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everscorner · 1 month

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My Brother's Best Friend

Author’s note: The plan was to hold on to this one until the summer, but here I am posting it. It’s a slowburn, and there will be two parts. For those of you who want to visualise the villa, it was inspired by this one. This is only for fictional purposes only, and please don’t copy my work without my permission. Enjoy 🤎

Warnings: bad language, slow burn, not smutty but suggestive, brother’s best friend!Mason Mount, age gap but nothing significant, alcohol, fluff (???), frustrating Mason Mount, sort of love triangle (let me know if I missed anything).

university student!Reader x brother’s best friend!Mason Mount

Word count: 10k words

☀️☀️☀️

July 4, 2022

You don’t fancy yourself a negative person. Painfully shy maybe, even so, you’re not negative. But as you lay face up on your bed, you dread the day ahead of you. You contemplate missing breakfast, but that would make you rude. People can accept shyness, but no one likes a rude person.

What have I gotten myself into, you think.

And with a heavy sigh, you blindly reach for your phone, and find it tucked beneath the pillow beside you.

The time reads nine o’clock, on the dot, but you’ve been awake almost an hour now. Timewise, you’re cutting it fine, but maybe if you pretend that you forgot you had to meet your group for breakfast, maybe feign illness…

You scoff at the thought. You’re not negative, you’re painfully shy, and you’re a bad liar.

One look at you and your brother will catch you in your lie. But maybe if you explain the situation to him, he might understand. Or maybe he won’t understand, after all, he didn’t pay to fly you to Majorca only for you to spend the day locked up in your room.

It’s his fault anyway, you think as you toss your phone back onto the bed.

If only you had turned down the offer. More dread, this time mixed with regret. And now the question stands: if you’re so miserable at the thought of going upstairs to breakfast, why did you agree to come in the first place?

Well, that’s easy—Eleanor, your brother’s girlfriend. She had brought up the trip at lunch nearly a month ago, and pitched it so well, you couldn’t turn her down.

☀️☀️☀️

Sometime in June, 2022

“Do you have plans for the summer?”

The simple answer to her question was ‘no.’ There were plans, but none definite.

“I’m not sure, why?”

“B/N and I are heading to Majorca next month, and we thought it’d be fun if you joined us.”

Majorca, you had never been but had seen pictures. It was a beautiful island on your bucket list of places to visit.

“When do you leave?”

“July third.”

That wasn’t enough time to get your finances in order. And you could’ve asked your mum and dad for money, but you felt bad as they were already paying so much for your tuition.

“I can’t come.”

“Why not?”

“I’m broke.”

“Who said you’re paying?”

Your brow slowly raised, signalling for her to elaborate.

“You won’t have to worry about covering the bill, B/N’s got you.”

Back in February, your older brother had started working for a new company, and from what you had heard from your parents, he was earning quite well.

“Does he know that he’s covering my bill?”

Eleanor laughed, and assured you that he did. “It was his idea to invite you. So, should we book you a ticket?”

You contemplated the offer.

“Come on, think of the beaches… the warm sun… the men!”

She had you till the last bit. “I think I’ll pass on the men.”

She beamed.

“But the beaches and sun sound tempting, I can’t lie.”

“And you get to spend the summer with me and your favourite brother. All expenses paid.”

“And you're sure B/N agreed to this?”

She nodded and repeated what she had said earlier, that it was his idea. “And did I mention that you are his favourite sister?”

“Eleanor, I’m his only sister.”

She chuckled. “So what do you say?”

☀️☀️☀️

From that point forward, any other plans you had were indefinitely placed on hold. You would spend the summer with your brother and his girlfriend, and that was final.

A week from the trip, your mother was generous enough to take you shopping for a new summer wardrobe. ‘Just a treat,’ she had expressed over the phone. And your father? Well, he sent money. ‘Just a treat.’

And then you were sitting in the back of a black Mercedes Sprinter, being driven to a villa with your brother and his girlfriend. It was late, and you were tired, but you were excited to be in Majorca. And that made you chatty, which was apparently uncharacteristic of you.

“I can’t remember the last time I heard you talk this much,” your brother teased.

You lightly shoved his shoulder. “Stop.”

He laughed, “I didn’t say that was a bad thing.”

Eleanor slung her arm over your shoulder and pulled you in for a side embrace, “I’m just glad you came. We’ll have so much fun together.”

“Just a warning, little sis,” B/N chimed in, “Eleanor went a little crazy with the itinerary.”

“That’s not true.”

He held his hands up defensively, knowing better than to try to start an argument with his girlfriend. He was sure to lose. Instead, he dug his phone out of his pocket and began texting someone.

Eleanor was rattling on about the items on the itinerary when your brother announced, “It seems our party has arrived at the villa.”

Party? What party? You whipped your head towards your brother, “‘Our party?’ What does that mean?”

“Our friends.”

Friends? Up until that point, no mentions of friends had been made, so you were confused. You turned to Eleanor, “Which friends?”

“Oh, James, Edward, Maya, and her friend Jordan. She’s American.”

“And Mason.”

You whipped back to your brother—man, you were going to get whiplash. “College Mason?”

“No. Mason Mount, he’s a good friend.”

You had never met Mason Mount before, but you had heard your brother mention him a couple of times in passing. He was a footballer your brother had befriended at a party in Ibiza after he had saved him from a group of rowdy football fans who wanted a picture with him.

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed now,” he chuckled.

Not disappointed, confused. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned that part to you?

As if she could sense your panic, Eleanor lightly squeezed your shoulder and assured you that it would be fine. “They’re good people, don’t worry. It’ll be fun.”

☀️☀️☀️

Eleanor was right, they were good people and it was fun, just not your kind of fun. You walked into the villa and were greeted by James, your brother’s best friend from uni, and Edward, his boyfriend. The two of them were standing in the middle of the darkly hued modern kitchen, preparing vodka tonics for everyone, and they were quite pleased to see you.

“And you brought Y/N! Hello, love!”

You smiled. James was tipsy, you knew that because his face was flushed, his voice just a bit too loud. “Hello, James.”

He pulled you in for a hug. “It’s so lovely to see you again. Vodka tonic?”

You hugged him back, “Yes, please.”

“Already on it!” called Edward from his spot at the large kitchen island.

“You’ve grown since the last time I saw you,” James said as he released you from the tight embrace. “How’s the first year of uni? Or would you rather not talk about it?”

“Uni’s been good.” And because you thought the answer was too curt, you added, “Challenging, but good. I like it there.”

Edward appeared, bright smile and vodka tonic in hand. He handed it to you, and told you, “Let me know what you think.”

You thanked him, and raised the tumbler to your lips to take a small sip, but it was too tiny to taste anything. So you lied, “It’s good.”

And he seemed pleased.

James was telling you about their flight over to the island when he was cut off by the commotion behind you, a group of people coming up the stairs.

You turned around to see Maya and her friend Jordan, the American, and a guy you assumed was Mason Mount, come into the kitchen. More greetings, more volume, and more happy people. Maya was first to greet you, and then Jordan, and then Mason.

The other two walked over to the island to grab their drinks, but Mason stayed behind to make conversation.

“I’m Mason.”

“Y/N.” You felt your cheeks heat up under his cheeky gaze. What your brother had forgotten to mention in the car was just how cute Mason was. “Pleased to meet you, Mason.”

His smile widened, “Likewise. What are you drinking?”

“Uh…” your mind froze for just a split second. Of all the times your brain chose to act up, it had to be in front of the cute older guy. “A vodka tonic. Made by Edward.”

“Is it any good?”

You took a second, more generous swig from the tumbler, and grimaced at the taste. It wasn’t that it tasted bad, but there was far too much alcohol in your drink. “A little heavy handed on the vodka.”

He laughed. “Then I think I’ll like it.”

And then he walked away and you released a quiet wistful sigh. You had a crush, oh God. How would you survive the summer?

Edward took you to your room, and gave a mini tour of your floor. Your room was sandwiched between Maya and Jordan’s rooms. Inside, the walls were white, and mostly bare, with just a single picture hung up above your bed’s headboard.

There was a wardrobe to store your clothes; a sleek and elegant bathroom with a shower, a toilet, and a sink; a tiny desk tucked into the corner of the room; and a wide glass sliding door that led out onto a balcony that overlooked the rest of the neighbourhood. Also, the balcony was shared between the three rooms.

You placed your bag on the bench that sat at the foot of the bed, connected your phone to the WiFi, and made your way back to the main area, where a welcome party had commenced.

You spent the hour that followed observing your fellow villa mates. Some were drunk, most were tipsy, and you were way past the point of exhaustion, but you held on, not wanting to earn the label of ‘party pooper,’ and it was a struggle.

The group was divided in two. Your brother was out on the covered patio, animatedly telling a story to James and Edward, his arm possessively hooked around Eleanor’s waist. She wore a smile on her face, invested in whatever it was he was saying—you weren’t exactly paying attention—so smitten with her boyfriend. That’s the group you chose to hang around.

Inside, just a few feet away, Jordan and Mason were sitting next to each other on the sectional, and they looked rather cosy which made you speculate on the nature of their relationship.

They seemed comfortable in each other’s presence, Mason leaning into her as she showed him something on her phone, his hand resting on her knee, and it looked to be inching higher with each passing minute.

If only I was brave enough, you thought as you took in the scene before you.

But you felt you didn’t stand a chance. Not only was Mason friends with your older brother, which was bound to be an issue, a violation of some bro code, but guys like Mason didn’t go for girls like you.

It’s the simple fact of life, but it didn’t stop it from hurting any less.

You polished off the remainder of your vodka tonic, the once icy drink now at room temperature, and placed the glass on the table in front of you.

Moments later, you felt your phone vibrate in your hand. Claire. A text:

Claire 🐻: Yayyy!

Claire 🐻: I cant believe youre in majorca and i’m stuck at my grannys cottage :/

Claire 🐻: I’m jealous

She was responding to the text you’d sent her earlier. You were letting her know that you had arrived at your destination.

You: Kinda wish I’d joined you instead

Heading to the countryside with Claire was one of the ‘not definite’ summer plans.

Claire 🐻: Its not too late to change your mind…

You chuckled at her response.

Claire 🐻: Up for a late night call?

As far as you were concerned, there was no use in hanging around, but you didn’t want to make a fuss by announcing your departure. Instead, you excused yourself under the guise of someone who would return, and made a slick escape to your room.

You locked the door and launched yourself onto the bed with an audible huff.

☀️☀️☀️

You passed out after two o’clock, which meant you had a little under six hours of sleep, but you don’t feel tired. And now it’s morning, and it’s breakfast, and you can’t cook up an excuse to remain locked in your room.

There’s ten minutes till breakfast, and you don’t like being late, so you drag your feet to the bathroom and do your best to freshen up, but there’s just not enough time, and you still have to change into something breakfast appropriate.

Suffice to say, you’re the last one to arrive, and all eyes are on you as you walk into the kitchen/dining area. There’s a spread of food laid out on the table, and a bunch of hungover grown ups convened around it.

“You made it. I almost came down to get you.”

That’s Eleanor, and you’re grateful she didn’t come down. You tell a little white lie, that you had missed the alarm, and take your place at the table next to Maya, who looks like hell, the result of too many vodka tonics last night.

Across the table from you is Mason, who looks worse than Maya does. He looks to be in actual physical pain.

“Are you alright?” you question.

He shakes his head and looks like he might throw up right there on the table. It’s only then that you realise that Jordan is not here.

You turn to Maya, who’s devouring a cheese croissant, “Is Jordan not joining us for breakfast?”

She shakes her head, then swallows, “No, she’s too worn out. Someone kept her up all night.”

It takes you a moment to realise what she means by that. And then your cheeks heat up, and you wish you hadn’t asked.

“Got it.”

With a soft chuckle, she apologises for the TMI. As you plate your own food, you tune into the different conversations taking place around the table.

Eleanor is telling Edward and Maya about her plan to spend the day at the beach, and B/N is listening to James tell him about an old pal who recently contacted him about a project he wanted the two of them to work on.

Neither interest you, so you focus on eating your breakfast. And after some time, Eleanor proclaims, “So it’s settled then, we’re spending the day at the beach!”

And her tone is final—bossy.

“I think I’ll sit this one out.”

The table turns to Mason, who really looks to be suffering.

With an apologetic smile and slight shrug of his shoulder, he states, “I feel like shit.”

The corner of your brother’s lips curve into a knowing smirk, “Are you sure that’s the only reason you want to stay behind?”

Mason rolls his eyes at what B/N’s insinuating.

“Where is Jordan anyway?” he continues.

“Mate, shut the fuck up,” and despite feeling ill, Mason smiles, and blushes.

The table erupts into laughter, and you force a laugh, but you’re green with envy.

Mason doesn’t make it to the end of breakfast, and when you leave for the beach around 11, you don’t see him.

☀️☀️☀️

The sound of the waves lightly crashing into each other serves as the perfect soundtrack to your morning. There are other people on the beach with you, children running across the sand and into the shallow waters, and you’re happy—content.

“I also should’ve brought a book with me.”

You turn to Maya, who is splayed stomach side down on her brightly hued large beach towel, directly under the sun.

“When was the last time you reapplied your sunscreen?”

She can’t remember. “Oops. Do you mind?”

You place your book to one side, “Where is it?”

She sits up and extends her arm to Eleanor’s bag, that’s mere inches from where she’s sitting, for the lotion. She doesn’t have to dig far since it’s at the top of the bag.

“Thanks. I keep forgetting to reapply it, which is really bad for my skin. And not to sound vapid, but I’m not trying to age.”

She takes her place in front of your beach chair, and quickly unfastens the knots of her bikini top, but keeps her hands over her chest area. As you rub the lotion onto her back, she tells you about her boyfriend and how he was supposed to come onto the trip with her.

“He bailed at the last minute.”

Your lotion slick hands glide down to the middle of her back, where you continue to rub, “Did he say why?”

“He’s just an asshole.”

You both laugh at that.

“But it’s fine. I’ll have a better time with Jordan anyway, even though she’s currently ditching me for Mason’s dick.”

You flinch at her choice of words, the visuals of the two of them fornicating flooding your mind, and you’d rather not think about it.

“How do you know Jordan anyway?”

“We work for the same PR company. We have similar interests so we instantly hit it off.”

“Oh.” You lean back on your chair to assess your work, “Well, it looks like I’m done.”

She thanks you, calls you ‘a star,’ then moves back to her previous spot and starts lathering the rest of her body. You reach for your phone—which you have wrapped in a towel and placed under your beach chair to keep from overheating—to check the time.

You’ve been at the beach nearly three hours now, and you’re kind of over it. Plus you’re hoping to take a quick nap, the lack of sleep finally catching up with you.

“Hey, Maya. I think I’m going to head back to the villa.”

“You’re not joining us for lunch?”

The plan is to lunch at a restaurant a walking distance from the beach, but you’re more tired than hungry.

“I think I’ll pass. And tell Eleanor not to panic, I’m fine.”

Maya chuckles at that.

You pack your belongings into your cotton canvas tote, and raise off the beach chair. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

Eleanor has gone with your brother to search for a cove to take pictures for her Instagram, and James and Edward are splashing in the water nearby. You wave at them as you walk away, and are grateful when they don’t question your departure.

“Hey, Y/N?”

You whip back to Maya, “Yeah?”

“If you happen to see Mason and Jordan, tell them to come down to the beach. I’ll send them a text, but I doubt they’ll see it.”

You nod, but deep down, you don’t wish to see them.

The temperature has gradually risen since you first arrived at the beach, but under the protection of your beach umbrella, you didn’t realise the intensity of the sun. It beats down on your exposed shoulders and back, and makes you wish you had worn a cover-up.

The streets are empty, everyone in this particular area seemingly gathered at the beach, and you’re so lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the stranger that’s now walking beside you.

“Hi.”

You stop dead in your tracks, startled by his sudden appearance.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You instantly recognise his accent to be English, and he looks to be around your age.

“Hi…”

He smiles wide, his teeth exposed. “I’m Alexander, Alex.”

Your eyes drop to his extended hand, and you reluctantly extend your own to shake it. You feel it’s too formal though.

“I’m Y/N.”

Alex’s taller than you are; his pale skin dark from being out in the sun too long; his hair sandy blonde, sticking up in different directions; and his eyes a light brown. A cute face, and he’s smiling at you, making conversation.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

You shake your head, “Are you?”

He tells you that he’s here on vacation with his family, and that they come here every summer, so he’s quite familiar with the place.

“How about you?”

You tell him something similar: that you’re here with your brother and his friends, but unlike Alex, this isn’t an annual tradition.

“Nice. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

And then he asks where you are headed and without giving it much thought, you tell him, only to realise that you have made a blunder.

What if he’s a creepy stalker?

“You’re not some creepy stalker, are you?”

He laughs at your question. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s what a creepy stalker would say.”

He doesn’t give creepy stalker vibes, at least you don’t get that energy from him, and you honestly don’t want to overthink it. Alex seems nice, knows how to hold a conversation, and it wouldn’t hurt to make a friend.

He then offers to walk you back to the villa and you allow it, and on the way there, the two of you make conversation about the island and places to visit. And you think he might be flirting with you, but you’re not sure.

“Well, this is me,” you announce as you slow your pace in front of your temporary home.

“And what does your brother do for a living, exactly?”

You’re not sure what he means by that, so you choose not to answer him. Instead, you reply, “Thank you for walking with me.”

He tells you not to sweat it, says goodbye and tells you that he hopes to see you again soon. And then carries on his way.

Inside the air conditioner cooled house, Mason is perched on the large sectional in the sitting room, on a Facetime call with a friend. He sounds livelier than he was this morning, his earlier sourness replaced by a jovial mood.

Upon hearing you enter the living room, he turns in your direction, the smile on his face widening at the sight of you, and suddenly, you feel self-conscious. The sudden drop in temperature inside the house has caused you to perspire, and you’re a bit out of breath, and you’re sure you look a mess.

“Hey, Deckers,” he cuts his friend off mid-statement, “I’ve got to go, mate. Chat later.” And then he hangs up the call, and fully turns to regard you. “You’re back!”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, “I’m back. Are you feeling better?”

He shrugs, “Eh. How was the beach?”

“Warm, sunny. I liked it.”

