in the near future, women lost all rights and are treated mainly as sex objects. it's a bleak existence, especially with the memory of how the world used to be just four years ago. you cannot come to terms with the extreme dehumanisation, shocked by the still new conditions - which are further disrupted when a powerful man buys you for permanent use.
tags: soft yoongi x difficult, abrasive, rough, cynical fem!reader, slowburn, (slightly) avoidant yoongi, very slow hurt/comfort, super soft mafia daddy yoongi, murderous yoongi, mythology, classic arts, dystopia, taming, psychology
warnings: the word rape is used across this work many times, but there are no scenes or descriptions, only mentions of the fact and conversations about it. + murder, violence, the burn is real slow. suicidal behaviour, severe PTSD, eating disorder, puking, psychological oppression, dead dove for the sexist world where women are enslaved, derogatory nicknames, illness, light torture, depictions of blood and wounds, description of scars, moral corruption, detachment from violence, normalisation of voilence, perverted trauma response, mega grey morals
in this chapter: suicide attempt
word count: 4690
The light hit his retina, and he hated it. The ray hurt him. His nose was filled with the smell of flesh. He side-eyed Titi but didn't say anything, moving his gaze away again lest he had the urge to vomit. Focusing on girls was barely more pleasurable; fluorescent skin with the undertone of plastic, a dead mermaid standing upright with the tension in the shoulders. Most of them were like that, with empty faces, and it irritated him. After years of irritation and the constant bottling of negative emotions, he couldn't figure out anymore, what was the exact object that pissed him off.
The stiff old armchair - you'd think in an establishment where you pay fifty-two million won for whores, the accommodation and service is better. The old faux leather, chipped under his bare wrist, irritated the skin, and he moved his hand onto his lap, and Titi took this movement as a sign to slow down the platform. They all spun on it like cows for sale, with unnaturally wide spread legs - for balance. Stiff, scared, because they were all naked, all shades of skin, but even the darkest ones shone like bulbs in the dimmed ultraviolet because Titi sprayed them thinking they were more attractive like that. He was a bit hungry, keeping his mouth closed so that he wouldn't say something impolite; his eyes dragging off bodies that kept spinning in front of him. Four years ago, he would've killed Titi and all the security and then he would've stood here in the middle of this room with the knife in his hand and a bunch of poor naked girls, not knowing what the fuck to do with them.
Now he has completely submitted to the jadedness, the exhaustion and cynicism. No more. No deeds. No cigarettes. And no fucking edible food in this place; and the worst, the saddest thing was they all now looked the same. Regardless of the eye slant, the shade of skin, the length of legs, the shape of hands and bodies - they were all identical with the same dead look in the eyes. Through darkness, he could see their scars, incredibly, also many of them in the same spots. Faces, bellies, necks and thighs. One of them had a scar on her temple, like a ripple on the water, hysterical blood stuffed away beneath the rough patch of flesh. Yoongi frowned in interest. He sighed with relief: she was stunning. Finally, it wasn't an error in his brain after all this time, but simply an issue of preference. His vision cleared, and, without making a fuss, he sank his eyes into her, into her body parts, natural like breaths; into her grim face which changed the expression immediately. As soon as she saw his direct gaze, she knew she's done for. She will be getting bought. And her eyes went steely, hooded. The tint of despair covered the eyeballs, hiding the colour. But Yoongi could not help but drink the sight of her: the soft shoulders, the straight collarbones; the way the lines of her stomach stayed unmoving even when her chest visibly went up with a sharp inhale. The thighs: he wanted to grab them, he wanted to do everything that a man can do to a woman when he doesn't wish her to be dead. Draw his lips along her waist, feel the warm skin under his hands - just for once; he was able to delude himself that this will be different. He will earn this. The soft thin skin in of her underknee. The barely audible squeal of bones. To see her breasts change shape as he lies on her back. To fight her as he is trying to get her to hug.
He blinked not to let his eyes go dry, gazing at her back as she moved away, the look of haunted alertness on her face. The horror of being chosen. The dramatic features could not be beaten out of her expression; her face stayed vivid through all this; he gestured to stop the stupid wheel, and the girls were released to leave. They stepped away soundlessly, in such orderly manner that, he thought, they wouldn't run even if the doors were wide open. Maybe, not her. The hostility in her eyes was unbearable, the hatred, it made him incredibly hard and incredibly hurt, because he hasn't done anything yet. The hatred she had for the whole humankind was palpable, and it sounded like a call for a challenge to him, trained for fighting. It egged him up. He felt in love. With that, irritation grew. Titi kept them walking around like objects, with no clothes, so that clients would evaluate stock quickly, so that there wouldn't be later complaints. As if those beautiful lighter textured lines on their thighs were defects. As if their asymmetrical eyes were lesser. With the infatuation hitting him for one of them, all the women suddenly seemed stunning to him again. He remembered for a second that they, too, used to have individualities and freedoms, that they were humans just like him. That sacred notion bore no sense in this reality, though. Yoongi was happy to acquire the tunnel goal of saving at least only one. One is better than zero. Her hair will look healthy again once she goes off those drugs Titi pumps them with, and starts eating normal food. Once she gains some weight, and the hip bones sink back in. Once the angry haunted look changes for at least disbelief.
He turned his face to Titi, who scrunched his shoulders mistakenly, while trying to seem dignified. The man stepped to him unhurriedly, making one of Yoongi's personal assistants roll their eyes. Those guys had no patience whatsoever, and usually, when they emoted like this, Yoongi snickered. Now he was trying to hold his breath so that he wouldn't retch at the proximity of Titi. Pimp smelt like overripe peach, burnt caramel and cigarette smoke. Yoongi had quit some time ago and suffered greatly. Everything, everything about this guy was enraging. Maybe it was hypocritical of him; after all, he reached for his phone into his pants pocket.
"How much for number seven?"
"Forty thousand dollars", Titi replied, then closed his eyes. "Sorry, that would be seventy million".
Obviously, she was worth it. A beautiful human is worth the numbers that banks cannot operate. But from the market point of view, Yoongi could not help but wonder. A pad was shoved into his hand with the profile. He read off the age and the colour of her eye, the amount of previous clients that used her and brought back, before Titi acquired her for permanent sale. All the scars, the injuries, the sicknesses, the skin imperfections, the hair placement, the allergies and the picture of teeth lined up in a small box, painting a picture of someone who would cost much, much less.
He looked up at Titi who read his mind and made an apologetic face.
"Why so expensive?"
"Maybe you would like to look at number three..." his finger tried to swipe the page, and Yoongi slapped it away lightly. Their hands looked neon in the shine of the pad. At the contact with Titi's skin, Yoongi's desire to kill him grew so much that it almost drowned out the sensation of the boner.
"She has awful temperament... if that's what you like", Titi muttered.
"Why so expensive?" Yoongi repeated, without getting mad.
"Feisty. She fights back. Smart. And still tight. See, only four customers, and one of them never fucked her, but you will want to see the body again, she has these numb spots and scars and..." Yoongi looked away, and that made him shut up.
"I'm paying".
"I don't accept returns".
Yoongi gave the pad back patiently and nodded, unwilling to repeat himself again. It's been four years, and seemingly he should have gotten used to this, to this new world, to the death of conscience. After all, his life and job were not connected to women, and he personally never committed atrocities against them, so he was clean. As clean as someone who stands by and watches, of course.
But he was doing a good thing now. In his own way and in his own world, slowly, without expecting results any time soon - or ever. But there was no god to watch and punish, or even judge - it was all just money and pleasure, and nothing else.
He liked that you didn't visibly look horrified like some others.
He liked that you were equally angry.
🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃 🍃
You started to shake when Titi came into the small round room. He brought with him the smell of burnt caramel that made you nauseous in the van before, and now again, tenfold. You were about to fold in half and vomit on the silky dark-red carpet, looking like black blood in the fucking stripclub light.
You knew what he was going to say, and still turned away, clawing at one more safe moment, pretending that whatever you've just seen was a trick of light and a spurt of overthinking. The slits for eyes on that man in the armchair scared you; a lot of things scared you. Fear was now all the life. You looked at the other girls, both those who you liked and disliked, with hope. Any petty fights and disagreements among them were better than whoever sat in that armchair. His face was white like a wall. He looked dangerous. Scary. Horrifying. You have never met his kind, and yet you knew his kind. Oh god, oh god he looked terrifying. His relaxed back, and his peaceful hands, and the slits for eyes, and the slick hair, and the empty expression - you've lived enough, both in the old world and the new one, to know that kind of person. Even though it was dark, even though he hadn't moved, you felt he made eye contact with you, and clung on you like a worm. Never in the last four years have you gotten the ice daggers of goosebumps that covered your skin when he looked at you.
You were done for.
Titi called your number.
He never addressed you by names. Blind in one eye, he knew he would persevere anyway, even though it's been too little time for human women not to fight back. He knew he was as safe as a credit card inside a rich man's pocket. Even though he was severely injured, he was loyal to the system, he was a fan of it, and he called you by numbers instead of names, pretending as if you'd all forgotten them in just four years.
The most shocking thing was that some women did.
You had never reacted when called by the number before, but now there was no use struggling anymore. Maybe you would have to struggle for the last time soon, and you needed to save mental strength.
Without looking around, you put on the robe over your shoulders. You didn't have any other clothes: you were rarely outside. All movement seemed to happen in between warm cars and warm rooms; never exposed to the sun; transported safely and into the comfortable spaces that were not made comfortable for you.
Every time for the last year now, when you got nervous, your right temple hurt like a bitch. You didn't touch it, knowing that pressing it with fingers, even cold ones, only amplified the pain.
The robe was perfumed, silky. This was one thing you could choose yourself: the scent on your robe. Rainforest orchid and blue cactus. The funny part was, though, that you did not care much when choosing. What did it matter when every time you were in contact with a human now, they infected you with their smell instead, and most of the times it was not pleasant at all.
You didn't want to think about that white-faced man at all, not about his smell, not about his money, not about his eyes. The only relevant thing, as you left the room, saying nothing to Titi, followed by the inexpressive eyes of the girls, was what he was going to do to you.
At some point you stopped thinking about the ways you could possibly outpower men, and started computing quick ways to kill yourself. Some motherly voice deep inside your head scolded you for it every time: giving up is shameful. It's unladylike. You must push through, you must find an escape.
Now, though, she said quietly: maybe? He is fucking scary. The primal fear pushed you, with the coming calm, to think of the myriad of variants of how you can end your life before reaching his house - if that's a house he is taking you to.
The huge clubhouse was still lit with the pale bluish light, with human figures scattered like ghosts, oblong-triangular, men in suits. It was vomit-inducingly banal, gross: a businessman buying a body, surrounded by his henchmen, hiding in the dark.
He stood half-turned away next to the armchair, only making sure that you're out and are being pushed forward by Titi. Horror would've paralyzed your feet, but the sudden anger stroke you again, like minutes before. The type of indiscernible anger that doesn't even discriminate anymore; just a mass of blind rage that kills all fright. If you have to die, then you will, and there's nothing bad about it. But you were determined to die on your terms. It was almost pleasant, to think of how you are going to deprive him of the pleasure of torturing you; and that's what your guess would be, with this one. He looked lazy as he walked; his broad back and the uneven stride, as if he limped just a little bit, made your mind rush to the opposite direction. Calm like a volcano, with deeply evil thoughts and some twisted desires. You wished you had been just an unthinking animal not to understand things. You regretted being so passionate about books before the change happened. You couldn't stop fantasizing about swallowing your own hair.
Titi pushed you in the shoulder for the last time: it was his way of saying goodbye. He never spoke with you like he did with the other girls; deemed it pointless. You never spoke with him either, when you had energy, you simply spat obscenities at him as it was new casual language. With the others, he would give advice. Pretend like he had the girl's interest on his mind, as he leaned over their shoulder and whisper something. You always guessed it was some kind of advice on how to satisfy the customer and not immediately get yourself crippled. You never found out because Titi was a permanent seller: he sold girls for good and didn't accept them back. The previous one, Samyoung, rented you out and took you back, and even took care of you after. You spoke to him the same way you did with Titi.
Suddenly, the man disappeared out of the door, and two of his workers guided you on. Security guards or assistants - it didn't matter much as they all looked identical.
You stepped away from Titi - and thus the life you've led for the last four years, was severed, so simply. No more girls' faces, no more Titi's voice, no more "holding house" rooms, no more travels in the warm cars. Maybe, the last one.
You felt nothing about it like you felt nothing about most things lately. What can an object feel? As you stepped into the windy street and looked up shortly, the golden cold raindrops attacked your eyes, and you thought about darting. But a pair of hands grabbed you by the forearms. Maybe Titi told them about you: that you still act out. That you are a nuisance. That you are unbearable to be with. That you cost so much because you scream.
