#the detachable limbs thing is not for angst its because its funny

[shrimpwizards]

slime time!!! + headcanons (y juevos)

[freakie-deakie]

Lucas // How To: Kill an Idea

i have been really struggling with feeling numb lately and i super projected that onto this character. i really do apologize if it doesn’t make for the most interesting read. i may or may not end up rewriting this when i’m feeling better.

Warnings: emotional numbness and detachment

Masterlist

THIS IS PART 2!!! Read part one here: How To: Hurt My Feelings

Lucas x Reader (angst // 7.3k words); ft. stepbrother!Johnny

The way the lights reflected off the water brought only distant memories of the Han flowing through the city of Seoul and mirroring the life around it. The bustle of the city, the calm of the river banks. The things that you neighbored so long ago.

You could become so lost in the remnants of the past - that you would forget to lose yourself in the readiness of the moment.

You owed the Garonne. After tirelessly looking over you for months on end, you owed her your presence at the very least. How dare you look at her in all of her beauty and only think of another.

She smiled at you nonetheless. The Garonne sat with you one last night and told you how much she would miss you - how much all of Bordeaux would miss you. She told you that the stone buildings, the ones in the alleyway that you cut through every night as you return to your dorm, didn't know what they were going to do without you. She told you that the little birds that had nested outside of your window had practiced a sadder song to sing after you left. She swore that the lights in the city shone brighter than they ever had before when you landed and that they would fade upon your departure.

She made you promise that you would come back to see all of them: the buildings, the birds, and the lights. On your own accord, you promised you would come back to see her.

The Garonne waved you off that night, sending you to bed and wishing you a restful slumber and a safe flight in the morning.

Tired and stiff, you limp out of the terminal with your laptop clutched to your chest and a yawn escaping your lips. You mindlessly followed the crowd of other travelers to baggage claim and patiently waited for your suitcase to be sorted onto the conveyor belt.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," a familiar voice reached your ears, "I believe a poor boy has been waiting far too long to see you here."

You spun on your heel, a bright smile suddenly overtaking your features. "Lucas," you call quietly as you envelop him in a tight hug. You had barely moved for sixteen hours straight, but once in his arms, every desire for motion ceased. It seemed that he agreed, as he latched onto you and refused to let go.

"I missed you," he admitted before placing a kiss on the top of your head and moving to grab your bag off the belt.

"I missed you more," you answered softly.

He took your hand and kissed it before leading you through the airport and down to the parking garage where your brother was waiting, leaned up against his car, and dusting the cigarette ashes off of his sleeve.

"Hey there, Miss France," he says as he moves to envelop you in a hug of his own. "How was your flight?"

"It was fine," you answer simply. "Long, but fine."

"Well, you have an hour-long car trip to give us the highlights of France, if you're not too tired. We could stop by a late-night diner too if you're hungry."

You nodded along as you climbed into the car, enjoying the banter after your long trip. But as you rode in the passenger seat home (funny, you thought, that you still called it home), you took in things about the city that you never really appreciated.

The locals that ignored the do-not-cross signs, the billboards that were so shrouded in smog that you could barely read them, the stray cats that freely wandered the city like it was their own personal playground. All the things that you used to neighbor.

And when you got to the bridge that you'd longed to see since you left, the Han welcomed you home with as much love for you as it had six months ago. You made it a point to tell him about the Garonne sometime. You think he would enjoy hearing about her.

"The pastries," you say simply. "It was France; of course the pastries were the best."

Johnny dropped you back at your apartment and your boyfriend opted to stay the night, helping you settle back into the space that you could once again call your own.

Another tenant had contracted your apartment for the time you were away - there were a few more cuts and bruises than you remember leaving, but it was nothing you couldn't patch up. The bed wasn't where you had it, the shower knobs had been replaced, and an empty curtain rod rest stretched along your window seal.

"The stuff you left with us, it's still back at the frat," he chuckles awkwardly.

"That's okay." You offer him a small smile and plop down on one of the only four pieces of stand-alone furniture left in the space, the old black sofa in the same spot it's always been. "At least they didn't take my couch."

"Y/N, darling, I don't know if I would lay on that if I were you."

His words took a moment to register, but when they did your eyes shot open and you were out of your seat comically fast. "Oh God, ew..."

He laughed again and pressed a small kiss to your temple. "Let's take a shower and then we'll figure things out, okay? And you know, you don't have to sleep here tonight. There are no sheets on the bed or anything, so you can-"

You cut him off with a quick kiss and lead him to the bathroom, ready for a warm shower to take away all of your travel pains.

"Not really," you answered honestly, rolling your head to the side to look at your boyfriend. You'd been looking at his ceiling for a while, head resting on his thigh while he played with your hair. It felt nice, you thought, to get a chance to live in your memories - specifically the memories you had left with him here in his room, the ones that always waited for you while you were away. "All of my days in France were spent doing something or another. By myself, with the people that I met. So no, it never really got mundane. I didn't think that kind of life existed for anyone over the age of nine." You let out a small but heavy breath. "I guess I had to experience it for myself to understand."

Lucas doesn't say anything for a moment. Instead, he focuses on gently detangling a knot that his fingers had caught on. Your hair was longer now than it was.

"I'm happy for you," he reassures you. He doesn't quite know what he's reassuring, but he reassures you nonetheless.

"Lucas?" you ask softly.

"Hmm?" he responds, his gruff voice sounding tired.

"What would you have done if I didn't come back?" His finger stop working in your mess of locks and all of his attention is focused on dissecting what you just asked him.

"I don't know what answer you want me to give you," he says smally, glancing down at you before retraining his gaze on the ceiling, its texture nearly lost in the dark.

"There isn't a certain answer I want. I'm just curious."

"I don't understand the question," he almost interrupts, suddenly a bit tenser than he was only moments ago.

"I don't mean anything by it, Lucas. It's not a loaded question." Your soft voice is enough to lul his hand back to its comforting motions. "Would you have gone after me or would you have let me go?"

"I would have gone after you without a second thought. Definitely, I would have."

"I thought about staying you know."

There's a pause, a small silence of thought on both ends.

"Why didn't you," he asks with genuine curiosity.

"It wasn't home. You weren't there."

A wolf whistle follows you into the kitchen the next morning and you feel the need to suppress your groan.

"If I knew you were staying the night, I would have held a cup against the door."

"Oh, gross, Jaehyun," you sneer, turning to jab your elbow into the older boy's side.

"What? Not everyone gets to tour France." You can't help but dramatically roll your eyes and threaten him with a punch.

"Do you want a cup of coffee? I was about to put on a pot."

"Sure," he smiles gratefully. "And you can tell me about Bordeaux while we wait."

"Oh, it was beautiful," you think back as you prepare the grounds. "As the sun was setting, the sky would turn golden. If there were any clouds that evening, they would turn all different shades of pink. The lights over the water - words wouldn't do it justice."

Jaehyun chuckles before yawning out, "Well, that's a first."

"Jung Jaehyun, if you are trying to say that I talk too much-"

"That's not what I'm saying," he defends. "I mean you always have a way with words. It's your thing, ya' know. Words."

You hum, turning back to your task. "I guess I hadn't thought about it that way - at least not for a while."

The door to the kitchen swings open and another boy ungracefully stumbles into the kitchen. Haechan is clad in a plain T-shirt and dark shorts (if you could call them that). His hair is no longer silver; it's now a dusty brown, curling up into the picture of a sandstorm blowing about his head. He looked healthier, or maybe just more mature since you last saw him. He'd filled out a bit, and grown into those long limbs of his.

"Man, what's will all the commotion in here? It's Saturday and- Y/N?" The boy immediately perks up upon seeing you. "Oh my gosh, Y/N! You're back!" He hugs you and sits down at the island beside his older friend, suddenly as energetic as a child on Christmas morning. "Great, because I made a list of pranks we're gonna pull together. Jaehyun, since you're here, I guess you can help us too. Okay, first of all, we're gonna shove a bag of chocolate powder mix down the shower drain. I'd like to make sure that one gets Mark because he blamed me for breaking Johnny's lamp."

There were things you would have to readjust to in Korea. Things that you didn't think would catch you off guard, yet still managed to turn you around every now and again. The wet bath was one of them; you were going to miss your tub. You also suddenly found bowing a bit more strange than you originally had, as well as keeping personal space when you greeted someone altogether. Most prominently, the language barrier that you weren't so sure you'd ever really overcome in your first life in Korea.

Words were suddenly weird to you again. Ideas that could manifest themselves in one language but not another. At times, there were no proper parallels, nor were there ways in which to express everything going on inside your head.

Though you tried your hardest, what little French you learned simply wouldn't translate properly to English, or the English wouldn't translate to Korean, or the Korean to French, or the French to Korean, or the Korean to the English. The words just never came out the way you wanted them to, and in a way, it was like a piece of you fell away from the rest, lost somewhere between all of your different lives.

Lucas noticed how much quieter you seemed since you'd returned.

You made it a point to generally avoid contact with everyone while you were away. You occasionally checked in with them to let them know that you were alive, but other than that had kept your space. You became more dedicated to learning about yourself and how to care for your well-being. You began making decisions of your own, from what you would eat every night and how early you would wake up every morning to what debacles were worth your time and energy. You decided that most of them weren't. You decided that pondering your life was taking years off of it, and that you didn't like to eat snails. You decided that you weren't so bad after all, and for that matter, no one else was either. You decided to live.

"Hey, can I see something on your Instagram real quick?" you asked softly, setting your bowl of fancy ramen on the coffee table in front of you. "I think one of my friends just had a baby and I wanted to see if she's posted any pictures yet."

Without giving it much thought, Lucas hands you his phone and turns back to his meal. "What happened to your Instagram?" he questioned.

"Deleted it," you quip, pulling up your friend's account. He hears you coo before you shove the device back into his hands, urging him to look at the baby. He thought the child, redfaced and wet, looked like an alien, though he'd never tell you that.

"Why'd you delete it?" he pursues.

You simply shrug and cover more of your legs with the blanket that rested on the both of you. "Didn't need it." He gives you an unsatisfied groan, but you can't think of a better answer. It was simple - while you took plenty of photos to document your life, you no longer found it necessary to post them.

