communication or cooperation which facilitates a close working relationship between people or organizations.
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Nobody gives a shit about what I like I know but I shall repost about some of the fics that I loved reading and feel so lucky that we are getting to read such good pieces of fiction for free!! Also, in between are some random things that I like.
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Warnings: Swearing, blood, violence, Yandere themes, Stockholm Syndrome, kidnapping, fighting, extreme obsession, stalking, little bit of smut, breeding kink-ish but not just a kinkâŠ
Word Count: 12,717
Took a small break from Sweet On You to work on this request I received a while ago. Thank you to the requester! This does include a lot of OT7 as requested, but I did lean into writing it Yoongi centered because Iâm most confident with that so I hope thatâs okay. Yandere and mafia tropes are not my strongest so I hope you like it and itâs what you were looking for! â„ïž
Sweet On You will be returning next and they will be going to ParisâŠ
When you first started as a journalist you went by the pen name Canary. It was a bit silly and a bit on the nose. The bird in the coal mine, singing until the air turned toxic. You were young and inexperienced but fearless, and arguably reckless, digging into the kind of dirt that made powerful men lose their sleep. You thought you were untouchable because you were invisible. You thought you were surviving on your own wits, narrowly dodging "accidental" car trouble or mysterious figures in the shadows through sheer luck. You didn't realize that luck had a name.
For years, while you were busy being Canary, he was the silence behind the noise. He was the reason the threats never turned into actions. The reason the doors that should have been locked to you were left ajar. He had been protecting you from dangers you didn't even know existed, watching over your career from the high-rise perches of a world you were only beginning to scratch the surface of. He let you be brave because he was making sure you stayed alive to be reckless. But eventually, the bird had to come out of the mine. Eventually, the protector wanted to be seen.
You had imagined this moment a hundred different ways. None of them looked like this though. No guards dragging you in. No dark, smoke-filled room. No immediate sense of danger pressing against your throat.
Instead he asked, âCoffee?â The question caught you off guard. You blinked, fingers tightening slightly around your notebook as you looked across the table at him. Min Yoongi, he didnât look like a man people feared, not at first glance at least. He sat comfortably across from you in a quiet, upscale lounge tucked into the corner of a high-rise building downtown. Soft lighting, low music, the faint clink of glassware in the distance. Nothing about this was normal.
You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to refocus, âIâm fine, thank you.â A small nod. No pressure, âSuit yourself.â His voice was low, calm in a way that made it hard to read. Youâd spent months chasing this.
Bangtan.
A name whispered more than spoken. A network that didnât officially exist but somehow touched everything in business, politics, and crime. Untouchable. Untraceable. And sitting in front of you was their leader. Agreeing to an interview. It didnât make sense. Which meant there was a reason. You just hadnât figured it out yet.
âYou said you had questions.â, Yoongi said, leaning back slightly in his chair, eyes settling on you with quiet focus, âYou should probably ask them.â You swallowed, flipping open your notebook, pen poised even though your pulse had started to pick up. âYour organization.â, you began carefully, âhas been connected to multipleâŠâ
âAlleged connections.â, he corrected softly. You paused, âAlleged connections to several high-profile incidents. Care to comment?â A faint flicker of something crossed his face, âNot particularly.â Your lips pressed together. You expected resistance. You could work with resistance. You shifted tactics. âThen why agree to this interview at all if youâre not going to talk?â, you asked, meeting his gaze directly now, âYouâve avoided press for years. Why meet with me?â
For a moment, he didnât answer. Just watched you. âY/N Iâm a big fan of your work.â, he said finally. Your breath caught just slightly. That wasnât the answer you expected. âAnd?â, you prompted. âAnd youâre different.â, the words landed heavier than they should have. You frowned slightly, âDifferent how?â
âYou donât write for attention or drama.â, he said, âYou write like youâre trying to understand something. Like you care about the story from the beginning not just the outcome.â Your pen stilled. That was accurate. Too accurate. A small shift happened in your chest. You leaned forward slightly, âUnderstanding requires truth. Something your organization isnât exactly known for providing.â For a second, you thought you had gone too far but instead of irritation Yoongi smiled. Just enough to change the entire atmosphere between you. âCareful.â, he murmured, âThat almost sounded like an accusation without proof.â
âIs it wrong?â, you challenged and for a moment, everything else, the lounge, the quiet music, the city beyond the glass windows, faded into the background. âTell me.â, he said instead of answering, voice quieter now, âif you find the truth⊠what are you going to do with it?â The question threw you off. âThatâs my job.â, you replied, âI publish it for public knowledge.â
âEven if it puts you in danger?â, he questioned. You felt uneasy but you nodded, âYes.â Something in his expression shifted again, âYouâre either very braveâŠor very reckless.â
He reached forward, slow, deliberate, and slid something across the table toward you. Your breath caught as you looked down. It was a file that was thin and unmarked. Your fingers hovered over it. âWhat is this?â, you asked cautiously. âInformation.â, he shrugged. Your eyes snapped back up to his, âOn Bangtan?â Another faint smile, âOn some things you havenât found yet.â
Your heart started to pound. This was it. A lead. Maybe the big one. Every instinct told you to be careful. Every ambition you had told you to take it. âWhy give this to me?â, you asked. Because you knew nothing about this was free. Yoongi leaned back again, watching you with that same quiet intensity. âBecause Iâm curious.â, he said. Your brows furrowed, âAbout what?â
âYou.â, he answered simply. Your stomach tightened. Your fingers closed around the file before you could second-guess it. This was what you came for. This was the story. Youâd handle the rest later. You stood slowly, gathering your things, forcing yourself to stay composed even as something in the air felt different now. âThank you for your time Mr. Min.â, you said. You turned to leave when you heard his voice, âBe careful with that. You donât want someone dangerous coming after you.â
You paused. Glanced back over your shoulder. Yoongi hadnât moved. But his eyes were still on you. âInformation like thatâŠâ, he continued softly, âhas a way of pulling people deeper than they intend.â A small chill ran down your spine, âI can handle myself.â For a second something almost dark flickered behind his gaze. Gone as quickly as it appeared. âI know.â, he said and that didnât feel reassuring at all. You didnât notice it at the time. The way this wasnât just an interview. The way you hadnât just gotten a lead but you had been chosen.
And as you stepped out into the city, heart still racing from the encounter, already planning your next move, Yoongi remained exactly where he was. Watching the space you left behind. Quiet. Certain. Like a man who had just set something in motion. Something that wouldnât be easy to stop.
đŠââŹ
You shouldnât have come back to him. You knew that. You told yourself that at least six times on the ride over. Told yourself this wasnât how you worked, that you didnât meet sources twice without verification, without full control.
But the fileâŠIt was real. Every name, every transaction, every quiet connection youâd spent months trying to traceâŠit was all there. Which meant one thing. Min Yoongi wasnât bluffing and if he wasnât bluffingâŠThen why give it to you so easily?
That question sat heavy in your chest as you stepped into the same lounge as before, the same low lighting, the same quiet hum of a place that didnât feel like it belonged to the world outside. He was already there. Same seat. Same posture. Same stillness that somehow made everything else feel louder. Your breath caught for just a second before you forced yourself forward. âYou came back.â, he said, like it wasnât a surprise. You slid into the seat across from him, placing your bag down carefully, âI had questions.â A faint shift at the corner of his mouth, âI assumed you would.â
âYou gave me verified information on at least three major investigations.â, you said, leaning forward slightly, âDo you understand what that could do if I publish it?â His gaze didnât waver, âYes.â Your brows pulled together, âThen why?â There it was again. The question that didnât have a clean answer. Yoongi watched you for a long moment , long enough that your pulse started to pick up under the weight of it.
Then, quietly he asked, âDid you read all of it?â Your stomach tightened, âyes.â A small tilt of his head, âAnd?â You hesitated because the truth wasnât simple. âIt doesnât paint you asâŠcareless.â, you admitted, âEverything is calculated like you knew exactly what you were doing every step of the way.â
Something about the way he looked at you, so calm, so matter-of-fact, sent a subtle chill down your spine. âYouâre not worried about exposure?â, you pressed. âNo.â, he shrugged, âBecause you wonât publish it.â Your breath hitched. âAnd youâre so sure of that?â, you asked, trying to keep your tone steady. âI am.â, he nodded. Your fingers tightened slightly against the table. Silence hung between you because a part of you wanted to argue and another part, a quieter, more unsettling part wondered why he sounded so certain. You pushed past it. âI donât work for you.â, you said firmly. He nodded, âI know.â
âI donât owe you anything.â, you added and he smirked, âI know.â Your frustration spiked, âThen stop acting like you already know what Iâm going to do!â Something flickered in his expression again. Not irritation. Not anger. SomethingâŠoddly warmer. âAlright.â, he said softly, âThen tell meâŠIf you publish it,â he continued, âwhat happens next?â You opened your mouth and paused because you knew the answer. Investigations. Arrests. Chaos. Retaliation from people who would all be affected. People getting hurt. Maybe you. Definitely you. Your silence said enough. Yoongi didnât push. He just watched you reach that conclusion on your own. Your jaw tightened, âThat doesnât change anything.â
âNo.â, he agreed, âIt just makes it harder.â Your chest felt tight. You hated this. Hated the way he wasnât forcing you into anything, just laying things out until you had to face them yourself.
âYouâre manipulating me.â, you said. He smirked his eyes not leaving yours, âAm I?âŠis it working?â Damn him. You looked away first. That was your mistake because the second you did the tension shifted. When you looked back he was leaning closer. Your pulse jumped. âCareful Y/NâŠâ,he murmured, voice lower now, âYouâre starting to hesitate.â Your heart pounded, âIâm thinking.â He leaned in even closer, ââŠAbout me.â It wasnât a question.
Now there was no ignoring it. No pretending this was just an interview anymore. Something was shifting and you didnât like how it felt or how much you didnât want it to stop. And it didnât happen all at once. If it did you wouldâve seen it for what it was and pulled away before it got complicated. Instead it happened in pieces. Small ones. The kind you could justify.
The third time you met him, it wasnât for an interview. Not officially anyway. You told yourself it was follow-up. Clarification because you needed more context. That was all. But the second you sat across from Yoongi again it didnât feel like work.
âEat.â, he said pointing at the plate in front of you. You blinked, glancing down, âI didnât orderâŠâ he cut you off, âI did. I know you left home without eating this morning.â You looked back up at him. It shouldâve unsettled you that he knew that. It did but not enough to make you leave. That was the problem.
The fourth time he walked you out of your office. You hadnât asked him to. He just showed up and did it. Side by side, quiet city air brushing against your skin as the night stretched around you. âYou shouldnât be out this late alone.â, he said. You scoffed lightly, âIâve been doing this a long time. I can take care of myself.â, you added. âIâm aware.â, the way he said it. It didnât sound like doubt. It sounded like heâd seen it. Tested it even. Your pulse skipped.
The fifth timeâŠhe touched you. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. Just your wrist. Light. Brief. Enough to stop you mid-sentence. You looked down at where his fingers rested against your skin then back up at him.
He didnât move right away. Didnât apologize.Didnât acknowledge it at all. Just watched you like he was waiting but you didnât pull away.
After that, it got easier. Too easy. You started staying longer. Talking about things that had nothing to do with the article. Laughing at things he said. Forgetting sometimes, who he was supposed to be. The violence he was capable of. You also forgot who you were supposed to be. You told yourself it was strategy. Getting closer. Gaining trust. Getting the real story.
But late at night when you werenât with him you found yourself thinking about the way his voice softened when he said your name. The way his attention never wavered. The way you felt seen andâŠsafe with him. And that was dangerous. More dangerous than anything in that file. Because you didnât notice the shift in him. Not right away. Not when he started choosing where you met or when your schedule somehow always aligned with his without you telling him or when he began deciding things for you instead of asking. It was subtle. Wrapped in concern. In care. In something that felt a little too close to affection.
âYou trust me.â, he said one evening as you looked out over the water from the pier. The words came out of nowhere, quiet between you as the city lights flickered. You hesitated, âI donât trust easily.â A small hum, âBut you trust me.â, he said again. You looked at him and realized you didnât have an immediate argument.
Your silence stretched and that was all the answer he needed. Something in his expression softened. Like that confirmation meant more than it should have. âGood.â, he said quietly. Your chest tightened. You didnât ask why or what he meant. Maybe you should have because by the time you started to feel it, that pull toward him, that warmth, that dangerous comfort, he was already past that point. Already deeper. Already thinking further ahead than you were. Further than you could even imagine.
And somewhere, without you realizing it this stopped being your story and started becoming his. You didnât mean to end up there. Thatâs what you told yourself later, over and over again. That it was coincidence. That it wasnât intentional. But deep downâŠyou knew that wasnât true.
âI want you to see something.â, Yoongi had said earlier that evening, voice quiet, unreadable as always. You shouldâve said no but you didnât.
The car ride had been silent and when the gates finally opened your breath stopped. The mansion wasnât just big. It was imposing. Modern architecture carved into the dark, glass and stone reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding lights. It didnât feel like a home. It felt like a statement. Like power, built into walls.
âYou live here?â, you asked, trying to keep your voice steady as you stepped out of the car. Yoongi glanced at you, âSometimes.â Inside your footsteps echoed faintly as you followed him in, your senses sharpening with every step. âYouâre tense.â, he noted. âIâm in an infamously violent mafia leaderâs house.â, you shot back, âWhat did you expect?â A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face, âThatâs fair.â The words barely left his lips before you heard it, âYou actually brought her HERE?â
Your body stiffened. You turned and suddenly you werenât just with him anymore. You recognized all of them. Kim Seokjin stood near the staircase, arms crossed, expression unreadable but not hostile. Just assessing. Behind him, leaning casually against the railing was Kim Taehyung. His gaze met yours immediately like you were something interesting heâd just been handed. âWell...â, Taehyung hummed softly, tilting his head, âSheâs definitely prettier than I expected.â
Your stomach flipped and your pulse spiked.
This was...Bangtan.
More movement caught your attention. Footsteps and voices and then Park Jimin appeared, soft features masking something much sharper underneath. His eyes landed on you and, unlike the others, there was no hesitation. âSo youâre the journalist.â, he said quietly. Your throat tightened.âYouâre making her uncomfortable.â, the voice came from behind them. Kim Namjoon stepped into view, eyes already scanning you like he was putting pieces together. âRelax.â, came from another voice. Jung Hoseok appeared with a grin that didnât quite match the rest. âWeâre not going to bite.â, he said, âUnless you give us a reason to.â Your stomach dropped.
âAnd here I thought weâd learned to be nicer.â, the last voice came from the back of the room. Jeon Jungkook sat sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, barely looking up. âWe really have been trying to be more welcoming.â, he said, glancing at you now. Your chest tightened because that wasnât possible. You hadnât told anyone where you were tonight. Your gaze snapped to Yoongi.
He didnât react. Didnât deny it. Didnât explain. âYou didnât bring me here just to meet them.â, you said quietly. Finally his attention shifted fully back to you. âNo.â, he responded. âThen why am I here?â, you asked. âBecause it was time.â, he said simply like it answered everything. You didnât ask for clarification because suddenly you werenât sure you wanted the answer.
Dinner that evening was worse. It was too normal and that was the problem. Conversation flowed. Food was served. Glasses clinked. And all of them, all seven men, acted like this wasnât completely insane. Like you werenât sitting at a table with the most dangerous men youâd ever researched.
Jin placed food on your plate and encouraged you to eat like it was routine. Hoseok asked you about your work with a smile like he was genuinely interested. Namjoon corrected a detail in one of your articles with accuracy that made your stomach turn because thereâs no way the average person wouldâve known that. Taehyung watched you more than he spoke. Jimin sat just a little too close for comfort. Jungkook scrolled, while listening to everything anyway. And Yoongi, he barely spoke at all. But you felt him watching you the entire evening.
You didnât realize how overwhelmed you were until you stood up. âI need some air.â, you muttered. No one stopped you. The hallway was quieter. Your footsteps softer now as you moved, trying to steady your breathing. This was too much. Too fast. Something wasnât right. As you made your way back down the hallway you heard the voices. You froze.
ââŠyouâre moving too quickly.â, Namjoon spoke. âIâm not.â, Yoongi said. Your heart stuttered. âAttachment changes variables.â, Namjoon continued, âYou know that better than anyone.â There was a pause then Yoongi reasoned, âIâve accounted for it.â Your pulse started to race.
âWhatâs the end goal here?â, Hoseok asked quietly. Yoongi spoke, âShe stays,â he said, voice low, certain, âand she canât leave.â Your stomach dropped. âThatâs not an answer.â, Jimin murmured. Another pause followed and then Yoongi answered, âIâll give her enough of a reason to stay.â Your breath caught. A soft exhale came from the side. âYouâre obsessed with her.â, Taehyung said. The words settled heavy in the room. Yoongi didnât react at first. Taehyung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. â..I know.â, Yoongi said.
Everything in you went cold. Silence followed. No one laughed. No one dismissed it. Which meant they were taking it seriously. Which meant so was he. You stumbled back before they could see you. Heart pounding so hard it hurt. No. No, no, noâŠThat wasnâtâŠHe wouldnâtâŠBut the way he said itâŠThe way no one arguedâŠYour chest tightened, panic rising fast and sharp. You had to leave.
You didnât say goodbye. Didnât go back. You ran out the door. Past the gates. Into the dark stretch of woods that bordered the property. Branches caught at your clothes as you pushed forward, breath coming in ragged bursts, your mind spinning. You stopped and leaned against a tree trying to catch your breath. Youâd been so stupid. So blind. Every moment. Every look. Heâd been playing you the entire time. Every touch. It wasnât just care. It was controlled obsession.
âY/N you shouldnât run away at night.â, The voice cut through the dark like a blade. You froze. Slowly you turned. Min Yoongi stood just behind you like heâd known exactly where youâd go. Your chest heaved, âStay away from me.â A tilt of his head, âIâm guessing you heard.â Your hands shook, âYouâre insane.â He stepped closer, âYou werenât supposed to find out like that.â Your stomach twisted violently. âYou were going to trap me.â, you said, voice breaking, âYou were going toâŠâ
âNo I am going to.â, he corrected quietly. You took a step back, âIâm leaving.â He shook his head, âNoâŠno youâre not.â Your pulse spiked, âYou donât get to decide that.â He smirked, âI already did the moment I saw you.â He took another step closer, âYou donât understand yet Y/N.â, he said softly, âThis is better for you.â
âYou donât get to decide whatâs better for me!â, you shouted feeling your frustration and fear rise. For the first time his expression shifted. It turned to something sharper and darker. âI do.â, he said and before you could react his hand caught your wrist. You struggled, panic surging but it didnât matter. It didnât matter how hard you fought. He didnât even look strained.
âLet me goâŠâ, you cried. âY/N I canât,â he shook his head as he began dragging you back through the route youâd already come from, âI wonât let you goâŠever.â
The mansion loomed again before you knew it. The doors closing behind you with a final, suffocating weight as he pulled you back inside as your heart pounded and your mind raced and everything finally clicked into place you realized the truth youâd been too blinded to see before.
This was never an interview. Never a story. Never something you were in control of. It was always him. Always what he wanted. And what he wanted was you.
The rules started the next morning. Your door didnât lock. It didnât need to because when you tried to leave, there was always someone there. Usually Jimin. Sometimes Jungkook. Once, even Namjoon, quietly reading a tablet in the hallway like your freedom was just another variable he was monitoring.
âYouâre not a prisoner.â, Jin had said gently when you snapped one morning. But youâd laughed at that because it was starting to feel like something worse than prison.
You still tried. You werenât going to just disappear into this. Not into them. Especially not into Min Yoongi. That night, you waited until the house went quiet. You slipped into the office they hadnât bothered to lock, either arrogance or trust, you werenât sure anymore, and found what you were looking for.
Your laptop. Your notes. Your half-finished article. Your lifeline. Your hands shook as you connected the device Namjoon had carelessly left behind earlier. A mistake. Or a test. You didnât care which.
You just needed one thing. To get it out. To get it to your boss. To make sure someone, anyone, knew what was happening here. Your fingers hovered over send. Just one click. Thatâs all it would take. But when you turned he was already there. Yoongi. Leaning against the frame like heâd been watching for a while.
âHow long?â, you whispered. He sighed, âLong enough.â Your heart slammed. âYou were letting me try anyway.â, you said slowly, âThis whole time.â He nodded, âYes.â Your stomach dropped, âThatâs sick.â
âNo.â, he corrected softly, âThatâs called trust.â You let out a sharp breath, âYou donât get to call this trust.â He stepped closer to you. âYouâre still here.â, he said. You tried to take a step back, âIâm planning my exit.â
âNo Y/N.â, he chuckled, âNo youâre not.â
âYou donât own me.â, you snapped. âYou keep saying that.â, he said softly, âbut I donât think you believe it.â You shouldâve moved. You shouldâve screamed. You shouldâve done anything but stand there and feel the space between you shrink.
âYoongi youâre not thinking clearly.â, you whispered. He reached for you. His hand caught your wrist gently at first like he was giving you the chance to pull away. You didnât. His eyes searched yours like he was still giving you time to stop it. You didnât and when he kissed you it wasnât a question.
It wasnât gentle. It wasnât soft. It felt like something inside you stopped resisting. Like something youâd been holding together for too long finally cracked. You hated it but you wanted it. When he finally pulled back you were still there. His forehead rested briefly on yours but then he pulled away, âNot yet.â
Just like that the warmth of him disappeared, his hand slipping from your wrist like it had never been there at all. Confusion hit first. âWhatâŠâ, you started, but your voice faltered. Yoongi watched you carefully, like he was measuring something.
âYou should get some rest.â, he said quietly. Like nothing had just happened. Like he hadnât just kissed you. Your chest tightened, âTh-Thatâs it?â He nodded, âFor now.â Then he turned and walked away and you stood there with your heart racing, thoughts unraveling, something restless clawing at your chest. Because this wasnât relief. It shouldâve been but it wasnât. It felt like something unfinished Like heâd started something in you and then left it there on purpose.
That night, you didnât sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt it again, the way he looked at you, the certainty in his voice, the way he stopped. Not because he had to. Because he chose to. Because he knew you would come to him instead.
The next morning felt worse and when you stepped into the kitchen you werenât alone.
âYou look like you didnât sleep.â
Your head snapped up. Jimin leaned casually against the counter, watching you with that soft, unreadable expression of his. âIâm fine.â, you muttered. He hummed, unconvinced. Jimin pushed off the counter slowly, stepping closer. âYou know when Yoongi decides something.â, he said quietly, âhe doesnât change his mind.â Your pulse quickened. âWellâŠIâm not something he gets to decide.â, you snapped. Jimin smiled faintly, âThatâs where youâre wrong. You think this justâŠhappened?â, he continued, âThat you found him? That the interview was your choice? Y/NâŠHe found you first.â
Your breath caught, âwhat?â Jiminâs eyes stayed on yours, âYou were already on his radar before you even knew Bangtan was real.â, he said, âYour articles. The way you dig. The questions you ask. The pictures of you circulating the press.â Your chest tightened. âHe likes things that challenge him. Who do you think has been protecting you all these years?â, Jimin added, âY/N you werenât an accident. HeâsâŠheâs wanted you for a long time.â
Everything in you went still. âYou should stop fighting it.â, he said, voice gentler now, âItâll be easier for you.â You let out a shaky breath, âYouâre telling me to justâŠlet him have his way?â Jimin stepped closer again. âIâm telling you.â, he said quietly, âthat youâre already halfway there.â
You avoided Yoongi after that. At least you tried to but avoidance didnât mean distance. Not in this house because no matter where you went you felt him.
Later that day you found the study dimly lit, quiet except for the soft rustle of paper. Namjoon looked up when you entered. âYou shouldnât be here.â, he said calmly. Namjoon set the papers down slowly, âYou should leave.â Your head snapped up, âWhat?â He held your gaze. âYou should leave.â, he repeated. âYouâre worried.â, you said slowly. He took a moment then nodded, âYesâŠFor all of us. He doesnât do this.â, Namjoon continued, âHe doesnât normallyâŠfixate on thingsâŠespecially people.â You scoffed, âYouâre talking about me like Iâm a problem.â
âYou are.â, he said simply. That stung more than you expected. âWhether you want to be or not. Heâs already changing things.â, Namjoon added, âAdjusting plans. Taking risks he wouldnât normally take and if that continuesâŠâ, he said quietly, âit wonât just affect him.â
Your breath slowed, âWhat are you saying?âNamjoon didnât look away. âIâm saying.â, he replied, âyou need to decide what you are to him because if youâre nothing.â, he continued, âyou need to leave before you become something that takes him down.â
âAnd if I already am something?â, you asked. Namjoon didnât hesitate, âThen itâs already too late.â That shouldâve been it. That shouldâve been the moment you pushed away. Ran. Fought harder but instead you found yourself standing outside his door. Breathing uneven.
Heart racing. Your hand hovered then knocked.âCome in.â, his voice came muffled from behind the door. He didnât look surprised when you stepped inside. âYou did that on purpose.â, you said, voice quieter now, âLast night.â His gaze didnât waver. âYou wanted me to.â, you started but he cut you off, âCome to me,â he finished for you, âAnd you did.â Your heart pounded. âI hate that youâre right.â, you whispered. Something in his expression softened. Just slightly and this time when he reached for you he didnât hesitate.
The mansion, which had once seemed like a cold architectural marvel, was starting to feel like a living organism, one that was reshaping itself around your presence. You found the first sign of it on your bed. A box, wrapped in heavy cream-colored paper. Inside was a silk dress in a deep emerald green. Your breath hitched. It was the exact dress you had mentioned liking in a social media post from six years ago, a post buried under thousands of words and photos of your life. You shoved the box aside, a cold shiver racing down your spine. They weren't just watching you now. They had backtracked through the ghost of your entire life.
In the hallway, you nearly collided with Jin. He looked impeccable, the sunlight from the arched windows catching the sharp line of his shoulders. He simply tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with an unnerving, brotherly warmth. "The emerald will suit you.â, Jin said, his voice smooth. Itâll look better on you than it did in the shop window. Dinner is at seven, Y/N. Don't be late. Yoongi hates cold food and wasted time."
"I didn't ask for a dress.â, you snapped, your voice trembling. âYou didn't have to.â, Jin replied, his smile widening just a fraction, âWe know what you need before you do. Itâs better that way." Seeking an exit, you retreated toward the sunroom, hoping for a breath of air. Instead, you found Hoseok. He was hunched over a stack of papers, a phone buzzing beside him. When he looked up, the "Sunshine" persona youâd seen at dinner flickered and died. His expression went flat, his eyes turning into two polished stones.
"You're the talk of the house, Y/N.â, Hoseok said. The cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a low, rhythmic cadence that sounded like a warning, âJust a word of adviceâŠdon't confuse Yoongi's patience for a lack of resolve. Heâs letting you wander because he likes the chase." He stood up, walking toward you until he was inches away, âIf you try to run again, Iâm the one he sends to bring you back and I promise youâŠâ, he leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper, "I am much less gentle than he is. Don't make me have to be the bad guy."
You backed away, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You turned a corner, looking for a way to the gardens, but ended up in a room lined with monitors. Jungkook sat there, bathed in the blue light of the screens. He didn't jump when you entered. He didn't even look away from the monitors. âYou have a habit of biting your lip when you're thinking.â, he noted. You froze. On the center screen, a high-definition feed showed you standing exactly where you were, looking at him. Other screens showed you sleeping at 3:00 AM, pacing your room, even the moments you had been sure were private. âIt's cute.â, Jungkook continued, finally turning his chair. His youth was a mask for the cold efficiency in his eyes, âBut there are thirty-two cameras on this floor alone. Motion sensors in the woods. Biometrics on the gates. There is no 'out,' Y/N. Thereâs just here. You might as well get comfortable."
By the time you reached Yoongiâs office, you weren't just angry you were vibrating with a sense of profound violation. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sandalwood and whiskey. Yoongi was behind his desk, the light of a single lamp casting half his face in shadow.
"Is this what you do?", your voice cracked, slicing through the silence, âYou find something you think is beautiful and you put it in a cage until it forgets how to fly?" Yoongi didn't look up from his ledger. He turned a page slowly, his movements deliberate, âIâm not keeping you in a cage, Y/N. Iâm building you a fortress."
"A fortress has the guns pointed out.â, you spat, âYours are pointed at me."
"The world out there is loudâŠmessy, and dangerous.â, he said, finally closing the book. He stood up, the movement fluid and predatory, âPeople would kill for whatâs in that brain of yours. Your editors would sell you out for a headline. Your 'sources' would silence you the moment you became a liability if it wasnât for me. Here...here, youâre the only thing that matters. My only priority. My preciousâŠlittleâŠbird.â
"You're talking about protection, but this feels like a life sentence.â, you said, backing up as he rounded the desk, âYou've stripped away my life. My job, my friends, my identity."
"I didn't strip it away. I replaced it with something permanent.", he kept coming, his gaze heavy and dark, pinning you in place, âYou spent your life chasing stories that end in a week. I'm giving you a story that never has to end."
You hit the glass of the window, the coldness of it pressing against your back. Yoongi stopped inches away, his presence overwhelming. âAnd what if I don't want to be a character in your story?", you whispered, your breath hitching. "Stop looking at the door, Y/N," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead almost touched yours. âYouâre a monster.â, you choked out, even as your heart betrayed you, leaping at his proximity.
Yoongiâs hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with terrifying tenderness. He leaned into your ear, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that made your knees weak. âMaybe. But I'm the monster thatâs keeping you alive and I'm the only one who knows exactly how you like your coffee in the morning. I'm the only one who knows you cry when you're frustrated but refuse to let anyone see it.", he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, âDoes a monster care if you're well-rested? Does a monster care if you ate or when your head hurts? Does a monster notice the way your pulse jumps when I touch you like this?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't have to. The silence in the room was the loudest thing youâd ever heard, a heavy, suffocating blanket that told you the truth. The journalist in you was dead. The prisoner was waking up. And the terrifying part was how much she wanted to stay.
Outside these walls, you had a deadline. You had a landlord, a best friend who came over every Sunday, and a desk at the newsroom littered with half-empty energy drinks.
Someone had to be looking for you. You were a high-profile investigative journalist. You didn't just drop off the face of the earth without a notice.
You found Taehyung in the gallery on the second floor, staring at a canvas of swirling oils. He didn't turn when you approached, but his voice drifted toward you, smooth and haunting. "Youâre thinking about the world outside.â, he said. It wasn't a question. âMy editor.â, you began, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears, âMy family. My friends. The police. You can't just erase a person, Taehyung. I know people are looking for me." Taehyung finally turned. He looked at you with a sort of tragic pity, the kind one might give a bird hitting its head against a window. He reached into his silk pocket and pulled out a phone, your phone.
"Thatâs been taken care of.â, he said simply. He tapped the screen and held it out. You saw your own social media feed. A post from two days ago, long after youâd been brought here, stating you were taking an indefinite sabbatical to travel and deal with "personal burnout." There were emails sent from your official account to your boss, resigning with a level of professional detail that only you could have written. Even a text to your friend, mentioning a last-minute flight to a remote retreat unsure of when or if youâll be back.
"I didn't write those.â, you whispered, your blood turning to ice, âHowâŠwho wrote those?" Taehyung tilted his head, a dark, enigmatic smile playing on his lips, âWe have people who specialize in nuances, Y/N. Your tone, your syntax, your common typos. To the rest of the world, you aren't missing. Youâre justâŠgoneâŠby your own choice.â
"You killed me.â, you breathed, âWithout even shedding blood, you killed my life."
"No.â, Taehyung corrected, stepping closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, but it felt hot like a brand, âWe just cleared the noise so you could focus on whatâs important. Yoongi is waiting for you in the dining room. Don't keep him waiting too long and wear the green dress. Heâs beenâŠrestless." He didn't elaborate on what "restless" meant, but as he walked away, you felt the weight of his words. You weren't a missing person. You were a ghost of your former self.
đŠââŹ
After that, Yoongiâs obsession was no longer a subtle undercurrent. It had become the atmosphere of the house itself. He no longer spent his nights in the office. He spent them in the doorway of your room, watching you sleep. He didn't ask if you wanted to join him for lunch. He simply took your hand and led you there, his grip possessive and unyielding.
One evening, the weight of it all, the digital erasure of your life, the constant surveillance, the suffocating proximity boiled over. You were in the library, and Yoongi was seated on the couch, a book forgotten in his lap as he simply tracked your movements across the room. "Stop it!", you shrieked, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "Stop looking at me like I'm your prey to catch!"
Yoongi didn't flinch. He stood up slowly. âI want to go home.â, you sobbed, the fight suddenly draining out of you as you slumped against a bookshelf, âI want my messy little apartment. I want my boring life. I want to be a person again." He was in front of you in an instant. He didn't just grab you. He did something worse. He wrapped his arms around you in a hold so steady, so grounded and warm, that your body instinctively sagged into him.
"You were never just a person to me.â, he murmured into your hair, âYou were the only one who saw through the smoke. Youâre the only one who actually knows me." This was the torture, the duality of him. He was the man who had stolen your freedom, the criminal leader who had systematically deleted your existence from the outside world. But he was also the only man who had ever looked at you and seen the entirety of your soul.
Your hands came up, hovering between his chest and the air. You wanted to shove him away, to claw at his face and run until your lungs burst. But as his heart beat against yours, steady, calm, certain, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt instead.
"I hate you.â, you whispered into his chest as you breathed in the scent of his skin. âI know.â, he replied, his arms tightening around you, pulling you so close there was no room for air, let alone escape, âBut youâre still mine."
You hated that he was right. You were terrified of the abyss he represented, but in this strange, gilded prison, he had become your only anchor. You were caught in a horrific loop: the more he took from you, the more he became the only thing you had left.
"Look at me.â, he commanded softly. You lifted your head, eyes blurred with tears. Yoongiâs expression wasn't cold anymore. It was burning, a quiet, obsessive fire that promised to consume both of you.
"You can try to run.â, he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, âYou can fight me, you can scream, you can hate me until itâs the only thing you feel. But at the end of every day, you will be hereâŠWith me. Because I have spent my entire life building a world that no one can touch and I built the center of it just for you."
He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours and for a split second, you didn't feel like a prisoner. You felt like a queen in a kingdom of shadows and that was the most dangerous truth of all.
This time the kiss didnât feel like a question anymore. It felt like an inevitability. Like every conversation, every look, and every carefully placed moment had been a funnel, narrowing the distance between you until there was nowhere left to go but forward⊠or under. Your hands pressed weakly against his chest, a reflex, a dying reminder that you should resist. But he didnât rush you. Yoongi didnât just take, he waited. His lips barely brushed yours, his breath warm and steady, as if he already knew the outcome. He knew you better than you knew yourself.
âTell me to stop.â, he murmured against your mouth. You opened your lips to do just that, but nothing came out. Only a quiet, broken sound not a protest, but an invitation.
That was all it took. His hand slid up your neck, fingers threading through your hair to anchor you. The kiss deepened not frantic or messy, but controlled. Possessive. Your breath caught, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt as something inside you unraveled. You weren't cracking or wavering anymore. You were breaking.
âYouâre shaking.â, Yoongi murmured. His voice was quieter now, but no less certain. âI should be.â, you whispered. His gaze softened, but the unwavering intent underneath didn't budge, âYouâre still here.âYou hated how much that mattered. You hated that he was right. When your silence stretched too long, his fingers brushed your cheek, slow and almost gentle.
âDo you understand what that means?â, he asked. Your brows pulled together, âThat I made a mistake?â A faint, amused exhale escaped him, âNo.â His thumb dragged across your lower lip, his eyes following the movement as if he were marking territory, âIt means youâve already chosen me.â
âThatâs notâŠâ, you started but he cut you off, âIt is.â Not harsh, not loud. Just final, âYou can keep fighting it if you want, but your body doesnât lie to me.â He stepped closer, backing you up until you hit the edge of the desk. Trapped by the sheer weight of him.
âYoongiâŠâ
His hand slid to your waist to steady you. He didn't wait for permission this time. He simply decided you needed him. âY/N you feel it too.â, he said. It wasn't a question. Then something in his mind finally clicked into place. His hand moved from your waist, traveling with agonizing slowness until it rested low against your stomach. Your eyes snapped to his. The air in the room felt pulled from your lungs, âYoongiâŠ?â
âYou donât understand yet.â, he murmured, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the fabric of your clothes. It was the touch of someone imagining a future that hadn't happened yet but one he had already decided was inevitable.
âUnderstand what?â, you questioned. âWhen I decide something.â, he said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register, âI donât do it halfway. I donât bring people into my life unless theyâre staying.â You shook your head, âI didnât agree to stay.â
âYou did. You just donât want to admit it yet.â, his hand pressed firmer against your stomach. âYou seem to think this is temporary.â, he said softly, âYou think eventually youâll leave, go back to your life, write your story but thatâs not how this ends.â
âThen how does it end?â, you whispered. He looked at you and the obsession in his eyes had been replaced by a terrifying certainty. âYou stay.â, he said simply, âHereâŠwith meâŠforever.â
âThatâs not an ending.â, you said. âFor youâŠit is. For usâŠitâs a beginning.â, he smiled. The realization hit you in waves, cold and heavy. He leaned in, his lips brushing your temple, âIâve spent my life building a legacy that no one can take from me. Now, Iâm building something thatâs mine in a different way.â
âThis isnât love.â, you whispered, your voice barely holding together. He stilled for a second, his grip tightening, âMaybe notâŠyet, But itâs real.â You were still standing in his arms, breathing him in, letting him close even as he laid out the blueprints for your captivity.
His hand lifted from your stomach, but the implication remained, heavy and unspoken. He was a patient man. He had a plan, and he could wait for you to realize there was no world left outside of him. Fingers tilted your chin up, he caught your gaze one last time. âFor now.â, he added softly, âIâll let you catch up.â You eyed him, âCatch up to what?â A faint, knowing look crossed his face, âTo the fact that youâre already mineâŠyouâve always been mineâŠeven when you didnât know it.â You didnât argue. The worst part wasn't that he believed it, it was that, deep down, you were starting to believe it, too.
đŠââŹ
The silence of your bedroom was no longer a comfort. You were staring at the ceiling, the ghost of his hand still heavy against your stomach. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard the finality in his voice. It was a terrifying thought, yet it hummed through your veins. He hadn't just made a claim. He had rewritten the air you breathed.
You threw back the covers. Your bare feet were silent on the cold floor as you walked down the hallway. You didn't knock. You didn't have to. When you pushed open the door to his suite, the room was bathed in the low, amber glow of a single lamp. Yoongi wasn't sleeping. He was sitting up in bed, a book discarded on the nightstand, his back against the headboard as if heâd been counting your footsteps from the moment you left your room.
He didn't look surprised. He looked satisfied. âYou're late.â, he murmured, his voice a low grate that skipped down your spine. âI couldn't sleep.â, you said, your voice sounding small in the vastness of his space. You stayed by the door, your heart hammering against your ribs, âI kept thinking about what you said. About... everything."
Yoongi tracked you with his eyes, dark, predatory, and entirely unblinking. He shifted, pulling the duvet back in a silent invitation, âCome here." It wasn't a request. It was the natural conclusion to the path he had set you on. You moved toward the bed, every step feeling like a deliberate surrender of your will. When you reached the edge, he reached out, his hand wrapping around your wrist. His skin was burning hot compared to the chill of the hallway.
With a single, firm tug, he pulled you onto the mattress. You tumbled against him, the scent of expensive shampoo and something soft filling your senses. "You knew Iâd come.â, you whispered, your face inches from his. âI told you.â, he said, his fingers trailing from your wrist up to your shoulder, his touch possessive and heavy, âYour body doesn't lie. You've been fighting a war that was over before the first shot was fired." He adjusted himself, pulling you flush against his side so that your head rested on his chest. You could feel the steady, terrifyingly calm thud of his heart. It wasn't racing like yours. His arm draped over you, his hand sliding down to rest once more over your stomach, the same spot as before. It felt like a seal. A promise.
"Is this it, then?", you asked, your voice trembling, âAm I just...yours now?" Yoongi leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath a warm, haunting caress. âLike I said, you were always mine.â, he whispered, âTonight is just the night you stopped pretending you had a choice. Sleep now Y/N. When you wake up, your world will be much smaller. Just this room. Just this bed. Just me."
He tightened his hold, anchoring you to him with a finality that left no room for escape. And as the darkness of the room swallowed you both, the most frightening part wasn't his obsession with you. It was the way you finally felt calm, pinned beneath the weight of his shadow.
đŠââŹ
Moving forward Yoongiâs hand always found you in some way, your wrist, your waist, the small of your back, but latelyâŠit lingered lower. Rested there. Like it belonged there at your stomach.
The first time you noticed it, you told yourself it didnât mean anything. You were overthinking. You had been doing that a lot lately but then it kept happening. When he pulled you into him, his palm settled there without hesitation. When you got too quiet, too lost in your own head, he grounded you the same way, slow, steady pressure like he was reminding you to breathe. Like he was reminding himself of something.
You tried to ignore it. You tried to ignore the other things too. âYou need to eat.â, he encouraged with the plate was already in front of you. âIâm not hungryâŠâ, you tried but he cut you off, âYou are.â His tone wasnât harsh. You still picked up the fork. It kept going like that. Your coffee tasted different one morning. You frowned after the first sip, glancing down at it. âI made it how you like it.â, Yoongi said from across the room without looking up, âItâs just decaf. You need less caffeine.â Later, when you reached for a glass of wine at dinner, his hand closed around yours before you could lift it. âHave water instead.â, he murmured. You blinked, âSince when do you care so much about what I drink?â His gaze lifted then, âSince I decided I do.â
That was how he did it. Until you werenât meant to hear it.
ââŠyouâre adjusting too many variables at once.â, Namjoonâs voice said from the other room. âIâm not.â, Yoongi responded with an annoyed sigh. âYouâre not giving her time to question it.â, Namjoon continued, âThatâs whatâs going to make her notice something is off.â
âShe already is.â, Yoongi replied. Another voice this time, Jimin, quieter, âAnd if she figures it out?â Yoongi didnât hesitate, âGood. I want her to.â Something cold slid down your spine. âThat doesnât worry you?â, Hoseok asked. Your chest tightened. âNo because by the time she doesâŠâ, Yoongi continued, voice softer now, but somehow heavier, âit wonât matter anyway.â
The pieces started to fall into place. His hand on your stomach. The food. The control. The quiet insistence. The coffee. The wine. The way he watched you not just now, but like he was waiting for something. For you to realize. Your breathing turned shallow. No, that wasnâtâŠ
Your stomach twisted, your hand instinctively pressing like you could feel something that wasnât thereâŠnot yet at least. OrâŠ
A sharp knock startled your thoughts.
âY/N.â
You flinched. Yoongi stood in front of you now. Closer than he shouldâve been. Closer than you realized heâd gotten. Your pulse spiked. âYouâre stressing too much again.â, he said softly. You shook your head, stepping back, âWhat did you do?â His expression didnât change, âWhat do you mean?â His hand lifted, hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then settled exactly where it always did. Your stomach.
For a moment, he just looked at you. Then, softer than you expected, âIâm taking care of you.â Your chest tightened painfully, âThatâs not what this is.â A faint exhale left him, almost like disappointment, âYou donât understand yet.â Your head shook, faster now. His thumb moved, slow, absent, tracing a pattern against you like he had all the time in the world. Like this was already decided. âYou always figure things out eventually.â, he murmured, âThatâs why I chose you.â Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.
The next morning the mug barely touched your lips before it was gone. You blinked. Jimin stood beside you, turning the cup slightly in his hand, like he was inspecting it. âThatâs not the decaf youâve been drinking lately.â, he said softly after taking a sip. âI know what coffee it is, Jimin.â, your patience snapped thin, âGive it back to me.â
His gaze flicked up to yours then, âYou should be more careful with what you put in your body.â Jimin set the mug down on the counter, out of your reach, âYoongi doesnât do things halfway. He wants a future with you Y/N.â Your jaw tightened, âThatâs not news. He made that clear from the start.â A small, almost sympathetic smile touched his lips, âYou donât have to agree to anything he does. If anythingâŠthat just makes him want it more.â
đŠââŹ
Weeks passed and Yoongi didnât come around for the first time since you arrived. At first, it felt like relief. You could breathe without feeling watched by him. Move without that constant weight at your back. Think without his voice quietly unraveling every decision you tried to make.
But the house feltâŠwrong. Like something important had been removed and nothing had replaced it. You found yourself noticing things you hadnât before. The way dinner felt longer without his hand reaching for yours underneath the table. The way no one filled the silence the same way he did.The way your thoughts drifted to him.
âHeâs on a business trip.â, Jungkook said. You stood in the doorway of the monitoring room, arms crossed tight over your chest. Jungkook didnât look away from the screens. âFor how long?â, you asked. He shrugged, âHeâll be back soon.â
The night he finally came back, you didnât hear the car. You felt it. A shift in the house. Quick movements. Strained voices. Your heart raced before you could stop it. You told yourself it didnât matter. That you didnât care. Your feet moved anyway.
You saw the blood first. Dark. Stark against the polished floor. Your breath caught. Clothes were discarded in a pile. You followed the trail of blood. The door was half open. âHold still.â, came Jinâs voice. You pushed the door open fully and froze. Yoongi sat shirtless in a chair, head tilted slightly forward, blood smeared across his skin, down his side, dripping onto the floor beneath him. Jin worked quickly, stitching a large wound just below his ribs like this was routine. Like this was normal.
Your stomach twisted violently, âYoongiâŠâ His head lifted and when his eyes found yours everything in your chest broke. Not fear or anger but relief. You didnât think. You just moved. Your voice broke as you rushed forward, the world narrowing down to him, blood, too much blood to be okay. Up close, it was worse. His skin was pale under the dim light, a sheen of sweat clinging to him, jaw tight like he was holding himself together through sheer will. He didnât look untouchable. He looked human.
âCareful Y/N.â, Jin muttered, not looking up as he worked, needle flashing under the light, âYouâll make this harder than it already is.â You barely heard him. âYoongiâŠâ, you whispered again, softer this time, like saying his name too loud might hurt him further
âDidnât expect that reaction.â, Namjoonâs voice came from behind you, quieter, edged with something like surprise. Taehyung, leaned lazily against the wall and let out a soft hum. âI did.â, he said, a smirk pulling at his lips, eyes never leaving you. You ignored them. You couldnât focus on anything but the way Yoongiâs breathing hitched, just slightly as Jin pulled the thread tight.
Your hand moved before you could stop it. You grabbed his. Warm. Slick. Blood-soaked. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively. His reaction was immediate. His hand closed around yours. His eyes flickered, just for a second, something softer breaking through the pain. âStay still.â, Jin warned, sharper now.
Yoongi didnât look away from you. Didnât let go. It took longer than you expected. Every second stretching thin, taut with tension as Jin worked in silence, stitching him back together. By the time it was done, your fingers were still laced with his. You hadnât even noticed.
âDone.â, Jin said finally, leaning back, âTry not to tear it open.â A dry exhale left Yoongi, but his grip on you didnât loosen. Not even a little. âIâll help him.â, the words left your mouth before anyone could offer. You felt itâŠeveryone noticing and judging.
The bathroom filled with steam quickly, warm air curling around you as you guided him under the water. You expected resistance. You didnât get any. Yoongi let you help him. Let you steady him. Let you touch him like this, careful, hesitant, your hands hovering before committing, like you were afraid he might break under them. You kept your movements light and gentle.
Avoiding the bandaged wound, your focus sharp, controlled, anything to ignore the way your chest tightened every time he winced. âDoes it hurt?â, you asked quietly as you ran the cloth over a deep purple bruise. He smiled, âNot when youâre the one doing it.â You stilled for a second before continuing.
By the time you got him back to his room, exhaustion clung to him in a way youâd never seen before. You hesitated at the edge of the bed. His hand caught yours. Not forceful but firm enough to stop you, âStay with me.â A faint, tired exhale left him, something softer than youâd ever heard before. âYou wonât hurt me.â, he said quietly, âYouâll only make it better.â You hesitated again. His fingers tightened just slightly around yours, drawing you closer, âCome here.â
Slowly and carefully you climbed into the bed beside him. You kept space between you. At least you tried to but Yoongi closed it instantly. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you in against his side with a pained grunt, anchoring you there like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand slid over you, settling like it always did. His grip tightened just slightly, his head dipping closer, his voice quieter now, roughened by exhaustion. Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt, careful of the bandages, your heart beating too fast for how still you were.
You should pull away. You should say something. You didnât. Because for the first time since he brought you here you werenât thinking about leaving. And that scared you more than anything else.
đŠââŹ
Over the following weeks you did your best to help Yoongi heal. Bringing him coffee in the mornings, more blankets and pillows at his request, sometimes he simply wanted you to just lay down next to him.
On this afternoon you stood at the stove, stirring slowly, the soft sound of simmering filling the space. It feltâŠnormal. Domestic in a way that didnât belong in this house. You told yourself thatâs all it was. Something to do. Something to keep your hands busy so your mind didnât drift back to him.
It had been easier lately or maybe youâd just gotten used to it. The rhythm. The presence. The way Yoongi existed around you like something constant.
âYouâre getting better at this.â, a voice said from behind you. Your hand stilled slightly. Jimin entered into the room. Leaning casually against the counter, watching you with that soft, knowing look that always felt like it saw a little too much.
âItâs just soup.â, you muttered, not looking at him. âMmmhmm.â, he hummed, pushing off the counter slowly, stepping closer, âbut you didnât used to cook for him.â You shrugged lightly, âHeâs injured andâŠpeople change.â
âDo they?â, he asked quietly. You finally glanced at him and that was your mistake. Because he was close now. His gaze flickered over your face, slower than it should have. âY/N you look different lately.â, he added, voice softer now. Your pulse picked up slightly, âDifferent how?â A small smile tugged at his lips, âSofterâŠsweeter.â Your grip tightened slightly around the spoon, âYouâre imagining things.â
âAm I?â, he tilted his head, stepping just a little closer letting his hand barely touch your waist, âOr are you just getting comfortable here?â
âGet the fuck away from her.â, Yoongiâs voice broke through the air. Both of you stilled. He stood in the doorway. His gaze wasnât on you. It was on Jimin.
Jimin didnât move away right away. Yoongi stepped forward. Dangerous in a way that didnât need volume to be felt. âRelax.â, Jimin shrugged, glancing at you briefly before looking back at Yoongi, âI was just talking to her.â You stepped in before it could escalate. âStop it.â, you said quickly, setting the spoon down. Yoongiâs eyes shifted to you. The anger didnât disappear. It focused. âWhat else did he say?â, he asked. You panicked, âIt doesnât matter.â Yoongi scoffed, âIt does to me.â Behind you, Jimin let out a quiet exhale, âYouâre overreacting. Youâre too obsessed with her.â
That did it. Yoongi moved. Fast. The chair scraped violently against the floor as he shoved past it, crossing the space in two strides. Jimin straightened, but didnât step back. Not until Yoongi grabbed him and held him up by his shirt collar.
âYoongi!â, you rushed forward as the tension snapped completely, hands grabbing at his arm, trying to pull him back, âStop!â It wasnât a full fight. Not yet but it was close. âGet out.â, Yoongi said. Jimin held his gaze for a second longer then he smirked and stepped back towards the door, âCareful boss...â, he murmured, glancing at you one last time, âYouâre going to scare her off with your violence.â
You followed Yoongi to the bedroom. The door slammed. You barely had time to turn before he was already pacing, running a hand through his hair, breathing uneven not out of exhaustion but out of restraint.