“Then why are you back here?”

“To nap. I slept late last night,” you confess.

And when he beckons you over, you make your way to the sectional, and take your seat next to him—with space between you.

He scoots closer and assures you that he doesn’t bite. “So, what did you do at the beach?”

“Maya told me to tell you and Jordan to join them at the beach,” you blurt out suddenly.

Why, why, why have you done that? Your mind implores. And how does one recover from such? For a moment, you sit stunned, and wish the ground would open up and swallow you.

“For lunch. Maya told me to tell you to join them at the beach because it’s almost lunch.”

“Am I sitting too close?”

Yes. “No, it’s fine,” you lie, but it’s not convincing.

He smiles. “Then why do I get the sense that you are nervous?”

“It’s all in your head,” and you barely recognise your own voice. Who is this girl? And how is she so calm?

“It’s all in my head, huh?”

You place your hands over your face to conceal your smile and let your head fall back, “What do you want me to say?”

With a soft chuckle and a hand over your bent knee, he tells you, “I want you to be honest.”

The sound of a door closing downstairs disturbs the moment and you are reminded of Jordan’s presence. A few moments pass, then she appears at the entrance of the sitting room, in a bikini with a towel around her waist.

You don’t blame Mason for fixating on her, she really is so stunning.

“Are you guys back?”

It’s Mason who answers. “No, only Y/N. Where are you going?”

“Maya texted. They’re waiting for us at the restaurant, you coming?”

Mason moves away from you, and you feel your stomach drop—ouch.

“Yeah,” he raises off the couch, “Let me go change quickly.”

Your eyes drop to your fingers that are knotted on your lap. Your face is heating up for a different reason now, and you wish you had stayed at the beach with the rest of the group. Moments pass and you hear a slap sound, followed by Jordan’s giggle.

You sink further into the couch. It’s going to be a long vacation.

☀️☀️☀️

You successfully avoid Mason for the remainder of the day, but your luck runs out at dinner. In what you deem an unfortunate turn of events, you’re sat next to him at the restaurant, its tight configuration meaning that you were practically on Mason’s lap as you had your meal.

Arms and shoulders touching, knees bumping, and at one point, he has his arm draped over the back of your chair, the fabric of his shirt grazing the back of your neck. You try to ignore it, but he’s so close and smells so good, and it pains you to know that your feelings aren’t reciprocated.

And so you drink to numb your unrequited desires.

The sound of plates clattering and cheerful chatter fills the table. As previously mentioned, the restaurant isn’t large, with only five tables laid across the establishment, and they are all taken up by patrons who are here to enjoy the local cuisine.

It sits directly on the beach, a body of water a short distance from its front entrance, and its lack of walls makes it so you can see the ocean in the distance, waves rolling onto the shore, the sun setting in the horizon.

This is good, this is paradise, you think.

“It looks like Y/N’s got an admirer.”

You arch a questioning brow at your brother’s girlfriend, who sits directly across the table from you, her half-eaten plate of food now abandoned as she sips her alcoholic beverage. “I do? Who?”

“Okay, don’t turn now, but he’s sitting two tables away from us,” she seems ecstatic, “and he’s cute too.”

You like the sound of the last bit. Maybe a summer romance is in the cards for you after all.

“Okay, he’s turned away. You can look now.”

And you do so, only to discover that your admirer is none other than Alex.

“Oh, that’s Alex.”

“You know him?”

You swallow the last forkful of your meal then push your plate away from you, “Yeah, we met earlier. He’s here on vacation with his family. He’s nice.”

Enter Maya. “Just nice? Is that the best you can do?”

You get the sense that you have said something wrong—offensive even. “Yes, he’s nice.”

“Girl,” she continues, “you’ve got to do better than that. He’s clearly crushing on you, go talk to him.”

With wide eyes, you respond, “What? No!”

“Uh, why not?” they, Eleanor and Maya, ask in unison.

“Because that’s forward, and if he doesn’t actually like me, it would be extremely embarrassing for me.”

Maya turns to Eleanor, “Does she have a boyfriend back home?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Do you not want a summer fling? Or do you not swing that way?”

You laugh. You like Maya, she’s funny. “I can assure you his mind’s not on a summer fling.”

She throws her hands up in defeat. “I give up.”

“Maybe she’s not into guys like Alex. He looks like he’s a bit of a dweeb.”

Mason’s interjection catches you off guard, and you’re offended on the behalf of Alex.

“He’s not a dweeb,” you defend.

“The only word you could come up with to describe him was ‘nice.’ I think he’s a dweeb, friendzone material.”

And I think you should mind your own business, you want to retort, but you swallow your words, not wanting to make things awkward.

“Y/N’s into the bad boys, I reckon.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth, but you didn’t see the point in arguing with him.

“All I’m saying is that he keeps looking this way, and dweeb or not, he’s really into Y/N.”

Mason shrugs, and in a casual movement, his arm returns to the back of your chair. This time, his warm hand rests on the corner of your shoulder. “I don’t think you should waste your time, Y/N.”

You don’t respond, because you don’t trust your voice to not betray you.

☀️☀️☀️

It’s past three in the morning, and you’re tipsy from the liquor you consumed at dinner, and you can’t fall asleep, kept awake by thoughts of Mason. He currently occupies a too large portion of your thoughts, and it pains you because you know it will only lead to heartache.

Of all the people on this island, why did your heart choose to fixate on him? So stupid, so masochistic your heart is.

You grab your phone from its spot beneath your pillow and open the WhatsApp app to send a text to Claire:

You: Can’t sleep :/ wish you were here with me

She would know what to do in this situation. And if not, she’d find the perfect way to distract you from your moronic emotions.

You wait ten minutes to see if she’ll respond and when she doesn’t, you figure that she’s asleep, and decide to head out onto the balcony instead. Your mother’s words come to mind, ‘Fresh air clears a clouded mind.’

You pad across the cool tiled floor, and take caution not to cause a ruckus as you slide the door open. A light breeze greets you the moment that you step outside, and you inhale deeply through your nose.

And then you hear them, the distant moans coming from Jordan’s room next door. And your heart sinks at the realisation of what is happening. You weren’t aware she was with Mason again tonight.

Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!

More than anything, you’re frustrated at the fact that you care so much. He doesn’t like you, you’re his friend’s little sister, and he will never see you as anything more than that. And despite that knowledge, you’re bothered and you’re jealous and you think that life isn’t fair!

The icing on the cake—the most ridiculous part of this whole ordeal—is that you barely know the guy. But I guess emotions don’t work like that. The heart wants what it wants, or whatever, and you just have to accept that.

Fuck.

The moaning gradually intensifies and it suddenly feels wrong, dirty, to be standing out here. So you retreat back into your room, afraid that someone might catch you and get the wrong idea.

You’re not negative, you’re painfully shy, you’re a bad liar, and you’re not a pervert.

You dig your AirPods out of your tote, and listen to music to drown out the obnoxious sounds.

☀️☀️☀️

July 5, 2022

Breakfast the next morning is interesting. It seems you’re not the only one who heard Jordan and Mason’s impassioned moans. Everyone keeps teasing them about it, inappropriate jokes cracking from all sections of the table, making you wish you hadn’t come up for breakfast.

But eventually, the taunting ends, and the discussion turns to the day’s activities. B/N, Eleanor, James and Maya want to visit Castell de Bellver; and the other half, yourself included, would rather stay at the villa.

And so it’s decided that today, you will split up.

After breakfast, you accompany Maya to the beach because she wants shots of herself in front of the ocean, to ‘show my asshole boyfriend what he’s missing.’ And you’re not the best photographer, but the pictures come out decent.

You spend the rest of the morning texting Claire. The Castell de Bellver group leaves the villa around midday, and in their absence, a sort of party kicks off. You have come to discover that where there is Edward, there is booze. And music, obnoxiously loud music.

“You sure I can’t make you anything, love? I make a mean margarita.”

And because you can never say ‘no’ to Edward, you inquire, “A margarita?”

His face lights up, pleased at the prospect of you day drinking with him, “I promise to go easy on the booze.”

Jordan’s in the kitchen with him, but Mason’s nowhere to be seen. You have the first margarita, and when you finish it, they convince you to have a second. And you give in.

The volume at which they speak rises with every sip, and you witness them go from tipsy to borderline drunk in a matter of an hour. And in his borderline drunk state, Edward arrives at the conclusion that he wants to be near the ocean.

Why?

“Because I’m in mother fucking Majorca, bitches!”

And Jordan agrees.

Your flags go up, but you can’t properly articulate your concerns, the booze muddling your mind. You don’t think it’s a good idea for either of them to be near a large body of water in their state, but they’re out of the house before you can string together a coherent sentence.

Curse being a lightweight.

You think to follow after them, but then you realise that a tranquillity has descended upon the villa at their departure. And maybe it’s a selfish thought, but in their absence, you can finally read your novel.

You run down to your room to grab it, head out onto the terrace, and make yourself comfortable on one of the pool chairs.

This, you think, is what I imagined my summer to be.

And you’re basking in the solitude, lost in the words on the page, when-

“Where did everyone go?”

Right. Mason’s still home.

Without tearing your eyes from the page, you tell him, “The beach. They left about 10 minutes ago. I’m not sure if they took their phones.”

“And you stayed behind?”

“I don’t feel like sitting out in the sun.”

You hope that he might be repelled by your stoic tone, but he’s apparently not easy to deter. He makes his way over to where you’re sitting, and takes his seat at the foot of your chair.

“What are you reading?”

“A book.”

He’s amused. “I know that, but what’s it called?”

When you don’t respond, he reads the title on the cover.

“What’s it about?”

You give a brief summary of the plot.

“And do you like it?”

Oh god. “Don’t you want to join Jordan and Edward at the beach?”

“No.”

You drop the book to your lap, your finger placed between the pages to not lose your spot. Mason is in nothing but his board shorts, his face nap-swollen, sleep lines marking the one side of his face.

“You were napping?”

“Mm-hmm. Scoot over.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to lie next to you. So you can read to me.”

What? “It’s a boring book.”

“I don’t mind. Unless that’s you kind way of telling me to fuck off.”

And he smiles, which makes you smile.

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not?”

You shake your head, “No. But I don’t think there’s enough space for the both of us.”

That’s not entirely true. It’s narrow, but the pool chair’s built just wide enough to seat two people.

“We’ll make it work. Scoot.”

And despite your better judgement, you do as he instructs. It’s a tight fit, but he fits—his body pressed right against your own.

“You comfortable?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Mm-hmm,” then you turn to your book, clear your throat, and start reading from where you left off.

You do your best to focus on the words on the page, but you’re very aware of Mason’s gaze fixed on your face as you read. And you feign indifference, but he’s so close, and it makes you nervous, and it makes you stumble on your words.

Why are you so affected by him?

He laughs at the funny bits, but for the most part, he’s silent. Listening. You expect him to get over it at some point, bored of the premise or the sound of your voice, but he stays put.

And at the end of the chapter, you close the book. “I haven’t bored you yet?”

“Mm-mm. Why d’you stop? Are you tired of reading?”

“A bit,” you shift in the chair, careful to avoid his sensitive area. “Are you sure you don’t want to join Edward and Jordan at the beach?”

“Why do I get the sense that you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m not. I just figured you might want to–”

Your breath hitches at the feel of Mason’s fingers gliding up and down the skin of your exposed thigh.

“You figured I might want to what?”

He’s so casual as he asks the question, meanwhile, the words are lost to you, your brain malfunctioning.

“I figured…” you blank.

Suddenly, you don’t know how to speak.

A fuzzy feeling burgeons from the deepest pit of your stomach, and you know you have to get away, but you stay put because a part of you likes the fact that he’s touching you, but the other part—the reasonable one—sees the danger in his actions.

He’s leading you on. You’re nothing but an ego boost for him.

“Y/N?”

Say something, your mind screams at you, but your tongue’s heavy in your mouth—just a lump of lead.

“Earth to Y/N…”

“Hmm?”

“Are you still with me?”

Barely. Barely.

You lie perfectly still, afraid that if you move, it might ruin the moment. Under his touch, your body relaxes; your breath slows in tempo, shallow; and you catch yourself giving into him—and you don’t see the use in fighting it.

Thud.

Your novel hits the floor and the sound snaps you back to reality. You place a hand over his to stop its suggestive motion.

This is wrong and this can’t happen. What would your brother say if he walked in to find this sight? And Jordan? He was with her just last night.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

In quick movements, you peel away from him, raise off of the pool chair and without as much as a goodbye, scurry back into the house. You run to your room, shut the door behind you and lock it.

Stupid, stupid girl! Why would you act like such a buffoon?

“Holy crap…” you breathe out.

You’re aroused, your breathing erratic, and you feel like the biggest loser.

Why did you stop him? Your mind beseeches. Is that not what you wanted?

And now you can never face him, and he’ll never look your way ever again—not after this.

“Fuck.”

You might as well pack your bags and fly back to England. Or worse, come to terms with the fact that you’ve just ruined any shot of a summer fling with Mason.

☀️☀️☀️

An hour has passed since yours and Mason’s pool encounter, and you’ve managed to calm down but the embarrassment hasn’t been as forgiving.

You tried to call Claire, but she was out biking in the fields with her cousin and couldn’t talk. Reading was out of the question after you had abandoned your book on the terrace, and starting a new one seemed silly.

And so you sat and stewed in the feeling. And when that got too overwhelming, you listened to music to help drown your torturous thoughts. Would you ever get over it? Time would tell.

Around three o’clock, the Castell de Bellver group returned with the bad news that they didn’t get to see the castle. Apparently, in their excitement, they had forgotten to book their tickets online, and when they got there, the lines were too long.

“I take full blame, I’m generally an unlucky person,” Eleanor quips.

She calls it the ‘sightseeing curse,’ and launches into explaining the phenomenon, but you don’t catch a single word she says, your eyes fixed on Mason standing at the terrace with your brother.

The two of them are engaged in conversation, a smile on Mason’s face as he takes in your brother’s words.

“… But I did get you a gift!” Eleanor concludes.

“You did?”

“Yeah.” She digs into her Louis tote and pulls out a bright pink braided leather bracelet. “I didn’t know which colour to get.”

“Aw, Eleanor. Thanks.”

It’s such a sweet and unexpected gesture. She puts it around your wrist and it’s the perfect fit.

And then James comes from his room, looking for his boyfriend.

“At the beach with Jordan. I was actually about to head there, so I’ll let them know you’re back.”

And that’s how you escape Eleanor and her many stories. You love her, think she’s good for your brother, but man, once she gets started, there’s no stopping her. You grab your tote and phone from your room, then leave the villa.

There’s no definite plan for when you’re out the house, but it beats being in the same vicinity as Mason.

☀️☀️☀️

Edward and Jordan are still at the beach and they have befriended an elderly couple. Odd, but they’re still tipsy and they’re very happy to see you. After you tell them that the Castell de Bellver group has returned, they bid their company farewell and head back to the villa.

“You’re not coming back with us?”

“No. I think I’ll hang here for a bit. But I’ll see you soon.”

Jordan throws her arms around you and pulls you into a tight embrace. It amuses you how people are always the most affectionate in their drunk state. They blow a thousand kisses as they back away and then they are gone.

You take pictures of the ocean to post onto your story. On vacation mode, you haven’t been very active on your socials, which means that you’ve been behind on your friend’s summer activities.

You’re lost in your explore page when you hear a familiar voice call for you. It’s Alex, and he’s with his twin sister, Charlotte—Lottie.

Like you, they wanted to escape the house and the beach is the perfect spot to chill. And they invite you to join them,

“If you’re not busy, of course,” he clarifies and you appreciate his manners.

The rest of your afternoon is spent at the beach with the siblings, doing nothing in particular, but it’s a lot of fun.

Eleanor: Dinner’s at 8

Eleanor: You don’t have any allergies, right?

The second message was sent nearly an hour ago.

You: Sorry, didn’t see these. I’ll be home before then.

You send your response to her allergies question, and then you get an idea.

You: Can I invite a friend over for dinner?

You don’t expect an immediate response from her, but–

Eleanor: Only if it’s Alex ;)

You snort at her response.

You: It’s Alex

You: And his sister, Lottie

It’s been good spending time with your age mates.

Eleanor: Yes! The more the merrier.

Eleanor: Are they allergic to anything?

You invite Alex and Lottie over for dinner at yours, and when they accept, you ask if they’re allergic to anything.

You: No allergies, but Lottie doesn’t like peas.

☀️☀️☀️

It’s just past six when you and the twins part. At the villa, James and Eleanor are at the kitchen island, unpacking the groceries they’ve just come home with.

Your brother is out by the pool with Maya and Edward, and Mason is back to flirting with Jordan. The whole thing trips you up, and you conclude that it’s best not to dwell on it. Why lose sleep over something so trivial?

Because it isn’t trivial.

“What’s this I’m hearing about a potential love interest joining us for dinner tonight?”

James’s question catches you off guard.

“You told him?”

With an apologetic smile, Eleanor says, “He asked who Alex was and I didn’t know what to tell him.”

Oh goodness. “Alex is a friend.”

But James isn’t buying it. “A friend, huh?”

You laugh, “Yes. He is.”

“Then why are you giggling like that?”

“Nervous habit,” you take your seat on one of the stools at the island. “And I’m not sure if this will change your mind or not, but he’s bringing his twin sister.”

He dramatically stops mid-movement. “You’ve already met his family?”

“Who’s met who’s family?”

You really wish Mason would stop butting in your conversations like this. Your eyes follow him as he makes his way over to the fridge, where he grabs himself a bottle of water.

“Y/N. Her friend,” James winks knowingly at you, “is coming over for dinner tonight, and she was just telling me how she’s already met his family.”

“Not family, just his sister,” you clarify.

“Right, his sister.”

“Which friend? The dweeb?”

It annoys you that Mason keeps referring to Alex as that.

“Alex. His name is Alex, not dweeb.”

“Watch yourself,” James jokingly warns Mason.

But Mason doesn’t seem all that phased by your clear irritation. “So he’s coming over tonight?”

And you think your mind might be playing tricks on you, but Mason seems jealous.

“With his sister, yes.”

But you’re not interested in having this conversation with Mason in the kitchen, so you excuse yourself.

For the first time since the moment you landed on this island, you have something to look forward to and you don’t need Mason, or anyone for that matter, ruining it for you.