"Okay," he tries, "what about your Kakao Story?"

"Deleted."

"So you no longer use Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Skype, Instagram, or Kakao Story? What if someone needs to contact you?"

"I still have Kakao and Discord."

"Okay, what about my posts? Or your other friends'?"

"If they have something to tell me, they will," you sip your hot tea and lean into his side.

"It’s like she doesn't want to talk to me. She doesn't want to talk to anyone," groans Lucas as he sprawls out on Mark's bed. "She doesn't talk nearly as much as she used to."

Mark's hand didn't stop relaying notes to his journal as he talked with Lucas, translating as many of his lyrical ideas onto paper as he could keep up with.

"She's not the same person she used to be, Lucas."

Lucas had trouble making sense of it, why Mark sounded so sure about that. It almost hurt his pride that one of his roommates was telling him something about you, his girlfriend.

"Who is?" Lucas rubs his eyes. "We've all grown up since then."

Mark's hand halts. "Since then?"

"Since-" he sighs. "Ya' know, since... Since we..."

"Don't hurt yourself," Mark chuckles. "Maybe," he offers, "this chapter of your life is written in a different style. Did you even notice? That your life hasn't been going the same since she got back?"

"Of course it's not the same," the elder defends. "It's infinitely better."

"Spare me. Look, I'm just saying, the less she talks, the more dialog you're putting in your own book. And I think it's better this way. I mean, I can't tell you how to write your life, but I can honestly say I think you're doing better now than you were before. You started using your words instead of acting on impulse. That's not easy, man. Words are hard."

Words: your staple, your foundation, your life. They were your nothing anymore.

And Lucas didn't know how to understand.

He tried not to take it personally, but soon you fell into almost complete silence both with him and his friends. When you joined them for a Smash Bros competition, you didn't exclaim your victories nor mourn your defeats. When you dressed, you didn't ask for his opinions on the color of your lipstick nor the type of heel you should wear. When you laid in bed with him and watched his fan turn above your heads, you refused to humor his desire to hear your voice. And he took the fault upon himself.

He felt guilty asking anything of you anymore because you never opened your mouth to ask for favors in return.

"Y/N, will you come cuddle with me?" he calls with as much endearment as he can shove into his tone.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

You hadn't watched the news in months, and he knew that. You, ever the stickler for meaningful conversation, had devoted large portions of your time to staying up to date before. As of late, however, you preferred "to watch the world crash and burn around you from a first-person point-of-view rather than a third-person point-of-view."

He hoped that sitting you down to watch the news for a while would spark a fire in your opinionated soul. So imagine his reaction when you crawled into his arms and fell asleep, paying absolutely no mind to the colors or words on the screen.

His next plan was to plant your favorite novel in the hands of your favorite philosopher.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

He shoved the book into Doyoung's hands with a stern "fix her." Needless to say, Doyoung had the book read within a couple of days and Lucas invited you over as soon as his friend flipped through the pages for the final time.

"A piece of modern art," he suggests. "A sorrow lost to the sands of time and a meaning forgotten by society."

Lucas watches in amazement as you sit and nod along to everything that Doyoung says. You didn't interject your ideas even once. You just listened.

He was running out of ideas. So his last plot was his last hope that there may be a bit of yourself left inside of you. He would take you on a date - the best date you've ever been on - and thrust so much happiness and gratefulness onto you that you wouldn't be able to contain it so silently. He knew it was a dirty trick, but how else was he to make sure that you were okay if you would no longer tell him anything about yourself.

This was for your own good, he reminded himself.

Really, he should have asked you out first, before he came barging into your apartment (tidier than he'd ever seen it before and reeking of cleaner) with a bundle of flowers and demanding your attention for the evening.

Surprise.

He was about to push open the door to your bedroom when he heard a soft sniffle from inside. His eyes widened and his shoulders fell. His heart broke when he heard a small sob fall from your lips.

He peeked inside. It was dark, mind the laptop that sat on your desk and illuminating your shaking form. You laid your head on one arm and used your other hand to rake through your stringy hair. Your glasses had been tossed to the shadowy void and your cheeks were wet and sticky.

The header of your philosophy paper stared you down as you unraveled before it. The rest of the blank page was absolutely daunting. Your acceptance of the world around you had drained away your ability to have a coherent cognitive thought about it, forget about writing one.

To some extent, you missed the days when you were confident in your ability to build empires out of words. Now, you couldn't even build a ten-page paper, especially not by 11:59 pm that night.

To a greater extreme, you couldn't understand why you would want to return to your opinionated ways or your charismatic skills that abused fact until it bent to your will. What purpose did fact or, more importantly, idea have anymore, other than to aid your ability to charm others to abide by your purpose?

It felt wrong to write a definitive philosophical thesis, especially when you couldn't bring yourself to definitively believe in anything particular.

"Y/N," you jumped at the sound of your own name and quickly wiped your cheeks with the back of your sleeves, sitting up straighter and making yourself more presentable before you turned around to face him. Lucas saw it all. He watched you put your mask back on right before his eyes, and he realized that you were hurting in ways that he couldn't see until now.

"Lucas," you cursed your shaky voice. "What's up? Why are you here?"

He takes a few quiet steps until he's standing before you and kneels to look into your eyes. There are things that he wants to say, 'you're scaring me' being the most prominent, but he knows he should choose his words more carefully.

"I want to know what's going on. I want to help." He slips his hands into your own and rests them on your knees.

"I just don't think you can," you answer simply.

"Can you tell me what's the matter?"

You shake your head and the tears come rushing back to your eyes. "I don't know what's the matter." It's honest. You don't know why your head can't wrap around your assignments, or your conversations, or your own thoughts as of late.

All that time spent with yourself taught you how to understand yourself and your own needs. You feel that you have exchanged your understanding of the world around you for a simpler version of life. Did that make you selfish? You didn't know.

All Lucas could do was watch you as you fell back into your frustrations. It didn't take long before your brows were knitted back together, your nose was running, and your eyes had glazed over as you retreated back inside of yourself.

"Y/N," he softly called. Your eyes only met his for a second before they were cast somewhere else and your attention ran away from you once again.

"I think," you started, unsure of every word that slipped past your lips. "I think you should go."

You didn't know how to explain to him that you were afraid of what he might think of you at that moment, or that you didn't want to hurt his feelings any more than you guessed you already had.

"I don't want to go. I'm tired of leaving you alone." He stood, gently pulling you to stand with him, and led you to the edge of your bed with a delicate touch. "You don't have to sleep. You don't have to talk. Just lay here with me for a little while and let me be close to you."

"You know," Lucas started as he tossed the noodles in the pan. He'd tucked you into the couch earlier that evening and told you to forget the paper you'd been stressing over. You happily complied. "I don't know how to say this any better." You listened keenly as you pulled a throw pillow into your lap and wrapped yourself around it. "I know that this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, but I did something very wrong to you. I'm still sorry, and I hope you know that. But..." He cast you a quick glance over his shoulder before reaching for the seasoning in your pantry. "I don't think I ever gave you the chance to yell at me. Or like, to be mad at me - ya' know?"

You thought for a moment, front teeth chewing on your thumbnail before you shook your head softly and answered, "I don't want to yell at you. I don't want to be mad at you."

You heard a repressed sound of discouragement before looking to see him dishing your dinner plates. "I wish you would. I wish you would yell at me and tell me what I did was wrong. I wish you would be angry with me for a little while. I wish you would just tell me something about how you feel about it."

He handed you your plate and watched as you ran back inside of your own head. He watched your eyes glaze over as you replayed his words, and yet you made sense of almost none of them. You didn't understand what he was asking of you.

You toyed with your food as you tried to process his request. You didn't even notice when he took his seat beside you, nor did you notice the burning gaze he watched you with.

"Y/N," he called, shaking you out of your trance. "I want you to yell at me." You looked at him like a deer caught in headlights - big black eyes staring down a deadly light. "How did you feel when it happened? Shout something horrific at me about what was going through your head at the time."

You took a small bite and swallowed, training your eyes on the coffee table before you. "I don't remember."

You looked so small, so helpless, and so distant. You were there, right next to him, and yet you were so far away. He was having trouble finding you.

"Yell. Break something. For fuck's sake, please."

The more pressure he applied, the further you seemed to slip away. Before he knew it, you were gone.

"That's not her anymore." He found himself on Mark's bed once again, tucked into the younger boy's covers and pouring out his heart. "She's not all there. She just looks so empty now."

"Dude, I don't know why you come to me for this sort of thing. It's not like I'm just great with girls," the younger quips from his desk chair. "And Johnny would know more about her than I would-"

"No. He absolutely cannot know that I broke his sister."

Mark hummed in thought for a moment before he laid his pen down in his textbook and turned his full body to his friend. "Lucas, be honest with me about something." Lucas nodded. "Did you see anyone else while she was in France?"

Lucas shook his head as he took in his friend's words carefully. He had no right to be mad at the accusation, so he kept his temper in check until a particularly vile thought trotted across his mind. He sat up immediately. "Oh God, do you think that she did? Do you think she considered it a break and she slept with someone else?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying- hey- Lucas, stop." Lucas was already to his feet and out the door before he could finish. "So not my fault," he grumbled to himself.

Finally, it all made sense to him. You couldn't be mad at him if you were also guilty. You couldn't yell at him for committing a sin you'd also committed. He was going to redress the scale. He was going to make you the word again. He was going to be the action.

The solid thuds against your wooden door made you jump up from your floor. Adrenaline spread through your fingertips and you took a step back towards your bedroom.

"We need to talk."

Lucas sounded angry. You pushed and pulled with your memory, but found no trace of experiencing this feeling before: fear of him. You moved against your gut to let him in. You barely opened the door before he pushed his way inside, rattling off accusation after accusation.

"Did you think we were on a break? Because we weren't on a break."

You just listened.

"Did you just forget about me while you were there? Did you just ignore the fact that I was waiting for you? I was stuck here, waiting for you every day while you were in France."

You didn't speak.

"So you just got to do whatever you wanted while I had to sulk here? You just couldn't control yourself, huh? Do you know how hard it was to keep control of myself while you were gone?"

'It was hard?' you thought.

"How about we take another break then? How about this time, I get to sleep with whoever I want? Well? Aren't you even going to open your mouth to defend yourself?"