âYoongiâŠâ, you started but he cut you off. He held up a hand, âDonât.â You froze. He turned on you then, eyes sharp, dark, something volatile sitting just beneath the surface, âDonât tell me it was nothing.â, he snapped, âI saw him touch you.â
âIt was nothing.â, you shot back, heart racing now, âYou are overreacting.â A bitter laugh left him. âOverreacting?â, he repeated, stepping closer, âHe was flirting with youâŠtouching you!â
âSo what?â, you challenged, even though your heart was beating way too fast, âI can handle myself.â He shook his head, âThatâs not the pointâŠYou donât belong to him.â
âI donât belong to anyone.â, you said, quieter now but it didnât come out as strong as you wanted it to. His expression shifted. He turned away suddenly, grabbing something off the dresser then throwing it. It shattered against the wall. You flinched, âYoongi, stop!â
âI should go find him.â, he muttered, already moving again, already heading for the door, âI should make sure he understandsâŠâ
âNo.â, you said firmly. You moved before you could think. Your hand caught his wrist. He stopped not because you were stronger but because it was you. âDonât.â, you said, softer now, breath uneven, âYouâre going to make this worse. Donât let him win.â, you added quickly. That made him pause. Just slightly. Your grip tightened. âYouâre better than this.â, you said, stepping closer, your voice dropping, âDonât prove him right.â
His eyes dropped to your hand on him. Then back to your face. You didnât think. You leaned in and kissed him. It worked immediately. The anger didnât disappear but it redirected. His hand came up fast, gripping your jaw, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, rougher than before, edged with everything he hadnât let out.
Your breath caught, fingers curling into his shirt as you held onto him, steadying him or maybe steadying yourself. But you werenât pulling away. Not this time. Not when he stepped forward. Not when you stepped back. Not when your back hit the wall.
âSay it again.â, he murmured against your lips. Your mind spun, What?â
âThat you donât belong to anyone.â, his voice went low. His hand slid down, your waist, your hip, then lower. Resting there like it always did. âYou donât believe that.â, he said quietly. You swallowed. His forehead pressed lightly to yours. âTell me you donât want this,â he whispered.
Instead of answering, your hands moved. Your fingers shouldnât have been shaking, but they were trembling with a frantic, electric energy as you fumbled with the heavy metal of his belt. The click of the buckle unlocking was deafening in the quiet of the room, a sharp, metallic punctuation mark at the end of your hesitation.
Yoongi didn't help you. He didn't move a muscle. He simply stood there, a predator allowing the prey to decide exactly how the hunt would begin. His dark eyes tracked every micro-movement of your hands, heavy with a hunger that made the air in the room feel thick, like you were breathing in heat.
âY/NâŠâ
Your name wasn't a question. It was a warning. It came out of his throat like crushed velvet and gravel, raw and dangerously low. You swallowed hard, your knuckles brushing the firm heat of his lower stomach. You didn't look away. âDonât stop me.â, you breathed. That was the spark he was looking for. His hand lashed out, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the nape of your neck with a bruising grip. He jerked your head back, forcing your throat to arch, exposing the pulse jumping frantically beneath your skin.
âYou think this is you taking control?â, he murmured, his face inches from yours, his breath smelling of dark coffee and something uniquely him, âYou think youâre the one making a choice here?â Your body instinctively arched toward his.
A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, a growl of pure, unadulterated want. The kiss wasn't a meeting of lips. It was a collision. It was a violent reclaiming of territory. He stayed true to his word and there was no holding back. His tongue invaded your mouth with a possessive rhythm, tasting of desperation and years of suppressed need. His other hand found the small of your back, crushing you against him until you could feel the hard, unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing into your thigh.
You let out a broken moan, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt, desperate to get closer, to bridge the impossible gap between your skin and his. He tore his mouth away, trailing wet, biting kisses down the line of your jaw to the sensitive dip of your collarbone. âYou donât get to start something like this.â, he ground out against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point, âand expect me to be gentle. Iâm going to ruin you for anyone else. You understand me?â
âIâm not asking for gentle.â, you choked out, your head falling back as his hand slid beneath your clothes, his palm searingly hot against your bare skin. He didn't waste another second. In one fluid, powerful motion, he hoisted you up. Your legs instinctively locked around his waist, the friction of your bodies sending a jolt of pure fire through your core. He slammed you back against the bed.
His hands were everywhere mapping you, claiming you, stripping away the last barriers of fabric with a frantic, focused intensity. When his hand finally slid between your thighs, finding you slick and aching for him, your breath hitched into a high, thin silver of a sound.
âLook at me.â, he commanded, his voice a rough vibration against your ear. You opened your eyes, blurred with heat, to find him watching you with a terrifying level of certainty. He looked like a man who had finally found the one thing he was allowed to destroy.
âYou feel that?â, he whispered, his fist guiding him to you, moving with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your hips buck involuntarily, âThatâs me. Thatâs all youâre ever going to feel.â He didn't wait for an answer. He took what you offered with a raw, primal hunger that left you shattered.
The rhythm between you had shifted from a controlled burn to a total inferno, the air in the room charged with the scent of salt and exertion. Yoongiâs composure, usually his greatest weapon, was fraying at the edges. Every time your hips arched to meet him, he let out a sound that was less like a man and more like a starving animal finally being fed.
He was deep inside you now, his forehead pressed against yours, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest. His movements were no longer calculated. They were frantic, driven by a primal desperation that seemed to surprise even him. His hands, once possessive and firm, were now clutching at you as if he were drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.
"Y/N.â, he choked out, his voice breaking, stripped of its usual smooth authority, âMy beautiful little bird.â He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in jagged, ragged hitches. He shuddered violently, his body locking up as he was close to reaching his peak and in that moment of total vulnerability, the filter between his darkest thoughts and his tongue simply snapped. "Iâm gonna get you pregnant.â, he rasped, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered, vibrating against your collarbone, âIâve thought about it every goddamn night since I first saw you. I think about coming home and seeing you heavy with me. Swollen and beautiful because of me. I've gotten off to the thought of it so many times I've lost count."
He let out a sharp, fractured breath, his grip on your hips tightening until it would surely leave marks, âI want to fill you up so deep you can't ever walk away. I want to mark you from the inside out. Youâll be mine forever.â Even though you already had your suspicions, hearing the admission was startling, possessive, invasive, and objectively terrifying. It was a claim on your future, a desire to tether your biology to his forever. By all accounts, the sheer intensity of his fixation should have repulsed you. It should have sent a chill of fear down your spine to know heâd been privately obsessing over such a permanent surrender long before you ever met him. But as you looked up at his face, flushed, wrecked, and completely undone by his own craving of you, you felt a surge of heat that made your vision swim. The sheer, dark weight of his want didn't push you away, it pulled you under. The thought of him losing his mind to that fantasy, of him needing that level of permanence with you, turned your blood to liquid fire.
You didn't recoil. Instead, you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him back down into you, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back. "Then stop thinking about it and do it.â, you whispered, your voice a defiant, hungry challenge. A dark, predatory light flickered back into his eyes, the realization that you weren't afraid of his darkness, but welcomed it. With a low, guttural growl, he reclaimed your mouth, any trace of hesitation incinerated by the heat of your response. He spilled inside you with such force that you were sure heâd never recover.
In the aftermath Yoongi pulled the duvet over both of you, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now that the storm had passed. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm draped like a lead weight over your waist, his hand resting once more over your stomach, a silent, lingering reminder of the words heâd breathed into your skin moments before.
For a long time, the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the steady thrum of his heart against your shoulder blades. "Y/N.â, he murmured. His voice was no longer a growl. It was soft, almost tentative. He pressed a kiss to the back of your head, ââŠI love you."
The words hung in the air, shimmering and strange. It was the first time the syllables had crossed his lips. It should have been the crowning moment of a romance, the final piece of a puzzle. Instead, you stayed silent, staring at the moonlight filtering through the heavy velvet curtains.
You thought about the life you had before the gravity of Min Yoongi and Bangtan pulled you out of your orbit. You thought about your press badge now likely buried at the bottom of a drawer, gathering dust. You thought about the thrill of the hunt, the late nights in the newsroom, the sharp, acidic taste of strong coffee as you chased a lead that could change the world. Your journalism career hadn't just ended. It had been dismantled, piece by piece, sacrifice at the altar of his need to keep you safe and to keep you his.
You felt him stiffen slightly at your silence, his breath hitching as he waited for the one thing he couldn't take by force. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of him, the terrifying safety of his embrace. The fire he had started in you earlier hadn't died. It had simply settled into a dull, permanent ache.
He had effectively erased the woman who hunted the truth, replacing her with a woman who waited to hear his key in the lock. Your ambition had been traded for his obsession, and your freedom for his "love." He shifted, his hand moving with a slow, deliberate possessiveness over your abdomen. The heat of his palm felt like a brand. You remembered the raw, desperate confession heâd made at the height of his pleasure, his craving to fill you, to tether you to him with a life you both shared.
In the quiet, you realized that fighting was no longer an option. To live in this house, under his shadow, meant total integration. If you were to be his, you would be his entirely. You would let the world forget your name while you carried his. You would give him the one thing that would ensure you never looked at the horizon again.
"I love you too, Yoongi.â, you whispered, the lie and the truth tangling together until they were indistinguishable. You turned in his arms, pressing your face into the hollow of his chest and felt his satisfaction radiate off him in waves. You made a silent, internal vow to stop fighting the inevitable.
He kissed your forehead, his touch reverent, unaware that he was witnessing the final death of your spirit. You were his prize, his most precious possession, kept in a room where the light was always perfect and the doors were always locked.
You were a bird in a gilded cage and as you closed your eyes, you finally stopped beating your wings against the bars. You simply tucked them against your sides, settling onto the velvet perch he had provided, and prepared to sing the only song he wanted to hear.
Yoongi is so suave and delicious in this!!! The way he talks, carries himself in this Fic makes me feral agsjsshsksl. He's so gentle with the MC although he's crazily obsessed with her... Loved this!!
Rain in this city is never gentle. It falls heavy, like the sky decided to drop everything at once.
You pull your jacket tighter around yourself while walking the last few steps to your apartment building, trying to avoid the biggest puddles on the sidewalk. Your shoes are already wet anyway, and the wind keeps pushing the rain straight into your face. âGreat,â you mumble to yourself. âPerfect night.â
You finally reach the small entrance of your building and start looking for your keys in your bag. The street is quiet, almost empty, only the sound of rain hitting the ground and the metal roof of the bus stop across the street. Then you hear it.
ââŠMeow.â
You stop moving. At first you think maybe you imagined it, but then it happens again. âMeow.â You slowly look toward the little space between the trash cans and the wall of the building. Two shiny eyes look back at you.
ââŠOh,â you whisper.
A cat slowly walks out from the shadows. He is small, with soft grey fur that looks darker because itâs completely wet. His paws leave tiny water marks on the ground as he approaches you. He looks a little dirty, and one of his ears has a tiny fold at the tip, but his eyes are bright and curious. And he walks directly toward you.
âNo, no, waitââ you say quickly, crouching down. âYouâre gonna get more wet.â
The cat doesnât seem to care. He rubs his head against your leg like you are already his favorite person in the world. You stare at him. ââŠYouâre very friendly for a street cat.â
He meows again, louder this time, and looks up at you like he is expecting something.
You sigh. âDonât look at me like that. I just got here.â Another meow. You look around the street. Thereâs no one. No owner calling for him, no house nearby with an open door. Just you and a very wet cat.
ââŠOkay,â you say after a moment. âFood. Just food. Thatâs it.â You point a finger at him like youâre making a serious deal. âI give you food, you eat, and then you go. Deal?â
The cat blinks. Then he walks straight past you and toward the entrance of the building.
ââŠHey!â
You quickly open the door before he can disappear inside without you. The warm air from the hallway hits your face, and the cat immediately slips through the door like he has done this a thousand times before. âExcuse me?â you say, following him. He doesnât answer, obviously.
By the time you climb the stairs and unlock your apartment door, the cat is right behind you, patiently waiting. You look down at him. ââŠYouâre really confident.â You open the door a little. âJust food,â you repeat.
The cat walks in like he owns the place.
You close the door slowly and watch him. He immediately starts exploring: first the living room, then the kitchen, then under the small table near the couch.
ââŠWow,â you say, dropping your bag on a chair. âYou didnât even ask.â
The cat jumps on the couch, turns around twice, and sits like a king inspecting his new kingdom. You shake your head and go to the kitchen. After a few minutes of searching, you find a small can of tuna.
âThis is the last one,â you warn him from the kitchen. âSo appreciate it.â
The moment you open the can, you hear quick little paws running across the floor. The cat appears next to your feet.
ââŠYou teleported.â
You place a little bit of tuna in a small bowl and slide it toward him. âThere. Eat.â The cat attacks the food like he hasnât eaten in days. You lean against the counter and watch him. He eats fast, then slower, then finally finishes everything and looks up at you again.
âDonât look at me like that,â you say immediately. âThat was the deal. One meal.â
The cat licks his paw calmly, then walks toward the couch⊠and toward the hallway⊠and toward your bedroom.
ââŠWait.â You follow him. âWhere do you think youâre going?â
He jumps on your bed.
You stare. âNo. Absolutely not.â
He spins in a small circle, then sits, then lays down right in the middle of your pillow.
You cross your arms. âYouâre not staying.â
The cat closes his eyes.
Five minutes later, you are the one sitting on the bed next to him.
ââŠJust until the rain stops,â you mutter.
You grab a towel from the bathroom and gently dry his fur. He doesnât complain at all. In fact, he leans a little into the towel like he enjoys it.
ââŠYouâre suspiciously comfortable here,â you say.
The night becomes quiet after that. You change into comfortable clothes, make yourself some tea, and the cat follows you everywhere: kitchen, living room, back to the bedroom. Every time you sit somewhere, he appears next to you.
Eventually you lay down in bed, tired after the long day. The cat jumps up beside you immediately.
âNo,â you whisper.
He ignores you. He curls into a small ball near your arm.
You stare at the ceiling.
ââŠThis is temporary.â
The cat purrs softly.
You donât even remember when you fall asleep.
Morning comes with soft sunlight through the curtains. You wake up slowly, still half asleep, something warm pressed against your side. You look down. The cat is still there, curled up like he has always belonged in your bed.
ââŠUnbelievable,â you whisper.
You sit up, rubbing your eyes. âWell. Temporary cat,â you say. âWe need a name.â The cat stretches while you think for a moment, then you smile a little. ââŠMochi.â
The cat blinks at you.
âMochi,â you repeat. âSoft. Round. A little dramatic.â
He meows.
âIâll take that as approval.â
You get out of bed and walk to the kitchen, with Mochi immediately following behind you. You barely have time to open the fridge whenâ
Knock knock.
You freeze. ââŠWho is knocking this early?â Another knock follows, and Mochi looks toward the door. You walk to the entrance of your apartment and open it slowly.
A young man is standing there. Mint green hair. Calm expression. Dark hoodie. He looks at you for a moment before slightly tilting his head, his voice quiet and casual.
âIs my cat here?â
Your brain stops for a second. ââŠYour cat?â
The man looks past you into the apartment, right at Mochi. Mochi looks back at him⊠then calmly walks behind your legs.
The man sighs softly. ââŠYeah,â he says. âThat one.â
You blink, then look down at the cat hiding behind you, then back at the stranger. ââŠThis is Mochi.â
The man raises an eyebrow. âHis name isnât Mochi.â
Silence fills the doorway. Rain starts again outside. And suddenly you realize you might have accidentally stolen someoneâs cat.
ââŠOh.â
That is the only intelligent thing your brain manages to say. You look down again. âMochiââapparently not Mochiâpeeks from behind your leg like he is using you as a human shield.
You point at him. ââŠHe followed me,â you say.
The man sighs softly. âYeah. He does that.â
You look at him again. Up close he looks very calm for someone who just found his cat inside a strangerâs apartmentâmint green hair slightly messy, dark hoodie, hands in his pockets. He looks more sleepy than angry.
âWho are you?â you ask.
He nods toward the hallway. âI live next door.â
ââŠNext door?â
âApartment 3B.â
You glance at your own door. 3A.
âOh.â
He nods again. âIâm Yoongi.â
You hesitate before telling him your name. Yoongi looks down at the cat again, who immediately presses closer to your leg.
Yoongi sighs. âSee? This is exactly what I mean.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âHe escapes. All the time.â
You cross your arms slightly. âEscapes?â
âYes.â
You look down at the cat again. The cat looks back at you with the most innocent face in the world⊠then rubs against your ankle.
ââŠHe looked homeless,â you say.
Yoongi lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. âHe likes the street.â
âYou let him walk outside?â
âI try not to.â
âTry?â
âHe opens doors.â
You stare. ââŠHe what?â
Yoongi shrugs. âHeâs smart.â
You look down at the cat again, now suspicious. ââŠYouâre telling me this tiny creature commits house escape missions?â
The cat meows softly.
Yoongi points at him. âExactly.â
You crouch down and pick the cat up. He immediately relaxes in your arms like he belongs there. You look back at Yoongi.
ââŠHe seems very comfortable here.â
Yoongi watches the cat for a moment, then reaches his hands out. âAlright. Come here.â
The cat looks at him⊠then immediately jumps out of your armsâbut not toward Yoongi. He runs straight to the living room.
ââŠHey!â Yoongi says.
You both watch as the cat jumps onto the couch and sits there like nothing happened. Slowly, you turn your head toward Yoongi.
ââŠYour cat?â
Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. âYes.â
The cat stretches on the couch and lays down like he just finished a long journey.
You gesture toward the living room. âGo get him.â
Yoongi walks inside your apartment like this situation happens every day. You close the door behind him and follow. He approaches the couch slowly.
âCome here.â
The cat stares at him.
Yoongi crouches and taps the couch. âCome on.â
The cat stands up, and for a moment you think he might actually listen. Instead he jumps off the couch, runs across the room⊠and stops right next to you.
He looks at you with a tired expression. âThatâs my cat.â
You shrug. âHe chose me.â
âThatâs not how this works.â
âYou sure?â
The cat circles your legs again.
Yoongi crosses his arms. âHeâs just dramatic.â
âHe slept in my bed.â
Yoongi pauses. ââŠHe did what?â
You nod proudly. âAll night.â
Yoongi stares at the cat. âYou traitor.â
The cat ignores him.
You tilt your head. âSo whatâs his name then?â
Yoongi looks at you, then at the cat.
ââŠMin.â
You blink. ââŠMin?â
âYes.â
You look down at the fluffy creature currently attacking the string of your hoodie. ââŠHe really looks like a Mochi.â
Yoongi sighs. âHeâs not Mochi.â
âMochi sounds better.â
âHe had the name first.â
You crouch again and scratch behind Minâs ears. âWell, Min clearly likes Mochi better.â
Yoongi shakes his head. âGive him here.â
You lift Min and carefully hold him out. Yoongi takes himâthis time it works for two whole seconds before Min suddenly wiggles, jumps down⊠and runs back to the couch.
You cover your mouth to hide your laugh.
Yoongi stares at the cat, then at you. ââŠThis is embarrassing.â
âFor you, yes.â
He rubs his face with one hand, sighing again. âFine.â
You raise an eyebrow. âFine?â
âHe can stay.â
You blink. ââŠExcuse me?â
Yoongi points at the cat. âHe clearly decided this is his second house.â
The cat is already curling into a ball on the couch.
You look back at Yoongi. âSo⊠what now?â
He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. âIâll visit.â
âVisit?â
âTo see my cat.â
You cross your arms again. âYou mean Mochi.â
âMin.â
âMochi.â
âMin.â
You both look at the cat. The cat is already half asleep.
Yoongi sighs. ââŠUnbelievable.â
A few minutes later you make coffee while Yoongi sits awkwardly on the edge of the couch. MinâMochiâwhatever his name isâjumps onto your lap the moment you sit down.
You glance at Yoongi. ââŠYou see?â
Yoongi watches the cat carefully before leaning back against the couch. âHeâs never like that with strangers.â
You look down at the cat now purring softly. âMaybe Iâm not a stranger.â
Yoongi doesnât answer. He just watches the two of you for a moment before eventually standing up.
âI should go.â
You nod. âOkay.â
He walks toward the door, but before leaving he looks back once more. The cat is still comfortably sleeping in your lap.
Yoongi lets out a long sigh. ââŠGreat.â
You tilt your head. âWhat?â
He opens the door.
âNow I have to come back.â
And then he leaves.
The first visit happens the next day. You are in the kitchen, trying to decide what to make for dinner, when you hear a knock on the door. You donât even need to ask who it is.
When you open it, Yoongi is standing there again, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking exactly as calm as yesterday. âHi,â he says.
You raise an eyebrow. âYou came fast.â
Yoongi shrugs. âI came to see my cat.â
You step aside so he can come in. âYour cat is currently sleeping on my couch.â
âMinâs couch,â Yoongi corrects.
âMochiâs couch,â you answer.
Yoongi walks inside like this is already normal. Min lifts his head the moment he hears Yoongiâs voice. For a second you think maybe the cat will finally run to him. Instead, Min slowly stretches⊠and then walks directly toward you.
Yoongi watches this happen in complete silence.
ââŠUnbelievable,â he mutters.
You cross your arms. âSeems like he knows who feeds him.â
âI feed him.â
âWell, he eats here now.â
Yoongi sits down on the couch and Min immediately jumps up next to him. For a moment, the cat actually stays there. You lean against the wall, watching them.
Min steps on Yoongiâs lap, walks across him, then jumps off the couch⊠and goes straight to you.
You laugh.
Yoongi closes his eyes for a moment like he is suffering. âHe is doing this on purpose.â
You crouch down and scratch Min behind the ears. âMaybe he just has good taste.â
Yoongi snorts softly.
That first visit only lasts about fifteen minutes. Yoongi pets Min for a bit, complains that the cat is dramatic, and then leaves. But the next day he comes again. And the day after that.
At first the visits are short. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Just Yoongi coming in, sitting on the couch, and watching Min run around your apartment like he owns the place. But little by little⊠the visits get longer.
One evening Yoongi arrives while you are drawing at the table. He stops next to you. ââŠWhat are you doing?â
You glance up. âDrawing.â
He leans a little closer to see the sketchbook. âYouâre good.â
You shrug. âItâs just a hobby.â
The drawing is a small sketch of Min sleeping. Yoongi looks at the page.
ââŠYou even drew the weird ear.â
âItâs cute.â
âItâs damaged.â
âItâs personality.â
Yoongi shakes his head.
Min suddenly jumps onto the table. Right on top of the sketchbook.
âHey!â you say.
Min sits directly on the drawing.
Yoongi watches the cat with a flat expression. âHe hates competition.â
You push Min gently to the side. âGo sit somewhere else.â
Min refuses.
Yoongi grabs him and places him on his lap. âThere.â
Min stares at him. Then slowly climbs up his chest⊠and jumps onto your shoulder.
You burst out laughing.
Yoongi leans back in the chair. ââŠHe definitely hates me.â
âThatâs not true.â
âYouâre literally his favorite person now.â
You look at the cat sitting proudly on your shoulder. ââŠI accept this responsibility.â
Yoongi visits almost every day after that. Sometimes he brings snacks. Sometimes he just knocks, comes in, and sits quietly while Min runs between both of you.
One night you decide to watch a movie. Yoongi arrives right when you are scrolling through the options on the TV.
âYouâre watching something?â he asks.
âMaybe.â
He sits down on the couch beside you. âWhat kind?â
âI donât know yet.â
Min jumps onto the couch between you two. Of course.
âPick something,â Yoongi says.
You finally choose a random movie. Lights off. Blanket on the couch. The three of you settle down.
At the beginning Min sits exactly in the middle like a small referee. Halfway through the movie, Min stands up. He walks across your legs, across the blanket, across Yoongiâs lap, and finally circles twice before laying down on top of Yoongi.
Yoongi looks down. ââŠOh.â
You smile a little. âLook. Progress.â
Yoongi carefully rests his hand on Minâs back. The cat purrs immediately.
âFinally,â Yoongi murmurs.
But then something funny happens. Min doesnât close his eyes right away. Instead he lifts his head slightly and looks at you. Directly at you, like he is making sure you are still there.
You tilt your head. ââŠWhy is he staring at me?â
Yoongi glances up. âHe does that.â
âWhat does that mean?â
Yoongi shrugs. âHe likes you.â
Min finally closes his eyes and falls asleep on Yoongiâs chest. The movie keeps playing, the room quiet except for the soft sound of Min purring.
You glance at Yoongi.
Yoongi is looking at the TV, but one of his hands is gently scratching behind Minâs ears.
After a moment he notices you looking.
ââŠWhat?â
âNothing.â
You look back at the screen.
But you smile a little.
Because somehow⊠your apartment feels less quiet than it used to.
A few days later, Yoongi arrives earlier than usual.
You are sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by papers and pencils, when you hear the familiar knock on the door.
Min immediately lifts his head.
âYou heard that too?â you tell him.
You open the door.
Yoongi is standing there holding something in his hand.
ââŠHi,â he says.
You step aside.
âHi.â
He walks in, but this time he looks⊠determined.
Suspiciously determined.
âWhatâs that?â you ask, pointing to the object in his hand.
âA cat carrier.â
You blink.
âA what?â
Yoongi lifts it slightly.
âIâm taking him home today.â
From the couch, Min freezes.
You slowly turn your head toward the cat.
The cat slowly turns his head toward Yoongi.
Silence fills the room.
ââŠGood luck,â you say.
Yoongi ignores the comment and walks toward the couch.
âMin.â
The cat does not move.
âCome here.â
The cat still does not move.
Yoongi sets the carrier on the floor.
âAlright.â
He crouches and gently picks Min up.
For two seconds everything is calm.
Then chaos begins.
âMeeeeeow!â
Min starts squirming dramatically.
âHeyâ heyâ relax,â Yoongi says.
âMEEEOOOOW!â
You try very hard not to laugh.
âWow,â you say. âHe sounds very happy.â
Yoongi shoots you a look.
âThis is your fault.â
âMy fault?â
Min suddenly jumps out of Yoongiâs arms.
He lands on the floor.
Runs across the living room.
And disappears down the hallway.
You lean against the wall, laughing now.
Yoongi stares at the hallway.
ââŠUnbelievable.â
âMaybe he doesnât want to go.â
Yoongi walks after him.
âOf course he wants to go.â
You follow a few steps behind.
Yoongi checks the bedroom.
Nothing.
Then the bathroom.
Nothing.
Then he opens the closet door.
Inside, Min is sitting comfortably between your shoes.
Looking very proud of himself.
Yoongi crouches.
âMin.â
The cat stares back.
âYou live with me.â
The cat blinks.
You cross your arms and watch.
âHe lives where he wants,â you say.
Yoongi carefully reaches inside the closet and grabs him again.
This time Min starts complaining even louder.
âMEEEEEOOOOW!â
âStop yelling,â Yoongi mutters.
You lean against the doorframe.
âWow. Such loyalty.â
Yoongi carries Min back to the living room and tries to place him inside the carrier.
The moment Minâs paws touch the insideâ
He explodes.
âMEEEEOOOW!â
He jumps out like a tiny rocket.
Runs straight across the apartment.
Through the open door.
Into the hallway.
ââŠOh no,â you say.
Yoongi runs after him.
You follow.
Min stops right in front of your apartment door.
Looks inside.
And calmly walks back in.
Straight to the couch.
Then he curls up like nothing happened.
Yoongi stands in the doorway, breathing slowly.
You are trying not to laugh again.
ââŠHe came back,â you say.
âI noticed.â
âYou literally gave him a chance to escape.â
Yoongi runs a hand through his hair.
ââŠI hate this cat.â
Min purrs loudly from the couch.
You walk over and sit beside him.
âWell,â you say. âLooks like he made his decision.â
Yoongi looks at the carrier.
Then at the cat.
Then at you.
After a long moment he sighs.
ââŠFine.â
He kicks the carrier lightly to the side.
âFine?â
âIâm not fighting him today.â
You pat the couch next to you.
âYou can sit.â
Yoongi hesitates for a second.
Then he sits.
Min immediately climbs onto the couch.
Walks across your legs.
Across Yoongiâs lap.
Then circles twice.
And lays down between both of you.
You glance at Yoongi.
âSee?â
Yoongi sighs again.
âHe never does that.â
âWhat?â
âActs like this.â
You tilt your head.
âWith people?â
âYeah.â
Yoongi gently scratches Min behind the ears.
âHe usually ignores everyone.â
âMaybe he likes my apartment.â
âHe likes you.â
You pretend not to react to that.
After a moment your stomach makes a small sound.
Yoongi glances at you.
ââŠWas that you?â
âNo.â
He raises an eyebrow.
You sigh.
âMaybe.â
Yoongi looks toward the kitchen.
âDid you eat?â
ââŠNot yet.â
He stands up.
âCome on.â
You blink.
âWhere are you going?â
âTo the kitchen.â
âYouâre cooking?â
Yoongi shrugs.
âIâm hungry too.â
You follow him.
Soon the kitchen smells like garlic and something warm and delicious.
Yoongi moves around the space like he already knows where things are.
âYou cook a lot?â you ask.
âSometimes.â
âYouâre suspiciously good at this.â
âI had to learn.â
You lean against the counter while he cooks.
Min eventually walks into the kitchen and sits on the floor between you two.
Watching everything.
âSupervisor,â you say.
Yoongi looks down.
âHeâs making sure we donât poison ourselves.â
After a while you both sit at the small table with two plates of food.
Itâs quiet.
But not awkward.
Just comfortable.
You eat for a few minutes before speaking again.
âSo.â
Yoongi looks up.
âWhat?â
âWhy does your cat keep escaping?â
Yoongi shrugs.
âHe likes exploring.â
âOr maybe he just likes my house better.â
Yoongi snorts softly.
âDonât get cocky.â
Min jumps onto Yoongiâs lap.
Then climbs onto the table.
Then lays down right between both plates.
You both stare at him.
ââŠOf course,â you say.
Yoongi leans back in his chair.
ââŠHe never does this with anyone.â
You glance at him.
âMaybe he chose both of us.â
Yoongi looks at the cat.
Then at you.
He doesnât say anything for a moment.
But he smiles just a little.Â
A few days later, you are cleaning your apartment.
Not a full deep cleaning. Just the normal kind where you move things around, pick up clothes from the chair, and pretend you are a responsible adult.
Min is following you everywhere, of course.
You move to the living room.
Min follows.
You go to the kitchen.
Min follows.
You go back to the couch.
Min jumps on it immediately.
âSupervisor again?â you ask him.
Min blinks slowly.
Your phone vibrates on the table.
You grab it and read the message.
Iâm nearby. Can I stop by for a bit?
You smile.
âSure,â you type back.
You barely send the message whenâ
Knock knock.
You raise an eyebrow.
ââŠAlready?â
You walk to the door and open it.
Yoongi stands there.
Of course.
Mint hair slightly messy, dark hoodie again, hands in his pockets.
âHi,â he says.
âYouâre becoming predictable.â
âI came to see my cat.â
âSure you did.â
You step aside so he can come in.
The moment Yoongi walks inside, Min lifts his head from the couch.
For a moment he stares.
Then he jumps down and walks straight toward Yoongi.
Yoongi crouches a little.
âHey.â
Min rubs against his leg.
You cross your arms.
âOh wow. Now you like him?â
Yoongi looks at you.
âHe always liked me.â
Min then walks past Yoongi.
Straight to you.
And sits on your foot.
Yoongi watches this happen with a tired expression.
ââŠTraitor.â
You laugh.
A few minutes later the three of you are in the living room.
Yoongi is sitting on the couch.
You are sitting in the chair across from him.
And Min is currently walking back and forth between both of you like he is checking that you are still there.
Yoongi scratches behind Minâs ears when he passes by.
The cat purrs.
Then walks back to you.
Then back to Yoongi.
ââŠHeâs doing patrol,â you say.
Yoongi nods.
âHeâs making sure both of his humans are present.â
You open your mouth to answer whenâ
Knock knock.
You look toward the door.
âOh.â
Yoongi glances at you.
âExpecting someone?â
âYeah.â
You stand up and walk to the door.
When you open it, your friend is standing there.
âHi!â they say.
âHi.â
You step aside so they can come in.
âThis is my neighbor Yoongi,â you say, pointing toward the couch.
Yoongi lifts one hand slightly in greeting.
Your friend nods.
âHi.â
Then they notice Min walking around the room.
âOh my god,â they say. âYou got a cat?â
You hesitate.
ââŠSort of.â
Yoongi sighs quietly.
Your friend crouches down.
âHi baby.â
Min walks up to them.
Sniffs their hand.
Then turns around and walks away.
Straight to the couch.
Straight onto Yoongiâs lap.
Yoongi looks down at him.
ââŠOf course.â
Your friend watches this.
Then looks at you.
Then at Yoongi.
Then back at the cat.
ââŠOkay,â they say slowly.
âWhat?â you ask.
They grin.
âYou two look like a couple with shared custody of the cat.â
Silence.
You blink.
Yoongi freezes.
Min stretches comfortably on Yoongiâs lap like he belongs there.
ââŠWe are not a couple,â you say quickly.
Your friend raises their eyebrows.
âSure.â
Yoongi clears his throat.
âI just live next door.â
âAnd visit every day?â your friend says.
Yoongi shifts slightly on the couch.
âI check on my cat.â
Your friend hums like they donât fully believe him.
They walk over and sit beside you on the chair arm, a little too close.
âSo,â they say, looking at you, âwhat were you doing before I came?â
You shrug.
âCleaning.â
Your friend laughs.
âYou? Cleaning? Thatâs new.â
You nudge them lightly.
Yoongi watches the interaction quietly.
Min is still on his lap, but Yoongiâs hand stopped moving.
His eyes move between you and your friend.
ââŠYou come here a lot?â your friend suddenly asks Yoongi.
Yoongi shrugs.
âSometimes.â
âEvery day sometimes?â
Yoongi gives a small shrug again.
âIf Min comes here, I come here.â
Your friend looks amused.
âHm.â
Min suddenly jumps off Yoongiâs lap.
He walks across the couch.
Then climbs into your lap instead.
Your friend laughs.
âSee? Custody exchange.â
You cover your face with one hand.
âThis was a mistake.â
Your friend grins.
But they keep talking with you.
About random things.
About plans.
About something funny that happened earlier that day.
Yoongi stays quiet for most of it.
Not unfriendly.
Just⊠watching.
At one point your friend leans closer to show you something on their phone.
Your shoulders touch.
Yoongi looks away.
Min jumps back onto the couch.
Right next to Yoongi.
Yoongi absently scratches behind the catâs ears again.
ââŠYouâre very quiet,â your friend says suddenly, looking at him.
Yoongi shrugs.
âIâm listening.â
Your friend studies him for a second.
Then smiles slowly.
âOh.â
âWhat?â you ask.
âNothing.â
But they are clearly amused.
After a while, your friend stands up.
âWell, I should go.â
You walk them to the door.
âText me later,â they say.
âOkay.â
They glance once more at Yoongi and Min on the couch.
Then back at you.
ââŠTake care of your cat family.â
You groan.
âLeave.â
They laugh and finally leave.
You close the door.
The apartment becomes quiet again.
When you walk back to the living room, Yoongi is still sitting on the couch.
Min is stretched across his lap again.
But Yoongiâs expression looks⊠thoughtful.
You sit down beside him.
Min shifts slightly so heâs now across both of your legs.
Neither of you speaks for a moment.
Then Yoongi sighs softly.
ââŠShared custody.â
You glance at him.
âYouâre the one who keeps coming.â
âI come for him.â
You look down at Min.
âHm.â
Yoongi scratches behind the catâs ears.
Min purrs louder.
But Yoongiâs eyes drift away from the cat.
Toward you.
Just for a second.
Then he looks back down.
ââŠYour friend comes here often?â he asks casually.
You blink.
âSometimes.â
Yoongi nods slowly.
ââŠThey seem close to you.â
âTheyâre my friend.â
âRight.â
There is a small pause.
You tilt your head slightly.
ââŠAre you jealous?â
Yoongi immediately looks at you.
âIâm not jealous.â
You raise an eyebrow.
âYou asked.â
âI was just asking.â
âSure.â
Yoongi looks away, scratching Min again.
Min purrs louder like he enjoys the tension.
After a moment Yoongi sighs quietly.
ââŠHe didnât like them.â
You look down at the cat.
âHe literally ignored them.â
âExactly.â
You laugh softly.
Yoongi glances at you again.
Then quickly looks back down.
And for the first timeâŠ
Yoongi quietly realizes something.
He doesnât only come here for the cat anymore.
That night, Yoongi stays longer than usual.
You donât really notice when the time passes.
One moment you are both talking in the kitchen while making tea, and the next moment you realize the sky outside the window is already dark.
Min is walking around the apartment like always.
Sometimes he sits on the couch.
Sometimes he jumps on the table.
Sometimes he randomly appears between you and Yoongi like a very small supervisor.
Right now he is sitting on the windowsill, watching the street like it is his personal TV.
You sit on the couch, pulling the blanket over your legs.
Yoongi sits beside you, leaning back against the cushions.
The apartment feels quiet.
Comfortable.
Like it has been like this for a long time.
You glance at Yoongi.
ââŠYou come here a lot.â
Yoongi looks at you.
âYou noticed?â
âA little.â
He scratches the back of his neck.
âI told you.â
âYou come for the cat.â
Yoongi looks toward the window where Min is sitting.
ââŠYeah.â
But this time his answer sounds less confident.
Min suddenly jumps down from the windowsill and walks toward the couch.
He jumps up between both of you.
Of course.
You smile.
âHe likes being in the middle.â
Yoongi sighs softly.
âHe likes attention.â
Min walks across your legs, then across Yoongiâs.
Then he circles twice and lays down between both of you.
His tail flicks once.
Then he settles comfortably.
You look down at him.
ââŠI think he owns us now.â
Yoongi snorts quietly.
âProbably.â
For a moment the room is silent again.
You glance at Yoongi.
Then back at the cat.
ââŠCan I ask you something?â
Yoongi nods.
âSure.â
You tilt your head slightly.
âYou said he escapes a lot.â
âYeah.â
âLike⊠all the time.â
Yoongi looks down at Min for a second.
Then back up.
ââŠPretty much.â
You think about that.
Then something clicks in your mind.
âWait.â
Yoongi looks at you.
âWhat?â
You narrow your eyes a little.
âYou donât actually seem surprised when he ends up here.â
Yoongi doesnât answer immediately.
Instead, he looks at Min again.
The cat is sleeping peacefully between you both.
ââŠOkay,â Yoongi says slowly.
âThat sounds suspicious.â
He sighs quietly.
âThereâs something I didnât say.â
You lean back slightly.
âOh?â
Yoongi runs a hand through his mint hair.
ââŠHeâs not exactly my cat.â
You blink.
ââŠWhat?â
Yoongi gestures toward Min.
âI found him outside my building a few months ago.â
You look down at the sleeping cat.
âHe was smaller then,â Yoongi continues. âAnd dirty. And very loud.â
âThat sounds accurate.â
Yoongi smiles a little.
âI started leaving food for him.â
âAnd then?â
âHe started coming back.â
You nod slowly.
âSo you adopted him.â
âNot really.â
You frown.
âWhat do you mean?â
Yoongi shrugs a little.
âHe never stayed.â
You look at him, confused.
âI tried to keep him inside,â Yoongi says. âBut he always escaped.â
You glance at the cat again.
âThat sounds like him.â
âHe would stay a few days,â Yoongi continues, âthen disappear again.â
âAnd you let him?â
Yoongi shakes his head.
âI tried not to.â
He leans his head back against the couch.
âBut Min always does whatever he wants.â
You laugh quietly.
âThat part I believe.â
Yoongi looks at you again.
âBut when he came hereâŠâ
He gestures around your apartment.
ââŠhe didnât leave.â
You look at him.
Then at the cat.
Then back at Yoongi.
âMaybe he likes my couch.â
Yoongi shakes his head slightly.
âNo.â
He points gently at you.
âYou let him stay.â
You blink.
âWhat?â
Yoongiâs voice becomes softer.
âWhen I found him, I kept trying to make him stay.â
He looks down at Min again.
âBut you didnât.â
You tilt your head.
âI just gave him food.â
âAnd a place to sleep.â
ââŠBecause it was raining.â
Yoongi smiles faintly.
âExactly.â
Min shifts slightly in his sleep.
One of his paws stretches across both of your legs.
You both look down at him at the same time.
ââŠHe really chose this place,â you whisper.
Yoongi looks at you again.
ââŠYeah.â
The room becomes quiet again.
But this time the silence feels different.
Closer.
Yoongiâs shoulder is almost touching yours now.
You hadnât noticed when the distance disappeared.
You glance at him.
Yoongi is already looking at you.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
Your heart starts beating a little faster.
Yoongiâs eyes move slightly.
From your eyes.
To your lips.
Then back again.
You feel your breath catch.
SlowlyâŠ
very slowlyâŠ
you both lean a little closer.
Min suddenly moves.
You both freeze.
The cat stretches dramatically.
Then stands up.
Walks directly between both of your faces.
And sits down.
Right in the middle.
You stare at him.
Yoongi stares at him.
Min blinks.
Completely unaware that he just interrupted something very important.
You lean back against the couch, laughing softly.
ââŠOf course.â
Yoongi rubs his face with one hand.
ââŠIâm starting to think he does this on purpose.â
Min curls into a ball between you again.
Like a fluffy wall.
You look at Yoongi.
Yoongi looks at you.
Neither of you says anything.
But both of you are smiling a little.Â
The visits stop feeling like visits.
At some point, Yoongi just⊠starts being there.
Some mornings he knocks.
Sometimes he doesnât even need to, because the door is already unlocked.
Min now has a small bed in the corner of the living room.
A soft one.
Gray, because you said it matched his fur.
There are toys scattered around the apartment too.
A little ball.
A string with feathers.
And a small mouse that Min proudly carries around like a trophy.
Yoongi also started bringing special cat food.
âYouâre spoiling him,â you told him once.
âYou started it,â Yoongi answered.
Right now Min is sleeping on the couch like he owns the place.
Which⊠honestly, he probably does.
You are sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, scrolling on your phone.
Yoongi is leaning against the couch behind you.
Min suddenly lifts his head.
Then walks across the couch.
Then jumps down.
He lands directly between both of you.
You glance down.
âOf course.â
Min circles twice.
Then climbs onto Yoongiâs lap.
Yoongi automatically starts scratching behind his ears.
The cat begins purring immediately.
You smile.
âYou see?â
Yoongi looks at you.
âWhat?â
âHe adopted us.â
Yoongi raises an eyebrow.
âHe did what?â
You gesture toward Min.
âHe found two humans and decided we belong to him now.â
Yoongi looks down at the cat.
Min looks extremely satisfied.
ââŠThat sounds accurate.â
You laugh quietly.
The room becomes peaceful again.
Min stretches across Yoongiâs lap like a fluffy king.
You lean your back against the couch.
Yoongiâs hand brushes lightly against yours. Neither of you pulls away.
For a moment you both just sit there.
Quiet.
Comfortable.
Then Yoongi speaks.
ââŠI think you were right.â
You look up at him.
âAbout what?â
Yoongi glances at Min.
âAbout him choosing.â
You tilt your head.
âYou mean choosing my apartment?â
Yoongi shakes his head slowly.
âNo.â
He looks at you.
âChoosing us.â
Your heart skips a little.
Min shifts slightly but stays asleep.
You watch Yoongi carefully.
ââŠYouâre here a lot lately,â you say.
Yoongi lets out a small breath.
âYeah.â
âFor the cat?â
Yoongi smiles faintly.
Then he gently moves Min a little so he can lean forward.
The cat barely reacts.
âI should be honest,â Yoongi says.
You blink.
âThat sounds serious.â
Yoongi looks directly at you.
âI donât think I come here just for the cat anymore.â
Your chest tightens a little.
âOh.â
Yoongi hesitates for a second.
Then he reaches out and gently takes your hand.
Your fingers lace together naturally.
Like it was always supposed to happen.
âI thinkâŠâ Yoongi says quietly.
ââŠI came because of you.â
You stare at him.
Min continues sleeping peacefully like he is ignoring the entire emotional moment.
Your voice comes out softer than expected.
ââŠIt took you long enough to say that.â
Yoongi laughs quietly.
âYeah.â
He slowly pulls you closer.
Your shoulder presses against his.
Then your arm.
Then suddenly you are sitting much closer than before.
Your heart is beating fast again.
Yoongiâs thumb brushes gently over your hand.
ââŠCan I try something?â he asks.
You nod slowly.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Yoongi studies your face like he is making sure this is really happening.
His eyes move slowly from your eyes⊠to your lips⊠then back again.
Your breath catches slightly.
He leans in first, but slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want.
You donât.
Your hand tightens slightly in his.
Yoongiâs other hand slides carefully around your waist, pulling you a little closer.
Then he kisses you.
Soft.
Warm.
Careful at first, like heâs afraid the moment might disappear if he moves too fast.
You feel your chest flutter.
For a second you freeze in surpriseâŠ
then you kiss him back.
The kiss deepens just a little.
Yoongiâs hand at your waist holds you a bit closer now, and you can feel the quiet warmth of him through the fabric of his hoodie.
Everything feels calm.
Like the entire apartment has gone silent just for this moment.
When you finally pull away, itâs only a few inches.
Yoongi is still close enough that you can feel his breath.
Neither of you speaks for a second.
Then you notice something.
Yoongi is still holding you like he doesnât want you to move too far.
I've been a fan for so long and now that they're coming back, I see everyone getting tickets and actually being able to witness the BTS magic in real life.... I am so happy for them but I feel so dejected too...I guess some ARMYs are meant to support them from the other side of the screen, maybe in another life....
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Sypnosis: Some loves are written in the stars. Across snowy streets, bustling cities, and quiet moments, Y/N and Hoseok keep finding each other, over and over, in ways that feel both accidental and inevitable. Each meeting brings warmth to their hearts, a soft comfort that lingers long after they part. In a world full of chance encounters and gentle reminders, the universe has its own quiet way of bringing two people together. Forever in December is a tender, heartwarming story of love, fate, and the quiet magic that brings two hearts together when the time is finally right, a story that reminds us some connections are never truly lost and some loves are meant to last forever.
This story is part of my BTS Christmas One-Shot Series, where Iâll be posting a special one-shot for each member throughout December. I hope these little holiday tales wrap around you like the warmth of Christmas lights and the coziness of winter nights.
The Christmas fair felt like a small universe that only existed for one magical December night. Lanterns hung from wires like tiny moons, glowing warm against the early evening sky. Street vendors laughed behind their carts, the air smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm sugar, and the sound of childrenâs shoes tapping against pavement blended with the faint melody of a holiday choir.
Your mittened hand was tucked securely in your motherâs, until it wasnât.
A crowd swelled suddenly around a booth selling glowing balloons. People pressed forward, and without meaning to, you let go so you could see the bright red one shaped like a heart. In two steps, you were swallowed by noise and strangers. When you turned to point out the balloon to your mother, she wasnât there. Neither was your father. Neither was your older cousin who had been checking every stall for the best chocolate-dipped strawberries.
The world suddenly felt too big.
You tried calling out softly at first, but your voice was lost under the festive chimes and laughter. There were so many legs moving around you, coats in every color, boots thudding on the cold ground. No faces you knew. No hand reaching for yours.
Your eyes blurred. The cold stung your cheeks long before the tears did. Without thinking, you wandered toward the softest sound you could hear, the lull of a tiny carousel tucked in the corner of the fair.
It was an old carousel, the kind that only carried wooden horses and chipped sleighs. Its lights flickered gently, making it look like it was breathing. A small boy with flushed cheeks and a green scarf stood beside it, holding a candy cane in one hand while watching the horses go round and round, as if he was waiting for someone.
You didnât see him first. He saw you.
You were wiping your eyes with your mitten, looking so small against the winter night that he stepped forward without hesitation.
âHey⊠are you okay?â His voice was gentle, a little shy, and surprisingly warm for someone so young.
You looked up. He had soft, bright eyes, the kind that made you feel seen even in a crowd of thousands. His hair stuck out beneath his hood, and there was a bit of melted snow on his eyelashes.
âI⊠I canât find my mom,â you whispered, trying not to cry again. âOr my dad⊠or anyone.â
âOh.â He shifted a little, like your sadness reached him. âThatâs scary.â
He paused. âBut I can stay with you. If you want.â
You nodded, because something inside you settled at the sound of his voice.
âIâm Hoseok,â he said softly. âBut you can call me Hobi. Everyone does.â
You tried saying your name between small sniffles. He repeated it quietly, committing it to memory even though life would steal the exact shape of it later.
Then, the moment that felt like a tiny miracle, he held out the candy cane he hadnât even tasted yet.
âHere,â he said. âMy mom bought me another one earlier. You can have this.â
You stared at it, unsure if you should take it. âAre you sure?â
He nodded, offering a little smile that looked like a lantern warming the dark. âItâs sweet. Maybe itâll help.â
It wasnât the candy that helped.
It was the kindness.
You took it carefully, and he brightened as if heâd given you something precious.
He sat beside you on the low wooden fence that circled the carousel. Snow gathered around your boots, drifting down like soft confetti. The music shifted to another soft, tinkling holiday tune. For a while, the world seemed faraway, and the only things that mattered were the shared quiet, the laughter from the carousel, and the warmth slowly returning to your chest.
Hoseok spoke first.
âAre you scared right now?â
You nodded.
âMe too,â he admitted. âSometimes I get afraid of getting lost. Or losing my jacket. Or losing my mom in the crowd. But then I remember something.â
âWhat?â you whispered.
He tapped his chest. âIf you stand in one place long enough, the people looking for you will find you.â
You tried to inhale steadily. âI hope so.â
âI think they will,â he said with certainty that didnât match his age. âAnd until they do⊠Iâll stay.â
His words were simple, but at eight or nine years old, simple could feel like a miracle.
You didnât talk much after that. You didnât have to. You sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the carousel spin slowly, its soft lights reflecting in your eyes. A wooden white horse passed again and again, and you both watched it like it was a friend circling back to check on you.
At one point, he kicked snow lightly toward your boots.
You laughed, and he looked proud of himself.
âSee? Not so sad anymore.â
âA little,â you corrected.
âA little is okay. A little means youâre trying.â
You werenât sure how a boy your age could say things like that, but it settled inside you like warmth.
Another few minutes passed before you heard your name being called frantically.
Your motherâs voiceâshaky, worried, breaking.
You stood immediately, startled, and Hoseok also jumped to his feet.
âThat must be them,â he said, eyes bright with relief for you.
You turned, and there she wasâyour mother, rushing with panic and tears, your father behind her, your cousin almost slipping on the icy ground as he tried to keep up.
Your mother pulled you into her arms, hugging you so tightly your feet almost lifted off the ground. You felt her heart racing against your cheek. Your father touched your hair, your shoulders, like checking if you were real.
âIâm okay,â you said softly. âReally. I wasnât alone.â
Your mother looked down at Hoseok, finally noticing him.
âAnd this isâŠ?â
âA friend,â you said quietly.
