Love As Soft As A Distant Star

Love As Soft As a Distant Star

Author: vyduan Pairing: Min Yoongi | Reader, Min Yoongi | Park Jimin Genre: one shot, witch au, arranged marriage au, slow burn, friends to lovers, angst Word Count: ~23.6k Rating: Explicit Warnings: swearing, legal consumption of alcohol, light mentions of domestic abuse, explicit descriptions of masturbation, use of sex toy in masturbation/sex, m/f oral sex (female receiving), explicit descriptions of consensual m/f sex, woman on top, light mentions of consensual mxm sex, discussions of difficulty achieving female orgasm, sex is considered a part of their duties (but is all consensual) AO3

Summary: You didn’t mean to fall in love with your husband and fellow Witches’ Councilmember Yoongi, but here you are: in love. (How gauche and not the thing. You’re co-workers, not lovers.) It’s particularly inconvenient since he is in love with someone else.

Notes: Written for the BTS Fantasy and Fangs Halloween collab for @colormepurplex2. I hope you like it!! Happy Halloween!!

World inspired in part by melodiousb's "Trust in the Weather."

Special thanks to @hamsterclaw, @sugalaritae2, @thatlongspringnight, @minisugakoobies, @booboobutt, supertaster, lawyerjin, and superstars for your handholding, encouragement, and quite frankly, for listening to me complain and cry and whine and just throw a tantrum every five minutes because this fic was supposed to be about 5k and here we are at almost 5x that. (This is actually the second fic I had started for this fic exchange. I had shelved my original idea because it would have been too long. The irony is annoying.)

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

Love As Soft As a Distant Star

You awaken to the smell of eggs and bacon. The soft morning light filters through your sunshine yellow curtains and you hear the birds and burbling fountain outside your open window. You allow your awareness to sink back into your body and stretch. You had slept restlessly in the night and there is a crick in your neck and a twinge in your shoulder.

There is a tap at your door and you mumble a blurry, “I’m up.”

Your husband, colleague, and fellow witch opens the door just a tiny bit and peeks in, his button nose and dark eyes glittering underneath the black wave of his fringe. It’s too early for you to see him full in the face so you pull the gray and green checkered duvet over your head.

“I made breakfast,” Yoongi says, his voice a pleasant low burr. “Come down before it gets cold, Y/N.”

“Mmmph,” you grumble in reply. “You could just spell it so that it doesn’t.”

You sound whiny even to your own ears. You don’t know why you’re so grumpy except a sudden memory of Yoongi and Jimin’s desperate panting and grunting traveling through the open windows last night reminds you.

Even now, the mere recall of their fucking leaves you burning and breathless. It doesn’t help that Yoongi had been so out of his mind with pleasure that his control over your psychic link had slipped and his orgasm had reverberated through you, leaving you wanting and weeping. If that had been merely an echo of Yoongi’s release, you can only imagine how mind-blowing it had been in reality.

You feel an ache behind your eyes.

“You know if I did that, you’d stay in bed all day,” Yoongi reasons. “Come on, Y/N. Jimin wants to see you before he leaves.”

Your gut twists and you choose to blame it on needing to relieve yourself. “Gimme a few minutes,” you say carefully.

Yoongi chuckles. “Alright,” he says and shuts the door.

You hear him pad down the wooden hallway and thunk down the stairs. His footfalls are surprisingly heavy for such a slight man (although you suppose he isn’t as lean as he used to be — years of physical and magical labor have filled him out nicely). You throw your covers off yourself and reluctantly swing your legs off the edge of the mattress and set your feet on the carpeted floor.

You shiver even though it’s still the beginning of autumn. The morning carries a slight chill, but you know it will burn off by mid-afternoon once the shadow cast by the forest is behind your cottage rather than over it.

You quickly grab the burnt orange sweater you were wearing last night from its resting place over your wooden desk chair. You head to the bathroom and get yourself both physically and mentally ready for the day. You wonder how long you can delay, but then you remember how Yoongi will have no qualms about dragging you downstairs by the ear.

You remember how much you also love Jimin, that it is neither Yoongi nor Jimin’s fault that you had been foolish enough to fall in love with your husband.

You are once again grateful that early in your marriage, you’d mutually agreed to keep the boundaries of your psychic link tightly wrapped around yourselves. It allowed you to maintain the privacy of your feelings (both emotional and sensational) and only in moments of extreme duress would they leak through to the other person.

The two of you are only married because that is part of the job description as Tranquil Valley’s witch representatives to the Witches’ Council. Every town or village’s witch representatives are married regardless of gender or sex. Such unions are perfunctory and pragmatic. Like all coworking relationships, some matches are lucky enough to eventually fall in love, but they are few and far between. More often than not, councilmembers just take on lovers or companions. It is a much simpler solution (and one which Yoongi has clearly availed himself).

Sometimes, marriages have to be dissolved due to irreconcilable differences between two parties. (And sometimes, sometimes, they have to be dissolved due to abuse. The Witches’ Council tries to keep these cases hushed lest humans and regular witches lose the respect they feel is their due.)

(Jimin was one such case though he never spoke of it. His husband had been removed from the council and their marriage sundered years ago, though Jimin had refused to keep his seat. He’d balked at the inhumane requirements for him to be re-bound to another person almost immediately after in order to retain his position as witch representative. The council had wanted to save face and Jimin had unceremoniously told them all to fuck themselves. You had not blamed him.)

“Y/N! Sometime this century!” Yoongi calls from below, effectively pulling you out of your reminiscing. You’d taken too long.

You dash down the wooden stairs and sheepishly slide into your small kitchen. Jimin is already seated in the nook, happily occupying the sunny spot. The sunlight reflects off his cotton candy pink hair and though your heart is sore, your eyes drink him in anyway. You marvel at the sly curves of his lips, the round of his cheeks, the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Jimin is so, so beautiful.

“Take a picture. It lasts longer,” Yoongi teases in his gravelly voice from the wooden kitchen counter as Jimin preens and bats his dark lashes at you. “It’s not like we’re living in the olden days.”

You feel your face heat at being caught, but you push through it. “Pictures can never fully capture our Jiminie’s beauty,” you say as you slide into your seat at the table opposite of Jimin. There is, after all, no point in denying what you were doing. Jimin knows you appreciate his appearance. So does Yoongi. He’s found you looking at Jimin often enough in the past. (Jimin is looking especially fine and soft this morning in a fluffy sky blue sweater that allows peeks of his collarbones.)

“Hmmm,” muses Yoongi, “just so.” He hands you a cup of coffee (no sugar, a splash of oat milk), chopsticks, and a plate of eggs over medium, bacon, kimchi, sourdough toast with ample butter and jam, and a peeled tangerine. Despite how long you took upstairs, the food is still warm (except for the tangerine) and your coffee is still hot.

You thank him and wonder if Yoongi has ever discovered you looking at him, and if he would tell you to take a picture. If he knows you appreciate his looks. If it causes Yoongi to preen. (He is in an oversized black hoodie and low slung pajama pants and looks delectable.)

You mentally shake yourself off this line of thinking. What does it matter if you find your husband attractive? The two of you have a duty — and you do it.

You consummate your marriage during every harvest moon to honor the moon and as thanks for a bountiful year. You consummate your marriage on the winter solstice as prayer for the grounds that lay fallow and the grounds planted with winter crops. You consummate your marriage on the vernal equinox to symbolize the literal sowing of fields. You consummate your marriage on the summer solstice to honor the sun and its life-giving force.

You do your duty. You never shirk it (though you are not quite sure you ever enjoy it either).

(You tamp down the disappointment that Yoongi always enjoys it enough. You remind yourself that releasing his seed, too, is part of his duty.)

You wonder if Yoongi loves Jimin because consummation with him has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with pleasure. You wonder why you do not seek out the same for yourself, except the thought of consummation with someone you do not know down to the depth of your bones is repellant. That and it rarely ends in climax for you anyway so why bother?

You decide for the countless time this morning to divert your thinking. “You wanted to see me, Jimin?”

Jimin beams a smile at you, his crooked front tooth charming you as always. “Jungkook has been asking after you, Y/N,” he says.

Your stomach churns. Jungkook is pleasant enough, but his energy is too bold for you. He feels like a puppy and it makes you tired to be around him. “Oh?” you reply.

You can tell Jimin draws the incorrect conclusion from your muted response when his face morphs into delighted calculation. “Yes,” he says. You can practically see the glee vibrating off his compact form. “He was wondering if you were going to attend Namjoon’s councilmember ascension event next month.”

You grimaced. You had known Namjoon when you were both young witches and though you had ascended to your position with Yoongi at Tranquil Valley more than a decade ago, no township or village had ever fit Namjoon quite right. Though most of the witch population chooses to settle somewhere and become part of that community by marrying as humans did and starting families, he had become a traveling witch (much as Jimin was) and wandered from territory to territory, apprenticing himself to many different talented witches until he chose to move on again.

Jimin is friends with him through his wanderings so you know more than you care to about Namjoon and his eclectic tastes and penchant for absorbing as much magical lore as possible. You secretly contend that Namjoon is petty and tedious (though competent enough), and that’s why he is constantly passed over. Perhaps he’s finally found a place as tiresome as he is.

“I had no intention of doing so,” you say harsher than you had intended, “Yoongi already agreed to go. The event doesn’t require both of us to be there.”

Yoongi shoots you a puzzled look because you hadn’t yet told him of your intentions to stay home, but you ignore him. When Jimin quirks his head at Yoongi, your husband merely shrugs so slightly that you almost miss it were it not for the fact that you are always aware of him when in his presence. It was not always so, but ten plus years working and living with a person will do it to even the most self-absorbed (and you are not self-absorbed — or at least, no more than the average person).

But as much as Yoongi knows how to read you, he still doesn’t know all of your story — only the bare bones of it. You prefer it that way and had taken the position years ago as a chance to start over. You do not wish to be reminded of your past, let alone revisit someone you find obnoxious.

Besides, you also aren’t going because you can’t stand the idea of Yoongi leaving you alone in your shared quarters while he is off fucking (or being fucked by) Jimin. Though you know distance doesn’t mute your psychic link — what good would the link serve if that were the case — you hope being at home will distract you enough so that you won’t notice as much if Yoongi’s control slips again. It doesn’t happen often and for that, you are exceedingly grateful.

“Jungkook will be disappointed,” Jimin remarks, his expression sneakier than you like.

You wave him off as you take a sip of your coffee, grateful for something to occupy you before something uncharitable slips from your lips. “He’ll get over it,” you say after you get your mouth under control. “I’m sure there will be plenty of witches who will be willing to take his mind off of me when he’s at Namjoon’s ascension afterparty.”

“Oh, I’m sure, too,” agrees Jimin. “But they won’t be you.”

You sigh. “He’ll eventually figure out that I’m not interested,” you say and dig into your eggs with feigned gusto.

“Well, if it’s not Jungkook, do you have your eyes on anyone else?” asks Jimin. He leans in as if this crafted intimacy will divest you of your secrets.

You do not bother replying and Jimin wisely keeps any additional comments to himself (but not before shooting Yoongi another glance).

The three of you continue breakfast and Yoongi changes the subject to the library re-opening that he knows you won’t object to. You allow yourself to settle into the safety of town administration and Jimin pipes in occasionally with observations and advice of his own. You know your contribution to the discourse is half-hearted at best, but your thoughts are scattered and you want to sulk.

You do not understand why you want to sulk. You do not sulk; that is not a thing you do.

Soon enough, breakfast is over and you clear the dishes into your kitchen’s farmhouse sink as Jimin goes to gather his bags from Yoongi’s room.

You are staring at the mess debating whether you will do the dishes with your own two hands because you need something to do or if you will expend the requisite energy and magic to spell the dishes clean when Yoongi says, “You’re moody.”

“Am I?” you murmur distractedly. You turn on the water and pull on your teal dishwashing gloves. You need the meditative task today.

Yoongi ambles to your side and bumps your shoulder in a friendly gesture. “You’ve seemed moody a lot lately.”

You turn, startled to see him peering at you with such scrutiny. “Have I?”

“Yes. Have your courses been bothering you? I know some months the pain is considerable,” he continues, the picture of solicitousness. “Are you nearing the change? Or perhaps you are with child?”

You are surprised. Jimin is still here (though in another room) and Yoongi is casually discussing your work-related duties as if Jimin can’t just waltz back into the kitchen at any moment. As if he is also part of your marriage. It is inappropriate.

“That’s unlikely,” you glare at your husband.

“Just because it’s unlikely doesn’t mean you can’t be,” Yoongi says.

“As you know, our last consummation was mere days ago,” you reply coldly while you turn back to the task at hand, “and I was menstruating then. I doubt I am pregnant.” You scrub a plate with more force than necessary. “Also, I resent the insinuation that I’m anywhere near perimenopause let alone menopause.”

You know Yoongi thinks that should be the end of it, and you normally would stop, but a frisson of fury forces itself up, emerging from your normally impassive waters.

“This line of reasoning is outdated and sexist,” you continue. “Should I blame your intrusiveness on your testosterone rising thanks to an increased proximity to Jimin? Too much fucking is stirring up your baser emotions?”

Yoongi sucks in a breath, sharp and astonished. You know it’s out of character. The two of you were chosen for Tranquil Valley because of your temperaments: calm and steady, even-keeled. Though you are the grumpier of the two, no one would ever call you hot headed let alone spiteful.

Your last comment was spiteful.

Your day is doomed to be one unacceptable humiliation after another when you sense more than hear Jimin as he comes back into the kitchen and tries unsuccessfully to go back out.

“Jimin and I are concerned,” Yoongi continues. You can tell he is trying very hard to dredge up as much civility as he can.

You resist the overpowering need to smash the plate in your hand. Breaking dinnerware is only satisfying if you cannot magic it back together, the evidence of brokenness swept away and hidden by a neat party trick.

You do not wish your cracks to be temporal, tempered, or temperate.

“You’ve discussed me with Jimin?” You turn to face him in full.

“I’m worried about you,” insists Yoongi as if he’s in the right. “And of course we talk about you. You and I talk about Jimin all the time. You’re our friend.”

“But I’m your wife,” you hiss, your gloved hands dripping over the floor as you gesture between you. “Our marriage is none of his business. Tranquil Valley is not his town. He is not our superior. He isn’t even a councilmember anymore.”

Anger rushes across Yoongi’s face and his eyes dart to where you know Jimin is frozen by the kitchen entrance. Of course his primary concern is for Jimin’s feelings. You wonder if he even realizes you have any.

You feel strangely vulnerable, ashamed of the ugliness you never suspected was buried within you.

You don’t need to see the younger man to know you have breached trust. You know why Jimin is no longer on the council with you two anymore. You and Yoongi had been his staunchest advocates, documenting the abuse and providing refuge for your friend.

You are uncertain whether Jimin will still allow you to call him as such.

“I guess I should be grateful you chose to be nosey then, hmmm? I can’t imagine what would have become of me had everyone continued to mind their own fucking business.” Jimin’s voice drips with calm though you know he is not. He whips you with his dignified composure.

“That’s not what I mean, Jimin,” you protest, “of course we couldn’t allow that man to —”

“I know what that man did,” Jimin bites, cutting you off. The air cracks and shudders with Jimin’s magic. “I was there.”

Yoongi crosses the kitchen to Jimin’s side, leaving you to stand alone against the sink. He approaches slowly and fissures spread across your heart as you witness the way Yoongi asks and Jimin permits with just subtle inclines of their heads. Theirs is the language of lovers, the casual intimacy of people who know each other’s bodies thoroughly. Yoongi wraps his strong arms around Jimin, his forehead kissing Jimin’s forehead.

You cannot bear to look. You cannot bear to look away.

The electric hum recedes as Jimin allows Yoongi to soothe him. You watch as they hold each other with a devotion you never before begrudged but now find yourself doing so.

The water is still running and it is too loud, too alive, too clean.

You break your gaze and move to turn off the faucet. When you turn back around, Jimin is gone and Yoongi is alone.

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In the days following, you and Yoongi assiduously avoid one another. You hide in your workroom and Yoongi goes out in the field early and returns home late.

He no longer wakes you for breakfast, except when you finally go down after he heads into town, your food is always still warm and your coffee is always still hot.

It shames you.

Though you know you need to apologize to him, you cannot bring yourself to do so. (You can’t even bring yourself to think about Jimin.) You know if you do, your husband will try to get to the root of your outburst and you do not have the emotional wherewithal to discuss it at length with him.

You do not know if you will be able to keep your dignity intact, if your jealousy of Jimin will only spotlight the unfortunate happenstance of you being in love with Yoongi. It is embarrassing and gauche.

You presume Yoongi avoids you because he is angry on Jimin’s behalf (though he doesn’t take it out on you because that is not his way). He has every right to be, and for the first time since your ascension day, you are afraid.

What if Yoongi chooses Jimin and leaves you? What if he quits his position and you no longer have a husband or a friend and have to consummate quarterly with a new husband — one who would be a stranger? (You recoil at the thought.) Or worse yet — what if he reports you to the Witches’ Council and asks to have you removed?

(It is irrational. It is extremely difficult to depose a sitting councilmember. You know from seeing how they dragged their feet when Jimin was actively being harmed and controlled.)

You’d spent your childhood dreaming of being a councilmember, of working so hard to be at the top of your classes and excelling not only at spellwork and potion making, but also at management and administration. Namjoon had been your main rival for top marks, but he had never seemed to care for the trappings of success.

You’d had no choice but to be outstanding. Your family lacked the connections and wealth to influence the Witches’ Council into providing a position. (Unlike Namjoon, but you suppose if he had really wanted a seat, he could have prevailed upon his family to procure him a spot. You reluctantly allow for this point in his favor.)

When you and Yoongi had been selected for the sleepy town a few hours out from Tech City, you’d been so anxious, desperate to please both him and the councilmembers you would be replacing. It was rare for both councilmembers to be replaced at the same time, but Chirawan and Saanvi had served the town as wives for more than four decades and were waiting for Yoongi and you to finish your apprenticeship before retiring. The two witches had been kind and patient and you and your fiance had thrived under their tutelage.

Yoongi was the better people person and better at raw magic whereas you were the better administrator and loved intricate spellwork and practical potions. Chirawan helped Yoongi get to know the citizens of Tranquil Valley as he learned how to visualize what they needed (and wanted), and then used his raw magic to create it — sometimes in conjunction with local craftsmen, sometimes without.

The sheer power and magnitude of Yoongi’s abilities had always seemed more useful than your own, but Saanvi had helped you see the need for both of your talents. Your wards kept shops and streets safe from crime, your potions helped the local witches with supply issues during the heavy cold and flu season, and your knack for administration kept the town government in good working condition. Saanvi had even shown you how the townspeople liked you just fine (and they still do).

Though Yoongi had been a stranger to you at the start of the apprenticeship, by the time of your ascension day, you two had become good colleagues and friendly enough. You’d found him restful and hardworking, and he had not seemed to object to your company, even occasionally seeking it out during your downtime. Your practice consummations had been textbook (if not very exciting), and overall, Saanvi and Chirawan had assured you both that you would be fine.

Up until now, it has mostly been fine. The two of you, like all people, argue and differ in opinion, but eventually, you two usually come to some sort of accord.

This detente does not feel like one of those moments.

But when the days turn into weeks and your superiors have not fired you and you each have resumed speaking to one another (albeit stiltedly), you hope that perhaps given enough time, Yoongi will remember that you are not the monster you’d shown him. You hope he will remember that as much as he knows Jimin, he knows you, too. That there is also an intimacy between people who have steadily lived and worked together for over a decade with minimal friction.

You may not know Yoongi’s body like a second skin, but you know enough.

You know the slow, steady rhythm of his days, how he wakes before you and starts breakfast, does an immediate triage of any bureaucratic fires that have erupted overnight before leaving the long term solutions to you, and then heads out to make the public appearances and networking events around town he knows you hate.

You know his favorite stews and soups, how he takes his coffee and whisky, his favorite sweaters and slippers, his favorite playlists and sports teams, and most of what he is going to say before he says it (especially when it comes to the town and its residents).

You know the way his shoulder aches in the winter and the exact pressure points to push so his pain can ease. (It helps that you can feel an echo of the pain in your own body when he is too tired to shield you from it.)

You know the way he will hum under his breath as he prepares your cozy cottage for winter and the way he likes to peer into the forest behind you, smiling softly at the deer and tiny foxes that wander into the clearing around your home.

You know the way his weight settles over you during your consummation rituals, the way his eyebrows scrunch and his breath hitches right before he spills into you and onto the fertile soil below.

You know by the way he comes back from Namjoon’s ascension ceremony just as weighed down as before that he did not spend his nights with Jimin in heartfelt reconciliation and joyful celebration.

You know the way he will hover near the windows to check the road into town on days he anticipates Jimin making an appearance, even so.

You know the way Yoongi shrinks into himself as the days pile into weeks and then into months, and Jimin never appears.

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When Yoongi finally returns to his tiny cottage after a long day of clearing snow from blocked roads and parking lots, he is relieved to see the warm lights through the windows. He is exhausted, his left shoulder aches, and his magic needs replenishing with one of your reconstitution brews and hopefully, his mother’s kimchi jjigae that you learned to make years ago. Instead, he is met with an unfamiliar sand colored Toyota Highlander parked on the side of their driveway.

Yoongi sighs and checks his phone to see if you’d texted him about the guest and absent any, sighs again. Maybe it was a last minute drop-in from the locals (they try to discourage such drop-ins, but sometimes, it just can’t be helped). He hopes that whoever it is will take the hint and leave as soon as possible, but Yoongi isn’t confident.

He stomps into the mudroom, flops onto the simple wooden bench, and slips off his muddy boots, debating summoning the energy to spell them clean. He ultimately decides against it. After all, tomorrow will be more of the same shit. At least his thick woolen socks are dry. Not only are they made with some sort of fancy dry-weave sweat-wicking technology, you have painstakingly stitched in spells to make doubly sure his socks stay dry and always maintain his preferred temperature level.

Yoongi sheds his gloves, woolen beanie, checkered scarf, and his thick, shearling lined flannel jacket, hanging them from the wall hooks. He checks the convenient mirror you’d hung and ruffles his hair so it doesn’t look quite so matted down. His cheeks are ruddy and wind-chapped and his eyes are lined with weariness. Yoongi doesn’t bother to straighten his flannel shirt or the thermals underneath. If his guest is offended at his appearance, they shouldn’t have dropped by so late in the day.

He sucks in a cleansing breath, holds it a few seconds, and then whooshes it out his lungs. Though Yoongi does not mind dealing with people, he is still an introvert and he is all peopled out. That’s in great part why living with you used to be so soothing and comfortable. You, too, are an introvert and content to leave him to his own counsel.

Yoongi is sad as he realizes that you no longer seem to be his resting place. He doesn’t know why — has given you ample chances to open up and tell him, has even given you months of space — but you never say anything. That combined with Jimin refusing to answer his calls and texts has made this fall and winter season the worst he’s weathered in years. The lack of sun always makes him feel a little down, but he’s usually had you and Jimin to help him through.

Yoongi is worn out and he hates that he doesn’t even know how it happened.

He forces himself into the kitchen and is pleased to see kimchi jjigae simmering on the stove. He doesn’t know why he didn’t smell it when he got in. He idly wonders if he’s catching a cold and reminds himself to ask you for one of your immune boosting teas before he goes to bed.

Yoongi hears lowered voices and when he pops into the common room, is stunned to see Jimin — now with gunmetal gray hair — sitting on the couch in the arms of a beautiful man. Beautiful is an understatement. Yoongi thinks this might be the most arrestingly attractive man he’s ever seen — and he grew up with Seokjin Kim. The otherworldly man is saying something in a low baritone (which would be distracting enough) except he is also nuzzling Jimin’s face with his own and playing with Jimin’s tiny fingers.

The stranger’s dark brows are sensuous slashes above smoldering brown eyes, and they lift when Yoongi grumbles a greeting.

“Oh, Yoongi,” you say as you scoot over on the forest green loveseat to make room for him. It’s the first time in months he’s heard you address him with anything but passive politeness, and yet, he hadn’t even realized you were in the room until you’d spoken. “Jimin requested a last minute meeting and he brought a friend along. This is Taehyung Kim — they are old elementary school friends.”

Yoongi finally takes you in. You are in your favorite tangerine colored angora sweater and soft, gray lounge pants. Your face and body language are forcibly placid and he sees pity in your eyes. Suddenly, he hates you.

“Hello, Taehyung,” Yoongi says, remembering his manners. What he does not remember, however, is Jimin ever mentioning this Taehyung. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” he adds, though he had no idea to expect guests tonight. He used to consider Jimin family — but since his radio-silence and this surprise Taehyung, Yoongi doesn’t know what Jimin is to him anymore. “Clearing the smaller roads took longer than I thought.”

You make some small sound of commiseration and then pour him some tea from the tea service on the coffee table. Yoongi must be out of it if he didn’t even notice how you’d taken care to bring out his favorite tea set with the little cartoon cats. He can’t even smell what he’s sure must be his favorite valerian root tea and when he notices the beveled honey jar, he knows he is right. He must be coming down with something if he didn’t even smell the bitter, earthy tea.

Yoongi sits down on the loveseat and nods a thanks as you hand him a cup with a cat eating tangerines. He scoots as far from you as possible without it making it seem as if he’s doing so. He can tell from the way Taehyung’s eyes bore holes into him that he is unsuccessful.

“They showed up about fifteen minutes ago,” you say, acknowledging not giving him a head’s up. “Said it was urgent but wanted to wait for you before telling me. I had just started apologizing to Jimin right before you got home.”

Yoongi almost spills his cup of tea. He waits for you to say more, but you do not. He peers at you and Jimin but does not see any of the previous comfort and love you used to share. He only sees strain on both of your parts as Taehyung hugs Jimin tighter (if possible).

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

He is gratified to see your grip on your teacup tighten just a fraction before you release it. He’s glad you haven’t apologized yet. He’s glad he gets to witness it. Yoongi doesn’t care if that means he’s a bitter, petty person. He is feeling bitter and petty.

You turn to face Jimin, your face contrite and nervous. “I’m sorry for throwing your status as a non-councilmember in your face, Jimin. It was not only classist and elitist, it was also cruel considering both your history and our friendship.”

Jimin considers you for a few long beats. “Is that how you really see me? As someone who doesn’t have a say in your life because of my status?” His face is strained, and Yoongi can tell he’s holding back his hurt.

“Oh, no, Jimin. I was just lashing out, and you were there.” Your face crumples. “Of course I value your opinion — both on my personal life and about our Tranquil Valley duties. I truly am so sorry.”

“Why were you lashing out?” Jimin asks, “and what’s to stop you from doing that again?”

Yoongi thinks he sees genuine pain and hurt in your eyes, but before he can wonder why you are hurt when it is Jimin and him who were the injured parties, you answer.

“I suppose that’s fair.” You seem distinctly more ill at ease, as if you’re trying to figure out what story to spin them to make this line of questioning go away as quickly as possible. “I — I was upset at the idea of you two discussing me. I know you were both concerned, but it felt — I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like I was on the outside, like you two were a team and I was not.”

“That’s stupid,” Yoongi says before he can stop himself.

Your head snaps up and he cannot decipher your expression. He suddenly realizes that as much as he knows you, there is still so much he does not.

“Well, sorry you have such a stupid wife,” you say so matter of factly that it takes Yoongi several beats before your sarcasm registers, “but that’s the reason, or as best as I can explain it.”

Jimin and Taehyung keep glancing back and forth between you and Yoongi. It is clear that there are also unresolved issues in his marriage and he is somewhat embarrassed that this is being carried out in front of a stranger. He wishes again that Jimin had come alone, and his gut tells him that Taehyung is here for more than just emotional support.

You refocus your attention on Jimin. “I’m sorry it’s not more specific. But truly, I love and care about you so much. I’m so sorry that I’ve hurt you and I understand if you can no longer trust me.” You pause and grimace as you look at Yoongi. “I’m also so sorry if what I said has ruptured your relationship with Yoongi.”

This time, Yoongi looks away. He does not want you to know just how angry he still is at you. Instead, he watches Jimin. He misses Jimin with his entire being.

Jimin does not move for several long moments and to your credit, you do not rush him or pressure him to accept your apology.

Yoongi hopes (even though he knows that perhaps he has none).

“I see,” Jimin finally says.

A look of regret flashes across his angelic face and Yoongi knows. He knows Jimin does not love him in the same way Yoongi does (and perhaps always will).

“Taehyung asked me to be his husband. I agreed.”

Yoongi hears himself gasp. You tentatively place your hand on his arm, but he shakes you off. He feels as if he’s underwater.

“I thought you said you’d never get married again,” Yoongi spits. He knows he is being ridiculous. Plenty of non-married councilmembers fuck each other. There is no rule that prohibits it. Except, some foolish part of him had hoped that perhaps one day, when Jimin wanted to settle down, he would settle with Yoongi and you. “Is this because of what Y/N said? Did you miss running a city that much? We could have made space for you here.”

Yoongi doesn’t turn to look at your face even though he can feel you freeze by his side.

He knows he has never discussed this with you — and truthfully, it’s not common for there to be triad representatives in a marriage, but it’s not unheard of either. Usually, triads and even quads are reserved for large, bustling metropolises, not sleepy little townships nestled in picturesque valleys.

Either way, the point is now moot. Jimin is marrying Taehyung.

“I realized recently that if I hate the council so much, I can change it,” Jimin says, his voice trembling with emotion, “but the only way to change it is from the inside.”

“So this is a political move?” Yoongi asks.

He asks because though Jimin has never said so, Yoongi has always hoped the wandering witch returned his feelings. He has always hoped that one day, when Jimin was ready, they could all settle down together in Tranquil Valley.

“It is political,” confirms Jimin as he straightens himself, as if his body could lend his voice resolution, “and it is also more. Taehyung loves me.”

Yoongi cannot bear it. “I love you,” he grates out, uncaring that you and Taehyung are witnessing the first outward confession of his heart.

Grief steals into Jimin’s eyes right before he glances away, refusing to meet Yoongi’s gaze. His Jimin, who when they’d made love, would force Yoongi to look him in the eyes as he came.

You and Taehyung avert your eyes, too. As if your not looking provides him the dignity he’s abandoned. As if your not looking makes the fact that Jimin does not want him anymore less true.

It is not enough.

“I know,” Jimin says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Yoongi tries to salvage the situation. Jimin has not said he loves Taehyung (though he also has not said he loves Yoongi). Perhaps, they can at least continue their arrangement.

