˖ ִֶָ༘: ⋆.ೃ*:

you can also find me on wattpad under @ n1cot1ne3

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖edits. - where i post edits for the ongoing ff's ⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖

JEONGGUK

Faux Colors

°˖➴ story about a restoration major who can't see color and an audio engineer who refuses to let her stay quiet. when life gives you a devastating breakup, you could go to therapy—or you could sign a dark, highly transactional "friends with benefits" pact on top of an aluminum mixing console. did i mention the guy is stupid hot but also arrogant?; xfemale!reader; colorblind!reader; synesthesia!jk;

⤷[Playlist]—Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ongoing

Messy thoughts: angst. ~1,5k

One more (and then I’ll listen) : angst, fluff, smut ~13k

JIMIN

Busan Nights: Part I ; Part II : smut, angst ~ 14 k

TAEHYUNG

Suits and Sigils

°˖➴ story about ruthless corporate defense attorney who thinks he rules the city meets his match in a blunt girl who can read his entire life with a single deck of cards. a ruined penthouse rug, an unpredicted rainstorm, and a three-pound puppy later, he’s realizing his flawless corporate logic doesn't mean shit against fate. did i mention he's a single father now and completely losing his mind over a worm?; xfemale!reader; lawyer!taehyung; witch!reader; angst; ;

⤷Teaser ; Prologue

⤷Chapter: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 ongoing

YOONGI

chapter 20

bubbles & vices

Synopsis; one lives in a world under the weight of shadows the other lives in a world that screams.

"The sky is blue like Sacrifice by Elton John"

warnings; swearing, heavy themes pairing; jeongguk × female reader genre; angst, slowburn, smut, fwb word count; 10.2k

a/n: here we are again..with a greedy long chapter. hope you missed me. i almost finished finals (yay?) anyways. this chapter, holy shit. i’m sorry for cutting it off the way that i did but at the same time i’m not.

minho is an asshole, remember that. if void actions confuse you—good. she’s confused herself.

taehyung being a fan favourite propaganda will never stop i’m afraid. i love him too.

enjoy angels! ◡̈

—

You stood frozen under the heavy weight of his gaze. He looked different. It wasn't his physical appearance—his dark hair was styled with the same meticulous precision as always, his sharp suit tailored flawlessly to his frame. It was the vibe he exuded. The invisible aura around him had shifted. It was lighter, unburdened, as if he had recently shed a heavy skin that needed shedding.

As if he had shed you.

The realization was a silent, devastating blow. While you had spent the last forty minutes suffocating under the weight of his memory, downing champagne to numb the ache, he looked entirely renewed. Whole. Relieved.

You opened your mouth, a desperate urge to say something—anything to prove you weren't completely destroyed by his presence—rising in your throat.

But Minho cut you off before the first syllable could leave your lips.

"Are you alone?" he asked, his voice smooth, even, and entirely devoid of the tension currently fracturing your chest.

"No," you said, your voice tighter than you intended, the lie—or at least the half-truth—tasting bitter. "I'm with Sora and Jimin. They just went outside."

Minho let out a soft, humored breath, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a lazy, familiar smirk. He looked amused, like an adult listening to a child play pretend.

"Ah, them," Minho said, his tone dripping with an effortless, quiet condescension that made your blood run hot and cold at the same time. He took a slow sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving yours. "Still hiding in crowds, I see. I suppose some habits are too deeply ingrained to break."

"I'm not hiding," you fired back, but the defensive edge in your voice only proved his point.

"Please, Y/N," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, instructional register he always used when he thought he was guiding you. It was the air of a man who firmly believed he still knew you better than you knew yourself. "You always did look a bit swallowed up by places like this when you didn't have a hand to hold. You need to pull your shoulders back. You’re letting the dress wear you."

The words sliced right through you. You felt yourself crack in places you had desperately tried to superglue together before walking through those doors. A cold dread pooled in your stomach; you were suddenly terrified that if he kept looking, if he kept pushing with that clinical, knowing arrogance, he would see exactly what was bleeding behind those cracks. He would see the wreckage of that night in the apartment, the hollow ache he left behind, and worse—the dark, transactional pact you had just signed with Jeongguk out of sheer desperation to survive.

"You don't get to do that anymore," you breathed, clenching your fists at your sides to hide the slight tremor in your fingers. "You don't get to tell me how to stand, Minho."

"I'm just making an observation, sweetheart," he said softly, the endearment feeling less like warmth and more like a leash. He stepped a fraction closer, the scent of sandalwood completely invading your space. "You always get so defensive when someone points out the obvious. I merely thought you'd have grown out of that by now."

Every instinct screamed at you to lash out. You should yell at him. You should raise your voice until the music was drowned out, smash your champagne glass at his feet, and make a scene so loud the entire faculty turned to look. He cheated. He broke you, he betrayed you, and yet here he was, standing in his pristine suit, still holding the upper hand with a patronizing smirk.

Are you really that small? Are you so easy to squish?

The humiliation burned, a suffocating heat rising up your neck. You needed to strike back, to puncture that insufferable, unbothered calm he was exuding. If you were bleeding behind your cracks, you were damn well going to make him bleed too.

"Where is she, Minho?" you asked, your voice cutting through his smug composure, sharper and colder than it had ever been.

Minho’s smirk didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction, a subtle shift in the fire. "Where is who?"

"Don't play stupid. It doesn't suit someone who thinks they know everything," you spat, taking a step into his space, refusing to let him look down on you. "Irina. Where is she? I assumed the two of you would be glued to the hip tonight. Did she get bored of playing the doting girlfriend already, or did you just leave her in the car while you came inside to scout for your next distraction?"

The condescending warmth in his eyes hardened into something icy, his fingers tightening slightly around the stem of his glass. You had finally nicked the skin, and for a split second, the master of ceremonies looked human.

"Careful, Y/N," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low warning that vibrated in your chest. "You’re rewriting history to make yourself feel better. Bringing her up like this... it just makes you look desperate. It shows me exactly how much space I’m still taking up in your head."

"I'm not rewriting anything," you snapped, your voice trembling as you denied it. You denied it in your head, you denied it aloud, you denied, denied, denied the hold he still had over you. "You're the one who ruined everything, Minho. Not me."

He didn't even blink. Instead, his eyes slowly drifted down the length of your body, a lazy, critical assessment that made your skin crawl.

"That color," he mused, a small, patronizing click of his tongue echoing between you. "It’s a bit loud, don't you think? Irina was actually looking at a dress in a similar shade of deep fuchsia for tonight, but she decided against it. She realized some colors require a certain... presence to carry off. Otherwise, they just scream for attention."

Your face contorted, a sharp pang of humiliation twisting your features. He was doing it on purpose. Every word was meticulously engineered to patronize you, to strip away your confidence layer by layer until you felt small, hidden, and completely insignificant again.

"You don't know what you're talking about," you tried to say, desperately grasping for the anger that had fueled you seconds ago, but your voice cracked.

"And the cut," Minho continued smoothly, completely ignoring your protest as he stepped even closer, his critique turning into a suffocating sentence. "It’s too structural. Too sharp. It doesn't fit you, Y/N."

You wanted to bite back. You wanted to tell him that Taehyung made this, that it was a masterpiece, but the words choked in your throat as tears began prickling at the corners of your eyes. You blinked rapidly, terrified of letting a single drop fall in front of him. Because deep down, the cruelest part of his words was the seed of doubt they planted.

It doesn’t fit you. God, maybe it really didn’t. Maybe you were just a fraud playing dress-up in a world you didn't belong to.

"You were always someone who blended so beautifully into the background," Minho murmured, his tone almost gentle, which somehow made it a thousand times worse. He looked down at you with a cold, pitying finality. "I never realized you'd ever try to sneak out of it."

The realization hit you like a bucket of ice water, cutting straight through the champagne, the humiliation, and the tears threatening to spill. You hadn't come over here for closure. You didn’t need a conversation, or a negotiation, or an apology.

You just needed to never see him again.

He stood there, flawless and untouched, without a single flicker of remorse on his face as he deliberately poured salt into the very wound he had created and nurtured. He didn't care about the bleeding fracture he’d left in the apartment, or the ghost of you he had so easily shed. He just wanted to ensure you stayed beneath his heel.

You took a half-step back, your heels clicking against the marble as you prepared to turn around and leave him to his pristine, empty world.

But before you could fully retreat, a deep, velvety voice cut through the heavy air behind you.

"Why wouldn't she sneak out of it?"

The words didn't come from you.

The voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous, steady calm that immediately arrested the entire space. The sharp scent of sandalwood was instantly countered by something entirely different—something dark, expensive, and intoxicating.

Musk. Tobacco.

Minho’s eyes snapped up, his patronizing smirk instantly vanishing, hardening into a cold glare as he looked past your shoulder at the person who had just stepped into the light.

You turned your head around, your breath catching in your throat.

It was Jeongguk.

He didn’t look like the rest of the elite crowd in their stifling, pristine tuxedos. He was wearing a slightly relaxed dress shirt, the top couple of buttons undone, paired with tailored black dress pants that hung perfectly on his hips. His heavy production headphones were still resting around his neck—a stark reminder that he had likely just stepped away from the mixing board for the gala’s audio design.

His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his broad shoulders squared. He didn't glance at you. Not even once. His unreadable eyes were locked dead on Minho, pinning him with a cold intensity.

The sudden shift in power was palpable. Minho’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as he absorbed the interruption. He looked Jeongguk up and down, his eyes lingering on the headphones with a patronizing, subtle twitch of his brow, trying desperately to regain his upper hand.

"The producer," Minho said, his voice smooth but lacking the easy warmth from before. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "I didn't realize the audio tech was allowed to mingle with the guests. Shouldn't you be behind a curtain somewhere making sure the bass doesn't rattle the champagne glasses?"

The air between the two of them instantly turned static, super-charged with a silent, suffocating violence. It felt like standing in the middle of a thunderstorm right before the lightning strikes.

Jeongguk didn't even flinch at the jab. Instead, he took a slow step forward, his broad frame shifting just enough to partially shield you from Minho’s piercing gaze.

"The audio tech is the only reason anyone in this room is having a good time," Jeongguk murmured, his voice a low baritone that made the hairs on your arms stand up. "But I didn't come over here to talk about the sound system. I asked you a question. Why wouldn't she sneak out of the background?"

Minho’s eyes flicked to the way Jeongguk’s shoulder anchored itself in front of yours. He sneered, dismissing the question entirely. "This is a private conversation. I suggest you go back to your station before someone complains about the staff interfering with the guests."

"She isn't an exhibit for you to critique," Jeongguk countered immediately, his tone dropping an octave, completely ignoring Minho's dismissal. He still hadn't looked at you, but his presence was a heavy, protective wall. "And she certainly doesn't need a lecture on how to wear a dress that was made specifically to command a room. A room you don't own, by the way."

Minho’s composure was rapidly fraying at the edges. The polite gala mask was completely gone now, replaced by a cold, ugly arrogance. He looked at Jeongguk, then finally snapped his eyes back to you, completely bypassing the younger man as if he were nothing but air.

"Y/N, can you believe this asshole?" Minho asked, a harsh, incredulous laugh escaping his lips as he gestured vaguely toward Jeongguk. "Have you been hanging out with him? Is this what you're reducing yourself to now?"

You froze, the trap snapping shut around you. Your throat felt entirely dry, the tears that had been prickling your eyes moments ago instantly evaporating under the sudden, terrifying pressure. You couldn't find your voice. You couldn't say a single word.

But you didn't have to.

"Yes," Jeongguk answered for you.

The word was deadpan, heavy, and completely unbothered. Jeongguk finally pulled one hand out of his pocket, casually adjusting the headphones around his neck, his eyes boring holes straight into Minho’s face.

"Numerous times," Jeongguk added, letting the weight of the confession hang in the air like a blade. "And she doesn't blend into the background when she's with me."

Minho let out a sharp, breathless sound that was almost a laugh—a bitter, ugly chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. He shook his head, looking at Jeongguk like he was a minor inconvenience he could easily swat away.

"You really think you're something, don't you?" Minho murmured, his voice laced with a lethal amount of condescension as he stepped closer, trying to intimidate the younger man. "You’re a distraction, kid. A phase. A loud, obnoxious piece of background noise she’s using to numb the fact that she couldn't keep a real man."

The words hadn't even fully left Minho's mouth before the atmosphere fractured.

Jeongguk’s posture shifted instantly. The casual indifference vanished, replaced by a terrifying, coiled tension. He took half a step forward, his chest nearly brushing Minho’s, towering over him with a sudden, dark malice that made the air freeze.

"Give me one good reason," Jeongguk growled, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it vibrated through the marble floor, "why I shouldn't put you through the fucking ground right now."

Minho actually laughed this time, a cold, mocking sound, though his eyes darted briefly to the raw violence in Jeongguk’s expression. He didn't answer him. Instead, he flicked his gaze back to you, his expression twisting into something deeply disappointed and ugly.

"So," Minho sneered, his voice loud enough to feel like a slap. "I get that you fucked him?"

"No!"

The denial tore out of your throat so quickly, so frantically, that you almost believed yourself. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you looked between them, terrified of what Minho's perception would do to the fragile remnants of your dignity.

Jeongguk said nothing. He didn't flinch, didn't confirm, and didn't deny. He just kept his gaze locked on Minho, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticked.

Minho didn't buy your panic. He looked at Jeongguk’s unbothered, dominant stance, then back at your pale face. The arrogance returned to his eyes, a desperate grab to retain the upper hand. He looked at Jeongguk with sheer disgust.

"What does he even have that I don't? Hm?" Minho asked, directing it at you but looking straight at him.

Jeongguk’s lips tilted into a slow, merciless smirk, his hand coming out of his pocket to rest loosely on his hip.

"In money," Jeongguk murmured, his voice dripping with unadulterated malice, "or inches, asshole?"

The insult hit Minho like a physical blow. The absolute composure he had carefully cultivated all evening shattered in an instant, his face contorting into an expression of rage.

With a sharp, ugly sneer, Minho lunged forward, his hand snapping out to wrap around the collar of Jeongguk’s relaxed dress shirt.

But Jeongguk didn't even blink. Before Minho’s fingers could fully bunch the fabric, Jeongguk’s hand shot up with lightning speed. His grip was a vice, clapping down around Minho’s wrist with a sickening, heavy thud.

Minho froze, his arm arrested mid-air, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson as he tried—and failed—to wrench his hand free from Jeongguk’s iron hold.

Jeongguk didn't throw a punch. He didn't have to. He just slowly squeezed Minho’s wrist, forcing his arm down, tilting his head with a cold detachment that made Minho look incredibly small.

"Let go," Minho hissed through his teeth, his eyes darting around the immediate vicinity, suddenly hyper-aware of the hundreds of faculty members and high-society guests just a stone's throw away.

"Listen to me very carefully," Jeongguk said, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth register that was meant for Minho’s ears alone, yet carried the weight of a death sentence. He stepped in closer, effectively eclipsing Minho under his shadow. "It’s not your place to know who she’s fucking. Not anymore."

Jeongguk’s eyes narrowed, flashing with a savage protectiveness that made your breath catch in your throat.

"You cheated," Jeongguk murmured, throwing the ugly truth right back into Minho's pristine face like dirt. "You forfeited the right to ask questions the second you went looking for warmth somewhere else. Now back the fuck up."

Minho opened his mouth, his chest heaving as he desperately searched for a comeback to salvage what was left of his pride. His eyes flared with a impotent rage.

But Jeongguk didn't give him the chance to breathe.

"Get the hell out," Jeongguk cut him off, his voice flat, icy, and completely unyielding. He gave Minho's wrist a final, rough shove backward, releasing him like he was handling trash. "You're ruining an event I actually care about. Move."

And for some reason—whether it was the raw, physical threat radiating off Jeongguk, or the terrifying realization that a scene would ruin his pristine reputation among the faculty—Minho actually did. He swallowed hard, adjusted his lapels with trembling fingers, and threw one last, venomous look at the two of you before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowded gala.

The fire was gone. But you? You wanted to dig a hole right through the marble floor and die.

Your mind was racing in a terrifying, chaotic overdrive. You were completely overstimulated—the thumping music, the glittering lights, the heavy scents of sandalwood and expensive cologne clogging your throat. Your chest heaved, and the tears you had fought so hard to suppress were still prickling fiercely at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision.

Whatever the hell you and Jeongguk had—this dark, calculated pact you’d agreed to—it was supposed to stay a secret. It was a transaction. A shadow arrangement. So why did he have to respond like that to Minho? Why did he have to mark his territory so loudly, throwing your privacy directly into the blast radius?

You stood there trembling, a fractured mess, while Jeongguk stood right in front of you, looking smug as fuck. The tension had completely bled out of his frame, replaced by a dark, satisfied amusement that made you want to scream.

He finally turned his full attention to you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face and the tears trembling on your lashes. The smug grin softened just a fraction as he took a step closer, opening his mouth to tell you something.

"You look—"

He tried to say you looked beautiful probably. The words were softening on his tongue, his eyes dropping to the sharp, elegant lines of your dress, but before the compliment could fully leave his mouth, the sheer volume of champagne you had downed to numb yourself finally caught up to you.

A volatile cocktail of alcohol, humiliation, and raw panic combusted in your veins.

You lunged forward. With a sudden, desperate strength born of pure adrenaline, you slammed your hands into his chest, grabbing the collar of his relaxed dress shirt and shoving him backward. Jeongguk didn't even try to stop you. He let his momentum carry him until his back hit the cold, hidden alcove wall with a solid, heavy thud.

"What the hell was that?!" you hissed, your voice trembling with a dangerous, unstable rage. You were so close you could see the dark reflections in his pupils, your fingers trembling violently where they were bunched into his expensive fabric.

Jeongguk didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He just looked down at you, his smug expression fading into something entirely unreadable, his head tilting back against the wall as he let you hold him there.

"I was putting him in his place," he murmured, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside you.

"You don't talk to me for days!" you fired back, the tears finally spilling over your lashes, hot and angry as they tracked down your cheeks. "I don’t see you for literal days, Jeongguk. Days. You vanish into thin air, you leave me in the dark, our deal is supposed to be a secret—"

Your voice cracked, a ragged, suffocating sound. Jeongguk still didn't say anything. He just sat there against the wall, completely still, letting you vent your fury, staring at your hands bunched tightly into his collar like he was anchoring you to the earth.

"And now you come in here," you choked out, the venom dripping from your words as you stared at his stupid, unbothered face, "giddy as fuck to compare penis sizes with the guy that destroyed me?"

Jeongguk’s eyes darkened, the last traces of his smugness instantly evaporating at your words. He didn't pull your hands off his shirt. Instead, he slowly brought his own hands up, his large, warm palms wrapping firmly around your wrists—not to force you away, but to steady the violent shaking running through your arms.

"I wasn't giddy," he said, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that vibrated straight through your chest. He squeezed your wrists, his thumbs brushing against your racing pulse. "And I didn't mean to leave you in the dark for days, Void. I was working. I was setting things up so we could actually pull this off."

If it sounded like a lie, you didn't catch it.

"By marking your territory in the middle of a faculty gala?" you threw back, a bitter laugh cutting through your tears as you tried to wrench your hands free. He didn't let go. He held you right there, pinned against his chest. "We have a deal, Jeongguk. A transaction. You just went out there and practically handed him the script!"

"He was suffocating you," Jeongguk growled, his grip tightening just enough to command your full attention. He leaned his head forward, forcing you to look at the unblinking intensity in his eyes. "He was standing there pouring venom in your chest, telling you what to wear, making you look like you wanted to shrink into the floor. You think I was going to just stand by the mixing board and watch that asshole squish you?"

"It wasn't your business!" you choked out, your vision blurring again as fresh tears tracked down your face. "You don't get to protect me! That's not what this is!"

"Then what the fuck is it?" Jeongguk countered, his voice morphing into a dangerous whisper. He let go of your wrists, but before you could step back, his hands snapped down to your waist, his fingers digging into the structural fabric of your dress, pulling you flush against him until there wasn't a single inch of air left between you.

The heat radiating off him was blinding. The heavy, dark scent of his skin completely erased the lingering ghost of Minho's sandalwood.

"You think because it's a transaction, I'm supposed to let another man talk down to you?" Jeongguk murmured, his breath hot against your lips, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your tear-filled eyes. "If we’re doing this, you should stand your ground. And nobody—especially not the guy who was stupid enough to lose you—gets to make you feel small. Not while I'm in the room."

You shoved his chest again, pushing back with every ounce of strength you had left until his hands reluctantly slid from your waist. A bitter, jagged laugh tumbled out of your mouth, echoing sharply against the cold concrete of the alcove.

"Big fucking words, Jeongguk," you spat, wiping a hot tear from your cheek with the back of your hand, only to feel your skin burning under the friction. "A little too late for the savior act, don't you think? You talk about him suffocating me? I needed you these days. I was suffocating the entire time you were gone."

For a split second, something flickered across Jeongguk’s features. His jaw went slack, and his shoulders dropped a fraction. He almost looks apologetic. It was a microscopic shift—so easy to miss if you weren't looking right at him, so easy to misread as boredom or irritation or something else entirely.

But it vanished as quickly as it came, his expression hardening back into that unreadable, protective armor.

"I told you," he said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more careful register as he tried to step back into your space. "I was working, Void. I was putting the pieces together. I couldn't just—"

"Stop saying that," you cut him off, your voice cracking as the exhaustion finally started to override the anger. The champagne was making your head spin, and right now, his excuse felt hollow.

It felt like a beautifully wrapped lie.

"Don't stand there and tell me you were working when you couldn't even manage a single text. You left me entirely alone with the fallout of what we decided to do, and then you show up here acting like you own the place. Like you own me."

Jeongguk let out a low, frustrated breath through his nose, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he was fighting the urge to grab you again, to pull you back under his rhythm.

"I don't own you," he murmured, his eyes tracking the erratic rise and fall of your chest. "But I’m not going to apologize for taking his hands off you. If you wanted a partner in crime who sits quietly in the corner and lets you get trampled, you picked the wrong fucking guy."

"Yeah," you breathed, the word a bitter, razor-sharp whisper as you stared into his eyes. "Maybe I fucking did."

The words hung in the suffocating space between you, cold and definitive, cutting through the remaining heat of the argument. Jeongguk’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently under his skin, his eyes darkening to a dangerous pitch. He looked like he was about to rip the space between you to shreds just to force you to take it back.

"Yooo! Here you guys are!"

The sudden, boisterous shout shattered the heavy silence like brick through glass.

Out from the shadows of the corridor emerged Taehyung. He was a vision in all his eccentric, high-fashion glory, gliding toward the alcove with a glass of champagne in each hand and a brilliant, boxy smile that could rival the sun.

"I've been looking all over the main hall for you two," Taehyung rambled happily, entirely oblivious to the absolute war zone he had just stepped into. He held a glass out toward you, his eyes instantly lighting up as they swept over your figure. "Oh, mamma mia, Y/N! Look at you! The structural lines, the drape—you look absolutely breathtaking. I knew that deep fuchsia would murder everyone in the room. I am a literal genius, aren't I, Kook?"

He beamed, turning his radiant energy toward his friend, fully expecting a chorus of agreement.

But then, he actually read the vibe.

Taehyung’s smile vanished instantly, the warmth draining from his face as his eyes darted between your tear-streaked cheeks and the crumpled fabric of Jeongguk’s collar. The suffocating, static tension in the air finally registered, heavy and unmistakable.

The glasses of champagne froze mid-air in Taehyung's hands, his head tilting as his sharp gaze settled on the rigid, furious line of Jeongguk’s shoulders.

"Oh," Taehyung murmured, his voice dropping all its theatrical excitement, replaced by a sudden, protective seriousness. "Did I... interrupt something?"

You couldn't force a single word past your lips. Your throat was completely tight, your skin still burning where the tears had dried against your cheeks. You just stood there, staring blankly at the floor, praying the concrete would open up and swallow you whole.

Jeongguk didn't look at Taehyung either. He just let out a low, gravelly sound—a bitter, brooding grunt that carried all the dark frustration currently vibrating through his bones. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, his shoulders rigid as he stared aggressively at the wall just past Taehyung’s head.

Taehyung’s gaze darted between the two of you, assessing the wreckage in a matter of seconds. He was eccentric, yes, but he wasn't blind. He saw the damp track of a stray tear catching the light on your cheek, and he saw the dark, coiled fury radiating off Jeongguk like heatwaves.

Without a word, Taehyung’s demeanor completely shifted. The playful, flamboyant designer vanished, replaced by something fierce and fiercely protective. He cocked a single, sharp brow at Jeongguk.

"Right," Taehyung murmured, his tone suddenly clipped. He stepped right into the space between you, effectively cutting off Jeongguk's view of your face. He thrust one of the champagne glasses directly into Jeongguk’s chest, forcing him to take it or let it spill. "Hold this. And clear your head."

Before Jeongguk could even mutter a protest, Taehyung turned to you. His movements were incredibly gentle as he slipped his free arm firmly through yours, locking you against his side like a shield.

"Come on," Taehyung said softly, his voice a soothing balm against the roaring noise in your head. "We're leaving."

hello angel!

thank you so so much. i do love some yearner jungkook.

also yes, 😭😭someone taught me how to do that but i did it once (1) and then it stopped working. and then i forgot. my apologies!!

⤷sypnosis: He swore he would let you rot in his shadow. But when the ice between you violently fractures, the master of the estate is forced to face the one thing more terrifying than his own ruin: you.

⤷ strangers / enemies to lovers;

⤷pairing: yoongi x f!reader

⤷genre: gothic romance

⤷warnings: dark gothic themes & heavy imagery of decay, severe emotional angst & intense self-loathing, toxic emotional alienation,emotionally volatile confrontation & desperate, rough intimacy

⤷word count: 10.6 k

a/n: i've been sitting on this because wow. in case you didn't see from my tumblr theme, i’m deeply into gothic stuff. this piece is one of my favourite things i've written. it’s filled to the brim with symbolism and imagery that really speaks to me. i hope i did it justice.

it has no smut on this. (sorry horny people!) it’s really just something that i enjoyed writing. an ode to victorian era if you will. this is for you matthew lewis, ann radcliffe and mary shelley.

—

ONE SHOT

STARRING YOONGI

The ink on the letter of advertisement had been a pale, fading black, but the words had gripped you completely. Wanted: A tutor of languages and natural philosophy for a young gentleman.

You had said yes to the position because, truthfully, you saw a profound, irreplaceable beauty in the act of knowing. While others in your social circle viewed education as a mere decorative asset to secure a marriage, you carried a quiet, passionate flame in your chest for the light it brought to the mind. To hand a child the keys to history, to watch a young consciousness unfurl—that was a calling you could not refuse, even when the letter directed you to an estate so isolated it wasn't even marked on the local carriage maps.

Your family had called it foolish. A young woman of good breeding traveling alone to a house with no matriarch, simply to teach the younger son of a reclusive, fading lineage at. But you had packed your trunks anyway.

The journey had taken three grueling weeks, culminating in a final leg where the carriage wheels caught repeatedly in ruts of frozen, dark mud. When the driver finally dropped you at the iron gates, refusing to drive any closer to the towering, gray stone manor, you had walked the remaining mile on foot. The house did not welcome you; it loomed out of a perpetual, heavy mist that tasted faintly of iron and damp earth, a sprawling monument of rotting lace and bleeding floorboards.

Yet, you walked through the massive oak doors with an open heart. You had been hired by the estate's steward via post, and your first three hours were spent quietly setting up the dusty schoolroom, arranging fresh inkwells, and meeting your new charge—a sweet, brilliant boy who clung to his Latin primers with a desperate hunger for connection.

It was only when you left the boy to his writing and stepped into the grand, shadow-drenched library to find a lexicon that you met the true master of the house.

The room smelled intensely of old paper and the bitter, sharp scent of dried tea leaves. You were tracing your fingers along the leather spines of the lower shelves when a floorboard groaned at the far end of the room.

A man stepped out from behind a heavy velvet curtain, and the air in the room instantly dropped.

Min Yoongi did not look like a master welcoming a new member of his household. He looked like a monument carved from pale, unyielding stone. His dark, aristocratic coat was buttoned tightly to his throat, completely shielding him from the world, and his hands were clasped rigidly behind his back. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a polite bow. He merely looked down at you from his height with an intensity so sharp, so heavy, that it felt like a physical weight pressing against your ribs.

"The tutor," he stated. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate directly out of the cold stones of the wall.

"Yes, Master Min," you replied, offering a warm, graceful curtsy, your nature instinctively trying to soften the stark chill of his presence. "I arrived this morning. I am deeply honored to begin. Your brother shows an immense, beautiful capacity for—"

"He lacks discipline," Yoongi interrupted, his tone flat, monosyllabic, and entirely devoid of warmth. "Keep strictly to the texts. Do not indulge him with praise."

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. It was incredibly, shockingly rude. There was no welcome, no acknowledgment of your long journey, and no pride in his sibling—only a cold, dismissive boundary drawn violently between you.

"I believe encouragement is a vital part of learning, sir," you pressed on gently, though a small spark of passionate indignation flickered in your chest. "Knowledge should be a joy, not a punishment."

Yoongi’s eyes darkened, a fleeting, agonizing shadow crossing his features before his face locked back into an unreadable mask. He gave you a single, abrupt nod that cut the conversation through the middle. "Unnecessary."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door, his heavy boots clicking with a terrifying finality against the wood. You watched his retreating back, thoroughly baffled and deeply offended. You could not fathom how someone could look upon their own home, their own family, and carry themselves with such bitter, self-deprecating disdain.

The heavy click of the latch brought the silence rushing back into the library, thicker now, as if Yoongi’s departure had pulled whatever little warmth remained right out of the room.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, your fingers tightening against the leather spine of the book you had been holding. "Incredibly rude," you whispered to the empty space, the words dying instantly against the suffocating weight of the velvet curtains.

Determined not to let his inexplicable coldness tarnish the genuine joy of your first day, you forced yourself to shake off the sting of the encounter. You found the lexicon you needed and returned to the schoolroom, completely immersing yourself in the sweet, eager mind of his younger brother. The boy was a delightful oasis in this bleak house—quick to learn, earnest, and profoundly grateful for the gentle encouragement you offered.

Days bled into weeks, and the initial chill of the estate grew into a chronic, heavy winter. You quickly learned that Min Yoongi was a ghost in his own home. You never saw him at lunch, nor did he ever appear for dinner. The cavernous dining hall, under a ceiling that groaned with every shift of the wind, was entirely yours and young Jiho’s.

Jiho, his seven-year-old brother, was a gentle soul who possessed a bright, insatiable hunger for the fables and languages you taught him. But even the boy’s sweet laughter couldn't entirely dispel the suffocating atmosphere of the manor.

The estate itself seemed to be actively decaying. Outside the arched windows, the vegetation didn’t bloom so much as it rotted into the earth. The gardens were a twisted labyrinth of choked ivy and black brier roses, their petals bruised and bleeding a dark, mineral-rich fluid into the frozen mud. Green-tinted clay seeped up through the roots of the weeping willows, staining the snow-dusted grounds a sickening green—a visceral reminder of the estate you've came upon.

Inside, the house was no kinder. The dampness clung to everything, including your wardrobe. Every morning, you bound yourself into the rigid, suffocating constraints of the mandatory fashion: stiff whalebone stays that caught your breath, heavy layers of wool petticoats that dragged across the bleeding floorboards, and high, tight velvet collars that felt less like high society and more like a gilded cage.

On the rare occasions you did encounter Master Min, he made sure to reinforce the strict boundary between employer and tutor with absolute, crushing finality.

You met him one morning on the grand, sweeping staircase. You were carrying a stack of Greek lexicons for Jiho, the fabric of your heavy skirts rustling loudly in the quiet hall. Yoongi descended from the upper levels, and you immediately stepped aside, pressing your back against the damp stone wall.

The way he held himself while walking was terrifyingly deliberate. He moved with a rigid, military precision, his broad shoulders squared and entirely unyielding, his hands clasped tightly behind his back beneath the long tails of his dark frock coat. There was no casual grace in his stride, he cut through the freezing fog of the corridors like a dark specter, his heavy leather boots striking the wood with a rhythmic, intimidating finality.

"Master Min," you spoke up, your passionate nature refusing to let the silence win. You offered a polite, restricted curtsy. "Jiho has mastered his conjugations ahead of schedule. I was hoping we might expand his library allowance to include—"

Yoongi didn't even slow his pace. He didn't turn his head to look at you, his sharp profile remaining carved from pale stone.

"No," he interrupted, his tone flat, brutally blunt, and entirely dismissive. "Stick to the syllabus provided. Do not overstep."

"But sir, his mind is far too advanced to be held back by—"

He stopped on the landing below you, the sudden halt of his heavy boots echoing through the cavernous space. He still didn't look back, but the rigid tension in his spine spoke volumes. "You are here to instruct, young lady, not to govern my household or my brother's future. Teach what is required. Nothing more."

The cold, calculated harshness of his words struck you like a physical blow. It was incredibly, deeply rude. He treated your genuine passion for learning as an inconvenience, a threat to the sterile, dead order he maintained in this tomb of a house.

You tightened your grip on the books, your chest heaving against the tight stays of your dress as you watched him stride away, his dark form swallowing the light of the corridor. You could not fathom how someone could live with such deep, self-deprecating disdain for everything beautiful, but as the weeks wore on, you became entirely determined to find the crack in his leaden armor.