Hoseok bowed a little, awkward but polite. âShe was scared. I just sat with her.â
Your father placed a grateful hand on the boyâs shoulder. âThank you.â
Hoseok smiled, shy and proud at the same time.
You stepped toward him again because something inside you didnât want to leave without saying something. The moment felt important, though you didnât know why.
He scratched the side of his mitten awkwardly. âIâm glad youâre safe now.â
You nodded, gripping the candy cane he gave you. âThank you⊠really.â
He noticed you still holding it. âKeep it. Maybe it will remind you you werenât alone.â
Your heart warmed in a way you didnât have words for.
He hesitated, then leaned in very slightly, like he wanted to say something special.
âIf we meet again someday⊠letâs share another candy cane.â
The promise hung in the cold air, gentle and pure, as if the universe paused to listen.
You felt your face warm despite the cold. âOkay.â
Your mother called you again, gently tugging your sleeve. You gave Hoseok one last look, memorizing his bright eyes, his green scarf, the way he smiled like he wanted the world to be kind.
And then you walked away.
You didnât look back because you were afraid the sight of him standing there would make you cry again.
Hoseok watched you leave until your figure disappeared into the crowd. A breeze lifted the ends of his scarf, and he pressed his own candy cane to his chest for a moment, as if trying to hold onto the feeling.
You both forgot each otherâs names over the years.
But not this moment. Not the warmth. Not the promise.
The universe tucked it into some quiet place, waiting for the day it would bring you back to each other.
The campus was alive with the low hum of finals week. Students hurried past, juggling notebooks, coffee cups, and the kind of nervous energy that made every step feel hurried. The autumn sun filtered through tall windows of the library corridor, casting golden streaks across worn bricks and scattered leaves outside. The wind nipped at your cheeks as you rounded the corner, your bag stuffed with textbooks and loose notes threatening to tumble out at any second.
You didnât see him until it was too late.
Your shoulder bumped into his, and the impact sent a stack of your notebooks teetering and then spilling across the stone walkway. Papers fluttered like startled birds, some landing near his feet, others skidding under the bench nearby. You gasped and knelt instinctively, reaching for your scattered things, your cheeks burning.
âIâm so sorry! I wasnât lookingââ
âHere, let me help.â
You looked up, and there he was.
The boy who seemed vaguely familiar yet somehow completely new, taller now, his hair curling just at the nape of his neck. His deep brown eyes were wide as he crouched to pick up your books, and the corners of his lips turned up in a soft, almost shy smile.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Something fluttered quietly in your chest, like a half-remembered melody. His eyes lingered on yours in a way that made your heart skip, the warmth of recognition brushing against your mind even before the name could form.
He handed you a notebook, and his fingers brushed yours lightly. You felt a tiny sparkâa quiet, insistent pull you couldnât place.
âHave we⊠met before?â he asked softly, the words careful, almost uncertain, but the weight in his gaze made your chest tighten.
You blinked, holding the notebook like a shield against the sudden racing of your thoughts. âI⊠I donât think so?â you said, your voice small, uncertain. Something in him felt familiar, though you couldnât quite put your finger on it.
He shook his head, but there was a wistful smile playing at his lips. âYou just⊠look like someone I knew a long time ago. Someone I⊠should probably have remembered better.â
You laughed softly, the kind of laugh thatâs shy and hesitant, trying to smooth over a strange flutter in your chest. âMaybe weâve both changed too much to recognize each other.â
He paused, crouched there with a few of your papers still in his hands. Then he said something that made the world feel like it tilted gently: âIâm Hoseok,â he added quietly, almost as if speaking the name might solidify the memory. âBut you can call me Hobi, everyone does.â
The instant his name left his lips, a spark of recognition ignited inside you. Your heart stuttered as if it remembered something it had been waiting for all these years. Hobi⊠The boy with the candy cane, the carousel, the warmth under lantern lights years agoâhe was him. It all clicked in a sudden, gentle rush. The memory didnât come in a flash, but as a soft wave, washing over your chest and making it ache with nostalgia.
âHobi?â you repeated, your voice trembling slightly, a mix of disbelief and wonder.
His eyes widened, and then a shy laugh escaped him, low and warm. âYeah⊠thatâs me. I think⊠maybe we met a long time ago?â
You laughed too, covering your mouth with your hand, a little breathless, a little shy. âI think we did. I⊠I remember a carousel. And⊠candy canes.â
A small, amazed smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the chaos of finals week, the rushing students, and the autumn wind outside disappeared. All that remained was the quiet bubble of recognition, the warmth of something old and precious rekindled.
âYou were crying,â he said softly, brushing a leaf off his sleeve, as if speaking the memory aloud made it more real. âI remember that.â
You felt your eyes sting. âI⊠I donât really remember that part,â you admitted, voice gentle. âJust⊠I remember feeling safe. I remember you being there.â
âI was scared too,â he said quietly, his hand brushing against the notebook you were holding. âBut I remember wanting you to feel okay. To know someone was⊠there.â
You laughed lightly, shaking your head, a happy, slightly teary laugh. âAnd now here we are. Meeting again, like some weird twist of fate.â
He nodded, his gaze soft and warm, lingering just long enough to make your chest tighten. âYeah. Fateâs got a strange sense of timing.â
For the next few minutes, you crouched together picking up scattered papers, talking in soft, tentative bursts. You learned about his classes, the professors he liked, how finals had him more stressed than he wanted to admit. You shared small laughs over mismanaged schedules and spilled coffee, and the warmth between you grew quietly, effortlessly, like a candle in a drafty room.
âYou have a really nice laugh,â he said finally, brushing a loose curl from his forehead. âI⊠I like it.â
Your chest warmed at the simplicity of the compliment, at the way it felt like it was meant for you alone, even in a crowded corridor. âThanks,â you whispered, smiling shyly. âI like yours too. Itâs⊠nice.â
Eventually, the moment had to end. The students around you were moving, the campus alive with its hurried rhythm. You rose to your feet, brushing leaves off your coat, trying to store the fleeting feeling safely in your chest.
âI should head to class,â you said reluctantly, wishing for a moment that time could pause.
âYeah,â he said, standing as well. âBut⊠Iâm really glad we ran into each other. Even like this.â
âMe too,â you murmured softly, your fingers brushing briefly against his as you adjusted your bag.
And just like that, the moment was gone. You walked in opposite directions, your heart carrying the warmth of recognition, the gentle pull of familiarity, and the quiet spark of a memory that refused to fade. He lingered for a moment longer, watching you go, and smiled to himself, a small smile that carried hope and wonder all at once.
Years later, the mall was alive with the glow of Christmas. Every surface shimmered under strings of lights, wreaths hung at every doorway, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted nuts drifted lazily in the air. A holiday playlist murmured softly, layered beneath the hum of laughter, hurried footsteps, and the occasional squeak of a shopping cart. Families bustled past, friends carried armfuls of gifts, and the chatter of strangers collided with the distant echo of a childâs delighted squeal.
You were walking hand in hand with your partner, your fingers intertwined, the warmth of their hand anchoring you against the cool draft that slipped in through the automatic doors. You had your coat pulled snug around your shoulders and your scarf tucked just under your chin. You had lists to check, gifts to pick, and the usual swirl of excitement and exhaustion that accompanied Christmas shopping.
And then you saw him.
Across the busy corridor, in a crowd of people hurrying past, your eyes landed on a familiar face. His hair was slightly longer than you remembered from college, the corners of his eyes carrying the same warmth, the same quiet attentiveness. He was talking to someone, his girlfriend, laughing softly, but when his gaze flicked up, it locked with yours.
Recognition clicked in an instant. Not the bright, blinding kind, but slow, almost painfully tender. Your heart recognized him before your mind did. The boy from the carousel, the boy from the college hallway, the fleeting smiles in crowded corridors and classrooms, he was here. And yet⊠here he was, with someone else, and so were you.
For a heartbeat, the universe seemed to hold its breath.
Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. You allowed yourselves a soft, almost imperceptible smile, a smile that carried years of memory, of shared warmth, of feelings that never fully faded. It was a smile that said everything and nothing at the same time.
He returned it, and for a brief, exquisite moment, the noise of the mall fell away. You could see the golden highlights in his hair, the subtle way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the warmth that had always been there beneath the surface. It was like catching a familiar melody you hadnât heard in years.
Then reality intruded.
Your partner tugged gently at your sleeve, reminding you of where you were, who you were with, and what boundaries existed. He glanced at his partner, and you realized that fate had stepped back, drawing a quiet line between two hearts that were not available.
You allowed your lips to curve into a small, bittersweet smile and whispered softly, âMerry Christmas.â
He nodded almost imperceptibly, his own voice low enough for no one else to hear. âMerry Christmas.â
It wasnât enough. Not really. Not for what stirred between you, the ache of recognition, the pull of a connection that refused to fade. But it was what you could allow.
You watched him for a few seconds longer as he turned, blending into the crowd again, and a strange ache settled in your chest. It was the ache of familiarity, of âalmosts,â of the universe nudging your paths together just far enough to remind you of what was waiting for the right time.
Your partner squeezed your hand, bringing you back to the present. You nodded, returning the gesture, and forced yourself to focus on the brightly wrapped boxes and the laughter echoing through the mall. But even as you moved forward, even as you talked and laughed with your partner, you could feel itâhim, there, lingering in the corner of your heart, a quiet ember that had survived the years.
It was a reminder that some connections were too deep to vanish, even when life pulled you in different directions. That some hearts recognized each other long before words could explain why. That sometimes, the universe asks you to wait.
And for now, waiting was all you could do.
The crowd swallowed him. You continued shopping, following the list in your hands, yet your mind kept returning to the warmth of his eyes, the faint echo of his laughter, the way his presence had made the noise of the mall fade for just a moment.
The world went on, the Christmas lights blinked on and off, families passed by, and you held onto that quiet, fleeting connection, tucked safely in your chest, waiting for the day it could finally be more than a smile.
The city was alive with the pulse of the holidays. Streetlights reflected off the slick pavement, storefronts glimmered with gold and red, and the faint smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from a corner vendor. Inside the high-rise apartment, the party roared: clinking glasses, loud laughter, holiday music spilling from hidden speakers. But you werenât really part of it. You were part of the scene, technically present, but your chest felt tight, your stomach a coil of frustration.
Your boyfriend was in the center of it all, laughing a little too loudly with his so-called friends, a drink in one hand, his voice carrying across the room. You had tried to join in at first, smiling politely at introductions you barely cared about. But then, one careless joke at your expense, amplified by the echoes of othersâ laughter, pushed you past the limit.
You pushed back from the table. âIâm leaving,â you said quietly, your voice swallowed by the hum of the party. Nobody seemed to notice, or maybe nobody cared. You didnât wait for a response. You walked past the glittering lights, the warmth of the room fading behind you.
Outside, the air hit like ice. Snow had started falling in heavy, steady flakes, blurring the sharp edges of the city and coating the sidewalks in a soft, slippery white. Your gloves were thin, your shawl barely keeping the chill from settling in your shoulders. You stamped your feet, trying to will warmth back into your fingers.
Taxis passed in streams, their lights flickering, but none stopped. The cold began to seep deeper, biting at your cheeks, creeping through your coat, and making the air feel impossibly heavy. You hugged your arms to yourself, shivering, feeling the weight of solitude in a city that had never seemed so enormous.
And then, a car slowed beside you. Its tires crunched over the snow, the engine a low hum against the silence. The window rolled down, and you saw him.
Hobi.
Even before recognition fully registered, your heart stirred, the familiar curve of his lips, the warmth of a smile that had lingered in memory, the way his eyes seemed to notice you even in the flurry of snow and neon lights.
âHey⊠do you need some help?â he asked, voice steady and calm, cutting through the wind.
âYes⊠thereâs no taxi,â you admitted, shivering slightly, teeth clicking against one another. âI⊠I just⊠walked out.â
He leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his hair and then gesturing toward the passenger door. âGet in. Youâll freeze to death out here otherwise.â
Sliding inside, the warmth hit immediately. The small space of the car felt intimate, safe, and impossibly comforting after the frigid streets. Hoseok typed your apartment address into the GPS, his fingers brushing the edge of your hand just slightly, and the faint spark of familiarity thrummed through your chest.
âI recognized you from afar,â he said, glancing at you with a small, teasing smile. âGood thing Iâm going home. Otherwise⊠youâd be standing out here like an icicle.â
You let out a small laugh, half shivering, half amused. âYeah⊠I got into a fight. With my boyfriend. So here I am, freezing.â
âWhat happened?â His tone was casual, but his eyes carried a quiet curiosity, an attentiveness that made your chest flutter unexpectedly.
âI⊠I donât know. He made fun of me in front of his friends. I justââ You shrugged, brushing a lock of hair from your face. âI couldnât stay in there. It was too much.â
Hobi let out a soft laugh. âSounds like heâs a jerk.â
You laughed too, the sound light and surprised at how easily it escaped. âExactly. He really is.â
For a few moments, neither of you spoke, letting the city blur past in streaks of light and falling snow. Inside the car, the warmth felt like a cocoon. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne, a clean, understated scent that was oddly comforting.
âYou know,â he said, glancing at you through the corner of his eye, âI never realized⊠even casual acquaintances could end up in situations like this. Snow, cold streets, arguments with boyfriendsâŠâ
âI guess the universe likes to mess with people,â you replied softly, smiling despite the lingering cold. âOr maybe⊠itâs trying to teach me something.â
âLesson one: donât walk out in heels in a blizzard,â he teased lightly, and you laughed again, shaking your head. âLesson two: always hope a familiar stranger will show up?â
âThat too,â you said, eyes catching the reflection of city lights in the window, the snow swirling like tiny stars against the dark sky.
The ride continued in gentle conversation, easy and natural, as though you had known him for longer than just casual greetings at the mall or in a hallway. He asked about your work, your plans for the holidays, joking gently about the absurdity of city life during December. You told him about small things, the little victories and disasters that had filled your days. The warmth of his attention, combined with the heater blasting softly between you, made the cold, lonely moments outside fade.
Finally, the GPS announced your arrival. You sighed softly, reluctant to leave the car, the bubble of comfort, the quiet moments you hadnât realized you were craving.
âThanks,â you said quietly, voice soft, almost reverent. âFor noticing. For stopping. For⊠this.â
He smiled, that same gentle smile that had made you recognize him before even realizing it. âAlways,â he said simply. âThatâs me. Always noticing.â
You stepped out into the snow, brushing flakes from your coat. The city continued to glow, bustling and chaotic, but for the first time that night, you felt warmth that had nothing to do with a crowded party, nothing to do with the heated apartment, and everything to do with the small, unspoken connection that had survived across years and fleeting encounters.
Hobi drove off slowly, the snow swirling behind him, and for a moment, you watched him disappear into the city lights, a quiet ache and a tender warmth blooming simultaneously in your chest.
The night had been unexpected, cold, and chaotic. Yet somehow, it had been perfect.
The airport was overflowing with bodies and noise, a restless tide of holiday travelers dragging suitcases and children and hope through brightly lit terminals. Announcements echoed from every direction, boarding calls layered over Christmas songs, the entire space humming with that familiar chaos that always clung to December.
You stood in the middle of it allâcold, overwhelmed, and exhausted. Your suitcase was open on the floor, your belongings spilling out in a disorganized heap that mirrored your heart. A scarf hung from the edge, half landing on the tiles, half caught in a zipper.
The airline staff had just informed you, with a sympathetic but firm tone, that you were four kilos over the luggage limit. And because your flight was boarding soon, you didnât have time to repack properly, you just knelt on the floor and tried to somehow make fate bend.
You swallowed hard, your hands shaking as you tried to rearrange everything, your chest tightening with panic.
You had not slept in two days.
You had not eaten properly since the breakup.
And all you wanted was to get to New York, to breathe, to disappear for a while, to stop hurting.
Your vision blurred slightly as you lifted a heavy sweater, trying to decide if it was worth throwing away. Christmas in New York was ice-cold. You needed it.
âY/n?â
The voice came from behind youâwarm, familiar, soft enough to cut through the noise around you like a thread tying scattered pieces back together.
You turned.
Hoseok stood there, a backpack slung over one shoulder, his travel coat dusted faintly with cold air from outside. His hair was slightly messy from rushing, but his eyesâthose soft, bright eyesâlooked at you with recognition and something close to concern.
âHobi?â Your voice cracked with disbelief, exhaustion, and a strange kind of relief you didnât know you were allowed to feel.
He glanced from you to your open suitcase, then to the weighing scale. âYouâre over the limit?â
âIâm over everything,â you muttered, forcing a shaky laugh. âThe weight. The stress. My capacity as a human being.â
His smile formed slowlyâfamiliar, quiet, almost nostalgic. âWhere are you heading?â
âNew York,â you said, brushing your hair behind your ear as you crouched on the floor. âI just⊠I need to get away for a while. Spend Christmas somewhere else. Move on.â
He blinked. âMove on?â
You hesitated, eyes dropping to the clothes on the floor. âWe broke up. A few days ago.â
Something softened in his expression, a gentle shift that made your chest feel both warm and heavy. But before you could drown in the emotion of it, he set his bag down.
âIâm flying to New York too.â
Your head shot up. âYou are?â
He nodded. âMy girlfriendâs there. She moved last month for work. Iâm spending Christmas with her.â
Your heart dipped, not because you wanted him, not consciously, not in any way you were allowed to, but because you had forgotten what it felt like to be the only one hurting in a moment where someone else was heading toward something whole and warm.
Still, you forced a smile. âThatâs⊠nice. Last time I saw you two was at the mall.â
âShe left recently,â he said gently. âItâs been tough with the distance. But yeah⊠Iâm excited to see her.â
You nodded, even if it felt like someone had pressed a thumb to your bruised heart.
And then Hoseok crouched beside your luggage, scanning the scattered items before looking back at you.
âHow much are you over?â he asked.
âFour kilos,â you whispered, frustration pooling in your throat. âI donât know what to take out. Everything feels necessary.â
He unzipped his backpack slightly, showing the nearly empty interior. âI have space. Give me some of your things.â
You froze. âNo, itâs fine. I donât want to inconvenienceââ
âY/n,â he said with a soft smile, âitâs either my bag helps you or you toss your sweaters and freeze in New York.â
Your lips parted, caught between gratitude and disbelief. âI⊠thank you. Really. You always save me somehow.â
His gaze lingered on yours for a moment longer than expected. A tender warmth passed between youâbrief, quiet, but unmistakably real.
âIâm just glad I saw you,â he said softly. âThe timingâs⊠lucky.â
Together, you carefully packed two sweaters, a pair of boots, and a pouch of toiletries into his backpack. Seeing your things tucked safely into his bag made something tremble lightly inside your chestâa small, unexpected comfort.
When everything was settled, he pulled your suitcase upright with ease. âAll right. Letâs get to the gate before they leave us behind.â
You fell into step beside him, the both of you weaving through crowds of hurried travelers, your suitcase wheels clicking rhythmically against the tiles.
âSoâŠâ he said gently as you neared the escalators, âwhat happened? If you donât mind telling me.â
Your heart tightened, but his voice, steady and warm, made it easier to breathe.
âHe kept making fun of me,â you said quietly. âSometimes in front of people. Sometimes when we were alone. I tried to ignore it but⊠it hurt. It just took one last moment, and I knew I had to walk away.â
Hoseok didnât interrupt, didnât rush to fill the silence. He simply walked beside you, listening in a way that made your eyes sting.
âYou didnât deserve that,â he said finally, his voice deepening with quiet sincerity. âAnyone who makes you feel small⊠is not someone who should stand next to you.â
You blinked quickly, looking ahead. âI know. I just wish it didnât hurt this much.â
âIt means your heart works,â he replied softly. âThatâs a good thing, even when it feels terrible.â
For a moment, you didnât speak. You just felt the weight of his words settle somewhere deep inside your chest.
At the gate, the boarding announcement echoed through the speakers. Hoseok turned to you and adjusted the strap of his backpack, then smiled.
âIâm in a different seat,â he said. âBut when we land, wait for me. Iâll help you carry your things again.â
You nodded slowly, warmth rising in your chest. âThank you. I⊠really appreciate it.â
âItâs nothing,â he said, though his eyes suggested otherwise. âJust⊠donât disappear before I find you.â
The smile he gave you before walking to his boarding lane was soft, kind, and familiar in a way that ached.
You watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of comfort and sadness, because he was heading toward someone he loved, and you were flying toward the unknown, hoping it might hurt a little less once you stepped into the cold New York air.
And yet, somehow, you felt less alone.
Because once againâ
Hoseok had appeared exactly when you needed someone.
The arrivals hall at JFK was buzzing, overlapping voices, dragging suitcases, reunion cries that echoed against high ceilings dressed with garlands and fairy lights. The moment you and Hoseok stepped through the sliding doors, the world split: people rushed into open arms, couples collided in laughter, families waved signs painted with glitter.
You clutched your suitcase and stood beside him as he scanned the crowd for the one face he had traveled halfway across the world to see.
His girlfriend was supposed to be here.
But as minutes slipped by, his smile slowly dimmed.
You shifted awkwardly, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. âMaybe sheâs running late,â you murmured, trying not to let your voice sound too hopeful or too apologetic on his behalf.
âYeah,â Hoseok replied softly, though the word felt thin, stretched.
He checked his phone. And checked again.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
The crowd thinned, leaving mostly stragglers and one man holding a balloon shaped like a penguin. Outside the tall windows, snow thickened, dancing sideways in the wind.
When your eyes drifted toward the exit, anxiety prickled at your skin. You needed to find a cab before everything shut down. New York snowstorms were not gentle, streets swallowed cars like quicksand.
Hoseok finally spotted your suitcase approaching on the conveyor belt. He stepped forward quickly, hands outstretched, and pulled it off with practiced ease.
âHere,â he said, rolling it toward you. âAnd your other stuffâŠâ
He tapped the side of his backpack. âStill safe.â
You smiled gratefully. âThank you. Really. I wouldâve had to abandon half my closet if not for you.â
He laughed softly, but the sound didnât carry the brightness it usually had. Something clouded lingered.
You reached for the backpack when he opened it for you, retrieving the sweaters, the overstuffed pouch of skincare, the small gifts you had insisted on bringing. You placed everything carefully back into your suitcase.
âWell,â you said quietly, though your voice wavered. âI should let you wait. I donât want to keep you.â
He nodded automatically, but his eyes were glued to the crowd, watching faces he didnât recognize pass by. You lifted your suitcase handle and took two small steps backward.
You expected him to tell you goodbye.
To wave, smile, promise to message if ever you both wandered into each other again.
But he didnât.
He kept searching.
Hope shrinking little by little, too slow for him to notice, too obvious for you to ignore.
You hesitated. Took another step. Paused.
And then the truth hit you like cold air through the automatic doors:
You couldnât leave him like this.
You had been through heartbreak so recently it still stung every time you inhaled. You knew the exact shape of waiting for someone who didnât come.
You knew the tiny humiliations, the biting worry, the way your chest tightened with every unanswered call.
You set your suitcase back down. âHobi,â you said gently. âDo you want me to stay until she arrives?â
He turned toward you, surprise flickering in his eyesâas if he hadnât expected anyone to think of him in this moment.
âYou donât have to,â he said, but his voice held a faint tremor. âYouâve had a long flight. You must be exhausted.â
âIâll stay,â you whispered simply.
And you meant it.
A silence settled between youânot awkward, but heavy with unspoken things neither of you were ready to name.
He glanced toward the exit doors again. Snow crashed against the glass in thick sheets now, turning the world outside into a swirling curtain of white. His phone vibrated, just a notification. Not her.
After another few minutes, he exhaled slowly, sinking onto one of the metal benches lined up along the wall. You sat beside him, close but not touching, watching the same sea of faces.
He dialed her again.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Each call rang until the line cut itself off.
At some point, his shoulders sagged. Just slightly. Enough for you to notice.
âI told her Iâd be here today,â he murmured, almost to himself. âShe said sheâd pick me up. Said she missed me.â
Your heart twisted from seeing something gentle inside him fold in on itself.
Snow clung to the windows so thickly that the city beyond was nothing more than shadows and light. The airport staff began announcing delays, then cancellations. People groaned, frustration filling the terminal like smoke.
Hoseok finally lowered his phone and rubbed his hands together for warmth.
âSheâs not coming,â he whispered.
The words fell between you like something fragile.
You watched him breathe through it, trying to hold himself together, trying not to look like someone who had just been abandoned in the middle of the worldâs busiest airport a week before Christmas.
âIâm sorry,â you said softly.
He looked at you then.
And for the first time, you saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the confusion, the hurt he didnât want to admit.
A long moment passed before he spoke.
âI donât think I want to wait anymore.â
The sentence was quiet, but it felt decisive.
Like a door gently closing behind him.
You swallowed, unsure what to do, what to say, how to comfort someone who had always seemed so bright, so effortlessly steady.
âWhat hotel are you staying at?â he asked suddenly.
You blinked. âWhat?â
He straightened, brushing snow from your suitcase handle as if preparing himself mentally for something. âItâs snowing too hard for you to walk out alone. Cabs are probably impossible to get. Let me take you. Please.â
âYou donât have toââ
âI want to,â he said, and there was nothing forced in his voice. âLet me take you. And then⊠Iâll decide what to do next.â
You hesitated, but the sincerity in his eyes pulled your answer from you.
You told him the name of your hotel, a small one near Midtown, and he nodded without hesitation.
He stood, grabbing your suitcase handle and gesturing for you to follow. For a moment, he seemed to forget his own heartbreak while trying to shield you from the cold, the storm, the chaos.
Maybe that was his way of coping.
Or maybe it was something else neither of you were ready to acknowledge.
As you walked together toward the exit, you felt a strange warmth rise in your chest.
Familiarity.
Comfort.
The feeling of someone stepping closer when the world feels too big and too cold.
And when the doors opened and snow came rushing in, he instinctively moved closer, leaning in so the wind wouldnât hit you.
In that small gesture, you felt it againâ
That strange, unshakable truth:
You were never supposed to leave him sitting on that bench alone.
And maybeâŠ
he wasnât supposed to be waiting for anyone else anymore.
The hotel lobby was a cathedral of quiet warmth on a night that felt like the world outside was unraveling. Golden lamps glowed softly against polished marble floors, and the enormous windows trembled every time the wind hurled snow against the glass. You stepped inside with Hoseok, both of you dusted in white flakes like two travelers who had wandered too far from home.
Your boots leaving small wet marks on the floor, you walked toward the reception desk to check in. Hoseok stayed a few steps behind you, rubbing his palms together as if trying to chase away the cold that had wrapped itself around him since the airport.
When the front desk attendant confirmed your booking and asked for a signature, Hoseok drifted toward a seating area near the window. He kept glancing at his phone, the faint light illuminating the quiet worry in his expression. Every time he tapped the screen to check for notifications, his shoulders sank a little. You finished signing and gave your card with a polite smile, but your attention kept drifting back to him.
Hoseok sat alone on a deep emerald chair, his elbows resting on his knees, phone in both hands. You could almost hear his thoughts from across the lobby, a silent loop of maybe sheâll call, maybe sheâll text, maybe sheâs just late, but the truth was already settling in the space between his breaths.
His girlfriend was not coming.
And he was trying so hard to pretend it didnât sting.
You tucked your documents back into your bag and walked toward him. The snow outside thickened by the minute, swirling like wild white rivers against the dark sky. The storm was past the point of being romantic; it looked dangerous now, relentless, as if the city had been swallowed by winter.
âStill nothing?â you asked gently as you approached.
Hoseok looked up, trying to smile, but it wavered. âNo. I tried calling again while you were checking in. Straight to voicemail.â
The pause that followed felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the quiet you only hear at the end of something â a hope, a plan, a promise â dissolving slowly.
âWhere are you staying?â you asked.
He blinked, then laughed lightly in a way that wasnât truly a laugh. âI was⊠supposed to stay at her place. We planned it before I flew.â He glanced at his phone again as if expecting it to magically ring. âBut since she didnât show up, I donât really have anywhere.â
The sentence ended with a shrug so soft and tired it almost broke something inside you.
You looked toward the windows again. The storm roared, stronger than earlier. Taxis were barely moving outside, headlights dragging through curtains of snow like weak lanterns lost in a blizzard.
âYou shouldnât be out in that,â you murmured, mostly to yourself.
He chuckled again, though it lacked its usual brightness. âIâll be fine. Iâll figure something out. Maybe Iâll walk around and find a vacancy somewhere. Itâs not like I have many options.â
You hesitated, the kind of hesitation that rises when kindness feels too bold, too intimate, but necessary.
âHobiâŠâ you said softly.
He turned toward you fully, eyes warm even in the middle of his exhaustion.
âYou can stay with me,â you said. âMy roomâs for two people anyway.â
He didnât react at first; he simply stared at you, processing your offer like he wasnât sure it was real.
âYou sure?â he asked quietly, almost shyly, as though afraid to accept something so gentle on a night that had been nothing but sharp edges.
You smiled, more to make him feel safe than anything else. âItâs okay. Really.â
Hoseok nodded once, slowly, like someone who had been holding a weight alone for too long and suddenly found someone willing to help him carry it.
âThank you,â he said, and his voice carried a warmth that traveled straight to your chest.
A bellboy appeared to lead you both toward the elevator. Hoseok followed, rolling his luggage behind him, and for a few seconds, the two of you walked in silence. But it wasnât awkward. It felt like the kind of silence that only forms when two people are quietly helping each other survive a night they didnât expect.
The elevator doors opened with a muted chime. You stepped inside, and Hoseok entered after you. Your reflections stood side by side in the mirrored walls, both slightly snow-damp, both a little lost, both holding emotions you couldnât quite name.
The ride up was smooth, the hum of machinery steady and comforting.
Hoseok let out a breath. âI didnât think tonight would end like this.â
âMe neither,â you admitted, watching the numbers climb. âBut maybe thatâs not always a bad thing.â
He glanced at you, eyes softening. âMaybe.â
When the elevator doors opened, the hallway greeted you with warm lighting and plush carpeting that seemed to silence your footsteps. The bellboy guided you to a large door at the end of the corridor, opened it, and stepped aside for you to enter.
The room was breathtaking, a blend of luxury and calm. Wide windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showcasing a city swallowed by snow yet somehow beautiful in its chaos. The lights inside were low and golden, warming every corner.
Hoseok walked inside slowly, as if stepping into a temporary sanctuary he didnât quite believe he deserved.
âIâll sleep on the couch,â he said immediately, setting down his bag.
âAre you sure?â you asked.
âIâm sure,â he replied with a small smile. âI just⊠need somewhere to stay until I figure out what to do in the morning. Iâll sort out a hotel once I know whatâs happening.â
You nodded, but your heart tugged at the sight of him â shoulders tired, clothes still cold from the storm, phone silent in his hand.
The snowstorm outside roared louder, whistling against the glass, but inside the room everything felt gentle and warm. It was strange, almost surreal, the two of you had never been close, just casual acquaintances whose paths crossed in little brushes of fate. But now, sitting together in a hotel room in a foreign city, wrapped in the quiet and the storm, the distance between you softened.
He sat on the couch, leaning back, letting out a breath that felt like it had been held all night.
You sat beside him, close enough to share warmth but not close enough to startle him. âDo you want to talk about it?â you asked.
Hoseok ran his thumb along the edge of his phone. âI donât know. Maybe tomorrow,â he said softly. âRight now⊠I think Iâm just grateful someone didnât leave me behind tonight.â
Your chest tightened, but not painfully, more like a ripple of tenderness.
âYouâre not alone tonight,â you said.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Snow fell endlessly outside, the room glowing with the softest golden light, and between the two of you, something warm began to form. A beginning. A shift. A quiet understanding.
Two people, both hurt in their own ways, both stranded by circumstances they didnât choose, sharing four walls and a storm.
You had no idea what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt cold.
You stayed by the window long after you finished unpacking, palms pressed lightly against the cool glass. The storm that had been a roaring white curtain just hours ago had settled at last, leaving the world outside washed in a calm, shimmering quiet. Snow blanketed the sidewalks, the rooftops, the bare trees that lined the boulevard. Streetlamps cast soft halos onto the ground, each circle of light like a small island in the dark.
Behind you, Hoseok sat on the couch, his phone plugged into the charger, screen faintly glowing as it revived back to life. He had changed into a fresh shirt, hair slightly damp from the shower heâd taken earlier, and he looked⊠tired, but lighter. Less like someone bracing for disappointment and more like someone learning to breathe in the present moment.
You turned from the window.
âHobi,â you asked gently, âare you hungry?â
He lifted his head, eyes meeting yours. There was something open and honest in his expression, almost boyish in its sincerity. âYeah,â he said with a small nod. âI think I am.â
You glanced back outside, watching a couple carefully walk along the snowy path, their shoes leaving soft impressions behind them.
"The storm stopped,â you said. âDo you⊠want to walk outside a bit? Get some air? Eat something?"
Hoseok didnât hesitate. His smile appeared, warm and gentle like a streetlight warming frozen pavement. "Iâd love to,â he said, and the simplicity of his answer filled the room with a quiet softness.
Hobi fell into step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, his scarf pulled up to his chin. He looked peaceful in a way you hadnât expected, as though the cold air had swept away everything that had weighed on him earlier.
âFeels like the world pressed reset,â he said.
âIt really does.â
You nudged a small mound of snow with your boot. âEverything looks brand new.â
He smiled â small, genuine, the kind that settled quietly into your chest instead of knocking into it all at once.
You walked without rushing, your footsteps matching the rhythm of the city easing back to life. Every few minutes, a car passed slowly, tires whispering over the slush. Couples walked hand-in-hand, bundled in coats, cheeks pink from the cold. Somewhere nearby, the faint sound of someoneâs laughter drifted into the night.
Hoseok pushed the door open for you, his hand hovering near your back without touching, as if he wanted to guide you in gently without crossing any line. Inside, the warmth wrapped around you instantly. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of roasted coffee beans. You took a seat near the window, and Hoseok sat across from you, unwinding his scarf from his neck.
He looked⊠comfortable.
Comfortable with you. Comfortable being here.
You werenât sure when that started mattering so much.
The conversation came easily.
It started simple, your favorite winter traditions, his least favorite Christmas songs, the most ridiculous gift he ever received (a singing fish), the worst one you ever gave (a coffee mug that cracked the first time it touched hot water).
Slowly, as the drinks warmed your hands and the snow softened outside, your conversation shifted into gentler places.
He told you about feeling like he had been giving and giving in his relationship until he had nothing left. You told him about holding onto someone who made you feel lonely in rooms full of people. And somehow, without forcing it, without intention, your stories overlapped in the most painful yet comforting ways.
He listened to you like everything you said mattered.
You listened to him like youâd been waiting years to understand him this way.
It didnât feel like strangers reconnecting.
It felt like two people finally speaking in a language only the two of you understood.
When you stepped outside again, snowflakes still drifted gently from the sky â smaller now, slower, like the city was tucking itself in for the night.
As you walked, Hoseok stopped suddenly in front of a small holiday stall lit with tiny golden bulbs. You followed his gaze to a basket full of peppermint candy canes tied with ribbons, classic red and white, the kind kids held in old Christmas picture books.
âWait here,â he said softly.
Before you could ask why, he walked over to the stall and picked through the basket with the seriousness of someone choosing gemstones. His brows furrowed a little, lips pursing as he inspected one then another, occasionally lifting them to check the curve or the shine or who-knows-what standard he was applying.
You bit back a smile.
He finally selected two, paid, then returned to you with the confidence of a man who had just made the most important purchase of his life.
You raised an eyebrow. âDid we need to conduct quality inspections on candy canes?â
He grinned. âOf course. These are high-stakes.â
You laughed, shaking your head. âYouâre impossible.â
He held one out to you, eyes soft, a playful glimmer beneath them.
âThought we should make up for that promise we never kept.â
Your breath stilled, not dramatically, not overwhelmingly, but in a warm, quiet way that made the world tilt a little.
âYou remember that?â you asked, voice gentle.
âOf course I do.â
He looked at the candy cane, then at you. âYou and I⊠we always ran into each other. Every time. I used to think it was just coincidence.â
âAnd now?â you asked softly.
His smile turned tender enough to melt the snow.
âNow Iâm starting to think the universe has been tapping my shoulder for years.â
Your heart pushed against your ribcage, slow and warm, like it wanted to lean closer to the moment.
You lifted your candy cane and tapped it lightly against his, a tiny clink of plastic wrappers meeting under the streetlight.
âA promise finally kept,â you whispered.
He chuckled, the softest sound, almost shy, and tapped his candy cane back against yours.
âA new one made,â he said in return.
Something inside both of you warmed in a way that felt like home.
The two of you resumed walking, candy canes in hand, shoulders brushing just lightly enough to feel the spark but not enough to call it anything yet.
Snowflakes landed on his hair.
Your fingers grazed his once, accidentally, and neither of you apologized.
And for the first time in a long while, the night didnât feel lonely.
It felt right.
Too right.
You wake to the sound of soft footsteps, the kind that carry a strange gentleness, like someone trying very hard not to disturb anything thatâs still at peace. For a moment you canât tell if youâre still dreaming, because everything feels hazy and warm, the leftover glow from last night still clinging to you like a second blanket. The laughter you shared with Hoseok still hangs somewhere in your mind. The memory of walking through snowfall with him, of the way his smile softened when he handed you that candy cane, of how he whispered goodnight before settling on the couch. You remember the way he thanked youâquiet, sincere, almost shy, telling you he didnât know how he would have handled being abandoned if you hadnât been there. That last line loops in your chest now like an echo youâre desperate to hold onto.
When you finally open your eyes, the room is still dim, lit only by the pale morning light sneaking through the curtains. The world feels muted, soft, fragile. And there he is, leaning over his open backpack, neatly folding his clothes and slipping them inside with slow, almost careful movements. His hair is a little messy, like he ran his fingers through it too many times. His shoulders seem tense, as if heâs holding the weight of something you cannot yet see. You blink, trying to gather yourself, trying to understand why your heart suddenly feels heavier than it did last night.
âHobi?â Your voice is groggy, soft with sleep. âWhy are you up so early?â
He freezes for a moment, as if he didnât expect you to wake. Then he straightens, turning toward you with a small smile that doesnât quite reach his eyes. Itâs the kind of smile that feels like a goodbye long before the words arrive. He holds his phone loosely in his hand, the screen still lit with a message. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, but it carries a mix of relief and something quieter, something like guilt.
âShe finally texted me,â he says, lifting his phone slightly as if to show proof.
The words land like cold water poured straight down your spine. For one aching second, everything inside you stills. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as though it can protect you from whatever is unravelling in your chest. Thereâs a small smile on your lips, you force it there because it feels like the right thing to do, because he deserves to see happiness rather than disappointment, because anything else would be unfair, but it trembles.
âThatâs⊠good,â you manage, even though something deep inside you twists painfully. âIâm glad she reached out.â
Hoseokâs eyes soften. He zips his backpack and lets out a long exhale, but it isnât a peaceful one. His gaze drifts briefly to the window, to the fading traces of snow still resting on the balcony railing. Something in his expression flickers, a hint of uncertainty, a shadow of hesitation, but he wipes it away too quickly for you to fully understand it. He brushes his palms on his jeans before walking closer to the couch to gather the charger he used last night.
âShe said she wanted to talk about what happened. So⊠I should go.â
You nod again, even though your throat feels tight. âRight. Of course.â
He pauses then, looking at you with an expression so gentle that it makes your chest ache. âThank you again. For everything,â he says. âI mean it. I donât know what I wouldâve done last night if you werenât here. I probably wouldâve sat alone at the airport until morning. Or⊠I donât know. Fallen apart. You kept me grounded.â
You look down, letting your fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, because looking at him right now feels too overwhelming. âIâm just glad I was there,â you whisper. And itâs true. Every part of last night felt like a gift you were never supposed to receive.
He gives you a smileâwarm, grateful, heartbreakingly sincere. âIâll get going once Iâm done packing,â he murmurs. âI donât want to intrude on your morning.â
But thatâs the thing, you donât want him to go. You donât want the room to feel big and empty after he walks out. You donât want to pretend that the cold air outside wonât creep inside the moment heâs gone. You donât want the memory of last night to become just that, a memory that stings instead of warms.
Still, you nod, because thatâs what kindness is, isnât it? Letting people go where they believe they need to be.
He slings the backpack over his shoulder, and the way your heart tugs at the sight feels almost ridiculous. Itâs only been one night. One snowstorm. One unexpected meeting after years of accidentally crossing paths. And yet your chest is heavy, as if youâre losing something you didnât realize you were holding.
âWill you be okay?â Hoseok asks suddenly, his voice softer than before. âI mean⊠staying here alone?â
The question cracks something inside you. Itâs simple. Innocent. But the concern in his eyes, the way he lingers even though heâs halfway to the door, it makes you realize that maybe last night wasnât only special to you.
âIâll be fine,â you reply, but your voice is gentler than your words. âReally.â
He nods, but he keeps standing there, as if his feet wonât move until heâs certain you mean it. For a long, quiet moment, neither of you speak. The sunlight brightens slowly behind the curtains. The heater hums softly in the background. And in the middle of it all, you sit in bed with your heart aching in a way youâre not ready to examine.
He hesitates again, one last second, one last chance to stay, but then he opens the door with a soft click and slips out into the hallway. And just like that, the warmth he carried with him all night leaves the room.
You stare at the door long after it closes, feeling the silence settle around you like snowfall. The bed beside you still holds the faint warmth of where you slept. The couch still carries the shape of where he lay last night. The candy cane wrappers, two of them, sit on the nightstand like a tiny reminder of something that shouldnât mean anything but somehow means everything.
And even though you try to take a deep breath, your chest tightens anyway.
The room feels too quiet now. Too big. Too cold. Like the universe gave you one fleeting moment of warmth⊠only to ask you to let go of it all over again.
When Hoseok stepped out of the hotel room that morning, you waited for the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway. You thought that would be the moment it would finally settle, the truth that the little world you shared during the snowstorm had ended. But the moment he disappeared, the air seemed to shift. The room felt colder, quieter. It felt like something had been lifted out of it, leaving behind a strange hollow space, as if warmth itself had followed him out the door.
You told yourself you would be fine. This was supposed to be your trip, after all, a trip you planned months ago to escape life, breathe, wander. But as hours turned into a full day, and then the day stretched into two, you realized that moving through New York alone felt different now. The city was enormous, a living thing filled with noise and lights and rushing footsteps, but you walked through it with that familiar ache in your chest, the one that made every bright thing shimmer a little differently.
Still, you tried.
You wanted to rediscover what it meant to be on your own. You tried local food, warm pretzels from a street vendor, a steaming cup of clam chowder you bought from a small shop tucked between two towering buildings, and a slice of pizza so big it felt like a joke. You wandered through museums, letting the hush of wide galleries settle into your bones. You watched strangers talk in the cold, their breath forming soft clouds in the air, and you wondered what stories they carried.
Some moments were beautiful. Some even made you laugh under your breath. But no matter where you went, your mind kept circling back to Hoseok.
You werenât even planning to go, but something pulled you toward the lights blinking just beyond the river. The carousel glowed gold against the dusk sky, music floating gently through the chilly air, and for some reason, it made your throat tighten. You stood there for a long time, watching the painted horses rise and fall in slow circles. Children laughed. Couples leaned into each other. And you stood with your hands tucked into your coat pockets, staring at the lights as if they held the answer to something you couldnât name.
You didnât cry. You didnât need to. The sadness was quiet, settled, like snow resting on rooftops after a long night. You were trying to convince yourself that it was just the loneliness of traveling alone, not the echo of someone youâd known for less than twenty-four hours.
Then you saw him.
Or you thought you did.
Someone in a familiar coat. Someone with the same tilt of his shoulders. Someone who walked with that soft bounce in their step. For half a second, you moved without thinking. But when the stranger turned around, it wasnât him. Not even close.
You laughed at yourself, a small breath of disbelief leaving your lips. âGet it together,â you whispered into the chilly air. But the ache in your chest didnât disappear.
And somewhere else in the city, Hoseok was feeling the same thing.
He had left that morning with hope. Or maybe it was desperation, disguised as hope. He met his girlfriend in a small bakery she said she always loved. He walked toward her expecting anger or tears, maybe both. But what he didnât expect was the quiet confession that cracked the ground beneath him.
She cheated.
It wasnât loud. She didnât even pretend to fight for the relationship. She simply told him the truth, as though she was discussing weather or errands.
Hoseok stood there holding his coffee, feeling the city spin around him. The noise of the bakery felt too bright, too sharp. He didnât shout. He didnât cry. He didnât even beg for an explanation. He simply stood there, everything going still inside him.
Maybe it was the shock. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe he had already felt it coming, but standing there, all he could think about was the snowstorm, and how the one person who showed genuine concern for him wasnât the woman in front of him.
When he finally walked out of the bakery, he didnât look back. He wandered for hours. He found a small hotel near Times Square, booked a room with a view that felt too big for one person, and dropped onto the bed with his phone in hand.
Your name filled his thoughts more than he wanted to admit. He didnât want to barge back into your trip. He didnât want to look needy or clingy or lost. He didnât want to make you feel responsible for him. Last night, he told himself, was an accident, one the universe arranged under a snowstorm. He didnât want to burden you again.
Even so, he thought of you constantly.
He explored the city too. He watched people skate at Rockefeller Center, stopping long enough to take a deep breath and remind himself he was here to start fresh. He walked past bookstores, imagining you inside running your fingers along the spines of novels. He stopped at a bakery and wondered if you would have liked the peppermint hot chocolate they served. At the park, he looked around once, twice, three times, half-expecting to see you sitting somewhere on a bench with your camera or phone held up to the winter light.
He missed you. But he didnât let himself say it, even inside his own mind.
Two days passed like this, two days of wandering around the same city, both of you searching for yourselves, both of you thinking of the other at every unexpected corner, both too scared to reach out first.
Christmas Eve in New York was unlike anything you had imagined. You had seen photos, movies, scenes where thousands of people gathered under the lights of Times Square, waiting for midnight to arrive like a promise. But being there in person felt entirely different, like stepping into the heartbeat of the world.
The cold nipped at your cheeks, but the energy around you was warm, alive, electric. Music echoed from giant screens. People held cups of hot chocolate with mittens wrapped tight around them. Children sat on their parentsâ shoulders, waving sparkly sticks that glowed pink and blue. Everywhere, laughter floated through the air like drifting snowflakes.
You tried to let the joy fill you. You tried to let yourself forget the ache that pressed quietly in your chest each time you thought of Hoseok. You told yourself you were here to move on, not just from your past relationship, but from everything heavy that had chained your heart for months.
But as the crowd swelled, as lights shimmered and voices rose, you felt overwhelmingly alone.
You lifted your camera from your coat pocket, snapping aimlessly at the blur of colors, hoping it would distract you. Yet even behind the lens, nothing felt right. It was as if the city had too much space around you, too much distance, too much noise that didnât belong to you.
You stepped back, away from the loudest parts of the street. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere to breathe. Somewhere to keep your tears from slipping out.
That was when you heard it.
Your name clear, warm, familiar cut through the cold air.
At first you thought the city was playing tricks on you, the way it sometimes repeats the same tune in your head. But then you heard it again, stronger this time, carried by a voice you hadnât allowed yourself to hope for.
âY/N!â
You turned.
And there he was.
Hoseok stood a few meters away, breath slightly visible in the crisp air, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, eyes wide with disbelief, like he had been searching for you without knowing he was searching.
For a moment, everything else fell silent. The screens, the music, the crowd, none of it mattered. It felt like the universe had pressed pause on the entire world, leaving only the two of you blinking at each other in the middle of Times Square, wondering if fate was simply stubborn⊠or if it had been waiting for this moment all along.
He stepped toward you first, weaving through people without taking his eyes off you. You didnât move at first, your legs felt frozen, your heart stumbling in your chest like it was trying to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. But when he finally reached you, when he stood close enough for you to see the pink tint on the tip of his nose from the cold, something inside you softened.
âYouâre here,â he said, almost in a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might break the moment.
âSo are you,â you replied, voice small, almost shy.
Neither of you reached out, but somehow the space between you felt warm, like invisible threads had woven themselves gently back together.
âI thought⊠youâd be with your girlfriend tonight,â you said quietly.
His expression shifted, not pained, but honest. âWeâre not together anymore.â
Your breath stilled, not in shock, but in the kind of aching empathy that comes when you care without meaning to.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
He shook his head gently. âNo, Iâm the one whoâs sorry. For disappearing. For letting you spend the last few days alone.â His gaze softened in that way that always felt like sunlight. âI tried not to bother you. I thought you deserved space.â
âAnd you⊠deserved better,â you murmured.
Silence drifted between youâheavy, warm, full of unspoken understanding.
âYou look⊠different,â he said after a moment, voice low. âHappier. Braver.â
âMaybe itâs the city,â you said lightly. âOr maybe Iâm finally trying.â
He smiled softly. âI thought I saw you yesterday near the carousel.â
Your heart fluttered. âI thought I saw you too.â
âWellâŠâ His smile widened, a little teasing, a little tender. âMaybe we really were near each other. Maybe we kept missing each other by a few seconds.â
You stared at him thenâa long, quiet stare you didnât know how to break. âBut not tonight.â
âNot tonight,â he echoed.
The night pulsed with excitement. People held their loved ones close. Strangers shouted together. Phones rose into the air to record the moment.
Hoseok stayed in front of you, his face illuminated by swirling lights. You watched him, and you realized you didnât want to look away.
He leaned in ever so slightly, not touching you, not crossing a line, just close enough that you could hear his voice even in the chaos.
âIâm glad I found you.â
Your heart wavered. âIâm glad too.â
And just then, the bells rang out across the city, soft and clear, announcing Christmas Eve as snowflakes drifted lazily through the golden glow of streetlights.
Merry Christmas!
The words flashed across every screen. Confetti rained down like a shower of glowing snowflakes.
And you and Hoseok stood there, caught in your own small universe.
âYou want to walk?â he asked softly.
âYes,â you said without thinking.
He gave a tiny nod. âOkay. Letâs walk.â
And with that, the two of you stepped away from the crowd, snow clinging to your coats, hearts beating in a rhythm the city seemed to recognize.
For once, you werenât strangers passing.
You werenât people with bad timing.
You werenât two lives running parallel.
Tonight, you were simply two souls the universe kept returning to each other.
The apartment smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, the lights from the small tree in the corner casting a soft glow across the room. You and Hoseok moved slowly around each other, carrying boxes of decorations, laughing quietly when ornaments rolled from your hands, or when a string of lights refused to cooperate. Outside, snow fell gently against the window, frosting the city with a delicate quiet, but inside, everything was warm, glowing, and impossibly soft.
By the door, a framed photo caught the light, your Christmas Eve in New York, just a year ago. You hadnât stopped looking at it for weeks after returning to Seoul. The two of you, hands brushing as you held candy canes, snow settling on your coats, your eyes wide with disbelief and quiet joy. It was a frozen moment, a memory stitched into your heart, and now it hung in your apartment like a talisman, reminding you of the journey that had finally brought you together.
Hoseok leaned against the doorframe, watching you untangle a string of fairy lights, his expression soft and full of warmth. âDo you remember the rest of that night?â he asked, voice low, almost reverent.
