Try To Erase Myself

Try to Erase Myself
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/14852240.
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Choose Not To Use
Archive Warnings
Category: M/M, F/F, F/M, Multi
Fandom: | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Relationship: Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin, Jeon Jungkook/Everyone, Jung Hoseok | J-
Hope/Kim Seokjin | Jin, Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Min Yoongi | Suga, Kim
Namjoon | RM/Min Yoongi | Suga, Min Yoongi | Suga/Park Jimin, Kim
Seokjin | Jin/Min Yoongi | Suga, Kim Taehyung | V/Min Yoongi | Suga,
Kim Taehyung | V/Park Jimin, Kim Seokjin | Jin/Park Jimin, Kim
Namjoon | RM/Kim Seokjin | Jin, Kim Namjoon | RM/Kim Taehyung | V,
Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Kim Namjoon | RM, Park Jimin (BTS)/Original
Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Character: Jeon Jungkook, Kim Seokjin | Jin, Kim Namjoon | RM, Kim Taehyung |
V, Jung Hoseok | J-Hope, Min Yoongi | Suga, Park Jimin (BTS), Other
K-pop Artist(s), Original Female Character(s), Original Male
Character(s)
Additional Tags: Teacher-Student Relationship, Horror, Psychological Horror, Blackmail,
Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Incest,
Voyeurism, Objectification, Dollification, Body Modification, Medical
Kink, Watersports, Heavy BDSM, Cock & Ball Torture, Orgasm Control,
Impact Play, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder - PTSD, Violence, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, erotic
birth, Translation Available, Knifeplay, Dreams and Nightmares, Alcohol
Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Underage, Blood and Gore, Drug Abuse,
Brainwashing, Sex Slavery, Vaginal Sex, Religious Imagery &
Symbolism, Mental Institutions, Daddy/Mommy kink, Stalking, Additional
Warnings In Author's Note, Other Additional Tags to Be Added,
Polyamory, Sounding, Needles, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Additional
Warnings Apply, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Series: Part 1 of Smoke & Mirrors
Collections: CortadoIsReading
Stats: Published: 2018-10-07 Updated: 2021-08-31 Chapters: 17/21 Words:
407530
Try to Erase Myself

by astralminnie
Summary
Jungkook is a new teacher assigned to work in the Health & Sex Education department of a
high school. He expects to be working with students, leading his own classroom...
What he doesn't expect is to be turned into part of the curriculum instead—namely, as a sex
education doll.
Now translated into Spanish (Español), Arabic (‫)ﻋﺮﺑﻰ‬, Arabic (‫( )ﻋﺮﺑﻰ‬Ao3),
and Russian (русский)!
Inspired by prayers for the guilty by starbaby

Preview
Chapter Summary
A preview.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

{art by @urme_imu}
A PREVIEW
WHAT ARE READERS SAYING ABOUT TRY TO ERASE MYSELF?
“I’m thoroughly fucked up after reading this...” —cflorez
“I'm not even a kpop fan but this is one of the best fics I've ever read...” —ash
“...fucked up...but I loved it so much, I couldn’t stop reading...really messed with my emotions! But
my eyes were glued to reading it everyday...like I couldn’t stop. I wanted-...NO, needed to know
what was happening next...” —Min MeowMeow
“...so disturbingly hot...” —UCastex
“...the plot definitely challenges me as a person...I just. can't. stop. reading.” —

BabyBoyParkJimin
“...by far the most uncomfortable thing I've ever read in my entire life...” —BlueberrySalad
“...reading...made me sick mentally and twisted my stomach...so beautifully sick and twisted…” —
rotten.strawberry
“...this is making me discover fantasies and kinks I never knew I had.” —misa
“...delightfully dark and filthy and hot and psychedelic...” —crownofdebauchery
“I cried.” —Yanni
“This story...makes people believe whatever it wants them to believe, the way it convinces [your]
brain and forces thoughts into it [is] both genius and scary...easily the most disturbing and
psychologically horrific story I've ever read. It’s not just Jungkook who's slowly getting
brainwashed...it's the readers as well…” —Anosua Palit
“...so twisted it got me really really sick..the writing is so beautiful, so well written it got me at the
authors knees, seriously." —tinygukpie
“I am uncomfortable and intrigued all at once...it makes my hormones confused.” —

CaridwenAngetueur1
“...the kind of messed up story I'm living for...” —kaelaa
“I didn't take the warning seriously but I should have...but the writing is really good...if you have
the courage to read it” —whinter snow
“Thanks to [this story], I discovered I can’t enjoy fluff anymore...” —Misaki Ayuzawa
“This fic fucked with my head more than any fic I have ever read before...this recommendation
sincerely isn't for the faint-hearted, but if you can handle reading despite the warning tags, I
promise you won't regret it. I literally couldn't put my phone down once I started it…” —Jimin's
Wandering Contact
“...at one point literally cried and had to stop reading it and remind myself that this wasn't
reality.” —rose 17
“I was hesitant to start on this fic but...I [took] a leap of faith and downloaded it! I’m glad I did
because this is so interesting, dark and twisted but that’s the charm of it...it makes you
uncomfortable and squirm...an addictive read.” —S S
“I couldn’t keep my mind straight for a week because of this story...” —Christie Vision
“...one of the most twisted things I’ve ever read...” —Marasny

“I should’ve listened to the warnings by the author herself and the people who have read this...so
inhumane istg but the writing style [is] fucking amazing!” —Akila ARMY
“Holy shit...this [story] is messing with my head...it makes me so uncomfortable...nervous...my

anxiety has never been this strong...” —taestygukkies
“...so intriguing that even when I felt so uncomfortable...I'm speechless." —adyYellow
“...this is breaking my heart and mind!” —Izzy7831
“Hard to read but I can't stop...intriguing but stressful...” —SaraKagamine
“I'm triggered and speechless...” —Malie
“...so stressful it makes me nauseous...but now that I've started to read I can't stop.” —
Pork_Skewers
"...might be the first story ever that actually kinda triggers me...can't wait for more.” —jeonkaktus
“...insanely triggering and I feel disgusting from reading it.” —TriptychKitty
“This can be a New York Times bestseller.” —BeyTS
“...an incredible piece of work...” —hulahoop
“Even if I get triggered for real I always come back...I have never read a story as psychologically
challenging as this one. It's dark and makes me feel vile...but I love it” —TriptychKitty
“This has to be the BEST story that I've ever read in my entire life.” —Diamond
“...more than just kinky fanfiction, it’s something [from] a different league. mesmerizing...dark,
vile, creepy but awesome...” —an2kaa
“I started this fic because I was curious and the kinks interested me, but the plot punched me in the
face...the twists and turns have me on the edge of my seat...like an HD movie playing in my
head...” —smoothiebomb
“[The] writing is so meticulously done...flawless execution of what most writers deem ‘the hardest
thing to write’...I’ve watched horror movies with grade-A budgets that don’t even come CLOSE to
[this] level of originality...” —JiminiesKitten
“Stories don't have to be about good people or good things to be a good story. it makes me so upset
and uncomfortable...downright unsettling, but I can't stop reading...” —Taylorebonii
“So ominous! So intriguingly interesting and captivating!” —JiminiesKitten
“Honestly [this story]...reminds me of why I love to read so much.” —Pork_Skewers
“This fic makes me want to toss my laptop out the window.” —pariah164
“Almost every one of my deepest triggers are written here...but, I’m still subscribing and reading.”
—karljiminmarx
“I love this fic even though it hurts to read.” —BookWerm
“...so encapsulating and draws me in...makes me wretch at my own sick fascination...” —Savana
Smith
“This is absolutely the most captivating fanfiction I've ever read.” —Ana
“Both disturbing and thrilling at the same time...” —Agustyoongs
“...a crazy roller coaster to read...more than any bloody gory story, this one leaves me feeling so
horribly disturbed…” —NanaMilkis
“It makes me want to call my mom to tell her I love her.” —Alyssafreak
“B R E A T H T A K I N G. absolutely breathtaking...amazing, beautiful and a true work of art.”

—TinyBangtanScrub
"...intense and compelling, it's got a killer plot but it's fundamentally character-driven, and it
breaks far beyond what the tags promise. Seeing the truth of the school slowly unfurl like some
kind of extremely non-con kinky blossom is enthralling." —StarrySwitchy
“Wow.” —happyharper
Chapter End Notes
All reviews above came from actual readers! The preview video was created by the
talented Sapphiamur on YouTube! I'm so unbelievably honored that anyone would put
in the work to make something like this for me. Please go give her all of your love and
support! <3
DISCLAIMER (MANDATORY READING BEFORE CONTINUING):
As the preview shows, this story will deal with heavy adult themes, graphic and
implied violence/gore, abusive relationships, substance abuse, mind
manipulation/brainwashing, non-consensual/dubiously consensual sexual situations,
objectification, medical procedures, psychological horror, referenced death/suicide,
etc. Though there is no major character death or excessive gore within the story, the
content included may be distressing, traumatizing, or triggering to some readers.
If you choose to continue past this point and read the next chapter or beyond, you
are indicating that you have seen the preview and read all the appropriate warnings
and are choosing to continue reading at your own risk. Any triggers that you
encounter due to the nature of this story and its contents from this point forward are
your own responsibility, and it is also your sole responsibility to discontinue your
consumption of this story if you are made uncomfortable, distressed, or triggered by
the content within.
Due to the new Ao3 tagging restrictions, over 150 tags have been removed from
the main page to this story. Every chapter will be preceded by a set of tags that
apply to that specific chapter, and there are additional options throughout the
story to view warnings and skip entire scenes that are likely to be particularly
triggering to some readers.
This new tagging limit makes providing warnings to readers more difficult. If you
believe that the option to skip a trigger should be added to a particular scene, or that
additional tags are needed for a scene/chapter/the entire story, please submit a
comment here on Ao3 or message me on CuriousCat so that I can review your request!
I take tagging VERY seriously and have done my best to make the warnings on this
story as comprehensive as I can, but I am only human and am always open to
feedback.
Please heed the warnings at the beginning of the fic and at the beginning of every
chapter carefully before deciding if this story is for you. There is nothing wrong
with turning back at any point—just take care of yourself!
REPOSTING AND TRANSLATIONS POLICY:
1) I DO NOT ACCEPT REPOSTING OF MY WORK IN ANY WAY. If I find a

repost of this story on another website, I will immediately report the repost and have it
taken down as a copyright violation. Do NOT repost this story without my permission
on any website.
2) I DO allow translations of this story!
Translations must follow these guidelines:
— The content, pairings, plot, etc. in the story must NOT be changed in your
translation, and appropriate tags/warnings must be included
— I must be informed of the translation when it is posted
— A link to the translation must be provided so I can add it to the original story
— A link to the original story must be included in the translation so people can find
the original
— All credit for the original work must be given to me in the translated version
This story has been translated into Spanish (Español), Arabic (‫ )ﻋﺮﺑﻰ‬and
Russian (русский)!
A reading companion with background information has been created for this
story here!
Phase Zero: Prologue
Chapter Summary
Kim Seokjin is a patient man.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PROLOGUE:
Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Conditioning, Brainwashing, Unhealthy

Relationship Dynamics / Abusive Relationship, Anal Sex
OFFICIAL FIC PLAYLISTS
Fic Playlist
Prologue Playlist

repost of this story on another website, I will immediately report the repost as a
copyright violation and have it taken down. Do NOT repost this story without my
permission on any website.
the original
story here!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
External Camera 5—Rear Entrance 01.08.18 2:13AM
THUD—THUD—THUD—
The ground is wet, solid beneath its heavy footsteps. Each impact of heel-toe-heel-toe against the
ground is agonizing, dirt and mud caking to the soles of its bare feet and only adding to the prickle
of numbness that has begun to settle beneath its toes.
Its breath is a heavy haze in front of its eyes, large puffs appearing every few seconds to cloud its
vision as it wheezes, no longer bothering to hide its sharp gasps for air.
There is another set of footsteps coming from behind, crunching and crashing through the
undergrowth, hot on its heels now, and the sound only pushes it to speed up its pace against the
straining, the awful burning of its muscles.
Closer, closer still—and the trees seemed to reach out at every turn, clawing as though hands
reaching for its shirt, its pants where they stick to skin. The fabric is rubbing it raw now, sticking to
chest and arms and thighs, and not nearly enough to ward off the frigid air.
It might just die from this—the thought passes by and is gone in an instant.
No.
THUD—THUD—
Heartbeat thudding in its ears now, the sound almost drowns out the scrape and thud of its feet
against the dirt. In the distance, there is a light—growing brighter and brighter still, the sun
peeking through the trees now—
How long—how long has it been running?
THUD—
The air is thin, doesn’t fill its lungs well enough, chest burning as though filled with ice—a
horrible, sinking chill. Everything feels sluggish, the cold reaching to its bones now. Faster, faster
—it tries to push its muscles, long out of use, to obey, but the ground below begins to dip upwards
in a steeper incline and it slips, slides against the frost, hands flying out to grab onto anything they
can find.
From behind, its ears catch a low hiss, the shape of a name. A name—
The thudding comes to a sudden halt, the footsteps that have been dogging its own falling silent,
leaving only the rush of blood in its ears to dull its senses.
Another hiss—this time a warning, a sharp tone cutting through the fog like a sword—
THUMP—
THUMP—THUMP—
Its head swings around in panic, eyes wide as though it would somehow clear the heavy shadows of
the trees from view.
Footsteps resume in the dark, this time on the far side of the trees to its right, and it jerks into
action, scrambling forward on all four limbs now towards the nearest gap between two tree trunks.
Leaves and twigs scrape at its palms, the sharp and sudden warmth of blood spilling across skin
coming as a shock in the frigid air.
Heartbeat a horrible drum in its chest, it scrambles higher up the bank of the hill through sheer
force of will, limbs quivering from the effort, eyes seeking the glimpse of sunlight through the
trees again—
THUMP—
THUMP—
THUMP—
But there is a second sun, now—a light shining through the skeletal branches up ahead from a
different direction. It squints, suddenly seeing double—or—no—
No—
The light approaches faster now, as do the footsteps, closing in from all sides where before there
was only silence. The rushing of blood in its ears dampens most of the noise, all but a low whine
that starts to echo across the clearing.
THUMP—THUMP—
There are voices now, more than hissing—
THUMP—
“Don’t move—!”
Path suddenly blocked, it slides on its knees until it can scramble backwards instead, hands flying
out behind it to claw at the dirt for purchase. The light in the distance draws nearer and nearer still,
no longer a glow but now focused—piercing beams of light that cut through the darkness and aim
directly down the hill until they shine right into its eyes. Blinded, it clambers away until there is
nowhere left to go, back suddenly hitting an immovable surface that stops it in its tracks. A tree.
“Don’t move!” The voice repeats, low and commanding. Behind the lights, shadows move from
side to side, forming into bodies as they draw closer and closer. A crowd of them appears, figures
that circle the small clearing in the trees until the entire space is clearly lit and it has to raise its
hands to shield its eyes against the burning, burning.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—
There is rustling from behind its defensive position, crackling and crunching of boots against the
dirt, and though it can’t see through the beams of light aimed at its face, it knows that it has been
well and truly surrounded.
It’s a terrible thing, the breath that leaves the body once it has nowhere left to run. The last gasps as
it ceases to fight, ribcage creaking and collapsing in around lungs that have lost the will to suck in
even one more shuddering breath.
The whining fades into silences, a noise that disappears along with its breath, and it realizes that
the sound must have been coming from its own throat all along.
THUD—THUD—
THUD.
The footsteps come to a halt, only feet away now. It is cold enough that it can feel the warmth of
another body when it draws near, can feel the gust of another’s breath.
“Just stay still—” A low voice reassures, and it feels a large hand wrap around its wrist. The light
that burns through its eyelids, through the gaps in its fingers, fades from red to burgundy as the
flashlights are turned away, and its hands are tugged down away from its eyes. “—there you go.”
The face that greets its gaze is not unkind, not unfamiliar. Terrifying, all the same.
“You’re alright now, you’re safe—” Even as such platitudes are offered, the grip on its wrist
tightens to the point of pain.
No—
“We’ve got you.”
“—No—!”
“Shhhhh, shhh—” The hands on its wrists tug at it now, dragging its entire body to its feet in a
show of force that greatly exceeds the man’s stature. “None of that. Don’t speak. We’ve got you.”
No, no, no—
The forest around them breaks out into whispers, the shadows behind the lights leaning closer the
center, closer to each other.
It finds a hand slithering around its face, a different hand this time, fingers clawing at its neck and
over its nose and mouth. With instant compression, it feels its lungs suddenly strain for the air they
were so willing to let go of only moments before, the pressure cutting off any possibility to gasp in
even a single breath.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—
“There’s nowhere to run,” the man says, serious. The words are miles away even as they feel
branded to its skin. The hand around its neck closes in tighter still. The grip on its wrists might as
well be shackles.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—
Its vision begins to shutter, fading in around the edges like a fog. There is a prickling at the back of
its eyes, though whether it comes from the lack of oxygen or if it’s nothing more than tears, it’s
impossible to tell.
THUMP—THUMP—
CRRRHHHH —
“We’ve got it, sir—”
“—Good, finally. Is it harmed?”
“No, it doesn’t appear to be, sir—”
Cold. It’s so very cold. The darkness looms like a spectre. The shadows that draw nearer are darker
still, figures that circle and bite.
“—but it doesn’t look good. Almost like—an animal, sir—”
CRRRHHHH —
“Bring the doll back to the school immediately.”

“Yes sir...right away.”
THUMP—THUMP—
THUMP—
THUMP—
Ballroom—Camera 4 05.18.2018 8:24PM
The crowd is large and thrumming with energy. He can feel it course through his body, the ebb and
flow of conversation—the potential—as he weaves easily through the shifting mass of bodies
around him.
‘Congratulations, graduates!’ a banner hung above his head greets him as he casts his gaze
upwards with a small smile and passes beneath it. Congratulations indeed.
He knew this would be the right location, the ideal fishing spot. The board will come to regret
casting their aspersions on his ambition soon, he is sure of it. Growth is necessary in order to
thrive. This is the way.
“—over here, over here! Please take a seat, any spot will do. Just—yes, go ahead, you can have this
one—”
A voice carries over the din of the crowd, drawing his attention along with that of anyone
surrounding him. The voice is clear, a little crisp at the edges, and jovial. Full of life, of joy.
“Alright!”
He places a gentle hand here and there, on a shoulder or in the middle of a spine, easing the bodies
around him into place so he can step between them without causing a stir, making his way to the
front of the throng towards the source of that voice.
“Thank you all for being here,” he hears, just as he takes a final step around the last woman
blocking his way, her body shifting easily under the suggestion of his touch. His eyes glance
around her head, towards the front of the gathering—and he can suddenly see clearly. Before him
stands a man, shorter but not without his own sense of presence, addressing the crowd at large. The
man’s smile is wide, contagious. He likes the way it feels, looking at this man—likes the influence
he can sense the speaker holding over the crowd. They follow this man because they want to, he
reasons, and this man inspires them to do so.
He watches with rapt attention as the speaker continues, heart-shaped lips forming words of
congratulations, of inspiration, talking of hope and a future before them, though he doesn’t catch
more than the emotion behind the words, his attention too focused on the way this man is causing
the crowd to feel.
He’s—
—perfect.
The choice to remain quiet, to step aside for a better vantage-point and allow the presentation to
continue, for the festivities to die down—that choice proves to be a wise one. He knows the power
of his own presence, the pull that he exudes throughout a room—head and shoulders taller than
most, eyes piercing as he focuses on a face through the crowd; he knows it will only be a matter of
time before the man comes to him. His suspicion proves correct.
“Excuse me,” that voice calls to him from off to his left side, drawing his attention down to meet a
pair of warm, brown eyes. “I don’t mean to intrude, I just—wanted to introduce myself. I don’t
think I’ve seen you around an alumni event before.”
The man raises a glass of champagne in offering towards him, and he takes it in an elegant grip,
raising the sparkling liquid for a slow sip. It is only after he brings the class back down and licks
the remaining drops of liquor from his thick lips that he answers, eyes never leaving the man
before him. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. This is my first time in attendance.”
“A donor, then? You’re not faculty, right? Or I would have seen you around.”
“Something of that nature,” he assures, smile turning up at his lips, and the expression is—
unsurprisingly—mirrored on the face before him. That smile—oh, that smile. Dangerous.
“Tell me, then—what brings a mysterious benefactor to our humble celebration.”
“I’m looking to network, if you must know. I represent an...educational organization, and I find
events such as this the best place to recruit teachers to the cause.”
There is an interested sparkle in those brown eyes before him, and he knows that his mission has
been successful. The man brings his own glass of champagne up for a small gesture like a toast,
drinking down a gulp of it with a rapidly broadening smile. “Just my luck, then! I happen to be
a...newly-minted teacher, I guess you could say. I’m looking for just that kind of opportunity.”
“Perfect,” he agrees—easily, happily. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, then.”
“The pleasure is all mine!” The man reassures him, holding out a hand, proud and inviting,
between their bodies. “Jung Hoseok,” the man introduces himself.
He pauses for the briefest of moments, glancing between the hand and the face of the man before
him. Hoseok. His fingers curl around the offered palm, their handshake firm. “It’s a pleasure to
meet you, Mr. Jung.”
“And you are?” Hoseok prompts, the eager smile never leaving the man’s attractive face.
“Kim Seokjin.” He answers, giving the hand before him a squeeze. And Seokjin thinks the
answering pressure from Hoseok’s fingers feels like a promise.
Tower 1—Floor 4—Elevator 1 07.11.18 1:53AM
He wraps a firm hand around one of the arms fencing him in, pinning him to the bed—just as
always, he is helpless to do much more than hold on as the crash of pleasure reverberates through
his body. He is a vast cavern and the echo of this feeling fills him in every recess, every alcove. It
is just as his lover continues to promise—his mortal form is a church in which one can come to
worship.
The man in question, full lips pressing reverential kisses to the expanse of his jaw, murmurs
something incomprehensible in his ear, voice low and honey-sweet. It is impossible to tell whether
his lack of understanding comes from their meaning or the way they are pressed to his skin like a
benediction.
“S-Seokjin—”
“Don’t hold back,” the older man commands, and Seokjin's hips only punctuate the directive,
slamming into his until he is sure he will find their exact imprint in the morning. The way Seokjin
moves inside him, cock large and beautiful, wielded masterfully each and every time—he has
never known such pleasure, had never before been taught the possibilities of his flesh. What a fool
he had been.
“—a-ah—I—I can’t—!"
“You can, and you will...” the words are whispered to him like a promise, breath hot against his
ear. The hands on his skin seem to be everywhere, on his throat, the curve of his hipbone, the
angle of his knee—and his body is a pliant, willing thing under their influence, shifting this way
and that as if drawn towards the very gravity of them.
“Yes—” he gasps, and the word is a prayer, “—yes, y-yes sir, I will—"
“Now,” he is pushed, and over the cliff he goes.
The crash of an orgasm through his body is that of an oncoming thunderstorm, his pleasure the
flood—rushing through him from mountains of his shoulders to the valleys of his toes. Seokjin
guides him through, riding wave after wave of him, only adding to the downpour with his own
release.
It is only when he opens his eyes—some minutes or hours or eons later—that he realizes he had
closed them at all. Seokjin is no longer pressed close, the man’s long arms and broad shoulders
caging him in place, but now kneels between his spread legs, large hands taking generous,
sweeping strokes across his skin. The gaze that is directed down at him is reverential; he finds
himself no longer the church, but the altar instead.
“How do you feel, Hoseok?” Seokjin asks, the question a familiar one.
“Perfect,” is his response, the word honest as much as it is learned. It is a shared truth between
them.
The smile that is offered to him in return stands in direct contrast with the sharp lines of the face
that houses it, the strong jut of Seokjin’s jaw and the power of his brow never once betraying
themselves to the softness of his expression. Hoseok can’t take his eyes off of him, even for a
second.
He falls silent, then, letting Seokjin continue with the ease of their normal routine. The candles
beside the bed are blown out, carefully and one-by-one. A gentle hand brings a silk cloth to his
forehead, then his collarbone, down to the splatter of come across his thigh. He watches, lids
heavy, as Seokjin pulls out his phone, makes a note to himself or sends an email of some sort,
looks at his calendar, and sighs.
“Stay…” he murmurs, his voice no more than a rasp. As Seokjin turns his head to look over his
shoulder, Hoseok spreads out his body as an invitation.
In the dim lighting, he catches the briefest glimpse of something—some hint of an indefinable
emotion—pass over Seokjin’s face, but then the moment is gone, and the feeling no more than a
memory. “You know I can’t.”
“It’s been two months, Seokjin…” He tries to reason, not fond of the way displeasure creeps into
his voice. “Surely you can stay, just this once…?”
“I have to return to the school, I have other matters to—”
“—attend to, right.” He completes the sentence easily, though not eagerly. Seokjin gives no
indication of his dislike of Hoseok’s tone, though Hoseok feels it all the same.
When Seokjin stands, shrugging into his clothes as though he was never parted from them, Hoseok
looks away. When he leans over the bed to lay a kiss across Hoseok’s lips, however, the reminder
of the pleasure that was shared between them lasts him through the night.
MAIN DINING—CAMERA 3—SOUTH 07.15.18 6:34PM
The evening of their next meeting, in a cafe—pleasant and warm, the conversation easy—he is
determined. He orders for them both, trying to demonstrate his attentiveness. The older man seems
to appreciate the gesture, falls into conversation with him easily. The space between them is a well
of gravity, and as always, he finds himself drawn in.
“So…” It comes easily, then—to reach across the table, to lay a hand on his lover's bare wrist, to
use the intimacy that has been built between them. There is something dark and tempting behind
the older man's gaze, and he is hungry to capture it, to hunt it down for himself.
“Tell me about this school of yours…” He asks, and his companion looks as though there is no
question in the world he would rather answer.
CALL LOG
DATE TIME FROM TO TYPE

07/21 6:08PM 051-8111-3510 051-5997-1984 OUTBOUND CALL
“—Hello? Jungkook?”
“Mom!” The word bursts out of his mouth before he can catch it, his excitement a wellspring inside
him that can’t be contained. “Mom, I got it!”
“Wait—what?”
“I got it, mom! The job—I got it!”
“Oh my goodness, Jungkookie—!” Her voice pitches upward, words coming out in a gasp. “Let me
get your father, hold on—”
With the slight pause, he’s forced to bounce on the balls of his feet instead, moving about the small
space allotted in his apartment while only just managing not to actually collide with the furniture.
He can hear his mother’s voice in the background, his father joining her shortly after, their soft
murmurs through the phone—but it’s noise, and only noise.
“—Kook?” He hears, the sound of his own name a distant interruption. “Kook, are you still
there?”
He clears his throat, the sensation like gravel. “Dad?”
“Son, your mother just told me—you got a job offer?”
“Yeah…”
“Was this the one your friend recommended? Um, what’s-his-name—”
“Hoseok—Hobi—yeah…”
His mother’s voice jumps back on the line before he can say more, already bursting with questions.
“When did you find out, sweetheart? Did they call you, or send an email? Things are so different
when we were—”
“They sent a letter,” he interrupts, fingers toying with the edge of the paper in question where it
rests atop his small kitchen table.
“A letter? In the mail? That’s so traditional!” She exclaims, and he can’t help but crook a small
smile at that. In fact, the institution’s approach had come across as anything but traditional to him,
their reputation for cutting-edge technology in the classroom far preceding not that his mother
could know that. “Oh, honey, I like the sound of that, I like that a lot. It says they care about taking
the time just for you. What did the letter say?”
He picks it up gingerly in both hands at her prompting, tucking his phone into the crook of his neck
while he reads, “‘Dear Mr. Jeon, it is my privilege and honor to welcome you to our community.
After careful review of your interview and portfolio, the Council has elected to offer you a teaching
residence with the Academy. We were impressed by your’—”
“Wait—the council?” His father interrupts.
“Like the school board,” he explains, before continuing where he left off. “‘We were greatly
impressed with your demonstrated commitment to to educational excellence and innovation, and
the Council members expressed to me a strong appreciation of your creativity in answering all
questions presented to you during your interview. Based on your application materials, we believe
you would be an asset and a wonderful addition to our community.’”
“So you only had one interview?” His mother jumps in, both impressed and baffled in one.
“Um...yes and no. It was a panel interview, so I was assessed by eight of the council members at
once—”
“What sort of questions did they ask? I’ve never heard of something like that for a first year
teaching job…”
Jungkook takes a moment to mull that over before answering, trying to find the right words. Truth
be told, the interview had been unusual, being faced down by a long line of distinguished, well-
dressed individuals, all staring at him from on high. Standing before the council, feet below the
stage they sat on—Jungkook felt so small. Who could blame him, really, for putting off his job
hunt for so long?
“Have you heard of these interviews, lately—like, in those articles that circle around? The ones
where they talk about companies that ask questions that don’t seem to have anything to do with the
job you’re interested in—like, ‘if you were four inches tall and stuck at the bottom of a blender,
what would your first action be?’ but it turns out that they’re actually assessing your ability to
problem solve or something?”
His father gives a low grunt of approval, his mother chiming in with a thoughtful hum.
“It was like that.”

“So interesting…” She comments lightly, and Jungkook can tell that his mother finds the whole
thing a bit bizarre, if not fascinating. Always old-fashioned at heart, she is.
“Were they all questions just like that too?” She goes on, curiosity winning out in the end.
“Weirder, actually...I don’t even really remember most of them, to be honest. I don’t think many of
them were specifically about teaching. It was all sort of a blur…”
“Oh...it sounds like you were really nervous, sweetheart…”
He laughs. “Of course I was! I’ve only been to a few interviews so far, you know that—”
His father can’t seem to help jumping in with an opinion. “I still think it was a mistake to wait so
long into the summer before applying—”
“I know, I know, but—but I got the job, didn’t I? It all worked out in the end—”
“Luck isn’t a plan, Jungkook...what would you be doing if this fell through—”
“Well that’s neither here nor there, is it, dear?” His mother jumps to his rescue, and Jungkook’s
heart swells with affection for her. They may be overzealous at times, but he could never fault his
parents for their deep commitment to his success.
“I’m just saying, he should have—” His father blusters.
“Anyway, Jungkookie, you weren’t finished reading the letter, were you?” His mother interjects,
and he can just imagine the frustrated way his father must have rolled his eyes and stepped away
from the phone.
“No, no, there’s a little more.” He clears his throat again before continuing, “‘You are hereby
invited to join us for a welcome event and orientation on the twenty-third of July, 2018. Please
review the enclosed materials and return all necessary documentation one week prior to your
arrival. Upon arrival, please be sure to dress appropriately. Specifications for required Academy
uniforms have been enclosed.’”
“So...it’s a private school? You didn’t mention that, Kook—”
“Oh, hush! Let the boy finish, will you?”
His parents idle chatter, what would normally amuse—if not exasperate—him, now sets him on
edge. Why is his father insisting on being so critical and pedantic?
“‘For the duration of your orientation’—” he continues reading, volume rising to drown out his
parents’ bickering. “‘For the duration of your orientation, we ask that you refrain from the use of
electronic devices, and devote your attention to the important policies and procedures at hand. All
accommodations will be provided during this time, and only necessary belongings should be
packed for this stay. Among the enclosed documents, please complete and return the acquisition
form for future accommodations in the community, which will be provided as a term of your
continued employment.’”
“Oh—Oh my goodness, Jungkookie! They’re giving you a house?” His mother bursts out excitedly,
while his father makes a low huff of disbelief to the side of the receiver.
“What sort of school is this?” He grumbles, and Jungkook hears what sounds like his mother
giving his father a slap to the shoulder in reprimand.
“Don’t be such a naysayer, you’re always so negative! This is—a wonderful opportunity,
Jungkookie—oh, I just can’t believe it! My baby!” He can hear the tears that his mother is no doubt
shedding now, only from her voice, and it makes him blush even over the miles and miles between
them.
“Mom…” He mumbles, trying to wave off the praise with a hand she can’t see. “It’s not that big of
a deal, it’s just a job—and it’s probably not a house, that would be over-the-top, even for a private
community. From what Hobi told me, there are shared accommodations for the instructors,
like...dorms? I think?”
“No, you let me be excited for you, honey—just let your mom be proud of you for a moment, my
son is going to be a teacher—”
“Is that all they had to say?” His father cuts in, uncomfortable as always with large displays of
emotions. “You’ll have a weekend...retreat? Or something? And then you’ll be moving to the staff
housing?”
“Yeah, yeah, pretty much…” Jungkook shuffles the papers in his hand, trying to find where he left
off. “Yeah, it just says that I’ll be given accommodations as a benefit, and—oh, here we go. Okay,
it says—‘future accommodations in the community, which will be provided as a term of your
continued employment. To assist in your relocation, moving services have been contracted at no
additional cost to you.’”
He pauses, scratching his nose before moving on to the final paragraph.
“‘Should you accept the terms of employment with the Academy, we look forward to receiving
your acceptance letter at your earliest convenience. It will be my absolute pleasure to welcome you
to our community. Best regards Kim Seokjin—Principal and CEO, Academy of Higher Purpose
Charter School.’”
The small noise of acknowledgement his father makes is less dismissive this time, more
thoughtful. “So...have you met this...Principal Kim?”
“Not yet,” he answers honestly, his stomach twisting in a knot at the very idea. “He was the only
school board member who wasn’t there that day, I think they said he was, uh, away on business?”
“Well,” his mother says, her tone indicating the end of the conversation drawing near, “you’ll just
have to tell us all about him once your orientation is over, then.”
“Right…”
“When do you plan to send in your acceptance letter?” She adds as an afterthought, and his father
jumps in immediately.
“Now, hold on a minute—he hasn’t decided yet if this is—”
“I’ve actually already sent it.”
“What?!”
“Oh, sweetheart...I’m surprised! But happy for you!” His mother sighs, fond. “I would have
thought you’d consider a few more offers, take it all in first, but…”
“No, I just—my mind is made up.” His tone conveys the shrug that he makes even through the
receiver. “I can’t imagine finding a school that impresses me more than this one, and with all the
benefits…”
“Well, Jungkookie...if you’re sure…”
But it—it is a lot to take in, he will admit—if only to himself. His first job, his first house—and
such a prestigious opportunity. Any one part of it would be overwhelming, but altogether? A dream
come true. One that Jungkook is terrified to let slip through his fingers.
“I am,” he assures her, wishing he believed it more himself. Such a huge step forward for his future
—
With the words free of his lips, his enthusiasm seems to pass as well, leaving him with the tight
clench of anxiety that pushed the excitement to the front of his mind in the first place. His ears are
ringing now, his heart beating faster and faster, the hand clutching at his phone slipping with a
light sheen of sweat. Now that he’s given it a voice, a name—it’s real. This is happening.
He looks around the small apartment he has called home for the past three years, his bed only feet
from the kitchen, his cat curled up on the windowsill in the glow of a streetlamp—and sighs. It
feels a little like saying goodbye, to start making a mental list of the things he will need to pack,
need to donate—but the goodbye is bittersweet.
As he breathes around the knot of anxiety in his chest, he lets himself feel it again, that excitement
that had driven him to the phone in the first place. His mother’s voice murmurs a soft goodnight to
him in his ear, followed by the deep voice of his father.
“Goodnight,” he tells them, voice picking up a little with a swell of hope in his heart, “I’ll talk to
you both soon.”
Chapter End Notes
Title from this Fake Love lyric: “Love you so bad, love you so bad / Mold a pretty lie
for you / Love it’s so mad, love it’s so mad / Try to erase myself and make me your
doll…”
I have decided to reopen my CuriousCat account for anyone looking for a way to
communicate with me about this story! Questions, comments and theories are all
welcome - any sort of hate mail will be reported and deleted without response.
Please feel free to message me on CC if you'd like, but don't forget about commenting
on the story itself! Every little comment really does help me out so much and they all
mean the world to me.
Preview
Chapter Summary
Jungkook faces his first day on the job.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE 1:
(Extremely) Dubious Consent, Non-con, Blackmail, Mind Manipulation,

Conditioning, Stockholm Syndrome, Objectification, Dollification, Humiliation,
Psychological Horror, Sexual Slavery, Imprisonment, Public Humiliation, Public
Nudity, Voyeurism, Medical Kink, Medical Examination, Medical Devices,
Inspection, Object Insertion, Enema Play, Anal Fingering, (Minor/Accidental)
Breathplay
Fic Playlist
Phase One Playlist

the original
story here!
Auditorium—First Floor 08.10.18 10:37AM
It’s a sound he hasn’t heard in quite some time—the excited hum of voices filling the auditorium.
The summer has left the school, and his mind, quiet.
Sure-footed, he weaves his way through the crowd, stretching up on his toes here and there to look
over heads for his target—but the man is nowhere to be found. The crowd isn’t overly large, their
latest crop of recruits small but respectable, not like the overwhelming number of hires from the
year before. He holds back a shudder at the thought, finally making his way to the edge of the
group before turning around.
It’s there that he remains, happily distanced from the mass of bodies by a foot or two, his eyes
scanning the crowd. Beside him, he picks up an animated conversation that makes him smile
knowingly.
“—I couldn’t believe it when I saw the letter come in, I never thought I’d be accepted—”
“I know! After the interview, I was so scared, I thought surely they were convinced I was a total
novice—”
“Did they ask you to provide any references?”
“Y-Yeah, but I was able to use my friend—he’s here too, he just got accepted for a teaching
position...what about you?”
“No, no—I was so lucky to be introduced to leadership by my friend, Sehun.”
“Does he teach?”
“Oh, no, he’s a legal aide, but he’s close with Mr. Kim—”
He leans against the wall, keeping his expression trained to neutral even as he catches sight of a
smaller man amongst the throng—not physically smaller, per se, but smaller in the way he carries
himself, shoulders hunched as he stands between a few of the other recruits that seem to have
trapped the timid man in conversation. Dark brown hair, even darker eyes—wide and doe-like as
he stares at the other men and women that surround him, most of them older than him by a decade.
As he watches, it’s impossible not to notice just how young the nervous man seems, certainly
standing out among this sort of crowd—though the new recruit isn’t alone, some of the other
occupants of the room around his same age, all fresh and wet behind the ears, eager to a fault. A
few of the other, new members of staff had caught his attention earlier, introducing themselves
with firm handshakes and broad smiles that he had fought to return—but this man, this one...there’s
something about him that’s different. Out of his element.
It hits him, then —this must be the one, this man. They must have found someone for—
He needs to see the principal immediately.
As he turns away, making a beeline for the door, a voice from behind him calls out at his retreating
back. “Yoongi? Where are you going? We still have to—”
But Yoongi is on a mission now, pushing the doors to the auditorium open and moving as fast as
his legs can carry him down the empty hallway, past rows and rows of gleaming lockers and across
patches of tile, carpet, tile; heading for the front office where he can see lights shining through the
window beside the door.
When he enters the lobby, Yoongi is greeted by a sweet voice from the front desk—one of the
office secretaries, the one who always smiles at him. He really should learn her name.
“Mr. Min,” she says, that same smile on her face. “Principal Kim is currently in a meeting, I
assume you are here to see—”
“Yes, I need to speak with him.”
“I can let him know you’ve stopped by, if you’d like to—”
“No, it’s rather important. I’ll wait.” She looks taken aback by his blunt tone, normally so taken by
him and his quiet demeanor, no doubt, but Yoongi can’t bring himself to care, much more
preoccupied with the matter at hand and his own excitement. His own trepidation.
Offering the secretary a nod, he moves past her desk towards the back of the office, passing one
conference room then another, the Nurse’s office on one side, the lights of all of them dark through
their open doors. At the end of the hall, a single light remains on, bright and welcoming above a
door with a gold plaque seated at its middle.
He leans against the wall opposite the door, recognizing the meaning of its closure, his eyes tracing
over the familiar words embossed on its surface: “Kim Seokjin, Principal and CEO.” The corner of
his mouth twitch as he looks them over and over again, filled with an odd sense of nostalgia. How
many times has he stood here, waiting—
But it’s only moments later that voices can be heard from behind the wooden surface, muffled and
indistinguishable at first, drawing closer quickly. The handle to the door turns, stops, turns again,
and the door swings open—but, to his surprise, stops after only a few inches, as though whomever
is standing on the other side had been stopped, or hesitated.
The conversation within is clear to him now, though the voices are still hushed and low.
“—there’s one more thing,” he hears, and he recognizes the voice to be that of the principal
himself, familiar and pleasant. “I hope you can understand that we must remain professional while
here, in the building.”
“Of course…” a second voice answers, higher and unfamiliar, with a bit of a rasp at the edges.
“This is a professional environment, of course I would—”
“You must know that’s not what I mean…”
“I—I apologize, I don’t quite understand—”
“Everyone arrives for their own reasons, and all are on different stages of their development. You
started your journey to join us under one circumstance, but there are those among our new staff
who may have had a very different experience.”
“Yes, but—”
“Wouldn’t you agree that keeping things professional will help serve the development of your
peers? So that they may all join you in their own time, having walked their own path without
thoughts of favoritism or jealousy getting in the way?”
Yoongi listens thoughtfully, craning his neck to catch every word.
“I—I suppose—”
“And would you not, yourself, want to join in the journey that your peers have undertaken in their
own training?”
“I—y-yes, you’re right, I’d like to—”
“We all have our own lessons to learn, don’t we?” A pause, filled only with a soft hum of
agreement. “And room to grow. As educators, as peers, as friends. My greatest interest as a leader
is to facilitate that growth for you all, but I need your help. Can you commit to our mission, to the
institution? And put the past behind you?”
There is a much longer pause, and Yoongi can only imagine the expression on Seokjin’s face,
having seen it lodged at himself one too many times. It comes as no surprise when the other
occupant of the room answers, voice low and cowed into submission. “Yes...yes, uh—sir? Yes sir.
I can commit to that. It’s an honor to be here, and I’ll be sure to—to uphold the values of this new
position as best as I can.”
“I know you won’t let me down.”
“No, sir, no...I won’t let you down.”
“Alright, that’s enough for today. Why don’t you head back to the auditorium, join the other new
teachers? I’m sure you’re excited for the remainder of the retreat!”
“Yes, sir, thank you—thank you for everything.”
“Oh, no need to thank me, brother. It’s my pleasure.” There’s a soft, indistinguishable rustling
noise, then the door handle gives a little rattle. “We’re honored to have you.”
“Thank you,” the other man repeats, and it makes Seokjin let out a small laugh.
“You’re welcome,” he concedes. “Now go, go, go—head back. You’re dismissed.”
Yoongi leans back from the door, not a moment too soon, as those parting words give him his only
warning before the door swings open wide at last, revealing the wide eyes and heart-shaped face of
another man as he walks straight out of the office. He looks as though he has just seen a ghost, and
reacts as though Yoongi is one as he nearly runs straight into the man hovering in the hallway.
“Oh!” The man is startled to a halt, eyes opening even wider as he catches himself from careening
right into Yoongi. He’s a few inches taller, nice-looking, young. His face is kind, eyes crinkling at
the corners when he gives a self-deprecating laugh, taking a step back. “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t
know anyone was there.”
“It’s alright, no harm done,” Yoongi assures him, and the man’s smile widens. Yoongi recognizes
him, then—one of the new recruits from the orientation still going on a few rooms away. A new
teacher, he remembers, though he can’t recall seeing the man slip away from the group at any
point.
“I’ll just—” He ducks down and steps to the side, leaving the doorway open for Yoongi. “—get
out of your way. Sorry again!” And the stranger disappears down the hall.
“Yoongi! Come in!” He hears Seokjin call out to him from inside the office, and he steps forward
dutifully at the invitation.
“Good afternoon, sir.” He greets the principal, who is taking a seat behind his desk when Yoongi
spots him.
“Good afternoon. How are things going out there?”
Yoongi gives him a tight, reassuring smile. “Just fine, everyone is getting to know one another,
networking—”
“Excellent!” Seokjin smiles, his handsome face lighting up. It’s strange for Yoongi to stand before
him, their height difference—normally dramatically reversed—giving him an odd sense of being
where he doesn’t belong. He quickly takes one of the seats in front of the broad oak desk, the room
silent except for the crinkle of leather beneath him.
“Where is Jeongyeon?” He asks, the absence of Seokjin’s personal secretary conspicuous.
“I have sent her on an errand,” Seokjin answers shortly, his tone even. “But I have a feeling you
haven’t come to update me on the proceedings, or to ask after Ms. Yoo’s whereabouts, have you?
Tell me—what’s on your mind?”
“I saw him.”
“Ah.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d found someone—”
“I don’t know whether I have, yet—but I’m optimistic.” Seokjin cuts him off with a wave of his
hand, as if to cast Yoongi’s insinuation aside. “Tell me, since you seem to have noticed him—what
is your first impression?”
“He is…” Yoongi pauses, thinking back to the young man who had caught his attention, his round
eyes and pretty face. “Young. Attractive.”
“Yes, and…?”
“I noticed him immediately—he’s the only person in that room who doesn’t seem to know why
he’s here.”
“Innocent, isn’t he?” Seokjin sits back in his chair, the large wingback frame spreading behind him
imperiously, only accentuating the principal’s broad shoulders.
“Very, though I hope he isn’t... too innocent.” Yoongi adds.
“No, no, certainly not...he’s an able-bodied, virile young man. I’m sure he’ll be more than
receptive to the training.” The principal steeples his fingers together, resting his chin atop them
thoughtfully. “My only concern is his lack of knowledge, his ignorance to our—”
“We talked about this,” Yoongi dares to interrupt, knowing that he’s right . “It’s too dangerous,
after what happened last time—we need someone new, someone inexperienced, it’s too much work
to re-train someone—”
“I know, I know…” Seokjin sighs and drops his hands back to his lap, casting his gaze out the
window. “You always keep me on track, Yoongi. I value your feedback, as always.”
“Thank you, sir.”

“Well...we’ve dallied for too long, wouldn’t you say?” Seokjin pats his hands on his knees once
before getting back to his feet, Yoongi rising to join him seconds later. “We should rejoin the
others and focus on intake and room assignments. Have they secured their belongings yet?”
“No—we haven’t quite gotten there yet.”
“Well, we can’t let that oversight continue, hm? Let’s go make sure everyone is settled in. Shall
we?” He raises a hand towards the door, gesturing for Yoongi to lead the way.
Yoongi turns, but pauses before taking even a step forward, feeling an important question on the
tip of his tongue. “Oh—one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“What was his name?”
“Jeon Jungkook.” Seokjin answers immediately, and Yoongi commits it to memory.
‘ Jeon Jungkook,’ he thinks, mulling it over— ‘a name worth remembering.’
With his last question answered, Yoongi squares his shoulders and steps out into the hall. Behind
him, he hears the click of the door closing, the jingle of keys in a lock—and the prickle of eyes on
his neck lingers all the way back to the auditorium.
Yoongi stations himself at the front of the long table that has been set up at the heart of the
auditorium, several other staff members joining him on one side of the table while the new hires
line up on the other side—about 20 in total, he estimates.
A few are here to teach, he discovers as they pass him by one-by-one, each with a small bow in
greeting. One is a science teacher, two others are here to work in the library; several more aren’t
intending to join the school, but are here for the retreat all the same.
At the end of each greeting, he holds out a small black bag to the individual before him, prompting
him or her to drop their phones inside.
“To reduce distractions from our work,” he explains to the one person who asks, “as we indicated
in your welcome letter. It’s important that we all get the most out of the retreat before the semester
begins.”
The line passes quickly, each new member being given keys, lanyards, ID cards—even stationary
and clothing embossed with the school logo, all signifying their position in the community.
Yoongi catches himself glancing to the back of the line as they pass, the youngest among them
hanging back a few steps, only moving forward when prompted. When he steps up in front of
Yoongi, he knows the young man’s name even before he raises his voice to introduce himself.
“Jeon Jungkook,” he says, and Yoongi pretends to look down at the checklist before him for a
moment.
“Ah, yes…” he says, checking of Jungkook’s name before raising his head again to meet the
young man’s eyes—so wide, so naive. “Welcome, Mr. Jeon.”
“T-Thank you…” Jungkook murmurs in response. He clutches at the polo shirt and jacket he is
offered, seemingly so nervous that he doesn’t even comment when Yoongi neglects to hand him a
key card as he did for everyone else. He pauses, looking down at his phone with pursed lips when
Yoongi holds out a black bag for him to deposit the device inside.
“Is everything alright?” Yoongi asks, tone as concerned as he can manage.
“I—” Jungkook seems to struggle for a moment, turning the phone display on and back off again
with a click of a button on its side. “Yes, I just—I’ve never done anything like this before,” he
admits, then slides the phone down into the bag. It takes a second longer for him to actually release
the device and pull his hand away, Yoongi immediately closing the drawstrings of the bag after
him.
“Anything like...what?” Yoongi asks, curious now.
“Like a—a real job. Not like this.” Ah, and Yoongi understands now. His lips quirk into what he
hopes will be an understanding smile. “I mean, maybe I shouldn’t admit it to you, but—I’m
nervous. Is that wrong?”
“No, not wrong…” And Yoongi means it as he replies. “I was nervous too, when I first started. But
this community is so welcoming, and the staff is amazing. The work we do here is so important,
you’ll forget about your nerves in no time.” He pauses, giving Jungkook a meaningful look. “Trust
me.”
“Yeah—” Jungkook shrugs, looking sheepish. “I do, I trust you. I’m just being silly. I don’t want to
give up my phone in case my mom calls—how silly is that?”
Yoongi can’t help but give a little laugh at that.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, kid. You’re going to have a great time, and you’ll forget all
about any concerns from outside very soon, don’t you worry.”
Jungkook seems to relax at that, looking down at Yoongi hopefully now. “You think so?”
“I know so. Now, hurry up, go catch up with the rest of the group! They’ll be discussing policies
soon, and you don’t want to miss anything!”
“Okay, okay!” Jungkook takes a few steps down the other side of the table, then pauses and
backtracks quickly. “Wait...one more question?”
“Sure, kid…”
“When—uh, when do we find out what subjects we’ll be teaching? I—maybe I should know this
already, but I haven’t been given any information about that, so…”
“Oh,” Yoongi smiles at him, broadly this time. “Don’t worry! You haven’t missed anything. You’ll
receive your assignment at the end of the orientation, once Principal Kim has taken the time to
assess the departmental needs.”
“Oh, right—of course.” Jungkook shakes his head as if he were being silly. “Right, sorry. Thank
you!” And with a slight bow, Jungkook scampers off to join the rest of the line of new hires,
looking brighter and more confident than before.
Yoongi takes a moment to consider their conversation, thinking over all that the boy had disclosed
to him, then chances a glance down the long table towards the principal himself. Seokjin is,
unsurprisingly, staring right back at him.
With a nod of his head towards Jungkook, Yoongi realizes what Seokjin is looking for—Yoongi’s
final decision about the young man who had just been before him. With a small nod of his own
head, Yoongi confirms the decision—yes, he thinks. Yes. Jeon Jungkook is perfect. The principal
looks all-too-pleased with Yoongi’s confirmation, a smug smile tugging at his thick lips.
In return, Yoongi raises the black bag in his hand to draw Seokjin’s attention towards it, feeling the
weight of the phone inside. Seokjin makes his thoughts on the matter clear when the smile
immediately disappears from his lips, his eyes sharp and his expression unquestionable. Yoongi
knows immediately, exactly, what he is supposed to do.
‘Destroy it.’
Perhaps it shouldn’t, but his stomach still seems intent on practicing acrobatics in his chest when it
comes time to meet with the principal. The retreat has been a resounding success, so far—
“Next!”
—but each person who moves forward through the line and leaves him one step closer to a
conversation with the principal leaves him that much closer to a breakdown as well.
Hoseok is at his side, at least. He’s reminded of the older man’s presence when an arm is slung
around his shoulders, tugging him close to his friend’s chest.
“What’s with the long face, Jungkookie?” Hoseok laughs in his ear and ruffles Jungkook’s hair
where he can reach it, which makes Jungkook’s tense expression melt into a scowl. Underneath, he
feels a small twinge of gratitude for his friend’s constant optimism and never-ending positivity.
Always a rock in his life, Hoseok has been.
“Next!”
Still that swoop of anxiety remains, and he finds himself stumbling forward a few steps as Hoseok
tugs him along, eagerly following the movement of the line before them.
“Oh, come on Jungkookie—don’t be like that. You were so excited for this just, like, an hour ago
—what changed?”
He gulps, glancing up at the principal sitting only a few feet in front of him, his stomach replaying
the same nervous dance it had performed when he had last been in this room, facing down an entire
panel of school administrators. “I—I guess...it was different, over lunch. Now it’s real , I’m—I’m
about to meet him, I’m about to know what class—”
“Hey, hey…” Hoseok stops their progress forward, circling around to face him with hands on each
of Jungkook’s shoulders, his body blocking Jungkook’s entire view of the line beyond. “What did I
tell you, huh?
“I—”
“Seokjin—Principal Kim, he’s amazing. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t believe that,
Kook...You don’t have anything to worry about, okay?” Jungkook gives him a small nod, and
Hoseok squeezes his shoulders for good measure. “If it wasn’t for Principal Kim, I wouldn’t be
here, and neither would you—I want you to meet him! Don’t worry, he’s amazing.”
And Jungkook believes him, of course he does. Hoseok would never steer him wrong. And his
friend is right—if it wasn’t for Hoseok’s recommendation to the board, Jungkook may never have
been invited for an interview, may not be standing here right now, ready to take on the last step
towards securing his first—first!—teaching job! Oh, and there it is again—the excitement, the
anxiety.
“Next!”
“C’mon, Kook, let’s go—”
“...Next?” And they both look around to find that the line has disappeared without them, all of the
other new hires milling about the room, presumably discussing their new class assignments with
each other. Jungkook’s gut clenches with a different feeling now, a more familiar one—
embarrassment.
Only a few feet away, the principal sits, leaned back in his chair, dark eyes aimed straight at the
two of them where they are dawdling behind. Beside him, an older woman is waving her hand at
them, gesturing them forward—Jungkook recognizes her from his last visit, one of the staff from
the administration who has always been kind to him, though she looks a little exasperated now.
“Oh, shit—” Hoseok releases Jungkook at last and steps away, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be
right back, wish me luck!”
Jungkook stuffs his hands into his pockets, eyes focused on his friend’s retreating back. “...luck.”
He whispers, more to himself than anything.
It helps, somehow, to watch Hoseok interact with the older man, extending a hand to shake the
when he is greeted. The principal gives Hoseok a broad smile, the first that Jungkook has seen him
make, and it’s hard not to be a little proud—Hoseok has always had that effect on people. Still, the
familiarity between them is obvious, the way they stand close together, leaning forward as both
men slip into deep discussion, and Jungkook is distinctly reminded that Hoseok has know Mr. Kim
for months—much longer than Jungkook has even known of the school’s existence.
It’s hard to decide, then, whether that should make him feel more worried or more at ease, and his
chest can’t seem to decide either—his breath catching even as he feels his stomach unclench at
last.
No, this should be a good thing— ‘this is a good thing’ —he forces himself to think. If Hoseok
says there’s nothing to be afraid of, then there’s nothing to be afraid of.
‘I’m so lucky,’ he reminds himself.
His eyes catch sight of Hoseok shaking the principal’s hand again seconds before he realizes what
it means , his thoughts delayed even as Hoseok turns and starts moving back towards him with the
broadest of grins on his heart-shaped face.
“How—uh, how did it go?” He chokes out, and Hoseok shakes his head in fond understanding.
“Nothing to worry about,” he claps a hand against Jungkook’s shoulder. “I got P.E. This is going to
be great!”
Those words are just what he needs to hear. “That’s—that’s awesome, Hobi, I knew you’d be
picked for something like that—how could they not?” The grin that Jungkook offers his friend is
as genuine as the one he receives in return, some of his worry easing away at the sight.
“Next!”
Hoseok’s head swings around and he turns his grin back on the woman calling Jungkook up to the
front of the room. The hand on his shoulder steers him around to take Hoseok’s place, giving him a
little shove forward for good measure. “You’re up! Knock ‘em dead, Kookie.”
It’s with a renewed sense of confidence that Jungkook breaks away from his friend’s touch, taking
the ten or so steps that it takes to face the principal at last, hand automatically outstretched in
greeting. No matter now nervous he is, his mother raised him with manners. The older man looks
him over carefully for a long moment before taking Jungkook’s hand in his much larger one and
shaking it firmly.
“I’m Principal Kim Seokjin, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Likewise!” He huffs out, and again his excitement is genuine—as though it was there all along,
buried under the haze of anxiety that seems to have dissipated. Seokjin’s face is handsome,
disarmingly so, and he exudes such a calm, controlled presence that Jungkook finds himself feeling
less frazzled just by being exposed to it. Hoseok had been onto something with his admiration of
this man.
“I’m Jeon Jungkook, and the pleasure is all mine.” He tries to give his most charming smile.
But then Jungkook waits—and waits—and waits for the questions to start, for the conversation to
begin. Is—Is he supposed to say something? He wonders, when the silence between him and the
older man stretches on uncomfortably.
On the other hand, Principal Kim seems utterly unbothered by the awkwardness—or perhaps he
doesn’t see it as awkward at all—as he stares Jungkook down, his gaze taking in every inch of
Jungkook’s tall body, focusing almost uncomfortably long on Jungkook’s mouth before he finally
lets Jungkook’s hand go. Jungkook tries not to think too much of it, assures himself that he’s just
reading into things.
“I see.” Seokjin says, the words barely a murmur.
Jungkook’s hands are released, and the principal turns toward the woman standing just off to the
side, who hurries to hand him a packet of paperwork in a plain folder. Seokjin brings it up to his
face, thumbs through it thoughtfully, then hands it out to Jungkook without another word.
Jungkook takes the offered folder from the principal with shaky fingers, not even looking at it as he
clutches it to his chest.
“Is—is that it?” He can’t help but ask, though he wants to kick himself for the insecurity that leaks
into his tone.
“I don’t need to ask you any questions, Mr. Jeon.” Seokjin informs him, curtly. “I know exactly
what do to with you.”
“O-Oh…?” He can’t help the wavering in his voice, nerves breaking through for another
appearance. “And what’s that—?”
“Sex Education.”
“Oh—… oh !” Well. He doesn’t know what to do with that little bit of information. “You’re sure?
I’ve—I’ve never taught anything like that, m-my experience is more with—”
“I have no doubt that you will perform admirably, Mr. Jeon.” Seokjin leans forward slightly, dark
eyes piercing, and Jungkook can’t look away. “This is where we have an opening...surely you can
push yourself to adapt to a new challenge?”
“I—well, I—” Jungkook gulps, shuffling his feet. But the principal is right, of course—schools
always have to focus on the needs of the students first, not the desires of the teachers. He’s
qualified, he reminds himself—he has his license and he’s adaptable...this is just a stepping stone
to more opportunities. That’s what his mother would tell him, in any case. He squares his
shoulders, bolstering up his own determination, and nods at the principal. “Yes, of course, sir. Is
there a prepared curriculum, though? With so little time to prepare—”
“The curriculum is already set for the year, there’s no need to worry about that. All the necessary
materials will be provided in the classroom, including weekly lesson plans.” The principal leans
back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, looking Jungkook over thoughtfully again.
“Will that be all that you require?”
“I—yes, yes, that’s all I need, I’ll just have to look it—oh! Wait!” The principal’s eyebrows raise in
surprise at Jungkook’s sudden excitement. “What grade will I be teaching?”
“Primarily the twelfth level.”
“Twelfth level? Like, twelfth grade?”
“Yes, like twelfth grade.”
That settles Jungkook’s stomach some, knowing that he will be working with older students, closer
to his own age—and hopefully more mature. He can work his way down the grade levels as he
becomes more experienced, he figures.
“Is that all, Mr. Jeon?” The principal asks, and Jungkook realizes just how long he has been
dallying in front of the man, his ears burning in embarrassment.
“Yes!” He bows slightly, backing away and moving to join the group behind him. “Thank you, Mr.
Kim! I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t…” The older man murmurs back to him, his voice dropping low, his eyes
almost leering at Jungkook—though the young man hardly notices, already bounding excitedly
back over to his friend as all of the new teachers make their way out the door towards their next
retreat task.
Heath Lab—First Floor—West 08.15.18 7:15AM
The weekend passes remarkably quickly.
It all feels like a blur, Jungkook barely able to catch all of the information thrown at them about
policies and procedures and codes of ethics and mission statements. By the time Monday morning
rolls around, the only thought Jungkook can really make is that he is thoroughly impressed—
thoroughly impressed, and in way over his head.
Hoseok left him in the hallway alone, his friend making his own way to an office a few doors
down where he will be preparing to take over the gym classes—and Jungkook finds it nearly
impossible to take the last few steps to his own classroom door. Nearly.
Health Lab, the sign beside the door helpfully reads, when Jungkook finally works up the courage
to walk closer and turn the handle.
The room is long, tiled floors gleaming in the morning light cast through broad windows alongside
one wall, the sun warming rows and rows of tall lab tables surrounded by round, metal stools. He
remembers a very similar classroom during his own years in college, and even back to high school,
and the familiarity—at least—makes him feel at home. The overhead lights are off, however, so he
turns to flick the switches lining the panel on the wall beside the door—and turns back to find that
he’s not—much to his surprise—alone in the room.
At the very front of the rows of tables, sitting at a larger desk that has been turned to face the room
at large, with his back to a door that presumably leads to another office. The man is short, with
broad shoulders and dark hair, eyes dark as well behind his horn-rimmed glasses, several years
older than Jungkook himself judging by his appearance—and Jungkook realizes with a start that he
recognizes the face in front of him.
“Hello?”
The man glances up from the papers he has laid out across the desk in front of him, a small smile
crossing his lips as he slides his chair back and gets to his feet, seemingly unsurprised to find
himself with company.
“Ah, you must be Jungkook, then?” Jungkook nods, taking a few hesitant steps forward. “I didn’t
realize we’d already met—Principal Kim called to tell me you’d be heading down.”
“Um...yes, I’m—I’m Jungkook. I remember you, from the other day.” The older man continues to
smile, nodding his head in agreement. “Thank you, by the way—” Jungkook can’t help but add as
he moves into the empty space before the rows of desks. “You really helped me out, I was a bit of
a mess that morning, I promise I’m not usually like that.”
“It’s quite alright,” the man assures him, and his voice is low and soothing, gravelly at the edges in
a way that reminds him of Hoseok, of the principal too. “Like I told you before, we’re all nervous
when we first arrive, no need to be embarrassed.”
“I apologize for not properly introducing myself then, though. That was pretty rude of me—I still
don’t know your name…” He admits, and the older man laughs good-naturedly at Jungkook’s
confusion.
“Oh, my mistake! I apologize. My name is Min Yoongi. I lead the Sexual Education courses for
the high school students.”
Jungkook frowns, his confusion from earlier rearing its ugly head. “Wait—...I’m sorry, what?
You’re the Sex Ed teacher? But—I was assigned to teach this class. Does we have a need for more
than one instructor?”
Yoongi looks surprised for a moment, though the expression slips off of his face quickly, replaced
with another calm smile. “I see, there’s been some confusion—I see they didn’t do a very good job
of explaining things to you in the front office, hm?” Jungkook shakes his head.
“That’s alright, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of how things work pretty quickly! You seem like a
bright young man.” Yoongi waves at the desk and directs Jungkook to deposit his personal
belongings on the desk beside him. A little numb, confusion ebbing through him, his heartbeat in
his ears, Jungkook does as he’s told on autopilot.
“Just take a spot up front in the center of the classroom,” Yoongi goes on to say, turning back to
the chalkboard behind the desk to make a few notes, the scratching sound louder than it should be
in the empty room. “The bell is about to ring and the students will be here soon. Follow my lead,
okay? You’ll understand how everything will work very quickly.”
Jungkook nods—what more can he do? Class is about to start, it’s his first day—he has to make a
good impression, especially if this man is now supposed to be—to be his, his boss?
Sure enough, the bell rings within minutes, and the classroom door bangs open as a flood of
students rush to get to their seats before the passing period ends. Despite his hesitation, the familiar
hum of a classroom makes Jungkook feel more at home, and he finds himself settling in as he waits
for the class to begin. The students drop silent the moment the second bell rings, and Jungkook has
to marvel a little at how well trained they’ve become from spending so much time in this school—
no wonder this is one of the most sought-after institutions in the city.
“Good morning, class!” Yoongi begins, and the students dutifully reply with a chorus of ‘Good
morning, Mr. Min.’
“As you can see, we have a special guest with us this morning,” he gestures with one hand towards
Jungkook, who freezes when he feels all eyes suddenly on him. “Mr. Jeon will be joining us for the
semester to assist in your lessons.”
Yoongi turns towards the board, picking up a piece of chalk to begin outlining his notes for the
day’s lesson. “Let’s begin, shall we?” He says without turning around. “Mr. Jeon, you may undress
now.”
Jungkook feels his heart give a jolt at the words, and he turns his head slightly to look at the older
man in shock—surely he didn’t hear what he thought he just heard?
“Wh—What?” He stutters, trying to ignore the sudden rush of whispers that takes over the room.
“You heard me. We’re ready for the lesson to begin, go ahead and undress for us.” Yoongi turns
his head just enough to catch Jungkook’s eye, the good-natured smile gone from his face. His
expression is completely serious, and Jungkook feels himself gulp nervously.
He can’t—he can’t just say something like that to another teacher, can he? In the classroom, in
front of students? This is so inappropriate—is this some elaborate joke?
Ah, yes…of course, a joke! It must be. Teasing the new teachers, and all that. Suddenly, Jungkook
finds himself laughing despite his nerves. Ha! What a ridiculous prank. He wonders what sort of
mischief the gym class had gotten up to with Hoseok—he’d have to remember to ask him at lunch.
“Is something funny?” Yoongi asks suddenly, dropping his chalk to step away from the board and
approach Jungkook, his steps quick and his expression stormy.
“W-Well…yeah?” Jungkook chokes out, leaning backwards as the older man approaches, seeming
to tower over him even though Jungkook is several inches taller. “I m-mean—you just asked me to
get naked in front of a class, you’re—you’re kidding, right?”
Yoongi’s voice drops lower so that only the two of them can hear, though the students lean
forward in their chairs to try to catch a few words. “I assure you that I’m not. Are you being
insubordinate, Mr. Jeon?”
Jungkook gulps again, his hands balling up into fists at his sides. “N-No, sir, I just—”
“Good, that’s what I thought.” Yoongi steps up so close that Jungkook can feel his hot breath
across his own cheeks. “I wouldn’t want to have to tell Principal Kim that you’re being
disrespectful on your first day.” He pokes a long thin finger into Jungkook’s chest, hard enough
that it hurts. “I am the Sex Ed teacher here, and I requested an assistant. You are to follow orders
and keep quiet, or I’ll see you kicked out of this school so quick you’ll never be hired as a teacher
again. Got it?”
Jungkook can only nod, dumbfounded, his mouth suddenly bone dry.
“Good. Now, I gave you an instruction, and I expect you to follow it.” He raises his finger to point
at Jungkook’s face, his dark fox-like eyes all but daring Jungkook to talk back. “What did I tell you
to do?”
Jungkook has to swallow thickly before he can force his mouth to make a sound, his voice coming
out as an embarrassing croak. “T-To—…to u-undress myself. Sir.”
“Then that’s exactly what you’re going to do.” And suddenly, the older teacher steps back, as if
nothing has happened, and makes his way back over to the chalkboard again, picking right up
where he left off.
Jungkook turns back towards the class slowly, as if moving through wet cement, his entire body
feeling numb. What is—is happening?
Still, his hands move towards the buttons of his shirt of their own volition, and he only realizes
what he’s begun to do when a few snickers from across the classroom break him from his revere.
His hands falter halfway down the buttons, though a quick glance to Yoongi to see the stormy gaze
still directed at him is enough to force him continue.
“Quiet!” Yoongi barks at the class when the laughter grows too loud, and the noise suddenly stops.
“You will show me and my classroom respect! Get out your notebooks and get ready to take notes.
Today is no different than any other day.” And there’s a shuffling of papers and pens as the
students get out their supplies, though Jungkook can barely focus on them as he slowly shrugs his
outer shirt over his head and sets it aside on the teacher’s desk—what was supposed to be his desk.
Behind him, Yoongi continues with his lecture as though there isn’t a very uncomfortable man
slowly removing his undershirt in the center of his classroom. “Pay very close attention, students. I
want you to take careful notes as we review our previous lessons on anatomy—but this time, we’ll
be taking a closer, practical look at Jungkook here.”
Jungkook pauses with his hands on the button to his pants, daring to glance over at the older
teacher again. Yoongi gives him another disapproving frown and waves his hand threateningly
towards Jungkook’s thighs so that Jungkook is forced to continue his strange strip-tease for the
class, tugging his dress slacks down his legs so that he can kick them away along with his shoes
and socks.
“Once we’ve reviewed our theoretical knowledge, we’ll begin the practical demonstrations.”
What?! Jungkook freezes again at that , standing in only his boxers, hands frozen over the material
as though unsure whether or not to remove it.
“P--…Practical demonstration?!” Jungkook yelps, sending the class into another wave of laughter.
Yoongi approaches him again, Jungkook backing away from him until the back of his legs hit the
firm surface of the desk and his escape is thwarted.
“Of course,” Yoongi drawls, his head tilting as he looks down at Jungkook, almost as if pitying
him. The older man’s hands fly to the front of Jungkook’s boxers then, and before Jungkook can
stop him, he finds the fabric jerked down his thighs and all but ripped away from his ankles,
leaving him completely naked in front of the class. Jungkook yelps and tries to cover his exposed
cock with his hands, though Yoongi is quick enough to grab those away as well.
“Silly boy. You’re our sex education doll, Jungkook. What else would you be here for?”
Yoongi has him pinned, there’s nowhere to go—his cock hanging pathetically between his legs
under the heavy weight of several dozen attentive eyes, and Jungkook feels a sense of hopelessness
wash over him. “W-What—…what do you w-want from me?” He manages to whisper, closing his
eyes as though it would make everyone else unable to see him, instead of the other way around.
“What do I want?” Yoongi barks out a cruel laugh. “I want to give a good lesson to our students,
Jungkook. Isn’t that what you want?”
And something about that tugs at Jungkook’s heart, at the part of him that remembers how hopeful
he felt walking through the door this morning for his first day as a teacher—of course he wants the
students to be taught well, but—
—is this just…how they do things here? This school has always been well known for its cutting-
edge curriculum and programs. Maybe this is what they’ve been hiding all along? Something ugly
twists in Jungkook’s stomach at the thought, but he’s still pinned at the wrists by the older man
and Yoongi is watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“…y-yes, of course.” His answer comes out meek, subdued. Yoongi grins like he knows he’s
already won.
“Well then, that’s settled.” He sounds happier than before, but for a brief moment, a dangerous
look remains in his eyes as he squeezes Jungkook’s wrists painfully tight. Damn, but the man is
stronger than he looks. “I won’t expect any more inappropriate outbursts from you, will I? I
wouldn’t want to have to call Principal Kim…or security.”
And the threat is all too clear. Jungkook’s options have dried up, and his head hangs low in
submission. “…yes, sir.” He manages, his voice barely above a whisper, but it’s good enough for
Yoongi.
“What a good doll,” the older teacher praises him, giving Jungkook’s bare thigh a gentle pat.
Yoongi releases his other wrist then, leaving Jungkook’s arms hanging uselessly by his sides and
trusting that Jungkook won’t move them. He takes Jungkook’s arm, then, and tugs him back to the
center of the room where he began, posing Jungkook’s naked for with his legs spread slightly
apart, hands above his head—and Jungkook goes willingly, pliantly.
“Join us down in the front,” Yoongi calls to the students, who scurry from their seats to crowd
around their instructor and Jungkook, pencils and notepads held at the ready. In the back of his
mind, Jungkook bemusedly notes that he’s probably never seen students so attentively interested in
the subject at hand. “Now, pay close attention—”
And Yoongi begins to point here and there at parts of Jungkook’s body, highlighting the trapezius
muscle lining his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, the swell of his pectorals. The teacher pauses
momentarily at Jungkook’s nipples, beady and tight in the cool classroom air, and pinches one
lightly between his fingers.
For the first time since entering the classroom, Jungkook feels a stir of something other than
confusion or humiliation in his belly at the slightly painful pleasure—his nipples have always been
so sensitive, after all.
“Let’s focus on the nipples for a moment. Can anyone tell me what purpose they serve?” Yoongi
asks, conversationally. Several students pipe up with various answers, some more serious than
others, but all Jungkook can focus on is the way that the teacher’s long, dexterous fingers continue
to pinch and twist and knead at the swollen bud until Jungkook has to bite his lip to hold back a
moan. He tilts his head towards the ceiling, eyes focusing on the tiles above his head as though that
will help him somehow not give in to the curl of arousal stirring in the pit of his stomach.
‘Not in front of the students—not in front of the students—not in front of the students—’
Yoongi switches his touch to Jungkook’s other nipple and directs the students to take a closer look
at the way his ministrations have left the abandoned one red and swollen, standing out starkly from
his toned chest. “I need a volunteer to take over for me, who would like to—ah, yes. Mr. Kim.”
Jungkook’s head jerks back down as he realizes that Yoongi is ushering a young man forward in
his place, directing the boy to place his hands on Jungkook’s chest instead. He doesn’t dare jerk
away, can feel Yoongi’s heavy gaze on him as he holds himself perfectly still, but he feels slightly
nauseated as he tilts his head to whisper to the boy, “Please—please tell me you’re at least 18—”
And the boy laughs lightly, keeping his voice low to not interrupt the teacher’s lecture as Yoongi
continues on speaking over them. “Yeah, it’s all good, I’m old enough, don’ worry.” The boy gives
a cheeky, boxy grin as he gives Jungkook’s nipple a sharp twist, making the older man’s knees
buckle slightly. “Old enough to make you feel good, hmm?”
“S-Stop—a-ah—!” Jungkook tries to keep his voice down, just barely catching the sounds behind a
bitten lip.
“Shhh…wouldn’t want Mr. Min to catch you talking, y’know. He likes the dolls he brings in here
to be real quiet.” To match the continued narration Yoongi is giving behind him, the boy raises a
thumb to his mouth and suckles on it for a moment before dropping his hand back down to slide
the slick digit across Jungkook’s reddened nipple, the drag of his fingertip smooth where it was
once rough.
He wants to ask how many—how many times has the school done this? How many other teachers
were there before him? But between the fear of getting caught and the delicious drag of fingers
across his chest, Jungkook keeps his mouth shut.
“—now, there are many ways to stimulate the nipples,” Yoongi continues, stepping back around to
place his fingers on Jungkook’s free nipple so that there is twice as much stimulation on him as
before. And the teacher goes on to demonstrate just what he means, first tugging sharply on the
swollen bud between his fingers, then smacking his hand harshly across the tender flesh so that
Jungkook jumps away from the sudden pain.
Then Yoongi takes things a step further, guides the boy’s head down until his lips have closed
around Jungkook’s other nipple—and Jungkook tries , he really does, he tries so hard not to think
about how beautiful the boy is, really, or how good his plush lips and the sharp edge of his teeth
feel as they tentatively close around his nipple.
“Very good, Taehyung,” Yoongi praises him, voice dropping into a low, private tone. Taehyung
—that must be the boy’s name. Oh no, now he knows what name he’ll have to fight to keep off his
lips.
Taehyung looks up at Jungkook then, a devilish glint in his golden eyes, and he raises a sneaky
hand to close around Jungkook’s cock where it has grown hard and heavy between his legs—when
did that happen, exactly? He can’t remember through the haze of humiliation and desire. Taehyung
strokes him only once, twice—before the boy’s hands are slapped away, Yoongi giving him a
reproachful look.
“One thing at a time, Mr. Kim. We’re not quite there yet.” And Taehyung pulls away from
Jungkook’s nipple again to give his teacher a cheeky grin and a shrug. Yoongi places a hand on
Taehyung’s shoulder to guide the boy back to his spot in the crowd, leaving Jungkook staggering,
naked and panting lightly, alone in the center of the room—completely on display or them all at
Yoongi’s mercy.
The teacher steps around to his desk for a moment, disappearing out of Jungkook’s line of sight,
leaving him only with the students as company—and he can’t break his eyes away from the hungry
leer that Taehyung has aimed at him over the heads of his peers. When Yoongi returns moments
later, Jungkook is almost grateful for the distraction from the inappropriate way this whole—damn
—situation has him thinking about the boy, about one of their students , for gods sake.
Yoongi has something in his hand, a pile of what look like shiny clothespins, or binder clips?
Jungkook squints at them, his arms nearly falling from their place above his head as he loses his
concentration momentarily.
“—another way you can stimulate the nipples,” Yoongi is saying, “is through compression, or
clamping.” And suddenly Jungkook realizes what Yoongi has in his hands, what he intends to do—
Oh no, oh no. There’s no way Jungkook can survive that, not in front of other people! This will be
over embarrassingly quick if Yoongi is able to close even one of the clamps around either of his
nipples, Jungkook just knows it.
“I’ve gathered enough here for everyone, if you’ll all just gather around—”
— RIIIIIIING.
Yoongi is interrupted mid-sentence while holding his hands out to the students, the merciful
passing period bell ringing loud enough to make them all jump and signaling the momentary end of
Jungkook’s torment. Yoongi looks truly put out by the interruption, but he schools his expression
into one of professional disinterest.
“Ah, well—I suppose that’s enough for today.” Yoongi informs the class, “We’ll pick up where
we left off tomorrow. Don’t forget about your homework—” He has to raise his voice over the rush
of students rising to their feet, chairs scraping against the tile floor, hurrying to stuff their things
back into their bags on their way out of the door. “—five pages of reading and a summary are due
tomorrow! Just because it’s the first week doesn’t mean you can slack off!”
‘Yes, Mr. Min,’ he hears a few of the students dutifully reply as Yoongi continues, “And your
permission slips need to be returned by the end of the week if they haven’t made their way to me
already! You’ll miss out on lab credit starting next Monday if they haven’t been signed.”
The students disappear into the hallway in a wave, all chattering amongst themselves happily as
they file out of the room as though they hadn’t just watched a grown, naked man being touched by
their teacher in the center of their classroom.
Once the room is empty, aside from himself and Yoongi, Jungkook dares to lower his aching arms
to cover his throbbing cock as modestly as his can with his hands, looking anywhere in the room
but at the older man.
“That went well, I think.” Yoongi comments brightly while busying himself with straightening the
room and putting away his things. Jungkook just stares at him, dumbfounded. How can he—how
can they all be so—so casual about all of this?!
Once Yoongi has all of his things packed into his book bag, he turns back to Jungkook and almost
seems surprised to still see the man standing there, totally naked, looking shell-shocked in the
center of his room. “Well don’t just stand there, young man. Here—”
He tosses Jungkook his clothes from the top of his desk and Jungkook just barely manages to catch
them with one hand while the other delicately cradles his dick and balls from view. “Get dressed,
and head immediately down to the nurse’s office. He’ll take care of you, and then you should head
right back here after lunch at 1 o’clock.”
Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice to put his clothes back on, jumping at the chance to jerk his
pants back up his legs—his underwear forgotten in his haste—and button his shirt up his chest so
haphazardly that he’s sure the buttons are all misaligned, not that he can bring himself to care.
“The--…the nurse, sir?” He dares to speak for the first time all hour, and Yoongi gives him a
reproachful look that makes it clear that he shouldn’t make that mistake again—although the older
teacher seems to find the question a reasonable enough one to dignify with an answer.
“Yes, Mr. Kim.” He waves his hand dismissively, “Go have him sort out your little, eughh, little
problem ,” and he points at Jungkook’s obvious erection where it’s still tenting the front of his
dress pants, “I can’t very well teach a lesson on stimulation if you’re already stimulated, now can
I?”
He says it like it’s the most obvious statement in the world—and Jungkook has to admit,
regretfully, that the older man has a point, albeit a bizarre one.
“But can’t I just, uh—” Jungkook interjects dumbly, making a pathetic little jerking motion with
his hand as if to demonstrate his point. Yoongi gives him a hard, withering look over his shoulder
before turning back to his desk to rearrange papers.
When Jungkook doesn’t get the hint immediately, waiting for Yoongi to give him some sort of
answer, he impatiently waves his hand again over his shoulder, clearly intending for Jungkook to
remove himself from his sight. “No, no, the nurse , isn’t that what I said? Go, before I decide I
need to escort you there myself .”
At that, Jungkook is tearing out of the classroom without another word, his belongings carelessly
left behind in his haste.
Behind his retreating back, Yoongi chuckles darkly and grabs for the younger man’s bag, coat and
underwear and tucks them into the bottom drawer of his desk, locking them away securely for
safekeeping—after all, if all goes as planned, Jungkook certainly won’t be needing them any
more…and he definitely, definitely won’t be leaving the school again.
Hallway—First Floor—East 08.15.18 9:04AM
There are so many eyes on him, now. It’s different than before—different because he doesn’t want
them to be. Barely a few inches taller than some of the students who walk the halls, it’s too easy to
meet their gaze, to have to turn away.
If there is one skill he has long since mastered, it is the art of detachment. Hands on trash can, bag
out of trash can. Tie off, set aside. Hands into pockets—bag into hand—bag into trash can, tie off.
Start again.
The din of chatter around him is simple enough to discard, but not the press of their bodies against
his, the careless way they jumble together, an overlapping mass of noise and sweat and limbs that
cages him in from every side. It’s impossible to feel any sense of direction as he is passed down
the hall between them, ducking here and there into classrooms to pick up litter, to scrape at gum on
tables, to wipe each whiteboard clean.
Still, there is one—one among them he can’t help but be drawn towards, the moment a familiar
silhouette appears along the lockers ahead. Tall and thin, shoulders hunched within his uniform
jacket, the boy tries to hide himself among the throng—still, he would know that body anywhere.
“—do you think you’re going?” A snide voice cuts through the crowd, and he can’t help but bring
his eyes up to search for the source.
There—up ahead, crowding around the boy—a crowd of other teenagers, larger, cocky. Shoulders
tossed back in pride as they knock the bag from the boy’s hands.
“...to class,” the boy mumbles in return, his voice low and deep. A mistake.
“And what makes you think anyone wants you there?” They shoot back, and kick at the bag,
spreading its contents across the tile floor.
He watches as the boy hunches down, doesn’t dignify them with a response, the back of his neck
under his shaggy brown hair flushed in obvious embarrassment. Another kick to the boy’s things
sends a notebook skittering across the floor—to land right at his feet. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
Doesn’t lean down, doesn’t pick it up.
He glances at the boy again, sees dark eyes aimed straight at him. Doesn’t meet them.
He can’t—can’t look. Can’t give him even a moment of—
His feet step one after another over the discarded notebook, bring him closer to the scene unfolding
before him, even as he feels further and further away.
“You’re pathetic,” one among the crowd spits, then—then literally sprays a glob of saliva at his
feet, just inches from where the boy is kneeling. The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t look up at them.
The boy’s eyes never leave him as he steps closer and closer—oh, but he wishes that deep voice
would speak up, would say something, anything. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if it’s foolish.
Trouble—that boy is always going to be trouble .
“When will you just give it up?” Another voice joins in, lighter and pretty—one of the girls. “Just
go on and leave, no one wants you to stay. Isn’t that what you wanted anyway? Just fucking— go.”
The boy’s shoulders hunch in as if to protect against the words—but it’s his stomach that twists as
though hit with a blow. He feels sick, but his feet remember their place and carry him further,
further, down the hall, past the group, past the eyes on his back that burn hotter than any other. He
keeps his own eyes trained straight ahead, even as he hears a crackle at his hip that draws his
attention.
CRRRHHHH —
“—janitorial is needed in the teacher’s lounge immediately—”
His hand flies down to grab at the walkie-talkie, bringing it up to his lips. “...heard. On my way.”
“—make it quick—” is the only reply, before the crackle dies and the line goes silent.
Behind him, even as he retreats, he knows the message was heard by more than just his ears, the
chorus of jeers and laughter that echoes down the hall the only confirmation he needs.
‘Don’t look back,’ he tells himself. Don’t look back. Forget.
You are always being watched.

Don’t look back.
Front Office—Nurse—First Floor 08.15.18 9:14AM
Meeting the school nurse is a particularly strange experience, not least because he doesn’t blink an
eye when Jungkook shows up on his doorstep looking half fucked-out, his clothes a mess, sporting
a very obvious erection in a building full of students. When Jungkook nervously introduces himself
and stutters out an explanation about Yoongi and how he was sent here, the older man just ushers
him inside with an understanding look and locks the door behind them. He introduces himself as
Kim Namjoon with a soft smile and deep dimples, and something about him puts Jungkook
immediately at ease.
“They told me we were getting new staff today, but I’ve been wrapped up with a few cases of the
flu…” Namjoon chatters on as he settles Jungkook onto one of the sick beds with gentle hands. “I
apologize for not introducing myself sooner! Ah, well…” He offers a reticent laugh and rubs at the
back of his head. “We’re going to get to know each other pretty well, one way or the other.”
Much to Jungkook’s shock, the nurse immediately reaches for the buttons of Jungkook’s shirt and
begins unbuttoning them again without a word of explanation. “Hey, woah —!” Jungkook grabs
for his hands, reeling away from Namjoon in shock.
“What’s the problem?” Namjoon asks, clearly concerned. Is he serious? Jungkook thinks.
“W-What—what are you doing?”
“Undressing you, of course.” The nurse tilts his head curiously, clearly not understanding
Jungkook’s discomfort.
“Yes, but…why?!”
“You said Yoongi sent you here, yes?” Namjoon asks, standing to move to his desk. Jungkook
nods his agreement slowly, watching as the older man rifles through some files on the desk before
selecting one with a satisfied hum. “Well then, you’re here for an inspection.”
“I—I’m…what?” He feels like a broken record, every word coming out stilted.
“Mm, yes, you’re due for an inspection today, since it’s your first day.” Namjoon turns to look at
him them, dimples back on full display as he smiles happily at Jungkook. “You…are the new doll
for the sex education classes, right?”
Jungkook splutters at that, immediately waving his hands in front of himself as if he can dispel the
rumor with the motion. “N-No, no—that’s not—”
“No…no, that’s correct.” Namjoon interrupts, his tone more serious now as he looks through the
paperwork in his hand with a careful eye. “It says here that you’re assigned to be the sex education
doll, just hired officially this morning. Congratulations!” And he sets the paperwork back down on
the desk, approaching Jungkook while rolling his sleeves up his arms as if getting down to
business. “Well, let’s get this inspection completely quickly so you can get back to work, hm?”
“N-No, no, wait—” Jungkook tries to scoot down the bed, flailing against the crisp white sheets
despite having his back to the wall, but Namjoon just calmly grasps his ankles and drags him back
down the bed until his back hits the mattress with a soft thump.
“Hey, now, don’t be uncooperative. We both know this isn’t going to be pleasant, but I’ll try to
make it quick for you, okay? If you keep struggling, I’ll be forced to restrain you, and neither of us
wants that, do we?”
That has Jungkook freezing, eyes wide, the thought of being tied down somehow making this entire
situation so much worse. Namjoon takes his silence as permission and returns his hands to the front
of Jungkook’s shirt to continue his interrupted work, quickly and efficiently unbuttoning the
mismatched buttons to reveal Jungkook’s bare chest again. His nipples are still hard and a little red
from their earlier mistreatment, and Namjoon takes them in with an appraising eye before shucking
Jungkook’s shirt down his arms, Jungkook forcing himself to move pliantly as the nurse shifts his
body around.
Namjoon moves to his pants next and Jungkook has to bite back a protest as they are quickly
unfastened and tugged down his legs one at a time with the kind of clinical detachment he expects
from a medical professional—the only familiar thing in this bizarre situation he finds himself in.
Once his pants are removed, his cock springs free and lands heavily on his bare stomach, still
achingly hard from his mistreatment earlier, and Jungkook’s hands itch to cover himself for the
second time today. Somehow, he knows that won’t be well received so he keeps his arms firmly at
his side, trying to breathe through his embarrassment and remind himself that this is just like the
doctor’s office, just like the doctor’s office—
—until Namjoon reaches into his pocket to pull out a pair of latex gloves and slips them on, then
reaches down unceremoniously to wrap his fingers around Jungkook’s cock.
“Wait, please—!” He clutches his hands in the sheets, his hips canting up automatically into the
touch despite his best efforts to fight the uncomfortable pleasure.
“Shhh, just let me do my job, doll. I can’t let you return to work in this condition.” Namjoon’s
gloved hand strokes down the length of his cock, but the touch isn’t intended to be an indulgence,
any pleasure he feels incidental to the careful inspection the nurse is making of the head, then the
shaft, and finally down to his balls where they lay heavy against his thigh. “I’ll take care of this for
you before you go, just let me finish the rest of my inspection first…”
Jungkook shakes his head fervently, his knuckles turning white with how tightly he’s clutching at
the sheets. “Y-You really don’t have to—I t-told Mr. Min I could—” Namjoon drops his cock and
gives Jungkook’s thigh a sharp slap, cutting off his words with a sudden gasp.
“That’s enough.” And the nurse looks serious now, his smile and dimples all but disappearing. “I
won’t tell you again. You’re being a very uncooperative patient, and I don’t tolerate that in my
office.” Jungkook gulps nervously. “You are not to touch yourself any longer, do you
understand?”
There’s a very pregnant pause as Jungkook takes in what the nurse is telling him. “E-Ever?”
“Ever. It’s in your job description—you really should have looked at the fine print of your
employment contract.” Namjoon gives a long-suffering sigh. “Dolls do not touch themselves. And
—“ he adds after a moment of thoughtful contemplation, “They don’t speak either. You should
learn now to keep your thoughts to yourself, Jungkook. Yoongi won’t tolerate a demonstration doll
that talks back.”
He narrows his eyes at Jungkook then, arms crossed over his chest. “Do you understand,
Jungkook? Nod yes if you understand. You are not to touch yourself, and not to talk. Yes?” And
Jungkook nods his head—slowly, creakily—his mind heavy with the fog of shock.
“Good, very good. Now be a good patient for me and let me move you how I need you.” Without
further preamble, the nurse reaches down for his discarded clipboard and brings it back to his lap,
then reaches up and drags Jungkook’s arms back above his head in a pose identical to the way
Yoongi had placed him in his classroom previously. Jungkook continues to breathe deeply through
his nose, trying to keep his mind focused on anything but the hands that start to poke and prod at
him—beginning with his wrists, which Namjoon calls ‘suitable for bondage,’ or down his biceps
and shoulders that Namjoon admires for their nice build.
“I can see why Principal Kim chose you for this position,” he comments mildly while sliding his
hands down Jungkook’s chest to cup each of his pectorals in his palms, kneading the muscles with
a contemplative look on his face. Jungkook hates that it feels good, the slide of the man’s slight
callouses across his tender nipples as Namjoon pulls his hands away to reach into his pocket and
pulls out a set of metal calipers.
Mercifully, he holds them up for Jungkook to see before leaning down to place their pointed tips
around one of Jungkook’s peaked nipples, measuring the circumference of the tip, then the areola,
and finally the entire curve of his pectoral before switching to measure the other one. Jungkook
bites at his lip, his eyes sinking closed as he tries to fight his reaction to the sensation, his entire
body burning with the humiliation of being—being inspected like some sort of property , the sharp
points of the instrument sending little pricks of pain mixed with pleasure right to his core. God, his
nipples are so—so sensitive, but he has to hold his breath and remain perfectly still or run the risk
of accidentally stabbing himself on the sharp ends of the tool.
Once he’s satisfied with his measurements, Namjoon takes a moment to record them before sliding
down the bed to lean back over Jungkook’s exposed cock again, taking the heavy length in one
hand while holding the calipers in his other.
“Hold very still,” he warns, his tone leaving no room for argument—as if Jungkook would dare to
move an inch with his cock in someone else’s firm grip? With such a sinister looking device
pointed at his delicate flesh?
He sucks in a tentative breath, quivering slightly as the pointed tips are placed gently, clinically,
against the tip of Jungkook’s cock and Namjoon continues his measurements—first taking the
circumference of the head, then the distance from the urethra to the curled ridge of the mushroom
tip, and then the circumference of the thick shaft and the full length of Jungkook’s erect cock.
Namjoon makes small, pleased noises in the back of his throat as he jots down his notes, then
finally—finally sets the tool aside and Jungkook allows himself to take a deep breath for the first
time in minutes.
“Alright, that’s enough of that. I’ll keep these numbers for my records, and we might revisit them
as necessary if revisions need to be made.”
‘Revisions—?’
“Okay, let’s get you over on your stomach, hm?” Namjoon asks, though the question is purely
rhetorical as the nurse curls his hands under Jungkook’s torso and bodily rolls him over without
waiting for any help from Jungkook himself. Remembering Namjoon’s very clear orders,
Jungkook lets himself go willingly, his arms flopping bonelessly at his sides as the nurse curls a
hand under his hips and pulls them up of the bed. He leaves Jungkook with his ass presented up in
the air and moves to rearrange his legs so that they are spread apart on the sheets, his face pressed
forward into the thin pillow provided for patients so that he can no longer see what Namjoon is
doing—leaving him completely at the other man’s mercy.
His ass feels cold and uncomfortably exposed in the frigid office air, his cock hard and throbbing
where it hangs between his thighs, a tiny string of pre-come dripping down to the stark white
sheets beneath him. Behind him, Jungkook can hear Namjoon moving around, shuffling things
here and there, opening drawers, and then the unexpected sound of water running. He tries to calm
his breathing, taking long slow inhales through the pillow in front of his face as best as he can, and
he could turn his head to clear his airway, he could roll over and slide off the bed and run out the
door—but for some reason, he remains still.
He holds perfectly immobile, just where Namjoon left him, ignoring the uncomfortable placement
of his arms and the strain on his lungs as he continues to breathe heavily through the fabric, not
wanting to be punished, wanting to be good—
Namjoon reappears behind him suddenly, making his presence known by placing his large hands
on each of Jungkook’s ass cheeks, spreading the thick muscle apart so that his tight, furled hole is
exposed to the chill air. Jungkook firmly does. not. move, though it takes everything he has not to
jump or moan as a thick thumb presses against the dry pucker.
Namjoon seems intent to thoroughly test all of his responses and reflexes, as he pokes and prods at
Jungkook’s hole—slipping the tip of his fingers in and out, tugging at the rim and watching it
flutter closed—until Jungkook is a quivering mess. It’s all he can do to keep himself quiet, grateful
for the pillow cutting of his air supply as long as it helps him muffle the small whimpers that he
can’t hold back.
Namjoon finally pulls away to document his new results and Jungkook is relieved only because
he’s allowed a moment of reprieve from the soft teasing touches, but his face is still pressed firmly
into the pillow and it’s not that he can’t breathe, exactly—just that it’s getting increasingly difficult
to, his chest feeling cottony and tight as he struggles to inhale, but something in him just—just
won’t move, won’t let him disobey now that he’s been put in his place—is it just the threat to his
job, his future? He’s a little too light headed to follow his train of thought for long…
“Oh dear,” he hears Namjoon’s pen stop mid-sentence as he must catch sight of Jungkook’s
predicament, since his clipboard is quickly discarded down on the desk and Namjoon’s strong
hands wrap around Jungkook’s shoulders to lift him up off the pillow at last. “That must have been
uncomfortable! My apologies, Jungkook—how careless of me.”
The nurse pauses, then, looking thoughtfully down at Jungkook where he is hanging limp in
Namjoon’s hold, the sharp inhales of breath he’s taking the only movement he feels comfortable
making. “Why didn’t you say something if you were uncomfortable, hm?” Jungkook doesn’t
answer, can’t bring himself to make a sound, just lets Namjoon shift his body around while he
slowly catches his breath—and the nurse seems pleased by his lack of response.
“Very good, Jungkook! You’re learning quickly, aren’t you? You remembered not to speak, that’s
perfect…” And something about the praise gives Jungkook a small, strange thrill, his cheeks
flushing at Namjoon’s words. The older man carefully lowers him back down to the bed, turning
his face away from the pillow this time so that his airway is totally clear and placing Jungkook’s
arms delicately down at his sides.
“You’re moving so nice for me, what a good doll. You’re perfect for this, Jungkookie, really.”
When he’s finished with his placement, he sits back to admire the position he’s left Jungkook in,
the younger man’s ass even higher in the air than before. “How’s that? Better? Nod your head yes
or no, please.” It takes Jungkook a moment to make himself move again but he manages a small
nod—because yes, this really is better, it really is, somehow.
“Wonderful! Alright, back to business.” When the nurse’s fingers return to his ass, they feel slick
against his hole, the smooth material of Namjoon’s latex gloves making the slide easy as he presses
one long digit into Jungkook’s ass and watches as his muscles clench and relax around it. Though
he can’t see it, he knows the older man must be studying him very carefully and he finds himself
wanting to try, to relax, wanting to be good, so good—he’s a good employee, a hard worker—
He can hear Namjoon writing with his free hand even as his finger presses deeper into Jungkook,
sliding out only to plunge back in, the strokes methodical and measured. Having his insides probed
like this is possibly the most embarrassing thing he’s experienced in this school yet, his cheeks
positively burning, but he can’t deny that the gentle friction feels deliciously good. It almost makes
it easy to lie still and pliant as Namjoon spreads his ass open wider and presses a second lubed,
gloved finger inside him, taking careful notes about each of Jungkook’s reactions all the while.
Seemingly satisfied, Namjoon slips his fingers free, leaving Jungkook clenching around nothing.
He lets out a small whimper, unable to hold it back, but Namjoon mercifully overlooks the
mistake.
“Alright, doll…let’s take a little peek inside, hm?” Jungkook doesn’t process the words
immediately, his mind still foggy from being so over-stimulated, his limbs like cement. It doesn’t
occur to him what the nurse means until he feels something cold and metal pressed against his hole
again, this time much larger and thicker than the caliper or Namjoon’s fingers.
He can’t help but hiss softly as the metal implement is pressed inside him, stretching his walls until
they burn against the pressure, and Namjoon gives him a sympathetic hum in return. “I know it’s
cold, doll, I’m sorry. You’re being so good, just stay still now. This is good practice for you!” And
finally the slow drag of the intrusion stops, and Jungkook can let out a breath he didn’t realize he
was holding, his body quivering slightly as he clenches to keep his ass presented up in the air.
“I just need to get a good look inside you, and then we can get you all cleaned up and back to work,
how does that sound?” Jungkook doesn’t answer, but Namjoon clearly doesn’t expect him to,
doesn’t want him to.
In all honesty, Jungkook doesn’t know how it sounds, can’t even really wrap his mind around what
Namjoon is asking him—at least, not until he hears Namjoon fiddling with something metal
behind him, and suddenly the rim of his hole burns with a sudden, unexpected stretch.
Oh— OH —
It takes Jungkook longer than it should to realize that Namjoon must have a speculum inside him,
stretching his hole open wide-wide-wider until he feels like his walls might tear with the
expansion, never having been pushed to this extreme before. Still, despite the blistering pain, he
manages to hold himself still—fully committed now to not giving in, not moving a muscle, being
good, so good—why does he want to be so good for this man? His head is swimming with
endorphins now, the mix of pain-pain-pain with a dash of pleasure causing his cock to ooze another
stream of pre-come while Jungkook can’t help but drool into the sheets.
“There we go, that’s it, very nice…” Namjoon murmurs as he fixes the instrument into place,
locking the mechanism so it stays open for him as he pulls away to grab a flashlight from his
pocket. Jungkook recognizes the sound as the light clicks on and nearly chokes in embarrassment
as Namjoon proceeds to shine it deep within him. “Yoongi is very lucky to have such a pretty doll,
inside and out! You’ll do so well with the students for internal experiments, I can just tell.”
E-Experiments? An uncomfortable twist in Jungkook’s belly reminds him that he should be

worried, that he’s in way over his head—but with his ass in the air and all the blood rushing to his
brain, it’s hard to think straight, hard to really remember why being experimented on should sound
like a very, very bad idea.
“—But you’re such a messy doll, hm? Not clean inside like a doll should be.” Something about the
offhand comment gives Jungkook a sad swoop of disappointment in his stomach, making him feel
inadequate all of a sudden. It’s an odd relief, then—one that doesn’t fully process until it’s too late
—when Namjoon offers him a solution. “Let’s get you all cleaned out, all nice and pretty for the
next class, and then I’ll take you back to Yoongi. Sound good?” Jungkook’s silence is as good as
an answer.
Namjoon disappears from behind him momentarily, and the dull rush of running water from the
bathroom attached to the nurse’s office suddenly cuts off, leaving Jungkook with a slight ringing in
his ears instead. When Namjoon steps up behind him again, a gloved hand on one ass cheek to
hold his hole wide, Jungkook holds himself up almost—almost proudly— as the speculum is
gently eased from his hole. He feels strangely empty without the instrument spreading him wide
open, but Namjoon is quick to replace the device with something else, something softer and thin
that eases inside his stretched hole without resistance.
“This’ll fill you right up, Jungkookie, just be good and don’t move a muscle, okay?” Again,
Jungkook braces himself for whatever is about to happen—but doesn’t expect the long delay
before a strange, trickling warmth starts to leach through his middle. For a moment, it almost feels
like he’s pissed himself, the warmth seeping through his middle slowly until he can feel the
pressure of the water being poured into him and his belly starts to ache with the stretch. Jungkook
can’t think—can’t begin to process—has given in completely to what’s happening to him, not even
resisting for a moment even as Namjoon reaches down beneath him and rubs at his rapidly
distending belly, the stretch unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.
He—he’s being filled up like a balloon, and he’s just—just taking it, pliantly allowing this to
happen to him, and Jungkook doesn’t know what point in the day he caved to the idea that he
should hold still and accept what’s given to him, but as the water continues to cascade through his
bowels, his only thought is ‘don’t make a sound, don’t make a sound, don’t make a sound…’
This proves harder to do by the second, the pressure soon causing twisting, writhing cramps to
form in his belly and Jungkook worries that he might vomit from the pain, his lip chewed raw from
where he sinks his teeth into the flesh to bite back the pathetic whimpers he’s forced to make from
the pain. Namjoon, to his credit, seems sympathetic to Jungkook’s suffering, and before long he
takes pity on the younger man and stops the flow of water, warning Jungkook before sliding the
small tube from his hole so that he knows to clench up around it to keep the water inside himself.
“Very nice job,” Namjoon praises him happily, rubbing at Jungkook’s taut, distended belly with a
large, gentle hand. The cramps begin to die down under the nurse’s careful ministrations, and the
pressure turns from something overwhelming to something almost…comforting, a warm weight
that presses down against Jungkook’s throbbing cock as he waits. “Your body molds so well to my
tests, Jungkook...Yoongi will be pleased when I return you so squeaky clean. Are you ready to be
emptied out?” His question is rhetorical, as Jungkook is beginning to recognize them all to be.
Without further ado, Namjoon presses on Jungkook’s shoulder so that the younger man rolls and
falls backwards against the sheets, the sudden motion jostling the liquid inside him so that he has to
clench himself up quickly to avoid spilling a drop. Namjoon’s arms scoop him up beneath the
shoulders and knees and Jungkook finds himself flopping back into the nurse’s hold while being
carried to the en suite bathroom.
Namjoon is careful when setting Jungkook’s naked body down on the toilet, and Jungkook lets
himself be manhandled into a sitting position, leaning bodily against the older man’s form for
support. It takes some encouragement from Namjoon for Jungkook to realize that it’s safe to let the
enema go, to unclench himself, and it’s only under the renewed massaging of his belly that he’s
able to finally relax his muscles to let the water trickle back out—at first a stream, and then a
flood. A low, rumbling moan rises in his chest at the utter relief he feels, though he chokes it down
desperately under Namjoon’s watchful gaze.
“That’s it…let it all out…” Namjoon murmurs, observing him carefully and pressing firmly on
Jungkook’s belly to ensure that every drop has been released. When Namjoon proceeds to grab a
towel and wipes Jungkook down, cleaning off his ass and cock and thighs with that same clinical
touch, Jungkook thinks dimly that this might be the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to
him. In the back of his mind, though, he can still hear Yoongi’s voice on a loop, reminding him
that this is his job now, this is his chance, his whole career and any future opportunities are riding
on his ability to withstand this—to be cooperative, to be good…
‘...this is your job now, this is your job now, this is your job—’ is the only thought that runs
through his head on an endless loop.
Jungkook barely notices when he’s being picked up again and moved back to the office to be set
down on the side of the bed, only notices Namjoon’s face when it’s right in front of him, the
nurse’s fingers wrapping around his neglected cock providing enough sensation to drag him back
from the strange distant place he had begun to slip into. “Alright, doll, we’re almost done…just
have to take care of this little problem so you’ll be back in working shape for the next class.”
Now, instead of struggling or pulling away, Jungkook finds himself a willing participant, straining
not to buck up into the touch—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t want it to
stop , would do anything to keep it coming, to have some relief after his long, strange day of
torment. Namjoon’s hand is large and his grip firm, his touch kind in a way that Yoongi’s public
prodding earlier never managed to be, and Jungkook thinks it’s been too long—too damn long
since the last time he was touched properly like this .
‘—gotta keep quiet, don’t move—don’t move— ’
It’s impossible to forget that Namjoon is only doing this out of some sense of obligation, only
doing his job, after all, but Jungkook is too far gone to care, his body feeling like putty in the
nurse’s hands as Namjoon strokes him up-and-down-and-up-and-down in a perfectly timed rhythm,
observing his reactions with a careful eye.
It shouldn’t feel this good, just being touched with just one gloved hand like this, the sensation
almost detached and clinical, but—something—something about it feels better than anything
Jungkook ever remembers experiencing before. Maybe it’s just the relief after being taunted for so
long, his defenses broken down through Namjoon and Yoongi’s strange demands...
And Namjoon watches him like a mechanic might watch a engine run to check it’s performance,
and he realizes hazily that this is exactly what is happening to him—that he’s being, being serviced
...like a machine, like a robot, like a—
—like a doll. A toy.
It should be horrifying, the way pleasure creeps up his spine at the thought, at how filthy this all is,
but the continued strokes to his cock are just too delicious and his head filled with fog that clouds
his mind of any other thoughts aside from relentlessly pursuing his release. His thighs burn with
the strain of keeping his hips firmly planted against the bed even as his orgasm quickly
approaches, stripped out of him by Namjoon’s methodical touches, each caress of the nurse’s
thumb beneath the head of his cock—always in the same exact spot—making it harder and harder
to hold still, and he doesn’t want to find out what consequences he might face should he fail to do
so.
“Good, very good...” Namjoon suddenly murmurs to himself, tilting his head this way and that to
get a better look at Jungkook’s face, and it’s the oddest experience, to be praised not for his
reactions but for his lack of them. Still, there’s always been something oddly satisfying about being
told he’s done a good job and Jungkook finds himself all but preening under the attention, feeling
satisfied by his own ability to perform well even when the task at hand is so foreign to him. He’s
always been a quick study, after all, and been accused of being a teacher’s pet one time too many.
“Go on and come for me, that’s a good doll, you’re allowed to come, just let it go,” Namjoon says,
and Jungkook didn’t know he was waiting for permission, didn’t know he needed it, but he must
have been if that’s all it takes—one small token of permission and his orgasm finally,
finally crashes through him, waves of pleasure reverberating through him like sound through an
empty house.
The pleasure is intensified, even, by his attempts to hold himself motionless—every muscle in his
body clenching so that the pressure only serves to further facilitate the fire that sings across his
nerves. His breath catches in his chest as the waves of ecstasy take him over and he doesn’t realize
just how long he goes without air until he finally takes a breath in and feels it burn all the way
down into his lungs.
“Very nice...I bet that feels better,” Namjoon praises him, using much the same voice one might
use when speaking to a small child about a scraped knee, and it would be funny except for the way
Namjoon has left him feeling raw and exposed like a live wire in the night. The older man slowly
strips off his soiled gloves and folds them inside out while he watches Jungkook’s body tremble
helplessly against the small utility bed, hands clenched into the sheets so tight his knuckles match
the stark white fabric.
Jungkook’s chest heaves with the force of his breathing, his come-covered muscles rising and
falling under Namjoon’s watchful gaze as the nurse picks up his clipboard and makes a few final
notes with a thoughtful expression on his face. “You did very well for your first time, doll,” he
informs Jungkook mildly as he writes, “your results were very encouraging. But in the future,
moving like that won’t be acceptable, do you understand? Nod if you understand.”
It’s never taken his body quite so long to respond to his thoughts as it does when he tries to move
his head up and down in answer, his muscles protesting as though it’s been years instead of
minutes since he last used them. Still, he manages the smallest jerk of his head, his eyes trained on
the nurse, who seems satisfied enough with that response.
“Good, good. That will be part of your job expectations moving forward, so it’s best that you
practice the skill now while you’re still new and not expected to meet all of the criteria right
away.” While continuing with his explanation, Namjoon gets to his feet and reaches for a medical
wipe to clean the drying come off of Jungkook’s chest and softening cock, thoroughly removing
any trace so that Jungkook is left presentable again.
“Think of this as your on-the-job training, hm?” He continues conversationally while discarding
the soiled wipe in a biohazard bin. He then picks up his clipboard and signs the bottom of the form
with a flourish. “You passed the inspection, by the way. With flying colors. You’re a very healthy
specimen for a doll, in tip-top shape for your new role. I hope you last in the position, the kids
really need some consistency in their classroom experience.”
Jungkook should feel curious at being talked about this way, to have his public humiliation
discussed like he should be grateful for it—but instead, he really is grateful for it, in some sick
way, and feels a sharp thrill of pleasure in his chest at the praise.
“Oh, would you look at the time—study hall is nearly over and you’ll have another class waiting
for you soon, we should get you back to Yoongi, hm?” Without waiting for a response, the nurse
bends down to slide a hand beneath Jungkook’s hips and shifts him to the side of the bed before
turning his feet to the floor and standing so Jungkook is dragged to his feet as well. Jungkook’s
head flops back against Namjoon’s shoulder, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
“Alright, go ahead and support yourself now,” Namjoon instructs him, and Jungkook is as quick to
respond as he can manage, a few seconds delay before he can fully grasp control over his limbs
again and lock his knees to hold himself up under his own power. Namjoon drops his grip on
Jungkook then, stepping away to watch him as Jungkook slowly raises his head on his own and
gazes blankly back at the older man.
“Good. Here’s your paperwork, you’ll need to take a copy back to Yoongi for his records.” The
nurse holds out a manila folder of papers to Jungkook, and the younger man has to force himself to
reach up and take it in stiff fingers. “You’re free to go, then,” Namjoon says with a smile like
they’re old friends. “Please keep movement to a minimum and all words to yourself, okay?” Now
without prompting, Jungkook knows it’s safe to nod his agreement.
But when Namjoon moves to unlock and open the door to the office, Jungkook hesitates to follow
after him, the tiniest inkling of discomfort making itself known in his chest. Sensing his hesitation,
Namjoon turns around in time to catch Jungkook’s eyes flicker to the discarded pile of his own
clothes on the floor, feeling distinctly aware of his own nudity as the open door lets it the sounds of
the front office for the first time.
“Oh! Don’t you worry about your clothes, I’ll be taking care of those when you leave.” Namjoon
reassures with a wave of his hand. “They’ll need to be disposed of properly.”
‘Disposed of—?’
He can’t help the tiniest of frowns that turns at the corners of his lips, although Namjoon doesn’t
seem to think enough of it to comment on it, saying instead, “Now go on, it’s really getting close to
time for the bell and you wouldn’t want to be late!”
Jungkook finds himself mechanically moving forward, legs now aching with every step, towards
the open office door, naked and barefoot, carrying only the file with the results of his inspection
inside.
“Oh! One more thing! You missed lunch today, but you’ll need to return here tomorrow for your
meal, don’t forget! Otherwise, stick with Yoongi and he’ll help you get yourself arranged at the
end of the day!” And with that, Namjoon gives Jungkook a good-natured pat on the ass and pushes
him forward through the door, closing it behind him with a small snap.
He wants to take back his earlier thought about the most humiliating experience of his life, because
walking through the halls of the school naked from head-to-toe has got to take the cake. He can
feel the staff’s eyes on him as he makes his way through the waiting room and slowly merges into
the rush of passing-period traffic in the hallways.
Making his way back to Yoongi’s classroom takes longer that it should, since Jungkook gets a bit
turned around but, under his strict orders from Namjoon, he refrains from asking anyone from a
distance.
When he arrives, he finds Yoongi preparing for his a lecture with the minutes before the bell rings
for the period, his students already diligently taking notes. Jungkook knocks very lightly on the
doorframe to get the older teacher’s attention, and there’s a strange wave of relief that takes over
Yoongi’s face at his reappearance.
“Ah, yes, finally, you’re back! Yoongi calls from the front of the room, waving Jungkook inside to
join him by the chalkboard. Jungkook returns to his same spot at the center beside the desk and
very slowly holds out the folder of his results to the older man. Yoongi takes them and quickly
skims through them for the information he needs, making little thoughtful sounds as he notes one
result of another. Jungkook wonders idly what sort of information Namjoon had included, what the
results would tell Yoongi about Jungkook, if they would please the older man.
“Mmm, perfect, looks good.” Yoongi comments. “Very well, that’s that taken care of.” Just then,
the bell rings to signal the end of the passing period and there is a rush of activity behind Jungkook
as the students in the hallway rush to get into the classroom and to their seats. Jungkook can feel
dozens of curious eyes on him, and he realizes that this class is beginning with him undressed when
the other class had been subjected to his uncomfortable strip tease of sorts—and he’s not sure
which one is worse.
Yoongi steps up to face him then, reaching down with no preamble to take Jungkook’s wrists in his
long fingers and tug Jungkook’s arms above his head. Jungkook goes willingly now, letting Yoongi
move and position him as the teacher sees fit, and there’s something distinctly pleased about the
older man’s expression as he watches Jungkook bend like clay. “Stay,” he commands when he’s
finally positioned Jungkook exactly where he wants him, and Jungkook stays.
“Alright, class, let’s get started,” he addresses the students, who all quiet down immediately at
their teacher’s low voice. “Everyone, gather your pens and notebooks and join me down at the
front. Today, we’ll be starting with a review of basic anatomy, and then we’ll begin the first of our
practical demonstrations for the semester...”
And as the students begin to move towards the front of the room in a cacophony of scraping chairs
and desks, Jungkook is hit with a wave of visceral deja vu. He knows exactly what’s coming now,
the spectacle he’s about to become. He takes a deep, steadying breath and plants his feet firmly, a
flutter in his belly as he’s surrounded by a sea of curious faces, and settles in for the lesson to begin
again.
Chapter End Notes
Phase Two: Dummy
Chapter Summary
Jungkook’s transition into his new career as a sex education doll is far from a smooth
one. His challenges don’t end when the bell rings—for starters, his best friend and
fellow teacher Hoseok hasn’t caught wind of Jungkook’s new predicament. Not yet,
that is.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE TWO:
Extremely Dubious Consent, Non-con, Blackmail, Mind Manipulation/Conditioning,

