He Is The Love Of My Life 😍

Crush: On You

Word Count: 5.0K (ish)

Pairing: Namjoon x Y/n(Reader)

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Synopsis: Coming home from college for a few days you find more than family waiting.

Genres/ Content warnings/Themes: Friends to lovers (squint), college AU, Y/N, Drug use (smoking weed), crushes (pre-HS, HS and beyond), Yoongi is goofy in this one, nipple play, dirty talk, masturbation, semi-public play. 

Author’s note: For wifey ( @purgatorywriter​ ). It’s fine. We’re fine. We’re not suffering. 

Tag List: @bonvoyagenoona @shesoldbutcute @1995soulm8ts @playmetheclassics @skyys-universe @weirdgirls4eve-r @latenightsandbrightdyes @namaslaylife @m-yg93 @blushingatyou @dvalitaes 

“Coming home is supposed to be sweet. Fun.” You snapped fingers towards your friend and he glanced over. Lips pursed from his draw off the joint he’d expertly rolled, Yoongi stole a glance back to the patio door. 

The one you’d had the common sense to close. 

Just back then–Yoongi never seemed to remember that tiny detail. Smoke curled from the thin gap of his smiling lips. 

“It is. You’re making it tense. Fuck’s sake..” 

He coughed, face disappearing into a plume of skunk-scented smoke. You waved the fog away, with his confused efforts. He finally fixed you through teary eyes, smirk still there. 

“..You’re ruining my high.” 

You snatched the joint and brought it to your lips, sneering “Nice try. It takes like..5 minutes at best to hit. And you’re lucky I closed the patio door. I figured you remember to do that. It’s been long enough.” 

The hit was deep into your lungs and you held it until Yoongi jammed an elbow into your side and you barked in pain, then broke into a coughing fit. You wanted to belt him, and almost did when you stood upright again from being doubled over. 

You wiped the drool from your lips and stuck the point of one finger close to the end of his nose in warning. Not even his crossed eyes, vibrant blue against pale skin, managed to soothe your wrath. The tension didn’t help too–even if he was right. 

You couldn’t admit that.

Keep reading

Oooh this sounds very promising! Can’t wait to read what happens next!

Kaleidoscope | Red

↳ Musician!Namjoon x Artist!Reader ⤜ Neighbors, Mutual Pining, Artist Muse ⤜ Rating: MA | fluff, eventual smut ⤜ WC: 873 ⚠️ Crass language, secret personal pining, intimate personal thoughts about a stranger

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to series masterlist

Like the taut skin of the apple that snaps under his perfectly straight pearly teeth as he takes a bite. You try not to stare through the reflective surface of the metal wall, but it’s impossible as he brings the shiny, red fruit to his mouth to take another crisp chunk from the rounded side.

Your neighbor stands across from you in the tiny elevator that’ll take you up to the seventh floor, where your apartment door is just across from his. He’s lost in the music you can faintly hear carrying from his headphones and is oblivious to your unwavering attention.

Forbidden fruit, full of secrets that you want nothing more than to be privy to. That’s what he represents. A tantalizing, teasing morsel of the unknown that begs for your touch. At least, that’s how it is in the privacy of your own thoughts. You don’t even know his name. Just simply always think of him as Apartment A, the counterpart to your Apartment B on the seventh floor.

He moved in nearly two years ago, and you always meant to say hello, to introduce yourself. But, every time the opportunity arose, your tongue would thicken, and you’d find it impossible to form words around the offending muscle. So, it’s only been silence between the two of you with the occasional hospitable, cordial smile that everyone does to be polite when passing by strangers and unintentionally making eye contact.

Apartment A takes another bite of the apple. That’s three so far since you entered the elevator with him from the lobby of your apartment building. The steel carriage is slow, slower than it should be, but the super refuses to fix it until the thing breaks down completely. It lurches along, emitting a constant vibration under the worn soles of your ratty sneakers. They’re covered in splatters of paint, most dried, but some still shiny-wet against the black canvas from when you spent time in your studio this morning.

There is only one more floor to go. With that, you know you’ll only have a few seconds to continue admiring him before he disappears into his apartment, closing you off from learning more about who he really is and why you’re so enthralled with him.

You step closer to the elevator doors and, by proxy, closer to him. The sweet, floral scent of the apple reaches you. It’s involuntary, the way saliva pools under your tongue at the thought of taking your own bite. However, it’s not the red fruit that you imagine, but the pouty bottom lip of Apartment A.

The sudden jerk of the elevator stopping sends you stumbling forward a step, your palm instinctively catching on the button-laden wall beside the doors. Heat immediately crawls up your neck, replacing the momentary flare of self-indulgent fantasies. You throw a quick glance at him, more than sure you’re going to find his dark, quizzical eyes staring at you like you’re a spectacle.

Relief, mixed with an odd sense of disappointment, clouds into your mind when you see your stumble didn’t so much as register to him. He’s hyper-focused on the fruit in his hand, his lips silently moving as if singing along to whatever song is playing through his headphones. You might as well not exist.

As soon as the doors slide open, the squeal of the worn-out belt and pulley echoing through the small space, Apartment A steps out and continues the dozen paces to his door while you’re still trying to gather your wits against the elevator wall. The offending sound begins again as the doors try to squeeze shut before you can throw a hand out and halt them.

You scramble out, shoving the doors as they try to catch on your shoulders. “Fucking hell,” you grumble, the warmth of embarrassment quickly turning to burning irritation. It’s unlike you to get so caught up in your thoughts over Apartment A. It’s not fair. It’s all because of that damned fruit. If he weren’t eating it, the bright, ruby-colored skin practically screaming at you to pay attention, you’d not have gotten so distracted.

Red is still coloring your vision as you push into your apartment. Your shoes thud against the wall by the door as you kick them off, eyes honing in on the blank canvas waiting for you on the other side of your living room. What you do in your studio is for the eyes of the outside world, but what you create here—in the comfort of your own space—is completely and utterly for you. Which is why you let yourself indulge in him.

You know precisely what you’re going to paint. Arching strokes meet eager swipes—the gentle curve of a fruit, the solid straight lines of nimble fingers. Pouty lips and white teeth, the faintest hint of a wet tongue poised to accept the sweet nectar that waits hidden beneath the thin peel.

It’s comforting, getting lost in the process of recreating something with such intimate clarity. Channeling your emotions, whether that’s the unbidden lush fantasy of biting into Apartment A’s bottom lip or the self-critical chastisement laced with irritation for being so hung up on him, red flows across the canvas—glorious, wicked red.

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to series masterlist

◅ Back to Main Master List   ©️ 2023-09-07 ColorMePurplex2

Love

Namjoon is your ex-husband, the man who committed when he didn't really want to. So why is he still hanging around now that you're over?

Pairing: Namjoon x f!reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 2.2k

Genre: E2L

Warnings: Sex, mean Namjoon

Kim Namjoon thinks of himself as slow to react, more of an analytical overthinker than a knee-jerk reaction kind of guy.

But when he sees the man put his hand on his ex-wife’s shoulder, he’s stepped between them and steered her away without a second thought.

You look pretty with your hair down, he thinks to himself.

He doesn’t notice the way you’re frowning at him until you swat at his arm.

He realise he’s slipped it around your waist, holding you the way he always used to when you were married.

‘Mr Kim,’ you say, haughty, lifting your chin.

‘Why are you calling me that?’ he asks, hurt. ‘Joon-ah is just fine.’

‘I can’t call you Joon-ah,’ you reply. ‘That’s over familiar.’

Namjoon resists the very strong urge to remind you of all the times you’ve cried his name.

Joon. Joon-ah. Jagi. Baby.

You’re looking at him with a brow creased with concern. ‘Have you lost weight?’

‘Yes,’ he says, seeing an opportunity. ‘I don’t get your cooking anymore.’

‘Namjoon,’ you say, stern. ‘You can afford to eat anything you want.’

‘It doesn’t taste the same without you,’ Namjoon says. He flashes a dimple at you for good measure.

‘Stop trying to be cute,’ you chide. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

In all reality, Namjoon’s never thought of himself as cute, but you’ve always seemed to find him so.

He smiles, and he can see the corner of your mouth tugging upwards.

Then you sigh. ‘Come on then, let’s get you some food.’

Namjoon places a hand on your back as you leave the room together, enjoying the familiar feel of your back under his palm.

You arch a little, reminding him of a angry cat.

‘Namjoon,’ you say, warning.

‘Sorry baby,’ he murmurs, obedient. 

You look at him, eyebrow raised, and he grins at you, cheeky.

You laugh. ‘Namjoon. Stop.’

Namjoon knows he’s in then. It’s never that hard to work his way into your good books. 

***

The next morning he wakes to your naked back as you sit up. 

‘Hey,’ you say. 

He loves the warmth of your smile, especially when you’ve just woken up like this.

‘Hey,’ he says, shifting in the sheets, propping an arm behind his head.

He can see the way your eyes drop to his bicep.

‘I’ve been working out,’ he tells you.

You roll your eyes and get up, ignoring the way he’s openly ogling your ass.

Your back to him, you ask, ‘hey, want to get dinner later?’

Namjoon’s been watching you so closely he can see the way your whole body stills, just for a moment, as you wait for him to answer.

He doesn’t want to give you false hope. 

You’re exes for a reason.

‘That’s not a good idea,’ he says.

Your voice comes out smooth, assured. 

‘Of course,’ you say. 

You’re fully dressed now, slipping into the heels you were wearing last night, picking up your clutch.

You turn to him. 

‘See you around, Namjoon.’

Namjoon watches you walk to the door of the bedroom.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t get up to see you out.

You keep walking like you don’t expect him to.

***

The party Namjoon’s at is a drag, his date is beautiful but her friends are dull, uninteresting.

He’s considering pulling his date into a corner, a quiet alcove, a little light seduction, when you walk into the room.

You don’t see him at first, which is funny because he’s one of the tallest people in the room.

He drinks you in. You shine, you always have in his eyes, with the way you hold your head up, the way your eyes coolly survey the people around you. 

The dress you have on makes his pants feel tight at the crotch. 

You’re looking around, casual, and then your eyes meet his.

And freeze.

Namjoon drops the arm he’s still got loosely slung around his date.

The look in your eyes makes his heart squeeze. Then you look away, and when you meet his gaze again your expression is shuttered.

You wave a hand at him, casual, and turn to greet the couple who’ve approached you.

It’s a while before you’re unaccompanied.

Namjoon comes up to you, confident in the way he knows you find attractive.

You smile at him, cool, confident in your own way.

‘Nice dress,’ he says.

‘This old thing?’ you reply. You take a sip of wine, eye him over the glass.

‘Enjoying the party?’ Namjoon asks.

‘I am,’ you say. ‘You?’

‘More now,’ Namjoon says. 

He moves so he’s closer to you. He’s always liked the way you have to look up at him.

You’re not looking at him, though. You’re facing away, and Namjoon realises you’re looking at his date, coming towards the both of you.

Hye Mi’s no fool. She takes in the way he’s standing, turned towards you, and she smiles sweetly at him.