☀️☀️☀️

At your request, Eleanor and Maya came to your room to help you put together a look for tonight. Eleanor was the stylist, Maya the make-up artist and hairstylist. The transformation is like something out of a coming of age film, and you’re not mad about it.

“Who are you? And what have you done with my sister?”

If B/N was standing close to you, you’d shove him.

“What’s the occasion?” he inquires.

James can’t wait to tell him about Alex, which starts discourse on the nature of your relationship with your guest. They’re all like the annoying older sibling, teasing and prying, but you’d be lying if you said you aren’t entertained.

It’s Edward who comes to your rescue, extracting you from the chaos to pull you to the kitchen, where he makes you a drink.

“For courage,” he says as he hands it to you.

All eyes are on Alex and Charlotte when they arrive, and you’re tense. Jaws clenched level tense, nervous to see how your villa mates would interact with your guests. It’s your brother who makes the first move.

After introductions are made, Edward offers your guests drinks, and the rest is history. For the most part, Alex and Charlotte, stick with you, but every now and again, someone will walk over to make conversation.

When it’s time to eat, everyone makes their way over to the dining area. Alex takes his place on the seat to your right, and Mason insists on taking the left chair.

“So, Alex,” Maya starts and you already regret it. What is she going to say? “Where are you from?”

Phew.

Maya’s question launches an interrogation. Suddenly, everyone at the table—minus Mason—is a detective with questions. Where he was born. Where he’s studying. What he is studying. Future plans. All of it, they want to know, and they’re relentless in their pursuit to the answer.

Eventually, you have to interject and remind Alex that he doesn’t have to answer their intrusive questions, but he assures you that it’s fine.

“University College London, hey? That’s not far from where you’re studying, Y/N,” Eleanor notes.

Despite spending nearly three hours with the twins this afternoon, the topic of your studies never came up.

“Is it?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you? She’s at the Chelsea College of Art and Design.”

Alex turns to you, “What are you studying?”

“Interior design.”

“Ah! An architect and interior designer, a match made in heaven,” Jordan observes.

You pretend to not hear Mason scoff beside you.

What crawled up his ass and died?

Despite Mason’s clear sour mood, it’s a good night. You weren’t sure how the night would go, but it went smoother than you had anticipated. Even your brother, whose reaction you dreaded the most, was pleased.

And as the night wraps up, you’re glad that you invited the twins over.

When you walk them out, you notice that Charlotte walks ahead of her brother, and you make nothing of it until…

“Do you have any plans for tomorrow? Because if not, I’d like to take you out.” Alex’s nervous as he asks the question.

The two of you are standing in the middle of the driveway. The backtrack to your moment are the cicadas and the distant music coming from the villa. It seems there will be another party tonight.

Your face heats up from the nerves. It’s not your first time being asked out by someone, but it still gets to you. You tell him that you are in fact available to hang out, and the two of you exchanged numbers.

And then he asks to kiss you. So in the middle of that driveway, the two of you share a chaste kiss.

What you don’t realise is that Eleanor and Maya are watching the whole thing unfold from the window, and so when you come into the house, they greet you with a million and one questions.

“When are you seeing him again?”

“How was the kiss?”

“Was he a good kisser?”

“Are you in love?”

Uh… “You saw that?!”

Neither is apologetic, despite the clear horror in your tone. There’s only one question on their minds: is the summer fling on?

You laugh. “I don’t know.”

“Well, when are you guys hanging out again?”

“Tomorrow.”

Your answer pleases them. They both squeal from excitement, and you almost can’t believe that the two women in front of you are approaching 30.

☀️☀️☀️

After the night you’ve had, you can’t sleep but you know better than to sit out on the balcony because Mason and Jordan were flirting again tonight, and you think you saw them kiss by the pool, but that could’ve been the lighting.

Either way, you weren’t going to risk it.

In your sleepless state, you did what anyone in your position would do—get on a late night call with your best friend.

“Wait… when did you meet a guy?”

You hadn’t told Claire about Alex because up until tonight, you didn’t see the point in telling her about him. He was neither a friend or potential romance/fling. You explain that to her, but she’s dissatisfied.

“Well, is he hot?”

You wouldn’t use the word ‘hot’ to describe Alex. You find him cute, but you don’t want a repeat of the ‘nice’ incident, so you search your mind for a more suitable adjective.

“He’s charming.”

Claire laughs, really loudly. So loud, you have to pull your AirPod from your ear. “Charming? What, is he ugly?”

“Claire, no!” you join her in her laughter, careful not to be too loud as you don’t want to wake the house. “No, he’s actually really cute.”

“I don’t trust you anymore. Does he have an Instagram?”

He probably does, doesn’t everyone have it at this age? But you unfortunately don’t know his last name.

“Okay. Where’s he from?”

You don’t know the answer to that either. Do you know anything about this guy? “He’s studying in London, though.”

“Okay, that’s something.” And Claire likes the sound of that. “If everything goes well between you, you could have yourself a boyfriend when you get back.”

Uh, she’s definitely jumping the gun, but you don’t tell that to her. You let her bask in her fantasy.

“At least one of us has got something exciting going on in their life. From now on, I’m living vicariously through you.” She goes on to tell you that she hates it at her grandmother’s cottage. “There’s virtually nothing to do. The other day, I started–”

“Claire, could you hold for one moment?”

You think you heard a knock sound from your door.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just thought I h–”

It sounds again, but it’s clearer this time.

“Someone’s at my door.”

“At this late hour?”

You climb off of your bed and pad across the room to your door. You figure it’s Maya or Eleanor back to interrogate you some more.

“It could be Eleanor.”

There are so many possibilities for who might be standing on the other side, what you don’t expect is for it to be Mason.

He’s still dressed in what he was wearing at dinner, and he seems distressed over something. And you’re ashamed to admit that you’re concerned, and that your immediate response is to want to help make it better.

“Can I come in?”

His simple question catches you off guard. “Hey, can I call you back in a bit?”

You don’t wait for Claire’s response before you hang up.

The right thing to do would be to turn him away. That’s what a normal, sane person would do, but your curiosity has always outweighed your normality and sanity.

“If you’re here to insult Alex, I swear I’ll–”

“I’m not here to insult your friend,” his voice strains ever so slightly at the word ‘friend.’

Seriously, what’s his beef with the guy?

“Then why are you here?”

Mason looks over his shoulder then back to you. “Please let me in.”

Your mind cautions against it, but you’re deaf to its warning. You don’t listen to it much, your mind, at least not when it comes to boys.

“Only if you promise to behave.”

“You have my word.”

And that’s good enough for you. You move out the way to let him pass, and once he’s inside, you close the door and lock it. The last thing either of you need is your brother, or anyone, walking in and getting the wrong idea.

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that this is wrong.

But that thing about your curiosity and the fact that despite everything you have internally said about Mason, you’re fascinated by him, drawn to him in a way that makes no sense to you. Infatuation is weird that way.

“You journal?”

Mason’s standing at your desk in the corner, examining the objects littering the surface. There’s a journal, a pen, half drunk bottle of water, and a few of your beauty products.

“Sometimes. I haven’t done it in a while though, so I’m trying to get into it again.”

You brought out the journal for two reasons tonight: first, to document your first kiss with Alex, and secondly, to vent about Mason.

“So, what brings you to my room, Mason?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

You think the answer vague and leaves you with more questions like, “Can’t you read a book? Listen to a podcast? Music? Watch a video on YouTube…”

Have sex with Jordan. You don’t say that option because you realise that it’s petty—there’s no reason to bring Jordan into this.

“Yeah, but then I thought I’d come see if maybe you were also up.”

There’s something about the way he says that.

“What, did Jordan kick you out of her room, then?”

And you instantly hate yourself for asking that, and hate what it insinuates. If you wanted to show him that you had no feelings for him, that’s no way to show it.

With a smug smile, he responds, “No, she didn’t kick me out.”

“Well, I am. So please leave.”

“But I only just got here.”

“Yeah, well you disturbed my call.”

At some point, earlier in your conversation, you noted that he sounded tipsy. If you didn’t know better, you’d probably miss it. You attribute his strange mood to that, and in another scenario, you’d be fearful, but you trust Mason.

“I’ll be silent, I promise.”

Your face twists in disapproval.

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” There’s a brief pause, and then, “Oh, you were on the phone with Alex just now.”

“No, my friend Claire.”

“Were you telling her about me?”

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was telling her about Alex, actually.”

“What about him?”

God, how old is this man? And why on earth are you flattered by this stupid behaviour? Seriously, what’s wrong with you?

“That’s none of your business, actually.”

“So what’s the deal with you and Alex anyway?”

You really hate this question, not because it’s Mason who asks it, but because you genuinely don’t know what to tell people. Just a few hours ago, Alex was nothing but a friend, and sure, you shared a kiss, but surely that doesn’t change anything.

Or are you the bitch?

“Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m curious. Want to know if I still stand a chance.”

A chance? A CHANCE? “Mason, I’m really tired and I’m not in the mood for mind games.”

You watch as he moves from his spot at the desk to your bed, where he takes his seat at the end of it. Usually, a bench sits where his feet are, but Maya moved it earlier.

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Why? Are you kicking me out already?”

“Maybe.”

“But I didn’t say anything to offend your friend.”

“Yeah, but Claire… she’s expecting me to call her back.” And because you don’t care anymore, you add, “And I’m really not sure why you’re here.”

“I told you, I couldn’t sleep.”

“And I gave you options to help with that.”

“And I appreciate the recommendations, but–”

“But nothing. Mason, if someone walks in here, all hell will break loose.”

“Why? It’s not like we’re doing anything?” and cheekily, he adds, “Unless you want to.”

That prompts memories of your pool encounter. The feel of the tip of his fingers floating across your skin; the scent of him, one you can only describe as Mason; and the way he made you feel.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“How old are you?”

His brows knit together, and he seems perplexed.

“My brother’s 29, Eleanor’s 27. How old are you?”

“23.”

That makes him four years your senior. Age is nothing but a number, and whatever, but that’s a significant gap to you. But then again, you’re also jumping the gun here. Should this happen, if it happens, it would be nothing more than a summer fling.

Who are you kidding? A summer fling? Girl, this is the same man who was hooking up with Jordan just days ago.

“Well, I turned 19 this year.”

And surely, he must know that. I mean, you know that your brother doesn’t go around telling people your age, but surely he could see it.

All he can say is, “Fuck.”

And you agree. Fuck.

“Well, are you just going to stand there?”

“As opposed to doing what?”

“Sit with me,” he says. And when you make no movements, he adds a polite, “Please.”

Bad idea. You don’t trust yourself around him. Frankly, you think he should leave the room before you do something you’ll both regret, but the truth is that you like having him here, sitting at the end of your bed like that.

He’s so handsome, and there’s a certain glint in his eyes, probably from the alcohol in his system, and his hair’s so inviting. You just want to run your fingers through his locks.

“What are we going to do?”

It’s a rhetorical question because there’s nothing to do. For one, your brother would have a coronary. Not to mention the age gap, you know Claire wouldn’t approve of it. And his thing with Jordan, and your thing with Alex, and everything.

But his smile, the sound of his laughter…

Your legs begin to move to Mason of their own volition. You stop before him, and for some time, the two of you just stay like this, your hands in his hair, his hands at your hips.

#mason mount #mason mount x reader #mason mount one shot #mason mount fanfic #mason mount fanfiction #mason mount fluff #mason mount imagine

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sailoryooons · 10 months

Text

Gods of the Dark | One | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Dream god!Yoongi x f. human!reader

☾ Summary: Don’t ask for help in the dark. It’s an old tale you always heard whispered among the people of your village. But when you find yourself dragged kicking by the man you’re to marry, you have little choice but to beg for help long after the sun has set. The god who answers your pleas promises to save you, but every deal comes with a price.

☾ Word Count: 21,606

☾ Genre: Fantasy, angst, strangers to lovers, smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Sexist and patriarchal society inspired by medieval europe, a lot of world building and discussion about theories/concept of dreams, discussions of morals and ethics, world building, angst, intense fight scenes, mentions/light depictions of an abusive family, discussions of gender roles and forced marriages, attempted murder via drowning, a physical fight between a man and a woman in the middle of a storm, sexual dream sequences featuring making out, biting (light), grinding, reader having flashbacks of trauma, a lot of thoughts about reader's terrible parents, a sort of power imbalance in the sense that reader is in Yoongi's realm as a part of a deal.

☾ Published: July 9, 2023

☾ A/N: It's finally here! This was originally supposed to be two giant chapters, but I cannot manage my time in a way to write to ~40k chapters and also fit all of this in a way that is not overwhelming or feels like it makes sense, so I have chosen to do this in 4 chapters of roughly 20k words! Thank you to everyone who has hyped me up for this idea, helped me work out some ideas, or listened to me struggle to write this because I was so unsure about the chemistry between Yoongi and reader at first. I am really excited to be writing this and have taken this in quite a different direction than the original idea when I had when I watched the Lilith MV, but that's okay. I heavily draw on inspiration from the Lilith MV, the song Possession of a Weapon by Ashnikko, The Sandman by Neil Gaiman, the movie The Witch, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab and the original myth of Hades and Persephone (where I got the deal/living in Yoongi's world idea from).

Special thank you to my amazing beta team who really helped make this fic what it is and make sure it was legible: @theharrowing and @here2bbtstrash

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Tuck a knife with my heart up my sleeve

Change like a season

It begins with rain.

White sheets of it beating against the window in a gentle murmur, a soft leak in the corner of the kitchen dripping into the metal bucket your mother has set out. The storm brings a cool wind with it, blowing in on the back porch where your father rocks back and forth in his chair, watching the deluge.

Shivering, you throw another log into the fireplace, pulling your shawl closer as orange embers spark and crackle, drifting up the shute. The smell of burning cedar grows and you smile, sitting down in front of the licking flames and holding out your hands to warm your palms.

Behind you at the kitchen table, your mother pulls a thread and needle through a dress she’s been working on, stitching purple flowers into the sleeves. You wonder if she’s making it for the neighbor's daughter, a girl a few years younger than you to be wed soon.

Mother makes some of the best stitching in the village, her practiced hands etching artful flowers and vines and designs on the sleeves and skirts of most of the village women. She’s tried for years to pass the craft on to you, but your fingers aren’t nearly as nimble and your eye for art is sorely lacking.

What you lack in art you make up for in stories, though. Head in the clouds, swimming in worlds, places and things you’ve never seen. Lives and people who only exist in your mind, entire fantasies with more colors and sights and smells than your tiny little world contains.

You’d write them down if you could. Writing and reading is not a woman’s craft, though, and you know better than to press your father on the subject any further than you have in the past. A terse word from him and your raw knuckles after being forced to do the wash alone for weeks kept you from bringing up the topic of learning to read and write ever again, especially when you remember the sting of his slap when you pushed too far.

Still, you have your mind. You have the ability to dream up worlds and twist fantasies together, to daze off and pretend that you’re somewhere else. That you’re living another life.

You have the days where you finish working at the inn early, sitting in the corner of the room with hard bread and cheese, listening to the town’s storyteller whisper tales and myths to the children of the village.

For now, it will suffice.

When the rain finally slows in the late afternoon, it’s cloudy and cool outside, the perfect temperature for a walk. Pulling on a pair of linen pants and a tunic, you creep toward the door, hoping to avoid the attention of your parents as they begin to prepare dinner in the kitchen, their movements methodical and silent.

Carefully, you slide boots on your feet. As you reach for the front door, hidden from the view of the kitchen, you hear your mother call your name. You pause, closing your eyes and grimacing as you call back, “Yes?”

“Where are you going? It’s wet and cold outside.”

“Just for a short walk.”

“You’re going to catch a cold,” she protests. Her steps move near you. You pull the door open and step into the wet air, eager to get away from her. “Come help us with dinner.”

“I’ll see you shortly, the weather is lovely!”

Before your mother can come around the corner and pin you with her disappointed stare, you’re down the slippery steps and sloshing into the yard, mud and grass sucking at your steps as you hurry. You hear your father yell something like dammit, girl but you can’t be sure, the sounds of birds and the bugs swallowing his curses as you rush through the front yard.

The world is covered in a layer of fine mist, tree boughs heavy with rain as they drip drip drip onto the forest floor around you. Thick, gray clouds hide the sun still. Thunder rolls in the distance, promising more rain through the night. You don’t mind, diving into the darkness of the trees on a well-worn path through the woods.

Water floods the path up to the ankle, soaking your boots. You grin and kick your feet as you walk, watching the ripples flow outward. Water mosquitoes dance on top of the surface of the flood and you note little tadpoles swim by, confirming that the river by your house is flooding up over the bank and washing into the mainland.

This is common most summers. Your house is out of the way from the town, almost a thirty minute walk. This far north, you’re only ten minutes from the edge of the slow-moving river that floods yearly turning the land around your property into a marsh.

It’s your favorite time of year. A heron startles as you wander through the trees, shaking its white wings and shedding water as it hurries away on long, thin legs. You spot a snake swimming through the reeds, rushing away from you once it senses you sloshing through.

Closer to the river, you pause. It’s hard to tell where the embankment dips down with it flooded. You can see where the flood moves faster, powered by the depth of the river and the overflow from the lake up north. Leaning against a tree, you look around this world of water.

It seems alien. Trees block out the sky and are reflected in the surface of the flood, giving the illusion that you stand between two worlds, two dimensions.

What would that be like, you wonder.

According to the high priest in town, there are other dimensions. There are the heavens for the gods of light and love, who bless the world with fire and harvest and rain and oceans, who protect the people and who will absolve you of all sin and greed if you pray to them hard enough and accept them as your patrons. Who will love you only if you are devout.

You don’t believe in them for a second. If those gods of love and light do exist, they are not entirely good. They have never answered your prayers, have never saved you from pain or from sorrow. You have begged the gods to give you a new life, to let you leave. To let you go somewhere far away.

They have been silent. They were silent when your father beat you after the first time you rejected a marital match. They didn’t help you when he burned all your materials when you tried to teach yourself the shapes and sounds of letters.

So you stopped praying to them.

