suddenly, porn

The only thing he hates more than having to stand stoically in such a pretentious suit is standing stoically in a pretentious suit whilst wearing some gaudy masquerade mask. He was a trained assassin, not some pretty pet to add to the ambience of this frankly shrewd ballroom. He knows he should be more concerned with all the possible targets that surely want his pretty face on a pike outside, but he’s more vain than he wants to be so—his appearance is hurt more.

He’s not sure why his fancy suit—with all its sashes and belts, mostly to hide his knives—had to have a hooded mask, makes him stand out more he thinks. The gold snickering mask itself isn’t too bad, he admits, but he’d still rather be not… Here.

“Here” being the kingdom to the south’s castle (he has learned to not bother learning their names, they fall too soon anyway), where the king fancies himself some prophet or some such. San snickers at the thought: some ill-fitted king thinking he’s the “peace bringer” of lands so wrought with chaos they wouldn’t be able to recognise peace if it crawled into its bed. He’s fatter than San thought, that’s one of the things that struck him first. Unmarried as well, which is what this whole ball is about. Finding wives and all.

San sighs. How droll.

Still, he remains not as nonchalant as he wants, when someone catches his eye. He can tell who it is just by the man’s flaunting gait, the way his hair never falls out of place no matter where his limbs are tangled. Maybe it’s just the way San was trained, but he thinks the lace mask isn’t doing shit to cover the man’s identity. Maybe he’s not meant to, San concludes idly as the man comes into earshot.

“Park Seonghwa,” someone whispers into the man’s ear. San rolls his eyes; what a shit whisper. He leans farther in their direction anyway.

“I know,” Seonghwa’s soft voice answers. Damn mages and their poise, San grimaces even though no one can see his face. “I assure you, His Majesty will remain safe. You have my word.” He bows gracefully, his hair still impeccably parted. Little shit probably uses magic to keep it that way.

The “Corvid” is what people call him, Seonghwa. It’s entirely uncreative if anyone were to ask San (which they don’t), considering it only stems from the deep black of his hair, paired with his dark eyes. People call them black too—San is skeptical of that. In order to have truly black eyes, the man would have to have made a bargain with the shadows. No one is foolish enough to do that. He’s thinking of a better name (Shit-For-Brains?) when Seonghwa approaches him.

“What a lovely mask,” he says, smile still evident from the mask that only covers his eyes. Up close San sees why people fawn over him—the tight fitted red suit gives off a tsunami of sex appeal. Typical.

“Lovely suit,” San comments back, voice even. He’s not sure if Seonghwa knows, knows that San is here to kill the crown prince. Bastard prince; good riddance, says most other kingdoms. He wonders if Seonghwa agrees.

He extends a slender hand, nails painted black, towards San. “Care to dance?” He asks, cocking his head.

Not at fucking all, San thinks as he nods fluidly. Dancing with some cryptic court mage is not very high on his list of “wants” right now, especially since he hasn’t seen the prince yet. Probably the reason for the masquerade, he thinks, as Seonghwa leads him to the dance floor.

Dancing, San has learned, is a lot like killing a difficult opponent. The two people must have concrete footing, taut posture. There is an intensity of the gazes shared as one relies on the movement of the other, twirls less menacing when there’s not a knife constantly trying meet your throat. Yet the way Seonghwa looks down at him, as if San isn’t wearing a mask at all, makes him think this is perhaps more menacing than an army of men.

Mages, San has also learned, are lethal. They don’t need a weapon; they personify the looks could kill saying, and do so by just the flick of their wrist; the batting of their eyelashes. San has been contracted to kill them before, and he dreads it. He’s never been able to harness magic himself—always relied on his lithe body and sharp reflexes to save him. So maybe he thinks mages cheat. So maybe if he could, he’d kill Seonghwa. He says “could”, because in all honesty he’s not sure he can manage.

Seonghwa is shrouded in mystery—legends this and curses that. Like some sort of veil covers his aura so that no one can look in. Most of the people he encounters say it adds to his charm, adds to how much they want him. To San, it’s annoying. He hates unknowns. Hates even more when he’s intrigued by them.

And, as much as he is loathe to admit, Seonghwa is intriguing.

“Impeccable form,” Seonghwa says, dipping San. He’s pretty sure this dance is reserved for men and women, judging by the odd glances. San’s traipsed enough lands to not give a shit.

He keeps his voice monotone when he answers, “As is yours.” This close, he can almost see Seonghwa’s eyes. Almost—he still can’t ascertain the colour. Frustrated he even wants to know.

Seonghwa chuckles, and it’s the most intimidating thing he’s done so far. “Are we just going to play idle comments all night?” His eyes narrow as he adds, “I know why you’re here, assassin.”

San’s ankle falters as he twirls. Shit. “Here to stop me, then?” He answers, thankful all Seonghwa has figured out is his profession. Somehow.

He shakes his head, bringing San flush to his chest. There’s hardly a heartbeat, San notices. “Not at all. That pest of a son is nothing but an arrogant fool, bent on embarrassing the monarch he’s fortunate enough to be a part of it.”

“Not a fan, I take it?” San returns a chuckle, noticing the tight grip Seonghwa is keeping him to his chest. Probably not good.

A sinister smile. “I don’t much care for any of these fools. It’s merely a job.”

“How noble,” San chides.

“Speak for yourself,” Seonghwa whispers when he leans into San’s neck. “Killing an unarmed prince? Seems not like your normal shtick.”

San tries to will his heart to calm the fuck down, but it’s hard with Seonghwa’s warmth enveloping him, velvet voice cooing down his neck. “I don’t play fair,” San replies, thankful his voice has yet to crack. His resolve isn’t doing so well, though. He kicks up his shoe, a knife protruding from the sole, and nuzzles it against Seonghwa’s ankle.

Seonghwa hums contently. “Clearly.”

There’s a loud crash, and the music stops. San whips his head away from Seonghwa’s piercing gaze, fixating his own on the chandelier that has crashed just in front of the king. “You’d better go now, the prince should be bedding a whore as we speak,” Seonghwa whispers against San’s shoulder blade.

He turns apprehensively. “Did you—?”

“Cocky assassins aren’t the only ones who don’t play fair,” he smiles.

San doesn’t buy the kindness. He narrows his eyes as he turns away from the commotion, although Seonghwa can’t see them. “Why help?”

Seonghwa answers simply: “Because you intrigue me, assassin.” His expression changes, and San can only really map the even line his mouth makes. “Be warned, though—this contract might not be what you hope it is.”

How ridiculous, San thinks as he scoffs. “I only hope for my blade to greet these people on their way to hell.”

The shivers wrack through him in waves, and he ends up choking a handful of times, though he really can’t pinpoint the cause of those either. The two beautiful strangers who somehow have to do with him being here sit on either side of him, the first with something akin to a sad expression, the other unreadable.

Wooyoung is tired of the silence. “Where am I?” He asks, but it comes out as a pathetic whisper rather than a strong demand.

The second man speaks up, “A mansion far away from where you call home.” He lifts a finger in front of him that’s still somehow directed at Wooyoung to not speak, and continues: “You were found by San dying in a slum alleyway somewhere, and for some reason instead of finishing the job he decided to save you.”

Slowly turning his head to who he assumes is San (the still silent one), Wooyoung mutters, “Oh.” Only a few silent moments have to pass before the rest of the declaration weighs heavy on him. He whips his head back around. “Finished what job, exactly?”

“You were dying, dear,” the second man flashes a smile and a flutter of eyelids. Wooyoung doesn’t miss the sarcastic undertone. “And our friend here should have just killed you.”

Wooyoung knits his eyebrows. He elects to ignore the obvious insult to instead ask, “And how exactly was I saved? This certainly doesn’t look like a hospital.”

“Ah, there. That’s the right question.” The second man settles himself back onto the bed so he’s no longer looking at Wooyoung. He’s not sure he could have stood those red eyes any longer anyway. “It’s more fun to have you guess, though.”

Wooyoung huffs indignantly. He’s tired, annoyed, and still so fucking confused. He doesn’t want to guess, he wants to be told. And right now he feels like telling this other stranger to sod off, because at least this “San” was nicer. So far, anyway. Still, he wants confirmation enough to calm the boiling in his veins enough to spit out, “Well you all seem like a bunch of stereotypical fantasy book type vampires.”

A laugh erupts out of the second man, one that seems fairly devoid of any true humour, and Wooyoung scoots closer to “San”. The latter man flinches slightly and tenses, but it doesn’t feel like one of cautious anticipation. More like the clench of muscles of someone ready to fight. Wooyoung sure hopes he’s not the one to be fought. “Ah, I wonder what sort of things that sharp tongue of yours would say if my teeth were sunk into your pretty little ne—”

“Enough.”

Both Wooyoung and the man flinch at “San”s sudden forceful voice. Having been now hovering over Wooyoung, the second man scoffs under his breath and removes himself from the continuing quivering Wooyoung. His eyes, Wooyoung notices, have also morphed into that deep black and Wooyoung is idly wondering how close he was to death (again?) when the man rolls his eyes. “You’re always so protective of your playthings, San.”

“I said enough, Mingi.” “San” (Wooyoung should probably drop the quotation marks) practically growls.

Mingi glares down at Wooyoung, his lip upturned. He wordlessly exists, all swift movements and even a somewhat graceful slam of the door behind him. Wooyoung is thankful he’s gone, he really is don’t get him wrong, but now he’s alone with San. And he doesn’t know how to feel about San. It was easy with everyone else—they clearly wanted to kill him. But Wooyoung doesn’t know how to process the information that San precisely thought the opposite, that Mingi said he “saved” him. He’s never been good with compliments or praise, and he somehow thinks that saving his life—however it actually happened—it’s just completely out of his realm of contemplating.

“Sorry about him,” San smiles, and it’s genuinely sweet. His eyes remain brown, and so now Wooyoung is wondering if this colour madness is just that—a product of his own madness.

“Where am I,” Wooyoung asks again, because Mingi wasn’t very helpful. Plus, he figures San will be more forthcoming, less of a sarcastic ass.

Turns out he’s right. San heavily sighs, cards his fingers through his hair, and… Pouts. Wooyoung blinks dumbly at it. “This is sort of a… Safe haven”—Wooyoung scoffs, San ignores him—“for people like me. Like… You. It’s hidden behind a sort of seal if you want to call it that, kind of like a spell.”

“A spell,” Wooyoung echos.

San nods enthusiastically, snapping his fingers because he seems to think Wooyoung is following along (he’s absolutely not). His smile falters slightly, though. “Mingi is slightly right, on one count. I had saved you, yes, but that was under the pretense you would become like me.”

“A vampire,” Wooyoung mutters, voice completely monotone.

San nods again, albeit more slowly. Wooyoung is afraid of what sort of circumstance warrants such a change in demeanor. “I know it’s… A lot, but I did it with the best intentions.” He lopsidedly smiles at Wooyoung and the latter’s heart positively melts. He supposes if some freak was going to “save” him in such a way, at least this one was pretty. “I truly thought you’d just be like me, like Mingi.” Wooyoung hates the unsaid “but”.

The roundabout is only slightly irking Wooyoung, but he’s able to at least be patient with San. Now that he knows the sort of other heathens that run rampant in this little tree shop of horrors house, anyway. “So I’m not a vampire then.”

A shake of the head this time. “No, no you’re not.”

Wooyoung thinks. He thinks because San looks just as tired and confused as he is. Thinks because he really hasn’t clearly yet since waking up dead, and so he thoughtfully raps his index finger against his chin. He tries to remember the times he was a kid and poured through all sorts of fantasy novels and shows, and tries to recall what he knows about vampires. He remembers, though, what the one vampire had said about him: halfling.

He’s unaware he’s muttered it aloud when San perks up next to him. “That fits, actually. That’s the best way to describe it at this point.”

For the first time the whole night (as Wooyoung assumes it is, don’t vampires like, hibernate in the day?), Wooyoung really looks at San. He appears perhaps even the same exact age as Wooyoung, but if he’s going off fantasy vampire lore, the guy is probably in his hundreds. And looking fantastic at that. His skin looks impossibly smooth, eyes deep with emotion and lips curled into a sincere smile, even if it seems to be one of pity rather than joy. There’s a hint of a cherry red underneath San’s hair, and it sort of hits Wooyoung rather belatedly that San is just his type. Way better than any Tinder fuck he’s gotten recently, anyway.

And here he is, practically snuggled in bed with the guy.

But dammit Wooyoung, this is not the time to be horny, you need answers. And Wooyoung has plenty of questions to last (another) lifetime. So he picks one if not to just ignore the strange static that’s building between them. “Someone called me an omega,” he blurts, and it makes San softly laugh.

“Gunna talk my head off with questions, eh?”

“Absolutely,” Wooyoung blurts once more.

San lightly shrugs. “That’s fair.” Wooyoung swears his skin flushes when he stammers out, “B-But, the omega thing. There are some things that probably aren’t talked about in vampire school.”

“That absolutely doesn’t exist,” Wooyoung breathes, and shares his first pure laugh with San. He still doesn’t know if he should be hating the guy, honestly. It’s becoming increasingly harder to even entertain the thought.

“Well whatever,” San bats the air. “I just don’t think they really—er, anyone really—talks about how society for us really works.”

Wooyoung scoots closer, knees brushing against San’s. “Enlighten me.”

A breath escapes San’s nose that could definitely be a laugh, one so impossibly soft Wooyoung doesn’t want to think about it right now. “The person was right when they called you an omega. Before you blather about that whole thing, it’s not the sort of ‘omega’ you’re probably used to. You can’t get pregnant, go into heat, none of that. It’s simply a rank.”

“The lowest of them, then,” Wooyoung softly laments, turning his gaze to the bed.

It shoots up instantly the moment San replies with: “The opposite, actually.” Apparently Wooyoung’s awestruck expression is enough for him to continue without delay. “Omegas are thought to be the highest for us. They’re pure, untainted, and elegant. They think clearer than ravenous alpha or power seeking beta. They possess a certain poise and aptitude for the political, but even with all this they get treated like dirt.”

Wooyoung expressively frowns. “But you said—”

“I know,” San snaps. It makes Wooyoung shrink. “Hundreds, thousands, of years of alphas trying to overcome what they think their weakness is has led omegas to be somewhat of an anomaly. We changed so they’re rarer, less omegas lived to procreate, and as a result there are practically none left. It also just so happens omegas… Taste good.” San looks off anywhere that definitely isn’t Wooyoung.

Right, the whole blood drinking thing. Right.

Wait, no, not right, what the shit?

“So what the hell do I do?” Wooyoung asks, swallowing down his shivering panics. He figures it’s the most practical question he could possibly ask.

San looks back at him, eyes soft and pleading when he says, “Trust me.”

¥¥¥¥

Even though San assures him it’s safe now, that he’s “taken care” of things, Wooyoung still refuses to leave his room. At least, he assumes it’s his. In any case, no one has come to see him besides San, and certainly not that Mingi fellow. Wooyoung shivers at the memory, but also wonders why he was so willing to obey San as well. If he was going to admit it (which he isn’t presently), the sort of powerful aura San carries is… Well, unbelievably attractive.