‘Shall we get going, Joon?’

Namjoon allows himself to be led away. He looks back at you once, and you’re staring down at your wine like it’s fascinating.

There’s something about the line of your shoulders that speaks of emotion, held back.

He thinks, not for the first time, how beautiful you are.

***

Namjoon’s at the gym working with his personal trainer, when he sees your familiar ponytail.

You’re running, facing out at the floor to ceiling windows, ponytail bouncing, expression determined.

Namjoon sees an opportunity when the machine next to yours frees up.

He gets on, catches the way you look over casually then freeze when you see him.

You smile and then turn to face forward again.

He’s a patient man. He runs alongside you, slow, until you stop your machine and get off.

You’re out of breath, sweating, hair sticking to your face.

You’re beautiful.

You say, casually, ‘See you, Namjoon.’

‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Want to get a drink?’

***

He ends up buying you a beer at the sports bar a block down from the gym because ‘one drink, somewhere close’ is all you’ll agree to.

You’ve changed into a hoodie, baggy sweats, tied your hair back loosely.

You eye him over your beer. ‘All good with you, Mr Kim?’

‘All good, Mrs Kim,’ he replies automatically, because it’s what he used to say to you.

Your mouth twists into a grimace.

‘Yeah sorry ex Mrs Kim.’

Namjoon’s irrationally annoyed with you, like how he felt in the final stretch of your failed marriage.

You’d acted like you couldn’t stand him, looking through him, acting like you and he were in a race to check out. 

One you were determined to win.

And now you’ve both lost. 

A part of him wants you to pine after him the way he pined after you. He’s still butthurt about it, so sue him.

Namjoon looks up at his name being called.

Hye Mi’s walking towards you both, a furrow between her brows that gives him a tingle of discomfiture. 

‘Hey,’ she says, voice sharp.

You look up, and Namjoon can see the way your back snaps straight.

‘What’s going on here, Namjoon?’ Hye Mi asks.

‘I’m having a drink with Y/N,’ Namjoon replies. He’s got just enough beer in him to not give a fuck about Hye Mi, he’s still got just enough residual anger with you to not care what you think, either.

Why does talking to you make him so angry sometimes?

‘You’re divorced, right?’

You look up, brow raised, that cold bitchy face on that makes Namjoon simultaneously aroused, scared and a tiny bit in love with you.

‘Yeah but we still fuck sometimes,’ you reply, brazen, shrugging with a calculated insouciance you only get when you’re angry. 

Namjoon’s been on the receiving end enough times to recognise it, now.

Hye Mi looks at him, like she’s waiting for him to speak up.

Namjoon can’t muster up anything better than, ‘yeah, we do.’

You snort, Namjoon laughs, and Hye Mi storms away.

You chug the last of your beer and get up. ‘You’re an ass,’ you tell him. ‘She’s not gonna fuck you again.’

Namjoon shrugs. ‘That’s what you said when I moved out,’ he reminds you.

You laugh quietly. ‘You’re an asshole, Namjoon, no wonder our marriage didn’t last.’

‘Wait,’ Namjoon calls after you, as you turn and step away. ‘Aren’t we going to?’

You give him a once over, from his scuffed sneakers to his loose sweats to the chain between his collarbones. 

‘Nah,’ you say. ‘I have plans.’

Namjoon watches you walk away.

***

Namjoon’s loading groceries into the back of his car when he sees you, walking briskly towards your car. 

You walk fast, always like you have somewhere to be. 

He’s about to call your name when you’re greeted by a tall man in a suit. 

The way his hand slips under your elbow, helping you reach up to press a kiss to his cheek, rankles Namjoon. 

It’s familiar, intimate. 

Namjoon calls your name anyway. 

You turn around, scanning for him. Namjoon notices then that you’ve got makeup on, that your hair is styled beautifully.

That the dress you’re wearing showcases your perfect ass the way it deserves to be shown.

You walk over, the tall man in tow.

Namjoon’s got no interest in a dick swinging contest when you spent the night riding his own dick two nights ago.

You’re introducing the tall man as Seojoon, and Namjoon works to hide the flicker of emotion across his face when you introduce him as Namjoon, your ex husband.

How well do you know this guy that you’re so open about the truth between you?

Seojoon nods very politely. ‘Shall we get going?’ He smiles at Namjoon, a clear dismissal, and Namjoon moves quickly. 

He says your name, locks eyes with Seojoon over your head as you turn to him.

You’re looking up at Namjoon, curious.

‘Let me know if you need me,’ Namjoon says quietly, leaning down to speak close to your ear.

‘I’ll be fine,’ you reply just as quietly.

Namjoon watches, jaw set, as Seojoon cups your elbow and leads you away.

***

The buzzing at his door is insistent, like someone’s jabbing erratically at the call button.

Namjoon already knows it’s you.

He pulls open the door, scoops you into his arms and tosses you on the couch.

You’re looking up at him, lips stained from red wine, hair falling over one eye.

Namjoon cups himself over his loose sweats.

‘Get on your knees,’ he says, voice thick from the sleep you pulled him out of.

You’re already sliding down to the floor, head in front of his crotch.

Namjoon weaves a hand into your hair, grips tight.

‘Come on, finish what you started,’ he says, harsh.

You haven’t done anything but look up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, and Namjoon’s cock is already filling out.

‘Didn’t he fuck you well enough?’ Namjoon jeers.

He pulls your face against his hardening cock. 

‘Why’d you come to me, ex-wife?’

‘I don’t know,’ you spit, defiant. 

It’d be more convincing if you weren’t already burying your face against his crotch, mouthing over his erect cock.

‘I know,’ Namjoon says, voice velvety as you tug down his sweats. His cock jumps out, pokes you in the face, and you moan like you can’t wait for it.

He grabs your hair, tugs you up, slaps your hand away from where you’re trying to grab him.

‘Because no one fucks you like I do,’ he tells you.

His voice is quiet but stark in the silence of his apartment.

He pushes your legs apart, enters you, and the breath you suck in sounds like a sob.

He doesn’t want to see your face right now.

Namjoon stares at a point in the wall as he begins to move, concentrates on how your cunt feels around him.

You’re so quiet he wants to check on you but he can’t. 

He doesn’t give a fuck but that’s not the whole story, because behind the wall he’s built he thinks that he still loves you so much he can’t face it.

And when you’re under him like this, the look in your eyes makes him want to cry.

Namjoon hisses because it’s snug, him being in you like this. He hits deep, rocking his hips against yours, stroking your clit until your breathing’s more of a steady pant against his neck.

‘Joon,’ you manage, high and sobbing, and Namjoon, against his better judgement, flicks his gaze to your face.

You’re beautiful, and he could fuck you forever if you’d let him.

‘Come on, come on,’ he grunts. He grasps your ass, pulls you against him, grinds his cock so deep he thinks he might pass out from the pleasure of it.

He thinks that your cunt pulsing around him is the single greatest sensation of his life.

‘Fuck,’ he groans. 

You’re milking the cum out of him, and Namjoon needs to give you all of it.

Fuck, he needs to give you everything.

There’s a beat of absolute stillness at the peak of his orgasm as the world stops. 

And then it all comes rushing back.

He floats for a while then, relishing the scent and feel of you.

Your voice sounds out in the darkness.

‘You’re right, Namjoon, no one fucks me like you do.’

Your voice is completely neutral, a cover for the shades of meaning underneath. 

‘I know, baby,’ Namjoon says. 

His tears mingle with yours.

He knows he should get up, but for now, he can’t seem to let you go. 

©hamsterclaw 2023

This is one of my most favorite stories that features 3 of my favorite Kim men! I love the world this author is creating and am so excited to read more!

A Map of Mrs. Kims | KSJ, KNJ, KTH

Pairings: Jin x female OCs, Namjoon x female OCs, Taehyung x female OCs (some POV shifts in drabbles and AUs)

Rating: Each chapter will have its own rating, but the story is a mix of PG-13 and 18 + | Mature | Explicit! 

read on ao3 | last updated: June 1

Synopsis: Mrs. Kim is tired of being accosted in the grocery store, at her art class, and even in the country club restroom about her three incredibly gorgeous but stubbornly single sons. So many women are vying for a spot on Jin, Namjoon, and Taehyung’s arms, but these three boys are dead set against settling down. Hopefully, Mrs. Kim’s trusty map of the city’s fourteen top bachelorettes will finally guide them to true love.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Kim line as brothers, slice of life, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, fluff, angst, and, of course, smut

Author’s Note: This is my love letter to our funny, sweet, and heartwarming ARMY, and it is particularly dedicated to all of you who have been so kind and generous with your time, your laughs, your feels, and your own beautiful stories. Can you believe we’ve been building the AMOMK world together for nearly 8 months?! It has been a hilarious, wonderful, and meaningful ride, and as always, I hope you enjoy where we end up! If this is your first foray into the AMOMK world, you can read the original ask that prompted the idea, check out the asks and snippets that have followed, and follow #amomk to check out all the still-ongoing asks / snippets / drabbles!

Parts | Chapters | Schedule:

🧭 North: 01 | 02 | 03  

🧭 South: 04 | 05 | 06 (Jun-Jul 2022)

🧭 East: 07 | 08 | 09 (Aug-Sep 2022)

🧭 West: 10 | 11 | 12 (Oct-Dec 2022)

🧭 Home (Dec 2022)

Extras:

What You Need to Know (starter packs and selected drabbles to jump into the AMOMK world!)

Bongseon’s Official Map (Mrs. Kim’s map and notes on the bachelorettes!)

Bachelorettes 1, 2, and 13 (between Chapters 02 and 03 in Y/N POV!)

Alternate Universes (more AMOMK fics by fellow ARMY!)

Unexpected Arrivals : part 1 | part 2 by @aureli-us! Who is this intriguing woman from Jin’s past?? Thank you for writing this side fic for the AMOMK universe, and excited for more!

Of Maps, Forms and Other Crazy Ideas by @sabiekay​! What is it like to fill out one of Mrs. Kim’s forms? Thanks for writing this drabble for AMOMK!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, you can add yourself here, send me an ask, or comment on / reblog this post!

“There are different kinds of soulmates. 12 to be exact." Ms. Whitehurst says while sat with MBG. "When we think of that term, we think so one dimensional. But no matter lover or friend or partner... We are all connected on a spiritual level. And therefore... We can all have a soul mate from the past that will find us one day, again."

Third type of soul mate: Soul Teacher

“Soul Teachers: Sometimes a soul mate might show up to teach you by challenging you to do something different from what they recommend, teaching you the value of thinking for yourself.”

Warning(s): Rac!sm, Some H8 Speech, SMUT, Hurt/Comfort, Real Historical Events...

((Please read at your own risk.))

******************************************

((PRESENT DAY))

“Eh…” Namjoon scrunches a nose as he lays back on your newly set up bed. You pause your folding of freshly clean clothes to stare at your boyfriend in shock.