You smiled, a mixture of wistfulness and playful mischief tugging at your lips. âOf course I do,â you said softly. âWe wandered through the streets until our toes were numb, drank peppermint hot chocolate that was far too sweet, and you bought two candy canes again, for a promise that no matter what, we would always find each other.â A quiet laugh escaped you as you turned to meet his eyes. âI never imagined a candy cane could feel so⊠romantic.â
He chuckled, a gentle, low sound that vibrated in your chest. âIt wasnât the candy cane. It was you. That moment⊠it felt like the universe had been saving us for years.â His hand found yours, fingers intertwining naturally as if they had always belonged together.
You nodded, heart full and a little heavy with nostalgia. âI know. I remember feeling that pull even when I couldnât place it. Something warm, something⊠safe. And then it took snow and New York and a little bit of chaos for us to finally⊠be together.â You pressed your forehead gently against his shoulder, breathing him in, letting the years of longing, almost encounters, and quiet heartaches melt away.
Hoseok kissed the top of your head softly. âAnd now we have every Christmas to look forward to, together.â
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. âI canât believe this is real.
He smiled, that perfect mix of warmth and teasing light dancing in his eyes. âI guess the universe got tired of waiting and finally decided to do its job properly.â He ruffled your hair gently, making you laugh as you tried to fix it with a pout.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of quiet domestic joy. You decorated the tree side by side, exchanging ornaments that each carried a story. Hoseok picked the ones you loved the most, while you insisted on putting the star on top, even if he had to lift you up to reach it. You shared chocolate cookies, spilling a few crumbs onto the counter, and Hoseok pretended to scold you, only to end up sneaking one himself when you werenât looking.
Every touch felt electric, yet safe. Every glance carried a history, an intimacy that didnât need explanation. You lingered longer than necessary over small things, holding hands across the kitchen counter, brushing snow from the window ledge, stealing quiet moments leaning against each other as the cityâs distant hum carried through the walls.
At one point, Hoseok paused, sitting cross-legged on the couch with your head resting on his shoulder. He traced patterns on your hand with his thumb, soft and deliberate, and whispered, âDo you remember the first time I gave you a candy cane?â
You smiled against his chest, eyes closed. âHow could I forget? You were so kind, and I felt⊠safe. Even then.â
âI remember thinking⊠even as a kid, that maybe Iâd see you again,â he murmured. âAnd somehow, all the almosts, all the missed chances, they led to this.â He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking at you like you were the only person in existence. âIâve wanted thisâfor usâfor years.â
Your heart felt like it could burst. âIâve wanted it too,â you whispered. âEven when I didnât know it. Even when I tried to move on, every city, every street, every snowstorm⊠it was always you.â
Hoseok leaned down, brushing his lips softly against yours, a gentle seal on everything unspoken, everything remembered, everything finally true. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth and the love of a thousand quiet years of longing settle into you both, filling every corner of your heart.
You pulled back just enough to smile, resting your forehead against his. âThis⊠this is the first Christmas Iâve ever felt like I really belong somewhere.â
He chuckled softly, resting his nose against yours. âAnd I canât imagine spending another one anywhere else.â
You both lingered in that quiet warmth, the lights of the apartment twinkling around you, the city muffled beneath a blanket of snow, your hands and hearts intertwined. Somewhere in your memory, the carousel of childhood flickered, a reminder of all the years, the paths crossed, the universe nudging you together, step by step, almost impossibly, until finally, here you were.
Hoseok kissed the top of your hand, whispering, âMerry Christmas, Y/N. For everything weâve been through⊠Iâm glad weâre here now.â
You smiled, leaning your head against him, and said softly, âMerry Christmas, Hobi. For everything⊠Iâm glad too.â
The night stretched quietly around you, full of love, soft laughter, and gentle memories. The city outside was alive with lights and music, but inside your apartment, the world had shrunk down to just the two of you. And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was exactly as it should be.
You had found each other. The universe had finally, perfectly, brought you home.
End.
A/N: Hi lovelies! I hope this story gave you all the warmth, comfort, and gentle magic of the season. Writing Hobi was such a joy, heâs one of those characters who feels like a warm hug, and I loved exploring every little moment with him. Iâd love to hear your thoughts and feelings about the story. If it brought a smile to your heart, and you feel like sending some Christmas cheer, you can support me on Ko-fi, but itâs completely optional! Thank you so much for reading.
OH MY GODDD AFAGJSKSSKSL This is the perfect christmas fic!! This was so overwhelmingly cute, the way the universe always fated their rendezvous đ€âšâš I love Hobi and I loved this fic!!
A/n: Thank you everyone who's liked and followed, it means a lot to me to know people are enjoying the story <3
I hope you like the chapter! Weâre setting a few plot lines up that Iâm really excited for :3
I do have some unfortunate news, this will be my last chapter for a little bit as Iâm going to be studying for a work certification test :â3 I promise promise promise Iâll be back, I have so many things I canât wait to write and it breaks my heart to have to leave yaâll in the dust.
I love yaâll so much, thank you for everything, and Iâll be back soon!!
You can also read it HERE on ao3!
-Zzzz
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You didnât sleep at all that night. How could you really, there were too many things to think about. Well, there was only one thing to think about, but it had several subjects- and each of those subjects had their own branches that started new concerns that somehow intertwined with the other subjects problems. Your mind was a mess, filled to the brim with thoughts you tried to avoid by ignoring when they first arose, but there was just too much to push down now. Like how eager Taehyung is to have you sleep in bed with him, or what your next move would have been if Namjoon didnât interrupt the two of you. You didnât even have time to recover from Jin and Jiminâs New Years kisses before Taehyung's fingers grabbing at the flesh of your waist quickly joined them in the category of your brain called âThings that feel bad to think about.â Yoongiâs heavy breath on your neck as he had you trapped against the parks fountain was an easy contender for that category as well, so was Namjoon admitting to missing you over break for some reason. Though one issue that kept running back to the forefront of your mind was, out of every little thing you do feel ashamed for, the one thing you donât feel bad about is how many people youâve somehow fallen for. Which troubled you in a different way, almost feeling guilty for your lack of guilt, if you could make sense of that. But you should feel ashamed over this right? You didnât take this job to have your pick of the BTS Boy Buffet, even though it sure seems that way now. First Tae and Jin, Jimin⊠now Yoongi and Namjoon. The only people safe are Hoseok and Jungkook, and who knows how long thatâll lastâŠ
These thoughts kept you up until your alarm sounded, telling you it was time to get ready for the day. You felt abnormally sluggish as you got changed, usually a night awake wouldnât have such a harsh effect on you. Looking at yourself in your bedroom mirror was a bad decision, bags forming under your eyes, hair a mess from tossing and turning all night, and your sweater was completely inside out. You looked rough to say the least, maybe being out all night with someone else had a different effect than sitting in bed on your phone, different levels of energy being drained. You let out a frustrated huff before fixing yourself and leaving your room, meeting the others in the kitchen as they were eating breakfast. Everyoneâs eyes catching on your exhausted face for a second before they quickly looked away, surprise and concern written all over their faces, you must look worse than you originally thought.
âNoona, did you sleep at all?â You felt Jiminâs hands cup your face and tilt your head back just a bit so he could get a better look at you, as much as you wanted to let him hold you up like this, you moved away from him with a sheepish smile.
âDonât worry about it, Jimin-ah. Iâm alright.â You turned your gaze over to Yoongi, expecting to see an expression similar to your own, but he looked the same as always. No bags, no tired eyes, no slumped shoulders⊠that just isnât fair.
âAre you sure? I donât want you falling asleep on us.â Jimin continued, turning your attention back to the concerned ginger, rolling your eyes playfully to brush off his worry.
âDo you know how often I stay up all night? Iâm not gonna fall asleep.â
You fell asleep. Not even an hour after your confident claim, but in your defense, you certainly wouldnât have fallen asleep if you were in any other situation. Squished between the two mini-heaters, Hoseok and Jungkook, in the middle seat of a van, driving down gently winding roads just outside the inner city, quiet chatter slowly lulling you to sleep as the driver took the eight of you to a park just an hour away for an outdoor shoot. You felt like passing out the second Hoseok and Jungkook started heating you up from the cold, but you stuck it out until you left the city, it wasnât until the outside was just a haze of green and white flying by your window that you knew you were done for. Not even Jinâs windshield wiper-esque laugh was able to snap you out of it, the second your head hit Jungkookâs shoulder, you were out. Jungkook himself went stiff as a board when he felt a sudden weight on his right side, turning his head like it was controlled by an old stone wheel until he was able to look down at your sleeping face. Your cheek squished against his shoulder and your body slumped against his arm, slowly he raised head back up with a terrified expression, as if you were a rabid dog ready to pounce at any sudden movement. The maknae turned his head to look at Yoongi for help, but to his horror, the man next to him had fallen asleep as well. With no other option, Jungkook let out a helpless whimper of a call for help.
âGuys, what do I do?â His big brown eyes darted around his friends faces, a few of them started to laugh at how nervous he was over something so normal. Jungkook has always been a little too shy for his own good, it took him long enough to become comfortable with the members, and once he did he was happy living the way they were. Then you came along, you with your sweet face, and confusing attitude, you messed everything up. But he canât blame you for that, it was his fault he fell for you so early on, and you probably just see him as a kid⊠He canât blame you for that either. Even Yoongi has made more of a move on you than he has- and he hated you until yesterday! Jungkook had to do something soon or he was going to be left in the dust, he just has to work up the courage.
âDo you want me to wake her up? She can always lean on me instead.â Hoseok brought Jungkook out of his thoughts, he knew Hoseok's words held no ulterior motive, unlike if it were Tae or Jimin. But Jungkook stopped his elder before he ruined his chance.
âNo!â The maknae exclaimed in a hush, âDonât⊠I got it.â
âJungkookieâs finally making a move, huh?â Jimin grinned.
âHeâs confident. Just not when someone talks, looks, or stands too close to him.â Taehyung joined in, the two giggling from the backseat. But Jungkook endured their teasing, carefully letting his arm slip out from beneath you and slowly sliding it behind your back, his hand awkwardly resting off your hip. His face as pink as a peach, but to Jungkook, this was a success.
You finally stirred when the cold winter wind rushed through the open doors of the van, your eyes barely opening before you remembered where you were. Looking up at Jungkookâs nervous smile as you lifted your head from his shoulder and sat up straight, your lips were stuck in a pout as you rubbed your hand over your face in attempt to wake yourself up more.
âHave a nice nap?â Taehyung asked in a teasing tone as he stepped out of the van, you followed suit.
âHow long was I out? Are we here?â You looked around at the vast field of green and white, answering your own question easily. Following the crew to the shooting space, snow covered trees and frozen grass that crunched under the weight of your steps, you made your way over to the little dirt patch taken up by the rest of the crew. Setting the members things down in a small pile and sitting in front of it, your lap covered in a makeshift blanket of seven coats. This would be the last photo shoot before the guys started preparing for the Seoul Music Awards, and honestly you were ready for a break from outdoor shoots, sitting on the cold ground in the middle of winter is not how youâd typically like to spend your work days. You watched the members pose, following the directions of the main photographer while other cameras snapped monotonously around them. You didnât envy their single layer outfits, skinny jeans can only protect someoneâs legs from the cold so much. Every once in a while one of them would run over to you to throw on their coat, which you were happy to keep warm in your lap, just for a few pitiful moments of warmth before they were called back to continue shooting. This went on for nearly an hour, the droning voice of the director, the camera snaps, the rest of the crew chatting amongst themselves⊠you found yourself slipping back into your tired state. Not again, I canât fall asleep sitting on the ground⊠But you did, your head hanging in dead weight, which you will definitely regret in a couple hours when your neck is stiff and sore as hell.
âHer lips are turning blue.â Jin stood over your hunched body with a frown, having ran over with Yoongi to put his coat on for a second, but he left it on you when he saw you were sleeping. Yoongi turned his head to the director as the older man called Jin back, Yoongi was the first done with all his pictures, so he took a seat next to you. Maneuvering his arm to let your head lean against it before taking off his scarf, which was technically part of his costume, and wrapping it around your neck to keep your face warm. It didnât take long for the heavy scent of tangerine to wake you back up, letting out a groan in frustration of your own actions.
âYou sure talk a big game about staying up all night for someone who canât stay awake on the job.â Yoongi glanced down at you from the corner of his eye, it didnât go unnoticed that you were awake now, but not moving away from him.Â
âI donât normally, do I?â You muttered in irritation, âClearly this is your fault for keeping me out all night.âÂ
âOh is it? Sorry, I didnât know you needed to be in bed at eleven, grandma.â You glared at Yoongi for a second before you realized that the two of you got back to the dorms around one in the morning, which wasnât truly that late for you anyway. Your exhaustion must be coming from your stressful thoughts keeping you up instead.
âNo, that's not it. I just-â Watch your words.
âYou just?â Yoongi raised an eyebrow down at you as you finally lifted your head off his arm and sat back up, pulling his coat off your lap and handing it to him.
âI have a lot on my mind, I guess.â Letting a scowl rest on your face after finally finishing your thought, hearing the rustle of Yoongi putting on his coat as you stared forward at the rest of the members, Tae and Hoseok having broken off from the others to play with the snow.
âSounds like you need to blow off some steam. I can help you with that.â Yoongi spoke cooly, not paying much mind to his words. But you felt your heart lurch into your throat, you wondered if it would choke you if you didnât respond in time. Turning your head to face Yoongi with a cautious expression, your eyes darting away quickly before returning to his pale face.
â...what?âÂ
âThereâs a bar not too far from the dorms, its kind of a hole in the wall. Iâm sure a couple drinks will take whatever's stressing you out off your mind.â You visibly relaxed at his clarification, of course thatâs what he meant. âWhy, what did you think I was offering?â
âNothing. Nothing at all. I had no idea what you were going to say.â Your words were too quick to be convincing.
âYeah, okay.â Yoongi chuckled, clearly amused by your wandering mind, âPervert.â Yoongi leaned away from you with a grin as you smacked your hand down against his arm, laughing as he called for you to stop and when you put your head in your hands afterwards. Honestly a drink or two couldnât hurt, as long as you didnât go too hard, you were a pretty graceful drinker.
Thatâs what you had told yourself at least, before you and Yoongi started mindlessly knocking back drinks over the course of two hours, too lost in conversation to realize how much you had been drinking. Between your mostly empty stomach, exhaustion, and the heavy cocktails Yoongi kept ordering- you were more than tipsy at this point. You looked at Yoongi who sat next to you in the bars rounded booth, the two of you taking a spot in the back corner of the bar, as the guys often did when going out together. No one likes getting mobbed at dinner, and BTS was more than a household name, you were âluckyâ to have such a hidden away bar so close to home. You shifted against the uncomfortable leather booth, your head resting in one of your hands as you watched the blonde next to you finish his glass of whatever burning liquid he chose this time, a deep frown on your face even as he looked down at you with a chuffed smile.
âYou look absolutely miserable. Drinkings not working, huh?â He took your half finished glass away from you and pushed it towards the edge of the table.Â
âNo. Not at all.â You almost pouted, if anything, the horrid thoughts you normally keep caged up were running wild like monkeys in a zoo. You had no other choice than to trust your mouth to not spill any of your feelings, it was your last barrier of defense.Â
âWhatâs got you so stressed now anyway? Didnât we work everything out? It should be smooth sailing from here on out.â You turned your head away from Yoongi, as if physically ignoring his question, pushing your cheek into your other hand.Â
âI donât want to talk about itâŠâ You muttered, a dry chuckle coming from behind you, Yoongi shaking his head before admitting defeat.
âAlright, we wont talk about it.â The rapper looked around the bar for a second before turning his attention back to you, âYou know, Namjoon was pissed when I told him I was taking you out.â This perked you up easily, turning yourself around to look at Yoongi in surprise.
âHe was angry?âÂ
âYeah, he said something about keeping you out so late again.â
âWhy? Heâs not my handler.â You rolled your eyes, resting your elbows on the table in front of you and cupping your face with your hands, there was nothing you hated more than being controlled.
âI know. He knows that too, heâs just worried.â Yoongi started, your slumped over form making his smile falter, âHonestly if I knew you were going to get so sloshed I would have kept a better eye on your drinks.âÂ
âYoongi!â You looked at him annoyed, making the older man jump in surprise before you continued, âYou donât need to âkeep a better eyeâ on me, Namjoon doesnât need to worry about how late I stay out, and no one needs to know where I am every second of the day! Iâm not a child, I can take care of myself.âÂ
âAre you sure? Because youâre slurring your words like a drunken sailor.â Yoongi snapped back at you, never one to lay down and take someones berating. âGod forbid we care about you and your well being.âÂ
âWell stop caringâŠâ You didnât mean that.
âI donât think itâs up to you to decide who we do and donât care for.â Yoongi pushed back again, âYou know, most people like hearing that theyâre friends like them.â
âI do like it.â You admitted, your head filling with slightly wavy memories of times the guys have shown their affection for you. Hoseok always coming to comfort you whenever youâre upset, or Yoongi giving you his outer layers to keep you warm. Namjoon frantically calling you last night to make sure you were okay, even Taehyung asking you to sleep in bed with him was because he worried about your sleep- for the most part. All of these things made your stomach twist like you were going to be sick. You let your head fall to the table, hiding your face in your arms, âI like it too much.âÂ
â...We should get you home, youâre getting all weepy.â Yoongi called over the waiter and handed him his card before putting his coat on, draping yours over your shoulders. As much as he wanted to push you further for an explanation of what âtoo muchâ meant, he couldnât take advantage of your inebriated state in good conscious. He wouldnât want you to say something youâd regret later. You turned your head to the side to peek up at him from over your arm, waiting for him to look down at you as well.
âDo you really care about me?â Your words were muffled by your hidden face, but it was clearly audible enough for Yoongi as he looked away from you instantly.
âWhat, are you gonna make me say it?â The blonde picked up his card from the bill after signing for it, putting his wallet in his coat pocket before sliding out of the booth and walking over to your side. âCome on, lets get going.âÂ
âYoongi..!â You frowned sadly up at him, pushing your arms through your sleeves and inching yourself away from the table.
âAlright alright, I care. Now can we go?â Yoongi pushed his lips into a line at the sight of your pleased smile. His arms held out cautiously towards you as you stepped out of the booth in case you started to fall, and despite you trying to push them away, he quickly wrapped both of them around you once you tripped over yourself. Your head was spinning horribly in a sort of rush that wouldnât leave and after a few seconds of trying to regain your composure and stand up straight, you gave up- letting yourself lean into Yoongiâs body and rest limply against him. This was a problem, you were too drunk to stand let alone walk, and an idol shuffling an unknown girl home in the middle of the night was not a good look. Calling a taxi held the risk of the driver recognizing him, all of the companies drivers clocked out long ago, and his manager would chew him out for hours if he called. Yoongi only had one option.
A black car pulled up to the back of the bar where you and Yoongi stood, the blonde raising one of his hands to give an awkward wave to the man in the front seat. You were fading in and out of consciousness but you could still recognize the frantic voice of Hoseok, who has come to save you once again.Â
âI knew the two of you going out was a bad idea. What did you do to her?â The dancer picked your head up off Yoongiâs shoulder and frowned at your guilty looking expression.
âSorry HobiâŠâ You looked at him like a kicked puppy, guilt overwhelming your soul for becoming such a burden on your friends, who apparently cared for you very much.Â
âI didnât do anything to her, she canât hold her liquor as well as I thought.â Yoongi explained to Hoseok before looking back towards the car at the sound of another door shutting, watching a very stern looking Namjoon walk over to the three of you, the eldest looking back at Hoseok with a glare. âWeak, dude. Heâs gonna kick my ass.â
âGet in the car.â Namjoon scowled at the sight of you dangling off of Yoongi before he looked over your wobbly stance, taking your arms gently away from Yoongi and putting them around his own shoulders instead. You let out a sound of surprise as Namjoon scooped you up and held you in a princess hold, carrying you to the car and helping you into the backseat. Despite his tense and frustrated face, he didnât actually seem to be angry at you or even Yoongi, just worried. Somehow that felt worse. You watched him silently as he got into the front seat and Hoseok rushed into the drivers side, backing out of the alleyway and heading home, you turned your head to watch the street lights fly by instead.
You canât even remember how you managed to make it up the intense flight of stairs to the dorm, your night was flashing in and out of view, but for now you stood leaning your weight against Namjoon in between the kitchen and livingroom. You couldnât make out anyone's voices, but people were definitely talking about you.
âShe looks like a zombieâŠâ
âIs she even awake? We should help her to bed right?âÂ
âShould someone help her⊠get dressed?âÂ
âI can do it.â That must have been Jimin, but he didnât sound flirty like you would have expected, his voice laced with worry instead.
âNo.â The dorm spoke at once.
âIf anyoneâs gonna help her it should be me, Iâve already seen her in a towel.â And thereâs Taehyung. The room fell silent.
âOkay, weâll talk about that at a later time. No one needs to help her get dressed, if she wanted to sleep comfortably then she shouldnât have gotten shitfaced.â You could tell Namjoon was speaking from the rumble in his chest against your cheek. The leader helping you stumble down the hallway and into your bedroom, before he let you down gently against your bed, you watched him through a haze as he worked at taking off your shoes. You let your body act on itâs own whim and pushed your fingers through his pink hair, moving it away to get a look at his concentrated face. Namjoon took your hand out of his hair and held it tightly in his own as he pulled your blanket over your body, his grip loosening as he tried to leave, but you only tightened your fingers around his.Â
âStay, please.â You muttered softly, your eyes hooded but pleading as you looked up at the taller man from your pillow. That seemed to work well enough, one look at your face and Namjoon was sitting down beside your legs, holding your hand in his lap and letting his thumb mindlessly trace circles into the back of your hand.
âIâll stay until you fall asleep.â His deep voice floated in the air around your head, but you didnât let yourself sit in comfort just yet, you had guilt to express.
âIâm sorryâŠâÂ
âFor what? We all get too drunk sometimes. Next time youâll be more careful, and now you know never try to keep up with Yoongi.â He smiled down at you, but you werenât satisfied, letting quiet settle over the room before speaking up again.
âFor making you worry.â Silence followed for an uncomfortably long time, long enough to accept your new role as the worst person alive- maybe you should avoid drinking for a while.
âItâs alright, Y/n.â If Namjoon was as angry as Yoongi said, he was handling it well, but thatâs to be expected from the leader. Youâve never experienced anger that felt like a warm hand rubbing against your back as if trying to put you to sleep before, but thatâs what you were feeling now. Peaking over your shoulder to study Namjoonâs clenched jaw and thoughtful eyes staring down the rug before your bed, you wanted to tap into his mind to know what he was thinking, but at the same time you know youâre too scared to hear something negative about yourself come from him. And maybe he was right to be worried, what would you and Yoongi have done if Hoseok didnât pick up the phone? Youâd be screwed in so many ways, itâs not even worth trying to count.
Namjoonâs thought process wasnât too different from your own. As the leader he needs to make sure everyoneâs image stays in tact, as their friend he needs to make sure everyone's health and feelings stay in tact, and at this moment heâs failing. Two of his friends out every night, falling asleep in the middle of the day, the rest stuck worrying about them in the dorms. When Hoseok told him that Yoongi needed help getting you home from the bar, he wasnât even angry, only worried for your wellbeing and what this would mean for yours and Yoongiâs friendship. The idea of asking BigHit to take away the personal assistant position had crossed his mind a few times in your first couple days, despite how much he and the others liked having you around. If one member was unhappy then it effects the whole team, and he saw the aftermath of keeping you around despite this, fights⊠secrets. So why, now that everyone's on the same page on you being here and in their lives, are more problems arising. Something clicked in Namjoonâs head. He turned his head to glance at your sleeping face before slowly taking his hand off your back and quietly stepping out of your room, meeting Yoongi who stood directly outside your door.Â
âIs she asleep?â The blonde looked up at Namjoon with a semi concerned look painted over his face. Namjoon only furrowed his eyebrows.
âYeah, she is.â He grabbed onto Yoongiâs arm and brought him away for your door just a bit before continuing to speak, âWhatâs your game here?âÂ
âWhat? What are you talking about?âÂ
âYou taking her out all night and requesting all her time, what are you playing at, you hated her for months and now youâre suddenly best friends.â Namjoon scowled at his friend.
âIâm making an effort. Thatâs what Iâm playing at. You told me to get to know her and give her a chance, thatâs what Iâm doing.â Yoongiâs face was unmoving as he defended himself, finding the leaders words ridiculously out of left field.Â
âYouâre not trying to sabotage her job or how we feel about her actions..?â Namjoonâs words suddenly sounded crazy to himself as well.
âNo, quit worrying so much. Youâre not in charge of her, you know? She was very adamant to let me know that sheâs an independent person who doesnât want anyone to care for her.â Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest as he remembers your drunken words, rolling his eyes a bit.Â
âShe said that?â Namjoon was surprised to hear that from you.Â
âYeah, but she didnât mean it. She said that too.â Namjoon looked back at your door along with Yoongi, a little frown planted on his lips over the thought of you being upset with him for caring about you.
âI donât want you taking her out every night anymore.â Yoongi let out a scoff at the leaders demand.
âThen tell her that, she doesnât have to say yes every time I invite her out.âÂ
âIâm telling you because I donât want you staying out either. Itâs not good for you.â Namjoon glanced down at Yoongi from the corner of his eye, watching the older man rub the back of his neck and look away. A little smile returning to Namjoonâs face, just big enough to show his dimples.Â
âYeah well⊠whatever.â Yoongi let out a little huff before he walked down the hall to his room.
âAnd stop smoking.â Namjoon called after the blonde, earning a pale middle finger peaking out past the door frame.
If you looked bad yesterday, today you looked like death incarnate. Your hair was unstyled, your clothes wrinkled, and you could barely raise your shoulder enough to align with your hips, droopily following the guys around like an old hound dog. You were lucky that today would be mostly dance practice as they started to prepare for the music awards next week, letting you sit up against the wall and watch them rework choreo instead of running around. If you were conscious enough you would have noticed the worried glances, and almost guilty look on Yoongiâs face, every time they spotted you slumped over, still you insisted you were fine when asked. Namjoon was planning his conversation with you in his head the whole day, how heâd be calm and understanding to your feelings of needing independence, but all of that flew out the window during your break for lunch.Â
âDid she get hit? Why is her cheek all puffy?â Jungkook looked at you in concern as he leaned over the lunch table, looking over you as you slept against Jinâs shoulder.
âThere's food in her mouth, Jungkook.â Hoseok muttered, his lips twisted up in a grimace.
âShould we wake her up? I donât want her to choke.â Taehyungâs deep voice helped you to stir from sleep, your eyes barely open as you try to recombobulate yourself and your surroundings.Â
âOh Jin, sheâs drooling on your sweater.â Your eyes widened at Jiminâs comment, closing your mouth and covering it with your hand as you sat up and looked at the little line of drool on Jinâs shoulder.
âThere are worse things.â The eldest reached over to pick up his napkin and wipe himself off. Your face burned in embarrassment as you swallowed the rice that had been sitting in your mouth for who knows how long, you couldnât believe you fell asleep in the middle of lunch.Â
âWhat happened? You got tired of chewing and just gave up?â Jimin teased with a grin. You looked over everyone's mixed reactions, the three youngest thought it was funny, Hoseok looked grossed out as usual, Jin was just happy you were able to sleep, and Yoongi looked sheepish as he stood next to Namjoon- whoâs face was as stiff as a board.
âI donât know what happened, I was just-â
âI know what happened.â Namjoon cut you off, âYou canât keep yourself awake because your staying up all night and it finally caught up to you. Itâs irresponsible for you to be here any longer today, I want you to go home.â This was not a request, you didnât know how to respond. If you didnât do what he said you would be seen as stubborn and argumentative- which you were, but you didnât want them to know that. But if you followed his demand then youâd relinquish a piece of your autonomy that you desperately cling to. You didnât want to be seen as someone who couldnât make their own choices and needed to be taken care of, but clearly thatâs the path you were heading in. Your face falling as your eyes cast down towards your lap, wordlessly following Namjoonâs directions felt like you were stabbing yourself in the back, all that time you spend on your own trying to become the person you wanted to be was suddenly flushed down the drain. But you continued, taking your things and walking out of the cafeteria for one of the drivers to bring you back to the dorms. The seven others watched you trudge out of the room like a scolded child before going back to their food, the mood slightly dampened if anything.
âFor someone who doesnât want to be controlled, she sure is good at doing what sheâs told.â Yoongi quipped before glaring over at Jimin, five sets of eyes doing the same. Jimin looking around in exacerbation.
âI didnât even say anything this time!â The ginger exclaimed haughtily before he sat back down in his seat.
Your heart was moving erratically around your chest as you stepped through the front door of the dorms, marching straight to your room to rip off your shoes and coat instead of putting them in their normal spots at the entrance. You sat down your bed, committed to staying still like a deer in nonexistent headlights, just for a few moments. That was mortifying, but he canât order me around like that. You finally ripped your eyes away from the floor with furrowed brows, frustration and embarrassment burning in your stomach as you wandered around for something to do, lord knows you wouldnât be able to sleep now anyway- not with the looming anxiety of what will happen when everyone comes home. You kept yourself busy, washing dishes, cleaning out and reorganizing the fridge, finally throwing out the rest of the cake from New Years. You picked up the laundry and folded it all, you washed the shower, you even dusted every little nicknack in sight. By the time the members got home, the house was sparkling, and you were sat up straight on the couch, watching some mindless TV. You looked at the clock on the wall once you heard the door unlock, it was only six-fifteen, they must have come straight home from the dorms. Locking your fingers together and toying with them anxiously as you watched them look around the spotless house impressed.
âAish, Y/n, maybe we should hire you as a maid instead.â Jin gave you a playful smile but you couldnât reciprocate, looking instead to Namjoon whose eyes were focused on you as well.
âYou didnât sleep then?â His voice was calm, but you saw his eyebrow quirk up in irritation.
âNo. I was-â You could barely get yourself off the couch before the leader stuck out his hand and pointed at it, stopping you in your tracks.
âSit.â He commanded you once again and you glared in response, having full intentions on telling him off but you instinctively sat back down, chewing at your bottom lip and looking forward towards the table in front of you instead of him. Youâre heart fluttered at his demanding tone. Thatâs not good. You thought with slowly widening eyes, until now Namjoon had been nothing but caring and concerned, you must have snapped his last nerve. And against your own better judgment, you liked the idea of pissing him off.
âSheâs not a dog, HyungâŠâ Tae muttered softly as they crowded around the living room, Hoseok leading Yoongi to sit next to you on the couch, the rest of them either sitting in the chairs or standing around you. This felt too familiar, for some reason, you thought once you left home the scoldings and punishments would stop. No more walking on eggshells or sneaking into the house to avoid getting in trouble, but here you were, in the same position you ran away from years ago. You looked up at Namjoon, Jin, and Hoseok who sat on the table in front of you, the three attempting to get on yours and Yoongiâs level to talk to you. Jin spoke first.
âNow, no one is in trouble.â He started, âWe just wanted to talk to you both about your⊠recent habits.â Your face was still harsh and Yoongi looked bored if anything, was this some sort of intervention?
âI donât really think this is necessary.â You mumbled, but Namjoon huffed in response.
âI was going to wait, but after seeing you asleep with a spoonful of rice in your mouth, I thought now would be a good a time as any to have this conversation. Donât you agree?â He raised his eyebrows, as if daring you to rebuttal. You stayed silent.
âItâs not like either one of you had a good sleep schedule to begin with, but you getting together and going out all night is different.â Hoseok continued for the other two, âYouâre exhausted all day, Yoongi youâve never been sloppier in practice and Y/nie you havenât been able to accept a request since this weekend. Thatâs going to effect your pay, and none of us want that.â You cast your eyes down, you hadnât even thought about being unavailable for requests while youâre either too tired to stay awake or out with Yoongi, or how staying out with you would effect him in return.
âIâm sorry. I didnât mean to make anyone upset, Iâll do better and work on my sleep schedule.â You spoke formally, hopefully indicating that youâre being sincere.
âYouâre damn right you will. Thatâs why both of you are going to bed at nine.â You and Yoongi looked up at the leader in shock of his demand, but you couldnât find it inside yourself to defy him, feeling more like a child than a friend at the moment.Â
âI could use a few extra hoursâŠâ Yoongi nodded his head to the side, looking out the window as the others got up to start preparing dinner. But you sat still in your spot, slowly pushing the pad of your finger against your thumbnail as you relived similar moments before you left home, you even stayed when Yoongi left to help Jin in the kitchen- leaving you alone on the couch, a heavy cloud over your head. You didnât snap out of your thoughts until you felt Taehyung replace Yoongi on the couch and pull you to his side, your head falling onto his chest as you distracted yourself with the goings on in the kitchen.
Jimin had watched your body language change during the conversation, how you became frigid once the idea of a sort of punishment was placed on your shoulders, and your blank stare long after the last words were spoken. The dancer frowned in concern and nudged Tae to comfort you while he moved down the hall to catch Namjoon, stopping before the leaders door and speaking quietly.
âHyung, do you think that was the right move? Did you see her face?â Jimin wasnât normally one to question Namjoonâs actions, he was the leader for a reason, but he couldnât stand making you feel so bad. Namjoon glanced down the hall before meeting Jiminâs eyes.
âIâm not sure.â Was all the leader said before he gently shut the door. Jimin grimaced as he walked back down the hall and leaned against the countertop, watching Jungkook bumble around the kitchen in attempts to be Jin and Yoongiâs assistant since you were preoccupied having some sort of existential crisis. And while he waited, Jimin started planning something to fix your mood.
It was already seven by the time you finished dinner and did the washing up, only two hours until you were confined to your room to try and get a full nights sleep. The worst part of all this is that they were right, and you knew it. The way youâre living is unhealthy, skipping meals, not sleeping, drinking on an empty stomach, youâre living a party girl lifestyle while working the equivalent of a nine-to-five. You already know what happens when you have a mental crash, it never ends well, so despite your wounded pride, you were determined to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. For you, that starts with a hot shower to wash away the stress of the day, the hot water dripping down your back and shoulders as you stepped out of the tub in a towel. You wiped the steam off the small mirror and opened the small cabinet to gather your skin and hair care products, but they werenât there. The small section of shelf you claimed was empty of everything except your tweezers, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion as you spun around in the tiny bathroom in case someone moved your things. Great. This is exactly what I wanted. I bet Jungkook stole my moisturizer again. You dressed yourself in your nightwear and stepped out of the bathroom, ready to face a guilty maknae before you heard someone call your name in the living room.
âNoona!â You recognized Jiminâs melodic voice easily, following it down the hallway and seeing him and Taehyung sat on the couch, white flimsy sheet masks on their faces and all of your products set on the table in front of you.
âWhat is this..?â You couldnât help but smile at the sight of your friends in their âspa-wear,â matching pajama sets, hair pushed back with cushiony headbands. You sat in the space between them, letting a grin break out on your face when Tae ripped open another sheet mask and helped you set it on your face, Jimin pushing his fingers through your wet hair to get it away from your face and the mask.
âWe thought it would help you relax.â Jimin hummed from behind you as he picked up your brush and started to work it through the tangles in your hair. You couldnât believe how sweet the two were being with you, your eyes grazing over Taehyungâs concentrated face as he pushed his thumbs over the curve of your cheeks, working the sheet masks moisturizer into your skin. Only looking away after the two of you make eye contact for a second, thanking the white sheet over your face to hide the bashful blush creeping onto your cheeks. The three of you sat together for the rest of your time, Jimin raking his fingers through your hair to distribute the products you use, your eyes closing each time you felt his fingernails gently drag against your scalp. Tae having to rip his eyes away from your blissful face quiet a few times throughout the night and focus his attention back on the TV, eventually sliding his arm around your waist once you sat back against the couch, sending a smug look over your head to Jimin once he tried to do the same.
âItâs nine, Y/n-ah-â Hoseokâs eyes widened at the sight of you in between Jimin and Tae, three masked faces looking up at him blankly from the couch. Hoseokâs laugh rang throughout the dorm as he snapped pictures of the three of you, cooing over how cute you looked together before he pushed his phone back into his pocket, smiling as you stood from the couch and gathered your things into your arms.
âThanks for the spa guys, youâre too sweet to me.â You started to follow Hoseok down the hall but stopped once Taehyung called for you.
âNoona wait.â The taller man stood as he pulled his mask off, reaching out to peel yours off your face as well before giving you a smile. âSleep well, Noona.âÂ
âI will.â You smiled back and let Hoseok walk you to your room, the rubbing your shoulder affectionately as he stood before you.
âPlease try to sleep, Y/n. Itâs important.â He looked at you with an almost pleading smile.
âIâll try, I promise.â You werenât lying, you were going to try your best to sleep tonight, which is why itâs so frustrating to still be tossing and turning three hours later.
You tried everything, you listened to relaxing music, you made a very quiet cup of tea, you tried watching a boring movie, you even tried to put away all electronics and simply meditate. But nothing worked. On your fortieth attempt of getting comfortable you nearly gave up, staring at the crack of light under your bedroom door for what felt like thirty minutes, you had no idea what to do. Why is it, when the one time you wanted to fall asleep, you couldnât? Does the universe have some vendetta against you? Maybe this is Karma for your winter break shenanigans, you couldnât sleep then, and you basically went crazy until- âŠ
âNo.â Your voice felt foreign in the silence of your room, but you needed to audibly hear yourself deny the idea that popped into your head. Turning onto your back to stare up at the ceiling stiffly and cringing when your eyes darted back to your door, forcing yourself to sit up and look at your clenched fingers as if they held the answers to your plight. Yes, itâs true, you couldnât sleep well over vacation until you got into Taehyung's bed, but that doesnât mean Taehyungâs bed is the answer here- also, there was no Taehyung in Taehyungâs bed then! You pushed the heels of your palms down your thighs as you contemplated your options, this was your fault of course, you wouldnât be in this situation if you just acted like a responsible adult. Namjoon wouldnât hate you, no one would be disappointed, and the idea of cuddling up to Tae would be a very very very secret consideration. Itâs almost worse knowing he wants you there as well, heâs the one that said to join him if you couldnât sleep- which you canât. I have to make some sort of decision. You thought to yourself, a thought you wished you had before you already left your room and nervously stood with your hand hovering over the throuples door handle. Touching your fingertips to the cold metal and twisting the handle at a snails pace, not wanting to wake anyone up as you struggled to work up the courage to do what you were already doing. The latch clicked open and you gently pushed the door, opening it to almost complete darkness aside from the night sky lighting up a small square of the floor, tinting the room blue as your eyes readjusted to the darkness. You could hear three very distinct snores come from the members, which would have been charming if you werenât about to turn to dust at any sudden sound or movement.
âTaeâŠâ You whispered, clearly not loud enough, only getting a low snore in return. âTaehyung.â You tried again, nothing. Looking around the room before tiptoeing over and sitting yourself down on the edge of the bed, your hand shaking as you gently pushed against Taehyung's arm but the man still wouldnât budge. Now what? Do I leave? You bit down on your lip and looked away towards Hoseokâs side of the room before whipping your head around at the sound of Taehyungâs groggy voice.
âNoona..?â You watched him push his bangs out of his face and squint at you tiredly.
âSorry, I shouldnât, uh. Iâll just go.â You were committed to bailing the second you saw Taehyungâs eyes open, but he only pulled you back down to the bed when you tried to stand up.
âYou can stay with me, Y/n.â He let his hand slide down from your wrist to hold your hand and gently pull you towards him as he pushed himself further towards the wall. Your face was clenched and unmoving as you crawled over to lay next to him, your hand shaking in his until he pulled your arm over his shoulder and slid his long fingers against your stomach and around your waist. A squeak escaping your mouth at the feeling of the pads of his fingertips gently pushing against your middle until his arms were wound tightly around your waist, your own fingers digging into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He tangled your legs together messily as he pushed his face into the crook of your neck, forcing you to raise your head up and jolting each time the slight stubble on his chin scratched against against your collar bone.
âTaeâŠâ You managed to squeeze out a slight plea for him to let up on you, your eyes cracking wide open when you heard Hoseok's voice break through the tense moment.
âI donât care what you two are doing, but keep it quite or take it somewhere else.â The elder grumbled as he turned over to face his wall, throwing his blanket over his head. The implications of that sentence were a mess, if he thought the two of you were⊠anyway- how could his only complaint be the noise?! You glanced down at Tae to see if he were going to defend your honor from Hoseokâs insinuation, but the younger man only hummed in satisfaction of annoying his Hyung. Your teeth clenching as he moved his face to point down towards you, his lips pressed up against your shoulder blade before he let out a hefty sigh, then he was out like a light. How he managed to fall asleep in this position was beyond you, between his hands flat against your back and his thigh ever so slowly nudging up to get in between yours, you feared you cursed yourself to another sleepless night- this time featuring some sort of ever thrumming provocative panic. But as the minutes slowly ticked away, and you were left with nothing new but the steady pattern of Taehyungâs breaths hitting your shoulder and his chest slowly rising and falling against yours, you found yourself feeling the same comfort you sought out last month. The smell of chamomile and his expensive shampoo, your arms hanging off his shoulders just how you imagined when you held his pillow, only this time he was holding you back. Your heart finally steadied in your chest and you let yourself drift off to sleep, only three and a half hours late.
Namjoon didnât sleep well last night either, guilt licking like flames against the inside of his stomach. He knew that he overstepped with the amount of control he had over you, he wasnât technically in charge of you the same way he was with the other members, still he felt responsible to make sure youâre safe and well. The little moments of sleep he got was interrupted each time with worry of how his actions would effect how you see him from now on, and how heâs changed your relationship. It was around five in the morning when the mechanical sound of a faded alarm clock pulled him from his last attempt at sleep, he recognized it as yours, having heard it distantly a few times before. The leader let out a sigh as he slid himself off his bed and trudged himself to the bathroom, rubbing a square hand over his face and grabbing his toothbrush from the cup on the sink. Looking over his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, the dark circles under his tired eyes, the little lines forming in the corners of his mouth. Namjoon turned his head to the side and slid a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble scrape against his fingers before he spit and washed out his mouth. Opening the medicine cabinet and raising his hand to grab his razor but something made him pause, an empty space where your things used to sit. Namjoon squinted at the vacant shelf before he closed the door, looking at himself in confusion before the sound of your alarm still going off in your room came back into focus.
âOh noâŠâ The leader muttered to himself as he rushed to open the bathroom door and stumble out into the hall.
âJesus, Namjoon! Are you trying to break another door?â Jin jumped back to get out of the way of the frantic leader, Jungkook doing the same as he stepped out of his bedroom and nearly collided with Namjoon as he made a b-line for yours. The maknae giving Joon a strange look before he headed to the kitchen to make himself something to hold him over until breakfast, Jin instead watching his pink haired friend frantically knock on your door only to open it with no reply from you. âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âY/nâs gone.â Namjoon slammed his hand down on your alarm clock, looking at your empty and unmade bed with dread written over his face before he turned back to Jin who stood in the doorway, âSheâs missing- she ran away!âÂ
âOkay, she didnât run away, sheâs not a child.â Jin dodged Namjoon once again as he ran down the hall to see if your coat and shoes were at the front door- they werenât.
âThatâs exactly why she ran away! I treated her like a child, I knew I went to far I shouldnât have said anythingâŠâ Namjoonâs heart was in his throat as he let himself fall into one of the living room chairs, he chased you away, bad enough to leave everything behind and skip town without another word. He couldnât even raise his eyes to look at Yoongi as he came out of his room.
âWhatâs with all the running around? Itâs like five in the morningâŠâ The blonde scowled but looked on in concern at the sight of the nearly soulless Namjoon and Jin comforting him gently, Jungkook scarfing down a bowl of cereal with an unbothered expression next to them. âWhatâs going on?âÂ
âNamjoon thinks he chased Y/n-ah out of the house.â Jin looked over at Yoongi with a tight expression, honestly he was starting to believe you left as well.
âSheâs not here and all her stuff is gone from the bathroom, what else could it mean?â The leader pushed his hands into his face in frustration, how could he be so hot headed and reckless? Yoongi walking into the living room and joining Jin beside Namjoon, the two questioning where you could have gone and how far could you make it on foot in the middle of winter.
âGood morning, Noona.â Jungkook smiled as he watched you enter the kitchen already ready for the day and make yourself your own bowl of cereal, Namjoon ripping his hands from his face in surprise before he pushed himself past Jin and Yoongi to stand next to you at the counter. The eldest turning slowly to look at Jungkook with a twitching eye.
âJungkook-ah. How did you know Y/n was here?â His tone was sickly sweet.
âJimin hyung told me.â The older two whipped their heads around to see Jimin raise his hand in a wave from the kitchen before looking back at Jungkook.
âWhy didnât you tell anyone?!â Yoongi joined in on Jinâs berating of the maknae.
âNo one asked me.â Jungkook grinned cheekily at his Hyungs, showing off his bunny like teeth.
Truth be told, you were awake for the entirety of Namjoonâs little freak out, and you could have gotten up at anytime to assure him that you were still here. You woke up just as the sun was peaking through the window and lighting up a streak across your eyes, living in a room facing the sunrise must be a pain, you blinked yourself awake and turned your head away from the sun only to be face to face with a seemingly knocked out Tae. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his face so close to yours, the tips of your noses nearly touching before you tried to scoot away from him to no avail, holding onto you tightly in his sleep. Huffing softly through your nose, admittedly you didnât really want to leave his hold anyway, and you really didnât want to wake him up, so you settled back into his arms and let your eyes wander over his face. You had never been this close to Taehyung for such a long amount of time, you could see every pore on his face, a little smile coming to your face at the ridiculousness of the situation. You never noticed before now that his eyelids were different shapes, one mono and one double, or the little freckle on the tip of his nose. And how he must shave every morning before seeing you, because his five oâclock shadow had only gotten bigger from last night. You let your fingers slowly trace his jawline, his stubble rough against the pads of your fingertips, ripping your hand away once you felt a pair of freezing hands slide up the back of your top and flatten against your bare back. You let out a squeal, pushing against Taehyungâs arms as he laughed, you nearly got away from him but he grabbed onto your wrists and pulled you under him. Taehyung hovering over you with a big boxy smile plastered over his face.
âDonât leave yet, Noona. Iâm sorry.â He giggled at your bright red face and embarrassed expression, fully understanding the position heâs put the two of you in. The taller man letting himself lay almost fully on top of you once you nodded your head in agreement to stay, his head resting on your shoulder and his arm and leg thrown over your body. You almost let yourself relax for a second before your eyes met with a set of dark brown ones almost five feet above you, Jimin peeking over the railing of his bed with a smug smile, you shook your head in response to a question he didnât ask, watching him hop down the ladder and leave with the same smug look never faltering.
By the time Taehyung let you get up, the two of you had heard most of the âY/n ran awayâ debacle happening outside the door. You managed to sneak out to your room in the mess of it all and get ready for the day before you walked out into the kitchen like nothing odd was going on, waving to Jungkook but not turning around to face him as you poured a bowl of cereal. Jimin was still giving you a sort of look that you didnât really know how to process, nor did you have time to as Namjoon ran up to your side, you didnât turn to look at him.
âY/n⊠Uh, where were you? I checked your room and you werenât there.â The leader spoke almost timidly, so far youâve seen three different Namjoons- Leader Joon, who was calm and caring, the one who requested to take you on walks and ask you how youâre doing. This sheepish and embarrassed Namjoon, who appeared when he admitted to stealing your perfume. And the Joon you saw last night, who was short tempered and demanding, thatâs the Namjoon youâve made your new duty to bring out as much as possible, as a sort of revenge⊠no other reason.Â
âI stayed with Taehyung last night.â Now that turned some heads, you could feel three sets of eyes burning into your back. But while Jin and Yoongiâs faces were still, Jungkookâs jaw had dropped to the floor, he had only asked Jimin if he had seen you this morning, he didnât think to clarify where. Jungkook knew he needed to step up his game, he just thought he had more time, soon Jimin would be all over you as well, then heâd be stuck waiting for an opening that would never come. Namjoon shook off his dumbfounded face to clear his throat, of course you had to be in someone else's room, he should have thought of that first before freaking out.
âOh. Well⊠Howâd you sleep?â
âWonderfully.â You grinned, finally looking up at the towering man beside you. You werenât lying, being lulled to sleep by Taehyungâs gentle snoring and his long arms holding you securely to him had you feeling like you slept for a week straight, you were still trying to convince yourself that it had nothing to do with your feelings for him. âYou were right, I should have listened to you from the start.âÂ
âAbout that. Y/n-ah, I really overstepped last night. I shouldnât have spoken to you so-âÂ
âDonât you have to get ready, Joon?â You cut him off, tilting your head to the side with a little pout. Namjoonâs eyes widened as he glanced at the clock then to himself still in his boxers and sleep shirt, having to hold back your laugh as he tripped over himself trying to rush to his room and get ready before he ran out of time. You smiled cheekily down at your bowl before looking up at Yoongi as he leaned over the island towards you, his arms resting folded on the countertop, the blonde having migrated over as you and Namjoon spoke.
âYou just love to cause trouble, donât you?â His eyes were sharp as he looked down at you, not hiding the entertained grin playing at his lips. You only leaned in as well, suddenly not afraid to throw his attitude back in his face.
words published:226 thousand and some change. words written:354 thousand and some change. most popular genres:smut, dark fics, yandere
TOP SERIES ! ËËË How To Break In Your Darling 101â ÂŽËË recommended by audrey, mythicalthing, prchiquita8, angelicsharkavenue, onyxmango, m3110dy, ottersdeservelove, moonchild-stuff7, devilzliason, mallielovssyou, violatedvibrators, jailn
" This series seriously gives me the spine chilling creeps and goosebumps... I love how you depict their character so well and never fail to remind us how this behaviour is twisted and psychotic and not to be normalised " - devilzliason
" I think I am just so attached to darling. Her strength and bravery and her backstory. She is just so real. " - prchiquita8
" I want to say that I really appreciate how psychologically in depth your characters are. It really helps the reader be fully immersed in the story and be able to truly feel each characters complex emotions. " -đŠ
TOP ONE-SHOT ! ËËË Puff, Puff, Pass ÂŽËË recommended by ultimate-trashy-blog, belongjoong, lillys-bakery, moonchild-stuff7, sugar-spice-bitch, jailn
" went like triple platinum in my house!!!! " -jailn
" I made a whole new account because finding the password to my old account was taking too long. Kudos. 5 stars. A golden ticket. Whatever your heart desires. " - hidingbehindmyhands
" The check ins, the boys seeing where the line is, her asking Joong to not get too high when he asks her about it, the pinching her nose shut, the boys kissing, IT'S ALL TOO AMAZING AND I FUCKING LOVE IT AND YOU FOR IT! " - ramadiiiisme
The Face of God - recommended by pheonixfireworks, thelittlelobsterthatcould, prchiquita8, angelicsharkavenue, airaviity, onyxmango, birdy-bat-writes, jailn, queenofdumbfuckery
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honorable mentions: dilf!jongho. baby, if it feels good. Reminder. Cornflower Blue. Lowlife Princess. Tease.
authors note: 2025 has been rough to me and that's really no secret. but thanks to this blog, this community, and all of you, my mutuals, casual readers, and even the silent lurkers - i live to write another year. this blog and all of you on it give me something to look forward to even on my dimmest days. and here's a special round of love to all you who made me smile even brighter. no matter how much we interact or speak, you made this year worth it. thank you.
Okay, you guys really need to read this fic!! It's OT7 and the story is slight slow burn, angsty, funny, yearning everything good mixed into one!!! This is set during the earlier days of BTS and the reader is their live-in assistant. Man, this fic is soooo good you've GOT to read it....