There were two cars sitting snugly on the street, pressed against the curb being sprayed with the mellow rain. The few steps over, an umbrella sprung open above your head, cutting your view from the world. Cutting you from the water. They didn't push; instead, they led you firmly, the way that made you drag your feet. It was blind, and the others always said it was stupid of you; that maybe underneath it all you've had a death wish for a while, because every action provoked a reaction.
The only thing that happened when you tried to stop, was the further movement. Instead of getting angry, the faceless men, copies of their boss, simply lifted you up by your shoulders, letting the toes of your shoes drag, and kept walking.
The door opened, a black mouth with white outlining. Through the far window on the other side, reddish of the street shone through, and inside. Surprised by their lack of aggression, you got inside without being motivated.
Your bare knees didn't squeal on soft leather. Instead, they slightly dipped in, just like your palms. You sat quickly, not exposing your back for too long, and felt trapped.
All of a sudden, you were left almost alone - with a driver at the wheel only. They did everything softly: the door closed with a click, and the silence was prickled with pointed drops of the rain on the roof. The windows acquired this orange tint... you felt like you were being drugged. The moment lasted so long it seemed like you were drifting. You shook yourself awake: your bare body with not even underwear, clothed just in a silky robe, in the cloud of your own body mist, was tense in the middle of the backseat in the quiet car. You were trying not to look at the profile of the driver, and moved behind him. His eyes were cast at the wheel, and nothing moved. The reason was the car right in front. Black window hid the owner. You started shaking again. The seconds you spent observing and marvelling now seemed foolish, as if you could have changed anything. Why were they not moving? Was he going to suddenly get into your car? You looked at the door and manually locked it. No reaction from the driver. No sound: he hasn't moved a shoulder. You leaned across and locked the other door, then grouped again behind his seat. It smelt like you thoroughly now. You liked to bathe in the body mist that was now left with the girls... you had no items of your own, just the dark-brown robe.
It felt like an eternity of you just sitting, trembling more and more each second, before the engine started softly. You didn't see him move an arm; maybe he clicked a button. The backlights of the car in front glowed white, and the vehicle started moving.
It glided across the rain-soaked city. You rarely saw it anymore, since mostly Titi transported you all in a van with no windows and let inside through the back doors.
The capital changed seemingly overnight; or it looked tragically more beautiful in the rain. Tall buildings looked cleaner than ever; asphalt glistened, and it was all chocolate and dark-blue. Deep sky shot up and was invisible. In the central streets, young laurel trees stood separately, as if they were shy to approach anything; they were taunting you. You couldn't have sex with a laurel tree. If you cut it down, it would not produce a sound; they looked immortal even if they weren't. The cars moved past them like they weren't interested.
From a distance, you saw the opera house - standing engulfed in light, surrounded by the shreds of the buildings near it. From there, as you sank deeper into the seat, the discord started being more obvious. The car passed a chain of closed stores, but even the ugly iron bars covering the broken windows and unlocked doors, looked neat in the rain. It must have been stronger while you were inside.
You leaned back, unable to move anymore. The cloud-white light filled your eyes, and you closed them. The smell of blue cactus and the sweet tint of the orchid accompanied you right until the car gradually stopped. Then you came back to reality. Where you had to decide what to do - and quickly.
You looked out. As the door opened, chill night air busted inside, taking your tiny safe haven and distorting it.
The house stood, lit by the warm lamps, stretching on like a caterpillar. The men moved like all their steps were choreographed. Not a word, only the synchronised and unhurried floating. They hovered by, not standing too close, but like a school of fish, or a living labyrinth, opening only where you were supposed to walk.
Nobody told you to move it, and you didn't see the owner. Just the small entrance, rows of grass below your feet, the warm yellow light and some intricate shadows cast by the trees at the door. The night stole the scale of everything. You walked like in a dream. No matter how hard you tried to stay alert, their utter silence unnerved you, creating the feeling of a hoax. They stayed outside as the door opened, and you entered a large hall. The furniture here was cubic, but woodlike. Small chairs were clad in fabric. Shape and beige pillars around: disfigured room, larger on the left than on the right. Not a single symmetrical thing, like you were in a dwelling of a whimsical architect. Titi always told you that you ponder too much for a whore. And you always tried to hurt him, somehow, anyhow, for opening his mouth. He always tried to pretend you are supposed to bow your head and submit, but even from the most calculating, cold point of view, four years of this were not enough to lose humanity...
Somebody who you supposed was a house keeper, appeared out of the door to the side. This house will be hard to run from; the entrance was counter-intuitive, the door seemingly existed in the middle of the wall. When you saw his calm face, unrelatedly, you thought about how soon this world order will crumble. You can't exist long while having half of your population incarcerated. You can't continue on as a species whilst killing off those who give birth to your people. You can't thrive while committing ultimate crimes, while soaking in such hatred. You didn't know why this butler made you think of that again. He didn't look evil; none of them did. He was just like other staff: reserved, confident, unhurried. He even had something feminine about him, in his face, in the way he smiled not too widely, which came off as more honest. It was more of a polite stretch of lips.
"y/n, I can take you to one of the bedrooms: we can look on our way, so you choose one for yourself".
You stood numb, relaxed arms with the clutched fists by your sides, listening to what's happening behind you.
"Where's the guy?" you asked. The soft furniture devoured the sound of your voice like the words never fell out of your mouth.
"Mr. Min? Would you like to see him?"
You got a twitch in your upper lip. There it is: the death wish. It wasn't hard to be brave anymore: sure, you had your moments of fear, but when faced with the enemy himself, it really stopped to matter. There was no pain anymore, you thought, that you would consider. And if it went south - you would run your head first into that sharp outstanding shelf edge to the left of his shoulder. There was no pain anymore, that a man could inflict on you, that you wouldn't counter on yourself.
"Yeah", you mimicked the butler, "I would like to see the dude who just bought me. Let's stop pretending I'm a guest".
The man was quiet for a while. He looked at you with a soft expression of hurt, as if you had been rude at a classy event. He was upset, but gathered himself quickly. He had a broad, flat face, and would be considered ugly without his expensive shirt and the gel in his hair.
"Mr. Min requested that you are left alone to acclimatise a little tonight. He said he will be busy until morning".
You changed feet and looked around again. One shelf went up to the ceiling. There were several plants on it, close to the door. On the other side, the hall grew into a further corridor that led inside the house. The butler, whose name you didn't care for, turned and gestured towards it. The formality sickened you.
You stepped towards him, both your hands stiff, and pushed him in the shoulder. The man's eyes grew a little as he looked at you. You expected a rude order. You were sort of used to the rude orders by now: at least they hinted at what the other party wanted. Now that he was silent, you both stood in the middle of a big, well-lit, strangely (objectively) cosy room. He looked at you, and you looked at him. Then he turned around, feigning offense, and walked away into the corridor.
You realised that the mind has been colonised after all. You wanted a fight, or an instruction. Now, left to yourself, you had no idea what to do.
The robe slid across your body lightly, the silk threatening to open up any second. You had to fasten it constantly. You walked back to the entrance door, tightening the belt, and pulled on the handle. It was locked.
Picking up a pot from the shelf, you looked at the plant, and pathetically couldn't throw it into the window. You settled on a bottle that you stood on your tiptoes for; it was heavy, the wine splashing inside. Your arm trembled. You swung, and threw it into the dark glass spotted with raindrops from the outside.
As the bottle bounced with a dull idiotic sound, it nearly hit you in the face.
You were battling your own brain that was demanding that you feel stupid. Your lips were a mess: bitten, tasting of iron. The scent of blue cactus and the orchid floated in the room again as your body started heating up. Finally, the proper panic hit - and then ended abruptly. You can kill yourself right now. No mind games, no politeness or the illusion of peace can delude you into thinking you are safe here. The man with the white face did not look like a human. There were no humans left in this new world: all of them were either victims or predators. You yourself weren't a good person anymore.
You picked up the bottle again and now aimed for the bare portion of the wall where exposed concrete was supposedly tastefully contrasting with the greenery on the shelf.
The sound of the cracking glass was as dull, non-echoing, as before. Dark-red splashed on the carpet you didn't realise you stood on.
Before anything else could happen, stunned at the long-forgotten smell of wine, you ran up to the broken pieces and grabbed one.
You were not interested in finding out who the fuck he was. You did not care for the things he was planning to do with you. You didn't even care what name stood behind Mr. and right before Min. It wasn't dramatic thinking: you knew you would get hurt in here. So you hurt yourself first. It was the only sensible thing to do. The mother voice in your head sighed, talking you into it gently, as the pain stung your arm. You pushed the piece harder, as it turned out more complicated to break the vein.
"Somebody is coming!" she warned. This someone pinched you in the shoulder. You tragically failed to die.
in the near future, women lost all rights and are treated mainly as sex objects. it's a bleak existence, especially with the memory of how the world used to be just four years ago. you cannot come to terms with the extreme dehumanisation, shocked by the still new conditions - which are further disrupted when a powerful man buys you for permanent use.
tags: soft yoongi x difficult, abrasive, rough, cynical fem!reader, slowburn, (slightly) avoidant yoongi, very slow hurt/comfort, super soft mafia daddy yoongi, murderous yoongi, mythology, classic arts, dystopia, taming, psychology
warnings: the word rape is used across this work many times, but there are no scenes or descriptions, only mentions of the fact and conversations about it. + murder, violence, the burn is real slow. suicidal behaviour, severe PTSD, eating disorder, puking, psychological oppression, dead dove for the sexist world where women are enslaved, derogatory nicknames, illness, light torture, depictions of blood and wounds, description of scars, moral corruption, detachment from violence, normalisation of voilence, perverted trauma response, mega grey morals + as the work is ongoing, god knows i will update this list, smut is to be expected
author's note: it was extremely hard to write in some parts even tho i brought it on myself voluntarily. i initially thought about a quickie on how the prolonged "peaceful" incarceration affects the state of mind and gradually kills the alertness; wanted to explore whether feelings between the captor and the victim are even possible in such circumstances if you exclude the stockholm syndrome. but as it usually happens to me, this world started growing environment and took me to a very dark place that was pretty horrifying. i also gotta shout out @n33mesis and her story in which yoongi buys the reader off her boyfriend the core concept of which ig never left my mind!
!!! i am using my perma tag list for this one, so write a comment or let me know in any way if you want to be untagged: @kam9404 , @ryryvna , @mar-lo-pap , @kiki-zb , @onyxthornseer , @icantsleephomesick
“But you were completely mesmerized by him, by the part of you that would not adhere to any physical, logical, rational description; you were instantly in love with him, gaping up at his face with your lower jaw completely unhinged.” —me @ yoongi himself (saw him at the Boston concert last night and im so inexplicably in love, ugh) and every yoongi you’ve ever written ever
US BESTIES WHEN I SAW HIM IN BRUSSELS I FELT THE FANFICS COMING OUT OF ME LIKE WATER OUT OF THE WHALE PUSSY ON WHALE'S BACKKKKK
in which you can't walk past a little black cat, crying for help from inside a carton box, drowning in the rain. months later, after the two of you have adjusted to each other well, the cat disappears. but? not completely.
word count: 10067
music
warnings / tags: cat!yoongi displaying cat!sentient behaviour. lots of scratches but make them weird. i am... very honest about my kinks. no smut. mostly fluff. couldn't stop myself from bringing rabid ot7. lots of cursing. reader in this one has a bathtub because i said so
The alley is tilted, so the rain, when it pours, always slides down in cascades. You often remove your shoes in monsoon season because it's useless trying to jump over puddles. Splashing on water, trying not to slip, you hold your sneakers in one hand, the pointless umbrella in the other; your tote bag hanging from your arm, the contents of it completely soaked... at some point the rain stops being an inconvenience and becomes the real element, and you spiritually give up. It's only water, after all. Not like it can harm you.
Unlike the littlest creatures in the corners of the streets.
Beyond an almost monstrous hiss of the pour, you think you hallucinate the thin, shrill sound; at first you thought it's someone's tires screeching, but, as you walk on, in the direction of your house, it grows louder.
You then locate the sourse of it; a basketball-sized carton box, turning into mush, grey and soaked, pushed against the wall. And inside, it. Him. Or her. The pink mouth opening wider as emerald eyes spot you. The cat raises its head in hope once it registers human presence. Gone are the days when humanity believed animals were dumb, unreceptive, just NPCs. Seeing this little guy (or gal) hunched over, curled inside the slowly sinking box, wet all over, screaming for help, your heart is clenched in a painful spasm.