“Where is Taehyung’s city?” Yoongi hates how his voice is so raw and hopeful.

Jimin winces. “It’s in the Southern Territories,” he says to the floor, “a 5 hour flight from Tech City. There are talks of the Witches’ Council forming a southern council and letting the Southern Territories self-govern.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yoongi does not bother hiding the hurt in his voice. He is reeling and all he wants is to go back to thirty minutes prior when he was driving home, anticipating some kimchi jjigae and sinking into his mattress, lonely but still dreaming of companionship with Jimin. “I thought we were at least friends?”

“I — I’m telling you now.” Jimin stutters. Yoongi has never known the younger witch to stumble. Perhaps, this is affecting Jimin more than he is letting on. “I know it seems sudden, and I suppose it is,” he explains. “But after what Y/N said — how I wasn’t part of your Tranquil Valley, how I wasn’t even a councilmember anymore —”

Jimin cuts himself off and stares at his hands which are currently hidden in the frayed sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Yoongi vaguely registers that it’s one he gave Jimin years ago.

Taehyung leans in even closer to Jimin and whispers in his ear. Jimin’s dark lashes flutter and Yoongi feels twin daggers twist in his heart and gut. Jimin used to flutter his lashes for him, his cock heavy in Yoongi’s mouth, his hooded gaze pinning Yoongi down while he thrust. Yoongi hates how he remembers exactly how Jimin’s lush lips used to glisten, parted to pant his name or pinched between Jimin’s teeth.

A wave of despair crashes over Yoongi and he grits his teeth. He’s flustered and frustrated at his reaction. He is normally not so emotional. He knows that love is not usually in the cards for witch representatives, that the nature of their duties prevents them from what the rest of their world considers normal, healthy relationships.

Yoongi’s younger self had not cared, had been more than satisfied to run a town in his parents’ footsteps, to have meaning in his work, to have companionship with you and his carnal needs met by other people. He had thought Jimin would be a convenient melding of friendship and physicality. Yoongi had not expected to love him, had not expected for love to come in his thirties when Yoongi had never before loved anyone.

Yoongi did not love until he did and now that he does, he regrets. He thinks that perhaps you have the right of it, never attaching yourself to a particular person or even seeking a paramour.

He reels himself in, forcing himself to call upon over thirteen years of dealing with irate citizenry or pompous councilmembers trying to lure him into pissing contests. Yoongi forces himself to remember that it is not about him, that though his heart is breaking, it’s Jimin’s life, and ultimately, he wants Jimin to be happy.

He gentles his voice. “Jimin-ah, if you think this will make you happy, then I’m happy for you.” When Jimin lifts an eyebrow in disbelief, he adds, “I wish you had told me when you were considering this, but a lot of it is because I hate the idea of you struggling with this alone.”

“Taehyung helped,” Jimin says.

Yoongi pretends that it doesn’t cut deep. He can make it through the next few seconds, the next few minutes, the next few hours.

Taehyung has the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t do much,” he mumbles in a deliciously low voice. Yoongi hates that he can’t help but notice. “Whatever my family can do to help you in spearheading change, we will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Your family?” you ask. “And who is your family?”

It is only when you speak that Yoongi recalls that you are still here. You have been so quiet, so still — almost as if you wanted to disappear and give him as much privacy as you could.

Taehyung’s honey-colored skin deepens. “Ah,” he says as he clears his throat. “I’m from the southern Kim clan.”

Your eyes widen. “As in Kim Magus Industries and Kim Thaumaturgical Enterprises?” Your face suddenly screws in suspicion and Yoongi cannot help but be grateful. “How did you end up at Jimin’s elementary school? He grew up in the Western Territories.”

Taehyung hesitates before deciding to share. “There were some succession issues when I was small,” he explains. “They sent me with my mother’s youngest sister to live somewhere far away to protect me.”

“Her youngest sister?” you scoff. “Sounds like they weren’t particularly concerned.”

“My imo is Seong-Min Chae.”

“Oh, shit,” you breathe, immediately recognizing the name of one of the most powerful elemental witches in modern times. “I stand corrected.” You sweep your eyes over Taehyung as if with renewed respect.

Yoongi takes this moment to more carefully look over Taehyung in his brown cabled sweater, maroon corduroys, and black woolen socks. His hair is a white blond with a centimeter of black roots. He doesn’t look like he’s from one of the richest and most powerful witch families of the last century.

“And is the succession issue adequately resolved? Will Jimin be in any danger?” you doggedly continue, as if trying to make up for your prior behavior.

Taehyung regards you approvingly even as Jimin rolls his eyes. Yoongi knows that Jimin is likely chafing at your protectiveness. Jimin hates being perceived as weak, hates showing any sort of weakness.

“You have my word that Jimin will be more than safe and secure with me. No one will dare fuck with the Kim heir and his husband,” Taehyung says, his soft tone belying the steel in his words. “My family would annihilate them.”

“That, um, seems adequate,” you choke and shake your head ruefully. You sigh. “Well, I did ask.”

Yoongi wants to hate Taehyung, but even he cannot deny that is more than Yoongi could ever hope to provide. And if Jimin truly wants to change the council from the inside, the Kim clan would be the muscle and money influencing decisions. Loath as Yoongi is to admit that outside powers have any sway over councilmembers, everyone knows that is patently untrue. The only reason you and Yoongi are generally unaffected is because Tranquil Valley is too small to be considered worth affecting.

“We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Yoongi finally offers, “but you have to tell us. No more shutting us out, Jimin.”

“He can shut us out if he wants to, Yoongi,” you interject softly. “We hope you don’t. We hope to be worthy of your trust, but I understand if there are times you cannot or choose not to. For all the changes you wish to push, you will have your own city to worry about and consider first.”

Yoongi wants to glare at you, to scowl and throw a tantrum like he did as a child. Except he knows you are right. He knows that once a witch ascends to the council, they are no longer their own. Their people, their land, their city — they all clamor for priority so much so that Yoongi sometimes forgets that he is his own person. It is a huge reason why he’d found such solace in Jimin.

Jimin had just been for him.

Jimin nods and accepts your offer graciously. “I will do my best.”

His face rifles through expressions so rapidly that Yoongi only recognizes them because he has spent so many hours studying Jimin’s ethereal face. Yoongi cannot decide if he prefers Jimin vulpine and predatory or tender and vulnerable. He is unsure if he has ever seen Jimin truly with his guard down and Yoongi’s heart pangs.

Jimin clears his throat. “We’ve taken enough of your time.” He picks up his neglected tea cup and gulps down a few tepid sips. “Thank you for your apology, Y/N,” he adds for your benefit and something in your posture loosens, sagging in relief. It is a small thing, but Yoongi notices. “And Yoongi,” Jimin starts before stopping, his tenor voice hitching with emotion.

You suddenly stand. “Taehyung, would you mind helping me clear the dishes?”

To Taehyung’s credit and Yoongi’s surprise, Taehyung unwraps his body from Jimin, collects a few cups and then follows you into the kitchen.

Yoongi shivers.

Jimin reaches across the coffee table for Yoongi’s hands and Yoongi lets him. He does not want to admit that he is busy memorizing the feel of Jimin’s smaller hands in his larger ones. He does not want to cling, to beg for one more night of mapping out Jimin’s body with his palms and tongue.

Yoongi is afraid to make eye contact, but he is more afraid to lose this chance to drink in Jimin’s warm, brown eyes. He wills himself not to tremble, to not reveal himself as he did so gracelessly before.

“Do you love him?” he inquires before he can stop himself. There goes Yoongi’s resolve to not reveal himself.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Jimin says, all honey and regret. “I was a coward.” Yoongi notes that Jimin does not answer his question. “I was afraid you would talk me out of it.”

Yoongi flinches. He removes his hands even though he immediately wants Jimin to regrasp them. “Do you think me so selfish?”

Jimin shrugs. “I know how love goes,” he tosses carelessly.

“That man did not love you,” Yoongi snarls. At Jimin’s nonchalant waving off of his words, he feels a throbbing build at the base of his skull. He does not want to argue. (It is an old argument, at any rate.) “I’m sorry,” he utters, though he is not sure what exactly he is sorry for. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and he means it.

Yoongi watches as Jimin gets up from the couch and settles next to Yoongi on the loveseat. Jimin wraps his arms around Yoongi and nestles his face in the curve where Yoongi’s neck meets his shoulder. Yoongi hates how weak he is. He hates how he cannot help but embrace Jimin, desperate to have the man he loves enfolded and clasped to his chest.

Yoongi breathes Jimin in, letting his scent of light gardenia and tuberose wash over him. He hates how even now, even knowing that you and Taehyung are in the next room over, Yoongi wants. He wants to run away and use his magic to construct a fortress or castle or both and sequester himself with Jimin to love and to fuck for the rest of his life.

For the first time he can recall, he despises their societal strictures. He hates how his foolish, younger self dismissed love out of hand, consigning it to lesser mortals who did not have his sense of duty (filial or otherwise). He does not think his parents ever loved each other, though they had seemed congenial enough. They have long since retired and gone their separate ways and Yoongi hates how what had seemed so normal to him at the time now strikes him as cruel.

He suddenly realizes he does not want the life his parents had and set as an example for him. Yoongi does not know what this means. He only knows that the love of his life is holding him (or is Yoongi holding Jimin) and the thought of living the rest of his life with you and no prospect of Jimin makes him want to scream.

Yoongi chokes back a sob and Jimin leans back to cup his face, using his thumbs to wipe at Yoongi’s cheeks. Yoongi had not even noticed that he’d been crying this whole time.

“If I could love, I would have liked to love you, Yoongi,” Jimin says.

It is cruel. It is merciful.

Yoongi does not think it is remotely true though perhaps Jimin doesn’t want to leave him with nothing. Perhaps this is the best Jimin can do.

“I’m glad Taehyung loves you,” Yoongi says, shocking himself even as he realizes it is true. “You deserve love, Jimin-ah,” he continues, “and I hope even if you don’t love him, that you can feel it deep in your bones. I’m glad he already told you and didn’t hide it like I did. You should be loved. You should know that you’re loved.”

Jimin huffs. “I never knew you were such a sentimental sap.” He aims for light and teasing except somehow, he misses the mark. Instead, Jimin sounds full of wonder and confusion.

“I guess that’s your effect on people.”

Yoongi wants to curl up and die. How can such ridiculous words flow from his mouth with all sincerity and no irony whatsoever?

Jimin lifts his hand and places a finger lightly on Yoongi’s lower lip. Yoongi resists the overwhelming urge to flick out his tongue and taste Jimin one last time. As if reading his mind, Jimin slowly cants forward and places a soft kiss over his own finger and Yoongi sighs at the slight contact on his mouth. Before he knows it, Jimin has slipped his finger away and deepened the kiss and Yoongi, greedy fool that he is, drinks Jimin in one last time.

All too soon, Jimin pulls away, his eyes glassy and hazy with want. Yoongi swallows and desperately wishes he could swallow Jimin and keep him for himself.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” Jimin whispers and then heads to the kitchen.

Yoongi is alone.

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Yoongi moves as if in a stupor for the next few days. You don’t say anything and though he thinks he keeps his feelings tightly wrapped, thinks none of his devastation leaks down your psychic connection, there is one moment after he’s awakened from a particularly heartbreaking dream where he thinks he feels comfort and consolation pulse down to him. He immediately falls back asleep (though now that he thinks about it, that seems odd) and Yoongi later tucks that memory away to examine when he’s in a better headspace.

He struggles to get out of bed and he vaguely recalls you taking on all his in-person meetings and going into town on his behalf. It’s something you only do when he is too sick to meet safely with people, and because he is rarely sick thanks to your brews, you’ve rarely had to do so.

Yoongi is not sick now, but still, you go.

His meals magically appear (literally) and tisanes are pressed to his lips when he wakes, boneless and dried out from all his tears. And then on the fifth day, he wakes up right after sunrise, runs a steaming hot shower, and then plods downstairs to make you breakfast.

When you show up about ten minutes later, eyes half open and hair in a messy pile on your head, you pause in confusion. Your sleeping shirt is wrinkled and your flannel pajama pants are slouchy and clearly too long. (In fact, he suspects those are actually his missing ones. They look familiar.) You grunt something that resembles a garbled “morning,” plonk down at the nook and promptly cradle your head in your arms, closing your eyes as if you’re in pain.

Considering how much you hate mornings, Yoongi suspects that might actually be the case.

When he slides a plate of french toast, sausage links, and cut fresh fruit in front of you, you finally stir and show some signs of life. You prop your face up with a reluctant palm and your cheek is adorably squished. You groan and make grabby hands in his direction and Yoongi finds himself amused for the first time in days.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got your coffee,” he says agreeably and carefully sets a mug of your chosen poison (no sugar, a splash of oat milk) in your impatient hands.

He brings his own plate of food over along with his iced Americano (it doesn’t matter how cold the weather is, he always has his coffee cold and black) and sits in his regular seat across from you. It’s a bit jarring to have you with him in the morning, but he finds that he does not mind.

Yoongi has missed you.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he begins to say but is unable to continue when you grunt and grumble what he guesses is “Let’s never speak of this again,” and so he does not finish.

He smiles and eats in companionable silence with you.

When he gets up to clear the dishes, you wave him away with marginally more energy and remind him of the meeting he has with the Garcias in town. You hate the Garcias. (You find them way too pushy and entitled, but Yoongi just thinks they’re enthusiastic and invested. The truth is likely somewhere in between.)

He goes upstairs to his room, changes the sheets and then changes into his “town” uniform of thick lined jeans, heattech shirt, and a black and gray flannel shirt. He snorts when he realizes the ungodly amount of flannel he owns and then shrugs because it’s winter. Of course he has to wear flannel. He smiles when he pulls on a pair of socks and hears you in his mind griping about how he should wear socks first then pants.

His heart is still sore, but he remembers that he chose his life and when he’s not moping over Jimin, he actually likes it.

Yoongi fishes around for his favorite beanie and startles when he realizes you knit it for him years ago. If he looks carefully, he can see the warmth and dry spells you neatly stitched into the charcoal gray hat. Though you do not accompany him into town, you cover him all the same.

When he comes home late that night, covered bowls of galbi jjim, steamed rice, and various banchan are laid out on the kitchen table, spelled to stay at the right temperatures for him. He putters around and finds you in your workroom, bent over the heavy wooden work table, peering at some bit of machinery under a warm, yellow lamp.

“I know you already ate, but do you want to join me for dinner?” he asks from the doorway.

You blink owlishly when you look up, the magnifying loupes on your spectacles ballooning your eyes to cartooned proportions. Yoongi suddenly feels a rush of affection for you. He wonders why he had thought the two of you strained, but then he remembers and his smile falters.

Your eyes narrow and you remove your glasses quickly, settling them on your table, heedless of all the assorted gears and gadgets scattered on the surface. “Just gimme a sec to wash up,” you say, and Yoongi heads back to the kitchen to wait.

When you show up a few minutes later, you seem to debate whether or not to ask how he is doing. Yoongi knows you are curious, but he also knows that he can’t handle that sort of intimacy right now. You seem to read the sentiment on his face and ask instead how the meeting with the Garcias went and the tight knot in Yoongi’s stomach settles.

He tells you about how the Garcias want to close off one of the main streets and form a short promenade on weekend nights.

He eats the galbi jjim and slurps up the soup.

He is warm.

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When he shuffles downstairs the next morning, you are already there, glasses sitting crooked on your nose and doggedly trying not to yawn (but failing) as you make jook. Yoongi ambles to the family room, grabs his laptop, and brings it to the kitchen table, taking care of the more urgent emails before he puts it away and sets the table.

When he gets home later that evening, you have two servings of grilled cheese and tomato soup at the table.

He goes to your workroom and invites you to dinner.

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It goes like this for days until it is no longer out of the ordinary, until it is now the new way of things. Yoongi recalls how the two of you had spent the early years like this until it slowly hadn’t been. He muses you two must have been slowly but surely drifting away like this new routine is slowly but surely coming together. You’d likely slept in one morning and then, one morning became two and then became all of them. He’d likely come home late for dinner one night and then two nights, and then it was many of his nights.

It has worked fine until now. It likely still would have been fine had it continued (except Yoongi is glad that it has not).

Yoongi likes how the two of you have always been attuned, circling and touching each other at the edges of your daily living. Except now, now the two of you are recalibrating your schedules, attuning them to each other in the new normal.

He knows not everything is magically fixed. He knows that one day soon, you two should address what happened all those months ago, but he also knows that it is unlikely to happen. Whatever it was that had you so upset and emotional all those months prior seems to no longer be an issue.

He is not sure why his subconscious whispers for him to pay attention, but he once again shelves it for another day.

His subconscious still whispers too much at night. His dreams are still sad and he still wakes up with tears tracking down his face. He still falls back asleep with a strange sense of comfort that reaches through walls and the edge of consciousness.

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“Y/N, do you enjoy our consummations?” asks Yoongi one day as the two of you are cleaning up after dinner. It’s been at least half a year since Jimin’s left and he doesn’t know what has come over him.

That is not quite true. Yoongi knows.

Yoongi hasn’t had a truly good orgasm in almost a year and he’s going to go crazy.

It’s not for lack of trying. He knows he cleans up well, that men and women alike go sort of crazy when he pulls his long locks into a half ponytail. He knows that despite his soft and snuggly insides, he projects a sort of savagery that he doesn’t dispel when he is on the prowl. He leans heavy into his inner asshole and it’s like a beacon, drawing all sorts of options to him.

Except, well, it’s been thoroughly unsatisfactory.

Yoongi is desperate.

“What?” you query from your spot at the farmhouse sink. You are up to your elbows in suds and your spectacles are once again askew.

Yoongi wipes down the kitchen table and repeats himself. “Do you enjoy our consummations?”

“I mean, I guess?” you reply, quirking your head at him.

“If you don’t know, that means you do not.”

“I don’t not enjoy them,” you say after a few more moments of thought. “I’m not sure why that matters though. Unless there is new research that shows enjoyment makes for better harvests?”

Of course you would consider the harvest first and not your own pleasure. Yoongi isn’t sure if he’s proud of how responsible you are or aggravated that you don’t seem to care much for your own physical gratification. He briefly wonders if you perhaps have never had an orgasm and thus, it doesn’t matter because you don’t know what you’re missing. Then he rebukes himself. He knows sexuality is a spectrum and not everyone derives pleasure from the act. As long as he doesn’t hurt you during your quarterly consummations, he should be satisfied.

Except he finds that he is not. It seems criminal that you do not particularly enjoy having sex with him (though if he is honest, he doesn’t particularly enjoy having sex with you, either).

“No, there’s no research,” he acknowledges.

Yoongi wants to lie, but there are no new studies he can cite (at least none that he knows of). He’s not even sure if consummations are anything other than a holdover from the old ways. He is not convinced they make any difference to the harvest, but he is not bold enough to risk his town’s food supply on a hunch.

He decides to let the matter lie and gathers the broom to sweep the floor.

“Do — do you find our consummations enjoyable?” you ask hesitantly.

You seem concerned, and Yoongi feels somewhat ashamed for causing you to question your performance. He also cannot bring himself to lie. He is flummoxed.

“I find it enjoyable enough to complete the ritual,” he says.

You rinse off the remaining dishes and Yoongi thinks that’s the end of that. Your brow furrows. “That’s not quite the same as finding it pleasurable though, is it?”

Yoongi returns the broom to the mudroom attached to the kitchen. “No,” he says when he re-enters the kitchen. “No, it’s not.”

You shake water off the teal dishwashing gloves and slip them off, folding them over the lip of the sink. He watches as you wash your hands and dry them on the checkered dish towel. You shift to lean against the wooden counter as if you need to brace yourself.

“Is — is pleasure during the ritual so very important to you?”

Your face is carefully blank, and Yoongi realizes that you are hurt though he is not sure why. After all, he is not hurt by your lack of pleasure.

“It’s not a criticism,” he says quickly, but your face remains withdrawn. “Your performance is within our ritual parameters. I have no complaints.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “Yes, I can see that.” You seem to shrink inside your peach colored sweatshirt and knee-length lounge pants and Yoongi’s heart contracts.

“I’ve hurt you,” he says. You do not react to his statement and Yoongi is unprepared for just how sorry he feels. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to.”

You turn your face so he can only rely on the way your back is ramrod straight to give you away. “You haven’t,” you say, except Yoongi knows you are lying.

You are quiet and Yoongi doesn’t know what to say and so he, too, remains quiet.

“Are you not receiving sufficient physical pleasure in your supplemental activities?” you finally ask, still not quite facing him. “Is this why you suddenly ask about my pleasure after almost fifteen years? Surely if it were that important to you, you would have mentioned it sooner?”

Yoongi is chastened.

“I’ve tried,” he says defeatedly, knowing he is caught. “But it’s — I can’t — I hate it.” He hangs his head and slumps into the kitchen nook. He resists the urge to sink his head into his awaiting palms. Instead, he swallows his pride and regards you with his dignity in tatters. “Do you think we could — that is, would you be willing to — maybe if I made it good for you —”

You flinch imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, Yoongi,” you say, cutting him off.

He is marginally grateful you do not allow him to finish his request. It is humiliating. He is not a man with so little self-control, but he’s also never had such difficulty slaking his needs.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we keep our consummations as is,” you disclose. “You receive adequate satisfaction as is required, and I am satisfied when the ritual is performed correctly in accordance to our duties.”

You make to move closer to him but change your mind.

“I’m not Jimin, Yoongi,” you add, a tremor in your voice. “I can’t be Jimin even if I knew how.”

This time, it is Yoongi who flinches.

“You think I don’t know that?” he unintentionally snarls. It’s been so many months and yet, still, he is heartsore and heartsick. Your presence has helped, but you are right. You are no Jimin. Jimin is the blaze of a wildfire, an inferno that turns him into kindling. You are the muted warmth of a candle, a comfort in the dark. “You think I’m not trying to get over him?”

You sigh and cross the room to join him at the table. “It’s all my fault,” you confess faintly. “If I had not reached for more than was my allotment in life — if I had not coveted — if I had only been content with the status quo, this would have never happened.”

Your words tickle a memory but Yoongi can’t quite seem to place it.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

He takes a strange sort of satisfaction at seeing you visibly quail at his demand for clarification.

“Jimin was — is — the love of my life,” he states evenly though he wants to wail. He lets anger and frustration sink their hooks into him. “I deserve to know what you mean.”

You regard him, eyes veiled even as you meet his own. “Hasn’t this last year or so between us been nice?” you ask feebly. “I mean, other than the thing with Jimin.”

“You mean other than my heart breaking?” cries Yoongi. Confusion and hurt swirl in his chest, and the pressure makes his lungs feel too tight.

You remove your glasses and fiddle with them instead of looking at him. You take a deep, steadying breath. “I was jealous,” you finally divulge, and it is the last thing Yoongi expects to hear.

“You were jealous?” he repeats.

“And insecure,” you say. You flick your wary eyes to him. “I always feel that way around Jimin.”

That niggling feeling that he’s forgetting something is back, but Yoongi can’t think and listen at the same time. “But you love Jimin.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

You pull the sleeves of your vermillion shirt down over your palms. It is not quite time for the harvest moon consummation, but there is already a slight chill on some nights and the kitchen window is open.

Yoongi gets up to shut the window. He leans against the sill instead of sitting back down.

“Why? What could you possibly have to feel insecure about? You’re an amazing witch,” he observes, genuinely puzzled.

You shiver despite the window being closed. “Because you love him.” Your voice comes out as a ragged whisper.

Yoongi cannot compute your words. He hears what you do not say, but his mind balks. “But we’re married.”

“Now you’re just being purposely obtuse. You know it’s not a choice I would make.” Your face is agony. “It is inconvenient at best. Ruinous at worst.”

“And so, what? I don’t love you like I love Jimin and you wanted to hurt me for it?” Yoongi is being unfair, but he seems to have temporarily lost control of his filter.

Your countenance shatters. “That’s not — I would never —” You pause.

He hates how you can rein your tongue now. Why could you not have done so that horrible, horrible day?

“It hurt, okay?” you spit out. “It was mortifying for me to hear you discussing my poorly hidden emotions about Jimin with Jimin and I lost it.” Your outburst fizzles out as quickly as it flares up. “I’m a person, too, okay?” you continue plaintively. “I have feelings and they’re messy and I didn’t want to hurt Jimin or you but it happened and I have to live with that.”

Yoongi feels sick. It’s as if you’ve suddenly snapped into focus, and the change in his emotional depth of field unseats him. You’ve tilted his world, and he can’t right himself quite just yet.

He rests his hands on the sill and grips them, the wood digging into his palms. The bite grounds him.

“I’m sorry I wrecked everything.” You sound and look miserable.

Yoongi is torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting you to suffer. He needs to get his shit together. “I think I need to process all of this and go to sleep. I need to help with the harvest again tomorrow,” he gruffs. “We can discuss it another time.” He pushes off the wooden sill and brushes imaginary lint off his heavy duty work pants (work pants you spelled with durability and stain resistance).

You nod, your face a grimace. “Ok,” you agree meekly.

It is your meekness that angers him the most.

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Tomorrow comes, but despite you waking up early to eat breakfast with Yoongi as you are now accustomed to doing, he has already left. You tell yourself that he just wants to get a jump on the day’s work, but you don’t believe it.

You stare at the bowl of grits, the two eggs over medium and sausage crumbles Yoongi had added on top along with some wilted greens. You stare at your coffee (no sugar, a splash of oat milk). You mechanically eat and drink your breakfast. It is warm and hot and though it is filling, you taste nothing.

You go about your daily tasks and prepare a large batch of bath bombs for Yoongi to use and soak his weary muscles. You brew restorative potions and prepare salves for his bad shoulder.

That night, you wait up for him and fall asleep at the kitchen table. When you wake up the next morning, your back aching and head all cottony, you see last night’s beef and Guinness stew, wild mushroom tartlet, and Yoongi’s tonic untouched before you.

It is still warm.

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On the morning of the harvest consummation, you drag yourself out of bed. The sun is already high in the sky and you would feel guilty, but there is no one to apologize to. There is no one waiting for you in the kitchen.

You only know that Yoongi will be home tonight because he has never been unable to fulfill his equinox and solstice duties.

You are busy with finalizing details for the upcoming harvest festival and tell yourself that once the busyness passes, you and Yoongi will return to normal. Not for the first time are you grateful that modern consummation rites do not require an audience of townspeople.

You would not be able to bear it.

By the time late evening rolls around, you have already gathered the offerings of grain, meat, fruit, and wine. You have purified your body in the ceremonial baths and have slathered all the sacred oils and emollients on your body. You have lined your eyes with kohl and slipped into the perfumed robes. You go to the back of your cottage near the holy copse of trees and light fires in the deep bronze bowls of the ceremonial fire pits.

You lay down a thick sheepskin on the grass in the center of the circle of braziers. On the ground by its side, you place a flask of clove oil, some small washcloths, and two bottles of water.

Yoongi is late.

You normally would not be worried except these past few weeks, you have barely seen him and when you did, he wouldn’t speak to you. It was worse than the cautious avoidance of last year. At least then he had been worried about you in addition to being angry.

This time, however. This time, it feels like hate. Or worse: indifference. It feels like neglect. It feels like dereliction of duty.

You wrack your brain for consummation protocols for instances of a lone witch representative. You know you and Yoongi have lucked out over your term, neither of you ever being too sick to perform. (You also know that you have somehow dodged pregnancy all these years and part of you is melancholy and part of you is relieved. You are not allowed to prevent conception during the rite. Its power stems from fertility, and so many councilmembers conceive during these quarterly congresses.)

You check your texts but Yoongi hasn’t sent you any.

The thought that he has abandoned you, has left his position to chase after Jimin, slides its way into your mind, oily and insidious. You don’t think that is the type of person Yoongi is, but you are admittedly not in the best frame of mind right now.

You order your brain to shut up and look up the consummation rituals for a solo witch, hoping desperately that it does not require you to find a partner. After some searching, you find that the main requirement in the ritual is an orgasm — and not even a male one (which makes sense when you think about it, otherwise, how did Chirawan and Saanvi manage all those years?).

You’d forgotten mostly because it’s incredibly difficult for you to climax, especially during penetrative sex. In fact, you’re not sure that you ever have. It is in great part why you don’t particularly care for sex and ultimately, why Yoongi’s orgasm has been your focus all these years. (And even then, you just assume Yoongi knows what to do and you are more of the receptacle than an active participant.)

When the reality of the situation hits you, you lowkey begin to panic. You rarely masturbate and even then, you don’t really see the point because you don’t come more often than you do. (And yes, you’ve tried all sorts of toys and watched all sorts of films. You’re just not wired that way. It normally doesn’t bother you.)

You glance at the time and it’s nearing the lunar culmination. It’s best practice to have the ritual complete as near as possible to when the moon reaches its apex position in the sky and you haven’t even thrown the offerings on the fire.

You run back into the cottage and up the stairs to your room. You rummage through your dresser drawer and finally find a tiny vibrator that you hope still has a remaining charge. You turn it on and the smooth machine quivers to life. You suppose it will have to do.

You go back outside and set the intimate massager on a washcloth. Then you take a few cleansing breaths and try to silence the worry coursing through your veins. It is only the psychic link that prevents you from complete panic. If Yoongi’d been harmed or injured — or worse yet, if he was no longer on this plane — you’d know. You’d feel it.

You offer the grain and throw it in the bowl over the designated fire pit. If Yoongi were here, he’d boost the fire and the grain would roast quickly. As he is not, you wait and when it is ready, you take a few grains in your mouth to eat and then leave the rest to burn.

Next, you place the meat on its designated fire pit and again, because Yoongi is not here to manipulate the fire and heat, you have to wait for the meat to cook naturally. When the steak is at about medium rare, you carefully slice a piece and slip it into your mouth. Again, you leave the rest to burn.

You slice a perfectly ripe pear and close your eyes as you consume it, letting its sandy sweetness wash over your tongue. You place the pear in another fire pit and watch the flames consume the fruit, the blaze flaring and sizzling when the juice evaporates.

Lastly, you pour a cup of pomegranate wine that you’d made from last year’s pomegranate crop. You down the whole thing and lick your lips. If Yoongi were here, he would sip the wine first, then take a mouthful and transfer it into yours. After you’d swallow, he would lick any wine that escaped down your chin or neck, and you would do the same for him. You surprise yourself by missing that part of the rite the most. You pour some of the wine into the fire, careful not to douse the flames. Then you pour the rest out onto the ground before the fire.