Stockholm Syndrome, Objectification, Dollification, Sexual Slavery, Imprisonment,
Degradation, Humiliation, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Voyeurism, Medical
Kink, Medical Experimentation, Medical Examination, Cock & Ball Torture,
Omarashi/Watersports, Enemas, Forced Orgasm, Force Feeding, Bondage, Non-
Consensual Bondage, Punishment, Sounding, Gags, Human Furniture
Fic Playlist
Phase Two Playlist


the original
story here!
Front Office—Nurse—First Floor 08.15.18 3:42PM
The end of the school day has him thanking his past self for choosing a career in an industry where
the workday ends at 3pm, because he’s exhausted to the bone in a way he can’t remember ever
being before. The second class of the day went much more smoothly than the first, with the teacher
being almost kind to him once he stopped resisting the role he had been assigned and settled into
the rhythm of following the teacher’s orders.
Sure, it was disconcerting and uncomfortable to be left completely naked for so long or touched so
much, especially with an audience, but he has never been a particularly shy person when it comes
to his body, and one can only sustain embarrassment for so long before it starts to feel a
little...normal? The shock having worn off after only a few minutes of literally everyone around
him acting as though this was all perfectly routine.
And perhaps it is, he muses; not one student or teacher seemed surprised by his presence or nudity
in the classroom, and he still wondered in the back of his head all day long how many other
teachers had found themselves in this position before? And where had they all gone? It would
worry him more but it’s still very difficult to think with a sustained erection, and he finds himself
with another one after the last period of the day flies out of the door.
The older man doesn’t seem nearly as upset by this development as he did before lunch, but he's
still waived out the door with orders for him to visit Namjoon again before returning at the end of
the day. The path to the nurse’s office is much easier to take this time around, although he still
finds it impossible to keep his hands from hiding his cock as he walks, something about the public
nature of the hallways much more upsetting that being naked in the classroom.
The nurse looks utterly unsurprised to see him when he arrives, only ushering him inside with a
sympathetic look and directing him to lie back down on the visitor’s bed. He doesn’t fight the older
man this time when the nurse takes his throbbing cock in hand, only offers him a grateful smile and
lets the nurse gently, efficiently stroke him to a quick orgasm. It’s perfunctory and professional but
not unkind, and he finds the touch almost overwhelming after an entire day of being edged and
humiliated. When he finally comes with the smallest of whimpers caught behind his lips, Namjoon
seems satisfied and he is oddly happy to have made the older man happy as well. If this is to be his
position for the foreseeable future, at least these interactions with Namjoon aren’t the worst thing
that could come out of it?
“Alright, all done for the day, Jungkookie...” the nurse reassures him after cleaning Jungkook up
with a soft wipe and a gentle hand, and despite the circumstances, it almost sounds like any other
conversation one might hear in an office—one-sided or not. “I know Yoongi wants you back in the
classroom soon, but before you go, I should get you something to eat, hm? Does that sound good?”
He doesn’t wait for Jungkook to respond and Jungkook knows better than to try. Namjoon gets to
his feet, tripping over his chair leg and laughing gently at himself before making his way out of the
room, and Jungkook thinks that he could really come to like Namjoon and their time spent
together. It’s almost like having a new friend in the school, despite the circumstances.
Namjoon returns after only a few minutes carrying a tray of food. He sets it on his desk before
stepping over to Jungkook and manhandling the younger man into a sitting position, and Jungkook
allows himself to be leaned back against the wall without resistance. He’s so tired after the long
day that it’s almost easier to just let the older man do what he pleases...
“I hope you’re alright with something homemade,” Namjoon continues to comment as he reaches
over to pick up the steaming bowl of Japchae from the tray, “Your meals won’t be prepared for the
next few days, I’m afraid. We honestly didn’t know we would find a doll out of the new hires for
today and we weren’t as prepared for you as we should have been…”
Honestly, Jungkook is hungry enough to eat anything placed in front of him, so he’s not in a
position to be picky, but the sweet noodles smell amazing and after having skipped lunch for his—
well—his examination earlier, Jungkook can feel himself salivating shamelessly. Namjoon lifts the
bowl closer to him, and Jungkook’s hands twitch as he instinctively tries to reach up to take it,
before realizing with a jolt that he should do no such thing. Instead, he holds still, as patiently as he
can manage, as Namjoon stirs the hot noodles and picks up a pile of them with his chopsticks and
brings them up to Jungkook’s mouth.
It makes the older man smile when Jungkook doesn’t open his mouth until the chopsticks press
into his lower lip and gently push his jaw open. When the sweet glass noodles are placed on his
tongue, he has to fight not to close his mouth immediately around the chopsticks and take over the
process, waiting instead for Namjoon to pull them free and once again gently press on Jungkook’s
lips with the metal rods until his mouth closes again. Then, and only then, does Jungkook feel as
though he is safe to chew and swallow the savory treat, and it takes all he has not to groan in
satisfaction.
Namjoon’s dimples reappear as the older man smiles while watching Jungkook eat the first bite,
clearly aware that Jungkook is enjoying it even while keeping his expression as carefully schooled
as possible. They carry on much in the same way throughout the meal, Namjoon making small
comments to himself here and there that Jungkook doesn’t respond to, while being fed small bites
of the noodles until his hunger is finally satiated and the food is all but gone. He can’t tell
Namjoon when he’s full, so he takes a few bites too many, but it’s still a relief after going so long
being empty so Jungkook figures he wouldn’t complain even if he could.
Once Namjoon is satisfied with the meal, he puts the tray and dishes away while rambling on to
his captive audience about how the day went for him and what his plans are for the night. Maybe
this is why the nurse is so content to have a silent conversation partner, why he’s so calm about the
strangeness of the situation—because he’s been missing company, and so clearly needs a bit of it.
It’s not the worst way he’s spent a night, Jungkook thinks.
“...anyway, it’s really time for us to be getting you back to the classroom, hm?” Namjoon asks
himself. ‘Back to the classroom?’ Jungkook thinks, suspiciously. ‘Isn’t the day over?’
“Yoongi will want to get you all set up before we go home for the night,” the nurse continues, and
Jungkook instantly feels slightly better. Of course, it’s his first day, there’s been a lot of setup—this
is probably more of the same.
Namjoon moves to open the door to the office, and—trying to be proactive—Jungkook slowly
twists his body to slide his feet to the floor and moves to get off the bed, but he’s stopped
immediately by a sharp “Woah!” from the older man.
“What do you think you’re doing, doll?” He asks, his tone insistent, and Jungkook is torn between
feeling like he has to answer, to explain himself, and knowing that he is absolutely not allowed to.
“No, no, no—we can’t have you moving around like that, absolutely not.” Gone is the kind and
friendly tone, and now Namjoon is all business again. “Don’t ever let someone catch you doing
that again, or there will be consequences,” Namjoon warns, and Jungkook gulps at the thought. “I
don’t want that to happen to you, okay? We can be friends but I can’t just let you break school rules
like that, doll.”
Jungkook freezes and stays that way, thinking that the best answer would be no answer at all, and
his hunch is rewarded when the furrowed brow begins to melt off of the older man’s face. “Alright,
alright, I’ll let it slide, but only this once…” He speaks to Jungkook almost as though he’s speaking
to a child, and it’s oddly comforting, makes it easier to accept what the nurse chooses to do next.
“Let’s get you back to Yoongi, hm?” He nods, almost to himself, then bends down and grabs
Jungkook around his bare waist, hoisting the smaller man over his shoulder in an efficient
fireman’s carry. His large hands fall to the backs of Jungkook’s bare thighs and he finds his cock
pressed to Namjoon’s broad shoulder, a none-too-pleasant sensation, especially with how
oversensitive he still is from his long day of stimulation. When he lands with his head facing the
small nurse’s back, he lets out a small “oof” as all the air is knocked from his chest, which earns
him a shush from his captor.
Once he’s sure that Jungkook is secure in his hold, Namjoon simply takes off down the hall
carrying Jungkook as though he’s no more than a mannequin. The younger man’s head and arms
dangle and bounce uncontrollably with each of the nurse’s steps and his ass is thrust up into the air
over the taller man’s shoulder with Jungkook powerless to stop it.
The walk to Yoongi’s classroom is familiar but seems twice as long as usual, and Jungkook thanks
his lucky stars that it’s after hours and that the hallways are abandoned—until he remembers
Namjoon’s harsh warning about moving on his own and the threat of some as-of-yet undefined
punishment, and knows that he will likely be manhandled like this again tomorrow, and the next
day, and the day after that. What punishment could be worse than losing his job, or getting his
future career ruined? Jungkook definitely, definitely doesn’t want to find out.
Health Lab—First Floor—West 08.15.18 4:11PM
"Hello, Yoongi, I brought Mr. Jeon back for you."
The older teacher greets them with a tired grunt when Namjoon opens his classroom door, taking
one look at Jungkook’s bare form slung over the nurse’s shoulder before ushering them quickly
into his office and closing the door.
“Took you longer than I expected…” Yoongi grumbles, which Namjoon only replies to with
another good-natured smile and a shrug that jostles Jungkook’s loose form. “Put him down on the
desk for now, I guess. No—wait—on the lab table.”
Namjoon bends down and sets Jungkook’s bare ass on the metal surface offered to him before
shifting his weight so that he can re-position the pliant man so that he is lying prone across the flat
top of the desk, and Jungkook lets himself be tugged here and there until his limbs are positioned
the way Yoongi wants. Yoongi steps forward to look him over, his hands probing here and there at
Jungkook’s abdomen, until he steps back with a huff.
“Looks like you took care of everything for me. Thank you.” The teacher doesn’t sound
particularly grateful, but Namjoon smiles and nods anyway.
“Alright, well, I have all of my grading done for the night, why don’t we get going?” And to
Jungkook’s shock, he starts packing up his briefcase and heading towards the door. Namjoon
hesitates, looking back and forth between Yoongi and Jungkook, and Yoongi pauses at the door to
look back over his shoulder. “Do you still need to carpool home?” The teacher asks Namjoon, and
the nurse nods his head slowly but still doesn’t start moving.
“What about Jung—what about the doll?” He asks. Jungkook can just barely see Yoongi roll his
eyes from across the room.
“Leave him there, he can sleep on the table for tonight. I’ll get his stand set up tomorrow, I didn’t
have time today.” Yoongi answers with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘Sleep on the table—? What?’ Jungkook feels himself try to protest, try to speak, but he feels like
his thoughts are moving in slow motion, his limbs sluggish to respond. The day must have taken
more out of him than he thought, the constant torment he’s been put through exhausting him down
to his bones.
“He won’t get cold?” Namjoon asks, still sounding concerned, but he’s already making his way
towards the door as though the answer doesn’t much matter.
“Who cares?” He hears Yoongi say, though his voice grows more distant as he passes through the
door, and then the room is silent except for the click of the latch and the soft jingle of keys turning
the deadbolt on the door.
And then Jungkook is alone, lying naked on a steel table in the middle of a science lab, and he
doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know how much time passes as he lies there,
eyes unfocused as he stares up at the tiled ceiling. After what feels like hours, Jungkook does feel
the coldness of the classroom start to sink in, and he realizes that the heat in the building must have
been turned off for the night with everyone gone for the day. Did they really intend to leave him
here like this? When was he going to go home? He had things to take care of, bills to pay—he
hadn’t taken a shower since the day before, either, and he felt filthy.
But even as he thinks to get off the table, he realizes that he’d have nowhere to go, not with the
door locked behind Yoongi. He really was trapped here, then—where were his things? Had
someone taken them? What about his car? Was it still in the lot? What good would it do him, if he
couldn’t reach it, he wonders.
His back aches from the way the metal table presses into his spine, his limbs deadened after hours
of being forced to stand in front of the classroom, his bowls tight from their forcible cleaning, his
stomach uncomfortably full from his so-called dinner, his cock sore after being edged for so long
over the day. He tries to shift into a more comfortable position, but only serves to make things
worse for himself, one of his legs sliding off the edge of the table to flop uselessly into the air.
Somehow, Jungkook is too tired, feels too boneless, to move any more than that, and he resigns
himself to lying still and just breathing through the discomfort. Maybe in the morning, with a little
bit of rest, he’ll regain some of his strength and will be able to move of his own volition again.
Maybe.
Another hour passes, then two, his mind drifting even as he shivers from the increasing cold, his
leg stinging with pins and needles as the odd position his foot has flopped into pinches off some of
his blood supply. He thinks idly that even if he was able to get to his feet, he wouldn’t be able to
support himself with a numb limb like that.
The prickling sensation is uncomfortable, yes, but he slowly realizes that the burning in his foot
isn’t nearly so uncomfortable as the burning in his lower abdomen as the soup from his dinner
starts to move through his digestive tract, his bladder steadily filling up until Jungkook feels his
cock twitch with the need to relieve himself.
Oh no—oh NO.
The creeping, stinging pressure grows quickly, almost too quickly for Jungkook to realize the
problem, and by the time his groggy mind realizes that he needs to get out of bed, needs to find a
bathroom—it hits him that he’s not at home, not in a bed, not near a bathroom—and that he can’t.
fucking. move.
Could he get up, maybe—maybe shake his foot awake, find somewhere in the science lab to empty
his bladder? Maybe one of the lab stations has a sink he could use—but, no—what if someone
were to find out?
His first attempt at shifting his leg makes him groan, clenching his teeth shut to muffle the sound.
The limp limb swings slightly beside the table as he waits for the prickling feeling to subside,
thinking wistfully of home now, of the freedom he had only days before to go do what he pleased,
to go where he wanted. Now, finds his chest tight as though corseted by fear, by the worry of what
might happen were he to be caught moving like this.
Still, the burning in his gut is too much to bear, and with the room around him almost oppressively
quiet, it's easier to weight the risks and give into his agitation to try for some movement again.
This time, he manages through the weakness and the pain to clench at the muscles in his core and
swing his leg enough to give him the momentum he needs to sit upright—at least enough to
instinctively prop himself up on his elbow for a better vantage-point of the room.
It's long-since fallen dark outside the far windows, only the light from security lamps in the
hallway illuminating the room through the window laid into the classroom door. The room is, as
he suspected, completely empty, and he thinks, 'this is it, this is my chance—'
But as he pushes himself upright even further on his shaky arm, looking around the room for the
nearest place to relieve himself without drawing attention—for certainly, there must be someone in
the building who might notice—he feels an unpleasant prickling at the back of his neck that seems
to be from more than just the cold sweat clinging to his skin.
He turns his head left and right to the best of his ability, his sore muscles protesting all the while,
as he tries to check out of the corner of his eye for any movement, any sign of life in the room
aside from himself, any explanation for the strange sensation that he is being watched—but there's
nothing there on either side.
The sensation is persistent, though, gnawing away at the back of his mind, burning at the back of
his neck all the same. In a moment of paranoia, the tightness building in his chest until his heart
starts to kick into high gear, he squints up at the ceiling through the darkness, trying to see if there
is any way—
—and then he spots it, in the corner—a red light blinking down at him menacingly.
A security camera.
Oh god...does that mean someone, somewhere, has been watching him this whole time? How
many cameras were there around this school? In the hallways, the nurses office? Fuck, his entire
day was probably caught on tape—and more importantly, someone is undoubtedly monitoring the
security right now, in the dead of night, to make sure no unruly students break in to cause
mischief...or to ensure that no one inside the building breaks out.
It’s with a sense of impending dread that Jungkook realizes he can’t get up, even if he could get his
tired muscles to cooperate, even if he could get to his feet, because someone would see, someone
would tell Yoongi, or Namjoon—or worse, Principal Kim.
Just as painfully slowly, he lowers his body back to the table, sliding right back into place where
he had been left, his mind buzzing like so many bees as he tries to wrap his mind around the
situation.
It isn't just the staff, or Principal Kim he has to worry about—no, worse than even that—if the
classroom is on camera, then somewhere, someone must have—have footage of him, evidence of
what has happened in this room. Evidence of what has happened to him.
And if there's evidence...then there's a possibility that someone could see it, or leak it outside the
school. The uncomfortable twist in his stomach turns positively nauseating at the thought. This
must be what Yoongi had meant, earlier, when he had said—no, had threatened—that he would
make sure that Jungkook would never be hired as a teacher again if he didn't cooperate.
Fuck.
Who are these people?

His hands clench into fists at his side, fingers shaking with the effort, as his mind turns to even
worse consequences than even losing his job—worse than running the risk of this school, this—
this bizarre administration—turning on him, ruining his chance of becoming a teacher before it
even begins. No, those fears pale in comparison to the thought of people he knows seeing him like
this. His friends. His—
His parents.
God, he thinks he's going to puke. Here he is, naked and vulnerable, poked and prodded—
and every second of it could be on tape. Every second could be potential piece of blackmail for
Yoongi to use against him.
What would his parent's think? His father? He can practically taste bile at the back of his throat.
He doesn't even have to think about it for more than a second before he can hear his father's voice
in his ear—his deep, disappointed tone—calling him a disappointment, calling him pathetic,
telling him that he's now nothing more than a whore.
And—his mother...he doesn't even want to think about his mother, doesn't want to imagine the
look of horror on her face, her eyes wide in shock if she could see him—but still, his mind clings to
the thought of her like a lifeline. His mother—he aches to see her, the sound of her voice in his ear
taking over his father's now, telling him that she's proud of him, that this is such a great
opportunity...
Jungkook takes a deep breath. The panic rises in his chest all the same, the desperation to
be anywhere but here, but—
'Not allowed to move,' he reminds himself, giving his head the tiniest of nods as if trying to shake
away the intrusive thought that he needs to get the fuck off this table.
'No,' he thinks, 'no, it's not safe, not now—they're watching—'
His body tenses, muscles clenching as his thoughts tumble one over the other, the vague bones of a
plan coming together from his scattered musings. He thinks about the morning, about passing
period, moments when he might be able to—to slip away, or—
—it's impossible to keep track of them all, not with the way his body aches and his blood rushes in
his ears, impossibly loud in the otherwise silent building. His stomach feels tighter than ever, and
he loses the end of his last thought as he fights back the urge to try and reach up with his heavy,
weakened arms to cover his clenching middle, the twinges of pain from his—overfull bladder,
aching for release—
'Oh no—no, no, no, no—'
He bites his lip and shakes his head again, feeling his pelvic muscles roil as they fight to keep his
bladder in check, but now—
'No—no, please—!'
Tears are prickling at his eyes now, making the sight of the ceiling above his head swim before
him as he tries to blink them away, tries to fight back every instinct screaming at him to jump up
from the table, to bolt out of the room—
‘Not allowed to move—not allowed to walk—not allowed to move—’
He clenches his hands into fists at his sides once more, the most movement he’s willing to make,
and tries his damnedest to tighten up his abdominal muscles as well, to fight back the rushing,
urgent need to pee—but despite being fit and well-built, he feels like he’s been forced to run a
marathon...and even the most in-shape person can only withstand so much.
There are goosebumps on his skin, he’s shivering, his head spinning—and it only makes it worse,
only makes it harder to hold back, until—
Jungkook feels his muscles collapse and a hot rush of liquid spill down his thigh, tears suddenly
spilling from his eyes too as he realizes that he’s pissing himself right there on the table, in full
view of the camera, in the middle of the damn classroom. And to make matters worse, it feels good
—feels downright euphoric to finally let go after hours of stomach cramps and muscles burning.
The flood doesn’t stop, either—he had been holding back for so long, the pressure releasing with
such force that he can hear the rushing hiss of it in the silent room—and he can feel it pooling
beneath him, running around the edges of his body and over his fingertips where his hands are
clenched on the tabletop. It’s hot, so hot against his skin in the freezing air and it would feel good,
almost, except for how it almost burns.
After a long moment of release, the pool is too large and starts to spill over the edge, and Jungkook
can hear the distinct sound of it dripping and splattering across the tiled floor of the classroom.
Oh, Yoongi is going to kill him tomorrow, he thinks. Would it really have been so bad to get up?
What would they punish him for more—getting up to prevent a mess, or staying still to make one?
He can’t stop crying, especially once he can start to smell it, the acrid scent of his own piss hitting
his nose as the stream dies down and then drip-drip-drips to a stop. What—what a fucking mess he
is, lying in his own filth like a baby...Jungkook can feel his whole body try to clench, to run,
wracked with shame, but the piss keeps coming and Jungkook goes nowhere. Finally, only the
sound of the continued dribble of urine from the table to the floor is left, echoing heavily through
the silent classroom and sounding impossibly loud to Jungkook’s ears.
But if he couldn’t move before, he certainly can’t move now, not with the way his whole body
seems to positively melt after finally letting go of so much tension. Without the niggling, burning
sensation in his belly, there is nothing to distract him from the utter exhaustion that takes him over,
body and mind, and before he realizes what’s happening, Jungkook finds himself unconscious,
tears still drying on his cheeks.
Welcome to voice message services. You have—ONE — unread message. Dial seven for message
review.
BEEP.
August 13th, 2018—7:52pm.
“Jungkookie, it’s mom...I hope you’re doing alright, sweetie! Just checking in to see how your first
day went...we thought we’d hear from you today, but maybe you’re just really busy…”
“—tell him that’s not an excuse—”

“—your father and I are so proud of you, sweetheart, always always always! I’m sure you’re out
there doing amazing things, honey, don’t let us old folks get in your way. Just give us a call back
when you have a moment, we worry and we always want to hear from you! I can’t wait to know
what you’re teaching and what your classroom is like and—”
“—just wrap it up, please? We’re going to be late—”
“Oh, I guess I should go, sorry for the long message, sweetheart...just—do your best! We’ll talk to
you soon! We love you, Jungkookie. Bye!”
BEEP.
End of message. To replay this message, press four. To save this message, press seven. To delete
this message, press nine.
Front Office—Security—First Floor 08.15.18 9:53PM
He scours an empty classroom for any signs of life—finding none, as expected—before moving on,
shutting the door behind him with barely a sound. The building is all but abandoned, a dark carcass
in the night. It’s eerily quiet, but this is when he finds the most peace. The hallways are empty,
veins free of blood. He walks hallway after hallway, a lone figure casting long shadows along the
floor, moonlight through sporadic windows exaggerating his stature as he passes by.
There are eyes above him—watching, always watching—but he no longer fears their gaze. No,
tonight, he is on a mission. Tonight he walks with head held high, even as he lays his footsteps
carefully against the tile below. Rounding a corner, heading to the very heart of the building, he
clicks at the switch that dims the flashlight in his hand—normally held aloft, but in these liminal
house, it would draw too much attention.
Navigating this building is as easy as breathing, after all these years. He can’t remember the last
time his mind has been anywhere else, really. With hardly a thought, his feet carry him along well-
worn paths on his usual rounds, his focus lying firmly somewhere else for the moment.
When he arrives at his destination, staring up at the imposing height of the door before him, it
almost seems too easy. The jingle of his keys along their large ring is harsh and piercing through
the dark, cutting the almost palpable silence in the hall. Careful fingers extricate the ring from his
pocket, press the cuts of metal together to keep them from moving, and slide a single key into the
lock before him.
When the door swings open without further prompting, it only serves to steel his resolve, ease of
access urging his feet to carry him forward through the office beyond. This—this is a place he is
both achingly familiar with, and uncomfortably naive of in equal measure. Many an hour had been
passed in this space, a lifetime ago—he remembers it vividly now; the watching, the waiting. And
yet, even here, there are doors that never opened.
It is on this matter that he muses as he clutches at the keys in his hand, feeling the bite of metal
teeth against his skin as he fumbles the unfamiliar shape of his newest acquisition—the luckiest of
finds. An opportunity.
And it is here that he finds it. ‘Security.’ The sign beside the door is unassuming, but he knows
better.
The moment of truth—key into lock, lock from latch—and sure enough, his hunch is proven
correct. This door, just as before, swings open with only the slightest of prompting.
For a moment, just a moment, he waits with bated breath—but there are no sudden sirens, no
flashing lights. No one waiting in the shadows to find him.
The room is dark, but his eyes have long-since adjusted. Lit only by a bay of screens laid out before
him, bathed in a deep green light, he finds himself drawn in by the power of it all. Each and every
screen is filled with a familiar sight—classrooms and offices, hallways and stairwells, bathrooms
and basements. And suddenly, the eyes are his eyes, and he can see everything.
It feels, well—
—powerful.
His eyes trace the rows of images for the one he is searching for, and it takes several long minutes
to spot it, reading over labels that claim each video feed to belong to the Front Office-Reception-
First Floor, Hallway-Second Floor-East, Bathroom-Third Floor-South—
There. Health Lab-First Floor-West. An empty classroom, lined with rows and rows of lab
benches and stools, recorded from a camera positioned in the rear-left corner of the ceiling.
This is where he spots it—a lone figure, lying atop one of the tables, frozen in place.
There is a sick fascination that comes with watching from this bird’s-eye-view as the doll on the
table trembles and twitches, its eyes too far away to be seen clearly but ostensibly shifting to scour
its surroundings. He catches it immediately when the doll’s eyes land on the camera, face turning
slightly to meet his gaze as he looks back through the screen, rooms and rooms away but feeling
close enough that he could reach out and touch it if he tried. The heavy shadows of the room leave
the doll’s eyes as nothing more than dark circles in its face, and they stare up at the camera with
such intention, with such understanding.
‘It knows it’s being watched,’ he thinks. ‘Good.’
As the minutes drag on and on, the doll’s struggle becomes more and more apparent, body
twitching as it fights against every instinct it has—until it all proves too much, and he watches
through the feed as the doll succumbs to the inevitable, gives into nature, and makes an utter mess
of itself.
‘What a shame.’ But—still. ‘The first night is always the hardest.’
Having seen what he came to see, he tears his eyes away at last, searching instead for the one tool
he has use for—a blank tape. He finds one in a nearby cabinet after some minutes of searching,
presses it into the nearest computer tower where he finds an opening for it. With questing fingers,
he finds the right buttons and knobs, adjusts the appropriate camera back several minutes, and
presses record .
Finished tape in hand, he returns everything precisely where he found it, careful to even wipe down
any surface he touched to rid it of his fingerprints. They are always watching, he reminds himself,
and their eyes see in many ways. He is patient enough to close the door behind him again with only
the smallest of clicks to betray his movements, and the lock is secured with the utmost care. He
can’t afford to betray his discovery, not now.
Turning, he looks towards the front of the office where a sign above the door looms bright, green,
menacing. ‘EXIT,’ it reads. It is an invitation he can’t take, a seat at a table where he can’t have a
bite to eat. A cruel mockery.
But as he passes through the office, down the long hallway that leads to the waiting room, that
leads out to freedom—despite his deliberation, his thorough attention to detail—he manages to
miss one particular thing at his back.
A sliver of light, barely the width of a finger, that outlines the shape of a door behind him. The soft
glow flickers for the briefest of moments, as if a pair of feet had passed before it, then suddenly—
quietly—flips to darkness, leaving the office pitch black once more.
Namjoon sits quietly in the Nurse’s office, door closed to block out any residual sound from the
office beyond—not even the hum of the air conditioning making it through the barrier. He has
always appreciated the necessary quiet it gives him to do his valuable work, and now more than
ever—since his mind is making more than enough noise as it is.
His ears rush-rush-rush with the pulse of his blood, ringing with a tinny sound that just won’t go
away, no matter how much he rubs at his temples. He hasn’t so much as moved from his spot at
the desk, all but blending into the wall beyond as he stares down at the wooden surface before him
with his head in his hands.
Directly in his line of sight, the letter still greets him—face up, crisp and white and innocent except
for the stark lines of writing across its center that have caused him such distress. Delivered quietly,
unassuming, left on his desk for him to find at the end of the day. So simple, and yet—
He glances over at the paper again, unable to tear his eyes away from the words that made his
chest clench and his neck stiffen, that made him collapse into this chair minutes or hours before—
he doesn’t know.
‘—the Council has been carefully observing your progress over the past year, and we are pleased
to declare you ready for the next phase in your continued development. As you progress—’
He has to take a moment to close his eyes and breathe before reading the next segment, as though
bracing himself for what he already knows it says.
‘—As you progress through your training, tradition dictates that you must be shown the way by a
Guide.’
Fuck.
‘Your Guide will assist you in your exploration of self and truth, and there will be no secrets
between you, as is the way. The level of your development thus far necessitates a slim pool from
whom your Guide could be selected; at the request of leadership, the choice for your Guide will be
left to you—’
He can’t go on reading, not again.
He knows—Namjoon knows, without a shadow of a doubt, who he will be given to choose

between. There are only so many options, what with how far he has come.
His head is so heavy...so, so very heavy. It isn’t exhaustion, so much as resignment that sends
Namjoon to his feet, taking the few steps between his chair and the nearest sick bed on heavy legs,
his hand just barely connecting with the light switch to turn it off before he collapses to the sheets.
He wants nothing more than unconsciousness, the sweet embrace of darkness, but there is a soft
glow of light from beneath the door and his eyes can’t help but trace along the line of it again and
again. Despite the pillow beneath his head, the soft bed beneath his body, the worry weighing
heavily on his mind—Namjoon does not find a moment of sleep, his thoughts rushing long, long
into the night.
Health Lab—First Floor—West 08.16.18 7:03AM
Jungkook wakes with a start at the sound of the classroom door slamming open and a loud voice
making itself known from across the room.
“—hell is this? What did you do to my classroom?”
Jungkook blinks blearily, trying to focus through the haze of sleep, his neck aching when he tries
to turn his head to look at the teacher now storming his way across the classroom. “I leave you
here for one night and you make a complete mess! I should have known you’d be an incompetent
doll, unbelievable—”
And Jungkook feels himself being tugged by his ankle across the table top, sliding easily with the
mess of piss still pooled around him, now cooled and slightly sticky on his skin. Yoongi tugs him
to the side of the table and grabs one of his arms to jerk Jungkook into a sitting position,
shuddering openly and exaggeratedly when his hand comes away wet from Jungkook’s skin.
“Disgusting…” The teacher mutters darkly, wiping his hand on Jungkook’s chest where his skin is
dry. The pressure makes him sway precariously on the edge of the metal surface, too afraid to
move, too mortified to have been found this way, and—unable to catch himself—Jungkook finds
himself slipping from the table, his legs still numb from the night before, and collapsing to the wet
tile floor below.
“Ah, shit…” He hears Yoongi groan, the man moving around to look down at him worriedly.
When he sees that Jungkook is intact, eyes wide as he looks up at the older man, Yoongi scoffs and
straightens back up, heading away to his desk. Jungkook hears the unmistakable click of a phone
being picked up, then a long silence before Yoongi begins speaking again.
“Yes, hello, this is Mr. Min. Please pass along a message to the nurse's office—I need Namjoon
back to my classroom ASAP. Yes—yes, it’s urgent. And send janitorial as well. Yes, that’s fine,
I’ll wait, thank you.” The sound of the phone slamming back into the hook echoes menacingly
through the empty classroom.
“Now I have to spend my planning period getting your mess cleaned up.”
Jungkook immediately wants to apologize, wants to open his mouth and make the teacher
understand, come up with some sort of excuse, but Jungkook is nothing if not a fast learner and he
knows that the only apology Yoongi will accept is his cooperation and obedience. The older
teacher made that much clear the day before, if nothing else.
So Jungkook lies there, surrounded by a pool of his own piss, shivering again on the tabletop while
Yoongi busies himself with moving the stools away from the lab station and grumbling to himself
under his breath all the while. He listens numbly as the door open some minutes later, a tentative
set of footsteps approaching the table.
Another man appears in his line of vision as he moves to the front of the classroom, short—judging
by the angle at which Jungkook is forced to look up at him—likely no taller than Yoongi, though
much younger, his cheeks round and tinted pink with a pretty blush. He nibbles at his bottom lip as
he reaches Jungkook's side, biting at the plush curl of his mouth, his narrow eyes flickering
nervously over the scene before him but betraying no visible surprise at Jungkook's appearance or
the strangeness of a puddle of urine on the floor of a classroom.
He’s beautiful, Jungkook thinks idly, which makes it all the more surprising when he clears his
throat to draw Yoongi’s attention from the papers he had begun to shuffle around his desk and
introduces himself. “You called for janitorial, sir?”
“Ah—” Yoongi looks slightly startled by his appearance, but offers the younger man a surprisingly
genuine, gummy smile when he realizes who has appeared. “Ah, Jimin! Good. Thank you for
coming down.” He gives an almost apologetic sigh as he waves to Jungkook, who—though he was
paralyzed in fear before, is now frozen from sheer mortification—flushes helplessly at the
attention. “Obviously, we have a bit of a situation here...seems our newest hire has yet to learn how
to behave appropriately in the workplace.”
And Jungkook really wants to open his mouth to snap out a retort at that , because—because how
dare Yoongi say something like that, smear his professional integrity like that after knowing him
for only one day? Jungkook takes pride in his work, has always strived to be a star employee, and
he wants to snap back that it’s not fair to judge a colleague on their performance under rules that
weren’t made clear up front—but two things have Jungkook literally biting his tongue.
One, if there’s one rule that had been made perfectly clear to him was the expectation to remain
silent while on the job. Two, the icy cold look in Yoongi’s eyes as they’re turned on him, both men
rotating to face the lab table from a safe distance away. Jungkook gulps, the movement jerky,
instinctive, and Yoongi’s gaze traces the motion disapprovingly, which only makes the need to
swallow worse , really.
“I’ll need to get this cleaned up before the first bell, I assume? Is there a class scheduled for first
period?” Jimin asks, his voice low and deferential, but he looks at the mess around the table with a
serious, appraising gaze.
“Just a study hall. Second period will need to use the lab stations, though, so the sooner the better.”
Jungkook’s throat feels tight, eyes burning as if fighting back tears as they discuss the mess he
made as though he weren’t lying right in front of them, on display and vulnerable. “I’m afraid the
mess has been here for some time, I’m sure it’s long since cooled down.”
There’s something oddly apologetic about Yoongi’s tone, then, that Jungkook can’t place. Why
would it matter that his piss had cooled on the floor? He had figured that would make it better,
honestly, since the smell died down slightly over the hours he was left lying in it. Jimin, though,
seems to appreciate the consideration Yoongi seems to be showing—perhaps it’s more difficult to
clean up cold urine?
“I’ll make do…” Jimin mumbles, and he really does seem put out by the idea, though for what
reason, Jungkook can’t begin to fathom. It’s only then that Jungkook notices that Jimin hasn’t
brought any cleaning supplies or tools with him, hands empty save for a pair of work gloves that
are tucked into the sleeves of his dark coveralls, the uniform wildly oversized on Jimin’s small
frame so that the janitor has been forced to roll the sleeves (and probably the cuffs of his pants) up
several times to accommodate his shorter limbs. Is Jimin new as well?
“I need to stay here to finish some last minute grading, but don’t let me distract you,” Yoongi
offers offhandedly as he moves back towards his desk, his comment making absolutely no sense to
Jungkook—wouldn’t Jimin be the one being distracting, if he’s going to moving things around and
cleaning while a teacher is trying to work?
“I-It’s—it’s really no trouble—” Jimin immediately reassures him, and Jungkook follows the
smaller man with his eyes, trying to figure out what on earth he has to be so nervous about. Why
are they both acting so...so weird ?
He’s interrupted by a soft knock from the door, and Jungkook hears the now-familiar voice of
Namjoon greeting them both. “Hey, Yoongi, sorry I took so long, there was a—”
“Joon, please—I don’t care what it was, just come help Jimin get this mess taken care of?” Yoongi
cuts him off, not unkindly but certainly with a hint of impatience, waving a hand at Jungkook’s
prone form on the tabletop.
“Of course, of course. This is all my fault, I’m so sorry for not taking care of this last night, I’m
such a bonehead. It’s been so long, I forgot that I needed to…” Namjoon rambles as he approaches
and Yoongi just gives a tolerant roll of his eyes.
“Hi, Jimin,” he adds as he moves into Jungkook’s line of sight, giving the janitor a friendly pat on
the shoulder as he moves around the much shorter man. To Jungkook’s surprise, Jimin flinches
noticeably under the touch, raising a hand to his stomach through his oversized jumpsuit with a
slight grimace. Namjoon doesn’t seem to think anything of it, just moves over to frown
disapprovingly down at Jungkook.
"Oh, doll...what a shame, you were doing so well..."
The nurse pulls a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and pulls them on with a snap before
reaching out to tug at Jungkook’s body, sliding him across the table top until he reaches the edge
and carefully keeping his feet back away from the piss that splatters to the floor with the
movement.
“Here, help me, Jimin?” He asks, and Jimin steps forward immediately to tuck his own gloved
hands beneath Jungkook’s shoulders while Namjoon takes his feet in a strong grip and together
they lift him bodily from the tabletop.
Piss drips from his body across the floor as they carry him together across the room to the far
corner, Jimin sighing in disappointment at the spreading mess, to an emergency wash station.
Jungkook recognizes it from his own days in high school, though he’d never seen anyone have to
use one, aside from the rumors of teachers using them to shower sometimes between classes
(probably untrue).
It doesn’t sink in immediately that they intend to use it on him until Namjoon drops his feet down
to the floor and Jimin sets him against the wall with surprising care, his forehead resting against
the tile while his back and ass are presented out towards the room. Jimin reaches down to take
each of Jungkook’s wrists in his gloved hands, the rough material feeling like sandpaper against his
overly-sensitive skin, and Jungkook lets the smaller man move his arms like clay as he places
Jungkook’s hands on the wall on either side of his body to hold himself up.
“Stay.” Namjoon tells him, voice slipping down into his more clinical tone, which Jungkook
immediately feels compelled to follow. He locks his knees to keep his legs upright, back
straightening slightly, but he otherwise remains as still as he can as he waits for the two of them
prepare to rise him down. Oh, this is going to suck , he thinks—but at least he’ll be getting clean?
The idea of having to sit with the tacky, sticky sensation of piss drying on his skin for any longer
makes him feel sick, so at first it truly comes as a relief when the first spray of water cascades
down on him from above.
It quickly becomes apparent, though, that this shower was designed for emergencies and not for
comfort, the spray too harsh and frigid, leaving Jungkook shivering while his skin feels like it’s
being pelted with sand rather than water. The cycle of the water stops automatically after a minute
and Jungkook thinks it’s over, feels himself relaxing automatically—only to be shocked back into
stiffness as a second blast of water hits him square in the back, even more forceful than before as
though being sprayed directly by a hose of some sort. The rushing sound of the water mercifully
conceals the startled yelp he lets out before he manages to clamp his mouth closed and brace
himself against the onslaught, whomever is holding the hose sending the water back and forth in
long sweeps across his skin.
The spray is directed away from his skin but doesn’t stop, and over the noise Jungkook hears
something that sounds like “Turn him over,” before he feels Jimin’s rough, gloved hands grab onto
his shoulders and move his body until he’s leaning back against the wall facing the two of them.
He can see now that Namjoon is the one holding the hose, a long metal coil that attaches to the
shower, and the only thought that passes through his mind before the water is turned back on him
is that he doesn’t remember his high school having one of those in the classroom.
It’s so much worse, somehow, to be facing them all, to see the way Jimin looks on with barely
concealed pity as he shivers, or how Yoongi continues with his grading and doesn’t spare
Jungkook a single glance as Namjoon continues to pass the spray back and forth across Jungkook’s
bare skin while focusing with that same clinical detachment—leaving Jungkook feeling more like a
prisoner than ever, or worse, like common cattle lined up for auction. He has to close his eyes to
block out the sight, feeling disgusted—but mostly with himself, for being so filthy, for making a
mess—
And when the harsh spray finally hits his soft cock, burning mercilessly as it all but batters his
sensitive skin, Jungkook realizes this is his punishment, that Namjoon isn’t doing this to be cruel,
but it amounts to a punishment anyway—that this will be the consequence of his mistake, to be so
humiliated, to need this—and god, he never wants to be such a disappointment again.
It seems like ages before the water is finally turned off again, his body not quite catching up to the
end of his torment until Jimin steps forward and starts to run a rough rag up and down his limbs to
dry him off, wiping him down like—like—like a piece of furniture .
He can’t meet Jimin’s eyes and the smaller man seems determined not to do the same, just focusing
on his work with as much detachment as possible—though up close like this, Jungkook can spot
the faintest blush on Jimin’s round cheeks, the janitor not so unaffected by the goings-on as he
would like to seem.
“Can you bring him back over to the front?” Namjoon calls over his shoulder while turning his
attention to the hose in his hands and making quick work of coiling back into its place under the
shower and out of the way. Jimin answers only with a low hum, looking Jungkook up and down
while biting his lip contemplatively as if trying to work out the mechanics of picking up the taller
man.
He seems to settle on much the same method that Namjoon had resorted to and bends at the waist
—slowly, and much more carefully than the nurse had done—to press his shoulder under
Jungkook’s waist and hook an arm beneath his knees to hoist Jungkook over his shoulder like an
oversized rag doll.
Unlike with Namjoon, Jimin seems to struggle immediately with this task—not because he isn’t
strong enough, because his stance and grip never waiver—but almost as though the added weight
is hurting him in some way. As the janitor straightens up and begins to move back to the front of
the classroom towards Yoongi’s desk, Jungkook can hear the small hisses and almost
imperceptible groans the man chokes down, sounds that Jimin certainly doesn’t intend for anyone
to hear.
Namjoon joins them at the front of the classroom again, directing Jimin to set Jungkook down on
an unused lab table beside the one he dirtied the night before. As Jimin bends again to place
Jungkook’s bare ass against the tabletop, he makes another sound that Jungkook is the only one to
hear, a low, choked-off moan that causes the smaller man to pause halfway bent over, his hands
clutching at Jungkook’s bare sides. It takes him a long, pregnant pause to collect himself again,
Jungkook forced to straighten his spine to keep from falling over under the added weight against
him. Yet, when Jimin returns to standing upright, his expression is as blank as ever, features
carefully schooled into an expression of detached professionalism.
“Jimin.” Yoongi’s deep voice interrupts the silence from across the classroom, and Jungkook
glances over Jimin’s head to spot the teacher looking disappointedly at the back of Jimin’s hunched
shoulders. He doesn’t say anything more—doesn’t need to, apparently, since Jimin flinches as
though he’s been slapped just from the sound of his own name and hurriedly turns to offer Yoongi
an apologetic little bow as he apologizes.
“I’m s-sorry, sir—”
“Don’t let me catch you misbehaving again, Jimin.” Yoongi continues, though he turns his icy
gaze back to the papers spread across the desk in front of him. “Get back to work.”
Namjoon offers Jimin a sympathetic look as he steps up to the janitor’s side, patting him on the
shoulder gently. Jimin doesn’t flinch at the contact this time, though it’s a near thing. “I’ll take it
from here,” Namjoon offers in a gentle voice, to which Jimin only gives a small, shaky nod.
Namjoon switches places janitor then, Jimin turning slowly back to the piss covered table with his
shoulders hunched almost up to his ears as Namjoon slides a hand under Jungkook’s knees and
wraps the other arm around his shoulders to hoist him off the table and across his forearms, bracing
Jungkook’s body across his chest like a bride.
“Gotta get the rest of his morning routine taken care of before second period,” the nurse grumbles,
mostly to himself as Jimin no longer seems to be paying attention, Namjoon’s voice coming out a
little strained from the added effort of holding Jungkook’s fit body in his arms. ‘Morning
routine…?’ Jungkook thinks dimly, mind still swimming from his head flopping back as Namjoon
picked him up.
“I’ll—uh—leave you to it. I’ll have him back shortly, Yoongi.” He waves at Yoongi as best as he
can from beneath Jungkook’s body, but the teacher doesn’t look up to spare him a glance.
“That’s fine. Just don’t be late.” Yoongi murmurs as he continues his grading, and Jungkook can
feel Namjoon’s body stiffen against him. As Namjoon shifts to carry his limp form to the door,
Jungkook too tired to do anything more than allow himself to be carried bonelessly, he catches a
glimpse of Jimin around Namjoon’s bicep. Jimin approaches the pool of piss on the floor slowly,
his boots stopping just before the edge of it, and Yoongi finally raises his head to watch him
appraisingly. Jungkook can’t believe his eyes as the janitor drops to his knees beside the pooled
liquid while Yoongi actually sets his pen down to watch. What is Jimin doing?
He finds his curiosity unsatisfied as Namjoon passes through the door and rounds the corner,
making the classroom—and the janitor, kneeling and vulnerable—disappear from Jungkook’s line
of sight.
The walk back to the nurse’s office is surprisingly silent, Jungkook already missing Namjoon’s
soft, introspective chatter to himself as they pass through the deserted hallways, the morning light
angled through the open classroom doors bathing the building in an eerie glow. Still, it gives him a
few peaceful moments to relax in Namjoon’s arms, his eyes falling closed in a semblance of sleep.
It comes as a shock, then, when he is unceremoniously dumped onto one of the sick beds in
Namjoon’s office, jolting him awake and nearly startling a shocked noise from his mouth before he
can stop himself.
“How could you do this to me?” He hears Namjoon ask from behind him, and remembers only at
the last second not to turn his head to look at him directly. He fights to catch his breath, his heart
racing in fear, his muscles trembling with the effort to hold them still. He hears Namjoon slamming
cabinets on the other side of the room, indistinguishable thumping and clacking noises sending
Jungkook’s mind racing through a list of possible scenarios—what could the nurse possibly be
planning for him today? When he hears the unmistakable rush of water over his shoulder, he
realizes with a horrible swoop of trepidation low in his stomach that he knows what at least one
part of his morning routine will include.
“You embarrassed me in front of Yoongi, I can’t believe you!” Namjoon continues blustering,
returning to Jungkook to grab his ankles and tug him where he wants him without warning,
Jungkook’s hands clenching into the sheets beneath him and dragging them along as he’s moved to
the center of the bed and his legs are dragged to line up with each of the corners of the frame. He
tries to look down his body to see what the nurse is doing at his feet but he can’t catch a good look
beyond the end of the bed where Namjoon has knelt. He brings his eyes back to the ceiling and
tries to breath again, calm down—
A calm that is immediately shattered as he hears the clink of metal on metal and feels something
soft wrap around one of his ankles. Restraints. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he feels his leg
jerk in Namjoon’s grip on his ankle, tugging at the leather cuff that Namjoon is fastening to hold
his leg in place, and he immediately feels a sharp, shocking pain across his thigh accompanied by a
loud resounding slap as Namjoon strikes him for his disobedience.
“Clearly the restraints are necessary, since you’re forgetting your most important job duty, doll.”
And now the nurse is angry , his grip tightening almost painfully as he jerks Jungkook’s ankle
back into place and firmly tightens the cuff closed. His other ankle follows in short succession,
Jungkook knowing better than to flinch as the second cuff is fastened into place, his legs suddenly
immobilized so he no longer has a choice but to remain still, which seems to please Namjoon some.
“I thought we were cool, I thought you might be a new friend here at work, they’re hard to come
by—”
Namjoon moves up to stand beside Jungkook’s head then, grabbing at one of his wrists and tearing
his grip away from the sheets. He bends down to pull another set of cuffs from beneath the bed and
Jungkook feels his hand curl into a fist inside Namjoon’s grip even as his left arm is fastened
tightly to the bed frame, making the gesture useless. “But you embarrassed me and now I have to
do twice as much work.”
When he moves around the bed to jerk at Jungkook’s other arm, the smaller man manages to resist,
his muscles weak and overworked but his grip on the sheets strong enough to stop Namjoon in his
tracks. Why the fuck does the nurse need him tied down like this? Jungkook remembers,
sluggishly, the warning the nurse had given him the day prior, about being uncooperative leading
to restraints, but he hadn’t been uncooperative—until now, that is. Is Namjoon just dishing out his
own punishment? Had—had Jungkook really gotten him into some sort of trouble? The nurse truly
did seem upset about Jungkook’s accident and Yoongi’s disapproval…
“Hey!” This time, the slap lands clean on his cheek, sending his head snapping to the side with the
force of the impact. Jungkook’s mouth falls open in surprise, though he mercifully manages not to
make a sound—too stunned to say anything, really. “I warned you about misbehaving, doll, I
warned you...are you going to make my job more difficult than it needs to be? I already have a long
day ahead of me because of you.”
He waits as if expecting Jungkook to respond but the younger man knows better now, knows he
doesn’t want to get slapped again for opening his mouth. They stare at each other, the tension
between them palpable, until Jungkook relents, realizing dejectedly that he has no ground to stand
on—literally—with three of his limbs chained to a goddamn bed frame. As soon as his grip on the
sheets goes slack, so too does the tension melt from Namjoon’s shoulders.
“That’s more like it.” The nurse doesn’t seem happy , exactly, but relaxes back into his detached
professionalism as Jungkook resigns himself to letting his last limb be bound to the bed. The cuffs
are tighter than is strictly necessary, but made of a soft leather and padded to protect his joints. He
flexes against them as subtly as he can manage, testing their limits only to find that he can barely
move his limbs at all.
“Okay,” Namjoon says with a clap of his hands, shocking Jungkook back to attention. “We have a
lot to get through this morning, no time to waste.” And he grabs for a tray of tools from his desk,
setting it aside where Jungkook can't get a good look at it. What the nurse grabs first and holds up
in his line of sight spurs the start of a horrible feeling in Jungkook’s stomach—a long, thick tube,
ribbed and made of plastic, looking like no medical device Jungkook has ever seen. Namjoon
brings it closer to Jungkook’s face and he tries, futilely, to move his head back away from the
device despite having no real room to go anywhere.
“Open,” Namjoon commands, tapping on Jungkook’s bottom lip with a finger. The younger man
immediately clenches his mouth shut, wanting nothing to do with whatever Namjoon has in mind,
but it does him no good when he can’t move away from Namjoon’s hand—the nurse immediately
grabs at his face with his entire hand at the first sign of disobedience, digging his fingers into the
side of Jungkook’s jaw until he’s forced to allow his lips to part. “Open.” Namjoon repeats, as
though Jungkook has any choice but to follow the order.
The moment the tube his his tongue, Jungkook is gagging, the plastic tasting bitter and sterile and
the width of it a little too much for comfort. He tries to turn his head away, jerking desperately in
Namjoon’s hold with no regard for punishment, but the nurse holds him steady with little trouble,
professional and utterly unconcerned with his discomfort. He feels every ridge of the plastic as it
passes down his throat, almost too large for him to breathe around, and the process seems to go on
forever before the tube settles in place. At some point, Jungkook couldn’t help but close his eyes as
if blocking out the sight would stop it from happening, but they fly back open when he starts to
feel something...cool? move down his throat, the sensation buffered by the plastic on his tongue.
He opens his eyes to see Namjoon holding a large jar of a pink, viscous substance—a substance he
is pouring into the tube and watching carefully as it empties itself down Jungkook’s throat. The
moment it hits him that he’s being fed like this, he feels himself gag around the tube, spluttering
even as the fluid continues to move past his tongue and down into his stomach against his will.
Namjoon frowns at his discomfort and resistance and reaches down to press the fingers of his free
hand to Jungkook’s neck, probably able to feel the rigid plastic through the smaller man’s skin, his
hand not applying any pressure—though the threat is immediately clear.
Namjoon dumps the rest of the liquid into the tube and waits until it has completely settled in
Jungkook’s stomach, the “meal” leaving him feeling heavy and slightly bloated, before he tosses
the bottle in the trash and moves to pull the tube free, taking care to pull on the plastic slowly so as
to not damage Jungkook’s throat.
Each tug at the plastic leaves the younger man with a wave of nausea rising in his belly, his gag
reflex being triggered by the second, and the moment the end of the tube hits his tongue he feels
himself retching, his stomach spamming to relieve the awful stimulation. Namjoon clamps his
fingers shut over Jungkook’s nose, cutting off his air supply so he is forced to breathe through the
nausea until it subsides, the nurse handling his jerky resistance to his discomfort with that same
practiced detachment.
Only when the older man pulls his hand away and he can breathe properly again does Jungkook
manage to force his voice to leave his mouth. “What the fu—”
But Namjoon is ready, doesn’t seem to find his outburst surprising so much as he finds it
frustrating, and slaps a hand over Jungkook’s mouth instead, muffling the rest of his sentence. The
nurse reaches for a shelf above Jungkook’s head and grabs for something stored there, bringing it
down to swing in front of Jungkook’s face.
“Since you can’t seem to follow directions today, this seems necessary,” Namjoon tells him, voice
dismissive and disappointed, like a parent speaking to a child. And Jungkook watches the object
swat before his eyes, recognizes it for what it is—a large plastic ball attached to two leather straps,
a gag to hold his mouth open while also muffling any sounds he makes. He feels new tears prickle
at his eyes as the nurse shifts his hand to pry Jungkook’s jaw open again, leaving him no choice
but to bite down around the ball as it’s pressed between his teeth, Namjoon pushing his head
around as necessary to buckle the straps in place behind him.
“There, that should help you remember your job, hm? And to keep your meal where it belongs,
too.” He can see the sadistic smile that curls at the corner of Namjoon’s lips now, his sweet face
and pretty dimples making the expression all the more sinister. How did he not notice, Jungkook
wonders—how did he spend the last two days somehow thinking that this man was the one ally he
might have in this school? And what—what has he gotten himself into, truly…?
“Alright, back to business.” Namjoon turns away, stepping out of Jungkook’s line of sight, making
suspicious but indistinguishable noises that only serve to heighten Jungkook’s anxiety, his jaw
already beginning to ache with the way his teeth dig into his gag. When Namjoon returns, it
surprises Jungkook to see him with a razor in hand—a straight razor, old-fashioned and out of place
—although, come to think of it, Jungkook realizes that all of the medical tools the nurse has been
using have been oddly dated and anachronistic.
The taller man seems content not to explain himself further as he bends over Jungkook’s middle,
sliding a gloved hand around Jungkook’s flaccid cock and balls to pull it away from his thighs. Oh
—
Namjoon sets the intimidating blade down on Jungkook’s stomach, the cold metal making
Jungkook’s abs quiver, and focuses his attention on uncapping a bottle and spraying, then
spreading, what feels like shaving cream across Jungkook’s balls and upper thighs. In comparison
to his earlier treatment, it’s much easier than before to remain calm and still while Namjoon picks
the razor back up and brings it down to Jungkook’s skin, dragging the blade along until a long strip
of clear, hairless skin is left behind—the blade doesn’t scare him, per se, but the treatment seems
odd even among the other ordeals he has been put through since arriving.
Namjoon continues much in the same way as he chooses a path downward between Jungkook’s
legs, tugging at Jungkook’s skin and moving his cock and balls here and there to get at every inch
of his skin, wiping the blade clean on the edge of the sheets as though not caring if the bed is made
dirty by the process. Jungkook’s skin feels oddly cool, sensitive and suddenly exposed to the cool
air, and it almost adds insult to injury when Namjoon finishes his task only to set the razor aside
and continue his careful inspection of Jungkook’s genitals, made easier by their newfound
exposure.
“I’m sure Yoongi will like this…” Namjoon comments, more to himself than anything. “An even
prettier doll for the class to look at.”
Jungkook tries to make a sound of protest, but it dies behind the gag still firmly wedged between
his teeth, though it does draw the nurse’s attention back up to his face again.
“Getting impatient, are we?” The nurse asks, smiling as though he knows that’s the exact opposite
of how Jungkook is feeling. Impatient? Impatient for what?! “Alright, alright, you twisted my arm,
doll. Let’s get you all taken care of and back to class where you belong.”
When the nurse walks away this time, he seems to step completely out of the room, his footsteps
receding until suddenly they stop, and so does the sound of running water that had faded into the
background. The room seems eerily quiet without the white noise of the tap running, broken only
by the sound of his heavy breathing around his gag and the small clicks and thumps he hears from
the other room.
He knows he should be able to hear at least some sounds from the front office—the ringing of
phones or idle chatter from the office staff, surely?—but even as he strains to listen for anyone
moving outside the door, he finds the room isolated and hushed. Have they—have they
soundproofed the nurse’s office? What possible reason could they have for masking sounds from
this room all the time?
It hits Jungkook, suddenly, like a blow to the head—even without the gag straining at his jaw, no
one would be able to hear him scream. And worse, he thinks—that no one would care, even if they
could.
Namjoon startles him from his thoughts, bumping into his foot as he steps back up to the bottom of
the bed; in his arms, he’s carrying a large, handled bucket and holding another long plastic hose in
his other hand. He sets the bucket down on the floor beneath the bed and reaches into it, pulling
out what looks like an IV bag—but larger, and filled with what’s obviously the water he had been
running in the other room.
The long hose attaches to the bottom of the bag, and Jungkook realizes he’s looking at the enema
that had been used on him the day before for the first time. Somehow, it’s so much worse to
actually look at it as Namjoon attaches it to a hook hanging from the ceiling, water beginning to
trickle down the tube until it’s stopped by a clamp affixed at the bottom where Namjoon holds it.
Once again, the nurse pulls out a tube of what looks like lubricant from his pocket and slicks up
two of his gloved fingers, reaching unceremoniously between Jungkook’s legs to press them to his
clenching hole. He has a harder time of it before, having to hold open Jungkook’s thighs with his
other hand to give himself enough room. The sticky plastic of his gloved wrist tugs uncomfortably
against Jungkook’s sensitive, newly shaven balls, and the stretch of the fingers inside him is still
too much despite his similar treatment the day before—both sensations leave Jungkook gasping for
air, turning his gaze to the ceiling as though not seeing Namjoon will somehow make him
disappear.
Far too soon, the fingers retreat and he feels something much larger pressing against his slicked
entrance, the nozzle tapered slightly but still blunt and uncomfortable as it’s pushed inside him.
“We’ll get you all cleaned out for Yoongi, doll, don’t you worry…” Namjoon assures him, tone
returning to normal as though this is just business as usual—but Jungkook realizes immediately that
something is very, very different from the day before. When the clamp on the tube is released and
the water suddenly rushes down into his body, Jungkook is stunned by how cold the liquid is,
immediately shocking the muscles of his lower abdomen and he feels his entire body clench up
defensively. Namjoon just looks down at him placidly as Jungkook tears his eyes open to stare up
at the older man, shock and betrayal written all over his face.
The cramps hit him without delay, wracking his body almost as soon as the water begins trickling
down inside him full force, and something about the position he’s in, lying flat on his back, makes
the sensation so much worse. A wave of nausea rises in his chest as he starts to feel the pressure of
the water rising, stretching at his abdomen and edging up against his stomach until he’s almost
grateful for the gag in his mouth to bite down on.
Noticing his discomfort, Namjoon reaches down to rub his hand across Jungkook’s slowly
distending belly, pressing here and there as if to probe at the swollen flesh to test it somehow,
though it only serves to make the pressure worse, shifting the water here and there as it continues to
relentlessly empty inside of Jungkook.
“It’s worse in this position, I know…” The nurse coos at him, tilting his head and almost pouting
sympathetically at him, though the devious glint in his eyes never wavers. “...but since you just
couldn’t stay still, couldn’t follow directions, I had no choice! I guess we just have to make do like
this, doll, and maybe next time you’ll learn your lesson…”
Jungkook feels tears slip down his face as he realizes that Namjoon is right, that this is his fault,
this is his punishment—if he had only held still, maybe he wouldn’t have been restrained—if he
had only held his bladder better last night, maybe he wouldn’t be in trouble—
“Hold still for me, doll, and it’ll be over soon,” Namjoon reassures him, giving his belly a pat that
is meant to reassure, but only serves to make his hole clench up tighter around the nozzle. As he
bucks his hips up at the touch, an aborted attempt to get away from the horrible sensation,
Namjoon moves his hand down between Jungkook’s thighs and gives him a terrible shock by
wrapping his slick, gloved fingers around Jungkook’s soft cock.
He feels his muscles almost cave in at the sensation, suddenly faltering back down against the bed
and then back up into the touch when he feels the instinct to avoid the rush of water into his aching
middle again. Namjoon gives another cruel chuckle at his suffering, giving his cock another firm
squeeze, and Jungkook looks down the line of his body in utter betrayal as his length starts to
harden beneath the touch.
“I told you to hold still, didn’t I?” The nurse asks, sounding pitying and chastising even as
Jungkook can tell he is enjoying every second of the torment he gets to watch. He seems to revel in
the muffled whimpers and whines Jungkook lets out around his gag as he begins to stroke the
younger man to full hardness, pinching at the head of his cock and giving the shaft merciless
squeezes until a fresh wave of tears begins to form in Jungkook’s eyes.
“Follow. Directions.” He punctuates each word with a firm stroke, “And I’ll reward you. Might as
well take care of this before you have to get to work, Yoongi wants you to last for today’s lesson,
and I know you want to do your job well, don’t you?”
Jungkook can feel drool start to slip out of his mouth around the ball between his teeth as he tries to
swallow and bite back the answer he feels on his tongue. Truth be told, he doesn’t know what he
wants, the overwhelming mix of sensations—of pain and pleasure and the burn where they mix in
the middle—leaving him more of a mess than ever. But now that he’s hard, his cock throbbing in
Namjoon’s firm and merciless grip, he at least wants relief , and—and a reward does sound nice…
“That’s it, doll, just let go, let me help you...we can have a great partnership, you and I, if you’ll
stop being so defiant. I know you want to do a good job, you just want the students to learn the best
they can, anyone can see that…”
Yes—yes, yes—he does want to do a good job, wants to be a good teacher—God—
It’s hard to remember why he tried to get away from Namjoon’s touch as the older man continues
his tireless and professional stroking, the steady pleasure completely at odds with the icy burn of
the water trickling through his insides and the stretch as his stomach tries to accommodate it. He
can feel the rounded swell of his belly press against his cock, reminding him to look up through
bleary eyes to track down the water bag over Namjoon’s shoulder, and he’s shocked to find it
almost completely empty despite being nearly twice as full as Jungkook though it had been the day
before. Fuck, how much did the nurse expect him to take? Would he put him through even more
tomorrow? Was that even possible?
Namjoon seems to notice that Jungkook’s attention has been drawn away and glances over his
shoulder as well, grin widening as he sees the progress Jungkook has made. “Very impressive,
doll…” He says as he turns back to Jungkook and digs the tip of his thumb into the slit of
Jungkook’s cock, only to pull his hand away the moment the younger man jumps at the touch.
“Ah-ah-ah, no, none of that. Hmmm…” He traces a finger down Jungkook’s throbbing length
while looking at it thoughtfully as though trying to make up his mind. “How about this—if you can
stay perfectly still and quiet for me and take every last drop, I’ll take care of this for you. How
does that sound?”
Jungkook just stares back at him, trying to focus on what the nurse is saying despite the way his
belly has begun to tingle from the cold water filling him up. Namjoon takes his silence as
agreement before Jungkook has even made a decision, the nurse’s fingers closing back around his
cock without hesitation.
“See, I knew you could be reasonable. Just take it all like a good doll for me and I’ll get you all
taken care of and cleaned out and back to work in no time!”
‘Back to work…’ Jungkook can barely focus on what that might mean when Namjoon presses his
free palm right against the swell of Jungkook’s stomach, digging his fingers into the swollen flesh
even as his other hand resumes his careful stroking of Jungkook’s cock. The pressure is almost
unbearable, his arms and legs tightening against his restraints at the horrible clenching of every
muscle in his torso in response—and he finds himself almost grateful for the bondage if it means
that he can hold himself still under the onslaught of sensations.
If there is only one thing he can remember clearly through the haze of pain and pleasure in his
mind, it’s that Namjoon has the power to take it all away—the pain, yes, but the pleasure too, and
Jungkook desperately—desperately—wants to find his release, to earn some relief, to be forgiven
for his transgressions…
“That’s it, doll, just let go, I’ve got you.” Namjoon assures him as he glances up at the rapidly
emptying bag of water above them, watching the last of the liquid drain down the plastic tube and
turning his head with it to see it disappear into Jungkook’s body.
“There you go, almost done, you’ve been a very good patient for me…” And he doesn’t sound
angry with Jungkook anymore, truly, which makes a tension in Jungkook’s chest that he didn’t
even know was there finally disappear. Good, he’s been good—
“Go on and come for me, doll, you’ve earned it.” Namjoon punctuates his words with another
press of his palm to Jungkook’s distended belly and a sharp twist of his hand so that his fingers
press right against the underside of the head of his cock, and Jungkook feels his mind go perfectly,
blissfully blank.
He comes back to himself just in time to remember to hold still — or, at least, as still as he can —as
his orgasm is ripped out of him, forced by the pressure of Namjoon’s hand and the relentless way
he tugs Jungkook’s cock as though wanting to milk him of every last drop of come. He bites down
around his gag, suddenly very, very grateful for the ball between his teeth to help him hold back
any sounds as the aftershocks of his orgasm rock through his body, his hands clenching into the
chains keeping his wrist cuffs in place.
“Good, very good, that’s perfect…” Namjoon coos at him, sounding so much like the sweet man
he appeared to be when they first met. “Now we’re back to where we need to be…”
Namjoon continues to stroke him through every last shiver and wave of his orgasm, past the point
of overstimulation until the pleasure ebbs away, leaving him only with prickles of pain and the grit
of his teeth into the gag holding his jaw open. Only when he seems to twitch from the nurse’s
touch and nothing more, eyes screwed shut against fresh tears, does Namjoon relent. He steps back
and grabs for more of the same sterile wipes he used on Jungkook the day before, cleaning off his
own soiled hand before bending down to gently wipe the sticky mess of fluids from Jungkook’s
distended belly, even that small touch causing his toes to curl in pain.
“Alright, I think you’ve had enough, hm?” Namjoon finally admits as he tosses the wipes in the
trash. Jungkook’s eyes fly open at the words, almost not believing what he’s hearing even as he
tries to communicate his agreement with only his expression, silently begging ‘yes, yes, please,
dear god, enough—’
The nurse nods his head in agreement and resumes his position between Jungkook’s legs, and he
can feel his thighs quivering as he tries to fight the urge to willingly spread them wider, to make it
easier for Namjoon to remove the plug holding him open. The nurse surprises him then by not
reaching down, but by reaching up —up to where the tube connects to the now-empty water back
to disconnect one from the other.
Namjoon handles it gingerly as he bends down at the end of the bed, placing the end of the tube
facing towards the ground, and before Jungkook can work out exactly what the older man is
getting up to, Namjoon straightens up and places a hand down on Jungkook’s swollen middle,
giving it the firmest press he has attempted yet.
He hears it before he can feel it, the sudden stream of water into the bucket at the foot of the bed,
and he realizes with a start that Namjoon means to drain him like this—to literally push the liquid
back down the tube to drain out of him, not even let him go to the bathroom and use the toilet like
he normally would. Does Namjoon intend to do this every day, to to fill him up and then empty
him back out like a—like a machine?
The relief comes soon after, though, and Jungkook can’t bother himself with outrage any longer
when he feels his muscles relaxing on their own, no longer stretched around the water, no longer
needing to hold it inside—and it’s so much easier like this, not even having to push his body to let
the liquid vacate, just letting it flow easily from him. He hums in contentment as he feels Namjoon
continue to rub and press at his belly, helping the flow along, and it’s all too simple to just lie still
and let him take care of it, the nurse just—just doing his job, that’s all.
It takes half the time to empty him out as it did to fill him up, his stomach aching in a completely
different way as he hears the last dribble of the liquid leave the tube and pour into the bucket. He
feels so—so empty, all of a sudden, and it almost leaves him nauseated again—giving him the
same sick twist in his throat that he once felt because food was being poured into his stomach, but
now he aches because nothing is there.
“Alright, doll, we’re all done. Let me just get you cleaned up, and you’ll be back to work shortly!”
Jungkook wants to nod his head in agreement, ready to get off the table, out of the nurses office—
back to work—but he settles for keeping his answer to himself, knowing Namjoon will assume he
agrees anyway, knowing Namjoon will take care of him…
He feels the nurse gently pull the plug from his hole at last, his body clenching around the absence
as though it misses the stretch, and after such a long time being filled he finds that the emptiness is
almost as unpleasant as the burn from before. Namjoon busies himself with coiling the tube up into
a circle and placing it aside on his desk, then bends down to grab the bucket and grunts as he lifts it
to carry to the adjoined bathroom. Jungkook can hear the sound of the liquid in the container
sloshing around and blushes darkly, closing his eyes as he wills himself not to think too hard about
what it contains, what it means—and before long he can hear it being poured into the toilet and
flushed away.
“There.” Namjoon says with a smile as he returns, humming happily to himself as he begins to
unfasten the restraints around Jungkook’s ankles. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer—not that Jungkook would really know what answer to give him—
just continues to hum and whistle tunelessly to himself as he shifts around the bed to unbuckle
Jungkook’s wrists as well. Jungkook didn’t realize just how much tension he was letting the
restraints hold back until he feels his limbs relax again, sinking down into the sick bed as though
his body is made of wet cement, heavy and fluid.
It comes easily to him, now, to allow his body to stay lax and pliable as the nurse tugs on his arms,
pulling him up into a seated position before wrapping an arm around his middle, shouldering his
weight, and lifting Jungkook up off the mattress. Just as he was the day before, Jungkook finds
Namjoon carrying him from the office slung over his shoulder, his face flush with the older man’s
ass as he bounces along with the nurse’s steps.
The gag, still firmly wedged between his teeth, keeps him from making any noises of discomfort
this time as he is shifted and gripped tighter any time he starts to fall, and having his head facing
the ground makes it minutely easier to ignore the soft whispers he hears as they pass students
milling in the halls between class periods. When did the bell go off, he wonders. Did he miss
hearing it in his overwhelmed state? How long has it been since he was first brought to the nurse’s
office this morning—is he—is he late?
“Ah, just in time,” he hears, almost as though the speaker could hear his questions—and he
recognizes the low, unmistakable timbre of Yoongi’s voice as they pass through a doorway into
what Jungkook assumes is the health classroom. “Go ahead and put him back over here,
everything’s all cleaned up now—”
“I see Jimin did a great job,” Namjoon comments conversationally as he follows Yoongi to the
center of the classroom, Jungkook getting only a view of their feet and the worn tile floor until they
suddenly stop and he finds his body being suddenly swung upright.
“He always does.” Yoongi says, and the words sound proud but his tone—his tone implies
something else , something that makes the back of Jungkook’s neck itch uncomfortably.
When his feet hit the floor, he finds himself wobbly and weak and only remains upright with the
support from the nurse’s arms—though Namjoon seems far from upset at this development. He
smiles down at Jungkook as he steadies his wayward limbs, and Jungkook feels an odd swell of
gratitude in his chest.
“In the stand?” Namjoon asks, looking over Jungkook’s shoulder for confirmation from Yoongi.
“Yes, in the stand—arms up, please.” Yoongi answers, sounding further away.
“Sounds good,” Namjoon replies, though he sounds distracted as he looks between Jungkook’s
body and something behind him. “Alright, let’s do this—” He takes one of Jungkook’s arms and
loops it over his own shoulder to support his weight and steps to the side, Jungkook’s legs like
jelly as he tries to move with him but finds himself mostly being dragged by the strong arm around
his waist.
As they turn around completely, he catches sight of the “stand” they have been referring to—a tall,
sturdy-looking rod affixed to a broad stand on the floor, bent into a sort of elongated hook shape so
that it looks immediately familiar, like the stands used to hold classroom skeletons in biology labs
that he’s seen so many times before.
Namjoon pulls Jungkook forward with him until they stand directly beneath the rod where it curls
back down towards them at the end, and he looks up and recognizes the cuffs affixed to the end of
the hook just before Namjoon shifts Jungkook’s arm off his shoulder and raises it up to place his
wrist inside the leather wring.
‘Again…?’ Jungkook is too weak to resist, swaying on his feet again without the nurse’s body to
hold him up, and he quickly finds the bondage around his wrists the only thing keeping him upright
as the clasp is fastened into place. He meets eyes with Yoongi again as the teacher watches
Namjoon grab for Jungkook’s other wrist and fastens it into place as well, leaving only his bare
feet touching the ground to steady him as his weight is suspended completely by the surprisingly
sturdy stand behind him.
“Perfect…” the teacher drawls in his low, rumbling voice, dark eyes scanning over Jungkook’s
naked form while he’s powerless to resist. There’s something different about having Yoongi look
at him, different from the way it feels when Namjoon looks him over—perhaps it’s because the
nurse is a medical professional, or maybe it’s because Namjoon doesn’t look at him with a hunger
that makes him weaker in the knees than he already is. Yoongi looks at him as though he wants to
devour him, slanted eyes and wolfish smile doing little to put Jungkook’s mind at ease as students
start filing into the classroom from the bustling hall.
“That will be all, Namjoon,” he tells the nurse at last, turning away to face the taller man where he
waits patiently off to the side, having finished his work. “You can go now, if you’d like. The bell
is just about to ring and we’ll be getting started shortly.”
“Is there any—” He tries to ask, though Yoongi cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“No, no, there’s nothing else I need from you right now, that’s fine. Just come back after the last
bell as usual, I’ll have him ready for you.” Namjoon backs out of the classroom quickly at that,
looking slightly put out at Yoongi’s quick dismissal of him, the older man clearly still disappointed
from the trouble he blamed the nurse for this morning.
Once Namjoon disappears, Yoongi ignores Jungkook in favor of greeting a few students wandering
in and moving back to his desk to put away his open files. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a
black, zipped case, roughly the size of a piece of paper and a few inches thick, and brings it back
around to the lab station beside Jungkook. Just as he begins unzipping the side of the container, the
last bell of passing period rings and suddenly the classroom is abuzz with noise and chatter
students filing immediately into the classroom from the hallway and finding their seats. Yoongi
drops what he is doing to turn to face them, arms crossed over his chest.
“Don’t bother taking your seats,” he addresses them, tone disapproving, “the final bell means class
has started, not that you should start to head here. I should mark you all down as tardy!” A rush of
panicked whispers takes over the group as the students drop their bags and hurriedly pull out their
supplies. “Is that what you want?” Yoongi continues, staring students in the eyes one by one, all
looking as intimidated by the teacher as Jungkook feels. “That’s what I thought. Grab your notes
and form a circle down here at the front, same as yesterday. Chop chop, I don’t have all day!”
Jungkook fixes his eyes on the ceiling as the students rush to join him and Yoongi at the front of
the room, suddenly acutely aware of his predicament again. It’s somehow a million times worse to
be bound up like this, so much more vulnerable than being forced to stand in front of the class of
his own volition, though he can’t decide which is more humiliating.
It takes him a moment to realize that Yoongi has started speaking again, slipping into that slow
methodical tone that Jungkook already recognizes as his lecturing voice as he reaches for the black
case again.
“—so today we will be focusing again on some of the more simple anatomical features,” he’s
saying as he lays the case open on the work table beside Jungkook, and the younger man is just
able to catch a glimpse of what lies inside—rows and rows of thin metal rods, all of different sizes
and lengths and curvatures. They don’t look particularly sharp or sinister, though Jungkook can’t
imagine what the teacher intends to do with them—are they for...pointing at his anatomy, or
something?
“We’ll specifically be looking at the external features of the urinary tract,” Yoongi continues while
selecting one of the smaller rods at the end of the case, “the lesson is twofold—we can learn quite
a bit from our inspection, while also examining the ways our doll responds to the stimulus. Go
ahead and gather close while I begin.” The students take several eager steps forward for a closer
look as Yoongi steps right into Jungkook's space again. He reaches out a hand expectantly to the
students at his side. “Someone who can tell me the importance of lubrication, please hand me the
bottle I have set aside on the lab table and explain to the class why I will be using it today.”
After a brief pause, a timid looking girl to his right steps forward and takes the bottle in her hands
and brings it to Yoongi’s waiting palm. “Thank you, Ms. Kim. And the explanation?”
She clears her throat for a moment before managing a reply. “Lubrication reduces the friction
between toys and the body or between skin-to-skin contact,” she recites, sounding as though she
may have memorized the information from a textbook. “T-The reason you are using lubricant
today is—is to keep the doll comfortable? To...help with any friction or stretch?”
“That’s right, thank you.” Yoongi nods to the girl, who blushes but looks relieved as she steps back
into the crowd. “Now, who can tell me what this is?” He holds up the metal rod for the class to see
more clearly, but this time no one jumps up to provide the answer. “No…? No one knows? I’m not
surprised.” Yoongi gives a good-natured chuckle.
“You probably won’t see many of these in your life, but this is what’s known as a ‘sounding rod.’”
He holds the rod up for the class to see clearly before turning back to Jungkook, meeting the
younger man’s eyes without hesitation. “They were invented for medical professionals to measure
the width and depth of the urethra, though they’ve come to have many uses. We’ll be starting with
their original usage today, then work our way through the rest.”
Jungkook feels a horrible swoop of apprehension in his belly just before Yoongi reaches down to
take Jungkook’s soft cock in hand, keeping his palm open and his body angled to the side so the
students surrounding can see what he’s doing clearly. “For a male patient or subject, it’s best to
start with a flaccid penis, it makes the first insertion easier.” He pauses, juggling the three things in
his hands for a moment before chuckling again. “Oops, looks like I might need a helper again
today, who can come hold this steady for me?”
Several students raise their hands and Yoongi looks them over for a moment. “Yes, Ahn Jaehyo,
come on—no, not you, Kim Mingyu, you don’t have a permission slip signed, don’t think I’ve
forgotten—Mr. Ahn, come on down to the front to help.”
A young, pretty boy with fluffy hair and a wide nose stepped forward, pushing his friend playfully
out of the way while his friend looks crestfallen at being denied. The boy steps up next to Yoongi
with eagerness written all over his face and holds out his hands to help, not sure what to do but all
too willing to do it.
“Thank you,” Yoongi tells him while placing the bottle of lube in the boy’s hands. He blushes as
he takes the clear bottle gingerly between his fingers but holds it up dutifully as Yoongi holds out
the sounding rod with his now-free hand and nods towards it.
“Go ahead and slick this up for me so I can get started.” Some of the boys behind them start to
giggle and murmur to themselves as Jaehyo pours some of the lube onto his fingers and reaches up
to slide them across the metal rod, the gesture looking more suggestive than it has any right to be.
Jungkook can feel his abs clenching in anticipation—whether good or bad, he doesn’t know yet—
as Yoongi then brings the shiny, wet rod down between his legs. The teacher’s grip is firm and his
expression serious as he pulls Jungkook’s cock forward and places the rod at the tip.
He pauses as though for dramatic effect, turning his head to address the class. “From your reading,
who can tell me how long the male urethra is, on average?”
There’s a pregnant pause filled with shuffling and turning of pages, before a voice from the back
pipes up, “Umm...8 inches?”
“Is that a question or an answer?” Yoongi replies teasingly, and the girl gives a nervous giggle.
“An answer, Mr. Min.”
“Lucky you, it’s a correct one.” He winks at her before returning to the task at hand. “Yes, as Miss
Kang told us, the average length of a male urethra is 8 inches in its natural state. I don’t expect any
of you to know this, but sounding rods were designed originally for measuring the length of the
urethra from the outside of the body, though much more effective methods have since been
developed. However, the rods still serve the purpose of measuring the width of the urethra, and
that’s what we’ll be taking a closer look at today.”
And with that, Jungkook feels the pressure of the slick rod press down inside the slit of his cock.
He’s completely torn between looking away in fear and looking down in shock, afraid that the
intrusion will hurt but equally terrified of looking away and being surprised by it—but at first he
only feels a strange, pinching pressure as though Yoongi has gripped the head of his cock between
his fingers.
He finally braces himself for the sight and glances down to catch sight of the rod slipping further
and further inside of him, and—oh—now he can feel it, the way the end of the metal drags inside
his cock, a strange dragging sensation coming from entirely the wrong direction. He’s never
thought about how sensitive the inside of that particular organ might be, always content with the
simple touch of his own hand to get him through sleepless nights, but now that he finds himself
acutely aware of the possibility—
{art by @checkmypouch}
His head falls back against his arms, his gag muffling the sound of the hiss he can’t help but let out
as he feels the first stirrings of interest between his legs, his cock twitching in Yoongi’s grip as the
teacher begins to stroke him slowly as if to ease the way, and Jungkook can vaguely hear Yoongi
explaining his actions to the class through the ringing in his ears—
“—it’s easier to get the right angle without causing discomfort when you—”
—but it’s impossible to track his words when all of his attention is turned to keeping his body still
despite the sudden lack of blood in his head, all of it heading south as Yoongi continues his
carefully timed strokes. When the strokes suddenly stop, Jungkook drags his eyes open to peer
blearily down his body, watching as Yoongi holds his half-hard cock up for presentation to the
class, just the blunted end of the sounding rod sticking out from the tip. His hands fist into the
chains above his head, his teeth grinding into the ball between them, as Yoongi shifts his cock
from side to side so every student can get a clear look at it.
“I need another volunteer to help me take measurements, who—?” Hands shoot up all across the
crowd now, the students’ eagerness seeming to increase with every minute of the demonstration
that passes by. Yoongi laughs, surprised, then nods to another young man in the front row who
steps up when prompted to grab a ruler from the lab table at Jungkook’s side. “Alright, Park
Jihoon, go ahead and hold it—”
He breaks off at a noise from the other side of the room, the classroom door creaking as it’s pushed
open and then allowed to swing back into place with a bang. Walking in without a care is the boy
from the day before, the student with the dark hair and sly grin—what was his name?
“Mr. Kim, you’re late. Again.” Yoongi snaps, dropping his hands away from Jungkook’s body to
cross his arms over his chest. Jungkook grunts behind his gag as the movement leaves his cock to
fall heavily between his legs, the unforgiving rod giving him a slight pinch at the base when it falls
into place.
“I know,” the boy responds, rolling his eyes as he dumps his bag into an empty chair and takes his
sweet time making his way to the front of the classroom. “Sorry.” He adds as an afterthought,
sounding as far from sorry as he can be. Yoongi doesn’t find this nearly as amusing as the boy
seems to, grabbing his arm as soon as he’s within reach to tug him away to the side.
The eyes of the other members of the class follow them as they move, whispers immediately
breaking out amongst the crowd, and Yoongi looks over his shoulder at them to silence them with a
glare. “Get back to work—Mr. Park, I’m trusting you to document the measurements on your own,
grab someone to help if you need. I’ll just be a moment with Mr. Kim here…” And he turns back
to aim his glare at the tall, dark-haired boy instead.
Jungkook watches this all happen with increased trepidation—it’s one thing to have Namjoon
touching him, or Yoongi, the two men at least familiar by now, one point of consistency in such a
bizarre situation—but this? Still, the students step forward eagerly, the boy—Jihoon—reaching
down for Jungkook’s cock to hold it out from his body, his touch much softer than Yoongi’s had
been as he holds up the ruler to measure the length of Jungkook’s cock and then the remainder of
the rod that protrudes from the tip.
“Umm...there’s, uh—there’s one and a half inches remaining, so—I guess, how long is the rod
altogether?”
“Nine inches!” Another girl replies, looking over the sounds still resting in their case on the table
off to the side.
“So...I guess that means...it can probably go further?”
‘F-Further—?’ Jungkook thinks, feeling himself start to sweat in apprehension.
“Try pushing it—” Suddenly, the rod slides deeper into him than ever before, the stretch toeing the
line between uncomfortable instead of painful, and as it settles into place, Jungkook feels his thighs
clench up in stunned pleasure. The depth to which the rod is forced presses it against something—
something delicious and overwhelming, deep inside Jungkook’s body that sends a shudder straight
through him. Around him, he hears mutters of interest as his cock starts to harden further at the
pressure, Jihoon nearly dropping him in surprise.
‘Oh god, please, no—’
“Oh no! The measurement is going to be all wrong now, we have to take it again, quick…!”
Jungkook tries to focus on controlling his breathing, inhaling and exhaling shuddering breaths
through his nose as the students push and prod at his cock to retake their measurements with
surprising seriousness. He turns his eyes to the side, looking for a distraction, or for relief—
anything—and settles on the sight of Yoongi and the dark-haired student off to the side, standing
close and talking in hushed tones away from the rest of the group. If he strains his hearing, he can
just about catch what they’re saying over the chatter from the other students—
“—this is the third time this week, Taehyung.”

‘Taehyung…’ Right, that was the boy’s name, he should have remembered—though his mind is a
bit hazy at the moment, to be fair.
“It’s not a big deal, Yoongi—”
“What did I tell you about calling me by my name in the building?” Yoongi hisses, cutting
Taehyung off, and the boy has the sense to look at least slightly chastised.
“Right—sorry—Mr. Min." Something about the way he emphasizes Yoongi’s title sounds strange
on his tongue and Jungkook narrows his eyes, grateful for the distraction from the way the students
in front of him start to tug curiously on the end of the sounding rod.
“Taehyung, you know what this means...detention, with me. I think lunch period, today, in addition
to the one you already have after last period.”
“Hey, come on! That’s not fair, Yoo—Mr. Min. You can’t just—”
“You know I can, and I just did. You’ll come with me to the teacher’s lounge immediately after
class today. No—” Taehyung tries to open his mouth to argue, but Yoongi cuts him of with a
finger pointed directly at the boy’s face. “No arguments, do you hear me?”
They stare each other down for a loaded moment, the tension between them palpable even from a
few feet away where Jungkook is fastened to the stand, but eventually Taehyung relents and drops
his eyes to the floor. His voice comes out as a low, defeated grumble as he replies, “Yes, Mr. Min.
I’m sorry.”
Yoongi sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, some of the tension melting from his shoulders as he
takes a few seconds to collect himself. He opens his mouth to speak again, but it’s suddenly very
difficult for Jungkook to focus on what he and Taehyung are saying to each other—what with the
unexpected tug on the sounding rod that abruptly pulls it right out of his cock altogether. His gag
muffles most of the groan that is ripped from him at the sudden change, his eyes flying back down
to see the students in front of him giggling as they pass the tool between them like a fascinating
toy.
“Hey, grab me another one—!”

“A bigger one!”
“Get, like, three of them, c’mon—”
Someone upends the bottle of lube over the tip of his cock, squeezing so the cold, viscous liquid
down into his urethra and he can’t help the way his hips stutter at that. It only takes a few minutes
of squabbling before the students manage to pass the case of rods down to the front, and another,
older looking student grabs a wider rod to position at the head of Jungkook’s cock, looking up to
grin deviously as Jungkook’s eyes widen almost comically at the sight of it.
“Let’s see how the doll handles this?” He says with a leer before pressing the rod through
Jungkook's slit. It feels so different now, to have the cool metal slide inside of his body, his cock
now achingly hard and feeling a thousand degrees hotter for it, only making the temperature
difference with the tool more pronounced. Where before there was a slight stretch, now the
intrusion burns as the rod is pressed inside, the sensation not beyond being tolerable though it
makes tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.
“C’mon, faster—”
“No—hey!—no, I have to be steady or it’ll hurt, didn’t you pay attention? Dumbass…”
Off to the side, Yoongi’s voice has dropped low and gravelly as he speaks to Taehyung, the words
intended only for the boy to hear.
“—wasting your potential, Taehyung, I—”
“I know, I know, I’ve heard it a hundred times—”
“Don’t talk back to me! Do you really want to be punished that badly?”
“No—”
“Why won’t you just listen to me? I have to make everything an order with you, I wish you would
—”
“I’m never going to get out of here, Yoongi! Face it! What’s the point?”
“Taehyung…”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just—”
Jungkook turns his head minutely to try to see them, to catch their attention in some way as the
larger rod is pulled from his cock, only to be replaced again with an even thicker one, the burn
making him grit his teeth until his jaw aches. His shoulders, too, ache where they hold his body
weight up, his thighs starting to tremble with the effort of keeping him upright under the onslaught
of sensations. Jungkook starts to feel a foreboding, familiar sensation at the edges of his mind, like
a fog creeping in on the banks of a river, clouding over the flow of his thoughts.
“—if we tried two?”
“Two? What size?”
“Here, here—look, there’s smaller ones on this side of the thingy—”
“Hey, give it back!”
Jungkook closes his eyes again, finding it impossible to keep them open any longer as the largest
rod yet is dragged in-and-out-and-in-and-out of his cock before eventually being tugged away
again. There’s a slight delay before anyone touches him again, a merciful moment of relief before
he feels a strange pinch at the head of his cock, a wriggling sensation accompanied by a wave of
giggles before his cock is stretched wide again, the sensation somehow almost the same as the it
was with the last rod and yet—different, too, tugging at his flesh in a different way. It feels good
and bad in equal measure, stretching as much as it suddenly stimulates the inside of his sensitive
organ until he’s panting again.
“Wow, look!”
“It’s more difficult but you can totally fit two—”
“Ohh, that’s so cool, I wanna try—”
‘Two?’ What does two mean? Two rods—? Oh, god…he couldn't look, doesn’t want to see the
way he knows his cock is probably being distorted, the fog seeping into the corners of his thoughts
until he feels—feels like he’s floating, somehow, despite being so thoroughly tied down.
“—Taehyung, just think about it, please.”
“Fine—I’ll, I’ll think about it. Can I go now?”
“Yes, we shouldn’t leave them to their own devices any longer. Just don’t forget, detention after
class. If you disappear again—”
“I won’t, Yoon—...Mr. Min. I promise.”
The tugging sensation in the center of his cock comes to an abrupt halt as he hears footsteps
approach, and he groans gratefully—the sound masked by the chatter from the crowd of students.
“What’s all this?” He hears Yoongi ask, sounding reproachful despite the tint of amusement in his
voice. “Wow, you’ve made quite a bit of progress without me. Whose idea was it to do this?”
Jungkook feels a sudden pressure at the tip of his cock, pulling his length to one side so that it
strains against the metal.
“I see you’ve realized the remarkable capacity of the penis to stretch and accommodate change. I
bet none of you realized it could do this, hm?” There’s a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
“Alright, show me what you’ve documented…” he says, followed by a chorus of rustling noises as
the students, presumably, hold out their notes for review. Jungkook lets it a small whimper of relief
as the pressure on his cock is released, and Yoongi starts to make comments on the students’
results.
“Yes...very good…” he pauses for a moment and there’s a rough rustling noise. “No, not quite, this
measurement is very different from everyone else’s, I would suggest paying closer attention.
Okay!” Jungkook hears Yoongi suddenly clap, the noise making his arms jerk against the cuffs
keeping his wrists restrained. “Let’s try something fun—who’d like to see just how far we can
push our doll’s limits?”
Jungkook’s eyes fly open just in time to see Yoongi take another rod from the case that is presented
to him. More? How much more could he possibly take?! Yoongi can’t be serious—
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the…other use of the sounding rods? The urethra is very sensitive, as is
the penis, inside and out.” Yoongi waves the rod between his fingers in front of him as he steps
closer, Jungkook’s eyes trained on the metal in trepidation. “More than one rod is no longer
effective or efficient for measuring or clearing the urethra, but it serves a second purpose—
stretching! And stimulation. Did anyone happen to document how long it took for our doll to reach
full hardness?”
Oh god—Jungkook feels a horrible prickling behind his eyes, angry tears threatening to fall from
his eyes at the humiliation of it, being discussed like a class project, a nameless subject for their
studies. He catches motion out of the corner of his eye as a few of the students check their notes,
looking pensive for a moment before a taller girl in the back pipes up with an answer. “Two and a
half minutes, sir!”
“Thank you, Ms. Yoo. Did you notice anything different occurring during the experiment at this
time?”
She presses the end of her pen to her lips thoughtfully, gazing at Jungkook with an appraising eye
as she thinks back over the past few minutes. “...it...must have been when Jihoon pushed the sound
in deepest?”
“Very good observation!” Yoongi praises her with a proud smile. “Extra credit points for the day if
you can tell me why that matters?”
She chews on her lip, glancing down at her notes nervously. Yoongi only smiles and waits
patiently for her, nodding encouragingly. It’s such a bizarre sight for Jungkook, seeing the teacher
so...kind, and interested? Completely clashing with Jungkook’s mental image of him, Yoongi truly
—truly does seem to care about the students’ education…
“Umm...I would have to say it’s—because of the prostate? Isn’t it located, like...a little bit behind
the base?”
Yoongi’s smile spreads across his cheeks until it crinkles his eyes at the edges, and Jungkook feels
a strange, new pressure in his chest at the sight. He just looks...so pleased at the student’s success?
Through the heavy fog of pleasure in his mind, his cock still throbbing continuously around the
unforgiving rods remaining inside of him, it’s hard to deny that Yoongi is exceptionally good
looking beneath his dark glasses. “Excellent...really well done, Ms. Yoo. Make sure to bring your
lab report to me after class so I can mark the extra points.” The girl blushes, pleased with herself,
and ducks her head in thanks.
“Alright, while we’re on the subject, let’s do a bit of exploration, shall we?” Yoongi waggles the
sounding rod between his fingers again, drawing Jungkook’s attention back to it, his throat
tightening. “This rod is a bit longer than the others, you may have noticed. I’d like to experiment
with how much our doll can take.”
Without further ado and while pointedly ignoring the small grunt of alarm that Jungkook can’t help
but let out, Yoongi takes the younger man’s cock in hand and presses on the two already-inserted
sounds, spreading them apart enough that a small gap can be seen between them. “Pay close
attention, now…” is the only warning the teacher gives before aiming the longer, thinner rod in his
other hand and pressing it down into the slit.
The stretch—the stretch is unlike anything Jungkook could have ever imagined feeling, as though
his cock is being pulled in two different directions, split in half, even as he can feel every inch of
the insertion drag along his insides—stimulating nerves he didn’t know he had, reaching parts of
his body he had never even begun to think about. Still, something about the burn, the incessant
burn of it is—not pleasant, per se, but—overwhelming, so much so that within moments, his mind
feels completely clouded over, his limbs slow and sluggish as he struggles to hold himself upright.
Yoongi continues with his progress, pushing the rod further and further between languid strokes of
his free hand around the outside of Jungkook’s cock, and after what is likely only a few seconds—
but what seems like years, Jungkook can feel the slick tip of it dip below the ends of the already-
inserted rods, reaching a curve at the base of his cock that makes his upper thighs tingle.
Yoongi is relentless, too, pressing the rod deeper and deeper as Jungkook looks on with hazy eyes
and the students gather closer, standing up on their toes to get a better view. Just as promised, a
final thrust of the tool reaches deep enough that it presses against that same spot Jungkook felt
earlier, sending a bolt of pleasure straight up his spine, his weak thighs trying to clench up at the
shock.
“There…” He hears Yoongi mutter, the teacher’s face distorted in concentration. “Pay close
attention to the doll’s reaction, we’ll revisit your observations in our lesson tomorrow.” And he
gives Jungkook’s cock another long squeeze and stroke just as he pulls the rod back and presses it
in deeper again, giving Jungkook stimulation in two different directions. He can feel it building
then, the tell-tale signs of his orgasm building, a sensation he became intimately familiar with over
the course of his young adulthood and can pinpoint the second it begins to tighten at his abdomen.
Yoongi seems to sense it too, can feel Jungkook’s body tighten beneath his touch and the slow
thrusts of the tool that he makes only become faster, deeper, all but dragging a low burn through
Jungkook’s groin—but a different burn, a much more pleasant, insistent burn—a slow heat instead
of a forest fire. It itches at the base of his cock, his mind just as eager for release, and it only takes a
few more long strokes of Yoongi’s hand, fingers twisting just beneath the head of his cock, for
Jungkook to feel his release build-build-build until he is powerless to resist, his orgasm absolutely
dragged from him.
It feels immensely strange, to have the passage of his come all but blocked as his stomach clenches
and his cock twitches in Yoongi’s hand, his come finally dribbling out of his stretched slit in a
slow stream. He can feel, more than he can see, the way it drips down Yoongi’s fingers, slicking
the passage of his hand as the teacher continues to stroke him through his release, keeping his
strokes firm and methodical.
Dimly, Jungkook thinks that it reminds him of the way Namjoon touches him, though Yoongi is
far from strictly professional about the task—far from it, as he continues to squeeze and twist his
wrist long after Jungkook feels the waves of his orgasm pass. His jaw clenches uncomfortably
around his gag as the touches veer in the direction of discomfort and then into pain, overstimulated
into extreme sensitivity. Every press of the rod in and out of his spent cock forces the muscles in
his abdomen and groin to clench and flutter helplessly, uncontrollably, until Jungkook feels
something—
—oh—no—
—something building, a pressure, the burning rush of release, but this time—
Jungkook braces himself, trying to clench up his body in one final attempt to stop it, but there is
nothing he can do. With a sob, he closes his eyes to block out the image of Yoongi’s private,
sadistic curl of a smile as Jungkook’s entire body relaxes at once and he’s powerless to resist as he
suddenly pisses all over himself. Just as they did with his orgasm, the rods holding his cock erect
slow the progress of the liquid, but it doesn’t stop him from pissing all down Yoongi’s grip on him,
down his thighs into a puddle around his feet for the second time that day.
“Woah—!”
“Holy shit, look—!”

“Oh man, get back—!”
Jungkook collapses forward then, his legs finally giving out so that his arms are forced to support
the entirety of his weight, and it is only then that Yoongi finally pulls his hand away. Jungkook’s
embarrassment, the sheer humiliation he feels is nearly a tangible thing, and he can’t bring himself
to open his eyes, to see the faces of the students watching him as he stands in a pool of his own
fluids.
“Well, I think that answers a few questions for us, wouldn’t you say, class?” Yoongi’s low drawl
cuts through the shocked chatter from the students. “But I think that’s enough for today.
Jungkook loses track of time, then, catching only snippets of conversation, the instructions Yoongi
gives the class as they shuffle around gathering their things.
“No, no, don’t worry—I’ll get it cleaned up, you’re free to go. Anyone who participated in the
experiment today, be sure to wash your hands on your way out! Yes— everyone . No exceptions!
And Kim Mingyu, make sure you come back with that permission slip tomorrow, or you still won't
be able to participate! Missing any more lab credit could dip your grade, don’t let it happen!”
The din of the crowd begins to fade, leaving Jungkook with a slight ringing in his ears. He hears
footsteps that he can only assume are Yoongi’s shifting around him, chairs scraping against the tile
floor, papers shuffling—the the footsteps approach him again, stopping just in front of him.
Without a word, Jungkook feels a hand on his cock again, the simple touch alone burning at his
over-sensitive skin, and then a sharp tugging sensation at the end of one of the rods.
The relief he feels is immediate, the pressure pushing at his cock from the inside slowly receding
as soon as the rod begins to slip away. It takes a firm tug for the first rod to slip free of the tip of
his cock, Jungkook’s wince coming very delayed—his thoughts feeling as though they have to
travel miles between his brain and his body to make his muscles respond.
Yoongi tugs the second sounding rod free with much less effort, and the third slides free almost all
on its own, guided only by the residual clenching and fluttering of his cock as his body tries to
return back to its natural shape.
“Taehyung, can you come assist me?” Yoongi asks in a low voice as the sounds of the other
students begin to fade into the background, the door banging against the wall as the last few
remaining students file their way out into the hall, leaving the classroom eerily quiet in
comparison. Jungkook faintly registers a second set of footsteps approaching, quieter than
Yoongi’s own.
“Yes, come—come here and take these, please...go ahead and place them in the sink at that station
there—” There’s a faint tinkling of metal on metal as the boy presumably grabs the used sounds
from Yoongi’s hand and places them into the metal sink nearby. “Alright, let’s get this mess
cleaned up…”
“Do you want me to get a rag?” Taehyung’s deep voice joins in, close but not as close as Yoongi
sounds.
“Yes, there should be some in the cabinet over—no, over there, to the left—” Yoongi directs
Taehyung as he makes his way across the classroom, his footsteps receding and the sounds of a
door being opened and closed drawing Jungkook’s attention from behind him.
He tries—and fails, at first—to drag his eyes open, fighting the heavy drag of exhaustion taking
over his mind, remembering hazily that he is still in a predicament, vulnerable and strung up and
helpless in front of these two men.
“Alright, here,” Taehyung says again, his voice much closer than before, and Jungkook hears the
rustling of cloth moments before a rough texture is dragged across his skin, his skin breaking out in
goosebumps as one of the other men wipes a shop cloth down the length of his thigh, quickly and
efficiently drying his skin of the rivulets of piss still clinging to him. Whomever is holding the rag
is uncaring as they pass the fabric back up his other leg before wrapping up his entire cock with the
cloth, squeezing his entire softening cock in their palm to dry it off with no regard for the terrible
way the rough texture drags against his overstimulated skin.
“What about the rest of it?” He hears Taehyung ask, question curious even as his tone implies that
he couldn’t care less.
“On the floor? Oh, don’t worry about that,” Yoongi answers, voice taking on a wry twist. “I’ll
have Jimin brought in as soon as we’re done here to clean it up. It should still be warm when he
gets here—he’ll like that.” Something about his tone doesn’t sit right with Jungkook, sounding
strange and out of place even to Jungkook’s addled mind, even more so as Taehyung answers the
statement with a sharp laugh.
“Sounds about right. Wish I could stick around, but the bell is about to ring, so—”
“You’re coming with me, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that, mister.” Yoongi snaps, “We’ll need
to clear out so Jimin can take care of this mess, so I guess you’ll need to come upstairs with me.”
Taehyung groans bitterly at Yoongi’s words, though Jungkook can’t piece together why. “Oh,
don’t give me that, you know the rules. Now, come on, let me get it down and you can help me
carry it to the elevator.”
The first touch of a hand to his wrists is what finally prompts Jungkook to wrench his eyes back
open at last, finding himself with an eyeful of Yoongi’s face, up close and personal, as the teacher
stretches up to fiddle with the cuffs around Jungkook’s wrists. Over his shoulder, Jungkook catches
sight of Taehyung standing a few feet away, his dark eyes fixed intently and unwavering on
Jungkook, their eyes meeting for a brief but stunning moment.
“C’mere, Taehyung, I can’t catch it if it falls,” Yoongi calls over his shoulder, and the boy moves
forward—carefully placing his feet on either side of the puddle of piss on the floor—just in time to
brace Jungkook’s body against his chest as Yoongi unfastens the first of the two cuffs and
Jungkook’s arm falls to his side. When the second cuff is released, Taehyung has to wrap his arms
completely around Jungkook’s waist to hold him upright. It brings into sharp relief Jungkook’s
own nudity as he feels the slide of Taehyung’s shirt against his bare skin, the boy’s taller form
providing ample support for him as Jungkook leans against him bonelessly and lets his arms hang
towards his feet, the feeling beginning to slowly return to his fingers.
“Alright, there we go, thank you.” Jungkook can feel Taehyung give a pleased hum in return, the
deep sound reverberating through his chest as he grips Jungkook tighter and drags the older man
away from the stand.
“Alright,” Yoongi steps forward and kneels in front of Jungkook to grab ahold of his ankles, “we’ll
need to hurry before passing period begins.” He lifts Jungkook from the floor with Taehyung’s
help, Jungkook finding it all too easy to let his body go lax and pliant in their hold as they take all
of the pressure off his tired limbs. It’s even easier to close his eyes and drift off for the few minutes
that it takes them to carry him out of the classroom and down the hall, not even paying attention to
the few students at their lockers looking over at the three of them curiously.
If Jungkook felt like he was floating before , it’s nothing compared to the airy, weightless feeling
he finds has taken over his limbs as he is suspended between the two men, Taehyung keeping a
surprisingly tight hold on his torso as they move into the elevator. The feeling is only amplified as
the elevator carries them up to the third floor, leaving Jungkook with a rush of blood to the head
that would leave him giggling if there weren’t a gag still wedged between his teeth.
“No, down this hall, where are you trying to go—?” Yoongi calls to Taehyung as the boy steers
them out the elevator the wrong way, Jungkook’s head spinning as they turn around abruptly.
“Right, sorry, I—I was heading straight to your office, it was just automatic—”
“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this that easily, Tae.”
Though the hallways were quiet along the way, the moment the bell rings, doors slam open on
every side of their little group and students start to pour out into the hall, prompting Yoongi and
Taehyung to pick up the pace, moving as quickly as they can to the end of the hall while Yoongi
grumbles to himself, “...gotta remember to get that cart out of storage…”
A cart? Jungkook thinks dimly that a cart would certainly make things easier, his eyes
automatically crinkling at the corners in the best approximation of a smile as he can manage.
The low sound of chatter reaches Jungkook’s ears and he realizes that they must be getting close,
that he probably should be paying attention to the path they took so he’ll know how to get to the
teacher’s lounge himself, but it’s hard to care when—when Yoongi and Taehyung are doing such a
good job of getting him there themselves, making the journey so easy, that was so nice of them—
It’s becoming a little too familiar, the way he ends up sitting in this same position—head in his
hands, sitting on the end of one of the sick beds in his office. Another letter sits on his desk, this
time unopened. Namjoon doesn’t need to open it to know who it’s from, or what information it
might contain. Halfway through the day, and they’re already down his throat about not responding
—the last letter arrived yesterday, for godssake!
But still, upon returning to his office, still fuming from his encounter with one particularly
egotistical teacher, and there it was—slid beneath his door like a clandestine delivery, and not the
important missive he’s sure it must be.
Finally ready to face the music—or as ready as he’ll ever be—he slides to his feet at last and picks
the envelope up by its corner, holding it out as though it might burn him if it comes into too much
contact with his skin.
But—still. They are always watching. Best to seem eager, especially after so long deliberating over
it, what must surely be a concerning display to the eyes on him today. He tears into the paper with
more zeal than is strictly necessary, but thankfully doesn’t damage the letter itself, still intact as he
extracts it from the shredded casing.
His fingers shake when he manages to unfold it enough to read it properly, and he hopes that no
one is looking close enough to notice.
‘Dear Mr. Kim,’ it reads, ‘After some deliberation, the Council has reconsidered its previous
statement about your progression to the next stage of your development—’
Oh. Oh, no.
‘—Though we previously directed you to make a choice about filling the position for your Guide,
we have come to the conclusion that this choice is too important to be carried out
indiscriminately.’
Oh.
‘Therefore, it is the decision of this Council that the selection of your Guide will be left to the
Council itself. Having composed a list of those qualified for this important task, it is our resolution
that your Guidance will be assigned to—’
He looks down, and spots the last name he could possibly want to find written there.
‘—Min Yoongi, who has shown remarkable development of his own and is a prime candidate to
assist in the development of others.’
Fuck, no—
‘Please make arrangements with Mr. Min to begin the process without further delay. We will be
monitoring your progress very closely, and look forward to hearing of your success in the near
future.’
No longer caring who could possibly see, Namjoon tears the paper clean in half. Both pieces find
their way into the trash can, just as he makes his way into the en suite bathroom, and relieves
himself of his stress—and his lunch—as he doubles over the toilet and feels his entire stomach
clench in revulsion.
Teacher’s Lounge—Second Floor—East 08.16.18 11:04AM
“Yoongi, hello!” A voice calls out as Yoongi and Taehyung pass through the door to the lounge
with the doll in tow, Jungkook’s body stretched between them., Yoongi calls out a reply to the
other teacher as he turns and forces Taehyung to walk backwards with his guidance towards the
center of the room.
Jungkook feels his body settled down on something soft, a chair of some sort, and his eyelashes
flutter in an attempt for him to open his eyes. It’s only when he feels fingers fumbling at the back
of his head to release the buckle on his ball gag that he’s able to focus enough to pry his eyes open,
seeing Yoongi standing tall in front of him so that he has to look up at the teacher’s focused face.
Taehyung must be the one unfastening the straps behind him, then, and tugging the ball gently
from his mouth.
It takes him a long moment to remember to close his jaw, long enough that Yoongi reaches forward
and does it for him, pressing his fingers beneath Jungkook’s chin to help the aching muscles move
where they need to. ‘Thank you,’ Jungkook wants to say, but he can’t make himself form the
words. Belatedly, he remembers that he’s not supposed to talk, either, so thank goodness for that.
“Thank you for your help, Taehyung,” Yoongi says over Jungkook’s head, which the boy answers
with a nondescript grunt. “Hey—don’t be like that,” the teacher says, reaching up to grab at
Taehyung’s arm to drag him around the chair to follow Yoongi a few feet away, and it’s only then
that Jungkook’s eyes start to focus—really focus—on the room around them, and what he sees? It
leaves him absolutely stunned.
Directly across from him, seated in similar chairs to his own are a few teachers he recognizes from
his orientation. Chatting quietly with each other, they seem perfectly at ease except for one
glaringly obvious thing:
the naked person on all fours in front of them, bent over with cups and plates strewn across his
back like a coffee table. A boy—no, a man, though just barely. A student , he realizes with a curl of
disgust in his chest.
The teachers completely ignore the boy, acting as though he isn’t there, as though he is truly a
piece of furniture like any other in the room. Although, as Jungkook blinks his eyes in a desperate
attempt to get them to focus, he notices that the boy isn’t the only student in such a position—in
another grouping of chairs nearby, a young woman is bent over in an identical position, also naked,
with a teacher’s feet propped up on her back like a footstool. A few feet further, he spots a larger
boy actually being used as a chair, his arms trembling with the effort of holding up the weight of a
woman Jungkook recognizes from the school administrative office.
What the fuck—
“Alright, Taehyung, lunch just started. You owe me 1 hour of detention now and another hour after
the final bell.” Yoongi continues speaking to the boy in front of him, his tone even and calm as
though he doesn’t know or care that Jungkook has just had his world shaken to the core.
“Can’t I just—”
“What did I tell you about talking back to me?” Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, staring
down at Taehyung with an icy look that leaves no room for argument. The student gulps and ducks
his head, answering in a suddenly small voice that surprises Jungkook, “I—I’m sorry, sir…”
“Get undressed, Mr. Kim.”
Jungkook watches on in disbelief as Taehyung sighs quietly, hesitating for only a moment before
raising his hands to unfasten the button of his uniform blazer and shrugging it off his shoulders. He
hands it to Yoongi when the teacher reaches out a hand expectantly, then returns to unbuttoning the
front of his collared shirt. Jungkook wants to look away, doesn’t want to—to invade the student’s
privacy, but something about the sheer shock of the situation keeps his eyes fixed dead ahead, his
mind just as hazy now from apprehension as anything else.
Taehyung’s broad shoulders hang low in defeat as his bare back is revealed to Jungkook, Yoongi
taking the shirt from him as well before gesturing impatiently for Taehyung to continue. The
student toes out of his shoes and rolls his socks down his feet without needing to bend over, his
hands working simultaneously on unfastening his belt and sliding his uniform pants down his legs.
Jungkook is struck with how...unfortunately attractive Taehyung is under the layers of his uniform,
miles of tanned skin now on display and Jungkook hates how drawn to the sight he is even as he
can’t make himself look away.
The last to go are the tight black underwear that hide Taehyung’s ass from view, Jungkook getting
quite an eyeful as the boy bends down to slide them off his ankles. It surprises Jungkook to find
that Taehyung does nothing to cover or hide himself, doesn’t seem bashful at all under Yoongi’s
careful, watchful gaze—just raises his hands obediently to take the bundle of his own clothes from
Yoongi’s outstretched arms and makes his way over to the door they came in through.
Jungkook doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before, but another unclothed student stands beside
the door, his hands outstretched like a coat rack; Taehyung quickly deposits his things over the
other boy’s arms and hands and they share a silent, meaningful look before Taehyung seems to
square his shoulders and makes his way back over to stand in front of Yoongi again, this time
meeting the teacher’s eyes.
“On your knees, you know the drill.”
Taehyung drops to his knees immediately, leaving him looking up at Yoongi while Jungkook
watches on in trepidation. It’s almost like watching a trainwreck happen, how he can’t tear his eyes
away or make a sound even as he wants to reach forward to stop this, to—to help, somehow? A
small voice at the back of his mind betrays him, asking quietly whether he would help
Taehyung...or Yoongi. And what—what would help really look like?
“I’m very disappointed in you today, Mr. Kim,” Yoongi goes on to say, crossing his arms over his
chest again as he turns on the spot, taking a few steps away before circling back the other
direction, pacing in front of Taehyung and Jungkook pensively. The other teachers seated nearby
break off their conversation to listen in, one leaning forward in her seat to watch more attentively
as Yoongi approaches Taehyung again. “I think some additional behavior correction is called for,
don’t you?”
Taehyung sucks in a sharp breath at Yoongi’s question as though he knows what is coming, his
hands clenching into fists atop his knees. “...y-yes, sir.”
“That’s what I thought…alright, don’t move an inch.” Yoongi turns away, nodding his head in
greeting to the other teachers as he passes by and makes his way to a tall cabinet against the far
wall. As he pulls open the double doors, Jungkook dares to try to tilt his head ever so slightly for a
better view, catching sight of a—oh—a shocking array of what look to be whips and canes hung
from hooks inside.
Yoongi rummages around in the bottom of the cabinet before straightening up triumphantly,
closing the cabinet with one hand before turning around to reveal the results of his search—a long,
slightly curved piece of flat wood with small screws sticking out of it on either end. Jungkook has
never seen anything quite like it in his life, though from the context of the cabinet from which it
has been pulled, Jungkook can only imagine it’s nefarious purpose.
In front of him, he can hear Taehyung give a small groan of understanding as he catches sight of it,
his shoulders slumping further. Similarly, at Jungkook’s side, the young woman being used as a
table lets out a small whimper as a teacher places a cold glass of water on her back, condensation
running down the glass to drip across her skin.
“Hands on the ground, Mr. Kim, and ass in the air.” Yoongi instructs, stepping around Taehyung’s
prone form as he follows instructions after only the slightest of delays. Jungkook suddenly finds
himself with a clear view of the boy’s ass from his vantage-point, shocked once again when he
realizes that Taehyung is starting to get hard, his erection hanging heavy between his legs without
so much as a touch. What on earth could that wooden bar be used for, Jungkook thinks, to have the
boy so worked up within moments—is it used for...for some sort of spanking, some type of
corporal punishment?
Yoongi gets down on one knee behind Taehyung and reaches down between the boy’s legs with no
warning, grabbing at the boy’s hardening cock to give it a few succinct tugs to bring the boy to full
hardness. Taehyung lets out a low groan, his head dropping to hang low between his arms at his
teacher’s touch, a sound that Yoongi pointedly ignores.
Once he seems to determine that Taehyung has gotten worked up the way he wants him to be,
Yoongi sets the wooden tool across the small of the student’s back to use it as another makeshift
table as he starts to twist the screws loose on either end of the plank. After both of the screws have
been removed, he tugs at one side of the wood and Jungkook is fascinated to find that the plank
comes apart in two identical pieces, a small half-oval carved out of each side in the middle of the
wood so that when they are placed together they make one round hole.
Yoongi brings one half of the plank down between Taehyung’s legs, Jungkook once again tilting
his head inch by inch until he can see the way the teacher grabs at the boy’s balls without
hesitation and tugs them backwards until he can place them in the small cradle carved into the
center of the board.
Yoongi takes his time situating them properly, seeming to enjoy the way each tug makes Taehyung
let out a small hiss or gasp in surprise, but eventually he reaches up and brings down the other side
of the wooden tool, matching up the top piece on one side of Taehyung’s balls so that it connects
with the other side of the frame down below, leaving Taehyung’s balls sticking out through the
hole carved in the wood while his cock is left hanging heavy and hard on the other side.
It only takes a few perfunctory twists of the screws back into place to fasten the device together,
and Yoongi gets back to his feet with a satisfied smirk. “There. Let’s see if an hour in the humbler
will help you remember not to talk back to me in class, Mr. Kim.” He raises a foot to nudge the tip
of his dress shoe against Taehyung trapped balls, his grin widening as the boy shudders and gasps
at the contact. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
“Y—Yes...yes sir, I—t-thank you, sir…” Taehyung trips and stumbles his way through the words,
his voice low but vulnerable—a far cry from the cocksure student who had taunted Jungkook in the
classroom just the day before. Something about the sight sends a small, guilty thrill of satisfaction
through Jungkook’s chest that he pointedly decides to ignore.
“That’s right.” Yoongi circles back around Taehyung then, surveying his prone form as the boy
sucks in a few deep, calming breaths. “Why don’t you sit up so I can get a good look at you, hm?”
Taehyung forces himself to raise his head and look up at Yoongi, but the silence and pointed stare
that greets the boy in return tells Jungkook that it isn’t enough, his suspicions confirmed as
Taehyung gulps and slowly sits back on his haunches. The action forces the unforgiving shape of
the wood to press into Taehyung’s thighs, Jungkook realizing that the strange curve of the—what
had Yoongi called it? A humbler?
The strange curve of the humbler must have been designed specifically to fit around that very
specific shape. Under Yoongi’s watchful gaze, Taehyung continues to sit up further and further, his
movements unusually slow and deliberate, until—an inch too far, and Taehyung is yelping, the
unyielding humbler stretching his balls back between his legs to the point of pain. He collapses
forward onto his hands again and Yoongi brings his foot forward to use his shoe to tilt Taehyung’s
face to the side so he can look the boy in the eye.
“There you go, now you understand…” He comments, which makes Taehyung squeeze his eyes
shut for a moment as though fending off tears. “Follow me, Mr. Kim,” he instructs, and Taehyung
obediently begins to crawl after his teacher as the older man takes a seat in a chair just beside
Jungkook. The student sidles into place at the man’s feet, barely flinching when Yoongi raises his
legs to place his feet right at the small of Taehyung’s back.
So distracted by the spectacle right in front of him, Jungkook almost misses it when the door to the
teacher’s lounge is opened again and several other staff members enter, engrossed in a light
conversation with one another.
“—no, as I said, the younger students are held in detention down the hall with Mr. Byun.”
“And they’re all given—”
“Lines or lashes, depending on their transgression, of course. It also depends on the parents, since
there are a few who prefer to keep punishment within the home, and we always want to respect
those wishes.”
“I see…”
‘That voice—’
Before Jungkook can catch up to his own dawning realization, he hears his own name being called
from across the room.
“Jungkook?!”
Before he can stop himself, Jungkook whips his head around—as fast as his body will allow, at
least—and meets the eyes of his friend, Hoseok staring back at him with wide, stunned eyes.
Beside him, the principal, Seokjin, stands tall and imposing, his dark gaze trained on Jungkook for
the first time in two days, but Jungkook can’t find it in himself to pay the older man any attention,
not with Hoseok staring him down like a circus freak.
“Hobi—” He replies, the word tumbling from his lips before he can pull it back, before he can
remind himself of the consequences, and he suddenly finds a hand squeezing painfully tight at the
back of his neck, cutting of the rest of his words.
“Jungkook, what are you doing here? Why—why are you—?”
‘Oh god—oh GOD—I forgot about Hoseok—how could I have forgotten about Hoseok—’
“Mr. Jung.” Seokjin interrupts with a hand on Hoseok’s arm, turning him away forcefully. “Let’s
step aside for a moment.”
“But I—someone needs to explain to me—”
“Give me just a moment of your time, Mr. Jung, and I’ll get you all caught up.” Seokjin doesn’t
take no for an answer, steering Hoseok away by his arm, the teacher allowing himself to be moved
even as his eyes remain fixed on Jungkook over his shoulder as he’s dragged to the far side of the
room. Belatedly, Jungkook remembers to feel ashamed of his own nudity, brought into sharp relief
by Hoseok’s continued deer-in-the-headlights look at he stares at Jungkook over Seokjin’s shoulder
as the principal speaks to him in a hushed tone. In an aborted attempt at modesty, Jungkook tries to
raise on of his arms off his thigh, his limbs still feeling heavy and sluggish after being restrained in
the hour prior, but his efforts are dashed within seconds as Yoongi reaches down and grabs at
Jungkook’s wrist with a bruising grip.
Suddenly, he can feel Yoongi’s hot breath on his neck as the teacher leans down to hiss in his ear,
“If you breathe another word or so much as move a muscle…”
He doesn’t need to finish the threat, his words menacing enough on their own and the possibility of
some unknown punishment hanging over his head immediately sending an icy chill of fear down
his spine. He’s forced to sit and watch, then, frozen in place as Hoseok and Seokjin converse in
hushed tones in the opposite corner, straining his ears to try to catch even a snippet of what they
could possibly be discussing so seriously—but to no avail.
At first, Hoseok looks angry and animated, gesturing aggressively between Seokjin and the general
area where Jungkook has been seated, but Seokjin needs only a few choice words to bring
Hoseok’s temperament down significantly. The other teacher continues to glance over at Jungkook
nervously, and every pass of his friend’s eyes over his own naked body leaves Jungkook fighting
his every instinct to move, to cover himself, to run from the room—but just when Hoseok starts to
look skeptical again, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at something the principal is saying,
Seokjin chooses to lean in and whisper something in Hoseok’s ear. Once again, the gym teacher’s
eyes grow wide, though there’s something like wonder spreading across his handsome face.
His eyes return to Jungkook again and Seokjin falls silent for a long moment, leaving Hoseok room
to think. After a very pregnant pause where Hoseok looks him over, Jungkook catches the man
giving the principal the smallest of nods. Suddenly, a broad smile breaks across the principal’s face
and he laughs, placing one hand on Hoseok’s shoulder and gesturing with the other for the two of
them to return to the rest of the teachers.
Jungkook watches as Hoseok approaches, looking unusually nervous but no longer shocked as he
was before. Yoongi greets him coolly when he stops in front of them again, Seokjin hovering over
his shoulder with an unreadable expression. Jungkook suddenly feels all eyes on him as Hoseok
opens his mouth to speak, voice coming out strained.
“Hello there—”
“Hello,” Yoongi answers, his tone even. “It’s nice to see you again…” He trails off, as if he
doesn’t know Hoseok’s name off the top of his head.
“Oh—um, Jung Hoseok.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hoseok. My name is Min Yoongi.”
The younger teacher bounces back and forth on his toes, a habit Jungkook recognizes from any
time his friend had ever been nervous—or excited—about something.
“You, um, you as well, Mr. Min. I—I don’t mean to interrupt, I just...wanted to say hello to
Jungkook…”
Jungkook can see Yoongi nod agreeably beside him, sitting forward to engage in the conversation.
“To the doll, yes,” he corrects, giving Hoseok a pointed look.
“Right…” Hoseok agrees slowly, his eyes searching Yoongi’s face for something.
‘Oh god, no—’
Hoseok seems to find the answer he was looking for because his entire countenance changes in an
instant, his shoulders relaxing, his fists unclenching at his sides.
“Right,” he repeats, and turns his gaze to Jungkook at last, meeting Jungkook’s eyes with his own
dark, dark gaze. Jungkook has never seen such an expression on his friend’s face, and he feels as
though his stomach falls through the floor as Hoseok agrees with Yoongi easily, his voice dropping
low and heavy with implication.
“Of course,” he says,
“The doll.”
Chapter End Notes
Phase Three: Toy
Chapter Summary
It takes less than a week working in his new position as a sex education doll for
Jungkook to become painfully aware that no one in this school is who they seem to be
—not the staff, not the students...not even his former friend Hoseok.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE THREE:
Rape/Non-con, Non-Consensual Anal Sex, Blackmail, Mind

Manipulation/Conditioning, Dollification, Objectification, Public Nudity/Sex, Public
Humiliation, Voyeurism, Medical Experimentation/Examination, Object Insertion,
Degradation, Sexual Slavery, Imprisonment/Solitary Confinement, Cock & Ball
Torture, Discipline, Punishment/Corporal Punishment, Omarashi, Watersports,
Enemas, Catheters, Forced Orgasm, Force Feeding, Bondage, Non-Consensual
Bondage, Impact Play, Temperature Play, Wax Play, Sounding, Anal Fingering,
Gagging, Human Furniture, Teacher-Student Relationship
IMPORTANT NOTE:
This chapter includes a scene that contains explicit and graphic non-con. Though
every scene in this story has an element of non-con/dub-con to it, some readers may
prefer to skip this particular scene. There is a link at the beginning of the non-con
portion that will skip you to the very next scene without having to scroll past it
manually. There will also be a link to a description of the scene if you would like to
know what you missed. Please consider your options before reading this scene!
Bypassing this scene will minimally affect your understanding of the plot.
Fic Playlist
Phase Three Playlist


the original
story here!
Teacher’s Lounge—Second Floor 08.16.18 11:07AM
This isn’t what he signed up for.