Yet he’s still confused about this whole omega business, not to mention he doesn’t really think he’s come full to terms with his… Predicament. Is he dead? He doesn’t think the afterlife would be especially honest about where he was, but then again he has no frame of reference either. Just blind faith—just his trust in San, as feeble as it is. So he spends most hours (he’s lost track of them) curled into himself, fumbling to locate his heartbeat every few hours when he can’t feel it anymore. It’s his only way of holding on.

He thinks of his friends, how they must be worried about him. He’s not realised he’s shaking quite violently until San enters the room, and Wooyoung can finally breathe. It doesn’t even take him rising his head to know it’s San—his San, as his brain sometimes flutters to—he can just feel his presence like a blanket wrapping securely around him. The thought makes Wooyoung shiver again, though this time he’s not really sure what for. He’ll figure it out later.

A clatter of a plate being set down makes Wooyoung finally peek out from his blanket cocoon. Very recently being wrapped as tightly in linen as possible has brought him extreme relief. He blinks at the plate though, silver gilded and a rather hot looking cup of soup sitting innocently in the middle. “You must be hungry,” San says, though it’s more of an exasperated breath.

Wooyoung blinks dumbly when he says, “I’m not hungry.”

San sighs. “You’ve been here nearly a week”—Wooyoung whimpers—“and you’ve not eaten a thing. It’ll make me look bad if you starve to death.”

Wooyoung thinks on this. If it’s been nearly a week, how is that he’s not ravenous? Because he isn’t lying to San, he’s honestly not hungry. He hasn’t been, even though the soup looks tantalisingly good the longer he stares at it. “I thought vampires didn’t eat people food,” he mumbles, not even really realising he’s said it out loud. He yelps at his own bold proclamation, slinks back into his covers. San just laughs, and it’s too light and airy for Wooyoung to think about right now.

“We don’t, but you’re not fully like us.” The last bit sounds sad almost, and the confusion that has plagued Wooyoung since being here is crawling rather speedily up his conscience again.

And he really shouldn’t care, to be honest. Not when he’s not even sure if he should be thanking San yet, because he’s not even sure he was saved. Does saving someone entail trapping them in a room like some sort of failed Disney princess? Wooyoung doesn’t know, and he also doesn’t know why he reaches out an apprehensive hand to curl around the bit of San’s arms he can see from under his blankets. San tenses ever so slightly, but the overwhelming relief, like this is what Wooyoung has been starving over, when he can feel San go pliant under his touch—it’s maddening. It’s maddening because Wooyoung doesn’t understand.

As if San is reading his thoughts (he really could be, Wooyoung never really paid attention to the little snippets of vampire lore), he says quietly, “You should be careful.”

Wooyoung knits his eyebrows together and pouts even though San can see neither. “Maybe I would be if you told me why.”

Just from the way San’s arm wiggles uselessly in the air, Wooyoung can tell he’s rolled his eyes. “You’re an omega,” he explains like Wooyoung should already have this whole thing down.

“So?” He asks, withdrawing his hand to sit up fully, and sees San is staring holes into his soup. Wooyoung would gladly offer it up but… Vampires, and all that.

Without looking away San replies, “I’m an alpha.”

“And? You said none of that weird stuff existed.” With the way San tightens his fists Wooyoung is fully aware he’s treading on stormy waters. It’s a little exciting while also being downright terrifying, and it’s really no wonder he’s gotten himself caught up in something like this. The only difference is Wooyoung had imagined a lot more drugs and guns. “Besides,” Wooyoung continues, because San has stayed silent, “You were the one that didn’t kill me. You said omegas tasted good, right? So I’m thinking I’m in the clear with you.” He’s come to sit with his legs crossed, hands neatly folded on his lap, utterly satisfied in what he thinks is a perfectly sound argument.

It is, apparently, not.

San finally looks over at him, the brown eyes he had been using for Wooyoung (he’ll have to ask about that later, assuming he survives this) having turned to a deep red. Wooyoung doesn’t know what that could possibly mean, but for someone who is not really a vampire and therefore more like somewhat spoilt live stock, it can’t be good. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?” He finally asks, and Wooyoung would definitely have replied with something snarky if it weren’t for the fact that a slender finger runs down his cheek.

So Wooyoung’s brain sort of short circuits, “panicked gay style”, as one of his friends once put it. “Wh-What?” He stammers out, having lost every ounce of cocky confidence he had going super well before.

His precious soup lays forgotten as San fully turns his body, a hand now caressing his cheek instead of just a finger. San looks at him through a thoughtful pout, eyes dashing all over before they rest neatly right in Wooyoung’s gaze. The red is still there, still bright and confusing, but there’s something soft as well. Or maybe that’s just Wooyoung’s wishful thinking. Yet the way San is holding his chin now is nothing but dripping with affection, and the way he walks closer to the bedside so he can breathe Wooyoung in is anything besides the feeling of a murderous monster. Perhaps murderous in a different way, Wooyoung belatedly thinks when their foreheads press together.

When he smiles, Wooyoung can see sharp fangs. It’s right then he thinks he has, in fact, probably gone too far, but the heat that coils inside of him just at the sight is betraying him rather efficiently. San says nothing as he leans his face into the dip of Wooyoung’s neck, hovering right over the place where he was first bitten by that freak of a date. Wooyoung swallows thickly when he feels soft lips press just as softly over the wound, and he should probably stop this but something like his attraction to the vampire and blunt curiosity stops him. San says nothing as he drags his upper lip over it, resting teasing fangs as if to make a bite of his own. A tongue flattens down next, and Wooyoung can’t help the whimper that leaves him, nor the way he holds onto San’s hips as if he’ll crumble if he doesn’t.

The door swings open right as Wooyoung feels San’s bottom lip skidding up to meet his top in what would have been a downright awful-but-wonderful kiss, and Wooyoung’s eyes flash open to see a rather incredulous Mingi staring at them both with some measure of disgust (it’s mostly directed at Wooyoung, though, he thinks). “The council is waiting for you, San,” he spits, and gives Wooyoung one more definitely I’m-going-to-end-your-life glare before he leaves, stomping down the hallway and certainly not closing the door.

A growl comes from the spot in Wooyoung’s neck where San is still nuzzled, but when he pulls back there is no anger in his expression. It’s turned to unreadable, which is new. Wooyoung doesn’t really like it. “He has an uncanny habit of entering at the worst of times,” San says, a laugh ghosting on Wooyoung’s face. His expression is still unreadable, but it’s at least somewhat softer now.

They stay silent for a solid five incredibly awkward seconds before San clears his throat rather audibly, removes Wooyoung’s hands from where they were still clutching San’s sides, and sets them in Wooyoung’s lap. He just as awkwardly pats down the sleeves of Wooyoung’s sweater before clearing his throat once again. “I have to go,” he says, “I’ll come back as soon as I can, omega.”

Wooyoung blinks, can only muster the strength to do that, as San turns to leave, but is able to blurt out, “Wooyoung.” It’s right before San has fully exited the room, one foot having frozen inside when he peers his head back in. “My name,” Wooyoung explains. “So you… Don’t have to call me omega.”

“Wooyoung,” San echoes with some thoughtfulness. It’s all he says before he leaves as well, albeit silently down the hall.

Two—no, three—things enter Wooyoung’s mind in rapid succession. One is that he’s certainly in too deep with this San, and they’ve barely held a conversation that lasted more than fifteen minutes and didn’t involve Wooyoung’s confusion. The second one is that he’ll have to stand to close the door and he’s not sure if his legs will even work after all that, and third…

Now, there are levels to that statement, and you can really close your eyes and take a pick at this point. Is it when he flunked out of university? Ran away from home? Didn’t take his dog out when he was ten, and so when he beloved Coo shat on the carpet he was scolded for being a terrible dog? Or perhaps it’s where he finds himself now, pinned to a wall in an alleyway while a stranger humps his leg. Well, he’s hesitant to say “stranger”. They met on Tinder (another screw up to pick from), talked a few days and when Wooyoung got sick of masturbating, agreed to dinner. The thing is, he should have been more careful. The thing is, Tinder doesn’t really have a “swipe left on serial killers” options. Not really, anyway.

He has his reservations about sneaking in an alleyway to make out, but desperation and loneliness made him forget reason. So now his Tinder date’s tongue is down his throat, the taste of wine smeared into his conscience at this point, and a reluctant erection growing in his pants. This is, of course, until his date speaks.

“You humans are all so easy to rile up,” his date whispers into his ear, and Wooyoung can actually feel the ferocity in which his dick deflates.

And Wooyoung tries to respond, push back, has the indignant “Excuse me?” in the forefront of his mouth, but that’s before a sharp piercing is driven into his neck. Precisely two piercings. Followed by the feeling not unlike getting his blood drawn. So maybe he realises it a bit too late.

His Tinder is apparently some kind of vampire, and he’s being murdered. And Wooyung being Wooyoung, his last thought as he crumples to the ground is at least he doesn’t have to pay off his student loans anymore.

                                                           -

There are a few things Wooyoung thought being dead entailed. For one, he was pretty sure it didn’t involve being carried away by a stranger (another one, he reminds himself), nor did it involve the distinct feeling of humanly and living sensation of waking up. Yet he blinks all the same, albeit slowly, staring at a ceiling that looks right out of an Italian romance novel. It’s got carved ivory on it in the shape of angels, so Wooyoung is fairly convinced himself at this point he’s dead. Died, whatever.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a soft voice says, and Wooyoung tenses. He doesn’t look away from the ceiling, tries to figure out if it’s too late to pretend he’s still asleep (if dead people did that) when the voice continues, “I was worried you were too far gone.”

And… What? Wooyoung tears his gaze away from the rather pretty ceiling, sitting up to see an even prettier man. He has soft eyes raven black hair. Pale skin, but there’s still a hint of bronze in the undertones. Yet the nagging feeling of being distinctly dead pries at his conscience, so of course the first thing he blurts is, “Are you an angel?”

The man immediately erupts in a laugh that makes Wooyoung flush. He tells himself it’s from embarrassment and not the way the man laughs, like it’s from the back of his throat. It’s too endearing. Far too. “I’m not sure that’s what mortals call me,” he says, and Wooyoung can feel the precise feeling of the flush disappearing. 

He lowers his shoulders. Mortals, the pretty man had said. That seems to really prove everything Wooyoung needs to know, so he ends up saying out loud, “So I’m really dead then.” He flops back down on the bed, glares at the ivory angels and tries to will his heart to beat slower. But then it strikes him. His heart… Is beating? Do dead people do that? Man, he wishes he had paid more attention in church. 

“I suppose in a sense, yes you are.”

Electing to ignore the hot angel-not-angel, Wooyoung rolls over. He buries his face in the silk of the pillow and pulls the covers up so his head pokes out of a hole like some form of undead burrito. He can hear the man sigh and feels the mattress adjust in the weight of him sitting down, but Wooyoung ignores that too. He feels tears prickling at his eyes and tries to blink them away, but all that serves is to make one fall. And then he feels a hand on his shoulder, which just sends the flood gates open wide. Thankfully Wooyoung has mastered the art of crying silently, but he can still feel the betraying sensation of himself shaking. He hadn’t quite mastered that bit yet.

“I had considered letting you die truly,” the man says, rubbing small circles on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “Your blood was impossibly sweet, it’s hard to get blood like that. But… You had managed to open your eyes, and I just. I couldn’t let it go to waste.”

Wooyoung blinks in confusion. For one, this man is talking rather nonchalantly about Wooyoung’s blood, and in the same breath… Did he compliment him? Still, the man called him dead by all means and so he’s only harbouring a little animosity, so he stays silent. The man sighs, removing his hand. Wooyoung won’t admit he’s a bit sad at it. “I suppose it was a bit selfish of me,” the man explains, “But it’s not like I could have really asked if you wanted it.”

Confusion gets the best of him, so Wooyoung shoots up. “If I wanted what?”

“To be a vampire,” the man replies instantly. 

And Wooyoung just stares. The man stares back. It gets a bit awkward, if he’s honest. “A what,” he finally says, presenting it more of a statement rather than a question.

The man (vampire…?) answers anyway, “Yes.”

It doesn’t help. In fact, none of this is really helping Wooyoung so he just nods silently, lifts a finger. “Right, well, your bed is very comfy and the ceiling is pretty, but I’ll just be… Leaving.”

“I wouldn’t leave the room,” the man says as Wooyoung ungracefully untangles himself and nearly falls on the floor. He ignores the warning anyway, stumbling as if he’s hungover as he makes his way to the door.

He can hear the man let out an exasperated sigh behind him as Wooyoung swings the door open. He meant it to be not as dramatic as it turns out to be, what with the door practically cracking the wall with the force in which it slams against it. Under normal circumstances he’d say sorry, but instead he feels like being a petulant child and stomps out into a barely lit hallway. The whole house seems to scream Victorian, he notices, and is apparently too distracted by a rather regal painting of his angel-vampire, slamming into a hard object. As it turns out, when he looks up, “object” really isn’t the right word, as he comes face to face with another stunningly gorgeous man, one with slightly curled silver hair this time (he’s not sure when he started to categorise hot men by their hair colour, but it seems to fit so far). Gorgeous man number two’s eyes are a deep red as he peers down at Wooyoung.

“Well, it seems San wasn’t exaggerating when he spoke of you,” number two says, flashing a smile and… Fangs. Wooyoung would call them sharp canines, only they’re honestly not and he knows this. It doesn’t stop the undignified squeal of terror that erupts from him anyway. “My, what a voice too,” he continues as Wooyoung swings himself around, darting down the hallway.

More tears tug at his eyes and he hates it, hates how confused he is and how gorgeous men aside, he’s not getting any answers. He eventually slips and falls as he now realises he’s running barefoot, and comes crashing to the ground and through another door. Pain radiates through him, particularly on the side of his neck, and when he looks up he can’t help the, “Oh fucking hell” that falls from his lips.

A whole congregation of people stare at him, dressed in everything from what he swears his grandmother wore in her casket to some God awful neon crop top and matching shorts. They all sort of share this awkward blink session before the neon wearing woman comes up to Wooyoung, who is definitely still sitting ass on the ground, and she leans down. Her eyes are a deep red as well, and at least he’s somewhat prepared for when she exposes fangs as well. 

“You smell awfully pretty, mortal,” she coos, stroking a clawed finger along Wooyoung’s cheeks. 

“I don’t really like girls,” Wooyoung blurts, and the woman just laughs. It’s devoid of any true humour though, especially evident when she cuts into his cheek, drawing blood. Wooyoung is a little glad he still bleeds (he doesn’t think dead people would), but any good feeling is washed away when the woman licks his blood rather enthusiastically off her finger.

