells, locked by barred doors. Inside are the Prognati - alphas on their rut, locked up so their baser instincts cannot overcome their piety and risk dirtying their soul beyond repair. Their hands are bound to protect them from their own urges.

The sound is horrifying - wails, screams, sobbing, whining. It rings in your head for hours on nights when you have this assignment. You spend hours praying for relief for these Prognati. 

You hope they spare a prayer for you, when your heat comes and it’s you writhing and sobbing in a cell.

The smell is what really gets you. Sweat, certainly. Urine, from the buckets. Blood, sometimes. But those are mortal smells, and while they are unpleasant, they don’t overwhelm. It is their alpha scents that make you dizzy and queasy - pheromones thick and cloying amongst a cacophony of smells that aren’t meant to go together. Mint and cinnamon and bergamot and cedar and blackberry and chocolate and lilac and citrus and - 

You hold your breath for as long as you can. 

You pass each cell swiftly, hoping the inhabitant will be asleep, and dump a ladleful of water into the bowl near the cell’s bars. Some of them, blessedly, are sleeping. Some of them lay on their backs and weep, barely aware that you’re passing by. Some of them beg you to help them, some of them beg you to touch them, some of them beg you to kill them. 

Their body purges their sin through fever, you recite silently. It is the only way to cope with the horror of walking amongst the suffering. You must remember that this is how the soul sheds sin, emerges fresh and new and ready to be ushered into the arms of The One.

You dump their water and move on. It is the most dignity you can give them.

When your rounds are completed and the tool returned to the storeroom, you have an entire hour to yourself before the bell will toll, indicating candles out.

You consider crossing the field to the bathhouse and washing up, but ultimately decide against it. It’s a warm night, even now that the moon is out. The baths will be busy, and you don’t like to bathe as part of a crowd. 

Instead, you perch on the stone ledge of a fountain, trailing your fingers in the water. Above you, Alpha’s stars rotate slowly, lazy, no purpose to them but to be beautiful and unending as Alpha himself. 

You have lived your life by the Acolytes’ rules. You have kept your soul clean and unblemished. You have kept your head down and your mouth shut and your heart shuttered in hopes that someday The One will move you into the circle of Their most beloved followers. 

You have lived your life in the pursuit of loving something that might love you back. 

Above you, Alpha’s stars promise nothing to your heart.

–

Spring warms into summer, and your blood warms under your skin. You follow your routine for as long as you can - morning prayers, work in the garden, a silent walk with the other initiates after lunch, afternoon Mass, supper, bed, repeat. You try to cling to normalcy for as long as you can, until the fever has you thirsty and dizzy, until your faded navy tunic burns your skin where it touches. 

You hate getting your heat. You hate it even more that you must spend it on the floor of a cell. 

You report to the infirmary and kneel, eyes on the ground until Sistre Erline stops before you. 

“My body purges my sins,” you report to the floor. As it does once a season, a natural cycle that follows Omega’s earth’s own cycle. 

Sistre Erline leads you and three others out of the Abbat and into the hall of heat cells - an identical block opposite of the rut cells on the Prognati side of the keep. 

“In,” she says shortly, and the door shuts and locks behind you, then continues on with the other two Sistres. Dread closes around your heart. You hear the next cell lock heavily, and Sistre Erline’s footsteps trail even further away. 

Tomorrow, you won’t feel the dread. Tomorrow you will only feel the pulsing fever, the sharp sting where your skin touches anything at all, the deep ache in your lower belly and down between your legs. 

They do not bind your hands, because you are good. You have always been good. At least there is that; at least you can wipe sweat from your brow, muffle your sobbing, draw pictures in the dirt. 

Most of the cell wall and the door are solid wood; there is a small section of bars on the leftmost side - big enough for an arm to reach through and ladle water into your bowl. The corner on the rightmost side isn’t within view of the hallway, so this is where you usually shove your waste bucket, so you have some semblance of privacy there.

It is one of the last things you do before the fever worsens, before your thinking goes wobbly. 

–

You lay on your side, the stone floor cold beneath your cheek. Or, it should be cold. Your face burns - your whole body burns - so ferociously that it feels like laying on coals. Your bones ache too deeply to try moving; sitting up won’t make it burn less, anyway. You’ve done this enough times that you know.

You breathe shallowly through your mouth, trying not to pant against the pain but struggling to control it. Your headache is sharp and frightening. Your limbs feel leaden. Your skin hurts wherever it touches anything but air. And your body screams for something that you don’t know how to give it. This unnameable need is so intense that it registers as pain; this is the reason above all else for your panting.

When you started your heats, in your eighteenth year, you’d asked Sistre Erline - who had worked the infirmary since time immortal - why heats brought such unbearable pain.

“It is the body burning away your sins, child.”

“I did not sin, Sistre! I have been good!”

She’d given you a rare, indulgent look. “Everyone sins in small ways,” she explained. “An untruth, even meant kindly, is a sin. A selfish impulse, whether you act on it or not - this is a sin. An unholy thought, a desire felt by the body - this is a sin. Mortals cannot always control these things, but The One knows we can’t be perfect. That’s why They created our bodies with the ability to burn the sin away.”

You had considered this at length. It made sense to you, it seemed logical and right. 

“Why must we cleanse after, if the sin was burned off already?”

You always hated cleansing rituals, almost as much as the heat itself.

“The cleanse is symbolic, of course.” Sistre Erline’s voice had grown a bit impatient. “It shows The One that we are remorseful, that we regret our many failings. The ritual shows that we wish to follow their guidance with clean souls, untainted.”

“I feel…” you’d said, a bit uncertainly, “I feel like my body calls for something. During my heat.”

“It calls for the spirit of The One,” Sistre Erline said briskly, and that was that. 

–

Your fever breaks; you are lucid again.

Your tunic no longer sears where it touches you. You no longer sweat. Your headache has simmered into a dull ache behind your eyes. Your stomach growls, ravenous. Your bones still feel heavy, but a heaviness that calls for sleep, not for death. 

You sit up, you fix your coif to cover your head again. You brush dirt off your tunic and sit near the bars. You long to lay back down and sleep another day, but that means another day of only bread and water, another night without a bed. When an initiate whose name escapes you passes by with the ladle of water, you ask her, “Please, inform Sistre Erline that my sins have burned away.”

–

You are a cloud - you look like a solid thing, but you are more apparition than anything. You are a dandelion seed - the wind carries you where it pleases, you make no choice of your own. You are a mountain peak burdened with snow and ice - holding up weight unimaginable, making sure it looks like the task is nothing.

You are dressed head to toe in white. This shift is made of cotton, not the scratchy weave that makes the tunics, and you would wish you could wear this all the time instead, if it weren’t for how much you hate it.

You feel exposed, and feeling exposed makes you feel ashamed, and feeling anything negative about this sacred ritual to honor The One makes you feel deeply guilty. But the cotton shifts are meant to fit all the Sistres as their heat leaves them, and so the arm-holes are gaping, the fabric not thick enough to hide much anyway, and you hate every moment that you’re in it.

You also know that wearing this means you’ll be cleansed soon - a ritual that you treasure spiritually but loathe physically. 

You wear a heavy, white lace veil that makes it hard to see much but the white shape ahead of you - another Sistre fresh off her heat. At least, you think, there is that. The cleansing ritual attire may leave you feeling naked as a babe, but at least the other Sistres can barely see you through their own veils. 

You walk in a single-file line through a field of tall grass. It tickles your ankles and shins, fills you with the urge to run your hands down your legs to soothe the sensation. Your body is still sensitive from your fading heat. This walk is always a sensory nightmare, no matter the season. 

Above you, the mid-summer sun bears down on you. You imagine what you all might look like to a bird passing overhead. Sheep, perhaps, following their shepherd. Fitting. 

You can hear the roar of the river, and dread begins to creep up your body, climbing from your feet up into your legs, a buzzing sensation that demands your attention. 

You try to will it away. You’ve talked to Sistre Erline about this - once, the buzzing fear climbed so far up your legs that it began in your hands as well, inching closer and closer to your heart. You’d cried, nearly fainted, but they’d done the ritual anyway.

You’d been slapped and put in punishment, after - the only time you’d ever been in trouble. Sistre Erline knew you well enough that when she let you out of the punishment cell the next day, she’d asked you, “What was it that possessed you, child?”

You’d explained the buzzing, how you’d been sure if it inched into your chest you’d stop being able to breathe. 

She’d shaken her head somberly. “The Devil is fighting so hard for your soul,” she’d said mournfully. “He begs you to deny the rituals, to turn away from The One’s holy ways. You mustn’t listen to him.”

And so, now - years later - you ignore the buzzing and let your feet bring you closer to the river and the thing you dread. 

Ahead, a building comes into view, bringing to mind a covered bridge, or a house built squarely over top of the water. Indeed, it spans the river - as if the rushing waters disappear into one end and then hurry out the other. What happens inside is a mystery to all but the Sistres who are cleansed after their heats. 

You wonder, distantly, if the Prognati have a similar ritual after their ruts. They must - their souls need to be cleaned just as much. 

Sistre Erline opens the door and you file inside, forming a line on the wooden floor. There isn’t much floor - only a walkway a few yards wide, along the wall where you’ve entered. There’s an identical walkway along the opposite wall. Between them, the river rushes madly, tumbling over itself as it hurries out to sea with a fury you sometimes feel in your own heart, late at night when there is nothing to distract you.

The room is fully walled in on all four sides, and covered by a single roof. From the outside, it might look like a barn, you think. Out there, if you couldn’t see and hear the river, you’d never know that it flows unfettered through the building’s middle. 

Inside, the light is dimmer, everything cast in blue. The river’s roar is louder here, because the sound cannot escape into the sky. Though it isn’t that far across - fifty feet at most - the water is deep enough to reach above your navel, and the current is strong.

There is a bridge that connects the two walkways, spanning over the river. This is where Sistre Erline will stand while she recites the scripture, though it will be nearly impossible - as it is every time - to hear her over the river’s own song. 

Your eyes find the water like a hunter’s eyes find his prey. It tumbles, races, taunts you. The dread has passed your knees and creeps up your thighs. You are so focused on your enemy, the rushing water, that you barely notice the two Prognati who scuttle over the bridge and behind the line of Sistres. 

This startles you; you’ve never seen a man in this building before. You realize, as you look around the room more fully, that there’s a small closet in the far corner - on the other side of the bridge - that stands ajar. The two Prognati seem to be loading small crates inside - you can see them through the window now, safely outside, staring at the crates on the grass and talking to one another. They are likely discussing if they should pause their task until after the cleansing, or if they will be scolded more for taking too long.

Sistre Erline’s voice calls your attention back; she’s finished reciting the scripture and has walked down the nearly hidden stone stairway into the water. 

Sometimes the river is mild. Sometimes it is fierce. Today it falls between.

The dread finds your fingers, climbs into your hands, overtakes your wrists. 

At least, you think, frantically searching for a positive, it is summer. At least the cold water feels good. At least it isn’t winter. 

In the winter, you must trek back across the field - often full of snow instead of tall grass - with wet hair. It’s a wonder no one dies, but you supposed that’s the will of The One. 

The line moves; two girls have been cleansed already and they dry themselves off near the bridge, grabbing dry tunics to pull on over top their soaked white cleansing garment. 

There is only one girl left before you. The dread climbs your arms, rounds your shoulders, crawls up your belly. You breathe deeply, fighting off dizziness and the twisting in your guts - fighting off the Devil, who wants you to deny the ritual, to leave your soul tarnished and free for him to take.

You watch the Sistre before you take careful steps down the stone stairs to approach Sistre Erline. The river runs around their elbows, unbothered by this disruption. Sistre Erline continues the chant, grabs your Sistre by the hair, and plunges her backwards under the water. 

Your Sistre emerges without much spluttering; you know you will have no such grace when your turn comes. You already feel like you’re drowning, your lungs spasming for air that they can’t seem to get, and you are still on dry land. 

Your Sistre climbs the stairs again, water streaming from her, her white frock plastered to her body and completely translucent. She walks to the end of the line, where the dry linens wait. You notice that the Prognati are back, each carrying a small crate, heading for the closet in the back corner. 

The Sistre behind you pokes your back. You stumble forward, then take the steps carefully. The water is cool around your ankles but you barely notice. Your heart is going to race itself to death. You are going to faint. You are going to scream. 

Your vision goes white around the edges as the water reaches your stomach. You can hear yourself gasping for breath, can hear how close to a sob each gasp is. Sistre Erline ignores your theatrics, intones, “Alpha, save my Sistre’s soul. Omega, let your tears wash her clean.”

Then her gnarled fingers are in your hair, pinching, and your spine is screaming in protest as she wrenches you backwards and holds you there.

The river claims you. It is suddenly completely dark, completely silent. You fight your body as instinct screams at it to thrash, to try to straighten up, to breach the water and pull in a deep breath of air. You fight to stay pliant, to allow Sistre Erline to hold your face below the water. 

It is in your nose, it is in your mouth, it is in your eyes. You cannot breathe, you are choking, coughing, you are drowning, dying, you can feel your chest spasm pitifully, your pulse thunders in your ears and then - 

Sistre Erline hauls you upright. You cough out a mouthful of water, head spinning as you gasp for breath and wipe water away from your eyes.

There is no time to calm yourself, to get your bearings. You have to get out of the water so the next Sistre can have her turn, and if you slow the process you’ll be punished again.

You will your legs - weak and shaking like you’ve just been attacked by a bear - to carry you to the stone steps and then up. 

Shivers overtake you as you walk towards the pile of dry linens. You can feel the white frock clinging to your body, dripping steady rivulets of water back onto the floor. 

You feel eyes on you, and though your chin is tucked you cast your gaze around defensively to see who is looking at you - to see if they are laughing at you for your embarrassing display. 

Instead, you see your alpha.

The way your mind has phrased the thought shocks you so badly that you forget you are cold and scared, the remaining feeling of weakness overtaken by a rush of adrenaline. 

Your alpha?Even thinking such a thing is a sin. You should just turn around and let Sistre Erline drown you again.

He’s frozen in the doorway of the closet, the crate forgotten in his hands, his eyes glued to you, molten and golden and shining. The water on your body suddenly feels warm, when seconds ago it was icy. The place between your legs gives a hearty pulse that makes you wonder if your heat wasn’t really over yet, if you’d left the heat cells too early. 

His gaze feels like a brand in each place that it lands, as heavy as his hand could be. It warms your face, your chest, your rear, your legs, then slowly climbs back up. You feel hot from head to toe, your journey to the dry linens forgotten as you watch him watch you.

Then the other Prognati snaps something at him and he startles, turning back to the closet, pushing the crate into his work-partner’s hands. You hurry to the linens, wrap yourself up well, eyes on the floor. You take your place in line.

When you dare to look up again, both of them are gone.

–

The heat consumes you like a wildfire. This time, though, it is not born from inside you, but from the oppressive, stifling late-summer afternoon and the lack of ventilation in the chapel. Sweat drips down your back, and you shift. Your tunic is sticking to you in uncomfortable places. The room stinks, as sweat carries pheromones and natural scents more strongly. 

At the front of the room, one of the Acolytes drones out a homily.

To your left, Sistre Sparrow pokes your leg.

“Did you hear about Sistre Nan?” She manages to ask this at the same volume as an exhale, her lips barely moving. 

You shake your head imperceptibly. 

You two have years of silent conversation between you, mostly from this very same bench.

“She got caught fornicating with one of the Prognati,” Sparrow breathes. “They’re both being sent away.”

Inwardly, you groan. This means there will be an extra Mass, with a homily that’s truly just a poorly disguised lecture, a scolding. This means there will be purification rituals in all the buildings - extra scrubbing, burning plants that make your throat hurt.

Outwardly, you listen dutifully to the Acolyte’s message. 

Later, as you walk from the chapel to the great hall to eat, you press close enough to whisper.

“Where are they sending her?”

Sistre Sparrow keeps her face blank. “They’ll wed her to a widower on the mainland who has been attending services in town and tithing each week. Poor thing. She cried and cried as they loaded her on the boat.”

“And him?” There’s a small part of you that worries it may have been your alpha - you scold yourself for thinking this a second time - but there’s no way to know. 

“Sent off to another Abbat, on another island, is what I heard.”

You shake your head sadly. “Why would they do that? Should one of them have been in the rut or heat cells?”

Sistre Sparrow sends you a judging, sideways look. You’ve received this one from her before. It’s saved for moments when it is clear how sheltered you’ve been on the island, when it is clear that she knows much more about life outside of the Abbat than you.

“People fornicate outside of heats and ruts. You know that, right?” Her voice is doubtful.

“Sure,” you say defensively. “To make babies.”

She swears under her breath and you shy sideways, as if her sin could be contagious. 

Inside, you have to let the conversation die, lest you are overheard. 

But that night, as you lay in bed, you whisper across to her, “Sparrow?”

She hums a wordless response. You are the only two in the room, but the walls are paper thin. You are careful with your volume as you whisper back, “What are the other reasons?”

She’s quiet for so long that you think maybe she fell asleep. You’ve almost given up on straining to hear her through the dark when her answer comes.

“Because it feels wonderful. And, if you’re lucky, because you’re in love.”

In love. It is a foreign concept to you. A nonsensical, useless concept. And yet, for some reason, the face of your alpha flashes in your mind - the way he’d looked at the cleansing, his gaze burning and thick, his jaw tight.

You push the thought away. 

It occurs to you that today was your birthday.

–

The work schedule changes again. You're glad for the break from the rut hall, though you know in another two weeks you could end up there again. This two week cycle has you helping the kitchens. You don't cook - and thank goodness, because you don't really know how and you'd probably make everyone very ill - but you help in every other way.

You haul in wood from outside to keep the three double-hearths lit. You scrub forks, knives, ladles, and bowls until your hands are red and angry from the heated water. You make trip after trip up and down from the cellars, carrying apron-fulls of potatoes, onions, peppers, apples. 

That's where you see him again - in the Prognati kitchens. He's on chopping duty for this rotation, it seems. You stand at the threshold of the large, busy room, holding the ends of your apron and trying not to let any potatoes get away. 

The cook, a large man who towers above you with a scowl, comes to inspect them, and then points at a barrel where you can drop them. The barrel next to where your alpha stands meticulously chopping carrots, his eyes on the flash of the knife in his hand. 

That is, until you get close enough to smell. 

His head pops up, the knife finding the cutting board dangerously close to his thumb. The cook smacks him on the back of the head as he passes, but your alpha seems not to notice. His eyes meet yours, and this time they aren't molten, aren't full of want. Instead, they seem to shine, a smile crawling up one side of his face before he looks back down to his hands and resumes chopping. Like he's surprised to see you here, but it delights him. 

Looking at his smile feels like being hit with sunlight. You do not know if this constitutes as a sin. 

You shuffle closer and let the potatoes roll from your apron into the waiting barrel. 

“Need more carrots, if you've got them,” he says. It's the first time you've heard his voice. It makes you feel alive, makes you feel like running, makes you want to sing. 

You nod, mute, afraid to speak. You're working too hard on keeping your own face blank. A smile from a Sistre holds more weight than a smile from a Prognati. 

You turn to head back - you aren't supposed to make a second trip for more vegetables, but there's no question that you're going to go get him carrots because then you get to see him again - when his smell hits you.

The smell of damp meadow after a rain - a bit of wet earth, a whisper of petrichor, hints of the grass and flowers that are so happy to take a drink. He smells like summer rain in the meadow, and it makes you want to pull him to you, to press your nose into his collarbone and breathe him in, to close your eyes and let it transport you.

You do none of this. You disappear back to the corridors, down to the cellars, and you fill your apron with carrots. When you return to the kitchen he's still chopping steadily, but his eyes find you. They watch you, steady, as you approach and drop the carrots next to his cutting board.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes peeking at you sideways. His voice is as cool and refreshing as the summer rains his smells invoke. 

"May Alpha provide,” you respond, and you turn back to leave before you can do or say anything to get yourself in trouble.

–

For twelve straight evenings, you are gifted with these fleeting moments. You barely speak, but he usually has something quick to say - the storms are something tonight, aren't they? or you look happier today or that pepper looks half rotted, don't give me that one. 

And always, he watches you. After the first night, his eyes are on the doorway as soon as you appear - as if he were waiting. As if he waits for you.

You go to bed fluttery and confused each night, full of the feeling that you are doing something wrong but unsure which part is the sin, what scripture says thou shall not smile at beautiful alphas in the kitchen. 

You wake up looking forward to the post-dinner work, when he will smile at you, watch you enter the room, maybe say something quick and harmless before you leave again. 

Then, on the thirteenth night, he isn't there. You drop your potatoes with a young boy with neither a word nor a glance, and scuttle back where you came from, disappointment blooming like roses behind your bones.

You only have one more night on this work rotation; there's no way to know what you'll be assigned next. The chances of you both being assigned to the same place again are low - there are too many Sistres and Prognati in the rotation. The next night could be your last chance to speak - ever. 

You resolve yourself to be brave and ask his name. You aren't sure why you even want to know - perhaps so that your mind will stop calling him my alpha. 

Maybe because the soul's will to sin is sometimes too great for a mortal to overcome.

He is not there. You do not get the chance. 

The next night, when you check the board for your new assignment, you are once again on the rut hall, delivering water.

You sigh, resigned. Sistre Sparrow snickers at you. You swat at her with your ladle. 

Maybe this is a good thing, you consider. Maybe you were tiptoeing towards the Devil. Maybe this is The One's way of calling you back. 

The smell hits you as soon as the door opens - sweat and stink and so many different scents. You take a single step and freeze, the Sistre on the hall with you waking into your back with a grunt. 

You smell summer rain. Summer rain and damp earth and new summer blooms pushing up through soaked soil and warm winds pushing storm-clouds onward, onward. 

He's here. Your alpha is here.

“You do this side,” you tell the girl behind you. She's younger than you, and you have no hesitations about exerting your authority as the elder. “I'll take the far side.”

That's where he is. His smell is unmistakable to you, even in this mess of scents. You can almost pinpoint which cell he's in. 

You drop water in the first three bowls without even sparing the Prognati inside a glance. You pause at the fourth cell, peering through the bars into the darkness inside.

You wish you knew his name so you could whisper it. You thank Alpha and Omega that you don't know it, so that you can't whisper it.

He lays on his side, the dim light from the hallway casting his face in flickering orange. Fever eats at him - you can tell from the sweat on his brow, the furrow of his eyebrows even in sleep, the way his breaths come like pants and gasps. Sympathy twists your heart like a rag pulled from water.

You dump water in his bowl and replace your ladle in the pot, your eyes still on your alpha. You crouch, lowering yourself so that you are closer to his face. He's so beautiful, even now, even as he suffers. 

You reach out a shaking hand and brush his hair back. The thin sheen of sweat dampens your hand, but you don't care. You rest it there, knowing it will feel cool against his burning skin. He may not be awake, but you are glad to give him this relief. 

He stirs and you retreat - but not quickly enough. He grabs your wrist and holds it. You gasp in surprise, but you don't pull away. His eyes crack open, squinting at you. They are bloodshot and bleary, but they find your face and stay there steadily. 

His scent spikes, summer rain flooding the hallway, dirt and earth surrounding you so that you might think you are being buried in it. 

He closes his eyes again and whines, long, agonized. Then he releases your wrist and lets his hand fall to the ground, motionless. 

“Omega, ease his suffering,” you whisper, and then you force yourself to move to the next cell. 

It is the first time you have ever touched a Prognati. It is the first time you have ever touched an alpha. It is the first time you have ever touched a man. 

Back in your bed, you press your hands to your nose, breathing deeply. His smell is all over them - his alpha scent and his smell as a man. You try to stay awake, to revel in smelling him, to think back on how it felt to let your hand touch his skin, to feel him solid and real and breathing beneath your touch. You breathe him in and imagine the rain-soaked meadow his scent mimics.

You think back to Sparrow telling you because it feels wonderful. 

You think back to Sparrow saying if you're lucky, because you're in love. 

When you wake up in the morning, you are consumed with fever. Sistre Sparrow has to help you walk to the infirmary. 

Your heat has come on two weeks early. 

–

“How did you sin, Sistre?”

“I do not know. I do not know.”

The Sistre slaps you, and you take the blow silently. 

“Who did you see?”

“I followed my orders,” you object. Your heat has come and gone, and so has your cleansing. Four days in the cell and one day to be dunked in a river. Now that you are allowed back in the Abbat, the Sistres demand answers. Heats are seasonal, cyclical - unless there is an external factor. Something must have caused it to come off-course. “I attended Mass, I ate dinner, and then I did my rounds. I brought water to those in the rut hall.”

“Sistre Vela reported that she took no extra time, that water rounds went as expected.”

You stay silent, your eyes on your hands. Your cheek smarts from the slap, but you've had worse. 

“You did nothing? In Omega’s voice?” 

You meet the Sistre’s eyes as she invokes a phrase which demands the truth - you could not lie using the voice Omega grants you, lest your soul be beyond redemption.

At least, that’s what the Acolytes teach.

“I did nothing,” you lie. 

They exchange a look. You have long been trusted, have always been good.

“A night on isolation,” one of the older Sistres say, finally, a verdict and a sentencing in one. It means we can't prove you did something wrong, but we'll punish you just the same. Just in case. 

There, you think. Alpha’s justice. One night on punishment for the lie I have told. 

It feels fair, if you ignore the Sistres’ intentions.

One night isn't that bad, anyway. Especially considering you just did four days in an identical cell, wracked with fever and pain and desire that you can't even make sense of. 

At least this time, it is only one night - not four. At least this time, your skin will not feel akin to flame. At least this time, you won’t go delirious with fever, won’t be retching as your body begs and begs and begs for something you have chosen to never give it. 

At least this time, you'll only be cold and hungry and bored.

No - not bored. They allow you a copy of the holy texts. You spend your waking time thumbing through the pages, looking for specific sections, looking for rules, looking for directives. 

You have felt Alpha in your heart when running, when winning a game, when discovering something new, when facing down a thunderstorm as it rolls in from the sea to ravage Isla Fidei. 

You have felt Omega in your spirit when your voice joins the others in harmony during a hymn, when holding Sparrow’s hand when she’s cried, when pressing your palm to the soft, mossy side of a tree trunk deep in the island’s forest. 

He is energy, resilience, strength and purpose. She is softness, nurturing, nature and music. You have felt both embodied in your life, as sheltered as it may be.

You have never felt their spirits following the Acolytes’ strict rules and rituals, though they’re meant to be the only path into The One’s love and light.

You felt so much guilt and were punished - for talking to the alpha in the kitchens, for touching his face as he suffered his rut-induced fever, for your heat coming off-cycle - which isn’t even within your own control. 

But The One never spoke of any of these as offenses - the holy text says nothing about a separation between men and women, alpha and omega. The holy text says nothing that even implies that betas have no place in this binary society. The holy texts say nothing to indicate that heats or ruts are dirty, sinful, or wrong.

Those ideas seem to come from the Acolytes themselves.

