#taehyung x you

[petersasteria]

Rejection - K.T.H

pairing: kim taehyung x reader summary: he rejects you once and you (unknowingly) reject him thrice type: college au, non idol au word count: 9,502

The moment you saw Kim Taehyung, you felt light. It was as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. He was a breath of fresh air in a world of college chaos. He was a simple guy. He wasn't an athletic superstar like his best friend, he wasn't a studious bookworm like your friend Namjoon, he wasn't the campus flirt, and he certainly wasn't arrogant.

Among the sea of boys on campus, Kim Taehyung was the only one to catch your heart and attention. You thought seeing him on campus a few times a week was enough, but it was over for you when you entered your music class and he was sitting alone, reading through his notes with the only empty seat next to him; it was as if it's reserved for you.

You made a beeline towards the empty seat and cleared your throat, "Um, hi."

When he looked up at you, everything felt like it was in slow motion. He gave you a small smile and said 'hi' back. You were about to ask if you could sit next to him, but he beat you to it.

"Please, sit. It's the only available seat, anyway." The handsome man said with a smile on his face. "I'm Taehyung, and you are?"

"I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you." You smiled and shook hands.

Since then, you've been inseparable. He would pick you up at your dorm every morning, help you study, get coffee together, meet up at a nearby fast food chain at 2am, you'd stay at his apartment off campus when both of you have free time, and you'd always call and text each other. Namjoon's beginning to suspect that there's something more to your relationship with Taehyung, but you'd always deny it.

"Joonie, we're only friends! I'm very fond of him in a friendly way." You told him one day at the library. You felt bad for always hanging out with Taehyung, so you decided to make up for it by hanging out with him at his sacred place: the library.

Namjoon rolled his eyes, "Sure, Y/N. Whatever you say, but I disagree. I know a thing or two about love and I see the way you look at each other: it's love, Y/N."

"Maybe he loves me as a friend." You shrugged. Your heart ached as you said it, but you didn't make it obvious. Besides, it's probably true, right?

"He looks at you like you hung the stars at night, Y/N. He stares at you when you're not looking and when you do look at him, he holds his stare and he just smiles. He even treats you like you're the only girl in the world." Namjoon said. "I see it all, Y/N. You look at him the same way and as a bystander, it's kind of frustrating to see my ship not sail."

You chuckled, "Shut up, Joon."

"I'm serious! I knew you liked him since you saw him walking past you on a random Tuesday and I knew you've been head over heels for him even before you saw him in class. Just tell him how you feel. I'm sure he feels the same." Namjoon smiles and pats your back.

Jungkook isn't a fan of silence. He loved messing around with his friends and if he were to be honest, Taehyung's killing his vibe at the moment. Jungkook thought that after he'd open the door for Taehyung, they'd be playing games, singing their favorite songs, attempting to cook even though they'd just order instead, and watch movies while they drink. He didn't expect to see a crestfallen Taehyung.

"Um, so... what's up?" Jungkook asked as he watched Taehyung situate himself on the bean bag chair. Taehyung shrugged and grabbed the remote to turn on the tv.

"Yeah, that won't do." Jungkook grabbed the remote and turned the tv off.

"Hey, I-"

"Yeah, shut up and tell me what's wrong." Jungkook said as he looked at his best friend intently. "Bad grades? Got a sprained ankle? Caught in a love triangle? Can't find a part time job? What is it?"

Jungkook sat on the other bean bag chair next to Taehyung and nudged him with his knee. Taehyung looked at him and said, "I think I like someone, but I don't want to hurt Y/N's feelings because I know she likes me."

"Oh." was all Jungkook said. He didn't know what to say. He knew you and he's met you a few times. You were cute and nice.

"I know she likes me. I see the way she looks at me and it's the same way I look at this girl I like from a different class. We'll be going on a date tomorrow and I don't know how to tell Y/N that I'll be blowing her off." Taehyung sighed.

"Just tell her the truth. She'll move on, eventually." Jungkook shrugged, not seeing this as a big deal.

"Yeah, but I don't want things to change."

"Tae, everything'll change once you and your girl become official. I'm sure that's expected. Things won't be the same as now, but I think telling Y/N your plans will help soften the blow instead of her finding out that you lied and blew her off for a girl she's never met." Jungkook said. For once, something coming out of his mouth had sense.

"I guess so. Y/N's my best friend now too and I don't want to lose her all because of this. I just hope she'll move on from me." Taehyung said as he took out his phone to text you.

taehyung: hey let's meet i have to tell u smth y/n: okay where? taehyung: coffee shop on campus where jimin works y/n: aight see ya in a bit taehyung: see ya

"Come straight here after and tell me what happened." Jungkook said as Taehyung got up from the bean bag chair.

"Yeah, yeah. See ya." Taehyung said as he left Jungkook's apartment. The walk to the cafe was usually peaceful. Now, it's anything but. Taehyung didn't want to lose you, but he owed it to you to be honest. He saw you sitting at your usual table and he went straight to you and sat across from you. His usual coffee order was on the table already and he thanked you for ordering it for him. He took a sip, a form of liquid courage in the form of coffee, and gave you a tight lipped smile.

"What's up?" You asked.

'I'm so sorry, Y/N' he thought.

"I'll just spit it out." Taehyung chuckled uncomfortably. "I know you like me as more than a friend... and that's okay! It's fine. It's not awkward at all. I just- I don't feel the same way, Y/N. I'm sorry."

You were too stunned to speak. He held your hands and said, "Y/N, please don't think it's bad. I know you can't help how you feel. I just feel like I owe it to you to be honest. I don't.. feel the same way because I like someone else. I hope we can put this behind us because I want you to be happy and I fear, I can't give you what you want."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded, "I'm happy if you're happy, Tae."

Taehyung grinned as he lets go of both your hands, "Thanks, Y/N. You're the best!"

ONE MONTH LATER - JIMIN

You were too busy typing on your laptop to notice that your favorite iced coffee is placed on your table. You were locked in on your assignment for a few reasons. The main reason being Kim Taehyung, of course. As soon as the iced coffee was placed on the table, someone's throat was being cleared. You didn't pay attention to whoever it was, but they kept doing it. You turned to see who it was and saw Park Jimin.

"Oh, hi! What's up?" You smiled at him. He smiled back shyly and gestured to your favorite iced coffee.

"Um, I notice that you always get this coffee here and you didn't get it today. So, here." Jimin blushed. You looked at the table and your heart melted. Even Taehyung didn't know your favorite coffee from the coffee shop that you both go to frequently.

"Thank you, Jimin! I appreciate this so much. I needed this!" You grinned and took a sip of it. Of course, it was made perfectly; just how you liked it.

"Y/N, will you go out with me? I mean, will you go on a date with me?" Jimin asked nervously.

You thought about it for a second. Taehyung clearly doesn't like you and he has a girlfriend. You need to move on, so why not try going on dates? You gave him a small smile and shrugged, "Sure! When?"

One date turned into two. Two dates turned into three. Three dates turned into four, and on the fifth date, you started forgetting about your feelings for Taehyung. Jimin asked you to be his girlfriend as both of you walked to your dorm from the 24/7 diner near campus. You immediately said yes.

Jimin made you so happy and Taehyung was happy that you were happy. Jimin's a great listener and very understanding. He was fun and really chill. He's never jealous. He always sees the bright side of things which makes you love him even more.

In fact, Taehyung's girlfriend was pretty envious of your relationship. Taehyung thought it was a good idea to set a double date with you and Jimin, so all four of you went to an amusement park. Jimin made it his goal to win you prizes at the booths while Taehyung tried to win some, but he just wanted to have fun without turning it into a competition... which his girlfriend didn't like.

Taehyung didn't tell you, but later that night, he broke it off with his girlfriend simply because of her jealousy.

"Nothing happened between me and Y/N before, okay? I'm tired of you turning everything into a competition. She's happy with Jimin, so just let her be! You always want to one up my best friend, but that's all she is. She's just my best friend and if you have a problem with that, then we should break up." Taehyung said exasperatedly.

Since his breakup with his ex, he only paid attention to you, but it was hard because Jimin was always around. He noted that you loved the diner's cheesesteak with extra cheese and less onions. He also noted that you always paired any food from the diner with strawberry milkshake and that you always order iced tea at restaurants. He began taking mental notes of these things. What for? He didn't know, but he did it anyway. He'd always ask you to hang out, but you keep turning him down for Jimin. Now, Taehyung wasn't the jealous type and he's truly happy for your relationship, but he couldn't help the hurt in his chest every time you turned him down.

Taehyung didn't tell you he broke up with his girlfriend until three weeks later when you saw her with someone new while you were out with Jimin. Taehyung didn't care, though. He was really glad that she was out of his life. He'd pick you over her, any day. After all, you were his special person... but like as a friend. Actually, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that you were special to him and that's all that matters.

After ten months of dating, you and Jimin decided to call it quits after realizing that you're better off as friends.

"I was really rooting for both of you!" Taehyung frowned, as he glanced at Jimin walking towards your table at the library. "You were both perfect for each other!" He added. He genuinely was rooting for you both, but now that you and Jimin were just friends, maybe he'd shoot his shot.

'What are you talking about, Tae? Get a fucking grip! They just broke up.' Taehyung mentally said to himself as he looked at Jimin.

Jimin shrugged as he took a seat next to you, "Well, it happens. We just don't see each other romantically anymore."

THREE WEEKS LATER - HOSEOK

"Namjoon, please!" Hoseok begged the man. Namjoon rolled his eyes and shook his head. "C'mon! A little help would be nice!" Hoseok said. Namjoon finally looked at his friend with a deadpan look. Hoseok just gave him the brightest smile he could muster. No one could resist him, right? He's the ball of sunshine on campus!

"What do you want, Hobi?" Namjoon asked, though he already knew the answer. Namjoon often asked himself why he kept asking Hoseok. Hoseok pouted, "You know what I want."

"No, I'm not helping you pursue Y/N." Namjoon said.

"Why? Do you like her or something?" Hoseok whined.

Namjoon sighed, "No, I don't. She's like a sister to me. Just drop it, okay? You can't bribe me."

Hoseok left Namjoon alone for a few days. He heard of your breakup with Jimin a few weeks back and decided it was now his time to shine. How? He had no clue.

He was busy stretching for his outdoor dance class when he saw you walking with Taehyung. He knew he had to act quickly. With a quick glance at his classmate, Mingyu, he motioned for him to play music. Mingyu quickly played the music, causing everyone outside to look their dance class. Hoseok cracked his head left and right and rolled his shoulders back a few times before dancing. If Namjoon wasn't going to help him get your attention, he'll do it himself through the one thing he's best at: dancing.

As you walked, he immediately stopped both you and Taehyung as he did a hip-hop solo dance in front of you. Taehyung was amused and you were in shock. Despite being friends with Namjoon too, you've never met him. Namjoon likes to separate his friend groups. That's why he didn't want to help Hoseok.

Hoseok danced like there was no tomorrow and Taehyung nodded along to the music and tried to copy his moves in small movements. "Wow, he's really good!" Taehyung chuckled and you nodded.

When the dance was over, Hoseok bowed in front of you and said, "I'm Jung Hoseok." He winked. "That dance was for you."

"Me? No one's ever danced for me to get my attention before." You giggled.

Hoseok smirked, "There's a first for everything. Will you go on a date with me?"

You'd be crazy to say no after the whole dance he just did, so you quickly nodded your head with a smile. Taehyung looked at both of you back and forth.

"Really? C'mon, Y/N, that's silly." Taehyung said, reasoning with you.

Then, it happened.

Taehyung glanced at you and suddenly, you were the prettiest girl he's ever seen. The sun was shining perfectly and its rays hit you on a nice angle that accentuates and compliments your features. His heart skipped a beat and when you gave him a look, he found himself blushing. It was then that he confirmed his thoughts: he liked you. A fuck ton. He did everything to get your attention, but Hoseok seemed to catch on.

"He's smart. I gotta do something more... grand." Taehyung said to Jungkook one day . They were drinking in Jungkook's dorm and Taehyung let it slip that he was now head over heels for you.

"Then... just out-do whatever Hoseok hyung does." Jungkook shrugged as he chugged his beer.

"You're a genius!" Taehyung exclaimed.

Suddenly, everything became a competition with Hoseok.

Hoseok got you flowers? Taehyung bought you two bouquets just because.

Hoseok got you soup when you were sick? Taehyung skipped classes to take care of you.

Hoseok took you to the movies? Taehyung saved his lunch money and worked many jobs and gigs to rent out the whole theater for you and him to watch a movie.

Hoseok took you to his dance practices? Taehyung danced with you in your dorm every time you felt sad.

Despite Taehyung's efforts, you still fell hard for Hoseok which completely annoyed Taehyung. Everyone thought you and Hoseok were perfect for each other. The trust you both have in each other was exceptional and you were both open about your feelings and you rarely fought. Even Jimin, your ex-turned-friend, said you were perfect for each other. Jimin was really happy to see you and Hoseok happy. According to him, both of you matched each other so well in every way possible. Namjoon was even ready to help you prepare for yours and Hoseok's wedding. Namjoon was rooting for both of you so bad.

Taehyung wasn't amused at all. He found everything silly and he found Namjoon and Jimin too much. 'They're overreacting!' he'd often tell himself.

You and Hoseok never had any arguments because he was so mature in dealing with you and it honestly turned you on. After five months of dating, Hoseok painfully called it quits. Oh, how both of you cried so hard. You'd never forget that day.

"Please don't leave me, Hobi." You cried. He was crying too. He didn't want to leave you, but he had to; for himself.

"Y/N, please don't hate me. These five months have been amazing, but sometimes I feel like I'm carrying the relationship and it's so draining, Y/N. It really is." Hoseok cried. You stared at him and he didn't look like the same guy with bright eyes and an equally bright smile. He looked like a zombie and you hate yourself for it.

"I love you, Y/N. I always will, but sometimes you're so selfish and you just allow me to carry it all because you know I can. I understand that I'm older than you, but that doesn't mean you have to lean on me all the time. You let me be the mature one and you just... you just forget that sometimes, I want to be a little immature too. You kept me in this- this box that says I can only be mature all the time; no room for silly, immature shit." Hoseok sniffed and looked at you.

"I just allowed you to be immature all the time and that's my fault for allowing it to happen, but I guess a part of me hoped that you would step up and carry the weight just once or twice. It's lonely to carry it all alone, Y/N." Hoseok broke down. You both cried in each other's arms that night.

You let Hoseok go that night. It was painful, truly. Taehyung was secretly super happy, but you didn't need to know that. He told Jungkook about it, though.

Jungkook watched as Taehyung smiled at his phone, texting you random jokes he'd seen online.

"You're really weird, you know that?" Jungkook snickered. Taehyung glanced at him in confusion. The younger man shook his head and said, "Don't you want to see Y/N happy?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then why are you so happy that her and Hoseok hyung broke up?" Jungkook asked with a raised brow.

Taehyung shrugged, "I want her to be happy with me."

"Yeah, but you rejected her before, remember?"

"Shut up, JK."

THREE MONTHS LATER - SEOKJIN

"Y/N, it's been three months! Just go out with me and let's enjoy our weekend, yeah? We haven't spent a proper day together in, like, forever. It'll be fun!" Jimin pleaded as he knelt down next to you on the floor, while you were on your bed.

You've been miserable since Hoseok left and Jimin was determined to help you. Taehyung wasn't any help at all because he was just happy to see you single again, but Jimin wanted to see you happy again as a single person now. Taehyung couldn't explain it, but he was always around to bug you. He was so happy, but you didn't pay him no mind and he never made a move.

Jimin decided it was best to distract you. So, he took you shopping. Both of you had money and he was able to save a few extra more and he wanted to treat you out. You didn't want to, but he insisted.

You were walking around the mall with Jimin. He was talking to you animatedly about what happened at work the other day and you were listening. It was nice to just hang out. Both of you were laughing when you both passed by a Gucci store.

"Wanna walk in?" Jimin asked.

"We can't afford it." You chuckled. Jimin chuckled and shrugged, "Yeah, but they won't know that, right?"

So, both of you shamelessly went in. You and Jimin were browsing through everything. One bag particularly grabbed your attention and you showed it to Jimin who gave you a look of approval. Alas, you had to put it back and just hope that you'll buy it by some miracle. You and Jimin were about to leave until one of the people who worked there, tapped your shoulder.

"I believe you forgot this, ma'am."

You and Jimin turned around in confusion. He looked at you and asked, "Did you buy it?"

You quickly shook your head. "I believe this is a misunderstanding-"

"Oh, don't worry. It has been paid for by one of our VIP guests." The attendant gestured to the man who was already looking at you and my god, he looked ethereal. He was dressed head to toe in a simple outfit, but there's no doubt that his clothes weren't cheap at all.

Jimin gasped and whispered, "That's Kim Seokjin!"

You looked at him, "Who?"

"Kim Seokjin! The chaebol kid. He's coming this way!" Jimin smiled from ear to ear, clearly excited about this encounter.

Seokjin gently grabbed the paper bag from the attendant and the attendant excused themself. He turned to you and smiled, "I'm sorry for not handing this to you myself. I was a little bit shy and I'm only shy around attractive women."

Jimin was keeping his excitement at bay and smiled wide when Seokjin smiled at him. You were at a loss for words, he's even more handsome up close! Seokjin outstretched his hand and offered it to you, "I'm Kim Seokjin, but you can call me 'Jin' for short. Hopefully soon, you can call me yours."

Jimin nudged you and cleared his throat. You glanced at him and quickly looked at Jin, "I'm Y/N, and this is my friend, Jimin." You both shook hands with him and he smiled.

"I'm quite busy, but I'd love to take you out on a proper date sometime. May I have your number?" Jin asked sweetly.

"For you? Anything! I'll give you her address too, so you can pick her up." Jimin answered for you, causing Jin to chuckle. Jimin gave him your details and for extra measure, Jin called your phone and sighed in relief when he found out that it's your real number.

"I have to go, but please get in touch with me. I'll come right away." Jin winked, handed you the paper bag, and left.

Since then, Jimin has been talking about the whole thing to Namjoon, who was equally excited. Taehyung, however, didn't know anything about it at all. So, you could imagine his surprise when he joined the three of you one day talking about some guy named 'Jin'. At that time, you and Jin had already gone on two dates and so far, it was going well.

"Y/N, is he as dreamy as everyone says he is?!" Namjoon asked with a big smile and you nodded dreamily. Taehyung looked at all three of you in confusion as he sat down and joined you all.

"What's going on?" Taehyung asked.

"Y/N has been seeing someone and she hasn't introduced us to him yet." Namjoon said. "Well, except for Jimin."

"You met him?" Taehyung asked, ignoring his heart breaking into millions of pieces. He absolutely didn't know that you were dating someone. You didn't make it obvious either.

Jimin nodded excitedly, "I was there when they met at the Gucci store! Y/N should thank me that I brought us there that day. It's simply meant to be!"

"Meant to be?" Taehyung questioned with a laugh. He turned to you and said, "Oh, by the way. Are you free on Friday? Let's go out."

"Oh, I can't. Jin's taking me to the museum." You gave him a shy smile. Taehyung just fell in love with you again, but he didn't hide the scowl on his face as soon as you mentioned Jin.

"Okay, um, how about on Saturday? You don't have classes, right? I don't either." Taehyung asked.

"Jin's taking me to their family's vacation home in Jeju."

"Oh! That's so nice! I haven't been there!" Jimin exclaimed.

"Take pictures and don't forget to video call us!" Namjoon chuckled. Amidst all the laughter, Jimin turned his head and he gasped. There, in all his glory, was Jin, walking across the university grounds to get to your table.

"Oh my god, he's here!" Jimin giddily said. You turned to where he was looking at and waved at Jin. He looked dreamier than last time. He was dressed in a simple white shirt tucked into brown colored slacks. He reached your table and kissed your forehead.

Taehyung didn't know how to feel. It's obvious that the guy's rich and that Jin's so far up compared to him. He felt... weird. He so badly wanted to hate the guy, but he seemed nice.

"Hi, jagi." He smiled sweetly before looking around your table and faked a frown, "Should I be worried that you're around these handsome gentlemen a lot more than me?"

Taehyung was gobsmacked. He didn't know you were dating THE Kim Seokjin. Regardless, he was still pretty fucking pissed even though he was called handsome.

Jimin blushed and said, "You don't have to worry! We're all just close friends. This is Namjoon and Taehyung."

"You really are dreamy." Namjoon said, his jaw slightly dropping.

"Why, thank you." Jin smiled.

Since then, all of you have been stuck together. You all taught Jin about 'non-rich people' things and Jin brought you all to sorts of places. Taehyung didn't like it one bit, but you were so smitten with Jin that he only focused on you. It was over for him when you and Jin became official. He was devastated. After all, aside from money, what did Jin have that he didn't?

You were at the mall with Jimin, Namjoon, and Taehyung. Jin was supposed to come with you, but he had to go to France to attend a gala that his family's invited to. Jin gave you funds to spend on your day out, though. You were reluctant to spend it, but Jin insisted. He even made you a reservation at an expensive restaurant for all four of you to eat at.

In the restaurant, you ordered all of Jin's recommendations. While waiting, Jimin and Namjoon just kept gushing about him. "I swear, Y/N, you're living in a drama!" Jimin exclaimed, taking a sip of his tea.

"That's true!" Namjoon added. "If you get married, don't forget about me!"

Taehyung rolled his eyes and shook his head. He didn't like the thought of you marrying some rich guy. He preferred it if you married him instead, but you didn't need to know that.

"If that happens, of course I won't forget you!" You chuckled at their ridiculousness.

"Great! Here's a list of the things I like." Namjoon joked. Jimin added, "Oh, and mine too!" All three of you laughed and Taehyung just smiled.

Like any cliche drama, Jin's parents found out about your relationship and immediately decided it was best to hate you even before meeting you. Jin always tried to reason out with his parents. In fact, you were always the topic of their fights. You didn't know it was so chaotic in their household until you received a fancy letter in your dorm's mailbox addressed to you politely saying that you should stay away from Jin.

You didn't know what to do. You kept it to yourself for a few days. Jin didn't know about the letter, so he kept seeing you. He even started sleeping in your dorm. It was something Taehyung didn't like, but no one asked his opinion anyway. Jin stayed in your dorm and he never really left. He decided to work from home, cook you lunch for you and your friends, send you off to your next class, go back to your dorm and work, cook dinner for you and your friends, and play games with Taehyung until Taehyung leaves. It was Jin's daily routine at this point. Sometimes, Taehyung would bring Jungkook to play games too. The two men got along quickly which left a bad taste in Taehyung's mouth.

Jin's parents kept calling him, but he didn't pay attention to them; not wanting you to hear another argument. The guilt of keeping the letter from him was eating you alive. He deserved to know the truth.

You came clean about the letter and you let him read it. He read it quickly before ripping it all up. "Crisis averted. Anyway, shall we invite your friends for dinner again? I can cook steak tonight." Jin smiled as he served you lunch.

"Are you not mad at me for keeping this from you?" You bit your lip nervously as he shook his head.

"I can never be mad at you, Y/N. If anything, I'm mad at them. They're being crazy. I'm so sorry if they have offended you in any way. I know we're not... of the same social status, but it's not right for them to tell you to stay away from me. That's absurd!" Jin exclaimed before nodding at your plate, reminding you to eat.

You took a bite of your food before saying, "Yeah, but they want you to date and marry someone who's like you."

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Pardon my French." Jin calmly said, even though you can sense his anger. He's always so level headed and that's what you loved about him. "Can we just forget about them? I want to stay with you, Y/N."

You smiled shyly and nodded, "Okay, but what'll happen?"

"Leave it all to me, Y/N. That's my burden to carry, not yours. They're my insufferable parents, after all." Jin chuckled. "Eat up. You have an exam later."

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and after three happy years together, your relationship ended. Not because both of you wanted to, but because it had to.

Jin honestly thought he could get away from his parents by choosing to stick by you, but in the span of your three years together, he was slowly being cut off.

First, he wasn't allowed to step foot in their company's building. He shrugged it off; he preferred working from your dorm anyway. It was way comfier, he managed his own time, and he had you. If you weren't available, your friends would keep him company.

Second, when he went to his luxury apartment to get clothes, he was surprised to see all of his stuff in his Gucci luggage and the locks were changed too. Again, he shrugged it off, grabbed all his luggage and moved in with you in your dorm. It was in his favor, anyway. Plus, he could even chip in and pay for rent. Though, he still didn't understand the concept of renting a place.

Third, while he was on his rare outing with Taehyung, he offered to pay for their snacks as usual. Taehyung shrugged it off because he knew Jin long enough to know that there's no point in arguing with him when it comes to paying. When Jin swiped his credit card, it was declined. He didn't seem worried... at least not completely. So, he swiped his debit card. When that too was declined, he turned pale. His cards had never been declined before. Just as Jin was about to reach for his other cards, Taehyung sensed Jin's panic and intervened. "Um, hey, man. I got it. It's fine. You've been paying for us all the time." Taehyung saw the whole thing and admittedly, he was nervous. He felt like he was a kid again waiting in line while his mom left him to get something from one of the aisles. Jin was truly grateful. To Taehyung, it wasn't a big deal at all, but Jin felt embarrassed for being such a burden.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening." Jin chuckled nervously as they exited the store with the snacks. He's never experienced that before. Taehyung looked at him and shook his head, "Don't worry about it."

"I'll pay you back." Jin said, before shutting his eyes and opening them again. "I've never been in this position before. It's so... strange."

"You've never been broke before?" Taehyung bemused as they walked back to your dorm. It was just him and Jin that day. You and Jimin had your own things to do and Namjoon was busy looking for internships while he worked part time at the cafe Jimin works at.

Jin glanced at him in horror and said, "I didn't mean it that way! Oh, I feel absolutely awful. I sound like an ungrateful brat. I apologize for-"

"Hey! Chill out, man." Taehyung chuckled. "You're a good guy. I know you didn't mean anything. I was just joking around to lighten your mood."

"Oh." Jin relaxed. "I see. Well, you're a good friend, Taehyung. I see why Y/N likes to be around you a lot."

Taehyung's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

Jin nodded, "You're her most trusted confidant and I'm grateful she has you aside from me. You're closest to her than Jimin and Namjoon. However, I like all of you equally."

Jin's world came crashing down when he arrived at your dorm. There, stood in the middle of the quaint living room he grew to love, were his parents. You were standing in front of them with a nervous look on your face. Jin wanted to drop the bags he was holding, but he didn't want to waste Taehyung's money. Instead, he handed them to Taehyung gracefully and he greeted his parents.

In truth, Taehyung didn't know what to do, so he made himself busy in the kitchen. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help it when all of them were arguing. His heart shattered when he heard you crying to yourself. Suddenly, it was all he heard. He turned around and saw you standing behind Jin, who was loudly arguing with his super strict parents, crying to yourself. His heart broke even more and he hated that he couldn't do anything.

"I love Y/N, and I don't care what you all say!" Jin shouted. It was so out of character for him.

"Seokjin, be reasonable! We don't want this life for you! We don't want you to have a hard time! The world out there is scary and difficult." His mother said.

"Eomma, I AM being reasonable. Maybe it's a good thing for me to be out in the world! I get to experience more things and meet new people! Y/N's friends have been nothing but kind to me and they taught me things I wouldn't have known if I stayed with you." Jin explained.

"I'm sure she's a nice girl. If we were a different kind of family, I would allow it, but-" His mother sighed.

"But what?" Jin dared. "But we aren't the same as everyone else? Don't you think I know that? I don't care about social status. I don't care how much money comes in. I care about being a good person; a decent person to the ones I love and care about and Y/N's one of them. She's the only girl who hasn't used me for my money and I'm so, so proud to call her mine. She makes me happy. Aren't you happy for me, eomma?"

Then, he cried.

Taehyung saw it all. He saw your distraught face as you face your relationship's impending doom. He saw Jin's face as he chuckled bitterly while tears streamed down his face. He saw Jin's mother's face who looked crestfallen at her son, knowing she couldn't do anything. Finally, he saw Jin's father's face, the man who hasn't spoken a word yet, with a stern look on his face, but his eyes gave him away; his eyes were sad too.

"Seokjin," His father started. "We made a deal with the Lee family a long time ago. You're betrothed to marry their youngest daughter, she's the same age as you. The deal will be in effect soon."

"That's why we started cutting you off in hopes that you'll come back to us." His mother added.

"Eomma, I'm not shallow. How low do you think of me?" Jin hissed in anger. "Also, a deal?! How come I wasn't consulted? What ever happened to freedom?"

"In this family, no one's free." His father said. "Please don't be stubborn. Just come with us and everything will be forgotten."

JIn shook his head, "I'm staying."

"Leave with us or we'll cut you off completely." His father retorted.

"Go ahead, father." Jin dared. Taehyung had never seen Jin's face so fierce before. He was always so gentle and patient. "See if I care."

"You're choosing some girl over us?!" His mother shrieked. She was unbelievably hurt that her precious son wouldn't choose the people who raised him.

"Hey, she's not just 'some' girl! Her name is Y/N and she happens to be the love of my life. I can't imagine my life without her and I know it sounds silly, but I don't care about any punishment you have for me as long as I have her by my side." Jin's head turned to look at you and gave you a small smile, "So, I'm staying."

Everything was a blur after that. His parents were suddenly prying him away from you. Jin didn't want to let go, but you were slowly pushing him away because you knew there was nothing you could do. You had to let him go.

You loved Jin so much, but you couldn't let him choose between you and his family. You knew that if not now, he'd soon hate you for being the reason he has no contact with them. You knew he'd endure the non-rich life with you, but you knew he'd also suffer because he's simply not used to it. It was then that Taehyung stood behind you and physically pulled you away from Jin. You thought you knew what heartbreak was? You should've seen Jin's face when he realized that you were letting him go. Oh, how your heart broke into millions of pieces. Before Jin knew it, a couple of people came in to grab his things and in the midst of it all, he used all his strength to pull away from his parents and run to you. He cupped your face with his tender hands and said, "I know what you're trying to do. God, I wish I was a different person and none of this wouldn't have happened. Please remember that you'll always be my best girl, no matter what. I love you with everything in me, Y/N."

"I love you most, Jin."

In a snap, your whole world was taken away from you. Your dorm felt lonelier and somehow, the lights were dimmer and the colors were gone. Even Jin's luxurious skin care items were gone from your bathroom. Oh, the tears you cried as soon as the door to your dorm closed shut. Taehyung cried for you that night. He held you in his arms as both of you sank on the floor. He didn't like seeing you hurt and he didn't know what to do. He had never been so lost before. He knew that this time, this can't be fixed with only your ice cream.

Jimin didn't know what to do either. He tried to cheer you up with shopping, but instantly regretted it when he remembered that's how you met Jin. Namjoon couldn't help even if he wanted to because he was so busy with his new internship at Samsung and his part time job at the cafe. Taehyung was your best bet, and if he wasn't around, he let Jungkook take his place. Taehyung would give Jungkook a list of things to do, a list of things you like and don't like, and a list of chores to do around your dorm. Jungkook did... some of them. Most of the time, he just felt it out

He cleaned around your dorm, did your laundry for you, made sure you ate, and talked to you to get your mind off of things until Taehyung arrived.

Today's one of those days with Jungkook. He arrived at your dorm with his backpack and a book. He just came from class and he smiled sweetly at you as soon as he saw you on the couch; proud that you were out of bed.

"Hey, Y/N!" Jungkook greeted as he sat next to you. He laid his things on the floor and turned to you. "You don't need to talk to me, Y/N. Like yesterday and all the other days, I'll just ramble on and on, okay? Okay!"

Jungkook grinned, "So, I aced my exam! Or at least I think I did. Oh, well. We'll see. I'll show you the results as soon as it comes out and you can be the judge, but I think I did really well! I studied real hard for it. Oh! I keep getting love letters from random girls and honestly?"

Jungkook looked around to see if there's anyone in sight to hear him. He's just trying to be funny because no one's around except you two. He looked at you again and said, "I honestly don't like it and it makes me uncomfortable. There's this one girl in class who leaned in and sniffed my hair! It's getting creepy."

Jungkook pouted. You finally glanced at him and took notice of his cute face. He really looked like a baby. You haven't spoken to anyone in days and you weren't sure what you sounded like anymore, but you owed it to Jungkook (and everyone else) to at least start speaking. Jungkook has entertained you and kept you company for quite some time now since Taehyung took a part time job at a diner nearby.

"What did you do?" You asked quietly, not trusting your own voice to make it any louder. Jungkook's eyes widened, the pout on his face replaced with shock instantly. He turned to you and he could do one of two things: 1.) react that you've finally spoken, or 2.) not react and just continue like normal so as to not freak you out and scare you off. He chose the latter. He cleared his throat and said, "Um, well, I sat far, far away since then. Turns out, she did it to Taehyung hyung and Jimin hyung before too."

You nodded and gave him a weak smile. You didn't know how to interact anymore. You were thankful that it was just Jungkook with you because had you been with Jimin, Namjoon, or Taehyung, they'd freak out. Not Jungkook, though. He was... chill.

Jungkook spoke for hours and you gave a few comments here and there until it was dinner time. "Hey, are you hungry? Maybe we can ask hyung to grab us some food from the diner?" He asked sweetly.

You shrugged, "Let's just eat there. I, uh, I need a change of scenery, anyway. This dorm's getting too stuffy and maybe it'll help me forget about Jin."

"Okay! Hyung would be so happy to see you there!" Jungkook smiled and pulled you in for a tight hug. He pulled away and fixed your hair. "Go on and change your clothes." He said.

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing. It's just that you've been wearing it for a long time."

"I just wore it yesterday."

"Exactly. It's been 24 hours. Go change." Jungkook said as he gently pushed you to stand up. You groaned but followed what he said anyway. On the way to the diner, you were a bit nervous. To ease your nerves, Jungkook just talked to you about random things... again. He didn't mind, though. He liked talking a lot. He just has so much to say.

When you reached the diner, there was Taehyung; stood next to a table, taking their orders. It was a family and you could see the little girl acting all shy around Taehyung as he gave her a smile and a wave. After he took their orders, he turned and saw you and Jungkook.

"Hyung!" Jungkook smiled and waved happily. "We'll eat here!"

You both sat across from each other and browsed the menu. Taehyung gave the other table's order to the cook before walking to your table. He was very, very happy to see you. You had no idea how happy he was. He was about to speak until Jungkook cleared his throat. He looked at the younger man with a hint of wonder. Jungkook subtly shook his head, signaling to Taehyung to not bring up anything about how you got out of your dorm. Taehyung nodded his head and cleared his throat, "So, what'll you guys have?"

"I'll have the Monster Double." Jungkook said, his mouth already watering at the thought of the burger. "Do they come with fries?"

Taehyung, not looking up from his notepad, said, "Jungkook, you've been ordering that a million times. YOU KNOW they come with fries."

Jungkook grinned, "Yeah, but I like hearing about it."

Taehyung rolled his eyes and turned to you. You were still looking at the menu and you opened your mouth to say something, but you closed it again. "Having some trouble, Y/N?"

"Um, not really. I just don't know what to get." You said softly. "I guess I'll just have the cheesesteak with-"

"Extra cheese and less onions." Taehyung finished as he wrote it down. You looked at him with amusement in your eyes.

"How did you know?" You asked. He shrugged, "I know you, Y/N. I also pay attention really well. I also know that you want a strawberry milkshake and you want your fries semi-crispy."

He glanced at you with those dreamy eyes of his and smiled, "Am I right?"

You could only nod. With that, Taehyung repeated your orders (with Jungkook realizing he never ordered a drink, so he added cola) and left to give your orders to the cook. Jungkook started rambling again about god knows what, but your eyes remained on Taehyung.

He paid attention really well? What did he mean? Did he pay attention to you?

Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook took notice of you looking at his best friend. He also took note of your internal battles, causing him to smirk a bit before continuing his topic.

GRADUATION DAY - TAEHYUNG (FINALLY)

Jungkook has been dreading this day if he were being honest. The thought of you, Taehyung, and Jimin graduating college and leaving him behind was so hurtful. His only friends were leaving him behind and he didn't like it one bit. So, he spent every waking day with all three of you.

Namjoon had graduated a year prior and he was immediately absorbed at Samsung due to his exceptional work with the company. Hoseok graduated too and it was sort of awkward for you both, but you endured it for Namjoon. Both of you talked it out and you were happy that you were able to smooth things out before the after party. Hoseok admitted that he still harbored feelings for you, but they've been getting less and less romantic as each day passes by. He was even sorry that you had to go through your heartbreak with Jin. He didn't want to seem nosey (and he wasn't), but he just felt like he had to say that he was sorry you had to go through it and he felt bad that Namjoon wasn't there for you due to his demanding internship at that time. Namjoon told him about Jin and that's how he knew. In the end, you both agreed to be friends.

Now, sitting in the audience sat Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jungkook. Jungkook looked around and saw an empty seat next to Namjoon and asked who will be sitting there. "Oh, I invited Yoongi hyung. We work together at Samsung and Tae met him once and he was so attached to him since then. Yoongi hyung is my graduation gift to Tae because I know he'd appreciate Yoongi hyung's presence here."

Yoongi arrived on time with a box of orange and caramel molten cake from a bakery near the campus. His hair was styled and he had glasses on. His suit was neatly pressed and Jungkook was in awe of the man. Yoongi sat on the empty chair next to Namjoon and he turned to greet Hoseok and Jungkook.

Jungkook turned to Hoseok and whispered, "He's so cool, but I still want to be just like Namjoon hyung." Hoseok chuckled and ruffled Jungkook's hair.

The ceremony was beautiful. Jimin delivered the speech because he graduated summa cum laude, earning the loudest claps and cheers from you and Taehyung. When the ceremony ended, the three of you quickly ran to your friends. All of your parents couldn't be there because of the distance, but you'd be having a joint family celebration with Taehyung and Jimin's family soon.

Namjoon gave you a big hug and spun you around. "I'm so proud of you! Welcome to the real world! It sucks, but you have us." He smiled at you. Hoseok hugged you next and said that he was proud of you. Of course, that hug didn't go unnoticed by Taehyung. If Jungkook hadn't nudged him, the daggers from Taehyung's glare might've killed Hoseok.

Jungkook hugged you next and slipped an envelope in your hand. You gave him a look and he whispered, "Jin hyung actually reached out to me and told me to give you this."

"Thanks." You whispered back. While everyone was busy chatting, you sat in one of the chairs, far from everyone, and opened Jin's letter.

Dearest, Y/N,

Words cannot express how proud I am of you. It has been a few months since we parted ways and it still hurts me to this day. Losing you was something I never thought would happen after 3 amazing years with you.

True to the word of my parents, I am arranged to marry the youngest Lee daughter this year. She's the same age as I am and she doesn't like the set up either... she was in a relationship with her girlfriend of five years when they told her. We just comfort each other most days.

Anyway, this day is about you, Jimin, and Taehyung. Please extend my congratulations to them as well. I know they have been a beacon of light to you during those dark times. I am so glad that you have them. Please forgive me and Jungkook for this. I did not want to reach out to the others in fear that I might be turned away. With Jungkook, he still has that childlike wonder, so I asked him to meet me with an open mind. Do not worry, it was just a quick meeting. You can ask him about it if that would make you comfortable.

I hope the end of our relationship doesn't hinder you from loving other people, Y/N. You're my girl forever and that will remain a fact until my last breath, but I encourage you to move on. Go and be happy. The guy I have in mind is Taehyung. He really cares about you.

I hope that someday we could be friends. Will that be okay? My number hasn't changed. I love you always, Y/N. Take care. Congratulations.

Yours forever, Kim Seokjin

Your heart warmed after reading the letter. It was definitely one for keeps. You stood up from the chair and pocketed the letter in your dress. You looked up and saw Taehyung walking towards you with a bouquet of flowers. When he reached you, he handed the bouquet to you.

"Congratulations, Y/N." He grinned. You took the flowers from him and remembered what Jin said in the letter. You smiled at him and said thank you. "So, um, I know that we'll have different paths, but I just want to ask again. Are you free this week? Maybe we can go on a road trip... just us two." Taehyung said nervously.

You pretended to think about it for a while. Taehyung was sweating his balls off waiting for your answer. You laughed at him and nodded, "Yes, I'm free this week and yes, I'd love to go on a road trip with you."

Taehyung pulled you in for a hug and kissed your cheek before pulling away, "You won't regret this, Y/N! I'll make sure it's the best road trip you've ever had!"

Taehyung turned around and ran to Jungkook, who saw the whole thing was cheering so loud. You watched as the two men hugged each other and jumped around excitedly. You shook your head with a smile on your face as you walked back to the group.

"So, Taehyung, huh?" Namjoon smirked and nudged your shoulder playfully. Both of you watched Taehyung as he hugged Yoongi tightly. Yoongi wasn't an affectionate person, but he did care about Taehyung.

You chuckled and shrugged, "Why not? I mean, he's handsome and sweet."

"I told you ages ago that he liked you!" Namjoon poked your side. You swat his hand away and laughed. "Anyway, I'm sure that this time, it'll work out."

"And how do you know that?" You looked at him. He glanced at you before looking back at Taehyung, "He looks at you the same way my dad looks at my mom. He pays attention to you the same way Jungkook focuses on something he likes to do. He's passionate about you the same way Hoseok hyung is passionate about dancing and I know he loves you as much as Jin hyung loves you. They're quite similar, no? Jin hyung's just a chaebol kid, but I know that if Taehyung had his status, he'd give you the world too and take you places. He saved up for that road trip for a long time. This one will last for sure and if I'm wrong, punch me in the face."

"You're crazy." You chuckled and shook your head.

"That may be, but everyone who has eyes can see how in love he is with you and I'm glad you're giving him a chance to show you just how much he loves you." Namjoon smiled.

Perhaps Namjoon was right. You suddenly remember all the times Taehyung has asked you out and you remembered turning him down every time. You also remembered how head over heels you were over him before, but he rejected you. You laughed at the thought, but maybe you really were meant to be with Taehyung after all this time.

You were still heartbroken over Jin, but you were open to letting Taehyung in your heart. You knew Taehyung would be patient too. Baby steps was all it took and you were willing to take those steps as long as Taehyung was willing to have you. As you glanced at Taehyung, he was already looking at you. He smiled and winked at you before approaching you.

"So, it's settled, then? Let's go straight to the restaurant." Yoongi said coolly. "Who's riding with me?"

In the end, Jungkook rode with Yoongi. Namjoon and Hoseok arrived together and Jimin rode with them, leaving you and Taehyung. He wasn't opposed to it. He had a car after all. Both of you walked hand in hand at the university's parking lot and took off your togas, placing it neatly at the backseat before sitting in front.

Taehyung started the car and said, "I know this is too early to say, but I love you, Y/N."

You chuckled, "Early? I think you've loved me long enough now, Tae. That's not early. I'm not one the same level of love as you, not yet, but I'll get there."

"I'll wait for you, Y/N. Until then, I'll keep telling you that I love you." Taehyung gave you his signature boxy smile before driving.

A/N: aaaahhhh been writing this on and off for a month now! i hope you guys liked it! my bangtan taglist is open if you wanna be tagged. lmk your thoughts abt this or if you have any requests you can send em!

[chimcess]

⚔︎ Chapter Three: Abbeville Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 32.6k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, blood, bar fight, underage drinking, drinking under 21, alcoholism, implied child abuse, implied CSA male/female fight, threats of violence, there's just so much violence in this series, homeless character, food insecurity, murderous thoughts, murderous intent, very strong language, selling drugs, robbing ATMs, Age Gap relationship, Underage sex, horrible life choices, running away from home, grief, dead dad, neglectful mom, severe mental health issues, HEAVY religious content, pastor's daughter, small town gossip, reader is super fucked up, religious trauma, hang over, vomiting, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: So who was The Bride before that day in the Longhorn?

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Morning broke heavy, like a bruise—gray, dull, thick with humidity. The sky hung swollen and colorless, not a hint of rain. Everything outside was washed out, like an old photo left too long in the sun. It wasn’t a day; it was a memory, lifeless but still buzzing. April of 1987, and the first signs of spring were starting to show in the trees.

Y/N stood naked in front of the mirror, a thin trail of smoke curling from the Camel between her lips. The overhead bulb flickered, casting her in dull amber. She didn’t look at herself. She studied the wreckage—ribs too sharp, skin too pale, eyes heavy with sleepless dark. Sixteen, bow-legged, sweat clinging to her neck. All bone, no grace. A woman unfinished.

The robe was the only thing left that fit. And it wasn’t hers. Black wool, moth-eaten. Her father’s. She slipped it on slowly, as if it might resist, the weight of it sinking onto her shoulders. Burned tobacco, coal dust, cheap beer. No warmth. No cologne. Just him. She pulled it close, closed her eyes, and let herself pretend. That he was there. That he hadn’t left pieces of himself scattered across the house. That the ache in her stomach wasn’t crawling. But it was—low, sharp, alive.

The robe swallowed her whole. She didn’t laugh anymore.

In the kitchen, light flickered from the busted TV in the corner—blue, static-heavy. MTV reruns whispered. The rest of the house sat dim, corners thick with old shadows. Mama sat at the table, hunched behind the newspaper, wearing the same blank look she’d worn since Daddy died. The paper was a wall. She never looked over it.

Y/N moved past, her bare feet peeling against the linoleum. The floor still carried the echoes of fights no one mentioned. She muttered something on her way through—greeting, maybe. Warning, maybe. Mama didn’t react. Just turned the page.

She opened the liquor cabinet—more altar than cabinet now. Dust curled as she reached for the bottle—brown glass, half-full, untouched since the funeral. Her hand came back gray. She tucked it under her arm like stolen goods and headed for the door. The house groaned, settling, remembering. Hinges whispered as she eased the screen open.

“Be back by noon,” Mama rasped, eyes still on the paper. “The laundry needs hanging.”

Y/N paused. Something sour caught in her chest. “Sure, Mama.”

It barely rose above the hum of the TV.

She stepped out like off a ledge. The porch creaked beneath her. Morning hit hard—sour, blistering heat. Not the kind that blooms, but the kind that burns. The grass was yellow and brittle, clinging to dirt gone gray under winter’s weight. Her knees buckled before she reached the steps. She dropped where she stood, the robe pooling around her. The bottle was already open. The cap rolled into the yard. She didn’t look.

The whiskey hit like always—fire, memory, regret. It burned, punched, curled. She coughed, wiped her mouth, drank again. There was no getting through the day without it. Maybe not even with it.

The robe slipped from her shoulder. Her collarbone caught the light—sharp, pale. Flies circled, drawn by sweat, skin, and the bottle’s breath. The air stank of rotted magnolia, soaked wood, old liquor, and ghosts.

She dragged herself to her daddy’s old truck. A black Ford, dead for years. Rusted, tires sagging, paint peeling. She dropped the bottle in the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. No keys. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t about going anywhere. Just sitting where he had. Just hoping—if she looked hard enough—she might see his face in the rearview. Some version of herself she hadn’t ruined yet.

The robe clung to her shoulders. The bottle, now warm, pressed into her thigh. She stared through the cracked windshield, watching the sun crawl up like it hated the job.

For one long, scorched second, she pretended. That time hadn’t moved. That her father wasn’t gone. That her body wasn’t broken, hollow, and carrying something nameless.

She sat still, wrapped in dead fabric and half-lit hope, and let the world pretend with her.

Y/N stood alone at the pulpit, the Bible open in front of her. Its thin pages stirred with each breath of dusty air drifting through the rafters. Her voice cracked on the last word—Isaiah, her father’s favorite. The sound dropped heavy in the space, dry and uneven, like stones in a well. “‘...they shall walk and not faint.’”

The silence that followed didn’t feel holy. It pressed in, tight and shaped, like breath held too long. The pews creaked under their congregation—widows in tired hats, sun-burned farmers, restless children with spit-slicked hair. Their stares stuck to her, full of hunger they didn’t name. Some wanted salvation. Some wanted resurrection. She had neither.

She gripped the lectern. Her fingers went pale against the wood. The whiskey that steadied her earlier now churned hot in her gut, clawing behind her eyes. Her head throbbed with a mean rhythm. She couldn’t tell anymore what was nerves and what was rot. She just knew she shouldn’t have made it here at all. The thought came sharp, unwanted: a wheel turning wrong, a ditch waiting in the dark, headlights swallowed by dirt. Cleaner than this.

“I… I think that’s it for today,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound like hers—thick, slow, dragging like a sentence underwater. The words didn’t lift. They sank. She swallowed hard and forced out her father’s old benediction. “Have a blessed day, and may peace be upon you.”

A familiar shuffle followed—coats, bags, children yanked from stillness. The service was over. Ritual resumed. Y/N moved among them like she belonged, like she wasn’t shaking inside her skin. She slipped the Bible under the lectern with care, and with practiced guilt, slid a pack of Camels from behind it into her purse. A second testament. Smaller. Hotter. More honest.

She wasn’t done yet.

Constance Hayes stood by the door, hands folded, unmoving. That quiet resistance only old women could master. Y/N took a breath, pulled her face back into shape—the preacher’s daughter, the borrowed shepherd, the girl-shaped shadow of a better man.

“I’m so thankful for what you do,” Constance said, voice low and steady. Her hands found Y/N’s, firm and warm like river stones. “Your daddy was the best preacher this town ever saw. It’s dimmer without him. But today—Lord, when you read that verse—it was like he was standing right behind you.”

Y/N smiled. It cracked. “Thank you, Mrs. Hayes.”

“I know some folk don’t think a woman should stand up there, but those folk ain’t the Lord. This town needs you. You go on. Make your daddy proud.”

The hand on her shoulder was soft, but it landed heavy. Y/N took it like a punishment.

“I could go on,” Constance said with a short laugh, “but John’s in the truck, and if he misses kickoff, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I’ll see you next Sunday,” Y/N said. The lie barely stirred the air.

“Oh, I know you will,” Constance said, already halfway out the door. “You ain’t going anywhere.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The last echoes of the crowd faded. What was left wasn’t peace—just a silence that pressed. The sanctuary breathed differently when empty, swollen by the absence. Light bled through stained glass, dim and sour.

Y/N dropped her purse. It hit the floor with a dull thud. She moved to the corner pew like pulled by something. When her knees buckled, they went all the way. She folded forward, hands braced on old wood still slick with the ghosts of touch and time.

Her stomach twisted. Sharp, fast. She vomited. Right there. Bitter bile soaked into the boards, acrid and yellow, like spoiled wine at a broken altar. She didn’t wipe her mouth. Just stared at it, shaking, as if waiting for the mess to speak.

Above her, the tapestry hung—Christ in white, gold-stitched, one hand lifted. Not judgment. Invitation. A gesture meant to save.

She tilted her head. Her voice rasped, dry and wrecked. “Damn whiskey. Never liked it much.”

The stink clung to her teeth. She didn’t clean the floor. Just pushed herself upright slow, like each joint was a sentence. Straightened her robe. Smoothed her skirt. Picked up her purse. Her face settled into something unreadable—not calm, not kind, just hollow enough to pass for strong.

Anyone watching would’ve seen the Reverend’s daughter—poised, composed, clean-lined grace.

They wouldn’t have seen the Camels behind the gospel. The bottle under the truck seat. The ache in her hands that wasn’t pain, just need. They wouldn’t have seen the girl slumped in her own filth, praying not for forgiveness, but to disappear.

They wouldn’t know the truth.

They never did.

Smoke curled from Y/N’s cigarette in slow spirals, rising through the still air like something ancient. The ember flared, then died as she crushed it into the chipped ashtray. It hissed, faint and final.

Across the table, Mama watched—quiet, hollow-eyed. Not judging. Just watching, the way people do with lit matches near curtains. She didn’t comment anymore. That fight had burned out years ago. Once, she'd slapped cigarettes from Y/N’s hand, warned her they’d kill her before a man could. Now, she just stared at the smoke like it might say something she couldn’t.

Y/N had lit her first cigarette the night they buried her father. Still in her church dress, sitting on the cold brick steps while the town murmured over casseroles. Sixteen, stiff-backed, wrecked. She never quit. Some people wore grief. She burned hers. One drag at a time. Mama had stopped praying about it. She’d stopped a lot of things.

The kitchen buzzed under the flickering light. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it pressed. The room smelled like burnt meatloaf and old grease. A plate sat in front of Y/N, untouched. Gray meat, sweating into cold porcelain. She poked at it with her fork, shredding it without eating. Hunger didn’t come around much anymore. Her body was going piece by piece—bones sharper, clothes looser—but Mama hadn’t mentioned it. Not since Daddy died.

“You hear about the Portnoys’ boy?” Mama said suddenly, her voice flat. Like weather.

Y/N looked up, eyes bloodshot. “No. What about him?”

“He’s dead. Bomb strike. Somewhere over there in that mess. Brought him back in a brown box. A finger and a certificate. That’s all that made it.”

She said it like she was reading the mail. Took a drag from her own cigarette—cheap, stale—blew the smoke out slow.

“Some Arabian place. They always are. Twenty dead, they said. Just a few, by numbers. But that’s all it takes. One for each house on a block like this. One body to ruin a street.”

No sorrow. Just tired grit. Y/N pressed the fork into her plate, dragging meat across china. “Damn shame.”

Mama nodded. “You should go see her. Rhonda. Y’all used to be thick, remember? She’ll need someone.”

“I’ll go this weekend.”

But they both knew she wouldn’t. The words were just noise. Mama didn’t respond, just glanced up at the spreading stain on the ceiling—veins of mold curling outward, slow and sure.

“I feel bad for all of ‘em,” she said. “It’s all so sad.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “He signed up for it. Nobody made him.” She stabbed the plate again. “Maybe it’s his fault.”

Mama blinked once. Not shock—just the shadow of it. Disappointment wrapped in old silence. She looked at Y/N like she might say something that mattered. But nothing came.

“Well,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s sad?”

“Sure.”

That was all. The quiet settled again, thicker now, laced with smoke and things left unsaid. The light overhead buzzed like it might burn out. Mama looked away, further this time—into memory, maybe, or just nowhere.

“How was church?” she asked, her voice barely there.

“Awful,” Y/N said.

Mama wasn’t listening. Her eyes had gone distant, her lips parting just enough to whisper a lie.

“Good… That’s good.”

The voice came through the cracked front door, thin and worn: “Hol’ on a second.” Rhonda. Same old drawl, rough with tears or smoke or both.

Y/N stood still on the porch, her father’s coat hanging heavy on her shoulders. The late sun stretched long across the boards, painting the chipped wood gold. The “Welcome” mat was threadbare, half unreadable. From inside came the sharp, furious cry of a baby—not scared, not hungry. Just angry, the way babies get when nothing in the world is right.

She clutched her purse between her knees, hands buried deep in the coat’s pockets. Her fingers trembled. The crying didn’t stop. It clawed at her, not with pity—just nerves worn thin. She thought of field lights, beer cans, Rhonda laughing too loud in the backseat of somebody’s truck. Back when Rhonda still believed she might outrun this place.

But Y/N had always known better. Some girls don’t get out.

The door opened with a groan. Rhonda stood there, baby on her hip, exhaustion on her face. Hair pulled back, skin slick with sweat, eyes ringed dark. Her smile came slow, crooked.

“Well, if it ain’t the preacher’s girl,” she said, dragging each word. She kicked the door wider. “Come on in, Y/N. Ain’t seen you in a minute. You hungry? Want somethin’ to drink?”

“I’m good.” Y/N stepped inside, automatic. She slipped off her flats, dodged a chewed-up dinosaur near the door. The house was stuck in time—sunken couch, shag rug, a living room that hadn’t changed in decades.

Mason Portnoy Sr. sat like furniture, slumped in his recliner with a bag of Funyuns on his gut. The TV hissed static.

The air inside was thick—diapers, sour milk, something sharp underneath it all.

From the kitchen, the baby screamed louder. Rhonda disappeared through the doorway, calling back, “C’mon, Dylan. You been cryin’ since sunup. Quit already, would you?”

A grunt from the recliner. “Rhonda?”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Who the hell was at the door?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Who?”

“Vern’s girl. From church. She’s visitin’.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Y/N stood stiff by the coat rack, unsure where to land. The baby’s wailing gnawed at her. Her head throbbed, but she kept her face still.

Rhonda returned, wiping her hands on a stained dishcloth. “Sorry,” she said, nodding toward a chair. “He’s colicky or possessed, take your pick. How you been, huh? You look skinny as a fencepost.”

They sat across from each other. The table was buried under cereal bowls and unopened mail. Rhonda’s face had softened with time, eyes sunken, skin loose. Y/N looked the same—drawn, dim. Two people worn down, like photos left in the sun.

“I heard about Mason Jr.,” Y/N said, low. “Mama and me… we’re real sorry. He was a good boy.”

Rhonda’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not a frown. Her eyes filled fast, catching the light.

“Sure was,” she whispered. “But that’s how it goes. Boys die early. Daughters live long enough to get wrecked.” A dry laugh. “Sometimes I wonder who’s got the better deal.”

Y/N stayed quiet. No scripture. No comfort. Just stillness.

Rhonda dragged her finger over the table’s grain. “Papa always said Mason was the one who’d get out. Said girls don’t bring home paychecks—just trouble and stretch marks. Called me a drag on the family. But Mason…” Her voice caught. “He was gonna be somebody. College. Office job. He wanted that for him. Not for me. I was just… the leftover.”

She scratched at a dried stain on the table. “But Mason didn’t want any of that. Not really. Watched too many action movies. Wanted to be a hero. So he signed up. Said he was gonna be part of something bigger. Said he’d make us proud.”

She blinked hard. “Now there’s nothin’ left but a goddamn finger in a box.”

Y/N nodded. Her throat locked.

Rhonda’s voice cracked. “You wanna see it?” The silence that followed felt thick, metallic. “The box?”

Y/N nodded again. There was nothing else to do. Not here. Not in this town that ate boys and gave their mothers something to bury.

It sat on the mantel. Small. Too small. The kind of small that made your stomach turn. Mahogany, polished, the size of a lunchbox. Gold flourishes curled around the edges, trying to make it look sacred. But nothing about it was holy. It was too clean, too out of place for this house—like grief had been boxed and sealed by someone who didn’t understand it.

“I ain’t gonna open it,” Rhonda said. Her voice shook now. “Don’t think I could take it. But you know, right? You already know what’s in there.” She looked away. “That’s all they found. After the strike. One finger. Left hand. That’s it.”

Y/N stared at the box and felt the memory crack open. Mason Jr., seventeen, tall and awkward, that chipped front tooth from the church roof, freckles across his nose. Always quiet. Hoodie strings in his mouth. Vanished into rooms without a sound. Carved the ham at Christmas. Took the smaller gift. Gave his sister the wishbone.

Six-foot-two and kind, gone before he got to be either a man or a boy.

Now he fit inside something she could carry under one arm.

“Is there gonna be a funeral?” Y/N asked. Her voice came up rough, like gravel.

Rhonda nodded. “Yeah. Not much of one. We can’t afford a casket, and it’s not like there’s anything to put in one anyway.” Her laugh cracked. “What’re we supposed to do? Bury a goddamn finger?”

Y/N said nothing. She didn’t have to. The house had gone quiet, except for the baby crying in the next room—less rage now, more fatigue. Even it sounded tired of screaming.

Y/N stared at the box. Something in her chest started to give. Not break—just crack, slow and quiet. She’d seen this too many times. Heard it in too many kitchens. Folded flags. Hollow sermons. Mothers gutted and left standing.

Boys sent off in one piece, returned in silence.

And it would happen again.

Another boy. Another mother. Another light box that didn’t weigh enough to grieve.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She was halfway down the porch steps when Rhonda called out—soft, worn, like lace gone thin. “Take care, you hear?”

It wasn’t a question. Not even a goodbye. Just one tired woman offering another a blessing stitched from habit. Rhonda held the screen door open with her elbow. The baby sagged on her hip. The porch light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow that deepened the hollows in her face. There was no more life in her than in that bulb.

Y/N didn’t look back. Just lifted her hand in a lazy wave and let it drift down like smoke. She walked. Gravel cracked underfoot—loud, final. Her father’s coat hung heavy, like it meant to drag her into the dirt.

The road ahead was barely a road—just memory under a bruised sky. Her breath sat thick in her chest. Not grief. Not yet. But it was close. She knew this was the last time she’d see Rhonda Portnoy. She did not want to step foot in that house again.

But she didn’t go home. Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was a sentence.

Instead, her feet took her down the back road—concrete split by weeds, the Sunoco station glowing faint at the edge of town like a dying thing. Same as always: dusty windows, broken vending machine, neon sign flickering like it wanted out.

Across the street, her old high school sat hollow. Glass gray with dust. Bleachers rusted to hell. Parking lot cracked like old skin.

Inside the gas station, the air was sharp with cleaner, jerky, and old oil. Behind the counter stood a boy—or maybe a man—half-familiar, like a face warped by rain in an old yearbook. If he knew her, he didn���t show it. Just looked through her. That was fine.

She dropped the six-pack on the counter. No ID. No talk. Bills exchanged. Lights buzzed overhead like they were tired too.

Outside, the sky had turned bruise-purple, bleeding into black. Stars blinked on, soft and unsure. She walked toward the football field—hers, even when she hated it. Her legs moved on memory: grass, beer, sweat, hands under blankets, gum kisses and loud songs.

The field was still. Bleachers groaned when she climbed them. She knew which ones would bite. At the top, she cracked a can. The hiss cut the quiet. She drank fast. Bitter. Familiar.

She let the silence settle, thick as attic dust. Cicadas screamed. Her mind dragged her backward: Rhonda laughing through soda, Sam tracing her wrist like it meant something. The scoreboard still read 31–10. Some losses don’t change.

She stood. Walked the field. Let her fingers trail the chain-link fence just to feel the metal rasp. To prove she was still here. Behind the bleachers was where she’d kissed a boy she never saw again. The dandelions were still clawing through the cracks. The end zone still blackened where a quarterback had bled out under Friday night lights.

It was all still here. Ghosts rooted in dirt and steel.

Then she danced. No rhythm. No music. Just motion. Just need. She spun until the stars smeared. Cracked another can. Poured it over her head like baptism. Beer soaked her shirt, ran down her back. Arms wide, she howled—raw, laughing, feral.

No one heard. That was the point.

She dropped into the grass like a body left behind. Arms flung wide. Back damp with dew. Ribs sore from laughing. Eyes blurred on the cold, far stars.

She let herself breathe. Like it meant something.

Mason Portnoy Jr. was dead. Her father, dead. Her mother hadn’t left the house in two years. The dishes were rotting. The streetlamp hadn’t worked since New Year’s. And she was the worst preacher this town ever stuck behind a pulpit.

But tonight—just tonight—she was loud. Drunk. Defiant.

Beautiful.

She came to the church like wreckage—filthy, hollow, spit out by whatever storm she’d crawled through. Her dress, once soft blue, was stiff with dried beer, crusted like salt from sweat and ruin. She smelled like yeast and dirt and something animal, like she’d spent the night buried in the fields. Her hair hung in matted ropes, dew still clinging. Her shoes squelched on the gravel path—flats soaked, shapeless. Grass stains marked her knees like bruises, but they weren’t from prayer.

Inside, the congregation was already seated. Sunlight knifed through stained glass, casting blood and sapphire across the pews. Even the saints on the windows looked away as she stepped inside. She stood in the doorway, a slouched shadow warped by hangover and memory. Her steps were uneven, dragged from some deeper place. Not walking—hauling herself forward like her bones hated her.

Heads turned. Not from welcome, but reflex. The heat in the room shifted. Thickened. You could feel it in the rafters. In the silence. In the way every eye said the same thing: This ain’t right.

Judgment didn’t speak. It shifted in seats, clicked in throats, clenched in jaws. Someone cracked the door again—maybe for air, maybe to go. Each time it opened, the sun cut through the dark like a blade. Too late to save.

She reached the lectern. The Bible lay open, pages stirring in the fan’s breath. She stared at them, but the words blurred—lines and ink, meaningless shapes. Could’ve been math. Could’ve been a map. Nothing landed. Her head buzzed. Her mouth tasted like pennies.

She was still drunk. Maybe sobering. Maybe not. The beers she’d downed on the walk hadn’t dulled the heat behind her eyes or the twitch in her fingers. Her heart thudded like an old machine running out of parts. And they were still waiting—watching her like she had something worth giving. Like she hadn’t come in empty.

She snapped the Bible shut. The crack echoed—sharp, final. It hit the rafters and bounced back, rattling the saints. Everything went still.

Her hands shook. Her mouth opened. The words came out raw.

“My daddy, he… he had this little book of Psalms. Kept it by my bed when I was a kid. Used to read from it every night.”

Her fingers clawed at her wrist, unconscious and frantic. Skin split. Blood welled—bright and sudden. Every night…

“There was a time,” she said, softer now, “when I could recite the first sixteen by heart. Psalm One, uh…” She blinked. Swallowed. “Blessed is the man who…”

She faltered. The words unraveled.

“Blessed is the lamb… whose blood flows…”

A pause.

“No. That ain’t it.”

Then her voice broke. Cracked, then folded. The sobs hit hard—loud, shaking. She bent over the lectern like it might hold her up, her face buried in her hands.

Mascara streaked. Her back heaved. The dress clung, wet and cold, tugging with each breath like it meant to peel her apart.

When she looked up, the pews were empty. All but two. Even Constance Hayes was gone. Only a pair remained near the back. She blinked, trying to place them. A rustle of fabric. A soft shuffle. Then:

“Y/N?” A woman’s voice. Low. Familiar. “Y/N, honey, what’s the matter with you?”

She looked again. Mrs. Wallace stood near the last row, her face caught between horror and something deeper—recognition. Not of the breakdown, but the break. The truth beneath it. Mr. Wallace stood behind her, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Neither had come back to this place since Sam left. Since the boy who haunted Y/N’s bones disappeared for good.

“Honey…” Mrs. Wallace stepped forward, hand out like she could pull the girl back from wherever she’d gone. “Talk to me. Are you okay?”

Y/N couldn’t answer. The words were dust in her mouth. She shoved past them—head low, hands curled into fists, shame buzzing under her skin like a fever.

“Dunno,” she muttered. “I just… I just need to go home.”

Her legs fought her. The aisle stretched long. But she made it. Reached the doors. The sun hit her like a slap. She stepped into it with her eyes shut, let the door groan shut behind her.

Inside, the quiet settled again. Not holy. Just heavy.

Mrs. Wallace stood still, her hand still raised like she hadn’t realized Y/N was already gone.

Her husband stepped beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She whispered it—barely a breath.

“Lord… dear Lord.”

The sun was already sagging behind the line of cypress trees when the screen door groaned open again, the sound swallowed by the thick, breathless heat that soaked the house like a fever. The walls themselves seemed to sweat. The air hung motionless, saturated with the staleness of fried oil and old grief, the scent of something unspoken rotting beneath the wallpaper. Inside, Mama sat like she always did—folded into the same frayed corner of the couch she’d worn into a cradle with the weight of her bones, the heel of one foot jammed into a threadbare cushion, her polyester robe cinched tight across her sagging body like she was afraid even her own skin might leave her if it had the chance. The television murmured from the corner, a steady loop of game-show banter playing to no audience, its technicolor optimism bleeding garishly against the yellowed walls. The Price Is Right. Again. Always. The volume just high enough to drown out the world, but low enough to pretend she might still hear if someone needed her. No one ever did.

She turned her head just enough to acknowledge the figure silhouetted in the doorframe, her eyes squinting against the last gasp of daylight before turning back to the screen without comment. Y/N stood there like a shadow pulled too far from its source, soaked in the last embers of sun, her body slouched and brittle in her father’s old coat, the hem of her dress crusted stiff with dried beer and grass stains, her arms limp at her sides. Her hair hung lank around her face, sticky with sweat and dirt, her breath sour and labored. She didn’t look like she’d come home—she looked like she’d crawled back from something that had tried to keep her. She stayed there in the doorway, caught somewhere between inside and out, as if the floor might give way beneath her if she took another step.

“Where you been all night?” Mama asked, not looking this time. Her voice was a dull scrape, the sound of rust flaking off old iron. Not sharp, not soft, just... used. The tone of someone who’d stopped expecting answers years ago but still asked out of habit, because silence would mean letting go, and letting go would mean it was all real.

Y/N exhaled like she was coughing up dirt, her voice little more than the ghost of a growl. “Out.”

“Christ,” Mama muttered, flinching at the smell. “You stink like a brewery.”

“So?” It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even defense. It was detachment, said like someone commenting on the weather. There was no fight in it—just the low thrum of a person too tired to hold herself together, too used to not being heard.

Mama turned her eyes, narrowed them like she might say something worth the breath, but stopped. Whatever she might’ve meant to ask was already too far behind them. “Don’t tell me you went to church like that.”

“So what if I did?” Y/N replied, with a lopsided shrug that nearly pulled her off balance.

Mama’s eyes flashed for a second, the old instinct of judgment sparking through exhaustion. “What would your daddy think?”

That did it. Y/N’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t a smile. “Why should I give a fuck what he thinks?” Her voice cracked, thin and cold. “He’s dead, ain’t he?”

“Don’t use that word.” Mama didn’t even blink, but her hand fluttered to her chest like a moth to flame, reacting out of muscle memory more than conviction.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” The words dropped flat, dull as ash, and the silence that followed stretched long and raw.

They stared at one another across the sagging guts of that living room���mother and daughter, burnt-out star and battered satellite, two celestial bodies circling the same dead sun. The air between them was heavy, thick with years of silence and heat, with the scent of stale biscuits and lost chances. Mama’s eyes lingered just long enough to register her daughter’s return, then flicked back to the television with mechanical disinterest. Bob Barker’s voice buzzed from the speaker, a pitch-perfect cheerfulness that had nothing to do with them. That jingle, that goddamn jingle, it danced through the room like a ghost in tap shoes—bright, insistent, and unbearably hollow. The soundtrack of their shared unraveling.

But something old and patient was crawling up inside Y/N. Not rage.  It didn’t come all at once, didn’t explode. It seeped, crept. It slithered out from the dark corners of her memory like a leak under the floorboards, slow and devastating. It was the kind of fury that didn’t set fire—it froze. Frostbite in the marrow. It wound around her spine and filled her mouth with all the words she never said. The soft, broken ones: Mama, my stomach hurts. Mama, why’s he look at me like that? Mama, why does he touch me funny? Mama, please don’t ignore me. Mama, I’m bleeding. Mama, I’m scared. Mama, I love you. Please. But none of those words had ever landed. They’d passed right through the room and out the screen door, swallowed by cicadas and silence. And now, all those swallowed cries had hardened into one glacial truth that made her bones ache with its clarity: it never mattered. Not then. Not now.

“I’m leaving,” Y/N said, and the words were calm, measured, stripped clean of drama. They didn’t land like a bomb. They landed like a gravestone. “I’m leaving this backwater shithole, and I’m leaving Alabama, and I swear to God I ain’t never coming back.”

Mama didn’t blink. “Don’t be stupid,” she said, as if that was still enough to close a wound. She didn’t even lift her eyes, just reached lazily for the slice of bread wrapped in a napkin beside her like it was sacrament.

“I’m not,” Y/N said, and now her voice had something to it. Not heat. Not volume. But steel. A tremor pulled her breath sideways, but she righted it. “I’m finally doing something that’s mine.”

“You’ll come crawling back before sundown,” Mama mumbled, chewing now, the words thick and wet in her mouth, like they’d been waiting there all day to be used. “You always do.”

But something in Y/N’s face, her posture, the dead calm of her stare—it had changed. Mama might’ve felt it then. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was just too late for either of them to know when the earth had shifted beneath their feet.

“I mean it,” she said, stepping back toward the open door, the porch behind her glowing with the last smears of orange daylight. “Next time you see me, you’ll be six feet under, and I’ll be leavin’ you flowers.”

And this time, Mama turned. This time, the words cracked something open. Not because they were cruel—God knows they’d said worse—but because Mama saw something in her daughter’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. A severance. Not a wound. A cut. Clean. Final. And it scared her.

“Y/N,” she whispered, as if calling someone back from the edge of a cliff. “What’s gotten into you?”

Y/N didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. Her silence was louder than any scream she’d ever held in. She stepped through the threshold, the screen door moaning open behind her like it, too, was reluctant to let her go. A second later, the old truck's engine growled awake—violent, uneven, like a wounded thing begging to run. It hiccupped, sputtered, and then pulled away, wheels spitting gravel as it rolled toward freedom.

Inside the house, nothing changed. The couch sagged. The walls held their breath. The television glowed. A contestant spun the big wheel. Mama sat, still holding her bread like a Bible, her eyes glassy, not quite watching anything. The screen door swung gently on its hinge, a soft creak marking time. And outside, the breeze caught a forgotten can and rolled it across the porch until it fell into the grass with a hollow clatter.

That was all that remained of Y/N Y/L/N: the echo of an engine, the hush of a parting, and the slow drift of an empty aluminum ghost.

Her mama didn’t know it then, not truly, but that would be the last time she ever saw her daughter’s face.

The wheels of the truck murmured against the scarred backroads, whispering along the cracked skin of blacktop like fingertips brushing the face of a forgotten lover. She didn’t press the gas hard. There was no need for speed. The urgency had never been about where she was going—it was about where she wasn’t. The sun had already vanished behind the cypress trees, dragging its bloodshot hues with it, leaving the sky to fester in bruised purples and sullen golds. Y/N’s hands, clammy with sweat and the dregs of warm beer, clung to the steering wheel like a lifeline. Not for control—just to feel something solid. She had no destination in mind, only a direction. North, maybe. Or east. Just somewhere that wasn’t south. Somewhere the air didn’t taste like old sermons and forgotten dreams. She didn’t need a map. The only compass she needed was the hollow ache in her chest pointing her anywhere but back.

The town peeled away behind her in pieces, shedding its landmarks like scabs. Samson Wallace’s place, hunched behind its screen of pines, porch light still flickering like a heartbeat on life support. The red-brick church, stoic and stiff, the readerboard still stuttering out its message like a broken promise: GOD LOVES YOU. The Burger King, paint peeling, its pylon sign jutting from the earth like a rusted jawbone, the same place where a boy once made her feel wanted for fifteen seconds behind the dumpsters, swearing he’d marry her when he sobered up. Every place a tombstone. Every shadow a ghost. The truck crept past them, steady and unsentimental, grinding the past into the dust without ceremony. She watched through the side mirror until Abbeville shrank to a single blur of light swallowed by trees.

And before long—because it always happened—those front-porch prophets would start their song. Damaris Fairchild would be the first to speak, chin perched like royalty on her papery hand, voice thick with piety and poison. “You hear about Y/N Y/L/N?” she’d ask, and the women would lean in like blooms toward sunlight.

“The preacher’s girl?” Betty Oliver would breathe, eyes wide with choreographed concern.

“Mmm. That one.”

“What now?”

“She went and gave a sermon drunk. Slurring like a godless heathen. Then left town. Vanished. Poof.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“I ain’t. Ask Constance Hayes if you don’t believe me. Sat through the whole thing.”

Their heads would nod in rhythm, teacups trembling in their hands like tiny porcelain saints. “Poor thing,” Ella May would sigh. “Ever since Vern passed, that family’s been cracked down the middle.” One of them would cross herself. Another would murmur about missed sermons and missed chances and how the Lord must be sorely disappointed. They’d mourn the girl like they mourned the past—loudly, briefly, and with just enough sugar to cover the rot.

Maybe, if the wind was right, Constance would offer up her own benediction, soft as a moth’s wing: “Lord… watch over her.”

And then the silence would settle in. Thin, uneasy. Until one of them changed the subject, and by sunset, Y/N Y/L/N would fade back into the ether. A name with no body. A daughter-shaped hole in a town too tired to remember the shape of absence.

But Y/N? She’d still be out there—somewhere between nowhere and never again—driving like a ghost in reverse. Leaving Abbeville like a cigarette tossed from a moving truck. Smoke trailing. Fire gone. Just the cherry ember catching the wind.

She smiled faintly at the thought, lips cracked and dry. Then she turned right at the fork that led into the woods, the sign for WELCOME TO ABBEVILLE catching her taillights for just a second before vanishing under a veil of kicked-up dust.

Thirty miles later, past cotton fields turned to weeds and creek beds dried to scars, past abandoned mills whose bones still whispered of labor and grief, she found it—the house. A crooked relic squatting at the edge of a clearing, draped in shadow and silence. The trees had claimed it as kin, their limbs arched protectively over its sun-starved roof. No one had lived there in decades. No one except her. And once, Samson Wallace. Wherever he was now. Buried. Lost. Or worse—still out there, walking the same edge she was.

She parked the truck beneath an old white oak and didn’t bother with the keys. If the earth wanted to reclaim it, she wouldn’t stop it. She stepped out barefoot, feet hitting the cold dirt like an offering. The air was knife-sharp, quiet as prayer.

The door groaned when she pushed it open, wood protesting the memory of her palm. The dark inside was thick enough to hold. Curtains like gauze sagged in the windows. Dust stirred with her breath, rising in slow spirals, turning the light into fog.

She leaned her back against the inside of the door and struck a match, the sulfur flaring sharp and angry against her fingers before giving way to a soft, hungry glow. The darkness of the house folded in around her like a blanket that hadn't been washed in decades. There was no power—hadn’t been since long before she or Sam ever set foot here—but her memory did the work better than any bulb. She didn’t need light. The house spoke to her through muscle memory. She moved through the shadows like a sleepwalker: one step past the doorframe, the slouch of the old couch pressed into her hips, the low groan of that one warped board near the hearth, the faint smell of mold and cedar and time left too long alone. Everything was still where it had always been. It hadn't changed. Just grown older, like a scar or a ghost.

The match guttered low, burning down to her skin. With its final breath, she lit a cigarette, then dropped onto the couch, which hissed beneath her weight like it was exhaling some long-held grief. The first drag settled in her chest like a warm brick, and she let the smoke trickle out slow, like a soul she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep anymore. That’s when she saw it, half-obscured by dust and the curl of old air: a photograph on the coffee table, laminated, worn down to its memory. The edges curled like a dried petal, corners frayed with fingerprints from another life.

She reached for it and held it in both hands. It was them. Her and Sam. Jesus. He had a black eye and that crooked, defiant grin like he’d just gotten away with something unforgivable and hadn’t yet been caught. She was beside him, her hair a tangled mess, eyes too wide, too bright, smile caught halfway between truth and trying. Behind them loomed the Pike County High sign, one side of it flickering out like a dying star. The sky above was that perfect lie of high school days—endless, blue, untouched by regret. But the photo was warm in her palms now, either from the sun or from memory or just the heat of grief radiating off her skin. She couldn’t tell which. Her breath caught in her throat, and her vision went watery. That day came back like a movie reel pulled tight and clicking.

She’d been fifteen. First day of junior year. Sitting under the flagpole out front, boots scuffed, cigarette between her fingers like a weapon she didn’t know how to use. The sun hadn’t burned the dew off the grass yet, and everything smelled like bleach and nerves. She wasn’t waiting for anyone. Never had. Most kids walked past her without looking. Some stared too long. Nobody said anything. Nobody ever did. And then there he was—Samson Wallace, all angles and shadows, clutching a class schedule like a lifeline and squinting at it like it was written in a dead language. His backpack hung crooked on one shoulder, and the sleeve of his shirt was rolled just enough to show the bruise blooming along his forearm. A fresh black eye marred one side of his face. He looked like trouble. Or someone who’d been in its path one too many times.

He stopped when he saw her. Didn't hesitate. Just walked right up, like fate had dared him.

“Hey,” he said. “You smart?”

She looked up, smoke curling around her mouth. “Yeah?”

“Good,” he said, crouching down like he’d known her all his life. “I’m not. Can you help me find Trig?”

She should’ve ignored him. Should’ve waved him off, like she did with most boys. But something in his voice—it was careful, deliberate. Like he was trying not to spill something fragile. And that bruise. That black eye. She knew that kind of wound. Not the schoolyard kind. The kind you earned at home. The kind that taught you early to shut your mouth and keep your distance. She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t need to. She just took the schedule from his hand, read it, and nodded. “I got Trig first, too.”

He grinned like that meant something. “Show me?”

She nodded again, slower. “Sure.”

Even then, she could feel the way his presence filled the air like static. He was taller than her, but not by much. His clothes were too big. His smile was crooked, unsure. His hair looked like he’d tried to comb it and then given up halfway through. And when he said the word “dad,” his whole body stiffened, just a little. Barely enough to notice—unless you’d learned how to watch for it. She had. She’d spent years watching her own reflection flinch in the mirror.

He didn’t have to explain. She already knew the whole story. She could see it in the way he didn’t let his bag swing freely, the way his voice dropped to a hush when talking about home. She’d lived that kind of silence, too.

They were just about to cross the threshold of that miserable school, the one that always smelled like bleach and forgotten futures, when a voice cut through the haze—sharp, shrill, and too damned cheerful to belong in the morning light. “Hey!” it rang out, slicing the moment wide open. Stacy Reeves came strutting across the grass like she owned the damn sunrise, her camera thudding against her chest like a plastic heartbeat. She was the school’s resident memory collector, senior yearbook photographer and part-time gossip merchant, her ponytail swinging with self-importance as she waved them down.

Y/N froze mid-step, the toe of her boot catching on a crack in the sidewalk. Her body went stiff, like an animal sensing a trap. “What for?” she asked, voice low, half-choked on suspicion. She didn’t trust people who smiled too easily.

“Yearbook!” Stacy sang, already raising the camera. “It’s for the ‘First Day’ page. Come on, y’all look cute.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, but Sam—bless his dumb, bright heart—was already standing, already grinning. “Sure,” he said with the kind of blind enthusiasm only boys who’d never been made into a punchline could manage. He turned and held out his hand to her, open, unassuming, not reaching but waiting. She stared at it like it might burn her. But there was something in his stance—something calm, careful, nothing like the boys who clutched and took and made their affection a threat. So she gave in. Slipped her fingers into his. Let him lead.

They moved beneath the rusting flagpole, where the wind toyed with the frayed rope, tapping it against the metal like a cracked metronome. It was a strange rhythm, the kind you might hear in a dream that keeps turning into a nightmare. Stacy called instructions like a drill sergeant in ballet flats. “Closer—yep, right there. Little to the left. Perfect!”

Then, quieter, just for her: “Can I put my arm around you?” Sam asked, his voice gentle, not out of fear but out of respect, as though he knew how easy it was to break something already fractured.

She almost said no. She always almost said no. But the way he looked at her—like he wasn’t asking for anything but permission—unlocked something deep and rusted in her chest. She nodded, once, small.

He moved like someone handling a delicate machine. His arm wrapped around her waist without pressure, like he was just borrowing a piece of her gravity for a minute. She didn’t lean in, didn’t smile. But she didn’t pull away either. She just stood, still and breathing, and let the sun hit her face while someone touched her without expecting her to flinch.

The camera clicked. Once. Then again. The sound echoed down into her bones like a hammer on old pipes.

“Yearbooks drop June first!” Stacy called over her shoulder as she trotted off to capture more victims, already forgetting them. “Make sure y’all buy one!”

Sam let his arm fall, easy and unbothered, hands in his pockets like a gentleman from some black-and-white movie. “You ready to go?” he asked, like nothing had happened, like the moment hadn’t pulled something loose in the air.

But Y/N didn’t hear him. Or maybe she did and couldn’t speak. Her heart was thudding in her chest like it was trying to punch its way out—raw and alive and reckless, after too many years of ticking like an old watch under dirty water. She didn’t know what the hell had happened. Nothing, really. Just a boy with a bruised eye and a hopeful smile, with the scent of smoke and leather and last chances hanging off his coat. Just a photograph. Just a soft voice asking, not taking. Just a heartbeat that had remembered how to beat.

But it had happened. Christ, it had.

And for the first time in forever, she remembered what it felt like to be moved.

She never ordered that damn yearbook. At the time, it had felt unnecessary—another souvenir from a life she wasn’t planning to remember. A high school memento for a chapter she hoped would blur with distance. But Sam had. Sam, with his crumpled dollar bills and lint-flecked pockets, had bought it like it meant something. That reckless, crooked smile on his face, the one that made him look like a boy trying on manhood like a borrowed coat—too big, sleeves dragging. He’d held it like it was a promise. And in a way, maybe it was.

They’d flipped through it together in this very room, on this same sagging couch that now gathered dust and shadows in the failing light. It had been four years ago, or maybe a lifetime—back when the world still seemed pliable, like clay they could shape with their own stubborn hands. The book had smelled of ink and glue, the scent of hallways and linoleum floors and a thousand footsteps layered in memory. He’d laid it across both their knees like a shared altar, fingers thumbing through until they found the page. There it was—their picture. Just two kids beneath a weather-worn flagpole, frozen in the moment before the world had its way with them. They were still soft then. Still whole.

He’d laughed, quiet and disbelieving, holding the page like it might vanish if he blinked too hard. “Remember this?” he said, eyes fixed on the photo while his other hand worked the blade of a dull pair of scissors. And she had. Of course she had. That day had sunk its teeth into her bones. He cut the photo free with the tenderness of a surgeon, his grin wide, almost innocent, like a boy showing off a treasure dug from the dirt. And then—just like everything else that mattered—he’d left it behind. Forgotten it on the coffee table as if it were nothing, as if they were nothing. Neither of them ever came back for it. The house took it in like a grave takes bones—quiet, undisturbed. For years, it sat there. Dust gathered. The corners curled. But the image remained. Untouched. Waiting.

His yearbook still lived in the basement of his childhood home, probably buried beneath toolboxes and rotted books, with a neat little square carved from one page like a wound that never scabbed over. And Y/N—sitting here again, years later, that photo back in her hands—felt the edges of her heart go soft and then jagged, all in the same breath.

She didn’t know much about love. No one had ever taught her in a way that didn’t bruise. But maybe this was what it looked like: a picture cut from a book, a blank space left behind, a memory so vivid it hurt to hold. Maybe love was less about who stayed and more about who left a shape behind.

Her eyes stung. She flipped the photograph over and laid it face-down on the table. Couldn’t look at it anymore. The silence in the room pressed in around her, thick and unforgiving, more accusing than any voice. If she stared one second longer, she knew something inside her would snap. And there’d be no stitching it back.

She stood without knowing why, body moving on some ancient reflex—grief, maybe, or instinct—and drifted toward the kitchen. Her feet were unsteady, her path wavering like someone wading through smoke. She hadn’t had a drink in hours, but she still felt drunk on memory and ghosts. The hallway twisted under her gaze. Her breath dragged from her lungs like sandpaper over stone.

The kitchen greeted her like a crypt. Stale air, still heavy with the smell of mildew and old grease, curled in her nostrils. She reached for the counter out of reflex and felt the brittle crumble of dust beneath her palm. Her fingers left streaks, black and smudged, like soot sketches of bones. The counter, once polished marble, had dulled to a gray nothing. Everything had faded. Just like her. Just like Sam.

The house moaned softly in the walls, as if shifting under the weight of all it remembered. Or maybe it was her, finally collapsing. Some internal scaffolding giving way. Whatever had held her upright for this long—pride, rage, dumb stubbornness—it cracked under the pressure. The weight of absence. The ache of what never came to be. She slid to the floor like she’d been dropped, knees hitting tile, arms wrapping around herself in some pathetic attempt at warmth.