You look around your surroundings, hoping Yoongi has appeared since the start of the ceremony, but he has not. You walk to the sheepskin, remove the robe, laying it carefully on the grass. Your bare skin breaks out into goosebumps thanks to the chilly air. If Yoongi were here, he would physically warm the air so that neither of you would be cold, but alas, he is not, and so, you shiver.

Your belly churns with nerves, and you lie down on the sheepskin. You feel cold and exposed, and you hate it. You drizzle the clove oil on your fingers. It’s blessedly warm thanks to the spellwork you’d etched on the bottle. You tentatively stroke your belly and the insides of your thighs, working up the courage to touch your core.

Some time passes and you don’t feel any more relaxed or aroused. You are annoyed that you’d never thought to spell in more aphrodisiac-like properties into the oil, but you suppose Yoongi had never complained and you had never particularly seen the need for it.

You check the location of the moon in the sky above you and are dismayed to find that it has risen considerably. You need to get a move on, but you don’t feel any closer to a climax than you did when you’d started. In fact, it’s quite possible you are even less ready.

You reach for the vibrator and though it isn’t unpleasant, it’s not what you need to complete the ritual. The more you press, the more it starts to sting and hurt. You feel the edges of hysteria start and you turn the vibrator off, casting it aside in disgust.

You remind yourself that there is no actual deadline to your orgasm, that as long as someone climaxes, the ritual is complete.

You reach back into your memory for the calming exercises Saanvi had taught you all those years ago to prepare you for your initial consummation practices with Yoongi. You had been a virgin, having never cared to explore sex prior to your duties, and the prospect of your first time being with someone who you were just getting to know did not appeal at all.

You hear Saanvi’s soothing voice tell you to breathe, and so, you do. You inhale a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, and then let it go in a slow whoosh. You repeat the breathing exercise and again hear Saanvi telling you to notice the way your skin feels alive thanks to the cool air. You slowly run your fingers over your arms, your belly, and inner thighs, the light tickle teasing your senses alert.

The memory of Saanvi reminds you to sink into your sensations, to sit and receive versus chase. You lightly rub circles over your erect nipples, the cold already doing most of the work for you. You think of getting massages after a long day, of your muscles relaxing under Yoongi’s expert hands. Though those massages were strictly platonic, the pleasure of relieving tense muscles is still pleasure, and you grasp onto it.

You think of Yoongi’s hands, capable of great feats of elemental magic and yet so gentle, so nimble, so quick. Your thoughts inevitably slip to the rest of Yoongi. You remember his weight on you, how his black hair framed his kind face in artful waves when he fulfilled his duty and pumped into you. You remember the sounds of his and Jimin’s moans, the creaking of his bed and the smacking of lips and skin. You recall the echoes of his orgasm ripping through you, how you’d lain in your bed gasping and sweaty, burning with desire and need.

You reach for the vibrator again, but this time, instead of placing it directly on your clit, you first run the toy along your belly, your nipples, and your thighs. You add more clove oil and glide the vibrator along your folds, careful not to press too hard. You slowly drag the toy closer to your entrance and allow yourself to feel its vibrations deep in your body.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you begin to grind into the buzzing tool in your palm. You feel a tiny build up of discomfort in your gut, and you hope it is the stirrings of desire and not pain. You focus on the growing ache between your thighs and squirm, desperately wanting it to subside in a way that helps rather than hinders your plans.

The more you pay attention to your body’s pleasure, the more your pleasure builds. Your tentative touches become bolder, more assured, and your anticipation builds higher and more urgent. Eventually, you feel as if you are on the edge just waiting to tumble over, except no matter how hard you try, you can’t tip over.

You are so close, and just when you think you might weep from frustration, you feel a tantalizing breeze lick across your forehead, caress down your neck, swirl around your nipples, and then curl deliciously against your core like a breath.

Your eyes flash open and you see Yoongi kneeling on the edge of the sheepskin, sweaty and covered in grease. You open your mouth to protest when he admonishes, “Shhh, you’re doing so well, Y/N.” The gravel in his voice goes straight to your cunt, and you clench around emptiness.

“Yoongi,” you pant as you reach out to him, your hand clasping his thigh. “I can’t —”

“Let me help, Y/N,” he murmurs softly. “I can’t make the offering for us since I haven’t cleansed myself and we’re too close to the lunar peak, but I can help you. Will you let me help you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, “yes.”

Yoongi shifts so that he is sat directly behind where your head lies. He pours clove oil on his hands and before you know it, his rough fingers massage your temples, ears, and neck.

You melt.

He leans down and you smell sweat and engine oil. He kisses down your hairline and then your jawline and his hair tickles your face. Your vibrator is still working steadily near your core and his hands move down your body to massage the area above your breasts and then your actual breasts.

You arch up to proffer him more of you, and Yoongi takes.

He plants kisses down the curve of your belly and his shirt hangs low from the hem, allowing you to look up and see the flat rounds of his nipples and the dusting of dark hair trailing from his belly button into the heavy material of his work pants. When he travels further down your body and stops at your sex, your nose is level with the thick bulge in his pants.

Your mouth aches but you do not move. He has not given you permission to touch him, and so you close your eyes.

The memory of it all falls out of your brain anyway when Yoongi breathes a low breath over where your vibrator is buzzing and you cannot hold in a tremble. His hands slide under your ass and grab, bringing your cunt closer to his face. He mouths wet kisses over your fingers, your labia, and your toy and you cannot bear all the sensation washing over you.

“May I?” he mumbles into the heart of you and when you gasp your consent, he takes the vibrator from your hand and slowly dips it into your center. You arch again and his wet heat closes over your clit.

He is so warm and hot and wet. The busy throbbing of the toy works you open and you have a sudden craving for something thick and long. Your desire coils in your belly and the grunts and whines he pulls from you would be embarrassing except you are so full of feeling, you cannot think enough to be self-conscious.

Yoongi flutters his tongue over the center of your desire a few times before he sucks and slurps so loudly, so juicily, so steadily, that you finally, finally break. He eats you out through the tsunami of endorphins until you push him away, unable to handle any more stimulation.

He plants another kiss on the inside of your knee and rolls to the side. Your immediate instinct is to cover yourself and hide, but before you can, Yoongi wets and warms a washcloth. He gently wipes your thighs and abdomen before he hands it to you to finish cleaning yourself off.

“I’m sorry, I was late, Y/N,” he says hoarsely.

He grabs himself a washcloth and wipes you off his mouth and face.

You sit up and reach for your robe, wrapping it around you. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t want to be my husband anymore. That this was your way of telling me you were stepping down from your position on the council.”

You hear him suck in a breath. “Even if I were still upset, I would never do that to you,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you say sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you doubt my commitment to you and this position. I know I’ve been distant lately,” he says. “At first, it was because I needed space, but then, the harvest and all the extra work our people needed me to help with used up all my energy.”

You pull your robe even tighter and the air around you warms even more. You want to tell Yoongi that it’s okay, that he can release some of his magic because he must be exhausted, but you are wrung out. You allow him to take care of you in this small way. You allow him to make up for his withdrawnness these past few weeks.

“Today’s been the worst day,” he explains even as he’s gotten up and starts clearing the burnt remains in the fire pits. “They needed me to stay late and harvest with magic when one of the combines broke down. Of course, by the time I realized how late it was, I discovered I’d left my phone at home! And then the truck got a bad flat on the way back and somehow, I also got stuck in a ditch and had to first push the blasted thing out.”

You listen, interjecting your small grunts and hums to acknowledge his words. You lean into the familiar rise and falls of his low drawl and somewhere in there, you make a mental note to figure out how to spell his tires without the spellwork fading due to regular wear and tear.

He eventually stops talking and when he does, he gently escorts you back into the cottage, up the stairs, and tucks you into your bed. Alone.

“I promise I’m committed to you, Y/N,” he says quietly. “I get where you were coming from, and I know it must have been so difficult. I’m sorry I couldn’t support you better.”

You can’t decide whether you feel relief or compounded mortification and don’t reply.

Yoongi slips out your door and closes it with a soft click.

It is finally silent, and your mind catches on to what you have done. What you had allowed Yoongi to do to you.

You only know that every consummation in the future will be a mockery. How can you go through the motions of them, lying there bored and focused on the solemnity of the event until Yoongi spills into you when you now know how it could be?

You feel betrayed by your body, this same form you’ve embodied and had never been able to coax into a climax remotely close to what Yoongi did tonight.

You feel robbed.

You are a husk. A hollowed out facsimile of who you used to be.

You pull your covers over your head, curl into yourself, and cry.

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Yoongi staggers to the bathroom and efficiently strips himself. He stares at the hard-on he’s had since the moment he stumbled upon you splayed out in the clearing, close to coming but not able to get there on your own. He gets under the stinging hot water and slides a palm around his length as he closes his eyes. All he can think of is how you tasted, the slight sting of the clove oil on his tongue. He strokes himself to the memory of your softness under him, of your wanton mewls, and the echo of your climax reverberating down your psychic link.

Yoongi comes in thick, white ropes. The water sluices his release down the drain, the only evidence of his orgasm residing in his muddled, pheromone-high brain.

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When Yoongi heads to his truck the next morning after a hurried breakfast, he finds you squatting by his spare tire. You are writing in a very tiny, careful script with a fine-point Sharpie pen.

“I’m just going to replace the tire when I get into town,” he says, amused.

Without skipping a beat, you say, “Then this will take you into town safely. You know spare tires are spindly and worthless little things.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, “just so.” His heart aches in a queer sort of way as he watches you finish up the spell, stand up, and dust off your bottom.

“All set,” you say.

He grumbles his thanks and hops in the cab, settles his bag on the passenger side of the bench, and drives off. He does not understand why he keeps glancing back in the rear view mirror until you finally make your way inside.

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The days pass quickly. Yoongi’s life is an endless cycle of sleeping, eating, and working. His body is spent and so is his magic. He makes marginally more effort to get home early or text you updates throughout the day, but mostly, his mind is consumed with the physical work of harvesting and storing crops.

When the harvest festival finally comes and goes, Yoongi sleeps for a week straight.

Again, he has bleary memories of food and drink magically appearing by his bedside and the emptied dishes magically disappearing when he’s done. He knows the magic is you.

Even in the haze of sleep and rest, his depleted brain tries very hard to make him realize that the quiet ways you care for him should have made your love for him obvious from the start. In his rare moments of lucidity, he wonders if the way he cares for you is also love — and if it is, if it’s the same sort.

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“Are you getting up today or do you need one more day of being completely unconscious?” you ask from Yoongi’s doorway.

“Why?” he croaks as he barely lifts his head from his pillow, “do you need me to open a jar for you or something?”

“As if I need your help for things,” you scoff and then immediately color.

“Hmmmm,” he hums thoughtfully. He thumps his face back on the bed. His mind flashes to that night, of your slick body spread underneath the moonlight, of your desperate need and his offer to help.

You seem acutely embarrassed. “That doesn’t count,” you sputter.

“Cute,” he replies, gently teasing.

Yoongi doesn’t know why he goads you except that your scowl is all the reason he needs.

You tug at the frayed edge of your old sweater, which now that he thinks about it, seems awfully familiar. He thinks it’s one of his that went missing last fall.

“Is that my sweater?” he asks.

“What?” you stammer. “No! This is mine!”

Yoongi sits up, his blankets a mess around him. He squints and peers closer. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s my sweater. I’ve been looking for it.”

You peek down and lift your arms to examine the sweater more closely. “Oh, I suppose it might have belonged to you at one point.” You shift cagily. “Weird.”

“What else of my clothing do you want to steal?” He grins lazily. “Don’t think that I don’t know you also have my favorite pair of flannel pajama pants.”

This time, your expression is absolutely one of guilt.

Yoongi has a flash of mischief. He stretches and doesn’t miss the way your eyes drink him in. Then he pulls off his sleep shirt and throws it at you. “This one’s for free,” he says as he gets out of bed and stalks toward you.

He’s not even a little bit ashamed when you bolt down the hall to your room and slam the door.

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Yoongi’s cackles follow you into your room even as you are desperately trying to banish the images of his bare chest, his strength rippling under his skin. He isn’t buff or hugely muscular by any means, but he is broad and strong and solid.

He is safe. He is secure.

He is a menace.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s mocking you for loving him and needing his help that night, except that seems completely out of character. Instead, you choose to believe that it is his way of signaling to you that your feelings are okay.

Yoongi may not return them, but he’s comfortable with it — and he wants you to be comfortable with it, too.

You sniff his shirt. It is still warm from his body and smells of sweat, earth, and whatever is ineffably Yoongi.

He is a gift.

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“I’m sorry about earlier, Y/N,” Yoongi says as he clomps down the stairs.

You look up from your book. You are sprawled over the couch in the family room, trying to grab the sunny spot before it disappears and you have to turn on a light.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” you ask as you arrange yourself in a less dissolute position.

Yoongi sits down next to you on the sage green sofa. “For teasing you, I guess. About, you know,” he falters.

Apparently he can pester you but he can’t talk about it straight on. Interesting. You decide that you can be an adult about it. Especially if it will make him squirm more than you expected.

“About being in love with you or about you giving me an assist during the harvest moon consummation?” You tamp down your own need to squirm. You don’t enjoy talking about this in the open, but perhaps if you act as if it’s no big deal, Yoongi won’t bring it up anymore.

Yoongi unexpectedly lowers his face into his palms like he is shy all of a sudden. “Um, the ‘in love’ bit,” he replies. “The other night was to help you fulfill our duties. It was my fault for being so late anyway. Truthfully, you were covering for me.”

“That is true,” you say as if you’re considering his point (and you are). “But you were also fulfilling your obligations,” you add charitably.

“Look, I know I reacted poorly at first,” Yoongi expresses, “but at the time, it was all mixed up with Jimin in my mind.”

To your surprise, Yoongi’s words no longer feel accusatory. You don’t know if that is growth on his part or yours. Maybe both.

“And now?”

Yoongi flashes a bashful smile — a heady contrast to his smirky, cocky confidence from before. “Now, well, now I think it’s sweet.” He pushes up the sleeves of his black long sleeve tee and you can’t help but admire his corded forearms. “I keep thinking how I would have wanted Jimin to react to my loving him, and I think even if he didn’t love me back, I would’ve wanted him to be a good sport about it.”

“Yes, that’s what we would all hope for, our beloved being a good sport,” you intone dryly.

Yoongi shoots you a pointed look. “Well, obviously, we want them to love us back, but we can’t control how people feel.”

You hear the dual apology and warning in his words. “Do you still love him?”

“Sometimes, I think I do.” Yoongi shifts in his seat. “And sometimes, I think I love a memory and not the reality of him. We don’t talk as much as we used to, and I know marriage with Taehyung has changed him.”

“He’s different, but he’s still our Jimin,” you say, trying to comfort Yoongi. “Maybe the core of who you love is still there, but he just manifests differently.”

Yoongi leans forward slightly and then crinkles his brow. “I suppose you’re right.” He stands and his sleeves fall past his wrists. You try not to watch as he combs his fingers through his hair. “At any rate, I know how precious loving someone can be. And telling them you love them is entrusting them with a part of your heart.”

You quirk your head. He is perplexing. “I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, Yoongi,” you admit.

Yoongi rakes his fingers through his hair again, a little frustrated and, you think, also a little sheepishly. “I just mean that it means something to me, that you love me. That you trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks heat. You want to look away even as you’re not sure if you can.

“I’ll try to be worthy of your love is all,” he mutters, “to not betray your trust.”

“That — that’s actually really sweet of you.”

He muffles a curse. “Jesus, I’m not a monster, Y/N,” he grumbles and then asks, “what are you in the mood for for dinner?” as if that’s the end of that. At your shrug, he merely mentions he’ll think of something, and then he disappears into the kitchen.

You try to resume your reading, but the sun has moved and you know you should get up to turn on a light. Instead, you shift to the window and look out, wondering what Yoongi thought of when he used to sit here waiting for Jimin.

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Yoongi has been incepted.

That’s the only explanation he can think of even though he knows his favorite movie is merely a work of fiction. Even if such a thing were possible via magic, it would go against so many ethical tenets about autonomy and agency that there is no way the Witches’ Council would ever approve of such a thing.

Nevertheless, he cannot think of another reason why he is suddenly obsessed with you. At first, he thinks it’s because he’s never had someone love him (shocking as that is — the world is full of people with exceedingly bad taste). Then, he thinks it’s because he’s just trying to figure out how to be mindful of your feelings with his actions (he has a lot to make up for). And now, well, now he thinks it’s because you’re adorable.

He’s not sure why he never noticed. Yoongi attributes it to the unfortunate byproduct of living and working together for so long. He has taken you for granted and stopped seeing you as you are. He wonders what else about your work and personal relationship he’s taken for granted (your choice to cede ritual completion to him, for instance).

He wonders if love can manifest differently, feel differently, inhabit his body differently depending on the person he loves. He does not know. He has only ever loved Jimin, but maybe, maybe he has loved you, too. Maybe it was too quiet and soft for him to notice, like the light of a distant star in the sky next to the full moon.

He decides that it’s time to see if a distant star can become his sun.

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“Hey, Y/N,” Yoongi says at dinner about a week before the winter solstice. “I want to try something new for the upcoming consummation.”

You look up from the gaeng ped gai faktong you’ve been shoveling into your mouth. After the day you’ve had, the hearty Thai red curry with chicken and pumpkin is perfect and comforting.

“What? Why?” as you continue eating.

If you’re honest, nothing is more boring than the quarterly consummation duties and other than your out of character breakdown right after the last one, you have given very little thought to it. (Mostly because you’ve been busy, and why brood over what you can’t have?)

Yoongi eats a spoonful of curry and rice and wiggles in happiness. “The last time made me realize that we need contingencies in place in case one of us is indisposed again.”

You level him a look. “Stop being oblique, Yoongi,” you say. You set down your spoon. “We both know that if I’m not available, you won’t have an issue.”

“Ok, fine,” Yoongi sighs. “You’re right. I most likely won’t.” He also sets his spoon down and props his chin on his palm. His fingers tap his cheek. “I just didn’t want you to feel singled out because even though it seems as if it’s your problem, it’s not. It’s our joint concern.”

You cock an eyebrow at him. “I don’t see how it can be anything other than my problem. I’m the one who has difficulty achieving orgasm.”

You are proud of yourself for how matter-of-fact you sound about this, but inside, you want to scream. You know Yoongi is not trying to humiliate you, and technically, this falls within the bounds of work-related performance. He is right to plan for the future in this manner. You just wish it doesn’t make you feel somewhat worthless when it generally doesn’t bother you at all.

“Well, we’ve always gone about it in a rather clinical sort of way,” Yoongi says reasonably. “I can’t imagine that to be very conducive to getting off.”

“You always seem to manage,” you grumble.

Yoongi winks at you. “I do have a rather vivid imagination,” he rejoins, “but it would be a lot easier even for me if we went about it differently.”

You feel awful. “I didn’t realize it was so terrible for you.”

Your husband reaches out and grabs your hand. “Y/N,” he intones gently, “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It really isn’t your fault. Your body is your body and it responds the way it responds. I think most people wouldn’t enjoy our consummations much — and if they did, they would most certainly be the male.”

He squeezes your hand in comfort.

“Besides,” he continues, “how come you aren’t upset at me for not making the experience more pleasurable for you? Why are you only focusing on what you perceive as your body’s failure when it is equally mine for not helping?”

You are at a loss for words. “I — I don’t know,” you finally say. “I guess I never really gave it much thought. And since I’ve never particularly wanted to have consummations with other people, I figured it was me.”

“Well, you clearly are capable of being the one to complete the ritual. I think we just need to practice.”

Yoongi states this so nonchalantly that you almost agree. And then, you recall him begging to sleep with you because he’d had a string of unsatisfactory relations.

“Wait, this isn’t because your sexual activities have yielded less than favorable outcomes is it?” you probe.

Hurt flashes across Yoongi’s face. “Y/N, you told me you didn’t want to do that, and I respect your boundaries. I don’t need to trick you to sleep with me.” He withdraws his hand and yours now feels too empty. “I meant that we could try new approaches during our quarterly consummations.”

“Oh,” you reply. You don’t know why you are slightly disappointed, but you don’t stop to overanalyze it. “I suppose that would be alright, although we’ll have to do our best with the timing.”

“There is no restriction on how many orgasms we have, just that it’s better to culminate near the apex of the moon,” Yoongi reasons. “We’ll figure it out.”

You think Yoongi is a touch too optimistic, but you don’t mention it. He changes the subject to the winter festival you’re in the midst of planning (there really are too many festivals but you suppose celebrating and gratefulness are good for town morale), and you fall back into the rhythm of discussing less consummation-related aspects of your work.

Later, as the night winds down and you are both heading upstairs to your respective rooms, he says, “Oh, one more thing.”

“Hmmm?” you hum, mind only on taking a shower and then collapsing into bed. “What’s that?”

“We may want to consider letting our guards around our psychic link drop during the consummation,” he says. “I’ve read that it may help.”

Your mind harkens back to the times Yoongi has lost control — even for mere seconds — and how it left your body roaring with desire. You swallow. “Oh, sure,” you say, even though you feel vulnerable just thinking about it. “I guess we can do that.”

As if he can read your thoughts, he appends, “But only if you are comfortable doing so, Y/N.” He pauses by your door as you head into your room. “It can just be me opening the link, too, or neither of us.”

“How will you opening your link help me if you’re not really getting anything out of it?” you ask as you mindlessly fix your bed covers.

“Oh, trust me,” he chuckles from your doorway, and you can’t help but be drawn to him. “I’ll get plenty out of it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Giving you pleasure will give me pleasure,” he says, laughter still laced in his tone. “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

You mumble a “good night” and get ready to shower. Your skin tingles and feels hot, as does your heart. No matter that you are apprehensive, you cannot bring yourself to regret.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

When the day of winter consummation finally arrives, you wake up feeling out of sorts. Your tummy will not settle and you keep running to the bathroom to pee or poop. You are glad that Yoongi is out most of the morning and won’t return until the early afternoon for a late lunch.

You occupy yourself with administrative duties for the town and when that no longer effectively distracts you, you lock yourself in the workroom and decide to clean and calibrate all your spell-making tools. When that is done, you inventory your pantries to make sure you’re all stocked for both cooking and potion brewing.

And so, your day passes until your alarm sounds around 5pm. You swing by the kitchen to eat a light supper with Yoongi, and then, before you know it, it’s time to prepare.

“You ready, Y/N?” Yoongi asks after you’ve finished clearing and washing the dishes.

You swallow and nod. “Yeah.”

Yoongi smiles softly at you. “At any point you feel uncomfortable, we can stop. I can just finish the rite on my own like we discussed.”

“I know.” You shudder in a deep breath and then let it loose slowly. “I trust you.”

“This means a lot to me, you know,” he murmurs. He reaches a hand out to you, palm up, and you put your hand in his. “I’ve drawn the bath. Come.”

You follow him into the bathroom and though you’ve done the bathing and anointing by yourself for the last fifteen or so years, you are nervous. You are grateful that despite the cottage being small, the bathroom can comfortably accommodate you both. There is a double sink vanity with ample counter space by the door, a tiny shower stall with clear glass panels, a toilet in the corner, and a giant cast iron clawfoot tub taking pride of place.

Yoongi has already filled the old tub with hot water and the scents of sandalwood, geranium, and ylang ylang fill your nostrils. Your special robes are folded on a wooden stool nearby and freshly washed towels are stacked on another.

You are about to remove your clothing when Yoongi stops you and merely says, “Please. Let me.”

He enters your space and lightly brushes your hair from your forehead. He taps your chin so that you meet his gaze. He runs his fingers down then up your arms and back down your torso before hooking them under the hem of your favorite sweatshirt. He smirks when he realizes that this, too, used to be his.

(Very well, you may have a problem with stealing — though you prefer to see it as reappropriating. Yoongi has a shopping problem, and you are merely helping him keep his closet clutter-free.)

Yoongi begins to lift your sweatshirt and you raise your arms to assist him. What you don’t realize is that he has also pulled off the long sleeve tee you have on underneath it as well. You don’t know why the reality of you standing in a bra and leggings in front of your husband has you off-kilter.

“You okay?” he checks, and you assure him that you are fine.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before,” you insist.

“That’s true,” he replies, “but I don’t know that I’ve truly looked. You deserve someone to take you in with intention.”

You roll your eyes at the cheesiness of his line, but you also allow his words to seep into your heart just a tiny bit. (You would chastise yourself, except you tell yourself this is for your actual job.)

Yoongi leans slightly against the sinks and pulls you in closer between his legs. He reaches behind you, efficiently unhooking your bra. The straps slide down your arms and they tickle your skin as he pulls it down and places it on top of your discarded garments.

“Wait,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers hover at your waist. “I want to see you, too.”

Yoongi’s mouth crooks in pleased confidence and spreads his arms, bracing them on the counter behind him. “Have at it then.”

You smooth your hand up his stomach and chest and begin to unbutton his yellow and black checkered flannel shirt. When you’re done, he shrugs out of the sleeves and tosses his shirt on top of your clothes. Yoongi’s white heattech undershirt hugs his torso tightly, the contours of his pecs and stomach filling it out nicely while you can just see a hint of the dark brown of his nipples through the material. You unceremoniously tug his undershirt up and pull it over his head.

“Oh,” you breathe even though this, too, is not the first time you’ve seen your husband naked. You cannot resist running your fingers lightly down the trail of fine, black hair down to the low-slung waistband of his joggers.

Yoongi draws in a sharp breath.

Your eyes flit to his. You have never seen his eyes quite so black or gaze so focused. You wonder if this is how he used to look at Jimin. You decide to ask.

“Is this how you used to look at Jimin?”

Yoongi places his large hands around your waist and strokes at your skin idly. “Oh, Y/N, I’m just getting started,” he rasps, both not answering and answering your question at the same time. “May I?” he asks as his fingers start dragging down your leggings.

“Please,” you reply evenly. (It takes great effort, but you manage.)

He first rolls your leggings and panties down your thighs and then kneels so he can finish taking them off. When he slips them off along with your socks (he really is very efficient at skipping steps), his face is level with your mound. His eyes flick first to your sex and then to your gaze. His tongue slips out and then slips back in. His lower lip is shiny with spit.

He slinks back up into a standing position and is about to pull his own joggers off when he instead quirks a brow at you. “Your turn,” he says, like a challenge.

The nerve.

You follow his example and drag down his joggers and black boxer briefs as you sink to your knees. You also pull them off along with his socks and when you dare to look up, you are confronted with his cock right at your face. He’s still mostly soft, but you suppose there is plenty of time before the ritual. You do not take it personally. You know you are nowhere near the main event yet.

You stand back up and make more room between you two so you can take in Yoongi in all his naked glory. His shoulders are broad, his arms are strong, his stomach is flat, and his legs are lean. Yoongi is also drinking you in, his gaze heavy and hot as it trails from your head down to your toes and back up again.

“Come,” he says again, grabbing your hand.

He lifts a leg and climbs into the tub. He settles in and steam rises from the water. He lifts both his hands and runs them through his long, dark locks. They leave his hair damp, and your belly stirs.

“Come on, Y/N,” he repeats, “the water is just right.”

You think this is a bit overdone, but you join him in the giant basin anyway. Your instinct is to sit on the opposite end and face him, but you soon realize that there isn’t a way to do that comfortably. You settle for using him as an armchair, unused to such closeness in such a tight confine.

Yoongi grabs a bathing sponge and squeezes warm water down the back of your neck. You feel your skin prinkle into goosebumps and resist the urge to shiver. He takes the cake of ceremonial soap and lathers the sponge then begins to gently and firmly rub the skin of your shoulders, arms, neck, and back.

You feel the skin of his chest and belly against your back as he leans forward and continues to slather soapy circles at your decolletage, on your stomach and around your breasts, lightly abrading your nipples. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. Though you don’t hear him laugh, you can feel the light shake in his body and the smug content he allows to travel through your connection.

“Is this alright?” he asks, and you know he is not asking about the physical touch but the psychic one.

“It is,” you reply, the warmth of the bath and the heat radiating from Yoongi’s body putting you at ease.

His mouth is by your ear and pleasure slinks down your spine. “Good,” he murmurs. He adds more soap and then lowers his hands below the water line, softly scrubbing your thighs and only lightly brushing your sex.

You are shocked at the sudden thrill that shoots through your gut from that tiny contact alone.

“Shhhh,” Yoongi shushes, his wet mouth still at your neck, so close to your ear. The sensation is delicious and you draw up your legs to allow him easier access.

You get so lost in the sensations of him washing you that you lose track of time. The fact that Yoongi can keep the water at the same temperature with his magic contributes to that floating feeling. When he holds your hands in his to help wash himself, you are practically boneless. You are certain you’re not doing anything for Yoongi except the curling warmth of arousal pulsing down from Yoongi’s link tells you otherwise.

All too soon (or is it too long), Yoongi nudges you to stand up. The cool air hits your body and your skin awakens after being lulled to sleep. He holds out a fluffy gray towel, pats you dry, and then does the same for himself.

“Sit,” he says, indicating the wooden stool the towels were resting on and fetches the clary sage infused anointing oil.

You feel him drip the oil on your back and shoulders and are surprised when he massages it into your skin rather than just spreading it with his hands. When he is done, he stands naked in front of you, reverently drizzling the oil on your chest. You note that he is no longer quite so soft. You watch as his hands, so strong and veiny, caress your breasts, thumb your nipples, and smooth over your abdomen. You watch as he finishes applying the oil to your thighs, legs, and feet, and you realize that the curl of arousal in your gut is no longer just his.

Yoongi hands you the ginseng infused anointing oil to you and you try your best to mimic what he did earlier for you. His skin is smooth and hot under your palms. You wonder why you had never thought to touch him before during your consummations and think you can get used to this new way of doing things. His arms and legs are hard with muscle and you find yourself stunned that you find even the dark hair on his legs attractive.

When you’re done, you both don your robes and go downstairs to carry the previously set aside grain, meat, fruit, wine, and other ceremonial paraphernalia. You feel as if in a dream except even in your dreams, you have never imagined such a sensual evening.

Yoongi clears a path in the light snow to the ceremonial area. From the look of it, he had gone out earlier in the day to clean and arrange the fire pits in a circle. Yoongi flicks his hands and a low fire alights in the bronze bowls. He pauses at the edge of the circle and turns to you.