It is all you think about until your cell door is unlocked, and you shuffle out of the dim building and into the blinding sun, under Alpha’s watchful eye yet again.

–

A clap of thunder shakes the dormitory, so sharp and precise that it sounds - feels - like a direct slap, worse than any the Sistres could impart on you. You bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, gasping for breath.

“It’s only rain,” Sistre Sparrow grouses from her bed, feet away. Her voice is sluggish, and you are sure she is asleep again before she even finishes the last syllable.

You lay back, pulse settling, now aware of the other noises of the late-summer storm - pounding, relentless rain against the roof and the windows and the faint howling of the furious wind through the building’s eaves. 

A flash of lightning lights the room, the grey stone walls visible for only an instant, and then you are surrounded by dark again. The quick change from light to dark is so akin to being plunged under the river after standing in the sunlit cleansing room that you get the same wave of panic - your throat tightening, your hands beginning to tingle, your breath coming short.

I’m not there, you think. I’m in my bed. I’m in the dormitory. I am not in the water. 

The rain running down the windows is morphing into the river of river water.

“Omega, please be with me,” you whisper, closing your eyes tight and clenching your buzzing fists.

Lightning drags you from blinding light to fathomless dark again. Your heart thumps against your chest. Your pulse flutters like hummingbird wings. The buzzing climbs past your wrists.

Get away from it, Omega whispers back to you.

Yes. Away. You sit up again, shivering when your bare feet touch the cool, wooden floor. You don’t bother with dressing - no one should be up except the Acolytes who do rounds through the night. You’ll only need a moment to calm yourself, and you can stay close to your door. If someone comes, you can slip back inside, or claim you needed to relieve yourself.

It’s immediately better in the corridor, because the deafening sound of rain is muffled, muted. There are no windows to pitch you from dark to light to dark again. You breathe deeply, slowly. You pace three steps from your door and back, then four steps, then five, then get braver and pace the whole hallway. 

Your pulse slows, the buzzing fades bit by bit. 

You want to go back to sleep. Dawn will come before you know it. But if you go back in that room the water will rush around you and your mind will take you back to the river and you’ll be drowned in nothing but your own fear yet again.

You turn a corner and walk a little farther. There is an alcove near here meant for prayer - perhaps you can sit on the wooden bench, rest even if you don’t sleep.

You freeze in place, as softly and silently as a doe in the wood, when you see someone already standing a few paces from the alcove, facing it silently. A candle is lit on the small altar; the flame flickers and dances and casts light and shadows dancing around the stone walls behind it. The figure stands with head bowed, arms folded.

You do not know if it is the cut of his jaw or the shape of his shoulders that you recognize first. You do not know if the smell of summer rain comes from his presence or from the cracked windows down the hall.

You have a choice. You can turn back, retrace your steps carefully and climb back in bed and bury your face under the blankets and ignore the storm. Or, you can continue forward, make yourself known, and step into another kind of storm entirely. 

“Forgive me,” you murmur to The One, and then you take a single step.

He turns. He looks alarmed at first - probably he thinks he has been caught out of bed by an Acolyte. Then, recognition crosses his face, and his expression sharpens, somehow becoming full of intent.

“It’s you,” he says, his voice reverent, as you’d expect before an altar. 

You say nothing, just step closer, until you’re both standing in the dim circle of ever-moving candlelight.

He eyes you, unsmiling. You are suddenly very aware of your bare feet, of the thinness of your summer sleep-clothes. You stare back at him, refusing to feel ashamed. Something about him brings out Alpha’s spirit in you, wants you to break rules and refuse to back down. Perhaps it is the alpha in him that awakens this in you. You have never been around an alpha before - you do not know.

When you say nothing, he says, “I dreamed of you during my - when my body burned away my sins, this summer. I dreamed you comforted me when the fever came.” The look he gives you is sharp. He knows the answer to his next question, but he asks it anyway. “Or was that not a dream?”

You smile wryly. “I spent a night in the punishment hall for that,” you admit.

Something flickers in his gaze - amusement, or relief, or something you’ve never needed a name for before now.

“I apologize,” he says. His voice is silken. 

You shake your head. “You did no wrong.”

His eyes swim over your face again. “Sistre… what is your name?”

Feeling your face heat, you tell him in a whisper. When he repeats it, you fight to keep your scent from spiking. 

You want him to say it again.

“My name is Chan,” he says. You don’t repeat it. You just nod, silent, as you usually were when you’d met in the kitchens. 

He meets your silence easily, unbothered. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks.

Because my body thought the Acolytes were drowning me again, killing me just a bit at a time to keep me too frightened to question them. 

“Alpha’s anger woke me.” You refer to the thunder, which chooses that moment to rumble distantly. The storm is moving on.

His expression shifts again. His face is so very expressive - you could watch it for hours, noting the tiny changes, how each one is just as beautiful as the last.

“Are you…” he trails off, as if he isn’t sure he wants to ask, isn’t sure he wants to know the answer. “Are you a Consecrant?”

You flinch, though there’s no heat in his use of the word. It means a true believer, a follower of not only The One but the church itself, the Acolytes’ rules and rituals, all of it. You’ve heard enough dormitory gossip to know that outside of Isla Fidei, it is not a nice word.

You think of Omega’s spirit rising in you when you watch the wind ripple through long grass, Alpha’s spirit giving you strength when you need to be brave. Of course you are a believer in that; you can feel it inside you, can see it all around you in the natural world.

You grew up here. You spent your whole life being as close to perfect as a mortal girl can be, so that someday the Acolytes would welcome you into their rank.

Any other answer would be a lie.

“Yes,” you tell him. 

His face shutters. “We should go back,” he says then, and even as he is dismissing you it feels apologetic. “Lest an Acolyte find us and send us into exile.”

He’s right. You step back, slip away from the lone candle and back into the shadows.

“May Alpha protect you,” he says, taking his own step backwards, his eyes on the place where the darkness swallowed you.

“May Omega shelter your soul,” you whisper back, “Chan.”

–

The tower’s solitary bell tolls rhythmically, pulling you stickily from a dream about something else rhythmic, something you barely understood anyway, and once you are awake it slips away like wisps of smoke.

Across the small room, Sparrow frowns at you. “It’s still mostly dark.”

“Something’s happened,” you agree, already up and pulling on your tunic. The bell continues to toll, each single tone reverberating through the Abbat property, calling the initiates and the Acolytes alike.

The Acolytes are standing in a row in the courtyard as the initiates - Sistres and Prognati alike - file into the dark courtyard. You stand in lines, separate from each other, facing the spectacle. You’ve done this before, all of you.

A young woman is on her knees before the Acolytes, facing away from them. She is not bound, her hands rest on her knees. She keeps her eyes on the stones below her. Her coif is not on, and dark hair falls past her shoulders. 

“Oh, no,” Sparrow breathes beside you as you both find your place and kneel as well. “Sable.”

Indeed, this is a Sistre you know. She is two years your elder, though she has been here only a short time. If she had stayed longer, you might have been friends. 

That will not be the case. You are all out here, before dawn, kneeling beneath the waking sky, because Sistre Sable was caught trying to leave.

“Our Sistre has turned her back on us,” announces the booming voice of one of the alpha Acolytes. 

“I hate this,” you murmur. Immediately, you feel guilt. It is not your place to question the rituals. “Omega, forgive me,” you add. “Alpha, protect my Sistre. Omega, heal her spirit.”

Normally, Sparrow declines to join your prayers. This morning, as the sky inches from the color of a recent bruise into something more alive, her voice repeats, “Alpha, protect her.”

Others around you do the same, whispering their own prayers.

“Your Sistre has turned her back on The One,” the Acolyte continues. “She forsakes their love, she forsakes their mercy.”

Maybe she just made a mistake, you think desperately. “Forgive her,” you whisper fervently, as if The One is listening, as if your voice carries any weight with them. “Forgive her, she’s just a girl.”

One of the Acolytes - a Sistre, this time - steps closer and grabs Sable by the hair. You are supposed to watch, but you don’t. The darkness of pre-dawn allows you this small mercy. You give Sistre Sable her privacy as her hair is shorn, dark pieces falling to the stone like Devil’s snowflakes. Like rotten leaves. Like ashes.

Three alphas stand near the back. They will row Sable’s vessel, will lift her smaller body out of it, will leave her on the shore of a distant island - one with no people, no buildings, no fresh water to drink, no animals to hunt or tools to use for farming.

The first time this happened, you were still a child. The Sistre caught deserting had hair like sunlight, like dancing flame. It had made you cry to see the beautiful strands float to the ground. You didn’t know, then, that this step was not the punishment, but the preparation.

You had watched, solemn, as she was loaded into a small rowboat. Had watched the boat bob and dip through busy ocean waves. Had watched it get smaller and smaller as it crawled towards the horizon. 

“Where do they take her?” you’d asked. It was bold of you to voice a question; you were just as likely to get a slap for impudence as you were to get an answer. 

You were lucky that day. You got an answer. When an older Sistre explained where they take deserters, you’d frowned.

"But she won’t have food.”

A nod in reply.

“Won’t she die?”

“If it is the will of The One.”

Sable will die on that island if it is the will of The One. Of course, the Acolytes have stacked the odds by depriving her of anything that might keep her going. Can you call it the will of The One when you have done it yourself? Could you light the whole Abbat ablaze and call it Alpha’s will when it burns to ash?

Sable walks on her own when they lead her away. She doesn’t make them drag her, as others have done before. 

“If it is your will to take her,” you whisper, as the sky above you turns clear and beautiful blue, as if it has never witnessed a tragedy, “please take her quickly and without pain.”

Sparrow takes your hand. The elder Sistres do not scold you. This weighs heavy on many of them, too. You hold her tight as you rise and head for the dining hall to eat breakfast. Your heart feels bruised.

You see Chan as the Prognati file into their own eating space. He meets your gaze very quickly, gives you one tight nod, and looks away.

You understand. You do not want to be on that boat, either. You do not want the Acolytes to decide that Alpha’s will must be for you to starve to death, surrounded by water you cannot drink.

– 

The deepest trenches of summer find you at the river’s edge. Your nerves are alight, the galloping current reminding you that you are only meters away from the place where you are routinely shoved beneath the rushing water.

But today is not for you. 

Six new initiates line the riverbank. You are not inside the cleansing house. The summer sun beats down on your shoulders, on your face. 

An Acolyte - an alpha - stands in the water, the current running near his navel. His hands hover above the water as he blesses it with Omega’s holy words. You don’t watch him. You watch the newcomers. You wonder why they are here.

There are two men - one man and one boy, really - and four women. The boy looks to be the youngest - just on the cusp of teenage-hood, leaving childhood behind. Mostly his story is like Sparrow’s, probably he couldn’t keep himself out of trouble and his family turned to the church to save him.

The lone man shields his eyes against the sun’s harsh beams and the glare off the moving water. His frown is pronounced. You wonder if he has misgivings, doubts, about leaving his life behind. 

Usually the church will not take adult initiates from the mainland to the Abbats unless they have proven to be devout, proven to be worthy. But Prognati are harder to come by, and the Abbat needs strong bodies to lift crates and mend fences, to defend the property edges and keep the livestock, so it’s possible they show leniency for alphas.

There is never a shortage of girls and women from the mainland who wish to be initiates. Some, like Sparrow, like yourself, are given by families hoping for salvation. But many come quite willingly. There are many who come because life on the mainland isn’t kind to single women, and the convent sounds wonderful in comparison to their struggle.

A place to live where they cannot be harmed or used against their wills. Walls around them, a roof to protect them from rain. Food on the table, never a shortage. Rules to follow - structure, safety. A bed to sleep in. 

And forgiveness, salvation. 

You imagine that the promise of salvation has quite a mighty pull. When these women of all backgrounds hear the sermons saying Omega will wash away the sins of your past and you will be made new, it is no wonder that women whose pasts cling to them like spiderwebs jump at the chance. 

 Sometimes it isn’t until they’re living it that they realize that it is a trade. They are trading their freedom and their life to worship and follow The One. Some arrive and realize too late what their sacrifice really means.

This is what happened to Sable. You wonder if Alpha has taken her spirit yet, from the island where they left her, and you go dizzy for a moment. Sparrow whacks at your elbow with the back of her hand until you right yourself. 

One of the four women whispers to another, eyes on the river. You wonder if any of them are mothers, and if so, where their children are. You wonder if they will regret that they will not be mothers again. 

You wonder if any of them are true believers, or if they are all just refugees, in their own ways.

They wade into the river as one when the Acolyte gives the cue. They wince at the water’s chill, slip on rocks and hold out their arms for balance, waddle closer to where the Acolyte stands.

They are not gripped by the hair and bent backwards into the water’s fury. They are given the chance to hold their nose, they are tipped gently back, a hand supporting their shoulders. They are only dipped for a quick moment, then lifted again.

They all emerge smiling, their doubts washing away with their sins and the dirt from their hair. They all feel made anew, they all feel hopeful about their new home, about their place in the universe.

“Poor fools,” Sparrow murmurs.

“Alpha, forgive her,” you say immediately. And then, “Omega, welcome their spirits home. Give them peace on Isla Fidei.”

“Is that what you have? Peace?” Sparrow demands, and you shush her, looking over your shoulders to see if any of the other initiates have heard her.

Of course you have peace. You have nothing but peace.

–

The work rotation changes, gifting you with one of the lighter options: punishment hall. 

Despite the name, and unlike the heat and rut halls, the punishment “hall” is only three rooms - and they are not connected by any corridor. They are entirely separate things, three squat rooms built back behind the Abbat’s keep.

You bring a tray of dinner into the first; inside a woman is sleeping, her mouth slightly ajar. You leave the tray against the bars of her cell, ensuring she will be able to reach it. You refill her water and go on your way.

Back down to the kitchen you go, to carry the second tray. You unlock the next building and freeze in the doorway. The occupant inside gives a snort of muted laughter.

“Chan,” you say, setting the tray down by the cell bars. 

“An angel brings me sustenance!” he jokes, mouth lifting in a smile. 

“What sin?” you ask. It is nosy of you. You’re deeply curious.

He gives an unbothered shrug. “Got caught out of the dorm at night.”

You think of the night you met him in the corridor. That was weeks ago - it couldn’t have been that night. This must have been recent.

Your scent sours around you as you wonder just what he was out of bed for. You don’t like the idea of him meeting up with anyone else, late at night. He’s your alpha.

But of course, that isn’t really true. You struggle to control your scent. He laughs again as he smells it sharpen with unhappiness.

“Calm yourself,” he scolds lightly. “You’re doing what they do. You are making a judgment that I haven’t earned.”

It is clear he means the Acolytes.

“Haven’t you?”

“Is it a sin to marvel at Omega’s creation?”

You don’t like that answer one bit, and now it shows on your face. How does fornication count as Omega’s creation?

Actually, you think, perhaps in its own way, it is. But still.

He just watches you, something smug in his smile, as you fight yourself back into calm, fight your face into blankness, fight your scent back into green tea and vanilla.

“I was alone,” he says finally, perfectly calm.

Your nose wrinkles. “You smell like another.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “I smell like Omega.”

You hear it as I smell like omega, and a growl works in your throat. You flush with embarrassment at your instinctual reaction, but his grin widens. 

“I smell like the sea,” he explains, and as soon as he says it you recognize that he’s right. What you smell is salt, mixing in with his summer rain and grass.

“The sea?” you echo dumbly. 

He’s turned serious, the grin fading. “I go to the ocean. That’s why I was out of bed, the night you found me. I was going to the ocean, but the rain kept me inside.”

You have never been to the ocean. The Abbat grounds are very central on Isla Fidei, none of the buildings or land near the cliffs nor the beaches. Sometimes, a strong breeze will carry just a hint of salty air, but otherwise the sea is a mystical thing you haven’t experienced since you were brought here on a boat as a child too small to remember. 

“Why?” you breathe.

“Why?” he parrots, as if it is a silly question. “Why do we seek sunlight on our faces? Why do we stop and listen to birdsong? Because it’s beautiful. Powerful. Because it is angry, and so am I, and it makes me feel part of this world even if the Acolytes try to shut me away from it.”

His voice is steeped in bitterness. 

You do not know how to respond - he has said so many different things you’d like to respond to. 

Instead of any of it, you ask, still a little breathless, “Do you go often?”

This seems to surprise him. His eyes widen for a moment, his eyebrows lifting. “Often enough,” he allows. 

“But you got caught,” you say, lips twisting.

He gives you a wry smile. “I don’t usually.”

You say nothing. You watch each other, and you wonder absently if he feels as guarded and off-kilter as you do.

“Do you want to go?” he asks, then clarifies, “To the sea.”

You shake your head, though your answer isn’t no. “Of course I do. In theory. But…”

He nods sagely. “Yes, you strike me as a rule follower.”

This makes you think about your last conversation - when he’s asked you if you were a Consecrant, a true believer.

“When you asked me that…” you say tentatively, “I am a believer in The One… but, I am not sure I believe in all of the Acolytes’ rules and rituals. I am not sure I entirely believe in their way.”

He nods slowly, his eyes on you. They dance with something - hope, possibility. 

Finally, he says, “If you want to see the ocean, I can bring you.”

You stare at the wood beneath your feet, tracing whorls and cracks. It is one thing to admit you might not agree with every rule imparted on you. It is another entirely to leave the Abbot grounds without permission. If you were caught, should they not believe that you were planning to return, they would send you to starve on an island like they did to Sable - like they’ve done to countless others since you came here, and before you.

“Go on, then,” Chan says finally, his voice tinged with disappointment. “Bring sustenance to the poor fool in the next room.”

You give him a quick nod goodbye without meeting his gaze, and you slip back out the door.

–

When your rounds are done, you stand in the courtyard, listening to the central fountain gurgle. There is still plenty of light left in the evening, as the summer sun sets so late. You fidget, argue with yourself for only a moment, and then let your feet lead you through the courtyard and through the gate into the tall-grass field beyond.

Straight ahead is the bathhouse, and there are several initiates on their way to or from, the grass flattened from many feet taking the same path. Beyond is the river, and the cleansing house. To your left is the single greenhouse - one of your favorite places on Abbat grounds. But it is not the greenhouse that calls you attention tonight.

You walk to the right, through the tall grass. As the Abbat walls shrink behind you, you fight unease in your belly and press on. The sky’s blue deepens above you by degrees, and grasshoppers and butterflies rise, disgruntled, as you step through tall grass and disrupt their rest. The smell of summer, of flowering plants, of good earth swirl around you. 

A gurgling reaches your ears and you slow your steps, approaching a small stream - an offshoot of the river. You turn and watch the direction it runs - for surely, it too must run towards the sea, like its mother. 

You have never been this far from the Abbat grounds before, not since you were brought here. It feels too sinful to ask Alpha for courage when you are knowingly breaking a rule, so you don’t. You just steel yourself and take one firm step. Then another. 

You pause after each step, looking over your shoulder and smelling the air. You walk only until the scent changes. As soon as you get your first whiff of salt, you stop. You don’t take another step. You stand there, the farthest from home you’ve ever been, the farthest from obedient you’ve ever been, and you breathe in this hint of ocean as if it alone could sustain you.

“Alpha, I long to see it,” you whisper into the air. “I want to see the mighty ocean that you created. I want to see your fury.” 

When you have had your fill, you turn back and retrace your steps.

Later, Sparrow asks you suspiciously where you were. You tell her praying, and you do not consider this to be a lie.

–

Summer’s fists loosen; the heat of mid-afternoon becomes tolerable if you have water, the morning dew starts to chill your feet. Soon come the days in which you shiver through morning Mass and sweat through afternoon Mass, the weather touching both seasons in the span of a day.

You see Chan often, your paths crossing in motion, and you always afford each other an acknowledging nod or glance but nothing more. 

You dream of the sea. Sometimes it is beautiful and sparkling, white-capped and dancing. Other times it is furious and pounding, desperate to take lives, demanding bodies to pull into its lightless depths. 

You dream of the sea taking Sistre Sable’s body, her arms floating above her as she sinks into the depths. You know it is a dream, because in it, her hair floats around her like a macabre halo. In reality, they took her hair before they took her life.

Sistre Sparrow seems to know it instinctively when you wake from these dreams in particular; the tightness of her eyes belies that she is plagued by similar. 

You go into the field and to the stream five more times over the next fortnight, but you are never brave enough to go any further. 

You don’t make the decision to go. You don’t have a moment where you choose to defy the Abbat’s rules. But you are walking in line, following Sistre Sparrow toward the chapel for evening mass, when you catch Chan’s eyes in the Prognati line across the courtyard. 

It isn’t a decision. You just give him a nod - a different nod. An acceptance. A request. 

He’s quick. He jerks his head towards the wall behind him. The only building in that direction is the greenhouse.

You give him the quickest nod of understanding and you peel away from the line, circling back towards the dormitories. If anyone wonders why you are going the opposite direction, this might answer their questions - perhaps you need to relieve yourself, or replace a shoe, or re-pin your coif. There are dozens of excuses.

You wait long enough that the line of initiates should be complete inside the chapel, and then you scurry along the keep’s outer wall, making for the front gate. You look over your shoulder the whole time, almost colliding with the stone wall more than once - but no one comes. You slip through the gate, cool metal soothing your sweating palms, and slip outside.

Your first breath on the other side of the wall, where you are less likely to be spotted, feels like your first breath after emerging from underwater. 

It always does, but now especially. 

The greenhouse greets you with familiarity; the scent of living earth greets you, along with the flowery scents of many of the glass building’s inhabitants. The setting sun shines through the western wall but the light is dim - thick foliage covers every inch of wall space, making it virtually impossible to see in or out. 

You step neatly around a large vessel for water that the work rotation will come to refill after dinner, run your fingers along the oblong leaves of your favorite wax plant. It’s also called a porcelain flower, which makes you like it even more - it sounds fragile, but it’s sturdy. Hard to kill. 

Chan waits deeper into the greenhouse, his back to you. It’s harder to smell him, in here - the plants have just as much to say as his own scent. 

“Chan,” you say, and he turns.

You aren’t sure how you expected him to look - excited, eager. Instead, his face is blankly guarded. 

What he said about the ocean springs to your mind again - it is angry, and so am I. 

You can see it, you think, simmering underneath his sharp good looks - the anger that flows, that he struggles to keep beneath the surface.

Perhaps it’s that. Perhaps it is alpha energy. You do not know enough to know the difference. Maybe they’re all like that - like they’re barely holding in how furious they are.

No, you think. That can’t be an alpha thing. I feel that way too. 

“They’ll know I’m not at Mass,” you say in greeting. Omega teaches honesty. It feels honest to begin by laying bare your misgivings.

“Your stomach was ill,” he deadpans. His arms cross. You look at a spider plant behind him.

“Lying is a sin,” you say, a bit petulant, your voice small.

His mouth twitches sideways. “Is it?” he asks. “Or is it just a normal thing that humans do?”

You have no answer to this, so you say nothing.

He uncrosses his arms, gives a small shrug. “I am going to the sea. You can join me or not.”

His voice is light, like he doesn’t care how you respond - but you can suddenly see the tightness in him for what it is. He wants you to say yes. He’s afraid you will disappoint him. He is steeling himself against the disappointment. 

What will he look like, you wonder, when you delight him instead?

You take your eyes off the spider plant. You give him half of a smile. “I will join you.”

The smile you get back is tentative, growing bolder as it ages. “In that case,” he says, something playful in his voice again, something glimmering in his eyes again, “let’s be off, before someone thinks to look.”

He leads you away from the keep, cutting through a wild field with no path of foot-trodden stalks. His pace is quick, practiced - he does this often enough that he knows where to step. You keep up as best you can, unpracticed and burdened by a skirt.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, panting a little as you dog his heels.

“In the field?” He winks at you over his shoulder.

You huff in exasperation. “On Isla Fidei.”

He thinks, counts on his fingers. “Six seasons, so… almost a year and a half?”

He’d counted ruts, you realize. You are familiar, too, with keeping time this way.

“Where were you before?”

He keeps walking as he answers, his voice carrying to you on a breeze. “Not far - just ashore, in the first town. I knew of the church for many years, but I didn’t attend.”

You frown. “Then how did you come to join as an initiate?”

His pace slows drastically; for the first time since you’d set off, you catch up to him. 

He looks at you seriously, brows pinched.

“It isn’t a happy story,” he warns.

You lift your chin. “My family dropped me in a boat with the Abbess when I was not yet four. I’ve known nothing but the Abbat in my whole life.”

My story isn’t happy either, you tell him.

He nods, accepting your trade, and starts walking again - though his pace has slowed. You walk together now, instead of you chasing after his elongating shadow.

“I was indentured on the mainland,” he explains. “To a shopkeeper. His only son was being educated in the citadel - trying to become a judge or something. He didn’t want to grow up and continue running his father’s general goods store - neither of them wanted that for him, I think. So his father, my master, took me on. It was a fair price, one I could actually work off while I’m still young. The plan was I’d work the store until he was old enough or rich enough to pass it onto me.”

“I suppose that didn’t happen,” you muse.

He laughs, once, bitter. “No. No, it didn’t. He succumbed to the plague.”

You shiver. You’d heard news of the plague, three years back. It had ravaged the mainland. There were many many days you could see smoke from the direction of the mainland from the funeral pyres, rising lazily - a presage. The church hadn’t taken any new initiates that year, and the island had stayed free from illness. Alpha’s protection kept the death at bay.

“When my master died, I wrote to his son to see if he would honor his father’s agreement. But the citadel is so far, and in the meantime I had nothing in writing. The constable wouldn’t let me stay there - the land is owned by the family, and I’m not family. I went hungry before his son even got my letter. By the time he could respond, I’d turned to the church out of desperation. Winter was on the horizon.”

He’s one of many, you know. 

You think of the way his expression had shuttered when he’d asked if you were a true believer, and feel like you suddenly know something about him.

“How long were you here before you wanted to leave?”

He laughs again, like you’ve surprised him by figuring him out.

“I don’t think I was even off the boat yet,” he admits. “But I didn’t jump when I should have, and now here I am. Can’t swim back.”

“No,” you agree. “The angry sea would take you.” It is both a joke, and not.

He nods, looking at you sideways, acknowledging the joke, agreeing with the truth of it. 

“Do you…” you trail off. It is a frightening question to ask. It is a frightening answer to await. “Do you believe in The One at all?”

His silence stings at you. You try to quell your sadness, try not to let your scent shift and betray your emotions. Steady. Steady.

“The answer’s not no,” he says, startling you, and you realize that he’d been thinking, had taken your question seriously and was just choosing his words. “But my yes… it’s different from how you believe.”

“I think everyone believes differently,” you say, and the words shock you. Is that what you believe? The Acolytes teach conformity, unity. Following the same rules down to how you eat and dress. You believe the way they say to - there isn’t room for different.

And despite over two decades of following those rules exactly, it seems that perhaps your heart has something else to say.

You walk in silence, side by side. The early evening is cooling quickly, and the shadows grow long around your ankles as you continue out the other side of the field, reaching a bluff bracketed by forest on either side. Ahead of you, blue sky blends into blue water, fathomless, endless, sky and sea combined.