To shit with it. The timing is never good, is it? First, you're in college, so you don't have your own place. Then, you're searching for a job, so you don't have time. Then, the job is bad, so you don't have enough money. When you overintellectualize it, getting a pet is never a good time.
But this one has no job, no time and no warmth. You pull the bag onto your shoulder and quickly, hurriedly close the umbrella serving no purpose anyway; shove it into the bag as well, and then, shivering in your damp clothes, walk over to the box. The cat presses itself deeper out of instinct. Black, wet fur, it's shaking with cold as well. The month's June, but when it rains, it gets very chilly. Especially for small things with spine sticking out like that.
The emerald eyes study you with concern, but its mouth keeps asking for something, meowing loudly. You pull it out of the box, and the cat doesn't struggle, only presses its thin paws into your chest as you try to shove it under your hoodie.
"Cold?" you ask, "god, you're so cold".
Worry strikes you. You put your palm over its head to hide it from the rain, but you still soak together, as you pace on, towards home.
The way lay through the alley and past the little light shop where grandma Malsoon watches the weather from the inside. You turn your head to her little place every time you pass the spot. She is always inside, and the warm, golden light always mesmerizes you, especially when the outside is wretched or windy.
Grandma Malsoon cocks her head when she sees you with a cat. She nods her chin, and you nod back, without slowing down. Even forget to bow, so concerned with the cat's wellbeing. You must have seen it before; there's a possibility it lives in the alley, occasionally rubbing against people's legs. Right. You can check at home, you think. If it's the cat you're thinking about, it will have a torn left ear, from a street fight perhaps. You vaguely remember it being accompanied by other cats; there's a grey one, and a ginger one for sure. Who knows why today they hid away from the rain and left the black one alone.
The electric lock is broken again because of the downpour, so you need to open the door manually. You drop the keys, of course, sleek wet fingers numb with cold. The cat protrudes claws and drives them into your shoulder as you bend down to pick them up, and you hiss with pain. The small, barely living body in your arms.
Finally inside the apartment, you let it down on the floor, and it immediately shakes the water off, and raises its tail (a boy), looking around. You throw everything down: the bag, the shoes, the clothes. Get some towels from the wardrobe and rub him furiously, until he opens his pink mouth again, showing impeccably sharp little fangs, and hisses at you.
Emerald eyes observe you as you carry it into the bathroom, and then he tries to claw his way out of being washed.
"You just soaked all through", you mutter, trying to wrestle with the cat, "it's just a little more water, and it's warm!"
You carefully take his head and check the ear. Triangle-shaped wound indicates a bite, maybe even from a dog. The cat slips inside the bathtub, trying to get out, as you stress yourself out. It doesn't help that the boy just doesn't shut up, yelling his cat obscenities, or calling for help - from you now.
In the evening, you are both so exhausted from this fight - with the nature, and with each other - that you barely move. You crash on the couch, pulling your cold feet up and cuddling with a blanket. The cat walks around in the kitchen connected with the tiny space you call living room; drying in the warm air, elegant creature of four paws and exquisitly sensitive tail, jerking the tip here and there as he sniffs around. Walks between the chair legs, rubs himself against the surfaces to leave the scent. Then looks at you again.
"You're wet", you say, and the cat sits up and tilts the head. It's been a hot minute since you lived with a pet, and it's super exciting. All the chores ahead: buying food, taking care, choosing bowls, thinking where to place his litterbox - are happy now. It doesn't get better than a cat, objectively. He has been here for three hours, and you are already attached.
"And glossy", you continue. The cat starts grooming himself, sharp tongue on the little paw.
"I'll name you Yoongi".
The cat doesn't care. He's licking himself all over; then, with fur all groomed and flattened, walks over to the couch and sniffs your knees before crawling onto your lap.
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"Does the cat have a name?" the vet asks, pointing the pen at the little notebook.
"Yoongi".
"That's rare", the guy smiles.
Yoongi is staring at you from the carrier bag like he's about to choke you. Even when he is sitting on all fours, because otherwise he is black as night, you can still see the pale of his flesh; had to shave off his belly for an X-ray. Yoongi is pretty scared, so he keeps looking at you like you're the only familiar thing in the world. You remember it was the same with the previous cat. You take all these things too personally: whispering to him while he is spread out on his back under the vet's hands; and petting him between the ears, and wincing while they administer vaccines; and apologizing to him while he is waiting as you pay. You've had him for a week. At this point, you're ready to sacrifice your life for that creature.
"He does look like that one cat from Kiki's Delivery Service".
You grin.
"Yes, but he is very different personality wise. Super chill, actually".
"Hmm, he is about four years old. And indeed very agreeable", the doctor nods and fills out his cat passport. "Did you see the scar on his hip, as well? And the ear?"
"Yes".
"Tough little guy", the vet looks at the carrier affectionately. Yoongi doesn't pay attention.
At home, he jumps out of the carrier and gives you one hurt stare, then lets go of it.
The character of him is, what the vet pointedly noted, quite agreeable. It's actually an accurate word. Yoongi is a yapper but he is quiet when the quiet is needed. He has active hours and gives you enough peace. The cat is curious with his important business of watching the world; he sleeps through the night and doesn't boink-boink-boink around the apartment like younger kittens. He does insist on sleeping on your head though, trying to dominate the bed. He doesn't hold grudges: as you're adjusting to each other, he learns that you don't look down when you walk, and once you step on his tail, he screams, then sulks for a couple of minutes. Then returns.
In the mornings, he runs into the kitchen after you and bumps his head in the inside of your knee. And if it's too early, your knee caves in. He likes fish the most, baking cookies on the floor even when he is chewing, and, like all cats, values the warm touch above all.
Life with a cat is a great life. He's not a dog that would make you feel guilty for leaving him alone all day while you're at work; he isn't overly needy; he warms up your side in the evenings as you watch movies; and doesn't mind being photographed. Soon, your friends learn that your rented place has that beautiful new addition in the shape of a black, flexible cat with a lot of dignity when it comes to licking his own balls with people around.
"He is a little like you", one friend points, "cool and quiet".
"What breed is he?" Chaewon asks.
"The vet said he's either Bombay or domestic shorthair".
"I say he's a fucking cutie", Soyoon coos, reaching for Yoongi and petting his head. The cat stands up, leaning into the touch. His exterior is a perfect blend of stunning and endearing. His fur is good; got rid of the street fleas pretty quickly; ears are getting better from the cold he had after the rain. And the little dent on the left one makes him look badass.
You kiss it every day in delusional hopes it might heal purely out of your own volition.
He's a cat. Just a good, cool cat. He eats a lot and digs into the sand in his litterbox, and throws it around, and claws into your lap, purring loudly, when you scratch his belly. Yoongi likes the belly rubs the most: stretches his whole body like a rabbit, sticking out all his little toes, and protests when you stop, then usually falls asleep under your touch.
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Grandma Malsoon steps out of the shop in her funny grey slippers and holds the door with her shoulder. The woman must be around seventy; has been when you moved in here a year ago, and still is. Will forever be.
"I saw you brought one of the street gang in?" she asks playfully. You nod and stop. Look at the wristwatch. Bow to her.
"The other cats will miss him", she grins.
"Where do the others live?"
She shrugs,
"Here and there. I sometimes feed them when they come. Very independent fellas".
"I named him Yoongi", you say proudly, "couldn't watch him drown in the rain. He was yelling so loudly".
Grandma Malsoon nods with understanding.
"You like animals?"
"I do".
"Live alone?"
"Uh-huh, grandma".
She always lets you know when she's done talking: her oval-shaped chin dribbles a little as she gives a sharp nod.
"Have a good day, y/n-chan".
Your brows crawl up.
"You're Japanese, Malsoon-grandma?"
She grins crookedly, kind of with mischief. She is one of those women who, if you shed her old skin, will step out of it a young girl again. She says nothing, because the convo has been over. Just glares at you with her slightly cloudy old eye. You go back to your business.
Yoongi likes to fuck the poor Disney World Stitch plush toy.
You look at it sometimes, as he ambushes the blue alien, and think whether it's too late to chop his balls off. Sometimes you try to yank the toy away from him. Sometimes you just leave him be, looking through your schedule to see a spot to call the vet again. Once Yoongi is done, he returns to the window sill to "ya-ah-ah-ah" at the birds that mock him from the outside. He gets on his back feet and scratches the window glass furiously, trying to get to the fuckers. It's clear they have beef.
Emerald eyes and the sharp tongue often wake you up in the morning, soft sides rubbing against your face. Seven months in, Yoongi has gained all the healthy weight and lives up to his glossy name. You often look at him when he is just soaking in the sun, loafing on the floor in between the couch and the dinner counter, sharp, green eyes blinking lazily. What a life. Sleep, eat, pee, fuck Stitch, demand scratches, repeat.
"You want one of your buddies at home? I think..." you scroll through your bank account, ruminating. Yoongi turns his head to you as he hears your voice, and the inner lids slide back from his eyes.
"I think I can pull another cat. Should we steal one of your friends from the alley?"
Yoongi couldn't care less. He lies on his side on the floor, gloriously shimmering black fur gleaming in the evening sun. You click your tongue and say,
"I'll get going. I will get really drunk tonight, so I'll be back late".
You get on your knees above him, as usual, because the cat is the owner of your ass, and kiss his wounded ear. Yoongi doesn't even open his eyes, just flicks the ear instinctively, then again, when you blow on it to annoy him.
"Bye", you rub his side, then leave. He has water and food in the cool corner of the kitchen. The door clicks electronically behind you.
As you pass the light shop, grandma Malsoon is sitting on a little chair, smoking the most hilarious cyan-coloured cigarette you've seen in your life.
"Good evening, grandma", you chuckle and bow. She waves her hand at you.
"How's Yunki?"
"Chewed on monstera and vomited yesterday", you nod. She is quite satisfied, then looks over your fit critically.
"Turn around, girl".
You twirl for her.
"You going out?"
"Uh-huh", you check your phone and see the messages from your friends with instructions.
"You need a man, looking like that", Malsoon says without a grudge, "after the darkfall, pretty little girl".
It looks like she's talking from experience. Your eyes crawl up above her head and onto her small, gleaming shop. As the evening comes, Wang Light Shop becomes the star of the neighbourhood, golden, cosy, Ghibli-looking.
"I have Yoongi", you smile, and she chuckles, then dismisses you, and you hop away.
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You stay the night at Chaewon's because the girls get you so drunk you can barely walk towards the taxi.
You'd sleep way past one o'clock, but you suddenly recall you have a cat waiting at home, probably hungry as fuck. As you check your wristwatch, you slide out of your friend's bed and get dressed, still swaying a little.
"Hungover?" Chaewon mumbles from under the pillow. The girl doesn't need to breathe; she covers her own head with a pillow and a blanket at night and sleeps like that without any trouble.
"Gonna vomit in the cab, probably", you confess.
"Eat some kimchi in the kitchen".
You nod, grateful, limp there, one foot in your jeans, then in twenty minutes you feel a little human again, and leave her place to ride through the city, and home.
Morning Seoul is glistening with moist. Air is thick; May is coming with heatwaves and wilting fruit trees. You do not vomit in the taxi but feel properly miserable, especially with the constant notifications beeping, when Chaewon wakes up and starts sending you pictures from last night.
You crawl down the alley home and wave at the surprised grandma Malsoon who walks out of the shop and pops the hip, a hand on her side, watching your walk of shame, limping, squinting in the sun.
Once you enter the apartment, the first thing you expect is to see the black cat running angrily towards you, like he always does, tail up, mouth open, demanding.
Your eyes drop to your feet to spot him out of habit, but nothing is there.
Instead, there's some dude sitting on the couch in your fucking living room, with the Stitch toy on his lap, squeezing the neck with a big hand.
You're not drunk anymore; hangover isn't so bad that it would debiliate your movements.
Your fight or flight response is quick; a year ago it would've been first. But now life is better, so it's the second. Yes, the connection between those factors is frail. But you dart inside the kitchen that's just two steps away from the front door, once you see him get up.
A full ass male stranger in your apartment, looking unhappy and dishevelled - like you aren't the only one who drank last night.
As you grab the knife from the stand, you produce a yell.
"What the fuck?!"
He drops the blue toy on the couch and puts his hands on his sides, and you realize with horror, the true, animalistic horror, that you can't see Yoongi.
"Where is my fucking cat?"
The words start falling out of your mouth like pebbles.
"Don't approach me! Where is my cat?! Yoongi! YOONGI! How did you get in here?!"
The man frowns, then winces, hearing your shrieks.
"Shut... I am..."