“Do you want the ground to be damp dirt or snow?” he asks. “I can make the dirt less wet, but it will take some time.”

You know from experience that though snow is easier for him now, the wetness will seep into the sheepskins much faster than the slightly wet earth. (You could spell the sheepskins, but tradition dictates that they are not. Something about being closer to nature or whatever nonsense.) “Dirt, please.”

“As you wish,” Yoongi says and turns back to the circle.

He focuses and with a few compact and purposeful gestures reminiscent of martial arts (though martial arts were initially derived from elemental witches), the snow in the center of the ring is cleared. You think he even removes some of the moisture from the top layer of earth, but it’s only a little bit.

He was always an overachiever.

You lay down multiple sheepskins and thick blankets. Even though Yoongi will likely warm some of the air around you, you try to make life a little bit easier for him if you can. You set down the washcloths, the warmed oil, the water, and Yoongi readies the offerings.

“Ready?” he asks, and you reply, “Yes.”

Yoongi offers the grain and then throws it into its designated fire pit. He warms the grain quickly and when it’s done roasting, he gathers a few grains in his hand and instead of eating it himself, he brings it to your lips.

“Open,” he suggests. In the low light of the fire, his eyes seem completely black.

You open and his fingers touch your lips as you eat the grain from his hand. He looks at you expectantly so you follow his lead, gather some grains and lift your hand to feed him. His lips part and when he mouths the offering from your fingertips, his lips are wet and you remember them on your cunt.

When he throws the rest of the grain on the brazier to be consumed, you are warm not only because of the flames.

The offering of the meat goes in much the same way. Yoongi sears the meat in the bronze bowl, slices the steak and feeds you by hand. When you return the offering to him, his tongue slips out to lick your fingers. You are so surprised, you almost drop the meat onto the ground. The self-satisfied grin he flashes you stokes the tiny fire that he’s lit in your depths. You will yourself not to look away.

You bring out the persimmons and though you personally prefer them when they’re crisp, Yoongi has chosen ones that are so ripe, the skin almost falls off. You presume he does so because they’re decadent and incredibly sweet. This time, you offer him a slice of persimmon first, the juice running down your fingers and wrist. You expect him to lick your fingers again, but you do not expect him to start licking from your wrist. He sucks the fleshy fruit from your fingers and a shot of desire flares from your cunt to your belly. Though you have not shared your link to him, Yoongi looks as if he knows.

He feeds you your portion and you are not nearly as shameless, but you want to be. You toss the rest of the persimmon into the fire and when Yoongi twirls his fingers to burn the offering faster, you think of his fingers inside you and you long for this part of the ceremony to be over.

Yoongi pours a chalice of ice wine and sips it, licking his lips. After he takes another mouthful, he pulls you in close and kisses you with an open mouth, pushing the wine into your mouth with his tongue. The fact that he thrusts his tongue into your awaiting mouth and doesn’t stop forces you to swallow around him. The guttural moan he makes combined with the flood of pleasure he sends down his connection to you drags a reciprocal moan from you.

Your senses are alight and though you know the air is cold, your body burns.

Yoongi pours some of the ice wine in the fire pit and then empties the bottle into the earth. When he is done, he reaches for your hand once again.

“Come, Y/N,” he says, his eyes intense, and for the first time, you are excited for what comes next.

He leads you to the pile of sheepskins and blankets and quirks his head as if asking permission to remove your robe. You assent and he does so, removing his own as well. You feel the air warm around you (but not before the first frisson of the winter air kisses your skin). He lowers you carefully onto the coverings. Through your shared connection, you feel his desire for you and though you also feel desire — feel it envelop you in its grip — you also feel wonder.

“Still okay with this?” he asks, his body and lips hovering over yours.

You reach for his face and cup his jaw in your hand. “I am,” you say.

You don’t know if you pull him towards you or if he lowers himself of his own accord, but the next thing you know, he is kissing you full on the mouth. His lips taste like sweet ice wine. You can’t recall the last time you were kissed let alone this hungrily. He nips, he soothes, he sucks and at his insistence, you open. He licks into your mouth, his tongue exploring the hidden hollows of your mouth. You think you could kiss him forever.

You feel one of his rough hands palm and knead your breasts, his thumb flicking your nipple lazily. He kisses up your jawline and licks into your ear, nibbles on your earlobe, and breathes hot and heavy at the curve of your neck.

“So sweet, Y/N,” he mouths, “you taste so sweet. Could taste you forever.”

Your first instinct is to retort that it’s the ice wine he’s tasting, except when he moves his hand to your neck — not to choke or hurt you — but to hold you still, to splay your throat beneath him, your brain can’t form words.

Yoongi prowls down your body, his mouth devouring your throat, your collarbones, your decolletage. Wherever you have skin, his mouth and tongue licks and kisses, leaving a trail of hot saliva that cools immediately. When he surrounds your breast with that same mouth and tongue, you arch more fully into him. He suckles you and when the ravening hunger comes down the link, you can’t believe it’s for you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp. You want. You grasp his head between your hands and press him lower, the memory of him suctioning on your heated core spurring you on.

You feel his amusement both through your connection and from the light shaking huffs of his body as he continues kissing down your torso, finally advancing to the heart of your need.

Just before he reaches your sex, Yoongi looks up. His eyes are so blown. “Is this where you wanted me?” he rasps. He flicks his tongue on your clit and your hips jerk. “Is this what you wanted?” He blows lightly over your heat and you almost cry.

“Yes,” you beg, “yes, Yoongi, yes.”

“You sure?”

You see him pull his mouth into a smug little half smile and suddenly, you are wild for him. You don’t know what comes over you, but you grab his hair and steer his face into your center. “Please,” you plead. “Please, Yoongi, please.”

You can tell by the quirk of his eyebrows that Yoongi is amused, but you don’t care. You let loose your guards, allowing your desperation to pulse through your being and into his. This time when Yoongi smiles, it is pure joy, stripped of swagger and stunting.

“As you command,” he croons and proceeds to swipe the flat of his tongue up over your slit.

Yoongi spreads you with his hands and eats you like the sweetest of peaches, like the ripest of papayas. His grunts and groans vibrate against your entrance and when he tongues you, all hot and slippery between your folds, you fist the blankets beneath you. He feasts and you writhe, eager and willing.

He delves his quick and clever tongue deep into you and noses your tight cluster of nerves until finally, your blood boils and you burst, Yoongi’s name tearing from your lips.

“Fuck,” Yoongi moans as he slurps up your release. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the harvest moon,” he says as he kisses back up your body.

You know better than to trust his words. You know he’s been on a mission to seduce you and wring pleasure from your body. “You don’t have to say that, Yoongi,” you say. “You’ve already gotten an orgasm from me — although the moon isn’t high enough yet. I suppose we started too early.”

“When have I ever said things just to say it, Y/N?” Yoongi peppers soft kisses along your face. “I said I’ve been thinking about how your pussy tastes for months, and I meant it.” His fingers smooth down your brows and the slope of your nose. He kisses you again and you taste yourself on him, slightly sharp but mostly neutral with a hint of metal.

“And now that you’ve had it again?” you can’t help but ask.

Yoongi sucks on your lower lip and spears his tongue into your mouth again. “Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m going to go crazy waiting until the next consummation.”

You giggle. “Surely it doesn’t always feel like that?”

Yoongi hums as he nuzzles and fondles your breasts. You can’t quite believe he’s still touching you, but you suppose he still has yet to find his release. There is still the ritual to complete and the moon is starting to close in on its highest position.

“Not always,” he replies, busying himself as if he wants to map all the hills and valleys of your body. “Sometimes it’s better. Sometimes, less so.” He nips the curve of your waist and you cry out in surprise. “That’s the fun of it. It’s different every time.”

“Is that why our consummations aren’t fun for you? They’re the same every time?”

Yoongi sits up and you mourn the loss of his physical attentions. He hands you a bottle of water, and you prop yourself up to drink it more easily.

“They weren’t fun because they felt so sterile,” Yoongi explains. “It was just another duty to perform, like filling out a form or attending a council meeting.”

“It sounds so antiseptic when you say that.”

“Isn’t it how we usually go about it?” he asks, his voice warm against your skin.

“What just happened doesn’t feel antiseptic,” you say with wonder. “It felt alive.” You swallow. “I felt alive.”

Yoongi smiles a true smile, gummy and adoring, and you feel such love and affection come through your link. You are momentarily nonplussed when you notice the love, but you think perhaps it’s the platonic sort.

“I think that’s how the ritual is supposed to feel,” he muses. “I used to think it was nothing but a tradition — that it’s just symbolic. But now, I hope I’m wrong. I hope that feeling of being alive transmutes the ritual into a deeper magic.”

Again, you feel that pulse of love travel down the link from Yoongi to you. You’re not sure if Yoongi realizes his guard is still down, except he’s a meticulous sort. He definitely knew what he was doing when he opened his connection to you. He is not the type to forget such an asset.

You decide to be brave and send out a pulse of your own. You are rewarded with another smile from Yoongi, all fond and tender at the edges.

“What changed?” you ask, knowing that Yoongi will know what you mean.

You suddenly feel shy and a retroactive solidarity with Yoongi about how bashful he’d seemed regarding your feelings for him. You realize he was right: someone loving you is a precious, fragile thing. You don’t know if you are worthy. You don’t know if you can satisfy him — and you really, really want to.

“I thought love was like a wildfire, hot and consuming everything in its path. Instead, it’s socks that stay warm and dry in the winter and my mother’s kimchi jjigae on the stove.”

You push him lightly on the shoulder. “Did you just compare our love to your socks?” You chuckle at his expense even though you know exactly what he means.

“I did,” he admits. “It’s not very romantic, is it?” Yoongi shakes his head ruefully. “Your love covers me wherever I go, Y/N. You’re the interstices of my life, like your spellwork and wards, protecting me and easing my life. Hidden until something breaks to expose its inner workings.”

Yoongi lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms. You go so easily.

“Our love is quiet. You and I are quiet,” he says, “and for the longest time, I couldn’t see it because I thought love was only loud. I thought it should disrupt my life — that love would shine so bright, I had to shield my eyes from the glare.”

You lean your head against his chest and listen to the steady beating of his heart. Yoongi is wrong. His love is so loud. It beats so strong, you can hear nothing else.

You suppose you can both be right.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies. “I finally recognized it as a mirror of my own.”

“You can just say it, you know,” you grumble. “It doesn’t have to be all warm breakfasts and subtle gestures.”

He turns to face you. “I love you, Y/N,” Yoongi says, not quite looking you in the eye. He’s staring at a spot just to the left of your gaze, but you’ll forgive him. (It gives you something to tease him about later.)

You brush his black hair back from his forehead and kiss him. “It’s getting near the time for optimal ritual completion.”

Yoongi laughs. “If you want me to see if I can try for a second orgasm from you, just tell me.”

“That’s — that’s not what I meant!” you cry indignantly. “I’m not greedy.”

He shifts you so that you are now more on top of him than not. He pulls you towards him and kisses you. “Maybe you should be.”

Yoongi reaches for the clove oil and pours some on his hand and then yours. He brings your hand to his length, still so hard from before. You find it amazing that he has been unflagging this whole time.

“Maybe you should take me and take from me,” he husks, his voice straining as you inexpertly handle him.

His large hand guides your own and he shows you how tightly he wants you wrapped around him. Yoongi’s breathing gets harder even as his member does the same. Even as he’s guiding you, he doesn’t stop kissing you, his lips molding yours to his, as if you are his very food and breath.

You accidentally graze his balls as you’re stroking him and he jerks. “Shit” he hisses, “do that again.”

You fondle his balls again as he continues pumping into his own hand. Though all he is doing is kissing you, the feedback you’re getting from his side of the link is also stoking your own desires. And then, you realize you are getting wet again. It is as Yoongi said: pleasing him also pleases you.

“You up for riding me?” he entreats.

You straddle him and line him to your entrance in lieu of answering. Though you haven’t tried this position before, you find that your body knows what to do. You sink down on him slowly, not wanting to hurt him. In doing so, you feel the bulbous head of his cock nudge into you, stretching and sliding one delicious inch after another.

You feel so full, like he is deep in your guts.

Yoongi’s face is scrunched in concentration, tiny beads of sweat forming at his hairline. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and for the first time, you realize how much power you have over him. All these years, you’d thought the rite was about him spilling his seed in you, like the farmer sowing the earth. When all this time, it was the earth actively receiving, cradling and nourishing what the farmer gave her.

“You all sorted?” he grits out through clenched teeth.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m sorted.”

“Thank fuck. Please, baby, I need you to move.”

And so you move. You hear the slick squelch of your bodies melding along with Yoongi’s pants and low curses. He has one hand on your waist guiding you and the other kneading your breast and twisting your nipple. His tongue peeks out of his mouth and every now and then, you hear him mutter, “like that” or “take it” as he thrusts up into you.

You think you’ve got the hang of it but you’re nowhere near an orgasm like you had been earlier. Some of your anxiety must leak through your connection because Yoongi moves his hand from your waist to where the two of you are joined. Slowly, his thumb presses low circles in conjunction with his other hand flicking your nipple.

“Look at me, baby,” he grunts. “Let me in.”

You open up your connection fully and not only do you feel your own growing arousal from how he’s playing you, you feel the sensations of your cunt sliding over his cock, the ache in his balls, the coil in his gut. You feel how Yoongi is steadily losing his control, how much he loves you and longs to please you, how wild and delectable you are riding him.

The more you feel your coupling from his point of view, the more you relax and lose yourself in the process. You undulate your hips in an instinctual rhythm and soon, you are close.

“Yoongi,” you implore, “Yoongi, please.”

He shifts his angle just a bit under you and plants both his feet on the ground behind you and thrusts with all his might. You feel every bit of his cock sliding in and then out, in and then out, deeper and deeper up into your cunt. His thumb swirls your mess around your throbbing clit and you brace your hands on his chest.

You want to burst from your skin — not only from your own senses but from his, too. By now, thanks to your link, you are not sure where you end and he begins, and it doesn’t matter because one of you — no, both of you — are coming. You hear the flames in the surrounding braziers blaze higher and crackle, the sudden flare heating the air around you. It is the crash of waves against a cliff, an onslaught of winds in a storm, the silence of deep night and the pounding of your pulse.

You sob his name and yours is a prayer on his tongue.

Yoongi kisses you as if you are the only person in the world and you relish his insistent tongue, his disrespectful teeth, his decadent lips. He kisses you until you both calm down, the first rush of oxytocin dissipating in your blood.

“See?” Yoongi chuckles as you slump over him. He kisses your temples and your hair and smoothes his hands down your sweaty back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I think I’ve been my own worst enemy all these years. I don’t know how you were able to get that out of me so easily,” you say.

“Shhhh,” he mutters even as he captures your lips with his own once more. You’re beginning to think sex for Yoongi isn’t even about physical pleasure so much as it is about an intimate connection. “Even if it takes longer or isn’t easy, your enjoyment is worth the time it takes. You are worth exploring.”

“What if this is not a replicable feat?” you ask, worry rushing back in now that the afterglow is starting to recede.

Yoongi captures your gaze. “Then it’s not a replicable feat,” he says seriously, “and I’ll do whatever I can to make it as gratifying for you as possible even then. You’re not a machine, to perform at whatever whims our job necessitates.”

“All the same, we should still practice outside of our duties — like we used to,” you say slyly.

Your husband grins, crooked and a bit too cocky for your taste, but you suppose he wears it well. “As you say, Y/N. As you say.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Yoongi wakes up, his back aching and eyes squinting at how high the sun is now in the sky. You clearly have let him sleep in even though you, too, are likely exhausted from the harvest festival. You’ve begun to delegate even more aspects of the festivals to your staff, though still take lead on the majority of details for now. You reason that just as the two of you began contingency planning for your consummation rituals, your citizens should also have protections in place for them.

This last year’s fall harvest was more bountiful than Yoongi ever recalls in Tranquil Valley’s recent history. He wonders if it is merely coincidence or if the two of you have actually activated a deeper magic with your ritual consummations. He supposes it doesn’t much matter. Harvest or not, he will still ensure the two of you intimately connect until you both retire (and even after).

Though neither of you are particularly demonstrative in your love for each other, there is something about a clearly stipulated and understood state of affairs that makes your love more concrete. More discrete. More replete.