The wind gusts heavily, just once - a heavy exhale after a long day. Salt lingers on the back of your tongue when you inhale.

Chan leads you closer to the cliff’s edge. Below, waves roar towards jagged rocks, crash and explode, retreat back into the depths to regroup before the next attack. You watch them, enthralled. 

The smell of salt, the rhythmic crashes, the calls of the birds, the openness all seem to call your soul awake and alive in a way you have imagined others must feel in the chapel, when touched by the spirit of The One. You feel like you are coming out of a long slumber, blinking into dawn for the first time in a long time. 

Below you, the sea rages.

It is angry, and so am I. 

“Is it what you thought it would be?” Chan asks quietly. He has shifted closer, behind you, one hand hovering near your elbow like he might need to pull you back from the edge.

“It is bigger than I thought,” you admit. It is wilder than I thought. It is more alive than I thought. 

“The world is very big, outside of Isla Fidei,” he says sadly. 

“Thank you for bringing me.” You turn to look at him. The ocean ignores you both, continues to beat at the rocks, determined to move them.

“It was nice not to come here alone, for once.” There is something sad in his smile when he says this.

“Should we go back?” you ask. You feel awake, alive, filled with spirit and fire and the fury of the ocean - but you are also filled to the brim with fear. 

“Already?”

“I will be punished if they notice me missing,” you point out.

“A day or two in the punishment hall,” he says, as if this is nothing. “You’ve been through worse.”

You think of your heats, writing and sobbing against the floor, gasping against pain and fighting against fever. You think of being grabbed by the hair, shoved beneath waters as angry at the sea below you. 

You have been through worse.

He leads you back anyway, wordlessly and quickly as the sun sinks below the horizon behind you, the golden hour shifting into dusk’s blues and purples by degrees.

He lets you re-enter the keep’s gate first. You’ve missed dinner, but you aren’t hungry. You go straight to your work assignment, only minutes late.

“Apologies,” you breathe to the Sistre you’re assigned with. “I had to relieve myself.”

“Omega forgives you,” the girl grumbles, handing you a ladle for water. 

You are on edge all night - waiting for an elder Sistre or and Acolyte or even the Abbess herself to call you away from your work and demand to know where you were. It doesn’t happen - until you slip into your room to sleep.

“Where were you?” Sparrow hisses, sitting up in bed, her eyes narrowed fiercely despite how quietly she has whispered the question.

Your eyes widen. “I - I went - I walked -”

“I told them you were ill,” she interrupts. “Pain in the head, blurred vision. You’re to go to the infirmary ‘when it clears’ so Sistre Erline can see to you.”

“Thank you.”

You stand barely inside the room, afraid to step closer to your bed. A laugh threatens to bubble from you, but you don’t want to enrage your friend any further.

“Is that all?” she demands.

“And forgive me?” You can’t help the smile you feel coming over you, aren’t strong enough to fight off the giddiness of the day - the open field, the golden sun, the autumn breeze, the ocean. Chan.

Her eyes narrow further, now in suspicion. She doesn’t need to voice her question. 

“I walked to the ocean,” you tell her, letting the giddiness win, rushing to your bed and collapsing on it sideways, smiling at her across the gap like a fool. “I went to the ocean and it was wonderful.”

“I sinned for you,” she says, raising an eyebrow. You know she doesn't actually care.

“Alpha forgive her,” you recite. It is a joke, and not. 

Her mouth quirks. “You smell like salt.”

“I hope I smell like salt for days,” you say. 

When you lay to sleep, the room finally dark and quiet, you feel a pebble of guilt behind your ribs. 

You imagine that pebble on the sandy beach. You imagine the roaring ocean wave that comes and swallows it whole, pulling it down, down, down into bottomless deep - and then the guilt is gone.

–

Over the next few days you watch both the moon and the squirrels make themselves fatter and fatter. 

You follow your routine, but you dream of the ocean. 

On hands and knees, you scrub the stone floor of the Abbat’s upper hall. Your hands feel numb from plunging them in and out of the bucket of river water, your eyes smart from the soap’s fumes. The stone does not seem to get any cleaner, no matter how hard you scrub the same spot. The floor looks the same as the walls that keep you in, keep the weather out. The walls look the same as the ceiling that shelters you from rain and stars alike.

The stone surrounds you, grey and solid. Outside, rain pours steadily, casting the hallway dark and chilly. You scrub the corridor floor, your mind far away. You think of the crash of waves against rock, the tilt of Chan’s jaw when he’s thinking, the sparkle in his eye when you’ve said something that pleases him.

A line of Prognati turn the corner and pass you by. They don’t even look down at you as they make their way to whichever library or study they are needed in. You look up only because one of them nearly steps on your fingers and you can’t stop yourself from shooting him a glare.

Near the end of the group, Chan waits for you to notice him as he approaches.

Just like the ocean wave, you crash upon rocks - shatter and splinter and lose your grip on everything you’ve worked hard for, everything you’ve considered important, everything you’ve defined yourself as. The decision happens in an instant.

You raise your brows in question. Want to go again?

Chan’s grin is like lightning, splitting across his face. It’s all the answer you need. He follows another Prognati down the hall and you have no way to know that he’s going to meet you - you just have to have faith that he will.

You scrub at the floor long enough to count twenty white-tailed deer in your head, and then you place the bucket and the scrub-brush in a corner, nestled into shadows. You go down the hallway - the opposite way the Prognati disappear, just in case. The stone, solid beneath your feet, feels barely there. You waver on the stairs, your footsteps unsteady with nerves. 

You slip out of the Abbat unnoticed - or rather, you are noticed, but not noteworthy. 

The greenhouse gives you an immediate reprieve from the chilling rain. You wipe raindrops from your face, shake the hems of your tunic, wipe damp hands on your skirt. 

The door creaks as it opens behind you, and you reach for a watering bucket so that you might look busy if this is an Acolyte coming to look in on you.

“Not the best day for the seaside,” Chan says, rain-spattered and beautiful. 

“I suppose not,” you say. “We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. I just…” 

I just see you so rarely, I jumped at the chance to be alone with you again. 

“There’s somewhere I can show you where we won’t be in the rain,” he offers. “At least, the whole time.”

“I’m not afraid of the rain,” you tell him. 

He hands you a long black cloak. As you shake it out, you can see that it has a hood - to keep the rain from your head, even a little.

“Where did you get this?” you ask, frowning at the material.

“Stole them from the laundry,” he says, like this is nothing. “Borrowed. Borrowed them from the laundry. We’ll return them after.”

You don the cloak warily, tying it at the base of your throat, pulling the hood up over your head. “Lead on,” you say, both a joke, and not.

He does - opens the door so that the pounding rain is suddenly loud and urgent, then slips into the grey. You follow, and he leads you once again toward the sea. 

The walk this time is silent - you wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation without shouting over the sound of heavy rainfall. You keep your head down to keep the water off your face. 

Chan leads you north at the edge of the field, taking your path through a bit of wooded land. You take your hood off here - the canopy is too thick above you to let the rain all the way through. Occasionally Chan pauses to pull branches out of your way, or to hold you hand as you climb over the trunk of a fallen tree. Here, deep in the forest, the rain sounds like a pleasant, distant patter. The smell of moss and wet earth presides, drowning out your scent and Chan’s. The ground is soft underfoot. Everything is starkly different than the cold, stone keep, and you breathe in its life.

After some time - enough that your skin feels warm from exertion, from walking so far - you come to a clearing, and Chan slows his pace.

“What is this?” you ask, stepping into the clearing.

A lone stone stands in the center. It stands just taller than you - about the height of Chan. No trees or plants grow around it - it is surrounded by a perfect circle of only short grass. 

“I don’t know it’s name,” Chan admits, his voice a bit hushed. “But it is an ancient holy place. From before the church. That’s probably why they chose Isla Fidei to build an Abbat - it was already a known spiritual location."

You step forward, feeling a bit in awe. You imagine the women who came before you, who may have stood in the clearing to worship a god whose name is gone now. When you look closer, you can see that there are markings etched into the ancient stone, but they are so worn and faded that you cannot make out what they are supposed to be.

This is a place that was once sacred. 

It leaves you feeling hushed. For a long time, you stand silently, eyes taking in the stone, the markings, the ground where worshipers before you came and knelt, the perfect circle of the trees, the grey clouds above you. Chan waits just behind you, and you get the sense that he is guarding you, protecting you - though you feel safer here in the forest than you do at the keep.

“I thought you might like it here,” he says, and there’s something tentative to it, as if he’s asking if you do like it, or he’s misstepped.

“I do,” you say quietly. “It’s wonderful. It feels… so old, but so alive.”

“Should we come back here? Next time we escape?”

You smile at next time, but escape makes you feel uneasy - reminds you what you have to go back to.

“In Omega’s voice?” you say thoughtfully. “I’d rather go back to the ocean.”

Chan looks at you, tilts his head. “How come?”

Somehow, it felt… holier. 

“Because,” you say, a different truth, but still true. “It is angry, and so am I.”

Chan gives you a long, searching look, his brows furrowed and mouth a thin line. Then, after some time, he confesses, “I think there are so many things that we are meant for that the Acolytes deny us.”

You regard him evenly. “Like the ocean?”

He nods, once, smiling wryly. “Like the ocean. Like mountains. Like other people.” 

You don’t feel that you are denied other people, but you had to sneak out in the pouring rain just to talk to him today, so maybe he’s got more of a point than you thought.

He paces a little, past the ancient monument, his voice growing a little louder, a little bolder. “Like our own emotions. They don’t allow us laughter, love, anger, joy, pleasure - any of it. There’s only Piety and Suffering. No moral room for anything else.”

You’re silent for a moment, considering this. “I suppose there’s truth to that,” you murmur.

He turns away from you, faces the ancient holy thing. “I want to leave.” 

This is the true confession.

It shatters you, just a little. You swallow the disappointment down, like you do everything that isn’t Piety and Suffering. 

“Where would you go?” you ask. 

“People on the mainland don’t live like this,” he says, impassioned. “There are cities full of people. Everyone just lives their life. No one watches your every move. You have freedom in your choices. If I want to go to the sea, I just go to the damn sea!”

“Don’t swear,” you whisper.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” he retorts, an edge to his voice.

You slip back into silence, eyes on his face, watching and careful. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling a hand roughly through his hair. 

You let the moment slip away. “What else can you do in the cities?” you ask, just to keep him talking about it.

He heaves a breath, still trying to calm himself. “Find a job that calls to you,” he suggests. “Create a home that feels like your own. Buy foods from the market just to enjoy them. Bring home flowers just because they’re lovely.”

Something behind your ribs twists painfully. You find yourself wanting.

“What else?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He turns back to you, prowls closer. “Fall in love,” he says, very close to your space, his eyes on yours. “Marry someone. Make a home that’s for them, too.”

Your breath catches in your lungs, burns in your throat. You have never wanted those things, had never yearned for them. They weren’t your plan. But with Chan so close that all you can smell is summer rain, his brown eyes intent and focused on yours, the image of his razor-sharp smile fresh in your head… something in you unfurls, reaches out like delicate tendrils of a plant looking for light. 

You want to fall in love with Chan. Maybe you already are - falling. It doesn’t matter, just wanting it is bad enough. You cannot have that and a role as an Acolyte. You cannot have that and your current life as an initiate. 

There is no way out of the life you have carved into the stone. 

You drop your gaze.

He steps back, allows you to retreat. 

“We should go back,” you say to the grass beneath your feet.

He says your name, as gently as the rainfall above the trees. He steps closer again.

“Why are you sad?” he asks, in a whisper. His hands hover near your elbows, but don’t touch you.

“I don’t know,” you whisper back. You hadn’t realized that sadness is what you were feeling until he put a name to it, but now you can smell how your scent has changed, sharpening the air around you. “The word love, maybe.”

It is something you were never supposed to have.

–

It is one thing to miss a single Mass. It is another to vanish from your work rounds, to miss two meals in a row.

When you let yourself back into the Abbat, you are greeted by the Abbess. Your heart sinks, but you’re relieved in a twisted way that at least Chan had the sense to return after you, that you’d both hid your stolen cloaks behind potted plants in the greenhouse. This is bad, but it could have been worse.

“You left your assignment,” the Abbess accuses.

“Yes, Sistre,” you say, eyes on the floor, deferential.

“You missed both lunch and supper.”

“I did, Sistre.”

Her eyes widen with anger. “Do you have nothing to say about it?”

“I’m sorry for disobeying, Sistre.”

The back of her hand finds your face with a crack. You stumble, your hand rising to the spot, but you keep your eyes on the ground even as they water.

“Where did you go?” she demands. “Who were you with?”

“I was alone,” you say desperately. “I went to the ocean, by myself.”

“The ocean?” Her voice cracks the same as her hand. Behind her, both Sistres and Prognati slow their feet to see who is in trouble. “Whatever for?” The question is laced with doubt.

You shake your head. “Because I see Alpha’s fury in it,” you try to explain. “Because it is big, and reminds me that I am small. Because I needed to breathe.”

Her expression shifts. “You’ll breathe plenty on the punishment hall,” she says coldly. “Three days.”

You nod, eyes on the floor, cheek smarting. “Yes, Sistre.”

“You are small,” she says, when she locks the cell. “See that you learn to remember that without leaving the keep.”

–

There are no hearths on the punishment hall, and your hair and skin are wet from rain. You’ve come down with fever before the end of the second day - not the consuming, delirious fever of a heat, but a subdued, pounding ache through your head and your bones that keeps you from fully slipping into sleep.

When your punishment ends, you must go through a cleansing. You are too sick to be afraid. You do not fight Sistre Erline when she bends your spine backwards and lets the water abuse you.

In the dark of the river, no fight in your weary bones, your body gives in - gives up. You feel yourself go slack in Sistre Erline’s hands, feel your eyes roll back in your head.

You see Chan, smiling at you through the water like he’s amused by your antics, sunlit from behind. He reaches a hand through the water, grips yours tightly, pulls you up from the depths. He uses both hands to wipe water from your face, lets them rest on your shoulders, giving them a bolstering squeeze. 

“You’re alright,” he tells you, still smiling. “You’re fine.”

You wake up in an infirmary bed, hair dry and mouth tacky from fever-reducing tea. You lay on your side, eyes on the window, watching the leaves in the trees dance outside the Abbat. They are slowly turning - greens fading to yellow, exploding into red, decaying into brown. You watch them and breathe, keeping your mind empty and blank and safe, until sleep takes you again.

–

You stay indoors, even during your downtime - when you used to go to the field, or the fountain, or the greenhouse. You leave dinner and go back to the chapel, kneeling in the first pew and resting your head on your hands, eyes closed, talking to The One, even if you aren’t sure anymore that they want to listen to you.

You have been cleansed but you don’t feel clean. You were dishonest, disobedient. You questioned those above your station in the church and made decisions that should have been theirs, as they are the ones who receive divine guidance. You had impure feelings, even if you tried hard to keep them from turning into impure thoughts.

And though you did punishment for this, the guilt remains heavy. 

You’d doubted your desire to be an Acolyte. You’d doubted your path - the only destiny you’ve ever had.

You don’t know if The One can truly forgive you. Especially when you consider that The One, all-knowing, knows that you still think of Chan the second you wake, knows he is your last thought before you go to sleep. The One knows that when your hands are still your mind becomes busy, imagining what making a home that feels like yours would look like, with him. 

It grows dark in the chapel, the sunset earlier than the day before. Candlelight is all that you have here, flickering and inconsistent as your own faith.

A Sistre enters, sits heavily on the pew beside you.

It is the Abbess. You move to straighten up, but she rests a hand on your shoulder.

“You’ve taken this hard,” she observes.

“I don’t feel worthy of Their forgiveness,” you admit, your eyes on the altar. 

“None of us are,” the Abbess agrees. “That is part of their mercy. We are unforgivable, all of us, and yet they do.”

You bow your head again, hands clasped.

“You wanted to become an Acolyte,” the Abbess says thoughtfully. 

“I still do.” You are not sure if this is a lie. It might be. It had never been hard to be good before, and it frustrates you that suddenly you can’t seem to do it as easily as you used to.

She nods, humming. “I’m glad to hear it. I was proud of you, as a youth. Watching you grow in Their light was fulfilling to me, you know, after taking you in so young.”

You keep your eyes on your hands. “Sistre… I know it doesn’t matter… but, do I have family? Are any alive?”

She’s quiet for a moment. You sneak a glance sideways and see that her mouth is pressed firm. You look away again.

“I only knew of your mother,” she says finally. “We took you in as an act of grace when it was clear she would not live.”

Your heart sinks. You hadn’t known you were hoping until that hope is dashed.

“So, she did not choose to send me here?”

The words are out of your mouth before you hear them in your head. You amend quickly, “I am glad to be here, I am glad to have found my fate as a daughter of The One. But, I have always wondered if she wanted…”

If she wanted to get rid of me.

“No,” the Abbess says simply. “She did not choose this path for you, and I daresay she would have chosen another for you - and then what would become of your soul? It was The One who brought her to us, so that we might save you.”

“In Omega’s light,” you murmur.

Pleased, the Abbess pats your shoulder again as she rises. 

“You strayed from your path like a lost sheep,” she says, almost kindly. “The One forgives - if They see us working hard not to stray again. It is not easy to deny the Devil, but we mustn’t falter. Someday, I will tell you what I remember of your mother, Omega shelter her soul. Not today.”

When she leaves, you stay. You go back to silently apology, back to questioning the fate you were dealt, back to losing the fight not to think about Chan.

You want to ask him if he has a family on the mainland. You want to ask him his favorite season and favorite food and favorite color. You want to sit side by side in the meadow and hum songs you know. You want to make him laugh again, to see that playful smile slide up the side of his face, always mischievous. You want him to touch your hand again, the way he did when he helped you jump down from a fallen tree deep in the forest. You want to hear what the home that feels like him would look like. 

You wonder if this wanting will ever go away, or if you will someday go on to become an Acolyte who lives everyday in failure because you cannot stop wanting him.

When you see Chan, leaving Mass two days later, he holds your gaze sadly, like he knows of your turmoil and is sorry to be at the root of it. You look back at your feet. You cannot absolve him. You cannot absolve yourself. All you can do is try, again, to be good.

–

The leaves that changed began to fall. The rest begin to shift their color. It doesn’t matter to the leaves who was first and who is last, as long as they all end up on the ground by winter. 

You let your feet drag against earth as you make your way to the greenhouse, kicking fallen, crunchy leaves out of your way with a scuffling sound that pleases you. The smell of earth is prevalent, but gone is the lush touch of summer - and thank Alpha, because that makes you think of Chan - and in its place is something less flowery and closer to vetiver, bringing to mind moss and mushrooms.

You shiver once, but you embrace the chill. You’ve felt too warm all the time these last few days. It feels refreshing to have cold air hit your heated cheeks as you stride through the dark towards the glass building.

This is one of the only work rotations where you take your time, aren’t hurrying to finish. You like it in the greenhouse, separate from the Abbat, and away from anybody’s eyes. You’ve always felt more at home outside, and this is kind of like outside - all plants and flowers and dirt. 

It makes you think of the way the ocean had felt holier than anything you’ve ever felt in the chapel.

You water a row of mums, colors ranging from yellow to red and back again. The door opens behind you and you turn, expecting a Sistre telling you to hurry along. 

Instead, Chan closes the door behind himself, rubs his wind-cooled hands together for warmth, and meets your eyes warily. 

“I tried to stay away,” he says, his voice low and coiled. “It seemed like that’s what you wanted, so I tried. But I… I couldn’t.”

You set down the watering can. “They caught me, last time.”

“I figured.”

He watches you, waiting for a sign - whether you are welcoming him in or sending him away.

“I did three nights on punishment. I was scared that… my potential to be an Acolyte would be ruined.”

His eyes search your face. “You want it, that badly? To be one of them?”

There isn’t judgment in his question, just desire to understand, but you still feel your face heat. Coming from him, it still feels like a question loaded with a but why? on the end. 

“That’s all I ever wanted.”

He steps closer, calls you out on the way you twisted an untruth into a truth. “Do you still? Now?”

You look at the ground, then back at him, then at the ground again. Your heart cracks, your soul wails mournfully, your hands clench in your skirts as you say aloud something that will alter your trajectory forever -

“Less and less, these days,” you whisper. You look up at him, manage to keep your eyes on his face this time. “But what does it matter? Even if I stayed only an initiate…”

As initiate or Acolyte, neither can take a mate. What you want doesn’t matter, has never mattered.

He steps closer, his hand twitching at his side like it’s trying to reach for you.

You step backwards. “We can’t. We could be seen. This is already… we are already sinning.”

He shows his teeth. “Which scripture warns against speaking to an alpha in a greenhouse?”

You give him a look. “Chan.”

He laughs, light and happy. “Seems like we are breaking a rule, yes,” he reasons, still smiling, drawing ever closer. “A rule of the Acolytes - not of The One.”

Your mouth twists; it wants to smile because he is smiling. “It feels the same to me. One feels just as bad as the other.”

Tenderly, he says, “I know it does, to you.”

He looks over his shoulder at the closed door, at the glass wall obscured by so many plants. “No one is here. No one can see.”

When he steps closer, the last gap of space between you vanishing like summer, you watch him.

Trust alpha, something inside you scolds. 

He takes your hand gingerly, softly. When you don’t pull away, he closes his fingers over yours. Your eyes flutter closed, your heart gallops. 

Despite the dark, autumn night, a summer storm flares to life around you - pounding rain, overturned soil, flowers opening and drinking in the rain, lightning flashing sharp as flint. The scent is so strong that you can almost feel the wind tug at you, hear the thunder snap, shiver from the rain on your face.

Your hand in his, Chan’s alpha scent has spiked wildly, taking over the whole room.

Your knees buckle under the onslaught of sensation, your breath caught in your throat. His hands are at your elbows immediately, the smell fading by degrees until you can inhale cleanly again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, releasing your arms once you’re steady on your feet again. “I didn’t mean to let it get out of control. I was taken by surprise, too. It won’t happen again. I’ll do better.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you breathe, still shaky. “I’m glad you feel… what I feel.”

It is an admission. It is damning. It is damning and you cannot care, not right now.

He whispers your name, reaches for your hands, holding both of them between your bodies. 

“You are too beautiful for this place,” he whispers, a lament. “You are too alive for this place.”

His hands are warm and solid. You fight the urge to touch them more, to run your fingers over his, to memorize what his skin against your skin feels like. You want to bottle this moment, keep it for later, hide it away for safekeeping. 

“I have never known anything else,” you tell him.

“I know,” he tells you. “I know that. I’m not asking you to leave. It’s simply… true.”

You remember him standing in the forest, in a holy place, and saying I want to leave. The thought of it devastates you. 

“Will you?” you ask tentatively. He looks up at you, confused, so you clarify. “Will you try to leave?”

He exhales, the breath a bit shaky. His hands tighten on yours, and his eyes swim with something like determination. “In Omega’s voice,” he answers, “even if I could… I don’t think I’d go without you.”

–

The grass is encased in an icy shrine in the mornings, each blade trapped behind glass until your footsteps crunch along and shatter their prisons. Your breath clouds before you as you exhale, burns your nose and your throat on the inhale.

The burning doesn’t go away when you get into the dining hall. You rest your elbows on the table and let your forehead fall to your palms.

Sparrow says your name reproachfully.

“What?” you mutter, not looking up.

“You know what. You’re starting to stink, too.”

You kick at her. Your fall heat is here. 

After breakfast, you trudge to the infirmary, kneel before Sistre Erline, inform her that your body is burning away your sin - as you do once each season, as you have for years. 

The fever burns so ferociously that your hands shake, you see swirls of color where there should be only the wooden walls of the cell. You curl into a ball, squeeze your eyes shut, hear yourself keen out a miserable sound. Your head splits with pain and heat, your pulse throbs everywhere - behind your eyes, in your fingertips, in your stomach, in the place between your legs. 

The image of Chan’s clever grin and playfully narrowed eyes swims behind your closed eyes. That part of you pulses again. That wanting that comes with your heat intensifies. The need burns, unignorable, and it is Chan your body calls for. You have never understood before now.

You roll yourself into the corner, the one place in the cell that can’t be viewed from the corridor.

Chan, your fevered mind whispers. Make it better, make it stop. 

You bring your hands to your sternum, eyes still closed, and rest them there, feeling your angry heart beat and beat and beat. When the ache becomes too much to bear you let them float downward in tandem, brushing over stiff nipples. 

Your whole body goes rigid, your breath catching. You feel a surge of slick between your thighs - something you’ve always tried to ignore when your heats come on. Something you’ve always considered dirty. And you feel, tiny but sure, a quick moment of relief.

You repeat the gesture, then again. Each time, your body responds with delight, the pain ebbing for a moment before coming back to torture you. 

You’ve never done this before, have always been good. Have only touched your own body to dress it, to clean it. You grow bolder, circling one nipple gently over the tunic, reveling in the pleasant tickling sensation, in the way your headache fades to a duller burn, in the way your hips buck like they want something too. You give a tentative pinch, and when it’s good you do it harder. Your thighs grow sticky as you alternate sides, one then the other, over and over, until your breasts are sore and the fever feels distant.

You let your hands still, resting them on your heaving belly, your pulse pounding in a wild, ecstatic way that you’ve never felt before. But as soon as your heart rate calms, the pain rolls back in like a tide - rising, rising, until the need need need is too much again.

You reach under your tunic skirt, bending one knee to give yourself access, and stroke a finger over the slick-messy undergarment you wear. You gasp and your hips buck wildly. The pain freezes, relief as instant as a miracle. 

Gently, tentatively, you explore. Each touch is good, all of it helping, that wanting quieting to a whisper, your headache dimming into almost nothing. There’s one spot in particular that makes your whole body jump every time you brush over it, and the sensation becomes too much very quickly. You abandon it and rub elsewhere instead, dragging your fingers along the insides of your thighs, around the edges of where the slick is coming from.

Over your underwear, you can feel the hole. Everything down there throbs, hard, when you find it, your fingers brushing over and over the spot. Your body floods with good feeling, with pleasure. The pain is forgotten, the fever quelled. You trace the outline of the little circle, feeling it quiver. Your whole body is taut, waiting for something to release. You fight back a whimper. Your body begs for something more, something you aren’t giving it yet.

Chan, you think wildly. Chan, Chan, please - 

Your body knows what it wants, if you listen to it. You slip your fingers beneath your undergarment, slide them into the mess of slick. They slide around and around the little nub that gives you such electric jolts, and then slip lower. 

They find the entrance, circle it lazily. You hear your breaths coming as gasps and will yourself into quiet. Your arms and legs shake, aflame with wanting. You slide a finger inside, only up to the first knuckle. Your body pulses around it, squeezes. You push in a little further, until you have nowhere else to go.

It is warm, and a little sticky, your walls clinging to the intruding digit, fluttering and pulsing and pulsing and -

You extract it, and that feels delightful, too. You do it again - dipping it in, sliding it out. Then again, then quicker. You rub that electric spot again, letting out a single gasp, and then try to add a second finger.