The knife starts shaking in your hand. You press yourself against the wall, sliding slowly towards the bedroom door. Maybe Yoongi is just asleep. Maybe he just doesn't care about the strangers in the house. He's a street cat after all, and he is also used to seeing your friends. Maybe he is just napping.
You try to assess him: if he jumps you, you're cooked. Shoulders too wide. Arms with more or less defined musles. Wide frame. About sixteen centimeters taller than you. No chances. You need to stab, or scream, or run.
But you can't run until you know what happened to your cat. It's your responsibility. Your child. Your own.
"What did you do with my cat?? Who are you?"
"Stop screaming, for fuck's sake!"
As he raises his voice, your instincts kick in harder. Your elbow shakes. You push the bedroom door open and look inside, trying not to lose him from your field of vision. It's weird that he doesn't attack. Weird that he is trying to say something. Maybe he's a neighbourhood drug addict, or an alcoholic, or someone's psycho relative who wandered into your place.
"Yoongi!" you call again, your eyes scanning the room. Your gut sinks with a thud: it's empty. Panic makes your voice even louder:
"Where is my fucking cat?"
"It's here!" he yells back. The dude has the audacity to be annoyed. "I'm here!"
You look around to spot him again. Your mind is trying to bargain, but no. Yoongi can't blend in with furniture, or the floor. He is striking black. He is very spottable.
"I am Yoongi!"
"Shut the fuck up, idiot! There was a cat here! Did it run away?" you realize, looking at the door, "when you broke in? What do you want? Did you see my cat?"
He falls silent for a moment, cutting the tension. It makes you pause, too. His hands drop at his sides helplessly, as his mouth droops open. It gives you a second to study him again: and it dawns on you, in another coil of terror, that the man is wearing your own clothes. That oversize shirt you've had forever, in which you sometimes sleep, with the crusty print falling off in small chunks: Bladerunner merch. And the sweatpants you never wore because the legs were too long for you. They end at his ankles; the man stands next to the couch barefooted, coal-black hair framing his oval, doll-like face, like he was crafted to be an idol. Shame such a pretty-looking individual has chosen the life of delinquency.
Then you actually start hearing him:
"It's me, y/n. I am Yoongi. I am the cat".
The tip of the knife stabs the air. There's about seven steps between you, and he doesn't approach, staring at the weapon.
"Shut up", you pant again, you don't know what else to say, "you sick asshole. If you did something to him..."
He rolls his eyes and then falls back on the couch, spreading the legs on the floor.
"I am hungry".
"You on drugs?"
He scratches the side of his face, then looks at his own hand, then, at you, wide-eyed.
Yes, if you look closely, he does possess some cat-like features. The dizziness hits you, together with the wave of nausea. The knife shakes so much in your hand that you find it hard to keep pointing it. The vomit crawls up to your throat, and the panic hits you again. You breathe deep through your nose.
"Why the fuck have I been waiting when I have hands now".
He stands up slowly from the couch and drags his feet around the table.
He walks, moving his hips to the sides. The lazy-smooth stride is too elegant for a guy. He raises his eyes up to the top shelves of the cupboard. His eyes. Sharp and angular, but then again, everybody in this city has eyes like these. He opens the cupboard where you keep Yoongi's wet food, and pulls a pack out. Then tears it open and disappears behind the counter. You are forced to step up, still numb with shock and who knows what else - panic still sitting firmly on your shoulders. Against all logic, all common sense, you keep watching him, because - in some distant, separate plane of existence, his words keep ringing in your head.
"Argh! Eough!" he spits on the floor, gags, throws the package away.
"It's expired, y/n".
"It's cat food".
He lifts up his face, and you shudder.
That's how Yoongi looks at you when he hears your voice. Not necessarily with expression, but with focus in his eyes. You see his pink mouth slightly ajar, wrist slightly bent at the corner, wiping away the food.
"And you're a dude".
You gulp with realization.
"Have you, uh, have you come from the hospital?" you coo, trying to sound gentle. Knife not in the air anymore, but at your side, still clutched. "The hospital on the corner, yes? Have you gone for a walk and got lost?"
The man looks to the side, mouth still open. If he has convinced himself he's a cat, that's the only explanation for how he manages to look like one. So incredibly close. Eyes move left and right, feet tucked under him. As he closes his mouth, his lips form a line, and there are small dimples on his round cheeks.
"You're still drunk huh? Had fun? I've been waiting all night, and it's", he points to the small clock in the shape of the moon, perched on the window sill, "almost three in the afternoon".
You have no idea why he sounds so damning.
"Why are you in my home", you whisper, almost begging. You hold yourself up on the corner of the table, then step away when he lifts himself up off the floor and looks at the fridge.
"Because I fucking live here?"
"No, you don't. Listen, I don't know what-"
"I woke up like this, okay?"
He turns, and you lose balance. The left ear peeks through the thick black hair, and you see the triangle dent. The guy ignores the handle of the fridge, instead trying to open it with the tips of his fingers, pulling on the side.
You're mute for the best part of it, watching him struggle silently. He finally has mercy on you only when he succeeds in opening the fridge. He shoves his head inside, eyes running up and down, his face lit up like he's had an epiphany:
"Yesterday everything was okay. But I woke up this morning - and someone shaved all my fur off. I even had to dress up", he looks at you for a moment, "I don't know what happened either, so can you stop overreacting, huh?"
He takes a pack of sausages and tears it open with his teeth, then sniffs carefully.
"Oh-kaay".
You drop on a stool next to you. The knife finally goes on the counter. Then you touch the side of your face: numb.
"Oh, Jesus, I am still drunk", you realize, "or someone laced my drink. I am fucking hallucinating".
"I wish", he says grumpily, then bites into the sausage. His eyes wander back into the fridge immediately.
You tilt your head. Given, it's the most flabbergastingly stupid thing that's ever happened, you see it. You see it. The way he cocks his head as he looks around, is not just cat-like; it's Yoongi. He rolls the meat from the right to the left side of his mouth as he chews, like Yoongi. He sniffs quietly through his nose when he finishes it, like Yoongi. That's one detail you found individualistic and adorable about the cat. Each one is different. Animals have their own unreplicable features, too. Your cat sniffs when he eats, like he is evaluating.
"Yoongi?" you say weakly, finally.
He immediately turns his head, eyes darting to you.
You see the kitchen swirl, then spin, as you slide down from the stool and onto the floor. It's a good thing you don't faint completely: he doesn't rush to catch you, just watches at first. Then steps towards you, and his hand touches your shoulder. Testing; your body is limp, brain in overdrive. Almost incapacitated. Rebooting. You can get stabbed now and you won't be able to fight, but he ignores the knife. His jaws still chewing something, he is curiously touching your shoulder with the tips of his fingers, then with full palm. Then his hand gets under your chin, and... tickles.
You flinch, looking up. The... Yoongi frowns, but smirks at the same time. You try to get away from his hand, shivers down your back with unease.
"Uncomfortable, huh?" he tickles harder, "how's that feel?"
He kneels next to you and starts tickling you with both hands. Your body sends the waves of shock, cold goosebumps of fever, in an attempt to get the muscles to work. Yoongi's hands get to your ribs and tickle hard, and you yelp.
"Stop it!"
"Not nice, huh nonconsensual touching? You do it allll the time".
He finally lets go and stands up again, then bows above the sink and opens the tap.
"Don't drink it!" you shout. Yoongi flinches and turns.
"What?"
"What are you, nuts? You can't drink tap water".
He winces,
"I do it all the time".
"You..." you suck the air in between dry lips, "humans can't".
You pull yourself up and elbow him away from the sink. Then get a glass and fill it with filtered water. He watches you over the shoulder, fixated, focused, totally consumed by it. Then accepts the glass from you. Now, you stare. He blinks at the water, then sniffs. Dammit, he acts like a cat. The tip of his tongue lowers into the glass and touches the water.
"Drink normally, goddammit", you whisper, and his eyes bore into yours.
"Like I know how!"
You cover your mouth with your hand. Then the impulse takes you: your grab his head, tilt it back to get a good look at him. It's impossible to say. You think about the small black cat and his habits. The mannerisms. The emerald eyes. These eyes, that look back at you, are dark-brown, almost black, but they lack human expression. They are - mechanically - focused, observing. Yoongi jerks his head away, but you grab again. Your fingers slide over his torn ear.
"Where did you get this?" you demand, like he has stolen the injury.
"Fought with Jiminie", he says shortly, then attempts to drink again, more successfully this time. Half of the water drips down his chin and onto your Bladerunner shirt, and he dips his head to look.
"This body is so..." he hisses.
"How the fuck is that possible, huh?" you breathe out, "cats don't just randomly turn into people. You're human. Human male".
"Uh-huh", he places the glass on the table and immediately gets distracted by it. His finger pushes it back and forth. All attention there.
"Are you sure you're not schizophrenic?"
He bites the lower lip, long eyelashes moving. The face of full concentration as he is toying with the half-full glass, pushing it dangerously close to the edge.
"What is that".
"It's when..."
Your hands fall to your sides and you look at his hips.
"What other scars do you have?"
He reaches for the hem of your never worn sweatpants and pulls it down a little. Pale flesh, very similar to the shade you remember from the X-ray some time ago. His hip bone is stricken through by a dark-pink hard line:
"That bastard from the sweatshop threw a stone at me when I was little", he says without expression.
"Kim Minho?"
He shrugs, then loses all interest in the glass and steps away, stretching. He is as surprised by his own body as you are: his eyes crawl up curiously as he moves his arms; he observes his own forearms, sticks the fingers apart, and then walks around the counter again.
Total inability to accept something that you deem impossible is making you sound like an idiot. At least internally. He is too chill about this; but then again, Yoongi has always been chill. Your finger pokes at your lip as you watch him open the window; slowly at first, carefully. Then he suddenly takes the monstera pot and - before you can say anything - flings it outside.
"The f- Yoongi?!"
He plops on the couch.
"Fucking poison. I nearly died yesterday because of it".
Now that is something nobody except for you or your cat could know. And grandma Malsoon, of course...
You pace towards the window and lean out into the street. Good thing it's empty and narrow. Good thing you live on the first floor.
Monstera lies on the asphalt, ceramic pot cracked and in pieces. Black soil scattered around the broken stems and leaves.
"Yoongi, you can't throw plants out of the window".
"You should thank me. What if you ate it as well?"
"I don't eat plants", you hammer.
He blinks at you from the couch. Then his palm closes, only index finger sticking out, and he says,
"Come on".
"What?"
"Pet me".
You try to imagine ears on his head. Now they are on the sides, like with all humans. The imaginary tail growing from his butt. He sighs, crossing his arms.
"Maybe you should take a nap, skinwalker".
"You really are a cat, aren't you?"
He nods. His teeth nibbling on his lip. He tilts his head sharply and scratches the side of it, then rests against the couch. Looks around the kitchen, the living room.
"Everything is suddenly... elevated. I walk on two paws. And the air smells different, everything is muted", he sounds almost sad. Preoccupied. His wide black eyebrows frown as he looks at you, then thinks of something and gets up. You're pressed against the window sill and can do nothing as he towers above you. Your cat. Now weighs seventy kilograms, maybe. He puts his lean face very-very close, studying you curiously, speaking in pout:
"You smell different, too".
This velvet-deep voice is nothing like the high meow you are used to.
"I haven't had a shower yet".
"No, from the usual. I guess my sense of smell is weaker, I heard you humans can't smell each other like we do".
He puts the tip of his nose against your cheek and sniffs quickly, several times.
"It's still recognizable, but very, very weak. At first I thought I was dying because everything went blank, and vivid at the same time. Thought I was having a stroke. Colours are too... bright".
He stabs the air behind his back with his thumb:
"You can go take a shower".
You widen your eyes.
"I can? Well thanks, shit".
He shrugs.
"You said you didn't shower?"
You realize he still has the cat mindset. You realize. He thinks he is the owner of this household. Of you.
The catfood is still on the floor, drying on the linoleum, and the cupboard door is open. Half-finished glass of water on the table. Yoongi walks across the living room and opens the bathroom door.
"Let's go?"
You try to click out of this paralysis, you truly do, but all that comes out of your mouth is,
"Huh?"
He sighs, like you're really difficult to deal with.
"S h o w e r?" he says clearly.
"You're... not going with me".
"Why's that?" he seems worried. True. The cat Yoongi always went to the shower with you. Cat instincts. Watched you soap and rinse yourself. Also observed you going to the toilet; god forbid an enemy attacks while you're vulnerable.
"Wait", you shake your head, "okay, okay. You were a cat. Now you're a dude".
He nods, distracted again. He pulls all his weight agains the door handle, leaning on it.
"But why do you look Korean?"