He pulls on some joggers and heads to the kitchen. Yoongi smiles though you are long vanished to your workroom, it being closer to lunch than breakfast. Despite the lateness of the hour, his morning repast of gyeran-mari and various banchan is laid out and awaiting him in the nook. His Americano is cold with just the right amount of ice, and his breakfast is warm.

~~~~~~~~~~~

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

Till Death Do Us Part | MYG

▻ Till Death Do Us Part ↳ Hitman Yoongi x Kidnapped f.Reader ⤜ Mafia/Arranged Marriage AU ⤜ Enemies/Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 41,132 ⤜ Summary: Marital bliss isn’t always a guarantee, especially when you find yourself marrying into the family responsible for your own family’s demise. Sometimes, marriage is just a game of kill or be killed. Even when there is love involved, bullets still hurt.

⚠️ This story contains violence, death, dub-con & non-con elements, heavy degradation, knifeplay, blood, and mild gore descriptions. Smut: breeding kink, sub/dom, restraints, biting/marking, oral. Virginity loss. Each chapter will have specific warnings listed.

Chapter 1:  We End How We Began, Covered In Blood

Chapter 2:  Enigmatic Decisions of The Heart

Chapter 3:  Enemy of My Enemy Is My F̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶ Lover

Chapter 4:  Epilogue: Body, Mind, & Soul

Story is complete.

Part of the Bangtan Writers HQ August 2022 “I Hate You, I Think” Writing Event.

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

◅ Back to Master List   ©️ 2022-08-30 ColorMePurplex2

Paradise | JJK - Masterlist

LAST UPDATE: 2/3/24 - Chapter 15

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: smut, neighbors to lovers, slow burn, love triangle, Stripper!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Word Count: 117k+ so far

Summary: That sexy man on stage - the one currently giving your friend the lap dance of her LIFE - is your super shy neighbor, Jeon Jungkook?!

Teaser

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Extras:

Paradise Moodboards

Welcome to Paradise playlist

Paradise Drabbles - a series of drabbles featuring various characters

Take the Paradise Poll & let me know what you think!

Ask My Muse - questions answered by Paradise characters

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜 

© 2021-22-23 sunshinerainbowsbts/minisugakookies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

---

🤌🏻

The Wood | JHS | (m)

❀ Pairing: witch!Hoseok x female reader

❀ Summary: From the moment you step foot in Kill Devil, you know something about the town is off. Determined to find out exactly how your sister went missing in such a small town, you receive unlikely help from the man staying in the motel room next to yours. But there is so much more than what meets the eye with Hoseok and the citizens of Kill Devil.

❀ Word Count: 16,786

❀ Genre: supernatural, psychological thriller, southern-gothic

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

❀ Warnings: Creepy town vibes somewhere in the south, unreliable narrator because she’s a dumb bitch, missing family member, descriptions of nightmares and night terrors, allusions to toxic citizens and intolerance in the southern US, cryptic exchanges, being attacked and choked by a strange entity, sleep paralysis, depictions of anxiety and panic and deep fear, manipulation, cat Yoongi.... sort of, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, slight hand job, a lot of spit and cum, fucking in a nasty ass motel room, mean Hoseok at the end, I don't know why I reference frogs so much please forgive me, ambiguous ending/unexplained ending, implied death of a side character off-screen

❀ Published: May 29, 2022

❀ A/N: Not only is this absolutely a million weeks late, it also is the longest it has ever - and I mean ever - taken me to write a fic. This was so hard for me to write, and I have deleted anad re-written thousands of words for this. The end result is something that I absolutely did not plan. This fic is ENTIRELY different from the original outline and idea, so at times it might seem where this piece doesn’t know where it’s going because it wasn’t until I got to the end of the smut scene last night that I realized what the hell this story needed. 

I want to thank @here2bbtstrash because I could not have written this fic without them, but also for the amazing and thorough beta they gave this. This was one of my choppier/messier pieces and they helped fix this so much and I have giant feelings for M that are very normal. Also a special thank you to @gimmethatagustd for keeping me somewhat sane while really struggling with this piece.

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

Masterlist | Ask | To Love A Monster Collab | Song Inspiration |

Only God can save us! 

It’s probably the tenth sign of the like that you’ve seen. Your palms feel sweaty on the wheel, the unsettling feeling in your stomach as you drive through God’s Country increasing. For some reason, as you catch glimpses of old abandoned churches at the end of red dirt roads and leaning fruit stands with no seller in sight, you think that perhaps God has forsaken this place. 

The drive has been unremarkable, but the closer you get to Kill Devil you think perhaps the town is aptly named. You can’t help but get the sense - especially when you stop at a gas station with no one inside and a single working pump - that there is a reason the town sports such a unique title. 

It’s hard to imagine why your sister would ever move here, even temporarily. Outside, the locusts whine, a high-pitched buzzsaw hidden in the boughs draped with Spanish moss. The paint on the road has long since faded, single lanes stretching North to South in an endless strip. 

Sticky heat prickles your skin. Though there’s no one else around save for you and the locusts, you can’t help but look around nervously, eyes scouring the oak trees. The door to the gas station is locked, and the other side of your single-station pump has a red bag on the handle. 

The sk sk sk of the pump is a slow heartbeat. Pulling out your phone while you wait, your stomach flips when you see that you have very little service. You’re about thirty minutes away from Kill Devil and an hour away from any major cities. Peppered along the map are small towns like Kill Devil, home to pecan farms, corn fields, and cotton gins. 

You feel a long way from home.

A tingle slides down the back of your neck. You look up from your phone, gaze sweeping back and forth through the trees and over the cracked pavement of the station. There’s nothing else there, but you have the sense that the trees have eyes. 

The pump clicks loudly and your heart lurches, hand flying to your chest as you shriek and turn. For a few moments, your heart beats so loudly in your ears you can’t hear the chirping of the locusts or your ragged breathing as you close your eyes, trying to level out your moment of panic. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling the handle and jiggling it lightly to ensure any dripping gas is shaken off. 

Naturally, you’re a pretty calm person. The jumpiness belongs to your mother, who screams every time someone turns a corner in the house unexpectedly. It’s something about the feeling that clings to you like a second skin as you get in the car that has you shaken. 

Or it’s the fact that your sister has been missing for two months. 

On instinct, your hand goes to the necklace around your throat. It’s a heart-shaped locket, which would seem cheesy to anyone else. But for you, it’s one of the few coveted items you have from her.

It’s also something that you swear burned you in the middle of the night two months ago. You’re not sure if you believe in spiritual intuition or connection between family members, but what you do know is that you haven’t heard from her, and the local police have been no help. 

Trust your gut. That’s what she’s always said. And you do trust your gut on this, this knowing that something is wrong. 

On the road again, your tension continues to increase. The land has turned to steep up and down hills, pines lined on either side of the road, pocked with deep canyons.

Orange tire tracks appear and disappear on the highway, turning off onto clay roads with washed-out shoulders and deep ruts from all of the rain over the summer. Your sister had mentioned the house she was renting was nearly impossible to get to when the rain was bad.

A green sign that says Kill Devil City Limits passes by. No welcome sign, no little plaque announcing the population. Your music skips in and out, the connection to your phone weak. You switch to FM, flinching at the roaring static that comes through, finger jamming on the arrows to skip through to something passable.

Country. Country. Church. Country. Rock. Pop. 

You leave it on the pop station, turning your eyes back to the road. A logging truck comes roaring up the hill, blasting by your sedan at top speed, making your car shake. Your heart squeezes in fear. You’ve passed over two dozen of them and they never drive any slower or any safer each time. 

You’re going to kill Hanna if you find her lounging in her house, making you come all this way.

She had taken up a story there, investigating the town's eerie occult background for the media company that she worked for. Her editor had stopped receiving updates from her around the same time you’d stopped hearing from her. 

When you called the landlord she was renting from, he was no help. Some idiot who owned seventeen houses dotted around the country, renting them out for twice the price they were worth. 

The local police station had been worse. They’d done a wellness check several times after you called but insisted she wasn’t home. No signs of a break-in, no signs of a struggle. No reason to be missing. They refused to make it an official report, as there was no reason for her to be missing. 

Have you considered she just doesn’t want to talk to you? they’d laughed on the phone. 

It was a joke. Somehow you could not believe they refused to file a report, and you threatened to take it to the state police and anyone who would listen to you. The woman you had spoken to had chuckled then, her mirth sending a chill up your spine. 

Have fun on hold, sweetheart.

You could not fathom how not a single person cared. Not the news, not any authority that you could get in contact with, and certainly not the lawyer you reached out to. 

Let law enforcement handle it. Your pleas fell on deaf ears and it was like it didn’t even matter that an entire person was missing. You’d heard about the blunders of the law enforcement system before, but this was a new level of ignorance and oddity.

It was… unexplainable. 

Which was why now, you were driving into the backwater town of Kill Devil in the southern part of the United States. 

Dropping your speed down, you take the chance to look around. There are a few houses on the outskirts of the town, their yards sprawling with kudzu and their homes leaning heavily with brown vines climbing up the eaves. There are several old, broken-down trucks in the middle of the kudzu fields, swallowed by the invasive vine-like devil’s snare. 

You’d heard of one-stop-light-towns but you had never seen one without. Kill Devil is made up of all stop signs. Everything is built around the courthouse, a red brick building dropped in the middle like a fungus growing its roots outward.

The sheriff’s office is just across the street with Crown Victoria model patrol cars. A taxidermist is right next door, the gold cursive font on the front of the glass door telling you it’s been there since the 70s. 

Kill Devil has everything you expect. Antique shops with dusty windows and dry-rotted awnings, a convenience store that looks straight out of retro America, closed-down shops with empty shelves and shattered glass, and a single diner with station wagons and mud-slicked trucks in the parking lot. 

A single motel stands at the edge of the town center. When you pull into the parking lot, you look up at the sign and frown. Like something out of a horror movie, the Lodging Motel is missing several letters in long-burnt-out neon, three letters blinking in the fading afternoon sun: Lodging Motel. 

Die.

With one look at the crusted, three-paneled windows and mold-covered brick face, you think that you just might die. 

Pink sun sinks behind the rolling hills of pine. You get out of the car, stretching and popping your joints as you look at your lodging with a sour taste in your mouth. You pass the ‘vacant’ sign as you walk to the small square building at the end with ‘front office’ on the window. 

“Yeah no shit,” you mutter. You cannot imagine who would stay here out of anything but necessity. 

In fact, it seems like there is no one staying at the hotel. This fact makes you jumpy as you approach the office, which is just a clerk's window and a woman with sunken eyes and a scowl on her face watching you. You swallow thickly as you give her a weak smile and nervous wave, trying to get past the sudden anxiety trembling in your hands. 

“Hi,” you say. “I have a reservation for-”

A small window that’s about six inches tall and a foot wide pops open. She hacks, fluid-sounding and phlegmy before saying, “I can’t hear you with the damn window closed. What do you want?” 

You clench your jaw. Slowly, you begin again. “I have a reservation.”

“ID and credit card.” 

You slide the materials through the window. She holds them up close to her face, scrutinizing them. Crickets join the singing of the locusts. Mosquitos fly around your head and you cringe, swatting at them as you wait while she rolls her chair over to a cabinet.

Wordlessly, she puts your credit card on a manual credit card imprinter. You raise your brows, unsure of the last time you’ve seen someone do paper credit card printing instead of sliding it through a machine. 

While you wait, you look past her into the office. It’s dingy inside but you can see a box TV and a window unit air conditioner rattling in the window. There are metal cabinets that form their own little skyscrapers around her office. An episode of I Love Lucy plays on the fuzzy TV screen. 

“Here’s your room key.” She tosses it through the window. It’s room three, the key hanging on a diamond-shaped, acrylic keychain with Lodging Motel written in Sharpie. “We don’t got room service or maid service. If you need more towels, the launder-mat is down the street. Don’t run the hot water more than twenty minutes or so. If the AC ain’t on, hit ‘er a few times.” 

“Great,” you deadpan. “Anything else?”

She scowls. “Mind the raccoons. They got rabies.” 

“Thanks.”

Inside the room is just as expected: peeling wallpaper, red shag carpet with questionable stains and the unmistakable stench of cigarettes, sconce lighting with lampshades that look decades old, a twin with a horrible patterned blanket, frayed at the edges and moth-eaten, and a single, square dresser with a box TV on top and a white, corded phone. 

The bathroom is no better. The tub is stained with limescale, cracked tiles, and a lamp that buzzes when you flip it on. You scream when you see the massive roach hanging out in the tub, gagging and running out to look for anything to kill it with. 

You settle on a sneaker, and it’s a battle involving your high-pitched scream as you try and kill it. You do win, but you’re covered in sweat and shaking after your victory.

A sharp knock on the door startles you further. You drift to the front door, looking out the peephole to find that it is cracked and you cannot see the person standing just on the other side. You slide the chain lock in and open the door tentatively, peering out into the now early night. 

“Everything okay?” a male voice asks. “I heard screaming.” 

The voice belongs to someone who absolutely does not belong in Kill Devil. He’s dressed in jeans with large rips at the knee and a plain white shirt that hangs off his frame stylishly. He has a few necklaces on, a single hoop hanging from his right ear that catches the flickering parking lot light. 

And he’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that stuns you. He has a slender face with smooth, flowing skin. His eyes are kind, glittering brown with flecks of lighter shades throughout. The slope of his cheekbones and jawline makes you think perhaps he’s into modeling, which would explain the taste in clothes. 

But it does not explain what someone who looks like that is doing in this shithole town. 

“I had to kill a roach,” you admit, a little hesitant. Your skin tingles under his gaze, your instincts picking up something that you can’t put your thumb on. “I don’t like them very much and it was fast.”

“Disgusting. I had to buy killer for them - it came in a two-pack if you want?” You don’t answer, watching him warily. He picks up on your anticipation and smiles, disarming. “Sorry - my name is Hoseok. You can call me Hobi, if you’d like. I’m staying next door which is just as gross as your room is I’m sure. I heard you yell and I got worried.”

“That’s kind of you. This doesn’t seem like a place where people would care if they heard  screaming.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not from here.” He looks around the parking lot and his eyes focus on a raccoon meandering near the trash. You grimace, thinking about rabies. “Thank fuck, this place feels right out of fucking Deliverance.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling better at his distaste. “One sec, let me slide the lock off.” You close the door and slide the chain before opening it a little wider this time. “Yeah, this place gives me the creeps. Hopefully, I don’t have to be here long.”

“A night is long enough. You want that spray?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” 

Hoseok grins and holds up a finger, asking you to wait as he jogs to his room. He’s only gone for a moment, leaving you in the poorly lit lot with the tk tk tk of the raccoon pilfering through trash and the crickets creek creek creeking. 

Hoseok’s door opens and he’s back, handing you a large, red can of lemon-scented Raid. “Just make sure you drown them. They did outlive the dinosaurs. Makes you wonder what the hell is in that stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem…” He drifts off, unsure what your name is. You laugh, a little flustered by the way his entire face lights up when he smiles, and give him your name. “I like it. Well, I don’t know how long you’re here, but I’m your neighbor for a few days. Try not to catch any infections while you’re in there and holler if you need me.”

“Thanks,” you grin. You hold up the can and add, “Especially for this.”

With a wave goodnight, Hoseok returns to his room. The buzz of something instinctual fades with him, replaced once more with the unsettling frequency the town seems to vibrate at. 

Closing the door firmly behind you and flicking the lock, you shiver. The eerie feeling that had been following you lingers.

After changing the sheets, inspecting the rest of the room and setting the spray can firmly on the pillow next to you, you lay on your back in bed, mattress lumpy and air conditioner rattling. 

-

Moonlight streams through the curtain, catching dust motes floating in the air and turning them into diamonds. You stand in the middle of the room. Cold but humid air clings to your skin, the air conditioner rattling and dripping as it cools the room but does nothing to suck out the moisture. You don’t know why you’re standing in the middle of the room and you don’t remember waking up and getting out of bed, but you face the window, the curtains open just enough to face the empty parking lot. 

Silence blankets the world. The hum of the air conditioner fades and you stare out into the silver-painted parking lot. Above the lot, a street light flickers on and off weakly. It goes out for a minute and flashes back on.

Someone leans against the pole. You can’t make out any features, just that there is a person there, perhaps facing you. The hair on your skin stands on end but you can’t move. Your instincts begin to prickle and there is a sharp feeling in your chest.

Belatedly, beyond your hypnotized stare, you realize the feeling is fear.

Your ears start to ring. You stare out at the shadow and the shadow stares back. Something is telling you to run run run but you don’t know how. Can’t move your feet. Panic begins to rise, your heart beating so fast that you can hear it over the steady whine in your ears. 

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump. 

You can feel your pulse skyrocketing, your chest squeezing tight with terror as the beating gets louder and louder -

Awareness hits you like cold water. You lurch forward in bed, hands flying to your chest as you gasp for air. It takes a moment to get your bearings, the pounding in your heart so hard it feels like you might vomit. Battling the sheets, you rip them off of you, legs sticky with a sheen of sweat. 

The lamp is still on in your room, the curtains are closed just the way you left them, and the bug killer rolls on the bed as you get up. Several paces away from the window, you catch your breath, running a hand over your face. 

“Fuck,” you pant, realizing you were dreaming. 

When your breathing levels out, you glance at the closed curtains. Something niggles at your brain. Slowly, you walk toward the window, feeling the hairs on your arms tingle and stand on end.

Lifting your shaking hands, you grip the curtain tight. Taking a deep breath, you hold it in and pull open the curtain just a bit. 

Unlike your dream, there’s no moonlight outside. It’s so dark you almost can’t see anything in the parking lot. When the lot light flickers back on, your heart squeezes, expecting to see a shadow leaning against the pole. There’s nothing there, just empty lot and a dumpster. Not even the raccoon is around. 

Blowing out your held breath, you close the curtain again and shake out your hands, trying to get rid of the jitters. Rolling your neck and shoulders, you try to work out the tension as you sit on the end of the bed, staring at the faded wallpaper. 

The dream felt so real. You swear that if you turn your head, you’ll see silver moonlight through the curtains. That you’ll see that person - that shadow - standing outside of your window. 

Exhaustion weighs heavy on you. You crawl back into bed, mattress damp and smelling like mildew even with the sheets that you put on it. You’re under a lot of stress and you hate this motel room as much as you already hate this town that you’ve barely started to explore. It makes sense that you’re having weird dreams. 

Blanket pulled up to your chin, you eventually let your lids flutter shut until you’re taken by dreamless sleep. 

-

Morning sun chases away the dregs of your strange dream from the night before. With daylight streaming between the curtains, the room looks no better. It’s a futile hope, perhaps, to keep thinking that the room will suddenly not look nearly as questionable as when you checked in. 

At least there are no bugs. 

Outside, the balmy air is filled with the voices of the locusts. You lock the door behind you and glance toward where Hoseok vanished the night before. His windows are closed and there’s no sign of him anywhere in the parking lot, so you head to your car, stomach begging for food. 

Kill Devil is small in both size and population. The Diner is easy to find, tucked in the southwest corner of the town across from the courthouse. Folks wander about the parking lot, shaking one another’s hands and laughing as the weekend rush of people meanders up the steps for breakfast. 

Your arrival is noted immediately. Eyes turn your way as you walk through the lot, loose gravel crunching under your feet. The lot is more packed dirt than pavement, full of holes and mud softened by rain. 

Seeing a new face in a wretched little town like this probably isn’t common. Though you’re not familiar with growing up in such a small population, you remember what it was like knowing everyone at school. The same theory applies here when a portly man with raised brows stands, screen door in hand as he stares at you.

The man blocks the way to the inside of the diner. You pause and look up, noting the confusion on his face. After clearing your throat, he realizes that he’s completely frozen from opening the door and coughs, bowing his head and apologizing. 

“You uh - visiting?” he asks, holding the door open for you. When you nod, he seems surprised, though that had to be the only answer. “Well, that doesn’t happen often. Welcome to Kill Devil.”

There’s a small host stand with a pile of laminated menus on top. A girl who looks to be about your age stares back at you, wiping her hands on a red apron tied around her waist. She’s in jeans and a t-shirt that says The Diner across the chest, her hair pulled up and stabbed through with a pen. 

“Just you?” she asks, eyes fluttering to the man who shrugs behind you. You nod. “Right this way.” 

The wooden walls are painted white, some of the paint peeling. There are miscellaneous animal heads with plaques underneath stating the names of their killers with a stamp of Jason’s Taxidermy. You try not to make eye contact with their black, glass eyes as you sit in a chair that wobbles from side to side.

You thank the hostess as she wanders off to get you coffee. The family at the table next to you does their best to whisper about who the hell is that as you look over the menu, flipping it to the breakfast side. The laminate is sticky and peeling at the corners. 

It’s a pretty standard breakfast menu. You put it down on the table, nudging the container holding different colored sugar packets and sweeteners while you wait for your coffee. There’s a breakfast bar with people bent over steaming eggs and sitting atop cracked vinyl seats. 

The door opens behind you at a steady rate as people pay their bills and leave while new customers are sitting. A presence at your back sends a cool tingle up your spine, making you straighten and look over your shoulder.

Hoseok stands in a shaft of sunlight coming through the window, turning him gold. For a moment, the diner around you falls to a hush of murmured voices, muting the clinking of spoons against ceramic and scraping chairs.

He’s dressed well again, in a simple white button-up with the button undone to reveal a strip of golden chest. His hair is slightly damp and styled back, an outrageously good look on him. The same hoop earring dangles in his ear but today he has on a few necklaces and rings on his fingers. Somehow, he makes the delicate pieces carry an edge. 

“You survived the night, huh?” he says by way of greeting and then gestures to the chair across from you. “Would you mind company for breakfast?” 

You shake your head, forgetting words for a moment as he smiles, radiant as ever. Hoseok pulls out the chair and sits down, a twinkle in his eye that makes your heart flutter as he plucks a menu from the holder at the center of the table. You can smell his rain and lavender scent from across the table. 

“Thanks again,” you say, realizing you haven’t spoken yet. His brown eyes look at you over the top of the menu, and you can’t help but admire how beautiful they are. Warm, both dark and light, with flecks of chipped gold. “For the bug killer. I haven’t seen any more but I just know they’re there.”

“That’s the shitty thing about the South. All of God's least favorite creatures are here.” He glances at the table of scowling men next to you to emphasize. You hide your laughter with the plastic menu. “What brings you to this shit hole?”

“I’m… visiting my sister.”

“You sound unsure of that. Does she not know you’re coming?”

“She doesn’t.”

While they aren’t technically lies, you don’t know how much you can trust him. Instinct makes you hold the truth from him. After all, you don’t want him to know you’re in a town where no one knows you, and where no one knows you are. By yourself.

Hoseok looks at you again, his eyes narrowed. You feel tension creep into the air between you, your mouth drying out as he watches you silently. 

The arrival of the hostess who is also your server saves you from another question. You both place your order, and you note the way the girl cuts her eyes to Hoseok, wary. Her hands shake a little.

When she leaves the two of you, you ask, “How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks.”

“Enough to win over the locals, hmm?”

His grin is sly as he drums his fingers on the table. “I’m their favorite - you’re perceptive.” 

“My sister is an investigative journalist. She’s made me watch all kinds of shows and read books about psychology and body language with her. I picked up a few things.”

“An investigative journalist, huh?” Hoseok plucks a sugar packet and rips it open with his teeth. He shoots the ripped piece onto the table with a huff of air and dumps the contents on the table. Leaning on one elbow, he begins to trace patterns in the sugar. “So you’re not from here. No one here is smart enough for that.”

“No, she’s been living here since July.” 

“What’s she investigating?” You hesitate again. He doesn’t look up from the patterns he’s tracing on the table, finger steady as it cuts through the white sugar.

“I don’t really know.” He does look up when you say that, gaze razor-sharp. A chill slides up your spine. So you add, “Something to do with the occult.”

Hoseok stops moving his finger through the sugar. He doesn’t look at you, but he’s fixated on the mess he’s made on the table. You chew on your bottom lip, eyes dropping to his little sweetened artwork. You don’t understand the pattern that he’s traced, but it buzzes your brain when you look at it.

The silence stretches on. He remains unmoving and silent. Anxiety starts to creep in and you wonder if he thinks you’re crazy or is going to get up and leave-

With a huff of laughter, he leans back and smiles at you. 

“The occult huh? Interesting subject.”

“Know anything about it?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I mean, what is really considered occult? Most of these Bible thumpers around here would consider being queer witchcraft.” 

“You have a point there. Don’t tell them I’m a witch.”

He grins. “You can join my coven, then.” 

“Do you think they know there’s more than two genders?”

Hoseok’s laugh is infectious. You laugh along with him, visibly ruffling the feathers of the table next to you. 

For a moment, the two of you share a secret smile at your little table, wedged between the people who go to church every Sunday and swear by Fox News at brunch. It feels good to know you’re not the only person completely out of place in Kill Devil. 

The arrival of your server with steaming plates breaks the moment, but you feel better about your morning nonetheless. Especially when the conversation switches from stilted exchanges about your sister and the occult to things about you and Hoseok. 

Over runny eggs on toast and crunchy bacon, you learn that Hoseok is a shop owner in a small town very far from Kill Devil. He brushes over the fact that he’s visiting family to tell you all about his small corner of the world and all of his favorite plants. 

“Fiona is a venus fly trap,” he giggles with a snap of bacon. “She’s my second favorite, but what I really love is my pitcher plants. They eat bugs, mostly, but they like to devour frogs too. The frogs love to hide in them, but sometimes the pitcher plants take kindly to them and don’t eat them. It never lasts.” 

“I would hate for them to eat the frogs.”

“Hmm, circle of life.”

“But the poor frogs!”

Hoseok isn’t swayed. “There has to be a balance to everything. The pitcher plants will kill the frogs eventually. Sometimes a predator likes to play with its prey. Their ecosystem doesn’t make sense. In order to pay back the food the pitcher plants bring them, the frog must die. It pays for power, in the end.”

“How do you mean?”

“Everything has a give and take.” He pauses to sip his coffee. He makes a face, opens a sugar packet, and empties it into the coffee. “In order to have life, we must have death. In order to have water, we must have fire, for earth, we must have air. There is a give and take in existence, and it has to stay that way.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“Chaos.”

“You know, a lot of theology believes that chaos created the world.”

“And perhaps it did. But in order to make the world, chaos needed…” Hoseok takes his butter knife in one hand and sticks out his pointer finger with the other. You watch as he places the knife horizontally across his finger, sliding it just so until he slowly lets it go, leaving it teetering back and forth, but never falling. “Balance. There has to be even weight on the scales to make it work.” 

“Interesting. So you think there is true balance in the world.”

“Not always, which is why we must make it.”

“Hmm. You have some interesting opinions.” 

“I am an interesting person.”

You like Hoseok. Conversation flows easily and it seems that he either doesn’t notice or does not care that he draws glances around the room, particularly when he gives a high-pitched laugh, leaning backward on the metal legs of his chair to clap his hands excitedly. You swear you see the table next to you flinch, though you can’t imagine why.

Hoseok insists on paying the bill, though you fight him all the way to the register. The elderly woman behind the till jams the pricing in from the ticket and slams the cash drawer shut when Hoseok hands over the bills. She makes sure not to tell you to have a good day, and you feel her sharp stare as you leave the interior of The Diner. 

In fact, the stares of the citizens are just as intense outside. Hoseok rattles on about a time he got really high and forgot to feed his cat. “Yoongi was so mad he wouldn’t talk to me for a week.”

“What?” you ask, distracted by the way a group of men leaning against a red pickup glare. “Your cat talks?”

“Oh- he- well he meows, you know what I mean?”

“No, but I’m sure he was very vocal.” Hoseok smirks, toeing the gravel of the parking lot as you reach your car. You glance over at the pickup truck again, seeing the four sets of eyes fixated on the two of you. “Why does everyone around here stare?”

“They’ll ignore you soon enough if you ignore them.”

“They don’t seem to ignore you.”

He gives you a wry smile. “I guess you’re right. Going to visit your sister, then?”

Digging around in your bag, you search for keys. “Yeah, she lives out in some place called Grave Hollow. How creepy is that?” 

Silence is your only answer. You look up, pausing the search for your keys to find him staring at you with a blank expression. Your heart skips a beat - it’s the same wiped-clean face he had when you mentioned your sister investigating the occult. 

Licking your lips, you ignore the feeling of a weighted stone dropping into your stomach. Hoseok says nothing.

Then, he’s chipper again. “Well have fun,” he chirps, shrugging and giving a wave as he backs away to leave. “Hopefully she has some cool occult stuff to tell you about. You know where to find me!

It’s hard to keep track of the way Hoseok’s mood flips on a dime. You stare after him, but he’s all smiles and sunshine again before turning on a heel to walk out of the parking lot. His hands are tucked into his pockets and he tilts his face toward the azure sky, whistling a tune with a happy cadence. 

Something sticks to you as you watch him leave. You don’t know what it is, this feeling that you’re missing a critical detail. It’s like your instincts are scratching lightly at the door, but you have no key to flip the lock and no crowbar to force it open. 

Anxiety returns when you remember the weight of the eyes still focused on you. Hurriedly, you snatch your keys from your bag and get in your car, tossing your bag on the seat and starting the engine. As soon as it purrs to life, you feel instant relief. 

You hope that it lasts.

-

According to the research you’d done on Kill Devil, the town had been officially founded in the 1700s. Of course, being ‘officially’ founded didn’t mean much in the way of Western colonization. You had little doubt that the migration of people to the South chased out Native American tribes, as was the story everywhere. 

Kill Devil has been named such since its inception, which occurred a little after Georgia had been named an official state. The abundance of soil for cotton and peanut fields made it a wet dream for the expansion of cotton gins and eventually, peanuts - there was even a rumor that peanut butter had been invented in Kill Devil first, but you knew that to be untrue. 

A small town with a small impact. That was Kill Devil at the heart of its existence. It has always had a small population of sleepy folk. No stop lights, one church, a lot of paper companies coming in and cutting down trees, and some farming fields for various reasons.

There’s no reason that for a tiny little dot on the map, the town should be significant. 

And yet it had called your sister here. 

The car bounces, the suspension whining as you drive down the dirt road. A clay wall comes up on either side of you, roots of trees sticking out periodically. There’s no shoulder to the road, the rain has deepened the ruts on either side. You’re careful to keep in the middle, slowing down as the road tightens on corners. 

Pine stretches as far as the eye can see. You pass the occasional neon tape, marking sections of trees for the paper company to let grow a little longer before hacking them down. Several metal gates with keep out and declaring different hunting clubs flash by. There’s even a sign that says Rucker’s Meat Processing. 

GPS is unreliable out in the sticks where the cell towers don’t quite reach. You keep an eye on the flattened paper map in the passenger seat, marked with your red marker to make sure you take the right road.

A sigh of relief escapes you when you see a little metal post with a turn-off sign: Kill Ditch South. The house that your sister is renting lives off of that, only a mile down the road or so. Long drives appear between the trees, houses parked at the end of them. You feel a little less alone in the woods now knowing that there are people around. 

Though you’re not sure how helpful they would be if something was wrong. 

Worry creeps into your stomach as you slow the car. There’s a little mailbox with the address your sister gave you. It’s at the end of a short drive that’s been layered with gravel to make the incline easier on tires. It crunches beneath the tires as you drive toward the modest, white house. Your sister’s Four Runner is parked outside, making your heart thunder. 

Turning the car off, you slide out into the humid air, hands trembling. Locusts scream, hidden in the trees. The sun is at its zenith, beating down on you as you slowly walk toward the house. It’s a single-story with two sets of windows facing the front. A wrap-around porch that leans to the side stands empty, save for a single bench. 

As you pass your sister's car, you notice that the grass underneath is dead and dry. As if the car hasn’t moved for a while, denying the grass any sun to live. It makes you feel nauseous, feet like anvils as you take your first step up the stairs. 

The creak of the wood makes you flinch. 

“Hanna?” You call, voice shakier than you want it to be. “Hanna, it’s me! Don’t freak out!”

No one answers. Your stomach bubbles like acid, the slow drip of sweat down your neck making a chill rattle up your spine. You reach the door and swallow thickly, lifting your hands and knocking loudly. 

“Hanna?” 

Nothing but the sound of the locusts answers you. 

Your palms feel sweaty as you knock again. This time, your voice cracks when you call, “Hanna? Please answer the door.”

Wind sweeps across the trees. One thing about the wind in a land of pines and hills is that it’s loud, making a whooshing sound as it’s picked up by the boughs of the trees, rattling and letting their needles shake to the floor. 

It’s cool at your back and you feel your lip wobble when you lower your hand to the doorknob. When you twist, the door opens immediately, swinging of its own volition when you let go. 

Inside the house is the kind of silence that terrifies you in horror movies. The air is heavy. Your ears ring, searching for any rasp of sound to tell you that your sister is home. Licking your lips, you step over the threshold, the wooden floor cracking beneath the weight of your feet. 

To the immediate left of the door is an open kitchen. There are dishes on the dry rack and plants in the window, though they are wilted and dry. You chew your lip as you step further into the house, eyes sweeping around.

A blue, painted table stands in the middle of the kitchen. Piles of mail sit on top of it with a fake plant centerpiece and your sister's car keys.

Across from the kitchen is an open doorway with a stacked washer and dryer, and a folding table. It smells faintly of detergent, clothes folded in neat piles as if Hanna had just completed a laundry day.

Everything is silent in the living room. The couch looks cozy, with piles of blankets draped across it. There’s a faint smell of vanilla, though the wick on the candle doesn’t look like it’s been lit in a while. Dust collects on the TV stand and there are sandals by the door that leads to the back porch. 

Chewing your lip, you gently press your fingers to the door of Hanna’s bedroom, holding your breath. The sudden fear that it’s going to swing open and you’ll find your sister dead in her bed nearly incapacitates you, making the room spin a little as the door fully swings open. 

Nothing. No Hanna, no rotting smell of a dead body. Just an unmade bed in a room that smells vaguely of her cherry perfume, a bathroom with the door open, and a pile of clothes near the hamper.

The sight of the clothes on the floor and right next to the hamper slams you with a wave of nostalgia. You walk into the room and you unceremoniously plop yourself down on the edge of the bed. It sags underneath you but you don’t care, letting your face fall into your hands and letting a sob rip through you. 

Hanna isn’t here. You knew she wouldn’t be, but the relief that you don’t find her dead is so poignant that you can barely breathe past the snot clotting your nose and the way your throat constricts as you let out the fear. 

The sobs subside and you wipe your face, hands coming away sticky and wet. Through swollen eyes, you look around the room. With a wipe of your hands on your jeans, you get up and start looking around, pulling open drawers and looking for evidence of the last time that Hanna was in this home. 

It’s slow going. You’re unfamiliar with the space and you don’t know what to look for. It doesn’t seem like she had packed anything, but then again, how would you know if she did? 

There are signs that she hasn’t been in the house in weeks. Rotted food inside of the fridge, molded bread in the pantry. 

Outside, weeds grow around the steps. A cricket pops from the railing to the grass where its green body vanishes. The yard isn’t much of a yard - it’s open to the trees and a kudzu field to the west. 

Back inside, you grab Hanna’s keys and open her car. There is nothing inside that looks like she was trying to make a quick getaway. An extra pair of shoes shoved in the back, and an empty grocery bag she was using for trash - all normal things. 

In the passenger seat, you strike gold. 

Hanna’s journals and folders sit in the passenger seat, stacked in a leaning tower with pages sticking out from the edges of her books and slanted handwriting scrawled on the folder tabs. Gathering all of it, you head back inside and deposit the stack on the kitchen table before looking around the house again to see if there’s any sign of her. 

Something in your gut tells you that Hanna hasn’t been in the home for at least a month, if not more. 

Dread creeps into your stomach as you gather items and pack a bag. Your intention is to keep it on you at all times in the event that you find her cold and alone somewhere. The thought of needing it leaves a sour tang on your tongue, but you pack it nevertheless.

Bag over your shoulder and stack of Hanna’s investigative work in hand, you head off to your room at the motel. The afternoon sun still burns hot over your head, but you have no intention of sitting in the empty house that carries the scent of your sister’s absence. 

-

… While most historical accounts and official state documents indicate that Kill Devil was founded in 1730, journals buried deep in the city’s crumbling library have written records of townsfolk living in this settled town long before it was declared an official town. The journals reference the town as Covenstead and are filled with generations of the same family names. 

Booth. 

Park. 

Warren. 

Kim. 

Jung. 

Jeon. 

Min. 

Generations of these families settled in Covenstead and built what is now Kill Devil. From the description of the town in the collection of journals, it appears that the general layout of the town is similar to Kill Devil’s current city map. 

Throughout the journals, there is a reference to the Wood. It seems to be a place mentioned in reverence, and there are allusions to celebrations in the Wood with entries dated in alignment with sabbats on the Wheel of the Year. 

Only Mabon is referenced in any of the journals explicitly, in a strange entry from a man named Yoongi Min. I have written it here for safekeeping: We bringeth the little lamb to The Wood today for the honor of Mabon. I loathe seeing him go, for he hath brought cheer and many a smile to the Covenstead. May he bring us blessings and warmth in the winter. 

Your finger traces over your sister’s writing. She still writes in her cramped, crooked way, with the sabbats of pagan holidays crammed in the margins. You smile, biting your bottom lip again as you go through the written notes of her study. It is dizzying and you’re unsure what exactly you’re looking at, but something tickles the back of your mind as you reread the entry she copied from the long-dead Yoongi Min. There’s something you're missing.

This time, your eyes snag on a word. 

“The Covenstead,” you murmur, reading it over again. “Why would he call it the Covenstead? Is that just an older way of speaking?”

A tingle pricks your neck as you stare at the entry. You can’t understand what made your sister think this entry was odd besides the old-fashioned writing and reference to Mabon, because she writes nothing more on her analysis, and none of the journals she had been studying were anywhere you could find. 

Sighing, you push away her notebook and pull out a collection of folders and papers that she had on the town. It’s mostly renderings of the town in its heyday with maps and newspaper articles. There seems to be no correlation between her clippings of new business openings and random town news. 

Kill Devil Court House Gets New Building

Bird Flu? Poultry Farm in Trouble After Flock Dies

The Grove Neighborhood Building Plans Accepted by Mayor

Mayor’s Son Experiences Fatal Well Accident

Something catches your eye in the article about the mayor’s son who fell into a well and died at the bottom. You reach for your sister's notebook and flip to read the small dates shoved into the margins.

Mayor’s Son Experiences Fatal Well Accident

June 19, 1781

Litha: Summer Solstice

June 19-23

Grabbing the other newspaper clippings, you climb off of the bed and lay them flat against the sheets, each crinkling under the excited press of your fingers as your brain whirs. It’s a puzzle your sister seems to have figured out already, and one you don’t expect to understand.

But you do. 

Kill Devil Court House Gets New Building

February 14, 1899

Bird Flu? Poultry Farm in Trouble After Flock Dies

March 19, 1899

Ostara: Spring Equinox

March 19-22

You suck in a breath as you look at the next clipping, using your pointer finger to keep your place on the sabbats calendar your sister has written down to see that the article for the new neighborhood The Grove is dated only a month before the mayor's son fell tragically in the well. 

“Holy shit, Hanna,” you mutter, rubbing a hand over your mouth and staring with burning eyes at the dates. “They match with pagan rituals? Something good, followed by something bad… like revenge? Punishment? Payment?” 

The question bothers you. A flutter in your gut tells you that you’re asking the right questions as you stare at the pages, unseeing and trying to understand what your sister is getting at. She didn’t write down her thoughts explicitly - in case anyone stole her work, she’d said - and now you’re wishing she weren’t so paranoid. Or that she at least used a computer. 

It isn’t an easy answer to puzzle out. An ache has settled deep in your temples and your half-eaten dinner has long gone cold. You decide you’ve earned a shower, though you don’t go into the bathroom without the bug spray armed and ready. 

Briefly, you think about Hoseok. Such an oddity to the town. You can’t help but think about the way he changes from light to dark so quickly, face becoming shadowed and eyes masked, expression there and gone so quickly that you’re unsure if you saw it at all. 