“Baby. How many philosophical books have you read? And you’re telling me you’re iffy on reincarnation?!” You laugh in disbelief as he shrugs while sprawled out, just enjoying this Sunday morning.

“I mean… I have, but… I don’t know. It’s tricky. What does that entail exactly? We’re all stuck in an inescapable loop of death and birth?” He asks. “If it’s a yes then my follow up question is; why?” He wonders and you hum as you go back to folding while trying to think.

“Maybe… it’s like what Buddhist believe. You come back until you get it right.” You shrug. Your boyfriend sits up at that comment and rolls his shoulders a bit, and you almost break out into a smile, knowing that move all too well.

It was debate time.

“Yeah, but life isn’t a punishment. Shouldn’t be anyways.” He says.

“Then maybe reincarnation is the reward.” You say back.

“A reward? Without any prior knowledge of what life actually entails? With no memory of what it means to grow up or become successful or feel happiness or find love?” He asks. "To go through all the growing pains and awkwardness again and again?" He raises an eyebrow.

You hum at that as you take a minute to think. You loved debating with Namjoon because it was always a back and forth. Like a ping-pong tournament that usually ended with one cocky winner and a slightly sore loser.

“Then… maybe it’s a bit of both.” You say finally. “It’s a reward cause you get to go through life again, while also being a punishment cause you… well, go through life again…” You snort, and he hums softly as he watches you.

“That’s a cop out. Point me.” Namjoon states and you pause.

“What?! No! You can’t be serious!” You complain instantly as he laughs softly.

“Nope. I get the point. There is no real argument you've shown." He states and your roll your eyes playfully at that before huffing lightly.

"God. You're a headache. If reincarnation is a real thing, I can only hope you're not as competitive in that life as you are in this one." You tease as you lean over to cup his cheek and lightly brush your lips against his as he bashfully eyes you.

"I hope in every lifetime... It's you I debate with." He states quietly against your lips, and it makes you smirk as you slide the pad of your thumb along his bottom lip.

*****************************************

1919: A large number of Korean nationalists come to America to study, and begun the Korean Independence Movement.

"Hey. What are you doing here?" The voice rings out through the girls' dormitory building, causing Namjoon to look over with a startled expression, his throat tightening just a bit.

“Hey. My friend asked you a question. What? You don’t speak English?” The other campus guard says as they walk closer.

Namjoon shifts on his own two feet, never one for confrontation. His parents had made it clear. He was here to study and keep his head down. That was all. But it was hard. And meeting Y/N has only made things harder.

“I… Got lost.” He finally says, deciding on that lie since he knew. He knew he shouldn’t be here. He knew he shouldn’t be sneaking around, and he knew with every inch of his brain that he should’ve never fallen for an American. Yet here he was, always listening to his heart.

“Yeah? What, you couldn’t see right?” The one guard says, pushing him. Namjoon stumbles only a bit, shoulders squaring as he braces himself.

“Probably a perv. Trying to peek at the girls here. Those aren’t yours, you fucking weirdo.” The other man laughs as Namjoon tries to move past them.

“Whoa! Did we tell you that you could leave, ch**k?” The student guard says, pushing Namjoon again. The nerdy young man trips but catches himself yet again, swallowing back the bile coming up his throat. He was here for a reason. First of his family to finish school and definitely the first ever to come to America for college, and he wasn’t going to let anything get him out of character.

The urge to fight back always hit him though. But where would that lead? Him looked at as the problem. Possibly even kicked out and sent back home. No. He had a right to be here. With that in mind, he does the only thing to do for him. Run.

“Hey! Get back here!” The other shouts as both chase him down out of the building…

**********************************

You go barreling down the ER hallway, running straight to the hospital room a nurse had been kind enough to appoint you to. After realizing Namjoon was late to your study date, you went running out looking for him, only to find him in a campus alleyway, beaten and bruised badly.

Everything was in slow motion at that moment and all you could do was rush to call 911 for help. You couldn’t hold him as you waited for help because a crowd had formed and you didn't want rumors to spread, but you also couldn't stand there and do nothing. You kept people at arm's length of his unconscious body until the amubulance arrived.

The paramedic made a comment about how you must be a 'smart broad' to be here in college, and you bit your tongue to keep your comments to yourself. He told you to run along and go 'read a book', but instead, you went running for the city bus to go visit Namjoon in the hospital.

You couldn't think of anything else other than making sure he was ok.

When you get to the room, you cover your mouth, seeing Namjoon laying in the bed like that. He had a busted lip and a bruised cheek and stitches on his forehead. Under the hospital lights, his injuries looked more dramatic, and maybe it was because they really were. It had never been this bad before now…

“Y/N?” He asks softly as he reaches a hand out to touch yours. You shakily grab his hand with both of yours, careful at this moment. You felt like you had to hold him tight to keep him from disappearing, but also hold him loose enough to not actually hurt him.

“Joonie. Who… Who did this?!” You finally ask, voice quiet and full of fear as he tries to pull you a bit closer towards him, but you’re stuck in place. This wasn’t right. You felt sick to your stomach.

How could anyone hurt this man?

“Telling… Telling won’t… change anything...” He whispers softly as he watches you closely. “It looks worse than it is…” He tries as he winces while sitting up.

“Who. Did. This?” You repeat, not wanting to hear his usual ‘I can handle this’ speech. He sighs as you make quick work of raising his bed to a sitting position, so he wasn’t putting too much strain on himself.

“I know we’ve agreed to only ever meet at the library on campus, but… I wanted to try and surprise you. Got caught by campus student security. They… They said I was trying to peek at girls…” He finally says quietly as you touch his unbruised cheek.

"I lost my scholarship due to indecent behavior. The school scout just came by to tell me as soon as I was conscious enough. It's over, Y/N... I'll have to go back to Korea..." He sighs quietly.

“Wha... What?" You breathe out as you feel your heart drop at that moment. "N-No. No. Namjoon.” You whisper in disbelief as you shake your head fast. “This… This isn’t… This isn’t right!” You snap finally. “I… I gotta… I-I gotta tell the police o-or the campus main office. Somebody! Someone’s gotta help us!” You say fast as your mind races with what to do next. He shakes his head with a soft wince.

“Y/N, that’ll… That'll only make things… Worse.” He tries quietly and you feel the anger consume you. You felt powerless and overwhelmed at the same time. You let go of his cheek to brush your fingers through your hair instead.

“Baby. Come here.” He tries as he pats the space next to him in the bed, and you want to laugh at the cruel irony.

He’s still trying to care for you!

“I hate this. I-I can’t… I can’t lose you! No! No, I…” You whisper, tears filling your eyes as you watch him.

“It’s not up to you…” He points out quietly and you glare at that. It's true, but it stings.

“Joonie…” You mutter in an upset matter. He frowns and weakly grabs your hand, bringing it up to his lips, and giving your palm a soft kiss that you wish you could get tattooed on to your skin so it lasts centuries…

“Joonie. I… I could’ve lost you. That’s… That’s terrifying.” You finally whimper, sniffling to keep some composure. "Now you're telling me that I am going to lose you anyway? No!" You cry softly.

“Hey… Y/N...” He tries gently and you sniffle once more, shaking your head.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this! We shouldn't have to deal with this! I... I shouldn't have to be worried every day that some... That somebody might..." You can't stop the sob that escapes your throat as the tears fall freely. "I couldn't have you... And at this moment you're getting taken from me..." You whimper finally as you hold yourself.

"Why the hell am I the only one mad?!" You shout as the tears run down your face faster. Why must he always be passive?!

Namjoon frowns deeply at that and looks down, as if ashamed. "Please... Please let me hold you." He whispers finally, his shoulder too hurt to reach out for you himself.

You sniffle and slowly give in, moving to sit on the hospital bed with him. He winces slightly but ignores it as he focuses on holding you as close to him as possible. “We have this moment. I have another day here. Just think about that..." He whispers against your hair before nuzzling his nose against your scalp. You shut your eyes as you focus on his scent, nose pressed against his hard chest.

"We're only promised 24 hours. Like everyone else." He continues quietly.

"But that's not fair." You whisper back as you look up at him. "We aren't like everyone else." You try quietly.

"Then what do we deserve? Hm?" He asks as he rubs his hand up and down your back.

"Give me 25." You say quietly after thinking a bit. Your hand gently balls around his hospital gown. His dragon like eyes scan your face, gliding along your features gracefully.

"An hour just for us?" He smiles finally and you shake your head.

"Just for you." You whisper, making him blush ever so slightly. You two were masters of soft whispers. That and writing was your only love language...

"I'll try. But... Technically speaking-" You cut him off, leaning up to kiss him. Always one to debate. It's how you two had met actually.

A wrong answer spoke during a mid-fall lecture meeting, a quiet voice correcting it, an embarrassed blush creeping on to your cheeks at being shown up by this random exchange student. You had confronted him at the end of that class to tell him off for proving you wrong in front of the whole class, but it just led to you two realizing that there was more here than just academic rivalry.

The kiss starts off slow and tender, but just as quickly does it turn hot and passionate. You feel Namjoon's tongue lightly graze your bottom lip, and your heart flutters. You two haven't been alone in two weeks. God it felt good to have his lips on yours right now.

This is all you had.

Your 25th hour was starting now...

You pull back to catch your breath, stroking his jawline tenderly. "Baby...” You whisper in a soft warning tone.

“I... I need you...” Namjoon whispers back between soft pants. You blush hard at the phrase that he whispered to you only once before. Inbetween two large bookshelves in the campus library as you laid on the soft grey carpet, hidden away from the rest of the world...

He has the same look in his eyes as he did that night. A need. A need to prove to himself that this is real. That you are real. You always needed that assurance too.

“Here?” You whisper quietly as you can't help but look towards the door. No one was coming in here. Namjoon had no family or friends in the states, and the nurse had told you she just finished her rounds. Could you pull this off?

“Y/N... All I thought of when I was being attacked... Was how I’d never get to see you again." He admits quietly.

"Don't." You whisper as you place a hand on his chest just to feel his heartbeat. That's all you wanted right now. Feeling the heart monitors where your hand should be was the only piece of reality in this moment that things could've been worse.

"Y/N." He places his larger hand over yours. "I... I need to prove to myself that I actually survived. That I’m here. With you. Please...” He says softly. You give him another glance, just trying to read his eyes. Then you slowly nod. With no further word, you get on top of him, careful not to hurt him.

“Let’s... Go slow...” You whisper as you rest your forehead against his. he nods once before he relaxes back against the hospital bed, looking up at you in adortion while you reach under your long skirt to pull your underwear off. He smiles softly at the cotton black fabric with pink hearts on it.

"Not a word." You mutter playfully, knowing he'd just flatter himself. He smiles up at you before you lean down, kissing him deeply. He kisses back with a feverish need for your lips to stay against his until you're both desperate for air. You grant that desire by grabbing ahold of his face carefully in both hands.

Little by little, your hand travels down from his face to between you both, just exploring until finally it reaches under the hospital bedsheets and under his gown. He pulls back from your lips to let out a low shiver as you wrap your hand around his semi.