The relentless winter rain battered the high, arched windows of the schoolroom, blurring the dark, twisted silhouette of the weeping willows outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and burning tallow. You sat beside young Jiho, the heavy layers of your dark plum petticoats rustling softly as you leaned over his shoulder, pointing a finger at his Greek ledger.

"Very good, Jiho," you murmured, your voice a gentle, encouraging warmth against the chill of the room. "Now, try translating the next line. Remember the inflection."

Jiho dipped his steel-nibbed pen into the inkwell, his small face contorted in deep concentration. But before the metal could touch the parchment, a sound drifted through the heavy oak door.

It was a chord. Low, resonant, and entirely unexpected.

The note vibrated through the floorboards, followed immediately by a cascading melody that filled the metallic quiet of the manor. It was a weeping, devastatingly beautiful piece of music—not the sterile, practiced scales of an aristocrat passing the time, but a torrent of raw, unshielded emotion. It carried a silent, heavy passion so profound that it seemed to physically ache, cutting through the sterile, dead order of the house like a sudden, fierce storm.

Jiho’s hand froze. The ink dripped from his pen, leaving a dark, bleeding stain on the edge of his paper, but the boy didn't seem to notice. He kept his head tilted toward the corridor, his eyes wide and suddenly guarded.

You stared at him, your curiosity instantly piqued. You had lived in this mausoleum for days, navigating Master Min's icy silences and blunt, dismissive rejections, yet you had never heard a single mention of music.

"Jiho," you spoke up softly, breaking the spell of the music. "What is that? Who is playing?"

The boy swallowed hard, his small shoulders tensing beneath his stiff wool collar. He looked down at the ruined parchment, deliberately avoiding your gaze. "It is nothing, Miss."

"It doesn't sound like nothing," you pressed gently, your sweet nature refusing to let the boy retreat into the shadows that seemed to claim everyone in this family. "It is beautiful. Is there a musician visiting the estate?"

Jiho hesitated, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned a pale white. He cast a fearful glance toward the heavy schoolroom door, as if terrified that simply speaking of it would summon a ghost. When he finally answered, his voice was a reluctant, hushed whisper that barely carried over the piano's distant lament.

"No one is visiting. It... it is my brother. He plays."

You blinked, the revelation striking you with a strange, heavy force. Min Yoongi. The man who had cut you down with single, brutal words; the man who walked the halls with a rigid, military precision as if his very spine were carved from stone. You had only ever known his harshness, his cold, self-deprecating disdain for your presence.

"Master Min?" you whispered, looking toward the door as the melody rose to a staggering, mournful crescendo. "I did not know he possessed such a gift."

"He doesn't like people to listen," Jiho murmured, his tone laced with a profound, heavy sadness that felt entirely too old for a seven-year-old child. "He only plays when the house is dark, or when the rain is loud enough to drown it out. He says the music belongs to the dead. He says it's a waste of time."

The boy's words made your chest tighten uncomfortably against the rigid constraints of your whalebone stays. To hold a passion so fierce and beautiful inside oneself, yet view it only as a rotting, useless burden—it was a depth of self-loathing you could not fathom.

As the music continued to weep down the long, drafty corridor, your initial indignation toward Yoongi's rudeness began to fracture. You found yourself entirely unable to look away from the doorway, a quiet, irresistible curiosity wafting through your mind. You wanted to see those pale hands on the keys. You wanted to understand how a man who lived like a corpse in a leaden vault could create something so vibrantly, devastatingly alive.

But you couldn't catch him. Every single time you gathered the courage to steal down the long, drafty corridor—hoping to glimpse those hands on the keys—the music would vanish. The moment your foot stepped onto the threshold of the parlor, the final note would die in the air, leaving nothing but the heavy, leaden silence of the manor rushing back to swallow you whole.

This maddening sequence repeated numerous times over the passing weeks. Each time you heard the piano, the melody seemed even sadder, more desolate than the one before it. It was a slow, weeping torment that seemed to seep directly into the foundations of the estate. In your heart, you became absolutely certain that the trees outside had once been perfectly normal, healthy trees; it was his depressive, weeping melodies that had forced the willows to bow their branches, heavy and broken, weeping until they touched the frozen, bleeding mud.

Your encounters in the hallways remained an exercise in agonizing restraint. Sometimes you would pass him in the suffocatingly narrow stone corridors, the fabric of your heavy wool skirts brushing against the wool of his trousers, and he would offer nothing but a brief, rigid nod. Sometimes, not even that. He would walk past you with that terrifyingly deliberate, military precision, eyes fixed entirely ahead as if you were nothing more than a specter in his path.

Yet, there were erratic, confusing cracks in his armor. Sometimes, his low, gravelly voice would cut through the damp chill, commenting sharply on the clothes you wore. "That blue is far too bright for this house," he would murmur bluntly, or, "A foolish color to wear in the rain," when you chose a soft, passionate lavender.

And then, for days afterward, there would be nothing. Not even a glance.

Driven by the suffocating weight of his silence, you found yourself one bitter afternoon perusing the dead garden, desperate for a moment of air. The landscape was a direct extension of the  dread that anchored the estate. The vegetation did not grow; it decayed in place, choked by a dense, suffocating labyrinth of black brier roses and strangled ivy. The petals of the few surviving flowers were bruised and bloated, bleeding a dark, mineral-rich fluid that dripped like slow poison onto the frozen earth. Beneath your boots, the soil was a sickening, pale green—clogged with a heavy, rusted clay that oozed through the roots of the weeping willows like old blood seeping through bandages. The air tasted of iron, wet stone, and a profound, ancient rot.

You were tracing the edge of a frozen, ruined stone sundial when a shadow fell across the pale clay.

You turned sharply, the high velvet collar of your dress scraping against your jaw. Master Min stood only a few paces away. He was dressed in his long, dark frock coat, his hands clasped rigidly behind his back, looking for all the world like a monument carved from stone.

He didn't speak. He didn't offer an explanation for his presence in the dead garden, nor did he bid you good afternoon. He simply stared at you, his dark eyes wide with that heavy, fracturing vulnerability you had only ever caught in brief flashes.

The silence between you was immense, thick and metallic, but you refused to let the bleakness win. You drew yourself up against the biting wind, forcing a soft, tentative smile to your lips, determined to fill the empty air with your usual demeanor.

"The frost has a peculiar way of preserving things, don't you think, Master Min?" you said, your voice a gentle rain cutting through the stagnant quiet of the courtyard. You reached out, your gloved fingers lightly hovering over a choked, frozen brier rose. "Even in the rot, there is a strange, haunting sort of beauty. The earth is merely resting, preparing to bring forth something new when the winter finally breaks."

Yoongi didn't move. He stood utterly paralyzed, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, shallow inhale beneath his heavy coat.

"There is no spring for this house, Miss," he said finally, his voice a rough, monosyllabic rasp that cut through your optimism like a blade. "Some things are meant to stay dead."

Without waiting for your response, he turned on his heel, his heavy leather boots crunching violently against the frozen green clay as he marched back toward the looming, gray shadows of the manor.

You stood frozen in the bleeding clay, staring at his retreating, rigid back, and a sharp, near-unbelievable impulse to scoff bubbled up in your throat.

Could a man truly be so dedicated to his own misery? Could he really be so entirely cold, so thoroughly convinced of his own decay that he would cast away a genuine human gesture like a piece of refuse?

More days blurred into weeks, the winter tightening its iron grip on the estate until the frost on the windows resembled patterns of delicate, skeletal lace. You quickly realized that your gentle curiosity and polite boundaries were getting you nowhere. They only allowed him to slip further into the leaden shadows of the manor. If he wanted to live like a phantom, you decided you were going to become a much louder one. You were going to change your tactics entirely.

You were going to chase him. You were going to become completely, inescapably suffocating.

If Min Yoongi insisted on treating you like an unwanted affliction, you would ensure you were an affliction he could not ignore. You would force your warmth into his frozen world until his monosyllabic walls crumbled.

Your campaign began in the damp, cavernous kitchens of the manor. Disappointed by the lukewarm, bitter dregs the servants occasionally left outside his study, you took matters into your own hands. You brewed the tea yourself—a rich, aromatic blend of black tea, dried orange peel, and heavy cloves. The sharp, vibrant steam rose into the cold air of the kitchen, a violent, beautiful contrast to the pervasive smell of rust and wet stone.

You arranged it on a heavy silver tray, the porcelain cups clinking with a rhythmic, defiant ring.

Smoothing down the front of your dark velvet gown, you carried the tray up the grand stone staircase. You didn't walk quietly. You allowed the stiff whalebone stays of your corset to creak and the heavy layers of your wool petticoats to rustle loudly against the floorboards, announcing your approach like a storm marching down the long, suffocating corridor.

You didn't wait for an invitation. Reaching the heavy oak door of his private study—a room you had been strictly forbidden to enter—you knocked once, firmly, and pushed it open.

Yoongi was seated at his walnut desk, buried beneath a mountain of fading ledgers and legal correspondence. The air in the room was so cold your breath plumed before you. At the sound of your intrusion, he froze, his quill hovering a fraction of an inch above the parchment. When he raised his head, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of sheer disbelief and aristocratic offense, you simply offered him a bright, uncompromising smile.

"Good afternoon, Master Min," you said, your voice a torrent of gentle rain cutting through the stagnant quiet.

Before he could utter a single, brutal word, you strode across the room with a deliberate, swishing flare of your skirts and set the silver tray directly over his open ledgers. The rich scent of cloves and citrus instantly swallowed the smell of old paper.

Yoongi stared at the steaming teacup, then up at you, his sharp profile hardening into a defensive glare. "I did not request—"

"I know you didn't," you interrupted smoothly, leaning slightly over the desk, refusing to back away from his intimidating posture. "But it is freezing in this room, sir, and you look as though you are trying to turn into a statue. Drink it. It is entirely too hot to be ignored."

He sat utterly paralyzed, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, shallow rhythm beneath his dark coat. He looked at the vibrant, suffocating warmth of your presence, then down at his own trembling hands, his fingers flexing tightly against his quill as he tried to find the cold, dismissive words to banish you from his sight.

"You are incredibly insolent," Yoongi said, his voice a low, dangerous growl that cut through the steam rising from the porcelain cup.

He didn't touch the silver handles of the tray. He simply stared at the orange peel floating near the rim with a look of profound disgust. "I do not like orange peels. Had you bothered to ask any of the staff in this house before forcing your way into my quarters, they would have told you as much."

The brutal finality of his words hung in the freezing air, heavy as lead. You swallowed hard, trying desperately to find your footing under his piercing glare. Your heart hammered against the tight whalebone stays of your bodice, your spirit rising to defend itself.

"I only thought—given the frost in this room, sir—that a bit of warmth might be welcome," you retorted, your voice trembling slightly but held steady by sheer indignation. "A simple 'no, thank you' would suffice. There is no need to treat kindness as a crime."

Yoongi’s sharp profile didn't soften by a single fraction. He picked up his quill, his fingers gripping the feather so tightly the wood creaked, and lowered his eyes back to his ledgers, completely shutting you out.

"Take it and leave," he muttered, his tone flat, monosyllabic, and entirely cold. "Do not waste your time, or mine, again."

Biting your lip to keep from uttering a thoroughly unladylike retort, you snatched the heavy silver tray from his desk, the porcelain clinking violently in protest. With a sharp, furious rustle of your heavy wool petticoats, you turned on your heel and marched out of the study, slamming the heavy oak door behind you to fracture the suffocating quiet he so dearly cherished.

Yet, you refused to let his coldness break you. If anything, his bitter rejection only stoked the fire in your chest.

Over the weeks that followed, this disastrous encounter became the blueprint for a relentless, suffocating campaign. You tried every avenue to penetrate his leaden armor, determined to force a sliver of life into the living corpse of Min Yoongi.

You spent an entire morning in the damp, iron-scented kitchens, rolling out delicate lavender and honey biscuits. You brought them to his library door, the sweet, buttery scent cutting through the pervasive smell of rot. He didn't even look up from his papers. "Remove them," he had stated bluntly. "The smell is distracting."

When a particularly vicious bout of freezing rain left him coughing in his study, you prepared a thick, savory barley soup, carrying it up the grand staircase while your corset creaked with every step. He had left the bowl completely untouched on his desk until the fat congealed into a cold, white film, returning it via a servant without a single word of thanks.

You tried again with a plain, unblemished black tea, stripped of any citrus or spice that might offend his rigid preferences. You set it down beside his ledger in absolute silence, offering nothing but a defiant, lingering look. Yoongi had merely waited until you reached the door before deliberately pouring the steaming liquid into the dying embers of his hearth, extinguishing the tiny flame with a hiss of gray smoke.

Nothing could penetrate him. No matter how much sweetness, passion, or gentle rain you poured into the dry, parched monument of his life, Min Yoongi remained entirely frozen—a man standing resolutely by his own corpse, utterly refusing to be pulled into the light.

The unrelenting cold finally started to break, but it brought nothing new. It only turned the grounds into a vast, weeping sea of dark mud and bloated, bleeding brier roses. Inside the manor, the air felt thicker than ever, heavy with a leaden, metallic chill that seemed to seep directly into your bones.

You were in the schoolroom, packing away young Jiho’s inkwells after a quiet afternoon of geography, when the first note struck.

It was a low, fractured sound that vibrated straight through the floorboards, making the steel nibs of your pens rattle against the wood. You froze, your breath catching against the stiff, suffocating whalebone stays of your bodice. Then came another note. And another.

It was the piano. But it was not like the times before.

This melody was a devastating, monumental torrent of grief. It was an absolute, suffocating desolation caught between the ivory keys—a pitch-black melancholy so profound, so unmitigated, that you could not fathom the sheer depth of the ruin it took to create it. It did not just weep, it bled. The music tore through the sterile, dead order of the drafty house like a desperate, dying breath, filling the corridors with an ache so visceral it made your own chest thump painfully.

Your spirit could not endure the sheer weight of it from a distance. Driven by an irresistible, fierce curiosity, you left the schoolroom. You didn't care that your heavy wool petticoats rustled loudly against the stone walls, or that you were overstepping every boundary you had left. You wafted down the long, shadowed corridor, following the weeping sound until you reached the threshold of the closed parlor.

The heavy oak door was standing slightly ajar, a sliver of pale, watery twilight cutting through the darkness.

You held your breath, pressing your hand against the damp wood, and peered inside.

Finally. Finally.

Min Yoongi sat at the grand piano, entirely consumed by the shadows. His dark frock coat was unbuttoned at the throat for once, his white linen shirt exposed, and his broad shoulders were hunched forward in a posture of complete, devastating surrender. His eyes were closed, his pale face carved from stone, but his hands—those hands that had so rigidly stayed clasped behind his back for months—were moving across the keys with a frantic, terrifying reverence.

He was pouring his entire, suffocating soul into the wood. He looked like a man standing entirely alone beside a corpse, his invisible, heavy wings of lead drooping completely at his sides, utterly paralyzed by the tragedy of his own existence.

You couldn't stay hidden. Your heart broke for him, fracturing the distance he had fought so hard to maintain. You gently pushed the door open, the hinges giving a low, soft groan, and stepped into the parlor.

The moment your shadow crossed the floorboards, Yoongi’s hands slammed to a violent halt. The final, agonizing chord shattered into the silence, vibrating through the cold air like a scream.

He didn't move. He didn't turn to glare at you with his usual aristocratic disdain. He simply sat there, his head bowed, his pale fingers resting lightly on the ivory keys, his chest heaving in sharp, shallow breaths beneath his shirt.

"Do you never let people hear you play?" you asked softly, your voice a gentle, tentative rain cutting through his leaden quiet.

The silence stretched between you, thick and metallic, before his low, gravelly rasp finally broke it. "No."

"Why?" you pressed, stepping closer, the fabric of your velvet gown swishing against the floorboards as you refused to let him retreat into the dark.

Yoongi’s knuckles turned white against the keys, his fingers flexing slightly as if he wanted to reach out, to grab the empty air toward you, but he forced himself to remain frozen. "Why would they listen? Nothing good comes out of this house. Nothing good comes from my hands."

The blunt, self-deprecating finality of his words struck you like a physical blow. To hold a gift so magnificent, a passion so deep, yet view it only as a rotting, useless burden—it was a tragedy you could not comprehend.

"That is a rather sad way to live, Master Min," you murmured, your voice trembling with a mixture of sweetness and indignation.

"It is not sad," Yoongi replied, his tone dropping into that flat, monosyllabic chill that had kept you at bay for months. He finally raised his head, his dark eyes wide with a fracturing, terrifying vulnerability as he looked at you through the gloom. "It is simply what is required."

You frowned, your brows drawing together as a sharp wave of disbelief and frustration tightened your chest. He was utterly, maddeningly impossible.

How could a man be so violently committed to his own isolation? How could he look at the vibrant, breathing world—at your endless attempts to bring even a sliver of warmth into his frozen life—and choose to remain buried under his own leaden misery? He didn't want to be saved. He didn't even want to be comforted. He simply wanted to sit in the dark and watch his own soul rot away.

The sweet, passionate fire that had driven you to chase him for weeks suddenly cooled, leaving behind a bitter, aching exhaustion. You couldn't force a man who preferred the suffocation of his tomb to breathe.

"As you wish, Master Min," you said, your voice dropping its usual gentle warmth, replaced by a stiff, quiet dignity that felt as cold as the room itself.

You didn't wait for his reply. You didn't give him the chance to cut you down with another flat, monosyllabic dismissal. Turning on your heel, you gathered the heavy, rustling layers of your skirts, the tight whalebone stays of your bodice creaking in the silence as you marched toward the door. Your heavy boots clicked with a sharp, defiant finality against the bleeding floorboards, a jarring contrast to the weeping melody that had filled the parlor only moments before.

You took your leave, stepping out into the drafty corridor and letting the heavy oak door click shut behind you, completely sealing him back into the shadows.

But inside the suffocating quiet of the parlor, Yoongi didn't move.

The moment the latch caught, the rigid tension in his broad shoulders completely collapsed. He let his head drop, his forehead resting against the cool, dark wood of the piano as a sharp, fractured exhale left his lungs. The air in the room felt instantly metallic again, stripped of the vibrant, clove-scented rain you had brought with you.

I stood alone by the corpse... and it was cold...

The cool ivory keys felt like teeth beneath Yoongi's hands as the last echo of your footsteps died out. The finality of that latch closing felt like a casket sealing him back into the dark.

To survive the sudden, freezing drop in temperature, his mind did what it always did when the rot became too heavy—it retreated. It slipped backward, claws digging into the memory of the very first day you dared to cross his threshold.

Yoongi remembered the exact sound of your arrival. This house had been a mausoleum for a decade, moving only to the rhythm of decaying wood and bleeding clay, but you walked through the oak doors as if you were stepping into a summer garden.

It had terrified him. You spoke to the stern old butler with a bright, unbothered ease that didn't belong in a tomb. You asked questions, your voice carrying an innate musicality that immediately clashed with the dead silence of the corridors.

When he first stepped out from behind those velvet curtains in the library, he intended to frighten you away. He put on his armor—his rigid stance, his military stride, his sharpest aristocratic mask. But when you offered that warm, graceful curtsy, your eyes wide with an indestructible optimism, the words caught in his throat.

You were entirely too radiant. Looking at you was like staring directly into a noon sun after a lifetime spent in a subterranean vault.

From that very first hour, the poison in Yoongi's mind began its frantic, defensive work. He knew what he was. He was a man standing over a corpse, his wings made of heavy, toxic lead, anchored to the decay of this estate.

Every time you tried to share your light with him, his immediate instinct was to strike it down. When you spoke of your passion for knowledge, he gave you brutal, monosyllabic rejections. Not out of malice—never out of malice—but because he truly believed that if he let you close, the mold on his walls would find its way onto your skin. The rot in his chest would tarnish your beautiful, passionate spirit.

And then, there was the way you loved Jiho.

He would watch from the shadows of the schoolroom corridor as you bent over his little brother's desk, your dark plum velvet skirts brushing the floorboards. You cared for him with the fierce, protective tenderness of an older sister, treating the lonely boy like your own blood. You brought him laughter. You gave him a sanctuary.

Every time Yoongi saw you encourage him, a violent, aching jealousy would flare in his chest—not of his brother, but of your capacity to love. He wanted to step into that room. He wanted to sit at your feet and beg for a drop of that gentle rain. But a knight does not drag the princess down into the frozen mud. So, he stayed in the dark, his fingers flexing uselessly against the fabric of his coat, grasping at the phantom warmth you left in the air.

When you changed your tactics, it almost broke him.

When you began to chase him through the manor, forcing your way into his study with those loud, rustling petticoats and trays of steaming tea, it was a beautiful, agonizing torture. The scent of your cloves and orange peels felt like a violent invasion of his vault. He called you insolent. He poured your black tea into the embers. He let his barley soup turn to ice.

He did it because he was starving, and your presence was too much for a man to bear.

The reality of his isolation always returned with the same sickening familiarity—he was a dying man, and your radiant presence was simply too monumental a mercy for his broken spirit to endure.

Instead, Yoongi settled for the ghosts of your presence.

Every evening, long after the heavy oak doors of the schoolroom had closed and you had retired to your quarters, he would emerge from the shadows of the library. His heavy leather boots would step deliberately over the bleeding floorboards, tracing the path you had taken hours before. He would find the volumes of poetry or history text you had left on the long walnut tables. With an agonizing, slow reverence, he would press his bare palm flat against the leather covers, closing his eyes just to catch the faint, evaporating ghost of your warmth. He would open the pages, his pale fingers softly tracing the margins where your ink-stained fingertips had rested.

It was a pathetic, desperate ritual, but it was the only way he could possess a sliver of you without actually touching you—without allowing the dark, creeping mold of his own existence to ruin your light.

In the dead, quiet hours of the night, when the manor groaned against the freezing wind, he would lie awake and allow himself the cruelest torture of all: wishing he were different.

He wished he were a man who could walk out into the sunshine without feeling the immediate, suffocating urge to retreat into the dark. He wished he were a gentleman who could offer you a proper, unblemished courtship, a man who could look into your sweet, passionate eyes and promise you a life built on something other than decay. But the illusion never lasted. The leaden reality of his mind always crushed the fantasy before it could take root. He wasn't that man. He was ruined. The tragic, bitter lineage of his family had calcified in his veins, leaving him as nothing more than a hollow caretaker to a tomb.

That was why he had been so unyielding during the confrontation in the dead garden.

He still remembered the way you looked standing by that frozen stone sundial, your vibrant crimson cloak a striking, defiant wound against the pale, oozing clay. You had looked at the choked, black brier roses—flowers that were actively rotting into the ice—and you had tried to find beauty in them. You had spoken with such indestructible, sweet optimism about the earth merely resting, about spring eventually breaking through the frost.

And it had terrified him.

Yoongi couldn't have it. He couldn't let you romanticize the decay that was slowly poisoning him. Your gentle, passionate nature belonged to the sun; you were supposed to stay wrapped in warmth, shielded in the bright, comfortable world of living things. You were never meant to descend into the damp, metallic cold of his vault, nor were you meant to waste your sweet rain on a parched, ruined man who had already surrendered to the dark.

When he told you that some things were meant to stay dead, it was the ultimate act of his twisted, knightly devotion. He had deliberately fractured your hope, ensuring you would despise his coldness, because keeping you angry was the only way he knew how to keep you safe from his rot.

But you were relentless.

Yoongi had truly believed the bitter frost of the garden would be the end of it—that his cruel, unyielding words would finally send you fleeing back to the warmth where you belonged. He had expected you to look at him with nothing but cold disdain from that moment on. Instead, your sweet, stubborn passion only seemed to harden into a fierce, quiet defiance. You did not stop. You did not yield to the heavy, suffocating silence of his house.

And at last, on that dark afternoon, your persistence brought you to the one place he had guarded with his very life. You found yourself standing at the threshold of the parlor, listening to the doomed melodies his fingers produced.

From his position at the keys, completely cloaked in the gray twilight of the room, Yoongi had thought he was entirely alone. The winter rain was battering the glass so violently that he believed the sound would drown out the absolute, suffocating desolation leaking from his soul. He had allowed his rigid, knightly armor to crack, unbuttoning his coat and letting his broad shoulders slouch in a posture of complete, devastating defeat.

He had poured his entire ruin into the instrument. Every note was a leaden weight; every chord was a funeral march for the man he wished he could be for you. It was a pitch-black, weeping melancholy, a musical manifestation of the corpse he stood beside every day. He was playing his own doom, his invisible wings of lead drooping heavily to the floorboards as the keys wept beneath his pale hands.

He had been so entirely consumed by the tragedy of his own music that he hadn't heard the soft rustle of your skirts or the creak of your whalebone stays as you drew near.

But then, the air in the room shifted.

Even without looking, Yoongi felt the exact moment your gentle, radiant presence wafted through the sliver of the open door. It was a visceral shock to his senses—like a drop of sweet, clean rain falling into a stagnant, iron-tasted vault. His fingers slammed to a violent, trembling halt, killing the melody instantly and leaving the final, agonizing chord to shatter into a suffocating quiet.

His heart hammered frantically against his ribs. He sat frozen, staring at the ivory keys, utterly paralyzed by the terrifying realization that you had finally caught him. You had heard the raw, bleeding truth of his soul. You had witnessed the passionate, weeping monster beneath the cold, monosyllabic master.

When your soft voice finally cut through the metallic silence, asking why he never let anyone hear him play, it took every ounce of his remaining strength to lock his expression back into stone. He had given you his flat, brutal truths—telling you that nothing good could ever come from his hands, that this house was a tomb meant to stay dead. He had watched the deep, aching frown mar your beautiful features, had watched your passionate light finally dim into a quiet, exhausted disappointment before you turned on your heel and took your leave.

He had driven you away. It was exactly what he had engineered from the very first day you arrived. But as Yoongi sat alone in the echoing silence of the parlor, his pale fingers flexing helplessly over the keys you had just vanished from, the leaden weight in his chest became entirely unbearable. He had saved you from his rot, but in doing so, he had completely condemned himself to the dark.

The memory of that final, devastating melody in the parlor hung over the subsequent weeks like a thick, unmoving pall.

You had officially retreated behind a wall of quiet, professional iron. You had not seen Min Yoongi since that rainy twilight, and truthfully, you had no desire to. The sweet, naive urge to heal his bitterness had completely burned itself out, leaving behind only a cold, focused determination. You were going to continue tutoring young Jiho. You would pour every ounce of your passion for knowledge into his eager mind, arming him with languages, history, and natural philosophy until he was strong enough to flee this tomb of an estate and make a life for himself out in the wide, breathing world. And the very moment his education was complete, you would pack your trunks and take your leave without a single backward glance.

This house was meant to stay dead, just as its master had said, and you were no longer going to waste your light on it.

The weather remained relentless, the air outside carrying that familiar, oppressive taste of iron and ancient wet stone. One bleak afternoon, while Jiho was quietly copying a passage of French prose at his desk, you walked over to the high, arched window of the schoolroom to stare out at the desolate grounds.

You expected the usual gothic, decay-colored scenery—the choked, tangled labyrinth of black brier roses, the heavy, weeping willows bowing their branches into the dark mud, and the sickening patches of pale green clay oozing up through the soil. Even the snow that occasionally fell on the Min estate was never pure, it was always instantly stained by the rusted earth, turning a dull, ugly gray the moment it touched the ground.

But as your eyes swept across the frozen courtyard, you froze, your breath fogging the glass.

There, right in the center of the dead garden, near the ruined stone sundial where Yoongi had once violently rejected your optimism, the bleeding scenery was painted with an entirely new color.

It was a blotch of stark, brilliant white.

You blinked, leaning closer to the pane, your heart giving a strange, sudden thump against the rigid constraints of your whalebone stays. It wasn't snow. You knew what the snow looked like here—it was foul, slushy, and marred by the rot of the land. This blotch was different. It was an unblemished, luminous white that seemed to practically glow against the suffocating grays and stained reds of the courtyard, completely defying the dead, icy landscape around it.

Your brow furrowed in deep, reluctant curiosity. Nothing grew in this soil. Nothing beautiful survived the iron-laced frost of this house. Yet there it sat, a solitary, pristine anomaly blooming directly out of the ruin.

"Jiho, please continue with your translations," you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggled to keep your tone even. "I shall return momentarily."

The boy didn't even look up from his ledger, merely nodding as his pen scratched rhythmically against the paper.

You practically flew. Turning on your heel, the heavy wool layers of your petticoats rustled violently against the stone walls as you hurried down the grand staircase. The tight whalebone stays of your bodice creaked with every frantic breath you took, your heart hammering a wild, chaotic rhythm against your ribs. You threw open the heavy oak side door, stepping directly out into the biting, metallic chill of the winter air.

Your heavy boots crunched into the frozen, bleeding mud as you rushed toward the center of the courtyard. The wind whipped at your hair, catching the high velvet collar of your gown, but your eyes remained locked on the ruined stone sundial.

You stopped dead in your tracks, the breath catching completely in your throat.

Your eyes had to be deceiving you. It was impossible. It defied every law of nature, every cruel rule that Min Yoongi’s suffocating household lived by.

There, bursting directly through the pale, rusted clay and wrapping itself tightly around the decaying stone of the sundial, was a cluster of flowers. They were white roses.

But they were not just white, they were a stark, pristine, and blindingly luminous ivory. The petals were thick, velvety, and completely unblemished, utterly refusing to be stained by the dark fluid of the black briers or the gray, ugly slush of the estate. They bloomed with a fierce, silent passion, their clean, sweet scent slicing right through the pervasive smell of rot and wet iron that had plagued you for months.

You stepped closer, your gloved hand trembling as you reached out toward the glowing petals. In a garden where everything was meant to decay, where the master himself had declared that some things were meant to stay dead, a vibrant, beautiful miracle had just forced its way into the light.

A sharp, sudden warmth swelled in your chest, so intense that a hot sting pricked the backs of your eyes. You stared at the luminous petals, your breath trembling against the biting air, and you almost cried.

In this tomb of a house, surrounded by a winter that refused to end and a master who preferred the company of corpses, it felt as though something beautiful and divine was finally smiling down on you. It felt like a sign that your relentless spirit hadn't been entirely in vain—that the light could still fight its way through the rot.

You reached out, your fingertips hovering just millimeters away from the velvety ivory bloom, entirely transfixed.

Crunch.

The sharp, heavy snap of a boot against the frozen green clay shattered the silence behind you.

Your breath hitched, your posture instantly freezing against the tight constraints of your whalebone stays. You didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. The rhythmic, terrifyingly deliberate precision of that stride was unmistakable. It cut through the garden's quiet like a sudden frost.

He had approached without his usual warning creak of a door, his shadow stretching long and dark across the bleeding mud until it touched the edge of the pristine white petals.

"Do you like them?"

Yoongi’s voice broke through the metallic chill. It wasn't the flat, brutally blunt roar he had used to cast you out of his study, nor was it the monosyllabic ice from your encounter by the piano. It was a low, rough rasp, carrying a strange, fracturing vulnerability that seemed to hang precariously in the freezing air between you.

"Do you like roses, Miss?"

You slowly turned around, the stiff velvet of your high collar brushing against your jaw as you faced him. Yoongi stood a few paces away, his hands clasped rigidly behind his back.

"Yes," you breathed, your voice a gentle, tentative warmth in the freezing air. You looked back down at the luminous ivory petals, your love for flowers completely overtaking your recent anger. "I adore them. I am simply... in absolute awe that they managed to grow in such treacherous weather. In this soil."

If Yoongi found your sweet, naive wonder amusing, he didn't show it. For a mere millisecond, there was a faint, nearly imperceptible shift in the rigid lines of his face—a brief softening around his eyes that vanished before you could fully grasp it—and then his aristocratic mask was firmly back in place.

He took one slow, deliberate step forward, his heavy leather boot striking the frozen clay.

"They don't grow here," he said, his voice dropping into a rough, low rasp that carried none of his usual dismissive venom. "And they have never grown here. The iron in this clay kills everything before it can sprout."

You blinked, your brow furrowing as you looked from the stark white blooms back to his pale face. "Oh? But then... how are they here?"

Yoongi didn't look at the flowers. His gaze remained entirely fixed on you, a terrifyingly deep, raw vulnerability breaking through the leaden armor he had worn for months. His fingers flexed invisibly inside his coat, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, shallow rhythm.

"I went into the city," he murmured, the bluntness of his tone replaced by a quiet, staggering honesty. "I rode through the freezing rain last night and bought a couple from the winter glasshouses. I brought them back and planted them in the mud before dawn...so you could see them."

The man who had treated your kindness as an inconvenience, the man who had brutally poured your tea into the embers and told you that some things were meant to stay dead—had ridden for hours in the dark, freezing cold. He had dug his bare hands into the sickening, rusted clay of his own ruined garden, all to place a solitary blotch of pure, unblemished warmth where he knew your eyes would find it.

A sharp, sudden spark of indignation flared in your chest. You were almost entirely furious with him. The sheer audacity of this man—to systematically dismantle every gentle gesture you had offered, to make you feel like an unwanted blight upon his holy misery, only to ride out into the freezing night and plant a miracle in the mud just to manipulate your smile.

It was maddening. It was hypocritical.