What were once red eyes now shift into pitch black, no whites visible, and her fangs protrude more than before when she looks back down. Wooyoung is pretty sure he should get the fuck up even before she snarls, “And to think San would hide such a delicious meal from us.”

So Wooyoung does what he assumes any sane person would do at such a sentence as that, and punches her right in the nose. As she stumbles back and shrieks, Wooyoung springs to his feet with his hands balled up in fists in front of his face, gets ready to run, but someone grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks. He shrieks this time as he’s raised several inches off the ground, and he flails trying to break free of the rather painful grip this person has when he’s twirled around and comes back to face with someone else with black eyes. 

“Some beta bitch isn’t going to drink you, allow a nice alpha to take her place,” this one growls and Wooyoung whimpers. 

He’s promptly dropped on the ground when another person roundhouse kicks this one in the side, but before Wooyoung hits the floor he’s caught, but when he peers down at another clawed hand he’s pretty sure he’s not saved by any means. “Hands off you filth,” his catcher growls right back, “Something as precious as this one needs to be drank by royalty.”

“Royalty!” The woman from before barks, “I’ve never heard such bullshit before! Unhand the omega and I’ll consider not killing you too.” 

Wooyoung doesn’t get much of a chance to ask why in the hell these people are talking about ranks of wolves before the whole room erupts in screams and arguments. He catches some rather unsettling words such as “halfling”, another “omega”, “virgin”, before they all just fall silent. Wooyoung, who was being passed around like some crude game of hot potato, is finally let go in earnest, although the only thing it gifts him is a hard drop on the ground again. His neck pulsates and he brings a hand to it as he swivels around to see why he was finally spared.

It seems two people have rather dramatically entered the room, and Wooyoung sort of hates that he recognises them. It’s Gorgeous Number One and Gorgeous Number Two, and the first looks only a little displeased. Wooyoung isn’t sure how he noticed before, but this man has brilliant red eyes as well. Only they flash to a piercing yellow when he peers down at Wooyoung, who suddenly feels just so small. The second one trails slowly behind, hands in his pockets as he nonchalantly looks around at the room of people who Wooyoung was sure were just arguing at who got to kill him. Nothing is making sense.

The thing about Yoongi is, he doesn’t like to mold into the stereotypical “witch”.

Sure, he wears the hat but that’s because it’s fashionable, and maybe he owns a cauldron but that’s because it’s practical, but he does not and will not ride a broom. He won’t paint himself green or let boils grow on his nose, does not eat frogs, and strictly does not own a familiar. 

“I work alone,” he tells Jimin, watching with disdain as his friend curls with his bunny familiar. And it suits Jimin, really, it’s pink and happy and fluffy, and everything Yoongi is not.

Yoongi is all dark and matte colors, pale skin and stoic demeanor. He doesn’t like to show his soft side, afraid it’ll be taken as a weakness, and the only reason Jimin gets to see it is because Jimin once cast a spell on him “by accident” so it wasn’t really Yoongi’s fault he sobbed into Jimin’s chest for hours. And he’ll die by that declaration.  

Jimin frowns up at him, flopping his bunny’s ears from side to side. “Every witch has a familiar, hyung. That’s like, the first rule of witches.”

Yoongi returns the frown, folding his arms across his chest. “Allow me to break the rules, then.”

“It’d make you less mopey,” Jimin reasons, frown easily replaced with his infectious smile. Just so happens today Yoongi posses the vaccine.

“Absolutely not,” he replies, “I can barely take care of myself, let alone a familiar. You have to like, feed them, and…” He waves his hand in the air. 

The smile is replaced with a disapproving frown once more. “They choose you, Yoongi-hyung. It’s like a… Soulmate or something.”

“I’m content being alone, thanks.”

“Bullshit.”

So the frowns continue. Another thing is Yoongi sort of hates how well Jimin knows him. Spell notwithstanding, they’ve been friends for years. Yoongi has helped Jimin just as Jimin has helped him, whether it be through little scoldings like this or just simply sitting beside each other in their time of respective needs. There’s not some formula they have, they each take turns being the coy little bitch (as Yoongi likes to put it), but it’s worked so far. Jimin knows a little more about some mischief spells too, as Yoongi decided to be practical and learn useful ones, but still.

It’s fun turning someone into a chicken, he’ll admit that.

“Listen, I’ll show you the shop I went to,” Jimin starts, getting up and lazily reaching for his phone. His little bunny anxiously waits til it can touch Jimin again, and it already is too clingy for Yoongi. He likes his space. He likes his quiet. Familiars are neither of those things. “Go here,” Jimin continues, oblivious or at least choosing not to notice Yoongi’s inner thoughts, “They have a really nice shop, the lady is very nice. She gives them you for free too, so you don’t have to spend millions of won like other places.”

“Jiminie, if you get something for free, something is wrong with it,” Yoongi reasons, gently lowering the phone that was thrust in his face. “No one gives valuable things away for free.”

Jimin is clearly unbothered by this extremely logical reasoning, and just shrugs. “You’ll cave, just give it time. Once you see how Cooky and I are, you’ll want one too.”

Yoongi’s frown deepens. “You named it…” Jimin emphatically nods, petting this Cooky lovingly. “Pah, it doesn’t matter. I absolutely will never cave.”

Yoongi caves. 

Frankly, he caves because Jimin won’t leave him the shit alone about the whole thing. At the same time, the more Yoongi thought about it, he realised maybe he would actually like someone around, even if that someone ends up being a cat. He prefers to be a loner, both out of his general nature and he’s afraid of getting close to people, but a familiar is different. They’re basically a pet, but a pet that also helps you strengthen your potions and spells, if what Yoongi was reading was true. And he’s always interested in reaching his full potential, being powerful. It gives him and edge of control where he feels he never has.

He steps in warily, never trusting another witch’s place of residence. You always find hexes or booby traps, and the last thing Yoongi wants to get it cursed. He made that mistake once, and it took him weeks to figure out how to get rid of—all things—an itching curse. He’s not sure how he made it, really. But there appears to be none such thing here, just a glorified pet shop. Smells like one too.

All the animals seem to be well taken care of, which is nice, and they all seem to be of pleasant personality. That’s good too—Yoongi doesn’t want a bitchy cat, despite he is one himself. With a cat in mind he gravitates towards them immediately, becoming fond with a solid black one who purrs quietly against his palm. 

“Oh, that won’t do,” a voice says from behind him. 

He jolts in surprise, clasping his hand over where his heart is as he turns, readying an incredulous glare. To be honest, when Jimin said a lady owned the shop Yoongi definitely imagined a stereotypical witch, but this woman is definitely not. Her movements are languid and she sports the most brilliant purple hair he’s seen, and most of all she’s soft. But still annoying, because Yoongi wants this cat.

“And why not?” Yoongi asks, turning back to his lovable cat.

The woman sighs from behind him, and he can practically feel her eyes roll. Because he knows why not, he knows she knows that he knows why not, but Yoongi is nothing but stubborn. “You need to let them choose you for themselves. That cat won’t help you at all.”

Yoongi sighs heavily through his nose, turning back to her. This time he folds his arms across his chest and raises a brow. He silently scans the shop before looking back to her as she taps her long-nailed forefinger against her chin. “Wouldn’t one have come already?” Yoongi asks honestly.

She shakes her head. “Have patience. Just as you take your time choosing the best fruit, a familiar takes their time assessing your worth.”

Yoongi scoffs. “My worth? You act as if they possess such a mind to do so.”

She smiles. “Perhaps not your regular ones, no. But mine are special. That’s why—”

“They’re free?” Yoongi finishes sarcastically. 

The smile fades. “You’d do best not to be so coy. It’ll cost you someday.”

He’s sure he has a good comeback, but there’s a loud caw from the back of the shop. Yoongi assumes she’s done some magic to summon her own familiar to scare him or some such, but instead a red eyed raven perches itself on a close by bookshelf. It peers down at Yoongi like it’s reading his mind, and he straightens his back ever so slightly. 

“This yours?” He asks, not breaking eye contact with it.

Through his peripherals he sees her shake her head, and he swears he sees a smirk. “I’m sure he isn’t. He seems to have an interest in you, though.” 

“Apparently,” Yoongi mumbles, not really caring if she hears him or not.

He’s never really been “in tune” with some instincts he’s supposed to have as a witch, one being able to tell someone’s (or something’s) aura. It’s highly inconvenient, and it’s something Jimin takes no liberty in missing an opportunity to tease him about it. If Jimin were here he’d most certainly be taunting him, making him guess all sorts of ridiculous things from what the raven’s favourite food is (which he’s sure you can’t tell that from an aura, but then again he doesn’t know for sure either) or if it thinks Yoongi is a frog (he’s not sure about that one either). Basically, it’s very stressful and annoying that Yoongi doesn’t possess this, especially because the raven won’t stop staring.

It’s not lost on him either that familiars are supposed to help with that sort of thing, so it’s with much trepidation he swallows thickly. “How much is this one?” He asks as the raven ruffles its feathers.

“They’re free,” the shop woman mocks Yoongi’s voice, “Remember?” And then she just leaves, Yoongi doesn’t know where and frankly he doesn’t really care either. Nothing is going to stop the little staring contest he’s having with a bird.

And nothing is going to stop him from winning, either.

“You have nice feathers,” Yoongi decides to compliment it. Maybe that will earn him some favour of a kind. He raises one of his eyebrows as some sort of challenge almost, to see if the bird will like him better now.

It just cocks its head to the side, and squints. Yoongi huffs audibly, checks once for the shopkeep, and when she’s still no where to be found he turns, fully intending to leave, cursing himself for the waste of time. But the raven caws again, this time sharper like it’s annoyed, and so Yoongi returns with a glare of annoyance right back at it. It erupts yet another staring contest, but at least the raven looks… Softer, somehow. Yoongi does not return the gesture.

“Look, I complimented your feathers, what do you want from me?” He asks it, like it can respond. He feels foolish when it doesn’t, and Yoongi’s losing some of his already nonexistent patience. The problem, though, is that this bird is also piquing his curiosity. Which never ends well. “Fine. If you’re supposed to be my familiar… Give me a sign. Or something.” He stands awkwardly after, peering at the bird who is scratching under its beak with a nonchalant foot.

Yoongi blankly remembers things he knew of birds in the past and asks, “Are you itching? I doubt anyone has preened you lately. You don’t seem like the type to, you know. Socialise.”

If birds could laugh, Yoongi is sure the raven just has. It flutters its wings and glides easily down to the surprised Yoongi, plopping itself on his shoulder and leaning his beak down to grip the hem of his sweater with it. It blinks once before closing its eyes fully, and Yoongi slowly takes it as a cue that it wants to be preened. He’s too embarrassed to admit to a raven he’s never really done this sort of thing before, so he takes an apprehensive hand to its head and starts rubbing on the pin feathers carefully. He can feel some sort of energy calm around the raven, and when it peaks one red open, Yoongi feels it.

It’s hard to explain, but then again so are all witchy things to Yoongi. Jimin explains them easily, so he usually waits for him to talk about an experience Yoongi can relate to, but he definitely forgot to ask what it was like to pair with a familiar. He thinks he will when he gets back, but he’s also pretty sure that’s what he’s feeling right now. A strange heat is boiling in his veins and pumping through his heart, a pressure not unlike a headache pulsating in his temples. He feels like he’s falling, and upon opening his eyes he never realised he had closed in the first place he meets eyes with a very smug looking raven.

“I told you they choose you. Seems this one finds you worthy.” Yoongi looks up to see the shopkeep smiling at him, but he certainly picks up on the deviousness behind it.

Yet Taehyung flinches all the same, slowly turning to see none other than Jungkook perched innocently on a boulder protruding from the sea. He has a lopsided smirk that exposes one of his canines, his wings fluttering slightly. Taehyung frowns at it all. “What do you want?” He asks, trying his best to seem threatening. 

Jungkook shrugs. “Am I not allowed to visit my pretty little merman?”

“No,” Taehyung replies instantly. Jungkook frowns down at him, and Taehyung refuses to acknowledge that it could be both cute and turns him on at the same time. He really hates demons.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Jungkook says, and it sounds sincere enough, but at this point Taehyung has gathered the sense to not trust demons.

He scoffs at the remark, turning back around and crossing his arms across his chest even though Jungkook can’t see him. The tepid sea water splashes around him in soft waves, and he refuses to consider it relaxing. Falling for Jungkook’s charm is how he got in this mess in the first place, and he wasn’t about to play games with such a cocky demon. It’s not his fault he got captivated by such a small waist, thick thighs, and intoxicating smile. It wasn’t his fault either that his drink got spiked, that he got consumed with the need to touch just by breathing in Jungkook’s scent. It really wasn’t.

“You can’t get mad at me,” Jungkook pipes from behind Taehyung. “I gave you what you wanted, did I not?”

Taehyung huffs but still doesn’t turn. “You didn’t give me shit,” he says to the sea. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

In a flash Jungkook appears in front of him, flying in place as he sits criss crossed. He has his hands folded in his lap and is actually pouting, ridiculous tail curling around one of his legs. It was all so ridiculous, Taehyhung really just wants out of it. “Taehyung,” Jungkook whines, “I thought you were supposed to be fun.”

With narrowed eyes Taehyung replies easily, “And I thought you were just a normal dude, Jungkook.”

Because he was a little shit, Jungkook smiles bright. “Ah, there’s that spark.” Taehyung hates that he blushes, and Jungkook must notice because he situates himself so he’s laying down (still floating, which baffles Taehyung still, despite the fact that he has a fish tail), hands propped under his chin. He cocks his head to the side as he whispers, “You can’t deny we had fun that night. Not with the way you were moaning underneath me. I still can smell you on my—”

He’s cut off by Taehyung splashing him, knocking off his balance and plunging him into the sea. It makes Taehyung grin, probably wider than Jungkook’s had been. And yet he knows his face must be bright red, and he hates that Jungkook is right—he hasn’t forgotten about being tangled with Jungkook, rushed kisses at his neck and desperate thrusts rippling through him. Like fuck he’s going to show it though. “There’s no one here, I don’t know why you’re bothering to whisper,” he says quickly as Jungkook manages to fly back up, but he’s absolutely soaked. 

Turns out plummeting Jungkook into water has done him no favours. His hair is slicked back, droplets of water ever so slowly running down his bare chest, because apparently demons have no common decency to wear shirts. Even his leather—yes, leather—pants grip him tighter, and Taehyung breathes in sharply, turning his head to the side. Jungkook catches on. “This is not the time to be shy,” he laughs, “After all, you were the one to point out that no one is here. In fact—”he leans down, clawed fingertip dragging over Taehyung’s shoulder—“I think I like your little revelation.”

Taehyung doesn’t get to question it before Jungkook wraps his arms around Taehyung, hand ever so softly wrapping around his neck. He presses his nose into Taehyung’s neck, just lightly mouthing over a bit of skin there. The sensation makes Taehyung shiver, and would certainly do something to his dick if he still had it. “Just because you have a fish tail doesn’t mean we still can’t have fun,” Jungkook says sweetly into Taehyung’s neck. He opens his mouth to take just the smallest bit of skin in his teeth, biting down. Taehyung hates that for one, he doesn’t stop it, and two, he actually leans into it.