She didn’t cry. Not right away. Instead she just knelt there, letting her body hum with pain and silence, the air pressing down on her like a hand. This position—kneeling, alone, wordless—wasn’t new. She’d lived in it. Slept in it. She’d folded herself this way in trailer park kitchens, on borrowed mattresses, in motel bathtubs with the shower running just to drown out the silence. She had waited like this—for Sam, for answers, for the girl she used to be to find her way back. But all that ever came were footsteps that weren’t his, voices that didn’t care, hands that only took.

Maybe she hadn’t been waiting for Sam at all. Maybe she’d been waiting for herself, for the girl who once stood beneath a rusted flagpole and let someone touch her without flinching. Maybe she’d left that girl behind here, hidden in the corners of this broken house like something too precious to look at directly. And maybe this place had kept her safe, in its own ruined way. A shrine made of silence and decay.

The house said nothing. It had no answers, no wisdom, no comfort to offer. It simply existed, hollow and indifferent, breathing in time with the wind through its broken bones. The rats whispered in the walls, their scurrying a kind of low confession, and the curtains—thinned by sun, eaten by mildew—swayed in a draft too soft to be named. Outside, the moon hung like a judge in the sky, high and pitiless, swollen and pale, casting silver light through cracked panes and across a floor littered with the dust of the years. It was full—round and whole in a way Y/N had never felt, not even when she’d been young and unbroken, not even when she’d believed in things like good luck and fresh starts.

She stared at that moon a long time, her eyes burning with the weight of it, and for one strange, impossible second, she imagined it staring back. Silent. Unmoved. Watching her from above with a cold omniscience, as if it had seen everything and pitied nothing. And in that moment, she felt every jagged edge of her own body. She was not whole. She was not silver or distant or clean. She was a smudge on the earth. A wound trying to scab over. A breath that should have stopped a long time ago, and hadn’t.

She sat there on the linoleum floor, her bones beginning to ache from the cold, her frame folded in on itself like a crumpled receipt. Hours passed, maybe more. She couldn’t tell anymore. The light changed and then disappeared entirely, folding over her like the end of a song. She didn’t have a plan. No gas money. No real destination beyond “not here.” All she had was a cigarette burn on her jeans, a face-down photograph in the next room, and the stubborn thud of her own heart, still beating against its cage like it hadn’t learned when to quit.

There had been laughter in this house once. Once, when Sam was still hers and the world still had room for wonder. She remembered the sound of it—low and wild, bouncing off the walls, mixed with music and the smell of weed and gasoline. Long drives through nowhere towns, the truck windows rolled down, the radio playing something old and holy. Sam’s hand on the wheel, tapping out drumbeats with callused fingers, his eyes on the horizon like it was a promise. And her, always watching him instead of the road. His throat when he sang. His profile in the sun. The way he moved like the world couldn’t touch him, like he wasn’t afraid of anything but standing still.

Her mother had hated him. Said he looked like trouble. Said he was “all wrong.” That boy with the torn jeans and the bruises he never explained. That boy who smiled too much for someone carrying that much hurt. But Sam hadn’t liked home either. Not his. Not hers. Not anyplace with walls and rules and fathers.

So they left. Again and again. Two fugitives of the ordinary, fleeing nothing and everything at once. Every road trip, every cigarette lit in the dark, every motel room with peeling wallpaper—they’d made a world out of that motion. A love story in transit. A romance that bloomed like mold: hidden, persistent, and never truly clean.

“Where’re we going?” she’d asked him one summer night, her legs tucked beneath her in the passenger seat, sticky from the heat, the air thick with pine and dust.

“Somewhere nobody else has been,” he’d said, not looking at her. “Somewhere brand new.”

That night they found the house. This house. The one she was in now. He saw it from the highway—half-sunk in trees, porch buckled, paint flayed from its bones—and swerved into the gravel like fate had tapped him on the shoulder. She had laughed, back then. Rolled her eyes at the idea of finding something special in a place like that. But he jumped out of the truck like a boy seeing snow for the first time, shouting, “It’s perfect!” like the whole goddamn place wasn’t rotting to pieces.

“I know it ain’t much,” he said, pushing the front door open with a flourish. “But it’s ours. Ain’t that enough?”

She’d muttered something sarcastic, half-smiling. “We’ve got three hours to kill. You better make 'em count, prettyboy.”

But they hadn’t fucked. Not that night. Not yet. There’d been chances—more than once. A locker room, a backseat, that time behind the train depot where they undressed just to see each other, to know what soft skin looked like in daylight. But they always stopped short. Held breath instead of bodies. Sat still in their own want like it was a prayer. They didn’t need sex to bind them. Talking had always been enough. For a while.

That night, they smoked. Sam passed her a joint, the paper sloppy and damp at the end, but she took it. Her mama would’ve fainted at the smell, but that just made her drag deeper. Sam talked about fixing the place up, about getting tools from his uncle’s shed, about scraping the walls and maybe putting a porch swing up. Like they were married already. Like love was drywall and second chances.

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” she teased, flicking ash into a broken mug.

“You and me,” he said. “Who else is there?”

And something in her stilled. She stared at the cuckoo clock above the busted TV. It hadn’t worked in years, but it still hung there. A symbol. A warning.

“Don’t you wanna get out?” she asked him, suddenly small. “Get away from here?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Do you?”

She thought about it. Really thought. Not just about the highways, but what lay beyond them. The places where no one knew her name, or what her father had done, or who she’d slept with, or how often she cried. She thought about silence. Clean silence.

“I dunno,” she whispered.

He cracked open a soda, the sound sharp as glass breaking. “You don’t like Alabama?”

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s just… living here feels like living in God’s armpit. It’s hot and it stinks and everybody’s in your business and you can’t breathe without someone sayin’ it’s a sin.”

Sam laughed. “So where should we go, preacher’s daughter?”

“Anywhere far. Far as we can.”

“Like California?” he asked, smirking.

She turned to him with mock disgust. “California?”

“What? It’s far.”

And she laughed then, really laughed. That kind of laughter that doesn’t come from something funny but from something cracked wide open inside you. She loved him in that second, more than she could bear, more than she could say.

California had become their word, their spell, their whispered incantation for escape. It was never just a place—it was a promise they knew they'd likely never keep, a code they clung to when the bruises were fresh and the days too long. Whenever Sam showed up bleeding, limping slightly with one side of his mouth split open, he’d lean against her doorway, blood drying on his knuckles, and say, “Wanna drive to California?” And Y/N, no matter what mood she’d been in before, would nod like it was gospel. When Mama asked why she was late, where she'd been, who she was with, Y/N would shrug and say, “Can’t stay long—I’m headed to California.” The word grew between them like ivy on a wall, twisting and green, always climbing toward some light they couldn’t quite reach. Lovers always invent their own language, and this was theirs: a single word standing in for all the things they couldn’t name—freedom, hope, home.

But now, years later, she was still inside the house they never fixed. The one they’d dreamed about painting, furnishing, filling with noise and maybe kids, if they ever figured out how to raise them different from how they’d been raised. No porch swing ever got hung. No lights rewired. No garden. Just rot, memory, and a faint echo of a boy who once swore to take her to the Pacific. Her knees ached as she climbed the stairs, her back a dull, constant throb, her chest tight with something that wasn’t grief exactly—just the residue of having lived too long with it. But her heart still beat, slow and steady like a drum in the dark, and in her ears, she could still hear his voice, low and uncertain: “Wanna drive to California?” And even now, broken and alone, with nothing but silence to answer back, she almost said yes.

California might as well have been the moon. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure it, the way one tries to remember a scent from childhood: golden hills rolling like waves, pine trees looming tall and still as sentinels, the ocean wide and violent and clean. She pictured Sam waiting in a motel off Highway 1, lit only by a crooked lamp and the red ember of his cigarette. She imagined him glancing up when she walked in, giving that smile—the one that said he knew she’d come. But that was fantasy. She didn’t know where Sam was anymore. Maybe he made it to California, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he made it five times and never stayed. Promises are strange that way—not always broken, just unfinished. They fray and unravel, trailing behind like thread from an old coat, winding through your ribs until one day you die still holding the loose end.

She couldn’t sit with that. Not tonight. Not with her mind already walking too close to the edge of something bottomless. Barefoot and aching, she crept up the stairs that groaned beneath her weight like they remembered too much. The attic hadn’t been built for sleep, but they'd made it theirs anyway. Youth will do that—shape ruin into romance, make homes out of half-empty spaces. Sam had shown up with a mattress lashed to the roof of his truck like a corpse in a burial shroud. It sagged in the middle, stank like old coffee and mold, and jabbed them with coils whenever they turned over. Still, what she wouldn’t give to feel it collapse under his weight beside her again.

She crawled into the bed alone, her limbs heavy, her breath uneven. Her fingers traced the indentations in the fabric, reading the mattress like scripture, like a relic of something sacred. She remembered the first time they made love in that attic. The cedar smell in the wood, the humidity thick enough to choke, their bodies both trembling—not with fear, but with reverence. She bled a little. It didn’t hurt much. He’d been so gentle it nearly broke her. Afterward, half-asleep and naked, he got up and went downstairs, came back with a warm rag, and knelt beside her like someone praying. He wiped the blood from between her legs, whispered, “Your mama’s gonna kill me now,” and she just sighed, unable to move, staring at the ceiling with a strange detachment, like her body had become a place she no longer lived in.

He lay down next to her, his chest slick with sweat, his breathing slow. The room had smelled like sex and salt and something colder—something permanent. She searched for the warmth of what they’d just shared, but all she felt was the distance between her ribs, the vast hollowness that came after intimacy had left the building. She turned toward him, eyes brimming. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

He rolled onto his side, exhaustion draped across his features, but his voice was calm. “Then tell me.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Why not?”

She stared up at the ceiling again, the cracks in it like veins in a dying thing. “Because once I say it, it’ll be real. And I don’t want it to be real.”

“Then pretend it’s just us,” he murmured, brushing her hair back. “No one else in the world. No cars, no people. Just me and you.”

Her throat caught. “Was I your first?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t mine.”

Silence. Heavy, sharp. She expected his face to change, to darken, for the air to shift into something dangerous. Her father’s rage haunted every pause. But Sam just touched her hair again, his voice soft as cotton. “Don’t matter. I’ll be your first if you want me to be.”

And she broke. Her voice cracked open, and all the grief she’d swallowed since girlhood spilled out. “My mama would say the same thing about me she says about you,” she whispered. “That she always knew I was spoiled.”

“She ain’t here,” he said. “She died with the rest of them. It’s just us now.”

She curled into him then, pressing her cheek to his chest, listening to his heart. In that moment, she realized what had always been true: she loved Samson Wallace. Loved him with a fever that wouldn’t break. Loved him like her bones were wired with his name.

Now, lying on the same ruined mattress alone, she listened to the silence. It didn’t smell like him anymore. Didn’t smell like anything but dust and decay. The magic was gone. The sanctuary they'd made had crumbled, just like everything else. She was the only one left, and she was lonelier than she’d ever known a person could be.

She craved a drink—not something gentle or sippable, but the kind that went down rough, mean, the kind that scraped your throat on the way in and lit your chest like a fuse. A drink with fire in it, the kind that could melt the ice that had built up behind her ribs and make her feel something besides hollow. She liked to pretend it all started the night her father burned, when the fire devoured everything he'd ever been and left behind only smoke, bone, and whispers. But that was a lie she told herself to keep the real story at bay. The truth was simpler, sadder: the drinking started when Sam left. When the truck stopped coming around. When the warmth in her chest turned to static. She drank to drown the ache he left behind—the ache nothing else could touch.

Marriage had been a word passed between them like something cursed, a lit match they couldn't help playing with. In Abbeville, girls got married young because it was the only door out that didn't involve a jail cell or a casket. Sam’s mother, sharp-eyed and already half-defeated, wanted him to get out for good—wanted him to be more than the dirt that raised him, wanted college, clean living, a desk job, something unbroken. But clean had never been an option. Clean was for people who hadn’t been running their whole lives. And Sam had been running since he was old enough to walk. They both had. California was just the word they gave the direction they were always running toward.

“She wants me to get into college,” he’d said once, the words flat and half-defeated, a cigarette trembling between his fingers as he leaned out the attic window, exhaling smoke like it hurt. “Don’t know how she expects me to. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. Can’t read for shit. Got held back two years ‘cause I couldn’t even sound out a damn menu.” His voice was bitter, laced with shame he tried to hide behind his usual grin, but even that couldn’t hold under the weight of what he believed about himself.

“You don’t have to go,” Y/N had said, quiet.

“I know. But we’ve gotta get out somehow, don’t we? Don’t you wanna see California someday?” His voice softened. “I’ve been thinking. I’ll go to school in Mobile. Get a degree. Save up. Buy us a house. Then we can get married. Don’t that sound good?”

But it didn’t. Not to her. It sounded like goodbye dressed up as a promise. It sounded like the first step toward him forgetting her. What if Mobile gave him something better? What if he realized there were girls who didn’t come with baggage and broken pieces? What if she just… disappeared?

“You’ll still call from Mobile, won’t you?” she asked, trying not to let the fear seep into her voice.

He looked at her, eyes all soft edges. “Course I will. And I’ll be back for Christmas.”

That night she went home aching everywhere—her thighs, her heart, the part of her brain that still dared to dream. The next morning, still sore and sunburnt from yesterday’s sun, she looked her mother straight in the eye over breakfast and said, “I’m gonna marry Samson Wallace.”

Her mama blinked at her like she’d just said she was running off to join a circus. “He ask you yet?”

“No. But he’s gonna. Four years from now.”

“Hm,” her mother muttered, reaching for the salt. “Maybe by then you’ll find someone better.”

“I won’t,” Y/N said, like it was fact written in scripture. “I’m gonna marry him and we’re gonna leave.”

“Uh-huh. Pass the butter, honey.”

“Mama, I love him.”

“And I love fried Oreos. Don’t mean I’m gonna marry ‘em.”

Y/N blinked hard. You didn’t cry in front of your mama over a boy unless you really, truly meant it.

“Why don’t you like him?”

Her mother let out one of those long, bone-deep sighs, the kind that seemed to come from every disappointment she’d ever swallowed whole. “Because he ain’t good enough for you, Y/N. You’re a good girl from a good family. You should be with someone decent. Not some kid can’t sew up his own jeans. That boy’s gonna break your heart. I don’t want to watch it happen.”

Y/N didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. Didn’t beg her mother to see it differently. She just dropped her fork so hard it rattled the china, stood from her chair like the ghost of something sacred, and stormed out the door. The screen banged shut behind her with a crack loud as thunder. She didn’t look back. There was no use in speaking when absence was the only language her mother respected.

And sure enough, Mama had been right.

Samson Wallace did break her heart—but not in the way she expected. Not with betrayal or distance or some other girl. He broke it clean. Surgical. Quiet. He carved a space into her soul, took up residence there, and then vanished, leaving it hollow and echoing. He didn’t have to say goodbye. He just stopped showing up. Some nights she’d lie awake wishing she could undo it all—wishing she’d never sat beneath that flagpole that first day, never noticed the black eye, never answered when he asked if she was smart. But if God Himself came down, hand extended with a chance to rewrite the whole damn thing, she’d still take the pain. She’d take every bruise, every stupid laugh, every sleepless night full of longing and static and woodsmoke. She’d take it all, if it meant one more night with him. One more hour. One more second of his body pressed against hers in the dark.

Sleep was a stranger. Her body, wrecked with memory and time, ached in places that felt bone-deep, joints creaking like an old porch left too long in the rain. Her chest was splintered—something sharp wedged beneath the breastbone, not enough to kill her, just enough to hurt every time she breathed. She rose from the mattress like it weighed a thousand pounds, crawling onto her knees, folding her hands not because she believed but because she was desperate. Prayer wasn’t part of her life anymore—not really—but when silence was too loud, when grief rose like bile and the whiskey was gone, she still knew how to clasp her fingers together and beg the dark for something kinder. When her voice cracked, when her tongue couldn’t form a proper plea, she let her silence speak in its place, let the stillness become the prayer.

She prayed that her mother might finally learn to live alone, to find some peace in the quiet she'd never made peace with before. She prayed that Rhonda Portnoy—so worn and weary and ghosted by loss—might finally be able to sleep through a night without dreaming of body bags or empty chairs at dinner. And she prayed for Sam, wherever the hell he was—California, Mobile, buried in some anonymous ditch along I-65—that he was safe. Warm. Alive. Still laughing at his own jokes, still leaning out of windows with a cigarette between his teeth and that crooked grin that made her chest ache like a bruise. She prayed for him like a widow might pray for a man she never married, like he was both her ghost and her god.

And if all that was too much, if the heavens had long since closed their doors to girls like her, she asked for only one thing, the one she knew she'd never stop asking for: Keep him safe, Lord. I can’t be there. I can’t watch him anymore. Keep him safe for me.

The day he left had seared itself into her memory with a clarity so cruel it felt like punishment. It was one of those days where the air carried something unnatural, something charged. The clouds didn’t roll in gray—they came in black, thick as coal smoke and mean as dogs. Even the wind felt electric, brushing the hairs on her arms with the promise of a storm. Nature had braced itself for change, and she should have done the same.

She was walking home from Packie’s, her apron sticking to her damp skin, feet sore from the tile, hands still raw from wiping down counters, when old Credence Gordon hollered from his porch, voice rasped with cigarette years. “Gon’ be a big one,” he warned, pointing toward the horizon where the clouds boiled and bruised. “Tornado, prob’ly. You best get on home, girl.”

She barely had time to toss her apron and unlace her shoes when the knock came—not at the front like normal folks, but at the back door, the way only one soul ever came.

Sam.

He looked like the storm itself had spit him out—hair soaked, shirt clinging to him like a second skin, eyes bright with something dangerous and eager. That grin was still there, crooked and easy, the kind that could undo her with one look. Her chest clenched like a trap snapping shut.

“Your mama asleep?” he asked, whispering like a teenager sneaking in through a window.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, stepping back to let him inside, even though she already felt the edges of the world shifting.

“I got somethin’ big to tell you,” he said, stripping off his soaked jacket and flinging it onto the couch like it owed him money. “And I mean big. Real big.”

“Alright, alright,” she said, half-smiling. “Jesus, what is it?”

“First—grab me a Coke?” he asked, grinning like a fool.

“Fuck you, Sam,” she muttered, already heading to the fridge because she always did, even when she shouldn’t have.

He cracked the can open like it was celebration champagne, took a long swig, drew it out, soaking in the moment. She could see it on his face—that boyish joy, lit from the inside like Christmas lights on a dark night.

“Okay,” he finally said. “You ready?”

“Been ready,” she replied, bracing herself.

“I got a job,” he said, eyes blazing. “A real job. Eighty grand a year. My uncle’s got a car factory up in Chicago. Called my mama this morning. Said he needs help running the repair side. Said he remembered how much I like fixin’ shit. He’s flyin’ me out next week.”

The room tilted. The air sucked itself out of her lungs. She blinked and tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t quite obey. “Well. That’s… that’s great, Sam.”

He nodded like a boy showing off a trophy. “Can you believe it? Chicago.”

“That’s real far.”

“Yeah.”

“So what day are we leaving?”

He looked at her like she’d spoken in another language. “What do you mean?”

“What day, Sam?” Her voice was still soft, still measured, but something inside it trembled.

“Well… it’s just me. He’s only payin’ for one ticket.”

It landed like a fist to the stomach. Her vision went tight around the edges. “Oh. So what day is it?”

“Next Thursday. Gotta get up early to catch the plane.”

“For how long?”

“Dunno. As long as it takes to save for a house. I ain’t draggin’ you to my uncle’s basement.”

“That could be years.”

He shrugged. “Could be.”

She stood still, her hands loose at her sides like they didn’t know what to do. The whole thing spun inside her head like debris caught in a tornado, fast and disorienting. Sam—her Sam—was leaving without her? It didn’t register. It couldn’t. Her life had been wrapped around his like a vine around a post. She’d built her future in his image.

“But… what about me?” Her voice cracked, so small it barely made it out.

He took a breath like he’d been waiting for that question. “C’mon, baby. You’ll be okay. I’ll call you every day. Maybe once I get settled, I’ll fly you out.”

She looked down at the floor, hoping it might open and take her away. “I don’t care where I am, Sam. I just don’t wanna be without you.”

He stepped toward her. Tried to put his arms around her.

She stepped back.

“You think I wanna leave you?” he asked, voice rising. “This ain’t easy, Y/N. I’m doin’ it for you. For us. Don’t you want a real life?”

“If you were doin’ it for me,” she said, arms crossed tight over her chest, “you wouldn’t leave.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, that old bruise beneath his eye catching the light, faint but still there. The first mark she ever noticed on him. The last she’d ever see.

“I do love you,” he said. “And I am leaving.”

“Then go,” she snapped, voice shaking. “Go on and leave, Samson Wallace. And you best pray I still remember your name by the time you come back.”

His face broke then, just a flicker, like something caving in. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His eyes shimmered. But no tears fell. They never did.

“Sounds like you’ll have no trouble forgettin’ me anyway,” he whispered.

And then he left. No fanfare. No apology. Just turned and walked out the back door like he always had, only this time, he didn’t turn back. She watched him go across the wet yard, his figure shrinking into the storm, until the trees swallowed him whole.

She knew the moment he vanished behind the treeline that she’d made a mistake. A terrible, irreversible mistake.

Samson Wallace became the second man to leave her. The first had been her father.

Alone in the kitchen, her back hunched against the cabinets like a woman twice her age, the bottle of Jack pressed tight to her lips like a communion chalice for the damned, Y/N had nothing but time and too much of it. The whiskey moved like tar down her throat, coating everything it touched, burning as it went—as if pain could be cauterized by more pain, as if the fire in her gut might purify what was already long-since ruined. Her thoughts spun mean and wild, a carousel of if-onlys and what-ifs, and for a split second she imagined running barefoot into the storm, slicing her feet open on gravel and glass, showing up at Sam’s porch dripping blood and rain, beating her fists against his door until they broke open like fruit, until he forgave her or kissed her or killed her. But outside, the storm had already arrived, loud and ragged as grief.

Just like Credence Gordon predicted, it tore into Abbeville with the fury of some long-neglected god, a thing hungry for repentance and deaf to mercy. It wasn’t rain—it was judgment. The sky peeled back its skin and screamed, and the wind moved like a wrecking ball through the trees, yanking them up by their roots like weeds in God’s garden. Roofs peeled off like tin can lids, fences flew like matchsticks, and power lines danced and spat blue lightning into puddles like vipers in water. The news said three died that night—confirmed, counted, buried. But the sheriff, a man who’d aged twenty years in one long evening, his boots caked in red mud and his eyes like open graves, told anyone who asked that the truth was worse. That the storm had taken more. That some absences would never be filled.

Samson Wallace, eighteen, was among them. Officially, unofficially—gone.

When the winds died down and the first stunned survivors crawled from cellars and closets and bathtubs, Y/N walked. Not home. Not to her mother’s. She walked through what the storm had left behind—a town stripped bare, dirt in the air like gunpowder, sky the color of spoiled milk. Her arms were limp at her sides, her eyes locked on nothing, her dress clinging wet and ruined to her skin. She stopped in front of the Wallace place, and when Mrs. Wallace opened the door, squinting at her like the sun was too much, she said, “Sam?” in a voice that already knew the answer.

“I thought he was with you,” Y/N said, her voice brittle as ash.

“No... he left early last night,” Mrs. Wallace replied, crossing her arms, her mouth a flat, bloodless line. “I haven’t seen him. Sorry.”

And then the door closed like the world does when it decides it’s done with you.

She didn’t go home. She walked. Past the downed telephone poles and the silent gas stations, past the ruined church with its steeple lying like a snapped neck across the parking lot. She wandered until her feet blistered and bled, until she was standing under the sputtering neon of the Burger King sign blinking like a pulse. The sheriff came later that night—hat in hand, sorrow carved into his face like a confession.

They found Sam’s truck. Out past Mobile. Upside down in a ditch, windshield cracked like a spiderweb, blood smeared on the passenger seat. No body. No prints. No footprints. Just the wreck and the wreckage it left in her.

The story they gave her was thin and quiet and terrible. They said he must’ve left in a fury, hit the backroads, tried to outrun the storm and failed. Maybe he crawled away after the crash, confused and bleeding, walked off into the trees and got swallowed by them. Maybe he’s still out there, some ghost with cracked ribs and a compass that only points west, still walking toward a dream called California, a place too big and too far for the likes of them.

But he never came back. Not that night, not the next, not in all the nights that followed. It was as if the earth itself had consumed him, plucked him from time, and folded the map shut behind him.

She drank every day after that. Not in bars. Not around people. Alone, in silence, in rooms that remembered. The bottle was her clock now—one drink to mark the morning, one to pace the afternoon, a handful to quiet the night. She saw him everywhere. The flash of his smile in the mirror. The shape of his shoulders in a passing stranger. The heat of his last words echoing in her bones like tinnitus. She had told him to go. She had watched him leave.

And when she cried, it was not for forgiveness. It was for memory. For the knowing. She wept into her mother’s lap, sobbing like a child who’d scraped both knees on God’s front steps, and her mother stroked her hair the way mothers do when they don’t know how to fix something.

“Maybe it’s for the better,” her mother had murmured. “Now you can forget about him.”

But she didn’t want to forget. Forgetting him would mean he had truly gone.

She whispered his name in pews. She scribbled it into journals she never meant to read. She drove to the edge of town and waited, hour after hour, for the battered silhouette of his truck to crest the hill. She went back to that abandoned house near Mobile, the one he called their California. She walked through the ruin, through all the dust and mold and silence, and found nothing. Not a hair. Not a footprint. Not a trace.

He hadn’t run.

He had disappeared.

And yet, something in her refused that version of the story. Her soul didn’t believe in vanishings. A boy like Sam didn’t just dissolve. He left a mark. Somewhere. She felt it. A scent on the wind. A smudge on glass. A word unsaid but still vibrating in the air.

Curled on the mattress where he once held her, she let the tears come quiet and slow. No sobbing now. Just the slow leak of grief that never healed. The bedsheets absorbed it like scripture, salt-and-water gospel written in flesh. Her throat burned—not from drink this time, but from words she couldn’t force out.

She remembered a night, long ago, when they lay tangled together in that same room, all sweat and skin and promise. The heat between them still humming through her like a prayer she didn’t understand.

“What’re you scared for?” he asked, voice thick with drowsiness, his breath a whisper against her shoulder.

“I dunno,” she’d said. “Never had anything good before. I’m scared you’ll go away.”

He kissed her shoulder, slow and warm. “Aw, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“What if you die?”

“I’ll crawl outta that casket just to see you again.”

She’d turned, their faces inches apart in the velvet dark. “What if I die?”

“Then you’ll die mine.”

And at the time, that had been enough. It had stilled her fears. It had sent her to sleep.

But now the dark was cruel. The dark did not cradle. It suffocated.

She dragged herself up from the bed, knees creaking, lungs tight. She crawled to the window like a thing dying, flung it open, and screamed into the wind. Not words. Not a name. Just a sound—raw and brutal and human.

When the morning came, pale and thin as hospital light, she slid her feet into her shoes and walked out the door. No bag. No toothbrush. No goodbye. She didn’t know where she was going. Maybe Mobile. Maybe nowhere. But it had to be away. Away from this house, this graveyard, these goddamn ghosts.

Maybe Sam had vanished. Maybe she would too.

Maybe California wasn’t a place but a myth—something you chased and never caught. Maybe both of them had just walked into the fog one day, hearts full and unfinished, and never came back.

Maybe that’s how the story ends.

Not with a funeral.

But with a long road and an empty seat.

She drove until her spine ached and her hands felt numb from gripping the wheel too hard. The roads unraveled like ribbon beneath her tires, slick with recent rain, hemmed by cypress trees and cotton fields long since harvested. Mississippi looked a lot like Alabama if you squinted—same flat towns with their gas stations doubling as diners, same half-burnt churches sagging under the weight of their crosses, same tired dogs roaming the shoulders like ghosts on patrol. But it wasn’t Alabama, and that was enough for now.

She didn’t remember crossing the state line. Might’ve been near Meridian. Or maybe she’d passed it somewhere on Highway 84 without even noticing, her mind adrift, her eyes locked on the road like it might deliver her somewhere worth being.

The sun had long since dipped behind the tree line when she pulled into the parking lot of a sagging roadside motel—The Delta Drift Inn, according to the peeling sign out front. Half the letters flickered or didn’t light up at all. Vacancy buzzed red like a dying star.

She killed the engine and sat in the car a long minute, the silence rushing in to fill the void where the radio had been. Her legs ached. Her throat felt like it had been lined with cotton and smoke. She could smell the miles on herself—sweat and old denim, cigarette ash and the faint trace of motor oil from that janky gas station pump back in Lucedale.

The office door gave a half-hearted jingle as she stepped inside, a brittle sound like bones knocking together. The fluorescents buzzed overhead with that sickly, uneven hum only old motel bulbs could make, casting everything in a pale, hospital-light haze that made even the air look unclean. The front desk was cluttered with paper scraps and off-brand gum, and behind it sat a man in his fifties—or maybe older, the kind of face that time had stopped counting years on and just started eroding. His hair clung to his scalp in thin, greasy wisps, and his skin was the color of old paperbacks left too long in the sun. He didn’t glance up when she walked in, not even when the bell announced her like some broken-down bride.

The television beside him blared some dead-eyed infomercial—cheap knives cutting through cinderblocks, some slick host grinning like he’d just figured out how to cheat death. The man’s eyes flicked to her just long enough to do a quick tally—woman, road-worn, alone, maybe dangerous if pushed—but he didn’t ask questions. Places like this never did. They were designed to forget you the second you left.

“How much for a room?” she asked, her voice dry as ash, brittle around the edges like it had been used too hard too long.

He kept scribbling on a form that didn’t need filling. “How much you got?”

She didn’t blink. “Ten dollars.”

A pause, just long enough to taste the silence. “Ten’s plenty.”

The key he handed her wasn’t a card but a brass relic with chipped green plastic, stamped with the number 9. No paperwork. No ID. No warning. She took it, nodded once, and left the office like a ghost.

Room nine smelled like forgotten things. Mold, sweat, bleach that hadn't won the war. The light flickered when she hit the switch, sputtering like it resented the effort. The walls were yellowed from a hundred smokers before her, the wallpaper peeling at the corners like it had tried to run once and failed. The bed was a slab, the sheets stiff and starched with time, the kind that crackled when she threw herself down like a body dropped into a coffin. The sink coughed when she turned the faucet, then spat out brown water for a few seconds before giving up entirely.

She didn’t complain. She cleaned what she could with a thin towel and the edge of her sleeve. Straightened the bed out of habit, not hope. Opened the curtains to a view of nothing—just a cracked parking lot, a broken Coke machine, and a flickering gas station sign across the road that read ICE • BEER • PRAY like some accidental gospel.

Sleep didn’t come. Her body was begging for it, muscles slack with fatigue, head heavy, but her mind chewed through the dark like a feral thing. She watched the shadow of ceiling fan blades cut across the wall, heard the occasional shuffle of other lives behind the walls—some man coughing, a television murmuring a crime show, a baby crying or a woman pretending not to.

By one a.m., the room had turned into a coffin. Too hot, too still, the kind of air that pressed down on your chest and made you remember every wrong thing you’d ever said, every door you didn’t walk through. The silence wasn’t silence—it was pressure, humming beneath the walls like a held breath about to snap. Sleep had abandoned her hours ago, maybe days, maybe forever. She gave up trying, slid off the stiff bed like something molting, and stepped out into the hallway barefoot, the motel carpet rough under her feet, the cold air wrapping around her like judgment.

The night was sharp now, cooler than it had any right to be in a Mississippi June, the wind tugging at her hair, chilling her bare arms. She leaned into the railing with the weight of someone who didn’t care if it held or gave way. A cigarette burned between her fingers, its ember flickering like a weak heartbeat. She inhaled deeply, like smoke was the only thing still filling her with heat. Below her, the parking lot stretched out—cracked asphalt, her battered truck, a dead vending machine, and a van with rust curling up its side like ivy. The only lights were from a busted streetlamp and the pale hum of a gas station sign across the road, casting everything in a jaundiced, washed-out glow.

Behind closed curtains, lives moved. Room six was rhythm and breathless grunts—sex without love, or maybe love with too much baggage. Room seven crackled with anger, a man shouting into a phone, curses flung like darts. Room eight held something quieter: the soft sound of a boy pressing his face to the window, watching the nothing of the sky, trying to believe there was more.

She smoked in silence, letting the night crawl under her skin. Her thoughts, as always, turned to Sam—how things ended, not with a fight or a bang but with a silence that expanded until it drowned her. He didn’t walk away; he evaporated, leaving only questions and the taste of his name on her tongue. The memory of his hands, the sound of his laugh, the feel of him leaving. The wind brushed her hair across her face, and she let it. It felt good to be moved, even by something as meaningless as weather.

Then came the sound. A door opening—sharp, sudden, like a shot fired down a long hallway of memory. She flinched before she realized she had. Her heart jumped, a reflex that had never unlearned how to brace for pain.

A man stepped into view, lit a match, and cupped it against the wind with a quiet elegance. He wasn’t young. Mid-thirties, maybe more, his face a roadmap of old fights and worse nights. The match burned orange in his hand, casting a flickering glow over his features—sunken eyes, bruised jaw, lips pulled tight around the cigarette. For a moment, he didn’t see her. Then he did.

Their eyes met, and something old and unspoken passed between them—something hungry, something lonely, something that didn’t ask for names. He walked over, slow and unbothered, and leaned on the railing beside her, close but not touching. He didn’t ask if he could. He just did. No words passed at first. Only smoke. Only breath. Only silence shared between two strangers orbiting the same dark.

She remembered something her mama used to say in the kind of tone that was more warning than wisdom: Don’t talk to strangers, honey. Not unless you wanna get kidnapped—or worse. Fall in love.

The night clung to her skin, tight and damp, as she glanced at him through the haze of smoke and broken sleep. He didn’t speak right away. Just exhaled and stared off into the horizon like it owed him something.

“Shouldn’t be out here alone this late,” he said eventually, not looking at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, holding herself together like she might come apart otherwise. “Just needed a smoke.”

He nodded, dragged on his cigarette. “Who broke your heart?”

The question wasn’t playful. It was matter-of-fact, like he was asking what time it was or if she believed in God.

She blinked. “What?”

“That’s the only reason anyone smokes out here at one in the goddamn morning,” he said, eyes still on the dark. “It’s heartbreak. Always is.”

She looked at him then—really looked—and what she saw wasn’t charm or danger, but damage. The kind that wore its scars like medals, not because he was proud, but because he didn’t have the energy to hide them anymore. The busted lip, cracked and swollen, looked weeks old but angry still. The gauze on his right hand was wrapped tight and stained through, and he flexed it sometimes like it still ached. But it was the posture that said the most: shoulders hunched like he expected every sound to be a threat, every footstep to lead to trouble. He carried the kind of tension that didn't come from nerves—it came from survival. He looked like a man who’d taken too many hits and stayed standing anyway, not because he was strong, but because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Jesus,” she muttered, half-laughing, her voice thinned by smoke and fatigue. “You want me to count?”

He smirked, though it pulled awkward on the bruises. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even confident. It was tired and half-broken and strangely gentle. “Don’t need numbers,” he said, voice low. “Just stories. And I’m in room twelve if you change your mind.”

The pause that followed wasn’t heavy with tension. It hung in the air like smoke does—lazy, natural, maybe even inevitable. Not a yes. Not a no. Just something hanging there between them. Then he stubbed his cigarette out on the metal railing, flicked the filter into the dark like a dead firefly, and walked away. Didn’t look back right away—just near the end, when he reached his door, casting her a glance over his shoulder. Not a question. Not even a real invitation. Just a look that said, you know where to find me.

She should’ve gone back inside. Should’ve shut the door and locked it and buried herself in a pillow and the scent of bleach and old fabric softener. But something about the way he walked away—shoulders bowed, steps slow like he wasn’t sure where he was going or why—made her linger. Something in his stillness echoed Sam’s old silences. That way he never quite said what he felt, but wore it anyway—in the slump of his spine, in the twitch of his jaw. She hadn’t seen that kind of sadness on a face in a long time. It pulled her like gravity.

And maybe that was all it took.

She sat on the edge of something—his world, her breaking point, maybe both. Like a stray animal at a doorstep, rain-soaked and trembling, not brave enough to push through the door but too tired to run again. She’d spent the whole damn day wandering streets that didn’t want her, looking for scraps—food, gas, clarity, something to give her a reason to keep moving. All she found was the edge of her own breath and the ache in her soles. It was either room twelve or the hollow of the concrete overpass she’d passed an hour ago. One had heat and walls. The other had rats and rain.

She knocked. And waited.

The door creaked open slow, hinges groaning like they knew better. He stood shirtless in the soft amber motel light, jeans hanging loose, a fresh bruise blooming just above his hip. A faded tattoo curved across his collarbone—a name, maybe a warning. The room behind him was nothing but shadows and dust and the sharp scent of smoke embedded deep in the carpet. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Just stepped aside and let her in.

“Want something to drink?” he asked. His voice wasn’t smooth, but it was quiet. Careful. Like someone used to loud rooms who’d learned to speak soft.

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the floor. Couldn’t look at him yet. Couldn’t afford to see whatever it was that might make her hesitate. He watched her the way people watch strays—curious, cautious, like maybe she’d bolt if he moved too fast. Like maybe she wasn’t entirely real.

He pulled out a chair for her and took the one across, elbows resting on his thighs, hands hanging between his knees. His fingers were twitchy, the gauze a dull white flag across his knuckles.

“You done this before?” he asked. No judgment. No edge. Just a fact-finding question, like checking the weather before a long drive.

“Uh-huh.”

“If you changed your mind, the door’s right there.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t leave either.

It wasn’t the shelter she needed—God, no. Not the roof over her head or the wafer-thin mattress or the television bolted down like it might try to escape. It wasn’t even the bed. What she needed was that stillness. That brief moment where someone else’s breath filled the room. When two bodies didn’t have to mean danger or regret. It had been too damn long since someone touched her without needing her to disappear after. Too long since someone looked and didn’t see a debt, a mess, a means to forget someone else. She’d been circling the hollow Sam left behind, orbiting it like something small and burning. Sam had vanished into a ghost, and with him, she’d shrunk into the empty space he left. She wasn’t trying to patch the wound. Not really. But maybe, just for this night, she could press herself against the wreckage of another soul and feel something besides cold.

When he kissed her, it wasn’t sweet. It was fire and teeth and the smoke still caught behind his molars. And it made her shiver—not from fear, but from the recognition of it. That old taste of nicotine and need. She’d leaned into it, let it brand her, let it whisper yes across her nerves in the only language she still understood. There wasn’t grace in it. There wasn’t even hunger. There was just escape.

Weeks passed like smoke—slipping through her fingers before she could name them. She and the man who called himself Hunter Soto moved through Mississippi like ghosts with nowhere else to haunt, crossing backroads and low-rent towns, trailing motel receipts and forgotten gas stations in their wake. She wasn’t any closer to California than she’d been the day she walked out of her mama’s house, but she wasn’t alone anymore, and that was something. Maybe everything. From one sagging mattress to the next, she followed him, and Hunter never seemed to mind. He had the look of a man who'd long since stopped expecting company, but didn’t flinch when it came anyway.

He told her things sometimes, not always in order. That he was from Virginia. That the cops got him for fraud—check kiting, mostly—and that he did time for it, not much, but enough to lose everything. His kids were gone, his ex-wife back in Indiana, and his family, what little of it there was, had scattered like roaches when the law came down. He talked like none of it mattered, like he was already ash. She pretended to understand—nodded at the right moments, smoked when he smoked—but they both knew she didn’t. She was sixteen. And what they were doing, what they’d already done, crossed lines that couldn’t be uncrossed. But neither of them said the word for it. Neither of them tried to stop.

No one asked her age. No one wanted to. She looked old enough, moved like someone with sorrow stitched into her bones. And Hunter had a way of keeping attention off them when it mattered. He could be charming if he wanted, meaner than hell when he didn’t. She saw it once, outside a convenience store in Starkville—some drunk who got too curious, asked too many questions. Hunter didn't raise his voice. Didn’t have to. His knuckles did the talking.

At night, she curled into his side beneath threadbare blankets, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the rough thud of his heart. The rooms were always the same—walls yellowed by years of smoke and silence, an air conditioner struggling against its own decay. But in the dark, she wasn’t alone. That counted for something.

“How long we gonna keep doing this?” she asked one night, her breath warm against the bandages wrapped around his hand.

He didn’t open his eyes. Just muttered, “’Til you run.”

She almost answered. Then I won’t. But the words stuck behind her teeth, fragile and dangerous. She wasn’t sure they were true.

She gathered him in pieces, like broken glass. A patchwork of memories and half-told truths. He’d never say exactly how old he was—maybe thirty, maybe more—but she knew he’d lived more than most men twice his age. There was weight behind his silences, a kind of gravity that pulled her in. He hated stillness, hated routine. He said walls made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. So he drifted—job to job, town to town—always one step ahead of whatever ghost chased him. He burned fast and never looked back. She loved that about him. Loved that he was fire, even if she knew fire never stayed.

And like anything on fire, it eventually blew up.

Maybe it was a Tuesday. Maybe not. Days lost their meaning in that kind of life. The motel door shuddered under a heavy fist, the voice on the other side already halfway to shouting. Hunter pulled on his boxers, swearing under his breath, already halfway to the door.

“Time’s up, Soto,” the owner growled, tobacco thick in his mouth. “You’re done here.”

“I’m payin’ you tomorrow—”

“You said that yesterday.”

Hunter squared his shoulders, jaw clenched. “Didn’t have it yesterday.”

“You got it now?”

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe I’ll throw your sorry ass into the street.”

She didn’t flinch. Just dressed in silence, her hands shaking only slightly. Shouting didn’t rattle her the way it used to. Not after the fire. Not after the hole her daddy left behind. Her anger didn’t come loud anymore. It came cold, creeping like frost along her spine.

They didn’t wait for the door to slam. They were already on the bike, her arms around him like a prayer. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel it in him—the tension, the fury, the quiet storm brewing beneath his skin. They tore out of the lot like they were being chased, gravel spitting beneath the tires.

“Where we goin’ now?” she asked, voice half-swallowed by the wind.

“Somewhere,” he said.

“But we got no money.”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was thin and sharp. “Sure we do.”

He pulled into the lot behind the old bank like he’d done it before, like his hands already knew the weight of a crowbar and the shape of bad decisions. The place was a grave—shuttered windows, rust crawling down the awning, a crooked SouthTrust sign faded to the ghost of itself. Nobody had breathed life into that building in years, and even the weeds seemed too tired to grow through the cracked asphalt. It was the kind of place the world forgets on purpose.

Then something inside him shifted. The loose way he usually moved—the lazy roll of a man half-asleep at the wheel of his own life—snapped tight. His eyes went sharp, his breath faster. He moved like a cornered dog, like the kind of man who knew he was already too far gone to turn around. From the bag came a crowbar, long and scraped and mean-looking, and when he gripped it, his hands didn’t shake. His shoulders squared like he was squaring off against God.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice thin and cracked, dread rising in her throat like smoke from a dying fire.

“Keep quiet,” he said without looking at her.

She stepped back, not sure if she was more afraid of what he was about to do or how easy it was to let him do it. The crowbar came down hard—once, twice—teeth on metal. Screeches filled the air, bolts snapping loose like bone under pressure. The ATM shrieked as he tore at it, like it had done something personal. Sweat beaded at his temples, his shirt darkened down the back, and still he didn’t stop. It wasn’t rage—it was something colder. Determined. Like survival.

She watched as he looped a frayed rope around the guts of the machine, tying it off to the back of the bike with hands that had been bandaged more than once in the last few weeks. Every movement was fast, rough, urgent. Like he wasn’t just stealing—he was running from something that hadn’t caught him yet.

“Drive,” he barked.

She blinked. “What?”

“Drive, damn it!”

There was no room for questions. No room for the old fear that rose up whenever she was asked to act instead of survive. She climbed on, her fingers locking around the grips like they were lifelines. Her chest felt tight, like it used to when her father’s boots stomped too loud down the hall, when the smell of whiskey filled the house before the yelling even started. The cold cut through her shirt, through her sweat, but it didn’t stop her. Nothing ever had. She kicked the stand back. Jammed the gear. The bike bucked under her like a thing waking up angry. Her hands didn’t shake. Not anymore.

Then came the sound. A metallic shriek—ugly, furious—the rope tightening and yanking until the front of the machine exploded open like a ribcage giving way. The noise echoed down the empty street like a church bell made of teeth. And something in her broke right then, or maybe it was something old that had finally finished cracking. She didn’t look back.

The wall rushed toward her, and for a breathless second, it felt like flying straight into the edge of the world. She hit the brake hard. The tires screamed. The bike jerked to a stop, her body lurching forward with it. The silence after was thick—no sirens, no birds. Just the thunder of her heart, thudding against her ribs like it wanted out.

And then came Hunter’s voice—ragged, breathless, laughing like a man who’d stared into the void and seen his own smile grinning back. “Jesus Christ! Goddamn. We hit the fuckin’ jackpot, baby.”

She turned to see him coming at her fast, dragging a duffel that bulged with cash, his other hand flinging bills into the night like they were rose petals at a funeral. The wind caught them, scattered them like ashes. He didn’t care. The bag was full. That was all that mattered.

“Hold onto that,” he said, tossing it to her like it was nothing.

She caught it on instinct. The weight hit her arms and her gut at the same time. He swung up behind her, one fluid motion, his arms wrapping around her waist just as the bike roared back to life.

They left the town like a bullet fired into darkness. The highway unspooled ahead of them—endless, black, humming with danger. The stars were distant pinholes, watching without blinking. Her hair tore behind her, her cheeks burned from the cold, and behind her, Hunter was laughing again. That wild, weightless laugh of a man with no exit plan and too much heat in his veins. He pressed tighter against her back, and she leaned into him like she might fall without him there. It wasn’t love—not exactly. But it was something close. Something raw.

They crossed into Alabama sometime near dawn, their shadows stretching long behind them. The next motel was worse than the last—stained carpet, sour air, wallpaper peeling like old skin. The duffel slumped in the corner like a dead thing, bleeding green onto the floor. They didn’t speak much. Words didn’t have a place in what followed.

He kissed her like he was trying to brand her. Rough, desperate. Their clothes came off in silence. No sweet talk. No promises. Just hunger. Just bodies trying to erase everything they couldn’t outrun. They moved like addicts, limbs tangled, pain and want laced so tightly they couldn’t tell one from the other. When it was done, they lay there, breath heavy, the air thick with sex and sweat and regret.

She wiped her mouth, smirked faintly. “Hunter,” she whispered, “I think I love you.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the ceiling, like the cracks might spell something out. “What would your daddy think if he heard you say that?”

She rolled over, the smile turning hard at the edges. “He’s seven years in the ground. Don’t think he’s got opinions anymore.”

“Your mama, then?”

“She’d call me stupid and go back to her game show.”

He didn’t laugh, but something in his face changed. He looked at her like she was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve—like maybe he already knew how it ended. She was sixteen. Just a girl on paper. But grief aged her. Sorrow wrapped around her like second skin. Maybe he saw a little of himself in the way she stared out windows like they were escape hatches. Maybe she saw a little of Sam in the way he moved like he couldn’t sit still for long. Or maybe they were just two wrecks who’d collided, bleeding into each other out of need, not fate.

“C’mere, girl,” he said, voice rough.

She pressed into him like she meant to disappear there—skin warm, breath slow, her damp hair clinging to his chest in tangled strands. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let his arms wrap around her and inhaled the scent of sweat, motel linen, and something else—something like grief. The room around them was dying a quiet death, wallpaper curling inward like burned leaves, the AC sputtering weak air into corners that had known too much smoke, too many secrets. But wrapped up in her, with the bag of stolen bills slumped in the shadows like a sleeping dog, it felt like enough. Just for that moment, that breathless, borrowed hour between midnight and sunrise—it felt like maybe they could make it through the night without the world collapsing.

She was the kind of girl who slipped under your skin without trying. Not loud, not flashy, not some neon flare of a woman who left lipstick on collars or perfume in the air. No, she was the opposite—quiet and unshakeable, like smoke in the rafters or blood in the water. The kind of girl you didn’t remember by name, but by what went silent when she was gone. The hollow her absence made in a room, the way music never sounded quite right after. And Hunter, who had known plenty of girls, plenty of nights, knew without needing to be told that she’d live in his bones long after this. Not like love. Not like regret. Like a ghost that didn’t need haunting rights—just space to linger.

He watched her sleep. Watched her chest rise and fall like a metronome for all the things he couldn't say out loud. There was something sacred in her stillness, even if nothing about either of them was holy. Outside, a semi growled down the interstate. Tires whispered across wet pavement. Somewhere a dog barked, unanswered. And still he lay there, wide-eyed and wired, feeling the weight of her curled up against him like the storm she was—gathered in his arms, soft and dangerous.

He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not with that kind of girl breathing against him. Not when part of him already knew—sooner or later, she’d leave, or he’d make her. And either way, he’d be wrecked. Not in the loud, dramatic way of movie heartbreaks, but in the quiet, enduring kind. The kind that stains your mornings. The kind you don’t talk about because it never really ends.

She made a sound in her sleep—a small one, like a memory escaping. He held her tighter. Not because he thought it would keep her. Just because he knew it wouldn’t.

At night, they crumbled into roadside motels like ghosts seeking shelter—blue-lit sanctuaries with thin walls and thinner curtains, where the ceilings pressed low and the wallpaper peeled in strips like tired skin. The beds were stiff, haunted by the sweat of past travelers and sins too old to name, but to Y/N they were almost holy. Not for comfort, but for stillness. There, beneath the breathless hum of window units and the faint rustle of life outside, she lay curled against Hunter’s back or chest or whatever part of him was closest, and it was enough. Sleep rarely lasted long, often broken by shifting limbs or a sudden gasp—sometimes his, sometimes hers. In the silence, they clawed for each other like addicts, their bodies aching for touch, for heat, for anything that made them forget. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even comfort. It was survival, stitched together by hands that didn’t know how to hold gently.

By day, they were wilder things. Creatures of sun and speed, burning westward down state highways and service roads, always hungry, always fleeing. Maybe it was the law on their heels. Maybe it was ghosts. Maybe it was just the memory of the people they’d once been, trying to catch up. The motorcycle roared like a promise beneath them, and Y/N sat with her arms locked tight around Hunter’s middle, her cheek pressed to his back, her eyes burning behind squinted lids. Her skin was burnt raw by sun and road dust, her jeans stiff with grit and sweat, and still she rode—because movement was the only way to keep from sinking. Stillness felt too much like death.

Hunter didn’t talk much. His world was narrowed down to the road and the throttle, the occasional grunt or flick of ash his only real contribution to conversation. But sometimes, in that brief lull between miles—when the engine calmed and the world got quiet enough to breathe—she’d press her face against the sweat-slick curve of his neck and ask, “Do you know where we’re going?”

And always, the same answer, low and unbothered: “Somewhere.”

Somewhere. It echoed in her like gospel. She clung to the word the way people cling to rosaries or childhood songs—like it meant something more than it did. Somewhere wasn’t a place. It was a belief. A fever dream. A dirty little hope scraped together from nothing. But the way he said it, with that slow certainty, made her believe that maybe they could find it. Not on any map. Not in any town. Just out there. Waiting.

And maybe that was all they had. Not each other. Not love. Just the idea that out there—past all the places that hurt, past the fathers who died and the boys who left and the voices that screamed behind doors—there might be a somewhere meant for them. A nowhere built by runaways. A town that didn’t need their names, only their hunger.

He never asked about her past. Never needed to. She came with grief on her breath and fire in her belly, and he carried his own weight like a second spine. She didn’t ask what the tattoos meant or where the scars came from or who he called in his sleep. And when she cried—quietly, in the dark, when she thought he was out cold—he didn’t say anything. Just moved closer. Just kept her warm. They were the same breed of broken: the kind that doesn’t scream, doesn’t beg, doesn’t explain. They just move. Fast and forward.

They didn’t talk about what came next. The future was a cracked thing—too fragile to speak aloud. She didn’t ask what they’d do when the money ran dry or the bike gave up or the law caught up. Sometimes she imagined waking one morning and finding him gone. No note. No reason. Just gone, like the others. And maybe she’d keep riding anyway. Maybe that’s what “somewhere” meant in the end: the absence of someone to follow.

By the time they hit a town called Somewhere, Mississippi, she couldn’t tell if it was fate or irony. The Broke Spoke Bar sat at the edge of a county no one cared to name, its siding rotted soft, its neon half-dead, buzzing in the humidity like a bug too stubborn to die. The smell hit her before the door did—old beer, pine cleaner, and cigarettes soaked into wood grain. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she’d never left Alabama. That Sam was still alive. That her mama was still watching The Price Is Right in the kitchen with her bathrobe open and a cigarette in one hand.

Inside, the Broke Spoke was more rot than refuge, a swamp of shadows and low murmurs where neon signs buzzed half-dead and the jukebox played songs like lullabies for lost causes. The place stank of bleach and spilled beer, of lives worn thin and never quite rinsed clean. Hunter ordered them drinks without a glance, the way he always did, as if deciding for her was second nature now—or maybe just easier than asking. She didn’t mind. Not anymore. Whatever he slid across the bar, she took it without question, without care. The taste didn’t matter. The burn didn’t matter. Not the glass, not the label, not even the price. The only thing that mattered was that they’d made it through another day and that there was still night left to fill.

Somewhere, she thought, tipping the liquor down her throat until it settled warm and sharp in her belly. Somewhere that wasn’t here. Somewhere you stopped being a ghost wearing someone else’s grief. Somewhere no one asked what ruined you or how long ago the breaking started. Somewhere you could be just a girl, not a story stuck on someone’s tongue.

She looked across the scarred table at Hunter, his knuckles bruised and bandaged, his grin slouched and knowing like always, and for a flicker of a moment—brief as lightning—she thought maybe California was never coming. Maybe it had burned up in Sam’s rearview mirror and she’d been chasing the smoke ever since. But that thought didn’t sting the way it used to. Because maybe, just maybe, “somewhere” wasn’t a place you arrived at—it was a person. A night. A feeling that wrapped around your ribs and told you to keep breathing, even when it hurt.

She remembered being a kid, lying in bed with the fan rattling overhead, imagining California like it was heaven with a coastline. Blonde strangers and easy smiles, waves folding against sand like lullabies. A place where everyone wore sunglasses and nobody raised their voice. But the farther she got from home, the more she saw the truth—America was wide and broken. Empty towns bleeding together like bruises. Storefronts sagging under decades of dust. Gas stations that sold prayers in Styrofoam cups. Nothing magical. Just grit. Just rot. Just the same hurt in different packaging.

Mississippi was no different. It had that same bloated heat, that same air heavy with unspoken things. Same slow voices. Same men who looked at you like you were already half undressed. The bartender had her mother’s voice—molasses and smoke. “What’ll it be?” he asked, eyes flicking over her like she was a curiosity in a museum nobody paid to see.

“Scotch and soda,” Hunter said, his voice a gravel drawl, hands flat on the bar like he might hold the whole world steady with his palms.

“And for the lady?”

She didn’t blink. “The same.”

Hunter grinned sideways at her, half teeth, half dare. “Sure you can handle Scotch?”

She leaned in a little, voice low and close. “Boy, I used to shoot whiskey for breakfast. You think this’ll scare me?”

He chuckled, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was always something distant there—like he was watching the world from the bottom of a well. And maybe he was. Maybe they both were. Two people who’d sunk so far they’d grown used to the dark.

The jukebox crooned something soft, something old, and she let her mind drift. Sam would’ve known the name of the song. He was always good with that—always cataloging music like it meant more than memories. She felt that hollow ache crawl up her throat but swallowed it down with the last of the Scotch. No more ghosts tonight. No more graves.

She didn’t hear what Hunter said next. He was leaning into the bartender, trading low words and cash, and she let herself drift. That’s when she felt it. The stare. Cold and direct. She didn’t need to look to know. That kind of gaze always hit the same—like hands sliding over you without permission. She glanced. A man by the pool table. Leaning. Watching. Not blinking. The kind of man who thought hunger was a compliment.

“I’m gonna take a leak,” she whispered, brushing past Hunter’s shoulder.

He nodded, distracted. “You go ahead.”

Outside, the air clung to her like sweat. Damp, heavy. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching headlights blur past like memories that didn’t belong to her anymore. She hadn’t liked that look the man gave her. Not because it was new. Because it wasn’t. Because it always meant the same thing. She’d seen that look since she was thirteen. She knew what came next.

A bird—bright and red, a cardinal maybe—landed near the edge of the parking lot, hopping through brittle weeds. It pulled a worm from the dirt, quick and neat. Death, efficient and unceremonious. She watched like it meant something, though she didn’t know what. Maybe it just reminded her that survival wasn’t always elegant.

The man’s voice hit her like cold breath. “Good evenin’, sugar.”

She didn’t look up. “Good evening.”

“You lookin’ to get a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“You got somewhere to stay?”

“Already do.”

“You sure about that?”

“I got a man,” she snapped, still calm but sharpening.

“That so?” He stepped closer. Too close. She backed away and still he came, hand closing around her wrist like he’d bought the right to it.

“Let go of me,” she hissed, yanking against his grip. “Now.”

“You don’t gotta act scared, darlin’—I’m just bein’ friendly.”

“My boyfriend’s inside,” she said, words quick and clipped. “He’s probably watchin’ us right now. He’s the type who doesn’t ask questions first.”

“You act like he’s the damn Boogeyman,” the man laughed.

“Talkin’ about who?”

The voice came like a blade drawn slow—a cold thing with no warning, slicing clean through the night. Hunter stood at the edge of the light, right where the bar’s neon flickered out, and he looked carved from something ancient. His whole body was held still in that dangerous, heavy way—coiled like a snake just before the strike, like violence lived in his bones and was only ever sleeping until called.

“This your girl?” the drunk asked, his mouth twisted in something that was trying to be a grin but couldn’t quite remember how. The shape of it was wrong. Off-kilter. He was trying to sound brave, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Hunter’s words came low and steady, soaked in gasoline and warning. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s mine. What about it?”

The drunk should’ve backed off then. Should’ve seen what was standing in front of him and stepped the hell away. But liquor makes fools of men, makes them believe they’re ten feet tall and fireproof. His grin turned sour. The bravado rose up like bile.

“How much I gotta pay for her?”

The words hit like rot—foul and thick and crawling. The kind of words that hung in the air, heavy and impossible to swallow. Y/N felt the shift in the earth beneath her before Hunter even moved, like something old and terrible was about to snap. It was as if the world had pulled back its breath, waiting for the storm to land.

And when it did, it landed like thunder. Hunter exploded forward, his body a weapon of instinct and fury. There was no hesitation, no shout, no threat—just movement. Pure, savage motion. His fist met the drunk’s jaw with a sound like a bone splitting, and the man’s head snapped sideways, knees buckling as he was flung against the bar’s outer wall. The siding groaned under the weight, paint curling off in flakes, the wood cracking like dry ribs.

Y/N couldn’t move. Her breath locked behind her ribs, her feet rooted to the spot like a girl caught in a memory she’d spent years trying to forget. The noise. The suddenness. Her father’s silhouette in a bedroom doorway. The crack of hand to flesh. The aftershock. It all came back in a rush. And still, she didn’t look away.

The man screamed. Loud, ragged, desperate. “Enough! Jesus, stop—I’ll leave her alone, I swear—just stop!”

But Hunter didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He was somewhere else now, somewhere deep and dark where language didn’t reach. His fists moved like they had their own hunger. He hit and hit and hit again. Blood spattered the wall. The stranger’s face blurred beneath the onslaught, caving inward with each strike. There was no pleasure in it—just release. Years of humiliation, of anger, of barely-holding-it-together crashing out in brutal waves. Hunter grunted with every punch, teeth bared, breath ragged. His rage was not loud—it was focused. Controlled in the most terrifying way.

The man tried to fight back. Briefly. He clawed at Hunter’s face, caught skin, left red marks. Went for the throat, the eyes—wild, scrambling. But Hunter caught his wrist, twisted hard, and something inside it gave. The noise was wet and wrong. The man went limp, whimpering, shoulders slumping as the last of his strength leaked out through blood and fear.

Then the door of the bar slammed open.

It was a stampede after that—men spilling out, shoulders wide, faces already twisted with what-the-fuck and oh-hell-no. They saw the scene—Hunter with his fists still cocked, the other man a bloody sack of twitching limbs—and they didn’t ask questions. They just moved. Fast.

One hit Hunter from behind, drove him down to the gravel. Another looped an arm around his neck, hauled him back, while a third dove for the limp man, fingers scrambling for a pulse.

“Jesus, Jesse, is he alive?” one of them shouted, panic slashing through the heat of the moment.

“Barely,” came the answer. “He’s breathin’. Just.”

Another man slammed his knee into Hunter’s side. Hard. “You fucking psycho.”

Hunter didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. His face was pressed to the dirt, blood in his teeth, breath coming in low, animal bursts. His eyes were wide, black with fury, and he stared at them like he was still mid-fight. Like he hadn’t finished yet.

“You need putting down,” the man on top of him snarled. “Like a fuckin’ dog.”

Another kick, sharp and mean. Hunter groaned, but didn’t plead. Didn’t ask them to stop. He just kept staring up, chest heaving.

Then a new man crouched beside him. Different tone. Not angry. Not wild. Cold. Measured.

“You’re lucky,” he said, glancing toward the half-conscious heap that used to be a man. “Buzz’s lucky too. Could’ve been worse.” He looked Hunter square in the face. “But this? This is done. You’re done. We see you here again, even just drivin’ by—we won’t talk next time.”

Hunter exhaled slow. Gritted. “I hear you.”

“I didn’t ask if you heard. I told you to say it.”

“I hear you,” Hunter said again, voice like gravel in water.

The man spit in his face. Wiped his hands on his jeans like the sight of him had soiled the air.

Then he turned to Y/N, eyes hard, lips curling in something that wasn’t a smile. “Keep your bitch leashed.”

The bar door creaked shut behind them like the closing of a coffin, and the sounds of dragging feet and muttered curses faded until only silence remained—thick, oppressive, hanging in the air like humidity before a storm. The stars above were gone, swallowed whole by a low ceiling of bruised clouds, and with them went the heat. In its place came a strange chill, the kind that didn't touch your skin so much as slide beneath it, making bones ache and nerves twitch. Y/N didn’t move. Couldn’t. One arm was wrapped tight around her ribs as if to hold herself together, the other still rubbing absently at the wrist where the drunk had grabbed her, trying to erase the feel of his fingers, the claim in them.

Hunter staggered up slow, like something broken rising from its own wreckage, not a man so much as a ghost of one, held together by fury and stubbornness. His breath was ragged, heavy, loud in the quiet. Y/N rushed to him without thinking, her heart a drum in her chest, her hands trembling with adrenaline and leftover fear. Sweat clung cold to her back where it had been pinned against the bar’s siding, and when she touched his face, she could feel how torn and swollen it already was. His skin was split open above the brow, his jaw darkening to purple, his lip fat and weeping blood.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, cradling his face like something delicate, something irreplaceable. She wasn’t even sure who the words were for—him, herself, the night.

They crossed the road like ghosts in exile, drifting fast and low toward the motel. He leaned on her more than he’d admit, one arm slung across her shoulders like a dying man’s last tether. Inside, under the hum of flickering bathroom light, Hunter looked less like the man who had almost killed someone in a bar fight and more like a boy who had been kicked too many times by life, a boy who kept standing just to prove he still could. She stripped off his shirt with the quiet care of someone handling a relic, the fabric clinging to dried blood and sweat. The mirror caught his reflection—bruised, wild-eyed, hollow—and he watched her through it, through the haze of pain, as she wet a towel and dabbed gently at his torn face.

“Did I scare you?” His voice was thick, slurred around swelling.

She didn’t flinch, just pushed his hair back to better see the gash above his brow. “A little,” she said, her tone soft but firm. The bleeding had slowed, but it hadn’t stopped.

“He deserved it,” he mumbled.

She didn’t argue, because maybe he had. But something in the way Hunter's rage had exploded—so fast, so total—had left her wondering if it would ever come for her, too. Not because she doubted his care, but because some storms don’t know how to stop. She pressed the bandage down gently, then cupped his jaw and met his gaze in the glass.

“Calm down now,” she murmured. “It’s over.”

His breath hitched. “You ain’t gonna leave me, are you?”

It came out in a whisper so vulnerable it felt like a crack running down the spine of the night. She looked into his eyes and didn’t see a monster. She saw a boy, wounded and wild, a boy the world had swallowed whole and spit back half-made, still carrying the scars of everything that had tried to own him.

“No,” she said. “I’m never leaving you, Hunter.”

She helped him to the bed, wrapped his ribs with gauze that trembled in her shaking hands. She was still barely more than a child herself, but there was no one else to do this—no nurse, no mother, no savior. Just her, and the man who had become her gravity. She wrapped him in care like it was armor, and when it was over, when the blood was cleaned and the worst of it patched, he collapsed into sleep like something finally allowed to rest. His breathing evened out, his body slack, the rage drained out of him like water from a cracked glass.

She sat at the edge of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, watching his chest rise and fall. The silence pressed in from all sides, but there was peace in it. A strange, fleeting kind of peace—the kind you learned not to trust. The kind that always comes before the next rupture. When you loved a man like Hunter Soto, you learned to savor these quiet moments like breath held too long underwater.

The next town looked like it had been exhaled by the earth itself—a cluster of crumbling buildings squatting on the edge of Texas, sagging beneath a sky the color of old pewter. The sun bled out behind them as they arrived, casting long shadows across cracked pavement and rusted fences. The motel they landed in leaned against time like an old man leaning on a cane. The paint had long since peeled away, curtains hung limp like tongues, and even the stray cats that roamed nearby kept their distance, wary as if the place remembered things it shouldn’t.

Their room was a grave. The kind of space that felt like it had seen too much, soaked it into the carpet, and never told a soul. It smelled of mildew and something else—something bitter and unfinished. Hunter had been quiet the whole drive, and Y/N had let the silence fill her up like water, too tired to fight the quiet.

Later, under the buzz of a dying fluorescent light and between sheets that felt like paper, she lay still, listening. From the next room came voices—sharp, familiar, the language of falling apart. A man’s voice, low and broken. “I was gonna marry you, Tabitha!”

Then a woman’s reply, high and trembling, heavy with the kind of panic that’s half hope and half knowing better. “I swear, John, we can still make it work!”

“You expect me to marry a whore?”

The words cracked the silence like a whip. Y/N winced. She didn’t need to see them to know what came next. She knew the script too well. She pictured the woman shrinking, folding in on herself, maybe curled on a bathroom floor, hands in her hair, hoping not to be next.

Hunter stepped out of the bathroom then, steam curling from his hair, a towel low on his hips. His eyes looked tired in that deep way, the way that goes past sleep, and when they met hers—cigarette glowing between her fingers, shoulders bare and bathed in the dim glow of moonlight—his mouth twitched into a half-grin.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rasped soft.

She didn’t answer right away. The voices next door had dropped into something worse—sobs, and then the heavy, unmistakable sound of a fist hitting drywall. She stiffened. The cigarette burned close to her fingers. Hunter sat beside her on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight.

“Did I scare you yesterday?” he asked again, his voice stripped of everything but worry.

“Let’s just forget about it,” she said, and her voice held steady, though the floor under her didn’t feel so solid.

He rubbed his swollen knuckles, gaze low. “I only did it ‘cause I didn’t want him to hurt you.”

“I know.”

The wind moved like a warning, hard and sudden, catching the crooked motel sign and wrenching it into motion, its rusted metal hinges shrieking like something alive. It clanged against its own rust and decay, a sound too loud for a place so tired. From the room beside theirs came a final cry—sharp, brittle, human. The kind of sound you don’t forget. A door slammed hard enough to rattle the wall they were pressed against, and then the world exhaled into silence again. Not peace—never that—but the silence that creeps in after a reckoning, thick and total, like a sheet pulled over a body. The kind of hush that settles only when the hurt’s already done and the air itself recoils.

Hunter leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers, skin warm despite the chill that had crept in from the outside world. There was blood on his breath—faint but unmistakable, metallic and stubborn, like iron at the back of a throat or pennies between teeth. He smelled like cheap shampoo and old sweat and the kind of violence that doesn’t fully wash off. His chest rose and fell beneath her hands, too fast, too shallow, a rhythm that spoke of effort more than ease.

“I need you tonight,” he whispered, and there was no hunger in it, no lust. Just something raw, like an old prayer spoken under breath. A need not of body, but of soul. A plea to be seen and held and not abandoned.

She nodded, the motion small, not because she was unsure, but because words had long ago stopped doing the job. Words were for people with plans and peace and time. She had none of those left. Only motion. Only breath.

Later, when everything had gone still again, when the air settled like ash and Hunter's breathing had slowed, she lay curled against him, her face hidden in the warm crook of his shoulder, her fingers ghosting along the edges of the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs. The cotton was stiff, the adhesive already peeling at the corners, but she traced them like they were holy. His eyes were shut, but she could feel him watching from behind the lids, his breath catching slightly beneath her hand.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked, the words no louder than a thought.

“No,” he said, too fast, too smooth.

She didn’t challenge the lie. She understood it, the way someone understands fire without needing to touch it again. Some men needed to keep the pain inside, needed to hold it like a secret weapon, or a talisman. Taking it from them would be an act of war.

“You could’ve died yesterday,” she murmured, her voice thin with the echo of memory. “I thought they were gonna kill you.”

He opened his eyes slowly, stared at the water-stained ceiling as if the rot and mildew might offer him an answer. “Still here, ain’t I?” he said, the words half a smirk, half a shrug. Like someone pointing at the wreckage of a car and saying, I walked away.

“For how much longer?”

She hadn’t meant to ask it aloud. It slipped free before she could catch it, a truth torn from somewhere deep. And with it came the tears—slow and unexpected, not loud or wrenching, just a quiet leaking, like a wound reopened without warning. He didn’t flinch. Just raised a hand, thumb brushing her cheek in slow circles, touching her like someone trying to map sorrow by feel.

She remembered the night before, how broken he’d looked after the fight, blood on his teeth, fear in his voice, his hands shaking as he asked her not to leave. For all his fury and bone-deep violence, he’d been afraid. Not of death, not of pain. But of being left. Of waking up and finding her gone. It was the first time she'd seen the boy he used to be, the boy the world had failed to protect.

“I never thought I’d live past twenty-five,” he said after a while, his voice low, the sound of gravel underfoot. “Figure if I’m still kickin’, I must be doin’ something right.”

She pressed closer, her arms wrapped around him like armor, her tears falling warm against his chest. There was no fixing either of them, no salvation waiting at the end of some map. But in that moment, they held each other like it might be enough.

“Girl,” he muttered, the word rough and fond all at once, “what’re you cryin’ for?”

“I’m just… happy, I guess,” she whispered, a lie that almost tasted sweet.

He didn’t push. Didn’t call her on it. Just pulled her closer, wrapped around her like a second skin. For a moment, there was sanctuary. Not peace, not safety, but that rare middle ground where breath came easy and the dark didn’t seem quite so sharp.

Then he spoke, his voice quieter than before, the words falling heavy.

“In the morning, you’ll wake up alone. There’ll be a hundred dollars on the nightstand. That’s your share from SouthTrust. It’s yours, clean. You can take it and run, or you can meet me in the parking lot. We’ll head west—Texas, maybe farther. Wherever the road takes us next. I won’t blame you if you go.”

She didn’t speak right away. Her breath caught in her chest, held still by something larger than fear. Her heart thudded, steady and traitorous, louder than it ought to be. She turned her face into his chest, listened to the rhythm of him—his heartbeat like a fist knocking at a door, asking to be let in.

Through the silence and the salt, she said only: “Okay.”

And that was it. No promises. No plans. Just the press of her body against his, the sound of a motel room breathing around them, and the night stretching out ahead like a road with no signs.

When morning arrived, it did not blaze like some new beginning. It seeped—thin and gray—through the blinds, tracing silver ribbons across the threadbare motel quilt and illuminating the void he left behind. The sheets still bore the faint imprint of his form, a ghostly hollowness in the mattress where warmth had once lived. But he was gone. The cruel, living heat of him—his breath, his voice, his weight—had vanished like smoke from a forgotten fire.

Y/N sat up slowly, her body stiff with sleep and sorrow. She was barefoot, her legs trembling beneath her, her mind cloudy with half-formed thoughts and the hangover of dreams. She reached for the nightstand and saw the money first—five crumpled bills, fanned like dead leaves across the wood. A hundred dollars, exactly. His parting gift, or perhaps his apology.

She slid the bills into her purse without ceremony, lit a Camel with shaking hands, and drifted into the bathroom to dress in silence. The mirror offered her no answers—only the face of a girl who had dared to love a hurricane and expected to be left whole in the aftermath.

She told herself she would go back to Montgomery.

It was a decision not made with clarity but out of necessity—a whispered prayer to something more practical than hope. She would find work again, perhaps at a roadside diner not unlike the one in Abbeville. There, she would carry trays and wipe counters and smile politely while men twice her age called her “darlin’.” Maybe, if the universe was feeling kind, she’d meet someone—some soft-spoken man with cornflower eyes who resembled Sam Wallace in the right light. Someone who would love her without fire, only warmth. A quiet man who came home every night and kissed her forehead like a benediction.

No more motel rooms. No more midnight screams from behind thin walls. No more men with devilish grins and fists wrapped in gauze.

That was the vow.

She had barely made it to the sidewalk before her steps began to falter. The world stretched out before her like a barren road in the dead of summer—hot, dry, and endless. The thought of walking for days, thumbing for rides on lonely highways, sent a hollow wind through her chest.

And then came the ache, slow and creeping. A phantom pain, not in her limbs, but in her heart. She longed for the feel of leather beneath her fingers, the hum of a motorcycle beneath her thighs, the press of her cheek against Hunter’s spine, his heartbeat steady and wild beneath the ink of his skin. She thought of him—still bandaged, still bruised, still so impossibly young—and wondered, with a shiver, who would look after him now if she did not.

She turned toward the backlot with the hesitancy of one returning to a grave.

Perhaps he had already gone. Perhaps this was all a test, and she had failed it.

The doubts came fast and cruel. Maybe he had never loved her. Maybe she had been little more than a momentary comfort, a soft body to keep the cold away. Maybe, like all the men before him, he had looked at her and seen something disposable.

But when she rounded the corner, he was there.

Leaning against his Harley like a portrait torn from a dream—his boots planted firm, the engine already purring low beneath him. Sunglasses veiled his eyes, and her cigarette hung from his mouth like a smirk. One arm rested across his chest, the other casually at his hip, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

And he was waiting—for her. Just as he said he would.

A sob caught in her throat, and she ran to him, nearly crumbling into his chest.

“Girl,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips to her temple. “You scared me. Thought you wasn’t gonna show.”

She buried her face in his jacket. It smelled of leather and smoke and something older—like burned sugar and forgotten warmth. “You knew I’d come back,” she whispered. “I ain’t got nothing without you, Hunter.”

They didn’t make it far. The hundred dollars they had scraped from the shattered mouth of the ATM took them deep into Texas, but paper only stretches so far before it dissolves to dust. Money faded. The thrill waned. And by the time they reached a weary town with a name neither of them remembered, they had only fifty cents left between them.

That night, Hunter lay on the motel bed, scrolling listlessly through static-filled channels while the blue television glow flickered over his bandages like candlelight on marble. Y/N paced the room with nervous fingers, lighting cigarette after cigarette, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

She dropped beside him, laying her head against the warm slope of his neck.

“What are we gonna do?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Only wrapped one arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

“Don’t worry about it, baby,” he said softly. “I’ll figure something out.”

But she’d begun to notice things—how his smile lingered longer than it used to, how his voice cracked when he thought she wasn’t listening. He carried the weight of their days like a stone in his pocket. It wasn’t just love that wore him thin—it was survival.

“I shouldn’t always be asking you that,” she muttered. “Shouldn’t always be lookin’ to you to fix everything.”

“You never asked me to,” he said. “But I’ll do it all the same.”

She watched the blue shimmer of the screen, the sound of the world outside muffled by plaster and insulation. Her heart whispered things she didn’t want to hear.

“You think we’ll ever live like real people?” she asked, half-dreaming. “Like those families with gardens and coffee mugs and screen doors that don’t creak when you open them?”

“Y/N…”

“We’d get a little house near an elementary school. I’d work in the mornings. You’d be back by five. And my mama’d visit and say, ‘You went and found yourself a good one.’” She let out a soft, hollow laugh, more breath than joy. “Can you imagine it? You—a good one.”

He turned to her. “You know I ain’t that kind of man.”

“I know.”

“And you coulda left, but you didn’t.”

“I know.”

“So now we’re stuck. Just you and me.”

“I know,” she repeated, and her voice cracked on the edge of the word.

“I can’t make your mama proud,” he said, “but I ain’t ever gonna let you starve.”

The television clicked to commercial break. The silence that followed wasn’t silent—it was full of all the things that had not been said. It pressed in on her, cold and hollow, a wave of truth cresting high.

He was still here. Still holding her. But the future felt no closer than it had yesterday, and she could feel the ground beneath them beginning to slip.

She turned toward him, her voice no more than a breath.

“I know.”

The morning brought no peace.

Hunter stirred before the sun had yet risen, as if hounded by invisible dogs in the shadows of his dreams. The rusted bedframe creaked beneath him, a weary groan that roused Y/N from a thin and dreamless sleep. Her lashes fluttered as her mind clawed its way back to wakefulness, but even before her eyes opened, she could feel it—the tension, coiled like a spring, thick in the air.

He paced the room like a beast too long caged, pausing only to sit and bury his face in his hands before rising again with that same wild energy, as if the floor beneath his feet were smoldering.

“Hunter,” she whispered, her voice still marred by sleep. “What’s wrong?”

He did not answer her. Not with words.

There was a fire in him that morning—hot, directionless, half-born of fear and half of fury. She saw it the instant their eyes met: the way his gaze flicked across her figure, her sleep-warm skin exposed by the shifting of her nightgown, one shoulder bare, hair tangled, lips parted. Something primal stirred in him. She’d seen it before, in other men, but with Hunter it was never simple lust. It was desperation—an unspoken plea to find solace in her, to devour her before the world devoured him.

Without warning, he pulled her up from the bed and pressed her hard against the wall, the windowsill bruising her spine. She gasped, startled not by fear but by the sheer velocity of it, the way he seemed to need her so urgently it frightened even him. He kissed her like a drowning man, teeth and breath, no tenderness, no prelude. Just fever.

He gripped her face as though afraid she might vanish in the fog of morning. His breath was ragged, his hands trembling as they moved with frenzied purpose. Y/N, dizzy from the suddenness of it, clung to his shoulders and let herself be taken—not in submission, but in understanding. This was his cry for help, this was the only language he seemed capable of speaking when the fear came.

And she understood fear.

There was nothing sweet about it—nothing gentle. It was raw and restless, a physical translation of the storm gathering behind his eyes. His touch was too rough, his mouth too urgent, but beneath it all, she could feel the quake in his limbs, the shaking that betrayed him. She held fast to him, letting her forehead rest against his, eyes closed to the mottled ceiling above, and simply existed there, with him, in that searing, broken moment.

Afterward, he stumbled back, his shirt twisted, his breath still caught in his throat. She nearly collapsed, her legs weak beneath her, her palms catching against the peeling wallpaper.

Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, his cheeks flushed not with desire but with shame.

“Went rough on you, did I?” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like a boy caught in mischief. “I’m sorry.”

She touched her shoulder absently where the windowframe had bitten into her. It would bruise. “Is this how you plan to make us money?” she asked quietly, not unkindly. The corners of her mouth twitched with bitter irony.

“Nah,” he said, his voice low. “I already got an idea.”

She waited, but no more came.

Hunter sat like a statue built of nerves—his hands on his knees, his leg bouncing like a drumbeat. His eyes never met hers. They stared instead into the floorboards, searching for a map that did not exist.

“But it’s risky,” he said at last. “Real risky.”

“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

He shook his head. “Don’t matter. You’ll find out.”

And that was all he gave her.

Y/N said nothing. What could she say? He had that look again, the one she dreaded—the one her father wore the day he stopped speaking to them entirely, the one Sam had when he packed his bags without saying goodbye. It was a look that meant the decision had already been made.

She felt the weight of it before it fell. The change in the atmosphere. The quiet breath before a door slams. She had always been good at sensing endings—like a barometer for sorrow.

There was a hush in her, a pulling back of something deep inside. She didn’t ask questions. Not anymore. Not after Sam. She’d learned the hard way that pressing too hard only made men disappear faster.

So she watched from the sidelines, arms around herself, while Hunter paced and planned and broke apart at the seams. The man who once laughed like the world couldn’t touch him was unraveling thread by thread, and she was powerless to stop it.

In the pale light of morning, with the scent of motel soap still clinging to his skin and the shadows from the night still thick in the hollows beneath his eyes, Hunter Soto looked like a man already halfway gone.

And Y/N—God help her—loved him even more for it.

The ride into town unspooled like a slow, muted dirge. The sun hung low and sallow in the sky, too weak to brighten the streets they passed, too tired to bless the world with light. Y/N held fast to Hunter’s back, her arms clinging to him with a quiet desperation. The wind tangled through her hair, but even the sensation of it could not stir the heaviness rooted in her chest. It was not panic—not yet—but something quieter, more insidious. A dull ache, a premonition she could not name. It pulsed in her bones like a song she once knew but had long since forgotten. And it made her ill.

She had never liked the silence that fell before calamity—the way the air thickened, as if time itself were drawing breath.

They came to a stop behind a First United, the tires crunching softly over sun-blanched gravel. Hunter killed the engine. The stillness that followed was deafening. Y/N dismounted slowly, her legs tingling with nerves. She stared at the blank brick wall of the bank, half-expecting it to speak, to warn her away.

Instead, only Hunter’s voice broke the quiet.

“We gotta be quick,” he muttered. He stared into the pavement like it might answer some riddle he’d been trying to solve for years. His palms were raw from gripping the handlebars too hard, as though he’d tried to wring something out of the ride—courage, maybe, or clarity.

“Sure, we will,” she said, attempting reassurance, but her voice was hollow. Even she didn’t believe it.

Hunter nodded, mostly to himself, and turned to the duffel bag strapped to the side of the bike. She watched with unease, half-expecting to see the crowbar again—the old tool, the crude ritual, something predictable. But when he pulled out two bandanas, her breath hitched. One black as a thunderhead. The other red, the color of dried blood.

He handed them to her without a word.

She tied her hair up with trembling hands, fingers fumbling like a child’s. He worked the fabric over her face, knotting it with quick, practiced ease, and it tickled the curve of her neck as he tightened it. Then he pulled his own up, covering his mouth and nose until only his eyes remained—and they betrayed him.

It was terror. Clean, undiluted, and bright as fire.

She should have run then. She should have turned, should have torn the bandana from her face and thrown herself down the empty street. But she stood there, paralyzed, as if the dread had rooted her to the spot.

And then he drew the gun.

A small thing, black and silent in the early light. But there was something about it—something in the way he held it, passed it to her, that made it feel like the weight of all the world had been forged into that single piece of steel. It was warm, absurdly so, as though someone had held it close in the dark for a long time. Like a secret.

“What’s this for?” she asked. Her voice came soft and stifled through the cloth.

He wrapped her fingers around the grip, firm and final. “Just in case.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Hunter,” she said again, her voice rising in pitch. “What do you mean? Why do we need these?”

“It’s not loaded,” he lied, and the lie was clumsy, fragile as porcelain. “Just need to scare them a little.”

She swallowed. “Then why do I need one too?”

He hesitated. For the first time, he looked at her—not as his partner, not as his passenger, but as someone he might lose.

“Precaution,” he said. “That’s all. Just… in case anything goes wrong.”

She shook her head. “This is stupid,” she whispered. “They’ll throw us in jail. Or kill us.” Her voice broke. “They’ll kill you.”

His rage flared for a moment, sudden and brief. He slammed his hand down against the bike’s frame, wincing from the impact. Y/N flinched. He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“Christ. Just—calm down, alright?”

She bit her tongue. She said nothing. Somewhere in her mind, she thanked him for not hitting her. For putting the blow into metal instead of flesh. Funny, how low the bar had fallen.

Then he crouched in front of her, his face damp with sweat. “I’ll be right here,” he said, and it wasn’t a promise. It was a plea. “Me and a thousand-something dollars. Doesn’t that sound good?”

She nodded, her throat burning.

He pulled her into his arms. Crushed her against him like he meant to keep her there forever. And for a moment, she let herself believe him.

Then he was gone.

The door swung open and swallowed him whole.

She sat astride the idle machine, its chrome frame radiating heat beneath her thighs, though the morning air clung damp and chill to her skin. In her lap rested the pistol, a thing of unforgiving metal, cold and inert, yet unbearably heavy—as though some unseen force had poured sorrow into its hollow frame. Her palms, slick with sweat, slid endlessly over its surface, trying and failing to wipe clean the dread that clung to her bones. The hammering of her pulse filled her ears like the drone of distant thunder, and each beat echoed not only within her chest but through her very marrow.

Her thoughts, untethered, wandered backward to the soft decay of Abbeville—the cracked church pews that once smelled faintly of dust and lemon oil, her mother sleeping with the television humming low like the whispering voice of God. She saw Rhonda Portnoy again, seated across from her in a fading kitchen, the girl's eyes glazed with the knowledge that her brother would never return. Y/N now understood that look. That sacred, silent ache—grief before confirmation, mourning before the body is laid out cold. It was the sort of sorrow that takes root before the loss even arrives, and blossoms only when it does.

Y/N recognized it now blooming within her like a fungus. This wasn’t about money. It hadn’t been for a very long time.

It was about being the one he came home to. About being needed. About being the hand someone held before stepping into the fire.

And now here she was, holding on still—white-knuckled around a weapon she’d never meant to wield, sitting sentinel beside a bank she’d never meant to rob, waiting like so many women had before her—for the one she loved to come back through the door and not be changed.

But he did leave her. He always had to. He stashed the pistol in his back pocket like it was nothing more than a trinket, squared his shoulders with a fool’s resolve, and disappeared into the sterile light of the bank. She thought of home again. Not the motels or the highways, but the true home, the mythic one, where aprons still hung from hooks and coffee cooled on a sunlit porch. She thought of laundry flapping in the breeze and her mother’s voice asking what time she’d be home. She thought of Rhonda again, and the day Mason Portnoy Jr. had slung a duffel bag over his shoulder and declared he’d enlisted. Y/N had envied that kind of bravery once. Now she knew it was not bravery, but a certain kind of madness—a madness born in men who think they cannot be touched by death, and in women who let them go anyway.

The silence in the minutes that followed rang louder than any siren could. She thought she might have heard a gasp from within the bank—but perhaps it was only her own breath catching in her throat. Her fingers passed the pistol from one hand to the other, feeling for its weight, trying to become familiar with it. It was smaller than she’d imagined, yet it seemed impossibly heavy. Not with lead, but with consequence.

She stared at it like it might speak.

Could she use it, if it came to that? Could she really raise it in the name of survival? Could she pull the trigger and watch the world change forever?

She wanted to scream his name, to cast it into the air like a curse. Damn you, Hunter Soto. Damn you for putting this in my hands. Damn you for making me the one who waits. If he’d truly loved her, would he have done this? Would he have marched into ruin with her tethered behind like a mule with blinkers?