But as you looked at his pale, unyielding face and the raw, fracturing vulnerability hidden beneath his dark brow, the anger dissolved into a breathless, quiet awe.

You let it go.

You drew a sharp, freezing breath into your lungs and simply accepted the silent, staggering peace offering blooming at your feet.

Over the next few days, the suffocating atmosphere of the manor underwent a bizarre, silent shift. Min Yoongi did not suddenly become a man of bright, cheerful prose—his nature remained a heavy, unbending thing—but he began doing things entirely out of his way so that you would find anything resembling warmth directly in your path.

He no longer waited in the shadows, he left tokens of his silent undoing everywhere you stepped.

When you walked into the drafty room for Jiho’s morning lessons, you didn't find the lukewarm, bitter dregs of the house staff. Instead, steaming gently on the side table was a porcelain pot of rich black tea, heavily fragrant and distinctly laced with dried orange peels.

Upon returning to your private quarters in the evenings, the suffocating chill of the room was broken by the sight of your desk. Resting there were pristine, heavy leather-bound volumes of romantic poetry and foreign history—their covers unblemished, yet carrying the distinct, faint scent of the library’s deep cedar vaults.

He was letting you touch his world without his coldness staining yours. He was answering your past kindnesses with a quiet, desperate reverence.

But it was the final token that caused you to completely crack.

On a particularly bitter Tuesday, you entered your bedchamber to find a large, shallow box resting upon the velvet settee. Inside, wrapped in crisp tissue paper, lay a magnificent winter gown. It was carved from the heaviest, most luxurious silk velvet, dyed an incredibly deep, passionate burgundy—a color so vibrant it felt like a deliberate fire meant to consume the gray, leaden shadows of your room.

The sheer weight of his silent, overwhelming pursuit crashed over you, and your patience snapped.

You didn't want his silent offerings. You didn't want a man who hid behind expensive silks and orange peels because he deemed himself too ruined to speak to you. Gathering the heavy skirts of your current dress, your whalebone stays creaking violently with every furious, shallow breath, you marched out of your chamber.

You angrily looked for him through the entire manor. You checked the library, your boots clicking like gunfire against the stone floorboards. You threw open the door to his private study, finding nothing but cold ledgers and a dying hearth. Your frustration mounted, a torrent of hot, indignant passion building in your chest until you felt entirely suffocated by the heavy oak walls.

Driven by a sudden instinct, you tore through the side corridors and flung open the heavy oak door leading to the courtyard.

The winter air bit at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into the gray twilight. There, standing right in the center of the dead garden, was the broad, rigid silhouette of Master Min.

He was dressed in his long, dark frock coat, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as usual. He wasn't moving. He stood completely paralyzed, his dark eyes wide and fixed entirely downward, gazing intently at the stark white roses he had bought for you.

In the dim, metallic light, he looked so profoundly alone, so utterly crushed by the weight of his own internal doom, that the angry reprimand almost died on your lips before you could even cross the bleeding green mud.

The crunch of your boots against the frozen clay finally broke his trance. Yoongi didn't turn around immediately, but his shoulders went rigid beneath his dark coat, his knuckles turning white where his hands remained clasped behind his back.

You stopped just a few paces from him, your breathing shallow and ragged, the wind whipping the dark fabric of your skirts against his trousers. The anger that had propelled you through the drafty corridors of the manor was a hot, living fire in your chest, completely fracturing the suffocating quiet of the dead garden.

"You called me insolent," you spat out, the words cutting through the metallic chill like a blade.

Yoongi slowly turned his head, his sharp profile carved from stone. His dark eyes met yours, wide with that familiar, terrifying vulnerability, but his voice remained a low, flat rasp. "I did."

"You ruined everything I have tried to offer you," you continued, stepping closer, refusing to let him hide behind his aristocratic mask. Your whalebone stays creaked violently with the force of your indignation. "You cast away my biscuits, you let my soup turn to ice, and you poured my tea directly into the dying embers of your hearth."

"I did," he murmured, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, shallow rhythm. He didn't deny it. He didn't even offer an excuse.

"And yet," you gestured wildly toward the center of the courtyard, your voice trembling with a mixture of sweetness and raw fury, "you rode through a freezing storm to plant white roses in the mud. I find tea with orange peels in the schoolroom. I find expensive, leather-bound books in my chambers. And today, a burgundy silk dress rests upon my settee." You took a harsh, shuddering breath, your eyes locking onto his. "You bought them. You brought them to me."

"I did," Yoongi said again, the monosyllabic response dropping between you like a leaden weight.

"Why?" you demanded, the word a desperate, passionate cry against his maddening contradictions. "Why treat me like a blight upon your house, only to secretly pave my path with everything that resembles warmth? What game is this, Master Min?"

"It is no game," he rasped, his voice suddenly fracturing, losing its cold, rigid control. He finally unclasped his hands, his fingers flexing violently at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and grasp the empty air toward you, but the invisible weight of his wings held him back.

"Then explain it to me!" you cried. "Because I am entirely suffocated by your silence!"

"Because I am a ruined man!" Yoongi suddenly roared, the sheer volume of his voice shattering the stagnant quiet of the estate, making the weeping willows above you seem to tremble.

He took a wild, predatory step toward you, his chest heaving, his face pale and distorted by an agonizing, internal torment. The armor had completely shattered, exposing the raw, bleeding pulp of his soul.

"You want an explanation?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a fierce, desperate whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "Look at you. You are a gentle, radiant rain in a house that has known nothing but drought and decay. From the very first hour you arrived, with your chatty attitude and your sweet demeanor, you became a fire in my mind. And it is poisoning me. It is tormenting me from the inside out."

He pressed a pale hand flat against his chest, right over his heart, his fingers clutching the dark wool of his coat as if he were trying to tear the agony out of his own flesh.

"Every time you smiled at my brother, every time you brought your warmth into my frozen study, my mind became a battleground of rot," he confessed, his eyes wide and wild with a fractured affection. "I have spent weeks standing over the corpse of my own spirit, entirely paralyzed by the knowledge of what I am. I am a monster anchored to this bleeding clay, and you... you are everything pure left in this world."

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips, sounding like a sob.

"I called you insolent because I was starving for you, and I knew that if I let myself taste your kindness, I would never let you go. I ruined your gifts because I truly believed that the mold on my walls would find its way onto your skin—that my wretched, ruined nature would tarnish your beautiful, passionate spirit. I wanted to keep you angry. I wanted you to despise me, because if you hated me, you would stay safe in the warmth. You would leave this tomb before it swallowed you whole."

Yoongi stepped closer still, until the scent of his coat—wet wool, cedar, and old ink—swallowed the sweet aroma of the white roses. His right hand trembled in the air between you, his knuckles hovering just inches from your flushed cheek, utterly terrified to make contact.

"But I am a weak man," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips before rising back to your eyes with a devastating, absolute surrender. "I rode into the city because I couldn't bear the thought of your light completely dying in this dark. I bought the books, the tea, the dress... because I am mad with longing for you. I wanted to give you a world that wasn't ruined, even if I have to destroy myself from the inside out to build it for you."

The agonizing distance between his trembling hand and your flushed skin was a vacuum of absolute, suffocating tension. Yoongi stood suspended in his own ruin, his pale fingers hovering in the freezing air, terrified that the mere touch of his skin would leave a permanent, blackened stain upon your light.

You didn't wait for him to pull away. You didn't let him retreat into the safety of his tragic, self-imposed isolation.

With a sharp, decisive movement that fractured the final boundary between you, you tilted your head forward and pushed your cheek directly into the palm of his hand.

Contact.

A collective, shuddering gasp left Yoongi’s lips, the sound tearing from his throat like a physical wound. The moment your warm, soft skin pressed against his cold, ink-stained palm, a violent tremor rippled through his entire, rigid frame. His eyes widened in absolute, staggering shock, the pupils dilating until they practically swallowed the brown of his irises.

For a split second, he looked like a dying man who had just been violently forced to breathe again, his chest rising and falling in deep, frantic, and ragged lungfuls of air.

He didn't pull away. The instinct to flee from his own tarnish was entirely obliterated by the overwhelming, electrical reality of your warmth.

Slowly, hesitatingly, his long, pale fingers began to curl against your jawline. His thumb, rough from coarse parchment and the cold of the piano keys, brushed against your cheekbone with a reverence so profound it felt like a prayer.

He cradled your face as if you were a fragile, miraculous thing made of spun glass—a man who had spent a lifetime destroying everything he touched, suddenly granted custody of a saint.

"You are madness," he whispered, his rough voice cracking completely as he leaned down, his forehead coming to rest against yours. The scent of him—bitter cloves, wet wool, and the distinct, metallic scent of the freezing rain—enveloped you entirely, shutting out the rest of the bleak, bleeding courtyard. "You are an absolute, terrifying madness, and I am entirely undone by you."

"Then let yourself be undone," you breathed against his lips, your voice a torrent of sweet, passionate rain that washed away the heavy, suffocating prose of his mind.

You reached up, your gloved hands digging firmly into the thick, dark wool of his lapels, pulling his hunched shoulders down toward you. The stiff whalebone stays of your bodice creaked loudly against his chest, the violent contrast of your warm-hued passion crushing directly into his dark, leaden armor.

Yoongi let out a low, desperate groan, his left hand flying to the small of your back, his long fingers gripping the heavy velvet of your skirts to pull you so close there was no longer any air left between you. He was no longer a knight standing guard over a corpse, he was a starving man surrendering entirely to the feast.

When his lips finally crashed down onto yours, it was not a gentle thing. It was a desperate, chaotic storm of months of repressed longing, bitter isolation, and silent, agonizing affection. The kiss was thick with the taste of winter and old secrets, a beautiful, devastating collision of your radiant warmth and his frozen ruin.

hello!

i don’t want to upset you, but i do think it’s quite similar to the one i've already written and posted. i’m sorry, but i don’t think i can complete this since i’m taking requests that aren't similar to tropes i would naturally gravitate towards.

also, my main focus are my ongoing stories. so as much as i'd love to stay all day and explore every trope and every dynamic i have kids at home (fc and s&s) and work (university finals)

thank you for putting your faith into me and i’m sorry again i can’t complete your request!

↳ summary: ten years of platonic safety, completely incinerated over cold kitchen marble. a frantic morning-after argument about a drunken confession turns into a dangerous game of chicken. you think you're being the smart one, desperately trying to protect a decade-long friendship from total wreckage—until a single, devastating kiss proves that neither of you can afford to stay just friends anymore.

↳ friends to lovers!au;

↳ pairing: idol!jeongguk x f!reader

↳ warnings: shameless smut, heavy praise and unprotected oral. features a completely undone, whiny, and pathetically submissive jeongguk who is brought entirely to his knees, begging for a taste before fucking you through his own overstimulation. brace yourselves........ :)

↳ word count: 13.1 k

a/n: this is actually my first ever request. here is the the original ask! the person who requested didn't reply anymore, so i took it upon myself to just run with it—yay for creative freedom and what not. hopefully i delivered question mark?

i’m a bit anxious about this ngl since it is a bit out of my comfort area so please lmk your thoughts :')

we absolutely love subkoo propaganda in this house. though i must admit, i could've made him even more sub, but baby steps am i right?

—

ONE SHOT

STARRING JEONGGUK

You’re very good at making bad decisions.

You and Jeongguk have been friends for a very long time. Platonic friends, of course. The kind of bond forged in the messy, unfiltered trenches of youth long before the rest of the world decided he belonged to them.

You remember every single time he’s been there for you, steady as an anchor. He was the one who sat on the kitchen counter at three in the morning, quietly listening to you cry over a brutal breakup, holding the pint of melting ice cream while you ranted. He was the one who dragged his exhausted body out of bed in the dead of winter just to jump-start your dead car battery, completely uncomplaining as his hands turned bright red in the freezing air. When you failed that massive university exam, he didn't offer empty platitudes; he just showed up at your door with a bag of cheap convenience store snacks and your favorite video game, sitting in silence with you until the heavy cloud in your chest lifted.

And you’ve been there for him just as fiercely. You were the one who held his hair back in a cramped, dimly lit bathroom after he drank way too much at a party, rubbing his back while he muttered pathetic apologies. You were the one who helped him pack up his entire life into mismatched cardboard boxes when he finally left his small hometown, taping the edges shut while he nervously paced the room. You even let him experiment on you with a box of cheap, questionable hair dye on a random Tuesday, resulting in a green-stained forehead and a frantic midnight run to a 24-hour pharmacy, laughing so hard your stomachs ached in the fluorescent aisles.

However, you didn't take into account that he would get famous at some point. Obviously, he had all the cards to do so, you weren't blind.

He’s attractive. He’s sweet. He has a good heart that bleeds through everything he touches.

And then there are the physical realities you've forced yourself to ignore for years. He has impeccable, impeccable hands—veiny, strong, and large enough to completely swallow yours. He has a fiercely toned body, hardened by years of relentless dance practice and gym sessions, a sharp contrast to the gentle soul inside him. And, of course, those sweet, round eyes you melt for every single time he looks up at you, completely disarming whatever defenses you try to build.

So when he texted you saying he was back home for a little while before heading out on the massive world tour again, of course you said yes.

Why would you not? He was your best friend.

Except you completely forgot that during his brief stints of downtime, Jeongguk had a tendency to pick up hyper-fixated new hobbies. Which is exactly how you found yourself standing in the doorway of his private garage, completely frozen.

He was entirely underneath the chassis of a sleek, vintage car, legs sprawling out across the concrete floor. He was straining against a stubborn bolt, and the physical effort caused his dark t-shirt to ride up drastically, exposing a wide strip of his lower abdomen.

Your eyes trapped themselves right there, staring directly at his happy trail. It was a sharp, dark line of hair cutting perfectly across his toned stomach, disappearing straight into the low waistband of his grey sweatpants.

Avert your gaze? Maybe you should. You absolutely had to.

Instead, a stray, dangerous thought crossed your mind, wondering exactly where that trail led and if it really was a happy place. You would certainly guess so, taking into account the sheer volume of women who willingly flung themselves at him daily on global television.

Jeongguk, meanwhile, was acutely aware of the shift in the room's atmosphere the second you walked in. From his vantage point beneath the metal frame, he heard your footsteps halt. He could feel the phantom heat of your eyes burning into his exposed skin. His heart did a violent flip in his chest, his fingers tightening around his wrench. He purposely stayed still for a beat longer than necessary, his breath hitching, secretly thrilled by the weight of your undivided attention.

To break the suffocating silence, you finally spoke, semi-yelling over the clinking of his tools, "Yo! Koo, what the fuck are you doing?"

Hearing your voice, Jeongguk finally kicked against the floor, sliding himself out from under the car on his mechanic's creeper.

When he fully emerged, the sight of him made your throat go completely dry. He had grease smudged across his jaw, a dirty shirt clinging to his frame, and a sweaty forehead. A few moist, dark hair strands were sticking directly to his skin, and the tiny silver hoop of his lip piercing glinted sharply in the garage lighting.

You gulped. Hard. Maybe it was just because you hadn't seen him in a while, or maybe it was because the platonic shield you usually wore was rapidly cracking to pieces.

Jeongguk blinked up at you, tracking the slight bob of your throat as you swallowed. A quiet wave of satisfaction washed over him, melting his internal nerves into something warm and soft. He let his head fall back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes with the sweetest, most innocent smile he could muster.

"Hi," he replied softly, his voice a low, raspy rumble that did absolutely nothing to help your racing pulse.

He laughed, a bright, breathless sound, and stepped toward you with his arms wide open. It was clear he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around you after being separated by a massive ocean for months, but you immediately took a sharp step back, hands raised in a defensive barrier.

"Don't even think about it," you warned, eyeing the black grease smudged across his arms. "I am not getting engine oil all over my clothes."

Jeongguk paused, his arms still half-extended, his lips pouting into a familiar, dramatic frown. "So?" he asked, tilting his head with an entitled little whine. "It's just a shirt. I haven't seen you in forever."

Before you could reiterate that you actually liked your outfit, he reached down, gripped the hem of his dark t-shirt, and pulled it over his head in one fluid, practiced motion. Your breath caught awkwardly in your throat. Now, the toned lines of his chest and abdomen were fully on display, glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the garage lights. He didn't even seem to notice your sudden internal panic as he casually crumpled the expensive fabric into a ball, using it as a makeshift rag to roughly wipe the grease off his hands.

Tossing the ruined shirt onto a nearby tool stool, he stepped right back into your space. "Better?" he murmured, a cheeky, triumphant grin spreading across his face before he locked his bare, warm arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You let out a defeated sigh, but you didn't pull away. You hugged him back, burying your face against the warm crook of his shoulder, the familiar, comforting scent of him cutting right through the sharp smell of gasoline and metal.

If you were being 100% honest with yourself, you did have a crush on him. You had been harboring a crush on him for a very long time.

You just never vocalized it. To you, it was always safer to remain a constant, unshakeable variable in his chaotic life rather than risk ruining something so irreplaceable. All of his past relationships had eventually crashed and burned, a pattern that only grew worse once global fame started violently colliding with his love life and relentless schedules. You had absolutely no intention of losing Jeongguk to a stupid, juvenile crush you’d developed nearly ten years ago—all because he’d sweetly given you his last cherry popsicle on a scorching summer afternoon.

Jeongguk squeezed you a little tighter before finally releasing you, though his hands lingered on your arms for a beat too long. "I want to throw a party tonight," he announced, his round eyes shining with genuine excitement as he swiped a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "Just like old times. I want to actually have fun without a million eyes on me."

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "Oh? Tell me about it. Who are we inviting?"

"Only old friends," he said instantly, his tone turning protective. "Nobody new. Nobody with a hidden motive or a vendetta. Just the people who knew me before... all of this."

You smirked, a teasing glint in your eyes as you nudged his bare shoulder. "What, so you didn't bring any international flings home with you in first class?"

Jeongguk let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "No way. I'm going girl-sober for a while. Women completely fuck up my senses."

He wasn't lying, and you knew it. Jeongguk was a hopeless, unapologetic serial romantic. He was a boy who loved with his entire soul, completely incapable of doing anything casual even if his life depended on it. It was his ultimate Achilles' heel. He wore his heart so openly on his sleeve, entirely defenseless, and people always seemed to have other, more transactional plans for it.

"Girl-sober, huh?" you echoed, trying to ignore the sudden, dangerous flutter in your stomach at his words. "Let's see how long that actually lasts."

"Oh, it will last," Jeongguk said, his tone dropping into a quieter, more deliberate register as he looked down at you. "You'll make sure of it."

You blinked, momentarily losing your train of thought as your eyes tracked a stray bead of sweat rolling down his collarbone. "Pardon?"

"You’re the only one I can trust with my heart right now," he explained smoothly, a completely earnest, unguarded look washing over his features. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat radiating off his bare chest practically enveloping you. "So, yes. You. Making sure no one is hurting your super hot friend."

Your knees almost buckled right there on the oil-stained concrete.

Super hot?

Did he just casually drop that into conversation like he hadn't spent the last ten years being your dorky, platonic sidekick? Before you could even formulate a coherent response, Jeongguk caught the sudden shock on your face. A playful, slightly teasing glint sparked in his dark eyes, his lips tilting up at the corners.

"Am I not?" he challenged softly, tilting his head as if genuinely waiting for your assessment.

You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling to put the platonic walls back up before he noticed how fast your heart was beating. "I plead the fifth."

Jeongguk let out a breathy, dramatic groan, throwing his head back before looking down at you through his lashes. "God, Y/N, you’re so dramatic. I can openly say you’re hot."

Your brain completely short-circuited. "Sorry?"

"What?" He shrugged his shoulders, completely unfazed by the bomb he’d just dropped in the middle of his garage. "It’s not like it’s federal information. You’re attractive, I’m attractive. You should be able to speak open truths."

You gulped again, the sound loud in your own ears as you looked anywhere but at the hard lines of his chest. "Fine," you grumbled, forcing the words past your lips like a confession under interrogation. "You’re hot. Happy?"

Jeongguk’s playful smirk instantly vanished, replaced by a dramatic, exaggerated pout. He whined, the sound high and petulant, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "No, see? Now I don't even want it anymore if you don't actually believe it."

You let out a sharp scoff, throwing your hands up in disbelief. "Where the hell is that coming from?"

"I'm serious," he insisted, his voice dropping into a quieter, more vulnerable register. He stepped a fraction closer, his shoes almost touching the tips of yours. He looked down at you, completely stripped of his usual idol persona. "I don't want you to say things just because I want to hear them. I have enough people in my life for that,Y/N. Millions of them. I don't need it from you."

The sudden, raw honesty of his words hit you like a physical weight. You looked up, meeting his gaze, and swear his eyes just got ten times more sparkly and round, shimmering with a sudden, intense vulnerability.

He was practically vibrating with the unspoken urge to be perceived, truly perceived, by the only person whose opinion actually mattered to him.

The platonic armor you’d spent so long building suddenly felt paper-thin. You let out a soft sigh, reaching out to gently tap his bare chest, right over his racing heart.

"Jeongguk," you said, your voice softening, holding his gaze so he knew you meant it. "You're hot. I'm not just saying it."

The second the words left your mouth, the heavy tension broke. A massive, radiant grin split across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners into those familiar, endearing crescent shapes.

"Thank you," he sang out in a sweet, sing-song voice, practically beaming as he swayed his shoulders from side to side like a praised toddler. The transition from a brooding, shirtless man to a needy, praise-hungry boy was so fast it made your head spin, leaving you entirely at the mercy of whatever games he was playing with your heart.

You spent the whole afternoon prepping for the said party. You were beyond glad for his shiny black card, which you used with zero remorse. It could buy the good alcohol—the top-shelf stuff his agency normally rationed him on—along with an obscene mountain of incredible snacks that you knew you would half-demolish before the guests even knocked on the door. You had bags of high-end chips, imported chocolates, and savory finger foods piled high on his marble kitchen counters, casually stealing a handful of pretzels every time you walked by.

His apartment was massive, but it was also quite dark. He had a penchant for heavy, blackout curtains and moody industrial architecture, and you laughed a ton when you tried to string up some extra LED lights around the living room and hallways. You muttered to yourself while balancing on a stool, desperately trying to ensure people wouldn't step on each other's toes in the pitch-black tomb of his very boy-coded apartment.

It was a chaotic mix of state-of-the-art gaming rigs, massive speakers, random workout equipment in the corner, and a giant plush couch that screamed bachelor pad.

His bedroom, however, was strictly off-limits. Locked and closed for the public.

As you passed the heavy wood door on your way to the bathroom, you paused. You hadn't been inside his room in a long way, and your mind naturally began to wander, curiosity pricking at your chest. You started to wonder how it had changed from the last time you were there, back when it was just a messy pile of clothes and a mattress on the floor. Now, as even a more famous star than he was at the start, did he have silk sheets? A massive canopy bed?

More dangerously, you started to wonder what women had seen those sheets. Which faces had looked up at him in the dark?

At last, you forcefully pushed the burning thought aside, shaking your head to clear the sudden spike of jealousy. It didn't matter. You had a job to do, and besides, the guests were finally starting to arrive.

The heavy front door clicked open, and the quiet tomb of his apartment was instantly flooded with chatter and laughter as his oldest childhood friends spilled into the entryway. Jeongguk was already standing by the kitchen island, the grease long washed from his skin, replaced by a soft, oversized black sweater and a fresh scent. He’d clearly been anticipating the social buffering, because by the time the first three people crossed the threshold, Jeongguk had already thrown back two heavy shots of tequila.

His round eyes were already bright and crinkling with a loose, alcohol-fueled warmth.

Throwing his hands into the air, his silver lip piercing catching the glow of the newly strung lights, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Welcome, party people!"

The room erupted into cheers, his friends rushing forward to swarm him, throwing arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a chaotic huddle of loud greetings and deep belly laughs. From across the room, you leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him instantly dissolve back into the boy he used to be, completely shielded from the crushing weight of his global fame by the people who loved him first.

The party shifted into high gear with the easy, unpretentious noise of people who had nothing to prove to each other. In the hazy glow of the blue and purple lights, the living room felt less like a celebrity’s multi-million dollar fortress and more like a time capsule.

"I’m just saying," Jin-woo, one of Jeongguk’s oldest friends from his hometown, gestured wildly with a half-eaten chip, "If a zombie apocalypse happens right now, Koo is the first to die. He’s too polite. He’d try to bow to a zombie before kicking it."

"No way!" Jeongguk protested, his voice a little too loud, a little too slurred as he leaned heavily against the back of the plush couch. He poured himself another shot of tequila, his hand shaking just enough that a few drops splashed onto his knuckles. "I have muscle memory now. I’d do a 360-kick. Boom. Dead zombie."

"You'd cry if you got blood on your designer shoes," you chimed in from the kitchen island, swirling the ice cubes in your cup.

Jeongguk’s head snapped toward you instantly. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, a dark, glossy sheen over them as he tracked your movement. A soft, lazy smile spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the strobe of the lights. "Y/N... you’re supposed to be on my side. Always."

"I am on your side. I'm just realistic," you laughed, taking a slow sip.

You were barely on your second glass of vodka cranberry, the tart liquid still mostly full as you paced yourself. You had to. Someone needed to keep an eye on the house, and more importantly, someone needed to keep an eye on him.

Jeongguk, on the other hand, was throwing them back like water. The pressure of the upcoming tour, the suffocating nature of his daily life—it was all bleeding out of him in the form of liquid courage. He was drinking to forget the idol.

An hour later, the loud, stupid arguments dissolved into the inevitable late-night deep talk. Three of his friends were sprawled on the floor, debating the existence of aliens, while Jin-woo had moved onto the balcony for a smoke.

Jeongguk somehow navigated his way over to you, his shoulders bumping into yours as he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. He smelled like expensive cologne and sharp alcohol.

"You're barely drinking," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, raspy rumble that always made your stomach do backflips. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, his thumb casually brushing against your pulse point. His touch was warm, heavy, and intentionally lingering.

"Someone has to make sure you don't break your own furniture," you teased gently, though your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs. "How many shots is that now? Five? Six?"

"Doesn't matter," he whispered, stepping a fraction closer, completely ignoring the chatter of his friends just twenty feet away. He looked down at you, his large eyes shimmering under the dim kitchen lights. "Everything feels... too loud out there, Y/N. But when I look at you, it stops."

Your breath hitched.

"Jeongguk, you're drunk," you whispered back, trying to maintain the boundary, trying not to let your ten-year-old crush completely take over.

"I am," he admitted softly, his grip on your wrist tightening just a fraction as he leaned his forehead down, almost touching your shoulder. It was that physical surrender again—putting himself entirely in your space, begging you without words to hold him together. "But I'm only brave when the sun goes down. You know that. Stay 'til sunrise. Please."

"Fine," you sighed, trying to ignore the frantic pounding in your chest as you gently patted his broad, sweater-clad shoulder. "But you’re taking the couch tonight, Koo. I’m not carrying you anywhere."

A soft, breathy laugh left his throat, and before you could even brace yourself, Jeongguk leaned in. He pressed his lips firmly against your temple, a lingering, warm pressure that smelled faintly of tequila and mint. "Thank you," he murmured against your skin, a string of another quiet, drunken thank yous spilling out of his mouth as he finally pulled back.

You stood there, entirely frozen, your brain struggling to process how to function normally. Those sweet, tactile gestures of his had remained exactly the same over the last decade. It was just a temple kiss. It was the kind of thing he’d done a hundred times when you were younger, yet now, with his shoulders framing you and his deep voice vibrating in his chest, it rattled you down to your very core.

Before you could spiral any further into your own head, Hana—one of Jin-woo’s louder cousins who had tagged along—yelled from the living room floor, clapping her hands together to get everyone's attention.

"Hey! Enough with the alien talk," Hana shouted, swirling the ice in her cup. "We should play something actually fun. Like truth or dare... or better yet, truth or drink!"

The room instantly erupted into murmurs of agreement, but nobody moved faster than Jeongguk. His face lit up, his round eyes wide and sparkling under the blue LED's as he practically jumped at the opportunity to drink more.

"Truth or drink," Jeongguk cheered, his voice loose and excited as he pushed off the kitchen counter. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of top-shelf tequila by the neck, giving you a quick, triumphant look over his shoulder. "Yes. Let's do it. I'm choosing drink every single damn time, I don't care."

He stumbled slightly as he made his way to the center of the room, dropping heavily onto the plush rug right in the middle of the circle, looking up at everyone like a kid waiting for a game to start. He was already so completely undone, and as you walked over to join the circle with your barely touched vodka cranberry, a sudden, heavy wave of anticipation settled deep in your stomach.

You knew exactly how Jeongguk played games when he was like this. He was honest to a fault, but tonight, with the alcohol running warm through his veins he might start being too honest.

The bottle of tequila sat right in the center of the hardwood floor, spinning rapidly under the flashing lights until it slowed down, its neck pointing directly at Jin-woo.

"Alright, alright," Jin-woo grinned, leaning forward on his knees. He looked across the circle at Jeongguk, who was sitting cross-legged, a little loopy, swaying slightly to the music. "Koo. First round. Truth or drink. What is the absolute worst thing about being a global superstar? Give us the real dirt."

You expected Jeongguk to reach for his cup immediately. His agency spent millions of dollars training him to handle questions like this with perfectly polished, diplomatic answers. Instead, Jeongguk just let out a soft, hazy laugh, his eyes dropping to his hands.

"The loneliness," he said, the sheer honesty of his voice cutting right through the lighthearted party atmosphere. The circle went quiet. Jeongguk looked up, his round eyes wide and entirely undisguised by his usual idol armor. "You think you're surrounded by the world, but when the stage lights go off, you're just sitting alone in a sterile hotel room in a country where you don't speak the language, wondering if anyone actually misses you, or if they just miss the guy on the posters. It's suffocating."

A collective, sympathetic hum went around the room. Jin-woo blinked, clearly not expecting him to drop something so heavy in the first five minutes. You felt a familiar twist of pain in your chest, your eyes softening as you looked at him. Jeongguk didn't take a sip, he just gave a tiny, vulnerable shrug, completely comfortable laying his soul bare in front of the people who knew him before the fame.

Hana spun the bottle next. It whirled around before grinding to a halt, pointing straight back at Jeongguk.

"Oh, my turn," Hana perked up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Okay, Jeongguk. You said earlier today that you're 'girl-sober' right now. So tell the truth: when was the last time you actually kissed someone, and did it mean anything?"

You held your breath, your fingers tightening around your glass of vodka cranberry.

Jeongguk tilted his head back against the edge of the couch behind him, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. He didn't even reach for the tequila bottle. "Two years ago," he stated bluntly, his voice a low, raspy rumble. "A girl I met during a break between promotions. And no, it didn't mean anything. That was the problem. I tried to make it mean something because I hate casual stuff, but she just wanted to tell her friends she was dating an idol. It felt transactional. I hated it."

"Damn," Hana muttered, taking a drink of her own beer out of pure secondhand awkwardness. "You're really not holding back tonight, are you?"

"I told you," Jeongguk murmured, his dark, glossy eyes suddenly shifting across the circle until they locked directly onto yours. "I don't want to say fake things tonight. I'm tired of it."

Before the heavy silence following Jeongguk’s sudden drink can completely suffocate the room, Jin-woo quickly reaches out and gives the glass bottle another aggressive spin. It whirs sharply on the hardwood floor, a blur of green glass under the flashing blue lights, before slowing down and pointing its cap directly at you.

"Oh, finally! The spotlight shifts," Hana cheers, leaning forward on her elbows with a wicked, deeply intrigued grin. She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Okay, Y/N. Truth or drink. We all know you're fiercely independent in your daily life, but does that translate to the bedroom? Are you the type who likes to be completely in charge, calling all the shots, or do you prefer to submit?"

Your heart does a violent, erratic leap against your ribs. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Jeongguk freeze.

You slowly turn your head to look at him, and the sheer intensity of his gaze almost makes you gasp. His sweet, round eyes are completely dark, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises. He’s staring at your lips, his chest heaving under his oversized black sweater, practically vibrating with a sudden, suffocating hunger. He looks entirely undone by the question, his lips parting slightly as he waits for your answer with a desperate, breathless anticipation.

You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I think prefer being in charge," you reply, keeping it blunt and confident. "I like the feeling of control."

A low, collective “Ooooooh” ripples through the circle of friends, but you barely hear them. The absolute heat of Jeongguk’s unblinking stare is burning into your skin, making your throat go completely dry. Even though you answered the truth, you desperately need a distraction, so you lift your glass of vodka cranberry and take a heavy, long sip, letting the tart alcohol burn away the sudden spike of nerves.

"Knew it!" Hana laughs loudly, raising her cup to you in approval. "A total boss. Honestly, whoever ends up in your bed is a lucky bastard."

Hana grabs the bottle next, giving it a careless flick to keep the game moving. It spins and lands right back on her. Jin-woo immediately jumps in with a smirk. "Alright, Hana, truth or drink: Is it true you secretly cried when your ex got a matching tattoo with his new girlfriend?" Hana gasps, throwing a couch pillow directly at his face before grabbing her beer. "Shut up! I'm drinking, I am absolutely drinking for that one," she groans, chugging a massive gulp while everyone erupts into loud, teasing laughter.

The distraction gives you a brief moment to breathe, but when you glance back at Jeongguk, he hasn't moved an inch. He is still looking up at you from his spot on the floor, his silver lip piercing glinting.