It invites Jungkook to continue, hand on Taehyung’s neck gripping harder, kisses becoming rougher, and Taehyung bites down his lip to not make any noise. He’s not even sure why he’s letting Jungkook do this, but he supposes it’s because he now has some sort of tie to the idiotic demon, what with curses and the like. He still doesn’t even know how it works, but it matters little with the way Jungkook is holding him, the way he’s biting his neck, the way he turns him to bite at his jaw and trail kisses until their lips meet, and shit. Taehyung can’t help but sigh into the sensation of Jungkook’s perfect lips pressed on his own, can’t help the way he loves how Jungkook knows already what he likes, and it’s only when he starts to kiss back that he comes to his senses. 

He pushes Jungkook away, choosing to stare down at the sea again than meet his eyes. “You’re annoying,” he says, but he knows it doesn’t sound threatening at all. 

“And you’re beautiful,” Jungkook replies, tucking Taehyung’s hair behind his ear.

“Shut up,” Taehyung retorts, finally looking up to meet Jungkook’s eyes. And it’s there, that glint of sincerity, that glow of softness that led Taehyung into this mess in the first place. It’s the same exact face that Taehyung had seen across the bar, and the same touch that Taehyung foolishly believed was only meant for him.

But he has to know, has to see for himself these rumours. The “Oracle” they call him, this mysterious man who can see into other worlds, if you were going to believe it. And Jimin is just naive enough, just curious enough, that he chooses to believe it. At the very least, there is no discernible evidence to refute these rumours seeing that no one but him seems to feel the need to find these out. He’s sure his parents and friends would scoff at the idea like they do most things, but there’s always that glint in their eyes Jimin constantly sees. It’s the glint of fear of the unknown, the seeds of doubt surely have been sown, these people just choosing to not tend to them. By contrast, Jimin wishes to see them grow, yearns to see what fruit they bestow or what flowers bloom.

It’s how he finds himself standing at the edge of the Badlands, so far out he can see the burned land beyond. Because there was no other way to describe it, this other land—it was completely barren of most life, looking like someone dragged a burning knife across it as if to make a macabre zen garden. Even more troubling somehow is the neatly made house that stands before Jimin. Well, to call it a house is a bit of a stretch really—it’s more of a shack that has various tapestries hanging down and across it, the windows very obviously broken and wood rotted. It looks as if it was from the time before, when the world was as it had been before the world Jimin knows came into being.

His hand trembles as it reaches for the door handle, or at least what’s left of it. His fingers shake relentlessly when they finally curl around the knob, but he’s not fast enough. Someone else comes bursting through the door, sending Jimin stumbling back and whacking him in the forehead. Hard. He’s not sure which emotion is over-encumbering him presently, whether it’s paralysing inducing fear or raw anger. He finally regains his balance and glares at the person who bursted through, though he’s not sure who’s more afraid to see whom.

“Er, are you the Oracle?” Jimin asks after they have stared at each longer in abject horror long enough. The person does something between a laugh and a cry, and it’s shrill enough to send ripples down Jimin’s spine. They don’t even answer, they just claw at their hair and cackle as they dart away, tripping over rubble and slamming into the various pieces of sheet metal that protrude from the ground. “Guess not…” Jimin mumbles to himself. It’s at this point he realises the door has been opened, the truth just mere steps away from him, and all he has to do is cross it.

The outside of the shack does little to prepare Jimin for its interior. It’s as if everything is frozen in time, he’s sure he sees droplets of what could be water or pearls being suspended in the air. It smells of something not entirely awful, but not exactly an aroma that pleases the senses either. The sleeves of Jimin’s sweater do little to warm him as well, as if this place is suspended in a vacuum where no warmth can dare to heat the space it takes up. It’s all so mesmerising Jimin hardly registers when he’s entered a room at the end of the hall, one lit with candles that offer a poor excuse for lighting.

He’s not keen to dwell on the circumstance of his vision, however, when he can only focus on the one thing he is able to see. A man sits—no, is sprawled—across an intricately designed velvet couch. He dons an equally sophisticated coat jacket, one of the most brilliant white and black Jimin has ever seen, a black choker sitting taut on his neck to compliment it. Even the man’s hair is captivating, a raven black that sleeks over his head, lidded dark eyes underneath the bangs. Jimin draws in a breath when he realises he’s been staring, suddenly at a loss for words.

Much like the silence that had befallen him and the stranger just moments ago, Jimin is eager to break it. “Oracle…?” He asks, his voice raspy and quiet, as if his question could shatter the world.

This time, this person does not cackle nor does he cry. Instead he slowly raises his head, eyebrow quirked slightly but not enough to be of a raise of concern. “Yes?” The man asks back, his voice deeper than Jimin imaged it would be.

More importantly, this man is the Oracle. More importantly—Jimin can finally have answers.

“Sit,” the Oracle beckons, waving his hand nonchalantly to a soft chair just a few feet from the couch. He swings his legs around to set his feet delicately on the ground, leaning back and folding his hands on his lap.

Jimin does as he’s told, nearly tripping over his feet as he clambers onto the chair none too gracefully. He fidgets in his seat, gaze darting all over this surreal shack but always falling back onto this strange man. No one told him he’d be drop dead gorgeous, no one prepared him for the sultry yet predatory gaze he so casually regards Jimin with. It’s rather ridiculous to think thoughts like these when the man—the Oracle—whom everyone from the safe zone seems to be endlessly terrified of is sitting so close to Jimin the static is palpable. 

The Oracle cocks his head to the side. “Strange,” he begins, his words sounding so calculated, “Most people have rambled their tongues out by now.”

Jimin flinches, unsure the intent behind his words. “I just…” He begins himself, unsure more of what in the heavens he’s even going to say. Everything? Tell me about all this nonsense people say about you? Tell me why the world ended? Why you’re so attractive, why it has to be—

“You must be tired,” the Oracle says sweetly, so much sincerity laden in his words. “You obviously have come a long way.”

“How—? How did you know?” Jimin squeaks, having lost every ounce of his resolve by now.

The Oracle laughs from the back of his throat, making Jimin swallow hard. “For one, not many people around here have such wildly pink hair.” Jimin winces but the Oracle continues just as easily. “The other, you seem to be still blinded. There is not a cell on you that has seen the truth.” He purses his lips momentarily. “Yet perhaps you are here to rectify that?”

Jimin swallows once more, but finds all he can offer for a reply is a curt nod. The Oracle smiles, exposing innocent gums to accompany his equally innocent affect. Suddenly Jimin is unsure of coming here, unsure if he’s even safe seated here at all when the Oracle suggests to his no doubt conflicted gaze, “Perhaps you’d like something to drink?”

The Oracle moves to stand but finally Jimin has mustered enough courage to blurt out, “No!” The Oracle swiftly turns, a new expression on his face, one Jimin can’t decipher but leaves him terrified so he quickly adds, “I appreciate your hospitality, but I didn’t come here to have a leisurely chat. I don’t have enough time.”

Mouthing a soft “Ah” the Oracle takes his seat once more, leaning back to rest one of his arms on the back of the couch. “Of course,” he says, soft once more. What a strange person this is, Jimin thinks. “Then what is it that has brought you all this way?”

Jimin finally procures the empty vial he had found on the edge of the Badlands closest to the city. The Oracles eyebrows raise once more, but this time it’s definitely out of curiosity, and something else Jimin doesn’t really want to admit to. “This,” Jimin begins quietly. “I found it—on the edge of my city.”

“The ‘safe zone’?” The Oracle asks with a chuckle.

Ignoring the mocking connotation, Jimin just nods. “I suspect it has something to do with the gas the people speak of, the one that turns people insane.” The Oracle scowls, though either at the bottle or Jimin’s words he’s not sure. “No one knows about its origin, or at least they refuse to tell me. There are no books on it either, and I’ve searched them all. I know the leaders of my city are hiding something, I know they know what this is, or at least have some idea. And I’ve heard…” He gnaws at the bottom of his lip, suddenly unsure of his words (not that he was ever one-hundred percent sure in the first place). “They talk about you. A lot.”

The Oracle laughs like there is actual humour behind Jimin’s claim. Perhaps there is, he thinks, on the side of the Oracle. “Oh?” He inquires with a small grin that somehow manages to be endearing. “What wild things do they say about me?”

Jimin’s fist clenches on the vial. He’s worried on his lip enough that it’s probably started to bleed now, but he doesn’t dare to think about such useless things when the truth is no doubt sitting in front of him wearing a mischievous grin. “That you… You can see other worlds. That there are even other worlds out there, ones that aren’t so much different than this one. That not only that, but that you also know what this gas is. And you know it because… Because you were there at its creation.”

Leaning forward the Oracle’s smile never falters, not even when he asks, “And do you believe these accusations?”

“Yes,” Jimin immediately blurts. “I mean—I mean, I don’t know,” he hastily adds when the Oracle leans back, smile gone. “I have no reason to believe them, but at the same time I equally don’t have a reason not to.” He lowers his fist, releasing the harsh grip he had on the vial. “That’s why I came all this way… To know.”

The Oracle sits with minutely pursed lips in a far too long silence. He finally breaks it when he asks, “And you want me to tell you?”

Jimin does not hesitate when he exclaims, “Yes!”

“And what makes you think I will?”

And oh how far does Jimin’s heart sink. Naive, his mother always scolded him for. So naive to think such wild things, to believe such wild things, and now naive for him to think he could have his answers. But he’s come too far. He’s exhausted all other options and didn’t risk his life coming out here for some gorgeous prick, Oracle or not, to deny him the facts he’s poured over his whole life. No, not after that woman from all those years ago struck such a fervent need for knowledge into his mind is he going to leave now without knowing what it was she had meant. He stands suddenly, both his hands tightening into fists fierce enough Jimin’s sure the stinging he feels is the vial breaking, glass piercing into his palm. “Yes,” he sternly says, it coming out more of a command. “Yes you will, because you have to. I have to know, I haven’t spent all these years trying to figure it out to have the one person who can tell me brush it off like I’m some petulant child.”

Jimin’s fierceness apparently having no effect on the Oracle, he just cocks his head lightly to the side. “Do you also think being so demanding is going to make want to divulge these secrets to you any sooner?” The Oracle sighs, standing but his is more soft and precise where Jimin’s was desperate and aggressive. He starts to stroll away from Jimin, into a room adjacent to his gaudy parlor.

Jimin is keen to follow, not easing his fists even slightly. He’s fairly certain he can feel blood trickling down the edge of his palm and seeping through his fingers, but his raw adrenaline is too severe for him to pay it any mind. “I don’t care what I have to do,” he spits, “All I care about is that I’m not leaving here without you telling me what sort of game you’re playing, or if you can prove this isn’t a game at all. That these people losing their minds isn’t your doing and that you’re just lying about everything. There’s no way you can have known about this gas’s creation anyway”—and he’s aware he’s rambling—“that would make you at least a hundred years old, and there’s definitely no way someone would look so ho—”

“True, I have reservations about merely telling you what I know,” the Oracle says to Jimin’s rant, spinning on his heels. Jimin nearly slams into him, leaving them standing in what looks like an office space when he realises how close their faces are to each other. “But what good would me telling you do? What sort of wild theories would you concoct in my absence? No, it’s far better for you if I just show you instead.”

“Show—?” Jimin tries to ask, but eyes are blown wide when the Oracle juts forward to press his lips against Jimin’s.

They’re soft, is the first thing Jimin registers. It’s not his first kiss by any means, but it seems to be the most passionate even if the Oracle simply parts their lips once, twice. The second thing Jimin can think clearly is that this stranger, this man whom everyone pretends doesn’t exist, merely a name on the wind, is kissing him. Jimin can’t help but close his eyes, can’t help but kiss back and even sigh into it, the feeling so unfamiliar yet so intoxicating. He gets so lost in it, in this Oracle, in himself, that he barely hears the sound of breaking glass beside their feet.

At first he thinks it’s just him finally unclenching his fist, but he realises belatedly that his own is still held tight despite this overwhelming want that has washed over him. He realises too late what exactly was broken, not until he has to break the kiss to let out a cough. When he opens his eyes, though, all bliss from the embrace is gone, replaced by his blood freezing in his veins. 

There’s a billow of smoke, but in the back of Jimin’s mind he knows there is no burning that has preceded it. No, what is quickly bursting to the very much front of his mind is that this is something entirely different. It’s a deep purple, it has no scent whatsoever, and it’s… Gas. A sweat has already slicked the back of Jimin’s neck when he shoots his gaze up to the Oracle, of whom is standing calmly, expression blank. He looks down at the wavering Jimin with a completely even gaze, though his dark eyes display an almost pitiful look. 

It all comes together so quickly that Jimin actually does fall completely down, skidding on the ground and quickly paddling himself backwards. “This—” He chokes out, “You—” He once more belatedly comes to the conclusion of what he has involuntarily inhaled, comes stumbling to his feet and finally releasing the grip he has maintained on the vial, its contents shattering to the floor; the grip he has maintained on reality. When the gas has dissipated almost entirely, when the Oracle still regards him with the same expression, soft kisses and assuring smiles gone, does Jimin run.

This is exactly how he doesn’t fucking know when he started watching his lab partner’s hands with sharp inhales when he does something as menial as grabbing a fucking graduated cylinder. In all honesty it’s probably really incredibly dangerous considering they’re working with chloric acid today and Yoongi’s become quite fond of his skin, thank you. It doesn’t stop him, though, and he’s definitely been staring too hard since he barely even hears his partner say his name.

“Are you even listening?” Taehyung says, annoyance thinly hidden under his tone. 

Yup, that’s the asshole’s name. Taehyung, or “Taetae” as his friends call him, which Yoongi refuses to acknowledge as cute. Also, no, he really wasn’t listening. “Something about acid?” He coyly asks instead and prays his face isn’t red. It sure as shit feels red.

Taehyung rolls his eyes, “You’re gunna get us killed, Min.” Yoongi grits his teeth. The kid refuses to call him by his first name, says it’s more formal if he just uses his family name and it pisses Yoongi off more than anything. Taehyung, the little shit, can probably sense that too. “Just stand there and look mysterious and brooding, yeah?”

It’s Yoongi who rolls his eyes now. He grabs the lab instructions as he says, “The professor will bitch at me if I do that, and you know it. At least let me hold something, make it look like I’m doing something.”

Taehyung shrugs and slides over a barely full flask with his stupidly long, slender fingers. Yoongi absolutely ignores how soft they are when they barely brush by Yoongi’s heavily calloused ones, and wills himself to remember skin looks a lot nicer when its cellular matrix is still intact. 