Strange. It’s all very strange. 

-

There is a shadow in the parking lot again. This time, it’s closer. The bulb burning above the lot flickers, but stays on. The shadow stands just beyond the silver halo of light it distributes.

No moon hangs in the sky. It is dark dark dark - impossibly dark. You stare through a crack in your curtains, watching the shadow as it watches you. Dread weighs down the pit of your stomach and you feel a fresh wave of terror-laced nausea sweep through you. 

You slide a foot backward gently, preparing to step away from the window. The shadow twitches and cocks its head to the side, not unlike a dog curious about something it’s heard. You suck in a sharp breath and hold it in, air screaming in your lungs, heart racing a frantic staccato. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck it seems to say, beating until it’s all you can hear and feel, pumping your system so full of adrenaline that you feel light-headed. 

Your heart turns into a drum, frantic. It beats louder and louder and you feel rooted to your spot on the carpet, the soles of your feet surgical-stitched to the ugly shag carpet. You stare and stare and stare at the shadow and your heart is hammering so loud boom boom BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM-

Sweat-drenched and gasping for air, you sit up. Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it under the palm you have pressed against your chest. But the banging is coming from the hotel door, a steady stream of closed-fist hammering and Hoseok’s voice calling your name. 

Peeling the covers back from your damp skin, you stumble to the door, nightmare-drunk and disoriented. You forget to remove the chain from the door, yanking it open and immediately slamming it to a stop as the chain pulls, refusing to let the door open.

Hoseok is on the other side, hair slightly disheveled, brows pulled together. He’s in a t-shirt and sweatpants, a casual look by anyone’s standards but still effortlessly put together. 

“Shit, hold on,” you slur, tongue heavy in your mouth with sleep. Closing the door, you slide the chain out, then reopen it successfully. “Sorry, is everything-”

“What’s going on?”

“What?”

His gaze is thunderous as he looks past you into your room. “You were screaming at the top of your lungs.”

Heat flushes your neck and face. “I-I’m sorry. I was having a nightmare. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m not mad. What’s going on?”

In the shadow of the night, he looks dangerous, made up of edges and eyes narrowed. “Can I come in?” 

You open the door and move out of his way. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Out of habit, you latch the door when you shut it.

Hoseok is a little out of place in your room. Even when dressed down, he looks like he belongs on a private jet, lounging among soft, polished leather and sipping exotic coffee. Not in a rundown motel room with peeling wallpaper and smoke-stained ceilings. 

“What’s all this?” Your stomach plummets when he sees the journals and papers on your bed. you rush to shove it all under the blanket but Hoseok is fast, plucking a sheet of paper and looking over it, face pinched. “Is this what you meant by your sister studies the occult?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just um- looking over her work.” 

“You know about the occult?”

“Not at all.”

He glances at you, razor-sharp. “Then why would you be looking it over for her?”

The atmosphere shifts. It occurs to you that he doesn’t know your sister is missing. Has no idea that you’re desperately trying to put together pieces of a broken puzzle, without any clue on where to find the remaining parts to view the entire picture. 

You weigh the options of lying, losing precious time as the silence hangs heavy and awkward between the two of you. He watches, brows raised and expectant, fingers gripping the paper. 

“My sister is missing.” It feels weird to say it. Your tongue feels heavy and as you stare over his shoulder at a fixed spot on the wall, it feels like someone else enters your body to tell him, “I came here because no one would help me find her. She was here studying the town's occult myths for work and vanished. I had this… horrible feeling when she stopped calling and answering.”

“Have you contacted the authorities?”

You scoff and throw a glare at him. “Of course I have. It’s useless and frustrating. No one seems to give a shit that there is a missing person, and every lawyer, law officer and city official I talk to don’t fucking care. It’s like they’re all programmed to give me the same answer. They keep telling me that they’ve seen her around or that she’s probably ignoring me on purpose. They make me seem crazy.”

You expect him to tell you to leave it to the authorities. That’s what Hanna’s boss had told you to do. No one seems to be alarmed, no one cares. But you do. Desperately. And you cannot wrap your head around them looking the other way. 

You’re preparing for the same reaction when Hoseok surprises you by saying, “You’re not crazy.”

“I’m not?”

He quirks a brow and his rosebud lips twitch in a smirk. “Well, you probably are. But not for this. Have you asked around town about her?”

You shake your head. “I only went to the house that she was staying at. I wanted to see if maybe she really was ignoring me or maybe just… I don’t know. In the zone for work. She wasn’t there and it doesn’t look like there was any sign of distress.” 

“Take me there.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.” He tosses the papers onto the pile on your bed. “We’ll be safe.”

“First of all,” you hedge. “How do I know that? I barely know you. Second of all, what is going there in the middle of the night going to help?”

“I’m good at investigating. Maybe I’ll see something that you don’t.”

“Sorry, are you a cop now?”

“No, it’s hard to explain but I promise I’m trying to help you.” When you don’t move, Hoseok grimaces. “Look,” he explains evenly. “I really am trying to help you. I haven’t been entirely honest about why I’m here in this town. I came because I was also interested in some things happening here. Now I’m worried your sister is involved.”

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. “Involved how?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping it’s a coincidence. Believe it or not, those do happen. But I’d like to visit her house to see if there’s anything at all that sticks out to me.” You hesitate, chewing on your lip. You don’t really know him, and now you trust him even less with his reasoning. “Please,” he adds. 

You relent. “Fine.” Hanna is your main goal. You don’t trust Hoseok, but you wonder if he really can help you when no one else has. “Let’s go.” 

Damp air rushes through the open windows of your car. You lowered them as you got in for a quick escape if Hoseok attacks you while you drive. He says nothing in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the pine trees rushing behind you. 

Outside, the world is painted night-blue from the moon. There’s a weird hue to everything, making it feel as though you’re wading with heavy limbs through a dream. It’s no better when you arrive at the dark house.

It looks terrifying at night. There’s no street light to guide you, only that of the silver moon and the bright halogen lights of your car. You turn off your vehicle but switch the headlights on, turning on the high beams to shine on the house. 

On the edges of where the light fades to shadow, your fear lies. The trees look taller than in the daylight, their branches like craggy limbs and reaching fingers. Anxiety bubbles uncomfortably in your stomach. 

Each crunch of the grass beneath your feet falls too loud against the heavy silence. Here, you notice that the crickets are no longer singing. It’s just the hush of the wind gusting through the canyons and the far-away swell as it blows up the hills. 

Though it’s not cool outside, there’s a chill on your skin. Hoseok walks up to the house, the beams of the car’s headlights throwing his shadow across it in jarring, monstrous shapes. You keep your eyes focused on him and your keys tucked in your hand, ready to use them as a weapon if needed. 

Hoseok doesn’t seem concerned about your anxiety or the silence thrumming around the home. He walks up the steps and opens the door, vanishing into the dark mouth of the threshold. For a moment, you stand in the front yard, getting tunnel vision as you stare at the darkness in the doorway. 

You imagine stepping over the threshold into that cool dark, letting it suck you in. You imagine that as soon as your shoes hit the creaking floor, Hoseok will snatch you by the waist and pull you into the belly of the beast. Once in his clutches, he’ll throw you to the ground and the last thing you’ll remember is-

Hoseok reappears in the doorway. You blink and the waking nightmare melts away, so vivid that you’re shaking where you’re standing, looking at him in confusion. He hops down the stairs, scowling as he crosses the front lawn in a few long strides. 

He pauses when he sees your face. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“I…” you shake your head, trying to dispel the weird vision you had a moment ago. “Nothing. I just don’t like the dark very much.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you find anything?”

His lip twitches. It’s almost impossible to detect, but you’re so focused on his face and trying not to picture him as the man in the terrifying thought you had moments ago, that you see it. “No.” 

Lying. He’s lying. You clutch your keys and your breath quickens. He moves to round the side of the car and take the passenger seat, but you step in front of him. He pulls up short, eyes narrowing as you stand between him and the vehicle, blood pumping. 

“I think you’re lying.”

“About what?”

“A lot of things.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“My instinct.”

He hums. “Instinct isn’t always a good thing.” He looks you up and down. “I didn’t find anything,” he says again. “I just got a really weird feeling inside of the house.”

“And?”

“And it’s the same weird feeling I’ve gotten in other places where people visiting went missing. Including the motel we’re staying at.” That makes you recoil. You feel the blood drain from your face, making you a little dizzy. You don’t know what’s going on, don’t understand what he’s getting at. “Your sister’s notes were about the covenstead here.”

That word again. The covenstead and not Covenstead, like a town name. “It was the town name before it was Kill Devil.” 

“No,” he corrects. “It was a landmark. A covenstead, for people who lived here. A coven.” 

“A coven.” He nods. “Like vampires and witches?” 

Hanna’s notes had included all of those pagan holidays crammed in the margins of her work. Marking dates of occurrences that coincided with sabbat holidays. “Hoseok,” you say slowly. “Are you telling me that a bunch of witches live here and have kidnapped my sister?”

He regards you for a moment, eyes flickering up and down. His face is unreadable and dark in the night air, eyes shadowed and haunting. “That’s actually exactly what I’m saying.”

“Witches aren’t real.” 

He frowns. “I can prove that they are.” 

“How?”

He gestures to the car. “Let’s go.” 

-

When you were younger, your sister always believed in magic. You remember spending all of October huddled on the couch with crocheted blankets, watching Halloween movies with the blanket pulled warm over scabbed knees, with popcorn-greased fingers tucked under heated thighs. Hanna always picked the movies - Halloween was her time of the year and you were happy to indulge. 

Hanna’s choices were always superb. Hocus Pocus received more airtime than anything else, replayed between Halloweentown one and two, Practical Magic, The Witches and The Addams Family among others. Every night of the month was crammed full of magic and spells and haunted houses, sweetened by candy corn and Butterfingers. 

Those were the nights that you loved the most. There was no fighting, no whining and crying over Hanna stealing your hair clips or you breaking her hair dryer. It was just the two of you, pressed skin-to-skin and spelled by the scrolling movies.

It’s as close to magic as you’ve ever been. You don’t think you were ever closer to her than in those moments. Under the blankets and the dim candles your mother lit, you were one being, melded. You knew when she would gasp at every jump scare and whisper each one of her favorite lines. 

Thinking back on it, you wonder if Hanna was onto something. She always insisted that parts of the movies had to be true. Stories are rooted in history, and though myth and legend changed with culture, colonization and the introduction of new religions, science and ideas, there was something about the concept of magic and spirit that felt real to her. 

It was why she went to school and majored in journalism with minors in folklore and history. She had even started a master's program for occult studies and folklore, spending late nights studying between traveling across the country from haunt to haunt for her job. 

Staring at her work on the bed of your hotel room as Hoseok adds some of his own notes and findings, you have never missed her more. There is a sudden ache inside of your chest, so strong that it takes your breath away. Your hand goes to the necklace at your neck, feeling flushed, heart pounding. 

Hoseok is explaining how there used to be a coven of witches that lived in the Wood long before Kill Devil existed. The Wood, Hoseok explains, is like a living and breathing conduit of power. It was something that gave the coven power but also needed to be fed. 

The Covenstead. You remember the journal entry that had called it the covenstead. A place where witches commune and live together as one functioning body of magic. That much power does things to a place, skews the way the world works a little bit. He gives examples of places all around the world with similar experiences: the Bermuda Triangle, Door To Hell, Reed Flute Cave. All places where an abundance of magic and energy warps the way life functions. 

But the Wood was strange before the witches got here. Hoseok rolls out a map, fingers tracing the lines of the city. Clarity snaps like a rubberband stinging against skin as you stare at it, lips parted, inhaling sharply. 

The city roads make a pentagram, and at the very center is the courthouse. 

“This is on purpose,” Hoseok explains. “There are other places in the world where the way the city or town or village is built is like a pentagram. Usually, these are called portals. They’re different from faerie rings which have their own power and distortions. These portals are for practicing witches and those who know how to use them.”

“Portals for what?”

“Creatures of great power that exist in worlds that don’t belong to us. Part of what gives witches their ability to perform magic is their energy. They are attuned to the world around them in a way that humans are not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you understand the concept of third and fourth dimensions?” 

“Third dimension is what we live in,” you answer mechanically, somewhat familiar with the idea. “If a fourth dimension existed, we wouldn’t know because it moves in a way that we are unable to perceive. The fourth dimension, in theory, is movement and sight we would never have.”

“Exactly. But witches are attuned to that. These pentagrams,” Hoseok murmurs, tapping the map. “Are made to connect to the fourth dimension. Pentagrams are not inherently evil or even paranormal, but similar to sacred geometry, they… radiate at a frequency that other dimensions do. Powerful symbols like this have existed since Mesopotamia.” 

“I… how does this prove that magic is real?”

For a moment, you’re distracted by the way Hoseok’s artful fingers pluck your sister's notebook from the bed. He flips until you’re looking at her journal entries and the newspaper clippings with dates and headlines. 

“Witchcraft is different in every culture and part of the world. These holidays have roots in Celtic and Welsh craft. It was brought over by the pilgrims when people fled England and traveled here. This is old - not as old as whatever lives in the Wood, but old enough that it’s powerful. These dates you’re looking at? They’re sacrifices to keep the Wood powerful.”

“How do you even know all of this?”

“I’ve studied it my entire life.”

“Why?” 

“It’s just something that runs in my family. We’re very spiritual people.” Something about the way his voice wavers makes you look at him sharply. Hoseok isn’t looking at you, busying himself with sifting through papers. There’s a pinch in your gut that makes you think he’s lying, but you’re afraid to push the matter. 

“Get some rest,” he says, breaking your exhausted train of thought. “We can talk more in the morning when you’re not exhausted.” 

“Yeah.” You rub your weary eyes. “Yeah, okay.” 

With Hoseok gone, you crawl into the bed, leaving the light on, staring off into the distance as your hand clutches your necklace. Your lip trembles and your throat constricts painfully. When you close your eyes, you feel tears slide down your face. 

Tucking your face into the pillow to hide your tears, you let out a small, aching sound. You just want to know where your sister is, and somehow you’ve landed in the middle of a hateful little town with strange little people and a strange little fantasy.

Crying is inevitable. But at least it puts you to sleep.

-

This time, you know you’re dreaming. You don’t know how you know, but you do. There’s a watery feeling to the hotel room when you open your eyes. As though you’re both there and you’re not.

You glance at the clock but the numbers are all wrong. You rub your eyes and look again, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t make sense of them.

You want to sit up. You move your arms - no, you try to move your arms. They don’t move, suddenly too heavy to slide under the covers of your blanket and peel it back. Panic sparks in you as you try to shift your legs, but though you can feel them, you can’t move them.

Terror as you’ve never known slides between your ribs, sharp and poignant. You can’t breathe and you know you’re dreaming and yet you can’t move. You close your eyes, brain repeating the same words over and over again: wake up wake up wake up wake up WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP-

It doesn’t happen. You open your eyes and your room still has the dream-glazed light to it, and you still can’t move. Something shifts in your peripheral vision. Your heart seizes in your chest so sharply you think you’ll die. 

You cannot turn your head to look at the shadow that moves just beyond your sight. Tears slip from your eyes, hot, wet and burning. You can’t wipe them. They blind you, turn your vision into an opaque, watery mess as something slides to the foot of your bed. 

When you feel the mattress dip, you try to scream. The sound is locked in your throat, with so much force behind it that you wait for your vocal cords to explode. The fear is raw now, your eyes wild, tears leaking as you mentally thrash and thrash and thrash. 

Weight shifts on either side of the bed and you have the sense that there is someone crawling on you but you can’t see beyond your crying, can’t hear beyond the pounding of your own heartbeat slamming in your ears, blocking out every other noise and-

Something invisible to you grips your throat. You still have the instinct to move, driving you to madness as your brain signals for your hands to fly to your assailant and yank and remove the hold on your neck. 

It’s crushing. You gasp for air, no noise coming out as the grip tightens, and you know with certainty that this is it. Whatever dream this is will kill you, this time. 

The realization that you’re going to die suddenly mutes the terror. It slides behind a glass door, beating its fists, but it's duller now. You have sharper clarity, and briefly you think of what Hoseok said about beings from the fourth dimension, and how the witches summon them through their craft here. To this place. Where you cannot perceive them. 

You wonder if this happened to Hanna. You miss her, your sister, with big dreams and fast smiles and a head full of magic and wondering. This, you think, is how you go. And perhaps you’ll join her. 

Thoughts blend together, sloshed wine in a glass. They’re warm and liquid and have no shape to them, no real purpose. It’s like you know you’re thinking, but you don’t know of what. Darkness pools at the edge of your vision. It feels cold and alone but you drift toward it, away from the pain. 

And then you can breathe. 

Air comes sweeping in, forcing its way into your mouth, into your lungs. Your lungs inflate so painfully that for a split second, you think they’re on fire. Oxygen burns its way through you and bursts of color explode on the canvas of your closed eyes - you don’t remember closing your eyes. 

You roll over in bed, coughing, mouth wet with spit and phlegm as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. 

High-pitched ringing whines in your ears, and there are muffled sounds on the other end of it. The motel room tilts back into vision, melting into place. You think that the room has reloaded into your world wrong - everything is crooked. 

Then you realize you’re laying on your side, gagging and gasping for air. There is a hand against to your back, palm cold, fingertips freezing. The touch, you realize, feels full of energy, your spine tingling where it’s pressed against you. 

Lurching away from the touch, you roll to the side of the bed, looking at the person whose hand had been pressed against you. 

Hoseok’s tangled in the sheets, hair a mess, shirtless and in sweats. He’s panting, flushed, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his body. But it’s his eyes that stop you from scrambling away. They’re dark, burning like two pieces of coal as he looks at you, kneeling with his hands in his lap, palms facing the ceiling. 

Hoseok says something. The ringing in your ears has just started to die down and you shake your head, unsure of what he means and not confident in your ability to speak. 

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

You stare at him. “What the fuck just happened to me?”

“This is my fault, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” 

He lifts his hands and you flinch. The look on his face is pure heartbreak, shrouded in golden light. “Please,” he murmurs. “Let me help you. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

It’s quiet, save for the sound of the humming air conditioner. 

Trust your gut, your sister had said. 

So you do because he’s offered to help you thus far. You nod, giving him access to you. He sags in relief, shuffling forward tentatively as he takes your face in his hands. His palms are impossibly warm. Your eyes flutter shut at the touch, unable to look at him this close, this boy of light and something, as he cradles your face. 

Warmth pools in your face, saturating down to your neck and chest. The ache in your lungs eases, and the lump in your throat continues to recede. You don’t want to ask what he’s doing. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to feel the terror of moments ago ever again, and with the way Hoseok is touching you, so close that his breath fans your brow, and you can smell him like rain and lavender, you want to embrace it. 

There’s no thought process to the way you lean up into him. Your eyes are closed, your breath shaking as you seek him. Hoseok makes a surprised noise, but it vanishes as you press your lips against his.

Relief sweeps through you. It’s nothing you’ve ever felt before, every drop of terror fading away, momentarily forgotten. Every ache vanishes. It’s just Hoseok and the way he burns brighter than the sun, and the way it doesn’t hurt anymore. 

After a brief moment of hesitation, he kisses you back. It’s sweet and soft-lipped, his fingers pressing into the side of your face gently as he pulls you to him. You follow his pull, both physically and something like a tether, getting up on your knees to get closer. 

Hoseok breaks the kiss, nose brushing yours. You open your eyes, half-lidded and feeling dizzy from just the gentle press of lips. His eyes are dark, but you see the light flecks of brown in them, like an entire world of sun and stars exist in their depths. 

“Make it go away,” you whisper.

You don’t specify. The pain, the nightmares, the fear, the weird town, the worry about your sister. You want it all to stop and this person you barely know - you feel as though he can take it away. Or mute it. 

He nods, eyes closing as he kisses you properly. You forget what you were worried about, and it’s all you can do not to fall headfirst into Hoseok. His mouth is warm and wet, tongue soft but greedy as he pries your mouth open, drinking you in. 

Hoseok’s lips tingle against yours, sending a shiver skating down your spine. You wrap your hands around his neck, fingers tangling in the silky strands there. He hums appreciatively when your nails slow-scratch at the base of his scalp. 

Carefully, Hoseok shuffles you into his lap. Your knees dip on the mattress on either side of his hips, straddling his waist. His hands find the hem of your sleep shirt and pull upward. You break the kiss, a string of spit connecting your flushed mouths before the garment breaks it.

The room is cold, air hitting your bare chest and hardening your nipples immediately. You whine but Hoseok is fast, pressing your chest to his as he attaches his mouth to your neck, sucking at the tender flesh sharply. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, letting your head drop backward heavily. Your eyes are shut and the world feels like it’s spinning. He has one hand on your hip, the other on the small of your back, pressing you to him to keep you warm and to rock your hips gently into his. “Feels good.”

He hums in response, sucking wet stains onto your flesh as he moves toward your chest. You push your tits out to meet his searching mouth, gasping lightly when the rough drag of his tongue swipes across your nipple. 

The sensation is overwhelming. Your fingers dig into the back of his neck as Hoseok sucks your peak greedily. You’re grinding into his lap on your own now, panties clinging to your hot, sticky folds as you seek friction. He’s hard beneath you and you want to feel him. 

Letting you rut in his lap, Hoseok drags delicate fingers over the curve of your ass and thigh, and his nails leave goosebumps in their wake. The feeling between your legs and at the base of your spine is heady as he lets go of one nipple with a sharp pop, tongue tracing a sloppy line to the other. 

Hoseok’s teeth tease the tight bud and you whine. “Oh?” he asks, voice rough and low. “Gonna be a baby about it?”

You shake your head, but your lip juts out as you look at him, dazed. “Want more.”

“Tell me.”

Dropping one hand from his neck, you take the hand resting on your thigh, guiding it between your legs. Hoseok presses the pads of his fingers to your underwear and you let out a keen. It’s not nearly enough, but the pressure sends another wave of arousal flooding through you. 

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging his fingers back and forth over the damp cloth. “Soaked from just that, huh?” You nod and he bites your collarbone. Fuck, he’s going to kill you, sending another tremble down your frame. He hooks a finger in your underwear, sliding against your glossy folds experimentally and he curses, “Fuck. Pussy is already messy and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please.”

“What do you want? I already asked.”

“More.” Hoseok presses your clit, letting you drip onto his fingers, but he doesn’t move them. You grit your teeth. “Want your fingers,” you ask through clenched teeth. “Fuck me with them, anything. Please.” 

He grins, face wicked before he kisses your nose. “See, you just had to tell me.” 

You’re tense as he pulls your underwear to the side, shoving the fabric against your thigh. Cool air hits your cunt. You can’t recall ever wanting someone like this, vibrating uncontrollably as he traces your slit with his fingers, lazily circling your clit.

A sigh of relief escapes your lips and you drop your forehead on Hoseok’s shoulder. He lets you sag against him as he plays with your pussy, fingers barely dipping to tease your hole and gather juices before coming back to trace your clit, applying delicious pressure. 

It feels so good. It’s mind-numbing, letting him do what he wants. Hoseok pants in your ear, breathing stilted between chaste kisses against the side of your head. 

Painfully slow, Hoseok inserts a single finger into your wet heat. The sound you let out is high-pitched and loud. It’s not nearly enough, but you lose all sense of asking for more as his finger slides in deep, pressing against your front wall to massage that delicate spot inside of you.

“Oh shit,” you stutter, unable to help it. 

He laughs, voice deep when he asks, “Yeah? That the spot?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He slow-drags his finger in and out of your pussy, fucking you slowly. He curses, teasing you only for a moment before he gifts you another. The stretch is so much better, and you melt. He thrusts leisurely, not hard and fast but deep. Your walls swallow his fingers, gripping them and begging him not to stop as a tight coil winds in your stomach as he presses hard against your g-spot.

It’s messy, the wet drag of his fingers in your cunt. You feel the slow drip of arousal every time he pulls back, soaking his hand. It drops down your thighs as he picks up the pace. You lift your hips a little, adding a bounce to his motions. 

“Oh? You wanna do it?” He stops moving his hand and you let out a desperate sound. He laughs. “No, go ahead. If you’re so eager, do it yourself. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

Seeking balance by holding his shoulders, you grip him tight, face tucked in his neck as you maneuver yourself, using your knees to lightly fuck yourself on his fingers. It feels so good, and you adjust the angle until you feel him hit that spot again, making you see stars. 

It’s electric, this feeling rippling in your bloodstream. It feels different with Hoseok and you can’t place why, but your orgasm is building so sharply in your stomach that you nearly stop thrusting, overwhelmed by the sensation. 

The pressure in your stomach winds and winds and winds until it snaps, every muscle in your thighs and ass squeezing tight, your hands turning to an iron grip, breath stuck in your lungs as you let out a strangled sound, squeezing Hoseok’s fingers as you come. 

Hoseok is whispering something in your ear, but you can’t hear him over the thundering heartbeat of your pulse, shaking as you come down from your high. When you do, you’re vaguely aware that he’s pulled his fingers out, but he’s massaging the tight ring of muscles, making you shiver.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Wanna see you stretch yourself on my cock like that.”

“Wanna,” you mumbled. 

Your limbs are heavy and lazy as you shuffle, uncoordinated. Hoseok laughs, finding you endearing as you scowl and shift off his lap. His touch is featherlight as he pulls your panties off. You need him, completely naked and shivering as your eyes drop from the smooth, carved planes of his chest and abs to the heavy imprint of his cock in his sweats.

And the wet stain mess you’ve made. 

Flushed, you watch as he looks up at you, smirking. “Go on.” 

Scooting toward him with eager hands, you rest with your feet tucked under you. Dipping your touch below his waistband, you grasp him firmly, cock heavy in your hand. He sighs, head tilting back a little while you slide your grip along his shaft.

Brushing your thumb over his tip to collect hot, sticky precum, you spread it, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you stroke him gently, testing the waters. His hips twitch and his mouth parts, gold light of the lamp turning him into Giovanni’s Apollo. He is ethereal, a burning sun and you suddenly understand why Icarus flew to his demise.

Maybe you will too. 

With your other hand, you push Hoseok’s sweats down. Though you could feel the size and swollen weight of him in your hand, it’s still a marvel when you see his thick length, dark tip oozing precum. 

A hiss escapes his teeth when you give him a firm squeeze. He lets you pump him lazily, and your mouth catches the underside of his jaw, teething and sucking sharp marks into his skin. He tastes like something electric and a little bit of sweat, your tongue buzzing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, fingers gripping the back of your neck to pull your mouth back up to his. It’s more spit and him gasping into your mouth more than anything. “You know how stunning you are?”

You feel heat creep up in your cheeks. Hoseok shuffles away from you and you let go of your grip on him, watching his dick slap against his stomach, smearing precum. He sits near the headboard, leaning against the wallpaper and staring at you with hungry eyes. 

“You’re going to make me shy,” you say softly, though you still crawl toward him. You can feel the slick slide of your inner thighs. He pumps his cock lazily, giving you a look that says he doesn’t believe you. “You’re pretty.”

“Think so?”

You nod, a little light-headed and uneven. You tilt toward the side and he catches you, hands sticky from your mixed arousal. Bending down, you capture his lips. Hoseok runs the crown of his cock through your folds and you moan, lips parting. He drinks in your sounds, licking them from the roof of your mouth. 

For a moment, it’s just the teasing and sloppy kissing, pausing to pant into each other's mouths, slick from sweat. He presses the blunt head of his dick into your hole, dipping only a little before retreating and sliding back up to tease your clit.

“Hoseok,” you growl, biting on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the iron tang blooming in your mouth. He hisses out a laugh and does it again. This time, you lower your pussy, trying to catch him on an angle to sink down on him. “Stoooop.”

“Whiny baby,” he teases again. “Cock-hungry, huh?”

“Wanna be full.”

“Mmm.”

Hoseok repeats the motion, but this time lets you sink slowly on the length of him. The stretch stings, hurt-laced pleasure as you suck in a sharp breath and hold it. It feels like your lungs might burst, shaking as you slide down until your ass rests on his damp thighs and you feel the tip of his cock deep in your gut. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, leaning forward, palms pressed to his shoulders. They slide a little, his skin warm and sweaty. You dig your nails in for purchase and he sucks in a sharp breath, but lets you claw your way back to sanity from the feeling. “Deep.”

His hands find purchase on your ass, digging in and massaging. “Come on, then. You were so eager for my fingers.” 

You lift your hips a little, the slide delicious against your warm walls, and drop down with a wet smack. You both moan at that and you grin, putting the weight into Hoseok’s shoulders as you lift your hips again, hypnotized by the wet schlick of your cunt sliding on his length. 

Everything fades away again. Your thighs burn as you increase your movements, chasing the buzz that has settled deep in your stomach. Hoseok lets you use him, his eyes fixed on the way your cunt drips into his lap. 

His nails bite into the meat of your ass and you feel dragged under by the pleasure, the sting of his grip and the pressure of his cock hitting your g-spot sending you further and further.

Your legs grow a little tired, movements sloppy. Hoseok doesn’t mind, planting his feet on the bed and thrusting upward to meet you, hands supporting your weight under your ass. He helps lift you, pulling you up and down until you’re mumbling incoherently. 

It feels mind-numbingly good, and the tension in your stomach grows taught and tight, your second orgasm oncoming. 

“Come on,” Hoseok demands between clenched teeth. “Give it to me.” 

You nod, sliding a hand between your thighs, fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure and speed to get you shaking again. White spots appear in your vision as you squeeze your eyes shut, letting him take over and fuck up into you, cunt gushing as you come hard enough around him that you fall forward. 

Hoseok lets you lay on his chest, dead weight as he claws at your ass and thighs, rutting up into you. You’re dimly aware of the soaked mess of your smacking bodies, but your ears are ringing and you feel lighter than you’ve ever felt before. 

You begin to whine in oversensitivity just as Hoseok slams into you as deep as he can, cock twitching and filling you up. You shiver as he grunts, hips bucking with a wet squelch as he gently fucks you through his orgasm.

Both of you lay there in a messy pile as his cock softens inside of you. Cum pools between your pressed bodies, but you don’t care. The room is humid, the light dim with the haze of how far gone you feel. Hoseok traces soft circles on your hips with his fingers. Your mouth is pressed against his jaw, breath kissing his skin. 

You could fall asleep here, you think. It’s nice to forget for a while, to let your body feel the pounding of his heart against your chest, the shaking of his thighs against yours, the ache in your muscles. 

Heaviness tugs at you, so close to pulling you under, but Hoseok stirs. You feel drunk, letting him peel the two of you apart until you’re stumbling to the shower. The air makes your tacky, cum-covered skin cold. 

It’s hard to fit both of you in the shower, but you manage it, rotating under the rough spray of the hot water, hands exploring and kneading sore muscles. Your lips are abused and feel bruised, but it doesn’t stop you from seeking the comfort of his mouth, the world turning to static every time you kiss him. 

The motel room smells like sex and sweat when you return to peel clothes back on. Wordlessly, Hoseok takes your hand and leads you to his room on the other side of the wall. It has the same faded wallpaper, the same dusty and stained lampshades, but it looks more lived in.

There are added pieces in the room. A dehumidifier hums in the corner, and there is a hamper full of clothes. Hoseok has added plants near the window, plasticky leaves vibrant green and shiny. Burnt-out incense sits on the plastic folding table he’s erected, books and papers splayed out over its surface. There’s a collection of crystals you can’t identify.

An inviting bed beckons you. You both fall into it, heavy-limbed and sighing. It smells like Hoseok, a mix of rain and lavender. There’s a sense of trepidation as you roll over on the mattress.

Carefully, Hoseok pulls you to him. He presses your back to his chest, one arm going under his head as he yawns and smacks his lips lightly, the other looping over your waist.  

“No one is going to bother you,” he sleep-slurs. “I got rid of them. And they won’t go against me.”

You hum, sleep crawling up and stealing your thoughts. You wonder how he got rid of them and why they’re afraid of him. 

It isn’t until he mumbles a response that you realize you’ve spoken your question out loud. “Because,” he sighs, words slow and soft, as he drifts off to sleep. “I told them you’re mine.” 

Hoseok’s words are lost on you because you’re long asleep. 

-

No dreams disturb you. When you wake up, you feel the weight of the night before on you. It’s cool and empty behind you as you startle, realizing you’d fallen asleep with Hoseok there. You look over your shoulder, blinking away sleep, and see that it’s just you in the dark room.

From the bathroom, you can hear the shower. You relax a little, groaning as you roll to your back and stare up at the popcorn-textured ceiling. Your thighs still burn with the soreness from the night before and you bite your bottom lip, trying to conceal your grin. 

Gently, you bring your hand to prod at your neck where it had hurt so much last night. You remember the lock-limb nightmare, the feeling of needing to scream. The thought that you were dying. 

Hoseok had saved you, but it begged the question of how. You remember asking him last night, but you cannot remember what he answered. You’re also surprised to find that you’re not in any pain from whoever or whatever had attacked you. 

Unease turns your stomach but you decide to crawl out of his bed, wandering around his room. A salt lamp casts an orange glow on his makeshift desk. You’re drawn to the mess on top of it, looking at the stacks of books and frowning. They’re not in English - or any language that you know, embossed symbols and shapes on the covers and cracked spines. 

Lifting a heavy, green canvas book, you flip it over in your hands. The edges of the paper are yellow and oxidized with time and there is a gold symbol pressed on the front. Your fingers trace the groove, remembering what Hoseok said the day before about sacred geometry. 

Putting it down, you select another book. It has a pentagram on it. When you flip the book open, the pages are filled with slanted writing, diagrams, and shapes. You recognize sabbat dates and stop when you get to a picture of interlocking shapes. You trace the symbol absently, wondering what it means. 

Why does he have books like this? 

A current of electricity slides up the finger that’s tracing the symbol. You squeak in surprise and drop it, cringing at the loud clatter that it makes against the table. The shower flips off and you look at the shut door. Hoseok moves around before opening the door, sticking his head out. He’s dripping in water, hair slicked back, golden skin glistening. 

Despite the night before, you avert your eyes, shy. He doesn’t notice or doesn’t say anything, instead asking. “You okay?” He glances down at the books. “Good luck reading those.” 

“Yeah,” you answer absently.

He grins. “Be out in a second.”

When Hoseok shuts the door, you feel unsettled. Rubbing your arms to fend off a sudden chill, you continue looking through the things on his table. There’s a small glass case with the exoskeleton of a frog. You cringe, thinking about Hoseok’s pet frog awaiting death in his pitcher plants.

Hoseok’s phone starts vibrating on the desk, making you gasp. Your hand goes to your chest, feeling the way your heart pounds violently against your rib cage. Looking at the screen, you see that someone named Yoongi is calling him. 

You hesitate, cocking your head. The name rings familiar, and you watch as the call goes to voicemail. The screen fades to black but you keep staring at it. Not for the first time on your trip, you get the sense that you’re missing something, that there is something right there. 

A text from Yoongi comes in, lighting up the screen. 

Jung, you better not be fucking around with your prey again. We need to prepare. 

It doesn’t sit well with you. When the screen goes dark, you tap it, bringing up the preview. What the hell does Yoongi mean fucking around with your prey? And what are they preparing for? You swear you remember the name Yoongi, retracing your thoughts. 

You feel the blood drain from your face. You do know that name. 

“Yoongi was so mad he wouldn’t talk to me for a week.”

“What?” you had asked him. “Your cat talks?”

“Oh- he- well he meows, you know what I mean?”

Slowly, you stiffen, remembering Hoseok’s words after breakfast. It had seemed silly then, that Hoseok was talking about a cat. But it’s not the only place you’ve seen Yoongi’s name. 

Trust your gut, your sister always said. 

You look at the bathroom door once before turning on your heel and creep from the room. You pull the front door open slowly, wincing and holding your breath as the outside world makes noise. Slipping through, you’re careful not to let the door click loudly before running to your room. 

With the same care, you shut your door, flipping the bolt lock and sliding the chain in the door. The room feels like it’s spinning, your tunnel vision making you dizzy as you sweep your gaze back and forth, looking for the piles of your sister's research. It’s sitting on the floor, shoved off the bed where you let him fuck you last night. 

The urge to vomit flips your stomach as you dive for the papers, riffling through them and scanning, feverish and sweaty. You find the entry you want, finger pressing to the page as you read it multiple times, fear making the words tangle.

Only Mabon is referenced in any of the journals explicitly, in a strange entry from a man named Yoongi Min. I have written it here for safekeeping: We bringeth the little lamb to The Wood today for the honor of Mabon. I loathe to see him go, for he hath brought cheer and many a smile to the Covenstead. May he bring us blessings and warmth in the winter. 

Yoongi. 

A sick feeling coils in your stomach as your hands tremble, eyes scanning the list of names your sister scribbled out as old families in Kill Devil. There’s another one you remember, the one that Yoongi used in his text to Hoseok. 

Booth. 

Park. 

Warren. 

Kim. 

Jung. 

Jeon.

Min.

A shaking hand presses to your mouth. Jung. “Fuck,” you squeak, looking at the wall separating you from Hoseok’s room.

It occurs to you that all this time, you thought the citizens were looking at Hoseok with contempt. How easily hatred can be confused for fear. Hoseok, who had shown up every time you were having a night terror. Who seemingly knew all the right things to do to ease you.

Hoseok, who had flashes of darkness that terrified you. Whose expression could go blank as he thought about something, but flip on a dime to a bright, sunny boy. Hoseok, whose presence always gave you a weird tingle, triggering some sort of instinct you couldn’t place. 

Something happens then. With absolute certainty and a razor-sharp resolve that you’ve never experienced, you know your sister is dead. Perhaps you’ve always known. The sudden burning of your locket that night two months ago, the way that it looks like she ceased to exist. The eerie feeling dogging you, nipping at your heels. 

Hanna is dead. The pain is only sharp for a second, a slice of agony as you bend over, arms wrapped around your stomach as you let out a silent scream. The grief is powerful but abrupt as you hear Hoseok call your name on the other side of the wall. 

You stand. Because now you can’t mourn. Now, you must leave as quickly as possible. Because you hadn’t been trusting your gut, ignoring that weird little sense of something wrong. 

Now isn’t the time to scream over what you know. Now you must get away from-

“Was it the books or the phone call?” 

You whirl around. Hoseok is leaning against the wall by the door. The bolt is still flipped and the chain is still in place. You’re frozen to the spot, staring at him. He looks at the papers on the floor and back to you, smirk razor-sharp. Of course, he could get into the room without opening the lock. 

All of the features you thought were beautiful are suddenly terrifying. “It took you way too long to puzzle it together, but I guess you’re not nearly as smart as Hanna.” You open your mouth but nothing comes out, throat constricted. “You were so easy to convince though, so I guess that’s something.”

“I don’t…” your voice is raspy, shaking. 

“When you kept calling the city officials, I knew it was only time before you showed up here. I’ve been living in this fucking shit hole waiting.” He tsks and shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Took you forever.”

“The citizens?”

“Stay out of my way and stay out of the Wood. They’re the frogs I let live, so long as I find other ones.”

“Why?” you ask, shaking your head. It’s the only question you can think of. It’s the only question that matters: whywhywhywhy. “Why help me?”

“Sometimes a predator likes to play with its prey.” 

It dawns on you that he had said as much at breakfast while he was tracing symbols on the table. He had been talking about his frogs, but he had been talking about you too. How many signs had you missed because he fucking smiled at you? Something dangerous lurking behind light flirting. 

He points to himself. “Pitcher plant.” He points at you with a grin. “Frog. Ribbit.”

“Fuck you,” you snarl, fear replaced by a hatred that burns so hot the edges of your vision flash red. But it isn’t him you’re mad at. It’s you. For being so easily deceived. For being so casually influenced in a matter of days. “Fuck you, and your fucking town.” 

“I did fuck you. You were special, though. I hope that makes you feel better. Didn’t fuck your sister. You’re cute, and I had time to spare.” 

“All of this for what? To get off on the chase? The manipulation?”

He scoffs. “I already told you what this place is. It isn’t my fault you didn’t put it together. I almost hand-fed it to you. The Wood gives us power, and the Wood needs sacrifices.” Hoseok pushes himself off of the wall, his smile like the first light of the morning sun. “I’m taking you to the Wood.”

---

I truly enjoyed the witty banter of the characters and the writer's writing style. 👏🏻 Plus, Yoongi in glasses 👓🔥

Between the Titles

Pairing: Min Yoongi x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, smut (mature/18+)