The bottle gets spun again, whirring lazily until it grinds to a halt, pointing directly at another childhood friend, Jisung.

Jisung groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, man. Go easy on me. I've had a rough week."

Seojun leans forward, a thoughtful expression replacing his usual mischievous grin as the atmosphere shifts back into something a bit deeper. "Alright, Jisung. Real talk. Truth or drink: Since we're all getting older and life is pulling us in different directions, do you ever feel like you're getting left behind by the rest of us?"

Jisung sighs, a sad, honest smile touching his lips as he looks around the circle, his eyes briefly lingering on Jeongguk’s massive, luxurious apartment. "Yeah," Jisung admits softly, his voice quiet against the background music. "Sometimes it's hard. Like, I'm so incredibly proud of Koo, and I love seeing all of you succeed, but looking at my own nine-to-five... it makes me feel like I'm standing still while everyone else is running. It's a weird kind of pressure."

"Dude, no," Jeongguk speaks up instantly, his raspy voice full of genuine affection. He leans forward, completely breaking the circle's boundary to grab Jisung’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly with his hand. "Don't ever think that. None of this fame stuff matters if I don't have you guys to come home to. You're not left behind. You're exactly where you need to be."

Jisung smiles, visibly touched, and raises his glass to clink it against Jeongguk's tequila bottle. The warmth of their old friendship fills the room, but as Jeongguk pulls his hand back, his dark, heavy eyes slide right back to yours.

The rest of the party continued in a hazy blur of slurred words, loud, nostalgic belly laughs, and increasingly messy drinking. By the time the clock crawled past three in the morning, the high-energy atmosphere had completely dissolved. The final straw came when Jisung, looking pale and thoroughly defeated by the alcohol, stumbled toward the entryway and nearly threw up directly into a massive, expensive indoor plant pot.

Jin-woo caught him by the back of his jacket just in time. That was officially everyone's cue to leave.

There was a chaotic fifteen minutes of shuffling feet, mumbled thank-yous, and heavy slaps on shoulders as you helped herd his childhood friends out into the hallway. When the heavy front door finally clicked shut, the sudden, absolute silence of the multi-million dollar apartment felt deafening.

You turned back toward the living room, only to find Jeongguk dragging his feet across the hardwood floor. True to his word from earlier, he was clutching a plush, oversized pillow under one arm and trailing a heavy, dark duvet behind him, preparing to claim the sofa.

He was so incredibly drunk. His broad shoulders were slouched under his black sweater, his movements completely uncoordinated. As he tried to navigate around the low coffee table, his knee clipped the edge, causing him to stumble awkwardly. His hand shot out to steady himself, almost knocking an empty highball glass clean off the wood surface.

"Whoa, easy there," you murmured, quickly stepping into his space. You grabbed the glass before it could shatter, setting it safely aside, and then crouched down slightly to match his eye level as he heavily dropped his weight onto the edge of the cushions. "Koo... look at you. I think you should actually just take the bed tonight. I can sleep out here."

Jeongguk immediately gestured a clumsy, emphatic no with his hand, shaking his head so hard a few strands of dark hair fell into his face. The sudden movement clearly sent a wave of vertigo through him, because it was instantly followed by a pained, whispered, "Jesus..."as he tightly pressed his palm against his forehead, closing his eyes against the dim lights.

You cocked a brow at him, amused but secretly melting at how soft and defenseless he looked when the tough idol persona was stripped away entirely. "See? You can barely hold your head up. Go to your room, Jeongguk."

"No," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with sleep and alcohol. He slowly dropped his hand from his face, lifting his head to look up at you through his thick lashes. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, wide and shimmering with some sort of vulnerability. "Don't go yet. Let's... let's talk for a while. I missed you. I missed you so much, Y/N."

Your heart did a violent, erratic hammer against your chest at the sheer desperation in his tone. It was a direct plea, completely unguarded.

Despite the warning bells screaming in your head about your decade-long crush, you found yourself complying. You let out a soft breath and sat down right next to him on the couch, the plush cushions sinking under your weight as his heavy, warm presence instantly enveloped you in the quiet dark.

The moment you settled onto the cushion, his heavy head fell sideways, landing directly on your shoulder. You were instantly engulfed by his scent. It was a fragrance so deeply familiar to you, cutting right through the tequila-infused softness he had going on tonight.

Jeongguk always smelled incredibly clean. Over the years, you had grown to associate crispy, clean cotton smells with his smile. Whenever his brutal, tight schedules didn't allow him the time to text or call you for weeks on end, you had found a strange sort of reprieve in those scents—buying detergents or candles that smelled like fresh laundry just to feel like he wasn't entirely a world away.

He shifted against you, his cheek rubbing into the fabric of your shirt as the quiet apartment settled around you both. He noted the sudden, heavy silence in the room and tilted his head up just enough to look at your profile, his bottom lip pushing out into an almost childlike pout.

"Did not you miss me too?" he asked, his deep voice muffled against your neck, raw and terribly needy.

You couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. You turned your head slightly, your breath brushing over his hair. "Obviously, Koo. How could I not? You’re my best friend."

At the word friend, Jeongguk let out a low, vibration-heavy hum in his chest. It wasn't a happy sound. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he tightly gripped a fistful of the dark duvet resting on his lap.

"I'm so confused," he whispered, the admission sounding small and cracked.

You blinked, shifting slightly so you could look down at his face. "Why?" you asked softly, your heart doing a nervous, anticipatory flutter against your ribs. "What's making you confused?"

"Because it should feel different," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a register so low and raspy it sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. He didn't lift his head from your shoulder. He just pressed closer, his warm breath seeping through the fabric of your shirt.

You grew thoroughly confused, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. "What? What should feel different, Koo?"

He let out a ragged, heavy sigh, his chest expanding against your side. "Everything," he whispered. "I’ve been thinking for a while... that love, real romantic love, should feel at least as deep and all-consuming as the type of love I have for you."

The wind was completely knocked out of your lungs. For a terrifying second, you forgot how to breathe entirely. Your mind raced back over the last ten years, the late-night phone calls, the quiet domesticity of your friendship, and the heavy, burning crush you had tried so desperately to bury. You bit your lip hard, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping you grounded, in a desperate attempt to steady your trembling voice.

"Jeongguk," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the quiet apartment. "What... what do you mean by that?"

He finally pulled his head back from your shoulder, shifting on the plush cushions so he could face you fully. He looked entirely undone by the alcohol and the sheer weight of his own thoughts. He started explaining with his hands, his long fingers cutting through the dim light. His intricate tattoos shifted across his skin, and the silver rings on his fingers glinted sharply in the dark as he gestured in frustration.

"I can't do casual, Y/N," he said, his eyes wide, glossy, and swimming with a desperate, heavy sensitivity. "I can't. Because I know how true love should feel. I know it because of you. Every single time I’ve tried to date, every time I’ve tried to build something with someone else, I find myself associating what I feel for them in comparison with you."

A beat.

Two beats.

Three beats.

The silence in the room became so heavy it was suffocating.

"And every single time," Jeongguk whispered, his head tilting down as he looked up at you through his lashes, completely stripping away his defenses and surrendering his heart right into your hands, "I’ve found that they always come short. In comparison with you."

You tried to diffuse the situation right then and there. Your brain was working in overdrive, frantically constructing walls because the alternative—believing him—meant stepping into a territory that could ruin everything you had built over the last years.

He was drunk. He was clearly not thinking straight. He was currently trying to be girl-sober, and in your mind, he was just projecting his deeply ingrained, serial monogamist tendencies onto the closest, safest thing he had. You.

It wasn’t true. It couldn't be true.

"Jeongguk," you said, your voice tight as you forced a breath into your lungs, desperately trying to ignore how loud your own heart was knocking against your ribs. "I think you’re just projecting. You're exhausted, you've been lonely on tour, and you're just confusing comfort for something else."

He muttered a low, ragged "Jesus..."again, his hand rising to tightly press against his forehead. He didn't even seem to fully process what you said, completely deaf to the frantic rhythm of your chest as the alcohol and the emotional weight of his own confession finally dragged him under.

The raw intensity in his eyes flickered out, replaced by heavy exhaustion. Without another word, he let his upper body slide sideways, his head plopping heavily onto the plush pillow he’d thrown on the edge of the couch.

He curled his body slightly into the cushions, his dark lashes fluttering shut as a deep, uneven breath left his parted lips, leaving you sitting there in the dim blue LED light, completely frozen next to him.

That’s when you realize his bedroom door was probably still locked, a solid block of wood protecting a room you weren't allowed to enter.

You had absolutely no option but to sleep on the couch next to him. Letting out a quiet, defeated breath, you grabbed the edge of the heavy, dark duvet he’d brought out, pulling it over both of your bodies to shield against the air conditioning. You shifted your weight, settling into the cushions as best you could, and tried to sleep.

It was impossible. Seven thousand thoughts were swirling in your mind, a chaotic storm of memory and denial.

But Jeongguk was drunk.

He was completely out of it, his deep, even breaths rising and falling against your side. He wouldn't remember this in the morning, you told yourself. Tomorrow, the sun would come up, the platonic armor would go back on, and he would just be your best friend again. You closed your eyes, letting the clean cotton scent of him anchor you as you finally drifted into a restless sleep, completely unaware of how thin the line between you had truly become.

chapter 19

phototaxis

Synopsis; one lives in a world under the weight of shadows the other lives in a world that screams.

"The sky is blue like Sacrifice by Elton John"

warnings; swearing, heavy themes pairing; jeongguk × female reader genre; angst, slowburn, smut, fwb word count; 8.4k

a/n: hello !! i’m back. you might think...yo this is a shorter chapter than usual. well yes it is. it’s designed that way so you can grovel with the ending and wait for some heavy shit to unfold. hehe.

i also wanted to mention, if you find yourself waiting for updates (i hope you do) i started another ff with a very pissy, very dramatic Taehyung as my male lead. so you can check that out too because i tend to update them alternatively.

—

Phototaxis is defined as the movement of organisms in response to light stimuli.

You haven't heard from him or seen him for a couple of days.

No texts flashed on your screen, and there were no strange, sudden appearences in the corridors to catch you off guard. 

Granted, you hadn't gone down to check his studio, but doing that would feel too intimate anyway—stepping into a space that belonged entirely to his world with no reason for being there.

You didn't care. At least you kept telling yourself that. You shouldn't care. 

The silence should have been a relief, a welcome return to a normal frequency after what transpired in the backseat of his car. 

But the quiet left behind by his sudden disappearence felt less like peace and more like the heavy, pressurized stillness right before a storm drops.

Like you’re expecting something to happen but it doesn’t.

You filled the empty days with a tight schedule trying to drown whatever you’re thinking with sheer momentum.

There were classes to attend, your mind forcing itself to focus on lectures while your notes bled into messy margins. You spent hours working alongside Professor Zhang, your fingers handling a fragile, ancient artifact with a meticulous care that kept your thoughts from drifting. 

You drowned yourself in caffeine during long coffee afternoons with Sora and Jimin, letting their easy laughter and casual banter wash over you like background noise. It was a safe shield against the suffocating frequencies you had been flirting with.

Then were the kids. You threw yourself into teaching them new stuff—russian and french poetry. Watching their young, little faces try to track the rhythm of new foreign words. 

But your own head wasn’t entirely straight, you got way too deep into Sartre again during one session, spinning off into a complete existential tangent about freedom and the burden of existence. Their little minds wouldn't ever be able to comprehend. They just stared at you, blinking, while you slowly reeled yourself back in, realizing you were projecting your own trapped reality onto a classroom of 8 years olds who probably still ate their boogers.

And of course, through it all, there was the ever present pining after your ex.

Even now, after everything, he was a ghost you couldn't shake. Minho still occupied the quiet, dusty corners of your mind, a familiar ache you returned to when the present felt too volatile to handle.

You found yourself thinking about the betrayal constantly—not having Jeongguk as a distraction, it was very easy to fall into a countdown that was ticking away in your chest.

You were absolutely dreading tomorrow. 

The gala was happening, and you knew, with terrifying certainty that you would have to see him there, standing in the same room, forcing you to face the wreckage of what you used to be.

He will probably attend with Irina. The thought shoot another variable into your brain to juggle. Fucking Irina. 

The gala was being held at an art gallery downtown—a converted industrial warehouse from the early twenties. Just knowing the venue made your chest tighten, but the invitation's theme only added to the weight of it: Black Tie.

Strict, formal, and entirely unforgiving.

You let out a heavy sigh as you finally sank into an empty chair at the campus table, your entire body slumping under the weight of the upcoming event.

Across from you, Sora picked up on the vibe immediately. "What's wrong?" she asked as she lazily nudged a small pile of sour gummies in your direction, offering them up like a sugary peace offering.

"I'm just stressed about the gala," you admitted, rubbing your temples.

"Why?" Jimin piped up, not even looking up as his hand snuck across the wood, ruthlessly stealing a green gummy right from under your nose.

You frowned at him, entirely unamused by the theft. "Because it's a massive event, it's strict black tie, and my ex is going to be there. I’m literally dreading walking into that room. My mind is just... a complete mess right now." Trying to shift the spotlight off your own looming disaster, you leaned back and eyed them both. "Anyway, what are you guys even wearing?"

"We're matching," they chimed in perfect, synchronized harmony.

You blinked, looking between the two of them. "You’re what?"

Sora leaned forward, completely deadpan as she began to lay out the logistics. "By wearing matching suits, we can efficiently cover the entire plethora of attractive people there. Think about it. We spot a cute girl. If she likes men, Jimin goes in. If she likes women, I go in. It’s a flawless plan, really."

You stared at her, then turned your gaze to Jimin. "So what, you're just wingmaning for each other now?"

"Precisely," Jimin grinned, popping the stolen gummy into his mouth.

"Don't you see he grew out his hair for the aesthetic?" Sora added, gesturing proudly toward him.

You paused, your eyes tracking over to Jimin's head. You hadn't really processed it until this exact second, but she was right. You stared at his long locks of hair—which he had recently dyed a vibrant, bright blonde—realizing they were now perfectly matching Sora's own blonde dyed hair. They literally looked like a pair of high-fashion, predatory twins ready to hunt down the downtown art crowd.

"That does not solve my problem," you muttered, resting your chin in your hand. "If anything, I’m just met with new expectations now that the twins of sex and kinkery are gonna be on my arm."

Jimin let out a loud, breathless laugh, buckling forward so violently he nearly fell completely out of his campus chair. "Twins of what? Sex and kinkery?"

You didn't even crack a smile, completely deadpan as you pointed a finger across the table. "I know Sora."

Sora didn't even try to deny it. She just leaned back, picked up another sour gummy, and gave a slow, proud nod of agreement. "She's not wrong."

You sat there, staring blankly at the table as your mind kept racing, frantically racking your brain for what you could possibly wear tomorrow night.

It wasn’t like you didn’t have clothes filling your closet. You had options. It was more so the suffocating fact that nearly all of them had been picked out by Minho.

Why? Because you used to wear them exclusively at his events. Back then, every single outfit had to be up to par, perfectly curated to his exact liking. You had to fit into a neat, pristine little box labeled perfect girlfriend. You couldn't outshine him—god forbid the spotlight shifted away from him for even a second—but you also couldn't look too far under his standard. Every hemline, every fabric, every color had been chosen to serve as an extension of his status.

And the thought of putting on one of those dresses tomorrow, of stepping into that warehouse gallery draped in his expectations, made your stomach twist into a tight, sick knot.

So you were stuck. Awfully, terribly stuck.

You stared into space, the weight of the upcoming gala pressing down on your chest until Jimin chimed in with an incredibly stupid idea.

"Why don’t you just ask Tae to help you out?" Jimin suggested casually, swirling the ice in his cup. "He’s a fashion major and all. The guy lives for this kind of stuff."

Tae. Taehyung.

The name hit you like a sudden, icy splash of water. The very same Taehyung you had just lied to straight to his face about why you were hanging out with his friend.

Your stomach did a violent flip as you realized, in agonizing real time, that you were praying to heaven Jeongguk had coordinated well with your lie.

Fuck.

And then the second realization hit you, even heavier than the first. Seeking out Taehyung meant stepping right back into the danger zone. Close proximity to Taehyung meant close proximity to an extension of Jeongguk. If you asked for his help, what if he started asking more questions about the two of you? What if he started digging into why you and Jeongguk were suddenly in the same orbit?

Worse yet—what if you couldn’t keep your own mouth shut? What if, in a moment of weakness, you let your guard down and ended up asking Taehyung about him? About why he vanished, or what was happening behind the closed doors of that studio?

"Uhhh..." you stammered, the words catching uncomfortably in your throat as Sora and Jimin both stared at you, waiting for an answer. "I... I don’t know. I don’t know what to say to that."

Both Sora and Jimin remained entirely oblivious to the internal crisis currently short-circuiting your brain. To them, it was just a simple fashion emergency, a minor roadblock easily cleared by calling in an expert.

"Oh, come on, it’s a brilliant idea," Jimin insisted, already pulling his phone from his pocket with terrifying speed. "He’s probably just hanging out in the design building anyway." Before you could even open your mouth to scream no, his thumb tapped the screen, and he was lifting the phone to his ear.

You sat there in a metaphorical puddle of your own sweat, the sheer, paralyzing anxiety turning your limbs heavy. Your chest tightened with every ring of Jimin's phone. You just knew—with the absolute, sickening certainty of someone watching a train wreck in slow motion—that Taehyung was going to answer, and he might come over any second. If he was nearby, he wouldn't miss a chance to critique a wardrobe crisis.

"Hey, Tae," Jimin spoke into the receiver, his voice painfully casual. "Yeah, we’re at the usual campus tables. Are you free? We have an absolute fashion emergency... Yeah, bring your eyes. See you in a bit."

Jimin hung up, flashing you a proud, triumphant grin. "He's on his way."

The next few minutes felt like an eternity. Every footsteps on the concrete path made your heart violently slam against your ribs. You kept your eyes glued to the walkway, desperately trying to mentally prepare a script in case Taehyung brought up Jeongguk, or worse, in case Jeongguk was walking right behind him.

And then, he appeared.

Taehyung rounded the corner of the brick building, cutting through the midday sun like he was walking a Parisian runway instead of a university campus. He looked effortlessly put together, a notebook tucked under his arm and a sharp, discerning glint in his eyes that immediately made you feel like all your secrets were written in bold text across your forehead.

You couldn't even raise your eyes. You kept your gaze glued strictly to the wooden grain of the table, terrified that the moment you made eye contact, you were going to blurt out something completely incriminating.

Why were you even this anxious?

"Hello, everyone," Taehyung said, his voice a very sweet, melodic greeting—as always. He was just so soft and calm every single time you saw him. He was essentially a ball of distilled kindness poured into the frame of a tall man who could easily rival actual runway models. There was zero malice in him, yet here you were, vibrating with unspoken guilt.

Even without looking up, you were absolutely sure his outfit would've been so flawlessly color-coordinated that it would've made you weep if you actually took in the subtle nuances of his styling.

God, you were a little pathetic.

Forcing your hands to stop shaking, you finally decided to respond to his hello, offering a small, slightly strained greeting of your own as you peeked up through your lashes.

Jimin, somehow completely missing the thick tension rolling off you, took this as his golden opportunity to pipe up and explain exactly why he had called in backup. "Okay, Tae, thank god you're here," Jimin started, leaning across the table with dramatic urgency. "We have a crisis. A literal fashion emergency of epic proportions, and you’re the only one who can save us."

Sora piped in right on cue to correct him. "Woah, hold on. We are not having a fashion emergency. Our plan is airtight, thank you very much." She gestured between herself and Jimin with a smirk before pointing a finger directly at you. "You are. Big time."

Under the sudden weight of Taehyung’s calm, focused attention, you felt like a baby deer pancaking on the asphalt at the mere sound of rustling leaves. Just completely paralyzed, vulnerable, and utterly exposed.

You knew you had to say something. Anything. If you stayed quiet for a second longer, the silence itself would betray the chaotic mess screaming inside your head. It wasn't going to be profound, but it had to be something.

You frantically rehearsed the tiny phrase in your mind a dozen times before letting it leave your lips, desperately trying to infuse it with enough of a casual tone so you didn't seem like you were currently shitting bricks for whatever inexplicable reason your anxiety had chosen to torture you with today.

"Yes, please," you murmured, offering a small, weak smile.

It was just two syllables, but you prayed to God they sounded normal enough to keep the wolves of suspicion away from your door.

Taehyung just beamed. Literally beamed. He looked like he was practically itching out of his skin with pure excitement, a massive, boxy grin taking over his face that completely melted away the intimidating aura of his model-like stature.

"I'm trying so hard to keep my composure right now," he admitted, his voice a low, joyful rumble as he bounced slightly on his heels. "But I am literally way too excited to style you. You have no idea how long I've wanted to get you into my designs."

Under the warmth of his genuine enthusiasm, the thick, suffocating tension in your chest finally began to crack. It was impossible to stay completely frozen around him. You slowly fell into an easy, comfortable conversation, the sharp edges of your anxiety smoothing out as he began to spitball ideas, his eyes lighting up with creative fervor.

"Come back to my studio with me," Taehyung invited, gesturing back toward the design building. "I have a few pieces from my latest collection there that would look insane on you. We can try them on and see what fits the vibe."

"Yes, okay," you said, agreeing reluctantly.

Your heart did a nervous little stutter at the word studio. As you walked beside him across the campus courtyard, you were still incredibly antsy, your eyes darting around in anticipation of a possible Jeongguk threat.

You braced yourself for the inevitable—for a heavy shadow to fall over you, for a pair of dark, intense eyes to catch you from across a hallway, or for him to step out from behind a door and ruin the fragile peace you were trying to maintain.

But in reality, the threat never came.

He never emerged. There was no sudden confrontation, no tense exchange of glances, no heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor and no cigarette scent looming. The silence Jeongguk had left behind over the last few days remained perfectly, stubbornly intact.

Before you knew it, the immediate danger had passed, and you were now safely sitting on a sleek chair inside Taehyung's bright, fabric-filled workspace, deeply immersed in discussing wardrobe options with him.

Taehyung leaned against a drafting table littered with sketches, looking at you with a gaze that was profoundly intense, but entirely devoid of pressure. He was incredibly, deeply introspective with his choices, studying the slope of your shoulders and the way you carried yourself not as a canvas to manipulate, but as a story to understand.

He began to talk to you about colors, but it was nothing like the way Jeongguk did.

Where Jeongguk’s understanding of color and tone felt visceral, all-consuming, and dripping with raw, unspoken subtext, Taehyung was profoundly warm in his explanations. He spoke of shades and textures with an open, inviting gentleness that made you feel safe rather than exposed.

"I don't want to just put you in black because it's a black-tie event," Taehyung murmured, his fingers lightly trailing over a bolt of deep, midnight-toned silk. "Black can be a shield, but it can also be a cage. I want something that holds you, but lets you breathe. A color that honors where you are, not just where you're standing."

Listening to him, the contrast between the two friends became glaringly clear in your mind. If you were to describe them, Jeongguk was a very heavy rain—like a dense, blinding curtain of water crashing down over blistering hot pavement, loud and overwhelming and impossible to ignore. Taehyung, on the other hand, was a very sunny day. The kind of day that leaves you wanting to explore the world, opening your chest to the warmth, maybe even making you want to be a bit kinder to yourself and others.

Yet, looking around the studio you could tell how their pieces fit together. They were two extremes of the same sky. The sun always comes up after the rain, bringing clarity to the wreckage, and the rain always cools the asphalt from the heavy, burning sun. They balanced a cycle you had unwittingly been pulled into.

"You have full creative freedom," you admitted, offering him a small, deflated smile as you leaned back in the chair. "Honestly, I really don't know anything about this stuff. I’m completely out of my depth."

Taehyung let out a soft, melodic chuckle, the sound instantly easing the tight corners of the room. "It’s okay," he said gently, tossing a measuring tape loosely around his neck. "That’s exactly why I’m here. You're in safe hands." He paused, adjusting a roll of fabric on the table before looking back up at you, his eyes curious but kind. "Have you ever been to a black-tie event before?"

The question hit a nerve, and you suddenly felt a familiar, heavy lump forming in your throat. You swallowed hard, your voice dropping to barely above a whisper when you finally answered.

"I've only ever been to Minho's events," you murmured, staring down at your lap. "And... conferences for medicine. That’s it."

The mention of your ex-boyfriend’s name caused a brief, quiet shift in the air. Taehyung didn't react with shock or awkwardness; instead, his movements slowed down. He reached for a small pin cushion on his drafting table, his long fingers absentmindedly fondling the soft fabric and the metal tips of the pins stuck inside it.

"I'm very sorry," he said softly, his voice dropping to a comforting, low register. "And... I've heard about what happened."

You felt a sudden chill, but you didn't press him. You didn't question how he knew, or who had told him. You didn't ask if it was Jimin, or Sora, or if a very different, much darker presence in his life had been the one to let the truth slip. You just let the words hang in the space between you, grateful for the sun-like warmth of his empathy, even as the shadow of your past loomed over tomorrow night.

He made you try on a lot of dresses. A lot.

They were all long, keeping to the strict formal silhouette of the gala, but they varied wildly in everything else. You were whipped through different hues, materials that shifted from heavy satin to airy tulle, dresses with blinding sparkles, dresses with none at all, sweetheart necklines, sharp square necklines... It was an endless, exhausting parade of fabric.

You could feel yourself starting to sweat from the physical exertion of changing in and out of so many layers. Meanwhile, Taehyung was sitting comfortably on a chair, completely Miranda Priestly-ing the whole affair.

A tiny pout of his lips? That meant a hard no.

A soft  tch sound? Still a no, but a slightly softer rejection.

You had yet to see a single smile break across his face since the try-on session began. His usual easygoing sweetness had been entirely replaced by the ruthless, uncompromising eye of a designer on a mission.

"I am definitely not built for this," you complained loudly from behind the changing screen, your voice muffled by the fabric as you struggled out of another heavy gown.

"You just haven't found the right dress yet," his calm voice floated back to you, entirely unbothered.

"At this rate, I might just not go at all," you muttered, leaning your head against the wooden frame of the screen in pure exhaustion.

Outside, you heard the sudden, sharp rustle of his clothes as he straightened up. Taehyung sounded genuinely appalled. "You have to go. Skipping is absolutely out of the question."

You didn’t question why he was so incredibly insistent on your attendance. You just sighed, reaching for the next hanger.

Taehyung suddenly got a surge of power somehow. He stood up from his chair, marching forcefully over to the changing screen. Ripping the curtain aside just enough to reach you, he shoved a heavy garment bag on a hanger directly into your hands, ruthlessly snatching away the generic gown you had been holding.

You looked down, unzipping the bag to look at the garment inside. Because of the dim studio lighting and the way the fabric folded, you couldn't quite see the shade of grey yet, but the sheer architectural genius of it was blinding.

Your mouth fell agape, a breathless gasp escaping your lips.

The dress featured an elegant, structured off-the-shoulder neckline adorned with a dense, shimmering line of intricate beadwork that dipped gracefully across the chest. The bodice was meticulously tailored, hugging the waist firmly before transitioning into a spectacular, geometric cascade of sharp, crisp pleating that fanned out dynamically around the hips and swept down into a dramatic, sweeping floor-length skirt.

"Wow," you whispered, your fingers carefully tracing the edge of the fabric. "You designed this?"

"Yes," Taehyung said, a sudden, quiet pride washing over his face. The rigid Miranda Priestly mask completely melted away.

"It's breathtaking."

"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes softening as he looked at the garment in your hands. "It’s very dear to me. It’s actually going to be the centerpiece at my end-of-the-semester show."

Your eyes snapped up to him, panic instantly flaring in your chest. "Oh? No, Tae, I couldn't. Absolutely not. What if something happens to it? I can't wear your final project to a chaotic gallery downtown."

"Don’t worry, Y/N," he interrupted gently, raising a hand to cut off your spiraling thoughts.

"I’ll give it back right after," you argued, desperate to convince him otherwise, though your hands were already gripping the hanger tightly. "After I dry clean it, of course. I won't put a single mark on it."

Taehyung chuckled, the deep, warm sound echoing in the small studio space as he stepped back and pulled the curtain shut again. "C'mon, just try it on."

You turned around inside the small, enclosed space, the rich fabric of the gown pooling around your feet. You managed to slip into the structured bodice, but as you reached behind your back, your fingers fumbled blindly against the metal tracks. The zipper was stuck near the small of your back, and you couldn't close it yourself.

Swallowing your pride, you peeked through the slit of the curtain. "Tae? I... I can't reach the zipper."

"Hold on, let me help," he replied softly.

He stepped into the narrow space behind the changing screen. You kept your back turned to him, holding your breath as you felt his presence settle right behind you. Taehyung moved with incredibly gentle hands, his touch light and strictly professional as he pulled the fabric together. He was meticulous, careful not to touch any more of your bare skin than was absolutely necessary to slide the zipper smoothly up to the top of the dress.

You let out a small breath, ready to turn around and finally catch his reaction.

But before you could move, the next words out of his mouth completely shattered the fleeting excitement of the pretty dress.

"What shampoo do you use?" Taehyung asked.

The question was quiet, casual, yet it made your entire body freeze instantly. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach, a cold wave of dread washing over you as you stood perfectly still beneath his gaze.

You fumbled over your words honestly, your mind instantly entering a tailspin. Had he been talking with Jeongguk, or was this a completely separate event? If so, you were going to seriously change your shampoo for good. You couldn't handle your entire identity being picked apart by everyone you encounter.

"Ga—Gardenia," you stammered, the word tripping over your tongue.

Taehyung hummed softly, a ghost of a smile finally tugging at the corners of his lips as he stepped back to give you some space. "Figured," he murmured, his eyes scanning the way the dress hugged your frame. "Smells really nice on you."

The genuine, easy warmth in his voice didn't completely erase the panic, but it softened the blow. You took a quiet breath, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Taehyung clapped his hands together once, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet studio. It was a gesture of absolute contentment. The ruthless, hyper-critical Miranda Priestly persona he’d been channeling for the last hour completely vanished, replaced by the awe of a creator seeing his vision come to life. He stepped back, a wide, proud smile breaking across his face as he finally showered you with the compliment you had been waiting for.

"It’s perfect," he breathed, his eyes tracing the clean, dramatic lines of the silhouette. "Honestly, Y/N, I knew the construction was good, but seeing it on you... it completely changes the energy of the piece. You look stunning."

You felt a sudden, hot flush of a blush creep up your neck and heat your cheeks at his unreserved praise. Turning slowly on your heel, you stepped out from behind the changing screen to look at yourself in the full-length mirror leaning against the brick wall.

Your breath caught. It really was a beautiful dress.

The intricate, dark beadwork along the off-the-shoulder neckline caught the overhead lights, casting subtle, glittering shadows across your collarbones. For the first time in months, you didn't look like a girl trying to shrink herself into a neat little box to fit someone else's expectations. You looked striking.

You looked entirely your own.

The reflection staring back at you gave you a sudden, unexpected surge of confidence. Granted, it wasn’t anything you would ever choose for yourself under normal circumstances; it was undeniably too flashy, too bold for the version of you that had spent years trying to blend into the background of Minho's academic conferences.

But wearing it right now felt so right. A strange, quiet warmth bloomed in your chest—a realization that you should be wearing a pretty dress, that you actually deserved to take up space and look beautiful, entirely on your own terms.

You smoothed your hands down the structured fabric of the hips, looking at the deep, mysterious shade through the shifting light of the room.

"Tae," you murmured, keeping your eyes on your reflection. "What color is it?"

"Deep fuchsia," Taehyung replied, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes as he admired his own handiwork. "Almost violet. Honestly, it’s like a wine so potent you'd have to chuck your phone into a bush before drinking it just so you don’t make any desperate mistakes."

You chuckled, the tension completely leaving your shoulders for a brief moment.

Fuchsia. You had never known the color. Frankly, you still didn’t know how to imagine it in your mind. It wasn't like you actually could, but a small, treacherous part of your brain whispered that if Jeongguk were here, he would find a way to correlate it somehow. He would tether the abstract shade to something visceral, something raw, and make you understand it.

But he wasn’t here. You were stuck with Taehyung’s poetic, lighthearted explanation that didn’t quite touch the deeper margins of your psyche, and you forced yourself to accept that it was okay. Maybe you had just become greedy lately—greedy for fully understanding things, and feelings, you were never supposed to know in the first place.

Stepping out of the gown and back into your regular clothes, you thanked Taehyung profusely for his time, his eye, and the breathtaking dress. You bid your goodbyes, carefully taking the garment bag from him like it was made of glass.

Finally, you were going home. Fashion emergency averted.

You went through your afternoon-to-night routine like you always did. This time, however, you found yourself paying far more attention to the details.

You showered longer, letting the steam fully clear your head, and spent extra time doing your skincare routine. You couldn't afford a stray zit popping up and ruining the pristine canvas Taehyung had so meticulously planned for. Every swipe of toner and layer of moisturizer felt like a tactical preparation for the battlefield of tomorrow night.

Afterward, you quietly ate leftovers from yesterday straight out of the container, too exhausted to care about plating it. You flipped on the TV, letting a stupid, mindless show play in the background as the glow of the screen washed over the dark room, slowly drifting off to sleep with the heavy weight of the upcoming gala lingering in the back of your mind.

You slept longer than you should've.