There are other gods, of course. Other places for the wicked, dark gods full of trickery and greed, who seek only to fill the world with sin and deceit, who desire to make humans suffer and lose themselves in hedonism and debauchery. Those gods have a place too, the dark underworld for those who should be punished and reminded what it is to be full of sin.

You’ve never prayed to them either, too afraid of what it would cost you. But you wonder if they answer or if they too watch the world from a mountain so high that they cannot bother to help those who need it.

Still, you wonder what it would be like to walk between two worlds. To see one reflected in the other, to fall face first into the cool water only to surface in another place, almost an exact replica of where you’re from.

It would be nice. Perhaps there you wouldn’t be a disappointing daughter who has turned away every suitor in the village, much to your father’s rage. There, you would be allowed to pursue reading and writing. You’d have the agency to sail the world and see the ocean for the first time, to feel the freezing spray of the seas on your face while you hunt the coast for something lost.

Always something lost.

In all of your fantasies, you’re looking for something. Sometimes, you’re not sure what it is you’re looking for, you just know that something needs to be found. Other times, it’s a specific object or a person, something that, deep down, you know represents the thing you desire to find most: freedom.

A small school of fish swim by your feet. They can’t be any larger than your pinky finger, scurrying along before they’re swept up in the suction of the flowing river. Sighing, you push off the tree and begin to head back home, swatting at your bare arms where gnats bite at your sweaty skin.

Dark presses in as you walk back. You had stayed in the woods later than you intended, mind drifting far off among the sounds of the world around you. A cool tingle slides down your neck as you walk, water breaking around you.

You pause. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you spend far too long in the woods and the sun goes down. It feels like there’s someone there with you, just at your back. Slowly, you turn to look over your shoulder but there’s no one there, just the warm press of something you can’t see.

When it happened the first time, you’d been so afraid you ran home. Now, though, you smile and look down at the ground as you keep walking. The presence, whether it’s real or something you have made up in your head, is always comforting. Always there, a gentle press of feeling.

There are candles burning in the windows and an owl hoots in greeting when your house appears. Inside, you kick off your shoes and rush to meet your parents at the silent dinner table. Both of them look up at you, your mother’s mouth pinched, eyes weary. Your father’s gaze is thunderous as he picks up cutlery and begins to cut into his potato in saw-like motions, his knuckles going white.

You sit down without a word, bow your head to pretend to pray. Your mother clears her throat, drawing your attention. “It’s after dark. You missed your prayers.”

It doesn’t matter. You weren’t going to pray anyway. But the way your parents look at you makes you drop your eyes down to the table, their expressions alarmed. Were you really about to pray after the sunset, when the benevolent gods were no longer listening? The only gods available to you now are dangerous. Violent. Tricky.

Dinner is dry and too heavily salted. Still, you don’t complain. Somewhere in the world, you’re sure that there are wonderful feasts being held. Plates and platters of honey-glazed meats, roasted pheasant and charred filets. Whipped sweets and colorful confectionaries, dripping fruits and sugary drinks.

None of those places exist anywhere that you’ve ever seen, but you like to imagine them as you chew your way through an oppressively silent meal. He says nothing, but you can tell your father is angry once again. Just as well, he at least keeps it to himself through the meal and says nothing when you’re done.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you offer quickly when your parents finish. It’s an olive branch and they know it. They accept anyway, letting you gather plates as the soft hush of rain begins again.

Rain washes out the night. You can’t see anything beyond the water that runs off the roof over the back porch as you dip your rag into warm water, scrubbing at the plates before setting them to dry in the stack next to you.

Frogs croak, their loud voices blending together into the roar of the rain. Every now and again, lightning flashes above and thunder shakes the sky. You feel it vibrate through your ribs and you smile, inhaling the charged air.

“... doesn’t have a choice!” You turn toward the open doorway. You can’t see your parents but the window is open to their room, voices coming in and out of the rain. “... force her! I’ve had… and he’s already agreed.”

You frown, stopping your scrubbing to lean further, straining your ears. “This won’t go well,” your mother says.

“I don’t give a damn! It’s already done, woman. Enough.”

The rest of the conversation is drowned out by thunder. You frown and turn back to your task, trying to piece together what they’re talking about. You think back to your mother stitching the dress before dinner and think perhaps they’re gossiping about the neighbor again. She wasn’t happy that she was being married off and everyone knew it.

Still, she’s doing it. She’s stronger than you. It’s hard to imagine going through with something you don’t want, to live a life shackled to another person who doesn’t love you. Whose only purpose is to coexist with you and reproduce. To run a household and get through each and every day, the same as last.

It’s hard to say if your parents are in love. They are tender, at times, but you can’t ever point out a moment that your mother or father seem truly happy. Content isn’t the same as happiness. Not really. While they work together well and seem to have struck up a balance after the years, there’s nothing in the way they move through life that seems joyful.

You had asked your mom if she was happy once. She gave you a funny look and said, I have a roof above my head and food on the table. How could I not be?

Her response puzzles you still. To live is not to be happy. Being alive is just that - being alive. A bare minimum. But truly being happy is something else. At least, that’s how you understand it. How the heroes and characters in stories and tales live their lives, fighting for happiness.

Later that night, you forget all about their whispers behind the sheets of rain. You’re tired and the storm is soothing, making you dream of a far away land where there are two armies entrenched in war, battling for their kingdoms and lighting the sky with storm magic.

Another dream. Another fantasy.

In your dream, a soft mouth meets yours. The kiss is slow, tongue dragging against yours, tasting of something sweet, mouth warm. It smells like clove and cinnamon, and though you don’t open your eyes to see the mouth that slides against yours, you know you are safe.

It ends in darkness.

Dusk has settled around your home like a funeral shroud. Your father has been gone all day, your mother flippant when you ask about his whereabouts. Your mother is a painted picture of anxiety: mouth pinched, darting eyes that fail to meet yours, and hunched shoulders. It makes your palms sweat, the way she avoids you in the house.

Rain comes down in patterns again, bands of storms floating by and turning the world gray. You don’t have to go to the inn with the road flooded, so you spend the day at the window instead, watching each storm flash by, listening to the frogs and watching the birds pick through bug-filled waters between each deluge.

When the sun begins to set, you find your mother standing near the window, looking through wet glass as she chews the corner of her lip. She wipes her hands on her dress, not picking up that you’re standing in the doorway watching her.

The gown she has been stitching for the past few days lays on the table. It’s a beautiful thing, bursting with intricate flowers on the sleeves and the skirts. You don’t enjoy dresses - much less the kind for marriage - but you admire the careful needlework.

“It’s a good dress,” you tell her. She startles from where she stands at the window, whirling around to face you. “One of your best.”

“Yes. I-” something crosses her face that’s unreadable. “Would you try it on for me? I want to make sure I got the sizing right.”

You shrug and pick it up. It’s not the first time she’s used you for sizing and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You just hope that she doesn’t make you stand on a stool for hours to place pins in the skirt, mapping where she needs to take in the seams and make the fabric fold.

The material is a little scratchy when you put it on. It’s snug across the chest and a little bit long at the wrist, but the material ripples over you like water. Outside of your room, the sound of your father’s voice echoes. He sounds more jovial than usual, laughing loudly - another voice is with him.

Frowning, you work the buttons on the side of the dress to secure it shut, pulling the fabric into place. It isn’t often that your father has guests over, but you can assume it’s one of his friends he has over for dinner. You make a sour face at the thought that perhaps it’s Mr. Laudermill and his son Nathaniel again, a family your father has tried to pawn you off on before.

The list of people your father has tried to get you to marry is astounding. It’s become a joke in the town, a game of who will he ask next? At first, there were plenty of families who offered their sons to make the union. Now, after how vehemently you have protested for your right to pick your husband yourself, it’s you who is rejected when your father makes dowry offers.

It seems - much to your advantage - that the men of the town and even the neighboring villages grew tired of the girl who liked to say no. It gives you small satisfaction to know that sheer inconvenience has earned you freedom alongside your mother’s unwillingness to force you.

Still, the Laudermills are a little persistent. Not your father’s favorite option he has ever brought up, but it was one that didn’t say no.

You enter the main house with minor trepidation, uneager to spend the evening sighing at Nathaniel’s terrible jokes and attempts to win you over. You wonder if it’s sheer pride that brings him back this time, upset that he cannot beat the town's little conundrum. The unconquerable conquest. You get the feeling that’s why he and his father visit for dinner sometimes, Nathaniel’s pride unwilling to back down from the challenge.

You’d respect him more if he had more admiration for the word no.

Nathaniel and his father are in the main room of your home, speaking in laughing tones to your father. Your mother stands near the open back door, hands wringing together. There is another person in your house that you don’t expect, though. The village’s high priest nods his head along with something that your father is saying, wrinkled hands clasped in front of his robes.

Time seems to slow down. You take in the tight expression on your mother’s face, her eyes drifting over to the priest who is dressed in ceremonial purple robes, an air of professional courtesy about him. He’s nodding to Nathaniel who is speaking now, and it’s when you really look at him, dressed in nice linen pants, a long sleeved shirt and an ornate vest, that you put the pieces together.

Too slowly do you react as your father turns to you. His smile is forced and his gaze is burning with warning when he gestures. “There’s our bride!”

The word sinks in like a blade. Right between the ribs and up, its point poking dangerous at your heart as your blood begins to roar in your ears. You’re frozen to the spot, staring at them from the threshold of your room. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your neck, your hands shaking.

“You look beautiful,” Nathaniel says, grinning. It’s a genuine smile, a proud one. Something that says finally. “I’m so glad you’re ready, after all this time.”

“I… what?”

In a moment of razor-sharp clarity, you remember the conversation your parents were having last night, soft words whispered under the cover of the storm. You remember something about forcing her and someone having already agreed.

No. No. Nonononononono.

You don’t realize you’re speaking out loud as you back up into your room, the horror settling in as the rain begins to tap on the roof. Your mother looks crestfallen but remains silent as your father’s smile tightens and his face reddens.

When he says your name, it’s full of warning. The back of your legs hit your bed and your weak knees buckle. You sit down with a huff and shake your head. “You can’t do this,” you whisper. You can’t find your voice, can’t work your throat louder. “You cannot make me marry.”

“Of course I can,” your father hisses. His smile drops and in its place is something dangerous. Horrific. The villain of all your dreams and epic fantasies. “I have given you more than enough time to choose. You have not. As the man of this house-”

“No!” you bark back, cutting him off and shooting to your feet. “I am a person-”

“You are a woman!” he roars, making the high priest flinch. “Your purpose is to grow up, get married, mind the household and provide an heir! You are the only fiendish woman in this entire forsaken village who seems to misunderstand this!”

“It is not my purpose!”

“It is, and you will fulfill it!” he hisses. “You will marry this man before the gods, with my blessing and the witness of the priest.”

Behind you, thunder rolls. The rain comes down harder. Frogs croak loudly, bracketed by the sound of the trees bending with the weight of the wind. Your heart pounds in your chest as you stare at the people before you. Your mother with tears in her eyes, your father with fury in his face, the priest with disappointment and Nathaniel. Nathaniel with glee. With a grin. With a smirk.

“I won’t do it,” you whisper.

Before they can argue, you turn on your heel and leap onto your bed. Your father and Nathaniel rush at the doorway, their steps pounding behind you as you crawl through the window, your ribs slamming on the sill as you lean face forward. Rain soaks you immediately, your hands gripping the sill as you haul your middle half over the edge, intending to just flip down into the mud.

Hands yank at your legs and you scream, a feral sound ripping through your lungs as you kick backward violently. You’re yanked back toward your room viciously, rib cage aching where you slide on the concrete frame. With another savage kick, you make contact and hear a loud shout before the hands drop from your waist.

Pushing harshly, you throw yourself the rest of the way through the window, falling the few feet down to land with a splash. Your father is screaming inside the house but you’re already slipping to your feet, whatever he says drowned out in the rain.

You don’t even think. You run, hands picking up the wet-leaden skirts on your dress as you tear off toward the woods. Water rushes around your ankles as you go and you hear commotion at the window as someone clambers through. You don’t dare turn around as you rush to the line of trees, unafraid of the dark but terrified of the slamming footsteps behind you.

It’s impossible to be fast in the flooded woods. You wince as your feet get cut up on rocks and sharp sticks that you can’t see. You trip over roots and kick solid things as you slog forward, biting back a cry as you try to flee.

“Get back here, you wretched bitch!” Nathaniel screams behind you.

It never occurred to you that he could say something so violent. It spurs you forward, mud and water sucking your feet down and making your flight sticky and slow. Rain pelts down between the leaves, the storm lighting up the treetops with purple flashes every now and again. Thunder shakes their branches and rumbles through your feet, the water rushing higher and higher.

Nathaniel slams into you at the waist. You scream as he takes you down, his weight on top of you. Your scream is cut off as your mouth fills with water. You swallow in a panic, body thrumming with alarm as you choke, nose full of water, eyes burning. You can hear the dull roar of water, the swish of your tangled limbs on the floor.

Clawing at him, you feel your nails rip down soft flesh and hear a muted yell. He lifts his weight off of you and you sit forward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, retching. Your lungs and nose burn as you gasp for air, fighting to get a breath in.

Nathaniel is on you again, his hand going for your hair as he digs his fingers in hard, yanking at your scalp. Your hands fly to his wrist and you scream again, pulling at him, trying to free yourself. Tears smart your eyes from the stinging pain as he yanks hard enough that you think he’ll tear you right apart.

“Fucking ungrateful,” he barks.

Your feet slide in the mud as he uses your buoyancy in the knee deep water to haul you back toward the house. You twist in his grip, mewling in panic and pain as you work to get your feet under you and fight back. You let go of his arm and throw a weak punch at his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go, even as you twist, hands shooting to the ground, digging through soaked earth and weeds until you feel the hard, rough shape of a rock.

Grabbing it, you lift your hand from the water and bring it down hard on Nathaniel’s wrist. He screams and lets go of your hair. Your fingers ache from the blow but you don’t waste precious minutes, scrambling to your feet and sloshing away from him again. He’s already gripping at your dress, fingers ripping at the fabric to get a hold of you.

Desperation claws at you and you scream for help. You don’t know if anyone else is out here in the dark of the woods but you don’t care. Bleeding, in pain, and terrified, you tear through the water, the rock clutched in your fingers, rushing in the dark as Nathaniel gives chase.

“Please!” you scream at the dark. “Anyone, please!”

A thread of thought slivers through you about the gods. Praying to the gods has never gotten you anywhere. It didn’t make your father let you read. It didn’t get you out of your town. It didn’t save you from this. The supposed gods who rule with light and love had never heard you and you had long stopped believing in them.

But you’d never prayed to the gods of the dark. The gods who only listen to words whispered after the setting sun.

“Please,” you beg, turning your head to the dark sky. Lighting flashes and thunder rumbles. Cool wind brushes against your face, wind that feels like it whispers I’m listening. “Please,” you scream again. “Help me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Help me!”

Nathaniel takes you down by the waist again. You gasp for air this time as your face slaps the water with a sting. The current is rushing faster here, pulling at you. Deeper. Colder. You’re close to the river, and you feel the suction of the force of the flow tugging at your body as Nathaniel digs his fingers into the meat of your arms.

This time, he doesn’t pull you with him. He holds you down, shoving you deeper and deeper until you realize that he’s no longer interested in bringing you back. You kick at him, you tear at him. You slam his wrist with the rock again but his other hand grabs yours, wrenching the weapon away from you.

Your lungs are screaming and water is rushing into your nose as oxygen escapes you. His grip is firm and you begin to panic. All you can think is help help help help. Please help.

Bubbles escape your mouth as you’re forced to breathe out again. You’re running out of time and pain starts to build in your chest. You feel the way your lungs squeeze, needing air. You let out more air and press your lips tight, desperately trying not to inhale.

Breathe in, your instincts scream. Breathe breathe breathe breathe.

Agony. You’re in agony as you open your mouth in a final cry, unable to form the words. Unable to scream and ask for a higher power that you only believe in at this moment to help you.

Water fills your mouth. You swallow it whole, feel it go down as you begin to spasm.

You’re going to die.

And then Nathaniel’s hands are gone. It takes you a moment to realize that there’s no crushing grip on your arms and in the brief moment of realization, you barely manage to push up. To break the surface and vomit, water coming out of you in a stinging, horrid mess. Your stomach turns and you feel your chest squeeze as you choke.

The storm is still raging around you, water pulling at you and pressing you into the rough bark of a tree. Blinking tears from your eyes, you look around but it’s too dark to see. You can hear Nathaniel looking for you, screaming your name in the dark.

The back of your neck tingles. There’s a feeling in the air behind you - that sliver of breath that you often sense when you’re out in the woods alone just after dark. Like something or someone is there with you, just behind you.

“What is it you want?” a deep, dark voice whispers. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel chilled to the bone. The voice is like none you’ve ever heard, sensual and dizzying.

“Want?”

“You asked for help.” The voice switches to your other ear and you don’t dare turn around to find the speaker. “What do you want?”

“What can you give?”

The voice chuckles. The sound makes you shiver, your eyelids fluttering. The voice purrs, “I can give you anything you dream, little lamb. Tell me: what do you want?”

You think about it. Lightning lances through the sky and for a brief moment, the world is a flash of silver. You see Nathaniel in the light, a few feet away from you. He’s bloody and heaving, his eyes snapping to where you hide against the tree.

“Freedom,” you gasp as the world falls to darkness again. “I want freedom.”

“What will you give me?”

“What do you want?” you beg, hearing Nathaniel move toward you.

There’s a soft hum and you feel lightheaded at the sound. “Your time.”

“My time?”

“Your time in exchange for freedom, little lamb. Better hurry, this offer is about to expire.”

Nathaniel screams in a rage. Sloshes closer to you. Your heartbeat quickens. You can feel it in your chest, hear it in your ears, your pulse throbbing as he nears.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice coming out shaky.

“Then tell me you accept.”

You take a deep breath. “I accept.”

There’s a brush at the nape of your neck, warm and soft. Though you’ve never been kissed before, you think that it’s the press of lips, intimate and barely there. Something inside you flickers to life, like a new instinct that has opened its eyes for the first time. You’re aware of another presence, a soft buzz that presses down on you as it stands up next to you.