Then the door opened. And he returned.

The sight of him—tall and blood-rushed, the duffel bag swollen with stolen money—was so at odds with her panic that it stunned her silent. He looked like victory. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to fall to her knees and thank him. Instead, she clutched the throttle and said, “C’mon, Hunter, we gotta go.” Her voice trembled.

He didn’t listen.

“I’ll count it later,” she urged, watching him leaf through bundles like a child unwrapping Christmas gifts. He wasn’t afraid anymore. The rush had burned it out of him.

“She stiffed me,” he hissed, face hardening. “I asked for ten thousand. There’s only nine.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” she cried. “We have enough! We need to go, now—before––”

But it was already too late. He zipped the duffel with a finality that made her sick.

“I ain’t gonna be stiffed,” he said. He pulled the bandana back over his face, his jaw a line of pure spite. “Not by some fat-lipped bitch in a First United.”

“No,” she whispered, and this time she clutched his sleeve like it might save them both. “Don’t do this, baby, please. Please, let’s just go.”

He shook her off. The sirens began as he turned—loud and inevitable, like the tolling of some terrible bell. The world turned red and blue in pulses. Her breath stuck in her throat like sap.

They hadn’t been quick enough.

Hunter turned to stone. She watched him raise his hands slowly, stiffly, as if lifting them might break him. She followed suit, limbs numb, her body moving only from the sheer momentum of fear.

Two squad cars parked like wolves circling prey. The cops emerged, guns drawn. And everything within her slowed. She barely heard them shout. Her pulse swelled and surged through her ears like the crash of a distant sea.

She watched the officer approach him, the man’s steps weighted not with caution, but triumph—a predator nearing a wounded thing it believed had already yielded. With one swift motion, the cop reached for the bandana and tore it from Hunter’s face. His lips curled into a sneer. “Thought you was gonna get off easy, didn’t you?”

Y/N saw Hunter’s chest rise, his breath coming not easy but sharp and ragged, as though the very act of living had become too much for his body to bear. And yet—she knew what he would do before he did it. The resolve had already gathered in his bones, coiling through his limbs like smoke.

Then came the flash.

The black silhouette of the pistol, like the outstretched wing of some ill-omened bird, burst from Hunter’s hand—quick as breath, dreadful as prophecy. A thunderclap cracked the silence, tearing the stillness in half.

A man collapsed. And the world followed suit.

Screams rose like birds startled from a field. Somewhere, a child cried out, high and shrill and animal. A woman flung herself behind the door of her vehicle, her cries warping with the Doppler of panic. But Y/N remained unmoved, cold as grave marble. She sat on the Harley, her hands still affixed to the throttle, her spine rigid with shock. She did not blink. Did not breathe. Her gaze was fastened to Hunter as he turned toward her, his mouth parted in a grin stretched too wide, too wild. The blood across his cheek looked like paint applied in war.

He said something. She could not hear it. Maybe it was we’ll make it, baby, or maybe something more dreadful still. She could not tell. Then came the second shot.

The silence afterward was not empty. It was immense. Sacred. The kind of silence that echoes within the hollows of tombs and ancient cathedrals—places made for mourning.

Something hot splashed across her skin. It coated her cheek, her neck, and curled into the edge of her lips. She could taste it—salt and iron and something else that had no name, something that reached deep into the pit of her stomach and twisted. She did not cry out. She did not even flinch. Her body remained fixed, not from strength, but from paralysis. The tears arrived without her knowing, as if her soul had begun to bleed in place of her body.

She did not see him fall. She only saw the place where he no longer stood.

And the day—this terrible, ruinous day—took on a strange, faraway quality, as though her memory had filmed it through a pane of glass and tucked it into the back of her father’s old VHS box. Those tapes, she remembered, stacked high in the attic, each marked by a strip of tape and some scratch of black Sharpie: Wedding Day, 1969. Y/N’s First Birthday, 1971. Rainy Tuesday, 1979. She imagined a new one now, slick and unworn, its plastic shell not yet dulled by dust. The Death of Hunter Soto, 1989.

She was on the bike before she realized it. Her fingers gripped the throttle with blind instinct. The engine groaned beneath her like a wounded animal and she fled, tires spinning across asphalt slick with blood. Her hands burned from where the bullet had flown so near—ghost pain, perhaps. She’d only ever fired a gun once before. That had been years ago, in a summer field with Sam Wallace, his hands clamped gently over hers, guiding her. Don’t be scared, he’d said. Just a little practice. But this hadn’t been practice. This had been real.

The officer had not seen her—he’d been fixed on Hunter’s body. He hadn’t noticed her reach for the weapon in the duffel, hadn’t seen her trembling fingers pull back the hammer. She was invisible again, just as she’d been to her mother, to the townspeople of Abbeville, to the Lord Himself.

It was a good thing, she thought now, that he hadn’t looked her in the eyes. If he had, she would never have fired.

The silence after her shot had been worse than the sound. It was full, vibrating. She remembered something her father once told her on the front porch during a summer thick with heat and memory. That morning in church, he had preached about Cain. She was six years old, her tiny hands clasped in her lap as her daddy’s voice filled the chapel, and the image had haunted her since—the blood pouring from Abel’s throat like wine, Cain’s hands red and unrepentant.

Later, on the porch, rocking slowly with her knees tucked beneath her, she’d asked, “Daddy, would you ever kill someone?”

Vern had studied her, surprised by the question. Then, evenly, he’d said, “If I had to.”

“Why would you have to?”

“If someone tried to hurt you or your mama,” he replied softly, “I think I’d have to do it.”

She’d been troubled then. Still was now. “But then you’d be like Cain,” she’d said. “You’d be bad.”

He’d pulled her closer. “No, honey. Cain was bad because he killed from jealousy. There’s a difference. Sometimes, a man does violence not for himself, but to shield what he loves.” Then, with finality, he’d said, “You’ll understand when you’re older. And if any man ever means to harm you, you shoot first. Then run. Don’t look back.”

She had shot. And now, she ran.

She peeled off the highway and followed the signs south. Somewhere along the old road, the trees gave way to scrubland, and beyond that, to the river. She didn’t know what river it was. Didn’t care. All she knew was that it whispered to her, like it wanted to wash her clean.

She parked the bike in the grass and left it behind—left it like a corpse at a funeral pyre. She would not return. Already, sirens screamed far in the distance, and the Harley, with its wounded growl and shining chrome, would betray her path too easily.

She stripped by the riverbank. Her dress was crusted with blood, stiff and brown and clinging to her like a second skin. She knelt in the icy water and scrubbed at the fabric until her hands burned and the fibers frayed and split. Still, the stain refused to fade. It was small enough to lie about—some stranger might mistake it for coffee—but she knew better. She could smell him on the fabric still. The coppery memory of him. She scrubbed and scrubbed until she tore a hole through the cloth.

When she had done all she could, she left the dress to dry on a nearby branch, and waded into the river. Naked, shivering, the cold nipped her ankles and scraped her soles raw against the rocky bed. She collapsed to her knees and submerged herself to the neck. Her teeth clattered. Her limbs felt too far from her, like they belonged to another woman entirely. She scrubbed the blood from her skin, her neck, her shoulders, her thighs. Still it lingered, invisible but not forgotten.

When she closed her eyes, his face was there. Not the boyish smile she’d once loved, but the face from the final moment—twisted, wild, exalted with madness. She splashed cold water against her cheeks to banish the vision. Her sobs came silently, folded into the sound of the river.

She stayed there until she could no longer feel her legs. Until she was sure she could not cry anymore.

The current moved past her, uncaring. The world did not stop for grief. The river flowed on, endless and ancient. She, too, would have to move on. But for now, she knelt in the current like a relic, a weeping thing among the reeds, waiting to be cleansed.

The bench was unforgiving. The wood beneath her spine groaned beneath even her frail weight, its paint chipped and splintered, its slats warped from long years of sun and storm. The cold crept up from the iron beneath, into her bones. Yet she did not move. She merely sat, silent as stone beneath the trembling hush of the trees, the amber streetlight flickering above her like a failing star. The pistol lay heavy in the folds of her coat beside her—a weight more profound than its steel form suggested.

And now, with the hush of the park pressing all around her and the night air whispering between the dead leaves, she understood why that weapon had felt so familiar in her hands. It had not been the chill of the barrel or the grease-slick finish of the trigger that stirred something old and dark within her. It was the weight of death. It was the presence that came with it.

She had known that presence before. Not in name, not in story—but intimately, as a child knows the feel of her mother’s heartbeat in the quiet moments before sleep. She met it first on the day the house burned, when she was six years old and had pressed her eye against the keyhole and watched, unblinking, as her father was devoured by fire.

Even now, the memory came sharp as broken glass—bright and searing. She could see the smoke curling beneath the door, feel the hot breath of the flames through the iron hinges, and hear the keening sound that came from inside: part animal, part prayer. The sound of Vern Y/L/N dying. She’d sat there on the floor in her nightdress, knees spread, watching in silence. Not screaming. Not pounding on the door. Just... watching. Death had placed its cold hand on her shoulder that night and whispered, Do nothing.

And she had obeyed.

Sometimes, in moments like this—when the night stretched too long and her body too empty—she would recall her mother’s scream. How it ripped through the hallways like a storm when she found her child crouched at the threshold of the blaze, still watching. Y/N, oh my God, Y/N, let’s get outta here! her mother had wailed, scooping her up as though saving her from drowning. But it was too late. Y/N had already looked death in the eye. Already made her silent pact with it.

Her mama hadn’t seen Death there in the hallway, draped in smoke and licking the air like some black-winged thing from Revelation. But Y/N had. And in that instant, something inside her changed—subtly at first, like a tide pulling back from shore. Later, that tide would rise again. It would flood everything.

People would say the quiet that followed was grief. What else could explain it? A girl who once filled rooms with laughter and song now refused to speak. A child who once plucked wildflowers for her neighbors now smoked stolen cigarettes behind the schoolhouse and came to class with whiskey on her breath. But they were wrong.

Y/N had not grieved her father. If anything, she had felt—God help her—relief. Relief that the booming voice and the trembling ground of her father’s rage was gone. Relief that no more doors would slam or belts come loose from drawers. And for that relief, she punished herself for years. She buried it beneath shame, beneath silence, beneath a thousand small destructions of herself. Because if she had opened the door—just opened it—maybe he would have lived. Skin like melted wax, bones like blackened branches, but alive.

But she hadn’t. And now, she was the one left to carry his ghost.

If anyone hurts you, shoot ‘em , he had once said, bouncing her on his knee beneath the sun. His voice had been warm then, affable. She had giggled at the idea, not understanding. He didn’t mean it, not really. But now, she wondered. Maybe he had. Maybe he meant himself most of all.

And wasn’t that what she'd done?

Her fingers flexed, cramped from the cold. She rose, stretching her legs slowly, deliberately, like one moving through the motions of an old dream. Her limbs ached from lying curled in on herself, like a child or a wounded animal. She rolled her neck, trying to dislodge the visions that haunted her—the way the flames had eaten through the old wallpaper, the way the blood had seeped between the concrete seams outside that bank.

No, she thought. No more tonight. She could not think of Hunter. Could not see his face again, not right now. Not his wide, uncomprehending eyes. Not the way he smiled at her one final time, as if the world had not already begun its slow crumble beneath his feet.

She could not sleep. Sleep would be worse than waking, worse than this wandering half-conscious fugue that carried her from street to street and left her sitting on benches like a ghost that no one remembered to fear. Sleep would take her back. Back to the scent of charred wood, to the crack of gunfire, to her knees wet in a river as she scrubbed blood from the folds of her only dress.

No. There would be no sleep tonight.

She started walking. The park was empty save for a few rusted swings rocking in the breeze. The moon, full and pale, seemed to follow her with the slow gaze of an indifferent god. Her shadow fell long before her, stretching down the gravel path like an omen.

She was no longer sure if she was running from something or toward it.

But she walked on. Because to stop would be to remember. And remembering—truly remembering—might destroy what was left of her.

Sunday mornings always came to Y/N with a hollowness in her gut, a gnawing emptiness that had no beginning and no apparent end. When her father had lived, Sundays were a ritual of suffocation—the starchy lace dress, the pressed gloves, the hymns sung in dull, drawn-out strains while sweat pooled behind her knees. Three hours beneath the yoke of God and her father’s thumb. After Vern Y/L/N perished in flame and silence, the day took on another sort of solemnity—no longer oppressive, but vacant, like a house with the furniture stripped bare.

That sacred hollowness persisted, despite all efforts to drown it. It was a feeling like dust in her mouth, the sensation of something that had once been whole and now was not. After the preacher in their town died—some fever or old curse taking him in his sleep—Y/N, in a fit of strange devotion, took it upon herself to deliver the sermons in his place. Her own voice ringing out over the pulpit, sharp-edged and unyielding. It was not so different from her father’s, they said. Perhaps that was why it tore through her like a knife each time she opened her mouth to speak.

Now, in a town whose name she had not asked and would never remember, she wandered aimlessly through sun-baked streets, her dress still damp from the river where she had tried—and failed—to wash the sin from her skin. Her legs carried her, as if on instinct, toward the steeple that rose modestly against the horizon. A church. Of course. Some rusted cross glinted above its eaves like an eye watching her from Heaven or Hell—she no longer knew the difference.

The parking lot was full when she arrived. That, at least, was comforting. In the pews, among strangers, she could be no one. Anonymous. Faceless. Unworthy of notice. She missed that: the ease of being one of many.

When she stepped into the chapel, the air shifted.

All heads turned, each pair of eyes landing upon her like the final weight of some unseen jury. There was no malice in their gazes, only the kind of bland, idle curiosity that greets any stranger in a small Southern town. Still, it struck her like a blow. Her cheeks flushed. Her limbs stiffened. She swallowed her nausea and made her way to the back pew, where the shadows were thickest and the scent of cedar strongest. The building was old, and its beams, swollen with heat, seemed to weep beneath the weight of the years. The preacher’s voice echoed thinly through the chamber.

“––and the Lord has made gluttony a sin, so we avoid the drink,” he croaked, his glasses sliding down his long, perspiring nose. “He has warned us of lust, and so we wait ‘til the night of consummation before bedding our wives. He has said, ‘love thy neighbor,’ and yet still we murder, still we steal.”

Y/N rubbed at the brownish mark near her hip, the one she’d scrubbed raw in the river just hours earlier. Her skin beneath it still felt singed. If her father had been preaching—Vern Y/L/N, who thundered from the pulpit like a prophet of old—he would have halted his sermon at the sight of her. Gone silent, arms folded, glaring. He’d have demanded silence, and he would have gotten it. Not like this poor man, whose sermon faltered like a match in a windstorm.

“Just yesterday,” the preacher continued, lowering his voice as though to share a secret, “there was a robbery in Redwater. A man entered a bank with a handgun and left with nearly ten thousand dollars. And when the police––” he paused to pantomime the pistol, absurd and almost childish in his performance, “came to arrest him, he shot both men dead.”

There was a gasp from the woman beside Y/N, a sound like the clutch of pearls. Y/N did not flinch. Her hands stayed knotted in her lap, her back rigid. Inside, her blood ran cold as winter’s brine.

“But,” the preacher added, “do not fear, my friends. This man—this sinner—was killed in the act. God did not allow him to walk free. No, He smote him where he stood. For the Lord is just, and justice is His alone. When this man stands before God, there will be no mercy. Only judgment. Tenfold judgment, for every drop of blood he spilled.”

The service ended not long after. A few final hymns were sung, hollow and warbling. As the parishioners stood and gathered their Bibles, the woman next to her turned with wide, affected eyes.

“Can you believe it?” she whispered. “Two men dead. I swear, the world’s gone mad.”

Y/N gave a stiff smile. Her lips felt waxen, pulled too tightly across her face.

“It sure has,” she murmured.

“Are you new here, honey?” The woman was smiling, all friendliness and pearl earrings. “It’s a small town. I thought I knew just about everybody.”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Well, I hope I’ll be seein’ you around. What’s your name, honey?”

Y/N lied with the ease of someone who had grown too used to running. “Rhonda Portnoy.”

The smile dropped the moment she stepped back into the heat of the morning. The sky was white with clouds, the streets empty. The world had returned to its dull turning. No sirens. No blood. No Jungkook. Nothing but dust and heat and silence.

She gave the church one last glance—its cracked bell, its chipped stone steps—and knew, with an aching certainty, that it would be the last church she’d ever enter. God, if He had ever watched her, had stopped doing so long ago. Perhaps He had looked away that day her father first beckoned her into his room and closed the door behind him. Perhaps He had turned His back when her mother wept silently in the next room, hands clasped in prayer, pretending not to hear.

That little girl in the lace dress was gone now. Her hymns silenced. Her hope extinguished.

Y/N lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and turned away from the steeple, letting her feet lead her wherever they would. She didn’t care where.

Elsewhere, long ago, in a town called Abbeville, a girl named Shonda had been born into the world without fanfare or fuss. She came from a long line of small, tired women—Southern women, the sort raised on sermons and starch, who bore their burdens with clenched teeth and linen aprons. Her life was marked out for her in quiet, unremarkable strokes: Sunday school, modesty, obedience. She was the kind of girl who never left home because no one ever asked her to.

And then one day, a stranger’s car broke down outside the corner store, and everything changed.

His name was Vernon, and he arrived with smoke on his breath and boots thick with road dust. Shonda passed him on her way to the Harrisons’, swinging a basket of ginger cookies, and he stopped in his tracks. There was nothing especially remarkable about her—thin, curved, dressed in hand-me-downs—but Vern decided, in that strange way men do, that he’d stay.

He courted her in the old-fashioned way. Brought her daffodils in a jar. Watched her from the porch. Smoked with her daddy and won his favor. And when the hunger in him grew too loud—when he could no longer stand the quiet ache to see what lay beneath those prim church dresses—he married her.

It was in the dead weight of December that she was born—a pale and squalling thing pulled from her mother’s body in the half-light of morning, slick with birth and howling as though she already knew what sorrow awaited her. Her mother, Shonda, hunched and hollow-eyed, wept silently over a chipped porcelain basin as the baby crowned. Her father, Vern, leaned at the warped window frame with a cigarette between his lips, the matchstick’s flare reflecting dimly in his eyes. Outside, frost bit the windowpanes, and the bare, black trees bowed beneath the burden of the wind. No one wrote her birth down. There was no cake, no letters penned in joy, no carved nameplate above the cradle. But the world shifted on its axis that day—an imperceptible shudder. Something old died, and something new and uncertain began.

And now, almost two decades on, that child—a girl no longer, but some wild, in-between creature of dust and grief and smoldering memory—walks the shoulders of highways and the crooked-spined roads that slither between the hills. Her name is Y/N, though she does not speak it unless forced. She carries all she owns in a fraying canvas bag: a pistol with five rounds remaining, and a fistful of crumpled bills that smell faintly of gunpowder and sweat. Her dress, once white, is stained the color of tobacco and sun-dried blood. The stains are ghost-pale now, worn by weather and weeping and river-water. But she feels them still. They cling to her like sins unconfessed.

She walks beneath a sky bleached bone-white, the wind cutting her throat raw. She walks as if the road might one day lead her home, though she has long since forgotten where that was. Every town is beginning to look the same—burnt signs and shuttered stores, dogs with ribs showing, men with eyes like broken glass. Nothing new under the sun, her mama used to say. She didn’t know how right she was.

When the red Ford Bronco slows beside her, gravel spitting under its tires, she doesn’t startle. She turns her head with the slow, resigned grace of someone who’s seen every bad thing twice and is ready for the third.

The window rolls down with a mechanical whine. A woman with bleached curls and crow’s feet leans out with a smile too large for her face. Her elbow rests on the window’s edge; her fingers are tipped in chipped blue polish. The man behind the wheel squints at Y/N through his aviators, suspicion or interest—or some rough blend of both—settling behind his stare.

“Where you headed?” the woman calls out.

Y/N shrugs. “Wherever you’re going.”

“Hop on in,” she says, her voice gentle and twanged by heat and years. “Watch the door though. Lock’s rusty.”

Y/N pulls the door open with both hands, listening to the metal groan like a dying thing. She climbs into the back seat and sets her bag between her knees, careful not to let it jostle. The pistol inside shifts slightly against the canvas, its weight a constant companion. The money is folded in the side pocket. She hasn’t counted it in days. She doesn’t care anymore how much it is. There is no amount that can buy what she’s lost.

The scent of the car hits her: cigarettes and gasoline and sun-baked leather. She sinks back into the worn upholstery and closes her eyes for a moment, just long enough to imagine herself somewhere else. Somewhere softer. Somewhere without sirens or blood. Somewhere under a tree with Sam Wallace, his brown eyes so sad they could have been blue, his lip busted.

The man clears his throat and peers at her in the rearview mirror. His voice is dry and skeptical. “Bad break-up, huh? Looks like you’ve been on the run a while.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Her eyes remain closed. Her head leans gently against the smudged window glass, and the blur of trees passing by outside flickers over her face like shadows cast by a fire.

“Uh-huh,” she says at last. It is not a lie, but it is not the whole truth either. Not the kind of break-up they’d understand. Not the kind with screaming matches and slammed doors and shared custody of houseplants. No, she broke from something far older, far crueler. She broke from death itself, and it still followed at her heels, a silent dog.

Outside, the sky begins to darken—slowly, like ink dripping into milk. The Bronco roars along the highway, and Y/N sinks deeper into the seat, her hand still clutching the frayed strap of the bag at her feet.

Somewhere up ahead, another town waits. Another nameless gas station. Another church steeple. Another motel with flickering neon signs. She’ll sleep on a hard mattress beneath a ceiling stained with water rings, and in the hush before dawn she’ll wonder if this is the place she’ll finally stop running. But not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she watches the road, and the road watches her right back.

Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa @calmyourtitts7 @bjoriis @11thenightwemet11 @screamertannie @everybodysaynoooooo

[atinystraynstay]

Hit Pause - Kim Taehyung

Synopsis: Life with Taehyung was like a dream. You wished you could be a viewer of your love story so you can replay moments over and over again.

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x reader

Genre: established relationship, fluff, long distance

Word Count: 1.1k

"And you really jammed your finger up Jungkook's nose?" You said, trying your best to stiffle your laughter. "Of course! He was trying to take the last Choco Pie, baby!"

The way Taehyung was looking at you sent you over the edge. His eyes were wide as if he couldn't believe you would ask such a ridiculous question. In the moment, it was a matter of life or death. Even if Jungkook was the maknae of the friend group, that shouldn't automatically mean Jungkook gets everything his way.

Hearing your laughter caused Taehyug to smile wide. He had never heard such a beautiful sound. The two of you were laying in the bed in your shared apartment. This was also his favorite time of day. It was the prime time to relax and unwind, to forget about the everyday stressors and drama happening at work. You two could escape into the bubble in your space to just focus on each other.

At the moment, your face was turning a bit pink from how hard you were laughing. The sound of your laughter was just too infectious not for him to laugh along at his own retelling. Sure, it was childish to fight over a sweet when you're entering your early 30s. Although, you prayed Taehyung would never lose the spark of his inner child.

You could describe Taehyung as a romantic gentleman. He took date nights serious, as he always went out of his way to plan and dress up for you. Taehyung also was a firm believer that you deserved fresh flowers. As soon as the bouquet is starting to wilt, he is one his way to find the next bouquet to replenish the vase. It was as if Taehyung had been written to be the star of the upcoming romance novel or movie. You didn't believe, for the longest time, that such lovers existed outside of fiction. However, every single day, Taehyung constantly proved to be real.

"Okay, that's it," Taehyung proclaimed. "I will really give you something to laugh about."

Your laughing stopped for a second. Your chest was rising and falling as you tried to recapture your breathing. It felt like your heart might leap out of your chest just from the laughing fit you found yourself in.

Before you could question Taehyung, he swept into action. His hands found your sides to begin tickling you which caused you to squeal. Your body began to twist and turn a bit, trying to escape his plotting hands. The light feather like touches against your sensitive skin was too much to handle.

"T-Tae, please," you begged, gasping for air. "Apologize for laughing at my darkest hour, sweet girl. It wasn't every nice."

Despite your body jerking around, you could tell his lower lip was slightly poking out. Oh, he was really pulling out all the stops with this one. You were usually one to put up a bigger fit, but you just couldn't find the strength to continue on.

"Okay, okay, baby. I'm so sorry!"

Instantly, Taehyung's fingers stopped moving against your sides. Instead, he slipped his arms completely around your waist to pull you in closer. Your chest, once again, rose and fell harshly. Your face felt hot and sweaty from Taehyung's sneak attack. He couldn't help but chuckle at your state. You were just too cute.

With your hair in flyaways, your reddened cheeks, and your shut eyes to where your eyelashes hugged the tops of your cheeks - he has never seen anyone more beautiful than you. If only you could see yourself right now.

Life felt like it was going at a million miles an hour. Taehyung felt like he was getting pulled in a million directions. Between the demands of work, taking care of himself, and trying to maintain his social life - he was worried he was letting you down. That is why Taehyung went above and beyond for your relationship. He never wanted you to doubt for a moment his intentions with you.

You constantly rallied behind him. If Taehyung had experienced a bad day at work, you were there with takeout and a glass of red wine to help him decompress. If he had an idea, he felt comfortable enough to loop you in no matter how outlandish it might seem. No matter where you were, you allowed him to just be himself. You never scolded him for acting "too young" or to "grow up already." He was able to express his moments of playfulness.

The love you showed him was the type of love he always wanted.

"What are you thinking about there, bub?" A soft voice called out.

Taehyung didn't even realize he had gotten lost in his own train of thought. He quickly blinked his eyes to find you staring up at him. Your breathing had returned to normal and your eyes were looking at him with a soft gaze. It made him feel warm and tingly on the inside. 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺/𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺?

All he could do was smile down at you. His fingers caressed your lower back as he held you close. He even gave your body a gentle squeeze. He opened his mouth to speak.

𝘽𝙀𝙀𝙋! 𝘽𝙀𝙀𝙋! 𝘽𝙀𝙀𝙋!

His eyes opened quickly and his body jolted in its space. His own breathing was now the one rising and falling. He quickly looked over to his right side, frowning when he didn't see your sleeping body beside him. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯?

Taehyung's head soon rolled back to rest against the pillow. He was staring up at the white ceiling. That wasn't his ceiling. His head rolled to the opposite side where there were long curtains pulled back. However, he could hear the sounds of beeping cars and multiple voices hustling about on the busy streets below.

Suddenly, Taehyung remembered where he was. San Francisco, California, USA. He had been sent to the other side of the world on a week long business trip. At the realization, Taehyung frowned. He was grateful his boss trusted him to do the deliver the sales pitch. This could help bump his position within the company. In turn, it could help him be more flexible in providing for you and granting your every wish. Yet, it meant that you two were not in the same space.

He desperately wanted to hit pause and be able to come running back to you.

"God damn it," Taehyung sighed.

If only his dream could come true. Just this one. What he would give to just hit pause on reality so he could be back at your side.

[lbxbx]

The matchmaker’s gift: Just add water. [ trailer ]

Pair: maknae line x oc

Summary: By midnight, the three boys receive a package—no name, no return, only a note: “Just add water.”. She’s here for one: A lover, once her choosing’s done. Until she picks the one she’ll keep, to hold her close when stars fall asleep.

Genre: fantasy mystery, supernatural, romance, series.

I’ve sent a girl, small, soft, and shy,

A pocket-sized drop from the sky.

Don’t feed her lies or let her break,

Just warm, clean water’s all she’ll take.

Submerge her deep, then wait till dawn,

She’ll bloom like petals on your lawn.

Be kind. Be patient. She’s brand new.

She doesn’t know a thing but you.

But listen close, she’s here for one:

A lover, once her choosing’s done.

Until she picks the one she’ll keep,

To hold her close when stars fall asleep.

Yours in Love,

The Matchmaker

The bathroom smelled like lavender and confusion.

Taehyung stood dead center on the bath mat, holding the parchment like it had personally offended him. His voice was sharp, clear, but just the slightest bit shaky.

“I’ve sent a girl, small, soft, and shy,

“A pocket-sized drop from the sky…”

He paused.

“She’s not that small,” he mumbled, but Jimin shot him a look and he went on.

“Don’t feed her lies or let her break,

Just warm, clean water’s all she’ll take…”

Taehyung looked up. “She was in a box. There was no airhole. And somehow she’s alive. So, no food. Just… water?”

“She’s not a chia pet,” Jimin muttered, watching bubbles rise in the tub.

“She might be something close,” Taehyung fired back. He squinted at the next lines.

“Submerge her deep, then wait till dawn,

She’ll bloom like petals on your lawn…”

“Oh, now that’s not ominous at all.”

Jungkook, who hadn’t moved from the tub’s edge, muttered under his breath. “I think it’s pretty.”

They ignored him.

“Be kind. Be patient. She’s brand new.

She doesn’t know a thing but you.”

That made all three of them still.

Taehyung exhaled. “That part freaks me out.”

“She doesn’t know anything?” Jimin frowned. “Like… she’s a blank slate?”

“Or worse.” Taehyung looked up slowly. “She’s… designed. Engineered. She’s made for someone. It says so right here.”

“But listen close, she’s here for one:

A lover, once her choosing’s done.

Until she picks the one she’ll keep,

To hold her close when stars fall asleep.”

He folded the letter with an audible sigh. “This is either the creepiest human trafficking situation we’ve ever stumbled into, or it’s… something else. Something big.”

“Something magical,” Jungkook whispered.

Taehyung shot him a warning look, but Jungkook didn’t flinch.

“She’s not scared. Not like someone who’s been hurt. I touched her hand, it curled around mine.”

Jimin rubbed a towel between his fingers. “So… we bathe her. And wait.”

“She’ll ‘bloom’ at dawn.” Taehyung’s mouth twitched. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“Maybe she talks,” Jungkook said. “Maybe she opens her eyes. Maybe she sings.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Maybe she picks one of us.”

A long silence followed. The air shifted, just slightly heavier. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the rippling water. Taehyung looked back down at the folded letter, and something unreadable passed across his face.

[tremblementdesfleurs]

If I knew how, I'd twirl around the room! Do yourself a favour and read this fic, it's like nothing I've ever read. Carefully check warnings before!

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 07

pairing: taehyung x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 3,4k | warnings: here genre: stalker!tae, ballerina!reader, paris, psychological, dark romance

“so, taehyung”

Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

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↦author's note : The. Water. Imagery. UGHHHHHHH. Okay okay okay LISTEN. First of all—finally. FINALLY. Nicknames. Finally, Pearl and Moss. Finally, we get to see what their dynamic is actually going to be. The shapes have begun to take shape. The shape is shaping. And I’m vibrating like a tuning fork about it. Let me ramble a bit here—because what is my author note if not an emotionally charged literature student breakdown? I've said this before but I will keep saying it until I crumble into salt dust: one of my BIGGEST pet peeves is when I absolutely adore an author’s writing, but all their works feel like a self-insert factory. Same main characters, different names. Same dynamics, different wigs. Like??? No. You’re so talented. Your prose is stunning. Please don’t be scared to explore actual variation in personality. Stretch your range. Or don’t—I mean, you do you—but I am selfish and greedy and I want More. So I made it my personal mission (and you can write that on my tombstone) to ensure that all my works have fundamentally different dynamics.

I think it was already obvious since Chapter 1, but now you can really see what I was trying to do here: kick the classic “cool, smirking, confident stalker who’s just a misunderstood dark prince” trope straight into the Seine. Nope. We’re not doing that here. Absolutely not. ASW!Taehyung is not suave. He’s not menacing. He is pathetic. He worships. He trembles. He’s not a predator, he’s a pilgrim. That’s the whole thesis: obsessive reverence, not obsession for control. Which leads me to: her. Ah, Pearl. If I wanted her to be “normal,” we would have no fic, lmao. KGP!Y/N would have bolted. FMU!Y/N would have called the cops. IPY!Y/N would have staged a palace coup. So to make this work, I needed a protagonist who would thrive under this kind of attention. Not just tolerate it. Need it. What we have instead is some kind of CSM!Makima-core ballerina with clinical perfectionism and an ingrained superiority complex—but not the insufferable kind. Not the “I’m better than you because I said so,” but the mathematical kind: “I spend 12 hours a day bleeding into the floorboards to reach this level, so yes, I am better than you. It’s just data.” So when someone sees that not with detachment or envy, but with holy awe??? When someone worships it??? That’s where the psychological dissonance hits. And him. Oh Taehyung. He thinks he contaminates everything. He wears gloves to touch the world. He’s created entire rituals around purity and containment, and now he sees her—someone cold, symmetrical, self-disciplined, holy. For someone like that to acknowledge him, to name him, to see him back? That is a rupture in his worldview. Of course he falls to his knees. That’s where he’s always meant to be (according to him).

Anyway. Not to sound unwell, but also, I am obsessed with possessive female leads. I love any gender being a little possessive—not in the "you can’t wear that" way (ew, go away), but in the “you can wear whatever you want, I can fight” way. It’s giving confidence. We don’t get to see that energy enough from women in fiction, and ASW!Y/N?? She’s not playing around. You don’t get called “Moss” and survive her attention. As Brandy and Monica once said—“that boy is miiiiiineee.”

That’s all. Enjoy the spiral. It only gets worse (affectionate). And hit that heart button and reblog. They make ballerinas twirl. <3

The studio mirrors reflect your form in perfect symmetry. 

Left leg extended. Right arm curved. Chin lifted exactly two degrees above parallel.

This is necessary. This is your hour. The sacred hour between company rehearsal and evening meal when the studio belongs to those who earn it. 

Not those who hope for it. Not those who pretend they deserve it.

Those who earn it.

Your body moves through the adagio sequence, follows into a développé. Hold. Lower. Again. The muscles in your supporting leg burn—useful sensation. Pain means progress. Pain means the movement is working properly.

Better. Not perfect. Better than yesterday.

Not good enough.

The mirror shows what it always shows: technique approaching perfection, lines that would photograph beautifully, the kind of physical control that separates professionals from dreamers. Separates the necessary from the expendable.

You adjust your arabesque two degrees higher. Your hip flexor protests—ignored. Your standing leg trembles almost imperceptibly—corrected immediately.

Focus. Extend. Hold. You must hold longer.

This is what excellence requires. This is what perfection demands.

The studio door opens with its familiar squeak. Footsteps—too heavy to be Camille, too quick to be Mathilde. Unnecessary interruption during sacred practice time.

“Pearl?”

You complete the movement before turning. Perfect completion before acknowledgment. 

Léa stands in the doorway, dance bag slung over her shoulder, that genuine smile that makes the others suspicious. That smile that serves no professional purpose.

Your hand moves automatically to your ear. The small freshwater pearls you’d chosen this morning—tiny, understated, appropriate for practice but unnecessary. A detail you’d forgotten until now.

You should not have forgotten.

“Your earrings today.” Léa’s smile widens. “Pearl on each ear. It’s cute.”

You stare at her. Say nothing. Turn back to the mirror.

Cute is not the objective. Cute is diminutive. Cute is what people call things they can dismiss. Things that don’t matter. Things that aren’t threats.

You are not cute.

You return to the barre. Léa’s footsteps retreat. The door closes. Silence returns.

Necessary. Useful.

Pearl.

The word settles strangely in your mind. Foreign. Organic. Not the terminology you’re accustomed to—excellent, precise, adequate, insufficient. 

Not ranking. Not measurement.

Something else.

Pearl suggests something formed in darkness. Something created by irritation, layer upon layer, until the discomfort transforms into something valuable. 

Something precious.

You dismiss the thought. Return to your sequence.

This is not the time for meaningless associations.

Practice ends after forty-seven minutes. 

Water bottle emptied. Hair secured. Towel folded precisely. Studio returned to its pristine state—because this is how professionals behave. This is what separates the worthy from the wasteful.

The academy empties around you. Evening descent into the city’s rhythm.

Your feet choose their own path—not toward the dormitory where your roommates dissect each other’s failures like scavengers. Not toward the café where pretense masquerades as normalcy.

Instead, you find yourself walking past L’Heure Bleue.

This is not part of your usual route. This serves no professional purpose.

This is unnecessary.

The convenience store squats between a dry cleaner and a shop that sells nothing but light bulbs. Blue neon sign flickering weakly in the gathering dusk. Ugly building. Utilitarian. Everything your world is not.

You’ve catalogued this place dozens of times during necessary errands. Noted the employee behind the counter—mixed features, asian bone structure beneath that particular ashy blonde that must be natural. The genetics work perfectly. 

Yet he is always looking down. Always hidden beneath soft waves that catch the light like spun sugar.

Clean hair. Well-maintained despite his environment.

Interesting attention to detail.

Kim. That’s what his name tag says. Just Kim, no first name offered. Incomplete identification. Deliberate obscurity.

Most significant: he avoids your gaze.

Men look at you. Always. It’s unavoidable mathematics—your form draws eyes like gravity draws objects earthward. Instructors, dancers, strangers on the metro. They look and evaluate and want.

This is expected. This is normal.

Kim doesn’t. Stares at his hands, at the floor, at inventory sheets. Anywhere but you.

That’s unprecedented.

You push through the automatic doors because you need protein bars. Because your schedule demands efficiency. Because your nutritional requirements follow precise calculations.

Because you want to see what happens when you force him to look.

Testing methodology. Acceptable scientific approach.

The store smells like disinfectant and that peculiar staleness that comes from retail work. Aisles of necessities arranged in perfect rows: toiletries, tinned goods, the nutrition bars that constitute half your daily intake. Organization. Structure.

Someone maintains this properly.

You move through the space. Water first—the glass bottles you prefer. Superior to plastic. Better mineral content. Then toward the protein section where new packages catch your attention.

‘Moss Nutrition,’ the label reads. ‘Organic spirulina and chlorella blend for optimal performance.’

Moss.

The word snags your attention like a loose thread. 

You examine the package more closely—sea-green wrapper, minimal design, ingredients listed in precise font. No unnecessary marketing claims. No false promises.

Honest.

Algae-based protein. Sustainably sourced. The kind of nutrition that promises efficiency without pleasure. Form following function.

Perfect.

You select three bars. Walk to the counter with controlled steps—neither rushed nor leisurely. Purposeful movement.

The employee—Kim—stands with his head bent over inventory sheets. Latex gloves on his hands. Always latex gloves, you’ve noticed. Barrier protection. Contamination anxiety or simple hygiene consciousness.

Clean. Methodical. Careful.

You place the bars down, making a slight noise. Sharp plastic against the worn counter.

He doesn’t look up. 

Even when you clear your throat—not impatiently, just to indicate presence that should be acknowledged. 

Professional courtesy requires acknowledgment.

Basic service protocol demands eye contact.

His gloved hands still on the papers. You watch his fingers—long, slender, but hidden beneath blue latex like surgical equipment. Like everything he touches must be protected from contamination.

Or protected from him.

That suggests self-awareness. Consideration for others.

Unusual.

Slowly, as if the motion requires enormous effort, he raises his eyes.

Dark brown, almost black. Eyebrows drawn together in something that looks like pain. Mouth slightly open as if you’ve revealed something to him that he wasn’t prepared to witness.

Like he’s seeing divinity.

Like he’s been waiting to see you.

This is not the usual male gaze. This is not evaluation. This is not assessment or want or professional judgment.

You blink slowly, analyzing this unusual attention. Processing the shift from invisible to seen to this.

He stares for seven heartbeats. Eight. Nine. 

You count them because counting creates distance, creates control, creates the space you need to analyze his expression properly.

He interrupts your processing when he whispers: “Moss?”

His eyes are fixed on the protein bars between you. But his breathing has changed. Shallower. Quicker. 

Physical response to your proximity?

Unprecedented reaction.

“Yes.” Your voice comes out precisely modulated. Neither warm nor cold. Simply factual. 

His gaze moves from the green packages to your face. Lingers there for exactly three seconds. Then, deliberately, to your ears.

“Pearl.”

The word drops into the space between you like something significant. Recognition of symmetry. Of two things that exist in relation to each other despite belonging to entirely different worlds.

Ocean treasures and forest floor. Light and shadow. Precious and humble.

You nod, testing his response to acknowledgment.

His mouth curves into the softest smile you’ve ever seen. Nothing practiced about it. Nothing performed. Just genuine pleasure at having identified something beautiful.

Then he looks down again, that pillow of hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

He’s hiding from you again.

That won’t do.

You want those eyes back. Want that unfamiliar expression focused on you like it was made for that purpose. You’ve tasted the shape of his attention now—sweet and desperate and utterly unlike anything you’ve encountered before.

Men look at you. But this one…

This is different. This is useful.

Test it. 

Your hands move to your throat. To the silk scarf wrapped around your neck—soft gray that matches your coat. You unwrap it slowly. Let the silk slide through your fingers like water.

Men respond to presentation. Men respond to skin.

This is basic mathematics. Visual stimulation equals attention. You have spent your entire life understanding this equation.

Still, he doesn’t look up.

Unacceptable.

More direct approach required.

You lean forward. Plant your chest against the counter, presenting the deep neckline of your practice maillot that the scarf had been concealing. Black lycra that clings to every line of your torso. The swell of your breasts pressed against the fabric, visible and unmistakable.

This is what works. This is what always works.

Men look at your body. They evaluate your form. They want what they see. This is expected response. This is normal response.

He is a man. He should look.

He must look. 

The sudden motion catches his peripheral vision. His eyes flicker up automatically—

And then everything breaks.

His breath doesn’t just catch. It tears out of him like he’s been struck. His eyes go wide, that expression returning but magnified into something that looks like terror and revelation combined.

Not desire. Terror.

Why terror?

He stumbles backward like you’ve burned him. Like the sight of your body is too much for his system to process. His gloved hands reach blindly for support—

The display rack behind the counter explodes. Red Bulls and Monster cans scatter across the floor in a symphony of aluminum chaos, rolling under shelves and behind equipment with metallic music.

Violence. Chaos. Disorder.

“Oh.”

The sound escapes you before you can control it—yours, a genuine surprise at the violence of his reaction.

This is not normal male response. This is not standard appreciation or desire or professional assessment.

This is something else entirely; more complex.

You move around the counter without thinking. Automatic response to help, to fix, to restore order. 

Because order must be maintained. Because chaos serves no purpose.

You’re about to kneel—about to lower yourself to gather the scattered cans—when his voice disrupts the air like bubbles in water.

“No.”

The word tears out of him. Raw. Desperate. Panicked.

“Don’t kneel. You can’t…” His breathing is ragged now, visible anxiety flooding his features. Latex gloves gripping the edge of the counter like anchors. “Please don’t kneel.”

Please don’t kneel.

Why?

What does kneeling mean to him? What significance has he attached to that position?

This suggests hierarchy. 

You stop. Straighten. Step back behind the counter while questions multiply in your mind like cells dividing.

You watch him on the floor among the scattered cans. His latex-gloved hands shake as he reaches for each aluminum cylinder like he’s got a ritual for it.

Even in chaos, he maintains method.

Respect for order. Professional despite circumstances.

This is not standard employee protocol.

“Moss?” you say.

His head tilts up sharply, like you’ve called his name—eyes wide and startled, that expression returning but tinged now with anxiety.

Interesting, how he responds to that word like recognition.

“Do you like the brand?” You gesture toward the protein bars still sitting on the counter.

His eyes drop immediately back to the cans. He continues picking them up—one, then another, arranging them in perfect rows. Two beats of silence stretch between you.

Then, simply: “No.”

No elaboration. No explanation. Minimal communication.

Unacceptable.

“So what is it?” Your voice sharpens slightly. Testing. “Green? Do you like green?”

His gaze flickers to your maillot—the black lycra that clings to your torso. He studies the color like he’s deciding whether it meets some internal standard.

“No.”

Frustration builds behind your sternum. Clean, precise frustration that demands resolution. You require answers. You require understanding.

“Do you simply like moss, then?”

“No.”

Three nos. Three refusals to explain. Three deliberate withholdings of information.

This won’t do.

You move around the counter again. He freezes mid-reach for another can, his body going rigid like sensing danger.

“Then what?” The question hovers. “If not the brand, not the color, not moss itself—what exactly are you responding to?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look up. His breathing has gone shallow again, that panicked rhythm you noticed before.

He’s terrified of you.

And yet he called you pearl.

Like he’s assigned meaning to it.

You take another step closer. “You said pearl. Like you recognized something. Like it meant something specific.”

His latex-gloved hands still completely.

“It did mean something,” you continue, voice dropping to that tone you use when extracting truth from reluctant sources. “Didn’t it?”

Still nothing.

Different approach required.

You crouch down—not kneeling, just lowering yourself to his eye level. He flinches at your proximity but doesn’t move away.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

“Look. At. Me.”

Slowly, like it causes physical pain, he raises his eyes. They’re darker now, pupils dilated with what looks like fear and something else. Something that makes your pulse quicken in an unfamiliar way.

Interesting physiological response.

“Pearl and moss,” you say deliberately. “Those aren’t random words, are they?”

His throat moves as he swallows. Hard.

“Are they?”

“No.” The word barely makes it past his lips.

Progress.

“So what are they?”

Another swallow. His eyes dart away, then back, like he can’t decide whether looking at you is salvation or damnation.

“Ocean,” he whispers. “Ocean and—and forest floor.”

Ocean and forest floor.

Treasures and decay.

Light and shadow.

Hierarchy. System. Order.

You lean forward slightly. “And which one am I?”

His breathing stops entirely. For a moment you think he might not answer, might retreat back into that terrified silence.

Then: “Pearl.”

The word drops between you like a stone into still water.

“And you’re moss.”

It’s not a question. You’re stating the pattern he’s revealed, the strange mythology he’s constructed around you both.

Classification complete. 

He nods once. Sharp, desperate movement.

He’s created a hierarchy with you elevated, with him below.

This should feel normal. This should feel expected. You are exceptional. People should recognize this. This is how things work.

But something about his reverence feels different from the usual acknowledgment of your superiority.

Why different?

You stand slowly, and in doing so, his eyes track your movement with the desperate attention of someone watching something precious and fragile.

“Stand up,” you say.

He doesn’t move.

“Stand up.”

“I can’t.”

Can’t?

“Why not?”

His gloved hands clench against his thighs. “You’re… you’re too close.”

Too close for what? Too close for standing? Too close for breathing?

Too close for reverence, perhaps?

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Not kind. Not warm. Curious.

“Kneel then.”

He freezes mid-motion. Completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Properly,” you add, and your voice drops to something softer. “At my feet.”

His throat works around a swallow—thick and difficult. His eyes go half-lidded like he’s fighting some internal war between terror and desire.

But he does it.

Shifts his position until he’s directly in front of you. Settles back on his heels with his gloved hands placed carefully on his thighs. 

The posture for worship.

Oh.

Oh, this is entirely new.

The smile spreads across your face properly now. Fascinated. Like you’ve discovered something unexpected. Something that responds to you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

“Much better.”

He trembles. Actually trembles. Like your approval is too much for his system to process.

When was the last time someone looked at you like this? When was the last time someone saw you and trembled with something that isn’t desire or professional assessment?

When was the last time someone worshipped you?

Never.

This is entirely new territory.

You lean forward slightly. Just enough to invade his space. Just enough to test the boundaries of whatever strange dynamic you’ve stumbled into.

His breathing becomes audible. Rapid. Shallow. But he doesn’t move away.

Good.

Very good.

He seems to relax in this position. Like kneeling in front of you is exactly where he belongs. 

His gloved fingers start picking at the latex material—nervous habit that reveals more than he probably intends.

Self-soothing behavior. Anxiety management. Control mechanisms.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes stay fixed downward. “Kim.”

“Your first name.”

A pause. Two seconds. Three.

“Taehyung.”

The syllables feel foreign in the air between you. Soft consonants and careful vowels.

“Korean?”

“Mixed.” His voice is barely audible, word pulled from him like thread from fabric. “Born here. Raised here.”

You study his profile. The way his ashy hair catches the light. The distance he forces himself to maintain even while kneeling at your feet.

This is the most he’s ever spoken. Probably the most he speaks to anyone.

Selective communication. You are privileged recipient.

“And you work here.”

“Yes.”

“Every day?”

“Most days.”

You crouch slightly. Reach for the silk tie at his throat—standard store uniform that no one else maintains this methodically. 

The fabric slides between your fingers. You adjust the knot. Two millimeters higher. Perfect alignment now. Your fingers work exactly as when you pin your hair, secure pointe shoes, and arrange water bottles in descending order of preference.

Order restored.

The tie passes through your hand as you let it slide—silk against skin, your fingers tracing downward until you reach the end. Testing the quality. Evaluating the—

The automatic doors shriek open.

Pink hair catches your attention first. Unnatural color that serves no professional purpose. Then the sketchbook tucked under one armpit, phone pressed between shoulder and ear in a configuration that suggests poor posture habits.

Unprofessional phone etiquette.

“—and then I told him that’s not how you draw negative space, you can’t just—”

The voice carries across the store. Loud. Animated. 

Unnecessary.

She stops mid-sentence. Mouth opening slightly as her eyes register the tableau—you crouched before him, your hand at the end of his tie, his perfect kneeling posture.

Your fingers tighten around the silk. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the fabric resist. Like a leash under tension.

He makes a soft sound—surprise, or something else. His breathing changes when you tug the tie, eyes fluttering but staying fixed on your face like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

Interesting response.

The pink-haired girl stutters into her phone. “I—I’ll call you back.”

You don’t move away. Don’t acknowledge that someone else exists in this space that belongs to you and him.

She’s studying the scene with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. Gaze moving from you to him and back again. Confusion creasing her features.

“Taehyung?”

Something twists in your chest, like when you miss a step during grand jetés—the moment when your body expects support and finds air instead.

She knows his name.

You glance at him. His attention wavers—shifts toward the voice calling him like a reflex. Natural response to recognition.

Unacceptable.

Your fingers find the tie again. This time the movement is pure instinct. Pull. Not adjustment. Correction.

His gaze snaps back to you immediately. Pupils dilated. Breath shallow.

Better.

“Moss,” you say quietly. “Get up.”

He blinks rapidly. Confusion and obedience warring across his features. Then scrambles to his feet with the desperate eagerness of someone who cannot disappoint you.

Standing, he’s taller than expected. Your eyes reach the hollow of his throat where the tie knot sits perfectly aligned now. The height difference creates interesting geometry—you looking up, him looking down. 

Yet, the hierarchy remains.  

Something else reaches you now. A scent. Roasted chestnuts and something deeper—vetiver maybe, or just the warmth of skin that exists in cold spaces. Not cologne. Nothing artificial. 

Just him, standing close enough that you can catalog the specific quality of his proximity.

You like this.

Why do you notice that? Why does the specific measurement matter?

You move toward the counter. Collect your protein bars—. three packages arranged in perfect parallel lines on the worn surface.

The girl’s name tag reads SOPHIE in cheerful block letters. Art student, based on the sketchbook. Probably here for supplemental income while pursuing impractical creative endeavors.

Predictable trajectory.

She frowns at the space between you and Taehyung. Still trying to decode what she witnessed.

You nod once. Acknowledgment without warmth. Professional courtesy extended to a colleague you’ll never see again.

Then you turn.

Face him directly.

“I’ll see you around, Taehyung.”

His name feels right in your mouth. Chosen. Claimed.

He nods rapidly. Eyes wide with something that looks like disbelief. Like hearing his name from your lips is a gift he didn’t expect to receive.

Necessary.

You walk toward the automatic doors. Feel their eyes tracking your movement—his with worship, hers with confusion. The contrast satisfies something in you that you don’t name.

You don’t look back.

Behind you, two people stand in a space that still holds the shape of what just happened.

Behind you, someone knows his name.

But you said it last.

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no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[gukcnt]

MY LOVE, UNTIL I RETURN ⭒ KTH

in which you and taehyung share an emotional final day, filled with desperate love and physical connection, as you prepare for the pain of his impending military enlistment.

pairing — dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, military enlistment, long distance relationship, heartbreak, smut, fluff, lots of angst, sad ending

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, hard dom!taehyung, possessive!taehyung, emotional intimacy, grief, military enlistment anxiety, physical closeness, shyness and vulnerability, possessive tenderness, music and dancing, promises and vows, love confessions, lots of crying, post departure grief, separation anxiety, assurances of love, they love each other so much i can't, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, cunnilingus, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, multiple sex scenes, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, lots of breast play, he is obsessed with her tits, nipple play, nipple sucking and biting, rough sex, missionary position, doggy, riding, gentle lovemaking, emotional sex, cockwarming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, against the wall sex, cum play, overstimulation, making out, hickies/marking, bruising and scratching, spanking, shower sex, morning sex, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, cock sucking, face fucking, hair fisting, cum swallowing, power dynamics, body worship, loving aftercare

wc — 11k

a/n — i literally shed tears while writing this aaaa, i miss tae so much y'all! 😭

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

The mourning was inevitable, the regular smell of air in your apartment filled with the musky smell of Taehyung's cologne.

A scent you were so used to that it felt like a part of your own skin.

The sunlight casts a soft glow over the couch where you sat, its cushions filled with years of shared moments.

Taehyung was beside you.

His presence as always providing you comfort, yet it was painful.

His broad shoulders, usually confident, now hunched forward showing the weight that he was carrying.

His dark hair slightly messy and falling over his eyes, framing his face in a way that makes him look both boyish and mature.

His deep brown eyes usually having a playful spark or intensity, were clouded today with grief.

And a desperation.

The sight of him like this—beautiful, broken, and yours—makes your chest ache painfully.

With a fierce love.

You’re curled up beside him, legs tucked beneath you as your body instinctively seeks his warmth.

You wore one of his oversized white shirts, it felt warm and cozy along with the smell of him that clings to the shirt.

Enveloping you.

Reminding you of his impending departure.

Your hands rested in your lap, fingers twisting nervously—a habit developed from anxiety that didn’t leave you since he told you about his military enlistment six days ago.

Your heart felt like it's trapped.

A reminder.

Of the clock ticking and each minute slipping from you until he leaves.

Taehyung's deep voice soon breaks the silence.

“My love.” he murmurs.

The endearment spilled out of his mouth for you, making your breath catch.

He reached for your hand, fingers warm and calloused from years of hard work, his roughness softening just for you.

His hand slowly starts tracing slow comforting circles over your knuckles, making your lips part.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” he says.

Voice cracking slightly with emotion.

“A week left and all I can think about is how I wanna memorize every inch of you,” he breathes.

“I wanna carry you with me, sweet girl, so I don’t forget what it feels like to be whole.”

His words felt like a knife to your chest and tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Your cheeks warming beneath his attention as you finally lift your eyes to meet his, raw vulnerability in them.

Stealing your breath.

“tae…” you whisper.

Your voice trembles, biting your lower lip, trying to hold back the sob trying to escape.

He shifts closer, arm wrapping around your waist possessively.

The heat of his touch grounding you against the ache in your chest.

His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I know my baby”

Voice steady for you despite the storm you know he is facing by looking at his eyes.

Wanting to stay strong for you.

His lips brush your forehead, lingering there.

Branding himself into your skin.

“I’m terrified too. The thought of being with you... fuck—it's like losing a part of myself,” he says.

“But I’m here now, hmm? I’m gonna love you so much, so completely, you’ll feel me even when I’m gone.”

His words felt like a lifeline and you lean onto him, head resting against his chest.

The steady beat of his heart matching your own.

That lulled you to sleep several nights.

Just imagining how you will sleep without it once he was gone brings tears back to your eyes.

You whimper shakily, causing his arms to tighten around you and you breathe in his cologne, clean male scent.

Your fingers clutched shirt.

Desperately clinging to him.

۶ৎ

The week before his departure has been full of emotions.

All moments shared close together, barely giving you any relief.

Mornings were spent tangled in bed as Taehyung's lips traced your sensitive skin—your neck, shoulder.

Especially the sensitive spot behind your ear, him knowing it makes you arch into him.

His constant whispers of “I love yous” and “you’re mine” surrounding you permanently.

Afternoons spent with quiet walks in your backyard garden, relishing each other's presence.

His hands never leaving yours, fingers holding yours tightly

Afraid you’ll slip away.

He tried to make things normal, you could feel it. His laughter, so rich and deep, comforting you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Taking away the pain of separation that will happen eventually, even for a little bit.

He wouldn’t leave your side even while cooking, staying by your side all the time while you prepared all his favorite meals.

Knowing he was gonna miss them when he's gone.

Heartfelt conversations and teasings would end up with heated kisses against the counter, his body pressed against yours, hands roaming all over you with hunger.

Never leaving a chance to not touch you.

But the nights—oh god, the nights.

It unraveled both of you in a way, desperation controlling you both.

The nights were a mix of touches and need.

Bodies speaking louder than words.

Each kiss and touch felt like a promise, a plea and a goodbye that will break you both.

And yet no amount of memorizing felt enough.

Not when the time constantly taunted you both.

۶ৎ

Taehyung pulls you closer, now in bed, arms tightening around you until there’s no space left.

His lips finding yours, gentle and soft, tasting you, tongue tangles with yours, slow and exploring every corner of your mouth.

Consuming you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rested against yours, both your breaths ragged, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

“My love,” he rasps.

“I need you to know something… for me, yeah? no matter where I am or how far apart we are, you're with me no matter what, always…”

“You’re in my very blood, my soul, and I’m gonna fight every day to come back to you, to hold you like this, and love you until we’re old and gray.”

His voice was gruff, laying his heart for you through his words.

“Do you hear me, hm, baby?”

His voice hitched, and you see his eyes glistening with tears.

A rare emotion, he hides so well.

He never cries.

But for you, he was a broken man.

You nod, throat too tight to speak, burying your face in his chest, tears soaking his shirt.

“I love you, taehyung.”

You sob, voice muffled.

“I’ll wait for you. I'll always wait for you.”

He holds you for what felt like hours and hours, the world fading.

Only the two of you.

All that existed was him, you, and the raw love you both shared for each other.

The love that you guys will have when he needs to go for his enlistment.

But for now, you clinged to the moment, soaking his warmth and his loving words, meant for you only.

Because you knew… that soon…

It will be all you have left.

۶ৎ

It's the day before Taehyung's departure.

The sky itself was gloomy today, the threat of rain mirroring the environment in your home.

The ache in your chest.

You stir awake in bed, body feeling heavy with what's about to come, the loss you're gonna face.

Your half lidded eyes opened slightly, only to find Taehyung already gazing at you.

He’s propped on one elbow, bare torso and hard muscles, his eyes holding yours with several emotions—love, hunger, and a quiet fury.

Anger at the time slipping away.

You’re curled up against him, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets, an usual act, hinting that the intimacy of such normality will be gone soon.

“Darling…”

His voice made your throat tighten.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek, calloused finger tracing your features.

A shiver goes down your spine.

“I want today to be ours.” he growls.

You let out a quiet whimper, tears welling in your eyes, but you held them back for the sake of both of you.

Wanting to make the most of today.

His dark eyes stared straight into your soul, getting to know all your feelings without you telling them.

“taehyung,” you crooned

“I don’t know how to let you go. I'm so scared.”

The words spilling out uncontrollably, raw and heartbreaking as tears started streaming down your face.

Against your will.

He immediately pulls you into his arms, hard chest pressing against you, and he fists your hair, holding you to him.

His hand slides to the small of your back, the heat of his touch seeping through you.

“Baby,” he hums.

“I’m terrified too. But I'm here now.”

Lips brushed over your jawline.

“I love you, sweet girl… more than anything”

۶ৎ

The day starts with each moment in a midst of needing to be close, imprinting the other's presence into memory.

Breakfast was quiet in the kitchen.

Taehyung was standing at the stove, broad shoulders relaxed as he flips the pancakes with a practiced ease.

He’s shirtless, only wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing his masculine beauty.

Making your legs clench unknowingly.

You sit at the table, hands wrapping around a hot cup of coffee Taehyung made for you earlier.

Taehyung soon turns, a plate of crispy pancakes in hand, flashing you a warm smile.

A boxy smile that was now tinged with sadness.

That he tried his best to hide.

“Eat for me, love.” he orders.

His commanding voice slipped out of him, unknowingly.

Whenever he needs to take care of you.

He sets the plate before you, and drizzled some chocolate syrup over the pancakes, knowing by heart you like them like that.

He leans down, pecking your lips, your chest heaving at his care.

“I wanna see you smile today.” he demands.

You try, but the smile feels fake, something he notices.

He always does.

His eyes softened, and he sits across from you, knees touching yours under the table, teasing you.

His thumb strokes your palm, the simple touch sent a warmth through you, eyes meeting his, biting your bottom lip to control your emotions.

“tae…”

His grip tightens on you, eyes darkening.

“You don’t have to be strong, darling.” he coos.

“Fall apart if you need to. You know I'll always be here. Ready to catch you… always.”

The words felt like a vow, and before you know it, a tear spills down your cheeks.

He leans across the table, kissing the tear away, and you gasp, clinging to him.

His actions making you ache more.

And you realize you’ll ache forever.

Until he returns.

۶ৎ

After breakfast, his need to be close to you becomes overwhelming, and Taehyung suggests a shower.

Voice laced with desire.

Taehyung stepping in first in the spacious shower, and the sight of him under the water steals your breath.

The water streaming down his body, almost tracing his muscles, droplets cling to him, causing an insistent pulse between your legs.

His wet hair pressed to his forehead, and his eyes met yours, longing and lust in them.

He motions at you with a single finger.

“Come here.” he exhales, sharply.

You step into the shower, heart racing and the water now falling over you as well, soaking your shirt.

Making it see through for your man.

The sensation felt too much.

He pulls you against him, hands clutching your hips.

The water falling over you both, a warmth that shuts out the world.

You forget about everything.

Except him.

“You’re so beautiful…” he hums.

Lips brushed against your ear, naked chest pressing against yours, and his warm baritone makes your stomach flutter, eyes getting dilated.

“I wanna you feel good.” he purrs.

You huff, gripping his naked chest, nails digging into his skin.

His rough hands slide under your shirt, lifting it slowly, taking his time and making you impatient.

His hands roamed all over your body, gripping you wherever he wanted, and he finally tossed the shirt aside

It landed on the floor.

Leaving you bare for him.

The sudden exposure makes you shy, a flush warming your cheeks as you look away. Even after years of your relationship with him, the shyness never really faded.

But his gaze was unwavering, filled with so much adoration and love.

Your insecurities were gone.

“tae…” you whisper.

“You make me feel so…so seen.”

The words were vulnerable, and he responds with a hungry kiss, lips insistent, all tongue and teeth, claiming your mouth.

Almost like a feral animal taking his place.

The intensity made your knees weak as you cling to him while he practically eats your mouth.

The taste of him—clean, with a hint of the chocolate syrup from breakfast—flooding your senses, and you moan uncontrollably in his mouth.

“Mmm, tae…”

He swallows all your sounds with his tongue, his hands find your breasts, weighing them in his hands, loving the weight of them.

He always bragged about how your tits were the perfect size for him.

Made for his hands specifically.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, hardening them instantly under the touch, and the sensation was almost electric, a jolt of pleasure that goes straight to your pussy.

Your clit throbbing in need.

“Hah… oh, tae!”

You gasped, arching and pressing your breasts closer to him.

He groans lowly, thumbs connecting to your nipples, and he pinches your nipples lightly, rolling them between his fingers.

“Mhm, oh…oh…please—”

The combination of pain and pleasure made you pant.

“You’re always so sensitive… mm... I love it, baby.” he murmurs.

His lips brush against your collarbone while continuing to tease your nipples.

Water streamed over both of you, amplifying the sensation, the water acting like a slickness that leaves your mouth parted in ecstasy.

The water droplets slide down your skin, between your breasts, and Taehyung snarls at the sight.

Chasing the droplets with his tongue.

He finally decides to give you a bit of relief, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue flicking it in fast motions.

“Nghh, taehyung!” You cry out.

The wet heat of his mouth and tongue was almost overwhelming, your thighs trembled, pussy growing slick with arousal.

Your hands, desperate for him, slides down his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest and abs.

He exhales, humming his approval against your nipples, the vibrations have you trembling.

Your hand soon reaches for his cock, already hard and heavy against his thigh.

You wrap your hand around him, fingers barely meeting from his thickness, and you revel in his hardness.

His head fell back, the noises escaping unrestrained.

“Fuck my love,” he pants.

Hips bucking into your hand.

“You drive me crazy.”

You start stroking him slowly, your own chest heaving with shaky breaths, feeling the throb of him, water washing away the precum bedding out of him.

Your mouth waters with want.

Your clit pulsing in time with your strokes, an ache that you try to ignore by pressing your thighs together.

Seeking relief.

“You’re so hard…” you coo.

Your voice shy but laced with need and he growls, hands gripping your ass and pulling you flush against his chest.

Your bare tits pressing onto his hard chest, you let out a whimper.

“I want you,” he gruffs.

Eyes meeting yours burning with a love so intense, you struggle to breathe.

“My baby, I’m gonna miss this—miss you—every fucking second.”

The words a confession full of raw pain, and you feel your tears mingling with the water streaming down your body.

“I’m gonna wait for you… I swear.” you sob.

Your hand still working his cock, and your other arm wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

Your promise settled on his chest until he feels desperate again, tongue entering your mouth, biting and sucking your bottom lip.

All while he fucks your fist, hips bucking.

His hand fisted your hair, and you whine, letting him take whatever he wants from you.

Taehyung’s hands roam all over your body, every curve, every dip.

As if he's memorizing you.

Your slick now dripping on the floor, and with each brush of his finger, the ache seemed to increase, and it was almost painful.

You didn’t want teasing.

Not today.

Not when the time was running out so fast.

“tae, I need you.” you begged.

He nods, eyes darkening with a promise.

His own patience running out, not wanting to waste even a second with you.

“Not here, princess,” he rasps, gently.

“I want you in our bed, where I can take my time with you… wanna make every moment worth it.”

He turns off the shower, grabs a fluffy towel, wrapping you in it, hands gentle but possessive as he dries you off.

His lips brushing your skin with every moment, and you lean against the wall, lips parted.

Savoring his attention.

۶ৎ

Taehyung picks you up in bridal style, naked and you clutch his shoulder.

Your heart pounded with the adoration he stares at you with, he starts walking, reaching the bedroom, both your bodies still wet and dripping from the shower.

He gently lays you down on the bed, your heart racing as you look up at him.

He hovers above you, one hand propped beside your head, his presence and your need causing goosebumps all over your skin.

“My love,” he breathes.

“I wanna worship you today. Every inch of you—I want it all to be mine.”

Devotion in his words.

You swallow hard, shyness making your cheeks flush, but his gaze holds you to him.

Taking away your instinct to hide.

“taehyung,” you tremble.

“I’m yours.”

You declare, like always, his eyes softening before he presses his lips to yours once again.

The kiss starting slow, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger.

He deepened the kiss, making you let out needy noises on his mouth, his teeth scraping your lower lip, your fingers curling into the sheets as you arch into him.

“Mhhh, Tae…” you moan, softly.

He pulls back, breath hot, looking at you with dark eyes.

Eyes gazing all over your naked body, drinking you in, his stare felt like a physical touch.

“I could spend forever just kissing you, but I need more.”

You pant as he begins his descent downwards, lips trailing over your jaw to your sensitive neck, sucking gently.

A gasp left your mouth.

A faint hickey left on your skin.

The sensation was a delicious sting, your toe curling.

You felt exposed, still slightly wet breasts rising and falling with your quickened breaths, and a groan leaves his mouth.

His eyes taking you in.

“Perfect,” he rasps, in awe.

“Absolutely goddamn perfect for me.”

His hands cupped them just like he did moments before in the bathroom, but he doesn’t make you ache anymore.

He smirks wickedly, at your neediness.

A knowing curve on his lips.

Lowering his mouth to your breast, taking one nipple in his mouth, harshly, a lot rougher and hungrier.

“Oh, Taehyung!” you cry out.

Fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging.

His teeth grazed your nipple, enough to make you gasp out, body shuddering with his attention to your breasts.

“Please… please!” Your breath shakes.

Hips shifting against the sheets.

“It feels so good.”

He moves to the other breast, grazing your nipple with his teeth while pinching the other neglected one.

You're a squirming mess for him.

“Fuck,” he chuckles, darkly.

Pulled away from your now overly sensitive breasts, from his torment.

“I love the noises you make for me, darling…”

His kisses trailed lower, slow and taking his time as he places kisses over the smooth skin on your stomach.

Lips lingering on your navel, tongue licking a stripe.

The ticklish feeling making you squeak.

And you let out a giggle despite the heat building inside you.

The sound draws a deep chuckle from him.

He glances up at you, eyes sparkling with love.

“I love that sound too,” he says.

Thumb brushing over your thigh.

“I’m gonna miss every part of you, love, every bit of your noises along with your happy ones.”

The reminder made your grin fade, the sadness taking over.

But it doesn’t last long.

His fingers start brushing against your folds, slow and teasing. He parts you gently to reveal your glistening pussy.

He uses the pads of his thumb, exposing you completely, baring the throbbing nub between your legs.

His fingers grazed your inner thighs, and you whine, slickness dropping more.

Shyness forgotten at the back of your mind from being so vulnerable in front of him, only needing relief.

You’re already too wet, pussy slick with arousal, clit needing his touch.

He paused, eyes fixing on you, and you gulp.

“Look at you,” he grunts.

“So wet for me already.”

His hand cupped your entire mound, fingers exploring your cunt, gathering your slick

“Tae… please.” you whimper.

Hips bucked towards him, seeking more.

He hums darkly, his gravel voice sending a shiver down your spine as he starts to circle your clit with his thumb.

Your hands fisting the sheets tightly, brows furrowing.

“So needy… just like a naughty girl,” he grits out.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. I'm gonna give you everything you deserve.”

After all the teasing.

He finally presses his mouth to you.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit felt like a shock of pleasure, your hips lifted off the bed with a cry leaving your mouth.

“Hahh hah, tae—”

Your hands bunching the sheets around you, feeling dizzy with the wet heat of his tongue on your sensitive clit.

He starts sucking your clit, quickly and mercilessly, until you are shaking.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you, and you're uttering nonsense right now.

Voice unrestrained.

“Oh God, taee.”

Your fingers griped his hair, hips tightly closing around his head but he holds you open with ease.

Your strength nothing compared to his.

He continues worshipping you with his mouth.

His tongue switched patterns, alternating from flat licks to your clit to occasional sucks that make your thighs tremble.

The obscene sounds filling the room—wet noises from his mouth, mixing with slick and his own soft groans, while tasting you.

“You taste so fucking good, I can eat this little pussy forever.” he growls.

Voice muffled in your pussy and you sob, hips rocking on his mouth instinctively.

His fingers soon join his tongue, sliding inside you with an ease and the sudden stretch has you letting out a scream.

Overwhelmed.

He curls them instantly, trying to find that spot inside you that makes you cry for him, his favorite music.

You start seeing stars behind your vision.

He thrusts his fingers in time with the movement of his tongue.

The dual sensation was too much

Too much all at once.

The wet heat of his tongue and his thick fingers fucking you in fast motions has you calling out his name constantly.

He groans against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

“Nghh, Tae, I’m fuck—I’m close.”

You quivered.

Thighs clamped tighter around his head, the pressure building in your stomach, ready to snap any moment

He doesn’t let up.

His tongue worked your clit, fingers thrusting faster, hitting that sweet spot every time, and it felt like torture to you.

A delicious torture.

“Come for me, princess,” he hisses.

Lips brushing your clit as he speaks.

“I want to feel you fall apart.”

The orgasm hits you, body convulsed, a broken scream leaving you.

“taehyung! oh god, taehyung!”

Your loud moans filling the room as your pussy clenches around his fingers, clit pulsing wildly against his tongue.

The sensation makes your body tremble uncontrollably, your grip on the sheets keeping you from falling apart.

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue gentle, still lapping at you, drawing out your pleasure until you’re letting out breathy sobs.

Oversensitive and breathless.

“It’s too much, please—”

You plead.

Hands tugging at his hair.

He finally pulls back, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, the sight made your pussy clench, despite your orgasm.

He crawls up your body, capturing your mouth in a possessive kiss.

The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan, gripping his hair once again.

A reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed you.

“I love you.” you whimper against his lips.

“Love you too… my baby.”

Forehead rested against yours.

You cling to him, body still trembling as you press a kiss on his sweaty chest.

Your heart close to bursting.

You lie there, his arms wrapped around you, breathless and spent, the sheets damp beneath you with your release.

A proof of how he unraveled you so easily.

Your eyes fell to the clock, and your nails dig into his chest.

No matter how much you try to forget about what's about to come and enjoy the moment.

It's not possible.

Taehyung senses it, pulling you tighter to him.

His lips brushed your ear.

“This is just the beginning. I'm gonna spend all day today showing you how much you mean to me.”

۶ৎ

In the afternoon, you both are in the living room.

The air filled with jazz playing, a romantic song creating an intimate atmosphere.

A music genre that Taehyung always loved.

You both were enjoying each other's presence after having lunch, every detail of the day felt heightened.

As if the world had slowed.

To savor these last hours with Taehyung.

The weight of what's gonna happen tomorrow still there.

But for now.

There's only him—his presence, his touch on your body and love for you.

You’re standing in the center of the living room, bare feet. Taehyung standing across from you, intense eyes locking with yours

Your breath catches and you look away, a shy grin tugging at your lips.

“My love,”

“Dance with me.”

The command was soft, cheeks flushing as you hesitate, fingers twisting your shirt nervously.

But he steps closer, taking your hand in his big calloused ones, holding your soft small ones.

Protectively.

He pulls you into his arms, hand settling on his chest, and his hand grabbed your waist.

The other hand guiding your hand to his shoulder.

You felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, looked up at him, your own heart pounding, and eyes glistening.

You sway together.

The music helped with the slow movement of his hips against yours, breath warm against your temple, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.

You purred unknowingly, and you felt his smile without seeing it.

In that moment it felt like the world disappeared.

Only the two of you existing.

His hand slides lower, fingers laying across the small of your back, pressing you closer.

The moment innocent and romantic, but the hunger between you was palpable.

Wanting to feel each other all the time.

Before everything ends.

The friction of his pants against your bare thighs felt maddening, a tease that made your pussy pulse.

Even though he made you come just a few hours ago.

His hard cock pressed against you, and your breathing turns shaky.

“tae…”

Your eyes flickering up to meet his and the raw emotion there make your knees weak.

Love, desperation, hunger.

He doesn’t respond with words, only a low guttural hum left him, dipping his head to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

His lips soft yet demanding, wanting to take as much as he can from you.

It felt familiar.

In a way, you know where he does it when he's needy for you.

The taste of him, flooding your senses.

You melted into him.

Your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding into your mouth, exploring you, something that he has been doing the entire day, almost as if he wants to etch your taste in his memory.

Still, it makes your head spin.

His hands begin to roam, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other slipping beneath your shirt to caress your bare skin.

You gasp into his mouth, body arching towards him.

The dance forgotten.

Music faded in the background, both getting distracted by each other.

Once again.

“I can't get enough of you, baby.” he rasps, against your lips.

His words laced with an urgency that makes your heart pulse.

He pulls back enough to look at you.

“I need you. Right fucking now.”

Your breath hitched, restriction fading at the fire his words.

“Yea…”

The word was simple, but he hears the plea in it.

His lips curve into an almost predatory smile, and before you can process it, he’s moving with an urgency.

He presses you against the wall, the wall cool against your back, pressing himself against you, pinning you in place.

His hands are everywhere, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one quick motion, leaving you bare before him.

You didn’t bother to wear any bra and panties because he was busy taking your clothes off everywhere, at anytime.

And he always loved it when you remain bare for him.

The cool air raised goosebumps all over your body as he takes you in, never getting enough.

His hands start tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist.

Always taking his time exploring.

“I wanna see all of you… my beautiful girl.”

You tremble, lips parting on a shaky breath.

His mouth later finds your breasts, sucking and biting the nipple to his liking, switching breasts faster than you can keep track of.

Supplying both of them with his attention.

Your back arched off the wall.

“Oohh, Tae”

His obsession with your breasts never ending.

“I can never get enough of these tits” he grunts.

Your knees get weak, when he finally pulls back, your nipples completely coated with his saliva, and you whimper at the sight of him.

So commanding.

So utterly devoted to you.

“I wanna taste you everywhere” he groans.

He was about to kneel before you on the floor, but you stop him, a sudden urge overtaking your shyness.

A need to give as much as you’re receiving.

“taehyung…” you breathe, determined.

“Let me… Let me please you, please.”

His eyes widen slightly, soon turning into a smirk. He straightens, hands resting on your hips and nods, eyes never leaving yours.

“Anything for you, sweet girl.”

His voice thick with anticipation.

Now you are the one sinking to your knees before him on the floor.

Your hands tremble, reaching for his sweatpants, and you tug them down slowly, your breath catching as his cock springs free.

It's thick and heavy, tip glistening with precum, and the sight makes your mouth water.

Your pussy clenching.

You wrap your fingers around the base, marveling at the weight and it throbs for you, veins visible.

A low groan left Taehyung.

“Darling,” he exhales.

“Look at you, so eager for me.”

His hands cupped the back of your head, fingers fisting your hair.

Not pushing but guiding.

A gentle encouragement.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the tip, his salty taste filling your senses.

You moan softly, the sound vibrating against him, making him curse.

His grip on your hair tightened.

You finally take him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before you slide down taking him deeper.

The stretch was intense, tears welling in your eyes from the sheer size of him, the weight of him making you sputter as you try to breathe through your nose.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he growls.

“Such a good girl. Look at you, taking my cock so well.”

You whine against him.

“Fuck, keep doing that”

You bobbed your head, setting a rhythm, hand working what you cannot take inside your mouth, making gagging noises, which encourages him further.

His pleasing noises make you squeeze your thighs together, tears spilling down your cheeks.

The taste of him grows stronger as he spills more precum on your tongue and you savor it hungrily.

Your other hand cup his heavy balls, fondling and massaging them, to your liking, and he hisses.

His hips start to move, fucking your mouth with quick thrusts.

Taking what he wants from you.

“Oh God, your mouth feels like heaven.” he rasps.

Voice filled with awe and desperation.

His words spur you on and you take him deeper into your mouth, trying to relax your throat in order to fight the urge to gag.

The way he fills you so completely.

Taking over you.

You don’t stop, driven by the need to make him feel as cherished as he makes you feel, how he always puts your needs before his, when he deserved to be pleasured as well.

He’s close, you can tell—his breathing turns heavy, thrusts erratic, cock twitching against your tongue.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he warns.

“You want it, baby? Want me to come in this pretty mouth of yours?”

You nod as best as you can, your needy noises expressing your request for him to let go.

Your mouth worked faster.

And he finally lets out a strained groan, spilling in your mouth, hips stuttering.

The taste was overwhelming.

You swallow every drop, some of his release dripping down your chin, but you lick them like a good girl.

Licking the excess fluid off his cock.

Cleaning every single drop.

Trembling above you as he comes down, fingers stroking your hair, his eyes half lidded and jaw clenched.

He pulls you to your feet immediately, kissing you hungrily, tasting himself on your tongue.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Before you can deny him, his hands are on you again, lifting you effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist and he presses you back against the wall.

Your chest heaved with your pants from his manhandling, the strength in his arms.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls.

“now.”

His cock hard again, or maybe it never softened.

It finds your cunt like a magnet, pressing against your slick folds like it's meant to be there and you whimper, core aching with need.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t make you wait.

Knowing time was running out.

He lines himself up to your slit, thrusting into you in one smooth motion, filling you up and you forget to breathe.

“Gahhh, shit! taehyung!”

The stretch burned, but the pain soon mixes with pleasure, your head falling back against the wall.

He groans at the feel of your cunt clenching around him, forehead falling against yours.

“You're so tight and warm, my love.” his voice breaks.

“so damn good”

He starts to move, thrusting deep, yet quick, each one hitting that spot inside you, making you tremble in his arms.

Your body losing strength to hold yourself up, only supported by his arms, knowing he won't ever let you fall.

Trusting him with everything.

His powerful hands supported you, anchoring you to him, fucking you with a desperation that matches your own.

You call out his name, voice high and broken, nails raking down his back, leaving red, burning scratches all over his skin.

The sound of you both going at it drowns out the jazz still playing in the background.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, his tongue exploring your mouth almost matching with the motion of his thrusts.

All your loud moans and whimpers swallowed by his mouth.

“Mhmm, ahnnn.” you gasp, on his mouth.

Your noises encouraging him further to fuck you stupid against the wall.

“You’re mine.”

His palm lands a sharp spank on your bouncing ass and you let out a startled scream, his hips snapping.

Harder and faster.

“Say it, baby. Tell me you're mine.”

His voice possessive and angry, but there's also a hint of vulnerability.

A need for reassurance, making your heart ache.

He was overthinking.

“I’m yours tae!” you chant, voice breaking.

“Always, always only yours”

The words pushed him over the edge, hands bruising your ass while he pounds you to his liking.

You bite his shoulder to ground yourself, pussy clenching around his cock constantly, as the pressure builds.

“Come on,” he commands.

“I wanna feel you come on my cock like a good slut.”

His hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit like an expert, rubbing tight, quick circles, and you see stars.

“Ah, oh, fuck, fuck—”

You felt dizzy, head swimming as the pleasure makes you shatter so fast.

“Gosh, taehyung!”

Voice raw, pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock as you come.

He follows moments later, letting out an animal growl, cock pulsing, and he finally spills inside you, filling you to the brim.

His release warm inside you, making you shudder against him, biting his chest needily.

“Damn it.” he pants.

His thrusts slow and gentle now, drawing out the aftershocks until you are squirming in his arms, tears brimming your eyes.

He holds there, pinned to the wall, cock softening inside you.

You both cling to each other, a tangled mess of sweaty bodies not caring about anything but each other.

The room quiet now except for both your ragged breaths, the jazz playing in the background and the romantic song matching both your current state.

“I will miss you,” he whispers, voice choked.

“I’m gonna miss you every day.”

You cling to him, face burying in his shoulder, a few tears leaving you.

“I love you, tae,” you whimper

“I promise.”

The weight of tomorrow presses, heavily.

But for now.

You hold each other, everything else forgotten, every fear in the back of your minds.

Love the only thing existing.

۶ৎ

The night felt endless, raw desire and pained love filling the bedroom with heat.

The air heavy with the scent of sweat and arousal, your shared smell, the sheets tangled messily, soaking with dampness, clinging to both of your skin.

The only sounds—creak of the bed, skin slapping against skin along with your pleased noises, and his rough breathings.

The clock ticked on the nightstand.

A devastation.

Counting down the hours until Taehyung was gone.

But in this moment, time felt like an enemy, each touch and moan felt like you both wanted to hold it against the coming separation.

Taehyung was possessed with wild feral need, a beast with relentless energy, on a mission to unravel you and test your limits.

His dark hair was a sweaty mess clinging to his forehead, eyes were feral with a mix of rage, hunger, and love.

His muscles flexed with every movement of his, unbeatable strength driving him further into ruining you.

His cock standing proudly, hard and leaking precum, thrashing despite using it several times now.

And the breath leaves your lungs, shocked at his crazed need to own you.

Never getting enough of you.

Your pussy clenched with a need that feels almost painful, core swollen from all it has endured, but the slickness dripping out of you said otherwise.

Wanting him for the last time before morning arrives.

And everything ends.

“Mhnmm,” he growls.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight, you’ll feel me for weeks… mm, you’ll feel me every time you sit or walk.”

Your stomach knots under his gaze, he looks at you all over, memorizing all your trembles and reactions completely.

The intensity makes you feel exposed yet treasured in a way that has your lips parted trying to breathe as much as you can.

You’re spread across the bed, skin flushed with slick and sweat. Your thighs slick with arousal, the cool air making your pussy throb with an ache.

Your cunt sensitive from hours of his touch, yet you crave more.

Always craving more.

Your breasts felt tender and way too painfully sensitive, nipples hardened from the night's earlier attentions, along with your swollen reddened lips from his relentless kisses and makeouts.

“Hnn tae,” you mewled.

“Take me, please…”

He doesn’t hesitate, movements quick, crawling over you and his lips crash against yours, tonguing your mouth.

His arousal clinged to your tongue as well, and all of it mixing together to make a lewd taste.

That has you both moaning.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails scraping the already marked skin from earlier actions, making him hiss.

“This pussy is dripping for me, begging for my cock…”

“You’re gonna take my cock like a good naughty girl, hmm? Want me to fill you up, make you scream… yeah?”

His dirty words make you pant and you nod, breath hitching as he grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand.

The restraint has your body arch towards him, instinctively, body completely in control of him.

Turning you on further.

His fingers caress your soaked folds, parting them, sliding through your slickness, gathering them and teasing your slit.

You let out a whiny sigh, thighs parting further for him.

“tae… baby, please, I need you.”

The endearment for him rushes out of your mouth, a rare nickname for him that rarely slips out of you, due to your shyness.

And it makes him growl, satisfied, instantly rewarding you by plunging two of his thick fingers inside you.

“Hahh, gosh!” you moan.

He starts scissoring his fingers, stroking your spot and you are a mess, writhing against the bed, hips starting to rock against him at the motion of his thrusts.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh.”

You chant.

Your noises spilled out unconsciously, trying to quiet yourself as he works you open for him.

“That’s it, love”

Eyes fixed on your face, taking in all your reactions, making sure to go along with it, knowing exactly what you like, like the back of his hand.

“Don’t hold back, sweet girl,” he coaxes you.

“let everyone know how much you love my fingers in your tight little pussy… how it greedily sucks me in.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling it and your body jerks towards him.

His lips fall on your collarbone, leaving marks everywhere, sucking the marked skin from earlier, turning them purple.

Making sure the marks last you for weeks.

A reminder of him every time you look at a mirror, his love tattooed to your skin.

“taehyung, please… ohh, stop—stop teasing me! I need you—you inside me.”

You struggle to speak between your moans, voice breaking.

He groans, withdraws his fingers out of you with a wet squelch, bringing them to his mouth.

The sight of him licking your arousal off his fingers—eyes locked on yours, tongue slow as he savors each drop—makes you grind on his thigh, humping him like a bunny in heat, whimpers sputtering out of you.

Shame and shyness at the back of your mind.

Nothing makes sense to you anymore.

All you wanted was him and the connection.

“Shhh, don’t be such a dirty slut, baby.”

He rasps, steadying your moving thighs, stopping you from relief, and you pout.

“I could eat you the whole night, but I need to be inside you.��� he exclaims, roughly.

Positioning himself between your legs, keeps your legs spread and without warning, he penetrates you.

Burying himself with a fast, brutal thrust.

“Oh my god, Taehyung, fuck!” you scream.

He grunts, beginning to move at a fast pace.

Pounding you or ruining you.

You couldn’t understand.

He reached such depths inside you, you didn’t know existed, almost reaching your stomach and your wails came out freely.

“Fuck, this cunt is all mine, yeah? made for my cock…”

He laughs darkly, a sex demon in his place and you almost couldn’t recognize him, hand fisting the sheets, burying your face in them.

“Fucking answer me, slut!”

He lashes out, fingers finding your clit and pinching it hard and you let out a scream, soon turning into a sob.

“Yes, yes, only yours, tae, too much.” you hiccup.

He hums his approval, bed shaking beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with each of his thrusts.

His cock hits that spot inside you with every thrust, a torture that has your toes curling, breasts bouncing for his eyes.

You moaned, hips automatically pulling away from the pleasure, not understanding whether you want more or it's too much.

“Don’t run, baby…”

Gripping your wrists tighter, pinning you in place.