That’s the only thing Hoseok can think as he’s pulled firmly by the arm across the room away
from his friend, from Jungkook—pulled, not dragged, for their leader is too distinguished to ever
drag anyone anywhere. No, it’s with no resistance that Hoseok is guided towards the door, casting
glances over his shoulder at the younger man’s naked form seated amongst the other teachers.
“Come here, Mr. Jung.”
They stop just before the entrance to the lounge, framed in the doorway as though they might just
stroll back out to their work—although the principal blocks his way.
“Let’s take a moment for reflection, hm?” The principal asks, hands on either of Hoseok’s
shoulders. As he finally tears his eyes away from Jungkook to look up at the taller man, he finds
himself caught in an icy stare, Seokjin’s mouth quirking into an understanding smile even as he
seems to be looking through Hoseok, the intensity of his gaze jarring in comparison.
“You seem distressed. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Distressed—? I— yes , I’m distressed, why wouldn’t I be?” He manages to choke out, brow
furrowing in concern. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday, and now I find Jungkook sitting here,
naked— ”
“Is it truly the nudity that bothers you, Mr. Jung?” Seokjin asks, tone light and curious, though his
eyes betray a deeper knowledge. “It seems to me that you had no issues with the other instances so
far—tell me, brother, what makes this so different?”
“I—“ he finds himself pinned by the leader’s stare, tongue-tied by the truth of his words. “I—well,
I—it’s not that I—have a problem with it, Seok—I, uh, I mean, sir! It’s just, it’s Jungkook—”
“You’re concerned for your friend?”
“I don’t understand why —you said, you said we would start here together , that we would be
equals from the beginning…”
“Oh, Mr. Jung, is that what you’re worried about?” Seokjin tilts his head in concern, lifting his
hands off of Hoseok’s arms to hold his palms out in front of him placatingly. “I assure you—”
“I don’t want your assurances!” Hoseok bursts out, pointing a finger at the principal accusingly. “I
want to know I didn’t come here under false pretenses! I brought him here—I, I wanted him to be
my partner, I was so excited to share this with him! I want to know why you have him like that, like
—like one of the students!”
Seokjin remains silent while Hoseok continues his rant, only moving to clasp his hands together in
front of himself politely while he listens with rapt attention, his face betraying no disquiet at being
interrupted. Hoseok turns to look at Jungkook again, seeing the younger man looking away now, a
fellow teacher—Yoongi, he remembers, from their orientation—whispering in his ear. When he
turns back to the principal, finger still pointed to the older man’s chest accusingly, he realizes his
mistake—how the principal is watching him placidly despite his outburst, dark eyes looking down
at Hoseok as if waiting for him to continue, and he suddenly snaps his jaw shut and jerks his hand
back to his side. He takes a deep steadying breath, unable to tear his eyes away from the leader,
and once again feels that intense…magnetism that the man always seems to exude. Seokjin waits
for him, still so patiently, until he gets his breathing back under control—though his heart never
ceases in its racing. What was he thinking , yelling at this man who was to be his mentor, his boss ,
not two days into the semester?
“I...I’m so sorry...Se—sir.” He mumbles, twisting at his hands in front of him as he waits for
Seokjin’s expression to change, to be yelled at, or reprimanded —but the outburst never comes.
Seokjin just reaches forward after a long, pregnant pause, to place his hands back on Hoseok’s
shoulders. Now, instead of feeling like he’s being caged in, the touch feels...grounding, especially
so when Seokjin’s lips break into a wider smile.
“No need to worry, Mr. Jung. I understand, it’s been a whirlwind couple of days, and emotions are
running high—for us all, really! You’re not alone.” And Hoseok believes him, too. It has been a
long couple of days, and the week has only just started. Is this what he should expect in this new
position? Or does it ever get easier? As if sensing his thoughts, Seokjin continues, “Developing
your emotional intelligence is an essential part of your progression plan here, you know that; we
discussed it in our first meeting, don’t you remember?”
Hoseok nods, thinking back to that first day, his excitement, the intrigue , all the possibility of this
new opportunity—
“One moment of insubordination can be forgiven, Mr. Jung, don’t you worry. But don’t let it
happen again, hm?” Seokjin punctuates his words with a firm squeeze to Hoseok’s shoulders, and
the teacher nods eagerly. He remembers that touch—it remains as soothing as ever.
“There, that’s better. Do you feel better, calmer?”

Hoseok nods again, finding—upon taking stock of his body—that he really is, his heartbeat
lowering even as the older man speaks. Right...nothing to be afraid of.
“Wonderful. Now, will you listen to what I have to say?” Another nod, and Seokjin’s smile widens
even further, as though he’s gotten exactly what he wanted.
“Good, very good. Alright, Mr. Jung, take a look at your friend with me, will you?” He wraps his
arm around Hoseok’s shoulders now, turning his body so they are standing side-by-side. Hoseok
tries to follow the directions, eyes skirting back to where he had previously been standing,
flickering over Jungkook’s naked form, unable to keep from forcing his eyes up to look at the
man’s face and his face only . Yoongi has a hand behind Jungkook’s neck, seeming to support the
younger man as he sits perfectly still, his eyes looking almost glazed over and unfocused, staring
blankly in Hoseok’s general vicinity.
“This is not how you expected to see him, I assume?”
“No!” He replies immediately, then schools his tone into one more even-tempered. “No, no sir, it’s
not.”
“You expected him to take on a role more like your own, am I right?”
“Yes, of course, that’s why I recommended him—”
“I found that Mr. Jeon has a different calling, Mr. Jung. Did he tell you what his subject assignment
was to be?” Seokjin interrupts, squeezing his shoulder again pointedly.
“Y-Yes, um...sex—sex education, sir?”
“Exactly. And you know how very important that subject is, don’t you? Surely, with your own
position in the health department, you would understand—not to mention its importance to the
larger community. You remember our conversation about our organizational values?”
“Of course, sir, but—”

“We want to light the flame of knowledge for our students, Mr. Jung! That means providing them
with the most in-depth learning experience—surely you understand?” He must see the bewildered
look on Hoseok’s face as he listens, glancing between Jungkook and the teachers sitting around
him, gears oh-so-slowly turning in his mind to piece together just what the older man means . “Ah,
well, as you progress through your training, you’ll see the value of our new doll and his role in
their education. I have no doubt about that.”
“A doll ?” He can’t help but interject, turning to look at the principal in confusion. “What’s that
supposed to—I, uh—I mean, could you, um, explain that further? Sir?” Hoseok catches himself
just in time, another pointed squeeze to his shoulders not even necessary for him to correct himself
mid-sentence. Seokjin seems pleased with his deference, giving him a warmer squeeze with his
whole arm instead.
“Of course! You should have been informed right from the start—I don’t believe in the
withholding of information, it goes against everything we aim for here.” He laughs, though if there
was a joke buried somewhere in his statement, Hoseok misses it completely. “Mr. Jeon has agreed
to be our new demonstration doll! Isn’t that wonderful? It’s been too long since we’ve had a good
one, and after what happened before—well, let’s just say I’m glad to have the curriculum back on
track.”
“So…” Hoseok ventures to ask, “he’s—he’s been hired to teach like that ?” He waves a hand in
Jungkook’s general direction, still having a hard time looking at the younger man.
“Oh yes, Mr. Min requested an assistant specifically, and I thought Mr. Jeon would be perfect for
the role. He’s in training now, but I know he’ll be caught up to speed very soon.”
“So he knew— ?”
“He seemed very enthusiastic about the role when I offered it to him, Mr. Jung.” Seokjin interrupts,
answering Hoseok’s question before he can even finish answering it. “His new role was fully
detailed in his contract, if you’d like to see it?”
Something about the older man’s tone makes Hoseok’s stomach twist, the implication of his
mistrust of the principal leaving a foul taste in his mouth. “No, no, sir, that’s not necessary, thank
you. I’m just—this is all very new to me, I apologize—”
“Now, now...no need for that, it’s alright…” Seokjin reassures him, that same soothing tone broken
back out while Hoseok finds himself nodding along again. “This is just the beginning of your
journey here, I understand. Don’t worry, Mr. Jung, I know you’ll be an invaluable member of our
community in no time. You know I’m very excited to have you both on staff! But—” Another
squeeze to Hoseok’s shoulder as if to ward off any worries before they even arise. “I will need your
help with getting Mr. Jeon settled in. Can I trust you to do that?”
And it’s without hesitation that Hoseok finds himself agreeing, blurting out a, “Yes sir, anything!
What do you need?” before he even realizes the words have left his mouth.
“I knew I could count on you. Please stop by my office after the final bell, and we can discuss our
new doll’s accommodations with us here—how does that sound?”
“Of course, sir, no problem.”
“Thank you for your assistance, brother, I appreciate it.” Seokjin assures him with a smile, and
then Hoseok finds the older man’s head bending closer, his lips suddenly af Hoseok’s ear. “But
there’s one other thing I neglected to mention—”
Oh, here it comes, Hoseok thinks—punishment, or, worse—
“—as a valued member of our community, you are, of course, entitled to use of any of the
institution’s resources, Mr. Jung.”
“Resources—?”
Seokjin takes a firmer hold of Hoseok’s shoulders and forces him to turn back towards Jungkook,
forcing Hoseok’s eyes to fixate on the younger man now, making his point perfectly clear as he
says, “...I don’t really need to explain explain myself further...do I?”
“Is—” Hoseok gulps, afraid now to ask what’s on his mind, afraid he’s getting ahead of himself.
He stares at Jungkook openly now, not allowing his eyes to flick away in discomfort as he takes in
Jungkook’s naked form. “Is that—why he was brought here? Why Mr. Min—brought him to the
lounge?”
“Oh, I would assume so…” Seokjin’s voice takes on a thoughtful, airy quality as he pulls back to
look over at Yoongi and Jungkook as well. “I certainly hope there’s no other reason!” There’s a
strange sharpness beneath the principal’s words at that, add odds with his genial tone. “Mr. Min
knows that an important role in a doll’s career here is being ready and willing at any time for a
demonstration, or just to...serve the staff, as it were. I’m sure Mr. Min just wants to help our new
doll along in its training.”
“Training…” Hoseok repeats dumbly, mind only partially processing what the principal is saying
as his thoughts are so focused on the sight of his friend before him, limp and staring vacantly
across the room. “Right…”
“Would you like to assist Mr. Min in this process, hm? I think that would be very helpful…”
Seokjin gives him an encouraging pat on the back. Hoseok’s ears are ringing now, blood rushing in
his head, rushing south through his body as he looks—really allows himself to look—at his former
classmate, his colleague, his friend for the first time.
Jungkook is beautiful, there’s no two ways about it. Large round eyes, wide and dark, and now
unfocused as they gaze blankly into space; a pretty flush to his soft cheeks, so often curled up in a
smile, though now they lay lax against his cheekbones; thin, pink lips, wet and parted, hanging
open as if in surprise—and his body ...Hoseok has never allowed himself to properly look at
Jungkook before, not in all the years they spent together, studying late in the library, crashing in
each other’s dorm rooms, but now he can’t make himself stop.
Jungkook’s body is just as perfect as he always thought it would be, well-built and muscled, miles
of gorgeous tanned skin on display, his thick thighs and almost dainty ankles and wrists—Hoseok
knew all those years that if he really allowed himself to look, he would never be able to look away,
and he was right . Dimly, he thinks that Seokjin couldn’t have made a more perfect choice for a
doll, such a perfect specimen of humanity…
“Mr. Jung?” Seokjin asks gently, interrupting Hoseok’s train of thought, and he realizes that he has
no idea how long he’s been staring dumbly across the room.
“Should I take that as a yes, then?” He can hear the amusement in the older man’s tone. When
Hoseok can only manage a mindless nod, the Principal bursts into laughter, patting Hoseok across
the back genially. “I thought so! Well, don’t let me keep you, brother. The lunch period will be
over sooner than you think! Come, let’s join the others…”
Hoseok feels pressure against his back urging him forward again, this time away from the door and
back towards the other teachers. His feet move mechanically as they go, his eyes never leaving the
sight of Jungkook propped in a chair beside the other instructor, Yoongi. Yoongi has his eyes fixed
right back on Hoseok, his eyes dark and appraising much the same way Seokjin always seems to
look, and Hoseok finds himself overwhelmed with a wave of nerves—nerves? What does he have
to be nervous about?
He doesn’t realize that Seokjin has broken away from him until he’s standing right in front of the
older teacher, Jungkook at his side, a student he hadn’t really noticed before bent over in front of
them like a footrest—Kim...something, he remembers. A troublemaker. Yoongi sips on a cup of
coffee, looking at him over the rim while Hoseok struggles for his mouth to catch up to his brain,
then takes the cup and sets it down carefully on the small of the student’s back, the sudden warmth
causing the student to obviously struggle to hold himself still against his instinct to flinch away.
“I—I don’t mean to interrupt,” He manages to choke out, trying not to let this older man intimidate
him, though his fox-like stare certainly seems enough to do the job. “I just...wanted to say hello to
Jungkook…”
Yoongi lodges a pointed look back at Hoseok, crossing his arms over his chest as if daring the
younger man to argue as he corrects in a stern tone, “To the doll , yes.”
“Right…” Hoseok agrees, the word coming out slowly like syrup. ‘Right, that’s right, I’ve gotta
use the right titles, goddamn it—’ Hoseok meets Yoongi’s eyes at last, searching his gaze for some
indication that he’s doing the right thing as he goes on, “Right, of course…”
Yoongi relaxes then, his shoulders dropping and his hands settling back on his crossed legs, giving
Hoseok an approving nod. Beside him, it seems like Jungkook stiffens slightly, drawing Hoseok’s
attention back to him. It’s much easier to look at the younger man now—now that he knows he’s
doing the right thing. “The doll.” He says, addressing Jungkook properly for the first time, and it
feels so right. So true .
“Go on, then.” Yoongi tells him, waving blandly to where Jungkook is propped up beside him.
Hoseok’s eyes trace down the length of Jungkook’s body, allowing himself another opportunity to
take in the divots of his strong musculature, the thickness of his thighs, the heavy weight of his
cock hanging between them. Hoseok dares, then, to reach his hand forward to trace his fingertips
along the expanse of one of Jungkook’s shoulders—a gesture he had made so many times before,
in their years together as students themselves, though made altogether more meaningful by this
new situation.
Beneath his touch, Hoseok feels the doll start to tremble. It must be so nerve-racking, he thinks, to
be in this new role, to want to do well, especially in your first week, to have all eyes on you.
Seokjin’s words come back to him then, his invitation to help. “Principal Kim,” he says to Yoongi,
nodding his head over to where their leader is standing to the side, watching, “told me I could be of
some use, perhaps help you with his training?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately, staring back at Hoseok thoughtfully. He strokes a hand
through his hair, flicks his eyes over to look at Seokjin for a moment, then seems to acquiesce to
the suggestion—he kicks his feet up onto the back of the student kneeling in front of him, placing
his shoes one atop the other beside his cup of coffee, and the boy’s shoulders tremble under the
weight. Jungkook trembles too, especially as Yoongi answers, “Yes, alright, you might as well.
I’ve been meaning to prepare it for more intense demonstrations anyway, might as well be now.”
Hoseok feels a tightness in his stomach release at Yoongi’s agreement, and he smiles. “Perfect,
how can I be of assistance?”
Yoongi considers this for a moment, then turns his head to speak to the teachers sitting at the next
table over. “Excuse me, ladies, we seem to have need for that table.” The teachers jump at being
addressed, looking over at Yoongi in surprise, then jump to their feet immediately. Though Yoongi
phrased his words more as a statement than a question, the women look as though he might have
asked them to do him a great service. “Of course, Mr. Min, of course,” they say as they gather their
things and leave the table clear, stepping to the side—but not too far, hovering close enough that
they can still watch.
“There you go, you can lay the doll out over there, if you’d like,” Yoongi offers to Hoseok, who
jumps immediately at the opportunity. He slides an arm easily around Jungkook’s shoulders,
slipping the other beneath the doll’s knees, and it’s all too easy to pick him up from his seat and
carry him the few feet to the empty table. When he sets Jungkook down, laying his body out along
the table top, he’s surprised to find that Jungkook starts to move from where he’s placed, sitting up
slightly as if trying to leave the table, his legs shifting back together when Hoseok spreads them
apart.
CW: scene containing explicit rape/non-con
click to skip
“H—” he hears, looking up to see Jungkook clearing his throat, his mouth open as he tries to speak,
“H-Hobi—”
There’s a scratchy quality to the doll’s voice that Hoseok doesn’t remember hearing before, as
though he has a sore throat or spent the night before cheering at a concert. It reminds the teacher
immediately that Jungkook shouldn’t be speaking at all.
“Hey, no, shhhh…” he immediately shushes the doll, pressing against his shoulders until Jungkook
is forced to lie back against the tabletop again, though his weak resistance to the hold continues.
Hoseok steps closer until his hips are wedged between Jungkook’s thighs where they hang over the
edge of the table, forcing his legs apart so he can’t attempt to close them anymore.
“I know it’s all new to you, doll, but you’ve gotta remember the rules!” He reminds Jungkook,
giving his head a disappointed shake. Jungkook’s eyes are wide and his face seems to crumple in
disappointment at Hoseok’s words. “Wait, no, no need to get upset, it’s okay! They asked me to
help train you, so you’ll learn it all a little faster. Then it’ll come easily to you, okay?”
He glances away for a second to look over at Yoongi, wanting to make sure he’s handling the
situation correctly, and almost misses the small shake of his head that the doll makes. When he
looks back down, Hoseok is just in time to see Jungkook raise his arms towards his chest and
manages to catch them in his own hands, dragging them above the doll’s head to pin them to the
tabletop before the doll can do anything else that will get him in trouble.
What does Jungkook think he’s doing ? Who takes on a job and then acts out like this within days
of accepting it—
Oh. Hoseok pauses, glancing around the room to find the other teachers all staring back at him,
their conversations paused as they watch him handle the doll with rapt attention. Of course!
Jungkook always was a perfectionist, always wanted to get everything right the first time, was
always afraid to ask for assistance—it must be so mortifying for him, for the other staff members to
see him so lost and confused, to have his training happening to publicly. Jungkook had always been
the type to suffer silently until he figured something out.
“Hey, Koo—doll, please, just let me help you, hm?” He asks, dropping his voice lower so only
Jungkook can hear. “I know it’s hard, but just let me help you…”
Predictably, Jungkook’s arms strain against his grip, though the movement is weak and almost
half-hearted. He doubles down on his grip, leaning forward until his body is plastered over
Jungkook’s, his hips flush against the swell of the doll’s ass. He has to bite back a groan at the way
the friction feels against his growing erection, the way Jungkook’s body feels pressed against his
own—
“No—no, no!” Jungkook suddenly cries out, louder than before, trying to buck away from
Hoseok’s hips—and beside them, it seems that Yoongi has had enough. He kicks his feet against
the side of the student he was using as a footrest, the boy slumping to the ground in a mess of
groans and clattering and spilled coffee, and Yoongi gets to his feet with a scowl on his face.
“Alright, that’s it ,” he says as he approaches.
“Help me—help me—!” Jungkook chokes out, pleading as he turns his head to try to see Yoongi
over his shoulder.
“I am,” Hoseok replies, trying to reassure the doll, but he can’t say anything else before Yoongi is
at his side, the annoyance the older teacher is feeling practically palpable.
“That’s enough ,” he repeats, and Jungkook snaps his mouth shut with a whimper. Yoongi reaches
into his pocket, then, and pulls out what Hoseok recognizes as a ball gag attached to a leather set of
straps. Jungkook’s eyes widen almost comically at the sight, and Hoseok feels his throat clench in
sympathy. How embarrassing for him, he thinks.
Yoongi makes quick work of prying Jungkook’s mouth back open and slipping the gag between
his teeth, ignoring the noises of discontent that the doll continues to make as Yoongi reaches
around Hoseok’s arms so that the doll’s head is lifted and the buckle can be fastened securely at the
nape of his neck.
“There,” Yoongi says, pleased, as he steps back, “maybe that’ll help remind it to do its job
properly.” Hoseok feels another small twinge of sympathy for the doll, but he feels even more
grateful for Yoongi and his willingness to help Jungkook through this situation. Jungkook had
always been a generally quiet and introspective person, but with surprising moments of being loud
and boisterous that would get him into trouble—both back in their days at college and again now, it
seems.
“How can I help?” He asks again, and Yoongi looks over at Hoseok in surprise.
“Help?” The older teacher replies, flicking his eyes down towards Jungkook almost nervously.
“With his training, as Principal Kim suggested,” Hoseok reminds him helpfully, and Yoongi’s
shoulders seem to sag slightly in relief.
“Oh, right.” He pats his hands over his pockets for a moment before finding what he’s looking for,
pulling out a small clear bottle to hand to Hoseok. The younger teacher fumbles to clasp both of
Jungkook’s wrists in one hand so he can take the bottle in the other, and Yoongi shakes his head as
if to rid himself of the fog of his thoughts before stepping closer and placing his hands over
Jungkook’s wrists as well. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you go get something more secure from the
cabinet while I hold it still?” He jerks his head towards the cabinet on the far side of the room to
punctuate his point.
Hoseok grins at Yoongi gratefully and lets his hand slip free, dropping the bottle on the tabletop
and leaving Jungkook’s wrists in the older teacher’s grip as he backs away. Jungkook stays quiet,
now, closing his eyes as he relaxes in Yoongi’s grip as if knowing that the older man has the
situation under control, and Hoseok understands that feeling completely . He nods in greeting to the
few senior teachers he passes on his way across the room, circling around tables and students bent
over on the ground until he makes it to the tall wooden cabinet to which Yoongi had directed him.
The handles of the double doors are emblazoned with the school’s crest and Hoseok strokes a
finger over part of the image—the dawning rays of the sun that symbolize the attainment of
knowledge and truth—and thinks it’s a very nice touch.
Still, when he pulls the doors open wide, he’s even more impressed by the wide array of tools that
have been provided for staff to use—long leather whips of various sizes and shapes, polished canes
that shine in the light, wooden paddles also emblazoned with the school crest, and—better yet—
long lengths of rope and chain to use for exactly this situation. Hoseok considers them carefully for
only a moment before selecting a bundle of tightly woven cord, liking the way it feels in his hand
as he lifts it from its hook and closes the doors over the rest—thick and well-made, and soft to the
touch. Perfect for holding Jungkook down without tearing at the doll’s skin.
Yoongi seems to agree, giving Hoseok an approving nod when he returns with the rope in hand.
“Alright, show me what you’ve learned so far,” he tells Hoseok holding Jungkook’s wrists up
helpfully while the doll remains lax in his grip, eyes still firmly squeezed shut. Hoseok swallows
nervously. ‘Can’t fuck this up,’ he thinks, willing his hands not to shake as he uncoils the rope and
steps forward so he can reach down and twist the rope around the offered wrists. Jungkook makes a
small whimpering noise at the sensation, which only spurs Hoseok to work faster—twisting the
rope back and forth across the doll’s wrists in a figure-eight pattern before taking the ends of the
rope and twisting them securely between Jungkook’s wrists so there is no room for the doll to fight
the handcuffs that have been crafted between his arms. With a nervous smile, Hoseok finally
extends the ends of the rope to Yoongi and waits for his approval.
Yoongi takes the offered rope in one hand and runs his other fingers along the knot work,
inspecting it carefully for any inconsistencies while Hoseok watches with baited breath. Finally,
after what feels like agonizing hours instead of just minutes, Yoongi leans back and gives Hoseok
another approving nod. “Very nice work,” he says, “I can see that you’ve been practicing.”
“Ever since I received the job offer!” Hoseok admits gleefully. He can’t help but glance over
Yoongi’s shoulder to where Principal Kim is still standing, watching the two of them silently with
his hands clasped behind his back—and when he offers Hoseok an appreciative smile as well, the
teacher feels his heart swell with pride.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Yoongi continues, drawing his attention back to the way the older teacher has
bent down to tie the ends of the rope around of the the legs of the table. “That ought to keep it still
while you have at it, hm?” When he straightens back up, Hoseok hurries to give him a thumbs up
in agreement.
“Here—” Yoongi picks up the bottle he had handed Hoseok earlier from where the teacher had left
it on the tabletop, “go ahead and work the doll open. I haven’t had a chance to prepare him for
more advanced experiments in class, so you’ll be doing me a favor.”
“Oh—” Hoseok takes the bottle back in hand, looking at it more closely than before, and realizes
it’s an unmarked container of lube. “Oh!” He looks down at Jungkook, then, taking in the full
picture of the doll’s prone form, the miles and miles of his bare skin. So the principal hadn’t been
exaggerating—he really was allowed to indulge like this?
“Is there a problem?” Yoongi asks impatiently. Hoseok shakes his head to snap himself out of his
wandering thoughts, and tightens his hold on the bottle. If Yoongi needs his help, he decides, then
he won’t let him down. Getting to have this little luxury, this moment with the doll—well, that’s
just a bonus, isn’t it?
“No, no problem sir, my apologies.” He answers quickly, and snaps the bottle open. Despite the
slight shaking of his fingers, he makes sure to coat them thoroughly in the slippery substance
before setting the bottle aside in favor of grabbing at one of Jungkook’s thighs. He tugs the limb
leg up towards the doll’s chest, exposing the nice curve of Jungkook’s ass to his eyes for the first
time, and it’s impossible not to lick his lips at the sight.
Yoongi steps away then, calling for the student he had been sitting with earlier. “Taehyung, come
here!” From the floor, a figure on its hands and knees raises its head and Hoseok glances over to
see that it is the same boy he had trouble naming before. Taehyung gulps at the attention on him
but doesn’t hesitate before starting to move toward the teacher at his command, wincing obviously
as he crawls against the resistance of the humbler holding his balls back between his thighs. His
approach distracts Yoongi from Hoseok’s actions and the younger teacher takes the opportunity to
continue in his work with one less set of eyes on him. He rubs his slick fingers together to warm
them before pressing one firmly against Jungkook’s tight, clenching hole. It’s only at the touch that
Jungkook shows any signs of stirring, his eyes fluttering open at the unexpected sensation and
Hoseok watches the doll struggle to focus on his face.
“That’s it…” He murmurs to himself as he feels his first finger slowly ease inside Jungkook’s
body, followed shortly by the second, their passage smoother than he expected—clearly not the
first time Jungkook has done this, he thinks with a smirk. He had always assumed that his younger
friend was a little innocent to all of the indulgences of the flesh, but clearly he had been wrong.
How many times had the doll allowed someone to be inside him like this? How much had he kept
from Hoseok over the years of their friendship? Obviously, Jungkook was better suited to this job
than he had assumed—it was all starting to make sense now.
Still, the doll whines against his gag and bucks his hips away from the touch, his cheeks turning
red as he watches Hoseok stare down at him, and the older teacher is reminded that the public
nature of this particular position must still be very new and strange to his friend. He resolves to
hold Jungkook tighter, spreading the doll’s thick thighs wider so Jungkook can strain against his
grip without getting very far. His grip is strong and unwavering, leaving Jungkook with barely
enough room to buck his hips in resistance as Hoseok manages to wriggle a third finger into his
body. It’s only then that Jungkook seems to notice the way the rope around his wrists has been
fastened above his head, tilting his head back as much as he can to see the way the rope is drawn
taut against his struggles for freedom. Hoseok smiles down at Jungkook as the doll returns his gaze
to his friend between his legs, eyes wide in surprise as he realizes his predicament.
There, Hoseok thinks, that’s got to be better! Now Jungkook is starting to understand. Now he can
get the help he needs.
He hears someone clearing their throat beside him and tears his eyes away from Jungkook to spot
Yoongi, sitting just to the side of the table now with his ass pressed firmly to the center of
Taehyung’s back. The boy has his eyes clenched shut, a determined look on his face as he holds his
arms ramrod-straight under the teacher’s weight, while Yoongi looks back at Hoseok as though
blissfully unaware of the student’s struggle beneath him. Yoongi clears his throat again and crosses
his arms over his chest, nodding his head pointedly back towards Jungkook so that Hoseok gets the
message immediately: hurry up.
Hoseok gives the room a nervous glance, catching the eyes of several other teachers who are
watching him avidly from their seats nearby, and he swallows around the dry clench of his throat
as he tugs his fingers from Jungkook’s body and drops his hands immediately to his own belt. He
can feel the weight of their eyes on him as he fumbles to unfasten the buckle and unzip his slacks,
silently cursing himself for wearing such difficult clothes today as his slick fingers slip and slide
over the zipper for a few difficult moments before he finally manages to get the fly undone and slip
his pants down his hips.
Jungkook tries to say something, drawing Hoseok’s attention just as he slides a hand beneath the
waistband of his own boxers to curl his fingers around his aching cock—but the gag does it’s job,
then, muffling Jungkook’s words into one long desperate sound. That’s probably for the best,
Hoseok thinks as he frees his cock from its confines, hissing at the sensation of cool air on his
overheated, sensitive skin—Jungkook may be new at this, but he’ll have to learn to keep quiet
sooner rather than later if he has any hopes to keep this job of his. Hoseok strokes himself firmly a
few times, letting himself indulge in one last look at Jungkook’s body spread out in front of him
and the small broken noises the doll is making behind his gag before he reaches for the bottle of
lube and upends it over his cock, utterly uncaring about the mess it makes of the front of his
clothes as he smears it across his skin with one hand. With the other, he clenches his fingers into
Jungkook’s thigh tight enough to bruise, dragging the doll’s leg up until it nearly presses into his
chest, leaving Jungkook no choice but to present his slick, clenching hole to Hoseok’s hungry gaze.
Jungkook’s cock lies heavy against the crook of his thigh, half-hard from Hoseok’s ministrations
earlier, though the doll lets out a small whimper as Hoseok stares at it pointedly and licks his lips.
Never before able to truly entertain his attraction to Jungkook, now he finds it impossible to tear
his eyes away from the sight, especially as he steps forward and presses the tip of his cock to
Jungkook’s entrance and feels the way the younger man’s body clenches in anticipation.
Jungkook strains futilely against the ropes binding his wrists as Hoseok finally forces his cock
inside, reveling in the broken moan it forces from the doll’s lips. He hears the other teachers
murmuring appreciatively nearby, but it’s all too easy to ignore them in favor of the overwhelming
pleasure of his cock being swallowed by the tight heat of his friend’s body, feeling Jungkook’s
muscles clench and twist and tense beneath his hands. Moving both palms to the underside of
Jungkook’s thighs, he presses the doll’s legs back further, leaving him spread wide and vulnerable
so Hoseok can settle between his legs.
Only once he has bottomed out does he look up, forcing his eyes open so he can take in the way
Jungkook’s spine bends at the intrusion, his hands clenching into the ropes above his head.
Hoseok’s eyes follow the line of Jungkook’s body up along the table before moving past him to
glance over the crowd of teachers nearby, skimming over their interested faces until he finally
meets the eyes of the principal where he hovers a few feet behind them.
Seokjin sports a dark look in his eyes now, a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, but
when he meets Hoseok’s gaze, he smiles. All the reassurance that he needs, Hoseok takes it as
permission to continue and pulls his hips back, dragging his cock from Jungkook’s body before
slamming forward again without warning. Jungkook jerks helplessly at the motion, his eyes
clenching shut just as Hoseok turns his gaze back down to watch his friend again. Spurred on by
the principal’s approval, he tosses one of Jungkook’s legs up over his elbow so that the doll is all
but bent in half and picks up the pace of his thrusts, giving in completely to the utter pleasure of the
doll’s pliant form.
After a particularly sharp thrust, he hears a moaning sound that comes, not from Jungkook as he
expects, but from beside him where Yoongi sits with that student—what was his name again?
‘Taehyung, right, Taehyung,’ he thinks.
He chances a glance over at them while trying to keep up the rhythm of his movements inside
Jungkook, though his hips stutter for a moment as he realizes exactly why Taehyung had begun to
make such wanton noises—sometime after Hoseok started having his way with Jungkook, the
older teacher took it upon himself to reach down between Taehyung’s legs to where his balls are
being tugged behind him by his humbler and began to stroke the boy’s tender flesh through his
confines. Now he times his strokes with Hoseok’s thrusting, forcing Taehyung to whimper and
moan in all the ways Jungkook currently can’t—though Hoseok is sure that the doll would be,
should the gag be removed from his mouth.
Wanting nothing more than to assist, to help, to bring the boy pleasure the way he is to Jungkook,
Hoseok cants his hips up at a better angle, aiming directly for where he assumes the doll’s prostate
must be, and he’s rewarded with a dual chorus of moans as Jungkook responds just the same as
Taehyung does—Yoongi taking Hoseok’s movements as a directive to tighten his fingers into
Taehyung’s taut balls until the boy is positively quivering beneath him. Hoseok is proud , so proud
to be directing such a response, prouder still at his own prowess—surely the staff watching on will
be impressed.
Still, when he returns his gaze to Jungkook’s face, Hoseok is disappointed and frustrated slightly
by the way Jungkook has his head tilted away, eyes clenched closed to block out any sight of the
room, and—as he looks closer—tears silently streaming from his eyes to leave wet, sloppy tracks
down his cheeks. No, no, no,Hoseok thinks, that’s not right—
“Jungkook—” he says, before he can think better of it, and immediately he finds himself cut off by
the clearing of a throat beside him. Jungkook makes a sharp, surprised noise at the back of his
throat at the sound of his own name, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. When Hoseok’s
head jerks around automatically to look, he sees Yoongi staring back at him pointedly , his
attention entirely focused on Hoseok even as he continues his persistent torment of Taehyung’s
sensitive body beneath him.
The older teacher gives just the barest shake of his head when he knows that he has Hoseok’s
attention, and Hoseok feels a horrible twist of fear in his stomach as he realizes exactly what that
means and whips his head around immediately to look up at Seokjin where the principal is
hovering just behind all of the other teachers.
Seokjin is no longer smiling, arms crossed over his chest instead of behind his back, and the
principal seems to be watching Hoseok and Jungkook appealingly, his dark eyes moving between
Jungkook’s face and Hoseok’s stuttering hips—and when Jungkook lets out another whimper,
Hoseok watches the expression on Seokjin’s face darken threateningly. Oh no, no no no—
“Jungkook,” he whispers as he turns his attention back down to the table, trying to get the doll’s
attention without Seokjin noticing, but Yoongi immediately clears his throat again and Hoseok
quickly corrects himself, louder, “Doll—”
Jungkook whimpers even louder at that, drawing a few whispers from the crowd of teachers around
them, and before Hoseok even realizes what he’s doing, he jerks forward and places a hand over
Jungkook’s mouth, pressing his gag more firmly between the doll’s teeth. It does nothing to muffle
the sound Jungkook makes as Hoseok only drives his cock further into the doll’s body with the
motion, and—frantically—he grabs at Jungkook’s throat instead, fingers closing around the sides
of Jungkook’s neck and squeezing immediately. Now that—that does the trick, any sound of
surprise Jungkook makes cut off by the sudden pressure. ‘Oh, yes—good,’ Hoseok thinks, letting a
wave of relief wash over him.
Finally, with Jungkook properly silenced, Hoseok can focus on the snap of his hips against
Jungkook’s, the force of each thrust only making his grip on the doll’s throat tighten and release,
tighten and release while Jungkook gasps in through his nose and makes the smallest broken moans
around his gag.
Behind him, he hears the now-recognizable sounds of Taehyung moaning and gasping in time with
his thrusts, as though Yoongi has the boy watching what is happening as he touches him, and it
only spurs Hoseok on, his confidence swelling at the chorus of appreciative murmurs he hears
from the teachers around him. His eyes don’t focus on them any longer, his mind completely
focused on Jungkook and doing his very best to take his pleasure from the doll—especially with
Jungkook now successfully quieted into submission. Beneath him, Hoseok feels the obvious jut of
Jungkook's now-hard cock leaking against his stomach, and more than anything else, he takes it as
a sign of his success.
God, but it feels perfect, finally perfect, the way Jungkook clenches around him, his pleasure
obvious as Hoseok folds the doll’s legs closer to his chest and gets a better angle on the doll’s
prostate. Yes, that’s it—he stares down at Jungkook’s face with hazy eyes, watching the doll
continue to cry nearly silent tears but knowing—knowing for sure now that Jungkook is crying
from joy, ecstasy even. ‘Yes, Jungkook,’ he thinks, ‘isn't it so much better when you let us help? So
much easier when you can submit? Just give into it—’
He can feel it building, then, his release rising through him like a prayer. It’s too much, the drag of
Jungkook’s walls around his cock, the flawless and effortless way the doll takes him in, the way
Jungkook is so clearly climbing to his own peak—Hoseok has no choice but to worm a hand
between their bodies and grab at the doll’s cock with a firm hand, stroking Jungkook in time with
his own thrusts. It’s too, too important for them to come together, for him to get this right—
He can feel the aborted rumble of a moan from Jungkook through his grip on the doll’s throat as
Jungkook’s orgasm crashes through him first, the curve of his spine arching off the table
automatically, arms dragging the rope above his head completely taut. Hoseok feels himself laugh
appreciatively, the sound feeling equally ripped from him as he continues thrust-thrust-thrusting
into the doll’s body with abandon, totally taken over by the experience as his own release is finally
dragged from him by the desperate clenching of Jungkook’s muscles around his cock. Around him,
he can hear the appreciative murmurs and rejoicing from the teachers milling around then, some
sounding even closer now, and it—it’s so much better, Hoseok thinks, better with the eyes on him,
just as Seokjin had promised.
He’s broken from his thoughts by the sudden clap of a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly—
affectionately—and he turns his head to look blearily up at the man himself, Seokjin standing just
behind him with a pleased smile curling at his lips again.
“Mr. Jung...very nice job.” He says, patting Hoseok’s shoulder again before applying just enough
pressure to pull Hoseok a step backwards so that his cock slides free of Jungkook’s body at last, his
grip on the doll’s neck finally falling away. The sound of Jungkook taking in a deep, shuddering
breath through his nose is overwhelmed by the rush of the other teachers suddenly stepping
forward to put their hands on the doll’s skin, stroking fingers through the splattered come across
his belly, his softening cock, his pretty, dark nipples, the matted strands of his sweaty hair where it
clings to his forehead—Jungkook flopping back against the tabletop to accept the treatment in
silence.
Click to read summary of skipped scene
Hoseok steps back to let them crowd in, tucking his cock back into his slacks with a blush at the
attention from the principal as Seokjin smiles down at him patiently. “How do you feel?” he asks,
and Hoseok can’t help but smile in return.
“Perfect,” the teacher replies honestly, taking a quick inventory of his body and the way he almost
feels like he’s...glowing. What a beautiful experience, he thinks, to be a part of something like this.
“As expected!” Seokjin squeezes his shoulder again, much the same way a proud father would to
his son. “You did very very well, considering the circumstances.” The Principal glances over at
Jungkook’s prone form atop the table and his mouth twitches down in an almost disappointed
frown, Hoseok’s own mouth following the same path as he thinks of the difficulties Jungkook is
facing in his training—yet when Seokjin looks back at Hoseok again, a smile is firmly affixed to
his face and Hoseok’s own expression quickly mirrors it. “Thank you for your contribution to our
community, Mr. Jung.”
“O-Of course, sir!” He gives a little bow in gratitude, which only makes Seokjin’s smile widen.
“And—you can...still call me Hoseok, if you’d like,” he offers hopefully. Seokjin laughs jovially at
the admission, raising his hand to cup the back of Hoseok’s neck in a familiar, comfortable gesture.
“Hoseok, then. Well, thank you for your contribution, Hoseok.” He uses his grip to turn Hoseok’s
body slightly, allowing them both to face the crowd around the table as it begins to dissipate. At
some point, Yoongi had risen to his feet and was now hovering over Jungkook with a rag in hand to
clean up the mess left behind, and Hoseok focuses on watching instead of thinking about the way
that Seokjin didn’t offer to let him use his given name in return—to be expected, really, he tells
himself.
“Would you be willing to help Mr. Min here get the doll situated for the next class? Passing period
begins in just a few minutes,” Seokjin goes on to ask, and Hoseok nods in agreement immediately.
Yoongi looks up and nods his head to the side to invite Hoseok to join him, so the younger teacher
bows again to Seokjin in farewell and moves around the table and away from the warm grip on his
neck.
“How can I help?” He asks for the third time that day. Yoongi huffs in annoyance as he scrubs the
last of the come from Jungkook’s chest and tosses the rag into an empty chair.
“You’ve already helped plenty,” he snarks at Hoseok, but the insult lacks any real heat behind it
and Hoseok can tell that the older man is really amused beneath his put-upon attitude of
indifference, “but if you’d like to help me carry it down to the classroom again, that would be
great. I have to send Mr. Kim here off to his next class—don’t I?” He directs down at the student
still bent over all all fours by his feet.
Taehyung looks up at him from beneath the fringe of his hair, slightly sweaty strands clinging to
his eyelashes as he blinks slowly up at Yoongi, eventually managing to clear his throat and rasp out
a soft “please…” in return.
“Hmph,” is the only reply Yoongi gives him, turning his attention back to Hoseok for a moment in
want of a reply.
“Oh—that would be fine, I have next period free as well,” Hoseok hurries to inform him. “And,
actually...I could really use J—the, uh, the doll for the lesson I have planned for last period, if
that’s alright with you?” The idea comes to him suddenly, but once it enters his mind he can’t help
but voice it out loud. Yoongi pauses to look down at Jungkook thoughtfully for a second, but
eventually shrugs in agreement.
“That’s fine, just let me clear out all of the students and we’ll head out.” Yoongi turns away and
steps up behind Taehyung, nudging him with a shoe until the boy rises up on his knees with a
wince so that Yoongi can more easily reach behind jinx giving his bound balls one last smack that
sends Taehyung whining and reaching forward to clutch at the table, before Yoongi begins to
unfasten the screws holding the wooden humbler closed behind his thighs. Hoseok watches as
Taehyung’s eyes land on Jungkook’s face as Yoongi works, the boy staring at Jungkook in what
looks like amazement as the doll lies silently atop the table with a faraway look in his eyes.
Understandable, he thinks in amusement—Jungkook really is beautiful.
Yoongi startles Taehyung into movement once he’s finished unfastening the humbler with another
smack to the boy’s ass cheek, Taehyung scrambling to his feet with ease in the absence of the
device. “Go get dressed,” Yoongi tells him, dismissively, “and no touching!” He warns the boy as
he spots Taehyung’s hands drifting towards his still hard and aching cock. “Do you understand?”
“...yes sir,” Taehyung murmurs, hanging his head.
“Have you learned your lesson, Taehyung?” Yoongi goes on, and the boy shuffles from one foot to
the other in discomfort with both Yoongi and Hoseok’s eyes on him.
“Yes, yes sir,” he repeats, this time more forcefully. Yoongi finally decides to wave him off, and
Taehyung wastes no time scrambling over to the student acting as a coat rack beside the door to
gather his things.
“Don’t forget your second detention this evening, Taehyung!” Yoongi calls after the boy as an
afterthought, and Taehyung waves at him silently before clutching his clothes to his chest and
darting out the door.
“Give me just a moment,” the older teacher directs over his shoulder at Hoseok as he starts to
move around the room, tapping students on the shoulder to alert them that it’s time to leave. His
absence leaves Hoseok standing silent beside Jungkook, alone with him for the first time, and
Hoseok can’t help but look him over worriedly. Jungkook is silent, unfocused, limbs akimbo
across the tabletop, and he doesn’t meet Hoseok’s eyes even when the older teacher tilts his head to
try to catch the doll’s attention. Is—is he okay? Hoseok wonders, or is this just...the best possible
outcome? Jungkook finally seems to have settled down, isn’t that what he wanted?
“Alright—” Yoongi appears at Jungkook’s shoulders, dropping his hands to the doll’s bare skin,
and Jungkook doesn’t so much as flinch at the contact. “Let’s get moving.”
Hoseok dutifully grabs Jungkook by the ankles, getting a firm grip on his legs as Yoongi hoists the
doll up by the armpits and they lift him from the table together. As they move from the room, they
pass by the crowd of students beside the door who are all scrambling to put their clothes back on, a
few of them teasing and jostling each other playfully, and Hoseok smiles back at them on their way
out the door.
The health lab is empty when they arrive, save for a janitor who slips out the door around them just
as they enter the room, offering Yoongi a nod of his head in greeting before scampering away.
“Let’s get it up in the stand, it’s gonna take—take a moment to get all the restraints in place,”
Yoongi tells him, voice slightly strained from the effort of supporting Jungkook’s weight down the
hall, nearly dropping him as his foot catches on a chair leg along the way to the front of the room.
“and—fuck—remind me to get the cart out of the storage room so I don’t have to do this shit again
tomorrow.”
“Sure thing,” Hoseok agrees with a grin. They hoist Jungkook upright when they finally make it to
the front of the desks where a tall metal stand is set up, the skeleton of a framework Hoseok is
familiar with seeing in classrooms just like this—although this one isn’t meant to hold an
anatomical figure, no, this one is just for Jungkook. It warms Hoseok’s heart to see just how much
they’ve all gone out of their way to accommodate Jungkook in his new position, really…
“Alright, arms up here, feet on the stand at the bottom,” Yoongi directs him, and Hoseok helps him
lug Jungkook’s limp form into the center of the two outstretched metal armrests that have been
affixed to the metal pole lining the back of the frame, and Yoongi quickly moves to fasten soft
leather cuffs around each of Jungkook’s wrists so they are bound in place on each side.
Once Jungkook is no longer at risk of falling over Hoseok catches on to the way the frame works
and joins Yoongi in fastening additional straps around each of the doll’s ankles and around his
waist as well, wanting to be as useful as he can. Finally, Yoongi affixes a final thick strap of leather
around Jungkook’s neck, holding his head back against the top of the metal pole behind him,
checking with two fingers beneath the leather that the doll still has enough room to move and
breathe properly—a kindness that Hoseok appreciates so very much.
“Whew!” Yoongi backs away and leans against his desk for a moment, suddenly more relaxed than
Hoseok has seen from him yet. “That’s so much more difficult without Namjoon, I knew there was
a reason we keep him around.” He cracks a smile and Hoseok follows it with one of his own after a
moment, stepping back from Jungkook’s limp body as well.
“Is that all you needed?”
“Well—yeah, pretty much...I need to gather a few things for the lesson, but I can handle that.” He
wipes his forehead and eyes with the back of his hand, then groans and pushes himself off the desk
and moves over to the cabinets behind him to bend down and pull out a few boxes of supplies.
“What do you have for the next period?” He calls back to Hoseok, “Did I hear you telling Mr. Kim
you have this hour free?”
“Yeah, I’m lucky today, planning period right after lunch!”
“Want to stay and watch?” He asks as he pops back up, boxes in hand and a sly smile on his lips.
Hoseok raises a curious eyebrow and glances between him and Jungkook. What lesson did the
older man have planned for today?
“Oh yes, you should definitely stay,” Yoongi says as he catches sight of Hoseok’s expression.
“This lesson is a fun one.”
“What do you have planned?”
“Ah, why don’t you just go sit off to the side and wait for the surprise, hm?” Yoongi offers him a
toothy grin and waves him away, and Hoseok goes easily, sitting down at one of the lab tables in
the front but out of the way and stretches his tired limbs, honestly grateful for the moment to rest
after such a long moment.
Students begin filing in just before the bell rings, a few wandering in from lunch and choosing
various seats around the room, most of them avoiding sitting near Hoseok even when the
classroom is nearly full. He watches curiously as Yoongi starts setting up tools and the boxes on
the lab station closest to Jungkook, while the doll hangs in his stand silently and still, eyes closed
as though he’s sleeping—and perhaps he is.
Just before the bell rings, Yoongi suddenly darts out a side door of the classroom and disappears
from view, leaving the students to their own devices with only Hoseok as supervision, and he can
feel their eyes on him as they sit in uncomfortable silence and wait for their teacher to return. When
Yoongi does, he’s holding a pitcher of ice in one hand and what appears to be a long lighter in the
other, the type one might use for starting a campfire. Hoseok finds himself leaning forward, elbows
propped on the table, as he watches Yoongi set up all of his tools just in time for the bell to ring
and the class to fall completely silent.
“Good afternoon,” he greets the students as he turns, rubbing his hands together in excitement.
“How is everyone today? Good?” He waits until he receives a murmur of agreement from the class
before continuing, “Good. Well, today, we get to experiment with something very fun. However
—” A rumble of excited whispers cuts him off for a moment, “—However, it’s also slightly
dangerous. In order to keep everything safe, I’m going to ask each lab table to designate one
volunteer to assist me, and everyone else will watch from a safe distance. Go ahead and discuss
amongst yourself, you have one minute to choose your volunteer and bring your chairs to the front
to observe.”
Beside Hoseok, the students suddenly become very animated, ignoring him completely as they
begin immediately debating who amongst them should be the volunteer, and he can’t help but
laugh as a few of them make very intense arguments for their own candidacy, as though it were a
presidential race or something of equal importance. When they finally come to a conclusion—not
without a few arguments and side-eyeing each other—the entire class hurried to drag their stools to
the front of the room to form a haphazard half-circle around Yoongi, who has set up something that
looks akin to a...candelabra? on the front table. As everyone settles into their seats and a small
group of volunteers make their way to the front, Yoongi hands each of them a pair of black latex
gloves to slip on, then turns to address the class at large.
“Alright, thank you for being quick—do I have all volunteers to the front? Yes? Alright. Everyone
else, I expect detailed notes for your lab reports due tomorrow, so pay close attention.” He’s met
with a chorus of “Yes, Mr. Min,” and Hoseok finds himself smiling again. He watches with his
chin propped in his hands as Yoongi picks up the lighter and begins lighting the six candles set
into the candle holder in front of him. “Today,” he says, “we’ll be continuing our focus on
biological responses—can anyone guess what the particular focus will be today?”
Since he isn’t looking directly at them, students begin to pipe up unprompted from behind him,
shouting out random answers like “light?” and “liquids?” while Yoongi laughs and shakes his
head. When they don’t seem to be getting any closer, Hoseok takes one look at the items Yoongi is
working with and pipes up himself, calling over their heads “Temperature.”
Yoongi turns his head to look over at Hoseok, giving the younger teacher an approving nod and
smile before returning his attention back to the students in front of him. “That’s right—
temperature. In particular, extreme hot and cold. I have here a supply of ice, and a set of candles as
well, and we’ll be using both to test our doll’s reactions to the stimuli. We’ll start with cold
temperature while the candles are melting a bit.”
Another murmur of excitement accompanies this announcement, and the volunteers at the front all
perk up and step forward, anxious to get started. Hoseok watches with piqued interest as Yoongi
takes the pitcher of ice from the table and reaches in with his own gloved hand to grab a chunk of
ice for each of the students to take, his eyes flickering up to Jungkook’s still face to watch his
reaction as he is approached in his stand. The doll doesn’t stir as Yoongi stands right in front of
him again, directing the class to watch as he is the first to raise the ice to Jungkook’s skin,
dragging the frozen chunk along the doll’s neck to start.
Hoseok doesn’t hear much of what Yoongi has to say then, the teacher’s lecture all but tuned out as
Hoseok’s eyes fix on the drag of the ice along Jungkook’s muscle, the way his skin breaks out in
goosebumps at the contact apparent even from a distance. Still, Jungkook doesn’t seem to stir and
Hoseok’s stomach twists in anticipation. How much will it take for Jungkook to come back to
himself? he wonders. After such a rigorous morning, the doll seems to be so very worn out…
Yoongi seems to direct a few of the volunteers forward to take his place, directing one to try the
ice along Jungkook’s bicep—the muscle twitching as the student holds the ice in one place for too
long—and then another volunteer to press the ice to the doll’s lips. Hoseok vaguely registers
Yoongi directing the class to notice minute reactions at each test—the way the doll’s eyelashes
flutter, the flex of a muscle, the tightening of his nipples as one of the students brings the ice up
along his arm and then back down the center of his chest. Hoseok can’t help but get to his feet
then, watching in amazement as Jungkook’s cock starts to twitch and harden again between his
legs as the student takes the initiative to circle the ice around the hardened bud while the other
volunteers lean closer in surprise.
“One at a time, one at a time—” Yoongi directs as they get too close, blocking off the view of the
doll with their crowded bodies, “Can everyone see?” There’s a murmur of agreement from the
students while Hoseok moves even closer, not wanting to miss a thing. “Very good. Pay very close
attention to the way our doll responds to the ice, we’ll compare it to the heat in just a moment.”
Yoongi points to the way Jungkook’s cock starts to curve up towards his stomach while the
students take notes and murmur in fascination at the sight, but Hoseok can’t tear his eyes away
from Jungkook’s face and the soft curl of his brow, the twitch of his pretty lips at the contact.
Does the doll not—not feel it, really? No, he clearly must, what with the way his fingers start to
curl around the edges of his armrests and strain against the straps holding him in place. If Hoseok
looks closely, he can see the barest hint of Jungkook’s eyes opening blearily when Yoongi takes
one ice cube in hand, cups it in his palm, and curls it right up against the shaft of Jungkook’s cock,
forcing a spurt of precome to dribble down the backs of his gloved fingers.
“See?” He goes on to say, continuing with a lecture Hoseok had almost forgotten was happening,
“temperature can be a useful tool for increasing arousal and sensitivity—”
He’s momentarily interrupted by a low hiss that is dragged from Jungkook’s lips as he holds the
ice against the doll’s skin for a moment too long, Jungkook bucking his hips back away from the
contact instinctively while Hoseok gives a sympathetic wince. “—Ah, but see, it has its limits,”
Yoongi continues, looking almost sheepish as he quickly tugs his hand away and drops the ice
back into the pitcher. “So! Who wants to move on to our comparison with with heat next?”
The class clamors for his attention as students eagerly raise their hands, the volunteers at the front
practically bouncing on their heels in excitement and jostling each other in their attempts to move
forward and drop their own ice back into the container—a few even trying to reach for the candles
at the same time before Yoongi stops them. “Ah-ah, wait for me to hand them out! Remember our
lab safety protocols—stand more than a foot back from anyone while handling an open flame, hold
the candle at least six inches from your chest at all times—”
The rest of his words are drowned out by a chorus of agreement from the students while the
volunteers hurry to form themselves into some semblance of a straight line, and Yoongi casts a
long-suffering look at Hoseok over his shoulder as he transitions to placing one of the long tapered
candlesticks into each student’s outstretched, gloved hand. Hoseok can’t help but grin back at the
older teacher, finding all of his earlier nerves melted away as he sits back and enjoys the
demonstration, finding the whole process truly—well, fascinating , really.
“Okay, one at a time, please choose a spot on the doll to begin dripping the wax. But—remember!
Keep the candlesticks far from the skin so we don’t cause any permanent damage.” It’s Hoseok’s
turn to bounce excitedly as he watches the first brave student approach Jungkook, looking much
more nervous with the candle in hand than he had with the ice cube. The boy holds the long
candlestick in a quivering hand so the flame dances a few inches above Jungkook’s chest, and
Hoseok isn’t the only one who seems to be holding his breath as the entire class watches the first
drops of hot wax cling to the end of the candle for a tense moment before finally dripping down to
splash across Jungkook’s bare chest.
This is the first moment where the doll obviously responds, surprising them all when his eyes fly
open and a surprised moan is ripped from his throat despite the gag firmly wedged between his
teeth. The student jumps back in surprise, but a pleased grin quickly dawns across his face and
Hoseok watches with pride as the boy returns to Jungkook’s chest with a renewed sense of
confidence and doesn’t even hesitate as he lets more wax drop across Jungkook’s collarbone in a
long dotted line.
The doll whimpers this time, less surprised but no less affected by the burning sensation Hoseok
can only imagine. He watches with interest as Yoongi eventually taps the boy on his shoulder and
forces him to step back so that another volunteer can take his place, giving the boy a sympathetic
look as he steps back into the crowd—and Hoseok knows all too well that feeling, the irresistible
pull towards the doll that he himself had felt for many years before they ended up in this classroom
together.
The next student chooses to be more direct with her wax placement, allowing the hot liquid to land
directly on Jungkook’s nipples, one after the other. She grins, pleased, when it causes Jungkook’s
hips to buck towards her in interest, an automatic response caused by nipples Hoseok knows all-
too-well are overly sensitive. She peppers the hot dots of wax across both of the raised buds until
they’re almost completely covered, and only then does Yoongi directs the next student to take her
place.
“Are we all getting our notes taken down about each reaction?” He asks the class as the next
volunteer chooses the unusual location of the doll’s shoulder to drip his own splash of hot wax,
letting the liquid slowly drip down Jungkook’s bicep while the class scribbles down their
observations, taking in the way it causes Jungkook to hiss in pain but not react with any sense of
pleasure.
Once all six of the volunteers have had their turn, slowly coating Jungkook’s chest and shoulders
and arms with the hardening wax, the doll is left a panting, shaking mess in his bonds. He truly
looks obscene , Hoseok thinks, unable to resist the urge to step closer for a better look—with the
white wax splattered across his rippling muscles, long streams of drop marks and streaks, it paints
a rather suggestive picture, looking for all the world as though Jungkook has been covered in
something far more filthy. His skin has reddened beneath the heat, his nipples hardened, and his
cock hanging heavy and erect between his thick thighs despite not being touched at all.
“Alright, thank you all for your contributions,” Yoongi tells his volunteers, “please place the
candles back into their holders and dispose of your gloves now.” Some of the volunteers look less
than pleased to stop with the experiment, but Hoseok understands the sense of fear and respect for
Yoongi that has them following the older teacher’s order without question. It catches him off
guard, though, when Yoongi doesn’t choose to end the lesson there, despite having a few minutes
left of the period—instead, there is a devious glint in his eyes behind his glasses as he suddenly
turns to face Hoseok and beckons him forward, the younger man automatically moving forward as
though tugged by an invisible rope.
“Mr. Jung,” Yoongi says, “would you like to give it a try?” Hoseok finds himself staring in shock
as the older man holds out one of the candles to him and his own fingers curl around the base
immediately. Yoongi—Yoongi wants him to help with this lesson? Hoseok has never tried
anything like this before—
—though, truthfully, he would be hard pressed to admit that he hadn’t been thinking about it this
entire time, how the heat must feel against one’s skin, how he would very much like to bring some
of the candles home to try with a partner or—perhaps—on himself.
“What should I—?”
“Try whatever you like,” Yoongi assures him, waving Hoseok forward. “I think you’ll find that our
doll is very responsive today…”
Hoseok considers it—considers Jungkook , and his beautiful body—for a moment, eyes catching
on the doll’s nipples, his collarbones, even the side of his neck, which have already been
thoroughly covered in the wax—before he finally drops his gaze down to the way Jungkook’s cock
hangs heavy and inviting between his thick thighs, remarkably untouched so far. How could he
resist?
Jungkook seems to sense his approach, eyelashes fluttering and eyes dimly registering Hoseok’s
form as the teacher moves close enough to raise the candle over his length, and he lets out a broken
moan around his gag at the first drop of the hot liquid sliding down the side of his cock. Hoseok
can’t bring himself to look away from Jungkook’s gaze as the young man starts to come to life, the
doll finally seeming to really respond as each successive drop of the wax has him bucking his hips
against the thick leather straps holding him in place. It’s addictive, drawing out such beautiful
responses from the doll—as if Hoseok had received a taste of a rare delicacy earlier in the day and
now could hardly hold back from taking another bite.
It’s difficult to tell whether each successive drop of the wax hurts Jungkook more than it causes
him pleasure , but from the look on the doll’s face and the way his eyes seem to roll back at the
insistent pattern on heat dripping down his length, Hoseok thinks it's safe to assume a combination
of both. It brings him no small amount of pleasure to see the way Jungkook’s cock remains hard
and juts away from his body proudly as Hoseok continues the onslaught of paraffin pouring down
its length, his mind becoming solely focused on its careful application so that the wax drips just so
—a drop here and there across the taut skin of Jungkook’s abdomen just above his cock’s purpling
head, a long stream of small drops down his shaft to decorate him so prettily, a consistent
splattering of the hot liquid to cover his cock head until there isn’t a single patch of skin left
uncovered.
Hoseok is grateful that Yoongi is using this as a demonstration, grateful that there are witnesses
around to focus and observe and document this experience properly, since he is far, far too taken
by his sheer fascination with Jungkook’s pretty whines and choking noises, his litany of broken
moans as the razor’s edge of pleasure and pain so clearly overwhelms him.
So intent is his focus on completely covering Jungkook’s gorgeous cock with his rapidly-
dwindling candle that he fails to notice Yoongi moving around behind him until the older teacher
suddenly appears in his field of vision, blocking out some of the light as he moves himself behind
Jungkook’s stand where the doll’s body is suspended in the air. Hoseok manages to tear his eyes
away from the quiver of Jungkook’s thighs only when Yoongi’s long, pretty fingers appear in his
view, curling around Jungkook’s hips to reposition his body.
Curious, Hoseok finally pulls his candle back so that the drops of wax no longer fall to the doll’s
skin, and he watches as Yoongi dips a gloved hand into the pitcher of ice and grabs a few loose ice
cubes in his palm. This leaves Hoseok curious enough to step back for a second, watching silently
with the rest of the class as Yoongi rolls the ice over in his fingers contemplatively for a few
moments before seeming to make up his mind—but Yoongi isn’t having it, not at all, for the
moment that he seems to make up his mind, he raises his eyes to meet Hoseok’s and jerks his head
in a clear indication for Hoseok to step right back up to Jungkook’s body where he had been
moments before. When Hoseok complies without hesitation, a surprising grin breaks across
Yoongi’s face, and Hoseok watches in amazement as the normally reserved teacher winks at him
—winks at him!—before dropping his hand down behind Jungkook to bring the ice between the
doll’s thighs.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he tells Hoseok offhandedly, and the younger teacher realizes
belatedly that he had frozen to watch without a care in the world for the way the candle in his
hands continued to drip freely to the classroom floor.
“Oh—shit—”
Hoseok steps carefully around the mess he left on the tile, using his hand to catch any of the melted
wax dripping from the bottom of the candle as he approaches Jungkook’s front again, he and
Yoongi sandwiching the doll in from either side. Almost as an afterthought, Yoongi beckons the
students closer as well, bodies suddenly crowding around them on either side while young heads
crane their necks to watch around each other, the entire tight space buzzing with their excitement.
“Alright, let’s see what happens if we try both at once, hm? Be sure to take careful notes!” Yoongi
directs the students, even as Hoseok watches the older teacher’s arm move forward so that—
presumably—the ice cube presses directly against Jungkook’s exposed hole. The shudder that
immediately wracks the doll’s body surpasses any they have witnessed so far, his muscles tensing
one at a time from head to toe as pleasure seems to crash over him.
No longer hesitant, the sight only spurring him on, Hoseok follow’s Yoongi’s lead and
immediately overturns his candle above Jungkook’s cock again, letting the wax drop freely across
the doll’s abused skin. Oh, it’s beautiful, he thinks—the way Jungkook seems to lose his ability to
breathe, body rocking away from and then towards each of the sensations in rapid succession, as if
he can’t decide whether to run from the pain or to chase it down.
What—what a gorgeous pain slut he is, Hoseok thinks—then immediately voices this thought out
loud to Yoongi, who chuckles darkly and immediately agrees. “It certainly is! We got very lucky,
class, that our new doll is such a nice little pain slut, aren’t we?” The students seem to
wholeheartedly agree, nodding and murmuring and shifting on their feet in their excitement. “I
think we could bring our doll to its release just like this, don’t you?”
Hoseok is just as enthusiastic about the idea as the students seem to be, nodding his head right
along with them as he twists the candle in his hand so the wax splatters spread out slightly,
cascading down over more and more of Jungkook’s remaining exposed skin. The doll whimpers
again, though whether from the idea or from the burn of heat across his bare balls, it’s impossible
to tell.
“I think we have enough time to finish the demonstration,” Yoongi continues, “Wouldn’t that be a
wonderful contribution, class? Who wants to see the doll orgasm just from the pain?” The question
is rhetorical but that doesn’t stop every single student from shooting a hand into the air. “Alright,
alright!” Yoongi chuckles and shifts his body to allow for a better view. “Let’s give this a try
then…”
Hoseok finds himself turning his body around the side of Jungkook’s stand without hesitation,
unable to feel any shame at his eagerness to see just what the older man has planned for the doll
now—and he certainly isn’t disappointed by what he sees. With some careful maneuvering,
Yoongi twists the ice that he had been holding against Jungkook’s ass and presses it firmly into the
doll’s hole until his body relents and opens up around the intrusion to allow the ice to slip inside.
Hoseok feels a hot clench of pleasure in his stomach at the sight of Jungkook’s body swallowing
the ice up so easily, can only imagine the way it must burn along the way.
The sound that Jungkook makes can’t be described as anything other than broken , crackling from
his throat despite his gag as every inch of his body is overtaken by a shudder. The leather cuffs at
his wrists almost groan at the strain of holding the doll’s strong arms in place, and the sight has
Hoseok’s mouth positively watering. The sight before him is all the motivation Hoseok needs to
continue his torment of Jungkook’s cock, his new position perfect to allow him to see the way the
doll’s erection twitches at each new drop of wax—hotter than before, now that the candle is
burning low—even as Yoongi takes it upon himself to quickly press another ice cube into
Jungkook’s slick, clenching hole.
The doll is crying openly, now, Hoseok realizes as he flickers his gaze up to look at Jungkook’s
face for a moment, catching the way tears stream down over the straps of his gag and the tense line
of his throat. What pleasure he must be feeling, Hoseok thinks proudly, to be so broken down like
this—it only spurs the younger teacher forward, wanting to give Jungkook as much as he can, to
bring him to his peak—
Focusing on just the head of the doll’s cock, then, Hoseok brings the candle even closer so that
each new drop of hot wax lands right atop the previous splatters with little room to cool in the air
first, knowing that Jungkook will be able to really feel the heat even through the layers and layers
of paraffin already coating his skin. He’s rewarded with another sharp sob, though it’s followed in
short succession by what nearly sounds like a scream being ripped from the doll as Yoongi
manages to press a third—and final—cube of ice into Jungkook’s body.
Neither of them are prepared for Jungkook’s reaction as the ice seems to reach deep enough inside
him to bring his orgasm crashing through him—and Hoseok watches in stunned silence as
Jungkook comes beneath the coating of wax on his cock. The film over his urethra blocks the way
so that the thick stream of semen is forced to dribble out along the side of his cock instead of
spurting freely, forcing its way beneath the wax until it streams down the shaft and starts to splatter
on the tile floor beneath his feet.
Around them, the class murmurs in excitement, pens scratching feverishly across the pages of their
notebooks as they hurry to take notes on all that they are observing. Hoseok, however, finds
himself unable to move, unable to do much of anything except take in the way Jungkook’s body all
but melts like wax itself at the release, head and limbs sagging back in their bonds while he
continues to sob and hiccup softly through the aftershocks.
Hoseok is only shaken from his reverie when he’s jostled about by the sudden movement of the
students around them, all breaking away from the crowd immediately now that the demonstration
is over. With the students hurrying back to their chairs to grab their things before the bell rings,
Hoseok is left with only Yoongi for company, the older teacher looking up at him with a sly smile
on his lips as if he understands exactly just how much Hoseok has been affected by the
demonstration.
“So…” he says as he returns to the worktable and busies himself with disposing of their used
gloves and pouring the leftover pitcher of ice down the sink. “What did you think of the lesson?”
Hoseok has to clear his throat before being able to answer, reaching down to adjust his erection
through his pants as subtly as he can while stepping closer to help. “I—ahem—I, I thought it was
great! Very informative.”
“Oh?” Yoongi asks with light interest as he ducks down to tuck the unused candlesticks into a box
beneath the worktable.
“Y-Yes, definitely.” He busies his own hands as well, taking it upon himself to toss the used
candlesticks in the nearby trash can. “I’m—I’m glad that the students have such a thorough
education on these subjects. They’re very lucky to have a doll like this to show them the way.”
And he finds that he means it too, as he raises his head to meet Yoongi’s eyes again, the older
teacher moving around the table to reach for Jungkook’s body once more. Where before he found
himself nervous, even afraid and feeling misled by the situation, now Hoseok finds his worries
completely assuaged by what he’s seen here today—the importance of Jungkook’s new role can’t
be understated. “I’m sorry I doubted you, this morning…”
Yoongi offers him a small shrug while reaching out to pick at some of the wax clinging to
Jungkook’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” the older teacher assures him, sounding as unbothered as ever.
“I understand. Everyone comes to us with hesitation at first, you’re not the only one.” Jungkook
doesn’t react to the gentle scrape of Yoongi’s nails against his skin until the teacher makes his way
down to the doll’s nipple and picks at the wax accumulated there, the doll twitching helplessly at
the overstimulation.
“What about you?” Hoseok finds himself asking, too curious to hold himself back.
“Hmm.” Yoongi tilts his head thoughtfully, keeping his eyes focused on Jungkook even as he
ponders the question. “Me? I’ve been here too long to have any worries, at least not about this.” He
waves his hand at Jungkook as if to punctuate his point.
Unable to let the subject rest, Hoseok probes on, asking in a small voice, “What is it that does
worry you, then?”
Yoongi turns to look at him again at that, finally meeting Hoseok’s eyes with his own, and there’s
something hunted in the dark of his gaze. “Everyone has their doubts, Mr. Jung. Even me.” Hoseok
doesn’t know what to say to that. “Everyone has the thoughts that plague them at night.”
“I—”
Yoongi cuts him off immediately with a wave of his hand, stepping back from Jungkook while
turning his gaze away from the younger teacher to stare appraisingly at the doll before him. “That’s
neither here nor there, don’t worry yourself with it.” Hoseok can do nothing more than agree, so he
agrees and nods silently. “However, I think I may have caused you a bit of a problem—” He
gestures at the long streams of dried wax across Jungkook’s skin. “—because this mess is going to
take me some time to clean up. I apologize, I realize you intended to use the doll for your next
class—”
“Oh, no—that’s alright!” Hoseok is quick to assure him, waving his hands in front of himself
placatingly. “I’m sure you had this lesson all planned out in advance, I just had a sudden idea, but I
can—I’m sure I can move things around if you’ll let me use the doll for a lesson tomorrow
instead?”
“Of course.” Yoongi seems to relax back into his quiet stoicness at Hoseok’s agreement, returning
to his slow picking at Jungkook’s wax-covered skin. “Why don’t you go take the passing period to
get yourself in order, and come back here after the final bell rings? You’re joining me for detention
duty this evening, yes?”
Hoseok takes a moment to look around him, then, realizing with a start that the classroom is
completely empty, the students already cleared out—when did that happen, exactly? He must have
been so distracted that he didn’t even hear them leave. Yoongi’s suggestion begins to sound like a
very good idea, so he bows his head slightly and stumbles his way through agreeing. “I—I, yes—I
think that’s for the best—I’ll, I’ll see you for detention after last period. Thank you!”
Yoongi just hums in approval and returns to the task at hand, giving Hoseok the perfect
opportunity to back his way out of the classroom as quickly as possible, only stumbling over a
chair once along the way. Once he has finally made it through the doorway, Hoseok practically
sprints his way down the hall through the crowd of students milling about—all of whom stare at
him, none of whom say a word about his frantic appearance—until he can fling himself through the
door of his own office and slam it shut behind him. Within seconds, his hand is shoved beneath the
front of his pants so he can fist his throbbing cock in his tight fingers, not even bothering to push
the fabric away before furiously stroking himself to a quick orgasm. Fuck, the sounds that
Jungkook was making, the little breathy moans, the way his skin turned pink at the edges of the hot
wax dripping down his body—
—but there was something about Yoongi too, the older teacher with such an imposing presence,
his dark upturned eyes heavy on Hoseok whenever Yoongi was watching him, the deep rumble of
his voice—
If Hoseok thought that he had found a new, indescribable pleasure earlier by being able to take his
fill of Jungkook’s body for the first time, it’s nothing compared to the way it felt to share in his
delicious torture with Yoongi, this mysterious man who has also captured his attention so
thoroughly…
It’s almost shocking, how quickly he finds his release just by those thoughts alone, barely half a
minute after his office door had slammed behind him. He makes quite the mess of himself, come
dripping down his fingers and smearing all over the inside of his underwear, leaving him sticky and
—honestly—humiliated. Still, as he indulges himself for a moment longer and brings his long
fingers up to his mouth to lick them clean, thinking now of those dark eyes behind a pair of sharp
glasses, and the things that man could do to him—Hoseok finds it hard to bring himself to really
care.
Though, for just a moment—one small, bleary moment through the haze of his ebbing pleasure—
Hoseok wonders what the older teacher is doing at that very moment, whether he is thinking of
Hoseok too, whether he was as affected by that lesson as Hoseok himself was, whether he is taking
his own pleasure with the doll, now, or taking it with someone else—
In the distance, he hears the bell ringing through the hallways, shaking him from his thoughts with
a terrible lurch. “Fuck—fuck, fuck—”
He fumbles to straighten his clothes, wiping the last of his come from his fingers on the inside of
his shirt before tucking it back into place, trying to make himself as presentable as possible before
heading back out the door to teach his next class. Just before he closes the door behind himself he
halts, a sudden realization hitting him, and he hurries back to his desk to jerk the top drawer open,
tugging out a small notebook bound in leather that he slips into his back pocket.
'Can’t forget that,' he thinks—'or it’s my ass on the line.'
Gymnasium—First Floor—West 08.16.18 1:46PM
His students are waiting impatiently for him in the gym when he finally arrives, trying to maintain
his composure even as he flies through the double doors and comes to a halt in front of the crowd
that has gathered on the bleachers. Some of the students eye him suspiciously, and he fights down
the urge to blush as he realizes how he must look, what with his flushed face and haphazard
appearance, and just what they all believe he’s just been doing—not far from the truth, though he
tries to keep that thought from his mind. He has nothing to be ashamed of, he reminds himself
firmly, not here.
“Good afternoon, class,” he addresses the group, keeping his voice as steady as possible. No matter
their thoughts about him, all of the students dutifully answer him with a chorus of “good afternoon,
Mr. Jung…” and Hoseok thanks the heavens for small miracles.
“I apologize for my tardiness, I had an important matter to attend to.” There a few small giggles
from a few students on the higher bleachers, but overall the class is silent, waiting attentively for
his orders now that class has begun. “Today, we’ll be continuing our cross-functional fitness
assessments.” Now, a few students groan openly, which Hoseok greets with a knowing smile, but
still a few more give each other conspiratorial nudges and glances. “Tomorrow, we will end the
week with physicals performed by Nurse Kim, so please come prepared.”
He waves his hands for the students to join him down on the gym floor, and for a few brief
moments all he can hear is the thunder of their steps as they rush down the metal bleachers to
reach him. “Okay, okay—thank you. But my tardiness is no excuse not to get started right away,”
he chastised then, looking around at the way all of his students are still dressed in their school
uniforms, “go get changed, hurry!”
As the class scrambles to follow his order by rushing off to the lockers that line the side of the
gym, Hoseok makes his way around the room to check on each of the fitness stations, making sure
that the balance balls are positioned correctly, that each of the barbells at the weight station are in
place, that the ropes are laid out at the bondage station, and that the proper tools are all collected
for him to test reflexes as well. He grabs a roll of painter’s tape from the adjoining office and
makes quick work of laying out thin strips to mark a starting and finishing line for relays on one
side of the basketball court, and uses a bit more of the tape to mark a grid for flexibility tests by the
door. Satisfied, he straightens up and leans against the wall to wait for the students to return, taking
the opportunity to rest for a moment while tugging the notebook from his pocket at last.
He frowns in disappointment as he looks down at the grid laid out on the first page, realizing how
many entries he’s accidentally neglected to make this morning, and hurries to scribble down all
that he remembers of the day—the orgasm he had and the one he gave Jungkook this morning in
the teacher’s lounge, the second orgasm the doll had during Yoongi’s lesson, and—with no small
amount of shame—the hurried orgasm he gave himself in his office just minutes before. That last
entry takes much more effort to make, though the details he includes are much more sparse than
the other entries, his handwriting sloppier.
“Mr. Jung?”
He fumbles to close up the notebook and slide it back into his pocket as he finds a student
suddenly in front of him, dressed in nothing but her bra and underwear, rocking back and forth on
her bare feet. “Yes, Ms. Son?”
“Do you want us to line up over here, sir? Or—?”
“Go ahead and pick a station to start at, but wait until everyone has arrived before getting started,
okay?”
The young woman smiles happily and skips off, choosing to start herself at the balance station by
sitting herself atop one of the large exercise balls with a bounce and a giggle. Hoseok smiles and
watches as the rest of the class quickly joins her, all stripped down to their underwear as well,
situating themselves in small groups at each of the stations he’s laid out for them.
“Alright, class, thank you for hurrying back. Now that we’re all here, I just want to remind you of
the rules—you’ll have 10 minutes at each station to test your physical fitness in a particular area.
You must have a partner with you at all times, and I’ll be collecting your results at the end of the
period, so be sure that your partner is doing a good job of writing them down!” He reaches for his
watch and waits for the second hand to hit the right point before counting down, “your first ten
minutes begin in three, two, one...go!”
It’s easy to lose track of time, then, giving only cursory glances at the students as they begin their
tasks. He paces the perimeter of the basketball court, watching as the first group of students begins
their relax race down the wooden surface, playfully egging each other on as they round the strip of
tape on the floor and make their way back to their partners. He makes his way past the weight
station and glances down for just long enough to ensure that the waiting partners were taking clear
notes of their partner’s capabilities, before moving on to the next station where he has to break two
students apart when they get a little too rowdy bouncing on their medicine balls instead of focusing
on the lesson.
When he finally circles back towards the entrance, he pauses beside the students working on their
first attempts at tying rudimentary bondage knots using a guide he had provided. Two of the girls
draw his attention momentarily, Park Jeonghwa blushing furiously as she focuses on wrapping the
rope around the ribs and between the breasts of Ahn Heeyeon, who is only covered by her tiny
bralette and not much else. It’s amusing to watch the way they interact, Ms. Ahn sitting still
patiently with a glint of excitement in her eyes as she watches her younger friend fumble with the
ropes around her biceps.
Still, the sight has Hoseok’s mind wandering back to Jungkook, back to the way the younger man
had been so prettily trussed up in the leather straps holding him in place—did Yoongi have that
stand made especially for Jungkook? Or have there been other dolls in the same position before
Jungkook took the job? He supposes there must have been—and resolves to ask the older teacher
when he gets a chance. Still, it’s hard to focus even on that curiosity, what with the image of
Yoongi looking at him over the doll’s shoulder, sharing a heated gaze with him as they worked
together to bring the doll to orgasm as a team—how could he possibly be expected to focus after
experiencing something like that?
He’s brought back to reality only momentarily by the timer on his watch going off, alerting him to
the first of many station rotations, and he manages to call out “Switch!” loud enough for all of the
students to hear before resuming his slow pacing around the room. Beside him, he watches
distantly as the students scramble to put their tools back and make their way to the next station,
Ahn Heeyeon struggling to untangle herself from the ropes around her as Park Jeonghwa bolts
away from her the moment she is able to, blush even more intense with her back turned away.
Hoseok makes a mental note to inform the administration to keep a closer eye on those two,
smiling as he thinks of the amazing contributions they may be able to make in the future if their
obvious feelings for each other were encouraged.
The remainder of the class passes in much the same way, with Hoseok wandering here and there
between the students to observe their work while his mind wanders far from the the walls of the
gym, pondering the nature of Yoongi’s attempts to remove the wax from Jungkook’s skin, the way
the detention they are leading this evening will shape up, whether or not he should invite Yoongi
out to dinner, the possibilities of getting to use the school’s doll in the same way again…
When the bell rings, he is the only person in the class surprised by it, grateful when the students
manage to put things away mostly on their own while he tries to regain his bearings. His eyes are
unfocused as he supervises the student while they redress themselves, slipping back into dress
slacks and button-downs and pleated skirts before making their way out the door. With no
extracurriculars to take place in the gym after hours, Hoseok is relieved at the chance to flip off the
lights and lock the gym doors behind him, feet carrying him quickly down the rapidly emptying
hallways—past the cafeteria, beyond the nurse’s office and away from the abandoned classrooms
—back to the far sides of the school to the very sources of his distraction.
His body feels...heavy. Heavy is the best word Jungkook can think of to describe it, the way his
limbs barely seem able to lift themselves even as he tries with all his might to move them. With
Yoongi distracted, knelt down before him while picking away at the last of the wax on his thighs,
Jungkook feels safe enough to try to wriggle his arms in their confines to test his own mobility—
but the results aren’t encouraging. Barely able to lift his fingers from the armrests beneath them, he
marvels at the way exhaustion has immobilized him. Even his mind is slow to react, his thoughts
more like aimlessly drifting snippets of awareness more than a joined stream of consciousness—
how strange, to be both floating and sinking all at once.
He doesn’t fully register it, when Yoongi stops touching him altogether, standing to greet someone
at the door, and it takes him a good few moments longer to realize that he recognizes the voice that
he is hearing, the deep, husky tone of someone familiar—
—oh. Namjoon. The nurse. Of course.
“That was quick,” Yoongi is telling Namjoon, who replies with a shrug that Jungkook just barely
catches through his heavy-lidded eyes.
“I had everything all ready to go today.” He answers, which Yoongi seems to appreciate.
“Good, we’re getting back into the swing of things, then.” Yoongi’s voice seems to draw closer
again, Jungkook assuming that the older teacher has stepped up behind him by the direction of his
gravelly words. “Let’s get this over with before I have to be down at the Library.”
“Detention?” Namjoon asks, also closer, and Jungkook tries to force his eyes open to look at the
younger of the two men, his—his friend , he thinks—but he is so very...very tired.
“We all have to chaperone sometimes.” Yoongi grunts in reply, and Namjoon offers him a
sympathetic chuckle.
“Not me,” the nurse admits. Jungkook feels Namjoon’s broad hands on his chest, then, sticky
gloved fingers pressing into his tender flesh here and there as if inspecting him for any damage.
“No, that would be a very odd detention indeed, wouldn't you say?” Yoongi agrees, and Jungkook
can hear him moving something around on the table beside him, the sounds of liquid spilling into a
container reaching his ears.
Fuck—not again, he thinks, face screwing up in distaste at the realization of what’s about to come.
“You really did a number on it today, didn’t you?” Namjoon asks as his gloved hands make their
way down between Jungkook’s thighs, probing and prodding at his flaccid cock and reddened skin.
Jungkook manages to move then , hips bucking at the pressure and the zing of pleasure-pain it
sends up his spine, a soft, unbidden groan leaving his throat.
“This is nothing,” Yoongi says with a humorless laugh, “but the damn thing couldn’t keep still or
quiet the whole time. I suppose the reactions were worth having them document, but I’ll have to do
something about that eventually.”
“I gave him the usual treatment this morning—do you think I need to raise the—”
“Not yet,” Yoongi interrupts, and Jungkook feels the hands at his cock suddenly being tugged
away. Raise what , exactly? He tries—tries so desperately to fight through the haze in his mind,
tries to move, to argue, to do something—
“Just double it for the day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon, and we’ll see if that solves
the problem.”
“Okay…” Namjoon sounds hesitant at the order, but not hesitant enough to resist. “But why did
you want me to come down here to do it? You know I normally prefer to work in my office—”
“It’s already fixed up in the perfect position for the night,” Yoongi cuts across Namjoon’s words,
his tone sharper than before, clearly not enjoying this line of questioning. “There didn’t seem to be
a point to moving the doll all the way across the school and back here when you could just come
this way instead.”
“Right.” Namjoon seems to get the picture, even Jungkook understanding why he suddenly agrees
and shifts to being complete deferential to the older teacher. “Of course. Well, this will limit my
ability to really clean him out, but if you’re alright with that…”
“No need,” Yoongi assures him, the sharp edge to his tone slipping away, “I’ll take care of that for
tonight, just help me with the rest, okay?”
Namjoon must nod his agreement this time, because Jungkook doesn’t catch any other reply from
the nurse, but suddenly he feels a pair of gloved hands at the sides of his jaw that fumble with the
straps of his gag, and within moments he feels the large ball being tugged from between his teeth
at last.
“Mmnnnnn—” Jungkook groans the moment he can, his jaw positively aching as he follows his
first instinct to close it despite the way it nearly feels locked in place. His attempt is halted almost
immediately by a pair of fingers, not gloved this time—Yoongi’s, then—slipping between his lips
to press down against his tongue. He feels a strange sense of déjà vu as he hears the older teacher
murmur softly in his ear, “Ah-ah-ah, we can’t have you doing that, doll. Hold still and this will be
over with quickly.”
“Can you get it a bit wider—?” Namjoon asks, “Just like—ah, yes, perfect.” Yoongi’s other hand
comes up to press against the side of Jungkook’s cheek where his jawbone meets his skull, pressing
into the divot until Jungkook has no choice but to force his aching mouth open wider to relieve the
pain and pressure. Almost immediately, Yoongi’s fingers are replaced by the slide of a tube on his
tongue, and he finds himself gagging around the unfortunately familiar sensation of the ribbed
plastic sliding down the back of his throat. He forces his eyes open at last against the tears that
well up immediately at the horrible sensation, finding himself faced with the placid expressions of
the two older men as they stare him down.
Just as before, Namjoon feeds the tube down far enough that Jungkook can no longer feel the end
of it in his throat, far enough that it suppresses his gag reflex and he instinctively takes in a
shuddering breath through his nose instead. Namjoon gives him only a moment to adjust before
gesturing for Yoongi to hand him something Jungkook can’t see, and his stomach twists
immediately into knots at the sight of the same container from earlier that morning, filled once
again with the same viscous pink substance Namjoon had fed to him before.
“Hold his jaw still, please,” Namjoon asks Yoongi, who complies immediately by wrapping his
long fingers around Jungkook’s throat. Without further delay, Namjoon unceremoniously upends
the container over the end of the tube and allows the liquid to pour swiftly down past Jungkook’s
lips and into his stomach. Jungkook has to clench his eyes shut immediately at the sight, no longer
gagging at the thought of the liquid filling his belly but finding his eyes brimming with tears once
again at the sheer humiliation of it all.
“—how long?” he hears Yoongi asking through the buzzing in his ears, the heavy thump of his
own heartbeat making it difficult to catch every word now.
“Not very long—but it’s slow to process—longer than what we used to—you might want to up the
—”
“Yoongi…?”
Oh—oh fuck—
From what seems to be miles away, Jungkook hears a third voice, an intimately familiar voice this
time—Hoseok. What is he doing back here? Why did he have to come back now ? Hasn’t he done
enough— ?
“Ah, Hoseok! Welcome back!” Yoongi greets the younger teacher, and Jungkook can hear his
footsteps approach across the classroom. No—no, no, no! This can’t be happening, this is—this is
somehow so much worse, to have Hoseok see him like this, worse than anything else so far. Not
Hoseok—please, not him…
“I—uh, yeah, thank you,” Hoseok replies, sounding hesitant, and Jungkook knows, he just knows
that his former friend is staring at him now, watching as Namjoon forces the liquified food down
his throat like he’s some sort of common cattle. It makes his tears fall faster, the heavy weight of
the other man’s eyes on him, and Jungkook suddenly wishes for nothing more than the sweet
embrace of unconsciousness that he had fought against so readily earlier.
“What—um, what did I miss?”