You didn't.

"Am I wrong?" He prompted. "I didn't think so. Now we're on a break. Now you can fuck around with whoever you want."

Shocked couldn't begin to describe the state he left you in. You stood there, clambering for answers as to what could have sent him on a warpath to your apartment in the first place. His seemingly unprompted fit of jealous rage couldn't really have been sparked without a cause, you figured.

Maybe he'd seen pictures of you with your male friends in France. Maybe a rumor had been spread about you. Maybe he was just tired of you and feeding himself a rotten narrative as an excuse to break up with you.

You didn't want to know. You opted to rather accept his decision, and all of your own emotions that came flooding back with it.

"Hey man, have you talked to Y/N lately? She took one of my classes last year, and I wanted to see if I could get her notes before semester tests." Haechan asks his elder who lay sprawled on the couch.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p.'

"What?" Haechan asked, looking up from his phone. "What do you mean you haven't talked to her?"

Lucas lazily yawned and reached for his soda can beside him. "It's not like she's my girlfriend or something. I'm not her keeper."

"Shit, Lucas, you didn't," Mark groaned, rubbing his temple.

"No, you were right. She was sleeping with other guys while she was in France. She didn't even try to deny it."

"Hang on, I never said that. You conjured that one up all on your own, buddy."

Haechan frowned as his frat members debated. He was focused on a much bigger issue at large.

"When did you break up with her?" he asks cautiously.

"Hey, we're just on a break. Don't go getting any ideas-"

"Jesus fuck, can your ego get any bigger?" Lucas crossed his arms and refocused his attention on the television, jaw clenched tightly. "You're so annoying," Haechan mumbled under his breath, already moving towards the door and shooting your brother a message telling him to meet in front of your apartment.

"Damn, you got called annoying by Haechan. How does that feel?"

"Can it, Lee."

You could feel it all, the swarm of emotions swirling and twirling around inside your chest, and yet you couldn't begin to name any of them. All you knew was that it hurt and you wanted it to stop.

You laid in your bed and watched your ceiling fondly. You liked how it didn't move. You didn't struggle to keep up with it. And it was dependable; it would always be there.

You didn't move when the knock at your front door finally registered in your ears; you were tired of playing doorman in your own residence.

You were just tired actually.

"Y/N," Johnny called, lightly pushing open the door to your bedroom. A strong sense of deja vu winded you. You knew this scene, you'd lived it before. "It's me and Haechan. I'm sorry we didn't call first." You didn't know how they managed to get inside, nor did you care. You just wanted to sleep.

Johnny took a seat next to you on the side of your bed. He brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes in an attempt to capture your attention. That's when the smell hit you. The heavy stench of cigarettes washed over all of your senses causing you to retract from his touch. He looked shaken at first, scared that he might have hurt you.

"You didn’t smoke before," you recalled. It was almost a feat in and of itself to remember the bitter past, but the small victory was stifled by the thick, wet air of the bitter present.

His eyes softened before he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack he'd bought just a few days before. "I started a few months ago while you were away. I knew you wouldn't be happy about it."

"I don't care," you answered promptly before slowly pulling yourself to sit up against your headboard.

Haechan watched from the doorway. He wondered if he'd ever seen someone in this state before, or if he ever would again. He looked at you and almost failed to see the human being in front of him. He watched you move like a frightened animal, stiff and weary. He watched your untrained gaze flicker between your brother and your brother's outstretched hand. 

This couldn't have just been the work of Lucas, he concluded. There were more deeply rooted implications here. There was an unresolved issue before your idiot boyfriend played to his own role.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I don't know," you answered honestly.

Johnny looked to Haechan for support, but the younger could offer only his presence in this situation.

"That's okay," your brother soothed. "Haechan," he turned to your mutual friend, "can you call Ten and Yuta and see if they've, uh, noticed anything weird lately about..." He gestured to you. Haechan excused himself to place the calls. "Food? Food always helps, right?" he tried with a dry chuckle. You paid absolutely no mind to him.

"I can't take this," Ten muttered to himself, excusing himself from your bedroom. Five boys had soon found themselves huddled in your doorway, watching your every move intently as you resisted every attempt your brother made to move you.

You felt like a lab rat, being looked at from all angles as Johnny poked and prodded to see what would make you tick. It felt humiliating.

"Let's just go for a drive," he tried again, gently pulling your arms away from your chest and trying to guide you out of bed.

"No," you answered again, pulling yourself away from him and settling further back into your bed.

"Maybe we should just let her be for tonight," Jaehyun suggested, moving to stand beside your brother whose head was fallen in defeat.

"I can't just leave her like this, Jae. I still don't understand what's going on."

"Just give her some space," Jaehyun tried again. "This clearly isn't very effective."

Johnny sighed but ended up in compliance as everyone except for Jungwoo moved to your living room. They quietly deliberated as Jungwoo read allowed one of your favorite novels from the end of your bed, hoping against all hope that it would in some way bring you back from the void in which your mind seemed to currently reside.

"Honestly, we had planned to just come and cheer her up," Haechan had said. "We didn't know we'd find her like this. But I can't say it really surprised me, she's been off for months now."

"I thought something seemed weird. She hasn't said much to me in a while."

"Me either."

"Yeah, same."

Everyone generally agreed with Ten's statement.

"Do you guys think something happened in France?" Jaehyun suggests.

"Or maybe things haven't been going so well between her and Lucas for a while?" Yuta offers.

"Everything just feels like it's spinning," you said, cutting off Jungwoo's reading of Mary Shelley's finest work. He was just happy to have heard you say anything at all. "Everything is going so fast around me. I just wanna take a nap, sleep for a while." As you relayed your simple disposition, you found yourself moving to lay on your side, plenty warm but unwilling to relinquish your comforter. "I don't feel like I belong here, so I'm going to sleep instead."

Jungwoo set the book to the side and laid himself down at the end of your bed. "I don't feel like I belong here sometimes either," he relates.

"But you do," you say, looking over his features and seeing every sharp and jagged curve for the first time.

"You do too," he promises.

Hours of hushed worries bled into the night, and you awoke alone in your apartment in the morning. You had no initial intention of getting out of bed. It was the hardcover copy of Frankenstein standing upright on your bedside table that stirred your aching joints into motion.

Then you remembered.

How could you ever even forget?

The Han River smiled when you arrived, taking a seat on his bank. He asked you why you'd been such an unfamiliar face as of late, to which you had no reply. He thanked you for coming to visit him nonetheless and told you about how much Seoul had missed you while you were away. He told you about the alley cats and how they missed the treats you would occasionally leave for them on your way to classes. He told you about how much the sky cried about you spending spring away. He told you that the city lights drowned out the stars while you were gone, but let them peak back into the city when you returned.

You had no beating heart to pour out into his water, so instead, you gave him your soul. The Han understood and sat with you until you bore no more faults on which to complain. He told you he missed you. You told him that you missed him too. You told him about the Garonne and how much you thought he would like her. Then he sent you off into the afternoon bustle of the city with a watchful eye.

You wondered the streets for a while. Not a penny in your pocket, and still you found so many little joys in all the cracks and crevices of Seoul. You pet the stray cats; they'd always been particularly fond of you. You walked around an antique shop making wild guesses about the past lives of every item in sight. You climbed a tree in the park without a damn to spare the onlookers. By sunset, your feet had taken you back to your campus and directly to the front door of your apartment.

"How about some tea?" you ask yourself as you push the door open, not half expecting to be ambushed by a group of concerned young men demanding to know where you were.

"Would you all like some tea too?"

It was still a struggle to hear your voice most of the time, but visible relief settled over those who'd seen you cowering from your brother in your bedroom only days prior. They all continued to check in on you frequently, as they still had difficulties coaxing you away from your apartment.

"Lucas," Johnny had finally caught him lurking in the kitchen around midnight. He was beginning to grow irritable with how troublesome he had become to locate.

Lucas froze, cup ramen clasped in one hand with chopsticks in the other. Busted like a child with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Look, I'm sorry about your sister," he started without really knowing where he was going. "I know that I kinda jumped the gun-"

"I don't want to fight with you again," the elder said. He had kept his calm since the situation had arisen. The last time you and your boyfriend had a falling out, all hell broke loose in their dorms. He had landed a good solid punch on the more-than-deserving idiot and held the belief that he probably deserved a few more. However, he'd rather not have everyone in a frenzy once more, turning against one another. "I just need you to tell me what was going on before you left."

Lucas's shoulders slump and he sets his late-night meal on the countertop. "I was just so frustrated. She always let me into her head before - but when she came back, she just stopped talking to me. She shut me out," he relayed. "I tried everything I could think of. I tried to make her really happy, I tried to make her really mad. She wouldn't talk to me."

"She won't talk to me either," Johnny said, resting a reassuring hand on Lucas's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he responds, taking some measure of the blame upon himself. He felt that maybe if he'd had more patience with you, he could have helped you to get better. Now you were detaching yourself from not only him but your other friends and family as well. "Do you think she would want to see me?"

Your brother shrugged but a small smirk played on his lips. "I dunno. Maybe you should go find out tomorrow."

Needless to say, Lucas felt displaced and burdened by heavy guilt as he stood in your doorway, looking down on your fragile body. The last time he came knocking on your door in the most awful hours of the morning, he begged and cried on his knees for you not to leave him. He felt himself resist the urge to fall to the ground and repeat his mantra of pleas.

You didn't ask him why he was there so early in the morning, nor did you ask him if he wanted to come in. Your stare made his skin feel cold. He cleared his throat to dispel some of the awkward tension that he felt clawing at his airways.

"Can I come in?" Without a word, you moved to the side. "Thank you. Were you asleep?"

"No," you say simply, trailing behind him as he steps into your kitchen.

He lets out a low chuckle as he glances around the room. It looked so surprisingly unhomely and clean. Not a single dish in the sink, nor a potted plant out of place. "I keep messing up pretty badly, don't I?"

He hated the empty way you looked at him. It was as if you didn't know him. It was as if you had just let a complete stranger into your apartment.

"I don't understand, and I'm really trying to. I know that you know that things have changed since you got back. I don't know what that means yet, but I do know that I still love you. And that I'm stupid. I know that too."