Yoongi is fully able to realise he’s being gross. That it’s probably not a good idea to try and jack off with his roommate just in the other room, but this is why he got an apartment. So he wasn’t in grad school quite yet, but Seokjin had just made up some small lie and they let Yoongi live here well enough. All Seokjin really needs to do is smile and bat his eyelashes and it always has the girls scrambling to do his every will. Guys too, actually. 

Except Yoongi is definitely not thinking about his roommate when he wraps his hand around his stupidly hard cock. In some absolutely ridiculous train of thought, looking at Taehyung’s impeccably neat handwriting on their lab shit had started in Yoongi’s mind a whole swath of erotic situations that just so happened to include his lab partner who always smelled like cinnamon somehow. And Yoongi hates cinnamon, can’t understand why Seokjin puts it in his porridge, in his coffee. It tastes like sugar that’s trying to be spicy, and Yoongi hates it.

He also hates how his breath shudders when he makes the smallest of pumps. In order to get this over with and not entirely hate himself tomorrow when he sees Taehyung in class, he didn’t even bother to grab any lube. He really didn’t need to anyway, what with the embarrassing amount of pre-come leaking out of him already. As he increases speed, he screws his eyes shut and tries to imagine softer hands around him, a long finger circling the head before it barely slips into his slit. It works, partially, when all he can do is buck into his own touch, but he moans both from pleasure and the fact that it’s still his hand and not Taehyung’s. 

He imagines those lips that are probably just as soft curling around Yoongi’s cock, tan cheeks hollowing out and a deep hum filling the space. Because of course Taehyung would be good at giving head, there’s no way he couldn’t be. He always wears ridiculously tight jeans with what Yoongi swears are fucking Gucci loafers, always has them paired with a loose shirt that screams he doesn’t give a fuck. Maybe Yoongi could take it, maybe, but the soft silver hair and stupid fucking earrings that hang delicately from his ears just fucking makes Yoongi lose it. He’s always had it out for pretty boys, and Christ was Taehyung pretty. He wasn’t just pretty, he was gorgeous and hot and everything that Yoongi wants to tear apart right now.

Yoongi’s pub had quickly become a safe haven for the less than endowed in society, and that’s exactly where Jungkook is sitting at present, grinning wildly at a not grinning Yoongi behind the counter.

“One of these days you’ll rot in a cell forever,” Yoongi tells him, entirely fake intent behind the words.

Jungkook smiles against the rim of his mug and drinks down. “Hasn’t happened yet,” he counters.

“I wait with bated breath for when it does,” Yoongi retorts, swiftly turning on his heel.

Swirling around on his stool, Jungkook watches the pub with a strong familiarity and comfort of home. In one corner someone is playing an aggressive game of chess, in another group of people (including Taehyung, of course) are playing a game of poker. Taehyung cheats, everyone knows, but everyone is also too afraid to say anything about lest they invoke the wrath of Jimin, who when Jungkook looks is sprawled across a chair, no doubt trying to sleep. A wasted effort to be sure.

The only two who were missing was Namjoon and Hoseok, who had been out running errands since their faces weren’t as hated as the Terrible Trio. The two of them had made a silent agreement to wear masks whenever they did business with the Trio, and it would have been a good idea all around if it wasn’t already miserably too late for the other three to even try. Besides, Hoseok took more enjoyment enacting acts of violence against the castle guard and having them not have any clue who was doing it.

Jungkook sits back, resting an elbow on the edge of the bar. He’s smiling, Yoongi makes some rude remark about keeping his bar clean thank you, but Jungkook just laughs under his breath.

This was his home.

                                         — — — — — — — 

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know what home means.

He reads books on it every day, the same ones he has read hundreds of times, and can only conclude where he is trapped is the closest thing to “home”. And that was the reality, Seokjin was trapped in this tower and doesn’t even know what it is to feel the grass between his toes. He has no idea what a breath of fresh air is truly like, and can only imagine it through dreams and hopes of one day being free.

His keeper is Yi Jihu, a younger man but still older than him who had found him as an infant, helpless and alone. Jihu is a nice man, Seokjin thinks, but has told him the horrors of the word below and although he doesn’t want to believe them, he has no point of reference to counter otherwise. It was his hair, he’s always told, people want his hair for intentions laced with malice. Seokjin tugs at his golden shoulder length hair, playing with it in between his fingers, and finds he resents it. 

One night he had tried to cut it, but Jihu had found him and ripped the scissors from his hair and bursting into an anger Seokjin had never seen before. His face turned red and the veins in his eyes popped as he shrieked and screamed at Seokjin, saying he would let him starve if he dared to cut his hair. He hasn’t questioned it since, hasn’t even bothered to try, knowing Jihu watches him constantly under the guise of concern, but Seokjin knows there’s something more sinister hidden underneath. 

It’s magic, Jihu had told him the first night he experienced it. Seokjin had been singing mindlessly, letting tunes flow off his tongue and not even knowing the words he sang. It was in the midst of this his brilliant golden hair had started to glow wildly, emitting flecks of what looked like stardust to him in abundance. Jihu had walked in then, holding it in his hands with the look of what Seokjin thought was like how mother looks at her child. He had brushed his cheek against it and sighed deeply, thanking Seokjin for finally giving him what he was hoping for all these years. Seokjin didn’t get it at the time, still doesn’t as much, but it made Jihu happy so it made Seokjin happy.

Seokjin isn’t happy though. At first he was, always happy to be around his books and his small sugar glider (who he named Cane as a pun to himself), and thought he never needed anything else. Anyone else. He had Jihu, he had food and a home, and there was nothing else he was missing. It was only when he first noticed the stars that he had seen the error in his ways. 

Up in the sky where Seokjin can’t reach, where he can’t even begin to understand the complexity of, sat balls of super heated light that looked down on him. He watches them every night until he falls asleep at the window, watches them while he sings tunes to no one, and watches them like they’re his salvation.

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know what home is, but when he looks at the stars he thinks he’s getting somewhat closer.

                                          — — — — — — — 

“This is the most idiotic thing you’ve ever proposed,” Namjoon says, “And that’s including robbing the brothel that was, if I need to remind you, full of palace soldiers.” 

Jungkook shrugs and grins. “It was funny seeing them realise we had the blackmail power to use against them.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung pipes from the chair.

Sighing, Namjoon runs a hand down his face. The pub had recently closed, and it was just the six of them sitting around trying to figure out how to make some quick cash. Boring breaking and entering had lost its luster, and it never made much money. You always had to do multiple robberies, and that made it easier to be caught and it just wasn’t fun anymore. Jungkook liked to raid, and come back with more than a leather cap and a few gold coins. He wanted bigger, badder, and harder to get. 

Enter his master plan to steal the crown that belonged to the “long lost” prince, if you believed the stories.

“We have Hoseok to lead us around and find the best way in,” Jungkook reasons when Namjoon continues to stare at him.

Hoseok squeaks, “That’s not a lot of pressure though.”

Jungkook shrugs again. “I’m just saying, imagine how rich we would be if we had that thing.” He smirks, showing a toothy smile, “We’d have the kingdom wrapped around our fingers.”

“You seem to be forgetting the part where you could get executed,” Namjoon grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m not, I swear,” Jungkook pouts, “Besides it wouldn’t even be on you if I died, it would totally be on Taehyung,” he finishes just as Taehying yells an indignant, “Hey!” And Jungkook is being hit in the shoulder by a blunt butter knife. 

The thing was, Jungkook harbours more than a little animosity towards the king and queen. Ever since he could wrap his head around thoughts beyond he was hungry and pillows were comfy, he had seen his fair share of turmoil surrounding the monarchy. It didn’t care about its citizens really, it only cared about the rich ones. They would try to guilt the citizens by saying the king and queen still mourn their lost son, but if Jungkook can get over his dead parents he thinks the goddamn leaders of a nation can get over their son.

It’s because of this that he wants to steal the crown. He wants to covet it and dangle it above the kingdom’s head, taunting and bribing for them to get it back. He wants to see them suffer like the poor and ill, wants them to know what it’s like to not be born into royalty or the aristocracy. Perhaps it’s a bit childish, perhaps he was just being petty, but it doesn’t change how he feels.

It turns out the best way to get into the castle is through the roof. Jungkook doesn’t pretend to understand, just scales the sides of the castle with a foolish grin and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He’s always loved climbing, always climbed trees and hills when he was younger, much to his caretaker’s dismay. 

Jungkook reaches the place where they will quite literally drop in before everyone else, because of course he does. He’s bouncing foot to foot, squeezing his hands into fists only to let them go in rapid succession. The whole gang decided to come this time, even Yoongi. He mentioned something about being bored out of his ever loving mind in the pub and was keen to see them all fuck up. It was an empty insult, because everyone knows he came because he was worried about Hoseok getting hurt again. Jungkook wishes they would just fuck already and get rid of the sexual tension he can practically smell every time they’re near each other. It literally makes him nauseated, and even more so when he sees them eye fucking each other. Absolutely ridiculous.

“I don’t like heights,” Taehyung idly comments, staring down into the throne room. It’s where the king and queen keep the crown, moping about it every time they held council. 

“I’ll go in then,” Jungkook says, already reaching for the rope Jimin is holding. 

Jimin keeps it taut against his hip, resisting Jungkook’s grip. “Shouldn’t I be the one to go? I’m the smallest,” he says, gnawing at the bottom of his lip.

The thing is, everyone else is always slightly wary about doing big heists. They’re always quiet as they prepare, quiet as they start, always hesitant. Jungkook, by contrast, welcomes the chaos that no doubt descends upon them. He relishes the fact that he’s in danger, that he could be thrown in prison forever, or even worse he could die. It was exhilarating, knowing he had control over what he could do. And that was the thing, it was all about control. All about the thrill.

So Jungkook forcefully yanks the rope from Jimin saying, “We can’t have anyone be scared or unsure about this, or we’re all fucked.” To that, everyone slowly nods. He’s right, he knows, and he knows everyone else sees it as well. It’s why, despite being the youngest, Jungkook is the leader. 

“Ah, bravery,” Yoongi muses with a chuckle, “A far better term for stupidity, is it not?”

Jungkook shoots him a look, lips thinning. “No one needs your poetry bullshit right now,” he retorts, but there’s no venom in it, not when he grins wildly right after. Yoongi grins right back, raising his hands in mock defeat.

“Don’t die,” is what he says next, and it’s the best evidence of concern Jungkook is going to get out of him.

Jungkook is let down slowly, needing both Namjoon and Taehyung to hold him steady. “You’re all muscle what the fuck,” is what Taehyung had muttered as they first dropped him through the glass ceiling. He dangles more or less stably as he’s brought closer to the crown perfectly sitting on a silk pillow, atop a pedestal adorned with so many jewels it makes Jungkook’s mouth water. If he could, he’d rip the damn thing out and keep it for himself it was so pretty. It’d be like a trophy, since he really has no plan on what to actually do with the crown once he gets it. He’ll figure it out.

A sweat has built up on the nape of his neck when he first grabs the rim of the crown in front of him. He holds it close to his chest, looking up at where Jimin is peering down at him and grins. He motions to be let up when one of the guards sneezes, turning his attention back down.

“Hay fever?” He casually asks, and can feel the grip on the rope stiffening. 

“Like a bitch,” the guard says, and Jungkook can tell he’s wiping his nose from where he stares at his back. It takes a moment for the guard to realise where the comment came from, and turns to Jungkook with eyes blown wide. “What the fu—”

“Sorry, got to go,” Jungkook interrupts with the most shit eating grin. He can feel himself be pulled up only slightly, and he’s pretty sure the assholes are considering letting him go altogether. 

As he’s being hoisted up there is nothing short of chaos that erupts. He can’t tell if he’s hearing his friends curse or the plethora of guards below him, but it doesn’t matter when he feels an arrows slice his cheek. Still clutching the crown with one arm, he instinctively jolts a hand to where he’s no doubt bleeding, sending an incredulous glare at the trembling guard who no doubt tried to kill him. So rude.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” is what Jungkook is greeted with when he finally clambers onto the roof. “Can you not be a cocky bastard for one minute of your life?” It’s Yoongi snarling at him, but it’s clear he’s afraid. Poor bugger shouldn’t have come along.

“I have to agree,” Taehyung adds, dropping the rope right as Jungkook stands. He points an accusatory finger at him, “If we all die I am so haunting you in the afterlife.”

Wriggling out of the rope tied around his waist, Jungkook grins. “Fair enough.”

                                               — — — — — — — 

He finishes singing for Jihu as the sun starts to set. 

“Beautiful, as always,” Jihu says to Seokjin, sliding an affectionate thumb across his cheek.

Seokjin smiles, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Cane wriggles in his lap, and he softly pets his head. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Jihu kisses the top of his head as he stands, brushing off his knees. He had been kneeling in front of Seokjin as he sang atop of a terribly worn down wooden stool. It had been like this ever since Seokjin can remember, singing for Jihu before bed. He’s always thought the dynamic was supposed to be the other way around, but it always made Jihu happy so he never questioned it. It got old after maybe twenty years when Seokjin realised he doesn’t get much in return. Sometimes a nice muffin, but he hardly considers it compensation.

It started to get old when Seokjin’s back hurt from sitting too long, his hair sometimes not wanting to glow how Jihu wanted it to. 

It started to get old when Jihu would strike him for not wanting to do it, and then immediately cradle him and telling him he was sorry.

It started to get old when Seokjin realised he was alone.

He always has Cane, who scurries up his arm to rest in the crook of his neck, but sometimes he wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Cane’s fault of course, and he usually was enough to keep Seokjin sane. But the thing was, Jihu would be gone sometimes for weeks at a time, and instead of welcoming Seokjin into his arms when he returned, he would always drag him to the wooden stool and practically beg Seokjin to sing for him, bags latent and obvious under his eyes.

Seokjin has never denied him in those times either. The pain on Jihu’s face made his heart hurt, and he would stop whatever he was doing to help. Perhaps he was chasing a feeling that maybe Jihu would show him true love, and not just something he has to covet. Seokjin frowns at the familiar sentiment that crawls upon behind him. It’s been getting harder to ignore as of late, and when he tries to be more affectionate with Jihu, he’s pushed away. Seokjin only matters when he sings.

Sometimes he wishes he would fall ill and lose his voice forever. What was the point of being able to sing if he could never share it with the world? He’s always told how cold and unforgiving the outside world is, but when he looks out his window into the endless woods with its singing birds and beautiful elk, he thinks maybe Jihu is wrong. He thinks maybe if he was just given the chance he would be able to think for his own.

He thinks many things, but never voices them.

He belatedly realises Jihu is trying to talk to him when he blinks up to an impatient face. “Sorry?” He asks.

“I said,” Jihu says, “It’s time for you to sleep now. I have to leave early tomorrow and I need to know you’re safe in your bed before I sleep.”

Seokjin rubs his lips together. He has grown accustomed to Jihu treating him like a child despite his age, but there are moments where it infuriates him. Surely they should be equals now. Surely Seokjin isn’t the stumbling infant he once was. In any case, he nods. “Of course,” he replies, standing delicately. 