It wasn’t bad, though. You welcomed the extra hours, your body and mind desperately needing the deep, uninterrupted reset after days of running on pure anxiety.

When the clock struck 6:00 PM, the peaceful silence of your apartment was shattered as Sora and Jimin barged right through your front door looking like absolute pimps. Their suits were utterly impeccable, tailored to perfection, and the jewelry that adorned their ears and hands caught the light with a very shiny, expensive gleam. Standing side by side, they looked less like a normal duo and more like a pair of high-fashion twins actively looking for trouble.

"Why aren't you dressed?" Sora demanded immediately, her eyes scanning you from head to toe.

She took in the sight of your hair—which was already done—contrasted wildly against your bare, makeup-free face and the cozy pajamas you were still wearing.

"Help me?" you pleaded, looking at Sora with a helpless, wide-eyed stare.

A massive, dazzling smile broke across her face, and she came running straight to your side. She threw her arms around you in a tight, enthusiastic hug, practically vibrating with excitement. "Yes! Oh my god, finally, let me at you!"

You looked over her shoulder at Jimin, who was casually leaning against the doorframe, looking like a million bucks. "You can help yourself to a glass of wine if your heart desires," you told him, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. "Make yourself at home."

Jimin held up his hands with a tragic, dramatic sigh. "As much as my heart bleeds for it, I’m the designated driver tonight. No alcohol for me. Someone has to keep you two out of trouble."

You gave him an appreciative nod and let Sora pull you by the wrist toward your bedroom vanity.

As soon as you sat down, she went to work like a seasoned professional, unpacking an array of brushes and products with practiced ease. You watched her reflection as she blended, highlighted, and contoured. She did your makeup so effortlessly, transforming your face with quick, confident strokes, that you couldn't help but feel a sudden wave of jealousy that you didn't possess those same skills yourself.

The makeup was finally finished. You were a total vision, as Sora emphatically declared, practically vibrating with pride as she stepped back to admire her work.

She began showering you in a relentless barrage of compliments—words so glowing and effusive you had absolutely no idea how to take them. To escape the overwhelming praise, you grabbed Taehyung’s gown from its garment bag and stepped away to begin dressing.

The fabric slipped over your skin like water, heavy and luxurious, hugging your curves in all the right places. But when you finally reached the small of your back and realized you needed help with the zipper, you poked your head out and called for backup.

Sora stepped in, took one look at you, and let out an absolute scream.

"Oh my god, look at you!!"

The shrill, piercing scream traveled instantly through the thin walls of the apartment, striking right into Jimin’s ears in the living room. Thinking someone was actively being murdered or that a catastrophic fashion emergency had occurred, he came running down the hallway at full speed, throwing the door open.

Instead of disaster, he was greeted with the sight of Sora looking like a proud, weeping mother hen, and you, standing in the center of the room, blushing so intensely that your cheeks nearly blended perfectly with the deep, potent color of the dress.

Jimin stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the full sight of you. The frantic, alarmed expression on his face completely melted away, replaced by a genuine, breathtaking soft smile. "Well, look at you..." he murmured, his voice laced with awe. "You’re beautiful, Y/N."

Sora chimed in from behind your back, her fingers moving deftly as she finally zipped up the heavy fabric, ensuring the structured bodice held you perfectly. "You look incredible," she cheered, smoothing down the sharp, geometric pleats over your hips with a dramatic flourish. "Like an absolute movie star."

"I have to agree," Jimin said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze fond and fiercely supportive. "Taehyung really outdid himself, but you’re the one making the dress work."

Sora immediately trotted over to Jimin's side, crossing her arms and tilting her head in unison with him to admire you from afar. Standing there side-by-side in their impeccable suits, they looked exactly like a pair of overly proud, beaming parents watching their kid head off to prom.

The intense, concentrated focus of their attention was too much to handle. You felt the heat flare up your neck again, and out of sheer embarrassment, you covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled groan.

"Guys, seriously, you’re making a way too big deal out of this," you said, your voice vibrating against your palms. "It's just a dress. I'm still just me."

Jimin let out a soft, gentle laugh, stepping forward to gently coax your hands away from your face. "It's not just the dress, Y/N," he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden sincerity. "You’re glowing. In a way I haven't seen in a very long time."

You felt a sudden, sharp prickle of tears behind your eyes for whatever reason, the sheer weight of their kindness pressing against a bruised part of your chest. But you forced a breath into your lungs and let it pass, you couldn't ruin Sora’s masterful makeup before you even stepped foot out the door.

The drive to the gala was anything but quiet. Sora spent the entire ride aggressively laying out a highly strategic game plan to Jimin, leaning over the console and gesturing wildly. She made it explicitly clear that if they spotted any girl from the engineering department tonight, she had definite, non-negotiable dibs, leaving Jimin to play the ultimate wingman whether he liked it or not.

When the car finally pulled up to the venue and you stepped out, you felt the wind get completely knocked out of your lungs. The building was a beautiful, breathtaking mix of old and new—historic architecture illuminated by sharp, modern lighting. All around you, students were parading in elaborate gowns and sharp suits, transforming the courtyard into a living, breathing fashion exhibition.

As you walked inside, the atmosphere shifted into something electric. Champagne glasses were swirling in the hands of the crowd, the crystal catching the ambient light, while a beautiful, complex mix of music vibrated through the high ceilings. It was a flawless blend of rhythm and atmosphere— heavy, and meticulously curated.

That was Jeongguk's doing. That much you could tell without even needing to ask.

You hadn’t spent a massive amount of time listening to his actual finished tracks, but you had spent time with him. You had sat in the quiet of his studio, watching him obsess over audio waves until his eyes went bloodshot.

Because of that, you knew how he operated, for better or for worse. You knew this specific mix would have some deep, heavy bass hidden beneath layers of brighter melodies, because Jeongguk always needed something grounding to anchor a track down.

But then, the air in the room shifted. When a specific, hollow note resonated through the speakers, a chill ran down your spine. You realized he had woven into the track the exact same frequencies he had once mentioned and played to you in a whisper—the ones he said sounded precisely like the empty house he used to sit in on a weekend afternoon when he was ten years old.

It was painfully, devastatingly Jeongguk.

Standing there in Taehyung's masterpiece of a dress, you suddenly felt like a deer in headlights just for noticing those details. A wave of guilt washed over you, heavy and suffocating.

It felt like it wasn’t your place to understand his craft on such an intimate level, like you were trespassing on a sacred, private part of his mind you had no right to occupy.

Desperate for a distraction, you snatched a champagne glass from a passing waiter's tray and gulped the entire thing down in one continuous, burning swallow.

"Well, someone's eager," Sora said, her eyebrows shooting up as she watched the empty glass leave your lips.

"This is good champagne," you said, forcing a tight, breathless smile as the bubbles burned a sharp trail down your throat, desperately trying to swallow down the lingering ghost of Jeongguk’s childhood frequencies.

Jimin let out a loud, dramatic whine from beside you, staring at your empty glass with profound betrayal. "Sora should've driven here," he grumbled, shaking his head. He reached out, gesturing impatiently at your hand to bring the glass closer to him. "Let me at least smell it."

You let out a flat laugh, raising an eyebrow at him. "You’re weird."

"Silence, drinker," Jimin whined again, narrowing his eyes at you in mock offense as he grabbed your wrist to pull the rim of the glass to his nose. "The designated driver can at least indulge in a smell. Let me live vicariously through your terrible coping mechanisms."

You fell into a comfortable, normal chatter with them, the dark and heavy undercurrent of the music washing over you like a second skin.

You actually found yourself talking with several different people. Albeit you weren't much of a talker yourself, the atmosphere was contagious enough to draw you out of your shell. You met students from your own department, and a whole slew of students from Sora's and Jimin’s.

It didn't take long to realize you could easily tell who belonged to which major just by the way they carried themselves. Jimin’s colleagues all shared the same swift, fluid motions that he did. You couldn't help but think that contemporary dance just does that to a person over time—shaping their posture until every casual step looks intentional. Or maybe that was simply the inherent nature that drew them to the major in the first place. Nevertheless, they were incredibly graceful in everything they did, navigating the crowded room like water.

Much like Jimin himself, who was currently grinning like a cat as he animatedly charmed a group of underclassmen.

You walked through the entire gala hall, taking in every single corner. The student organization had really pulled something incredible off.

The details were excruciating. Every single aspect of the venue felt like a calculated artistic choice rather than a standard party setup.

The display boards showcasing student work were arranged in an intricate, labyrinthine pattern that forced people to slow down and truly look, rather than just walk past. Even the floral arrangements on the high-top tables were unconventional—dark, structural branches interwoven with deep hued roses that looked stark and beautiful against the industrial concrete walls. It was clear that countless sleepless nights had been poured into making this night feel completely otherworldly.

For a while, the three of you stayed close together, acting as each other's anchors in the sea of well-dressed strangers. That was until Sora and Jimin suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Their eyes locked onto a breathtakingly beautiful woman who was currently gliding toward the exit doors, heading outside—probably for a smoke.

"Dibs!" they blurted out at the exact same time.

They froze, snapping their heads toward each other with narrowed, fiercely competitive eyes.

"Oh, come on!" Sora whined, stomping her heel lightly against the floor. "You know I have a massive weakness for curly hair. It's not fair."

Jimin shot back immediately, a triumphant, knowing smirk crossing his face as he adjusted the cuffs of his impeccable suit jacket. "Nice try, but I actually know her. She’s in cyber security. You literally just claimed dibs on the entire engineering department in the car. You can’t have dibs on both engineering and IT, Sora. That’s a monopoly."

Sora let out another dramatic whine, grabbing Jimin by the forearm and tugging him forward. "Fine, then let’s go talk to her together. Move it!"

Jimin chuckled, offering you a quick, apologetic salute over his shoulder. "Duty calls. Keep your glass full and don't get into trouble without us," he said, effectively excusing them both before being dragged away into the crowd by an unstoppable Sora.

You could only laugh, shaking your head as you watched them navigate the sea of gowns and suits like a pair of hyper-focused predators. They were ridiculous, but their chaotic energy was exactly what you needed to stay grounded.

Without them by your side, a familiar, cold uneasiness crept back into your chest. It had been exactly forty minutes since you arrived, and you still hadn't encountered the dreaded sight you’d been bracing for all evening.

You tried to lie to yourself. You tried to whisper the comforting thought that maybe he just didn't attend. Maybe he had gotten pulled into some urgent academic crisis, or some sudden research emergency, just like he so often did back when the two of you were together.

Thinking that, though, would imply he treated his life with Irina the same way he had treated his life with you—and you knew that was a blatant lie. He didn’t. With you, you were so often an afterthought, a quiet obligation he could reschedule whenever something more compelling came up. With her, things were entirely different.

The realization pulled sharply at your heartstrings, a heavy, familiar ache twisting in your throat. The bitter cocktail of hard truth mixed with heartbreak made you seek out another passing tray, downing another two glasses of champagne back-to-back just to numb the sting.

There was no sight of Irina either. Not like you actually wanted to see her, of course, but their collective absence from the main hall only confirmed the worst in your mind: they were going to arrive together, making a grand entrance as a unified front. And God, just the thought of it caused a physical, throbbing pain behind your ribs.

A few minutes passed in a blur of clinking crystal and muffled laughter as you mindlessly walked the perimeter of the room. There was still no sight of Jimin or Sora; they were likely thoroughly entangled in their pursuit of the cyber security major.

No sight of Taehyung either, who was probably rubbing elbows with the design elite somewhere in the VIP section.

And still, no sight of Jeongguk.

But then, something worse happened.

Before your eyes could register a single shadow, your senses betrayed you. It wasn't a sight that stopped you dead in your tracks—it was a smell.

Sandalwood. Clean, crisp linen.

The air around you suddenly turned heavy, thick with the intoxicatingly familiar scent that used to print itself into your bedsheets and linger on your skin for days. Your heart did a violent, agonizing flip against your ribs, the champagne suddenly turning to lead in your stomach. He was here.

The fragrance was an anchor, dragging you through the suffocating humidity of the crowd.

A nocturnal creature, born in the quiet safety of the dark, detects the first subtle shift in the atmosphere—a faint, invisible ripple of thermal energy.

You took a step forward, your eyes scanning the shifting silhouettes of tailored suits, your feet moving entirely independent of your willpower.

Instinct overrides intellect; the wings flutter, drawn inexorably toward the promise of a light they do not yet understand.

Another step. The sandalwood grew stronger, sharper, cutting through the cheap perfumes and expensive colognes of the gala like a blade.

The distance closes, the air growing thinner, vibrating with a radiant heat that feels less like comfort and more like an impending, beautiful doom.

You rounded a pillar, your breath catching in your throat as your gaze finally locked onto the sharp silhouette of Minho standing near the edge of the terrace.

The flame dances in the darkness, a brilliant, blinding beacon of absolute authority, entirely indifferent to the fragile things circling its periphery.

He was speaking to a group of faculty members, his posture impeccable, the metal cuff links at his wrists catching the light like sparks thrown from a hearth.

To look away is impossible; the moth is trapped in the geometry of the glow, pulled closer to the core where the heat turns agonizing.

You took one final step into his immediate orbit, the deep color of your dress suddenly illuminated by the same light that bathed him.

It approaches the brilliant center, ready to trade the safety of the shadows for the exquisite pain of finally being touched by the fire.

You stood frozen behind the safety of the stone pillar, your eyes locked onto the sharp silhouette of him.

The moth hovers in the ambient glow, its fragile wings flapping rhythmically in the rising currents of the warmth. It does not advance; it simply exists within the golden aura, sustained by a heat it has starved for in the cold dark.

It would be advised to stay right there. Just in the lukewarm air, safe within the comfortable radius where the light merely coats your skin without blistering it. Away from the immediate, destructive fire.

You should stay here. You really should stay here.

But the fire crackles, a tiny hiss of embers shifting in the hearth, and the sudden, radiant spike of warmth is simply too inviting for a creature of the night. A creature that has lived too long in the shadows, always in the dark, never fully warm.

Your mind drifted back to the quiet, suffocating wreckage of his apartment—to that night. You thought about how you had never spoken a single word to him since the door closed between you. No texts, no passing glances, no closure. Just a clean, bleeding fracture.

The fire crackles again, louder this time, its gold-orange light licking the edges of the dark, demanding to be acknowledged.

You deserved a conversation, right? After everything, a few words weren't too much to ask for. You deserved to look him in the eye outside the confines.

Flapping wings. Faster now, a desperate, frantic vibration as the pull becomes magnetic, drawing the small, fragile thing out of the safety of the lukewarm air.

You should say something.

He shifts his weight, turning away from the faculty members, and his eyes sweep across the room. They stop. He spots you.

He excuses himself from the conversation with a polite nod, his long strides breaking the distance between you. He comes closer, the space shrinking until he is standing right in front of you. You can’t really decipher his expression—it is an impenetrable, smooth mask of effortless composure, hiding whatever storm might be brewing underneath.

The distance closes to nothing. The moth finally feels the true, blinding warmth of the source, the sheer radiance of it washing over its fragile frame, erasing the memory of every cold night it ever endured.

You bite your lip instinctively, a nervous habit that betrays the tight knot of tension in your chest, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.

Minho’s eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting back to yours. He finally breaks the silence, his deep voice cutting through the ambient noise of the gala.

"Hi, Y/N. It’s so good to see you."

The greeting is the final spark. The moth lunges directly inside the fire for warmth, surrendering entirely to the blaze, effectively dying in the very heat it fought so hard to reach.

You’re doomed.

The realization settled deep into your bones, heavy and absolute, even as the alcohol in your system tried to blur the edges of it. One word from him—one polite, devastatingly gentle greeting—and the fragile armor you had spent the entire evening building was reduced to ash.

The fire doesn't even have to try. It just burns, existing in its own brilliant, destructive nature, while the remnants of the moth disintegrate into nothingness within its core.

He stood there, looking down at you with an intimacy that felt entirely illegal in a room full of hundreds of people. The clean scent of sandalwood and crisp linen engulfed you completely, drowning out the music, the laughter, and the distant clinking of champagne glasses. You were trapped in his immediate orbit, a casualty of your own desperate need for his warmth.

"Minho," your voice came out as a quiet breath, barely audible over the ambient noise of the gala, but you knew he heard it. The way his eyes darkened slightly, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed, told you everything.

You were standing in Taehyung's masterpiece of a dress, painted to perfection by Sora, glowing in a way Jimin hadn't seen in months—and yet, under Minho's gaze, you felt completely stripped bare. Exposed.

You had wanted a conversation. You had convinced yourself that you deserved closure, or at least a negotiation. But looking up at him now, you realized the terrifying truth: you hadn't come over here to talk.

You had come to burn.

next chapter | previous

the high priestess

⤷sypnosis: Kim Taehyung's worldview relies on three absolute truths: the law is malleable, his Tom Ford suits are impeccable, and every woman in the city wants him. Then he gets hijacked by a stranger who forces him to pay a luxury-car-sized vet bill for a stray puppy and looks at him like he's an annoying fly. He thinks your "mysterious intuition" is just a high-effort tactical play to get into his bed. You're just trying to survive your day job while your tarot deck screams that this idiot's logic is about to violently implode. It's fine. Everything is fine.

⤷pairing: kim taehyung x f!reader

⤷genre: lawyer!taehyung, witch!reader, rom-com, urban fantasy, workplace/legal!au, fast-paced flirtation, one-sided slowburn.

⤷warnings: corporate arrogance, heavy wealth flexing, swearing, mild supernatural peril later on, taehyung getting completely humbled. also features some highly unprofessional legal counseling that eventually violates several workspace boundaries (yes, there is smut, he's a womanizer, what did you expect?).

⤷word count: 5.9k

a/n: well hello. before reading, please remember taehyung is an elitist. that doesn’t reflect my view on things and please do not be offended by whatever he might say. do i believe there's room for character development? obviously. that’s why i write flawed characters. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t come off as a prick at times due to his limited view on things because as stated before, he’s arrogant and likes to stay in the luke warm waters of privilege that he got through his high power job.

enjoy reading! please let me know your thoughts i love reading comments.

—

He was literally flabbergasted.

"What..." Taehyung's voice rolled out in a low, gravelly rasp, his throat clicking as he forced himself to swallow.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

Then, leaning a fraction closer, you let a wave of heavy, mock sympathy pool into your expression. You pouted your lips just enough to make it agonizing. "Oh, you poor thing. Look at your hair. How on earth did a high-powered, brilliant legal mind like you end up in a weird little niche neighborhood like this? Did you get lost?"

Taehyung's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently beneath his tan skin. He hated that look on you. You were so incredibly sure of yourself, standing in your own domain like you had been waiting for him to walk through that door all night. And the worst part? 

You had known. We all knew he would end up right here.

"My vehicle experienced a geographical miscalculation due to the compromised visibility," he stated stiffly, trying to pull his shoulders back to reclaim his towering dignity. "It is an unmitigated disaster outside. First, a massive, un-forecasted volume of precipitation fell directly on my head before I could even clear the office curb. Then a three-car pileup blocked the main artery, forcing a detour, and Marcus completely missed the left turn because of the sheets of water. It was a compounding series of logistical failures."

He paused.

He stared at your face—at the completely unbothered, deeply amused curve of your lips. His own words echoed back in his ears, and the logical side of his brain suddenly misfired.

Wait.

Taehyung's eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. He leaned across the bar counter, his voice dropping into a low, intense whisper. "Wait a minute. How did you know?"

You blinked, your expression smoothing out into an innocent, blank canvas. You lazily tossed the bar towel over your other shoulder. "How did I know what?"

"Don't play dumb with me," he hissed, his composure completely fraying at the edges. He pointed a long, elegant finger at the fogged-up windows, then pointed it directly at you. "The... uhm, the rain? The weather app explicitly stated a zero percent chance of precipitation for forty-eight hours. Yet you stood in that clinic and told me to watch out for it. And... us meeting tonight? Or whatever the hell this is?"

You just tilted your head, watching him struggle against the cosmic absurdity of it all, looking entirely like a cat that had not only caught the canary, but had already digested it.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, counselor," you said softly, reaching down to grab a heavy rocks glass from beneath the counter. "I just told you to watch out for the weather. It's not my fault your expensive apps can't predict a basic little storm."

Taehyung didn't hear a single word of your defense.

His brain had entirely checked out of the conversation the exact moment you moved. As you reached for the bottle of gin behind you, the dim, amber pendant light caught the line of your collarbone.

Is that a low-cut shirt under there?

He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on you as his thoughts took a sudden, violently un-professional detour. You looked good. Shockingly, infuriatingly good. Delectable, even. You were wearing this completely ordinary, slightly faded bar apron, but the ugly canvas wasn't doing you justice at all—if anything, it only emphasized the way you effortlessly bodied every single person in this dimly lit room. Amidst the crowd of eccentric hipsters and weird locals, you were an absolute vision. Wow. Just so fucking good.

He forced his eyes back up to your face, his chest tightening as he tried to remember how to be an arrogant corporate attorney instead of a man who was actively drooling over his bartender.

"And us meeting?" Taehyung pressed, his voice dropping an octave, thicker and much more grounded than before. He leaned his forearm against the dark wood, trying to look intimidating to mask the way his heart was hammering. "You expect me to believe it is a mere coincidence that out of every establishment in this city, my driver happens to strand me at your bar?"

You set the bottle down with a soft, deliberate clink, resting both hands on the counter as you leaned in close enough for him to catch the faint scent of vanilla and rain clinging to your skin.

"This isn't anything," you replied, your voice dropping into a smooth, teasing purr that danced right over his frayed nerves. "You're the one who ordered a new bar."

Taehyung let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his eyes locked onto yours as a dark, dangerous smirk finally broke through his confusion.

"I ordered a negroni, sweet thing," he countered softly, his gaze dropping intentionally to your lips before snapping back up. "But if you're telling me you come with the venue, then consider me a frequent customer."

You didn't rise to the bait. Instead, you smoothly grabbed a mixing glass, stirred the drink with an effortless, practiced rhythm, and strained the dark amber liquid over a single, clear block of ice. You slid the glass across the polished wood, stopping it right at his fingertips.

"Don't choke," you said softly, your eyes holding his with a dangerous amount of calm. "I made it potent. Just for you."

Taehyung's hand wrapped around the cold crystal, his fingers tapping against the glass as that familiar, arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. He leaned in a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping into a low rumble. "I'm potent too."

Typical. It was the exact kind of smooth, high-rolling  line he used to dominate boardroom tables and high-end lounges.

But you didn't react. You didn't blush, you didn't stammer, and you didn't look remotely flustered. You just stared right back at him, completely unbothered.

Even more typical. It was infuriating how quickly you could defuse his charm without even trying.

But before he could open his mouth to claw back his upper hand, the space between you was violently interrupted.

A random-ass dude walked up behind the bar counter, reaching out to carelessly touch your arm. He murmured something low and indistinct to you over the roar of the music, leaning entirely too close into your personal space.

Taehyung's eyes instantly locked onto the stranger's hand, his entire body going rigid. 

What is that? Who is that creature breaching your perimeter with presumably dirty hands?

Taehyung's own hands were clean. Always clean. He sanitized before court, after court, and wore bespoke fabrics that shielded him from the unwashed masses. Yet this guy was just... putting his fingers on you. Taehyung's gaze tracked up the guy's forearm, noting the scattered, tiny tattoos inked into his skin.

A poser. Taehyung scoffed internally, a wave of bitter, elite superiority washing over him. If the guy had any actual balls, he'd have a high-stakes, ruthless career that required him to hide tiny tattoos. But he was just a bartender. Pathetic.

You didn't clock the absolute internal avalanche happening on the other side of the counter. You just nodded at the guy, who finally pulled his hand away to go change a keg or wipe down a table. Turning back to Taehyung, you rested your elbows on the wood again. "So, how's Tort?"

Taehyung didn't care about the dog right now. He didn't care about the strict walking schedules, or the fresh stains on his imported upholstery. His eyes were still burning holes into the back of the bartender who had just walked away.

"Who's the guy that touched your arm?" Taehyung asked, his voice flat, demanding, and dropping into a cold, territorial tone.

You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the sharp pivot, but you didn't let it rattle you. "My co-worker. Lucas."

"Lucas," Taehyung repeated, tasting the name like it was a poorly written brief. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his potent negroni, his eyes fixated on you over the rim of the glass. "And what exactly does a Lucas do?"

You let out a dry, incredulous breath, rolling your eyes at the sheer absurdity of his tone. "I don't know. Bartend? Tending the bar? Nursing and making drinks? He's a bartender, Taehyung."

"I obviously gathered that," he snapped back instantly, his baritone sharp and laced with an icy impatience. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the clear block of ice clinking against the crystal with a rhythmic, hostile snap. "I mean in context with you. What is he to you?"

"A coworker."

"Ah, fabulous," Taehyung murmured, a dark, bitterly sarcastic smile cutting across his face. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intense, interrogative glare. "A kissing coworker?"

"I don't date colleagues."

The words left your mouth coolly, a definitive boundary drawn across the dark wood of the bar.

Taehyung paused. The rigid, territorial tension in his shoulders didn't completely vanish, but the tight, defensive line of his jaw subtly relaxed. He took another slow, deliberate sip of his negroni, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue before that familiar, arrogant spark returned to his eyes. He leveled you with a smug, knowing look.

"Well," he purred, his voice dropping into a smooth, self-satisfied rumble as he gestured vaguely to his damp, immaculate suit. "Aren't you super glad I don't work in a weird bar that smells like herbs?"

You propped your elbows back on the polished dark wood, leaning forward to deliver whatever witty, sharp-tongued retort you had lined up to shut down his arrogance.

But Taehyung didn't hear a single syllable of it. His brain completely, violently checked out of the conversation the exact second you shifted your weight.

Because that was, in fact, a low-cut shirt.

And those were, in fact, boobs. Cleavage. Whichever primal, unscientific word his brilliant mind wanted to scramble for in this exact moment—they were right there. Right in his face.

Yes, he was looking. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. The supreme, unflappable corporate ace was staring directly down at the exposed skin of your chest, entirely captivated, and thoroughly enjoying every single second of it. The faded apron didn't mean a damn thing anymore. The dim, warm amber lighting of the bar traced the soft slope of your skin so perfectly it felt like a personal insult to his sanity.

Holy fucking hell.

The thought tore through his mind like a rogue wave, drowning out the jazz music, the chatter of the weird locals, and the sound of the rain outside. He just needed one chance. Just one single, solitary chance to prove himself to you. To tear down that unbothered, untouchable wall you always kept up between you.

God, he'd make you feel so good. He'd make you feel absolutely, utterly worshipped. He'd trace every single inch of that skin with his lips until you were the one losing your mind, the one stuttering and breathless, completely wrecked under his hands. He wanted to ruin that cool composure of yours so badly it made his chest ache.

He took a slow, heavy breath, his eyes burning as they fixed onto the dip of your collarbone, his imagination running completely wild in the middle of The Blind Newt.

"Taehyung."

Your voice broke through his haze, but it wasn't teasing anymore. It sounded weirdly paused, your brow furrowing as you stared up at his face.

He blinked, slowly dragging his dark gaze back up to your eyes, his lips still curled into a smug, confident smirk. "What?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, bedroom purr. "Am I distracting you?"

You didn't blush. Instead, you reached over, pulled a clean white napkin from the chrome dispenser on the counter, and extended it toward him with a look of disbelief.

"Your nose is bleeding."

Fuck.

Taehyung's smug, seductive smirk instantly vanished. He pulled his hand up to his face, his long fingers brushing against his upper lip, and when he pulled them back into the dim amber light, his pads were slick with bright, stark crimson.

Panic, sudden and violent, seized his chest. His heart did a frantic flip, not from a medical scare, but from sheer horror. His shirt. His custom-tailored, thousand-dollar egyptian cotton dress shirt was pristine, blindingly white beneath his unbuttoned charcoal jacket. If a single drop of this fell, the fabric was compromised. His dignity was already on life support, his wardrobe could not take a hit too.

"Tissues," he blurted out, his smooth voice cracking into a desperate, strangled command. "Give me... I need tissues. Now."

You didn't hesitate, though the sheer, staggering amusement dancing in your eyes was loud enough to fill the entire bar. You grabbed a thick handful of cocktail napkins from the bar caddy along with the thin one from the dispenser you previously took and shoved them across the damp mahogany into his waiting, trembling palm.

Taehyung snatched them, aggressively crushing the paper against his face. He stuffed the napkins against his nostrils until his nose literally refused to take any more paper, completely blocking his airway, and violently yanked his head backward. He stared blindly up at the cracked, tin-ceiling tiles of The Blind Newt, his throat working in a hard, panicked swallow as he tried to keep gravity from ruining his clothes.

Embarrassing was a severe, catastrophic understatement.

He got a nosebleed. After looking at boobs.

Like a juvenile, stupid, pathetic anime protagonist. Like a virgin teenager who had never seen a woman in his life. That actually just happened to him. Right now. In front of you, the one person on the planet he needed to maintain absolute, flawless superiority over.

Oh, he wanted to die. He wanted to actually, literally dig a hole beneath the sticky floorboards of this wretched bar, crawl inside, and never come out into human civilization again. Marcus could have the Mercedes. His firm could have his billable hours. He was done.

Him. Kim Taehyung. A corporate apex predator with a private lifestyle and a body count that he'd rather not say ever out loud—he loved ladies, what could he say? He was a connoisseur of beautiful women, a man who had navigated high-end hotel suites and exclusive lounges without ever losing his cool. He was supposed to be a God.

And he had just been taken down by a glimpse of cleavage through a faded bar apron.

A low, resonant sound broke through the tense silence of the bar.

You were chuckling. It wasn't a soft, polite giggle either, it was a deep, chest-deep laugh, rich and thoroughly entertained. You leaned your weight onto your palms against the bar counter, your shoulders shaking as you took in the majestic sight of the city's most formidable bachelor sitting frozen like a gargoyle, head tilted at a violent ninety-degree angle with white paper napkins comically blooming out of his face.

You really, truly found his position hilarious.

Taehyung’s jaw clenched beneath the paper, a deep, furious flush creeping up his neck that had absolutely nothing to do with high blood pressure. He was so intensely annoyed. Why the hell were you laughing? Did he look stupid? Was this funny to you?

He was an idiot.

He kept his eyes glued to the ceiling tiles, his nostrils flaring against the stuffed napkins as his chest heaved with a mix of embarrassment and wounded pride.

Oh, he had done it now.

He had for real ruined his chances. Any shred of dark, seductive magnetism he had tried to project over his neat negroni had been systematically vaporized the second his capillaries decided to give out. How was he supposed to look like a dangerous, worldly man who could make you feel worshipped when he currently looked like a casualty of a middle school playground fight?

"Are you quite finished?" he attempted to rumble, but with his nose completely blocked, his deep voice came out sounding like a congested, petulant toddler.

You stayed still for a moment, letting the tail end of your laughter dissolve into the low hum of the bar music. Taehyung, trapped in his ridiculous posture, slowly rolled his eyes down, tracking you through the messy blur of the tissues crammed up his nose.

You leaned down, disappearing behind the dark wood of the counter. He heard the muffled sound of a drawer sliding open, wood scraping against wood as you rummaged around through whatever secrets you kept hidden beneath the bar. He couldn't tell what you were looking for.

When you straightened back up, you dropped your hand onto the polished mahogany. In the center of the dark wood sat one singular candy.

It was wrapped in a shiny cellophane packaging, the literal definition of a cheap, ordinary piece of candy. The wrapper was a stark, almost ugly shade of yellow. Lemon, probably. It looked completely out of place in a moody, atmospheric bar, let alone in front of a man who usually only consumed things that came with a premium price tag.

With a flick of your finger, you pushed the yellow wrapper across the counter, stopping it right against his knuckle.

"What's this for?" he grumbled, his voice still muffled and thick from the napkins blocking his nose. He didn't move to touch it.

"For the nasty metallic taste in your mouth," you said simply, leaning your chin back into your hand.

Taehyung scoffed internally, his stubborn pride instantly flaring up. "I don't have a metallic taste in my mouth."

But as the words left his throat, he froze. His tongue slid against the roof of his mouth, and there it was—a faint, sharp, iron-like tang pooling at the back of his throat. The unmistakable, uncomfortable aftermath of a heavy nosebleed. He hadn't even noticed it until you pointed it out, his body apparently operating on a delay because his brain was still fundamentally fried from the cleavage incident.

You didn't say a word. You just extended two fingers, tapping the edge of the candy and pushing it a millimeter closer to his hand.

A silent command.

Taehyung swallowed the bitter taste, his ego taking yet another microscopic hit as he finally reached down and picked up the piece of candy. He inspected it with a critical, slow scrutiny, his long fingers clumsily working the crinkling, ugly yellow cellophane. He peeled the edges back, revealing the translucent, hard yellow drop inside.

He lifted it, bringing it up to his face, but just before he popped it into his mouth, he stopped. He held the candy just shy of his parted lips, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at you through the tissues.

"Lemon?" he asked, his tone laced with absolute skepticism.

"Ginger," you replied simply, a tiny, unbothered shrug throwing off your shoulder.

Taehyung froze. He absolutely, completely hated ginger. Ginger shots, ginger tea, ginger anything—it was a personal offense to his palate. It was unnecessarily spicy, it had that horrific, muddy bleah taste, and frankly, he would use literally any other method of immune-boosting or wellness optimization before he ever touched ginger. Vitamin C, for instance, was quite effective, scientifically backed, and didn't taste like an aggressive root pulled straight out of the dirt.