"I was born here", he deadpans, "all my family was Korean, what's your point?"
"And how did you... learn human language?"
Trying to poke a hole in this legend. In this absurdity.
"Ugh. I lived among you all my life. It's not a hard language to learn".
You walk around the kitchen slowly. Motion helps you think. You tear off a sheet of paper towels and start cleaning the floor from the food he spat out.
"But you still speak cat?"
"Mmm, I don't think so".
Yoongi crooks his neck to see what you're doing. When he observes, his mouth pouts involuntarily, like he is impressed and surprised at the same time.
"How do you not fall over without a tail?"
He shakes his head as you talk. With the corner of your eye you see: he is looking at the last fur spot he has on his body, hands touching the long locks, brushing through them. The hair covers his face as he studies it.
"I try not to turn too sharply".
As if to demonstrate, he moves his hips, bare human feet sliding soundlessly on the floor.
"But it is weird without it. I feel its absence".
"You have a different tail now", you grumble. The elephant in the room. The weird, uncomfortable something hanging. The reason it's so visceral, so uneasy to have him too close to you.
"It's a dick, y/n. How do you not know?"
A pause. You huff, cleaning the floor, then look at him darkly.
"Oh, sorry. You get no action at all", he says sympathetically. It flares you up.
"You", you point to the couch, where the Stitch toy is lying on its side, "get action with a plushie".
Yoongi cocks his eyebrow judgingly, tucking his hair away behind the ears.
"Let's not talk about that".
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"Why do you always do that?" he asks. Then imitates your motion: brings his hand to his mouth and shows how you tug on your upper lip.
"Stress".
He rolls his eyes with no expression, then turns again. Cats are known for their endless curiosity for their own dwellings even if they have been through each and every drawer numerous times. Now Yoongi, who has seen, sniffed and touched pretty much everything in the apartment, goes through it again. From the new perspective. He walks around the bedroom, sucking on the inside of his cheek, demonstrating you an impeccably cat-like profile of his face. Pointed and animalistic eyes, open wide but so prettily-angular. And the snout. As a cat, his nose was an okay nose. All cats have pretty much similar noses. Now, in the human shape, it's like a button nose. Smooth slide down. And the round tip. It's boopable. Or maybe you're violently spiralling. After a night out like that, with the hangover, you want a nap fiercely. You'd take a nap after the shower (Yoongi, fuck him, sat on the floor hugging his knees, and guarded you while you tried to curl into yourself and wash as quickly as possible behind the blue curtain). But now with this dude in your house you still feel alert even though you are... 76% sure he is, in fact, your cat turned human.
That happens. Right. Just a normal Saturday. Yesterday he was a cute black cat. Today he is a dude with a wolf cut and attitude. And you're supposed to just move on with it.
He doesn't radiate threat. He moves around, going through all the objects on the wall shelf, taking each little figurine, glass cube and photo frame, touching for texture, looking at it from all sides. The treasured forbidden shelf he wasn't allowed to crawl on.
He is adjusting his sight, his tactile perception, and the hearing, as well. When the noise comes from the street, he walks over to the window and looks out, pressing his nose against the glass, then returns to his intel collecting business.
You shoot questions from time to time. Weak, tired, half-awake, clutching the blanket. Yoongi said the smell of shower gel masks your natural scent and demanded that you stop using it. You told him to suck it up.
"So, you know some complicated words", you hum. The brainwork you're putting into this probably makes you more exhausted.
"Indubitably", he says.
"How?"
He sighs, like it's you who's acting irrationally. Like you're stupid for it.
"I watched about nine hundred movies with you. Plus, I used to like to crawl up under the roof of the Buncheong market, you know?" he looks at you, expecting an answer. You nod.
"Listened to humans yap", he pulls the sweatpants up, then, when he moves his foot to quickly, he bumps one ankle into the other and ouches with pain. You recall sleeping with the cat. Little warm paws you struggled with, that insisted on always touching your face while in bed. Like he was too sick of being alone and without contact.
"We mainly listened for some food spots. But guess I picked up some lingo, too".
"You have... human sentience. You realize you are alive, right?"
"Obviously".
He gets to the bookcase, and it's clear how scattered his attention becomes: human vision allows bright, vivid colours. Yoongi yawns immediately, crunching his nose. His eyes move up and down, looking through the books. Then he smirks and, not without a struggle, pulls one out. Then shows it to you, with a weirdly endearing smile. It's devastating; he looks absolutely adorable as he pulls his mouth to the sides, showing pink gums. It's the smile that only appeared on him in the cat form when he sneezed.
You realize you started thinking about 'cat form' and 'human form'. Like you've accepted this lunacy.
"I am a cat", he says, tilting the book. That's the title. By a Japanese author Soseki Natsume, with a cat on the cover. The cat looks nothing like Yoongi: the book one was a plump, grey kitten.
"Can you read?"
He nods, opens the book and reads out loud:
"Let me introduce myself: I am a cat. Simply a cat, and I do not possess a name yet. Well, I do", he finishes, quite pleased. Your hand still tries to groom you, keep you calm. It scratches the side of your head. You fall back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling.
"So... have you always had... this consciousness?"
"No. Yesterday I was a cat. Having cat thoughts".
Yoongi loses interest in books. He doesn't put the one he's holding back: he drops it right on the floor and walks over to the bed.
"What do cats think about?"
"You know", he begins, then pauses. "Actually, I can't formulate it. I know I was ruminating about something. But I can't tell you what".
"Like, mice? Birds? Food?"
He clicks his tongue. Yoongi sits on the bed and then does something that obviously doesn't seem strange to him. He gets under the blanket, and you twitch at the weight of his body.
"Yeah I am a cat, not dumb. I thought about life a lot. I think I thought about my friends from time to time, but I can't remember now".
Your arms go stiff. Then you shake yourself awake: Yoongi slithers his head onto your chest like it's the most normal thing in the world. Using his functional fingers, he lifts your hand and places it on his split ear. His skull is so much heavier now; it's clear he has no idea how to position this huge body with long legs; he kicks against you, then kicks the blanket down, purrs unhappily, pressing into you, tries to curl into a ball out of habit and then, exasperated, huffs.
"What the fuck is this piece of bare meat", he grumbles. It hits you: it's your kitten. Four year-old kitten, now five. And the wave of familiarity makes your fingers curl in his hair. The sensation of it is actually the same. That's exactly the same fur he used to have on his head, but longer. He purrs, and it's low. Human deep voice, working through the cords in his throat, comes out in a vibrating hum. His knee is kicking you in the rib, you have to push it down.
"Are you really..." you give up slowly. The world tilting off the normal orbit, floating into the territory of uncanny. "The cat I fished out of the box during the monsoon?"
"Yeah".
He is caught in between the halves of a displeased groan, still trying to stick his arms somewhere. Must be discovering that humans can't curl limbs however they want, that the joints go numb. He ends up putting one hand under his ear and the other, grabbing your side. At first you flinch again. Not used to being touched by human males while lying down. Yoongi is right about that, the way only a roommate can know. You get no action, you want none.
Then he starts pinching your side and releasing it; pinching and releasing.
You realize he is baking cookies.
It feels so morally wrong to scratch his head through the hair and then slide your finger along the ear with the triangular dent. He also produces these sounds of pleasure that make you question everything you're doing.
As your fingers tickle the side of his cheek, helping you think, Yoongi throws his head back and opens the neck, like he always does. With cats, it's pretty automatic. You scratch the head, he leans in, then signals you to scratch under the chin and then on and on to the belly.
This guy has Adam's apple that vibrates under your palm, prickling you with short, sharp heads of stubble. He purrs again:
"Oh, that feels like fucking heaven. When you cut your nails for Christmas I thought I'd prick your eyes out. Never do it again".
"You turned five already, right?" you mutter. Hand exists separately from you. Brain trying to normalize it all. Yoongi sounds drunk as he hums, eyes closed.
"That is what... around thirty-four in human years. But you've physically existed for five years on this earth", you pause. You could as well be talking to yourself; Yoongi is out, low grunts breaking only when he takes a breath. Habit of purring stayed. The anatomy changed.
"By the way, do you know when your birthday is?"
"Mmm, why would I know that", he mutters, moving his head left and right, showing you where to scratch.
"Humans celebrate birthdays".
"That's stupid. What is that? I always wondered?"
His eyes flap open and he stares at your wrist above his eyes as you move your hand up. He is looking at your skin. You check it.
"A birth mark. You have one on your belly, I remember", you say. Then you can't help but observe his throat and collarbones:
"And several on your neck. Why this body? Like, how, who..." you gasp with helplessness, "you sure you don't remember what happened exactly? You just woke up like this?"
"Uh-huh. The only good thing about this ugly costume is you can understand me now. Oh, you're so annoying I swear. I am trying to speak to you and you reply something like, you're the cutest boy in the world. Like I know that".
You frown. His hair is spread on the pillow.
"I know it's not your fault you don't speak my language, but it was still stupid as hell. Scratch my belly".
"I won't scratch your belly", you say. Then fall back on the second pillow, absolutely powerless. "That's too much".
"Why the fuck not?"
"You're still a yapper. You yap all the time".
"Yeah I have things to say. Scratch my belly now".
You tuck your hands to yourself and lie on your side. You need to either sleep or vomit. The thick spring air fills the room, the window Yoongi opened in the kitchen letting the smells of the street in.
"There are certain boundaries now, I'm afraid", you mumble. Yoongi's face is composed of frustration and confusion.
"It's not that disgusting, even without fur".
"It's not about bare skin, it's just... uh, you're human now".
"So? I am still your cat. And you will pet me when I tell you to".
And he bumps his head into your face. It leaves you wide eyed and mute.
It's all really funny when it's about cats. "It's his house now", "it's his cup now", "it's his bed now". Yeah. Funny, all those cartoons about how cats actually control people, and own them, and not the other way around. His rather large, although pretty, palm next to your face on the sheets. Fingers half-curled because he's done with the cat pleasure ritual. Yoongi huffs, irritated.
"Fine. Whatever. You're such a bitch sometimes".
"Hey".
"I mean prioritizing everything over me, when you've promised to dedicate your life to me, you know. Work, friends, your own feeding time, or when I fall asleep and you start fucking thrashing around".
He makes another attempt to curl, and this time it's a little more successful: the top of his head pressing into your ribs. He crouches, looking at your hands and then repeating the gesture, pressing them to himself. He's too big, so you have to move back to let him rest.
"You curse so much", you notice.
"Picked it all up for you. I live in isolation now, remember? You caged me here. And now refuse to fulfill your basic function".
His hand pulls the blanket over him and covers his own head.
"Yoongi..."
"Whatever".
"I am not your slave".
He produces a curious, hollow and shrieky chuckle from under there. It's probably the first time he laughs, ever. So it's not tuned yet. He is, himself, surprised. There's a questioning hum.
"What was that?"
"Laughter".
You think of Chaewon who sleeps like that, covered, cut from air flow. You worry about him, try to pull the blanket away a little, and he clutches on it, sore.
What will your friends say if you let them know? Hey, uhhh, so my cat turned into a dude. Ever happened to y'all?
Most probably, the majority of people will laugh it off. It's so absurd, too otherworldly. This thought makes you concerned again, for a moment. Makes you return to your initial panic. What if he is sick? What if he is a human who pretends to be an animal? Killed Yoongi. Threw his body out. Will rape you once you fall asleep, and then cannibalise you. That is much easier to imagine than a normal fucking street cat randomly, magically transforming into a full, functioning, sentient, anatomically correct Korean male.
Yeah no, there is no way adequate people would believe that. Only, your friends will get concerned. Say they visit one evening.
Scenario: Chaewon and Soyoon enter the apartment. Yoongi is sitting on the couch with a bowl of chopped sausages and watching a movie, in your sweatpants. They say, hey, why didn't you tell us you got a boyfriend? He says, I am her cat. They laugh, and keep questioning it, until either he, or you, snap and get rude. The rest of the evening grows gloomy and awkward, they think you're being mean with them. Or drunk. Until they realize Yoongi, the black cat, is nowhere to be seen. So, they question: where's the cat? Verdict: they think you either killed or lost Yoongi, then brought a weirdo into your house to cope.
Scenario: you tell them the weirdo is Yoongi the cat. They realize you're serious and call the hospital. Yoongi ends up at the police station: he has no documents, except for his cat passport, and the picture doesn't really match anymore. He will inevitably be sent to the same hospital as you, if he claims he is a cat. Acute delusional psychosis, they will say. You'll be together at least.
Scenario: you tell Chaewon and Soyoon your cat turned into a human, and they say: Oh finally you're in on it. Don't you know? This year all house cats start to randomly turn human. Maybe it's coronavirus. You shoot yourself in the face.