Jihu watches him, a shadowed figure as Seokjin crawls into bed and holds his blankets close to his face. He hides it enough to know when Jihu leaves, obviously convinced he’s asleep already. The sigh that Jihu always lets out as he leaves has not made Seokjin find comfort since he was a small child, and so when he hears Jihu’s bedroom door close, he promptly sits up. Cane comes over to sit atop his head as he does what he’s done as a ritual for years now. 

He’s mapped them in his room, sprawled endlessly across his ceiling and trailing down the walls. On most days he can admire them, both out his window and within in his room, but other days he resents them; wants to throw paint at the delicately painted scenes and scream into his pillow. They were outside and he was in. They had freedom, he did not.

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know the meaning behind freedom, can only watch it with glistening eyes as it streaks across the skies.

                                            — — — — — — — 

So in reality Jeon Jungkook’s track record sucks. It’s really awful, to be honest. In fact, it might be the worst. He was probably on par with serial murderers, he just doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Well, he doesn’t like to get blood on them, let’s put it that way. In terms of the symbolic meaning of dirty Jungkook’s hands should probably be black with filth. 

He’s humming this to himself as he sits in a prison cell, again. In his defense he was sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time, so it wasn’t entirely on him, just mostly. So yes he orchestrated the whole thing, but he didn’t actually do anything but stand watch and utterly fail at that. It’s not his fault Jimin and Taehyung bailed out on him, and it’s also not his fault that his previous record eliminated any chance of the guards hearing him out.

Okay, so maybe not so much the last bit but still.

“Here’s your food, scum,” comes the straggled voice of one of the castle guards. He kicks in a tray of what Jungkook probably thinks is stale bread and moldy cheese, and it bumps unceremoniously into his scuffed brown leather boot.

Jungkook flashes a toothy smile. “Cheers, mate,” he sings happily, but makes no move to get the food. He’s starving, but he won’t give them the satisfaction of giving himself food poisoning because that was the only option. It wasn’t like he was going to be in here much longer anyway.

The guard stiffly laughs at him and trudges away, flashy armour clinking with him as he walks. Jungkook straightens himself from where he was leaning against the wall and tilts his head side to side to try and crack his neck. He’s still humming under his breath and starts to rap his fingers against his knee to match the nameless song he has going. When he hears the first sound, a sly smirk splays across his face and he has to suppress his outright laughter.

There’s confused yelling and a string of obscenities before a loud clunk of what was no doubt the self same guard from earlier crashing to the ground. He hears a distinctive cackle followed by a stern scolding, although he can’t make out the words. He already knows who it is anyway, and stands to walk over the bars of his cell to drape himself dramatically against them.

“Oh woe is me,” he laments to the approaching footsteps, “How I have wasted away in this cell, my only thoughts being of my beloved who waits with bated breath to see me safely returned!”

“You’re an idiot,” Jimin says as he rounds the corner. He blows up a puff his ridiculous orange hair in something that was probably defiance but the effect is lost under his grin he’s unable to hide. Terrible actor.

“A beautiful idiot,” Taehyung supplies as he stumbles and skids to stand in front of the cell. He triumphantly jingles a ring of keys with his rectangle grin, waggling his eyebrows. “One who does not belong in the confines of a filthy castle dungeon,” he says, pouting at the end. 

“Just open the damn cell before I leave both of you here,” Jimin sighs, running a hand through his hair, “The palace is bound to notice something is amiss if we don’t hurry the hells up.”

Jungkook shrugs, he can’t argue with that logic. “Then let this damsel in distress out,” he returns a pout, like a child who doesn’t get what they want.

“Jesus Christ,” Jimin says while Taehyung laughs and opens the cell.

                                          — — — — — — —  

If Jungkook was going to be a crybaby, he hasn’t had the best life. He lost his parents before he can even really remember them, and was stuck in an orphanage that was, if he was being nice, not that great. A fucking hell if he isn’t. It was there he grew up with the grand wish of becoming a swash buckling adventurer, always envying the stories that were read to him. It was when he was struggling to reach one of them as a small child that he had met Taehyung and Jimin, also orphans like him. That was the start of their friendship, and the beginnings of an entourage of misfits that probably belonged in a dungeon.

The misfits in question would be those the Terrible Trio (as he called them, and it just stuck) came across when they kept getting in trouble with the law in the beginning. One of them always ended up in some dungeon, jail, thing that was probably supposed to keep them there for a very long time. The thing was, that during their time at the orphanage Jimin discovered he had a strange talent for picking locks so it never lasted long. It was either the times changing or the region getting sick of their acts of debauchery, but dungeons etcetera had started to use more sophisticated locks, ones Jimin had more of an issue with if his relentless cursing was anything to go by.

Enter Kim Namjoon, some poor sod they had met when “accidentally” robbing a shop in a local town. He stared them down from behind the counter, only having been noticed when he cleared his throat. Jimin had bowed and pled for forgiveness, Taehyung had wondered out loud if a blacksmith really needed so many tools, and Jungkook had just offered a weak shrug. It was a wonder they weren’t thrown out, but Namjoon had felt bad for them (or something) and even though he didn’t let them walk of scot free, he did agree to help them not be criminals.

Only that lasted for about five seconds when he realised the Terrible Trio were very cemented in their ways so he gave up a life of peace to drag himself along with them. Jungkook finds him rather relaxing to be around, always a voice of reason and comfort when he doubts himself. Namjoon was also rather genius, and stopped having issues being a criminal when he would design heists and the Terrible Trio would return with enough riches to probably last them until their graves.

Their graves almost came too soon one night that Taehyung had gotten himself stuck in a dungeon. He was whining endlessly at Jimin who was insisting he was going as fast as he could to get the damn lock to give way, and Jungkook had to keep slapping Taehyung’s hands away. Namjoon had been standing behind them, not wanting to wait outside in the cold, and somehow between the four of them they didn’t notice when a guard came up.

The bastard had been watching for a while, and only became known when he laughed particularly hard at Taehyung physically gnawing on Jimin’s knuckles as he tried to work the lock open. When they all turned in unison the guard had lifted his hands in mock defense and swore he wasn’t trying to start anything, just honestly wanted to see if Jimin could get it. And he did, about twenty minutes later and with enough curses to condemn the worst witch to hell. The worst part was the guard had produced the ring of keys that went to the cell right after, laughing brightly with his mouth in the shape of a heart, wiping at his eyes at the look on Jimin’s face.

Jung Hoseok he had introduced himself as, and actually begged to join them because guard duty was, as he put it, “worse than watching after a dying pig—one that was dying from a serious case of cholera.” Namjoon had piped in cholera wasn’t commonly present in animals other than humans, which earned him a whack on the head from Hoseok and a threat that he still could technically throw them all in jail. That had shut Namjoon up and cemented Hoseok’s place in their grand band of horrible mistakes. 

The five of them had stayed like that, knit together and never straying too far from one and other, only when one or two of them fucked up and ended up in jail, but that was normal. Jungkook was probably the worst at that, but they still followed the small boy from the orphanage proudly, never shying away from anything he proposed to do. Jimin and Taehyung were practically tied at the waist so they followed Jungkook blindly, Namjoon always wanted money and took a sick pleasure in devising heists, and Hoseok was just content in screwing over the justice system. They made it work.

Only one night it hadn’t worked, one night they messed up badly, and Hoseok ended up wounded beyond what was thought repair and the whole royal city after them. They had no choice but to bail, not even having a way to stay hidden in time to get Hoseok to something akin to a doctor. Taehyung had been sobbing while Jimin cursed, Namjoon being the one to carry him bridal style through the woods, nearly tripping over the trembling Jungkook that was leading them. 

By some act of God, the five of them had come across a somewhat unimpressive pub in the middle of the woods. It was far away enough that the likelihood of the proprietor knowing who the hell they were was low enough, so Jungkook had jumped on the opportunity and blasted through the door, ready to come up with some excuse for the break in, or at least hold the person down until they could tend to Hoseok’s wounds.

And Jungkook had certainly blown the door wide open, off its hinges, and it slammed down in front of a man looking at them not with fear, but perhaps annoyance more than anything. 

Cool air falls over Jungkook and makes him shiver. If Namjoon looked at Jimin’s neck he certainly didn’t say anything about the obvious hickeys, so Jungkook just straightens his back and pretends that is definitely the case.

Taehyung, who is leaning on Jin for support, giggles. “Have you gone off kissing other men?” He grins but Jungkook doesn’t return it. Instead, he stupidly stays silent, and Taehyung pouts. “That’s so rude,” he continues, “I thought what we shared was special.”

Jin looks down at his friend with furrowed brows. “What?” He starts to ask, but Jungkook just clears his throat.

“He’s drunk, he’s just talking about—” But Jungkook doesn’t finish.

Beside him, Jimin collapses to the ground, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Thankfully Jungkook catches him just before his skull gets too familiar with the pavement, but he’s dead weight in Jungkook’s grip. His chest is rising and falling irregularly, as if it’s a struggle to breathe. Jungkook recognises the clammy sweat that’s building on Jimin’s skin, and panic is settling in the back of his throat.

“Sheesh, and I thought Taehyung drank too much,” Jin laughs, blissfully unaware of what was really happening to Jimin.

“He needs water,” Taehyung slurs, ignoring Jin’s comment, and Jungkook has to physically hold back telling him he has no idea.

In the end, Yoongi is the one who discreetly helps Jungkook. He sobered up quickly (unlike Hoseok) and could see in Jungkook’s eyes that something siren-y was happening to Jimin. They took a separate cab home, and Yoongi presses a napkin with cool water soaked up on Jimin’s forehead. He sputters out a breath, but doesn’t regain full consciousness yet. Jungkook swallows hard.

“What’s happening?” Yoongi whispers so the cabbie can’t hear them.

Jungkook shakes his head. “I mean, it’s possible because he hasn’t had alcohol in years, but something tells me there’s more.”

Lips pressed into a thing line Yoongi asks, “What do you mean?”

“This happens sometimes, where Jimin gets his tail back without warning,” Jungkook explains, “It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does he looks like… This. Like he’s a fish out of water.”

Yoongi chuckles, wiping at Jimin’s brow. “I mean, isn’t that the case?” Jungkook doesn’t answer.

Despite Jungkook insisting that he could take care of Jimin fine on his own, Yoongi had stubbornly stayed at his side. He had kept a watch on Jimin as Jungkook started the water for the tub, and while it was filling he saunters back into the living room where Jimin is laid on the couch. His breathing has become slightly more even since Yoongi had given him a sip of water, but Jimin still didn’t stir beyond shuddering breaths and tiny gasps. When the tub is sufficiently full, Jungkook cradles Jimin princess style to the bathroom. 

He stops just before putting Jimin in when he realises he’s still fully dressed. The jeans he’s wearing are too nice to let a tail rip through them, so Jungkook sets Jimin softly on the toilet, confidently meaning to take Jimin’s jeans off. Only he wasn’t confident, and kneels down, staring at Jimin’s abdomen with bated breath. Sure, he had almost fucked the man in a club of all places, but he was overrun with whatever “spell” he was under, and now he was just sitting in front of an unconscious Jimin, completely vulnerable. What would he think if he woke up to Jungkook pulling down his pants? He shudders at the thought.

“You know, leaving him slumped on the shitter isn’t going to do him any favours.” Jungkook whips his head so hard it cracks slightly, and sees Yoongi standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He gives a curt nod towards Jimin. “Go ahead and toss him in, yeah?” Yoongi actually sounds concerned, and it’s a bit endearing.

What wasn’t endearing, though, was the prospect of peeling off clothes from an unconscious man. “It’s uh, it’s his jeans,” Jungkook mumbles.

Yoongi squints his eyes. “So?”

“So,” Jungkook swallows, “He really likes these ones, I don’t want them to get ruined by his uh… Tail.”

When Yoongi laughs, Jungkook tries not to be offended. “Alright? So take them off, then.” A flush no doubt creeps up Jungkook’s neck, one obvious enough that Yoongi sees it because he’s sighing and walking towards Jimin saying, “Move aside lover boy, I’ll do it.” 

For some reason the thought of someone else touching Jimin gives way to anger building in his throat. He bites down lightly on his lower lip and tries his best to quell the shakes he’s getting from it. He knows he’s being ridiculous, especially when Yoongi nudges him with his foot, probably saying something vaguely threatening and offensive, but Jungkook can’t hear it behind the thundering in his head. “Right, okay,” he forces himself to say, forces himself to stand, letting Yoongi lean over Jimin as he goes to fiddle with Jimin’s pant line. Jungkook tries his best to keep his breathing even, but it probably isn’t working as well as he hopes.

Yoongi talks while he works, “I really hope this is just because the idiot drank too much.” He makes a clicking noise with his tongue when he finally gets the jeans unbuttoned and fly undone. “I’ve been trying to look up information on this whole shit, but everything seems like conspiracy nonsense.” He grunts as he lifts Jimin’s hips so he can pull the jeans down the rest of the way. Jungkook’s breath hitches and he curls his hands into tight fists. Yoongi continues, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil Jungkook is drowning in. “I did find some shop though, just a little bit outside the city.”

This piques Jungkook’s interest, and serves as a distraction. “O-Oh?” He asks, cursing his quivering voice.

Yoongi just nods, sliding Jimin’s jeans down so they’re at his ankles. He delicately starts to slip Jimin’s feet out, one by one. “Yeah, some shop that’s been around for a Jesus. Like, it was passed between generations or some shit I dunno, could be a fib.” When he finally gets Jimin’s jeans all the way off Jungkook is about to pass out from the strange anger (jealousy?) he’s been harbouring. “It was the only thing that looked even slightly credible, as pathetic as that sounds. They didn’t spout shit like sirens had three tongues and eleven fingers, though, so I thought that was probably our best bet right now.” He nods again towards Jimin, “He hasn’t told you much, right?”

“No,” Jungkooks replies, voice slightly more stable. “He doesn’t tell me anything really.”

“Hmm,” Yoongi hums, “Strange.” He folds Jimin’s jeans and starts to walk out of the bathroom, squeezing Jungkook’s shoulder saying, “All yours, lover boy.” Jungkook ignores the slight sexual innuendo laced in Yoongi’s words.

After he places Jimin delicately in the water, he just stares again. He takes in Jimin’s astounding beauty, his soft features and pink hair falling peacefully over his eyes. That jeweled and shining earring still hangs from his right ear, and Jungkook absently wonders why he never takes the thing off. Jungkook takes a seat on the toilet, rests his elbows on either knee and breathes in sharply. Yoongi’s silent proposition rang in his head, the feeling that he could get some answers finally. It was almost like going behind Jimin’s back, but Jungkook feels like he has the right to know. Perhaps there are things Jimin doesn’t know either, he thinks. Maybe this could satisfy them both.

A groan brings Jungkook back, hid whipping up from where he was staring at his lap. Jimin’s nose is crinkling and there’s movement behind his closed eyes, but he still doesn’t open them. He shifts uncomfortably in the tub, and when Jungkook looks down his tail has in fact returned. When he trails his gaze back to Jimin’s face, he looks almost peaceful. Content. Jungkook is about to leave him there when he sees his eyes open slowly.