This goes slower, as your body adjusts to having something there for the first time. You listen to your body for the first time in your life, paying attention when you need to slow, where to touch, what to do. You work yourself into a rhythm, those two fingers pressing in and sliding out, slick sliding onto the floor beneath you.

You let the palm of your hand press against that electric spot. You repeat this, finding a new rhythm until -

Everything inside you tightens, even in your arms and legs. Your face contorts, your hips lift, and your mind chants Chan Chan Chan Chan Chan- as wave after wave of blinding-white pleasure rolls over you, your pussy (you heard that word whispered before, in the baths, and thinking it makes the spasms strengthen for a beat) pulsing and squeezing in rhythmic little shouts. You bite into the heel of your spare hand to keep from groaning aloud, your heart thudding manically against your ribs. 

When your systems calm, you pull your hand away, fix your skirts. You roll on your side, rest your face on the floor. Your body still pulses pleasantly, little waves of good feeling rolling through you. The pain and the fever feel far, far away. This is what your body asks for during your heat. You knew that, intellectually, but you’d never really put together what that meant.

It is the first time in your life that you sleep peacefully through part of your heat. 

When you wake again, the fever and pain have redoubled, your greedy body demanding more. You don’t push your luck; you let yourself suffer. 

But you feel different - stronger - now that you know what it wants.

You feel irrevocably changed with this knowledge. Something in your heart will never be the same.

When your heat breaks and your cleansing comes, you face it with a new strength. You do not tremble when you take your place in the river. You do not fight down panic when Sistre Erline bends your backwards and lets the water rush around you. She pulls you upright and you blink away water, but you don’t quiver. You step out of the river with sure steps, unashamed when the water causes the cotton to cling to your body. Your body can do magical things, you are discovering. It can run, and sing. It houses a heart that can love, a gut that tells you what is safe and what is not. It can bring you pleasure, could bring pleasure to another, too, if you let it.

Indeed, something in your heart will never be the same again.

–

Walking from Mass to dinner, Sparrow pokes your elbow.

“You’ve been different,” she accuses, her voice very quiet so as not to be overheard

“No, I haven’t,” you say automatically. If Sparrow has noticed, others could notice. If elder Sistres noticed, or Alpha-forbid an Acolyte, it could be very bad for you. 

“You have,” Sparrow says petulantly.

You stop walking. Surprised, she stops as well, fully turning to look at you, a question on her face.

“No,” you say firmly, your eyes on hers, “I haven’t.”

Her eyes widen, understanding. Her mouth works. She swallows.

“Alpha protect you,” she murmurs finally. “Please don’t end up on that island like all those poor fools.”

“We’re late for dinner,” you reply, and you turn and walk away.

–

Work rotation puts you back in the cellars, carrying vegetables up to the kitchens. You hope Chan will be there, knife in hand, but he isn’t. You keep the disappointment off your face and you do your job. 

On the third day, you hit the bottom of the onion barrel. You report to the kitchen, to the same frightening alpha who was here back when Chan was on chopping duty.

“The Prognati side has plenty,” he says, waving a hand in the opposite direction of the Sistres’ cellar hall. “Grab some from them.”

“Sistres cannot-”

“Did I give you an order, omega?” the alpha snaps, rising up to his full height. 

“The Aco-”

“Get. Onions. From. The. Cellar,” he snarls, each word sharp. 

Something angry rises in you. “If the Sistres slap me, I’ll make sure you get it threefold,” you hiss at him, and then you retreat.

The Prognati cellar hall is a mirror image of the Sistres’ side, and you find the room with the vegetables easily. You poke your head into a few different barrels before you find the onions. 

“Excuse me, miss, I believe you’re on the wrong side of the keep.”

A smile flashes across your face. You smell him, now that you’ve heard his voice - before it was muted by onion smell, but now you’re paying attention.

“Chan,” you say, still smiling, turning to face him. 

His smell is off, actually - just slightly. Stronger, sharper, the summer storm angry and lashing, not rolling and lazy. Pre-rut. 

You meet his eyes, a little alarmed.

He closes the space between you in three strides, backs you against the cellar wall. 

“Chan,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed. “I can’t. Chan - we can’t.”

“I know,” he answers, ragged. “I know.”

He’s caging you in with just his presence, his form - his hands stay obediently just off of your arms, hovering like they’re awaiting any sign that they can touch you. He leans into your space, his mouth an inch from your jaw. You can feel his breath on you, hot, but he holds the line.

Then, slowly, he lowers his face degree by degree. You tremble - fear of being caught, anticipation of what he will do, and want want want want all at war beneath your skin. His nose touches your neck, lower, lower until it finds your scent gland. 

Nothing, no one, has touched this before. He lets his body rest heavy along yours, pinning you in place without his hands.

He stays perfectly still there, just resting, just breathing. His breath ghosts over the sensitive patch of skin and you feel yourself grow dizzy. Your vision swims, the shelves of grains and goods going dark, and your knees go weak.  

“Chan-” you warn feebly.

He rumbles a quiet laugh, but removes his face from the sensitive spot. Immediately, the room rights itself again. “Stay with me, Angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” you say automatically. “That’s a s-”

“If you tell me that’s a sin then I’ll leave you down here with the potatoes,” he warns, and you laugh, delighted in his playfulness. His body is still pressing yours to the wall; neither of you wants this to change.

“I’ll be gone soon,” he tells you.

Panic swims through you. “Gone?”

“My r- my body will burn its sin. Any day now.”

“Oh. I knew - I mean, I could smell it.”

He laughs. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

Something bold flares in you - something that feels like ocean waves. “Think of me,” you tease, your voice taking a tone you’ve never heard from your own mouth before. 

He exhales shakily, a bit of a laugh in it. “Don’t worry, Angel. I won’t be able to think of anything else.”

You can feel slick gathering between your thighs - you’re sure he can smell that, too. Your body knows that you are pressed between a wall and a man - a wall and an alpha. He’s responded, too - you can feel him hard against your hipbone, and the thought makes your face heat. 

You try not to think of what would happen if someone were to catch you in this position - if anyone walked in. It wouldn't even be the punishment hall for you - you'd be cast out as an initiate entirely.

Blessedly, he steps back, both of you taking grounding breaths. 

“You’re going to have to leave first,” he says, with that same little laugh. 

You smile at him sheepishly, and begin filling your apron with onions. At the threshold, you pause.

“Goodbye, Chan. I’ll see you - after.”

His smile is wry. “Goodbye, Angel.”

Back in the kitchen, the alpha snaps, “There are my onions. Did you get lost?”

You dump the onions into a barrel and glare at him. “I got stopped by an Acolyte,” you lie, calling up pretend fury. “I told them to take it up with you - so you should expect that visit soon.”

You delight in it when he pales, concern crossing his face.

After dinner, you take yourself to the chapel to atone. For letting an alpha press you against a wall, for letting him touch your scent gland, for the way your body responded like you were mid-heat, for the wanting. For the way you'd teased Chan, encouraged him to think of you in a sinful way, for the lie you'd told the chef.

The list of sins grows longer and longer. Your own guilt is barely there.

–

The first snow begins during a morning Mass. It is quiet, unassuming - little flakes, delicate and gentle, lazily drifting downward. You watch them through the clear windows, your mind far from the homily taking place up front.

You keep your gaze off of the Prognati side of the room. You keep your gaze off of Chan, who has returned from his rut. 

There are too many eyes in this room for you to even sneak a glance. Eyes of the Sistres, eyes of the Prognati, the Acolytes, the Abbess.

Eyes of The One.

You still feel watched as you follow the line of Sistres from the chapel to the dining hall. You know it’s from the others around you - initiates and Acolytes alike - but it feels a little like the bare trees are leering as you pass beneath. 

The leaves have long since fallen, leaving everything stripped and empty. You wonder, absently - as empty as the branches that hang between you and the stars - if you can go on like this forever. If you can live the rest of your life pretending not to know that Chan is in your periphery but that you aren’t supposed to notice. If you could go the rest of your life on stolen glances and broken rules.

Days pass; they mean nothing. Is this how it was before? Is this all the years of your life accumulated to - empty motions, empty words, empty soul? 

Winter means additional work assignments. Although there is less to do in the gardens, there is more upkeep needed around the keep - fires to tend to, repairs to be made, animals to be cared for. 

Twice a week you’re to tend fires in Acolytes' offices upstairs in the Abbat. Once a week you’re to cross the meadow opposite the bath houses and see to the horses. 

You don’t mind the offices - it is a chance to pry, sometimes, to peek in on a life that you once wanted as your own. It is indoors, and warm once you stoke the fire or place new wood. You don’t have to walk far, or venture outside, or deal with smelly bales of hay. 

The stables are one of your least favorite assignments, and you thank Alpha that it’s expected of you only once a week. 

The ground is hard beneath your feet as you cross the dead and dying meadow, the dirt frozen and unyielding. Winter has barely begun and you already miss the soft lushness of late spring and summer. 

You carry a lantern, the candle flickering as you walk. It does little to dispel the dark of early evening. You don’t feel unsafe - there is nothing dangerous on Isla Fidei, just the Acolytes. Besides, you can see other lanterns moving in the dark - the Prognati who are assigned a patrol around the island’s edges and down to the docks. Those candles moving through the night, as if floating on their own, symbolize your safety. 

Inside the stable, you close the door against the bite of the night air and hang your lantern on the hook to illuminate the space. Horses grunt and nicker at you; you greet them by name. 

You check each horse, rubbing their noses affectionately, peeking around them to ensure their troughs aren’t empty. You go back and forth to the front of the stable, replacing what you need to - hay, oats, water, blankets. 

“Good night then, beasts,” you tell them lovingly, when you are done. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“So no sneaking away with handsome alphas?”

You shriek, slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the noise as you spin around. Chan pushes off the doorframe, his grin mischievous and illuminating. 

“Chan,” you scold. “I think my heart is failing.”

He gives you a mock-sympathetic pout. “Poor thing. I guess I better fix it.”

“I guess you better get out of my stable before we both get shipped off to another island to die!” you hiss, the danger of this flirtation suddenly catching you. “How did you even know I was here? And who says you’re handsome, you vain thing!”

He laughs, loud and happy. “My mother always did,” he says. 

You wonder at this - him having a mother, one he remembers, one who loved him well enough to call her son handsome as he grew older.

You take your lantern off the hook and lead him outside, closing and locking the stable behind you. You both walk towards the edge of the meadow - you’ll cut across to return, but Chan will carry on his rounds when he’s said goodbye. “Where is she now?”

“Not sure,” Chan admits. His tone is light, but you watch his face carefully for any sign of a wound. “My family lived far from where I was indentured. We wrote occasionally - I wrote to tell her when my master was lost to the plague. But I never got to tell her the church was taking me as an initiate. I’m not sure she knows I’m here.”

He looks around, left to right, as if making sure no one is approaching, then resumes his answer. “Probably, she thinks the plague took me too. If she’s even alive. Who knows. I should have just gone home when my master died, but I couldn’t afford the travel - couldn’t even write home to ask if they’d take me back in.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. Two months ago, you might have added, Omega led you home, in the end, but you know Chan would hate that sentiment and you aren’t sure you really believe it anymore, either.

Instead, you ask, “What did she do? What was your home like?”

Your curiosity comes from an urge to know more about Chan, yes, but to know more about families, about life outside of Isla Fidei, about mothers in general. 

He smiles softer, his gaze faraway as he pictures a home he has left behind, that he has been kept from. He tells you about the homestead, his sisters, the animals - until he notices you shiver. His eyes tighten.

“You’re cold,” he says, unhappy. “Go back to the Abbat.”

Yes, alpha, something inside you responds, eager to follow his command, and you just barely choke it back, embarrassment flaring within you.

“Yes,” you say, and stop. “Yes, I’m cold. I’ll go in.”

“Would be a shame if my rounds went a little slower this time next week, huh?” Chan teases, leaning closer to you. 

He’s warm and you want to lean into his warmth - but you are outdoors, in plain sight, and you have tempted trouble for too long already. Still, you smile back at him, shy. “I might just take an extra long time making sure the horses are happy. They hold long conversations, you know.”

He laughs, backing away. Before the dark takes him, he murmurs, “I’ll see you next week, then.”

“Next week,” you repeat, and then you turn and hurry toward the warm fires of the Abbat.

–

You wake, pray, eat, work, bathe, and sleep in a cycle of hollow disaffection. The island, too, shows its disinterest. The days are grey and flat; it neither snows nor shines. The winds are bitter and the ground is hard as rock. You are the same, you and Isla Fidei.

You thaw for Chan, though.

When your assigned night to tend the stables comes around, you force yourself to take your time at dinner, morph your face into distaste before you don a heavy cloak and prepare to cross the dead, frozen field.

Once you're out of sight of the Abbat, you practically run - as best you can. You rush through the chores, barely chat with the horses, and then return to the front of the stable, where your lantern hangs, with nothing to do but wait.

One of the horses nickers at you gently and you shush him.

When the door opens, a gust of winter wind causing you to wince, your heart gallops faster than any of your charges could.

Chan grins at you as he closes the door behind himself.

"And lo, there was an angel," he jokes in greeting.

You smile back at him, unable to hold it back, but you are also alight with nerves.

He can see it in your stiff shoulders, can smell it in how green tea and vanilla go slightly sharp.

"No one will see us," he promises. To punctuate this, he turns and drags a crate sideways in front of the door. It won't keep a person out - but it'll give you a little warning if they try. Then, he reasons, "There's no one here but the horses."

You give him a serious look. "They have a tendency to gossip, Chan."

He laughs and catches your hand, tugs you closer. You let him reel you in, his scent unraveling around you, helping to calm you. It's petrichor and earth that isn't frozen solid and plants that aren't dead, and it reminds you that everything will warm again. Everything will grow again.

Chan settles you between his arms, holding you gently against him. You thaw, let your body do what it wants. You lean into him, letting him support you. You wrap your arms around his back and press your palms flat against his shoulder blades. It is the first time anyone has held you beside Sparrow.

Your scent blooms, mixing with summer rain. Tension eases from you and you look up at him, a bit awed at how wonderful it can feel to simply be close to someone.

His eyes shine as he smiles down at you. "How have you been?" he asks quietly, something tender in it. Like he's actually been wondering, in the days you've been apart.

As barren as the field, you want to say. But now I am defrosting.

"I think I missed you," you say. It is a joke, and not.

His hug tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer, a contented sound escaping him. He leans his forehead down to yours, closes his eyes. Your noses are touching. You need to pull away. You don't want to pull away.

His nose leaves yours and traces your jaw; you shiver in his hold.

"Chan," you warn feebly. You both know you don't mean it.

He presses his lips to your jaw very, very softly. You hold your breath, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his linen shirt.

"Chan, I can't," you whisper.

"Why are you so afraid?" he breathes, eyes flicking up to look at you. His lips tickle your jaw as he speaks; he hasn't moved them away from your skin.

"You know why," you breathe back.

Now, he does remove his mouth from your jaw, and the cool air that replaces it makes you instantly want him back. He looks at you seriously, his arms still solid around you. "There's no way for them to know," he counters. "They might know we're here alone, and yes, we'd be punished for that. But they have no way to know what exactly happened in here."

He's right; he's right and he's not - punishment for being caught alone with a Prognati would be worse than you've ever had, even if you managed to convince the Acolytes that nothing happened except feeding the horses, which is doubtful. The best case scenario is more of a punishment than you’ve ever endured, but the worst case scenario could be exile - certain death. You both know it.

And yet. His lips have touched you once and the need for them to do it again has corrupted your whole being, leaving you as ruined as a pail of water with a single drop of ink.

You breathe in summer rain, even as winter taps skeletal fingers against the door outside. You let your eyes flutter closed. You listen to your body.

Your ear drifts towards your shoulder, your heavy head tilting sideways. Your scent gland is exposed, a submissive gesture that you've never seen, never heard talk about - but your body knows. Give alpha room.

His nose is there, too fast for you to process, and you feel his ribs expand as he inhales deeply, a happy growl vibrating in his throat.

"Can I?" he asks, his voice almost unrecognizable - raspy and raw as he tries to control his trembling body. "Angel, can I, please?"

You only half know what he's even asking - your rational mind doesn't, but your instincts do. He wants to scent you - so that when he is done you both smell of both, neither of you an independent thing. You do not know the reason behind this instinct, but you do know that your body is trembling in anticipation, that having his smell all over you makes you want to growl with furious joy.

"Yes," you tell him, and he immediately rubs his face across your scent gland, dragging his cheekbone, then nose, then lips toughly over the sensitive patch. A noise leaves your mouth like a whine, surprising you.

He maneuvers you both backwards until there's a stack of hay bales behind you, something to lean against.

His eyes are half-closed, heavy-lidded as he finishes scenting each side of your neck and jaw, his hands so tight on each side of your waist that it hurts, just a little. You are firmly held in place, and something inside you purrs, pleased to be in alpha's grasp.

As he works, rubbing his scent into every part of your skin that shows above your tunic, he pushes his hips into your body - rhythmic and purposeful. You can feel his interest again, as you could in the vegetable cellar, hot against you each time his hips press in again.

"Chan," you hear yourself say - but say isn't right. You warble it, moan it, breathe it. You sound like you are begging for something you have never considered before.

You know that you have stepped across a line that cannot be crossed back. This is a sin that will stay stamped on you. The Acolytes will never know, you pray, but The One already does.

You cannot care.

Chan's lips dip to your collarbone and your whole body quivers. His hips press against you, firm and intentional, as if he wants to go straight through you.

You listen to your body.

You slide a hand between your bodies, cupping your palm around the part of him that pulses hot and angry.

He gasps, loud, his hips jerking against your hand before he seems to rein it in.

"Angel," he says, a warning in his strangled voice, "you don't have to -"

You meet his eyes and squeeze your hand tight around him through his trousers.

He whines, eyes falling closed, and leans forward to attach his mouth to your scent gland. He sucks and licks at it as his hips pump against your hand, that whine living and dying and living again in his throat as his brows scrunch in pleasure.

The tension leaves him and he sags against you, giving your abused scent gland an apologetic, closed-lip kiss. He gives a shaky laugh, pushes against the hay behind you to give you some room.

He looks at you like you're holy, his eyes combing your face, one hand coming to brush a gentle thumb along your cheek.

You keep your eyes on his as your breathing slows, as your scents both settle from a storm back into calm.

"Are you - do you feel - was that… okay?" he asks finally, brows knit with concern. "I know you haven't… and you care about -"

You take the bottom of his linen shirt in your hand and give him a tug. He stumbles a little, taken by surprise, and you feel an ocean wave of pride and pleasure as you surge up to meet his mouth with yours.

He groans, happy, his hands coming to cup your face on each side as he kisses you firmly.

"You will be my undoing," he whispers when you part.

"You are already mine," you tell him truthfully.

When he is gone, carrying on with his rounds, you lock up the stable and stand outside. You stand in the dark and let the winter wind whip around you for a long time - long enough that Alpha's constellations above you rotate slowly, long enough that the slick dries on your legs, long enough that the wind carries Chan's summer scent far, far away from here.

Only then do you return to the Abbat.

--

Next ->

thank you for reading!!! Part Two will post on Friday, December 19th. <3

[smartkookiee]

How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! || Series Page

Jeon Jungkook Series

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❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader

❥genre/rating: strangers to lovers, 18+

❥description: How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! A guide of what you shouldn't do in the first 30 days of a relationship if you don't want him running for the hills! You get to see my experiment with the things I did wrong in the first 30 days of a brand new relationship.

You have just received your first opportunity to write your own column at Composure Magazine. This is everything that you have ever dreamed of and should be simple enough, drive a guy away in 30 days. Across town Jungkook, who hasn't committed to anyone in years, is issued a bet that he can stay with the same person for one month. Both of you being so head strong to achieve your goals cause a myriad of hilariously disastrous dates, unexpected sparks, and a countdown that neither is ready for. 30 days to fall in love or fall apart. After all, all is fair in love and war.

❥warnings/tags: software engineer!Jungkook, writer!reader, in the universe of How to Lose A Guy in Ten Days, comedy, crack fic??? (Yeaahhh), drinking, swearing, dirty talk, eventual smut, some angst, Y/N is a love girl (sigh), Jungkook used to be a playboy (heavier sigh), fluff, Y/N basically torturing Jungkook, Jungkook will never surrender lmao, I watched the movie recently and I haven't been able to get this idea out of my head (like seriously I plotted out the entire fic in like three hours), you don't have to have seen the movie to get this fic.

❥disclaimer: Fic is cross posted to ao3, every chapter I will give associated warnings and tags that apply.

Should I watch the movie before I read this fic?

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CH.1 // CH.2 // CH.3 // CH.4 // CH.5 // CH.6 // CH.7 // CH.8 // CH.9 // CH.10 // CH.11 // CH.12 // CH.13 // CH.14 // CH.15 // CH.16 // CH.17 //

TEASER // MOODBOARD // PLAYLIST

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[excalibur-gone-missing]

Paring: jeonghan x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, 70's au, little to no angst

warnings: none, maybe a few swear words here and there

summary: Jeonghan might be a cocky bastard but when it comes to you he will turn the world upside down, or so he claims.

words: 2k

a/n: I request each and every one of you to comment on this fic don't be a silent reader it helps me as an author to understand my readers and i would love to communicate with all of you. Constructive criticism is always welcomed by me so do talk about this fic or send me an ask.

a/n 2: i heard a podcast and it made me want to write this fic because the love story of the two hosts was sooo damn cutee.

You knew Jeonghan from when you were literally a kid.

His father had moved to your city after a presentation from little Jeonghan on how to make a pocketknife using ice cream sticks that he learnt from his local friends, his mother mortified that her little sweet child would grow up to become a goon forced his father to change cities to go as far away from the place they physically could.

It was during his fathers pursuit for a stable Korean community in Canada’s ever-growing cities did he come across the name of your grandfather’s in the phonebook that sounded very much similar to his. Your grandfather being the trusting and kind man he was invited his father for a dinner in his house the following day and this event kickstarted a relationship between the two families wherein, his father bought a house six minutes away from yours in the small part of your city inhabited by mostly Asians.

You both had met when he was seven and you were only three, he still remembers babysitting you when you were in middle school as your parents trusted no one more than him. So, when he broke the beautiful glass table in your living room, he had skillfully blamed you resulting in a three-hour long lecture from your parents about taking care of ones possessions.

You hated Jeonghan then, you really did, so you refused to talk to him for the next almost five years.

Until you both found yourselves in a duet dance opposite to each other because it was the neighborhood talent show and it was mandatory for the kids to participate. Typical Asian parents.

To no ones surprise your dance number got a tad bit too much hype from the watchers and it kickstarted another full year of you both not talking to each other at all because of the teasing glances and suggestive remarks from adults and children alike.

The time you both talked to each other again was when it was you senior year prom at high school and your father being the overprotective man he was, did not allow you to go because according to him ‘prom is how American kids end up getting pregnant.’

He was wrong of course; kids get pregnant due to having sex but you being the soft-spoken kid you were did not have the gal to inform him that. You would rather spend the night being sad and watching Simpsons and crying about how unfair it is for your parents to not let you go and experience the night considered to rank number one in peak American high school experience.

This was the first time you saw Jeonghan as your lord and savior, which you obviously will never tell him because it will do nothing but fuel his over-the-top ego. But that day he had stepped in and talked to you father.

“It’s an experience and everyone should be able to experience it, I think you are wrong sir to take away this from your daughter,” he had oh so righteously said.

“Son, I would let her only if you take her, as I don’t trust anyone but you with my daughter.”

“So, I shall then.”

Now did this conversation shock you? Yes, it did especially your father’s response to Jeonghan, but you were not going to stir up any feminist conversation with your father right now, not when you just got the pass to go to prom.

That night was something you barely remember; it has been twenty years since then and you barely care about the overly hyped kids and the future alcoholics that you encountered that night. Now that you are wise and older, you understand your parents concern. Suzy from you class had become a mother at the prime age of eighteen, nine months later. You are thankful that your father made the wise choice for you that day.

That night from what you remember was just plain boring, you had come back at 11 to a quite house, had talked to the boy for the entirety of the night, watched the sunrise with him and at the end had hugged him thanking him for taking you to prom.

After that incident, you both had again gone onto your own ways and had not talked to each other for another year till the next family function, where you both were the only kids of the same age present as all your other friends were out of the country for college.

That weekend had sparked a friendship between you both, as you always stuck to each other’s side seeking comfort from one another as talking to anyone else somehow always circled back to your marriage and their extreme concern for your depleting eggs.

The friendship you both wove lasted a long while, throughout your college. Till one day you come back from a trip to Daegu, and he was there standing at the airport ready to rush you away from your family to the nearest Starbucks because he had some news for you.

Once in the café he informed you that he had landed the job he had been trying for right after finishing college. You were elated for him, so happy that you almost forgot to tell him about the potential marriage partner your parents had whipped up during your two-week-long stay there.

Jeonghan being the man he was asked you up front to marry him, confessing his hidden feeling for you and how the weight of them might have just decreased his height. Dramatic bitch.

You being brough back to reality told him no and stated the reason to be man you could have potentially married. He obviously told you to say no to this unknown ‘son of a bitch’ and accept his proposal.

So being the bigger person, because Jeonghan obviously refused to, you reminded him that you had never dated anyone let alone him and you will not marry a man you have not dated.

This conversation then ignited your relationship the first step of which was turning down the said ‘son of a bitch’ while telling your father you wanted to focus on your career more, which you really did. Fast forward six months and while keeping up the long-distance relation with frequent phone calls late at night because your parents might pick up the landline and eavesdrop if its during the day, while at the same time trying to search for a job near Boston went on.

On one late Sunday afternoon as you were sitting on the kitchen island sipping on coffee you got an email from on of the companies, you had given an interview to, informing you had gotten an onsite job that would require you to move to Cambridge, and you were over the moon.

So, the preparations began for your send off and again Jeonghan stepped in like the messiah he is. He is absolutely not one, you refuse to accept. The man went ahead and told your conservative father he will give up his life to take care of you, till this date you claim it will be the opposite if a situation like that befalls you both. After packing your bags, you were on your merry way to live with the man.

It took you both some time to adjust to the new settings he would be over at your place during the weekends and sometimes you would be at his. This continued for another year or so before one night as you both were laying on the bed together when Jeonghan suddenly piped up.

“I think you should see other people.”

Not understanding what he meant you turned towards the guy and asked, “what do you mean?”

“I know we will end up marrying each other, so I want you to experience dating other men too, so you don’t get to ever claim I was the only guy in your life,” he explained to you.

You had yet to get a taste of exactly how much of a cocky motherfucker you are dating, said innocently.

“But Jeonghan you are the only guy I ever dated.”

That was the end of that conversation that night before you both went to sleep, but his urging never stopped. It went on for a few days till one day your exhausted and a tad bit insecure self, lashed out at him claiming he wanted to cheat on you, and he wanted a break. So, you gave one to him.