“Mhhh—you love this, don’t you? love being stretched to your limits?”

His hips puncturing each of his words inside you and you let out a sob at his words, body arching to meet his, hand gripping wherever you can on his body.

He releases your wrists, griped your hips instead, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

He angles you to take him deeper, thrusts growing more forceful and the sound of skin slapping against skin gets louder, his grunts escaping along with your mindless noises.

“I love you,” he signs.

“Shit, I can’t—I hate leaving you like this. I wanna stay here, fucking you, loving you forever...”

His anger can be heard in his words, thrusts turning angry, a glare etched his eyebrows.

“I love you, tae.”

“always—gahh hahhh—”

He leans down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, teeth grazing it.

The dual sensation—his cock pounding into you, mouth on your breast—too much.

You cannot take it.

“Come for me, darling. Show me how much you love my cock.”

His own voice strained.

His words pushed you over the edge and you shatter, orgasm breaking through you and you scream loudly in between your sobs.

“tae! mmphhh, nooo.”

Your pussy pulsed and clenched on him, his hips faltering.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t give you a moment to recover.

He pulls out and the sudden emptiness has you whimpering, but he's already flipping you onto your stomach, hands rough and urgent.

“On your knees.” he barks.

You obey, body trembling and controlled by him, sensing his anger.

All this will soon be over in a few hours.

You lifted your hips, ass presenting to him, pussy gaping after being stretched, giving him a good view of your insides and your release dripping out, folds swollen.

Your tight ring just above clenching pathetically, slicked as well.

“Goddamnit!” he growls.

You jump at how unrestrained and possessed he seemed right now, both of you wild and feeling madness overtake.

His hands grip your cheeks, spreading you open more, taking a good look at your bottom, your both holes.

You let out a trembling whimper, hiding your face in the sheets, overtaken by shame, but your hips still rocked towards him.

Wanting him.

“Such pretty holes for me. You're going to take me so good, mhmm?” he breathes.

He thrusts into you again, the new angle getting him a lot deeper than expected.

“Ahh, tae, too much—too—”

Your voice cracks, hands fisting the sheets, burying your face in them and biting on a pillow, trying to ground yourself.

Almost tearing the fabric in the process.

His hips slam against your ass, eyes fixed on your bouncing ass and the way his cock plunges in and out of your sopping pussy.

Coated with your arousal.

A sight that will be a permanent thing in his memory for the lonely nights in the military.

He trembles, his own moans leaving as he continues drilling into you, balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of painful pleasure into you.

Your body instinctively moves away, his fingers quickly grabbing a handful of your hair, pulling you to meet his thrusts and the pain along with pleasure has you letting out cries.

Your throat aching from the constant noises.

“Ah, you’re my girl for sure.” he praises.

He reached around, palming your pussy, tapping your clit with his fingers a few times, enough to make you scream.

“taehyung. taehyung. taehyung”

You call out his name repetitively, mindless, only capable of uttering his name.

“I’m gonna, ahhah, come again.”

He grunts, thrusts growing erratic, control leaving him.

“Do it, baby, let me feel you fall apart for me once again”

You scream, vision going white, coming once again, losing count of how many orgasms you've had in a day.

Your body hurt, achy core swollen, body falling limp onto the bed.

He follows you soon, his groan primal, cock pulsing, spilling inside you, filling you up until it hurts.

A pain you welcomed.

“Fuck” he pants.

He collapses onto you, his weight heavy and making you feel secure, breath hot against your neck.

“You’re everything”

Your body still shook, which he tries to soothe by lovingly caressing your back.

But he’s not done.

The night still there, a need still wanting to be quenched.

He pulls out, making you whimper and he flips you onto your back again, eyes dark.

“I need more,” he growls.

“You know I won’t stop until you say the safe word, love…”

His words final and he spreads your legs, eyes locking onto your pussy, dripping with his release mixed with yours and he snarls loudly at the sight.

Your body weak as your toes curled, almost like you're preparing yourself for the long night ahead.

He leans down, not being able to help himself, tongue capturing the little overstimulated bud that has been palpitating needily.

Your body jerked.

“Hnnngg! tae, please, I can't anymore—”

You sniffed, tears streaming but he didn’t listen, tongue collecting both of your arousals mixed together, humming at the taste, sucking until you let out a broken wail.

Your mouth parted, drool spilling onto the sheets.

Your thighs shook around his head and he finally decides to give you a break, letting you breathe.

He slowly faces you, lips glistening, kissing you, sucking onto your bottom lip, letting you taste the combination.

“I’m so angry I have to leave you.”

His words were angry as you see his nostrils flare, and you grip onto his hair, sucking his tongue needily.

“Come back to me soon, tae… come home.”

Still struggling to speak from your intense orgasms, you could feel your heart breaking, a feeling that was more painful than anything.

Home.

A word that he knew was only associated with you.

Home was where you are.

“always... my precious girl.”

His eyes locked onto yours and the endearment of his words, the connection between the two of you had tears streaming down your eyes, his own tears mixing with yours.

Him not being able to stay strong any further. You cling to each other, never wanting to let go.

Hating the universe for separating you both

۶ৎ

The night continues in a rush of different positions, each one more desperate than the other.

He takes you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder, cock hitting deep.

You also ride his cock, which turned into him fucking you against the headboard, your back pressed against the wood.

Your screams and cries echoed through the night, filling the room along with his occasional groans and ragged breaths.

By dawn, you both were spent.

The room heavy with the scent of sex.

You collapsed together, naked and tangled, bodies no longer able to move, drained of all its energy.

۶ৎ

The morning light hits you through the bedroom window, unforgiving, the reality of what's about to happen sinking in.

The tangled, damp sheets clings to both of you, the faint red marks on your body and his, from the passion and roughness of last night.

The air still thick with the obscene smell of sweat and sex from what you and Taehyung shared.

Your body ached intensely, each muscle raw and painful from hours of lovemaking.

But it doesn’t compare to the pain in your heart.

A wound that's threatening to break you completely.

You stirred, fighting against the exhaustion, and the first thing you feel was that Taehyung's still inside you.

His cock, now softened but heavy, remains nestled deep inside your pussy, a connection that felt like a lifeline in this moment.

He didn’t want to let you go.

So he stayed inside while you were unconscious in tiredness, asleep.

The sensation was overwhelming—binding you together physically as if that can even stop what's about to happen soon.

Your walls pulse softly around him, still sensitive from the night's intensity, each flutter on your oversensitive core, sending you gasping.

The warmth of him inside you grounded you, reminding you of the way he claimed you.

Just an hour ago.

You’re sprawled across his chest, cheek pressed against his hard muscle, his heartbeat lulling you.

His skin was still slightly slicked with sweat and you look up at him, watching him sleep so peacefully, the sight bringing fresh tears to your eyes.

His lips slightly parted, skin flushed, in that moment he looked so innocent, so peaceful, away from all the worries in the world, just resting, something so rare.

A sight you will lose for long months.

You placed a soft kiss on his chest, just below his nipple, tasting the saltiness of his sweat.

The cockwarming felt more than physical—a refusal to let go even in sleep.

Your pussy stretched and full and every breath you took shifts you slightly, causing him to press further into your inner walls.

Your breath hitched, a moan escaping.

It's not arousal, not exactly, your body was too spent for that.

But a deep, aching connection

A need to hold onto him in every possible way.

You felt vulnerable, heart breaking into pieces at the thought of losing this closeness. The sensation of being connected to him felt both comforting and torturous.

You pressed closer to him, fingers curling onto his chest.

As if you can keep him here.

Make him stay.

Taehyung’s arms are wrapped around you, one hand resting possessively on your hip, the other tangling in your hair as if he’s afraid to let go even in sleep.

His chest rising and falling with his breaths, but there’s a tension in his body.

You shift slightly, his cock twitching inside you and you let out a quiet whimper, body too tired to respond fully but you are too aware of him, so you cannot ignore it.

Your movement felt by him and he soon wakes, breath hitching as he realizes that it's morning now.

The thought settling over him like dread.

“Morning, sweet girl.” he murmurs.

His voice raspy and deep from sleep.

You knew he was trying to lighten your mood.

But it wasn’t working, it ached you further hearing his voice.

His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there, feeling his lips tremble, his emotions can be felt just from that simple touch alone.

His cock still inside you and he doesn’t move to pull out as if he were too clinging to the final moment of connection.

“So warm, so perfect around me… god, I don’t want to leave this—leave you.”

His voice almost breaking with his own pain, your chest tightened, throat constricting with unshed tears.

You tilt your head to meet his and the sight of his eyes—red rimmed along with exhaustion but still expressed so much love for you just with his eyes alone.

The stubble on his jaw gives him a rugged, almost broken beauty.

“tae” you breathe.

His face was blurry with the tears you cannot hold back anymore, buring your face in his chest, wanting to escape this moment so bad.

But his fingers grip your chin, turning your face to his, gaze intense, demanding the truth.

“I’m—I’m gonna miss you.” you confess, shakily.

His jaw clenched and you can see the flash of anger in his face—anger at the fact that he has to leave you, that you are crying.

He hates being the reason for your tears.

He feels like killing himself if that will stop you from crying, from hurting.

“Fuck this,” he spits out.

“I don’t want to go, baby. I can't—”

He swallows hard, brows furrowing in pain.

“I can't leave you like this, still wrapped around me, so mine... this is killing me.”

His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into your skin, with a desperate need to hold onto you.

You’re crying now, silent tears streamed down your face, he cups your face in his hand, thumbs brushing away your tears.

His tenderness making you cry harder.

His warm touch not enough to dull the grief you were facing.

“I’ll wait for you, tae. I promise, until you return.”

His eyes soften, but the anger still there.

“I’m coming back to you. Nothing, absolutely no fucking thing, will keep me from you… I swear it, hm?”

His hand holds you to him tightly, the movement causing his cock to shift inside you, you shudder against him.

He lets out a deep, tortured groan, forehead meeting yours.

“You’re my only girl.”

You whimper at his words, his endless love for you and how he makes you feel so important.

So needed.

“I want to stay like this forever.” he murmurs.

You nod, tears falling faster, he captures your lips, desperately, with a mix of sorrow.

His tongue claims your mouth with a hunger that makes your heart race, you kiss him back with equal fevor, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

You feel him twitch inside you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, hands still cupping your face.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” he commands.

“Eat properly, don’t skip meals. You know I don’t like it, yeah? and I need you strong and healthy, waiting for me… promise me, come on.”

His voice authoritative in a way that makes a small smile tug at your lips, a hushed chuckle leaving you that makes him smile in return.

Him always fussing over to take care of you in other days made you amused, tease him, but now it felt too wrong.

Too heartbreaking.

“I promise.” you tremble.

He nods, eyes searching yours, memorizing all your features for one last time.

“And sleep well.” he continues.

Voice almost pleading.

“Don’t stay up all night worrying about me, tiring yourself. If you’re not okay, I won’t be either… so be a good girl for me.”

You lean into his touch, tears soaking his skin.

“I’ll try,” you whimper.

“For you, I’ll try.”

He exhales shakily, pecking your lips.

“I love you.”

“You’re my reason. Don’t ever forget that.” he whispers.

Finally he moves, his cock slipping out of you, with a wet sound, you both gasp at the loss of him so suddenly after being full the entire night.

Leaving you hollow.

Your pussy gapes before clenching around nothing and you let out a whine, the sudden absence almost painful.

“I’m sorry, my love.” he croaks, hurt in his voice.

Kissing your nose, he helps you settle against the pillows, hands gentle but trembling.

The room already felt cold without his arms wrapped around you and you bite your bottom lip trying to hide a wail, pulling the sheets around your naked body.

A shield against the reality of his departure.

Taehyung stands, broad shoulder decorated with red marks from your nails, occurred from your desperation.

His skin holding your marks.

He moves to the dresser, pulling out the neatly folded military uniform that’s been waiting like a burden all week.

The olive green fabric was a sharp difference from the soft masculine clothes he usually wears and the contrast breaks your heart a little more.

He dresses with a quiet intensity as if getting ready for a war he doesn’t want to fight.

Being forced to do this.

The uniform hugs his muscles tightly and the sight of him in it was both breathtaking and devastating for you.

He looked like a soldier.

Strong and determined.

But the slump of his shoulders and his clenched jaw proved that he was breaking inside.

Shattering.

He catches you watching him, a flash of raw pain etches his features.

“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he pleads.

“You’re making it harder.”

But he crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed, hand reaching for yours.

He pressed your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles with so much adoration you cannot breathe, his own hand shaking.

“I need you to be strong for me”

“Eat and sleep well. Do it for me, my love, because I'm coming back… and I need you whole when I do.”

“I will.” you sob, voice barely there.

He stands up, pulling you in his arms, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one softer and gentler, trying to savor you.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs wipe away your tears when his own are spilling.

The saltiness of both your tears being tasted and shared between you.

Last shared kiss.

One last time.

“I’ll write to you.” he says.

Once he pulls back, voice fierce and determined.

“Every chance I get, and when I’m back. I’m never letting you again… you'll be mine forever.”

He stands, grabbing the duffel bag that’s been packed and waited by the door.

You follow him to the doorway, the sheets wrapped around your bare body, legs unsteady, each step aching your core from all it endured last night.

But it wasn’t enough to stop your cries, or the pain of him leaving you for so long.

He turned to you one last time, eyes burning with love and rage, his jaw ticking at how helpless he felt.

“I love you”

He breathes, rough hand coming up to caress your cheek one last time.

“always”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and you're left empty, all alone.

You collapsed to the floor, sobs leaving your mouth, freely now, no longer holding back as you poured out all your emotions.

Your pained cries echoing in the room, the empty room taunting you.

His scent still on your skin, his warmth in the sheets.

But it's never enough.

It's not him.

But it will be all you have left to cling to in the long months ahead, his love for you the only anchor.

Until he returns.

Back to your arms, but this time no world to pull you both apart.

────

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Bound By Blood (m)

synopsis: A servant to the state since birth, forced to work for the royal family until you die. These are the conditions that have granted you life, yet are they are the same ones that can take everything away. He can take everything away. But he would never, for you are his future, his eternity.

k.taehyung x f.reader

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: wc: 16.0k

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: genre: royalty au, soft yandere, fluff, smut, smidge of angst

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: content: soft yandere!prince!taehyung, maid!reader, power imbalance, talks about death/violence, blood, slight predator/prey dynamics, manipulation, misunderstandings, dom!tae, tae calls reader lamb, oral (f.receiving), marriage related dirty talk, virginity kink/loss of virginity, size kink, praise, reader is fucked dumb, implied kissing reader while she sleeps, implied offscreen somno, implied stalking, ownership, tae is rlly sweet and adorable

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: notes: hello!!! this was meant to be a drabble but as you can see it spiralled out of control lmao. i got a little hyper fixated (and grew a really bad crush on this taehyung) so it ended up being way longer than i initially thought! regardless, i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it!!

18+ -> minors / blank blogs dni

The Kim Empire. 

Your home, your family, your livelihood all wrapped up in those three little words.

They practically brandish your mind, have been since you were no more than a babe. Stuck in the clutches of everything Kim since you were born. Your mother a maid, your father gone from the face of the earth. At least as far as you are concerned he is, anyway. 

He is better off dead. The alternative of him living scott free in some far off land, meanwhile you have to serve the hand and foot of the king sets no more than the bitter taste of coffee beans against your gums. 

Bedding your mother, no more than a fresh-faced maid at the time. Outcasting her the second after when he had to have known the rules of the palace. The demise it would cost both her and her future daughter. Perhaps every generation that followed as well– if there were to be any, that is. 

Housestaff are not meant to have relationships. They are meant to serve the king and his bountiful family. How are you meant to do anything else with a child bouncing at your hip, a husband grabbing at your ass. 

You’ve heard the speech plenty of times. The words ingrained in your skull just as the brand you received when you were far too young to remember the pain of it. Evidence that you are bound to the palace by blood until the very moment you take your last breath. 

The punishment for becoming pregnant within the walls of the palace are simple: your child belongs to them. For anything within the Kim Estate is their rightful property, given to them by the grace of god. 

You, a gift from god to serve the empire. You would snort at the notion if training from a young age prohibited it. You are just a result of your mothers kindness, her naivety. 

You could never find it within your heart to blame her. She was just a girl who thought she was in love. Fired for her love. Had her daughter taken from her to serve for her love.

Love is something you will never be granted the property of. 

You will be granted an allowance to send home to your mother to keep her afloat. You will be granted a room to sleep in, clothes to wear, food to eat. A secure job in which you can never be fired– well. That is a lie. Though, your termination would come at the end of an axe, rather than a piece of paper. 

You used to muse at the thought– when you were a young girl, no more than 11 or 12. Going through your melancholy years, hating the rest of the world for simply existing. For putting you in a position where you could not change your fate, instead had to endure your present. Feeling like a  girl trapped in a tower just like the bedtime stories had always prescribed. 

One time you had caused such a ruckus in front of the oldest Kim son you really did think you were going to get the axe. Hell, you were even prepared for it. Locked away in a cell for two nights, brought before the executor. 

Right before the swing was meant to be brought down against your neck the head maid ran into the room, gave some sort of letter to the man. She apologised profusely, gripping your ear and dragging you away from the scene. 

You hadn’t acted ary since then. It taught you your place. Made you realise the need to survive buried deep within your bones. In the innate way some sort of wildcat would lash out until it was bloodied and on its last breath. 

You would not die at the end of a knife. You’d live your life, acting a maid until you could die peacefully of old age. Even if it meant surrendering yourself to servitude for the most annoying brat you’ve ever laid eyes on. 

A quiet sigh slips past your lips at the mere thought of him. The sound would get you punished if anyone were to hear, especially in respect to the coveted crown prince of the kingdom. Few share the same opinion as you of him– but then again most that work here aren’t forced. 

It is only when the stars are strung high in the sky that you allow yourself to feel such things. When you stay awake past the beginning of rest hours, most of the staff (save for the night shift) falling to sleep hours prior. Only then when you’re out in the gardens do you allow indignation to satiate your brain. 

For the few hours of freedom you may hold dear until the next morning begins and you are forced to live the same day once more. Over and over again until the end of time. 

Your fingertips reach out as you walk, bruised from the scrubbing of floors, to find purchase against the walls of flowers rimming the maze. Rough fingertips dance against the gentle petals of roses, lulling in the feeling. Picking themselves against the thorns without much of a thought, not withdrawing. Only pausing feet to observe. 

How can something so delicate and beautiful wish to cause harm? It does not. It simply desires a way to survive. You could never fault it for that. 

“Pretty, are they not?” A dark, husky voice sends cold down your spine. Hairs become on edge, back straightens taught, ears perk just as if you are an obedient dog. Fear flashing through your entire being.

You do not wish to turn around. Do not have any want to face the man that has caught the air in your lungs. The one catching you in the garden without any proper attire in place. Though you must. You must bow, grovel at his feet for forgiveness for allowing him to see you in your nightgown. For not being in bed as you should. 

Prince Kim has never been known for being kind. 

Your body acts for you while your mind sets on pause– taking several steps forward, bending your body at the hips to give a proper 90 degree bow. Your hands clasp before you, hair coming down in front of your face. 

“Prince Kim–” You rush, suddenly out of breath, “Please forgive my insolence. I-I am not of right attire or mind to be standing in front of his excellency right now. Nor should I be excused for touching the property of the palace. I have no proper excuse and any punishment you decide will be deserving. Please forgive me.” The words recite from your lips like a bible– instruction of them being heard time and time again. 

Cold night air whips at your ankles, fluttering the gown around your ankles. The chill only adding to the cold sweat you’ve discovered has perspired. Making your hair dance around your shoulders.

You expect something, anything really. A slap, a single word. Though there is only silence in response. Silence that extends far too long and feels far too pungent for your taste. If he was going to do something, you rather he just get it over with. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally hear the baritone of his voice once more.

“Pretty, are they not?” He asks again, repeating the same sentiments as before. Confusion bristles through as a kite in the summer air. Why is he asking you this? Is he not annoyed he caught a maid in such a level of disrobement? What is he trying to gain? What does he want? 

All the questions you do not have any hope to answer rush through you causing you to feel confused and incomposed. Every boring lesson you were forced to sit through never taught you how to deal with this exact situation. You aren’t sure what he wants, nor your place in the garden. The thought scares you. 

Against your better judgement, you allow your chin to tilt up only slightly. Only enough to look at the man– to try and read the expression on his face so you can better analyse your next action. 

The shock you feel when you find his face is only inches from your own, frame bent down to make his eyes level with yours is something you cannot explain in words alone. 

You would prefer to scream and run, however that is not an option at this moment, or so it appears. Instead, your eyes only widen in shock, in trepidation. Your mouth opens into a small ‘o’ as you stare.

Never before have you made eye contact with a member of the family. Never before have you had the luxury to view one so close. In any other circumstance, you suppose, you would surely be punished for such a thing. Someone lower should never view a future king in such a way.

You wish you could say he was a heinous, ugly beast for hatred of the palace alone. Yet you can’t, for he isn’t. He is beautiful. 

Sure, you knew that already. Paintings of him are plastered across the walls– his face is everywhere eyes are able to reach. Yet this close, at this angle, you can’t stop the way your heart skips a beat. Can’t help but admire every facet of his complexion before being thrown in front of the lion again. 

A gorgeous, blinding smile wipes across his face the moment you face him. Lips forming into an adorable box after he finally has your attention fully drawn on him. You’re startled back once again, sending your brain into a further whirlwind than before. 

He desires an answer.

“I um… Yes. I suppose they are.” You nod slowly in response, following in his footsteps as he returns to full height. 

You must follow his lead– it is how you will survive. 

You usher a stray lock of hair over your shoulder, trying to stop it from hitting your face. The air starts to become stale again, feeling empty in the lack of his reply. It is awkward, and the way he stares at you, eyes darting around your face– your figure, has you feeling in some sort of girlish, embarrassed way. 

You think you dislike the feeling. 

“Are you a fan of roses?” His arms are pulled behind him, wrapped together as he bounces on his toes in something that looks like… boyish delight? The muddle of your brain can't help to understand a single thing. He is making no sense, trying to make conversation with you. Trying to find a morsel of companionship in someone who is meant to bow to him like he is the true god of your mortal plain.

You will have to oblige until he allows you to depart. 

“I suppose so.” 

He frowns. Try again.

“I adore them, the palace always has the most gorgeous petals all year round.” You smile at him, hoping it masks any discomfort you feel. 

The smile returns to his own lips as he begins to walk. Tilting his head to you as a cue to join him. You try to keep your paces a few behind his own, a maid should never walk beside a member of the family. Though he only slows in response, matching your gate even though it is obvious he hates having to slow down. 

Why is he behaving in this manner? It makes no sense to you. 

“The flower of devotion.” He nods, breaking the silence once more and keeping his eyes straight ahead. 

You almost want to admire his profile– the gentle curve of his nose, yet you refrain. Training your eyes ahead, keeping your fingers laced in front of you. Trying to look as put together as possible at this moment. 

“Is it?” You quiz, unable to take the awkward silence anymore. He doesn’t seem to mind it. Unbothered, tucking his hands into the pockets of his loose, flowing sleep pants. 

“Of many other things, as well.” He nods, sending a slight smile at you. 

“I don’t know much about the language of flowers.” Though it feels wrong to be talking with Prince Kim so casually, you try your best. The more you give in, mayhaps the sooner he’ll bore and the faster you will be able to run from the cage. 

“Tell me your favourite, maybe I can tell you its meaning.” He pauses and you find yourself at the foot of the gazebo. He reaches out his hand, offering to help you up the small stairs of it. 

All over again you find yourself taken aback. The prince is requesting that you touch him, not for his service, but your own. He desires to help you. Is for some reason treating you like a lady. 

You don’t understand it, yet with great hesitation you oblige. You place your hand on his much larger one, allowing it to encase it. Help you up the stairs.

“I don’t know many…” You hope he cannot hear the hesitation in your tone, “Though I’ve always been fond of lilies.” You tell him, attempting to pull your hand away from his own as you reach the top. 

He doesn’t allow it, keeping your small palm tight in his own. Fear trickles in once more, circling around your heart, constricting it. 

You knew you shouldn’t have trusted him in the slightest. It is here where you shall face punishment for all the previous misdemeanours committed. White stone shall be painted with red and you will be left to your own devices to clean up the mess.

Your lungs start to take in more air, though of course you try to disguise it. Turning around to face him, to discover why he has kept you held firm, air is leaving your lungs for another reason entirely. 

He holds your hand close, examining your fingers. Tilting it back and forth, smoothing his thumb over the back of your skin. If he takes note of the little dots of red, he doesn’t make comment of it. He only curls his fingers upwards, hooking against your own. Bringing your hand up to his lips as if it was the most delicate thing on earth. Staring at them with a passion you doubt you’ve ever seen before.

“Rebirth.” His breath fans across your knuckles, slowly lowering to place a gentle kiss against the skin. His lips are soft, so gentle against your weary flesh. So full of safety, so full of song.

When he retracts, he pulls away no more than a millimeter, though his grip tightens. 

“Purity.”

Your first meeting with the prince had left you with a flurry of emotions, none of which you could hope to syphon through. For hours he kept you in the gazebo, sitting with you. Talking until it appeared the sun was cresting over the horizon. 

He refused to release your hand the entire time. His fingers playing with your own, perhaps obsessed with the feeling of your tiny hand laced with his own pristine skin. Did not pay any attention the several times you tried to excuse yourself, only changing the subject of conversation to try and keep you in place.

It was strange. Confusing. You did not understand the reasoning or cause behind any of his actions. 

Well, at least until the next morning while you were scrubbing the floors. Your friend Annabell cleaning right by your side. Catching up, gossiping about the new recruits found in the manner. It is only times like these when you actually get the chance to talk, to giggle with someone meant to be your equal in both age and house status. 

The only chance you’re truly able to forget about the fact she is able to leave once her contract expires. But it does not matter– any small amount of spite you hold is slashed away by her kind smile. The understanding in her eyes as she treats you like just another maid set to work for the king instead of a captive. 

It is only after the 7th yawn of the morning she asks about the poorly covered bags under your eyes. You had gone to bed with the rest of the girls, there is no reason you should be so tired. You never appear to be, at least it is not shown around others.

You struggle with yourself for a moment, trying to decide whether the night before was meant to be kept as a closely guarded secret to your chest. Yet one look at your closest confidant had you spilling everything. 

The entire night– the stars, the flowers, the way he prattled on. How tight he gripped your dirty, calloused hand against his pristine soft ones. 

You feel strange speaking of it, remembering it in any way. It causes your cheeks to heat and a fury to settle below your ribs. 

It is a strange feeling, yet not an entirely unwanted one. 

Your eyes train to the floor as you spill your soul, unable to keep it in once it starts pouring out. You try to keep your tone as neutral as possible– to tell her about the night as if it was a simple news story you heard from a guard. Though, you’re unsure of your success in the matter. 

A poised laugh leaves the lips of your counter, her eyes cresting into half-moons. 

“You cannot be serious right? You tell stories.” She giggles, shaking her head before continuing her assault on the floor. 

You simply shake your own. 

“It happened, I was as shocked in the moment as you seem to be now.” She lets out a small bellow of giggles once again. 

“No, no. I believe it happened entirely. I’m only talking about the fluster of your face.” She giggles, lifting her rag and shaking it for dramatic effect. You roll your eyes, cracking a small smile.

“There is no such thing.” You laugh knowing that there is. 

“Oh my heavens. Y/n, you cannot tell me you’ve grown fond of the Prince, have you?” Her words are hushed now, much more so than before. As if someone may be listening to the conversation. 

You tense in reply, unsure of the answer yourself. The closest you’ve ever felt to fondness of another man was a stable boy a few years back. Only 17 at the time, head wrapped in romance novels that you didn’t entirely understand. He was handsome and he was kind. However just as you were starting to become closer to him, he was sent away to work at another palace. 

You had not been optimistic since then.

She takes your silence as an answer in itself. Moving towards you, gripping your shoulders and hauling you to sit on your haunches. Forcing you to look at her face as she speaks. 

“You cannot be serious.” She repeats again, hoping for any sign of doubt. All she receives is bewilderment in reply, “Y/n. You can never trust Prince Kim.” 

You sigh, “I know, Anne, I–” You’re cut off with her own voice again.

“No, not in the way you’re imagining.” She sighs, letting her hands drop from your shoulders to continue scrubbing at the floor. Making work of herself as she speaks, “The other maids don’t tell you of much, do they?” 

You can’t deny it. Your seclusion within the castle walls is only partly of your own design. 

Other maids do not feel as though they can trust you, seeing as you are full property of the crown. In their eyes, you hold not a crumb of loyalty to your own kind. Few maids speak to you like Annabell does for fear the second they say anything wrong you are going to tell the world. 

You would never, though your word is worth its weight in feathers to them.

“They don’t care for me as you do… no…” You admit, continuing to clean as well. She already knew the answer, letting out an exhale before she speaks.

“Prince Kim has a pension for… debauchery… I shall say,” She flinches at her own words, yet doesn’t know a better way to put it, “The variety in which he uses pretty words to seduce young ladies to bed with him. Royalty from other lands, general’s daughters, maids. It matters not. He likes them for the night then pretends they shall never exist again.” 

Each word she speaks sends another stab into your gut. A dull pain blooming from the same places which a swirling was forming before. 

Ah. It all makes sense now. 

“Oh.”

“He has a particular fondness for the other maids, you know. Bedding them without a second thought.” A grimace forms on your friend's lips, scrubbing harder into the already shining floors, “There is no reason to form any sort of affection for that man. It will only end with his seed inside your core and a knife in your heart.” 

Yes, everything she is saying makes perfect sense. You feel almost stupid to not see it before. Maybe you just didn’t want to see it– want to think about it in any sort of fashion. But this makes much more sense than the crown prince wanting to speak to you for any other purpose. Explains why he was acting as a true gentleman to someone so much lower than him. 

However, you find that it does not take away the cavernous pit that has formed in your gut. 

“I see, I have no desire for either.” You nod your head in understanding, not sure of what else to say. “I don’t understand why he’s taken an interest in me, though.” 

She gawks, “I don’t understand why it has taken him so long to in the first place.” She shakes her head.

“Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter. Y/n, you must promise me. You will not fall for him, nor give any part of yourself to him. He is not someone that will care for you like you deserve.” She states, blue eyes piercing icicles into your own. She is determined and will not relent until you agree.

“I do not wish to. Not after hearing all of…” You make some sort of motion with your hand, “that. Anyone would be a fool to like him.” 

You nod your head while Annabell smiles in agreement. 

“Good.” 

Those are the last words you exchange with anyone for hours. The rest of the day passed by with lightning, an endless turnstile of things to take care of. A ball was to be held soon meaning the castle would be a wreck for the next few days. Too much planning, cleaning, sewing, coordination had to take place before anyone could rest. 

Honestly, you were grateful for it. A break from thinking was much needed. As is a good night’s rest. 

You sigh, already imagining how lovely it would feel to pull off your shoes for the day. Peel the cotton off your body and replace your dress with something more comfortable. 

Oo! Hopefully enough warm water will be left for a quick bath. That would be just wonderful, your muscles would be able to unfurl. The perfect thing to lull you into a glorious sleep.

Your arms stretch over your head as you finish descending the staircase into the maid hallways. Bones in your back pop from the pressure, causing a sigh to make its way from your lungs. Your nimble fingers make their way to the ribbon holding your hair in place, untying it and allowing the tresses to fall. 

Soon you would be in the maid resting quarters– your appearance would matter not there anyway. 

You send small smiles to other staff members passing you, those that have either just woken for the night or those who still have work to do. Yet in return, each one of them just stares at you with an incredulous look. Turning and whispering to their friends as if you were not still in front of them. 

You can’t help to understand why. Those around you may not have considered you a friend, but they were never rude. Always polite when need be. It has you feeling strange, some type of nervousness as you get closer and closer to the hallway extending to the maids personal rooms. 

Rounding the corner, you discover exactly why. 

His frame looks entirely out of place standing there. A perfect, pristine picture in a hallway of drab, illuminated only by the lanterns hanging on the wall. Royal blue tunic draped on his shoulders only emphasising his status. 

He looks as though he was never meant to be here. Like a mistake was made along the cobblestone walls. No, he looks as though he is meant to be among the living. Not in your dreary, windowless life. Nothing could change that. 

You stand there frozen, a deer caught in the lanturn of a hunting party. A pounding of your heart, as well as the dark swell of your gut coming back to life. Why is he here? Why the hell does he have a bouquet of flowers?!

You wish to scream, but you don’t. You have already been caught. 

His eyes look up from where he created a small pile of dirt on the floor. His face coming alight in an instant, pushing himself to full stature from where he once leaned against the wall. Long legs making their way towards you while he suddenly has the decency to hide the bouquet behind his back. 

Annabell certainly did not mention this method of Prince Kim’s seduction. You had never seen him down here before. 

“Hi.” Is all he says once he is finally face to face with you. His face bright and youthful. Excited.

It seems all formalities have been dropped in his mind, though you refuse the notion. 

“Prince Kim.” You simply reply, lowering yourself in a curtsy. 

He pays no mind, almost pretending you never did it in the first place. Instead, he simply rocks back and forth on his heels, bouncing slightly in delight. Wanting something, unable to voice it. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask, hoping to end the encounter swiftly to stop all of the prying eyes leering into your being. 

“I brought you something.” His eyes do not break contact with yours once and you can see his hand twitch by his side as if it wants to reach out for something. You're glad he has the decency to hold back, so you shall do the same by pretending you never saw the flowers in the first place. 

You choose not to ask yourself why he brought you a present. It must just be a trick of seduction.

“I am honoured to accept such a thing.” You send a small smile his way, something between real and fake. It seems to make him beam. 

His arm comes out from behind, holding the flowers between both of your bodies. You look down at them, shock written across your features. 

Sure, you had noted them as flowers before. But you think these may be the prettiest ones you’ve seen in your whole life. Petals of orange, white, and purple cloud in your eyes. Stomatas filled with the sweet pollen.

Lilies. All different kinds– ones you’ve never seen before.

They’re out of season, at least you think they are. How did he get these? Why is he giving them to you? Why is he trying to get the butterflies to return? Why is he trying to make your heart explode?

“Prince Kim…” You’re not sure what to say– instead gently reaching out to feel the velvet of a petal. Staring intently at their colours, unable to pull your eyes away. 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” His voice is a husk of a whisper, as if you’re the only two in the hallway. As if other maids are not passing, as if they are not staring at the two of you.

“Yes… I… I’m not sure what to say.” It is all so hypnotic. 

“Thank you would be a good beginning, no?” His smile is soft, a light chuckle present in the tone.

You pause, tilting your head to look up at him fully– a large, real smile donning your lips.

“Yes. Thank you.” 

You feel as if you are floating, just as you would when reading those romance books in your late teen years. Like the world has stopped moving save for the prince in front of you slowly passing the flowers into your arms. 

Your hands brush against each other and you feel his fingers twitch, tightening ever so slight. Wishing to grab onto your hand just as he had done the night before. Wishing to insect every line that traces over your fresh once more.

However, he refrains. Allowing his ringed fingers to sink themselves into his pockets.

“I was just going to have them delivered. I’m not really meant to be down here, you know,” His smile is shy, “But I didn’t know your room. That, and I wanted to see you again.” 

You look down, unable to keep the eye contact he presses you for. Prince Kim is too much for you. You don’t understand how he couldn’t be too much for anyone. 

“Oh…” You’re a flush, “Thank you for saying that.” 

“It is nothing to thank me for.” He chuckles, bangs dimming the hues of his eyes, “I’m sure I bored you with all of my ramblings.” 

He did, partly, but that was more discombobulation for the situation and a sense of tiredness creeping into your bones. You shake your head quickly.

“Of course not. I had.. Fun.” Mayhaps fun isn’t the right term, yet there is no word that exactly describes your emotions of last night, nor the ones of today.

“As did I.” His lips are tight in a smile again, feet bouncing on their heels once more. He’s nervous, wants to say something again but isn’t sure how.

You’re not sure how to feel about learning what that habit means. Not sure how to feel about what any of this means. You have not had a moment alone to truly dissect what all of it is. 

“I would love to spend the night talking to you again, if you would allow me.” You don’t think you would love anything more, yet you know you would not be able to function. Would probably make a fool of yourself, too. 

“I-I think it would be best if I were to get some rest… I had not even an hour before I had to start working last night.” 

He frowns, “That’s not good for your health…” He pauses, searching your face for any signs of distress, “Then let's talk in your room. I will only stay until you sleep.” 

You pause, air drifting back into your lungs.

Ah. Right. 

The words of your friend sink in once again, breaking you out of whatever trance he had put you under. Whatever spell he laced through both of your ears to have you singing songs of praises for him and the crown. 

He wants you as a notch in a bedpost. Nothing more. It is clear as day and you are a fool to think anything other than that. This is all just a cleverly rehearsed show. You will not fall victim like your mother. 

All royalty is the same. Use use use. Beat a dead horse until it stops coughing up any sort of reprise. 

Your posture is suddenly tense, fist gripping the flowers so tight your knuckles appear white. 

How dare he think so low of you. How dare he think he might be able to fuck you for nothing. 

“Men are not allowed in the women's private quarters.” Your voice is staunch, though it is not as if he can tell nor cares. 

If he does, he doesn’t show it. 

“Ah,” The lilt is still evident in his tone, the cat playing with the mouse, “But I am not any man, am I?” His body leans a bit closer, pulling his face parallel to your own. Smirk playing on his lips. 

Beauty is a deceptive thing, isn’t it? “When I am king I’ll make it so I can see you whenever we both desire.” Something heats in your gut at those words, yet anger quells it just as fast. 

“It is a shame that you are not King yet, then.” You nod politely in his direction, trying to excuse yourself. Yet your words only seem to excite something in his eyes, lighting a fire behind them. 

“My, I didn’t know you felt that way.” He smiles coy. A flustered sensation overcomes you as you realise the double meaning behind your words. You had made it sound like you wanted him in that way when that could not be farther from the truth.

“I do not.” You state, your voice ice. Though once again, it seems that it does not pierce him. 

“There is no reason to be so cold, Y/n.” He sing songs, tapping one of his long fingers against the side of his head. 

“I am not being cold! You are just not listening.” You sigh in exasperation. Exhaustion and annoyance make you forget yourself, causing your volume to rise just as his own does. This only seems to excite him more. 

“I have heard enough.” He giggles, boyish and what others would describe as cute. Right before you’re able to argue back once again, he cuts in with his own voice once more.

“I will leave you for now. Find a pretty place for the flowers.” 

He smiles generously at you, beginning to walk away, “Have a good night. I’ll see you soon.” 

In your shamble of a disposition, you’re left stuck there. Staring at his back as he retreats down the hallway. 

The shock of everything that had just transpired coming over you all at once. How poorly you had behaved. How you spoke to him. He could have you killed for any one of those things however instead he left you with a bouquet of flowers and a promise for another night. 

You scramble to find yourself, to move yourself from out of the eyeline of every other maid. To make your way to your room, your one sanctuary as quickly as possible. 

It is only when you’re in those walls, hard oak door shut firmly beside you that you have to remind yourself of your promise to your best friend. Remember that the prince fights his battles with words and emotions. 

Your second meeting with the man had left you even more confused than the first. Thousands of questions and emotions real through your bones at a pace your brain can’t manage to understand. Leaves you fuming, trying to form a single coherent thought as you analyse the last two nights with a ferocity unimagined. 

In your state, however, you neglect to think of the one question that should be dancing before you, held on a string just out of reach. 

Why did he know your name? 

It is apparent that since that night, Prince Kim has located which room you find habitance in. 

This morning, another letter has found itself slipped under the base of your door. They have become commonplace now– letters detailing apologies for why he was unable to visit, what he had gone about on his day, his regrets that he has not heard back from you in what feels like ages. 

He’s tried to speak to you a few times in the palace when you work. His eyes always trained on you with something you’re unable to describe when you clean nearby. 

You wish you could say it was perverse in manner, but it was nothing of the sort. 

Every once and awhile you would catch a lily pinned to his breast pocket. He would send you a secret smile whenever it caught your attention. As if it was a tale meant for only the two of you to know. As if he wanted to carry a portion of you with him.

You may be naive in saying so, nor do you have much experience in the matter, but these do not feel like the actions of a man who simply wishes to find home under your dress. These feel more personal. More extravagant than anything else. 

Nevertheless, you ignore every single advance. Annabell made you promise, and it was a promise you were intent on keeping until your dying breath. 

Put the letters away in a box, never to be responded to. Avoided looking at him whenever he was near. Rushed out of rooms when it appeared he was intent on  making his war for you.

Icing out the prince is what is best. Whatever lilies he will wilt and die and you will be able to continue on with your hatred of the Kim family as well as your blood pact with the throne. 

You only wish it was that easy.

“Y/n!! Miss Y/n!!” There is a scramble outside of the door, voices hailing for your presence. You don’t know why– you’re on wash duty. Anyone, unless they’re extraordinarily new, would know that. 

The voice grows more erratic, more panicked. As if their life depends on finding you in that very moment. The other maids in the quarters send their glaces to you, urging you to go yet not one opens their mouths. 

At least one bonus of endenturing your entire life to the palace is that you have grown in rank. More than 10 years has granted you a decent position. 

A hushed sigh slips past your lips and your hands find themselves forcing the pile of sheets into the washing tub. Your hands quickly wipe away at your apron, ridding them of any moisture before pushing open the door. 

Stepping into the hallway lined with stone you notice only a single girl. Her entire form shaking as she paces the hall– panicked. Blonde curls bouncing with every step, cheeks a fluster. 

A new recruit, indeed. Celley is the name she wears. 

She had just entered with the last batch of new maids, starting at the palace no more than 2 months ago. She was a recruit you were unsure of– not having a lick of grace or balance, nor any experience with serving. But you suppose there are many reasons maids are chosen. 

You do not like to think of them.

Her feet are suddenly clamouring over to you, noticing your presence for the first time since you’ve stepped in the hallway. Her small, shaking hands grip your shoulders, holding you with all the will she seems to possess. 

“Excuse me have you seen–” She stops herself, tiny pants pausing as her eyes go wide, “Oh my days! Miss Y/n! You must hurry!” She rushes, hand gripping your wrist as she tries to pull you away. 

Though your face twists in confusion, your feet remain firm. 

“What’s the matter?” You ask, both sympathy and concern entering your frame. You can admonish her later for her lack of manners, however now, the girl seems truly frightened. Her large steel eyes looking back at you, pleading. 

“The crown prince! He’s!” She’s out of breath once again, continuing to try and urge you on.

This time, the second the word prince is muttered, you begin to follow her pace, “He’s lost his mind! He’s going on a firing spree! Locking up anyone who tries to calm him!” 

“What? Why is that? Did something happen?” You ask hushed, urging the girl to keep her voice down. Though you both are similar in age, it is apparent who has experienced this type of thing before. 

“He got into some kind of spat with his father. His instructor was fired when he tried to continue on with their lesson.” It seems she understood your message, continuing to hurry you down the halls. 

“And what am I meant to do?” 

“I-I don’t know!” She lets out a quiet yelp, pulling you closer as you exit the maid hallways and enter the palace ones, “His personal maid is away visiting family. She said to leave everything to you if something were to happen! I-I didn’t know what else to do!” 

Damn Eleanor and everything she stands for. Why the hell did she have to bring your name into this?! Shouldn’t the head maid be called in times like this?! Not you, someone who wants nothing to do with any member of the royal family. Especially the crown prince himself. Sure, there must be rumours spreading around but you had managed nearly three weeks without speaking to him!

You let out a sigh, squaring your shoulders in an attempt to appear more confident, more put together. You will do this, and you will come out victorious. Every battle before has left you victor. What is one more?

“I understand. It will be dealt with.”

The least you can gain is the idyllic picture of the prince to be shattered forever. That would be the most ideal outcome, something to truly force him out of your heart for good. You will not fall prey to him and his earthly desires. He will not win your heart. 

At least that is what you hope. 

The throne room's doors stand before you, delicate lacings of gold worth more than your entire being etched into its surface. A glittering picture for what is sure to be a bloodbath behind its contents. 

A deep inhale of warm air fills your lungs, hand pressing against the door as you force it open. Face someone you have not wanted to see nor extinguish the flames of in nearly a month. 

He stands before you, 20 paces ahead. A broken bottle in his hand as he heaves, shoulders rising and falling with the passion of ten thousand suns. The look of murder in his eyes as he stares down at a maid, her form on the ground. Bowing with as much might as she can possess, looking for any exit possible. Few other maids stand around the room, keeping their heads low, avoiding any eye contact possible. 

Though he looks like a mad man– mayhaps a god of war himself, not a single hair is out of place on his head. He is still the picture of sovereignty. And though your breath spikes, you find that you are not afraid. 

What a strange feeling it is.

The creak of the door sends single to him, has him whipping his head to face you. Anger etched into his features, a new target befalling his sight.

You stand tall, moving towards him. You will rise to the position given to you, even if it shall mean your inevitable downfall. As long as the new staff are safe.

Only, when he looks to you, no wrath is found. No anger or deceit. The second his eyes meet your own, his expression drops along with the bottle in his hands. More glass littering the floor in its wake. 

His eyes soften, his lips turning from a sneer into a gentle frown. His shoulders automatically lower, and suddenly it appears that there is no one else in the room. His legs move automatically, carrying themselves to you with such a hurried pace you would have thought he had seen a long lost friend. 

Oddly, this scares you more than when he was angered. 

You start into a bow, “Prince Kim, I’ve come in place of–” 

His arms wrap themselves around you before you can speak another word. Pulling you in, wrapping you into his scent as you're pressed against his sturdy chest. Strong arms keep you in place as he tries to make his body become one with your own. 

His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, one hand raising to tie itself in your hair. It forces you to stay in place, stay attached to him just the way he wants you to be. Allows him to inhale, breathing in all of you. Finally delving into the scent that he has been craving.

Your eyes only widen, hands staying firm at your side in shock. Heart beginning to race, head becoming lost in the soaps that only a member of a family could possibly own. 

You’re not sure what to do. How to behave. As far as you are concerned or aware, this is something that no other has had happen before. At least not so openly. Not so brazenly in front of a myriad of other people. 

But, it seems to calm him. To placate him in a way you’re not sure anyone could explain. 

You try to make a small twisting motion with your hand, try to urge everyone else to leave while they have the chance. 

They seem to take it, exiting the room as fast as possible. 

You’re sure word of this will spread throughout the castle quickly. You hope the consequences will not be dire. 

“Prince Kim–” You begin to speak after everyone has cleared out, after he holds you for what feels like a lifetime. You can’t find it in you to want him to pull away, no matter how embarrassing this seems. 

“Shh,” He quickly silences you with a gentle press of his lips to your pulse, “Let me stay like this for a moment.” 

You are unable to move. Unable to breathe after he kisses you. War could begin in that very moment and you’re not sure you would have noticed in the slightest. You are stunned into obeying his whim as he simply inhales and exhales. 

The umber in his voice only comes after a millennia, after his shoulders have completely sagged. After all the tension is removed from his body. 

“You didn’t respond to my letters.” He still doesn’t pull away, his grip on your hair tightening a fraction. 

You pause.

“I…I didn’t know where to send them.” You lie and his hand loosens. The correct answer. 

“My study. Put them under the door to my study.” He instructs like a king would. 

You’re not sure why the tone of his voice sends shocks to your gut. Pooling into something you only find in your dreams.

“But if someone were to see them–” 

“Let them.” Mumbles in your ear to you and you alone, a growl practically spiking through his voice, “I want them to know.” 

Oh. This is new. This is definitely new. This is not the same way you felt with the stable boy years ago. This has become something entirely alienating. A completely different beast. You know that now as his baritone voice sends waves straight through your gut. 

You simply nod in reply, your mouth unwilling to say anything back. The arm around your lower back grows more firm.

“Tell me where you will put your replies.” He commands into your ear. 

“Under the door to your study.” Your reply is automatic, years of answering to the kingdom evident in your tone. 

He sighs, unfurling his fingers from your locks to gently pet the top of your head, “Good girl.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft as he touches you.

“Good lamb.”

You sigh, fingers deftly searching through your wardrobe for just a single pair of underwear. But once again, you turn up empty. It seems like every day that passes, another pair disappears without your knowledge. 

Perhaps one of the new girls is causing a fuss, messing up the laundry for everyone else. 

That is the only logical solution, at least. 

But logic doesn’t seem to make much sense at all anymore. You couldn’t hope to understand why few of your other belongings have come up indignant as well. 

Your favourite perfume, one of your stuffed animals, even your toothbrush! All have magically vanished from thin air over the course of the last week. 

It is too bad that you haven’t had the time to think about it, either. Preparations for the ball have been raging throughout the palace. Everyone has been on their toes, unwilling to face the wrath of the planners as they try to make everything perfect. 

You have had not one moment alone to think, either swept up in cleaning, decorating, or well… recently you and the prince have been going on walks through the garden at night. Though that doesn’t matter much. It doesn’t mean anything– just another thing he made you promise to. Claiming he wishes to spend as much time with you as he can. 

His recent fixation is trying to get you to call him by his true name. 

You would never dare, nothing is more inappropriate than such a title. It is something only his most beloved is meant to call him, and that person is certainly not you.

You try to force any thoughts of him out of your head, though it is clearly a fruitless endeavour. Especially with the dream you had the night prior. 

His hands finding themselves between your legs, touching you in a way no other has. 

You flush, quickly shaking all thoughts of the night away. 

The tea! Your tea, yes. A prescription from the doctor for this very thing.

More often than not, you wake to find a mess between your thighs. Sticky arousal between them in a perverse fashion. The region sensitive and overstimulated combined with a mess of dreams. More sexual in nature than ever before.

Embarrassed, you had turned to the only person you could trust. The palace staff’s doctor. 

She had told you it was normal– that you were simply having what she described as ‘wet-dreams’. The title alone made you feel embarrassed.

Nevertheless, she prescribed you a tea to help calm your nerves. It was meant to be passifying in nature, calming any lush desires you may have beginning to form. 

You were not sure how it functioned, however you trusted her. Found that it quelled whatever fire burned inside of your heart for the time being. 

Perhaps just a new oddity to add to your reality, you suppose. 

Finally, you find a proper set of undergarments to pull over your legs. Letting out a breath in relief now that you finally have them. 

Today is going to be busier than the last month combined– the ball is tonight. You know for a fact you will be rushed around the palace all day, fixing everything into an acute sense of perfection that only the Kim family is known for. 

You reach to spray your second favourite  perfume across your skin, only to find that the bottle has gone missing as well.

Your hairs stand on edge, a dark pit forming in your stomach.

It is all too strange for you to want to understand. 

Okay, now you’re sure Annabell must be wrong. She has to be, right? There is no other conclusion possible. 

The thoughts run through your head as you pace the small confines of your room. Thumb between your lips, biting the skin feverishly. Contemplating what it is exactly that you should do. A heavy box sitting on your bed, a letter laying next to it along with a single lily.

A month ago, you met Prince Kim in the gardens. A month ago you spoke to him all night long. A month ago he brought you flowers. He has been leaving you letters ever since. Three weeks ago he held you in his arms, made you promise to write him back. Made you promise to meet him in the gardens as many nights as you can. 

But this, you could not accept. You could not possibly think this is real. Why has he gifted you something like this?

A dress lays on your bed. The most gorgeous dress you have ever seen, in fact. Lined with crystals and gems, many layers of tulle poof from the underskirt. It must’ve cost a fortune, but it was not meant for you.  It is a dress meant for a princess, not a simple maid of the palace. Not… Not someone the prince simply wanted to bed. 

So why did it lie here, along with a lace mask and a pair of shoes. Why did it come with a note from the Prince, telling you to put it on for tonight's events? Is this why the head maid dismissed you so early?

No. You could not. You will not make a fool of yourself. You do not belong up there, dressed as a princess when you are far from the thing. That is your decision. It will be the one you stick to.

Even as hours tick past on the clock, even as you can hear the night in full swing, you stay locked in your room. Feeling the same as you did when you were a girl locked in the dungeon all those years ago. Helpless, indignant, stubborn. 

Lost in your thoughts as you try to piece together a puzzle that has several spaces missing. Feelings for the stable boy– life with him, it would have been easier than this. You’re sure of it. 

You allow yourself to imagine what life could have been like if he stayed. It would have been a cosy, peaceful. A straightforward one that didn’t leave so many questions in your head. Jungkook was always like that, spoke his mind without leaving anything to be guessed. You adored it, wished you could revel in it now. Wish you could kiss him under the cherry tree once more.

A pounding wakes you from the dream you were just beginning to weave. Loud, angry knuckles against the firm oak of your door startling you to your feet in an instant. Chills running down your spine as if your body already knew who was behind it. 

You wait too long to reply, another series of rapts following in quick succession. You’re in trouble. You’ve angered the prince in a way you’re not sure you’ll be able to find your way out of, but you have no choice. He knows your inside. You know you must face him. You must be brave.

Right before another series of knocks can echo against the walls, you finally pull the door open. 

There stands the man you knew would be there all along, sculpted like the lord had made him himself. You wish you could behold him properly, to stare at his beauty in the suit specially prepared for this night. One he asked your opinion of several times during its construction.

But you are unable to, not when his shoulders heave like a bull planning its charge. Not when his eyes are narrowed into a glare that enters your soul without consequence. Never before had you felt his anger directed at you. 

The future king would be a fearsome thing. 

“It appears you are not dead.” He states, cold and detached in a way you have never heard before. It makes you feel small, feel weak. Though by now, you know he wants an answer. He will not accept the lack of one from you anymore. 

You shift uncomfortably on your feet, “I suppose not…” 

“Then what do you suppose.” You flinch. You’re not sure.

“I– Prince Kim…” 

“Taehyung.” He interjects, though you ignore him. Only his future wife is meant to call him by that name.

“Prince Kim, I could not possibly accept this gift. You have to understand.” The way he looks at you makes you want to shrink. To appear as small as possible to placate the lion you’ve wondered into the den of. 

“I do not. You are to accept any gift I am to give you.” He is stern as if lecturing the ground beneath him. He looks massive in your tiny room, taking up much more space than you wish to grant him.

You begin to grow frustrated, annoyed. Does he have no sanity? Does he really think it is okay to play with the hearts of women so carelessly? It is disgusting. Repulsive even! You do not deserve anything like this. You begin to grow tense, grow firm like a wolf cornered. Ready to lash out with no remorse. 

That is what you are, anyway. A cornered animal with no hope to escape. 

“I won’t.” You raise your shoulders, stand taller and stare him straight in the eyes. If this will have you sent to the axe then so be it. 

He grows just as tense in reply, his lips forming a sneer as he takes a step closer towards you. 

Never before has Prince Kim been opposed like this before, you’re sure of it. The way his irises become darker is proof. 

“And why is that, lamb?” He mocks, and the fire inside of you only begins to glow brighter Of course, you’re just the lamb that's wandered into the lion's den. The lamb being prepared for meal. 

Steam clouds around your head, jaw becoming tense as you try to hold back your rage. Rage for your mother, rage for the life she was taunted into the same way the prince is trying to do to you now.

“I will not become another woman you bed and then lay waste to!” You practically shout, unable to hold back your emotions anymore. 

His nostrils flare, “Excuse me?” 

“You heard my words.” You state back, indignant, “I will not be an idiot. I will not become another woman who you use for your own pleasures!”

You hear him scoff, head turning away from you for the first time as he looks around your room. 

“You think that little of me?” His eyes make their way back to you, his face having the expression of somewhat… hurt? 

Suddenly, you’re unsure. You feel stupid all over again though you’re not entirely conscious as to why. You hurt him? How could you possibly hurt the most powerful person in the country? 

You falter in your stance, and it is obvious that he takes notice. Uses it to his advantage as he takes another step closer, makes his hand find your own. His thumb brushing soothingly over the knuckle. His hands are always so soft. 

“What else am I meant to think? I’ve heard the stories, Prince Kim.” Where once was fire lays blistering coals. Hot to the touch yet unyielding in their passion. The air in the room has changed in much the same way.

“Tell me of them.” He asks you, his voice now gentle, soft. 

It is strange, the complete change he’s had since first entering your room. Has your brain going a little haywire. Especially with the way he stares at your hands. Like they could be locked forever. 

“I…” You feel flush, embarrassed to mutter the words in front of the prince, “I’ve heard you seduce women… princesses, noblemen’s daughters, maids… the lot. Then you abandon them the next morning with your seed in their core and a knife in their heart.” 

You keep your eyes to your feet, face feeling hot by repeating the words of your friend. You refuse to look at him, you cannot take the embarrassment. 

A light chuckle leaves his lips, a hand coming up to attempt to muffle them, “Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head, a playful glint in his eyes. You’re baring your soul to him! How dare he laugh! 

He coughs to muffle the rest of the sound, returning to the moment, “I apologise. I just had the realisation. You’re jealous of them, aren’t you lamb?” 

A mess of flutters takes up your stomach, your shoulders raising in alarm. Your lips open to try and form words, to try and deny the allegations made your way, yet you are entirely unable. 

Especially with the way he moves closer, crowds your space with such ease. Leads close to you, whispers words in your ear, voice lower than before. 

“You wish it to just be you I lay with, is that so?” You can practically hear the smile in his voice as another, more erotic chill finds its way down your spine. 

“Th-That isn’t–” You try to speak, but your voice sounds as light as air. He moves closer, arm carrying itself around your back, pulling you flush against him as he speaks sinful words. Words only for you. 

“Ah…” He sighs in relief, lips practically touching your ear once you’re finally connected to him, “You don’t like it when I go fuck your friends then come to spend my nights talking to you… writing to you… touching myself to the thought of you.” 

You cannot take it. You cannot take this, take him. Your head is spinning, clouding with the drug known as Prince Kim. Your knees feel weak, your limbs feel all too heavy. How can someone so pretty say such sinful words without a second thought. It’s too much. Far more than your poor little heart can take.

Your arms come up, press as firm as they can against his chest despite how weak they feel.

“Mmm…?” He asks in response, pulling back to look down on your face. Mock confusion spread across his features. He takes a step back, pretending to look you up and down. Like he is just playing a game of poker while all of your tells are as clear as day. 

“Or is that not what you wish?” He asks, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy, “You would like things to remain the same?” He smiles, drawing conclusions all on his own. 

He pauses, waits for you to say something, anything before continuing. But you do not, so he will keep playing this game by himself. 

“Then I shall go find someone to keep me company for the night. Mmm..” He taps his chin in contemplation, turning on his heels, meanwhile panic and dread fills every facet of your being, “What were those ones you’re friends with again? Celley? That pretty blonde? Oh, or maybe Annabell. I’m sure she would be prepared to go for a second round.” 

What? What? No, No! What is he talking about? Why is he starting to walk away?! Wait, Annabell, second time?! She has before?! 

Oh heavens, oh gods. 

“Anyway, I'll be sure to write to you after. Have a good night, dream of me.” You begin to hyperventilate as he takes one step out the door. No, he can’t leave. You don’t want him to. You don’t want him to be with anybody else. You can’t let it happen. You can’t afford such a thing! Ever! That is not where he is meant to be! 

Your body carries you before your mind does. Hand slipping out, gripping onto the back of his coat with all of the strength you can muster. Feet planted firm in your room, doing everything in your power to not let him leave.  

It is really too bad you do not see the sick smile that forms on his lips. Maybe then the pieces of the puzzle would have finally clicked in place. 

Instead he only tilts his head backwards, painting a complexion of boredom.

“N-No! I don’t want that!” You finally manage to stutter out, knuckles turning white with the strength you hold onto him. Afraid if you let go in the slightest he will pull away and disappear forever. “I don’t want you to be with other women!”

The silence that follows your confession feels a mile long. 

“Then go put on the dress.” Out of any response there could be, that certainly was not the one you were anticipating. 

“What…?” 

His chin tilts in the direction of it, urging you on, “If that is the truth, then go put on the dress.” 

“I…” You hesitate for only a moment, but scramble to motion once the prince turns to leave once again. 

You make quick paces to your bed, keeping your back to him. You feel his eyes on your back, intent on giving you no privacy to ensure you follow through on his order. 

In fact, all he does is close the door behind you. Making sure no one will be able to see in. No one will be able to watch you save for him. 

You slowly peel off the cotton of your nightgown, trying to appear brave even though his eyes are trained on your form. Even if your slip still remains on, you have never been this uncovered in front of a man before. You feel entirely bare. 

You do not look at him as you finally find your way through the tool, slipping the garment over your head with struggle, yet his face is practically predatory. 

You don’t know his plans, or what he wishes to gain. You never do. 

As the fabric settles over your hips, half of you wants to question how the size is perfect, but you refrain. Too embarrassed by everything else to even consider it an option. Your hands reach behind you to attempt to lace up the back on your own, yet another pair are already present in their place.

When did he get so close? How did he get so close without you hearing a thing? Your heartbeat must be the only sound in your ears, that must be it. 

His fingers work down your spine, tightening the dress so it fits you perfectly. Tying it off with skill you did not know he had. You feel his breath on the back of your neck. A fire begins to grow in your core. 

“I was going to present you to my father tonight.” He admits, placing a gentle kiss to the base of your neck, “The ball was meant to find my bride.” 

“Oh.” Those are the only words you can say when he is so close, arms enclosing around your waist. Pulling your back flush with his chest. 

Only words you can manage at the revelation.

“Imagine his disappointment, more so my own when the girl I had been speaking to him about did not show.” He grunts, almost as if it hurt him. Guiding your body to stand in front of the full mirror in your room. Asking– telling you to look at yourself. 

The sight is strange, yet incredible. The crown prince of the entire nation standing in your bedroom, in the maids quarters. Surrounded by squalor and chaos. Arms wrapped around a maid dressed as if she could be a queen. 

You look up at him to the best of your ability, regret plastered across your features, “Prince Kim–” 

“Taehyung.” 

“--I’m so sorry.” He does not look you in the eyes. They stay trained ahead, not straying once from the mirror. One hand rubbing small circles into the fabric covering your stomach, the other sliding to your waist.

He touches you without care, without reason. Feeling you against him for all that it is worth. 

“Actions have consequences, that is all. They can come later.” He states plainly, “For now I just wish to indulge in you.”

He brings his face down, placing it right next to yours. His hand rises, making your chin face the mirror as well. 

He forces you to make eye contact with him through it, forces you to understand each of his words clearly. 

“You’ll let me do that, won’t you?” 

You take a deep breath, gulping down all the air you can manage. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything more. 

With no more than a nod, his lips are on yours. 

Spinning you around, pressing your back against the mirror. His hands cupping your cheeks with such intensity you fear they may become etched into your skin forever. Keeping your lips closed against his own. 

His body cages you in, pressing entirely against you. Forming against you in perfect harmony, feeling two souls become one. Feeling each other fully for the first time– no pretence or public eye in the way to stop it. 

His teeth nip at your lower lip, biting in a way that has you opening them in pain. He takes the opportunity to lick his way inside, somehow pushing even closer to your body. 

Something hard presses against you and the discovery has your knees wishing to collapse. 

The prince can’t possibly be this big. He simply can’t.

The kiss has you reeling, unsure of anything. Unsure of what to do at all. It is nothing like your first kiss under the cherry tree with Jungkook. That was soft and sweet, docile as two people discover something new.

This, this is nothing of the sort. It is hungry. It is a beast that has been starved, finally getting its first meal. It is intoxicating. It is needy and desperate in a way that has your fingers trying to press themselves even deeper into the glass. It has your breath being robbed. Your lifeforce wilts away to satisfy only the prince. 

The groan he lets out as you finally give into him, finally allow him to take control of the kiss as arousal pools in your gut. It is one of the most deadly siren’s calls you think you’ve ever heard. One that would have any woman throwing themselves overboard for just a taste. 

“Finally,” He grunts, pulling no more than a millilitre away from your lips, wetness still connecting them, “My whole life I’ve been waiting for you.” He mumbles, hungrily connecting his mouth back to your own. 

Before you know it, you’re lost in the man once again. Allowing him to move you, to guide you to your bed without withdrawing from you once. Tangling your fingers into his hair, trying to make sure he doesn’t pull away. Making you drunk off of his taste, off of him. 

When he kisses you like this, you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to live without him. 

Your knees hit the frame of your bed and all of a sudden you're falling backwards onto its plush lining. Panting, trying to regain some of the air he stole from you.

For the first time you’re able to look up at him, to discover the mess that he has become. Cheeks red, lips swollen. Eyes dark and twisted with lust. Hair ruffled messily from where your fingers laid. Shoulders rising and falling with effort as he catches his breath as well. 

He looks gorgeous and you can’t help yourself hoping this will be only a sight for you forever. 

He leans down, pecking your lips once more, “I couldn’t stop myself from imagining this. Since the moment I placed an order for your dress.” 

He huffs, dropping to his knees in front of you. You sit up on your elbows, face twisted into confusion as you look down at him. 

God. It is too dangerous to look at him right now. You know that as another wave of heat runs straight to your core.

“Pushing up the future queen's skirt.” He groans, hands gaining purchase on your hips, pulling you down so your waist sits at the edge of the bed, “Letting myself have a taste of her while everyone else at the party danced.” 

O-Oh. Oh. He sees you as, oh god. 

His fingers bunch in the material of your skirt, drawing in a shaky inhale as he holds onto any drop of sanity left. 

When he sees no hesitation from you, he slowly begins to push the material up your legs. Eyes trained on your own, looking to you for any sign of discomfort. 

“Have her come undone on my tongue while no else was the wiser.” He groans as he finally comes face to face with your panty covered core. 

Your brain moves at a snail's pace, trying to keep up with every tiny movement the prince makes. Trying to process his words while your head becomes fuzzy with your own arousal. 

You feel like mush, so pliable in his grip.

His large hands slowly begin to part your thighs, to look at what he has been craving for so long when your brain catches up with you, embarrassment overcoming your being. 

“Y-You can’t! I-it is dirty to do such a thing.” At least, that is what you had been taught. Though, the look in his eyes and the growl from his throat tells you the opposite.

“You could never be dirty. No part of you could ever be.” The sound he lets out is more akin to an animal than anything else, and suddenly you feel like a schoolgirl. Flustered and embarrassed beyond anything else. 

The muscles of your thighs untense, the look on your face blushed and biting. 

“You will let me?” He asks again, and despite your embarrassment, you nod. He is going to be king… his word is rule afterall. He wishes it, so it will happen. You could not be more pleased to oblige. 

His grip on your thighs is more firm than before, blunt nails digging into soft flesh as he pries your legs apart. He lets a groan resonate from the back of his throat at the sight. Panties sticking to your center, wetness pooling just behind causing the material to almost become transparent before him. 

You did not know it was possible for a man to have such an effect on you. 

Without a second thought, he pushes the material down your thighs. His tongue licking a long stripe up your cunt, savouring the flavour for every cent it is worth. 

He moans at the taste, not wasting a second before he dives back in. Lapping against you like it is his last meal. 

A mewl leaves your lips, too many feelings crossing you at once for any of them to be worth anything. 

Embarrassment, shame, fear all vanish the moment his lips wrap around your clit, sucking against the small bundle of nerves in a manner that has your back arching against the bed. Fingertips digging into the sheets to find a second lease on life. 

You try to look down at him, to find him between all of your small pants of pleasure, however he is gone. Disappearing until the layers of fabric while he brings you sensations you never thought were possible. 

His tongue moves like it is made to pleasure only you. Taking turns flicking your clit to lowering into your center. Licking up any bit of arousal he can make out. Trailing up once again to press flat against the bundle of nerves.

All of it has your legs kicking, your breath melting. 

He is not quiet either, letting you know exactly how much he adores this. Adores the feeling of your thighs wrapped tight around his head. Adores every little sound and reaction you have to give him. Adores the taste of you on his tongue. It was only meant for him.

It feels like he has been wishing to do this far longer than you would ever know. Consuming you whole from the inside out. Causing you to become addicted, to desire him just as much as he carnally craves you.

His nails dig into the flesh of your thighs as your hips begin to rock against his face, seeking out every ounce of pleasure that he is willing to give you. Your adorable mewls and whines grow louder, peaking every time he sucks on your clit. 

A coil has begun to form in your gut, feeling as though it could snap at any second. You wish you could see him, to look at his face and see the crazed gleam in his eyes. Observe the exact look on his face as he licks your cunt. 

You try to picture it. Try to imagine the way he would look up at you from between your legs. The dark umber his eyes would become, the gentle circles he would rub into your thigh as you finally make eye contact. 

Your walls clench around his tongue, sending a new waves of whines out of your mouth. He somehow moves faster, more precisely with every movement. Like he is able to hone in on the exact things that have your thighs quivering. 

His tongue moves up, takes your small, worn clit into his mouth. Alternating between sucking against it, flicking at it, and pressing against it firm with the flat of his tongue. 

Without warning, nor any reprise, one of his thick fingers is thrust into your wet heat. Filling you in a way you have never been able to do to yourself. Stretching you. And all of a sudden, you’re flying off the edge of a precipice.

“Prince Kim!” Your back arches off of the bed, head thrown back against the mattress as you let out a moan. Your hips jolt, cunt squeezing around his fingers, heels digging into the floor as you come undone before him. 

He works you through it with ease and grace, finger slowly thrusting in and out. Tongue firmly planted against your clit to ride you through your high. 

It would not be your last of the night. He must be gentle. 

Slowly, you relax against the bed, chest heaving from exertion. He pulls away from you, standing to full height before leaning over your shaking form. 

Your arousal coats his face, a sheen from his lips and chin evident against the soft yellow glow of the room. He looks down at you, concern and adoration written across his features. Though in his eyes, it appears that the beast has yet to be quelled. 

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You taste yourself against them. 

“You are delicious. I wish to eat you every night until I die.” He mumbles against your lips, his knee sliding between your legs. Muscle pressing against your swollen cunt. 

You try to flinch away, yet the hand on your hip keeps you in place. 

He will not have you running away. 

Not now. 

Your cheeks flush at his words, wide eyes looking up at him like he is all that matters. 

He is. 

He presses his knee further against your pussy while his lips trail down the column of your neck. Urging you towards the headboard with no words spoken until your head is against the pillows. 

Your arms wind their way around his neck, keeping him in place, “I-if we were married, I would let you.” You manage to speak, your voice shaky.

He only smiles in reply. Fingers digging deeper into your waist as if he is holding himself back.

“Then we shall call this practice for our wedding night.” He smiles, sitting back on his heels. 

Marriage, wedding night. You allow the thought to ghost through your mind, willing it to be reality. 

He smiles down at you, taking note in the way you seem to gleam at the idea. A small chuckle leaves his lips, you really are too cute for your own good. 

His voice is no more than a whisper, forcing you to stay enrapt, “You will let me, right?” He asks, eyes glancing down to where his pants strain against his hips, “I wish to make love to my future wife.”

Your mouth practically waters at the sight, his hard cock pressed taught against the expensive material. You swear there may even be a wet spot where his cum has leaked through. 

Your pussy clenches, wanting nothing more for him to find his way inside. For him to claim you for himself. Destroy you so no other man can have you in the same way.

You struggle against yourself for no more than a moment, but the way his hand reaches down, grips at his cock. Brushes his thumb over the surface has you moaning in want. 

“Please.” 

He smiles, the motion following swift. All at once his hands unbutton his pants, pushing the material down his thighs just enough for his cock to spring free. He groans at the feeling, thick length hitting his stomach. Pretty pre-cum dripping down the side.

Your eyes go wide. If you imagined him to be large before, seeing it now looked impossible. He is thick, long. Far too big to ever hope to fit inside of you. 

But the desperate groan in his voice, the hungry look in his eyes only has you spreading your legs. Wishing nothing more than for him to destroy you.

One hand wraps around the base as he moves closer, the other forcing the skirt of your dress as high as it will allow. He makes space for himself in between your thighs, slotting himself in. Ready to do what he has been waiting years for. 

Not yet.

He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the worry. So he leans down, planting a gentle, soothing kiss to your lips. One filled with years of time behind it. 

He knows he must be careful with you. Knows all of his patience will have been worth it when he is finally able to take your virginity. 

“Will it hurt?” You as quietly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close. You find comfort in him. Find a sense of safety within his eyes. 

He nods in response, “Only for a little while, I promise.” He mumbles against your lips, placing a soft kiss against them once more. 

He slowly rubs the fat head between your folds, coating himself in your arousal. Your hips buck slightly in response, and he can’t help but smirk. 

So sensitive. So ready for him. 

As much as he wants to be rough, he can’t. He can’t scare you away just yet. 

He looks into your eyes once more, “Ready?” He asks, giving you one final chance to back out. You only nod your head, pulling him close, hiding your face in his neck. 

His head catches on your opening with the final drag of his length through your lips. His hands practically shake in excitement, as he guides himself inside. Letting go only once the tip is buried within your walls. 

He feels your teeth sink into his coat, your body burning with the stretch of him. He only has the first inch inside, yet you think it is more than you could possibly take. 

A choked cry leaves your lips as he continues to slowly thrust inside. Your arms cling to him as tight as possible. Tears prick in the corner of your eyes as he fills you, forming your entire body just around him. Just around his cock. 

He pauses only once half of his cock is buried in your needy cunt. You feel his hand come up to caress your cheek, to bring you back down to reality from the pain you feel digging at your core. Trying to bring you some sense of comfort. 

You pull back from his shoulder to look him in the eyes, expecting to see them soft. Filled with concern. Though there is nothing of the sort there. 

Behind his bangs is only the look of pure insanity. 

Though he tries to be compassionate, he really does.

“Are you doing okay?” His voice is strangled, coming out in only desperate cracks. He shakes, wanting nothing more than to fuck himself inside. Fuck himself deeper and deeper, until your cunt is shaped for his cock alone.

But he holds restraint. Just enough.

The way he looks at you, the way he speaks has a wave of pleasure rushing through your  skin. Your walls clamp around him, tightening even more. 

He is falling apart before you, because of you. 

He has gone mad because of you.

The feeling only makes you want to urge him on. See just how far the prince can fall.

You nod your head, looking at him with all the affections in the world, “Don’t stop.” 

He groans at your words, mind losing itself as he snaps his hips forward, forcing his cock inside until his hips are firm against your own. Teeth digging into the fragile skin of your neck.

You cry out in pain, your walls squeezing around him in shock. Pain coursing through your entire system as you are filled to the brim. Walls stretched as wide as humanly possible. The head of cock so deep inside you swear you can feel it in your lungs. 

“Shit.” He groans, mouth falling open, “This pretty thing is wrapped around me so tight, lamb. So fucking tight I can’t think.” 

He slowly tries to move his hips, though you only shout in response. Your legs wrap around his back, doing their utmost to keep him in place.

“Hurts!” You whine, shaking your head quickly. 

Fucking hell. What is the point of a pussy as sweet as your own if he can’t use it properly?

His hand moves between your legs, growl of impatience slipping past his lips as his fingers find your clit. They work with urgency, with need. Rubbing tight circles into it, trying to get you to feel the same pleasure he does.

You whine, overstimulated. Shots fired in all directions leaving you messy and confused. 

With every circle, a mewl sounds from your throat. Slowly your legs behind him loosen, the pain from before mixing with pleasure to become something wonderful. Something that has you whimpering for him to not stop. 

“See?” He grunts, slowly slipping out of your heat until only the tip remains, “We were made for each other.” 

He forces his cock back inside, fucking you open just for him. Only ever for him. 

Your nails dig into his back, heels digging into the mattress as you moan for him. As your cunt becomes addicted to the feeling of him filling you so perfectly. Addicted to everything he has to offer.

He moves too fast, too hard for you to even hope to keep up with. Hips pistoning into you, forcing you to take everything he has to give and more. Forcing you to be the perfect little doll for him, give him all the pleasure he can want and more. White mixing with red around the base of his cock.

Your back arches off the mattress to try and get closer to him, to try and keep up with him in any hope of the sentiment. Hips trying their best to keep him as close and as deep as possible, knowing they crave one thing and one thing alone.

“Prince Kim!” You moan, yet he growls in response. A sharp slap to your thigh sounds throughout the room as his hips pause, fingers removing themselves from your clit. 

“That isn’t my name to you anymore.” His voice is low, menacing in your ear. One more poke of the bear and you will be punished. “Tae–Hyung.” 

He emphasises the words with a sharp thrust of his hips, one that brushes against the bundle inside of you. One that leaves you crying out for him. Clinging on to him. 

“Say it.” He grunts, animalistic and desperate. Yet you’re too lost in yourself to realise how debauched he’s become. Looking less and less like a man, more like a demon come to lay waste to your soul. 

That is close enough to the truth, anyway.

“Say it until it becomes the only word you know. Every question I ask, every time I fuck myself into this sweet little cunt. Your only reply should be my name.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to stare at him. 

Your fucked out little features as you bob your head in compliance.

“I-I” You swallow, trying to understand his words as he pounds away at your core, “I understand!” 

He smiles, almost proud of the work he has done today.

His hips only move impossibly faster, impossibly harder in a way that has that knot in your gut tightening once more. 

“We’ll start simple then. What is my name?” He asks, angling his hips to press against your sweet spot with ever slight movement. Breathe panting, his mind falling deeper and deeper into the thralls of your body. 

“P-Prin–” You stop yourself, a pinch coming down on your skin, “Taehyung!” 

He groans, almost coming undone as he hears your name fall from your  lips for the very first time. The pretty sound your voice makes with every letter. 

It could be the only thing he hears for the rest of his life.

“Who are you going to marry?” 

You whine, your head thrashing around slightly. He smiles. You must really enjoy the idea of that, huh?

“T-Taehyung!” You manage to stutter out again, feeling your release coming closer and closer as the seconds pass by. 

“Who is the man you have fallen for?” The answer to the question is easy, especially when he is fucking into you like you’re the only woman that matters. Nothing matters except for him. 

“Taehyung!” Your brain is too fuzzy to process anything else. Anything other than the way his cock fills you. Anything other than the one word he told you is your gospel. 

“Who is the boy that kissed you under the cherry tree?” You don’t even know anymore. 

Does any man exist beside Taehyung anyway? You doubt it.

“Taehyung!” He smiles into your neck. 

“Who was the boy that was going to have you killed? That saved your life?” His words don’t process through your ears, yet you know what you are meant to say anyway.

“Taehyung!” He groans, his hips stuttering, losing their pace ever so slightly. 

“Who do you belong to?” 

“Taehyung!” You whine, your thighs shaking. The coil so tight you think you may just die if it doesn’t come undone in this very moment. 

His breath is quiet, only a rough whisper in your ear, “Cum.” 

Just as your king commands, you fall apart around him. White dots in the corner of your eyes as you clamp down around him, your legs pulling him close. A cry of his name leaving your lungs as if it is the very air you breathe. 

You feel him paint the inside of your walls white, his hips stuttering– fucking himself as deep into you as he could possibly manage. If you had any sense left in your little head you would have told him to pull out, yet your brain is so high. Filled with pleasure that only Taehyung can provide. 

Waves of arousal crash around you as he slows his hips, ensuring that you ride out your orgasm to its fullest before pulling away. You wish he could stay buried inside of you, just like that. Yet you doubt that would be very wise. 

“Was that good for you, little lamb?” He asks, slowly helping you into a sit. You’re not sure how to properly answer– mouth feeling dry. Your head has not yet come crashing back down, though that is probably a good thing. 

Facing reality is too scary right now. Especially when Taehyung is so warm. So caring as he removes your dress. Slips your nightgown back over your soiled body. 

“Very…” You nod, unable to take your eyes off of him as he moves around the bed. Tucking himself back into his pants, removing his shirt and dress-coat. Placing them over the back of a chair. Neatly hanging the dress on a hook, taking care that it is not damaged in any way.

Your arms find themselves reaching out to him, trying to pull him closer to you. He smiles once he takes notice.

“Would you like me to stay the night?” It is clear he was already planning on it, but hearing the words make you smile oh-so bright. 

“Yes, please.” You nod quickly, eyes already feeling tired. You did not know how he had so much energy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Right now he is meant to be in your bed, arms around you. In fact, you become annoyed that he isn’t already. 

“Alright.” He smiles, slipping next to your form. Wrapping his arms around you, pulling you as close as possible.

You feel so safe. So warm with him. So protected that you can’t stop yourself from falling asleep.

“Goodnight my lamb.”

The Kim Empire. 

His home, his family, his livelihood all wrapped up in those three little words.

Yet, the only thoughts that seem to brandish his mind since the young age of 15 are about you. 

When you first stumbled in front of him, carrying a tray of tea. Spilling it all over his shoes. That quick curse that left your lips before looking up at him. The wide, doelike vision you had once recognition had set in. One the realisation of error set into your bones.

He will never forget the way his heart began to race in that very moment. The way he felt a cloth of sickness overcome his whole body at the mere sight of you. Looking so serendipitous below him.

At first he thought it was hate, how silly he had been back then. Ah, the way he sent you to be killed was just funny to him now. He is grateful he talked to his mother before your execution date. Spilling his soul to her, detailing how he could not seem to remove you from his brain.

Ah, he was lucky he managed to get the letter to the executioner in time. What a pity that would be if he couldn’t. Then he wouldn’t have been able to lay next to you now. Wouldn’t be able to play with your hair, caress you like he pleases. 

It is truly too bad that was not his only trial on the road towards you. It was really a pity he had to send Jungkook away. Taehyung quite liked the kid. He was fun to play with and wouldn’t shy away from his games. 

But he just had to try and seduce you. Poor thing. You really were too innocent at the time. More than eager to kiss him for no reason. To give him even a peace of your heart that was meant for Taehyung alone.

He remembers as clear as day, the rage he felt as he watched your soft lips press against another mans. How terribly he wanted to go out and strike Jungkook with a sword. Of course he didn’t though, that would have scared you away. He would have hated that.

He thanks god every day he was really your first kiss, even if you didn’t know it. 

Patiences was the hardest battle of all, and he will admit, he has faltered a few times over the years. Kisses stolen while you sleep, a few of your belongings robbed to keep him satiated. Mayhaps a few trips to your room in the night. 

But who could blame him? He was a man in love. There was nothing that could stop him when he was so hungry for you. 

Ah, and then of course his father. He wanted to separate your love as well. A maid could never possibly be suited to be queen, blah blah. He doesn’t care. And at least that fight allowed him to hug you for the first time. 

God. You felt so perfect in his arms, then and now. You have always been meant for this. Meant for him.

If his father plans to keep standing in the way, he will simply have to remove him from the equation. His bonds to the man are as thick as water. He cares more for you than he possibly could anyone else.

You’ve belonged to him since you were born, anyway. If a maid becomes pregnant while working for the castle, her child becomes property of the state. Of the crown. Of him. 

It only makes sense that you are meant to be with him until death. It is the path lined for you. Your fate since birth. 

He knows it as his delicate fingers trace over the small patches of blood dirtying the sheets. Evidence of the hours before, of your virginity robbed. Of your promises to him.

You are bound to him by blood after all.

© all rights reserved to ctrlhope 2019-2024 ; do not copy, plagiarise, or translate.

[wintrbears]

Then/Now | JJK & KTH

Summary: Taehyung finally finds you again after years of searching, and all he needs to do is kiss you to return the memories of your past life together. The only problem is you're already in a relationship, and with the very person who executed you in the first place.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, Taehyung x Reader

Genre: Reincarnation/Past Lives AU, Royalty AU, Friends to Lovers, Ex-Friends to Lovers, Affair, Angst, Smut, Fluff

Word Count: 28.5k+

Warnings: major character death(s) (in the past, they get reincarnated), execution/death, suicide, blood, swords, wound from a blade, crying, screaming, arguing, cheating, lying, heartbreak, mentions of war, death of loved ones, the fifteenth century, horses, fear of heights, pregnancy, mentions of childbirth, being restrained, migraines, hallucinations/seeing visions, flashbacks, corsets, gowns, basketball, cheerleading, loud crowds, gymnasiums, passing out, needles, being sedated, vomiting, drinking, cursing, depression, mention of graves, crypts, children, chapel, wedding, priest, sacraments, kings, queens, knights, armor and shields, pet names (baby, love, darling), beer pong, darts, loss of friendship, nonconsensual kissing, mention of sorcery/sorceress, spells, reincarnation. SMUT: big dick tae and jk 🤪, loss of virginity, missionary, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull-out method, mention of masturbation (f), jacking off/hand job, dick riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, forced exhibitionism (idk how to explain it properly but someone listens outside the door as they have sex), cum eating, coming on skin, cream pie, making out in public, alright I think that's everything but lmk if I missed something.

Author’s Note: jungkook villain era?? haha jk... unless 👀, ok anyway, happy festa everyone! for this fic we got BOAF ‘EM, baby! So excited to have my biases front and center in this monster of a fic lmao. I didn’t even know this many words were capable of coming from my brain but here they are. I really hope you guys love it even though some of our characters be making some major blunders. please don't judge OC too harshly, ok? she's doing her best. also I'll formally apologize to tae for constantly putting him in these situations at a later date. I'm very proud of how this turned out, so, as always, please lmk your thoughts and I hope you enjoyyyy :)

Taehyung kneels across from you, devoid of the armor and shield which make up his regular attire. They’ve been stripped from him, leaving him in just his frock and riding pants. Two of his fellow knights hold his arms out, turning him into the image of the cross before your eyes. You don’t repent, since God is not the one you need to beg for forgiveness.

Your nails scratch harshly against the wood below you as you listen to the footsteps of the King circling around before they halt behind your back. His footsteps which are so familiar and were once the sound you stayed up waiting to hear come down the corridor. 

Time moves like the cogs of an ungreased wheel, each click of its turns bringing you closer to the fate which awaits you. 

Taehyung glares at the King and thrashes against his restraints, even though every soul in the room, including him, knows it’s useless. His insubordination goes ignored. 

“Any last words, your Highness?” 

Eyes snapping shut, your emotions betray you as a sob escapes from your chest and tears fall from your eyes onto the floor below. An unalterable grief overtakes you when you look into Taehyung’s chocolate eyes one last time before returning your gaze to the floor.

“I love you,” you whisper across an exhale, most likely your last. “I am so sorry.”

A single poignant moment passes before the sharp blade slices across the delicate skin of your neck. 

You gasp and grab at your throat, but the sound becomes a gurgle as blood pours from your neck, staining the wood and your gown below you. The deep red liquid flows around your fingers and stains your skin with its potency. Your vision is already gone, and your hearing follows only seconds after. Your body meets the floor with a thump as the light in your eyes flickers out. 

Blood continues to spill from your wound and run through the knots in the wood like a river around stones, creating a halo of it around your body. 

“No, no, no, Y/N!” Taehyung cries as he pulls against the knights again, trying to reach you even though you’re already gone. The beautiful eyes he adores stare lifelessly back at him. “You monster,” he sneers.

The King doesn’t say another word, and doesn’t offer Taehyung the same grace he did to you. He just slowly makes his way across the room before repeating the action across his former first knight’s neck.

His body falls next to yours, his blood fanning out around him and combining with yours into a pool of thick, dark liquid that leaks through the cracks in the wood. Your clothing absorbs the fluid and paints you both red. 

A final thump follows shortly after. 

PRESENT DAY

Taehyung doesn’t know where he’s going, but he thinks it must be the right direction because he can hear cheers from the building coming into view. It’s massive compared to the rest of the school's architecture, but he’s not surprised by that. Most universities nowadays put more emphasis on sports than anything else. 