“Jungkook?” He whispers, voice low from what was no doubt exhaustion. He scoots himself up so he’s sitting more properly, and as he runs his hand through his hair he looks around blankly. “Where…?”

“You collapsed in front of the club,” Jungkook says, voice not as even as he would have preferred. “Yoongi and I brought you here,” he adds quickly, which warrants a sharp intake of breath from Jimin.

“I see,” he says quietly, looking down at himself. His tail swishes in the water, overflowing the tub just a little, and when Jimin frowns Jungkook doesn’t think it was because he was drowning his bathroom again. 

“Was it because you drank too much?” Jungkook offers when he realises Jimin is glaring almost resentfully at his tail.

Jimin shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies, but it sounds fake. When he glances over at Jungkook and their eyes meet, the latter notices how exhausted he really looks. It causes Jungook to worry on his bottom lip.

“Do you, er, want your legs back?” Jungkook asks, unsure why he’s so hesitant.

Jimin says nothing, but rather hums. “When was the last time you went swimming?” He asks instead, and the question takes Jungkook a bit off guard.

“Wh-What?” He replies, having started to stand in anticipation of Jimin wholeheartedly begging for his elusive limbs back.

“Swimming?” Jimin repeats, cocking his head to the side as he says so. 

For some reason, Jungkook is struck dead at the question. He opens his mouth a few times just to close it before finally deciding to say, “Does when I dove after you count?”

The small smile that graces Jimin’s lips makes Jungkook’s heart ache. “I suppose it could,” he muses, then eyebrows shoot up in awe of something he’s just remembered. “What happened when you did?”

Ignoring the fact that this was something Jimin should have probably asked the night it all happened Jungkook says, “I nearly drowned.”

Jimin grips the side of the tub with both of his small hands, turning his body to better face Jungkook. He leans over with what seems like curious anticipation. It must be what the gesture was conveying because he hardly says, “Yes, yes, but before that.”

So Jungkook thinks. He takes an awkward seat back on the toilet and rubs what he now realises are sweaty palms atop his jeans. He shrugs. “I held my breath for a long while, longer than I thought I could,” he elaborates, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He watches Jimin’s eyes dart all across the room, resting on one thing and then moving to the next, but never resting back on him. “Why, exactly?” He slowly asks, not sure if he even wants to know the answer.

“I just…” Jimin begins, but stares down at his hands. When Jungkook looks down at them he sees Jimin’s knuckles going white with the severity of his grip. And Jungkook wants to know, is really tired of being in the dark, but he doesn’t like to see Jimin like this, so he surges forward, taking Jimin’s hands into his own.

“Hey,” he says softly, free one hand so he can tilt Jimin’s chin up. His expression is unreadable like it’s been many times before, but he just ignores it and just brings their faces closer together so his forehead rests on Jimin’s. “We’ll worry about it later,” he continues, “For now I’ll do what I know I can do.”

Jungkook presses his lips softly against Jimin’s, and finds himself sighing contently into the kiss. Despite the fact that he’s done this many times before, despite that he was grinding on Jimin not even four hours ago, this kiss feels different. Perhaps it’s because Jungkook is sobering up rather nicely (he had chugged about three bottles of water worth so he could watch Jimin more closely), or maybe he’s letting himself feel the things he keeps trying to push away. 

Jimin grips Jungkook’s hands tighter, tilts his head so he’s at a better angle, and kisses back. He presses himself farther up into Jungkook, parting his lips as an invention for Jungkook to deepen the kiss, but he doesn’t. He swipes his tongue along Jimin’s bottom lip and gingerly takes it in his teeth, but it’s only a soft bite before he releases it, more wanting to feel Jimin’s warmth against him rather than anything else. Jimin whimpers underneath him, squirming slightly in his grip, like he too is feeling something other than the friction they’ve been sharing. The moment Jungkook thinks of this, his eyes flash open in midst of the kiss, sees how Jimin’s eyebrows are laced in a purely blissful expression, and pulls back. 

It’s rather sudden, he realises, but the thought that something was blossoming between them terrifies Jungkook, and he’s not even sure why. “You… You got your legs back,” he says quickly, not even sure if he’s right. A quick glance into the tub tells him he is, and he sighs inwardly of relief. He doesn’t know how else he could have explained himself snapping away from Jimin’s face like it was on fire.

Jimin blinks at him, but before he can say anything Jungkook hears a soft chuckle behind him. He already knows who it is, but the look on Jimin’s face is just the cementing the fact. His eyes have blown wide and a new flush attacks his cheeks, and Jungkook would laugh right back if he didn’t feel the betraying colour reach his cheeks as well.

“I always wondered how that whole dynamic worked,” Yoongi says from behind Jungkook. Jimin has looked down at his hands still gripping the side of the tub. For all his prowess and claims of badassery, it was amusing to see him so flustered. “Can anyone do it, or does it have to be Jungkook?” Yoongi asks and the question boils Jungkook’s blood like before.

He stays watching Jimin instead, who shakes his head from where he’s staring down at his small hands. “It can only be Jungkook,” he says softly. Jungkook’s heart flutters at the knowledge, however, and he hates himself for it.

Yoongi makes a humming noise that was no doubt trying to be condescending. “Well damn,” he says and Jungkook finally turns. Yoongi looks absolutely exhausted beyond words, and Jungkook feels only a little bad that he keeps getting mad at him. For stupid reasons too, ones he doesn’t even fully understand. “Listen, I’m going to go, I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says and adds, “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Jungkook nods but doesn’t say much, telling Jimin under his breath that he’s going to see Yoongi out. When the two of them get to the door of Jungkook’s apartment, he worries on his lower lip before saying, “Are we bringing Jimin with us tomorrow?”

Yoongi breathes out, the sound of air whistling past his teeth. He bops his head back and forth as if he’s lost in thought, and maybe he is, before he just shrugs. “I mean don’t you collapse without him around?”

For some reason that comment makes Jungkook flush ever so slightly. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I suppose...”

“It’ll be fine,” Yoongi assures him, slapping an affectionate hand on his shoulder. He tries his best to genuinely smile but Jungkook doesn’t think it really reaches that. “Jimin probably has some questions himself.”

At that Jungkook nods in agreement, forgoing telling Yoongi that the night he found out about Jimin he was doing just that, only asking some entity Jungkook has no idea what it could be. “Yeah,” he says quietly instead, and gives Yoongi a quick hug goodbye.

When the door shuts he finally feels like he can breathe a little easier, and rubs a tired hand down his face. He doesn’t even know what time it is, but it feels late. Like, really late. Like maybe it’s even already five in the morning. He chances a quick glance at his clock as he walks back towards the bathroom and it reads three a.m. Not as bad as Jungkook thought, but still probably not that great. He approaches the bathroom and upon seeing it empty, figures Jimin probably went to go get dressed. When he walks in his room, he sees just that—a Jimin sitting cross legged on his bed and staring intently at the drawstring on his sweatpants.

“Those are huge on you,” Jungkook finds himself saying, laughing under his breath at how tight Jimin has the drawstring pulled.

Jimin looks up and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not my fault you’re a giant,” he counters and smirks. It fades quickly thought as Jimin struggles to say, “Can I… Sleep with you tonight?”

Because Jungkook has the mind of a fifteen year old his first thought is Jimin wants to have sex with him. And in all honesty, of course Jungkook would. He would fuck Jimin until he couldn’t speak, voice too hoarse from moaning in both pain and pleasure. He would bite at his neck, mark him as his, and my goodness how pretty Jimin would look under him. Not realising he started to breathe a little heavily and stare at the floor, he jolts his head back up to meet Jimin’s gaze, of which is one of confusion and what looks like regret. The regret is probably from asking Jungkook if he could sleep with him, which he now belatedly realises probably means actual sleep. Jungkook swallows.

“Sure,” he manages to say. He doesn’t bother to ask Jimin why, just quietly goes to remove his clothes. He makes a point to face away from Jimin as he does so, despite the fact that the guy has literally sucked his dick. He shivers at the thought and tries to tell himself it’s because he’s removed his shirt, but he knows he’s lying to himself. He wonders when he’ll stop with that.

After Jungkook crawls into bed, Jimin literally dashes at him, immediately pressing himself against Jungkook’s side and nuzzling his face into the crook of Jungkook’s neck. He’s not sure why he’s surprised at the action, but carefully pulls the blanket to cover them nonetheless, pressing a wordless kiss to the crown of Jimin’s head. Jimin trembles on top of him, so Jungkook holds him close, humming under his breath until the steady rhythm of Jimin’s breathing tells him he’s asleep. Jungkook is quick to follow.

It’s been a while since Jungkook has dreamed. Of course people tell you that you dream every night regardless of whether or not you remember it, so maybe it’s just been a while since Jungkook has remembered. He finds himself floating in what just seems like the air or maybe the clouds, staring at a scenery of white threatening to consume him. He feels cold, and when he looks down he’s not wearing a shred of clothing. He yelps, but it doesn’t come out quite right, like he’s underwater. 

He turns his head wildly, trying to figure out where he is but there’s nothing to tell him. He starts to feel panic boil up his throat but he tries to suppress it as best he can. He wiggles his legs to get a feel of what sort of suspension he’s trapped in, and finds they move easily. So there’s no resistance, Jungkook thinks, and tries to wiggle his fingers just to be sure. They are the same, and it just further deepens his confusion.

“How long do you think you can hold out?” A voice asks, but Jungkook can’t see where it’s coming from, nor can he ascertain who it is. “It’s pointless, you know, to resist it,” it booms, and it sounds angry this time. Jungkook is finding it harder to dampen his panic. 

He swirls himself around, now feeling like he’s treading water, and sees a shadowy figure far ahead of him. He’s not sure how far, but he’s content to keep the distance as best he can. He breathes in sharply, trying to make a shape out of the dark abyss. 

“Do you still not get it?” The voice coos, and it gives Jungkook goosebumps. “Oh,” the voice says, drawing out the sound, “He hasn’t told you.” The figure slowly approaches Jungkook, of which he can’t seem to move away from. It’s like he’s trapped in a cage, and when he tries to speak nothing comes out but choked bubbles. He doesn’t understand; he’s scared.

“Perhaps I should show you,” the voice says, becoming louder. The shroud covering it fades, and Jungkook sees what he thinks is a siren, but it’s not right. There’s what looks like a distinctive shark tail instead of the beautifully scaled one that Jimin has, and it’s covered in scars. When Jungkook looks up he sees the person—thing—has hollow eyes, devoid of any colour and any discernible pupils. Scars cover their face as well, and as Jungkook’s gaze trails down their torso, he breathes in sharply. The figure is wearing a shawl that covers most of them, but Jungkook can clearly see deep gashes and what might be burns on the exposed part of their arms. When he looks back at their face, they’re grinning widely and it shows off razor sharp teeth.

“How sad,” the thing taunts, “The poor lamb doesn’t even know.” It nods to Jungkook, the grin not fading even slightly. “Well go on then, look down and see for yourself.”

Jungkook doesn’t want to. He really, really doesn’t, but there’s a betraying part of him that looks down. He looks down and feels like his pulse might shoot right out of him: he has a tail. It’s a tail just like Jimin’s, and it’s on him. He has a tail. Belatedly he thinks, he’s a siren. The realisation chokes him and he frantically claws at his tail as if it will make it go away; it only serves to cut his hand slightly.

The shark-siren hybrid thing (that’s starting to get on Jungkook’s nerves) laughs at him, and it rings off his eardrums. Makes his blood turn cold. “At least you finally see now,” it says, and when Jungkook slowly lifts his head it isn’t smiling so much anymore, but something coy still tugs at the edge of their lips. “Congratulations, you’re a siren now.” It reaches out a hand and rubs a thumb across Jungkook’s lower lip as it says low and ferocious, “Forever.”

Jungkook wakes up with a shriek and a cold sweat.

Beside him Jimin stirs slightly, crinkling his nose, but doesn’t wake. Jungkook looks down at him sharply as he tries to remember how to breathe, tries to remember anything and everything Jimin has told him about this siren business up until now. He remembers him saying this spell was more a virus, and Jungkook’s immune system was failing. In his head he’s trying to desperately recall anything Jimin has hinted at, but nothing makes a connection to his dream. 

Jimin is thrilled to finally go somewhere interesting, and Jungkook chokes on the water he’s drinking when Jimin rounds the corner. He’s dressed in a low-cut silk shirt Jungkook forgot he even had, with tight back jeans Jungkook had picked up. Jungkook had frowned while holding them, felt a bit like a pervert when he bought them because he most definitely had a voice telling him Jimin’s ass would like rather lovely in them.

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

In contrast, Jungkook is wearing just a plain red and black striped sweater with his usual beat to shit jeans. Even Jimin’s shoes are better than his—Chelsea boots he had seen when Jungkook and him were at the mall, and his face was too much for Jungkook not to get them. And Jungkook… Jungkook was wearing the same pair of black Converse he has had since he was in middle school.

Jimin frowns at him. “Does this not look good?” 

Jungkook shakes his head so violently it whips some water from the corner of his lips. “N-No, you look good,” he says too quickly before gulping more water, turning around. Even with his back turned he can sense Jimin grinning wildly behind him.

When they get to the “bar” that Taehyung had suggested, Jungkook’s first thought is that it’s more of a club in reality. It’s dark with a heavy bass rippling throughout, and sure there is an expanse where it’s bars and bars and wow how could one place have so many bars? But in the middle there was also a grand dance floor, and it was packed. That’s his second thought: wasn’t this many people in one building a fire hazard?

Jimin stays cramped behind him, pressed tautly against his back as they weave through the crowds. It’s incredibly distracting, Jungkook soon figures out, but he can’t find it in himself to tell Jimin to back off or stop. He is, however, able to breathe easier when they find a space in the cocktail section where they can all sit at a hightop. Jimin, unsurprisingly, sits right next to Jungkook, and Taehyung sits in front of them. Jungkook swallows when he realises this is the first time he’s seen Taehyung since they kissed. Taehyung is eyeing him, no doubt still curious about the whole thing, but Jungkook tears his gaze away.

“How about a round of shots to get things going?” He hears Hoseok cheerfully suggest.

When he looks at Namjoon, his eyes are in the midst of rolling. “Shots and you don’t get along well, Hoseok.”

Hoseok lifts a finger. “On the contrary,” he argues, “They and I get along beautifully.”

“A match made in heaven,” Taehyung leans towards him and says, grin splattered on his face.

Namjoon sighs when he knows he isn’t going to be able to fight them on this, but still opts to get a beer while everyone else has a shot of tequila. Jungkook is all smiles when they are about to take the shot, but he notices Jimin staring at his, like they were caught in the world’s most intense staring contest.

Leaning down where his lips are almost right on Jimin’s ear Jungkook whispers, “Are you okay?”