“Oh,” Yoongi seems to realize Hoseok’s discomfort, and his hand disappears from Jungkook’s
throat as he steps away. Jungkook hears the rustle of his clothes as he, presumably, reaches from
Hoseok to draw him in closer. “We’re just taking care of the doll’s nightly maintenance before
Namjoon here leaves for the night.”
“Hey,” Namjoon greets Hoseok, who replies with a “hey” of his own in return before continuing
his conversation with Yoongi.
“The doll seems...upset.” Hoseok comments, and Jungkook catches the words with a small swell of
hope in his belly. Hoseok—Hoseok still cares! Even if it’s only in this one small way.
But Jungkook’s excitement is quelled almost immediately as Yoongi gives Hoseok exactly the
answer the younger teacher is looking for, reassuring him in an understanding tone, “Ah, yes,
well...it’s not exactly a comfortable process. But we feel that it’s important to establish these
routines now, so that the doll’s transition will go so much more smoothly as it moves into its next
phase of training.”
‘...next phase?’
“Oh right, of course! You really are very thoughtful about all of this,” Hoseok praises Yoongi, who
hums in agreement just as Namjoon begins to pull on the tube between Jungkook’s lips, slowly
tugging it back out the way it came. When had he finished with all of the liquid? Jungkook had
been so distracted by Hoseok’s arrival that he barely noticed, but the tell-tale fullness and nausea
he now feels in his stomach is proof enough. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
Belatedly, Jungkook remembers the awful sensation from this morning of retching as the tube was
tugged free, sucks in another deep breath through his nose and lets his jaw hang as loose as
possible to accommodate the intrusion as Namjoon brings the ribbed plastic surface up-up-up
along the back of his tongue. He’s almost...proud, really, when he only gags once at the sensation,
choking the feeling down with a few rapid breaths through his nose and then through his mouth the
moment the tube is pulled free. Still, Namjoon places a hand over Jungkook’s mouth as a
precaution, tilting his head back and forcing his breath through his nose again until the nurse seems
content that he won’t cough any of the meal back up.
“There, that’s all taken care of.” Namjoon assures Yoongi, and the older teacher sounds much
closer when he answers with a quick “thank you.”
“Hoseok?” he asks the younger man, and Jungkook hears him—though he doesn’t see him, eyes
still clenched shut as he focuses on breathing through the nausea—step closer immediately.
“Would you mind helping me with one last thing before we go?”
“Of course!” Hoseok answers, and Jungkook hates— hates how eager his former friend sounds at
the prospect.
“The doll made a mess of itself last night, so I need to make sure it’s all prepped to prevent another
spill. Can you hand me that bucket from over there?” Jungkook hears the unmistakable rattle of
metal as what must be the bucket in question is picked up and set down beside him. “Perfect. Now
I just need you to—”
Yoongi doesn’t specify what exactly he needs Hoseok to do, but within moments Jungkook feels
another pair of hands, warm and gentle, wrap around his soft cock and hold it away from his body.
He struggles for a moment, both from his sheer exhaustion and from the bitter tension of
embarrassment, but manages to crack his eyes open again—just enough to see Hoseok standing
right in front of him, the older man looking up at him with dark, expressionless eyes.
“H—” he tries, “Hobi—”
“Thank you, now just hold him still for me,” Yoongi instructs, and Hoseok’s fingers tighten almost
imperceptibly around Jungkook’s cock. “I just need to insert this and we’ll be all done.”
Jungkook wonders how many more times in one day he might be struck with a sense of deja vu as
he feels the tip of something press against his urethra, a slight pinch and pressure identical to that
which he felt during the lesson he was used for earlier. Another sounding rod, then? No—it can't
be, he thinks—the sensation isn’t quite the same, not cold the way the metal rods were, but
lukewarm and almost...soft, where the rods had been unforgiving. The sensation is made all the
more odd by the way it almost seems to... wriggle , shifting this way and that as Yoongi applies
more pressure so that the tool, whatever it is, slides further and further into his cock until he feels a
familiar flare of pleasure right at the base. But instead of burning the way the rods did when
Yoongi pressed them as far as they could go, the sensation just seems to continue, bending its way
back into his body until he can’t track the feeling any longer.
“Hand me the syringe?” Yoongi asks Namjoon, who is standing off to his side, and Jungkook is
just barely able to see as the nurse hands Yoongi a large clear bottle of some unknown liquid and
what looks like a long, oversized hypodermic needle, the same type he remembers hating when
visiting doctors as a child. If he thought he was feeling nauseated before, it’s nothing compared to
the way his stomach does a terrible flip at the sight, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat.
“No—” he tries to whisper, but the three men in front of him can’t seem to hear him—or don’t
want to.
He watches in trepidation as Yoongi raises the needle and presses it into the clear bottle, filling the
syringe quickly with a small amount of the liquid before passing it back to Namjoon for the nurse
to set aside. “What’s that you’re using?” Hoseok asks curiously, helpfully.
“This?” Yoongi waves the needle back and forth for confirmation, and Jungkook’s stomach gives
another painful clench of fear. Were they going to—to drug him, or something? “Oh, this is just
sterile water. It’s just for filling the little balloon at the end to help it stay inside. See—” He holds
up his other hand then, showing Hoseok—and, inadvertently, Jungkook—the end of a long thin
tube that he is holding, and Jungkook realizes with a start that it must be attached to whatever
Yoongi has inserted inside of him. Yoongi places the tip of the syringe into one of the two
openings at the end of the long tube and slowly depresses the plunger, holding it up for Hoseok to
see as the clear liquid disappears into the tube.
For a long, tense moment, nothing happens, and Jungkook wonders idly if the liquid is just going
straight into his bladder? And what purpose that might serve? But within seconds, he feels it—a
sudden pressure right above the base of his cock, as though something inside him is growing,
inflating...and he realizes what Yoongi must have meant when he said “balloon.” What—what the
fuck were these men doing to him now? He squirms in what little space he has to move inside his
bonds, the pressure inside his bladder increasing until he worries, horrified, whether or not he’ll
have a third accident in one day.
“So you just inflate it, and then it can’t fall out?” Hoseok muses thoughtfully, watching Yoongi’s
actions with barely disguised interest.
“Exactly. So we can leave it in all night and don’t have to worry about it.”
“That’s genius!” Hoseok praises him, and Jungkook is disgusted to see the way Yoongi’s shoulders
straighten in pride.
“Thank you,” he says again, then waves for Hoseok to help him with something outside of
Jungkook’s line of site again. “Can you move that closer?” Hoseok bends down, and Jungkook can
hear the scrape of the bucket against the tile floor as Hoseok shifts it closer to Yoongi. “Okay, now
we just remove this—” He pops the syringe free and hands it over to Namjoon, who walks away
while Yoongi continues, “—and just...let it fall down into the bucket, like this.” True to his word,
Yoongi immediately drops the tube towards the bucket and Jungkook hears the plastic rattle
against the side of the metal container.
“Is that all?” Hoseok asks, sounding oddly eager.
“Well, no—give it a moment and I’m sure it’ll get going, but while we’re waiting on that, I want to
take care of the other side.” Yoongi suddenly steps away, leaving Jungkook looking only at
Hoseok, who now has his heated gaze directed down between Jungkook’s thighs where the tube
has been inserted into his cock, and Jungkook wishes desperately that he could do something,
anything to shield himself from view. Behind him, the rustling of Yoongi’s clothes betrays the
older teacher’s movements as he steps closer, and Jungkook’s ears catch a soft clicking sound—the
only warning he gets before two of Yoongi’s fingers, slick with some sort of lube, press directly
against his hole and force their way inside his body. He lurches at the touch, the sudden stretch
still burning despite his earlier abuse, and Yoongi smacks his thigh with his other hand
reproachfully.
Jungkook shivers, trying desperately to hold still, not wanting things to get any worse—if that were
even possible—but the pressure from the sudden intrusion only adds to the pressure he feels behind
his cock, and—
Oh.
He hears it almost before he feels it, the trickling of liquid hitting the bottom of the bucket. It takes
him a long, stunned moment to realize that the liquid is coming from him, that it’s draining from
him, his own piss dripping from the tube in his cock into the container below. A catheter—that’s
what they’ve filled him with, Jungkook realizes. It’s been so long since he last thought about the
existence of catheters, and yet he can feel one slowly draining the piss right out of him, his stomach
cramping as a pressure he didn’t know he was experiencing is quickly alleviated by its absence.
Behind him, he hears Yoongi grunt appreciatively, “there we go,” and then the fingers inside of
him begin to spread apart, quickly and clinically stretching him open. Yoongi doesn’t take his time
about it, doesn’t press further to give him any pressure, just makes quick work of opening him up
as much as he deems necessary. Not even a minute passes before Jungkook feels the fingers tugged
away, their absence only combining with his rapidly draining bladder to leave him feeling utterly
empty inside, a sensation he’s rapidly coming to dread—but the fingers are replaced immediately
with the blunt end of something else, and it’s with a dawning sense of dread that Jungkook feels
the flared head of what must be a plug pressing into him. The concise preparation Yoongi gave him
was not nearly enough to prepare him for the sudden stretch and burn of the plug entering him,
stretching at the rim of his hole without mercy as Yoongi keeps a firm grip and continues to press
on despite the broken moan that is forced past Jungkook’s lips.
With a sudden pop , Jungkook finds the whole of the plug inside him, his body clenching up
around it immediately to hold in in place. Yoongi hums appreciatively again and pulls away,
stepping around Jungkook while wiping his slick fingers on the side of his pants, expression cool
and unaffected, as though he had just performed any other perfunctory task and hadn’t just had
several of his fingers inside of someone else.
“Is it almost done?” Yoongi asks Hoseok, ignoring Jungkook completely now.
“Just about,” Hoseok answers while grabbing at the catheter tube, shaking it slightly to rid it of any
remaining drops. The motion tugs at Jungkook’s cock and he can’t help but squirm again, panting
as the motion has his cock twitching in interest while his body clenches up around the plug now
holding him open from behind.
Continuing to pretend that Jungkook isn’t there, Yoongi claps Hoseok on the shoulder before
tugging the younger man to his feet. “Thanks for your assistance,” he says, and Jungkook catches
sight of the slight blush on his former friend’s cheeks. Oh, of course— Hoseok would be interested
in the man responsible for Jungkook’s torment—of course. He knows Hoseok well enough to spot
that interest a mile away.
“S-Sure, of course,” Hoseok answers, running a nervous hand through his hair.
Yoongi places a hand at the small of the younger man’s back and starts to steer him towards the
door, calling over his shoulder at Namjoon, “Are you coming?”
“Yeah, I’m right behind you.” Namjoon hurries towards the door after them, arms full of the
supplies that he had arrived with, sans the bucket that is now sitting at Jungkook’s feet. Jungkook
listens to their idle chatter as they exit one after another, Namjoon turning off the lights behind him
just before the door swings shut—and Jungkook is left there, limbs bound, cock half-hard and
aching, plugged up and immobilized, surrounded by the smell of his own piss in the dark, alone.
Welcome to voice message services. You have—ONE—unread message and—ONE—read

message. Dial seven for message review.
BEEP.
First unread message.
August 15th, 2018—4:42 pm.
“Hi, Jungkook? It’s Mom. I, um, I hope you’re alright, sweetheart...we haven’t heard from you in a
couple of days, and your father and I are worried. I know you’re probably just busy, out there
shaping the minds of tomorrow and all, but—please, give us a call back? We expected to hear from
you after your first day, I thought you’d be excited to tell us how it went, so....
Anyway, how’s the school? Do you like your classroom? I don’t really know how to open photos
on this new phone yet, but if you sent me a few, I’m sure your father could show me. Do they even
let you have phones in the building, though—? I didn’t think about that…
Oh, and what class did they assign you to teach? I know you weren’t sure, honey, but I know you’ll
do amazing at whatever it is! Just give me a call back when you can and tell me all about it, okay?
I want to hear everything! Maybe I can drive over and we can have lunch or something.
This is your first real job, Jungkookie, but don’t you dare forget about your mother too. Alright,
sweetheart, I guess I’ll go...I’ll talk to you soon. Love you! Bye bye...”
BEEP.
Hallway—First Floor—East 08.16.18 3:55PM

Hoseok has to tamp down on his immediate instinct to lean into the hand on the small of his back
as Yoongi guides him down the hallways, chatting over his shoulder at Namjoon about the events
of the day—not that Hoseok catches much of it with his mind so preoccupied by the hot press of
Yoongi’s long fingers through his shirt. The older man directs them down to the far side of the
building from the health and science classrooms, away from the gym, the hallways along the way
completely empty now and the classrooms totally dark. Namjoon leaves them as they pass by the
main entrance and the front office, the nurse waving goodbye at them both with an odd look at
Yoongi which the older man pointedly ignores.
“It’s just down this way,” he tells Hoseok, even though the younger teacher remembers how to find
the library from his initial tour of the school. “If they’re not all sitting quietly waiting for us—”
Yoongi’s threat goes unfinished as they make their way through the double doors to the library, his
hand falling away from Hoseok as he closes the door behind them. Hoseok pointedly does not
whine at the loss of contact—though it’s a near thing. Inside the library, a small group of students
has gathered at the tables in the center of the room, sitting in complete silence as they wait for
Yoongi—and Hoseok—to arrive, clearly afraid of incurring further punishment by acting up. Just
as the two teachers make their way towards the group, the door behind them slams open
momentarily to allow one more person through, and Hoseok recognizes him as one of the students
from the teacher’s lounge before...what was his name? Taemin? Taehyung?
“Ah, Mr. Kim. How nice of you to join us…” Yoongi drawls at the boy, who shrugs and makes his
way into one of the furthest seats away from the group. “Well, now that we’re all here, let’s begin.
You are all here for one hour of detention, and that time starts now.”
There’s a soft murmur of resentful words muttered beneath the student’s breath that Yoongi once
again chooses to ignore. Hoseok watches as the older teacher leaves him standing alone before the
group of students, making his way back between the tables to the far side of the room where a
familiar looking cabinet stands against the wall. Identical to the cabinet that Yoongi accessed in the
teacher’s lounge, down to the school crest emblazoned on the front of the wood, the sight has
Hoseok perking up in anticipation immediately.
Unlike during the lunch period, however, this time Yoongi has to reach into his pocket to fish out a
set of keys, inserting a small golden key into the lock to gain access to the cabinet doors where
before the doors had been open and free for the staff to use. Just as before, the doors swing wide to
reveal a thorough collection of various tools—canes and whips and various other instruments of
punishment and torture. After careful consideration, Yoongi selects a large, flat paddle made of
wood, and then grabs a leather flogger with long black tails with his other hand, tucks them both
beneath his arm so he can close the cabinet doors again and lock them behind him, then makes his
way back across the room with ease as though every set of eyes in the library weren’t watching
him with rapt attention.
“Alright, since you are all familiar faces, I assume you know the drill. Clear away the chairs and
get into position.” Yoongi turns away from the students and leaves them to their own devices,
choosing instead to face Hoseok and extend the two tools towards him, one in each hand. “Which
one would you prefer?”
Hoseok stares down at them both silently for a long moment, trying not to allow his surprise and
hesitation to show on his face. Of course, this is what Principal Kim had been telling him about
earlier, the punishment used generally for students who step out of line—he should have known he
would be taking part in doling it out eventually. After careful consideration, he reaches out and
plucks the paddle from Yoongi’s hand, weighing it back and forth between his palms as he brings
it back towards his chest.
“Good choice,” Yoongi tells him with a smile, and he feels his cheeks heat up again. “Shall we?”
He waves his free hand to invite Hoseok along with him as he turns back towards the students,
some of whom have lined up beside the tables while a smaller group have taken it upon themselves
to bend over the edges of the front table, pants and skirts dropped down to their feet to leave their
asses bare and exposed to the teachers.
“Ten strikes each, then you trade with the next person in line.” Yoongi reminds them, looking over
at Hoseok for his confirmation. Hoseok clears his throat and nods, his voice not feeling strong
enough in his throat to answer as he steps up behind the first girl in line on one side of the table
while Yoongi positions himself on the other side behind an older boy. Yoongi meets Hoseok’s
eyes for a brief moment to signal him to begin, then raises the flogger in one hand and brings it
down against the student’s backside. Mirroring his actions almost immediately, Hoseok raises his
own paddle and brings it down against the girl’s ass with a resounding smack. The pained sound
that they both make, almost at the same time in a beautiful chorus, goes straight through Hoseok,
and he has to take in a deep breath before being able to find his voice again. Beside him, Yoongi
counts out the first strike for him, his voice low and gravelly as he murmurs “...one.”
Hoseok glances at him again before raising the paddle a second time and striking the girl again,
slightly lower so that the pink tinge on her skin spreads further down her thigh, Yoongi following
his lead this time while he manages to call out “Two.”
They carry on in much that same way, alternating the count as they make their way towards ten
strikes, Hoseok mimicking Yoongi’s choice to vary his strikes from one side of the student’s ass to
the other to spread the pain as much as possible. When they arrive at ten, the students can’t pick
their clothes off the floor quickly enough and scamper to the back of the line, leaving Yoongi and
Hoseok to step closer to one another, moving behind the next students in line to repeat the process
again.
When they make their way to the end of the line, Hoseok watches as the student who had arrived
late—Taehyung, he remembers—steps up in front of Yoongi and bends himself over without
hesitation, wriggling his hips a little too suggestively as he slips his thumbs beneath the waistband
of his uniform pants and slips them down the curve of his ass, arching his back more than
necessary to present himself for the older teacher. Hoseok doesn’t even notice that another student
has done the same in front of him until Yoongi gives him a pointed look and waves his hand for
Hoseok to continue. Oh—right—
Still, it’s hard to keep his eyes away from the older man as Yoongi takes a moment to drag his long
fingers down the exposed curve of Taehyung’s ass appreciatively before stepping back and
bringing the flogger back in a clean arch, the leather snapping sharply against Taehyung’s skin
without hesitation. Unlike the other students before him, Taehyung doesn’t yelp or whine at the
impact—no, he moans , blatantly and wantonly, bucking his hips back into the sensation. Yoongi
scoffs at him and wastes no time bringing the whip down to strike his other ass cheek in rapid
succession, earning himself another pleased moan for his trouble.
Hoseok has to physically force himself to turn his head away to focus on the task at hand, raising
his own paddle to strike at the upper thigh of the young man bent over in front of him. “One,” he
manages to count, though Yoongi doesn’t join in as he continues his own strikes to Taehyung’s
backside. Their rhythm is completely off now, Yoongi managing two strikes for each one of
Hoseok’s, not even bothering to count out loud any longer while Hoseok carries on beside him. It’s
only when Hoseok reaches “ten” that Yoongi finally stops, breath coming out as soft pants as he
looks down at the reddened ass presented before him, Taehyung squirming atop the table as his
classmates watch on in silence.
“Get up,” Yoongi rasps at him, and the boy raises himself up on shaky arms to stand straight,
giving everyone quite the eyeful of his hard twitching cock before he bends to drag his pants back
up his legs and tucks himself haphazardly into his underwear, limping away to join the back of the
line without looking at Yoongi just as everyone else before him had. Yet when he reaches the end
of the line and turns back around, he stares Yoongi down with such an intense stare that Hoseok
finds himself unable to look away, even as his hands continue the robotic motions of striking the
next student that bends over in front of him. How it must feel, Hoseok muses, to be so taken over
by Min Yoongi to have a response like that— it’s hard not to find himself wanting to experience it
for himself.
The detention passes quickly from that point, Yoongi regaining control of the rhythm as soon as
the next student joins him at the table, and they make their way through each of their respective
lines several times before the hour is up. With each successive turn, the students become more
reluctant to bend themselves over for more of the same treatment, the strikes more painful with
each pass despite the brief breaks in between, which might in fact be more cruel than kind.
Yes, they all hesitate as they reach the front of the line—all except Taehyung, who practically
skips into place with enthusiasm each time his turn comes around, presenting his ass to the older
teacher with relish. Hoseok is impressed with the level of professionalism Yoongi is able to
maintain despite the circumstances, treating Taehyung much the same way he treats any of the
other students, in spite of his obvious attempts to rile Yoongi up—though, if the older teacher is a
bit harsher in his strikes to Taehyung’s bruised ass towards the end? Well, who could blame him.
Still, when the hour is up completely, a timer going off on Yoongi’s watch to remind them, Yoongi
seems almost …disappointed by the sudden rush of students that move past them towards the
doors, hitching up their pants and skirts haphazardly with one hand while clutching their bags and
books with the other, as if afraid they’ll be held back for more of the same treatment if they
dawdle. Hoseok, meanwhile, can’t be more grateful for the reprieve, his arm and shoulders aching
from the exertion it took to keep up an even pressure to each of the impacts he doled out to one
student after another.
“Mr. Kim!” He hears Yoongi call out behind him as he sets the paddle down on the table and
stretches at his arms for some relief. Hoseok turns to watch as Taehyung pauses on his way to the
doorway, barely concealing the shit-eating grin on his face as he turns back towards Yoongi with
the front of his uniform pants clutched in his hands, still unfastened and tented at the front from his
obvious erection.
“Yes...Mr. Min?” He drawls, stepping back towards the center of the room.
Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, curling the leather of the flogger up in one hand. He cuts
quite the imposing figure as he stares the student down, dark eyes flashing beneath his glasses.
“Come back here for a moment. I need a word with you.”
“Yessir!” Taehyung replies happily, and Hoseok takes that as his cue to leave. He lets out a long,
tense breath and pushes the paddle across the table towards Yoongi, offering the older teacher a
sympathetic smile.
“I’ll leave you to it...see you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.” Yoongi repeats, his voice softer as he addresses Hoseok, though only just so.
Hoseok gives Taehyung a warning glance as he picks up his own bag and makes his way towards
the door, but the boy only gives him a wink as he passes by and Hoseok shakes his head in
disbelief. Just as he passes through the exit and rounds the corner, he hears Yoongi address the boy
again, voice deeper than ever as he asks, “Just what do you think you’re doing ?”
Hoseok lets out a low whistle and leaves the library behind him as quickly as he can, making his
way back towards the front of the building. His fast pace doesn’t carry him away quickly enough to
avoid hearing a loud yelp followed by a moan from behind him, and Hoseok finds himself grateful
not to have such a difficult student on his hands too.
Front Office—Reception—First Floor 08.16.18 5:04PM
Hoseok is just about to make it to the front doors when a voice calls his name from behind,
surprising him into stopping dead in his tracks. “Mr. Jung?”
As he turns around, he finds himself being beckoned back towards the front office by a woman
ducking her head out through the door. He vaguely recognizes her as Principal Kim’s secretary
who introduced herself to him as Yoo Jeongyeon several days before. “Yes, Ms. Yoo? What can I
do for you?”
“I’m glad I caught you!” She says while tucking a strand of her short hair behind her ear. Her lips
are red and slightly swollen, distracting him as she talks, and he does his best to focus on her words
instead of the way her mouth forms them, though it does take some serious effort. “I meant to send
a message to you earlier today—do you have just a moment? It’s very important.”
Hoseok looks out the front window at the rapidly setting sunset and thinks of his comfortable bed
at home, where he’d much rather be than anywhere else at the moment, but one look at her eager
and hopeful face has him agreeing. “Of course. What do you need?”
“Please come with me.” She holds the door open for him and he slings his bag more securely over
his shoulder before following her into the office, making his way to the front desk where the only
lights still remain turned on. “I have the folder for you here somewhere—oh! Here.” Jeongyeon
rifles through several stacks of paper atop the desk before finding what she is looking for, a plain
manila folder that she holds out for Hoseok to take.
“What’s this?”
“You were a friend of Jeon Jungkook’s before joining us here, yes?”
“I—yes, Jungkook and I were friends in college…” Hoseok answers slowly, unsure what she must
be getting at with this line of questioning.
“Good, then you’re the person best suited to help us take care of his remaining paperwork.” She
points at the folder in his hands. “You find all of the needed documentation in that folder to take
care of all of Mr. Jeon’s loose ends.”
“What—What do you mean?”
“Well, of course we need to finalize all of the adjustments for a new member of staff, Mr. Jung.
Housing arrangements, payroll, etc.” She gives him a hard stare as if daring him to question her,
clearly taking the paperwork very seriously. Afraid to disagree, Hoseok swallows thickly and nods
his head in agreement. “Since Mr. Jeon is otherwise occupied, Principal Kim has requested that
you take care of the remaining paperwork for him to close his accounts and finalize his move to
the community.”
“Oh!” Well that makes more sense. Hoseok takes a second to slide the folder open and glance at
the first page of paperwork sitting on top, what appears to be a form to allow for a direct deposit to
be set up. “Oh, of course.”
“I’ve made all the necessary copies you’ll need to close his external bank account, and the payment
for movers to bring his personal belongings directly here.”
“And his apartment?” Hoseok can help but ask.
“Yes, here—” Jeongyeon raises the top pages to show further documentation at the bottom of the
file. “Payment and his permission form to break his lease early. That should be all you need to
assist Mr. Jeon with this transition. Any questions?”
Hoseok takes a moment to flip through all of the pages, but her thoroughness can’t be understated
and he closes the file while giving Jeongyeon a grateful smile. “No, it all seems to be here. Thank
you for taking care of all of this for Jungkook—I honestly hadn’t thought about it, but I’m glad this
is getting resolved so quickly. I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know.”
“Of course,” Jeongyeon replies primly, straightening the papers in front of her with a placid smile.
“Well, unless you need anything further, that will be all, Mr. Jung.”
“Oh—Oh, right, no. That’s it. Thank you!” Hoseok waves at her awkwardly with his free hand
before turning back towards the door. As he hears it shut behind him, he fumbles briefly with
wedging the folder into his bag for a moment before returning on his path to the front door, finally
exiting the building into the crisp evening air. He’s grateful not to have missed the sunset,
watching the dimming light cast shadows of gold and red across the nearby houses.
How kind of them, to set Jungkook up with so much support as he makes this exciting transition,
Hoseok thinks. As he ambles his way down into the parking lot and looks around for his car, he
wonders which of the houses will be given to Jungkook—perhaps one close to his own?
‘I suppose I’ll have to hurry up with that paperwork,’ he thinks as he clambers into his car, setting
his bag carefully on the seat beside him ‘Jungkook is depending on me.’
With that final thought, Hoseok buckles himself in and starts the car, his headlights casting
shadows through the windows of the building as he circles the parking lot. For just a moment, he
thinks he spots a pair of eyes looking back at him from one of the windows on the first floor—but,
no—just a trick of the light, he tells himself. He hums along tunelessly to the radio as he weaves
his way through the few cars still scattered in the lot, makes his way out onto the main street, and
into the night—unhurried now, and optimistic for the next day to come.
Front Office—Security—First Floor 08.16.18 8:46PM
It’s much easier this time, the breaking and the entering. Keys in hand, the school dark and
abandoned, he’s almost tempted to whistle to himself as he walks through the halls, confident now
that no one will hear him.
But something slows his steps as he approaches the front office, rubber soles squeaking against the
tile floor halfway past the bay of doors that lead out into the parking lot. The office door, normally
a dark shape in the distance, is outlined in the faintest glow from the windows that line it on either
side, a light that is most certainly not supposed to be turned on.
Approaching with caution, he keeps his body well concealed behind the door itself, peeking around
one window frame to look beyond—and spots a figure moving at the end of the hall. The Nurse’s
office, he realizes—with its door ajar, the shadow of the nurse himself moving just beyond it,
causing the low light to flicker back and forth around Namjoon’s tall body.
He takes a deep breath, doing some quick recalculation, before spinning around and glancing at
Namjoon through the window on the other side of the door, moving quickly when he’s sure that
the nurse is out of sight again so he can pass by the window unseen and make his way off to the
left, down the hall and around a corner. His footsteps are light and carefully placed as he
approaches a second door, one that only staff use to enter the lower level of the office where
students are not allowed.
His new keys do their job either way, allowing him access to the entryway that leads directly to the
security desk, and beyond it, the office that he seeks. He casts his eyes up the short set of stairs a
few feet away, giving a wary glance up at the Nurse’s office where the door remains open a sliver
—but the room beyond is now quiet, no signs of movement. Perhaps Namjoon has settled in for
some late-night work, or is taking another nap on the sick beds that everyone knows the nurse
sometimes uses instead of go home.
Satisfied with the silence, he hazards a step forward and skirts around the security desk, pressing
keys into the lock and letting himself into the office beyond. This time, the door behind him is
closed securely before he turns his focus to the bay of screens before him.
He glances first at the screen marked as Front Office-Nurse , content to find the familiar shape of
Namjoon hunched over a cabinet, rifling through what appear to be containers of various medical
supplies, completely absorbed in what he’s doing.
Now more familiar with the order of recordings, it only takes a moment for him to move on and
find the feed labelled Health Lab-First Floor-West , and he spots exactly what he hopes to see—a
shadowed figure in the center of the room, propped upright with arms outstretched, head hanging
low between its shoulders. The doll is completely stationary, clearly locked into place, and he’s
struck with an odd sense of déjà vu at the image, his lips pursed as he examines it carefully.
The office is, as usual, completely empty, so he takes a seat and makes himself comfortable, his
flashlight set aside on the desk so he can busy his hands with the keyboard. With a few clicks of
the mouse, he pulls up the tools he needs, selects the video in question, and presses record . For
several long minutes, it doesn’t appear that anything is happening, but he hums happily and presses
the stop button when he has what he needs.
The clip is short, unassuming, but important. He plays it back, and plays it back again, watching
the room where the doll is propped up—a loop of absolutely nothing unremarkable happening.
That’s all it takes. And he grins wide, realizing that he’s already gotten away with it all.
Chapter End Notes
Summary of the non-con scene:
Seokjin offers Hoseok the opportunity to “use” the doll, which he references as a
“school resource.” Yoongi directs Hoseok to place Jungkook on a nearby table and
gives him lube, and Hoseok fingers Jungkook open. Jungkook fights back and speaks
up for the first time in several days, calling out Hoseok’s name, telling him no and
asking for his help. Hoseok shushes him and tries to explain that he is trying to help,
but Yoongi gets frustrated by Jungkook’s outburst and ties him to the table. Hoseok
then fucks Jungkook while everyone watches, and Jungkook cries but orgasms from
the stimulation anyway. Hoseok is happy that he could help Jungkook get used to his
new job.
click to return to text

Phase Four: Marionette
Chapter Summary
Jungkook thought he had learned all that his new employer has to hide—but he was
sorely mistaken. No, as the weekend approaches and he finds himself summoned to
the office, the doll discovers just how ignorant to the nature of his imprisonment he
really is.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE FOUR:
Psychological Horror, (Extremely) Dubious Consent, Rape/Non-con Elements,

Blackmail, Objectification, Dollification, Dumbification, Sexual Slavery,
Imprisonment, Stockholm Syndrome, Solitary Confinement, Public Punishment,
Discipline, Unhealthy/Abusive Relationships, Emotional Manipulation,
Physical/Psychological Torture, Mind Control/Manipulation, Conditioning, Mind
Break, Bondage, Oral Sex, Forced Orgasm, Medical Kink, Medical
Experimentation/Examination, Enemas, Omarashi/Watersports, Force-Feeding,
Catheters, Cock Cage/Chastity Device, Cock & Ball Torture, Fucking Machines,
Impact Play/Whipping, Non-Consensual Drug Use/Drugged Sex, Altered Mental
States, Public Sex/Nudity, Public Humiliation, Voyeurism, Forced Sub Space,
Implied/Referenced Underage Sex
Fic Playlist
Phase Four Playlist


the original
story here!
“Wake up…”
He hears it as though it were a whisper in a dream, a far off sound with no connection to reality.
“Hey, wake up…”
Jungkook stirs, his mind being dragged back to consciousness through what feels like miles and
miles of resistance, his body in an utterly different dimension from his thoughts. It’s dark, here—
dark and warm and secure. It takes even longer to piece together that the sound, the strange words
beckoning him away from his slumber are accompanied by a touch—a phantom hand on his cheek,
his wrist, his thigh.
“...hey, kid...wake up!”
The phantom hand feels too real to be a hallucination now, too solid to be a ghost—it reaches for
the crook of his knee and grips him tight, and that’s—oh, that hurts—that’s his body, that’s his
body—
“Nnnggggghhhh…” He manages to say, remembering where his voice his stored in his chest. It
burns on the way out, as though he had forgotten how to use it, a tool long forgotten in the attic
until just now.
“I mean it, you have to wake up,” the voice continues, closer now—pretty, he thinks, but
demanding. Who knew ghosts could be so pushy?
Jungkook tries to stretch, to force his consciousness to inhabit every part of his body again, but the
feeling is stilted somehow, cut off at the edges as though his limbs have locked into place. It’s an
odd sensation, to be sure, but an even more oddly familiar one—the tightness at his wrists and
ankles prickles at the back of his mind, telling him to remember , just remember—
“Alright, I didn’t want to have to do this—” the ghost continues, and something in his tone has a
nasty feeling twisting in the pit of Jungkook’s stomach, which helpfully reminds him where his
stomach is in the floating expanse he feels in his chest, but has the unfortunate effect of drawing
his attention to just how empty and aching and nauseated hs really is.
He waits for the ghost to continue, the sound of that distant voice dragging him closer and closer to
consciousness—but his answer comes not in the form of another hushed whisper, but in the sound
of something swinging through the air moments before he feels a hot tongue of pain across his
cheek. The impact is enough to swing his head the opposite direction, face stinging immediately all
over from the smack that was laid across his skin, and Jungkook feels a sharp groan fall out of his
lips the moment his jaw drops open in shock.
“That’s it—come on, come back—” the voice tells him, not unkindly. “I know they’ve got you so
far under, but they need you awake now so you’ve gotta—”
It hurts, the bright light of morning that suddenly hits the backs of his eyes as he wrenches them
open. “—whassat?”
“There we go,” the voice says, but now Jungkook can see that it is attached to a mouth, and that
mouth is attached to a face.
A very pretty face.
A familiar face.
“Good morning...” the face tells him, and Jungkook suddenly recognizes who is in front of him,
the wide eyes and round lips unmistakable. Jimin.
“...doll.” The young man continues, and something about his tone makes Jungkook squirm, the
janitor looking as though it is equally uncomfortable for him to say it as it is for Jungkook to hear
it.
Doll .
That’s right—it’s all coming back to him. Doll. That’s what he is. A doll. He remembers this now,
even if the rest of his thoughts feel foggy, heavy. Why does he feel so heavy?
“You’ve made quite the mess of yourself,” Jimin continues, and Jungkook hasn’t got a clue what
the man means, but he knows—deep down, somehow, he knows—that it’s certainly not a good
thing. “You’re lucky I’m the one that found you like this and not Yoongi, he would have been so
angry…”
What—...what did he do? Jungkook wonders, head aching as he tries to drag his thoughts back into
some semblance of connected ideas. The soft pressure of Jimin’s hand moves from Jungkook’s
knee to his hip before disappearing altogether, only to be replaced with what can only be described
as a—a tugging sensation? Somewhere in the core of his body, behind his pelvis, behind his cock.
It doesn’t hurt, per se, but it prickles uncomfortably and Jungkook’s hips twitch as if trying to buck
away from the sensation on instinct. He doesn’t get very far, his movements impeded by the
stretch of warm leather across his stomach, the same texture that circles his wrists and ankles and
throat, keeping his limbs locked into one position.
When he really begins to focus, he can feel the skeleton of a metal frame beneath him, behind him,
rigid and immovable when he can’t help but flex against the restraints. How long has he been like
this? His head swims and his stomach turns as he tries to turn his head to take in his surroundings
—some small part of his mind almost grateful for the support of the metal beneath him to keep
him from falling over—but it doesn’t take more than a glimpse of the desks and tile floor within
his line of sight for the horrible, sinking realization of exactly where he is to hit home.
“Ah, you’re back with me now, aren’t you? It’s quite a rough ride, coming back from that…” Jimin
tells him, almost conversationally, as if Jungkook weren’t still naked and chained up in the middle
of a classroom, as though he hadn’t just slapped Jungkook awake from the first sleep he feels like
he’s had in years. “But that’s still no excuse. I’m afraid I’ll have to report this, Yoongi isn’t going
to like it…”
‘Like...what?’
“Let’s hope we can get it cleaned up before he gets here, yeah?”
“Mmmhhhnn—wha…?” He tries, he really tries to ask, though his voice is still a fleeting thing.
Jimin, however, seems to understand perfectly, and Jungkook watches his handsome face twist into
what could almost be called a sympathetic expression—or, it would be, if it weren’t for a glint
of...something in Jimin’s eye. Something off, something almost...sinister.
“Oh,” Jimin says with a pout, tilting his head to the side as if pitying Jungkook, “You don’t know,
do you? You don’t know what you did last night?”
Despite the creaking in his neck, Jungkook manages to shake his head no, the movement small but
enough for Jimin to see, as evidenced by the little frown the janitor offers him.
“Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re about to be in for a world of trouble. Here,
look—” Jimin raises a hand—small, and oddly delicate looking, Jungkook notices dimly— and
tugs at the buckle on the side of Jungkook’s neck, unfastening the collar that keeps his head
upright.
Suddenly, Jungkook finds his head swinging downwards of its own accord, and it aches , pulling at
his still muscles and leaving all of his blood rushing towards his eyes. But it does the trick, and
now Jungkook can see more that just Jimin’s face and the classroom over his shoulders—no, now
he can see exactly what Jimin has been pointing at, and it makes his stomach feel about ready to
drop through his toes.
Beneath the janitor’s feet, pooling around the rubber soles of the man’s boots, is a large pool of
liquid—an unmistakable shade of yellow. Off to the side, a foot or so away, is the bucket that had
been placed between his feet the night before, no longer holding the collection of his piss where
Yoongi had left it, which was instead spilled far and wide across the tile floor. The drops seem to
have splattered as far as the nearest desk and, worse, now that he knows to look for it, he can
catalogue the tell-tale sticky sensation of it drying against the skin of his feet and ankles as well.
Jimin gives him a long moment to take it in, lips still pursed into a sympathetic frown as he
watches the mounting panic on Jungkook’s face. How—How could he have possibly—
“You see? This isn’t good, hm? Yoongi is going to be so upset when he finds out that you made a
mess of his classroom again . How many times is this now? Three, four?” Jimin tuts dispprovingly
and shakes his head, hands on his hips as he looks down at the mess as if surveying the damage.
“Now it’s on me to get this cleaned up, and let me tell you—”
“Jimin?” Another voice interrupts from somewhere in the direction of the door, the deep and husky
tone immediately recognizable as that of Namjoon. Jungkook’s heart flutters uncomfortably at the
thought of the older man, half relieved at the thought of the nurse being nearby and half wanting to
shrink back in trepidation. “What’s going on?”
“Namjoon—” Jimin straightens up immediately, turning away from Jungkook to greet the older
man. Something about his demeanor changes immediately, the expression all but sliding off his
face to leave him looking blank and serious. Jungkook tries to raise his head again as slowly as
possible, his mind helpfully supplying memories of the day before as soon as he sees the nurse’s
confused face, reminding him immediately not to draw any more attention to himself than there
already is. Trouble is coming his way, he already knows that in his core—why make it worse for
himself by breaking another rule? Jungkook doesn’t want Namjoon to be upset with him—doesn’t
want anyone to be upset with him, honestly, but Namjoon in particular.
“Jimin, what’s going on here?” The nurse asks as he draws closer, crossing his arms across his
broad chest.
“I—I came by a few minutes ago to check, since there was a mess yesterday, and I—found it like
this.” The janitor gestures unnecessarily down at the pool of piss at his feet.
“He—the doll did this?” Namjoon asks, his tone laced with disbelief.
‘Yes, yes, I must have,’ Jungkook thinks with a sharp punch of guilt in his gut, ‘I must have, I did
something bad—Yoongi’s going to be so upset—’
“It must—must have knocked it over in its sleep,” Jimin explains, “or, maybe...maybe it was
struggling? Knocked it over trying to move?”
‘No—wait—’
“I mean,” the janitor goes on, and his tone turns more...familiar, as though sharing a secret with
Namjoon that they’re both in on, “we both know it’s possible. Maybe the doll was trying to
escape…”
“Oh, come on, Jimin,” Namjoon waves his hand as though brushing Jimin’s suggestion away. “He
wouldn’t do that! Our new doll wants to be here, all the paperwork has been signed and
everything.”
‘I—yes, I—I want to be here, this is my—my job—’ Jungkook thinks, dimly agreeing with the
nurse’s words, ‘I didn’t—I wouldn’t do that—I didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t want to get in
trouble…’
“It probably just moved on accident, we’ll just have to fix the stand a little. There’s always little
adjustments to be made, you know.” Namjoon crosses his arms back across his chest, staring Jimin
down reproachfully, and the younger man seems to shrink beneath his gaze. ”And anyway, you
know I don’t like hearing you talk like that…”
‘Please don’t tell Mr. Min, please—’
Jimin sighs and hangs his head and tucks his hands in his pockets, looking chastened. “I know, I’m
sorry…”
“What did we talk about?” Namjoon presses on, clearly not going to let up until he hears what he
wants to hear.
‘—he’ll ruin my whole career if he finds out! I want to teach, I’ve worked so hard—’
“...my attitude.” Jimin says to the floor, kicking his foot softly against the tile as he does.
“That’s right. And what did I tell you?”
Jimin hesitates, now, his face screwing up into an expression of what might be confusion, or
perhaps discomfort. Hoping and praying that the other men don’t see the movement while they’re
distracted with their conversation, Jungkook takes it as the opportunity that it is and continues
slowly raising his head back to where it should be, resting against the padding behind him to
relieve the awful ache in his neck and shoulders. It gives him a full view of the two older men as
they face off against each other, Namjoon looking taller and more imposing than ever, Jimin
shrinking back into himself in much the same way he had the day before.
“You—you told me…” Jimin bites his lip, looking more and more upset by the second, “you told
me there’s—there’s nowhere to run if there’s nothing to—to run from…”
“Exactly,” Namjoon replies, sounding pleased. “So what’s all this talk about ‘escaping,’ hm?
Knock that off, that’s a really unhealthy mentality.”
Jimin nods solemnly, shoulders hunching towards his ears. “Yes, sir.”
“And get this cleaned up, okay?” Namjoon adds as an afterthought, “Hurry, and I won’t have to
report you too. I already have to report this mess…”
‘Yes, please, hurry—’ Jungkook thinks, wanting this whole situation to be over, for Namjoon’s
attention to be directed elsewhere, for the focus to be on anything other than the mess he’s made.
‘I’m—I’m sorry…’
Jimin sighs, acting particularly put-upon, and nods his head, which seems to finally leave Namjoon
satisfied. “Go on, I’ll be back shortly, I need to grab a few things for prepping the doll this
morning, okay?”
Another nod from Jimin and the nurse is heading back out the door, Jimin remaining rooted to the
spot until Namjoon has rounded the corner, leaving just Jimin and Jungkook remaining in the
classroom alone.
With a growing twist of unease in his belly, Jungkook watches as Jimin slowly turns back to face
him—no longer looking upset, no longer looking like he’s feeling much of anything, really, his
expression completely blank. It—It was all an...act?
Jimin doesn’t say anything for several long moments, starting at Jungkook as though appraising
him, only blinking slowly as his eyes slowly track down the length of Jungkook’s body, taking in
every inch of the doll’s skin. It leaves Jungkook feeling itchy and wanting to squirm against his
bondage, the weight of Jimin’s gaze almost a physical thing.
When Jimin finally speaks, his voice is lower and more serious than ever, his fragile-sounding
tone from before completely evaporated and his playful words while waking Jungkook up all but a
dream.
“...you should be more careful,” he warns, and Jungkook’s eyes fixate on the janitor’s plush lips as
the form the words, “You’re lucky Namjoon seems to be in a forgiving mood today…”
He steps up closer to Jungkook then, boots making a soft squelching noise as he stands in the pool
of piss beneath him without a care in the world. Jimin moves his hands up to rest against
Jungkook’s sides, dipping his thumbs into the jut of Jungkook’s hip bones for a brief moment
while he stares up at the younger man’s face, tilting his head to the side in an motion not unlike a
curious puppy. It would be cute if it weren’t for his utterly blank expression, wide eyes even more
piercing up close.
Jungkook realizes he was holding his breath only when the janitor steps away again and he feels
his chest expand in a shuddering inhale. Before him, Jimin steps back beyond the pool of piss and,
to Jungkook’s surprise, slides slowly to his knees just as he did the day before, never breaking eye
contact with Jungkook as he does so. He stares up at the doll for a moment longer, really letting it
sink in, the thoughts in Jungkook’s head rushing to catch up.
‘—is—is he—? He can’t be—’

Jungkook’s fears are immediately confirmed as the janitor gives him one last lingering look, bends
himself over at the waist, and brings his mouth down to the pool of piss on the floor.
Jungkook’s ears start to ring as he feels his heart rate pick up in shock, his entire body tensing as he
watches the small man before him do what he had previously thought impossible, Jimin sticking
out his tongue to lap at the liquid splattered across the tile before him. If he thought his stomach
had twisted into knots earlier, it’s nothing compared to the awful way it lurches now at the sight of
the older man licking up the sticky liquid—almost eagerly , at that. Jimin pauses for a moment,
licks his thick lips, and turns his head up to glance at Jungkook with a small, self-deprecating
smile.
“It really is unpleasant when it’s cold,” he admits with a small shrug, as if they’re simply
discussing which leftovers to have for dinner. “I should have gotten here earlier, I guess…” he
sighs, then ducks his head right back down to resume where he left off. He’s quick about it too,
cleaning the tile floor using only his mouth as though with practiced ease—and that’s probably
precisely what this is, Jungkook realizes, a practiced act. He finds himself frozen in shock, a new
kind of shock, one unlike anything he’s experienced in this school so far, one in which he finds
himself horrified not by something being done to him , but by something another person is
inflicting on himself .
It doesn’t take him long at all, a shockingly short period of time passing before Jimin seems to be
nearly done—though for Jungkook the moment seems to stretch on for years, each slurp and lick
and gulp hitting him like a slap to the face and made ten thousand times louder by the relative
silence of the empty classroom around them. Jimin, meanwhile, takes it upon himself to punctuate
the noises with added sounds of his own, little—moans? groans? that sound impossible to
Jungkook’s ears, a sound that must be a figment of his imagination, a mirage— anything but an
indication that the smaller man knelt before him is actually… enjoying the act.
But Jimin seems content to continue violating each and every one of Jungkook’s expectations.
“Don’t want to miss anything…” he murmurs to himself as he draws closer, placing his small
hands on Jungkook’s bare feet where they rest on the base of his stand, still loosely locked into
place, and tugs the exposed toes closer to his waiting lips.
Jungkook shudders as the pose required to lick a stripe up the back of his foot leaves Jimin
completely bent over, vulnerable and exposed and yet so very much in control. The older man
takes his time of it now, leaning back every now and again to look up at Jungkook with hooded
eyes and an almost challenging stare before ducking right back down to run his tongue across the
arch of Jungkook’s foot, around the curve of his ankle, up the side of his calf with tiny kitten licks
to catch each stray drop of piss that still clings to the doll’s skin.
It’s impossible to look away, not with the way Jimin takes such specific care to lave his tongue
across every inch of exposed skin before him, up-up-up Jungkook’s thigh until his nose is nestled
into the joint of Jungkook’s hip, breath hot and heavy against Jungkook’s cock where it— oh —
where it now rests hard and throbbing against his stomach.
This is how they are interrupted, the distinct sound of a throat being cleared from near the door
drawing the attention of both men—Jungkook jerking helplessly in his bonds while Jimin’s calm,
almost cocky demeanor all but disappears as he sits up straight and stares blankly ahead at
Jungkook’s hip in front of him.
“What do we have here…?” Yoongi’s unmistakable tone cuts through the quiet of the room, dark
and low and terrifying. Jungkook can’t put his finger on why, exactly, but something about the
man’s icy stare makes him feel like he himself has done something illicit by allowing Jimin to—to
—have his way with him like this, as though he asked for it, as though he was an equal party to this
madness. Jimin, on the other hand, looks every bit as guilty as Jungkook feels, though he hides it
well behind a carefully constructed mask of neutrality.
His spine remains rigid and his eyes trained dead ahead as Yoongi approaches, taking careful steps
down the aisle between the the desks in a way that seems to command the whole space, empty or
not. His dark eyes look over them both appraisingly—not angry, exactly, but his expression betrays
some hint of discontent with the proceedings before him, and—not knowing at whom, exactly, this
displeasure is aimed—Jungkook does the only thing he can think of and freezes on the spot, for
once not resisting the way his restraints hold him perfectly still.
“Jimin, explain yourself.” Yoongi’s voice leaves no room for argument, and Jimin doesn’t try to
make one. He waits until Yoongi has stepped up right behind him, footsteps coming to a halt with a
slight squeak on the tile floor before he dares to open his mouth.
“I—I was—cleaning up a mess, sir.”
“A mess?” Yoongi asks with mild surprise, looking around the two of them as if expecting to
suddenly spot something out of place. “What sort of mess?”
“He—the doll—the bucket, it spilled over last night…”
“I don’t see a spill anywhere…” Yoongi drawls, taking a step to the side to get a better look at
them both, though Jimin’s eyes stay trained dead ahead.
“I—cleaned it up before you arrived...sir.”

Yoongi hums thoughtfully and circles around the two of them, Jungkook’s neck prickling as he
feels Yoongi’s gaze on the back of his head for a moment before the teacher reappears on his other
side. “And are you finished, would you say?”
“I—” Jimin seems to consider this for a moment, his fingers twitching against Jungkook’s legs.
“No sir, there’s still a bit left to clean up…” He leaves the end of his sentence hanging, eyes
flickering over to look up at Yoongi at last.
“Well,” the older man starts moving away towards his desk, dumping his bag on its surface before
rifling through it for some paperwork, no longer seeming to care at all about the other two men in
the classroom, his curiosity satisfied. “Carry on, then, don’t let me stop you.”
Jungkook glances down at Jimin, then, shocked that Yoongi would just allow this treatment to
continue—though, he supposes, he really shouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore—and what
he sees in the janitor’s eyes terrifies him.
Where before Jimin seemed deferential and afraid at Yoongi’s arrival, he know looks positively
predatory at Yoongi’s permission. His light grip on Jungkook’s thighs turns tight and painful
within seconds, the firm touch forcing him to spread his legs wider against their bonds until his
muscles strain from the effort, and—
—oh, no—no, no, he wouldn’t—
But Jimin does —just leans forward and tilts his head down to put his mouth near the end of the
catheter still dangling from Jungkook’s cock, sticking out his tongue to tease at the end of it like a
toy. All the while, he doesn’t break his eye contact with Jungkook, not even for a second, not even
when he leans up to take the entire end of the tube between his lips, looking obscene beyond belief
as he hollows his cheeks and sucks on the end of it like a straw.
It’s an utterly indescribable experience, to have someone literally draw liquid out of his bladder
like this, but a small unspilled stream of piss is drawn through the tube with only the slightest
provocation, and Jungkook can feel every drop of it as it leaves his body and drains down the tube
into Jimin’s waiting mouth. The janitor drinks it down fervently, licking his lips to catch a stray
drop before diving back for more, until the tube is drained dry and the suction positively burns at
Jungkook’s insides when the older man refuses to relent.
Jungkook can’t help it, then, the way his body jerks against his bonds to flee the sensation, his
stomach clenching around the horrible feeling of emptiness it leaves him with, a groan rising in his
throat without his permission only to be muffled by his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, gagging
himself in the absence of anything between his lips to hold back the sound. He never thought he
would miss the way it strained at his jaw, though now it would be easy to be grateful for the
bondage if it would keep him from getting into further trouble—
“Jimin, that’s enough.”
The older man knelt before him jumps away from his cock at Yoongi’s sharp words, Jimin’s lips
tugging at the catheter as he pulls away with a ‘pop’ that leaves Jungkook’s stomach squirming.
“Come here, leave the doll alone now,” Yoongi continues, and Jungkook is left panting at the
sudden disappearance of Jimin’s hands holding his body still, his legs relaxing helplessly against
the leather straps of his restraints the moment he is released. Jimin smirks up at him for a moment
and it’s all Jungkook can do to stare down at him with hazy eyes as the older man slides to his feet,
rubbing at his knees for a moment before stepping away to follow Yoongi’s order. Jungkook’s
eyes can help but track his movements as Jimin moves around his body to approach Yoongi, taking
in the way the teacher has propped himself against the desk, legs spread slightly to create a space
for Jimin to step into as Yoongi beckons him closer.
“What were you doing here so early?” He asks of Jimin, who squirms almost bashfully under the
older man’s attentive gaze.
“I—I wanted—I didn’t want there to be a mess waiting for you. There was a mess yesterday, so I—
I thought I should come check—“
“No one told you to come?”
“No, no, I—“
“Jimin.” Yoongi cuts him off with one word, the janitor falling silent immediately, eyes wide as he
watches Yoongi raise a hand towards him. Jungkook and Jimin both seem to be of one mind,
flinching automatically as Yoongi reaches out, fully expecting a slap to be rained down on Jimin’s
cheek—but Yoongi surprises them both by simply cupping his large palm around the curve of
Jimin’s jaw. The action is careful, almost—tender?—though innocent; just a simple, reassuring
gesture.
“Jimin,” he says again, softer. “You did very well.”
“I—I d-did?” The younger man asks, and Jungkook can see even from a distance the way Jimin’s
eyes widen in surprise. More than anything before, this expression of eagerness seems to be a
genuine one.
“Yes, Jimin...you’ve done well. I’m proud of you for stepping up and taking care of this problem
for me, this is a nice change from you.” Yoongi strokes his thumb over Jimin’s cheek as he speaks,
and the younger man all but preens under the positive attention.
“T-Thank you…”
“I think you deserve a reward, hm?” Yoongi offers, casually, but Jimin acts as though he’s just won
the lottery, bouncing on his heels excitedly at the suggestion.
“A reward? Oh, thank you, Yoongi!”
“You want it?” Jungkook is completely at a loss as to what they’re talking about, but Jimin seems
to know immediately .
The smaller man nods his head frantically in Yoongi’s grip, which makes the teacher let out a rare
chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Yes, yes please!” Jimin begs, and Yoongi laughs again.
“Alright, alright, you know what to do, then…”
And Jimin clearly does, because he drops to his knees without a moment’s hesitation. He easily
crosses his arms behind his back in a loose approximation of parade rest, the position clearly
comfortable and familiar, and then he waits—just waits, as Jungkook waits as well, while Yoongi
looks down his nose at Jimin appraisingly.
It takes Yoongi a few long moments to find what he must have been looking for in Jimin’s eyes,
searching the younger man’s face for something, some expression or indication, before dropping
his hands down to his own belt. The buckle falls loose with one practiced tug, and Jungkook sees
Jimin’s throat tighten in a thick swallow at the sight of Yoongi’s long fingers unfastening and
unzipping the front of his slacks, tucking beneath the fabric, and gently tugging his own cock free
of its confines. Jungkook can’t help but swallow himself at the sight, Yoongi’s cock thick even
when soft, hanging heavily in his hand.
“Open up,” Yoongi asks, and Jimin follows the simple command immediately, thick lips falling
open to welcome whatever Yoongi has to give him. Jungkook frowns at that, not concerned with
anyone watching him when Yoongi and Jimin’s eyes are so intently focused on each other—what
is Yoongi asking Jimin to do , exactly? Surely a blowjob for the teacher wouldn’t count as a
reward for the janitor? And—Jungkook thinks, only a little bitterly—it isn’t as though he deserves
one, a reward, what with the way he has been taunting Jungkook.
Still, reward or not, Yoongi shifts forward only as much as needed to feed the tip of his cock
through Jimin’s waiting lips, the younger man closing his mouth around it like a favorite treat, his
fingers clenching behind his back as if eagerly awaiting something. Just what that something is,
Jungkook doesn’t know—or, he doesn’t until Yoongi lets out a soft groan, shoulders tensing,
followed immediately by a much louder, more wanton moan from Jimin.
It takes Jungkook a second to realize that this isn’t a blowjob—not at all—no, Yoongi is holding
perfectly still, and it’s only when he really strains his ears that he can hear the unmistakable sound
of liquid running. It’s with that same sick, twisted feeling in his stomach that it all becomes clear—
the “treat” that Yoongi has decided to give Jimin is the teacher’s own piss, warm and fresh from
the source. And Jimin—in the short time that Jungkook has known him, Jungkook has never seen
the smaller man so—so happy , eyes closed in utter contentment as he keeps his lips tightly closed
around the tip of Yoongi’s cock and swallows down all that Yoongi has to give him.
With nowhere to go and nothing to do but watch, Jungkook ends up noticing a few things—one,
Yoongi seems to be determinedly holding himself back, his body tense as he, presumably, tries to
keep the stream of piss slow and even for Jimin; two, Jimin is clearly well-practiced at this
particular task, never once breaking from his perfect posture, arms held firm behind his back,
shoulders straight, and it doesn’t phase him for a moment when the liquid first hits his tongue. The
janitor gulps down swallow after swallow of the hot liquid as though it were the finest of liquor, his
tongue darting out to cup the curve of Yoongi’s cock as though to encourage more piss into his
throat, which only serves to make Yoongi groan a little more wildly.
The older man seems far more affected by the task than he wants to let on, hands clenching at his
sides until Jungkook watches him hit a point where he can’t hold back any longer and his fingers
end up in Jimin’s hair, tugging the smaller man forward so Yoongi’s cock all but disappears down
Jimin’s throat. Jimin doesn’t miss a beat, leaning into the touch with another welcoming moan—
the vibrations of his throat clearly doing something for Yoongi, if the way the teacher clutches
more fervently at the hair in front of him is any indication—his nose nuzzling into the soft-looking
thatch of Yoongi’s dark pubic hair.
It—It can’t be pleasant, can it? Jungkook wonders as he watches, unable to tear his eyes away even
if he wanted to. Surely—this must be—be a disgusting task, a soft cock on the tongue, and the taste
alone—
—and yet, Jimin looks as though he couldn’t be more content, swallowing and swallowing around
Yoongi until the teacher seems to have nothing more to give him and finally starts to pull away.
Jungkook stares, fascinated, as the smaller man shifts forward on his knees, chasing after Yoongi’s
cock even as it’s tugged free of his lips and out of reach, Yoongi now hard where before he had
been perfectly flaccid. The movement draws Jungkook’s eyes down to where—much to his
surprise—Jimin himself is hard as well, his arousal obvious by the bulge now tenting at the front
of his coveralls, dragging the fabric away from his body in a lewd display. He whimpers when
Yoongi wraps a hand around his own cock and pulls it completely away from Jimin’s lips, cracking
a small smile at the sad little whimper of disappointment the janitor gives him in return.
“No, no, Jimin, none of that…” He rasps, his voice betraying just how affected he was by Jimin’s
treatment.
Jimin groans, clenching his fingers into his own forearms behind his back as he stares up at this
older man, his superior, from his knees, eyes wide and pleading. “B—But, Yoongi—sir—you said,
I’d been g-good—“
“Not that good,” Yoongi says with a chuckle, his fingers slowly working over his own length as he
lords his height over the smaller man at his feet. “You know the rules, Jiminie, don’t push it…”
“Mmmnnnn…” Jimin whines, dropping his head down in a pout.
“You were good, you did a good job, and I’m proud of you, but those rules are in place for a
reason,” he chides, and the tone of his voice—though not unkind—leaves no room for argument.
Jimin looks up at him from beneath the fringe of his hair for a moment before nodding in
agreement, the pout never leaving his lips. “Will you keep being good for me, hm?”
“Y-Yes sir, I—I will, I promise—“ Jimin is quick to assure, and Jungkook is left with the distinct
feeling that he’s missing something very significant in all of this. What rules is the teacher
referring to? Are they anything like the rules Jungkook himself has been asked to follow?
“That’s our boy,” Yoongi praises, and Jimin preens under the attention. “Hold still again for me,
Jimin—“
The hand on Yoongi’s cock starts moving again, quickly and efficiently stroking himself in a way
Jungkook recognizes, one intended to bring himself to an orgasm as soon as possible—and, sure
enough, within less than a minute, Yoongi can’t help but lean back against the desk for support as
his release passes through him.
Jimin remains stock-still even as the first of the teacher’s come splatters across his cheeks, moving
only so much as to open his mouth again to try to catch a few stray drops of the mess that Yoongi
quickly makes of his face. He groans prettily as he manages to catch a little on the tip of his
tongue, Yoongi only missing it because his eyes have fallen closed as he savors the last few strokes
he gives his cock to milk every last drop of come onto Jimin’s waiting face—and Jungkook is,
admittedly, enraptured.
His experience in this school so far has been—well, impossible to put into words, really, but this—
this is something he’s yet to have experienced, two people taking pleasure in each other purely for
the sake of it. And as uneven as the experience is, it’s clear—shocking or not—that Jimin truly is
taking pleasure from this, the way he’s digging his nails into his arms making it all too clear.
Jungkook doesn’t know what to do with this new information, but it’s certainly...something.
Yoongi takes a surprisingly long time to come back to himself, the normally composed man
looking a little flustered when he finally opens his eyes, running a hand through his hair to
straighten it as he gazes down at Jimin still kneeling before him. Jimin doesn’t break their shared
gaze for a second, even as Yoongi tucks himself back into his pants and re-fastens his belt buckle,
the janitor’s expression betraying his enjoyment of the whole situation.
“Ahem.” All three men turn their gazes quickly to the door, finding Namjoon standing there,
returned from his errand with what looks like a case of medical supplies under his arm.
Yoongi straightens up fully at his appearance, squaring his shoulders as though he doesn’t want to
clue Namjoon in on just how affected he was by Jimin just then. “Ah, Namjoon—you’re back.”
“I just had to run to my office for a few things,” the nurse answers shortly, looking between the
three of them with no small amount of suspicion on his face. “What have I missed?”
“Nothing of importance,” the teacher assures him, even as he reaches down a hand to swipe his
thumb through the cone splattered across Jimin’s cheeks, gathering it onto his fingertip. Jimin
opens his mouth expectantly, clearly waiting for the mess to be fed to him, but Yoongi just tuts and
brings the sticky substance up to his own lips to lick his skin clean. Jimin whines pathetically, and
Namjoon sighs from behind him with a roll of his eyes, moving to set down his bag on a nearby
workstation.
“Nothing, right…” he says slowly, unzipping the bag so he can begin unpacking what Jungkook
realizes are all-too-familiar tools—a long thermometer, a tube and funnel, and a bottle of pink
liquid that makes the doll’s stomach churn on sight.
‘Fuck—here we go—’
“Did Jimin happen to tell you what happened last night?” He asks, continuing to keep his tone even
and light even as his words are laced with meaning.
Yoongi waves a hand dismissively as he stands upright and moves around his desk again, leaving
Jimin kneeling on the floor with a pitiful pout on his lips. “Yes, yes, I’ve been informed.”
“Did he tell you everything , Yoongi? Because I don’t know—”
“That’s enough.” Yoongi cuts the nurse off without a care, his attention focused on gathering
together a stack of papers from his desktop. “I’ve heard plenty.”
“You let him get away with too much, you can’t just let these things pass, Yoongi—”
“Excuse me?” The teacher’s voice drops low, dangerously low, barely more than a growl, his
hands dropping to lie flat across the tabletop as he raises his gaze to meet Namjoon’s at last. Where
he had been kind, almost playful before as he spoke with Jimin, now the older man is cool as ice
and the sharpness of his gaze makes Jungkook shudder despite the expression not being turned on
him directly. He bites his tongue, watching as the two men square off silently, Namjoon staring
Yoongi down for several heartbeats before finally, suddenly, collapsing into an expression of
embarrassment and regret, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“I—I apologize...sir.” Namjoon mutters, and Yoongi takes a slow, deep breath, looking the man
before him over appraisingly.
“You might be the one I’m allowing to get away with too much, Namjoon.” He says, tone melting
back into casual indifference, but the nurse flinches at his words all the same. “Don’t forget your
role here, Mr. Kim.”
“I—yes, I, I’m sorry, sir. I forgot myself for a moment,” Namjoon hurries to apologize, “it won’t
happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” Yoongi says, and his words are as good as a dismissal. “Hurry up with your
morning tasks, I need the doll ready for first period today.” Yoongi turns on his heel then, pulling
out a small black notebook from his back pocket, in which he makes a small note with a flourish of
his pen before tucking them both away again. He gathers his papers and bag with him, carefully
arranging them in his arms as he moves to the door at the back of the classroom that leads to his
office.
Pausing just before the door, be turns his head back to the room. “Jimin—” he calls over his
shoulder, almost as an afterthought, and the janitor’s head perks up excitedly, Jungkook getting a
clear view of the way he nods his head eagerly at whatever the teacher is about to say to him.
“Please make your way to the teacher’s lounge before the first bell.” And Jimin’s expression falls
immediately, his mouth snapping shut with a loud click. “And don’t leave until everyone is taken
care of.”
“I—” the order seems to completely clash with Jimin’s hopes, flying in the face of Yoongi’s praise
given just moments earlier, though Jungkook can’t fathom why , exactly. Still, the janitor’s
shoulders fall, defeated, and he murmurs back a small “yes sir, of course,” before climbing to his
feet with a groan. He wipes the remaining mess from his cheeks with the edge of his sleeve,
lodging one sharp look at the doll before he turns on his heel and makes his way quickly to the
door.
To the other side, Jungkook realizes that Yoongi has disappeared as well, leaving the room eerily
quiet, and it’s with a mounting sense of trepidation that his gaze swings back around to find
Namjoon again.
If the expression on Yoongi’s face before had been, admittedly, terrifying, it was nothing
compared to the horrible, seething anger he sees on the nurse’s face. As the taller man approaches
him, shoulders tense and hands clenched at his sides, Jungkook is filled with the stark, clear
realization that the fear he has experienced so far, since stepping foot into this school, is nothing
compared to what likely lies before him.

Namjoon has always hated the way frustration makes him chew at his own lips, but the sensation
is comforting, somehow. It distracts him enough to keep his mouth shut, at least, to bite back any
comments that he might regret later. It’s been too easy to make that mistake in particular, lately.
With Yoongi’s office door now closed, he feels slightly more secure, but the ever-present prickle at
the back of his neck reminds him that he’s never alone, eyes always on him even if he can’t see
them.
‘You are always being watched,’ he reminds himself. ‘It is the way.’
It’s with no small amount of resentment that he begrudgingly appreciates the cleaning job Jimin did
as he steps closer to the doll, unencumbered by the mess that had littered the floor earlier. How the
janitor expected him to believe his ridiculous story, Namjoon couldn’t fathom—
The doll before him is locked in place, as it should be, just as he had left it the night before. An
appraising hand to the restraints finds them taut and unbroken, perhaps a little loose but still secure
enough to ensure that the doll stays upright. Even if his suspicions must stay inside his own head,
he can’t just will them away as Yoongi seems to want to, and at least his thoughts are his own.
This doll—always getting him in trouble, ever since it was brought through the front door. And to
think he assumed there could be a friendship between them—what a fool he had been. He brings
his eyes back up to look at the doll’s face, then, and it’s with great satisfaction that he sees a glint
of fear reflected back at him. Good .
Yet even after all this time, it’s still difficult to maintain eye contact with the doll for too long—the
lifelike eyes of the dolls always have been a little too real for Namjoon to bear. Still, he has a job to
do, a reminder he gives himself as own eyes flicker up to the clock on the wall above the door,
silently cursing his earlier delay when he spots the lateness of the hour.
It’s easy to fall back into the routine of it—turning to his supplies to grab for a syringe and a vial of
saline. He almost forgets to slip on his gloves before he begins, mind still buzzing with thoughts—
thoughts and anger—but by muscle-memory alone, he manages to pull out a pair and slide the latex
over his fingers before bringing them down to the doll’s cock.
Inspecting the catheter hanging from it’s tip yields no unusual results, the tube still firmly locked
into place, no irritation that he can see—which only gives further credence to his suspicions, he
thinks. Syringe in hand, needle into tube, depressor pulled back—and he watches as saline slowly
begins to fill the body of the syringe, slowly being drawn back out of the doll’s body. He stops just
short of emptying it completely, a small voice in the back of his head telling him to hold back, to
wait, that it would be worth it—and it certainly is, when he places the syringe aside and starts to
draw the tube back out of the doll’s cock.
With a small remaining amount of liquid in the bulb at its end, it gives Namjoon some small swell
of satisfaction to feel the resistance as he pulls it free, a broken noise of discomfort from the doll a
slight consolation for his trouble. He takes his time of it, at least with this, drawing the tube out-
out-out while it drags along the inside of the cock in his hand, probably straining at the urethral
walls, and Namjoon can’t help but smile.
When the tube pops free with a small, obscenely wet noise, though—his eyes widen at the sight of
the enlarged bulb attached to its end. As he pinches the bulb between his fingers, it becomes clear
that he must have removed less of the saline than he thought, the rounded end wide enough to
cause some damage. Upon further inspection, however, he finds no trace of injury, no blood or
tears at the doll’s cock head that would cause Yoongi to come after him again with the blame.
Relieved, the nurse coils the plastic tube into a circle, winding it around itself before tucking it
back into his bag to clean out later.
He can feel the doll’s eyes on him, that creepy, silent stare, as he rearranges his tools. As always,
the stark prickling of wrongness settles over him with the eyes at his back, the sensation familiar
even as he wishes it away. He resolves not to say a word, now, not wanting to give the damn doll
the satisfaction. What misplaced trust he had, believing that a stranger could be trusted with their
important work.
In silence, he takes out a familiar container of pink liquid, his own stomach turning at the sight of
it. As unpleasant as it must be, he still feels grateful that he no longer has to go through the
preparation process—this, at least, has been done for him. Uncapping the bottle, he reaches for a
second, dark vial of clear liquid and uses the glass dropper to move two small droplets of the liquid
from one container into the other—remembering at the last second to add two more per Yoongi’s
instructions.
Min Yoongi. Namjoon bites back a scoff at the thought of the older man. Who does he think he is,
really, walking around the school like this, giving orders as though he is—
No. Namjoon caps the small bottle again before running a hand through his hair with a sigh. No, it
doesn’t do him any good to harbor thoughts like that.
‘Yoongi has earned his place,’ he reminds himself. ‘He’s earned his place here.’ That much must
be true. Namjoon has to believe it, has to believe in the system. The system works. If it doesn’t,
then what would be point of any of this?
It’s not Yoongi’s position he questions, so much—more, what he does with it. This is what
occupies his thoughts as he focuses on his next task, following the teacher’s orders as he pulls out
his usual tools and approaches the doll again. It’s easy—too easy, perhaps—to refuse to look the
doll in the eye now as he pries it’s mouth open with one hand, clenching his fingers into the doll’s
jaw in a practiced move sure to gain the submission he needs.
It’s easier still to ignore the sounds that accompany the tube in his other hand as it is passed
through the doll’s lips and down his throat, ridges moving against his palm when he moves his grip
to the doll’s neck. When he finds himself met with some small, residual resistance, it’s almost
automatic to bring his fingers to pinch at the doll’s nose, suppressing his gag reflex until the tube
slides fully into place.
He makes quick work of pouring the viscous pink protein mix into the tube, the process faster than
it had been the day before, much to his contentment. If he can cut seconds or minutes out of the
routine each day, focus on efficiency—
The gagging and retching that greets him upon the tube’s return journey does nothing to phase him,
only the way the tube drips with saliva and food causing him some measure of discomfort. He
drops it into the nearby sink with an unceremonious clatter.
‘Faster, faster—’ he thinks, trying to urge himself along, eyes flickering to the closed office door
on the far side of the room where the older teacher had disappeared minutes before. If Yoongi
could believe the ridiculous falsehoods that Jimin had fed him this morning, it’s not a stretch to
assume that he might make other assumptions about Namjoon and his work ethic, if given the
chance.
His hands follow the muscle memory earned over many years as he slides leather through buckle,
buckle over leather, and unfastens the doll’s restraints—his arms first, then his neck, his chest, his
legs, his ankles. Grateful for his latent strength, he catches the doll automatically when it falls
bonelessly into his arms, knowing full well how it’s muscles must have weakened even overnight.
Slinging the doll up into his arms, he carries it’s thin form across the room, the doll’s head lolling
against his shoulder, and deposits it against one of the worktables at the back of the room, bent
over the table top with ass on display, the doll letting him move it easily now—a far cry from the
way it first resisted him only days prior. ‘At least there is some improvement,’ he muses.
When the doll groans lowly against the surface of the table, drooling openly against its surface,
Namjoon can’t resist the urge to give the ass in front of him a sharp slap in reprimand, enjoying the
opportunity even as it causes another noise to spring forth.
‘Quickly, must do it quickly—’
The hose attachment for the lab shower isn’t where he left it, and it takes a minute of frantic
searching to locate it beneath the counter, uncoiling the long tube while the prickling weight of
vacant eyes watching him trace his every move. Always being watched.
Hose into the spout, handle turned, water down the tube—and he tests it carefully for the
temperature now, running his fingers under the trickle until the water runs cold. Perfect.
The plug that Yoongi so...thoughtfully wedged inside the doll the night before is carefully
removed, the doll’s hole slick and stretched wide enough that it struggles to close when Namjoon
pulls away. Still slick and lubricated, it’s all too easy to slide the end of the hose inside, easy to
ignore the way it makes the doll jump and shudder.
A quick turn of the handle, and the water returns full-force, the stream much more aggressive than
the bag he usually uses in his office, but—well, he has to make do with what he’s given, doesn’t
he? It’s satisfying, at least, to watch the way the doll’s stomach distends quickly, so quickly, under
the onslaught, the way it swells against the edge of the tabletop—and Namjoon doesn’t bother to
hide, at least not from himself, the gratification he feels at knowing that it must be uncomfortable,
what with the sharp corner of the wooden surface pressing against the worst of the doll’s rapidly
distending gut.
‘Filthy, it’s always filthy,’ he thinks, musing on the utility of cleaning out the doll like this. If they
had chosen some other way, some other tool—
—but, no. No, this is the way, this is the right way. He fixates on that thought, on the importance
of the lessons being taught, and that’s enough for now. Unless he can come up with something
better, there’s no sense in fixating on just how much he—he hates the dolls, and everything the
represent. Everything they force him to do.
Below him, the doll’s shaking has taken over it’s entire body, though it’s hard to say whether it
comes from the cold or from the pain. Namjoon brings his large hands down to the doll’s hips,
shifts him onto one side as best as he can, at least minutely pleased with how boneless and pliant
the doll has become as it follows the pressure of his grip without resistance. With the doll shifted
properly, he has a better vantage point, can see the way the doll’s middle has distended enough to
be visible even without the pressure of the table against it, and he considers just how much its body
could take—
“—Are you done yet?”
Yoongi’s voice cuts through his calm thoughts like a knife, echoing through the open door to the
office, the teacher nowhere to be seen but his presence felt all the same.
“Almost,” he calls back through gritted teeth. That’ll have to be enough, he reasons, smacking the
doll’s bare ass again to force it to clench up just as he unceremoniously tugs the nozzle of the
metal hose free and dumps it back into the sink. The doll quivers before him, helpless to his mercy
—and he decides that, in this moment, he has none to spare. If Yoongi wants him to hurry, that’s
exactly what Namjoon will do—and if the doll learns a lesson in the meantime? All the better.
Almost as an afterthought, he presses the plug back through the doll’s clenching hole—if Yoongi
wants expediency above all else, then he’ll just have to make do with this for now. That will show
him. That will show them both .
And yet, despite the small kindness of the plug, of Namjoon’s gift to the doll to keep him from
making another mess of himself, the doll complains. Whines. Whimpers and shifts and groans as
its body clenches around the intrusion.
‘Pathetic,’ he thinks. ‘It’s broken.’ And it twists bitterly at his insides, the way that thought makes
him feel, a raw and ugly thing.
He jerks away, turns his back to the doll and busies his hands with putting his instruments away,
making a mental note to remember to report this information up—lest he find himself the one in
trouble again. The hose is cleaned off, coiled and put back in its place on a hook on the wall, the
syringe and bottle and containers disappearing back into his bag, forcibly tucking his discontent
away into the back of his mind as well. With a renewed sense of urgency, Namjoon makes quick
work of wiping the doll down, cleaning away any accidental spills from his work, then picks the
doll up and turns it over, letting the doll’s head fall back against his arm with a soft thump.
At the sound of his movement, Yoongi sees fit to return to the classroom, walking in with purpose
behind the jut of his shoulders, businesslike as he waves a hand for Namjoon to come closer. “Put
it here,” he says, pointing at the lab table at the front of the room, and the nurse bites back his
surprise.
“Not in the stand, then?”

“No, lay it out flat, we need access to the front.”
“That’s for the best.”
“I’m well aware, thank you.” Yoongi snaps, and Namjoon bites his tongue, that bitter twist
clenching at his throat once more, grunting as he lifts the doll’s body up onto the offered surface.
“Just hurry up, passing period is about to begin and I still have work to do.”
Choosing not to dignify that with an answer, his mouth filled with the tang of iron as he clenches
his teeth against his tongue, Namjoon busies himself with shifting the doll around, laying it out flat
with arms and legs at equal distance from its body. The doll’s eyes are clouded, unfocused even as
it groans when the hard surface of the table presses against the base of the plug between its legs—
and though neither he nor Yoongi acknowledge the sound, he knows that they both heard it
perfectly clearly.
“No restraints?” he bites out, the question more out of courtesy than anything else, idly thinking
that Yoongi deserves to have to struggle with the doll a little, but—still.
“Not necessary,” the teacher assures him, and Namjoon doesn’t press the issue further.
“Very well. Is there anything more than you require right now?”
Yoongi waves him off, already engrossed in whatever preparations he needs for the lesson at hand.
“No, no, that’s enough. Just make your way back here after lunch.”
“Of course.”
With one last glance back at the room, taking in the doll’s prone form, the teacher looming over it
stoic as ever—he can’t quite pin it down, the feeling that clenches at his chest, but it tastes like
blasphemy at the back of his throat.
He can’t make his way out of the classroom fast enough, long legs carrying him down the hall
without a care for who he passes—needs to get out, needs to—to breathe , puts one foot in front of
the other until he’s carried past bays of lockers, past closed doors and open ones, through the
lunchroom, through the lobby and out—out! Out into the sunshine, into the open air.
And it’s only as he’s looking across the skyline, bright with clouds that shine white and innocent,
that he’s able to call it what it is—the drive that sent him careening from the building. It isn’t fear,
he decides—isn’t flight, but rather fight that he feels down to his fingertips. It’s only then, free of
the walls and echoes of hallways, free of the eyes that watch his every move and the ones that
don’t, that he can give it a name.
Pure, unadulterated rage. A righteous anger. Anger that burns at him from the inside out.
Front Office—Principal—First Floor 08.17.18 9:24AM
“What brings you to my office today?”
The student shuffles her feet, uniform skirt swinging against her thighs as she shifts her weight
from one leg to another. “I—I have a confession to make.”
“A confession? I see.”
A hand waves her forward, and the young woman takes a deep breath before dropping her bag into
an open seat beside the door, shedding her uniform coat as well before taking a few hesitant steps
into the center of the room.
“You know what to do.” She is assured, and she nods her head, shaky but in agreement. “Assume
the position.”
Hands at her shoulders help her remove her shirt as she unbuttons the front, letting the light fabric
slip away. Her bra is removed next, deft fingers at her back unclasping the straps holding it to her
thin chest. She is left to her own devices to unzip and step out of her skirt, her underwear following
in short succession. In the meantime, feet step around her, moving towards the door to turn the lock
and turn down the lights, leaving the room dim and intimate. A candle on the desk before her is lit,
the flame glowing, flickering, bathing her body in warmth and casts shadows across her naked form
—the last of her garments, shoes and stockings, slid from her feet and set aside so there is nothing
between her skin and the air.
Without further prompting, she slides to her knees, crossing her fingers over themselves before her.
Her arms are held out in front of her head, elbows bent against the floor, and she ducks her head
down to rest against them, leaving her prone and vulnerable, her backside propped up and exposed
for the other occupant of the room to see.
“You understand the choice you are about to make?”

Her voice comes out soft but the quiver has disappeared, sure of her answer as she replies with a
simple “yes.”
“And you accept the consequences and privileges that will follow hereafter?”
“I do.”
“And you commit your confession to being of benefit to the community and the cause?”
“I—I do.”
A silence draws out after her words, but the young woman is resolved now. Committed, as she had
said. This is the right thing to do. This is the way.
It comes as no surprise when a long, thin rod is procured and placed against the naked plush of her
thighs, running across the swell of her ass, dragging along the plump curve of her pussy where it is
exposed between her legs. It also comes as no surprise when the rod is drawn back, leaving her
without contact for a few tense seconds, before being brought back into sharp contact with her
sensitive flesh.
She doesn’t hold back the startled, pained noise that is drawn from her lips, knows that it is part of
the process—part of her disclosure, the honesty of her experience.
“You may begin,” she is prompted, and she takes another steadying breath before beginning her
confession, the cane returning to her skin to punctuate her profession in a slow, rhythmic beat, the
pain driving-driving-driving her on all the while.
Physicals are never comfortable—Hoseok knows from years of personal experience—but he has to
marvel at the thoroughness that Namjoon pays to ensuring the students’ health. Never having had
much cause to spend time with the school nurse before now, he finds the way the older man works
remarkable—how clearly devoted he is to the purpose of his work.
Two fingers deep in his own work of preparing a student, Hoseok can’t keep his eyes on the boy
before him—staring instead at the other bed that lines the wall of the nurse’s office, where
Namjoon is taking careful measurements of a student’s proportions. Even as the student in front of
him clenches around his fingers, making a soft noise of discomfort—or, perhaps, pleasure—the
teacher is fixated on the other student, a young woman, instead. More importantly, his eyes follow
every movement of the large hands that trace down her sides, massaging at her biceps, her
clavicles, her breasts. Just as he had been when watching Yoongi in the classroom the other day,
Hoseok is entranced by watching the older man in his element.
The girl shivers and shudders and whines under the nurse’s expert touch, but Namjoon doesn’t
allow it to break his focus in the slightest, fingers probing her mouth open to test how many he can
slip inside and press on her tongue before he moves right along to the next task.
The one thing most remarkable to Hoseok is how thoroughly Namjoon has slipped into this
important role—fixated completely on the way his fingers palpate her breast, feel along the ridges
of her ribs, rub at her smooth middle—even after rushing in late, face red and eyes a little wide,
clearly embarrassed at having lost track of time. It had been no trouble, overall—Hoseok had been
able to pick up the slack, lining up the students along the hallway to the office, slipping on a pair
of latex gloves and grabbing the lubricant for himself—but the moment Namjoon had finished his
hurried apologies, the older man had slipped immediately into the stoic exterior he shows now and
Hoseok finds it—well—incredible. It’s hard not to wonder just how long the nurse has been at this,
doing such important work.
His own hands still in stretching open the boy on the bed before him when Namjoon finally makes
his way to the most important part of his inspection, lubed fingers mirroring Hoseok’s as he brings
them down between the young woman’s legs. Just before he makes any sort of contact, his eyes
flick up to her face and he pauses long enough to ask, “...anal or vaginal?”
“W-What…?” she chokes back, raising her head up from where she had been staring at the ceiling
to meet the nurse’s eyes, her blush deepening starkly as she catches sight of her own naked body
and the man kneeling before her.
“Which do you prefer?”
‘What a thoughtful question…’ Hoseok decides.
“Um—” she bites her lips, and Hoseok can feel the body beneath him shift slightly as the student
turns to look at his classmate as well. “—I—I suppose...vaginal?”
“Hmm,” is all that Namjoon has to add by way of commentary. Without further hesitation, he takes
the student at her word and slips his fingers inside her—three at a time, since Hoseok had done
such a thorough job of stretching her on his own fingers beforehand. The teacher feels his chest
inflate with pride.
“Are you nearly finished with him?” Namjoon asks, and it takes a long moment for Hoseok to
realize that the nurse is addressing him directly.
“Hm?”
“Are you finished?” Namjoon repeats, and Hoseok jumps back to attention, dropping his gaze back
to the young man who is currently clenching around his fingers with a flushed face and hands
clenched into the sheets at his sides.
“Oh! Oh—yes, I apologize—”
His fingers make an obscene slurping noise when he tugs them free, the boy’s body clenching
instinctively in their absence, and the students waiting in line inevitably start to giggle at the sound.
Hoseok can’t fault them for that, just casts a warm smile over his shoulder at the nearest few,
happy to see that they are starting to feel at ease now that they’ve seen the exam process.
The boy scrambles to his feet as Namjoon pats at the thigh of the girl in front of him, encouraging
her to sit up and move herself to the next step. She jumps up and crosses her arms over her chest
immediately, eyes anywhere but on the older men as she steps over to the last bed in the row.
“I think it would be best if you take over for the last test,” Namjoon tells him as he strips out of his
latex gloves—Hoseok mirroring his actions immediately—and tugging on another pair. “Leave the
prep work to me, at least for these next few…”
“Of course,” he agrees easily, “what do you need? How can I help?”
“Please just—get her set up on the machine? It should be all ready to go, you’ll just need to time it
—”
Before Namjoon can even finish, Hoseok is on his feet, excitedly jumping at the chance to finally
help, to be a part of the work—
“Of course, I’m on it!” He carefully steps around Namjoon’s seat and makes his way over to the
shy student, easing her down onto the empty bed with gentle hands on her shoulders. She goes
willingly, still unable to meet his eyes, but no matter—Hoseok feels a deep swell of understanding
for her, wants to make the process easier however he can.
“Lie back for me?” He asks, voice dropping lower, gentle like his hands. “There you go…”
And she falls into the same position as before, head back on a pillow while her knees tuck up
immediately towards her body, feet flat on the bed. It leaves her exposed to him, even as her thighs
press together in an aborted attempt at modesty.
“Alright…” he murmurs, mostly to himself, as he turns and finally gives all of his attention to the
contraption that Namjoon had left for him to operate at the end of the bed. Large, black and square,
affixed to the end of the bed on a type of custom stand, the machine looks vaguely familiar—
though Hoseok has never seen one in person before. The motor is cleanly hidden away by its outer
shell, the only indication of its purpose being the long rod that extends from the box towards the
student, holding aloft the thick phallus intended just for this test.
It takes some goading to urge the girl to slide down the bed towards it, her embarrassment almost
palpable, but Hoseok thinks her body opens up beautifully for the device when he is able to press it
inside her at last. He doesn’t need to explain the test to her—this isn’t her first time, her chart
indicates for him, despite what the flush on her face might suggest—just stands back with a
clipboard held aloft, waiting until the girl has her hands clenched into the sheets again, her feet
braced firmly against the bed, before leaning down and pressing a button on the top of the machine
to start its motor with a whir.
He hears Namjoon hum thoughtfully beside him and turns just enough to catch the way the nurse
watches the girl appraisingly the moment she begins to moan, the machine fucking into her slowly,
oh so slowly as she adjusts to its shape and size. Hoseok hurries to scribble down a few notes,
which seems to satisfy the nurse enough for Namjoon to turn back to his work, now spreading that
same boy from before open on three of his fingers.
If anything, it only encourages Hoseok to double down in his efforts, cataloging each and every
one of the girl’s reactions as the machine automatically picks up it’s pace, climbing-climbing-
climbing to its highest speed. Her moans are delicious, then—high-pitched and breathy,
punctuating the way her body writhes this way and that under the onslaught of sensation, already
so worked up from Hoseok’s earlier preparation that it seems to take very little to bring her closer
and closer to her peak. With an eye on his watch, he times her response as she starts to thrust down
against the machine eagerly, clenching and unclenching her thighs, head thrown back with
abandon, her breath catching in her chest.
He leans closer when he spots her biting at her lip, holding back the desperate noises she can’t help
but produce, her hands scrambling at the sheets as though she wants to do nothing more than reach
down between her own legs to add to the sensation but—she can’t, she knows she can’t, holds
herself back so the test remains pure, uninterrupted.
Hoseok is truly shocked at the result when it takes less than three minutes, in total, for the
thrusting to overwhelm her, for the young woman before him to shudder and cry out and arch her
back off the bed without a care for the eyes on her as her orgasm rolls through her. ‘What an
impressive result,’ he marvels as he marks down the time beside her name on his chart. ‘ Ms. Han
Yeri, two minutes and forty-nine seconds. Third test completed, results consistent and satisfactory.
Marked as healthy and approved.’
He reaches down to flip the switch, turning off the machine as soon as he has finished his notes,
giving her reprieve at last from the overstimulation she was edging towards, and he can’t help but
smile as her entire body sags back into the bed in relief. She takes just a moment to catch her breath
before scooting back along the bed with shaking limbs, wincing slightly as the toy is pulled from
her at last, and Hoseok steps aside to allow her room to get to her feet and make her way past him
to gather her clothes.
He makes quick work of cleaning the machine off in her absence, not wanting to keep Namjoon
waiting with the next student for too long. Sure enough, as soon as he makes room, the next student
—the boy that Hoseok had left behind—scrambles up into her place, his legs eagerly spreading
where the girl had been more hesitant. The boy looks up at Hoseok expectantly, almost pouting
when the teacher takes too long getting the machine reset and situated and he’s forced to squirm his
body down onto the toy himself. Just as with the previous student, his body opens easily around the
intrusion, the stretch a familiar one, and the boy lays back in what almost looks like contentment
when the base of the toy slides into place and he can finally clench around it.
Hoseok chuckles as he flips the switch to start up the machine again, relaxing back against the wall
with more ease than before, the process more familiar now. It’s truly incredible, really—to watch
the magic happen, as it were. To see these young men and women at such an important point in
their development, to have the honor of assisting them in their personal growth. His chest swells
with pride the moment the boy’s head falls back to the bed, cockiness melting away the moment
the pistoning of the machine picks up, driving the toy deeper and deeper inside the boy’s willing
body as he lets out a beautiful gasp. Oh yes, Hoseok is more than pleased with being in the thick of
it at last.
SHHHHCCRRRKKKK —
Hoseok’s head whips around as a screech and a crackle suddenly interrupts the relative silence of
the room, drawing everyone’s attention up towards the ceiling where the intercom has sputtered to
life.
“—ttention, attention. All students and staff, attention. At this time, leadership is requesting the
presence of all members to the auditorium for an important assembly. Teachers, please make your
way to the auditorium with your classes at once. Thank you.”
CLICK.
Auditorium—First Floor 08.17.18 1:48PM
God—he hates crowds, always has. The press of bodies against him makes his skin itch, even
though his classmates seem to relish the intimacy and contact with each other. He takes a seat far in
the back of the room where the seats curve towards the wall, sinking down against the velvet
cushion as if he could slide out of sight.
“Taehyung!”
Fuck, of course—
A body slams down into the seat beside him, an arm slung around his shoulders, and he should
have know, he should have known that someone would find him. A long line of other teenagers
make their way into the row behind his new companion, all sharing the desire to sit as far away
from the stage as possible, and Taehyung groans.
“Bogum…” he acknowledges his friend, his tone laced heavily with irritation.
“How ya doin’ there, buddy?” Bogum chatters on, giving Taehyung a shake, completely unaffected
by his classmate’s sour mood. “Wonder what’s going on!”
“No clue,” he grumbles back, trying to sink out of the other boy’s grip, but Bogum only clutches
on tighter and shakes him again.
“Just came from Gym—man, my ass is sore ,” Bogum jokes, and Taehyung will never understand
how the younger boy can be so cavalier about everything, but at least he’s able to keep a smile on
his face.
“I had art,” he sighs, giving into the conversation at last.
“Ooh, who was the model this time?”
“Hyojung.”
“Kim? Oh, damn...she has the best tits, I swear.”
“Yeah, sure…” Taehyung casts his eyes over to the stage, currently sitting empty as the last classes
of students file into the room, a few unlucky ones being forced to take the seats right up front
where there’s nothing between them and the raised platform. It’s hard to focus on tits or girls or his
classmates when something... strange is going on.
The ugly pit of fear in his gut only deepens as he tunes out Bogum completely, staring over the
heads of the hundreds of students in front of him to where the teachers have started lining up at the
front of the stage, side-by-side, facing the room with deathly serious expressions.
“Something’s happening…” he murmurs, cutting Bogum off in the middle of a rambling sentence
about something inconsequential, like what might be on the menu for dinner—and draws his
attention to the front of the room instead, just as the auditorium lights begin to dim and a hush falls
over the crowd.
When the lights have been turned completely off, leaving the long room in total darkness, the
silence is broken by a hiss of whispers like a snake in the grass, and Taehyung feels himself
squirming too, anxiety rearing its ugly head. It’s been a long time since they were last called for a
meeting during the day, and last time—
With an echoing thud, a single spotlight is turned on, streaming down to the center of the stage to
brighten a single circle on the polished wood. The click of footsteps echo across the space, and the
hissing dies down until it’s so silent he wonders if everyone in the room is holding their breath—
because he certainly is. With one final step, a long leg enters the spotlight, followed by a chest and
arms and shoulders in a bespoke suit, and Taehyung recognizes the strikingly handsome face of
their principal appear before them.
Stepping up to a microphone at the center of the stage, he waits—seemingly until all eyes are on
him—before clearing his throat and beginning to speak.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Principal Kim…” The room echoes back, even Taehyung.
“Good afternoon, students,” Seokjin repeats, and Taehyung feels himself sliding further down in
his chair without even meaning to. Bogum’s arm immediately pulls away and the younger man sits
up straighter, hands tucked politely in his lap. “I hope we are all having a good first week back in
class?”
“Yes, sir…” the crowd answers in one voice.
“Good, good…” Seokjin straightens his sleeves and gives the room a charming smile. “I’m very
pleased with your work so far, and I want to thank each and every one of you here for your
devotion to the community and the cause that we are working towards. You are the future!”
As if on command, the crowd cheers joyfully at the principal’s words, and Taehyung immediately
claps along as well, though he doesn’t join in the whooping and hollering that the other young men
in his row initiate. They are always watching, he reminds himself, bringing his hands together
again and again.
“Now…” Seokjin waves his hands up and down in front of his chest, quelling the cheers until the
crowd falls to silence again. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why I have called you here.”
A few members of the student body nod their heads, though all remain quiet—hanging on the
principal’s every word.
“Though I always want to take every moment I can to shower praise on you—because you
certainly deserve it!” He smiles, and rows and rows of smiles greet him in return. “I would hate to
interrupt your studies unless it was truly important.”
Taehyung’s nails scrape against the wooden arms of his chair as he clenches his fingers into them
on either side, and he quickly jerks them down into his lap to dig into his thighs instead.
‘This is it, this is it—’
“I find myself in need of a volunteer. Who among us feels brave enough to stand up and remind us
all of our community values?” Seokjin raises a hand over his eyes as if looking out across the
crowd for the right person, and he certainly has plenty to choose from—especially when nearly
half of the students seem to shoot their hands into the air all at once.
“Hmmm…” Seokjin paces back and forth, looking out on the crowd appraisingly while the
spotlight follows his every move, until he freezes at the end of the stage and points out into the
crowd at someone in one of the front rows. “Ms. Kang Jihyun. Yes, go ahead and stand up.”
Another light suddenly flashes on and beams down into the crowd, landing on a young woman
with thick brown hair, blushing furiously as she ducks her head down into the collar of her uniform
jacket. She looks shocked but...pleased, somehow, that Seokjin knows her name. As several of her
neighbors cheer for her and pat her on the back, she gets to her feet and stands up in the spotlight to
face the principal, and Taehyung leans forward to watch her more closely.
“Thank you, Ms. Kang...please make your way up onto the stage,” Seokjin encourages, and the girl
stumbles her way down the row of chairs to the main aisle. “Come, come…”
A teacher steps forward to offer her a hand, leading the your woman up the stairs to the stage—and
as he turns around to face the crowd with her in tow, Taehyung feels the air knocked out of his
chest. Yoongi .
“Thank you for joining me, Ms. Kang. Now, if you would please…” And Seokjin takes the girl by
her shoulders, turning her towards the crowd, her mouth facing the microphone so everyone can
hear her fearful breathing.
No—that’s not quite it. Not fear . Nervousness, yes, but not fear.
“Um…” She clears her throat, her fingers winding into the sleeves of her jacket to pull them down
over her hands to hide the way they are shaking, but even from the back of the room Taehyung can
see it clear as day.
“Our community v-values…” she stutters, voice small, “Our community values are—um—
Perseverance?”
“Very good,” Seokjin says encouragingly. “What else?”
“Honesty? Yes, Honesty, and...um. Vulnerability, Openness.”
“Good, yes...go on…”
“Truth.”
“Yes, Truth.” Seokjin echoes, placing an encouraging hand on Jihyun’s shoulder. The girl no
longer looks skittish, but instead stares up at Seokjin with obvious admiration in her eyes, her
words having grown stronger and more self-assured with each one of his praises .
“Truth,” he repeats again, “Truth, and one more thing. The most important of all. What is that, Ms.
Kang?”
Jihyun looks solemnly up at the principal, and Taehyung feels a horrible sensation pass through
him—originating somewhere in his head and ending down at his toes, a chill like someone has
stepped over his grave.
“Loyalty,” she answers.
“That’s right, Loyalty.” Seokjin says, and he raises his free hand to hold Jihyun’s other shoulder
tight. “Are you loyal, Ms. Kang?”
“Y-Yes—Yes, sir! I’m loyal, sir.” She assures him, quietly, though the microphone beside her
picks up every word.
“I know you are,” Seokjin answers immediately, reassuringly. “You’ve been very loyal, and I
appreciate your devotion.”
Jihyun positively beams up at the older man, her face red—but not from embarrassment, now.
Seokjin raises one hand to cup the girl’s face, stroking a thumb across her rosy cheek, then ducks
his head down to press his lips against hers. She freezes in place immediately, hands hovering in
the space between her body and his as though afraid to touch the older man, but there isn’t a shred
of resistance from her as the principal kisses her soundly, his tongue slipping between her lips to
taste.
From below, the crowd watches, awed. Every eye is on the stage, no one daring to look away even
as Seokjin slowly pulls back, eyes closed as if savoring the moment. Jihyun’s ragged breath can be
heard in every corner of the room through the speakers, and it only makes the moment more
intimate. Taehyung feels like he’s going to be sick. Beside him, Bogum lets out a soft “wow” under
his breath.
Leaning away from the girl now, the principal’s eyes finally open, and he offers her another
charming smile. “Thank you, Ms. Kang…” he murmurs to her, his voice low and almost private
sounding.
He then turns back to the crowd, smile widening, and address them all through the microphone as
though nothing had just transpired. “Let’s all give Ms. Kang a round of applause for her assistance,
hm?”
And the noise that takes over the auditorium is thunderous, students and teachers and staff alike
stomping their feet, clapping their hands, whooping and cheering for her as Jihyun turns bright red
again and buries her face in her hands. Yoongi steps forward and gently ushers her from the stage,
then, helping her back to her seat while the room settles down, each and every person surrounding
her to pat her on the back or hug her as she goes.
“Thank you, thank you…” Seokjin waves his hands again, and the cheering peters out into a low
hum and then disappears entirely.
“Alright. So, as our lovely volunteer was so kind to remind us, our core values inform all that we
do as an institution, as an organization, as a community.” Heads around the room all nod in
agreement. “Some of you may be wondering why I am reminding you of this at all, if our core
values are a part of everything that we do.”
Fuck— fuck. Fuck. Taehyung’s knee bounces up and down nervously, betraying just how much he
would give anything— anything —to be out of this chair, out the door, out of the building
altogether. Fuck. He has to—to, to go , to get out—something, he has to do something—
“Though it is hard to hear,” Seokjin goes on, “I regret to inform you that there are those among us
who are not living these values every day.” A rumble of confusion passes over the crowd. “There
are those among us who betray our way of life, what we are working towards.”
Taehyung presses against Bogum’s side, trying to get the younger man’s attention. “I—psst—I
have to get up, let me past—” he whispers. Bogum whips his head around, leveling Taehyung with
a look that tells him that his classmate thinks he might have lost his mind.
“Are you crazy? No way! If you have to piss, you should have gone before—”
“That’s not why I—damn it, Bogum, it’s an emergency, just let me—” Taehyung hisses, but his
words suddenly die in his throat.
“Bring them forward.”
Seokjin’s voice cuts through the room, silencing both boys with only a few words, the principal’s
normally honey-sweet voice suddenly sharp.
Taehyung jerks his head up, ass on the end of his seat, and freezes. On the stage, coming out of the
shadows, are three dark shapes—shapes that reveal themselves to be that of three students, held
with their arms behind their backs, being dragged forward by several teachers who have them by
their wrists.
The students, all boys, are pushed roughly into the spotlight and shoved down onto their knees,
unceremoniously, each one of them hissing as they make sharp contact with the wooden floor.
“You may recognize my guests…”
‘...oh.’
“I’m afraid that I have been informed of some very concerning behavior,” Seokjin continues,
turning his body slightly to face the boys kneeling beside him, “from these three individuals. Three
members of our community.”
A ripple of sound passes through the room again, this time with an edge of something...sinister.
Angry.
The boys at the principal’s side seem to shake under his gaze as he turns it on them. Taehyung
understands that feeling completely, sinking back into his seat as if suddenly boneless. He knows
those boys. Byun Baekhyun, Park Chanyeol, and Kim Junmyeon—troublemakers, the lot of them.
“I have been reliably informed,” the principal directs at the audience, “that these three young
gentleman believe themselves to be above the rules.” Another hiss from the crowd. “Isn’t that right,
boys?”
“N-No—!” One of the students on stage, Junmyeon, bursts out, raising his head to look up at the
principal at last. It’s a bizarre feeling, watching this young man—one who has been such a source
of strife in Taehyung’s life—suddenly looking so vulnerable .
“No, s-sir—” Junmyeon stutters, leaning forward on his knees pleadingly. “We didn’t, I—I didn’t
—” There isn’t far for him to go, what with the way his arms are bound tightly behind him and his
shoulders are held in the firm grip of a teacher much larger than him, but he tries all the same.
Taehyung would almost feel bad for him, except—he doesn’t. The only thing he can think is, ‘It’s
not me, it’s not me , it’s not me—’
“Silence.” Seokjin commands, and Junmyeon’s jaw snaps shut immediately.
“Did you think I would not know? That we would not see? ” The principal asks, his voice twisting
like a knife in a wound. Taehyung can feel it from all the way across the room, the way the boys
look like they were sliced by his tone alone. “Did you truly believe you could do something so
reckless without consequences?”
“S-Sir—”
“Your classmates—” Seokjin addresses the room at large again, ignoring Chanyeol’s attempt to
speak up altogether. “Your classmates here saw fit...to violate our most important rules. Our most
important values.”
The hissing from the crowd becomes an angry hum, students talking amongst themselves now
under their breath, but Seokjin does nothing to stop them, instead seeming to revel in their disquiet.
“Last night, these boys took it upon themselves to celebrate the start of the school year...by pulling
what they considered a prank. ”
Oh, well—now this is interesting. Taehyung, with his heart rate returning slowly to normal, sits up
a little straighter, mimicking Bogum’s posture as he watches the strange scene unfolding before
him. His eyes flicker down to the line of teachers standing below the stage, wondering what they
all must be thinking. While Seokjin takes a moment to circle around the boys before him, quivering
pathetically on their knees, Taehyung chances a glance around the room—now feeling secure
enough to look for familiar faces as well. One person in particular. Where, exactly, is his brother?
His search is interrupted when Seokjin returns to the microphone and crooks his fingers in a
gesture at the teachers behind the three students beside him. “Strip them.”
“No, no—” Junmyeon shakes his head, fighting against his bonds with all his might, muscles
straining painfully. “Sir, please! I didn’t—it wasn’t me! It was them! I would never—I’m loyal, I
swear, I s-swear—”
The teachers pay him no mind, reaching down to quickly unfasten the front of the boys’ uniform
jackets and rip through the buttons of their collared shirts, leaving their chests exposed. When the
shirts are pulled down their arms as far as they can go without ripping through the ropes around
their wrists, the teachers move on to kneeling beside each of the boys, hands making quick work of
unfastening their belts and uniform slacks. Chanyeol and Baekhyun make no move to fight their
quick stripping, heads hung low in shame, though Junmyeon’s face crumbles into a desperate
grimace, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
From dozens of feet back, Taehyung can see the tears glistening in the stage lighting, and his
stomach does an uncomfortable flip under his ribs. He can practically taste his breakfast crawling
back up his throat as he watches the three boys be unceremoniously ripped from their pants and
underwear until their uniforms are slung around their elbows and knees, leaving them bare before
the entire school.
It isn’t the first time any of them have seen each other naked like this, far from it, but—but calling
it humiliating doesn’t do it justice, the way these young men are being exposed.
“You broke into the school,” Seokjin accuses, and Junmyeon starts to sob. “You broke into the
school, violated this space. Violated your curfew. And you concealed your actions.” The principal
crosses his arms over his chest, staring the boys down with an unwavering gaze that not one of
them can meet. “This is a direct trespass against us all. And it proves that not one of you is loyal.”
His words are greeted with shouts of discontent from the audience, students getting to their feet in
anger, all of it aimed at their classmates on the stage.
Over his shoulder, Seokjin calls to someone standing outside of the ring of the spotlight, “Bring me
the devices.” A new set of footsteps approaches, and another tall figure joins the principal on the
stage—a familiar face. Namjoon.
Taehyung immediately ducks his head down behind the row of students sitting in front of him,
keeping himself hidden as well as he can while still peeking out from between their shoulders. He
can feel Bogum looking at him oddly from behind him, but Bogum’s opinion isn’t the one he’s
concerned about and it’s easy to ignore.
The nurse moves to stand beside Seokjin, holding up a wooden box for him to take.
“For your transgressions, it falls to me to execute your punishment,” he informs the quivering
young men at his feet, all of whom have shrunk back into themselves as though they could
disappear. “Hold them up—” he tells the teachers waiting nearby, who move quickly to grab at the
students’ shoulders again and tug them upright until their bare chests and thighs and soft cocks are
presented properly for the principal.
Upon opening the box in his hands, he holds it out for Namjoon instead, urging him on with a
softer “If you would, Mr. Kim…” Namjoon reaches inside and pulls out what looks like a small
twist of metal, hard to make out at a distance, but the swoop of trepidation in Taehyung’s gut
makes it clear that whatever it is—it must be bad news.
As Namjoon kneels before Chanyeol, metal device in hand, Seokjin turns his attention back
towards the student body at large, holding the wooden box aloft in front of him with one hand. He
looks almost triumphant, despite the seriousness of his words. “As punishment, your classmates
have been sentenced to chastity .”
A collective gasp seems to rock through the room. Taehyung is as caught up in it as anyone else.
No.
“They will be locked until such time that they prove themselves to this community again.”
Taehyung’s eyes dart immediately to Namjoon, who has been working diligently on his knees in
front of Chanyeol for a few long moments but who now is pulling away, getting back to his feet
with a grim expression. In his absence, it’s clear to see just what he’s done—the silver metal
contraption he had removed from the box is now wrapped around Chanyeol’s cock, hiding it
almost completely from view. A cock cage, Taehyung realizes. A fucking cock cage, and Namjoon
is handing the keys back to the principal.
Chanyeol’s eyes are clenched shut, as if blocking his sight might save him from having to
acknowledge the awful truth of what has been done to him—what he has done to himself.
“Let these cages be a reminder of your transgressions.” Seokjin tells the boys as Namjoon removes
a second cage from the box and moves to kneel between Baekhyun’s knees next. This time,
Taehyung can clearly see him work as he grabs at the boy’s soft cock, pushing his balls through a
small ring at the base of the cage before pressing his shaft down into the cage itself. It looks like a
tight fit, even from a distance, but Taehyung figures that might be part of the point. Unlike
Chanyeol, his friend seems determined to actually watch the process happen, biting savagely at his
own lips to bite back any complaints as Namjoon turns the key in the lock and fixes the cage
closed.
The nurse gets to his feet one last time, greeted by a wave of jeers and cries from the crowd as they
all catch sight of the cage as well. Their anger is contagious, and even Bogum beside him seems to
be shedding his normally sunny disposition for a scowl.
“Unbelievable!” Bogum cries out, jumping to his feet alongside the rows of students around them.
Taehyung has no choice but to clamber to his feet as well if he wants to watch, that familiar clench
of terror in his chest tightening and tightening again.
“You will no longer be able to participate in lessons,” Seokjin goes on, his voice rising above the
din of the crowd, “and you will no longer be able to contribute to the community. This is your
punishment.”
The student body seems to have reached it’s most ferocious level, every single person in the room
on their feet, even the staff at the front of the room letting their stoic expressions slip away in favor
of joining in the fray. Namjoon seems to be the only cool-headed one among them, moving back to
take a final cage from the box Seokjin is holding before moving to kneel before the only boy left.
Junmyeon shakes violently as Namjoon’s hands land on him, and Taehyung holds his breath when
the boy starts to shake his head back and forth as well, fighting to the last second as his cock is
pressed into its own cage, the lock clicking into place with a resounding noise that can be heard
through the speakers even over the crowd.
With a quick glance around, Taehyung knows that not one person in the room has averted their
eyes, every last one of his classmates witnessing this punishment without a moment’s hesitation.
More than anything, it is this particular fact that has him falling into true, true fear.
“Take one last look at your classmates,” Seokjin directs the crowd, waving his hands to quiet them
again. The student body doesn’t fall silent as before, too restless in their indignation now, but the
noise dies down to a low hum and this seems to be enough for the principal. “And remember their
shame. Remember the consequences they have brought to us all by disobeying our rules. Do you
all understand?”
“Yes, Principal Kim!” The crowd shouts back, and for the first time, Taehyung does not join them.
Across the room, he meets a pair of ink-black eyes, staring straight back at him, and he knows that
he has been seen.
“Take them away,” Seokjin orders, and the teachers waiting on standby jerk all three of the boys to
their feet, jerking their clothes into place enough to get them moving.
Junmyeon turns his head back even as he’s shoved by the teacher behind him, trying to address the
crowd, tears shining on his face. “I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry! I’m so—so s-sorry!” He cries, though his
words fall on deaf ears. The crowd finally quiets down, watching the three of them go as if
watching prisoners being led to the gallows.
Seokjin seems to revel in the quiet, letting it hang between them in the room for several long
moments after the boys have disappeared from the stage before choosing to speak again.
“I apologize for the unpleasantness,” he begins, then waves his hand to the crowd before him.
“Remain standing, please.” The few people who had dropped down into their seats immediately
scramble back to their feet. “Such things are sometimes necessary, no matter how much we would
rather avoid them, hm?”
The crowd is silent, taciturn in the face of his rhetorical question. Seokjin goes on speaking,
unbothered. “Still, this is an important moment for us all—a learning opportunity. Let this be a
lesson to students and staff, new and old—” and Seokjin seems to look at one particular staff
member for a moment, just below the edge of the stage. “—of the importance of our rules, and our
work.”
Taehyung shifts his weight from one foot to the other, bouncing nervously now that the excitement
is over. Is that all?
“Now, before we adjourn for the day—”
There it is.
“—let us finish this gathering with a vital reminder of what this school stands for. Please place your
hands in our salute.”
Or—Or not?
Taehyung follows the motions of his classmates, raising his right hand and placing it firmly against
his stomach while he crosses the other arm behind his back in a fist, a familiar gesture. He takes a
deep breath, recalling the words he has known his entire life, and raises his voice to drone along
with his peers as they speak as one.
“I pledge to keep myself healthy in body, so that I might serve our higher purpose to the best of my
ability,” they recite, “I will stay physically fit, mentally alert and prepared.”
Above them, Seokjin mirrors their pose along with all the other teachers, looking out on the sea of
students before him with pride. He is the only one not speaking.
“I pledge to serve the Truth in all my deeds, to guard against the sway of deception, the comfort of
popular opinion, and the temptation of modern custom.”
Taehyung’s voice wavers slightly at the end, but no one can hear him over the chorus of voices
around him, and he is happy to disappear into the crowd.
“I pledge to remain open, and willing to be vulnerable. I pledge to show courage and exemplify
faith in my beliefs, hope for a better future, and fortitude in the face of adversity. I pledge to show
temperance toward selfishness, and loyalty to our cause.”
Taehyung feels eyes on him still, unfocuses his own as he looks out across the heads in front of
him to the far wall.
“I pledge to be obedient and honest, to commit myself to our family, our community, and our
leadership. This is my promise—so long as I shall live.”
The hush that takes over the room is different now—a warm blanket where before it was a noose.
“Very good!” Seokjin applauds them, bringing his hands together. “Now doesn’t that feel better?”
A low murmur of agreement from the crowd is his reply. “But—I think that’s quite enough
excitement for one day, don’t you?” He shifts his gaze down to the teachers, as though expecting
their agreement. “We are nearing the end of the week, so—”
With a broad grin, he waves both of his hands in what could only be described as a shooing motion.
“I have decided to let you all adjourn early. Class is dismissed for the rest of the afternoon.”
The cheer that meets his words is louder than any that has greeted him so far, and the principal
smiles. “Go, go! Go on home, and return to us rested and ready to work on Monday. Have a
wonderful weekend.”
The students can’t seem to make their way out of their chairs fast enough, stumbling over each
other on their way down the aisles to their classrooms to collect their things. Taehyung, however,
has another goal. He waits, bouncing on the balls of his feet, for his row to empty, waving Bogum
away when his friend tries to tug him along. “I’ll just be a minute, I need to—”
“Whatever, man!” Bogum interrupts, tossing the words over his shoulder as he jogs towards the
door. “Your choice, but I’m out of here!”
He lets himself indulge in a roll of his eyes before following the same path along the chairs,
turning right instead of left at the end so that his feet carry him against the flow of traffic towards
the stage instead of away from it. A few moments before, this would have terrified Taehyung, but
now—now he has a purpose. And, admittedly, now the principal has moved from the stage, and
the prickle at the back of Taehyung’s neck has subsided somewhat.
He ducks and weaves between his classmates, avoiding elbows here and there while using his
height to his advantage. He raises up on his toes to peer among the sea of students to find—
—ah! There! The familiar head of one particular teacher, hovering in front of the stage right where
Taehyung last spotted him. He turns his shoulders sideways to duck between a few of the younger
girls, finally breaking through the crowd to the open space in front of the stage. By the time he
arrives, the teacher he was looking for is turning away, and he’s forced to draw attention to himself
by calling out, “—Mr. Min!”
Yoongi whips his head around at that, dark eyes narrowed as he looks for the source of his name.
His expression softens the moment he notices Taehyung looking back at him, but he quickly
schools it into something akin to neutrality.
“Mr. Kim,” he replies, his voice low. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you have a moment before we go? I—uh, I need to discuss my missing assignments with you.”
Yoongi looks him over thoughtfully for a moment, that icy stare making his heart thud heavily like
it always does, and Taehyung almost sighs in relief when the teacher eventually nods and tilts his
head to the side, inviting Taehyung to follow him. They move a few feet away from the crowd,
over to the alcove that leads to a side entrance, and it’s only when Yoongi seems certain that they
won’t be overheard that he begins to speak.
“What’s this about? You don’t have any missing assignments—”
“I thought about your offer,” Taehyung interjects, too worked up to keep up formalities any longer.
“Oh.”
“I know I’ve been—reluctant,” he goes on, and Yoongi snorts derisively.
“That’s an understatement. You’re too stubborn for your own good, Taehyung—”
“—I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before, but this is different.”
“I don’t understand what you—”
“Yoongi…” he says, dropping his voice down to a whisper. The teacher frowns but snaps his
mouth shut, giving a small nod for Taehyung to continue. “I thought about it, and you were right. I
need your help, I—goddamn it, I have to do something. So…” he pauses, running a hand through
his hair, an old habit. “I want in.”
“You—You what?”
“I want in. I want the opportunity you keep telling me about. If you think it’s the best chance I
have, then—”
“Well, it is, but—”
“Please, Yoongi, please—just listen to me, I need this, okay? You know I do, you’re the one who’s
been pushing it—”
“Of course I have, it was my idea!” Yoongi snaps, “What I don’t understand is your sudden change
of heart. Just a few days ago you were dead set on—”
“Just a few days ago, they weren’t putting people through public cagings, Yoongi.” The teacher is
silent at that, and Taehyung knows he’s hit a nerve. “Yesterday, they weren’t locking people up
just for a prank.”
Yoongi shifts uncomfortably, casting his eyes around the room as if expecting someone to come
pointing fingers at them any second.
“What do you think they would do to me, if they knew? There’s no way I would get off that easy
—”
“I know, alright?” Yoongi cuts him off, raising a hand in much the same way the principal had
before. “I know. That’s what worries me, that’s what’s always worried me. Tae…”
“I’ll do it, okay?” he hurries to assure the older man, clasping his own hands in front of him as if
begging—and to anyone looking on, it would appear that he was pleading with his teacher for an
extension on an assignment or a retake on a test. He paints quite the innocent picture, and he knows
it. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Yoongi, just let me have this chance…”
“It was already yours,” Yoongi admits, his voice soft, almost tender. “I’ll submit the paperwork in
the morning.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you!” It takes all that Taehyung has not to launch himself at the
older man, wanting nothing more than to give him a hug in gratitude.
“Alright, alright...calm down. You’re making a scene.” The teacher pulls himself together in a
manner of seconds, scowl firmly back in place. “Just be sure to show up in my office after the final
bell on Monday. We’ll get started then. And no more detention!”
“Right…” Taehyung can’t fight back a grin, but he manages to look a little sheepish. “Sorry.”
“Let’s get back, you should be heading home with everyone else…” Yoongi places a hand
innocently on Taehyung’s shoulder and turns him around, guiding him back towards the center
aisle of the auditorium. As Taehyung rotates under the pressure, his eyes scan the room and—with
a horrible lurch of his stomach, sending his excitement fluttering away—he finds yet another pair
of eyes on him.
Standing beside the stage now, Namjoon is staring right at him, and at Yoongi, his eyes narrowed
suspiciously. Taehyung fights not to let his smile falter as the two of them move closer to the
nurse, Yoongi’s grip the only thing that keeps him from faltering. As they pass by, another voice
calls out to them, and Yoongi’s hand immediately drops away.
“Yoongi!”
To Taehyung’s horror, the man approaching them is none other than the principal himself,
breaking away from another group of teachers at the sight of Yoongi to step closer to them instead.
This is exactly what he wanted to avoid—just what was all of that hiding in the back for if he has to
face the man now? He feels like a fool, a damn fool—
“I’m glad you haven’t wandered off yet,” Seokjin addresses Yoongi once they are face to face,
voicing exactly what Taehyung would like to do, “I have a task for you.”
“Anything, sir,” Yoongi answers easily, and Taehyung can’t help but admire how even the teacher
is able to keep his voice. With the two older men distracted, he starts to slowly back away, keeping
his movements smooth so as to not attract attention, but—
“Tae—” Namjoon calls out to him from around the two men between them, and Taehyung feels his
heart sink, his eyes flying up to meet the nurse’s. Just as he’s about to answer, his saving grace
comes from the most unlikely of sources—the principal, who also has his attention caught by
Namjoon’s raised voice.
“Ah, yes—Mr. Kim. I’ll need you as well,” Seokjin addresses Namjoon, whose eyes flicker
between the older man and Taehyung before he gives up and offers the principal a tight smile as
well. Taehyung doesn’t waste another moment, his feet quicker than his mind as they carry him
away from the three men as fast as they can.
From behind him, he hears their conversation continue without him, his presence or lack thereof
unimportant in the face of the principal’s orders.
“—both of you, please head back to your classroom at once. Finish with your normal routine, then
bring the doll to me.”
“To your office, sir?”
“Yes...it’s about time.”
There it is again, that lurch beneath his ribs, that horrible tugging that all but propels Taehyung out
the door and into the main hall, his eyes scouring the walls for the nearest bathroom where he can
hide and finally vomit up the remainder of his lunch still trying to make itself known at the back of
his throat.
Welcome to voice message services. You have—ONE—unread message and—FOUR—read
messages. Dial seven for message review.
BEEP.
First unread message.
August 17th, 2018—3:16 pm.
“Jungkook, baby? It’s mom. Are you okay? We haven’t heard from you all week and I’m getting
kind of worried...this isn’t like you, sweetheart…
Is your phone dead? I hope everything is alright! If you need money to get a new phone, just let us
know, Jungkook—I know this new job is with a private school so the pay is probably fine but I’m
sure they haven’t gotten you a paycheck, it’s only the first week—or—
I guess if your phone is dead, you won’t get this message, so it won’t matter...ohhh, what am i
saying? But if you do get this message, please call us back! I tried sending you an email too, so
maybe…
And you know I don’t like texting but I think your father tried? Maybe you can’t call us, but it’s not
like you to keep us out of the loop for so long…hmm.
You know I just worry, sweetheart. Don’t mind me, just your mom getting worked up over what’s
probably nothing! I can’t wait to hear from you, we’ll look out for a message. Have a good
weekend, Jungkookie! I love you, baby. We’ll talk to you soon…”
BEEP.
The journey back to the classroom is uncomfortably silent, Yoongi walking side-by-side with the
nurse though neither of them say a word. Their footsteps echo through the empty hallways,
bouncing off of lockers that are not usually abandoned so early in the day, carrying them past
classrooms that stand empty.
The words that go unspoken between them are almost palpable.
Yoongi knows—he’s absolutely certain—that the younger man has been informed of their assigned
partnership by now.
He could say something—should, probably, say something—but to what end? If Namjoon has
decided not to face up to the inevitable, it’s no skin off Yoongi’s back. It will all come out in the
process anyway...any misgivings, any fear.
His keys jangle loudly as he fishes them from his pocket and unlocks the door to his classroom,
Namjoon standing behind him like a looming shadow.
It’s only when they enter the room, one after another, and the door swings shut behind them that
Yoongi takes it upon himself to open his mouth, his low voice cutting through the silence like a
knife.
“Will you be needing assistance...?”
He gestures toward the doll standing before them, locked into its stand right where he left it. Or—
no, not quite .
“What—?” As he approaches the stand, it becomes immediately clear that something is out of
place—that the doll is out of place. The straps that normally hold the doll’s ankles are loose, one
leg hanging free of the leather cuff completely, as if it had been kicked loose in a struggle.
He freezes, keeping his back turned to the man behind him as he stares down at what he sees right
in front of him, mind racing.
“How did it end up like that?” Namjoon asks, finally spotting what has Yoongi standing stock-still
in front of him.
For a brief moment, he entertains the idea—but—no. The nurse isn’t bold enough to lie to him to
his face, he couldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t have.
‘Besides,’ he reminds himself, ‘it wasn’t like this when I left, I know it…’ He remembers Namjoon
leaving his classroom earlier, everything perfectly in order, and yet...now...
Without answering the nurse, he steps forward and crouches down at the doll’s feet, reaching out
with one hand to inspect the leather cuff that hangs empty. The metal of the buckle is warped
slightly, the prong bent up at the middle as though subjected to great force. Further inspection of
the doll’s ankle confirms his suspicion—the skin around it’s ankle red and slightly chafed, clearly
rubbed raw.
“It broke the cuff,” he murmurs, loud enough that he knows the nurse can hear him.
“It did what?”