Thunder rolls and you feel someone brush by you. A hand touches your cheek almost fondly, fingers dragging along the curve of your jaw. Blinking slowly, you lean into the touch, seeking its comfort. You don’t know who it belongs to. All you know is that just the feel of fingers on your skin has your stomach flipping, your toes curling.

The hand drops from your face and you immediately miss the contact. Opening your eyes, you see another flash of lightning. There’s someone standing in front of you dressed in black, slick with rain. You can’t make out anything much, just the shape of a man in a dark cloak.

A god. You know he’s a god, whoever this savior is. You know that something has heard your screams in the dark and has come to give you what you wanted. What you begged for.

“She is no longer available to you,” the god announces to Nathaniel. It’s not the same whisper as a moment ago, but a deep, raspy voice. Dark. Demanding. “She’s mine.”

“That’s my betrothed,” Nathaniel answers, though it comes out like a question, his voice trembling. “I– she belongs to-”

“Me,” the dark god assures. A loud clap of thunder makes you flinch. “Goodbye, Nathaniel Laudermill.”

Nathaniel screams. You don’t know what happens. There’s just his shout of terror in the dark and a roll of thunder that shakes the trees and rattles the earth. You feel the vibration in the water from the unearthly thunder before you realize that this sound, this trembling, is the wrath of a god.

The sound fades and the shaking stops. You feel more than see the god in front of you turn to face you, a sweeping warmth as he bends down. You cannot make out any features, your vision swimming with bursts of color in the lack of light.

“You’re with me now,” he assures you. “And you should not be afraid.”

Gentle hands reach out and cradle your face. You’re suddenly tired, every pain in your body weighing you down like stones, pulling at you until you’re closing your eyes and succumbing to the heavy exhaustion.

The last thing you remember is your whispered name on reverent lips.

You’re dreaming. Your eyes are closed in this dream but you feel light and warm. Fingers brush over your cheek, soft and reverent. You hear a gentle, deep humming, a pleasant melody. It smells like clove and cinnamon, making you drift further into the dream. You lean into the hand cupping your face and hear a deep chuckle before drifting off into nothingness.

The first thing you notice is the smell of clove and cinnamon. It’s a soothing scent that sends your heart fluttering as you roll over. The blankets wrapped around you feel divine, soft with a high loft that feels like you’re wrapped in clouds. The mattress is decadent, sucking you in further as you settle in on your side, inhaling deeply.

Then you remember hands tearing at your legs. Ripping you by the hair. Water filling your lungs and throat. The flash of lightning and the cold rain as you were dragged under a flood again and again.

With a gasp you sit up in bed, heart hammering. You still as you look around, mouth dropping open at the opulent room. The bed is the largest thing you’ve ever seen, on a low platform swimming with charcoal colored sheets and pillows. The headboard looks like polished obsidian, glinting in the low light provided by dozens of flickering candles.

Stone walls make up the room, rough rock with sconces of flickering flames. The room is sprawling with a sitting area a step down from the bed, decorated with chaise lounges, a coffee table and high-backed chairs situated in front of a fireplace. Flames crackle on a log, orange light dancing across the room. On either side of the fireplace are bookshelves that stretch up to the high ceiling.

Across from the bed are open double doors where you can see a magnificent bathroom. From your vantage point, you can just make out sinks carved from a hewn rock and what looks like a trickling waterfall sluicing down the wall.

Turning to the left, there is a set of glass doors, a balcony just on the other side. It appears to be nighttime outside, thousands of stars glittering through the glass and the largest moon you’ve ever seen suspended in the sky like a lone coin.

Carefully, you peel back the covers. You’re still in the wedding dress your mother made you. It’s stained and tattered and bloodied, making your stomach flip uncomfortably as you look down on it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you place your feet on the stone flooring, expecting it to be cold to the touch.

It isn’t. Warmth radiates from the floor through the soles of your feet, making you sigh, tension bleeding from your shoulders as you close your eyes for a moment. Though the aches and the pains from being scratched and hit and torn down are gone, you wince as you recall them.

Your parents were going to force you to marry Nathaniel. You don’t know how you missed the signs before, how you thought that there was any other path. With your elbows pressed to your knees, you hang your head in your hands, pressing your eyes shut and taking another shuddering breath.

This time, a sob slips out. Somehow, you had tricked yourself into thinking that your parents would abide by your wishes to make your own choices. Foolish, you realize. Your father had not grown complacent. He had been biding his time, waiting to strike.

The smallest viper has the greatest sting.

And your mother was going to let him do it. The woman who had brought you into the world screaming and bloody was going to pass you off to a man, even if it meant that man dragged you kicking and screaming to the altar.

Disgust curls in your stomach and your hands turn into firsts, pressing against your closed lids and making bursts of colors flash in your eyes. Split down the middle, one part of you mourns the loss of the parents you thought that you had. The other is an open wound, festering with a hateful infection at the very thought of them.

The sound of the door opening catches your attention. Your heart leaps as you sit up straight, dropping your hands into your lap as a man slips through the large double doors near the sitting area. Your breath catches in your chest as he sweeps into the room, looping his hands behind his back as he sets his dark eyes on you and approaches.

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, you think. Inky hair falls into his enigmatic eyes. His skin is deep gold, a contrast to the all-black blouse that he wears tucked into black pants. You see the open collar of his shirt revealing a patch of tan skin and an elegant throat, but it’s his face that shatters your mind.

The man - or god, you think - has a square, masculine jaw offset with a delicate mouth the color of rose petals. His nose is straight and wide and would look ridiculous on anyone else. On him, it’s the perfect balance, his cheekbones high and angular, cutting the roundness of his nose.

“Good to see you’re awake,” he greets. The man stops at the edge of the step that leads to where the bed sits higher than the rest of the room. You stare and stare and stare at him, unable to process words as he grins at you. His voice is dulcet and warm, but not the voice that promised to save you. “How do you feel?”

“I…” you rasp out and you shake your head, unable to think of anything else.

His mouth quirks and he nods. “It sounds like you had a terrible time. How about you take a well-deserved bath and get out of that terrible dress? Sorry to have left you in it, I was under strict instructions not to invade your personal space.”

“Yes, please.” You hesitate. “Where am I? Whose instructions?”

“You’re somewhere safe with someone who wants you to remain safe.”

“Where is safe?”

He gives you a secretive smile as he nods toward the bathroom before turning on his heel and striding away. On unsteady feet, you follow him. It helps that the floor is warm, giving you the strength you need to make it down the two steps and across the stone toward the bathroom.

“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer your question,” he admits. “I’m just here to help you get settled. My name is Taehyung, by the way.”

“Taehyung.” You say the word, familiarizing yourself with the shape of it as you enter the room and stop.

The bathroom is far more luxurious than you realized from afar. There is a waterfall running down the black rockface between two basins, trickling into a little fountain that drains on the floor. To the right side of the bathroom is a large body of steaming water.

Herbal scents fill the room as you near the edge of the dark surface of the water. It reminds you of hot springs in a cave near the southern villages, a place you’d only heard of but never seen. It’s massive, surrounded by a smooth, stone edge. There is a corner full of what appears to be salts, soaps and herbs alongside flickering candles.

Opposite the hot spring is a giant glass window that overlooks mountains and lush greenery. From the window, you can see the entire world of wherever you are stretched out in the most dazzling and wonderful display. You can’t help but feel as though you’re somewhere that belongs in the epitome of night.

“How deep is that?” you ask, turning to Taehyung with a wary expression as you gesture to the body of water.

His expression softens. “Waist high when you stand in the middle. There is a ledge that you can sit on all the way around. It’s incredibly safe and very warm. I can stand just outside the door if anything goes wrong.”

“Okay.”

Taehyung points to a stack of clothes resting on a stool near a cabinet full of towels and jars of things. “Those are for you to change into. The towels are for you to dry off, of course. Anything in the bathroom is yours to use.” Taehyung must sense your hesitation, because he gives you a soft smile. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

“I’d feel better if I knew where here was.”

“Bathe. Relax. Then I’ll take you to him.”

Taehyung does not give you a chance to ask to whom he refers. He strides out of the room and the door swings shut seemingly on its own. You blink a few times at it, standing in the middle of the warm bathroom in a daze.

Spinning, you look around the room and find yourself drawn to the window. Up close, you realize how high up you are. It’s a bit dizzying, and you look down at the ground only to see that there is a garden bursting with purple and blue, neat rows of flowers that stretch until they meet a line of trees.

A world of mountains unfolds beyond the window. You’ve never seen mountains but they are larger than you could have ever imagined, snowcaps stark against the night sky. It’s mesmerizing and a little too big, so you turn away from the window and head for the steaming basin of water.

Peaking over the edge, you can see the bottom. It doesn’t look that deep, but your stomach twists as you pop the buttons on your dress. Your fingers feel stiff and disjointed as you work to undress. You look down at the ripped threads and the dirty fabric and think about how much time your mother spent stitching it.

Suddenly the dress feels suffocating and you pull hard on the garment, popping buttons from the threads and sending them clattering on the floor. You shed the dress and kick it away from you, stripping off your undergarments and lowering yourself to the edge of the water.

A sigh leaves your mouth as you slide your feet and legs in first. The water is hot, though not scalding like you expected. Closing your eyes, you remain sitting on the edge for a moment, letting your calves soak and muscles unwind, fingers gripping the edge tight.

Taking a deep breath, you slide forward a little, firmly placing your feet on the ledge Taehyung spoke of. For a moment, your fear spikes. You feel it sharp in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the edge of the basin. With a few deep breaths, you carefully slide down to the ledge proper, sinking in the hot water to the chest.

“I’m not going to drown,” you whisper to yourself. The words come out shaky and you’re not entirely sure that you believe them. “I’m not going to drown, I am not going to drown, I am not going to drown.”

You repeat the mantra until you believe it, your fingers grasping the edge of the stone seat as you try to relax and melt into the water. It takes a while, but you finally grow too tired of remaining tense, taking a deep breath and gaining the courage to relax.

Gently, you rest your head against the edge of the basin. Heat seeps into your skin and you feel the anxiety bleed out of you, your tensed muscles unwinding. You hadn’t realized how clenched up you were until you let go, and your body sags a little bit in the water.

Time slips away. Thankfully, your body doesn’t hurt the way you anticipated that it would. Frowning, you press your fingers into your skin where there should be bruises and pain. There is no evidence on your skin that Nathaniel laid his hands on you the night before - the day before? You’re unsure how much time has passed, only that there is an eerie absence of your wounds.

Turning your head, you look at your dress discarded on the floor. There’s certainly evidence of a struggle spattered all over the fabric, but it makes you wonder if the god who answered your prayers has healed you.

A god.

The thought comes to you in a snap and you stare down at the water, eyes unfocusing as you try to recall the details of what happened. You remember screaming for help, the sound of your desperation ripping through your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever screamed like that, terrified and wild. You remember thinking about the gods, begging them to hear you, willing them to listen.

Water had been filling your lungs. Crushing out air. You remember the rush of the stream around you as it pulled at your fighting body. Nathaniel’s hands gripping you and holding you under viciously, fingers like claws as he tried to drown you.

Then you surfaced and choked, completely shrouded in darkness…. And you remember that quiet voice made of smoke and shadow. Thinking of it now makes you shiver, despite how hot the water is. The voice had promised you freedom in exchange for time and had taken you to wherever this place was.

You open your eyes, unsure when you had even closed them. Glancing around the room once more, you decide there is no way that you’re anywhere close to home. You’ve never seen anything like this bathroom before, a feat of what appears to be architecture and maybe magic.

Soaps and salts line the edges of the bathing pool. When you feel brave enough, you dart across the middle like a minnow, trying not to think about how you nearly crossed death’s bridge in a shallow body of water not long ago.

Unscrewing lids, you smell each of the glass bottles of liquid, humming in delight. You settle on a hard bar of soap that smells like lavender and mint. It feels good to scrub your skin raw. You imagine that you’re washing away all of the memories of Nathaniel’s fingers on your skin and the scratchy dress your mother made for you.

Fingers and feet pruned and skin feeling stripped of a top layer, you reluctantly exit the bath. The towels are the softest thing you’ve ever felt. You run the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head up at the sky and sighing. Wherever this dark god has taken you doesn’t seem so terrifying, yet it puts you more on edge, these luxuries.

The clothes Taehyung left out for you fit well enough, though it’s obvious they are not your exact measurements. He’s provided you with soft, black pants and a loose, black tunic with intricate designs that look like clouds on the sleeves and collar.

You hesitate when you’re ready to leave the bathroom. So far, it seems that whatever bargain you’ve struck with this god has been in your favor. But you know you’ve made a deal in a moment of fear, and you’re not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to.

Time.

Though you’re nervous, you can’t stay hidden in the bathroom forever. Nudging the door open, you peek around the edge, gaze sweeping the room as you look for Taehyung. He’s standing in the sitting area, face toward the flickering fire. He looks both terrifying and beautiful, hands linked behind his back as he watches the flames.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Taehyung calls without turning around. “I mean it when I tell you that you’re safe.”

Slipping through the door, you walk toward him, regarding him warily. “Still,” you answer. “I don’t know where I am. Are you even human?”

He does look over his shoulder then, flashing you a wicked grin. “I’m not.”

Taehyung’s answer doesn’t put you at ease, but you’re unsure what to do. Wordlessly, he gestures for you to follow him as he heads through the door and out of the room. For a moment, you hesitate. What would happen if you refused to leave the room? Is your deal with the god already in effect? What are its limitations?

You can answer none of the questions you have, so you follow Taehyung, hoping to find answers soon. Except as soon as you step out of the room, you think you might have even more questions.

The halls are dark and lit with flickering torches, casting an orange glow up to the cavernous ceilings. Though you’ve never been in a castle or seen one, you have an idea of how grand they are. There is no doubt in your mind that this is a castle, the halls resplendent and sweeping with artwork and fabric and statues.

In front of you, Taehyung walks jovially with his hands linked behind his back. He hums a tune you don’t know, but it sounds smooth and warm. You follow behind him, casting your gaze around as you walk, trying to remember which turns you take and what paintings you pass.

You reach a tall, closed set of wooden double doors. Taehyung raps his fingers against the door, looking over his shoulder at you with an excited grin. Your stomach flips and you wipe your palms against the bottom of your tunic. Your hands feel shaky and you twine them into the fabric, willing them to stop.

Taehyung must hear someone on the other side of the door, because he opens it and steps in and to the side, gesturing for you to enter. You take a deep breath and walk by him into the room, stopping immediately as you look up, your mouth falling open.

It’s a library grander than you could ever imagine. Your town had quite a small library at the church that belonged to the high priest, but this is something beyond your wildest dreams. The ceiling stretches higher than your imagination, filled with floating lights and stars - the entire night sky is stretched above you in swirling constellations of purple and blue.

Three floors make up the library, each lined with books and windows that look out into the evening. You can see sprawling gardens beyond the tinted glass, but it’s the shelves of books that catch your attention. Stepping into the room further, you slowly spin, looking at the sheer amount of volumes that line the walls. There are multiple seating areas with rich, velvet blue armchairs and couches, tables full of books and papers and ink bottles and maps.

Your throat tightens as you look at Taehyung, your mouth wobbling. The urge to burst into tears has never felt greater than this moment. You never imagined that you could stand in a room with so many books, and the desire to pull one off the shelf and delve in is cut short by the single, glaring fact that you don’t know how to read them.

Distracted by the books upon entry, it takes you a moment to notice another presence in the room. You feel a tingle at the back of your neck, one that draws your eyes toward a long table near the fireplace. It’s the same feeling you had when you were saved from Nathaniel, an awareness that buzzes along your skin.

A man stands in front of the table, watching you with dark, feline eyes. He’s beautiful. Otherworldly, really. His round features remind you of the moon, but it’s the sharp eyes and the careful pout of his mouth that draws you in. He looks both delicate and dangerous, and you notice the quirk on his lips as he watches you watch him.

He’s in all black. Black pants tucked into black, knee-high boots, and a black, long-sleeved shirt. There’s a layer of necklaces around his neck and you can see shapes and runes that are unfamiliar to you. The same runes and shapes are on the rings on his long, delicate fingers, folded in front of him.

This is the face of a god. You know it in the way that there’s something ancient in his eyes and in the way he glows from within. His power is tangible, a crackling energy pressing up against every nerve in your body.

“How are you feeling?” his voice vibrates right to your core. Soft and dark like you remember it, though a little rougher now. Gravelly. He studies you, unmoving. “Hopefully well-rested?”

“I feel…. Better.” Finding the words is hard in his presence, especially under the scrutiny of his gaze. You want to dart out of the room and hide, but you also don’t want to leave the library without exploring. “I think I should thank you?”

It comes out as a question and he smirks a little. Your stomach flutters at the sight; he raises a brow. “You’re welcome. Are you hungry? You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.”

The door shuts behind you and you startle, whirling around to see that Taehyung has left you. Your nerves fray further and you turn back to look at the god watching you. Behind him on the table, you realize it is a feast of sorts. Roasted meats and poultry, platters of fruit, plates of cheese and neatly arranged crackers, steaming pans of vegetables and things you cannot identify.

He notices. “You must be starving. Come. Eat.” When you don’t move, he sighs. “I didn’t save you just to harm you.”

It’s true enough. You carefully approach the table, eyeing him as he unclasps his hands and pulls out a chair for you. When you hesitate, he arches a dark brow again and you feel yourself grow warm in the face, muttering your thanks as you hurry over to the chair and sit down.

The god’s presence is buzzing. He doesn’t touch you, but it’s like you feel him anyway, just an inch away from you. He helps you slide your chair in and gives a deep, contented sigh before he moves toward the opposite end of the table, taking the dull hum of energy with him.

Across the table, he sits. His gaze finds yours again as you stare at him, finding it difficult to look anywhere else. Even with the smell of a divine meal, your attention on him is a fixed point. If this bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans back in his seat, casual and confident.

“Have what you like,” he offers. “I don’t know what you enjoy and I didn’t want to pry.”

The table is full of options. You chew the inside of your cheek. There is glazed duck and roasted ham, creamy looking potatoes and sauced vegetables. Your stomach growls and twists painfully as you stare at your choices.

“The duck is good,” he offers gently. You glance up. He nods towards the dish in question. “Sorry, it’s probably overwhelming.”

“A little,” you answer, but take him up on his advice and go for the duck. “Where are we?”