Yet, his hand didn't drop back to the counter.

He stared at the translucent drop, then up at you. He took it anyway. Why?

Because you gave it to him. He didn't even know your name still—a fact that was currently grating on his highly organized mind—but his instincts whispered that rejecting a piece of candy you had specifically dug out for him would be an incredibly bad start.

So, with a quiet, internal curse, he finally popped it into his mouth.

The immediate burst of sharp, burning ginger hit his tongue, and Taehyung instantly grimaced, his entire face contorting as he fought the urge to spit it right back out into his napkin. It was exactly as awful as he remembered.

"It's for protecting," you murmured, watching his struggle with a look that was entirely too knowing.

Taehyung managed a heavy, congested swallow, his jaw tight as the heat of the candy burned the back of his throat. He leaned forward, glaring at you through the white tissues still blooming from his nose. "Protecting against what? Bad taste?"

"No," you said, your voice dropping into a quiet, enigmatic cadence.

But you didn't elaborate. You just kept your chin resting in your hand, a faint, secret little smile playing on your lips as you watched him suffer through the spice.

The silence stretched between you, thick with the smell of wet wool, rain, and the faint, earthy sting of ginger, leaving Taehyung stranded in the dark matrix of your bar, completely at your mercy.

Taehyung finally took the tissues out of his nose, pulling them free with a tight, measured slow motion. He carefully rolled the crumpled paper into a tight ball, his eyes hyper-focused on his fingers to ensure not a single stray smear of his own blood stained his skin.

He looked around the immediate perimeter of the bar counter, spotted the small, plastic-lined trashcan tucked neatly near the end of your workstation, and leaned over to toss the bloody ball right into the bag.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The words cut through the jazz music so sharply you almost yelped, your hand shooting out to physically block him from dropping the paper into the bin.

Taehyung froze, his hand suspended in mid-air over the trashcan. He blinked at you, completely bewildered, before gesturing toward the plastic bag with an incredulous flick of his wrist. Because what else was he supposed to do with it? Take it home as a souvenir?

You frowned, your brows knitting together as you stared at the small white ball in his palm like it was a live explosive. "You’re not supposed to leave your blood anywhere you please," you told him, your voice dropping into a stern serious register. "It’s not good."

Now he was for sure confused. In fact, he was so profoundly, thoroughly confused that he hadn't even attempted to hit on you or drop a smooth line in a solid ten minutes. His entire brain—a machine built on strict logic, rules, and cold reality—was grinding to a screeching halt.

"I'm not?" he asked, his baritone sounding flatly incredulous as he held the bloody tissue ball between his thumb and forefinger. "Then where exactly do you expect me to put a fistful of bloody tissues?"

"Burn them."

Taehyung stared at you. "What ?"

"Burn them," you repeated, your voice deadpan, your eyes entirely serious under the dim pendant lights.

Taehyung let out a sharp, disbelief-laden huff, the little ginger candy clicking against his molars.

"Well, aren't you a little ball of crazy," he muttered, that familiar, arrogant smirk trying to find its way back onto his face. He expected you to roll your eyes, to admit it was a weird joke, or at least break that eerie composure.

You however, didn’t budge. You actually extended your palm, waiting patiently for him to drop the crumpled paper.

To his own surprise, his brain didn't form an objection. He placed the bloody tissues into your open hand without a second question. The moment the paper left his fingers, you commented again, your voice dropping to a quiet, warning murmur.

"You shouldn't give your blood up so easy."

Taehyung leaned his forearms against the dark mahogany bar, tilting his head with a look of mock intrigue. "Fascinating. And are you perhaps a vampire?"

You didn't even dignify it with a response. You just turned slightly, your attention already shifting to a small inox bowl sitting on the back counter.

Watching you, Taehyung grew a bit weirded out. The initial charm of your confidence was suddenly twisting into something entirely unpredictable. Were you into blood? Was this some dark, alternative subculture thing? 

Should you be medicated, and if so, are you? He was a man of ironclad laws and predictable logic, and you were actively defying every framework he had for human behavior.

What was this insane, baffling game you were playing with him?

First, you refuse to give him a name or a phone number, leaving him nothing but a date and an hour to show up at a vet clinic. Then, you casually unload a literal puppy on him, turning a high-rolling, child-free corporate defense attorney into a stressed-out single father. Then you tell him to mind the rain on a perfectly clear afternoon.

And now? The rain does come, his driver somehow strands him at this exact hidden location, you still haven't given him a name or a phone number, and you’re actively pestering him about the spiritual sanctity of bodily fluids because his nose decided it was time for fountains after he got a glimpse of your boobs.

It was so profoundly peculiar. He was simultaneously captivated and completely off-balance.

Before he could demand a straight answer, you dropped the ball of bloody tissues into the inox bowl with a soft thud.

Before he could even gather his thoughts or formulate a single logical cross-examination, you reached beneath the counter again and started... garnishing the tissues?

Taehyung’s brow furrowed so deeply a sharp line formed between his eyes. He leaned over the polished wood, staring in absolute bewilderment as your fingers deftly shook something over the bloody ball of paper.

"What is that?" he asked, his baritone dry and entirely flat.

"Cinnamon," you murmured, not even looking up.

A beat of stunned silence passed. "Are you trying to make dessert out of my medical anomaly?"

You didn't reply. Again. You just reached into your apron pocket, pulled out a sleek, matte black lighter, and flicked the wheel. The small spark caught the edge of the napkins instantly.

The flame wasn't too big—just a contained, low-burning amber flare licking at the edges of the inox bowl—but the sudden, warm light illuminated your face beautifully. The shadows of the dim bar danced across your cheekbones, and the flickering reflection of the fire caught in your eyes in a way that made them absolutely pop. It cast a rich, glowing warmth over your skin, making you look less like a bartender in an ugly apron and more like something ancient, mesmerizing, and completely dangerous.

And now, right on cue, his brain was entirely compromised again.

Here he was, a man who built his entire life on cold, hard evidence, actively fantasizing about Mrs. Crazy Pants over here setting things on fire. He was watching the smoke curl upward, carrying the sweet, woody, slightly spicy scent of toasted cinnamon over the counter, and all he could think about was how incredible you looked bathed in firelight.

The sheer absurdity of the situation—the bleeding, the ginger candy, the impromptu arson—faded into the background, completely overridden by the primal, heavy thud of his heart.

God, you're insane, he thought, his eyes tracking the line of your jaw as you watched the embers burn out. Insane, and so fucking gorgeous it’s a crime.

Once the flame died down, reducing the paper and cinnamon to a neat pile of harmless grey ash, it was like a sudden switch flipped inside you. The eerie, mesmerizing atmosphere broke, and you wiped your hands casually on your apron before looking back up at him.

"So... Tort?" you asked, your voice returning to that cool, unbothered, casual tone.

Taehyung blinked, shaking his head as if trying to clear a physical fog. "No, no, no. What was that? Are you going to explain what you just did?"

You simply shrugged, leaning back against the bar's back shelf. "What’s there to explain?"

"You just set my bloody tissues on fire," he stated, his voice flat, demanding the rationality he was desperately clinging to.

"Because I needed to," you replied simply. "You were gonna leave them in this bar."

"So?"

"So," you said, your eyes locking onto his with genuine disbelief. "Do you not know?"

"Know what?"

You furrowed your brows, staring at him intensely as a sudden realization seemed to dawn on you. Taehyung, however, was still entirely confused, his chest tight as he tried to decipher the invisible rules of your world. Know what? What is this state secret?

His eyes tracked the sharp, deep little fold forming between your eyebrows. He was so distracted by it that his thoughts took another completely unhinged detour. Why wasn't he on top of this situation? In fact, he found himself wondering if he should just reach across the bar and lick right between your brows just so you wouldn't furrow them at him anymore.

"Know what ?" he pressed, his voice dropping into a rough, demanding rumble to cover up his chaotic thoughts.

You let out a slow, quiet breath, looking at him like he was a toddler who had somehow wandered onto a high-stakes battlefield.

"Taehyung," you said softly, leaning over the counter so your voice wouldn't carry over the low jazz music. "This is a witch bar."

Taehyung stared at you for a long, quiet beat, his dark eyes wide as the words hung in the dim air between you.

Then, his chest heaved, and he started laughing.

It wasn't a quiet chuckle this time. It was a full-body, head-tossed-back laugh, his shoulders moving as the pure absurdity of your words washed over him. He found this deeply, deeply amusing.

"Witches?" he finally managed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, his voice thick with rich, condescending mirth. "Really? Did you really go that far to get a reaction out of me?"

He leaned both elbows on the mahogany, a massive, arrogant grin splitting his handsome face. You were not only implying that witches existed, but that you knew of their existence, believed in it, and actively clocked into a shift in close quarters with them every night. Which was insane and simply not possible.

He had met a lot of unhinged, delusional people back when he was still cutting his teeth in criminal law—compulsive liars, paranoid sovereign citizens, people who thought the government was reading their grocery lists. But not once in his entire career had he met an adult who genuinely believed in broomsticks and cauldrons.

"Okay, yeah, sure," he purred, lifting his long, elegant fingers to mockingly trace air quotations in the space between you. "Witches. Absolutely. Tell me, how exactly did you escape Salem, Hex ?"

He tilted his head, his eyes glittering with a smug satisfaction, entirely convinced he had just dismantled your little gothic mind game with a single, sharp blow of standard legal skepticism.

You ignored the entire lecture on reality, focusing entirely on the absurd word that had just left his mouth. "Hex?" you questioned, eyebrows raising slightly at the choice.

"Well, yeah. Hex," he said smoothly, leaning his jaw into his palm. "Witches, curses, spells, etcetera. Since I still don't know your real name, I have to call you something. What, would giving me your name grant me some sort of ancient power over you?" He wiggles his brows at you, his eyes brimming with a lazy, mocking amusement.

You stared at him, your expression entirely flat. "You're ignorant."

"I am a realist," he countered instantly, his tone sharpening with that effortless boardroom authority. "And this is reality, voodoo baby. Not a fairy tale."

"I can prove it to you," you said quietly.

Taehyung let out a low, vibrant purr, his eyes dropping to your lips before sliding back up. "How? Are you going to magically blood-bend something for me? Because I can assure you, you can make things work for me without having to lift a single finger."

You rolled your eyes so hard it practically physically pained him, completely cutting through his cheap, heavy flirtation.

Amused by his own joke, Taehyung glanced down, flicking his wrist to check his luxury watch. The twenty minutes he had promised himself were long gone. He was officially late for whatever post-work wind-down he had planned, but he couldn't bring himself to peel his body off this bar stool. Not when you had just gotten ten times more interesting, even if you were completely out of your mind.

"I still have a shift to finish," you told him, straightening up and grabbing a clean rag to wipe down a perfectly clean spot on the counter. "I can't continue with your shenanigans."

"Then you should respect your end of our little deal," Taehyung murmured, his voice dropping into that demanding, territorial register as he tapped his long fingers against the wood. "Give me your phone number."

You didn't reach for a pen, and you didn't ask for his phone. Instead, you just gave him a knowing look and gestured with your chin toward his chest.

Toward his lapel pocket.

Taehyung slid his fingers into his lapel pocket, and low and behold—his fingertips brushed against a crisp, folded edge of paper. He pulled it out, staring down at a neat slip of paper with a row of handwritten digits scrawled across it.

His brain immediately scrambled for a logical defense. How did you do that? It had to have been some clever, old-school sleight of hand. A classic pickpocket trick executed while he was entirely distracted by your collarbone.

A slow, impressed smirk spread across his face as he tucked the paper safely into his wallet. He looked back up, ready to deliver a smooth critique. "Well, I see you know a couple of old tri—"

"Goodbye, Taehyung."

He blinked, cut off entirely. "What? You just said you would prove yourself, Hex."

"Not now," you said, your tone thoroughly professional and entirely done with him. "I’m busy now."

You flicked your eyes past his shoulder toward the heavy front door. Taehyung turned his head slightly, noticing a new wave of incoming clients shaking out their umbrellas and heading toward the counter.

He let out a heavy, defeated sigh. You were always shooing him away like a stray cat. But sure, he’d throw you a bone tonight. He had your phone number now, which meant you were officially within his reach. He could finally afford to leave.

Besides, it was still pouring outside, he had a grueling, full day of billable hours tomorrow, and he felt distinctly icky from the damp air and the aftermath of that humiliating nosebleed. He desperately needed a steaming hot shower and maybe some ridiculously expensive cheese and grapes in bed.

"Goodbye, Hex," he murmured, sliding off the barstool and buttoning his charcoal jacket. He slipped the money for his drink too.

He turned to make his exit, but just before he reached the door, he spotted another bartender—a girl with a high ponytail who had just walked out from the back supply room.

Taehyung paused, stepping right into her path. He lightly touched her shoulder to catch her attention, turning on the charm instantly. He flashed her a dazzling, brilliant, panty-dropper smile that he usually reserved for winning over difficult juries, and delivered his closing act for the night.

"What’s her name?" he asked smoothly, his baritone dropping to a confidential whisper as he vaguely gestured over his shoulder toward you, where you were already busy taking orders from a man wearing a tie-dye poncho.

The coworker swung her ponytail, her eyes darting from Taehyung’s handsome face, over to you at the registers, and then back to him. A knowing, amused smile broke across her face.

"Y/N."

next chapter | previous

hi angel ,

i would be willing, i think jk fits more? maybe even...subkoo? let me know what you prefer tho lol.

thank you angel🧚🤍

i could buuuuut let me tell you i was planning on using that for the 3 part of the oneshot LMAO

moth to a flame by the weeknd is a recurring leitmotif i love using because i’m a sucker for it.

(for faux colors fans keep an eye out for it, you've been warned it’s been in my notes for a while)

but yes, bottom line: i could take requests ive just never gotten them. i could make a separate jimin oneshot, but i think it works weaving the idea into the 3rd act (since the plot would be super similar to BN). let me know however 🫶🏻

chapter 18

white lies, white flowers

Synopsis; one lives in a world under the weight of shadows the other lives in a world that screams.

"The sky is blue like Sacrifice by Elton John"

warnings; swearing, heavy themes pairing; jeongguk × female reader genre; angst, slowburn, smut, fwb word count; 9.2k

a/n: hello babies. missed me? cause i missed you. exams are actually eating away at my brain and all they find is jeongguk. (first two went well, i still have enough exams left tho...sigh)

let's talk about this chapter for a bit. first half is alright, but i think you'll notice the switch into the second half. please be advised: chapter dives into the rawest, darkest depths of jeongguk's grief and contains depictions of severe emotional breakdowns and passive thoughts of death and suicidal ideation. if these topics are triggering for you, please proceed with caution. it hurt me writing so i can't imagine how it feels reading.

—

The bright afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on the windshield, cutting through the tinted windows and exposing every sharp line of the cabin in stark clarity. There were no shadows to hide behind out here on the bustling afternoon roads, making the thick, secret heat still radiating from the leather seats feel twice as loud.

Jeongguk kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel, his knuckles still faintly carrying the phantom heat of your skin. His gaze was anchored strictly on the pavement ahead, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Every minor bump in the road, every subtle shift of his weight in the driver's seat, brought a sharp, agonizing reminder of the absolute tent straining against the denim of his pants. It was a vicious, pulsing ache—an adjacent case of blue balls that made his blood feel thick and toxic.

He knew he couldn't have crossed that line. His logical brain, the clinical producer in him that mapped out every variable before striking a chord, knew it wouldn't have been good to fuck you raw. It didn't matter that you were on birth control; going without protection was a variable he couldn't control, a chaotic frequency that could bleed into complications neither of them was prepared to mix. He had a rule, and he'd kept it.

But fuck, if the restraint wasn't costing him every ounce of his composure.

He glanced subtly at his reflection in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes still entirely dilated, the ghost of your taste still settling on the back of his tongue. He took a slow, heavy breath, intentionally slowing down his heart rate as he guided the car toward the familiar parking lot.

Logically, he also knew it was better that he hadn't agreed to let you give him anything in return.

The thought had crossed his mind, a dark and demanding impulse to let you finish what you started with your mouth or your hands, but he had shut it down.

This arrangement—this transactional thing you had struck in the secrecy operated on a specific kind of equilibrium.

The equation still had balanced out perfectly without it.

You had arrived raw, hollow, and desperately needing to feel wanted, to take back a prize and drown out a ghost. And him? He had needed to hear you. He had needed to break through that quiet, bunny-like panic of yours and drag out those loud, unraveled, pretty violet moans until your frequency completely hijacked his car.

Both ends had met. The transaction was complete, sealed in the quiet static of the backseat.

As the engine cut out, leaving a sudden vacuum of silence in the midday heat, Jeongguk cleared his throat. The  sound was an intentional effort to ground him back into reality. He wrapped his hands back around the steering wheel, staring straight out the windshield as he tried to bridge the massive chasm between what had just happened in the backseat and the bright campus sidewalk right outside his door.

He decided to try for small talk. It felt clunky on his tongue, a frequency he rarely tuned into, but he needed a baseline.

"What's your schedule looking like for the rest of the day?" he asked, his voice still holding a trace of that post-combustion gravel. He shifted slightly, tapping his fingers against the leather wheel before adding, "Do you have that afternoon session with the kids after class today?"

Hated this as soon as the words left his mouth. Felt incredible juvenile.

Your voice sliced through the air, smooth, even, and entirely re-calibrated. As you replied, explaining your afternoon routine, he noticed it instantly: you were already back in your normal state. The transition was flawless. The desperate neediness that had consumed you minutes ago was entirely wiped clean. There were no more fractured whimpers echoing against the glass, no more sweet lips attacking his neck or begging for a faster tempo. Your defenses were up, your professional armor completely locked back into place.

Jeongguk listened quietly,  eyes observing you from the side as you spoke.

Internally, his brain began running the numbers,  calculating the stark differences between the two versions of you. He mapped out the contrast—the guarded, sharp-tongued peer sitting next to him under the glaring midday sun versus the unraveled, feral creature that had just shaken the entire foundation of his control in the dark.

He found himself trying to weigh the data, trying to see which side of you he actually preferred company-wise. The guarded version was familiar, a predictable structure he could read like a well-mastered audio file. But the version that had just come apart under his touch, the one that left him with a lingering ache in his jaw and a toxic heat in his veins? That version was a chaotic masterpiece, and it was becoming dangerously addictive.

He liked you when you weren't afraid of just being. In his world of meticulous production and rigid track lines, watching you sit there without calculating the exact velocity of any future move was a rare anomaly. He could practically see the gears usually turning in your head, the stuttering work of reciting words to yourself before speaking them out loud, editing your own frequency before it ever hit the air.

He hated the editing. He liked when you were true to yourself. When you weren't a manufactured lie designed to keep everyone at a safe distance. He liked when you were raw. When you were loud.

Jeongguk parted his lips, trying to say something—to voice a piece of the sudden, heavy realization settling in his chest—but the words were violently cut off before leaving his lips.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sharp, metallic rap of knuckles against the driver's side window shattered the quiet of the cabin like a gunshot.

Jeongguk's head snapped toward the glass. His heart did a violent, erratic kick against his ribs as his eyes locked onto the face staring back at him through the tint.

Taehyung.

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on Taehyung's sharp features, casting a shadow over his eyes as he leaned down slightly, peering into the front seat. The air inside the Mercedes turned completely glacial in a fraction of a second.

He had caught them red-handed. In his car.

Together.

At twelve in the afternoon, with the faint, suffocating scent of sex and tobacco still trapped in the leather seats.

Jeongguk's grip tightened on the steering wheel until his own knuckles went entirely white, the dark letters of his tattoos straining against his skin. His mind, usually so quick to calculate an exit strategy, went completely blank.

What the fuck could he possibly say to get out of this? How had he failed so miserably at keeping this a secret? He was the producer; he was the one who controlled the noise, who locked down the files and ensured no data leaked. Yet here you both were, sitting in the open light of day, entirely exposed.

And why the fuck was Taehyung even here? Why was he walking past this specific lot at this exact minute?

Jeongguk didn't lower the window immediately. He just stared, his jaw locked so tight the bone throbbed, his  eyes fixed on his friend as a cold, suffocating panic began to mutate into defensive adrenaline.

Before Jeongguk could even form the first syllable of a stupid, manufactured lie to feed him, the passenger side door clicked open.

You didn't hesitate. You didn't wait for a script or a cue from him. You just grabbed your bag and exited the car, leaving Jeongguk frozen in the driver's seat as the bright midday air rushed into the cabin, instantly thinning out the heavy, secret scent of what they had just done.

"Hey, Taehyung," your voice floated across the roof of the car, smooth and casual, completely devoid of the breathless panic that was currently hammering against Jeongguk's ribs. "How are you?"

Through the windshield, Jeongguk watched Taehyung shift his attention away from the tinted glass, his  features smoothing out into a relaxed, familiar smile as he looked at you and approached. "Hey. I'm good, just heading back from the department building. What are you two doing together?"

And just like that, the two of you jumped straight into conversation. You stood by the passenger door, effortlessly tossing back answers, pivoting the topic to mundane university stuff—upcoming deadlines, professors, and class schedules.

Jeongguk stayed locked inside the vehicle, his hands still gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned under his palms. He stared at your profile through the glass, cursing violently under his breath.

How the fuck are you suddenly this talkative?

Where was the hesitation? Where was the stuttering work of reciting words in your head that usually tripped you up? You were handling one of the most dangerous variables in their entire equation with the cool precision of a seasoned liar, and it was driving him absolutely insane.

He couldn't just sit in the cockpit like a coward while you ran the board. After a few more agonizing seconds of pondering his next move, he shoved his door open and stepped out into the blinding afternoon sun, slamming it shut behind him.

The heavy thud of the car door cut through the air, but before he could even open his mouth to insert himself into the narrative, your voice sliced through the space, dripping with a terrifyingly perfect innocence.

"Ah, and Jeongguk was nice enough to drive me there."

Jeongguk's breath hitched in his throat. Before he could correct the narrative, you looked briefly over the roof of the car straight at him. For a fraction of a second, your impenetrable professional armor cracked by a mere one percent, an inkling of a knowing smile playing at the corner of your lips. It was a silent, mocking victory, a direct broadcast meant only for him.

"I have to go anyway," you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder as you looked back at Taehyung. "I have a meeting with Professor Zhang."

You bid a perfectly polite goodbye to both of them, your voice entirely steady as you added, "I'll see you guys Saturday."

Jeongguk didn't say a word. He just watched you walk away, your posture straight, completely unbothered by the absolute chaos you were leaving in your wake. Taehyung stood perfectly still, his eyes tracking your retreating figure down the campus sidewalk. He waited. He waited just enough until you were far enough away—safely out of earshot—before he completely pounced on Jeongguk with questions.

"What's Saturday?" Taehyung snapped, his head turning back to Jeongguk, sharp eyes narrowing with immediate suspicion.

"The gala," Jeongguk muttered, his voice rough as he leaned back against the warm frame of his car, trying to play it cool.

"So?" Taehyung stepped closer, his brow furrowing. "She knows you're mixing?"

"Bro, everyone knows I'm mixing," Jeongguk fired back, a defensive edge cutting into his tone as he deflected. "It got leaked."

Taehyung shut up for a bit. It was a very small bit—a fleeting second of silence, but nowhere near enough of a bit for Jeongguk to actually wrap his mind around anything or construct a solid defense. Taehyung's eyes dropped to the wrongly buckled belt resting low on Jeongguk's hips, then darted back up to the sight of his rumpled hair.

"Why did you drive her to there?" Taehyung asked, his voice dropping into a quieter, more calculated register.

Jeongguk's jaw clenched. He shifted his weight, trying to swallow the dry lump in his throat. "She needed it."

A slow, dangerous smirk began to spread across Taehyung's face.

Jeongguk felt a cold spike of fear strike his chest at that look. He knew that expression, it was the look Taehyung got when he successfully mapped out something.

"So..." Taehyung purred, leaning in just a fraction, his smirk widening as he trapped Jeongguk in his gaze. "What's 'there' ?"

Jeongguk was straight up bullshitting right now. His brain was working at triple its usual speed, desperately trying to stitch together a narrative that wouldn't completely blow your cover.

"A library on the outskirts," Jeongguk said, his voice smooth, injecting just enough fake boredom into his tone to make it believable. He shrugged, looking away from Taehyung's piercing gaze. "Some mystery project she's  working on. She didn't want anyone from the department seeing what she was researching yet."

Taehyung just stared at him, his head tilting slowly as the smirk on his face turned into something entirely mocking.

"Right, right," Taehyung purred, nodding along with a slow, exaggerated rhythm. "Except she didn't say library when I talked to her like two minutes ago. She said the mall. Said she needed heavy-duty super glue for something."

Jeongguk's throat went completely dry. He gulped, the sound practically echoing in his own ears as his entire lie collapsed under a single sentence. Fucking brilliant, Void. You hadn't even coordinated the alibi.

But the real stroke of panic didn't hit him until his eyes accidentally flicked toward the passenger side window. In his peripheral vision, something caught the bright midday glare coming through the glass.

Your bra.

You had fucking forgotten your bra in his car. And it wasn't even a dark, muted color that could easily blend into the black leather interior. No. It was a bright, undeniable pink. It sat right on the edge of the cushion, sticking out like an absolute eyesore against the dark cabin. If Taehyung took even one step closer to peer through the glass again, the entire game was over.

Adrenaline spiked violently through his veins. Before Taehyung could trace his line of sight, Jeongguk moved.

He aggressively draped a heavy arm over Taehyung's shoulders, using his large frame to physically block his friend's view of the passenger window. With a sudden, forced burst of camaraderie, he started steering him away from the car, physically pushing him to start walking toward the main university building.

As they took their first steps away from the vehicle, Jeongguk slipped his hand into his pocket and hit the lock button on his key fob. The car doors clicked shut with a sharp, definitive beep.

"Okay, look," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping as he leaned into Taehyung's space, throwing out the first absurd piece of information his panicked brain could manufacture. "I lied. I'm teaching her colors."

It wasn't a total lie, but it wasn't the full truth. Perfect equilibrium, just how he liked it.

Taehyung stopped dead in his tracks, nearly ripping himself out from under Jeongguk's heavy arm. He stared at him, his brow furrowing so deeply it looked painful.

"I'm sorry, what?" Taehyung asked, his voice flat with pure bewilderment. "Have I gone deaf? Did you just say you're teaching her colors?"

Jeongguk didn't break his stride, using his height to keep forcing Taehyung toward the concrete steps of the department building, away from the damning evidence of that pink bra.

"Synesthesia, dude," Jeongguk bullshitted smoothly, throwing out the most technical audio jargon he could conjure under pressure.

"I'm teaching her colors through sounds. Frequencies. Mapping visual spectrums to acoustic wavelengths so she can understand structural engineering from a different mix perspective. It's an experiment."

Taehyung let out a dry, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he finally walked alongside him. "How did this even happen? I didn't peg her as someone who wanted you anywhere near her vicinity, let alone letting you drive her around."

A dangerous, dark spark flared in Jeongguk's chest at the word vicinity.

His mind instantly took a sharp, illicit turn right back to the dark cabin of the car. He thought about how you had looked just minutes ago, your hair a ruined mess, your fingers violently digging into his bare shoulders as you begged for more. He thought about how much you had wanted him in your vicinity. Especially in. Completely buried inside you while his tongue wrecked your composure.

He forced his expression to remain entirely blank, swallowing down the sudden surge of heat before Taehyung could read it on his face.

"It just sort of happened," Jeongguk replied, keeping his voice casually dismissive as they reached the heavy glass doors of the university hall. He shoved one open, steering the conversation into safer, more logical waters. "And I don't want to make a big deal out of it. Especially due to her recent breakup. The last thing she needs is the whole department gossiping about who she's hanging out with."

Taehyung's defensive posture melted instantly, his expression softening into something genuinely empathetic. He let out a low, sympathetic sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"That's true," Taehyung murmured, his tone shifting from suspicious interrogation to protective concern. "You're right. She's a sweet girl, and the last thing she needs is the whole campus gossiping about her after what that total asshole did to her."

Jeongguk just hummed, a tight, noncommittal sound vibrating in the back of his throat. He looked away, his eyes scanning the busy hallway. Hearing Taehyung call you a sweet girl felt almost jarring when his knuckles were still stiff from the way you had greedily used his body in the backseat.

Stopping near the quad, Taehyung turned and gestured toward the campus cafe, rolling his shoulders back. "Come on. I need liquid courage if I'm going to handle a room full of freshmen and their terrible obsession with metallic fabrics this afternoon. My studio is a disaster."

"Yeah, alright," Jeongguk said, falling into step beside him. He welcomed the distraction, desperately needing a coffee to shock his system and take the edge off the persistent, aching tension still lingering low in his gut.

They walked into the crowded, noisy warmth of the cafe, blending into the sea of students. But just as they lined up near the espresso machines, Taehyung leaned against the counter and glanced at him sideways.

"So..." Taehyung started, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he watched Jeongguk's face. "That's all?"

Jeongguk didn't flinch, but his internal radar immediately went on high alert. He kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture loose. "What do you mean?"

"Between you and Y/N," Taehyung clarified, tilting his head. "Just colors? Just a charity project to help her clear her head?"

Jeongguk's jaw clenched, his mind instantly flashing to the bright pink eyesore of your bra sitting in his backseat. He could still taste you, a heavy, intoxicating frequency that threatened to bleed through his composure.

"Yeah, Taehyung," Jeongguk said, his voice dropping into a flat tone as he looked his friend dead in the eye. "That's all it is. An arrangement to keep the noise down."

That wasn't a lie either. There was an arrangement. Taehyung just didn't know what kind.

Taehyung let out a low, wistful breath as the barista handed them their iced Americanos. "Pity," he murmured, taking a slow sip. He leaned back against the pick-up counter, watching the crowded café floor. "Not saying you should bounce on it, but she seems sweet enough to dial back your brooding. God knows you need it."

Jeongguk reached for his cup, his fingers wrapping tightly around the cold plastic. "She just got cheated on, Taehyung," he said, his voice flat, dropping the factual reminder like a heavy barrier between them.

"I know, I know, the guy's a total asshole," Taehyung muttered, waving a hand dismissively in the air. "And I wasn't implying you should jump her in the next thirty seconds. Just saying... if you actually felt something there, it would be understandable—needed almost. She seems like your type."

Jeongguk let out a sudden, sharp bark of a laugh. The sound was dry and entirely humorless, cutting through the ambient noise of grinding coffee beans.

The mere concept was ridiculous. You? His type? Please.

Jeongguk preferred women who were entirely sure of themselves. Women who knew exactly what frequency they were running on and didn't apologize for it. You weren't sure of yourself at all. If anything, you were the most unsure woman he had ever met. Trying to get you to just notice your own qualities was like pulling teeth; you constantly edited your own worth, hesitating and overthinking every single variable before you let anyone see it.

Not that he noticed, or anything.

It wasn't like he spent his quiet hours thinking about the shape of your lips or the exact depth of your eyes when you were cornered. It wasn't like he saw how brutally hard-working you were, or how terrifyingly smart your mind operated when you actually let yourself create. Because he didn't. And he absolutely wouldn't start now. That wasn't part of the arrangement.

Jeongguk kept his mouth shut, choosing to swallow a massive gulp of the bitter black coffee instead of offering a defense that might trip him up.

Seeing the total lack of a response, Taehyung's eyes suddenly widened in realization. A mocking, dramatic gasp escaped his lips as he snapped his fingers.

"Oh, wait, I completely forgot," Taehyung grinned, a wicked, teasing glint taking over his features as he nudged Jeongguk's shoulder. "I'm wasting my breath. You're in love with a voice memo!"

Jeongguk's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He aggressively pointed the plastic lid of his coffee cup at Taehyung's chest, his eyes narrowing into a  glare.

"Shut up, asshole," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a gravelly register that made a passing freshman quickly look down at the floor. "How about you stick your dick in something and leave my audio files out of it."

Taehyung just laughed, entirely unfazed by the threat as he took a casual sip of his drink. He swirled the ice cubes around, his expression shifting from teasing to a look of mild ambition. "Truthfully? I'm betting on looking hot at the gala and finding a pretty lady there."

Jeongguk paused, his cup hovering halfway to his mouth. His brow furrowed. "Pretty lady?"

Taehyung blinked, looking at him sideways. "What's wrong with the wording on that?"

"Nothing," Jeongguk grumbled, adjusting his grip on his coffee. He forced his mind away from the image of you standing in the middle of that gala, surrounded by the department. He looked back at his friend, a rare, dry smirk tugging at his lips. "Should I wingman you?"

Taehyung let out a dramatic, breathy scoff, looking at Jeongguk as if he had just suggested they drop out of the university entirely. "You? A wingman? Please. You're a terrible wingman."

Jeongguk's smirk vanished, replaced by a flat, offended stare. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you scare women with your brooding, Kafkaesque aura," Taehyung said, gesturing vaguely at Jeongguk's entire presence—the heavy ink crawling up his neck, the dark denim, the absolute lack of a welcoming expression on his face. Taehyung chuckled, shaking his head. "Seriously, Kook. It literally looks like I take you out to social events just so you don't control-alt-delete yourself in your studio. You don't attract people at parties because you look like you're actively monitoring the room for security breaches."