You hummed along, a thoughtful expression overtaking your blank features.

"And I know that I’m sorry. I let a stupid idea get into my head and I let it hurt my own feelings. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. Please don't leave me."

You didn't offer an answer, instead opening your arms and inviting him back into your embrace. He placed a small kiss on your lips, something he felt like he hadn't done in ages, and wrapped himself around you in an effort to keep you by his side forever.

"Are you happy here in Seoul?" your boyfriend asked, picking at the grass in front of his crossed legs. He looked at you as you looked down at the water. "I mean, I know you don't want to go back to (country), and I have a feeling that you don't exactly want to go live with my family in China. But like, would you rather be in Bordeaux? Or would you rather stay here?"

"I don't know." He hummed and waited for you to elaborate, but you made no real effort to.

"I know that we're still young and we don't have to make any decisions about where we want to live yet," he cooed, looking up to watch the sun set behind the large city towers, "but would you stay here in Seoul with me for a little while?"

You nodded, reaching over to take his hand in your own before pulling him to lay in the grass with you.

"You know, you're not the same person that you were before you left. I've realized that," he said with a sad smile as he looked over at you and placed a small kiss on your chin, pulling a small giggle from your lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I can't wait to get to know you again."

[threeletterslife]

05 | Over the Moon

→ previous | next

→ summary: You feel isolated in the vast American country with no one but your older brother and your six rowdy friends to keep you company. But when they disappear without a trace, you're left with nothing. Nothing until you become dragged into the world of the mob. The mafia world promises glory, fame and big bucks. But that comes with backstabbing, pain, regret and vengeance behind the veils. You're not ready for that alone. Are you?

→ genre: 85% angst, 15% fluff | mafia!au

→ warnings: profanity, intense description of torture, blood, mentions of death by torture

→ wordcount: 8.7k

Your days as a Crescent are a delightful routine. Every day is different from the last, yes, but the events are almost all the same: breakfast, lunch, dinner, sales with Yoongi and Hoseok, talk with Yoongi, sleep. The sense of repetitiveness, the touch of routine is what makes your life the best it's been since six years ago.

You almost don't have time to even mourn, anymore. Jimin would've wanted you to move on.

Besides, you're really finding yourself integrating into this family. Every one of their faces, from Kim Seokjin to Jeon Jungkook is welcoming—you're familiar with the new quirks they had picked up with maturity and you like it. You like the new them.

You've come to acknowledge that Kim Seokjin is a reasonable, level-headed boss who looks out for everyone in the Crescents. He's kind, astute and more observant than he looks. The same goes for Namjoon. You can't think of anyone else who would do his job as the underboss, Seokjin's advisor, better than he does. Yoongi and Hoseok are dauntless dealers. Both are quick-witted and scary when they need to be. While they share a quality of pragmatics, they use it in different ways that balance each other out. Though Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook are often stuck with the so-called 'dirty-work' of the household, they rarely throw away their duties. You've come to admire their diligence.

You finally think you fit in with this family once more. Adult life is starting to become enjoyable.

You've been on the phone with your parents a few times too, reassuring them that yes, you got a job (minus the part you were in a lucrative underground business) and yes, you paid your rent and no, you can't get Jimin on the phone because you don't know where he is. It's only half true. Where do you go when you're dead?

Every time Jimin comes into your mind (though less often these days), you try not to become miserable; instead, your defense mechanism is to read his diary, which you're half-way through, by the way. His writing keeps you grounded when you miss him. You do everything you can to imagine him sitting at his desk with his diary splayed out in front of him as he pours out his mind onto the pages. It calms you down—makes you feel like you knew your brother.

You haven't really been paying attention to the dates until today, however. And you had no need to because Jimin wrote in his diary almost every day or every other day at most. Yet, the last entry you read before this had been nearly six months later (since you were going in reverse chronological order).

You frown as you examine the pages of the diary. Why the long break from diary writing?

Situating yourself on your bed so that you're comfy, you tug the diary closer to yourself, preparing to read it. The moonlight shines in from the open window as the crescent moon watches you read:

How much easier will this get? I don’t want to think about it. And I wonder... is there a special place for murderers in hell? The more I think about it, the more depressed I become.

What I was tonight... Whatever I was, wasn’t me, right? I think I was a monster today, but when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll be normal. I’ll be Park Jimin. But a Jimin who had used his own hands to take another’s life. God. I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself.

But I couldn’t help it. This is my job as a hitman. Jungkook and Taehyung were shaken up about it too, but Taehyung doesn’t want to talk about it and Jungkook’s too shocked to say anything. I’m too cowardly to mention it, so I can only write about it here.

I’m not scared of blood. But watching it seep through someone else’s body... knowing that I caused it to happen... Fuck. I think I might be going insane, writing this. My hands are shaking and my limbs are completely numb. I feel detached from my heart and soul and my mind is heavy in my head.

Oh, god, I cherish the glimmer in my eyes—and I can attest that everyone has their own special sparkle. But I took it away from someone today. I watched the sparkle abandon his eyes, leaving two dull, glassy, dead eyeballs. How am I going to live with myself after this? How can JK, Tae and I all live through this?

And you know what’s sadder? You know what’s fucking sadder? I’m more worried about what I have done than who I have killed.

I’ve become a monster.

Jimin's handwriting deteriorates further down the entry and the pages are wrinkled from teardrops and sweat. You can almost feel the pain he had gone through writing this. Yet you are stunned to silence as well. Slowly, you close the diary, tucking it under your mattress and laying on your bed with your hands folded on your stomach. You stare at your ceiling again.

Maybe Jimin stared at the same spot when he slept in this room.

God. You turn over to your side, sliding your knees up to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

It's one thing to imagine or assume your brother has murdered... but to see him confess it in his own writing...

What's worse is the fact that he never mentioned murdering in the entries after, which meant he became completely immune to it. You're in stupid denial once more. Just when you thought you weren't going to cry over your dead brother anymore...

You don't know how long you've been drowning in your own thoughts when someone knocks on your door. The sound scares you and you sit upon your bed, quickly checking the time. When had it gotten so late? It's 10 pm, already? Who would want to talk to me so late?

"Yeah?" you call. "Who is it?"

"I-It's Yoongi... I just, uh, wanted to talk."

No, Yoongi. I'm not in the mood. I can't—

"You can come in," you say, your own voice betraying your thoughts.

Yoongi's shy as he steps into your room, his hands folded neatly in front of him as he eyes you sitting on your bed. "Hey, I just..." he starts, walking towards you before sitting down on the edge of your bed. "I just wanted to apologize, Y/N."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. "Apologize?" Damn, the moment you hear his voice, you're able to forget about everything else.

"I, well... I'm not very um, good with humans as you may know," Yoongi confesses, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. "I mean, I don't know how to talk to them... I never... Well, to be quite honest, I've never felt this," he motions between you and himself, "with someone before and I wanted to apologize, erm, because I don't know if I'm handling this um, normally... I don't know," he groans, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't even know what I'm saying right now. I just thought you deserved an explanation. I sure as hell don't know what to do when I like someone. Words aren't really my thing, you know? I just don't know what to do with... us."

"Oh, Yoongi..." you sigh, your chest feeling warm and your cheeks blushing. "You don't have to apologize."

"But I do!" he protests, throwing his hands out before looking at you. "We've kissed. Twice! And nothing's official! Is this how these things work??"

"These things," you giggle at his choice of words. "Actually, I'm not sure, either. I'm just as new to this as you are, you know?"

Yoongi smiles. "So I'm not the only one confused?"

"I'm just as confused as you are."

"But you're sure about one thing?"

"Yeah," you nod. "I like you too, you know."

"I don't think you would've kissed me back twice if you didn't," Yoongi chuckles. "So what now?"

"I dunno," you answer truthfully. "But I do appreciate your honesty. I can trust you." Yoongi's somehow able to take your mind off of business. It's funny. He's part of the Crescents, part of the mafia, part of a brutal gang, but when you're with him, you feel normal.

The bed dips as Yoongi slowly makes his way over to you, sitting so he's right in front of you. "Can I spend the night here?" he asks.

You don't think twice before you nod.

It's one in the morning but you're still wide awake. You find that it's impossible to fall asleep when there's so much on your mind, anyway. Sighing, you look up and out of your window, following the moonlight with your eyes. The moonshine illuminates Yoongi's soft features as he sleeps soundly with your head resting on his bare chest.

You feel safe like this, in his arms. Your Crescents marks touching too—Yoongi's on his chest and yours on the back of your neck.

You didn't think that you'd have sex with him tonight, but one thing had led to another... and it had just happened. But you don't regret it, either. Yoongi is a diligent and selfless partner, always chasing after your release more than his. The enjoyable sex took your mind off of everything. Until both of you had come down from your highs, that is.

Now that Yoongi's asleep, your mind can wander back to its bad habits: thinking about your brother. Though you'd forgotten about the diary when Yoongi was taking sweet care of your body, you remember now. That your brother is a murderer. That anybody in this gang could be one. You can't seem to fall asleep.

At that moment, Yoongi groans softly underneath you, making you raise your head to look into his barely open eyes.

"Hey, you still awake?" he asks with his gravelly voice. "Do you need some water?"

"No, no, I'm fine," you say, quietly. His arm moves around to wrap you tighter against him, and you snuggle into his chest. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"You always do," Yoongi chuckles.

You take a moment to contemplate before deciding for it. Maybe talking about it will put you at peace. "Can I ask you something, then?"

"Sure," Yoongi says, rubbing small circles on your arm. "What is it?"

"Have you..." you hesitate, "um, have you ever murdered someone?"

Yoongi frowns. "What?"

"I mean, have you ever killed someone before?" you say.

"That's what's been on your mind?" Yoongi sighs. "Well, would any of this change if I said yes?"

You stay silent for a while before sighing, turning over so you can face Yoongi properly. He sits up on the bed, staring at you with a worried look plastered on his face. It's the first time he's not stoic, outwardly expressing his feelings.

"I... I don't know, Yoongi."

"Y/N," Yoongi groans, raking his fingers across his hair as he breathes in deeply. "Will it make you feel better if I told you no?"

You stare at him blankly.