“In between.”

You frown as you plate different foods, fingers sticky as you do. You’re hyper-aware of him watching you and you try not to look up, feeling your hands quake as you add roasted veggies to your plate. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it does. We’re at the in-between of all things. Not a solid place in your sense of understanding. It’s not a physical manifestation of a land mass, but it is a world that contains physical things.”

“A… dimension?”

“Exactly. This is my domain.”

“And what… are you?”

You look up at him then. His lips twitch at the corners and he tongues the inside of his cheek. “A god. But you already knew that.”

“Wanted to hear you say it.”

Silence falls between you as you pick up a knife and fork, cutting carefully into your meat. You pop it between your lips, sighing when the duck melts on your tongue with the taste of honey and something else. You sag in the chair, not realizing until now how tense you had been to this point. The food sends a wave of warmth through you and the god watches as you take a few bites, patient as you eat.

“This is fantastic,” you say, glancing at him as you reach for a glass of water. “The flavors are like nothing I’ve ever had.”

“I assure you that all things here are like nothing you’ve ever had.” You hum in agreement, taking another eager bite. You cannot imagine anything in the real world tasting this succulent. You almost wonder if perhaps this is all a dream. “You didn’t pray before you began to eat.”

Your chewing pauses. He’s bemused, giving you a sideways grin with his brows raised. You swallow thickly and say, “Praying never got me anywhere until recently. Why did you help me?”

“Because you asked.”

“You didn’t have to, though.”

It isn’t a question. He answers anyway. “I didn’t.”

“So why did you? The other gods have never helped me.”

“The other gods aren’t me.” His voice is soft and lethal, raising the hair on your arms. “We are not all the same, and you’d do well to not make any further comparisons moving forward.”

You lower your gaze. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Gods are fickle beings. We are quick to offend and slow to let go. You don’t know any better and are thus forgiven.”

“What do I call you?”

For a moment, he hesitates. You think he isn’t going to answer just as he says, “Yoongi. You can call me Yoongi.”

“Is that your name?”

“It’s one of them.”

“How many names do you have?”

He chuckles. It’s a delightful sound and you smile, watching him lean his head back against his chair, looking up as he shrugs. “How much time do you have?”

Time.

Suddenly, you remember that you aren’t here on this god - Yoongi’s - good graces. You’re here because you called for someone in a moment of need and he agreed to help you, but at a cost. Your time. He had asked for your time, and a sense of anxiety tiptoes its way up your spine as you think about the ambiguity of his deal.

Swallowing harshly, you shift back in your seat. The food in your stomach feels a little heavy, far too rich for you to eat more than a few bites. You’ve only ever known your parents’ staples of meat, bread, cheese, and root vegetables.

“When you saved me,” you begin. “You made a deal with me.”

“I did.”

“My freedom in exchange for my time.”

His eyes are glittering as he watches you, completely still. The fireplace next to you crackles. It makes shadows dance across his face, giving him the appearance of something wild and untamed. Your heartbeat quickens as you watch him, this godly being, as he stares you down.

“That was the deal,” he finally hums. His head cocks to the side a little. “I don’t usually discuss business over dinner.”

“I’m done eating.”

He huffs but doesn’t seem annoyed. “Perhaps tea, then? It will help settle your stomach.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that my stomach needs settling?”

“I know a lot of things.” Yoongi rises and gestures to the chairs directly in front of the fireplace. You stand, following his lead. There’s a quiver of energy in the air and you pause, turning to look back at the table to see it’s completely bare, no trace of anything left. You whip around to look at Yoongi as he sits in a wingback chair. “I can do a lot of things.”

A steaming cup of tea sits on a wooden table next to the chair you sink into. The cushions are soft, swallowing you in and making your muscles melt. The cup is warm when you pick it up, steam curling off the surface. Sniffing, your eyes flutter as you inhale the smell of mint.

“What are you the god of?” You open your eyes and look at him. Both of his feet are planted flat on the floor, his arms resting on the arms of the chair. He looks a little stiff, more so than he did at dinner. Orange firelight reflects in his inky eyes. “You’re a god of the dark.”

“There’s no such thing,” he scoffs, and you frown. “Your concept of gods is skewed. There is neither good nor evil, light nor dark. There are just gods.”

“So it doesn’t matter who you pray to?”

“We don’t need your patronage. If we did, we wouldn’t be gods, would we?” You’d never thought of it that way. You sip your tea, letting the warmth and sharp mint bloom in your mouth. “We’re beyond the simple classification that mortals use to understand and organize what they think our intentions are. I have been classed as both good and evil, light and dark, benevolent and malevolent.”

“But surely there are things that are inherently evil, even among the gods.”

“Of course there isn’t. Evil is a point of view. It is a word used to define the feeling one has when the opposite of their desire occurs.”

“I… guess that makes sense. But isn’t something like murder wrong?”

“Are you not the villain of the duck you ate today?” You blanch. Yoongi looks smug as he gestures vaguely with his hands. “Are you not evil for calling down the wrath of a god on Nathaniel Laudermill?”

“He was going to kill me.”

“You rejected his hand in marriage. You did the opposite of what he desired. I believe in his eyes, you are the evil. Is Death evil for doing what he was made to do?”

Yoongi’s words make your head spin. You gulp a mouthful of scalding tea before setting it on the table next to you, your mind reeling. The realization that you’re sitting in a library with a starry ceiling arguing over morals and the concept of evil with a god who has saved you from certain death makes you giggle.

He seems surprised by your sudden outburst, raising his brows as you cover your mouth, your fingers pressed to your lips as you try to contain your sudden mirth. “Sorry. This seems absolutely insane. I’m arguing over the word ‘evil’ with a god in a realm that is everywhere and nowhere at all. It feels like perhaps I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not. Though your dreams are dizzying and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You should be proud of them.” You furrow your brows. How does he know what you dream of? Before you can ask him to clarify, Yoongi says, “You wanted to discuss the deal.”

“Oh. Right. What did you mean by wanting my time in exchange for my freedom?”

“It’s simple. I want you to spend two weeks each month here.”

Yoongi’s words sink in as you look at the window behind him. Outside, the world is sinking into what you think might be night. The sky is swimming with stars and constellations, stuck in a perpetual twilight of sorts. You’re reminded that somehow, Yoongi is like the moon and the night itself, especially when you find his dark gaze on you as he waits for your response.

“Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company.”

“That’s it? You just want me to hang out in exchange for saving me?” He nods. “That seems too easy.”

His lips curve upward. “Maybe I’m very annoying.”

For some reason you think it might not be true. You think of all the things that you’ve heard about the gods. Yoongi tells you that everything you know about them is wrong, but you know that the gods of the dark are tricksters. They are experts in the art of luring mortals in, and you wonder if that’s what he’s doing now.

“Does it have to be consecutive weeks?” you ask, trying to bide time to collect your thoughts and work out his intentions. “Or can it be a collective?”

“Consecutive.”

“What… what happens when I go home? With my family.”

Yoongi’s face grows stormy. You shift in your seat. “You’re under my protection,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll bear a mark that protects you. No one will force their will upon you again.”

“Can you?”

He shakes his head, long hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks haunting in the firelight, but beautiful. You avert your gaze, fixating on the books in the room instead. “You have my word, I will never control you. I promised you freedom, that includes me.”

“But I have to be here. I can’t escape from that. Is that freedom?”

“You made that decision of your own free will. It’s your words that bind you here, not mine. While you’re here, you are able to do whatever it is you desire. In fact, I encourage it.”

“Wording is really important to you, isn’t it?”

He chuckles and inclines his head, fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “It is. Consider the first day of your deal already spent. You slept most of it off while you healed.” Yoongi stands, drawing your attention to him. “Sleep more,” he insists gently. “Tomorrow, I’ll give you a tour.”

The thought of a tour - and seeing Yoongi for more days - thrills you. Taehyung appears at the doorway as Yoongi escorts you out. He wishes you goodnight and lets Taehyung take you back to your room, though you feel his gaze and presence as you leave.

It isn’t until you’re back in your room that you realize you never asked Yoongi how long your deal is supposed to last. It occurs to you that while he has given you a sort of freedom, perhaps he has taken something from you after all.

Tall trees surround you. Above them, you can make out a swirling sky of stars and planets and several moons, so bright that it turns the forest a shade of blue. The woods around you are familiar, and there’s a well-walked path just ahead of you that leads to the river by your home. You’ve walked among these trees and creatures hundreds of times, but never with a sky like this.

Crickets chirp as you walk through the woods now. Grass tickles your bare feet, the earth soft and damp beneath you. It smells like fresh rain, but there’s no flood or mud as you navigate by instinct.

It’s peaceful out here. How many times have you come here to escape your father’s rage? How many times have you sat, back pressed against a tree, watching the light fade from the world until it was too dark to see where you were going? You always managed to get home safely, even with the lack of light.

The river rushes a few yards ahead. You pick a spot to sit and watch, beneath the cover of leaves. The sound of running water and the smell of rain on the wind lulls you into a trance and you close your eyes, resting for a while.

Here is where you find peace. Where you dream.

Awareness creeps up on you and you open your eyes, looking upward as you sense someone approaching. Yoongi stands next to you, onyx eyes gazing at the river. He’s in black clothes like before, his hands tucked into his pockets. You smell clove and cinnamon, making you dizzy. Power radiates off of him but it feels warm and safe. Like the night air itself comes from his existence.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask him. He looks down at you, an obsidian strand of hair falling in his face. He nods, giving you a gentle smile. “This is often where I go to dream.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer you. He looks back to the rushing river, his face becoming unreadable. He looks like he’s somewhere far away, lost in his thoughts. Absently, he says, “Your dreams are my favorite.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are bright, full of life and color and sound. You dream the way people create art, the way people create worlds. It is rare to see such magnificence among the sleeping.”

“I just…” you shrug. “Think of places I would rather be.”

Yoongi looks at you then and his face is shadowed, full of thunder. “You’ll never be forced to live that life again.”

“Do you promise?”

He opens and closes his mouth, narrowing his eyes a little before shaking his head. You feel a smile tug at your mouth, endeared by his microexpressions. “Yes, little lamb. I promise.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed and looking around. The room spins as your brain tries to catch up with your body, your physical and mental awareness completely out of sync as you swivel your head, drinking in the unfamiliar room and the soft sheets that smell like clove and cinnamon.

For a moment, you forget where you are, and adrenaline surges through you. Your fingers twist in the sheets as you ground yourself, memories from the day before slotting into place. Letting out a long exhale, you relax, flopping backward in the opulent bed, your heart rate slowing down as your panic bleeds out of you.

You’re in Yoongi’s home. In a place that is somewhere in between - whatever that means. The god has told you on multiple occasions that you’re safe and have nothing to fear from him and for some reason…. You believe him. Maybe it’s naive, but you can’t erase the feeling that Yoongi is being honest with you, that he has good intentions.

Perhaps it’ll get you into trouble one day. For now, you cast off doubt and peel yourself out of bed, trailing to the windowed doors that lead to the balcony beyond. You try the handle and are delighted to find them unlocked. Slipping through the doors, you’re met with warm, balmy air. It smells like petrichor, the breeze kissing your skin gently.

Like before, the world seems wrapped in permanent twilight. There is no sun in the sky, but a vast stretch of swimming stars and the largest moon you’ve ever seen. In the distance, dark mountains loom over you, their peaks capped in snow and wreathed in mist.

Forest stretches out toward them in a vibrant shade of green. There’s a settee on the balcony along with a table and chairs. Leaning on the stone railing, you look down to see colorful gardens and a large pond full of vibrant fish.

All of the radiance makes you smile. You’ve never seen colors so rich, and you’re unable to recall if your world was this vibrant. The garden below is bursting with violet and cerulean, the flowers unfamiliar to you. Their fragrant smell wafts up to the balcony, a hint of sweetness in the air.

A roll of thunder catches your attention. You look to the east, noticing that one of the mountains in the distance is darker than the others. Lightning crackles in the sky around it and the mist is heavier there. You think the trees are darker too, though you can’t tell if they’re gray or if it’s the shade from the swollen thunderheads drifting over them.

Behind you, the door to the balcony opens and startles you. Whirling around, you find Taehyung leaning against the frame, mouth curved upwards in a sideways grin. “When you didn’t answer the door I got worried.”

“I thought I was safe here? What is there to be worried about?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you took a dive off of the balcony.”

“What is that place?” you point to the thundering, shrouded mountain. Taehyung looks where you point, his smile dropping as he stares at the looming peak. “By the look on your face, somewhere bad.”

“Bad is a relative term.”

You scrunch your nose. “You sound like Yoongi.”

“Already familiar, are we? Cute.” He pushes off the door frame and beckons you inside. “Ask Yoongi about it on your tour.”

“Are you not coming along?”

“I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Not give tours.”

If it weren’t for Taehyung’s playful tone and glint in his eye when he casts you a glance, you’d think you were bothering him. Instead of getting angry, he drapes himself on one of the couches by the fireplace, long legs dangling off the arm as he lounges.

Today, he’s in charcoal colored pants and a red, billowing shirt that shows off the smooth, tan skin of his chest. A dangling earring catches your attention as he leans his head back, silky hair shifting. If Yoongi is made of moonlight, you think that Taehyung might be made of sunlight: golden skin, warm energy.

“By all means,” you mutter. “Hang out.”

“This is my home first, human. I shall do as I please.”

You make a sound at the back of your throat and roll your eyes, walking toward a large, polished wardrobe made from dark wood. It smells like fresh cedar when you pull on the brass handle, opening the door to reveal tunics and dresses, all hung neatly.

Rich silks, velvets and cottons greet you. You run your hand over the materials, amazed at how soft they feel. They are far better quality than your mother ever had access to. Your heart squeezes when you think of her, and you shake your head a little as if to physically dispel thoughts of your family out of your mind.

Facing them seems like an impossible task. You know that you’ll have to eventually. Two weeks with Yoongi in this strange world seems like a long time, but you’re not sure if it’s nearly long enough to mentally prepare to go back and face them after what’s happened. Will they still be angry? What will they say? Will they have been worried about you all this time?

There’s no way to know the answer. So instead, you pretend none of that exists. For once, you have stumbled into a dream and adventure like you’ve always wanted, and you intend on playing the part.

An emerald shirt catches your eye. It’s made of a silky material, supple when you rub the sleeve between your fingers. It’s plain, save for the laced string at the throat to cinch and tie it off. You grab a pair of black, cotton pants as well, the fabric just as soft as the sheets in your bed.

With Taehyung humming on the couch, you let yourself into the bathroom to change. You appreciate that the floor is warm wherever you go barefoot, and you quickly slide out of your clothes from the previous day and into the new ones. The measurements are a little off, but more than manageable as you pull the tie closed at your throat. Glancing into the mirror, you can’t help but smile a little.

You look so different. The shirt belongs to someone adventurous, you think. Perhaps a pirate or a huntress riding atop her horse through the woods. You slide your fingers along the material, its softness inviting and magical.

Two weeks. You’ll be here for two weeks with Yoongi, a god who has been alive for hundreds of years, if your conversation from the night before was anything to go off of. It feels surreal and you’re a little nervous, but more than that, you’re excited.

Suddenly, the world is full of possibilities. No marriage to tie you down, no power held in your parents’ hands.

“Gods you’re slow to get dressed,” Taehyung announces when you enter the room. He sits up, appraising your outfit. “Green looks good on you.”

“How many are there?” he cocks his head at your question, peeling himself from the seat. “Gods and goddesses, I mean.”

“Pfft. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds?”

“Maybe thousands, I don’t really know. There’s basically an infinite amount of universes. All anyone mostly cares about are the Eternals, the gods who remain the same no matter what name or history mortals assign to them.”

“Eternals?”

“Mhmm.” Taehyung leads you into the hallway. His hands are tucked into his pockets as he strolls leisurely. You follow beside him eagerly, looking up as he seems thoughtful. “Gods are hard to define. They are great beings with massive power. Some gods do the same thing, some don’t. They come from the infinite amount of worlds to which they are native, and somehow make it into mortal history. But the Eternals have always been here, always known. They do not change.”

“Who are the Eternals?”

“Life, death, chaos, time, pathos, dream and fate.” He makes a face then. “Fate and chaos are hard. They work in direct opposition to one another. It drives time insane, naturally.”

Seven Eternals. It makes sense, from a logical standpoint. Every world must have life and death and the passing of time. Where there exists a living thing, there exists a vessel of emotion and dreams. In all worlds there is the potential for chaos disrupting fate.

“Yoongi is an Eternal?”

Taehyung glances sidelong at you, smug. “Yes, Yoongi is an Eternal.”

“Why do you look at me like that when I say his name?” Taehyung doesn’t answer, instead smirking as if he’s enjoying a private joke. Your fists close and open as you swallow down a demand to tell you what he finds so amusing. “Which one is he?”

“Have you no guesses?”

That makes you think. Recalling the night before, you remember the way Yoongi looks: dark eyes swimming with something magical, a soft and raspy voice, the way he appeared in your dreams.

Though your dreams are mesmerizing and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You recall what he said about your dreams, the way he leveled his gaze at you, full of meaning that you didn’t understand.

“Dreams,” you say, certain that you're right. “He’s the Eternal of Dreams?”

“He isn’t of dreams. He is Dream.”

You’re unable to clarify Taehyung’s emphasis on Yoongi being a deity of dreams as he opens the door to the same library as before. This time, he doesn’t knock. When you step inside, you realize it’s because the room is empty. Yoongi is nowhere to be seen, though pale light filters in through the windows. It’s still forever twilight outside, yet a little lighter. It feels like morning, even if it does not entirely appear to be morning.

Behind you, the door shuts. You turn to see Taehyung has left without another word, leaving you entirely alone in the captivating space.

Without hesitation, you walk to the nearest shelf housing rows and rows of books. The spines range from muted browns and neutrals to bright reds and rich blues. Velvet books, leather books, canvas, silk. There is no shortage of materials making up each one, letters painted, printed or stitched down the back of them to denote what they are.

Each one breathes a world of possibility as you drag your finger along the shape of them. You wonder how many worlds and histories are scribbled away in the pages of this room, the very idea of it overwhelming.