You drift off to sleep while thinking it all through. There's not a single realistic scenario in which it goes well. There's no way to accept what happened. Only, you kind of already did. You feel his breathing against yourself, and now it takes effort to convince yourself it's not your cat.
You shove your hand under the blanket and poke him in the side. Yoongi is already asleep and he moves a little like he always does.
You lift yourself off the bed and, in the last spark of energy, crawl around the apartment looking for his tiny dead body. The shock of what happened has flattened the potential trauma of your pet being killed. But Yoongi's small, black corpse is nowhere to be found. You search thouroughly; behind the shelves; between the couch cushions; under the desk; inside the wardrobe; in all the cupboards; even under the bath tub. The only creature is sleeping in your bed curled in a tight ball, and, when you return, his arms start flinching violently. It is positively horrifying: Yoongi always sleeps like that. The first four years of his life he had spent in the street: fighting with who you assume is another cat, Jiminie; and with people; maybe running away from kids; being hit with stones; surviving the mellow indifference of Seoul suburbia. Of course he has traumatic dreams. You always wondered what the cat dreams about, when he starts beating his hind legs in his sleep, as if running away.
"Hey", you pull the blanket off him and touch his shoulder. "Yoongi".
It takes another rub to wake him up. He sniffs sharply, then opens his eyes. For the first two seconds, he stares at you blankly, dark eyes instead of emerald. Mute and unblinking. And this - here - is the last hammer strike. You know it's true now, because you see the animal simplicity of his stare slowly recalibrating into the heavy human sentience again. The first several moments he forgets he's not a cat anymore. Then it returns. He frowns and nibbles on his lip busily.
"What?"
"What were you dreaming about?"
"I don't remember", he grumbles, cranky. He grabs your forearms and rubs his forehead on it, then lets go. Marking his territory. You lie down next to him, and then the knuckles poke you in the side: little paws, striving for connection, always having to touch when he's asleep.
You fall into it quickly, too, exhausted, dizzy and light in the head.
🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆
You put your slippers on your feet, and Yoongi emerges from the bathroom slowly. He isn't a helpless baby; it's an indescribable relief to see he knows how to use human toilet. Given, he has watched you do it before, which... anyway, this is all quite testing.
"You washed your hands?"
"Yes", he frowns like he does now every time when you try to teach him.
"Where are you going?"
"Market. You've eaten all meat".
You stop in your tracks, as another layer of implications gets downloaded into your brain.
Providing for a cat is one thing. Cat food is bought in bulk. Cats don't need clothes, you realize, watching him approach you in smooth stride. Now you have a jobless dude in your house.
"You're planning, uh, on staying like this long?"
His face expresses questioning openness.
"Like what? Vertical? Bare? Ugly?"
"You're not ugly", you mutter.
"I don't know. I hope not".
"Where are you going?"
"With you?" he echoes, trying to push past you with the passionately characteristic hatred for a locked door.
"You don't even have shoes".
Means nothing to him. You try to stop him: he unlocks the door because he knows how you do it. Because for a human, it's quite instinctive. You're afraid he'll dart once he sniffs the air of freedom. You put your arm across his chest, but here's the problem: he is so much bigger than you now. Yoongi has no idea of his own size and strength now, and he pushes back against you, almost crushing you into the shoe rack. Then looks curiously, observing, hopefully, making conclusions.
"I want out".
"I'll go at least buy you slippers and return", you say, getting up. He doesn't offer you a hand, just watches.
"You can't push me like that, you're not small anymore".
"Why are you so light? It's cause you're female?"
"And because you're adult".
He dimples his chin in pondering. You made him shave this morning, and it weirdly resembled the first ever wash in this apartment. He almost yelled. It's bad enough he is bald almost everywhere; he thought that someone had shaved him while he slept, and that treacherous act revealed the bare skin and made him so weird; in other words, Yoongi thought if he lets the fur grow on his face, he will go back to normal. You realized it; the existential crisis didn't happen with him because he hadn't really grasped it fully. "Human" and "Cat" are both vague to him. He is - essentially and firstly - Yoongi. He hadn't understood the tremendous, possibly irreversible change he had undergone.
Anyways, you made him shave because the face stubble doesn't go with his hair and the angelic appearance. Again, he displayed the grudge, for about ten minutes, then you offered him breakfast, and he forgave everything.
"You wait here. Ten minutes. I am not against getting you out", you muse, "maybe we will even meet your friends and you can ask them about what happened to you".
He looks at you still, thinking about something else, then steps back.
"Okay. Yeah, my paws are so sensitive now".
You run to the closest kiosk and buy him a pair of big human rubber slippers. You reckon 260 or 270 will be good for him; he has big hands. The shirt he fished out and put on is of the size L: for home you usually buy oversize to be comfortable. He is lucky it's the century where oversize is so popular and widely accepted; otherwise he'd have nothing to wear.
Yoongi is standing on his knees on the window sill. You're enraged to see he has knocked down the moon clock, the other plant pot and a book, to get there.
"Hey, cat!" you yell.
He turns his head.
"Those fucking dipshit cunts", he hisses, then looks back again. You throw one slipper on the floor.
"Why the fuck did you knock the pot again?! You have hands now, move it!"
He just clicks his tongue, ignoring you. You walk to him, then place a slipper against his foot sticking out in the air, to see if you've guessed the size right.
He is looking at a flock of birds on the ground beyond the window. Thank God he forgot he can open it; otherwise he'd be outside.
"You still understand what they're saying?" you wonder.
His eyes are narrowed.
"No, but I remember very clearly what they used to say", he says, his teeth gritted.
"Why do you hate birds so much?"
Sparrows hop around. The monstera pot is gone, the remnants of the plant in the tall glass in water on your kitchen counter. Sparrows do not peck anything from the asphalt but instead seemingly target Yoongi. They turn towards the window like they actually register him, and chirp.
"Cause they fucking bastards".
"Right", you pull him off the sill and make him look away.
"Put it on".
He pushes one foot into one slipper, then limps to the door and puts on the other. You get your bag and your phone, keys and cards from the counter, and check yourself in the mirror. Yoongi has nothing to grab. You wrap your palm around his wrist tightly.
"You can't chase them once we're out".
"Can't promise anything", he grunts. With the other hand, you rub his chin to see if it will work. Yoongi frowns at first, then blinks rapidly. Cat brain overpowers him, and he closes his eyes as your fingers tickle his throat.
"Don't run away, okay? You've seen the street before".
He nods quietly, eyes still closed. They open wide once you leave the building.
You give him a minute. His small pink mouth drops open as he turns his head. Buildings are much smaller now; he stares at the ground like he doesn't recognize it. His shoulder twitches when he hears the cars honk beyond the block of flats. His lean, cheeky face looks like a dumpling: lips parted, eyes darting here and there. He actually wraps his fingers around yours like he is uncomfortable at first. Then watches the street.
"I remember the way it smelt when you brought me home", he mutters, "now it smells different".
"You said your perception changed".
"I feel completely dumb. I can't detect anything at all", he whispers, "how do you live like this? What if there's danger?"
It makes you sad when you think about it.
"Humans live in a less dangerous world. You don't have to be aware all the time. There's not threat on the street".
He doesn't believe you. Brows together, one higher than the other, he walks too close to you as you pull him after yourself. Disoriented. Suspicious. He follows a passerby with his eyes, and the guy looks back at him, slightly annoyed. When you pass grandma Malsoon's shop, she is there as usual; sitting on her small chair, but now drinking coffee. She raises her head and looks at you both.
"Oh, she fed me sometimes", Yoongi says loudly, staring at her. Grandma looks at Yoongi blank, then, at you. You bow.
"Good morning, grandma", you hope she will ignore it. Yoongi pulls on your hand, trying to approach her, but you pull him back.
"Found a man?" she asks, quite unbothered, considering how he looks. Worn Bladerunner shirt (refuses to change); sweatpants. Light-green rubber slippers, and a needy look with which he is trying to touch her. You dig your nails into his wrist.
"Well..."
"How is Yunki?"
Yoongi says,
"Me?"
"This... his name is also Yoongi", you explain. "But the cat is okay, as well".
Grandma chuckles and nods her chin. You're relieved. You pull him away.
"So..." you throw one last look at the old woman, "baby, you can't do that with people".
"Huhmm?"
"We don't normally sniff each other, okay? Also, you shouldn't tell... anybody, that you're a cat".
"Why?"
He looks up, where a couple of crows sit (quietly) on the electric lines above your heads. The motion makes him lose balance, and he sways, and you have to grab him by the shoulders.
"Because people will think either you or I is crazy, and we might get separated, and-"
"No!" he shouts.
The crows are spooked and fly away. Yoongi grabs both your forearms.
"You're everything I have!"
You nod furiously.
"Yes, yes, exactly. So, don't speak to anybody. Try to keep quiet, okay?" your voice drops to a whisper, "I don't think cats turn into people regularly. Humans will not understand".
He gulps heavily. Looks at you with suspicion. Like you threatened to abandon him. Like that, nobody could mistake him for anything but a cat; nose crunched, chin dimpled, eyes pointed.
"Okay. No speaking. But grandma was nice though. She fed all of us each winter".
"She feeds me, sometimes, too".
His face smoothens up,
"What? Are you dumb or something? You have food at home".
"It's... ugh", you let it go. You spend the rest of the way to the market explaining the concept of tea and candy to him.
there's a book booth in your city. for weeks, you exchange books with who you believe to be one single person - because nowadays barely anybody reads anymore.
how can you fall in love with someone just by the way they write you little messages under the front covers? sooner or later you have got to meet...
word count: 5809
music: masterpieces on repeat
1996
Min Sujin had a difficult labour. Fourteen hours of insidious and painful tugging as if the baby was wrestling inside; all functional muscles went stiff, and she couldn't push; child was like a cork in her, refusing to get out. Profusely bleeding, she finally gave birth to Jungho after the night of collective struggle: four nurses assisted while the OB pulled and pulled him. Jungho came out feet first, and blue like a violet; the only reason they were sure he's alive was his loud, unhappy scream.
Such a scream has never been heard in the Seoul Central by a newborn. He screamed, and screamed, like his lungs were at least four times bigger, the formed "AAAAA" sounded way too sentient. And even the eyes, dark-black-rainy, kept darting around the room, with the pointed, completely mindful focus. Minji the nurse froze in the corner of the room, transfixed and terrified; she was a bit more supersitious than the rest. Looking at this... creature? the bleeding, the broken left hip, the abnormally deep blackout of the mother all slid into place. OB Park was a professional, though; sure, somewhere beneath the scrubs he got the shivers when the little Jungho stared at him with the little, toothless mouth open. But OB proceeded to follow the usual sequence of care. Jungho was washed, weighed, attributed to the Min family, and then laid on the chest of the poor, bloodless woman. She was pumped with painkillers so much that they doubted about letting her feed at first. But even then, Jungho refused the breast. He just kept screaming, tirelessly, so loudly that the morning nurse came to the room thinking something horrible had happened. Father, Jungho Kim senior, finally made it and went absolutely pale upon seeing the state of his wife. The doctors witnessed the swift movie of emotions sliding across his face, and through his brain: horror, empathy, blind rage at first, undirected at anyone; and then finally joy about the baby, and in a second - confusion and worry. He asked if the newborn child is supposed to produce such sounds. Nobody hurt him; the baby was healthy; a bit smaller than they expected, but well within the normal range. Skin was becoming pink; his head was covered with pitch-black hair, and his tiny fingers formed fists. The only eerie things were his endless, uninterrupted, unhappy shrieking. And the gaze, full of terror, staring right into people's eyes.
It went on for the whole first week of his life. Then he suddenly went quiet - and his eyes lost the insidious focus.
From then on he was an agreeable little baby.
1998
Sujin liked calling her son Jung for short, and, as she had been an international journalist before pregnancy, often switched to Jungmann jokingly as it meant "young man" in German which she spoke perfectly.
Jungho Kim senior had a tech business, very often away from home, and he especially appreciated his son named after him. He would often say that at least one Jungho should always keep the mom company. The boy was developing adequately; by his second birthday he could kick the orange ball against the wall very well. Mom was gradually teaching him to clean the room off the toys and say longer phrases. The first word he ever said was "sky", and the parents changed the wallpaper in his room to blue. He seemed to like it a lot. First birthday, of course, was quite uneventful; he still drooled all over his little t-shirt with huge cookies and chocolate chips. A year later, he woke up in a bit of a bad mood and looked around like he did when he wanted something. Mom invited friends of the family, a couple of kids from the nieghbourhood; they had red misty glasses for lemonade, and the cake was passed around on colourful paper plates. Jungho was already capable of understanding that he was being celebrated. When the adults sat in half-circle and took other kids onto their laps, and sang the birthday song, Jungho suddenly went very dark.