That entire year you had a flower bouquet delivered early morning to your house with an apology letter, although the apologies lasted only for a month before you forgave the terrified man, who apologized profusely after you accepted to talk to him. Even though you did feel a bit bad after seeing him, the guy looked like he was living during the great depression.

After that all was smooth sailing and he never ever tried to upset you at all, but his playful nature persisted anyways, not like you minded that.

Five years later during your sister’s wedding in Singapore was when his proposal was finally accepted. You had just arrived at the airport and yet again the man had swooped in and taken you away from your family under the guise of some kind of sound check that was needed to be done in the wedding venue.

Your clueless self agreed to go with him and without a second thought he took you to the cables to take you to an island that was nowhere close to the wedding venue. As you were getting increasingly confused, you kept asking him where exactly you both were going. He kept deflecting the topic, so you ultimately gave up and, as another family came up on the cable car, you started talking about your flight that you took with your family. The poor man did not hear one word, he was sweating bullocks and was essentially confused why another family was in the cable car that he had fully booked for you both.

As the family got down at the end, he stopped you from doing so too claiming it is not the stop, even though it was the last one. It was then the nervous wreck of a man got down on one knee in front of asking for your hand in marriage once again, and you being so in love with him accepted to spend the rest of your life with the man.

The rest of it was history, you both had to tell your parents none of whom were shocked at all, rather relieved that you both had at last agreed to get married and be together forever.

Now ten years later and with your two children, you are perfectly content with your life. Waking up with Jeonghan beside you everyday sounds like a dream and you are happy it came true for you.

As you tossed around the bed you saw Jeonghan eyeing you in his half-awake state.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Us,” you answer snuggling closer to him.

“What about us, huh?”

“The way you forced me to date some other guy because you wanted me to have more experience in dating,” you laughed at the memory.

“Don’t tell me about that it still haunts me till this day” he retorts with a shudder.

“Why did you do it anyways?” you ask.

“I knew I was going to marry you so I wanted you to have some more experience with dating others so whenever you have an argument I could say ‘hey remember that looser you dated!’”, he answers with laugh.

With a laugh you slapped his shoulder exclaiming, “I sometimes forget how cocky you can get!”

"How else do you think I got the permission to propose you in someone else's marriage!" he states sassily.

With that Jeonghan snuggles closer to you some more, its Sundays anyways the kids are with their grandparents and you both have all the time in the world to just bask in each other’s presence and not do anything at all.

[eleni-cherie]

a thief's end ✨ || bts • myg - bonus epilogue

"so eager to be in a headlock again?"

"only if it's by you."

he thought he was done with the criminal life and ready for some peace and quiet. but his plans collapsed in the form of a strange girl who was in trouble. © 2023 | eleni_cherie

»»»

masterlist: here

— genre: thief au, gangster comedy, adventure, romcom, humour, angst, fluff, sexual tensiON, slowburn, mutual pining, strangers to lovers s2l

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE. CHARACTERS NOT NECESSARILY LIKE THE REAL PERSONS. ALSO VERY UNREALISTIC PLOT LOL - JUST PRETEND READING A MANGA/COMIC OR WATCHING A FILM, REALLY.

SUGGESTIVE THEMES. MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE & BLOOD (BUT NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC, IT'S STILL A COMEDY!)

»»»

a week later

"Ugh, crap."

The thin metallic stick slipped from the lock once again and Yoongi had to suppress a laugh at Soyeon's frustrated scowl.

"Should I try or..?"

"No!" she whisper-shouted and attempted anew to slide the lockpick inside the keyhole. Tongue peeking at the corner of her pouty lips. It was cute how dedicated she was about this.

After a week of supporting Jimin, Arabella and baby Jia - a combination of their names Taehyung had casually thrown in after the two had spent hours on debating as somehow they hadn't thought about any name until the nurses had asked them to write it in the birth certificate and both looked at each other panicked - Soyeon and Yoongi found themselves back in Taipei, outside the building with the storage units. One of them holding her grandfather's secrets.

"You know, I could do it. Or easily just slice it with my sword and be done with it in one second," Yoongi suggested. Arms crossed with an amused smile as he leaned agains the  wall and having observed her trying to crack that lock for the past ten minutes. He was still uncertain if teaching her these skills had been a good idea, but at least it was entertaining as fck to watch her do it.

"No, no, I want to! I can do it!" she objected again. It was a matter of personal pride by now, she knew she could do it. And besides, she felt like it was her obligation to. Her grandfather would've surely want her to be the one getting in there. After all, he had also left the key to the unit in a way for her to find. She only had to get inside this damn building!

When Yoongi had tried last time, it looked so effortlessly and easy so she'd begged him to teach her how to pick locks as well, against his better judgement. Because he couldn't say no to her. Not when these usually sharp eyes got all round with plea.

He sighed, looking around.

It wasn't like he was impatient. He could stand there beside her scrunched figure, observing her attempting over and over again all night long, it wasn't a particular cold night anyway. However, he feared the more time passed the bigger the chances of someone catching sight of them after all. Sure, the buildings around the backyard were offices or warehouses, empty at this time of the day anyway, and the single camera overlooking the backdoor, wasn't hard to disconnect. Neither was the security pad. At least not for someone like him, it might've been for others.

From the area and the constractions around he could guess it wasn't storage units usually rented for high valued possessions. Making it quite genial to hide something valuable here, in his opinion. No one and surely not any law enforcement, would think of looking in a place like this for stolen goods worth billions of won.

His lips parted, about to step forward to take matters into his own hands when the door clicked opened and Soyeon picked her helmet and got up to her feet with a triumphant smile directed at him, gums showing cutely. "See, I did it!"

He couldn't help but smile proudly at her, giving her a nod as he got his own helmet from the ground. "Never doubted you."

She huffed with a giggle. "You're a terrible liar."

"Never pretended being a good one," he deadpanned with a small grin and grabbed her hand, softly tugging her inside and closing the door behind them. She switched on her flashlight.

"Which number was it again?"

"It was down there. Come, I remember," he motioned and she followed him suit, their lonely steps echoing against the corridor until they stepped in front of the familiar door as a week ago.

Soyeon didn't waste a second and got the golden key out, putting it into the lock. But when she was about to turn the doorknob and enter, she hesitated. Her heart beat picking up with excitement and fear.

What would be behind there?

What had her beloved grandfather left there for her to find?

Was she really ready to find out? To face his secret life?

"It's okay, take a moment."

She felt Yoongi's hands on her arms, his warm breath brushing over the exposed back of neck. She swallowed.

At least she wasn't alone. Whatever would be waiting for her there, she didn't have to face it on her own. Yoongi was there. Reassuringly running his arms up and down her arms from behind. It almost made her shudder how soothing his voice was. How distracting his touch.

With a new found calm, she twisted the knob in her fist. The metal door heavy as she pushed it open, using all her force and Yoongi also pressing with his hand. It squeaked open until it clicked into place and stayed still. 

Finding the switch was easier and when the neon lights flickered, they could reconise first shapes. But none she'd expected. "W-" She entered with a puzzled expression, stepping closer to the only two objects in the narrow room. The velvet casket on the table having turned grey by now from the dusk and she clicked her tongue before poking her cheek with it. "Something tells me we're not quite there yet."

Much to her surprise though Yoongi behind her bursted out laughing, earning a confused glare. He stepped in front of it then, brushing past by her and picked the box up carefully, inspecting it from all sides. The knowing grin on his lips never leaving him.

Of course, he thought, he had almost expected it. No true thief would just leave their treasures in the open because even if chances were low anyone would suspect anything of value in a place like this, they were never completely at zero. There had to be something more. Double bottom, double walls, a backdoor, a secret compartment - something to ensure no common burglar or employee would find it.

"Was somewhere another code written?"

Soyeon blinked, seemingly not following him. "Huh?"

He offered her the box and she grabbed it from his grip, understanding what he meant. There was a small padlock holding it closed. And somehow, out of pure instinct she just knew instantly what combination of numbers to put in when seeing it only needed four.

And she smiled fondly when indeed, it fell open immediately. Now Yoongi being the one taking aback. "So there was one?" he asked with raised brows, but she only shook her head. Staring briefly at the silver padlock. 

"No, just a wild guess."

"So you're a psychic now."

She breathed out a laugh. "No, not at all. It was just, a weird.. I don't know. Epiphany. I just knew," she said softly when opening the lid. Revealing an envelop with her name and address on it, which sparkled her curiosity once again. "It was my grandma's birth year. It was the pincode to his bank card and.. and I thought he might've used it for keeping his treasure save as well."

Yoongi breathed, watching her pick the envelop up and resting the box on the table.

That was unexpected, but also incredibly touching. To love someone so much to use their birth date as protection for your possessions. Was that even possible? He'd never thought about it.

The musing sound coming from the petite woman made him perk up. And he silently stared at her reading the letter intently.

"Dear Soy-bean,

I know it must be you finding out my secret and eventually, this place and piece of paper. But perhaps it's just my conceited thinking that grandma always warned me about after all, believing the hints and clues I left were easy to decipher. And yet I know you'd be smart enough to do so. You were always the most clever one - after me of course.

I know it must have been unexpected, even shocking to find out the truth, but know that it never influenced my personal life. It never influenced how I behaved to my family, that was all me. So I hope you don't perceive me and the memories you have of me in a different light now. I am and will always be the grandpa you know and who loves you, your sister, your parents and your grandmother dearly.

You're probably wondering a lot of things though and I can't satisfy that curious mind of yours so easily, but I hope leaving my fortune to you will make up for it.

Don't spend everything all at once though!!

Or do, I couldn't stop you guys anyway!

Love,

your grandpa - Jeon Seongmin"

It was dated a few weeks before his passing. Had he known he didn't have much time left anymore?

Soyeon felt tears well up in her eyes, blurring her vision a little and she quickly wiped them away. She coughed then in an awkward try to shove the sorrow away and turned the letter and envelop around to look at them from all sides. Even holding them against the light for any anew hidden clues. 

"I- I can't see anything, you?" Her voice was shaky but Yoongi understood to pretend he didn't notice. Instead, he shook his head and looked around, not able spotting any suspicious cracks or outlines on the walls or floor. Neither any possible hiding spot considering there was nothing but the table and box in that room. Not even a lonely post-it.

Perhaps there were hints in the letter but he felt like he'd intrude if reading it right now. Whatever was written there was meant for her and her only, not for a bystader, a stranger like him. It was her grandfather's last words to her. And a sting crossed his heart. He wished he had something similar from his uncle.

He sighed. "We can always come back again to search more thoroughful, but right now I think we should call it a day." 

Disappointment washed over her features, but she was obedient for once and nodded. Suddenly feeling quite drained.

»»»

It was late, too late.

Soyeon was sleeping calmly and soundly, nuzzled into the covers. A moment of envy flickered through his mind until his eyes fell on her sleeping self beside him and he stilled.

Cassandra had done a splendid job as always, he thought. Not that he had ever doubted his friend, but he was still surprised that nothing but a small white line was left on Soyeon's forehead instead of a big, remindful scar.

Frankly, part of him was glad she hadn't found her grandfather's inheritance yet. Finding it meant she'd slip through his fingers again and he dreaded the mere thought of that. But it was simple as that. The only reason she hadn't returned to her old, normal life with her family in Seoul yet was because of this. After finding it, there was nothing holding her back there, was it?

Of course his ego urged him not to forget about himself, her boyfriend, he could be reason enough, but was he? He wasn't sure.

His feelings for Soyeon grew stronger with every passing day, with every cheeky smile or stolen glance of these captivating eyes, with every sight of her in one of his shirts, with every silent second observing her doing the simplest things, with every time he held her in his arms and kissed her, with every time her arms wrapped around him, clutching into his jacket when she was sitting on the motorbike behind him and they rushed down the empty streets like the world belonged to them and them only. He couldn't get enough of her presence. Would never get enough of her beautiful face either, he was sure.

For the first time in a very long time he finally got the taste of a normal, ordinary life. With her. He had forgotten how his life looked like on this island before she had fatefully chosen his car to hide, hard to imagine really.

Fck. What was he supposed do when she inevitably left him? 

He didn't know, he didn't want to know.

He closed his eyes. Instinctively he turned towards her, his arm curling around her warmth under the sheets. Sensing her torso moving with each breath. And her sweet scent lulled him enough to eventually slip into a restless sleep.

»»»

The sunlight shining directly onto the door made Soyeon flinch and she stepped back from the left-ajar door to an angle the light couldn't reach her from the slit.

She knew Yoongi must've heard her. Had probably sensed her presence every since her feet had touched the floor when getting up. She knew that he knew that she was standing there in front of the door of his practice room, peeking inside and watching him do his morning routine. And yet she couldn't move, couldn't speak. She didn't want to reveal her presence for the tiniest chance that he hadn't noticed her after all and she could admire him in secret.

His every movement fluent and precise, like waves hitting the shore. Sometimes she practiced along with him and he kept reassuring her that she had progressed a lot. Yoongi was a great liar, she'd only been teasing him back in that storage unit in Taipei.

Maybe with time she'd be able to tell when he was lying. After years of knowing him. Like her parents, like her grandparents, like Yoongi's parents, like Cassandra and Taehyung, like Jimin and Arabella knew each other to the point they just knew, noticing little subtle changes in the other's mimic, gestic, voice. 

How she envied them all. But she liked to think that her and Yoongi could get there, too. If he wanted to. Did he want to?

She wasn't sure. She wanted to believe he wouldn't immediately kick her out the moment they cracked the letter's massage and finally found the loot. They were together for the past three months after all, but perhaps only because she had to stay there. If the reason for her stay vanished, what would happen then?

She wanted to know. She was getting tired of her grandfather's attics, even if his caution was legitimate. It wasn't even the speculated fortune of her grandfather she cared about, because she didn't. Whether it was five won or thousand. But she was a person who needed closure. And everything they and their friends had gone through in the past months, this whole adventure, would feel incomplete without finding at least an answer to it all. Like a cliffhanger. A discontinued show. An unfinished story.

The sudden increase in the blade's tempo cut through her thoughts along with the air it was flowing through and she blinked.

She always liked observing Yoongi's training. He looked so effortlessly cool, so natural. The way the veins on his hands got more prominent with the strong grip around the shaft. And the way his long waves swayed with every movement, falling in front of his eyes, over his sweaty forehead, and back again, always made her weak to the knees. Made her pulse vibrate in her ears. Made her want to run into his strong arms, not caring about interrupting.

But she didn't, she had some self-control and dignity left - much to her own surprise. No, perhaps it wasn't that. She was just patient and respectful enough, that was really all to it because otherwise she'd have already torn off his clothes.

His hearty laugh filled the air then, the unexpected sound of it making her happy.

"Are you stalking me again?"

"I am."

On second thought, perhaps she wouldn't mind never finding whatever her grandfather left her. She'd already found something better.

»»»

With how often they ended up at the rooftop, it was only logical for Yoongi to obtain a key from the building manager's office and get a dublicate made of it. It was easier than always picking locks.

It was another idle evening where the two homebodies sat there on the hard ground with a drink placed beside them, observing the pink and purple of the sky getting chased away by deeper orange and blue shades.

They had spent an hour analysing over the letter, dismantling each sentence and word and yet nothing. Had they been so blind? Was the loot there and they just didn't see it? It was probably very simple, right in front of their eyes and they overcomplicated things. As often.

Soyeon averted her eyes from her phone display where Jimin had shared new adorable photos of baby Jia. He was obsessed with his daughter, everyone could tell. Of course. She looked exactly like a mini-version of himself safe for the bigger eyes which were definitely Arabella's.

"We should consider the possibility of someone else having broken in and stolen it before we even got there," she shrugged, taking a sip from her Ballantine's. The whiskey's mildly sweet taste burning her throat pleasently.

Yoongi took a sip of his own whiskey, shaking his head when putting the glass down. "Don't think so. There were no signs of an intruder. I'd have noticed."

With a sigh, she leaned her head on his shoulder and his fingers curled around their usual spot around her waist, his warm scent in her nose.

"Then maybe there was nothing there to begin with," she mumbled and grabbed the envelope from the ground. Waving it mockingly in front of them when another thought crossed her mind.

Was the letter itself maybe the real gift? The last goodbye? Then why talking about 'not spending it all at once'? And why not just sending it to her then? It was already stemped after all. No, it did't make sense.

"I mean, the only thing of any monetary value are the stamps on this, right?" 

Yoongi only hummed absentmindedly as he was observing the cloudy sky. Trying his hardest to avoid his mind drifting to the consequences of them finding her grandfather's fortune. Only slowly processing her words. His breath hitching then. 

"May I see something?" he said and grabbed the envelop, his blood pulsating. Why were there stamps in the first place? This letter had never got sent after all nor did it look like it was planned to. It wouldn't make sense to put stamps on it, nevertheless so many. Six was way too many. Why hadn't he noticed earlier? But frankly, she'd really ever shown the letter to him, deeming the envelop as unimportant.

Could it be? This whole time? Missing the forest for the trees?

With the light of his flashlight he inspected each one carefully and Soyeon's wonder turned into anticipation when she began to understand. "Y-you think.. the stamps?"

The older guy nodded, there was a chance it had been this simple after all. His history knowledge was good when it came to these things, earning more than enough times the nickname of a grandpa.

She heaved head from his shoulder and watched him slowly lower the envelop, holding it for her to take back. She couldn't make out the look on his face but considering it lacked any kind of excitement, she assumed it was another dead-end.

"Guess that wasn't it either, huh," she giggled lightly, only to see him press his jaw together.

"Actually.. they're of great value. Around two hundred to five hundred million won each." Her grandfather, that genius bastard. He really was of the old school. A true professional. Why having big, voluminous objects laying around when he could just swap it for tiny stamps, easy to hide without raising any suspicion?

He wanted to laugh out of the sheer absurdity of it all while Soyeon almost chocked on air when hearing that.

"Fck," she mouthed and he breathed out a hollow laugh.

"You got that right."

This didn't quite fit her mind, that much money? For her and her family? That was way too much, what were they supposed to even do with this?

She shook her head. "But how would we even get the money from these?"

"There are collectors who'd pay anything for them. They're rare, some even unicums and of historic value."

"But.. but.." It felt like she was searching for reasons this couldn't work. It was too good to be true. There had to be a catch. "But we can't keep it anyway, right? Interpol would get suspicious with such large transactions. Anyone would. It'd be better to just keep them like that."

"Or you could just stay here where Interpol can't get you."

Soyeon giggled, "You only say that 'cause I'd be rich as hell then," she smirked teasingly. But Yoongi remained quiet, face stoic. He wasn't joking when saying that, even if Interpol wasn't the reason he wanted her to stay. He was serious. The hand on her waist tightening.

"You could throw that envelope off the roof and I wouldn't care," he said, his voice not above a whisper, the stern tone of it making her laugh fade, taking her aback.

The younger woman swallowed then, shoulders deflating. "I know, Yoongi. I know you wouldn't care and have more than enough yourself. I was just joking."

"But I wasn't. Stay."

Her feline eyes widened and she realised she hadn't been the only one thinking about what would happen of them after finally finding the fortune. She was speechless in a way, despite having hoped and anticipated for him to say these words.

However, Yoongi was misinterpreting her silence even if it was for mere seconds and he swallowed, not seeing a point of being direct and frank but not spilling everything out. There was no point in holding anything back. So he leaned in, his arm embracing her smaller frame, bringing her closer to his chest. Ensuring they still saw each other despite the fading light.

"I love you, Soyeon. Most foolishly. I know I can't offer you anything interesting besides my affection, but.. I still believe this thing between us deserves a chance. So stay. Here. With me."

He emphasised the last words, his voice growing more and more hushed the closer he got to her lips. Sensing a shaky breath leaving them, sweet and intoxicating from the alcohol.

"Who says I wanted to leave in the first place?"

Oh.. Oh.

"You don't?"

"I hope you don't mind," she whispered then, her words laced with a smirk. She felt quite light-headed as well and surely not from the alcohol as she'd barely drunk any. Hearing the lightness in his own despite the emerging darkness.

"I'm not insane."

"Okay. I'm staying then."

The brightest, most adorable smile spread on his full lips. His eyes averted from her in a brief moment of shyness, looking at the tiny blinking lights in the distance. Now prominent by the lack of daylight.

"Okay."

She pulled back in his arms so her hands could find his soft cheeks, turning his face to meet hers again. Her eyes were sparkling, her lips grinning.

"And I love you, by the way. Most absurdly." 

The whiskey on their lips blended together when they touched. And at last, Yoongi considered himself a lucky guy.

THE END

»»»

thank you all for reading this story! it was fun writing it, so hope you also had fun reading it!

💜check out the whole "thieves collection" series or my main bts masterlist for other members' stories in this universe or in general💜

Don't forget to like, reblog & leave feedback! ♡ It motivates me to keep writing :)

[mnginlov]

line a

when did you start to have feelings for the cute stranger on your morning commute and how are you going to be able to tell him?

⇀ pairing yunho x reader

⇀ genre fluff, angst, strangers 2 lovers

⇀ style one-shot

⇀ word count 4k

⇀ warnings food, yunho cries

⇀ reactions from the gc “Okay but why do I have tears in my eyes” “I feel all warm and toasty inside” “I had a lovely time”

note sorry if you hate brown sugar oatmilk lattes, cinnamon sugar bagels, pastries in general, or sushi

getting a new position in your company meant better pay, a new office, and different work hours. you were happy for the shift in your routine, feeling like you were starting to become a part of some machine, but you were honestly happier for the shift in your commute time.

your old hours always had you riding the train at the busiest times, shoved into a car with a collection of other desk workers like a bunch of sardines, and over the years you’d grown used to not being able to find a seat or even have any form of personal space. you’d always accepted it as a necessary evil that just accompanied getting to work at a prestigious corporation in the city but now, climbing into a train car that was next to empty, you were regretting ever settling for less.

you’d quickly grown into a routine with these new hours, grabbing an iced brown sugar oatmilk latte from the cafe on the corner of the station entrance before your train, spending the 30-ish minute ride sipping and reading a few pages from the book you’d purchased most recently, and then using the extra time before work started to grab a cinnamon sugar bagel from the bakery a block away from the company, unless the pastry of the day was particularly appealing in which case you’d grab two of those.

of the people who took the train at the same time as you, there were always a few regulars mixed in with the random passengers. the old lady, you’d lovingly nicknamed mrs. blue, was an every day passenger. she’d already be on the train when you would board, sat in the farthest corner of the car, with a collection of different knit items on her lap, some incomplete and often actively being worked on during the ride. she wore a different blue shirt every day, and although you were months into this new routine she hadn’t repeated any yet. she would get off exactly three stops before you, taking her time to gather her knits as the doors opened and although you worried that one day the doors would close before she made it onto the platform she hadn’t missed her stop yet.

probably the most recent regular you noticed was someone you’d called the flash to your roommate and the name just stuck. he would board one stop after yours, always arriving at the platform at the same time as the train. he’d take about a minute to look at all the free seats on the train but after what seemed like a heavy debate with himself, one where he would gesture subtly with his hands and mutter quietly under his breath, he would take the same seat he’d taken yesterday, and the day before, and every day as long as you’d been riding this line. he would get off a stop before your own and just as with his arrival, his form would disappear from the platform in tandem with the train’s departure.

of course the most interesting of all the passengers, and the first regular you’d noticed, was a man that both boarded and exited the train at the same stops as you. he was tall, you’d estimate around six feet, and although he’d seemed intimidating as you’d stood on the departure platform for the first time since your change in work hours, he sent you a smile that simply melted away all of your worries when he’d caught your eyes flickering toward him cautiously.

he was always waiting at the platform before you, no matter how early you were to the station, and he always wore one wireless earbud. if it was in the right ear he was obviously on a call, talking and laughing with someone he’d called mingi. if it was in the left ear he was silent and you assumed he was just listening to something, likely music or an audiobook. however, no matter which ear was occupied he would always greet you with a warm smile and a slight nod when you would saddle up next to him on the platform.

you’d tried to parse his reasons for taking the train so often and so regularly but it was next to impossible to be sure when he was always dressed so casually and never carried the same items. some days he’d be weighed down by a backpack that looked like it was holding several concrete bricks while other days he’d have nothing but his phone in his hand. every few days he’d have a different bag of takeout food, though the only repeat container was from a thai place you’d googled one day after noticing him carrying a bag with the same logo for the fourth time.

when you both would leave the train after arriving at your stop, you would cross paths, each of you having exited the door of the car opposite to the direction you would head to leave the platform. at first he would just give you another smile and nod but about a month into this routine he’d escalated to telling you to “have a good day” to which you’d return a quick “you too”.

the train on the way home from work held a different set of regulars, a slightly younger and more rowdy collection, but after a couple months into this new pattern you would find your mind wandering away from the words on the page in front of you to the man from your morning ride.

he was certainly attractive, a sharp jaw that complimented sculpted cheeks, a nose that perfectly defined his side profile, and eyes that would crinkle up whenever he would laugh or smile. speaking of his laugh, you’d noticed he had a habit of tilting his head back when he would find something particularly amusing, a tendency that had caused him to bump his head against the wall of the train car behind him several times. each time this accident had occurred, you would dip your own head, lips pressed together in an attempt to suppress the enamored giggles that would bubble into your throat. after you managed to calm yourself, you’d take a peek in the man’s direction to find a light blush dusted over the apples of his cheeks and along the tops of his ears, eyes flicking toward you before his ears would transition to an even darker shade of red and he would hide his own shy giggles behind his hand, his gaze shifting to the train floor.

your routine became familiar after a few months, comfortable even. it gave you a sense of security, knowing that he’ll always be there.

of course that means that the one day you arrive at the station and he’s not stood in his usual spot on the platform you can almost feel the universe poking a hole through your bubble. it lets in a little bit of something that anyone else might recognize as disappointment, but to you it feels heavier. it’s painted with a hint of worry, and you itch to check the time on your phone every few seconds just to triple and quadruple check that you’re not running behind. you try to ignore the way his absence has thrown you off but as you take a sip of your latte it almost feels like even your drink tastes different.

you board the train when it arrives as you would every other time but even mrs. blue seems to notice the lack of your usual companion, pausing a moment in the middle of a stitch with yarn tangled between her fingers, before she returns to her own routine. similarly, the flash takes twice as long to choose his usual seat, eyes lingering on where the man would usually have been sitting before he moves about his day as normal.

your book seems even less interesting today, the story dragging on as the author tries to build suspense that you just can’t seem to bring yourself to focus on. instead, you wonder if he’s okay, you hope he is, dwelling on all of the possible reasons he could have missed the train, because that’s what you assume he did. he must have missed it, his alarm this morning not waking him or construction making him change his usual path to the station. of all the possibilities for his absence, you in no way consider the reality that approaches as you hop off at your usual stop.

he makes his way through the door he would normally exit, boarding the car instead, with a woman following close on his heels. their hands are connected, fingers intertwined, as he pulls her toward his usual seat on the train and he wears the same light blush as when he’d hit his head on the wall. he looks happy and you want to breathe a sigh of relief that he’s okay, but your body refuses to relax at the sight, your stomach turning and heart clenching as you see her beam up at him.

neither of them take any notice of you, too enraptured in the little bubble surrounding them as you make your way toward the rest of your day. something in the back of your mind tells you that you’re not going to have a very good one.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

your day isn’t too extraordinary, the usual tasks and duties taking up your work time, but every so often your mind will drift, as it usually does, to your train companion. unfortunately, instead of the standard admirations of the way he’d worn his hair that day or the opinions on the conversation that you’d parsed from hearing just his half of the phone call, your thoughts seem to be stuck on the way her hand had been firmly captured in his own and the way his eyes had lit up when the woman on his arm had laughed.

as the weeks go on, and his appearances on the train become more infrequent and completely changed by the girl that seems to be his world, you start to consider that this may be your new normal. maybe a regular has shifted into the crowd.

you feel something inside yourself shift in response to this new situation and you try not to harp on it. however, how are you supposed to reconcile something that you weren’t even aware had been happening. when had the boy stood on the platform turned into a crush?

it felt childish to admit, falling for a relative stranger, but it felt even more foolish to realize that she must have been his reason for all those months. that girl was why he took the train, why he was always punctual and bright. maybe you’d purposely ignored the signs, the occasional bouquet and the mention of a jiyoung when on a call, or maybe you’d been too caught up in your own interest, in your own feelings, to realize that he was only a stranger. you didn’t even know his name.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you’re not even sure how long it had been since you’d seen him on the platform as you approached, your latte in your hand and steps stuttering as you realized that he was there. he looked nice today, more dressed up than you think you'd ever seen him. black tie neat and blazer crisp as he shifted from foot to foot almost nervously. it was hard not to notice the bouquet in his arms, a collection of several different pink flowers wrapped neatly in brown paper, and the container of food from that thai place. you could reason to guess that it was likely her favorite, the portions he’d carried had always been suspiciously small for someone of his stature but you’d never seen a need to analyze that before.

aside from the new surprise that just is seeing him on this platform and taking this train, you’re shocked to find that you can’t see an earbud in his left ear but he also doesn’t appear to be in conversation with anyone. he’s not on the phone, he’s not even reaching into his pocket for his headphones, he’s staring straight ahead at the empty tracks, almost willing the train to arrive faster.

as you approach your usual spot on the platform his eyes flick over to you, sensing movement in his peripheral. you try not to make eye contact, pulling your phone out of your pocket to appear busy.