You look him in the eyes as you lightly trace your fingertips along his tip, making his mouth fall open, small pants coming from him as his eyes close in anticipation of this bliss. You pull your hand back to spit on it and then stroke his cock to hopefully make it slick enough.

"Y/N..." He pants in need as you kiss along his neck, his head going further back to give you more room to roam, his eyes still closed in peace. With his cock wet and hard enough, you sit up on your knees and position yourself on top of him.

"Joonie... Look at me." You pant. He does exactly as you say. And you slowly sink on to his thick member.

"Oh... Oh god..." He moans quietly as you slide further down. His reaction makes you wetter while also making you blush hard.

"I thought you didn't believe in him?" You tease quietly as you sit fully on his cock, making him groan.

"It's hard to question when this is bliss..." He whispers, grabbing your hips.

You open your mouth to speak again, but instead you moan ever so softly against his lips when he grinds up against me. “Baby...” You whisper against his lips.

“I love you...” He whispers as he looks up at you while you begin to bounce, hand on his chest to rub it affectionately.

“I love you...” You whisper back as you find a good pace for you both, walls squeezing along his cock as you move, making him grip your hips tighter, catching your lips in a passionate kiss. You hold his face in your hands as you make out while you ride him passionately and eagerly to feel one with him.

"Baby...” He moans the second he pulls back from this kiss, his head falling back against the hospital pillows. You moan a bit louder and bite down on your lip hard to stay quiet in this moment, but he looks so perfect in this moment. Hair a mess, face scrunched in pleasure. “Oh... Oh, baby...” He moans quietly, arms wrapping around your waist tightly.

You can’t help but go faster. The thought of never having him again? It scared you enough to want to make him remember that he is loved. That you will always love him. Always try and take care of him. Nothing was promised. Not even your 25th hour...

“Baby. Baby. Y-Yes!” He pants, hugging you tighter to him as you pump your hips in need, desperately chasing down your high and his as his head rests in the cork of your neck, nipping and licking at the skin, always careful to not leave a mark though. You had an image to uphold. Moans fill the hospital room as the heart monitor beeps wildly and you so selfishly want it to match yours. Hands roam and heads roll back. You kiss and bite along his shoulder to silence yourself as best you can, reaching a hand up to grab his hair and yank it softly as he groans your name. It's never sounded more beautiful...

“Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me...” You whisper between heavy pants of thin air, your emotions damn near strangling you. He shivers at your breath so close to his ear.

“Never. I’d never... Never leave." He declares quietly, and a part of you knows. You both are smart enough to know. It's a promise sworn in vain, but god does it feel so honest in the moment. Your body trembles as you get closer.

"O-Oh, baby!” You moan more desperately as you grip on to him, refusing to ever let him go. You knew he was close too. You could feel his cock swell as you cum around him, and you keep up your pace, just wanting to feel him. There was no going back, and you didn't want to think of what the outcome of this could be. You just wanted to feel his warm seed. So, you speed up, whispering for him to cum in you.

He reaches down to rub your clit, making you jolt to a stop, grinding against his cock and hand as he moans happily at the feeling of your milking his cock. He shoots his cum hard into you as he focuses on kissing you, biting at your lips instead since you've turned into too much of a moaning mess to properly kiss him back. You cum once more on his cock as he kisses your chin sweetly while you try coming down from your high, moaning lowly. You hug him tight, arms around his neck, not wanting him to move an inch from you.

“Baby...” You finally whisper between heavy pants when your brain starts up again. He pulls back to look up at you.

“You’re perfect...” He breathes out, and you blush before kissing him again, tenderly in this moment you share.

Maybe this life was all you got...

**********PRESENT DAY**********

"I have to shower. And make sure you didn't mark me too bad..." The Korean male says from under you. "You need to let me up soon." He mutters, his morning voice rough and deep as you kiss all along his face ever so tenderly. A smirk on your lips. He'd be in for a nice surprise when he does see the litter of hickeys left on his neck, shoulder, and chest...

"No. I changed my mind. They can't take you." You say quietly as you pull away to look at the man you love. You've always felt connected to him, but this moment... This topic... You couldn't understand. You were a foreigner at the end of the day. So, the idea of having to enlist? Having to put a pause on your life to train and prepare for the slim chance there is danger for at least a year and a half? It was a culture shock...

"We spent the whole night awake. All those hours just for us." He points out and you pout a bit at that, feeling selfish as you wrap your arms around his neck, hands playing with the small hairs left from his buzzcut.

"You think we have a problem like this in every lifetime?" You mumble against his lips, bring up the conversation from yesterday morning, making Namjoon playfully roll his eyes.

"Not this again..." He jokes before grabbing your hips peacefully. "Mm... Honestly?" He asks and you nod as you watch him closely. "I think... If we did meet in every lifetime only to be pulled apart... At least we always find each other again. Hm?" He whispers and you search his eyes to see if he means that or if he's just humoring you. Slowly, you see the honesty in his eyes and the love. You blush and lean in to kiss him again.

***************************************

Really hope you guys liked it! Next up is Taehyung! Imma put a window date up cause I know ya'll must be tired of me being late. Expect part four out the 27th-28th. Love Ya'll!!!

He looks good with colored hair. But my favorite is still blond.

Go on you funky little blue-haired man :’) 💛🌼🌈

Please Linger | Chapter 1

Summary: After terrorizing the villagers with one too many pranks, you’ve been locked away in The Tower to atone for your petty crimes. As far as you know, The Tower is impenetrable. Nobody can get in, and nobody can get out. It seems you’ll never escape—until one night, a man named Yoongi barges in…

Pairing: Musician!Yoongi (pan flute!) x Reader (F) Word Count: ~7.5k Rating: 18+ Warnings: footnotes (lol), random character is blasély killed by a mythical creature (off-screen), mentions of drinking/getting drunk, swearing... Genre: fantasy!au, slow burn, humor, eventual smut, angst... Links: AO3, Masterlist, Ko-Fi, 🎶 Composition of the Century Collab Masterlist 🎶 🖤 Please note: Please Linger does not have a tag list 🖤

NAV: NEXT CHAPTER

(Me to me): I am going to create a story that is so UNHINGED...

A/N: Welcome, besties, to the Shreka-Hole-ian Greek Pornthology Bonanza (and my contribution to the Composition of the Century collab—please look forward to/go check out the other stories!!)! 😃 Kindly accept my apologies for the chaos that is this fic in advance, and also intermittently throughout this long ass message!

First things first: This is dedicated to @ootjepetootje, whomst gifted me this morning with perhaps the best mood board for this project ever: BEHOLD! Jen, I love you. Thank you also to @reliablemitten and @blog-name-idk for allowing me to scream intermittently at y'all about this for far, far too long. Sorry. So sorry! Perchance.

Next: This story contains footnotes. For that, I apologize. It's also kinda important to the plot that you read the footnotes, too. I REPENT, YOUR HONOR.

🚨🚨🚨 To that end: Tumblr doesn't support footnotes, for which I A P O L O G I Z E. I recommend just reading the entire way through normally and then reading the footnotes after (as a special treat), OR heading over to read this on AO3, where you can actually click the footnotes and return back to the text seamlessly. 🚨🚨🚨

Finally, and most importantly: I LOVE you all. I love you so much!!! (Sorry!)

Chapter One: Alack!

It’s not that the local wizard Namjoon wants to lock you in the secluded tower hidden deep in the dark, dark woods just outside of the village. It’s that you, after plastering hair extensions to hang down from the cracks in Taehyung Kim’s ceiling—such that it appeared a succubus had taken up residence in his hut—left him no choice.

“This feels personal,” you say, kicking your many skirts and digging your boots into the forest floor as Namjoon drags you, none-too-politely, toward the tower.

“It is personal,” he snaps. “You’re a menace, YN. Last month, you stole all of the eggs in Hoseok Jung’s chicken coop the night before the EggstravaGala.”

“I had my reasons,” you say shiftily.

“What about last Tuesday, when you replaced the innards of Jungkook Jeon’s punching bag with flatulence pillows?”

“For the last time, their creator calls them whoopee cushions.”

“They emit the most unseemly of noises whenever Jungkookie trains, now.” Namjoon ignores your correction. “Jungkook is one of our finest warriors, YN. Warriors are meant to be respected and feared. You’ve turned him into a laughing stock!”

You roll your eyes. “Tell me you’ve fallen victim to the toxic notion that asserts men must adhere to traditional gender roles that both stigmatize and limit the emotions they’re allowed to express all while glorifying unhealthy habits without telling me you’ve… done all that.”

Namjoon heaves a careworn sigh. By now you’ve arrived at the tower, a fifty-flight triumph of rubbled stone banded by hanging ropes of ivy. You cast a sullen glance toward the top of the structure, your eyes alighting upon its single window—dusty, you note—which will serve as your sole view out to the wider world for the next…

Well. For as long as it takes Namjoon to consult with the villagers you’ve “wronged.” For as long as it takes for them to come to a consensus on how to deal with your meddling ass long-term.

“You won’t keep me in there for years, will you?” you ask, wisps of trepidation coiling in your belly.

“I don’t have an answer for that.”

“But… but…”

“Oh, quit your blubbering,” Namjoon grumbles, avoiding your eye. “This is actually really annoying for me, you know.”

“For you?”

“Sure! Usually, I like to use this tower for personal gain. Such as holding princesses for ransom, and pet-sitting other village’s monsters, and…” Namjoon trails off. If he were the type of wizard to grow a very long beard, you imagine he’d be twirling it sagely betwixt his fingers right about now. “Actually,” he says, “it’s pretty much exclusively used for those two purposes.”

You perk up at his admission. There are two main things to know about princesses, and the first is that the term refers not to any actual regal rank or gender designation, but rather a specific type of beautiful nincompoop. The last princess to be held in the tower, for example, was an almost preternaturally gorgeous man named Seokjin Kim whomst you once personally observed wandering the streets after dark because someone had told him he’d “lost his mind” and he was trying—quite earnestly—to find it.

The second thing to know about princesses is that they’re worth a tidy sum; beats you why, as they tend be a rather whiny sort, and are always trying to converse with rodents—a notoriously low-minded mammal—but alas. It is what it is. Every time Namjoon manages to bag a princess, dashing royal suitors come from high and low to pay—literally pay—for the privilege to risk their lives to rescue said princess from the tower and earn eternal glory. You’re not like the other girlies, [1] and have no burning desire to make any royal suitor’s acquaintance. But the secret third thing to remember about princesses is that after they get rescued from the tower…

Well, then they’re free.

“Ransom me,” you suggest slyly. “Take the money you earn and put it back into the community. Fix people’s homes! Stock the taverns! Everyone will forgive me once their roofs are patched and their bellies are full of free mead.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.” Namjoon snorts. “First of all, a traveling circus has commissioned me to pet-sit some of their creatures for a few months, so I’m not exactly stripped for coin.”

Balls, you think.

“Second, the villagers would sooner turn out their pockets to keep you locked up for good, YN. Everyone’s fed up with you.”