"I've never handled a weapon other than to sell it," Yoongi clarifies, making you let out a sigh of relief. "But indirectly, I've probably killed many."

Your brows furrow as you ask, "Indirectly?"

Yoongi gives you a sad look, caressing your warm cheek with his delicate fingers. "We sell weapons, Y/N... What do you think they do with them? Let's go to sleep, hm? Talk about it in the morning..."

He snuggles back into the blankets, tapping his chest for you to lay your head. You oblige, laying your head against him as he falls back into sleep. You can feel his even breathing, the small rises and falls of his chest. It should be soothing. But you're more awake than ever.

You've accepted it, really.

You're an indirect murderer, too, anyways. You sell weapons with Yoongi, therefore you are much capable of indirectly causing the demise of another stranger. You shouldn't be thinking too much about it—so you haven't. And as a result, your relationship with Yoongi has soared.

Your relationship with your co-workers has soared, in fact. Hoseok isn't really an asshole once you get to know him better. When you have your nice afternoon chats with him, he strikes you like the most normal businessman ever. Just a little uptight, though.

"I was afraid to sit my ass down on the toilet for a year after that prank," Hoseok snorts, shaking his head disdainfully as you're thrown into a fit of laughter.

"We didn't mean for it to affect you so much!" you wheeze, trying to pick up your teacup without spilling the tea from laughing too hard. "Besides, we thought it was insanely obvious that the snake in the toilet was fake!"

"If you had a penis, you'd be careful too," Hoseok scoffs.

You scrunch your nose, setting the teacup back down on the table. "Okay, let's not get into all about genitals, though."

"Fine. Then what about the time you guys hung a giant spider dangling down on the wall next to my bed?" Hoseok asks, shuddering at the thought. "Who's idea was that? Taehyung, again?"

"Surprisingly, that was my idea," you confess. "Dangling a fake spider to try and scare you is too tame to be Tae's idea!"

Hoseok scoffs again. "I didn't deserve those pranks."

You smile. "I know. You were so patient with us, too. But I'm just putting it out there that I only pranked you with JK and Tae. I'd never do it solo."

"Yes, that makes me feel much better," Hoseok says, rolling his eyes.

You snort. "Hey! You learned sarcasm!"

Hoseok laughs, crossing his legs as he leans back on his sofa. "It took me a while. You guys used to make fun of me for not understanding sarcasm too." He never sounds bitter when he recalls his past, which puts you even more at peace.

"But that was all of us as a group!" you protest. "Jimin used to call you the Sarcasm Man, remember?"

Hoseok hums in remembrance, smiling wistfully. "Of course I do. Remember? He used to always tell me, could you be more serious??"

"Yeah!" you laugh, "And you'd always say—"

"Here are the baked goods for the little tea party!" Taehyung sings, carrying a plate full of warm, homemade cookies. He sets them down on the table in between you and Hoseok, grinning proudly at his masterful baking skills.

"Oh, thanks," you say. "They smell really good!"

Apparently, Hoseok doesn't think so. "What kind are these?" he asks, scrunching his nose.

Taehyung scoffs. "Isn't it obvious? Chocolate chip!"

"Can you bring oatmeal?"

You raise your eyebrows as Taehyung groans. "Only old farts like oatmeal, Hoseok. Act your fucking age for once." But with one look from Hoseok, Taehyung's darting out of the room to bake oatmeal cookies.

"Isn't chocolate chip fine?" you say, picking up the warm treat and biting into it. "Mmm, see? It's great. JK and Tae have been getting really good at baking these days."

Hoseok shrugs. "Taehyung should know I don't like chocolate chip," he grumbles. "He's always getting on my nerves."

You nod silently. There's nothing you can really do about the in-house rivalry except watch it unfold before your eyes and hope you don't become a part of it. It's something that was never a problem before when you were children, too. Yet, you've gotten used to it now.

Hoseok sighs, taking a sip of his bitter tea. "You know how the family is, right? We're always split up in different ways no matter how united we are. Jungkook and Taehyung have always been great friends. Jimin and Namjoon were always close too, along with Seokjin. And I was left with Yoongi. It's better that way. Besides, Yoongi was one of the few who wouldn't drool over you in the past, anyway."

You laugh. "So I've heard."

"Yeah," Hoseok smiles. "Seokjin, Jungkook and Taehyung were all completely into you, though you might've heard from someone else. But I didn't want them coming to me to confess their undying love for you. So I stuck with Yoongi. Until now." He groans dramatically but you smile, seeing right through his act. "Yoongi won't stop fucking talking about you!"

"Really?" you grin. "What does he say?"

"Ugh," Hoseok groans. "Have I become the middleman?"

You giggle, shrugging. "I wouldn't mind if you did."

Hoseok grunts as he sips the last of his tea and throws a disgusted look at the sweet chocolate chip cookies. "That's enough chit chat for today, don't you think Y/N? Let's get ready for that sale today."

"Oh, yeah, right," you say, quickly stuffing a cookie in your mouth before taking two in each hand and standing up. "Mmph—what?" you ask with your mouth full when Hoseok gives you a disgusted look. "Ift's for Yoongmi, I swmear!"

"Sure," Hoseok snorts. "Yoongi hates chocolate chip."

"Oh—" you say, shrugging before swallowing. "More for me, then."

Hoseok rolls his eyes but he smiles. "We'll have to grab the oatmeal cookies later, after the sale. It'll be like an incentive to make us work harder."

You scrunch your eyebrows. "Yeah, but who says I even like oatmeal cookies?"

"Y/N, you would eat anything that has the word 'cookie' in it," Hoseok sighs. "You loved baked goods when you were younger so I just assumed you like baked goods now as well."

"You're not wrong," you say, taking a giant bite out of your cookie. "C'mon let's go find Yoongi for the sale."

You kinda might've totally accidentally forgotten to cover up for the sale today. Your arms and legs are left exposed (which, you don't mind because that's how you beat the hot L.A. weather), but that's also bad news when you're dealing.

You can easily ignore the cat-calls and sexual side comments the men shout in your face. You've come to toughen up these past several weeks. Besides, you know that if any of them lay a finger on you, they'll deal with Yoongi and Hoseok's consequences. Otherwise, you, Yoongi and Hoseok have made a silent pact to ignore the comments completely—actually ignoring them scared them even more, you found. Once a man had vulgarly pointed out how nice your tits would look in the open air; you didn't even flinch as you cocked a pistol next to you. He shut up after that. It's amusing to speak with your actions.

Yet, today, Yoongi is on a different page.

"What did you call her?" he asks, quietly, teeth clenched.

"Oh, you need me to repeat that?" the hitman grins. "I called that girl a whore. Look at her, exposing skin like that. She's asking for us to look."

You're about to point your biggest, scariest, most expensive rifle at him to shut him up when Yoongi speaks again.

"If she didn't say you wanted her to look, then she didn't quite ask for you to look, did she?" Yoongi seethes. "Besides," he grins, "we have men everywhere around the city looking to take out some of you low-level crooks, so you better keep your mouths shut in front of a proper lady. Learn some manners."

The men look terrified. Without another word, they quickly gather their items before dashing out of the room like their lives depended on it, which apparently, it did. The three of you watch them leave with amused looks on your faces.

"Damn, Yoongi. You're really looking out for Y/N," Hoseok laughs. "Well, I'm gonna go get my oatmeal cookies. Join me if you want to." He leaves in an excited rush before you and Yoongi can answer.

"He's always really liked Taehyung's oatmeal cookies, though he fails to admit it each time," Yoongi laughs.

"I want to try some of these famed cookies myself," you say. "But um, I'm honestly confused. I thought, you know, we, the Crescents only consist of the seven of us? Are there more out in the city that I don't know of?"

Yoongi laughs again at your innocent question, putting an arm around your shoulder and guiding you out of the room. "I was bluffing, Y/N. We're a very, very tiny gang. But no one else has to know that." He gives your arm a little squeeze before turning you around to leave a chaste kiss on your lips. "Let's go get those cookies."

You nod, though you feel a bit wary. Damn. Just when you thought you were getting used to the mafia tactics... This place is really testing my moralities.

The whole gang is in the white room again with Jin in the power seat and everyone else in their assigned seats. You're honestly a bit confused about what this meeting will be about but Yoongi assured you that you don't have to worry at all. You take his word for it, but something about that white room always makes you feel so uneasy.

"As you may know," Seokjin announces loudly, everyone quieting down to hear him speak, "the annual gala is being hosted soon."

"Hell yeah!" Taehyung shouts, pumping his fist in the air. "Free booze!"

Jin chuckles at Taehyung's excitement, nodding. "The Crescents will be going as usual."

"Objection!" Yoongi protests, which causes everyone to stare at him in utter shock. The man who's practically famous for having no input in any meeting yelling clearly seizes everyone's attention.

"Yes?" Jin asks. "If you are concerned about Y/N's safety, you do not have to be. We'll arrange something special for her."

"You surely can't let her go," Yoongi sighs, leaning back in his chair. "It's dangerous and you know that."

"That is true, Boss," Namjoon says as he turns to you. "It's an open party for all citizens... But there's a murder or two there every year since all of the gangs in the city go to pay their respects. We must be vigilant."

Hoseok chuckles. "You know, they keep coming up with creative ways to kill. Last year the unlucky victim drowned in his own sparkling champagne. I wonder what they're planning this year..."

You frown. Maybe Yoongi's right. Maybe you shouldn't go...

"Aw, but it's fun," Jungkook says. "Y/N will have fun!"

Yoongi snorts. "If your definition of fun is getting sexually harassed and objectified by the male gaze then sure, Y/N will have a lot of fun, Jeon Jungkook. I'd like to keep my girlfriend out of it if you please."

"Your girlfriend happens to be a Crescent," Hoseok sighs. "Yoongi, she's more than capable of going. It's just a single party."

"If she doesn't go, we all don't go," Seokjin says. "We don't leave Crescents behind."

"And we're definitely not going to skip the gala," Hoseok snorts. "That's where our alliances are formed!"

"It's also where our enemies are made," Namjoon points out. "We strap guns, grenades and knives under our tuxes and gowns."

"We'll be careful, then," Seokjin says. "Not that we're ever not careful..."

Hoseok throws a dirty look at Taehyung who raises his hands in protest.