“hi.”

of all the greetings you’ve ever shared, verbal communication was new. you weren’t anticipating any sort of recognition, as you’d stood further away from him purposely, partly in an effort to avoid any sort of interaction with him.

you didn’t respond aloud, your gaze briefly locking with his as you nod slightly before looking back to the screen of your phone.

he doesn’t seem deterred by your lack of proper response, though, as he takes a step in your direction.

“do you think this is too cheesy?”

his voice is much higher than you’ve heard it previously, when he’s talking with mingi or sending you off to have a good day, and you can hear a nervous shake in the tone.

you venture to glance back up at him, the bouquet in his hands now turned out to you so that you can see the writing on the wrapping paper.

will you be my girlfriend?

the lump that forms in your throat is involuntary and you try to swallow it away as you blink at him.

“it’s cute,” you manage after a moment, trying to avoid further discussion as you quickly return to your phone. maybe you could fish out your own headphones from the depths of your bag.

“i got her favorite too,” he explains with a lift of the takeout container, completely oblivious to the hint that you aren’t in the mood to converse. “i never really liked thai but i don’t mind.”

you bite your tongue to keep from saying anything, urging your brain to ignore the curiosity of what he would prefer instead.

you’re sure that you’ve never been more thankful for the punctuality of the train as it comes quickly into view in the next moment, screeching to a stop in front of you both and cutting off the conversation.

you notice that he makes his way to his usual spot, mrs. blue peeking at him from the corner of her eye before she returns to her latest project.

instead of your usual place, one that wasn’t directly across from him but still too close for whatever your heart was doing right now, you decide to take a different spot, one where you can convincingly be enraptured in the pages of your book while your mind takes in none of the words, too focused on the latest development with your train companion.

you try to think about anything other than the boy with the bouquet but it feels like the length of the ride that you’ve taken for months has suddenly doubled. you’re not sure the doors have ever stayed open this long at each stop, yet each platform is more unusually barren than the last, leaving the car with just the usuals occupying their spots.

at your stop, only you and him are left and you realize that in sitting further away from him you’d managed to sit closer to the door that he would normally exit, both of you almost colliding as you try to fit through the doorway and step out onto the platform.

“have a good day,” he says, and it’s not only different because it’s the first time you’d heard the phrase from him in so long but because his voice is still high and still shaky.

you take a shallow breath, trying to calm the prickling sensation that washes over your skin, and you reply, “good luck.”

you don’t stay to see his reaction, dipping your head and feet leading you in your usual direction. you don’t even realize you were practically jogging until you make it to the bakery almost 10 minutes before you normally would.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

half of your day is spent wondering how it all went for him, your regular duties not nearly as interesting as the turmoil in your heart.

your brain tells you that she obviously said yes, simply based on the brief moments you’d seen of them together, and your heart reasons that you want her to say yes, the smile that she’d put on his face when they were together absolutely mesmerizing, but somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach you wish for her to say no. you try to suppress the thought, reasoning that it wouldn’t mean you suddenly had a chance, but the jealousy only continued to fester until you realize that you’d been typing out your internal argument instead of the report you were tasked to start.

you tussle with your feelings for the rest of the day, even as you pack up and make your way to the station in order to head back home for the night. you’re almost too caught up in your head to notice a familiar bouquet in the hands of an even more familiar stranger sat on the bench just off the platform.

you pause when you first notice him, his gaze set firmly on the slightly wilted flowers, eyebrows furrowed in what appears to be a mix of thought and anger, and you try to decide what to do. you could simply walk past and pretend that you hadn’t noticed him, but as you consider that a guilt starts to replace the jealous feeling that had started to manifest earlier in the day. a voice in the back of your mind tells you that you’re responsible, you’d secretly wished for his rejection hadn’t you, but you quiet that voice as you take a deep breath and approach him.

“hi,” you chirp once you’re at the end of the bench and you realize that you don’t know what else to say. you didn’t have any kind of plan.

he looks up at you, eyes wide and a little pathetic to complement the subtle downturn of his lips. you try not to react when he notices it’s you and his expression lifts slightly before dropping back down.

“hi,” he practically whispers, the word heavy and soft as it leaves his lips.

“this seat taken?” you resist the urge to drop your face into your palm as your mouth moves before you can stop it but if he finds the phrase at all awkward he doesn’t comment, only gesturing to the empty space with his hand as a sort of invitation.

you move onto the bench, angling your body to face him and you can’t tell if you imagine him shift to match you or if he’d always been sat on an angle as his gaze moves back to the flowers.

“she said no,” he supplies with a shake of the bouquet and a few petals fall out, one landing in his lap while the rest float to the ground.

you bite your lip as your hand reaches out reflexively but you quickly pull it back in before you can pick the petal from his thigh.

“did she say why?” you ignore the thought that you may be prying, telling yourself that he’d offered the information first.

he lets out a single humorless chuckle as his eyes close. when he opens them he looks up at you once more, gaze and voice noticeably watery as he replies, “she never wanted something serious. she thought it was just always going to be casual.”

a tear makes its way past his waterline and he’s quick to wipe it away with the back of his hand before he drops his gaze to his lap, noticing the petal there and brushing it off.

you try to think of anything else to do aside from just sitting here and watching him cry when you realize that he no longer has the bag of takeout and are reminded of the question you wanted to ask him earlier in the day.

“what’s your favorite?” you ask, cringing slightly for not being clear when he looks up at you with a confused expression.

“uh, food,” you elaborate and he tilts his head slightly as though he’s never heard the question before.

he takes a moment to think, eyes fluttering around the both of you, before he says, “i guess japanese.”

you nod slowly, pursing your lips as it’s now your turn to think.

“great,” you say after a moment, rising from the bench after you check the time, “because i love sushi.”

he quirks his head at you again, this time his face scrunches up in confusion, as he watches you stand and take the bouquet from his hands. he doesn’t bother to try getting it back as you walk toward the edge of the platform, the train coming into view only a moment later.

when you notice that he hasn’t followed you, you look back at him over your shoulder.

“you’re gonna miss your train,” you call to him and he hesitantly follows as you board.

the car is empty today and you breathe a gentle sigh of relief as you anticipate your plan.

only a few seconds after you’ve taken your seat, your train companion steps into the car, still observing you with confusion, although you see a hint of amusement start to take over his features as you gesture to his usual seat.

he says nothing as he sits down, eyes fixed on you to the point that he almost misses his chair, sliding down into the seat with a soft thump.

“if you keep staring at me you’re going to make this immensely harder for me,” you say loud enough for him to hear as you look down at the bouquet in your hands. you take the edge of the brown wrapping paper into your hand, the material considerably more wrinkled than when you’d seen it earlier that day, and start to tear. luckily the writing is on the outer layer and so you can tear it off without causing the arrangement to change.

you can’t see his face but you can imagine the tilt of his head as you work to remove the phrase from the flowers, crumbling up the paper and tossing it into your bag.

as the train comes to the first stop you peek onto the platform and silently thank the universe for urging those taking the train from this station to climb into the other cars, leaving only you and your stranger sat in the plastic seats of the familiar car.

before the train can start to move again you stand, clearing your throat, and you notice him shift slightly as though preparing to get up before you take a few steps and close the distance between you.

you let out a breath as you take the seat next to him, eyes intently connected with his own, before holding the bouquet in front of him.

“hi, i’m y/n and i’ve seen you on the train before,” you start, his eyes eager and round as though trying to convey that he’s listening. “i think you’re really cute and i’d appreciate the chance to take you to din-“ you cut yourself off as you pull out your phone to check the time and you swear the corners of his lips pull up in amusement. “midnight snack,” you conclude, putting your phone away as you turn back to him.

he doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes just looking into yours as his lips slowly part to reveal a toothy smile.

“preferably japanese,” you add to break the silence, the words barely audible.

without breaking eye contact he takes the bouquet from your hand, his fingers brushing against your own and causing a heat to climb the back of your neck.

“hi,” he starts, placing the bouquet onto the seat on the other side of him, “i’m yunho and i’ve seen you on the train before. i think you’re very cute and i’d be happy to get a midnight snack with you.”

you try to keep the blush from spreading to your cheeks but you give up as you notice yunho’s own ears and face growing pink.

“i just have one condition,” he adds and you cock your head in confusion.

“the snack has to be japanese.”

↼ ateez masterlist

note idk why but i just apparently feel the need to romanticize public transit AGAIN

let me know what you thought?

[yeehaw4yoongi]

Iced Americano | JJK

Pairing: jk x barista female reader

Rating: 18+ | minors dni | nsfw

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings: drinking alcohol, kissing, some swearing, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, mentions of cum, titty play, mentions of food/eating, mentions of milk (but literally just milk nothing nasty is being done with the milk), shower sex, dom-ish jk

Genre: fluff, smut, non-idol au, strangers to lovers, some angst

Summary: You wake up thinking today would be like any other day but you were wrong.

A/N: Hi tumblr! This is my first stab at writing any kind of fanfic. I'm new to all the warnings, categories, and abbreviations so please bear with me. Thinking about doing a part 2 since I feel like there is so much build up in this half, so if you enjoyed it, please comment, reblog, and like!

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Today started like most of your days do. The alarm yanks you out of your slumber at 4:30AM and you drag yourself to the shower. You have about half an hour to get to the bus so you can make it to work at 6:00AM. You sprint to your stop and make it just as the bus pulls up. You won’t be late today.

As you ride down the dark city streets you make a list of everything that needs to be done to open the cafe by 7:00AM. You take inventory of everyone out and about already hard at work. Street sweepers and stall keepers mill around setting the scene for the world that has yet to wake. Despite the start time, you love the opening shift. It’s where humans on different paths cross as night transitions into the morning. Party people with pupils the size of the moon and 9 to 5’ers alike find themselves convening in the queue for coffee. The day goes by as usual. Taking orders, making light conversation, steaming milk, and cleaning up empty cups make the morning go by quickly, and before you know it’s nearly time for the shift change. By now the freshness of the morning ceases to exist. You’re covered in coffee grounds and sweat has taken its toll on your makeup. You switch out the till drawer and head to the office to count the morning’s takings. Once you finish, you collect your bag and head back into the bustling cafe. It’s a small space so you weave your way through the crowded shop. You stop by the counter on your way out to bid your workmate adieu and that’s when you notice him. 

His tall slender frame leans against the counter as he orders an iced americano. He reaches for his wallet and you notice the tattoos on his hands. You don’t allow yourself to keep looking. Instead, you push passed him and the other people queuing and head for the door. One of your workmates shouts behind you “see you tomorrow!” and as you turn around to wave you meet eyes with Iced Americano. For a split second, your heart plummets into your stomach. He looks down at his phone and you’re released from his grip. He seems unfazed but the depth of his glance has shaken you. Walking down the street toward the bus you brush off the interaction. This city is full of attractive people. You serve them every day. What made him different? 

“Never mind,” you tell yourself as you climb the steps to the top deck of the bus. You have errands to run and a friend’s birthday dinner to go to tonight. As the afternoon wanes you forget about Iced Americano and go about getting ready for the evening’s festivities. You make your best effort. The restaurant you’re going to for the party is one of the nicest Italian places in town and you want to look the part.

The city sparkles as you make your way through town in the cold. You see the restaurant down the road. The warmth practically flows out of the windows. As you enter, you’re met with a scene of beauty. Peach-colored light is defused through sheer fabric dressed around each of the fixtures that hang from the ceiling. They reflect off of the polished brass glass rack hanging above the marble-top bar and bathe the marble walls in a rose gold hue. Vintage mirrors hang above a row of pale blue booth seats that run parallel to the bar and give way to the dining room. You stand at the door and take it all in. Scanning the dining room you realize you’re the first of your group to arrive. The maitre d’ pulls out one of the plush mint green bar stools and motions for you to take a seat. You order yourself a glass of wine and pass the time looking through your phone. As you wait, the bar fills up around you. Your phone buzzes and it’s your friend saying they’re nearly there. You motion to the bartender to close out your tab. He places the bill on the bar. When you look down you see something familiar out of the corner of your eye- a tattoo and more importantly the hand it belongs to. How long had Iced Americano been there?  Your eyes never leave the tray the receipt is on as you slide it towards you. That’s when you hear his voice. “What wine are you drinking?” You mess up your signature but decide there’s no way he was talking to you and so you push the tray back toward the bartender and place your card back in your wallet. It’s when you get up to tell the maitre d’ your group has almost arrived that you meet Iced Americano’s gaze. Turns out he was talking to you. He looks at you with an inquisitive brow as he awaits your response. 

“I, I uh, it’s the Cabernet” you manage to blurt out through your shock. The bartender nods at Iced Americano and he orders the Cabernet. “Thank you,” he says with a wide smile. You stand there looking up at him for what was probably only 2 seconds but feels like much longer. Just then your friends swan in and swallow you up in their hugs and kisses of greeting. You look back at Iced Americano and smile and give him a small wave as you head to your table. 

Your seat at the table faces one of the mirrors hung on the walls. You and your friends order two bottles of wine and some small plates to start. You’re wrapped up in the comfort of their company. Everyone is sharing the highlights of their day and listening as the birthday girl lists off all of the presents she’s gotten. As the server brings the wine and serves a sample to your friend you look up into the mirror. Sitting at the table directly behind you is Iced Americano with two others. His seat at the table gives you a clear view of his face in the mirror’s reflection. You try your best to stay engaged in the conversation happening at your table but the image in the mirror pulls your gaze back to it. His face is kind and his eyes are soft and doe-like. The curve of his jaw is sharp. Even through the vintage mirror, you can tell his bone structure resembles that of a statue. You’ve lost yourself in his image and he must have felt you staring because his eyes look up to meet yours. You’re rendered breathless but you don’t divert your eyes. The server pours your glass of wine and you refocus on the table. 

Several food courses and drinks go by before the bill inevitably arrives. Your party wraps up and as you collect your things to leave you steal another glance at Iced Americano in the mirror hoping it won’t be the last. You make your way out with your group and wait with them as each of their cabs arrive. Standing alone on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant you watch your Uber get closer and closer to picking you up but you’re not ready to go home yet. You look behind you through the restaurant window and see Iced Americano sitting at the bar. You decide to throw caution to the wind and cancel the Uber.

The liquid courage running through your veins makes it easy, a little too easy, to take the seat directly next to the man that has captured your attention. You don’t say anything to him as the weight of your decision begins to hit you. It’s too late now, and when the bartender asks what you would like you say, “He and I will have an espresso martini,” and motion to Iced Americano sitting next to you. He looks at you with a surprised look and you grin. “Did you order that for me?” he asks with a chuckle. You nod. “What’s your name?” you ask. He responds, “My name is Jungkook. It’s nice to meet you.”

You sit at the bar nursing your drinks and talking. He’s in town working for a couple of days. You mention being a barista but don’t mention where. You talk about traveling and the places you’ve been, comparing notes on cities you’ve both visited. He is incredibly well-traveled and regales you with stories about his time spent on the road. As you chat the restaurant starts closing down. Eventually, the bartender makes the last call and Jungkook asks if you’d like to take a bottle of wine to go. The idea sends a tingle up your spine. You initially thought the espresso martini would be the nightcap but your shift doesn’t start until the afternoon the next day, and why wouldn’t you get a bottle of wine to go? You answer him, “I’d love to. I know a place we can go with it.”

When you step outside the cold air hits your lungs and the warm blur from inside the restaurant sharpens. You are greeted by the sounds of cabs passing by and people chatting and laughing as they make their way to the train station. The city lights shine and wrap you up. You feel safe under them. The libations from dinner and the impromptu nightcap make your mind feel light and optimistic like anything could happen. As though somehow this moment is the beginning of your life. 

You start walking down the road and turn to see if Jungkook is following you. He’s still standing at the door holding the wine and thanking the staff for a wonderful meal and exquisite service. Waiting for him a few paces along the sidewalk you take the opportunity to admire his whole form. He’s tall with broad strong shoulders. His turtleneck hugs his arms and chest and his slacks are perfectly tailored - a statue. As he walks toward you he asks, “Where do we go next?”

The two of you make your way through town passing the theatre district down to the river. You find a bench along the bank and take a seat to watch boats pass while lights on the other side twinkle in the background. He had the forethought to ask the bartender to uncork the wine but you both forgot cups. He playfully pulls the cork and takes a swig straight from the bottle and then hands it to you. It’s cold out but you don’t feel it. Maybe it’s the wine? Maybe it’s him? Either way, you never feel uncomfortable. You talk with him about what brought you to the city and how you love being there. He listens intently and seems to hang on to your every word. Time flies as you take turns drinking the wine and before you know it, the bottle is empty. You sit there with him in the dark a bit longer looking out over the water. The silence between you is pleasant. You can feel his arm up against yours and you fight the urge to take his hand at that moment.  

He looks at his phone and breaks the silence, “Let’s walk back to where I’m staying and I can get you a cab back home.” By now, you know that even if you didn’t desperately want to walk him home, you’ve had so much wine that there’s no way you can get into a vehicle without walking it off a bit. As you stroll up to the beautiful historic hotel, you see there’s a town car parked in the front. “This is for you,” Jungkook says with a smile and motions to the car. Going home is the last thing you want to do but you don’t want to force anything. You thank him for the ride and tell him you hope he has a great remainder of his stay in town. As you turn toward the car, Jungkook takes your hand in his and pulls you toward him into a hug. You breathe him in and he smells like clean fresh laundry. “Thank you for showing me around,” he says releasing you, “I had a great time.” You go to respond but don’t get the chance. He leans in and gives you a gentle kiss on the lips. “I’ll see you around,” he whispers in your ear with a sly smile and you stand there stunned. He notices that you’ve been caught off guard and walks to the side of the car and opens the door. That’s your cue. You get into the backseat and he closes the door behind you, giving a small wave as the car pulls away from the hotel. 

Your whole body buzzes as you ride through the city. When you get home you realize you never exchanged numbers. As you sink into bed you replay the events of the evening in your mind. Every look, every word, every brush of his arm against yours. The kiss cycles over and over. Even if it was just tonight, it was worth it. 

The next day you have a slow morning. By some miracle, you aren’t hungover but the booze has made you feel sluggish. You think about Jungkook as you get ready for work that afternoon and while heading to the bus stop. You think about him as you ride through town and as you walk to the cafe. You can’t shake him and you don’t want to. Deep down you tell yourself not to get your hopes up. What are the chances of you seeing him again? Despite you trying to manage your expectations, you watch the cafe door your entire shift hoping he’ll appear there. Patron after patron comes in. No Jungkook. Finally, you give up hope that he’ll come in but that doesn’t stop you from thinking about the night before. You spend the rest of the shift on autopilot, stuck in your endless daydream. You close up the shop and head back home. You have to open up the next day and can’t afford another late night. Riding the bus, your mind drifts to last night. It remembers the feeling of his arms wrapped around you. It remembers the feeling of his lips pushed against yours and the feeling of his breath on your ear. 

Once again, your alarm startles you awake at 4:30AM. Another day, another shift. You’ve accepted the idea that your evening with Jungkook was only a brief encounter and one of the many perks of living in the city. You never know who you’ll meet and what will happen. The memory will live fondly in the back of your mind for a while until time inevitably reduces it to a blip on the timeline of your life. The shift goes by as normal and you greet and serve the first arrivals into the shop. The morning is peppered with the regular corporate types and rave stragglers. You spend your time chatting, catching up with them, and listening to what they have planned for the rest of their day. As the lunch rush starts to pick up, the queue for service extends to just outside of the door. You’re nearing the end of your shift but there’s still a lot to do, so you move from the till to behind the coffee machine to help your workmate with the influx of coffee orders flooding in. 

As you steam the milk at the end of the counter, you grow tired and the awareness of what’s happening around you disappears. It’s just you and the milk pitcher. You watch the milk swirl around in the jug making sure not to burn it. With your focus on the upcoming orders you never see Jungkook enter the cafe, but now he is standing at the end of the counter and says, “Hi” breaking your focus. When you look up and see who the greeting comes from, you almost don’t believe your eyes. The chances of you meeting again seemed slim and yet here he is. You realize that you’re fully staring at him, mouth agape. You try to respond like someone who has spoken before but your “Hey! How are you?” comes out as more of an abrupt shout. He doesn't skip a beat and tells you that he was meant to leave town the day before but that he still had some things to wrap up and extended his trip a few days. You’re delighted by this news but you do your best to stay cool and nonchalant. His drink is a few places behind others in line but none of the other patrons matter anymore. You make each drink and just slide them to the end of the counter as you and Jungkook chat. He didn’t know you worked here and mentioned how he was in the cafe a few days ago. You pretend not to remember. Finally, his drink is up. Unlike the coffees before his, you take extra care and gently slide the drink directly toward him. He asks you for a lid and as you go to put it on, there is a brief fumble. He doesn’t anticipate you putting the lid on for him and reaches to secure it as you place it on top of his cup. His slender fingers and soft palm land directly on the top of your hand. You both look up at each other and giggle. He takes a sip of his drink and thanks you for making it just right. You swoon and he notices. He says that he’s been given tickets to a show later that night and asks if you’d like to go with him. You exchange a glance with your workmate standing to your left. She has completely stopped making espresso shots and is waiting for you to respond to him while nodding her head as though to say, “Say yes, fool!”. You quickly turn back to face Jungkook and tell him, “sounds great”. Noticing that the number of people waiting for their coffee has caused a crowd to form, he takes a pen from his bag and writes his number on a napkin, and hands it to you. “Send me your address. I’ll pick you up at 7.” 

As soon as you finish work you text him your address. [See you soon.] he replies. You race home and start the process of getting ready. No task is spared as you prep for a night on the town with quite possibly the most beautiful man on the planet. You try on all of your clothes and then all of your roommate’s clothes before finally deciding on what you’ll wear. You put on the designer perfume your grandmother gave you for your birthday. Promptly at 7:00PM your phone buzzes. You give yourself a last look and take a deep breath. When you open the front door, there is Jungkook sitting on the street in an Aston Martin. He gets out of the car and goes around the other side to open the passenger door. He’s wearing black combat boots, fitted black trousers, and a knit charcoal grey crew neck sweater over a white collared shirt. You walk toward him and he takes your hand to help you into the car. He gets into the driver’s seat but before he puts the car back into gear, he looks over at you and says, “You look amazing.” You thank him and reciprocate the compliment even though “amazing” doesn’t even begin to describe how gorgeous he looks. He is fucking hot with his black hair combed in a way that exposes a bit of his forehead. You fight the urge to lick your lips as you watch him wrap his tattooed fingers around the steering wheel. 

You arrive at an elite member’s only Burlesque club in Soho. The hostess shows you to a cozy private booth with soft cushioned upholstery and oversized pillows that line the back. As the two of you settle in, the manager stops by the table to drop off a complimentary bottle of champagne. Jungkook smiles when he sees her and stands up to greet her with a hug and cheek kiss, as though they’ve met before. He introduces you and she winks as she greets you. She says, “Any friend of JK is a friend of mine. If you need anything at all, just ask for me.” A server comes by and takes your drink and food order just as the lights in the club dim and the spotlight flicks onto the stage. Jungkook makes sure your glass never runs dry as one beautiful woman after another takes the stage. Each one of their performances is glamorous and sensual. As the show goes on, the two of you inch closer and closer to each other until he takes his arm and puts it over your shoulder. You allow yourself to let your guard down and lean your head to the side to rest it in the nook where his chest meets his shoulder. You stay there until the show is over. 

The club isn’t far from his hotel and as you stroll down the street it dawns on you that that’s the direction you’re heading in. You brace yourself for another town car. When the hotel is just within eyeshot, Jungkook makes a random but smooth turn onto a narrow alley and points out some street art on the wall. As you follow behind him trying to see what he’s talking about he turns around and slowly walks back toward you until you’ve backed yourself onto the wall opposite of the one he was looking at. He walks right up to the point where you’re nearly touching and then stops. You turn your gaze upward to look him in the eyes and he says, “I’m just kidding. I wanted a private place to kiss you.” He leans in and lays a small kiss on your lips. And then another. You kiss him back as you slowly wrap your arms around his waist and draw him in closer. For a few moments, the two of you stand there entwined seemingly suspended in time. It feels like you’re levitating. He opens his mouth and slides his tongue into yours, triggering all the butterflies in your stomach to a frenzy. Pulling back, he lays a few more small kisses on your lips before bringing your arms up around his neck and wrapping his arms around your back to pull you into him again. You stand there in silence breathing in unison. As you stroke the hair that grazes the nape of his neck he leans into yours and kisses it softly. Kissing your neck he says, “Do you,” another kiss, “want,” another kiss, “to come up,” another kiss, “with me?” You reply into the night sky as your head rolls back, and his kisses drift further down your neck,  “Absolutely”.  