Ripping yourself from Namjoon’s grasp, you fling yourself at the nearest fir, wrapping your arms around its weathered stump.

“But how is that fair?” you moan. “It’s not as though I exited the womb aspiring to wreak minor havoc! It’s my—”

“—Do not say compulsion—”

“Compulsion!” you exclaim—for that is, in fact, the scientific term for the reason you are the way that you are. [2]  In the same way Hoseok had woken up one day with a sudden, burning desire to build himself a chicken coop, you’d woken up one day with an unshakable urge to slather grease on all of Jimin Park’s spoons for a full week in high school. They’d slipped right into his bowl of boiling hot soup, one after the other, such that his tiny fingers—and you do mean tiny—had no hope of retrieving them. In the end, he’d had to befriend one of the village’s premiere hunter-gatherers, Sungwoon Ha, to keep from starving come lunchtime.

“Everyone experiences compulsion during puberty, YN,” Namjoon says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Having… unusual compulsions doesn’t give you an excuse to act like a jackass.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” you counter. Compulsion—the deep, internal, and unexplainable instinct to act in a certain way—is a perfectly natural part of growing up. Abiding by your compulsion imbues you with a sense of utter fulfillment; of inner peace; of purpose. Most people strive to live their lives in alignment with their compulsion, treating it as a guiding light of sorts—a natural, deep-seated tool for self-betterment. “It’s an instinct, Namjoon. Not an impulse.”

“I know, YN,” Namjoon says. “Haven’t I been patient with you all these years? Haven’t I always defended you?”

He has, for the most part. You haven’t the foggiest why.

All the same…

“So defend me one more time, then!”

“You’re not listening!”

“I didn’t ask to be a menace.” You raise your voice. “My compulsion simply compels me to my incredibly hilarious and devious antics. The fact that I’m being punished for an innate, fixed inclination that I didn’t ask for is, to be frank, fucking bogus. The villagers are compulsion-shaming me, and I—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Namjoon interrupts. “No one’s shaming you, YN. Grow up.”

You stick your tongue out, the portrait of maturity.

“I know that instincts can’t be changed,” Namjoon continues, “but they can be ignored. Having shitty compulsions doesn’t make you a bad person, but acting on them—especially when you know they’re going to make other people miserable—does make you selfish.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” you say, quiet.

Namjoon’s eyes soften.

“No,” he agrees, “it’s not. But that doesn’t change anything. I haven’t forgotten about the time you switched all my wizard hats out with bugles corn chips, you know.”

“Tiny hats for a tiny mind,” you mumble. And then, louder: “Please. Give me one more chance.”

“Come,” he says firmly, holding out his hand. “Don’t make me hex you.”

Defeated, you step back from the tree, padding back over to where he waits with a hang-dog expression. Namjoon’s touch is firm as he steers you into the tower.

“Thank you, YN, for taking accountability,” he says. “Now up you trot.”

Trot you do not. Instead, Namjoon leads you, huffing and sulking, up the fifty flights, until you emerge in your new living quarters with aching gluteals and a brand new situational case of depression. You look around at the single bed, the single bookcase, and the circular table that seats two near the single window. The table is set with two jugs, a chalice, and three bowls. Beyond, a woven tapestry hangs, behind which your bathtub and privy chambers reside.

“At midnight, the two jugs on the table have been enchanted to refill completely—one always with water, and the other with either coffee, apricot juice, or wine, depending on your wish upon a star the night prior,” Namjoon explains. “The bowls, too, are ever-replenishing. One shall always be full of rice, one with protein, and one with some sort of stew, soup, or curry.”

“What about dessert?” you demand, outraged. Namjoon’s eyes narrow.

“The local baker doesn’t wish to extend you the kindness of their confectionaries,” he snaps. “Without Hoseok’s eggs, they were unable to prepare the cake they promised for the EggstravaGala—a source of great humiliation for them, I’m sure you can imagine. Your actions affected more than just the direct targets of your petty pranks, YN!”

“Well, I should hope so,” you huff. “I put a lot of effort into them!”

Namjoon shakes his head—if he had a beard, it would sway mightily from the exertion, you imagine. Instead, he merely fixes you with one last disappointed look before disappearing in a puff of indigo smoke.

You spend the next several hours feeling rather like you’re on some sort of surreal vacation—perhaps an ayahuasca retreat, where everyone’s bid to sequester themselves in their rooms before undergoing their vomit-fueled spiritual awakenings.

Indeed, your new chamber has its charms: it’s satisfying to watch your rice bowl continuously refill with every bite you take, and the bookshelf is stocked with all manner of tomes—including a fine selection of steamy romance novels—which is more than you could have hoped for. The candles in the lanterns and sconces never melt, so you’ll never have to worry about illumination, and the soap in the bathroom is self-regenerating, too. Even the mattress is nice—perhaps even more comfortable than the one you have in your own downtrodden hut.

By nightfall, however, you’ve thoroughly investigated your quarters, and come to determine it wanting. It’s serviceable for a night, sure, but certainly not for a lifetime, and so tomorrow, when you’re well rested, you will engineer your great escape.

With that comforting thought to warm you, you drift off to sleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY ONE

A letter materializes on your table just after daybreak.

YN—

I have drawn for you a detailed map of the premises. Study it well and conduct yourself accordingly.

Warmly (but not kindly, and certainly not in support of what you’ve done),

Namjoon Kim, Wizard

You unfold the scroll to find a clumsily rendered diagram of the tower. An arrow points to the base, and reads, simply: Dragon.

“I see,” you mutter. That explains all the wretched screeching and peculiar wing-flapping that kept you up all night!

Above the dragon, which resides on the ground floor, there are approximately forty-eight flights that contain, according to another arrow (accompanied by a large bracket), “forty-eight elephants who never forget… to kill!”

“I see,” you mutter again. That explains all the wretched trumpeting and peculiar stampeding that ALSO kept you up all night!

You drag your sights upward to find one last arrow attached to your name, all aloney on your owney, at the top.

Being a visual learner, you open the surprisingly unlocked door of your chambers to confirm Namjoon’s claim with your own eyes. The door opens directly to the flight of stairs you climbed last night. So far, so good. You inch out to find an elephant with infernal red eyes sizing you up from the bottom of this particular staircase, ivory tusks gleaming wickedly despite the lack of both sunlight and torch-flame. Its hide looks very thick. Impenetrable, really.

There is a suspended moment in which you both peer curiously at one another—this must be one of the circus creatures Namjoon spoke about in the forest, you realize—and then the elephant gives chase. Hastily, you slam your door seconds before the elephant collides violently against the wood. There must be an enchantment in place keeping its tusks from piercing through the grain.

Being an orphan with no magic of which to speak—your father was a lowly jester; your mother, a vindictive nymph who went around prodding people with whetted sticks—you cannot hope to swap the elephant’s tusks out for hay, or replace its murderous instincts with high-minded ideals, such as a vested interest in the opera. Plus, its hide looked much too thick to pierce with the two best weapons at your disposal: a weighty tome detailing the entire village’s genealogy, and an illustrated edition of the Kama Sutra.

“Very well,” you sniff, defeated, as you chug down some apricot juice. The reasoning behind the unlocked door becomes clear: stay in captivity, or get brained by Demonic Dumbo. Clearly, you won’t be sauntering your merry way down and out of the tower in this lifetime.

You make yourself comfortable on your new mattress, determined to think of some other ingenious means of escape by sunrise.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY TWO

Five minutes into your brainstorming session the next morning, you deem the lack of available sweets—which ordinarily serve as your think-tank fuel—abruptly unbearable. Stomping your boot-clad foot against the window, you cry out victoriously when the glass shatters. If you can’t walk down to your freedom, you suppose you’ll just have to launch yourself out the window, and trust the Powers That Be to send strong winds to allay your fall. [3]

No sooner has the thought arose in your mind than the glass reforms, a smidge dustier than before. This, once again, feels personal. No matter how many times you shatter the window, it cobbles itself back together, dustier and dustier, before you can so much as wiggle a shoulder free of the tower.

No matter. You’ll just write down a plea for help and fling that out the window instead! Only that plan, too, is thwarted when you discover someone’s casted a protective spell upon the books. Try as you might, you can neither tear a page from any of the tomes, nor scribble upon them with the quill and pot of ink you found on the bookshelf.

The only book that seems to have escaped the spell is the Kama Sutra, which is brimming not only with personal annotations, but a variety of hand-drawn and frankly optimistic illustrations.

Sighing, you retire to the bathtub with a steamy romance novel and a dream—for REVENGE.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY FIVE

You’re gazing forlornly out the window—which you, in fit of boredom, deigned to dust off with your sleeve—when, at long last, the savior you’ve been praying for appears.

A prince!

Now, the thing about princes is that they’re a jaunty and boastful sort, given to prancing and declaiming in loud, sonorous tones—as though addressing a horde of (semi)loyal subjects—even when the occasion calls for silence. Judging by the way the person approaching the castle is

1) ululating, and

2) wearing a flashy tunic that reads I’M WITH PRINCE (with an arrow pointing up to his own face), you’re reasonably certain you’ve got this guy’s number. Who cares if you’ve always found princes to be insufferable bores? The times! They are a’changing!

“You can do it, beloved!” you yell in support. The window, you suspect, is sentient: as long as it knows you’re not trying to auto-defenestrate, it’s perfectly content to swing open and allow you to converse with the outer world. “Rescue my firm, shapely ass!”

Which isn’t even self-flattering, you reason, considering all those damnable flights of stairs Namjoon had made you climb!

To demonstrate the full measure of your gratitude, you cheer and twirl and do-re-mi prettily—as princesses are so wont to do—as the prince enters the base of the tower; you’ll go until your throat is scraped raw and bleeding if you must.

Your plan, though honorable, proves unnecessary.

Approximately one minute after your dashing prince enters the tower, the abominable dragon does an abominable dragon thing, and breathes out fire—a fuckton of it, too. You watch in mute horror as crackling flames erupt from the base of the tower, shooting toward the forest. Seconds later, an unmistakable crunching sound rents the air, sending shivers up your spine.

As if to ensure your understanding, the dragon tosses an intact skull—picked utterly clean—out from the tower seconds later. It glimmers up at you from its place in the singed grass, vacantly smiling.

You slump despondently down at your desk, resigned to another bleak day of imprisonment.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY TEN

Another prince—this one wearing a pith helmet at a jaunty angle—comes flaunting through the hemline of the forest at noon.

She takes one long look at the skull resting near the tower, and skips merrily back into the forest, never to be seen again.

“Coward,” you hiss. All princes are bastards.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY FOURTEEN

The well of willing princes appears to have dried up, and so, too, has your tolerance for solitude. There’s an itch under your skin—a frantic desperation quite unrelated to your compulsion—for revenge. Once released, you will swap all of Namjoon’s non-existent beard oil out with glue; you will cut holes in all of the villagers’ hats; you will place pebbles in their socks and also buy enchanted laundry soap to ensure the socks stay eternally damp, and never dry!

NEVER DRY!