"So I'm going?" you ask.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Yoongi says. "It's your call."

"Since when is it her call?" Taehyung frowns. "It's really Boss' decision."

"I'll leave it up to Y/N, Taehyung. Don't worry," Seokjin says, smiling. "Yoongi's right. It is your call, Y/N."

"Wait, but that's—there's pressure now," you sigh, slouching in your chair. "I don't want to ruin tradition..."

"It's not as dangerous as Yoongi says," Jungkook offers, staring at you with puppy dog eyes. "Please, Y/N? Tae and I love going there."

Yoongi rolls his eyes, grunting but not saying anything.

"If Yoongi's such a good boyfriend, he'll prove to you that he can protect you," Taehyung snorts. "Besides, it's an extravagant gala! And Boss has already bought you a dress!"

"Wait, what?" you and Yoongi say at the same time.

"You bought me a dress?"

"You bought her a dress?" Yoongi gawks.

Seokjin smiles warmly at you. "Yes, I did. The gala's in a few days, so after my day job, I went to get a dress and called Taehyung over for a second opinion. He said something about how you look good in midnight blue."

"Yeah," you laugh. "I wore that color for all of the high school dances. Taehyung remembered?"

"We all did, frankly," Hoseok snorts. "You wouldn't shut up about your dresses in high school, remember?"

"I was excited!" you defend yourself. "And, I mean, if I already have a dress... I might as well go, right? I'm sure nothing too bad will happen."

"JK's a cop, Y/N. If Yoongi can't save your ass, he will," Taehyung jokes. "Think of it as a social gathering with a double meaning! Free food and alcohol included! But don't mess with anyone because they might spear your head to the wall."

You laugh nervously, unsure whether you should take that as a joke or not. "In that case, I think I'll be fine."

For an hour now, Jungkook and Taehyung have been fussing over you as they helped you get ready for the big gala. They'd tried to help you with your makeup, but Taehyung failed your winged eyeliner eight times so you banned him from touching your face again. Meanwhile, Jungkook accidentally knocked over your eyeshadow palette, reducing the assortments of colors into unusable powders. Looked like you were going without eyeshadow tonight. You had to threaten them with the hair curler at one point too because Taehyung wouldn't stop burning your ear to curl your hair.

Now, you were hiding out in your bathroom with the door locked, taking your sweet time to put on your dress.

"Did you put it on yet?" Taehyung calls for the billionth time.

Your groan, throwing your head back in annoyance as you try to shove the dress on your body. "I'm never gonna come out if you ask me that one more time!"

Taehyung shuts up after that.

You zip yourself up with no problem, admiring the way the dress is perfectly your size. When you turn to face yourself in the mirror, you can barely recognize yourself.

I look beautiful.

The dress hugs every curve of your body, the feather-like chiffon fanning out from your cinched waist. You like the human embodiment of the nighttime sky: soft, delicate but mysteriously dark. You feel like you're being taken to high school prom all over again, the familiar giddy feeling rising up your throat. Except—your date is not Taehyung. He is Yoongi. And this isn't a high school prom. There's a one in five hundred chance that you might be murdered tonight, but all of the Crescents promised you'd make it out alive. You know that if everyone—except Taehyung—makes a promise, they keep it. You feel much better about your safety.

When you walk out of the bathroom to twirl for your friends, you find that literally everyone is already in your room, waiting for you. They're dressed to the nines. If you combined the total costs of their well-ironed, stiff suits and their jewelry, the sum could have probably paid for your whole college tuition. They look rich, in other words.

"You took so long, JK and I had time to change into our tuxes," Taehyung laughs. "But damn, you look hot. You're welcome."

"Thanks," you mutter, sheepishly. "Jin, you really outdid yourself with this dress. Thank you."

Seokjin smiles. "No need to thank me. It had your name written all over it so I had to buy it. It fits you very nicely."

"You look beautiful, Y/N. And I got a matching tie. Do you like it?" Yoongi asks, grinning at you wildly, unable to take his eyes off of you. You giggle as you admire his all-black suit with a midnight blue tie.

"I love it, Yoongi," you smile. "This is like prom all over again."

"Rated R prom," Hoseok points out. "With the possibility of a brutal murder. Oh yeah, and drinks, sex and drugs. Here," he says, handing out a holster to you. "Just in case."

"Woah, um—" you start.

"And this is the gun you'll be using tonight if you were to get into any trouble," Yoongi says, handing you a pistol. "But you won't get into any trouble because I'll be by your side the whole time." He helps you strap the holster on your thigh, securing it and sliding the gun in. When the dress falls over your legs, it hides the lethal weapon from view.

"Oh, and blow this whistle only in an emergency and all six of us will be running to help you," Jungkook adds, handing you a safety whistle of all things. It was silver, matching all of your jewelry and if you hadn't known it was a whistle, you would've thought it was a beautiful necklace. You mumble a thanks before putting it on.

"Now you're more than prepared," Seokjin says, smiling. "How are you feeling, Y/N?"

You laugh nervously, weighing out the rather heavy gun on your leg before replying, "I honestly feel overprepared. I think I'll be fine."

Hoseok snorts. "Oh, honey, you are not overprepared. You should see some of the stuff I'm hiding up my sleeve right now—literally."

"He's right, Y/N, you can never be too overprepared," Yoongi says, moving in to link your arms together. "Don't let go of me when we get there, okay? They're good at sniffing out new meat. If we get separated, stay still and look like you belong there. Okay?"

You scrunch your nose at his strange directions (how the fuck do you look like you belong somewhere??) but you nod. "Okay."

It takes another hour for Yoongi to explain, in detail, what you should and shouldn't do at the party. The list for the shouldn't do's is way, way longer than the list for the should do's. But you're not complaining—especially when apparently a single slip-up could lead to your own demise. Yet even with all the warnings and precautions, you're not sure what to expect. To you, this seems like a high school prom that had gone through puberty. JK and Tae describe it as the best party ever and only Yoongi seems to be truly worried.

You conclude that yes, the gala is dangerous, but no, it wouldn't affect you too badly. You'd go and have some fun, get out of the house for once. Right?

And with that, the seven of you are off to one of the most dangerous parties in the city in a shiny, black limousine.

Saying that the gala is extravagant would be an understatement. Everything looks like it's been touched by gold from the heavens. The ceiling is so high, it looks like the sky itself and the luxurious marble floors stretch on forever. The majestic chandeliers illuminate the whole room with yellow light. The food towers over the guests and the casino tables are bustling with wealthy people seeking a truce with fortune. Everything about this place is gilded—even the people in it.

You can't help but feel a bit underdressed when some women strut around wearing dresses made from diamonds and aureate shoes. Maybe underdressed isn't the right word. You are intimidated. You hadn't expected to feel this way, but something just seems off. Maybe your expectations for the gala had been too high? Or maybe your gut instinct was trying to tell you something.

Yoongi notices your tense shoulders and squeezes your hand as he looks around the party. "I hate this fucking song," he jokes to lighten the mood.

You didn't even realize music was playing until he mentioned it; you had been too entranced by the visual aspects of your surroundings to notice the soft jazz melodies echoing through the open space.

"Namjoon and I are going to talk with some of our buddies," Seokjin says, "I'll meet all of you later for dinner! And Jungkook and Taehyung," he gives them a stern look, "we are not here to hook up with women."

Taehyung grumbles. "I thought we can. We're just not allowed to bring them home."

"What are we supposed to do then?" Jungkook sighs.

"I'll lend you money to waste at the tables," Hoseok says. "Taehyung, you're good at poker, right?"

"Oh, I'm the fucking best," Taehyung grins. "Let's go!"

The three of them saunter off without missing a beat while Seokjin and Namjoon disappear to talk with their 'friends,' or allies, you suspect. That leaves you and Yoongi alone.

"This place reminds me of a 1920's hedonistic jazz party, minus the flapper girls and plus the sugar babies dripping in gold," you whisper anxiously to Yoongi who chuckles quietly. He must've thought you were joking. But you were making an observation laced with concern.

"So, The Great Gatsby on steroids?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"What do you want to do?" Yoongi asks as he snakes an arm around your waist rather protectively.

"What is there to do?" you ask, stiffly. "You choose. I'll just follow."

But there is honestly nothing to do. Earlier, from the long list of things you shouldn't do, eating had been one of them—someone was murdered with cyanide in their caviar, once. You can't even walk around to give yourself a tour because that'd raise suspicion and someone would fling a knife straight at your heart. And most of all, you can definitely not act as if you've never been to the gala. They play with the new meat like they're toys, apparently. And if you don't respond to their demands, they'll kill you without a second thought. No wonder you're so tense. When Yoongi had warned you about these things, the reality of it had flown past your head. But actually experiencing it...

"We can grab a table somewhere," Yoongi says, rubbing warm circles on your back in an attempt to help you relax. "And we'll just talk. How does that sound?"

"Like this is a date?"

"Exactly," Yoongi says as he leads you to an empty table. He pulls out a chair for you and you mumble a thanks before sinking in. It's strangely silent after that. Which is weird because when you and Yoongi are silent, it's usually a peaceful, calming aura. But this kind of silence carries heavy tension and stress in the air.

You begin to fidget with your hands.

"Hey, beautiful," a gruff voice calls to you.

You nearly jump a foot in the air when you see a rather handsome man with a chiseled face looking right at you. He grins and before Yoongi can do anything, he's already kissing the back of your hand like he's some prince from a faraway land and you're the princess he's to marry.

"May I take you away?" he asks politely, staring straight at you and failing to acknowledge Yoongi. Though there's a warm smile on his lips, there's something into his eyes that screams red alert to you. You get a strong gut feeling this man isn't an innocent person wandering around this grand party—he's a man with purpose, possibly a man with weapons hidden under his suit. The gun in your holster begins to burn against your thigh.

"I'm afraid not, Junhe," Yoongi speaks up, his voice clean-cut and cold.

The middle-aged man, Junhe, cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, Yoongi. Didn't see you there," he smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'd say we let the fine lady decide. Would you like to come with me?" he asks you. "Or would you like to stay with his tedious man? I'll make sure I'm anything but stoic," he offers. "I'll give you the reactions you want."