“Broke it. Nearly broke the other one too.” He confirms this by bringing fingertips to the metal
holding the other leather strap closed, feeling the way the buckle is loose and bent out of shape as
well. Barely hanging on, but it’s a near thing.
“But—how?”
“Struggled, from the look of it.” He has to physically hold back a sigh, already tired of this line of
questioning. What happened here is obvious.
“That—That shouldn’t be possible, I made sure this morning to—”
“Clearly it is possible isn’t it? We’re looking at the evidence right in front of us.” That shuts
Namjoon up, though the nurse has an unreadable expression on his broad face when Yoongi gets to
his feet and turns back to face the taller man. “It’s neither here nor there, at the moment. We have a
task to do, and dealing with that needs to take priority.”
Namjoon purses his lips but nods slowly, eyes fixated on the doll now.
“Please, focus on getting the doll prepped for the night. I’ll put in a requisition form for
replacement parts in the morning.”
“Alright…”
Accepting his compliance at face value, Yoongi turns away to move towards his desk at the back
of the room, only pausing to call over his shoulder, “...and, Namjoon?”
“Yes?”
He turns his head to look back at the younger man with a blank expression, but he can feel the way
his own voice cuts across the space between them. “Don’t ever leave your work half finished
again. Do I make myself clear?”
He can spot it immediately, the moment that Namjoon catches on to what he means—his bright
eyes flickering down to the doll’s stomach where the slightest swell is clear to eyes that know to
look for it. Did the nurse think he wouldn’t notice? That he would make it through an entire class
without realizing that the doll’s morning enema had been left inside him? What kind of fool did the
younger man take him for?
Or, perhaps, it wasn’t an insult so much as carelessness. Yoongi can’t decide which is worse, but
his lips curl into a frown either way.
“...yes sir.” Namjoon answers eventually, his own deep voice barely above a whisper. Knowing
that the younger man will do most of the work for him, chastising himself internally a hundred
times over for each single word Yoongi had said, he redirects his attention to more important
things.
His long fingers sift through the papers strewn across his desk, rearranging them into neat piles for
grading later. From over his shoulder, he can hear the unmistakable sounds of the leather cuffs
being slid from their buckles—correctly, this time—the metal clanking against the sides of the
stand as they are dropped away from the doll’s body.
While listening to Namjoon struggle with lifting the doll from its confines, the tell-tale punctuation
of his grunts and heavy breathing betraying his effort, Yoongi moves around his desk and takes a
seat. He pulls one stack of papers closer, reaches into a drawer for a pen, and focuses his eyes on
the first question.
After only a few minutes, however, the distraction of the doll’s preparations proves to be too much
—already sloppy teenage handwriting blurring across the page when his attention is being dragged
across the room towards the scuffles and clanks that accompany Namjoon’s work—though it is a
distraction he would never admit to, if asked. Carefully, the pen finds its way back into its lid and
is placed down onto the polished surface of his desk, his fingers steepling beneath his chin as he
raises his head and silently moves his gaze to the nurse across the room instead.
Namjoon seems completely unaware of the attention on him as he works, propping the doll up
against a worktable as he prepares the chemical shower in the corner of the room to be used. Idly,
Yoongi wonders how this process looks different when completed in the nurse’s office instead—
he’s never had cause to think about it, before.
Here, Namjoon is limited by the space and the supplies given, though he makes do remarkably
well—attaching the shower hose to the spigot on the wall, which is so often unused altogether,
jerryrigging himself a way to spray the doll down without proper use of a bathroom. It’s almost
impressive, he thinks, though Yoongi keeps his thoughts on the subject to himself.
Once the shower is set up with practiced ease, Namjoon turns back to collect the doll and catches
sight of Yoongi looking at him at last. He seems to swallow thickly as he meets Yoongi’s eyes for
a brief moment before ducking his head and returning to the task at hand, tugging the doll to its
limp legs so he can move it over the drain in the tile floor.
“What—” Namjoon’s voice pierces the silence as he faces away, looking the doll over
appraisingly. “What was your lesson about, today?” He asks, clearly referring to the mess of come
and lube that covers the doll’s skin from its ribs to its upper thighs—a mess that Yoongi hadn’t
been allowed time to deal with before the entire staff had been dragged down to the auditorium to
deal with that—that mess.
“Overstimulation,” he answers simply, and Namjoon hums in understanding, no more explanation

needed. Truth be told, Namjoon’s little act of neglect that morning, leaving the doll filled with
water so that its stomach distended slightly behind its hard cock during the lesson—it had actually
come in handy, in a way. Yoongi could tell, while inviting the students up to the front one-by-one
to have a turn at prodding and teasing the doll, that the sensations were only complicated by the
undoubtedly painful pressure that the doll was forced to endure.
If it wasn’t so damn insulting, being left to deal with shoddy work, he would almost consider
thanking the nurse for his unintentional assistance. The lesson had been a success, at least—the
students getting the opportunity to watch orgasm after orgasm being dragged from the doll’s body
while the dumb thing quivered and cried silently in its restraints.
Namjoon grabs at the back of the doll’s neck, a practiced move that allows him to hold its body
upright with one hand—using its locked-up knees to his advantage—while freeing the other to
reach around the doll’s back instead. The nurse’s long fingers slide down the doll’s backside,
probing between its ass cheeks for a few moments before he’s able to gain the purchase he needs
to tug— and drag the plug from the doll’s hole in one smooth movement.
The noise that accompanies the movement is obscene, a long and wet sound that makes Yoongi
purse his lips in discomfort, though it doesn’t seem to phase the nurse in the slightest—always a
professional. Namjoon sets the large black plug on a nearby tabletop, making sure it won’t roll off
before returning his fingers to the doll’s ass to spread its legs wide. Yoongi is pleased to see that, at
least for now, the doll is holding the liquid in well even without the plug, body clenching up
instinctively— not the result he was expecting after all the trouble they’ve had.
Still, Namjoon needs it to let go, needs to clean it out—and quickly, Yoongi is getting impatient—
so the nurse leans the doll against himself and presses his other hand firmly to the doll’s stomach,
just enough to finally force its body into submitting. The liquid starts to leak free, unencumbered,
spilling from the doll’s ass down it’s legs to the drain on the floor—and the smell catches
Yoongi’s nose even from across the room.
What an unfortunate consequence of needing top-of-the-line tools like this—how human they still
are, at the end of the day. He sniffs, unimpressed, and turns his head back to his paperwork at last.
It does nothing to distract from the sound of the shower turning on, or the spray of water on skin,
but at least he doesn’t have to bother with watching the mess being cleaned up.
And yet, his head is dragged right back to facing the nurse when an unexpected sound hits his ears
—a long, low, shuddering groan that is too high-pitched to belong to the nurse. His eyes fall to the
doll, which is being sprayed down from the waist-down by the water from the end of the hose in
Namjoon’s hand, while the nurse holds it upright with the other. Unlike before, the doll’s eyes are
open now—open wide as it’s bowels slowly release the water that had been distending its belly for
so long—or perhaps the water cascading over its skin is the cause of its sudden consciousness, cold
enough that the doll’s skin is starting to look flushed wherever it makes contact.
Though Yoongi has better things to do, would rather focus on getting his grading done before the
weekend, the sight of the doll leaning boneless against Namjoon, eyes unfocused and wide, pretty
lips hanging open as it whimpers and moans at the sensations coursing through it—it’s no less
appealing than that same reaction from the doll under his hands during a lesson, when it is being
pushed to the limits of pain and pleasure.
Seokjin certainly does have excellent taste, he thinks, as he looks the doll up and down—if only
the doll could follow instructions, perhaps it would be perfect. Ah, well...he knew what he was
getting into, requesting a doll that was a completely blank slate, and he knew it would be a
challenge. Perhaps a visit to Seokjin is exactly what the doll needs to set itself straight.
With that thought in mind, he clears his throat loud enough to catch the nurse’s attention even over
the sound of the water running through the hose in Namjoon’s hand.
“Yes?” Namjoon asks, warily, as he turns to meet Yoongi’s eyes.
“If you can wrap things up…” he leaves the sentence unfinished, his meaning clear.
“I—I’m just about done, I just need to get it prepped with—”
“No need to set up its drain or food for the moment, it might get in the way of whatever Principal
Kim needs from it,” he interrupts reasonably. “Just get it clean and presentable, we don’t want to
keep him waiting.”
“Alright, sorry.” Namjoon hefts the doll away from the drain, turning off the water and letting the
hose clatter to the floor as he lays the doll down across the nearest lab table again, bent over so its
chest is flat against the tabletop and its ass out in the air. Paperwork completely forgotten, Yoongi
takes the rare opportunity for what it is—a chance to stare at the doll openly without having to do
any work himself. And what a sight it is, the doll’s ass plush above muscular thighs, round and
pretty and now dripping with water.
Namjoon steps away for a second, returns with a rag in hand, and Yoongi is left with the distinct
pleasure of watching the fabric being dragged over the doll’s skin, the rough texture only adding to
the redness that had spread across it from the frigid water only moments earlier. Namjoon is quick
in his work, methodical as he wipes the doll’s ass and feet and legs down, picking up each of its
feet to dry them off as well—while the doll itself groans and whimpers as a particularly sensitive
spot is touched upon. It reminds Yoongi that they only have so much time to spare, what with the
doll rapidly returning to consciousness, and he slides his chair back and gets to his feet.
“Done now?” he asks as he approaches the nurse, who shrugs and tosses the rag into a nearby sink.
“I suppose—I’ll have to come back to clean up the supplies, but—”
“That’s fine. This is enough.” Yoongi waggles his fingers as if to spur the nurse along, turning his
own back to him to move towards the door. “Let’s get moving.”
A grunt of effort behind him lets Yoongi know that Namjoon has picked the doll up to transport
him across the school and he leads the way, now a few steps ahead of the younger man as they
retrace their steps out the classroom door, down familiar—and now completely empty—hallways
towards the heart of the school, footsteps now accompanied by little sounds of discomfort from the
doll they are delivering.
Upon arrival at the front office, Yoongi holds the door open and lets the nurse pass in front of him
at last, catching a glimpse of the doll’s hazy expression as it limply dangles over Namjoon’s
shoulder. The lone receptionist still remaining at the desk waves them through with a knowing
look, not even bothering to ask why they’ve arrived, and Yoongi follows after Namjoon now as
they make their way through the long hallway, past the stairs that lead down to the security office,
past Namjoon’s office and several conference rooms, past the vacant Vice Principal’s office—until
they arrive before the imposing entrance to Seokjin’s office itself.
When the nurse hesitates, even just for the moment he takes to readjust his hold on the doll,
Yoongi sighs and reaches around him to knock soundly against the door. There is only the briefest
of moments before a low voice answers, encouraging them to enter.
Yoongi turns the handle and steps into the familiar space, trading places with Namjoon once again
as he leads them both forward and steps around the chairs in the center of the room in front of the
large oak desk to face the principal at last.
“Ah, yes...” Seokjin raises his eyes from the newspaper in his hands—always so traditional,
Yoongi thinks—for a moment to take in the way Yoongi stands at attention while Namjoon
tightens his grip on the doll over his shoulder. “You can put it down right there, next to the bracket
on the—yes, there.”
Namjoon lets out the smallest sound of relief, quiet enough that only Yoongi can hear it, as he
lowers the doll from his shoulder and places it on its knees on the rug below. Its body slumps
immediately to the floor despite what seem like attempts at holding itself upright, and Yoongi
scoffs and prods at the doll with his shoe.
“Yoongi,” Seokjin calls to him, and the teacher snaps his head up to meet their leader’s eyes, dark
as they look him over from atop his crossed fingers and elbows resting against his desk.
“Yes, sir?”
“I heard the good news,” Seokjin continues conversationally, ignoring Namjoon completely while
the younger man kneels down to work on affixing the doll’s arms to the floor.
Yoongi raises his voice in order to be heard properly over the rattling of the chain that Namjoon
draws from the metal fixture in the center of the room—knowing perfectly well what good news
the principal is referring to, he answers, “Yes, sir, it’s very exciting. I can’t wait to get started next
week.”
“What’s the cause for the delay?” Seokjin leans forward, interested. Yoongi fights back the urge to
fidget nervously, dropping his hands down in front of his stomach and crossing his fingers together
to keep them still instead.
“There are tasks—work—to be done over the weekend,” Yoongi reasons simply, trying to keep his
answer short.
“Hmm.” The principal makes no further comment to him, instead addressing the nurse—who is
still kneeling on the floor in front of the desk—instead, though his eyes remain firmly on Yoongi’s
face. Yoongi resists the urge to look away, digging his thumb into the back of his opposite hand.
“And what do you think, Mr. Kim?”
Namjoon’s head shoots up to look at the principal again, his hands pausing in their work of
securing the doll’s wrists to the chain on the floor. “What do I—what do I think about what...sir?”
“Your future work with Mr. Min, here,” Seokjin explains, an impatient tinge to his voice. “He
seems very excited to be your Guide, and I was also thrilled to hear the news of your promotion,
myself.”
“Oh—” And Yoongi catches it immediately, the moment that Namjoon realizes what Seokjin’s
words mean—the moment he realizes that Yoongi has known, probably for quite some time, that
he would be Namjoon’s Guide—and that Yoongi had said nothing about it, had allowed him to
keep up this false pretense between them. He can see the way Namjoon struggles not to turn his
head towards Yoongi, to keep his expression neutral. “Oh. Yes.”
“What do you think?” Seokjin repeats, something they both know the older man hates doing. “I’m
dying to know.”
“I—I think...it’s wonderful. I’ve been waiting so long,” Namjoon manages to choke out, and
Yoongi feels the slightest —slightest— twinge of sympathy for the nurse. It’s no small task, being
faced down by a member of leadership, one who holds so much power—one who holds so much
of your life in his hands.
“I’m glad to hear it,” the principal says, sounding anything but.
Yoongi keeps his eyes fixed carefully on Seokjin’s face, making sure not to let his expression falter
or his gaze waver towards the floor, even as the principal reaches down beneath his desk with one
hand. Seokjin keeps his head resting on one hand and his own expression neutral even as they all
clearly hear a soft noise of discomfort from beneath the desk.
“So,” Seokjin continues, as though there was nothing unusual afoot, “tell me—do you have
anything important to report?”
“Important, sir?” Yoongi asks, catching sight of Namjoon straightening up beside him, the doll on
its knees at his feet.
“Yes, anything of note to report before I send you on your way?”
Yoongi considers his options carefully, but he knows there’s no sense in trying to hide it. He takes
a deep breath, lets out a disappointed sigh, and nods his head. “Yes, sir, there is.”
“Go on, then.”
“The doll—”
“Yes? What about it?” Seokjin’s eyes drop down to the doll at their feet, and Yoongi can’t help but
follow now, his eyes flickering over the pair of bare feet he sees beneath the principal’s desk
before his gaze falls to the doll as well. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, sir...I hate to tell you this, but—”
“We don’t know exactly what happened—” Namjoon hisses at him out of the corner of his mouth,
cutting Yoongi off for a moment. Yoongi raises his eyes back to the nurse, shooting him a sharp,
warning glare.
“We know enough,” he snaps back.
“Gentlemen, is there some sort of trouble here?” Seokjin asks, now leaning on both of his hands
again as the two younger men turn back to face him.
“No—”
“No, sir,” they both answer at once.
“Then someone, please—get to the point.”
Yoongi glances at Namjoon one more time, warning the nurse to stay quiet with only his
expression, then clears his throat and continues, “The doll got loose from its restraints sometime
earlier today, sir.”
“It did what?”
“We returned from the assembly to find the restraints broken, it was halfway out of the—”
“—but we don’t know how it happened!” Namjoon interjects again, stepping forward daringly.
“Sir,” he tacks on to the end as an afterthought.
“It appears to have been struggling while it was left alone,” Yoongi carries on, raising his voice
slightly.
“But it can barely move right now, we made sure to—”
“Enough.” Both men fall silent immediately as Seokjin speaks, dropping his hands down to lay
them flat on the surface of his desk. “Mr. Kim, you seem to have something to say.” His words
aren’t quite an invitation, but Namjoon takes them as one all the same.
“Yes, sir, I—”
“Did I say you could speak?” Seokjin interrupts, and Yoongi can hear Namjoon’s jaw snapping
shut. “Answer me.”
“No—No, you didn’t—”
“Do you believe your opinion is more valuable than Mr. Min’s?”
“Sir, I—”
“If you have information, I will accept your confession.”
“No, sir, that’s not what—”

“Go on, Mr. Kim. Inform us. What is it, exactly, that you believe happened—if you don’t accept
Mr. Min’s opinion on the subject.”
Yoongi catches the curl of Namjoon’s fist out of the corner of his eye, watches as the two men
square off while the nurse can’t seem to finish a single thought, and he marvels at how little it
takes for someone to be so put on edge.
“Sir—” Namjoon starts, then pauses as if sure he will be interrupted again. It’s only after several
labored seconds of silence that he continues, “I believe—I believe that this may not be the doll’s
fault.”
“I’m listening…” Seokjin drawls when the nurse pauses for a second.
“I—think that it’s not possible, for it to have struggled like that, not with all our preparations.”
“So you assume someone else must have been involved?”
Yoongi fights back a flinch at the words with every muscle in his body. What does Namjoon think
he’s doing? He’s going to get —
“No, sir—I—” The nurse fidgets uncomfortably, eyes shifting away from the principal’s at last.
‘Weak,’ Yoongi thinks.
“Well, yes...yes, I think there might have been someone—someone else, trying to release it, or—”
“Do you have any evidence to substantiate this claim of yours?” Seokjin leans back in his chair
now, arms crossing over his chest. Another soft noise comes from beneath the desk. “Any
witnesses?”
“I—no, not exactly—”

“Have you checked the security footage, looked for anyone where they shouldn’t have been?”
“No, sir, but I can do that right—”
“Do you have a name?”
“A name?”
“Yes,” Seokjin tuts, “a name. Do you have a name? A suspect?”
“N-No, I don’t—”
“Yoongi.” Seokjin turns his head to address Yoongi now, and the teacher straightens his shoulders
immediately.
“Yes, sir?”
“Please, remind us all—what is our rule about bringing forth a confession?”
Yoongi straightens up further, proud. “That it must be true, direct, and honest,” he says, his eyes
never leaving the principal’s, “That it must be of benefit to the community.”
“And to the cause,” Seokjin adds, and Yoongi nods immediately. “Mr. Kim,” he addresses
Namjoon again, and the younger man seems instead to shrink down into himself. “Do you believe
this information you have brought to me meets these standards?” His voice raises incrementally
with each word, and Yoongi feels the tension rise in his own body just by proximity alone. "Do you
believe yourself above these rules?"
“S-Sir, I—I didn’t—”
“You didn’t think about that, I know.” The principal's voice drops down to a calm tone, ire
disappearing as quickly as it had come. Seokjin no longer seems interested in what Namjoon has to
say, waving a hand at him as if to dismiss the nurse from his sight. “Yoongi, I trust you understand
the nature of this transgression?”
“I do, sir.”
“Very well. I expect better of someone invited for further development—as his Guide, I will
entrust it to you to remedy this...failure.”
Yoongi turns his head to stare straight at Namjoon as he answers, “I will, sir, you have my word.”
He doesn’t miss the way Namjoon flinches at his statement.
Deciding he’s had enough of them, Seokjin sits back in his chair again and makes a small,
dismissive noise, giving them both a sweeping wave of his hand to dismiss them at last, the
principal’s eyes finally turning instead to the doll at their feet. As they both bow and turn towards
the door without a word, Yoongi also doesn’t miss the split second where the nurse turns his head
back towards the principal, expression twisting, mouth turning down in a scowl—before he seems
to carefully fold the emotion away, his face smoothing out into placid indifference, and the nurse
pulls the door to the office closed behind them.
The first thing Jungkook notices is a pair of feet.
This would be unremarkable, if it weren’t for the fact that the last thing he can remember is the
classroom—no, wait—the hallway, a hand on his thigh, the bump-bump-bump of footsteps, tile
floors—
Then it’s all a blur, all dark and out of focus. Until now. Now he is looking at feet.
The person the feet belong to is facing away from him, their bare soles flat and directed towards
him. Around each ankle is a leather cuff, fastened securely to the floor. Those cuffs look familiar—
are those his feet?
No, no—he can feel his feet, down at the bottom of his legs behind him. They feel numb and
distant, but he can wiggle his toes and locate them, so those must not be his feet.
“Mr. Jeon.” A voice calls to him, low and familiar. He can’t quite place why, but his stomach
decides to clench up at the noise all on its own.
The voice comes from above him, so he raises his eyes—only his eyes, his neck feeling too heavy
to move—to seek out the source of the noise. His gaze moves over the legs that are attached to the
feet from before—not his legs, he remembers, no—and up the backside of a pair of thighs covered
in a tight skirt. He can’t see more than that, the rest of the body that the legs are attached to bent
over and hidden beneath the imposing structure of a large and dark, wooden desk. As his eyes
move higher and higher, a pinch of pain behind his eyes from the strain, he finds himself meeting a
gaze that is directed back at him—one that is immediately chilling .
“Hello, Mr. Jeon.” The voice repeats, and he realizes that it must belong to the man he is looking
at—a man he recognizes too. It takes him longer than it should to realize why the face before him
is so familiar—handsome and sharp, with plush lips and deep, expressive eyes—
Mr. Kim. The principal.

He remembers now, realizes where he must be. Remembers being shocked awake by cold—such
cold, cold water—remembers being full, and then empty. How did he end up here?
Despite the heaviness in his limbs, his overall lassitude, Jungkook manages to sit up straighter, and
finds his movements immediately restricted—not by his muscles but by a tight pressure around his
wrists.
He hears the chain before he sees it, the rattle of metal against metal as he shifts his arms and finds
them dragged back down to the floor by his own set of cuffs, which have been tightened around his
wrists, a chain wound through rings on either side before affixed to a heavy metal bracket on the
floor. His feet feel heavy too, though he can’t look back at them, and his knees and ankles ache in
all the wrong places.
“I see you’ve realized your circumstances,” Seokjin goes on, and Jungkook can barely hear him
over the sound of his own ears ringing. How—
“Don’t attempt to fight it, Mr. Jeon...you’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
‘How could they possibly get worse?’ he thinks, though his tongue is too heavy against his teeth
for him to voice the thought out loud.
“Do you understand why I have called you here, Mr. Jeon?” Seokjin asks. Jungkook tries to
narrow his focus, to bring his thoughts together to form coherent memories, but—no, no, he has no
memory of why—of being called down to this office in the first place, no idea how—
“I have been hearing rumors, you see…” The principal continues without him, leaning back in his
chair. The movement is accompanied by a strange noise that reminds him of the feet, of the legs in
front of him, but he doesn’t know—
“Rumors about you, concerning rumors,” Seokjin tells him, “and more than rumors—reports. From
staff, from students.”
‘Reports…?’
“Do you know what I am referring to, Mr. Jeon?” When Jungkook doesn’t answer—because, how
could he, really—Seokjin makes a soft tutting noise of disapproval. “I suppose not, hm? You do
seem blissfully unaware of yourself and your actions.”
There is a buzz of—something—underneath Jungkook’s skin now, behind his eyes, in his ears.
“As the principal of this academy, it is my duty to ensure an excellent learning experience for our
students, do you understand?” Jungkook manages the barest of nods at that. Of course—of course
—
“And yet, these rumors…” He pauses, hums thoughtfully. “These rumors that have made their way
to me tell me a very different story. This is not a story I want to hear told in the halls of this school,
Mr. Jeon.”
Oh no—what could it be this time?
He holds his breath, waiting for Seokjin to continue, but the older man stops talking altogether, and
Jungkook wrenches his eyes open to look up at the man again. When had he closed them? He feels
himself slipping again—slipping backwards, or—he doesn’t know how long it’s been, how long
he’s been here, it feels like hours already—
The principal rolls his chair back away from the desk, a chorus of moans and what can only be
described as wet, slurping noises highlighting his retreat. The feet in front of Jungkook shift in their
bonds, and Seokjin drops his hands down below the desk, arms and shoulders shifting and moving
here and there for a moment. Just before the principal gets to his feet, the distinct sound of a zipper
being tugged closed reaches his ears.
He blinks rapidly, eyes flickering between the legs only feet from him and the principal who is
getting to his own feet, fastening the front of his suit trousers with one hand while tucking in his
shirt with the other. There is an obvious bulge to the front of his pants as he walks around the desk,
bringing his entire body into full view of Jungkook, who tries to focus his eyes anywhere else.
From beneath the desk, he can now clearly hear deep, shuddering gasps for breath.
Seokjin pauses in front of the desk, reaching down to press a button on the intercom that has been
placed there. The machine lets out a soft beep, followed by a few moments of silence, and then a
second voice joins them in the room. “Yes, Mr. Kim?”
“Please come collect Ms. Yoo for me? I’m done with her for the day.”
“Right away, sir.”
The intercom lets out another beep, and Seokjin pulls his hand away. Within seconds, a soft knock
echoes through the door, and the familiar face of the receptionist from the front office—long bangs
hiding overlarge eyes, thin lips pulled back into an eager smile—peeks her head inside.
“Come in, Jihyo,” Seokjin invites her, and steps out of the way. Jungkook watches blinking slowly,
his arms hanging uselessly in front of his naked body, as Jihyo moves into the room and kneels in
front of him, blocking his view of the legs beneath the desk. He makes no move to hide himself
from her, doesn’t even think of it until the young woman is facing away from him—what would be
the point, anymore?
Jihyo tucks her skirt primly behind her and busies her hands with unfastening the cuffs around the
ankles beneath the desk, unclasping one buckle and pulling the leather away to massage at the skin
beneath for a second before moving on to the other leg. When both feet are freed, she hops up and
all but skips over to the other side of the desk and kneels down again, the sounds of metal and
leather scraping against each other convincing Jungkook that another set of buckles must be
coming undone. It only takes the receptionist a few long moments to complete the entire process,
her hands moving with practiced ease, and then she suddenly hops up beside Seokjin’s chair and
holds out a hand.
Beneath the desk, the legs in Jungkook’s line of sight begin to move, shifting this way and that as
if to shake feeling back into themselves, then they start to crawl towards Jihyo on the other side. A
hand appears above the desk, taking Jihyo’s offered help, and the receptionist tugs until another
person appears. The new woman is also familiar to Jungkook, though he isn’t sure why he’s
surprised—he would know that short, golden-blonde hair and those wide-set, elongated eyes
anywhere, especially since she had been the very first person in this school he had met.
“Jeongyeon,” Seokjin greets her, as though seeing her for the first time. His receptionist turns to
face the principal, Jihyo placing a hand at her back to steady her, and Jungkook takes note of just
how red and abused her lips look—wet with spit, plump as if swollen, somehow. Her neck is red
too, rubbed raw the same way her wrists seem to be, and her bare ankles too when she walks on
unsteady feet around the desk to meet Seokjin on the other side.
“M-Mr. Kim,” she answers him, her normally honey-sweet voice rough at the edges.
“Thank you for your service today,” he tells her as he raises a hand and swipes his thumb across
her chin to clean away the spit that has dripped there.
Oh.
“A—Always, sir.” She bows her head respectfully, but he tucks his fingers beneath her chin and
brings her head back up, leaning down to catch her lips with his own. The kiss is soft, short, but
Jihyo hums happily behind them all the same. When Seokjin pulls away, Jeongyeon looks even
more dazed than before, if possible.
“You’re free to go for the day, classes have ended early,” he tells her as he releases her, “Enjoy
your weekend. I will wrap things up here myself for today.”
“If you’re sure, Mr. Kim.” Both women offer the principal a bow at his words, and Jihyo wraps an
arm securely around Jeongyeon’s waist to escort her to the door.
When the door snaps securely shut, it occurs to Jungkook just how quiet the room is, without the
soft murmur of sound outside in the main office. A distant memory tickles at the back of his mind,
his brain trying to dredge up just where he had previously been where he hadn’t been able to hear a
sound from outside—but at the moment, he comes up blank. He can’t remember, he just can’t
remember—well, much of anything, really, now that he finds himself chasing trains of thought
down distant tunnels only to end up lost.
This task distracts him enough that he doesn’t catch the principal’s movement, doesn’t notice that
Seokjin has moved across the room until he reappears before him, dark leather shoes entering his
line of vision. When had his head dropped down towards the floor?
Seokjin brings Jungkook’s gaze back up to his with a prod under his chin, and Jungkook looks
down the long line of the object that has been placed beneath his jaw—a thin, round rod, black and
tapered. Seokjin holds the end of it in one hand, fingers curling around the leather, and Jungkook’s
mouth goes dry when he realizes he can feel the snake-like end of it curling against his fingers. A
whip.
“Now, back to you, Mr. Jeon.”
The chains around Jungkook’s wrists clank together as he moves instinctively away from the whip,
but Seokjin only tuts disapprovingly and nudges at Jungkook’s jaw with the end of the handle
again. “Ah-ah-ah,” he says, shaking his head, “none of that. This is what I was concerned about,
Mr. Jeon. You see…”
Seokjin straightens up and begins pacing around Jungkook’s prostrate form, nudging at the
younger man here and there with the end of the whip, the sole of his shoe. “These reports on you,
they all had one thing in common. Do you know what that thing was?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer—couldn’t even if he tried, the utter exhaustion in his limbs at war with
the terrible and sudden racing of his heart.
“They all included some report on you shirking your very, very important duties.”
The first strike comes as a complete surprise—one moment the end of the whip handle is pulled
away from his skin, and next next he hears a soft whistling sound as the flexible end of it flies
through the air and collides with the swell of his ass. Jungkook’s entire body recoils from the
sudden pain, hips bucking forward to escape it, his back arching even as his arms are jerked down
by the chain around his wrists. His ankles remain far apart despite his instinctive need to close his
knees, to protect himself, and it dawns on him that he can’t—he can’t —close them, can’t move his
ankles at all. He groans, the sound ripping through him unbidden, and Seokjin sighs again.
“This is what I mean, Mr. Jeon. Very disappointing.” the principal resumes his slow circling, a
predator stalking its prey, and Jungkook clenches his jaw shut. “So very noisy, for a doll. That
won’t do at all.”
The older man pauses in his pacing to pick something up from the desk, and he holds out a file for
Jungkook to see. “This is the employment contract you signed, do you recognize it?” Without
waiting for an answer, he flips the file open, selects a spot on the page, and begins to read aloud.
“I, Jeon Jungkook, agrees that I will at all times faithfully, industriously, and to the best of my
skill, ability, experience and talents, perform all of the duties required of my position.”
Yes, yes , he remembers—
“As a facilitator of education at the Academy,” Seokjin goes on, reading a portion of the contract
further down the page, “I understand that I am required to perform the following duties and
undertake the following responsibilities in a professional manner.”
The second strike comes as just as much of a surprise, if only because of the lengthy pause in
between it and the last. Seokjin doesn’t even seem to move the pages away from his face as he
aims the whip down, letting the leather crack against Jungkook’s shoulder. This time, he falls
forward into his hands, a blossom of pain across his upper arm leaving him weak and shaking
against the floor. Still, his legs quake against whatever is holding them in place.
“One—Instruction of the general student body in all areas chosen and deemed necessary by the
Council.”
Another crack of the whip, this time against his upper thigh as Seokjin resumes his pacing, and
Jungkook sucks in a breath even as his chest feels like it wants to expel every ounce of air he can
hold.
“Two—Modeling of appropriate behavior, as befitting of the community and our community

values.”
Two strikes fall onto his rapidly heating skin, one right after the other, both landing against his ass
again—the easiest target, what with how he can’t help but present it up in the air. His next breath
catches in his throat as a strangled moan, his eyes clenching shut. It doesn’t make it better, not
being able to see where the older man is moving, but Jungkook can’t seem to help himself.
“Three—Fitness and general self-regulation, in order to best perform all duties of the position as
required.”
His body tenses up immediately, instinctively bracing against the impacts he knows are coming as
soon as the principal pauses for even a second. Sure enough, he’s met with one lash to his shoulder,
another to the curve of his bicep, and a third to the rib cage that has him howling and twisting to
the side as soon as it lands.
“In carrying out these duties and responsibilities, I agree to comply with all Academy policies—”
The whip hits at the base of his neck, and he starts to sob.
“—procedures—” Another strike to the thigh has his body lurching to the side, ankles twisting
futilely against their restraints.
“—rules and regulations—” He lets out a broken wail when a particularly well-aimed crack of the
whip lands the tiny end of the leather right against the swell of his balls where they hang,
vulnerable, between his legs. “—as are announced by Academy leadership.”
And all of a sudden, the torture ceases, at least momentarily, and Jungkook can’t stop himself from
sagging down against the carpet, quivering from head to toe, a thin sheen of sweat covering every
inch of his skin. There’s no sense in trying to focus his eyes, so he lets them fall closed, chest
heaving as he tries to catch his breath, no other though in his head except a distant plea for the pain
to stop—one that never reaches his lips.
Instead, he finds the rubbery stretch of a shoe being pressed to his skin, right between his shoulder
blades, Seokjin’s foot driving his neck down-down-down until his cheek is rubbing harshly against
the carpet between his bound hands.
“Do you know what we value , Mr. Jeon?”
Jungkook can’t shake his head, can’t move an inch—he knows, he knows the answer, but he
couldn’t dredge it from the cesspool that has been made of his mind.
“We value our future ,” Seokjin informs him, punctuating his words with another press of his foot
that forces the remaining air from Jungkook’s lungs with a wheeze. “More than anything, we value
the coming days, and do all we can to send our students out into the world prepared for them.”
The pressure suddenly disappears, and Jungkook feels a hand in his hair, turning his head to the
side, his eyelids parting just enough to show him that same pair of leather shoes now inches from
his face, their owner crouched down at his side.
“You seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of your role here, Mr. Jeon.” Seokjin tells
him, voice impossibly low and close. Jungkook would shudder at the sheer menace he hears
behind the words, if he could force his body to do anything at all. “Allow me to enlighten you.”
Jungkook expects more pain—what else could possibly be headed his way? So it comes as a shock
of a different sort when he hears a grind of metal, a series of clanks, and gravity suddenly shifts as
his body is lifted upright by his wrists. He drags his eyes open to find the room rushing by, his
shoulders aching as he is wrenched to his feet, ankles still feet apart, and his arms are dragged
above his head.
The principal stands tall before him, looming over him as the chain attached to his wrists is
fastened to the ceiling. Jungkook lets his head loll forward, swinging with the movement of his
body, and he finally catches sight of the bar that has been attached to each of his feet by a second
set of cuffs, making it impossible for him to move his legs together even an inch. When Seokjin
finishes his task, dragging the chain around Jungkook’s wrists taut, he finds himself just barely
able to keep his toes on the floor.
As he steps back, the principal drags the fingers of one hand down Jungkook’s bare chest. The
touch is so soft, so at odds with the previous contact that it sets his nerves alight.
“You are to teach our students one of the most valuable skills we could possibly impart to them,”
Seokjin informs him, his voice softer now, almost—almost kind. His hand moves across
Jungkook’s chest to pluck at one nipple, then the other, taking full advantage of Jungkook’s
sensitivity. Were in his right mind, Jungkook might wonder if the principal had been informed of
that particular vulnerability of his, but as it stands, he can barely manage to remember the
principal’s name. Seokjin, Seokjin—
“You are to be an example to them of their own bodies, and what they are capable of,” Seokjin
goes on, fingers dipping lower to trace the quivering stretch of Jungkook’s abdominal muscles as
he speaks. He digresses for just a moment as his eyes follow the path of his fingers, gaze sliding
down even lower to where Jungkook’s cock—soft, but twitching in minute interest—hangs
between his legs. “And what a perfect example you will be…” he mutters as the backs of his
knuckles slide down the crease of Jungkook’s hip and thigh, “I knew I made the right choice when
I selected you…”
When his fingers curl around Jungkook’s cock at last, Jungkook once again finds it difficult to
breathe, the air knocked right out of his lungs by the shock of pleasure. His entire body is like a
live wire now, and every touch is a jolt of electricity through his over-sensitive skin.
“Do you understand what has been asked of you, Mr. Jeon?” Seokjin actually sounds curious now,
his tone taking on a slight lilt as his fingers wrap securely around Jungkook’s cock, stroking him to
full hardness in a manner of seconds with a few well-placed twists and a thumb beneath the
mushroomed head, exploiting each of Jungkook’s vulnerabilities with near-expert precision. “Why
it is so very necessary for a doll to be present for our lessons?”
Jungkook doesn’t want to—to find it as immeasurably pleasurable as he does, but the slide of the
older man’s fingers, slick from his own precome dribbling down his cock, is somehow so—sweet,
giving him stimulation just for the sake of it. Jungkook’s hips buck into the touch, his addled mind
drawn to the gratification as it drags him from the slowly fading ache across his skin wherever the
whip had struck him. His lips fall open in a silent plea, vision foggy even as he tries to turn his gaze
to the principal’s handsome face swimming before him.
“You are to offer each and every student the opportunity to witness the human body under each
and every condition,” Seokjin says lowly, and Jungkook immediately agrees.
‘Yes, yes—teaching—an—an o—opportunity—’

“You are here to teach them to use their own bodies, and to treasure the bodies of others.”
‘Teaching—’ It’s all he ever wanted to do.
Seokjin steps closer now, his breath hot against Jungkook’s face, but his mind vaguely registers the
way the principal’s pretty lips turn down in a smile, and his stomach clench-clench-clenches in fear
over what that could mean—what he could have done wrong now…
“But you have failed at this, Mr. Jeon.”
‘No, n—no—I—’
“How can a student look at you and see themselves,” the principal asks, his grip on Jungkook’s
cock tightening until it stings , “if you are interrupting the experience with your own desires —”
Another squeeze, and a yelp from Jungkook follows. “— your own thoughts? Your voice?”
‘I—I—’ his mind scrambles to catch up with this new information, the clenching of his gut turning
inward, a burrowing, terrible guilt. ‘I d-didn’t—I—’
“How can a student project their experience onto you, if you are sullying the moment with your
own selfishness?” And that—that makes perfect sense to Jungkook, for all that it sends his mind
reeling. Through the fog, through the haze, he can see, he can understand where the principal is
coming from—and it makes him s ick.
Seokjin pulls away, the absence of his breath of Jungkook’s face leaving the younger man feeling
cold. Jungkook hangs limp, pliant, his hands all but numb above his head now, his toes just barely
skating the floor as he lets the chains support his full weight. When Seokjin releases his cock as
well, letting it slap against Jungkook’s abs, throbbing and wet, it takes all that he has not to
whimper .
‘I—I’m—’ he struggles to string his thoughts together, tears forming at the corners of his eyes
again, burning behind his lids from frustration rather than pain, now. ‘I’m—I—I’m s—sorry—’‘
“Every time you move, every time you speak, you are robbing a student of the opportunity to learn
.” Seokjin punctuates his words with a harsh slap to Jungkook’s cock now, though his words sting
more than the impact. “We hired you as a doll for a reason.”
‘Y-Yes—yes—I—’ He sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, sucks his lower lip between his teeth and
bites down to muffle any noises, taking Seokjin’s words to heart .
“We expect you to stay still, to stay quiet, Mr. Jeon.”
‘I will—I will—!’
“These are basic expectations of this position, you see.” He aims another strike to Jungkook’s
cock, watching it bob to the side from the force of the impact. Jungkook nearly draws blood from
his lip with the bite that he gives it to choke back a sound, but he can’t help the way his hips flinch
away from the contact.
“Were we wrong to offer this opportunity to you?” Seokjin questions as he steps back, moving in a
circle around Jungkook’s body once more. Jungkook can feel the weight of the principal’s gaze on
him—he feels so heavy, so heavy all over—
“Should we have found another, more suitable candidate? I was so very impressed by your resume,
your credentials, but...perhaps this honor should have been given to someone more—” He pauses,
taking in the pleading, if silent, look Jungkook is giving him as he comes full circle again, the way
the younger man’s tears now stream down his flushed face. “No…?”
‘No—!’
“No, you believe yourself up to the task?” Seokjin tilts his head appraisingly, and Jungkook nearly
sobs just at the question alone.
‘Y-Yes—god, yes—please—I—’ He squeezes his eyes shut, wrenches them open again, feels hot
tears leaving tracks down his cheeks. ‘—I’m so—s—sorry—I’ll—do whatever you—’
“Hmm….perhaps…” Oh— Oh, and a swell of hope bursts forth in Jungkook’s chest, making it
hard for him to breathe, but he doesn’t—doesn’t care, couldn’t care— “Perhaps I can give you
another chance…”
‘Please!’
“Hmmm…” Seokjin makes another circle around him, this time stroking at Jungkook’s hyper-
sensitive skin with the all-but-forgotten whip in his other hand. The leather is rough, tacky, but
Jungkook welcomes the sensation now, welcomes what he knows is coming—if only for what will
come once his punishment is through.
That’s what this is, he recognizes—a punishment. A chance to atone for the mistakes he’s made,
the way he’s—he’s embarrassed himself so far. And if this is what will make the principal forgive
him, allow him to continue to work, to teach—
“As a facilitator of their education,” Seokjin tells him, voice rounding out at the ends in a tone
Jungkook recognizes, dimly, as the same tone he adopted every day during his student teaching.
He remembers—but his attention is dragged away as Seokjin continues to speak, and Jungkook
tries, oh how he tries to be a good student, to be attentive this time. “You cannot impose your own
opinions or experiences on them, you must let the students learn for themselves…”
‘Yes, y-yes—’
“We are here to ensure that they have the skills they need, Mr. Jeon. And you serve the most vital
role of them all towards this cause.” A vital role, yes—he nods, or—maybe just thinks about
nodding, he isn’t sure.
“Everything we do here has a higher purpose.” Seokjin tells him, the end of the whip handle
stroking along Jungkook’s jaw, the caress of a lover. Jungkook all but preens under the attention,
his focus narrowing down to that sensation and that sensation alone, ears ringing except for the
sound of Seokjin’s voice, vision fading to black at the edges. “You are an integral part of that
mission.”
‘Yes, yes—mission, yes—’
“Will you allow me to teach you, Mr. Jeon? To be the perfect doll that we need?” Jungkook’s heart
soars at the question, breathing ragged around the feeling swelling in his chest. Seokjin takes his
silence, his pliant body as an answer.
“Don’t worry…” he says, tapping Jungkook’s lips with the whip again. “We’ll help you fulfill your
true calling.”
From then on, Jungkook gives himself over to the darkness tugging at the edges of his mind, his
eyes, letting himself fall into the fog that has been clinging to him all day. He doesn’t fight as
Seokjin’s hands maneuver him where the principal wants him, straightening his pose, adjusting the
cuffs on his arms for moment, giving his cock a few perfunctory strokes. The pleasure sings up his
spine, but the only thought filling his mind now is a chorus of ‘be good, be good, be good—’
He almost doesn’t hear it when Seokjin begins giving him instructions again, the principal’s voice
a pleasant, dull hum in the back of his mind. “—I will complete your punishment now,” he’s
saying when Jungkook manages to catch his voice again. “For every strike you take without a
sound, I will give you one less overall. Every strike where you move, make a noise…”
The threat goes unsaid, doesn’t need to be voiced aloud. A game—a lesson, but a game—Jungkook
has always been particularly competitive, especially with himself, and he’s always loved games as
a method of teaching best.
“Perform well, and you will be rewarded, doll…”
‘I will—I’ll be good, be good—’
The first strike after so long is a symphony of pain across his chest. He moves a little, toes curling,
fingers clenching into the chains above—the movement small but enough that Seokjin catches it,
hums in disapproval.
‘One more,’ he thinks.
The second slash of the whip drives Jungkook’s eyes closed again, the darkness making the
process better and worse in equal measure. He’s proud, though, when he only feels the muscles that
were impacted clench up in pain and shock. His voice remains firmly behind his lips.
‘One less,’ the thought echoes in his mind.
Another flash of pain erupts right over the last point of impact as Seokjin brings the whip down in
the same spot, and now Jungkook chokes on the sound that slips from his throat. Another
disappointed noise from the principal, and Jungkook knows— ’One more.’
The blows blur together, one to the thigh, one to the ass, one to the back—but Jungkook has no
sense of one body part from another, one sensation from the next. He finds himself slipping again,
but the fall is an easy one now. How many cracks of the whip have passed—four, five? And does it
matter? Is anyone keeping count at all?
Seokjin surprises him between one vicious bloom of pain and the next by stepping close to
Jungkook, fingers dancing along his aching cock, pressing his thick lips to Jungkook’s own. And
—oh—he remembers where his lips are, then, and forgets them completely when Seokjin quickly
steps away. The next hot tongue of agony that licks across his chest is a welcome one, as it is
immediately chased by another tongue between his teeth, prying his mouth open while he lets
himself be kissed, and kissed—and struck across the thighs—then kissed again, remaining as limp
and pliant as a doll should all the while.
The only sensation he knows become the hot breath on his cheeks, the rough fingers that stroke at
his cock, and the pain that dances across his flesh—all blending together into a fire that burns, that
carries him away. He floats in it, no longer sure of his feet touching the ground, no longer sure
why they would need to.
His mind is nowhere near his body—and yet, he is only a body, somehow. Seokjin whispers these
things into his kisses, and Jungkook believes him. The pain, the pain the pain continues to come in
a wave, but Jungkook has nothing left in him, no way to react, and it is when he makes no move
except to continue to breathe under the onslaught that it comes to a halt altogether. All that remains
is the pleasure, though burns at him as well, burns away at the center of him while Seokjin strokes
and twists and squeezes at Jungkook’s cock until his orgasm is dragged from him—and Jungkook
is in heaven.
He breaks. There is no other word for it, the way he disconnects from himself the moment the
pleasure ceases to course through him, the twitching of his muscles a series of automatic electrical
impulses and nothing more.
When Seokjin’s hands and lips disappear, Jungkook forgets who they once belonged to, forgets the
man’s name—forgets his own, for a moment. He is left there, swinging by his arms, dragged down
by gravity even as he flies and flies a million miles away. He has no idea for how long, how long
he drifts, but the sensation is a beautiful one, and what would be the sense in making sense of it at
all?
It does nothing to disturb him when noise returns to his ears, some minutes or hours or eons later, a
touch on his back and shoulders and chest reminding him that they exist for a moment, and only a
moment. He forgets that he has eyes until he opens them again, finding blurry shapes swimming
before him. Some helpful neurons firing in his brain make sense of the shapes, turn them into
people again, people he recognizes. The principal stands before him, saying—saying something—
“—did well, but it still has one last lesson to learn...”
Lesson, a lesson...yes…
“How can I—sir?”
“—no one better—you, right?” The words fade in and out. They mean nothing to Jungkook,
nothing to the doll. “Please set it up with—make sure it doesn’t—learn not to make a mess—”
“—of course, sir, I’ll—”
“Thank you, Jimin—”
That name. It belongs to the face in front of him now, somehow he knows this. The face is pretty—
beautiful, even, if he were to be honest—a sharp, angular jaw that frames in round cheeks, a flat,
perfectly-sculpted nose, and—those eyes. Those eyes.
Jungkook should be terrified of those eyes, the way they look at him—wide, innocent. Blank.
Completely blank, as though no one lives behind them. He should be terrified, as the face draws
closer, as he feels hands on his body again.
But it’s impossible—impossible to feel fear as the familiar dark of unconsciousness starts to close
in on him, not now that he can’t seem to feel much of anything at all.
Chapter End Notes
Phase Five: Puppet
Chapter Summary
When classes end for the weekend and Jungkook is left alone with only the janitor for
company, he finds some small reprieve from his daily torment.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE FIVE:

Blackmail, Objectification, Dollification, Dumbification, Sexual Slavery, Sexual
Torture, Torture, BDSM Elements, Imprisonment, Stockholm Syndrome, Solitary
Confinement, Public Punishment, Discipline, Unhealthy/Abusive Relationships,
Emotional Manipulation, Physical/Psychological Torture, Mind Control/Manipulation,
Conditioning, Mind Break, Stalking, Bondage, Oral Sex, Face Fucking, Medical Kink,
Medical Experimentation/Examination, Enemas, Stuffing/Inflation,
Omarashi/Watersports, Catheters, Cock Cage/Chastity Device, Cock & Ball Torture,
Altered Mental States, Public Sex/Nudity, Public Humiliation, Voyeurism,
Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Pseudo Incest
Fic Playlist
Phase Five Playlist


the original
story here!
FRONT OFFICE—CAMERA 7 08-18-18 10:29AM
“Let me just take one last look over everything, Mr. Jung—but it all seems to be in order. Let’s
see…”
“Of course.” Hoseok sits back in his chair, enjoying the comfortable warmth of the office as his
eyes shift to the window on the far side of the room. The days are getting shorter, he thinks mildly,
looking at how low in the sky the sun has already fallen—he still has a few more errands to run
today. The clacking of fingers on a keyboard before him is soothing, rhythmic.
“Okay, let me just—” A few more clicks of the keys. “Alright! You’re all set.” Hoseok’s attention
is dragged back to the woman before him, catching the kind—if not a little fake—service smile on
her face. She is holding out a few documents with one hand, which Hoseok leans forward to take.
With the end of her pen, she points at various lines of the forms, highlighting certain important
information for him.
“Here is your request to close the account, and here—” She flips the page over to point at another
line, “You’ll find the new routing information. Please look it over to make sure I’ve spelled it all
correctly.” Hoseok skims his eyes over the information once, twice, checking it against a slip of
paper from his pocket before nodding for her to continue.
“Great, okay—I’ll need you to sign here—” Hoseok takes the pen from her hand and scrawls his
signature where she indicates. “—and here—” Another scribble of his initials on a dotted line.
“And here, which confirms that you are designated the limited power of attorney in this case…”
Hoseok’s signature is larger this time, a little more triumphant—he feels honored, really, to be
taking care of such an important task, to be trusted to do so.
“And the date, here—” He writes out ‘Saturday, August 18th, 2018’ on the line, then sets the pen
down at last.
“Would you like to make any changes to your own account, at this time?” she asks politely, and
Hoseok gives her a content look in return.
“No, no need—I took care of all of my own arrangement a few weeks ago, but thank you.” He
pauses, tapping the pages in front of him with a finger. “I’ll just need copies of the new records
before I go, if you wouldn’t mind…?”
“Alright, just give me one second…” The woman slides her chair back from her desk and moves to
the other side of her office, putting all of the documents through a scanner to make copies. She
brings back a packet for Hoseok and places all of the pages in a sleek folder for him, handing them
over with that same practiced smile.
“Here are copies of all of the changes made today. Mr. Jeon’s account, including checking,
savings, and benefits have been fully closed, and all funds have been routed to the new
beneficiary.” Hoseok gives another nod, and she releases the folder to him. “Is there anything else I
can do for you today?”
“No, thank you, that’s all I needed!” Hoseok gets to his feet, offering her his free hand for her to
shake.
“Wonderful, well...thank you for visiting us here at Kookmin Bank, please don’t hesitate to come
see me if there’s any additional changes to the estate that are needed. I’ll be your personal account
representative for any services in the future.” She gives his hand one firm shake before releasing
him, stepping around her desk to guide him to the door.
“That’s perfect, thank you, I—oh, wait—” He pauses, turning back towards her desk. “My ID, my
documentation, I’m going to need those…”
“Oh, of course!” The representative straightens her blazer, looking a little chagrined, and returns
back to her desk to reach beneath a stack of files. She returns to Hoseok with two items in her hand
—his identification card, which she hands back easily, and a large document with a stamp at the
bottom that she glances over for a second before holding out for him to take as well.
“Can’t forget those, I’m sure you’ll need that notarized form quite a few times before you finish all
these estate management meetings.” She manages to look appropriately understanding, although
the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Hoseok supposes that’s only natural, working in a
financial institution like she does—it would wear on him too, he’s sure of it.
“Yes, yes, I certainly will,” he tells her with a chuckle, “Next stop is the leasing office to manage
his apartment.”
“I don’t envy you there,” she tells him, sounding slightly more genuine in her disdain for dealing
with property management.
“It isn’t how I’d like to be spending my weekend, but you do what you have to do, right?”
She smiles, nods, places a hand on his elbow to guide Hoseok towards the door again. “We
certainly do. Well, Mr. Jung...enjoy the rest of your weekend. Come visit us again soon, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan, thank you.” Hoseok gives her a small bow, then bows again at the branch
manager that he passes on his way out of her office and into the main bank lobby, passing by the
long line of other customers waiting to be seen by tellers on his way to the door. When he reaches
the parking lot and slides into his car, he carefully tucks the folder of documents into his bag and
pulls out another, rifling through the pages to find the one he is looking for. He skims his eyes over
the page, catching on sentences here and there to make sure everything is in place.
“To whom it may concern, this letter is to notify you of the immediate termination of the lease
currently held by your tenant, Mr. Jeon Jungkook. This termination comes as the result of…”
Beneath the letter, he finds the check that he had been issued to manage any closing fees, and—
having confirmed all of the needed items for his next stop, he puts the documents away and sets
the folder down on the empty seat beside him, turns the ignition and adjusts the air conditioning,
humming along to the radio as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“—a higher love, bring me a higher lo-o-ove—bring me a higher love, where’s that higher love
I’ve been thi-i-inking of—?”
His phone helpfully gives him directions as he approaches the main road—the screen is bright
against the console, bold letters at the top of the screen reading “Your location” as the starting
point and “Jungkook’s place” as the destination, with a path outlined underneath sending him to
the right, along with the flow of traffic towards the center of town.
Health Lab—First Floor—West 08-18-18 2:14PM

The room is cold, and he can feel it to his bones.
The first sensation that seeps through the muddled mess of his mind is a distinct sensation of—of
— fullness . His skin is cold, covered in goosebumps, but inside he feels so very warm .
He can hear movement around him, heavy footsteps moving from his left to his right. He realizes
that he can hear them but not see them after an extended delay, not fully processing the darkness
before his eyes as his own eyelids until he opens them and soft light floods in instead.
His eyes focus all on their own, first catching sight of the windows on the far side of the room,
shades drawn down so that the space is cast into muddled shadows. It’s still bright enough for him
to then notice the chairs, then the tables, the warm light that bathes over their surfaces. The entire
space seems soft at the edges, somehow, as though nothing before him is actually real. Is he still
asleep, he wonders. What time is it? He can’t remember the last time he had an idea of what day it
is, even…
The footsteps continue, moving towards him now—a heavy thump-thump-squeak against the tile
that announces the presence of someone near him before he can catch sight of their moving figure,
a bright head of blonde hair in his line of vision forcing his eyes to rapidly focus much closer than
before—and he finds that he has no control over the process, his head swimming at the sudden
adjustment.
A face comes into focus in front of him—pretty, familiar. Elongated eyes, heavy-lidded but wide
as they look up at him, framed in a triangle-shaped face and soft-looking blonde strands that he
wants—wants to run his fingers through. He knows that face.
“Hello, doll.” The man’s voice is melodic, low, fed to him through thick lips that look red, recently
bitten.
Jimin. He remembers now—Jimin, that’s his name. He blinks slowly down at the man by way of
greeting him in return.
“How are you feeling?” Jimin asks, taking another step closer. The janitor’s voice is a private
thing, shared just between the two of them, and he can feel the warmth from the other man’s body,
his breath, at this distance. It only makes him more aware of the chill on his own skin, though he
makes no move to do anything about it. It’s a distant realization, the sensation, as though his mind
only sees fit to comment on it in passing and nothing more—like watching a cloud slowly drift
across the sky and disappear somewhere in the distance.
“I imagine that can’t be too comfortable, hm?” Jimin goes on, and his eyes focus-focus-focus on
the shorter man again, completely unaware that they had drifted to look somewhere in the distance
until he can see Jimin’s striking features in sharp focus again. What can’t be comfortable, he
wonders—the cold? The cold is nothing. Just—a surface occurence, a million miles away from
him where he is buried deep within himself.
Jimin’s hands come down to touch at his skin, and, oh—oh, those fingers are so warm, rough at the
tips. Working hands. Those hands reach for arms, and he finds their fingers wound together above
his head, a pleasant sensation. The feeling seeps down his arms slow as molasses, bringing their
existence to the forefront of his mind—making it clear that they have been bound above his head,
and that he is hanging from them. This helps to explain how he is upright, a position he hadn’t
bothered to consider closely, though now he knows that he is not upright by his own volition or
under his own power. The restraints are helpful, then, to keep him on his feet.
His feet—
His feet are in bonds too, he realizes. He doesn’t bother wiggling his toes, but he knows that if he
did, he would find his feet securely trapped in leather cuffs—he can feel their smooth texture
against his skin.
Jimin’s hands move down his arms, then, thumbs stroking over the long stretch of his forearms and
around the bulge of his biceps. His muscles twitch and his hair stands on end at the sensation,
though it too feels miles from his consciousness, his skin a crust floating atop the slow, molten
magma below. “Look at you, you’ve been put through so much…”
Yes—Yes, so much—
“And this—” Jimin pauses, hands making their way down his chest now, thumbs brushing
deliberately over his exposed nipples as they move to settle against his stomach. And—oh—now,
now he understands, now he knows precisely what the janitor is talking about, the discomfort—he
can feel it beneath the other man’s palms as fingers press against his stomach, press against the
swell of his belly where it wasn’t distended before. There—he can locate it now, that feeling like
magma, swirling and churning in his gut—a heat and pressure he hadn’t registered without looking
for it. What—?
“You poor thing...this must be getting a bit much, hm…?” As Jimin’s fingers poke and prod, the
feeling—that full, aching feeling—only intensifies, almost sharp at the edges where the pressure
pushes the sensation deeper into his body somehow. “But I suppose this is the consequence, isn’t
it? When you can’t follow instructions…”
What instructions—?
“Principal Kim asked me to watch over you...I wonder if you remember…” Jimin goes on, small
hands stroking the lines of his muscles now, down along his abdomen until they reach the jut of
his hip bones. The other man’s voice is as soft as the touches, exploring here and there as they
please, and he realizes that this is the most that Jimin has touched him since they first met days—
days?—ago.
“Seems you need a lot of supervision,” the janitor muses, and his own stomach sinks like a stone.
“Not a good trait in a doll, unfortunately...not quite what they’re looking for, you see?”
I do, I do—
“I’m here to watch over you, make sure you don’t cause any more messes...or clean them up if you
do, I suppose…” The shrug that Jimin makes to punctuate the sentence is self-deprecating and
jaded, the hallmark of a man who has accepted his station in life. “But I think we may have found a
solution to the problem, doll...see?”
But he can’t see, no—not with his body restrained in such a way, limbs spread-eagled above and
below him so it is all he can do to stand there and experience all that Jimin has to offer him. He can
feel it, though, when the janitor’s hands drop lower, down between his thighs where they have been
forced apart by his restraints, down to where his cock hangs soft and untouched between them. He
can feel it when the other man touches—something—something that is not a part of his body, but
is connected to him, a sensation that echoes up through his body, up towards his core. The touch
feels like an echo of an echo, a distant shift and twist and pull that seems to originate at a distance
and yet appear as a ghost in the depths of his gut.
He knows this sensation—knows it the way he knows Jimin’s face, a memory that floats through
his mind untethered and unrefined. It feels like remembering a past life, the way that tugging drags
up memories of his last punishment and its cause.
Jimin’s fingers are moving, though he can’t—can’t quite place how, or where, exactly—but
moving all the same, down-down-down between his legs so that the younger man is forced to
kneel in order to reach back far enough. Those questing fingers skim between the swell of his ass
cheeks to prod against each one in turn, before the tugging sensation returns—though now, it feels
as though the plucking seems to—to move—the other direction? And he finds that something, once
again, shifts deep inside, but this time from behind, as though there is something wedged into his
clenching hole as well. He feels it deep within his gut, but the shifting-churning beneath the
surface seems to run—deeper— deeper, now.
“I don’t think you’ll be making a mess any more, doll…” Jimin reassures him, but the words mean
very little to him, his head swimming right along with the molten movement in his core. “Can’t
make a mess if there’s nowhere for it to go, hm…?”
That tugging—that terrible tugging returns, dragging at his core again, a thread that draws him taut
like a drawstring—he can feel it in his cock, in his ass, an inexplicable connection he can’t make
sense of, but—oh, how it burns, how it kindles the flames.
Jimin’s fingers wander back the way they came, walking along that tugging string like a tightrope
until they reach the head of his cock, spreading like a claw around the sensitive flesh, thumbing at
the swollen ridges. When the touch circles his shaft completely, he feels the way the pressure
pinches against something firm and unyielding deep within and his breath catches in his chest,
unbidden. “You shouldn’t have been so careless, you know,” Jimin tells him conspiratorially, “but
I know how hard it can be...that’s why I’m happy to help, see?”
Yes—Yes, help—please—
Jimin gives his cock a firm stroke, up-down-up-down again, and the dry friction sparks against his
skin. He doesn’t groan, doesn’t make a sound, the sudden pleasure-pain enough of an expression
for his body in and of itself. His cock hardens automatically—a response he couldn’t fight if he
wanted to, not under that insistent stroking, that possessive clutch at his most sensitive organ.
Jimin’s body against his is a wall of heat, warding away the cold by sheer proximity while those
continued touches turn the churning heat in his belly into an inferno.
“It takes time to learn, I know…” Jimin’s words are whispered against his jaw. He feels so heavy,
so very heavy, an effigy alight in the center of a mob—though he and Jimin are certainly all alone,
now. “But until you can, we’ve made it easy…”
As his cock stands at attention, those fingers resolute in their goal as they toy with him until he is
aching against the stimulation, he feels the tug again—the force that pulls at him from deep within.
But with Jimin’s hands on his hip, on his erection, the tug couldn’t possibly come from the younger
man’s questing fingers—no, the sensation corresponds directly to the way his cock now stands at
attention, drawing something—something between his cock and his ass—taut and immovable.
The hands, his beautiful tormentors, release him to cradle the swell of his middle again, this time
more forceful in their attention. The pressure is incredible already, only made more intense by
Jimin’s pressing and prodding, and he realizes—slow, like the dawn—what they, what they must
have done.
“A closed loop, see?” Jimin asks, as if reading his mind. And he can, he can feel it now, the way
Jimin coaxes his body to relax, the pressure against his bladder too much to overcome. The liquid
that spills forth, however, never makes it to the floor—there is no splatter of liquid against the tile
beneath his spread legs—instead, he feels the tell-tale warmth of liquid being pushed into him from
behind, the only confirmation that he needs. Jimin frees up one hand to pluck at the tube—he
knows it can’t be anything other than a tube, now—that protrudes from his cock, and the way it
jerks at the plug wedged in his ass no longer comes as a surprise. He’s so—so very full now, that
molten feeling in his core sending a groan up through his chest and out from behind his lips; the
sound is almost alien to his ears, ragged from a throat that has become lazy from disuse.
Fingers stroke at his cock once more, matching the soft brushes of lips that start against his jaw
and move down towards his chin, and—oh, oh , it’s so nice, the warmth, all of it so—so warm…
“Now it has nowhere to go, just like you...” Jimin murmurs.
No—he wouldn’t go, wouldn’t run from those questing fingers, not even if he could—not when
each stroke up and down and up and down again sends sparks of pleasure along his spine, when
the twist and squeeze of each stroke is a balm to the distance he feels to his body, bringing him to
the right here and the right now.
“I bet you miss them, huh?” Jimin is asking, head resting softly on his shoulder, turning to the side
so the janitor can look down the line of his body to watch. “I would miss them, if I were you…”
Who—?
“Family is so important,” Jimin says, thumb digging into the sensitive spot just below the head of
his cock, and his eyes fall closed of their own accord. “We could be your new family…”
I—Yes—yes, that—
“All you have to do is learn, doll…” Jimin promises. “Just learn, and it’ll all be over…”
—I will—I—I am—
“Four times, four times you made a mess, and I had to come clean it up...but not again, hm?” The
janitor whispers the words into the side of his neck, fingers still stroking, always stroking—and he
feels the way it all but draws the pleasure right out of him. “Such a sweet doll, now that Principal
Kim has dealt with you…”
I—I’ll—be good—I’ll be good—
His chest feels tight, though he doesn’t remember when he stopped breathing, giving himself over
completely to the sensations, his body nothing more than a plaything.
“Go on, come for me, doll...go ahead…” Jimin’s words are punctuated by a harder squeeze, a
particular twist of fingers around the head of his cock, pinching at the tender flesh where it is held
open by the end of the tube within. A particularly insistent palm is pushed into his stomach too,
where the sensation of his own piss inside him is brought full circle—and it drives him over that
precarious edge into darkness.
When he comes to, seconds or hours later, it is to the sight of pretty lips inchest in front of him.
Those lips are moving, though he doesn’t hear a sound—can’t, what with the way his ears hum and
hum, a tinny tone that drowns out anything else. The lips smile at him, showing off one crooked
tooth, and he blinks his eyes again and again as if instinctively trying to bring the picture into
clearer focus.
“—n’t w—ry—”
Sound begins to flicker in and out now, around that thin, metallic whine, a voice—a voice that
matches those lips. Eyes appear next, when the circle of swimming darkness in his eyes starts to
recede, the bright flashes every time he closes his eyes and opens them again fading out at the
edges. Those eyes look him over, crinkling at the corners to match the smile that he sees on those
thick lips before him.
“—it’s—okay, you—kay—”
Yes, yes—okay—it’s okay, he knows this. That smile—the sight is so—kind, warm. Warm like his
belly. Warm like the clench of his muscles, the surface of his skin.
“I’m here—”
He feels hands on his body again, and can piece together the whole of the face that swims before
him, see the way it rests on a long neck and strong shoulders, the way those shoulders connect to
the arms that are reaching out to him, the way they move along with the hands he feels on his
chest. “Don’t worry…”
I’m not worried…
“You did good, you’re—” Jimin smiles at him again, “You’re alright, doll…”
Yes, a good doll, I’m a good doll—
“I think you deserve a reward, don’t you…” Jimin says, and it isn’t a question. He agrees
immediately anyway, thinks about nodding his head even though he doesn’t move a muscle. “Here,
let me—”
Jimin’s hands disappear, and he whines—or, he feels himself try to whine, his throat closing around
the sound. Without Jimin’s hands on him, he feels himself floating, always floating…
The janitor moves away, taking a step to the side and out of sight, and his eyes drift to gaze across
to the classroom windows in the distance, catching the way the sun has begun to hang lower in the
sky through the blinds. When Jimin returns moments later, it is with a cup in hand, clear and filled
with water. His stomach lurches at the sight, though perhaps that is from the way his eyes strain to
focus on the younger man’s movements again.
“Open up,” Jimin tells him, small fingers reaching for his jaw, and with the slightest of pressure he
feels his own lips drop open. The touch of the glass to his skin feels frigid, much too cool
compared to the heat of his mouth, but the cold water that pours onto his tongue is soothing all the
same. It didn’t occur to him until just then, how very parched he was. The water is, perhaps, the
most delicious thing he has ever tasted.
“Good, good…” Jimin praises, tipping the glass further and further forward until he is forced to
swallow or drown, the water an almost painful rush down his throat. He can feel it every inch of
the way down into his stomach, the way it settles into his empty gut, the way it only adds to the
pressure in his belly.
“And now close, like this,” and Jimin’s fingers push his jaw shut again. The janitor’s smile widens.
It’s odd, the way his entire face curls with the expression, but those eyes remain still—the
happiness the younger man is showing not reaching their inky depths in the slightest. He feels as
though he is a ghost, what with the way Jimin’s gaze seems to pierce right through him.
“Good doll,” Jimin tells him again, “good boy…” And the empty cup is set aside somewhere, the
sound of glass on wood coming from a distance. Jimin doesn’t blink, just raises a hand and strokes
fingers along his lips, tracing the water that lingers there. Somehow, it feels like an anointing.
“You’ve done so well.”
And the younger man raises up on his toes, presumably to match their heights to one another, and
lays a kiss across his lips. His eyes close, and he feels Jimin’s do the same, their breath a mingled
heat between them. He doesn’t move a muscle, but Jimin does enough of the work for him, moving
lips and teeth and tongue against his mouth until he is sated and pliant. He doesn’t know whether it
was the kiss or the sustenance that was intended to be gift to him, but they both feel equally so.
“Thank you,” Jimin whispers to him upon pulling away, and it is those words, more than anything,
that confuse him.
“I have to go now,” he is told, and the younger man looks almost—almost regretful as he says it.
Jimin backs away, moving towards the classroom in the distance without ever turning away, and it
is only then that he realizes—
The looming shape in the distance, the darkness at the edges of his vision that he has had trouble
blinking away—that shape is a doorway a few feet from him, laid into a wall, and he only notices
once Jimin actually passes through it. The windows, the room he can see in the distance, they are
somewhere past the doorway on the other side, and he is inside in a different space entirely—
darker, smaller. The doorway lets in light, warm and soft, brightening the small room he has been
trussed up inside, but as Jimin moves away and reaches for the door itself, the light begins to fade.
“I’ll be back, don’t worry,” Jimin reassures him, and the younger man’s sharp eyes, focused
entirely on him now, are the last thing that he sees before the door is swung shut and blocks out
any and every ray of sunlight he can see. When the door latches, lock sliding into place, he finds
himself surrounded on all sides by total darkness, completely and utterly alone.
BUSAN — METRO LINE 1 — TRAIN 3 08-18-18 3:47PM
“Thank you, see you next week...”
“Have a good night, Mrs. Jeon!”
Jeon Daeun bows politely to the woman behind the register at the grocery store, a familiar face
who always greets her with a smile. The grocery bags on her arms are heavy and cut into her skin,
but she waves away an offer of help and makes her way out of the store and onto the busy street.
The wait for the train is going to be a long one, so she takes her time on her way down the sidewalk
and through the throng of bodies passing the other direction.
The sun prickles at the back of her neck under her hair where it hangs above her shoulders, even
when she settles onto a bench to wait for the train to arrive with her bags at her feet. When the train
finally comes gliding into the station and sends a breeze wafting towards Daeun, the sensation
doesn’t abate even as the heat does for a moment.
She clambers into the first train car and takes a seat out of the way of the door—feeling justified in
taking one what with the large load of shopping that she has to lug with her—and manages not to
give any of the other passengers an apologetic look as she settles back against the chair. Her phone
presses pointedly into her backside as she moves, reminding her to reach back and pull it free of her
back pocket, setting her purse atop her knees before laying the phone across it in front of her.
The screen is dark, and Daeun manages to let it remain that way for several minutes, casting her
eyes out the window on the opposite side of the car towards the city beyond, watching as buildings
start to pass by slowly, then faster and faster as the train takes off from the stop and begins to move
towards its next destination.
The sun hangs low in the sky, now, and she is relieved to be finally making her way home, finally
wrapping up a long day of chores that ate up half of her weekend. The orange glow from the sunset
is a bit much to look at directly, though, and it sends her gaze back to the space before her after too
long, forcing her to look here and there to avoid looking at the woman sitting directly across from
her, or from staring at the children playfully trying to shove each other off of the seats off to her
side. Anything, really, to keep herself from fidgeting—anything to keep her hands from wandering
to that phone sitting temptingly in front of her.
Her fingers tap-tap-tap-tap against the glass screen, a nervous habit she’s never been able to stop
herself from doing, but when she catches another passenger staring at her openly for making the
noise, she slides her hands under the case and flips the phone over entirely—hoping, somehow, that
it would reduce the temptation. That burning at the back of her neck still lingers, making her
shoulders hunch towards her ears.
“—this is the Yeonsan Station. All passengers, please move towards the center of the—”
The train begins to decelerate, leaving her swaying slightly in her seat, her hand clutching around
her phone as her weight redistributes when the motion finally comes to a stop. Daeun shifts her
knees to the side, pulling the bags at her feet closer with a shove of her shoe to keep them out of the
way as a small line of new passengers bustles past her. The breeze from the open doors is
refreshing, and she misses it the moment that it is gone; even with fall drawing closer, the weather
has been surprisingly muggy and overbearing.
The prickling at the back of her neck is downright obnoxious now, and she raises one hand to
swipe at the thin sheen of sweat clinging to her skin there, her other hand turning her phone over
and over between her fingers now—finally tucking the device into her bag, only to draw it back out
moments later as though she can’t bear to have it out of her sight.
She barely notices as the train begins to move and stop again, passing through several more
stations before she is broken from her daze, eyes unfocused on the opposite wall of the train car, by
a hand being laid on her shoulder.
“—may I sit here?” a soft voice asks, and Daeun looks up to find an elderly woman, short and thin,
looking down at her with a kind smile.
“Oh! Oh—I, I’m sorry, yes—” She hurries to gather her bags up, fingers through the handles of
most of them before the older woman pats her shoulder again and interrupts her.
“No need for that, dear, don’t worry—there’s plenty of room, see?” And the older passenger grips
the cane in her hand tighter as she lowers herself down into the empty seat beside Daeun without
too much trouble. “This is just fine, we can be friends for little while and sit together,” the woman
says with a good-natured chuckle, and Daeun can’t help but give a small twitch of her lips into a
smile in return.
“Thank you,” she says, and settles back into her seat again.
The phone in her hand is a dead weight now, being tumbled over and over and over in her fingers
like a stone in a river, and the motion seems to match with the clack-clack, clack-clack of the
wheels of the train moving against the tracks below and the way her body moves with the motion.
That prickling sensation grows heavier by the minute, almost a physical touch against the side of
her face now that she has nothing to distract from it—and it gives her the creeping feeling that
someone is watching her.
A quick glance around the compartment, however, proves to be fruitless—all eyes around the small
space are directed elsewhere, out the windows or towards the children playing in the aisle or down
towards their own books and phones in hand. When Daeun brings her head full circle back to her
bag, having scanned the space thoroughly, the feeling of eyes on her leaving for the moment even
though the clutch of anxiety remains.
Her fingers fumble for the phone she has, once again, tucked away, tugging it free from her back
and turning it over to turn it on, glancing down at the wallpaper that greets her—no new
notifications in sight. She sighs, drops the device back against her bag and fixes her eyes against
one of the window frames again, catching the flickering shape of buildings passing by as the train
again slows toward a stop.
“—is the Myeongnyun Station. Please move away from the doors and make room for—”
The hustle of bodies moving past is less raucous, only a few people departing the train at the less
popular station. But when the last of the passengers file down the stairs onto the station and the
doors slide closed, Daeun feels—feels the pins and needles against her skin, the distinct presence
of someone looking directly at her over her shoulder that forces her to shift restlessly and give an
uncomfortable glance around the train car again.
Is it only her worry that is driving her to feel so—so paranoid? She picks up her phone for the third
time in as many minutes, this time swiping to unlock the device and again to refresh her
notifications, as if that would make something new suddenly appear despite her crystal-clear
service.
The pattern continues for one more stop before she is forced through an intervention.
“—this is the Pusan National University Station. Please allow passengers to exit the train before
boarding—”
This time, the rush of bodies moving past her is nearly crushing, forcing Daeun to shove her bags
completely under the seat with her feet to keep them from being trampled. The crowd of young,
chattering university students all look eerily familiar as they fill the aisle in front of her seat, and
she doesn’t hesitate to unlock the phone again and open her email application, refreshing and
refreshing the program again until—
“Just call him.” A hand reaches out to cover hers, a soft voice interrupting the buzz of her thoughts,
and Daeun jerks her head up so fast that it hurts.
“What—?” She turns to look for the source of the voice, finding that same elderly woman still
sitting beside her, tiny eyes and wrinkled face distorted by a smile.
“Just call him. You’ve been fretting like that for fifteen minutes.”
“Call who?” she asks, knowing immediately who but wondering with a wave of shock and
suspicion how this woman, this stranger, could possibly know—
“The man you’re waiting on, dear…” her fellow passenger says with a sage nod toward the phone
in Daeun’s hand. “There’s only one reason I’ve ever seen a woman fidget like that, and it’s because
of a man who isn’t calling you back.”
“It’s—” Daeun swallows thickly, her eyes prickling now, her tongue heavy in her mouth, “It’s not a
man, it’s—or, well, it is, but—it’s my—my son—” she hurries to explain, though she isn’t sure
why she feels the need to.
“Then I mean what I said, dear—you should call him. Don’t wait for him to reach out to you, if
he’s got you so upset like this. Men always keep us waiting…” Having said her piece, the older
woman nods her head and settles back into her own seat, focusing her attention on her own book
and leaving Daeun to her own devices.
She turns back, freezing for a moment on the edge of her seat where she had shifted to look back at
her seatmate, then jerking around to sit in the seat properly again, staring down at her phone now,
the screen shining up at her innocently. Should she—?
Yes. Yes—Daeun decides after only a moment of deliberation—yes, she should give him a call.
What is she doing, waiting around for something to change when the thought is just looming on her
mind like this? It’s silly, really.
With a few swipes of her fingers, she brings up her phone contacts and finds the small icon of her
son’s smiling face greeting her from the screen, bright eyes and slightly-overlarge front teeth
apparent even from the image’s small size. Her thumb hovers over the image for a long, tense
moment before she finally presses the call button, and the screen goes dark while her son’s number
appears at the top of the screen, the phone letting her know that it is ‘ dialing…’
She raises her phone to her ear, covering the other with a finger to drown out the clatter and din of
the train car, and her heart thuds heavily against the vice of her chest as she listens for the usual
long riiiiiing—riiiiiing—riiiiiiing on the other end of the line.
The sound never comes—within moments, there is a click, or—perhaps a sort of clattering noise?
through the speaker, followed immediately by a heartbreakingly familiar voice.
“—Hi, you’ve reached Jeon Jungkook. I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave me a—”
Daeun sighs and drops the phone away from her ear, hanging up with a finger jabbed to the red
button at the bottom of her screen with more force than was strictly necessary.
“No luck?” Her seatmate asks, distantly curious. A glance to her side shows that the older woman
hasn’t looked up from her book, but has clearly been sitting and watching Daeun with some mild
interest.
She sighs, taps her foot against her grocery bags nervously. “No luck,” she agrees.
“No harm in trying again, is there? Maybe he just didn’t hear your call…” The woman suggests,
tone idle and unconcerned, but her eyes don’t seem to be moving across the currently open page of
the book in front of her.
Daeun’s ears have started to ring, the prickling at her neck now returned full-force like sandpaper
to her skin. It doesn’t take much to click on Jungkook’s smiling photo again and load up another
call, but her arm feels so very heavy when she drags the phone back to her ear.
Again, no ringing, no sound on the line at all aside from the tell-tale click that signals the
beginning of a recorded message, then her son’s bright voice greeting her again, trying to sound so
very professional.
“—Hi, you’ve reached Jeon Jungkook. I can’t come to the phone right—”
When she hangs up the phone this time, the elderly woman to her side makes no further comment,
just slowly turns her page and gives the tiniest of nods when Daeun spares her a glance.
“—this is the Jangjeondong station. Please be sure to collect all of your personal belongings
before exiting the—”
The intercom interrupts her thoughts and she jumps to her feet with a jolt, a glance out the window
confirming that the train is, indeed, slowing to a stop outside her own neighborhood. She hurries to
bend down, nearly knocking her head against the support pole beside her former seat while
gathering up all of her belongings in a haphazard collection along her arms.
Her bags swing wildly as she rushes to join the line of people clambering down the stairs to leave
the train and step out onto the platform, only looking back when the familiar voice of that older
passenger calls out to her from behind, “—good luck, dear!”
She manages a small wave with a hand weighted down with bags just before she all but jumps
down onto the station platform, stumbling just slightly before righting herself again. Phone
clutched desperately in her hand, Daeun makes a beeline for the first empty bench that she spots
and dumps her bags across its wooden surface to free her hands up once more. ‘One more time,’
she thinks, ‘one more—’
“—Hi, you’ve reached Jeon Jungkook—”
Goddamn it. She almost throws the device back into her bag in frustration, hand freezing just
before letting go when she spots something—
She brings the phone back to her face, taps the icon for a different app, and watches her email load
back onto the screen. It takes a moment of fumbling, trying to remember when she sent it, but—
Yes, there—the email her husband helped her send just a few nights ago, her son’s contact
information at the top of the page. Always a more traditional woman, it took some coaxing on the
part of her friends and family to convince her to get this new phone, and considerably more for her
husband to finally push her to let him link all of her accounts into the device. She still doesn’t
completely understand how to make all of it work, but now that it’s been set up for her, it’s easy
enough to scroll backwards through her inbox until she sees a familiar name on her screen.
“Hey, thanks for your email,” she reads under her breath from the automatic reply that she
received back from her son’s email address, “—won’t have access to my email—orientation retreat
for—” She skims faster, scrolling down the screen to find what she is looking for, “—I will answer
any emails — when I return on—on Monday the 13th.”
A glance up at the top of her screen reminds her that yes, it is, in fact, well past the 13th—already
the 18th, to be exact.
“If you need to reach me—please contact the school directly at—”
Ah, yes— there. She hurries to click the phone number underlined in the body of the email,
remembering what her husband told her about how the little blue hyperlinks work. Just as she
hoped, the phone once again fades to black, the number now highlighted at the top of the screen,
and her heart does another little leap when the phone indicates that it is once again ‘dialing…’
This time, when she raises the speaker to her ear, she hears the riiiiiing that the had expected
before, and it carries on for three long repetitions before the noise is suddenly cut off, and a bright
voice cuts across the line.
“—thank you for calling AHPCS, this is Jihyo speaking—how may I help you?”
“Um, yes—hello, this is, um, Jeon Daeun?” She shakes her head at herself when she catches the
way her sentence tilts up at the end in a question. “I—um, my son, Jeon Jungkook, he’s an
instructor there at your school?”
“Yes, hello Mrs. Jeon,” the young woman answers smoothly, sounding unsurprised to hear from
Daeun, “What can I help you with today?”
“Well, I—you see, I’ve been trying to reach my son, but I think his phone may be broken, or out of
service—I don’t know…”
“I see…”
“Is he there in the building today? I know it’s the weekend, so I’m not sure if—”
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeon. There are no faculty members in the building today, the staff is all
home for the weekend break.”
“Of course, well…” she hesitates for a moment, then soldiers on, “Can you please pass on a
message for me?”
“I’d be happy to. What would you like me to include in your message?”
“Please—” She swallows thickly, not realizing that tears had begun to form in her eyes until she
feels them cling to her eyelashes. “Please just let him know I’m trying to reach him? I can leave
you my number, if that would be—?”
“I believe I have it here, Mrs. Jeon, on the caller ID. Is this the best number for you to be reached
at?”
“Yes, yes, this is my cell, this is fine—you can call me here, or have him call me—”
“I’ll be sure to relay your message as soon as possible, Mrs. Jeon, that’s no problem.” Jihyo says,
her voice not unkind but certainly firm as she cuts Daeun off again. “Is there anything more I can
do for you this evening?”
Daeun freezes, lips pursed, feeling a bit—well—backed into a corner. Her neck feels tight, heat
simmering under her skin. “Well—no, I—I suppose that’s all—”
“Alright, well...thank you for your call, Mrs. Jeon. I will pass on your message first thing tomorrow
morning. Have a wonderful night, ma’am.”
Knowing a dismissal when she hears one, Daeun mutters back a soft, “You too…” and only has to
wait for a single second before she hears a loud beep-beep-beep in her ear that indicates that the
call has been disconnected. When she brings the arm holding her phone back in front of her, the
sudden light from the backlit screen illuminates her chest and face, bringing into sharp relief just
how dark it has started to become around her—the sun having slipped behind the tall buildings of
the Busan skyline in the distance.
It is with a sort of muted detachment that she drops the phone back into her bag at last, not even
bothering to lock the screen. Her hands busy themselves with gathering together the plastic bags
that she had unceremoniously dropped to the bench earlier, her ears ringing as she tugs them onto
her arms. Looking around herself, her eyes are almost unseeing as she tries to take in her
surroundings through her stunned, foggy mind, feet eventually taking charge and bringing her
along the familiar path in the direction of her apartment building.
The sound of her footsteps echoing off of the concrete sidewalk and the gray walls around her
sound strikingly loud, making it clear just how alone she is as night begins to approach—and every
single block along the way, that sensation—that itchy, needling feeling of eyes on her, someone
watching, tracing her movements—that sensation clings to her, dogging her steps for the entire
journey to her front door.
CCTV—HANNAM BRIDGE—CAMERA 1493 08-18-18 7:44PM
It’s cold, even with his jacket tucked up around his ears, a scarf wrapped beneath his collar to ward
off the chill. He tries to keep a pout from his face, but the sudden drop in temperature has him
feeling on edge. It’s not even that it’s truly cold- cold, he supposes, but he hates the rain and the
way it clings to his skin and leaves him chilled even on a relatively warm night. Fall is rapidly
descending, and it makes this task more unpleasant than usual.
His dress shoes make his footsteps click loudly against the concrete as he makes his way down the
side of the road, weaving easily through the scattered passerbys—though he’s never been one to
enjoy crowds, it’s easy enough to ignore the brush of bodies past him when he’s focused on other,
more important things.
He glances down at his phone, the map displayed on the screen pointing him off to the right, down
an alley between two buildings. He’s never tried this particular part of town before, but one look at
the outdated, crumbling structures around him and one whiff of the rank odor that seems to cling to
the air—no doubt from the long line of dumpsters along the side of the alley, but also from the
piles of trash that is littered across the concrete around them and the puddles of what he hopes is
rainwater that he steps over—and he knows that he has come to the right place. Though the street
outside had been lit by lamps and signs from storefronts, warding off the darkness even after the
sun had sunk below the horizon, the light doesn’t quite make it between the buildings, leaving the
space oppressively dark in comparison, and he reluctantly holds his phone out to light his way. The
rain has done little to help wash the alley clean of its layers and layers of grime and disrepair, the
dereliction that spreads from one cross-street to the other in this abandoned, liminal place.
Moreover, he finds his shoulders hunching at the obvious signs of vagrancy around him—broken
bottles crunch beneath his shoes, droppings from some sort of feral animal scattered here and
there, the walls that stretch on one side of him completely covered with graffiti that had been laid
out, painted over, and laid out again. He looks completely out of place, he knows, in his nicely
fitted jacket and collared shirt, tie firmly secured around his collar, shoes shining through the mud
that has begun to cling to their soles and sides. Still, he holds his shoulders tall and keeps his eyes
sharp, scanning the narrow, darkened space around him through the mist of rain that makes it
through the gap in the rooftops above.
One glance above his head reveals the skeletal frames of fire escapes, rusted, some with clothes
hanging over the railings, others piled high with various boxes and furniture as a makeshift form of
storage—but all are empty, no eyes gazing down at him that he can see. He drops his head back
down to the cement, keeps his gaze focused there, hands tucking back into his pockets for warmth.
He almost misses his target, in the end—what with how briskly he had taken to walking, he almost
stumbles right over the feet that stick out into the walkway from behind a dumpster off to his right.
He manages to step between the man’s legs just in time, barely keeping himself from tripping over
the limbs left akimbo before him. He rights himself, straightens his jacket and clears his throat
before turning around and squatting down beside the prone figure so he can see the other man
properly. What he finds is an unpleasant sight—a sallow face, eyes closed in what could be sleep
but seems to be pain, a threadbare coat clutched around a thin body that is shivering from the damp
air. The man is hunched over his legs, arms wound around his middle, and it’s a hard thing to look
at.
He reaches out a hand and places it gently, oh-so-carefully, on the man’s shoulder, gingerly
jostling him awake. The man’s eyes fly open and his arms raise up in front of his body in a
defensive move, legs jerking as he’s startled by the figure above him in the dark and the bright
light from the cell phone shining in his eyes. The other man raises a hand to shield his eyes, and he
takes pity on the stranger and turns the phone down towards the ground, leaving the light as a soft
glow between them. He’s mildly surprised when the other man, older and weary, doesn’t put up
much of a fight once his surprise wears off and he’s able to—somewhat, through his blown pupils
and hazy eyes—focus up on the face in front of him.
“Who—who’reyou?” The man grumbles, voice raw and gravelly.
“A friend,” he answers, giving the man’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He watches as the man’s
eyes flicker to the hand that is laying on him and then back up to his face, expression wary and
distant. “I’m here to help you…”
“I don’ need...whatever ‘ur sellin’...” the man grumbles again, shrugging his shoulders with a huff
and nearly dislodging the grip on his body.
He remains firm and unyielding, but keeps his expression neutral and body language as non-
threatening as he can, leaving a considerable distance between the two of them despite his grip.
“I’m not selling anything, my friend...but I do have a few things for you, if you’d like them?”
He gestures with the hand holding his phone to the bag over his shoulder, letting the light reveal
the briefcase he’s been carrying with him. This clearly piques the stranger’s interest, the man
scrunching up his face suspiciously even as he lowers his hands and crosses his arms over his
chest. “...what’re y’ offerin’?”
He feels his lips turn up into a small smile but otherwise keeps his reaction as neutral as he can, not
wanting to startle the older man. He takes his hand from the stranger’s shoulder at last and slides
the bag down his own arm, laying it across his bent knees so he can unfasten the buckles and slide
the briefcase open at last. It’s a bit difficult with the phone still clutched in his other hand, but he
manages to reach inside and pull out one of the neatly prepared bags that he has stashed inside. The
stranger looks wary still when he hands it over, but grabs at it greedily all the same, clutches the
plastic bag to his chest with a hunted look in his eyes, as if expecting it to be taken away from him
immediately. When he makes no move to do so, only sitting and waiting patiently, the older man
scrambles to open the bag and dump out the contents inside—then sits and stares down at his gift in
shock.
The contents of the bag, now spilled across the stranger’s legs, include a neatly wrapped sandwich,
a bottle of water, a small package of toiletries, and a small neck pillow. Sitting atop the pile,
however, is a much more important gift—a small clip of money, several hundred thousand won
from the looks of it.
“W-What—?” The man reaches for the money immediately, eyes alight in excitement, but as he
thumbs through the bills to inspect them, he squints his eyes up again in suspicion—his emotions a
bit of a rollercoaster, likely from the alcohol that can still be smelled on his breath. “Issit real?”
“It’s very real,” he reassures the older man while closing his bag again, “and it’s for you. Take it
and get yourself taken care of, hm?”
It’s hard not to smile when the stranger’s jaw drops open in awe, looking up at him with hazy eyes
that have gone wide as saucers while his soiled hands nearly tear through the bag as they grip the
plastic tight. “Y’ mean it? Yer jus’ givin’ this t’ me?”
“Of course, my friend. I’d like to see you sleeping somewhere nicer than this for a while—how
does that sound?” He pats the man’s knee consolingly, pleased when the stranger immediately
starts nodding his head. “Yes, sounds good?”
“Soun’s great ,” the man agrees easily, his posture completely open now.
“Well then, how about this—” He reaches inside the front of his jacket, fingers slipping into a
hidden pocket to pull out a small business card, which he holds out for the man to take with a
steady hand. The stranger grunts and drops the bag to his lap—never letting go of the money with
his other hand—to take the offered card, looking it over carefully.
“—the hell is ‘The Institute’?” He asks after squinting at the card for some time, voice taking a
now-familiar turn towards skepticism.
Understandable, but still. “The Institute of Higher Purpose. It’s a place you can go to get some rest,
get cleaned up. Maybe even get some new clothes?”
“Pah...sounds like rehab to me,” the man scoffs, crossing his arms again, the money firmly
clutched in one fist. “I ain’t interested in—”
“I’ve never heard of a rehabilitation center giving out money before, have you?” He asks, tone a
little playful. He gets to his feet, looming over the stranger now, giving power to his words. “In
fact, here—” He reaches into his coat again, pulls out his wallet and retrieves another two
₩50,000 bills that he promptly hands over to the wide-eyed man below. The older man scrambles
to his feet and grabs at the money, letting the other items from the bag fall from his lap to the
floor. “Y—Yer serious?”
“Very.”
“Who—” the man rocks back and forth on unsteady legs, using the garbage bin beside him to keep
himself upright. “Who are you?”
He ignores the stunned question for a second and bends down to pick up the food and scattered
items from the ground, only answering when he presses the wrapped sandwich into the older man’s
hand. “You can call me Mr. Min.”
“Mr. Min—”
“Like I said, I’m a friend.” Yoongi pats the man good-naturedly on the arm before taking a step
back and straightening his bag on his shoulder. “But I have to be going now, I just wanted to stop in
to check on you.”
“What—? But yer—”
“It was nice to see you, but I have to go, my apologies.” Yoongi bows his head respectfully to the
older man, who stands taller than him now. “Have a nice night, my friend, and try to get
somewhere safe and warm for me, okay? The Institute is always open, and the address is on the
back of the card—we’d love to see you there.”
The man stares after him, dumbfounded, as Yoongi gives him a small little wave and a smile
before turning away down the alley the opposite direction that he came, towards the streetlights
beckoning him on the other side. From behind him, the alley is quiet for several long moments
aside from the echoes of his own footprints crunching against the concrete and dirt, but he
suddenly hears the stranger call out from behind him, voice a little strangled and stunned, “—hey
—thank you!”
‘You’re welcome, ’ he thinks, but doesn’t look back. As he steps out into the open street from
between the two buildings, he sees that the rain has started to let up, the streets alight with more
cars and people milling about in front of storefronts and restaurants. He pulls up his phone in front
of his face again, moving on to the next neighborhood on his list and plugging it into his map. The
directions point him off to the left, and he starts walking briskly through the crowd, taking a deep
breath and straightening his shoulders on his way.
General Housing—Hallway—First Floor 08-19-18 12:11AM
His arrival at home is a quiet affair. He opens his front door only after wiping off his wet shoes in
the hall outside, shedding his damp coat immediately. The apartment is dark, but he doesn’t bother
turning on the lights until after his now-empty bag has been hung on a hook by the door and his
coat slung over a nearby chair. He stumbles over his throw rug on his way to turn on a lamp, and
the moment he catches himself with a hand on the wall, he hears a noise from the living room.
He pauses, listening attentively—just barely able to catch the sound of quiet breathing from the
room beyond. His lips immediately turn to a disapproving frown, and he flicks the switch on his
lamp with every intention of immediately crossing his arms over his chest, ready to chastise the
person he imagines is waiting for him in the dark, the words already on the tip of his tongue—
Only for the words to die on his lips before they even leave his mouth. The man sitting in his
living room, feet flat on the floor, elbows pressed to his knees with his fingers laced thoughtfully in
front of him, is the last person he expected to find in his apartment.
“Yoongi,” the younger man says by way of greeting, his voice soft and even.
“Namjoon,” Yoongi returns with a nod of his head. Though it seems wildly unusual to find the
nurse here, in his apartment of all places, a sight he never thought he’d see again—it’s no mystery
as to how the younger man found his way inside, given that there is no lock on the front door, or
on any door in the building for that matter.
“I’m surprised to see you,” he says as he turns his back on his colleague and makes his way into
his small kitchen, hands busying themselves with pulling out everything he would need to make
himself a cup of tea.
“You were out canvassing?” he hears Namjoon ask, footsteps following him from the living room.
“It’s an important task,” he answers shortly, keeping his eyes trained on the kettle in front of him,
grabbing a pot of tea leaves, filling a strainer with them.
“I know, but—” The younger man seems to be struggling with what he needs to say, and Yoongi
turns to watch him shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other, now standing at the edge of the
kitchen where it bleeds into his open living space.
“Take a seat, Namjoon…” Yoongi orders, though his voice manages not to sound too harsh, only
leaving little room for argument. Namjoon looks almost relieved as he slinks down into one of the
chairs beside Yoongi’s small kitchen table, a small luxury the teacher has been afforded. Yoongi
waits for the water to stop boiling, pours it into his own cup then grabs for another and fills it as
well, before bringing them both to the table and taking a seat of his own.
“Tell me what I can do for you, Namjoon...you and I both know this isn’t a social call.”
Namjoon seems to struggle with that for a moment, hands flexing around the heated ceramic of the
mug he takes from Yoongi. After a delay, eyes cast down to the tabletop, he answers, “I know I
messed up.”
“Yes,” Yoongi agrees, not bothering to mince words. They were both there. He knows all-too-well
what Namjoon has done.
“I don’t completely understand, but—” Namjoon runs a hand through his light hair, takes a deep
breath, “I know I spoke out of line, to you—I wanted to apologize.”
“Hmm…”
“—And I, I know you know—about being my Guide. Seok—Mr. Kim spoke to you about it
yesterday. I should have come to talk to you about it sooner…”
“Yes.” Yoongi takes a deep sip of his tea, enjoying the way it burns at his throat.
That startles a laugh out of the younger man, though the sound is a little hollow, a little manic at
the edges. “I just—I know this level is supposed to—that there aren’t supposed to be any secrets
between us.”
Yoongi hums thoughtfully in agreement, his eyes trained on Namjoon’s face. The dim lighting
only makes the shadows under the younger man’s eyes more pronounced—Yoongi doesn’t know
that he’s ever seen the nurse look so worse for wear, not in all the long years they’ve known each
other. He wonders if Namjoon is sleeping at all these days.
“So I—” Namjoon goes on, hands twitching against the mug of tea that Yoongi offered him, still
sitting untouched on the table in front of him. Namjoon looks down at the dark liquid as though it
might offer him all of the answers he seeks. “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?” Yoongi’s interest is piqued, and he leans forward slightly, tea set down on the table as well
so that he can rest his chin on his hands.
“Or, well—not a, not a confession , exactly. I just—I need to admit something.” He pauses, and
Yoongi doesn’t make a sound. “I’m confused. Afraid.” Namjoon says, and Yoongi takes a deep
breath through his nose, but doesn’t dare interrupt. “I’m having doubts—I feel like—like I’ve lost
my way…”
“Is that what brought you here, tonight?” Yoongi asks at last, dropping his hands down to the table
again. Namjoon seems to deflate in relief that the teacher didn’t immediately start questioning him,
or yelling at him, something they’ve all come to expect.
“Yes, yes—I—” Namjoon pauses, takes a deep breath, tries to gather his thoughts while dragging
his cup to his lips at last, taking an overlarge gulp of the still steaming liquid and coughing when it
burns at his tongue. “I—ahem—I want to make things right, I want...clarity, I suppose? I know
I’ve been reluctant, but—”
Yoongi has to bite back a snort at that, thinking on the last time he heard that same admission and
the irony of hearing it again now.
“—I want to do it. I came here to ask—” Namjoon sets his cup down, pushes it away, looks at
Yoongi more seriously than before with a furrowed brow and determination in his thin eyes. “I
want to continue my development. I want to move up to the next level. We both know I should be
there already, but—” He huffs, looking for all the world as though his next words are the hardest
thing he could possibly say. “Will you help me? Tonight? I don’t want to wait any longer.”
Yoongi considers the younger man carefully for a long moment, silence falling between them in
the wake of Namjoon’s admission. The expression he finds on his colleague’s face is enough to
convince him—he knows the determined clench of Namjoon’s jaw, recognizes the eagerness he
finds behind the younger man’s dark gaze and marvels at just how familiar it seems. At long last,
he offers Namjoon a nod from across the table, succinct and silent, but the younger man acts as
though he’s agreed to make all of his dreams come true. Namjoon slides down in his chair,
boneless in relief.
“Thank you…” he sighs, and Yoongi stands to his feet, nodding for Namjoon to follow him out of
his kitchen. He leaves the other man standing in the living room, waving him off as he tries to
follow to the bedroom space behind a dividing curtain on the far side of the room.
“I’ll be right back,” he calls over his shoulder as he moves towards a large wooden chest at the
front of the bed, eyes skimming over the crest emblazoned on the top.
“Get undressed, Namjoon.” His voice is loud enough to be heard across the space between them,
and he listens for the rustling that confirms that his new student is following his directions
immediately before unlatching the top of the chest before him and swinging the lid open to search
inside for everything that they will need.
General Housing—Hallway—Second Floor 08-19-18 1:47AM
“Shhh, shh...it’s okay, kitty—we’re home now,” he reassures the creature under his arm, sticking a
few fingers through the soft carrying case he has wedged against his side. The yowling stops, if
only for a moment so that a rough, wet tongue can lap at the offered digits. He smiles down at his
new friend while shouldering open the front door to his apartment, dropping his key card and
wallet onto a table beside the door while he stumbles and swings his leg back to kick the door
closed.
A disgruntled silence greets him when he rights himself, toeing off his shoes before finally
bringing the strap off his shoulder and raising the carrier up to eye-level at last. He’s greeted by
renewed chirping and yowling the moment he meets the pair of green eyes staring back at him, and
he chuckles in understanding.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry—I know it was a long journey, hold on,” and he reaches up to unzip the
front of the case and slides an arm inside. The cat is small and docile enough to allow itself to be
grabbed around the middle, and he drags it from its confines as gently as he can, cradling the small
creature to his chest while he drops the case to the floor and kicks it away.
“There there,” he says as he scratches his fingers to the top of the cat’s head and watches it melt
into the touch, meowing turning into a soft rumble in the cat’s chest as it relaxes. “That’s better,
isn’t it?” The cat doesn’t make a sound in response, but the way it slumps over in his grasp is
answer enough.
“Okay,” he huffs, looking around the small apartment space that has been designated to him—a
single room, which he’s grateful for, a luxury he understands is only afforded to those who deserve
it, staff members included. He pads over to the small couch that breaks up the space between his
bed and the kitchen and sets the cat down, watching as it bounces, wide-eyed, before catching its
balance again and immediately sniffing around the new space. Its collar is white, contrasting nicely
with its dark grey fur, and he can clearly see where a nametag hangs from the front, a name etched
into the shiny metal.
‘Mochi,’ it reads. On the back, ‘Property of Jeon Jungkook. If found, please return to—’
‘I’ll have to get that updated tomorrow,’ he thinks, but for tonight it’s enough that he’s finished all
of his errands. He knows it was a rare bit of leave, to be allowed outside the gates so soon after
arriving, but clearly his tasks were important—and that’s what matters. He hums happily down at
the cat, watching it scurry around the couch and under the cushions for a few seconds before
resolving to finish his last trip back outside for the night.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells the cat, who pointedly ignores him. He slowly creeps back to the door,
not bothering to put his shoes back on for such a short trip, and slips outside without disturbing his
new house guest at all. The trip down to the car is a short one, especially with his arms now free to
carry the litterbox and cat food upstairs in one trip. He doesn’t bother locking the car door behind
him—what would be the point?
When he returns to his apartment and swings the door open after fumbling with the handle with the
end of his elbow for a moment, he finds the living room now completely empty. The litterbox is set
up in the corner beside the one window, the food and water bowls lined up beside the small kitchen
sink. He stands back to admire his handiwork happily for a moment, nodding happily, before
returning to the apartment at large to search for his new four-legged friend.
“Mochi... Mooooochi…” he calls out into the small space, looking beneath the couch cushions
first, then under and behind the frame, but the little creature is nowhere to be found. The apartment
is suspiciously quiet as well, and he casts his eyes over to the window for a brief worried moment,
but the frame is securely closed—and locked, this one entrance, to ensure that no little paws can
work their way outside.
His feet make soft thuds against the carpet as he makes his way back into the space separated off
for the bedroom, a thin floor-to-ceiling curtain dividing the room into two, but no small animals
dart out of the room at his approach. When he turns around the curtain, he finally sees for himself
exactly why —the cat is now curled up atop one of his pillows, body bent into a circle with its
paws resting over its tail, eyes closed in the quick sleep that comes so easily to felines.
It’s impossible not to fight the sight adorable, but he can’t focus for too long on the little creature
now that he’s found it—not when something much more important has caught his attention.
Laying across the bedspread, just beneath the pillows and the cat, is a bright red envelope that has
clearly been left there for him. He can see his name written across the front in neat calligraphy,
‘Mr. Jung Hoseok.’ He hesitates for only a moment before scrambling to grab for it, jostling the cat
in the process, who only lifts his head to give Hoseok an aggravated little chirp before curling back
into the pillow again. Hoseok drops down onto the mattress with a little bounce, the envelope held
gingerly between his fingers in front of him.
‘It—It could be nothing, it’s—probably fine—’ he tells himself, but it doesn’t stop his fingers from
shaking as he tears the top of the red paper open and pulls out the neatly folded letter inside.
‘Mr. Jung,’ it reads, ‘it has been brought to my attention that since arriving in our community, your
contributions have been insubstantial. While your time and work with the Academy is valuable, it
cannot supercede your commitment to our cause.’
Fuck.
‘In order to remedy this situation, please report to the Institute promptly at 8 o’clock tomorrow,
whereupon you will be asked to hand over your documentation for the week. Punctuality and full
cooperation will ensure that you are released in a timely manner to enjoy the rest of your weekend
break as you see fit.’
Oh, fuck.
‘I look forward to hearing about your progress. We expect great things from you’ And the letter is
signed in uncomfortably familiar handwriting, ‘Principal Kim Seokjin.’
There’s nothing more to the letter, just a mostly blank page that leaves his mind reeling. There’s
nothing more to the letter, but he knows exactly what it means. Someone reported on him. He’s
about to be Evaluated .
He remembers being warned about Evaluations, but it was over two months ago, and he’s been
lucky enough to avoid one so far—what could he have possibly done to warrant this? He searches
back through the past day, week, month —trying to find any instance in recent memory where he
might have slipped up, might have said something out of line. The only thing that comes to mind—
with a sick twist of his stomach—were his unfortunate words to the principal earlier in the week,
his doubt , so public—but—
No. Wait.
His eyes turn, slowly, to the nightstand beside the bed, where a single, innocuous black notebook
is still laying where he left it behind that morning, a pen untouched beside it. He feels a swoop of
guilt in his gut at the sight, the hours and hours he spent working on arranging Jungkook’s affairs
all day now seeming like quite the mistake.
If he thought his hand was quivering before, it’s nothing compared to the way his fingers shake
when he delicately plucks the notebook from the tabletop and lets it fall open on his lap. He skims
through the entries carefully—reads them once, and then reads them again—but—he can’t find
any discrepancy, doesn’t see any lack in the numbers, or the frequency—
But perhaps. Perhaps it wasn’t enough anyway, maybe he misunderstood, or—
Hoseok snaps the book closed, closes his eyes. The cat beside him lets out a small squeak as it
stretches. He moves the notebook back to the nightstand and deliberately sets the pen back on top
of it, ready to be used as soon as he needs it. With great care, he slides a hand beneath Mochi’s
stomach and lifts the cat gently from the pillow, its limp body going willingly with the movement.
He sets the creature down and gives it a soft pat to send it scurrying off in the other direction,
leaving him alone in the bedroom space.
With a sigh, Hoseok slides to his feet and makes quick work of divesting himself of his clothes,
shirt and pants being dropped to the floor haphazardly, his underwear and even his socks quickly
following suit. Once naked, he climbs back up onto the bed and lays his body across the center,
limbs spread wide and unashamed—just the way he knows he’s supposed to be. He takes a deep
breath, centers himself as best as he can, and only—only—when he feels his heart rate drop back
down to normal, his anxiety shedding away with each deep breath that he takes—only then does he
drop a hand down between his legs and wrap his fingers around his cock.
Front Office—Principal—First Floor 08-19-18 2:38AM
His office is quiet, as it should be. The door closes behind him with a firm snap, and the silence
becomes as thick as the walls around him. He stands in the dark for a moment, basking in the
security of this one, simple space he has carved out for himself, the only light from the bay of
windows that allow him to look out onto the school grounds, lit by sparsely scattered streetlamps
and nothing more. As he walks towards his desk, the heavy falls of his feet sound overloud as they
echo off of the elegantly carved wood of the walls and ceiling, making his movements resonate
powerfully. He sinks down into the leather of his chair, caged in by the large, winged back above
his head, and something in his muscles finally releases.
Almost reluctantly, he raises his hand far enough to flip a switch and turn on the lamp that hovers
over his desk, bathing a small circle of space around him in golden warmth, and it’s as if something
inside him switches back on as well, his mind settling into focus. Before him, his secretary has laid
out a collection of envelopes, large and small, neatly organized for his perusal—and though the
space between his legs feels almost cold without her presence, he appreciates the attention to detail
she pays to making his life easier even on her way out the door.
The first letter is tossed away immediately, an invitation to an event he has no intention of ever
patronizing, The second follows suit, this time a catalog for textbooks the school has no use for.
One benefit of running one’s own educational facility is the ability to decide the curriculum
oneself — he smiles almost sardonically as the papers fall to the bottom of the trash can beside
him. A few of the letters are addressed to ‘The Academy of Higher Purpose,’ others to ‘Mr. Kim
Seokjin,’ but he discards them all the same.
It is with great surprise, then, when he reaches the end of the pile and finds a single, small
envelope—more square than the rest of the letters, as though it comes from a set of personal
stationary. The envelope bears no return address—no address at all, in fact—the front of the letter
completely blank. As he turns it over, he finds that the package is not, as he expected, sealed shut
in any way, the flap tucked inside the throat to hold it closed and nothing more.
He weighs the paper very carefully in his hands for a moment, but it feels light as a feather, easy to
dangle between two of his fingers and therefore unlikely to hold anything particularly harmful, so
he dares to slip a finger inside and pull the flap open. Upon upending the package over his desk, a
single photograph falls out and lands face-down against the wood. It is with a rapidly mounting
sense of unease that he plucks it from the desk and turns it over, holding it up to the light—and
almost drops the damn thing in shock.
What he finds reflected up at him—under the glow of his desk lamp, from the worn and faded
surface of the photograph—is his own face. More importantly, a face he has long forgotten—a
youthful face, bright and shining, smiling widely. And he is not alone in this photograph, oh no. He
would give anything to be alone, lying on the grass that stretches beneath him in the image, a
dozen years and a million miles away from where he now sits. But for all of his attempts, one
cannot erase the past—and this photograph is proof. How it still exists, he doesn’t know—but he
can remedy that immediately, he thinks.
His free hand dives into the desk drawer in front of him, fumbling frantically for—ah, there. A
lighter, which he drags up to his face. The click of the wheel in the cartridge sounds almost
ominous, as does the soft whoosh of a fire bursting from its tip. The photograph is immediately lit
aflame, and he holds onto it as long as he can before dropping it down into the trash can beside his
desk along with the rest of the mail he had discarded before.
On his feet in an instant, he slams a finger to the intercom on his desk, then grabs for his coat from
a nearby chair.
“—Yes, Mr. Kim?” The voice of the receptionist filters through the speaker after only a slight
delay.
“Call Jeongyeon to be up and ready to meet me immediately.”
“I—O-Of course, sir—” the young woman stutters, clearly taken aback by his request, which only
serves to fuel the anger rising-rising-rising in his chest. “—should I tell her to bring herself here, or
—”
“No, call my car and make sure the driver knows to stop at her apartment on the way.”
“Of course, sir. May I ask for the destination, to program your route?”
“Gwangju,” he says shortly, “And make sure they know to expect my arrival.”
“Right away, sir, of course—”
He hits a button on the intercom again, and Jihyo’s voice disappears into silence. With his coat
properly buttoned and a scarf tucked neatly behind the collar for good measure, he marches straight
to the door and wrenches it open, leaving it flung wide in his wake as he stomps down the hall
towards the front entrance of the building.
Behind him, even with the desk lamp turned off, there is a faint glow that lights the space beside
his desk, emanating from the fire still consuming the paper inside the metal receptacle. The flames
flicker and crack as they eat their way along the edges, slowly destroying all evidence of the photo
and what it reveals: a single intimate moment, captured by a stroke of luck, as a young Kim Seokjin
sits in a clearing in a forest, his arms slung around another man who has his lips pressed to the
Principal’s cheek as it curves into a smile. The young man beside him looks equally green around
the gills, happy, full of life. They paint quite the picture together—laughing, bodies intertwined,
and—clear to anyone that would dare to look—very, very much in love.
Kim Household—Kitchen—First Floor 08-19-18 9:17AM
Breakfast is mostly a quiet affair. It isn’t that talking is banned, per se, but more that quiet
contemplation first thing in the morning is strongly encouraged . Though he would rather be firmly
ensconced in his bed, covers tucked up around his chin, he is sitting dutifully at the kitchen table
along with every other member of the household. His shoulders are pressed in tight by bodies on
either side, a little too broad to properly fit alongside the other teenagers crammed onto the long
bench on one end of the table.
Across from him, a woman, much older than most of the table’s occupants, has her head bowed—
hands on either side of her gripping the thighs of those who sit directly next to her. Most everyone
else at the table has their heads bowed as well, a respectful sign as she leads the group in their
morning invocation. Her voice is low, practiced, as she recites words that he has known by heart
from long before he knew his own name.
“—we take of this food to fortify our bodies—”
“—may we be strong.” comes the chorus of replies from all around the table, his own mouth
following the familiar shape of the words. This is the only way that they break their silence for the
short meal.
“—we take of this drink to quench our thirst—”
“—may we be full.”
“—may we never be left wanting.”