Jimin, visibly startled, jolts slightly and looks at Jungkook. He looks almost stark terrified and it’s fairly amusing. “I—I haven’t had any alcohol in…” He stammers, making a frustrated clicking noise with his tongue.

“Since before you were a siren?” Jungkook says, voice uncharacteristically low. Jimin nods, so Jungkook takes his hand to rub affectionate circles on the small of Jimin’s back. “Relax,” he assures, “You’ll be fine.”

Jimin was fine. Was very, very fine, in fact. Jungkook thinks they’re all on the fifth or sixth shot, but Jimin’s cheeks are a burning red and he’s constantly caught in fits of laughter. Hoseok has him engaged in a very serious topic revolving around the proper ways to transport peaches and it really seems like Jimin is all ears. Jungkook is glad neither he nor Yoongi have said anything even hinting at Jimin being a siren, despite how absolutely far gone they all are—Hoseok especially. Jungkook has always been a heavy weight, but no one else is in their group, certainly not Jimin as well. Namjoon is the only other one not completely out of his wits (he’s stayed with beer) and he keeps sending Jungkook pleading glances. Jungkook responds by taking another shot.

“I didn’t think there was so much involved,” Jimin gasps, grabbing at Jungkook’s arm without looking at him. He’s no doubt referring to Hoseok’s utter bullshit properties of fresh fruit. 

“That’s how they get you,” Hoseok says, poking Jimin on the nose, resulting with a fit of giggles from both of them.

Yoongi laughs, but tries to play it off by rolling his eyes. “All it means is Hoseok has too much free time on his job.”

Hoseok pouts. “Not true,” he defends, “I never have time to take a piss.”

“Okay, too much,” Yoongi breathes out through his teeth, groaning. 

Jin’s infectious squeaking laugh erupts then, and when Jungkook looks at him it’s quite the sight. Despite being the oldest, Jin was easy to let his adult-facade fall and give way to a literal five year old. It was fine, because both Jungkook and Taehyung relished in it, much to Namjoon’s constant sighs of disbelief. 

A particularly upbeat song comes on and Jungkook feels a tug at his sleeve. When he looks down, it’s Jimin, who has the most pathetic pleading face on. “Jungkook,” he whines, “Can we go dance? It’s been—hic—so long since I’ve danced.”

Jungkook’s head is spinning but he can do little to say no to a face like that. He can feel the most ridiculous smile being etched onto his face when he agrees, sliding off the stool. Jimin follows suit, only he stumbles wildly and falls into Jungkook, laughing loudly. 

“Are you going to make it over there?” Jungkook laughs, stabilising Jimin the best he can.

Jimin absently waves his hand, smiling brightly. “Of course, of course, now come on,” he says, grabbing Jungkook by the wrist and leading the way out to the dance floor. When Jungkook’s gaze immediately falls on the sway of Jimin’s hips as he walks and just how nice he looks in those damn jeans, he thinks perhaps he’s too drunk for this to end well.

If it had been decades since Jimin had last danced, Jungkook sure as shit can’t tell. Jimin’s body moves like a river with the song, his hips dipping and swaying like his body was made specifically to dance to the song. Jungkook doesn’t even dance back, just stares dumbly, his mouth wide open. Jimin seems to take notice and saunters over, wrapping his arms around Jungkook’s neck and standing on his tip toes to reach his collar bone, nuzzling in the space there.

“C’mon,” Jimin says into Jungkook’s neck, hot breath ghosting on his skin. “Come dance with me.” Jimin pulls back then, the most sultry of grins on his face as he delicately spins, taking Jungkook’s hands and resting them on either sides of his hips as he begins to dance again.

And shit. Jungkook is only human. Jimin grinds up onto him, swirling his hips and tilting his head so Jungkook can see just how much he’s enjoying it. Jungkook starts almost moving on his own accord, and as he follows Jimin’s movements he wonders if this is somehow related to the whole “siren” dynamic, but he doesn’t care in this moment. The song changes but it does little to deter Jimin’s dancing, and when he pushes up against Jungkook the friction goes straight to his dick and breathes in sharply, biting down on his lower lip.

Jimin, the absolute shit, seems to have noticed this as well and keeps doing the same movement, even dipping down so he slides back up and right over where Jungkook is getting hard. Perhaps it was all the drinks, perhaps it was the same affect Jungkook has had before, but he’s starting to lose sight of everyone and everything around him, and can only see the pink haired beauty in front of him. He’s almost sure he’s fully hard when Jimin turns to face him again, canines showing in is smile.

Jungkook is definitely too drunk for this.

He tightens his grip on Jimin’s hips to the point that he’s started to untuck Jimin’s shirt. He leans down into Jimin’s face, foreheads touching, and despite all the alarms going off in his head, kisses him. Jimin jolts in a small surprise, but quickly relaxes and sighs into the kiss. Jungkook grips even harder onto Jimin, pushing his erection as far as he can into the smaller man, desperate to show him his need. Jimin gasps into the kiss, brings his hands up to grab hold of Jungkook’s face, and opens his mouth willingly. Jungkook slides his tongue in and licks at Jimin’s, feeling the heat that has begun to radiate off them both.

Jimin has started to grind against Jungkook directly, and Jungkook can’t help but break the kiss to utter a string of obscenities under his breath. Jimin just grabs at the nape of his neck and pulls him back down, eyes blown wide and full of want when he crashes their lips back together. Jungkook pushes right back, grabs at Jimin’s hair as he ruts against Jimin, completely forgetting there are people watching. His friends could be watching, even. He doesn’t care. Not at all.

Jungkook finally breaks the kiss, sees how swollen Jimin’s lips are, and despite himself blurts out, “Bathroom.”

Immediately Jimin seems to understand, and grabs at his wrist again, dragging him across the dance floor. They make their way towards the bathrooms when Jungkooks sees a door slightly ajar, and without thinking yanks on Jimin and swings them in. It’s actually a nice room, walls literally made of full velvet with a lonely leather couch at the end of it. He ignores the implications of it all when he shuts the door, frantically kissing at Jimin again.

“Jungkook,” Jimin breathes in between kisses. 

Hearing his name makes Jungkook’s skin crawl. “Please,” he says to Jimin, not even sure what he’s asking for.

Jimin seems to know, seems to have been waiting for Jungkook to beg, and breaks away from his lips to suck at Jungkook’s neck. Jungkook slams himself so his back is pressed against the door, and tries his best to hide the sharp inhale of breath that would give away his evident pleasure. Jimin releases the skin he had trapped in his lips to lick at the no doubt purple mark blossoming in its wake. Beneath him Jungkook squirms, hand going to grab Jimin at the waist as he tries to contain the little gasps threatening to break from his lips.

With one free hand Jimin reaches down to loop his fingers into Jungkook’s pant line, knuckles brushing against his bare skin. Jungkook shivers, knows what Jimin is getting at, and nods. He can feel Jimin’s lips curl into a smile on his neck when he releases himself, kneeling down to undo the first button of Jungkook’s jeans. Jungkook’s head is throbbing with an intense heat that he almost feels dizzy, watching Jimin unzip his jeans now. He does it without breaking eye contact, and that same golden glow has started to fill his irises. It makes Jungkook feel hotter, more desperate, and doesn’t even realise how hard he was until Jimin slides his jeans down past his hips.

“Jesus,” Jungkook manages to say, hands pressed firmly against the door. 

Jimin’s response is to hum against his erection, still looking directly at Jungkook. He presses his soft lips onto its silhouette and kisses it while Jungkook can barely keep his hips still. Without thinking Jungkook reaches out an unsteady hand and thumbs across Jimin’s cheek, lost in his want. He can barely tell there’s anything past where Jimin is knelt before him, lips on his cock, a look in his eyes that says he’ll do anything Jungkook asks of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, surprising himself. Jimin seems taken aback by the statement as well, golden hue in his eyes suddenly gone. It’s quick to return though when he tugs at Jungkook’s underwear line, to which Jungkook helps slip down, sending a small shiver over him when his cock springs free.

Jimin says nothing, just takes his tongue and licks up Jungkook’s length, a sultry hum emitting from him as he goes. Jungkook pulls his hand back, cursing under his breath, and once again uses it to brace him against the door. He can’t take his eyes off Jimin, not when his eyes flutter close as he licks a circle around the head before he sucks fully down. 

In an instant, Jungkook lets out what is no doubt the loudest gasp he’s ever had. It comes out more as a groan really, as he feels Jimin’s nose brush against his skin. His knees slightly buckle underneath him when Jimin slides back up, sucking in his cheeks as he goes, sucking hard on the head before sliding back down. It’s already too much, Jungkook is embarrassingly close already, but he tries his best to contain himself—it feels too good to let go now.

In this effort he squeezes his eyes shut as Jimin steadily goes up and down. He’s sure his knuckles have gone white against his grip on the door, and he’s biting down on his lip to not make noise. Even if he made noise he’s fairly certain no one would be able to hear him anyway, but there was something exhilarating about doing this all in public, and so the idea itself makes Jungkook want to be quiet. It’s certainly getting more difficult to, he thinks, with Jimin sucking on his cock like this, like his mouth was meant to be pulled against him all his life. 

When Jimin makes the most obscene sound as he pops off of Jungkook’s cock, the latter’s knees buckle. When he finally dares to open his eyes, he sees Jimin grinning madly as he uses his hand to continue what his mouth was doing mere moments ago. Sweat beads have made an appearance on Jungkook’s forehead and the back of his neck, and he hadn’t realised he was panting until this moment. He just stares into Jimin’s eyes, the brilliant gold swirling around them, and unconsciously reaches down to swipe his thumb delicately over Jimin’s bottom lip.

“Where do you want it?” Jimin asks, voice hoarse.

Jungkook blinks dumbly. “Wh-what?” 

Shaking his head Jimin sighs. “Where do you want to come?” Jimin explains, voice taking on a sultry tone.

For some reason, Jungkook has the sudden urge to choke. He suppresses it while his cheeks become hot with a new flush that blooms over them. It takes him a few solid seconds to finally speak again, and when he does, his voice is shaking. “I…” He sputters, letting lose a small cough. Beneath him Jimin drums his fingers on Jungkook’s cock impatiently. “You…Your…” He’s getting dizzy when he realises he can’t remember the last time someone gave him head. Under Jimin’s firm gaze he can’t think straight, so he closes his eyes again and says all too quickly, “In your mouth.”

There’s a satisfied and slightly smug hum before Jimin licks up Jungkook’s length again and sucks hard on his head. Jungkook hisses, the pleasure becoming too much, and without even thinking as he flashes his eyes open, he grabs a handful of Jimin’s pink hair and clenches his fist. Jimin glances up as his tongue circles around Jungkook’s cock, making the latter almost whine the need to release.

He tightens his fist in a silent plea for Jimin to continue, and it seems to go over well enough. Jimin complies, picking up speed as he bops up and down with Jungkook forgetting he was trying to be quiet and letting out what are probably the most ridiculous whines and moans. He can feel the familiar tingle building up inside him and knows he’s dangerously close. He watches Jimin intently, his breathing becoming hard and heavy, and when Jimin gags ever so slightly it’s enough to send Jungkook over the edge.

He cries out what he thinks is probably Jimin’s name as he comes, but everything around him becomes muffled out. White sparks cloud his vision as he releases into Jimin’s mouth, and he thinks he might pass out when he feels Jimin swallowing it all down. The moment seems to last forever but not forever enough, and when Jungkook comes back to reality, comes back and sees Jimin slowly pull off, he simply collapses onto the floor.

He doesn’t even bother to fix himself, just watches in infatuated awe as Jimin licks at the corner of his lips, catching a droplet of come that never made it down his throat. They stare at each other, the only sounds that fill the silence are their harsh breathing and the ever present thump of the bass from the dance floor. The golden hue surrounding Jimin’s eyes has faded only slightly, and without a second thought Jungkook lurches forward, pins Jimin to the ground, and takes his lips into a desperate kiss.

He can taste himself on Jimin’s tongue when he wraps his around it, and can’t help but moan at the sensation. In hindsight he probably should be disgusted, but to know that Jimin was that close to him, that this really happened, makes Jungkook not give a shit. His whole body is still hot, he feels like he’s holding embers in his hands when he grabs at Jimin’s wrists, but it’s nothing compared to the pure ecstasy that is pumping through his veins. 

He ignores the thought that tells him this is how he felt when he first met Jimin in the ocean.

“I,” Jungkook breathes between kisses, “Want,” he sucks at Jimin’s bottom lip, “To take you.” He goes to bite harshly on Jimin’s neck, which warrants a yelp in response, one he’s not sure is from pleasure or pain. Maybe both. “Right here.”

Jimin visibly shudders underneath him. “I didn’t think you—ah—could be so bold,” Jimin says as Jungkook kisses and sucks at his neck.

Jungkook growls against Jimin’s skin. “I’d do anything for you,” he hisses.

If Jimin wanted to respond, he never got to. A shrill sound of what was no doubt a ringtone shatters Jungkook’s concentration and pulls back, cursing under his breath. Jungkook clumsily grabs at his back pocket, his pants still pulled down and making it difficult, and catches the call just before it rings out.

“Hello?” Jungkook says, voice low. He runs his fingers through his damp hair impatiently.

“Kookie?” Squeaks Taehyung on the other end. He sounds absolutely wrecked.

“Tae,” Jungkook breathes, willing his heart to stop beating so loudly against his chest. “What’s up?”

He hears the shuffle of fabric and the loud music in the background as Taehyung replies, “Where are you? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is everything okay?”

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah, yes, I’m okay. I’ll uh… Meet you by the entrance. You sound like you should go home.”

Taehyung giggles, ignoring what Jungkook thinks are his other friends demanding to hear what has happened. “Okay,” he coos, “See you then.”

When the line goes dead and Jungkook slowly lowers his phone, he finally looks down at Jimin. His face is absolutely red, there are no doubt marks on his neck where Jungkook ravaged him, and Jungkook notices he is completely straddling Jimin. His dick hangs, half hard again, and he doesn’t even think to see if Jimin is hard underneath him before a panic boils up his throat.

He lost himself again, like he did in the fitting room, and flies off Jimin and skids back until his back thumps against the door. He frantically fixes himself as Jimin slowly sits up, pushing himself up by his elbows. He’s regarding Jungkook with an even expression, one Jungkook can’t read, and he can feel bile crawling up his esophagus.

“I—”

“Don’t,” Jimin interrupts, crawling over to Jungkook. “Stop thinking you’ve done something wrong,” he whispers when he’s close enough, cupping Jungkook’s face softly. He rubs his thumb under Jungkook’s eye and smiles. 

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say, just leans into Jimin’s hand and sighs. He’s fully covered again, pants pulled up and zipped, but Jimin still looks slightly a mess. He reaches out to tuck Jimin’s shirt back in, fighting off the sinking feeling in the back of his head. The feeling that none of this was real, that it was just all a spell, and the worst feeling was Jungkook wishing it wasn’t.