It's on AO3 called Sienna ( BTS ot7) By @ssweetinsomniacc
synopsis: when their kid goes missing, an unlikely alliance forms between the guardian angel namjoon, the monster under the bed y/n & the favourite plushie taehyung.
Ëââgenre: fantasy crack au, found family, guardian angel & monster tropes, cozy chaos, dramatic overthinking, unhinged
Ëââword count: 2.1k
Ëââa/n: swear i'm not on crack. shoutout to my lovely @matchastwb for the beautiful banner, ily <3 if you're reading tysm and i will really appreciate any comments and reblogs or feedback (bare in mind this is hardly edited though). i enjoyed writing, hope you enjoy reading. much love <3333
ËââđČïč main masterlist
˰àżpilot: the unlikely alliance ˰àż
Namjoon was freaking out.
Not the dignified, angelic kind of concern they teach you in orientationâthe calm, glowing, âit is what it isâ sort of thing.
No. This was the sweaty-palmed, wide-eyed, âoh my God, I am going to get fired from Heavenâ kind of panic.
He had looked away for two minutes. Two bloody minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. The time it takes for a kettle to almost boil or for Park Jimin to cause catastrophic levels of chaos. And in those seconds⊠his kid disappeared.
Likeâpoof.
One second she was there, happily reading, breathing, existing. The next second she was nowhere. Not behind him. Not beside him. Not even doing the little kid thing where they hide and giggle behind curtains.
Gone.
This had never happened before. In his 200 years of existenceâtwo centuries of guarding babies, toddlers, teenagers, and once a 35-year-old man-child who skateboarded without a helmetâhe had never lost a kid. Not once.
And yet here he was.
It was all because of that sneaky, pink airhead Park Jimin. Namjoon was sure of it. He was the root of all his problems. Always.
Jimin had come floating in, smelling of strawberries and disobedience, distracting him with some âurgent celestial paperworkâ (which turned out to be a doodle of a duck in a suit). And during that tiny distractionâgone. Kid lost. Record ruined.
Bet he plotted this, Namjoon thought miserably. Busy Namjoon with nonsense so his sparkly clean record gets dirtied by irresponsibility. Then Jimin will finally be able to say, âSee? Youâre not that perfect.â
No. No. Absolutely not. This could not be happening.
He needed to find her. Before his superiors found out. Before his perfect file got a red line across it. Before⊠before his kid got hurt.
He swallowed. His wings twitched behind himâthey always did that when he was nervous. They were big and white and glowy and completely, infuriatingly useless.
Think, Namjoon. Think.
Where could a little seven-year-old have actually gone?
He pictured herâtiny ponytail, mismatched socks, eyes too big for her face, the way she always stuck her tongue out when she coloured. She wasnât the type to go running off recklessly. She was a good kid. A really good kid. She said please and thank you and âgood morning, mister angelâ even though he told her not to call him that.
So where would she go?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
Namjoon started searching.
And when Namjoon searched, he really searched.
He checked every public restroom in a three-mile radiusâeven the ones with scary graffiti and no toilet seats. He cleared out a museum because he thought he saw a tiny shoe in the Ancient Egypt section (it was not her; it was an exhibit). He stopped an ice cream van mid-drive and interrogated the ice cream man like a detective in a crime drama.
âHave you seen a little girl? About this tall? Smells like cotton candy?â
The man blinked. âThis is a Mr Whippy, mate.â
He looked through parks, toy stores, and libraries. He questioned street performers. He asked a pigeon. He even looked through every trash can along his wayâevery trash canâbecause kids can be weird and sometimes they crawl into places they shouldnât.
The thing about Namjoonâthe guardian angelâwas that although he had wings, they were only for show. Purely decorative. Like the gold cutlery humans bought but never used. He couldnât actually fly. So he had to do all that searching on foot.
And by the time he was done looking through every trash can in the city, five whole days had gone by.
Five. Days.
His kid was still missing.
To make matters worse, if she had been kidnappedâwhich he was now strongly starting to suspect, because what normal disappearance lasted five daysâthen he had completely missed the golden hour to get her back. Angels had guidelines about this. There were PowerPoints. There were seminars. Heâd missed it.
Namjoon was truly, fully, heavenly-committee-level fucked.
His brain started going to the worst places. Angels were supposed to be composedâbut Namjoon was a soft one. An overthinker.
Oh my God, what if his kid was somewhere tied up and her kidnappers were requesting a huge ransom?
He didnât even have money. You didnât get paid to be an angel. You got grace points. You couldnât trade grace points for cash. Heâd tried.
Or worse⊠what if they were forcing her to eat broccoli? She hated broccoli. She once cried because it was âa tree and trees are friends.â
No. No. No.
This could not be happening.
What if⊠what if⊠what if she was dead and lying in a pool of her own blood?!Â
He slapped his cheeks. No. He refused to let his brain go there.
There was only one place remaining for Namjoon to look.
He had left it for last on purpose. Like when you do a maths examâyou try every possible formula and leave the question youâre certain is definitely wrong for last. This was that kind of scenario.
Her house.
He didnât want to check there because if she wasnât outside, she should be home, and if she wasnât home⊠then something was really wrong.
So Namjoon took the busâbecause once again, he could not flyâand headed to the kidâs house. He sat stiffly in the plastic seat, wings squished and folded as much as possible, trying not to glow too much so humans wouldnât stare. A toddler across from him waved. Namjoon waved back weakly.
When he arrived, he expected noise. Crying, at least. A distressed mother. A panicking father. The butler yelling into a phone. Police tape. Something.
Instead, he was met with silence.
The houseâwhich was usually alive with footsteps and vacuuming and the distant sound of cartoonsâwas still. Too still. Like it had taken a big breath and held it.
Bewildered, Namjoon checked every room. Kitchen. Study. Guest room. Even the wine cellar. Nothing. He opened a bathroom door very slowly, thinking, If I see a human corpse, I will simply pass away, but it was empty too.
Not a single living soul.
No parents. No annoying butler. No housecleaners. No bodyguards. Not even the house cat.
Something was not right.
He rubbed his chin, wings rustling, and made his way to the place he knew best: his kidâs room.
The moment he opened the door, her smell hit himâthat particular mix of cotton candy, bubble bath, and clean laundry. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a soft afternoon light that made the room look warm and quiet. The bed was freshly made, which was strange, because she was not a bed-making child. Toys were thrown in a messy-but-organised way in one corner, like sheâd been playing some elaborate game and then vanished mid-story. Her books were in a pretty pile, The Jungle Book left open as if sheâd only looked away for a second.
Namjoon sat on the edge of the bed.
It was too big for a little child.
Just like this world.
Where was she? This world was too big for her. Too sharp around the edges. He thought of all the things she could be exposed toâcold, hunger, people who didnât care about her favourite plushie. He thought of her small hands. He thought of the way she always shared her snacks with him even though, technically, angels didnât eat.
He felt himself sink into a sad, dramatic pity-party. He was good at those.
He stared at the floor.
He did not stare at the bed.
He shouldâve stared at the bed.
Because from under the bed, two long, green, sharp claws shot out and grabbed him by the ankles.
Namjoon looked down slowly, like a man realising too late that he, in fact, should have looked down sooner.
He screamed.
Then, he passed out.
âI told you I should have been the one to approach him.â
âI didnât think heâd get scared!â
âObviously he did. Youâre hideous. I would get a heart attack every time I see youâonly I donât have a heart.â
âYouâre so mean.â
Namjoonâs eyes fluttered open. His head was pounding. His wings were splayed out awkwardly. He was on the floor now. He blinked⊠and the first thing he saw was claws.
He nearly passed out again.
âOh, heâs awakeâwait, wait, please donât faint again!â youâthe hideous creature, apparentlyâyelled, scooting back on your⊠tail? Limbs? Whatever monsters under the bed used.
âSo,â Namjoon said slowly, voice full of utter disbelief, âyouâre telling me youâre the monster under the bed⊠and youâre not actually a bad monster.â
You straightened up a little. Up close, you were⊠well, monstrous. In a cute way. Too many teeth, too many eyes, claws a little too long, but your expression was very much please donât hate me.
Before Namjoon could process that, someone very small and very fluffy marched forward and planted himself between you and the angel like a bodyguard.
âHey,â he said, voice deeper than a stuffed toy had any right to have. âDonât keep looking at her like that. We canât help how we look.â
Namjoonâs eyes went even wider, which should not have been physically possible. âAnd youâre the talking favourite plushie?â
âThe nameâs Kim. Kim Taehyung. A pleasure to meet ya,â Taehyung said, and held out a soft, stuffed hand like this was a business meeting and not a supernatural crime scene.
Namjoon slapped himself with both hands. âI am going crazy.â
âMaybe heâs a little shy, Taehyung. Letâs give him a bit of space,â you said, lowering your claws so you looked less like a threat and more like an anxious roommate.
âOh my God, I am going crazy,â Namjoon repeated, rubbing his temples. âA talking plushie and an ugly monster.â
You were personally, deeply offended. âHe didnât have to call me ugly,â you muttered.
âHey!â Taehyung shouted, turning on Namjoon. âThatâs funny coming from you, walking sparkly man with wings!â
âExactly,â you said quickly, seizing your moment. âHaving wings is not that normal, you know. Andâand for the record, theyâre not very pretty!â
Taehyung nodded like a judge. âBurn.â
Namjoon exhaled and tried to sit up. âAlright. I think I can get my head around you⊠abnormal creatures. Iâm not very normal myself to be rational.â
âYeah,â Taehyung said, folding his little felt arms. âYour shiny white wings and glittery aura helped us figure that out. Let me guessâguardian angel?â
Namjoonâs mouth fell open. âHowâhow did you know?â
âItâs Taehyungâs curââ you started to explain, but Taehyung whipped his head toward you with such a deadly plushie glare that you shut your mouth instantly.
âRightâŠâ Namjoon said, looking between the two of you. A frown pulled at his brows. âWhy do I keep feeling like I forgot something?â
âMe too,â you said, blinking all your eyes.
âYes,â Taehyung said, slow and dramatic, âit feels like Iâm forgetting something extremely imporââ
He froze.
You froze.
Namjoon froze.
âKIRA!â all three of you shouted at the same time.
Namjoon looked at you like heâd just found comrades in stupidity. âWhat, you guys are looking for my kid too?â
âWell, of course,â you said, claws twisting shyly. âMy job was mostly to scare her into being a good girl, but I did really like the kid.â Your voice wobbled.
Monsters under the bed had feelings too. Namjoon nodded immediately, because he got that.
âAnd Iââ Taehyung tried to say.
âYou donât need to explain,â Namjoon interrupted, turning to Taehyung. âYouâre the favourite plushie for a reason.â
Taehyungâs little stitched mouth twisted. âDo not patronise me, birdy. I am more than a favourite plushie. I am the ultimate plushie.â
âBirdy? Who are you calling birdy, you stuffed littleââ
You jumped in before you had to watch an angel bicker with polyester. âWell, if weâre all here for the same purpose, why donât we form an alliance and search for Kira together?â
You fiddled with your hands, looking at the floor. It was a good idea. Monsters could be shy about good ideas.
Namjoon tilted his head. âI mean, itâs not a bad idea, but how will you two even walk out of here?â he asked, glancing pointedly at your claws and Taehyungâs very obvious plushie-ness.
âThatâs true,â Taehyung said, looking down at himself like heâd just remembered he was 80% fluff. âHow will you walk out?â
You blinked. âI can just say Iâm cosplaying?â
They both gasped.
âWhat a genius!â Taehyung cried.
Namjoonâs shoulders dropped in relief. âAlright,â he said, trying to look authoritative again even though heâd fainted twice in front of you. âSo we have an alliance.â
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Summary: A genie could solve all your problems. Though you wouldnât even know exactly what to ask for - money, a warmer house, a better job, a better life? But Min Yoongi is no ordinary genie. Heâs here to make your life a living hell. Too bad it was hell to begin with.
Warning: some implied smut, dumpster diving and inaccuracies in job experiences at McDonaldâs.
Cr.
The boy with sleepy eyes and puffy cheeks, mop of black hair, bangs nearly pricking into his eyes, is not a genie. Heâs not a mystical being who appears from smoke, dressed in silk and whimsical in personality, here to grant you any three wishes with his limitless power. Heâs not a fairy or an angel or a demon for that matter. No. He is only a human boy who lives in a magical lamp.
âYour life isnât very exciting.â Yoongiâs arm is propped up on the counter, chin rested in his hand.
Itâs quiet today at your workplace. For some reason, when heâs around, the teenage boys are obedient and not as rambunctious as usual.
âWell,â youâre mumbling while checking on the outlet inventory. âI think itâs exciting enough.â
No matter where you go, Yoongi is your companion that dispels away the familiar friend of loneliness.
âDonât you want more adventure in your life? Or something exciting and fun?â
Is it bad when I say that I cried reading this??... The MC's situation hit a bit close to home.... Yoongi is a cheeky lovable piece of shit in this. I would've crashed out if they didn't end up together... I loved this too much đđđđđ
I came here to check your reblog of my fic and I'm HOLLERING at your pfp. At first I was like "Thor??!" And then "Jimin??!" And then I say "peace was never an option" and it makes so much sense đđđđđ
Lmfaoooo, I am glad it made you laugh. Although, I really believe in this philosophy. All other things aside, you are so talented and gifted that you wrote such great fics. I love your brain đđđ
i'm just gonna stop planning things all together and only post teasers like the literal day before i post something because WHY WHY WHYYYYYYY did i wake up this morning to find my little sister on my tablet (she has her own, mind you) and she DELETED ALL OF MY WIPS ?!??!
OVER TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND WORDS ARE GONEEE IM GOING TO GENUINELY GO BATSHIT
she deleted it to make room for her drawings she didn't do it out of malice but OH MY GOD IVE NEVER PRACTICED SO MUCH SELF RESTRAINT
Summary: On the way to your parents' place cross country, your father's old truck breaks down on the backroads. Forced to seek refuge in an old town, you have no choice but to wait for a mechanic. The town is strange, the people are stranger. You should've walked.
Warnings: Cult behavior, kidnapping, sacrificial practices. Seokjin's disdain for human beings, non-graphic violence, death, illness.
Notes: Phew, hello, hello!! Welcome! So this took a looot of time to write because there was just soo much to fit in there. But! It's done! And I hope that you enjoy, this was so much fun to write (Except on the days I simply stared at my screen blankly willing it to write itself lmao) I hope yall are ready!! Because boy oh boy hehehehehe (no, i do NAWt wanna see smth "funny") Anyway!! go forth and enjoy!!
There were stories, whispered from one generation to the next, of a time when the world thrived under the watchful eyes of the gods. When trees never withered, their leaves forever lush and green. When fields stretched endlessly, golden with grain, and the land was generous in its bounty. The sun would rise on honey-washed mornings, bathing the earth in warmth, while the moon chased it away, unveiling a vast expanse of stars that pulsed with the rhythm of the universe.Â
The seasons were ruled by four divine siblings, each shaping the world in their own time. The God of Winter wove the ice and snow, sculpting the world into quiet stillness. The God of Spring painted the land in color, coaxing life from the frozen ground. The God of Summer brought the sunâs embrace, ripening fruit upon the vine and warming the rivers until they shimmered. And the God of the Harvest---the keeper of abundance, the silent hand that ensured fields bore fruit and autumnal rains softened the soil.Â
The harvest season had once been a time of celebration. The air would cool, a gentle prelude to winterâs embrace. The people would gather in gratitude, offering songs and laughter to the heavens, their voices carried by the wind in praise of the gods who watched over them. Among them, none was more revered than the God of the Harvest.Â
Under the full moonâs glow, they honored him with feasts and revelry. They danced beneath lantern-lit skies, sang hymns woven with devotion, and laid offerings upon his altar. A gesture of thanks for his toil, a promise to never take his gifts for granted.Â
But time is unkind to gods who demand remembrance.Â
As the world expanded, as men turned their hearts toward conquest and coin, there was little room left for worship. The feasts grew smaller. The songs faded. And slowly, the God of the Harvest and his brothers became nothing more than a tale---told in passing, then only to children, until even that, too, was lost.Â
He felt It, the unraveling.Â
It was slow at first---a whisper of power slipping through his grasp, a hollowness where once there had been warmth. Then came the cold. The absence. The silence where prayers had once been. He turned to his siblings, seeking solace, only to watch as they too withered. The Winter Godâs frost grew bitter; it brought nothing but storms of hail and ice so thick that the halls of his house froze over. The Spring God lost his bloom, the flowers he once breathed to life struggling to root, fruit withered on their vines. The Summer God, who had burned the brightest, flickered and dimmed, like a candle in the wind. Â
One by one, they faded. Slipping away, like grain through open fingers. Forgotten. Dismissed. Abandoned. Until only he remained.Â
And he raged.Â
His name would not be spoken in reverence? Then let it be spoken in fear. Let them cry and beg and plead. Â
The land, once fertile, turned against those who had forsaken him. Crops withered before they could take root. Rains became scarce, leaving fields cracked and barren. The seasons themselves fell into ruin---winters sharpened into bitter, unyielding cold; springs bore fruit too weak to survive; summers stretched long and dry, a relentless blaze that stole the breath from the earth.Â
For centuries, the people repented. They scraped together what little they had, offered prayers beneath the waning moon, pleading for mercy. But he did not listen.Â
The god who had once given so freely had turned to stone. Spiteful. Unyielding. Â
And he let them suffer.Â
The day started off with a series of unfortunate events; your father had sworn up and down his ancient pick-up was A-ok for the trip, and you ended up spending two hours and a little too much cash at a mechanic. The sun glares down from the cloudless sky, hot enough that the distance for miles ahead looks like a liquidized mirage. The AC gave nothing but warm air pulled in from outside, and the window on the right wouldnât roll down. Â
Your phone beeps for the second time in three minutes --- battery draining faster than you anticipated. Itâs old and you promised yourself youâd replace it. Your father was never known for being tech savvy, so a car charger was out of the question. It slides along the glossy surface of a brochure you picked up from the gas station a couple miles back, screen lighting up, and then tunking softly against the backrest of the seat as the truck gives a little â concerning â jerk. Â
Road stretches on for miles, and if you hadnât been down this one at least once a year, youâd think you were lost in the backrooms. Â
This chapter of unfortunate event is yet to close, and it comes with a sputter, a clinking of something, and the truck slowing down. You lead it to the side of the road, the crunch of little stones and hard dirt unpleasant. Â
âNo, no. Please don---â despite your pleas, the truck defiantly rolls to a stop, wheezing on its wheels. A hundred dollars down the drain. Your hands grip the steering wheel, leaning forward to press your forehead against it with a loud, drawn-out sigh. Â
âI swear to God.â You mutter, reaching for your phone. It vibrates in your hand, the ringtone youâd set specifically for your mother blaring from the speaker. You glance at the top â not much power left. Â
Your mother calls your name when you answer, âYou shouldâve been here by now.â Â
Your father yells something in the background, âOh, your father is asking if you can pick up something from Jerryâs on your way in.â Â
âMomâŠâ She keeps on going, asking you what time you think youâd be rolling into town, and you sigh, watching a tumbleweed tumble across the wide road. âMom. The truck broke down.â Â
âOh dear.â She says, âHoney! She said the truck broke down. Where are you?â Â
âIâm out on route twenty. I---mom? Hello?â Your motherâs words crack in between, dipping in and out of your ear. You pull the phone away and the screen lights dimly. Cupping your hand over the top, you squint. The network bar winks at you before it blips completely.Â
âCan this day get any worse?â Â
Your phone dies. Â
You let out a pitiful groan, smacking a hand against the steering wheel before sighing again. Unbuckling your seatbelt, you grab your phone, the charger, your purse and keys and step out into the sweltering heat. Â
You, decidedly, reach into the glove compartment for the bottle of water you stored there. Itâs more than a little warm, but itâs better than being without it. Â
You roll the window up and slam the door shut. Tucking your phone into your jeans pocket, you start your trek forward. Thereâs supposed to be a town somewhere near, hopefully. Â
The walk Is long, and looking behind you, you can still see the truck, dancing in the heatwaves. Â
You donât think you ever remember it being this hot out here, especially for this time of year. It feels like the dog days of summer, sweat trailing down your spine, your tee-shirt sticking to your tummy uncomfortably. Youâre thankful youâd decided on jean shorts for the ride. Â
Thereâs a rickety old sign hanging off of a wooden pole, swaying in a gentle blow of hot breeze. The name of the town is faded, bleached by the elements, some letters completely missing from the sign. The dark green paint on it is wrinkled and peeling, and you donât bother to try and figure out what itâs saying.Â
The road itâs situated on veers off the road, and you could just about see the beginnings of buildings in the distance. It looks like an even longer walk, but, if you can just get someone to come out here and help you with that stupid truck, youâll be just peachy. Â
Drinking from your bottle of hot water doesnât offer much reprieve, all it does it makes you even more thirsty. Oh, the things youâd do for a tall cold glass right now. Â
The buildings grow clearer as you trudge forward, their worn exteriors glowing faintly under the harsh sun. Itâs not a big town by any means---just a single stretch of road lined with modest buildings: a diner, a general store, a mechanicâs shop with a rusted sign swinging in the wind. It looks like every small town youâve ever seen on TV, like a place where the most exciting thing to happen is a bake sale.Â
Some of the shops have what seem to be homes above them, curtains drawn over small, dusty windows, the occasional planter box perched on a ledge with flowers. Beyond the main strip, more houses dot the landscape, modest and quiet, their porches sagging slightly under the weight of time. Some have wind chimes that barely move in the still air, others with rocking chairs that sit empty, facing the road.Â
But something feelsâŠstrange.Â
You shake it off, chalking it up to your exhaustion and the oppressive heat pressing down on your shoulders. A low hum fills the air as you approach---a constant noise you canât quite place until you notice the small generator outside the diner. It rattles and puffs out bursts of exhaust, the smell of gasoline mixing with the faint scent of fried food.Â
âFinally,â you mutter, quickening your pace toward the diner. The thought of cold water and a working phone makes your steps lighter, despite the stickiness of your clothes clinging to your skin.Â
A bell jingles softly as you step inside. The blast of cool air feels like heaven, even if it carries the greasy tang of old oil. A handful of people sit scattered in the diner, their voices blending into the low drone of conversation. A man leans over his coffee cup, a couple by the window shares a plate of fries, and a teenage girl in a stained apron wipes down a table with slow, methodical movements. Â
âCan I help you, hon?â a voice asks.Â
You turn to see a small middle-aged woman stepping out from behind the counter, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. Sheâs smiling warmly, but something about the way her eyes linger on you sets your nerves on edge. The smile doesnât quite reach them, like someone wearing a mask theyâve long since forgotten how to take off. Â
Maybe youâre paranoid. Â
âMy truck broke down,â you explain, forcing yourself to smile back. âI was hoping thereâs someone who could take a look at it?âÂ
âTruck, huh?â she says, her gaze dropping to your dust-covered sneakers. âMustâa been quite the walk.âÂ
âYeah,â you reply, your laugh coming out more strained than youâd like. Youâre hoping to not become the first three minutes of a Supernatural episode. âNot my best day.âÂ
The woman chuckles, the sound short and clipped. âWell, Maeâs husband is the mechanic around here. Heâs out right now, but you can check in with her over at the inn. Sheâll know when heâll be back.âÂ
You nod, glancing around the room again. The teenage girl scrubs the same spot on the table, her head down like sheâs listening to every word. The couple by the window stops talking for a moment, both turning to glance at you before going back to their fries. Your stomach twists, but you push the feeling down.Â
âThanks.â you say, turning toward the door.Â
This is normal, you think. Perfectly normal. The town is small, probably, not even a blip on a map. Doesnât look like they offer much in terms of tourist attraction, and youâre just a stranger passing through. Â
Your mouth feels impossibly dry when you step back outside, glancing around. Well, you can only look in one direction, as the other way is back where you crawled from. Â
The Inn sits at the far end of the road, between two houses, a two-story building with faded white paint and a wraparound porch. Flower baskets hang from the posts, the blossoms long since wilted from the sun. A hand-painted wooden sign swings above the entrance: The Winding Oak Inn. You pause, glancing around. No oak trees in sight.Â
Another generator hums louder here, vibrating through the porch steps as you climb them. It grates against your nerves, a constant buzz in the background like a gigantic insect. You tug the screen door, and it opens with a little jingle, stepping into the dim, cool interior. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and old wood.Â
The lobby Is quaint, like something out of an old postcard. A small desk sits against the far wall, next to a bulletin board pinned with faded advertisements for long-past events. A couch and two mismatched chairs form a seating area near the window, their fabric worn but clean. A single fan turns lazily overhead; you can tell itâs rickety from the way it sways side to side on every spin but canât hear it over the humming generator. A polished counter takes up half the wall in front of you, within the space behind it is a single beige door and framed photos hung on the wall.Â
âHello?â you call out, hoping youâre loud enough.Â
A moment later, the door behind the counter creaks open, and a woman steps out. Mae, you presume. She looks to be in her late forties, with a kind face framed by loose dark curls streaked with gray. Sheâs wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead makes her olive skin shine. Â
âOh, hello there!â she says, her voice and eager like youâre the first person sheâs seen in a long time. âYou must be the girl with the broken truck. Dottie called ahead.âÂ
You blink. Already? You hadnât seen the diner lady touch a phone.Â
âUh, yeah, thatâs me,â you say, brushing the thought aside. Small towns. Gossip probably travels faster than cell service here.Â
Maeâs smile widens as she steps behind the desk, tucking the towel into her apron. âWell, youâve come to the right place. My husbandâs the town mechanic. Heâs out on an errand right now, but he should be back by eveninâ. Why donâya get yourself a room while you wait? Itâs much cooler in here than out there.âÂ
âThat sounds⊠great,â you reply, though you hesitate. âIs thereâŠÂ maybe a phone I could use? Mineâs dead, and I need to let my parents know whatâs going on.âÂ
Maeâs smile falters for a split second, so brief you almost miss it. âAh, we donât really use phones much âround here,â she says, her tone apologetic. âReceptionâs spotty, and the landlineâs been out for weeks. The only connection weâve got is between businesses. But donât worry, hon, when my husband gets back, weâll have you fixed up and on your way.âÂ
Something tightens in your chest, but you force a smile. âThanks. Iâll just... get a room, then.âÂ
Mae nods, pulling out a large, leather-bound ledger. She turns it toward you, sliding a pen across the counter. âSign here, and Iâll get you a key. Itâs forty for the night. Cash only.âÂ
Only one name is signed on the page, the ink of the date is too faded for you to make sense of. Â
You scribble your name, fishing bills from your wallet. Mae hands you a brass key attached to a wooden tag with the number â3â carved into it. Â
âYour roomâs up the stairs, second door on the right,â she says. âIâll bring you up some water and a fresh towel in a bit. Let me know if you need anythinâ else.âÂ
âThanks,â you mumble, taking the key and heading toward the staircase. Maeâs gaze lingers on you as you climb, her warm smile never wavering.Â
Upstairs, the hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by a single bulb at the far end. Your footsteps creak on the wooden floorboards as you reach your room. The door sticks a little before swinging open, revealing a small, tidy space. A bed with a patchwork quilt, a nightstand with a glass oil lamp, and a dresser with a mirror that looks like it belongs in an antique store. The single window offers a view of the street below, the horizon shimmering in the heat.Â
Sighing you sit on the bed; it creaks its complaint. You wonder if this old town has seen anyone in the past fifty years. It seems so out of place in modernity, like theyâre living in a time capsule and have no idea what Wi-Fi is. Â
The quilt Is soft under your fingers, and blessedly cool. Sighing, you wander around the room looking for an outlet â you donât find one, of course. You think briefly, if you should ask Mae to charge it for you, but something makes you decide against it. Â
It's just about noon, and you sit quietly in your room until Mae comes knocking. Sheâs brought you fresh towels and a glass of cold water that you take gratefully. Â
âBathrooms the last door.â She smiles, âThis lilâ old place donâ offer much, so if youâre hungry you can head on down to Dottieâs for a bite.â Â
She turns, taking a few steps back down the hall before she pauses and then, âOh! The generators turn off at six sharp, so Iâll bring by some candles if you like? For later?â She leans her head to look around your frame, pointing with her mouth, âWeâre ouâta kerosene for the lamps.âÂ
You hold tightly to the soft cotton towels, âWould your husband not be back?â Â
Youâre not particularly thrilled at the idea of spending the night, youâd rather avoid it if you can. Mae looks a little sheepish, and she smoothens the invisible wrinkles in her apron with a terse smile. Â
âWellâŠhe said he wouldnât be long today. He goes ouâta town a lot but never too far.â She says, taking a breath, âHe would usually be back before sundown.âÂ
âOhâŠThatâs okay. Iâll wait, Thank you.â You slowly close the creaking door and carry everything over to the little nightstand under the window. Perhaps, later when the sunâs a little more forgiving youâll make to get your things from the truck. Â
You spend the next couple of hours not doing much but twiddling your fingers, peeking out the window at the sky and listening to the generatorâs buzzing. Over the course of the last few hours, you watched people move from building to building or sit in little groups on porches. Children ran through the road, playing and laughing. Â
From the window, the houses further away seem like theyâre sitting on what used to be farmland. A couple of barns scattered about, their red roofs look pale and dance less in the distance at this hour. You can just make out the blobby figure of a lone cow in a fenced off area, chewing on God knows what. The land looks so dry over there, whatever wind that blows kicks up nothing but dust. Â
When the sun looked to be about three pm, you make your way downstairs. Mae is nowhere in sight, but the door behind the counter is propped open with a wooden chair weighed down by a couple thick books. Â
Looking around, you eye the framed photos that hang on the wall. You donât make much out, but you do see a photo of a younger looking Mae, standing next to a burly man with a beard in overalls. Â
âMae?â You call out, placing your palms on the counter you lean forward a bit to peer through the door. The light back there is dim and flickering and lights the short corridor that turns sharply left at the end. âHello?â Â
The sound of the bell jingling makes you jump, turning around to find Mae coming in. Sheâs carrying a brown paper bag, âOh!â she smiles, âDidâya need something hon? I just went âround to Paulâs for them candles.â Â
âIâm alright, thank you.â You wave a hand, âJust thought I should let you know Iâm heading outâŠâ Â
Mae nods as she walks along the side of the countertop, reaching her hand over to the corner closest to the wall. She flips a latch and the door swings inward. âYou take your time, donâ lose your key. Iâll give you the candles when you get back.âÂ
The air outside is still pretty warm, but not as stifling as it was at noon. You pat the pocket of your jeans, double checking that your phone is in there. The charger cable and adapter are sitting comfortably in your back pocket. Â
The town seems more alive at this hour, and you keep saying it, but it really does look like something out of a movie. One of those hallmark ones about family life and getting back to your roots. Children run by with dust covered shoes and knees, paying no mind to the adults around them. Â
You stop outside the mechanic shop; thatâs only a few houses down from the inn. Youâve not seen a single car today, just like you havenât seen anyone leave or enter this town. Though, itâs quite likely thereâs only a few people that knows itâs here. Â
Dottieâs chatting animatedly with some people outside the dinner, two young men in stained overalls. She offers you a wave as you walk by. Â
The trek out the dirt road seems to take a lot longer than it had going in, but looking back, youâve gotten a good way away from the town already. Â
Your fatherâs truck is exactly where you left it, rolled off the road, your bag safely inside. Unlocking the door, you decide to try your luck, and spend a good ten minutes willing the engine to start with every turn of the key. The truck does nothing but gurgle and sputter. You sigh harshly through your nose. Â
You grab your bag from the back seat and slide out of the truck. Maybe someone in the town has jumper cables? You really donât want to be stuck out here for longer than you have to be. Itâs already almost four pm, and youâve seen no sign of Maeâs husband. The next town is at least one hundred miles off, not a reasonable walking distance. Who knows when heâd be back and if heâll be able to get your truck sorted in enough time for you to get back on the road. Â
You stand and stare at the wooden sign, the faded paint, and the dirt road leading back into the town. You look down the asphalt stretch of road to your right and contemplate going back. Thereâs nothing wrong, of course there isnât. Itâs just a normal town, no need to fret. But that little tinkle in the back of your mind sounds like a warning bell. Â
Honestly, you donât have many options, on one hand, you could go walking to the next town---which is very, very far---or you can wait it out. With a sigh, you make your way back down the dirt road. You were only planning to stay with your parents for the weekend, so you donât have many clothes in your bag, but hopefully, that shouldnât be an issue. Â
You go back to the inn to drop your bag off in your room, and Mae gives you the candles and matches to take up with you. Itâs nowhere near dark yet, so you set them down on the bed with your bag and head back outside. Â
Dottieâs diner is near empty, and the teenage girl from earlier is behind the counter this time, writing something into a book with pencil. When the bell jingles, she looks up and offers you a halfhearted greeting before dragging her feet to where you stood. Â
âHello,â you smile, and she bobs her head once back, looking very much like a kid who got stuck working for her parents when she would rather be anywhere else. âDo you guys sell any sandwiches?âÂ
Canât go wrong with a good sandwich. Â
The girl blinks at you, and the raises a finger to point at the menu behind her. The words are neatly chalked onto a mounted blackboard, their prices reasonable, and you go for a simple ham sandwich. Â
After paying, the girl walks to the door behind her and pokes her head in, âEmmetâŠa ham sandwich.â Â
It wasnât long before you had your ham sandwich, coupled with cheese that strings with every bite. Itâs wrapped nicely in brown paper that you tuck under your fingers as you walk back to the inn. The townsfolk seem to pay you no mind but give you too much attention at the same time as you go by. You just keep reminding yourself that itâs a small place. Â
The mechanic shop is still closed, and a look back down the dirt road shows no sign of anyone coming in. Â
Mae is sitting at the counter when you get back to the Winding Oak. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose; she thumbs through a stack of ancient looking books. She carefully dusts them off with a cloth and sets them aside in a little stack. Â
She peers over the frames of her glasses at you and smiles, âHad a nice walk?â Â
You swallow your bite of sandwich, giving her a soft âmhm!â as you wipe your grubby fingers with a napkin. Â
Mae chuckles and then sets aside the cloth she was using, âWant somethinâ cold? Heat wonât get much better till nighttime mâafraid.â Â
Without waiting for your answer, sheâs off her little chair and through the door behind her. Not long after, sheâs back with a tall glass of fizzy red soda. Â
âThe old fridge ainât doing so hot these days, wouldnât want these to waste. Gave some out to the kids a bit ago, and I thought you woulda liked somethinâ sweet.â Â
You accept the soda with thanks, taking a few sips of it, cherry flavor bursts on your tongue. Â
Mae watches you with a smile until the glass was empty and takes it back when you were finished. âMy husband shouldnât be long again, hon.â Â
âYeah, okay.â With nothing else to do, you thank her once more for the soda and climb back up to your room. Â
You really hope it wonât be much longer. Â
You sigh as you sit on the bed, tucking your wallet and keys into a pocket of your bag before using it as a pillow. Staring up at the ceiling, sleepiness tugs at your eyelids. Â
The ceiling is plain; thereâs no patterns for you to count from one side to another. Just a plain white slab of roofing with a few cracks running along the corners. Â
You take a breath, and then another. You blink once. Twice, eyes blurring at the corners the longer you stare at one spot. You raise a heavy hand to cover a sudden yawn, frowning as you smack your lips; mouth suddenly dry as the desert. Your head feels heavy and youâre thankful youâre already laying down. With some effort, you turn your head to stare out the window with a frown, watching the way the windowsill dances in your vision. Â
You blink.Â
A muffled sound drags you from unconsciousness. Voices, low and hushed, words slipping through the thick fog in your mind like water through cupped hands. You canât grasp them, not fully, but theyâre there---murmuring, weaving in and out of your awareness.Â
ââŠfinally save our town⊠No longer have to sufferâŠâÂ
Maeâs voice. But itâs wrong. The warm, familiar lilt is gone, stripped of its easy drawl, left flat and distant; devoid of kindness.Â
Your eyelids feel like lead, heavy and unwilling to lift. Your body is worse---numb at the edges, but tingling, like youâve been lying still for too long. Something cold wraps around your wrists, your ankles. A damp breeze kisses your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.Â
Not the inn.Â
Not the bed.Â
Panic surges through the sluggishness, a sharp spike of clarity cutting through the fog. You wrench your eyes open, blinking rapidly. Shapes loom above you, dark against the glow of the full moon. The world tilts, your vision swimming as your breath stutters behind something---fabric, thick and coarse---tied around your mouth.Â
Youâre outside. The sky above is vast, endless, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic. A forest, dense and stretching far beyond what little you can see. You try to move, but the bindings bite into your skin.Â
Then you see them.Â
Mae. Dottie. A handful of others, men with sharp faces and hands dirtied by labor. They stand around you, forming a circle. The lanterns they carry flicker strangely, their light casting jagged shadows that seem to dance, stretch, shift.Â
You have no time to wonder whatâs happening, how you ended up here.Â
Mae steps closer. She no longer looks like the woman who handed you a glass of cherry soda, all gentle smiles and kindness. Her expression is empty. Her dark eyes hold something unreadable. Sheâs dressed differently now cloaked, the fabric deep and worn, marked with symbols that twist in ways that make your head throb.Â
âYou are awake,â she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Then, she turns to the others. âIt is time.âÂ
You try to speak, to scream, but the gag swallows your voice.Â
Dottie kneels beside you, her movements slow, deliberate. She reaches for something at her belt---a knife, thin and gleaming in the moonlight. Your pulse roars in your ears as she takes your hand, turns it palm-up.Â
The blade bites into your skin.Â
A sharp, burning pain blooms across your palm, and you jerk, a muffled cry ripping from your throat. Blood wells up, dark and glistening. Dottie catches it in a small, shallow bowl. Beside her, one of the men holds out a lock of your hair, cut from your head without you even noticing.Â
The bowl Is lifted toward the altar---a stone slab, ancient and worn, standing at the heart of this twisted gathering. The air grows heavy, thick with something unseen but felt.Â
Maeâs voice rises, weaving strange words into the night. The others follow, their voices joining in a cadence that makes your head spin.Â
You thrash, desperate, wild---but it doesnât matter.Â
The symbols on their robes shift. The air hums. The earth beneath you feels like itâs vibrating, pulsing with something old, something wrong. The edges of your vision blur. The last thing you see is the sky, vast and endless above you.Â
Then---Â
Nothing.Â
Strangely, Seokjin only notices the absence at night.Â
When the moon sits high in the sky and his books can no longer keep him company. When the birdsong gives way to the murmuring of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the wind carries a chill from over yonder. It isnât the kind of cold that bites---itâs softer, quieter, settling into the marrow of his bones like an old ache. Â
Before, his brothers would converge here, in his domain, and bring with them warmth. Laughter would fill these halls, bouncing off the stone and timber, seeping into the very foundation of his home. Since their absence, Seokjinâs home has felt hollowed. As though someone had reached in and pulled out the most vital parts of it, and scattered them on the wind.Â
His brothers who shadowed his every step, who clung to him and never gave him a momentâs peace. Theyâve left him now. Gone to a place he could not follow.Â
His footsteps echo as he wanders the halls, a lonely sound swallowed by the dark. The glow of lanterns casts long, shifting shadows across the walls, stretching long dark fingers as if trying to grasp something just out of their reach. Â
Heâs wandered this particular hall too many times, and the first days into his grief he never left it. The hallway housed three doors that were above the rest. They were one of the few things he has left of his brothers; they lead into specific rooms in their houses. They had these doors to save themselves the trouble of walking from one domain to another, but after their fading Seokjin sealed them off. Â
As time passed, the three doors look dimmer, flickering and fading with the last remnants of their energy. The vines that once curled and stretched across Namjoonâs door had long withered, brittle remains crumbling to dust at the slightest touch. He had tried---many times---to bring them back. To coax life into the tendrils, to breathe warmth into the wood. But spring had no keeper now, and he was not Namjoon.Â
Hoseokâs door hums with an energy that has dulled but not yet disappeared. The echoes of his laughter still linger, soft and fragmented, like whispers slipping between the cracks in the wood. They chase the shadows down the hall, fading in and out as though playing a game of hide and seek. Seokjin doesnât try to call them back and he doesnât try to hold onto them. He knows better.Â
Yoongiâs door had frosted over so terribly that the door beneath canât be seen. When Seokjin presses a palm against it, a bitter chill seeps into his skin. Itâs the kind of cold that burns, that freezes things brittle.Â
He suspects that they would only worsen. Hoseokâs door had already begun to darken. The magic in them is fading, though not completely gone, Seokjin has some hope for them, at least. Â
Every now and then, Seokjin stands outside them in the hall, when his duty of care comes to a pause, and he simply listens. The silence is suffocating. Eons have passed, and still, some foolish part of him hopes. Hopes that he might hear the rustle of new leaves, the quiet bloom of flowers pressing up from the cracks.Â
Hopes that the door might open, and Namjoon will be standing there, smiling like he never left. Hoseok would leave his door open, and Seokjin would complain about the hot air heâs letting in. Yoongi would slink in, quiet like a mouse, talking to him about winter flowers he found growing in his snow.Â
Itâs a painful, pitiful thing to do, and he tries not to dwell on those thoughts for too long. Â
Instead, he turns away, allowing his fingers to trail along the wood for just a moment longer. Then he walks back down the hall, the weight of their absence pressing down on him with every step.Â
He stands at the top of staircase, watching the first rays of the sun peek into his domain. The dawn chases away twilight, painting the sky in an array of orange and lilac. The light spills through the windows, catching on the gilded embroidery of his robes, setting the threads aglow like embers woven into fabric. A new day is beginning, and with it, the turning of the seasons rests in his hands.Â
The days are short, and Seokjin has much to tend to. He makes his way from the upper level of his home, the polished wood cool beneath his feet, down the winding stairs. As he steps into the foyer, he whistles lowly---a quiet call, something habitual, something the walls of this place have learned to listen for.Â
âDusk,â he calls, glancing around. Thereâs a small chitter, followed by the soft sound of scuttling feet, and then a fox comes trotting in from the direction of his kitchens, her copper fur dusted with flour. Seokjin lifts a brow.Â
âDid you get into the milk again?âÂ
Dusk trails around him, brushing against his shins, her tail flicking playfully as she chirps in response. The faint scent of cream lingering in her fur gives her away. Â
Seokjin exhales a slow sigh, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, curving just slightly. âCome now.â He crouches, offering a hand, and Dusk presses her nose against his palm before bounding ahead.Â
The day awaits.Â
Seokjinâs days have become routine. When the old aches dull enough to allow rest, he takes it, but when morning comes, so does duty. He rises with the sun and makes his rounds, visiting his brothersâ domains---watching over them, ensuring they have not yet fallen to ruin. He weaves as little magic as possible, just enough to keep them from collapsing in on themselves. There is a balance, and he must keep it.Â
Hoseokâs warmth and Yoongiâs cold must remain in harmony, never one overtaking the other. The barriers between them require constant reinforcement, careful adjustments to prevent encroachment. But it is Namjoonâs domain that demands the most from him.Â
Autumn brings change---death and decay. Spring harbors life, and life only. The two forces were never meant to be at odds, yet without Namjoonâs steady presence, the balance falters. For hundreds of years now, Seokjin has struggled to keep the domain in order.Â
Its tiring work. Â
When Namjoon was here, Seokjin could walk freely through his lands;Â his brotherâs magic naturally countering his own. But now, death keeps a garden that refuses to grow. Seokjin does not have the aptitude for it. He has his own gardens, where he grows things that pertains to his season. Namjoonâs glades are vastly different.Â
So, he spends most of his days watching over Namjoonâs domain, trying and failing to bring life and keep it there.Â
Seokjin kneels in the soft, loamy earth, his fingertips brushing the pale edges of a tulip whose petals curl inward, brittle and faded. Even the grass lacks its usual vibrancy, the green muted, as though life itself has dulled in his brotherâs absence. He pushes a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself. A whisper of power trickles down through his fingertips, sinking into the soil, coaxing strength into fragile roots, weaving life back into wilting veins. The flowers lift their heads, standing taller, brighter---but only just.Â
He must be careful. Too much, and the balance will tip. His own power, rooted in endings and decay, clashes with Namjoonâs inescapable renewal. Death cannot cradle rebirth. If Seokjin lets himself slip, even for a moment, the flowers will blacken at the edges, the trees will rot from the inside out, and the fragile equilibrium will collapse entirely.Â
His gaze flicks toward one of the apple trees lining the gentle slope. Its blossoms have been sparse this year, the fruit even more so. A handful of green bulbs cling stubbornly to the branches---small, stunted, as if afraid to ripen. A few pears have fared slightly better, their golden skin soft and faintly speckled, but even they have fallen far from the abundance Namjoonâs presence had once promised. He can see the sickness at their cores, the rot that builds slow and steady from the inside despite his efforts.Â
It Isnât enough. It will never be enough. Not without Namjoon.Â
Seokjin rises, brushing soil from his palms. The weight of it all presses at his chest, but he ignores it. There is work to be done, duties to tend to, even if he fails countless of times. Heâs kept them for this long, and heâll continue to do so. Â
Then he feels it.Â
A shift---small, but unmistakable, ripples through the air of Namjoonâs domain.Â
His hand clenches at his side as he turns, his sharp gaze scanning the grove. It doesnât take long to find the source.Â
You.Â
A figure crumpled among the wildflowers. A human figure.Â
Seokjin stills.Â
For a moment, he thinks it must be some trick, some illusion. But as he steps closer, the slow rise and fall of your chest betrays you. His lips press into a tight line as he crouches beside you, eyes narrowing in silent scrutiny.Â
How? How have you entered his world? How have you slipped into the divine---into Namjoonâs domain of all places? The thought rankles, anger unchecked bristles beneath his skin. You are human. Fragile. Fleeting. And utterly unwelcome.Â
His fingers ghost over your shoulder, searching for any trace of divinity, any lingering echo of a godâs touch. But there is nothing. Just the warmth of mortal life.Â
And then he sees it.Â
A mark, etched just below your collarbone. The mark alone is something ancient, the edges of it looks irritated as though branded into your flesh. A whisper of old rituals, of forgotten temples and offerings meant to appease gods long abandoned by the people who once built them.Â
Seokjin straightens sharply, his jaw tightening as realization sets in.Â
Youâve been sent here. Offered, like a lamb to the slaughter.Â
His chest tightens, resentment rising like a tide. They dare---those humans dare to try and appease him with this, after all they have done? His fists curl at his sides.Â
No. He will not have this.Â
Power flares at his fingertips as he lifts his hand, magic coiling sharp and certain. He will send you back, cast you out of the divine realms and back into the mortal world where you belong.Â
But the instant his power reaches for you, it recoils. Confused, he blinks and then tries again, but itâs like pressing his hand against a wall he couldnât see. Â
The mark.Â
Seokjinâs eyes darken, resentment twisting into something colder. He canât send you back. You are bound now, a tether he hasnât asked for, a burden he refuses to bear.Â
He could just leave you here. Â
And he considers it, watching your furrowed brow and the steady breaths you take. Thereâs a metallic scent, wafting up from your person, and Seokjin finds a deep cut across your palm.Â
Dusk comes skipping through the wildflowers, her red fur standing out against the dull green weeds. Chuffing, she sniffs curiously at your clothes and then sits beside you. Seokjin stares at the fox, and she stares back with a look he could only describe as expectance. Â
âWhat?â He bites and Dawn makes a low sound, ears pinning back before she dips her head, nosing at your bloody palm. She huffs, looking back up at him, and Seokjin rolls his eyes to the sky. Â
He stares at the soft blue, listens to the wind as it walks through the field. The sigh he lets out is long suffering, and he feels Duskâs teeth tug at the end of his robe, âYouâre insufferable.â Â
Maybe heâs weak. Â
He crouches, studies your face with disdain before he picks you up. Dusk makes a happy sound, making a full circle around his legs before she darts off, leading the way. Seokjin grumbles as he follows. Â
He walks through the glade, a stray butterfly flutters haphazardly about your head, Seokjin blows at it with a puff of air. Youâve tainted enough of this domain with your mortal self; he doesnât need the butterflies spreading it around. Â
You smell strange. Underneath the scent of blood, thereâs a sweet sort of smell with an underlying bitterness. Like burnt herbs. It makes Seokjin wrinkle his nose. Â
Something like this has never happened before. Seokjin and his brothers werenât for offerings of this kind. They were more pertained to the old gods of war. Yet, youâve been sent here and bounded to the realm, made sacrifice for something those witless worms caused themselves.Â
Your voice trails upwards in a broken mutter, quiet, but it nearly startles Seokjin, and he falters in his step to look down at you. Your grimace of pain tells a lot more than he could see, and his eyes flit down to your hand thatâs tucked against your lap with the way heâs holding you. Blood has dried and pooled again, staining your clothes and he frowns, trying to scan himself to see if heâd gotten it anywhere else. He turns slightly; eyes trained to the floor where your blood had dripped onto the leaves and grass blades. He rolls his eyes. Â
Dusk lets out a chirping whine from far ahead, sitting on a large rock. Seokjin meanders on. Â
He keeps his eyes on you as he passes through the veil that separates Namjoonâs domain from his own. The shift in temperature is something heâs used to, but goosebumps litter your skin, and you squirm like some undulating worm and Seokjin almost drops you. Â
He nudges the door of his home open with his foot and goes down a hall right of the kitchens. The room here was almost never used, and now that itâs just him it has no use at all. There isnât much to it; a bed wide enough to fit three people â at least, he doesnât have to worry about you rolling off it---tucked against the wall. The wood and glass window near the foot of the bed goes up the wall in a little arch, shows an odd ray of light. In his domain, itâs quite dreary, whatever light there is, is almost always covered by cloud, stuck in the point where autumn is at its peak. Namjoonâs domain is on the edge of his, and the clear sky and warm sun intrudes. Â
He wonders if he should open the window when his nose tingled at the musty smell. It smells earthy and damp, not at all pleasantâŠnot that it matters. Â
He lays you atop the plain linen sheets, and glances at the oak wardrobe. Thereâre other, fresher cottons in there for him to wonder at later, if your blood gets anywhere else. For now, he looks you over and finds no other injury. He shuffles a lone chair over next to the bed and then properly checks his robes for any sign of blood. He hums to himself when he finds none. Â
He walks out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen. Filling a bronze basin with warm water, Seokjin mutters to himself as he rummages around for bandages and cloth. Glass vials and bottles clink together as he shifts them about. Theyâre filled with different dried herbs and tree bark heâs foraged in his lonesome, some of them there far too long and should definitely be thrown out. Â
Finding what he was looking for, he carries the basin and cloth back to where he left you. Youâre still in the same spot he laid you, and that should be a reason for concern. The spell that sent you here is ancient, as is the spell that bonded you, he has no clue what that couldâve done. You could be dying for all he knows. And thatâs another problem entirely. Â
He sets the basin down, sits in the chair with a long, drawn-out sigh and draws your hand closer. Seokjin is no healer, so he does what he can. He wipes away at the blood thatâs coagulated and the bit thatâs dried into the creases of your palm, this of course causes it to sprout more blood. The cut is quite deep. Â
He had stopped keeping up with the goings-on of the mortal realm, even if their prayers reach him every now and then. He knows that the times are quite different now than they were when he and his brothers were revered. Â
The mortals had their advancements and had grown as a people in recent centuries. This was an outlandish practice, to have it happen was even stranger. He was certain that people had stopped doing sacrifices to gods a long time ago. At least, where he was focused. Â
He wonders If youâve much sense about you. Back when he and his brothers were young gods, and the gods of war were younger still, sacrifice was commonplace. They were ritualistic and frankly barbaric; he still thinks there was no need for such. Â
Most sacrifices were unwillingly willing; children grown into customs and forced to lay down their lives to old, hungering deities.Â
Perhaps, you were one of them.Â