Trinkets and objects you’re unfamiliar with line the shelves as well. Your fingers trace their shape and you wonder what they are. One object in particular catches your eye in the corner of the room. It stands on three metal legs and has large, interlocking rings that spin lazily in some unknown pattern. The rings are hammered metal and appear to have markings engraved on them.

The device slowly spins of its own accord. Upon inspection, there seems to be nothing else responsible for its motion except magic or science that is beyond you. You can see that there are seven metal rings and different markings on each of them, but you cannot guess what the engravings read.

“It represents the balance of the Eternals. Taehyung mentioned you had a vague starting point as to what I am.”

Yoongi’s deep voice makes you leap and screech, spinning on your heels to face him. Your hand flies to your chest and you can feel your heartbeat rattling wildly. Yoongi stands a few feet away from you, hands linked behind his back and eyebrows raised at your reaction.

He’s dressed similar to the night before, though a little more casual. His black pants are tucked into knee high boots, and his black shirt is loose fitted with silver stitching around the collar. You notice that it’s in patterns of stars and moons, furthering your confirmation that Yoongi is associated with dreams in some manner.

Yoongi’s long hair is pulled half out of his face today, tied away in a bun. The rest of his hair brushes the tops of his shoulders as his inky eyes regard you patiently. His curiosity makes you feel warm all over and you drop your hands to your sides, fingers twitching.

“How so?” you ask. You turn back to the device. “What does it run on?”

“Our energy. Each ring represents a member of my family. The speed at which they turn represents the balance among us. When the speed is off, the balance is off.”

“What causes the balance to be off?”

Yoongi steps closer to you. You hold your breath as he does it, but you can feel his presence like a buzzing vibration at the back of your neck.

His voice is softer when he answers, “A number of things. Sometimes some of us aren’t always performing the way we should be. Other times, we’re overperforming. Or fighting, really, as siblings are wont to do.”

“I don’t know what that’s like.”

“You’re not missing much. Especially when your siblings are as ancient and never ending as you are.”

“How… old are you?”

You look at Yoongi to see he’s standing next to you now. He looks at you, face impassive as he lifts a shoulder. “How old is the earth? How old is existence? It’s hard to say.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Chaos was first. Life and Death were next, twins born of the sudden whims of Chaos. I was next, for Life often dreamed. Time was always there, though no one knows if Time or Chaos came first. Pathos and Fate came later.”

You nod, though you don’t fully understand the scope of how old and fathomless the existence of things like chaos and time and dreams are. It makes your head spin, trying to conceptualize the thing next to you who looks very much like an ordinary man being something so ancient and primordial that he precedes human existence entirely.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he notes, a bit of amusement in his voice. “I don’t blame you. The best way to understand it is that I am a living concept that can never be destroyed, so long as there exists something to dream about.”

Crossing his arms in front of him, Yoongi clasps his hands and gives you a slight smile. He has a pretty smile, you realize. Delicate and almost shy. It makes your heart flutter and you mentally chastise yourself for thinking that a being of eternal dreams can possibly be shy.

“How about a tour? Our deal is that you’ll spend two weeks a month here. I’d love for you to feel like this is a place you can be familiar with, if not something akin to a home.”

“Home?”

His smile grows. “If that word ever seems fitting, sure.”

Home. The word makes you think about what home means to you and suddenly you feel a pit form in the bottom of your stomach. Flashes of a flooded forest, lighting lancing across the sky, hands gripping you tight and shoving you under the water.

“Um,” you clear your throat. “So a tour.”

Yoongi’s eyes glitter as he grins and turns, using a hand to gesture to the wide library. “This is the main library, but we’ll end our tour here. Let’s go through the gardens first, it’s nice weather.”

Yoongi starts without you, leaving you to stand staring after him as he goes. His gait is smooth and confident. He presses on a pane of glass that you realize is a door. A breeze teases the loose pieces of his hair, carrying the familiar scent of clove and cinnamon toward you.

For a moment, you stare after him. Yoongi being a deity of dreams makes so much sense in this moment, stepping into the twilight, face tilted upward slightly as though he’s soaking up the sun. He looks radiant. Tranquil. When he turns to look at you expectantly, his rose pink mouth quirks sideways.

“Right,” you say, hurrying to follow him. “Outside is where we start.”

When you pass him, you get the sense that Yoongi wants to tease you further. Instead, he says nothing and leads you into the gardens. A cobblestone path leads from the door through wisteria trees, their amethyst leaves swooping down and filling the air with sweet fragrance.

Up above, the sky is a mix of blue and purple, thousands of stars twinkling. There is a stone bench near one of the windows of the library, but Yoongi leads you away from the palace and down the path under the trees. The air is crisp and pleasant, cooling your anxious, sweat-slick skin.

Yoongi links his hands behind his back. “This is the library garden,” he informs you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s mostly wisteria trees, which are my favorite to walk through when I need to think.”

“They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Much different from the woods outside of your home.”

“You know the woods outside of my home?”

“You called me there, remember?” You blanch at the memory, but if he notices, Yoongi says nothing. “Besides, I’m familiar with the woods that surround your home. Your village pays homage to my brother.”

“Your brother?”

He hums. “Life. Perhaps they don’t know that it’s him they pray to, but they do.”

Taking a left, Yoongi leads you on a looping path through the massive wisteria trees. They’re larger than anything you’ve ever seen, their bows sweeping monoliths of purple, trunks thick as boulders. A strange creature sits on the branches of one of the trees, making you stop and stare.

A tiny, carnelian creature sits on a bough, bright against the lavender background of the leaves. It has four legs and scaled feet, sharp talons cutting into the bark as it keeps its balance in the tree. Small wings are folded on its back, bony limbs with paper-thin skin between them, a lighter red than the rest of its body. A long tail snakes around the branch, holding the creature in place as its long neck extends, head tilting to look at you curiously.

“Is that a dragon?” you whisper, staring at it.

You’ve only heard them described in stories, but you don’t really know what they look like. It has scales like a lizard and it blinks two large eyes at you, entirely black. There are small horns on its head, and a forked tongue snakes out as it tastes the air.

“She’s a fey dragon,” Yoongi hums, looking up at the creature with a smile. “And she’s not supposed to be in the trees here, are you?”

A puff of smoke curls from the dragon’s nose as it huffs, making you take a step backward. Yoongi lets out a deep laugh that makes a tingle rattle down your spine and your toes curl. The sound is like smoke and velvet, heady in the air.

“She won’t hurt you,” Yoongi assures, shaking his head to continue walking under the dragon’s branch. “She’s a pesky little thing, but she is incredibly sweet. Fey dragons are much smaller than their firedrake cousins and less dangerous than their basilisk relatives.”

With your eyes cast upward, you hurry after Yoongi, keeping your gaze on the large lizard as you run under the branch. Her dark eyes follow you, unblinking and fathomless. The hair on your arms stands up and you can’t help but feel that despite the dragon being small and what Yoongi calls harmless, it is incredibly intelligent.

“There are dragons here?”

“There is everything here.”

You frown, finally turning away from the dragon as you leave it behind. “That’s confusing. Everything as in…?”

“When you dream, you have limitless potential. You can go anywhere, be anything, see any creature. Dreams even invent things that do not exist in the natural world. Creatures, stories, songs, words, plants. The possibility for creation in a dream is limitless, and this place is the essence of dreams. It is me.”

“So you are this place and the place is you?”

He seems thoughtful before nodding. “More or less. This is a dream realm as much as it is a collection of ideas, thoughts and hopes. Everything that every living creature has ever dreamed about walks these lands.”

“Even nightmares?”

Yoongi pulls up short and whips his head at you. You bite the inside of your cheek, unable to meet his eyes under his severe expression. In the distance, you swear you hear thunder. An apology springs to your lips, but before you can give it, Yoongi nods sharply once and begins walking again.

“Nightmares too. Do not speak of nightmares here, lest they come searching.”

You think about Taehyung telling you that you were safe but being concerned when you didn’t answer the door earlier that morning. A chill seeps into your bones as you rejoin Yoongi on your walk, his pace not as relaxed now.

“They come searching?” you try, a little curious, a little afraid.

“Yes. They are different from dreams. Unpredictable in a way I admire and dislike.” He glances sidelong at you. “They have a mind of their own. You are safe with me always, but it’s best practice to not think of them while you’re here. This world has a way of manifesting.”

For a few moments, you walk in silence. You let your questions fall silent as you look around. The two of you exit the wisteria trees to see a large pond. A single, massive wisteria sits on its western edge with a bench underneath it.

The surface of the pond is dark and smooth, reflecting the swirling stars in the sky. Yoongi leads you around the mirror surface and points out the mountains in the distance that you could see from your windows.

“Mountains of Sleep,” he tells you. “It is where all beings who are ready for their eternal rest come to dream for the remainder of their existence. They are also called the Mountains of Divinity, for there are hundreds of divine immortals among their peaks.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Not all beings rest here. Some prefer their own planes and resting grounds. But this existed before those places, and has long been used for the tired and the weary who are ready to retire.”

“Are they dead?”

“No. The dead cannot come here.” He hesitates. “When they do, it is because they are not a dream.”

You get the sense that Yoongi is talking about nightmares again and you shiver as he takes you around the pond. “Don’t let anything in that body of water convince you to go swimming. They won’t intentionally hurt you but they don’t understand the concept of human life.”

“They?”

“They don’t have a name. They are water-folk who were dreamt up by someone once. I admire them and they’re beautiful and wicked smart, but they’re a bit cheeky.”

“I’m starting not to feel as safe as you said I was.”

Yoongi stops and frowns. He lifts a hand as though he’s about to touch your arm before he thinks better of it and drops it at his side. You realize you’re disappointed that he did before mentally kicking yourself, feeling a little ashamed to be so affected by a god. You’re sure Yoongi gets it often, but it makes you feel silly nonetheless.

“You are safe.” He lowers his head a little, catching your gaze. Though his eyes are midnight black, you swear you see the stars above reflected in their dark pools. “But there are rules everywhere. This place has them just the same as your home did. You were relatively safe there, but there were rules.”

“And then I broke them and Nathaniel tried to murder me.”

“Nathaniel was dealt with and will never touch you again.” Thunder rolls in the distance and your heart flutters at the vehemence with which Yoongi says this. “The misdeeds of your family cannot chase you here.”

You don’t press Yoongi on the matter. Instead, you let him proceed with the tour, keeping your questions to a minimum as you wonder what Yoongi meant by Nathaniel being dealt with. You recall the soft, susurrated voice against your ear when Yoongi found you. The gentle brush of something like a kiss to your neck. The rage and power as he stepped in front of you to face Nathaniel when the deal was done.

It does not require much to make an assumption about Yoongi’s meaning.

The yards of his palace are sprawling and full of color. Gardens with flowers he doesn’t know the name of but said a little girl had dreamed them and he liked them so he made more. Butterflies with colors you didn’t know existed flitting from plant to plant. Fruit orchards with the ripest, reddest apples you’ve ever seen.

And the palace. It is the only word you have for it. The building is several stories tall, hewn from dark stone with at least five different towers. Starlight glitters in the windows as Yoongi guides you up the stairs toward the massive double doors that lead to the main entrance of the castle. On the door handle are two wrought-iron griffons with proud faces.

Without a touch, the doors open on Yoongi’s arrival. You wonder if the building responds to his presence as the door swings open for the two of you. Inside, the foyer is as magnificent as the library, a lush purple carpet rolling over stone floors.

In the center of the room is a massive spiral staircase. Looking up, you see that it goes all the way up the floors of the palace, dizzying circles of floor after floor. Yoongi explains there are other ways to go all the way up to the top throughout the castle but this is the easiest way, though he assures you that by the third floor you’d be out of breath.

Each room Yoongi shows you is opulent and warm. Rich, deep wooden furniture, paintings with dark splashes of amethyst, scarlet and gold. Rooms for tea, rooms for painting, rooms for music, rooms for dancing. Yoongi has a room for everything, sometimes occupied by strange little creatures that hide when you walk in or curious things that lift their heads when they see him.

No one else besides Taehyung seems to be there, though. You come across felines, little balls of light that bounce around Yoongi excitedly and light him up like a burst of flame, a little furry thing that you think is a fox but in a shade of shocking sapphire, and a massive wolf with eyes like ice that blink apathetically at you as you walk by. But never once do you see another person. Even Taehyung seems to be amiss.

“Does no one else live here?” Yoongi takes you through another room empty of people and things. “It’s so empty.”

He takes his time to answer as you leave the room and move into the hallway. It’s hard to tell which way you’re going, but you think that you’re headed toward the library again. Your legs ache from going up and down the stairs on an endless tour of rooms, and you’re eager to be in the library once more.

“There used to be,” Yoongi says slowly. “But people don’t tend to do well in places that they don’t belong.”

“So you’re all alone here?”

His smile is sad. “I have Taehyung.” He pauses before he adds, “And now you.”

I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company. You think of Yoongi’s words from the night before and suddenly you’re filled with sadness. Sadness for this ancient being, who seems so gentle and quiet. Who lives alone in this giant castle with all of the world’s dreams around him and no one to share them with.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “How do you know I belong?”

“Pardon?”

“Do I? Belong, I mean. You wouldn’t… have me here if I wouldn’t do well, right?”

“No one dreams the way you do.” He says this firmly. Confident. Fierce. “I believe there is nothing you wouldn’t be able to find here.”

“Do you always know what I dream about?”

“No. But you dream… loudly. Colorfully. Sometimes it’s hard to ignore. I don’t like to pry, though.”

“Can you see everyone’s dreams?”

“Mhmm. I even make some.”

This catches your attention and you reach out and grab his wrist, stopping him. He glances down where your fingers touch his skin, your fingers buzzing where you’re connected. You flush with warmth and drop your hand, clearing your throat at how forward grabbing him was.

Yoongi is smirking when you ask, “Can you show me?”

“One day, yes. For now, the end of the tour and lunch.”

At the mention of lunch, your stomach rumbles. His grin spreads into a full smile and Yoongi leads you back to the library. Again, the doors open without his touch and as you pass them, you study them for any sign of an auto-opening mechanism but find none.

Yoongi’s magic appears limitless. You remember the food disappearing from dinner, the swell of power as Yoongi agreed to save you, and his sudden appearance as you were drowning. You know nothing about the god of dreams or what he’s capable of, but you’re awed at how easy it comes to him.

“This is the main library.” Yoongi turns around to face you, sweeping his arms out on either side of him. “There are two others: one in my room and one located in the dream tower.”

“You didn’t show me the dream tower.”

“I’ll show you when you’re ready.”

Unsure what ready means to Yoongi, you look around the library. Same as the night before, the shelves are crammed full of books and scrolls, so much paper and ink that it makes you lightheaded with excitement. It still smells of lemon and wax, though as you pass Yoongi to go to a shelf, you’re overcome with clove and cinnamon again.

Trying to ignore the shiver that merely walking by Yoongi gives you, you brush the spines of books once again, feeling their potential under your fingertips.

“You always have access to this library. You can read what you like.”

A pang goes through you and you drop your hand. Without looking at him, you mumble, “Thank you, but I can’t read.”

No response comes. You stare unseeing at the books before taking a breath to turn your head and steal a glance at Yoongi. You expect some sort of amusement or perhaps pity, but his face is unreadable, jaw working.

“That’s okay,” he finally says. “We will teach you. After lunch we will make a schedule to help fill your time here. Reading and writing lessons will be a part of that.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Do you mean that?”

“Do you want to learn?” You nod your head eagerly. He grins gently. “Then we will teach you.”

Yoongi’s eyes are dark as he presses forward. Your breath catches in your chest as you lay back, looking up at him with your lips parted, heart hammering in your chest. He settles his waist against you, the weight of him pressing you into your bed as you lay back.

He is so beautiful that it puts you in a daze, staring up into his face as he leans over you. His hair is pulled back, but a few dark strands hang loose. His mouth is stained red with wine, making you want to lean forward and taste his lips and feel their softness.

Tentatively, you reach a hand up and brush the loose strands of hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. You don’t stop touching him, though, hand cradling his flushed face. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your palm as you cup his cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth.

“Is this what you dream of?” he whispers, eyes remaining closed. “Being under me, like this?”

Dreaming. You realize you’re dreaming. You jolt and suddenly, you’re alone.

“Your handwriting is terrible,” Taehyung admits, looming over your shoulder. You grip the quill tighter, nearly snapping it in two. “But you learn unbelievably fast. How many of these letters do you think you have consistently memorized?”

Taehyung is in charge of your writing lessons today and you already want to kill him. It’s been five days of your new residency in the House of Dreams, as Yoongi calls it, and you’ve quickly learned that Taehyung is equally charming and playful as he is outright vexing.

Instead of turning to give him a very harsh poke in the arm with your quill, you scan the shapes in front of you. There are twenty-six of them, all awkwardly slanted and misshapen where you’ve used too much ink or not enough. Using a quill and ink feels alien to your hand and your fingers struggle to remember the proper way to hold it as you draw your letters.

“I think most of them,” you answer slowly, mentally sounding out each word on the page in your head as you go. “But there are a few of them that confuse me. The lowercase ‘d’ and ‘b’ I find nearly impossible to recall and ‘v’ and ‘u’ are rather frustrating.”

“Whenever you see a ‘u’, think of it as having a scoop. Sc-uuup.” Taehyung points to a ‘u’ on the page and mimics the scooping motion. “Might be easier to associate the sound scoop with ‘u’ even though the word itself doesn’t have a ‘u’.”

The desperate look you give him makes him laugh as you struggle to imagine why a word with a ‘u’ sound doesn’t actually contain the letters. You’re saved from Taehyung’s maddening - but helpful - instruction as Yoongi walks into the library.

“You’d better not be laughing at her again.”

Taehyung steps away from you and bows his head toward Yoongi. “I’m laughing with her. We’re just sharing amusement over the hypocrisy of letters.”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It’s hilarious.”

Today, Yoongi is in a deep, amethyst colored shirt. It’s laced at the throat with the familiar moon and stars that he has stitched on much of his clothing, and his hair down and long, slicked back and tucked behind his ears. As always, he’s in dark pants and boots today, the sound of them clicking on the stone floor as he nudges Taehyung out of the way to peer over your shoulder.