The cheers only grow as he approaches, a loud buzzer triggering the eruption of sound each time. When he enters the gym, the bounce of the basketball and swoosh of it falling into the net joins the mixture of noises coming from inside. He hands his ticket to the woman at the entrance before heading towards the basketball court. 

It’s uncomfortably warm in the gym. All the bodies stacked in the bleachers and the sweat from the players creates a thick air around the whole scene. The combination of the temperature and loud noises only perpetuates the distortion of his senses, as if he isn’t anxious enough already. Taehyung’s eyes scan the space as he stands in the doorway, off to the side to avoid disturbing the patrons who come and go. 

It only takes him a few seconds to find you. 

You’re standing courtside, among the first row of cheerleaders who stand with their pom poms behind their back. Hair down and in curls, with a piece of it tucked behind one ear, and glitter all over your eyelids and cheeks. You look nothing like the last time he saw you and yet somehow you’re exactly the same. 

Every few minutes you rub the plastic poms together to cheer on the team, sometimes shouting for them, too. It’s so mundane and yet it takes Taehyung’s breath away. It’s only natural, given that this is his first time seeing you in… well, since his last life. 

He never moves from his spot in the doorway, he just stands and admires your every movement and gesture. 

His eyes trace across your familiar visage. Your eyes still sparkle, your skin is soft and dewy, and your lips steal his attention instantaneously. The faint blush across your cheeks reminds him of his childhood and of home. It’s been so long, but seeing you now makes him feel like it was only yesterday.

The only thing out of place is seeing you in this attire. Your cheerleader uniform consists of a miniskirt and tight top which only just meets the top of your skirt. Every time you stretch or move your hips, a sliver of your stomach shows and Taehyung is holding his breath. It’s enough to send his mind into a frenzy. In his last life, he never saw so much as your ankle until the first time he made love to you. 

All too soon, the game ends with a final buzzer. Your team must have won, because you join the rest of the cheerleaders in a chant with the spectators behind you before congratulating the team one by one. 

Once the celebrations are through, you begin packing your things in a duffel matching the university's colors. One of the basketball players walks over and talks to you as you swap out your shoes for something more comfortable and bring a sweatshirt down over your head. Taehyung’s in a love-filled daze as he watches you pull your hair out from where it’s trapped under the neckline and smile at your conversation partner. Every little thing you do is pure magic in his eyes.

Suddenly, you’re waving goodbye to the athlete and walking towards the very exit where Taehyung stands. He’s nervous, more nervous than he’s ever been in his entire life. This one, at least. His heartbeat slows in time with your steps as you grow closer and closer.

“Hi!” Taehyung catches your attention. 

You look confused as to where the voice is coming from, your eyes flitting around the room to find the answer, but then you spot Taehyung in front of you and smile.

“Hi,” you respond.

“You — you were great out there,” Taehyung compliments. 

Your head tilts to the right and your nose scrunches as you smile. There’s an ache in Taehyung’s chest at the familiar movement. Even your mannerisms are the same.

“Was I? Thank you,” you say. “I didn’t do much.”

“Maybe not, but it’s obvious why you’re front and center,” Taehyung continues.

“That’s what I get for being cheer captain,” you sing-song. Taehyung opens his mouth to say something else, but you continue before he can. “I’m so sorry, my boyfriend is sick so I’m trying to get back to him as fast as I can.”

“Oh.” Boyfriend? “That’s alright, I’ll leave you be. I’m Taehyung, by the way.”

“Y/N,” you reply with a miniature curtsy. You have no memories of ever being a royal, but it must still be in your blood somewhere. “Well, see you later.”

“Yeah, later,” Taehyung concurs. 

Taehyung should be elated about having his first conversation with you after an over twenty-year-long hunt, but he didn’t account for everything before traveling across the country to find you. The possibility of you already being in a relationship when he found you never once crossed his mind.

How is he supposed to kiss you and return your memories if you’re already taken?

Taehyung sits in his new dorm for the next couple days and paces around the small room as he thinks of a plan. Eventually, he decides to befriend you, which should be easy since an introduction has already been made, and make you fall in love with him the same way he did in your last lives together. 

He stole you from someone once before and all he has to do is do it again. 

The next time he sees you is in the library. You’re sitting at a table near the wall of windows that overlooks the large plane of grass marking the center of campus. You have big pink headphones on and are moving your head slowly back and forth to whatever music is coming from them. There are two books and a laptop in front of you and you’re writing diligently in a notebook which rests on your lap. 

Taehyung approaches you slowly, checking his surroundings for any mysterious boyfriends who may come to join you. 

When he reaches you without any interruptions, he taps the desk with his knuckles to grab your attention. You smile when you see him and remove your headphones.

“Hey, Taehyung,” you greet him. 

His heart soars over you remembering his name.

“Hi, mind if I join you?” 

“No, of course not,” you respond. Gesturing to the empty seat across from you with your hand, you smile again as Taehyung takes his backpack off and sits down. “So, you’re new around here. Transfer student?”

“Yup,” Taehyung says as he pulls his laptop out.

“Are you a senior, too?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got a majority of my credits, but because of the transfer nonsense there are some things I’ll need to retake,” he explains. 

“Bummer,” you reply. Your hand fishes in your backpack before pulling out a piece of candy and popping it in your mouth. “Do you play any sports?”

Before Taehyung answers, you offer him a piece of your sweets, but he declines with a wave. 

“Just fencing and horseback riding, if you count those,” he answers.

“Um, woah. Yes, I count those,” you laugh. “That’s way cooler than contact sports.”

Talking to you is as easy as breathing and it sets Taehyung’s heart alight in his chest. It makes him remember all of your long conversations about everything and nothing. Your presence is so warm, welcoming, and familiar that it’s easy for him to forget this is only your second conversation. 

“How’s your boyfriend?”

“Oh, he’s doing a lot better. Thanks for asking,” you say. “Normally, he’s at the games with me, since he’s the captain of the team, but he caught a nasty cold last week and couldn’t play.” 

“So he’s a basketball player?” You nod and bite your candy in half. You’re adorably vicious with the chewy treat. “And how long have you known each other or been together or whatever.”

“Two years,” you say nonchalantly. 

Two years? 

Taehyung definitely has his work cut out for him. You’re not just in any relationship, you’re in a serious, long standing relationship. He needs to learn more about him so he can better understand who he’s up against. Hopefully, as your friendship grows, you’ll offer to introduce the two of them.

“Wow, that’s awesome,” he says even though it tastes bitter in his mouth. 

“Yeah, we met freshman year and were just friends for a long time, but the heart wants what the heart wants, ya know?”

Yes, he certainly knows all too well. 

You end up studying together for a couple hours before you leave for cheer practice. After that, you form a routine of meeting up to work on assignments and study, which perfectly aligns with Taehyung’s plans. 

The study “dates” always happen at the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays, usually after lunch. It works well for you both because the silent moments are comfortable and the conversation is easy. Your study sessions are the only time Taehyung sees you for a couple months, and he’s yet to meet your boyfriend.

That changes one Thursday when you invite him to the basketball game the following night. Apparently, it’s against the university’s main rival and you’re giddy about the competition and hopefully seeing the team win. Taehyung graciously accepts and tells you he’ll see you then when you say goodbye.

Taehyung is wearing a hoodie with the university logo on it that he picked up from the school store earlier today. He blends in seamlessly with the crowd of students all wearing the same colors to support the team. After handing his ticket over, he makes his way into the gym and finds one of the few empty spots on the bleachers.

The court is currently empty since there’s still some time before the game starts. The other students on the bleachers are conversing with each other and eating their concessions, but Taehyung is mentally preparing himself to finally see his competitor for your heart. 

Taehyung isn’t one to brag, but he’s been told he’s pretty handsome, and he likes to think he’s got a good personality. He’s just worrying himself sick over whether those attributes will be enough to make you end a two year long partnership. All he can hope for is that you walk into the gym with someone of below average looks and a shitty personality.

His leg bounces incessantly as the minutes tick by and the start time of the game nears. He watches other cheerleaders and basketball players filter in through the doors, every single one making his heart stop until he realizes it isn’t you. When it finally is you, Taehyung finds himself moving to the edge of his seat, his lip catching between his teeth. 

You walk into the gym through the large metal doors first, but Taehyung can see a hand laced with yours. His eyes trace from where your hands are connected up the tattooed arm of your companion until he’s able to see the stranger’s face.

No amount of mental preparation could’ve prepared him for this sight.

As if his prior life is flashing before his very eyes, he watches in horror as you reach up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to your boyfriend’s lips. Your boyfriend smiles against your mouth in return, chasing your lips with his own before pulling back and moving your hair away from your face. 

There is no mistaking the familiar features Taehyung is seeing. Besides maybe the length of his hair and the tattoo sleeve occupying his right arm, everything is identical. 

Taehyung scores through his memories for an answer, any explanation for the disturbing scene he's watching. It doesn’t make any sense. The reincarnation spell should’ve only applied to you two. So why are you walking hand-in-hand across the basketball court with the King?

What the fuck is Jungkook doing here? 

1422

The spring rainfall gave life to more blooms this season than last, creating a beautiful vision of purple and white in the valley near your home. They’re only wildflowers, but they still spread a sweet fragrance through the air. The sight of the flowers billowing in the wind is picturesque and something you look forward to at the conclusion of every winter. 

On the road parallel to the valley, two figures on horseback come into view ahead of the slow-sinking sun. You wave to greet your regular visitors, laughing when you notice one of them speeding up and leaving the other in the dust. 

The horse galloping towards you is a familiar sight, and you trust the rider enough to know he’ll stop with plenty of time before he reaches you. 

“Jungkook, that was not very nice,” you scold him playfully once he’s close enough to hear you.

Taehyung follows the same path to you on his own steed, a frown evident on his features as he approaches. 

“He is never nice!”

“I am always nice,” Jungkook corrects him. 

They both dismount gracefully, and you follow your usual routine of walking over to Jungkook’s horse, Bam, and petting him on his forehead. Your fingers gently move down the horse’s face as you coo at him. Bam nudges his muzzle into your hand, making a noise of appreciation at the attention you’re providing him.

Jungkook watches the scene affectionately, his starry eyes following the movement of your hand and the smile that grows on your lips the more you interact with his beloved horse. You don’t see the way his eyes trace over your profile with a smile of his own.

“You can ride him, if you would like,” Jungkook offers. 

“What?” You ask, but before he can answer you, Jungkook’s hands are on either side of your waist and he’s lifting you onto the saddle. “Oh, wait, wait!” 

Your hands grab onto the saddle to steady yourself, your eyes wide as you look down from the great height. 

“Uh, Jungkook —”

“Do not worry, I am holding you. You are not going to fall,” Jungkook states. 

You feel his palm on your lower back, and his other hand is petting Bam to keep him calm. It’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, feeling the heat of his hand on you, but you don’t want him to see the blush appearing on your cheeks. 

“Oh… okay,” you mumble. 

Eyes glancing down again, you shut them instantly when you see how high off the ground you are. 

“I believe she would still like to get down, Jungkook,” Taehyung comments.

You look down at Jungkook with fearful eyes to confirm Taehyung’s statement. His lips quirk downward in a frown before he grabs you by the waist again and brings your feet safely to the ground. 

“I am sorry,” Jungkook tells you, his hands still on your waist. “I did not mean to scare you.”

“You did not scare me,” you say, stepping back so his hands fall away from you. “Bam scares me. Well, not Bam, because he is so sweet, but Bam’s height.”

Jungkook smiles at your explanation, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and it makes you mirror his expression.

“Yeontan would like some attention, too, m’lady,” Taehyung says as walks towards you both, his horse following him by the reins.

“I will be there in a moment,” you say. You pet Bam’s forehead once more before moving to Taehyung’s horse to give him the same affection. “What was the subject of your royal lessons today?”

“Battle strategy,” Jungkook says as he ties Bam to your stable. Taehyung follows suit with Yeontan once you’re done petting him.

Your heartbeat comes to a screeching halt at his answer, and a wave of fear washes over you at the dramatic change of topic for their lessons. Yesterday, they were learning about the proper way to eat soup and which fork should be used first. 

Jungkook notices your worried expression and walks towards you. His eyes search yours for the reason you look so frightened as his hand slowly rises to hold your own. You allow him to take it, and you know he can feel the way it shakes in his grasp.

“That is not because you will be heading to battle anytime soon, is it?” You ask him.

The Kingdom is at war with a neighboring country and has been for nearly three years. Despite how long the men have been fighting, there is still no end in sight. It’s been devastating for the Kingdom as men leave their homes and families never to return again. Almost every child in your town is without a father and their mothers are left alone to care for their land and houses.

“No,” Jungkook answers, his hand squeezing your own before letting it go. Relief spreads across your chest and dispels the anxiety pooling in your gut. “Two heirs cannot go to battle at the same time.” 

Your friend Jungkook is actually Prince Jungkook, but it’s easy to forget that when he’s teasing you or rolling around in the valley. He’s the younger of two sons, and his brother Junghyun is fighting alongside his father in the war. Since Jungkook isn’t next in line for the throne, he lives life at a slower pace and is more carefree. You appreciate that about him and enjoy taking part in his boyish antics. 

Taehyung comes from a long line of knights who have served the crown for generations. Knights begin training at a very young age, and depending on their lineage, their future role is decided long before they complete their training. Taehyung has known he’d eventually be Jungkook’s first knight since childhood. The pair have known each other since they were toddlers and are as close as brothers. 

You grew up with both of them because your parents work at the castle and you lived in the staff quarters until you began working yourself. Jungkook’s mother, the Queen, absolutely adores children and believes education is essential to living a good life. As such, she hires tutors to teach the children of all the staff as well as the young knights and royal family. It was during these lessons that you first met Jungkook and Taehyung. The three of you bonded over folktales and your love of animals and quickly became close friends. 

Since you no longer live at the castle since becoming a midwife, the two boys come to visit you nearly every day between their daily lessons. The time is usually spent talking about what they learned or which books they’re reading. Sometimes, often in the summertime, the three of you play childhood games in the valley or take a short walk to the river where you can sink your feet into the cool water.

A new anxiety emerges when you remember that the rules which dictate Jungkook’s life are not the same for Taehyung. 

“That does not apply to Taehyung, does it?” You question as he comes to stand beside you, too. 

“No,” Taehyung says with a grimace. “I could be called upon at any time, but I am not fully trained. I do not believe that will occur unless there are no other options.”

Taehyung spoke too soon, because within a month’s time, he’s visiting you to tell you he has to leave for the battlefront in a fortnight. 

Something in you knows as soon as you see him what news he’ll be sharing, but your heart shatters all the same when the words leave his mouth. You cry into your hands as he sits across from you at your kitchen table. He’s your best friend and you know there is a chance you will never see him again once he departs. The fear and sorrow coursing through you are enough to drown you. There is nothing that terrifies you more than losing him or Jungkook.

Taehyung reaches across the table and removes your hands from your face to hold them instead.

“I promise I will come back, Y/N, and when I do… I will take care of you. If you will have me,” he states. 

“What?”

“I love you, and I want to marry you,” he confesses. 

The thought doesn’t make sense within your mind. Taehyung’s noble status gives him the right to have the pick of the litter in terms of a wife. You don’t even have a dowry you can offer him.

“I do not understand how you could love me,” you respond. 

“How could I not?” 

He kisses the back of your hands and then rests his cheek against them. 

You’re unsure how to respond to his proposal, or if you even should. He’s saying this now because he’s leaving, and you can’t give him an answer when there’s a chance he’ll never return. The reveal of his feelings for you frazels your mind and makes you question everything. So, you decide his proposal is something you’ll organize your thoughts about once he returns, if he returns. 

The fortnight passes by both agonizingly slow and too quickly. The anxiety eating away at your nervous system turns the days into long threads of time with no end, but simultaneously, the calendar seems to be skippping ahead multiple days at a time.

When time lands on the third day from his departure, the whispers of a tragedy spread across the land like wildfire. 

You hear it first from one of your patients, an expecting mother who you’re checking up on after she fell ill. When she whispers the news to you, your blood runs cold. You don’t believe her initially, but then, as you leave her home, you hear it repeating all around you in the voices of your neighbors. 

King Jeon and Prince Junghyun are dead. The father and son perished in a bloody battle which took more than half of your men’s lives. 

Whispers in bars and conversations across fields about how the King’s death will affect farming and trade are all you hear in the days following the announcement, but all you can think about is whether or not Jungkook is alright.

Unsurprisingly, you have no visitors until the morning Taehyung is supposed to leave. You watch from your kitchen window as the sunrise breaks over the valley. As the sky goes from deep blue to orange, you hear the familiar sound of horses galloping down the road.

Exiting your house in a flash, you wait for your friends to reach you and dismount before approaching them. You go straight to Jungkook, taking his hands in your own and rubbing over his knuckles with your thumbs.

“I am so, so sorry, Jungkook,” you tell him. 

He squeezes your hands in return and a small smile appears on his lips, except it doesn't reach his eyes the way it normally does.

“I am alright,” he assures you. “I will miss them dearly, but it is my mother I truly worry about.”

“If there is anything I can do, please tell me,” you reply. His only response is a nod as Taehyung comes from behind the horses after tying them up. “When do you leave?”

“I am not leaving anymore,” he states. “I have to stay to protect the King.”

“The King?” The dead King?

“Yes, the King,” he parrots, gesturing to Jungkook. 

You feel so foolish for forgetting what the consequences of Junghyun’s death really are. Jungkook will now have to take up the mantle of King without anyone ahead of him to guide him into the role. 

You gaze at your childhood friend, attempting to imagine him in a crown. A smile appears on your face when you think about how handsome he will look with it sitting atop his pretty black hair. Jungkook is prudent, kind, and compassionate and you know he will make a wonderful ruler. 

“Oh,” you say, letting his hands go as you take a step back. It’s one thing to be affectionate with a Prince, it’s another entirely to do so with a King. “Well, I suppose I will be seeing a lot less of you then.”

Jungkook frowns deeply and shakes his head.

“I do not want that,” he responds. “You are important to me and I will make time to visit you regardless.”

You’re sure Jungkook means what he’s saying, and believes it himself, but the odds of it being true are slim to none. A King has to bear the weight of the world and his new role will certainly keep him and Taehyung from visiting you as often.

It feels like goodbye as you wave at them and watch their figures disappear down the road. Your head falls forward and tears fall from your eyes onto the grass. The world is changing too fast for you to keep up. 

Despite your worries, Jungkook comes to visit you the next day carrying a bouquet of white roses. 

You’ve never been in a carriage before, let alone in one which is currently on its way to the castle. It’s been years since you were last at the monumental estate which houses both your parents and best friends. 

As you approach, you notice the familiar grounds where you once played as a child. You see visions of you, Jungkook, and Taehyung running around in circles as they chase you and all at once the memories of your time here come flooding back. The memory of when Jungkook accidentally sent you both flying into one of the fountains brings a smile to your face. You’ll never forget the look on his mother’s face when she saw you both soaked and dripping on the castle floor. And the one of Taehyung picking flowers for you only for them to blow away when a strong wind flew in. He pouted for hours afterwards. 

The feeling of returning home brings you comfort amongst all the chaos surrounding you. 

The carriage stops in front of the entrance to the castle and you see the massive stone doors which separate the outside world from the home of the royal family. Your parents are already waiting for you along with some fellow staff, their faces giddy with excitement about seeing you. The driver offers you his hand to help you down the steps and once your feet hit the ground, you run straight into your mother’s embrace.

“Oh, honey, we missed you,” she tells you. 

“I missed you, too,” you sigh. 

A lurching sound indicates the doors are opening and Jungkook and his mother emerge from behind them. Jungkook takes two steps at a time, skipping down the limestone to reach you faster. His mother sighs knowingly at his behavior, a warm smile present on her lips.

“I am happy to see you arrived safely,” he says as he offers you his hand. 

You curtsy to his mother, the Queen, who you haven’t seen since in many years now. She’s just as beautiful as you remember, even though her eyes carry a new sadness in them.

“Your Majesty, I am so very sorry about your husband and son,” you say to her. 

“I appreciate it, my dear. I am so happy to see you,” she replies. “Let us go inside and I can show you around.” 

She hooks her arm around yours and you almost recoil away from her in shock. The Queen is escorting you like an old friend and it defies all the logic in your brain. Even though you grew up here, you have always been well aware of your place in the world. 

Your mother and father wave goodbye to the three of you as they report back to their duties. A pair of matching smiles on their faces as they watch you enter the castle.

Once inside, your eyes sweep around the grand entrance and the corridors which splinter away from the room. You notice all the beautiful artwork and intricate architecture of the castle that you didn’t take the time to admire as a child. You were too busy playing and soaking up all the knowledge you could from your tutors. 

“I apologize, I have a meeting to attend, if you will excuse me,” Jungkook tells you.

Then, much to your surprise, he takes the back of his hand and runs it along your cheekbone, the softest of smiles present on his face as he does so. Your eyes open in wonder at the gesture, but once he’s turning and walking away from you, a matching smile appears on your lips. 

Your skin feels warm where his fingers were, and you avert your eyes from his disappearing figure to try and stop the blush from continuing to spread. When you turn to your left towards the Queen, that knowing, motherly look is back. She just shrugs before turning in the opposite direction to lead you further into the castle.

When Jungkook enters the room the sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor permeates the air. All of the staff, parliamentarians, advisors, and knights stand at attention in the presence of their future King. The knights place their arms across their chest out of respect, including Taehyung, who is sitting to the left of the throne. Not yet being acclimated to the sight, Jungkook gestures for everyone to sit with a wave of his hand before taking his seat next to Taehyung. 

The throne to the right of Jungkook, which is reserved for his future Queen, remains empty. 

“How is the planning coming along?” Jungkook asks the royal coordinator. He is effectively the head of staff who oversees everything that goes on inside the castle.

“Wonderfully, your Highness. The wedding and coronations will occur subsequently in the chapel three days from now. The Priest is already preparing the sacraments,” the man replies. 

“Wedding? Whose wedding?” Taehyung asks as he looks over at Jungkook.

Jungkook doesn’t get the chance to answer him before a parliamentarian joins the conversation.

“Have you not heard? She is supposed to be arriving today, is that right, your Majesty?”

“Yes.” Jungkook clears his throat before continuing. “Y/N arrived only moments ago and is currently touring the castle with my mother.”

“Y/N?” Taehyung snaps. His whole body turns towards Jungkook, the shock and disbelief distorting his features. Jungkook doesn’t explain or answer, he merely glances at him in warning before continuing the meeting.

When the meeting concludes, the entire room stands at attention again as Jungkook exits. Taehyung follows closely behind and catches up to match Jungkook’s pace. 

“You are marrying Y/N?” Taehyung asks incredulously. “When did this happen?”

“Yes, I am,” Jungkook responds flatly. “She will be your Queen soon. You should refrain from calling her by name.”

“What is wrong with you?” Taehyung stops Jungkook with his arm. “I have known you my whole life, you would never do something like this to me.”

“Do to you?” 

“Yes, your Highness,” Taehyung says sarcastically. “You know how I feel about her.”

“Things change, Taehyung. Half of my family is dead. I have a role to play that I am nowhere near prepared for. I am sorry if this hurts you, but I have different priorities now; different responsibilities.”

“What do those responsibilities have to do with Y/N?”

Jungkook stops walking again and turns to face his friend, his wall of regality dropping to allow his true emotions to surface.

“Because there is no else I would rather have by my side when I face them,” he answers whole-heartedly. Jungkook doesn’t wait for Taehyung to reply before he continues down the corridor. 

When you wake up on the morning of your wedding, you momentarily forget where you are until you see the dazzling wedding dress hanging from the wardrobe. The gown is almost too beautiful to wear, and it stares at you from across the room as if to ask “are you ready for this?” You aren’t sure of the answer.

The sound of knocking steals you away from your thoughts. Assuming it’s the maids coming to help you get ready, you tell them to come in and rise from your bed. 

It’s shocking how efficiently the group of women work to turn you into a living, breathing doll. One of them brushes and styles your hair, another puts makeup on you for the first time in your life, and two of them work to get you into your dress.

The dress takes longer to put on you than both the hair and makeup combined. It’s a massive pool of fabric and you can barely tell which end is the top and which is the bottom. You stand with your hands gripping the dresser as both women tug at the strings of the corset and lock you into place. When they finish, you clutch your stomach and attempt to inhale a deep breath. They smile assuredly at you and encourage you to walk around so you can get used to being in such a gown. 

Later in the day, you’re alone with one of the maids while she finishes your hair by placing pins in it. A sudden knock interrupts her and she goes to answer it. You aren’t sure who it is until you see her stepping back with wide eyes. Jungkook enters with a slight bow of his head and she immediately curtsies and then proceeds to stand at attention.

Jungkook chuckles nervously, still acclimating himself with everyone’s new behavior towards him.

“Can we have a minute?” He asks her and she obeys with a curt nod before exiting the room.

“Hi,” you greet him. 

“You look beautiful,” Jungkook tells you. 

“It is none of my doing,” you say. “The maids are amazing at making me look like something I am not.”

“That is not true,” Jungkook argues. “You have always been beautiful, Y/N.” Tilting your head to the right, your nose scrunches and you smile at his compliment. “I wanted to make sure I came to see you before… I know it has been a few days and I apologize, it has been so hectic lately.”

You haven’t seen him since arriving at the castle and he’s certainly a sight for sore eyes. Rising from your seat, you walk to him and take his hands. 

“You do not have to worry about me,” you affirm. “I know you have a lot of responsibilities.”

“Yes,” he smiles. “And unfortunately, soon you will, too.”

“Right,” you laugh. “Being the Queen and all.”

The idea is still so foreign to you that it feels unnatural leaving your lips. 

“I… I cannot thank you enough for doing this for me, Y/N. I know it is a huge commitment and I am so grateful.”

“Jungkook.” You grip his hands a little tighter and he reciprocates the action. “Why are you acting like I am the one doing you a favor? You asked me to be your Queen, to rule a Kingdom by your side. I should be thanking you.”

Jungkook sighs, his gaze dropping to your connected hands. His thumbs massage over your knuckles absentmindedly. 

“I just know this was not the life you envisioned for yourself,” he eventually responds.

“It is not,” you concur. Jungkook frowns and you continue before he gets the wrong idea. “I would say it is better. I loved being a midwife and bringing children into the world, but I grew up here and now I get to spend the rest of my days here.” You squeeze his hands one more time before speaking again. “I am here because I wish to be, Jungkook. Nothing more.”

Jungkook smiles at you and lifts your hands to his lips to kiss them before letting you go and heading for the door. 

“I will see you at the altar, my Queen.”

Your dress weighs down on you like a pile of bricks. It’s your first time wearing a gown, and you didn’t anticipate it being this hard to move. Despite the uncomfortability, the lace and fabric cover you beautifully and it’s easy to feel like a Queen when you look down at its design. 

When you first enter the chapel, Jungkook’s eyes go wide and his lips part before his expression slowly softens into one of admiration and awe. He saw you only moments ago, but the vision of you coming towards him surrounded by flowers and soft candlelight takes his breath away. 

When you see him, you’re equally as stunned. His hair is pushed back away from his forehead, leaving his pretty features as the main focal point. The style makes him look regal and elegant. His wedding attire compliments him in all the right places and the white color accentuates his honey skin. When he visited you before he was still in his normal clothes, so the sight is truly something to behold.

Once you reach the altar, Jungkook stands to the right of you as his left hand holds yours. You’re thankful because if he wasn’t holding your hand the entire room would be able to see it shaking. You know he can feel the movement in his grasp, because every so often he squeezes your fingers. Sometimes he does it twice or three times in a row, and it reminds you of the secret messages you would send to each other across the library during lessons.

In the back corner behind the altar, just on the other side of Jungkook, stands Taehyung, dawning his armor for the first time. It makes you so proud to see him living up to his family’s legacy. 

Although, his new uniform isn’t what catches your attention, it’s the deep scowl painting his features into something you’ve never seen before. It makes you look over at him with a face of concern, silently questioning what’s wrong, although, you believe you know the answer already.

Taehyung has every right to be angry with you. He told you he loves you and wants to marry you, and then you accepted a proposal from his best friend. To make matters worse, you weren’t able to tell him about the marriage yourself since you didn’t see him before traveling to the castle. You want to tell him everything, explain your feelings and why you’re standing next to Jungkook today and not him, but the conversation will have to wait. 

The wedding ceremony ends with a final prayer before the Priest immediately begins the prayers and readings for the coronation. You and Jungkook turn around to face the crowd and it only heightens your nerves. Jungkook notices the shift in your body language and soothingly runs his thumb up and down your pointer finger. Taking a deep breath, you squeeze his hand in return to communicate to him that you’re alright. 

At the instruction of the Priest, the two of you kneel down together and wait patiently for the crowns to be placed on your heads. 

Jungkook goes first, and you watch in awe as the Priest places a large gold crown onto his head. When he does, a lock of shiny black hair falls onto Jungkook’s forehead. You can’t help but smile, noticing how it somehow makes him look even more handsome. Your best friend is a King now and you have to blink a couple times to stop tears from forming in your eyes. 

Only a moment later, the cool metal of a tiara is resting on your hair, the edges of it sinking between your strands to keep it secure. It simply doesn’t feel real and you’re terrified of waking up from this dream come true.

You stand up as one and the entire chapel erupts with cheers and hollers. You and Jungkook make eye contact and both have to suppress a laugh. His eyes are shining with the light of the whole galaxy, and it brings you more happiness than you can put into words.

The celebratory feast commemorating your marriage begins as soon as you leave the chapel. The transition happens so quickly you don’t even get to speak with Jungkook privately before you’re entering the grand ballroom. The large space is ornately decorated and every corner has a giant table of food and wine.

Jungkook never once lets go of your hand. 

There is a constant stream of guests greeting and congratulating you, and his touch and presence beside you is the only thing keeping you calm. Jungkook is used to this, and he handles every single encounter with grace. You mostly stumble about and nod as people regale you with kind words and affection. 

Taehyung is on your mind the entire night, and your eyes are constantly scanning the massive crowd of people for his familiar head of hair. You want to speak with him as soon as possible to clear the air between you. He’s so important to you and it kills you knowing how much you hurt him. You never find him, and the evening comes to a close before you have a chance to reconcile. 

Before you know it, you and Jungkook are traveling in a lavish carriage to begin your honeymoon. The war prevents you from traveling to another country for the occasion, but you’ll still be spending a month at the family’s countryside estate before returning to your regular duties at the castle. 

Even though it’s the middle of the night when you arrive, there are staff outside the entrance waiting to greet you and take your luggage. 

The head parliamentarian escorts you and Jungkook to the King’s suite. Your hands are shaking again as reality kicks in, but you curl your fingers into your palm to keep anyone from noticing. 

The parliamentarian must escort you as well as stand outside your door tonight so he can report back that the marriage has been consummated. The thought of a stranger listening in on your first night with your husband makes your skin crawl, but this is how things are done when you’re royalty. 

The man opens the door to the suite so you and Jungkook can enter before shutting it behind you with a slam. Silence overtakes the room as your eyes roam over the walls and windows, the sachet in the corner, and the large bed in the center of the back wall. 

You take a shaky breath, itching at your sleeve where the unfamiliar material rubs against you uncomfortably. 

Jungkook gets your attention with a call of your name. He points at the artwork on one of the walls, a large painting with a gaudy gold frame encapsulating it. 

“What was the artist thinking when they made this one?” He asks through a laugh.

You hum as you study the painting. It’s rather unpleasant to look at, and you can’t even fully make out all the shapes and colors.

“We will have to call upon him to ask,” you respond. “I do not think one could guess if they tried.”

Jungkook laughs and the familiar sound eases your mind and calms your nerves a little. You keep reminding yourself that it’s just him, someone you’ve known all your life, but your brain still persists with its overthinking. 

You mosey around the room and peruse more of the artwork and decor before falling onto the bed with a plop. Despite your best efforts, your gown is too heavy and large to sit down normally. You’re half laying-half sitting on the mattress as your feet dangle over the edge. The fabric pools all around you and threatens to drown you in white lace. 

Jungkook joins you on the bed, but leaves a decent amount of space between you. 

“I am unsure if I know how to get this monstrosity off of me,” you admit with a scoff. 

Reaching over your shoulder, you tug at the ribbon caging you into the gown. When you aren’t able to loosen it yourself, Jungkook clears his throat, raising his eyebrows and gesturing towards you to ask permission. You let your hands fall back onto your lap before answering him with a nod of your head.

Jungkook kneels behind you on the bed so he can begin loosening the ties of the corset. You jump when you first feel his hands brush against you. He moves slowly, his touch as light as a feather as he unties the knot and begins to weave the ribbon back and forth to remove it. Once he’s about halfway done, the tension releases from around your waist and you take your first unimpeached breath of the day.

“Oh, thank you,” you sigh. You watch curiously as Jungkook stands to face you and reaches his hands out for you to take. “What?”

“Stand up and I will help you out of it,” he replies. 

You obey quickly, standing up while holding the fabric to your chest so it doesn’t fall away. Jungkook laughs when he notices the action.

“Why are you laughing?”

“I cannot get you out of it if you are holding it up, my darling.”

The deep timbre of his voice as he uses the pet name is enough to make your heart skip a beat. 

“Right,” you reply and let go.

Maybe Jungkook isn’t as nervous as you, or maybe he just hides it well. As a woman, you are completely untouched, your own hand being your only source of pleasure so far. But the rules are different for men and Jungkook may not be as shy about these things as you are. 

The dress falls into a heap on the floor and Jungkook takes your hands to hold you steady as you step out of the large skirt one foot at a time. Even with your body still covered by your underdress, this is the most exposed you’ve ever been to another person. The raw vulnerability causes your hands to start shaking again, but you let go of Jungkook before he can notice.

“Feel better?” 

“Yes, thank you so much,” you respond. 

Jungkook grabs the expansive amount of fabric and places it gently over one of the dressers. You return to your spot on the bed and he follows suit, this time sitting a bit closer to you.

A weighted tension creeps into the room like fog across the morning air. It beckons a silence between you that leaves only your breathing as background noise. There’s a feeling of anticipation floating around as well, like the whole atmosphere is on edge and waiting to see what happens next. 

“How do you feel now that everything is done?” Jungkook asks.

“Hmm, I am happy, but also nervous,” you admit. 

“Me, too,” he replies. 

“You are? I figured you would be used to this.”

“It is not the royal aspect I am nervous about.”

“What are you nervous about then?”

Jungkook chuckles and runs a hand through his hair, ruining the style and bringing his black locks down onto his forehead. It makes him look boyish and charming. 

“Not only did I go from being a Prince to a King in a matter of days, but I am a husband now, too. Your husband,” he explains. He looks down and sighs, his eyes closing momentarily. “I want to do right by you, Y/N.”

“You have always done right by me, Jungkook, I do not see that changing anytime soon,” you reassure him. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, but the tension is slowly dissipating and morphing into a comforting aura instead.

“Hmm, I am so glad it is you. I cannot imagine how anxious I would be if it was anyone else,” Jungkook states.

“Is that why you asked me?” You probe him. “Because I am familiar to you?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head. You raise your eyebrows at him when he doesn’t add anything else to his answer. He chuckles and licks his lips. “I asked because I wanted to marry you. Simple as that.”

His eyes meet yours and the ever-present stars and sincerity in them make you feel like you’re the only person in the world. 

“Why?” You whisper. You fear if you speak too loud it will ruin the moment.

Jungkook tilts his head and tongues his cheek. 

“You know I am not good with my words,” he says. “Can I show you instead?”

“Show me?”

Jungkook nods as his hand twists around your forearm, gently pulling you towards him. You stand to better adjust your position, but then he pulls you into his lap, holding you by the backs of your thighs so he can place them on either side of his own. The sudden movement makes you gasp and hold onto his shoulders for support.

Being this close to him is startling, but feeling him beneath you is as comforting as a warm bath after a long day of work. You wonder how you ever went this long without touching him like this in the first place.

Jungkook’s hand caresses your jaw as he looks into your eyes. You can see the cogs turning in his mind as he assesses whether or not you’re comfortable with his touch. 

His hand is bigger than your entire cheek and the feeling of his skin on yours makes your eyes shut in pleasure. You feel his thumb gently moving back and forth across your cheekbone and you sigh happily. 

“Jungkook,” you murmur. “That feels so nice.”

“It does?” You nod your head with your eyes still closed. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“What do you mean?”

Jungkook’s chuckle forces your eyes open. There are crinkles around his eyes as his gazes at you from mere inches away. He looks so pretty up close. 

“We have to appease the man outside at some point tonight, so I am asking you if you would like me to keep making you feel nice,” he explains. 

Your mouth snaps shut as the overwhelming anxiety from earlier begins to burrow inside you again. There is no doubt your body wants your husband, wants Jungkook, as you can feel a tightness in your thighs you’ve only experienced during self exploration before, but it’s all so nerve wracking that you can’t bring yourself to answer him. 

“I… I have never, I —”

“I know, my darling,” he responds. His thumb moves across your cheek again before he leans in and presses a kiss to the other one. He lets his lips linger there for a moment before coming back to face you. “Was that alright?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Alright, how about I keep going and you tell me if you want me to stop,” he suggests. 

You only nod in response, not trusting your own voice to get your thoughts across clearly. 

Jungkook leans in and kisses the same spot before moving down your face, pressing his lips to every inch of skin he comes in contact with. When he reaches your jaw, he lets his tongue drag across you and it pulls a gasp from your throat. He kisses you even harder when he gets to your neck, his lips and tongue moving slowly against your delicate skin before sucking over your pulse point.

“Oh,” you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation. “Oh, Jungkook,” you moan. You don’t recognize the tone of your own voice.

“Still feel nice, my Queen?” His words dance across the wet spot he’s left on your neck.

“Yes, my King,” you answer breathlessly.

He continues to kiss across your neck and the exposed area on your shoulder while his hand moves away from your face to caress your body. Starting at your shoulder, he traces your outline slowly until he reaches your hip, where his other hand already resides on the opposite side. 

His lips leave your neck and a whimper escapes you involuntarily. Jungkook smiles and rests his forehead against yours. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You giggle at him being chivalrous enough to ask when he was just painting your neck in his saliva.

“Yes, of course.”

Jungkook kisses you tentatively, so gentle with the pressure of his lips that you almost don’t feel it. You can tell he’s hesitant and doesn’t want to scare you, but when you feel his lips on yours for the first time, your own hesitation melts away. 

Your hands leave his shoulders to wrap around his neck as he moves his lips in a slow rhythm against your own. It sends sparks throughout your entire body and makes the feeling in your thighs even more distracting. Jungkook wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him so your chests touch. His hands flex against your back as he moves them up and down to feel you. 

You begin kissing him back as you get the hang of things, mirroring his movements and turning your head to gain better access. Jungkook’s hand sinks into your hair and you moan into his mouth when you feel his fingers on your scalp. The kiss is slow and sensual and you already feel more in your loins than you ever have when pleasuring yourself. 

“Jungkook,” you speak when you come up for air. “I need more.”

Jungkook smiles adoringly at you and kisses you once more before lifting you off his lap and standing up. He takes his first layers of clothing off without ever breaking eye contact with you. It has your thighs rubbing together as you watch his fingers pop open buttons and untie laces. 

Once he matches you in his state of undress, he gestures to you to come closer with his pointer finger. You obey instantly, not wanting to wait another moment to feel him against you again. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” He asks once you’re standing inches from him. You nod. “Good.”

“Have you… done this before?” Jungkook frowns at your question, and you know he doesn’t want to disappoint you with his reply. “I will not be upset, I promise.”

“I have,” he answers. 

“Will you show me, then? I want to make you feel nice, too,” you ask quietly. 

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up and he nods in affirmation. His hands reach out to caress your waist before he turns you around so your back is pressed against his chest. The movement has you gasping, but it morphs into a moan when his lips return to your neck. 

He sits again, bringing you with him. He spreads your legs overtop his own which completely opens you up for him. It makes your heart race and your nerves come alive, but you push the anxiety away to continue enjoying his touch. 

His hand catches the bottom hem of your underdress and slowly moves it up until your undergarments are exposed to the air. You gasp and grip Jungkook’s forearm when his palm comes to rest over your center. He isn’t touching you yet, necessarily, but you can still feel your core pulsing in anticipation. 

“Do you trust me?” He whispers directly into your ear.

“Always,” you reply without missing a beat. 

Jungkook hooks his fingers in your undergarment and you lift your hips just enough for him to remove it from your body. The cool air against your wetness sends shivers down your spine. 

The initial feeling of Jungkook gently tracing your folds makes you jump in his arms. He shushes you quietly before continuing his ministrations, adding more pressure as his fingers spread your essence around. His hand moves upwards until he’s touching your swollen nub and a loud moan escapes from your mouth. 

Your hand covers your mouth in response, your eyes wide in shock of a noise like that coming from you. Jungkook chuckles warmly from behind you. 

“No, no,” he says, removing your hand from your face. “They are supposed to hear us, anyway. Do not muffle your noises. I want to hear everything, my Queen.”

Jungkook presses down on your clit and your moan again without restraint. He uses the wetness he collects on his fingers to massage you in your most sensitive spot and it makes your head spin. You’re certain if he wasn’t holding you, your knees would give out. They’re the same motions you use on yourself and yet his fingers make it feel so much more intense. It’s incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced before in your life. 

He retreats back into your folds to spreads them apart before pushing his middle finger into your hole. You gasp again, your nails digging into his skin where you’re still holding onto his arm. 

“Is this okay?”

You nod repeatedly in response. It is more than okay. It feels so heavenly you wonder if you’re about to meet God himself.

Jungkook’s finger moves in and out of your hole slowly, a squelching sound accompanying each slide of his appendage. Before long, he adds his ring finger and fucks you with them both, stretching your hole open for the first time. 

“Oh, God,” you moan as your head falls to his shoulder. “That… that is amazing, my King.”

Jungkook presses a kiss to your cheek, leaving his lips there as he continues to fuck you slowly with his fingers. He presses his palm down so it meets your clit as his hand moves against you. Your moans are short and high pitched, happening in quick succession now as your orgasm nears. 

Your husband picks up the pace, moving his fingers faster and sending them deeper into your pussy. Every time he enters you he reaches a spongy spot inside your walls that has you reeling from the pleasure. 

Not only are you focusing on your own ecstasy, but you can feel him hardening beneath you and it makes you want him even more. There is a deep, instinctual need inside you to provide him the same pleasure he is giving you. 

“I want you to come for me, my darling,” Jungkook whispers before kissing your neck again. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Jungkook, I am so close,” you respond. 

The words have barely left your lips when you feel your orgasm crashing over you like a wave with a high pitched scream that barely sounds like yourself. Jungkook continues to pump his fingers into you as you shake in his arms and your pussy convulses around him. 

It’s the most euphoric thing you’ve ever felt and it’s almost too overwhelming to bear. Your thighs are still shaking even once he removes his fingers. You watch with wide eyes as he slips them into his mouth to suck your juices off. 

“Jung — mmhf.”

He cuts you off with a kiss, gripping your jaw to keep your face where it is. You moan into each other’s mouths as you devour one another passionately. Jungkook leans you both back, the two of you crashing to the bed with him above you. Leaving your lips for only a moment, Jungkook reaches down to grab the hem of your dress and pull it over your head. 

It leaves you completely bare before him and on instinct you go to cover your chest and stomach. Jungkook smiles affectionately at your shyness, but he doesn’t scold you, just laces his fingers with yours and moves your hands away from your body. 

“I want to see you, too,” you say as you look into his deep brown eyes. 

Jungkook obliges you silently, stretching up and removing his top before kneeling to remove his pants, leaving him with only a single garment covering his manhood. 

“Better?”

You nod and reach up to bring his face to yours again. He lovingly traces over your figure beneath him, moving his hands over your waist, hips, shoulders, and arms. It feels as though he is trying to map you in your entirety. His big hands complete their exploration by grabbing both of your breasts and massaging them. You moan, your head falling back against the bed and opening your neck up for him to kiss again. 

He doesn’t stay there long before moving lower and kissing across your tits as he squeezes them. His lips latch onto your nipple and you gasp, you hand gripping his black hair in response. He sucks and licks over the nub of your left breast before moving to the right. The sensation has you going mad and it makes your hips buck up against his own. 

When you do, you feel how hard his cock has become. Your hand sneaks down and you grab him over his garment, pushing your palm gently against his bulge.

“Oh, darling,” he gasps. You laugh happily at his reaction, feeling accomplished that you’re pleasuring him as well. 

“Is this alright?” You ask as you bat your eyelashes.

“It is… so much more than alright. Please do not stop,” he begs you. 

You continue the same movement, applying more pressure as Jungkook’s head falls to your shoulder, pressing soft kisses on your skin as he moans. 

Feeling more confident now, you stop your movements to remove his undergarment. He stares at your hands as they reveal his body to you. A shuddering breath pushes past your lips when you see your husband’s cock for the first time. 

“Oh,” you say as your voice drops an octave.

Jungkook is what you can only assume is large. It’s certainly bigger than the penises you’ve seen in art and statues, but you have no real life comparison. He’s long and thick, with large veins running down his shaft. You don’t think your fingers will touch if you wrap your hand around him. 

Jungkook chuckles and raises your head to meet his eyes. 

“Do not worry. I will make sure you are ready before you take me,” he assures you.  

“How will you do that?” 

Jungkook doesn’t respond verbally, he simply maneuvers you both to the center of the bed before sinking down so his face is in front of your cunt. He leans down to kiss and bite along the supple skin of your thighs as he makes his way to where you’re leaking for him already.

His eyes bore into yours when he finally reaches your center and his tongue leaves his mouth for a tentative lick along your folds. You break his eye contact with a loud and deep moan as your head tips back and hits the pillows beneath you. 

“Oh, my King,” you sigh in ecstasy.

Your husband wastes not a single second more, his tongue flattening against your hole and licking up the essence that’s collected there. Your legs shake where they rest next to his head and your nails dig into the sheets, twisting them in your grasp. 

Jungkook is relentless, despite your body already showing signs of oversensitivity. His tongue slides through your folds as he kisses your cunt and moans into you. Then he moves to lick your clit and suck it into his mouth, before returning again to fuck his tongue into you. While his mouth is abusing your hole he uses his nose to create friction on your swollen nub. Everything he does sends shockwaves through your entire being and you feel like your consciousness is no longer on the earth. 

You come again faster than you can even register, your thighs locking around Jungkook’s head as you whole body spasms. Jungkook doesn’t stop, though, even once your breathing begins to return to normal. He continues on as if you didn’t reach a climax at all. It sends your body into overdrive and you gasp at the painful pleasure that shoots through your core. 

Hands finding his hair, you tug on the strands as your hips move to meet his mouth. He groans against you, nodding as if to tell you to keep going. You do, your pussy rubbing against his face while he licks your cum away.

Everything about it is downright filthy and yet it creates the most wonderful feeling to ever course through your veins. 

Jungkook’s mouth moves against you like he knows your body better than you do. His tongue only laps at you a couple more times before another orgasm hits you, and it causes you to gasp and moan pathetically as your hips gyrate against him. He finally comes up for air once he feels your body still, his head resting on your thigh as he kisses it softly.

“Did that feel good, my darling?” Jungkook asks with a smile. His pink lips are swollen and shiny with your essence. 

“You have no idea,” you pant, each word coming out across an exhale. 

Jungkook’s smile grows exponentially and he comes up to meet you at your lips again. You can taste yourself on him and it makes you moan into his kiss. 

“Are you ready, my Queen?” 

His eyes peer into your own when he asks and you can tell he wants to see you so he knows whether you truly are or not.

“Well, what about you?”

“You do not need to worry about me,” he tells you.

“But I want to,” you argue. “I want to pleasure you, my King. I want to give you everything.”

Jungkook pauses your conversation as his eyes search yours for something.

“Are you saying that because you think it is your duty?” 

“No.”

“Then —”

“I am saying it because it is how I feel about you, Jungkook. It has nothing to do with duty.” 

Jungkook sighs and kisses the tip of your nose. You can’t help but blush, the gentle affection warming your heart and making you smile up at him.

“I would love nothing more, my darling,” he tells you. “But I think we should save that for another day. Truthfully, I need to be inside you or I will go mad.”

His words spread heat throughout your entire body. 

“Is that so?”

The smirk currently occupying your lips isn’t there for long because Jungkook kisses it away. A dreamy sigh comes from you as your tongues meet for a lazy dance inside your mouth. You could kiss him forever if given the chance. The taste of his lips and the feel of them against your own has you completely hypnotized. 

Jungkook uses the distraction of his kiss to line himself up with your core, gently running the tip of his cock through your folds and then spreading your cum down his shaft to lubricate his skin. Your pussy reacts immediately, clenching around nothing and leaking more cum onto your thighs. When he’s ready, he nuzzles his nose against yours and kisses your cheek. 

“This may hurt,” he warns you.

“I know,” you smile reassuringly. “I will be alright.”

“You will tell me if you are uncomfortable at all, yes?”

“Yes, darling,” you reply in a mock-tone of his deep voice. He beams at you, his eyes disappearing for a moment before giving you one final peck. 

Jungkook enters you slowly, letting just his head push past your tight circle of nerves before waiting to make sure you’re alright. Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders as your pussy stretches to accommodate him. It isn’t as painful as you expected, more so a tight pressure within your walls. You nod reassuringly at him once you’ve adjusted and he continues gently until his hips meet yours and his cock is nestled up against your cervix.

You gasp at the full intrusion, your lips kissing his shoulder and biting down on the muscle to relieve the foreign ache. 

“Try to relax, darling, it will help,” he coos in your ear. 

Taking multiple deep breaths, you close your eyes and wait for the pressure to subside. Once it does, you’re mesmerized by the pleasure. Jungkook’s cock throbs inside you and he’s so thick that you can feel every ridge and vein pressing against your walls.

“Okay,” you say, looking into Jungkook’s eyes and brushing his hair away from his face. He still looks hesitant, raising his eyebrows at you confirm you’re truly ready. You answer him with a kiss and he smiles against your mouth. 

Jungkook rears back slowly, never once looking away from you to ensure you’re alright, and then sinks back in. You moan when he enters you again, this time feeling nothing but pleasure and euphoria. His tip repeatedly hits the same spot inside you and it makes you see stars as your eyes roll back. 

His body hovers over yours, his forearms holding him steady. Your hands are in his hair and around his neck, tugging on the strands in time with his movements. He grabs your leg to bring it higher around his hip and thrusts into you even deeper. Your moans tangle together in the air between you along with the wet sound of his cock entering you over and over. Jungkook is fucking you like his life depends on it, like is whole life has lead to this very moment. He kisses your shoulder and neck and sucks on your earlobe before finally coming back to your lips to ravish your mouth. 

Consummation of marriage doesn’t seem like the right term for this act anymore, it’s too exquisite to be described in such a mundane way. 

You gaze up at Jungkook as he watches his cock come out of you and go back in again. He groans at the sight, throwing his head back, and you run your hand down his sharp jaw to grab his attention. 

“I love you,” you tell him, despite how terrified you are for him to finally know the truth. His eyes go wide, his mouth opening and shutting again when he can’t find the right words to reply. You smile at his reaction, finding it utterly adorable how you’ve stunned him into silence. “I love you, my King, my husband… my Jungkook.”

Jungkook blinks repeatedly and you can see tears pricking at the corners of his starry eyes, which only makes yours do the same. He maps your face with his eyes as he relishes in your confession. His head shakes in disbelief, but then he smiles and breathes out a laugh.

“I love you, Y/N,” he finally responds. “My Queen, you have no idea how long I have loved you.”

He kisses you again, this time so ardently it steals your breath right from your lungs. His thrusts speed up while your mouths chase each other, the emotions swirling inside you both making you even needier. Your nails rake down his back in red streaks as he pistons into you and grinds against your hips. 

“M’close, my love,” he tells you with a kiss to your neck. 

“Give me a child, Jungkook,” you reply. “Fill up my womb, please.”

Jungkook groans extensively into the skin of your neck as his pushes your hips deeper into the bed so he can fuck you harder. One his hands sneaks between your bodies to massage your clit, making sure you are on the same precipice as he is. 

You come together, loud moans filling the air as your pussy spasms and squeezes Jungkook’s cock inside your walls. Warmth spreads through you as his cum fills you up and he fucks it deeper into you. Gasping at how utterly full you feel, you go to move until Jungkook stops you with a squeeze to your hip. 

“Not yet,” he whispers. “I do not want you to lose a single drop.”

The thought of Jungkook’s seed sitting deep inside your womb and him refusing to pull out to keep it there has you moaning all over again. 

You whine at the feeling of emptiness that overtakes you when he does finally leave the warmth of your cunt. You’re in delirium from all the climaxes and pleasure your husband gave to you and you can barely keep your eyes open. 

Jungkook cleans away any excess fluid from between your legs with a rag before tucking you in and joining you in the bed. He kisses you goodnight with a peck to your lips and forehead before telling you he loves you again. You are already halfway asleep, but make an attempt to tell him the same nonetheless. 

The honeymoon gets extended to three months, simply because Jungkook refuses to share you with anyone else; completely content with having you all to himself for just a while longer. Now that the feelings you were both hiding for so long are out in the open, you want to enjoy your time together without reality sneaking its way in. 

When you do finally return, you’re very much pregnant. Initially, you and Jungkook decide to keep it a secret, but then his mother notices the small bump over your womb and practically shouts the news from the rooftop of the castle. Your mother and father are absolutely elated and everytime they even glance at you tears of joy well up in their eyes. 

Your pregnancy is celebrated all throughout the Kingdom with festivals and parades, but there’s one person you never hear congratulations from. In fact, you barely see him around the many halls and rooms which surround you, as if he’s merely a myth your mind conjured up. 

Once you do see Taehyung, it’s a far cry from the reunion you were hoping for. All he does is bow to you before continuing on down the corridor. His eyes don’t even meet yours and his expression is stone cold and empty. Your heart absolutely shatters in two and you find solace in the library to cry the ache away.

Jungkook finds you before anyone else does, his eyes going wide when he sees you slumped over with your head in your hands.

“Darling?” He crouches down before you and pulls your head up by your chin. “My love, what is wrong? Is it something with the baby?”

“No,” you cry and shake your head. “Taehyung… he will not even look at me.” 

Jungkook frowns and tucks some of your hair behind your ear. 

“Just give him some time,” he tells you.

You shake your head again.

“No, I need to speak to him. I have to tell him why I accepted your proposal and not his,” you explain. 

“Taehyung proposed to you?” Jungkook asks, shock evident in his tone.

“Yes, when he came to tell me he was leaving for the war,” you state. “He told me he would come back and marry me, but I did not give him an answer.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have only ever loved you, Jungkook.”

Just as you feared, time does nothing to bridge the gap between you and your best friend. 

The war ends six months into your pregnancy, and even as all the residents of the castle gather in the ballroom for a celebratory feast, he utters not a single word to you. When you give birth a few months later, your relationship is still not mended and you fear it never will be. 

PRESENT DAY

Taehyung thinks he’s going to throw up. His hands are sweaty and shaking, his internal temperature is dropping, and his leg won’t stop bouncing against the bleachers. Despite all that, he can’t bring himself to peel his eyes away from you and Jungkook as you enter the gym together.

Jungkook’s fingers are laced with yours as you walk just ahead of him. Your smile is so bright when you glance back at him momentarily and all Taehyung can think is that you don’t know. You have no idea you’re holding hands with your own killer. 

Once you reach the other cheerleaders you wrap your arms around Jungkook’s neck and hug him. He smiles at your embrace and nuzzles his head in the junction of your neck and shoulder, pecking your cheek before letting you go. You mouth “I love you” to him and his smile grows as he repeats the phrase back to you. As if it could get worse, Jungkook taps your ass before walking towards the locker room. You don’t even turn around to scold him, just playfully slap his hand as he laughs and leaves you with your teammates. 

Bile threatens to scratch Taehyung's esophagus as he watches Jungkook stroll away from you and disappear into the locker room. He hopes no one notices his staring problem, but it’s impossible for him to look away from the reincarnation of his former best friend. 

This shouldn’t be possible and yet he can’t deny what’s right in front of his own eyes. 

A buzzer pulls Taehyung from his thoughts and the game begins with introductions of both teams. You’re standing courtside in your usual spot at the center of the formation. You cheer as they announce all the players and you yell even louder when they announce Jungkook, after which he winks at you and returns to his position on the court. 

The irony of a former King and Queen being reincarnated as the captain of the cheerleading squad and the captain of the basketball team doesn’t escape Taehyung. Because what else would they be? 

Taehyung would love nothing more than to enjoy the game and cheer along with the rest of the crowd, but his mind is slowly spiraling into madness. 

He needs to find out if Jungkook remembers his past life or not.

If Jungkook does have his memories, that means he’s dating you when he knows what he did and you don’t. Taehyung’s face scrunches in disgust at the thought. He would have to be getting off on it if that’s the case, of knowing he has you back in his clutches while you’re clueless. 

On the other hand, if Jungkook doesn’t remember his last life, then you two are clearly drawn together by some other force of nature that Taehyung isn’t aware of. Perhaps this is just the way your fates are always meant to align, with you and Jungkook together while Taehyung has to come in and save you from him. At least this time Jungkook doesn’t have the authority to murder you.

The biggest question of the night is still how. 

Sometime before you and Taehyung were killed, he sought out a sorceress to cast a protection spell. The spell was simple, but it could only be cast on one of you, so Taehyung made the decision to cast it on you instead of himself. It read:

The person you love will follow you into the next life, and with a kiss, your memories will be returned to you. 

Taehyung chose the spell because he wanted you and him to get a do-over in case something bad happens to you. The only requirement of the spell is that you have to die together, or at least in quick succession to one another. Since that prerequisite was met, you were reincarnated and he has knowledge of his past life. 

Jungkook being here adds a wrench of astronomical proportions to his plans and makes him wonder if Jungkook cast a spell of his own before he killed you. Maybe he got wind of what Taehyung had done and decided to add himself into the mix. 

He may never find out, especially if Jungkook is truly clueless to who he was before. 

When the game ends, Taehyung watches with a clenched jaw as Jungkook scoops you into his arms and lifts you off the ground. You giggle as he does it and the sound is so beautiful it almost brings tears to Taehyung’s eyes. He can practically feel the happiness radiating from you as Jungkook kisses you before setting you back down on the floor. 

It feels like the past is haunting him and laughing in his face. The image of you two before him is so familiar he can almost picture you in your wedding gown instead of your uniform. 

You and Jungkook hold hands again as you converse with all the students coming over to congratulate the team on their big win. Taehyung knows it’s now or never and makes his way down to greet you two.

“Taehyung!” You wave at him with your free hand. 

Jungkook looks up to follow your line of sight. He doesn’t look stunned by the sound of Taehyung’s name and his eyes don’t go wide when he spots him amongst the crowd, so that must be a good sign. 

“Hey,” Taehyung says as he steps in front of you. 

“Taehyung, this is Jungkook and Jungkook, this is Taehyung,” you introduce the two boys. 

Taehyung could laugh out loud at the irony of it. 

“Hey man, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Jungkook says as he shakes Taehyung’s hand. “Y/N has told me all about you. I’m glad she finally has someone to study with who doesn’t distract her.”

“You mean yourself?” You say, turning to him with a smirk.

He teasingly blows a kiss at you and your head tilts to the right, accompanied by your usual nose scrunch and smile combo.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Taehyung says with a forced smile. If he could go a hundred lives without ever meeting Jungkook again, he would. “She talks about you a lot, as well. The mysterious boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I wish we could’ve met sooner. This one says we would get along great,” Jungkook explains. 

He moves behind you to rest his arms over your shoulders, his chin meeting your hair. Your fingers absentmindedly trace his tattoos where his arms hang over your chest. Taehyung’s eyes follow every movement and he has to fight not to lose his mind at the displays of affection. 

“You think so?” Taehyung asks you and you nod repeatedly.

“Oh, yeah,” you answer. “I don’t know what it is, I can just tell you’d be like two peas in a pod.”

“Well, we should all hang out sometime and see if she’s right,” Taehyung suggests. 

He only does so because he needs to know for sure about Jungkook’s memories. If he can find ways to test him and possibly trip him up, he will. 

“I’m always right,” you argue. 

“Mmhm, sure you are, my love,” Jungkook says as he kisses your shoulder before standing back up to his full height and taking your hand. 

Taehyung almost visibly recoils at the sound of one of Jungkook’s old pet names for you. 

“We have to get going to the team’s celebration dinner, but I’ll text you and maybe we can plan something with the three of us?” You propose. 

You go to grab your bag but Jungkook is already slinging it over his shoulder. When you notice, you smile and slap his arm playfully.

“Yeah, sounds great,” Taehyung responds. 

Jungkook waves goodbye and you follow suit before you’re both turning around and heading for the door. You lay your head on Jungkook’s bicep as you walk and he bends over to kiss the top of your head. 

Taehyung throws his head back with a groan. He’s waited hundreds of years and spent the last 20 or so looking for you only to find you in Jungkook’s arms yet again. He wants to have a word with the universe so he can really speak his mind on the matter. 

You text him a couple days later inviting him to a party with some athletes at an off-campus house. It isn’t ideal, but he needs to get as close to you as possible if this is ever going to work. 

The familiar stench of cheap beer and marijuana is already infiltrating Taehyung’s nostrils as he enters. In fact, he walks right through someone’s puff cloud and coughs his whole way into the house. Once inside, he grabs a strong drink from the kitchen and starts searching for you. 

When he finds you, you’re facing his direction while closing one eye to better aim your ping pong ball. Jungkook is opposite you, his back to Taehyung, as everyone waits with bated breath for the outcome of your shot. 

You toss the ping pong ball with precision and it bounces once on the table before sinking right in the center cup. Throwing your hands up to cheer, your proud eyes find Jungkook’s to validate your accomplishment even though he’s on the opposing team. 

“Ha! Take that, Kook,” you tease.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give you that one,” Jungkook responds as he grabs the ball from the cup and downs the drink. “But it’s the last one you’re going to get, baby.”

Jungkook is much quicker than you with his aim and sinks his ball into the matching cup on your side of the table. He puts his arms out and shrugs when you pout in his direction. Rolling your eyes, you chug the beer before setting the cup to the side. 

Taehyung stands to the side to watch the rest of the beer pong tournament and unfortunately for you, Jungkook was right, and you never land a ball in one of his cups again. 

When the game ends you sulk your way over to Jungkook, making a show of crossing your arms over your chest and pouting at him. Taehyung has to look away when he notices Jungkook bending down to kiss the pout away. By the time he looks back, Jungkook has his arm around your shoulders and yours is around his waist.

“Oh, Tae, hi!” You shout when you notice him. “Oh wait, can I call you that?”

“Of course,” Taehyung replies with a smile. “Hey Jungkook.”

“Hey, what’s up? Glad you could make it,” Jungkook says. 

“You know I think the rules of boyfriendship say you’re supposed to let your girlfriend win at these things,” Taehyung points out.

“See! What did I say?” 

You look up at Jungkook, the pout returning with a vengeance.

Jungkook squishes your cheeks between his fingers and coos at you mockingly. You giggle and your eyes squeeze shut before pushing him away with a gentle shove to his chest. 

“I never let anyone win,” Jungkook states. 

I am fully aware.

“It’s true, he’s stupid competitive, but he’s also magically good at fucking everything, so it kinda works in his favor,” you explain. 

“I bet I could beat you at something,” Taehyung says casually.

Jungkook’s eyebrows move up his forehead, a big toothy grin appearing on his face.

“Am I finally about to face a worthy opponent?” He asks rhetorically, his voice pitching up with eagerness. “What’s your game, Taetae?”

Taetae? 

Taehyung is almost tempted to ask Jungkook to slice his neck open again. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to feign nicety when all he wants to do is punch the guy. Whether he has his memories or not, he’s still the only obstacle left standing in Taehyung’s path to you. 

“Um,” Taehyung scopes out the landscape of the house. “Darts?”

Jungkook nods, pursing his lips as he thinks and gazes at the dart board. 

“I can do darts,” he replies.

You leave to grab more drinks while they stroll over to the empty corner where the dart board is hanging. Jungkook pulls the darts from the board and tosses some to Taehyung before stepping back behind the duck tape marking the floor. He gestures with his hands for Taehyung to go first.

“So, I don’t want to make anything awkward, but I feel like I have to give you the obligatory ‘don’t try anything with my girl’ speech,” Jungkook says after Taehyung has thrown his first dart. “Not to say you guys can’t hang out because I’m not like that. She can do whatever she wants. I just like to let guys know that I mean business, ya know?”

“What do you mean?” Taehyung asks.

“I mean that I’m head over heels in love and would do just about anything to keep her next to me,” Jungkook states. He aims quickly and throws his first dart. “As long as she wants me, of course.”

“And if she didn’t… want you, I mean, would you fight for her?” Taehyung continues before taking his next throw. 

“Of course I would,” Jungkook responds with a shrug, as if it’s the easiest answer in the world. “She means everything to me.”

Taehyung can hear the sincerity in Jungkook’s voice and it reflects in his eyes, too, even in the dim lighting. 

“I hear you, Jungkook. Loud and clear,” Taehyung says before gesturing for Jungkook to take his next shot. “How did you guys meet anyway?”

Jungkook takes a sip from his cup before throwing his next dart, the guy barely has to look at the board and he still hits a bullseye. Some things never change. 

“The weekend before freshman orientation all the athletes move in early and have this big mixer,” Jungkook explains. “She took my fucking breath away from across the room, but we were actually friends for a long time before we started dating.”

“Why is that?” Taehyung throws his last dart and then leans against the nearby railing. 

“Well, honestly, I wanted to try out the whole ‘soil your oats’ thing when I first got to college, but then the more time I spent with her, the more I couldn’t get her off my mind. I never even touched another girl the whole year, even before we got together.”

“Baby, I brought drinks!” Your sweet voice rings out before they can continue their conversation.

Jungkook turns around at the sound of it, a huge smile on his face even though you’ve only been gone a couple minutes.

“Oh, thanks, Princess.” 

He greets you with a kiss as he takes the beer bottle from your hand.

Taehyung has to hide the way his teeth grind together at the nickname. He hates how ironic it is given that you were never a Princess, only a Queen, because you were shoved into a role you never asked for by your so-called best friend.  

His inner monologue is interrupted when you hand him a beer bottle as well. He thanks you with a bow of his head before turning back to the game. Jungkook throws his last dart and then leans forward to count up the points. 

“Oh, you guys are tied,” you say with a smile. “Looks like someone’s giving you a run for your money, Kook.”

“It appears so,” he responds. “I think you were right about me and Taetae, we’re gonna be great friends.”

Taehyung’s head tilts at the tiny lick of sarcasm in Jungkook’s voice. He doesn’t think you notice it, though, since you’re still smiling at your boyfriend like he hung the stars in the sky.

There isn’t a second round because you tug on Jungkook’s hand and ask him to dance with you instead. He obliges your request without hesitation, already moving towards the other room while you wave goodbye to Taehyung. Once you’re gone, Taehyung runs his fingers through his hair and looks at the dart board with matching scores. Figures.

He doesn’t see you again until much later after he’s had a little too much to drink. When he does, he immediately regrets coming to look for you. 

Jungkook is pinning you against the wall as he kisses you slowly, his mouth moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. His knee is between your thighs and he’s caressing your waist beneath your shirt. You make out hungrily, his tongue slipping into your mouth while you bite on his lower lip. Jungkook grips your jaw and kisses your neck, sucking on your skin and making you whimper. Your hands run up his back and grip tightly onto his jacket.

“Kook,” you moan. “Upstairs.”

Jungkook nods at your command from where his face is still against your neck. Without missing a beat, he takes your hand and leads you around the corner to the back stairwell. Taehyung can hear your giggles as you two run up the stairs together.

Taehyung actually does get sick this time. It’s a mixture of the alcohol and his mind agonizing over the thought of you two in a bedroom alone together. His knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the toilet bowl he’s currently bent over. 

Jungkook shouldn’t get to touch you like that, shouldn’t get to hold you or kiss you after what he did. 

Taehyung’s eyes snap shut as the memory of you clutching your bleeding neck flashes in his mind. He presses his knuckles to his eyelids to try and get the image to go away. It never does. Taehyung is constantly haunted by the look of terror in your eyes as you fall over and bleed out right in front of him. 

He presses his forehead against the cabinet next to him as he tries to catch his breath. He still isn’t sure if Jungkook has his memories or not, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You deserve to know exactly who you’re dating. 

A few days later, you’re sitting across from him with half a gummy worm hanging from your mouth while you read something on your laptop. Every so often you start typing and your brow creases in concentration. Taehyung can’t keep his eyes off you for a second. You’re undeniably endearing and it’s taking everything in him not to reach across the table and kiss you right now. 

“Jungkook says he really likes you,” you say without looking up.

“Really? I honestly couldn’t tell,” Taehyung replies.

“Oh yeah, no, he talked about you a lot after the party. Said he finally met his match,” you continue. 

“Hmm, he wasn’t jealous at all?”

You look up with confusion written on your face.

“No,” you stretch out the syllable. “Should he be?”

“No, no! I just know him and I talked about it a bit and —”

“Talked about what?”

“Well, about you being his and that I should respect that,” Taehyung explains.

“Oh, yeah, he does that,” you say with a wave of your hand. “In his eyes, I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, so everyone must want me, ya know?”

“You are,” Taehyung accidentally says before biting his lip aggressively. Your eyes bulge as you stare at him in shock across the table. “I… I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod, your lip held captive between your teeth while you look everywhere but at Taehyung. 

“Um —”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry,” Taehyung interrupts. “I promise, I’m not trying to make a move on you or steal you away from Jungkook. You just… I mean, objectively, you are beautiful, and truth be told you remind me of someone I used to know, so I just… oh I don’t know.”

“It’s alright,” you say with a gentle smile. “Let’s just forget about it, yeah?”

You end up missing your study session with him on Thursday, shooting him a text an hour after you normally arrive that you got caught up with something else and you’ll see him next time. 

Taehyung already knows next time is never going to come. You’ll subtly ghost him after making excuses for a few weeks, and he doesn’t blame you. He crossed a line and you’re trying to set some boundaries in return. But he refuses to leave you in the dark any longer, and if his plan is failing, he’ll need to come up with another one.

There’s a home basketball game tonight, so Taehyung buys a ticket at the entrance before heading into the gym. You’re already there with the other cheerleaders, but Jungkook is nowhere in sight. Taehyung knows he has to be quick about this and doesn’t hesitate to approach you courtside.

“Hey,” he greets you.

“Oh, hi,” you respond with your usual smile. Maybe you really were busy yesterday or maybe you’re just good at hiding your true emotions. 

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Your body tenses at his question, and your eyes flit to the other side of the room, but you eventually nod and the two of you leave and stand in an unoccupied area behind the gym doors. 

“What’s up?” You ask as you cross your arms.

“I just wanted to make sure everything is still good between us,” he admits. 

You nod slowly and chew on your lip as you debate over your answer. 

“Honestly? No,” you confess. “You’re really fun to hang out with and I’ve enjoyed our study time together, but what you said the other day… it’s obvious that this is more than a friendship for you and I’m not comfortable continuing to hang out one-on-one knowing that.”

Taehyung’s hands begin to shake as he digests your words. He knows what he has to do and yet he can’t bring himself to do it.

“Look, I do like you as more than a friend, and I think you should give me a shot because Jungkook isn’t who you think he is.”

“Excuse me?” You gawk at him. “You’ve met him twice, Tae! How dare you?”

“No, Y/N, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand, huh?”

“That… you don’t have all the information, but I can give it to you,” Taehyung offers.

“Information? What are you even talking about?” There’s a momentary pause until you shake your head and put your hands up in surrender. “You know what, no, I don’t even wanna know. I trust my boyfriend more than a guy I’ve known for barely three months.”

You start to walk away, moving swiftly past Taehyung, but he catches your wrist.

“Wait!”

“Taehyung, let go of me.”

“I’m sorry about this.”

Taehyung uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him and presses his lips to yours. He never wanted to do it this way, never without your consent, but he’s losing you again and he can’t risk that. 

It only lasts two seconds before you’re shoving him off of you, but it’s enough. This kiss is the final puzzle piece to returning your memories so you can be together again. 

“What the hell, Tae?” You shout before running back towards the gym.

The words have barely passed your lips when the first wave hits you. It stops you in your tracks, your hands bracing themselves on the cold metal doors as images flood your mind. 

Ball gowns, children playing, a grassy field with wildflowers, two horses galloping towards you, blood pooling on the floor. You gasp and your hand instinctively grabs at your neck. The mirage stops and you shake your head, thinking it’s just some bizarre daydream brought on by the stress of Taehyung’s actions. 

You return to your courtside formation just in time to see Jungkook entering the gym from the locker room. As soon as your eyes land on his silhouette, more images appear.

A large bed in a dark room, a gold crown, white roses, a baby cradle, his hand pulling a dress up your thigh, him spinning you in the air, and finally, his eyes, sharp and cold, looking at you in disgust.

You trip over nothing at all, accidentally bumping into your teammate behind you. She asks if you’re alright, but you're too frazzled to verbally answer her and nod instead.

Jungkook notices your abnormal behavior from across the room and pivots to walk towards you. When he does, the Jungkook you know seemingly blinks out of existence and is replaced by a version of him in medieval attire with a crown on his head. You blink rapidly to eradicate the hallucination, but it only lasts for a split second before you see him in his basketball uniform again.

Lifting your hands to stop him from coming any closer, you avoid his eyes and turn around to take a sip of water. Your head is pounding as unfamiliar scenes infiltrate your mind one at a time. Nothing makes sense and you wonder if you somehow fell asleep and are dreaming all of this. You pinch your forearm and flinch when your nails dig in and send a sharp pain through your skin. 

You try to steady your breathing, but the images are unyielding and overwhelming. Looking up into the bleachers, you see Taehyung, and just like before, he phases into a version of himself wearing knight’s armor and a shield.

Grasping the side of your head and massaging your temple, you turn back towards the game just as the buzzer sounds. 

The roar of the crowd and the players yelling commands at each other only serves to make matters worse. You brace your head between your hands and bend over, willing the kaleidoscope of visions to cease. Squeezing your eyes shut, you count your inhales and exhales in a feeble attempt to self soothe.

Another cheerleader rubs your back and asks if you’re feeling okay, but her voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. All you can see, hear, and feel are the vivid daydreams of you, Taehyung, and Jungkook in medieval clothes as you stroll around a huge stone castle. The last thing you see is Taehyung held taut by two knights. A deep, foreboding aura seeps into your bones and then you feel a sharp blade slice across your jugular. 

Everything fades to black as you pass out. 

“Oh, my God, Y/N,” the cheerleader behind you gasps as you fall into her. 

All movement on the court comes to a screeching halt, and Jungkook is throwing the ball out of his hands before running over to you.

“What happened?” He asks as he bends down. His fingers gently move your hair away from your face and he presses the back of his hand to your forehead to check your temperature.

“I don’t know, she looked like she was having a migraine and then she was just out,” someone explains. 

Taehyung starts moving through the stands to reach you, but before he can, your eyes begin to blink open. He stands still as a statue as he watches you take in your surroundings. When you see Jungkook leaning over you, you gasp and move away.

“No… no,” you whimper.

“Baby?”

“No, don’t touch me,” you yell when his hand goes to caress your arm.

“Y/N, it’s me.”

“No, no, no,” you cry as you cradle your head in your hands. “Make it stop, please make it stop.”

Jungkook looks at the girl still holding you in horror, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

The first-aid team runs in and heads towards the commotion. One of them tries to move you, but you only wail louder and coil into yourself, preventing them from doing anything to help.

“We’re gonna need to sedate her,” one of them says.

“What?” Jungkook asks with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

The paramedic doesn’t answer him, they just stick a small needle in your arm and push the medicine into your vein. Your cries subside into whimpers almost immediately, and then you’re out cold again.

The gym is completely silent as everyone watches with concern for you and your wellbeing. 

The paramedics move you to a stretcher and roll you out of the gym. Jungkook stands to follow them, but not before turning over his shoulder and meeting eyes with Taehyung. 

“You, with me, now,” he orders. 

And that’s the moment Taehyung finally knows for sure. Jungkook has his memories. He knows exactly who he was in his past life, and more importantly, what he did.

1430

You’re clutching your dress between the fingers of your left hand as you take quick steps down the hall, attempting to catch up to the tiny figure ahead of you. The five year old is far too quick for your liking, and she’s mischievous in nature which only makes it worse.

“Sooyoung,” you call when you finally catch up to her, scooping her into your arms when you’re close enough. “What did mommy say about running in the corridors? There are big, pointy objects all around and you could run into one.”

“Sorry, mommy,” she giggles, tucking herself into your chest. 

You rub her back and place a kiss in her hair. Just then, you hear the sound of a door opening and Jungkook steps out, running his hands through his hair methodically.

“Daddy!” Sooyoung shouts and wiggles herself away from you. 

Putting her down, you watch as her little feet carry her to his side. Jungkook stops in his tracks, his eyes bright with affection and a large toothy grin on his face. When she finally reaches him, he lifts her up by her waist, bringing her over his head as she giggles endlessly before resting her against his hip.

“How is my beautiful Princess doing?”

“Good, I learned the alphabet this morning,” she tells him.

“You did? Baby, that is wonderful,” he praises her. She smiles and leans over to plant a wet smooch on his cheek. Jungkook laughs and returns the favor to her, kissing her multiple times until she tells him to stop with a giggle. When Jungkook reaches you he leans down to kiss your lips. “Hi, my love.”

“Hello, my King,” you say as he passes Sooyoung over to you. You put her down and let her roam in the room just off to the left where some of her toys are. “Are you joining us for lunch?”

“No, my darling, I cannot,” he says with a frown. You mirror his expression and he tucks some of your hair behind your ear. “I am sorry, my Queen. You know I would if it were up to me.”

“I know,” you reply. 

Even though the war which took the lives of Jungkook’s brother and father ended shortly before you gave birth to your first son, another one broke out three months ago. Thankfully, since his heirs are too young to rule in his stead, there was a mutual agreement that Jungkook wouldn’t go away to fight because of what happened during the last war. But even though he’s here with you, moments like this are some of the only ones you get to spend together. 

Other than these brief encounters when you happen to cross paths, the only time you see him is when he comes to bed for the night. During the first month of the war, you would stay up for him, waiting in eager anticipation for the sound of his footsteps coming down the corridor. When he did finally arrive, he would sweep you up into his arms and make love to you before tucking you into bed and falling asleep with you in his hold. Over time, his entrances into your bedroom came later and later, and you would fall asleep while waiting for him. Now, he simply presses a kiss to your forehead in your sleep before pulling you into his arms. When you wake up, he’s usually already gone.

Everytime you get so much as a glimpse of him, it soothes the melancholy feeling in your heart and brings a smile to your face. Even if all you see is a familiar head of black hair and broad shoulders turning around a corner.

Time moves torturously slow without him beside you and you feel the ache of missing him all the way down to your bones. The loneliness is becoming unbearable, especially since your two eldest children, Sooyoung, who is almost five, and Junghyun, named after his late uncle, who is seven, are busy with their tutor most of the day. That leaves you with your identical twin boys, Minho and Wonshik, who are two. They’re quite entertaining, but nothing can fill the void of not having your beloved husband around. 

“Perhaps I will see you tonight?” You ask.

“I hope so,” Jungkook says as he caresses your cheek. He bends down to kiss you again, for longer this time now that your daughter is out of the way. “I love you, my Queen, so very much.”

“I love you more,” you reply with a final peck. 

Jungkook raises his eyebrow to silently challenge your statement before waving goodbye to you and your daughter as he continues down the corridor. 

Sighing in exasperation, you call for your daughter and take her hand as you walk towards the dining hall to eat lunch with your other children. 

Some days later you’re walking through the large gardens behind the castle while the twins nap inside. Early afternoons are the only time of day when you’re able to take a break from motherhood and be alone with your thoughts. Although, you’re certainly not lacking in alone time at the moment. 

As you pass by the hedges on your way back inside, you spot Taehyung speaking with some fellow knights. You no longer attempt to make eye contact with him and neither does he. It’s been nearly eight years since you last spoke besides obligatory greetings or discussions involving his duties. The idea of you two ever being close again is a pipe dream you stopped hoping for long ago. You miss him dearly, and you always will, but it’s useless driving yourself mad over an impossibility.

After lunch, you hear a knock at the nursery door where you’re playing with Minho and Wonshik. When you see Taehyung enter after allowing the visitor entry, you’re taken aback. He’s usually only ever with Jungkook or completely a task on his behalf. 

“Sir Taehyung, can I help you?” You ask him.

“I am assigned to be here, your Majesty,” he answers you flatly.

“Pardon?”

“The King has assigned me to be your personal guard.”

“Why would I need a personal guard?” You question, pulling Minho closer to your chest. There’s never been a reason or need for you to be under supervision before and you don’t like the sound of it.

“The battlefront has moved closer to the Eastern border and as such, King Jungkook wants you and the children to each be guarded day and night in the event that the enemy breaks down our defenses or sneaks into the Kingdom,” he explains. 

You nod as you digest the news, looking down at your two-year old who gazes back with familiar big, brown eyes. Putting him back on the ground to play with his twin, you stand and walk towards Taehyung.

“If that is the case I believe we should have a conversation, Sir Taehyung.” 

“I do not believe that is necessary, my Queen.”

“I think it is,” you argue. “If you are going to be with me around the clock I do not want it to be awkward.”

Taehyung grimaces and chews on his bottom lip as he thinks about his following words. You cross your arms over your chest for good measure, even though you look nowhere near intimidating.

“I do not wish to speak about the past, but I will attempt to be cordial with you for the sake of the arrangement,” he proposes. “Is that alright with you, your Highness?”

You mull it over in your mind for a minute before nodding curtly and turning back towards your children. 

His assignment of guarding you is considerably more boring compared to his usual duties. All he does is walk behind you at a reasonable distance while you traverse the gardens, stand behind your seat at meal times, guard the door while you read in the library, and sit in the nursery with you as you play with the children.

Despite Taehyung assuring you otherwise, the first days of his assignment are extremely awkward. He hardly speaks to you and when he does, it’s clipped and cold. But time seems to massage the tension away and slowly, but surely, he warms up to you. 

The first time you see him smile is when Wonshik decides to come towards you for a hug and falls flat on his face. Your whole body tenses in shock when you hear the nostalgic sound of Taehyung chuckling behind you. It brings a huge smile to your face even as you’re trying to calm Wonshik down from his accident. 

Eventually, the quiet moments turn into real conversations.

You often stop to enjoy nature during your garden walks and there’s a large bench near the creek you like sitting on. One day, your hand taps against the stone and you look over your shoulder at Taehyung. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking if you mean for him to sit there. When you nod, he waits a few moments before moving towards you and sitting down on the other end of the bench. 

“Is this not the most beautiful view?” You ask as you gaze out across the creek.

“It is one of them, for sure,” Taehyung answers. 

It’s the first time he’s said anything of substance to you in close to a decade, and you almost begin to cry at the thought. 

“The valley by my house was beautiful, too, but I believe I prefer this,” you state. Taehyung only hums in response. “Do you have any special spots around the castle you think are particularly nice?”

“I do, actually,” Taehyung says. “There is a corridor just off the maid’s quarters where they store the new and old artwork as they cycle through them. I go there sometimes and look at the art up close. Not many people know about it, so it is always peaceful.”

You admire his profile as he speaks, and a smile appears on your lips involuntarily. Even with the passage of time, his features are identical to the boy you once knew. Losing his friendship has always been your biggest heartbreak, and you can feel your soul slowly healing whenever you’re with him. 

That encounter becomes the starting point for your new relationship with Taehyung. It becomes a routine to stop and chat during your daily walks, and you look forward to it everyday. As time goes on your conversations grow longer and dive deeper. You never touch on the past, but you don’t need to. The friendship picks up where it left off as if no time has passed at all.

A few months into Taehyung’s assignment as your personal guard, you’re walking through the garden when Jungkook comes out from the castle.

“Darling?” You call out to him when you see him. “What are you doing out here?”

“I came to say goodbye, my love. I have to leave to speak to some allies in a neighboring town,” he tells you. 

You frown and your shoulders drop. When Jungkook reaches you he takes your hands in his and kisses them.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three days.”

“That is Sooyoung’s birthday.”

“Well, then I will make it two days,” he responds without missing a beat.

“Are you sure?” 

Jungkook smiles and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“I would not miss it for the world, my love,” he assures you. You acknowledge his promise with a nod before wrapping your arms around his neck to hug him goodbye. He returns the gesture in kind, lifting your heels off the ground as he embraces you tightly. “I love you, I will see you soon.”

He kisses you for a lingering moment before nodding towards Taehyung and leaving to meet the parliamentarians in the entryway of the castle. 

You bite down hard on your lip to stop the bubbling sorrow within you from spilling over to the surface, but it does so anyway. Hands coming up to hide your face, a sob breaks from your chest as your palms collect your tears.

“Your Majesty? Is everything alright?” Taehyung asks, his surprise at your reaction evident in his tone. He moves to stand in front of you.

“I am sorry, I do not mean to be emotional,” you say as you lift your head and wipe the tears away.

“That is nothing to apologize for,” he states. “Can I do anything?”

“No, no,” you respond. “Unless you know how to end this Godforsaken war.”

“Is it the war that is upsetting you, my Queen?”

“Yes, because it is the war that is keeping my husband from me.”

“What do you mean, your Highness?”

“I have not had a real conversation with Jungkook in nearly half a year, Sir Taehyung,” you tell him. “Moments like these are all I get. He is too busy with battle strategies and trade routes to spend any time with me or the children.”

“Your Highness, I am so sorry to hear that. I was not aware,” he replies. 

“I should not be telling you this, I apologize,” you say. “Please forget I mentioned anything.”

“Your Highness, if there is anything I can do to help, please let me know,” Taehyung offers.

The conversation ends there and you finish your stroll before returning inside to your children for dinner. When you tell them about Jungkook being gone, they all cry the same as you, not used to their father being gone even though he’s around less these days. The sentiment is shared amongst all five of you. You feel Jungkook’s absence from the castle everywhere you turn even if you wouldn’t normally see him anyway. 

Exiting your room the next day, you find Taehyung outside your door as usual, but he has something hidden in his left hand. Before you have the opportunity to question him about it, he pulls a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back.

“I wanted to cheer you up, your Majesty, I hope I am not overstepping.” The flowers are purple and white, same as the ones which grew outside your home. You gasp in delight, your hands coming up to cover your mouth. 

“Oh, Taehyung, they are so beautiful,” you tell him as he hands them to you. “Thank you so very much.”

You don’t realize your slip of the tongue, the honorific noticeably absent when you say his name, and it brings a smile to your companion’s face. 

“I am glad you like them, my Queen,” he says with a deep bow.

You smile at him, your head tilting to the right as your nose scrunches, before putting your nose to the bouquet to smell the flower’s sweet scent. It reminds you of home and fills you with a deep, comforting warmth.

Over the next two days you and Taehyung begin to speak even more, conversing as you walk the halls and making jokes while playing with the children. Taehyung even joins you on the floor and playfully teases the twins with a game of peek-a-boo. It’s the happiest you’ve been in months. You still miss Jungkook dearly, but the loneliness that’s made a home inside your heart goes away on a brief vacation.

By the morning of Sooyoung’s birthday Jungkook has yet to return, but you still have hope he’ll make it back before the end of the day. 