Though, this is something thatâs never happened before. Sacrifices involved a lot more than a simple cut on the hand and what ancient spell theyâd casted to send you here. No one would willingly let themselves be spirited away.Â
There was a mix of two spells; transportation and binding. He wonders what the moon phases are at this time. Thereâs one period when the veil between this realm and the earthly one is at its weakest, he supposes something like this could happen. The mortals mustâve waited a very long time; that doesnât happen very often, a couple hundred years between them at least.  Â
Something in Seokjinâs chest tightens at the thought. A mixture of contempt that after all these centuries, these mortals, stuck in their ways would still attempt to reach him, and to go so far. Resentment. They have taken everything from him, and now he clings to the edges of his own existence because he has no other choice.Â
He was left alone in the aftermath, forced to continue this loathsome existence. Watched as his brothers died one by one, and by curse he remains. Heâd prayed for years that the divinities above his order let him fade too that the mortals forget him too. It wouldâve been margins better to have followed his kin into the ether. The mortals, faced with his wrath held on too tightly. Â
This desperate attempt to be seen by him does nothing but make him sneer. His lips curls against his teeth and he stares at the blood pooling again in your palm, he looks up at your pinched face and wonders what heâs done to deserve this on top of it all. Your fingers twitch, and Seokjin dips the blood-soaked cloth into the basin and goes again. He presses the cloth against your palm tightly, not caring much for the sharpness of your inhale then, the sweat on your brow or the grimace. Â
It takes a while for the bleeding to stop, and Seokjin had sense to bandage your hand tightly. He wraps the bandage around your hand and has a harrowing thought of looking through his cupboards to see if he had any comfrey or lavender. He owes you nothing... nothing at all. Â
Once he was done, he gathers the bloody bundle of cloth and basin. The water sloshing around is now tinged pink and assaults his nose with its metallic scent. It makes his stomach turn.Â
Dusk is laying just outside the door, head resting on a paw, and she looks up at him when he passes by. Â
These blasted mortals have caused him nothing but strife. As he dumps the water down his kitchen drain, his temples pulse with a telling pain. Heâs sure it'll only get worse later whenever you feel to rise yourself. The thought of having to begin explaining something you wouldnât understand is already giving him a headache. Â
He looks through his cupboards of herbs.Â
You feel warm. And cold. But mostly warm. Â
âŠÂ Youâre actually not sure what youâre feeling at all.Â
The surface you lay on feels soft, almost too soft, like youâre going to sink into it if you move the wrong way. Your palm is burning. It smells damp, and thereâs a sharp earthy smell that makes you feel like somethingâs stuck in your throat. Â
You feel sluggish as you peel your eyes open, the action taking too much energy and effort to do. Once again, you're staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. You stare at it, brows furrowed for a moment, and then, the furrow gets deeper as you study it. Itâs not the ceiling from The Winding Oak, not the dark canopy of trees you remember last. Â
âŠYou blink hard. Â
Sitting up causes the world to tilt in a way that makes your stomach turn over. You clamp a hand over your mouth, holding your breath as you will the nausea to taper down. You feel particularly green, head swimming like you drank a liquor store. Youâre confused, panic beginning to bleed through the cracks as the sounds of the world pours into your ears unfiltered. Which is nearly no sound at all. Â
It's quiet. Â
The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. Â
Lifting your other hand you find a tightly wrapped bandage, staring at it makes the sting underneath come alive, and drags up the missing fragments of your memory. Â
The town. Mae and Dottie. The forest that seemed to pop out of nowhere. The townsfolk were dressed strangely, saying strange things, they took your hair and sliced open your palm. AndâŠnothing. Â
Scooting towards the foot of the bed, you struggle to wiggle off it. Itâs large and feels too soft, your palm sinks into it as you press down to move forward. Swallowing a wad of spit, you turn your head to look out the window. Thereâs a dark tree just beyond it, red-brown leaves trembling in a wind, a couple floating down towards the earth. Beyond that tree, you squint, blinking hard. Nothing but lush green as far as you can see, as if just beyond the tree is a different place entirely. Â
Youâre even more confused, staring as your brain tries to catch up to your eyes without stuttering. Â
The floor is cold when you get your feet on it. Your shoes are missing. You take a breath, swallowing the bile rising up your throat, and then another as you look around. The room seems bare, much like the one back at the inn, when it feels like youâre not going to throw up, you stand. Â
You can feel your heartbeat in your palm, and looking down at it, blood has soaked through the carefully wrapped bandage. You wince, letting your hand fall limply at your side. Trying to stay quiet, you inch towards the heavy looking wardrobe, wrapping the fingers of your uninjured hand around one of the handles, it opens easily. Â
Unfortunately, there is no weapon or even something you can use as one. Just folded up, thick looking materials. Â
Maybe youâre having a mental break or ended up in the backrooms. Â
You eye the door; the dark wood is opened just a hair; very little light comes through the crack. Thinking better, you turn towards the window, but the latch is too high even if you stood on the bed and tiptoed. So, climbing out through there would be hard. Â
So, you walk quietly over to the door, and slowly, carefully push it open wide enough for you to slip through. The hall you find yourself in is empty looking down right and thereâs nowhere to go the other way. Â
The air is fresher out here; you breathe steadily as you press your back to the wall. A rumble of thunder outside makes you jump; it sounds low and angry like some caged beast. The hairs along your arms and the back of your neck raises, and you try to calm down. Â
Following the hall, you come to a serpentine curl in the wall that leads to an area much brighter than where you are. Directly across from you is a door thatâs opened wide enough for you to see hanging pots through the gap. Â
A kitchen. Â
Peeking around the corner, you dart across to the door and slip into the kitchen and pull the door closed behind you. Â
The door clicks softly, and for a moment, you just breathe.Â
The room youâve stepped into smells of thyme and old smoke, earth and something faintly sweetâŠlike apples left too long on a windowsill. Itâs warmer here, but not by fire.Â
The kitchen is large, but not extravagant. Wood everywhere; dark-stained beams crossing the ceiling overhead, smooth countertops worn soft at the edges. A wide table stands at the center, legs thick and sturdy, a faint nick here, a scratch there, as if someoneâs spent years slicing bread or gutting game right atop it.Â
Pots and pans dangle from hooks over the workspace, some copper, some iron, blackened by age and open flame. You spot a few ladles and long-handled spoons with carved handles, and something in you stirs; a deep, unsettling feeling at how strange all of this is. No hum of a fridge. No glint of steel appliances. No blinking lights or outlets. Just lived-in quiet.Â
Youâre not sure if any of this is even real. Youâve not forgotten whatever the heck was going on outside that window. Â
You creep silently around the kitchen. A row of shelves lines the far wall, and theyâre packed. Jars --- dozens of them --- in mismatched shapes and sizes. Some filled with amber liquids, others with shriveled herbs or twisted roots. Thereâs a whole jar of something pale and round that might be teeth. Another holds long, papery pods you donât recognize. Each is labeled in a script you canât read. Long curling lines etched in deep brown ink.Â
A dried bundle of lavender hangs near the window, half obscured by the gauzy curtain fluttering in a breeze you hadnât noticed before. Thereâs a small basin tucked under that window, and a ceramic bowl beside it, filled with round, unfamiliar fruit the color of dusk.Â
Thereâs another door and inching it open to peek inside confirms dark pantry.Â
Your eyes sweep the room again, this time searching for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon.Â
You move toward a tall cupboard in the corner. It creaks softly as you open it, the hinges stiff. Inside: more tools, most culinary, none of them looking reassuring. But your hand pauses on a knife, its blade is thick and slightly curved, the handle smooth with years of use. Itâs not a weapon in the traditional sense, but itâll do. You donât know where you are. You donât know who brought you here. Itâll give you a fighting chance at least.Â
And your palm still aches, wrapped and red. The ache makes you think of childhood summers getting cuts and bruises playing in places you shouldnât have been. Â
As easily as the hinges allow, you close the cupboard. Â
âIâm fairly certain itâs rude to rummage around someoneâs kitchen.â Â
The knife slips from your hand, landing on the ground with a clatter before it glides under the dining table with a scrape of the blade.Â
You freeze.Â
The voice is low and dry, curling like smoke under a door, and it sends a jolt up your spine.Â
Slowly, heart pounding in your mouth, you turn toward the sound.Â
Thereâs a man in the doorway.Â
Tall, broad-shouldered and lean. For a second you think he might be a statue, what with the way he stands there. Carved from something old and sun-warmed, left to gather dust in a field of wheat. Â
Heâs dressed in layered robes, fabric draped like flowing water, deep wine red, amber, the bruised gold of dusk. They hang from him like the memory of summer clinging to early autumn, heavy and brushing the floor without a sound. You donât see a single seam. Only swaths of color, woven with tiny glints of thread that flicker when he shifts. Thereâs no metal, no jewelry, no crown. And yet he holds himself like something more than royal. Something set apart.Â
His eyes scan you from head to toe, dart between you and the knife under the table for a moment. His nose, softly rounded at the tip, bunches at the elegant bridge as his brows draw inward with a sneer. He makes a sound, something that sounds like a garble of syllables youâve never heard before. Â
Your brain scrambles to make sense of it, while he stands there looking at you with suchâŠdisdain. Like youâre wet food at the bottom of a sink. Still grappling with the whyâs and the howâs, and the fact that there seems to be somethingâŠethereal about this man. Â
He says something again, another garble of foreign sounds and you suddenly feel insulted by his tone alone. Â
âYouâre bleeding.â He says, and then, clicks his tongue against his teeth, âitâs very hard to get blood out of cobblestone.âÂ
âI---sorry?â You look down at your hand, and sure enough, your blood has tip-tapped away onto his floors. âOhâŠIâmâŠâ Â
âHush.â He waves his hand and takes three steps into the room. You move around the table, trying to keep distance between you both. He begins to rummage through the cupboard of jarred things, muttering to himself. Â
You eye the knife on the floor and the doorway. The later seems much closer, so you inch towards it, eyes on the back of the manâs head. Â
He turns then, a jar of something in his hand. He raises an unimpressed brow, âDonât you think youâve made enough of a mess already? Stay put.âÂ
Okay. Rude. Â
You read somewhere that in hostage situations itâs best to comply to your captorâs demands. So, you stay put, back pressed against a countertop. Â
The man sets the jar down, frowning at the floor before stepping over the stains. He makes no sound as he walks over to the window and grabs the bronze basin and fills a smaller one with water. Â
âCome here.â He says, setting the bowls down on the table with a soft thud. He opens the jar and pulls a little root out of it and puts the jar back on the shelf with the others. He briefly turns, grabbing what looked to be a spool of some sort of fabric and a mortar and pestle made of stone.Â
âI donât think I should.â You say, feet rooted to the floor. âTell me who you are first.â Â
The man looks up at you without raising his head, something shines in his eyes. You feel like heâs shot your soul with that look, and you swallow uncomfortably the longer he holds your gaze. He drops the root into the mortar and starts grinding it. He looks away and you feel like you could breathe again. Â
âIf I wanted to harm you, I wouldâve left you out in the meadow.â He says, then he dips his fingers into the small basin with water and let the drops slide off them into the pestle. âCome here. I donât have all day.âÂ
You take a breath and make the three steps forward, still keeping the table between you both. He says nothing and extends his hand for yours. Despite the contempt in his dark eyes, he takes your hand gently. He unwraps the blood soiled fabric with a look you could only describe as blatant disgust, pulling on one end with his pointer and thumb, he sets it to the side. Â
Then, he drags the larger basin over and under your hand. The cut stings, a shock of pain running up your arm as he uncurls your fingers. He doesnât look at you, and thereâs a rustle of fabric when he turns slightly, reaching behind him. A soft sound of wood on wood, and he turns back with a bundle of nearly folded beige cloth. Â
He takes one from the top of the pile and dips it into the small basin of water. He cleans along your fingers first, wiping away the blood that had trailed there. The silence is beginning to unnerve you, and you feel restless standing there. The closer he gets to the wound, the gentler he wipes the blood away. Doesnât stop you from flinching back when he presses the clothes directly under it, though. Â
As you instinctively pull back, he swiftly grasps your wrist and pulls you forward again. Â
âBe still.â He says, raising his head. âI will be as gentle as I can, but it must be cleaned.â Â
âCan you justâŠtell me whatâs going on?â You ask, watching as he dips the cloth heâs using into the water. It turns pink as he squeezes the blood out of it, and you look at a spot just above his head when he goes at your wound again. Â
He sighs through his nose, as though your question troubled him greatly. Or like youâre and unruly child asking too many questions. Youâre not quite sure. Â
It takes a minute to realize he wasnât going to answer that. So, you try something else. Â
ââŠOkay.â You try not to pull your hand away when he presses down on the wound. You squeeze your eyes shut and take a breath, âHow about telling me who you are, then?âÂ
âThere isnât a word in your tongue for my name. You wouldnât know it if I told it to you.â He mutters and sets the bloodied cloth into the water. You glance down at your hand and feel faint. The cut goes clean across the middle of your palm, and the open air makes it sting. It looks deep at the very center, where the worst of the throbbing pain is coming from. Â
Honestly, it looks like itâll need stitches. Â
âYou may call me Seokjin.â He says, pulling the mortar over, thereâs quite a bit of paste inside. He looks at you, thoughtful for a brief moment, âThis is comfrey root. It will sting.â Â
Appreciative for the warning, you simply nod. He moves his hand to your wrist and holds firmly, and with his other hand, he scoops a bit of the paste up. The stuff clings to his fingers like soft clay; off-white with a faint yellow hue. It smells faintly of earth and something medicinal.Â
âIf you must know.â He says, dryly, almost bored. Like heâd rather be doing a million different things, âYou appeared in my brotherâs domain yesterday.â Â
Before his words can fully register, he spreads the paste over your wound. Â
A sharp hiss slips through your teeth as the sting bites deep. He tightens his grip, not harshly, but enough to still you, and continues. The paste is cool against your skin, tingling as it dulls the ache. Â
He covers the wound completely, and then, wraps your hand again with some soft fabric he pulled off the spool. He ties the fabric at the back of your hand and turns swiftly without another word. Â
âWait I donât understandâŠâÂ
âI didnât expect you to.â He says flippantly, quiet again as he clears the table and put everything back where theyâre meant to be. âYou are in the divine realms.â Â
âIâm dead?!â You screech, stumbling back, âI canâtâŠmy parentsâŠâÂ
âYouâre not dead, foolish girl.â Seokjin rolls his eyes, âYou wouldnât end up here had you died.âÂ
âThen what?!â Panic crawls up your throat like a feral cat, squeezing at it comes and you struggle to take a breath. âWhat is going on here? What is this place?âÂ
Seokjin studies you, that same disdain from earlier lighting his eyes, it dims when he narrows them. âIf you were foolish enough to willingly offer yourself as sacrifice, then you should have enough sense to know whom you speak to and where you are.âÂ
You blink at him. Once. Twice.Â
ââŠWillingly?â you echo, voice cracking between the syllables. âI donât---!â You take a full step back, heat rising behind your eyes. âI donât know what the fuck is going on! I didnât offer myself for anything! I was waiting for a mechanic! My truck broke down outside some weird town, and---and they drugged me!â Your voice pitches up, desperate. âThat woman, Mae, she gave me something! And I woke up in a forest!âÂ
Heâs already turning away, stacking things, utterly unmoved. He grabs the basin of water and pours it out in the sink. He shuffles around his jars and pulls out a small one to scoop the rest of the root paste into, and seals it with a cork stopper. Â
âYou have to do something,â you press, chasing after his apathy with growing panic. âMy parentsâŠtheyâll go crazy looking for me. You donât understand, I need to get out of here.âÂ
Seokjin sighs through his nose, brows furrowed. âIf I had the means to do so, you wouldnât be here.âÂ
âWhat does that mean? You canât send me back?â You grip your hair, and Seokjin continues to stare at you with resigned indifference. You feel miniscule, like you mean nothing and everything is throwing its weight on your shoulders. Â
âYou arenât very bright, are you?â Seokjin tilts his head, and the dim daylight makes his hair look darker, He mutters something again in his strange language, and it feels like another insult. Â
You tears spill over your cheeks and Seokjin sighs again. And frankly, it doesnât make you feel much better. You take a breath and then sob and bring your uninjured hand to wipe at your face. Â
âI donât want you here as much as you do.â Seokjin says, scowling as though your tears offend him. âIâve spent centuries alone and would rather keep it that way.â Â
Youâre barely listening to him, but briefly in the back of your mind, the words register. With his attitude, you wouldnât want to be here with him anyway. The thought is fleeting with panic gripping at your chest. Your lungs feel as though there isnât enough air in the room, unable to fully expand. Â
Seokjin rounds the table, reaching you in three steps and raises his hand. Thereâs the slightest pressure of his fingers against your temple and then nothing. Â
When you wake, youâre back in the room from before. Your head swims, feeling as though youâve been on a very fast merry-go-round and stepped off. Staring up at the ceiling makes you feel sick, and your hands tremble when you try to sit up. Â
What did he do? Â
The panic you felt earlier is less, but no less present, under your skin like needles. And you give up on trying to sit, instead, you lay there and close your eyes, trying to will your head to stop spinning. Â
A knock at the door pulls you from the dizzy half-sleep youâd drifted into.Â
Seokjin steps inside without waiting for an answer, a shallow wooden bowl balanced in one hand. Steam curls up from it, carrying a scent thatâs faintly herbal and comforting, though unfamiliar.Â
âYou slept long enough,â he says, matter of fact, setting the bowl on a small table near the bed.Â
Your gaze follows it, but you make no move to rise.Â
He straightens and looks at you properly this time, dark eyes sharp, unreadable. âEat.â he orders, as though that might settle the matter.Â
You make a small, stubborn sound at the back of your throat and look away.Â
He watches you for a heartbeat, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the room. The door swings softly shut behind him.Â
You stare at the bowl for a long while before your stomach growls; traitorous. Still, you donât touch it.Â
Some time passes, the light outside fading into the gold of late afternoon, then the deep purple of early dusk. Eventually, the door opens again and Seokjin returns.Â
He glances at the untouched bowl and exhales slowly, as if heâd been expecting nothing else.Â
âHave it your way,â he mutters, shaking his head as though your defiance is a great disappointment.Â
He takes the bowl up with one hand and turns toward the door. âCome,â he says. âYouâll want to wash. Or perhaps youâd like to wallow in that filth foreverâŠyour choice.âÂ
You hesitate, fingers knotting into the blankets. The ache in your palm pulses. Your head doesnât feel as bad as it did when you woke, and you feel like you could trust your feet should you stand. Â
âWhere?â you manage, voice rough.Â
âThere is a bath.â he replies without turning. Â
Thereâs nothing kind in his tone, but thereâs also something pragmatic in the way heâs already moving into the hall as though expecting you to follow.Â
You do, because what other choice do you have?Â
The halls are winding, dim. Warm light flickers along rough-hewn walls, but it doesnât make the place feel any less strange. Every step you take, more questions rise up.Â
âHow long will I be here?â you venture.Â
Seokjin doesnât slow his stride. âAs long as fate keeps you,â he says. âOr until Iâm free of you.âÂ
That answer settles like a stone in your gut.Â
âYou mean you canât find a way to send me back?âÂ
âMost mortals believe that things are fated,â he replies, voice flat. âThere is nothing I can do against that.âÂ
Your brow furrows. âThat doesnât make sense. Who decided that? How did I even end up here? The last thing I remember was Mae and those people at the innâŠâÂ
He sighs, long-suffering and sharp, and the sound carries down the hallway. âYou ask far too many questions.âÂ
Your mouth twitches with fear and frustration. âThatâs what happens when someone wakes up in a strange place with a stranger,â you shoot back, quick and breathless.Â
âAs Iâve said, you appeared in my brotherâs domain yesterday; old magic.â he says. âMore than that, I cannot tell you.âÂ
âYou canât or you wonât?âÂ
That earns you a glance, a glint in his dark gaze thatâs halfway between irritation and something like bitter amusement. âEat. Wash. Rest,â he says, voice low. âAnd do try to hold your tongue. That is all thatâs required of you.âÂ
You hug your arms around yourself as you trail him into what looks like a bathhouse. Quiet and dark save for the warm lantern light glinting off a deep stone tub.Â
Your hands tremble as you step inside. Maybe tomorrow youâll have the strength to fight him properly, to demand more answers. Or at least have strength to run away from here. Â
But tonight? Tonight, youâre exhausted, your palm aches, and you feel far, far too small in this endless house.Â
âDonât get that wound wet.â He says and then turns on his heel. Â
And as Seokjinâs footsteps retreat down the hall, you let the door close and lean back against it. The sound of his fading voice and his colder indifference making your chest feel tight.Â
You turn, glancing around the room. The tub is already filled, steam rising off the surface, smelling herbal. Youâre so tired of that stupid herbal scent. Itâs like itâs in the damn walls. Your eyes burn as tears spring up unbidden, and you wipe under your nose with your hand. Squeezing your eyes shut, you take a breath. Crying wonât solve anything. If you cry, youâd panic again. Â
Your hands fumble at your waistband as you peel yourself out of your shorts, the coarse fabric dragging against chilled skin. The tank top and your undergarments are next, pulled over your head in one jerky motion. You stand there for a moment, naked and trembling in the warm, herb-scented hush of the room.Â
The bath chamber Is modest but carefully made. Smooth wooden planks stretch across the floor like aged amber, the dark grain swirling like water under your feet. Shelves of pale cedar flank the walls, stacked neatly with rolled linen towels, glass stoppered bottles filled with what you think are fragrant oils, and odd lumps of green soap that glimmer faintly in the lantern light. Thick woven rugs in rusty reds and burnt golds lie like islands on the floor, plush and a little worn at the edges.Â
The tub itself is carved into the floor, round and deep, its interior gleaming like polished stone. Pale steam unfurls in slow, sinuous waves that catch the light, and tiny dried petals float on the surface; muted orange and brown, releasing a faint spice into the air as they spin lazily. Beside the tub is a battered wooden stool with a single clay bowl perched on top, its contents a coarse powder that smells of cedar and crushed seeds.Â
You draw closer and hesitate, lifting your injured hand instinctively. Blood has seeped through the wrapping again, the bandage damp and reddened, and you can still feel the sharp sting at its center. Careful not to jostle it too much, you unwind the soiled cloth, the fabric sticking briefly to your palm before peeling away. The cut looks angry, but at least the bleedingâs slowed.Â
The bathwater laps at the carved edge as you slip one leg in, then the other. The heat is startling at first, a pleasant shock up your calves, then it soaks into your bones with a depth that steals your breath. You sink in slowly, mindful of your hand as you rest it along the smooth rim and let your tired body melt into the water.Â
The silence is deep in here. Only the occasional drip of water from a wooden spout breaks it, and the scent of steeping herbs settles into your hair. You close your eyes. The tension unspools from your shoulders bit by bit, and for the first time since you awoke in this strange realm, you allow yourself to simply exist. You scrub at your skin with your uninjured hand.Â
You almost fall asleep, lulled by the warmth until a door creaks somewhere outside. Â
You freeze;Â breath held tight in your chest as quiet steps cross the floor outside. A shadow passes across the narrow gap at the bottom of the door, and then it swings open.Â
Seokjin.Â
Your mouth opens, alarm prickling your spine as you sink deeper into the water on instinct, but he doesnât look your way. Eyes fixed firmly on the low wooden bench; he simply places a folded pile of clothing there and a cotton towel before turning without a word.Â
Thatâs it.Â
The door swings shut as softly as it had opened, and youâre left with the lingering impression of his back --- broad and impassive --- as though this were simply a ritual as unremarkable as closing the windows at dusk.Â
Your heart hammers.Â
You wait a long moment before moving, uncertain whether heâll return. Then you rise carefully, water streaming from your skin, and retrieve the clothes. Itâs a tunic, you think, cut long enough to brush your knees, the fabric light but woven close.Â
The deep green is threaded with rust at the hems, curling in patterns that mimic climbing vines, the embroidery catching faintly in the dim light. A leather tie gathers at the waist, though it sits a little too loose on your frame, meant for broader shoulders and taller stature. Youâre grateful that the pants has a drawstring, youâd have to go around without it otherwise. You do however have to roll the legs so that you wouldnât walk on them. Â
Beside it lies a mantle of soft wool, grey-brown as river stone, clasped at the throat with a small bronze pin. When you draw it about your shoulders, warmth settles close, carrying the faint weight of someone elseâs presence, old yet comforting.Â
By the time you leave the bath, dressed and hair damp, the halls are quiet again. Seokjin is no where to be found and youâre left to fumble your way back to your room on your own. You feel like a kid wearing her motherâs clothes with the way the clothes swallow your form. Â
Seokjin appears in the doorframe of your room sometime later with another bowl of soup.Â
You hardly look up.Â
He watches you for a breath too long.Â
âYou ought to eat,â he says, setting the bowl down.Â
Your eyes burn with exhaustion. âIâm not hungry.âÂ
A sigh. âStarve yourself, then.â he replies, voice as dry as tinder. Thereâs an undercurrent of irritation despite it. âItâs hardly my concern.âÂ
And then heâs gone again, like a ghost. Â
Outside, dark clouds roll across whatever passes for a sky in this place, rain starting as a light tap against the windows before swelling into a steady drumming. Thunder growls in the distance.Â
Your hands are trembling as you lie back on the too-soft bed, listening to the rain and wondering how long youâll be trapped in this strange house with this strange man who regards you like a trespasser.Â
The soup goes cold yet again, and by then youâve sat up, thinking too hard and crying again. Seokjin had come back not ten minutes after bringing the soup and lit a few candles in groves embedded into the wall and left. You stare at the flickering flames with disdain. Â
You hug your knees to your chest, eyes burning and dry from all the tears youâve cried already. But your body still finds a way to make more, and a dry, broken sob leaves you. Â
You hate it here. Youâre tired, scared. Your parents must be out of their minds looking for you. They probably think youâre dead. You donât know if theyâll ever find your dadâs truck or find that town; theyâll never know peace. Â
The thought only makes you cry harder. Â
The sound of the door hitting the wall makes you jump. The hinges give a pathetic whine as the door swings back only to be stopped by Seokjinâs raised palm. He takes up a lot of space in the doorway, shoulders impossibly wide. The flickering candlelight sends shadows dancing across his face; you can barely see the deep burgundy of his robes. Â
Thereâs a soft swish, fabric brushing against the stone floor as he moves into the light. The robe clings and flows in places, embroidered with copper thread that catches the flameâs glow---like burning leaves trembling in a dying forest. Hints of muted gold and earthy brown glimmer at the edges, layered over deeper greens that shift like moss beneath fallen trees. He looks like autumn incarnate; faded splendor, regal and tragic all at once. Something out of a storybook, or a dream.Â
Youâd rather wake up.Â
âWould you stop that insistent wailing?! Youâre disturbing my peace!â Â
His words slide across your skin like a melting ice cube: cold, sharp. And as quickly as the goosebumps rise, theyâre soothed by the rush of heat that chases behind. Â
Anger crawls its way up from your toes, âIf I wasnât stuck here, I wouldnât be crying!â You unfold, pressing your back against the wall. Angry as you are, the shadow Seokjin casts against the floor, large, imposing, scares you into a corner. âI donât want to disturb your fucking peace! I want to go home!â Â
âDo you think your blubbering would get you there faster? I have enough to deal with without that racket!â Seokjin yells, and thereâs static in the air as thunder rumbles outside. âIf you want to cry do so silently, wretched girl. I cannot think!â Â
It occurs to you that this is the most emotion youâve seen from this man the entire day. Though, he sure picked a time to show it. Â
You make a frustrated sound at the back of your throat, hands curling into the soft cotton sheets beneath you. âItâs no wonder youâre alone here! No one would want to stay here with you being such an asshole!â Â
Seokjin descends upon you faster than you could blink. Thereâs a creak from the headboard as heâs suddenly in front of you, weight supported by a hand. His other hand squeezes your cheeks, hard enough that you can feel your teeth painfully pressed against them. Â
His eyes are gold. Â
âOne more word out of you, varmint, and I wonât be as hospitable. I will cast you out to sleep in the rain. Mind your tongue, or weâll see how you fair without it. Be quiet.â Â
Your heart Is hammering so loudly youâre certain he could hear it. You swallow the lump in your throat and let out a pitiful, âIâm sorry.âÂ
He stares at you a moment more, the anger in his eyes like lava, and then he releases you and backs away like heâs been burnt. The door slams behind him. Â
You curl up into a ball and cry silently.Â
Eventually, the rain lulls you to sleep. Â
It doesnât feel as though youâve slept very long before morning comes. And youâre awakened by the sound of a whistle. Â
Thereâs a weight on your legs that takes a moment to register, and you raise your head to find a great red fox curled into a ball atop your shins. You startle, legs shifting and jostling the creature. It opens an eye slowly, sleepy and amber, it stares at you before it opens its maw of sharp teeth with a yawn. Â
Thereâs another whistle and its ears twitch to the sound but doesnât seem too bothered. It stretches, the fur of its bushy tail puffing up before it nonchalantly hops off your legs and onto the floor without a sound. Â
âDusk.â Seokjinâs voice travels from wherever heâs at, a little muffled, and the fox chirps, nosing at the crack in the door. Then it stops and sits, turning to stare at you. Â
You slip off the bed, walking cautiously to the door before pulling it open. The fox slips out and goes down the hallway. Â
âDo you think Iâve all day to wait for you, vixen?â Seokjinâs voice trails off, getting softer the further he goes before itâs quiet. Â
You press your palm against your stomach, the emptiness of it turned sharp and uncomfortable. You go down the hall, following the serpentine curl but go past the kitchen. Â
Past it is a wide, open space, a foyer that feels more like the heart of some forgotten sanctuary than part of a home. The ceilings soar high overhead, held aloft by dark wooden beams carved with curling motifs; shapes you canât quite make out in the half-light. Wall sconces with copper bowls of flame cast a steady, amber glow that gleams against polished stone floors.Â
Your bare feet sound too loud against the tiles as you cross into the center, and you realize the entire floor is set with intricate patterns; copper and deep green inlaid into obsidian like fallen leaves frozen under glass. Pillars rise here and there along the walls, their surfaces wrapped in intricate vine work, winding up into shadows that cling to the vaulted ceiling.Â
A grand wooden door anchors one end of the room;Â its face etched with unfamiliar symbols. Heavy drapes hang in a few spots, rich green-brown fabric that pools on the floor like moss. Beyond the curtained windows, rain hisses against the glass, a rhythmic, distant sound.Â
And just off to the side, a broad hearth glimmers with embers, casting faint warmth that doesnât quite reach you where you stand. The entire space hums with a quiet energy, an old, measured power that feels centuries deep.Â
Seokjin was nowhere to be found. Â
Youâre glad for it, after last night, youâre certain he doesnât want to see you either. Thinking about everything makes your head swim, which, doesnât do well paired with the dizziness your hunger caused. Â
You probably shouldâve eaten something. Seokjin had brought you soup twice yesterday, but you very well canât just trust him giving you something. Last time you did that you wound up here. Â
You turn, wondering how big this place is. To your left, thereâs a staircase that leads up, spotted with dim light from the windows that sink into the wall on the landing above. Â
You go up them, feet made soundless by the worn carpet below. You keep your hands to yourself, watching the designs on the walls; bronze vines crawling up the length of them lazily. When you get to the top of the staircase, the hall goes both ways left and right of you. Â
You step towards the window and peer out of it. The glass is fogged by rain; droplets sliding down through the condensation and disappear into the wooden pane. Beyond the window is a thick forest, trees of all sizes sway in the downpour, their nearly skeletal branches trembling as the rain knock the leaves off them. Â
It seems to stretch on for miles, and in the distance, tall mountain peaks covered in snow. If you tilt your head just right, and perhaps press your nose against the glass pane, you could see the odd brightness of the lush green running perpendicular to the forest. DomainâŠSeokjin had said. It's like two different places sown into a tapestry, and the only thing that separates them is thick thread.Â
You glance down the hall to your left and find nothing but doors and moss green rug. Itâs the same on your right, except that the hallway continues on, curving to the left at the end. Â
You take a step forward, and it feels like thereâs static running through the air. Â
âYour curiosity knows no bounds, it seems.â Seokjinâs voice trails up behind you. Startled, you turn and find him at the foot of the staircase. His robes are darker today, a stormy grey and deep earth browns. He doesnât look particularly upset, but thereâs a warning you can feel in his gaze even from so far apart. âIâll forgive you this just once, but you arenât permitted to go down that hall.â Â
You make your way back down the stairs and feel like it would be better to shrink into yourself than face him. Â
His eyes are brown. Â
âI didnât know.â You mutter, staring at the end of his robes that brush the carpet as he turns away from you. Â
âI am aware.â He says, tersely, his upper body turns only slightly towards you, âthere will be no other instance. You do not wish to cross me.â Then, a sound---something like a hiss of words, soft and sharp at once. You recognize it from yesterday, a string of syllables that donât belong to any language you know.Â
âWhat does that mean?â you ask quietly. âYou said something⊠strange.âÂ
âI assumed everything Iâve said to you thus far has been strange,â he replies. Thereâs something like amusement in his eyes, though he doesnât smile.Â
âNemira meun,â he says, tone flat. âIt means little mouse. You remind me of one.âÂ
You stare at him, confused for a second but then decide not to question it. Your stomach gurgles loudly just then, and Seokjin raises a brow. Â
âAre you done being stubborn?â He asks simply, walking toward the hall that leads to the kitchen. Dusk, the fox, trails ahead, nails clicking against the floor. Â
You follow him, reminded by his words how faint you feel. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides. He pushes the door to the kitchen open, and then suddenly, he speaks sternly. Â
âDusk. Out.â He bends at his waist on the other side of the table and then lifts with his arms around the fox. She wiggles against him, licking at her snout and lets out a screech. As Seokjin rounds the table and walks towards the door, Dusk changes tactics and starts licking at his chin instead.Â
âMiserable creature.â Seokjin turns his head away from her lapping tongue, âyou were fed this morning, greedy girl. Go on, away with you.â He drops her rather unceremoniously outside and shuts the door while she whines indignantly. Â
âShe gets into the milk if Iâm not careful. I donât know why she likes the stuff.â Seokjin explains and then seems to catch himself. He looks as though he hadnât intended to say much of anything to you at all. He narrows his eyes at you like youâd tricked him into speaking, and you stare back. Â
Dusk scratches at the door. Â
Seokjin blinks twice and then look away. He walks around the table, to the left of the room and flicks at a latch on the wall with a finger. When the latch flips, thereâs a near inaudible pop before a rectangular portion of the wall seems to unhinge. It drops open slowly, like the maw of a great beast, but there are no teeth inside. Â
You canât see much but a dark space beyond, before Seokjin moves away. From above the rectangular hole in the wall, Seokjin picks one of the hanging pots, itâs a small thing, stout and wide; something youâd make broth for one in. Then he turns and makes a few steps to plop it on the table with a metal clunk. Â
You keep your eyes on the space on the wall, watching a soft glow build from inside. Itâs a pale orange light that seems to come from deep inside it. It climbs up the walls in vein-like cracks, bleeding upwards until the glow fills the space.Â
Seokjin moves around silently, but it doesnât bother you much anymore. Frankly, youâre too hungry to care what he says or doesnât. You can only hope he doesnât poison you. Â
You donât think he would, though. Hopefully. Although, he doesnât seem too keen on you intruding on his space; âdisturbing his peaceâ, as heâd so kindly said last night. Â
Seokjin says nothing as he retrieves a few things from the pantry: a wax-wrapped parcel that smells faintly of thyme and something earthy, and a small jar filled with cloudy amber liquid---broth, you realize, as he unstoppers it and pours it into the pot. The scent wafts quickly into the room, warm and savory, with a faint touch of garlic and something woodsy that makes your stomach curl in on itself with want.Â
The hearth glows more brightly now, that strange rectangular space pulsing with soft, unseen flame. Thereâs no wood, no crackling, but the warmth rising from it feels strangely natural. You suppose it would be, in a place like this.Â
Seokjin works with quiet precision; chopping root vegetables, by the looks of it. Something orange like carrots, something pale and dense like parsnips. A few herbs as well, plucked from a bundle hanging upside-down over the pantry door. You sit silent, listening to the soft thunks of the blade hitting the cutting board and watch as he scoops the neatly cut vegetables and drop them into the pot. Then he picks it up, setting it into the little ovenâs mouth and itâs a lot deeper than you expected because he leans forward a bit and when he pulls his hands away, the pot has disappeared. Â
He doesnât speak, but you can feel him watching you from the corner of his eye. He moves back to the table and unwraps the parcel. It seems to be some sort of meat, looking fresh as though it was caught and preserved just this morning. You wonder at how that could be. Â
Like heâs read your mind, Seokjin glances at you. He takes a knife to the slab of red meat, the blade slides through the flesh with ease. âThere is a rune over the door.â Â
You nod at his words as though they made much sense to you. Eyes darting to the pantry to squint at the frame above the entry. You donât see anything. He slices about four thick pieces and then cuts those slices into wonky squares, setting them aside in a little bowl. He takes a moment to wash his hands carefully, cleaning up the table and disappearing into the pantry before he comes out again and shuts the door behind him. Â
Thereâs the sound of flowing water and he turns and slides a cup across the table towards you, âDrink.âÂ
Itâs only water and you drink slowly. Â
When the kitchen smelled of seasoned broth; thyme, marjoram and bay leaf, Seokjin unlatches the little door again and dumps the meat chunks in. Â
âHow does that work?â you ask, not really curious, but more trying to fill the silence in the room. Seokjin doesn't spare you a glance, taking the little bowl over to the sink to wash. Â
âRunes, mouse.â He replies. Â
A little while later, he sets an earthenware bowl in front of you, the contents still bubbles as it settles from the shift. The broth is a warm gold, made thick from the root vegetables that swim within it, the meat soft and a deep brown. It smells amazing and your tummy rumbles. Â
âFinish the water first.â Seokjin says and you do so obediently, drinking the water down in a couple gulps. On a saucer, he puts a slice of brown bread and some pieces of dried fruit. Â
âThank you.â You say softly, taking the silver spoon he hands you. Â
âNo need.â Seokjin replies, surprisingly gentle, setting about cleaning the pot heâd used. Just as you feel the softness of his tone sink into your small smile, he opens his mouth again, âIâd rather you not die. Iâd have to bury you somewhere and thatâs quite tedious.â Â
Biting your tongue you decide not to answer that and waste your precious energy on what would be a fight with him if you say what you want to say right now. Â
You blow on the spoonful of broth, sipping at the warm liquid. The flavours burst on your tongue, and despite the heat of it, you start eating in earnest. Â
Seokjin mutters something in his strange language but he isnât looking at you, heâs still standing at the sink, holding the gauzy curtain open and staring out the window. Â
âAt least the rain has stopped.â He says and then turns, âI will return. Iâll be gone for a while but Iâll leave Dusk in your company.â He glances down at your almost empty bowl and the crumbs of bread left. âThere is bread and smoked meats in the pantry. Do try to keep your curiosities to a minimum, mouse. I will clean your wound again when I return.â Â
With that, he rounds the table and is out the door. You finish your broth and bread, and nibble on the dried fruit that tastes like apricot and dates and hum softly to yourself. Â
Once you were done, you gather the wares and carry it over to the sink. The pipe looks rustic and spouted water as you set the bowl and saucer in the sink. With no soap, you rinse them as thoroughly as you can before setting them aside to dry. Â
You had to roll the sleeves of your robes up and away from your hands, and you continue to fuss with them as you walk to the door. Pulling the door open, you stop just shy of running into Dusk, whoâd laid curled up before the door. Â
There was no trace of her outburst from earlier, and she peeks an eye open, head raising off her paw to look at you. You simply stare down at her, not sure how to react. She seemed friendly enough, but regardless, sheâs a fox. Foxes are like cats, right? Like, the cats of the canine species. Maybe if you blinked slowly sheâd think twice about biting you. Â
She chuffs, a puff of air through her shiny black nose before she uncurls and stretches. Â
The movement is languid, almost like sheâs showing off. Her russet coat catches the light; warm, burnished red fading into cream along her throat and belly, with black socks up her legs like sheâd dipped her paws in ink. She arches her back, yawning with pointed teeth on full display, then flicks her white-tipped tail once as she steps leisurely across your path. Â
You take a quick step back, giving her room as she walks down the hall towards the bath area. When she was about five steps away, she pauses and looks over her shoulder and back at you. Her amber gaze seem to glow and seems far too intelligent for a simple fox. Sheâs waiting for you to follow. Â
You leave the kitchen behind, following Dusk as she trots on ahead. Â
You follow her quietly for a while, her nails clicking against the cold stone floor the only sound besides your rustling clothes. You wrap your arms around yourself, folding your hands into the sleeves of your robes warmed by your body heat. Â
You wonder how long youâve been here, days? Surely not weeks. You can only imagine what your parents are going through right now. Youâre not sure of the passage of time, there are no clocks or anything of the sort to tell you. You donât even remember what day of the week it was when youâd ended up here. Â
Dusk goes past the door you remember to be the bathroom, and down a narrower corridor youâre pretty certain wasnât there the night before. Just how big is this place? It seems like it can go on forever no matter how deep you go, and then, itâs like your brain can only process half of what you see at a time. Youâve come to the conclusion that this house, Seokjin, and even Dusk was confusing. You think a scientist would have a grander time stuck in this place. Â
Someone with a notebook and no fear of things that donât make sense. Someone who wouldnât flinch when a fox turns a corner and waits like she knows your thoughts are drifting.Â
Because thatâs what she does. Dusk pauses again, just ahead, one paw already lifted as if she was mid-step but stopped, waiting.Â
You catch up slowly, watching her.Â
Her ears flick once. Then she looks back at you.Â
Itâs that look again. That impossible, wrong look. The one that feels too aware, too sentient. Her eyes glow low gold in the dimness, like dying sunlight caught in amber. You swear she narrows them just slightly like sheâs thinking. Â
And it unsettles you.Â
You look away first.Â
She turns again, satisfied, and keeps walking.Â
You try not to let it bother you. After all, sheâs just a fox, isnât she? A clever one, maybe even enchanted. But still an animal. Probably.Â
The corridor opens at last into a wider hallway. You smell parchment before you see it. Something dry, papery, and old. You pass under an archway and stop. Â
A door yawns open to your left, tall and dark. Beyond it: shadows, shelves, a hundred thousand thin lines of spine and script and age.Â
A library.Â
You step in slowly, your breath caught somewhere in your throat.Â
Books line the walls in every direction, stretching high enough to make you dizzy. Ladders lean against shelves, and more shelves spiral up toward a dome ceiling painted with stars youâve never seen in your life. A massive window spills pale light across the floor, dust dancing in it like gold-threaded snow. Â
ââŠHow?â is the only word you can mutter, dust tickling your throat a minute later. You must be in a castle or something. Rooms just pop up. You turn to look back through the archway and Dusk is gone. Â
Maybe she decided that youâd be better off in here than wandering about listlessly and getting yourself into trouble. The thought doesnât bring you comfort, instead it further uproots your unease about everything. Â
Thereâs large oak table near the center of the room, covered with little stacks of books, scattered rolls of parchment and ink bottles. An unlit fireplace sinks into the wall on your far right, and you walk towards the table quietly. Â
The tabletop is covered in a thin layer of dust, a singular chair toppled over on the other side of the table and partially under it. Like someone had gotten up too fast and didnât stop to right it. Â
One of the pages of parchment is spotted with dark ink, a string of words you donât understand stops halfway down the page. The words are written prettily, but in a hasty looping scrawl. The ones folded under it seems to be diagrams of plants, herbs and roots that grow in different climates, all noted in the same hurried handwriting along the sides of them. Â
You peek at the books, but theyâre also written in that strange language and most of them are blank. Bored, you neaten everything; rearranging the books, stacking the ones that are empty together and the ones that have words written into them. You tidy the parchment, all the ones with diagrams and the ones that look like scholarly and the ones that are just words. The ink bottles are placed into little lines of twos.Â
The table is a lot less cluttered now, and you go around and pick up the chair and tuck it under. Over at the fireplace is a large square rug of deep brown and leaf green, swirling gold go around the edges of it. Â
You look up again, slower this time, eyes adjusting to the quiet grandeur around you.Â
The further back your gaze travels, the more the space seems to unfold. Itâs not just rows of books---itâs alcoves carved into walls, reading nooks with velvet cushions half-sunken from use, curious little lanterns hung from thin chains swaying slightly despite the still air. Thereâs a staircase curling like a ribbon into the upper levels, its railing forged from what looks like blackened ivy wrought in iron.Â
Along the walls of the upper level, there are windows, long, narrow ones with colored glass panes. The light filtering through them paints the spines of the books in gentle hues: rose, honey, moss and dusk-blue. Some shelves are tucked into the walls at strange angles, half-tilted like the books themselves are too tired to stand straight. The further you explore with your eyes, the more impossible the geometry becomes, like the space folds over itself quietly when youâre not looking.Â
You drift toward one of the shelves with books written in the same swirling language, touching the spine of one hesitantly. The texture is soft, almost leathery, with strange notches pressed into it like braille.Â
You frown. âThereâs gotta be something I can read in hereâŠâÂ
After spending a good amount of time trying to read the spines of the books on the lower level---most of them in that same strange, looping script---you give up with a quiet sigh and glance upwards. The second level of the library winds around the room like a balcony, shelves curving into the walls, ladders nestled into every few columns.Â
You climb the winding staircase carefully, your hand trailing the smooth banister, steps hushed under your bare feet.Â
Up here, the air feels quieter somehow. Â
You step out onto a dark wood landing, where the shelves are tighter and more packed. The smell of old paper and something slightly metallic fills your nose. Ahead is a soft seating area; low couches of moss green velvet, the cushions plump and pressed with age. A side table holds a delicate, empty tea set, and thereâs a small oil lamp beside it, though it clearly hadnât been lit in a long time.Â
You pass glass-fronted shelves next, taller than you, lined with heavy tomes that give off the same feeling as things behind velvet ropes at a museum. Some have locks. Some glint faintly with symbols you donât recognize. You donât dare touch them.Â
Wandering past, you turn a narrow corner and almost miss it.Â
A small shelf, tucked into a recess between two beams. Like it was meant to go unnoticed.Â
You lean in, squinting at the titles.Â
And for the first time since you entered this sprawling, shifting place, your eyes fall upon something familiar. Â
English.Â
Theyâre different sizes, with titles in English, Latin, French and even a few written in languages you recognize but canât read. A weathered copy of The Secret Garden sits beside something that looks like an old herbal grimoire. You spot a familiar name: Jules Verne. And then another: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.Â
You draw one of the books off the shelf carefully, the cover worn but the spine intact. A collection of fables, by the looks of it. The next book is a volume on constellations. Another is handwritten, in neat blocky lettersâŠnot printed. A journal, maybe.Â
You sink into the little velvet couch nearby, curling your legs beneath you, and open the fables book across your lap. The ink is faded, the pages yellowing. The first Fable is The Man and the Lion.Â
You didnât know when you fell asleep, your fingers lay limp under the small printed text, halfway through The Wolf and the Crane. You jerk awake for no reason in particular, wiping at the corner of your partially opened mouth and looking around in a slight daze. Â
Frowning you look down at the book in your lap and you mark your page and hug it to your chest as you stand to stretch. Your palm tingles a little as you do, and as you go back down the curling staircase you sniff at the bandage. You can only smell the comfrey root paste, which you suppose is a good thing. Â
When you get to the bottom, youâre startled to find Seokjin looming in the doorway. You almost drop the book your holding, freezing like a deer on a highway. Â
He's holding a tray in his hands, a cup of something that steams and a plate with bread slices is all that you could see. Â
âSorry.â You say, automatically, standing now awkwardly. Â
Seokjinâs brows furrow and he steps into the room, striding over to the table where he pauses. He stares at it for a while, long enough for you to wonder if youâd did something wrong by cleaning it up. He says nothing about it and sets the tray down on the cleared space. His broad shoulders rise with a deep breath and then he glances back at you, âCome eat. Youâve been in here for hours.â Â
You do as instructed, pulling back the chair to sit. You realize now that thereâs more dried fruit and slices of cheese to pair with the bread, and the tea smells like berries. Thereâs a small bowl of water as well. Â
Seokjin turns away from you when you thank him, wandering off to a shelf. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the way he seemed to trail his fingers along the spines with some sort of reverence. He pauses a couple of times and simply stares at a spot. You focus on eating. Â
When youâre done, and youâre sipping at the tea, Seokjin comes back and rummages around his robes. He pulls out the little vial with the comfrey paste, a cloth and the roll of bandage fabric, âYour hand, mouse.â Â
You present your hand to him, and he carefully removes the bandage and cleans the wound. It still looks bad, but not as bad as it had the day before. It looks raw and pink now, and a film had developed over the deeper part at the center of your palm. Â
His fingers are cold, and he dabs gently at the wound until the ache settles to a dull throb. Like before, he covers it completely with the comfrey paste. Then, he goes about wrapping your hand with the clean bandage fabric. Â
âCan I ask you something?â You ask, breaking the silence. Â
Seokjin sighs through his nose, âif you must.â Â
âWhere did this library come from? Is it yours?â Â
Seokjinâs hand pauses briefly, his brows draw together and relax so quickly you almost miss it. Â
âNo.â he says, tone clipped, and he says nothing more as he ties the ends of the bandage at the back of your hand and then he takes the tray and leaves. Â
The days here are odd, and they go by quickly, and Seokjin is no more receptive to your presence now than he was a couple of days ago. When the morning comes, he calls for Dusk and he disappears for a couple hours, and then he returns and makes you food and disappears again. Â
You keep pestering him when you have the chance to, asking him when youâd be able to be sent back, and his answers are pretty much the same as heâs told you before. Utterly vague and unhelpful. You donât know how long youâve been missing from home, how your parents are fairing. Sometimes you lay in your room and stare at the ceiling wondering if youâve just been hit over the head and youâre in a coma in some hospital, and all of this is simply a dream.Â
But each day you wake up, it becomes more and more apparent that youâll be here for a while. A good long while. Youâd sometimes cry yourself to sleep, missing your life before this, your parents, your friends. Sometimes youâd cry because thatâs all you can do being stuck here.Â
You spend most of your time poking around the place, got lost on more than one occasion trying to find your way back to the library without Duskâs lead. There are more rooms in this place than you think possible, winding corridors and doors that lead to nowhere. You even found a piano in one room.Â
Seokjin doesnât talk much, and you think he sometimes forgets that youâre there. Sometimes he stares at you with an irritated draw to his brow like youâre a stain on a white dress, and sometimes he looks at you like he doesnât know where youâd appeared from. Â
Other times, you sit in the library and read all the books you could understand. It kept you occupied and keeps your mind from thinking too much. Youâre incredibly homesick, but thereâs nothing you can do for it. Time seems to go by quickly, but slowly all together; you have no way to measure the days.Â
One day you grew stir-crazy, unable to stand the walls of his strange house any longer and you asked him to go out. Â
He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with bundles and bundles of roots and plants. Glass jars and vials spread around the table, parchment folded neatly into tags as he meticulously punched holes into them to run twine through. Dusk, who typically wasnât allowed in the kitchen, was sprawled contentedly in a spot of rare sunlight that bathed the ground from the window. Â