You tense. Being around Yoongi for the last five days has been intoxicating. It is bad enough that you get distracted during your lessons by the way his voice rumbles when he speaks and the way he chews his lips when working on his own things while you study. It’s worse that now he invades your dreams, whispering in your ear and hands wandering over your curves, sinful mouth brushing over your skin and leaving you to jolt awake in bed covered in sweat.

The very idea that Yoongi knows what you're dreaming of drives you to the edge of insanity. He’d promised he preferred to avoid your dreams, but you wonder if he knows. Knows that you have developed an insatiable habit of fantasizing about his hands, or about the tone of his voice.

Gripping your quill tight, you hold your breath when he leans over you. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him and smell him, cinnamon and clove making your eyes flutter. If you didn’t know he was the god of dreams, you’d mistake him for the god of lust, if that was a thing.

“Why aren’t you breathing?” You peer upward to see Yoongi looking down at you. If you tilted your head back just a fraction more, you’d be pressed against his chest. Even from upside down, his moon-pale face and cosmos eyes make you want to scream. “Are you alright?”

“Nervous that I’m not performing well.”

His face softens. “You’re a quick learner. Don’t worry about progress and pace.”

“But what if I lose it when I go h- back.”

Home. That’s what you were going to say. But the idea of home is terrifying. You don’t know what waits for you when you go back. You don’t know what splitting time between two worlds means. You don’t know what you’ll do when you have to spend two weeks there before coming back to Yoongi.

Five days in Yoongi’s realm has been enough to make you feel like this has always been your life. You fit into the daily routines of Yoongi and Taehyung better than you imagined, and though you still sometimes get lost in the House of Dreams, you discover that you’re adapting.

There’s always something new to discover, an adventure around the corner. You like learning your letters and the sounds that they make. You love studying the maps in the library and tracing the distances between countries you can’t name and have no idea where they are.

Most of all, you love exploring. Rooms upon rooms of objects both normal and magical. Creatures that roam freely around the palace - including a clever little fox that has taken interest in following you around as you take breaks from studying by walking around the grounds.

While Yoongi’s home doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, you’re more afraid to go back to your mother and father than you are to go near the pond at the edge of the wisteria garden.

So you avoid thinking of going back.

“You’ll practice while you’re there,” Yoongi says, as though it’s the easiest answer in the world. “You have to practice every day.”

“My father won’t- he doesn’t…” You shake your head, unable to get the words out. That your father would strike you to the ground if he found you with books again. “I can’t bring anything back with me.”

“Sure you can.” You glance at him to find his expression is firm. “I told you, you’re under my protection. Things will be very different for you when you go back.”

“How?”

“It’s… difficult to say.”

Yoongi offers nothing else. You become hyper aware of how close he’s standing to you again and you look down at your letter practicing. With a shaky hand, you dip the quill into the ink, lifting it from the inkwell and letting the excess drip before bringing it over to the paper.

When Yoongi makes no move to leave, you inhale deeply to steel your nerves and continue tracing. He’s content to watch you as you work. If he knows how distracted this makes you, he doesn’t let on. Perhaps he has no idea that as you scrawl a shaky letter ‘k’, it’s Yoongi who consumes your thoughts.

Even in your waking hours it seems you’re not rid of him.

Most of your study sessions are like this, Yoongi watching you so closely that it makes your quill bleed too much ink. He is a passive teacher, letting you come to him with questions instead of correcting you constantly like Taehyung does. Even now, when you hesitate on the next letter of the alphabet, Yoongi doesn’t offer his help. Lets you figure it out.

You dip the quill in ink and continue.

After you finish the last shaky letter, you set the quill down, flexing your fingers open and closed. Yoongi makes a satisfied noise and steps away. You turn to see him walking toward the table by the fireplace, which is where you have started to take all your meals. Already, there are platters of food and drinks. Taehyung sits in a chair, plucking a grape from a plate and popping it in his mouth.

“I didn’t invite you,” Yoongi grumbles as he takes a seat at the head of the table. You push yourself up from your chair, legs aching from sitting so long. “Who said you can eat my grapes?”

“Ugh, I’m tired of eating alone.”

“Let him stay, Yoongi.” The god looks at you with a glower, bottom lip jutted out slightly. It’s so cute that you can’t help but burst into laughter, hand flying to your mouth. “Sorry, I think you just pouted.”

“He did.” Taehyung grins and leans back in his chair. “He wants you to himself.”

Yoongi hisses Taehyung’s name, shutting down the teasing immediately. You glance at Yoongi shyly as you sit down but he doesn’t meet your eyes, choosing to laden his plate with food instead. You can’t imagine why Yoongi would want you to himself, especially when all you do is ply him with questions.

Still, a little bit of a thrill goes through you as you start loading your plate, your gaze drifting toward the deity again as he bites into a strawberry, the juice running down his chin. Your eyes track the movement as his tongue darts out, catching the drip before it escapes too far.

Yoongi’s mouth is hypnotizing and it takes you a moment too long to realize he’s watching you stare at him. Quickly, you grab a cup and bring water to your lips, gulping the cool water and glancing up at the ceiling, feeling embarrassment bloom like warm liquid through you.

When you put the cup down, you swear you see Yoongi smiling.

Hungry lips suck at the tender flesh of your neck. You gasp, feeling your toes curl in pleasure, head spinning. Yoongi’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, the drag of his rough tongue soothing over the bites driving you mad. You let out a soft moan, eyes squeezing shut as you writhe under him.

Yoongi’s large hands pin yours above your head, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he continues to ravish your neck with his hot mouth, tongue and teeth. His hips roll over you and you whine, feeling his hard-on pressing against you.

Your parents would kill you if they knew you were here like this, trapped under a god of the dark as he sucks on your pulse point, mouth moving upward to nip your ear. Your chest is heaving and you can’t get enough breath, overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and clove, by the way his mouth pulls sounds from you so easily.

Yoongi tears his lips away and looks down at you, eyes so dark and blown out that you think he might devour you, swallow you whole in one bite -

“You’re dreaming of me again,” he whispers. “I don’t know if you mean to be dreaming of me, like this.”

You startle, realizing this isn’t real, and the illusion fades.

Twilight skies stretch above you. It’s warm outside, but the night air is cool against your skin, making you shiver as you sit down, folding your legs criss-cross.

“Are you cold?” Yoongi asks, sitting down on the soft grass next to you. You shake your head, eyes fixed on the low table in front of you that's filled with platters of meats, cheeses and crackers. You eye a glass bottle of red liquid that you think is wine, mouth watering. “Are you sure?”

“Promise, the wind feels nice.”

He looks doubtful as he sits down next to you, a healthy amount of space between you.

Tonight, Yoongi has insisted on a late night snack outside under the stars. He seems eager, verging on giddy as he glances up at the sky before reaching for the bottle of red liquid and popping the cork.

After nearly two weeks in the House of Dreams, you’ve learned that this world is forever twilight, lit up by dreams. Here, day and night don’t exist in their truest forms. There are always millions of people and creatures dreaming at every moment of existence, not limiting Yoongi’s world and power to times of day and night.

The twilight is beautiful. You’ve grown accustomed to the purple tint to the world, the way that it gets just the barest bit darker outside during certain periods, as though even in a world where night and day don’t exist, there are still two separate halves of time.

Yoongi passes you a glass. You bring it to your nose and sniff, delighted at the scent of cherries and something else. It’s certainly wine, though you wait for him to pour himself a glass to sip any.

Earrings dangle in Yoongi’s ears tonight. Each lobe has a small, thin chain with a moon charm on the end that’s studded with sapphires, catching the moonlight as he sets down the bottle and sits back. His hair is pulled half-up, half-down again, leaving his full face in view as he looks at you and gives you a gummy grin that scatters your thoughts.

“Chaos is moving through the sky tonight,” Yoongi informs you, glancing upward. “When she does, she’s beautiful to see. She doesn’t do it that often, but she’s passing us by on her way to do whatever it is she does somewhere. I wanted you to see.”

He holds out his drink and you grip yours tight, raising your glass to clink with his like you’ve seen people do at the inn in your village. He turns away from you, bringing his wine to his lips to sip. You follow suit, tentatively tilting your glass.

Sweet cherries bloom on your tongue and you hum in delight. It isn’t just cherries you taste, though. There’s a lush sweetness too, edged with spice, filling your mouth with warmth. You look at Yoongi as you sip and see him watching with a closed-lipped smile, eyes searching your face.

“You like it?”

You nod and set the glass down. “It’s delicious.”

“You like sweet things.”

“And you like salty.” He raises a brow in question. “You’re always going for the salted meats at dinner. And you have salted pork right there,” you point to the meat and cheeseboards. “Do gods get dehydrated?”

“We do not. I didn’t realize you were paying so much attention.” You shrug, picking up your wine to take small sips again. “Anything else you’ve noticed?”

Everything, you want to say and don’t. You’ve noticed so many things about Yoongi, all of them coming to mind at once. But you don’t want to reveal just how much you’ve watched him over the last two weeks, paying far more attention than is proper.

You could tell Yoongi how you’ve noticed that he wears seven necklaces exactly, each with a different symbol charm on them that you think corresponds to the seven Eternals. You could tell him that he has the habit of closing his eyes and tilting his face upward, like he’s absorbing moonlight. You know all of his favorite breakfast items, specifically crispy bacon and sugared strawberries.

And there are other things you could tell him, like in your dreams his lips are soft as sin, his voice low and sultry. You could admit that most nights you feel his grip on your waist and that when you study his hands during your lessons, you can’t help but already know the shape of them.

Perhaps two weeks back in your village is exactly what you need to get the ridiculous fantasy of this eternal being from your head. You don’t think you could bear the shame of him knowing exactly what living in the in-between realm has done for your imagination in a very unexpected way.

“You like bacon,” you offer as an answer. “And sugared strawberries. In the evening, whiskey is your favorite. It smells a little bit like honey, but still spicy. And you must work in the dream tower often at night, because the door to the tower smells like clove and cinnamon and you always smell that way.”

Yoongi’s brows shoot up. You hide your expression with your glass of wine, taking a long draught. It hums in your veins, warm and rushing like nothing you’ve ever felt before. When you lower the glass, Yoongi watches you with an intense expression. You meet his gaze, suddenly unable to look away.

The air feels charged as you stare. His eyes dip down to your mouth a single time, then back up to your eyes. The breeze moves strands of his hair and you smell the hint of clove followed by cinnamon, just as you always do when he’s near. Your heart starts to staccato as the silence presses on.

A little shriek cuts through the tension like a knife. You flinch and turn around, looking at a red blur of movement burst from the wisteria trees. Tiera lands with a squawk, the fey dragon huffing as grey smoke curls from her lungs. She ignores you entirely as she normally does and skips over to where Yoongi is sitting before she settles next to him, curling like a cat and laying on her tail.

Yoongi laughs. “Hello, Tiera.” The dragon chuffs and lets out another puff of smoke. “Are you not going to say hello to our friend?”

When the dragon pays no attention to you, you roll your eyes. “She hates me.”

“Dragons are capricious. She’s been with me for over a hundred years.”

“Not very mature then, is she?”

He chuckles again as you pluck cheese from the platter and pop it into your mouth. You’re delighted to find it’s soft and garlicky with a hint of rosemary as well. “She is still a child in dragon years.”

“And you let her be a glutton.”

“You could be too.” Your chewing slows and you swallow the cheese hard. You wait to see if he’s teasing you, but Yoongi watches you with a placid expression. “Dreams and desires are intertwined, you know. Desires come from dreams. It is in my nature to be indulgent.”

“I’ve never really been indulgent in my life.”

“Do you want to be?”

“What?”

His mouth twitches. “Indulgent.”

“I think this is indulgent,” you gesture to the food. “And you’re teaching me to read and write. That is more indulgence than I could ever dream of.”

He hums and it sounds like disapproval. “I think your dreams are far more indulgent than that.”

He knows. You think he’s going to say something, to ask about the way you dream of him. Instead, he says, “When you return, we’ll work on your indulgence. There is no shame in wanting things, you know?”

“I don’t know. How could I?”

Light flashes above your head. You break eye contact with him to look up and gasp. The sky is full of shooting stars, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The world lights up as you see rainbows streaking across the sky, bursts of colors and explosions of brilliance shooting through the sky.

Your mouth hangs open as you watch, mystified into silence. You’re sure this is what Yoongi meant when he said Chaos was passing by, for the sky becomes a cacophony of color and stars and light. You blink your eyes, stunned by the display. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, your heart hammering with excitement as you watch it, legs crossed, head tilted up.

The stars begin to slow and there are less bursts of color, until finally, there is just a shimmering wake of stardust and pink simmering in the sky. You look at Yoongi, utterly speechless, to find him looking at you. His eyes reflect the night sky, full of constellations and stardust, glittering in the dark depths of his irises.

Yoongi’s eyes are as wonderful as the display above, but you don’t say that.

“That was beautiful,” you breathe. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His eyes don’t leave you when he hums softly in agreement. “It was.”

Tiera shuffles next to Yoongi, drawing your attention. She snakes her long neck out, tongue tasting the air as she eyes the meat on the table. Yoongi hisses at her and taps her nose in chastisement, earning an angry croak as the dragon shuffles back to her napping position.

The rest of your evening is spent snacking in companionable silence. Yoongi doesn’t talk much unless he’s answering your hundreds of questions, but tonight, you have none. You’re comfortable to just look at the world around you, the wisteria branches dancing in the breeze.

In the distance, you hear thunder. Your eyes follow the sound to the same dark peak with lightning crackling through the mist. You’ve yet to ask Yoongi about that peak in particular, but you think you know what looms there. You remember Yoongi talking about how there are nightmares in this realm too, and you’re not eager to ask what that thunderous mountain holds.

Yoongi doesn’t divulge, either. He watches you as you regard the peak and says nothing. Perhaps even the Eternal of dreams is hesitant to speak of that place, which is a good enough reason for you not to press him further on it.

When your stomach is full and you’ve had another glass of wine, you lay back in the grass. Your limbs feel heavy with drink and your world is tilted on a slow-rotating axis. The buzz in your veins feels pleasant, though your thoughts are a little sticky like honey and they run together, untamed.

Careful to keep his distance, Yoongi lays back in the grass with you. His face looks up at the sky, but you look at him. His features are so delicate and soft, nose and cheeks so round. His face don’t make sense in your head, so severe and terrifying yet gentle and innocent at the same time.

“You’re staring,” he says eventually.

“I’m indulging,” you tease back, loosened up by wine. “You said I can indulge, so let me stare.”

“What is there to indulge in?”

“Your… earrings.”

That makes him look at you, a brow quirked. “My earrings.”

“Yes. Very shiny. Very dangly.”

“Shiny and dangly?”

“Is there an echo out here?” you demand, frowning at him. “Yes, I am indulging in your jewelry!”

“Would you like some earrings?”

“My ears aren’t pierced.”

“Well then we’ll pierce them.”

“Well,” you grump. “Don’t you have the answer for everything?”

He smiles then, that rare gummy smile that makes you shut right up. “I told you. I’m indulgent. Anything you want, all you need is to ask.”

Rolling your eyes, you bite your lip to hide your smile at his words. It is insane to you that this ancient being is laying in the grass next to you telling you to only ask what you want. You don’t know what you want, but you do know that this feels like a dream. That you’re not really here, and that you’re going to wake up tomorrow and be in your bed at home.

Dread fills you at the thought of going back to your parents. In a way, you want to see them. They’re your parents and there is… unfamiliarity without the sound of your mothers needle stitching through cloth. You could do without your father entirely. The rage inside of you when you picture his face is difficult to quell and is often followed by terror.

Yoongi has told you that you will be safe when you return. You believe him. There is no reason not to. But more than anything, you’re terrified about what comes next. Living between two worlds is something you remember dreaming about that one day in the forest, looking at the way the world was reflected back on the mirror-calm surface of the water.

Now that you have access to two worlds, you don’t know what to do with the other that has brought you nothing but suffering. And yet, you still want to see what is there. You’re not ready to leave it entirely without knowing.

“Are you afraid to go back?”

Yoongi’s question is soft. You don’t hesitate to answer, “Yes.”

“You won’t be alone. All you have to do is dream of me, and I will come.”

You hesitate then ask, “Do you know any time someone dreams of you?”

“It’s like hearing someone call my name, but I never answer. My business is in creating dreams, not invading them. People like you are able to spin up dreams on your own without my assistance. I help those who cannot.”

“That sounds like a lovely job.”

He hums. “It’s not without its stresses. I talk a lot about the nature of dreams, but there is more to me and to my job than that. Perhaps we will leave that for your next visit, yes?”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Come on,” Yoongi sighs, heaving himself upward. “It is late and in the morning, you must return.”

“Touch me,” you beg him, straddling Yoongi’s lap. His head rests against the back of the couch and he looks up at you as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer than you imagined, sliding like silk between your fingers. “You told me to ask for what I wanted. Touch me.”

“Anything,” Yoongi agrees. His hands skim up your thighs, warm and rough. He squeezes your flesh, making you moan as his hands continue their worship. Yoongi grips your hips tightly, kneading your flesh as he pulls you closer to him. “Anything. Everything. For you.”

When you wake up, you’re confused. The roof above your head is wood and thatch. The mattress beneath you is thin and lumpy, sweat sticking the sheets to your legs. Rolling over, your vision blurs until it comes into focus once more, revealing a tiny room with just a bed, a wardrobe and a closed door.

Your room. Well, your room in your parents’ house, you realize with a panic.

You shoot up in bed as terror claws at you. Did you dream it all? Was it not real? Nothing in your room has changed and the windows are open to the cool air. Grey clouds drift in the sky and you can smell the petrichor of oncoming rain in the distance.

Rushing to your bedroom door, you rip it open, your heart threatening to burst with how hard it’s beating. You don’t know what you’re looking for or what you expect to find, but the idea that you have just woken up from the most vivid, wonderful dream is so maddening that you need anything to tell you it was real. That it wasn’t in your head.

Your mother is sitting at the kitchen table stitching. She looks up when she hears you. She looks different, leaner and narrower than you ever remember, her greasy hair tied low at her neck. Her hands pause their stitching as she stares at you, stricken.

“What day is it?” you ask her. The day you had been attacked had been a seventh day. You remember that clearly. “Tell me what day it is!”

Instead, your mother screams in sheer terror.

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