His thigh itches. Slowly, very slowly, he pulls his hand back from the thigh beside him to drag a
nail across the prickling skin through his shorts, just barely easing the discomfort.
“—may we always hunger for satisfaction.”
The words start to spin in circle, contradicting each other. He pauses in his recitation of the next
line— ”may we always thirst for the truth” —to lick his lips, digging his thumb into the itch along
his skin, realizing belatedly that the sensation comes at the edge of a tender spot in his muscle.
“—may we always take our fill.”
The pain catches him off guard, making him flinch and jerk his hand away—much more obviously
than he anticipated. Across the table, a head shoots up to lodge a glare at him, the woman beside
the speaker squeezing her neighbors’ leg to alert her, and the chanting immediately halts.
“Kim Taehyung.”
Oh— fuck me.
“Yes...mom?” He asks, hand freezing where he has left it on his own lap. He can almost feel the
oppressive weight of the older woman’s glare, the way she bears down on him with her expression
alone, rising from the table to tower over him and everyone who sits around him. There comes a
soft murmur from the group, a few hushed voices daring to pass words back and forth at the end of
the table opposite where Taehyung sits. He immediately has to fight the urge to hunch in on
himself, elbows locking at his sides.
“Just what do you think you’re doing.” It isn’t phrased as a question, because there is no
expectation of an answer. Taehyung sits silently, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his
chest as his pulse rises with every second that he can feel eyes turning towards him.
“Do you think we don’t see when you interrupt the flow, Taehyung.” Again, not a question. He
bites at the inside of his cheek, fighting back the words that he wishes to voice as much as he
would give anything to swallow them whole—knowing that any answer is the wrong answer. More
importantly, he is under no delusion—not even for a second—that they wouldn’t see, that they
haven’t seen all along. They are always watching.
“We are always watching,” she says, echoing his thoughts exactly. “If you are unwilling to be a
part of the connection, you will be removed from it. Get up.”
His limbs feel heavy like stones as he rises to his feet, left hand sliding from the lap of his other
neighbor—who sniffs disapprovingly at him and jerks her own hand away from his leg as he rises
as though burned by it—hunched over as he lifts one foot and then the other to clamber over the
bench and stand behind it to wait for further instruction.
“You will stand outside the door until breakfast is over, Taehyung. You will stand alone outside
and think about what you have done. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mom.” His answer comes immediately this time, the question at the end of her sentence clear
as day now.
“What do you have to say to your brothers and sisters before you go?”
He swallows thickly, head dropping low as if he can avoid looking any of them in the eye—but he
still sees them along the way, the sea of faces around the room, more than twenty pairs of eyes
looking up at him from faces that look nothing like his own—noses and lips and ears the wrong
shape entirely, but they are his brothers and sisters still.
“I—” He has to clear his throat to rid himself of the ball of guilt that has settled in his windpipe,
making it hard to force the words out—harder still to find anything to say that would explain away
his actions. His mind has been cloudy, as of late—he shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have let it wander
—
“I’m sorry, everyone—I—I have not been getting the sleep I require.” He settles on sleep, an easy
explanation—easy enough, despite the looks of disapproval he can immediately feel turned to him
from every corner of the room.
“And what is the consequence of your actions, Taehyung?” The woman prompts expectantly. From
where his head hangs between his shoulders, he can still see the way her arms cross over her chest.
He feels so small—
“I—I am not—able to perform at my best—if I am not keeping up with my personal maintenance

—” He stammers out, the words getting harder and harder to form while the other children in the
kitchen turn from hushed whispers to outright talking behind their hands, the sound rumbling
through the small space. He waits for the woman to shush them, but she lets the sound carry on,
watching how it makes Taehyung squirm in his spot.
“Yes, precisely,” she agrees, “and this defeats your entire purpose, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, mom, I’m sorry—”
“Take your place outside the door, Taehyung. You will be allowed to eat at midday, but not a
second before.” She sniffs in disapproval—though it’s hard to tell whether she is more upset by his
transgression or the punishment she is forced to give him in return. His stomach clenches, eyes
flickering to the food that has been laid out on the table before him—none of which he is now
allowed to eat. He should have just—why did he have to move? If he was in poor condition before,
now it’ll only be made worse—
“Yes, mom—thank you,” he remembers to say, giving a slight bow to the woman before turning
towards the door. A voice behind him stops him in his tracks before he can take more than a single
step, his foot frozen in the air.
“Taehyung.” It is the speaker from before who addresses him now, the older woman who had led
their chanting from directly across the table from where he sat. Her eyes are absolutely piercing
when he returns his gaze to meet hers at last.
“Yes…” it’s harder to force out the words this time, though he just manages to address her by
forcing out the same title he had given the other woman, “...mom?”
She is not his mother, she is not his mother, he thinks, but he calls her mother all the same. The two
women look up at him in unison now, identical reflections of disappointment on their faces.
“You had so much potential, Taehyung…” the older woman says, and he dutifully bows his head
in an apology. She doesn’t need to finish her sentence, the implication that something had gone
wrong hanging heavy and unsaid between them.
“I’m sorry, mom…” he mumbles to the floor, “I’ll do better.”
“See to it that you do,” she tells him, then turns her attention back to the room at large, and
Taehyung recognizes his own dismissal. He catches the movement out of the corner of his eye as
every person seated at the table returns their hands to the thighs of those on either side of them, his
brothers and sisters sliding down the bench to fill in the gap where he had been seated. He pushes
open the door to the kitchen and steps just outside the threshold, letting the door swing back into
place with a thud-thud-thud as it rocks on its hinges before slowing to a stop. With a sigh, he leans
back along the wall outside the kitchen, head falling back to thump against the wallpaper, and
closes his eyes, listening intently as the routine continues right where they left off before his
interruption.
“—may we need no further sustenance.”
His stomach growls, the door doing nothing to cut off the smell of breakfast that had been laid out
on the table. It wasn’t much, truth be told—little more than grits and sausage for protein—but there
was plenty to go around and it did the trick of filling their empty bellies morning after morning.
“—may we be strong.”
Taehyung wraps his arms securely around his middle, trying to recreate the feeling of being
pressed in on from both sides, the way he always felt when crammed onto the benches alongside
his family. It doesn’t quite do the trick, but—like the breakfast—it’s enough, it’s enough.
He waits, and the familiar words begin to draw to a close, which does nothing to assuage his guilt,
though he knows he can start counting down the minutes until his punishment will be over.
“—may we be full.”
His stomach growls again, helpfully, as if to punctuate the last of their words. The chanting comes
to an abrupt halt, and there is a short, almost reverent silence for several long moments during
which even Taehyung feels the need to hold his breath. Then, inevitably, the scrape of knives and
forks on plates, of spoons in bowls and glasses, breaks through the quiet and a low rumble of
conversation sweeps over the room just beyond the door that separates him from everyone else,
signaling that breakfast has begun at last.
Breakfast is, on top of being quiet, a much longer affair than Taehyung remembers it being—
though perhaps that’s his rumbling, empty stomach speaking more than anything. He finds himself
rocking back and forth on his heels and then his toes, hands clasped behind his back while he
stares at the empty wall across the hallway from his position, ears slowly tuning out the din of
quiet chatter and loud silverware on plates in the distance. This is likely why, when the kitchen
door slams open and a rush of bodies pours out into the hall towards him, the sudden noise startles
Taehyung into flying back against the wall.
That, or the hand that he finds against his shoulder, pinning him there even when he tries to move
away. He looks up to find a taller man standing before him—thin, sharp eyes and broad, handsome
face staring up at him with a mischievous look that sends his heart racing.
“Taehyung,” the older boy drawls, stepping closer to shield Taehyung’s body from the crowd as
their brothers and sisters scatter from the kitchen to their various tasks around the house.
“Jinhwan,” he replies, and the older man’s face breaks into a grin.
“You made quite the scene back there, brother,” Jinhwan tells him solemnly, leaning even closer
so their faces are uncomfortably close. The older man is almost a head shorter than him, but his
presence is intimidating all the same. Taehyung has never particularly had a problem with Jinhwan,
the older man has always been a good sibling to him, but—well, he has his moments. Like this one.
“You know I didn’t mean to—”
“It doesn’t much matter whether you meant to or not, does it?” Jinhwan interrupts, leaning over to
whisper his retort in Taehyung’s ear. “It still happened, and the moms weren’t happy with you,
were they…”
The hallway is quiet now, only the small sounds of movement inside the kitchen alerting them to
the presence of anyone else.
“No, but—”
“Just imagine…” Jinhwan breathes against the shell of his ear, leaning up to shape the words where
only Taehyung can hear them, “if the moms knew the rumors I hear about you in the halls at
school, Taehyung…”
A cold stab of fear hits him in the gut. “No—I mean, I don’t—”
“Are you hungry, Taehyung?” the older boy asks out of nowhere, the abrupt subject change
making Taehyung’s head spin. He knows what Jinhwan is doing, trying to unsettle him—and it
only adds insult to injury that it’s working, and so quickly too.
“I—yes, I’m hungry—”
“Well…” the handsome face below his looks positively cheshirian now, “I know a way that your
big brother could help you with that, hmm?”
Taehyung’s mind seems to short-circuit at that. The only thing he can think to say is a muttered,
“you aren’t that much older than me…”
“Go on, let me help you, TaeTae…” Jinhwan murmurs, voice laced with innuendo. And the
nickname burns at Taehyung’s chest, but he says nothing—takes the suggestion of the hands that
press to his shoulders and lets himself be guided down to the floor. There’s no use fighting it now,
he knows this. They are always watching.
Jinhwan brings one of his hands to the front of his own pants, unfastening his belt and the buttons
holding the fabric closed while Taehyung watches from inches away. It barely takes any prompting
with a hand on the back of Taehyung’s neck for his head to fall forward, nose nuzzling against the
line of Jinhwan’s cock through his underwear and the open vee of his pants. Above him, Jinhwan
gives an appreciative groan, fingers fisting into Taehyung’s hair—and it’s easy, so easy, then, to
fall into place, to open his mouth and drag his tongue along the straining fabric and appreciate the
way the cock beneath his lips jumps at the attention.
Before too long, he grows tired of waiting, wanting to get to the point already, and his hands fly up
to drag those pants out of the way—but finds himself immediately rebuffed by Jinhwan’s hand
slapping his own out of the air.
“Hands behind your back,” the older man tells him, and he doesn’t have the authority to give
Taehyung orders—not really—but Taehyung follows them anyway, easily, hands twisting behind
the small of his back to resist the temptation. Jinhwan impatiently tugs down his own pants and
underwear instead, letting his half-hard cock bob free and hang like an irresistible call to action
before Taehyung’s waiting lips.
He doesn’t even particularly like sucking cock, in a general sense, but he knows he’s fantastic at it,
has had years of practice. He opens his lips easily when Jinhwan presses forward, easily accepts
the older man’s cock onto his tongue, into his throat. He clenches his hands behind his back just as
Jinhwan lets out a deep groan, not bothering to keep his voice down as Taehyung swallows his
cock as best as he can.
“That’s it…” Jinhwan groans, sounding almost relieved by the warm, wet heat that is wrapped
around him, and Taehyung is reminded that it’s been quite some time since they last did anything
like this. Idly, he wonders where else the other man has sought relief for his urges. “That’s it…”
Taehyung feels a hand wind into his hair, tugging his head back so he has to strain to keep his lips
properly wrapped around Jinhwan’s cock, and finds the older man grinning down at him
knowingly. “Look at you, always so nice…” Jinhwan’s voice is low, reedy—he would almost call
it pretty, though it’s nothing compared to—
“—you’re always so—good on your knees—for your brother,” the older man tells him as
Taehyung , and Taehyung gives a non-committal noise in return. Jinhwan isn’t his brother, truly,
and yet they’re brothers all the same. “Imagine how the rumors would change, if they could only
see this…”
Taehyung doesn’t like the implication behind Jinhwan’s words, nearly pulls back to say something
at last, but—
He freezes, letting Jinhwan continue using his mouth freely, jaw falling lax and open just as a set
of footsteps raches his ears from behind the kitchen door. He has only moments to sit up straighter,
dutifully swallowing and swirling his tongue along the sensitive underside of the older man’s cock
to elicit another broken moan from him, before the kitchen door swings open and they are joined in
the hallway by the older of the two women leading the group during breakfast.
“Jinhwan,” she says, and Taehyung feels the older man’s hips stutter to a halt, leaving him to do
nothing more than cradle the cock on his tongue and hold himself still. His eyes flicker up to gaze
at the older woman, catching the way she is looking down at the both of them appraisingly. “What
do you think you’re doing?”
“M-Mom—” Jinhwan stutters out, hand sliding from Taehyung’s hair for a moment, but his
sentence is immediately cut off with a raise of her hand.
“I don’t want explanations or apologies, young man,” she informs him, and Jinhwan’s mouth snaps
shut with a soft clicking sound. “I’m surprised at you.”
Jinhwan says nothing, only turns back to face Taehyung in order to avoid the woman’s gaze, and
Taehyung meets his eyes unabashedly, refusing to even blink as Jinhwan stares him down. The
woman tuts and crosses her arms over her chest, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and
Taehyung realizes that she means to stay put for quite some time. “After the little display of
disobedience earlier from this one—” she points at Taehyung, “now I find you here, being so—”
Taehyung gulps, and Jinhwan twitches at the sudden pressure around his cock, but he makes no
other move to shift forward or away from the sensation. His self-control is almost admirable,
Taehyung thinks.
“—sloppy,” she concludes, and both young men find their bodies shifting in barely-concealed
relief. Oh.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” She asks when neither of them make any move to respond to her
statement. “I said I expected better of you, didn’t I?”
“—y-yes, mom,” Jinhwan hurries to say, and she taps her foot impatiently.
“Then get to it—show me how it’s supposed to be done. I know you know what to do by now.”
And then—she waits. Taehyung takes a deep breath, knows what’s coming for him. Jinhwan
freezes above him for a moment, almost as though he can’t believe his ears, and Taehyung fights
back every urge he has to keep from rolling his eyes at the older man—chooses to roll his tongue
instead, right along the sensitive ridge beneath the head of Jinhwan’s cock.
This, above anything else, finally stirs the older man into action, his hands curling straight back
into Taehyung’s hair—both of them, this time, with fingers taking purchase behind his ears to drag
Taehyung’s face closer. He swallows immediately, a practiced motion that drags his gag reflex
back into submission as the tip of Jinhwan’s cock hits the back of his throat at last.
“Yes, good—” he hears the woman say, but he isn’t looking at her now—isn’t looking up at
Jinhwan either, his eyes focusing somewhere in the center of the older man’s chest, or—perhaps—
somewhere far past him, his thoughts filling in the space with more pleasant thoughts. It’s not that
he minds , so much, really. The act is practically mundane, at this point—Jinhwan’s cock nearly as
familiar to him as his own, the scramble of the older man’s fingers against his scalp almost routine
to him now. Taehyung braces his feet against the floor, clutches his fingers into his own sleeves,
and holds his neck stiff and upright—all to make it easier as Jinhwan finally seems to get with the
program, draws his hips backwards and slams them forward again, driving his cock deep into the
waiting clutch of Taehyung’s throat.
It doesn’t seem to matter, then, that they have an audience—Jinhwan gives himself over to the
pleasure immediately, almost wanton in the way he repeats the same motions and takes his fill of
Taehyung’s mouth with no regard for the younger man’s comfort any longer. Taehyung focuses his
mind down to three thoughts—keeping his jaw relaxed, his breathing even through his nose, and
his tongue curled helpfully beneath the cock being offered to him—all lessons he has long since
learned in order to make this experience as painless as possible. Though hard-learned, this is one
lesson he knows he has learned well. The world narrows down, then, to a singular focus—to being
a perfect too for Jinhwan to use, for mom to be proud—
“Taehyung—” Jinhwan grunts his name, reedy voice drawn thin with exertion as he fucks and
fucks and fucks into Taehyung’s mouth. It feels far too personal, and the older man seems to
realize it immediately—snaps his mouth shut and only allows himself to make the smallest of huffs
and moans from then on. Taehyung can just picture the way the older woman is looking down at
them, doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the heavy weight of her judgmental gaze.
“C’mon, c’mon—” Jinhwan groans, and Taehyung takes it as all the permission he needs to take a
more active role—spit making a mess over his chin as he forces his jaw open wider, ignoring the
ache, and drags the barest touch of his teeth along the underside of the older man’s cock. It has the
same result he remembers it always having, forcing Jinhwan to wrap his small hands around the
back of Taehyung’s head completely, jerking him forward until he has no choice but to swallow
around the entire length of the cock between his lips or risk being choked by it. He feels his nose
bump into a firm stomach, the scratch of hair against his jaw, the instinctive need to jerk away
from the pressure and the wall of resistance he manages against the feeling.
This seems to be enough for Jinhwan, who—upon feeling the spasm of Taehyung’s throat around
his length—huffs out one final groan and freezes, head thrown back in pleasure, as his orgasm
takes him over and leaves him spilling his come across the back of Taehyung’s tongue. Taehyung
manages to wrench his eyes open to catch the sight just in time, feeling a small thrill in his chest at
performing well, despite the discomfort of their audience.
The older woman still stands there, silently, only a few feet from them, Taehyung confirms with a
glance in her direction. He remains stock-still, letting Jinhwan bask in the afterglow for as long as
he needs, and the older man seems perfectly content to do so. He lets his head hang back, straining
at his shoulders, as his mouth moves in silent words directed up at the ceiling—and Taehyung
watches this all silently, not daring to move even when the effort not to breathe for so long has his
chest clenching and his head buzzing uncomfortably. Jinhwan’s fingers clench and unclench in his
hair, a soft reassurance that allows him to hang on the few seconds more that it takes for the older
man to finally, finally release him and pull away, his softening cock slipping from Taehyung’s
reddened lips at last.
The gasp for air that leaves him is too loud in the quiet hallway, breaking the tension of the
moment in a way that would leave him embarrassed if he weren’t so relieved to feel breath in his
lungs again. He knows how he must look—on his knees, body open and vulnerable, hands behind
his back as he pants and gasps with drool and come all over his chin, his lips hanging open
wantonly—and can only hope that it’s enough .
“Well…” he hears the older woman beside them speak at last, and Jinhwan takes that as his cue to
finally tuck himself back into his pants and make himself presentable again. It isn’t so much that
he has a problem with his own nudity—they’re all perfectly comfortable with it, in fact—but
there’s something about being glared at that takes the fun right out of it, and Taehyung understands
completely that instinct to shield himself. Still, he doesn’t move, letting himself sit there under her
watchful gaze, making no move to clean himself up without permission. “That was a bit better,
wasn’t it?”
The question is rhetorical, but Jinhwan takes it upon himself to answer, earnestly, “Yes, mom—it
was better, much better.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sounds overly pleased with herself, and Taehyung feels his eyes
prickle with the effort not to roll them at her. “I appreciate your help,” she goes on, “in helping
solidify Taehyung’s lesson.”
“Of course, mom, anything I can do to—”
“That’s enough for now, though,” she tells him, not unkindly despite cutting Jinhwan off with a
decisive wave of her hand. “Why don’t you go join your siblings? I’m sure they’ve all started on
chores or work for the day.”
Jinhwan hesitates only momentarily, running a hand through his own hair to straighten it as he
glances down at Taehyung’s prone form at his feet. “Yes, right—of course—”
“Go on, I know you have a lot of work to do…” She waves Jinhwan away again, and he finally
decides to heed her command and start moving down the hall away from them. “I’ll take care of
this one myself…”
Taehyung’s mouth is beginning to feel dry from hanging open like it is, but he doesn’t dare move
an inch as she starts to approach him, stepping closer until her toes hit the ends of his knees where
they ache against the hard floor. “Kim Taehyung,” she says, and he blinks slowly up at her. “What
are we going to do with you?”
Once again, the question is rhetorical, and unlike Jinhwan, Taehyung knows better than to answer.
“I’m disappointed in you, Taehyung,” she tells him, as though he doesn’t already know. “But
maybe there’s still hope for you yet…” And she takes a moment to bring a hand down to his lips,
gathering up the come and spit that has dribbled down his chin. When she offers her messy fingers
to him, he accepts them easily into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to clean them of
every last drop, only stopping when she gives the smallest nod of approval and pulls her hand
away. The spit-slicked fingers are wiped against his cheek before she straightens back up and bears
down on him with her full height.
“Min Yoongi has informed me that you will be starting a new initiative with him tomorrow. I
received the paperwork yesterday.” Still not a question. “You know what is expected of you?”
Ah, there, a question. “Yes, mom,” he answers solemnly.
“Tell me.”
He licks his lips and takes a deep, measured breath, ensuring that his tone is even and emotionless
when he speaks again. “I am to be respectful and dutiful in my work, and ensure that nothing I do
reflects poorly on our house.”
“Yes, and what else?”
“I am—supposed to report back here immediately once the work is completed?”

“Yes, Taehyung, of course—but you’re forgetting one thing.” She crosses her arms over her chest,
looking down her short nose at him.
“I—I’m sorry, mom, I don’t—”
“You are not to stray with....untoward individuals while you are away from home, Taehyung.” Oh.
“I am only allowing this project because I believe it will be good for you, but if I find out there is
any—”
“No!” Taehyung dares to interrupt her, bringing his hands up defensively in front of himself at last.
“No, mom—please, I promise! I’m—I wouldn’t—”
“Taehyung—”
“I’m so excited, mom, please—I don’t want to do anything to screw this up, I promise, I promise
—” He’s grateful, all of a sudden, for being on his knees—knows that it only helps his case when
he brings his hands together and literally pleads at her feet for understanding, for leniency. “I’ll be
good, I’ll make you proud—”
“Alright, alright—that’s enough.” One of her hands drops down onto his head, and he deflates
under the touch. She smooths her hand over his hair, a patronizing but not unkind gesture, and he
holds himself still again for the attention. “Oh, my son…”
“Mom…”
“Okay,” she says, “I trust you to do the right thing, Taehyung...this initiative is important work,
and if you do well…”
“I know, I know—thank you—” He nods his head beneath her hand, a small swoop of gratitude in
his belly, his chest loosening so he can suddenly breathe properly again as though a vice has been
released around his ribs.
“Alright,” she gives his head one last pat before pulling away again, “Lunch will be served in five
hours, and you aren’t allowed any food before then, don’t think I’ve forgotten your punishment.”
“Yes, mom.” Of course he hasn’t forgotten, and he knows she won’t soon forget either. They are
always watching.
“Why don’t you run along with your siblings too—you might want to spend some time in your
room preparing for tomorrow, hm?” She gives him a meaningful look while offering him a hand to
help him stand up, and he takes it gratefully. He bites his lip, thoughts cast toward the day ahead,
and nods slowly.
“Go on, then—” she gives him a smack to the ass as he passes by, and he doesn’t even flinch at the
contact, only using the momentum to carry him more quickly up the stairs.
“Five hours, Taehyung!” she calls after him, and he waves a hand in understanding.
Five hours. More than enough time.
The room is dark—or perhaps it is only the inside of his eyelids. He wakes to the creak of a door
and the hot brush of breath against his jaw. He hears a name being whispered in his ear, though it
feels miles away from belonging to him.
“Wake up, sleepyhead…” The voice says—soft, curling at the edges. Hands at his wrists mirror
the sensation, curling around his forearms and moving, shifting—tugging at something. He feels a
body press against his, recognizes the shape of a chest, the jut of hip bones, the brush of a thigh
against his own. It fails to help him reconcile the sensation with parts of his body that he can name,
or limbs that he can properly trace the end of—but those questing hands seem determined.
One by one, his wrists are released from bonds that he has long since stopped feeling, letting them
drop like wet cement to his sides. He falls easily against the chest in front of him, and feels those
strong arms wrap around him, lifting his body up and carrying him bonelessly from wherever he
was to wherever he’s going. He can tell that the space around him is growing lighter, his vision
turning from black to brown to red, and—oh. His eyelids. He’s looking at his eyelids, he’s sure of
it now. If only he could remember how to open them—
“Alright, here we go…” the voice tells him, and the sound is warm, encouraging. He feels his body
shift this way and that, left-right-left-right in a way that matches the heavy thump of footsteps
beneath him. Somewhere up ahead, the click of a door being opened reaches his ears, followed by
the heavy creak of it closing behind them. The space around him is darker now, judging by the
color in front of his eyes—a sort of dappled brown that indicates light, but—not much of it.
“I’m sorry—” the voice tells him softly, and he can’t piece together why, is barely given enough
time to wonder at the reason before a shock of icy-cold contact hits his skin. All along his backside
—his thighs and shoulders and arms—he finds himself pressed to something, something frigid and
unyielding. The sudden reminder of his limbs is unpleasant. His eyes fly open of their own accord
and a low grunt of displeasure crawls its way out from between his lips.
“I know, I know, it’s gotta be cold, I’m sorry…” the voice goes on, but he still can’t see the
speaker, can only focus his eyes directly in front of him to what appears to be an endless wall of
squares and lines, gray and industrial. He can’t make any sense of the shapes, but he stares at them
all the same, knows—somehow—not to move, despite the way his skin prickles with goosebumps
and his muscles clench away from the cold. “It’ll warm up soon, I promise.”
Just what it is doesn’t occur to him until a pair of arms suddenly appear before him, breaking up
the pattern of squares with tanned skin and small hands. Those hands reach for him, curling around
his wrists and situating him this way and that, and he feels his forearms being placed along a thin
surface, like a rim or a ledge, his back pressed more firmly to the cool surface. True to the voice’s
promise, his skin does—slowly but surely—grow warm and comfortable, the cool touch ebbing
away by the second, and his muscles relax into the position he’s placed completely unbidden.
“I’m sure you’ve gotten plenty uncomfortable since yesterday,” the voice tells him,
conversationally. Yesterday? When was yesterday? What day is it today? He has no sense of it
even being a certain time at all. “Why don’t we get you all cleaned up, I think that would be nice.”
Yes, nice—it would be nice. Being clean is nice, he knows this.
“Hold still for me,” the voice tells him, then laughs softly at himself as though he’s let out some
hilarious joke. A face appears before him, then—the sharp outline of a jawbone, the heart-shape of
a plump pair of lips, blonde fringe that hangs before thin eyes—and he recognizes Jimin
immediately. The young man’s face is achingly familiar, even in the dimly lit room. Jimin leans
over him, hands passing down out of sight, and he feels the ridges of five fingers curl around—oh
—his cock, where he remembers it being between his legs. How could he have forgotten about
that?
“Just a little—tug—here, and then it’ll be out,” Jimin explains, narrating...whatever it is he’s doing
down below. Those questing fingers shift his cock this way and that, the flaccid member moving
easily beneath the ministrations except for the way it strains against something rigid within,
something that makes his stomach clench and flutter as it’s moved. True to his word, Jimin’s
fingers seem to clench around the head of his cock, drawing together to close around something in
the middle that the janitor begins to pull away.
He can feel every agonizing inch of the removal, the slithering length of whatever has been forced
inside him, the sensation an echo of one he remembers feeling before—some minutes or hours or
days ago, he doesn’t know for sure. How long the sensation drags on for, it’s impossible to tell, but
it only seems to grow more intense the longer that Jimin continues to drag the object from inside
him—something stretching and burning from within his sensitive cock on its way out. He can feel
the pressure receding, feel it when it moves from within his abdomen, out through the base of his
cock and along the length of his shaft, slowing down when the sensation draws nearer to the tender
head.
It doesn’t occur to him until just then that he has grown hard along the way, not until Jimin’s
fingers curl around his cock again and squeeze at the now rigid flesh, pulling his length away from
his body to ease the way. This doesn’t stop the other man from his task, only seems to make it
more difficult as he continues the insistent tugging, dragging whatever it is from his cock with one
—final—tug.
“Ah! Finally!” Jimin sighs with relief, sitting back and lifting up his prize for inspection, and he
can finally set his eyes upon what had been inserted inside him—immediately recognizing the
long, thin plastic tube for what it is. A catheter. Of course. Jimin twists the tub between his fingers,
inspecting it appreciatively for a moment before letting it drop from his grip.
“I bet that feels better, hmm?” Jimin asks, and the janitor turns his gaze so their eyes meet at last.
His expression is more animated than it has ever seemed to be before, lips even turning up at the
corners in the barest suggestion of a smile. It’s almost comforting, the lack of ill intent he can see in
those eyes.
“But we’re not done yet—” the other man goes on to say, and he feels his stomach clench in
anticipation. His cock throbs hard and aching between his legs—or, perhaps, the ache comes from
somewhere else. Somewhere—deeper, inside his body. Though he can’t quite place the sensation,
it aches all the same.
Jimin’s hands fall to his skin again, this time stroking—not his cock, but just above it—where his
hip bones turn up towards his stomach. The janitor’s small fingers are gentle as they poke and prod
at his abdomen, dragging along the distended skin where his stomach has been bent out of shape.
The pressure only intensifies the ache, pushes it deeper, higher, leaving him with a wave of nausea
that rises towards his throat. It’s painful, yes, but still—he’s so full, so hard—aching for one type
of release or another, it doesn’t matter which. Another groan leaves his lips, though he hardly
recognizes the sound as one of his own making.
“I bet you’d like to be rid of this, hm?” Jimin asks, prodding at his bloated middle again, and he
nods, or—perhaps he only thinks about nodding. Jimin seems to read his intent on his face all the
same, and the other man’s tiny smile widens enough to crinkle the skin at the corners of his eyes.
“Alright... but…”
But—what? But what?
“I need to know that you’ve learned your lesson…” The janitor goes on, and he feels his brow
furrow at the words. Lesson? “They won’t be pleased with me if they come back from the break to
find you making the same mistake again…”
Mistake? He doesn’t want to make any mistakes—no—he wants to be good! What lesson—what
lesson is he supposed to be learning? He’ll learn it, he will—
“Do you feel this?” Jimin asks, the heel of his hand digging into the swollen curve of the belly
below. “Do you understand why?”
No, no—why? Please, tell me why—

“You kept making messes, doll…” Jimin murmurs, voice dropping low, almost sympathetic. A
secret between the two of them. “Kept spilling everywhere when you weren’t told to.”
No, no, no—
“There’s a way of these things, you see,” he leans forward, “and it isn’t wise to go against the
rules.”
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—!
“But it’s okay, doll…” Jimin’s hand starts to wander, sliding lower so that knuckles graze along
the length of his cock and down between his thighs, skirting past his balls to the soft cleft of his
ass. There, he can feel fingers probe at—something—another something that has been pressed
inside him. God, how many things have been put into his body—? “It’s okay, I’m going to help
you, okay?”
Those fingers circle his hole, circle the edge of the firm object within, a teasing touch that does
nothing to stop his cock from twitching in interest and his stomach from clenching in revulsion. He
feels—he feels— woozy.
“We already helped you, see? You can’t make a mess if there’s nowhere for the mess to go, hm?”
A soft tap-tap-tap against that plug— and he suddenly recognizes that to be exactly what it is. A
plug. To keep him from spilling his mess. “Since you can’t seem keep your piss inside, we had to
do it for you.”
He feels Jimin’s fingers tug at the plug again, this time unquestionably teasing him with the
sensation. The other man couples the action with a whisper that leaves him quivering. “Should I
take this out, hm? Let it all go free? It feels so nice, all that pressure suddenly gone—it’s
practically orgasmic .”
Yes—fuck, yes, please—I’ll do anything—anything—!
“You want that, doll? Do you think you’ve learned your lesson well?” Jimin grips the plug tighter
and gives it a slight tug that leaves his hole fluttering instantly around the intrusion—half to hold it
in and half to force it out. “If you have, you’ll be rewarded…”
He manages, through sheer force of will, to clench his throat, forcing a small, intentional sound
through his vocal chords. It isn’t a word, exactly—more of a single, incoherent noise of
desperation, but it seems to be all the reassurance that Jimin needs. Without hesitation, the janitor
gives the plug one firm twist, and he feels his muscles give way, releasing the object at last. Jimin
tugs it free with as much triumph as he had approached the removal of the catheter, and holds the
plug up for them both to see. Through the tapered funnel of it, he can clearly spot the tube that
protrudes from one end, can see how a hole has been drilled through the other to create a clear
passage into his body. Jimin’s eyes are wide as he stares the object down, unblinking as though
deeply lost in thought at the sight.
For several long moments, nothing happens. Then, with a terrible lurch, his stomach seems to
cramp all at once, a rush of warmth and pressure diverting lower and lower into his body. On
instinct, he can feel his hole clench to stem the flow, but—it’s no use, no use at all, and he doesn’t
even know why he bothers to fight it as the liquid that has been stoppered up within him
immediately comes rushing back out.
The smell hits him before the relief does, but it’s a near thing. His entire body sags back against the
wall behind him, boneless once again as every last drop of his own piss begins pouring free, the
liquid hot from his insides as it hits the back of his legs and calves and feet. His arms against the
rim above him are the only thing that keep him from sliding down onto his back, and in the furthest
reaches of his mind, he’s able to piece together that he must be propped up in some sort of tub—a
tub that is now rapidly filling with his own fluids.
“There we go, that’s it…” Jimin tells him, rubbing at his belly as though to encourage the flow.
The cramping subsides almost immediately as the liquid runs free, leaving him instead with a
horrible emptiness as his muscles clench around the absence. “Just let it out, that’s right…”
Jimin was right, he realizes, as one ache is replaced with another, his nerves singing with relief. It
truly does feel euphoric, the sheer pleasure of having his discomfort eased—and the pleasure is
only intensified as Jimin’s questing fingers wrap around his throbbing cock and begin to move. The
strokes almost fall in time with the clenching of his abs, the sensations mixing into a molten
pleasure-pain deep beneath his skin even as he feels the other man all but wrenching his orgasm to
the surface. It hits him with the force of a physical strike, his release rushing forward even as the
stream of liquid leaking from him slowly tapers off—and if he wasn’t filthy enough already, he
finds hot come suddenly splattering across his stomach and chest and face for good measure.
“That’s it, that’s it…” Jimin whispers in his ear, and it’s comforting, the way that voice washes
over him. “You did well, that’s it…”
Yes, yes—good, he did good—he was good—

“I think it’s about time we got you cleaned up properly, don’t you?” Jimin asks, but he couldn’t be
bothered to answer even if he was allowed to. It’s the easiest thing in the world, then, to allow the
other man to manhandle him once more, moving him into a more comfortable position with his
back supported fully by the edge of the tub. His head lolls to the side, giving him both a better view
of the man beside him and the room beyond him.
Jimin has stripped from his coveralls down to the waist, the sleeves of the top half of his uniform
tied around his hips. Without the bulk of the fabric around his body, it’s easy to see that the man is
actually quite slight, muscular but generally small all over—and he looks younger, somehow. More
relaxed than the man has ever seemed.
The room beyond, however, is a place he has never seen before—a relatively darkened space,
small and windowless. As he casts his eyes lazily around the room, he realizes that the pattern of
lines and squares he had been staring at earlier is, in fact, a wall of tile that lines one side of the
room, surrounding the metal tub he has been placed inside.
Where the tile ends, the room continues with blank walls that surround the remaining space, and
his eyes flicker over the bed he finds propped against one wall. It looks eerily familiar, the same
size and shape as the cots that have been set up in the nurse’s office, and—it strikes him for the
first time that this room, this might be where Jimin lives. Are—Are they still inside the school? He
can’t remember being moved long enough for them to be anywhere else, but…
Jimin bends over the tub completely, reaching for something out of sight, and within moments
something hot and wet strikes his skin again. For one horrible moment, he wonders if it could be
more piss—his own, or—
But, no—Jimin’s hands reappear, holding a small hose attached to a shower head of sorts, which
allows him to cascade warm water down into the tub. The water feels positively heavenly against
his skin, once he’s able to relax beneath it, and Jimin starts to hum tunelessly to himself as he
begins to direct the water all along the body stretched out before him.
It’s utterly soothing, the brush of the spray along his tired arms and legs, across his chest and
between his thighs where he has made a mess of himself. For the first time in what might as well be
years, he feels the sweat and grime being washed away as he is covered head to toe in almost
scalding water. Better yet, when Jimin sets the hose aside and allows it to slowly fill up the basin,
he reaches instead for what turn out to be a washcloth and soap—actual soap! Oh thank god— and
he lathers them together before dropping his hands back into the tub.
The rough fabric is dragged across his forearm first, up along his bicep and over his shoulder,
Jimin massaging the soap into his skin in long, methodical circles. It’s all too easy to let his eyes
slip closed, lulled by the warmth and the gentle pressure into a sort of twilight-sleep, too exhausted
to do more than allow the other man to take care of him.
And take care of him, Jimin does—soaping up every inch of his body until his skin feels raw and
tingly, working to cleanse him of any traces of dirt, sweat, come even down to his fingertips and
the spaces between his toes. The hands that lift his limbs are gentle but firm, moving him this way
and that to get into every crevice, even propping his legs up to drag the fabric down between his
thighs to clean the piss and come from his cock and the sore, abused skin that circles his hole.
When the janitor seems to be satisfied and the washcloth is set aside at last, the water is turned on
full-force and allowed to rapidly fill the tub, surrounding his body with delicious heat on all sides.
Though his memory may be spotty, at the moment he couldn’t possibly imagine a moment in his
life when he has felt more relief.
The janitor takes his time, then, with his body practically melting in the heat of the water that
slowly surrounds him—reaching for the hose to bring it above his head. He lets his eyes fall closed
as the water cascades down over his hair, over his face, running across his ears, and doesn’t even
react when the liquid is chased by Jimin’s hands again. He feels strong fingers work their way
through his hair, massaging at his scalp, reaching back to work at the coil of tension at the base of
his skull, and all the while he can smell an unmistakable, clean scent surrounding him as the
motion works soap through his wet strands. He loses track of how long it goes on, the shockingly
comforting drag of nails through his hair and against his skin, before Jimin drags a hand down his
body and reaches for the shower head again, bringing it back up to rinse the soap free.
Once satisfied with his hair, Jimin’s hands descend on him again, but this time with a different
mission—grabbing for his legs and pulling them up one at a time to move and stretch them against
the awful tension that has taken over every muscle. With almost expert precision, Jimin rubs at his
thigh and knee and calf until the tightness in his muscles slowly releases, ebbed away by the
tension and the heat that surrounds him. Once satisfied with one leg, the janitor repeats the process
again with the other, then moves on to his arms and lifts them away from the tub to give them the
same attention.
Only once the process has been completed does the janitor reach down and unstopper the drain,
allowing the cooling water to empty out of the bottom of the tub, taking his aches and tension
along with it. The air is chilly against his damp skin when all of the water is gone, but Jimin makes
quick work of drying him off with another towel the man procures from out of sight, the fabric
scratchy but functional enough as he is wrapped in it and lifted gingerly from the tub.
“There we go,” Jimin murmurs, and he realizes it is the first time the other man has spoken in quite
some time, breaking the almost comfortable silence between them. His head rings and twinges with
discomfort as he is quickly turned upright and set on his feet, held aloft with one arm behind his
back while Jimin works the towel over his skin with the other until every inch of him is dry.
“Don’t tell anyone I did this, okay?” Jimin whispers as he moves their bodies together, lifting him
just enough to carry his limp form across the small room to the tiny bed along the far wall. Far
from what he expected, he finds himself being lowered to the mattress with the utmost of care, his
shoulders hitting the soft surface as though he has landed on a cloud. Jimin steps around him to
raise each of his legs onto the bed and arranges him flat on his back in a relatively comfortable
position before stepping back to undress himself.
When the rest of the janitor’s uniform is shed to the floor, he finds himself with an eyeful of short
but toned legs that compliment Jimin’s strong chest and arms. Between them, where the janitor
seems to have forgone wearing any underwear, his cock hangs soft and pretty against bare skin, not
a trace of hair to be seen on the other man’s lower half.
“I’m supposed to put you back in the closet, but—” Jimin cuts himself off with a small hum,
toneless and unemotional. He looks over the body that he has laid out on the bed before him for a
long moment before moving again, pressing one knee and then the other into the mattress and
climbing into the empty space left on the edge of the bed. With no qualms about personal space,
the janitor curls around him, limbs tucking his body into an embrace that practically burns against
his skin—warm and affectionate in a way that almost feels foreign to him now.
Still, with nowhere to go and no real reason to fight it, he looks up at the ceiling with heavy-lidded
eyes and listens to the sound of their breathing together for a moment. His body is heavy, so heavy,
and Jimin is even heavier lying on top him. He can feel the other man’s breath against his ear when
Jimin leans forward to whisper, “...this will be our little secret, alright?”
‘Who would I tell?’ He thinks idly, and gives the softest huff of breath to signal his agreement.
It’s nice, the way Jimin’s fingers curl into his shoulders, trace along his neck, turn his head to the
side with a soft grip on his hair. It’s nicer still when Jimin presses forward, covering his lips in a
kiss that grips at his stomach with a tight fist of déjà vu, licking and nibbling at his mouth until his
lips part of their own accord. He doesn’t move, just allows the other man to close his teeth over his
bottom lip, to chase the sting of it with a swipe of his tongue—just allows Jimin to take his fill.
Jimin seems perfectly content to share this little contact between them, doesn’t press for anything
more, keeps his hands buried in the hair beneath them and holds their bodies close.
He feels like cement, heavy and viscous, from head to toe—but where their lips meet, there is fire.
For the first night in over a week, when he slips into unconsciousness under the weight of Jimin’s
limbs around him and the brush of their lips together, he is comfortable and warm.
Chapter End Notes
Phase Six: Pawn
Chapter Summary
Come Monday, the new doll learns that no one in the school is free from its secrets—
the students least of all.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE SIX:

Blackmail, Objectification, Dollification, Dumbification, Sexual Slavery, Sexual
Torture, Torture, BDSM Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy/Abusive
Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Physical/Psychological Torture, Mind
Control/Manipulation, Conditioning, Mind Break, Bondage, Medical Kink, Medical
Experimentation, Watersports, Cock & Ball Torture, Electrostimulation, Forced
Orgasm, Public Sex/Nudity, Public Humiliation, Voyeurism, Teacher-Student
Relationship, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Age Difference, Altered Mental
States, Institutionalization, Hospitalization, Mental Institutions, Mental Breakdown
Fic Playlist
Phase Six Playlist


the original
story here!
FRONT ENTRANCE—CAMERA 1 08-19-18 10:24PM
The door buzzes as he passes through, waving a hand cheerfully to the camera above the door
frame. It might make the average person uncomfortable, the advanced security, the way he is
scrutinized at every phase—standing outside the main entrance, waiting inside the foyer to be
permitted access through a second set of security doors—but it makes him feel at ease, secure.
When he finally moves into the cool entryway, facing a desk manned by a lone occupant, he lets
out a relieved breath—so soft that no one could hear it but him.
“Welcome to Gonjiam Hospi—oh! Mr. Kim, it’s you!”
“Hello, Ms. Kwon. It’s nice to see you again,” he greets the woman who has jumped to her feet
behind the desk, looking surprised by pleased to see him. “I hope you are doing well?”
“Oh, yes—yes sir, I’m doing just fine, thank you…” She bows slightly, always respectful. He gives
her a reassuring smile as he draws closer, slipping out of his jacket and folding it over one of his
arms.
“Now, how many times have I asked you to call me Seokjin, Ms. Kwan? Surely we’ve known each
other long enough for that…?”
“I—” she blushes, her thin, pretty face and long nose scrunching up in embarrassment. Adorable. “I
shouldn’t, not while I’m on the clock, you know this—”
“If only you would accept my offer, come work in our facility instead…” Seokjin lets the words
hang in the air between them, a teasing lilt to his voice.
“I—I’m thinking about it, I promise…” she assures him, ducking her head down in another bow.
“I trust you, Ms. Kwan, no need to worry,” he reassures her again, leaning against the desk with
one arm. “Unfortunately, as much as I wish I could make the trip all the way out here just to see
your beautiful face,” she blushes furiously as he continues, “you know I’m here for official
business.”
The young woman clears her throat and jerks back from the older man, running a hand through her
hair as if to straighten it despite no strand being out of place. “Right, right...of course…”
She fumbles through the papers in front of her on the desk, lifting files and folders to form neat
piles until she finds what she is looking for and drags a small radio from the back of the desk.
Raising it to her lips, she turns her head away from Seokjin for a moment as if to hide her blush,
tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand as she turns the radio on and presses a button to
speak into the receiver. “Sooyoung, come in?”
It takes several long moments before the radio crackles and another voice joins theirs. “—I’m here!
Go ahead.”
“You are needed in the front, Mr. Kim is here for his regular visit. Over.”
“—Copy! I’ll be there in five, over.”
“Roger that.”
The young woman turns back to Seokjin then, rounding the desk to usher him to the waiting area to
offer him a chair. He waves away her offer of something to drink, content to sit and wait, and the
receptionist assures him it won’t be long before returning to her work.
Sure enough, only a few minutes pass before Seokjin is greeted by another woman who appears
through another security door to the side of the front desk—but unlike her colleague, she seems
unphased by his appearance and greets him with a warm smile.
“Kim Seokjin...it’s been too long!”
“Sooyoung…” He smiles and jumps to his feet to meet her, his jacket left behind in his haste to
draw the young woman into a familiar hug and place a kiss to her cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“And same to you—I wasn’t sure we would see you again, your visits have been so far apart,” she
accuses, though her tone is light and teasing.
“Ah yes, but you know how it is...my work has kept me so very busy...” Seokjin smiles down at
her, taking in her dark shoulder-length hair and sweet face as she takes his offered arm and leads
him towards the security door.
“Of course,” she agrees easily, as though this back-and-forth between them is an old, practiced
dance. “You’ll have to tell me all about it...”
The receptionist springs out of her seat as they approach, rushing to join them at the door with her
security badge held out so that she and Sooyoung both scan their credentials at the same time. The
door jolts open with a loud thud, one that would have startled any of them had they not all been so
familiar with the sound.
“After you,” he encourages, letting Sooyoung lead the way through the door and into the long
hallway beyond, not bothering to look back as the heavy metal slams shut and the lock clicks
behind them.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” she confides as they make their way past door after door, deeper into the
facility, the only light coming from the fluorescent bulbs above them as they move away from any
outside windows. “I hate to say it, but when you’re away, no one else visits Mr. Jung.”
“That’s too bad...everyone needs a family, hm?” He turns a corner down a second hallway without
needing prompting, his feet already intimately familiar with the path they tread. Sooyoung follows
after him easily, giving his arm a soft squeeze.
“Yes,” she agrees, voice low so as to not disturb any of the patients at such a late hour. “He’s very
lucky to have you...I still can’t believe you take so much time out of your busy schedule to come
visit, after what he did…”
“He is a uniquely troubled young man, it’s true…” The hallway is dark as they continue their soft
steps towards the far end, a familiar door in the distance. “But it is his affliction that caused him to
break into the school, nothing more. I bear no ill will towards someone who is suffering,
Sooyoung.”
“That’s awfully big of you, to be so forgiving,” she insists, and her tone makes something bitter
twist in his chest, though he bites back a snappy retort.
“I only hope that his recovery is swift, and that he can be moved to our facility in the near future,”
he replies through his teeth, and she seems to be able to sense his ire, pulling away from his side
slightly. “I know we can do him a great deal of good if only we have the chance.”
Sooyoung pauses outside of the door at the far end of the hallway, nearly at a dead end—their final
destination. Instead of addressing his last statement—probably wise, he thinks bitterly—she grabs
for the medical chart hanging beside the door frame and brings it up for closer inspection. Despite
the man standing beside her, she makes no move to hide the chart from Seokjin’s view, and he
takes the opportunity to glance at it over the nurse’s shoulder.
“He should be relatively sedated now, it’s been hours since dinner,” she remarks softly, flipping
through the chart pages, “and his last serious episode was more than two weeks ago. We should be
safe for a visit, just let me alert him…”
She snaps the clipboard back into its holder and brings her security badge up to the keypad beside
the door, swiping it twice to turn the locking mechanism from a red light to green, and the door
beside her lets out a soft thud as the latch comes undone. Seokjin straightens his shoulders, putting
his arms behind his back in a very non-threatening gesture, and stands back as Sooyoung pulls the
door open at last.
The room beyond is dark, far darker than the dimly lit hallway outside—even though there is a
single window through the far wall, the curtains are drawn tightly and no light from the
streetlamps beyond it make it into the small space. Still, the fluorescent lights from the hallway
illuminate the room enough for Seokjin to make out the shape of a dresser with no handles and a
narrow bed frame against one wall, the feet of each secured to the floor by heavy brackets.
Surprisingly, the bed itself is empty, sheets pulled taut into a precise tuck that betrays its lack of
use.
Sooyoung steps past him and makes her way into the room, posture not betraying any trepidation
she might feel—though why she would, Seokjin doesn’t know. She has nothing to fear from the
man inside, after all.
“Mr. Jung…?” she asks softly, stepping around the far side of the room to look beyond the bed,
seeming to find whomever she is looking for there. She kneels down beside the bed for a moment,
murmuring in a soft voice that Seokjin can’t quite make out—though it makes no difference to
him, taking steps forward into the room himself without any reassurance from the nurse.
After a few tense moments, Sooyoung gets back to her feet and returns to Seokjin’s side, giving
him a what he’s sure is supposed to be a consolatory look. “I’m afraid he’s set on staying down
there tonight,” she tells him in her softest voice yet, “he doesn’t seem to want to—”
“That’s just fine,” he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “We’re all friends here, hm? I don’t
mind spending a little bit of time on the floor if that’s what it takes.”
“Well...if you’re sure—”
“Feel free to leave us, for now.” His words sound like a kind offering, but the order behind them is
clear. When Sooyoung doesn’t immediately agree, he places a gentle hand on her shoulder and
turns the nurse back toward the door. “Go about your rounds, don’t let me keep you. I’m more
than capable of handling myself here.”
“But—”
He doesn’t take no for an answer—never will. The nurse is steered out the door before she even
knows what’s happened, Seokjin sending her off with a small wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t be too
long, go on…”
And then the door to the room is closed in her face, leaving her standing outside—the only one
able to open it, now—and Seokjin trapped inside, though certainly not alone.
His approach to the other side of the bed is slow, calculated. Seokjin kneels down at the very end
of the bed, looking along the small space between the wall and the mattress to where a dark figure
is huddled in the corner. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone—a privilege he has
now been afforded, to be able to keep it beyond the security desk—and turns on the flashlight with
a click of a button.
What greets him is quite the sight—more terrible than he has seen in all of his visits so far. In the
corner, a man is hunched over himself, broad shoulders brought down by his arms, which are
curled tightly around the legs he has brought up to his chest. The man’s eyes—normally soft,
expressive, thin—are blown wide in fear, his pupils dilated despite the light shining straight into
them. His hair and face are a mess, covered in what look like long scratches from his own nails,
some new and some healing. Seokjin makes a small noise of sympathy at the sight, which finally
seems to catch the patient’s attention.
“Hello, Jaehyun…” he greets in a soft voice.
The man, Jaehyun, tilts his head ever-so-slightly so that Seokjin can see the sharp line of his
mouth. Seokjin remembers that mouth, remembers those soft pink lips, the way they once curved
into a smile, tugged at the corners of Jaehyun’s eyes. What a shame.
The patient seems to take a second, trying to focus his attention on Seokjin’s face, his eyes
flickering back and forth almost imperceptibly fast as he takes in the sight before him. Jaehyun
swallows thickly, licks at his now-chapped lips, and lets out a rasp that only barely passes for a
voice.
“—K—K-Kim—”
“That’s right, Jaehyun. I’m here.” Seokjin keeps his tone reassuring, even as he looks the young
man before him over in careful appraisal. “How are you feeling?”
“C-C—Cold…” is the only reply he receives. Seokjin hums sympathetically, and grabs for a
blanket atop the bed, holding the edge of it out to the quivering man before him.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the bed, Jaehyun…?”
“—N-No!” Jaehyun bursts out, finally raising his head above his knees, and Seokjin can see the
full extent of the craze in the young man’s expression. “No b-b-bed, no bed—”
“No bed?” Seokjin repeats, dropping the blanket back to the mattress. “And why is that?”
The patient seems to struggle with the question, turning his head this way and that, his fingers
scrambling against his own bare arms as if fishing for the answer. “B—Be-Because—bed is—b-
bed is sssss—”
“Yes?”
“—s-s-special—”
“Your bed is special?”
Jaehyun tosses his head again, scrunching his eyes closed as if frustrated with his own lack of
clarity. “N-No—n-n-not—not m-my b-bed—”
“Not your bed in particular?”
“N-No!”
“Okay, okay…” Seokjin reaches out a placating hand, not touching the young man before him but
close enough that he could if he wanted to. The patient looks at his outstretched fingers warily, but
doesn’t pull away, only tucking his head down with a whimper. “It’s okay, Jaehyun...I
understand…”
“Hmmmm…” the young man whines at Seokjin’s reassurance, biting at his own lip now.
“It’s okay if you need to stay on the floor, Jaehyun,” he goes on, “that’s alright. I wish you would
sleep in the bed, so you could get better...but take the time you need, brother.”
Jaehyun’s whining increases in volume, his body beginning to shake again.
“I wish you would return to us,” Seokjin continues, his voice taking on a softer, more...coercive
quality. He knows the power that it holds, watches as Jaehyun starts to pluck nervously at his
hospital gown at the sound of it. “We miss you, at the school…”
“Mmnnnnnn—” Jaehyun’s frustration finally drives him to clutch at his own hair, tugging on it
again and again as Seokjin continues to speak to him, to taunt him.
“You were such a good employee…” He murmurs, frowning sadly, “until everything went wrong.
Isn’t that right, Jaehyun?”
“N-N-No—”
“Until you broke one of my toys, hm?” Seokjin goes on, talking over the patient’s outburst now.
“Until you went where you weren’t supposed to, didn’t you?”
Jaehyun starts to rock back and forth, his eyes unfocused as he stares at Seokjin but somehow
seems to be seeing things a million miles away, trapped in a memory far, far from his hospital
room.
“I had to find a replacement, you know…” Seokjin sounds almost wistful now, giving Jaehyun this
small tidbit of information as if it were meaningless, “It took many months, but I was able to find
all the replacements I needed.”
“I—I—n-no—” Back and forth, back and forth, Jaehyun rocks his body desperately, hands coming
down to cover his ears as if he can block out what Seokjin is telling him. “—n-no—no—no!”
“Your services are no longer required, Jaehyun. Stay here and recover.” He gets to his feet then,
standing tall and imposing in front of the crouched patient in the corner. As he turns his back,
moving towards the door while straightening his shirt, he calls one last thing over his shoulder.
“Even though you may have broken the old one, our new doll is a fast learner. No need to worry.”
“Doll.”
The voice that answers him is much closer than before, and Seokjin whips his head around. No
longer curled up in the corner, a tall figure now stands at the end of the bed, shoulders hunched but
still menacing. Seokjin can only see the outline of Jaehyun from the light from the phone at his
side, the man’s eyes dark in his shadowed face.
“Doll.” Jaehyun repeats, his voice hollow.
“Yes, the doll—” Seokjin agrees, haltingly.
“—it—its eyes—” Jaehyun gasps, taking a lurching step forward, as though he has not used his
legs in some time. His panic seems to have made him quick despite his atrophied muscles. “—they
moved.”
“Jaehyun—”
“They m-moved!” He repeats, his voice growing louder, more frantic. The patient takes another
step forward, reaching out a hand to grab at Seokjin’s shirt. He’s taller that Seokjin, even if only
slightly, but his height becomes all the more apparent now as he bears down over the older man.
“The doll, the d-doll—”
“Jaehyun, calm down—” Seokjin holds his hands up placatingly, causing the light from his phone
to flash across the patient’s face, but the young man’s pupils remain completely dilated, giving him
a truly manic expression.
Jaehyun clutches at Seokjin, giving him a harsh shake as if to make him understand. “—it—it m-
moved, it move, its e-eyes followed me—!”
Seokjin tries to reach up to grab at the patient’s hands, and finds himself suddenly shoved back
against the door, wide eyes in in his face, hot breath on his cheeks.
“Jaehyun, stop!”
“It looked—it looked right at me! It looked right at me!”
Seokjin throws out a hand, fumbles across the door—his eyes never leaving the animalistic fear
that he’s seeing inches from his face—slapping against the metal frame until he reaches the wall
on the other side, fingers scraping against the rough surface he was looking for. He presses his
fingers firmly, searching-searching-searching until he finds it—a small, square button laid into the
metal panel beside the door, and gives it a firm slap.
All at once, lights flicker on over their heads, a small, tinny alarm sounds outside the door and
Jaehyun lurches away from him immediately. Within moments, footsteps can be heard running
down the hallway towards them, and a voice outside the door commands clearly, “Step away from
the door!”
Seokjin follows the order easily, his eyes never leaving Jaehyun as the man backs away, dirtied
hands with unkempt nails raised in front of his chest defensively, his shoulders hunching again. He
hears a beep outside the door and the latch unlocks with a thud, the door swinging open
immediately. Three nurses come running inside, including Sooyoung, who makes her way
immediately to Seokjin’s side. She looks him over, taking in his rumbled appearance, his wrinkled
and dirtied shirt—which he carefully left exactly where it had been tugged from his belt by
Jaehyun’s frantic hands—and she gives him a deeply troubled look.
“I’m so sorry, Seokjin—I don’t know what happened, he’s not usually—”
“It’s okay, it’s fine…” He pats at her shoulder reassuringly, but his eyes are cast beyond her to
where the other nurses have surrounding Jaehyun. The young man looks cornered now, wounded
like an animal, whimpering as one of the nurses drags his arms behind his back while he struggles,
and the other produces a syringe that he prepares and quickly plunges into Jaehyun’s upper arm.
The patient struggles for a moment, his movements becoming weaker and weaker until his wide
eyes finally slip shut and he collapses back into the arms that are holding him up. One of the
nurses disappears for a moment to dispose of the syringe, then returns to help shuffle Jaehyun’s
limp body into the bed at last.
Taking the opportunity, Sooyoung gently leads Seokjin from the room, and Seokjin allows himself
to be led. He follows quietly down the hall after her, only then moving to straighten and re-button
his shirt, smoothing through the creases and looking down at the smears of dark blood and dirt
across the front with slight concern. Sooyoung seems at a loss for words, biting her lip as she turns
to glance at Seokjin and the mess that has been made of him with barely disguised concern.
Seokjin takes pity on her as they approach the front of the building, the security doors that lead out
to the lobby from this wing of the hospital looming in the distance. “Take care of him,” he asks her
gently.
She seems to let out a breath that she has been holding the entire journey down the hall. “We will,
you know we will. You were right to bring him here.”
“He still seems to be trapped under the same delusions as before…” he comments offhandedly.
“Yes,” she agrees with a disappointed shake of her head. “He still claims to have seen things that
aren’t possible, claims to have involvement with you and the school that he doesn’t—”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Seokjin fills in for her.
“Yes, exactly,” Sooyoung agrees, “and possibly hallucinations, auditory or visual. We’re—I
shouldn’t be telling you this, but—we’re exploring treatments for schizoaffective disorder now.”
“I appreciate you being willing to share, seeing as he has no recognizable next of kin…”
“Yes, it’s difficult to manage a case like this, with no one claiming power of attorney. You’re the
closest to family he has, at this point…”
“If there’s anything you need me to sign, if it would help—”
“That’s very kind of you, to take responsibility for him like that. I’ll get you the forms.”
“Thank you,” Seokjin bows his head slightly, fighting a smile down off his face. Sooyoung pauses
in front of the security doors, but makes no move to swipe her security badge just yet.
“May I ask—?”
“Anything, please.”
“When you found him…” She begins, hesitant. “When you found Mr. Jung in your building, was
he...agitated, in any way?”
“Very,” Seokjin confirms, remembering back to that night, the same wild look in the young man’s
eyes.
“Do you suspect that he had been...using any sort of drugs? Other substances?”
“I...suppose it’s possible,” Seokjin hedges, tilting his head curiously, “why?”
“These hallucinations he has been experiencing, they could be explained by cortical seizures and
reticular arousal, which could be caused by lesions from certain...stimulants.”
“Hmm...so you believe he may have been under the influence, that night?”
“The police certainly do. They’re looking to charge him with substance abuse and stalking, among
other things. They’re only waiting for a statement from you, they can’t move forward without it
and it sounds like their evidence is circumstantial otherwise.” She shrugs, looking discouraged.
“They came to us for our findings, but I can’t violate his patient confidentiality like that.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Sooyoung…” He assures her, cupping her shoulders in both hands.
She looks up at Seokjin with wide eyes, lips pursed, as if hoping he will give her all the answers. “I
appreciate all the work you do here, more than you know. And I have no intention of making any
sort of statement to the police that would take Mr. Jung away from the care that he clearly needs.”
This is what Sooyoung seems to have been waiting for, her entire body relaxing in sudden relief.
“Thank you, Seokjin…”
“Of course, of course…” He pats her shoulders reassuringly one more time before gesturing back
towards the door. “Thank you for all you’ve done for him, and for me...but I don’t want to keep
you from your important work. Shall we?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, I apologize…” Sooyoung reaches out immediately to knock on the door, and a
scurry of footsteps reaches their ears from the other side. They hear a soft beep, and a light on their
side of the door turns yellow, prompting Sooyoung to raise her own badge and swipe her
credentials, turning the light green. The latch on the door opens again with a dull thud, and the
receptionist pushes the door open from the other side.
“Thank you, Ms. Kwon,” Seokjin tells her as he and Sooyoung step through and let her close the
door securely behind them.
“O-Of course, Mr. Kim. I apologize for the trouble tonight—” She glances down at his dirtied shirt
worriedly, but Seokjin waves away her concern with one hand.
“It’s no trouble, really. Mr. Jung is harmless, I just came on a bad night, it seems…” He runs a
hand through his hair to smooth it down and moves towards the door. “I’ll be sure to call ahead
next time, to make sure he is in a good place for a visit.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” the receptionist praises, “so thoughtful of you. But do you have to go so
soon?”
“Yes, yes...unfortunately…” He gestures towards the front entrance, where his car can be seen
sitting by the curb, lights on and engine running, the driver staring out the front window patiently.
“I have other business to attend to tonight. It was lovely to see you ladies, but I’m afraid I really
must be going—”
As he turns towards the door, ready to head out into the night, he’s stopped by a voice calling to
him over his shoulder. “Mr. Kim, wait!”
He turns around to find Sooyoung heading away from him towards the chairs he had occupied
previously while waiting on her. She reaches down and picks up something dark from the seat
nearest to the door and turns back to return to his side, holding the bundle aloft. “Wait, don’t forget
your jacket! It’s going to be getting cold soon!”
“Oh,” he reaches out to take the jacket, but she holds it open for him and insists upon helping him
slide his arms through the sleeves. “Thank you,” he says once the fabric has fallen into place on his
shoulders, “I wouldn’t want to leave without this!”
Sooyoung smoothes her hands down the front of the jacket and buttons it closed for him over his
collared shirt, hiding the smears of blood underneath, and he looks put together and presentable all
over again. Her fingers trace absently over the school crest over his breast pocket for a moment,
tracing the embroidered rays of the sun at the top before dropping her hands back to her side with a
satisfied hum. Seokjin takes her hands in his and pulls her closer, leaning down to place a soft kiss
on her cheek in thanks, then turns to the receptionist to do the same.
“Ms. Kwon,” he says by way of goodbye, and she blushes prettily again.
“You—ah—you can call me Yuri, if you’d like…”
“Only when you agree to call me Seokjin,” he replies, and she says nothing more, but he accepts it
for the small victory it is. “I hope to see you both very soon, thank you for all your assistance.”
They both bow eagerly as he finally makes his way out the door, not giving a single glance back at
them as the heavy metal slams shut behind him. He looks up at the sky for a single, wistful
moment, feeling the first sprinkle of fall rain on his cheeks, and pulls his jacket closer even as his
driver jumps out of the car, runs around the vehicle, and opens the back door for Seokjin to slide
inside. As they drive off into the night, he casts his eyes out across the small town in which the
hospital resides, thinking of all the ways it resembles his final destination—and all the ways it
doesn’t.
Academy—Practice Room 4—Second Floor 08-19-18 11:06PM
“I—It’s not working!”
“Okay, let’s take a break…” At the words, he slumps down to the bed in instant relief, arms
splayed out on either side of his body. Beside him, a deeper voice chuckles lightly at his antics,
and he turns his head slightly to look up at the other man who is standing above the bed, arms
crossed over his chest, glasses glinting in the low light.
“Don’t laugh at me…” he grumbles, only causing the older man to roll his eyes as he steps away.
It’s nice, the odd sort of familiarity he now feels between them—a far cry from the uncomfortable
distance that had grown between them over the years. Though tentative and new, it gives him a
small inkling of hope that they may be able to repair the unfortunate rift between them. It isn’t
friendly, exactly, when his companion returns to the bed with a pitcher of water in hand and offers
him a glass, but it is cordial enough.
“Thank you,” he says and takes the glass eagerly, immediately gulping the water down as though
he’s been starved of it for days. It never occurred to him that deep breathing exercises could leave
him quite so parched.
“Slow down, Namjoon...you’ll make yourself sick,” he’s told, and he answers with a roll of his
own eyes even as he obeys immediately, lowering the glass back away from his lips and handing it
over when prompted. “Take a minute to relax, bring your heart rate back down—I’ll be back in a
moment.”
His companion steps out of sight while Namjoon turns his gaze back to the ceiling overhead,
watching the flickering shadows he finds there with distant interest. They dance from one corner of
the room to the other, and he knows if he looked down, he would find their source to be the rows
of candles that line the floor on either side of the bed he’s currently enjoying.
As he had been instructed to, he takes a long, deep breath, letting the sensation of the air slide all
the way down into his belly before slowly releasing it between barely parted lips. Then again, but
he focuses on the sensation passing down his legs and into his toes before coming back up to his
lips. In the distance, he hears movement, but it fades into the background while his ears hone in on
the soft rush of air between his teeth—though he may be struggling with their current task, this at
least, he knows he can do properly.
He loses himself in the motion of his breath, in-and-out-and-in-and-out, picturing the air passing
through him like rolling waves on the ocean. His skin feels overheated even despite the slight chill
in the air, the thin layer of sweat covering his skin leaving him with goosebumps even though he
feels, internally, as though he is bathed in flames himself. He closes his eyes and takes stock of the
weight of each of his limbs, flexing and relaxing every one of his muscles one-by-one from his toes
up to his neck—a practice that comes as easily to him as breathing itself.
But, as he loses himself to his body, to the slow inventory he is taking of his every sense, he
doesn’t notice the footsteps returning to his side until a hand lands gently on his shoulder, startling
him back to awareness. His eyes fly open and his entire body tenses in surprise, if only for a
moment—and all of his work for the past few minutes is dashed in a matter of seconds. “Yoongi
—”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” the older man tells him, almost apologetically, “but you were
drifting too far.”
“I—didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Yoongi interrupts him, though his words are more understanding than judgmental, “It’s
a reflex, you’ve spent so long learning to dive deep but you’ve never learned to control it. That’s
why we’re practicing.”
“Right…” He takes the hand that is offered to him then, sitting up on the bed so that his chest
tucks towards his knees, though his posture hides none of nakedness. Yoongi gives him an
appraising once-over, and Namjoon does nothing to shield himself from the older man’s gaze,
staring right back unabashedly. There are to be no secrets between them, after all—that was what
he was promised, when being invited for further training, and he isn’t about to negate the trust that
has been placed in him by showing any signs of weakness. “So what now?”
“I want to try something,” Yoongi tells him while tapping at Namjoon’s knee with his fingertips,
urging the younger man to slip backwards on the bed to make room for him. Namjoon slides back
towards the head of the bed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he isn’t in danger of slipping
off the head of the mattress as he goes, glancing warily down at the raised dais that he has been
laid out on and the rows and candles down below. When he turns his gaze back to Yoongi again, he
finds that the teacher has risen up onto the cushioned surface himself and is sliding his legs
beneath himself so that they both sit as mirror images of each other.
Once settled, Yoongi reaches for Namjoon’s hands, and he takes a slow breath before reaching out
to place his palms in the ones offered to him. Despite the significant difference between them in
size, he finds that Yoongi’s hands match his own very well—broad palms and long, tapered fingers
that wrap securely around his wrists.
“Go ahead and close your eyes,” he’s instructed, “Take another deep breath, and focus the energy
down into your palms the way you would normally do.”
Namjoon does as instructed, eyes sliding closed to block his view of Yoongi sitting cross-legged in
front of him, still completely dressed while Namjoon is bare from head to toe. Once his eyes have
fallen shut, he feels Yoongi’s hands circle his wrists, thumbs pressing firmly into his pulse. “Feel it
here, the pressure?”
“Yes,” Namjoon answers, his voice falling to a soft hush.
“Feel the pressure in your skin?” Again, Namjoon nods his agreement. “What about underneath, in
the muscle?”
It takes a bit more focus, to separate the sensation of the touch to his skin from the pressure he
feels below the surface, the way one feels sharp while the other feels like a deeper, slower ache.
“Yes,” he eventually whispers again, not sure where Yoongi is taking this.
“What about even deeper? Can you feel it in your pulse? In your hand, even though I’m not
touching your hand?”
Namjoon struggles, then, to understand what Yoongi means—to follow the sensation from the
obvious point of contact in his wrist, where Yoongi’s thumbs have dug into his veins, and trace it
to the slight tension in his forearm where the circulation struggles to overcome the blockage, or the
way his fingertips just barely tingle at the loss of blood flow. It takes several long moments before
he feels confident to nod his agreement.
“Good.” Yoongi suddenly releases his hands, and Namjoon peeks one eye open to look up at the
older man, who immediately waves a hand back at him that he understands to mean he should
close his eyes again. “Alright, now...focus on that same feeling, bring the memory of that feeling to
the forefront of your mind.”
He straightens his shoulders, determined now—and slowly piecing together exactly what Yoongi is
getting at. He holds his hands out in the air before him, careful not to let them drop under the slight
pull of gravity while he tries to drag up the memory from just moments ago, of Yoongi’s gentle but
insistent touch and the way it sang through his entire limb.
“I remember…” he says, when he believes he has a firm grip on the memory, when he can almost
feel the ghost of the touch on his skin.
“Try to call it into existence,” Yoongi directs, and Namjoon’s forehead wrinkles in a frown. He
feels the barest touch of a thumb across his brow, smoothing out the skin there as the older man
continues, “Bring the feeling from your memory to your body. Concentrate on feeling that same
sensation again, even though I’m no longer touching you…”
When Yoongi’s hand disappears again and Namjoon is left alone in the darkness behind his
eyelids, he has to take a moment to center himself again. He draws in a long, slow breath, just as
before, and follows the feeling of the breath through his body. Down-down-down his arms, he
pushes the sensation of the breath with his mind until it takes him to his hands, to the spot where
Yoongi’s touch had lingered. He imagines the fingers circling his wrists, the way they must have
looked pressing into his muscles, the contrast of Yoongi’s paler skin against his own. Yoongi has
always had nice hands, and it isn’t a difficult image to procure, despite his eyes having been closed
while the touch actually happened.
The imaginary touch presses deeper, and—yes—if he gives it enough thought, he can feel the way
it had tickled against his skin, and below, how there had been a twinge of pain, no more than a
ripple out from the center point of the contact. At first, it is only an echo of the pressure, but the
longer he focuses on the touch, the more he can draw it to the surface until the pain is real and
blooming beneath his skin.
He almost gasps, when he finds that his fingers tingle at the tips, like a soft current of electricity
has run through his limbs, and it’s impossible to keep a smile from turning up his lips. “I—I feel it
—I can feel it—” He drags his eyes open to look up at Yoongi once more, finding the older man
with a suggestion of a smile on his own lips as well. “I can feel it.”
“Perfect.”
Yoongi brings his hands back up to Namjoon’s shoulders, then, and it’s almost shocking—the
difference between his real touch and the phantom one—the way one is warm and present, seeping
into his skin, while the other is cool and fades away the moment he loses his focus on it.
“Lie back,” Yoongi prompts along with the pressure he gently applies to Namjoon’s shoulders, and
Namjoon’s body is easily guided back to lie against the velvet surface of the bed, arms falling open
and vulnerable to his sides. Yoongi rises to his knees and slides himself closer, positioning his hips
between Namjoon’s spread thighs, the younger man’s knees tucked against his legs without quite
touching.
“We’re going to try the same thing again, you understand?” He asks, and Namjoon nods eagerly
now. Yoongi’s eyes are dark and captivating, the way they take in his naked form while exposing
no hint of the man’s thoughts behind their inky depths. “Alright, close your eyes again.”
It is infinitely more intimate, the darkness behind his eyes as his lids fall closed again—allowing
him to focus on the low rasp of their breathing in the silence that follows, the way Yoongi’s inhale
and exhale mirrors his own. Yoongi’s body is a warm presence between his legs even though there
are a few centimeters between his skin and the older man’s clothes, and he turns his mind to the
count of his breathing—in and out, in and out on a rhythmic count. He waits for the touch that he
knows is coming, the sensation he is meant to commit to memory, but it does very little to prepare
him for the sudden appearance of Yoongi’s fingertips against the inside of his thighs, his only
warning before his Guide wraps those long fingers around his cock where it lays heavy and
unattended against his stomach.
“Take in every sensation,” Yoongi directs, sounding much more unaffected by the contact that
Namjoon feels, “The temperature, the pressure…”
And take it in, he does—it would be impossible not to. Despite his ease of access, it’s been quite
some time—longer than he’d like to admit—since he last felt another’s touch in this way. Yoongi’s
grip is firm, expert, a thumb pressing immediately into the sensitive spot just beneath the head of
his cock. Knowing he isn’t supposed to hold back, he revels in the sensation, allowing his body to
move where it pleases as a sharp twinge of pleasure shoots up his spine.
Yoongi’s circles the head of his cock with just his fingertips for a moment before drawing them
down the shaft in a tight fist and ending with Namjoon’s balls resting in a cupped palm, the
sensations blending into one another as he struggles to keep track of them.
Remembering, belatedly, that he is supposed to be cataloging the experience, he sucks in a sharp

breath and starts his focus in much the same way as before, with the rash of Yoongi’s skin against
his own, the way those long fingers take complete possession of his cock with every movement.
Beneath that sensation, he finds the pleasure-pain of a particularly firm twist of Yoongi’s grip, and
the corded tension of his thighs and hips as each movement sends shocks of electricity across his
nerves.
His hips rise off the mattress to meet the path that Yoongi’s fingers trace back up along the vein
that lines the underside of his cock, all the way up to swipe a bead of precome as it forms at his slit.
He makes a mental note of the way his chest tightens around his breath, the instinctive need he has
to bite at his own lip, the way his hands seem to scramble for a grip on the sheets on either side of
his body of their own accord.
“Do you have it?” Yoongi asks, his voice no more than a low rumble now, as if he is wary of
breaking Namjoon’s concentration. Unlike before, Namjoon’s assurance that he has, in fact, fully
captured the experience of this particular touch is a quick and irrefutable one. He hears a soft huff
from Yoongi, almost a laugh, at how quickly he nods his head in agreement, but he can’t bring
himself to be embarrassed now.
“Very good…” Without warning, the pace of Yoongi’s strokes suddenly increases, measured and
even but fast enough that Namjoon lets out an unabashed moan at the change, the coil of pleasure
in his belly only tightening. Already on edge from their previous work earlier in the evening, he
feels amazingly on-edge after only a few short moments, Yoongi’s expert fingers bringing him on a
quick path to his release.
“Take it all in, Namjoon, don’t miss a thing,” he’s saying, and it takes no small effort for Namjoon
to even catch every word, to make sense of the directions he’s being given when all of his muscles
start to tense and relax in time with Yoongi’s insistent strokes. “Take note of where you feel the
pleasure, where you might feel tension, and how your body encourages it as we go along—”
“A-Ahh—” Namjoon’s guttural cry is a result of a sudden twist of Yoongi’s fingers as they make
their way down his shaft, the sensation blurring the lines between pleasure and pain, and his toes
curl immediately into the velvet cushion beneath him. “Yoongi—”
“Do you have it?” Yoongi asks, his voice still even and measured while his student falls apart
under his careful attention, “Do you have it, Namjoon?”
“I—ahh—I have it, I h-have it—!” He chokes out, desperately—and in an instant, Yoongi’s touch
on his cock completely disappears, sending his impending orgasm to a screeching halt that has him
crying out in disappointment. “No, what—?!”
“Shhh….” Yoongi’s hands return to Namjoon’s thighs with long, sweeping strokes that are clearly
meant to soothe, and he wrenches his eyes open to lodge a disbelieving glare at the older man
between his legs.
“I can’t believe you—you just—”
“Shhhh, don’t worry—you won’t be left hanging,” Yoongi assures him in that same calm,
measured voice, though a hint of amusement seems to creep in at the edges. “Trust in the process,
won’t you?”
Namjoon doesn’t dignify that with a response, only huffs and drops his head back down to the
mattress, listening to the heavy thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat in his ears to match the way it beats
against his ribcage.
“Alright, take a second to wind down—it’s important we start from a more relaxed state.”
Yoongi’s hands move from Namjoon’s spread thighs to his knees, resting there patiently as
Namjoon forces his breathing to even out enough that his heart rate begins to naturally slow back
down to normal. “Let me know when you’re read…”
He gulps, his mouth once again dry, but—knowing what is coming, and how important this is, the
way Yoongi has explained it to him earlier—he braces himself and gives Yoongi the curt nod that
the older man is waiting for.
“Okay, Namjoon...can you bring up that memory for me?”
Of course he can, he thinks sardonically as he easily thinks of the touch that had made his body
sing with pleasure only moments before. How could he forget?
“Good. Bring it back to the forefront of your mind—remember the sensation of my fingers on your
cock, can you recall that feeling?”
“Y-Yes—”
“And the pressure, how I would squeeze or let go?”
“Yes…”
“And the moments when it felt good?”
“Y-Yes, I—”
“The way it felt inside, how your muscles clenched because of the touch? The parts of your body
that became tense?”
“Yes, yes—”
“And how it affected your breath, made you move parts of your body other than your cock?”
“Yes, Yoongi, I’ve got it—” he doesn’t mean to be impatient, but it’s impossible not to be when his
mind so easily conjures up the embrace of fandom fingers around his throbbing cock and the
tightening coil of pleasure deep in his gut.
“Good.” He can hear the slightest creak of the bed beneath them as Yoongi moves, situating
himself for the best view, and says, “Go on, then. Give it a try. Bring yourself back to that place
using only your mind.”
It feels impossible. This is all Namjoon can think as he freezes under Yoongi’s direction, at a loss
for a moment as to where he should even begin. But as with all things, there is a process—there is
always a process. Yoongi wouldn’t lead him astray, not as his Guide. This is all for a reason, he
reminds himself. He tries not to think about his earlier failure, his first attempts that caused this
little detour of their training together in the first place.
He starts with the bed, which seems like a safe bet—starts with focusing on the firm but plush
surface beneath him, the way the tufted fabric presses into his muscles at different intervals, the
soft rasp of the velvet fibers against his skin. Next, his skin itself, feeling the way his thin sheen of
sweat has dried slightly during the last few moments of rest, the tingling that still lingers wherever
Yoongi’s fingers had ventured. And then to Yoongi’s fingers, and the pressure they had exerted on
his thighs, around his cock—the insistent way the older man had stroked him until he teetered
dangerously close to his peak.
Just as before, he draws forth the memory of the touch and pieces apart the sensations,
remembering the surface-level drag of skin-against-skin but also the deeper ache of pressure from
within. His hips begin to move with the memory before he even realizes it—little shifts forwards
and backwards as he remembers Yoongi’s thorough exploration of his thighs, his cock, his balls—
and it only adds to the realness of the sensations he can recall so easily. More importantly, it comes
that much easier than before, to remember the flicker of pleasure in his gut at Yoongi’s touch as
though it were still happening—and of course it is, he thinks, of course, when the touch on his
wrists had been so—so pedestrian—and the intimate touches had been so much more.
His toes curl into the cushion and he finds his hands dragging across the surface on either side of
him for purchase as the sensation only heightens, much as it did before, under his careful
concentration—so much so that he can practically feel the warmth of Yoongi’s hand on his cock
through memory alone. After such careful commitment of the drag and clench of the older man’s
fingers, he is able to recall them with frightening accuracy, bucking his hips into the ghostly
imprint of Yoongi’s fist around him while his conjured version of the older man trails a hand down
to clutch at Namjoon’s balls once again.
He finds his head tossed back at the remembered pleasure, though his cock twitches as though it
were happening all over again, his mouth falling open to make breathing a little easier around the
way his chest tightens at the thought of Yoongi pinching at the head of his cock once more. The
more he focuses on the touch, willing it into existence, the more he can feel his body tightening at
the center, his back arching off the bed even as his hands clench into the cushion below him to
hold himself down, every muscle responding to a stimulus that isn’t there but might as well be.
But even as he feels his body heating up again, sweat dripping down his temples under the exertion
of clenching and relaxing, only to clench up again under those imaginary hands—he finds that it’s
just—not— enough. Though he can feel his release looming, the tight coil of pleasure in his belly
as he bucks up to match the memory of Yoongi’s strokes—there is no actual touch on his body,
Yoongi far enough away that he can’t even feel the other man’s warmth, has no real friction
against his skin, nothing to rut into or up against, and it’s not enough. Frustration mounting, he
finds himself with tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, determined not to give up but his
breath shuddering as he realizing that he is—somehow—failing at this task.
“Y-Yoongi, I—” His head tosses back and forth, frustration taking over any other thoughts, his grip
on the memory slipping. “I—I can’t—”
He tenses again, trying to force the sensation now, sure that he is leaving long scratches in the
velvet fabric beneath him in his efforts to keep from touching himself—he’s so, so very hard, cock
aching terribly from the memory alone, blood rushing in his ears, but the harder he tries, the worse
the situation seems to get.
“Shhh….” The first touch he feels is a pair of hands on his cheeks, followed by a press of lips to
his forehead. “It’s alright, Joonie...you did well…”
He sniffles, eyes finally parting and tears slipping down his cheeks as his body slumps back to the
cushioned bed beneath him. “I’m s-sorry—” he tries to explain, but Yoongi shushes him again,
bending over him with his long fingers stroking the tears away from Namjoon’s cheeks.
“No need to apologize,” Yoongi assures him, “I mean it, you did well.”
“But—”
“This isn’t an easy task, Namjoon...if it was, we would have introduced in earlier in the process,
wouldn’t we?” He waits for an answer, staring Namjoon down until the younger man nods his
agreement, “This is only your first attempt, and you did very well, better than I could have
imagined, really…”
“I did?”
“You’re a natural…” Yoongi gives him what could almost be called a sheepish smile, small but
visible on his thin lips, “Why am I not surprised?”
It’s hard not to huff out a laugh at that, although the sound is a little wet and he follows it up with a
sniffle. “No need to flatter me…” he grumbles, “You're the Guide here, after all…”
“Yes, but I’m not the one who did this—” With a jolt, Namjoon finds one of Yoongi’s hands
sliding down his chest, long fingers wrapping securely around his aching cock once more. “I barely
touched you, in the beginning...you did all this to yourself…”
“A-Ah—Yoon—” Namjoon tosses his head back, hair sticking to the sweat that coats his forehead
as Yoongi wastes no time in stroking Namjoon’s rigid length, offering him some small relief from
his frustration.
“Can’t leave you like this, can I?” Yoongi asks, his voice dipping low in a growl that Namjoon
hasn’t heard in quite a long time, familiar like a long-lost friend. “What sort of Guide would I be if
I didn’t attend to all of my duties, hm?”
There’s humor in the older man’s voice, yes, but also an underlying sense of seriousness, of duty,
that Namjoon understands so well. “I—a-ah—I agree,” he pants, trying to open at least one eye to
squint up at the older man even as his touch has Namjoon hissing in over-sensitivity, “Can’t—
leave you hanging either…”
And he finally releases the bed, reaching out a hand blindly for Yoongi until he is able to clasp at
the older man’s shirtsleeve to pull him closer. Yoongi follows with a huff, Namjoon’s impatience
having the unintended effect of causing Yoongi’s hand to leave his cock in order to catch himself
before he becomes completely unbalanced. “Alright, alright...just be patient…”
Namjoon drags the back of his other hand across his brow to wipe away his sweat while he waits,
eyes falling closed again as he listens to the unmistakable sounds of Yoongi’s clothes being
removed while trying to calm his own breathing.
When Yoongi’s body returns above his, there are no barriers between them now, only the soft
friction of skin against skin as the smaller man slides between his legs, pressing Namjoon’s knees
apart with his thighs. Namjoon feels hot breath on the side of his neck as Yoongi’s chest is lowered
to his, leaving no room between their bodies and no doubt that the older man is just as affected by
their activities as Namjoon has been. Their cocks slide together as Yoongi settles himself,
Namjoon’s sweat serving as rudimentary lube between them, and it’s impossible not to buck up
into the sensation—but the gentle press of Yoongi’s hand on his hip holds Namjoon still.
“Is this alright?” Yoongi asks considerately, and Namjoon blinks blearily up at him, trying to focus
his eyes on the man resting above him in the dim light. Yoongi has shed his glasses along with his
clothes, his own dark hair hanging low in his face, and it makes him look—softer, somehow. The
humor is gone from his eyes, leaving him looking down at Namjoon with studious intent.
He goes to nod his head immediately but falters, reaching up a hand to press into the curve of
Yoongi’s spine where their hips are pressed together. “You mean, you don’t want to—”
Yoongi shakes his head immediately.
“Just like this, is that alright?” He interrupts, asking a question despite his tone leaving no room for
argument, and Namjoon finally nods slowly up at him. Taking this as all the permission he needs,
Yoongi slides his arms up beside Namjoon’s chest on either side so that his weight is supported on
his forearms, giving him the perfect leverage to rock his hips forward—with precise intention—so
their cocks slide together deliciously slow.
{art by @milkypeachess}
Realizing that Yoongi isn’t about to give up any control here, Namjoon settles back and allows the
older man all the room he needs, his own long legs sliding up until his knees are bent and splayed
on either side of Yoongi’s narrow hips to leave enough room. Something in Yoongi seems to snap,
then, at his willing submission, and he feels his Guide snap his hips forward in a sudden thrust that
is sure to leave bruises against his own hip bones in the morning, but—oh, it’s so good, simple but
perfect, the way the friction between them offers him just enough relief for the fever burning
beneath his skin.
“Yes, yes—” He pants into Yoongi’s ear when the older man leans closer, his own breath heavy to
match Namjoon’s stuttering inhales, the pace he sets with their hips sliding together almost
furiously, efficiently fast. Namjoon can’t believe how quickly his orgasm begins to creep back up
on him under Yoongi’s attention, as though it had never waned at all—god, it’s been so long, too
long, since he’s last lain with someone like this, and for it to end up being Yoongi, of all people—
It feels like a bit of a cosmic joke, really. It almost makes him laugh, but he has just enough
presence of mind to hold the sound back, to tuck his face under Yoongi’s chin instead and muffle
the sound into the pale skin beneath his lips. Yoongi—of all people—should not feel this good, but
—he certainly knows what he’s doing, the way he moves his hips as they rut against each other
like simple animals more than enough to bring Namjoon closer and closer to the peak he had so
desperately been chasing only minutes before.
And why shouldn’t he be this capable? Namjoon thinks, chiding himself for his doubt for the
second time in less than a week—Yoongi has earned his place here, and for a reason. Clearly a
capable Guide, he has no reason to doubt the older man, and—if he’s being honest, it’s— nice, it
really is, to be pressed close together like this. Yoongi smells clean, musky and warm above him,
and it’s easy to encourage him with a drag of his lips along the sharp edge of Yoongi’s chin,
trailing kisses and nips with his teeth to the side of his throat and along the line of his jaw.
It gives him no small sense of satisfaction to be able to affect the older man so, to make Yoongi’s
breath stutter in his ear when he closes his lips over the shell of Yoongi’s own, drawing the
sensitive lobe between his teeth to nibble at for a moment before letting it go.
“Yoongi…” he breathes, his own voice no more than a rasp. Yoongi hums out a little broken noise
in response, and Namjoon just can’t help himself, turns his head to seek out the source of the sound
with his lips, but—the moment his lips brush just against Yoongi’s own, the older man turns his
head away. The motion isn’t quite jerky, but quick enough that Namjoon is surprised to find his
face buried in Yoongi’s dark hair instead while Yoongi’s lips fall to his shoulder, giving him a
sharp—and distracting—bite just above his collarbone.
Doubling down in his efforts, Yoongi uses his knees to press Namjoon’s thighs further apart and
ruts their cocks together ruthlessly, one hand dragging down Namjoon’s chest to circle both shafts
and squeeze them tightly as his thrusts continue. The pressure is too much for Namjoon to take,
any thoughts of his disappointment or confusion momentarily struck from his mind as he’s
overwhelmed by the burning pleasure, the friction that is just this side of too much. It drags an
orgasm from him within moments.
Caught up in his own pleasure, release taking over his mind, his very being —he doesn’t notice
Yoongi reaching his own peak until the slide between their bodies becomes deliciously slick.
Yoongi continues his thrusting, though less hurried than before, no longer chasing release but
instead following it through to the end, until Namjoon’s body is singing with pleasure and burning
with pain, over-sensitive to a fault. Finally, the pain outweighs his enjoyment and he fumbles
between them to push at Yoongi’s chest, carefully but insistently forcing the older man away.
Yoongi sits back with a heavy breath, his lips red and slick with spit, his eyes dark. The older
man’s dark hair now plastered to his forehead with sweat, he looks down at Namjoon as though not
quite seeing them, the room silent except for their heavy, mismatched breathing.
Not sure what, exactly, he should be saying, Namjoon says nothing. He watches quietly as Yoongi
comes back to himself, shaking his head before sliding backwards until he can climb from the
cushion and off the raised dais to the floor. Still lying flat on his back, he loses track of Yoongi to
the far reaches of the room until the older man returns, this time not with a pitcher of water but with
a basin. He gingerly climbs back up to kneel beside Namjoon now, taking a wet cloth from the
basin and wringing it out before bringing it down to Namjoon’s soiled skin.
It’s soothing, comforting, the way that Yoongi cleans him, gently brushing the cloth and the cool
water over each of Namjoon’s arms and down his chest, washing away any signs of what they’ve
just done. He returns the cloth to the basin, wrings out the water and starts again, this time on
Namjoon’s legs and between his thighs, finally wrapping the cloth securely around the younger
man’s cock and stroking his softening length until all is clean. One last time, the rag is brought
back into the water and wrung dry, before Yoongi brings it to Namjoon’s face to wipe away the
sweat still clinging to his skin.
All the while, no words pass between them, and Namjoon feels his chest tighten at the cool
detachment Yoongi suddenly seems to content to allow between them, each of his movements
clinical and perfunctory. It reminds him, oddly, of the way he approaches his own work with the
school, the detachment he has to feel in order to perform his job to the best of his ability. It’s—
disappointing isn’t quite the right word, but he doesn’t know what the right word would be.
Instead of saying anything, he sits up when Yoongi motions for him to do so and reaches for the
cloth, dragging the fabric through the water in the basin before setting it aside and mimicking
Yoongi’s actions from before by bringing it to the older man’s skin. He takes his time with it,
wanting to be diligent in his work despite the late hour and Yoongi’s sudden coldness—until he
glances up at the older man’s face and finds him no longer even looking at Namjoon anymore,
eyes instead focused somewhere over his shoulder.
It becomes clear that Yoongi is just—waiting for this all to end, he supposes, and it hurries his
hands along until all of Yoongi’s skin is clean enough for him to stop. He clears his throat,
dragging his Guide back from being lost in his thoughts, and Yoongi shakes his head quickly
before bringing his eyes back to focus on Namjoon’s face again.
“All done?” He asks, as though not already knowing the answer.
“All done,” Namjoon replies, glancing away.
“We should go.”
It’s a bit clumsy, the way they each roll off separate sides of the bed and move towards their
clothes, Namjoon stumbling slightly as he reaches the bottom step of the dais. He scrambles into
his shirt and tugs on his underwear and pants with more haste than usual, not even bothering to slip
on his socks—shoving them in his pocket instead—before shoving his feet in his shoes. When he
turns around, he finds Yoongi bent over, already neatly dressed, snuffing out the ring of candles
one-by-one. Hastily joining in, they manage to douse every flame in a few short minutes, and
Yoongi nods for them to make their way out the door.
The lock is carefully turned with a key that disappears in Yoongi’s pocket, and he guides Namjoon
with a hand at the small of his back down the hallway towards the main entrance of the building.
All around them, the walls lined with rich wood paneling shine even in the dim lighting, the
building empty aside from the echoes of their footsteps. He normally appreciates taking in the
refined atmosphere, but tonight he can hardly focus on the path they are taking around the thoughts
filling his head—a muddled mess of memories and emotions, the onslaught coming faster than he
can control.
Above all else, one emotion makes itself known as he and Yoongi prepare to part ways, stepping
outside the building together and allowing the door to slam shut behind them.
“Take tonight and tomorrow to rest,” Yoongi tells him, breaking the silence that has stretched
between them at long last. “Come back the following day at the same time.”
“I will,” he answers simply, not trusting himself to say anything more.
“Be sure to practice in the meantime,” Yoongi goes on as he fusses with the keys he pulls from his
pocket.
“Of course.”
Yoongi nods and takes a step away from him then, eyes cast down towards the keys in his hands as
he flips through them for the key to his car in particular. He makes it a few steps away, Namjoon
watching him go quietly, before pausing, raising his head, and turning back around. This time, he
meets Namjoon’s eyes directly, his expression impossible to read as he says, “You did well today,
Namjoon.”
“...thank you,” he answers, unsure what more he should possibly say. Yoongi’s words did not seem
disingenuous, but they make that odd emotion in his chest rear its ugly head again, his hands
tightening into fists beneath the jacket he has slung over them.
“I—” Yoongi falters, just for a moment, seeming unsure as to what more he could say as well,
before ultimately deciding not to say anything at all. “Well. Good night, then.”
Namjoon doesn’t bother answering, just nods his head for the final time that night, and Yoongi
takes it for the dismissal it is. He watches the older man make his way down into the parking lot,
slide into his car, and drive off into the darkness without moving a muscle—only turning away
when the dots of his headlights finally disappear out of sight. Only then does he turn back towards
the building, casting his eyes up to the sign emblazoned above the doorway, large golden letters
spelling out The Institute of Higher Purpose.
And it is only then that he can give the emotion a name, call it what it is—anger, just as before.
Anger that he is now becoming intimately familiar with, more intimate than anything he and
Yoongi have just done together. Anger at all that has led him to this very moment, standing alone
on this doorstep tonight.
Basement—Storage Room 2—East 08-20-18 7:05AM
He’s so beautiful.
Dark hair, dark eyelashes, dark eyes. Beautiful.
He wants to touch, so he does. He can do this. No one will know.
His skin is as soft as he is beautiful. It was true last night, and it’s still true now. The room is dark,
the light dim and hazy, no windows to betray the shadows that are cast across the bed, but—still,
he is beautiful.
He wants to kiss, so he does. He leans forward and seals his lips against those in front of him, soft
and pliant even though they don’t move. The body before him is warm, their limbs curled together
from head to toe. The blanket over their bodies is an uncomfortable weight, but it creates a soft
cocoon around them both, and for the moment, there is nothing in the world but this, but them.
His hands look so small, pressed to the firm chest that faces him—his skin pale in comparison. The
smooth rise and fall of said chest is soothing, alluring. He presses closer, can’t help himself.
No one will know. He steals another kiss, can’t think of a reason not to. His lips are so soft, small
but full, good for kissing. He nips at those lips, draws one between his own, runs his tongue over it
to taste it like the rare delicacy it is. The body beside him responds, stirring. He is beautiful.
Pristine. He wants to touch, so he does—drags his hands down that defined chest, circles his
fingers around a soft navel and further, further.
The body reacts to him as well as expected, arching forward automatically as his fingers wrap
around the nice cock he finds there. He brings their cocks together, one hard and one soft, though
well on its way to being otherwise, and sighs happily. Steals another kiss. The lips beneath his kiss
back, softly, sluggishly.
He smiles.
He can’t quite wrap a hand around both of their cocks at once, but—it’s enough. He looks down,
takes in the pretty picture they paint together, their bodies damp with sweat and slick together. He
dares for another kiss, and another. Those lips part beneath his, hot breath against his cheeks.
A small noise comes from the throat he drags his mouth towards, leaving kisses across tanned skin
along the way. He ruts his hips forward now—he can’t help it. He can do this. They’ll never
know. The blanket is unbearably hot, but it protects them. They’ll never know.
Their cocks slide together, back and forth, simple but effective. He can feel it then, a different heat
—one that comes from within. He feels full with it, heat rising beneath his skin. It’s delicious, and
he craves another taste, drags his head back up to those lips and licks his way inside for more.
When he pulls back, he finds dark eyes peering back at him through even darker lashes, the gaze
heavy and warm. He is so beautiful. He kisses those lips again, and they kiss back, softly, sweetly.
He hums happily, drags his toes down one of the legs between his, ruts their hips together again,
feels the heat in his belly burn and burn and burn.
The body against his doesn’t move, but it doesn’t need to. He does enough moving for the both of
them, just enough that there is delicious friction between them. They’ll never know.
The lips against his twist into the shape of a word, the throat beneath them letting out a soft sound.
A sound that almost forms a word, almost sounds like his name. He kisses the sound off of those
lips, swallows it down, chases it with a soft “shhhhhh…”
He’s so beautiful, but he shouldn’t speak. Dolls don’t speak, and he is a Doll. They shouldn’t be
doing this, but no one can see. They’ll never know.
He ruts their hips together, faster now, and faster again. The heat in his belly becomes an open
flame, a wild fire. He pants against those lips, and they kiss him—this time, they kiss him first. He
makes a small sound now, finds it licked off his lips in a slow, lazy swipe of a tongue against his.
He shouldn’t be doing this, but he is—he is—and they—they’ll never know—
He can feel it coming now, the rush of it—that forbidden fruit, that restless desire. His body aches
for it, he feels full with it, ready to burst—
KNOCK—KNOCK—KNOCK—
“Jimin…?”
A voice from outside tears him from his thoughts, tears him away from the body in front of him,
from the warmth and safety, and he gasps.
KNOC K—
“Jimin, are you there?”
That voice—so familiar. But—he can’t be here, he shouldn’t be—
“Jimin, if you’re in there, open up!”
His head whips around to peer off the edge of the bed towards the door, feet immediately
untangling from another set of legs and kicking at the blanket to remove it from above him. A cold
feeling of dread takes over that happy warmth in his stomach, creeping in at the edges. He pushes
away from the chest in front of him, scrambling back across the sheets despite the small groan that
it earns him from his bed partner. He twists and stumbles from the bed, bare feet sliding on the tile
floor as his hips are caught, momentarily in the sheets before he manages to tug himself free.
Not completely naive, Jimin bends down to scoop up his coveralls from the floor and steps back
into them, zipping them up at least to the waist before moving to the door where the knocking
continues, soft but insistent. He pauses before the door and leans against it, pressing his ear flat
against the wood to better focus on the sounds beyond.
After a few short moments, he raises a hand and waits for a pause in the knocking to give a short
rap of his knuckles against the wood in response. All of a sudden, the knocking stops, and the air is
filled with a pregnant pause instead. He counts to three under his breath, and the moment he lets
out the last number, a set of two soft knocks greets him. He can’t help the way his lips turn down
in an immediate frown at the familiar noise, answering with his own set of one-two-one knocks in
return, and the moment he hears another three-one-one knock pattern given back, his hand flies for
the door handle and jerks the door open a few inches.
When he peers outside, a nervous, handsome face greets him. “Jimin,” the boy says, looking
sheepish.
He considers, for a moment, not letting the boy inside. But—no—they would notice. No. He
purses his lips, watches as Taehyung rocks back and forth on his feet while he waits for Jimin to
make a decision. It’s dangerous either way, but danger he knows is better than danger he doesn’t.
The janitor steps back just enough to allow the young man inside, sticks his head through the door
to peer up the stairs for a moment to make sure he wasn’t followed, then slips back inside and
slams the door shut firmly. He blinks at the handle for a moment, lamenting the lack of any sort of
lock, before finally turning around to face his guest at last.
“Taehyung,” he says coldly by way of greeting, and watches as a dark head of hair twists around
immediately to face him, turning away from where the younger man had been staring across the
room to the body still lying prone in Jimin’s bed. “...you’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know, I know…” he groans, holding up his hands defensively. “But I just needed to—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, hands balling up into fists. They’ll see, now—they’ll see—
Taehyung’s shoulders curl up towards his ears, bunching up his uniform jacket as he takes a step
towards the older man. “Jimin, please, I just—I can’t keep staying away like this, things are getting
—”
He shakes his head, refusing to remember. It’s better that way. It’s better if he forgets, better if they
stay away. Taehyung is a fool. “I don’t care, why would you do this?”
“There’s been some...changes,” Taehyung tries to explain, and Jimin turns his head away. “I didn’t
know who else to turn to—”
Jimin brings a hand up to his head, rubs at the incessant aching he feels behind his temples.
Taehyung’s words make no sense. He’s reckless, he’s always been reckless. They’re going to catch
him, going to be angry. He’s always been dangerous. He can’t help but vocalize some of these
thoughts outline, though only some of them make their way from his lips like a broken record.
“They’re going to catch you, they’re going to catch you,” He starts pacing back and forth, no
longer able to look at Taehyung or the pleading look in his eyes.
“Jimin—” Taehyung reaches out, catching one of Jimin’s bare arms in his long fingers as the man
passes by and dragging him to a stop.
“No, let me—go—!” Jimin jerks his head out of the touch as though branded by it, wrapping his
own hand around the spot where Taehyung had grabbed him to shield it from view. Taehyung
throws his hands up in surrender, making it clear he won’t try that again.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just—please,” he begs, dropping his voice down lower, “I didn’t have
anywhere else to go...please don’t be upset…”
Jimin wraps his arms around his middle, crossing his forearms over his stomach. He feels empty.
He feels like he could puke anyway. Behind him, on the bed, there is stirring.
“Jiminie…” Taehyung tries again, and Jimin whimpers, his eyes wide as he stares back at the
younger man. “Jiminie, I—”
“It—it’s b-been months, what—d-do you want?” He cuts Taehyung off, and only when he speaks
does he realize that he has started to cry, tears, prickling at the corners of his eyes. Taehyung
manages to hold off for just a moment before breaking down and rushing forward, his arms
immediately curling around Jimin as though that is where they belong.
Jimin can’t remember the last time he cried.
Taehyung’s scent is so familiar, as are the warm press of his arms around Jimin’s shoulders and the
soft shushing noises he makes in Jimin’s ear. He doesn’t know when the quiet tears turn into sobs,
but suddenly he’s sobbing into the younger man’s chest, all reservations thrown to the wind. His
anxiety makes itself known as a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
“Shhh...hey, it’s okay…” Taehyung tells him, “Don’t cry, Jiminie, it’s alright…” Firm hands rub
up and down his back, and Jimin loses himself to the sensation. For a moment, he doesn’t care
who’s watching, the tears far beyond controllable as they cascade down his cheeks. He can feel
Taehyung’s uniform jacket soaking through, but the younger man doesn’t seem to care.
“I missed you, Jiminie…” Taehyung whispers to him before pressing a soft kiss to his blonde hair,
and Jimin chokes out a particularly manic sounding sob. From behind him, there is rustling,
shifting. He clutches at Taehyung’s collar, lets the younger man’s hands trace paths up and down
his back that they are both intimately acquainted with. Oh, how he’s missed this.
“I saw you in the hallway, the other day…” Taehyung goes on, “I wanted to say something, to—I
don’t know—just say hello, but…” Jimin shakes his head and shudders at the thought. “You didn’t
see me, you were...running off to do something, I think…”
Jimin takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself, tries to quiet the desperate little hiccups that now
clench at his chest. “Did you miss me too…?” Taehyung asks, and Jimin doesn’t bother
answering. What a stupid question. He curls closer, nuzzles his nose against the younger man’s
collarbone. Does it because he wants to.
“I’ve been trying so hard to—to stay away, but—” He feels a hot huff of Taehyung’s breath against
his hair. “I needed to see you, I—Jimin, today, I have to—”
He’s cut off by a surprising noise from the other side of the room, and Taehyung whips his head up
to look over Jimin’s shoulder as a voice, an impossible voice, croaks out a single word in their
direction. “....J—….Jimin….?”
Jimin turns around just as fast at the sound of his own name, eyes falling immediately on the body
he left behind in his bed. Dark eyes stare up at him, unmistakable worry behind them, and before
he even realizes what he’s done, he breaks away from Taehyung’s embrace and scurries over to the
bed. He kneels beside the dark-haired man, reaching for the nearest hand that he can find and
raising it to his lips to kiss at the back of it’s palm.
“Shhh…” He nuzzles his way into that palm until it cups at his cheek, the movement small but
there. “Don’t—Don’t try to speak...it’s—it’s okay, it’s okay…”
He hears Taehyung’s footsteps approach them from over his shoulder, but his focus has turned to
the face staring up at him and he can’t tear his eyes away. The hand resting against his cheek
twitches, shifts, and he finds the slow drag of a thumb passing over his cheek, gathering his tears as
it goes. He sniffles, trying to fight back a new wave of them, and tilts his head further into the
warmth. He doesn’t know why, but it seems like the right thing to say when he whispers “...I’m
okay…” as well.
The face before him doesn’t smile, exactly, but he can see something that looks like relief in the
man’s eyes.
“You’re not supposed to have it here...are you?” Taehyung asks slowly, making his presence
known again.
Jimin pauses, basking in the moment for just a second longer, before he finally pulls away. He
raises a shaky hand to his face, scrubs at the tears on his cheeks with the bend of his wrist, and
shoots back, “...you’re not supposed to be here either.”
“I know, okay?” The younger man grumbles, taking the few steps needed to plop down onto the
bed in an empty space at the end. “I know. But—like I said, I—I couldn’t stay away. Not today.”
For a long moment, Jimin doesn't acknowledge Taehyung's words at all, instead raising his hand to
the face of the man beside him on the bed, dragging fingers across the his cheek to catch the few
tears that have fallen from his eyes as well. "...can you get me a wet rag?" He asks softly, not
looking at Taehyung as he does. "Please." He adds after a beat, almost regretfully.
Taehyung pauses, rocking back and forth on his feet for a second, a motion Jimin catches out of the
corner of his eye, before finally acquiescing and stepping away to the far side of the room to the
industrial tub that has been built into the wall. Jimin waits patiently, stroking his fingers across the
pretty face in front of him, until the younger man returns with a damp cloth in hand just as
requested and holds it out for Jimin to take. He keeps his eyes trained on the man in front of him, at
the big, brown eyes that stare up at him in wonder, as he oh-so-gently runs the rag across the other
man's face and wipes away any traces of his tears still clinging to his cheeks.
Those dark eyes flutter closed for a moment, a soft—barely audible—hum leaving their owner's
lips, his hand sliding up to cup the back of Jimin's own. Jimin finds his fingers being pulled away,
his bed-partner's fingers lacing between his own as their joined hands are brought up to Jimin's
cheeks, and he finds the tracks of his own tears gently scrubbed from his skin. He lets out a long
breath, one he didn't realize he was holding until it escapes from his lungs all at once, and allows
his hand to be guided wherever the other man wants—until they are suddenly interrupted by the
soft sound of Taehyung clearing his throat over Jimin's shoulder. Their intertwined hands freeze at
the sound, and Jimin lets them fall into the space between their bodies, his own shoulders tensing
as he sucks in another slow breath before finally shooting a response back over his shoulder at the
younger man.
“...why are you here, Taehyung?” Jimin slowly asks, his tone softer but no less demanding than
before. He doesn’t look over at the other man, his eyes unfocused now as he waits to hear what
Taehyung could possibly have to say. His fingers toy with the hand in front of his face, with the
edge of the blanket. He blinks slowly. He wonders how much time they have left.
Taehyung runs a hand through his hair until his fingers come to rest at the back of his neck—Jimin
doesn’t have to see it to know exactly what the younger man has done, the gesture as familiar to
him as Taehyung’s face. “...I’ve been invited to...well...work on something. A project, sort of.”
Jimin mulls that over for a long moment before speaking, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“...what sort of project?”
“I don’t know yet,” the younger man admits, voice solemn. “It’s with Yoongi, though—starts
today, after class is out.”
“How did this happen?”
“Well…” Jimin can just picture the sheepish look on Taehyung’s face as he hedges around
answering. “Yoongi asked me, like... ages ago. A month or two, I think. Over the summer.”
Jimin continues to fidget with and pick at the blanket as he listens, until he feels the barest brush of
skin against his, and glances down to find a pinky pressed to the side of his own. He slides his
hand over, takes the offered palm in his again, looks up at the dark-haired man lying silently in
front of him, takes in the muss of his bedhead, his small, full lips. Takes in the way those dark eyes
seem to focus on his face, and his face alone.
“I kept telling him no, because—well—y’know.” Jimin offers a nod in response, because he does,
in fact, know. “But, well...things have been getting worse. Did you see what happened to Baekhyun
and all them last week? I don’t know if you were there—”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.”
“But I know what happened.”

“Oh. Right.” There is a tense pause, a nervous shifting beside him on the bed. “Well, it—it freaked
me out, I guess. I honestly thought—” Another pause. “I told him yes, cause—fuck, I dunno. It
seemed like the safest thing to do. Maybe he can help…?”
A non-committal noise from Jimin, and Taehyung sighs. “I just—thought maybe you could
help…”
Puzzled, Jimin finally turns to look up at the younger man again. “...how?”
Taehyung shrugs, turning his gaze away to stare down at his own hands clasped in his lap. “You’re
the only person I can talk to about...well...anything…” He admits quietly. “You know I don’t have
anyone else, Jimin…”
Jimin can feel his mouth twisting into a frown, brow furrowing in disbelief. He can’t really believe
that, can he?
“You know that’s not true.”
“You know Yoongi doesn’t count,” Taehyung immediately disagrees, “I can’t just go talk to him
about him, can I?”
Jimin rolls his eyes and looks away again, focusing instead on the long slope and rounded tip of the
nose belonging to the man lying in front of him. “That’s—not what I meant.”
“Then...what?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Jimin repeats—stubbornly, firmly. The dark eyes in front of him stare
back at him with a dim sense of curiosity. “You—You can’t just—come talk to me like this.”
“Jimin...please…” Jimin feels a warm hand on his shoulder, which he shrugs off immediately.
Another sigh. “Just—tell me what you think? Then I’ll be outta your hair, okay? Please?”
Seeing the easy out for what it is, Jimin thinks it over. Thinks about the possibilities, racks his
brain for memories of any projects he can come up with—anything that might be similar to what
Yoongi has asked of the young man. In the end, he draws a complete blank, and comes up worried.
“I think...you should be very careful.”
“But…” Taehyung objects immediately, “...it’s Yoongi.”
“I know.” Jimin shrugs again, toys with the fingers that he has laced between his. “But you know
what I mean.”
“So you think…” The younger man sounds wary now. “...that this might be similar to—”
“No.”
“Then—what—?”
“I just think—you should be careful. Be prepared.” Jimin doesn’t say anything more than that.
Doesn’t feel safe to.
“Okay....” Taehyung concedes after a long moment of silence. “I guess.” He makes a sound like
he’s given a shrug of his own, then Jimin feels the weight of the bed shift beside him as Taehyung
slides to his feet once again. “I should get going, then...class’ll be starting soon, and like you said
—I shouldn’t be here—”
“—what?” Jimin snaps his head up in surprise, jerking his head around so sharply he hears
something in his neck crack. “What—What time is it?”
“Um...just past 7:45?”
“Shit.” His hands fly to his waist to jerk his coveralls up over his shoulders and shove his arms
through the sleeves, the zipper on the front sticking in a few places with how quickly he tries to tug
it closed.
“You didn’t know?” He looks up to meet Taehyung’s surprised expression, and by the look he
receives in return, he knows he doesn’t need to actually answer. “Shit—okay. I’m sorry, I thought
you knew—” Taehyung rambles, “I just thought I’d sneak down before classes start, y’know, so no
one would see…”
But they will, Jimin thinks. They will. They are always watching.
“I have to go. Now.”
“Alright, yeah...shit, okay. Let me help you?” The young man offers, and Jimin freezes halfway
through running his hand through his hair.
“...you would do that?”
Another shrug. “Well...yeah, of course.”
“Taehyung…you could be caught—”
“So could you,” the younger man says simply, and Jimin can’t argue with that.
“...okay.” He gestures for Taehyung to help him, then stands and reaches for the man in his bed.
He takes just one indulgent second to run a hand through the dark strands of the man’s hair before
reaching for his shoulders, and he makes sure that Taehyung has a strong grip on the man’s feet
before they both lift him from the bed altogether. The sheet falls away as they move, exposing the
man’s bare body, and Jimin is relieved to see that the earlier erection he had caused had flagged
during the length of their conversation just as his own had. That would have been difficult to
explain.
“Where to?” Taehyung asks as they move in tandem towards the door, a naked body suspended
bonelessly in the air between them. Jimin wraps one arm securely around the man’s ribcage and
holds him to his own torso so he is free to reach for the door with his other hand.
“First floor Health Lab,” he grunts back. Taehyung nods and follows his lead as Jimin steps
backwards through the open door and up the narrow staircase, back-first, towards the light from
the hallway above. Have to be quick, he thinks—have to be quick, or they’ll know. So many eyes.
They always know. They are always watching.
“Do you—think they’ll—notice?” Taehyung asks, slightly out of breath, when they reach the
landing and start making their way down the deserted side hallway towards the science wing.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll—take care—of it,” Jimin assures him quietly, and Taehyung nods quietly in response,
trusting.
They halt a few feet from the doors to the Lab when Jimin stops dead in his tracks, Taehyung
stumbling slightly before catching himself. “What—?”
“Give him to me,” Jimin orders, and Taehyung fumbles for a minute with what to do before
settling on putting the man’s legs down on the ground, then sliding an arm under his legs and
around his waist to lift him up. He then transfers the body into Jimin’s arms, and Jimin carefully
slings the man’s body over his shoulder so he can carry the weight the rest of the way without
assistance. He doesn’t thank Taehyung when the transfer is completed, but he doesn’t need to.
“So...I should probably go now, right?” Taehyung says sheepishly, shifting from foot to foot as he
waits for Jimin to—to do something.
“Yes.” Jimin stares at him blankly, his emotions flat and dull now that his tears have completely
ebbed away. It makes Taehyung uncomfortable, he knows, but he can’t help it. They are always
watching.
“Okay, okay,” the younger man raises his hands as if in surrender and starts to back down the
hallway, “I’m going…”
Jimin watches him go for a few long seconds, waiting until he reaches the end of the hall, almost
around the corner, before he calls out, “Tae?”
The young man freezes, one hand on the corner, steps away from making the turn down towards
the main hall. “Hm?” He calls back, curious.
Jimin stares him down with a much seriousness as he can muster, waiting until he’s sure he has one
hundred percent of Taehyung’s attention, bracing himself to speak the words that will break his
own heart. “...don’t come back again.”
It isn’t a question, but Taehyung considers it like one anyway, offers Jimin a slow, jerky nod in
return after mulling his words over. No more words pass between them. Jimin feels as though he
might vomit. It’s for the best. He still might vomit.
Taehyung gives him one last longing look, eyes flicking between where he stands, the body in his
arms, and the closed doorway behind him, before nodding again and taking three long strides to
disappear around the corner and out of sight.
Jimin lets his mind fall blank, then. Can’t afford to do anything else. He shoulders the weight of
the body in his arms more securely, turns around towards the door. Puts Taehyung behind him. He
doesn’t want to go inside, but he has to—so he does. He reaches for the handle, slowly pulls the
door open, and steps inside, his eyes cast low.
“...you’re late,” he hears from the far side of the room, and his stomach does its best impression of
a knot.
“I know,” he says softly, voice as flat as his expression, “I’m sorry, sir. I can explain.”
He hesitates just outside the closed office door, hand raised, poised to knock. He can’t make
himself move, not for a few long seconds—not with the shining nameplate in the center of the
doorway staring him down. He can’t believe he’s going to do this—what sort of a fool is he,
really? Still...something has to be said. Something has to be done. He’s begun to recognize the taste
of his anger in the back of his throat, the way it makes his mouth dry and his tongue bitter.
‘Kim Seokjin, Principal and CEO,’ the sign in front of him reads. He traces over the words with his
eyes, blinks at them slowly. Knows he needs to move, but he can’t make himself just yet. ‘Kim,’ he
reads, over and over. ‘Kim.’
He’s startled from his thoughts by the clearing of a throat behind him. When he whips his head
around, finding the dark, wide eyes of the principal’s secretary, Jeongyeon, staring back at him
from the end of the hall. She purses her lips and stares him down silently, and without a moment’s
hesitation more, he brings his hand up again and raps his knuckles quickly against the wooden
surface of the door.
“Come in,” he hears immediately from within, and his hand shakes as he tears his eyes away from
Jeongyeon and grabs at the door handle to follow the order immediately.
Upon stepping into the office, he finds the room’s occupant—not at his desk, as expected, but
standing beside the bay of windows that lines the far side of the room, standing with his back to the
door while gazing out over the view of the community beyond. The principal has his hands clasped
behind him, his legs spread at shoulder width—almost a parade rest, of sorts. He looks
intimidating, even without his piercing eyes within view.
“Mr. Kim,” the older man speaks, addressing him without even looking. Startled by his own name,
Namjoon bows immediately despite the motion not being seen, and slides the door shut behind him
with a quiet snap.
“Yes, sir,” he answers after a beat, and Seokjin turns to look at him at last.
“What brings you to visit me today?”