warnings: egregious caffeine consumption, yoongi smokes cigarettes, reader is about the same height as yoongi (its me hello im almost the same height as him), gay taehyung, volunteer jungkook, silver fox yoongi (he just has some gray hair bc hot) smut warnings: making out, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), semi-public sexual acts, bathroom sex, protected sex, praise kink

Length: ~9.5k

Note: no thoughts, just big brain yoongi in a sweater smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. btw almost all the books in this are real but i haven't read them so if you have lmk if they're worth the read lmao. thank u to my dearest @gyuswhore and @idyllic-ghost for beta-ing this

Summary: Five days a week in the library means you're very familiar with the senior research librarian. It also means he has no qualms about making his own book recommendations either.

m.list + support my work

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

The sweet aroma of old books and strong coffee infiltrates your nose as the heavy doors into the library swing open, offering reprieve from the storm raging on outside. It’s far too early for anyone to be here beyond staff and a few other morning birds. You glide right to the circulation desk as if fatigue doesn’t pulse through your veins, barely quelled by the second cup of coffee you sip from.

As always, the same familiar head of dark hair with sparse silver streaks waits at the circulation desk. He’s the only person working this early despite being the senior research librarian but you never hear any complaints louder than muttered annoyance under his breath when he thinks no one is around to hear. Bent over his laptop, Yoongi doesn’t even bother to look up as he slides a heavy stack of books to the edge of the counter. 

Eleven total, ten heavy volumes on ancient fertility cults across the globe, and one book you know he’s mixed in for his own amusement. 

It’s become something of a game between you two. At first you thought he was mixing your materials with someone else’s, but every time you brought the additional copy back to his desk, Yoongi insisted he had no idea what you were talking about and questioned your reading choices. Each time the titles got more ridiculous: Castration: The Advantages and the Disadvantages, How to Enjoy Your Weeds, Amish Vampires in Space, the list goes on and on. But after he slipped Why Fish Don’t Exist into your stack a few weeks ago, you decided to start responding. 

You left the stack at his desk like usual, ears perked for his reaction to Fishes I Have Known. An amused snort rang out just as you opened the doors to leave for the afternoon. The sound was so unlike the stoic man you’d become accustomed to over months working on your thesis; not that you heard him talk much to begin with.

Since then you’ve made a point to match every book he leaves for you. Yesterday, Yoongi chose I Could Pee on This: and Other Poems by Cats. At the end of the day, you spent thirty minutes searching shelf after shelf for an appropriate response, every book failing to meet your expectations. It wasn’t fair he knew the expansive collection like the back of his hand but nevertheless you found something up to par.

Yoongi rolled his eyes when you passed your books over the counter, a copy of Staying Dry: A Practical Guide to Bladder Control, like a shining star on top. A brief pink of his tongue flashed across his lips, a feeble attempt to muffle an amused smile. It was the most obvious reaction since the first time you responded.

Smiling like the cat who ate the canary, you left on clouds last night.

But this morning you have notes to write.

Snagging the collection, you make your way deeper into the building. Your unassigned-assigned desk tucked away on the fifth floor, far enough away from any noise so you can fully immerse in work without the threat of distraction. An uninterrupted view of the courtyard below is an added bonus.

The wooden table top is covered in a neat collection of pens and sticky notes in minutes; your laptop and the foot tall collection of references you devour over the next eight hours taking up the other half.

A few titles you request over and over sit on top, too valuable to be checked out for long term use so you settle for keeping them in constant rotation since no one else bothers to read the dusty yellowing tombs. For now, you focus on the new pieces you hope hold the information you need.

Earth rites: fertility practices in pre-industrial Britain, Archaeology and Fertility Cults in the Ancient Mediterranean, Metamorphosis of Baubo: myths of woman's sexual energy— 

I’m in Love with Mothman…

Well there it is.

You thumb across the glossy cartoon cover, failing to bite back a smile. Yoongi has a penchant for tossing in the most outlandish romance books he can find. Maybe because he knows you spend just as much if not more time than he does between the stacks. The suggestion box at the desk was full of cards stained with your penmanship asking for longer hours; several of which you’ve seen Yoongi rip in half as he pointedly met your gaze.

Tossing it aside, you pull forward one of the more musty books and start reading.

When you finally manage to resurface from laborious tales on several cults of Aphrodite, the rain is long gone. Even the darkest corners of the old building seem to glow gold in the evening sunset filtering through the glass doors. They're the only thing standing between you and freedom in the form curling up on your couch with a glass of wine and a new episode of your favorite reality dating show. But first, Yoongi needs his books back. 

His desk chair is abandoned and the return cart is gone as well which means he could be anywhere in the building. Disappointment leaches into your spine at the fact you won’t be able to witness his reaction to the twelfth book in your pile; the one you spent an extra fifteen minutes looking for in the corner of the third floor. 

A thick piece of library paper lists the materials you’ll need for the next day lays atop the neon green cover of Pest Management Solutions: How to Manage Your Moth Problem. They decorate the corner of the desk until Yoongi returns to find them. Hopefully he appreciates your humor.

Yoongi isn’t at his desk the next morning when you come in either. Instead, a doe eyed man with a lip piercing occupies the chair, clearly playing some game on his laptop. 

Approaching the counter, you begin to ask, “Where’s Yoon–”

“Staff meeting,” he interjects like he’s already answered the question a million times despite the library opening only five minutes ago. The white of his teeth threaten to blind you. “But I can help you!”

His name tag isn’t the same engraved golden metal Yoongi’s is, it’s a plastic sleeve with a paper insert with barely legible handwriting you decipher as  “Jungkook” and below “Volunteer.” You’ve seen him before from a distance. Usually trudging through the shelves with the book return cart in tow, occasionally taking a quick read inside before putting them in their rightful place. 

“I need to pick up some books. I gave Yoongi the list yesterday.”

“Sure.” Jungkook jumps up, approaching the shelf lined with piles for other patrons. “What’s your last name?”

He combs through the list after you answer, finding your stack easily enough. 

“Alright so Yoongi left a note that the encyclopedias you wanted are on the usual desk you have upstairs. But other than that I’ve got: Historical Studies of Changing Fertility, Sacred Mushroom and The Cross, Archaeology and Fertility Cults in The Ancient Mediterranean…” Jungkook lists off the titles, checking to make sure they're all in order. “And, um, this one isn’t on the list.”

It must be Yoongi’s choice for the day.

“What is it?”

Jungkook looks like he’s trying to hide his own amusement as he slides it over for you to read.

If I Were a Bird, You'd be The First Person I'd Shit On.

“Huh,” you blush. “Wonder how that got in there.”

“He must have left it by mistake. I can put it ba–”

“No, I’ll take it.” You toss it on top of the other, less embarrassing books in your stack and gather it into your arms before Jungkook can get in another word. “Thanks for your help!”

Scurrying towards the hallway housing the elevators, you attempt to juggle the pile of books, your stuffed bag, and coffee without taking a spill. It’s one thing to have your silent battle with Yoongi, but having someone else witness it makes you feel downright silly. And for the first one witnessed by others to be such an absurd and downright passive aggressive selection sends embarrassment through your veins.

As promised, three encyclopedias sit neatly on your desk; the volumes so thick they protrude from the table top like a small mountain. No wonder he left them there instead of making you carry them up in individual trips. But Yoongi’s goodwill clearly ended there. A sticky note on top of the stack pens his discontent at your selection.

I had to spend 3 hours in the basement to find these. If you need them again, don’t.

Even though he hadn’t signed it, you know it’s from him. The tight script fits his personality; thin lines of annoyance bleeding through the ink, not just his words. A waft of musty old paper and dust breezes through your nose as you open the first copy. They must have been housed in a forgotten storage area. At least his bird book makes more sense now. 

You don’t dig into the heap until after the sun is halfway through the sky but when you do it only proves to unravel your wits. Reading on, the wrinkle in your eyebrows deepens further. Page after page of conflicting knowledge passes by, each sentence more confusing than the last; minutes negating months of research. The thick pages hardly provide a soft landing for your head as you allow it to thump forward in exasperation.

The scrap of chair legs alerts to a new presence watching your meltdown in real time.

“Something wrong?” Yoongi asks.

With a heavy sigh, you respond.“I want to die.”

“Get in line.”

Shifting in your seat, you peer in his direction. A different day but the same wardrobe: dark button up, glasses, same unapproachable facade. But what Yoongi is doing sitting next to you is new.

Yoongi makes himself comfortable, picking at his nails as he waits patiently for an explanation. 

“Everything in my thesis is either wrong or the world authority on fertility in Europe is full of it.”

“Bummer.”

“Your sincerity is overwhelming.” You snap.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. Boredom seeps across his face but he doesn’t move to leave, just sinks deeper into the chair. “You’ve read almost half the collection since you started coming here, why are some old dusty books such a big deal?”

“Because all of those books cite these books which means those books are wrong and all my work is in the toilet.”

“Those books are from the seventies, the information is probably out of date.”

Slamming the copy serving as a pillow shut, you take a second glance at the title: Encyclopedia of Women and World Religion, Volume 7.

“Yoongi,” you sing.

Yoongi’s gaze flashes to yours, a trickle of confusion flashing across his eyes.“What?”

You stack up the books and push them across the desk with some effort. Just to savor the satisfaction of besting Yoongi, you indulge a long sip of now cold coffee before speaking again. No one else is around to witness your victory but that won’t dampen the high.

“Looks like you’ll be back in the basement because you brought me the wrong editions.”

He opens his mouth to argue, snatching one of the books to investigate but you beat him to the punch.

“I asked for the twenty-fifth edition, not the seventh.” You smirk. “I think you're losing your touch.”

He watches you over the rim of the cover. A fleeting glance in your direction but it makes your heart squeeze with need.

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Yoongi sighs, standing. “Do you still need them for anything or can I go ahead and take them?”

With your approval, he heaves the heavy tombs on to his cart. The strain of his forearms, bare from rolled up sleeves, catches your attention. Veins raised under creamy skin, lean muscles leading down to hands you’ve noticed since the first day you started visiting the library.

If you keep staring, you’re likely to start drooling. So you dive back into one of the useful books littering your desk and pretend to read until he’s disappearing down the hall.

On your way out, leaving much earlier than a typical day due to Yoongi’s mistake, you drop the remaining books off at the circulation desk. Along with a copy of Avian Hunting Techniques. He’s absent again but it doesn't matter.

You continue out the doors and down the sidewalk only to spot him leaning against the brick exterior further down the street. Even from a distance you can make out the natural scowl he’s constantly sporting. Except this time his lips pout around a cigarette. 

Of course he smokes.

The quasi-mysterious librarian who flirts with you through book titles, smokes cigarettes and looks hot doing it. 

“You know those things will kill you, right?” 

“That’s what the box says but they aren’t holding up their end of the deal,” Yoongi responds, flicking the ash before looking at his watch. “Wow, out before six. I’ll alert the press.”

“Well, if someone gave me the right books then maybe I’d stay longer. But I’m not about to wait around while you get the ones I need.”

Yoongi takes another drag of his cigarette before responding, “Are you trying to say I forced you to take a break?”

The realization dawns on you. Yoongi is the senior research librarian. He’s never given you the wrong books, even when you request the rare copies needed to be loaned from a different part of the country. The few times you’ve offered understanding if he couldn’t get them were met with a challenge in his gaze and smug satisfaction when handing them over a week later.

“You brought me the wrong copies on purpose!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’s lying. You know it. Yoongi definitely knows you know by the way he smirks. But he’s already crushing the filter under his shoe and moving back towards the library by the time your brain catches up to your mouth.  “Have a good night, Y/N.”

With a scoff of indignation, you stalk towards your car.

The next morning, you march straight through the class doors to where Yoongi sits, fueled by snowballed annoyance from the previous day. Waking up on the wrong side of the bed is an understatement. If there are any gods, Yoongi should pick one and pray.

Your free afternoon of yesterday was spent dealing with the chaos your apartment has become over the past few weeks. Unfolded laundry, stacks of random papers, out of place books, and errant dust bunnies all became new victims to energy usually reserved for a full day of research. Taehyung practically shit himself when he woke up before dinner and found you scrubbing the bathroom sink.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hand to his chest like a flustered old woman.

Bleach curled in your nostrils. “I live here.” 

“Not between the hours of eight and seven.”

But after the mess was dealt with, aggravation set in. How dare Yoongi purposefully meddle in your work. Well meaning or not you were an adult and could decide when enough was enough. The purposeful mishap hadn’t set you back far, one afternoon but a drop in the bucket in comparison to the months you’ve already spent chasing new leads. But the principle of the matter is that it’s none of his business what you do and when you do it.

Yoongi slides a slimmer stack over when you stop in front of him.

“Encyclopedias are on your desk,” he announces through a sip of coffee. He continues to type away, feigning disinterest as you sort through your stack with measured annoyance.

“Are they the right copies this time?”

“Double checked them myself.”

You open your mouth to verbalize your doubts but Yoongi’s pick of the day catches your eye.

Surviving Your Stupid Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School.

Scoffing, you flip the book around and shoot daggers into his face with your eyes. “Do you think you’re funny?”

The corner of his mouth twitches then becomes a full blown smile. Leaning over the desk, he drops his voice, “I think I’m hilarious.”

Remembering you are, in fact, in a library, you manage to muffle a frustrated groan. You dump the supplementary reading back on the counter for Yoongi to deal with and head upstairs. 

Unlike the usual days where you put off finding a response to Yoongi’s extra copy until the waning hours of the afternoon, you drop your bags and head straight for the shelves. The fifth floor houses a collection of textbooks and other reference material. It’s why it's always deserted unless some poor fool stumbles on it by accident; the perfect place to work uninterrupted for hours.

You head down stairs, circling the fourth and then third floor like a shark in a feeding frenzy. A few covers spark interest but nothing captures what bubbles in your veins: annoyance, anger, confusion. A brief flutter of interest as to why Yoongi decided to mess with you but those feelings are more dangerous than the acidic ones.

Row after proves unfruitful in your quest for passive aggressive revenge. None have the same bite as his book, or seem to curb the homicidal thoughts raging in your head.

Until a little white book peeps back at you from the end of the aisle.

Yoongi jumps when you slam Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass in front of him. A feat in and of itself to sneak up on him given the loan desk has a perfect view of the entire first floor but whatever he’d been clicking away at on the computer was distraction enough.

“What's this?”

“Thought you might like some new reading.” You flash your teeth.

His chin jerks towards the glossy cover. “I already gave this two stars on Goodreads.”

Of course he has.

Face prickling in embarrassment, you turn back the way you came without a word.

Hours later, when half the day has ticked by and the ache for more caffeine burns your eyes, Yoongi stops by your desk. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try and gain the attention you pointedly withhold. He sets a paper coffee cup on the corner of the tabletop and leaves.

You snatch up the cup after he rounds the corner out of sight. The lack of sugar leaves much to be desired but free coffee is free coffee, especially to a PhD student with limited means. 

It isn’t much of an apology but guilt blooms down your spine anyway. He meant well. You aren’t known for giving yourself breaks; unable to quit while you’re ahead. A voluntary day off is less likely than winning the lottery. You’re a busy body and the constant work keeps you from dissolving into chaos.

You don’t see Yoongi again until every book at your desk is exhausted, begging for a break from your manhandling. Double and triple checking notes and citations are the poor excuse you implement to delay the inevitable. At some point you’ll have to go downstairs to face the music. 

He’s waiting like always, scanning the mountain of returns littering the counter from a long day. Each step closer withers something in your stomach. 

The copies in your hand shift onto the wooden surface, joining the stack for him to work through. Yoongi flashes a polite grimace when you catch his eye before immediately diving back into his work. Hopefully he understands why you chose Thank You for Smoking. And why you covered the second half of the title with a sticky note.

Jungkook’s smiling face greets you bright and early. His name tag has been upgraded from flimsy paper to a plastic one and a printed label with his name. 

Handing over your library card, he quickly scans it and grabs the books meant for today’s dissection. 

“Yoongi wanted me to tell you that if you want more coffee while you’re working, you can go to the staff lounge on the second floor.”

“Oh.”

Jungkook continues sifting through your requests, making sure each is correct.  “Between you and me, the coffee down the street is better. But don’t tell him I said that.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a coffee snob and thinks his shit—sorry—stuff is the best.”

“Okay,” you say, grabbing your pile. “Thanks.”

You set up your station like always, sorting through each book and devising a mental to do list. The desk resembles a feast but instead of food it’s encyclopedias, printed articles, and dusty manuscripts Yoongi wrangled from who knows where. On the outer board of your work station rests the feature of the day: How to Beg for Cigarettes.

A few hours pass between the pages. Your previous research is confirmed by the significantly less dusty encyclopedias this time, corroborating the basis of your thesis. A new work you haven’t seen is cited in the back, piquing your interest for more evidence. 

Instead of bothering one of the staff, you use the library website and find it in their catalog. It’s somewhere on the second floor where Yoongi offers free coffee. Two birds, one stone; a new book and a new cup of coffee.

The layout resembles all the other floors. A collection of study tables in the center crowded by bookshelves on all sides. One person, an undergrad by the look of pure dread on their features, occupies a table but that's it. Glancing at the note with the call number, you start towards the stacks on the left.

You find the correct area, eyes scanning up and down the different shelves to no avail. Hundreds of books, different sizes in an array of colors, flash by but none are the one you need. You’re about to call it quits when you spot it on the top shelf, just out of reach.

Call it a moment of stupidity, a brief blight of recklessness, but the book sits only a few inches beyond your fingers. You look around to make sure no one is around to witness the brilliantly flawed idea crest in your brain. With the coast clear, you hoist yourself up the shelf.

A deadpan voice nearly makes you fall.

“Looking for something?” 

Yoongi stands a few feet away, head cocked to the side. Of course he’d find you in such a ridiculous position. Even through the blur of your peripheral vision, the harsh lines of his usual uniform clashes against the back drop of books. Dark jeans fitted over his thighs, dark button down rolled up his arms, and a pair of glasses that make him look hot. But you’re in no position to dwell when the risk of falling on your ass is so high.

“Nope, just getting in some exercise” you grunt, moving your foot to the shallow hold of the next shelf.

Yoongi moseys up behind you before continuing. “And climbing a decades old bookshelf is how you stretch your legs?”

“You smoke cigarettes, I climb old furniture. We all have our vices.”

Your foot slips from its perch, making you squeak before catching your balance. 

“Alright spider-monkey, that's enough.” His hands slide across your hip, fingers curved around the softest part of your waist as he helps you down. 

Distracted by the weight of him still on your hip, the heat of his chest a scorching across your back, you don’t even think to disparage him for the cheap Twilight reference. The few inches Yoongi has on you allows him to reach overhead to snag the copy you need with ease. But as you watch his hands close around the spine everything beyond fades to black; like the universe pinholes where you two stand.

“This one?” You feel the vibration of his words up and down your spine, warm breath tracing across the shell of your ear.

Body on autopilot, you turn to face Yoongi. His mouth moves, eyes scanning the book cover but every word deafens in a muddy haze. He doesn’t seem to realize his hand is still on your waist, or how he crowds you into the shelves; chest to chest, stomachs barely an inch apart.

“Huh?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from his mouth.

“I said, if you asked for this book earlier I could have gotten it for you.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?” he asks, stepping further into you. “You look a little flushed.”

The bastard smiles. A God’s honest smile like his thigh isn’t between your own, or he isn’t waiting for a reply while his fingers dig in beneath your ribs.

Just when you open your mouth to say something, Yoongi silences you with a firm squeeze of his hand. His head lowers until his breath ghosts along your chin. 

Then you’re kissing; lips sliding together easily like he anticipated it. The world shatters all around from just a few passes of his mouth across your own, the weight of his body flattening you against the bookshelf. 

The first hint of his tongue against the seam of your lips makes you gasp and Yoongi takes the opportunity to taste you. You melt under his attention. Head tipping back, shoulders bowing to take more, your senses flood with the remnants of coffee and something else; something so quintessential Yoongi your head spins. It lights a new flame in your veins, one burning with pure want.

A handful of his shirt pulls him closer. Yoongi follows easily but gets more than asked for when one of your hands tangles in the back of his hair, tugging until he’s tilting his chin the way you want. It’s a bad habit other dates have subtly complained about but a noise bubbles in his throat at the dig of your nails; responding with his own palm squeezing roughly across your ass until your hips meet his. 

The crash of the book near your feet is like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. Jumping back proves futile as the shelf digs further into your spine. “I–”

Puffy lips and lowered eyes stare back at you, clear evidence that you haven’t hallucinated what just happened. Yoongi dips down to kiss you again but you slither out of his grip.

Forgetting the book on the tiled floor, you mumble an apology and flee back upstairs, beelining to the vacant restroom.

To your own mortification, your features mirror Yoongi’s; lips swollen, eyes glazed. Your sweater twisted around your torso clearly betraying your rendezvous in the stacks. Beads of sweat cling to your forehead and neck.

A few splashes of cold water help clear the fog in your brain but as it dissipates embarrassment sets in. Making out with a handsome man is one thing. Making out with the librarian assisting in the most important work of your life is an entirely different ordeal; one that can only spell trouble.

Pacing back and forth, the cool paper towel on the back of your neck helps calm your racing heart enough to leave the safety of the ladies room.

Try as you might to drown under piles of books, it’s useless. You pretend to read the same passages over and over but none of the words register. The kiss replays over and over and over again. You kissed Yoongi. Yoongi kissed you back. He tried to kiss you again when you pulled away.

The end of the day inevitably comes which means you have to face him whether you want to or not. But you won’t allow a single lapse of judgment to affect your work; a moment of weakness propelled by months of abstinence that just so happened to coincide with a surly librarian’s entrance into your life. You just needed to get it out of your system. If it hadn’t been Yoongi it would have been someone else. 

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

A glance at your watch informs you that today is the second day you’ll leave the library early. Rather than give into the stubborn instinct to stay, you decide putting as much distance between yourself and Yoongi is far better for your mental health. With squared shoulders and a raised chin, you head downstairs. 

Yoongi’s waiting behind the counter. He isn’t typing on his computer or scanning books. He watches every step you take, arms crossed in front as he leans forward like he’s eager for a confrontation. 

“Yoongi,” you say.

“Y/N.”

You use every fiber of will to maintain eye contact as you pass your stack over the counter. “I’ll need these same ones tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He nods. “And the kiss?”

“What kiss?” you croak.

Yoongi’s eyes blaze like you’re a new puzzle to be solved, like he wants to take you apart and find exactly what makes you tick. You feel naked. “The one where you—”

“Must have been someone else. Sorry. Have a good night!” You rush for the door before he can say another word.

Another morning is another day in the library, but this time your roommate begs to tag along. 

“Look, I’m not getting anything done on my thesis so maybe you’ll rub off on me,” Taehyung says.

Rolling your eyes, you step through the door he holds open. “I think you’ve had plenty of people rub off on you.”

Gasping with fake indignation, he catches up easily. “Are you calling me a slut?” 

“Yes.”

“Good, I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Is that him?”

Yoongi and Jungkook are talking behind the counter. Jungkook’s hands wave wildly as he recounts whatever information to his boss while Yoongi listens with fake interest. Or that's what someone else might think. The subtle signs he cares are hidden in the details; the miniscule lift of shoulders, a cock of his head, and when Jungkook pouts in a way too ridiculous for a man his size, Yoongi hides a smile in the shake of his head.

“Yes.”

“And I’m the slut?” Taehyung scowls as you pinch his shoulder. “What? He’s a nerd’s walking wet dream.” 

“And he can hear you, so shut up.”

“Morning!” Jungkook calls on his way past with a cart full of books. 

He grins like he knows exactly what happened on the second floor yesterday but that can’t be true. Yoongi doesn’t seem like the type to kiss and tell. Only the type to kiss and tease you relentlessly for it when no one else is around to hear.

Taehyung’s attention immediately locks on him. You love your roommate, always have and, unfortunately, always will; but he is a slut and Jungkook is definitely his type. However, he’s on your turf and knows better than to fuck where you have to eat for the next few months. 

“Y/N, Y/N’s friend,” Yoongi says when you approach his desk. 

“Taehyung.” 

“Right,” Yoongi drawls, blinking lazily before sliding your books over and turning around to sort something on the opposite counter.

Taehyung, ever the gentleman, grabs the pile for you and follows upstairs. 

“Well he seems like a cup of sunshine,” Taehyung whispers. 

“Just because he isn’t fawning over you doesn’t mean he’s an asshole.”

“I’m very fawn-able, ask anyone,” your roommate argues as you approach the fifth floor. “Wait, what's this… How to Defeat Your Own Clone and Other Tips for Surviving the Biotech Revolution. This is the type of shit he’s giving you? You’re easier than I am.”

“Give me that.” You snatch the paperback out of his grip. “Stop being nosy.”

Taehyung lets you work in peace after that, disappearing to gather more of his own materials. Even in undergrad he’d never been one to sit still for long. But he still managed to get a spot doing an engineering thesis despite the constant changes in his attention.

After several hours of mind numbing typing you need a break, and another cup of coffee on someone else’s dime sounds perfect.

“I’m getting coffee.”

“Bring me some,” Taehyung says without looking up from his screen.

The staff lounge is nothing fancy. A couple small tables with plastic chairs tucked around, a cork board covered with fliers, and a white board stuck to the fridge scrawled upon with black dry erase marker. The coffee pot sits full in the machine, still hot to the touch. 

You pour two cups. Taehyung’s gets loaded with creamer cups until it’s closer to white than black while yours is sweetened to sickening perfection. When you try to take a sip, the liquid immediately burns your tongue. Too hot coffee is better than cold coffee but an ice cube would help make it more palatable.

Moving back to the fridge, you go to open the freeze but stop when the white board catches your attention again.

Most notes are chores or friendly reminders about time cards but almost half the board is dedicated to a back and forth.

‘Unofficial Employee of the Month: Jungkook’ 

A note in Yoongi’s tight script: ‘You don’t work here.’

‘That’s why it's unofficial!’ in what must be Jungkook’s messy handwriting.

‘You’re my official employee of the month. - Namjoon’

At the bottom is a crude drawing of stick figures, two tall smiling ones holding hands under a rainbow labeled ‘JK’ and ‘Joon’ and a comically shorter one with evil eyebrows surrounded by storm clouds and ‘yoongi :(’ overhead.

“Snooping for secrets?”

“Jesus Christ,” you jump, turning to face Yoongi. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to sneak up on people?”

“You’re in the staff lounge, there’s gonna be staff here.” Yoongi crosses to the coffee pot on the counter and pours himself a cup. He doesn’t add cream or sugar or anything else to lessen the bitterness. Cliche. “So, was bringing your boyfriend here your subtle way of letting me down?”

“You think Taehyung is my boyfriend?” You whirl around in shock. Yoongi raises a brow, prompting you to continue. “Jungkook is more his type than I am.”

Yoongi releases a pleased hum, eyes shining. “So no boyfriend then?”

“Nope.”

You’re shaking but don’t look away from his hungry gaze. Yoongi takes a step closer, and another and one more until you're pinned to the countertop and his mouth is on yours. 

This time, you're more aware of everything. The smell of his cologne, the tickle of his bangs along your forehead, all the tiny details that were muffled before. Yoongi’s lips are firm against your own, a little chapped but it only makes you hotter with each pass.

His mouth is everywhere; your chin, your jaw, peppering down your throat until he pushes aside the hem of your shirt and sets to work on the jut of your collarbone like he’ll never get a chance again. 

“Yoongi,” you hum on the first rake of teeth. 

He takes it as an invitation to dig in harder, sucking the skin until your spine threatens to break and you say his name again. Desperate for some kind of anchor, you knot your fingers back in his hair and pull. 

A throaty noise responds and the need to hear more rears its head. Yoongi who always watches with measured fascination undone by some light petting. The power is addictive. 

Legs spread, he presses in flat. The heat of his cock, rigid beneath the fabric of his jeans, teases across the seam of your own. You're technically still in public but the consequences concern you less than the knowledge that you’ll go mad if you don’t feel him. His arms circle your back, pulling you firmer against him, right to the edge of the linoleum counter.

Wedging a hand between your bodies, you manage to get his zipper undone while your tongue traces along his jaw. Yoongi angles his hips to help, curling into your palm when you cup him over the fabric of his boxers. Every press has him swelling harder. 

His hands reach under your shirt. Skin on skin, the rough calluses of his fingers trace your ribs, thumbs following the cup of your bra in a tease. It’s a simple touch but your own hands falter when he brushes a nipple. You melt into each other.

“Hey, Yoongi, do you know where—HOLY SHIT!”

Jungkook stops at the door, eyes wide, mouth wider. 

“Get out!” Yoongi barks. He’s trying his best to keep your body covered from the younger man’s view but even if Jungkook isn’t getting a full frontal he isn’t dumb enough not to realize what’s going on.

Yoongi shudders a few breaths. Head hung low, he tucks himself back into his pants without moving away. You’re already slipping down from your perch when he looks back up.

“I’m just gonna…go,” you mumble, scurrying out the door.

Jungkook waits outside, eyes still bugging out of his head but at least has the decency to pretend he didn’t catch you in the act.

Tugging your shirt down, you avoid his gaze. How far would you have let Yoongi go if Jungkook hadn’t interrupted? 

“Coffee?” Taehyung asks as you approach the table.

You know what you look like without a mirror. The same as yesterday with glassy eyes and bruised lips, clothes wrinkled. Thankfully, Taehyung is more interested in his modeling software than where you’ve been. 

“They were out.” 

With a sigh like he is personally victimized by the lack of caffeine, Taehyung collapses on the table and plays dead. But he perks up at the sound of footsteps approaching behind you.

“You left this in the break room,” Yoongi says, dropping a cup of coffee by your side before disappearing. 

You turn to follow his retreating for until he’s hidden back between the shelves. The back of his hair is still messy despite his attempt to fix it, same with the wrinkles in his shirt from your hands.

“I thought they were out?” Taehyung eyes you suspiciously when you look back at him.

Cradling the still hot cup in your hands, you avoid his gaze. “Shut up.”

“So you do have to sleep with someone to get a cup of coffee.” 

“I’m not sleeping with him,” you spit in a harsh whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because…”

Because what exactly? There isn’t a good reason other than the fact Jungkook was the king of cockblocks. You would have let Yoongi do just about anything he wanted and he seemed to be in agreement. But you’d rather die than admit that out loud.

“You are so smart and so incredibly stupid.” Taehyung rolls his eyes, rising to pack his things. “I need to pee.”

You point him in the direction of the bathrooms and get back to work.

When Taehyung returns minutes later he starts shoving his things in his bag. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“This is like the epicenter of hot smart men and I refuse to suffer any longer.”

“You got Jungkook’s number,” you deadpan.

Taehyung can’t hide his own shit eating grin. “Yoongi gave it to me.”

“If you’re leaving, so am I.”

“Why?” your roommate whines. 

“Because I got you a hot date and that means you owe me dinner.”

“Technically it was Yoongi but I’ll concede.” Taehyung heaves his bag up. “Come now my dearest, we can still get happy hour if we hurry.” 

You reach in your own bag and toss him your keys. “Go wait in the car. I’ve gotta go grab another book real quick.”

“Whatever,” Taehyung says, mumbling something like ‘nerds’ under his breath as he heads downstairs.

You find Yoongi while on your way to his desk, already toting around the cart piled high with returns from the day. Several of the covers are Taehyung’s picks and somehow the knowledge they’ve spoken almost knocks you off kilter. Taehyung is a good wingman and that’s what worries you most.

“Hi,” he says, kneeling to put a book on a low shelf.

It shouldn’t have the effect it does but something about the way Yoongi looks up at you, on his knees, head tipped back, has your mind running wild with the image of him in the same position with both of you wearing far less clothing. Maybe if you weren’t interrupted in the staff lounge you’d have seen it in real life.

“Hi. Mind if I add these to the pile?” 

“Go ahead.”

The Stocking was Hung sits on top. You don’t wait around to see his reaction.

The temperature had steadily been increasing over the past weeks but this morning is the worst of all. That inescapable warmth fully seeded overnight and promised the comforting days of sweaters and pants are long gone.

Heat makes you lazy and fitful. In the early hours, long before you actually need to be awake, you stare up at the ceiling of your room. Not even a frigid shower helped the stickiness of your skin or laying still in your bed in nothing but one of Taehyung’s shirts and ratty shorts. It followed you everywhere until you left for the same brick building you spend more time at than at home.

Without thought, you throw on the first seasonally appropriate outfit in your closet; a thin dress that covers enough for the public but promises to keep you cool.

Yoongi seems to be taking the change in weather as well as you are. His usual attire is absent, nothing but a white shirt clinging to his torso. The pale skin of his forearms briefly catches your attention but you focus anywhere else to stop from rounding the desk and finishing what started upstairs.

You steel yourself and approach the desk, determined to act normal.

Familiar dark eyes flash up to greet you but Yoongi’s mouth doesn’t form any words. He just stares at you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your shoulders, your neck, and then he pointedly keeps them trained on your eyes. Like he's willing to pretend yesterday didn’t happen. 

He doesn’t speak when he passes over the same pile of books as yesterday but you can feel him burn a hole in your back. Even after you climb up the stairs and out of sight, the prickling sensation you’re being watched follows.

You don’t get anything done. The words on the page might as well be another language as your mind races.

Yoongi didn’t give you an extra book today.

An endless list of potential explanations race through your mind. Maybe you’d been too forward with your choice. Maybe he’s gotten it out of his system, a quick tryst in the employee lounge enough to satiate his curiosity. Maybe because it’s the second time you’ve brushed him off. Even if it wasn’t your fault Jungkook stumbled in before anything worthwhile could happen. 

But he isn’t speaking to you and he isn’t giving you the random book you’ve come to look forward to every morning. 

Channeling the restless energy of overthinking, you take a lap around the floor. You pause to flip through random books as you zigzag through the stacks. Anything to take your mind off the unshakable tension sticking in the air like syrup.

Your laptop is in sleep mode by the time you reluctantly come back. Everything is as you left except a book you’ve never seen before sits on top of the open one you’d been reading.

There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom. 

A sticky note sticks up from the inside of the cover. A bolt of excitement shoots down your spine. When you flip it open a familiar handwriting stares back: ‘on the seventh floor’.

You hadn’t been gone too long but the fear of making him wait has you rushing up the stairs. Each step brings you closer to where he waits until you’re opening the bathroom door.

“Yoongi?” 

A hand wraps around your upper arm, yanking you in. Another hand silences a surprised shout before you realize it’s Yoongi and not a murderer pinning you to the interior of the door you just came through.

“Jesus, you scared me.” 

“Sorry,” he breathes. “It’s just not a good look for me to be up here.”

“Oh, really?” You smile. “And why is that?”

“This is my job.”

“Didn’t seem to stop you before.”

“Who says it’s stopping me now?”

He thumbs the strap of your dress, hooking under the thin material and dragging it down your arm. The heat and weight of Yoongi against you, touching you so simply, makes you vibrate. Yoongi moves into your neck, panting with a grind against your thigh. “I swear I don’t usually do this.”

You want to argue that you have two accounts that he does do this often, at least with you. But for someone who says they don’t, Yoongi is surprisingly natural. The tease prickling the end of your tongue fizzles out under his teeth across the curve of your shoulder, goosebumps blossoming along your back. 

A whimper unbecoming of an adult woman breaks the lullaby of summer air conditioner singing through the vents. You’re sweating under the cling of your dress, skin hot to the touch thanks to Yoongi’s attention; long fingers curved around your waist, thumbs skimming just under your breast.

“Could have fooled me.”

“This is a very nice dress.” His mouth bites down your neck, taking advantage of the new strips of skin the neckline unveils.

“That’s all it takes?” you pant from the wet of his tongue. “A pretty dress?”

“If you think,” he whispers into your ear. “I’m doing this because of your dress then you really haven’t been paying attention.”

The dark locks of his hair are too alluring to resist, tempting one of your own hands to scratch against the tip of his spine when Yoongi rolls against you again. A firm tug brings him to your mouth, lips molding to one another in a searing kiss. You can taste the coffee from the lounge and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke, like he thought to hide it before asking you to follow him.

“How long? How long have you wanted this?”

Yoongi hooks one of your thighs higher, savoring the heat of your core against the crotch of his pants with a slow thrust. “Since you came in and busted my balls over not having that archived manuscript when the website said we did.”

You remember that day. Patience thin from Taehyung’s loud overnight guest, you stormed into the library looking to take it out on a photocopy of the manuscript only for the only copy to be AWOL. Yoongi became the surrogate for your rage, his eyes burning into your skull as questioned how he could let it happen.

The next day was when he started adding books to your stack.

“That was months ago.”

“I’m a patient guy.”

You want him naked; ache to catalog what he’s hidden underneath bulky sweaters and loose button ups over the past few months. But that idea has to wait for somewhere less risky. You settle for dipping your hand under his shirt, tracing your fingers over the elastic of his boxers peeking from the waistband of his pants.

Attempting to hide the effect he has, you loop your fingers in his belt loops and pull him even closer so your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. “There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Like The Stocking was Hung is any better?” Yoongi sighs as your mouth ghosts over the rising vein webbing the side of his throat.

“Hey!” you object, rising to face him. “I thought you’d appreciate it after that mothman book.”

“I appreciate you complimenting my dick plenty.”

Yoongi doesn’t let you go, hands palming at the swell of your ass the entire way from the door to the counter. He’s got one hand curved along your jaw, thumb hooked around your chin and his teeth bruising your lower lip. The edge of granite digs in your spine but not for long as he lifts you and settles on his knees to dive under your skirt. 

He kisses up your calf, tongue snaking across the knob of your knee then the plush of your thigh. Just when you feel a puff of breath against the damp crotch of your panties, Yoongi falls to repeat the same path against your other leg. 

You don’t suffer for long. Pooling the excess fabric around your waist, Yoongi blinks up from between your thighs. The pink of his tongue follows the edge of your panties, wetting the fabric more until it clings obscenely. 

He pushes his glasses up to rest on the top of his head, keeping the mess of gray and black hair out of his eyes before diving back down.

His tongue lathers over your covered slit with a groan. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You thought about this?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it. On my desk, yours, against that fucking bookshelf.” Yoongi punctures each word with more wet kisses against your core. “In my car, my bed. Everywhere.”

A cool breath has your thighs squeezing around his head thanks to the erotic combination of his spit and your own fluids drenching your panties. “Is this all you think about?”

“I had to come up here and jerk off yesterday because I couldn’t stop thinking about your hands.”

Your panties are pulled to the side before you can indulge in the new visual blooming on the edge of consciousness. “Yoongi.”

Eyes closed, his mouth circles your clit, tongue gently stroking you to life. Every pass against the sensitive bundle of nerves has your thighs squeezing around his head. 

The first prod of fingers makes Yoongi’s hold on the crook of your knee tighten. He stretches you back open, eyes following the way you suck him inside; coating his spindly digits with more arousal each time.

“A-ah,” you shake. “Please.”

Yoongi chances a glance up at your face, the needy sheen in your eyes, the way your mouth gapes, and decides to take mercy. 

He latches back onto your clit. Yoongi groans as you tug his hair, knocking his glasses to the ground. The pace he works your remains lethargic, savoring the kick of your hips until you grind against his mouth. 

Throaty groans vibrate against your cunt, tightening the muscles along the inside of your thighs. Neither of you are doing a good job muffling yourselves but if it’s between getting caught and having him stop then you’ll deal with the consequences when they come.

“Oh, Yoongi.” Your chest pulls tight; spurred on by the sounds of Yoongi bullying your insides, his mouth smacking against your folds. “I’m— oh, oh, oh!”

The rough crook of his fingers sends you flying. Only the pressure of his shoulders keep you from slipping off the counter as you explode against his mouth. Euphoria rushes your veins, licks of pleasure overwhelming. Every muscle quivers as Yoongi works you through until you use his hair to pull him away.

He’s quick on his feet. You’re still recovering as Yoongi pushes your bra down and draws one of your nipples into his mouth, licking and sucking until you pull his hair again. Eyes cinched tight, face wet, you force his pants open then his underwear until Yoongi is almost as exposed as you are; pretty in your palm, sticky and hot to the touch.