He crossed his arms on his chest and at first looked at his mom angrily. Someone laughed; his eyebrows were getting thick, and they looked funny.
"I am Yoongi", he said.
The room went quiet for a second.
"No-o, you are Kim Jungho", his mother chanted softly. But the boy wouldn't have it. It took all the parents a couple of minutes to realise that Jungho did not pick up that name from a movie or off a jar of honey; there were no cartoons with the characters named Yoongi, and in the books he was read, the stories were always about a Fox, an Elephant, a Dog or a Whale.
He was frustrated with Sujin not taking him seriously, and the birthday party quickly turned into a domestic horror. He fell on the floor; with the zeal of a four year old who is starting to discover desires and boundaries, he was banging fists on the carpet, tears spraying out of his eyes in jet streams.
"I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi!"
He wouldn't stop, just like when he was born. The poor boy has become so exhausted in two hours that he could barely keep his eyes open. His parents were extremely worried. He refused water, cake, hugs. As his father carried him to bed, he kept muttering "I am Yoongi I am Yoongi I am Yoongi" feverishly. He would not say anything else. He was clearly fighting his own body that was submitting to sleep.
A doctor came round and found no fever or poisoning, or inflammation. When Jungho woke up the next morning, he stopped reacting to his name. It was a blood-freezing callback to his state when he just came to the world. The same gaze. Piercing, non-childish, focused. Even vengeful. He wouldn't do anything or answer anything if he was called Jungho, no matter how much his parents pleaded.
Several days later they gave up. They looked at each other; father's eye was twitching. And suddenly thought - well, so what? Whether he is Jungho or Yoongi, what does it matter? He is still our only son. They tried it. Yoongi sounded alien, a bit colder, bluer than Jungho. Jungho senior shrugged; his son wanted to be Yoongi. So they used Yoongi. They gave it some time and tried Jungho over months, but every time the boy ignored that word like it didn't exist to him anymore.
Eventually, a year later, they legally changed his name to Yoongi Min. It didn't sound bad at all.
2006
Yoongi excelled at school but had troubles with his behaviour. By ten, he started displaying signs of conduct disorder, or rather even, behavioural abnormalities that weren't yet alarming enough to call specialists. Distracted and a bit lazy in one class, he would get diabolically focused in another, and there was no pattern to it. One day he loved biology and hated PE, the next, he couldn't stand English but wanted to do more literature. If called upon or disturbed during his focus episodes, he would throw a fit and swing his fists around, so sincerely offended that someone entered his personal space, that the volume reached critical. More and more often Yoongi wasn't able to regulate his emotions; when something upset him, he would scream; when something made him happy, he would scream, too. When angry, he invented new words to curse with, like "unfathomaginable", and his parents quietly suspected he might be a very disturbed genius, or going through some trauma he wasn't talking about. He made friends quickly and forgot about them the next day; in his school backpack he always had at least three books from home that he frantically switched between during the recesses. School psychologist said he was hyperactive and -reactive, and needed more discipline. Yet discipline wasn't necessarily the problem: he liked his bed tucked and made, always woke up at the same time, and listened well to his parents. He did not have attachment issues, loyal and loving to his mom and dad, but sometimes way too independent in his own choices. Peace was what he lacked. As he was growing, it seemed like something inside of him always threatened to burst; it was bubbling just beneath his skin; he had too much energy, or none at all. They took him to basketball, and he liked it. Shortest in the team, with the round head that spun seemingly all 360 degrees, he was actually the fastest. He made his legs work mercilessly, running the whole time. His knees were excellent for jumping, he compensated for his height with the incredible bursts of power that he put into his throws. Dad insisted that Yoongi goes to the public swimming pool too, and learns to swim. He even went with him once and watched as his son makes laps tirelessly, there and back, there and back, and then just suddenly snaps and goes to the bottom like a rock.
He started getting depressed. Yoongi liked doing homework and always did more; he started getting twitches and ticks, his eyes running all over the room as if he wanted to consume more information. He read all the books that he could find in his parents' home library; scanned the pages of economics manuals blindly even though he didn't understand anything. He was getting nightmares that made him shriek in the middle of the night, and often Jungho senior, who weirdly never stopped thinking about himself as such, had to give prolonged explanations of the difference between dream and reality. When Yoongi had one, he would wake up completely glassy eyed, with the expression that no parent wants to see. It was full of suffering, as if he lived each of those nightmares in full, and managed to become old inside that dream, and then was forced to go back. He would insist he saw extinctions, asteroids falling on Earth, people killing each other, the roar of fire. They stopped showing him any movies for a while, suspecting that each impression, each creative idea, Yoongi absorbed like a sponge, and his nervous system wasn't capable of handling it.
After a year of this, they finally took him to a specialist, and the doctor said Yoongi seems too smart for his age, too sensitive, with disregulation of emotions, very acute ADHD and nictophobia. The medication he prescribed didn't work; it only made Yoongi distracted and cranky at school.
He kept telling his parents about the dreams of space, the dangers of pulsars and the irresponsibility of people. Jungho senior frantically searched through his books for one where Yoongi could read about such atrocities. Yoongi got absolutely fixated on pulsars and kept talking about them, knowing little, understanding very vaguely what they are, but talking nevertheless.
He liked birds.
In the most boring classes, when he managed to have a good day, he drew birds in his notebooks. Some teachers collected those pages to complain to his parents. Sujin especially liked it when Yoongi drew hummingbirds.
He was seemingly good at everything, and nothing at the same time; he would read a book and talk about it like he understood the underlying ideas, too mature for a ten year old; and the next day, if mother brought it up again, Yoongi couldn't remember the names of the main characters.
He was a beautiful, forgetful, very passionate child. His parents were in love with him and suffered the most because of the nightmares that absolutely ruined all his nights.
Once he finally managed to distantly articulate what it feels like inside his head, he said,
"It's like something is leaking".
2011
It was always his birthday. Every year, some shit would happen that would completely ruin the day. Yoongi disliked his birthdays for that reason and stopped celebrating when he turned thirteen. On the thirteenth of June in 2011, he just spent all day in his room. Dad said mom has always been too lenient with him, spoiling, making too many exceptions for him. She would, for example, never make him go to school on his birthdays. Since he was born in the early morning, he would always get in a bad mood even before he woke up.
That year was especally weird, and maybe even heavy, though.
The first hour, he was unresponsive.
He lay in bed in the same position as she saw him last night, half-turned on his back, with his eyes open, staring into the ceiling. Mouth slightly open, the breath was coming out, but he ignored all her attempts at talking. Sujin got worried really quick; she was by now very used to springing into action immediately. She yanked his shoulder, and Yoongi thrahsed in bed like a sock doll. He didn't blink. Then she noticed how tense his throat is; she pulled down the blanket and saw his fists clenched. Teeth gritted so hard that jaw went blade-sharp. His thighs were tense, like the whole body went into shock.
She fell on the way to the kitchen, to the phone. Jungho, it's something neurotoxic. Maybe he was bitten by an insect, the window above his bed is open all the time. Maybe it's some gas from the street, she didn't know, but if he is paralyzed, his lungs will stop functioning soon and he will choke.
She called the ambulance. Father left the office and took the taxi home. The city was full of traffic; hot summer made people faint in parks. Trees stood withered along the streets, there was no rain in weeks. Ambulance took thirty minutes to arrive, and Jungho came even later. But what the doctors witnessed was not a paralyptic kid in bed; now he sat on the floor in his room, tugging himself by the hair, with his distressed mother holding him.
He kept whispering "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck" with the same frequency as he once took up about his name. He was having a mental breakdown. Stood up - and fell. He did not see his own room; he was hospitalized and put to sleep with sedatives. Poor mother. He was such a beautiful child, with so much potential that was incarcerated in his head aimlessly.
He slept for two days now, still refusing to communicate.
When he finally woke up, his bed was surrounded by balloons that his classmates had brought. The word in school was, Yoongi had been bitten by an encephalitis bearing tick and now would either soon become a vegetable, or a superhero.
He became neither. Yoongi demanded a pen and a notebook and was ferociously writing the whole day, snapping every time mom or dad tried to look. He kept writing, sometimes muttering "what the fuck" through his teeth. His girlfriend came round to see how he was doing, and he said he didn't remember dating her. She got very offended and broke up with him, and he looked sincerely surprised that he was dating someone at all.
"Aren't your schools intense as hell", he asked his mom, "how did I have time for a girlfriend?"
The only good thing that came out of that event was that Yoongi seemingly finally grew out of his episodes.
He became overall more closed-up and less sociable, but at least nightmares did not make him scream anymore.
He would come to the breakfast table and observe his parents like they were respected fellow colleagues, and talk about space. Space was his favourite, right after birds and basketball.
At sixteen, after years of unimaginable mental anguish, he finally managed to streamline his attention towards the things he wanted to do: science. Sports. And writing. In one year, he has written thousands of pages of something he never let anybody see under the fear of volcanic rage. He muttered to himself. From under the door, the parents could hear he was talking to himself. About career. And about planes. About pulsars. And somebody named Jimin.
2016
He called his mom every day. Yoongi clung to his parents, sometimes with such urgency as if something bad had happened. If he hadn't got the scholarship in America, he would have stayed living with them until the end of times. Sometimes he struggled to make his own breakfast. At eighteen, on his birthday, naturally, he started having migraines. So sometimes he was half-blind all day. The only reason he managed to cope with his studies in MIT was that he seemed to orient naturally in sciences like he invented and discovered them all. Did tests asleep. Knew all the answers to all the tricky questions. Breezed through the first year, getting piles of extracurricular work from teachers who noticed his spark and now wanted to milk a pioneer out of him.
Nobody knew what's going on inside the warzone of his brain, and the only hook he had to peace was calling home. He would tell her about every bird he met that day. What colour were the wings, and the length of the tail, and how it soared above and how jealous he was. He said he was scared of the coming birthday. She asked why.
"I am turning twenty", he replied. Sujin kindly chuckled. Maturity, adulthood, it's always scary.
"No", he cut her off, "it's the fifth year again".
She long gave up trying to pull the clear answers out of him. With time, she has worked out the wisdom to be grateful that Yoongi is so attached to her and Jungho. That he still trusts them enough to tell them about the incoherent dreams, and pains, and fears that have no basis in reality.
"You can always come home", she reminded him, "America shall wait. Nobody will expel you even if you skip a week".
He said it doesn't matter whether he lies comatose at home or at the dorms in Illinois. Then he started rambling that everything is going not according to the plan, and that he needs to find some Taehyung; no, scratch that, actually he isn't interested in Taehyung. But he needs to find something, and after he finds that something, he will find the guilty party who will answer for all this mess, and when that party is found, he will... he will...
"What will you do?" Sujin asked, just playing along.
"I will write them a very long letter!"
He gasped into the phone.
"And maybe tear their heads off. Because I know the conversation was about fours. Fours", he grumbled.
Yoongi did not know that his parents had become somewhat of a head unit in expertise on schizophrenia. He did not know that some of the methods they used to regulate his moods, were schizophrenia-adjacent therapy. That the vitamins they tried giving im when he was sixteen, was the antipsychosis medication. That only made him throw up for three days. As the years passed, Sujin had less and less confidence that it was schizophrenia. Yoongi did not suffer from constant voices in his head; or hallucinations; the katatonic states only happened on his birthdays, every year, like a clock. Birthday syndrome. He never drank; never tried doing drugs; all the drugs in his body were always the meds his concerned parents tried on him, that always failed. It was like he had an inherent aversion to substances, never tried alcohol at parties and wasn't interested in weed until he moved to America and met the local students.
He confessed to his mother that weed actually helped with migraines and even calmed down his brain a little at times.
"Why is the fifth year important?" she asked. "You have hard time every birthday".
"It gets progressively worse", he complained.
"But usually?"
Interrogating him about it was like wandering in the darkness.
"Usually it's just noise and a lot, a lot of... complicated thougths".
"Like what?"
Yoongi sighed deeply. The bedsheets whispered into the phone.
"Why did I do this to myself..."
"It's not your fault, Yoongi, never was. You are very different from the others".
That warranted a colourful chuckle.
"You have no idea. I miss you".
Sujin always started sobbing when he said stuff like that.
"I miss you too, and I love you very much".
He's been getting very mature, very serious lately. His voice, it was acquiring depth and calmness that you usually hear in people who are preparing to die. Sujin didn't think anything like that would happen, but her heart hasn't been peaceful in at least ten years.
"You and Jungho, you are very patient people, you know".