“I—well—” He stumbles over his words for a second, finding it impossible to focus with those
eyes—those dark, hypnotic eyes—staring him down. “I felt it was—best—to bring something to
your attention, sir.”
Keeping his hands lightly clasped behind his back, Seokjin takes a step closer to Namjoon, towards
the center of the room. He feels frozen to the spot, feet planted firmly and immovably as the older
man draws nearer. “Something good, I hope?” Seokjin asks lightly.
“Unfortunately not…” Namjoon is forced to mumble, and he nearly flinches as the principal raises
an eyebrow at him.
“I don’t like being given bad news, Mr. Kim…” He replies, and there is an almost taunting quality
to the end of his sentence. Namjoon remembers it all too well, has heard it one too many times
over the years. He hates just how very much it still gets under his skin.
“I know, sir—I wouldn’t—wouldn’t be bringing this to you if I didn’t think it was important,” he
assures their leader, and Seokjin stares back at him blankly for several heavy seconds before giving
him a curt nod to continue. He bites at the inside of his lip, scrunches his toes inside his shoes to
keep his feet from fidgeting, and racks his brain for the best way to phrase what he needs to say.
“The—well—the doll, sir...there’s a problem.”
“What sort of problem?” The reply is quick this time, and sharp.
Namjoon swallows thickly. “It seems to be...well, sick, sir.”
“Sick,” Seokjin repeats, not quite a question.
“Yes, sir—it vomited up its food and medicine this morning, and several times over the break,
apparently—”
“You saw this yourself?” The principal snaps, interrupting. Namjoon shakes his head with a
grimace.
“No, not myself, but—I have a reliable source—”

“Tell me,” Seokjin demands, finally bringing his arms from behind his back to cross them over his
chest. Namjoon practically falls all over himself to answer as quickly as possible.
“It was Yoongi, sir, he—”
“Ah, Yoongi.” Seokjin nods his head immediately, and turns away from Namjoon once more,
casting his eyes back out across the school grounds. “He has been assigned as your Guide, yes?”
“Y-Yes, but—”
“How has your training been treating you, this far? Yoongi informed me that you requested to
begin earlier than was planned.”
Namjoon feels the room spinning around him, floored by the abrupt change in topic. “Well, I—it’s
been...challenging…” he stutters out, his mouth suddenly dry again.
“Yes...I remember exactly how challenging the final trainings can be,” the principal tells him,
voice softer and almost understanding in tone. “The change in direction, overcoming that final
barrier—it puts the best of us through our greatest trial, but we come out the other side better for it,
wouldn’t you say?”
Namjoon has no idea what the older man is talking about, not really—how could he? But
immediately, instinctively, he replies with a quiet, “Yes, sir, of course.”
“I remember the difficulty even I faced, in letting go of my desire, of turning my back on all that I
had learned up until that final lesson,” Seokjin’s tone becomes almost reminiscent now, wistful and
soft as he looks out at the horizon above the community housing in the distance. “But it is the most
vital tool for our understanding—it is what allows us to lead the others in their own development.”
Namjoon chooses not to say anything now, more than at a loss for words. ‘Letting go of desire?’ he
thinks, ‘that doesn’t sound— anything— like what Yoongi has been teaching me…’ He thinks back
on the older man’s touch, his direction, the way they had lain together. Something is—wrong.
“I know it might feel impossible,” Seokjin goes on while giving his head the slightest tilt to the
side, “the chastity.”
Chastity?! What—?
“It goes against everything we stand for, I know,” Seokjin sounds so reasonable as he explains,
while Namjoon finds himself reeling from every word, “But the wisdom of it comes in time. You
may not see it now, but you must trust that there is a higher purpose, as always.”
Namjoon grits his teeth, hands clenching at his sides as Seokjin’s patronizing tone washes over
him.
“These next four weeks may very well be the longest of your life, Mr. Kim—but one can get
through it with the right preparation and fortitude.”
Four...weeks? Of chastity? He feels a sick turning of his stomach at the mere thought.
“The Council has determined you fit for this next step…” He can almost hear the derision creeping
into the older man’s voice, can almost picture the way Seokjin fights back rolling his eyes, “...and
we must trust their infinite wisdom.”
This can’t be right—it can’t be. Is he...missing something? Has—Has Yoongi just not—gotten to
that part? Of the training?
No…
“I sincerely hope you will not disappoint us, Mr. Kim…” Seokjin adds airily, and Namjoon feels
that twist in his stomach form more of a knot. “Yoongi is the best at what he does, but...not
everyone is prepared for the knowledge we can give you…”
“I—Sir, I—” Namjoon tries to swallow down the bile rising in his throat, feels as though he might
be swallowing his own tongue instead. “I won’t let you down, sir, but—”
“But…?”
“A-About Yoongi, sir—”
“Spit it out, Mr. Kim,” Seokjin interrupts once more, and Namjoon can feel his body growing hot,
nails digging into his palms at his sides.
“Yoongi—Yoongi brought this issue to my attention, sir—with the doll, and I—” Seokjin turns to
face him again, and he falters momentarily at the dark look being lodged at him—but persists,
shakily, “—I really think we need to, to do something about—”
“Oh you think that, do you?” The principal drawls, stepping closer. The way he moves—it’s
unsettling, almost a slinking motion now, like a snake in the grass. Namjoon feels the hairs at the
back of his neck stand on end.
“Sir—I—if the doll is sick, we can’t—”
“What evidence of this do you have?” Seokjin asks, as though the strange interlude in their
conversation never happened. Once again taken aback, Namjoon fumbles to answer, to make his
case—
“Yoongi, like I said—he—he informed me that the doll is unable to keep the medicine down—”
“And Yoongi saw this for himself, did he?” Seokjin begins to walk around Namjoon now, his tone
light but menacing, as though he could lash out to kill at any moment.
“Well, no—he was given a report by Jimin, who—”
“And we trust the janitor’s word on this, do we?”
“He—he came to Yoongi this morning, reported that the doll had thrown up the dose this morning
before class, and over the break, too—”
“I seem to remember just last week you having quite a few words to say against Mr. Park and his
stories about the doll, Mr. Kim…” Seokjin all but drawls the words now. With every interruption,
Namjoon can feel his temper rising, the heat in his cheeks almost painful. He surely resembles a
ripe tomato now, what with the way he can feel his face burning.
“But sir, that was—it was different, Jimin has an overactive imagination, sometimes he—”
“Interesting, when you believe and when you don’t, Mr. Kim…”
“But this is important!” He finally snaps, jerking his fisted hands up and down at his sides to
punctuate his words. “We can’t just—just ignore the doll falling ill! Not such a valuable resource!”
He thinks back to the last week, all of the preparation, the endless maintenance, the way the doll
has to be ferried around like a sack of flour—and his anger only sharpens. This isn’t how things are
supposed to be.
Seokjin says nothing, so he carries on, caught up in his own frustration, “The same thing happened
with the last doll, and these conditions can’t continue! If we don’t allow it to move, or give it
proper food, or—it’s going to get sick, and we’ll lose another doll—”
Seokjin, who has continued to circle around him as he blusters on, comes to a halt right in front of
Namjoon, and the nurse finds his words dying in his throat. Seokjin doesn’t say anything for a long
moment, allowing the silence to stretch between them like a ravine. Namjoon in struck by the
feeling that Seokjin has just given him a lot of rope, and that he is about to be strangled with it.
When Seokjin finally speaks, his voice is low, sharp, and ominous. “You...are out of line, Mr.
Kim.”
Namjoon swallows thickly, feels his throat tighten around the motion until he can’t breathe.
“You seem to be under a great deal of delusion,” Seokjin hisses, “to speak to me in such a way.”
Namjoon knows, then, just how thoroughly he has just crossed the line.
“I would ask you who you think you are,” Seokjin goes on, taking a step closer. Though the older
man is a touch shorter, Namjoon feels about two inches tall under the weight of the principal’s
gaze. He doesn’t blink as he stares Namjoon down. “But I already know. It seems I have given you
too much leeway, over the years. You’ve grown conceited...if you believe you have any right to tell
me what to do, Mr. Kim.”
If before he felt overheated, now his body feels like ice, a shiver of fear running down his spine.
“The doll is a resource, yes,” he agrees, but Namjoon feels as though he’s done anything but win,
“but do not presume it is anything more that that. It is a tool, Mr. Kim, and tools do not fall ill.”
The room is spinning again, and it’s all Namjoon can do to focus on his breathing to keep from
throwing up right then and there. Seokjin keeps his hands behind his own back, doesn’t reach for
Namjoon at all, but every word might as well be a slap to the face.
“Tools will not let you down, if taken care of correctly.” That one feels like a direct jab to the
chest, a personal attack now. “People, however...people will always disappoint you.”
Seokjin takes another step forward, close enough that Namjoon can feel the warmth of the
principal’s body through his nicely-pressed suit. It is not unlike being locked in a cage with a
dangerous animal, the way he feels frozen in fear in the face of this man who could ruin him.
“I decide what purpose the doll serves, Mr. Kim, not you. I decide what we do with it, and what we
do not. I decide who comes and goes within these walls, who teaches and who learns—I decide if
you even deserve to have an orgasm tonight.”
He steps even closer, impossibly so, until they are pressed together toe-to-toe, and Namjoon feels
the wet heat of Seokjin’s breath on his cheeks. “I made you into what you are, and I can take it
from you in an instant.” At this distance, the whites of Seokjin’s eyes are visible. He looks...
deranged. Namjoon can’t remember how to breathe.
“You have made the mistake that believing any ancient history between us makes you special
somehow,” Seokjin sneers as he continues, “that it means I will go easy on you, that I will allow
you to speak to me in such a way—” If before it was a slap, this time it’s a punch directly to the
gut, a low blow that makes tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. “But you could not be more
wrong.”
Seokjin still doesn’t blink as he stares Namjoon down, and he can feel himself cowering. He hates
himself for it, but he cowers as the principal tells him, in no uncertain terms, “You are nothing,
Kim Namjoon. Nothing. You are nothing except what we have made of you, and you will be
nothing without us. Don’t ever forget it.”
There is a terrible, aching silence between them when Seokjin stops talking. To Namjoon, it feels
like an open wound. He tries to breath around it, but he can’t seem to make his lungs cooperate.
Seokjin doesn’t move a muscle, standing tall and firm while he bears down over Namjoon until the
inevitable happens. He can feel his resolve breaking, he knows he has no choice, doesn’t even fight
it as the words come tumbling from his mouth as the smallest of whispers.
“I—...I’m sorry...sir…”
“Damn right you are.” Satisfied at his submission, Seokjin takes a step back at last, leaving
Namjoon just enough room to take a breath—but the older man isn’t through just yet. “Say it,” he
demands. Namjoon stares at him blankly. “Say it,” Seokjin repeats, and Namjoon realizes what he
must mean.
“I’m nothing…” He repeats dutifully. Even as the words pass his lips, it feels as though he is being
fed his own heart on a platter. His mouth tastes bitter, so bitter. “I’m nothing without you.”
“Don’t you forget it,” he repeats again, and then the ordeal is finally over. Seokjin turns and walks
away, leaving Namjoon frozen in the center of the room, and makes his way over to his large desk
on the left side of the room. He settles into his chair magnanimously, resting his elbows on the
wooden surface and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Namjoon continues to face the wrong
direction, unable to make his body move to face the other man again.
“Now…” Seokjin starts, and it’s as if the last few minutes have all but been forgotten. “You will
return to your duties as usual. The doll is to receive its dosage today, no matter what.” He waits for
Namjoon’s tiny, stilted nod before continuing. “You will never come to me with such a complaint
again, without having some evidence to provide. The next time you make such a mistake will be
the last, am I understood?”
“Yes, sir…”
“You will redouble your efforts in your training. You will focus on controlling your urges—it is
clear that your chastity has left you frustrated, even after only a few days. I expect better of those at
your level, Mr Kim.”
“Yes, sir…” Namjoon grits his teeth again, biting back a reply that would only get him into more
trouble. He’s already been more than reckless enough today.
“That will be all, then, Mr. Kim. You’re dismissed.” Seokjin brings his eyes down to look at the
papers sitting on the desk before him, clearly no longer interested in Namjoon in the slightest, and
Namjoon dares to look at him at last. When he doesn’t immediately hear the sounds of Namjoon’s
retreat, the principal glances up at Namjoon without moving his head, and waves his hand
dismissively. “I said you’re dismissed.”
Namjoon doesn’t need to be told a third time, his feet carrying him towards the door before he even
gives it a passing thought. He fumbles for the handle, his sweaty palms sliding against the metal a
few times before he manages to gain purchase enough to wrench the door open and drag himself
outside. He hears it slam shut behind him but can’t bring himself to care—his only interest, once
again, to get as far away as possible.
He darts down the hall, turning not toward the front of the office, with the receptionists desk and
the judging eyes he would find there, but off to the right—down the stairs past his office to where
the security office lies and then out the door beyond. He stumbles out into the throngs of students
milling about in the hallway, letting himself be swept up in the movement of the crowd.
And it is only then, when the ebb and flow of students around him takes over for his own sense of
direction, than his mind can wander freely again. He thinks back, ignoring the wave of nausea that
it gives him, to the wide, wild eyes of the principal mere inches from his face, to the cruel words
the man had thrown at him so easily. He thinks back to the menacing way the older man had
circled around him, the placid, unaffected expression on his handsome face.
And Namjoon realizes, for the first time in all the years they have known each other, with no small
sense of horror, that the man calling himself Kim Seokjin is no longer a man he recognizes at all.
The buzzer on his desk interrupts his thoughts mere moments after the door to his office slams
shut, rattling the pictures on his walls. He waits a few seconds before reaching out a lazy hand to
tap on the button beside the intercom, opening the line.
“Principal Kim?” A sweet voice on the other end of the intercom greets him immediately.
“Yes, Jihyo?”
“Should I send security after him, sir?” She asks, and he knows she is referring to the loud slam
that was sure to have been heard through the entire office.
“No…” He glances up at the closed door, thoughts following after the man who had so abruptly
disappeared from his presence. “No need. Let’s see what our nurse decides to do next, hm?”
“Very good, sir.” The line goes dead for a moment, before he presses the button to call for the
receptionist again.
“Yes, sir?” She answers immediately.
“Please send Ms. Yoo back to me again,” he orders.
“Right away, sir,” she answers, “Just one moment, please.”
He releases the intercom button, letting his office fall back into silence again, his eyes now
focusing blankly on the far wall. His hands fall beneath the desk, his fingers unfastening his belt,
then the buttons of his pants. He pulls out his cock, hard and straining against his grip from the
adrenaline of the last few minutes, and waits.
Front Office—Security—First Floor 08-20-18 11:48AM
It’s too bright.
It’s too bright, and it feels unfamiliar. Dangerous. Still, this task is too important to neglect.
He can see every detail of the room through the small window in the door, can see himself
reflected in one of the cameras pointed at the hallway, his lone figure in the corner. Luckily, the
guard on duty is a dull as they come — his favorite, as far as the guard rotation goes.
He holds perfectly still outside the door, making himself as invisible as possible. He’s always been
good at being invisible. He counts his breath, counts the seconds until the hour hand on the clock
on the opposite wall hits the one—and as always, the door beside him immediately slams open,
nearly hitting the side of his body as the guard lumbers past, committed to making his way to his
lunch no matter what.
He watches, the smallest of smiles on his lips, as the man immediately makes his way out the door
into the main hallway and disappears from sight.
He has three minutes.

Peeking out from around the door, he finds the lower office and the stairs leading up to the main
office completely abandoned. He slips around the door and slides it closed behind him without a
sound, carefully releasing the door handle only when he’s sure it won’t make a sound as the latch
slides into place.
He settles himself into the seat before the wall of security camera monitors, a familiar position by
now. The screens flicker and shift as they rotate from one view to the next, and he stretches his
fingers above the keyboard, eyes searching for the feeds that he needs.
He finds one easily— Health Lab-First Floor-West —more familiar to him now than all the
others, but for once, not his primary target. He searching instead for one harder to find— Science
Wing-First Floor-West—finally spotting it along the far bottom row of monitors a few down from
the Health Lab. He makes quick work of pulling up the recording controls, scrubs back over the
tape until he finds the point in time he was searching for, copies a clip of the hallway completely
empty between classes and deletes a portion of the tap before placing the copied portion in its
place. It isn’t perfect, but it will have to do.
He’s halfway through scrubbing over a second tape, on a camera labeled Staircase-First Floor-
West, when the tell-tale clatter and thud of the guard on duty returning to the office catches his
ears. He turns around in the chair just as the door slides open, the guard backing through the
doorway with his arms full of food, half of a sandwich already eaten in one hand. He can’t help the
grin that spreads across his lips at the sight.
The guard takes no notice of him at first, fumbling with the food and the door instead, but
inevitably the older man turns around and catches sight of the stranger sitting in his chair, and his
eyes grow comically large.
“What—What the hell are you doing here?”
“Shhh…” He says, slowly rising to his feet.
The guard looks angry now, dropping his food to the floor as he reaches for the gun holstered at
his side. “Don’t move—”
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you…” He informs the man, his voice remarkably calm despite the
weapon now being directly pointed at his face across the small distance.
“I said don’t move,” the guard insists, waving the gun to punctuate his words, “and stop t-talking
—”
“Ah...it’s already taking effect,” he notes, nodding his head sympathetically. “You sure were
hungry today, weren’t you?”
“What the fuck are you—?’
“Your lunch,” he goes on, daring to step closer to the man, his eyes trained on the way the gun in
the guard’s hand begins to waver and shake as the seconds tick on. “You must have dug right in, if
it’s getting to you already…”
“What—What’re y-you—saying—?”
He takes pity on the man, raising one hand to rest atop the weapon, finding no resistance as he
presses it down towards the floor. The guard watches in obvious surprise as he is so easily moved,
unable to fight the manipulation of this intruder. “You’ve been poisoned,” he informs the guard,
and he almost laughs again as the man’s beady eyes nearly bug out of his head in horror.
“P-Poison—”
“Shhh….don’t speak,” he urges, and raises his hand again to place a finger against the guard’s lips,
silencing him. “It won’t do you any good. Poisoning, perhaps, isn’t the right word...drugged, is
more like it. But the effect is the same. It works quickly. You’ll be on the ground in less than ten
seconds.” He tilts his head sympathetically at the man, who has started to sweat obviously. “It’s
your choice whether or not you want to get down on the ground yourself, or collapse.”
In the end, the man doesn’t really have much of a choice—within seconds, his legs start to shake,
and his mouth hangs open dumbly, his eyes growing blank and dull. The guard collapses to his
knees after only a few more, and the gun clatters to the floor as his grip on it grows lax.
He watches, with no small degree of satisfaction, as the guard eventually slumps over, staring
blankly across the room, a spot of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. He hums softly as he
gives the man a thoughtful look, before turning back to the chair and taking a seat once more.
Picking up right where he left off, he wastes no time in scrolling directly to the timestamp he needs
from the stairwell and erases any traces of movement altogether.
Somewhere in the office—far in the distance, through several walls, probably—he can hear the
unmistakable sound of raised voices. His sharp eyes quickly scan the cameras for the source, but
when he comes up empty-handed, he knows it must be coming from within the only room that has
no security system at all—the Principal’s office. The sound suddenly disappears, and his hands
freeze above the keyboard. He watches with bated breath as a lone figure comes barreling from the
office, slamming the door behind him, and turns swiftly towards the stairs that will lead him
directly to the security office itself.
He can feel the breath catch in his chest when the sound of footsteps draw closer, the figure
passing into the blind-spot that leaves this particular corner of the office vulnerable—and perfect
for infiltrating. The same blind-spot that has so far allowed for his meddling could, he realizes, be
the very cause of his discovery.
It is only when the footsteps lumber past and he hears the bang of the hallway door slamming open
that he knows the security office has been passed over, and his presence remains undetected. Close.
Too close. His heart hammers in his chest, an anxiety lingering there that he has grown far too
accustomed to. Still, able to breathe again with the threat long gone, he wastes no time in resuming
his work with even greater attention than before. With all past recordings in question thoroughly
erased, he can finally turn his attention to the matter at hand.
His eyes trace along the top row of monitors until his eyes land on Teacher’s Lounge-Second
Floor . He skips back thirty minutes, records over a portion of his own figure, seated at the far
corner of the room away from the remainder of the staff for a few long moments, and loops it over
the rest of the recording. With a few expert clicks of the mouse, a timer is set to ensure that the
recording will continue looping inconspicuously for another ten minutes—just enough time for
him to resume that exact position upstairs, before the recording will take over again.
Satisfied with his work, he steps back from the chair, scoots it neatly into place, and turns to face
the guard on the floor once more. He tuts disapprovingly at the mess that the man has left, bending
over to scoop up the food and neatly tuck it into a pile that he sets aside. Then, with no small effort,
he slides a hand beneath the guard’s arms, paying no mind to the unpleasant sweatiness of his
armpits as he drags the larger man over to the far side of the room. The guard’s body is arranged so
that one arm is tucked beneath his head, his gun placed carefully in its holster, and the remains of
his lunch placed atop his chest. He closes the guards eyes with gentle fingers and steps back to
observe his work—appreciating the picture that the man paints of a lazy worker who has simply
fallen asleep on the job.
The man will be reprimanded for this, but he can’t bring himself to care for even a second. He
gives the room one last glance to ensure he has left nothing behind, scans the row of monitors that
shows the goings-on of the office just outside the door, and waits until the coast is clear before
making his exit. Once again placing the door back in its frame without a sound, he moves to the
lower door of the security office, slips outside, and turns immediately down a side hallway where
no students or staff are likely to see him.
On his way up the stairs, he raises his hands to his lips, licks away the crumbs that linger on his
fingers from the guard’s lunch. He can taste the barest hint of the medicine he had mentioned to
the man earlier—the traces on his hand nothing compared to the dose he had laced through the
meal in the teacher’s lounge hours before.
The smile that breaks across his lips now at such a flawless execution is a genuine one. It’s not as
if the doll will miss the dose, he reasons—and it turns out it was destined for a much more
important purpose, after all.
The touch is almost unbearably warm—or perhaps that’s just the way it makes him feel.
“Start with placing one pad here,” a deep, husky voice explains in his ear, large hands covering the
backs of his own. He tries to fight back a shudder, but he’s sure the older man can feel it through
the way they are pressed together all the same. “Then another—here.”
The classroom is quiet aside from the collective sounds of two sets of lungs breathing steadily in-
and-out, one more evenly so than the other—any other sounds in the building having faded into
silence as the school has long-since emptied for the night. The windows that line the far wall
betray the lateness of the hour, the sun dipping low on the horizon over the rooftops of the
community buildings in the distance.
"Stay focused, now." Those hands guide him over the exposed skin in front of him, pressing one of
his palms flat against the sensitive skin just below the navel of the body propped up in front of him.
The skin twitches beneath his touch, and he feels the body behind him respond in kind, leaving
him sandwiched in between them with barely room to move.
“L—L-Like this?” He curses his stutter even as it falls from his lips—but the older man always has
that sort of effect on him. He’s referring to the large, sticky, black pads of fabric that they are
working to place against the body in front of them both, though his attention can hardly be
considered focused on the subject at hand. He knows that the long cables that run from the pads
must connect to something—some machine or another—though whether they are meant to give or
receive a signal, he couldn’t say.
“Yes, just like that…” The voice practically purrs, and he bites his lip out of sight, his head
ducking down to hide his resulting blush as well. “Now, let’s place another one lower…”
He finds one of his hands cupped in a larger palm, a second hand sliding another electrode into his
fingers, before their joined hands are brought down between the legs of the body before them—and
their fingers curl together around the length of its waiting erection.
It’s funny, this act—at the moment, he’s a far cry from the cocky boy who had bragged about his
own prowess in front of his classmates, his bluster convincing enough, perhaps, but nothing more
—and yet the room, and the teacher, and the cock in his hands are the same. The body before him
makes no move, no sound, but he can hear heavy breath in his ear all the same.
“And another…” his instructor guides him to take another of the fabric pads and place it sticky-
side down to the other side of the cock still in their hands. Altogether, the pads line the body across
its chest, down its navel, and along its cock—painting quite a pretty picture, really. They stand out
nicely against its lightly tanned skin.
“Is—Is that all?” He’s proud at how little he manages to stutter, this time.
“Yes.” Regretfully, this causes the warmth at his back to retreat as the older man steps away, and
he turns away from the body in front of him to face his instructor instead. “Now that it’s all
prepared, the experiment can begin. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”
It truly does take him a long moment to gather his thoughts before he can shake his head with some
certainty and reply, “No, I’m...not sure I fully understand, Yoongi—”
The older man sends him a sharp look in reprimand, not needing to correct him before he
immediately jumps to say “I mean, M-Mr. Min,” instead.
Yoongi looks at him disapprovingly for a moment before letting out a breath through his nose and
stepping closer again.
“Your task for today is to test our doll’s reactions. You will return here every day after school to
continue the experiment until I decide we have enough data for clear results.”
“Right…” He glances between Yoongi and the doll on his other side, still puzzled over the black
pads they had applied to its body. He didn’t pay much attention during the teacher’s explanation
earlier, with his mind otherwise...occupied. “And—those?” He points down at one of the black
squares.
“E-stim pads, like I told you earlier. Electrodes. They will send electrical impulses through the
skin, which can give both pleasure and pain.” Yoongi frowns down at the student before him,
though there’s a glint in the older man’s eye that makes him swallow thickly at the sight. “Were
you, perhaps...not paying attention as you should have been, Mr. Kim?”
Taehyung flushes and shrugs, flicking his eyes down to watch his own hands as they grab for the
cables that have been attached to the electrodes. He doesn’t like this game—or—really, he doesn’t
like this game when he isn’t the one winning. Yoongi, however, remains as placid as always,
completely unaffected by the circumstances.
‘Of course he is,’ Taehyung thinks bitterly, ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

“I don’t want to have to give you detention again, Mr. Kim…” He hears Yoongi drawl from
behind him, and he gives a stiff nod in return. It’s not as if he minds the detentions, exactly—but he
understands what Yoongi means. The teacher is trying to help him, after all—trying to keep him
from that sort of punishment, to help his reputation. That’s why they’re here. And this opportunity
Yoongi is giving him? He knows it is a rare and precious one. He may not understand the end goal,
exactly—but he isn’t about to slack off in the slightest.
“You won’t,” he promises softly, and Yoongi seems to take him at his word.
“Alright then…” A warm hand lands on his shoulder, equal parts comforting and thrilling. It takes
considerable effort to listen to the older man’s low voice over the rush of his own heartbeat in his
ears. “Plug the ends into this—” He’s handed a small device, much like a remote control. “—and
work your way through the levels. Keep careful documentation of the doll’s reactions and reflexes.
I don’t think I need to tell you to track the end results of the stimulation as well?” He can hear the
slight uptick in the man’s voice that indicates a familiar, small smile.
“Of course not,” he returns easily. The hand on his shoulder gives the muscle a firm squeeze
before the man retreats at last.
“I’ll be in my office, then…” He hears footsteps receding over his shoulder, and he turns his head
slightly to continue listening, but his eyes never leave the blank face of the doll in front of him.
“Come find me when you’re done, and we’ll review your data. Good luck, Mr. Kim.”
Yoongi’s parting words leave him with a strange clenching anxiety in his stomach, and he
swallows again, his tongue heavy and dry behind his teeth. “Yes, sir.”
And then the unmistakable sound of a door closing behind him indicates that—apart from the doll
in front of him—he has been left unsupervised in this building for the first time in over a year.
He can’t help but stare the doll down, now that there are no other distractions. Looking over the
man’s body gives him a brief moment to collect himself before he begins, willing his heart rate to
ease back to normal. Without that deep voice washing over him, it’s easier to breathe, somehow.
He finds his hands more stable when he finally returns them to the doll’s chest, gently pressing on
each pad stuck to its skin to ensure full adhesion before moving on to the next one.
The doll doesn’t make a sound, hardly blinks as it looks down at him from where it has been
secured into its usual padded stand—and he is struck with the memory of this same face, those
same dark eyes, looking up at him within very different circumstances only hours before. Like the
doll, he will never speak of it. But, still. The thoughts linger.
As his hands dip lower, fingers circling the doll’s rigid cock, his mind turns to Jimin, and his
mouth sours. He thinks of the sound of Jimin’s name on the doll’s lips, the only words he has heard
the man speak in over a week—and how vulnerable a sound it was. How it tugged at parts of
Taehyung’s heart that he had long-since tucked away and forgotten. He keeps his touches gentle,
clinical—respectful, even. It’s what Jimin would want, he decides, and lets that thought pass in and
out of his mind without remark. It’s safer that way, not to dwell. They are always watching.
With the electrodes firmly secured, he turns his attention to the strange remote that Yoongi had
handed him, looks it over until he feels as though he understands how the wires must connect to it.
Plugging each stim pad into the device one at a time, he’s pleased to see that the screen in front of
him indicates their insertion and shows them to be live. This is all—admittedly—new to him in a
way that leaves him feeling antsy, but—still, he doesn’t want to disappoint. Not Yoongi. Not when
it’s this important.
Grabbing for his notes, he settles in with one of the lab table stools facing the doll, sitting so that
they are face-to-face with the cables stretched across the space between their bodies, and he
watches for the doll’s blank countenance for a moment more before finally dropping a hand to the
remote and turning the device onto the lowest setting.
The response he receives is immediate—a ripple of tension seems to spread across the doll’s
muscles below the electrodes, all of them flexing and releasing at once as if being struck. The doll
makes no sound, though he does catch the barest of movement across the man’s face, his dark
eyelashes fluttering under the sudden stimulation. As quick as it arrived, though, the shock seems
to disappear and he watches the doll’s body relax under the low buzz of electricity that he
understands must be running through its muscles now. A bead of pre-come at the tip of the doll’s
cock is the only indication that the stimulation continues to affect it at all.
With no further direction from Yoongi as to the format of this particular experiment, he remains at
a loss, for a moment, as to how to continue—how long should he allow the doll to experience each
level before moving on? And is there anything more he should be doing, or is the electric
stimulation enough? But Taehyung is—despite what his teachers may say to the contrary—nothing
if not a quick study, and he deliberates with himself for only a moment before making the
executive decision to time each level of stimulation until the doll no longer seems affected by it. He
feels, hopefully, that Yoongi will appreciate the decision, and it only solidifies his resolve.
One glance over the doll’s body convinces him that this must already be true for the first level—
what with the calm expression that has taken over the man’s face, eyes hazy with pleasure but his
brow smooth and unbothered. Taehyung can’t help but smile as he taps his thumb against the
device and turns the stimulation to the second level of intensity, and watches with no small amount
of glee as the cock before him jumps and twitches at the increase. He can only imagine how it must
feel, the way the current must prickle and burn beneath the surface—wonders how far into the
doll’s body it goes, how far along its nerves that the pleasure sings.
“You like that?” He can’t help but ask as the bead of pre-come at the head of the doll’s cock turns
to a slow stream, and he spots the barest clench of its fingers against the restraints beneath them. If
he listens carefully, his ears pick up a depth to the doll’s breaths that wasn’t there before, the
labored inhales and exhales betraying how affected the doll really is. Unable to resist, Taehyung
reaches out to press a finger to the tense muscles just above the doll’s groin, curious to see just how
much of the stimulation can be felt from the surface. To his disappointment, he feels nothing
beneath his fingertips but the light sheen of sweat and the slight rippling of the skin as electricity
flows through it—if anything, though, this only strengthens his resolve.
He grabs at the notebook from his lap and begins scribbling down eager notes about his
observations so far, cataloging to the best of his ability the fluttering of the doll’s eyelashes, the
minute parting of its lips, the way it shifts its hips just so under the current, as if searching for
more. Still, as the minutes tick by, the stimulation doesn’t seem to be quite enough, and he spots it
the moment the doll’s body begins to relax again as though growing tolerant of the burn.
He raises one conspiratorial eyebrow at the doll, catching its hazy gaze, before bringing one hand
back to the remote on his knee and tapping the button to increase the current again.
“You really do like it, don’t you…” he murmurs as the doll lets out the smallest of gasps, its eyes
suddenly focused somewhere far, far in the distance. Its cock jumps again at the increase, but this
time it continues to twitch even after the initial shock, and its hands clench and unclench against
the armrests, muscles straining beneath their bonds. Though it can’t double over, what with the
leather straps fixed securely around its chest, Taehyung can clearly see just how much it wants to,
abdominal muscles straining as the current ceaselessly courses through them. Sensitive, very
sensitive.
“Why am I even surprised…” he goes on. Though the doll doesn’t answer, there’s something oddly
easy about speaking to it, leaving his comments in the air between them. He slides to his feet,
bringing the device and his notes with them, and draws closer to the doll for a better look.
“I remember your first day,” he goes on, their position one too familiar not to remark upon, “the
way you blushed when we so much as touched your nipples.” Though it isn’t within the parameters
of the experiment, he doesn’t see any harm in doing just that—his hand darting out to brush his
fingertips across one of the doll’s pert nipples, standing at attention in the cool air of the classroom.
The resulting groan is instantaneous and unsurprising, and Taehyung grins.
“Maybe that’s where I should try putting the electrodes next…” He taunts, watching the doll’s face
carefully for any indication that the words have any impact on the man. The barest flutter of
eyelashes at his suggestion is all the confirmation that he needs to continue, “I wonder if you could
come just from that, from shocks right to the nipples. What do you think?”
He doesn’t expect a response, so it’s something of a pleasant surprise when the doll makes a small
hum—almost as if agreeing. “I thought so,” he chuckles, and it’s almost...friendly, the back-and-
forth between them.
Another line of notes scribbled down, and he picks up the remote from where he had left it on the
stool and dials the current up to the next level—the halfway mark. It seems impossible for the doll
to hold back its responses any longer, its entire body shuddering at the onslaught of electricity that
assaults its nerves. Its cock leaks freely now, pre-come dribbling down the side and along its balls,
which clench and flutter as the pulse of electricity draws them taught to the doll’s body—and this
is perhaps the most intriguing result so far. Careful not to touch the doll’s cock in any way, lest he
interfere with the experiment, Taehyung slips a hand down between the doll’s legs where they have
been restrained apart from one another, smearing the slick dribble of pre-come along its skin.
“I used to know the old doll, you know…” he admits, conversationally. When he glances up to the
doll’s face again, the man’s dark eyes barely seem to focus back on him any longer. He draws his
hand away, wipes the mess on his fingers against the doll’s side, and returns to his note-taking.
“Maybe everyone else is fooled, but I saw the way you looked when Yoongi asked you to strip in
that first class—you had no idea what was happening, did you?” No response, but he doesn’t need
one.
“Figures they would try something like that, after what happened last time…” He doesn’t
elaborate, but his mind is filled with memories he wishes he could be rid of—thoughts of a
different body in this same position, images of wide, startled eyes and—screaming. The sound of
screaming that he’ll never forget. It’s been months since he last slept straight through the night.
With a shake of his head, he banishes those thoughts to the recesses of his mind where they belong,
the dark corners he only explores when he is alone in his bed, his brothers and sisters sound asleep
around him. They taunt him for the way he whimpers in his sleep, the nights he springs awake
gasping and desperate—but, how little their words matter to him now. Yoongi has given him this
opportunity, and he isn’t enough of a fool to squander such a gift.
Eyes focusing on the doll once more, he finds the man quivering against the leather straps that
cross each limb, mouth hanging open now as the doll takes shallow, panting breaths. “I guess
you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s going on now, huh?” He asks with a sardonic lilt to his
voice. ‘As if anyone is truly aware of what it means to run,’ he thinks, ‘when they take their first
steps.’
Those are the words that have comforted him instead, the ones he has repeated to himself time and
time again. ‘There is nowhere to run if there is nothing to run from. Remember that, Taehyung.’
He doesn’t bother to think about it before clicking a button on the remote to send the current up to
the next level, and before him, the doll’s eyes finally clench shut. The shudder that runs through
the man’s body at the change is truly remarkable, seeming to rise from somewhere deep in the
doll’s core before resonating out to the very tips of its toes and fingers.
“Look at you, you’re so far under…” He presses the thumb of his free hand to the nipple on the
other side of the doll’s chest, watches as it depresses beneath the pressure before springing right
back into place. The doll groans at the incessant stimulation directly to its cock, and whines again
when Taehyung pinches that same nipple and drags it away from the doll’s chest.
‘Like a toy,’ he concludes, and the smile from before returns to his lips. “Is it from the electricity
alone,” he wonders aloud, “or something more?”
His handwriting grows sloppier the longer time goes on, his eagerness to see this experiment
through overwhelming any sense of duty he feels to be thorough, but he just barely remembers to
scribble down a note as the doll’s cock begins to almost pulse along with the current, no longer
twitching only when the charge is increased but instead jumping away from the taut skin of the
doll’s abdomen before dropping back only to jump again. He might as well be watching the beat of
a heart, for all that the shuddering muscles seem to dance to a rhythm only they know, following
the flow of electricity that Taehyung can’t see even as he directs it even higher. He feels like a
puppeteer, with the way he can manipulate the doll’s body just by pulling at these invisible strings.
His cheeks almost ache with the smile that stretches at them now.
The doll doesn’t fight it, not even for a second, completely giving itself over to the sensation, and it
confirms Taehyung’s earlier hypothesis. “That drug they give you...it’s pretty nasty stuff, isn’t it?”
he comments lightly. “You’ve gotta be doped out of your mind half the time, and you won’t
remember a thing…” Another note scribbled in his notebook about the steady drip-drip-drip of
pre-come from the reddened tip of the doll’s cock, then Taehyung taps at the remote and drives the
stimulation to the next level, leaving him with only two left to climb. “Wondering how I know?”
The doll certainly doesn’t ask, and probably wouldn’t even if it could—as dazed as it seems,
Taehyung knows it probably wouldn’t be able to hold itself upright if it weren’t for the leather
straps securing it in place. He wonders how badly the current burns, how much it must sting—
whether it has passed from prickling into gnawing, deep barbs of pain. He wonders whether it feels
good all the same. “It tastes like shit, but hey—when they let you back outta it, you won’t
remember the pain at all, no matter what they do to you. Neat, right?”
He probably sounds insane, carrying on this little one-sided conversation—and he idly wonders
how much of it Yoongi can hear of it through the door, but it comes as some small reassurance that
the camera pointed at his head from the corner of the room is, at least, incapable of recording his
voice. What good are his words, when his actions are all too clear? They are always watching.
With that in mind, he dares, for just a moment, to murmur a closely-guarded piece of his own truth,
with only the doll as his audience. “I could use a hit myself every once in a while…”
Drool has begun to slip from the corner of the doll’s mouth, but Taehyung doesn’t bother to wipe it
away when he knows there is more where that came from. The light outside the window has faded
to dark, the evening slipping away, but the fluorescent lighting overhead only leaves the doll
looking more inhuman, more—synthetic—as synthetic as the glow of the bulbs above them both.
His own hands, even, seem alien to him as he reaches forward and presses his fingertips to the
doll’s stomach, mirroring his actions from before as he waits to feel—
—there, the barest prickle against his skin, the current running through the doll’s body enough that
he can feel it even secondhand like this. His own cock, neglected in his pants, strains against the
fabric at the sensation, at the thought of what it must be doing to the doll from the inside. He
watches the body before him roil with pleasure, overstimulated to a fault, and taps the button to
increase the current a final time. His notes are all but forgotten behind him as the doll lets out the
longest, deepest moan so far, no longer able to contain the noise as the flare of electricity batters at
his nerves.
Though there is one level left that Taehyung could push the device to, he knows he won’t need it,
knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they won’t make it that far, not with the way the body
before him convulses and shudders. It’s easy to imagine the man before him, so desperate, begging
for release—he remembers the deep timbre of the man’s voice, the way he had been introduced…
‘Mr. Jeon will be joining us for the semester to assist in your lessons.’
His thoughts fly to Yoongi, only a door away, and he has to press the heel of his hand down against
his cock to stave off his own pleasure. ‘No, not now—’ he scolds himself, though his mouth waters
where before it had been dry, his nerves all but dissipated as the experiment’s success looms
imminently. ‘Keep it together, you’re almost done—’
Sure enough, with thumb hovering over the button to increase the electricity a final time, he finds
himself freezing as the doll before him shocks him from his thoughts with a shuddering moan that
seems to be dragged from its very core. More importantly, the doll’s cock, having been twitching
against its belly for quite some time, seems to all but freeze as the doll’s hips roll—as best as they
can—away from the stand that confines them, bucking into the pleasure as an orgasm is literally
forced from it by the sting and the burn and the shock of the electricity running through it.
The cock suddenly spurts a long, thick stream of come, the liquid shooting forth as though forced
by every single muscle in the doll’s body clenching all at once. It splatters against the doll’s thighs,
long globs of come hitting the tile floor, a stream of it just barely missing Taehyung where he
stands just off to the side and watches with breath caught in his chest. It’s quite the sight, the
orgasm almost appearing unending and more and more come pours free, no longer propelled with
the force of the first few spurts but impressive all the same.
Just how much had Jimin tormented the doll, during their long hours together over the break?
From just the sight before him, one might easily assume the doll hadn’t been allowed to come in
weeks, rather than just days. When the last drops of the doll’s orgasm finally fall to the floor, he
finally takes pity on the man before him and grabs at the remote, dialing down the intensity step by
step until the device finally turns all the way dark.
He hadn’t noticed before, but a soft buzzing sound suddenly disappears as well, leaving the room
eerily silent aside from the heaving breaths the doll continues to suck in, accompanied by the sound
of his own heavy breathing as he attempts to calm himself as well. No longer under the onslaught
of burning current, the doll’s jaw unclenches and it lets his mouth hang open and wanton once
more.
“Good?” He manages to ask, his own voice a little raspy. Though he might have imagined it,
Taehyung swears he hears the smallest of noises in the back of the doll’s throat in reply, as if to say
‘yes,’ as if to say ‘thank you.’
He nods, grinning, and tugs the cables from the device at last. Setting it aside, he works on
schooling his breathing into some semblance of a normal rhythm while peeling the electrodes from
the doll’s skin, wiping away any sticky residue left behind with a thumb as he goes.
“You did well…” he murmurs, though he’s not sure whether he’s talking more to the doll, or to
himself. It makes no difference, in the end. He’s proud of what he’s accomplished here, and even
more so because he knows, in no uncertain terms, that every last second of it will be seen. There
will be no mistaking the work he did as anything but excellent, not this time.
As he carries the tools back to the large desk at the front of the room, he remains painfully aware
of the weight of eyes on him—not real eyes, perhaps, but eyes all the same. In the dim lighting of
the room, with the sun having sunk far beyond the horizon out the windows along the wall, the
bright red light of the security camera in the far corner of the ceiling seems brighter than ever,
blinking innocently down at him as he moves.
He tucks the instruments away into their case with care and leaves it in the center of the teacher’s
desk, before moving to a lab station nearby to grab a cleaning rag that he wets in the sink. He
brings it back to the doll and wastes no time in dragging it across the doll’s face, finally wiping
away the spit still clinging to its lips, before kneeling down to scrub at the tiny patches of glue that
still cling to its stomach. When he finally wraps the cool cloth around its cock, softening now that
the stimulation has ceased, he’s greeted by a pathetic little whimper from above his head that
pushes him to chuckle in sympathy. “I know, I know...just give me a second…”
It doesn’t take long to leave the doll as clean as before, even the come that had dripped down its
thighs wiped away, and Taehyung takes only a second more to soak up the splatters of liquid on the
tile at his feet before straightening up and tossing the rag back into the sink with a flick of his wrist.
He pauses to admire his work for a moment, hands on his hips, before nodding and reaching for his
discarded notebook to finish what he started.
He could almost kick himself, looking down at the mess of his own handwriting, and it takes
longer than it should to erase a few of the complete illegible parts and write them over again. It
takes longer still to wrack his brain for the right words to describe what he had observed towards
the end, what with the distraction of his own arousal clouding his thoughts. It was remarkable, he
thinks, the way the electricity had done all the work for him, taking over the doll’s nervous system
until the inevitability of an orgasm was assured. He isn’t sure what Yoongi will do with this
information, but the purpose of his experiment suddenly seems so clear. They are always watching.
Perhaps it is important for this to be seen.
Only when his work is fit to be seen does Taehyung close his notebook with a snap and turn his
back on the doll, leaving it panting in its stand as he makes his way across the room. He can’t help
the tiniest of glances up towards the camera above his head as he draws closer to the door of
Yoongi’s private office, knowing exactly when he passes into the blind spot just before the
threshold.
With a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself, he straightens his shoulders, runs a hand through
his hair to push it away from the sweat on his brow, and raises his knuckles to rap softly against the
door.
The reply is immediate. “Come in, Taehyung.”
He gulps. Reaches for the doorknob. Steps inside, and closes the door securely behind him—
leaving him alone with his teacher at last, and firmly out of sight.
North Entrance—Main Gate 08-20-18 8:22PM
It’s always been wildly refreshing, the gusts of wind against his face and running through his hair
through the open window of his car as he careens down the road away from the buildings that
surround him. The night air is crisp, biting, with the edge of fall creeping in as the sky clicks from
blue to black over the horizon.
He needed to get out, to just—go. Disappear for a moment. The thoughts in his head chase him
down the small road leading away from the school—but they are only thoughts, and if they catch
him, what can they do? For this, he is grateful.
The school corridors, wide enough to allow the passage of hundreds of students, have seemed to be
all but closing in on him all day, and the moment the final bell rang, his legs itched to propel him
out the door. Despite his outburst earlier, there wasn’t far for him to go, what with so many eyes—
real and otherwise, watching his every move. If the itching in his legs drove him to stare at the
door, and the clock, then back at the door, it was nothing compared to the way the back of his neck
burned under his constant surveillance until he finally couldn’t take it a moment longer. Giving into
the desire to sprint into the parking lot had never felt more like freedom.
He glances to the clock on his dashboard, the bright green numbers reading 7:35pm.’Earlier than
he might have left his office on any other day, and he can’t spare a moment to think of the work he
left unfinished for the day on his desk without cringing. Still, even with the fresh air cascading
through the open window, his lungs can’t quite seem to remember how to breathe it in. It’s as
though his chest is locked into a vice, and he’s under absolutely no delusions as to why.
‘I would ask you who you think you are, but I already know.’
The words circle in his head, stinging no less now than they did when they were first lodged at
him. ‘Who do I think I am?’
He pays no mind to where the road takes him, only stopping when he finds himself at a crossroads
between the large family housing buildings. ‘Who does he think he is…’
When he passes the last of the large buildings, the area beyond opens up into large, undeveloped
grassland as far as the eye can see. The only barrier between him and that open space is a large
stone wall in the distance, carefully crafted so that it looms dozens of feet above ground level—
which, for the first time, feels just as intended to keep him in as it does to keep the world out.
‘You’ve grown conceited,’ the low voice in his head chides him, and his foot grows heavier against
the pedal below it. ‘People will always disappoint you.’
With no boundaries between him and the wall, it makes no difference how fast he careens down
the road, passing scattered trees and a few buildings here and there as he loses himself to his
thoughts.
‘I made you into what you are, and I can take it from you in an instant.’
‘You made me who I am? Is that it? You think you had anything to do with it—’ He wants to puke,
but he hasn’t eaten anything all day, and his stomach feels empty and hollow for more reasons than
one.
‘You have made the mistake that believing any ancient history between us makes you special
somehow,’ that voice mocks him. He might has well have a malicious passenger, for all that the
voice sounds clear as day in his ear.
‘I don’t think I’m—fucking—special!’ His grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles
creak, his foot a leaden weight against the pedal now. The road, though paved, becomes more
heavily covered with gravel the further from the buildings he drives, and the crunch and crack of
rocks against his undercarriage sounds like a hailstorm from below. ‘I was just—trying—to do the
right thing, goddamn it—!’
He takes a turn in the road a little too fast, tires skidding on the gravel as he makes it through the
curve with his body drawn tight against the seatbelt. It should send his heart racing, perhaps, but
the anger has already done enough, his ears ringing above the tinny sound of the radio and the
crunch of his tires against the road. As the car rights itself, his eyes barely focused on the concrete
before him, that voice is back with another sharp retort.
‘What evidence of this do you have?’ He grits his teeth, sweaty palms slipping against the steering
wheel now. ‘You will never come to me with such a complaint again without having some evidence
to provide.’
‘What sort of fucking—evidence—’
The wall is drawing closer and closer now, a large gate at the end of the road blocking his path, but
his entire body is tight, his leg wooden as it holds down the gas. Rather than an open field around
him, he sees only the tunnel of his vision, and the means to his escape at the end of it.
‘The next time you make such a mistake will be the last,’ the voice tells him, and he wants to
scream right back at it.
‘How can it be a mistake? How?! I know I’m right! You’re the one who doesn’t see what’s right in
front of you! You’ve always been blind, Kim Seokjin!’
The voice is ready for him, dredging up the words that cut him to his core. ‘You are nothing, Kim
Namjoon.’
“You’re wrong!” This time, his voice actually finds its way past his lips, echoing through the
small space inside his car. “You’re wrong! I’ll show you—I’ll fucking— show you—”
‘What sort of evidence do you have?’ The voice asks, calm as ever, and he actually does scream
his frustration this time. The gate is drawing closer, closer, dangerously close, but his head is
spinning faster than his tires—
“Evidence.”
‘What sort of evidence do you have?’
“Evidence!”
In an instant, his foot takes on a life of its own and slams down against the brake, his tires
screeching in the night as the car is forced to a sudden, jerky stop. Around him, through all his
windows, a haze of dust surrounds the vehicle, nearly blocking his view of the gate only a few
meters from the front of his car. In the distance, he spots a lone figure through the cloud that is
approaching him from the gate, one hand on the gun clipped clearly into a holster at his hip.
He takes a second to gasp and gasp for air, dizzy now from the sudden stop as much as he is from
his own rushing thoughts. This is long enough for the guard to make his way up to the car, and a
sharp knock against his window forces him to reach over and fumble to roll it down.
“Excuse me, what exactly do you—” The guard begins to ask, shining a flashlight in his eyes,
before suddenly cutting himself off as he recognizes the face squinting back up at him. “Oh...Mr.
Kim. Good evening.” The guard’s tone changes immediately.
Namjoon tries to fix his face into the most convincing smile he can manage. “Good evening.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but you stopped rather...abruptly. Is everything alright?”
The question might have bothered him on any other day, but tonight he is more than grateful for
the concern. “No—I—I mean, yes, yes, everything is fine. I’m—sorry to have alarmed you.” He
waves a hand sheepishly, vaguely, as if to help explain his strange behavior. “I was in a hurry, but
—I realized I—I forgot something.”
“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?” The guard asks, sounding more than a little concerned
under the thin veneer of his respectful tone.
Namjoon waves him off and shakes his head. “No, no—there’s no need for that. I just, um, need to
turn around. Go back for what I—what I forgot. It’s very important.”
“Right…” When the nurse doesn’t elaborate further, the guard shakes his head and straightens up,
backing away from the car at last. “Of course, sir. Let me get out of your way. Have a good night.”
Namjoon can’t do more than give the man a shaky wave, watching as the guard makes his way
back to his post at the closed gate before rolling up the window and finally jerking his foot off the
break. The car rolls forward, much slower now, and his arms feel robotic as he turns the wheel
around to start moving the other direction down the long, narrow road. In the distance, the lights of
the family buildings and the school glow over the edge of a hill, drawing his eyes.
‘You are nothing, Kim Namjoon.’ He draws the words to the front of his mind of his own volition
this time. ‘Nothing.’
“I’ll show you nothing…” he says under his breath, eyes narrowing. If the principal wants
evidence, then that’s exactly what he’s going to get.
With a wave of his key card in front of the keypad beside the door, he hears a soft click and a
louder beep, and a green light above the keypad flickers to life. The door swings open with only a
gentle tug, and he lets himself back inside of the building he had been so eager to run from only
hours before. The halls are darkened now, only the security lights on in the entryway where a few
straggling staff members are likely still coming and going.
The front office is still fully lit, though he bypasses the main doors and turns down the hallway that
leads to the side entrance he uses more often than not. Another swipe of his keycard, and the door
opens with ease, but he finds himself with company the moment he steps inside. Two sets of eyes
greet him from the security desk, both sitting in familiar faces—though he couldn’t tell their names
even if he tried. He’s relieved when, at the sight of him, they give nothing more than a short nod
each in greeting, and he returns the gesture as he passes them and makes his way up the stairs to his
office.
"...make sure you lock up for Donghyuk, they'll have to come clean up that mess tomorrow," he
hears one of them say to the other behind him, and he speeds up his steps.
When the door to his office is securely closed, he leans against it and stares down at the glowing
screen of his watch, counting down the seconds until the numbers roll over to say 9:00pm.
Like clockwork, he hears the all-too-familiar sounds of the guards getting up from their seats, their
usual stretching and groaning and idle chatter filling the quiet office as they pack themselves up for
the end of their shift. He gives it another few minutes, ear pressed to the door, before the loud thud
of the office door closes behind them as they make their exit, the lights outside of his office door
suddenly fading to black.
With a sigh of relief, he slides the handle of his door open and slips outside, replacing it in the
doorframe just as gently. Feeling a little goofy as he does so, he tiptoes along the hall and down the
few stairs to the abandoned security desk, sending wary glances over his shoulder to the hall that
leads to the front desk—but he remains undisturbed until he reaches his destination. Though there
is a traditional lock on the door across from the security desk, he pays it no mind and chances a
swipe of his card across another, identical card reader beside the door—pleased beyond belief that
a yellow, then a green light flicker to life atop the keypad, and the door clicks open for him.
‘I wonder how long that’s worked…’ Namjoon muses as he slips inside, but the mere fact that he
does, in fact, have access to a secure area like this leaves him reassured enough for the time being.
Still, the space beyond is an unfamiliar one, a small, cramped room lined with a long desk, atop
which rows and rows of security camera screens blink back at him. He steps over a smattering of
crumbs and food wrappers in the center of the floor—the ‘mess’ the guards must have been
referring to—on his way across the room.
He takes the only seat in front of them, hesitantly sliding the chair forward until his stomach hits
the edge of the desk, and pauses with his hands hovering over the keyboard, unmoving and
unwilling to move.
‘What...am I doing?’
He’s not even sure where to begin, the sheer number of video feeds in front of him immediately
overwhelming. ‘They really are always watching,’ he thinks as his eyes skim over feeds that cover
areas of the school he never even considered being worthy of surveillance—the cafeteria, storage
rooms, the basement…
‘Evidence,’ he reminds himself, shaking his head to regain focus. ‘Evidence. That’s what you’re
here for.’
But where to start? The doll, as the center of all of his problems, is the most obvious place to begin
—and the doll is always kept—
—there. Heath Lab-First Floor-West. Namjoon slides his chair off to the side, dragging the
keyboard and mouse with him, to get a better look at the classroom in question. At the moment,
unsurprisingly, the classroom is empty—aside from the lone figure of the doll, currently propped
up in the center of the room. The lights are still on, so Namjoon’s eyes immediately skim over to
the next camera, which shows the interior of Health Lab-Office-First Floor-West.
Also unsurprisingly, he finds himself staring down the back and shoulders of the teacher who owns
that particular office, hunched over his desk and hard at work. He seems blissfully unaware of the
camera aimed at his head, and Namjoon only spares the man a few moments of observation before
moving back to the task at hand.
Grabbing at the mouse, he brings up the directory menu of the Health Lab camera, fumbles with
the controls for a few seconds, and finally manages to find the option that will allow him to select
a certain date to view. Casting his mind back to the first of the incidents, he toggles the tool until it
begins scrolling back through the feed in double time, hours upon hours of footage moving
backwards until the images of students getting in and out of their seats slow to a stop, and he finds
himself looking at a very different image of the classroom altogether.
08.17.18, 8:00am,’the timestamp in the corner of the tape reads. Still brightly lit, the classroom
on-screen looks almost exactly the same, aside from the obvious difference in the light streaming
in from outside the windows. The doll sits in the center of the classroom, much as it does right
now, and as he toggles the controls forward a few minutes, he watches as a familiar figure dressed
in coveralls enters the room. The janitor makes his way over to the doll and appears to be speaking
to him for a few minutes, the doll unresponsive, until the janitor pulls back a hand and strikes the
doll straight across the face. Namjoon watches as he then goes on to address the doll, pointing at
the obvious spill of liquid across the floor and the upturned bucket he himself had placed at the
doll’s feet the night before. The janitor then gets down on his knees to clean up the spill, and
Namjoon decides that he’s seen enough.
A few clicks of the mouse sends the video scrolling backwards again, but this time he stops it at
08.16.18, 8:00pm and allows it to play forward at two-times speed from there. He watches with
careful eyes for—something—anything, anything that would explain what had happened that night,
the first night that the doll had shown any signs of direct disobedience. He finds himself speeding
up the tape to three-times speed when it turns out that watching the doll shift and move in its sleep
is incredibly boring, but almost regrets it when he finds himself once again, much sooner than he
expected, watching the same image of the janitor walking into the room the following morning.
He rubs at his eyes, frustrated, and sets the tape back, watching it over again—only to end up with
the exact same problem. Scowling, he takes to clicking back through the footage manually, looking
for the moment—because there must have been a moment, that the doll kicked the bucket over in
the middle of the night.
It hits him, after the third run-through, that the moment he is looking for—is nowhere to be found.
Clicking back even slower now, growing more and more suspicious, he finally catches...
something. A flicker on the screen.
When he plays the tape at normal speed for a final time, his eyes widen in shock. It’s there, in the
tiniest fraction of a second—one moment, the bucket is exactly where he left it, and the next? The
bucket is suddenly tipped over on the tile. If he hadn’t been staring at the tape, eyes almost
watering with the intensity of his focus, he might never have caught it.
And it strikes him all at once, exactly what this means—the tape has been doctored. He can’t
believe his eyes, watches it over three more times before he’s absolutely certain of what he’s
seeing. But Namjoon is more than certain, now, of something else—this is far more evidence than
he ever thought he would find.
With renewed energy, he thinks through the past few days for the next possible incident that had
he had noticed—that same day, late in the afternoon, when he and Yoongi had returned to the
office to bring the doll across the school. He sets the time to 08.17.18, 2:00pm and squints at the
tape, watching as the students and their teacher all get up to leave the classroom the moment an
announcement is clearly made over the loudspeaker, the doll left behind in the classroom as they
go.
Once again, he finds himself watching very little happen until someone—himself and Yoongi, this
time—re-enter the classroom and make their way over to the doll before he realizes that he must
have missed something, and plays the tape back over again. And once more, there is a moment—
barely discernible, on the small, black and white screen, where he catches the tiniest of
movements: one second, the doll is securely in its restraints, and the next, Namjoon finds himself
staring at an image of the doll hanging loose from one of its cuffs, as if by magic. Another
doctored tape.
Finding his anger rising again, he brings the tape forward to 08.20.18, 7:00am, his stomach
clenching desperately as he watches the teacher move about in his own classroom, the minutes
ticking by until he moves over to the door and allows the janitor inside, the smaller man lugging
the body of the doll with him. But no matter how far back on the tape he goes, he can’t find a
single moment where the doll is clearly sick, or even when it was removed from its stand at all.
He sits back in the chair, ignoring the way it gives a small squeak in protest, and rubs his hands
across his face, pressing against his tired eyes. What does this all mean?
He can’t wrap his head around what he’s just seen, can’t believe the tapes—the tapes!—were
actually doctored in such a way, and so cleanly, sneakily so. They are always watching, this he
knows. And yet, someone, somehow, has made it so that only the images they want to be seen will
be.
The classroom.
The classroom is the only common denominator, he decides, when nothing else seems to piece
itself together. No matter how hard he tries to rack his brain, he keeps coming back to the fact that
the doll, for all intents and purposes, never leaves that same spot—and so, with a deep breath,
Namjoon rolls himself back to the screen and clears his search from the viewing tools, bringing up
the footage he had been looking at earlier.
The timestamp at the bottom of the screen now reads 08.20.2018, 9:18pm, and he stares up at the
now-familiar view of the doll, still standing exactly where he last saw it, in its restraints in the
center of the room. Nothing has changed, he’s sure of it, as he glances over the image, trying once
again to spot anything out of place.
When little immediately catches his eye, he casts his gaze back over to the next camera, where the
same image of Yoongi, huddled over his desk just as before, greets him. But as he stares at the
image, the same recording that has been playing out of the corner of his eye during all of his
searching, he realizes something very, very peculiar.
‘Nothing...has changed.’
He watches the teacher run a hand through his hair, pick up a pen and scribble something on a
stack of papers on the desk in front of him, reach for a cup of coffee sitting off to the side—and is
struck with the most overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ he realizes, his mouth falling open in shock.
He fumbles for the mouse, frantic now, and drags the video back over an hour, plays it forward
again, and catches those same movements a second time. When he toggles the tools and plays the
tape forward at two-times speed, he immediately picks up a pattern to them, and when he moves it
to four-times speed, the motions blur together into a long chain of perfectly synchronized, identical
movements.
‘The tape is a loop,’ he thinks, ‘This—This isn’t a live feed.’
Far from a technological genius, he does the best he can to try every tool at his disposal, clicking
this feature and that in a heavy-handed attempt to clear away the pre-recorded loop that is being
played for him, but nothing seems to make any difference. Finally, in a moment of desperation, he
does the only thing that has ever helped solve any of his problems with his own technology—he
takes the mouse, closes the entire video feed, waits a few tense moments, then restarts the entire
camera.
He doesn’t realize, until the screen flickers back to life, that he was holding his breath—but all of a
sudden a rush of air feels as though it has been punched out of his lungs. In front of him, as the
camera comes back online, he stares up at a radically different scene than the one he had been
tricked into watching moments before. Gone is the Yoongi who had been sitting at his desk, bent
over with his face away from the camera. Instead, his figure has moved to the couch along the
adjacent wall—and the teacher is no longer alone.
For a second, Namjoon absolutely refuses to believe his eyes, because the sight that he is
confronted with couldn’t possibly be true. Another doctored image, perhaps, but not—not the truth.
Yet, despite his best efforts, nothing he does—rubbing at his eyes, clicking at anything on the
screen before him—changes the sight that is now showing live on the camera.
Sitting across Yoongi’s lap, arms slung easily over the older man’s shoulders, is the unmistakable
form of a student, made obvious by the uniform jacket still draped over his shoulders. His short,
dark hair is fisted in the teachers hands, his neck tugged backwards to make room for Yoongi’s
lips, which the teacher has latched onto the side of the student’s neck.
As Namjoon watches in horror, Yoongi drags his lips away and says something to the young man
on his knees, and the student gives a shaky nod before rising up on his knees—bare, Namjoon can
see, once his eyes focus down to them—and sinks back down onto the teacher’s lap. Yoongi says
something else, ducks forward to capture the students lips with his own, and the younger man
repeats the action, and then again.
And no matter how much Namjoon doesn’t want to be seeing this—doesn’t want to be seeing it at
all —it’s undeniable, what is happening on the screen, in Yoongi’s office across the building, in
the middle of the night. In secret.
This man, the man he has been told to respect above almost everyone else, the leader who is
supposed to be helping him with his development—has modified the security footage for his
office. And in secret, in the face of everything he has been teaching Namjoon, he has betrayed them
all. Namjoon watches, mouth dry, ears ringing, as Min Yoongi—his mentor, his Guide—in what he
must believe is total privacy, fucks Namjoon’s own baby brother. His real brother. The only
brother he has ever truly had.
‘...Taehyung.’
Chapter End Notes
Phase Seven: Instrument
Chapter Summary
As he settles into his new routine, Jungkook finds work as a sex education doll to be
more rewarding than he ever imagined.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE SEVEN:
Rape/Non-con Elements, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Non-

Consensual Voyeurism, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-
Consensual Drug Use, Mind Manipulation, Conditioning, Emotional Manipulation,
Stockholm Syndrome, Imprisonment, Sexual Slavery, Voyeurism, Public Nudity,
Public Sex, Public Punishment, Ritual Sex, Ritual Public Sex, Objectification,
Dumbification, Dollification, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Forced Orgasm, Cock &
Ball Torture, Cock Slapping, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Multiple
Orgasms, Impact Play, Discipline, Punishment, Age Play, Sexual Age Play, Little
Space, Sexual Little Space, Daddy Kink, Teacher/Student, Implied/Referenced
Underage Sex, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering
Fic Playlist
Phase Seven Playlist


the original
story here!
Health Lab—Office—First Floor—West 08-20-18 7:54PM
“Come in, Taehyung.”
He leans back in his chair, swinging around to face the door as he waits for his guest to join him.
As the door swings open and then closed again with only enough space for a body to slip through,
he glances up past the head that enters his line of vision towards the security camera turned the
other way, pointing out into the classroom beyond. It’s a risk, as always, but he knows that once
the boy steps into the office, he will be safely unseen as always. He doesn’t let it show, the relief
he feels, in even a twitch of the muscles of his face, his expression placidly neutral as the student
closes the door with his hands splayed flat against the wood on either side of the spine he presses to
it, the latch making a satisfying click that disturbs the silence.
They stare at each other for a beat, Taehyung’s breath heavy and almost tangible between them. He
settles back against the leather of his chair, the wood creaking in response as he shifts his weight to
spread his legs, feet flat on the floor. It only takes one raised eyebrow to finally illicit a response
from the boy—easy as always.
“M-Mr. Min…”
He can feel his eyebrow raise even further, not quite in surprise but something of a similar flavor.
One crook of his finger in the boy’s general direction has Taehyung stumbling towards him, so, so
very eager.
When the student comes to stand between his parted knees, he raises a hand to cup the underside of
Taehyung’s chin—the gesture unnecessary to force the boy to look at him, since Taehyung’s rich
brown eyes never seem to waver from their fixation on his own face.
“You and I both know that’s not what you’d like to call me, now that we’re alone…” He strokes
the flat pad of his thumb across the boy’s bottom lip, dragging the soft pink skin along as though
he could smear the color across Taehyung’s chin. The gesture is almost innocent—almost.
Taehyung squirms under the attention, but doesn’t hold back as he allows his voice to be heard
again.
“Yoongi—” He cuts the sound of his own name off with fingers that slide across the boy’s tongue,
pressing down until Taehyung lets out a soft moan instead and swallows eagerly around the offered
digits. Taehyung makes quick work of circling each of Yoongi’s fingers with his tongue, a
practiced move, until Yoongi sees fit to pull them away, relishing the whimper that chases their
departure. With both hands, one slick and one dry, he fists Taehyung’s uniform jacket and tugs-
tugs-tugs the boy until he has no choice but to clamber into Yoongi’s lap or be forced into falling
on top of his teacher instead.
For his part, Yoongi his happy to make room in the chair for each of Taehyung’s knees to slide into
the space on either side of his own hips, leaving the boy sitting astride his lap completely. Though
there is little difference between their heights, generally, sitting like this has the strange benefit of
leaving Taehyung’s head above Yoongi’s own, and yet forces the younger man to seem so very
small in comparison. The student’s arms immediately slide into place around his neck, long fingers
hooking together behind Yoongi’s head to help hold him upright, and Yoongi only needs to tilt his
head upward in invitation for the younger man to lean down and bring their lips together at last.
Oh, to kiss Taehyung is to teach his lungs to breathe again after an eternity without air. He knows
the shape of these lips against his own the way he knows how to breathe, truly—easy, as though he
has been practicing his entire life, and yet each and every opportunity is a blessing in itself. The
taste of them, too, is as familiar as home cooking but always the rarest of delicacies all the while.
Taehyung doesn’t know—couldn’t know, really—that Yoongi is a dying man in a desert, and
Taehyung is his first drink of water. The boy can’t know that Yoongi kisses with every intention to
devour him.
“Taehyung…” he groans as the boy dares to drag his tongue across Yoongi’s mouth now, nibbles
at the lower lip that is offered to him—begging for something he doesn’t need to ask for. Yoongi
furrows his brow, slides one of his hands up the delicious arch of the younger man’s spine until he
reaches the dark, silky strands of Taehyung’s hair.
With a firm grip and a sudden tug, he drags Taehyung back until there are a few inches between
their lips, the younger man panting as he looks down at Yoongi with eyes hooded by heavy
eyelids. His lips are slick now, and pink already from their brief entanglement with Yoongi’s own.
The boy squirms against the grip, not least because Yoongi knows just how much he enjoys the
pain, the sting of it, but also because it keeps him from what he wants most. But Yoongi is
unforgiving as always, and he can practically feel the sharpness of his own gaze as he aims it up at
the boy sitting atop his own lap.
“Feeling naughty tonight, are we?” He asks, his voice no more than a low rumble. He knows just
how much that particular tone affects the younger man, is pleasantly unsurprised by the way it
leaves Taehyung squirming and gripping at Yoongi’s shoulders. “You were being so good for me
earlier, Taehyung…”
“Mmmnnnn...Y-Yoongi…” Taehyung pouts as best as he can with his head thrown back the way it
is, the expression interrupted by a hiss as Yoongi only tightens his grip on the boy’s dark hair in
response.
“I asked you a question.” Yoongi leaves no room for argument, not in his tone and not in his hold
on the boy above him. With no escape possible—or wanted, certainly—Taehyung squeezes his
eyes shut and nods his head to answer Yoongi despite the way it only increases the drag of his hair
away from his scalp. “Yes? You’re feeling naughty tonight, hm?”
“Y-Yes—”
“And why is that, Taehyung...when you were so good for me earlier, working so very hard on the
project I gave you?”
Taehyung gulps, tries to force his eyes open. Yoongi slides his free hand under the boy’s uniform
jacket, beneath the untucked hem of his button-down to stroke against Taehyung’s smooth skin
above the waist of his pants. It stands in stark contrast to the stinging pain at the boy’s scalp, he’s
sure, a dose of kindness to ease the burn. “W-Wanted… wanted to be good...then. Wanted...you to
be—p-proud of me.”
“You wanted me to be proud of you? Hmm...and do you think I should be, Taehyung? Do you
think you deserve it?”
“Y-Yes—!” Taehyung’s answer is punctuated by another hiss as Yoongi drags his head forward at
that, grip only tightening as the younger man’s face is drawn close enough to Yoongi’s that he can
practically taste those lips on his again. “Yes s-sir,” Taehyung gasps, his hot breath against
Yoongi’s cheeks now.
“And yet you throw it all away…” He taunts, lips just barely— barely —brushing the younger
man’s as he continues, “by taking more than what you were given, hm?”
“I—” Taehyung seems to have a hard time forming an answer now, already so very taken over by
the power Yoongi knows he has over the younger man. He fights back the grin that threatens to
rise on his lips as Taehyung pleads to him, “I—I’m sorry, s-sir, I—I shouldn’t have—please—”
“Please what, Taehyung…” He continues to repeat the boy’s name, a rare treat he so often has to
turn away. It isn’t that he couldn’t call the boy by his name in other circumstances, perhaps, but
rather that he shouldn’t . He wouldn’t dare to. “Please...forgive you? For being so bold?”
“Mmmnnn…”
“Or is it, please...give you more? Is that what you’re looking for?” He passes over Taehyung’s lips
now, kisses just at the corner of them where the pleasure from the contact belongs to him and him
alone. “You were being so good, and now you want to be greedy?”
“Y-Yoongi—”
“Ah-ah-ah…” Yoongi’s free hand wanders higher now, scratching beneath Taehyung’s shirt along
his ribs until he reaches the younger man’s nipple and gives it a little flick, just enough to send the
boy’s spine arching and his hair tugging against Yoongi’s grip again. His lips slide across
Taehyung’s cheek, along his jaw, until they rest above the boy’s ear, perfectly positioned to offer
him a heated whisper.
“Greedy, naughty boys don’t get what they want, Taehyung…” He feels the disappointed huff of
the boy’s breath against his hair. “Only good boys get what they want, and only if I decide they
deserve it…” He lays another kiss to the shell of Taehyung’s ear, a small indulgence. Taehyung
quivers and whines, fingers flexing and relaxing and flexing again into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt
at his shoulders. “Will you be a good boy for me…?”
“Mmmnnnnn— Yoongi—!”
Yoongi gives Taehyung’s nipple a sharp, sudden squeeze, twisting at the sensitive flesh until he
hears the way the boy’s breath catches in his throat. “Go on, baby...call me what you really want to
call me, and maybe I’ll give you a reward, hm? Doesn’t that sound nice?”
He doesn’t need to look to know exactly how the student’s face has screwed up into a conflicted
expression, his dark brow furrowed as he fights with himself, with his instinct. Yoongi knows the
expression all too well—recognizes it for exactly what it tells him, just how much Taehyung wants
to give himself over to this, to this moment between them and the freedom Yoongi can offer. More
importantly, he knows—after all the time they’ve spent together—exactly which buttons to push to
send Taehyung over the edge. “Go on, Taehyung...tell me who I am to you, and I’ll make sure my
baby boy is all taken care of tonight…”
It only takes a moment more for the boy to break, positively shivering now in Yoongi’s grip as the
teacher’s low, enticing voice is offered directly to his ear. Yoongi can feel it, the moment
Taehyung gives in, the way he leans closer despite the hold Yoongi has on him—one that the older
man relaxes the moment it is no longer necessary—to whimper into Yoongi’s ear, “...d-daddy
….please…”
“There we go…” Yoongi praises, and Taehyung positively preens at the sound. “That’s it, baby…”
Yoongi tightens his hold on the boy, dragging him back just enough to bring their lips together
again, and this time—this time Yoongi allows himself to truly drink his fill. If before his grip was
controlling, now it is an indulgence and nothing more—no pretense behind his touch as he drag’s
Taehyung’s smaller body closer until they are pressed together tight as can be, at their hips, at their
chests, and the even tighter pressure between their cocks through the layers and layers of fabric that
lie between them. The boy squirms at the contact, already worked up enough that Yoongi can feel
the way his cock twitches between them in anticipation.
He nibbles at Taehyung’s lower lip, whispers into the small, private space between them, “...you
feel so good, baby...I’ve missed you...daddy missed you…”
“D-Daddy—” Taehyung sighs brokenly, letting Yoongi wrap him up in his secure, inescapable
embrace. Yoongi means every word—he truly has felt the cold sting of the boy’s absence from his
side over so many lonely nights, and now their entanglement is that of tongues of flame as they
intertwine together. Taehyung betrays his own eagerness as his feet dig into the sides of Yoongi’s
legs, and his long fingers make their way from Yoongi’s shoulders into the dark hair at the nape of
the teacher’s neck. Yoongi doesn’t bother to stop the boy, enjoying the way Taehyung’s body begs
for what it wants even when his student can’t bring himself to actually do so.
“Yes, baby?” He doesn’t need to ask, really—but it suits Yoongi just fine to make Taehyung beg,
and even more so that the boy wants to. “Tell daddy what you want...it’s been a long time, baby—
daddy wants to make you feel good, like he promised…”
“Mmnnnn—” Taehyung simply whines and lets his body do the talking, as always, rutting his hips
forward into Yoongi’s in an unmistakable plea for more contact. But far be it from Yoongi to give
in so easily, when the boy so clearly wants to play a game— their game—a little first.
In a playful parallel to Taehyung’s grip on his hair, Yoongi’s hands release the chocolate strands of
Taehyung’s own and slide down his neck and spine instead, fingertips tracing the edges of his
shoulder blades before dragging along the exposed undersides of the boy’s biceps on their way
down. Through the fabric of Taehyung’s uniform jacket, he can feel the firm lines of his student’s
muscles—the boyish shape of him, outlined in toned skin from years of strenuous work, and
Yoongi aches for the barriers between them to disappear.
Once his hands reach Taehyung’s elbows, Yoongi drops them down to smooth across the boy’s
chest instead, once over the top of the deep blue jacket and then again beneath it, fingers following
the lines of his taut pectorals until the motion forces Taehyung’s jacket to come unbuttoned and
hang free. Yoongi’s thumbs make a deliberate passage over the boy’s nipples through the stark
fabric of his uniform shirt just for the immediate jump and whine it drags from the boy—a reaction
that never fails to leave Yoongi with a small smile on his lips—before the teacher settles in and
makes quick work of unfastening the buttons down the center of the shirt with practiced ease.
Taehyung immediately shivers but voices no complaint at the cool air that suddenly hits his bare
skin, and Yoongi chases the feeling with the warmth of his palms, watching with delight as the
curve of Taehyung’s spine seems to rise into the touch as if chasing it in return. Glancing up at his
lover’s face, Yoongi finds Taehyung’s head hanging back against his shoulders, the boy’s plush
lips hanging open as he pants for air, the long line of his throat nothing more than an invitation
Yoongi’s own lips are happy to take. He dives forward, latching onto the junction of Taehyung’s
throat and jaw for a taste of the sweat that clings along its edge, his thumbnails digging into the
boy’s exposed nipples all the while.
Immediately, the hands in Yoongi’s hair tighten to the point of pain, and Yoongi retaliates with a
sharp bite that immediately sends Taehyung’s hands recoiling away. He soothes the sudden tension
in Taehyung’s arms with a soft squeeze to the boy’s biceps a second time before drawing those free
hands in his and guiding them down to the buckle of Taehyung’s uniform pants.
“Go on, get undressed for daddy, sweetheart...I want to see all of you…” he whispers to the soft
curve of his lover’s chin, and is immediately greeted with the drag of lips against his own as
Taehyung nods in eager agreement.
He leans back so as to not distract the boy from his task, resting against the leather of his chair as
Taehyung fumbles, and fumbles again with his belt before finally working it free. It’s endearing,
really, the way Taehyung can’t seem to keep his hands from shaking even as he unfastens each of
the buttons at the front of his pants and lets them hang free, exposing the hard curve of his cock
through his underwear as it peeks out between the vee of the fabric. Yoongi’s hands smooth up
Taehyung’s taut thighs to meet the boy’s fingers, bringing one of the boy’s hands with his to curl
around the curve of his cock until it’s completely hidden from view by their joined grip.
“Do you feel that, baby?”
Taehyung hums softly in agreement, head nodding even as he blushes at Yoongi’s rather innocent
question.
“Tell daddy what that is, sweetheart…” Yoongi prompts, then waits and savors the ripple of
embarrassment that takes over Taehyung’s face.
“My—My c-cock…” Taehyung stutters out at last, head hanging low so he doesn’t have to meet
Yoongi’s eye as he says it.
“That’s right, baby...and it’s so hard, isn’t it?” Another nod. “Why don’t you tell me why your little
cock is so hard, hm?”
Yoongi curls their fingers tighter together, forcing Taehyung to squeeze at himself through his
underwear, and the pressure alone has the boy keening again.
“B-Because—of daddy—” he manages to choke out. Yoongi smiles.

“Daddy made you hard like this, hm?” He can’t fight the sly grin that curls at his lips now—
Taehyung just has that sort of effect on him. It’s always amazing, how easily the boy melts in his
hands. “How did I do that?”
“Daddy—Daddy always—” Taheyung’s blush doubles in intensity as he struggles to form his

admission, “—always makes TaeTae feel good. Makes...the badness go ‘way…”
“Oh?” Yoongi turns his head, raises Taehyung’s free hand to press a kiss to the boy’s wrist,
watches his thin fingers flex in response. “And how does daddy do that?”
“Mmmmm…” Another squirm, Taehyung bucking up into their joined grip on his own cock. “D-
Daddy...sometimes—sometimes TaeTae is bad, and—and daddy makes it okay again. M-Makes
TaeTae feel good, and…”
“...and?”
Taehyung bites at his lower lip, finally tilting his head up to look at Yoongi, the wistful expression
in his large eyes making Yoongi’s chest clench and clench in both sympathy and adoration. “...p-
please, daddy—make it better?”
“Has my baby boy been bad after all?” Yoongi asks, understanding dawning in his mind at the
boy’s shy admission. “Daddy was just teasing, but…”
Another squirm, and Yoongi’s fingers curl Taehyung’s hand around his own cock again, forcing
the boy to rut into his own palm as he moves. “Da—addy—”
“...does my baby need daddy to help?”
“Mhm!” Taehyung nods eagerly, and the motion combined with his wide stare leaves him looking
years younger, just as innocent as he’s pretending to be.
Yoongi chuckles and finally releases Taehyung’s hand, sliding his own palm up the planes of the
boy’s chest where his skin is exposed through his open uniform shirt. “Alright, sweetheart...daddy
promised he would make you feel good tonight, and that’s just what I’m going to do.” His fingers
trace up the center of Taehyung’s chest and throat to the underside of his chin, directing his lover
to look him in the eyes again. “Go ahead and get off daddy’s lap, baby…”
Inevitably, the boy pouts at the order, not wanting any distance between them even for a good
reason, but gives no more resistance as he slides back in the chair until he can put his feet on the
ground again and move to stand in between Yoongi’s spread legs. Yoongi’s hands barely leave
Taehyung’s body for a second, sliding down the length of him as Taehyung stands until they come
to rest on the boy’s narrow hips, which he squeezes to punctuate his next words.
“Finish undressing, baby...let me see that pretty little cock of yours…”
Now, more eager from Yoongi’s acquiescence, Taehyung doesn’t even hesitate to follow the order
—immediately moving his feet to toe of his shoes and then his socks, one foot after the other. With
bare feet on the carpet below, his hands move from the arms of Yoongi’s desk chair to his own
hips and Yoongi assists as they tug his nicely-pressed pants down his legs, the fabric going easy
now that Taehyung has help along the way.
It’s all too easy, then, to drag a hand up along the inside of one of Taehyung’s shapely thighs
towards his dark underwear, leaving the boy quivering and reaching out to support himself on
Yoongi’s shoulders. “Can daddy take these off, Tae?”
He knows he doesn’t have to ask, but something about the way the boy nods again so earnestly
twists at Yoongi’s stomach pleasantly. His fingers hook beneath the band of Taehyung’s underwear
and peel them down the curve of his lover’s ass, fingers caressing every inch of skin along the way
as they make their way down his thighs and drop to the floor. Seeing Taehyung’s cock, hard and
leaking already, bob up towards his quivering stomach—something about it gives him pause for a
moment, and he just stares openly at the beautiful boy before him.
It isn’t as though this is the first time he has seen the boy naked—far from it, between class and
detention and any other required activities—but something about seeing him here, like this, in a
private space they’ve carved out for themselves...something about being the only one allowed to
see Taehyung like this leaves Yoongi with a feeling clawing at his chest and throat, a feeling he
desperately vows not to examine too closely. There’s no need, certainly, when he can indulge like
this without consequence.
“T-There we go…” he manages to murmur, and Taehyung blushes as though it really were the first
time his teacher was laying eyes on him. Taehyung feels it too—Yoongi is sure of it—the
illicitness of what transpires between them. It’s addicting. “There’s my pretty boy…”
And Taehyung blushes so very prettily, immediately living up to Yoongi’s words, that the teacher
nearly gives up their game right then and there to cradle the boy in his arms and smother him with
kisses. He manages to refrain by the barest of margins, reminding himself of the reward waiting for
them both if he does—but it’s a near thing.
“Yeah, you like that, baby…?” He knows that the boy doesn’t completely understand it when
Yoongi calls him such things, but Taehyung knows enough to know that it’s illicit, to know that it’s
secret—to know that he likes it very much. Yoongi can see it on the boy’s face, the way he revels
in being given such a special name, and by Yoongi in particular.
Taehyung is nearly beyond words now, able to do nothing more than to continue nodding
enthusiastically—and Yoongi is powerless to do anything less than give the boy exactly what he
wants.
“Come on, Yoongi encourages, pushing against the narrow hips between his hands to direct the
boy to one side, “Bend over the desk for me…”
Taehyung complies easily, nothing but malleable in Yoongi’s hands—he turns on his now-bare
heels and splays his long fingers across the surface of Yoongi’s desk, palms sliding along the
surface as he lowers himself until his bare ass peeks out from beneath the hem of his uniform
blazer. Taehyung’s skin is sun-kissed all over—even in places that are pale and pasty-white on
Yoongi’s own body—and he takes a split second to be grateful for the casual nudity around the
community that made such a sight possible. Taehyung flattens his chest against the wooden
surface, squirming slightly at the cool sensation of it pressing into his bare skin, and turns his head
to cast a look over his shoulder at the teacher hovering behind him.
“...like...this.... sir?” The boy drawls, knowing full well the effect his words will have on his lover,
his tone deceitfully innocent. Without Yoongi’s hands on him to make him squirm, Taehyung
always snaps from bashful to dangerous, always daring to push at the edges of this game of theirs
—and Yoongi is, as always, equal parts terrified and thrilled by it.
The first slap of the teacher’s hand against Taehyung’s ass takes the boy by surprise, exactly as
Yoongi intends for it to. His arm swings back so quickly that his lover never sees it coming, though
he shouldn’t be surprised to receive exactly the treatment he is egging Yoongi into giving him.
Still, Taehyung yelps and curls his fingers around the far edge of the desk, holding himself down
even as his hips rock into the wooden surface below. “A-Ahh—!”
“Still trying to be naughty, I see…” He comments blandly to the boy, as though the imprint of his
palm isn’t making itself known on the curve of Taehyung’s ass. “You’re really trying to push me
tonight, aren’t you?”
Taehyung doesn’t answer, just whines and shifts his weight from one leg to the other so the curve
of his backside rolls with the motion, only proving Yoongi’s point.
“You said you needed daddy’s help, didn’t you, baby?” He goes on, smoothing his hand over the
reddening surface of Taehyung’s golden skin. There is a slight pause before he hears a rustling
noise that indicates another nod from the other end of the desk. “Because daddy makes it better?”
Another nod, and an accompanying whimper. “Does my baby boy not want to feel naughty
anymore?”
He’s started to piece it together now—the reason why, tonight, Taehyung seems to both want to
goad Yoongi into being rougher with him and need Yoongi to be anything but. It’s familiar, all too
familiar, the roiling mess of emotions he can all but feel from the boy beneath him—a dichotomy
that he knows better than he should. It isn’t as though he’s been blind to the struggles Taehyung
has been going through—certainly not, or he never would have approached the boy to work more
closely with him, and never would they have been able to carve out this private time together. So
it’s simple enough, in the end, to come to the following conclusion: Taehyung feels troubled, and
he needs Yoongi to punish him for it. Punishment, and then the feeling will go away. Of course.
Taehyung pouts, squirms, refuses to answer once more—but Yoongi doesn’t need any further
confirmation. It’s a convoluted thought, to be sure, but one that Yoongi would be remiss to brush
aside—if his lover needs him to be cruel in order to be kind, it wouldn’t be the first time, and it
certainly wouldn’t be a hardship. With that mission in mind, he gives the pert curve of Taehyung’s
ass another soft squeeze before drawing his hand back and bringing it down against that same skin
in a harsh slap. The noise of skin striking skin echoes through the room, followed immediately by
a sharp inhale from the boy beneath him.
“That’s it, baby…” Yoongi’s voice dips lower, “Daddy will make it better, hm? Just like this...take
your punishment like a good boy, and all will be forgiven…” Yoongi can hear the way the desk
creaks as Taehyung’s grip on it tightens, the boy’s resolve only hardening at Yoongi’s agreement.
He doesn’t give Taehyung any notice before his hand strikes the boy’s ass again, a little lower so
that Taehyung’s legs tighten and he rises up on his toes to get away from the sting. “Count for me.
That was three.”
He knows it’s a stretch, to ask the boy to speak when he’s fallen so deep into this particular
headspace, and so quickly—but Taehyung never backs down from any challenge the older man can
give him. It takes a few seconds, sure, for him to make a sound, but Taehyung dutifully manages to
force enough of his voice out of his throat to echo back at Yoongi, “...t-three.”
“Good boy…” He switches hands now, raining two spanks down on the untouched side of
Taehyung’s ass now, and the variation startles Taehyung into curling his toes into the carpet.
“F—a-ah—f-four...five…” Taehyung whimpers, and Yoongi pauses long enough to drag his
fingertips between Taehyung’s cheeks to the furl of the boy’s tight hole where it peeks out at him
from between them. When Taehyung whimpers and rolls his hips back into the sensation, it’s hard
to tell whether he is begging for more or silently encouraging Yoongi to get back to the task at
hand.
Another spank that lands directly against the center of Taehyung’s ass manages to catch a bit of
each cheek this time, painting a pretty bloom of pink that spreads out from the boy’s hole on either
side, and Yoongi swallows thickly at the sight.
“—six!” Taehyung tells him, and Yoongi is proud. He strikes up a rhythm, then, alternating
between one side of the boy’s ass and thighs to the other, committed to painting that same blush of
pink across every inch of his lover’s exposed skin. It stands in beautiful, stark contrast with the
dark blue of Taehyung’s uniform jacket where it trails across his lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes
are drawn up the curve of the boy’s spine to the glittering thread that has been embroidered in the
center of his shoulder blades.
There, staring back at him in more ways than one, is the school’s crest, the symbol of their
community—and Yoongi gazes right back at it as he continues in his ministrations all the same.
The long rays of the sun that stretch above the top of the crest dance along Taehyung’s shoulders as
the boy squirms, pants, gasps for breath as each and every impact of Yoongi’s palm heightens the
sensitivity of his skin. What would they think of this, Yoongi wonders as he traces the golden lines
with his eyes, if they could see the two of them now? He knows that this is a rare opportunity,
hard-fought and seldom won, in which the only eyes on Taehyung are his own—and yet that crest
stands as a stark reminder that there is no escaping the weight of their gaze.
“—t-twelve—ah!”
He loves these little moments they manage to steal with each other. It wasn’t long ago at all, he
recalls fondly, that the younger man had approached him to try something like this for the first
time— then, his apprehension, his shy demeanor, had been genuine—not the coy, submissive
mental state he knows Taehyung slips into from time to time now. No, it had been a privilege and a
pleasure, when Yoongi had realized that Taehyung had chosen to bring this interest to him, and
only to him, for the first time—that Taehyung had trusted him with the knowledge that he actually
enjoyed many of the punishments that were prescribed to him, that he wanted more.
It is this thought precisely that spurs Yoongi on, raining another series of strikes against the pert
swell of the boy’s ass and watching as the imprint of his own long fingers makes itself known over
and over again, bright red against the boy’s golden skin.
“Is—Is this what you wanted?” He grunts to Taehyung, knowing full well what the boy’s answer
will be but wanting to hear him say it all the same.
Taehyung pauses in his counting just long enough to cry out, “Yes! Y-Yes, please—”
“Please what, baby—?”
Taehyung turns his head to the side to try to look up at Yoongi over his shoulder, cheek pressed to
the cool wooden surface of the desk below. His eyes are dark, hazy as anything beneath the shag of
his dark hair where it clings to the sweat on his brow, and the beautiful curve of the boy’s lips is
slick with spit as his mouth hangs open and he pants out each of his breaths. “P-Please…” he
whispers, and Yoongi feels his own cock throb at the sound, at the sight, “Please, daddy….p-please
punish me, I—...I want it…”
The reward Taehyung earns for his honesty is the exact opposite—instead of acquiescing and
returning to the task at hand, Yoongi smooths his hand over the stinging curve of Taehyung’s ass,
soothing the hurt with a brief moment of tenderness. Taehyung is, understandably, confused,
whining and rocking his hips back into the touch—and even more so when Yoongi drags the tips
of his fingers down between the boy’s pert cheeks, making a quick, deliberate circle around the
tight furl of his clenching hole.
“Oh you do, do you?” Yoongi asks, his tone light. “You want daddy to punish you, is that it?”
Even ask he raises the question, he sinks the pad of his thumb into Taehyung’s waiting hole, just
far enough that it goes easily without added pressure. Immediately, the boy arches his back in
surprise and pleasure, fingers clenching at the edge of the desk as Taehyung tries to push himself
closer.
“Are you sure?” Yoongi teases now, a crooked smile taking over his lips at such a predictable
response. “It seems to me that my baby boy is greedy for something...else.” He punctuates his
words with a little wiggle of his thumb before pulling his hand away completely.
“Nnnngggg—”
“Baby..what is it that you really want?” He punctuates the question with a sudden spank to the
opposite side of Taehyung’s ass, watching—pleased—as the skin starts to purple at the contact.
Perfect. This is one mark he can leave on the boy that no one, not even his household, will
question.
Taehyung doesn’t bother answering, only jerks and twitches and gasps beautifully at the pain,
pressing eagerly back into Yoongi’s touch the moment his fingers trail back down to tease at the
boy’s waiting hole just as quickly as he had jerked away at the pain. “It sure looks as though...you
don’t really know what you want, sweetheart.”
It’s all too easy, then, to alternate between the punishment Taehyung had so sweetly begged for—
raining down slap after slap against the delightful sway of the boy’s ass, even tugging his uniform
jacket higher for a better view—and teasing one, then two, fingers against the clench of the boy’s
ass until Taehyung is sobbing without restraint against the surface of the desk, so far gone that he
wouldn’t be able to properly answer Yoongi even if he tried.
Taking full advantage, Yoongi ducks down and lets a messy string of his own spit drip down onto
his fingers to ease their way, Taehyung rising up onto his toes in surprise until the long lines of his
tanned legs are stretched taut for Yoongi. He’s sure one day that Taehyung will be taller than him,
what with the way the young man has been growing, but for now he’s all long limbs and wide,
eager eyes, and Yoongi just—can’t—get enough.
With his fingers now just slick enough, he tightens his other hand around the boy’s other hip—
uncaring now whether or not he leaves bruises—and drags Taehyung close enough to slip the first
of the digits inside. It’s predictable but beautiful, the way Taehyung shudders with relief at the
sensation—just a little too rough, a little too much friction—but one would think it perfect from the
way the boy clenches around his touch as if welcoming him home.
“That’s it, baby…” he murmurs as he makes quick work of tugging at the boy’s rim until
Taehyung melts against the tabletop once more, easing into their now-practiced routine, his body
open and willing for Yoongi’s every touch. It’s still a remarkably tight fit when he presses his
second finger in to join the first, Taehyung clenching up in anticipation despite months of
preparation just like this, and Yoongi can’t help but shake his head in amazement. “You’re such a
good boy for daddy, you know that?”
Taehyung squeezes his eyes tight before forcing one open to look up at Yoongi, searching over his
shoulder for the older man’s face as if needing to be sure that Yoongi is being genuine with him.
As soon as their gazes meet, a surprisingly sly grin creeps across Taehyung’s lips, only made more
wanton by the spit clinging to them as he pants against the desk.
“...A-Am...I?” he asks, cheekily, and Yoongi gives his ass one final strike with the palm of his
hand in playful reprimand before pulling away just enough to fumble at the handles to his desk
drawer instead. His hand jerks at Taehyung’s rim, making the boy jump, but he pays it no mind in
favor of moving his hips back enough to pull the drawer open and snatch at the bottle of lube that
rolls into his waiting fingers. With no preamble he tears the lid off and upends what’s left of its
contents into the crease between Taehyung’s cheeks, feeling the slippery substance slip down
around his knuckles. He tugs his fingers free just long enough to scoop up the lube before driving
them home again, Taehyung whimpering as his entire body seizes up.
“Da-addy—!” he cries out, his eyes clenching shut once more, and it’s nothing but music to
Yoongi’s ears. It’s been longer than he can remember since he last heard music— real music—but
the sound of Taehyung’s moans—and knowing that he was the one who caused them? More than
makes up the difference.
“That’s right, baby...shhh…” With the lube now easing the motion, it takes the barest of pressure
to worm another finger into the boy alongside the first two, his long digits positively dancing along
Taehyung’s insides as he takes as long as he pleases to stretch the boy properly. No one is coming
to look for them, after all—not tonight. Oh, but how he loves it—loves this, loves that he is the
only one who can.
Yoongi only relents when his need to do something about the increasing tightness of his own pats
outweighs the simple pleasure of taking Taehyung apart on his fingertips alone. When he finally
slides his hand completely free, he watches the desperate clench of Taehyung’s empty hole as the
boy squirms backwards in a desperate bid to draw Yoongi back to him. He can’t help but chuckle
fondly even as he makes a messy grab for his lover’s hips and turns the boy over to face him,
Taehyung finally releasing his vice-like grip on the edge of the desk at his insistent prompting.
“Here...or on the couch?” He asks, just barely managing not to pant the words as he takes in the
sight of Taehyung spread out for him on his back like a prize. How is it possible for his lover to
look so—debauched? Especially when Yoongi has hardly laid more than a hand on him.
Taehyung’s brow furrows at the question—and Yoongi allows him the moment to make up his
mind, knowing full well just how confusing it is for the boy to be allowed any choice in the matter
at all. “The...couch,” he decides, eventually, words coming out slowly as though he is sure, even
now, that he will be punished for answering. When no such punishment comes, the young man
forges on explaining, “On the couch...want to, want to be closer to you?”
Yoongi nods, but still crosses his arms over his chest as if reprimanding the boy. “What do we say
when we want something, baby?”
“Oh…” Taehyung sits up on shaky arms, his eyes wide and his lips hanging in a pout. “Please?
Please—d-daddy? Can we?”
“Alright…” Yoongi’s tough facade slips away immediately, and he feels himself growing softer by
the minute as Taehyung’s doe-like, molten brown eyes stare up at him with such eagerness, such
trust— “Alright...since you asked so nicely…”
His arms slide free of his chest so he can reach down and cup the boy’s delicate jaw in both of his
palms, and he draws Taehyung forward—the boy following along easily—so that he can once
more claim his lover’s lips with his own, a momentary indulgence.
Taehyung kisses as though he would be content to breathe only the air from Yoongi’s lungs—but
only if his lover were willing to give it to him. Taehyung kisses as though he were willing to
suffocate while waiting. Pliant. Beautiful. Yoongi loves it, he loves—
They move together with practiced ease, now—with every motion of Yoongi’s own, Taehyung’s
limbs follow as if strung along by strings, a willing puppet to his ministrations. When he slides his
hands down Taehyung’s slides and over the budding muscles of his thighs, Taehyung’s legs slide
up to cross behind Yoongi’s hips with no further prompting; when he tucks his fingers beneath the
bruised swell of the boy’s ass and hefts him away from the desk, Taehyung’s arms circle his neck
and long fingers bury into his hair as if there is nowhere else they could possibly belong.
It’s not as easy as it looks, carrying the younger man across even the few steps that it takes to make
it to the couch against the adjacent wall, but Yoongi manages the move without stumbling, sinking
back against the velvet cushions with only the smallest of grunts against Taehyung’s lips. And once
again, they find themselves in the same position in which they started, with Taehyung’s arms
around his shoulders, the boy’s knees on either side of his thighs—though now, they have the
proper room to move about the way Yoongi would like them to.
With Taehyung properly stretched already, there’s nothing more to do but to reach down between
them to fumble with the buckle of his own belt—but he finds his hands stilled by a smaller palm
that slides down his chest to cover them. “Daddy…” Taehyung whispers against his lips, leaning
back just enough to meet the older man’s eyes, “...c-can I?”
There’s little he can do to respond to that aside from giving a stilted nod in return, leaning back to
allow the younger man free access to unfasten the buckle with eager fingers, tug at the buttons that
line his fly, and reach below the fabric to tug his straining cock free of its confines. Taehyung licks
his lips at the sight, leaving them even more red and slick and tempting than before—and Yoongi
thinks it foolish to resist that particular temptation. As Taehyung’s deft fingers circle around his
cock, Yoongi drags the smaller man closer to lay claim over Taehyung’s lips once more.
They rock their bodies together just like that, with each of the young man’s soft sounds being
swallowed by Yoongi’s lips as he ruts his smaller cock against the back of his own hand and
squeezes experimentally at Yoongi’s cock in turn, his other hand fisting tightly into Yoongi’s hair
when the older man gives a particularly sharp thrust into his waiting grip. Yoongi, however, is far
from patient with this entire process, having been half-hard from the moment the student had
walked through his door after the final bell. He bites sharply at Taehyung’s bottom lip, sucks at it
sharply, feeds his next words to Taehyung between swipes of his tongue against the tender flesh.
“Daddy...wants to be inside you, baby…” Taehyung nearly knocks their heads together in his
eagerness to nod and lean closer, rubbing his ass back against Yoongi’s thighs like an invitation.
“You want that, hmm?”
“Y-Yes, yes— please —”
“Does my baby think he’s been forgiven, then?” Taehyung pauses at that, biting into his own lip
now as he squirms against Yoongi’s lap, his fingers loosening and tightening around Yoongi’s
cock as he fidgets nervously. “Do you think you’ve taken your punishment well, baby? Should
daddy forgive you, give you what you want?”
“Hnnnggggg—d-daddy—”
“Ah-ah...use your words…” It’s fun, teasing Taehyung like this, watching as the boy gets flustered
at the smallest of things, the way it makes him seem even smaller when he curls up into himself to
try to hide from the situation.
Taehyung practically gnaws at his lip, cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink as he feels his cock rub
against Yoongi’s when the older man holds their bodies together. Yoongi can see it, the way
Taehyung’s face screws up in deliberation as he sorts through his own emotions, and the moment
he seems to decide that he wants to feel Yoongi inside him more than he feels bad about himself.
“Y-Yes—” he whines, “Yes, please—daddy, please, I’ve been good, I’ve b-been so good...TaeTae
is a good boy, daddy should forgive him…”
“Hmmm…” Yoongi raises his hands from Taehyung’s hips to his arms, slides them both back up
around his own neck so he has plenty of room to reach between their chests and circle his long
fingers around their cocks once more, pressing the two hard lengths together as if comparing their
size. Taehyung positively hisses at the sensation, his eyes clenching closed as he fists both of his
hands into Yoongi’s dark hair. The action nearly knocks the teacher’s glasses askew, but he pays it
no mind in favor of rocking their hips pointedly together. “You think so? You think you’ve been a
good boy for daddy?”
“Yes-Yes-Yes—daddy, please —”
“Well...daddy agrees,” Yoongi whispers to him like a secret, offered to the small space between
their lips as if to keep it that way. “Daddy thinks you’ve been very good, and he forgives you. No
more feeling bad, hm?”
There’s a slight gleam to Taehyung’s eyes at his words, as though the young man is blinking back
sudden tears, and he feels a slightly clench and release of the hands in his hair in answer. “No more
feeling bad,” he repeats, using the somewhat juvenile words that Taehyung had slipped into using,
“Daddy only wants his baby boy to feel good now, okay?”
“...O-Okay…”
“Lift up for me, baby…” With a gentle tug to the boy’s hips, Taehyung rises up onto his knees just
enough for Yoongi to grip his own cock in one hand and guide it to rest against the boy’s hole, just
the tiniest bit of pressure leaving his lover quivering above him.
“Is this what you want?” He asks one last time, and the grip on his hair tugs tight enough that the
pain is searing. He can’t help but let out a hiss of his own at the pain, though it does nothing to
keep the small smile off his lips. “A-Alright, that’s enough—if you want it, you’ll have to take it
for yourself, baby...daddy can’t do all the work…”
It takes Taehyung a few confused moments to realized exactly what Yoongi means, the young man
clearly not accustomed to making decisions like this on his own, or to taking any sort of control
over the situation. He hesitates, hovering over Yoongi’s lap now, biting his lip as he looks down
with hazy eyes to meet his lover’s gaze. When he finally seems to make up his mind, he nods
shakily and braces his legs, tensing his muscles to hold his body steady as he presses down and
slowly—oh so slowly—seats himself on Yoongi’s cock.
Yoongi enjoys every second of it, watching the boy willingly open himself up for the intrusion, the
way Taehyung’s dark eyes flutter shut and his head hangs back to expose the long line of his throat.
Yoongi can’t resist the implicit invitation, can’t help himself but lean forward for a taste, latching
his lips onto Taehyung’s golden skin just beneath the boy’s ear. When Taehyung whines and
clenches his body around Yoongi, he can practically taste the sound.
“You like that, baby?” He asks breathlessly, grinning up at Taehyung as he pulls away enough to
speak. His long fingers slide up along the sliver of skin he can reach beneath the unfasten front of
Taehyung’s shirt, tweaking a nipple as they go, until he can wind his fingers into Taehyung’s dark
hair and tilt his head back into an even more dramatic arch. The shudder that he earns in return is
beautiful.
“Y-Yeah—daddy—”
“Go on then, if you like it so much...take what you want…”
Another shaky nod, and Taehyung dutifully slides himself up onto his knees, nearly sliding off
Yoongi’s cock altogether, before dropping himself right back down into his lover’s lap so that he’s
filled completely once more. This time, he barely makes a sound, his breath forced from his parted
lips by the motion. Yoongi hums appreciatively, squeezing at Taehyung’s neck, his shoulder, his
hip to encourage the boy to repeat the motion, guiding him gently as he rises up and sinks back
down again, and then once more.
“T-That’s it, baby...oh, you’re so—so good for daddy, you’re so good, I—” The hot clench of the
boy, still so tight despite the many nights they’ve spent together, is almost enough to make Yoongi
lose his careful composure. He drags Taehyung closer, slams their lips together to keep himself
from saying something he’ll regret, indulging in the slick slide of their tongues and teeth and lips
instead. It’s safer this way. Better.
Taehyung pants into his mouth, rides his cock like he was born for it, and—if Yoongi really allows
himself to admit it—he was. If kissing Taehyung is like breathing, being able to fuck him feels like
dying—as though he suddenly can’t take in enough of the boy, can’t breathe him deep enough, as
though he is watching his life flash before his eyes and finding it all culminating in this very
moment. How could anything possibly compare? How could there ever be a moment in his life that
could compare to the way this boy makes him feel?
This isn’t the way, he knows it. And it can’t possibly be true—somewhere deep inside his mind, a
little voice reminds him that he has told himself the same thing each and every time they have been
alone together, and yet time and time again he finds himself convinced that he will never feel better
than he does when tangled so thoroughly with his lover like this.
Taehyung positively writhes above him when he adjusts the angle of their hips, no longer content
to passively sit back but instead determined to drive himself up into his lover with as much passion
as he’s being shown in return. It’s beautiful, it’s—intimate. Intimate. It’s not a word he’s heard in
years, but he remembers things like that in moments like these.
Taehyung’s cock is making a mess of their stomachs now, positively leaking between them as
Yoongi takes careful aim to press his cock into his lover’s prostate with every thrust. There’s no
finesse, no savoring of the moment now despite the lengthy buildup to this moment, but Yoongi’s
knowledge of anatomy is not just for teaching lessons. No, now that he has him, Yoongi is
determined to give Taehyung the experience he deserves, to help the boy see just what he’s been
missing. He thinks of all the other hands that have laid on his lover, of all the times the boy has
been left wanting, and the speed of his thrusts only increases with his frustration.
He deserves—so much more. More than a dark, dingy office, more than secrets in the dead of
night. More than this couch and a camera turned the other way—Taehyung deserves a big,
beautiful bed, in a bedroom, in a house that they can call their own. He deserves to be spread out
across silken sheets and worshipped from head to toe like the miracle he is—
Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s speaking his thoughts out loud until Taehyung responds to them,
whimpering out a low, delicious string of pleas into Yoongi’s mouth, kissing at Yoongi’s bottom
lip as though he might be able to draw more of the words out, will them into existence.
Yoongi’s hands slide beneath the bottom of Taehyung’s shirt and jacket, pushing into the arch of
his spine until they are pressed against one another in every way possible. Yoongi fists his hands
into the fabric, then, finally jerking at it until it slides down Taehyung’s arms, the boy releasing his
hold on the older man long enough for the last of his clothing to be torn away, and Yoongi can look
at every inch of him at last. He is so—so impossibly beautiful, Yoongi thinks. If there was ever a
temple into which he would want to worship, it would be Taehyung’s body, this body. He may
keep Taehyung secret, hidden away like this—he may defy the council, defy every rule, but if they
could only see— being with Taehyung like this makes him believe.
The press of their bodies alone seems to be enough to drag Taehyung to his release, chasing the
friction of Yoongi’s chest against his cock until he is crying out and allowing his orgasm to crash
through him. He spills wave after wave of come between them, Yoongi cradling him close with
reverential hands as he eases the boy through the sensation, each clench of his body around Yoongi
like a prayer. For a moment, as he looks down at the rapture written across his lover’s face, Yoongi
forgets the shape of his own name. There are no candles, no unnecessary adornments—only the
simple beauty of their bodies together, two that have become one. Perfect.
And Taehyung is not a temple—no, he is the altar, and with his own offering spilt before them,
only Yoongi’s remains to be given. Taehyung seems to remember, to come back to himself enough
to use his body as such, clenching and tightening and resuming the slow up-and-down motion they
had started with, determined to milk Yoongi of his release despite his clear exhaustion. Yoongi’s
heart swells with affection until it physically hurts his chest to even think about it.
“T-Taehyung—” The name slips from his lips unbidden, their game now long forgotten.
The boy seems to find his voice once more, now that his need is sated, and the air of
submissiveness slips off of him like smoke. Hands fisted back into Yoongi’s hair, he uses his grip
as leverage to drag Yoongi’s head up until he can bite at the edge of the older man’s jaw, clearly
unafraid of leaving evidence as they both give themselves over to the moment. “Yoongi,” he
breathes, “C’mon, Yoongi...give it to me, I want it…”
Confident, now, with his own insecurities quieted and his cock softening against Yoongi’s
stomach, Taehyung appears wholly determined to see Yoongi’s release through, and Yoongi is
powerless to resist him. Emboldened by Yoongi’s slow melting beneath him, Taehyung’s hands
diverge—one remaining in Yoongi’s hair only to tug the man’s head to one side, exposing his
vulnerable throat for once, the other scrambling down his chest to pluck at his lover’s nipples
inexpertly but effectively through Yoongi’s shirt.
“T-Tae—!”
“Don’t stop now, baby…” Taehyung encourages, mimicking Yoongi’s earlier words now, and the
shift in his tone clenches at Yoongi’s belly like a fist. “C’mon, Yoongi...you can do it, just let go,
baby…”
The rhythm of his hips falters, stutters, his thighs quaking as Taehyung deliberately clenches
around him a final time, fingers pinching at his chest and clutching at his hair until his body is
completely overwhelmed by the peaks of pleasure and pain melding together so that it’s impossible
to tell where one begins and the other ends.
His orgasm is a typhoon, a hurricane—a cacophony that is larger than his body, now. It takes him
over like a wave takes the shore, his mind washing away with the tide. Taehyung is the only thing
that keeps him grounded, solid and warm above him, around him. He wonders if Taehyung can feel
it—the majesty of what they can accomplish together. “Ah—Taehyung…”
Kisses to his lips, his cheeks, bring him back to himself—soft and innocent now. Another word he
so seldom has cause to use, but it’s the only way he can describe how Taehyung melts against him,
curling to his chest, showering him in affection. Yoongi has to wrench his eyes open to keep them
from falling more permanently closed, the veritable blanket of Taehyung’s body across his lap
almost too tempting to resist. Still, they can’t dawdle for too long, not even tonight.
“Mmm, Tae…” He raises a hand to cup the back of his lover’s neck, drawing the boy into a more
firm kiss as he adjusts their bodies into a more relaxed position, lying down along the length of the
couch so that Taehyung can drape his body over Yoongi’s from head to toe.
“Yeah…?” The boy murmurs between each press of their lips, no longer giving Yoongi a title now
that their game is well and truly over. Their kisses taper off until they are doing nothing more than
breathing the same air, Taehyung’s forehead pressed to Yoongi’s as he gazes down at the older
man, and Yoongi finds it hard to resist the depth of his stare. There’s something about being
Taehyung like this—like all of the walls he forgets that he lives behind disappear, no evidence of
their construction left behind. It’s all the more painful, when he has to erect them again, the
moment he leaves this office—but for the moment, he enjoys the clean air, the sunshine. It leaves
his lungs feeling burned, his body raw. He feels so very, very—vulnerable.
“Was that…” He swallows thickly. “...was that good?” He can’t help but voice the question, giving
a name to the insecurity that begins to gnaw at him as he lies here, feeling for all the world like
he’s being seen for the first time.
Taehyung’s forehead scrunches up into a frown, the same confused expression he always makes
when Yoongi asks him such things, though his lover persists in doing so time and time again. “I—
what do you mean…? It’s always good, Yoongi, it’s all good—”
“I just mean…” Yoongi sighs, dropping his head back to the velvet cushion behind him, pausing as
he tries to collect his thoughts. “I want to make sure you’re happy, Tae...you asked me to try this
new—thing—with you, and I—”
“If you don’t like it, we don’t have to—” Taehyung interjects, sitting up slightly to get a better look
at his lover’s face.
“—No, no, that isn’t what I’m saying,” Yoongi hurries to assure him, one hand squeezing at the
boy’s bare hips where they rest against his own, the other running a thumb along the edge of his
jawline. “I love—I love it, I do. I don’t want to stop, Tae...that’s not what I’m saying.”
“...then what?” Taehyung asks, softer this time. The young man tilts his head into Yoongi’s palm
and gives his wrist an affectionate kiss that leaves Yoongi with a sudden urge to clutch at his own
chest.
“I want...I just want to make sure I’m doing this right. This is new to me.”
“It’s new for me too,” Taehyung replies with a smile, “you know that.”
“That’s why it’s so important to check—I mean, this was your idea, so I want to make sure—”
“Yoongi.” Taehyung’s hands come up to cradle both sides of the older man’s face, stopping
Yoongi’s rambling words with a gentle swipe of his thumbs across Yoongi’s lips. The moment
Yoongi falls silent, Taehyung ducks back down to catch his lips in a kiss—and this time, just this
one time, it feels as though they are connecting as equals. “...you’re wonderful, okay? You make
me feel so good. It was perfect, I promise?”
“...really?”
“Yes!” Taehyung laughs at him then, the sound low but playful. “You’re the perfect daddy, I
promise.”
Instead of reassuring him, the words twist an unfamiliar and strange feeling in his gut. He hesitates,
not wanting to wipe the smile from the boy’s lips but—needing to know all the same. “Tae…?”
“Hmm?” The boy shivers, his bare skin a little too exposed to the cool air of the room now, and
Yoongi pulls him closer until Taehyung’s face tucks into the crook of Yoongi’s neck.
“What...what does that mean to you, exactly…?”
Taehyung squirms in his grip, nuzzling into the soft skin behind Yoongi’s ear. “I...don’t
understand? Yoongi—”
“What does it mean to you...that I’m your—your ‘daddy’?” It’s a little awkward, saying it out loud
like this when they’re not in the heat of the moment, and Yoongi is grateful that Taehyung isn’t
looking directly at him now.
Taehyung takes a long time to answer, holding perfectly still in Yoongi’s embrace—long enough
that the older man realizes he isn’t going to get one. He racks his brain for a better way to phrase
his question, finally settling on, “I mean...do you know what a daddy is, Tae?”
“Mmm...whaddyamean…?” is his reply, muffled by Yoongi’s shoulder.
Yoongi sighs but presses on, patiently, “What do you think being a dad is, baby?”
“Hmmm…” He feels Taehyung’s nails scratch at the back of his neck as the boy takes a moment to
think through his answer. Yoongi isn’t sure why it clenches at his stomach again, the thought of
what his lover might say. When Taehyung finally speaks again, he doesn’t sound completely sure
even as he says, “I guess...it’s someone who takes care of you? We have lots of dads in our house
that help the moms take care of us, y’know?”
Of course, Yoongi shouldn’t be surprised. He lets out the breath he was holding and presses a kiss
to the top of Taehyung’s dark head where he can reach. “Is that why you wanted to call me that?”
He whispers into the soft strands.
Taehyung whines and ruts against his hips, letting Yoongi feel the slightest hint of the young man
growing hard against his thigh as Taehyung focuses on the subject at hand. “I...guess so?” he
whines, “I just...it felt right, you know? Like...mmmm, you’re not just my teacher, that’s weird…”
The insistent pressure against his own cock has Yoongi’s body responding in kind, but he swallows
down the urge to give in and take what he wants. He could just about kick himself for interrupting,
but this just too important. “Tae...baby…” His hands clench around Taehyung’s hips now, stilling
their motions even though he wishes he could do anything but. “...do you...remember when you
just had one dad?”
This startles Taehyung into jerking his head back to look up at Yoongi again, forehead wrinkled in
confusion once more. “Huh?”
It takes all that Yoongi has to force the question out of his mouth a second time, hoping and
praying that Taehyung won’t grow too suspicious, that he isn’t pushing too far. “Do you
remember...ever having just one dad, maybe a long time ago? And one mom too?”
“I—” The way he scrunches up his nose while thinking is cute enough to tempt Yoongi to lean
forward and kiss it, but he fights down the urge by the smallest of margins. Better to let the boy get
out all of his thoughts now, so he never has to ask these things again. “ I remember...there was a
woman, I think...she might have been my first mom?” Taehyung offers, shrugging slightly. “But
then I got more moms and the house was really full all the time.”
“And...your first dad? Do you remember him?” He squeezes at Taehyung’s hips again, as though
he might be able to push the answers right out of the boy. His heart seems to clench at the same
time and his lungs retract painfully around it.
“Not...not really?” Taehyung’s furrowed brow deepens as he takes in Yoongi’s expectant

expression, clearly growing more confused by the questions by the second. “I—I guess there might
have been someone but...I didn’t see him much, I don’t really remember…” He bites at his lip as
though worried that he’s said something wrong, hurrying to add a soft, “I’m sorry…” at the end.
“Shhh…” Yoongi leans up to take that kiss after all, smoothing the frown from Taehyung’s lips
with his own. “It’s okay, baby, it doesn’t matter...I was just curious, that’s all…”
The worried look in his lover’s eyes still remains when he pulls away, so he slides his hands up the
length of Taehyung’s bare chest to cup his cheeks, feeling the tug of the muscles as Taehyung
pouts down at him, his eyes glossy with freshly forming tears. “Should I—should I remember
them, Yoongi?”
He pets his thumbs across the boy’s brow, smoothing over the wrinkles in his skin while peppering
his chin and lips with kisses again. “No, baby, no...don’t worry about it, okay? It’s not important.
Daddy was just being nosy…”
It takes a long moment for the boy to calm back down, letting Yoongi’s lips soothe him into
complacency. He sniffles and clutches at the back of Yoongi’s shirt, fingers twisting messily into
the fabric. “...’s okay, everyone’s always nosy…”
“True.” Yoongi cracks a smile at that, though the expression doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes.
“They’re always watching, right?”
Taehyung nods his head robotically, the words all to familiar to him by now. Still, it looks as
though there is something weighing on his mind, and Yoongi rubs at the boy’s neck to encourage
him to continue. Finally, Taehyung ducks his head down to hide his expression as he mumbles,
“Hey...Yoongi…?”
Yoongi gives him a small hum in return, trying to tilt his head to catch the boy’s eyes again.
Taehyung’s blush betrays him even as he looks away across the room and asks, “Do you...report
what we do? Do you tell them about these things we do together?”
“No.” His answer is automatic, and comes out harsher than he means it to. “No…” he repeats
again, softer this time.
“What?” Taehyung’s head shoots back up, his eyes wide in shock. “Why not?”
Yoongi shrugs and pulls his hands away, which has the unfortunate consequence of causing the
young man to grab at him, insistently curious for an answer now. “Yoongi, c’mon—why not?”
“Do you want me to?” Yoongi shoots back, and Taehyung flinches.
“No, that’s not what I—”
“Then why does it matter?” He bites out, looking away himself this time.
“But, Yoongi...you know we have to report, we all do.” Yoongi makes a non-committal noise in
the back of his throat, not liking the direction this is headed in at all. “Why wouldn’t you—are we,
are we doing something wrong?”
Yoongi groans and buries his head in his hands, dragging Taehyung’s grip on him along for the
ride. “No! That’s not it at all, Tae—don’t...don’t say that. Nothing we do together is wrong, how
could you even—?”
“—what else am I supposed to think?” The boy tightens his grip on Yoongi’s wrists, tugging
futilely against his hands to pull them away from Yoongi’s face. “You know it’s required, Yoongi!
Why wouldn’t you report it, is it not—not good enough?”
“Tae—”
“Please, Yoongi, I just want to—”
“Because they’d make me stop, okay?!” He can feel the way Taehyung jerks away from him at his
outburst, and he wants to swallow the words back out of the air immediately. This time, when the
boy tugs at his hands to draw them away from his face, he lets them go willingly. Still, his eyes
remain downcast as he repeats, more to himself than anything, “...because they’d make me stop.”
“Y-Yoongi…”
There’s a lump in his throat now that makes it hard to speak. “They’d take you away from me,
okay? If they knew. They’d take you from me, and I—” This time, when his voice breaks in the
middle, Taehyung lurches closer instead of further away. “...I can’t lose you, Tae...I just can’t.”
All of a sudden, Taehyung is everywhere, all around him with arms and legs curled into his sides,
their cheeks pressed together from temple to jawbone. “Shhh…” He hears whispered into his ear,
and how the tables have turned. “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
“No, Tae—”
“It’s okay, I promise,” Taehyung repeats, “I promise. I’m not going anywhere, Yoongi…”
The words are meant to soothe him, should soothe him, but all Yoongi feels is an ever deepening
hole in his chest, one that seems to be sucking the air right out of his lungs. He wishes he could
kiss Taehyung again, feel the sweet relief that it gives him, but he can’t make himself move.
“Please…” he manages, and Taehyung holds him closer still.
“I’m sorry I asked, I shouldn’t have—we won’t tell anyone, I promise...it’s okay…” Taehyung
continues to repeat, a quiet litany, and Yoongi allows himself to be held like that—silent, stiff and
vulnerable in the privacy of his office, until the night creeps in around them.
08.21.2018 // 07:37 // jeon household // rear entrance
NAVER
Korea missing person
CPPA: Chungnam Provincial Police Agency | Remove

Korea missing person
Korea missing persons list
Korean National Police Agency - Missing Persons and Runaways
resources for missing persons in Korea
- Finding Our Children - Korea
Korean National Police Agency

Reporting a Missing Person

Missing Persons and Runaways Task Force
If you have concerns for someone’s safety and welfare, and their whereabouts are unknown, you
can file a missing person’s report at your local police station.
Click here to find your local police agency or search by region.
The first 24 hours following a person’s disappearance are the most crucial. This is because the
sooner police are able to follow-up leads, such as the availability of CCTV footage, the more likely
the person will be found safe and well. It is important to give the police all the facts and
circumstances related to the disappearance, including search efforts already made by you and
others. Relevant information may include intimate or private details regarding the missing person
or their lifestyle.
If you can’t contact or find a loved one, and you hold genuine fears for their safety, you should
report them missing to your local police immediately. A police report needs to be made in person at
your local police station...
With a sigh, she rises from the kitchen table, leaving her laptop behind her as she paces across the
empty space between her seat and the fridge. It’s easy to busy her hands with rifling through a
cabinet for a glass, filling the glass with ice, then water, draining it down in one gulp and starting
again. It’s easy to lose herself to the rhythm of pacing across the room and back, glancing down at
the information on the screen without really taking any of it in.