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY NINETEEN

After two long weeks of sober fretting, you succumb to your crushing sense of helplessness, and wish upon the first star you see for wine to fill your jug tomorrow. It’s over. The princes have forsaken you—and probably, had any made it to the top, they would have realized you weren’t a princess, and couldn’t earn them glory, and would have left you for dead anyway. The villagers have won. One day, you will have to come up with a game-plan for how to cope with your new reality.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, you will make some progress in your steamy romance novel.

Not tomorrow, either.

Tomorrow, you will drink.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY NIGHT TWENTY

Thou art drunketh. And at which hour thou drinketh, thou tend to pretendeth to beest a Renaissance maiden—which, given the whole locked-in-a-tow’r thing, doth feel appropriate.

Also, being drunk is dope rampallian.

Ahem—dope arse.

“How fares mine own fav’rite elephant?” you calleth out to Demonic Dumbo—D-Dum, to those in the knoweth—hoping to make at least one acquaintance during thy imprisonment.

D-Dum, much to thy chagrin, doest not replyeth. In fact, thou art unconvinc’d that gent even speaketh the common tongue.

To passeth the time, thou playeth a game of make believeth, just as you didst as a young wench. In thy game, you pretendeth thine parents didn’t kicketh the bucket in a t’rrible flood when you were a bébé. [4] Instead, thine parents raise thee prop’rly to adulthood. As such, you grow into a well-respect’d young mistress with a truly hon’rable compulsion. In fact, thy compulsion is so incredible that it makes thee hundreds of companions, rath’r than enemies, and you liveth happily ev’r aft’r in a grand palace, rath’r than a wretched tower.

O, in anoth’r life—a life in which thou art not a scoundrel—thou wouldst have liked to joineth in on all the most wondrous events the village holds each year! Unf’rtunately, in thy current timeline, someone usually ends up banning thine arse from attending, which totally sucks, for thou thinkest that dancing at the Eggstravagala sounds like excit’ment.

Though you’ll nev’r admiteth it to Namjoon, thou wouldst secretly loveth to consume a slice of the local bak’r’s cake, for you’ve heard ’tis delicious—thou didst not actually wanteth to sabotage their baking b’fore the Eggstravagala! Thy compulsion is to blame! Furthermore, the valorous warrior Jungkook is very much buff, and thou thinkest you wouldst enjoy exchanging boxing tips with that gent one day…

Ah, but Jungkook probably hates thy guts. Perchance.

Ov’rcome with a senseth of loneliness and despair, you closeth thine eyes, and commit whole-heartedly to thy daydream—when you concentrateth v’ry hard, ’tis as though the entire w’rld grows quiet. You pretendeth thou art dresseth in a spiffy-arse fit, suitable f’r a gala; you pretendeth some gentle and noble suitor asks thee to danceth.

O, ’tis as though you can actually heareth the music—you sway to and fro as a quiet, haunting tune permeates thy quart’rs, lulling thee into something of a trance. The melody sounds almost liketh a lullaby. As thou art pirouetting across the cubiculo, you imagineth the forest flo’r beneath thy feet, instead of bitter cold stones.

’Tis as thou art whirling and twirling thy way through the tower that three realizations befall you in quick succession. 

First, it occurs to thee that thou can neith’r heareth any of the usual stampeding from the elephants, nor any of the wing-flapping from the dragon guarding the tower.

“What-ho!” you murmur, but resolveth to pay it nay mind.

Next, you tireth of dancing and ope thine eyes. To thy surprise, howev’r, the soft, haunting melody you did imagine as you did dance doest not cease at which hour you stop pretending. Instead, the music plays on—in fact, you realizeth that the sound is coming from just outside the doth’r.

And lasteth, you realize the doth’rknob is turning. 

“Alack!” you shriek, just as the doth’r opens a slith’r. Thou leapeth back, expecting to seeth two honed tusks at any moment. Where’s the damned genealogy book when you needeth it f’r protection? And at which hour didst D-Dum groweth opposable thumbs?

Forsooth, thou art so afeared that you sort of drop the whole Renaissance-thing you had going on in favor of raising your trembling fists. A pox on Namjoon’s house! A pox on all the villagers! You were supposed to be safe—bored out of your mind, but safe—so long as you didn’t try to leave the blasted tower! Yet here you stand, preparing to battle a blood-thirsty elephant with flaming red eyes, all because Namjoon—that clay-brained, hedge-pig of a wizard—couldn’t be bothered to fix a proper lock on your—

Oh. False alarm. The strange music stops at the same moment a seemingly non-murderous man—with normal brown eyes, no less—slips into your room, shutting your door behind him.

Wait.

You lower your fists at once.

A man!

“Fie me! Hey-ho! Huzzah!” you shout, all of a flutter—for you’ve not made direct contact with another human in almost three weeks. A bolt of hope shoots through you. Perhaps this man mistook you for a princess, and is here to help you escape! “Art thou a prince, my lord?”

The man’s eyes, catlike and pretty, widen as they take you in: your wine-stained teeth, which you flash at him with a crooked smile; your tattered dress, which has turned an unbecoming shade of yellow from overuse; the unkempt state of your hair.

“Um.” His voice is a dark growl. “The fuck?”

“I can’t believeth mine own marvelous f’rtune,” you exclaim, hiking up your skirts and stepping eagerly toward the stranger. Clearly, he battled his way to the top of the tower in search of glory—and you are more than willing to play the part of damsel-in-distress, so long as it spurs him to help you go free. “Thou art h’re to rescueth me, c’rrect? Prithee, what be thy tide?”

You allow your gaze to sweep over the man in his entirety. To your surprise, he’s wearing none of the chainmail or fire-resistant armor you’d expect a dragon slaying prince such as himself to don—instead, he’s dressed rather simply in an oversized dark grey sweater and black sweat pants.

The man looks ready to lounge and lounge hard.

“My tide is Yoongi Min,” he says after a beat, dragging a bony, pale hand through his long, black hair. In doing so, you notice that his other hand holds something that looks very much like a pan flute. “How did you get up here?”

Your smile wavers as he peers expectantly at you, a most un-princely furrow settling between his brows. [5] Why is he acting like he didn’t expect you to be here?

“I crave your forgiveness, my lord,” you hedge, “but wherefore didst thee cometh here if not to saveth me?”

Yoongi blinks. “I’m not a lord.”

“Alack!” you exclaim again, sinking into a curtsy. That feels like something a princess would say. “Pray pardon, good sir, but I am drunketh! Tis unbecoming behavi’r f’r a princess such as myself, I know, but rest assureth I am still w’rth rescuing…”

Yoongi’s eyes narrow.

“You’re a princess.” He doesn’t say it like a question, but you sense the challenge in his tone, regardless. You freeze.

“Aye. Verily.” You nod. And then, for good measure: “Do-re-mi.”

Yoongi makes a noncommittal sound deep in his throat as he eyes the near-empty jug of wine on your table; the mound of rice in one of your bowls. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “But then why did I overhear Namjoon talking about how he didn’t expect to ransom any new princesses for at least a few months last night at the tavern?”

Your fists clench reflexively.

“Months?” you shriek, horrified. Namjoon planned on keeping you locked up in here for months?

“Months,” Yoongi confirms.

“That clotpole hast no more brain than stone,” you hiss—and then, forgetting the ruse: “When I get my hands on that slimy little—”

“Hold on,” Yoongi interrupts you. “I thought he meant he was making enough coin pet-sitting that he didn’t to need to ransom anyone, but…”

He takes in your bedraggled appearance once more, understanding slotting into place.

“Are you a criminal?”

You cross your arms, affronted. “Thou can’t just asketh people if they’re criminals, dummy.”

“Holy shit,” Yoongi says, releasing a low huff of laughter. You can see his gums when he smiles, amused. “You are. What did you do?”

“None of thy beeswax,” you snap. It’s no use. Dropping all princess-y pretenses, you fix him with a glare: “I’m guessing you’re not a prince, then?”

“Nope,” Yoongi says, striding over to your little table now like he owns the place. He sinks into a chair and takes a swig from your mostly-depleted jug of wine, not even bothering to use the chalice. A drop of wine dribbles down his chin; you track its journey with ill-disguised contempt. 

“Figures,” you mutter, smoothing down your skirts. “But since you’re here… make yourself useful, would you?”

He’s eyeing the steamy romance novel you just realized you’ve left on the table with a smirk.

“Useful how?” he says suggestively.

You’ve been alone too long—that’s why you can feel that cocky smile all the way down in your toes.

“Rescue me.”

“Sorry,” Yoongi says, sounding anything but. “It’s not gonna happen.”

You stomp your foot, petulant. “Why not?”

“Namjoon’s my friend.” Yoongi reaches for the rice. “He wouldn’t put you in here if you didn’t deserve it.”

“Would, too,” you parry.

Yoongi’s unmoved. “If someone figures out I helped you escape, I could get locked up myself.”

“Better make sure no one finds out, then.”

“I don’t even know what you did,” he says, mouth full. “What if you’re a murderer?”

“I’m not a murderer,” you object, offended.

He arches an eyebrow, as if to say: Out with it, wench!

You sniff, and keep your lips clamped.

“Fine,” he says after a beat. “At least tell me your tide, then.”

You hesitate.

“I told you mine,” he reminds you.

You eye him warily. Loath though you are to admit it, you’re sort of enjoying having someone to talk to—even someone as staunch in his refusal to help you do a runner as Yoongi. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all, and he’s the first person you’ve seen in nearly a month.

You know better than to trust his good humor will extend beyond the novelty of the encounter, however. Sure, he knows you’re a “criminal”—which he clearly finds somewhat amusing; he wouldn’t stick around if he thought you were actually dangerous— but what he doesn’t know is your name.

You’re a YLN. And your family’s reputation precedes you.

Then again, he did say he was friends with Namjoon. And the Kims have always treated both you and your parents with respect…

With a sigh, you introduce yourself, and though you’re expecting the sharp intake of breath Yoongi takes at your name, it still stings.

It fucking stings.

“Heard of me?” you say wryly, bracing yourself for his inevitable departure. To your surprise, however, Yoongi’s gone deathly still. He looks shocked, to be sure, but his face betrays no sign of ill-contempt or judgement as he stares at you. Instead, he tilts his head, an inscrutable expression painting his features. You can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning.

“Huh,” he says after a moment, tilting his head the other way.

You ignore the flutter in your chest as you indulge him, keeping still and allowing yourself to be studied—it’s not often anyone holds your gaze for longer than a handful of seconds, so this is something of a novelty. It doesn’t take long before the unwavering heat of his stare has you fidgeting, though—has you wondering what’s on his mind, and what he makes of what he sees.

You fold first, the back of your neck prickling when you turn from him to prop your elbows on the windowsill. Your vantage point is such that it’s impossible to miss when a flare of light—dragon fire, you recognize—gets expelled from the bottom floor of the tower seconds later, shooting off into the ink-dark forest.

You whip around, eyebrows pinched together. “Uh, Yoongi?”