You're already disgusted by the smoothness of his words. He's manipulative in all the wrong ways, you realize, so you politely refuse. "I'd like to stay," you reply, slightly leaning away from the man as he looms over you. "Yoongi brought me here so the least I can do is offer him my company."

Junhe scoffs and mumbles something about you having a bad taste in men before he glares at Yoongi and strides away.

"Sorry, Y/N," Yoongi apologizes. "He's just some guy I know from work."

You frown slightly. Which kind of work was he talking about? His job as an anesthesiologist or as a dealer for the Crescents? But you realize Yoongi had purposely been vague so you let the whole matter go.

You haven't yet released the tension on your shoulders since you first walked into the gala and that encounter with Junhe was not helping. You're awkwardly staring at your hands folded in your lap when Yoongi clears his throat.

"I, uh, I'm not too stoic, am I?"

"What?"

"I'm not too apathetic?" he asks again. "I don't want to be boring."

You shake your head though your body remains rigid. "It's part of you, Yoongi. And I like that about you. You don't dramatize anything."

Yoongi nods thoughtfully but you can tell he's troubled because there's a thin worry line dragging across his forehead. It's too bad both of you suck at small talk.

The silence between the two of you gives you time to drown in your worst fears. You've never quite liked crowds, but a crowd of highly-dangerous, rich folks is far worse than anything else you've ever experienced before. You can't trust anyone. You don't know who has a dagger literally hidden behind their back.

It also makes you realize you might not be safe.

Jimin's murderer could be here.

Chills run down your spine and your blood runs cold when you realize that a cold-hearted killer could be looking for you. Waiting to kill you like he killed your brother. Your eyes shake as you try to look around the room, trying to see if anyone is targeting you. God. Why did you agree to this? Why did anyone agree to this? Did they really think you could be safe?

With so many wealthy people here, it'd be easy to hide any murder with hush money. This is a mafia gala, for heaven's sake—the room is filled with people who have gotten away with murder once, twice or thrice. Maybe even countless times.

Suddenly the skin exposed on your arms feel prickly and cold and the hair tickling the back of your neck is irritable. You're getting a crazy feeling at the pit of your stomach that someone is watching you. Maybe you're being paranoid?

"Hey, you okay, Y/N? You're starting to sweat," Yoongi whispers. He reaches over to grab your hand across the table. "Do you feel sick?"

Your face is starting to feel hot and your head is starting to hurt. The room seems to spin. "I wanna go home," you whisper. "Please, Yoongi."

Yoongi hesitates. "Oh, Y/N—"

But he's interrupted by a series of muffled gunshots coming from near the gambling tables. Your heart drops. "Isn't that where Jungk—"

Yoongi takes you by the arm mid-sentence, dragging you further away from the commotion that was starting to pick up. "We'll get you home early."

"Wait, but—"

"There's nothing we can do, Y/N. I'm sure they're fine. We're just going to wait in the limo," he whispers lowly in your ear as he guides you steadily toward the exit. Your heart is threatening to leap out of your chest but he seems fine. Unbothered, even.

You squeeze your intertwined hands and you lean closer to Yoongi as he leads you out of the gala safely. He whispers not to look back, to act natural as the two of you make your way over to your parked limo.

The moment both of you get inside the luxury car, Yoongi pulls down the blinds and whips out his phone. He frantically texts someone—you assume it's Seokjin or Namjoon. You hold your breath for news.

After six painstakingly silent minutes, Yoongi lets out a sigh of relief. "The rest of them are coming right now. Taehyung told me to not say anything as of now because he wants to tell you the story, himself."

"So they're okay?" you say. "But there was a murder?"

"There were several, today," Yoongi sighs. "But everyone we care for is okay." He reaches out to check your temperature, placing the back of his hand on your forehead as he caresses your cheek with his other hand. "Are you feeling better?"

You nod. "I'm sorry I freaked out. I just hated—"

"We've survived!!!" Taehyung sings as he swings open the door of the limo, nearly causing you to have a heart attack at the suddenness. "I'm here to spill the tea!"

Hoseok rolls his eyes as he steps into the car. "It wasn't really as creative this year," he grumbles. You grimace when you realize he's talking about the murders.

Everyone else fills in the car, all ears on Taehyung to tell the dramatized version of the story.

"So," Taehyung begins, his voice soft and eyes sparkling. "Hoseok, JK and I were minding our goddamn businesses at the gambling table. And I was kinda losing, you know? It's been a while since I played poker. So I had to fold and get the fuck out of there before Hoseok beat my ass for losing his money. And for some reason, I really had to pee, which was the universe's way to tell me I had to check out this awesome murder in the bathroom!"

Jungkook giggles. "I was there too! We walked in and it was just eerily quiet in there, you know?"

"Yeah, usually couples are getting it on in there, if you know what I mean," Taehyung snorts. "So JK and I are like 'oh, ha, that's strange,' but we don't think much of it until we see a pair of legs poking out of an open-doored stall."

"At this point, I'm cursing at these stupid hooligans because I'm holding their spot at the tables and they're taking too damn long to relieve themselves of piss," Hoseok sighs, shaking his head. "Didn't know they were going full-on detective-mode in the bathroom."

"Yeah, well my first reaction is, 'man, if you wanna fucking piss on the toilet at least close the stall door??' But then I realized there's blood on the floor," Taehyung says. "JK and I get closer and man it was INSANE!"

"He had a knife just stuck in his back! It was wedged so deep into him too," Jungkook marvels. "And the best part—"

"His face was in the fucking toilet!" Taehyung exclaims. "Whoever killed him was not playing around. I personally think they drowned him first, but JK thinks they stabbed him and pushed him into the toilet. But that would mean they'd had to have a spectacular aim if you know what I mean."

You squirm in Yoongi's arms, unsure if you wanted to hear the rest of the story. He notices your discomfort and sighs, "Let's not be so vulgar."

Taehyung rolls his eyes. "How can I not be vulgar? It's a fucking murder." But when he sees your scared face, he becomes more serious. "Well, JK and I weren't going to report the murder because we're not going to get involved. And besides, I bet we were probably the tenth people coming across that scene—no one wants to get involved in that gala. So we just left to find Hoseok again."

"And that's when I hear the gunshots," Hoseok says. "It came from the table behind me, too, so I got to see everything." He crosses his legs and arms, scoffing. "Three men fell down. I left before a fight broke out."

"Four murders," Seokjin shakes his head. "That we know of, too. It gets worse every year, doesn't it?" Even though he speaks of bad news, he smiles, stretching out on the expensive leather seats. "But Joon and I got our jobs done. Yoongi, Hoseok, Y/N? We've got some good sales on the way."

"Delightful," Hoseok says.

"I think we'd better get home, now," Jin says, trying to give you a reassuring smile. "Y/N, you'd appreciate a nice, warm, bath, right? I'll try to dig out some of my special bath salts for you. I think you need a good soak."

You nod, though you grip at Yoongi's black silk button-up shirt.

Home has never sounded this welcoming.

Though Yoongi offered to soak with you in the tub, you'd declined, telling him instead you'd meet him in your pajamas in his room. He'd nodded without saying another word, and you silently thank him for knowing when to give you some space.

Seokjin had been right. A hot bath did really help—yet it didn't help clear your head filled to the brim with thoughts. Once you've lathered yourself with lavender lotion and gotten dressed into comfortable clothing, you knock on Yoongi's door.

"Hey," he says, opening it right away. "Are you tired? Do you want to go to bed?"

"Yeah," you nod.

Yoongi guides you over to his bed, helping you into the covers and tucking you in before he climbs in and spoons you from behind. There's a comfortable silence. Then:

"How long did it take you to get used to this?" you ask.

"This?" Yoongi inquires. "You mean life as a..." he pauses, "Crescent?"

You nod.

"Not a while, really," Yoongi says, curling his fingers into your hair. "It... Well, it takes longer for others to adjust. Depends on the person."

"Hmm," you hum softly. "The murders today... Do you think they were correlated?"

"It could be anything," Yoongi answers. "But no, I don't think they were correlated."

"But either way, there were murders because there were enemies at the gala," you sigh, turning around to face Yoongi. "I was just so tense all the time. I think I subconsciously felt the tension between the gangs."

Your boyfriend shrugs. "Maybe, Y/N. But sometimes new recruits have to murder someone—anyone—to be accepted completely into the gang," he sighs. "Think of it as a token to join," he expounds further when he sees your confused expression. "The more tortuous the murder, the better. It's happened every year at the gala."

"But that makes the murder worse," you scoff. "At least if they were enemies, the victim might've seen it coming. But if the victim was chosen randomly—that's just the worst kind of misfortune!"

"I know," Yoongi mumbles. "It's not fair, Y/N. We all know that."

The way he's so nonchalant irritates you. "But, Yoongi! I could've died tonight," you sigh. "You know, the person who murdered Jimin could've been right there, waiting for the right time to kill me!" You shudder just thinking about it. "I didn't realize how unsafe I felt until I was at the gala, Yoongi. I don't know if I was being paranoid but I really felt like I was being watched. I could've been killed..."

Yoongi's silent, refusing to look into your eyes. Finally, he answers with a soft, husky voice. "I wouldn't have let that happen to you."

You scoff, sitting up and tugging yourself out of Yoongi's arms. "Really?" You raise a doubtful eyebrow. "You let it happen to my brother, though." You regret the words that had spilled out of your lips when you see Yoongi's hurt face. An awkward silence follows and neither of you moves.

Finally, Yoongi turns around, facing away from you as he grunts out, "Go to sleep, Y/N."

You don't have it in you to apologize, half angry at Yoongi for not protecting your brother like he swore to protect you and half sorry that you let out your fear and frustration on him. Without another word, you tuck yourself back in the blankets, back facing Yoongi. You stay still, staring into the dark nothingness as you wait until Yoongi's breaths become even. When you know he's asleep for sure, you slip out of his bed.

You can't do this right now.

Yoongi's supposed to be the one who makes you forget about your dead brother. But he's doing everything but.

You need to read Jimin's diary to calm yourself down. The only thing you need right now is to hear your brother's soothing voice echoing in your head as you read the words he had written years back. Quickly, you find refuge in your own room, snuggling up in your own covers before pulling out the leather journal from underneath the mattress.