He looks up at you with a brow arched, like a father waiting for his child to convince him to let them go to a party. He pursed his lips, dipping a quill in ink before writing neatly on the tags the names of roots. Â
âAm I supposed to say no?â He asks, using a knife to snip some tough looking root into smaller pieces before packing them into a jar. âYouâre free to go out if you wish, you are not a prisoner here.â Â
Excited, you thank him, but he simply goes back to his work, muttering that you take Dusk with you. When you got to the door, he calls your name and youâre startled because you hadnât known he knew it at all. Â
He levels you with a look, âMy borders are clear, do not go beyond them. Stay within my domain. If you wander and should be lost I will not spend my day searching for you.â Â
Sometimes youâre confused on where he stands. Perhaps he has a strange duty of care? Or perhaps he sees you as a child heâs forced to look after. Like when your parents would have you babysit your young cousins as a child and made you miss out on doing things you wanted. Â
Since that night he quite literally threatened to maim you, you havenât seen him angry or even particularly upset. You still donât know who or what he is or why heâs here alone. Â
Now youâre standing outside and the weather today is fair, but the sun was once again hidden by cloud. Though overcast, itâs not raining. It rains a lot here, youâve noticed, but youâre somewhat glad for it. The air is crisp and fresh, and youâre finally breathing it after who knows how long, but youâre unable to fully enjoy it. Â
You know that the house is strange, but standing outside makes it more difficult to comprehend. On the inside, thereâs a staircase that leads upwards from a foyer, where Seokjin had told you not to wander, butâŠthereâs no indication of a second level. Rather, the house looks like a large countryside cabin, with no space to fit the library or all those rooms you saw. Unless it goes underground. Which is impossible since the library has windows and youâve never went down. Of course that doesnât explain anything at all if the whole upper floor is missing. Â
You feel a headache blooming at your temples and decide not to bust your brain thinking about any of it. Â
You look around, try not to think too hard at the way the dampness of Seokjinâs domain is abruptly cut off and lush green starts like a spring garden. Though, behind you and to your right, is a forest, the one you saw through the window upstairs. It looks dense, nothing but trees in various stages of autumn. Like just at the beginning of October when the leaves darken and turn but still cling to their branches, some of them are nearly bare. It stretches endlessly as far as you can see. Â
The cabin sits in the center, you believe, like the round edge of a puzzle piece. Thereâs a clear line between this place and spring next to it. Â
Dusk looks as bored as a fox can manage, her white-tipped tail flicking as she trots along the wooden fence of a garden. You follow her, more curious than cautious, and stop when you see the rows within: curling pumpkin vines heavy with orange bulbs, brambles jeweled with blackberries, and thin branches bowed under the weight of blueberries just beginning to shrivel in the cool air. Â
You donât step inside. Something tells you that would be a trespass. Instead lean against the post, taking a deep breath of the smell of near overripe fruit and damp earth. Â
The door opens. You turn, startled. Seokjin steps out, two wicker baskets hooked against one hip, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He stops when he sees you, unreadable, dark eyes fixed in that unnerving way that always makes you wonder if heâs measuring your soul against some ancient ledger.Â
âWhy are you simply standing there?â His voice cuts through the silence like frost.Â
âI just wanted some fresh airâŠâ you murmur.Â
He regards you for a beat too long, as though debating whether that was an offense worth naming. Then, with a soft scoff, he shifts the basket into his hands. âVery well. Since youâve nothing better to do, come help me.âÂ
The words fall like command, not invitation, yet he turns toward the garden gate without looking to see if youâll follow. You do, and he does not stop you.Â
He presses one of the basket into your hands, brusque, and gestures at the berry bushes. âPick whatâs ripe. Not the green ones, not the shriveled ones. Do you at least know the difference?âÂ
You nod quickly, relieved when he doesnât pursue it further. While you move carefully among the brambles, he strides into the rows with practiced ease, bending to lift the sagging bellies of pumpkins, knocking on their rinds as though they might answer him. The sound of his hands moving through leaves, tearing away weeds, settling fruit in neat piles, is strangely calming.Â
You glance up once to find him watching you---not critically, not even harshly, but with a look you canât quite name. When he notices your stare, he clears his throat, straightens, and busies himself with the soil.Â
The silence is companionable, almost. The garden hums with the rhythm of autumn itself: endings ripening into sustenance, the last sweetness before the frost.Â
And for the first time, you feel less like an intruder, and more like someone being folded into the edges of his solitude. Â
After a long while of picking berries, your fingers stained dark purple from their juices, you look over your shoulder at Seokjin whoâd moved away from the pumpkins to pulling root vegetables from the ground. Â
âSeokjin.â You call, and he doesnât glance your way, but replies none the less. Â
âWhat is it?â Â
You continue picking the berries, âAre your domain and that one the only two?âÂ
He looks at you then, something like amusement in his eyes, âThere are four in total. Winter and Summer are on the other side of the realm.â He informs, and then, chuckles like he thought of a joke, âif I tried explaining it to you, youâd most likely end up confused.â Â
âIâm not stupid.â You say hotly, and Seokjin waves a dirt stained hand. Â
âI never said that you were.â He says, âIt is simply a fact. You cannot bring your mind to comprehend the vastness of this house.â He points a thumb over his shoulder, âYou wouldnât be able to comprehend the dimensions of this place.â Â
He pauses a moment, dark eyes catching the soft autumn light as he surveys the orderly rows of his garden. Carrots, parsnips, beets, and radishes peek through the soil. Small pumpkins, their skins mottled orange and green, cluster near the fence. The air hums quietly with life, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird.Â
He turns, brushing dirt from a turnip before setting it into his basket, âWinter is that way. As you may have seen from the window.â He points beyond, in the direction youâd seen the winter capped mountains from upstairs. âBut it is also that way.â He points to his right, where Spring begins, âThough, for you, if you go that way, it would take you days to reach it. But if you go through Spring, it would only take you a couple of hours to cross the entire two domains to get there.â Â
You stare at him blankly and he stares back, and then he sighs. He gets up from his spot and walk through the rows to you. Dusk flits past, tail flicking with quiet curiosity, sniffing at the tops of the carrots before retreating to a sun-warmed stone.Â
He crouches, and with one long finger he draws a circle. âPay attention, mouse.â Â
He divides the circle into four. âWe are here.â He points at the bottom left of the circle, âBut we are also here.â He draws a line from his section to the one above it. âSpring is here, but it is also here.â He does the same for the other side. âEverything is layered, but directly across from each other. Think of it as four separate worlds, divided by a border. Some borders are closer than others. My domain is directly against Spring. As Spring is directly against Summer and Summer is to Winter. Getting to winter from my domain would take you a day either which way you walk. Through Summer you can simply walk through the divide.â Â
Halfway through his explanation you feel like your brain can run out your ears, and he nods as though heâd expected your blank stare. And then he goes back to his work, âBest not dwell on it, Nemira meun.â Â
You hum, and go back to your berry picking until your basket is full. âSeokjinâŠâÂ
âYes?â Heâs back to knocking on pumpkins and shaking his head, dragging out the word like heâd expected you to call him again. Â
You poke around the basket of berries, plucking the fattest one to toss into your mouth. âWhoâŠÂ are you? You never said.âÂ
He eyes you for a moment, and then casually, âI am a God.â He stands, lifting his basket of provisions as though he hadnât just declared something world-breaking. âI have many titles. Keeper of the Harvest. Warden of the Waning Days. But to you, I am simply Seokjin.âÂ
Your mouth goes dry around the berry youâve just eaten. âSoâŠyouâre the god of autumn?âÂ
âAutumn is part of me,â he says smoothly, with a faint shrug. âAs much as your breath is part of you.âÂ
âThenâŠthe other seasons have gods as well?âÂ
He doesnât look at you. He just adjusts the basket on his arm, the line of his shoulders taut in a way that makes your question feel like youâd crossed an invisible barrier. Â
âThen why are you here alone?â you press, softer this time.Â
Seokjin says nothing. He only strides toward the cabin, boots crunching against the soil, leaving your words to hang in the air like a chill.Â
âCome, Iâll show you what to do with those berries.âÂ
Its a few mornings later when youâre sitting in the kitchen and Seokjin has lingered a lot longer than he would normally. Â
Usually he would leave as the sun rises to do whatever it is he does around here, and then come back. Heâs made you breakfast first, and stared at you intently for a long while before clearing his throat and making use of his hands to clear the table.Â
âYou can accompany me today.â He murmurs, not looking at you, before you can perk up he raises a hand, âDonât get excited. Iâm only allowing so you wouldnât search for other ways to satiate your boredom.â Â
You think youâve been pretty well behaved since your first transgression. Youâd like to believe Seokjin is much softer than he lets on, and again you wonder why heâs here alone. Youâve seen this certain joy about him when heâs doing anything for you, in a way that makes you wonder if heâs used to taking care of others. He never says it, and most of the time heâs just grumpy and snappy or quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop. Â
With his care the cut on your palm no longer needs a bandage, itâs closed and scabbed over but he still checks it every day. It would definitely scar, but thereâs nothing you can do about that you suppose. Â
Seokjin had left you to eat, and youâd scarfed down your breakfast of warm bread and blackberry jam while he went upstairs, and then you waited for him in the foyer. Â
He seems surprised when he comes back, a heavy looking coat in his hands and boots in the other. He raises a brow at your excited expression, and you can bet you look like a child on Christmas morning. Â
âFinished already?â He hums, presenting the cloak to you. The coat is in fact, heavy, a deep brown and glittering silver, the inside lined with fur. âI told you not to get excited.âÂ
You canât help it though, âIâm just happy to go outside.âÂ
Seokjin studies you silently, âYou mortals and your simple joys.â He tuts, shaking his head, and then he whistles for Dusk. She trots from the direction of your room, and brushes her tail against your legs as she passes by. Â
Maybe he should try having nothing to do but stare at walls and read books all day. Â
Seokjin huffs watching, âDoesnât greet me when Iâm the one that feeds her. How ungrateful.â Thereâs no contempt in his words, just a glimmer of amusement, âCome now. Donât put the cloak on yet.â Â
Once outside Seokjin leads you towards the veil that separates his domain and Spring, passing through after Dusk. It ripples and glimmers when he does and you stand on the edge of it, cautiously putting a hand through first. Despite being told youâd appeared over there first, youâre weary. Â
Seokjin pauses in his stride and turns to look at you, âMouse.â He chuckles, âthe veil would not harm you.â Â
Once you pass through the veil, the weight of Seokjinâs autumnal domain falls behind you like a curtain. In its place, a gentle warmth presses against your skin, soft and alive, like the first breath of a morning after a long winter. The scent of grass, damp earth, and blossoms rises in gentle waves, sweet without being cloying. Bees hum lazily among flowers that bloom in impossible colors, their petals catching the light and refracting it like shards of glass.Â
The ground beneath your feet is soft and springy, dotted with shoots and tiny blooms that sway in the mild breeze. Trees stretch overhead, their pale green leaves filtering sunlight into dancing patterns across the path. You catch the faint babble of a brook nearby, the water tracing a winding path through the grass, glimmering like silver in the sun. Beyond is a forest similar to Seokjinâs, wrapped around the space like a blanket of green.Â
Dusk trots ahead, her white-tipped tail flicking as she weaves through the foliage, pausing only to sniff at the air before darting forward again. You follow cautiously, aware that every step feels slightly unreal;Â the colors sharper, the air sweeter, the world itself brimming with life in a way that makes your chest ache with wonder.Â
You follow Dusk through the lush greenery, the cloak heavy but comforting on your shoulders. Seokjin walks beside you, silent for the moment, letting your footsteps be the only sound besides the distant hum of insects and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.Â
âThis place⊠itâs incredible,â you murmur, almost to yourself, craning your neck to drink in the vibrant greens and yellows, the soft sunlight spilling through the canopy above. âIâve never seen anything like it.âÂ
Seokjin doesnât respond immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitches downwards. âMortals,â he says finally, voice low and clipped, âtend to notice the obvious. You walk, you see, you marvel. Rarely do you look for what lies beneath.âÂ
You glance around, puzzled. âBeneath?âÂ
He gestures with a hand, sweeping across the undergrowth. âShadows, decay, the spaces between what is meant to thrive. Not everything is as perfect as it seems, mouse. Some thingsâŠâ He pauses, watching a cluster of flowers that seem half-wilted despite the light, ââŠdonât get the care they should.âÂ
You notice it then: patches where the grass is thinner, blooms struggling, leaves tinged brown at the edges. Somehow, even in Spring, not every corner is full of life. You bite back a question, sensing that whatever the truth is, he wouldnât answer kindly.Â
Dusk trots ahead, ears flicking, tail high. You follow her, watching Seokjinâs eyes flick occasionally toward the fox, a rare softness in his otherwise implacable expression. He seems troubled.Â
âYouâll need to keep up, mouse,â he adds after a few steps, almost teasing. âI do not slow for those easily distracted by flowers and light.âÂ
âI can keep up,â you say quickly, stepping a little straighter.Â
He hums something noncommittal, turning his gaze forward again. You let your eyes wander over the landscape, marveling at the sunlight striking the trees, the scent of the earth, the gentle trickle of water from a hidden stream. Yet, the occasional brown leaf or struggling bloom prickles at your awareness, a quiet reminder that even here, life is uneven, and that this world, no matter how beautiful, isnât entirely forgiving.Â
The edge of Spring comes into view long before you actually reach it. The air thickens, warmer now, the scent of wet soil fading and giving way to the heavy sweetness of ripening wildflowers and sun-baked grass. You notice that the vibrancy of Spring dims slightly at this border; some patches of green curling at the edges, a few blossoms drooping, as if reluctant to give way.Â
Seokjin halts just before the veil, his cloak brushing lightly against the tall grass. Dusk stops at his feet, ears flicking at the sudden quiet. You notice a shimmer in the air, like sunlight hitting water, stretched thin across the horizon.Â
âThis is Summerâs veil,â Seokjin says, voice low, almost a murmur, but you hear him clearly. âCross carefully, and stay in the shade.âÂ
You step forward, and the air changes instantly. Itâs heavier, warmer, buzzing with life. The grasses sway taller, the flowers cluster in tighter, almost dizzying patterns, and the streams glitter with sharp, bright sunlight. Summer.Â
Dusk bounds ahead, disappearing into the lush growth, tail flicking to beckon you forward. You follow, and realize that the Summer here is alive in a completely different way than Spring---lush, full, almost too much, yet under the surface, hints of dryness and heat curl along the edges.Â
Seokjin walks beside you, silent, hands clasped behind his back and unbothered by the heat. He doesnât offer guidance beyond the occasional sharp glance, but the way he moves, steady and deliberate, makes it clear he knows every nuance of this land, every patch that thrives and every patch that struggles.Â
As you move further into Summer, the air grows thick, heavy, almost hard to breathe. The warmth presses down on your shoulders, the sun above sharp and unrelenting, glaring off the golden grasses and the leaves of gnarled, spreading trees. Each step feels slower than the last, your legs sticky with the heat, your skin prickling as sweat begins to bead along your temples. You stick to the shade of trees and follow behind Seokjin, despite the oppressive warmth you still look around.Â
The flowers and vines are abundant, but the colors arenât soft---theyâre dazzling, almost aggressive, yellows and oranges that sting your eyes as much as they delight them. The ground beneath your feet radiates heat, forcing you to adjust your stride. Even the streams that glitter through this land shimmer like liquid gold.Â
Dusk moves ahead with the same playful grace, but you notice she pauses often, settling into patches of shade beneath trees or crouching low in the underbrush, as if even she feels the sunâs weight.Â
Every so often, Seokjin would cast a sidelong glance at you, assessing your progress through the heat, though he says nothing. The cloak heâd given to you feels heavier in your arms where you have it tucked against you. Â
You find yourself wishing for a breeze, any relief, but the air seems to shimmer with its own stubborn heat. Even the birds and insects seem to move slower here, their sounds sharp and hollow against the heavy air.Â
The oppressive warmth makes you aware of your breathing, of your heartbeat, of every inch of your exposed skin. And yet, despite it, thereâs an undeniable richness to Summer. Â
Youâre not sure how long youâve both been walking for, and youâre about ready to ask for a break when Seokjin points out the veil. He stops you just as youâre about to go through it, âPut the coat on.âÂ
Surprisingly he helps you slip your arms into it, and he lifts the hood up over your head, the hem of it brushes the ground, perfectly closed around you when he closes the clasp at the front. Â
âThere are pockets, keep your hands in them.â Seokjin warns, and you nod, sliding your hands along the outside of the coat until your hands slip into the pockets. Theyâre rather deep, but you suppose theyâre designed that way so that the sleeves can get in without a gap exposing your skin. Â
The veil between Summer and Winter shimmers like glass, and as you step through, the heat is replaced with a sharp, biting cold that makes you gasp. The world feels suddenly unforgiving; every exhale hangs in the air, frost forming briefly before fading. Your coat wraps snugly around you, heavy and warm, shielding you from the harsh air, but even so, the cold nips at your cheeks and nose.Â
Dusk moves ahead, and you notice her coat shift almost instantly---from her russet brown to pristine white, the tip of her tail now black. The transformation is so seamless it feels like magic, yet somehow natural, like this fox belongs to each season she passes through. It doesnât stop you from staring with your mouth open, though. Â
Seokjinâs voice cuts through the crisp air, low and firm: âStay close. Do not wander.âÂ
You obey, walking behind him, the crunch of snow underfoot loud in the silence. From where you stand, the Winter domain stretches endlessly in frozen expanse, but in the distance, atop a snow-draped hill, you spot a house. It looks quaint against the vast whiteness, smoke curling from a chimney, a solitary beacon in the icy landscape. You want to ask, but something in Seokjinâs demeanor tells you better not to. You donât think heâs in a particularly good mood today.Â
He moves with purpose, examining the snow, kneeling here and there to pull roots and frost-hardy plants from the frozen ground. You watch him in silence, marveling at the way he works, the precision and patience of his movements. Your fingers tuck deeper into the fur of the coat, afraid of the snow biting through, and you stay quiet, mesmerized by the sharp beauty of the domain.Â
The wind whistles faintly through the skeletal branches of the frost-laden trees, carrying the faint scent of pine and frozen earth. Every so often, you glance at Seokjin, noting the way the snow clings to his dark robes and hair, how his breath clouds in the air before fading.Â
You stay close as instructed, letting the cold wash over you, wrapped in warmth and observation, a silent witness to the Winter domain and the god who tends it with unwavering focus.Â
Dusk rolls around in the snow, digging around in it before darting off; not a care in the world.Â
You trudge through the snow behind Seokjin, each step crunching against the frozen ground. The cold bites at your fingers despite the cloak, and you tuck them tighter into its fur-lined sleeves. Every so often, your eyes drift to the house perched atop the distant hill. Itâs small, perfectly still, smoke curling from its chimney as if someone should be home, but the stillness whispers that it is not. Â
Seokjin moves ahead with unnerving silence, his long strides purposeful, each hand brushing over the snow or kneeling to inspect the frost-hardened earth. You notice the tension in his shoulders, the faint tightening around his jaw. Something unspoken lingers in the air, like the weight of old memories or distant grief.Â
Better not to disturb him, you decide, keeping your gaze lowered or fixed on the distant house, letting the quiet hum of the Winter domain fill the space between you. The wind whistles faintly through skeletal trees, bending under the weight of ice, and your breath hitches in tiny clouds before fading away.Â
Now and then, you glance sideways. Seokjin is still, kneeling to gather roots that brave the frost, and even from behind, you feel the careful control in his movements, the precision of someone used to managing what others might not survive. You wrap the coat tighter, feeling the warmth against the biting cold, and silently let him lead, a quiet observer in the vast, frozen expanse.Â
Minutes pass---or maybe hours---and the only sounds are the wind, the snow beneath your boots, and the faint scrape of Seokjinâs hands in the frozen earth. Dusk padding alongside him, her white coat blending with the snow, the black tip of her tail swishing gracefully, every movement deliberate and alert.Â
You donât ask questions. Words feel unnecessary here, and the way Seokjin carries himself---the tension coiled under his calm exterior---warns you that silence is the safest companion. You stay close, feeling the strange mix of awe and unease, watching him, watching the domain, and the empty house on the hill that waits for no-one. Â
Seokjin had brought with him a silk bag, where he put everything he found useful and it wasnât long before you were making your way back to Spring, where he lingers.Â
He doesnât say much, but you follow him around as he forages. He frowns at a green apple tree and itâs sparse fruit and places his hand on the bark. After a moment he lets out a sigh, his head dropping forward. Â
He crouches, palms hovering above the roots of the tree. Youâre not sure what heâs doing, but the branches of the tree shudder and an apple pops off and only narrowly avoids your head. Â
âWhatâre you doing?â you ask tentatively. Â
âThe tree is sick. Like most in this domain.â He mumbles, âI am trying to heal it.â Â
The leaves of the tree glow a soft green, but itâs not long before it dims. Seokjin lets out a string of words in his language that youâre pretty sure is a curse. Â
He looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs against his fingers. Without a word he stands and moves to another tree and does the same as before. He seems a little frantic. Â
âWhatâs wrong?â Â
âNothing.â He snaps, and youâre genuinely surprised by his tone; you recoil. Â
You blink at him, confused about why heâs suddenly irritated. âHey, donât take it out on me. I havenât done anything to you.âÂ
He whirls around to face you, eyes dark, âHavenât you?â he snaps, âYou breathe, you speak, you exist in this place, mortal.â He spits the word like itâs a curse, filled with acid and hate. You feel like the word can brand itself into your skin and stay there as testament of what you are. âAll your kind does is take and destroy, with no regard for others. And now you stand here, demanding gentleness from me when your very presence is a wound.âÂ
Your lips part, throat tight, but you try to stay calm in the face of his ire. âI didnât ask for this, I didnât ask to be here. Stop lumping me in with whatever ghosts youâre fighting.âÂ
âDo you think you are any different? You are not. Mortals---all of you---you live, you hunger, you claw at whatever meager scraps youâre offered.â He sneers, taking a step towards you so menacingly that you take a step back, âYou demand worlds beyond what youâre given, and you murder for less. Then you vanish. Thatâs all you do. And I am left here with the rot.âÂ
This isnât about you. Youâre watching a bottle with too much pressure built up inside explode. You donât know what heâs been through, but you can guess why heâs here alone. Why he had reacted so viciously when youâd brought it up in your anger your second night here. Why the emotion swirling in his eyes is layered with sadness and anger and a hatred that burns your skin. Â
But that isnât fair, is it? Who is he to say such things? Â
âYou canât just say that.â You snap back, frustration creasing your brow, âNot everyone is like that! There are good people. Innocent people.â Â
Seokjin laughs, the first real laugh youâve heard from him in your time here. Cynical and hollow. Heâs looking through you. âI have seen the cruelty of man, child. Iâve seen many beginnings and many ends. Innocent is not in your nature. Even a child can pillage and kill for their benefit.â Â
From his pupils, gold bleeds into his irises and you know heâs beyond arguing with. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to summon something---anything---that might reach him. But his eyes are already burning, too far gone, his voice poisoned with venom that isnât yours to cure. Thereâs nothing left for you to say.Â
So you turn on your heel. You donât look back, not even when your throat feels tight and your chest aches like heâd ripped something open inside you. Let him stew in his anger alone.Â
The veil parts around you as you cross into Seokjinâs domain again. The air changes abruptly, the mild warmth of Spring replaced by the damp chill of autumn, and the sudden shift makes you shiver. Rain begins almost at once, fine and steady, cold droplets beading in your hair and along the coat heâd given you. Â
You keep your head down, footsteps quick through the grass until the cabin comes into view. Inside, the quiet greets you like an accusation. You peel off your boots at the threshold and push them aside, the sound of the rain on the roof echoing in the stillness. You mutter angrily to yourself. What right does he have?!Â
Your room waits for you---down the hall past the kitchens, safe and familiar. Thatâs where you mean to go. Thatâs where your body turns, feet carrying you toward the corridor you know.Â
But halfway there, your steps falter. Â
The pull starts soft, almost like a stray thought, then swells into something heavier, insistent. Your gaze lifts unbidden toward the staircase.Â
The main staircase, the one that curves upward into the forbidden places Seokjin had warned you of more than once. Do not wander. There will be no other instance. You do not wish to cross me.Â
And yet, your body turns. Your feet find the first step.Â
You try to think better of it, try to remind yourself of his words, of the molten fury youâd just seen in him. But the thought is muffled, distant, like a voice calling from underwater. Something stronger tugs at you, irresistible. Â
One step. Another. The hush of rain outside fades as you climb, replaced by the quickening thud of your heart. You feel like youâre watching yourself move through a pin hole view and thereâs nothing you can do to stop yourself.Â
At the top, the hallway stretches on both sides of you, you turn to your right and walk past the plain wooden doors. You stop at the left curve. You shouldnât be here, your mind yells, but you go down the hall anyway. Plain doors line the wall at first, ordinary and unremarkable. But farther down, three doors stand apart; unique, and thrumming faintly with a magic you can almost feel in your teeth.Â
The first is white-frosted, a sheen of ice crawling up its frame, the chill that seeps off it sends gooseflesh racing up your arms. The second is tangled in withered vines, brittle and dry. And the last is dark, plain, and silent.Â
You donât think. You simply move, hand rising, reaching for the handle of the vine-wreathed door.Â
Your fingertips are just brushing the withered vines curling around the old door when his hand clamps around your wrist. The grip is unyielding, startlingly hot, and you whirl to find Seokjin there---eyes lit molten gold, blazing like a furnace.Â
âI told you not to come here,â he growls, dragging you back with such force that you stumble into his chest. The heat of him radiates even through the fabric between you, but his anger is colder than ice.Â
You open your mouth to protest, to explain, but he cuts you off with a low snarl. âThis hall is forbidden. Those stairs are forbidden. Do you think I speak idly?â His voice cracks like thunder, reverberating through the corridor, each word vibrating against the walls until you swear the very stone trembles.Â
The golden light in his eyes burns brighter, and something shudders overhead---a rumble that belongs not just to him but to the sky itself.Â
âI---â you try, but the words falter under the sheer weight of his fury. He pulls you behind him back the way you came, until youâre standing under the pale light coming through the windows of the landing. Â
âYou disobey,â he spits, âand still you look at me as though you are owed tenderness.â His hand shoves at your shoulder, and the motion is so sudden, so sharp, that you stagger backward. The edge of the staircase bites at your heel, the dizzying drop yawning behind you. For a heartbeat, your stomach pitches into freefall. Only the banister catches you, splinters digging into your palm as you clutch it for balance.Â
Your heart thunders in your throat. He has nearly sent you tumbling.Â
For an instant, something flickers in his expression---hesitation, a flash of regret---but it drowns beneath the gold in his eyes, beneath the storm building in his chest. He turns away, dismissing you, as though you are not worth his restraint.Â
Your breath comes sharp and uneven. You donât wait for more. You flee. Barely taking the time to shove your feet into your boots at the door.Â
The storm breaks the moment you pass through the threshold. Rain pelts you so heavily it stings, needling your scalp, plastering your hair flat to your skull and soaking through your clothes until they hang heavy and cold against your skin. Mud sucks at your boots, pulling at each step, and the wind claws at your face until your cheeks are raw.Â
Still, you press forward. Away from him. Anywhere but there. You can barely see through the downpour, and crossing the veil offers no reprieve; itâs storming here too. Stray branches soar through the air on violent wind, trees swaying in the tempest.Â
You donât even realize when you cross deeper into Springâs domain. The air smells different---wet loam, fresh grass, the sharp green tang of life churned by the rain. Here, the canopy catches some of the downpour, turning the relentless sheets of water into sudden drizzles, like sighs of relief between gasps. But each break in the trees brings the storm crashing back, drumming against your shoulders with bruising weight.Â
That is when you see it.Â
A doe stands at the forestâs edge, pale as snow, white against the shadow-drenched greens. Her eyes gleam too bright, fixed wholly on you. The rain pours through her, around her---she is untouched, impossibly still while everything else trembles and thrashes.Â
You blink, and she is gone.Â
Then she is there again, further off, waiting. Watching.Â
Your boots squelch in the mud as you follow, stumbling over gnarled roots slick with moss. Branches claw at your sleeves, wet leaves slap against your face. The forest thickens around you, each step pulling you further from the safety of paths you might have known, but the doe is always there---slipping in and out of sight, coaxing you deeper.Â
The air grows dense, charged, humming in your bones as though lightning prowls unseen overhead. Your breaths come ragged, misting in the wet air, every inhale tasting of iron and ozone.Â
Then the clearing opens.Â
At its heart pulses a thing that does not belong in any ordinary forest. A mass of tangled roots, crystalline veins, and raw light, throbbing with unsteady rhythm. It glows and flickers, as though a great heart is trying---and failing---to beat. Each pulse sends tremors into the ground, into the rain, into you. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. The sound isnât sound at all but vibration, resonating in the hollow of your chest until your ribs ache.Â
You know you shouldnât. But your body moves without consent. Your hand rises, trembling, drawn closer as if the air itself pulls you toward it.Â
The instant your palm meets its surface, agony lances through you. A crack of white light sears your vision, a violent hiss of magic biting into your flesh. The shock hurls you backward, and you land hard in the mud, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. Rain spatters your face, mixing with the tears you hadnât realized were there.Â
Your hand burns. Inside your skin, beneath your bones, as though something has branded itself into you.Â
The clearing stills. The forest holds its breath. The white doe is gone. Only the heart remains, pulsing in broken rhythm.Â
Seokjin lets the storm have him.Â
It answers with everything he has put into it---wind that tears the last yellow from the trees, rain that hammers the roof like fists, lightning splitting the sky in slow, terrible ribbons. He paces the halls like a thing made to move, boots finding worn grooves in the floor by muscle memory, fingers flexed until the knuckles blanch. The aftertaste of his words lingers---a coppery bite under his tongue that sharpens his anger. He meant to frighten, to push, to make the boundaries hold. Not to empty the house of your presence.Â
He throws open a window. Rain lashes at him, a cold sheet of persistence. The storm thins into drizzle; the world quiets. He does not credit the calming of the weather---he knows the opposite: storms bend to the edges of his temper, and they will not die until he wills them quiet.Â
He goes down the stairs, towards the foyer where the gap in the front door of his home let the rain blow in. It soaks the floor in little pools and your boots are gone. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, and Dusk comes over, tail flicking and awaiting instruction. âFind her.â Â
The vixen slips through the crack in the door, then, Seokjin follows. He does not bother with veil---there is a path only he walks, a thin place between his domain and Spring that bends for him alone. The air presses against him, thick with rot threaded through the sweetness of leaves, sour where green should be pure. Trees lean listless; bark feels soft under his palms. He knows the forest mourns.Â
Small disturbances guide him---broken twigs, your footprints, smeared mud on mossy stone---and Duskâs spoor runs true between them. Deeper, through the wild undergrowth, until the clearing opens.Â
You lie there. Rain plastered hair across your face, mud streaking your clothes, chest rising and falling, stubbornly alive. His pulse kicks in response. He kneels, lifting you carefully, aware of every ache in your body and every trembling breath.Â
Why are you here? Of all places. Â
He looks up at the Heart of Spring. Its weaker than itâs ever been, pulsing in uneven bursts, raw magic crackling between the gnarled roots that encases it. The power flares in an arch from its center, and into the earth below it. Â
From the corner of his eye, a white light, brighter than anything, materialises. Its swirls and undulate before it forms itself into a doe.Â
White as snow, perfect and impossible, the rain clinging to it like a crown of drops. Itâs eyes lock onto his. He knows what it is, itâs eyes hold a galaxy within them, wide and gentle; a messenger of the divinities far beyond him. Â
The clearing shifts. You feel it too, though unconscious, limp in his arms.Â
âBalance demands a vessel.â the doe says, and the sound comes as thought pressed into his skull. Not one voice, but many layered, male and female and young and old, like wind through many leaves.Â
Seokjinâs hands tighten around you. âShe is mortal,â he snaps. âShe couldâve died. She does not belong here.âÂ
âPrecisely.â the doe replies, dipping itâs head, great eyes blinking at him.Â
He lifts his gaze, searching, challenging. âShe is mortal.â He repeats firmly, âWhy lure her to this place?âÂ
âYou guard with fury,â the doe continues. âYou lash at the world and call it justice. You keep solitude like a blade. But you keep, too---whether you will or not. There is heat in your watchfulness. It is not only wrath.âÂ
Seokjin grits his teeth. âI did not bring her here.âÂ
âYou also did not send her from the field. She is not here by chance or fretful mortals, though they had their part to play. The thread that pulls is older than your anger. She came because the realm called and a voice answered.âÂ
He laughs, short and bitter, the sound gets swallowed by the trees. âThe realm? And what does it know of mortal bone? What right---â He stops. The doeâs gaze does not waver.Â
âYou would have seen her fall and turned your face,â the doe says, and where it stomps a delicate hoof, grass spring upward. âYou would have cursed the people who sent her, and you would have wept alone in a dark hall. Instead, your hand is under her ribs now. You are watching. That is care. Deny it as you will; the world sees differently.âÂ
The many voices fold again, and softer: âShe is a mend. She is fragile because what must grow must first be alive and not stone.âÂ
Seokjinâs fists find earth and roots bite his palms. Anger rises, an old fire stoking itself in his chest, but beneath it, there is something sharp, almost unbearable: the awareness of your muddy body in his arms. Your breath even. The stubborn, impossible life that refuses to break. He hates the weight of the thought he cannot voice, his heart kicks painfully against his ribs.Â
He takes a slow, calming breath.Â
âYou speak in circles.â he says tersely, trying to rein his anger in before it gets out of hand again. âIf the realm wishes balance, it can find another way than dragging a mortal into peril and then pronouncing the verdict. Tell me plainly---what do you want of her?âÂ
The doe tilts itâs head. âTo be the hinge,â it says. âTo stand where weight breaks the beam. To bear what cannot be borne. She is warm and she will cool; flesh splits when too much leans upon it. You are the keeper of endings---watch then as what is living fractures beneath the worldâs demand. The balance will ask; bone will answer.â Seokjinâs jaw tightens. The words fall like stones. He cannot refute them, cannot deny the truth he will not name.Â
âWhy her?â he asks, voice low. The rain starts up again.Â
He wants to strike, to demand answers, to wrest control, but instead he adjusts you in his arms, careful, and shields you from the rain with the slope of his cloak. The tenderness feels alien and wrong, yet it persists.Â
The doe is silent, and Seokjin presses desperately, âWill she live?âÂ
The doe watches, unblinking, fur glowing faintly under the canopy. âThe heart will beat or it will not,â it says, almost unbothered. âYou will find the measure as you go.âÂ
Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the doe slips between the trees, white disappearing to memory. Its voice lingers only in thought:Â See past your fury, Seokjin.Â
He looks down at you in his arms, so fragility mortal in a place that holds no candle for you. He brushes aside your wet hair, and calls your name. Youâre most definitely alive, but you do not wake. Â
He carries you back through Springâs twisted, dripping paths, and through the veil. You should not have been carried this far in such a state, but the storm leaves him no choice. By the time he pushes through the cabin door, your weight is a furnace in his arms, your head lolling against his shoulder, rainwater dripping from your hair. Mud clings to your hem, staining his robes as he lays you down. He does not care.Â
The sight of you stops him cold. Mud streaks your cheek, rain pools in the hollow of your throat, and your skin---gods, your skin---burns as though fire has taken root beneath it. His hand hovers, fingers flexing, before he forces himself to act.Â
He fetches water first. A cloth. His motions are neat, restrained, jaw tight as he wrings out the cool linen and presses it to your brow, your wrists, your collarbone. When he dares peel the sodden outer layers from your body, he does it with reverence, with the same care he might handle a sacred text. He never looks longer than necessary. He never lets his hands linger. He wraps you in fresh linen, as if dignity itself could anchor you here.Â
And yet his chest tightens with memory. He has done this before. Too many times before. He sat beside his brothers as fevers consumed them, cooled their brows, mixed every tincture he could craft. He read every line of Namjoonâs library until his vision blurred, begging the words to give him something they do not hold. His brothers slipped into ether anyway. He was not enough.Â
Now here you are---another fevered body beneath his hands, another life he cannot save with his divinity. He reaches instinctively, trying to sense the root of your illness, and finds nothing. As though the gods themselves have smudged the lines of your body so he cannot find them. His breath catches, and for a moment he almost withdraws.Â
But he does not. He grinds herbs with shaking fingers, steeps them in water, adds honey to blunt the bitterness. He makes a draught meant for strength and endurance---though some part of him knows, even as he lifts your head and presses the cup to your lips, that it might not touch what ails you. His voice is low and coaxing, when he tells you to swallow.Â
When he sets the cup aside, he does not move. He sits at your bedside, damp hair falling into his eyes, watching the rise and fall of your chest as though, by watching hard enough, he can hold you here. His hand hovers under your ribs, not pressing, only waiting---just as it did with his brothers, long ago.Â
And beneath it all: the fear. The terrible, familiar fear that he is losing you. That you, too, will vanish into the ether, and that he will remain. Alone.Â
Youâre floating in an expanse of darkness, weightless and crushing all at once. Your limbs ache, each movement a thunder of pain, every breath a labor. Your head feels like itâs stuffed with cotton, thick and unyielding. Your tongue feels as heavy as lead; even trying to whisper is futile. Your chest rises and falls unevenly, each inhale scraping raw at your ribs, and a persistent chill crawls under your skin, as if the storm itself has followed you here. Nausea coils low in your stomach, twisting, a slow, relentless pulse of discomfort.Â
When your eyes finally open, not without great effort, youâre greeted by the familiar ceiling of your room. Rain taps a soft, muffled rhythm against the windows, distant and muted, like the sound is filtered through gauze. Something cold and damp presses insistently against your fingers---Dusk. You feel her fur, soaked from the storm, and the faint scent of wet earth clings to you.Â
You notice youâre closer to the edge of the bed than usual. Slowly, sensation returns to your limbs. Your forehead feels cool, your throat bitter, a taste that makes you groan softly. Dusk snuffles at your hand, nudging it, before padding toward the door. Her fur drags against your fingers as she leaves, and not long after, Seokjin appears.Â
He looks relieved, though you cannot fully read the emotion in his face. A small glass rests in his hand, and a sinking dread coils in your stomach. Dusk hops onto the bed, settling nearby along the wall.Â
âYouâre awake,â Seokjin says, approaching to support your head. Your skull feels leaden even under his touch. When he tilts the glass to your lips, you instinctively turn away. âCome now, mouse. You must drink, please.âÂ
The pleading in his voice makes you relent. The liquid is bitter, herbal and sharp, barely dulled by honey. You swallow it quickly, your stomach clenching in protest.Â
He replaces the cloth on your forehead with a cooler one, carefully adjusting it. When he leaves and returns, itâs with a bowl of thin broth and a cup of water. He helps you sit upright, propping pillows behind your back, spooning the broth carefully. Each mouthful is bland, but necessary, and you drink it like itâs life itself.Â
Even as you eat, a hollow sensation gnaws at you. Something feels off---your body is not right. Behind your eyes, a dull ache throbs, and the memory of the storm, his anger, the doe, and the pulsing heart in Springâs domain presses against your mind like a weight you cannot shake.Â
He feeds you until you can drink no more. Â
You sip the water he offers; it soothes your throat. âWh---what happened?â you manage. His gaze falters as he sets the cup down, and you feel the dread in your chest deepen.Â
âIâve done something I shouldnât, havenât I?â you whisper, words trembling.Â
Seokjin exhales through his nose, staring out the window at the great tree beyond. âYes. But it was no fault of yours.âÂ
âAm I⊠dying?âÂ
His eyes meet yours, brimming with a sorrow that wraps around your chest, constricting. He nods softly. âYes.âÂ
Your heart spikes painfully, pounding in your ears. You take a shallow breath to quell the sudden dizziness. Tears sting the corners of your eyes. âCanât⊠canât you fix it?âÂ
âIâve tried,â he murmurs, pressing your hand gently in his. He seems guilty. âI do not know what ails you.âÂ
The room is quiet except for the rain and your shallow breathing. This is the truth laid bare: the fragile thread of your life, slipping beyond both of your control. And all you can do is feel it, accept it, and cling to the warmth of his hand.Â
It wasn't long until you were asleep again, fitful and dreamless, you rested. Â
Itâs two days after that you properly wake; no longer in and out of delirium at the hands of a fever the refused to break. The ache in your limbs is lighter, but persistent, a reminder that something within you is failing. You feel it, the creeping weakness, the hollowness at the edges of your vision, and you know---though you cannot name what it is---that it will only grow. You do not tell him, and he does not ask. He doesnât need to; he can see it anyway, the way your shoulders sag, the way your fingers curl as if holding onto yourself.Â
Seokjin moves beside you silently, his presence a solid anchor against the storm still thrumming in your chest from the past days. He extends a hand, and you take it, letting him help you to your feet. Every step toward the bathroom feels heavier than it should, but his grip is steady, reassuring, patient. You feel the warmth of him through the fabric, a tether that steadies your faltering balance.Â
The bathwater is warm, the steam curling softly around your skin. Seokjin helps you settle, his hands careful, respectful, only guiding you enough that you can ease yourself in without strain. He keeps a towel draped over your shoulders as he reaches for the basin. He pours water over your hair, the scent of rain and herbs lingering faintly in your clothes from earlier, washing it down the drain. The cool droplets trace along your nape and down your back, and you shiver, letting yourself relax into the rhythm of his care.Â
He hums softly, a song in his language you donât understand, the melody low and warm, threading around the steam and the quiet trickle of water. His voice is a balm and you close your eyes for a moment, letting it carry some of the tension from your chest.Â
When heâs done, he drapes a towel over you and steps back, giving you space. You change on your own, the fabric of fresh clothing cool against your damp skin, the small act of independence a tiny reclamation of yourself. Seokjin waits outside, only the faint rustle of the door and your shuffling moving the air between you. You catch the sense of his watchful eyes, calm, unwavering, and though your body aches, the tension eases slightly in the comfort of his restraint.Â
Once youâre ready, he helps you back to your room. You sink into the chair until heâs done striping the sheets and then move over letting the pillows cradle your exhausted form. The new linens smell faintly of lavender that tickles your nose, Seokjin folds the dirty ones youâd sweated your fever into and places them into a basket near the wardrobe. You watch him, the movements precise, deliberate, as though every action matters, and perhaps it does.Â
He checks your temperature, his hands warm against your skin. Still too warm, though not dangerously so, heâd said, and you let out a small sigh of relief. He studies you a moment longer, the quiet lines of worry around his eyes softened by the faintest trace of relief.Â
âHow are you feeling?â he asks finally, his voice low and careful, not pressing too much. His gaze meets yours, steady and unflinching. You can feel the weight of his attention, the unspoken promise that he will be here, that he will not let go, even if the world seems to be slipping away from you.Â
You swallow, taste the faint bitterness of lingering herbs at the back of your tongue, and meet his eyes. âBetter⊠a little,â you whisper. âThanks, Seokjin.âÂ
He nods, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting his lips. âGood. Weâll take it slowly. One step at a time, mouse.âÂ
The days blur together, fever-hazed and slow. You spend more time between sheets than anywhere else, your strength leaking out of you drop by drop. The rhythm of your world narrows: the taste of bitter herbs laced with honey, the press of a cool cloth against your forehead, the sound of rain or wind at the window. Always, Seokjin is there.Â
You notice it first when you wake one morning and hear silence outside. No rustle of his robe through the hall, no distant hum of power sweeping through the land. He used to be gone for hours, tending to what the realms, the weight of his dominion etched into his very posture. Now, he steps out only brieflyâsometimes not at all. You catch him watching you instead, perched in a chair by the at your bedside, as if the tilt of your breath matters more than the turning of the seasons.Â
Dusk never leaves you, either. The little fox curls at your side, head pillowed against your thigh on the worst days when you can barely sit up. Her warm weight is an anchor, the gentle rise and fall of her body a comfort against the unsteadiness of your own. Sometimes she noses your hand until your fingers curl into her fur, grounding you when the sickness drags you under.Â
Seokjin notices. Heâll pause mid-step when your hand drifts into Duskâs pelt, his expression unreadable, though you catch the faintest softening at the corner of his mouth before he turns away.Â
And there are other moments, too.Â
He hums while rinsing the herbs from your hair, a melody so low you feel it more than you hear it. You lean into the touch of his fingers against your scalp, eyes closed, and something quiet blooms inside your chestâan ache that isnât illness or fever.Â
Or when he steadies your elbow on the walk back to your bed, his palm warm, his grip gentle yet firm enough that you cannot fall. Your pulse stumbles, just a little, and you tell yourself itâs only the sickness, not the way your body leans into his without thought.Â
Or when he leaves a bowl of broth half-finished on the table beside you, pretending not to notice you couldnât manage it, but later, you find the vegetables diced smaller.Â
Your fever comes and goes. On some days youâre blessedly cool, able to walk about freely but slowly. On others, your roasting. Youâve come to expect it. Â
You move more cautiously, aware of the way your body protests at each step, and he adjusts to you with a patience that surprises you. Each morning he helps you rise, supporting you with steady hands, pressing a cool cloth to your brow before you can ask, adjusting pillows behind you, making sure your limbs donât bear more weight than they can.Â
Meals become quiet rituals. He prepares them carefully, chopping vegetables just so, simmering broths that smell faintly of herbs and honey. You eat slowly, sipping the warm liquid, and he watches, silently noting each shiver, each faltering swallow. When your hand trembles, he steadies it. When your breath catches, he pauses, hand hovering near you, not touching unless you need him to. The small attentions build between you, invisible threads binding you together.Â
Sometimes he hums quietly while you sit near him. Low, gentle tones in his language, just enough to fill the silence, to keep the house from feeling empty. You lean against him without thinking, feeling the weight of his presence, and occasionally he will place a hand on your shoulder, linger just a moment longer than necessary, as though testing the line between care and worry, restraint and the need to reach out.Â
You share quiet conversations, fragments of your thoughts and feelings drifting across the room like fragile leaves. You tell him how you feel when your chest aches or your head swims. He does not rush to fix you---he cannot---but he listens. He acknowledges every word with a nod, a hand hovering just near yours, a glance that softens his otherwise stern expression.Â
You notice the little things he does: smoothing the blanket around you when you fall asleep in the chair, refilling your cup without being asked, leaving small jars of honey or bread within reach. He does not speak of your illness, does not name the creeping fear that accompanies it, but every gesture tells you he notices, that he is aware, that he is here.Â
He sleeps every three days, always in the uncomfortable looking chair. Youâd watch him, the minute flutter of his eyelashes and the furrow in his brow that never seems to go away. He assured you that heâs fine sleeping there and when you argued the quality of his rest instead, he told you he didnât require much sleep. Â
You begin to see him in a new way---not only as the storm and fire you first met, but as someone capable of quiet devotion. He allows you to rest your head against his shoulder as he hums, let your hand brush against his sleeve when the world feels too heavy. There are moments of laughter too, small and soft, when Dusk trips over a blanket or a breeze rattles a window. These are fleeting, but they linger in your chest, small islands of light in the shadow of your weakening body.Â
Some nights, he reads aloud to you from the books he keeps close, his voice low and steady, filling the space with words that anchor you in the world. Other nights, you simply sit together, shoulders touching, feeling the rhythm of each otherâs breath, the small comfort of not being alone.Â
A month pass like this, slow and tender. You know the truth---your body is failing---but it becomes easier to exist in his care, easier to surrender to the hands that lift you, the presence that shields you, the quiet that waits patiently beside you. He does not speak of the end, and you do not ask, yet the understanding hums between you, unspoken, a delicate thread weaving trust from fear, grief, and care.Â
Youâve made your peace, accepting that this is your end. Eventually, you would close your eyes and they wouldnât open. Â
Today, the air outside is crisp, a gentle chill that nips at your cheeks, though the heavy cloak draped over your shoulders keeps most of it at bay. Seokjin insisted on the hood, tugging it into place himself before letting you step past the threshold. Â
He stays close as you walk, his hand brushing lightly at your elbow each time the uneven ground threatens to catch you. Dusk trots ahead, tail flicking like a banner through the pale light of his domain.Â
âItâs colder than I thought,â you murmur, pulling the cloak tighter.Â
âI did warn you,â Seokjin replies, his tone dry but not unkind. âIf you shiver even once, Iâll take you straight back inside.âÂ
You tilt your head toward him, half-hidden in the hood. âYouâd drag me back over a shiver?âÂ
âOf course.â His lips twitch, but he keeps his gaze fixed ahead. âOne must uphold their threats, or what use are they?âÂ
That draws a laugh from you, light and unguarded, and he glances down at the sound. Thereâs something in his expression---something softened and eased---like heâs caught off guard by the sight of your smile, as though itâs rare and precious.Â
Dusk bounds back toward you then, nearly tripping you in her enthusiasm. Seokjin steadies you with one hand at your back, firm and warm through the cloak, and for a moment his hand lingers just a breath longer than it should before he withdraws.Â
You both stop near a cluster of frost-tipped grass, the tips glinting silver in the waning light. Seokjin helps lower you down to sit, his hands holding steady to your forearms, and then makes sure that your cloak is tucked securely around you. Then, he sits next to you with a soft sigh, tilting his face to the pale sky overhead. Â
âJinâŠâ you call softly, and he doesnât protest the shortness of his name, âThank you.â Â
He watches you silently for a moment, brows furrowed and you feel like youâve ruined the mood. You look down at the browning tuffs of grass sticking from the dirt, reaching out to slide a finger against a blade. Â
âI just thought Iâd say it before I donât get the chance toâŠâ Â
âThere is no need to thank me.â He murmurs, and he takes your hand away from the grass. His hand is warm; itâs a small comfort you relish. His hand is also much bigger, and you measure your palm against his. Â
You look up to find him staring at you. Youâre sure you look a sight. The dark circles under your eyes have worsened in the past couple of days, and your complexion isnât doing much better. Â
âDo I look terrible?â you whisper, leaning closer like youâre telling a secret, but Seokjin shakes his head. Â
âQuite the opposite.â He offers a smile, and you donât call his bluff. He tucks some of your hair that escaped the covering of your hood back where itâs meant to be, his warm fingers longer on the curve of your jaw. âHow about we head back in now?â Â
Seokjin slows his steps so you can keep up, and youâre grateful for it, your hand curled into the crook of his elbow. The corridors twist and weave, shadowed but warm with the faint glow of sconces, and Dusk trots ahead, her paws clicking softly against the stone floor, ears flicking at every echo. You follow, each step cushioned by the rhythm of his stride, the weight of his presence anchoring you, fragile as you feel.Â
âWhere are we going?â you ask, voice small against the quiet.Â
âDo you not know the concept of a surprise?â Seokjin purses his lips, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. âYouâll see when we get there.âÂ