"I don't brood," Jeongguk defended flatly, though he knew it was a losing battle.

He was, in fact, brooding.

"You're doing it right now," Taehyung countered, pointing a finger at him. "You look like you're calculating the exact coordinates of my demise. If I put you next to a girl I'm trying to talk to, she's going to think you're either going to fight her or analyze her for potential breaches. Keep the dark producer vibes in the backseat, alright? Saturday is about looking pretty."

The backseat.

The phrase hit Jeongguk like a physical strike, instantly bringing back the phantom smell of gardenia and the bright pink eyesore currently waiting for him in his car. He swallowed another bitter gulp of coffee, his mind locking down the hatch on those thoughts before the signal could bleed through to his face.

"Just look pretty," Jeongguk muttered back, his voice a flat drone as he let Taehyung's banter wash over him without really processing the words anymore.

He was actively trying to push it all away. He was running a real-time suppression filter on his own brain, trying to drown out the noise, but the data kept leaking through the seams.

Your lips.

They were a stubborn, persistent frequency in his mind—the way they had felt swollen and hot against his neck, the desperate, unedited friction of them before you locked your defenses back down.

And your scent. It was still trapped in his clothes, a intoxicating mix of gardenia, clean skin, and the sharp bite of his own cigarette smoke that made the air in the crowded café feel suddenly too thick to breathe.

He took another long pull of his iced coffee, the plastic straw clicking against his teeth as his mind took a sharp, uninvited turn back to the exact physics of the backseat. He remembered the view from above you. How your hair had fallen over your eyes a bit—just a few messy, unraveled strands obscuring your face when he had deeply inserted his fingers into you.

The memory hit him with a heavy, physical throb low in his gut.

Maybe he should have pushed it aside. Maybe he should have tucked those strands behind your ear just to see your eyes in that exact second. To see them wide, blown-out, and entirely focused on him while he wrecked your rhythm.

Your eyes.

He wanted to know what color they turned when you completely forgot how to edit yourself.

But he hadn't pushed it aside. He had kept his distance, kept it transactional, and let the shadow of your hair hide whatever it was you were feeling.

"Earth to Kook," Taehyung's voice sliced through the static, a hand waving briefly in front of his face. "You're doing the thing again. The brooding stare."

Jeongguk locks back in, throwing up a brutal mental firewall and pushing the thoughts of you very far away. He formats the internal drive, sealing the memory of your unraveled violet moans behind layers of cold logic.

He rationalizes the sudden, toxic glitch in his system by reviewing the basic anatomy of his recent track record. He blames the intense, lingering friction entirely on basic deprivation. The math was simple, really. The last time he had actually gotten laid was, first of all, a considerable amount of time ago. Second of all, it had ended in an absolute disaster with Geneviève—the french redhead who had literally called his house a "waiting room" before walking out of his life.

So, between the abrupt exit of the redhead and this new, dangerous pact with you, he hadn't gotten anything at all. And even before Geneviève, he hadn't been with anyone in a seriously long time.

He was just thinking with his dick. That's exactly what it was. It was a biological response to a severe drought, a standard technical malfunction caused by high pressure and zero output. It wasn't about you as an individual variable; it was just about the physical proximity of an available frequency.

When Taehyung saw that Jeongguk didn't reply, he broke the silence himself. He took a slow drag from his iced coffee, his eyes tracking the moving crowd of students before sliding right back to Jeongguk's profile.

"You looked quite startled when you saw me waiting outside your car though," Taehyung noted casually, his tone light but his gaze sharp enough to cut. "As if you're keeping a secret."

Jeongguk didn't even flinch. He just took another sip of his black coffee, his expression a wall of cold, unreadable stone. "No. No secret."

But the denial was just static. Jeongguk knew Taehyung, and Taehyung knew Jeongguk. They had been editing and mixing alongside each other for too long to be fooled by basic facial expressions.

This? This whole conversation was just a performance. They were both just playing dumb now. Taehyung clearly suspected something—the inconsistent stories about libraries and malls, the thick, heavy tension radiating from the Mercedes, the way Jeongguk had aggressively blocked his view of the passenger window. Taehyung was sniffing around the track, looking for a leak.

"I legit texted you, by the way," Taehyung added, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. "Right before I walked out to the lot."

"Had my phone turned off," Jeongguk replied flatly, his thumb tracing the rim of his plastic cup.

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, stopping just outside the entrance to the design building. "Why?"

Jeongguk paused, his eyes fixing on the glass doors as he threw out the one conversational kill-switch he knew would put an immediate end to the interrogation.

"Dad called."

Taehyung's entire demeanor shifted instantly. The teasing glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by a heavy, somber gravity that completely altered his posture. He let out a low, breathy exhale, looking down at his shoes.

"Oh, shit," Taehyung muttered.

Because oh, shit.

That single name—Dad—was a universal override in Jeongguk's life, a jarring frequency that instantly distorted whatever fragile peace he managed to build for himself. Taehyung knew exactly what a phone call from the elder Jeon meant, especially around this specific point in the calendar.

As they moved inside the building and began navigating the quieter, narrower corridors leading up to the studios, they drifted into a super coded conversation about it. It was a language born from years of shared history, spoken in half-sentences and heavy pauses, because Taehyung knew. He just knew Jeongguk had to talk about this to someone or he'd completely implode. The guy was a pressure cooker on a normal day, but when his father entered the equation, the internal data became entirely toxic.

Taehyung needed him to talk. He wasn't going to let Jeongguk lock himself inside his own head and run a destructive feedback loop until he shattered.

"How bad was it?" Taehyung asked quietly, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry across the concrete hallway. He didn't look directly at Jeongguk, giving him the space to breathe. "Did he mention the anniversary?"

Jeongguk's grip on his coffee tightened, the plastic flexing under the sudden pressure. "Yeah."

"And the dinner?" Taehyung pressed, his tone careful, entirely devoid of the mocking edge from before. He knew the annual dinner marking the anniversary of Jeongguk's mother's death was a minefield of obligation and unresolved grief. "Is he still expecting the full performance from you?"

"Always is," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, scraped-raw baritone. He stared straight ahead, his eyes tracking the cold geometric lines of the corridor.

The anniversary was the dinner. That was the whole point. That was exactly why his dad was so hell-bent on honoring it, treating the date like a mandatory, suffocating ritual that Jeongguk couldn't edit out of his life.

Taehyung stopped walking entirely, throwing out an arm to catch Jeongguk by the shoulder and forcing him to halt in the empty corridor. He needed to ask the real questions now. No more codes, no more running from the data. He needed to know exactly what the old man had said to him, and what he had done to push Jeongguk.

"Did you dip your toes back into any of your bad habits?" Taehyung pressed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned his friend's exhausted posture. He needed to ask him point-blank, period. "Did your lips touch any alcohol after you left that house? Tell me the truth."

"No," Jeongguk muttered, though the word felt heavy and scraped-raw in his throat. It wasn't a lie—alcohol hadn't been the vice he turned to this time. Instead, his mind flashed violently to the backseat of his vehicle under the midday sun, to the raw, unraveled panic he had dragged out of you to drown out his own ghosts. He hadn't touched a bottle.

He had touched you.

"Did you write anything music-wise?" Taehyung asked, his grip tightening on Jeongguk's shoulder. "Did you lock yourself in the studio and produce until you couldn't breathe?"

Jeongguk didn't answer, which was an answer in itself.

Taehyung let out a frustrated, heavy sigh, shifting his weight. He knew every single one of Jeongguk's toxic patterns, and he knew them too well. He had watched Jeongguk destroy his own frequencies before, and he loved him too much to let him go off the deep end all over again.

"I'm serious, Kook," Taehyung said, his voice softening with a rare, fierce protective streak. "You're spiraling, and you're trying to hide it. I know you too well to just sit back and watch you baseline into something self-destructive again. Don't do this to yourself."

Jeongguk's chest tightened, a suffocating heat rising up his throat as Taehyung's words continued to prick at the raw edges of his psyche. He hated being perceived this clearly. He hated that his internal architecture was so thoroughly mapped out by someone else, left completely exposed in a sterile university hallway.

"I said I didn't drink, Tae. What do you want, a breathalyzer test?" Jeongguk snapped, ripping his shoulder out from under Taehyung's grip. His voice was laced with an ugly irritation. "And what if I did write something? Since when is tracking audio a crime in a design department? Go worry about your freshmen and your shiny fabrics. Leave my fucking head alone."

But as the words cut through the quiet corridor, his brain began to glitch. The emotional firewall he had so carefully constructed against his father, against the dinner, and against the lingering ghost of his mother began to crack open.

The synesthesia started painting again.

It always did when the grief got too heavy to compress. The sterile white walls of the corridor began to bleed, low-frequency sound waves from a nearby lecture hall vibrating in his ears and tinting his vision with the familiar, suffocating shades of his trauma. It wasn't the vibrant, unraveled violet of your moans that had filled his car earlier. No, these were the grief colors. A heavy, opaque slate gray began to coat the edges of his peripheral vision, mixed with a sickening, toxic oil-slick green that always pulsed in time with his father's low, demanding voice in his head.

The world was losing its clarity, the visual spectrum warping under the weight of an old, unresolved feedback loop. He felt hollowed out, the noise inside his mind amplifying until it threatened to drown out the present entirely.

He took a sharp step back, his boots clicking heavily against the concrete floor as he tried to blink away the invading shadows. He was drowning in the mix, desperately needing to anchor himself before Taehyung noticed the way his pupils were dilating, or how his hands had begun to subtly shake against the plastic of his coffee cup.

But Taehyung did notice. He always did. He had a designer's eye for asymmetry, for the slight, telltale glitches in Jeongguk's posture that signaled the internal mix was completely redlining. He saw the subtle tremor in the hand holding the coffee cup, saw the way Jeongguk's eyes went slightly vacant as the heavy  colors began to muddy his vision.

It wasn't the first time Taehyung had pulled his friend back from a deep end. God knew he'd spent half their university career monitoring Jeongguk's vitals when the studio turned into a isolation chamber. And it wasn't the worst time either—that title belonged to a freezing night two winters ago.

Taehyung sighed, his expression hardening into an unyielding anchor. "You're painting again, aren't you?" he asked softly, stepping right back into Jeongguk's personal space. "Look at me. I'm not letting you go back to your studio to be alone right now. I know exactly what you'll do. You'll lock the door, kill the lights, and loop some ugly sounds until your ears bleed. It's self harm, Kook."

Jeongguk's jaw clenched so hard the bone throbbed, the ugly, defensive adrenaline flaring up to mask the raw panic of being caught. He hated how predictable his misery was.

"Then go find a cop and report me for audio harassment, you nosy fuck," Jeongguk spat, his voice dropping into a cruel, bitchy hiss. He took a step back, his eyes flashing with a cold, deliberate malice meant to push his friend away. "I don't need a babysitter, and I definitely don't need you playing therapist in the middle of the design wing. Go obsess over your fucking fabrics and leave me alone."

Taehyung didn't even flinch. He didn't take the venom to heart. He'd taken enough hits from Jeongguk's defensive firewalls over the years to know that the meaner Jeongguk got, the closer he was to completely collapsing under the weight of his own mind.

"Nice try," Taehyung said flatly, entirely unfazed as he reached out and took the shaking coffee cup right out of Jeongguk's hand. "But you're coming to my studio anyway. You can sit in the corner and look brooding, but you're not locking yourself in the dark today."

"Give me that back," Jeongguk snarled, his voice a jagged, ugly frequency as he lunged forward to rip the coffee cup back from Taehyung. He was so mean right now, throwing out every vicious, venomous insult his panicked brain could engineer, but his coordination was entirely shot.

The grief colors were absolutely blinding him. The slate gray wasn't just at the edges of his vision anymore—it was a heavy, suffocating fog swallowing the entire hallway, bleeding into a toxic, oily green that pulsed aggressively against his retinas in sync with the blood pounding in his ears. It was too loud. The visual feedback was redlining so hard he could barely see the outlines of the doors.

Taehyung just dodged the sloppy swipe, caught Jeongguk firmly by the arm, and practically dragged him down the last stretch of the corridor. He pushed open the heavy door to his design studio and hauled Jeongguk inside.

Gladly, the room was completely empty. The overwhelming stench of industrial glue and discarded textiles hung in the air, but the chaotic swarm of freshmen had vanished—probably gone to the cafeteria for lunch. The silence of the room hit Jeongguk like a physical drop in pressure.

Taehyung shoved him down onto a worn leather sofa in the corner, but Jeongguk didn't relax. He sat there, his chest heaving, vibrating with a raw, volatile anger. He was so incredibly angry at himself.

He hated how predictable he was. He hated how pathetic it made him feel. It had been literal years since his mother's death. Years. The rest of the world had adjusted its mix, moved on to new tracks, but here he was, still completely disabled by a single date on a calendar.

Why was his grief such a fucking burden? Why couldn't he just be normal? Every single movement he tried to make felt like he was pushing his entire body through suffocating honey. It was so slow. Every breath was a calculated effort, every step a chore. He was trapped in a low-frequency prison of his own making, and no matter how hard he mastered the audio, he couldn't filter out the static.

And then, right on the heels of the suffocating gray, your image flashed through the static of his brain.

Why did you have to smell of gardenia out of all flowers? Of all the scents to leave trapped in the leather of his backseat, why did it have to be the one flower that bloomed right around the anniversary?

Her flower.

The sweet, heavy fragrance of your skin was tangling with the oil-slick green of his trauma, messing up his entire internal code until he couldn't tell where his mother's ghost ended and where you began.

He stared blankly at a cutting table across the room, his eyes entirely unfocused as the colors swirled in his vision.

Taehyung's mouth was moving. He had been standing in front of the sofa, saying something to him for the past five seconds, but Jeongguk hadn't heard a single syllable of it. The audio track of the room was completely muted, replaced by the high-pitched ring of his own internal feedback.

Suddenly, a hand snapped sharply in front of his face, breaking through the gray line.

"Hello? Kook?"

Jeongguk blinked, the sudden movement of Taehyung's hand violently shattering the dense fog. The muted room rushed back in, the harsh hum of the fluorescent studio lights grating against his raw nerves.

"What the fuck do you want, Taehyung?" Jeongguk spat, his voice dropping into a dangerous, jagged growl as he sat up on the worn leather sofa. He glared at his friend, his chest heaving with  adrenaline. "Why are you even here? Why are you doing this?"

Taehyung didn't flinch, nor did he step back. He stood his ground right in front of the cutting table, his expression entirely stripped of his usual dramatic flair.

"Because I love you, you idiot," Taehyung explained, his voice quiet but honest, cutting straight through Jeongguk's bitchy, defensive static. "And I'm not going to sit back and partake in your destruction. I've seen where this track leads, Kook. I'm not letting you play it on a loop again."

Jeongguk let out a harsh, mocking sound that was entirely devoid of humor. The honey-thick weight of his grief was making him claustrophobic, and the suffocating memory of your gardenia scent tangling with his mother's ghost was pushing him past his absolute limit. He couldn't stay in this room. He couldn't stay in his own skin.

"Yeah? Well, watch me," Jeongguk muttered, abruptly shoving himself up from the couch. His boots hit the concrete floor with a heavy, aggressive thud. "I'm leaving."

Taehyung immediately shifted his weight, blocking the path to the heavy studio door. "Where?"

Jeongguk locked eyes with him, his pupils blown out, his expression a mask of pure defiance. If Taehyung wanted to accuse him of spiraling, if everyone was so determined to treat him like a broken machine that was bound to malfunction, then he might as well fulfill the expectation. He was done fighting the current.

"If you're so hell-bent on the idea that I'm going to destroy myself, then I should adapt," Jeongguk sneered, throwing Taehyung's own terminology right back in his face. He took a menacing step forward, his jaw tight. "I'm going to find a bar. I'm going to drink."

"No, you're not," Taehyung said flatly, his posture instantly hardening as he threw his arms out to physically bar the exit, desperately trying to stop him before he could march out into the hallway and throw himself off the deep end.

"Get the fuck out of my way," Jeongguk snarled, stepping directly into Taehyung's space until they were chest to chest. His voice was a low, lethal vibration, completely pushed past its limit. "Get out of my way or I swear to God—"

"Or what?" Taehyung interrupted, not budging an inch. He stared right back into Jeongguk's blown-out, bloodshot eyes, his jaw set in  defiance. "You gonna hit me? Hit me then, Kook. Do it."

Jeongguk's fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white, the ink on his skin stretching taut. "I won't fucking hit you," he spat, his voice cracking slightly under the pressure.

"I'd rather you do that than auto-implode," Taehyung countered, his eyes softening just a fraction into worry. "You were doing so good. You were managing the noise, and now you're just throwing the whole thing away."

The word managing tasted like ash in Jeongguk's mouth. He wasn't managing. He was drowning. He was suffocating in the dark cabin of his car, smelling gardenia, seeing slate gray, and hearing his father's hollow, demanding voice on a permanent loop.

"Move," Jeongguk roared. Blinded by a sudden, volatile surge of panic, he shoved his palms hard into Taehyung's chest. He didn't hit him—he wouldn't—but he pushed him, not hard enough to knock him over, but just enough so it mattered. Just enough to demand his space back.

Taehyung stumbled back a step against a cutting table, but he recovered instantly. As Jeongguk tried to violently brush past him toward the door, Taehyung lunged forward, trying to grab his arm. But Jeongguk was moving too fast, a blur of heavy denim and desperation.

"Let me go," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a frantic, broken chant as he wrestled against the grip on his sleeve. "Let me go. Let me go. Just let me fucking go."

"No," Taehyung yelled back. Abandoning all attempts to just hold his arm, Taehyung stepped directly into his path and threw his arms completely around Jeongguk, trapping him in a heavy, aggressive embrace.

Jeongguk thrashed against the hold, his broad shoulders tensing as he tried to violently shake him off. He was moving a lot, his boots squeaking sharply against the  floor, his elbows digging into Taehyung's sides as he fought the confinement.

"Snap out of it, man!" Taehyung pleaded, his voice cracking as he held on with everything he had, absorbing the blows and the resistance. "Please! Just stop moving! Stop fighting me and let me be there for you!"

"Get off me! You piece of shit, let me the fuck go!" Jeongguk kept cursing at him, a stream of venomous words ripping from his throat, but the fight was rapidly draining out of his muscles.

His eyes started to water, the hot, stinging moisture blurring the edges of the empty studio. A brutal, crushing migraine began to close in over his brow, clamping down like a vice behind his temples.

The synesthesia was in full, violent effect now.

The sound of Taehyung's desperate voice wasn't just noise anymore; it was a physical, blinding gold that clashed horribly against the thick, suffocating blanket of slate gray. Every breath Jeongguk took tasted like the metallic tang of battery acid. The world was spinning, a chaotic, unedited track of bereavement colors and sensory overload bleeding through his defenses until he couldn't even tell where the room ended and where his own breaking mind began.

"I'm not letting go," Taehyung gasped, his voice tight and breathless as he locked his fingers behind Jeongguk's back, anchoring his entire weight against him. "Not now. Not like this, Kook."

"Fuck you."

Jeongguk was still moving, his  shoulders jerking violently in a desperate, uncoordinated bid to shatter the hold. He kept cursing, ripping the foul words from the back of his throat, but the frequency was breaking down.

Then, the first tear escaped.

It tracked a hot, wet line down the side of his nose, slipping past his trembling lips and making its way right into his mouth.

Salty.

The taste hit his tongue like a lightning strike, instantly triggering a sharp, involuntary memory through the static of his synesthesia. It tasted exactly like his mom's soup. She used to make it on cold afternoons, and sometimes it was entirely too salty, the broth heavy and sharp. When he had complained as a kid, she would always laugh, pressing a warm hand to his forehead and telling him a sweet, ridiculous lie—that she had put real sea water in it for his health.

That was stupid. He knew that now. He was a grown man, and he understood the basic mechanics of cooking. She had just messed up the seasoning, overshooting the salt while trying to balance the broth. It wasn't intentional. It was just a comforting, gentle white lie to make a little boy smile through a bad meal.

So why the fuck did it hurt so badly?

Why did the simple friction of that salty tear touching his tastebuds feel like he was being violently impaled with over fifteen years' worth of daggers? One heavy, rusting blade for every single year she had been dead. One for every year he had been forced to run his own tracks without her input, forced to listen to his father's suffocating silence in a house that felt like a tomb.

Taehyung kept holding him, refusing to yield even an inch of space. Jeongguk was still moving, his body twitching with the residual, failing adrenaline of a machine that was completely tearing itself apart from the inside out.

The anger was entirely gone now. The mask had shattered, the defensive firewalls collapsing into absolute, catastrophic failure. As the heavy slate gray in his vision turned into a deep, crushing black, full, unedited cries finally started tearing through the empty spaces of his curses.

Taehyung held on tighter, the fabric of his jacket bunching under Jeongguk's crushing grip as the younger man's strength finally gave out, his weight sagging heavily against his friend. Hearing those raw, broken sounds tearing out of a guy who usually carried himself like a concrete wall shook Taehyung to his core.

"What is it, Kook?" Taehyung demanded, his own voice thick with emotion, pressing his chin firmly against Jeongguk's shoulder to anchor him. "Talk to me. Look at the colors and tell me what's wrong. What is doing this to you?"

"I'm messed up, Tae," Jeongguk choked out through a violent, racking sob, the words stumbling over each other as the slate gray in his mind threatened to suffocate him entirely. "I'm so fucking broken. The whole system is glitched."

He buried his face into Taehyung's shoulder, his chest heaving as the fifteen years of compressed, unedited agony finally spilled over.

"I'm the wilted flower in her garden," Jeongguk cried, his voice dropping into a raw whisper that sounded completely unraveled. "She's dead, Tae... she's dead, and so am I. The house is dead. My dad is dead. I'm just a ghost running on a loop. Or at least... at least I wish I was dead. I wish he would just turn the volume off on me completely."

The confession hung in the heavy, glue-scented air of the empty studio, a devastating frequency that made Taehyung catch his breath.

"Hey—no. Shut up. Look at me, Jeongguk, snap out of it," Taehyung insisted sharply, though his hands were shaking as he pulled back just enough to grip the sides of Jeongguk's face, forcing the younger man to meet his eyes. Taehyung's own eyes were swimming with tears now. "You're an idiot. You're a complete, total idiot. Why would you ever think that? Why the fuck would you say that to me?"

"Because it's the truth!" Jeongguk yelled back, a fresh wave of tears blurring his vision, the toxic green and slate gray swirling into a chaotic vortex behind his eyelids. "Look at me! Every single year it's the same noise. I can't produce it out, I can't drink it out, I can't—I can't even breathe without tasting it. I'm just a burden to everyone who has to listen to it."

"You are not a burden, you dramatic asshole," Taehyung countered fiercely, wiping a stray tear from Jeongguk's cheek with a rough, heavy thumb. "You're my brother. And you're not a wilted flower, alright? You're just processing a track that's too loud for one person to mix alone. So stop trying to mute yourself and let me help you turn down the volume."

Jeongguk let his forehead fall heavily back onto Taehyung's shoulder, his broad frame trembling as the worst of the emotional redline began to subside, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion.

Through the fading static of the gray and green colors, his mind began to track back. He thought about how he was doing so fucking well just a few hours ago. He had been basically floating through yesterday night and most of today. The feedback loop hadn't been screaming. He had actually gotten home after the dinner, he had somehow managed to sleep without the usual nightmares, and he had spent a solid, productive morning mixing tracks with Yoongi.

And then he had met with you.

He had sat next to you in the close quarters of the park, teaching you something new about audio frequencies, about colors, watching your brows furrow in concentrated focus. He had actually had a good time.

A genuinely good time.

And then the arrangement had shifted in the backseat—he had made you finish, and he had liked that. He had liked the control, liked the raw, unedited way you took it from him. For those fleeting, chaotic minutes, he hadn't thought about his life once. Not about his father, not about the  anniversary, not about the suffocating silence waiting for him at home.

It had all been replaced by you.

Your lips. Your eyes. Your hands.

Your voice. Your smell. Your damned shampoo.

Fucking gardenia.

"Kook? You still with me?" Taehyung asked quietly, his hands resting steady on Jeongguk's shoulders, waiting for the signal to clear.

"Gardenia," Jeongguk muttered into the hollow space between them, the word slipping past his cracked lips before he could throw up a firewall to stop it.

Taehyung went entirely still. He pulled back just an inch, his brow furrowing in deep confusion as he looked down at his broken friend.

"What?" Taehyung asked, his voice careful, trying to decode the sudden, bizarre shift in the data. "What did you say?"

"Gardenia," Jeongguk repeated, his voice dropping into a flat, exhausted drone. The word tasted heavy, like lead on his tongue, but now that the seal was broken, he couldn't pull the data back inside.

Taehyung's grip on his shoulders tightened slightly as he tried to parse the sudden pivot. "Your mom's flowers?" he asked, his voice cautious, mapping out the memory. "The ones who were by the porch? What about them, Kook?"

Jeongguk shook his head against Taehyung's chest, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes as the slate gray in his vision began to settle into a static, heavy fog. "Not them."

"Then what?" Taehyung pressed, his tone shifting from  worry to confusion.

"Shampoo," Jeongguk muttered.

Taehyung let out a breathy, bewildered laugh, pulling back entirely to look at Jeongguk's face. He scanned his friend's bloodshot eyes, utterly baffled by the sudden malfunction in the conversation. "You're losing me, Kook. I'm gonna need a few more details here. What the hell does shampoo have to do with a panic attack in my studio?"

Jeongguk stared at the floor, his jaw tight as he felt the final firewall crumble, exposing the exact variable that had caused the entire system to overload. He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to admit how deeply the frequency had breached his defense layers, but he was too tired to keep playing dumb.

"Y/N," Jeongguk whispered.

thank you so much!!😭🤍 i love my stupid chaotic second born baby.

thank you for the compliment angel!! <3

i think the people have spoken and a third part it is—the final act hehe (you bet your little ass i’ll make it worth your while)

ahhh they do!!😭😭

their dynamic is so fun and delicious to play with. truth be told, i never intended for this to become a full story—it was honestly just a horny thought in two parts because y'all demanded it. (self indulge is a bitch because i, too, enjoyed writing that)

but i love pleasing you guys, so if you really want a full series i'll try to deliver, no promises however. (keep in mind my other two current ongoing fics have priority!).

↳summary: you’re in his city now. an extra night booked in seoul just to see what happens when the fragile boundaries of your arrangement collapse. playing a dangerous game of chicken with jimin in a high-end gangnam lounge ends exactly where you secretly wanted it to: pinned against his entryway wall, stripped of your pride, and entirely at his mercy. continuation of: busan nights.

↳fwb!au;

↳pairing: jimin x f!reader

↳warnings: pure shameless smut. expect heavy dirty talk, bruising wall pins, and a ruthless edging game designed to completely break your bratty facade. he’s feral, he’s going in raw, and he’s out to violently prove a point. jimin is unapologetically possessive and deeply smug in this one, so brace yourselves.

↳word count: 8.4k

part one: here

a/n: as promised, i came back with part 2 because y'all nasty monsters begged for one. was this longer than part 1? yes. i totally self-indulged with this. careful what you wish for because i put my whole writing-ussy into making this good for you ;) i honestly didn't think i'd be returning to this universe, but seeing how feral everyone went for the first part left me with no choice. i needed to give you the raw, unfiltered aftermath of what happens when you push him a little too far in a crowded bar. you wanted possessive, unhinged jimin on his home turf? you got him. hope your standards survive this because he definitely didn't hold back. enjoy the filth, angels!

ONE SHOT

STARRING JIMIN

Two months. Two agonizingly dry months, and approximately seven excruciating first dates with other men since Park Jimin practically tore your kitchen apart.

Out of those seven, only one had actually ended up in your bed. It hadn't been bad, objectively speaking. The guy had been polite, attentive, and mechanically proficient—but he wasn't Jimin. He didn't turn your blood to liquid lead, he didn't taste like sweetness and dark arrogance, and he certainly didn't make you want to wreck a room. It was like drinking tap water when you were craving whiskey.

But now, you were finally in Seoul. Your friend Yuna had dragged you up from Busan for her birthday party—nothing overly fancy, just a loud, alcohol-fueled weekend with the girls. But instead of heading back with the rest of the group, you’d booked an extra night at a boutique hotel under the guise of wanting to "explore the city" on your own.

The truth? You were restless. And the Busan air was getting a little too small for the itch you needed to scratch.

So, after bidding the birthday crew goodbye, you dress to kill—the kind of outfit that demands an audience—and head out into the neon-soaked streets of Gangnam. You track down a sleek, dimly lit lounge bar tucked away behind a wall of frosted glass. The bass is a heavy, rhythmic thrumming against your ribs, and the air smells like expensive perfume and expensive mistakes.

You slide onto a leather barstool, ordering a drink that costs entirely too much, and tilt your chin up to survey the room. It’s time to fish for some premium Capital of Korea eye candy. If Jimin thought he was the only wolf in this city, he had another thing coming. You're going to find someone to make you forget the sound of his satoori, even if it takes you all night.

The bartender slides a crystal tumbler across the marble counter, the amber liquid swirling around a single, perfectly carved sphere of ice. You take a slow, deliberate sip, letting the burning sweetness coat your throat while your eyes roam the room.

Holy shit. The sheer concentration of eligible bachelors in this place tonight is downright criminal.

Back in Busan, the scene is predictable, but here? It’s like a completely different ecosystem. Everywhere you look, there are men who look like they walked straight out of a luxury editorial. Sharp, tailored shoulders, crisp white collars unbuttoned just low enough to be dangerous, and Rolexes catching the strobe lights every time they reach for a glass. They all carry themselves with that distinct, untouchable Seoul arrogance—dressed like they matter. And in a neighborhood like this, they probably do. Venture capitalists, tech heirs, high-end lawyers—take your pick.

You lean back against the bar, crossing one leg over the other, letting the slit in your skirt do a little bit of the talking. It doesn’t take long to lock eyes with a tall, sharp-jawed guy sitting at a VIP table across the floor. He has his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a smirk playing on his lips as he raises his glass in your direction. You hold his gaze, giving him a slow, smoky smile before looking away.

Eye-flirting 101.

It’s effortless, and the immediate rush of validation hits your bloodstream faster than the alcohol.

You take another sip of your drink, a sudden thought crossing your mind that makes you huff a bitter laugh into your glass.

You know exactly why. Because your taste has been thoroughly ruined. You didn't come to Hongdae to split a pitcher of cheap beer with university students; your subconscious had dragged you straight to the most exclusive, high-friction lounge in the city because you were looking for a specific caliber of trouble. You wanted the heavy silver rings, the bespoke coats, the utter ruthlessness. You wanted a distraction that could actually measure up.

As the tall guy from the VIP table stands up, buttoning his blazer as he starts making his way through the crowd toward your barstool, your heart gives a tiny, anticipatory thud.

Perfect, you think, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. Let's see if the capital can deliver.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks, his voice a smooth, low baritone that practically sounds like it was synthesized for a radio station. He motions to the empty barstool next to yours, already stepping into your personal space.

"Depends," you say, tilting your head up to look at him, keeping your voice cool and teasing. "Are you going to make me regret saying no?"

He lets out a soft, amused chuckle, sliding onto the stool. He rests one elbow on the marble counter, and that’s when you see them. Holy shit.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that look like they were sculpted out of marble—veins tracking perfectly over lean, hard muscle. He looks like he spends his weekdays closing corporate mergers and his weekends rowing crew.

"I don't think I could make you regret anything you didn't want to do," he says, his eyes dipping down to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. "I'm Min-Woo. And you look like you're far too dangerous to be drinking alone in a place like this."

It’s a bit corny. A little too polished, a little too rehearsed. A part of you wants to roll your eyes and tell him his opening line needs a rewrite, but then his forearm flexes as he signals the bartender, and you decide you can let the corniness pass. Capital eye candy has its perks.

"Dangerous?" you echo, a jagged little smirk playing on your lips as you lean in just an inch closer. "I'm just a tourist enjoying the scenery. Though I have to admit, the scenery in Gangnam is a lot more attentive than back home."

"A tourist?" Min-Woo leans in too, the scent of his expensive cologne—something woody and sharp—crowding out the smell of the lounge. "Then I guess it’s my civic duty to ensure you get the absolute best hospitality Seoul has to offer. What are we drinking?"

"Something expensive," you reply smoothly, tapping the rim of your empty glass. "Since you're buying."

"A girl who knows exactly what she wants," he murmurs, his smile turning a bit more predatory as he orders a round of top-shelf whiskey for the both of you. He turns back to you, his hand resting on the bar just inches from your knee, those forearms completely on display. "Tell me, tourist... what else do you want tonight? Because I’m very good at delivering."

You hum.

"You know, for a tourist, you seem remarkably unbothered by how intense this city can get," Min-Woo murmurs, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate circle on the marble counter, stopping just shy of touching your hand.

"Maybe I like the intensity," you reply, holding his gaze over the rim of your fresh glass. "Or maybe I’m just waiting to see if Seoul can actually keep up with me."

Min-Woo’s smirk widens, his eyes darkening with appreciation. "Trust me. I can keep up. In fact, I usually lead."