You open the diary and read it in the faint moonlight.

Today, I woke up because I thought I heard Y/N’s voice calling my name somewhere off in the distance. I imagined that she was calling me a lazy stink bomb and pestering me to wake up so I could keep her company. But when I came to my senses, I realized that Y/N’s probably still sleeping in her apartment and I’m in a mansion miles and miles away from her. Part of me feels guilty for living such a luxurious life without her. But another part knows that what I did is for her own good. I think.

Sometimes I just want to drive back and tell her I’m sorry I left her. That I’m sorry I didn’t give her any explanations. That she has to lie to our parents for me. She must be so mad at me...

I feel like I left my blood-related family for my self-proclaimed brothers. On some days, I wonder if I made the right move. But then again, I can’t imagine a life without my friends and I’ve lived more than half of my life without my parents by my side. 

The only person who has to face the consequences is Y/N. I abandoned her to pursue my own dream life. I know it’s selfish of me but for once, I felt like doing something for myself.

I drowned in guilt for the majority of today. Y/N’s most likely called me at least a hundred times on my old phone... I can’t even bring myself to imagine the disappointed look on her face when I don’t pick up. I had to stop myself at least twenty times from dialing her number to call her. God, I’m just getting so homesick. I think I stared at those polaroid pictures for hours on end today.

I miss Y/N.

Maybe one day, when this... all of this dies down, I’ll be able to visit her. I’ll be able to tell her everything I experienced and before she gets mad at me, I’ll tell her my funniest stories! It’d be like I never left. I guess I’ll be waiting for that day to come.

For now, I have my polaroids and drawings for remembrance. I’ll go to bed hearing Y/N scream at me to toss my socks into the laundry basket. And for once, it’d be a welcoming noise.

You can't help the tears dripping down your face when you reluctantly shut the leather-bounded notebook This is the first time Jimin had mentioned you in his diary... which meant that in his future entries, he completely neglected to write about you or just... didn't care as much. It hurts to think, really. That every real feeling Jimin has, he ditches it the more he becomes involved in the mafia.

You fall asleep alone on your bed, but you don't feel lonely. Usually, Yoongi would be by your side to take your mind off of your brother's murder, but today, you need time to think about it.

The last thing you think you hear before you drowse off is the sound of your brother screaming at you that yes, he already did toss his socks into the laundry basket, so no, you didn't have to yell at him. Normally this kind of reply would irritate you even more, but it's a cordial illusion that brings a smile to your face before you're drifting off to dreamland.

—previous | next

—masterpost

—masterlist

[h-ilsae]

of friction and bone

(summer writing experiments = rough drafts and monotone narration !! woopdy fucking doo)

prologue

words : 1520 | genre : angst, i guess?? a bit of gore later | pairing : reader / Jeon Jeongguk

An exhibition of worsts in an alleyway, where most bad deals are struck. That's how most pathetic stories start. Cursed by all-knowing eyes, Y/N finds herself deeper into a whirlpool of deceit and uncertainty, both concepts too familiar and foreign. Blessed by slaughter hands and the inane desire to protect, Jeongguk never knew he'd start playing fair for a girl fumbling for her bloodied tarot cards. Her words can shape tragedies, and his shape rhapsodies. 

Nothing pleasant comes out of alleyways, especially a deal struck for symbiosis. A warning beforehand would've sufficed. It just so happens that ending up dealing with your own swindled cards was a definite feasibility. 

The heart of foul play started with a defect in the sunlight, still asleep even when colors already stirred in the sky. The sun was nowhere to be seen among silhouettes of the structured rotting that was the town, as if afraid to be cursed at by its locals when it takes too early a peek. 

Fringes ordinarily cater to troubled life and remorseless mischief, and this town was no different. The streets a nervous system, it shoots rapids, stretches truths, silent in activity but very much inclined to prodding til others bleed, til there's fun out of it.

Though an ungodly hour, comfort drew near. People are squinting themselves farther from sainthood. In other words, they're good for nothings in their primes, all looking for a bad time to make things worthwhile. Farther from peace, banter close to butchery ensues at the witching hour stalls. Watching the early unrest are the scattered patches of kindling fire on cold asphalt, and you walk through it all, inhaling the mandatory gray sea mist that shrouds the overall worship of offense. Such sight has grown on you, selfishly cradling the definition of home and laying it next to you when it shouldn’t.  

Accompanying your light footsteps are the songs of dirty work, proving the art of turbulence to be made solely in disdain. 

You are part of this human exhibition of worsts – the normalcy of your bloodied cape and tarot cards, grime smeared limbs, hands' fidgeting in impatience for a spectacle, and the general chaos that is your outfit, are nothing to be proud of nor worried about. The only thing worthwhile is your mouth's weariness from feigning detachment, keeping you annoyed and awake despite the lack of proper sleep.

The game has been playing you by its strings for weeks, but never had it reached this dangerous point. One ultimatum grew out of proportion after another, and none of them did you satisfy. None of your clients heard what they wanted, which was a shit of an ordeal, taking into account that your gift is indeed looking into the hypothetical future. 

What they don't know is besides foreseeing, there's another polarity to your gift, which is diagnosing. The moment your lips weave a destiny, the future stops being just simple notions – like every banal ability in fiction, whatever you say becomes reality. Whether you asked permission from the gods or not, there's a platter of futures to choose from, and you personally see to it that you handpick adversity.

It's only a matter of time and a problem in readiness. You were a lesser monster to them, because fate is served in rows of possibility even before your resolve wakes the fortune-sucking leeches in them. Suppose it made you sick of stringing life on a bait for the others to dig into. Still, you're passionate about the idea of clairvoyance, yet have a distaste for the act of putting it into illustration, and that says something.

Hiding from daylight could be the price to intruding on fate's craft, of fucking up everyone it can. Or the price to making good use of deceit for a living. At this point, anything could take a bite out of you as recompense. Anyone could scrape their dignity and money back from your skin.

* * * trust is a word you believe in, and you now hold onto a boy with a knife under his petticoat, a product of trust mocking you. * * *

Yoongi advised that the boy was the best to take up, considering the risky affairs you brought yourself into and the reluctance of his unit to be of service to a small girl. You needed a goddamn escort to go through the night without getting unnecessary attention from the disheartened and enraged yesterdays. 

A single package needs to be delivered safely. As simple as that. The worst best must've been dared say as a conjecture to steer clear of you, because his description of a loyal menace seems far from yours. Yoongi should have bigger problems to deal with, or else he's gonna get a healthy dose of jinx to look forward to.

The bloke must've reached a rock bottom of some sorts to accept Yoongi's recommendation and to seriously judge your offer. He hasn't spoken a word since he showed up with his burnt insignia of a placid crow on the sleeve of his coat, which could've been mistaken for a mere dark blotch from afar. If you weren't acutely aware of the 3 am scene showing a boy walking with coolheaded grace – you'd be out in the open gamble, ready for taking.

His fingers swiftly brushed over the crow patch, the mark of Yoongi's crew - the Dregs, in a natural gesture to confirm. Then his hands retreated almost instantly. You took a quick assessment: his other movements were oddly casual. Tongue in cheek, distant gaze, head cocked to the side, but arms stiff with hands reinstated at his back. He had an acceptable build and a passable height. Should there be a need to hound, he'd accomplish.

After a raise of brows, he said no more and followed you head into the dark, keeping a respectable distance that didn't scream "I'm her bodyguard and she's most likely a person of value, come on, attack us!"

If he accepted the job without having reservations. he could be unaware of your tales, that, or he paid no heed to the silly, middle-school superstitious gossip.

When you turn to an empty street, you slow your movement so he'd catch up.

"Hey, um, we've been walking for half an hour now. Care to tell me your name?"

You already knew his name, but if he were to join you in your entanglement of misadventres, it ought to be that you earn his name rightfully.

"Jeongguk." A single word is spared, then he resumes to surveying the area nonchalantly.

Your lips purse with his condensed answer. It wouldn't hurt to speak more than a word. It wouldn't hurt to answer questions that insist a single word for an answer, either.

He - now you could freely call Jeongguk, fixed his adamant eyes on studying the empty street, another glance towards you unafforded. Possibly a polite suggestion that you shut up, because he's working.

The street was like any other, only less alive. A long bar of asphalt, an orchestra of crickets with the faint hustle and bustle, an array of absent houses with roofs cooked red, and a flickering streetlight at the end.

* * * an interval : quietude. * * *

Not that the night was free of scattered vermin, only tonight was relatively lacking in interference. Even passing through the cloak and dagger market, none of the sellers shoved their merchandise in your face. All of which could be a good thing, that the probabilities seem to be in your favor today. Though later on you push that inkling out of your thoughts, not wanting to drive away the luck. Your own words don't work on you anyway, but it would be nice if he did talk a bit to ease your nerves.

A side job is a side job, one that you promised to fulfill. The package is an unadorned box sitting heavily in your left pocket, its weight creating a reputation for itself. It stirs something creeping in your chest, like a slow burn anticipating the undisclosed. Two things are unknown : the contents of the package and the next five minutes.

There are reasons for why things happen. A superior principle - none of it matters. The package implies otherwise, and the quiet dread says so. So does your fingers. They wound up fiddling with the edges of the tarot cards in the other pocket, sure to leave the impression of blood.

The tension is of your own doing and an independent burden. Everyone else are calmly entertaining their sins, while you're a quarter pissy, a quarter bored, a quarter nervous, and a quarter unsure.

Funny how you're a wuss when the talk is of your own the future; you can see it laid out in front of you. In just a hundred couple of to-be-sifted-through chapters though, unfortunately.

"I'm Y/N, but you probably already know that." He nods in reply.

* * * one thing certain about this tight-lipped obscurity : he's better in feigning detachment, more than you ever were. ***

Unbeknownst to you, a wraith closely watches the awkward exchange. Muted shallow breaths play somewhere above you, and Jeongguk alone catches its rhythm.

Someone smiles in knowing – there's a new participant to the game. Out of politeness, of course, the acceptance of the rookie comes a new ploy, made suited to their needs. Slaughter hands to undergo pruning heartstrings should be an interesting notion. A start to the well-known sickness that would do one well to know to never catch it - actually giving a fuck.