You’re arranging some of her presents sent from family members and citizens alike when Taehyung enters with some more that were just dropped off. As you’re moving one of the larger gifts, your hair falls into your face and you attempt to push it away by blowing air out of your mouth since your hands are full. 

Suddenly, you feel a fingertip against your cheek, and you look over to see Taehyung moving the strand out of the way for you. He’s close enough that you can see the deep chocolate color of his irises. 

An unfamiliar tension threads itself between you both as you stand in silence only inches apart. Taehyung opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a voice coming from outside the room.

“Where is my beautiful wife?”

Your eyes light up at the sound of Jungkook’s voice, breaking the moment between you and Taehyung in an instant. Rushing towards the door, you throw it open and look for the source of your husband’s voice.

Jungkook spots you from down the hall and he sighs in relief, an adoring smile growing on his lips. Running towards him without another thought, you laugh cheerfully as he opens his arms to welcome you into his chest. 

Instead of hugging you, though, he grabs you by the waist and lifts you above his head as he often does with your daughter. You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal before wrapping your arms around his neck as he brings you down into his embrace. 

“Oh, I missed you, my darling,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I missed you so much, Jungkook,” you respond and bury your face into his shoulder. “You made it back in time.”

“I promised you I would, did I not?” You look up and nod, fresh tears evident in your eyes. He frowns when he notices them and reaches up to wipe the tears away. “What is wrong, my love?”

“I just missed you, that is all,” you answer. 

Jungkook nods in agreement before bending down to kiss you. Your mouths move together in a practiced rhythm, his hand holding the back of your head to keep you against him. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt as he tilts his head to kiss you with more fervor. He swallows the noise you make when his tongue traces your bottom lip and sinks into your mouth. It’s a passionate dance you haven’t experienced in months, and it almost makes you start crying again. 

You reluctantly pull away, the breath missing from your lungs, as your hands tighten around the collar of his shirt. 

“I am sorry it has been so long since I have done that,” Jungkook pants as he caresses your face. “I hope you know I think about it all the time. I am always thinking of you, my Y/N.”

You nod as another tear rolls down your cheek. Jungkook kisses it away before letting you go so he can greet the children. 

Your strange moment with Taehyung is forgotten, and weeks go by with your friendship continuing to blossom as it did over those two days. 

Jungkook leaves again, this time for a week, to visit with the ruler of a neighboring Kingdom who can possibly help end the war. It breaks your heart all over again, even though you know a week isn’t that long. The distance between you has just grown so wide, that seeing him between meetings and feeling his arms around you at night is the only thing keeping you sane. 

You haven’t had sex since the first month of the war, and it feels like you’re being slowly drawn and quartered. Before, sex was almost a nightly occurrence, sometimes even twice a day if the children were with their grandparents. Jungkook spoiled you with pleasure, and now the torture of being without his touch is downright unbearable.

Sometimes you pleasure yourself, just to take the edge off, but it’s nothing compared to Jungkook. He knows your body better than you do, and your hands don’t even come close to doing him justice. 

Last night you cried yourself to sleep from the pain of missing him and the need pulsating in your thighs. You’d do anything, even take up a sword yourself, to end this war so you can have him back. Whenever he’s gone, it feels like the weight of the entire castle is sitting on your chest. 

Your emotions from the night before are still evident on your face this morning, and Taehyung notices. 

“Are you alright, your Majesty?” He asks after greeting you in the library. “Your eyes look swollen, did you have a negative reaction to something you ate?”

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. 

“Then, what is it, my Queen?” Taehyung probes with a look of concern.

“It is nothing, Sir Taehyung,” you answer. “I was merely missing my husband again.”

Taehyung frowns and takes a step closer to you. You notice the movement, but don’t step back as you normally would.

“Is there anything I can do? Anyway I can help you, your Majesty?”

Taehyung’s gaze is piercing and it makes your face and neck flush with a pink hue. Without warning, an undeniable heat begins to spread across your abdomen and simmer in your gut. You know the sensation all too well, but you’ve never felt something like this for Taehyung, even before you were married. Forcing your eyes shut, you will the temptation to disappear. But it’s been so long since you’ve been touched, and Taehyung is the one constant in your life at the moment. 

“I… am not sure,” you admit. 

“Is it just him that you miss or something else as well?” Taehyung asks cautiously. “I cannot do anything about your husband not being here, but I can help in other ways.”

Biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, you avoid his stare and beg your feet to move away from him. All you need is to take a single step back and the tension will break. 

“Taehyung,” you speak softly. 

“Y/N,” he replies, his eyes sharpening. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice speak your name since before you got married, before you became Queen.  

“Will you help me… please?” 

Taehyung moves like lightning, as if he’s been waiting an eternity for you to say those words. His warm hands engulf your waist so he can push you back until your thighs hit the large desk behind you. He lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of the wood without ever breaking eye contact. Descending to his knees before you, his hands trace the curve of your legs over your dress. 

Your brain is screaming at you to stop now before you’re past the point of no return. But there is nothing you can do, your body is overriding the commands which normally control your movements. It’s aching to be touched, and it no longer cares who’s doing it. 

Taehyung’s hands disappear beneath your gown, caressing your ankles and calves before he’s pulling up the fabric so it rests above your knees. His head leaves your line of sight, and then you feel a featherlight touch to your covered sex.

You gasp, clapping your hand over your mouth when you do. Taehyung’s fingers trace your folds through your undergarment, and you can feel his warm breath on your inner thighs. Then, you feel him pull the fabric aside and he touches you for the first time. You moan into your palm as he dips his fingers into your essence and carries it up to your clit. He gently circles the sensitive nub before pressing down hard and rubbing. Head tipping back in euphoria, you use your elbows to keep yourself somewhat upright.

He plays with your pussy for a while, exploring the unfamiliar territory of your body, before finally sinking his fingers into your hole. Your desperate whimper is muffled by your flesh when he inserts two fingers into you and begins pumping them in and out. The wet squelch of him fucking his fingers into is almost foreign, since it’s been so long since you’ve heard it. 

A shockwave of pleasure devours you whole when he kisses your clit and then flattens his tongue to lick you repeatedly. He matches the pace of his fingers and the dual sensation has you biting down on your hand to stop yourself from screaming. You feel yourself drowning in the hellish desire that’s slowly overtaking your soul.

Taehyung moans against you, removing his hand from your pussy to grip you by the thighs and pull you closer to his face. Once he’s hands-free, he begins devouring your cunt like he hasn’t eaten for days. He licks all the way up your slit before circling your clit with his tongue. Then he goes back down and kisses you as he drinks the juices leaking out of your hole. Your mind is paralyzed by the pleasure and it isn’t long before you feel your orgasm nearing. 

Your hand grips his hair, tugging on the dark strands and making him grunt. He licks you harder in response, fucking his tongue into your hole and using his nose to keep friction on your clit. You come with a cry, sinking your teeth into the skin of your hand to keep yourself quiet.

It’s only then you realize you’re crying, but they aren’t tears of pleasure. The emotional response is from the unfathomable guilt and self-hatred over what you’ve just done. An act you can never take back and must live with for the rest of your life.

Taehyung licks you a few more times, slurping up your cum and moaning at the taste before rising to stand in front of you. Your chest is red and heaving as you come down from your high. He looks smug and proud of what he’s done to you, and it makes you sick. 

You gag into the hand still covering your mouth before leaping off of the table and finding the nearest basin. The contents of your stomach force their way up your throat as you vomit into the receptacle. Your fingers shake and you grip the metal edge to hold yourself upright. Bile burns your esophagus as tears roll down and collect on your chin.

When your stomach is completely empty, and only mucus drips from your mouth, you fall over onto the floor. Your hands cover your face as you scream and cry. The harsh, deep sobs making you gasp for air and cough repeatedly. 

“What have I done?” You wail into your hands and shake your head back and forth, as if the movement could somehow turn back time. The faces of your children and husband flash across your mind and make more tears fall. You think of Jungkook, hundreds of miles away, probably wondering how you’re doing, and your soul tears itself to shreds. “Oh, God, what have I done?”

Taehyung crouches down next to you and moves his hand along your spine to soothe you as best he can. You’re undeserving of his affection, the only thing you deserve now is damnation. 

Jungkook comes home three days later. You get sick again as soon as you hear his voice filtering in from down the hall. 

A month goes by without you or Taehyung mentioning the incident. You push forward and pretend like nothing happened, or least you do. It’s uncertain how Taehyung feels, but frankly, you don’t care to know. The only thing that matters is that it can never happen again. You’ve loved Jungkook since you were a child, and the putrid thought of betraying him again is enough to send you to your grave.

But it’s hard, it's so very hard. Because he isn’t here beside you to hold you and kiss you and remind you that everything’s going to be alright. You only hear his voice every few days, if that; only feel his touch once every other week if you happen to wake up in the night and feel his arm around you. The loneliness is suffocating you from the inside and you feel it choking you to death more and more everyday.

You cry for hours on end most days. The self-hatred, guilt, sorrow, and despair mix together to create a cacophony of emotions you have no way of controlling. Taehyung just waits outside your door and listens to your sobs with no power to do anything about them. 

Your children are the only joy in your life at the moment, but even spending time with them is difficult because all four of them share a pair of eyes with their father. Everywhere you look you see pieces of Jungkook, whether in the children or in the desolate halls of the castle, but you never see the man himself. 

At least strolling through the gardens and speaking with Taehyung while you sit near the creek brings you peace. It reminds you so much of old times and you’re relieved to finally have your best friend back after reconnecting over these many months. 

He makes you laugh and listens intently when you tell him about the books you’re reading and what the children are learning about in their lessons. In return, he talks about knighthood and whatever silliness the men got up to in their freetime. Without him, you don’t think you would be surviving this endless solitude. 

“Your Majesty, if I may?” Taehyung says from beside you on the bench. You gesture with your hand for him to continue. “Forgive me for my forwardness, but your mental state is only getting worse. I do not know how much longer you can go on like this.”

Eyes glancing down, you pick at the fabric of your dress and pull at the threads with your fingers. 

“I will be fine. I just have to wait until the war is over,” you state.

“Your Highness, the last war went on for close to four years, and it has not even been one yet,” he points out. “You cannot go on like this.”

“What would you have me do?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“No,” you snap at him. 

“Y/N —”

“No, do not even think of speaking it out loud,” you order him sternly. “That was the biggest regret of my life and I will not give into it again.”

“There is no reason you should be alone, Y/N!” Taehyung stands and faces you as he speaks. “Jungkook asked you to marry him and now he leaves you alone and untouched and it is killing you.”

Tears prick at your eyes as Taehyung’s words force reality close enough until you can no longer hide from it. Jungkook’s love for you is unquestionable, and you know the war is the sole reason he isn’t beside you, but the war is still ongoing, and he has no control over its end. 

“Taehyung, I cannot betray him again,” you whisper, more so to yourself than to him.

“It does not have to be like that,” Taehyung argues. “It is just pleasure. A body to touch and hold you so you are no longer lonely and isolated. Nothing can take away from the love you and him share. But this situation is unfair to you, and you know it is.”

“What is in it for you, Taehyung?” You ask him. “Why are you so set on being the body which helps me with that endeavor?” 

“You already know why, my Queen. My feelings have never changed, even after all this time.”

The day Taehyung confessed his feelings for you was so long ago it almost feels like another lifetime. You never responded, because you didn’t share those same feelings for him. But these months together have meant more to you than you can even articulate, and you aren’t sure if that’s still the case. 

What you feel for Taehyung is very different from what you feel for Jungkook.

Jungkook is, without a shadow of a doubt, the love of your life. Your love for him burns deep within your heart like an ever-glowing hearth. It’s solid and foundational to your very being. He's your best friend, husband, and father of your children, and there’s nothing in this world that could make you love him less. 

Taehyung is more like a candle, something that only burns you if you reach out and touch the flame. It’s warm and inviting during a time where your whole world feels dark. The love feels familiar because the seed was planted long ago and nourished throughout your years of friendship, but now it’s blooming.

“You still love me?” 

“With every part of me.”

You pause and compartmentalize your thoughts before continuing. 

“I never meant to hurt you, all those years ago,” you tell him. “I am sorry for doing so.”

“It is alright, my Queen,” he responds, taking his seat beside you again. “I know you did not have much choice in the matter.”

You assume he means the speed at which everything happened, and don’t correct him.

“I care about you very much, Taehyung.” You inhale and close your eyes, counting to four before releasing the air from your lungs. “I do love you. It… it is not like my love for my husband, but it is there. I cannot deny that.”

“Then will you let me do this for you?” Taehyung asks. When you look at him, his eyes are glossy, no doubt from the confession of your newfound feelings. “I am not asking for anything in return, your Majesty. I only want to help you.”

Your thoughts trample over one another as they all scramble for the top position on the dog pile. But you truly believe the only way you’ll survive this war is if you shut your mind off, turn out the lights and let your body puppeteer you. 

Taehyung is right that your depression and isolation are slowly killing you. There’s no energy left for you to play with your children, you can barely eat or sleep, and your hair has even begun to fall out. 

So, you follow him to his quarters in the Eastern wing of the castle. 

You jump at the sound of the door shutting behind you and locking into place. It’s strange being inside his bedroom, but the trinkets and items scattered around the room feel familiar to you because they’re his.

Taehyung is quick to capture your lips with his and it sends a shock through your nervous system. You’ve never kissed anyone but Jungkook, and he kisses you so differently than your husband does. If Jungkook is water, Taehyung is fire. The kiss scorches you and burns across your insides until it lights a fire inside your stomach. You allow yourself to return his affection, let your lips move against his as he walks you backwards towards the bed. 

The two of you fall together onto the mattress with a soft bounce. Taehyung’s hands find your own and pull them over your head, imprisoning them against the bed. He begins to kiss down your face and neck, sucking gently and licking over your skin. You moan and tilt your head to give him more access to you. It’s been so long since you’ve felt ravished and worshipped, and your body welcomes it on impulse. 

He moves slowly from your neck to your chest, his lips and tongue caressing the tops of your breasts and softly biting down on the fatty flesh. 

You nudge him with your knee to make him sit up before reaching around to untie your corset. Taking the hint, Taehyung begins undressing as well. His armor meets the floor with a loud metallic clap as you step out of your clothes and return to his bed. 

He moves you up the mattress by your waist, all the while still kissing you and exploring your mouth with his tongue. Taehyung takes a moment to admire your bare chest before him, his hands coming up to caress your breasts and then kiss them. His tongue circles your nipple before sucking on it, turning it hard and sensitive between his teeth. You gasp and moan as your hands grab onto his hair. 

Continuing down your body, Taehyung removes the undergarment hiding your pussy from him and kisses your folds. Your head falls back against the pillows as your chest rises with ragged breaths. He eats you out like it will be his last meal, and if the two of you are ever caught, it will be. His tongue fucks into your hole and the sloppy sound of your essence and his salvia mixing into one fills the room. He moves to your clit and lets his teeth scrape over the flesh. You whine as he sucks and licks on your sensitive nerve endings.

His two middle fingers enter you with a wet squelch and he starts curling them so they press against your spongy walls. You moan freely, knowing the first knight’s quarters are completely secluded. He pumps his fingers in and out of you as he devours your clit with his mouth. Your head is spinning in ecstasy. Your pussy greedily sucks his digits in and leaks essence all over his hand.

It doesn’t take long for you to come with a strained gasp, your legs shaking and clenching around his head. 

Taehyung removes his fingers slowly before licking them clean and kissing along your thighs. When he kisses you again you can taste yourself on him. It’s been so long now that the flavor is almost foreign.

You push forward without reprieve, wrapping your legs around Taehyung’s thighs to flip him over. He matches your eagerness and starts pulling his undergarment off so you can pump his cock with your hand. The sound of spit has Taehyung’s eyes rolling back as you coat his length in your saliva and begin sliding your fingers up and down his shaft. He moans from deep within his chest. His eyes close as he relishes in the feeling of you jacking him off. His cock is big and thick, and your mouth waters instinctively as you think about him filling you up. 

Once he’s hard and leaking precum all over your hand, you position yourself over him and sink down into his lap. The intrusion hurts at first, since your hole isn’t used to stretching open anymore, but then your pussy adjusts to the shape of him and pleasure rolls over you in waves. 

Taehyung’s hands grasp desperately at your hips, his fingertips making divots in your flesh. He leans in to kiss and suck on your breasts again and you hold his head to you to continue enjoying the feeling. Hips rising until only his tip is left inside, you slam down against him and proceed to bounce on his dick at a steadfast pace. Identical moans breach the air and Taehyung sits up to kiss at your exposed throat when your head tips back. He licks across your jugular and bites into the skin below your ear. Need and desire course through you like lava as the veins of his cock rub against your velvet walls. 

You force your mind into submission, refusing to allow the feelings of guilt and despair to take a single breath. This is something your body has been craving for months and now isn’t the time for your incessant thoughts to bury you in agony. For the first time in a long while, your mind is completely silent. 

Tears of pleasure fall as Taehyung guides you by the hips to bounce on him harder, sending his cock deeper into your cunt until you can feel him in your stomach. When your bodies meet, you grind against his pelvis to create friction on your clit. 

“You cannot come inside me,” you say through a groan. “You will have to pull out and come on my skin instead.”

Taehyung nods responsively before grabbing you by the hair to kiss you feverishly. His tongue sinks into your mouth and tangles with your own and you moan around the wet muscle. Your teeth drag his bottom lip away before letting it snap back into place. You hear him growl beneath you.

“Does it feel good, my Queen?” 

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly before pushing him back onto the bed and gripping his chest to support your body.

Your nails scratch at his pecks as you fuck yourself on his hardness, leaning down to kiss his collarbones and shoulder. Taehyung takes the opportunity the new position grants him to plant his feet on the bed and thrust up into you. You scream, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound as he abuses your pussy. You feel his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into you relentlessly, not slowing his pace for a single moment. 

“I am going to come,” you pant into his ear. 

“Please, my Queen, let me feel you finish,” he responds. 

Your orgasm builds from embers into a slow-burning fire as Taehyung’s final thrusts send you over the edge. When your cunt pulses and soaks Taehyung’s length in cum he moans and rolls you over in one fluid motion. His cock leaves you empty and he fucks his hand before painting your stomach in his seed. 

You gasp at the novel feeling of cum splashing onto your flesh. It’s hot and sticky, but you feel prideful over the physical manifestation of Taehyung’s pleasure on your body. 

Taehyung gets up from the bed while you’re still trying to catch your breath. The feeling of a wet cloth greets you as he wipes away his cum from your skin and then throws the cloth onto a dresser. 

“Did it help, your Highness?” 

You can only nod in return, too fucked-out and delirious from the pleasure and adrenaline. 

It does help. The two of you continue to sneak away to his quarters two to three times a week so you can use his body to relieve the ache of loneliness. Soon enough your energy returns, allowing you to play with your children again. You lovingly watch their smiles and hear their laughter as they run around the grass. Your appetite returns and your health improves, both physically and mentally. The guilt still eats at you like a famished predator, especially anytime you see Jungkook around the castle or feel him pull you into him at night, but your mind has reached its limit and it can no longer carry the weight of the world.

Neither of you speak of the feelings you shared in the garden before this all started. Taehyung knows how fragile and vulnerable your mental state is and he doesn’t want to pressure you into making this anything more than what it is; just the pleasures of the flesh, only desire, and not love. 

The anniversary of the war comes and goes as if it’s just another day, and you and Taehyung continue your affair unbridled. Your entanglements don’t last much longer than that, though.

On the last day of your life, you and Taehyung are in his quarters getting dressed after sleeping together. He leans down to kiss you goodbye when the sound of his door hinges breaking forces you apart. 

Four knights barge in, followed by Jungkook. 

Your husband’s eyes are unrecognizable, cold and harsh, with no light in them. Reality grips you tight and your hands clasp over your mouth when you realize what must happen now. Jungkook doesn’t say a word, just gestures towards you with his head to command the knights to grab you.

“No! Wait!” You shout as they take each of your arms and restrain you between their bodies. They do the same to Taehyung and he thrashes against their hold. “Wait, Jungkook, please let me explain.” He’s turned away from you now, but you see his hands shake before clenching into fists. The membrane around your heart closes in on the beating muscle. “Jungkook, please just let me see the children,” you beg. “Let me say goodbye to them. Please, my King.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence, the only sound coming from the tears already rolling down your cheeks. 

“Take her to the nursery before bringing her to me,” he instructs the knights before exiting. The knights holding Taehyung force him out of the room to follow Jungkook while they bring you in the opposite direction. 

The knights hold you taut between them as you walk to where your children are with their nanny, but there is no need. You won’t fight the inevitable. 

When you reach the nursery, they let go of you with a glare of warning before allowing you to go inside. The tears begin to fall again as soon as you see your children playing with their toys and books on the ground. 

“Mommy!” The four of them shout in unison before running over to you, the young twins stumbling over their little legs to get to you. 

You bend down and open your arms for all of them to embrace you at once. Your hands comb over their hair as you kiss their heads. The tears never once cease as you gaze at their beautiful faces.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Junghyun asks as he wipes at a tear on your cheek. He’s practically a mini Jungkook, his big eyes and black hair identical to his father’s. 

“I have to go away for a while, and I am going to miss you so very much,” you tell him as you caress his cheek.

“Where are you going?” Sooyoung asks with tears in her own eyes.

“It does not matter, my Princess, all that matters is that I love you, and I will miss you all so, so much,” you explain as your voice breaks. “Daddy is going to take good care of you, alright? You know mommy and daddy love you more than anything, yes?”

All four of their little heads nod at you. It makes you smile through the streaks of tears coming down. 

“I love you, mommy, and we will miss you, too,” Junghyun says. 

He wraps his arms around your neck and you have to bite your lip to suppress a sob. Minho and Wonshik coo and make grabby hands at you for attention. You pick them up one at a time and kiss their cheeks as they tell you they “wuv you foo.”

Sooyoung, your brave little girl, wipes her own tears away before hugging you and kissing your cheek. You return the affection and brush her hair from her eyes. 

“Alright. Goodbye, my loves,” you say as evenly as you can. 

You don’t glance back at them as you leave. If you see them even once more, you know you will not be able to walk down the long corridor to the fate that awaits you. The knights take your arms again once you’re out of sight of the children. The tears finally cease, and you walk with your back straight and head up. 

There’s no reason to cower from what lies ahead, you made your bed and now you must lay in it.

PRESENT DAY

The first-aid team brings you to the nurse’s office in the adjoining building to the gym. The nurse briefly checks your vitals before letting you sleep off the medicine in the back room. It’s supposed to last about an hour, so she places two chairs inside for Taehyung and Jungkook to sit while they wait. 

Jungkook storms in first, barely allowing Taehyung to shut the door behind him before he’s facing him with rage burning in his irises. 

“Really great fucking timing, Taehyung, truly,” he snaps.

Taehyung has to refrain from physically attacking Jungkook. He clenches his hands into fists until his nails make crescents in his palms. 

“You disgusting piece of shit, you fucking monster!” Taehyung shouts. “How dare you hold and kiss her and let her love you when you know what you did and she’s clueless!”

“How dare I?” Jungkook mirrors his tone. “How dare you! You transferred to our fucking school and became friends with her just to try and steal her from me again.”

“I am trying to save her from you!” Taehyung says through gritted teeth. 

“Save her? What am I going to do to her? I’m not a King anymore, I’m a fucking college basketball player.”

“You murdered her and she deserves to know.”

Jungkook pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and releasing the pressure from his neck with a turn of his head.

“Executed.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I executed her, Taehyung, not murdered. And I did it because it was my fucking job as King!” Jungkook yells as he closes in on his former friend. 

“She was your wife, the mother of your fucking children and —”

“YOU LEFT ME NO CHOICE!” Jungkook screams at him before stepping back again. He runs his hands down his face and pushes his hair back before continuing, calmer this time. “What did you want me to do, huh? What should I have done when my Queen and first knight betrayed me? Should I have made you sleep in the stables and called it good? That would’ve done an amazing job at showing the entire Kingdom and all our enemies how much of a coward I am.” Jungkook laughs incredulously. “No, no, you do not get to make me the villain, Taehyung. I may have held the blade in my hand but you are the reason she died.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond to his statements, just shakes his head and asks him what he really wants to know.

“How are you even here, Jungkook? I had a sorceress put a spell on Y/N to reincarnate us. You were never supposed to be a part of it,” Taehyung explains.

“I don’t know, what did the spell say?” 

“That the person she loves will meet her in the next life and return her memories.”

Jungkook stares him down with his eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry, you’re confused why a spell like that would bring me, her husband, here, too? You can’t see why that would include me?” Jungkook scoffs and turns away. “Do you think I forced her to marry me? Forced her to be with me and bear my children? Who the fuck do you think I am?” He turns back towards Taehyung again with more fire in his eyes. “She loved me. We loved each other and your little affair did nothing to change that.” 

“That’s not what I mean. There was a catch, Jungkook. We had to die together for the spell to work. One right after the other.” Jungkook goes quiet after he hears Taehyung’s words, his eyes tilting towards the floor as his jaw ticks. “Wait…”

“I hadn’t even cleaned your blood off my sword yet.”  

Taehyung takes a step back, his eyes opening in shock. He shakes his head, pushing his hair from his eyes as he does so.

“You aren’t seriously saying —”

“I didn’t plan to do it,” Jungkook admits quietly. “But when I looked down at you two, I just…” He glances at your sleeping form, his eyes following the way your chest rises and falls. “I couldn’t live without her. Couldn’t live without either of you, truthfully.”

Silence is all Taehyung can respond with as the true answer of how the three of you are all together again breaks his resolve of confronting Jungkook. The two don’t speak again, they just take the seats at opposite ends of the room and wait for you to wake up.

When you do, it’s with a groan. Your hand comes to rest against your temple as you slowly sit up. Once you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, your eyes finally open and land on Jungkook across from you. They widen for a moment, but then soften as tears well up in them. 

“Jungkook,” you cry, your arms opening for him. 

He gets to you in a millisecond, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around. You sob against him as your hands grip the edges of his uniform. He shushes you comfortingly, combing through your hair with his fingers and pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

“S’okay, baby, I’m right here,” he whispers to you. 

You stay like that for a while, your cries filling the room and breaking both their hearts in the process.

“Do you know?” You ask without looking up. “Do you have your memories, too?”

“Yeah, my love, I do,” he answers you.

You look up at him with glassy eyes. It’s overwhelming now that your memories are back. He’s here in front of you as you know him, but just underneath the surface there is a shimmer of the King you once knew. 

“And you still wanted to be with me after we met?” You ask through a hiccup. “Even knowing what I did?”

Jungkook grabs your face with both hands, pushing your hair out of the way so he can see you properly.

“Are you kidding?” He smiles at the memory of your reunion. “When I found you again it was the happiest day of my life.” A watery chuckle comes from your lips. “I don’t care about any of that, Y/N. I have loved you in all of my lifetimes and I will continue to do so in however many more the universe grants me.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him. “And I am so, so sorry.”

He shakes his head, his thumb moving across your cheekbone lovingly.

“It was a long time ago, my darling. All is forgiven.”

“It doesn’t feel that way, it feels like it was only yesterday.”

“That’s only because you just got your memories back,” he reassures you. “After a while, they’ll feel more like an old dream.”

You nod to acknowledge his words before crashing back into him, letting your arms snake around his neck as he pulls you into his lap. It only takes you another minute to fall asleep again in Jungkook’s arms, a side effect the nurse warned them about earlier. 

Taehyung doesn’t stay much longer. Truthfully, he needs to gather his own thoughts, and he knows you’ll be in no condition to talk with him when you wake up. 

You text him once the weekend passes and ask to meet by the lake behind the university. When he arrives, you’re already sitting on the wooden bench with your legs crossed and a notebook open in your lap. He doesn’t approach you right away, instead he just takes in the sight of you tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and bending over to write in your notebook. 

“Hi,” Taehyung greets you as he rounds the bench.

“Hi,” you reply quietly and gesture for him to sit beside you. 

“I didn’t see you around campus at all this weekend,” Taehyung notes.

You sigh and meet his eyes with a soft smile.

“Yeah, um, Jungkook and I decided to take the train to the museum they built out of our castle. We saw our family crypt, too, where we, our children, and grandchildren are buried,” you explain. 

“Oh, wow,” Taehyung replies. 

“There was this history book they were selling at the gift shop with our entire family tree in it. We sat where the library used to be and read it together. It talked about what happened to the children and had the names and titles of all your grandchildren,” you tell him. “It was really nice.” 

“So, what happened with your children?”

“The royal advisor ruled in Junghyun’s stead since he was too young to be King when Jungkook died. The war ended after about five years, and then when Junghyun turned sixteen he was able to rule on his own. Sooyoung married a Prince in a neighboring Kingdom and ruled there as Queen, which is exactly what she always wanted. Minho and Wonshik married a Duchess and Viscountess and they actually became royal tutors. You know, like the ones you and Jungkook had growing up, who taught you sword fighting and horseback riding and all that?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I’m so happy knowing they all grew up well and started their own families. Jungkook and I have ten grandchildren.”

“Ten? Wow,” Taehyung laughs. You proudly nod your head and gaze out again at the water. “I’m glad you were able to learn all about them.”

“Yeah… I just wish I had been there to see it,” you whisper. “Wish we both had.” A moment later you snap your fingers when you remember something else. “Actually, we saw your grave, too. It’s in the knight’s crypt not far from our own.”

“Knight’s crypt? I shouldn’t have been buried there. I was stripped of my knighthood when we… well, you know,” he replies.

“I thought the same thing, but Jungkook told me he ordered you to be buried there anyway before the execution,” you respond.

Taehyung is completely dumbfounded by what you’re telling him. It doesn’t compute in his brain why Jungkook would allow him to be buried among the other knights. Before he can question you further, you turn towards him, crossing one leg under your knee so you can face him directly. 

“Look, I never got to explain everything to you about what happened leading up to Jungkook and I getting married, and I would like to, if you’ll let me.” 

Taehyung nods encouragingly for you to continue, gesturing with his hands that you have the floor to speak your mind. You thank him with a calm smile before sitting up straight so you can finally say what you need to after all this time.

“When you first told me you were leaving for the war, and said you loved me and wanted to marry me, I didn’t reply because, one, I was shocked, and two, because I didn’t feel the same way about you. Growing up, I only ever had feelings for Jungkook. My feelings for you were definitely strong, because you were my best friend, but they were platonic. I honestly put your proposal in the back of my mind because you were leaving, and I didn’t even know if you would survive the war or not. Then when Jungkook had to become King and you were no longer leaving, I didn’t know what that meant in regards to your proposal. You were about to become first knight and have a lot more responsibility, so I figured I would wait for you to talk to me about it and I would tell you my answer at that point.”

“But then Jungkook came to see me the next day and asked me to marry him, and that… that was my dream, Tae. I had loved him for almost my entire life. I wanted to speak to you before the wedding or even before arriving at the castle, but there was no time. I wanted to explain my feelings so you knew I wasn’t just ignoring your confession and doing whatever I wanted. But obviously, I never got the chance and you stopped speaking to me altogether.”

“Then, when the war broke out, and we grew close again, I did end up developing feelings for you. You were there for me when no one else was and it was easy to fall for you when we would spend day in and day out together. But, Taehyung, that was the first time I ever felt anything romantic for you. I know you think Jungkook stole me from you or forced me into becoming Queen, but that’s not the case. My heart has always belonged to Jungkook from the very beginning, and even when I did grow to love you, my feelings for him never waned.”

“All this to say, I am so grateful you had a spell cast on me so we all get a second chance at this, but the memories you returned to me are just that… memories. The life I’m currently living, the one where I was born to two pediatricians, went to ballet school, and became a cheerleader, that’s my life, not the one where I was a midwife and a Queen. Even if you and I had been these star-crossed lovers who never got the chance to be together, it doesn’t change the life I’ve lived so far. It doesn’t change that I fell in love with Jungkook. Not the Prince or King, but the computer science major who plays basketball and is competitive, funny, spontaneous, and kind. I love him for who he is today, memories or not.”

Taehyung takes several moments to absorb everything you’re telling him, and truthfully, he’s confused. His entire life he’s always believed you felt the same way for him, and when you told him you loved him in the gardens he thought you meant you always had.

“But, before you were executed, your last words… you told me you loved me, Y/N,” Taehyung argues.

Your eyes widen and a sympathetic frown appears on your face. 

“Taehyung, my last words...” You sigh. “I wasn’t saying that to you. I was saying it to Jungkook.”

The truth forces a sob out of Taehyung as tears escape from his waterline. He goes to wipe them away, but your finger is already grazing his cheek and doing so yourself.

“This was supposed to be our second chance, Y/N. For you and me to finally be together,” he cries.

“It still can be. Romantic love is not the only kind there is. You are and forever will be my best friend, and this can be our second chance to have the friendship we were always supposed to have. For all three of us to be together the way we once were,” you propose. 

“No, I could never forgive Jungkook for what he did,” he snaps.

“Forgive him?” You respond harshly. “Tae, we stabbed him in the fucking back. I vowed to love and cherish him and then I fucked his best friend and first knight. The one person he was supposed to trust more than anyone in the world. Then we forced a sword in his hand and made him kill the two people he loved the most. We knew when we started sleeping together what would happen if we got caught and we did it anyway. He didn’t kill us, we killed him.”

You exhale and tuck your hair behind your ear, chewing on your lip as you calm down and think of your next words.

���I love you, Taehyung. I will always love you, and I want you in my life. Jungkook wants you in his life,” you state. “But you have to be willing to move on from the past and accept what happened. Take accountability for the things we did and let it all go.”

Once you leave, Taehyung sits in silence as he stares out across the lake, sorrowful tears staining his skin. He knows you’re right about the past. It’s time to move on and start living the life he has now, but it isn’t easy when he’s spent so long just waiting for you to start your lives together. 

The sun disappears from the sky before Taehyung comes to the realization he can still have that, just as you said, because being together doesn’t have to mean romantically. And truth be told, he needs his friends more than anything else.

He finds you and Jungkook at a picnic table outside the library about a week later. 

Your arms are pushing at Jungkook’s shoulders to keep him from grabbing the candy bag between your legs. He’s sporting a mischievous toothy grin as he tries to maneuver around your hold to successfully steal your treat. You laugh loudly when Jungkook bites at the air in a feeble attempt to use his teeth as a method of thievery. It distracts you enough, though, and Jungkook uses the opportunity to snatch the bag from you before stealing a kiss, too.

“Nooo,” you whine as he laughs and eats your candy uninterrupted. 

Taehyung clears his throat, and you both stop in your tracks, the candy bag falling from Jungkook’s hands onto the table with a soft plop. 

“Hey,” Taehyung says through a chuckle. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for… well, there’s a lot, isn’t there?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just sorry, and if you guys would be interested, maybe we can all hang out sometime.”

For the first time, he looks at Jungkook instead of you, and watches the way his expression morphs from surprise to delight. In an instant, Jungkook is standing and rounding the table to bring Taehyung into a crippling embrace. Taehyung chuckles awkwardly, hesitant to show any affection in return, but then Jungkook rests his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder, and the bittersweet nostalgia makes him wrap his arms around him. 

“I missed you,” Jungkook confesses. 

Taehyung sighs and tightens his grip.

“Missed you, too… your Highness.” 

“Don’t even joke, man.”

You squeal behind them, your feet tapping against the ground while you do a miniature victory dance from your seat. They both turn to look at you with completely endeared twin smiles, and you smile right back, head tilting to the right as your nose scrunches up.

The smell of wildflowers wafts through the air, despite there being none around, as if the universe is congratulating the three of you on finally making it back home to each other.

[devotedfem]

«Corpse bride groom»

Synopsis: You were forced to marry for convenience, so you practiced your vows in the forest, but you didn't expect the branch coming alive after you marry it. You thought you saw a ghost, but he was worse, a corpse groom.

K. Taehyung x f. Reader

4.7K words.

Genre: Corpse bride au | yander-ish.

Tags: inspired by Corpse bride by Tim burton, arranged marriage, Infatuation, obsessive behavior, Original male character (Victoria's male version from the movie), Tae is so deeply in love with reader, he's whipped, dead Taehyung (he'll come back to life for smut purposes lol), captivity, innocent and naive reader, gothic vibes, Taehyung's a wolf in sheep clothes, possessive behavior, bad ending for reader but not for Tae, smut and dub-con s3x.

From the series masterlist; Hush.

Navigation Masterlist.

You tapped your fingers against your dress impatiently, you didn’t want to be there, you didn’t want to be wed to a stranger. The huge living room greeted you and your parents, the place looked cold and lifeless, your soon to be parents in law were standing before you, with grimaces on their faces. You felt them staring at you -judging you- so you crossed your arms over your chest, almost as if you were shielding yourself from their stares.

“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Everglot!” Greeted your mother with a big smile, you noticed contempt flashing Mrs. Everglot face, but it disappeared as soon as it came.

“Why, you must be Victor…” said your father with a gentle smile.

The boy before you was pale and scrawny, like a fragile Victorian kid. You couldn't believe you’ll be wed to this dull looking boy.

“Smile Dear,” whispered Mrs. Everglot to his husband, and the man did try his best to smile but he made a weird grimace instead, and of course your parents chose to ignore the pathetic attempt.

“We’ll be taking tea in the east room.” Commanded Mrs. Everglot with a blank bored face, turning around to walk towards the east side.

You noticed them walking away and leaving you behind almost as if they forgot about your existence. You sighed with slumped shoulders, blinking with excitement when you spot a piano in the corner of the living room. You glanced around before sitting to play it. You let your fingers play the keyboards, turning them into a sweet melody.

“You play very beautifully.” That voice startled you, making you jump away from the piano.

You felt your cheeks heating with embarrassment at being caught by the fragile Victorian boy.

“Do forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude…” You muttered biting your inner cheek.

The boy chuckled shaking his head.

“Oh please don’t apologize, I’m not like my parents.” He said smiling, easing your tense shoulders.

But the moment was interrupted by a dramatic gasp.

“Y/n! Victor! How improper of you two being alone before the wedding!” Yelled Mrs. Everglot, making the fragile boy roll his eyes. You bit your bottom lip trying not to laugh.

That woman was such a prude.

After the unnecessary scold, Victor and you were practicing your vows for the wedding. The problem was that your brain wasn’t braining, if that makes sense. You were making mistakes every time.

“With this hand I… I will uhm, lift your, your-“

“Sorrows,” finished softly the fragile boy, you smiled at him in gratitude.

“Sorrows,” you repeated.

“Your cup will never- never empty… and uhm, for I will be your… your wine!”

You heard a deep and disappointed sigh behind you.

“With this candle, I will light-“ you interrupted yourself when the candle flame goes out, lighting it up again.

“I’d light your way in the darkness.”

“I will,” scolded the priest, but you ignored him.

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine.”

The ring fell to the floor, rolling under Mrs. Everglot's dress. You didn't think twice before pulling it out from under her dress, regretting your action almost immediately when you accidentally set his fabric on fire.

Long story short, it was a disaster. Your parents were ashamed, and a strange woman save the day by putting out the fire. You felt your lips wobbling and your gaze blurring, you didn’t mean to be so clumsy, you were just trying your best. You ran away from the house, after all everyone was ignoring your presence, so you weren’t worry about them wondering where were you going.

Your eyes were teary and your chest stung with shame and helplessness. You were so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t realize that you were walking into the forest. It was already night; the forest floor was covered in blankets of snow with the moonlight as the only source of light. You paced around with knitted brows and clenched fists.

“That pale boy must think I’m a fool,” You spoke out loud to yourself, with a long sigh. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to say a few simple vows…” You muttered, clearing your throat to practice your vows again.

“With this hand I will- i… uhm, cup your wine? Fuck no, with this uhm… candle! I… i… set your annoying mother on fire,” you mumble kicking a branch.

You look up to watch the beautiful moon, spinning around and imagining you were at your wedding, everything was perfect and Victor’s parents didn’t hate you.

“Oh hello Mrs. Everglot, you look lovely this evening,” you smiled to a trunk, spinning around with your fluffy dress.

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows,” you said raising your hand. “Your cup will never empty… For I will be your wine,” you carry on with an imaginary cup. “With this candle I will light your way in the darkness.”

And then you stopped, watching the shiny ring on your palm.

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” you whispered softly, placing the ring on a branch as if it was a finger.

And suddenly, the earth shook beneath you, making you gasp with horror at the sight of the branch coming back to life. Or more like a man rising from the earth, or from the death.

In front of you stood a handsome man, dress for a wedding. His boxy smile and left white eye were charming, unlike his ragged suit and cadaveric purple-like skin. You spotted some of his rib bones through a hole in his wedding suit.

You blink hard and quick, thinking you went mad. You screamed with fear when the man walked towards you, showing you his finger wearing the ring. His grin never eased.

“I do.” He replied with a deep voice, bringing his face an inch closer to yours. “Now kiss the groom.” He whispered lowly, brushing your lips.

And when his mouth touched yours, everything turned black.

“She’s still so soft and warm,” said a distant voice, making you frown and blink slowly your eyes open.

Your eyes widened with horror and your mouth opened with a scream at the sight above you, there was two men looking down at you, the both of them were definitely dead. The one in your right didn’t even have arms. It was horrific, straight out of a horror movie.

Where the fuck were you?

The place seemed like a bar cave, with skeletons speaking and living corpses looking at you with confusion and pity.

“Oh don’t frighten her Yoongi, maybe she’s one of those that doesn’t know they’re dead yet,” the man on your left says with pity in his gaze, making you gasp with disbelief.

“Dead? The fuck are you talking about! I’m alive, is… is this a dream?” You whispered the last words to yourself, maybe you just were in a bad dream. Nothing to worry about, right?

“You two leave her alone, don’t overwhelm my wife,” the mysterious man from the woods ordered with a stern voice, however his gaze was gentle and fixated on you.

You blinked with knitted brows, did you hear him right?

“Wife?” You muttered with confusion, but everyone ignored you.

“Of course tae, we are very aware of your temper,” said the man named Yoongi.

“To the newlyweds!” Yelled the other man, raising a beer and making everyone repeat the words with joy.

“Newlyweds!?” This time you shouted out the words, watching them with horror written on your face. As far as you know you were still single, yet to be wed but single.

“You said your vows so beautifully in the woods my dear,” the deep and dark voice from the mysterious mantook your attention again. His gaze was still lingering on you, looking at you with adoration in his eyes. You didn’t know how to react at his intense gaze, so you averted yours instead.

“I… did?” You muttered to yourself, remembering your rehearsal in the woods. You didn’t mean to wed a corpse.

“You did, my love.” His words were sugary sweat, as if they were trying to melt into your ears.

You gulped, feeling a deep and primal fear squeezing your chest, you were about to have a panic attack. You wanted to run away now.

“Well, let me introduce myself, I’m Namjoon, the waiter. I died a year ago and-“ You interrupted him by grabbing a dagger from a corpse to aim it at them as a threat.

Your mind was foggy and your thoughts erratic, you weren’t thinking straight.

“Get away from me! I-I have a knife and I’m not scared to use it! Give me questions now!” You yelled with panic.

“I think you mean answers sweetheart,” your supposed husband mention with amusement.

You blinked feeling like a moron. Realizing you were threatening literally corpses.

“Ehm, yes, answers. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said calmly, walking towards you with every step screaming confidence and elegance. He stopped inches from your body, leaning his beautiful face to yours. You flinched when you felt him curling a lock of your hair with his finger.

“As you can see, I’m a dead groom, with a very… tragic past. I was betrayed in life the day of my wedding, I thought I’d doomed for eternity until you said your vows to me, as a gift from life… or dead.” He caged you against the bar counter with his arms at each side of you and his body leaning even more closer, making you lean your back on the counter as an attempt to get away from him.

“Our poor Tae, he was so handsome and naïve in life. Always wearing his heart on his sleeve, that snake of a woman manipulated him to keep his money.” Said Yoongi with anger on his voice, while he was speaking, tae didn’t look away from you for a second. His intense gaze was piercing you.

“And our Taehyung has always been a romantic with a kind heart, for that woman to murder him in cold blood on his wedding day. But he made a vow, to wait for his true love.” Continued Namjoon.

You felt a pang of guilt cross your heart, that was truly a tragic and sad story. No one deserves to die in such way.

“Taehyung,” you whispered his name, making him inhale sharp.

“Yes, my moon.” He said back, smiling at you gently.

“I’m… really sorry for what happened to you, but I think there is a misunderstanding,” you tried to say, getting away from Taehyung with him following your steps.

“There is none my love. We are married.” Irritation flashes his handsome face.

“We’re not!” You yelled, and then you ran away.

You ran as fast as you can, almost tripping a couple of times. You watched with horror and fear the corpses surrounding you, passing in your way between a person cut in half. You watched all of their organs.

But then exhaustion drugged your movements, making you stop to take a deep breath and calm your racing heart. Your eyes burned with tears at the realization that you were lost, with nowhere to go. You sit on a bench and sob your heart out like a child.

“Oh my dear, what are you doing here alone sweet thing.” Taehyung’s voice cooing at you made you look up at him, feeling relieved to see at least one familiar face. You hiccupped with fat tears streaming from your eyes, making Taehyung knit his brows with deep concern. He opened his arms and you rushed to them, hugging him tight.

“I want to go home,” you sobbed into his chest, wetting the fabric of his shirt.

He shushed you, stroking gently your hair and tightening his grip on your body.

“You are home.” His words only made you cry harder.

But then a thought crossed your mind, maybe if you manipulate him to take you up to the world of the living then you could escape from this marriage.

“Tae, i- I want to introduce you to my parents,” you said not looking into his eyes.

“Sure Mon Amour. Where are they buried?” He asked cheerfully.

Your stomach twisted at his words.

“They are… alive.”

His brows knitted for a moment, but he smiled again.

“Then we must find a way to go up.” He said taking your hand to pull you with him.

And that’s how you two ended up in front of an old skeleton magician, who was trying to find a spell in his huge and dusty book.

“Aha! There it is, a spell that’ll allow Taehyung to go to the world of the living,” said the skeleton before coughing loudly.

Taehyung’s grin was wide, he was so charming and beautiful like this, it was such a pity and waste that he was dead.

The skeleton that resembles an old man, gave Taehyung an egg, telling him to eat it to be able to go up. After he does, a cloak of smoke wrapped you both, you felt dizzy for a second, with Taehyung holding your hands. And then you blinked slowly, noticing with joy that you were in the woods again.

“Yes!” You shouted without being able to contain your relief.

Taehyung smiled gently at you, although he has a white dead eye, his gaze was full of life and love. Your smile fell at the guilty pang piercing your heart, it was a little bit cruel to leave him like this, but you have no other choice. You don’t belong to the world of the dead, at least not now.

“I- uhm, I’ll look for my parents to bring them here. I’ll go ahead, wait here for me and don’t move,” you said clearing your throat, trying to look convincing enough.

“Sure thing, I’ll wait right here,” he said cheerfully, sitting on a piece of log. Looking at you with a hint of innocence and trust. You averted your gaze, unable to bear looking into his eyes.

“I’ll… I’ll be right back,” you muttered, walking away from him.

At first your steps were calm and confident, until you turn your head back realizing you were far enough to run like a mad woman, and you did, gasping by how fast you were running. You burst with happiness when you got to the town safe and sound, back home.

But Victor’s house was on the way, and you needed to give him some explanations as to why you disappeared the night before the wedding. You climbed to the balcony of his room, too scared to face his parents at this hour.

Your grin widened when you watch him reading on his bed, so you tapped his window eagerly. He jumped with surprise at the sight of you.

“What on earth are you doing here!?” he whispered shouted to you when he opened the balcony doors, and you walked past him into his room.

“I’m so sorry for disappearing, i-I am so scared Victor. Something really bad and weird happened to me! I got wed to a corpse groom against my will!” You knew you sounded like a maniac, probably making no sense to Victor. But there was no other way to explain what happened to you in the woods.

“What? I’m confused…” Victor said carefully, with his brows knitted and looking at you as if you grew another head. You sighed deep at his words.

“I know I sound crazy, but I’m telling you the truth. I’m running from-“

You were interrupted by the balcony doors bursting open and slamming against the walls, making Victor and you startle. There, on the balcony, stood Taehyung, with an intimidating aura. He looked frightening without his typical smile, looking at you two with a cold face.

His steps were large and heavy, pulling you away from Victor with force, tightening his grip around your arm.

“Y/n? who’s that?” Taehyung asked between teeth, not breaking his heavy gaze from Victor.

“He’s my… my-my…” Your brain literally bugged at that moment, blank and without any rational thought.

“I’m his soon to be husband.” Replied Victor, making you open and close your mouth like a fish, you wanted to deny it but you just couldn’t because it was the truth. You didn’t know how well Taehyung will cope with that information.

“You wish,” said darkly Taehyung, pulling you away with him. You two disappeared into the cloaked smoke that brought you here. And you witnessed the horrified face of Victor before vanishing away into the air.

You were again in the place of the old magician skeleton, with Taehyung crying in front of you. Your heart was clenching with pity and anger, he didn’t have any right to take you away from Victor!

“You’re a liar!” Sobbed Taehyung, with tears streaming from his betrayed eyes.

You gasped in disbelief.

“Excuse me? I’ve never lied to you!”

“Yeah sure, go back to that other man,” said lowly Taehyung, with venom and hurt in his voice.

“You are the other man!” You shouted, feed up with his victim complex.

“No I’m not! You’re married to me! He’s the other man!” He screamed with his voice breaking at the last words.

“He’s got a point though,” the skeleton commented softly.

There was a moment of silence, you didn’t know what to say at this point. Taehyung looked defeated with his shoulders slumped.

“And I thought this was going well,” he muttered, making you feel even worse.

“Look, I’m so sorry you have to find it out like this, but I don’t want this marry.”

Hurt flashes Taehyung’s face, his eyes swan in tears again.

“But why? It’s because my eye, isn’t it?” He whispered sadly, looking vulnerable and hurt.

“No! Of course not, your eye it’s very… lovely, you are very lovely, and handsome. But that’s not the point.” You pinched the bridge of your nose in exasperation. “The point is, that we’re not meant to be! You’re… dead, and I’m alive, this just can’t work.”

“Well, you should’ve thought about that before saying your vows,” he replied with an angry scowl and crossed arms.

“Why can’t you understand that this is a mistake! I would never, ever, marry you!”

You regretted your words immediately after watching Taehyung’s crestfallen face. He just stood there, saying nothing back and turning around, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

“Well, a marriage isn’t a marriage without arguments, isn’t it?” You ignored the skeleton, feeling really bad with yourself.

You went out, ignoring the corpses watching you with curiosity, you were the only one with a beating heart and they know it, everyone knows it except Taehyung.

With a sigh, you sit heavily on the bench, biting your bottom lip with no clue of what to do down here without the company of Taehyung. Are you doomed to be in the land of the death? Maybe that was your destiny, in some way, the universe fulfilled your wish; you won’t marry Victor, but at what cost?

You searched for Taehyung after a couple of hours, asking every corpse If they have seemed him, but they never answered your questions.

And then you listened a sweet piano melody from afar, your body followed the sound as a sailor going after the call of a siren. Your feet brought you to a small terrace where Taehyung was playing piano, he looked absorbed in his own little word, until you sat beside him on the piano’s bench, making him startle and widen his pretty eyes.

But he blinked his surprise away, snorting with a roll of his eyes, ignoring you to keep playing. You played the keyboards too, following his melody. He side-eyed you with annoyance, playing quicker the piano, making you smirk playing even more quicker than him. Your hands touched at some point, and you noticed how Taehyung’s defenses broke down little by little, enjoying the melody you two made, smiling softly at you.

“That was so beautiful,” you say breaking the comfortable silence. Taehyung only nodded at your words.

Your lips curled down, feeling that pang of guilt in your chest again.

“Look, I’m so sorry for what I said earlier. You’re the most interesting and handsome man I’ve ever met, and if death weren’t separating us, I’d fall head over heels for you.” You said softly, trying to make him understand why you two weren’t compatible at all.

He just hummed, not looking at you.

“So the only thing you want from me… it’s a beating heart?” He asked trying to look nonchalant, but you noticed the tension of his lips.

“I… I mean, I can be dead to be with you… at this point, there’s nothing left for me up there,” you muttered, you didn’t miss Victor’s parents flattering the woman that turn off the fire of Mrs. Everglot dress, she seemed interested in marrying Victor.

“No.” Growled Taehyung with anger, a fire burning his dead eyes. “I would never take that away from you, life is a gift, and you’re full of it. That’s whyI’m head over heels for you, my moon.” He whispered the last words, full of love and passion, melting your heart and filling your eyes with tears.

You’ve never felt more loved and seemed in your life, but it felt wrong, because the feeling wasn’t mutual. You appreciate him, yes, you think he’s beautiful and sweet, also yes. But you didn’t love him.

“I have to be honest with you Tae, I just… don’t feel the same, and I can’t guarantee you that my feelings will change in the future.”

Taehyung smiled with sadness and determination, holding tightly both of your hands and stroking lovingly the back.

“I have enough love for the both of us, even If you never love me, even if you hate me. I’ll never leave you.” He said like an oath, one he’s not willing to break.

You blinked at his words, taken aback. It felt more like a threat rather than a confession of love, but you didn’t mind. It felt nice to be cared for.

“Okay.” You whispered, looking into his pretty eyes.

“I have something to show you,” his voice dropped an octave, and his gaze darkened for a moment, but he returned to his bright persona immediately. You nodded slowly, not sure why you felt uneasy all of a sudden.

He took you to a hidden cottage deep in the land of the death, it was hauntingly beautiful, its garden has dead roses and dark sunflowers. Charming and deathly, just like Taehyung.

He showed you a death rose covered in honey, smirking at you like the Cheshire cat, with a mischievous and a naughty glint in his eyes. You narrowed your eyes, raising a brow when he remained silent.

“So? You wanted to show me a withered rose?” You asked with a frown, not sure what the hell you two were doing in that cottage. “Do you live here?” You changed the subject, watching your surroundings with curiosity.

“Yes, we live here. And… this rose it’s enchanted, it will bring me back to life, it’ll make my rotten heart beat again.”

You freeze at his words, whipping your head towards him in shock, watching Taehyung’s eyes darkening. His gaze was intense and unreadable, staring piercingly at you like a hawk, a predator ready to pounce and chase its preys if it dares to run away.

You gulped hard, blinking and processing his words.

“Are you sure…it-it’ll work? I mean, I’m sure it will, we got up a couple of hours ago.” You rambled, trying to think how to say your next words. “If… if, this works, that means… we can go back to the land of the living?” You asked softly and cautiously, watching his every expression as if you were dealing with a wild animal.

Taehyung only smiled at you, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That smile looked forced, so unlike him.

“Of course, my moon, we will go to your home. I want to meet your parents after all,” his voice sounded constricted, as if he was restraining himself.

“If you don’t want to do this, then don’t. Do it because you want it, not to please me.”

This time his smile was genuine, sparkling his eyes.

But then his gaze darkened again, like a dusty cloak covering his eyes, his intentions.

“Don’t worry about me, although I have to tell you something. To make this spell permanent, there’s one condition.” He said, not breaking his heavy gaze from you.

A chill run down your spine at his odd vibe.

“What condition?” You asked with your brows knitted.

“We have to consummate the marriage,” he said lowly, approaching you with slow steps.

You widened your eyes at his proposal, no fucking way. You won’t fuck a corpse.

“Taehyung you’re dead. I’m not fucking a corpse, I’m sorry.”

To your surprise, his smirk didn’t falter.

“Did I say I’ll fuck while dead? No. This spell will revive me, but only for 4 hours, that’s why we need to… be intimate to make it permanent.” He said calmly, getting even more closer to your body.

You didn’t know what to say to that, it wouldn’t be a problem if he was alive, right? But… he was still a stranger, and you didn’t feel comfortable being intimate with him.

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t you want to go back home? To be with your parents? Wouldn’t be easier if you tell them you’re already married? I promise to give you space up there, I can love you from afar.” His tone was deep, and his stare burned with determination.

“I… guess you’re right.” You whispered, not knowing what else to say.

It can’t be that bad. Right?

Taehyung smirked mischievously, his eyes glinting with eagerness. He took the withered rose, eating its petals covered in honey. Staring at you while swallowing each one of them.

And then… he changed.

His purpled skin tone turned tan with a healthy glow, his lips changed into a cherry tone. His hair was more ebony and shinning, and that hole that showed his rib bones, was covered with new skin.

He looked alive.

Your lips parted and your eyes widened with fascination. You took one large step to be an inch closer to him, putting slowly your hand on his chest. Laughing with joy at the feeling of his heart beating against your palm. You just witnessed a miracle.

“I’m impressed,” you said feeling his heart, he felt so alive.

Taehyung pulled your hand towards his lips, kissing it softly and staring at you heavily. His lips lingered on your hand, brushing the inner of your wrist.

And then he carried you in bridal style, making you gasp in surprise by the sudden movement. You wrapped your arms around his neck, watching how he took you deeper into the cottage, laying you on the mattress of his bed.

He lingered above you, caging your head and body with his hands and legs, staring down at you with hunger in his eyes. His left white eye didn’t change of color, making you smile. It was his charm.

And then he kissed your smile away, sucking and biting your lips like a starve man, swallowing all of your sounds as if he wanted to devour you.

Your head spined because of how rough he was kissing you, not breaking the kiss to give you a chance to breath. You felt him tearing off your clothes like a savage, making you frown and whimper. It was a lot, you tried to turn your head away but he growled, gripping your chin to attach his lips again.

“Tae. I, I don’t know if this is-“

“You said yes, I won’t let you set a foot outside until I’m buried balls deep inside you.” He snarled, with anger and lust clouding his intense eyes.

He widened your legs until your knees brushed your shoulders, baring you open to him. You felt your cheeks heating with embarrassment, you’ve never felt more exposed in your life.

And Taehyung’s eyes glinted with so much hunger that it scared you, the grip he has on your legs was tight, not letting you go.

“You’re mine,” he growled.

And you teared up, feeling like a lamb that fell into its predator’s trap.

You can read the +18 continuation on Patreon.

taglist:

@demonshauntingthedoves @pynkgothicka @cutequeen00 @nothingsreal420 @ririkookiemonster-archives @cannotalwaysbenight @loumin908 @devilzliaison @uniquecutie-puffs @polarnightmyg @acherry04 @lizziekitty @catlove83

[littlegochu]

could you plz do a personal trainer taehyung one shot (considering he’s all buffed out rn). imagine he’s your gym crush and you finally get around to asking for pointers and there’s juicy tension

gym crush │ kth 18+

pairing: kim taehyung x reader

genre: gym crush au, fluff, strangers to flirty friends, slice of life

rating: 18+ (explicit content — sexual themes)

synopsis: kim taehyung—known for his silence, his sculpted arms, and the fact that no one’s ever gotten close enough to say more than two words to him.

until me.

i wasn’t trying to get his attention. i was trying not to drop my weights or accidentally pass out mid-squat. but for some reason, he noticed me. corrected my form. watched me like he meant to.

now we train together. he doesn’t talk much. doesn’t flirt. doesn’t even smile unless he’s mid-set and i say something sarcastic. but he’s close. too close. and every glance feels like it means something i’m not ready to admit.

they say he doesn’t get attached. but his hands linger. his eyes stay.

-

set 1: the myth

every girl on campus has a kim taehyung story.

not like real stories. not like “i hooked up with him” or “we matched on tinder.” more like “i saw him bench press 180 with one hand.” or “he looked at me once in the mirror and i haven’t known peace since.”

he’s quiet. never with a group. never at parties. he’s in third-year psych like me, but i’ve never seen him in class. only ever here—shirtless in the weight room, hair pushed back with a bandana, jawline sharp enough to make you rethink every decision you've ever made.

girls flirt with him. he never flirts back. guys nod at him. he never nods back. he’s polite, but distant. beautiful, but untouchable. the kind of boy who could ruin you with a glance and walk away without ever noticing.

i don’t stare. not really. just... occasionally. softly. from a safe distance.

because everyone stares. but he’s never stared back. not until today.

set 2: eyes

i’m squatting in front of the mirror. deep into my fourth rep, knees burning, headphones loud enough to drown out my inner monologue.

and i feel it.

the burn? yes. but also him.

i glance up.

he’s looking straight at me. arms crossed. leaning against the cable machine like he’s sculpted out of shadow and sunlight. his mouth is set. eyes dark. completely unreadable.

i falter.

he doesn’t look away.

i blink. look back down. try to pretend my heart isn’t sprinting faster than my max on the treadmill.

when i sneak another look up—he’s gone.

set 3: "you done w that machine?"

“you done using the machine?”

i look up. he’s standing right there. taller than i remember. realer. sweat still clinging to the edges of his collarbones like it lives there on purpose.

my brain flatlines for a second. he’s talking to me.

i blink once. maybe twice. “uh—yeah. yeah, sorry. go ahead.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t sit down. just lets his gaze sweep over the machine, then back to me. “you train here often?”

i blink again. was that a line?

“…sometimes,” i say slowly. “you?”

his mouth twitches like it wants to smile, but he doesn’t let it. “haven’t seen you before.”

my heart stumbles. “i come at different times.”

he nods. “maybe that’s why.”

i shift to the side, still unsure if this is small talk or some kind of interrogation. he’s just standing there. not using the machine. not looking away.

and then he adds, voice low, “your form was good.”

i laugh, mostly out of nerves. “what, you check everyone's form or just mine?”

he shrugs, but his eyes stay on me. “just yours.”

my lungs give out for a second. and before i can even think of a comeback— he walks off.

set 4: tension

he doesn’t speak to me again. not right away. but he’s near.

too near.

next to me at the squat rack. behind me during rows. his sets always line up with mine now, like we orbit the same routine.

i catch him watching me in the mirror once. not for long. just long enough to notice. and when i look back—he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pretend.

he just keeps watching.

set 5: the touch

it’s small. innocent, probably.

i drop my towel. reach to grab it. his hand gets there first.

he holds it out to me, gaze steady.

i mutter, “thanks.”

our fingers brush when i take it. not on purpose. not quite accidental either. his hand is warm. bigger than i thought. veins sharp against his wrist.

he watches me too closely as i wrap the towel over my shoulder.

"careful," he says, like it's an afterthought. but his voice is low. almost amused.

“for what?”

he lifts a brow. “getting used to me.”

and then—again—he walks away.

set 6: the offer

“train with me.”

i don’t turn right away. i need to breathe. he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. he never sounds like he’s joking.

when i glance over, he’s already setting up weights beside mine. like it’s not a question. like he already knows i’ll say yes.

“why?”

“you don’t talk too much.” he shrugs. “i like that.”

i snort. “so this is...a compliment?”

his mouth quirks. not a smile, but close. “don’t get cocky.”

i shake my head. laugh quietly to myself.

but when he hands me a heavier dumbbell than usual, i take it. no questions. no hesitation.

because of course i do. it’s him.

set 7: sweat

“lower,” he says quietly, voice right behind me.

i’m already sweating. not from the bar on my back—but because i can feel him. his hands hovering near my waist. not touching. not quite. but there.

his voice is low. his breath hits the back of my neck every time i exhale. i drop into the squat, eyes forward, jaw tight.

“don’t rush the rep,” he murmurs. “feel the bottom. hold it. then drive.”

it’s a normal cue. basic. but when he says it, it feels like something else entirely.

feel the bottom. hold it. drive.

my fingers tighten on the bar.

i push up. steady. not smooth.

“good,” he says, and i hear the smirk behind the word.

i rack the bar. turn around. he’s too close.

his eyes flicker across my face like he’s checking for something. i don’t know what. but it makes me stand up straighter.

“you okay?” he asks, voice still quiet. almost like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear us.

i nod. “just hot.”

he looks me over—slow. his eyes trail from the sweat clinging to my collarbone down to my waistband, where my tank top has started riding up slightly, exposing the faint line of my hip.

his tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

“yeah,” he says, but it’s not really an answer. just something to fill the silence.

next, we do hip thrusts.

my mistake.

i set the barbell over my hips, settling back on the bench.

he stands behind me. like usual. spotting. watching.

but there’s nothing normal about the way he’s looking at me now. his eyes are lower. darker. waiting.

“go heavier,” he says.

i shoot him a look. “you sure?”

he nods once. “you can handle it.”

i hate how that sentence makes my stomach turn.

i load the weight. start the first rep. my hips rise, slow, steady. the metal bar presses tight against me. my breathing gets shallow.

“keep your knees out,” he murmurs.

i adjust, legs trembling slightly.

“slower at the top,” he says. “don’t rush the squeeze.”

i swear to god, he’s doing this on purpose.

i grind through another rep, jaw locked. his eyes don’t leave my hips.

the bar moves. my body rises. his voice stays calm. smooth.

“you’re shaking,” he notes.

“i’m fine.”

“didn’t say you weren’t.”

our eyes meet.

i don’t blink. neither does he. his gaze drops again—barely noticeable. but enough.

the bar hits the floor. my set’s done. but i feel like i just ran a mile with his hand pressed low on my back.

last are deadlifts.

we load the bar together. his fingers brush mine on the last plate. i pretend i don’t notice. he pretends he didn’t mean to.

but we both know.

i line up. feet grounded. hands set.

he crouches beside me, one arm resting on his knee. his head tips slightly, eyes dragging over the length of my spine.

“don’t look up when you pull,” he says. “keep your neck neutral.”

i nod, swallowing hard.

his eyes don’t move. he stays low as i wrap my fingers around the bar. my body lifts—slow. steady.

his gaze trails up, following the pull.

when i lock out at the top, he says nothing. just stares. mouth parted.

“what?” i ask, breathless.

“nothing,” he says. voice rough now. unsteady. “just… you’re strong.”

my heart stumbles.

“you’ve said that before.”

“yeah,” he murmurs, standing up slowly. “but i mean it more now.”

he’s looking at me like he wants to say something else. but doesn’t.

and i’m standing there, heart racing, sweat sticking to my skin in all the wrong places, still holding onto the bar like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

we don’t say anything else.

but it’s loud. so loud between us.

set 8: the ride

“you walking?” he asks, voice low like always.

i’m standing by the water fountain, drenched in sweat, hoodie half-zipped, the hem of my tank top clinging to my skin. my legs feel like they’ve been rung out. my brain’s even worse.

i glance at him. taehyung’s already holding his keys.

“bus,” i say.

he doesn’t like that.

his brow twitches. “alone?”

i nod once.

he stares at me for a beat too long, then tilts his head and murmurs, “i’ll drive you.”

not a question. not even an offer. more like a decision he’s already made.

i should say no. i don’t.

“…yeah. okay.”

-

his car is clean. black leather. smells like cedar and something else—his cologne, maybe. sharp and familiar from how many times he’s spotted me from behind, breath brushing my neck.

he drives with one hand on the wheel. the other rests casually on the console between us, fingers relaxed, dangerous, close.

the silence isn’t awkward. it’s worse. it’s thick.

he doesn’t turn on the music. doesn’t ask where i live. he already knows.

we hit a red light.

i glance at him. he’s leaning back, eyes on the intersection ahead like it’s done something wrong.

“you always this helpful?” i ask, my voice thinner than i meant it to be.

he doesn’t look over.

“only for you.”

my stomach tightens.

“why me?” i ask, softer.

that gets his attention.

he glances sideways, then drags his eyes back to the road.

“you don’t talk just to talk,” he says. “you actually work for your reps. you look at me like you’re not scared.”

“you get close a lot,” i say under my breath.

“you don’t stop me.”

we pull into my building. he doesn’t park. just idles under the streetlight, thumb tapping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from saying something reckless.

my seatbelt clicks free. my hand is already on the door.

“wait.”

i pause. his voice is quiet, but not soft. it lands in the space between my ribs and stays there.

i turn to him.

he’s already looking at me.

and for once, he’s not unreadable.

there’s something in his eyes i’ve never seen before. something raw. tight. like the leash he keeps everything on has been fraying this whole time, and i’m the last thread.

“don’t go in yet.”

my pulse skips. i don’t ask why. i just nod.

he doesn’t move at first. doesn’t reach for me. just stares, jaw tense, like he’s trying to decide if touching me now will ruin whatever careful thing we’ve built.

so i reach first.

my hand slides over his. his breath catches.

his fingers wrap around mine, slow, deliberate.

“i wasn’t planning this,” he says quietly.

“i know.”

his other hand lifts—to my thigh, not far from the hem of my shorts. his thumb presses lightly into my skin. not teasing. not demanding. just there.

“you want me to stop?”

my voice barely comes out. “no.”

he leans in.

not fast. not messy. his lips brush mine like he’s waiting for permission—like he wants to be sure this is something we both walk into, not fall.

i close the distance.

his mouth parts. and then it’s heat. tongue. the sigh that leaves him when i climb across the console into his lap like it’s always been mine.

his hands slide up my thighs, slow and steady.

not greedy. not possessive. hungry.

i straddle him fully. my knees wedge on either side of his hips. he lets out a breath against my mouth like he’s been holding it all night.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you feel so good already.”

i kiss him harder. his hands move under my hoodie, palms dragging along my waist, my ribs. he pushes it up, and i lift my arms to help.

he leans back and looks at me—really looks. i’m in my sports bra. flushed. breathing too hard.

he exhales like he’s looking at something he’s not sure he deserves to touch.

“pretty,” he murmurs. “fuck.”

he lifts the hem of the bra and slides it up. i let him. his eyes darken when i’m bare in front of him, nipples tight from the cold and the attention and the way he’s looking at me like he’s ready to kneel for a taste.

he doesn’t go straight for it. instead, he cups one breast with his hand, thumbing over the center until i shiver.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “you’ve been letting me spot you in this. teasing me.”

“i wasn’t—”

he presses his lips to my chest, right over my heartbeat. then higher. then around my nipple, mouth slow and open and warm.

my head falls back. “taehyung—”

he groans into my skin.

“say my name like that again and i won’t last.”

his hand moves down my back, finds the curve of my ass and grabs it—not hard, just enough to pull me against the thick pressure straining beneath me.

“fuck—” i gasp.

he smiles against my chest.

“that’s right. feel what you do to me.”

i grind once—instinctive, desperate. he sucks in a sharp breath, hands digging in harder.

“god, i’ve been patient,” he mutters. “every time you bent over in front of me, every time you looked at me like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

i meet his eyes. “maybe i did.”

his laugh is low. ragged.

“then you’re mean.”

“you like that.”

his eyes narrow. “too much.”

he grabs the waistband of my shorts and tugs them down my thighs. i lift myself to help, watching his face the whole time. he looks dazed. starved.

“you’re so wet already,” he says, voice rough. “fuck.”

his fingers slide between my thighs and pause at my center.

“can i?”

i nod. “please.”

and when he finally touches me—skin to skin—i feel his whole body jolt beneath me.

his fingers slide through the slickness, slow at first, then with more purpose, more pressure, more intent.

he’s breathing heavy now, jaw clenched, thumb brushing my clit with every pass.

“you’re perfect like this,” he whispers. “so responsive. so fucking soft.”

i moan when he adds a finger. then another.

his lips crush against mine as he fucks me slow and deep with his hand, until i’m trembling in his lap, forehead pressed to his.

i’m close. and he knows it.

“come for me,” he says. “i’ve got you.”

my nails dig into his shoulders. my body shakes. and when it happens, it crashes through me hard enough that i forget where i am. his name slips out of my mouth like a prayer.

he holds me through it, kisses me like he means it.

and when i start to settle, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin— he leans in, presses our foreheads together again, and says, barely audible:

“i don’t want this to end here.”

i nod, voice gone. “it won’t.”

he lifts me, shifts his seat back. unzips his sweats, pulls himself free—and i see how much he’s been holding back.

i sink down slowly.

he doesn’t rush. doesn’t push.

he just holds me, hands on my hips, forehead still against mine, letting me take him inch by inch until i’m full—aching. trembling.

“look at me,” he whispers.

i do.

his eyes are blown wide. desperate. soft.

“you feel like heaven,” he says. “and i’m not letting this be a one-time thing.”

“good,” i manage to whisper, right before he thrusts.

and then there’s no more talking. just skin, sweat, rhythm. just two people in the dark, holding onto something that feels like everything.

requests open anonymously!

[minyoongiss]

ONLY MINE | taehyung kim

you shouldn't have tried to make him jealous. or maybe you did the right thing.

pairing: idol!taehyung x you

wc: 1.3k

warnings: 18+, pure filth.

authors note: first post ever and it’s smut. didn’t proofread it

“will you ever try to make me jealous again?” taehyung whispered in your ears as he thrusted in you from behind. hard and fast. your hands were pressed against the cold window of the hotel. the coldness cooling down your hot body. your check was pressed against the cold surface of the window, you cold see a fogy layer creating on it because of your hectic breathing.

you couldn’t answer, all your thoughts, all possible sentences you could form, were gone the moment he entered your needing wet hole. and god did you love it.

your sounds echoed off the walls, you didn't even try to hide your voices anymore at this point. not caring if anyone could here you. not caring if they heard how good taehyung was fucking you.

he pressed your front firmly and insistently against the cold glass, but not too hard. it was just enough pressure, as if he knew you liked it. even after all these months. he always knew what you liked. how you liked it. his arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, grounding you and pulling you against him until you had barely enough room to think—let alone move. each time, he pushed in and out of you. every time, your body tilted forward completely because you could no longer hold yourself, he pulled you back against him. not caring about all the cries and whimpers coming out of your mouth. “i’m sorry,” you subbed. but were you really sorry?

the way he pressed his hand on your lower abdomen whenever he rammed his cock into your cervix with full force made you feel it more intensely. "can you feel it? how deep i’m inside you?" as if trying to prove something, he went deeper than you thought was ever possible. his thrust brutal and deep, his cock dragging against your walls like he was trying to stamp himself in your body. as if he wanted to make sure that you would even feel him days after this. no, so that you could never forget him.

"do you really think that jimin could ever fuck you the way i do? do you think he could even make you come?" his hand, which had been pressed against your abdomen, found its way to your clit. two fingers rubbing it in a sloppy way.

you moaned as you buried your head into the pit of his shoulder. “tae-taehyung don't stop,” you screamed, holding on to the window with your arms, to his biceps, which had grown twice as much since he returned from the military, to whatever you could hold yourself onto. you could still remember exactly when he'd sent you a topless picture without any context. a shirtless picture of him after training in the military. and the only thing you could see was how big he got. big and bulky. he looked so sexy, so manly that the first thing you did when you went home was, make yourself come with your fingers to the sight of this picture. making a fucking mess.

"i asked you a question baby. answer me," he gasped breathlessly against your ear, his voice low and raspy. he kissed down your neck slowly, leaving light bites, desperate to mark you. to mark you as his. “tae not.” were the only words you could get out, way to fucked up. you agreed when you started this ‘relationship’ that you would leave no marks. no hickeys, no nail marks on his back. nothing. because how was a world-famous idol going to explain to his make-up artist where all the marks on his neck came from?

"should i send him a video of me fucking your tight pussy. what do you say?” you knew exactly who he meant. “maybe then he will stop flirting with you.”

he chuckled.

“or better i'll call him over and show him what a cockslut you are for me,” he swivelled against your ear, licking where he'd marked you. you convulsed around him. a needy moan escaped your lips. at this point he was just desperate. desperate to get a response from you. you knew why he was doing this, you knew what he wanted, why he pushed you, and yet, you flirted with jimin. looking deep in his eyes, smiling devilishly. and that was all it took for him to explode. and maybe he knew why you did it too.

“you like that? the thought of jimin seeing how i’m fucking you? fucking your needy pussy for months,” he moaned as he abused your cunt. taehyung slows his pace, but only so he can penetrate you harder. each slap that connects with your skin elicited a pornographic moan from your throat. you felt his balls slapping harsh fully against your ass, and how his bodies presses you against the cool surface. his fingers still rubbing and pinching your clitoris, making you cry out. fuck, you would never get tired of this.

“tae please.” you didn't know what you were begging for. were you begging for him? or for the thought of him filming you? how he was fucking you hard and mercilessly. how he fucked you, a mere employee of HYBE. maybe that was the reason why the whole thing had started between you in the first place. why you were on your knees with taehyung's cock in your mouth in the first week. blowing him like it was about winning the gold madeille. or maybe the fact that the whole thing was secretly giving you the kink. the thought that something could come out at any moment. someone seeing you. that this was your dirty little secret.

“no matter how hard you try to make me jealous,” each of his thrusts deepened with the roll of his hips. “you're mine. say you're all mine.” you moaned loudly. your breaths became shorter, your chest rose and fell quickly. his fingers let go of your clit and found your neck.

with each thrust he hit the sweet spot inside you, the pressure intensifying until you think you might break. your eyes watered, not from pain, but from the intensity of the lust that built up and threatens to swallow you whole. you could feel his muscles tensing, his body on the verge of its own release.

you nod, “yes-yes i'm yours,” your voice turned into a high-pitched whimper and then you come. you come undo on his throbbing cock. still as he kisses your g-spot with his tip and for a moment you thought you could see stars, mound dropped no sound coming out. only hearing the pounding of your racing heart in your ears. no, you really were seeing the stars. taehyung really outdid himself. “fuck. fuck. fuck.” taehyung fucked you through it, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own release. his fingers clasped your neck harder, the pain of your high coursing through you, riding out your high.

he pulled your head to his neck and greedily presses his lips to yours in a messy, teeth clashing kiss. the angle was uncomfortable, especially since your head was stretched in painful way. but you didn’t care. it felt good. way too good. you gases pain-filled into his mouth, taehyung seizing the opportunity to push his tongue slopply into your mouth.

“gonna fill you up. gonna mark this pussy,” he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with need. “gonna pump you so fucking full of me, that it‘ll be dripping out of your cunt for days.” his voice sending another shiver through you, making your oversensitive clench around his cock. and then he's burying himself deep with an animalistic moan, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, colouring your inner walls white. not stopping until you felt the mixture of his and your come dripping down your thighs.

soft moans and the sharp hiss of breath were the only sounds in the room. no other sound could be heard for a couple of seconds. expect you trying to get your breathing under control.

taehyung pulled himself slowly out of you. you whimpered at the loss of the feeling of fullness. of his cock. then he bend his head down to your ear. “you’re mine. only mine,” he said as pushed the mess leaking out of your cunt back in it.

maybe you should make him jealous more often.

[gldrushh]

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

"Your boyfriend is wimpish, toothsome when he needs to be, self-sacrificing and you would've liked a hero to spend a breezy simple life with but it turns out he's not everything he claims to be, turns out that he's selling you down the river. His boss, meanwhile, is none of these things but worse, in a compelling-compelling way."

➵ PAIRING Idol!Taehyung x fem!reader

➵ GENRE Idol au, enemies to lovers (?), boy obssesed, smut

➵ W.C 50k (this was supposed to be pure porn sigh..)

➵ WARNINGS kim taehyung or he who shall not be named (yes he's a warning), loser boyfriend, neglecting, oc gets stood up multiple times, consuming alcohol, lots of it, loser boyfriend is taehyung’s manager, oc hates his ass, like unadulterated loathing,murder fantasies,he's chill and smug like that, also obssesed,mature language, chaotic girl group, jk pulls a jackson wang, the whole gang is here, fangirling, yoongi is short :p,mentions of throwing up, mentions of cheating, crying, slow build up, sexual tension, banter, obsessed! taehyung, smoking, sharing a cigarette, buff! tae, flirting, tae speaks french, props to his duolingo membership <3, revenge scheme, oc is out to get, explicit content, dirty talking, brat oc, brat tamer tae ayee, lil spanking here and there, praise kink, size difference, fingering,cum tasting, finger sucking, edging, oral (f! Receiving), face riding, multiple orgasms, dom!tae, mirror sex, he likes to make her watch, big dick! Tae, penetrative sex, protected sex, and that's a wrap I think :D

➵ A/N: SORRY SO SORRY i promise it wasnt in my plans to ghost you!! I was going to release this one shot on the day tae and joon got back AHAHSJAHS but I got a little shy about this fic and I still kinda am. Now about this fic, I didn’t used to a big fan of idol aus, maybe because I thought there wasn't much artistic freedom in that universe but guess what? There's free fucking will and I used it to make this big self indulgent baby 😼😼 probably should have added that as a warning because it's self gratifying as it gets girls 😔🙏 writing some parts of it made me really think twice about posting it or not because it's certainly not the work I could be proud off or something that reaches up to a caliber I have set up in my self loathing mind but it also made me giggle OH did it 🤭😜 like trust me when I say I had to take a minute to myself whenever it came to writing Taehyung’s dialouge or his mannerisms. That's a man OBSSESED and it may not come across in big neon letters because I love me some subtle infatuation and I really really hope I did the trope justice. Speaking of tropes, I know I tagged this as enemies to lovers but it's mostly one sided hatred so don't come at me for that and please don't take it too seriously haha <3 the last section is unedited becuz i'd literally jump of a clif if I have to edit any more 😓💗 love you, have a good time reading and pls tell me what did you think of it?? Should I be making more of this vibe? Feedback is always always appreciated!!

| MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3 |

Wax is made of organic compounds you wouldn't be able to name with a gun to your head but what you would tell was that, it also contained your wearing patience that made a mocking sound with every drip: the candle had burned halfway down, and he still wasn’t there.

You didn’t need to check the shining silver wrapped around your wrist. Your wineglass had already gathered precipitation twice over, the bottom of the flute damp with waiting. The feiriness of the flame casted shadows against the wineglass, all rippled red and wet. It almost looks romantic. If someone were sitting across from you. If he were sitting across from you. The waiter had stopped pretending not to notice and now gave you the kind of pitiful glances reserved for women with romantic delusions or no sense of time.

But you had time. That was the whole point of tonight.

The above-named waiter had smiled like he was in on something private when he lit the match and said, “Celebrating?” And you’d smiled back, a little flustered, and said, Yeah. I guess I am.

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

You swirl the warm wine in your hands that you don't even like anyway, but you make a face that looks like you’re on the verge of tasting something rich, something worth all this waiting, when in truth it’s a defense mechanism of some sort. Something to do with your hands that should have been held and kissed. Too dry. You judge ruefully. You only picked it because he likes it.

Even when it's supposed to be about you. Tonight is about you. A rare, like rare-rare personal triumph that came in the form of an offer letter with your name printed in ink that precieved graver than it should. It will the inception of a title bump. A salary hike that would finally fill the remaining fifteen percent of a jar you had named: trip to greece. A right set of circumstances you had earned after weeks of late nights, caffeine abuse, and grinding until your bones felt hollow. You’d spent the whole morning grinning into your toothbrush, rehearsing the announcement. The breed of joy you can’t help but choreograph when it was about a milestone as big as that after you’d finally closed that deal. Got your name attached to something worth bragging about. He said you’d celebrate. Said he’d be there to toast to your achievement with the same kind of urgency he reserved for phone calls from idols. Even picked the place — God, he picked the place.

But now you’re sitting in it alone, dodging glances and wondering if you should’ve worn something less “I’m someone’s girlfriend” and more “I’m the whole fucking meal.”

Because while you may feel like a whole meal most of the times. It's a very casual number of times you feel like a girlfriend. What isn't a casual number is when you check your phone and it flashes right back at you. 8:37 PM.

He was forty minutes late.

And you could swear you had checked your phone fifty times in that length, even had memorized what you saw in the fifty times, you did: one new email with zero new messages. No calls. Your phone’s screen is a galaxy of just unanswered calls. Four, five, six if you count the one that went straight to voicemail.

You don’t, but you remember the sound. The robotic please try again later feels more honest than he’s been in days.

You try again because someone has to do the trying after all.

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

Ring. Ring. It drones again and again and again.. You tap on the angry red button with force more than needed because if you'd have to hear to that sound any more, you'd spare yourself of the theatrics and just smash it on the ground of this expensive restaurant.

You focus on what's in front of you, rather than what's not. Check the menu even though you’ve already ordered, the way people do when they’re trying not to look lonely. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin, press the clean one over your phone screen, a random thing, really, but that's what dolorous people do when they are trying not to look dolorous.

Theres a twinkle of panic when you start to run out of them, after counting the petals of the rose flower, situated in a vase, as expensive as the nails you got done. Should you do a re-over? Maybe you will get a different number than thirty two this time. Maybe you didn’t got it right the first time? You're just about to, when your phone buzzes, once.

Finally. You were two minutes away from someone tearing up over how pathetic you look.

You hold it in your hands, gentler this time, with more care, and when you read the caller id, your heart jolts, thought it's not in the way when he first said said the l word to you, or when he got you the purse you've been eyeing with hopeless eyes from his first paycheck. Not in the least, actually, it's

not any kind of relief- recognition, mayhap. Comes after a stable three year love affair. More like the way you feel when your foot misses a step but your brain already knew it would.

You snap it up. “Where the hell are you, Joon?”

"Y/N, I— God, I’m so sorry," he exhaled, the background noise already too loud, a obtuse, chaotic bustle you knew too well. "Something came up with the boys— with Taehyung. I swear I tried to get out of it, but it's really important, I—"

Your perfectly manicured red nails dig into the soft fabric of the napkin. “What?”

"He—uh, it’s kind of urgent. I have to be there.”

Your eyes shut slowly, lashes trembling. “Are you serious right now?” you whispered, voice razor-sharp despite the volume. “You promised. You looked me in the eye this morning and promised you’d be here.”

“I know, I did, and I meant it,” he babbled. “But I—I’m so fucking sorry, babe, they really need me. It’s not a normal night. there’s a situation with the sound tech, and he’s panicking, and— It's a whole thing."

A whole thing.

You want to laugh. You almost do. But it comes out as a sharp exhale instead, as you open your eyes and look around the restaurant. You view as a paranoia mode of a camera would: The couples toasting. The waiter avoiding your table. The candle welling wax made up of your ended endurance, putting up the act of as if it’s weeping for you.

You lean back in the chair, press your fingers to your temple. “Of course. Of fucking course it is.”

“Babe, please don’t be like that. I wanted to be there. You know I did.”

You’re about to bite back, when exactly did you stop being a priority and start being a placeholder,  even if you know the answer, the exact date, heavens, when you hear what is the most aggravating sound.

"Joon-sshi."

That voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice.

Deep as if a hollow well would be when you say something ridiculous for it to echo back. Leveled enough that it could iron a wrinkled shirt, hot and fast. Fucking smug because it has ever right to (or so he thinks). His voice, slicing through the call like a machete that is unapologetic about whatever comes in it's way. The vocal equivalent of an expensive whiskey poured over a fire nobody asked to be set.

It pearls casual bidding, cushioned but sharp, sharp enough that it doesn’t ask for diligence. It assumes it like a ceo expecting standing ovation just because he entered the room. You hear it in variety shows, in fan compilations, in your hallway on rushed mornings when you’re trying to get a goodbye kiss and he’s halfway down the stairs already while you were busy tying your shoes and praying for a civil goodbye.

You knew it so well that you didn’t even need to see his face to imagine the annoyance etched into it. The burnished voice that was built to be beautiful and custom made just to madden you in the same breath belonged to one man and one man only, Kim Stupid Taehyung. A name that boiled your blood. A man that spiked your nerves as if you had swallowed down a live wire.

“Seriously? I told you I need that list now. We’re behind.”

And just like that, your boyfriend’s voice is smaller. Scrambled, submissive in that way he only ever got around him. “Shit—he’s calling. I’ll text you later, okay? I’m so sorry—please don’t be mad.”

Something bitter amplified in your mouth. And it's not the wine anymore. It has never been the wine.

You don’t get the chance to say anything. You couldn’t if you wanted to. If you would have opened your mouth, you would have screamed. Something like "You and your Kim Taehyung can go choke on his tech list!"