Your heart pounds as you walk through the hotel doors but you aren’t nervous. Facing the front of the mirrored elevator doors, Jungkook stands behind you. He admires your reflections for a moment and you watch him as he drapes his left arm over the front of you while using his right hand to caress the left side of your face and turn it up to the right to meet his for a kiss. The doors ding open and you walk into the elevator. He pushes a button near the top floor and the doors close. 

You are standing on opposite sides of the elevator and with each floor that passes the tension between you grows. It takes everything you have not to throw yourself on him but you test the waters and ask, “Why are you all the way over there?”. His demeanor shifts and when his gaze meets yours, you see a fire burning in his eyes. He takes the two steps across the elevator, looks over at the buttons, and smashes the Emergency stop. The elevator halts. Facing you, Jungkook raises his hand and places his thumb on your lip, applying some pressure while moving it carefully and with purpose until your mouth is slightly open. He starts to lean in, slowly sliding his thumb and index finger down to the tip of your chin, and lifts your face until your mouths meet in a deep and passionate French kiss. Your face rests gently in the palms of his hands. The way he kisses you feels like he needs you to breathe. “Can I touch you?”, he asks, his voice nearly a whisper but not quite. As he waits for your response, once again you find yourself answering into the sky but this time you’re met with your reflection in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator. You look yourself in the eyes as they roll back into your head and you whisper, “Please”. 

When the elevator doors open Jungkook slides his fingers out from your now-damp underwear and leads you into an immaculately decorated suite. He flicks on a lamp and then another and you stop at the end of the entryway to take in the space. 

As you admire your surroundings, Jungkook asks if you’d like a glass of wine while he pulls back a heavy curtain to reveal a private terrace with a breathtaking view of the city. You walk over to where he’s standing by the window and look out. The city lights twinkle in a panorama. He asks you again if you’d like some wine but you are too distracted by flashbacks of the elevator ride up when he slid his middle and ring fingers inside of you as he rubbed your clit with the bottom of his palm to notice Jungkook waiting for your response whilst you look out over the city. He clears his throat and you are suddenly very aware of him waiting and see him looking at you out of the corner of your eye. 

You turn toward him and say, “I think I want something stronger,” as you move your hand over the front of his trousers to find what you actually want. You land on the task at hand and you feel him twitch slightly under your palm, as he begins to harden at your touch. Looking up at his face, his eyes are closed and he lets out a soft moan as he exhales. You keep your hand where it is for a bit longer before moving it up toward his waist until your fingers are touching the bottom of his sweater giving it a light tug to signal that it’s time for him to take it off. He crosses his arms over his torso, reaching to where your hands are resting near his waist, and pulls the sweater up and over his head. While his arms are still mid-air, you reach up and start unbuttoning the white collared shirt. You lay a kiss on the skin that is exposed with each undone button. He is breathing heavier now. You only get halfway through unbuttoning his shirt before he takes you by the waist and turns you toward the window. He puts his hand on your back and presses you into it just enough to indicate that he’s the one in control. His hand moves down your back to your hips and guides them into place. His other hand is busy lifting your skirt and resting the fabric on your lower back to expose your ass. “If you want something stronger, that’s what you’ll get”. You hear his zipper coming down and his belt clink as he unbuckles. The glass is cold against your palms and arms. The city continues to glow in front of you as you feel him slide your panties down. 

The anticipation begins to bubble over and every part of your body throbs and screams out for him. You let out a whine when he starts teasing you with his tip, before slowly and gently sliding every inch of him inside of you. You both moan softly and relish the first moment your bodies fully meet each other. Jungkook pulls out nearly leaving you but slides himself deep inside you again. He repeats this a few times and then proceeds to slowly and steadily fuck you from behind. Each thrust is deliberate and forces you to feel all of him as he strokes your g-spot. You can feel the pressure inside of you starting to build and he can too. He gradually quickens his pace remaining consistent with the depth and cadence of his strokes. Your head gets cloudy as your orgasm continues to mount. “Fuck!” you exclaim as Jungkook starts to hammer into you with a rhythm where you cease to see straight anymore. You try to regain your composure but all you can do is plead with him not to stop- never stop. “I won’t,” he barks through gritted teeth. You come so hard that your legs nearly give out and he’s quick to catch you with one arm around your torso to keep you from buckling. He never misses a beat and the waves of your orgasm keep crashing over you. 

When he feels you reach the other side of pleasure, he pulls himself out of your warmth and gently rubs the head of his cock across your ass cheeks as he releases onto them. You feel the warm trickles of his cum roll down as he steps back to admire his work. Still bent over and facing the window you look back at him over your right shoulder and see him standing there with a naughty smile stretched across his face while he pulls up his trousers. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says. In an effort not to make a mess of your skirt, you unzip it and bring it up over your body and head. You drape it over one of the armchairs and hear the shower turn on in the other room. As you walk toward the sound you remove your top and drop it onto the floor. 

Entering the bathroom you are met with a fully naked Jungkook. The form that you’ve admired through turtlenecks and fitted trousers is now on full display. He has a striking physique and you can tell that he takes time to maintain it. He is lean but still muscular. He’s strong but has made an effort not to overdo it so that it looks almost effortless. You can see all of his tattoos now and you’re surprised by how many there are.  

Steam spills over the top of the walk-in shower and he opens the door and beckons for you to get in. He takes the sponge hanging on the wall and squeezes some soap onto it. The scent of gardenia wafts through the steam as he creates a lather and drags the sponge along the different parts of your body, paying particular attention to your ass making sure to remove whatever is still left of him. He wrings out the sponge and hangs it back on the wall. As the warm water continues to cascade down, you turn to face him and wrap your arms around his waist to pull his body close to yours. You rest your head on his chest and feel him breathe. Still captured in your embrace, Jungkook turns the two of you as a unit so that you are facing him as he slowly sits down on the banquette that is built into the shower. You continue to stand. You place your hands under his chin and tilt his head so that he’s looking straight up into your eyes. You lean down to kiss him. He kisses you back gently and when you move your head to change angles you catch a peek of his face through your partially closed eyes. His brow is furrowed as though he is savoring every second of this kiss. His expression is soft and sincere. It makes you feel like at that moment, you belong to each other. Like you want to take care of him. To protect his heart. To make sure he always feels cherished. You start to lose yourself in your head as you continue to caress him. The emotions rising into your throat border on heartbreaking. You know this is a fleeting moment. Nothing is promised after tonight. 

You pull back from the kiss and start to straighten your stance, while he glides his mouth down your neck and chest until he has one of your breasts in his mouth. You feel his tongue circling your nipple as his hand takes your other breast into it. He rubs his thumb over your other nipple while using his free arm to keep you close to him. Gently, you comb your fingers through the wet hair on the back of his head and hold it as he transfers his mouth to your other breast. You reach down between his legs as he continues to suck on your tits and find that he is hard. 

Jungkook adjusts so that he is sitting on the very edge of the banquette to make it easier for you to straddle him. As you lower yourself down onto him, he pulls you in so close that it’s hard to tell where he starts and you stop. Your arms are wrapped around his neck and your face is pressed against the side of his. Once you feel that he is completely inside of you, you start rocking your hips back and forth slowly. He moans when he feels your core grip around his cock. Breathing in unison, every slight movement becomes more gratifying than the last, transporting you to an alternate realm. Nothing else exists as you allow yourself to surrender to the intimacy of this moment. No one can see you. No one will ever know the energy exchanged here tonight. It belongs solely to the two of you. “Give it all to me, baby,” Jungkook coos in your ear, as though he’s cheering you to the finish. Your ears pop when you come and for a moment you are totally paralyzed as you let out a silent scream and throw your head back while palpable bliss courses between you. As you slowly grind on him you bring your face to his eye level and kiss him while he comes inside of you. Even after he’s finished you stay connected on the banquette while the water continues to run so you can stay in this moment as long as possible.

Dawn starts to shine over the city skyline as you climb into the big hotel bed. Jungkook pulls the heavy curtain across the window and the room descends into nearly pitch darkness. He crawls into bed next to you. You’re both still naked and your skin is warm and clean. The two of you lay in the darkness talking for a while. You talk about how beautiful the burlesque dancers were at the show and about how delicious the food was. Your conversation wanders aimlessly as you curl up into the nook of his neck and he reaches down to pull your leg over him. He holds on to the bottom of your thigh to keep it draped over him. His breathing starts to deepen and you are lulled to sleep by every inhale and exhale. You smell gardenias as you doze off.  

[hear-me-growl]

Time is Gold | Jhs | Oneshot

ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ Aᴏ3 || Dɪᴏɴʏsᴜs ·ᴘᴜʙ· ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀᴘᴏsᴛ || ↻ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

This fic is a part of my Dionysus ·pub· collection. There will be seven fics, one for each member. These stories take place in the same universe and sometimes intertwine, but can be read independently and in any order.

> sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

Like in everything else in his life, Hoseok’s attention in poker was on the details. He noted your perfect manicure as you smoked and how you exhaled the cloud from the corner of your mouth not to get it in your eyes. He noticed how you studied everyone in the room too every time you took a sip of your drink, but lingered on him. Slightly smudged mascara gave your eyes a sultry post-orgasm air, matching that messy elegance you wore. Your pupils darkening when he brushed his hair back only added to the heavy atmosphere between the two. At that rate, Hoseok would end up fucking you right on the green baize.

> ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut, humor | ons > ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: gambler!Hoseok x Reader > ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: mature [+18]; strong language and explicit sex > ᴡᴏʀᴅᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 9.7k

💙 ᴀ/ɴ: So… 5 years later, I decide to finally release the second fic in this collection. This has been sitting in my Google docs basically ready to publish for the most part of that time, but I never got around to sit and give it the final touches. I must admit, though, it paid off. I’m kind of proud of this one, even if it took my procrastinating ass forever to finish it. Hope you enjoy it!

Hoseok has seen you once before. Just a snapshot, but enough to have him intrigued.

He entered the restroom and walked along the stalls, looking for an empty one. A door was ajar and he peered inside to check if it was occupied. The image stopped him in his tracks. There you were: half-seated on the toilet tank, back to the wall. Your hair, all sweaty and tangled, slid up and down the tiles to the rhythm of the brute thrusting in you. The guy’s pale ass was out and he grunted like a pig. He was big and bulky and had too many gold rings on the hand that held one of your legs up, opening you more for him. The straps of your dress, along with a big, furry coat’s sleeve, had slid off your shoulders to reveal your collarbones and tits, but the guy’s big frame blocked most of your exposed skin. You let out intermittent moans as you bit your lips, the pretty colour there smudged sinfully. How did Hoseok not hear you when he entered? You weren't being subtle at all. Your arms were wrapped around the man, holding for dear life, and you leaned forward to bite a beefy shoulder, gaze fixed on something behind his back. In your hands there was a wallet, one Hoseok assumed wasn’t yours. The bills you pulled out crumpled in your fist when a deep thrust hit you just right, head jerking back against the wall with a thump.

“Right there, huh? You like that?” the guy croaked. 

His grip on your thigh tightened and he doubled his efforts, oblivious of the money your nails threatened to rip and the very empty wallet back in his jacket. You hummed in agreement, clearly enjoying yourself. Then, your eyes met his through the half-open door. Hoseok would never forget your smile, teeth pulling an abused lower lip as it stretched when you realised he’d witnessed your little crimes. He arched an eyebrow, amused at your reaction. You seemed quite pleased with his unintentional voyeurism. Index finger stretched in a “let’s keep this a secret” motion, you threw a complicitous wink before your free leg kicked the door shut. He peed to the sound of your orgasm.

Now every time he took a leak at Dionysus, he thought about the mystery restroom thief.

“I’m in.”

Things were getting interesting now. The smoke of cigarettes and cheap cigars materialised under the fluorescent light. There was a mist hovering over the table where Hoseok’s money was on the line. A big pile of it.

He could be considered a professional gambler, although “risk-taking expert” had a better ring to it. Besides, with the existing prohibitions in South Korea the word “gambler” entailed a series of unwanted meanings. Criminal, for starters. Apparently, a well-known study stated that Koreans are two to three times more susceptible to gambling addiction than any other nationalities, which was a shitty excuse to ban it, if you asked him. Unfortunately that meant a very strict law around it, even outside the country. He himself had some close calls with the law in the past, nothing his wit and silver-tongue couldn’t get him out of. The thing is, Hoseok was a man of many hobbies. The legal ones like horse races or sports were fun; the less-legal ones, thrilling. Underground fights, poker, car races, bingo… you name it. Hoseok did it all. That thrill he felt from being at fortune’s mercy that got him high on adrenaline. He couldn’t stop chasing it. Some said he was a greedy man, immediately betting whatever amount he won, but it wasn’t about the money. Not only about the money. 

...ok, he did like the money. 

Gambling it, winning it, spending it, losing it…  Wherever the dough was, any door could be opened. Life’s best club bouncer. However, Hoseok didn’t flex it around like all those famous fifteen-year-olds posing on the internet with Gucci slippers. For him, luxury resided in the details. His apartment, for example, was spacious enough for him, but not too big. Any hardworking man with a bit of luck could own it. It wasn’t the kind of high-end, maid-included penthouse expected from someone who earned as much morally-questionable money as he did. The fridge kept breaking and the floors had scratches from dragging the pinball to his studio when he moved in. Dirty laundry piled in a corner of his bathroom and the trash was filled with takeout flyers. He even kept the sticky soju bottle collection he started back in his very blurry college years. In contrast, his huge, paper-like thin TV and the beautiful art pieces scattered on the shelves screamed “crazy expensive”. Again, details. 

By his daywear sweatpants and casual attire no one would guess the number on the price tag. For nights out, he paired extravagant and vibrant suits with exclusive glasses and shoes. He got a taste for flamboyant, timeless clothes, sometimes so much it looked like every suit he owned was thrifted. The Rolex on his wrist said the opposite, though. Hoseok was just like that: flashy and just a tad messy, but elegant in his own way. 

The one thing he did like to show off were his cars. Half of the private parking of his building was occupied with his ‘babies’. The red ‘20 Chevy Stingray was the current star of the collection. Sports cars just suited his never-ending quest for adrenaline. Plus the sharp lines of the vehicle matched Hoseok’s jaw —he was particularly proud of that purchase because of that very detail. Still unable to keep the kitchen cupboards full or his laundry done, though. He had his priorities.

The table was awfully quiet. The muffled beat of a Fender bass seeped through the ceiling in complete disharmony with the easy elevator jazz in the room. A tall man with oily hair thoughtlessly flicked the corner of a card with his thumb nail. Hoseok had played with him enough to know that despite the smirk he sported, he had nothing but air. The other two still in the game were more difficult to read, but it only spiced things up. One of them was new to the table so he wasn’t familiar with his expressions and the oldest was a shark he’d lost to more than a few times. Hoseok raised the bet anyways, he had a good hand.

Poker game nights at Dionysus were his favourite. The moment he walked past the bouncer and through the thick curtains, something in the air changed. The noisy pub upstairs disappeared along with its slurred, intoxicated frenzy. On that side of the curtain, only the static intimacy of gentlemen and cards remained. There was a small bar at the end and a couple of tables to play. Some nights it was blackjack, others poker. Occasionally the owner put the roulette to use, but Hoseok wasn’t a fan. He’d been to Kangwon Land, the only casino in South Korea that allowed locals to enjoy the pleasures of its games, but not even there he found the roulette exciting. Perhaps the only form of money-risking he didn’t enjoy.

Bets grew higher with each round of cards and drinks, what Hoseok considered a fun night. The old man had quite the stack of bills on his side while the rest kept thinning out. Luckily, the geezer folded early this time —he was playing awfully safe tonight. The other three groaned when Hoseok revealed his pair and he gave Greasylocks next to him a pat on the back.

“Come on, ladies! Let’s keep the spirits up!”

“Easy for you to say, you lucky bastard,” the man whined. “That was the loan for my daughter’s college. You are the only one who’s making some money here.”

“You don’t have children. And if you did, you’d add them to the pot too.”

“Didn’t know that was allowed. Should start making some then.”

“So you can lose them too?” Hoseok taunted, grin half-hidden behind his glass before taking a sip.

“Shut up and deal,” someone else barged in. He was a regular, a balding fellow that always loosened his tie when he had a killer hand. By the way his phone kept vibrating, someone at home wasn’t happy that he was out. “You’re insufferable when you win.”

Hoseok chuckled at that. The guy wasn’t wrong. 

“Can’t you be a little bit happy for my success? Besides, I’m not the real threat: old fox here  is gonna dry us all for good.”

“You kids never learn, you keep giving me your money.”

“Don’t get all cocky, gramps. It’s hard to make a nick on your winnings if you get cold feet with anything less than pocket nines,” Hoseok teased. “Where’s your backbone tonight?”

“Miraculously still there and intact.”

Laughter quieted down as a waft of air entered the room, rousing the cloud of smoke around them in swirls. It came with dewy floral notes of perfume and they all turned to the newcomer. 

The first thing that caught Hoseok’s eyes were long legs cut by the hem of an ungodly short dress. The confident click of heels drowned in the stained carpet, and stopped at the bar. One of those divine limbs crossed over the other perched on a stool, exposing more thigh than should be legal. The cards’ edges dug harder into his palm the longer he stared at those smooth, shiny marvels of God’s creation. He wasn't a religious man, but he swore he could drop to his knees and pray right then and there.

“Don’t mind me, gentlemen.”

Purred words broke the ominous tension in the room —Hoseok wasn’t the only one captivated by the woman. When he looked up, there you were: the enigmatic restroom thief he’d fantasised more than once about, staring back at him with a playful smirk. He mirrored it with one of his own, eying you up and down. The image of you against a tile wall popped in his head and he made sure to let you know by tonguing the seam of his lips. By the naughty glint behind your long lashes, you recognised him too. You spun in his direction and lifted a martini glass that had materialized in your hand, in a subtle Gatsby-styled greeting. He cocked his head to the side and snorted in amusement. When did you order it? Or did the bartender already know your tastes? He too shifted to face you completely, manspreading a bit wider in a laxer posture. If only you would ditch that metal seat and sit on his lap... 

Uncomfortable coughs and taps on the table reclaimed his awareness of you two having company, but he kept his dark, almond eyes on you. You toyed with the olive in your drink, holding the contest to see who would cave in to the tension first. Little did you know, Hoseok was not a proud man. Hell, he’d beg like a puppy if that’s what you were into.

“You buying in, angel?” his voice came lower than usual —that was the effect you had on him. That and a sudden urge to taste martini without drinking. “There’s room for one more.”

“Say a number and I’ll decide if I like it.”

“Half a million won,” the old man answered for him, tone clipped and impatient. He was getting cranky already. Your sinful lines didn’t have the same effect on him, you could be his granddaughter. 

Meanwhile, the other players struggled and Hoseok couldn’t help but snicker. Greasylocks on his right was sweating that sparse beard off, eyes fixed on your collarbone. The fake fur coat you wore had slid off your shoulder —did that thing ever stay in place?—   and bunched at the elbow planted on the bar. The rest were in no better state. Hoseok was sure one of them was covering a hard-on.

It took you a second to decide, gauging every player with a hum. You made a show out of eating that olive, rousing your audience, and smiled.

“I do like that number. Let’s play.”

Like in everything else in his life, Hoseok’s attention in poker was on the details. He noted your perfect manicure as you smoked and how you exhaled the cloud from the corner of your mouth not to get it in your eyes. The way you’d batted your lashes when asking for fire and the wicked satisfaction in your eyes when Geasylocks offered to light your cigarette right away. You were sitting directly across the table and Hoseok, next to him, had the luck to watch you lean closer to let him do so. Tits pressed together, you nearly gave the poor guy a heart attack. Ever the tease, you thanked the man with the sweetest voice, throwing a pet name as a reward. He also noted how your lips tensed slightly when you were about to fold, which was rare. You played hard and bet even harder. A couple of martinis in and you’d made enough wons to rival the old man’s. Hoseok followed closely behind. The three of you were cleaning the other’s pockets and he could tell they’d call it a night soon. He noticed how you studied everyone in the room too every time you took a sip of your drink, but lingered on him. Slightly smudged mascara gave your eyes a sultry post-orgasm air, matching that messy elegance you wore. Your pupils darkening when he brushed his hair back only added to the heavy atmosphere between the two. At that rate, Hoseok would end up fucking you right on the green baize.

A very fortunate Flush gave him the last game of the night. You’d bet more than half of your money. It was a surprise that you didn’t go all-in by the cocky smirk you sported. Yes, your cards were good, but Hoseok’s were winners. He saw you tongue the sharp edge of your teeth in a half smile, both amused and bitter by the loss. With an evil grin, he collected his gains while maintaining eye contact, only to tease you.

“Better luck next time, angel.”

Putting out a bud, you stuffed your clutch with cash and laughed. “We both know you don’t mean that.”

“No, I don’t, but I gotta start the conversation that ends up with me taking off that dress somehow.”

The comment drew a wolfish smile on your face. His insinuation clearly pleased you, but you played it cool, paying attention to the glittery accessory as you made sure to fit every single bill inside.

“Not making me lose money would be more effective.”

“But way less fun for me,” he quickly countered. At that, you raked your eyes over his body with an amused glint. 

“Buy me a drink then, lucky boy.”

He followed the intentional sway of your hips and the smirk over your shoulder through the curtains and up the stairs like a dog would follow a bone. Back up at the pub, the stuffy air clung to his clothes as the two of you made way across the crowd towards the bar. 

“Two martinis,” he ordered above the noise. 

“Nice watch,” you commented as the bartender poured your drink, eying the gold on his wrist. “I would’ve played better if that was on the table.”

“Were you going easy on me, angel? My pride is hurt.”

“I wouldn’t want to show you all my tricks on our first night. I don’t like sharing my secrets so soon.”

“I know a couple already,” he grinned with mischief. If you were aware of how he shuffled closer, body unable to resist your magnetism, you didn’t say a thing.

“Oh, do you, now?” 

You hid your own smirk behind the edge of the glass and batted your lashes innocently in a way that could have fooled anyone. Hoseok wondered if you feigned that same innocence when you were on your knees looking up at the fortunate ones who got to experience the wonders of that dangerous mouth of yours. Just the thought made him hum lowly. The things he’d do to that mouth, if you’d let him.

“You like having sex in public places.”

“That’s not much of a secret, I’m afraid,” you snickered. “Is that all you got on me?”

“You like being watched too.” He inched a bit closer... 

... so did you. “And you enjoy watching.” 

The guy next to you turned around, scandalised from overhearing your conversation. He looked like a cartoon character, eyes too big for their sockets. Neither of you lowered the volume. 

“You steal from the guys you fuck.” Hoseok could feel the heat of your skin on him, sides already pressed together.

“Hmm… Shouldn’t that take the idea of undressing me out of your head?” Your nose almost brushed the edge of his jaw, teasing.

“I’ll keep my wallet out of your way.” 

“You can try.” 

Feline look in your eyes, you toyed with the little patience left in Hoseok as you retreated to turn away and lean on the bar, giving him a glimpse of the low cut of your dress’ back when your coat slid further down. 

He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what was so irresistible about you. Perhaps it was the confidence in your every move, the challenge in your eyes or the cheek in your attitude, or even that damned dress that seemed to raise up with every movement just enough to make him lose his mind. But one thing was certain: he wanted you. Desperately. You, on the other hand, wanted to see how much you could stretch his self-control before he snapped, begged or both. Little minx in a fur coat, he thought with a grin.

“Am I gonna have to tie your hands so you behave?”

“You don’t wanna do that. I’m good with those.”

The caricature-like dude next to you walked away with his drink, completely rigid and clearly avoiding eye contact. You both followed his stiff half-jog away from what he must’ve considered a very private conversation, not one to casually have at the bar. It made you both snicker and lifted that stuffy aura of lust around you for a moment, giving Hoseok space to compose himself a bit.

“I’m Hoseok, by the way.”

“Is that what I should be screaming later?” you taunted as you took another sip, tone more playful than suggestive.

“That, Mr. Jung, daddy, baby boy... your choice.” His words made you laugh. Hoseok imagined that same sound bouncing off his bedroom walls as he tickled and bit your neck, you gripping his hair tightly, telling him to stop with a smile but wrapping your legs around his waist in a silent plea for him to continue. He wanted to make you laugh and moan and scream and purr under him. Or above, he wasn’t picky. “What about you, angel? Do you have a name?”

“I do.”

“I get the feeling you won’t tell me that easily, hm?”

“Smart guy,” you answered devilishly, and Hoseok swore he saw a pair of horns peeking through your messy hair.

The night went on, the two of you shuffling closer with every suggestive turn the conversation took, close enough for Hoseok to smell you —a perfect mixture of sweet words and bad intentions that he happily breathed in like chloroform. You licked your lips more than necessary just to see his mouth water. He tongued the inside of his cheek  just to watch yours go dry. Like a snake biting its own tail, the more you teased each other, the hungrier the stares became. And the hungrier the stares, the more you riled each other up. 

Hoseok suggested dancing, desperate to feel the body hiding under that dress. An idea you shut down quickly because ‘why the hell would you grind on him clothed when you could do it naked?’ He laughed. You didn’t strike as a patient person, so he took your hand and tugged you through the noise until your back was pressed against the door of his car. He kissed you, hard and needy —ready to consume you. Your lips matched his greediness, eager to set him on fire. A leg came up to his hips, calf brushing the back of his thigh possessively. Hoseok held it there, gripping the smooth skin, more than excited to finally touch you. His kisses trailed down your neck and shoulders, dragging one of the straps of your dress off so his teeth could have unrestricted access to the skin there. Hoseok felt your desire as you let out a wanton purr, holding his arm tighter. He flexed his bicep to give you something harder to dig your nails into. Hips moving on their own, you pressed your center to his, making him groan and chuckle at your eagerness. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a wicked sense of victory in the way you seemed to enjoy his ministrations as much as he did yours. Sort of payback for your teasing, but also thanking whoever was above that he got a chance to taste your sweet company. His cock was rock solid from how you grinded on it, and he made sure you noticed by thrusting harshly against your already wet underwear, pushing you into the car even harder. Out of breath and half smiling, you remarked that there would be a dent in the shape of your ass on his expensive car if he kept doing that. He just laughed and squeezed said part of your anatomy. 

“Then I’ll drive around town and show off the nasty things you let me do to you against it.”

“Just against it?” you fake-pouted. “Don’t want to ruin the leather upholstery?”

At this, he gave a teasing kiss on the top of your breasts before he let your heel touch the ground again. He fished the keys out of his pockets, which proved to be rather difficult with the obvious tent he sported. You laughed at his struggle, dress strap still halfway down your arm and not resting your shoulder how it should. Hoseok could see your nipples peeking through the fabric with a mix of cold and arousal. You looked like one of his teenage wet dreams: hot, fun and ready for him.