She frowned.
"It's dad".
"Yea, I mean. Yeah. You and dad".
On his birthday, he went no contact and only called after seven days. He couldn't stop laughing into the phone, hysterically, exclaiming something about balloons, fucking balloons, star-crossed enemies.
2024
"Accuracy. Ten out of ten", he muttered, "even all the hobbies. Even the books".
The phone recording him, lying on the table, reflected the lamp standing above his head.
"But assholes, we made an error in the clamp in neurotransmitter number..." he laughed in an evil way, leafing through his notebook. "Wa-ait, I will find it. I will fucking find it. You think it was necessary to upload even the names and numbers of neurotransmitters? You think I wouldn't have survived without this fucking information? If you wanted me to open the hole, Yoongi, maybe you should've come here yourself".
He paused, staring at his pages, realising the fallacy of his anger.
"Anyway, for the future reference, it's the NHG neurotransmitter number eighteen. It just. Shot through, and instead of four parts, all memories got broken down into yearly pieces. Thanks for that".
He was getting awful blisters on his index finger from writing like a madman every day, and for some reason, never learnt to enjoy typing shit on the computer. Working on it was perfectly fine - but he didn't like writing reports, memories or messages with the keyboard. It scared him irrationally, as if he was losing a part of himself. And having himself - that was vital.
The night before his birthday he broke up with his situationship who was unhappy anyway. He was unfit for dating. Couldn't give that devotion that women need. Or men. Everybody needs commitment, it's what humans find comfort in. Yoongi has always been all over the place, and for the first time in his life, he was excited to find out why. He knew by now that tomorrow, there will be the last upload ever.
In fact he was incredibly happy, even if scared a little. He did not know what that last chip was. Maybe that his mission on this planet was to start a genocide. Maybe that he was actually a spawn of the devil. But after tomorrow - no more noise. No more nightmares. No more paralysis. Just one more stamp to tear off, - and he is free one way or another. Free to finally do what he had sent himself to do here: work with plasma. Solve equations. Open the door. Perfect the M-theory. Make history. And marry?
He went to sleep fully knowing that the next week will be hell for him. He tried to get enough sleep before eight o'clock in the morning, ready for the last dash. He kept the alien faces of his friends in his mind, wondering if the coming morning will finally fill the void in his chest.
He was itching to love something, or somebody; he had a good suspicion, with everything he has recalled now, that it all came down to something very simple.
──────── · · · ────────
When you were little, you and Jungkook, you gathered an impressive collection of stones from the beach. It was just one hour away from the city, and parents took you often. At some point, maybe after you left for university, it went missing. Most likely mom got rid of it. But it was a bit harrowing how a large collection of beach stones, pink, milky, bluish, yellow, grey, red and black, just disappeared one day. Poof. Gone. Years of work collecting, picking, fighting over, drying them with your shirts and wetting them again.
Strange how, when a disaster happens, everything just instantaneously vanishes. This is how Jungkook's first girlfriend died. Standing on the pavement, then, a mass of metal and drunkenness swept her away in less than a second, and she was nowhere to be found.
He didn't speak to mom for weeks when the stones disappeared, and he never spoke about Ryu at all after her death.
He was finely attuned to grief. And didn't make fun of you when you couldn't stop crying.
He just loaded you into the car and took you to the sea again. The weather was now better, stable. When you didn't want to leave as the night came, you just slept in his black KIA and had breakfast from the nearest fast-food place.
Your ass hurt sitting on the stones, then went numb.
You wished your confusion would do the same. Slide into numbness, turn into incredulousness, and in the end, dissipate like an awkward misunderstanding.
You told him several times he can't do skipping stones in these waves, but Jungkook didn't back down. One by one, he picked just about every more or less flat stone and threw it into the water, and you watched. He was crawling closer to you again, rubbing his elbow.
"I have to go to work tomorrow..." he said, showing his teeth against the wind. Mauve hour gave his skin pleasant tan. There were a lot of milky stones around.
"And you, too. Unless you've decided to live on this beach like a homeless person?"
He crash-landed next to you on his ass and regretted it immediately.
"Let's go home".
"We can watch sunset".
"What are you chewing?"
He drew a plastic pack from his trousers pocket. It was sour jellies, and you shook your head no.
After a while, you began again, like a broken record, the thing you've said a thousand times over these two days.
"I just don't get it, I don't... who would blow it up? What has happened?"
"I think it was to do with that burned encyclopedia", Jungkook said seriously, "it was a premonition of sorts. A warning".
"From who?"
"Physics".
He picked up a stone and licked it. Then threw it in the water.
"You think the wormhole was volatile?"
"Their air?"
"Someone did it?"
He shrugged.
"Could be anything".
His eyes were scanning the unobservable vastness of the sea in front.
"You're thinking something", you nudged him angrily.
"What I'm thinking is too out there".
"Oh man, but the wormhole leading into another fucking dimension where futuristic alien people live, isn't?"
He pursed his lips, finally annoyed with you. The wind lovingly moved the curls on his forehead.
"What is it, what, you think something reacted with something? Like in Fly?"
"You know Standard Model, right?"
"More or less", you squirmed, trying to remember the details. Also, it was too fresh. Yoongi must know everything about it. He knows about the developed version of it. It's too raw.
"How there are protons, and positrons, and then if there's an electron, there's also a selectron".
You employed all your brain, but all it could do now was scream. Tear itself apart. You went back to the holding mode.
"Maybe their whole universe is made of antimatter", Jungkook said. "Maybe Yoongi sent something that he wasn't supposed to".
"In that case the very first book would've destroyed everything, since it's antimatter".
Your brother shrugged.
"Life field theory. Only living cells react".
"That's not anti-antimatter then".
You saw he was just as heartbroken as you. Something very precious was taken away from him. He was looking at the sea with his lower lip protruding, with a slight pout, like he was waiting for a ship to show up, and it wasn't coming.
You watched the sunset that seemed unusually beautiful, like it was a compensation. The clouds softly blended, letting the sun radiation slide around them, changing colours.
Driving away from the beach felt like you both gave something up, like you lost and came to terms with it and retreated tucking the tails under.
And the worst thing was, the pictures of Tang and smeraldo flowers were still on your kitchen table, against the flower vase.
In the morning of the next day, you were getting dressed for work, and your eye kept falling back on them like they were a gravestone.
It was stupid. Stupid, right, to cry yourself to sleep over this. Over the electric :) you'll never see again.
You got off the bus on the Pacho-ro to walk to the office past the place of explosion.
Three days later, it was still cordoned off with the yellow barriers, and the crater itself was covered with some fucking - you didn't know, you were tired of constantly thinking, analyzing, building theories, you were tired. It was fucking covered. Because a girl died in that booth, they said it blew up when she entered.
You slowed down around the barriers without noticing, your eyes on the ugly grey bulge on the ground. They haven't even brought the scaffolding for the tall glass building to fix the windows.
The mix of variegated people slid in and out of your vision field. The sun was hidden away behind thin clouds on top of the guardian trees. In between the moving bodies, somebody waved at you.
We always think that someone is waving at us if they are located on the direct line of view. You looked behind your shoulder, expecting to see someone waving back.
They stood there, while other people floated around, busy and a little faster in the morning, before the office hour started.
You craved coffee, and this person was half way to the coffeeshop on the other side of the street. The tropical-banana-palm place closed down for now, because all the glass was blown up inside it.
He waved again and then started moving towards you, and you took out an earbud to make absolutely sure there is no one else engaged around.
This guy beelined towards you, simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your female brain started profiling him immediately. Dark long hair tucked away behind his ears, and with a pair of eyes that seemed to shine even from ten steps away. He suddenly looked happy, incredibly happy, and it infected you before you could decide for yourself.
You knew, you knew this wasn't the end. This was all a lie, a performance, and by now you couldn't be sure if it's good, bad, neutral, embarrassing. He just ambushed you, and you were too caught off guard to react.
The last thing you saw were his soft features. Trustworthy, smart face with a childish grin that exposed his square teeth. Then he crashed on you, grabbing you in a hug, and then you knew.
Not how, or what the fuck, or where from, or by what means - he smelt like Yoongi. He moaned into your ear like Yoongi. His hand grabbing you by the shoulder looked like the hand that could produce incredibly organised, straight lines of text. He called your name several times with the joy which you thought had been locked away forever.
The sheer whiplash made you press yourself into him, your mouth agape, and the collar of his shirt got in between your teeth. He even tasted like Yoongi.
"How", you gasped, "how... how..."
Like an owl.
His face was hopping in front of you, and he was so much more good-looking than you imagined that it was infuriating. The pulsation in your head screamed, and all feelings streamlined, like colours, into one ray of white confusion, albeit pleasant.
"You... through the blast..."
"No, I waited", he chuckled, almost tearfully, "I waited for a while", and he laughed again, and then the mouth closed up on you and kissed.
It was like soaring and drowning at the same time; your head went dizzy.
"Where-Have-You-Been?!" he yelled then, holding your head in his hands like in a pillory. Your lips burned. "I thought you were fucking dead!"
You batted your eyes. Your brain was working ashamedly slowly.
"We went away to sea with Jungkook", you uttered. You were consumed completely by studying him. His strong neck. His full cheeks. He couldn't be older than thirty, at the very worst. His eyes in the shape of a smile. His mouth was so full, panting, curved elegantly.
"What the hell", you whispered.
"Oh, okay, I've been looking for you for a week, I tried to prevent the explosion, but guess it's destiny? It happened at a different time now..."
Oh, he yapped a lot, too. His mouth was comparatively smaller on his face, and the more he grimaced, the cuter he got, with two absolutely round nostrils, like a big, begrudged cat.
You touched his hair, tugged on a strand, trying it in between your fingers.
"Are all people in your dimension so handsome?" you asked, feeling incredibly stupid.
"Oh, no", his palm wrapped around yours. It was warm. You finally started listening to him.
"I'm a local. I live in San Francisco".
"I don't get it", you mumbled.
"That's alright", his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulder, and he guided you into the completely different direction from your office.
In different circumstances such vapid affection wouldn't be allowed even from your brother. Even from Hanadi. But you were completely mesmerized by him, by the part of you that would not adhere to any physical, logical, rational description; you were instantly in love with him, gaping up at his face with your lower jaw completely unhinged.
"I will tell you, alright?" he placed a kiss on your temple, long, wet, maybe leaving a hickey.
"I can't believe we did it", he hopped as he walked, his hips moving too much, so you had to adjust to his stride. Your fingers clutched onto his pale narrow wrist, but looked comically small compared to his large palm, relaxed but closed over your collarbone.
"Yoongi?" you tried his name out loud. He looked at you with those dark, intensely focused eyes that betrayed something uncontrollable in him.
"You got a book for me today?" he asked.
You both stopped, because you pulled on your bag. He refused to let go of you, hooking his finger around the ears of the tote bag, as if he was afraid something would yank you away.
You never took out the book, couldn't bring yourself to take it out, and then forgot. You showed him the Lost Birthday.
He finally broke contact to take it with both hands, like it was something completely sacred. As he lowered his head to stare at the beige cover with a green dragon, his black bangs were let loose over his face.
"This book has one story about a princess who went crazy about the moon and was crying every night because her father couldn't get it for her birthday", you said quietly.
He looked again at you, milky smooth face, his two eyes - each a half of the moon.
"Didn't want it bad enough", he smiled.
You finally caught up, registering that this is, in fact, Mr. Physics with the electric handwriting, only, in flesh - so you touched his throat, warm and with tiny, soft hairs on the back, and he didn't pull away. He blinked slowly, shut up and stared at you. Then you pulled him again, placing the book flat in between you.
yo guys. if there are people of colour among my readers and you are open to talk could you please dm me because i want my descriptions and fics to he as inclusive as possible so they are comfy to read; and i have a couple of questions abt those descriptions. thank you
nobody asked me but i honestly feel like most of your yoongi fics are super freaky. snowball head has an obsessed psycho, 280 minutes has friendly prostitution, cat has... well, like you said, spiritual zoophilia, heated rivalry has enemies that bring out each other’s weird kinks, and let’s never forget about wang!yoongi...
do you even have an idea how cool your message is.
you have listed my works like i am an actual writer i will CRY?! about having readers who a) remember my fics, b) are able to classify and compare them
that said, it’s also pleasant to me to be called freaky because you can never know it about yourself as your own inner world is the norm.
i feel so seen and complimented.
although let’s please forget about wang yoongi because i feel ashamed about abandoning that fic 😬
as to the sex theme, i suppose it’s much more interesting to read works with diverting topics that explore human quirks. because when you zoom into someone’s life irl, you’re always surprised at how weird most people are in bed….