But it’s not enough to feel him in your hand, you need to feel him inside. To fill you up where you sit hollow and aching without his fingers to provide a sliver of relief. “Fuck me.”

Yoongi doesn’t tease, has no quip about how needy you are. He keeps his mouth on your chest and uses his hands to grab something out of his pocket. It happens so fast you don’t even realize the condom is on until he nudges between your legs.

Your nails dig into his back, breathing through the initial stretch is the only way you stay quiet. Yoongi hides himself back in your neck, strained noises clawing out of his throat.

Yoongi isn’t gentle. Not caution or waiting. Months of push and pull destroy any desire for him to treat you as something fragile. He rushes into desperately, forcing your palm flat against the mirror behind you for some semblance of stability.

“God,” he grunts. “You’re incredible.”

You whimper a quiet acknowledgement, too fucked out to blush under his praise; pulling Yoongi closer until he’s scooping his hands underneath your ass, thrusting into you over and over. His mouth finds yours. Greedy. Hungry. 

It’s Yoongi who struggles to stay quiet. Even through the kiss he moans loud enough you feel it in your throat. You listen to them all, twisting the hand knotted in his hair to hear the whine you’ve quickly become obsessed with.

“Should have done this sooner,” your back arches and Yoongi’s mouth slips back down. 

“I tried. But you kept ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t—fuck—ignoring you.” Yoongi is everywhere. His taste on your mouth, cologne burned in your nose. The feel of him all over your body. “Shit.”

He fucks you harder to prove a point, hand slipping down to rub your clit. Your second orgasm glows on the edges. If Yoongi keeps playing with you, stretching you in half on his cock and biting a mark into your breast, you know you’ll come.

You focus on breathing. Letting it come to you instead of chasing it, overthinking it to the point it evades you. It’s easier than usual. Yoongi doesn't leave room for anything else beyond feeling good. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper as the cord tightens. 

Everything turns white hot, pleasure tearing through your muscles and ripping them to shreds. You convulse in Yoongi’s hold, only pinned down by his hips fucking you brutally. Nerves shot, Yoongi babbles praise in your ear but it's indecipherable from the headrush.

Yoongi follows you over the edge a few strokes later, twitching inside you until he stills. His hips give a few arrhythmic bucks as he fills the condom with his load. 

There's something nastier about clothed sex. The way sweat makes your clothes cling tighter, the rush of needing each other so badly you can’t be bothered to do more than pull things to the side. 

You feel dirty but in a good way. Yoongi kisses across the apples of your cheeks, your chin, your forehead, even your brows, but never returns to your lips. Each leaves you more frustrated than the last, muscles twitching beneath and head turning at the last second to try and meet his mouth. 

Tricking you with a brief connection, he laughs when you chase his lips as he dodgers back. But a pout and whine bring him back into your orbit.

He cleans you up with paper towels, wiping away the mess between your thighs with something akin to disappointment. But he doesn’t complain as he fixes your clothes and then his own. Muscles like jelly, you fall into his side when he helps you down from the counter. 

With a kiss to your temple, “Let's get out of here.”

“Morning, Yoongi.” You smile as you walk up to his desk.

A set of dark eyes rise to greet you, taking the cup of coffee you so graciously offer before smiling as well. “Good morning.”

Jungkook gawks like he’s never seen you two speak before. Round eyes bounce between you and Yoongi as if it’s a tennis match instead of a normal conversation. Probably because Yoongi was less than subtle when he pulled you out of the building yesterday, telling him to call Namjoon if anything came up.

Or maybe because you’re wearing one of Yoongi’s shirts.

You discovered much about the mysterious librarian overnight. He’d taken you back to his apartment; a perfect extension of himself decorated with dark furniture and more books than anyone could possibly read. Yoongi owned a collection of vinyl records that rivaled his book collection, he was a great cook, and he was studying to take the entrance exam for law school. 

After you were wined and dined, Yoongi dedicated hours between your legs. On his couch, against the massive bookcase in his living room, between the sheets of his bed. 

He also had a kink for eating you out while you explained your thesis in precise detail.

You’d only been allowed to leave when Yoongi was getting ready for work, not that you'd put up much argument. 

You make a scene of sorting through the stack he slides over. It’s not that you don’t trust Yoongi. But now that you’ve had a taste, you’re addicted to his presence. But he unfortunately can’t follow you upstairs so you savor the time now. 

“One of my books is missing,” you say.

“Oh, right.”

Yoongi passes over an unfamiliar copy.

Maybe He Just Likes You

And the blue sticky note attached, with his handwriting. ‘Dinner when you're done?’

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie @gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire @missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu @lovelyhachi @sliceofwoozi @dokyeomkyeom @yoonguurt

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

---

Loved it! Gives me such A Promising Young Woman vibes!!!!

entertainer | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!! ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, coming on oc, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation; as always THE ENDING!! lmk if i forgot something!! ➳ wc: 32.4k ➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3

➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤   

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs 

Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.

Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.

Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing.

Or. 

Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.

Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.

It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.

But no.

You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…

You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.

General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.

At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.

Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.

But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.

And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.

Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.

Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.

But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.

Except you.

And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.

No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.

So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.

Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.

And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.

And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.

He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?

But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.

Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.

He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue. And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.

When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.

More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.

But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…

The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.

Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.

He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.

Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.

Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.

Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.

A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.

Chill chill chill.

But now?

With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.

But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”

Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.

Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.

And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”

That’s sweet.

Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.

Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”

And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.

The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”

Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.

But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.

“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”

“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”

“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”

Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.

“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”

Ah. Yes — about that.

“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”

“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”

Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?

Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”

Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.

“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”

This is so excitingly new.

How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.

And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.

Ugh.

Dependent degree.

Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.

Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.

“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”

“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”

Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”

Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?”

“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”

Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”

Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”

“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”

“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”

Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.

No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.

Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”

But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”

“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”

“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”

“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?

“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”

The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement. 

Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him. 

So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.

He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”

“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”

“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”

He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.

Why? 

Weird.

“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.

“Ah… Like…”

Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.

Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.

“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”

Focus.

Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.

“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”

You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?

He wouldn’t hate it if you did.

“Do you know that one?” he questions.

You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”

“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”

You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.

Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”

“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”

The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger. 

Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.

You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.

“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”

“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”

“I mean— took a while to get here.”

“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”

Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.

“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”

For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?

He prods, “To do what?”

“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”

You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.

For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.

He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”

And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.

But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.

Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”

“Do you come here a lot?”

Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.

The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.

Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.

Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.

Dark and light — a healthy mix.

It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.

But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.

Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.

Because you’re part of it.

Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.

You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.

“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”

You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”

Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.

It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.

But maybe your guard can be broken, too.

“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”

A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.

“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.

It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.

Or even… scared?

You can’t truly be.

So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.

“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”

“So… I’m not pretty?”

Oh. Oh?

Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.

Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”

“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”

Why is there something so devilish about you?

He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react. 

Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?

Barely ever.

“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”

“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”

“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”

Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?

Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?

Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?

Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.

Like now.

You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”

“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”

Right. Right; of course he’s right.

But… what is that?

It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.

“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”

“Sure.”

“Behave, though.”

He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”

“Right.”

“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”

He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.

Which doesn’t help his case.

“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“And it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ohhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”

Earn it? How? 

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack. 

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this open?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”

You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants to be the colour green for you. 

“Ah—” you voice.

“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”

“…How come?”

“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”

You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?

Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.

“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”

“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”

You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”

“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”

Another sip of the seething liquid.

If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?

Are his advances kindergarten to you?

You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”

“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”

“And you separated from him because…”

Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.

And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.

He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—

“Because I found you.”

There it is.

The slightest of reactions.

Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…

“So you did follow me,” you say.

He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.

But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”

You smile.

Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.

The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.

Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.

Green, green, green.

And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.

“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”

[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you

For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.

The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.

Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.

It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.

And…

And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.

Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.

You… you…

If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.

No, you made that mess.

Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.

Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.

“Fuuuuck.”

The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?

Too long, is all he knows.

His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.

He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.

And he feels just a little guilty.

Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.

You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.

But just for a bit. Just a little.

The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.

But you’re not. And he wants to show you.

Just one touch, please.

“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.

[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?

Should he wait? You did, too.

Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?

Screw it.

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?

Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.

Good.

[6:53PM] You: Your music?

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days

He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.

Because then, the thoughts flood in.

Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?

But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.

Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.

All this must mean something.

“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”

[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.

It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—

[6:56PM] You: Oh, and? [6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec

Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?

[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like… [6:57PM] You: 7pm

Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests. [6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion

As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.

[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :) [6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way

Oh.

Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.

Goddamn.

You’re so thoroughly you.

[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?

And that’s it. You disappear.

Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.

If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?

If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.

[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up

Oh shit.

Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.

And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.

How embarrassing.

The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.

Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.

Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.

The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.

Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.

You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…

Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.

You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.

But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.

And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he needs to say something.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”

He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.

You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.

What are you hiding?

If he could, he’d speak it out loud.

“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”

Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”

Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,

“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”

But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.

But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.

He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.

If he did, you might realise.

Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.

And Jungkook observes you. 

The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.

It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.

And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.

He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.

“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”

You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”

Okay. Not that tough of a topic.

“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”

“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”

“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”

“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”

“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”

“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”

Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.

“How would you?” he asks.

“As a rockstar?”

“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”

You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.

Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.

Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.

He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”

“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”

The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”

And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”

He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.

“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”

He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.

“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”

You blink, frozen in place.

The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.

As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”

Why don’t you want him?

Goddamn it.

“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”

The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.

He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.

It must be on purpose.

He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.

Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”

Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.

You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”

He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”

“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”

“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”

“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”

“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”

Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.

Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.

You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.

Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.

The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.

Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.

As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.

Do you feel the same?

As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?

Maybe.

When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.

Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.

Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.

He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.

He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.

And he wants to know about yours.

Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.

Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.

But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.

So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”

You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You zoned out.”

“Which is a good thing, I promise.”

Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.

But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”

“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”

“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”

He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”

“I see.”

Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”

“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”

“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”

“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”

“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”

His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”

His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”

Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.

“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”

“It’s good to have dreams.”

“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”

“This determined, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”

Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.

“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”

What?

Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?

Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.

“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”

“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”

Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.

And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.

“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.

Only to crave. To look.

At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.

Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?

He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.

Fuck.

The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.

His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.

You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.

The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.

He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.

But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.

Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.

He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?

The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.

That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.

Control was never his domain, after all.

But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.

And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”

“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”

“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’m definitely getting tired.”

“Me too.”

Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.

Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”

“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”

You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—

“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”

“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”

You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.

Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.

Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.

“What question?” you ask.

It’s just.

Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.

As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.

Yeah.

You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.

He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”

“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”

Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”

You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”

“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”

This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.

But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.

Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”

Oh?

“Why?”

“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”

Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”

“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”

“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”

“For sure.”

“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”

“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”

“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”

“No?”

“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”

“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”

You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”

“…Maybe you’re right.”

Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.

Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”

It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.

Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”

His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.

“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”

“Oh… damn.”

“Yeah.”

“…I don’t know what to say.”

But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.

You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.

In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.

The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.

He can’t win.

“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.

Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”

“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”

Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.

Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?

“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”

You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”

“How so?”

“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”

Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.

And somehow, it was never the prettier option.

Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”

“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”

Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…

“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”

“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”

It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.

Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.

But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.

Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.

No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.

“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”

“How would you know?”

“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”

“Ahhh—”

“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”

Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.

What was that?

Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”

…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.

And all you say is, “I understand.”

A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.

“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”

“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”

The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.

Vulnerable.

And it makes him want you more.

Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.

And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.

It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.

Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.

And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.

Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”

“…I’m not sure.”

Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.

Yet…

“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.

And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.

You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.

Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.

And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.

Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.

He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.

Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.

And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.

Should he? Maybe, maybe—

Not yet.

Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.

A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.

You’re burning up.

So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.

Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.

One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.

And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.

And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”

But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?

Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?

Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…

Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?

He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.

He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?

No, it doesn’t.

His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”

“Yeah?”

You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.

The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”

And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.

It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay. What if he does… this…

Thought so.

Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…

He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.

You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.

Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.

Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.

Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.

He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.

So inwardly. So desperately.

Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.

And then…

You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.

Okay.

The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.

But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.

And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.

Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.

And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.

No… this is ruining him just as much.

So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?

Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.

He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.

Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”

Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.

“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.

He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.

And he pauses.

Oh, this treasure…

“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”

You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.

But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.

He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…

But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…

“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.

“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”

“Of course I am.”

“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”

“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”

“I…”

“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”

Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.

It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.

“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.

“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.

So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.

But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.

Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.

He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…

Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”

“Hmmm, you want more?”

“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”

His secrets?

You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.

But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”

And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”

…Hmm…

You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?

No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.

He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.

Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”

“What?”

“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”

He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.

He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”

“You’re so…”

“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”

An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.

It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.

But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.

Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.

Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.

But…

But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.

So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.

Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?

Fuck, how…

No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.

“What are you…?”

Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.

“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”

“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”

You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.

“It was just sudden,” you conclude.

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just curious.”

He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.

Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.

He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.

Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.

You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.

And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”

Oh my God.

If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.

He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.

As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.

But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.

Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.

You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”

But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”

“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”

“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”

He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.

“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”

A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.

No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.

The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.

Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.

He’s doing this to the both of you.

The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.

He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”

“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”

Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.

No. He knows he is. But…

He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.

Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.

So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”

Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.

Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.

With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.

Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.

He wants to, too.

So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.

And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.

Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?

Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.

Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.

God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.

But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.

“Spit on it,” he orders.

You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.

“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”

You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.

Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.

You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.

The view is… worth diamonds.

Do you even know?

“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”

But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.

So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.

Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.

But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”

You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.

And…

“Holy fuck.”

Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.

Okay… okay…

Wait. You’re saying something.

His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”

“I’m already so spent.”

“Ah… do you want to stop?”

“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”

Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”

“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”

No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.

Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity. 

Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.

So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”

As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.

All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.

He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.

Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.

Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.

So maybe this is good enough for now.

“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”

“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”

Shit. Expected it.

But okay. Okay.

Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.

For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.

Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?

Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?

Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.

“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”

You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”

“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”

“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”

Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”

Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.

He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.

Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole. 

And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.

Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.

He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.

Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.

Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—

He wants to go off right away. But… focus.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Stop… stop talking.”

Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”

His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”

And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.

Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.

And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.

You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.

God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”

And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”

“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”

Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?

This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.

Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.

But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.

Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.

Until…

“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”

“I… I’m—”

You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”

“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”

“Good idea. Very good idea.”

He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.

No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?

Right.

Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.

If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.

A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—

And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.

Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.

For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.

At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair. 

And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”

That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.

Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.

Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.

Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.

At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.

You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”

“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”

The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.

And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”

“Wha—”

He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.

“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”

And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.

As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.

Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.

It’s like putting a key into its lock.

“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.

And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…

You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.

So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.

And then, everything happens crazy fast.

How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.

The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.

He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”

The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.

There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.

Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.

“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”

He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.

You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…

Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.

So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.

Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.

Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.

His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.

And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.

The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.

And then—

“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.

His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.

And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.

It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”

You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”

Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.

Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.

Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.

God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.

Okay. Okay, where was he?

When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.

The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”

You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.

“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”

He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.

Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—

Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”

“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”

“Ah? Why?”

“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.

Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.

Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.

“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.

And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”

Ah… okay. Sure.

Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?

Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.

When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.

Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—

“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”

Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances— 

Wait.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end <3

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