You grumble under your breath, but the corners of your mouth lift anyway. Thereâs a strange comfort in the fact that heâs here with you. Maybe itâs because youâre dying, and heâs the only thing you can cling to---but it still matters. Youâd been walking for a while from your room, feet shuffling alongside Seokjinâs sure steps.Â
Finally, he stops at a door carved with star maps so intricate it feels as if the constellations themselves were frozen in wood. Seokjin pushes it open and gestures for you to go in first.Â
The room Is breathtaking. Moonlight filters through the domed ceiling, catching motes of dust like tiny stars suspended in the air. Telescopes lean against railings, parchment scrolls scatter across tables, and along the walls, more constellations shimmer in delicate gold inlays. The scent of old paper, dust, and wax fills your nose.Â
âI know these stars,â you whisper, pointing up at the constellation of Aquarius, your voice catching slightly.Â
âYes.â Seokjinâs smile is gentle, almost tentative. âMy brother, Hoseok, favoured them over our own.âÂ
You blink at him, surprised. Confused, too. This is the first time heâs mentioned anyone else. His body seems relaxed, but the weight in his eyes betrays centuries of memory, of loss.Â
âI had three brothers,â he says softly, fingers plucking at a stray parchment, tracing faint lines as though touching memory itself. âEach of them lords of a season. As time went on, the humans forgot, and they died. Faded into the ether. I remain because the mortals cling too tightly. It is why I am here alone.âÂ
The words settle over you like cold rain. You feel the enormity of his grief, centuries of it pressed into the space between you.Â
âIâm sorry,â you say, tears pricking your eyes. You step closer, gently reaching for him. He shakes his head, a shadow of something like regret passing over his face.Â
âIt isnât your fault. I am sorry I treated you so poorly, mouse.âÂ
You wrap your arms around his middle, and he freezes for a heartbeat, a surprised sound escaping him. Then, very slowly, deliberately, he wraps his arms around you in return. His cheek presses to your hair, the pressure firm but careful, and his hand pats your back a little awkwardly, as though unsure how much is too much.Â
âWellâŠÂ Iâm here. Youâre not alone,â you murmur, even as your head spins slightly, faint with the remnants of fever. âFor as long as fate keeps me, or until youâre free of me.âÂ
He chuckles softly, the vibrations rolling from his chest into yours, a warmth that steadies you. A wetness drips from the ceiling above, landing on your hair, and he tightens his hold instinctively, as if shielding you from the rain itself. The world outside might be storming, the domain might be unraveling in ways you canât yet perceive, but in this room, with him holding you like this, thereâs a pause---a fragile, fleeting peace.Â
You press closer, feeling the steady rhythm of him, the solid, fleshy thump of his heart under his ribs. You donât know why youâre surprised to hear it. In a sense, heâs just as human as you are; he feels all the same. He feels so much at all times and youâre only beginning to understand. Â
There are days where he watches you with so much sadness, like heâs already sunk halfway into the void your absence would cause. He doesnât speak it, doesnât reach for you, but itâs there---in the way his gaze lingers, heavy with things he will not give name to. He carries grief like marrow in his bones, and yet with you⊠with you, he allows it to soften.Â
And you feel it too, in the small ways: how your chest tightens when he hums low in his own tongue while tending to you, how your fingers itch to brush his hair back when it falls loose, how you find yourself waiting for his laugh, rare as it is, like the first bird after winter. You tell yourself itâs comfort, a necessary tether in this strange place, but comfort does not ache like this. Comfort does not make your pulse stumble when his hand steadies your elbow, when his shoulder brushes yours.Â
The dizziness that sweeps through your head swells, even as youâre sanding still you can feel the room swaying. Â
âI feel dizzyâŠâ you mutter, leaning against him heavily, and without question he guides you back to your room. You lament not being able to fully appreciate the Observatory, Seokjin said heâd take you back when you feel a little better. Â
You feel the world tilt beneath your feet as you find the solid reassurance of the mattress. Your limbs are heavy, leaden, though your mind is alive in a way that makes your body ache even more. Every muscle hums with exhaustion; every breath feels borrowed.Â
He settles you into bed, tucking the thick blanket around your shoulders and then lays his palm against your forehead, âYour fever is returning.â He says, frowning. Â
âIâm⊠sleepy,â you murmur, voice thick and fragile, âbut⊠waterâŠâÂ
Seokjin nods, taking your hand in his, he brushes his lips against your knuckles; you barely feel it. He whispers heâd be back before he rises and leaves the room for the moment. The air feels colder without him so close, the shadows stretching longer.Â
You close your eyes, taking a breath that gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You wonder whatâs taking Seokjin so long and try to hold onto the thought. Instead, it slips from your grasp, dissolving into nothing, and a heaviness presses down from your chest. The sensation is at once terrifying and peaceful, like floating into a void that waits to swallow you whole.Â
Images drift through your mind, fragments of a life you will never finish. Your parentsâ faces, your childhood home, warm smiles youâll never see again. Friends you never had the chance to say goodbye to. Laughter, arguments, memories lost in the blur of what could have been. You try to speak, to call a name, to beg a moment longer---but the words crumble in your throat. Â
You hope that your parents would be able to move forward with the loss of you, itâs a selfish thing to ask, itâs been nearly two months since your disappearance. With any hope they wouldâve buried you already. Â
SeokjinâŠÂ
You think you wouldâve liked to stay. However long you wouldâve been allowed. You were happy here. The past weeks had been the most peaceful youâve had in your days, and you were glad that he was here with you despite your start. Maybe something couldâve grown from it. The thought almost makes you laugh, really, youâre practically a kid to him. Heâs seen thousands of sunsets and would see thousands more when youâre gone. Â
You had nothing to lose, and perhaps you shouldâve said that you wouldâve at least liked to see fifty of those sunsets, too. A tear from your eye and into your ear but you canât lift youâre hand to wipe at it, you barely feel it anyway. Youâre glad he at least has Dusk. Â
Your body relaxes In ways it hasnât in months, muscles melting, limbs folding into the mattress as though the bed itself wants to carry you away. You feel the heat of your own life dimming, the steady pulse in your veins slowing, fadingâŠÂ
And yet there is a strange, almost tender awareness: you leave softly, almost like a sigh into the ether. Your last conscious thought is a fleeting hope that Seokjin would not be consumed by his grief and anger. Itâs a foolish hope. Heâd lost so much already, but you hold tight to it. Â
Then⊠nothing.Â
Seokjin returns to your room, the small glass of water clutched in his hand, expecting to see you propped against the pillows, eyes fluttering open to meet him. The door swings wide, and his chest tightens immediately. Â
You lie there, but the rise and fall of your chest is gone. The warmth, the fragile pulse that always reassures him---you are still, utterly still.Â
The cup slips from his fingers, splashing uselessly onto the floor. Panic roars through him, a fire he cannot quench. He crawls into the bed, lifting you into his arms with trembling hands, cradling you as though sheer force could pull the life back. Your head rests against his shoulder, hair damp and clinging, your body weightless yet unbearably heavy.Â
âNo⊠no, pleaseâŠâ His voice breaks, ragged and raw. He presses his lips to your forehead, to the faint warmth that lingers, though it is fading, and he cannot hold onto it. His tears drip freely onto your hair, mixing with the damp strands that curl against his palm.Â
âPlease,â he chokes, voice cracking further, âplease⊠return to me. I am here⊠I am right here⊠I will protect you---please, just stayâŠâÂ
He lifts his gaze to the ceiling, to the silent heavens above, the divinities he has known for centuries, and he shouts, voice echoing against the walls: âSend her back! I beg you! Do not take her from me! She is not yours!âÂ
Silence answers.Â
He lowers his head again, pressing his cheek against yours, feeling the last traces of warmth fade beneath his fingers. His body shakes uncontrollably, hands clutching you as if letting go would mean losing you forever. The storm outside hammers against the windows, but it is nothing compared to the tempest in his chest.Â
âShe cannot---she cannot leave me,â he whispers, almost to himself, choking on the grief that swells like an ocean in his chest. âNot like this⊠not nowâŠÂ please, just a moment moreâŠâÂ
Every heartbeat he thought he could count, every breath he imagined he could share with you, is gone. Your pulse has stilled, your presence slipping into nothing, and he feels the full weight of it---your absence crushing and absolute.Â
Seokjin rocks you gently, his tears falling freely onto your hair and shoulders, his sobs ragged. âI beg you⊠whoever watches over the world, whoever rules the ether⊠return her to me. Please, hear me! She is here---she is all I have! Do not take her!âÂ
His hands tremble as he presses them against your chest, willing warmth to return, willing life to cling to you. But there is nothing. Only silence. Only emptiness. Only the echo of what was, and the hollow ache that now fills the room entirely.Â
He buries his face In your hair, crying until he cannot breathe, until the storm outside becomes nothing compared to the tempest within him. He cannot save you. He cannot fix this. He is left with only the unbearable knowledge that you are gone, that the last warmth he felt in your body is now lost, and that the world will never again feel whole while he holds the memory of you in his arms.Â
âShe is all I have! Do not take her from me! I will give anything, please!â Seokjinâs voice cracks, raw with grief, reverberating against the walls. His hands clutch your shoulders, your arms, desperate to anchor you, to pull you back into the world.Â
For a heartbeat, you are there---warm, heavy in his arms, a stubborn weight that grounds him. And then the warmth fades first, a subtle cold creeping into his fingers. Your body begins to blur, edges softening as if the light itself is being drawn from you. He feels it before he sees it---your presence, the stubborn pulse, the life heâs clung to, slipping away like smoke through his hands.Â
âNo⊠no, stay! Please!â he sobs, as the weight of you leaves his arms, clinging to the echo of your warmth.Â
And just like that, you are gone. His arms close around empty air. The bed beneath him is still, the warmth vanished, and the echo of your being drifts into the silence. Only the faint scent of rain and your hair remains, teasing him with a memory, a cruel shadow of what was.Â
Seokjin rocks forward slightly, clutching at the sheets, tears streaking down his face, every sob a mirror of the void inside him. The storm outside continues its rhythm.Â
He stays like that, holding nothing but the air where you should have been, even as his cries dissolve into silence, leaving only the emptiness of a room---and a heart---that cannot be repaired.Â
Silence presses in on him, suffocating and complete. The storm outside rages, a mirror of his own grief.Â
The walls shudder; the floor beneath him groans and bends, unseen forces twisting and breaking the very air. Lightning strikes, thunder shattering, the cabin itself convulsing like a dying thing. Seokjinâs vision swims, and yet he does not acknowledge the world unraveling around him. He is drowning in loss, grief so raw it eclipses everything else. He thinks, if this is how I die, I would gladly go⊠if only I could see my brothers, see her againâŠÂ
Stars outside his windows warp, constellations bending in impossible angles. The great tree beyond the cabin shudders violently, its roots thrumming against the soil like a heartbeat in reverse. Seokjinâs divine senses flare, and he sees the fractures in Springâs domain spreading like cracks in glass, each one a ripple of loss, of imbalance.Â
The air shudders, a low moan rolling from the foundations as if the world itself is mourning. Every scent, every sound, every particle of light feels wrong, discordant, hollowed by your absence.Â
And Seokjin---God of the Harvest who had held the seasons, who had endured the deaths of his brothers, who had watched you slip into the ether---feels utterly, and terrifyingly powerless.Â
The unraveling spreads beyond his house, brushing the edges of Springâs domain and probably the others as well. Crystalline filaments of light pulse unevenly, roots writhe unnaturally, and a subtle decay creeps into the vibrant green, eating at the life he has known for centuries. The balance he has clutched with unyielding hands is gone, and he is left with the stark truth: he is alone, and the world itself begins to falter because of it.Â
Hours---or was it minutes?---pass in the haze of sorrow. When the trembling and chaos finally recede, he finds himself still in the cabin. The structure is scarred, walls cracked, windows splintered, but he is untouched. Unharmed. The enormity of that fact is a fresh stab: why him? Why must he remain to endure this pain every time? His hands shake as he presses them to his face, tears streaking his cheeks, rage and despair warring in his chest.Â
Evidently, heartbreak cannot kill him, but, he thinks, this time it might just.Â
His chest heaves from a tension that feels like it might shatter him entirely. His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, the ache of having lost you pressing on him from every angle.Â
A faint light stirs In the corner of the room. Impossible, and yet it grows until the doe stands before him once more. Snow-white, impossible, eyes faint galaxies in the dim, shattered light. Its presence is calm, commanding, and it speaks, a whisper layered into his mind:Â
âWhy do you weep, Warden?âÂ
Seokjin does not raise his head. He grits his teeth, voice rough and low. âWhat do you want? Havenât you taken enough?âÂ
The doe tilts its head, as if amused. âWe have not taken.âÂ
Rage and grief bubble up, uncontained. Seokjin does not hesitate. With a gesture, he casts a strike of magic toward the creature. The bolt passes through the doe effortlessly, striking the wall behind it. The wood cracks, rotting almost instantly where it touches, a mark of devastation that passes harmlessly through the messenger. The doe does not flinch.Â
âYour counter is with you.âÂ
And just as silently as it appeared, turns and vanishes into specks of light.Â
For a long while he stays there, until Dusk comes to him, nuzzling at his thigh and pushing her head under his palm. Heâd forgotten his companion in his grief, and smiles sadly as he scratches behind her ear. Â
She nips at his hand and then tugs at his sleeve with her teeth, ears pinned back. Â
âWhatâŠâ he sighs at her insistent tugging and gets to his feet. She sprints out the door and Seokjin follows. Â
He stumbles outside, eyes unfocused, only to find frost covering the grass in his lands. Winter creeping where it should not be. The trees of his forest has changed; skeletal and frost bitten, they bow under the weight of blanketed snow. Some of them still turns amber and bronze. He wonders if the barrier of winter had shattered. That should warrant uncontrollable concern, but Seokjin feels nothing. Â
Then his gaze drifts toward Spring, that seems a little brighter and vibrant in a way it hasnât been in decades. The decay he had known---the sickness in the trees, the imbalance---has vanished. Every leaf glows faintly, every root hums with life, and he is utterly, utterly confused.Â
Dusk rolls around in the dewy grass, running in circles before darting off into Spring. The air feels different. Though grief squeezes his heart, he follows the vixen. She doesnât wait for him. She goes rolling around in the bushes, an excited, happy screech leaving her and he watches with some confusion. Â
What is there to be so happy about?! Her glee almost makes him sick. Â
He checks the trees and the undergrowth, theyâre all fine. Its like the disruption of the balance in his brothersâ absence never occurred. Spring is humming with life, and wholly life. Â
Thereâs a ripple in the air, and thereâs something familiar in it.Â
He stands straight, following Dusk as she runs around and disappears into the glade. A figure stands there, and for a moment, Seokjin almost doesnât believe it. It wouldnât be the first time his mind had conjured ghosts for the sake of his grief. Â
Sunlight glistens off your hair, setting you aglow with a radiance that feels almost too much for his divine sight. No longer do you wear the ill-fitted tunics and trousers that hung loose on your frail body. Instead, a gown drapes over you in silken folds, dyed in deep forest green and embroidered with threads of gold that catch the light when you shift. A sash of golden-yellow silk ties at your waist, the ends fluttering in the breeze like captured sunlight. Wide sleeves ripple as you lift your hands, staring at your own skin as though it is a miracle, as though you cannot quite believe your body is your own.Â
You turn at the sound of Duskâs delighted chitter, her fur brushing your skirts as she bounds around you. And then your gaze lifts---across the glade, across the divide---and collides with Seokjinâs.Â
He freezes. His heart stops. His hands tremble violently at his sides, as though his body can no longer contain the rush of grief, relief, and disbelief crashing through him all at once. For a moment he truly thinks this is another cruel conjuring, another phantom his mind has built to gnaw at him in his loneliness. But then your lips part on a startled breath, and your eyes widen, shimmering with the same impossible glow he sees haloing your form.Â
Something cracks inside him. A sob claws its way up his throat before he can stop it. His knees weaken, but he lurches forward anyway, step by unsteady step, gaze locked on you as though even blinking might banish you. Had someone listened? Had some higher power taken pity, heard the broken prayers he had choked into the linens? Had they given you back to him?Â
His chest burns, his throat tightens, his whole body shakes with the sheer force of it---this impossible, miraculous sight of you alive.Â
He stumbles into the glade, his eyes refusing to leave yours, drinking in every impossible detail of you.Â
You breathe his name---soft, trembling, stunned---and his lungs nearly collapse with the sound. It cuts through him like sunlight breaking storm clouds, fragile and brilliant. He sways, as if the ground beneath him canât be trusted.Â
ââŠyouâre glowing,â you whisper, voice edged with wonder, as though he is the miracle here.Â
A strangled laugh escapes him, wet with tears. âSo are you, silly girl.â The words crack, but they carry more tenderness than anything he has ever spoken.Â
For a beat, he simply stands there, shaking, afraid that if he reaches out youâll scatter into light the way his brothers had. But you are solid, your eyes wet and shimmering, your chest rising and falling with breath. And suddenly it is too much too much to hold in. Â
He closes the distance in a rush, hands rising as though pulled by something stronger than will. His palms cradle your face, warm and trembling, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth as though to prove youâre real, and then his lips find yours.Â
The kiss Is not fleeting. It is desperate, reverent, aching---a confession without words, a prayer answered and spoken back into your skin. All the grief he cannot say, the hours he spent begging, the hollow he thought would consume him---all of it pours out of him and into you. Â
And though it takes you by surprise, you do not pull away, you return it, fingers dipping into his hair. His tears smear between you, his breath shudders as he holds you closer, tighter, as if the universe itself might try again to rip you away. The kiss deepens, messy and raw, full of every word he cannot bring himself to say aloud.Â
When he finally draws back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to steady himself. His chest heaves with the force of everything he feels. His voice is a rasp, almost broken:Â
âI thought I lost you.âÂ
âYou didâŠâ you say, brows furrowed, âI died. I felt myself die and then I was justâŠstanding here.â Â
Seokjin brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek, lifting his head to kiss your forehead. You pull away a little to look up at him, frowning, âYou were crying.â Â
âYes, wellâŠthat is to be expected.â He says softly, smiling. Â
Your lips part to reply, but before you can, thereâs a shift in the glade.Â
The air bends. A hush spreads like frost through the grass. The light thickens, silver and unreal. The doe emerges, stepping between veils of shadow and glow, its hooves leaving no mark on the earth. It regards the two of you with eyes too ancient to belong to such a delicate form.Â
Seokjin pulls you slightly behind him, but the doe simply stares, until it speaks:Â
âOne alone cannot bear the weight of turning. One alone cannot carry the circle without fracture. Thus the wheel split, thus it turned uneven. Thus decay threatened root and crown alike.âÂ
You shiver, clutching at Seokjinâs sleeve, the words carving their way into you without sense. But he understands. He hears the meaning beneath the riddle.Â
âThen it was never meant to be mine alone.â he says quietly to himself, not a question.Â
The doe lowers its head, fur glinting as though dipped in starlight.Â
âFour as two, two as one. Balance is the seam of the world. What was mortal dies; what is bound remains. The seasons bow not to blood but to balance. And now, no tongue nor memory sustains you. You are as stone and root, as sun and tide---eternal without witness, unbroken without prayer.âÂ
It lifts Its head again, unblinking. âAutumn and Winter find their keeper. Spring and Summer no longer drift unclaimed. The circle is whole.âÂ
And just as suddenly as it appeared, the light folds back in on itself. The doe dissolves into mist and silence, leaving only the whisper of its presence behind. The glade exhales.Â
Seokjin stays still for a long moment, his gaze locked on the place where it had stood. He breathes once, twice, before lowering his eyes back to you. You are staring at him, bewildered and afraid.Â
âJinâŠâ your voice trembles. âWhat does it mean?âÂ
He exhales, slow and heavy, and lifts a hand to your cheek, as though trying anchoring you with the gentleness of his touch. His eyes shine, though this time not only with grief.Â
âIt means,â he says, steady but soft, âyou are no longer mortal. You died---your mortal self did---but you were remade. To stand beside me.â He swallows, thumb brushing over your skin like a vow. âYou are what I am now. A goddess. The keeper of spring and summer. My equal.âÂ
His voice drops, reverent, almost awed. âAnd unlike beforeâŠwe do not fade when forgotten. No mortal remembrance holds us. We are balance itself. Eternal.âÂ
âOhâŠâ you whisper, and Seokjin can tell you need more than a moment to absorb it. Youâre probably trying to work out a lot more than just that, having just died and been reborn. Â
You gaze around at Spring, âSoâŠthis is mine now?â Â
âYes.â Seokjin takes a step back, giving you room to breath even though all he wants to do is hold onto you. Â
âIs this how you see?â you ask suddenly, looking at your hands before raising your eyes again. A soft wind blows through the glade, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and fruit trees given new life.Â
âWhat do you see?â Unable to help himself, Seokjin takes a step closer, taking your hands in his. Theyâre warm, blessedly so, he prefers it to the chill of death that gripped them before. Â
He studies you, the way your eyes widen and unfocus, as though youâre peering at something no one else could possibly see. Your lips part, but it takes you a long moment to find your voice.Â
âItâsâŠâ Your breath catches, your hand lifting toward the trees. âTheyâre alive. All of them. The trees, the stones, the roots under the earth. I can feel them, hear their voices.â You break off, shaking your head as if the words refuse to fit. âItâs everything all at once. Too muchâŠâÂ
He understands, it was overwhelming for him too, when he was left to oversee his brothersâ domains. He canât imagine what itâs like for you. Â
âIt will take time to get used to.â He says, caressing your knuckles with his thumb. His eyes filter across you, the mark youâd been branded with upon your arrival was gone. Â
You turn your palm over and grasp his hand, something sad filters through your gaze. Seokjin looks at your palm, the scar had remained, and echo of the mortality you left behind.Â
âIâve already made my peace with it, butâŠmy parents.âÂ
âDo you wish to see them?â He asks softly, tilting his head to catch your gaze. Your eyes sparkle like sunlight on water. Â
âIs that possible?â Â
âThere is a way, yes.â Seokjin looks over your head, squinting into the distance, âAlthough Iâm not entirely certain Winter can be accessed that way.â Â
He hums to himself and then turns back to you, âThere is another way to it.â Â
He leads you back to his domain, and into his house and he frowns at the state of it. âThey couldâve been neater about that shift. Look at this mess.â Â
It would be something to fuss about later, he waves a hand, leading you across the foyer and up the stairs. Â
It feels strange bringing you this way willingly when heâd so adamantly attested against it. And heâs rather embarrassed now about thee way heâd reacted back then, but you donât seem too bothered. You simply smile at him and squeezes his hand. Â
He leads you down the hall towards the doors and stops before them. The doors that belonged to his brothersâ, over time had lost their magic, it fills his eyes with tears now to see them alive again. Yoongiâs door was no longer frosted over, instead, it shimmers in the light, as though a million snowflakes had made home there. The vines that grew along Namjoonâs door breathed again, vibrant and green and flowering. Hoseokâs door was no longer dark; golden veins stretched along itâs length. Just as before. Â
He feels your palm on his back and he realises he was just standing there, staring. He turns the knob of Winterâs door, and it opens to a stone room. A glass window sends pale light dancing along the walls, and glints off the erecter podium at its center. Atop it sits a stone basin, glowing runes etched along itâs side.Â
The room is much cooler than he expected, considering how many years itâs spent frozen through. Â
âThis belonged to Yoongi.â He says, letting you go in first, you gaze around in wonder even though there was not much to the room. âHe would use it too look into the mortal world, but its power faded with him. It seems itâs working now, as Iâd hoped.â He closes the door behind him, as you shuffle over to a painting hung on the far wall. Â
Seokjin smiles faintly. Its something Yoongi had painted himself; a portrait of them all. The paint had dulled over the years, muted, but show no real wear. It had been missing for a long time, neither of them knew what Yoongi had done with it. Itâs been here the entire time. Â
For so long, he had raged against the stillness left in their absence, clawing at the empty corners of the seasons as though grief might coax them back. If the higher divinities had the power to weave life from nothing, to shape balance from chaos, why had they left him alone? Why had they not returned what was taken?Â
The ache of losing them had once been unbearable, an open fracture that seemed to split him with every step he took. He had carried it like a weight chained to his chest, a constant reminder of all that had been stripped away. Â
But as he looked at you now --- at the power curled beneath your skin, at the light bending instinctively to your breath --- he felt the shape of the answer. This was not replacement; it was continuation. What had ended with his brothers had also cleared a space, an aching hollow where something new might take root. You were not a second chance for them. You were the balance born of their absence, as inevitable and necessary as the turning of seasons.Â
It did not erase his mourning, but it softened the edges. The higher powers had not denied him; they had shifted the pattern. And though a part of him would always ache for what had been lost, he would not trade this--- you --- for even the faintest echo of it.Â
However, his brothers were not gone from him entirely. They will live within the marrow of his being, their essence braided into his own. He will find Namjoon in the patience that steadied his temper, Hoseok in the warmth that sometimes surprised even him, Yoongi in the hush of silence that asked to be respected.Â
He no longer sought to reclaim them, nor raged against the fate that had taken them from him. Instead, he had come to understand that he bore them forward with him, not as absence, but as presence of another kind. In his quietest hours, he found comfort in the thought that the divine was not measured in permanence, but in what endures long after form has faded. And in that truth, he had finally made his peace.Â
He looks at you and he sees them there, in the power that was bent and shaped now to fit you. The threads of their dominions shimmered faintly around you, not as they once were, but reborn through your hands; softened and transformed. Springâs patient renewal and Summerâs unyielding warmth --- they lingered in you, refracted through the prism of your being. What was lost had not vanished entirely; it had taken root in different soil.Â
You did not wear their mantle as an echo. You carried it as something wholly your own, a living testament that the divine did not end but changed, as all things must. Seokjinâs chest tightened with the strange, steady ache of recognition. In you, he did not see shadows of his brothers, but the proof that their essence remained part of the world, refusing extinction. Â
And as he watched you, he understood: this was how balance survived. Not through the permanence of gods, but through the weaving of what was, into what would be.Â
He steps behind you, pointing, âThis is Yoongi, Namjoon and Hoseok.â He chuckles, fondly. âHe had us sit for hours and then simply magiked himself into it in the end. Hobi complained for days.â Â
He catches your gaze, and he squeezes your arm gently, âIâve made my peace, mouse.âÂ
He leads you over to the basin with a hand at the small of your back. The water ripples without wind, a rainbow of light across your cheek. âAll you must do is look into it. It will do the rest.â Â
You lean over the basin to peer into it, and Seokjin watches as the water shimmers and swirls. He only hopes it would show you enough to put your mind at ease. Forms take shape, thereâs a hitch in your breath when they materialise in the water. Â
They sit together at a table, an album between them. You look like them both, Seokjin thinks, as your mother, clutching a tissue, points at something in the album and laughs. Thereâs sadness in it, but acceptance. Your father grips her hand tightly in his.Â
You stare for a long moment, fingers tracing the edges of their forms, quiet. Seokjin allows you this, only letting himself be a witness. Â
After a moment more, your voice breaks the silence. âTheyâre okayâŠâ your voice is barely above a whisper, hands brushing the edge of the basin. Â
âYes, theyâve carried on, as mortals do.â Seokjin replies softly, âThis room is always open to you, if you wish.â Â
You straighten, wiping a hand under your eyes, Seokjin softens at the sight. âHow long has it been?âÂ
âNo more than youâve been here, mouse.â You take the news rather well, with a deep breath and tears on your waterline. You lean against him and he holds your weight, pressing an apologetic kiss to your temple. Â
When finally pulled yourself away he leads you of the room and back into the hallway. You pause to take a breath, gripping tightly to his sleeve. Â
âAlright?â he asks softly, and you nod.Â
âYeah, Iâm alright.â Â
âPerhaps you should rest.â He ventures and at your groan he chuckles. You lean your forehead against his chest and he pats your head. âIâll take that as a no, then.â Â
âIâm tired of resting.â Your voice is a bit muffled. Â
You walk with him back down stairs, and heâs glad to find that no part of you was lost in transition. You ask a million questions that he can barely keep up with. Reminiscent, he finds it rather amusing. Â
âMouse.â He says finally, âyou ask far too many questions.â Â
âAnd you havenât answered one of them.â You fire back, and if Seokjin thought you were trouble in your mortality, youâre downright dangerous in your divinity. Â
He takes a step forward and you take one back until he has you crowded against the wall. You look up at him and he clicks his tongue against his teeth. âI cannot give without taking, mouse. You know this, yes?â Â
You try looking away but Seokjin doesnât allow it, catching your jaw with his fingers. âPerhaps, if you offered something in turn, Iâd be so inclined.â Â
At your flustered expression he could only laugh. Leaning down, he kisses the corner of your mouth. Unexpectedly, but not unwelcomed, you chase and he kisses you properly. Â
âI will answer all of your questions in time, mouse.â He runs his thumb along your bottom lip, then he pulls away, âBut for now, I will teach you how to tend to your domain.âÂ
There will come a time when the world will falter, when rivers will dry and skies will darken, when the weight of despair presses heavy upon mortal hearts. Seasons may break, as they always have, and kingdoms will rise only to fall back into the soil from which they sprang.Â
But the balance shall never be lost. For Change and Rebirth walk hand in hand. One to unmake, the other to restore. One to tear down the old, the other to breathe life anew. Together they will weave the endless cycle, ensuring that from every ending, there blooms a beginning.Â
The people will tell of them In hushed voices, in songs by firelight and prayers carried by the wind. Of the god who could shatter the sky, and the one who could mend it with dawn. Of the masters who were not bound by the turning of the seasons, but who turned the seasons themselves.Â
And long after temples crumble and the names of lesser gods are forgotten, theirs will endure. For so long as the world yearns to begin again, so long as mortals dream of what lies beyond the ruins, Change and Rebirth will remain. Eternal. Unyielding. Forever keeping the balance.Â
please, please, please. A lot of effort and time went into the creation of this fic, taking the time to write a comment would be so nice! Don't be a silent reader!! Ask questions, rant, anything at all is appreciated. Also!!! Reblog! rebloging is very important for visibility and for other folks that enjoy these types of fics to discover em!
Oh my god... I don't have the words to describe how this fic made me feel. I felt like I was reading a literary masterpiece. The writing is so immaculate, I felt like I was reading a Victorian novel. This made me feel so many emotions and I may have shed a tear or two....(P.S.I felt like bawling my eyes out) This piece of fiction is so eloquently written, I feel privileged to be able to read this for free. Excellent literary talent!!
synopsis: when you're somehow roped into being the school's temporary mascot for a basketball game, star player kim taehyung (aka the guy you've had a massive crush on for the past two years) mistakes you for his friend and reveals a secret you'd never be able to guess.
genre: one shot, kim taehyung x reader
content: high school au (because i wrote this like 4 years ago lol), literally just fluff and pining lol, also um secret identity lowkey haha
word count: 4.0k
a/n: hellooo this is a repost of one of my old oneshots from my old blog @meiadore lol. i barely edited it so if it's a little goofy then i am sorry i wrote this soo long ago hahah. but it's really cute and funny i promise!! enjoy and thank u for reading<3
Jungkook groaned as he trudged into the classroom, dark circles decorating his pale, sickly complexion.
âYou look like shit,â Jimin, his friend, chimed in, scoffing at how miserable Jungkook appeared.
âYou donât have to tell me. I know.â With a thump into his seat, Jungkook settled into the confines of his arms, where heâd probably be sleeping for the duration of this period. âKill me now. I have to be the mascot for the final game of the season today.â
You listened as the two boys across from you talked about the game, careful to not seem interested in the conversation, although you actually were. The classroom was bustling with noise; kids were scattered around to talk to their respective friends, you being part of the few that preferred to sit down and bury their noses in a book. Despite not conversing with anyone, you remained tuned in to Jimin and Jungkooksâ chatter.
They were friends with Kim Taehyung, the guy youâve had the hugest crush on since freshman year. Two years later, and you were still hopelessly infatuated with him. It started out as a simple attraction to his appearance, but it grew over years into the spiralling crush you had on him now. He was more than a pretty face to you; he was unbelievably kind, never cocky despite being perfect at everything other than math, and amazing on the court. Oh yeah, he was on the freaking basketball team, too.
You were also enthralled by the little things he would do, from his face lighting up upon seeing any type of small creature, be it a little kid or a puppy, to his oddly attractive habit of pretending to chew gum when he didnât even have any in his mouth. You had tried to catch his attention before⊠but never by talking to him. (Styling your hair differently, wearing his favorite shade of red, watching the shows that he liked so you could wear merch from it but never actually discuss it with him⊠yeah, you did it all.)
Your only close friend, Joy, didnât seem to be impressed by your attempts to get him to notice you, so you stopped talking about him altogether. Youâd rather admire and fantasize about him to yourself, as it was less embarrassing and less pressuring. As much as youâd like him to see you in the same way, it just wasnât possible.
âI donât want to fucking mascot. I have a fucking chem test tomorrow and I still have no idea what gas laws we covered,â Jungkook complained again, this time actually on the verge of tears. âIâm literally dying.â
âYouâre literally dramatic,â Jimin countered, rolling his eyes. âWhy donât you just get someone to fill in for you? Canât you ask?â
Jungkookâs back straightened, eyes widening at his cheekily smiling friend. âThatâs genius.â
Pretending to be invested in your book, you turned another page. The great thing about always being quiet was that people never knew what you were thinking, or to be specific, what you were interested in. You were actually pretty easy to read once engaged in a conversation, but you avoided those. A lot.
âI know, Iâm pretty awesome.â Jimin grinned, slapping his friend on the back.
âWait,â Jungkook said with realization striking his features. âWho would I ask? None of my friends are going to be free tonight because theyâre either playing at the game, or theyâre dicks.â
âIâm telling Jin that you said that,â Jimin scoffed. âAnd I donât know, try asking someone who usually goes to games anyways? The only thing that theyâll have to do differently is jump around like a maniac and play with kids before the game starts. Then, they just watch the game normally. There has to be someone whoâs interested.â
Someone, AKA you, perked up at that. If you were behind a costume, you wouldnât mind jumping around like an idiot. No one would know who you were and youâd get a front seat view on Taehyung in his element.
Jungkook sighed. âReally? The gameâs in like, two hours.â
At that, even Jimin deflated. It was true; who would be willing to go that last minute? âMan, tough luck. No one would say yââ
âYes!â The words came out before you were aware of it.
You gulp under their surprised gaze, about to take it back, though Jimin spoke up before you could. âY/N, right?â Somewhere between his mask of confusion, you sense a hint of a smirk. âI think Iâve seen you around at games before.â
âUm, yeah, I guess,â is your nervous reply.
Jimin and Jungkook looked at each other, some sort of unspoken communication happening via aggressive eye contact. As they were doing that, you decided that today was the day. The day you would pass away. Why the fuck did you say that? They were going to think that you were a psycho! No one simply volunteered to be a mascot like that. It was weird. Taehyung probably didnât like weird people. In fact, he probably didnât like you, at all.
Heck, you were invisible to him! He was surrounded with girls who were much more put together than you, and they could actually talk to him. Youâd probably combust the moment you stepped within a five foot radius.
âAre you sure Y/N?â Jungkook coughed before continuing. âI donât wanna bother you so no pressure, but if you want to thatâd be really great.â
Where were your words? Seeing his sickly form made you feel sympathetic, but you wouldnât deny that the main reason for this kind gesture was to see Kim Taehyung. You forced the nerves down your throat.
âYeah, I donât mind.â
His face lit up, a grin appearing along with a shimmer of mischievousness in his eyes that you couldnât quite decipher. Jimin was also exuberant at your response.
âIâll see you after class to explain what you have to do, âkay?â Jimin said, and you simply nodded, unsure of your speaking capabilities all the sudden. âKookâs probably going to take off home right after class,â he continued, chuckling.
âYou got that right. I need a nap,â Jungkook croaked, voice evidently on the verge of disappearing. They laughed a bit more, and the conversation quickly dispersed with the teacher coming in, ready to start class.
You sank into your cold seat, grateful that you no longer had to talk to them but also trying to calm down your raging nerves. Sure, mascoting couldnât be too bad, but it was unsettling to be in such close proximity to the players, especially Taehyung. Youâd probably have to hang out in the bleachers first, but for most of the game, the mascot stood at the side of the court. And since yearbook pictures were going to be taken todayâafter all, it was the last game of the seasonâyouâd have to get in the pictures, too.
Though you were usually pretty focused during your fourth period, today you could only think about the upcoming game, and how you were going to survive with Kim Taehyung being there too.
ÊÉ
âSo thatâs it. You think you can do it?â Jimin said, definitely sensing that you were nervous; it was pretty obvious with how jittery you had been. You two stood outside the girlsâ bathroom, with you struggling to carry the large mascot suit(Why was your school mascot a freaking bunny?).
âYeah, I got it.â You nodded and tried to be discrete about wiping your sweaty palms on the sides of the costume. He was kind enough to explain exactly what you had to do and where to stand.
âLook, relax.â He laughed, probably finding your meek voice amusing. âThe game starts in a few so I have to head in, but donât worry about it too much. Even if you mess up, no oneâll know who you are.â
He brought a hand to your shoulder to playfully shove it, and you actually found yourself relaxing a bit. He was right. No one would know you, so you shouldnât overthink it.
âOkay. Thank you,â you smiled, finally feeling less like youâre going to explode in nerves. You were regretting this decision quite a bit earlier, but now it wasnât too bad. âGood luck at the game!â
Jimin beamed, and in the same quiet, soft tone, he mocked, âGood luck to you too.â
Sharing laughs, you watched as he scurried off to his team, clutching onto the fuzzy material of your costume. You sighed, brushing off any remaining nerves and going to change.
Though unbeknownst to you, a pair of keen eyes were locked onto you, or more specifically, the scene that had just unfolded. The person furrowed their brows before leaving, thousands of thoughts circling their head.
ÊÉ
Mascoting was tiring.
The suit was clammy, you could barely see through the tiny eye slits, and moving around was nearly impossible; you were close to face planting several times as you went around the bleachers, greeting other people with your best mascot voice. You spotted Joy earlier with her yearbook friends, and realized that you hadnât told her that you wouldnât be coming with her. Unfortunately, you couldnât access your phone right now, and even if you could, being in the bunny suit rendered your hands useless.
Now, you were sitting at the bottom of the bleachers, where you could see all of the action but still remain pretty unnoticeable. The yearbookers were only focusing on the game, anyway. Feeling safe, you decided to let yourself fully indulge in what you came here for: Kim Taehyung.
He played in the middle of the court, bouncing around other members and smiling that stupidly boxy smile every time he scored. Dark brown locks stuck to his face with sweat, though the headband he wore held it from completely flopping onto his tan, dewy skin.
Taehyung was ethereal. It was captivating to watch him have fun on the court while still staying prudent, focused, and serious. He wasnât the captainâJimin wasâbut he still displayed good leadership, always hyping up his teammates and cheering them up when they messed up.
You were actually quite a big fan of basketball as your father forced you to watch it with him a lot as a kid, so you originally came to these games just for the heck of it. Joy only tagged along most of the time to ogle cute guys with you(once you had finally admitted that you thought some of them were cute, that is) and occasionally to take yearbook pictures, like today, but you genuinely liked the game itself.
Sometime between going to games and running into Taehyung in various classes, you found yourself enamored. It was weird at first, having a crush, but you couldnât call whatever you felt for him a measly attraction anymore. Now, two years into it, calling him your crush would almost be an understatement.
You really liked this guy. So much so that when he misstepped and crashed onto the ground with a booming thump, you audibly yelped. Everyone chorused a series of âoohsâ, and the game stopped completely. All eyes were on Taehyung, who was still clutching onto his ankle and back in agony.
Immediately, teammates were at his side and the manager was there with an ice pack, trying to help him get back on his feet. He scrunched his face in discomfort when he stood up, and you winced at seeing him in pain. He forced a few chuckles as people helped him walk, but there was no doubt that he was hurting; he couldnât play this game anymore. A nasty, purplish bruise was already starting to form at the joint of his ankle, and some members of the other team even came over to make sure he was okay.
âSorry guys,â he grunted, the deep, velvety voice echoing in your ear despite him being meters away. âIâll probably have to sit out today.â
âTake it easy, man,â Jimin mumbled, holding his arm and searching around to find you on the sidelines. The mysterious glint from earlier resurfaced in his eyes. âTae, you can sit over there, at the bench.â
âGot it, thanks.â Taehyung smiled reassuringly, limping as he began to hop away from the court. With one last worried glance, Jimin left Taehyung to fumble to the side benches⊠also the exact place that you were sitting at.
You were frozen in your spot, unable to breathe.Â
The coach blew the whistle, and everyone started shifting their attention back to the game. Taehyung got closer to you as he hopped your way, the rushing bodies in the background a blur of blue and yellow jerseys. He was right in front of youâgranted, you werenât able to see him that well with the barrier that was your bunny head, but he still took your breath away.
âHey Kook,â he greeted cheerfully despite the likely throbbing pain in his back. He slowly plopped down next to you on the silver bench(that was more like a long slab of metal), and elbowed you lightly. âGlad you could make it. Thought that Jimin said something about you being sick.â
You couldnât tell him that you werenât Jungkook. Matter of fact, you couldnât tell him anything at all. Though it was already sweaty in this stupid bunny costume, you felt yourself heating up even more at the unexpected contact.
He leaned down to grab some water, taking a swift chug of it before looking back to you.
âYou good?â
Again, your words failed to come out. You only managed to make a thumbs up, which to him, looked like you were pointing to your throat.
âOh!â He laughedâa beautiful and airy sound, you might addâand set his water down. âI forgot that you probably canât talk right now.â
At this point, you might as well pretend to be Jungkook. It seemed much easier than taking out your bunny head and yelling, âHey! Iâm not Jungkook. Iâm Y/N, and Iâm here because Iâm madly in love with you and being a mascot meant that I could see you up close! Because Iâm weird!â
So you nodded, going along with it.
Taehyung smiled, though you think that it was strained. âGosh, todayâs been such a bad day,â he laughed again, but this time, you know that it was strained. âCan I rant about it?â
You gulped. It did seem like a pretty sucky day for him. He not only got injured and had to sit out, but it was also the last game. If you were him, youâd probably cry. The last game was like the final hurrah as a team. Sure, he had next year as well, but some of his teammates now would be in college then.
You nodded again.
âThank you,â he sighed, âSo much has happened. Where do I even start?â
Feeling more confident in your suit, you gathered courage to mumble: âAnywhere.â
Immediate regret filled your gut. What if you didnât pitch your voice low enough?The costume muffled your voice to an extent, but not by much. What if he found out that you werenât Jungkook?
Taehyung whipped around to you. âDamn, you really are sick. You sound like a different person.â
You shrugged, opting to not speak again. Ever.
He didnât seem too bothered, thankfully, and took a deep breath before starting his rant. âSo first, I saw Jimin earlier, and guess who he was with?â
You shrugged, again.
âY/N.â
Suddenly air was scarce and you started coughing like a madman. Taehyung straightened up in concern and patted your backâwhich caused you to continue coughing even more. He saw Jimin with you? How was that important to his day at all?
âHoly shit Kook,â he vocalized, handing you his water. âWater?â
You furiously denied with the rapid waving of your hand, and even made an âXâ mark with your arms to indicate how much you did not want to take off your bunny head. He interpreted it differently, of course.
âAw, you know I donât mind if I get sick. But thanks,â he said, putting the water bottle away. He watched as you again, nodded, because that was the only thing you could do. He sighed. âAnyway, I saw Y/N and Jimin talking together. Alone!â He emphasized how absurd it was by widening his eyes and waving frantically.
Your mind was muddled, and you werenât thinking when you let out your next question. âWhen?â
He didnât mention your very not-Jungkook-voice this time, and turned around to pout to you. It was adorable.
âIn front of the locker room earlier,â he explained, âThey were talking and laughing andâughâdonât get me wrong, I love Jimin, but he knows that Iâve been crushing on her since like, freshman year.â
At that, your world froze. Literally, it froze. People stopped moving. Taehyung stopped talking. And you stopped working. He, Kim Taehyung and the love of your miserable high school life, had a crush on you? Since freshman year? Was this a dream?
âHe would never break bro codeâI know thatâitâs just uncomfy to see him get close to her so quickly when Iâve barely been able to make conversation with her in three whole years of highschool, aside from that one time I asked her for a pencil.â
That day was ingrained into your memory. It was a Wednesday, and during bio, his mechanical pencil snapped in half while he was fooling around with some other loud boys in class. During that time, you were finally coming to terms with just how much you liked him. So when he turned around in his seat, flashed a charming, boxy smile, and requested for a pencil, you gave him your best one, fighting the red that threatened to tint your cheeks, and quietly asked for him to return it after.
He ended up not returning it, because he and his friends also accidentally broke that one by mistaking it for someone elseâs during a pencil breaking contest. He did try to apologize, but since you were too embarrassed to be in a conversation with him, you ran away. That was the only time youâd ever talked to him, and you remember it like it was yesterday.
You didnât expect him to remember it too.
âAnd that wasnât even a good conversation! She probably hates me. I broke her fucking pencil,â he groaned into his hands, âUgh, Iâm getting off topic.â Shifting on the bench, he turned to you again. âAnd you know how Y/N usually comes to all of our games?â
Nervous laughter. That was all you could do.
âWell, she didnât show up this time!â Flopping his hands down, he frowned childishly. You swoon. âMaybe it was kinda good that she didnât⊠since I probably looked really dumb just now.â He glared at his bruising ankle. âAnd thatâs the other thing that ruined my day, messing up on like that on the last gameâŠâ
Goddammit. How the hell were you supposed to comfort him? Your mind was still reeling from the previous revelation. He liked you. And you liked him. What the fuck.
âAnyways, thanks for listening, Kook,â he seemed to have cheered up in the few seconds of silence when you were still trying to compute everything he had said. You were as still as stone, and you saw Taehyung furrowing his brows slightly. âDude, did you pass out in your suit?â
âN-no.â
âOh good.â He exhaled in relief, before bursting out into laughter. âHah, and even if you did, you wouldnât be able to answer me!â
His laughter bubbled away as did your sanity. You literally couldnât think. Your mind was simply:Â Taehyung likes me and I like him. Taehyung likes me and I like him. Taehyung likes me and I like him.
So a silence fell over the two of you, something your erratic heart was grateful for. The moment was short lived, as you found Joy tapping Taehyungâs shoulder, camera in hand.
âSorry guys, do you mind if I take a picture for the yearbook?â She asked, gesturing to her camera.
Taehyung lit up, replying, âOf course not!â He stood up, and you were about to follow suit until you realized that: A) you were much shorter than Jungkook, and B) his ankle and back were probably still hurting, so he shouldnât stand.
With an inability to use your voice, you softly tugged onto a corner of Taehyungâs jersey sleeve. He cocked his head to the side, and watched as you desperately pointed to his ankle and then to his back. Finally understanding your message, he sat down next to you again.
âYâknow, for some reason, youâre acting weirdly cute today,â he laughed, completely unaware of the haywire your heart was sent into at that simple comment. âHey, you should take off your bunny head! People need to know whoâs been our bunny all this time!â
You furiously shook your head, to which he rolled his eyes to.
âUh, guys? Can I take the picture now?â Joy was holding her camera up, ready to take the picture.
âWait!â He grabbed onto the head of the bunny costume, trying to pull it off, though you brought your own hands up to pull in the opposite direction. âCâmon Kooks! You gotta be in it!â
And then it happened. He managed to pry it off, and your sweaty, flushed head became exposed to the world.
The two of you stared at each other for a while. His mouth dropped in shock, face burning an equal scarlet to yours. Brown eyes scanned your face and he gulped, Adamâs apple bobbing down his exposed neck. You were blown away by his beauty, now able to see him clearly, and he seemed to be just as enthralled by you.
Click.
ÊÉ
âWhy the fuck are we on the front cover of the yearbook?â You barked the question to Joy, who was cowering behind her boyfriend, Jimin. Taehyung stood behind you, hands on his hip and equally in need of an answer.
âYâall were cute,â she giggled nervously, âI may or may not have used my authority as head of the yearbook committee...â
âAre you serious?â You fumed, ready to attack with a lunge, but Jimin stood protectively in front of her. âLet me kill her with tickles! She knows that I hate attention.â
âUnless itâs from Taehyung,â Jimin commented cheekily. You groaned, returning to Taehyung to lament over the atrocity that was the yearbookâs front cover this year.
It was of you and Taehyung, when he had just pulled your bunny head off. The two of you were staring at each other with wide eyes and pink blushes. The picture was adorable. You, on the other hand, looked like a sweaty pig, and your hair was an actual ratsâ nest.
âWell, I canât say Jimin is wrong,â he said, pulling you onto his lap.
âTraitor.â You cuddled reluctantly, though quickly relaxing after.
âAdmit it, you canât deny it either,â Joy chimed in, climbing into Jiminâs arm on the opposite couch as well.
The four of you were at your house, celebrating the last day of junior year together with a movie night. Jimin and Joy started dating a few weeks ago, while you and Taehyung had been dating since that day at the basketball court.
After running away from him, you had frantically dragged Joy to the bathroom to explain what happened. She took the information in seriously, before casually asking why you were so nervous. He liked you and you liked him. You knew that, yet you were groveling in the girlâs bathroom. You smacked some sense into yourself, Joy encouraging you along the way.
Just as you had gathered the courage to face him, he was already outside the door and accidentally overheard the conversation. Two (proper, though a bit shaky) confessions, one fleeting kiss, and a (slightly sweaty) warm hug later, you two were togetherâand inseparable ever since.
âFine, I guess I canât deny it,â you relented. Taehyung chuckled, the deep sound vibrating against your ear as you leaned into his chest. âBut Iâm still mad about the yearbook picture.â
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taehyung X fem! reader
King's Mate - V x Y/n. 01
King's Mate - V x Y/n. 02
Heartthrobs Obsession - V x Y/n
Vein's of Royal Obsession - V x Y/n
Tainted Paradise - V x Y/n
Forsaken - V x Y/n. 01
Forsaken - V x Y/n ft. RM. 02
jungkook X fem! reader
Quid pro quo - Jk x Y/n
Crowned Lie's - J. Jk x Y/n
Governor's Secret - J. JK x Y/n ft. jimin
Governor's Secret - the evil wins. J. JK
Little Prince - J.JK x Y/n. 01
Little Prince - J.JK x Y/n. 02
Marked In Red Ink- J.Jk x Y/n
jimin x fem! reader
Gold-laced vows - Jm x Y/n ft. J.H
namjoon x fem! reader
Colonized - RM x Y/n ft. J.JK ( pt.01 || pt.02 || pt.03 )
If you haven't read even one of these stories, what are you doing mate??? All of these works are too good, storyline, expressions, dialogues the characters are so well written!! And I love the length of the stories too!! Please check out the works from this page!! <333
I want to first thank you all for joining this GA!! I will be doing another one of these for this amazing writer again!!! I do tend to do these differently if that makes sense. Next GA can be longer months or more winners or this subscription + another patreon subscription. etc. đ«¶đ» back to the winnersâŠ
HERE ARE THE WINNERS FOR @chummywchimmy
1. @tinkerbell7
2. @devilzliaison
3. @siasingh18
Congrats to those who won!! for those who didnât do not worry! I will be doing another one of these again!
I will be messaging the winners shortly with the subscription!! âŒïžâŒïžIF I CANNOT MESSAGE YOU, YOU HAVE 48 HOURS TO MESSAGE ME OR I WILL BE GIVING YOUR SUBSCRIPTION TO SOMEONE ELSEâŒïžâŒïž