Heat crawled up your throat, all the way to your temples. People around you blurred as your thoughts tunneled into a familiar black hole.

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

There’s no real logic to it, not when you’re being honest with yourself. But there it is, this raw little wound that carried a little infection with and turned it into something worse.You don’t hate him because he’s famous.You don’t hate him because he’s talented, or loud or has enough money to make it up for it and more.

You don’t know him enough for that, not really, never seen him person or had his gnawing charisma touch you through a distance even, you only know his voice; that empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice. Prechance his schedule too for godsake. How he needed too many people to straighten his tie, hold his venti iced caramel macchiato, but made with oat milk instead of regular milk, added an extra shot of espresso for that kick and drizzle some extra caramel on top. And not to forget, a pump of vanilla syrup blended in with ice held down to keep it from getting too watered down. He probably needed your boyfriend for that too. He needed him for many things, always at his beck and call because that’s what this job is about, isn't it? Passionate art requires finding the vibe and running after it, at even four in the morning apparently. The endless excuses gone round and round his name like satellites. Passionate art, your ass. You hate him with the kind of bitterness that has layers: resentment stacked on frustration stacked on exhaustion. You hate the way he takes up space in your life without ever having to be in the room.

He had this way of swallowing Hajoon’s time like it belonged to him. Ever since your boyfriend became Kim Taehyung’s manager, you'd been in a three-person relationship, except the third wheel was a global superstar with a schedule more sacred than God’s while you're just another fleeting name in the schedule that gets crossed out in red ink.

This wasn’t the first time that had happened. Not even the tenth (you're keeping count). It was just the latest and every single number that adds up, also adds to your loathing.

You could still remember last spring, standing outside a theatre in the rain, makeup running and heels killing you, only to get a last-minute text: “Taehyung’s rehearsal ran late. So sorry. Tomorrow?”

Or the time he’d invited your boyfriend on a “quick trip” to Jeju for a shoot that turned into a five-day disappearance — radio silent that included no texts, no calls of even informing you whether he's dead or alive. And when they’d finally returned, he said that Taehyung had said that time flies when you're working. You’ve listened to him make excuses in every register of apology, from bashful to exhausted to just plain numb.

And now, here you are. Sitting alone in a restaurant with his favorite wine and cold fries.

You close your eyes. You breathe once, twice. Your phone is still in your hand, thumb ghosting over the last call.You don’t even consider reasoning or finishing the fries, only lift a hand to signal for the check.

Because you’re done.

You’re done letting this job, this man, this life play second fiddle to someone else’s. Especially his. Not tonight. Fuck that.

As the waiter walks off, polite and wordless, you pull your phone back up and open the group chat: Witches Who Wine, a name born in blood pact and bottomless mimosas. You’d earlier declined. The one that’s been buzzing with drunken selfies and glitter emojis since seven.

Earlier, you sent a regretful “Raincheck, girls. Girlfriend duties.”

It had felt responsible at the time. Sweet, even. Embracing that you were choosing stability over chaos, embracing you were the kind of woman who got celebrated over dinner and candlelight by a man who couldn’t stop looking at her.

Now, you typed:

“Hajoon bailed. Plans back on. Where are we drinking, ladies??"

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

[SAFIYA]: girl drop his ass we have shots lined up and glitter everywhere

[LARA]: WHERE IS HE I JUST WANNA TALK. with my fists.

[JIA]: You told him it was your celebration night, right?? You reminded him??

You blink at that last one, because, yes. Of course you did. You reminded him last night, this morning, this afternoon when he sent you a thumbs-up emoji and a “Can’t wait, babe.”

He could at least have the decency to cancel for himself. But no.

He let the one that wears silk shirts and smirks like he knows he has a leash around your boyfriend while he watches him obey do the honors.

[JIA]: just come over. we’re already tipsy. safiya just tried to kiss the bartender.

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

Your friends, for all their dramatics, mean well. But they’ve got the wrong villain.

Your boyfriend isn’t the real problem. Well he is technically. But he’s also predictable. Spineless. Hiding his light under a bushel and sugar-mouthed and easily tugged in whatever direction the golden boy points.

[LARA]: Don’t think, just get here. We already ordered that ugly sangria you love.

[JIA]: You owe us shots too. Plural. We saved you a booth and a sparkly crown.

[LARA]: Also your tits look amazing in that brown top you were gonna wear tonight. You're wearing it, right?

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

[SAFIYA]: No it’s brown she wore it to my birthday and made my cousin stutter

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

You tip the last of the wine into your mouth, it still tastes like disappointment, but the buzz that follows is warm and insistent. Insistent that you go and have the time of your life.

You type:

"Yes. Yes I got the brown top on which made safiya's cousin sutter. Lipstick’s still perfect too. Be there in ten 💋"

You have friends. You have heels. You have a face that looks fantastic under bar lights. You’ll go out. You’ll drink. You’ll laugh too loudly. You’ll just dance until your muscles ache and your chest is lighter.

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

A little dictatorial perhaps, granted you smell it the moment you step in. Temperature bandaging around your knees, bass thudding in your ribs like someone knocking to be let in. Altaria is packed, bodies glittering under pulsing lights, and your friends are already halfway drunk, half-sticky with sangria and stubborn lip gloss, wedged into a booth that should only seat four.

They scream when they see you.

A harmony of “Girl!” and “Oh my god!” and “Look at you!” rings out across the booth like gospel.

Lara practically climbs over Safiya to hug you, arms flung tight around your shoulders, perfume and tequila catching in your nose. “Oh the audacity of that man-” she gasps, pulling back to stare at you like you've just announced a felony. “You look like that and he bailed?”

“Please let me key his car,” Jia adds, sliding a pink drink across the table toward you. “I’m serious. I’ll even Google how to spell something dramatic.”

Safiya wiggles a tiny plastic crown between her fingers, slipping it onto your head. “To your promotion. Raise your glass.”

You do. You have to. They clink theirs against yours, and the moment presses in, frames you in and the joint giggling, the element, the tiny sting behind your eyes that you refuse to let spill out. You don’t wanna come off as pitiful on the night where you should be anything but, when you're surrounded by glitter and noise and people who love you so loudly.It burns like validation.

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

Pulls you into their chaos, that's just compulsory for sisterhood. And you should be unable to picture the word without mentioning the thousand attempts at blurry phone selfies just to get one aesthetic one, the dancing to decade-old pop hits, the game where you all list your worst kiss and Jia wins when she describes a guy who meowed mid-makeout. You laugh at lara’s drunken flirting with the server (he is flustered and trembling and clearly gay, not catching on the hint that she's for the girls too, which makes it even funnier).

You drink too much too fast. You’re halfway between giddy and feral, clutching a fourth drink and a fifth reason to forget.

Lara’s on your left, knee pressed against yours. She smells like oranges and expensive perfume and she’s too beautiful to be comforting but she tries anyway. Her glitter eyeliner is slightly smudged and it suits her. Jia is across from you, chewing the straw in her sangria like it personally offended her. Safiya is already halfway gone, resuming her story about how she almost hooked up with a bartender but forgot she was still wearing her Invisalign.

You tip your head back and knock back another shot. The ice clinks against your teeth like a tiny applause.

"God," you mutter, licking lime from the side of your hand, "I should’ve just come out with you from the start."

“Should’ve dumped that man two months ago,” lara says, her voice equal parts affectionate and judgmental. “Seriously. He’s like rice cakes, bland and barely functional.”

“You know,” Jia starts, leaning in like she’s revealing state secrets, “you really could just… break up with him.”

The table becomes deathly still. The music doesn't. It's some pounding club remix of a song you once loved but now just feels like a headache with a bassline.

You blink. And then something clicks loose in your jaw. It's not like it has never been suggested or your boyfriend’s name hasn't been paired with a loads of "You should leave him" but it has been a while since you had so much to drink.

“Oh my god,” you say, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s not. “You guys don’t get it. It’s not just Joon.”

Lara raises a brow. “Please don’t say ‘it’s me.’ We know that's far from the truth and we’re not letting you do this drama tonight or ever."

You slam your shot glass down a little too hard. “It’s him." The way you say him is a snarl adorned in lipstick. "Kim stupid Taehyung."

“Ohhh,” Safiya says like she’s watching a fuse light.

Lara points up a finger like a child asking permission to speak. "I take back what I said about your boyfriend." Your brows shoot up. "That he's boring. I think him working under south Korea's pride and honor is really interesting."

Jia leans back. "Really interesting. His boss is really interesting."

Safiya stirs the ice in her glass with the straw. "Shame Hajoon never lets us meet him. Or the hotter one with dimples."

You throw your napkin at her. "His boss is cockblocking our relationship. Ending it, if anything, actually. He’s in everything. I swear he’s got some kind of sixth sense. Any time I have plans with Joon? Suddenly it’s, ‘Tae needs this, Tae’s freaking out, Tae forgot his fucking sunglasses and now we’re all gonna die.’ And Hajoon just goes like some errand boy."

“You know what it’s like?” you say, gesturing with your hands, already a little wild. “Its embarrasing. So embarrassing. It’s like dating a guy who’s secretly married to someone else. But the other person is tall, hot, famous. And so, so self important. I swear to god, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his profile.”

Jia whistles. “I mean… it is Taehyung.”

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

She lifts her hands, placating. “Sorry. Go off.”

And oh, you do. Glass clutched like a lifeline, tiara threatening to fall off your head. Grandeur already on the floor so there's nothing left to loose.

“Everyone loves him, right? He’s so talented, he’s so artistic, he has depth, blah blah blah. Well guess what? He also has no fucking respect for boundaries. He doesn't give a shit that he has my boyfriend enslaved or maybe hypnotized. I don't know."

“He is kind of hypnotic,” lara mutters into her drink.

You turn to her sharply. You don't care that he's carved from marble and dipped in Versace. He has ruined everything. “Lara. You're supposed to be on my side."

“I am,” she grins, clinking your glass. “I just also have eyes.”

You groan, slouching down in your seat. “God. I hate him. I hate that he’s in every conversation. I hate that I know his voice better than my boyfriend’s now. I hate his stupid face and how it's everywhere and his stupid, stupid…”

You trail off, realizing your mouth is still open, mid-sentence. The girls are watching you. Smiling like they know something you don’t. Which is insulting, really. You are the wronged party here. You are the woman left alone in a restaurant with a melting candle and cold fries. You are the girlfriend with lipstick wasted on an empty seat. You are-

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

“Sure you do,” lara says softly, dragging a finger through the salt on the rim of her margarita. “So much that you’re obsessed.”

Your head snaps toward her. “No—what? No. No, no, no.”

Jia’s already snorting into her glass, Safiya is ducking like she’s dodging a flying object.

You glare at all of them. “It’s not that. I’m not obsessed.”

“Okay,” lara says, suspiciously agreeable, sipping slowly.

Jia leans forward on her elbows. “You said his name like twenty-three times in the last five minutes, though. I counted.”

You sputter. “It’s not—it’s not like that. I don’t want him. I want my boyfriend back. Like he was before he started working for he who I shall not name. We were good. Normal. He remembered birthdays. He texted back. We had sex that didn’t get rescheduled for a backup dancer rehearsal!”

"Your boyfriend who's only interesting because of who he works for. That’s cute,” lara says, deadpan. “But also… lies. There's no way you both are not thinking about Mr cheekbones in the bedroom. Hajoon is not enough to spice it up."

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

“And you’re in denial,” lara says, raising her glass.

You huff, cheeks burning. It’s the alcohol, probably. Or the lights. Or the fact that there are times when you think about him. You don't count how many. It doesn't matter if you've hated him the whole time, right?

"Fine. It's more of a murder fantasy." You mutter.

"Where he has you pinned down?" Jia asks innocently. "Beause same."

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

They erupt in laughter, the whole booth shaking with it, and you cover your face with your hands.

This is a mistake. Coming out. Drinking. Talking about him. Because it brings your dignity to an end and to a conclusion that you don't wanna give the benefit of doubt. That Maybe they’re right. Maybe there’s a line between hate and something else, and maybe you’ve been tap dancing across it for months.

But you don’t want to think about that.

So you think about smothering him with one of his own stupid silk scarves.

And since you'd let these sadistic thoughts in, in the first place. You let them go a little wild too. Imaginably, in public too.

Smashing a pie in his face.

Yes. A cream pie. Banana, maybe. A flavor he’d probably have strong opinions about. Somewhat humiliating. A lot whole sticky. Maybe he’s in the middle of giving a Very Serious Interview, saying something about creative control or the burden of artistry or whatever poetic bullshit he spills like he invented suffering, and then BAM! Pie ik his full face.

He would blink slow with his mouth open. Meringue on his perfect lashes.

You’d stand there, triumphant, arms crossed. Maybe you’d say something cool like “This is for every fucking dinner you’ve stolen from me, you time-sucking peacock.” then walk away while never breaking eye contact because you'd want him to see and acknowledge.

Or — okay — maybe it’s more violent sometimes.

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

You don’t even know where the koi pond came from, but it’s there. Lush garden surrounds and the tranquil museum courtyard envelops. And he’s wearing something expensive — linen, probably. Designer as you and everyone else would except yet it would be something that makes everyone turn and stare, and just as he says something snide and smug, you grab him by that overpriced lapel and shove.

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

You feel so good in this vision. Calm. Peaceful. Like a war general watching her final enemy fall.

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

Which is to say, it’s a day off. Your day offs come in a diversity. Last Sunday...fuck you can't remember. This sunday, howbeit, smells of detergent and damp cotton and a little bit like lemon because you spilled your candle while reaching for a sock behind the couch. It's a type of array where the floor is scattered with warm, wrinkled heaps of your own productivity and you’ve convinced yourself that folding things is a spiritual exercise.

Your playlist is somewhere between defiant and nostalgic. Beyoncé yelling about self-respect, then Norah Jones gently reminding you that you are, in fact, lonely. It’s a whiplash thing.

You’re cross-legged on the floor,in your baggy home shorts, knees to chest, tugging a fitted sheet into some approximation of a square. It’s a long weekend. Or a short one. You’re not sure anymore. They all blur together.

So well that you don't even notice when the door creaks open. Or you just pretend you don’t. That you don't see him.

Hajoon. The absentee boyfriend. Today’s featured guest star in: Please Forgive Me, Baby.

He has come to embody the role, he has come prepared with flowers. Of course he has flowers. They’re not even the cheap kind this time. Tulips, you think. Or maybe he googled “I fucked up” and picked the first bouquet suggestion.

You don't get up, neither do you look up. You keep folding. Badly.

“Hey,” he says.

You hum in reply. Not a mean hum. But not a friendly one either. Something between I acknowledge your existence and say another word and I’ll cut the sleeves of your shirts in a criss-cross way.

He hovers. Shifts his weight like a nervous intern. “I’m really, really sorry,” he starts. “I know I messed up. I was an idiot. I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

You fold a towel like it owes you money.He comes over, kneels across from you, places a careful hand on your ankle. And you think that only if he had thought of this carefulness before, he'd here with flowers just because. But your thoughts and you, sometimes don't align, so you don’t move either.

“I should’ve picked you over—” he catches himself, clears his throat. “Over work. I just… I got caught up again. I didn’t mean to bail. Especially not that night. I know how much it meant.”

"Did you?"

He winces like it physically hurt. “Okay. You're furious. I deserved that.”

You look back at the dryer. The silence stretches like gum. He sighs.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” Hajoon says. “Just let me make it up to you.”

"And how are you gonna do that? What if it comes between your errands?"

He flinches. That’s new. Usually, he deflects. Laughs a little. This time, he just takes it.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please just listen to me."

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

“There’s… there’s an event this weekend.” He shifts, awkward, like he’s not sure if this is the right time to mention it. “It’s a listening party. For the new album. Jungkook’s, you know him? The youngest one? He's hosting it at the studio loft, but it’s like..fully catered, private, some press, but mostly just close circle people. And I was invited.”

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

You look at him, one brow raised yet again. “And you want me to be your arm candy?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says. “To celebrate something with me for once. I want to show you off. Properly.” He traces circles on your calf. "Will you let me do that, babe? Let me make up?"

Your first instinct is to say no. Out of spite. Out of principle. Because this entire idol-shaped job has eaten half your relationship and still wants dessert.

But…

You’ve never been to one of their parties before. Hell not even to his workplace. So this whole showing off thing feels flat to you. You turn this over in your head like a coin. Glint. Weight. Intent. But the rumors you've heard are tempting. Oh, they are Glamorous. Lavish. Free champagne. Rooftop views. Gold-plated hors d’oeuvres that you pretend to understand. You’re not a fan of the world — but you do like a little spectacle. You do like heels and dresses and glittering places where people look at you like you matter.

And because you’ve spent so long hearing about this world from the sidelines that part of you wants to see if it’s really as ridiculous as it sounds. Maybe sip something from a crystal glass and pretend you don’t know what it cost.

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

“My friends,” you repeat, looking him dead in the eye. “Lara, Jia, Safiya. I’m not going in without my pack. And they like the group. It’d be a big deal for them.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure he has that power to pull that, but then nods. “Uh—yeah. I mean, yeah. If they’re okay with signing NDAs.”

You bite back a grin. He said yes. Of course he said yes. Guilty people, and your boyfriend was one hell of a guilty man, would scrape dirty off a three thousand square feet lawn with a spoon if the desire to purify themselves of that is strong enough.

You'd like to belive that for him, it is too when you finally look up at him, arching a brow.

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

“Still mad,” you say. But your voice is softer now. Less ice, more mossy.

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

His whole face brightens, like a kid who just found out the punishment’s being lifted. He doesn’t move to touch you.

“Don’t fuck it up,” you say, and toss him a clean shirt from the basket.

He catches it with a grin. You let him lean in and kiss your temple. You let it feel a little like forgiveness.

You have habitually, always been on to prefer night time over mornings. Early mornings are nice too because they closely similar to the segregation of the dark sky, where sun and moon blink at each other. Doesn’t beats the former though.

It's a flurry of neon flash, on Saturdays. Colorful star-like-lights taking over the whole of the city, on the rest of weekdays.

Tonight, it's too much. You knew it would be. You just didn’t know how much.

The elevator doors part like a curtain and you step into a room that looks less like an event and more like a fever dream manifested by someone with too much money and too little sense of restraint.

The ceiling’s strung with Edison bulbs shaped like teardrops. They flicker warm, flattering light across every sleek surface and high cheekbone. The floor’s a herringbone wood polished to a shine that threatens to reflect your thoughts if you look down too long. Exposed brick walls, brutalist furniture, and vinyl booths arranged like museum exhibits. You espy that it's a look of modern minimalism that only the rich can afford to make look careless.

It smells like vanilla, white musk, and champagne mist. If the words: luxury and aloofness and contracts had a smell, it would be this. And something underneath it all. Cologne, sweat, the heat of nerves just under the skin.

There’s no red carpet, but there may as well be.

Everyone’s dressed like they knew they’d be photographed, magical silhouettes and glittering details, statement pieces skimmed over delectable nonchalance. Too many people are wearing sunglasses indoors. There’s ambient bass threading through the room, sultry and self-assured, just like the man whose music it celebrates.

You don’t know Jungkook, but you get him from this space. From the custom scent diffusers, the soft glow of film cameras on tripods, the tray-passed hors d’oeuvres so tiny they feel like a joke.

You’re in a black slip dress that hugs just enough and what it doesn’t is draped in the denim jacket you grabbed at the last second. Your friends flank you like bodyguards, looking like different kind of unaware.

Lara’s in a blood-red two-piece with her hair slicked back, a look she went for when she was trying to get laid. Safiya’s practically see-through in a mesh blouse and sequined pants, halfway to an afterparty already. Jia’s in glitter boots and capturing every moment like she’s the official documentarian of your reckoning.

And Hajoon, dressed in a tailored jacket and that rare sheepish smile, keeps glancing at you like he’s waiting to see if this counts as absoulation or just probation.

You haven’t decided yet.

He’s been clinging to your side all night. Part guilt. Part presumption. Like he wants the whole room to see you and know you're with him. And you let him because a small, treacherous part of you likes being a prize sometimes. Especially in rooms where the stakes are stupid high and nothing is real except the flash of a camera and the clink of ice in a glass.

“Come on,” he says, fingers brushing your lower back. “Let me introduce you.”

You nod once, you'd like to meet the people who are a group of what'd you just made up in your head; sold their souls to stand in the shadow of multiple stars, (no harm meant) you can pretend. You can be charming. Just long enough.

He leads you through a maze of press assistants and studio people. A woman in chunky boots talks to a man with purple eyebrows about lighting design. Someone else passes with a tray of glasses shaped like perfume bottles.

You pass a silky curtain you’re pretty sure is hiding a private recording booth, a whole lighting rig hanging above it like a halo.

The first people you meet are benign.

“This is Chul,” he says, gesturing toward a guy in a sweater vest with half a headset tucked under his jaw. “Props coordinator. Always bailing me out when I forget which box the custom mic sleeves are in.”

Chul offers a friendly wave, eyes darting between you and the champagne like he’s calculating the weight of the room.

“And that’s Seojin,” Hajoon continues. “She handles most of the press logistics.”

Seojin is tall, thin, glossy. Her smile is tight but not unfriendly. She appraises your outfit once and seems satisfied. She doesn’t comment on your presence — merely nods at Hajoon’s introduction only becausw it's a formality. As if she already expected someone like you would appear eventually.

She turns away before you can thank her.

Next is a short man with a clipboard and hair dyed a pale green. Hajoon barely gets to say his name, Sangwoo, you think , before he’s muttering something about timing and the rental van arriving without the riser extensions.

It’s strange. The people here don’t talk the way your coworkers talk. There’s no chatter about lunch or traffic or the weekend. Everyone looks at everyone like they owe each other something, everyone talks with everyone; coded. Shorthand for a world you’re not quite part of.

Your boyfriend, though levitates like a local and you'd expect nothing else. He's a man here who knows which hands to shake and which not to, whose shoulder to touch and who to call sunbae. It’s like watching him speak another language. One he never teaches you.

There’s Minae, who runs digital content, and who immediately compliments your dress before asking if you’re single in front of your boyfriend. She’s clearly three drinks in already, her lashes tipping dangerously close to her cheeks every time she blinks. When she says that you're too pretty for this one, lara with her all too overwhelming charm slides in with an: "am I pretty too?" The rest of you resist the urge to facepalm. Minae on the other and very contrary hand, chuckles a breathless chuckle. All her focus on the brunette with stars in her eyes.

Though all of this, you too focus. On how somehow, somewhat, this isn't all too bad.

It’s flashy. Frenetic. A little unhinged in a way you kind of like. There’s too much perfume and everyone talks like they’re mid-episode on a show you haven’t watched, but you’re starting to get the monotony of it.

A little like clockwork, a sound of tick-tick you didn’t have a liking to but tolerated for the sake of peppiness of it all, spoke to you on the first date, alone. Might you add, that you had left a little bit of impression too. He couldn't speak a full coherent sentence when you saw the first time, had him stopped in his tracks and all.

So it's a suprise when hajoon does that thing again. Literally halts. Dead in his tracks.

In front of a woman whos tall- statuesque, really. That low-key brand of Gorgeous, you don't mind admitting to yourself. Sharp collarbones, sharper eyeliner, a pantsuit tailored within an inch of its life, it could've been stitched to her bones. Her lanyard reads “logistics,” but it may as well say “don’t fuck with me.” in big bold letters. Maybe it's your habit of trying to put people in a drawer that squares them in limited or weirdly specific characters (you know it's a bad one) but she has the air of a girl who once stole your charger in college and never gave it back, but made you feel like the asshole for asking. Jesus. You've got stop.

“Y/N, this is Bora." Hajoon says, voice going smooth at the edges, that press-conference tone he saves for moments when he’s trying to impress. "She runs most of our on-site coordination. Couldn’t function without her.”

Bora turns.

She smiles. With full teeth. All of them perfect. Friendly enough to pass inspection, but you’ve seen that smile before. It’s the version that lives on corporate brochures and social media bios. The smile worn by girls who never lose their temper, because they’re too busy winning and taking what they want, when they want. Her eyes catch on yours and hold.

She steps forward. Extends her hand. Her nails are immaculate — almond-shaped and the color of blush wine. You shake it out of reflex.

"Bora, this is Y/N. My girlfriend."

“Oh,” she says with a laugh, low and sugar-sweet. “So this is the girl who finally gets him to show up on time.”

Hajoon chuckles. “That’s her.” Her tone is warm and she doesn't bother laughing at her own joke. Was that a joke? Okay. Okay.

You nod, lips parting into a smile that feels functional. You don’t trust her. You don’t know why, but you don’t.

Her? You? You think it over and over again but heart flicks only once. And it tells you that it’s nothing. Hearts are trusting.

She lingers a second too long. Her eyes slide over you, not , but curiously. Like she’s trying to find the catch. The why. The how.

You know girls like her. They remember everything. And she’s definitely remembering you. Her eyes flick over your shoulder, over your friends, back to Hajoon. The corner of her mouth lifts, just scantily. You can't pinpoint if she’s thinking something you wouldn’t like or break into tears over.

She gives you the time and benefit of dount when she lingers too long. She laughs when she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t touch Hajoon, but she doesn’t need to. It’s in the way she angles her body, the way he doesn’t quite meet your eyes when she jokes again, calling him “sir” sarcastically. The way he chuckles and mutters, “You’re the one who runs the place, not me.”

She waves him off like it’s an old joke. Something only they get.

And then, because maybe she knows you’re watching too closely, she looks at you. Her smile softens. Reveals pity. Some people just arrive with a sense of prelude.

You hate that most of all.

Before you can pin down the nauseating twist in your gut, Hajoon’s already guiding you away. His fingers skim the small of your back again like punctuation.

“She’s just intense,” he whispers. “Work mode. Don’t worry.”

Which is the worst thing to say if you want someone not to worry.

And something about the curve of her mouth does bothers you. You don't know why. Just that you clock it. Quietly. Internally. The way you clock exits and weak wine.

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

Lara practically materializes at your elbow. “This is what you’ve been hiding?” she whispers. “Christ. It’s like Versailles had a baby with Spotify.”

Jia appears next. “I think I just saw a marble ice sculpture of Jungkook’s face.”

“It’s real,” Safiya confirms. “I licked it.”

You bury a laugh in your glass.

A commotion near the back of the room makes a sound.

Having said that, a commotion is not the right word to describe when it debuts, they don’t enter like a movie cast all at once, no spotlight and chorus as you would have expected.

You spot the man of the hour halfway across the room, posted near a soundboard station with one hand around a glass and the other curled into a pocket. Black shirt, unbuttoned just enough, loose on the shoulders, as if he got dressed by thinking about air. The tattoos swirl out from under his sleeves like ink in water. He’s listening to someone speak but his gaze is darting.

Hoseok's mid-laugh when you see him, sunglasses on top of his head, leaning sideways into someone else’s story. He moves like he’s music itself, like tempo runs under his skin.

Jimin’s close behind, ghosting between clusters of people. He’s silver and silk, all fluidity and elegance, nodding to guests with a smile just shy of wicked. He’s so beautiful that makes your brain short-circuit for a second, he's what you’ve just seen something your nervous system wasn’t designed for.

Namjoon takes the longest to notice. Or maybe he’s just the most subtle. He’s in conversation with someone in a crisp gray blazer, gesturing with one hand, thoughtful and deliberate. He laughs at something, rubs the back of his neck, and then turns. You catch his face fully for the first time.

They’re not together in a pack like you'd have expected. They extent to a limitless, shimmering sky.

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

“The boys are over here,” he says before you can even turn. “I can bring you guys over.”

Your friends, already half-buzzed and vibrating with filtered excitement, light up because for them, they’ve just been offered a VIP pass to heaven.

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

Safiya grabs your wrist like it’s a lifeline while mouthing oh my god oh my god as if prayer might help, and Jia is trying to fix her hair mid-step.

They hover behind you as Hajoon brings you over. The boys are — unfortunately —stupidly attractive in real life. Now when you get a clear look of Namjoon, he looks like he walked out of a cologne ad that rivals the oldest's version. Hoseok’s already grinning like he knows a secret. Yoongi barely nods but it feels like a bow.

They greet you like you’re someone, which is probably part of the charm. Idol magic.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Hajoon says. “And these are her friends- lara, Jia.." He pauses, glances at you awkwardly for a brief second like he's asking for help or bracing for the impact of some kind of punishment from you because there's no way he forgot your friend's name. Best friend's name. Idiot.

"Safiya." You jump in before her face can fall. "He's terrible with names."

The girls mumble variations of hi and holy shit and we’re fine, thank you, so fine.

Namjoon asks how you’re enjoying the night. Hoseok compliments Mina’s outfit. Jungkook flushes a hint of pink when a collective congratulations for his album is spoken out loud and safiya looks like she might actually combust.

And you smile, gracious and composed. Atleast you try. You can see the faint shimmer of Jungkook’s under-eye highlight. You can smell Jimin’s cologne.

It’s a lot. But you manage.

"Hajoon-sshi, never shuts up about you.”

You smile again, because what else do you do when one of the most famous men in the country is shaking your hand with dimples that could murder with, double- barreled friendliness that makes you want to tell him your secrets. “I’m sure he exaggerates.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Definitely not. You're the one who made him cry when he forgot your anniversary, right?"

“Jimin-sshi.” Hajoon groans, face red.

You blink. “He told you that?”

Hoseok laughs. “We heard it. He was inconsolable.”

You catch Hajoon’s eye. He smiles, sheepish.

And just like that, something inside you thaws. Invaraibly by a degree.

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you say, because it’s the right thing to say, and you are currently functioning entirely on instinct and adrenaline.

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

Seokjin beams. “You too. Hajoon’s one of our favorites, by the way. He’s a total lifesaver."

“He also has terrible snack taste,” Yoongi says. “But we’ve forgiven him.”

Laughter rises up, light and easy. For a moment, you almost forget your nerves. Because they’re funny. And not the over the board funny, It comes off easy to them, kindness comes off easy.

Jia is flushed. “Congratulations, by the way,” she blurts to Jungkook. “On the album. It’s insane."

He blushes. Blushes. “Thank you. Please enjoy yourself."

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

Eventually, the moment fades. Doesn’t last long. Nothing golden does.The boys wander off in pairs, pulled away by studioheads and stylists and producers. The girls flock back to your side, still breathless.

“Did you see Seokjin's outfit?” Jia hisses. "I saw nothing else but that."

“I didn’t even blink,” Safiya says. “I’m too stunned.”

Lara sips her drink. “Yoongi is shorter than I thought, but it’s working for him. It’s all working for him.”

You’re still processing.

The wine’s working too, and the lights are low, and there’s a strange feeling in your ribs like you’ve walked into someone else’s movie. Feels as if you’re not just in the room, you’re part of the pixels that make up the ambience.

It's overwhelming. You're not sure how one can make a living out of this, of being tbis marshallsd, of being this seen, this on all the time. . How one can breathe, even. You can barely maintain eye contact with the barista when your name’s misspelled on a cup; how do they manage this?

You couldn't have been here for a more than a hour and you already feel floaty. Flaccid, that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but definitely not normal either. As if your limbs are operating on a delay, still trying to recalibrate from being in the blast radius of status, beauty, and whatever volatile charge comes from standing too close to a reality that was never meant to include you. Your brain fumbles, rewinding the scene with all the clumsy finesse of a dropped tape recorder, replaying glances, tones, shifts in posture that must’ve meant more than they let on.

You let out a breath but even that feels too loud so lean your weight against the cocktail table. It's draped in something black and ravishingly silk.

You sip your drink. Smile to yourself when you catch lara around the corner hanging off around the content manager you met just minutes ago. She’s high on proximity, her pupils blown wide with it. Safiya’s comparing the shade of Jungkook’s lip tint to a fruit that doesn’t grow in your hemisphere. Jia looks like she just lost her religion and found it again.

This is good. You're having a pleasant time. Your friends are having a pleasant time.

Until something twitches at the edge of your memory. Was it memory? was it an observation?

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

You count again, lips moving. An uncanny whisper of movement. You don’t know how you missed it.

Except... maybe you do.

Maybe you didn’t miss it at all. Maybe you muted it. Maybe you folded it into the background noise the second it reached your ears. Much like static. Very much like self-preservation. Developed selecting hearing for a moment there because there was a name too.

There was a name.

Something one of them said. Something just under the music, a passing remark folded into a compliment meant for Hajoon. You try to scrape it back. Rewind the moment. Seokjin had been speaking, something about Hajoon being essential. Someone else chimed in. You think it was Namjoon, or maybe Jungkook, saying:

“Good pick on Taehyung's part. He's got a good eye.”

That’s it.

And it registers now, belated and prickly. You’d tuned it out. Of course you did. It’s laughable, really. The way your body chose to keep the peace when the moment someone says his name, your brain switches off. You name it muscle memory. But it could also be survival instinct. And the primal knowledge that a name can curdle a whole night if you let it. While your mind filed away the omission.

The face you’ve been dreading. The one you’ve cursed in your sleep. The reason you almost didn’t show up tonight at all.

And he wasn’t here. And all the stars were alligned. And all was right in the universe.

You look around for confirmation.

He wasn’t in the group you met. He wasn’t hovering nearby. You were secure in your belief that a collection gasps of he just walked in would have followed too. You would’ve felt it; that particular flavor of atmospheric change he brings with him, whetted and exact. You’d have known, the shift in barometric pressure, the interference that clings to your neurons and doesn’t let go. The voice you know too well, molten steel with knive sharpened. The name that tastes of vinegar every time you say it, and you say it often. So you'd know.

He really wasn’t here. Which tracks. Of course, he’d skip his own friend’s party. Or maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s allergic to punctuality like he is to personal boundaries. For people like him time bends differently since they clearly don't have respect of it. Or maybe he’s already come and gone, and the universe just spared you the fallout.

You exhale, long. Unpacking a suitcase full of tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Somewhere deep in your chest, a locked muscle unclenches and thanks you for the mercy.

Hajoon slides in beside you again, glass of champagne hovering near his mouth, eyes all sparkle and hope, gets him one inch closer back into your good graces through this whole ordeal that is a grand, glittery olive branch.

You lean into his side, casual. "Didn’t see...your tae yet?" You ask, because you can’t not. It comes out breezy. Offhand.

He glances down, surprised by the question before he looks around, like he half-expected to find him behind a ficus.

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

You nod. Yes, he who shall not be named.

“Off-duty tonight, apparently. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d make it. Probably laying low.” He says. "You know how he is."

You hum. You don’t. Not really. But you’ve spent enough time seething in his shadow to make up your own conclusions.

Off duty. Right. Still, your eyes scan the room one more time, just in case. A surprisingly wise decision on his part. He only spared himself from the embarrasment in his own bandmates party. So you plan to keep your peace and your boyfriend tonight too.

Alas, you can only have it all before someone — some twenty-something in black denim and a lanyard swinging like a pendulum — approaches with a slightly panicked look and Hajoon’s name half-formed on his lips.

“Hyung,” the kid pants, half-doubled over with his hands on his thighs, hair damp and sticking to his temples. “Sorry—sound crew’s losing their shit over the back-lounge mic feed. Something about the press audio not syncing right. They said they tried to ping you—five times, I think."

The words fall out in a rush, tripping over each other, frantic and full of a bad conscience. He says five, but you can tell by the way he won’t meet Hajoon’s eyes that it’s probably more. Potentially ten. Potentially enough to take your boyfriend away.

Hajoon exhales through his nose. The sound is barely audible, but it echoes anyway, through the bones of the moment, through the space you occupy beside him. You don’t need to look up to know he’s already halfway annoyed. Guilty? His irritation blooms in the shift of his weight, in the flex of his knuckles behind your back, as though weighing whether to pull away entirely or hold ground. Feasibly both.

“Right now?” he asks, like there might be another option. Asks it like the rhetorical density of someone already calculating the cost of interruption.

The runner hesitates, eyes darting toward the corridor behind him where shadows of movement flicker and vanish. “They’re melting down.”

Hajoon hesitates. It almost seems like it's for dramatic effect. You can feel it on him, the feigned reluctance. Feel him preparing the apology, not the words themselves, but the posture of them. It hovers at the corners of his mouth, teeth pressing into thought, mouth pulled thin. There’s no remorse in it, nonethless, the apology is curling at the corners of his mouth before it’s fully formed.

“I can come right back,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

You almost roll your eyes. Not because you think he's lying but because fifteen minutes turns into forty. Forty turns into never mind, just go home without me.

And maybe a few days ago, you would’ve folded your arms and dared him to choose. Another moment to keep score. You don’t do that tonight. You don’t call him out. You give him a soft shrug. A little smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Go.”

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your temple, a flutter thing, gone before you can even decide how you feel about it. “I owe you.”

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

And then he’s gone, flesh peeled from the frame of the moment. Grooved into the mass of bodies, ingested whole by noise and colored light. One blink too slow and his back is already someone else's, indistinct and moving. The crowd does not opposes him, shoulders belonging to glittering bodies and bad decisions open for him without hesitation. His absence walks away before you get the chance to apperceive it properly. Before it earns its configuration.

He moves through crowds with that easy-breath peridiocity that suggests he belongs more to movement than to restfulness. More to them than to you.

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

Everything around you surges forward, and you remain perfectly still, there’s nothing in your throat but salt and silence.You edge toward the periphery, toes brushing the spill line of the room. Where the light flickers but doesn’t touch. Where the music swells and bruises the walls but doesn’t crawl into your skin. You imagine what you must look like from above, drifting toward the rim, toward the places where no one dares to notice anything too tenous. While your group of girls (havoc I sequins) are scattered like confetti.

Jia is dancing now — on the actual dance floor, in a sea of glitter and swaying silhouettes. Her boots flash under the lights. She throws her head back laughing, some guy in a turtleneck and too much confidence attempting to keep up with her steps.

Safiya is talking to someone near the catering section — maybe flirting, maybe arguing. It’s hard to tell with her. One hand’s on her hip and the other is spearing a cherry tomato off a toothpick like it insulted her mother.

Lara, as always, is missing. You scan the crowd for a glimpse of red but instead catch her exiting a side hallway, shoulder-to-shoulder with Minae, the digital content manager from earlier. They’re laughing, low and conspiratorial, and Mina’s got that subtle half-smirk she wears when she’s decided to keep something to herself. You let her be.

There’s something freeing about the anonymity here. The lights are low, and the music is louder now, bass thudding like a second heartbeat in your chest. You drift along the perimeter, your heels clicking a slow rhythm over polished tile. You accept another drink from a server. It bumps up fizzy. It turns up pink. Something you don’t have to name. You don’t ask what’s in it. That’s part of the fun. Not knowing. Not caring. (Some of the time, it is. And you say that with all precautions took care of.)

Eventually, your path leads you to the lounge side of the floor. Past the floral arch near the DJ. Past the velvet ropes draped over low-lit staircases. Past a corner where someone famous is pretending not to be famous while arguing about streaming rights. It’s less crowded here. The velvet couches are sunken and soft, little groups curled into them like petals around a flame.

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

It’s cooler, too. A reduced amount of throat-choking cologne, fewer elbows in your side. The air smells feebly of melting ice and broken promises, probably vodka, possibly floor cleaner. You cradle your glass against your lips and take a sip. Sweet, cold, suspicious. The taste clings to the roof of your mouth in that way syrups do when they’ve got pharmaceutical derangement of power lust. You swallow anyway. At this point, hydration is hydration.

You have no plans to dance, you're not feeling it. There’s a part of you that still hasn’t forgiven your shoes for existing, and the beat impressions an accusation rather than an invitation. You're satisfied with it nestling somewhere inside your thorax, warming you the way wine does, gradually, dishonestly.

You stare ahead, trying to look occupied but vaguely important. It's a difficult balance, one most people fumble by the first hour. Your eyebrows lift occasionally, your mouth hovers near a smile. You even nod once at no one. Masterclass. Topper, you could've been, if someone didn't turn up in your sideways and made you want to run in circles until the loss of face wore off.

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

You turn, eyes adjusting to the source. He stands there, taller than expected, with that soft-focus face they breed in casting rooms. Brushed-back hair, that only exists in idol genetics or drama leads undone tie, an earring catching the light like it’s been waiting all night to be noticed. A smile so polite it might actually be genuine. Friendly within reason that isn’t threatening, yet somehow still feels practiced. For all you know, he came with the furniture. For all you know, he’s been here the whole time, waiting for a line.

You're a woman with theories waiting to spill out but you're also a woman with many talents so you oversee them all at once while also managing to utter out. “Sorry?”

He chuckles, mouth tugging upwards. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant—I haven’t seen you before.”

“It did,” you agree, but your tone is light. You’re not mad. You’re just surprised. No one’s talked to you tonight that wasn’t paid to or pretending not to know your boyfriend. A bold choice. A choice you're thinking you admire.

“I just meant,” he says, still smiling, “I haven’t seen you before.”

You angle your head, enough to let your earrings swing forward. Small weights on delicate hinges. “Do you make it a habit to keep track of everyone?”

He laughs again. This time, less apologetic. “No. Just the interesting ones.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

He shrugs with a grin so flashy, it could classify as something you would note aside and overanalyze till you've reached to one reoccurring culmination that you need better hobies than overthinking. A heathly one, most preferably. “Only if it’s working.”

You sip your drink. It’s not. But it’s a valiant effort, and in this economy, effort counts for something.

He pretends to look wounded. One hand on his heart, the other cradling his glass like it’s the only constant in his life. Winces. “Harsh.”

You allow the moment to hang, loose and golden, like fairy lights that haven’t short-circuited yet. “Y/N.”

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

You shake it, out of politeness, out of boredom, out of habit. His grip is good. Palm is warm and fingers are steady. No limpness, no clamminess. The bar’s low, and he clears it.

He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Y/N-who’s-not-with-the-label.”

You glance sideways, scanning for cameras or people pretending not to eavesdrop. “And you are?”

“Former trainee. Now an occasional singer. Sometimes dancer. Full-time mascot, depending on who you ask.” he says as if narrating a bed-time story.

That draws a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “That’s oddly honest.”

He leans against the railing beside you, drink in hand. “Honesty’s underrated.”

You nod. "True, that."

The conversation drifts into easy banter. He asks how you’re liking the party. You say it’s beautiful. He agrees. You say it’s loud. He says it’s always loud. He tells you a story about tripping on a camera wire during a rehearsal and breaking someone’s ankle. You raise your brows. “Their ankle?” He winces. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.”

And the truth of it is; it’s nice. He’s nice. Funny, even. Bothersomely so. The ease of it, of his voice that has a soft-spoken allure that slips out between sips of whatever he’s drinking, the way his sentences land on the floor between you like coins: unsubstanial, eye-catching and never heavy enought to bruise. A clever theif would take great advantage of that because his smile doesn’t ask anything of you. His eyes don’t crawl. And that should be comforting, but in some twisted, tired corner of your chest, it feels worse. Because this could be something. He could be something and that sounds inviting, when you give regard to the attention he gives you, where you don’t have to earn by vanishing parts of yourself.

It would take almost nothing to tilt this into flirtation. You would work a little on your smile and reshape your unit of speech just right, take a sip longer than imperative. Could sink into the clearance he’s offering without ramification, owing to the fact that men like him never ask, they come with tidy intentions and open palms. They don't come with an entourage or an aftertaste.

But your blood doesn’t reach for him, so you don’t. Because you’re not here for that.

Because your boyfriend, who hasn't looked at you properly in days, is still somewhere inside this building, elbows in cables, lungs full of static, cursing at machinery with the conviction of a prophet. The air around him probably smells like copper and stubbornness. You can picture his shoulders already, hunched and wired, chasing perfection with shaking hands and a deadline no one asked him to meet. He’s the reason you’ve spent the last hour smiling politely at people who might never know your name properly and won’t say it. And even if he deserves to be punished for it, for dozens of things, for all of it, you won’t be the knife. You won’t be the thing that you are inherently not.

So you smile. But you dull it with your eyes. You sip your drink, but only because your hands need something to do. You let Sangmin speak — witty, harmless, charming Sangmin — and you nod at the appropriate beats, but your solidity stays pressed into your heels.

You stay where you are.

You say. “My boyfriend,” without flinching. “He works with the group.” When he leans a little closer, elbows resting on the edge of the lounge railing. “So if you’re not with the label, and you’re not a reporter, and you’re not secretly here to pitch a demo... who are you here with?”

You’re not the type to go looking for trouble.

Even if it’s standing beside you in a perfect shirt, making you laugh like nothing matters.

You crave for a distraction from that and it comes in the fashion of a text message.

Your phone buzzes with a little tremor in your hand, screen lighting up like a jolt against the warm, dim haze of the lounge.

You glance down with the mildest sigh, thumb swiping across the screen with practiced detachment, only to freeze at the message lighting it up. Shit. That wasn't the distraction you meant.

[safiya:] emergency. jia’s throwing up in the bathroom. she drank something w dairy i think. help?

The screen lights up in your hand, and at first, the words don’t register. They stall for a second, indefinite at the corners, stubborn in the glow of your phone screen, smearing into background noise. Blame it on the cocktail fogging your bloodstream, or the hundred moving pieces around you: tinsels catching in fake candlelight, voices climbing on top of each other, the sound of a laugh that isn’t yours clamorously too close to your ear. Ends when, reality seizes, Glitter loses its glint. Music overlays inward. The dalliance hanging between you and Sangmin deflates mid-air. Safiya’s words, your friend’s, aren’t long, but they’re enough to lance through whatever artificial calm the evening had built around your shoulders.

You barely finish reading when you mutter, “Shit.” It escapes before you can pack it down.

Sangmin straightens slightly beside you. “Everything okay?” He’s attentive now. Alert even when there's no need him to be. His voice has edged out of flirty and into rigorous.

You force a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere. “Friend emergency.Like a real one.”

“You want help finding them?” His expression shifts, subtle but immediate. He offers help without posturing.

“No,” you say quickly, already stepping back. “Thanks, though. You’ve been… really sweet.”

“Anytime,” he says. A tilt of his glass like a farewell salute. Jeez. You’d laugh if your pulse wasn’t in your throat.

You murmur something like a goodbye, barely audible over the bass, before ducking through the crowd with narrowed eyes and a racing heart. Body tense and forward-leaning, pace picking up without warning. Your heels slap the floor, too fast for elegance, too slow for panic, caught somewhere in that in-between speed people only use when they’re chasing clarity. You’re dodging limbs and cocktail glasses, highlighter-streaked shoulders and half-spilled secrets, all of it flexuring away from you in waves. It’s a cartoon version of what it was ten minutes ago, voices rubbery, lights too sharp, music melting at the confines.

The hallway feels longer now. Louder. The clicks come faster. The party’s music muffles and distorts as you turn a corner and push through a crowd, moving like someone with a mission,which you are. You pass a stylist laughing too loud, a guy adjusting his bowtie in a mirror, someone accidentally spilling champagne that smells too floral. All of it, noise.

All of you, instinct. Blisters when your phone buzzes again. This is messier. This is what did she say? and how bad is it? and god, how far did she get before she texted?

[safiya:] we’re in the second-floor bathroom. back hallway. jia’s on the floor.

Of course it had to be dairy. Jia’s lactose intolerance is the stuff of group lore. And of course she’d think the mousse was vegan just because it was “foamier.”

You find the stairwell, a close-mouthed back corridor lit by cooler lights. As soon as the party noise dulls behind the wall, your adrenaline kicks in sharper.

The second-floor bathroom isn’t hard to find. The door is cracked, music muffled behind layers of expensive soundproofing. You knock once and slip inside.

“Hey,” you call, already tugging your jacket off.

Safiya’s crouched by the sink, holding Jia’s hair back. Jia herself is hunched over the toilet, looking pale and miserable, makeup streaked and dignity somewhere down the drain.

“Oh, babe,” you say softly, dropping beside them. “You okay?”

Jia mumbles something that might’ve been, “Never eating dessert again.”

“She’s burning up,” Safiya says, brows furrowed. “And I can’t get lara to pick up. Her phone’s on DND.”

“She left with that content manager woman,” you mutter, digging into your bag for a napkin or some tissues. “Minae? The one with the bob and the designer clipboard?”

“God, I knew it,” Safiya huffs. "It's like she gets off being reckless."

You dab gently at Jia’s forehead. She’s sweating now, shaky and miserable but not in danger. Not thus far. Her breath’s steady. Her eyes flutter.

“Think she just needs to get it all out,” Safiya murmurs. “But I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill whoever made that mousse,” you mutter, brushing a hand down Jia’s back. “Or at least file a passive-aggressive complaint.”

You glance around, noting the neatly folded hand towels, the stack of fancy soaps, the porcelain sink that looks like it cost more than your rent. The absurdity of handling real shit in such an unreal place; it grates and comforts at the same time.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to steady your own voice. “Stay with her a sec. I’ll go get water or ginger ale if they have any.”

"O-okay." She nods, shoulders relaxing.

You slip out of the bathroom like you’re walking through water.

The passage feels dissolvent now, air dense with all the words you didn’t say. You push a palm over your forehead, feel the warmth building under your skin, and wonder if it’s sympathy sickness or just frustration curling low in your gut. The worst part is you can’t blame Jia. Not really. She’s the soft one and you say that with documented proof of that one time when cried at a commercial and she still believes in horoscopes.

Your heels echo through the corridor as you walk towards the hallway spits you into another corner of the venue, this one unfamiliar, all wood-paneled doors and golden sconce lighting, like the architectural equivalent of whispering. Everything feels a little inarticulate here. Like you’ve slipped behind the curtain of the night and crashed in its quiet, unsupervised heart.

The party tucks beneath you now, flattened into a low, quaking throb that doesn’t so much speak as it vibrates, deep in the hollow between bone and breath. The music no longer reaches your ears in any clean, decipherable way. It’s washed-out, guttural, absorbed by walls and fabric and distance, reduced to a genesis that hitches itself to your chest and rides every exhale, as if a secret.

You don’t know where the catering crew disappeared to. Whether they’ve set up shop in a closet-sized prep station behind some satin curtain or if there’s a staff kitchen buried somewhere in the maze of corridors, guarded by stress and stainless steel. You don’t know if there’s a vending machine kinetic in it's opertion, in a forgotten corner, stocked with warm soda and crackers designed to outlive civilization. You don’t know, and at this point, you don’t really care. steady hands, firm jaw, no time for collapse. The crisis manager, the de facto medic, the girl who always knows what to grab when someone’s bleeding metaphorically or otherwise, is here now, and she’s got the wheel in a death grip.The part of you that runs crisis control has surfaced in and refuses to log out.

You spot someone near the elevator, clipboard in hand, wearing the haunted eyes of someone paid too little to care too much, and you slide into their eyeline before they can disappear into usefulness. “Sorry,” you say, swallowing the rest of your breath before it breaks apart. “Do you know where I can find bottled water? Or soda? It’s for someone upstairs.”

They blink at you, startled, as if you’ve spoken a spell in a language reserved for emergencies. They were expecting a headset, maybe. Most definitely from an official. Instead they got a girl in heels and unfinished mascara, looking halfway between guest and ghost. “Uh—check the prep station near the west corner? Just past the photo booth. There’s always extra stuff stored back there.”

You thank them before they can ask who you are. Your heels resume their mindless candace. Though defining it mindless would be a contradiction on it's own.

Because the longer you’re away from the bathroom, the more you start thinking. You don’t want to- this is supposed to be simple but your thoughts mutate away from the simple task of fetching a drink. Keep a friend alive, make sure she’s breathing through whatever hell clawed its way up her throat. Return. The distance from the bathroom grows, and with it, the space for your mind to spiral. Your brain won’t shut up, now. Won’t let you have that peace cause its so inconveniently wired for emotional noise, keeps dragging you somewhere else.

Hajoon still hasn’t followed up. You’d texted him, told him where you were. You told him emergency triage, and if that wasn’t enough to get his feet moving, what is?

You turn the next corner, pass a cluster of interns half-hunched over a light panel, then veer off toward a hallway marked “STAFF ONLY.” The rope is halfway slipped already, forgotten or ignored. You lift it with one hand and step through, no hesitation. There’s a kind of freedom in crossing boundaries that no one’s watching.

The floor changes under your shoes, softer now, something ductile or carpeted, dulled at the edges.

The hallway branches once. Then again. Everything here smells faintly of cleaning supplies and flowers that died too expensive. You keep left. You pass a storage room door half-cracked open.

There’s a linen cart parked haphazardly against the wall, as though someone meant to wheel it somewhere and then simply forgot how to follow through. Its wheels are crooked, one half-swallowed by the seam in the tile. Cloth napkins spill from the top shelf, un creased in places, crumpled in others, some folded with care, others balled up like someone gave up mid-shift. The cart smells unclearly of starch and lemon polish, though the scent is old now, faded. It shouldn’t register as anything important. It’s background, set dressing. But your steps hesitate all the same. Something in your gut makes you pause- it's not dread that mimics one of the many classic horror, not instinct either. It's marginally a pause. What it is, is one of those micro-moments when your brain forgets what the next step is supposed to feel like, and in that blank space, everything else happens.

You wouldn't have noticed, except you hear it. It's suprising that you hear it at all. Not at first obviously. Even-handedly a sound that feels like it shouldn’t be there, the sound being the slightest rustle of movement. You're still taken aback from the fact that you heard it before you even sum up what's in front.

There’s a door ahead of you, it’s half-open. Few and far between to be an invitation, but enough to make you wonder whether it was meant to be closed at all. Light spills through the narrow gap and pools on the floor in a long diagonal, slicing the hallway in half. It has that fluorescent, salubrious tint that makes everything beneath it look more exhausted than it already is. It paints a harsh stripe across the tile, across the napkins that have spilled out and frozen mid-collapse.

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

But your stomach twists because it not nothing. You hear it before your eyes have caught up to the chassis of it, voice seeping through the thin air, delicate in tone but heavy in intention, that unnervingly lacquered pitch women use when they want to sound wounded while making do with the peaked ends. Too close to a whine to be professional and too retiring to be a whisper held between teeth.You know that voice. From an hour ago and a handshake held too long.

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

You stiffen calcifies, muscles wrapped in an invisible brace of knowing before thought has the chance to intervene. Notwithstanding as it dawns upon you. There is no alarm in your blood, only a slow, curling recoil, a heatless burn under the structure of your bones, only happens when your body recognizes a truth faster than your brain allows. And in that second, divulgence feasts on it, on this limited space which inhabits, too much light and too many truths.

Inside, there’s a shuffle of feet. You assume Hajoon’s feet because his voice is right behind. Tired it sounds.You know the articulation of Hajoon’s steps by heart. You’ve counted them. On staircases. Sidewalks. Your apartment floor. It’s him. It’s absolutely him. And this is definitely a moment you were never meant to witness, unlike those ones.

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

The thought spirals like a siren in your head, acute and shrill, but your limbs won’t respond. Your name—well, her edited version of it—still floats between the syllables like a ghost. It hovers in the stale air, waiting to be dissected. Examined. Embalmed. It follows that, Hajoon is right there, sufficiently beyond the narrow slit of the door, sufficiently close enough to see if you lean another inch. The thought loops inside you, blinking red, warning you off like a flashing exit sign in a building that’s about to go under.

You shouldn’t stand on the edge of a threshold holding your breath like a child in a horror film. But your feet carry you the last few steps anyway. You stop at the edge of the door. Your body does what it always does: disobeys in the ways that matter. You drift those last few steps forward, against reason, against self-respect, against your own better judgment, which has never won a single fight with your curiosity. You stop before the door, which is, predictably, ajar. Drawn by a magnetism you hate yourself for responding to, step into the slice of light spilling out, allowing you permission. You lean, carefully, slowly, not with intent to spy, but because gravity is a cruel thing when verity is involved.

But you can’t not hear. Some truths calcify on impact.

“You knew I had to,” Hajoon’s voice replies.There’s strain there, but no outrage. “You knew she was coming.”

“No, I knew you invited her. That’s different.”

Something inside you hollows, it's not a feeling of being stabbed but more like a scoop. It happens when someone’s hand just reaches in and takes a part of your stomach out. The distinct sensation of absence, of a piece of yourself being removed so gently you might’ve missed.

And then she replies, and her tone slips even further into something sugary and rehearsed, a voice performing vulnerability without ever being touched by it. “Is she really worth this whole scene? You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as Bora’s shadow moves. Her heels click lazily against the tile; catlike, the gait of someone who knows they won’t be interrupted. She enters the sliver of your view, the sleek line of her calf, the shimmering hem of her dress, the glint of earrings swinging arrogantly near her throat. You hear the brush of her hand against fabric and you know exactly what part of him she’s touching. You imagine the press of her palm over his chest, the lean of her body into his. It all happens in your boyfriend’s silence. And in that silence, a occurence too hefty to explain.

Your heartbeat rises in your ears. Hajoon doesn’t say anything. That’s what terrifies you. Guts you. The relevation that this isn’t new. This isn’t some messy misunderstanding begotten in champagne and ambient lighting. This isn’t just some bad timing and worse boundaries.

She knows how close she can stand. He knows not to push her away. Her encroachment and his compliance is perfection.

You don’t realize when your hand finds the doorframe, only that it’s there now, clutching the edge with a grip so tight your knuckles pale, fingers curled in as though the wood might be the only thing keeping you upright the floor. Your weight has shifted forward, barely perceptible, but enough to feel how precarious your body has become. There’s a dizziness curling at the corners of your vision, the faint, reeling you until, the floor doesn’t just spin outright but diagonals the whole hallway, sluggish and silent, until every step forward feels steeped of jeopardy.

Her voice floats closer, closer than it should be, caramel-coated and too aware of itself, dripping with old secrets cladded up as affection. “You never used to hesitate,”Bora says, purring the words confidently. Comes from years of being let terribly close, terribly often. “Remember that night in Jeju?”

Your stomach turns with such violence that your throat tightens to contain it, not quite because of the place but because of the specificity. You hate how specific it is. How casually it falls from her mouth like it was theirs, like it still is. And you’re the stranger here, the interloper. Your mind flinches against the image, desperate to resist its outline, but it sculpts itself out anyway. Sand underfoot, spending nights which rewrote everything you had spent years wasting your ink on.

“I remember, baby.” Hajoon murmurs. Three words form bruises under your skin, one by one, swelling inward, He never called you baby in years of your relationship. In that soft voice, to be exact, immensly soft to belong to anything except regret or concede, and yet there’s no regret in the accentuation.

You want to laugh. Hardly because it’s funny, nothing about this is funny, but because the absurdity of the pain has reached a point of detachment, the way your mind sometimes offers humor when the body is close to collapse. You want to cry, too.And part of you wants to throw the door wide open, break the performance into pieces, shove the truth into the light and force him to look you in the face while it burns. But your body refuses to do any of it. You remain exactly where you are, stuck in a moment too excruciating to interrupt, a bystander in your own devastation. You’re the frame that flickers on screen before the plot pivots.

You press your knuckles against your mouth, the skin there soft from earlier, now dented under pressure. The contact is painful on purpose, in the best interest of you because you need the grounding. You need the reminder that you’re real. That this moment, for all its cruelty, is happening, and you are standing inside it.

Inside, Bora sighs, and the sound is so pleased with itself you almost swerve. “You shouldn’t have brought her if you didn’t want me to do this.”

There’s no reply. And the silence, this time, is deafening. Deeply, fatally familiar.

You hear a shuffle, drag of fabric, potentially a foot dragging closer to another, following the sound of movement you don’t want to identify, a insufflation exhaled that sounds mightly satisfied, getting intimate, too sure of its position and of this delicious game. You don’t want to imagine what’s happening in that pause. You don’t want to wonder how the bated breath you hold hostage anyways, speaks like your brain, atrocious in its survival instincts, paints the picture anyway, and your body responds with a sickened tightness that has nowhere to go.

Your breath catches so sharply in your throat you think it might scratch you from the inside. You feel stupid. You feel stupid.

You told yourself this was just you overthinking, that Hajoon was tired all of the time and started to perpare for the older times when you will be older too and he'll get worse but you'll be there. Distracted, mayhaps. Pulled a hundred directions by this event. You gave him excuses. You always did — so eager, so stupidly loyal — gave him that room.

And the part that stings the most, makes you want to claw his betraying heart out, is that he let you, let you build that little myth Took advanted of the room of uncertainty you gave him. Gods, gave him so much room to disappoint you. Over and over. Until all he had to do to keep you was nothing.

Padded every missed text with understanding. Gulped down every late night, every unexplained absence with that stupid stupid smile. You rationalized his silences, handed them over with thought too. Made up for them in your head. Built a cushion out of benefit-of-the-doubt and laid down in it, eyes closed, telling yourself it wasn’t what it looked like, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because love, as you were told, is supposed to be work.

From both fucking sides. It didn't function so when you alone did the work and never asked if he was doing it too.

And now you’re here. In this hallway. Listening to the soft undoing of your entire relationship through a half-open door and the giggle of a woman who never saw you as a threat.

The humiliation feels cinematic,doesn’t come all at once, but ponderous; seeping, viscous, with the heft of something that’s been waiting a long time to be acknowledged. It rivulets into you with the same progression as dread, thick and sticky as honey spilled across cold tile, where every inch it spreads becomes harder to scrub clean. Fills your ribs, then slips deeper, into the squishy discomfort of your sternum, and you know without needing to be told that this is a hurt that's gonna stay, will make a home.

Your body already knows what your mouth isn’t brave enough to say. You were so oblivious.

You think back to every red flag you plucked from the air and re-dyed white, into a color you could live with. The nights he came home later than he said he would, the smell on his collar (not yours, never yours) smelling faintly of something exceedingly floral to be your detergent. The half-sentence that rarely ended with an i love you, even when you had made it very clear on the early on stages of your relationship that you liked being told that you were loved, that too often. You think about all the things you chalked up to stress, to work. Every thing everyone around told you to reconsider, tried to warn you in gentle silences and wary glances, their voices cautious with pity, never saying the thing outright but circling it like buzzards. Because they knew probably. They knew.

You were the only one who refused to sit with the pattern of it. You just didn’t want to listen. Because to listen, to truly listen, would’ve meant accepting what you’ve always suspected in the nooks and crooks of your gut. Because if you listened, you’d have to admit it.That maybe it wasn’t just his job or a global popstar keeping Hajoon from you. Maybe Hajoon wanted to be kept.

You feel sick.

And suddenly your body revolts against the thought, stomach tightening as odium coils innermore and flourishes beneath your abdomen. Your mouth goes dry, the taste in it metallic and sour, and you swallow down the spasm, in hopes that it might buy you a few more seconds of composure. Your molars ache, clenched so tightly together that your jaw begins to pulse. You suddenly remember the first night he told you he loved you, how his voice cracked as if the words startled him too, you didn't even dare think about, or how that maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

But those questions come with their own claws. So you don’t answer them. You don’t try, press the heel of your hand to your eye before the tears can fall, as if you could shove the tears back into their ducts through sheer will alone, refusing to let them fall here. You will not cry in this hallway. You will not give this place that power. So you don’t cry. You don’t let your anger catch fire and drive you through the door with fists full of questions.

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

You think about how it would feel to crack the illusion open, to make them both look at you, really look. You picture it in flashes- your fingers curled in Bora’s silken collar, dragging her back two steps just to see if her voice stays as sweet when it trembles. You imagine staring Hajoon dead in the eye and asking him if this is worth it, if she’s worth it, if it was all just a game to see how far he could bend your bones before they snapped.

You want to interrupt. You want to step inside that room and let the breath you’ve been holding slice through the air like glass.

You want it to be loud. Messy. Unforgettable. But your body won’t let you, again.

You’re still standing in the same spot, though you aren’t entirely sure how. Breath shallow, limbs made of rust, you feel distant from your own being,every joint stiff and unreliable, as though they were never made for movement. Your fingers are locked around the thin strap of your clutch, knuckles aching from the strain, but still, you can’t let go. Your knees buzz with a numbness that teeters too close to collapse, and you know, without testing it, that if you tried to walk away too quickly, you’d falter, legs would fold in on themselves, dragging your self-esteem down with you.

As if it hasn't already fallen so far, in the narrowest depths, probably making it's way to the seventh circle of hell, every time your mind plays it on a loop. The select few parts run on and on, and the implications that came with when Hajoon didn’t refute her. While you were left in the hallway, on the other side of the door, invisible.

And it’s in that invisibility that you forget yourself entirely. Forget why you’re here, what you’re holding, what you promised. The scene overtakes you, pushes you out of your own context. You are not the friend on a mission to fetch water for her shaking best friend anymore. You are not the responsible one, the stable one, the friend who had her life sorted out, the moment she was out of college with a fixtures on her side, all the time and not one who's witnessing the slow infidelity of your relationship in a quiet, candlelit corridor. Except the reminder comes. Sounds like ting. And reads like urgency and concern all at once.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, a single jolt. But it ricochets through you like thunder, breaks away the trance.

You blink hard, pull yourself out of the daze like yanking the string of a broken marionette. Your fingers fumble against the screen.You don’t know how long you’ve been gone, only that it’s been long enough for concern to find you.

[safiya: everything okay? what's taking so long??]

The words feel like someone cracking a window open in a burning house.

And in that small, merciful moment, you remember the things that matter, try not to waste away at people who shouldn't have in the first place. If you would have, it wouldn't have taken you so long to remember who you are.

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat feels alive, not figurative, a snarling beast with claws scraping against your insides, trying to claw its way out through the thinnest part of your chest. The taste of it is sharp, astringent, nauseating and it's as overwhelming as a broken heart.

You shift and move.

It’s a small step- barely a shuffle- but the sound paraphrases in the tight space.

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

You hear the soft scrape of a heel. A breath catching follows up that results in the slow, cautious creak of movement. They heard you. It's the only answer that makes sense in a moment that has your mind in pieces. They heard you, and for the first time, you’re no longer invisible.

Panic rises like heat in your throat, replacing the cluster. Your body kicks into survival mode, muscle memory taking the wheel with foot on the pedal, before they can come out. Before they can see your face. The car kicks into ignition and it turns. So do you. Fast.

You move like a current, wind-slipped and sharp. Your heels barely touch the tile. One foot, then the next, then the next. You duck around the corner just as the storage door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

Because if you see them now- if you see him- you’re not sure what will survive the encounter.Your pride, your restraint, the tight seal you’ve managed to hold around your devastation, all of it would shatter. And you are not ready to fall vulnerable in front of them.

Your pulse races like it’s sprinting ahead of you, trying to outrun the shame.Your heart races, anything but in beats, but in gallops, hurrying and zooming, trying to put as much distance as it can between you and what you heard, what you saw, what you now have to carry.

You press one hand flat to the wall, desperate for contact with something unmoving, presumably cool, the tiles are cool. You lean into them with the full weight of your trembling shoulders and try to slow the shaking in your chest. You don’t know how long you stay like that, listening, waiting, cursing the damn universe, back to the corner, ears straining for footsteps that never come.

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

You straighten, finally. Shake out your shoulders like you’re resetting them on your frame. Willing the bones to don’t feel foreign inside your skin. You glance down at your phone again. Safiya’s message blinks back at you like a lighthouse in fog.

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first tear hits the corner of your lip, warm and sharp like betrayal distilled.

You scrub the tear away with the back of your hand, rough and rushed, by its nature friction alone could erase what you saw, as though maybe if you wiped hard enough, the memory would peel with it, lift off the surface of your mind and dissolve somewhere into the air behind you. The sting lingers, anyway, heartbreak nests where it should. And somewhere down the corridor, from a place your feet no longer remember how to reach, laughter drifts upwards. It wafts through cause it has every right to, unaffected and unbothered, the fluky soundtrack of people who haven’t had their insides rearranged by the sound of someone else's name spoken too tenderly. The absurdity of it settles in your chest like lead, that the world is still turning.

You push open a random door at the end of the lobby and exhale like you’ve been holding it for a year. A folding table sits near the back wall, crowded with plastic water bottles and packets of mints, and behind it, a server looks up, startled but not alarmed, the way people do when they’ve seen enough parties to know when to mind their business.

You blink. “Water, please?” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He hands one over without question. You nod in return, a stiff, graceless gesture meant to approximate gratitude, and clutch the bottle so tightly that the plastic creaks in your grip.

You feel the crispy cold of the bottle in your hand. It sweats against your palm, a sharp contrast to the flush still radiating from your face. You feel the chill of it in your bones, grateful for the shock. Pain, at least, is something you know how to hold.The world around you feels loud again, even though you’re moving through a quieter section of the venue. The dull thud of bass somewhere beneath your feet. The muffled laughter of strangers who proude the sound of the clink of glassware. Every sound scratches.

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

First one foot, then the other, and then your body begins to catch on, muscles remembering the purpose even if your mind hasn’t fully returned to it. Left. Then right. Then forward again.

Back to the place where your friends are waiting. Where your absence must be starting to bloom into concern. Back to the bathroom, where Jia is still hunched over porcelain and Safiya is probably pacing, biting her lip, thinking you’ve gotten lost in this maze of flashing lights and secrets.

The steps are small. Practiced. But your body is still off-kilter, like the force field has shifted slightly out of sync. The party’s glow pulses in the walls around you, muffled and amber hues, but you feel none of it. Each step feels disconnected from the last, like your legs are acting on instruction rather than instinct.You are aware, in the strangest way, that you are walking. That you are moving through space. That you are passing through light and shadow. You feel everything and nothing. You could be gliding. You could be drowning. You’re not sure which would be more forbearing.

Nonethles, you try to hold onto the task. Just give them the water. That’s all you have to do. Just get to the bathroom. Just—

But the walk is long. And your mind won’t cooperate. It's franternizing in a way that plays everything that happened back there again and again. That sing-song tone that was viscous, tunes in and out, how it still manages to cut through the unbearable, monstrous silence.

You were good.

You’d always prided yourself on being composed. Reasonable. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t the skeptical possessive girlfriend. You’d never demanded keys or passwords or explanations. Love, in your definition, if was true, it needed no surveillance. Needed not to feel like a rope wrapped around a neck, except it did now.

And the person who held the end of it was the one you told yourself to trust. Told yourself it was the job. That the industry was brutal, demanding, parasitic. That he was a victim of it too, just trying to survive in its current. You gave him space, understanding, flexibility. You let him treat you like an supplementary information because you believed it would pay off. That this, tonight, was the beginning of him showing you off.

And he was infact. Just not to the right audience. God knows not to the right audience. The abashment of sits high in your throat, making it feel lodged yet again. The discomfort of it (or so you'd like to belive) manifests itself in a new wave of tears. They’re not falling gracefully now, they sting, angry and sudden, pooling along your lashes before you can wipe them. Still you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand again.

When you do, you become aware of how your eyes are rimmed with betrayal and your hands are shaking and your entire face feels cracked like porcelain that’s been dropped once, twice, too many times.

You round the corner to the hallway where the second-floor restroom is. You can hear feeble voices inside that start to come off as not so softened. Makes you pause just outside the frame. Look at yourself in the polished reflection of the fire extinguisher box in case your own hand failed you but that has been one of the many things that has not. Eyes glassy. Nose red. Lipstick worn off at the corners. You look like someone who’s unraveling. Methodically, even.

You can’t walk in like this.

Jia is in the feels, Safiya is perceptive. One look and they’ll know something’s wrong. And once that happens, the dam will break and you’ll start crying in front of them. And you'll cry ugly.

And right now, you can’t. You just- can’t.

Just as you're about to turn away, a woman in a slate-blue dress steps up beside you. Mid-thirties, elegant. One of the guests, you assumed. She gives you a polite smile, one hand reaching for the door.

You step in front of her before you’ve even decided to speak.

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

You hold the water out, trying to steady your voice. “Could you… would you mind giving this to the two girls in there?One’s in a pink dress. One’s holding her hair back. They’re my friends—I just need to step outside for some air.”

The woman blinks once, then nods, smile softening into understanding.

“Of course.”

You hand her the bottle and add, “Please tell them I’ll be right back. I just—yeah. I’ll be back.”

She gives you a look. The kin of one where women give each other a type of laconic solidarity when they recognize something. Two words starting with the same letter. The thin line in between. Then she disappears inside, and you’re left alone again in the corridor. Alone again, the hallway exhales with you. Shallow, breathy, reluctant to hold what it’s just seen. The silence afterward is dense, thick with ghosts of hands and things not taken back. And you-still holding yourself like glass, too fine for touch-let it all soak in.

Your body wants quiet. Soundlessness is subjective, seclusion is primary. Somewhere you can let your face drop out of its composure, somewhere you can drop the mask of the girl who’s just fine.

You think about going home. But the apartment that basically gives off the odour of a once lasted relationship with a shoe rack that holds heels and loafers despite how it was shaped just for boots, a kitchen that never for once stopped smelling like raspberry jelly will make you all the more disordered. Speaking of ill, you also just can't leave your friends with no explanation at all. Disappearing for an hour or so is one thing, leaving entirely is another.

So you extract the idea from your mind whole. And since intuition has been the reason behind some very important unveiling, you chose to follow it once again. This time you distinguish it as a palace of carved panels and red rope that seems increasingly untethered from the celebration it’s supposed to contain. You follow the curl of tawny sconces as they dim behind you. You don’t have a direction, not by any means. Merely this straight urge to be elsewhere. Away from mirrors and pity and the way your voice will shatter if anyone dares to ask what happened.

The air changes again- the assuage of walkway giving way to the softer allay of space. You blink, slow, and find yourself facing tall double doors cracked just enough to tease a sliver of moonlight. You follow it like a moth and press a hand to the cool wood and ease it open when you've reached.

The balcony is mostly empty (or so you think). It's mostly meant for people who duck into here when their dates say too much, or when the music says too little. You don’t belong here for those reasons. But for a second, you let yourself pretend you do. Pretend is all that you can do, after all. Pretend is all one can do when no place reaches out like it's own.

You step out into the night.

The breeze is soft, carrying the perfume of late-blooming things that represent the late of march and early on days of may. There’s a railing with ornate curls, and a small potted tree beside it. You lean against the edge like a ghost at a masquerade, hidden in plain sight. Far from a invisible ghost, righteously misplaced.

The skyline shimmers in the distance. City lights doing their best impression of stars. Because the sky is unkind tonight. Clear and full of stars. One of those nights that dares you to feel small.

You close your eyes.

It should hurt less than it does. You should be angry, you think. Fury has a vibration, a tempo, that is not entirely senseless, that you could move to. But all you have is this ache. This underdone, expanding bruise of disbelief. That Hajoon, your Hajoon, the one who texted you goodnight from studio floors and once cried during the middle of your anniversary dinner because you surprised him with a scrapbook - that Hajoon had someone else’s lipgloss on his cheek.

And he let you walk into that party wearing your best, heart in hand, eyes wide and bright like you weren’t already being laughed at. The fact alone that he could ever be this savage measures up higher than the mere word spurning. Your fingers tighten around the railing.

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

You say it in your head, then again. Try it out. Grant it to parrot.

He. Cheated. On you.

How long? you think. It can’t have started tonight. The intimacy you saw take place takes time. That comfort is and that silence intertwines complexly.The way he let her talk over you like you weren’t even there. It takes a history. You sniff, furious.You want to rip out whatever pages it's sanctioned in. You want to punch someon-

— and the scuff of a footfall to your left startles you mid-thought, cracking clean through the violence of it. You breathe in too sharply and choke on the tail end of it, a hiccup caught mid-throat. The sound escapes before you can swallow it back, a soft, broken thing that snags in the night air.

You flinch, just barely, but it’s enough to pull you upright, palms peeling away from the ornate railing. The sound was soft; softer than it should be for how it lands in your chest. Impalpable, but undeniable. The categorical gospel is not the wind, nor is the sway of branches or the groan of old fixtures. It's plainly in a presence. A presence that exples in a dramatic, public way.

You turn your head.

In the first instance, it’s just a silhouette. Broad shoulders caught in a slant of moonlight, leaned casually against the far railing where the wall curves into the night. You hadn’t seen him when you first stepped out- he’s tucked into the darkness like he belongs there. You blame the sleek sweep of a jacket that gleams ink-black where the light touches and vanishes where it doesn’t. Depthless black, that's the kind of shade it is. He’s fidgetless against the opposite end of the balcony, arms folded, head tilted just enough that you know he’s looking out — not at you, seasonably. The night swallows him in patches, makes him blur into the dark, view as a conundrum, lets him melt into the obscurity. Only the gleam of a metal clasp or maybe the faint shimmer of a watch betrays the shape of him at all.

Your breath halts for a different reason now. This time in mortification. How long has he been there? How much did he hear of your inner voice that would sometimes refuse to stay just inside?

You should have known. Of course someone else would be here. This party is a haven for the overexposed, the adored and overworked — balconies are harbours, and privacy is a drug. You suppose you’re not the only one tonight with a reason to step away from too much attention.

You clear your throat, subtly, and swipe at your cheeks once more with the back of your hand, hoping whatever disaster your makeup has become is at least concealable under the night’s forgiving ink. You press yourself a little more into the corner, make yourself smaller.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, voice cracked and low-pitched but unmistakably sheepish. “I didn’t mean to… disturb you. I didn’t know someone was here.” you gesture vaguely toward the door as if it explains your presence, your unraveling, your trespass.

You’re already turning, embarrassment washing over you, warm and prickly, when you hear that voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly-

Oh come on!

Dwindling deep. Familiar in that unmistakable way, because it's the voice that’s been replayed in the background of your vehemence for months. Velour worn sharp.

“It's alright.”

There’s a haitus his mouth decides upon, and so does the surroundings with him like even the night is startled into inaction.

Your breath catches, shallow. Your backbone straightens, sharp.

He turns as if on cue.

It does not take place pointedly. An appropriate response that would be startled. No, not even that. But slow, like the metanoia of a thought that’s been brewing for too long. His face is in shadow, but the movement reveals the slope of his jaw, the lazy fall of dark hair over his brow. You can’t see the details, not in this light. But something about his presence is sharp in your periphery, like recognition trying to claw its way forward but tripping on the haze.

You retreat a step. Not far away, but enough.

"Stay." He adds, a beat slower that turns the night warm around him than it was a second ago.

He says it like it’s not a big deal, offering courtesy. But the sound of his voice reaches somewhere in you that you didn’t know was flammable. It scrapes gruffly, like a match. He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still standing there, half-shrouded. Watching, maybe. Or not. You can’t tell. But the certainty in his tone, unbothered, solid, undoes you in a different way.

You know that voice.

You don’t want to know that voice. But you do.

He who shall not be named. Of all people. Of all fucking anyone.

You don’t turn yet. You stare ahead, blinking hard, gathering yourself. That name has been the thread you tugged every time you felt distance growing between you and Hajoon before the awakening dropped upon you that he was actually not.

And now he’s here. On the balcony. With you.

Your throat bobs awkwardly, unsure what to say. Maybe you misheard. Maybe you’re imagining things because he was not supposed to be here. Your brain is playing cruel little games because tonight’s already stitched together from surreal fabric.

If it was any other time, hell had it been any minute before the past half hour, you'd have applauded the timing. Would have marched over to Kim Taehyung and said everything you wanted to.

Would have looked him square in the eye and asked if it felt good, demanding Hajoon’s time, his energy, his apologies, until there was none left for you. Would have told him, with teeth bared behind a smile, that he was the reason you ate cold fries alone on your own celebratory dinner.

You would have let it out. All of it. The slow rot of resentment you watered like a houseplant. The tantrum you tucked neatly beneath your tongue every time Hajoon said “Taehyung needs me.” You would have unspooled every sentence you rehearsed in the dark, every imagined confrontation sharpened over sleepless nights.

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

He didn’t bend Hajoon’s lynchpin until he broke. He didn’t whisper temptation or rearrange the tiles of loyalty under Hajoon’s feet. He didn’t need to because Hajoon walked willingly.

And you were too busy blaming the him to see it.

Now, stripped of that blame, that convenient villainy, you’re left with nothing but the naked awkwardness of this moment. The rage you’d once felt toward him feels foolish now. Juvenile. Like screaming at the moon for letting the tide pull you under. It doesn’t quite hold the shape it used to. You don’t know what to do with it. And so you stand there, stiff in the corner of the balcony, unable to move toward him, but unable to leave.

He hasn’t said another word. Hasn’t even looked at you again. He just exhales again. Smoke blooming from between his lips like it’s part of the night.

That’s when you notice the cigarette. You hadn’t clocked it before, but now you see the faint cherry glow at his side, the way it illuminates the curl of his fingers, the slow draw of breath. It looks romantic on him, of course it does. Doubles some tragic French film character leaning against the edge of ruin, too well-dressed to decipher publicly.

And as much you loved to make joke of comments under candid clips of this man that raved about some aura of his, you found yourself then just barely, just quick enough to pass as you scoot under the luminescence, catch a better glimpse of him.

His jaw is too sharp for comfort. His hair, mussed just enough to seem accidental, shimmers like ink under the silvered light. His lips (you don’t even know why you notice) are plush and parted. And his eyes, when they finally flick toward you, are darker than the night behind him. Flippant. Sleepy. Unfathomable.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t look away either.

You want to look away. You do. But it’s magnetic, the stupid made up ambience around him. Easy in a way that demands nothing and everything. He’s not performing. He’s not even curious. Seems diserepctful but at the same time it makes you understand how someone like Hajoon could crumble under it. Why people orbit men like this and call it the law of nature. You’d scoffed at it before. Scoffed every time Hajoon said he just gets so intense sometimes, you know? like Taehyung was weather instead of a man.

Yet, you're not sure how understanding the possibility of it makes any difference to you. Makes any sense.

But how the hell do you share space with someone who’s been mythologized in your mind for so long?

Because now you’re sure. You know it’s him. You could draw the line of his nose from memory. The corner of his lip. You’ve seen this face on billboards, in moving gifs, in phone screens where your ex-boyfriend kept scrolling even during dinner.

Except now he’s real. Not flattened into pixels. Breathing the same air as you. You blink hard. Try to focus. To reroute your brain back into safer waters. But all it gives you is a memory.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to him, is it?

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

Back when Hajoon had just started as his manager. Everything was new then. Boundaries blurry. You still thought the industry was glamorous, not exhausting. You remember being home, hair wrapped in a towel, half a sheet mask on your face when your phone that was running a tutorial video paused on a frame. You'd have turned it back on if it wasn't for the name popping up on your screen at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. You had picked up without hesitation.

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

"Good evening. This is Taehyung. Can you send a picture of the contract folder on Hajoon-sshi's desk? He forgot it."

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

"Sure, Taehyung. 😂 Joon your impersonation game is trash and that's tough considering you're trying to speak like the man you work for. At least commit to the bit."

The message pinged back too quick for someone pretending to be a important, busy man.

"It's actually me. Taehyung. Hajoon-sshi's busy with some stuff."

You laughed. Alone in your bathroom. Holding a spoonful of some face oil and scrolling up and down the chat.

"And I'm the CEO of Mars. Let me know if you need a crater named after you."

You had awaited hajoon finally breaking out whatever character's in.

"You're funny. Send the photo."

This wasn’t the tone a boyfriend of sixteen months should be talking in, you had thought. Unaware as ever. If only you had learned how that unawareness will end for you.

"If it’s really you, Kim Taehyung, send a selfie holding a spoon."

You hadn’t expected a reply.

But a few minutes later there it was. There it came.

A dimly lit photo that was non debatable who it captured. Grainy in a way that none of his chronicled, edited ones were. Sleepy-eyed. Hair in disarray. Wearing a black hoodie and holding a spoon between his fingers with the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen.

You stared at the image longer than you’d admit. Tried not to cringe too much at the cataloged annoyance. And then you sent the damn contract.

"Told you. I commit."

You didn’t respond. You told yourself he was probably just weird. Probably forgot all about you two minutes later. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. But sometimes, the memory flickered. A weird little moment stitched into your timeline, half-unreal.

And maybe he doesn’t remember you. Maybe that moment was just a Tuesday to him. You'd love to take advantage of that before it gets any more lumbering here. You tuck your arms around yourself and inhale the smoke-laced air stretched thin across the span of a few meters and commodity that has you topid. Hovering at a cautious distance, two steps too far to be friendly and one step too close to be indifferent.

You didn't realize acting indifferent was something that Kim Taehyung had a copyright on until he moves again. Abundantly. A loosening of limbs, the slow unfurling of someone at ease in their own myth.

“I don’t bite,” he says, voice low, drowsy. Just on the edge of humor, like he’s saying it more for himself than for you. His head tips toward you, not quite looking. Still, he flicks the ash from his cigarette with a lazy hand, like he’s bored of his own invitation.

You swear it’s the wind at first. The words fold into the air too smoothly.

You know you should just offer a polite smile. A nod. Some kind of noncommittal noise that maintains distance. But your mouth, as always, has other plans.“Mm,” you murmur, under your breath, not even meaning for him to hear, “I doubt that.”

You don’t think he’s listening. But he is.

You catch it - just fairly - in the slight turn of his head, the way one corner of his mouth curves, slow and serpentine. twitch of lip, more ghost than grin. The kind of smile you don’t see so much as sense. Felt more in your knees than your chest.

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

Then - like it’s a casual thing, like it costs him nothing - he speaks again. Doesn’t even glance at you this time. Tilts his head, exhales another cloud of smoke, and lets it wander up into the sky.

“Come closer.”

Um hello? What did he just say to you? Did he actually demand of you?

Though the words are simple; not barked; not begged, they still alter an insolence capillary of yours. You hesitate, the word itself making a heat rise under your collarbones. A place it had no buisness eliciting a reaction in.

Your body moves before your brain signs off. Not by a great deal, but enough to close the distance between polite and probing. The necessary for the chill in the night to fade from your arms. Proportionality to fall under the scent of his cigarette, sharp and spicy and soaked in something faintly herbal, like bergamot and smoke and warm resin.

But you catch yourself before you go further. Straighten your spine. Scupper your voice.

“I’m not doing what you tell me,” you say, and the words are sharp, snapped like a twig underfoot. “Just so we’re clear.”

That almost-smile on his mouth doesn’t move, but it changes. And to your horror, it even deepens. Grows snobbish in a way that’s unapparent but impossible to miss. It’s pompous. Infuriatingly so. That elusive tilt of his lips that makes you want to shove him and ask what’s so funny and maybe push him off the damn balcony just to see if the smirk stays midair.

He leans a little more into the curve of shadow, gaze flicking sideways. Meticulously near enough to make your pulse skitter. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, and the amusement in his voice is unmistakable now. “You don’t strike me as particularly obedient.”

You stare. You hate that your throat goes dry. Because that's a totally normal thing to say to a stranger when you've got a face like that, isn't it? "Excuse me?"

He takes another drag from the cigarette, watching the embers burn down like a timer. The tip glows in his fingers — elegant fingers, of course they are, long and unhurried in how they cradle the smoke. The ash hovers before fluttering down like snow against the stone.

“What do I strike you as, then?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

It’s too much of a question. It slips past your lips like a dare that has been sent rolling on a slippery path you didn’t mean to voice. But it’s out there now, and you can’t take it back. Idiot.

Taehyung doesn't answer right away. He just exhales smoke and thought at the same time, head tilted still back toward the sky as if the answer might be hidden between the tapestry of the stars. You find he’s giving the question the time it doesn’t deserve. It’s flamboyant. It’s aggravating. And, worse, it’s effective.

Your arms remain crossed, body drawn in like a bow pulled taut. You don't regret handing your denim to Jia but you wish the night was colder so the goosebumps could be blamed on temperature, not tension. But the breeze is tepid now. Brushed in his voice, his perfume, his stupid legendary presence that has no right smelling as expensive and ancient and fucking grounded as it does.