It’s an entirely different flavor of arrogance than what you’re used to—cleaner, more calculated. And as you look at him, you start to rationalize the whole thing. Maybe you were just a woman in heat. Two months of starvation will do that to a person. Maybe you didn't just want a distraction tonight; maybe you wanted to be the one who calls the shots this time.

You wanted to be the one who pulls up to a penthouse in the dead of the night. “I’m in your city” would look incredibly good on your tongue, a sharp pivot from being the one caught off guard. You could control the narrative here.

Besides, the eye candy is absolutely eye candying tonight. Min-Woo leans a fraction closer, his sculpted forearm brushing against your bare knee, and a traitorous shiver runs straight up your spine.

What you completely fail to take into account, however, is the trail of digital breadcrumbs you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours dropping.

You’d been careful—or so you thought.

A few chaotic videos from Yuna’s party? Check.

A standard, lethal outfit-check in the hotel mirror before heading out? Double check.

A aesthetic, dimly lit photo of your crystal glass against the distinct marble of the lounge bar you’re currently sat at? Triple check.

To anyone else, it’s just a standard weekend itinerary.

But to a man who knows the layout of Gangnam like the back of his hand, a man who has spent the last eight weeks nursing a silent, volatile grudge, that final photo is a glaring, neon-lit map with a bulls-eye painted right over your seat.

"So," Min-Woo says, his voice dropping into a husky, confidential whisper as he screens you from the rest of the crowded room. "My place is only three blocks away. It has a much better view of the skyline than this place. What do you say we get out of here?"

"Not yet," you say, tilting your head and letting a slow, taunting smile spread across your lips. "We should talk a little more first."

You don’t want to seem too eager, even if the visual of those forearms is doing dangerous things to your resolve. You like the chase, and more importantly, you like being the one holding the leash.

"Are you married?" you ask smoothly, swirling the ice in your glass. You pose it casually, but it’s a necessary screening process. Just crossing out the possibility of being a homewrecker tonight. You're being horny, sure, but you're being horny with class.

Min-Woo throws his head back and laughs, the tailored fabric of his blazer straining against his shoulders. "Married? Please. I'm entirely single, sweetheart. And even if I weren't, a man would have to be an absolute fool to let a wedding ring stand between him and a girl like you tonight."

It’s an incredibly corny line. It’s so rehearsed, so dripping in that slick, try-hard Gangnam charm that it practically leaves a greasy residue in the air. You open your mouth, ready to give him a sharp, witty retort to keep him on his toes—

But before the words can leave your tongue, a deep, raspy chuckle cuts through the bass of the lounge right behind you.

Your entire body freezes. Your blood turns to liquid ice in a millisecond, the hairs on the back of your neck standing completely on end.

Problem is, you know that chuckle. You know it intimately. It’s a low, predatory vibration that usually echoes against the cold marble of your kitchen counters or directly into the shell of your ear. It’s a sound strictly tied to a man who wears heavy silver rings, sharp Chelsea boots, and somehow knows the absolute ins and outs of your body better than you do.

Jimin.

"Is that how you try to bring a woman home in the capital?" a voice rasps, the thick, unbothered slide of a Busan satoori slicing right through the ambient noise of the high-end bar. "Because where I'm from, that line wouldn't even buy you a drink."

You turn slowly on your barstool, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Standing right there, crowding into your space and completely eclipsing Min-Woo, is Park Jimin.

He’s dressed in a dark, tailored coat, his hair slightly unkempt like he’d driven here with the windows down, and his hands are buried deep in his pockets. His eyes aren't even looking at the man next to you; they are locked directly onto yours, burning with a volatile, heavy intensity that tells you he saw your story—and he’s been hunting you down for the last hour.

Min-Woo starts to say something, his smooth baritone shifting into a defensive, offended tone as he tries to assert his territory. Sadly for him, you aren't paying a single shred of attention. His words just turn into background noise, completely drowned out by the static roaring in your ears.

Like a compass automatically pointing north, your eyes find Jimin’s and stay there, completely locked in.

And god dammit, he looks good. Too good. It’s entirely unfair. He’s dressed like he belongs in the VIP section of a much darker, much more exclusive club, and the low amber lighting of the lounge catches the sharp angle of his jaw and the messy fringe falling into his eyes.

Your damned fuck buddy.

Your absolute Achilles' heel, standing right here in the middle of Gangnam after two months of radio silence.

He steps closer, his heavy presence completely shoving Min-Woo out of the frame without him even having to make physical contact. He tilts his head, a slow, dangerous smirk playing on his lips as his hands remain buried deep in his pockets.

"Hi, doll," he murmurs, his satoori a gritty contrast to the polished room. "Two months. No text, no nothing? You just roll into my city and think you can sit here unbothered?"

Somehow, Min-Woo actually picks up on the sheer, suffocating density of the tension radiating between the two of you. Thank God the man has some survival instincts. He looks at Jimin, looks at the way you’re staring at Jimin like he’s the only person in the room, and realizes he’s entirely out of his depth. Without another word, he mutters something about getting another drink and disappears into the crowded floor, leaving his half-empty whiskey behind.

Jimin watches him go out of the corner of his eye, the smirk on his face growing a little more arrogant. Then, he steps into the space Min-Woo just vacated, his thighs practically brushing against your bare knee where your skirt is split.

"So," Jimin rasps, leaning down so his face is inches from yours, the scent of his familiar, sweet cologne hitting you like a physical wave. "Who was the suit? You really came all the way to Seoul just to let some corny bastard buy you a mid-shelf drink?"

“I was just exploring Seoul," you say, lifting your chin and meeting his gaze head-on. You refuse to let him see how much his sudden appearance has completely wrecked your nervous system. You take a slow, deliberate sip of your whiskey, trying to look entirely unbothered.

Jimin lets out another low, raspy chuckle, his eyes dipping down to the slit in your skirt before snapping back up to lock onto yours. "You weren't exploring Seoul, doll. You were exploring the men in Seoul."

You don’t disagree. In fact, you let a slow, provocative smirk spread across your lips as you set your glass back down on the marble counter. There’s no point in lying to him; he knows you too well, and besides, the sudden spike of possessive anger rolling off him is far too satisfying to extinguish. "A girl’s got to pass the time somehow, Jimin. It’s a big city. Lots of options."

His jaw tightens, a hard muscle leaping in his cheek as he steps even closer, completely crowding you against the bar. His heavy coat brushes against your bare arms, trapping your heat between his body and the cold marble.

"I could've showed you the city if you’d just texted me," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, the gritty slide of his satoori turning the offer into something incredibly heavy. "You didn't have to go fishing for second-rate capital eye candy."

You scoff softly, leaning back just an inch to survey the wicked, handsome lines of his face. "Please. If I had texted you, you wouldn't have showed me the city. You would’ve just showed me the inside of your apartment."

Jimin’s eyes blow out, a dark, wicked delight instantly replacing the anger in his gaze. He leans down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, mocking purr that vibrates straight down your spine.

"Aw, doll," he teases, the sheer arrogance dripping from his tongue. "You say that like it's a bad thing. What, you don’t wanna see it?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, a slow, predatory smile stretching across his lips. He takes one hand out of his pocket, the heavy silver rings catching the amber light of the lounge as his thumb deliberately catches your bottom lip, dragging it down just a fraction—the exact same gesture from two months ago that preceded your complete undoing.

“I’ve got a great view from the top floor," he whispers, his thumb pressing a little harder against your skin, forcing your mouth to part. "A lot better than the one that suit was offering you.”

“What, no city girl tonight?" you challenge, your voice a sultry murmur despite the way your pulse is hammering against your ribs. You tilt your face up, defying the heavy pressure of his thumb on your lip. "I figured you’d have a rotating roster of Seoul girls keeping you company for the last two months. Why are you wasting your time tracking me down?"

Jimin’s eyes darken, the predatory smirk on his lips softening into something far more dangerous, far more deliberate. He leans in closer, his dark coat screening the two of you off from the entire lounge, creating a private, suffocating bubble of heat.

"You're my city girl," he rasps, his satoori thick and honeyed as he lets his thumb trace the soft curve of your lower lip. "You've been my city girl. Do you really think any of these local girls could make me drive half-mad across Gangnam on a weeknight just from a single picture?"

A breathy, skeptical laugh escapes you. "You're lying."

Jimin smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips that shows a hint of teeth. He doesn't look guilty in the slightest. "Not entirely. Maybe a little. But you're definitely my favorite girl."

The sheer, casual arrogance of it makes something twist in your chest. His favorite girl. The implication that there are others—even if he's just saying it to get under your skin, to keep the upper hand in this twisted game you play—makes your mouth drop open into a near pout, irritation flaring up right alongside the heat in your veins. You want to snap at him, want to push his heavy shoulder back and tell him to go find one of his other girls—

But before you can even utter a word of protest, Jimin’s hand drops from your face and slides straight down. His fingers, heavy with those cold silver rings, find the high slit of your skirt and slide right past the fabric, his palm settling flat against the bare, burning skin of your upper thigh.

Your breath hitches, the sudden contact making your thighs twitch instinctively against his grip. He squeezes, his thumb digging into your flesh with a possessive, grounding pressure that tells you exactly who is in control here.

"Don't act coy now, doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, mocking vibration against your ear as his hand rides an inch higher up your thigh, his fingers dangerously close to the edge of your lace panties. "You were just eye-flirting with a suit warrior two minutes ago, ready to let him take you back to his place. Don't play the innocent victim with me when you're the one who came to my city looking to get ruined."

“I didn't come here to get anything," you lie, your voice a little breathier than you intend it to be as his fingers dig into the bare skin of your thigh. You try to hold your ground, looking at him with all the defiance you can muster while your body is practically melting under his touch.

Jimin lets out a soft gasp, his expression shifting into a mask of exaggerated, fake surprise. "Really?" he murmurs, his eyes glittering with absolute amusement. "Because I could've sworn you’re itching for me to invite you over."

Of course you thought about it. You’re thinking about it right now. The rationalization you did earlier about being a woman in heat? A complete cover-up. The actual, irritating reason you booked that extra night in Seoul? Maybe it had to do with him. Maybe a little, tiny, microscopic maybe. You wanted the chaos. You wanted the specific way he looks down at you when he’s taking what he wants.

And looking at him now—the silver rings, the messy hair, the unbothered Busan satoori completely dominating this high-end Gangnam space—you suddenly lose all interest in playing the long game. Two months was long enough.

Fuck it. Seriously, fuck it. You’re a grown woman, you’re in his city, and you're going to get exactly what you want. Why the hell not?

You slide off the barstool, deliberately brushing your body against his chest as you stand up. You smooth down the front of your skirt, swaying your hips in a slow, provocative rhythm right in front of him, letting him watch exactly what he's been missing.

Jimin stays seated on the stool, his hands resting on his own thighs now, his head tilted back as his dark eyes track every single inch of your movement. He looks entirely captivated, a heavy, dark look settling over his face.

You look down at him, crossing your arms. "So?"

He raises an eyebrow, his voice dropping into a lazy, raspy hum. "What?"

"Where did you park?" you ask smoothly.

Jimin lets out a sharp, surprised breath that’s half a laugh, his eyes narrowing as he looks you up and down. "What are you doing, doll?"

You lean in just close enough for him to catch the scent of your perfume one last time before you turn toward the exit. "Inviting myself over."

The ride to his place is a complete, agonizing blur. You sat in the passenger seat of his car, the neon lights of Seoul smearing across the window as he tore through the gridlock, his hand resting heavy and hot on your bare thigh the entire time. You were practically twitching in your own skin with anticipation, the silence in the car so thick with friction that you could barely breathe.

By the time the elevator doors ding open on his floor, the restraint is entirely gone.

You didn't even have time to take in the apartment. You didn't see the skyline view he bragged about, the expensive furniture, or the layout. The moment the front door clicks shut behind you, locking out the rest of the city, Jimin lunges at you.

It is an insane, violent jump from the cold tension of the car to the raw, predatory hunger of his mouth on yours.

He slams you back against the entryway wall, the back of your head hitting the smooth surface with a dull thud that you barely feel because his body is instantly pinning you there. He doesn't give you a second to adjust. His hands grip your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks to force your mouth wide open as he devours you, his tongue sliding deep and territorial.

You let out a broken, high-pitched whimper directly into his mouth, your hands instantly flying to his chest, bunching the fabric of his dark coat just to stay upright. Your knees feel like they’re about to buckle under the sheer, sudden weight of his desire. He’s kissing you hungrily, desperately, his hips crowding directly into yours until you can feel the hard, rigid length of him pressing through his trousers straight against your lower belly.

He groans into the kiss, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction that vibrates against your teeth. After two months of starvation, the floodgates haven't just opened—they've been completely ripped off their hinges.

"I missed you," Jimin gasps against your lips, the confession sounding more like a curse than a sweet sentiment. He doesn't give you time to process it before his mouth is moving again, desperate and frantic, trailing a path of fire down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck. "Fuck, I missed you, doll."

He bites down lightly on the junction where your neck meets your shoulder, making you arch into him with a breathless gasp. His hands fly down your body, mapping out your curves with a frantic, possessive energy until his palms cup your breasts over the material of your top. He squeezes, intending to bruise, but the moment his fingers register the soft, unimpeded shape of you, he freezes for a fraction of a second. A low groan of sheer frustration and desire tears from his throat, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

"You didn't wear a bra," he winces, his voice raw and strained, his fingers twitching against your chest. "You walked around that fucking lounge with everyone looking at you, and you didn't even—"

"Maybe I wanted to give the Seoul boys a proper welcome," you retort, your voice dripping with bratty defiance despite how hard your chest is heaving. You tilt your head back against the wall, a breathless smirk on your face. "Besides, it's easier access. You should be thanking me."

Jimin lets out a dark, dangerous chuckle that vibrates against your skin. "Thanking you? You really are a menace."

Before the words can fully leave his mouth, his grip shifts. In one fluid, brutal movement, he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Suddenly, your nose is nearly brushing the smooth, cool surface of his entryway wall. Your hands fly out instinctively to steady yourself against it. Jimin steps in right behind you, his heavy chest pressing flat against your back, completely trapping you. He reaches down, his heavy silver rings catching on the hem of your skirt as he hitches the fabric up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs and your panties to the cool air of the apartment.

His large palm settles over the bare flesh of your hip, his fingers digging deep into your skin, leaving red marks that you know will bruise by morning.

"Repeat what you just said," he orders, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly command right next to your ear. His breath is hot, contrasting sharply with the cold wall against your palms. "Say it again, doll. Tell me who you wanted to welcome tonight."

You swallow hard, your fingers flexing against the wall, but you refuse to back down. You tilt your chin up, your sassing instinct overriding your survival instinct. "I said... I wanted to give the Seoul boys a proper—"

Smack.

The sharp, stinging crack of his palm connecting with your bare ass cheek echoes through the quiet entryway.

A loud, unbidden moan tears from your throat, your hips arching back into his front automatically from the sudden shock of pain and pleasure. The sting flares across your skin, immediately turning into a deep, throbbing heat that pools straight between your thighs

“You've been so fucking annoying tonight, doll," Jimin rumbles against your ear, his chest vibrating against your back. He presses his weight fully into you, pinning you flat against the wall while his hand remains heavy and possessive on your hip. "Sitting there, letting that walking suit breathe your air. He had a bad haircut, too. Terrible."

The smirk in his tone is blindingly obvious. He’s completely pleased with himself for chasing the guy off, dripping in that absolute, undisputed confidence.

You huff out a breathless, shaky laugh, your fingers digging into the smooth plaster of the wall to keep your balance. "He was nice, Jimin. Polite. And those forearms were definitely doing something right."

Jimin’s grip on your hip instantly tightens, his fingers bruising your skin. He leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper. "Do you think he would've touched you like this? Do you think a polite Seoul boy would have the guts to put his hands on you the way I do?"

The sheer heat rolling off him is intoxicating, but you can’t help yourself. You want to push him further. You want to see exactly how much of a monster you can wake up after two months of starvation.

"Probably," you gasp out, tilting your head back to look at him over your shoulder with a hooded, provocative gaze. "He seemed pretty eager to show me his house. I'm sure he would've figured it out."

Smack.

The second slap is even harder than the first, the sharp crack echoing loudly in the narrow hallway.

A loud, broken moan spills out of you, your eyes fluttering shut as your head drops forward against the wall. The sting is immediate and blinding, a gorgeous, pulsing bloom of heat that spreads straight down to your core. The slick, heavy pool between your thighs grows instantly wider, your lace panties soaking through from the sheer, overwhelming rush of arousal. Your knees tremble violently, and you're entirely dependent on his heavy frame pinning you up.

"Keep talking," Jimin growls, his hand immediately settling back over the throbbing, red skin of your ass cheek, his thumb dragging across the heat of it. He presses his hips firmly against yours, letting you feel the thick, rigid length of him twitching against your backside. "Keep telling me about what he would’ve done, doll. See what happens to you tonight."

“He would’ve taken his time," you whimper out, your voice cracking as the throbbing heat on your skin makes your head spin. You’re completely intoxicated by the friction, desperate to see how much further you can stretch his control. "He wouldn’t have... he wouldn't have been so rough."

"Is that right?" Jimin’s voice is practically a growl now, the final thread of his restraint snapping loud and clear in the quiet apartment.

Before you can even breathe in to reply, his hands slide down from your waist to grab the undersides of your thighs. With a sudden, explosive burst of strength, he physically hoists you up off the floor. You let out a sharp cry of surprise, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carries you down the dark hallway, his steps heavy and deliberate. He doesn't even look at the city skyline outside his floor-to-ceiling windows; his eyes are fixed entirely on your face, dark and completely feral.

He marches straight into the bedroom and throws you onto the mattress. The impact sends a shockwave of adrenaline through your system, your hair splaying across the dark sheets as you look up at him, breathless and completely open.

In one fluid, ruthless motion, Jimin lunges over you. His hands catch the waistband of your lace panties and drag them down your legs in a single, rough tug, flinging them aside.

He hovers over you, his chest heaving, his eyes tracking the slick, glistening warmth between your thighs. He reaches down, picking up the discarded lace, and for a second, he just stares at it. Then, with a low, ragged exhale, he brings the fabric right to his nose, inhaling deeply. He sniffs them, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second as the scent of you—heavy, sweet, and completely ruined for him—hits his system like a physical drug.

He’s completely intoxicated. He looks back down at you, his jaw tight, eyes glittering with a dangerous, competitive edge.

He has something to prove now. He needs to erase every single thought of those seven dates, every single thought of the suit from the bar, and firmly re-establish himself as the only man who matters.

“Rough?" he repeats, a wicked, dark smirk slicing across his face as he unbuttons his trousers, the heavy silver rings on his fingers catching the low light of the bedroom. "Doll, you haven't even seen rough yet. Let's see how much you miss that polite little suit when I'm done with you."

He drops the lace to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours as he slides down the length of your body. His large hands bracket your knees, pushing them wide apart, exposing you completely to the cool air of the room and the heavy, heated weight of his gaze.

But instead of the brutal rush you expect, Jimin shifts. The sudden change in tempo is agonizing.

He starts kissing your thighs. Slow, deliberately soft, agonizingly teasing kisses that press against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His mouth moves higher and higher, his breath ghosting over your skin, making you shiver and arch off the mattress. He’s deliberately avoiding the center of the heat, making you writhe beneath him as he tortures you with his lips, moving from one thigh to the other until you're practically begging for the contact.

Then, he stops. He hovers right between your knees, looking down at your wet, glistening center for a heavy, silent beat. He takes in the sight of how ruined you already are for him, his jaw tightening.

And then he lunges.

All the teasing restraint evaporates in a fraction of a second. He buries his face in you, lapping at you like a fucking dog, his tongue broad and completely uninhibited as he drinks you in. He finds your clit with terrifying accuracy, capturing the swollen bud between his lips and sucking on it with a heavy, rhythmic pressure that sends a violent jolt of electricity straight to your spine.

"Jimin—oh god," you scream out, your voice breaking in the quiet bedroom.

Your hands immediately fly to his head, your fingers tangling deep into his messy hair. You aren't trying to push him away; your fingers flex, pulling him closer, anchoring him against you as your hips buckle completely off the bed. You try to grind your core directly against his mouth, desperate for more of that friction, more of that pressure. His nose presses hard against your sensitive skin, almost tickling you, his hot breaths fanning over your wet thighs as he ruthlessly devours you.

The coil in your belly, wound tight from two months of starvation and the sheer adrenaline of tonight, starts to bloom. It expands rapidly, a hot, tight pressure that radiates outward, paralyzing your muscles and making your toes curl into the sheets.

You’re almost there. Almost. Your hips twitch frantically, your breath hitching in your throat as you teeter right on the edge of the cliff, ready to shatter completely under the heavy suction of his mouth.

And then, he stops.

The sudden absence of his tongue is a physical shock. You let out a broken, frustrated whine, your hands gripping his hair tighter as you try to pull him back down, your body trembling with the unspent energy of a ruined climax.

But Jimin doesn't budge. He slowly lifts his face up from your core, hovering over your lap.

He looks completely undone, yet entirely in control. Your slick, glossy arousal coats his chin and the fullness of his lower lips, glistening under the dim light of the bedroom. He lets out a ragged exhale, his tongue slipping out to slowly lick a drop of your wetness from his top lip, his eyes fixed on your blown-out, desperate gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“Why..." you choke out, your voice cracking as your hips give a pathetic, involuntary twitch against the mattress. "Jimin, why did you stop?"

Jimin tilts his head, his face softening into a mask of mocking sympathy that makes you want to hit him. "Aw," he murmurs, his satoori thick and dripping with faux sweetness. "Did you want to cum, doll?"

You don't even try to play it cool anymore. You nod frantically, your fingers still knotted in his hair, your chest heaving as you look up at him with desperate, blown-out eyes. "Yes. Please."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, his thumb reaching down to smear a trail of your own slick across your hip. "I'll try again."

And he does. He dives back down, his tongue broad and heavy as he hits the exact same spot, his lips locking around your clit with the same devastating, rhythmic suction. The heat flares back up instantly, a violent wave that washes over you and builds even faster than before. You arch your back, your heels digging into the mattress as the fireworks start to gather at the base of your spine, ready to explode—

And he pulls away. Again.

You let out a harsh, frustrated gasp, your eyes snapping open. You almost yell at him, your voice tight with aggravation. "What the fuck, Jimin?! Stop doing that!"

"Aw, doll, I'm sorry," he purrs, leaning over you now, his arms bracketing your head as he looks down at you. The smirk on his face is entirely unrepentant, his lips still shiny with your arousal. "I guess I'm just a little out of practice after two months. Let me try one more time."

The third time is pure torture. He goes down on you with a feverish intensity that has you sobbing into the quiet room, your hands gripping his shoulders so hard your knuckles turn white. You are right there. The colors are flashing behind your eyelids, your inner muscles already starting to contract around the incoming orgasm—

And he drops you straight back to earth, lifting his head and leaving you cold, shivering, and completely unfulfilled.

A tear of pure frustration slips down your temple. You want to cry from the sheer, agonizing buildup, your entire body vibrating with tension.

Jimin slides up your body, his heavy frame settling between your thighs as he props himself up on his elbows. He looks down at your wrecked face, his eyes glittering with total triumph as he smirks. "What happened, doll? Do you really want to cum that bad?"

"Yes," you whimper, the word broken and breathless as you look up at him, completely stripped of all your bratty armor. "Yes, please, Jimin."

His smirk disappears, replaced by a dark, heavy look of absolute authority. He leans down until his lips are brushing against yours, his voice dropping into a gravelly, demanding command.

"Then fucking beg me for it," he rasps, his hand sliding down to firmly grip your throat, not cutting off your air but pinning you to the pillows. "Tell me exactly who owns this pussy, and beg me to let you cum."

He doesn't wait for you to hesitate. He drops back down between your thighs, the heat of his mouth pressing against your aching, hypersensitive center once more, but he doesn't stroke you yet. He just hovers there, his breath hot against your slick skin, waiting.

"Please, Jimin," you sob out, your hands instantly flying back to his hair, your knuckles white. "Please, just let me cum. I’m begging you."

He gives a tiny, agonizing flick of his tongue, and you completely break.

"Please, it's yours. It's only yours," you whimper, completely stripped of your pride, your hips lifting off the mattress in a pathetic, earnest plea. "Please, Jimin, I don't want anyone else. Just let me cum. Please."

Hearing those broken, desperate words—knowing he has completely erased every single trace of that lounge and every other man in this city from your mind—Jimin lets out a low, vibrating hum of absolute satisfaction. You can physically feel the shift in his jaw against your skin; he is smiling directly into your pussy, completely intoxicated by how utterly undone you are for him.

"Good doll," he growls against your wet flesh, the praise gritty and thick with his satoori.

And then, he finally gives you what you're begging for.

He attacks your clit with a ruthless, unrelenting pace, his tongue flattening out to lap at you heavily while his fingers slide inside you, stretching you open to match the devastating rhythm of his mouth. You keep begging, the breathless, pathetic whimpers still spilling from your lips as he drives you over the edge.

This time, there is no stopping.

The coil in your belly snaps. A violent, blinding orgasm washes over you, fracturing your vision into pure white light. Your back arches completely off the bed, a loud, shattered scream tearing from your throat as your internal muscles contract in desperate, tight pulses around his fingers. Finally. Pure, unadulterated bliss crashes through your nervous system, melting every single muscle in your body until you drop back into the mattress, shivering, spent, and entirely under his spell.

You’re still shivering, the aftershocks of the orgasm rolling through your thighs in heavy, electric waves, when Jimin suddenly moves. There’s no down-time. No gentle comedown. In one fluid, aggressive motion, he steps out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them onto the floor.

He hovers over your face, his shadow completely eclipsing you. "Open up, doll," he rasps, his voice rough and commanding.

And you do. Oh, you do. How could you not? Your mind is completely melted, your body acting on primal instinct. You look up at him, tracking the heavy, lethal length of him—thick, long, the angry red tip already leaking a heavy bead of precum that shines in the dim bedroom light. It’s entirely for you.

You part your lips, and he slides straight in, the thick heat of him filling your mouth entirely. You take him in, your throat clamping around his width as you wrap your tongue around the head, drawing a sharp, ragged hiss from his lungs. His hands find your hair again, fistfuls of it, guiding the pace as you suck him, the wet, sliding friction echoing in the quiet room.

Just as you're getting into a rhythm, he abruptly pulls out, the slick skin of his shaft snapping against your bottom lip. You look up at him, dazed, a string of saliva bridging the space between you.

"Give it a kiss," he murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on your mouth. "A sweet one, doll. Right on the head."

Fuck. It’s completely unfair how much power he holds over you. You lean up slightly, pressing a soft, lingering, impossibly sweet kiss right against the leaking tip of his length.

Jimin lets out a guttural groan, his hips giving a heavy twitch against your face. Before he can lose his mind completely, you wrap your lips around him again, sucking him deeper this time, using your hands to stroke the base. He’s groaning and moaning now, his composure completely fracturing under the onslaught of your mouth. His satoori bleeds into his swears, filthy and desperate, until he can’t take it for another second.

He grips your shoulders and forcefully pushes you flat onto your back. He climbs over you, his heavy thighs framing your hips as he reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his silver rings clinking loudly against the wood as he fumbles for a condom wrapper.

“Don't," you breathe out, your hands flying to his wrists to stop him. You look up at him, your chest heaving, your core aching for the weight of him. "Don't use it. I want it raw."

Jimin freezes, his hand hovering over the drawer. His dark eyes snap down to yours, blowing out completely as he processes the words. The sheer, volatile possessiveness in his gaze doubles, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek.

“Are you sure, doll?" he rasps, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight whisper. "Because if I go in like that, you’re taking all of me tonight."

You don't even hesitate. You nod, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling his hips flush against your soaking, desperate center.

Jimin lets out a harsh, jagged breath, dropping the wrapper back onto the nightstand. He doesn’t wait a single second to let you change your mind. He realigns himself between your thighs, the blunt, burning head of his shaft pressing directly against your soaking, over-sensitized entrance.

With one heavy, unyielding thrust of his hips, he drives himself completely inside you.

"Ah!" a shattered cry tears from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as your body stretches to accommodate his thick, raw width. He is so deep you can feel the heavy thump of his pelvic bone hitting yours, a total and complete invasion that leaves you breathless.

He freezes for a beat, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he lets out a long, guttural groan, his internal muscles clenching hard around him. "Fuck, doll," he rasps, his satoori thick and entirely undone. "You’re so tight. Fucking hell."

Then, he starts to move. And he fucks you good—so good it makes your mind go completely blank.

He establishes a brutal, relentless rhythm, his hips pounding into yours with an unbothered, predatory force. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, and devastating. But he isn’t just mindlessly driving into you; he leans his weight forward, using his thumb to circle and press against your swollen clit with every single down-stroke. The combination of the heavy, raw friction inside you and the sharp, rhythmic pressure on the outside sends a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your brain.

You’re sobbing into the pillows, your hands gripping his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin just to survive the onslaught.

"Look at me," Jimin commands, his voice a dark, gravelly rumble as he keeps pounding into you, never breaking the rhythm. You force your heavy eyelids open, meeting his hooded, feral gaze. "Look at how good you're taking me. Look at how much you needed this."

He doesn't stop narrating, his unfiltered thoughts spilling out into the quiet room as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. "You’re the best pussy ever, you know that? No one else comes close. Fucking gorgeous, doll. So wet for me."

The filthy praise is too much. You let out a broken, high-pitched whine, your hips helplessly rolling against his to meet every thrust.

Groaning, Jimin shoves his thumb straight into your mouth, hooking it over your bottom row of teeth. He uses it to hold your jaw open, drinking in the sight of your wrecked face while he continues to pant and swear above you, whispering filthy nothings against your lips. "Eat it up, doll. Take all of it. Tell me who you belong to."

You can’t hold it back for another second. The devastating combination of his heavy, raw thrusts, his thumb grinding against your clit, and the filthy, possessive praise entirely wrecks you.

The dam snaps, and you cum. Hard.

Your vision fractures into pure white light as a violent, crushing orgasm ripples through your entire body. Your internal walls contract frantically, pulsating around him like a fucking squeezer, gripping his thick shaft in desperate, tight, rhythmic waves that suck him even deeper inside you. A loud, shattered cry tears out of your mouth, around his thumb, your hips locking in place as you ride the blinding peak.

Jimin lets out a loud, guttural moan, his eyes blowing out completely as your walls clamp down on him like a vice. It’s too much; it completely shatters the last of his restraint.

He coaxes you through the climax, his voice a low, frantic rasp in your ear while his hips give a few final, heavy, trembling thrusts. "Fuck, you’re so good, doll. Take it, just like that. Squeeze me."

He is so incredibly close to the edge, his muscles locking up, his chest heaving violently against yours.

With a ragged, desperate growl, he grips your hips and yanks himself out of you.

The sudden friction makes you gasp, and a split second later, you feel it.

He lets out a loud, breathy groan as he releases, dripping heavy, hot cum all over your lower belly. The thick, scorching heat of it hits your skin in heavy bursts, painting your stomach and mixing with the sweat and slick of the night.

Jimin collapses over you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breathing slowly rattles in his chest. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your wet lip as he looks down at the mess he made on your skin.

"Fuck, you’re so hot," he pants, his voice completely raw, his dark eyes glittering with a mixture of exhaustion and absolute triumph. "Look at what you do to me."

You lie there for a long moment, your chest heaving as the room slowly stops spinning. The cooling contrast of the air against your stomach where his warmth is pooling finally brings you back to reality.

Jimin rolls off you, letting out a heavy, satisfied sigh as he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a soft, lazy smirk.

"You look completely wrecked, doll," he murmurs, his satoori coming out low and deeply satisfied.

"Whose fault is that?" you breathe out, your voice a tiny, gravelly thread. "You almost killed me."

"You're the one who wanted it raw," he chuckles, a glimmer of wicked pride in his eyes. "Can't blame a guy for delivering exactly what you begged for."

You swat weakly at his shoulder, but he just catches your hand, kissing the knuckles before sliding out of bed. "Hold on. Don't move."

He disappears into the master bathroom for a minute, the sound of running water echoing softly. When he comes back, he's holding a warm, damp washcloth. He climbs back onto the mattress, shifting his heavy frame between your legs again, but this time his movements are entirely different. He is incredibly gentle, carefully wiping the heavy, hot mess from your belly and your inner thighs, taking extra care to just lightly dab around your core so he doesn't overstimulate your hypersensitive skin any further.

You let out a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut under the soothing warmth.

"Are you hungry?" Jimin asks, tossing the cloth onto the nightstand and pulling the heavy duvet up over your shivering shoulders. "I can order something. Hanwoo beef, or maybe some soup?"

"No," you mumble, burying your face directly into his pillow, completely exhausted. "I'd rather sleep. I'm dead."

Jimin chuckles softly, the sound vibrating warm against your skin as he slides under the covers next to you. He loops a heavy arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, and presses a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Go to sleep then, doll," he whispers, his breath tickling your hair. "But you're not getting out of bed early tomorrow. And I'm actually going to show you some places around the city. Real ones."

A sleepy, sarcastic smile tugs at the corner of your lips. "Good. Because I didn't even see your apartment, you psycho."

i edit for my own fanfictions. enjoy.

i post the bulk of them over on tt (hyangsu.txt) but sometimes i choose to post them on here too.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Faux Colors

introductory

backstory

just them :( my babies

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Suits & Sigils