He is, for some unknowable reason, still staring at you like you’re a riddle that needs solving. It takes a moment for you to find your voice.

“The dragon?” you prompt.

He’s impassive. “What about it?”

“It’s… still alive?”

The end of your sentence is punctuated by something that sounds suspiciously like D-Dum stomping around outside your door. You blink confusedly.

“How… how did you get all the way up here without slaying the dragon or the elephants?”

There’s a flash of something in Yoongi’s eyes that you can’t parse. He looks down at the pan flute you spotted earlier, then back to you, his gaze ping-ponging for long enough to make you consider picking up your smutty read to pass the time. At last, he appears to reach some private resolution, and sets the flute on the table with an almost defiant grunt.

It makes no damn sense.

Compels you, though.

“What’s the deal?” you say. It’s a handsome instrument, you’ll give him that—the reeds are smooth and shiny, bound together and arranged in two neat rows. You’ve seen large pan flutes before, but Yoongi’s seems nice and portable—maybe eighteen centimeters across at best.

“It’s enchanted,” he says at your dumbfounded look—for a pretty instrument does not a dragon-conquerer make. “My great-great-uncle made it himself. Whoever hears its music falls asleep.”

You’re skeptical.

“I’m still awake,” you remind him. “And I heard you playing before you came in.”

Another look you can’t decipher passes over Yoongi’s face as he picks the flute back up, rubbing his thumb over the thin rope binding the reeds together.

“Works faster if you’re in the same room,” he says eventually, frowning.

You regard the instrument with new eyes, and then train your sights back on Yoongi. He’s not huge, by any means: broad, yes, but lean. What’s more, his grip on the pan flute is loose at best.

You square your shoulders, resolute. You could take him. Thawp him upside the head with a chalice and snatch the pan flute from his feeble grasp. What’s more, you’ve got a good set of lungs on you, and the stamina to match. You bet you could play your way down forty-nine flights of stairs, no problem…

Yoongi, correctly reading the hunger on your face, lets out a rueful laugh.

“Gonna fight me for it?” he says.

You have the grace to feel ashamed.

“I thought about it,” you tell him, honest. 

Outside, the clouds shift as Yoongi stares at you again, etched now in a wispy beam of moonlight. You can practically feel the intensity of his thoughts, like static in the air, tingling across your skin. Never in your life have you wished you could read someone’s mind as much as you do right now.

“Go ahead and give it a go,” he says at last, placing the flute on the table and pushing it toward you.

Your mouth drops open.

“Really?” you say, but you’re already lunging.

The instrument is warm to the touch; smooth and familiar-feeling in your grasp, even though you’ve never held so much as a kazoo before. You raise it to your lips, pausing after your inhale. At Yoongi’s nod, you blow—and are met with resounding silence.

“It’s broken,” you moan, deflated.

“It’s not,” he drawls, but he looks… confused. Pensive.

“Then why…?”

“Only people in my family can play it,” he says after a beat. “It’s a genetic thing.”

You should have known. Magic, being hereditary, does tend to work like that—you doubt even a wizard like Namjoon could play it if it requires Min-DNA to operate. You place it back on the table, and then place your head in your hands.

“So if you didn’t come up to save me, then why are you here?” you say. “Climbing to the top of a fifty-flight tower is no joke.”

“I didn’t take the stairs,” Yoongi says. “You know there’s an elevator on the ground floor. Brings you all the way up to flight forty-seven.”

Right.

“Of course there is,” you manage through gritted teeth. When you get out of here, you and your newly developed calf muscles are going to donkey kick Namjoon Kim—that rampallian-hole—to the fucking stratosphere.

“But to answer your question, I come here when I want to be alone,” he says. “Nobody thinks to look for me here, especially on the night of a festival, or a party, or a holiday like today.”

“It’s a holiday?” you ask, taken aback. You’ve been tallying up how many days you’ve been cooped up on the Kama Sutra’s dedication page—the only book you’re able to deface—but haven’t bothered to keep track of the actual date. For some reason, the reminder that life outside of the tower is moving on without you—that holidays and festivals are passing you by as you remain stranded here, all on your lonesome; that nobody misses you or cares that you’re gone—cuts deeper than you expected tonight.

“New Year’s,” Yoongi confirms.

You try to school your face into one of careful indifference.

It appears you don’t succeed.

“Overrated holiday,” Yoongi says, his deep voice a bit softer than before.

Suddenly, there’s no sight more fascinating than the bookshelf over Yoongi’s shoulder. You don’t know why he’s still here; don’t know what’s keeping him sat across from you in a fucking tower so far from the village on New Year’s Eve.

What you do know is that he’s staring at you again, and at once, you’re hyperaware of your hands—of how stupid they look, resting like overgrown slugs on the table. You meet his dark eyes as you place them back in your lap, and a burst of electricity crackles through you. 

Clearing your throat—and training your eyes steadfastly back on the bookshelf behind him—you ask: “Don’t you want to see the fireworks, Yoongi?”

His eyebrows crease as he kills the wine.

“Don’t want to see the people,” he says at last. “I’m not one for parties.”

You nod, determined not to be maudlin. Perhaps there’s still a way to twist this whole thing to your benefit.

“I have an idea,” you begin, placing your elbows on the table and leaning toward him. You don’t even remember sitting down. The wine must be catching up to you—must be to blame for the way your heart stutters a bit when you catch the faintest trace of Yoongi’s scent as you inhale: cedar and amber. “You want to live out your misanthropic dreams in the tower,” you say, “and I want to be… where the people are.”

“If you start singing, we’re done here.”

Reluctantly, you shelve your spirited karaoke renditions for when you’re free.

“Just hear me out,” you plead. “Whenever there’s a festival, or a party, or a social function you want to miss, come here at sundown. Let me out of the tower for the night, and we’ll swap back at sunrise.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” you try, gesturing like you’re a game-show host. “Don’t you want this nice, isolated prison cell all for yourself?”

He looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds like he means it. But there’s something final in his tone—something that feels an awful lot like a precursor to a good-bye.

You panic.

“Please, Yoongi.” Pride has no place here, now. The time to beg has come. “I’m so sad here, cooped up on my own.”

He winces. “I know.”

“I don’t belong here, Yoongi.”

“Maybe not.”

“I just want to breathe some fresh air and stretch out my legs,” you say, clasping your hands together. “That’s all.”

Silence. Maybe he likes it more when you use his name.

“Don’t let me waste away here all alone, Yoongi.”

He’s glaring at the table now, conflicted.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Yoongi, please.”

“It’s not that I don’t… want to,” he rasps, voice low.

The lure has been cast. All you need to do now is calmly—carefully—reel him in.

“Let’s do what we want, then,” you say.

He cocks a brow at that, his mouth set in a straight line when he finally looks up again. His gaze on you is almost wild in its intensity—you find yourself shrinking back from him, feeling exposed.

“I can’t defy the entire village just to satisfy my own desires,” he states, firm. “I won’t.”

You tamp down the reckless side of you that wants to ask for clarification—that wants to know if he’s referring to the desire to run away from social functions, or the desire to help you.

The solitude and the wine, you decide. They’re getting to me.

“We live in a society,” Yoongi says, at the same moment a muffled popping sound reaches your ears. You glance at the window in time to see glimmers of prismatic light shooting into the sky, just visible beyond the thick canopy of forest. Fireworks. It must be midnight. “And we should abide by its rules.”

“Narc,” you grumble.

“They exist for a reason,” he presses. “To protect people. We shouldn’t rebel against them for personal gain.”

“None of my so-called ‘crimes’ were committed for personal gain,” you say, wounded. The cheers from the village are loud enough to reach you, even all the way up here. You swallow thickly—Happy New Year, you think—tearing your gaze from the window to find Yoongi looking at you intently.

“No?”

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” you say, “but I never wanted…”

You trail off thoughtfully, and Yoongi waits for you like he has all the time in the world.

“My intention was never to make people miserable,” you say some time later. “I never got anything out of what I was doing, either.”

That stymies him. “Then why do it?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Yoongi makes a show of stretching his arms and settling into his chair.

“Try,” he encourages.

It’s not that you want to evade his question; you’ve just never been able to find the right words before. Or maybe you’ve just never been given the chance.

“Your compulsion?” he prompts gently.

You think back to the last conversation you had with Namjoon.

“I guess sometimes my compulsion puts certain… ideas in my head,” you begin—and then flinch, feeling foolish. Yoongi’s not a child. He knows how compulsion works. “And I can’t control when that happens.”

“You’re the one who decides to follow through on those ideas, though,” he says, the hint of a frown forming.

“That’s true,” you agree. There’s really no contesting that. “But…”

God, how do you explain yourself? You’ve tried before, but it always leaves you feeling so unsettled. Broken. Compulsion is supposed to be this pure, positive force—an almost spiritual sort of wisdom people are born with, akin to a blessing.

What’s more, there’s a visceral, positive reaction associated with honoring your compulsion, too. Each time you follow through on your compulsion—even when it asks you to do things like grease up Jimin Park’s spoons—a warm, happy tingle spreads through your chest. You feel selfless; worthy; like you’re giving a gift to the people you’re apparently hurting.

It’s very confusing.

“Look,” you snap—self-reflection often leaves you feeling unduly defensive. “I don’t know what to tell you. Your relatives crafted magical flutes that granted their progeny the ability to subdue dragons, and mine passed down a penchant for… pissing people off. So. Congratulations on winning the genetic lottery.”

Yoongi makes a strangled sort of noise in his throat, and you don’t think it’s one of pity.

“I’m just like my mom,” you say, on a tangent now. “Nobody liked her. But I don’t…” You take a deep breath, watching the distant fireworks reflected in Yoongi’s eyes—sparkles of rich purples, pinks, and blues. “I want people to like me. Okay?”

Yoongi opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I know you come here to escape,” you say, gesturing around the tower, “but being cooped up here isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. If you let me out, I promise I will do my best to make up for what I’ve done.” Your voice is a bit thin, but it holds. “I don’t want to harm anyone, okay? I’ll dedicate those free hours to trying to right my wrongs.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. He looks rather stricken.

“Don’t believe me?” you say lightly.

“I do,” he replies, the first words he’s formed in a while. He sounds sincere. “Though I’m surprised that’s how you’d choose to spend your time.”

To be honest, you sort of are, too—initially, you’d just wanted to con Yoongi into letting you go free so you could go sew all the leg-holes of Namjoon Kim’s underdrawers shut. But now that the words have been spoken aloud, you realize they’re true—you don’t want the villagers to dread your return. You want them to look at you the way Yoongi did before he knew your name: with a smile. You want to prove you’re worthy of a second chance.

You want to watch the New Year’s fireworks with someone who’d miss you if you were gone.

“Don’t worry,” you say, sensing Yoongi’s hesitation. “No one has to know you helped me. I won’t drag your good name down with me if I get caught, or anything.”

“Ah.” Yoongi’s thumb is stroking over the reeds of his flute like they’re rosary beads; like he’s asking them for guidance.

Abruptly, he stands.