“Want a ride, then?” The beep of the doors unlocking was your queue to walk to him and palm him through his trousers. Then you looked up and bit your lip, slowly unbuckling his belt, before tugging him closer.

“Get in.” He obeyed, of course. You just looked too damn good bossing him around.

A wide grin was etched on his face while his butt was cushioned by the soft leather of the driver’s seat and he quickly pushed it back to make room for you to sit on him. His eyes roamed your body as you stood by the open door, just admiring his physique. It’s true that Hoseok wasn’t one of those bulky gym-crazed idiots that got off on their reflection while lifting, he knew. However, his lean body had a different effect on women and he was well aware of it. ‘All sharp edges and sexy smiles’, as he’d been described before. And just like in poker, he knew which cards were winners and played around them. So he raised a brow and got comfortable by lifting a hand behind his head, letting you soak in each and every angle. It seemed to work, because in a blink the door closed with a deaf sound and you were on top of him, leaning down to lick a strip from his collarbone to his earlobe and humming in delight. You hovered just above his cock, ever the tease, and his hands gripped your waist, forcing you to make contact. The moment he felt your heat on him, he moaned loudly, happy to show you the effect you had on him. He leaned forward and put his mouth on your breasts while he kept an iron grip on your waist and guided you to grind on him, not allowing you to break contact as he shamelessly enjoyed. Fuck, he didn’t even know if the wet patch on his crotch was his doing or yours, but it felt messy and he liked that. With your legs spread at each side of him, he imagined the hem of your dress was nowhere near covering what it was supposed to. Too busy kissing your neck to look, he checked if his suppositions were correct by running his fingers down your side and to your center. At the feeling of lace, he lost it. He groaned, desperate, fisting the front of your underwear and giving it a harsh tug so it dug into your slit. The slight pain and the roughness of the fabric must’ve hit your clit, because you moaned loudly, redoubling your efforts to make him come on his pants. 

“Fuck, angel… need to be inside.”

“You clean?”

“Yeah, got tested a couple of wee—.”

“Me too,” you interrupted. “Just fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.”

“Slow down, baby, gotta stretch you first,” he smirked seeing how your kisses turned sloppy as you struggled to get him out of his pants.

“Just do it with your cock, then.”

Your words made him curse under his breath. He must’ve been a goddamned saint in a past life, there was no other explanation for his luck. Were you even real? So incredibly sexy and desperate to ride him. Though, as much as the thought of your tight walls suffocating his dick while you struggled to take him turned him on, he needed to calm down for a bit first. With all your teasing, if he let you get your way right now, he’d come the moment he felt your wetness on his tip. And he didn’t want to look like a fucking teenager. He chuckled at both your eagerness and his predicament.

“Patience is a virtue, angel.”

Before you could take him out, Hoseok pushed your underwear out of the way and slid two fingers along your slit, collecting your juices and drawing a couple of circles on your clit. You moaned in his ear with a tight grip on his hair. Shit, you were so damn wet. Before you could protest, both his fingers pushed past your entrance, as far as they could reach.

“Ahh— Fuck!”

You grinded on him, using his hand to fuck yourself, desperate. He could come just with the visuals. Hosek snaked his other hand to the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him, mouths ghosting each other, both too caught up in pleasure to actually kiss. His thumb found your clit once again as he curled his digits to find your sweet spot. It was immediate. The moment he hit it, you kissed him, a loud, lewd moan spilled across his lips.

He felt your walls pulsing around his digits as you came, your whole body heating up and shaking. He let out a grunt too, when you left moon-like nail marks on his nape and detached your lips to throw your head back, basking in pleasure. Hoseok took the chance to suck and bite your nipples, which had been taunting him the whole night, as he added another finger to help you ride out the orgasm. You hummed at the intrusion, and kept grinding on his hand until you calmed down. He looked up at you with a smug grin, chin pressed to your torso. You were a sight he would never forget. Panting slightly, eyes still closed as you came down the high and a pleased, feline smile on your abused lips. A thin layer of sweat made you glow in the neon lights that poured through the windshield. Your coat was off —was it you the one who threw the thing in the back seat or him?—, your hair a mess… the hottest thing he’d ever seen. When you scratched the back of his head, almost petting him like a dog, he was sure you were going to call him a ‘good boy’. You giggled instead, chest still heaving as you met his gaze and he laughed along. He too was out of breath, but still painfully hard underneath you. So hard it hurt. You lifted a bit, releasing his hand and settling your weight back down on his boner without care, which made him grunt. The noise drew a smile on your face.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

You took his hand to your mouth, lewdly sucking clean the fingers he had fucked you with. Hoseok’s hips thrusted upwards on their own as he heard you moan when you tasted yourself. After a while, you took them out with a pop. 

“Very much.”

“Gonna help me out then?”

The weight on him suddenly lifted as you slipped into the seat next to him in one swift move. “Buy me a bottle of wine and take me home first.”

Hoseok’s eyes went wide. “Now?!” Him pointing at his crotch had no effect on you. What a cruel, heatless woman. 

“Yes, tiger, now.” 

The way you purred the pet name didn’t exactly help with his hard-on.

“Can’t you wait until I’ve fucked you? I’ll take you wherever you want for the other rounds.” 

You ignored him and casually checked yourself in the mirror, wiping the smudged lipstick on your cheek and doing that thing that chicks do to brush their hair by ruffling it up even more. Your indifference made him even harder. Fuck, he needed to come. 

Still not looking his way, you flipped the sun visor back in place and adjusted your dress. Not that it did much, it barely covered your thighs. 

“Well, you were the one who didn’t want to put his cock in me before, so I’m assuming you can wait a little longer.”

“Angel…” he warned, though it came out whinier than he intended. Were you seriously punishing him for not letting you get your way? He was just making sure that you enjoyed yourself! Fuck his gentleman antics, he should’ve stretched you with his cock as you asked for. God, the fabric over his crotch was so painfully tight and wet with his precum and your juices. He palmed himself firmly in hopes that the pressure alone would calm him down. It didn’t, especially since he couldn’t get the image of you licking his fingers out of his head. You finally turned to him and he swore he saw the devil herself.

 “I’ll reward you if you are good.”

Hoseok groaned and hit his forehead on the steering wheel. The leather softened the blow, but he wished it didn’t. Maybe then he could clear his head and function like a proper human and not a horny ass animal. You were a menace to his mental health. How in the hell was he supposed to drive when his mind was full of all the nasty things he wanted to do to you? His dick hurt, his balls hurt, his freaking knuckles hurt from how hard he was gripping the wheel. He just wanted you bouncing on top of him. Was that too much to ask?

“The sooner you start the car, the sooner you can fuck me, so hurry up.”

“Fine, I got it! Yeesh, you are fucking bossy, you know that?” He scowled, but did as you said anyway. 

“And you like it.” 

And he fucking liked it. Hoseok chuckled in resignation. As much as he felt like his dick could explode in any second, he couldn’t even pretend to be mad at you for making him suffer, because he loved your easy-but-hard-to-get attitude. It wasn’t like any other woman he’d met before, you kept things interesting. Hoseok was a man who enjoyed not knowing exactly what to expect next, in case it wasn’t obvious with all the gambling and shit. That was why he kept putting his money on the line, after all. Unpredictable was fun, as well as your middle name, probably. He was getting more and more addicted to that glint in your eyes when you teased him. That shit was almost better than winning at poker. Almost.

You purred in tandem with the engine, sinking down on your seat in delight when you felt the initial rumble. Hoseok noticed how you traced the smooth lines of the console with your fingers. He wished it was his body instead. Your eyes widened a bit when the pilot lights started to change in a satisfying gradient from blue to red and back. The corner of his mouth lifted —he had to pay a sweet amount to get that customized. By your expression, you appreciated the detail. To be completely honest, seeing your sexy ass sitting inside his expensive car did something to his ego. Something that made him want to fuck you senseless on top of his hood. What could he say, everyone has a kink.

His apartment wasn’t that far, but he took a detour so you could enjoy the ride a little bit longer. Plus, he needed to stop by the convenience store to buy your damned bottle of wine. He was out. 

The guy at the counter eyed your dress without any subtlety as you two entered, a gesture that you definitely noticed and definitely enjoyed. Hoseok chuckled and took you across the aisles, stopping by the ramen to kiss you. By the toilet paper too. And then by the ice cream, making your nipples scream for attention, which Hoseok was more than willing to give. He bent down to plant kisses there too, his thumb playing with the one his lips missed. Your giggles and whispered moans were the only sounds in the store, that and the rattle of bottles when he pressed you against the alcohol shelf. He made sure the security camera had a good angle. The poor clerk seemed bored. Why not give him something to think about for the rest of his shift? You made out shamelessly, testing out the sturdiness of the metal shelves. He smirked when you pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, needy. Tongues dancing, it seemed like you couldn't get enough of his taste. Neither could he. You bit his bottom lip in protest when he playfully slapped your butt. There was a brief metallic taste, but he paid no mind to it —your hands roaming his chest were too distracting. He dry humped you, maybe a little bit rougher than he should’ve. The action sent a bottle tumbling, glass shattering on the floor. You both froze, then laughed hard.

The clerk looked both annoyed and embarrassed as you, oh, so innocently, apologized. Your pout and the generous bill Hoseok slid across the counter, which covered at least two additional bottles changed his mood. Wine in hand, you send a kiss flying in his direction as the bell jingled behind you. The moment you turned around, neither of you couldn’t stop laughing.

As Hoseok drove home, the chat stayed light and fun. Still flirtatious, though, since it was physically impossible for him not to compliment you and for you not to tease back. At some point he’d slipped his hand between your thighs massaging your skin. He could feel the heat radiating from your center but he didn’t make contact in hopes it would rile you up a bit. He couldn’t wait to put his face there instead. His train of thought had his dick protesting against his pants once again.

“So, what kind of reward are we talking about?” He changed the subject abruptly. You raised a brow, a little bit lost. “You said there’ll be a reward when we get to my place. What is it?”

“Aren’t you a curious kitty cat? Don’t ruin the surprise for yourself.”

“Believe me, knowing is only gonna get me more excited.” He gave a squeeze, which made your legs tense up and trap his hand between them to restrict his movement.

“C’mon, angel,” his voice dropped an octave. “Just a hint.”

There was a pause as you decided if you wanted to indulge Hoseok or not. He took advantage and teased you further, lifting his pinky enough to brush you sex. Wet, again. Apparently he wasn’t the only one in need of some relief. The contact made you hiss and swat him away. Hoseok grinned like a shark at your reaction.

“Fine.”

Oh? He hadn’t expected you to actually agree. That was interesting. Hoseok didn’t miss the dangerous tone the word carried and suddenly he wasn’t sure if you agreeing was going to make things better or worse for his serious case of blue balls. 

The click of the seat belt unfastening was the first warning. Your hands cupping his bulge the second. He groaned at the feeling. Then, your mouth was on him. His head whipped down to see you, body leaned over the handbrake and head on his lap. On his dick. The moment your lips made contact, he jumped slightly, making the car swerve a little to the left. He immediately corrected the course. 

“Shit!”

“Eyes on the road, tiger,” you taunted.

Hoseok felt your warm, wet tongue tracing his outline. The heat of your breath on him and it was driving him insane. You kept at it for a while, kissing and licking him through the fabric of his now completely ruined pants. When you finally got to the head, you added just a little bit of teeth and then sucked the wetness there. Joining him, you moaned shamelessly too and he assumed you could taste the precum that seeped through his clothes. 

“Should I take it out? Or are we going to crash?”

“Yes, I mean, no. I- Shit.” You giggled, squeezing his length harder. Hoseok tried to collect himself enough to form a sentence. “Suck me properly, angel. I wanna feel your mouth.”

“How bad?”

“So fucking bad.”

With a hum, you undid his belt and unzipped him, relieving some strain. Fuck, you were actually going to give him head. In other conditions he would be jumping in excitement. Like a dog waiting for a treat. Long nails caressed his length, making him shiver in anticipation. He wanted to look at you so bad, but he refused to go to the hospital for crashing while getting head. You lowered the waistband of his pants, then slowly, so slowly, did the same with his underwear. You kept them half way, the elastic sitting uncomfortably at the middle of his member, hurting just right. When he was about to protest, you kissed the tip and he lost it. He moaned. Loud. His hand found your hair, fisting it, but his eyes focused on the road. You started sucking and lapping at the base of his head while massaging his balls. Then, you straightened his shaft, making the waistband of his boxers dig harder into his cock. The pain mixed with your touch to make him reach a different level of agony. His grunts, moans and heavy pants made your face light up in excitement. He guessed you liked your men loud. Lucky for both of you, he was. You wrapped your puffy lips around his tip and took him in, bobbing your head and applying pressure to the underside with your tongue. Staying true to your nature, you only went halfway down, making him desperate to feel the back of your throat, to hear you choke. You kept at it for a while, without giving him what he craved. Hoseok could burst into tears. It was so good it hurt. On a specially slow bob, he instinctively tried to push you further down with the hand tangled in your hair. Not a smart move. He felt your teeth around him. Just the softest pressure, but enough to get your warning through. Hoseok grunted in frustration and let you go. Fine, he got the hint: you wanted him to suffer. Going back to sucking him, you hollowed your cheeks and took him a little bit deeper than before. Probably hissed or moaned or whined even, he couldn’t pay attention to whatever sounds came from his mouth when yours was driving him crazy. He felt your breath at his base, so fucking close to where he wanted you, but you refused to give him that satisfaction. Then teeth again, grazing back up along his length and hurting just right. Shit, he was about to come.

“Enough spoilers for now.”

Hoseok did a double take. All of the sudden you were back on your seat, licking your lips like a cat after a can of tuna. It took him a second to process when all the blood in his brain had rushed to his dick. His poor, hard rock dick that was still half out of his pants. The car AC on his wet cock made the loss of your mouth’s warmth way more bitter. He let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, turning it into a frustrated groan at the end. 

“Gonna seriously leave me like this, angel?”

“Patience is a virtue.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle hearing his own words thrown back at him. The car stopped at a red light, and he took the moment to tuck himself back again. Apparently, you weren’t used to not getting what you wanted when you wanted it. For the second time tonight, he regretted not fucking you like you asked him to. Then his dick wouldn't hurt so much. The fact that you just edged him and didn’t even spare him a look after while fixing your makeup didn’t help with his situation either. In fact, he was getting harder.

“You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?”

“Oops, caught me.”

Hoseok grinned at your uninterested tone and floored it after the light turned green again. The faster he got you to his apartment, the sooner he could fuck you and the sooner he could do it again and again.

That damned window… so bright. Sunrays blinded Hoseok's eyes and ignited a horrible headache behind them. What time was it? He hated waking up with sunburned retinas. That’s why he never left the blinds open. He swallowed, trying to wet his mouth somehow, but it felt like sandpaper down his throat. As he turned around to bury his face on the mattress, he was met with a killer headache. His brain rattled inside his skull, so he scrunched his eyes and focused very hard on making it stop. Wait, where did the pillow go? He lifted his hand above his head and patted the bed looking for it, but realised that there was no bed, no headboard. Ah, fuck. He needed to buy a new one, what a hassle. It was custom made. And why did everything hurt so much? Did a truck run over him? He felt and smelled like roadkill. Hold up, where the fuck was his headboard? Cracking one eye open he scouted the room, disoriented. This was not his apartment, was it? How odd, he could see his wardrobe and the door to the living room if he craned his neck, but that wasn’t supposed to be there. Shit, everything was too fucking bright, and his head was about to explode. His tongue felt like cardboard, so wherever the fuck he was, he needed to get himself water. Now. 

As Hoseok started making sense of the space around him, he stretched like a cat and every muscle protested when he did. His feet touched a wall, something smooth and cold. Oh, there was his headboard. So he was home. Then everything came rushing. You. On top, below him, your taste, your smile, the sounds he got out of you. The smell of your sweat combined with his, your nails on his back, his teeth on every inch of your skin. Drinking wine, then mixing the leftover of every type of alcohol he had at hand to make a horrible cocktail. You, just you, glowing like a being out of a religious painting while coming on his dick. The ghost of your kisses, the softness of your lips on his earlobe, just whispering the most nasty things in the sweetest voice… shit, he was hard already.

He sat up at lightning speed, way too quick for his body and his brain seemed to crash into his eyes from behind and then bounce back in place like a water balloon. The sheets beside him were empty. Gone. They still smelled like you. The images of last night would haunt them for the rest of his life. He got to cherish and ruin every inch of you, as you did with him. Fuck, he came so hard, so many times. No wonder he couldn’t move without feeling pain.

“Angel?” He called for you, even though he was certain you had already left. His voice was gravelly and rough. Could be because he just woke up or maybe from how loud he was last night. Kitchen, he had to get to the kitchen.

Some instant ramen and an entire bottle of water later, the situation started making sense. Looking around, the apartment was a mess. There were sofa cushions everywhere. He had kneeled in front of you to eat you out like a dog begging for food. Then you called him a good boy when he lapped you clean after you came and really felt like one. Maybe he even wagged his figurative tail. You tasted so good, and you yanked his hair so hard, he couldn’t stop his grin at the memory. 

The kitchen hadn’t been safe either. He fucked you on top of the counter for a while, quick and hard, both competing on who was the loudest and talked the dirtiest. He probably got a victory in the volume department, though you followed closely, but your mouth was definitely the dirtiest. Your filth lingered in his ear still, low, sensual and bossy. Always the bitchy CEO attitude, Hoseok thought. You came hard and laid back on the marble surface, licking your lips, and let out a fucked-out chuckle that he matched. His hips rolled and he slowed his thrusts for you, pace now unhurried and deep instead of breakneck, just to take in your post-orgasm bliss. Goddamn, he should've taken a pic. He kept at it for a minute, probably saying something cheesy to tease you, before you leaned over to bite his throat hard enough to leave a mark. The raised texture of his skin and the reflection looking back at him on the surface of his chrome fridge confirmed it. When he thought he was going to explode from the feeling of your heat, you planted a foot on his chest and pushed him away. Ass swaying, you saunteered to the bedroom and told him to follow, not giving two fucks that he hadn’t finished yet.

“You’ve been a good boy so far, tiger. Time for a treat”, you said. As if he hadn’t been rewarded enough. The screams and moans that you gifted him, the sensation of your walls wrapped around him, how your warmth gripped him like you wanted him to stay there forever would surely haunt him every night. Still, he was a greedy man, and he would take everything you gave him, even if he already got all the fuel he needed to nut in less than 5 minutes for the rest of his life.

You knelt, so, so slowly, racking your nails along his abdomen, down his thighs. From that angle he could see your perfect pout and tits, glistening with sweat. His cock stood there, inches to your face, angry red. 

He couldn't help but cup your face sweetly, sliding his thumb across your lips until you opened it for him. A wave of heat came over him, seeing you looking up at him, all ready and pliant all of the sudden, like you were waiting for a command. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew you were allowing him to do so, but he still pressed his thumb against your tongue hard.

“Suck, babe” he demanded, voice suddenly gravelly.

Your immediate compliance surprised him.The only hint of all your snark and bossiness was a faint ghost of a smirk a second before you warped your mouth around his finger, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes closed and you whimpered, needy, enjoying your task as if you had been waiting for it your whole life. Hoseok almost came right there, you really tested his limits. After a few moments, he bent down, a hand on your throat to bring you closer and kiss you roughly while he stroked his dick with the other. He all but drank you, tongue slipping through your lips to taste you and he heard a half moan giggle at his eagerness. With a fistfull of hair, he yanked your head to look up at him. You hissed and bit your lips in anticipation, eyes almost completely black and locked on his.

“Are you gonna behave?” he asked, his voice as low as he’d ever heard it. You nodded, concealing a knowing smile and answered with a teasing undertone: 

“Yes, sir. Use me.”

That was his queue to stand straighter, gripping his cock by the base as you stuck your tongue out for him, noticing how you shifted your weight to create some sort of friction between your legs. You were enjoying this as much as him, giving up control completely, even if you both knew it was temporary. He tapped your tongue a few times, precum coating it,  before he slid in. Damn, was it possible to die from a blowjob? He started slow, letting you suck and lick and kiss him, gradually taking more and more. At some point, you started teasing more than you should, which didn’t come as a surprise. From the moment you had you knelt on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, he knew that you wouldn’t resist making him suffer, even if you’d agreed to be good, even when your eyes seemed so innocent and you’d let him use your mouth this way and the other. You never played fair, after all. In other circumstances -like 15 minutes prior, for example-, he might have gladly let you get away with it. This time, however, Hoseok was having none of it. Fist holding your makeshift pony tail, he started to fuck your throat. Hard, deep, relentless. As much as he enjoyed your naughtiness, there was a sudden urge to make you behave. None of all that wicked scheming of yours, no thinking of new ways to torture and punish him. He wanted you to focus only on being his pretty fucktoy.

After a while, when his balls hurt so good from how hard and horny he was, all wet with a combination of your spit and his precum and your hands caressing them sweetely, he pressed the base of his cock to your nose, finally -finally- feeling the back of your throat. You gagged at the sudden change of rhythm, trying to get away instinctively. He held you there for a few seconds, before he eased the pressure a bit to give you space to stop or push him away. You looked at him with glossy eyes and tears down your reddened cheeks, mascara completely fucked up, but didn't move. Holy shit, what an image, someone should paint that exact visual in the ceiling of some temple, ‘cause that was as close to Heaven as it could get. Thankfully the alcohol didn't mess up that one. He felt you adjust and take him as deep as he’d been before, breathing slowly through your nose. When he hit your limit again, instead of gagging, this time you moaned, loud, and the vibrations made him shiver. 

“Fuck, angel,” he rasped, scratchign your scalp in an affectionate gesture. “You like it that much, huh? You take it so well, made to fit me.”

He almost could hear now the way hummed in agreement, how you’d let him use your mouth as he pleased, so, so good for him. You were insatiable and wanted it as hard and dirty as he could give it to you. Every now and then he slid back an inch to make it easier for you, so you could relax your jaw, and every time your nails drew crescent moons on his ass as you pushed him deeper again, almost offended at his regard for your need to breathe. He chuckled at your neediness when he saw how you closed your eyes and rocked your hips back and forth in hopes for some relief.

After using you for a while, he came down your throat with a moan that shifted into a growl, and you swallowed like a good girl as you looked up at him; round, doe eyes, lashes batting and all. However, he feigned innocence lasted all but ten seconds before you whipped out that feline smile of yours, full of teeth and bad intentions. 

When he slipped out of your lips, spots still shining behind his eyelids, you took his half soft cock in your hand and began pumping fast, overstimulating him. Hoseok whined and twitched, pleading for mercy, not sure if said mercy was for you to stop or keep going. The sensation was too intense, much closer to pain than pleasure, and yet he craved it. He came hard again shortly after, an orgasm that felt almost forced out of him by the devil between his legs. He painted -or rather you painted, since that had been all your doing- your lips and chest, cum sliding down your hard nipples and landing either on your thighs or the floorboards. There was so much of it, he recalled. In the heat of the moment seeing you covered in it simply made him want to do it all over again, but now it seemed impressive, given he had just finished two minutes before. Maybe his body knew what you wanted, maybe the dog had been already trained.

You gathered some of his seed on your fingers and brought it to your mouth. The flavor made you groan, satisfied. Then you told him to clean the rest, and, boy, was he happy to obey. Hoseok joined you on his knees on the floor to take his time savouring you, nipping at your tits and massaging every inch of you. His bitterness mixed with your sweat and the taste of your skin.

Needless to say, you didn’t appreciate his teasing, how he slid his long fingers between your folds and circled your clit. He dipped a couple of them inside you just to taste you again, then he kissed you, sharing your flavor with you. His mouth was all over your body, mapping every curve and ridge. Your hips got impatient, as you humped his thigh, trying to get him to pick up the pace. When you voiced your frustrations in a not-so-polite manner, he just smirked and slapped your ass, hard. 

“What’s the rush? Want something, angel?"

You must’ve had enough of his disregard for your neediness, because you yanked him to stand, pushed him on the bed with force and got on top of him. 

“Funny how you think you are in charge here, baby boy.” Your pupils were completely blown out, and your hand shot to his throat as a warning. Rocking your hips, your wetness coated his cock as it slid through your folds. He moved to grab your waist in anticipation, but you slapped him away with a smirk. You looked like a valkyrie as you looked down at him, chip proudly up. Hoseok snorted at your action, hands up in surrender and arched a brow. He knew damn well he shouldn't poke the beast, but he was a risk-taker. 

“I get it, you’re the boss. So act like it.”

At that, you rode him, in the most literal way of the word. He remembered the animalistic way he bucked up into you. In that moment, he needed you. No logic, no thoughts, just a burning need to fuck the lights out of you, to come while kissing you. That might have been the closest to experiencing primal instinct and desperation that he ever had in his life. And you just effortlessly molded your movements to his, circling your hips and  arching your back the right way, rolling your body with ease and taming him. 

The next couple of hours were a blur of wet slaps of his skin on yours, whimpers, needy kisses and orgasms. Fast forward a few rounds, your head on his chest drawing circles on his abdomen, laughing at something stupid he said, a snarky comment, a lift of your brows. Him rock hard again, sensitive as fuck, but still ready for you. This time you left him wanting and fell asleep with your back to his front, exhausted. He would never admit this, cause you would make fun of him and call him a creep or make some joke about him catching feelings, but he watched you sleep for a while and enjoyed seeing you without any mask for the first time. So soft looking, so untroubled. Hoseok wondered if anyone had ever really gotten to know you, the real you. Probably not and probably no one would. His eyelids close with a thought: if he had a type -which he didn’t since he wasn’t picky- it’d be you.

When he returned to his bedroom, he realised there was a note on the nightstand. 

Great night, but gotta go, tiger.  Time’s gold.

He snorted. At least you said goodbye, in your own way. You didn't seem the type to stay for breakfast, and lazy morning sex. No, you belonged in the realm of the city after dark, where you could slip easily back in the shadows and disappear. How unlike you, though, to leave a note. Unless…

His hand shot up to check his wrist: the watch was gone. He looked for it everywhere, although he already knew exactly where to find it. Despite how pissed he was -it cost a small fortune-, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“That little minx… Guess it’s poker night at Dionysus again.”

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ, ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴏʀ ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ

© hear-me-growl, August 2025

[rkivestation]

“Those Eyes” |Masterpost|KTH

➝status: completed.

➝WC: 23 chapters.

➝pairing: game designer!ceo!taehyung x game designer!employee!reader ,game developer!mirae x game developer!audio engineer!jungkook, game interpreter!jimin x game interpreter!jae-ah, game writer!namjoon x game!writer Auri and two more side ships.

➝genre: romance,fluff,angst,smut (might add smut if I ever get requested,else,it has none rn)

➝summary: it's a mystery how two pair of eyes finds solace in each other,when they are strangers and when they are not. can they solve the mystery their eyes behold and explore beyond the horizon of their workaholic life?

Chapter 1- wc: 4.6k

chapter 2- wc:4.0K

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23