Finally, his gaze shifts.

And this time, he does look at you. Fully. Directly.

A slow turn of his head, the sweep of his eyes over your face with the exasperation of how he would read the fine print of something he’s already decided on. “What do you strike me as?” he repeats, softly. Then clicks his tongue once, like he’s disappointed with you for even asking. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

The words are quiet. But his voice darkens at the question. Your stomach twists, and you don’t know if it’s indignation or intrigue. You’re fairly certain it’s both. And before it permeates into a shabbier feeling that'll have you clutching your torso, you put out your blundering silence as a response that he takes willingly, haughtily so.

His mouth twitches again. Not quite a smile this time. Closer to mischief. He shrugs one shoulder, loose and languid, eyes still trailing somewhere over the skyline, this conversation’s just a side project evidently.

Whatever. If the unnerving diagonal beside you can go back to doing what he painfully seems most interested in, so can you.

The railing is back beneath your palms, familiar now, some dumb metaphor made real — edges cold, aloof chill biting. The edge of your heel nudges against a loose leaf caught in the wind. It flutters once, twice, then gives up and sinks to the floor. You almost envy it. The city is still sprawled in the distance, impersonal to your cognizing. Behind you, the door stays shut. Back there, you envisage, is too bright, too loud, too full of people who might ask what’s wrong and not wait for the right silence before answering for you. Out here, you only share oxygen with a man who has ruined half your calendar and all your curated patience.

Unbothered, broad-shouldered, draped in the kind of serenity that only belongs to cats and men who’ve never been told no. Taehyung’s jacket gleams where it catches the low light- some brand you’ll never afford and he probably didn’t pay for. His posture is too facile.

The rubescent of his cigarette hisses as he draws in again — as if every drag is advised, intented, abrasive. That mouth was made for sin or sermons. Hard to tell which one he’d preach first.

You glance over once. Quickly. Then regret it instantly.

He’s watching you. In a way he did after you threw your sharpest tone at him, just stood there — barefaced and unflinchinb —like he’d seen this particular performance from you before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in a dream.

The silence between you drones with electricity. It's not awkward, exactly. It’s too thick to be awkward. Too charged. Like the aftermath of lightning —  you don’t know if the flash already hit or if it’s coming, if this is clement or consequence.

Then, casually, the cigarette hand lifts again. He turns it between his fingers once, then holds it out across the space between you, his gaze flat and unreadable, offered to you with the same ease most people use to pass napkins.

"You smoke?"

The question cuts through the quiet like it’s been waiting there the whole time.

You scoff. "I don't smoke." Neither do you pick up addictions from strange men who talk like their only motive is to distress the already distressed women they corner in alone balconies.

“That’s a shame,” he says, still not retracting the offer. "You look like you need it."

You arch a brow. "I look like I need a way to a slow, tragic death?"

He exhales through his nose — amused. "No. You look like you need a distraction." Takes a pause before adding. "Do you not?"

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

Unfortunate, really. That his lips have the audacity to look generous. He holds your gaze too easily for someone who’s done nothing but irritate you with a single smirk and a face blessed by nepotism from the gods. Your jaw ticks and to the degree that you'd like to believe it's from that or the persistence offer, you're sorely knowing of that's its a reaction that is spawned from how tempting it is, the silence that falls after his question. Not the offer itself — smoke never tasted good, no matter how poetic the film girls made it look — but the inaction. His inaction, in particular, that abrades against the raw wall of your morale. You hate that you’re thinking about it. Thinking about it too hard, the same way you think about late-night texts that go unanswered, or how many people have probably touched the door handle before you in a public restroom.

You turn your gaze back to the city. Your hand curls around the railing again. It digs in, sharper this time. Enough that the metal edge presses a whisper of hurt into your palm. Nothing lasts long against the pressure of being watched the way he watches — quietly, without ego, as if he’s already understood what you’re going to do.

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

But admitting is a type of yielding. Humans are never actually normal with such a thing, let alone letting yourself yeild in front of him — this man hewed out of tailored arrogance is a threat to your vanity. You’ve already had one of those tonight, and it ended with you biting down tears in a hallway, handing water bottles to strangers so your friends wouldn’t see your hands shake.

This, withal, would be an indulgence. A petty little rebellion. The kind of thing someone else would do in a story you’d never admit reading. Smoking with Kim Taehyung on a balcony where your relationship ended a quiet death only an hour ago. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. You want to laugh so hard your ribs bruise from the inside.

But coversely, you stand there. Wound up. Too mindful.

And the longer you don’t move, the more you feel him waiting.

You steal a glance again. His arm hasn’t wavered, cigarette still extended, ember glowing low. There’s no impatience in him, and you only ever see that kind in people who already know the outcome. Kim Taehyung is a man who waits, who already lives in your answer and is just killing time in the silence before you catch up. Curious. Present. Patient in a way that suggests he’s memorizing the shape of your hesitation just to store it somewhere for later.

You sigh. A long, tight sound dragged up from the soles of your feet.

You take two steps toward him. The space closes, distance evaporating between you like heat on pavement. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t gloat — decently watches, that same unreadable interest rolling low behind his lashes.

You stop just shy of arm’s reach. With a single curl of your fingers, you take the cigarette from his hand.

His fingers brush yours for half a breath. Warm, dry, real and your dorsum locks up at the contact, pitter patter quick behind your teeth. You pretend it didn’t happen. You pretend very hard. The cigarette tastes bitter at the filter when you lift it to your lips. Not that you care. You’re not here for the flavor. You’re here because the world is ending and strikes as being only your world ending.

You inhale. Lightly.

It’s awful. Burnt and earthy. Makes your throat feel like someone wrung it out like a sponge. You cough once, quietly, turn your head away in ignominy, try to act like it was atmospheric and not your body rebelling against poor choices.

You make out the smile before you see it. It bobs up on the side of your face like a shadow. Bastard.

You exhale through your nose, eyes narrowed. "You're so charming. Does it always lets get you away from this habit of yours?"

"Mhm. What habit?"

He’s watching you, still. Closer now. Still tall, still shrouded in that stupid expensive shiny material. But something’s mutated. He looks less carved from figment and more human in the face — detail where there was once only silhouette. The curve of his mouth. The sleep in his eyes. The line of his jaw you could draw with a knife.

"Of having things your way. Is that not a habit? Do you not always get what you want?" You take another drag.

And maybe you’re imagining it — probably you are — but for once there's not a single trace of beguilement on his face or in his poorly lit stare that simmers. Drops to your mouth where your lips are wrapped around the cancer stick. He sees.

"Not always."

The filter burns a little hotter than it should between your fingers, but you don’t drop it. That would make a sound. You keep it pressed neatly against the edge of your breath and lean into the railing again. This time you don’t grip it. You let your arms rest there, loose, voluntary. It’s easier this way, to gather yourself in the flicker of things you cannot control.

“Not always?” you echo, casually, but it punches from your chest more bitter than intended. “Color me shocked.”

His hum lands soft against the back of your neck, something dulled and sun-warmed, but it still finds a grit. Tilts his chin toward the night like he’s listening to something in the silence that you can’t hear. Not a man in thought; no, that would be too benevolent. A man in leisure.

There’s no wasted effort, no shuffle or twitch. You’ve known performers, fidgeters, people who need to fill silences with breath or comment just to feel present. Taehyung is none of those. You swallow once. Your voice is back in your mouth, restless. He doesn’t match the versions of him that live in tabloids, in the pruned PR clips, in the way Hajoon used to talk about him with the slight awe of someone who’d just walked past a lion that winked. There’s nothing lofty about him. Not even in his smile, the rimple of the skin strecting around his eyes when they drift toward the line where the sky dominates over the buildings, The city’s to offer stars, and you can tell he’s still searching for them. He tilts his face up to the night, slow and unhurried, jaw catching a flicker of sallow from the railing light. There’s no revelation in his expression about what exactly he is looking for.

“It’s a lovely night,” he says finally, in that impromptu manner men do when they’re either lying or about to advance into nonsense. "Clear enough to see the Pleiades, if you know where to look.” his voice summoned.

The what?

You can't deny that there's a keeness he awakes in you, when he says that, speaking a language of his own. But you also can't deny that you have no interest enabling that, some things (Some men) require the right headspace and yours is certainly far from right. You're not some child, and you can do just fine without knowing about astronomical facts, so you don’t even nod along, as though you know what he's talking about and you've already found a pattern in the sky.

At the lack of your reaction, he does what wouldn't have predicted, because what even is your attention worth to a star (that he looks up) like him. He could sent a message to a group chat of people living and dying to keep him happy: hey who's up for some solar system facts? And atleast, four people would turn and listen with their head on their folded hands, whilst looking at him at like he had made the excellent geometries of the sky. You really wouldn't have seen him pressing from a long mile.

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

You are left with two options, one being add up another reason of fuming internally over this highfaluating wanna-be, assuming that you actually don't know what this is, while he does. Okay, he's not wrong on that but where's the graciousness when's it's needed? To save yourself for being any more miserable, you go with the second, suction smoke into your lungs and ask. "What is that?"

He lifts up a finger and starts to move it around randomly, until you notice he's not, he's actually following a cluster of stars with the tip of his index finger. “The Seven Sisters. Stars, technically. They don't always show, so we're lucky we are under the brightest star." You look up too and indeed, it shines bright. You're not sure about the lucky part. "Old story says they only appear on nights where something coffined comes to surface.”

You glance at him sidelong, cigarette perched neatly between your lips. You doubt if thats one of his fanclub astrology facts or he read that off a matchbox.

“It’s just superstition,” he says as if had the ability to read your thoughts. All the holy things above and beyond, you hope not. "When you need a direction on those nights. You can always look up."

The delivery is suspiciously straight-faced. You can’t tell if it’s sincerity dressed up as a joke or the other way around, but it sits in the air between you like something well-planned.

You exhale, slow through your nose. The filter tastes a little more bitter than before, or maybe your mouth does. “Are you fucking with me?”

His eyes don’t move from the sky, but the border of his expression ameliorates with amusement. The skin that was wrinkled, now crinkles up, and that's all. You’re puzzled, left in mystery if his motive was to annoy you. Confused over the decision of whether you should elbow in response too, twist the moment until it gives. But you don’t. Because the truth is, whatever it was, whether it was a myth or a dig or a gentle offering, you understood it. Quite possibly, needed it too. Either way, you don’t ask him to explain.

You resort to the secret third option of saying something you don’t mean to say. Your mouth opens before your sense of judgment can lace its shoes and declare your words thinly veiled as cavalier.

“I know an old superstition too,” you start, flicking ash off the edge of your cigarette, “that if two people share a smoke, they have to share a secret too.”

You don’t know where it comes from. Probably not a saying at all.Maybe something you read on a forum in college or saw scrawled on a dirty napkin in a bar bathroom. Probably from a place full of bullshit. God you are full of bullshit. But it slips out with the careless elegance of someone who isn’t bracing for repercussion.

Taehyung turns his body this time. Slow, one shoulder first, the leather of his jacket catching the light in a blink. His brows lift, just barely. He’s interested, but not performatively so. The barest cock of his head that's sharpened with intrigue makes you doubt. Wonder. You’re not sure why your heart climbs two rungs higher in your throat.

“A secret,” he repeats, as if trying the word on his tongue. “Do people actually do that? Are you fucking with me?" The wind presses his jacket against the lines of his ribs. His fingers tap once, twice, against the railing, deliberate. He smells like silk and smoke and the kind of cologne that’s expensive enough not to brag about itself.

You upraise your head, eyes fixed on a point in the city that doesn’t matter. "Apparently."

You puff out your cheeks and let the smoke linger there a second too long before exhaling through your nose. "And I'm not fucking with you." You say the terminal with an discomposing defensiveness.

The architecture of interest wraps around silence. You wait, not because you're impatient, but because you want to see what silence does to him.

He exhales, long and easy. “Alright,” he says, flicking the slag from his nail like he’s dusting off a layer of thought. “Go ahead.”

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

Your throat tightens around nothing. “That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” you say, a little firmer. “The person who offers the cigarette doesn’t get to demand first blood.”

He grins. Oh this real bastard. “Mm. You should’ve thought of that before you lied about the saying.”

“I didn’t lie. I… embellished it up a little.”

His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. “Same thing, my darling."

The term lands heavier than it should. Unrehearsed. Wrong accent for condescension. You don’t bother correcting him. If anything, you portray as if you didn’t even hear him.

He tilts his head again, finally turning to look at you in full now. His expression is maddeningly unreadable. Eyebrows slightly lifted, but not mocking. Just open. He waits in a way that says: I have all night. Go on. Impress me. Surprise me. Burn me, if you want.

You scowl, faintly. The smoke makes your next breath hitch as it burns at the edges.A secret, he said. You shouldn’t have offered the opening. You thought you’d like the power in it, holding something sharp and choosing not to use it. But it only leaves your mouth dry and your head stupidly full.

Your mind claws through options.

Your secret would be too easy, yet too big at the same time. It sits on your tongue, hot and twitching. It thrashes to be named; this ugly thing. You could spit it out between your teeth and watch the whole balcony tilt with it. Splinter the mood and makes everyone start looking for an exit, even if their feet don’t move. It’s a secret with teeth and a jawline. It smells like cheap floral perfume and sounds like a whimper through a half-open storage door.

You could say it. You could torch the air between you both with it. My boyfriend cheated on me tonight. In the storage room. With someone I shook hands with. Maybe even while you were living in a delusion, or shaking hands with people who thought they mattered. And you don’t even know if he'll even care. If none of this would matter to him and it’s just your heart doing its pathetic little dance in a one-woman tragedy.

You could lie. God knows you’ve gotten good at that lately. You could say you hate cucumbers or that you still sleep with the bathroom light on.

But standing next to him, lying feels too pedestrian. You glance over at him, hoping his sufferance will start to look smug enough to punch. But no. He’s too relaxed for that. One wrist draped over the edge of the railing, the other hanging low beside his thigh, fingers marked with the last memory of the cigarette you just burned through together. He’s not even close enough to touch, but you swear if you breathed wrong, he’d hear it shift in your ribs.

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

You rake your teeth over your bottom lip and break the silence with something that tastes harmless. It isn’t, really, but it plays that way.

“I’m not your fan.”

His eyes flinch. Like a tick behind his lashes he forgot to tame.

You glance sidelong, watching his profile for the reaction, any reaction. The way someone checks the rearview after running a red light. “That’s my secret. Or one of them. I guess.” It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a bottle uncorked too fast. Immediate relief followed by a slow fizz of regret.

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

You regret it. You don’t. You regret it again.

“I know.”

Huh.

The words are smooth. Soft, but pointed. As if you’ve confirmed something he’s always known but was waiting to see if you’d admit. You don’t know if you were excepting a bite to them, a sleek reveal of a bruised ego but what you were not was that slow, coiled calm that has no business feeling sexy in someone’s mouth.

Was it that obvious? Were you that obvious? You wait for elaboration on that but nothing comes.You watch his profile, the ridiculous slope of his nose, the glint of metal at his ear, you bracket for the assured curve of his lips but then again: nothing. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t call you out, doesn’t accuse.

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you or if he means it — if he remembered your voice from a year-old phone call, if he recognized your silence tonight, if he sighted your stare in the reflection of the goddamn glass doors.

That sounds unreasonable so you don’t entertain the idea any more. "I'm not saying I hate you or anything." You add after a respite, withstanding, out of sheer principle. "In case you start thinking I'm some undercover journalist who's out to get you by making you slip up some horrible secret and ruin your career." You falter and your pupils dilate in some sort of enlightenment.

"Wait.. that does sound legitimate.." You breathe and he chuckles, chasmic. Straight from the core of his chest. Pretty.

You flush, hand tightening around the cigarette. "What I mean to say is that I mean no offense."

"None taken." That's all he gives you.

Another non-answer that sounds just close enough to a hum to pass for approval. It makes your eye twitch. The bluster in it is staggering. Like he’s heard every variation of insult and adoration and now catalogues them by scent.

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

“No.” For a second, the look in his eyes could melt paint from a canvas. “Should I be?”

You hesitate. You don’t know why you hesitate.

"No." You nearly choke on how dishonest it isn’t. You don’t want him to be bothered. You don’t want him to care.

And yet — there’s a morbid thrill in seeing if he will.

You angle yourself slightly toward him, careful not to break whatever tension is braided in the space between your bodies. The heat of him remains, even with a whole arm’s length untouched. You need the tilt of something else. So you pivot, words tumbling faster than thought.

“So,” you say, voice stripped bare. “Your turn.”

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

“For the secret,” you add, not giving him the chance to weasel out.

He considers. You can see it — the slight furrow at the edge of his brow, the twitch of his jaw, the progression of thought moving unhurried behind his eyes. The line of his mouth doesn’t change, but the solidity of it shifts.

“I need time,” he says at last, tapping the back of his fingers against the railing like it’s a piano.

“No time,” you counter, before he can wax poetic or poeticize wax or whatever the hell he’s about to do. “Actually, I’ll help. I’ll guess.”

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

He sighs. Appealed, again, in that maddeningly low-key way that reads more indulgence than exasperation.

You straighten slightly, clear your throat. “You’ve got six toes on one foot.”

Taehyung shifts, and you hear the soft rustle of his jacket as he moves. One hand disappears into his pocket.You wonder if anything he does is ever clumsy. You want to see it. But to all appearances, no.

"You talk to plants. You whisper to them, atleast for the sake of dignity. Apologize when you forget to water them. You have at least one fiddle leaf fig in your apartment that’s seen you cry in a silk robe.”

He says nothing, which is infuriating in its own right. So, to punish him, you keep talking.

You tap your chin. “You cry when you're watching a Pixar movie."

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

“Okay..you’re secretly married to an heiress in Monaco but only out of obligation because her father saved your family from a blood feud—wait, is this why you smoke? To cope?”

You chance a glance at him then.

He’s still quiet, one brow slightly lifted, his mouth doing that thing again — where it thinks about smiling but chooses restraint instead. He hasn’t said a word. Just stands there, gaze unwavering, letting you dig your own grave with a shovel he probably forged.

"That's a hell lot of gusses. Are you sure you're not a fan?" He finally says. Dragged through just enough baritone to sound stuffy without needing help.

Not even close. But you lapse anyway, roll your eyes and resist the urge to melt into the railing beside you. You’ve been standing here too long, you think. Under this particular constellation of stars and scrutiny. Talking too much. Giving too much. Your mouth, again, has outpaced your sense.

"I'll pace myself." You mutter under your breath. His laugh is soft and bothersomely warm that sits like a pat on the head you didn’t ask for.

"Well?” you prompt, arms crossed now. Your cigarette’s been flicked away into the night, but the heat of it lingers at your fingertips. “Are you going to give me a real on--"

He cuts you off and offers. “I’ve been learning French.”

You blink.

That’s it? That’s the secret? You nearly threw your soul onto the balcony floor, and he came back with learning a forigen langauge?

You don’t hide your disbelief. You don’t even try. “That’s your big, mysterious secret?”

He shrugs. One-shoulder, elegant, unconcerned. “You wanted one.”

“French?” you repeat, deadpan. “Oh fuck off. That’s what you went with? That’s what you’re hiding from the world?”

His lip twitches and he whispers in a exaggerated manner. "You're the only one who knows."

Your face torsions into a grimace.

"See? That's why I didn't told anyone." The hand from his pocket slips out and he runs it over his jaw. There’s a ardency in his voice now, stretched and prearranged. “Because of that face you’re making.”

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

“That’s because you are pretentious,” you say, eyes narrowed. “Learning French for fun?”

“Not for fun,” he corrects. "It's work. For Paris. I’ve got a event there next month.”

You groan in the quiet that returns,balmy and teeming.The metropolis hums below, ignorant of your little corner modeled out of smoke and shared breath.

You glance at him, brows pinched. “Say something in French, then.”

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

You square your stance, chin lifting, voice dipped in faux detachment. “Prove it, I mean.”

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

“That you’re not full of shit, Jesus."

His gaze slides across the space between you. Perhaps he was offened that you asked him to believe his nonsense. And you don’t believe that was anything but. A made up lie about how he has a hairless cat named Nietzsche and that would have charmed you more ‘I’ve been Duolingo-ing French in the dark.’

Then again, he had no reason to say something that would have entertained you. Why would he? You're no one. Not even his dedicated enthusiast that he feels bound to in some way. So, you beyond a shadow a doubt, don't expect him to even attempt.

“Je pense à toi plus souvent que je ne le devrais.”

Let alone say that many of words. They sky in ample, partly because of the tone, the tempo. Partly for the way it leaves his mouth already inflamed with meaning. The vowels roll soft in the back of his throat, mutilated just a little and for a brief, stupid moment, you forget you’ve just spent the last two hours being publicly, privately humiliated.

You blink, slow. “Wow. Okay. You're not lying but..?"

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

The current tightens. Scarcely from the wind, in no manner from cold, but with pause. A single moment suspended by silence, thick and humming. You expect him to laugh, to shrug it off, to hand you back your question with a lopsided grin and a conveniently vague answer. You excepted a big headed translation of what he said, probably praised how beautiful his sternum is in the language of the romancers.

But the expectation that arrives is staining the moment. It thickens between you like honey slow-dripped over the edge of a knife. Definitely not the kind you can breathe through. You count five seconds. Then seven. Then forget to keep counting because definitely not when he eventunally moves. One slow step forward, a flux that cuts the space between your bodies down to a corruption.

Simply folds himself into your periphery. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to. The heat of him arrives before the shadow does. You can feel the slope of his body, the broadness of it, the made to measure frame of someone who was never taught to shrink. It sure does makes you do so.

You stand there with your neck craned, still leaning against the railing, still biting the inside of your cheek, still trying to remember what the fuck he just said. You told him to prove it. You hadn’t told him to make a meal out of it. But here you are, jaw locked and throat dry.

You lock eyes with him, by a nose. He’s taller up close — of course he is.He leans in a touch, eyes cutting toward the stub of a cigarette still between your fingers. Or what’s left of it. The lipstick ring, half-smudged, stares back up at you in a little flash of chagrin.

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

Two fingers, unhurried, brushing yours again as he plucks it from your hand. His skin grazes yours and you swear your breath stutters like a faulty wire. It’s warm. Calloused in the way expensive hands aren’t supposed to be.

He lifts the cigarette and turns it slowly, inspecting the end. The smear of your lipstick, the last traces of you still on it.He twirls it once between thumb and forefinger, then glances at you. “You said I have a habit,” he says. His voice is calm, low, threaded with that warm rust he never bothers polishing.

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

He tucks it between his lips. Listlessly. Takes his time. Drags in smoke, hollow and full. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I’m starting to think you have one too.”

You narrow your eyes, jaw tight. “What.”

His next words come darker. A commodity less said than laid down in front of you.

“A habit of asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

Your breath hits you crooked. You press your lips together, try to will sensation back into your legs. The silence stretches between you again, full of heat and that despicable prescience that he hasn’t broken it, because he doesn’t need to.Your mouth stays shut. It's not used to being without an opinion. He’s taken that from you too, somehow. The only sound you make is a shaky exhale, quiet enough to be mistaken for wind.

Your gaze follows his to his wrist, where his watch glints faintly beneath the low light, that watch you’d mocked internally for being too shiny, too sumptuous-looking, too aware of its own importance. You don’t know what he reads in the time, but he makes a soft sound, a breath, maybe a sigh, latterly he shrugs. The shoulders of his jacket shift, roll, and then, before your body can react, he’s pulling his arms free.

That black, unbothered thing of a jacket, the one that smelled like amber and ash and subtle conceit. He holds it for a second in his hands, then swings it gently, stupidly, over your shoulders.

Your first instinct is to shove it off, slap his hand away, say something defensive that hides how everything in you is currently rioting.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice splintered at the ends.

You don’t know what’s more disorienting. The unexpected gesture or the sheer weight of it. The jacket is heavy, still warm from his body, lined with something smooth that smells criminally luxurious, smoke and vetiver and a note you can’t name but feel in your knees. It swallows you instantly, hangs too wide over your frame, sleeves grazing knuckles you didn’t realize were clenched.

You stiffen, hands raised as if the fabric might detonate.

“No—no, I’m fine,” you protest, reaching to return it, but his hand catches your wrist, gently. Not holding you there, just… halting the motion. His fingers barely curve around your skin.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman." he says, eyes soft but voice gravel-edged. "I am a gentleman, actually."

You almost snort, but your throat tightens too fast for it to come out fully. Good thing, you decide. Otherwise, you would’nt have trusted yourself not to speak up on the think pieces, The fan-written fever dreams about how Taehyung held a door open once and that made him the reincarnation of chivalry itself.

Kim Taehyung, the article said, is a gentleman — he's out to get your poor heart because Kim Taehyung is the refined man of our modern times who asks before he touches, and never forgets a name.

You’d rolled your eyes so hard they clicked. You’d said aloud, to no one in particular, yeah, I bet. And yet here you are. Swaddled in the evidence.

Before you can launch into your next indignation, he speaks again — this time with a glint, a grin that blooms crooked at the edges and threatens to bring down whatever composure you’ve reassembled prior to disappearing away back to the glow.

“It was nice finally meeting you, ceo of Mars."

A/N: it does not end here!! tumblrs just shit and got me with its word limit but I will not be stopped and you can keep reading from here <3

[yoongsriverandme]

taekook || nsfw ﾉ 12:58 P.M.

author's note! they're lowkey gay for each other in this; you have been warned!!

jungkook's fucking you so hard that you can't find it in yourself to kiss taehyung back.

you're desperately trying to, but with each harsh thrust delivered to your g-spot, your mind grows just a bit foggier.

your fingers claw at tae's shoulders, frantically trying to keep yourself balanced. he's watching you with amusement, the corner of his mouth upturned in the slightest show of a smirk.

"what?" taehyung croons, a large hand petting the side of your head, like a dog. "you can't keep up?"

you shake your head with a whine. "'s -" jungkook pulls out only to slam back in, sending you jolting into tae's arms. a loud moan is pulled from you, and vibrates against taehyung's lips.

"'s too good." you slur.

"oh, i'm sure it is." his left hand that's free goes to cup your chin.

"'cause our gukkie is fucking you so good, yeah?"

you nod your head stupidly. "mhm."

"you hear that, guk?" taehyung calls out with a grin. "you're fucking her dumb."

"yeah?" pants a sweaty jungkook from behind you. "good. 'means 'm doing my job then." he ends with a shit-eating smirk.

his lip piercing glints in the low, warm lighting, and he nibbles at it, zoning in on where he's entering and exiting you.

there's a ring of creamy arousal around his cock, and he groans lewdly at the sight.

"always do a good job, koo." you whine.

"aw," taehyung coos, "how sweet."

"you should fuckin' see her, hyung." jungkook grunts. "got 'er creaming all over me."

"oh, i'm sure that's a sight." taehyung's eyes flutter closed at the thought. "i might lick her off of you, kook. think you're up for it?"

"you know i am, hyung."

"perfect." tae all but purrs.

you're shaking, because as they've been talking, jungkook's thrusts had gotten slower, deeper, and you can feel your walls clenching around him with purpose.

what an image that would be; taehyung licking off your release while bringing your lover to another orgasm.

"shit!" jungkook curses, but smirks once more. "looks like we need'ta take care of our girl, taehyungie-hyung."

"is that right?" he nods to himself. "okay."

he works on the button of his slacks, and your gut jumps in excitement.

"she's been drooling everywhere for the past few minutes, so i figured i'll give that mouth of hers something to do before she cums."

"good idea."

and you can't help but be inclined to agree.

⁘ preface: i only use bts as face claims! they are my muses, so anything they say or do, do not reflect their real life character!

© yoongsriverandme 2025-26

[nvrngl]

Can you please make one where Taehyung and the reader have been dating for a long time, and he just got discharged from the military and wants to have alone time with his girlfriend because he's been away for so long and they both really missed eachother, but they could never have any because the company or ther members keep interrupting them to tell him about their upcoming schedules and stuff. So he decided to plan a romantic getaway to Paris for him and his girlfriend to have their respective and well needed alone time.

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔

synopsis. taehyung is back. and everyone noticed. it seems like it has been impossible for you to find just one single moment with him. until he decides to fix things.

pairing. bts ﹢ discharged!kim taehyung x reader ﹢ very soft smut (mdni)

wordcount. 842

warnings. oral sex (f. receiving), mentions of idol life pressure & fatigue

my very first request .ᐟ god, i am excited and writing this brought such a warm and fuzzy feeling. thank you so so much for requesting, cutie. i hope you like it 💌

the first time you finally get him to yourself, really and truly—no staff, no phones, no “hyung, just one sec”—it’s three weeks after he’s discharged.

he’s home. finally. after two years of waiting, visiting, calling, missing—he’s here.

but no one will let him rest.

the moment he’s back, they start flooding in—managers with calendars, members with updates, stylists with contracts. taehyung’s patient, always kind, always polite. he nods, makes notes, smiles when he’s expected to. but you can see it in his eyes. the exhaustion. the ache. the way he glances over at you every time he has to let go of your hand just to answer another damn phone call.

so when he pulls you into the hallway that night and whispers, “pack a bag. don’t ask, just trust me,” you don’t hesitate.

you pack the minute you get home.

—

paris in june is a fantasy.

it’s sun-warmed cobblestone and dappled light under trees. it’s espresso in the morning, citrusy wine by sunset, bare legs sticking to wicker chairs outside tiny cafés. the breeze smells like sugar and car exhaust and roses all at once.

taehyung books a flat on the left bank—nothing extravagant, but personal. tucked above a bakery, with ivy on the railing and enough space to breathe. he tells you he found it years ago, “saved it just for this,” and that alone nearly breaks you in two.

he walks around barefoot. wears thin white t-shirts and tortoiseshell sunglasses and the kind of smile that only appears when no one’s watching.

you never stop touching.

hand on the small of your back when you walk. lips to your temple when you wake up slow in the morning. long, lazy fingers tracing your thigh under the table at dinner like it’s just second nature.

you’re both a little dizzy with it all.

and it’s not about the place, not really. it’s about the quiet. the space. no texts. no interruptions. no schedules.

just you. and him.

—

on your third night, he kisses you outside a wine bar on rue dauphine. just presses you up against the warm stone wall with that soft, aching urgency he’s been carrying since he got back.

you hum into it, hands curled in his shirt, breath quick as he nips at your lower lip.

“baby,” he says, voice rough. “i’ve missed you so much, i can’t—” he cuts himself off, kissing you again. longer this time. slower. deeper.

“i know,” you whisper back.

he presses his forehead to yours.

“take me home.”

—

the walk back is a blur of hands and soft giggles and him whispering “you’re not real” against your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re here, like this, under his hands again.

once inside the flat, he doesn’t flick the light on. just tugs you close and kisses you like he’s starved—like this is a need he’s held back for years.

your clothes come off in pieces, somewhere between the hallway and the bed. the early summer night is warm, and your skin feels sticky and flushed. his fingers brush lightly over your sides as he stares at you like he’s rediscovering a masterpiece.

“so pretty,” he breathes, eyes tracing every inch of you.

you smile, cheeks pink. “you’ve said that every day.”

“and i’ll say it every day for the rest of my life.”

he kisses you, slower now, his body pressing you down into the sheets. the breeze from the open window flutters against your bare shoulder, but his skin is so warm on yours, you barely notice.

he moves down your body in worship.

his mouth finds your thighs first—then the soft skin of your hip, your belly, the crease between your legs. he doesn’t rush. not even a little.

when he finally slips his tongue between your folds, it’s soft and slow and so deliberate.

you moan, hips lifting toward him, fingers already tangling in his hair.

“i dreamed about this,” he whispers, mouthing along your inner thigh. “every night.”

his hands hold you open gently, thumbs pressing into your hips as he begins again. long, languid licks—like he has all the time in the world.

you writhe under him, overwhelmed. “tae, oh my god…”

he groans into you, nose pressed to your clit, eyes fluttered shut like he’s the one losing control. “let me take care of you.”

you come with his name on your lips, a sharp cry followed by gasping laughter as your body trembles in aftershocks. he doesn’t stop until you pull him up by the shoulders, tugging him into a kiss that tastes like wine and heat and your own sweetness.

he curls around you after, warm and flushed, your bodies tangled in the sheets.

you rest your hand over his heart, feeling it beat slow and steady under your palm.

“we needed this,” you whisper.

he kisses your forehead, lashes brushing your skin. “i need you. not the interviews. not the chaos. just this.”

you nod, eyes drifting closed.

outside, paris hums on, soft and golden and slow.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[orchidyoonkook]

PG | KTH

Title: PG 

Pairing: Older Brother's Best Friend!Kim Taehyung x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (M) | One Shot, Friends to Lovers, Age Gap, Slice of Life, Angst, Smut and Touches of Fluff

Summary: You aren’t delusional enough to think anything would ever happen between the two of you, not for a damn second. Be it the age difference, the fact that he’s your brother's friend, or the extremely high likelihood that he sees you as nothing more than Fourteen’s annoying little sister that he can use to rile said best friend up.

But that’s about it. Nothing more. And reality is something you’re able to keep a solid grasp on when it comes to him. You don’t let it go for the sake of acting on a one sided and unrequited feeling you know will pass… eventually.

Warnings: nicknames! a disgusting amount, language, assholes being assholes but being put in their place, brotherly love, sibling antics, tae is a swimmer and knows judo, also a Dan is--for the lack of better phrasing--a high belt level in judo. think of it like a black belt, OC cant keep it in her pants and neither can tae, mutual pining, lots of great gatsby references because I'm trying to be that bitch (I am joking), tae has tats, OC's brother is an overprotective idiot but we love him anyway, slight physical abuse not by tae or reader or fourteen--basically someone grips an arm too harshly, some panic but no panic attack,

Explicit warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 11,521

Release Date: September 15, 2024. 12:00PM

A/N 1: The biggest most huge thank you to @violetsiren90 for being my sounding board, tech support and beta. She's a real one and y'all are sleeping on her work if you haven't alread read it. Go check her out!

A/N 2: My access to the adobe suite was aha....revoked. So! this is my first time making a banner and divider without photoshop. Therfore, the banner and the divider are a bit different than what I'm used to having XD. Tumblr is also absolutely destroying the qualty which is sooooo great. It looks wonky and blurry to me on desktop but fine on mobile so it is what it is. If i ever get adobe access again I'll probably come back and update the graphics.

Explicit Warnings: *ahem* nicknames, teasing, kissing, biting, marking (several ways), hand and finger kink (duh), voice kinklet (duhhhh), hair 'pulling' (m rec), semi public if you squint, hella foreplay, tae has a big dick, penetrative sex, oral (m+f rec), fingering, handjob?, multiple orgasms, body worship, switch like activities but mostly dominant tae, posessiveness, confessions, reader takes what she wants but so does tae, exhibitionism if you squint, slight cum play/eating, implied squirting, choking, cream pie. Pretty sure thats all of them. i never reailse how many i need to put until the list is done and wow *chuckes while blushing*

“Oi, can you fucking not? My sister’s right fucking there,” your older brother, Fourteen—nicknamed for his forever mental age—ridiculously and unneededly overprotective as always, says.

It is especially unneeded and ridiculous as he’s saying it to Tae, when all he’s doing is taking off his shirt to go for a swim in your pool. Like he’s been doing since you were tweens.

Well.

Since you were a tween and they were nearing the legal drinking age. But that’s besides the point. 

Best friend to your knuckle head of an older brother, you honest to god have no idea how they became friends. 

Taehyung is poetry and jazz and button up cotton shirts. Old book smell and expensive cologne, ringed fingers and whiskey, neat. The kind of vibe someone would get from being raised by a very successful lawyer for a father and a top ranking university professor of literature for a mother, while Fourteen is… your older brother. 

Maybe it’s a younger sister thing to not understand how her older brother has any friends. Considering you grew up with him, know all of his weird and gross habits, have a lovely dash of sibling bullying thrown in that you two share equally, and more. Yet, by some miracle, he and Tae manage to balance one another out. 

Tae—fucking somehow—makes your brother into a more presentable human being. He showers more than twice a week and wears deodorant every day now—even puts the seat down after peeing, a habit you’ve been screaming at him to stop doing since you could use the toilet. While Fourteen gives Tae a rougher edge he previously never seemed to be able to grasp, despite trying his best too. 

For example, the several delicate tattoos he now has all over his body, your favourite of which is an old timey record player on the inside of his forearm. They were something he’d been wanting to do for years, but only finally bit the bullet on and did once Fourteen took him when they were twenty two. 

Since then the collection’s only grown, much to your inner glee and mental dismay. 

And don’t even get you started on the delicate, thin rimmed glasses he occasionally wears—golden and the perfect shape for his face—or the ear piercings that just really fucking cement the tortured poet look that makes your heart clench every. single. time. you look at him. 

Similarly to what it’s doing right now, though no one ever knows due to your truly oscar worthy talent for acting completely oblivious to the beautiful shirtless man about to dive in. Call it over a decades worth of practice, and the fact that it’s also nothing you hadn’t gloriously taken in all teenagehood long. 

Every time you could get it. 

Which was a lot because Tae was on the high school swim team. 

For four years. 

And then the university swim team.

For another four. 

Teenage you was a lucky bitch. Now you’re only blessed with this sight when he comes over to swim laps or attempt to drown Fourteen. Which, admittedly, was still often. But not nearly as much as back then. 

The sight in question however, is curled black hair that frames eyes so warm you swear the sun’s relocated to his irises, and a jawline that makes the Statue of David’s pathetic in comparison. It’s fingers that make your mouth water from the way they flip book pages and thighs that make you think thoughts and things you never thought you would. 

It’s the scribbled text: ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine’ tattooed across his ribs, and a lean torso, muscled but not outrageously so. Just enough to have you forcing yourself not to stare at the delicate lines of his abdomen every time he comes over for a swim. 

Thank god for sunglasses. 

“Nah, I’m sure PG can handle it, Dumbass. I’ve only been using your pool every summer for the last 15 years give or take,” Tae says with a quirked brow and a half smile directed at you. 

Behind your sunnies, you heat up a touch, and internally sigh. Have you mentioned his smile yet? 

Because oh yeah, his fucking smile. 

Tae’s a nickname kind of person, hence why even you call your brother ‘Fourteen’. Taehyung’s called him Fourteen for so long now that calling your brother by his birth name just feels wrong. 

This being said, PG is Tae’s nickname for you. 

It stands for the TV rating ‘Parental Guidance’ because you’re younger by enough that when you were still under the age of 18, they—see: your brother and Tae because they’ve been joined at the hip since they met—were usually assigned babysitting duty. Very much the ‘take your sister with you’ sibling, but they never complained. Not once.

As much as you and Fourteen bully one another, you’re actually quite close when you aren’t verbally sparring—which is where his annoying overprotectiveness comes in. Even when it comes to Taehyung. 

“Yeah, Dumbass,” you copy, earning a smirk from Tae as he leans down to take his shoes off. “It’s just Tae.”

“It’s not about that YN, it’s about respect. You’re my little sister, and Fuckass over here,” you brother jabs a thumb in Tae’s direction, which earns you a second hidden smirk from the Fuckass in question, “Still doesn’t know how to respect that fact even after a decade and a half apparently.”

You shrug as Fourteen finishes his point and narrows his eyes at his best friend. Tae gives him a shit eating grin that screams ‘what are you going to do about it’ and your brother gives him a two fingered salute before shaking his head and taking off his own shirt. 

You take that as your cue to put your head back down because you don’t need to see that. 

Currently in very comfortable linen shorts and tank, you’re sitting on a padded pool lounger, rereading The Great Gatsby for the hundredth time. It’s one of the classics that never gets old for you, has the benefit of being a shorter read—therefore perfect for the poolside—and happens to be the copy Tae’d gotten you for Christmas a couple years ago. Pure coincidence, you tell yourself. Nothing more. 

With the beautiful addition of your very darkly glassed sunnies, it also makes the perfect decoy as you watch Tae over the top of the open book without risk of being caught. 

You firmly follow the rule of a little looking can’t hurt. 

You aren’t delusional enough to think anything would ever happen between the two of you, not for a damn second. Be it the age difference, the fact that he’s your brother's friend, or the extremely high likelihood that he sees you as nothing more than Fourteen’s annoying little sister that he can use to rile said best friend up—see: current shirt stripping debacle. It’s not the first nor the last time he’ll do something like it, and you’re pretty sure you and Tae have an unspoken agreement at this point to push as many of Fourteen’s buttons as you can together, just to see how far he’ll let it go before freaking out.

But that’s about it. Nothing more. And reality is something you’re able to keep a solid grasp on when it comes to him. You don’t let it go for the sake of acting on a one sided and unrequited feeling you know will pass… eventually. 

Despite the flames that rage and roar on in your heart. 

Despite the green light on the dock across the way tackling your brother under the water. 

You hold on. And only in these little moments of in between do you allow yourself to look. Pockets of time where a peek won’t be seen or recorded, and a moment of self indulgence keeps your sanity from trying to escape its tightly locked box.

You look and look and look until the green light is covered in fog once more, and the lid of the box seals tight.  

Another day, another glorious abuse of best friend privileges, Taehyung thinks to himself as he continues his butterfly down the imaginary lanes in Fourteen’s pool. 

He tries to come over at least three times a week. Four or five if he’s able, the more he’s over the higher chance he has to see you, not just Fourteen. But he’s rarely able to these days. 

Though the wind appears to have shifted in his favour today. You’re sitting on the lounge chairs again, reading away in the afternoon sun. 

It’s his favourite view. And it’s sweetened by the fact that you’re in the shorts he loves and reading a book he gave you. Something he’s done since before he could remember, really. 

Christmases and birthdays, he’s always given you a book. Usually a classic, sometimes something else. If it caught his eye or reminded him of you, he’d grab it and save it until the next Christmas or the next birthday, whichever came first. And you’ve always loved them, so he’s never stopped. 

They’re gifts that seem harmless to Fourteen, and for the most part they are. But these last few have been…different. Had deeper thought put into them. The titles, the story lines, the prose. He swears you notice it, but maybe that’s just his own wishful thinking. 

And he sure as fuck can’t be doing any of that. 

This cold water isn’t doing its job well enough.

Finishing his set, Tae swims over to rest before starting on his front stroke. Forearms hold him up on the edge of the pool, his chin balancing on stacked knuckles while his breath catches. 

He also uses this little break as an excuse to talk to you. He only ever freely can when Fourteen isn’t around, and right now his best friend is inside grabbing drinks, towels and probably relieving himself–which, knowing Fourteen—could take anywhere from thirty seconds to thirty minutes. So he has to take advantage of every moment he gets. 

“Got any new recommendations for me PG?” 

Books are an easy starting point when it comes to you. Fourteen may be a graphic novel at best kind of guy, but your brain can’t seem to inhale enough books to satiate it. And just the thought makes his temples rush with heat. 

He should dunk his head again.

You lower your Fitzgerald by one inch and raise an eyebrow to counter it. Just like your brother, you’re always one to give him a hard time. Make him work for every millimeter of ground conquered. And he’s pretty sure you have a smirk hiding behind the pages, though he can’t be certain due to the sunglasses hiding your eyes. 

“Maybe,” you say. “What do I get in return?” 

Answering that question about fifty different ways in his head, Tae decides none can be said out loud. He seriously needs to fucking reel himself in. Fourteen could return at any moment and the last thing Tae needs to have is a problem between his legs because you never make it easy for him. 

But rather than listening to his very rational thoughts and very logical brain, he instead decides to say fuck it, and croons in the voice that used to fluster you as a teenager. 

“What do you want in return, PG?” Hoping to soften you up, even the playing field a bit. 

And it works like a charm. 

Your body releases its tension on an exhale, your page is marked, book set to the side, and your legs extend and stretch before crossing at the ankle. It makes him wonder if your little girlhood crush on him still exists somewhere in the back of your mind. Probably not.

Scratch that. 

Definitely not.  

“What if I wanted a new nickname?” you ask.

Both his eyebrows raise in surprise. “What’s wrong with PG?”

“It makes me feel like I’m eleven,” you explain. And then hit him with a dose of his own medicine as you croon, “I’m not eleven anymore, Tae.”

No you sure as hell are not. And it kills him in a way that has him wanting to die over and over again. 

He could consider it. But he doesn’t think he’ll change it, not when PG can stand for so many wonderful things. Things you would never think he’d let it when addressing you. Things that would have Fourteen trying for drowning attempt number two thousand four hundred sixty three, and succeeding. 

“I’ll think about it—Fair?”

You ponder before agreeing. “Fair.”

“Now about those recommendations…” He reminds you, and that’s all it takes to get you going.

Fourteen comes out about ten minutes later, but by then, Tae has a new list of books to grab from the store, two laps under him with eight more to go, and you’re reading again—one bare leg bent at the knee he’s trying very hard to ignore when he comes up for air. 

By the time he’s due for another breather, you’re talking to your brother about plans for the weekend. 

“I’m going out early on Friday for Rei’s birthday, remember? And I’ll probably crash at her place after,” you say. 

Fourteen is sitting on the second lounge chair across from you, most likely playing a game on his phone if Tae had to guess. But at your reminder, your brother looks up.

“Fuck that’s right. Okay so no dinner then, I’ll just grab something on my way in.”

“Sounds good. What about tonight?”

Fourteen gives it about two seconds of thought. “How about Don’s?”

Your face lights up at the suggestion. “Fuck yes! I’ve been craving their milkshakes for like a week. Hey Tae!” you call to him. “Don’s for dinner? There’s a chocolate shake with your name on it if you’re down.”

Tae pushes himself out of the water onto the pavement and doesn’t miss the sly once over you give him while Fourteen chucks a towel at his chest, covering your eyes with his other hand. 

He catches the projectile before it can knock him back into the pool, and uses it to dry his hair.

“Dude! Seriously? Go find a fucking shirt or something, no one wants to see that.”

You swat your sibling’s hand away and give him a look that screams ‘grow up’ while Tae drapes the towel over his shoulders, a hand gripping at each end. 

“I’m only down if Dumbass is paying,” he says, smirking at your brother. 

“—What—”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” you agree, holding out your hand in his direction. 

“—Hey wait a seco—”

Tae grabs and shakes just to watch the steam flee Fourteen’s ears at the contact. He meets your eyes conspiratorially, and you both nod before rushing Fourteen. 

“—You fuckers!—” is all he gets out before Tae and you are grabbing an arm and a leg each and throwing Fourteen’s fully clothed ass in the pool. 

He curses the both of you out several times as he treads, drenched and dripping, up the stairs and out of the water. Tae throws him the towel. 

“You’ll pay for that, Asshole,” Fourteen tells Tae, and Tae grins. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it. Worth it though.”

“And you!” Fourteen says, eyes on you. “What the fuck dude? The betrayal to your darling, one and only brother hurts. I’m wounded,” he lays it on thick, walking up directly beside you. 

You're a hairsbreadth too late to realize when he shakes his hair out directly over top of you and you shriek, pulling your knees up, protecting the book under your shirt and behind your legs at all costs.

“Fourteen! The book! I will kill you if you damage it!”

Fourteen chuckles. “Payback’s a bitch Little Sister.”

You sneer at him, checking your prized possession for injury. Not a scratch. 

“And sopping wet is your colour, Jackass.”

“Big words for someone who can just as easily be thrown in the pool.”

You pause. Eyeing him directly. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Your brother looks at Tae with an evil plot in his eyes and you screech as they both nod once. You drop your book behind you as they yank you up by your arms and fling you into the pool, too much momentum from them and not enough resistance from you leaving you matching your darling, one and only brother.

As you come up for air, two colossal splashes ricochet from the left and right. Tae and Fourteen having both cannonballed in on either side of you. You choke on splattered water for a second before you’re attacking them with splashes, merciless in your pursuit for revenge. 

“You both suck!” you half giggle half yell. 

“Yet you love us anyway!” your brother falsely—correctly—claims. 

You roll your eyes before trudging out, heavier and dripping with your soaked clothes.

And it's not until weekend plans are cast aside for current memories, Taehyung treating you all to dinner, and you treating everyone to milkshakes, that all is forgiven. 

It turns out Rei’s dad knows the manager of the most exclusive club in the city—Youth—and managed to call in a favour. So now you, her, and your other bestie, Lea, are all on the dancefloor to celebrate her birthday. 

Rei’s first request for the night besides not paying for a single drink, was to dress up in the hottest, sluttiest outfits the club's dress code would allow for. 

This, for you, meant a black, square necked, low cut, and thin strapped satin slip dress that hugged you in all the right ways, matching heels adored with ankle strap bows and a sultry makeup look. Lea chose a dark blue shimmery number with a high leg split, vibrant graphic eyeliner, and wedges, while the birthday girl found the skimpiest forest green mini dress you’ve ever seen paired with heels that wrap ribbons up her legs, and a subtle dewy look on her lids. 

She’s glowing, and needless to say, they both look hot and so do you. 

Rei’s second request for the night was to dance until you either collapsed or threw up, whichever came first. A goal you were all making a steady descent towards as the night progressed. 

That is, until your blood runs cold at the sight of your cheating ex boyfriend making his way through the crowd in a direct beeline towards you. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You’re alone right now. Rei and Lea are taking a bathroom break. 

You insisted you’d be fine for ten minutes. It was just ten minutes. What could possibly go wrong in ten minutes?

But apparently god just loves to play jokes because here you are, three shots in, not emotionally prepared enough to be near him, let alone speak to him, and by yourself in this huge crowd of strangers while he’s making very good time on his route to you. 

Fuck! You do not want to deal with him right now or—fucking ever, actually. 

He’d cheated on you four times that he admitted too throughout your two and a half year relationship, all while faking being blindingly happy directly to your face. He’d lied to you and hurt you and made you wonder what you did wrong for him to do that to you. It took all of your third year of university and more therapy sessions than you care to admit to realize you were never the problem, and that he was a piece of shit. 

So, with the fifteen feet between you two quickly shrinking, you try your best to hide from him in the crowd, only to run directly into him when you duck past a fellow club goer. 

Son of a b—

“Heyyy Y/N, how’ve you been?” he says like he didn’t destroy your entire sense of self worth for a couple quick fucks. 

You want to down three more shots just to be able to puke all over him. Intentionally, you haven’t seen him in years and just the reek of his stale ass cologne has you close. 

“Fuck off Micah, don’t you have somewhere you need to be sticking your dick—like a garbage disposal?” You snark, doing your damndest to not let him get close. But the throng of bodies surrounding you have other ideas and you’re thrown against your least favourite person in existence.

Delusional as ever, Micah sleezes, “Doesn’t seem like you want me to leave just yet, Kitten,” and you shove him off you as hard as you can while bile rises at the horrible name you used to beg him not to call you. 

You need to get off the dance floor.

Now.

Before you can, Micah grabs your arm and he pulls you back into him, hard.

Tae watches you out of the corner of his eye, wondering why in the hell you came to this club, of all the clubs out there. 

The club he was at. Wearing that and truly testing the limits of his self control.

Music blasts through speakers that move the ocean on the dancefloor. Bodies sway like waves, some crashing into one another with teeth and tongues and passion, others pushing with the current, grinding and gripping and grabbing at anything they can get their hands on. The louder and faster the notes whirl over their swells, the harsher the storm rages on, people flowing in and out of the eye when needed. 

He’s sitting at a booth on a dais high enough to watch you in the hurricane whilst being out of eyesight, notably with one or two faces he barely recognizes enough to most likely be your friends. 

They appear to be currents. They drag you into deeper waters and you let them, helpless to their siren call. Leading you to your place amongst the sea life, and reveling in the way the melodies wash over you again and again with every song that plays. 

His eyes follow you as you dance, curious if Fourteen knows you’re here before flinging the thought out of his head as quickly as it entered. You’re grown now, don’t need protection anymore. A lesson he learned the day you returned from university after graduating. 

No longer his best friend's kid sister who they kept an eye on, but a woman who was and still is growing into herself beautifully. A woman who is steadfast, strong and more often than not, correct in her opinions. A woman who is well read and equally if not more so well spoken when she deigns to acknowledge his existence. A woman who knows how and when to turn all of that off in order to team up with him in a roast battle for the books against her brother. 

He thinks of that day as the beginning of his downfall. 

He can humbly admit that his intelligence, demeanor and education are things that have been nurtured into existence by his parents and carefully maintained by himself with practice and both mental and physical exercise. He takes care of himself, inside and out. Exercises regularly, eats well, has good hygiene. He’s level headed and patient. Respectful and responsible. Controlled and competent. 

He prides himself on these things. Actively works towards keeping them maintained. 

And yet. 

Somehow when it comes to you, he is little more than a single brain celled idiot. 

All of the things he uses to measure his self worth evaporate whenever you enter his field of vision and he becomes fucking ravenous. And all of his focus goes into controlling himself.

He’d never noticed before, never thought of you in the way he does now. How when your currents break from formation and head towards the bathrooms, their outgoing force creates a riptide that some fuckhead with a stupid haircut uses to sweep in and dance with you. 

But you push him away. 

He doesn’t get the memo, and the mophead tries his best to yank you out to sea again.

Magma flows through Taehyung's veins, thunder cracks in his ears and all he can think about is storming through the crowd to steal you from said fuckhead by claiming you for himself.

But he won’t. 

Can’t.

All because of his darling best friend. 

Fourteen doesn’t know about his feelings for you of course. And Tae rather likes being alive and in one piece, two things he most definitely would not remain should he act on any of these feelings.

You are wholly off limits, forbidden. A little too young, a little too immediately related to his best friend, a little too perfectly his fucking type. It kills him every time he can’t even look at you without Fourteen going into what he calls ‘asshole mode’. 

So you remain in his very close periphery. Untouchable to the fingertips he aches to caress you with as you dangle your existence in front of him. Your wicked tongue, your delicious intelligence, your sexy fucking legs—fuck!

He has to stop thinking about you like this.

But that only makes him want you more. 

It’s like the gods handcrafted you for him. Every piece, every detail of you immaculate, but he committed one to many sins in his past life, and now they’ve locked you away forever as punishment. 

You float across the night sky, stuck in a golden cell. Its fourteen bars hold you hostage amongst the stars, all while he’s chained to the bottom of the ocean floor gasping for air. 

But fuck the gods and fuck their gilded cages. 

He’d break from his chains, swim to the surface of the sea and grow wings. Would break your prison apart with the sheer force of his wanting, then drag you down to the depths if it meant he got to keep you for himself. 

He would. He really, really fucking would. If his world wouldn’t implode completely if he did. 

So he keeps these thoughts to himself. Forces them down as they try their damndest to bubble over and burn him, because they will if he lets them. If any of them get outside these little moments, the ones where he allows himself to feel, he would burn and burn and burn until there was nothing left. 

Therefore, Taehyung has never been more grateful that his best friend was stuck on the night shift while he watched you dance and enjoy yourself, because it granted him this sliver of time to pretend like your brother doesn’t exist. 

That you are something he could let himself have, if you wanted him to.

And he’s solid in his decision to only observe, to stay inside his little moment, until fuckhead doesn’t get the message for the third time and Taehyung is out of his seat before he can think. 

Because Fourteen isn't here. 

And old habits die hard. 

“What the hell? Let me go, Micah!” You see his eyes then, red rimmed and glazed. He definitely has more than one thing in his system as his grip on you hardens further. The more you struggle, the tighter he grasps and—ouch, ouch, ouch, yank, fuck! Ow!—it’s really starting to hurt. 

“Just give me one more chance Kitten, I promise I’ll do better,” he whisper in your ear over the music, and you cringe back from how loud he is. But that doesn’t stop him from continuing, “I fucked up, I know I did. But that was years ago, and I learned my lesson. Just one more chance Kitten, just one more, and I—I promise. I promise it won’t happen again. It won’t. I really miss y–AH! What the fuck!?”

The hand on your arm releases the second Micah yelps in pain. You look down to see familiar ringed fingers around Micah’s wrist, clutching so hard they’re white knuckled and skin bruising. 

A broad chest comes to rest at your back, and an arm snakes around you. Its large palm rests on your stomach and hip as it pulls you tightly against its owner. 

Words covered in sharpest ice are spoken from behind you, their baritone so recognizable they have you melting back into him. 

Safe. 

You’re safe. 

Exhale.

“Do. Not. Touch. Her.” Taehyung growls so deeply, so powerfully, you feel the rumble from behind his sternum reverberate into your body. 

Micah’s focus shifts from his wrist to the man several inches taller and several years his senior still holding it. You watch as his face contorts from pained to confused and then to murderous. 

“The fuck are you to tell me not to touch my girlfriend?” Micah seethes, and you stiffen because no the fuck you are not, and haven’t been for several years. 

How blitzed out of his mind is he right now?

You don’t even get the chance to deny his words before Taehyung’s on Micah like fire to dried grass.

“Don’t make me laugh, Asshole. No way in hell an pig faced looking fucker like you could pull a woman like her. Now,” Tae roughly shoves Micah’s hand back to him, and it forces Micah to stumble into the people behind with the force. “Get the fuck away from My Girl before I make you My Problem. And trust me,” Tae says in a tone so dangerous, you’ve never heard him sound so terrifying in the fifteen plus years you’ve known him, “You don’t want me to make you my problem.”

And you realize, that this isn’t the Taehyung you’ve grown up with; seen through his awkward teen years and watched come into his adult life with. This isn’t jazz music and poetry Taehyung. 

This Taehyung has only ever come out the handful of times you’ve ever been in trouble. The one who studied Judo with Fourteen growing up, the one who has his fourth Dan. 

The one who does not play when it comes to you and your safety. 

It’s enough to know that Taehyung is more than pissed off, and more than a little ready to beat the absolute shit out of Micah, if the whiskey on his breath says anything about his loosened inhibitions. 

Micah seems to sense this too, and decides to back off. But not without a stupid macho expression and two middle fingers directed at both of you as he disappears into the crowd, and out of sight. 

You can feel the tension radiating off Taehyung in waves, a coil so tightly wound that a gentle breeze could set him loose, so you turn around and attempt to safely unwind. His hand moves from your stomach to your lower back, and you ignore the trail of wildfire it leaves in its wake because Tae’s eyes haven’t wavered from the spot where Micah just stood. 

“Don’t.” You say, loud enough for him to hear. And his flame filled irises snap to yours, burning. “He’s not worth it.”

Your words seem to bring him back somewhat because Tae sniggers. “Damn right he’s not,” then softens. “Are you okay?”

You look anywhere but at him, the reality of the last three minutes crashing down onto your head like broken glass while the both of you are still caught in the middle of the dancefloor. 

The people around you seem to understand something’s happened, and you’re left mostly untouched aside from the gentle nudges of inebriated party goers whose balance isn’t the best at the moment. 

Like the mellowed waves in the eye of a storm.

Taehyung seems to make sense of this at the same time you do, and lifts his free hand for you to take. Slipping your fingers into his, he leads you to an unused and out of the way emergency exit hallway somewhere in the back of the club. It’s completely empty and dark, undisturbed besides the occasional server passing by. 

It’s private. 

It’s safe. 

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

He lets go of your hand and looks at you again. “Now, are you okay?” 

The adrenaline is wearing off, and you can feel yourself start to shake. You ignore it. Sort of.

“I’m okay,” you say. But he’s eyeing you suspiciously and rightly so, so you repeat yourself, trying to convince your own brain more than his right now. 

“I’m okay, really! I’m good. I’m–” you exhale a shaky breath and he doesn’t ask before pulling you to his chest. Wrapping both his arms around you, one around your back while the other holds your head protectively to him. Your own go around his waist as you grip him back tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say again, muffled into his black high necked shirt, taking deep breaths of his soothing, familiar scent. You do it and again, and again. Repeating the pretty lie to yourself again and again until it becomes the truth. 

He doesn’t let go until you do, and you don’t let go until you’ve finally stopped shaking.

You look up into his eyes, and all signs of his previous wrath are gone. It seems the hug didn’t ground just you, it grounded him too. Got him out of the headspace that would’ve been required for action first, words later. But now the sun is back, it shines down on you, and you bask in its warmth. 

“I’m good now. Thank you,” you say in an even and unwavering voice, because you are. The panic and immense relief having washed over you, and you’re once again simply, pleasantly buzzed. 

Though you do have a new problem in the form of the warmth pooling low from the feeling of both his hands still on your lower back. 

You’re trying to convince yourself it’s his way of keeping you safe.

But the lock on your box has the key inside it, and it’s just begging for you to turn it. 

“Good,” he replies, still not letting go. And it’s chipping away at your sanity. “Who was that guy? I only caught the last bit of his pathetic ramblings.”

You wince. Due to a lovely combination of not being very active on social media, not being much of a picture taker, and the newly dyed hair Micah seemed to be sporting tonight, you’re not surprised Tae didn’t recognize him. 

“Ah. Uhm…That was...Micah,” you admit, unable to meet his eyes again. That’s when you notice his outfit tonight is all black. 

Oh you are so fucked.

 “As in Micah, Micah?” Tae asks neutrally, familiar with what your ex had done, just not what he looked like. 

“...Yeah...”

“I see.”

“Yeah...” You say again. Because what else could you say?

Tae cracks a smile. “Should’ve let me kick his ass. The balls on him not only to approach you, but to call you his—” he cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek before continuing in a hushed, caring tone. “After everything he’s done to you, you should’ve let me, PG. Consequences be damned.”

Your cheeks flame at the nickname so close to your ears. So tenderly said. And you honestly can’t tell if you still hate it in this moment, or if it’s only adding kindling to the fire his hands are fueling at the base of your spine. 

The new name he’d called you earlier, its ignition point. 

My Girl.

My Girl.

You swear, even in your panicked state, you’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe before inhaling far too much all at once. 

Fuck, what you won’t give to hear him say it again. But you’re 98.9% sure that’s the three shots of vodka talking. Trying their best to turn the damn key. And maybe they succeed in turning it half way—hell, maybe all the way, because you look him back in the eyes and hear yourself say,

“Maybe I should’ve, but I was far too distracted by the new nickname you finally gave me to give a single fuck about anyone else.”

The moment the last word is out Taehyung stiffens beneath your touch, fingers locked on your back, and you’re very pretty sure you just fucked absolutely everything up. 

Years of good behaviour, of keeping yourself in check. Of pockets of time and side long glances and knowing nothing would ever happen, stolen from you. By your own big, fat, adrenaline depleted, vodka loosened mouth. 

You're a second away from damage control before his grip shifts from your lower back to your hips. 

Higher. Tighter. Controlling. Oh fuck.

He leans down to murmur, “Liked the new name, did you?” in your ear.

Shivers shoot from your crown to your core and down to your toes. Having his deep, deliciously inviting voice so fucking close to your pulse point has you millimeters away from drowning in it. You know he can feel it course through you, just like you can hear the smile it makes him display away from your eyesight as he does. 

“You did then,” he responds for you, a cat toying with its meal as he lifts his head once more to look into your eyes. 

You don’t need a mirror to know the state of your pupils. Your gaze is glazed over in the sinful kind of way.

“I did,” you needlessly confirm, looking up into similarly blown out ones.

The fingers twined behind him release, and make their way around to his abdomen. They pause to splay for just a second at the defined ridges, before slowly crawling up his chest and meeting again at the nape of his neck. 

They play with the soft hair there, gently scratching their nails at the skin beneath where it grows and you watch as your ministrations cause his eyes to roll back, flutter shut, and his head to meet the wall behind him. A barely audible moan escapes the confines of his lips before he swallows,  the divine bob of his adams apple as he tries to regain his composure is the dawn of your undoing. 

“Fuck, PG that isn’t fair,” he groans towards the ceiling, his hands on your waist clamping down harder, pulling you so close your bodies touch in more places they definitely shouldn’t be. The contact has you reeling and all you want is more, more, more of it. 

More of him.

“PG isn’t the name you called me earlier,” you hum, yanking on a single loose strand and Tae sucks in a steep breath, biting the corner of his smirking lip with a canine. 

You want to hear him say it again. Badly. So you release the sensual grip you have on his nape, and let his head lul slowly back down to where it was, his deepening amber wholly fixated on your now entirely onyx. Your heart is begging for release from your chest, and for a moment you wonder if he can see your pulse thrumming in your eyes, because you sure as hell can feel it.

“No, it’s not. But it also hasn’t meant to me what it means to you for quite some time now,” his voice like honey, thick and dripping its way over your body. It’s making you dizzy and weighty with want. It has your mouth opening slightly as he leans closer still, knocking his nose gently with your own. Inhaling in your exhales. Teasing you. Making you work for it. 

“And what does it mean to you?” you ask, barely above a whisper, irises never straying from his as your bottom lip brushes against his in one solitary, intoxicating moment that has you more buzzed in one touch than three shots has had you all night. 

“Pretty Girl,” he breathes onto your lips, pushing his thigh between your legs at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. You hear yourself moan ‘fuck’ at the contact it gives your throbbing cunt. Too focused on the need coursing through you like a live wire—your body pure water—to think about what you’re saying.

It’s a sweet sound and a violent pleasure he devours as his lips finally, finally, finally crash into yours, pinning you in place and allowing him to take every piece of you he wants. One hand slithers up your naked spine to hold you, your backless dress doing you every favour imaginable as his other continues to help you grind over his thigh.

His tongue slips into your mouth and you suck on it, causing him to jerk into you once with the rapidly growing want pressing into your lower belly. But your hands hold firm at his neck as you pull him into you, a knee lifting to meet his hip. Needing more contact.

The electricity filled pathways his fingers leave down your back, over your ass and across the bottom of your thigh to support your search for pleasure do nothing but spur on the overwhelming need to touch him everywhere. 

No holds barred. No clothes worn. Nothing stopping you. 

He uses his new grip to spin you around and press his hips into yours as your shoulders meet the wall. You’re left to moan sickly sweet sounds of bliss into his ear as Taehyung frees your mouth in favour of your jaw and neck, sucking gentle purple hues down the column of your throat and onto your collarbone. 

“Pretty Girl,” he whispers between love bites, “My Pretty Girl.” Over and over and it has you melting so far into him, the only thing keeping you apart is fabric and a potential audience. Though from the colour you’re going to have to cover with far too much concealer tomorrow, you don’t think he quite cares about that last part. 

It drives you farther into insanity. Years of want and restraint and pretty white lies you told yourself are crashing down on one another and it shows in the fervor of your touch, your wants, your pleads.

“Fuck, Tae—please. Please, I need you— please,” you beg, and the bite he leaves at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder has you gasping for air that refuses to be consumed gently. 

But Taehyung is a man on a mission. One who will not be deterred, and you can’t tell if he will be your pinnacle or your inevitable end. 

With what is very clearly great effort, Tae pulls himself back from your decolletage, only to kiss your lips once more. Open mouthed and dirty, tongue clinging to you like the only thing he’s concerned about is swallowing down as much of you as he can while you’ll let him, and you’ve never felt more desired in your life.

He’s hoarse as he says, “Not here. Not for the first time. Not…not here.” 

“Then where,” you ask, near impatient and far too eager as you let your hands roam wherever they want. And you find your thumbs tracing the waistline of his pants, dipping a nails width below where they should. They trail over the indented V of muscle you know is hiding under his shirt. He shudders. 

It makes you smile wickedly. 

“Then where, Taehyung,” you murmur into his neck with that wicked smile in your words as you trace your nose along his jaw. 

“Fuck, you’re something,” he says, almost pained, bringing you immense delight. To know you affect him as much as he does you. That you have him as much as he has you. 

Sly hands slowly pull his shirt from his trousers in an attempt to urge him on. It works, and his response is quick. 

“My place. It’s a ten minu—fuck PG,” he almost scolds as your digits toy with the hair at his navel, dipping lower—enough to feel the beginnings of something—but not low enough to discern anything. 

Yet.

 “Can you behave for that long?” 

You smirk. 

Retracting your hands, you hold them up to show you can be good, do a quick once over to make sure you're decent and spin on your heel to walk towards your booth. Tae is behind you immediately, hand placed low on your back, thumb rubbing circles on the sliver of skin it touches. You ignore the goose bumps that arise.

Rei and Lea are at your table, thankfully. You explain to them you ran into Micah and that it really shook you, so Tae’s going to take you home. They know who Tae is, so they’re not worried when they give you goodbye hugs or when they tell you to text them when you're home safe. 

You promise you will, and hope that the rest of Rei’s birthday goes well. 

True to his word, it’s a ten minute rideshare before you’re pulling up to a tall, black windowed apartment building.

You’ve only been to Tae’s a handful of times with your brother, mostly for things like pick ups for concerts and such, but now that you’re here—alone with him—you’re trying hard not to jump him in the fucking lobby. 

The pulsing between your legs has only worsened since you removed your hands from his waistline, and you’re close to crawling out of your skin with need. 

His hand stays in its place at your lower back as the elevator climbs. 

It’s not helping and completely helping at the same time.

Fuck.

Tae lives on the sixteenth floor and the view is incredible. It’s the first thing you see past the island when you walk in the front door. There’s the kitchen to the left past the entrance, which turns into the living space that’s furnished in a way you can only describe as pure Tae. 

Books littering every surface, warm neutral toned furniture to counterbalance the colourful artwork he keeps on the walls. There’s an old record player with a collection of vinyls in the corner and what you assume is this morning's coffee mug on the art book filled coffee table.

To the right of the living space is the bedroom. It’s a studio apartment, but Tae’s managed to keep the flow of the place beautifully with some creatively put, gorgeously decorated room dividers. And the tall floor to ceiling windows wrap around it all, showcasing the lights of the city as they blend into the stars in the night sky. 

Mesmerizing. 

Just like the man locking his door behind you.

A kiss is placed on the back of your neck as you slide out of your shoes at the front door. You angle your head to allow more space, letting the arm that folds around you bring you closer to him. The feel of his arousal begins to grow behind you once more and you push back against him. A faint grunt meets the shell of your ear before his hand delicately slides up from your lower stomach and past your sternum. It teases your neck for just a moment before it meets your jaw to turn your lips towards his. 

He captures them in a brutal kiss, drinking you in for all you’re worth and then some as his other hand replaces the one that now holds your jaw in place. He pulls you into him but you spin in his hold, throwing your arms around his neck once more and dragging him towards the living space. He sheds his jacket in the process, uncaring of where it lands on his floor so long as you are still kissing him. 

You only stop when your ass meets the top of the couch and Taehyung palms the back of your thighs to lift you, your legs wrapping themselves around his hips as you sit on its edge. 

He growls at the contact and it has you raking your nails down his neck and over his shirt as you open for him once more, tongues clashing and teeth scraping at the desperate nature you both share. You yank his shirt up and he breaks from your embrace for only the amount of time it takes for the fabric to hit the floor before he’s back on you, adding twin bruises to the other side of your throat. 

You let the strings holding up your dress fall naturally to the side, revealing your chest to him, and a  low, “Fucking hell,” is murmured somewhere below your ear before a nipple is in his mouth and you’re arching into his touch, slices of need shooting straight downwards. Giving no mercy to your attempts to draw out the pleasure. 

One large hand cups a breast, molding it to his wanting before he switches and you’re groaning into the air above you, begging him for more, determined to have his tongue anywhere and everywhere you can get it. He lavs at your peaked bud, roaming over the sensitive flesh, making you squirm at the sensations he’s drawing from you. 

You never want it to end as he makes his way back up to your mouth, dragging his bottom lip over all of the freshly deepend skin it trails in its wake, making you hazy with the feel of him and his marks. 

His delicate touch wanders the insides of your thighs and your cunt aches for it the higher it climbs. But it slides up not down, reaching around to your ass and hoisting you onto his hips. 

Turning, he walks the eight paces to his bed, places a knee on the mattress for support before setting you down. His lips never leave yours he crawls over you, settling his hips over yours for mere moments, allowing you to thrust only twice before he’s removing himself completely and sinking to his knees. 

The fingers you’ve spent way too much time thinking about can’t get enough of your skin as they skate down your sides, taking the dress bunched at your hips with them. You raise your hips to help him get the scrap of fabric off, leaving a delicate, black lace thong the only thing keeping any of your remaining modesty intact.

You watch as his now fully blackened gaze takes you in, jaw dropped in slight at the sight of you with your legs opened on his bed. Like you were the prize he’s been waiting years to claim, and now that you're here and that you’re his his, he can’t quite believe it. 

It’s then you realize that he wants you, and has been wanting you. That your attempts to stay in reality these last couple years weren’t just harder for you, but for him as well. 

It hasn’t been one sided.

He wants you. 

Taehyung. 

Off limits, older brother’s best friend, swim club participating, jazz and poetry loving, judo knowing, book gifting, perfect smile having, protective, Taehyung. 

Wants you. 

You can physically feel the gush that rushes from your core at the thought and you know Tae can see it through the lace.

“Holy fuck…you’re fucking drenched and I haven’t even properly touched you yet,” he rasps, unbelieving. 

“Then touch me and find out just how much I want this,” you whisper. Begging, pleading, praying your words have their intended effect. “How much I want you, Taehyung.”

The sound that leaves his throat is a mixture of a whimper, a groan, and a guttural noise indicative of pure desperate want as he takes hold of your legs and spreads them further. Those mother fucking fingers trace from your ankles to your knees accompanied by the occasional light kiss, back up your inner thighs, and finally to the spot where you’ve been weeping for him for the better part of thirty minutes with a heaping side of ten years yearned. 

He places one open mouthed kiss on the top of your clothed clit and that simple touch has you arching, lightning crackling through your veins with the pleasure it brings. Tae slides one single finger down your covered slit before pushing it under and pulling it to the side. 

At the mere sight of you he’s swearing so fiercely under his breath that you involuntarily clench and he can’t fucking take it anymore.

His mouth is on you and you buck at the sensation. Yielding you no mercy, his tongue swipes from opening to clit in one long lick that has you gasping, clutching bed sheets above and below your head to keep from screaming. 

“Oh my—Fuck—Tae. Ohmygodohmy—” you’re rambling. Incoherent. A mess. 

He’s consuming your very being, no nerve left untouched, no reaction too minimal for his learning as he snakes his hands around your legs to haul you closer, pull you deeper into his mouth and you can’t fucking take it. You’re screaming out at the intensity he circles you with, and you can feel your impending orgasm come rushing to the surface. You’ve barely even processed it’s begun before you’re spasming so hard Tae has to remove an arm from your leg to throw around your pelvis. 

His devious fucking eyes meet yours for one earth shattering moment as he slips two fingers inside and begins a secondary merciless pursuit on your already overwhelmed senses. Using the pads to press upwards in time to the motions he never ceased with his tongue, a second wave is cresting before the first has ceased and you feel yourself clamping down, legs holding him in place as the intensity of your release climaxes. 

You’ve never felt a pressure so intense before, it’s like your body is a volcano and you’re erupting for the first time while someone sets off fireworks from its peak. The lava flows in waves, your hand holding his hair as you ride his face, shuddering at the vibrations his moan into your cunt leaves on the most sensitive parts of your body. 

Gentle strokes and licks calm as your pleasure begins to wane and you can breathe in more than just stuttered inhales again. 

“Holy fu–” you try to get out, but your voice is hoarse, like you’ve been screaming the entire time. 

And fuck, maybe you have been. You sure as hell can’t remember or think of anything more than the warm fuzzy feeling currently radiating from every single pore in your body. The damningly  deliciously dizzying feeling in your head not allowing for coherent thoughts to pass. Your limbs are loose, your body wholly relaxed. 

You’re…Well. You’re fucking perfect right now. If you could stay in this moment forever you would without second thought. Locked in this room with him for all time sounds like the best way to live out the rest of your days.

Until you wince as Tae blows warm breath on your core and he chuckles, then does it again. 

“Hey,” you say, sounding much clearer now, “Stop that and come here.”

You slip your hand down his face and grab him by the jaw, pulling him up and over you. Tae tastes like fire and whiskey and ambrosia and you as you kiss him with abandon, near feral as you take what you want from him and he revels in it. 

He’s on his elbows and a knee over you, and you use it to your full advantage to palm him over his pants and—Fuck he’s big. No wonder he was so thorough on you. This is going to hurt no matter how much prep either of you did.

He hisses at the contact and that only spurs you on, grasping firmly at his base and roving up and over the head with the heel of your palm, squeezing gently in time with his reactions.

“Christ PG, if you keep doing that I’m going to cum in my pants,” Tae laughs into your neck before rising to sit back on his heels. He gets as far as undoing his belt buckle and button before you take over, sitting up and pulling him out. 

He is disastrously beautiful, just like the rest of him, and your mouth waters at just the idea of him in your mouth. 

Licking your lips, you hear him curse quite colourfully as you take the tip into your mouth and swish your tongue over the head. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

Tae raises one hand to his eyes and the other behind him to hold him up as you take him deeper, shaking from restraining himself so hard, murmuring to himself, “Oh fuck. Fuck me, can’t believe—so fucking good, pretty—perfect—ohmygod,” and you seal the motherfucking deal by taking him into the back of your throat and looking up into his eyes at the same time. 

Taehyung barks and bucks once into your throat before removing himself and throwing you down onto the bed. He looks furious in the way that gets your heart racing, your cunt thrumming and your breathing so fast your chest feels like it might shatter from the crosscurrents. 

He grabs each of your hands and raises them above your head, sliding his fingers up your wrists and between your own, holding them in place on his pillow.

Leaning down, he uses his lowest timber to speak darkly into your ear, teasing your swollen clit with the tip of his cock. Sliding back and forth, sending bolts of white hot need through you. 

“You drive me fucking insane,” he starts, thrusting, teasing, torturing. And you moan at the contact. 

“You make me want to throw away a decades old friendship just for the chance to touch you.” 

Thrust, tease, jolt, whine. 

“And what’s worst of all is you’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, and you turn me into a complete idiot the second you enter the room. It’s like your fucking presence takes away all the working functions in my brain and leaves me with only the incurable fucking desire to make you cum until you can’t remember you own fucking name. Only mine.”

Thrust, squeeze, glide, jolt. “Tae...” you whine, delirious with pleasure, drunk on his greed and  delighted by his torture.

“I call you PG because it’s the only way I can get away with calling you anything more than your name around him.” He sounds almost angry with how low he growls. “And it means so much more than you could think.”

He leans further into you, so close now that his lips brush your ear as he speaks. 

“My Pretty Girl,” thrust, “My Precious Girl,” moan, “My Perfect Fucking Girl.” 

He releases one hand to line himself up with your entrance. “That’s who you are to me. That’s what I’m calling you when I call you PG. My Pretty, Precious, Perfect Girl. My Girl.” He slips past your walls, sinking deep and you both groan in euphoric unison. “Mine.”

Tae pulls out, slow and controlled. 

Blissful. 

Then pushes back in, methodically. 

Torturous. 

Feeling every inch you can take, which is every single fucking one.

Inevitable.

Bottoming out for the second time, you whisper, “Yours,” into his ear, and he turns fucking ravenous.

Setting an absolutely ruthless pace, he claims your body, taking what’s so clearly always been his. Your legs wrap around him again, digging a heel into his ass as you drive him closer, harder with every push. Then lay claim to the one thing you’re able to, taking his lips with yours and biting down hard enough to draw the most sinful groan from the back of his throat. Hoarse, deep, almost broken with how raw it is. 

One hand bruises its fingerprints into your hip while the other holds him up over you, and you use this to your advantage, slipping one leg around his and flipping the both of you over. 

You trail your tongue down his jaw to his clavicle, he tastes of sweat and lust and sex and it is the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever consumed. Creating your own gardens of little blooming flowers down one side of his neck and up the other, Taehyung moans greedily into your ear as your ride to match his thrusts, sending him deeper while you decorate your willing canvas. 

Because as much as he wishes to lay claim to your body, you want to claim his as well. 

“Mine,” you say, positioning yourself to take over completely, using the springs of the mattress to do most of the work for you. 

“Yes,” he says. But that’s not good enough. 

“Mine,” you demand, and let loose, pressing down on the mattress with your knees rapidly, creating the glorious effect you wanted. You watch as the up force from the mattress causes Taehyung to be driven into you so quickly he throws his head back, mouth dropped in pure ecstasy. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, YN, What the fuck—” he rambles, lost to the pleasure, biting his lip, going slackjawed, clenching and unclenching his fists into bedsheets that already have your handprints seared into them.

And you keep going, a little torture creation of your own. 

“Mine,” you demand again, and this time, it clicks.

“Yours! Fuck, yours. All yours, only yours,” he surrenders and you slow back down to a regular pace, breathless. 

It’s a great move but it’s exerting. 

You all but collapse on his chest and he takes over, thrillingly pissed off due to your power play. 

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he asks, and you clench at his tone. 

He removes himself and you whimper, but he’s maneuvering you like a ragdoll on the bed and you’re more than fucking willing to be thrown around. 

He’s kneeling on the bed, lifting your hips and sliding into you in a doggy style, but then he’s doing the most insane thing you think you’ve ever seen. With an arm around your stomach he brings your back to his torso and twists you both to face the open floor to ceiling windows. One of your legs is thrown over his that’s up to splay you wide for the skyline to see, and you can see your reflection in the glass. 

You look beyond fucked out, and so does he, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. But then his hand is sliding to your throat, and a whispered, “Is this okay?” finds your ears. You nod.

Gripping the sides of your throat, he slides his other hand to graze your clit before beginning his own version of the move you just pulled. Pumping into you at a pace that has your g-spot screaming from all of the attention it’s receiving, his fingers swiping deftly over the bundled nerves at the apex of your thigh whilst lightly cutting off the blood supply to your brain. 

It has you twitching and hazy and dizzy in seconds. You can see yourself losing to the feeling so steadily building at the base of your spine in the glass. Mouth open, body willing, the man who’s been at the center of your wanting for longer than you can remember, its deliverance. 

Dark, sex tousled hair, muscled forearms holding you up and driving you insane. Blackened eyes focused on you and only you through the mirror the darkness of the night’s sky has created for you. 

It’s that visual that sets you over the edge when he releases your throat, and you feel a gush flowing from where you two meet.

“Fuuuck yes. My Perfect Girl, cum all over my sheets, drench my cock. That’s it,” he purrs in your ear and it’s doing nothing but sending shock after shock into your already over sensitive and pulsing cunt, letting your consciousness float somewhere above or below you, you don’t really care. 

All you know is that you feel light as a feather and not of this earthly plane. 

Taehyung removes himself and lies you down gently. He’s back inside soon after and it just feels right as he fills you, like it’s where he’s meant to be. 

He hovers over you once more, and you lift a single knee to his hip, mimicking your position from the club as he thrusts into you with fervor, chasing his own high after delivering three mind shattering ones to you. 

Reaching one hand to his cheek, you hold him as he kisses you, working himself to completion. 

Using your other to deliver a few expert circles to your clit, so you can come together, you breathe in each other's release and  drown in once another’s embrace. 

You leave his name on your tongue this time. A gift. A cry so delicate that a tear falls from your cheek and he kisses it away.

Taehyung inhales sharply, before stuttering his exhale and an exquisite warmth fills you.

“F-f-uu-ckkk,” he shudders as he lets the aftershocks of his release claim you in the most basic and animalistic of ways. You drink in the vulnerable sound, taking his mouth with yours one final time as you bask in each other's pleasure. Silent but for catching breaths, exertion evident as you hold one another. 

Taehyung rests on your chest. Lines are sketched gently with your nails up and down his spine and into his hair as he comes down, content in the afterglow, where nothing is wrong and everything is perfect. 

Before consequences kick in and regrets form. 

When he decides he’s ready, Tae lifts and removes himself from you and you can feel the remnants of your combined efforts slide down to the bedsheets. 

Tae takes a single finger and gathers it up before pressing it back in. You hiss at the now tender flesh. Though the pain doesn’t stop the warmth newly pooling at the sight and feel and meaning. 

He pumps it back in once, twice before removing his finger and placing it in his mouth to clean off. Your cunt flutters at the sight and Tae smirks, leaning forward to share his findings with you in the form of a filthy, open mouthed, tongue filled kiss. It’s slightly salty, slightly metallic but you pull him back for one last lick when he tries to pull away. 

Watching him kneeling there, in the glow of moonlight, you realize just how truly beautiful he is. The shape of his illuminated profile, the expanse of his chest as he breathes in, the colour of his skin under silver rays. He’s stunning. 

You smile up at him, spent, sated and so astronomically fucked if your brother ever finds out. 

Tae must see the thought on your face, because he says, “Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle it.”

But you honestly don’t give a fuck about that right now. That’s a tomorrow issue. What you want to know is, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what, exactly?” He specifies. 

You sit up, eye to eye as he sits on the edge of the bed, one leg on the ground. 

“All of it. Any of it.”

There. 

Now it was out in the open. And the rest is up to him. 

You could drag yourself back down to reality. Chalk this night up to booze and bad timing and perfect timing. Could convince yourself it was just one night and that it would have to be enou—

“All of it,” he interrupts, the most sincere expression you’ve ever seen on him on full display. “Definitely all of it. Every last fucking word.”

You slump on your exhale, so fucking relieved you didn’t have to keep trying to lie to yourself that you could forget this happened. 

You’re laughing before you can fight it off, shoulders shaking. Smiling so wide it hurts. 

“Uh..YN?” Tae asks, clearly not sure how to take your reaction and you compose yourself. 

“That’s PG to you,” you say as you crawl onto his lap, and kiss him into oblivion. 

It’s interesting to finally sit on the dock across the way in East Egg. 

The fog is gone, the sky is a brilliant blue, and the little box you kept sits open next to you, the lock and its key lost somewhere to the depths below your feet. Funny how harmless it seems now that there’s nothing locked inside anymore, like it could never really have hurt you in the first place. 

You take in your newly emptied creation, and quirk a brow when you see it move. 

A wiggle at first, before it’s shaking and spinning and shrinking, turning from a box into a glass windowed locket. Golden and delicate and beautiful, with a matching chain. You ponder for a moment what it could be for, before turning to look down at the green light to your right. 

An idea strikes. 

Unclasping the little window, you lift the opened pendant to the green light. And to your delight, the emerald hue hops into its new home, closing its tiny windowed door. 

You smile at the clever little light, lacing the chain around your neck, resting it on the middle of your sternum, right above your heart. Its brilliant hue shining brightly through the pane for all to see.

Funny how the green light you so longed for, longed for you back, and is now yours for keeps.

A/N 2.5: This is what has been rotting in my brain for the better half of two weeks so please enjoy, it was supposed to be short and trope filled to cure my writers block but apparently I am incapable of short. But trope filled it clearly is. Overall tho, I'm quite pleased with this one.

A/N 3: As always, thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

Masterlist

[gukcnt]

FROM LULLABIES TO LOVE ⭒ M. LIST

in a cozy small town, a rich, grumpy single dad, kim taehyung hires a struggling girl as a nanny for his precious 3 year old son, sparking something. As their bond deepens through tension filled moments, betrayals and fear of love threaten to break them and an unexpected twist occurs in their forbidden relationship. Will they overcome their painful pasts to find a future together or will everything end for good?

pairing — dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre — small town au, contemporary romance, age gap (19 years), reader is of age, accidental pregnancy, forbidden love, forced proximity, friends with benefits to lovers, single dad!taehyung, dilf!taehyung, city girl!reader, nanny!reader, grumpy x sunshine, slight sugar daddy trope, pining, slowburn, contrast of worlds, romance, drama, angst, smut, fluff

warnings — 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, emotional trauma and angst, portrayal of challenges faced by a single parent, heartbreak and separation, mental health struggles, emotional absence and fear of love, grief and loss, smoking and drinking alcohol, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the dark and potentially triggering content)

taglist — [open]

m. list

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⤷ 01 : to be released.