“I’m sorry, YN,” he says, and your stomach drops. Something’s hardened in his face; something that looks sickeningly like resolve. “I—”

He doesn’t stick around for long enough to finish his sentence. It’s as though something snaps; as though a switch has been flipped, and he can’t retreat quickly enough. Without so much as a, “Fare thee well, my sweet-seasoned goddess!” or an, “Egads! I must away!” he sweeps out the door.

The memory of his pan flute's haunting tune is the only evidence you have that Yoongi Min came at all. That, and the visual of his retreating back—the silver hoops he wore in his ears glinting mockingly up at you from where they shimmer under the moonbeams—as you watch him disappear into the forest.

Sighing, you wash up and sink miserably into your bed.

Al—and you cannot stress this enough—ack.

Footnotes:

[1]. You are, in fact, exactly like the other girlies.

[2]. Compulsion [noun]: An innate, typically fixed pattern of desires that arise in individuals during puberty. Compulsions cannot be controlled, are person-specific, and are marked by various physiological and psychological symptoms.

[3]. This has happened before, after all. You’re freakishly talented at hopping from high places—such as from the rooftop of Hoseok Jung’s coop, when you’d stolen all his eggs—and not getting hurt.

[4]. Okay, you were sixteen years fusty—er, old—but who’s counting?

[5]. For princes remain, as a rule, opposed to making any facial expressions that might cause wrinkles.

A/N: OHOHO. Questions? Theories? Concerns? I would love to hear what you think—please consider leaving feedback (via reblog! via comment! via my ask-box, either anonymously or not!) and see you next time 💜

Oh, also: the elephant who never forgets..... to kill! is a Futurama reference ;)

NEXT CHAPTER

He is stunning!

jinnie looking perfect as always for @cordiallyfuturedwight ♡

So excited for this one!

˚ ༘ ♡ ⋆.˚ WORLDTOUR teaser | ot7 (m)

𐙚 synopsis: The year 2026 has arrived, and instead of returning to their loving jobs as Idols, Bangtan is stuck serving South Korea after a mysterious outbreak. However, what these two jobs have in common is their World Tour.

༘⋆ genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , romance , violence, suspense , smut ; military au , idol au? ,

༘⋆ disclaimer: Violence, Gore, Graphic Violence, Use of Weapons, Mention of death, eventual smut, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

༘⋆ a/note: ANOTHER SERIES, hello my jelly fishies, this is a series that will be broken up into a mini-series for each member, please let me know who's tour you'd like to read first!

South Korea, Jeju Island     time: 7:35 pm

“I apologize, but there is not enough space for you and your crew at this moment, captain.” There was commotion, each service worker going into their own phone calls answering, some sobbing and others yelling in frustration, “Please stay safe, I will send a boat whenever there is one available.” 

Yoongi removed the head-phone caller from his head, taking in a deep breath as he stared at the large screen before him. A world map showing multiple red dots of the Korean Military’s location, and some of them were his friends. 

“They’ll be fine.” A familiar voice said beside him, Yoongi turned his head, meeting NamJoon’s. Yoongi only remained silent and Namjoon took his silence as a rejection, “SeokJin wants to have dinner together.”

Namjoon tired again, trying to bring his older brother back from his dark thoughts, “I can’t stomach anything right now.” Namjoon nodded, a faint smile on his face as he patted Yoongi’s back, “I know.. But whole they’re out there━ surviving━ so are we back here.” 

Japan, Tokyo               time: 7:37 pm 

“Hyung!” Hoseok turned from his still-position, his vision blurry from the heavy rain, “yeah?”  Squinting, he was able to make up one of his members, “Hyung, time for dinner, chief also has some information regarding international news,” Jimin’s voice was calm, his body turning to look out into the city. The rain filled the silence between them. Hoseok only swallowed, he was worried, nervous━ yet, what he was feeling was nothing compared to what Jimin felt. 

Jimin will be able to know more about the two younger ones. The two who were selected to actually fly across the world in where they had absolutely no contact. Hoseok held onto Jimin’s shoulder, “I’m sure everything is fine!” Hoseok chirped, a bright smile on his lips. Jimin only gave a small smile back. He was just thankful that among all this chaos, he had a brother with him.

United States of America, Texas - San Antonio      4:30 am

“We gotta get moving, let’s go soldiers!” an American soldier commanded as he waved the small group into a building, shutting the door behind him. 

The American soldier removed his helmet, turning to another American soldier, “when is the plane arriving?” The American took a while to respond as he checked his watch, “In about 5 minutes, captain.” 

The American Captain nodded, clenching his jaw as he looked at his small team, his eyes landing on the two foreigners, “Ya hear that, you two?” The Captain bit back a grin, “you motherfuckers are going back home.” 

Jungkook leaned against the concrete wall, panting from running a few miles, a toothy smile visible as he heard the Captain’s words. He looked over at Taehyung, who smiled at the thought of going back to Korea. 

“We’ll have to go down to Mexico, from there, the flight will be directly towards Jeju Island.” The American soldier informed the crew, earning nods in response. 

The clock had struck 4:35 am, and the door’s of the safe house were opened once more, the American Captain commanding his troops to run towards the plane location━ 1 mile away. 

Taehyung jogged behind the Captain and one other American soldier, Jungkook was right behind him. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the dark morning. Taehyung wasn’t tired, he’d trained to the point that running miles didn’t make his heart pump to the point of fainting. So, why was his heart pumping so fast? 

It became so loud to the point that he only heard his heartbeat against his chest━ it didn’t take long for him to realize that something was right, his whole body felt it, but he kept moving forward. He’ll be on the plane home no less than a mile away. 

“Get down!” Before Jungkook could process the foreign warning, a building on his far left exploited━ sending building pieces flying towards their direction and with it, the familiar grunts and screams of death. “Everyone run!” 

It took a second for Jungkook’s body to react before he started springing to the desired location. His eyes focused on Taehyung’s back. As the group got closer to the military base, sounds of gun-shots started taking over the grunts and screams. Startled by the sudden fire, Jungkook dropped to his knees, covering his ears━ a bad reflex response his body had come up. However, his arm was being pulled by one of the American Soldiers, “Get up━we’re almost there!” 

Almost being dragged by the American, Jungkook stumbled upon his feet, running alongside them. His reaction had cost him some time. Upon entering the gate to the military airport, he witnessed Taehyung entering the plane, along with 2 others. 

20 feet more and Jungkook will also be in that plane. 19 more feet and Jungkook was tackled down on the floor, the sound of fire getting louder and louder━ but Taehyung’s call was the only thing Jungkook could hear. 

And as the door of the plane closed and the plane rose from the ground up to the air━ the last image of Taehyung Jungkook will never forget was how he still reached for him.  And the last image of Jungkook Taehyung got to witness was how he was being dragged off the ground by the American Captain, his gun firing at the dead. 

It was 4: 50am when Taehyung threw his helmet against the metal floor of the plane, pacing around, his body trembling as he tried wrapping his head over what had just happened. He wasn’t going back home without Jungkook.

It was 6:00 am when Taehyung had come up with a plan to return to America and find Jungkook. It was also the time the plane began to share the same trembling as Taehyung’s body. It was 6:15 am when Kim Taehyung’s plane crashed into Mexico, Monterrey. 

South Korea, Jeju Island     time: 8:05 pm

The small lobby held a few soldiers, it only held the ones who had loved ones internationally━ So, SeokJin, Yoongi and NamJoon found themselves in that same room, awaiting their turn to receive their news. 

“Jun-ha,” The Captain called out, “Your sister is doing just fine in Thailand. The Thailand Military will bring her home, she’ll take a plane back to Korea in about a day.” The sound of sobs echoed in the room, 

It was 8:15 when the group was dismissed, bringing panic and confusion among the oldest Bangtan members, “Captain, what about our boys?” SeokJin called out, earning a few looks from the leaving soldiers, “Hoseok and Jimin are just fine in Japan.” 

“We know they’re fine, we’re talking about Taehyung and Jungkook.” NamJoon butt-in, his eyes dancing across the Captain’s face, trying to find any sense of emotion. The Captain only licked his lips, avoiding eye contact, “about that..” 

“I swear to god, if something happened to them━” Yoongi stepped in, panic running through his veins before the Captain spoke, “They are fine. Separated but fine.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Japan, Tokyo               time: 8:10 pm 

“Okay.. Taehyung is on his way..” Jimin muttered, his leg bouncing as he tried to calm his nerves, “What about Jungkook?” Hoseok looked between the Captain and Jimin, “Jungkook will take his plane from Miami, we’re not sure when, but he’s safe.” 

South Korea, Jeju Island     time: 8:13 pm

“Thank God..” Seokjin sighed, his head falling into his arms, relief falling into his body. His boys were coming home. Not together, but soon. 

Japan, Tokyo | South Korea, Jeju Island              time: 8:30 pm

Jimin and Hoseok stood on top of the military base, guarding and scanning the area. It was their turn to stand guard for the night. Jimin felt drained, his eyes only focusing on the far distance of the safe house. His thoughts eating him away. 

“Park, Jung, you two copy?” The Captain’s voice echoed through their radio, Jimin slightly turned his head towards Hoseok. Hoseok grabbed his radio, “Yes, Captain, over.”

“Come to the lobby.” 

South Korea, Jeju Island     time: 8:33 pm

“You told us they were fine!” Yoongi yelled, his eyes burning with tears, “The plane fell near a safe base, I’m sure if━” 

“Sure of what?! Do you even know if Taehyung is alive?” Yoongi cut the Captain off, SeokJin bringing Yoongi to sit back down on the chair, “Yoongi’s right.. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.. But.. we want to know if Taehyung survived..” 

United States of America - Dallas, Texas          6:36am

“What..” Jungkook’s voice came out faint, almost a whisper as the color of his face drained, “We’re sending the Mexican safe house near the accident to check the place.. In the meantime, you will head to Miami for your flight.” 

“I’m not going anywhere until I know about Taehyung.” Jungkook said, the American Captain only sighed, “You’ll know, but you need to get to Miami, go back home.” 

Mexico, Monterrey         10:25 am

Taehyung coughed, his eyes opening as he scanned the area, the beaming sun burning his face. The air was very hot against his face, and with a grunt, he pulled himself from the ground. The moment he stood on his feet, he felt the pain run through his spine, he hissed and crunched down. 

“Fuck..” he muttered, his hands running through his body. He hadn’t broken a bone, thank god for that, but his thigh was bleeding, a deep cut, too. He looked around, but there wasn’t much he could do. Just walk it out. 

12:09 pm

Taehyung reached a point where his leg couldn’t keep up, causing him to stop near a small town. Silence welcomed him, no life in sight, and he didn’t mind. His uniform was becoming unbearable, and his thigh was hurting too much. 

He stumbled upon a small store, entering and blocking the entrance behind him. And just like that, Taehyung found a small place that kept him safe for the day. When Night time fell, the heat of Mexico kept him warm, but his thigh still ached. He couldn’t find anything to fix it, he’ll have luck next time. 

That was if he wasn’t found first. 

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