It is important to give the police all the facts and circumstances related to the disappearance,
including search efforts already made by you and others. Relevant information may include
intimate or private details regarding the missing person or their lifestyle.
If you can’t contact or find a loved one, and you hold genuine fears for their safety, you should
report them missing to your local police immediately. A police report needs to be made in person at
your local police station...
When filing a missing person’s report, be prepared (where possible) with the following
information about the person who is missing:
— Name, age, home address, and employment information.
— A recent, clear and colored photograph of the person missing.
— Their physical appearance, including any identifying features (tattoos, scars etc.).
— What they were wearing when last seen.
— Their last known whereabouts, or intended arrangements (travelling by bus to the local
shopping center, going to the gym etc.).
— Habits and places they may frequent.

— Their social media accounts/use (think Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat).
— Telephone and banking information (Phone number, bank account details).
— Any behavioral changes, personal, medical or emotional problems they may have experienced
before they went missing...
She leans over, keeps scrolling, ignoring the ache it leaves at the small of her back in favor of
committing as much to memory as she can—nothing could compare to pain the words on the
screen leave her with, anyhow.


— Telephone and banking information (Phone number, bank account details).
— Any behavioral changes, personal, medical or emotional problems they may have experienced
before they went missing.
— Medication the person may use and what it is used to treat. (Do they have a medical condition
police should be aware of?)
— If the person has been reported missing before, the circumstances and where they were found.
— Lists of friends, acquaintances, and anyone else who might have information or clues about the
person’s whereabouts. (Try to include telephone numbers and home or work addresses.)
Alternately, if you have simply lost touch with someone, and there are no concerns for their
welfare, police will not conduct an investigation into their whereabouts as they do not meet the
criteria for a missing person...
When she can’t make herself read any more, not for the third time, she clicks over to a different tab
of her browser and slumps back down in her seat. The swarm of messages that greet her from her
inbox leave her head spinning—not least because she still hasn’t completely figured out how to
answer them. At the very least, she can read the titles of each one in the big, bold font her husband
had set up for her, but it does little to quell the churning in her stomach.
Inbox: 153 unread
▢ August 21 — From: Jeon Seoyoon — Any news? Hi Daeun, I was sorry to hear how upset
you sounded yesterday...
▢ August 20 — From: Jeon Jungkook — Automatic Reply: Please answer Hi, thanks for
your email! I won’t have access to my phone or…
▢ August 20 — From: Kang Hyowon— Heard from Jungkook? Mrs. Jeon - I’m sorry but I
haven’t heard anything from Kook in a few weeks...
▢ August 19 — From: Oh Hyerin— Help Hey Mrs. Jeon, I’ll try to ask around to some of our
old classmates...
▢ August 19 — From: Jeon Jungkook — Automatic Reply: Are you okay? Hi, thanks for
your email! I won’t have access to my phone or…
The words start to swim before her eyes as she glances through the list, each message going further
and further back—all unanswered at the moment—leaving her feeling more and more helpless.
Daeun wants to answer them—but more importantly, she wants to have an answer to give them. It’s
been two weeks, and there’s still nothing. Nothing at all.
From the other room, she can hear the rustling and thumping of her husband getting ready to go
about his day, probably grabbing his briefcase from the closet at this point, and it shakes her from
her thoughts. Daeun jumps back to her feet as quickly as she sat down, hurrying to the counter to
start a pot of coffee before her partner leaves without it—and as she waits for the water to start to
boil, she casts her eyes out the window above the sink to the neighborhood beyond.
It’s almost startling, how much everything in their community seems to go on exactly as it always
has, as though her world hasn’t been turned on its head. Children play on the porch of the duplex
across the street, birds fly by and nestle into a tree at the edge of the sidewalk, a dark car drives by
at a slow, even pace…
Behind her, she hears her husband walk through the room, take one look at the coffee still dripping
from the machine beside her, make a low grunt of disappointment and walk right back out. He
won’t be patient for long—but it’s long enough for her to turn away from the window, grab a mug
from the cabinet and rinse it out, and even put together a plate of pastries she has saved from the
day before as a sort of silent apology. He’s frustrated with her, she knows—and frustrated with the
situation, too, though he doesn’t show it the same way. What she wouldn’t give, to be able to cast
aside her worries the way that he has.
When he returns to the kitchen for a second time, she holds out the plate of food without even
looking, her free hand moving automatically to turn off the coffee maker and slide the cup of dark
liquid across the counter towards him as well. He mumbles a low thank you around the food in his
mouth, and Daeun nods her head without a word, turning her eyes back to the window. She can
hear the squeals of the young children tossing a ball back and forth from all the way across the
street, and the sound feels piercing. Her husband sits down at the table behind her, chair scraping
across the tile as he moves; she flinches, hands clutching at the edge of the sink, and for a moment
all she can do is close her eyes and breathe.
“Did you see—” her husband starts to say, pausing to properly swallow before continuing, “Did
you see the news this morning?” A rustle lets her know that he has picked up the newspaper she
had left on the table beside her computer.
“No, dear...I haven’t…” she answers slowly, evenly, trying not to snap. Why would she have
looked at the news? What good would it have done her?
“I’m just going to look up—” There’s a slide of something heavy against wood, then the click of
fingers on keys, and her eyes fly open as she realizes what her husband has done. “—What the hell
is this?”
When she spins around, she finds him staring down at her laptop screen, having tugged it towards
himself to search for whatever article he had been talking about a second ago. As he raises his head
to stare back at his wife, the rush of worry that takes over her is like ice in her veins. “It’s nothing,
really—” She immediately supplies, but her husband’s eyes narrow all the same.
“It doesn’t look like nothing, Daeun...it looks to me as though you’ve been digging yourself into a
hole again.”
“I was just doing a little bit of—of research, that’s all—”
“Research into missing persons cases?” He shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ve
talked about this—”
“—and I still feel the same!” She bursts out, slamming her hands on the counter between them.
“It’s been too long, we should have heard from him by now, you know something’s not right—”
“And I told you, you’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing—”
“Our son going missing isn’t nothing!” She shoots back, and tears start to prickle in her eyes.
“How can you even say something like that—”
“He’s not missing!” He shouts, his voice finally raising to match hers, and he finally rises to his
feet to look her straight in the eye. “Just because he’s not answering his phone doesn’t mean he’s
missing—”
“Then what does it mean, hm?! He’s never gone this long without speaking to us, never!” Those
tears cling to her lashes now, her hands shaking as days of pent up resentment finally come to the
surface.
“He’s a young man! Boys can be stupid, it doesn’t mean—”
“Not my Kookie, not him—he’s not stupid, he’s a smart young man and he’s always been
responsible—”
“Daeun, he’s away at his first real job, he moved halfway across the country for a taste of freedom!
You don’t know what he’s been dealing with, he’s probably just really busy, living it up—”
“Why—” she chokes on the words for a moment, “Why are you so insistent that there’s nothing
wrong? No one has heard from him, you know, it’s not just me!”
“I’m just trying not to jump to conclusions!” He draws closer to her now, hands raised as though
trying not to spook a wild animal, “I’m trying to be rational about this...Daeun, please…”
“So you think I’m just irrational! Just the irrational mother, jumping to conclusions, crazy over her
baby boy leaving the nest, is that it?” When he doesn’t immediately reply, she spins around with a
huff, angrily scrubbing her hands over her eyes to rid them of her tears. “I’m not crazy,” she insists,
though her voice is far less steady than her words.
“I know that, dear, I’m just worried…” He tries to assure her, drawing closer from behind. She
ignores him, casting her eyes out through the window to the children that are now darting out into
the street, her eyes bleary as she watches them go. The oldest of the two grabs for the younger
child, dragging him back onto the sidewalk just in time to not be hit by a passing car—
—one that looks oddly familiar. Daeun can hear her husband continue talking to her over her
shoulder, but her attention is drawn to the movement of the dark sedan that is creeping along the
street, windows tinted so that the passengers inside are shielded from view. As the car passes their
building, she swears she can feel a pair of eyes on her from behind the darkened glass and she can’t
help but let out a small gasp.
“...Daeun?”
“Jungmin—”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Jungmin!”
“What?!”
“There’s—” she points out the window at the car just as it stops at the end of the street, “There’s
someone watching us—”
“What are you talking about?” A hand lands on her shoulder and she feels her husband’s body
press in beside her, Jungmin leaning forward to get a better view past her out the window. “Who?”
“In—In that car, the dark car—”
“I don’t see a car, there’s no one on the street…”
“Move—!” She pushes him out of her way and leans over the sink, craning her neck to catch just
the tiniest glimpse of a bumper disappearing around the corner. “There! Right there, it just turned
onto the other road!”
“I didn’t see anything,” Jungmin insists with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Are
you sure you saw something?”
“Of course I’m sure! Why would I lie about that?”

“I’m not accusing you of lying, dear…” He sounds long-suffering even as he drags his voice back
down to a slower, even pace, and Daeun can practically feel the condescending look he’s giving
her. She doesn’t bother doing more than glancing over her shoulder at him with a glare before
turning her attention back to the street, eyes flickering back and forth from one end to the other as
far as she can see around the building. “...but what makes you think it was someone watching you?
It was probably just someone lost, driving around—”
“They drove by two times! Really slowly! They were looking right up at me, I know it—”
“—driving around looking for a particular house,” he continues as though she hadn’t spoken at all,
tone dripping with superficial patience now. “It happens all the time, Daeun, you’re just—”
“Just what?!” She snaps, and she feels him recoil beside her.
“Just...looking for problems everywhere, sweetheart. I just think…” He sighs and reaches out a
hand to rest on her shoulder, which she promptly tries to shrug off. She doesn’t want anything to do
with his placations right now. “I think you’re working yourself up into a frenzy over Kook, okay?”
“I am not—” she objects, but suddenly finds herself tugged around to face her husband, his eyes
narrowed as he stares down at her.
“Daeun,” he says, shaking her slightly, “You need to calm down. Please.” When she opens her
mouth to reply again, he cuts her off with another, softer, “Please.”
She takes a deep breath, biting her tongue, realizing quickly that she’s lost this particular argument.
There’s no way he’s going to listen to her, she knows this. He squeezes at her shoulders again,
mouth curling in a sympathetic frown. “Please...just listen to me?”
When he doesn’t let go, keeping his eyes locked on hers, she has no choice but to nod silently.
“If you’re really so worried about Kook...” He cuts her off before she can even open her mouth,
“Then you should go visit him.”
That takes her by surprise and for a moment all she can do is stare up at her husband. “...w-what?”
“You heard me. You’re driving yourself mad, sitting around the house all day waiting for him to
reply, calling him at all hours of the day—” When she frowns, he offers her an unapologetic shrug
in return. “Don’t think I haven’t seen it, I know that’s what you’ve been doing. Our friends are
really worried about you, dear...and so am I. So if it would make you feel better…” He sighs, as if
thinking better of what he’s about to say, “...then maybe you should just take some time off and go
see him. Put your mind at ease.
“Really?” She can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“Really. I’m sure he’d appreciate it, honestly…” Jungmin lets go of her shoulders at last,
smoothing his hands over her arms affectionately before finally stepping away. “The school is
pretty far out there in the countryside, isn’t it? I’d want to see a familiar face if I were him.”
Another shrug as he rounds the counter and takes his seat at the kitchen table again, pulling his
coffee mug towards himself. “That’s probably why he isn’t answering messages, there’s no cell
reception out there.”
“But…” As Daeun tries to piece her husband’s sudden change of attitude together in her head, she
can practically feel her neurons misfiring. “I can’t just—just take time off work like that, it’s—
halfway across the country—”
“Why not?” He asks coolly, reaching for the newspaper again. “I’ll support you if that’s something
you need to do, dear...we can afford a few days of you not working if it’ll give you some piece of
mind.”
She purses her lips, mulling his offer over in her head for long enough that he glances up from the
paper at her again. “Daeun...please, just...think about it, okay? I think it’ll do us both a lot of
good.”
When she can’t come up with a reason to argue, it’s all too easy to relent and nod her head, which
finally seems to assure her husband enough to send him back to digging into his breakfast. Daeun
turns away from him again, leaning heavily against the sink as she casts her eyes warily out the
window once more, letting the two of them fall back into a relatively comfortable silence. Jungmin
finishes his breakfast within a few quick minutes, during which time she stares unseeingly at the
now empty street across from their front door, her buzzing thoughts only interrupted by the
scraping of his chair and a swift kiss to her cheek that he manages to give her before she even
notices that he’s moved at all.
“Have a good day, sweetheart...I’ll be back a little late tonight, so don’t worry about me for dinner,
okay?”
“Mhmm…” she mutters absentmindedly in return.
“Think about what I said, okay? We can talk more about it this evening.”
“Alright, dear…”
Jungmin is out the door before she knows it, leaving Daeun standing in the now-silent house with
nothing but her own thoughts for company. She watches, unmoving, as his dark figure appears on
the sidewalk in front of the window and disappears around the corner, bag slung over his shoulder
as he makes his way to the train station a few blocks away.
And just as she is finally ready to shake herself free of the fog of her worries, just as she is ready to
move back to the table and maybe even force herself to swallow down a few bites of food despite
the knot of her stomach—
The dark shape of a car appears on the far end of the street, drawing closer at a slow, steady pace.
Her heart rate picks up by the second as the vehicle approaches, and she decides at the last second
to swing her body off to the side of the window as it draws close enough for anyone inside to catch
sight of her. The counter digs into her hip at the impact but she can’t bring herself to care, too busy
holding her breath to notice anything else.
It’s the same car, she’s sure of it this time. The same dark windows, the same flawlessly sleek
exterior. The same prickling feeling at her scalp as she senses—though she can’t see them—a pair
of eyes intently watching her from the street.
Unseeingly, her hand scrambles across the counter beside her, fumbling across the surface until she
feels what she was searching for—the round shape of a pen she had left beside the phone against
the wall. Raising it to her face, she tears the cap off with her teeth and brings the pen down to the
skin of her other arm, quickly scribbling the glimpse of the license plate she was able to catch as
the car approached, then pauses and confirms it by ducking beneath the window and raising her
head just enough to spot the back of the car as it drives past the building again.
01 0818
She glances down at the numbers, back up at the car, then down at the numbers again to confirm
that she has it right—because there’s something about the arrangement of them that just...doesn’t
sit right with her. When she glances up again, the car has made its way to the far end of the street
and is turning around the corner again, far enough away that she now feels safe to reach up and
snap the blinds closed.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Daeun darts around the kitchen, heading for the only other
window that oversees the table and quickly drags those curtains closed as well—before making her
way into the living room to do the same to the windows that face out into their small courtyard.
Once all the windows are secure, she double-checks the lock on the front door and slams her back
against it, dropping her head back against the wood to catch her breath. There.
With the house secured, the ringing in her ears returns full force, nothing to distract her from her
thoughts now. She raises her arm up to her face to look the license plate number over a final time,
her eyes narrowing now. Despite her husband’s reassurances, despite his soothing words—she
knows she was right. The presence of that car on their street proves it—she’s not crazy. They’re
watching her, whomever is behind all this weirdness. Something isn’t adding up.
When she makes her way back over to the table and drags her computer closer, this time it’s with a
purpose.
‘Yeongdong,’ she types into a new browser and watches as it pulls up simple search results. If she’s
been offered a chance to do more digging, the last thing she’s going to do is pass it up.
Teacher’s Lounge—Second Floor 08-21-18 2:47PM
The room is alive with a soft buzzing. Bees in a hive. His skin prickles with the sound of it.
He wants to move, but he doesn’t. His mind, his body feel heavy. Slow. Like molasses. Honey.
The surface beneath his body is hard, cold—but also warm, probably from his body. He supposes
it doesn’t matter. Above him, the light is harsh, difficult to focus on. Difficult not to. The lights
buzz just like the room. So many bees, buzzing buzzing around him.
The ceiling is white, stark, clinical. He stares up at it, unblinking. It takes him longer than it should
to remember that he has control over his eyelids, could close them if he wanted to. The prickling at
his lash line prompts an automatic open-close-open-close of his eyes, the muscles fluttering on
memory alone, and the prickling disappears. Oh.
In the distance, the buzzing grows louder and louder still, drawing closer until it separates into
distinct sounds. Words. He recognizes the words.
“—almost time to go—” one of the bees says. Soft thuds appear on his right side, rhythmic and
steady. Footsteps, his mind provides—footsteps drawing closer too. Bees don’t make footsteps, he
thinks, and it’s almost a funny thought. Bees fly through the air. Inside his head, he giggles. He
feels as though he is flying too, or—no—floating. Floating through the air. Even though his back is
pressed to something solid, though he feels like honey, syrupy and thick—he is floating. It should
be impossible, but still he floats.
“Then hurry up—” another bee answers from his other side. The buzzing around him seems to fade
to a dull hum, the footsteps drawing closer. The light above his eyes grows dim, shadows spreading
across his line of vision. It takes a long moment for the shadow to coalesce into a shape, the head
and shoulders and body of a person. A person—right—a person—not an insect, not a bee—
“Here, move it a little to the side,” one voice says, and he feels hands descend on him—hot, a little
sweaty, definitely human. Sticky, like honey. His body is pulled across the surface of whatever he
is lying on, his own skin sticking and dragging along the way. It’s uncomfortable, but he makes no
move to stop it—couldn’t even if he tried. The shadow above him draws closer, focuses into a face
that he doesn’t recognize. He stares up at it unblinkingly, and the man smiles down at him in
return.
“Wow, it’s—pretty. I haven’t had the chance to see it up close yet.”
“I know, right? They did a good job picking this time.”
“Got the lube?” There is a shifting above him, something passed over his head, a clicking sound in
the distance. Familiar. His stomach clenches automatically at the noise.
“Want me to hold it down?” The voice above his head asks, and he hears a chuckle from his side.
“Shouldn’t need to,” the second man answers, and he feels hands on him again, lower. Fingers
press against his hips, his sides, the path they draw across his skin burning. Another hand, a third
hand, winds into his hair, tugs at his scalp—and again, there is fire. His head is drawn back, his
neck stretched to the limit, and his mouth falls open all on its own. Fingers delve through his
parted lips, dragging across his tongue, and he tastes brine, salt—something bitter, like pine. His
body betrays him, gags around the intrusion as the digits press further and further back into his
throat, and the face that hovers above him smiles wide.
“—fuck, look at this…” The hands on his sides find their way to his thighs, draw them apart so
they hang limp and loose, leaving his body completely exposed to their gaze. He remains pliant
even as rough fingers trail along his inner thigh, the sensation both terrible and great, his nerves
singing. “It sure is pretty as anything…”
“Hurry up, c’mon, I want a turn before lunch is over—”
“Why don’t you just use its mouth, you’re already up there anyway.”
“Fine—” The fingers on his tongue slip away, dragging his jaw open further still, and his lungs
gasp for air even as he lies there still as anything, eyes unfocused in the direction of the face leering
down at him. “Fine, easier for me anyway—”
“Fuck, it’s all smooth down here, look—they did it up all pretty and everything—” The rough
hands on his thighs live up to their texture, no longer brushing along his skin but instead pinching
now, bruising. They stray between his legs, cup at his balls where they hang soft and pliant and tug
at the hairless skin, rolling them between both palms as if appraising them like fruit. His body
betrays him, begins to respond, but—No. No.This is a good thing. He tells himself this—that it is a
good thing that the clench of fingers around him makes his stomach respond in kind, his cock
twitching against the crease of his hip as if a puppet on a string.
The other man tilts his head to the side with a none-too-gentle grip, and suddenly the white of the
ceiling is replaced with a cacophony of color, the room around them exposed for him to see at last.
Warm, rich wood lines the walls—dark and warm like honey—broken up by dark, moving figures
shrouded in blue and black, buzzing about the room from table to table. He must be on a table too,
he muses—though he has no memory of how he got here. It doesn’t matter. The floor is red like
wine, covered in scattered shades of tan and brown—other figures, skin and only skin, bent into
tables themselves. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels the sharp tugging of a memory—
“Looks like it’s already prepped for us,” one of the bees—one of the men—above his head
murmurs happily, and he would smile too if he could only remember how. He knows not to, at
least. Don’t move, don’t smile. Be a good doll.
“Good, get on with it then—” His line of vision is obscured, then, by something dark—a pair of
legs, he recognizes after a long moment, his eyes struggling to focus. There’s a soft rustling and
clicking noise above his head, then something hot and soft presses against his open lips. Larger
than the fingers, it pushes in-in-in until he has to swallow around it—the unmistakable shape and
weight of a cock heavy on his tongue. Of course. “Ohhhhh—oh fuck, that’s good—”
His eyes close of their own accord, lungs working overtime to suck in enough air around the
intrusion—but still, his throat is loose and his jaw parts willingly, accepting the cock that he’s
given even as it tickles at the back of his mouth and his stomach lurches unpleasantly. No, no—he
won’t—he’ll be good, he’ll be good—
The hand on his balls shifts to grab at his own cock instead, tugging at it until his body remembers
what to do, the hot rush of blood pooling between his legs until he is hard and aching in the man’s
grip. He swallows willingly around the cock between his lips now, his mouth watering at the
feeling—oh, how nice it is—
But even as the hips in front of his face start to move, drawing said cock further in and then back
out of his waiting lips, another questing hand between his legs dips even lower, teasing between his
thighs, between his cheeks until they circle around and grab at something hard that they find there
—the immovable, blunted end of something that his muscles clench around on instinct even as it’s
pulled unceremoniously out of him. How long had something been inside him? He muses. How
long had he been here at all?
His body feels empty now, clenching-clenching around nothing at all, suddenly cold without the
presence of whatever had been placed inside him—but his guest sees fit to remedy the problem
immediately, presses the hot tip of something new to his twitching hole instead. Another cock, he
realizes, his stomach fluttering excitedly now, to join the one he is happily suckling on. The hands
in his hair make themselves known again, twisting into his dark locks for leverage as his head is
moved here and there, giving that cock better access to the length of his throat, and he swallows so
eagerly now, drool slipping out the corners of his lips to make a mess of his jaw.
“Ah, f-fuck—”
He’s suddenly very full again, his thighs pressed far enough apart by another set of hips that they
burn at the joints, a welcome heat that only echoes the embers in his belly now. The cock that
slides inside him is so much more fulfilling than the cold, unforgiving texture of what he had been
pried open with before, longer and hotter all over. A moan finds its way out of his chest,
reverberating around the cock resting on his tongue, and the hips above his head stutter and jerk
forward to meet his lips again. “D-Damn, this thing is good—I can’t believe we waited—”
Finally, he’s filled from both ends—and it’s beautiful, the way his body opens up for them. He
feels beautiful, as their hands grab at him anywhere they can reach, rough fingers scrambling
across his skin to pinch at nipples that are suddenly sensitive, to twist around his cock until he
forgets how to breathe.
The buzzing around them seems to intensify again, almost sounding intrigued to his ears through
the rush of blood in his head, and the corners of his lips tug up into the barest hint of a smile. Good
—he’s doing good, he’s being good—
“I—I’m already close—” one of his guests chokes out, and the other answers immediately, his
voice a broken thing.
“Make sure you—get a hand around it, make it come too, don’t wanna—miss a chance—”
“Right, right—fuck—”
Fingers close more securely around his own cock, bringing the throbbing of it against his stomach
into sharp relief. He had almost forgotten his own pleasure in between remembering how to suck in
air through his nose again and again and again, his lungs burning with the effort even as he
swallows eagerly once more. The hands in his hair draw his head closer even as those hips slam
against his jaw, fucking into his throat with abandon now, and he takes it all without a sound. He
doesn’t realize there are tears dripping down his face until he can taste them slip in around his lips,
salty and bitter like the fingers from before.
With each thrust into his mouth, the hips between his legs draw away, only to slam forward once
more in perfect tandem with a sharp squeeze to his own cock, and he thinks he might just lose his
mind from it all. It’s impossible not to give himself over to it—the hands, their touch, the pleasure
and the rush, the way it leaves him feeling hot all over. His skin, his blood is burning, burning—
“A-Ahh, c-come on—” One of the voices urges, and the other answers with a low, rough
assurance, “I—I am, I am, I’m going to—”
His mouth is suddenly hotter than before, flooded with bitter come as the body above him twitches,
convulses, the hands in his hair practically tearing at him now. His throat remembers how to
swallow before he can, drinking down as much of the hot liquid as he can manage before it spills
out around his lips and makes an utter mess of his face. The man above him doesn’t seem to care,
riding out his orgasm until the mouth around him has milked him of every drop before his hands
finally, finally release their death grip on the dark hair beneath them.
This only seems to encourage the man between his legs, who takes full control of his body now—
tugging him across the surface of the table like a rag doll, his limbs akimbo as the hot clench of his
hole is taken full advantage of by the frenzied thrusts of the man’s hips. He wants to be good—
wants to be so good—but is torn between laying perfectly still the way he’s supposed to, he knows
he’s supposed to, and tightening his muscles best as he can to help his guest along—but the choice
is made for him in the end when the tight fist around his cock gives a particularly vicious, sharp
twist and an orgasm is all but ripped out of him. His entire body tightens as his come splatters
across his naked chest, and the feeling is finally enough to drag the man along on the journey with
him, the unmistakable heat of come spilling inside him proof that his job is finally complete.
Head swimming again, he loses track of the movements around him, the faces above him fading
into shadows once more as the cock between his legs is pulled free, come spilling freely down his
thighs, and both bodies above him retreat from sight. Their voices fade into the buzzing around
him, only small snippets still intelligible above the din.
“—should’ve done that sooner, fuck—”
“—I know—almost—the last doll—once it learns to be—you know the way I like it—”
“—really pretty face—wonder where—found it—”
His stomach churns as the cool air settles in on his overheated skin, the come across his chest
already drying against his skin. His throat is raw, burning as he takes slow, even breaths, his heart
rate slowly returning back to a steady rhythm below his collarbone.
“—should go—the bell—passing period is—”
He doesn’t quite catch the sound of the bell over his head, but all at once the buzzing of the hive
around him seems to disappear, and he’s left staring blankly at the wall along the far side of the
room with nothing marring his vision now. It could be minutes or hours that he lies there, one leg
limp and dangling over the edge of the table, tingling down to his toes, ears ringing from the
silence now—until the slow, steady crunch of footsteps prickles at his attention from above his
head.
“Oh, doll…” he hears a low voice say, and hands—much more gentle than before—cradle his head
and turn his neck until he is facing the ceiling again. Thumbs brush across his brow and down over
his eyelids, closing his eyelids with the barest of touches, and he can feel the relief of the muscles
behind his eyes as he is greeted by darkness again. The hands disappear, only to reappear on his
ankle, bringing his dangling leg back up onto the table to lie beside the other as well, adjusting him
here and there until he is lying relatively comfortably once more.
The sound of footsteps recede for a few long moments, leaving him lying dizzy and dazed in the
empty room. When they return, he finds a strange sensation accompanying them—the rough
scratch of a cloth across his cheeks instead of the touch of fingers, swiping across the mess that has
dripped down his jaw and neck until his skin is clean. The motion is repeated across his shoulders,
his collarbone and chest, all the way down until the cloth circles his softening cock with care.
Finally, he finds it swiped down between his thighs and probed at his tender hole until every last
trace of his guests is cleaned away.
“You did so well, doll…” the low voice assures him, “Just one last thing—” And the cool, blunted
end of a familiar instrument is pressed to his hole instead, sliding through the stretched muscle
with relative ease until it settles into place and leaves him feeling pleasantly full—a sensation he
didn’t know he was missing until it was returned. It isn’t perfect, the foreign sensation of it holding
him open—but it’s certainly better than nothing at all. “There you go, that’s better...isn’t it?”
He doesn’t bother answering, knows that he shouldn’t—knows, somehow, that his caretaker knows
the answer all the same. Warm hands settle into his hair now, and he hadn’t realized that the man
had moved until he feels the warmth of a body beside his head and relaxes into the soothing touch.
Those gentle fingers stroke through the dark strands, easing them from his sweaty forehead and
smoothing them back into place, and he finds himself drifting under their reassurance. “You did
well,” the voice repeats, even softer now—or perhaps he is simply floating further away instead.
“So well, doll…”
Yes—he did well. He made them proud. A good doll. It’s with this thought, and this thought alone,
that he finally allows himself to slip under. His mind is a million miles away now, floating—
floating. There is nothing but this. He is a good doll. He is a good doll. And now—now he sleeps.
Academy—Evaluation Room 2—Third Floor 08-21-18 6:59PM
“Take a seat, Mr. Jung.”
The room is dark and cast in long, thick shadows, only exacerbated by the cloud of smoke that
hangs heavy in the air—and darker still than the hallway through which he had entered. The
building was shockingly quiet, only the sounds of hushed whispers greeting him from down far
recesses and alcoves, every voice feeling as though it were directed at him as they echoed around
the rich wooden hallways—and now, the soft and even voice that speaks from the far edge of the
room all but cuts through the large room, harsh in comparison.
Hoseok stumbles as he takes a few quick steps forward to the offered chair, settled beneath a lone
candle-lit chandelier that hangs low on a heavy chain. He has never seen anything quite like it in a
modern building, and it casts the room in flickering, eerie light. Before him, a long row of seated
figures faces him, only the shapes of their silhouettes to greet him from beyond the dim circle of
light that he enters.
He sinks into the offered chair with shaky legs, his heart a heavy thrum in his ears. A tiny voice in
his mind calls it exactly what it feels like—a march to the gallows.
“Mr. Jung,” another voice calls to him, this time female, sweet and professional. His head swings
around towards the source of the sound, though he can’t make out the difference between each
person seated in front of him. “Thank you for joining us again today.”
‘As if I had a choice,’ he thinks to himself, wisely choosing not to voice that particular thought out
loud. Instead, a sharp nod of his head is all the confirmation that he offers her.
The woman continues, businesslike, “It is unusual for an Evaluation to take quite so long...I
assume you are aware of this, Mr. Jung?” When he shakes his head—confused, because of course
he couldn’t have possibly known that—she makes a small noise of disapproval. “We gave you a
task to attend to after our session yesterday. I trust that you at least completed that?”
Hoseok hurries to shove a hand in his pocket, fumbling for a moment before extracting the small
black notebook he had brought along with him. His hand trembles as he jumps to his feet, steps
forward and places it on the table before quickly stepping back and sliding into his chair again. A
pale hand emerges from the shadows to grab the notebook from the tabletop, sliding it back out of
the circle of light.
“Let’s see here…” she murmurs, and he can pick up the distinct sound of pages being slowly
turned from out of sight. “Hmm. Well, it seems that you have followed instructions, Mr. Jung.
These results are much more up to par than your last review.” She pauses, and he hears the sound
of a chair creaking as though the woman has leaned closer. “Still, production and documentation is
the most simple of tasks that have been assigned to you. We are deeply concerned by this...under-
performance.”
“I—I’m very sorry, ma’am, I—”
“Please address me properly,” she interjects coldly, and he racks his brain for the right term before
continuing.
“I’m sorry, Councilwoman…” A pause, while he waits for her to correct him, but the correction
never comes. “I was not informed of the expectation—”
“Nonsense.” Another voice interjects this time—darker, gruff, unmistakably male. “You attended
orientation alongside all new teachers, Mr. Jung, did you not?”
“Well—yes, but I—”
“It sounds to me as though you have simply decided not to be an active participant in your own
development. Mr. Jung,” the Councilwoman continues now, and Hoseok shrinks back in his seat.
“Your performance may have improved since your time with us yesterday, yet this is but one of
many concerning behaviors on your part that need to be addressed.”
He bites at his lip, too afraid to speak, to dare to ask what they could possibly mean even as he
searches through his memories for anything, anything that he could have done better.
“Stand up,” he is ordered, and it takes his mind a moment to catch up and drag him to his feet,
wobbling before he regains his balance. “Strip.”
“I—”
“Quickly.”
His hands fly to the buttons that line the front of his blazer, unfastening them and then the smaller
buttons of his shirt below so quickly he worries that he will rip them from the fabric. He shrugs
both articles of clothing off and lets them drop to the stone floor with no hesitation, more afraid of
what will happen to him if he doesn’t than anything that could possibly happen once he does. His
hands fall to his dress pants next, the shiny metal of the buckle clinking loudly in the otherwise
silent room—and he is suddenly struck by the memory of the last time he repeated this exact
action, how he had undressed himself in a room full of teachers to—
It occurs to him, as the buttons at the front of his fly come undone as well and slides his thumbs
beneath the fabric to send it falling down his legs, that this is the first time that he has been truly
naked in such a way since taking this position. He can feel the weight of their eyes on him, a now-
familiar sensation, and wonders how many of them had been there that day, in the teacher’s
lounge. How many had been observing his performance up to this point? They are always
watching, after all. He has learned that much to be true, at least.
When he kicks the pile of his clothes away and stands naked before the Council at last, hands
clenched into fists at his sides to stave away the immediate instinct to cover himself, he is greeted
by a terrible silence. He can still see their figures facing him, the outline of their shoulders in the
dim lighting, the darkened spaces where their eyes are unmistakably trained on him. The silence
seems to drag on indefinitely, though surely it is no more than a few heartbeats before a new voice,
another man, speaks up.
“Take your seat, Mr. Jung.” He hears the soft scraping of another chair being moved back from the
table just as he slides back down into his own, and a set of footsteps circles the ring of light before
stepping up behind him. It takes all he has to fight the urge to flinch as a large, dry pair of hands
reaches for his arms, tugging them back behind the chair now.
“What—?”
“Silence."
The force by which he bites his own tongue leaves him tasting blood.
His arms are dragged behind him and before he can bring himself to struggle, his wrists are
strapped one after the other to the back legs of the chair. The hands make quick work of turning to
his legs next and spreading his thighs apart, his knees bent around the sides of the chair so that his
legs can be slipped through another set of leather bands that cuff his knees to the front legs of the
chair and his ankles to the back. The position leaves him spread open and vulnerable, his cock
laying soft against the crease of his thigh—and as he tentatively flexes against the soft leather and
feels just how little it gives, how little he can move at all, it occurs to him for the first time that the
chair has been thoroughly bolted to the floor below.
“W-What—What is this?” He asks, his head jerking up as he stares wildly at the shadowed figures
in front of him. “I don’t understand—”
“Do you think yourself above our methods, Mr. Jung?” A new voice asks, and it is as though the
Council is made of many heads but one mind speaking the same message, for all that their words
seem to flow so smoothly with no discussion between them. “Do you believe yourself above
learning and developing as your students do?”
He feels the tell-tale prickle of tears at the backs of his eyes, the same feeling he always finds
himself with whenever he’s been misunderstood. He’s always been a frustrated crier, after all. “N-
No, that’s not what—”
“It is very important that you learn our ways sooner rather than later, Mr. Jung. It’s for your own
good, after all.” And it sounds so reasonable, the way she says it, as though he’s simply being
frustrating for the sake of it. The burning behind his eyes intensifies. “Let us help you.”
“I—Yes. Please?” He’s not sure it’s quite what he means to say, but the words tumble from his lips
all the same.
“Very good, Mr. Jung.” There must be some sort of indication made out of sight, because without
another word the man standing silently behind him suddenly steps into full view and kneels in
front of him, body canted off to one side so as to not block the Council members’ view. He glances
down at the man, afraid of what face he will see staring back up at him, only to find that the only
eyes looking back at him are his own. His thoughts come screeching to a halt as he struggles to
wrap his mind around what he is seeing—a body crouched before him, shrouded in black, but
where he would expect to see a face greeting him, he finds only his own reflection
A mirror, he realizes after some delay—the man must be wearing a mirror to cover his face. It
would be almost comical, if it weren’t so thoroughly terrifying. The dim lighting does nothing to
temper the illusion, only making it more difficult for Hoseok to find where the edge of the mirror
ends and the room behind begins.
While he is distracted by the sight, that same warm, dry touch returns—this time, not on his arms
or legs but wrapped around his cock. He watches his own reflection contort in shock, his hips
bucking against the leather straps that hold him down and immediately aching where they are
locked in place. “W-What—?”
“Shhh…” he hears from behind the mask, and has to clench his eyes shut to block out the sight of
his own distraught face staring back at him. The man behind the reflective surface is efficient,
stroking Hoseok’s cock until his body has no choice but to respond to the stimulation, his length
quickly filling with blood and hardening in the man’s hand despite the mortification taking over his
mind—or perhaps because of it. Soon, too soon, Hoseok is biting at his lips again to hold back a
very different sound this time, the masked man twisting and squeezing him just right to drive him
to a very quick orgasm that drives groan after groan from his chest. But just as he feels heat pooling
in his belly, his muscles burning from tensing as he rides the sensation closer and closer to his
release—
—the sensation stops. The hands disappear. The man moves away.
Hoseok barks out a wretched, disappointed noise and jerks his head down to gaze blearily at the
dark figures before him in disbelief.
“Tell us, Mr. Jung,” a voice he recognizes as the first council member to have spoken, a woman,
continues as though there had been no gap in the conversation at all, completely ignoring Hoseok’s
current predicament. “Do you believe yourself above our rules?”
He pants, trying to catch his breath as his thoughts race to catch up to the conversation as well. “N-
No, Councilwoman—I don’t believe I—”
“Is it true that you approached another staff member with your...personal thoughts about two of
your students?”
Hoseok stares dumbly into the dark space over the man’s shoulder, squinting into the shadows as
though seeing the person speaking to him might make their words more clear as well. “My—
thoughts? I haven’t been having—thoughts about the stud—”
Before he can get out the rest of his sentence, his words are cut off by a sharp cry that is ripped
from his throat as a hand suddenly strikes the side of his erection, leaving it bobbing against his
stomach and his back arching away from the pain.
“Lying will only make your situation worse, Mr. Jung,” he is told coolly, and he can’t help but
whimper.
“I—I’m not! I’m not! I didn’t—”
Another strike to his cock from the other side has him choking on the rest of his words again.
“Did you or did you not inform another staff member about...romantic interest between two of your
students?” She repeats, her tone sharper now. It seems difficult for her to find the right words for
what she wants to say, and Hoseok screws up his face as he tries to piece together what on earth
she could possibly being referring to. “Ms. Ahn Heeyeon and Ms. Park Jeonghwa, I believe?”
And—oh. Oh. Hoseok remembers—remembers the two young women in his class who kept
blushing, kept glancing at each other when they thought no one was looking. He suddenly
remembers how he had mentioned them to another teacher over lunch just the other day—
“I—yes, but I—what does that—?” He almost gags as his words are cut off by another bloom of
pain between his legs, a sharper slap being rained down directly to the head of his cock now.
“Do you believe yourself to be above our practices, Mr. Jung?” When he hurries to shake his head
and deny her, he receives another strike for his trouble and finds a sob work its way from his lips.
“You openly and intentionally encouraged these feelings between two of our students, Mr. Jung—
it does you no good to lie.”
“I—I d-didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
“Exclusive relationships are strictly prohibited, Mr. Jung.” The way she keeps repeating his name
echoes horrible and mockingly in his brain, and he squeezes his eyes shut again. “Such a practice
is contrary to our goals. Surely you must understand this. Why would you encourage such a thing?”
This time, he waits to give his answer, wondering if he will find himself slapped the moment he
opens his mouth—but it seems the Council has every intention of letting him answer this particular
question.
“Councilwoman, I—” He flinches, waiting for a strike that doesn’t come, “I made a mistake—a
terrible mistake! I thought—it would only help the cause—”
“You think you know better than we what the cause demands?” The Councilwoman shoots back,
and he flinches as though she had slapped him anyway.
“It—made sense to me, it was a foolish thought—I only wanted to see them being happy in the
future—”
This time when the flat of the man’s palm smacks against his balls, he knows exactly what he has
done wrong to earn it. Instead of groaning, he lets out a sharp hiss between his gritted teeth.
“Happiness is an illusion, Mr. Jung.” Another Councilman speaks up, and Hoseok can hear the
derision dripping from his words. “Not when it comes from such a selfish source.”
“It was my mistake!” He tries to assure them, arms twisting against their bonds, “I know this! I—I
was wrong, Elders, I know I was wrong—”
“Why did you encourage their relationship, Mr. Jung?” The Councilwoman asks again.
“I was wrong!”
Another slap to his cock has him gasping nails digging into his palms. The pain does nothing to
cause his erection to wane, but the pain sears through his groin all the same.
“Why did you encourage their relationship, Mr. Jung?”
He braces for the next slap before it arrives, knowing the bloom of pain will come as soon as he
utters the words, “I was wrong—”
“Why did you encourage their relationship, Mr Jung?” She asks a third time, and as he repeats his
answer once more he sucks in a deep breath, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes—
But the impact never comes. There is a sudden, oppressive silence that falls over the room the
moment he stops speaking. Hoseok gasps and gasps to catch his breath, his heart trying to beat its
way out of his chest, his ears ringing. When he finally pries his eyes open again, he finds the
mirror-faced man kneeling between his legs, head cocked to one side curiously, hands hovering
above both of Hoseok’s knees. Though the mirror is turned to the side, Hoseok can see his own
face clearly reflected once again, red and shining with sweat in the dim light.
“...very good,” he hears from across the room, the voice unfamiliar to him. As if on cue, the hands
above his legs land on his skin and slide up his taut thighs, skimming over the tight muscles until
the circle firmly around Hoseok’s cock once more.
Though he flinches at the contact, the masked man simply resumes stroking his length as though
there had been no interruption at all, thumbing at the head of his cock before stroking down to his
balls and back up to the head again. Hoseok chokes for a completely different reason now, his skin
still stinging terribly from the previous rough treatment—though it only adds to the sudden rush of
burning pleasure. It becomes immediately, shockingly clear just how on-edge he is when the sharp
coil of heat in his belly draws tight again after only a few perfunctory strokes, the mirror in front of
him reflecting back the way his jaw falls open at the simple touch.
“Just let go…” he hears whispered to him, and the voice sounds close enough that he can only
assume it comes from beneath the mask itself. “Let go…”
It’s an easy command to follow, what with the incessant tugging and squeezing around his
sensitive cock, the motion slicked with his own sweat as his body strains against its bonds. It takes
only a few moments more, with the heavy weight of all eyes on him and the burn of his stinging
skin for Hoseok’s orgasm to be ripped from him whether he wants it to or not. His head falls back
between his shoulders, and if he could still see his reflection staring back at him he knows there
would be nothing but rapture written across his face.
The hot splatter of his own come across his chest feels as though it burns too, feels like the hot wax
he dripped across the doll’s body in the classroom only so many days ago—
“Mr. Jung.” His attention is dragged back to the room, back to the sharp voice that calls to him
from a few feet away. It takes some considerable effort to drag his head upright again, and even
more so to wrench his eyes open to stare across the room into the haze of shadows again. “It’s
important to re-frame your thinking on this subject.” He barely follows her words, his mind hazier
than the smoke floating around the room in front of him. “Do you understand why we have
challenged you on this particular...issue?”
“I—” He swallows thickly, mouth dry and sticky. “I...misunderstood? I encouraged—something I
shouldn’t have…”
“And what was that?"
The hand around his cock squeezes tightly, suddenly reminding him of its presence, and his answer
comes out more like a gasp than as words. “I—ahh! I was—foolish—to limit the young w-women
—”
“—and how were you limiting them, Mr. Jung?”
“B-By—trying to keep them—focused on each—each other—”
“Which is contrary to our goals,” the Councilwoman supplies, and Hoseok repeats her words back
verbatim.
“—which is—contrary to our goals—”
“Very good, Mr. Jung, very good…” And suddenly the hand around his cock relaxes, giving his
over-sensitive skin a few gentle strokes instead of the sharp pressure from before. It’s just enough
stimulation to keep him hard despite the way he already aches. “You will no longer entertain such
ideas about romantic relationships,” she informs him coolly, and Hoseok nods his head slowly in
agreement. Yes, yes of course—
“This is for your own good, Mr. Jung...releasing these muddled thoughts from your mind is an
important step before you can continue in your personal development…”
As he nods again, he catches sight of his reflection once more—the haze in his own eyes, the spit-
slick curve of his own lips. He looks positively...debauched, and he’s barely been touched at all.
Incredible, he thinks.
“Now, Mr. Jung…” Another voice, male, joins in. “This is not the only concern that has been
brought to our attention as of late…” And Hoseok’s stomach feels like it drops right out of his ass,
right through the bottom of the chair. This isn’t...over? “It has also been brought to our attention
that you have been...very isolated from the other members of our community since arriving. Would
you agree?”
He should have seen it coming, should have known—but as he shakes his head immediately and
opens his mouth to assure them, “N-No, no, I haven’t—”
—he finds his cock immediately subjected to another impact, and then unlike before, a second
strike when the man kneeling between his legs swings his hand back the other way again. He
yelps, hisses, digs his nails into the leather straps at his wrists—wants to hit himself for his own
stupidity. Of course.
“Y-Yes! Yes, I—I have!” He shouts out before they can even ask, and the man in front of him
freezes, readjusts, begins stroking Hoseok’s cock again after a momentary pause. And Hoseok
understands, then, exactly what the Council is doing—and how to play along.
“...very good, Mr. Jung,” the Councilwoman replies slowly, sounding surprised but mildly pleased
by his answer. “And why, exactly, have you isolated yourself so?”
It’s hard to think with someone tugging on his cock once more, but he manages to mumble out,
“It...that’s what I was promised...when I first came here—"
Another sharp, backhanded strike has Hoseok swallowing his words and replacing them with a
broken moan, his back arching away from the chair and into the sensation now. He can’t decide
whether it feels terrible or wonderful, but he remains hard and aching under the torment all the
same.
“Would you like to try that again, Mr. Jung? Why have you been isolating yourself from the
community?”
“I—I was—afraid, I—I didn’t realize I was doing it—” Another, harder slap to his balls has him
openly sobbing now, tears finally falling from his eyes. “I’m s-sorry! I’m sorry! I was a-acting out
of—of fear! I didn’t want to—”
“Didn’t want to what, Mr. Jung?” A Councilman asks, chair creaking as he leans forward in
earnest.
Hoseok takes a deep, shaky breath before trying to continue, his eyes screwed shut against his own
tears. “I d-didn’t want to—to give up—on my o-old ways—"
He knows this is what they want to hear, knows that it must be the right answer when that firm,
practiced stroking on his cock resumes immediately at his words—but it shocks him just how true
the admittance sounds on his lips. His tears fall more readily now, even as the rough pad of a
thumb is brushed along the sensitive underside of his cockhead and his thighs quiver at the wave
of pleasure it gives him.
“What was holding you back, Mr. Jung? Tell us. Relieve yourself of that burden.”
“Fuck—I—” He sobs, gasps, tries to suck in a steadying breath, “—I w-was still—trying to live—
how I used to live—”
“You were afraid to commit yourself fully to the cause, weren’t you?” The words are phrased as a
question, but Hoseok hears the statement of truth that runs beneath them loud and clear.
“Y-Yes! Yes! I was afraid—to—to commit—” His words drop off suddenly when a second hand
joins the first and rolls his balls in a rough palm, and his eyes fly open to stare down at the man
beneath his spread legs. The face that gazes back up at him is, once again, his own—eyes
darkened with lust and reddened with tears, drool dripping out of the corner of his mouth where his
lips hang open. “I was afraid,” he admits while meeting his own gaze, and the attention to his cock
seems to double as a reward.
“Yes, Mr. Jung...you were afraid. This is a natural reaction, in the early stages of the process...rapid
change makes even the most eager minds cling to the familiar…”
He gives a jerky nod, too overwhelmed to speak when his cock and balls are being squeezed at the
same time, his nerves aflame as the stimulation toes the line between being delicious and being
utterly overwhelming.
“—it’s in your best interest that we address this problem immediately,” he hears in the distance. As
the Councilman continues speaking, Hoseok nods along dutifully, desperate now for this to end,
for something—anything—to give, for his orgasm to finally wash over him once more. “We are to
move you to the Jung household promptly at the conclusion of this evaluation, do you
understand?”
“Mmmmnn—” His head lolls back against his shoulder as he feels a fingernail digging into his
sensitive slit, the Councilman’s words totally lost on him. “Y—...Yes—Yes, p-please—”
Another voice joins the first now, almost indistinguishable from the first as the man continues the
questioning in a low, suggestive tone. “You seem to be struggling with understanding the path laid
out for you, Mr. Jung…”
In the distance, there is a shuffling and scraping noise that rises from one end of the room to
another—the unmistakable sound of bodies slowly rising from chairs. Footsteps shift closer even as
the hands between his legs continue their methodical work, and Hoseok struggles to pry his eyes
open even a sliver to focus on the approaching figures that have entered the ring of light on either
side of him.
“You are struggling to see the path that has been laid out for you…” Another voice joins the
chorus, and Hoseok’s ears begin to ring again.
“There is nothing to be gained from hiding the truth, Mr. Jung…” The first Councilwoman says,
her voice low and suddenly very close by. Hoseok squints up at her through his dark eyelashes,
only to find another mirrored mask staring down at him—and a dozen more just like it on every
side. With hoods pulled up over their heads, the council members look particularly ominous, the
light glinting off of the shining glass of their masks as they draw closer still until they make a full
circle around his chair. “Admit your faults, and we can help you…”
“Please—” he chokes out, not quite sure what he’s begging for but forcing himself to speak all the
same. “P-Please—help me—”
“Admit your inadequacies, and we can help you, Jung Hoseok…”
And it’s that moment, and that moment alone—the mention of his own name—that somehow
finally breaks him.
“Please! P-Please, I—I’m lost!” He cries out, and the hand that circles his cock tightens right at the
base, the pleasure nearly driving him mad even as his orgasm is stopped in his tracks. He stares up
at a sea of his own face staring back down at him, hands reaching towards his body now, voices
overlapping one another as they reassure him.
“You are missing part of yourself…”

“Your resolve is lacking…”
“You haven’t begun to understand your own power…”
“Allow us to help you find that clarity, Hoseok…”
He has no sense of when he began crying, but he is openly sobbing now, thrashing against his
bonds even as their hands caress his skin from head to toe, the light shining on their mirrored faces
leaving him blinded and disoriented as they move. It’s too much, it’s all too much—
“A-Ahh—! P-Please, I b-beg of you—!” His cock is beyond aching, the man stroking him
positively relentless even as he refuses to allow Hoseok to come a second time, and Hoseok—
Hoseok just might die from this. He’s sure of it. “Ple—ease—please—I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry—!”
The council members speak over one another now, words more of a low rumble than distinct
sounds, and Hoseok finds himself agreeing to all of it without another thought. “—accept this
change, Hoseok—accept this change or forever be trapped in the muddled world—”
“Yes, p-please—please, I’m ready—please—!”
“Hoseok—”
“Hoseok—”
“Hoseok—Hoseok—”
There must be some indication out of sight that is lost on him, but without warning the vice grip on
his cock suddenly disappears, leaving him with nothing standing in the way of the orgasm that
comes crashing through his body like a forest fire. It burns at his chest, at his muscles and his eyes
—and it seems never-ending, washing over him only to cycle through his body once more.
Through his own gasping, clawing at the chair for purchase, Hoseok is shocked by the realization
of the fingers that continue dragging across his cock even as it twitches through his second release
of the night. His skin over-sensitive to the point of pain, Hoseok sobs under the relentless
stimulation long after his tears have ceased, the stroking drawing him closer and closer and closer
to the razors edge of yet another release. Fingers make their way across his face and into his open
mouth, pressing down against his tongue and causing more drool to spill from his lips. Other hands
drag reverently along his muscles where the leather has begun to bruise them, tweaking at his
nipples and pinching at his inner thighs. The sight of his own face all around him, torn in both
shock and awe, leaves him dizzy.
“Hoseok…” the voices continue to whisper, chanting as one now.
“P—Please—”
Once more, an orgasm is drawn from his body by force, every inch of his body quivering
helplessly as his cock twitches in the grip around it, his balls clenching only to come up dry. And
still, the torment does not end, their whispered words blurring together into a hum as his vision
begins to fade in and out, only the pressure of dozens of hands on his limbs keeping him grounded
at all. He sags against them now, begging for mercy in his own mind even as his voice fails him,
and after only a few tense moments, his body relents and is dragged through a final orgasm that
leaves his vision fading to black.
“We’ve done it…” he hears somewhere in the distance, somewhere in the darkness. The hands
leave him slowly, one after another, until there is nothing holding him in place except the chains
locking his limbs to his chair.
“Jung Hoseok…” one low voice murmurs, and somewhere in his mind the sound sparks his
interest. “We may have been wrong about you...”
“He’s ready,” another voice declares, louder but further away. “Unchain him.”
Hoseok finds his body suddenly sagging forward, his arms no longer tethered behind him to hold
him in place. A firm set of hands slides beneath his arms and around his ribs to support him as his
legs follow suit, slowly sliding back around the chair once they are released as well. He is gently
drawn to his feet, body limp as a rag doll, and Hoseok wavers as his mind struggles to right itself.
A gentle smack to the side of his face brings him back to himself, his eyelashes fluttering, and after
a few delayed seconds he manages to drag his feet underneath his body properly, weak as they are.
In front of him, he suddenly finds a face swimming into view that is not his own, an almost
friendly smile greeting him as he finally comes back to himself.
“W-Wha—?”
“Congratulations, Mr. Jung…” She tells him gently, her hands squeezing at his bare sides. He
knows her face, though he can’t quite place it— “It’s time.”
“I—” He finds his hands gripping the front of her robes as he sways on the spot, eyes flickering
between her face and over her shoulder to the still-masked figures behind her. “T-Time…?”
“Yes, it’s time.” Another squeeze to his sides, and even the blank faces of the other council
members seem to shine with approval. “You’re ready.”
“...f-for...for what?” He manages to choke.
“You’re ready...to find yourself a Guide. You’re ready to begin the next level.”
Bus Station
581 SOUTHBOUND—49 EASTBOUND

CAMERA 3
08-21-18 8:31PM
The drive is silent, smooth—as it should be, for all the money he shelled out for this particular
vehicle. If he is to be making regular trips that take over three hours, as this one has, he insists—
necessarily so, he tells himself—that he does so in comfort.
The partition between himself and the driver is, as always, rolled up to give him the anonymity and
privacy that he requires. Though the windows are tinted, he can clearly make out the buildings
passing by the vehicle at a steady pace; on one side, the sloped roofs of outdated buildings, the
steeple of a church, and on the other there is farmland, the gentle curve of a river that just barely
passes for more than a stream. It’s familiar—comforting, somehow—as his driver makes the turn
from Route 581 towards Route 49 and a sign up ahead directs them away from Yonghwamyeon
and towards Woljeonri, he recognizes it for what it is—his last opportunity for cell reception
before they disappear into the forest.
He reclines back against the leather of his seat, a hand sliding between the layers of his suit to slip
inside a hidden pocket above his heart, one that hides the slim lines of his personal cell phone.
Certainly, he will have service again within his office, where a private connection has been set up
for his own convenience—but it saves him so much trouble when he can review his messages
without worry of prying eyes. He could almost laugh at the irony.
His inbox is relatively empty, all of his messages having been answered during his business in
Geumnammyeon, so he switches quickly over to his email account as the buildings passing by start
to drift further and further apart.
Inbox: 19 unread
▢ August 21 — From: unknown sender — 010818010818 03 25 01 0102 02 48 00 63 15 00
03 7302 23604 0502 0102 265…
▢ August 21 — From: unknown sender — no subject Attachment: 07151995.mp4

03 7302 23604 0502 0102 265…

03 7302 23604 0502 0102 265…

03 7302 23604 0502 0102 265...
It takes him longer than it should to spot the message that is out of place, long enough that he has
already closed the device and nearly slipped it back into his pocket before he freezes, his mind
replaying what he has just seen. Once it clicks into place, the phone is back in his palm and
unlocked with his fingerprint in a matter of seconds, his eyes scanning over his inbox a second time
to find the message that had jumped out at him so clearly.
▢ August 21 — From: unknown sender — no subject Attachment: 07151995.mp4
With this particular inbox as carefully guarded and monitored as it is, the difference in this
particular email stands in sharp relief against the rows and rows of otherwise identical messages.
He clicks on it without hesitation, finding it just as blank inside as he expected.
From: Unknown Sender
Subject: [No Subject]
To: Kim Seokjin
Attached: 07151995.mp4 (235.2 MB)
This email contains no message.
Seokjin’s finger hovers over the screen now—unsure, wavering. His eyes flicker towards the
divider that separates the back of the car from his driver just feet away, searching the dark glass as
though expecting to find some flaw in its design, some indication that his long-assured privacy
would suddenly be violated.
His heartbeat is an ugly thing, demanding his attention by clawing at his ears. The longer he
wavers, the worse the sound seems to become, until it is nearly as deafening as the soundproofing
that lines every wall of the vehicle. After only a few long moments, it’s all he can do not to give in
to the temptation and open the file, his mouth suddenly dry.
Another glance out of the window shows the rapidly approaching line of the trees, and it is this fact
above anything else that finally drives him into action, his finger colliding with the glass of the
screen so sharply that his digit painfully bounces off of the slick surface.
Suddenly, his screen grows dark, a surprisingly ominous circle spinning in the center of his screen
to let him know that the video—whatever it is—is loading. The moment that the screen fills with
an image, Seokjin’s heart feels as though it comes to a complete stop.
The first thing that greets him is the sight of his own face. Younger, free of the sharpness of age
and experience. His younger eyes are just ask dark, but shine brightly as they glance up at the
person holding the camera. He watches his younger self laugh and reach up to push the camera
away, which reveals the small, modestly decorated room in which the video had been filmed.
It hits him like a strike to the gut, the realization of exactly when this was recorded, under what
circumstances. The camera moves as though the person holding it has shifted, facing the opposite
wall for a moment, wavering, before the image suddenly dips and the camera is swung around to
face Seokjin again. He sees himself lie back, arms spread out across a soft, worn quilt, his short
dark hair fanning out around his head, and he looks—
—happy. An emotion he hasn’t seen reflected on his own face in a very, very long time.
On his screen, he watches himself laugh again, and then his lips are moving, forming words that he
can’t hear. He shoots another cautious glance up at the thin wall between the back of his car and
the driver beyond, but the divider is just as firmly closed as before. Throwing caution to the wind,
he fumbles with the side of the phone to raise the volume, and suddenly his own voice begins to
echo around the small space.
“—don’t you put that away? I don’t know why you’re always shoving it in my face like this—”
“Come on, I just...wanna capture everything, you know that!” The person holding the camera
replies, a hint of a whine in his voice. This is an old argument, repeated easy as breathing.
The Seokjin on screen rolls his eyes and kicks toward the camera, and a low grunt is his reward.
The camera moves again, swinging up to face the ceiling while accompanied by a loud rustling
noise and the sounds of a body shifting around. When the camera is turned around again, there is a
second face that appears on screen beside Seokjin’s on the bed, and he immediately taps the button
to pause the video.
No.
This—This video was supposed to be destroyed. Completely destroyed, and years ago at that.
Almost a lifetime.
Seokjin can’t begin to wrap his mind around where the clip came from, or why it is rearing its ugly
head now of all times—but it does leave him with an odd sense of déjà vu, more than just from
reliving the memory than it shows. It’s only been a few days, and the memory of receiving an
unmarked envelope filled with another relic of his past is fresh on his mind. More importantly, so
is the sudden twinge of fear that it left him with, much as this video does right now.
His fingers shake when he reaches for the play button again in spite of himself, not wanting to see
but needing to know—
The giggling resumes, low and familiar, and he feels bile rising in his throat. The camera is aimed
down at the two of their faces, side-by-side, sharing one pillow as though that’s what pillows were
built for. Their shoulders are pushed together in the tight space, the dim lighting making it difficult
to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. He watches with bated breath as the man lying
beside him slowly turns to look at him, his own eyes still staring up at the camera as his bed
partner draws closer and presses lips to Seokjin’s younger, smooth cheek.
He knows what will happen next before it does, his lips tingling from the memory even as he
watches himself turn his head immediately to capture the other man’s lips with his own. His
partner jumps, jostling the camera for a moment, and the sound makes them break apart for a
second before diving back in.
“Put that away…” He hears himself murmur against the other man’s lips, a smile tugging at his
own even as he says it.
He is kissed into silence again, his partner weaving the fingers of his free hand beneath Seokjin’s
jaw and into his hair to draw them closer still. “...I don’t wanna forget…” Is the answer he
receives, low and husky as the words are fed to him by another caress of lips against lips.
“Okay, okay—” He hears himself whisper back, brokenly. Stupidly. Naive. “I—”
“Yeah?” The other man asks, his tone leading.
“Y-Yeah…” he replies, nodding into the kiss, not needing to know the question to know his
answer. “Please—”
“Okay, baby...okay, shh…” The camera suddenly jerks away from their faces, the arm that has
been holding it aloft reaching over Seokjin’s body to set it down atop a nearby surface. From the
new angle, he can clearly see all of himself now, see the way their bodies are entwined together as
his lover presses closer and uses his free hands to begin tugging at Seokjin’s clothes. Just as he
watches the front of his own shirt being unbuttoned, heart beating heavy in his throat—
The feed is cut short. The image fades to black, the labored sounds of their overlapping breathing
disappears, and the inside of the car is suddenly, achingly quiet.
“—stop the car,” Seokjin chokes out, eyes unfocused on the dark screen of the device, before he
realizes that no one can hear him. He throws his hand out to the side and fumbles for the intercom
button built into the center console and repeats himself, louder this time. “Stop the car!”
“—Right away, sir,” comes the reply, and he feels a quick but smooth shift to the vehicle’s
direction and speed as the driver efficiently pulls over to the side of the road and rolls to a stop.
Seokjin is out of the car in a fraction of a second, flinging his seatbelt away from his body and all
but stumbling out of the open door onto the dirt shoulder of the small, two-lane road. Around him,
the small town has melted away so that only trees remain, looming down around him and blocking
out the rapidly dimming light of the evening sun.
He takes a few desperate steps away from the vehicle, shudders and bends over to clutch at his
knees, trying to get a grip on his own breathing. The forest air around him is crisp and chilling
compared to the comfortable warmth of his car, and it brings his thoughts into sharp relief.
He glances over his shoulder at the driver’s side door and, thankfully, finds his driver dutifully
staring out the windshield to give him as much privacy as possible, even in this moment of
weakness.
How much, if anything, had the man heard? The photo had been one thing—oh yes, that photo had
been bad enough, but perhaps not incriminating in the wrong hands. It showed only a moment
between two people, and a relatively innocent one at that. Easy to explain, with the right charisma,
and now it’s nothing more than ash. The video, though…
He raises his phone into his line of sight, staring down at the darkened screen and remembering the
imprint of his own face upon it like a bloom of light behind his eyelids after staring at the sun.
Despite being cut before anything truly illicit was shown, Seokjin understands exactly the message
it was designed to send: This is proof of concept. This is proof of what you’ve done. Someone has
evidence.
Someone remembers.
Front Office—Nurse—First Floor 08-22-18 5:44AM
It’s easier to feel brave, now. The office is softly lit when he slips through the door, the early
morning light filtering through the windows across the hall where the Vice Principal’s office stands
empty—door flung open and furniture bare like a skeleton without flesh.
He steps easily around the sick beds that line one side of the room, skirting the desk chair in his
way before he reaches his destination. The rows of cabinets that stand before him, spanning floor-
to-ceiling, may have seemed impenetrable mere weeks ago, but now he stands before them self-
assured with keys in hand.
They jingle between his fingers, glinting in the rays of light spilling through the open door, as he
rifles through the ring until he finds the one he is searching for. He gleefully picks it out from the
rest and steps forward to unlock the first of the cabinets, greeted by rows upon rows of medicine
bottles once he swings the door open wide
It takes three tries for him to settle on the correct cabinet, finally spotting the tiny, dark brown
glass bottles he was seeking. He slides the keys into his pocket and eagerly grabs at the first bottle
in the row, bringing it up into the light to read the label—better safe than sorry, after all.
Carapichea Ipecacuanha, it reads in neat, cursive handwriting, Syrup of Ipecac.
Triumphant, he sets the bottle aside and makes quick work of rearranging the remaining bottles so
that there is no obvious gap between them. It may be noticeable in the long run, perhaps when
inventory is taken in the near future, but by then it will be too late.
They are always watching, he thinks, but they do not always see. This is what he has learned.
Still, his work is only halfway done, and the ticking clock on the wall above the door reminds him
of the timeliness of his task. Making quick work of closing and locking the cabinet door once
more, he moves instead over to the nurse’s desk and leans down to open the small refrigerator that
has been tucked underneath. In comparison to the medicine cabinets, the fridge holds relatively few
items, only a few ice packs for injuries and a row of moderately-sized containers filled with with a
thick, viscous substance in a light shade of pink.
‘Like a strawberry milkshake,’ he thinks ironically, though his stomach turns at the sight and the
knowledge of just how unlike any sort of sweet fruit it actually tastes. He wouldn’t wish it on his
worst enemy—probably.
The containers are, helpfully, labelled with the date and the time of each meal that the represent,
which makes it all too easy to grab for the one labelled August 22nd — breakfast, in that same neat
cursive. It isn’t terribly easy to pry the lid from the container without making a mess, but with a
little patience he manages and is left with a bitter smell that hits him in the face. He has to hold the
liquid aloft, waving his other hand in front of his face to ward off the offensive scent for a moment
before he can regain his composure to continue.
Picking the bottle of syrup up off the desk, he unscrews the cap and oh-so-carefully upends it over
the pink liquid. The syrup is as brown as the bottle, which makes it easier for him to eyeball how
much is being poured out, stopping after it looks to be about two or three tablespoons worth. The
syrup smells as bitter as the pink substance and he is quick to close both containers before he has to
be subjected to it any longer. Then, with the lid firmly attached, it’s all-too-easy to shake the
container and watch the brown liquid disappear into the mix.
With the container slid back into the fridge right where it belongs and the bottle of syrup slipped
into his pocket, he makes a hasty retreat and locks the office door behind him, leaving no trace that
he was ever there.
‘They can’t judge what they can’t prove,’ he reasons as he slips around the corner and down the
stairs towards the security office door where the space stands empty for the time being. With key
in the lock and the door swinging open again, he knows he has once gotten away with something
wonderful—and terrible.
‘I’m sorry,’ he thinks, sending the sentiment out like a silent prayer, ‘but I had to.’
With the deed already done, it’s only a matter of time. There is nothing more to do than wait.
Chapter End Notes
Phase Eight: Tool
Chapter Summary
Jungkook finds that his new role as a sex education doll is not without its challenges—
most importantly, knowing his place when unrest among the other staff begins
brewing.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE EIGHT:
Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-Consensual Touching,

Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use,
Mind Manipulation, Conditioning, Emotional Manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome,
Imprisonment, Sexual Slavery, Voyeurism, Objectification, Dumbification,
Dollification, Forced Orgasm, Orgasm Control, Slapping, Punishment, Human Urinal,
Watersports, Vomiting, Induced Vomiting, Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempt,
Needles, Blood, Medical Play, Medical Experimentation, Medical Testing, Human
Experimentation, Medical Examination
IMPORTANT NOTE:
This chapter includes a scene that contains needles, blood, and vomiting. Some
readers may prefer to skip parts of this scene. There is a link at the beginning of each
section containing one of these elements that will skip you to the very next scene
without having to scroll past it manually. There will also be a link to a description of
the scene if you would like to know what you missed. Please consider your options
before reading this scene! Bypassing this scene will minimally affect your
understanding of the plot.
Fic Playlist
Phase Eight Playlist


the original
story here!

Teacher’s Lounge—Second Floor 08-22-18 7:12AM
“How long until the first bell?” He asks nervously, only to receive a friendly slap to the shoulder in
response. The hallways are all but empty, the early morning sun filtering through open doors to
supplement the scattered security lamps that serve as the only overhead lighting for the time being.
He knows, depending on the lateness of the hour, that the halls may soon be filling with students—
but for now, the building is bereft of any sound but the echoes of their footsteps and overlapping
voices. He is surrounded by a small crowd of bodies, people who feel both familiar and utterly
alien to him.
“Don’t worry, we have plenty of time,” his nearest companion replies, elbowing him on the other
side like an old friend. “Students won’t arrive for another hour or so.”
“Why are we here so early?” He muses out loud, and his answer is a chorus of laughs from every
side. Ahead, a few more teachers step out into the hall from another classroom and wave in their
direction.
“We wanted to accompany you to work on your first day, of course!” Another of the men behind
him pipes up, and he can’t help but stop in the center of the hallway to look back at the speaker.
“But...this isn’t my first day? I don’t—”
“Don’t be silly, Hoseok,” the man replies with a slick smile, “You’re one of us now. This is your
first day as a member of the Jung household. Of course we want to make sure you’re all taken care
of.”
Oh.
“Yeah, we wouldn’t let you take on the beginning of level fourteen without support, brother,” a
woman joins in now—and Hoseok remembers her, one of the other teachers that had been among
the crowd in the teacher’s lounge on his first day. That’s where they must be heading now, he
reasons as a hand at the small of his back prods him to start moving again.
Brother. Right.
“Right, sorry, I—I just got a little confused—”
“No worries,” one of the men tells him—one of his brothers. “You’re learning.”
They’re so confident, all of them, a group that had jumped up at the crack of dawn to accompany
him here, despite not all of them actually holding positions in the school like he does. He isn’t
quite sure exactly what they all do, exactly, but in any case they seem familiar enough with the
school—and he shouldn’t be surprised, he knows. Unlike Hoseok himself, most of them likely
attended the school themselves, much the same as his own students.
“C’mon, let’s head upstairs, grab some breakfast,” the woman suggests, and Hoseok turns his head
to glance at her, trying to remember her name. Yahren—or Yerin, maybe? He knows he should
already know it, remembers her face at least from the very first day he arrived at the front gates.
She’s sweet—and convincing, that’s for sure—as she guides him without hesitation up the stairs
that lead to the second floor and down the long hallway to a familiar room in which he hasn’t spent
nearly enough time.
The Council was right, he realizes this now—he truly had been unnecessarily isolating himself. It’s
easy as breathing to follow the flow of the bodies around him as they spill through the open door
and disperse into various seats around the room wherever they please. This is what he’s been
missing, the gentle banter back and forth, the warm bodies that sandwich him in on either side
when he settles onto a leather couch and finds a plate of various fruits and pastries shoved into his
hands.
“Thank you, uh—”
“Jinsoul,” the young woman tells him as she releases the plate and settles into a seat across from
him, “Jung Jinsoul. It’s okay, I know we didn’t have a chance to meet properly last night after
dinner, you were busy with moving all of your things. How’s your new room?”
“I—um—” He pauses and chokes around a bite of food as his eyes flicker across the room and spot
a face he certainly didn’t expect to see, especially not first thing in the morning. Seokjin. The
principal steps through the door and greets the staff members nearest to him with warm shakes of
their hands, a gentle palm rested on a shoulder here and there as the tall man moves through the
room.
“...Hoseok?” Jinsoul asks, sounding worried at his sudden silence. Hoseok wrenches his eyes away
from the principal, dragging his gaze back to stare at the woman before him with unseeing eyes.
“Um, I’m sorry—what was I saying?” His mouth is suddenly dry as he speaks and he swallows
thickly, futilely. Jinsoul gives him a pitying look, but as she follows the previous direction of his
gaze across the room and spots Seokjin, making his way towards them now, her expression
changes to something else entirely. Something unreadable. Something that makes Hoseok’s
stomach clench in sudden fear.
“You were telling me how you’re settling in,” she repeats slowly, her tone carrying a sharp edge
that wasn’t there before, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Ah yes, that’s precisely what I wanted to ask as well,” a new voice asks, and Hoseok’s head jerks
around to find Seokjin standing over their little group now, hands resting on the backs of two of
their chairs, his tall, imposing figure casting a shadow over them all. “How is our newest Jung
taking to his household so far?”
“I was just waiting for Hoseok to tell me the same thing, Mr. Kim…” Jinsoul directs to the older
man, and the group falls silent as they all wait for his answer now.
“I—ahem—I’m, I’m very pleased, um...so far…” He stutters out, directing his comments up to
Seokjin. The principal doesn’t even glance his way, instead smiling down at just about everyone
sitting around him except Hoseok himself, and he feels a tiny pinch of pain in his chest at the sight.
“I’m happy to, um, finally be where I—where I belong, sir…”
“Chanwoo, Ilhoon,” Seokjin says, addressing each of the members of the group as though Hoseok
hadn’t spoken at all, “Taekwoon—I see that you’ve finally come back to visit us, hm?”
There’s a soft chuckle that breaks across the silence, the bodies on either of Hoseok’s side shaking
with laughter. He doesn’t understand the joke, cracks an awkward smile anyway.
“Of course, Mr. Kim,” one of the men—Chanwoo, he thinks—shoots back playfully, clearly
unafraid of the older man at all, “I may have avoided coming back to school for a long time, but I
had to make sure my brother here got settled in alright, didn’t I?” A good-natured hand is clapped
over the back of Hoseok’s neck, forcing his head down a little towards his knees, and he doesn’t
fight it.
“I’m glad to hear it. Please make sure Mr. Jung is well taken care of.” Hoseok looks up in time to
see Seokjin turning away from them now, still not having glanced in Hoseok’s direction once, and
that pinching pain in his chest becomes piercing.
“Seok—uh, Mr. Kim!” He jumps to his feet, but the older man continues to walk away as though
he didn’t hear a sound, and Hoseok stumbles over his feet and the feet of his new brothers and
sisters as he tries to follow after. This isn’t—it isn’t right, he has to—do something—
“Where do you think you’re going?” A voice interrupts him.
He shoots a quick, “Um, just—going to the bathroom—” over his shoulder, but is immediately
stopped by a hand on his elbow. Jinsoul stops him in his tracks, giving him an unimpressed look.
“You’re heading the wrong way, then.” Her words leave no room for argument, though he casts a
glance over his shoulder as he’s steered around to face the other direction, catching one last glance
at Seokjin’s broad shoulders crossing the threshold and disappearing down the hallway once more.
“Come with me, I’ll show you.”
“But I—”
“This way, Hoseok, come on.”
He follows Jinsoul without any further resistance, her grip on his arm tight enough to be painful
even though her face is impassively blank as they weave their way through the other teachers that
have gathered throughout the room. Jinsoul leads him towards the far side of the room where he
remembers Yoongi having retrieved tools to use during detention the week before—the same dark
cabinet emblazoned with the crest of the Academy shining across the front stands tall before them,
wood shining regally, innocently, to conceal all that it hides within. He can feel the crest staring
down at him as he moves.
‘They are always watching, ’ he thinks, and the pain in his chest becomes a knife.
His arm is suddenly jerked to the left and he finds himself tugged around to face the corner of the
room, seemingly empty until he shifts his eyes down to the floor and finds himself freezing in
surprise. Before them, knelt down at their feet is a prone figure, naked from head to toe with hands
resting on his bare knees, his blonde head hanging between his shoulders.
“Hello there, Jimin,” Jinsoul greets him coolly, and the younger man slowly raises his head at her
words. His eyes are blank, almost unfocused, as he gazes at them, shifting from Jinsoul’s face to
Hoseok’s own—and Hoseok sucks in a sudden, sharp breath. There’s something so—so unsettling
about the way the man is looking up at them; neither his nudity or his prone position are
particularly surprising to Hoseok at this juncture, but the way he gazes back at them without
blinking tells Hoseok that somehow...it all should be.
“...yes, ma’am?” the janitor answers slowly, voice wooden and impassive.
“We have need of your services this morning,” she replies, and it’s as though they’re reading from a
script, for all that the words sound as practiced as Jimin’s unsurprised nod in return.
“Of course. How would you prefer me?”
“Just as you are,” she tells him, stepping forward to bring a hand to the man’s soft, light hair. Jimin
doesn’t make a sound at that, holding perfectly still beneath her grip now. Jinsoul glances over her
shoulder at Hoseok for a moment, her lips finally giving a small quirk that betrays her feelings on
the subject.
“I know you’ve never been properly introduced to our janitor’s full...usefulness.” She says it as
though she is almost consoling Hoseok for his prior deprivation. “I’ll go first so you get the idea,
okay?”
He doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak, knowing that any words could get him in trouble, and
he—he definitely doesn’t want to invite any more trouble. Not now. They are always watching.
When he finally manages a shaky nod, Jinsoul’s mouth quirks up even further into what could
almost be called a smile.
She turns back to the janitor with a more determined look in her eyes and uses her free hand to slide
beneath the skirt of her uniform, fumbling for a second before hooking her fingers beneath the hem
of what turns out to be her underwear, which she tugs down her thighs without a second thought.
Hoseok isn’t surprised, per se, but he does find himself swallowing thickly at the sight of her bare
ass peeking out from beneath the dark fabric before her skirt drops back into place.
It doesn’t quite make sense, the way she steps forward and raises her skirt just enough to make
room for Jimin’s head, guiding the younger man forward until his face disappears under the fabric
and out of sight. It particularly doesn’t make sense when she then locks her knees, standing
perfectly still as her eyes fall shut and her small fingers clench into what is visible of the janitor’s
hair.
“Um…” Hoseok dares to take a step forward, trying to get a better vantage point on the situation.
Jimin couldn’t be...pleasuring her, could he? Not with how perfectly still they both seem to be
keeping themselves—it certainly doesn’t look like any sexual act that Hoseok’s ever seen before.
“What—uh—what’re you doing, exactly?”
His new sister turns her head towards him just enough to open one eye, her smile turning more
sardonic by the second. “Mmmm...whaddya think I’m doing, silly? I’m—ah—doing what I said
we’d be doing.” When Hoseok doesn’t immediately seem to catch on, she laughs and beckons him
closer with the hand that she doesn’t have clenched into Jimin’s blonde hair. “I’m going to the
bathroom, just like you wanted to. Come take a look.”
And Hoseok can’t help himself, he absolutely has to step closer to watch as she raises the front of
her skirt again, this time to expose the soft swell of her own pussy—waxed smooth the way they all
are—and the way that Jimin has been tugged right up against it, his thick lips closed around her
mound as best as he can. Her thighs seem to quiver on either side of the janitor’s face but Jimin’s
expression is peacefully blank, eyes closed as he holds himself as still as ever—the only motion
that betrays the truth of her words is the slow, rhythmic clenching of Jimin’s throat as the younger
man swallows and swallows again. Hoseok can hear it now, the soft rushing sound that proves that
she really is doing exactly what he thought she was doing: pissing straight into Jimin’s open,
waiting mouth.
Hoseok is frozen, then—either in shock or in awe, he doesn’t know—staring unabashedly until she
finally seems to run dry and jerks Jimin’s head away from her at last. The janitor snaps his jaw
shut, but not before a small stream of liquid seeps out of the corner of his mouth and dribbles down
the side of his neck, evidence enough of what she’s done to him.
“Lick,” she tells him, and Jimin hurries to dive his face forward again, lapping at the pretty pink of
her pussy lips, dragging his tongue almost eagerly from bottom to top before repeating the motion
again to catch every last drop of piss still clinging to her skin. Hoseok finds himself swallowing
instinctively as he watches Jimin do the same, and his stomach turns when he realizes what he’s
mirroring.
“Ahhh…” Jinsoul groans when she finds herself satisfied, smiling to herself now, “that’s better.”
She lets go of Jimin’s head at last, the younger man falling back to placidly sit on his heels and
wait for further instructions, slowly licking his lips where they hang open and waiting. As she tugs
her underwear back up her thighs, neatly tucking her skirt back into place once she does, she
elbows Hoseok as though to encourage him to move forward. “Your turn now!”
“I—” He doesn’t know what to say, what to do, feeling frozen on the spot as he stands alone before
the janitor now.
“Oh, hurry up, we don’t have a ton of time before you’ll have to get to your classroom,” she tells
him, and Hoseok feels backed into a corner just as much as Jimin is just now.
This—This must be—normal, right? With the way that the younger man is kneeling so calmly,
clearly used to the treatment. No one else in the room has given any indication that Jinsoul’s
behavior is strange in any way, though Hoseok’s skin is burning as if all eyes are on them all the
same.
His hands are on his belt before he realizes what he’s doing—but it’s far too late to take any of this
back now, not with the young woman, his new sister, standing over his shoulder with her arms
crossed, watching him expectantly. They are always watching. Hoseok wants to puke.
“Go on,” she says when he hesitates a moment too long, and his zipper is undone and his cock
pulled free of his pants before he can think better of it. He feels a small hand at his back once
more, pushing him forward even as she says, “Or—wait, do you want to have him some other
way? Everyone’s got a preference—”
“Um, I don’t—”
“Okay, hold on, just a second,” she instructs, and for a moment she disappears from his side to
move to the cabinet they had passed by before. It takes a few moments of rummaging for her to
find what she is looking for, long enough that Hoseok has to tear his eyes away from Jimin or run
the risk of trying to make awkward conversation with the younger man to try to break the tension.
When she returns, Jinsoul holds out a surprising object to him—a short plastic tube that seems to be
attached to some sort of funnel, looking more like something he would find in a kitchen, or—or a
science lab than he would a teacher’s lounge. But its use becomes immediately clear when she
lightly kicks a foot out to Jimin, prodding him up onto his knees.
“Roll over,” she instructs, and the janitor doesn’t hesitate for even a second before shifting onto all
fours and moving his body in a circle so that his ass is facing them instead. Jimin bends at the
waist, laying his forehead against the floor, his arms hanging limply at his sides while the position
drives his bare ass up in the air—and Hoseok catches sight of the dark plug that has been wedged
between the man’s plush cheeks.
“Hold this, will you?” She asks Hoseok, thrusting the tube and funnel into his hands so she can
lean down over Jimin’s exposed ass, and Hoseok fumbles to catch the device while he watches,
wide-eyed, as she immediately reaches for the plug and doesn’t hesitate for even a moment before
working it free of the man’s clenching hole. Hoseok is even more surprised when, unexpectedly,
only part of the plug comes free—a thin portion that slides out of the center and leaves an outer
ring of the plug still held tight in Jimin’s hole, leaving him permanently gaping open for—Hoseok
can only assume—easier access.
“Keep your ass up,” she instructs Jimin, who doesn’t so much as move to acknowledge her, then
reaches out a hand to take the funnel back. Hoseok nearly drops it as he offers it back to her and
watches in amazement as she affixes the end of the tube right into the waiting hole with practiced
ease. Jimin finally shows some sign of reaction, the tiniest whimper catching Hoseok’s hearing
when Jinsoul slides the tube firmly into place at last.
“Alright, that should do it,” she says as she gets back to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirt as
she moves. She sets the inner piece of the plug aside on a nearby table before returning to
Hoseok’s side and she tuts disapprovingly when he doesn’t so much as move a muscle towards
Jimin. Her hands find his hips again and impatiently guide him until he has no choice but to step
forward, toes brushing against Jimin’s feet, and the janitor immediately responds by straightening
his back and propping his ass up higher as if on instinct.
In the end, it’s easier than it seems to make the final move and slip the head of his cock into the
waiting mouth of the funnel. The familiar position, with a beautiful person bent over in front of
him isn’t exactly shocking at this point, no—but the way that Jimin’s head tilts to the side and his
eyes fly open to stare up at Hoseok the moment he does so certainly is.
Jimin stares up at him blankly, almost unseeingly, hands frozen at his sides while he waits for
Hoseok to get started. This is just another day for the janitor, Hoseok realizes, and that thought
makes his stomach turn more than anything else. He can see the way the younger man’s stomach
bulges out slightly towards the floor, what can only be the result of countless other people doing to
Jimin exactly what Hoseok is being directed to do—using him as nothing more than a urinal. It has
to be uncomfortable, Hoseok thinks, having one’s stomach distended like that—how does Jimin
stand it? How much of the day does he spend literally walking around filled with someone else’s
piss, with the ache and the stretch of it pushing at his belly—?
Jinsoul, growing impatient as Hoseok gets lost in his reverie, pinches at Hoseok’s side and snaps at
him, “Hey, don’t be shy—this is all he’s good for anymore.” And more than anything else, her
words finally shock him into action, his abdomen giving one last terrible clench before he finally
relaxes and feels the first of his piss drip free.
It’s impossible to hold back once the stream has started, and it’s all he can do to drop his hands to
grip Jimin’s hip, just as his new sister had gripped the man’s hair moments before, and hold
himself steady as he watches the golden liquid of his piss fill the funnel and begin slipping down
the length of the tube where it disappears into Jimin’s waiting body. The janitor’s body swallows it
all down easy as breathing.
“I—I’m sorry—” Hoseok finds himself whispering, though at this point, what difference would it
make? Jimin doesn’t say anything, of course, but the look in the janitor’s dark eyes over his
shoulder at Hoseok seems to say ‘you should be.’
And as Hoseok finds himself taken over by the myriad of sensations, the hot rush of his piss and
the sight of Jimin’s hole fluttering beneath him—finds himself growing harder by the second
against the cool metal of the device in his hand. Their eyes barely move from one another for a
single second, Jimin unabashedly staring him down, not a hint of shame on the younger man’s face
as Hoseok just uses him just as he’s been instructed to.
There is a rush of sound around them, the room full and buzzing with energy, but all Hoseok can
hear is the heavy thrum of his own heartbeat and the soft rush of Jimin’s breath against the hard
floor beneath him. The moment draws out into what seems to be an eternity, the seconds ticking by
impossibly slow as Hoseok empties his body into the younger man. Even more impossible still is
the suddenly endless stream of his own piss, as though he’s been storing it up for just this exact
moment—and Jimin never breaks eye contact, never looks away even for a moment as his body
opens up and accepts every—last—drop.
“Get it on the bed, quick—”
“Damn, it’s heavy—I don’t know how you do this every day—”
He would laugh, but the situation is anything but humorous. The room reeks already, the heavy,
acrid scent of bile wafting through the air. He steps to the side to make room for his compatriot to
shuffle around the other side of the hospital bed, a limp body suspended between them by their grip
on its arms and legs.
“You said you found it like this?” He can’t quite look at the teacher—doesn’t want to, not with
what he’s seen—but the sudden issue at hand provides an almost welcome distraction from his
looming thoughts, his anger. Almost. At the very least, he has no choice but to be a professional, to
put his patient first.
“Just a few minutes ago, yes,” the other man replies with a grunt as they set their charge down in
the bed, letting its limbs fall limp and useless off the edges of the small mattress.
“What did you do after I left? It’s only been…” He checks the clock above the door. “...thirty
minutes or so—”
“I didn’t do anything, ” the other man grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
Clearly caught off guard by the situation, the teacher responds with a great deal more emotion than
usual, adding to the already tense atmosphere of the office. “I was finishing my grading at my desk
and all of a sudden…” He waves a hand at the mess in front of him as if the gesture explained
everything.
And, in all fairness, it did. Lying before them, filthy and naked across the sick bed, is the body of
the doll that had been left in their charge—dark hair, skin paled from lack of sunlight, vomit
smeared down its chin and neck and across its chest. It was precisely clear what had happened—
the question that remained was how.
“Help me turn it on its side,” he sighs, shifting to slide his hands beneath the doll’s body. His
companion hesitates for only a moment before following suit, and together they shift their limp
charge onto its side, curling knees up towards its chest until it ends up in the fetal position—
leaving it looking even more vulnerable than before.
“I need to check for a fever,” he says unnecessarily, a prickle at the back of his neck—as always—
leaving him feeling the need to explain himself. The teacher only hums and nods, stepping back to
leave him a clear path to the cabinet, from which he withdraws a long and thin leather case. Inside,
tucked into specially carved cushioning, is the spindly shape of a long thermometer made of glass.
When he waves with his free hand, his companion moves quickly to hand him a bottle of the same
medical lubricant he always uses, and he slicks up several inches of the thin glass sphere before
setting all but the thermometer aside and stepping up behind the doll once again. With one hand on
the doll’s ass, he spreads its cheeks apart to get a better vantage-point on its furled hole, still loose
but not plugged from its preparations earlier that morning. The doll doesn’t make a sound as the
blunted end of the thin glass device is prodded against its hold then pushed inside, though its
muscles twitch and it clenches around the intrusion immediately—a good sign, as far as he’s
concerned.
The room is uncomfortably silent as he holds the thermometer firmly inserted inside of the doll’s
clenching hole for long enough to gain an accurate reading—but when he pulls the device free and
wipes the lubricant on the doll’s bare leg to help him get a better look, he finds it at a perfectly
normal temperature of 37°C. Shaking his head, he places the device back in its case and moves to
set it by the sink for cleaning later, his mind racing through all of the possible explanations. No
fever means—
His silence seems to disturb his companion, who finally asks, “...what is it?” When he doesn’t
answer right away, the other man steps closer, asking again, “Namjoon?”
“Normal,” he finally admits between bites at his own lip as he stares down at the floor, “Perfectly
normal. No fever.”
“Well...what does that mean, exactly?”
The nurse sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “It means that it isn’t sick —or, at least,
that it doesn’t have a virus or an infection of some sort—”
“So then what could cause it to just...throw up all over the place like that? It made a total mess of
my classroom...”
Namjoon pauses, thinking the question over as he turns his gaze back to the prone figure laying
before them in the sick bed. What could cause an otherwise healthy body to react in such a way?
“I’m not sure. A number of causes, I suppose…” Another sigh. “I need to test a few more things.
You don’t have to stay, Yoongi, if you don’t—”
“No, no, I’m not leaving. I need to know what’s going on just as much as you do,” the older man
replies, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the counter to watch. Namjoon,
realizing that he isn’t going to win an argument here but also isn’t going to be receiving any more
assistance, resigns himself to his task and grabs his stethoscope from his desk off to the side before
moving back to the doll once again.
It doesn’t take much to make the doll flop back over onto its back, though he has to take a moment
to wipe vomit from its chest with the edge of the sheets before he can place the diaphragm above
the doll’s heart and the tips in his ears to have a listen. When the soft thud-thud-thud of the doll’s
heart is noticeably faster than normal, it confirms his suspicions that something—something—is
wrong.
Dropping his stethoscope to his chest, he shifts to stand closer to the doll’s head, moving very
slowly to avoid startling it. He’s sure he must look a little silly as he holds his hands out a few
inches from the doll’s ears, but he pays very close attention as he snaps his fingers on one side and
then the other, relieved when its eyes twitch and its head moves a little at the sudden noise. Even
unconscious, the doll seems perfectly capable of hearing him properly.
Next, he draws a small flashlight from his pocket and leans even closer, bringing his fingers up to
gently lift one of the doll’s eyelids, finding its eyes glossy and unfocused, pupil retracted down to a
pinpoint, giving the doll an altogether frightening expression. As he brings the flashlight closer and
swings it across its line of vision, he expects the see the pupil dilate when the light moves away—
but finds that it stays retracted despite the sudden light change. Frowning, he moves on to the other
eye and receives the same result upon repeating the test. When he drops the flashlight back into his
pocket and uses his thumbs to open both eyes this time, he doesn’t find any signs of anisocoria, the
pupils exactly the same size on both sides—but both are tiny enough that they are almost drowned
out by the color in the doll’s iris.
Yoongi hasn’t moved an inch when he pulls his hands away and turns back to face the older man,
watching Namjoon’s every move appraisingly as he replaces his stethoscope with another toolkit
instead, one that he brings with him as he takes a seat beside the doll and grabs for one of its limp
legs to begin a new test.
The first of the tools that he extracts is a small reflex hammer, heavy in his hand, then slides his
other hand palm-down beneath the crook of the doll’s knee. When he gently raps the blunted end
of the hammer against the space just beneath the doll’s kneecap, the reaction is sluggish but
noticeable and the leg jumps a few inches in Namjoon’s grip. Satisfied, he lets the leg drop back
down onto the mattress and moves on to the other leg to repeat the same test, only to find the exact
same result.
Shifting slightly up the bed, he grabs for the doll’s arms one at a time, repeating the same
hammering motion against his thumb pressed to the tendons just on the inside and the outside of its
elbows to feel the way its biceps and triceps jump at the strikes. He finishes with another test of the
tendons a few inches below its wrists, each twitching appropriately when struck.
Yoongi sniffs impatiently behind him as Namjoon slides the hammer back into its case and draws
out another tool, this time a long metal rod with a spiked wheel at the end—a Wartenburg wheel,
his brain supplies helpfully. Grabbing for the leg that he had discarded, he brings it back into his
lap and, without preamble, runs the spiked wheel across the exposed flesh at the bottom of the
doll’s foot. The response is immediate this time, the doll jerking and making a small noise of
discontent at the sudden prickle of pain. This is all Namjoon needs to know that the doll’s nerve
response hasn’t been impaired—at least in its legs—but he’s nothing if not thorough.
He hears, but pointedly ignores, the way Yoongi shifts and gives a more obviously impatient sigh
behind him, focusing instead on trying the same test on each of the doll’s toes and then its other
foot as well—just to be sure of the results, of course. The way the tendons and muscles and bones
shift beneath his hands as the doll squirms under the tingling sensation is as satisfying as always,
but he pointedly ignores the way it makes his blood rush in interest.
When he repeats this same test on the doll’s hands and finds the response adequate, he moves on to
checking more significant nerves, starting with the well-muscled chest laying before him. Running
the device around one of the doll’s tiny, pink nipples elicits the greatest response yet, its hands
clenching at its sides as it stirs slightly, chest rising into the sensation. Under any other
circumstances, it would be amusing to watch the way each nipple tightens as the small spikes are
dragged across the tiny buds, something Namjoon might repeat over and over again to see just how
much the doll could take—but, circumstances being what they are, he knows there’s no time for
delay.
He can finally hear Yoongi draw closer when he moves on to the most important test of them all—
grabbing at the doll’s limp cock to hold it upright, he unceremoniously runs the spiked wheel along
its length and watches, satisfied, as the organ immediately twitches and starts to fill with blood in
his palm. Yoongi makes a small humming noise over his shoulder as though he is satisfied with the
response as well. Namjoon repeats the test a few more times before deciding that he’s done enough
and sets the tool back in its case at last.
Sensing that he’s come to some sort of conclusion, Yoongi breaks the silence to ask in a low voice,
“...well?”
Namjoon slides to his feet and moves around the older man, putting his tools away where they
belong before speaking up again. “I was able to do a rudimentary cranial nerve exam, and it seems
to be responding appropriately for nerves one, two, five, and ten—though I certainly couldn’t test
any of the other eight nerves with it unconscious.”
There’s a bite to his voice that Yoongi responds to immediately with a scowl. “You know exactly
why it has to be—”
“Well it isn’t sick, not with any illness I can detect with our limited resources here. I have nothing
else to suspect other than outside influences, don’t I?”
Yoongi stiffens and steps back as if Namjoon’s words had been a physical threat. “And what’s that
supposed to mean, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Namjoon throws back at the teacher, his tone dripping with sarcasm now,
“Maybe it has something to do with the midazolam that we’ve been feeding it day in and day out.
Just maybe.” When Yoongi doesn’t immediately respond, Namjoon barrels on, “You know what
the side-effects of an overdose are?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer, giving Namjoon that same tight-lipped look, so the nurse stomps over to
the side of the bed and bends over the doll, reaching into his pocket for his flashlight again while
he peels back one of the doll’s eyelids.
“Look,” he says as he flashes the light back and forth across the doll’s field of vision, and Yoongi
is forced to move closer to see what Namjoon is trying to demonstrate. “Its pupils are totally
retracted,” he points out, and he knows that Yoongi can see—yes—the doll’s eyes are weirdly
light, pupils drawn down to pinpricks as it stares unseeingly up at the ceiling.
Namjoon tugs his hand away, letting the doll’s eyes fall closed again, and crosses his arms over his
chest. “Heart rate is high, and it feels clammy to the touch even though it doesn’t have a fever.
These are all signs of a negative reaction to a foreign substance—like a central nervous system
depressant that we’ve been force-feeding it for weeks.”
He stares Yoongi down as if to dare the older man to say something—too angry, really, to care
what the consequence might be of talking back like this, of speaking to his Guide as though they
are equals. This is his office, though, he reminds himself, and stands his ground. This is his area of
expertise, and this mess has gone on long enough.
Yoongi surprises him, then, when he doesn’t respond with anger, or with defensiveness. Yoongi
stares right back at him as though mulling over Namjoon’s words carefully, face impassive as he
lets the silence drag between them. Then, suddenly and much to Namjoon’s continued confusion,
the older man suddenly turns on his heel, glasses glinting in the bright light, and walks calmly right
out the door of the nurse’s office and disappears down the hall.
Baffled, Namjoon finds himself standing still, almost frozen in place as he waits for the teacher to
return, to explode at him—but several long minutes pass and it becomes clear that Yoongi isn’t
turning back. With a sigh, Namjoon resigns himself to getting back to work, and finally moves
back to the cabinet to withdraw a set of empty glass vials, a long catheter tube, and a tourniquet and
syringe. Idly, he thinks it might be for the best that the doll is asleep for these particular tests, since
the sight of blood and needles often makes even his most stoic patients a little wary.
When he moves back to the bed a final time, supplies in hand, and leans over the prone form before
him, he’s grateful that its eyes are closed now. He’s grateful that there is one less set of eyes
watching his every move. Even more so when he grabs for the lubricant, slicks up the end of the
catheter tube, and sets himself to task feeding it inside of the doll’s half-hard cock for what feels
like the dozenth time.
It goes easily now, no resistance from the body or the person it belongs to—though Namjoon tries
not to busy his thoughts with such things. It only takes a few seconds to feed the entire tube
through the doll’s cock and into its bladder, and when he grabs one of the vials from beside him on
the bed and uncaps the end of the tube, piss flows freely into the vial to give him more than
enough of a sample for testing.
Recognizing it as the opportunity that it is to kill two birds with one stone, he drags a bedpan out
from under the bed with his foot and upturns the catheter into it, siphoning out the remainder of the
doll’s piss while he busies himself with cleaning off and closing the vial. Once it’s labelled and set
aside for safekeeping, he returns to the catheter and shakes loose any remaining drops of piss
before grabbing at it to slide it free once more. It’s harder than ever to ignore the little unconscious
sounds of discomfort the doll makes as the tube slides free, only made more tolerable by the
relative stillness and cooperation of the body before him.
CW: scene containing blood/needles
click to skip
The tube is set aside on the already dirtied sheets and his hands, now a little unsteady, move
instead to the rubber tourniquet, which he drags around the back side of one of the doll’s arms and
ties firmly in place a few inches above the crook of its elbow. Curling the doll’s hand into a fist and
stretching the skin taut gives him ready access to the doll’s veins, though they look faint beneath
its pale skin—more evidence that something is wrong, a sign of dehydration at the very least. It
takes a few tries more than usual, much to his chagrin, to finally piece the skin with his needle and
watch the vial slowly fill with blood, and his relief at being left alone for the moment is all but
doubled.
That relief is short-lived, however, as the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway reaches his
ears through the open door, accompanied by hushed voices whispering back and forth, and
Namjoon realizes that his earlier fears of Yoongi returning were not unfounded. Worse, he knows
that Yoongi has definitely not returned alone.
Sure enough, from the corner of his eye, he spots Yoongi’s familiar figure enter his office,
followed shortly by a taller, more imposing figure—dark and broad at the shoulders. Unmistakable.
Seokjin.
“Mr. Kim,” the older man greets him, and Namjoon stiffens where he sits on the bed, fighting the
urge to turn his head around to meet the gaze he can feel burning at the back of his neck.
“...yes... sir?” He answers shortly, hands continuing their work as he presses against the dolls arm
to encourage the last of the blood sample he needs to spill into the vial. Once full, he carefully pulls
the vial away and closes the lid securely, eyes still trained down in front of him and not on the
moving figure he can sense drawing even closer.
“Yoongi has informed me that you have...yet again... raised concerns about the…” Seokjin pauses,
as if searching for the right words, though Namjoon knows the man is only playing with the
dramatic tension. “...well-being of our new doll. Is this true?”
He can feel the way Seokjin is trying to goad him, the way the taller man is looming over him so
that he has no proper means of escape. The heat of Seokjin’s body beside him is tangible,
showcasing just how close the older man has drawn in the span of a few seconds. His hands move
on auto-pilot now, sliding the needle free of the doll’s skin and tugging the tourniquet free with
ease, his blood rushing in his ears as a familiar heat, a familiar anger wells up in the pit of his
stomach.
“Yes.” He doesn’t bother sugar-coating it this time—he knows that something is wrong, and this
time, this time —Seokjin isn’t going to bully him into silence.
“...excuse me?” Seokjin’s voice dips low and menacing, a tone that would normal send Namjoon
cowering. Instead, it draws him right to his feet, sliding off the bed and forcing Seokjin to step
back in surprise as he turns around to meet the older man’s eyes dead-on. The principal blinks at
him, hands hanging limp at his sides, as though he only just realized how tall Namjoon is—that
Namjoon has several centimeters on him at least. It’s been a long time since they’ve stood this
close, Namjoon muses.
“I said yes,” he repeats coolly. “I have concerns about the well-being of the doll.” He doesn’t
bother to hide the derision in his voice as he stresses every word, and Seokjin’s eyes grow more
and more narrow by the second. “I’ve found more than enough to tell me that the doll’s current
treatment is headed down a path that will lead to its total failure.”
“And—just what do you think you’ve found that’s so important that Yoongi decided to drag me
away from my work to see?” Seokjin sounds, remarkably, a little unsettled by Namjoon’s
proximity—as though he can sense the anger radiating from the younger man.
Namjoon feels the grin spread across his lips before he realizes that it’s happened, but all of a
sudden he’s smirking up at the principal with a sense of bravado he didn’t know he was capable of.
He reaches down to the bed and grabs at the other vial he had discarded earlier, holding both the
tube of blood and the one filled with urine up for Seokjin to see.
“Evidence,” he sneers.
In a split second, three things seem to happen simultaneously—beside them, Yoongi takes a sharp
breath, Seokjin’s expression seems to melt from surprise to fear to anger, and a sudden strike lands
against Namjoon’s cheek. It takes him a dull moment to realize that Seokjin has slapped him, the
side of his face burning from the contact.
“Hand them over,” Seokjin demands—and his voice is, remarkably, cold and even despite the
circumstances. When Namjoon turns his head back to look at Seokjin again, his free hand coming
up to cradle his jaw where a bruise is sure to form, he finds the older man’s face suddenly
impassive, his eyes dark and expressionless once again. All at once, that bravado—that false sense
of courage that had taken him over—disappears just as quickly as it had come, slinking off into the
dark recesses of his mind where Namjoon’s doubts have made their home.
When Namjoon doesn’t immediately respond, Seokjin takes matters into his own hands. “I said
hand them over,” he orders, reaching for the vials and all but wrenching them from Namjoon’s
grip. He stares the liquid, sloshing it around in its containers for a tense second—and Namjoon gets
a horrible, sinking feeling moments before—
—Seokjin turns on his heel and flings the vials into the sink, shattering the glass and sending the
liquid splattering into the drain.
“What the fuck—?!” Namjoon leaps forward despite it being far too late, uncaring as he shoves the
principal out of the way to look down at the mess that has been left behind in the basin of the sink.
“That’s so unsanitary! Why on earth would you—”
“Silence.” Seokjin cuts him off with a single word, and his words die in his throat. The buzzing in
Namjoon’s ears returns, now, to fill the silence, as he turns back to stare at Seokjin incredulously.
“You seem to be forgetting our last conversation, Mr. Kim…”
Seokjin’s words don’t make any sense—of course he hasn’t forgotten their last encounter, though
he’d be remiss to call it a ‘conversation.’ Why else would he be here, trying to provide exactly the
proof that Seokjin had accused him of missing?
“You—You told me to bring you evidence, I was—”
“Your evidence is meaningless to me,” Seokjin cuts him off once more, and Namjoon is stunned
by the older man’s words. What?
“But—”
“You seem to be missing one sample in particular, Mr. Kim,” Seokjin goes on, ignoring him
completely, “I see there’s one empty vial here.”
The principal’s tone slips up into a lighter tone, the same familiar pitch that he always uses right
before he leaves someone quivering in fear or doubting their own mind—Namjoon has seen it time
and time again. He watches, frozen, as Seokjin moves over to the bed where he had previously
stood himself, Seokjin’s imposing figure made even more so by the naked, vulnerable body of the
doll lying before him atop the clinical white sheets.
“Have you tested its pleasure responses?”
“...what?”
“It’s pleasure responses,” Seokjin repeats in a tone that suggest that he believes Namjoon to be a
bit slow on the uptake.
“Why would I—?”
“Yoongi,” Seokjin interrupts for the third time, and the buzzing in Namjoon’s ears turns into a
tinny, whining noise instead. “What is the most important purpose of the doll’s service?”
And Yoongi, who has remained silent in the back of the room, so silent that Namjoon momentarily
forgot he was even there, dutifully pipes up. “The doll...the doll exists to further the sexual
education of our students,” he says.
“And?” Seokjin asks, though his eyes never leave the doll’s unconscious face.
“And...to demonstrate bodily functions…”
“Why?”
“To serve our mission, to assist every member of the community towards—towards furthering our
purpose—”
“And would you say,” Seokjin drawls, all traces of his earlier anger vanished, “that being able to
orgasm is the most important of these bodily functions?”
“I—” Yoongi hesitates, glancing over at Namjoon behind Seokjin’s back—but Namjoon can’t
stand to meet the man’s gaze. “I suppose that is correct, sir, yes…”
“Then that’s all the evidence we need, isn’t it?”
“Seokjin—”
“Sir—”
Both Yoongi and Namjoon speak up at the same time, and Seokjin’s head snaps around to stare
them both down, his gaze as emotionless as ever. “Sit down, Mr. Kim. You’ve done nothing but
demonstrate your incompetence to me today, I don’t want to hear another word.”
Foolhardy, Namjoon opens his mouth all the same. “But sir, I was just doing my—”
“Enough!” Seokjin straightens his back, rising up to his full height now, and Namjoon stumbles
back into the chair beside his desk. “Sit down, and stay down. You have been nothing but
insubordinate, incompetent, and disrespectful since the school year began, Mr. Kim, and it is
utterly unacceptable. You are no longer responsible for the caretaking of the doll, since you have
proven yourself incapable of following my orders.”
Namjoon’s mouth falls open as if to argue, but no sound comes out. Seokjin lets a pregnant pause
extend between them, waiting to see if Namjoon will dare to talk back, then—satisfied—turns back
to Yoongi, who has watched the entire exchange in stunned silence from a few feet away.
“Mr. Min, this task will fall to you, now, since Mr. Kim can no longer be trusted.” Namjoon’s eyes
snap over to Yoongi, whose face has gone completely blank at Seokjin’s words. It stings, a harsh,
painful stab at his heart that rivals the aching pain in his jaw, to hear that he has been deemed
untrustworthy. Even more so, when he watches Yoongi slowly, numbly nod his head in agreement
—knowing exactly what Yoongi himself has been hiding from them all, knowing full well that
Yoongi isn’t without his secrets.
“Come, assist me with this final test, won’t you?” Seokjin asks, and Yoongi takes a few jerky steps
forward to join the principal beside the bed. “Good. Now, hold its mouth open for me.”
“Sir?”
“Go on, get it open,” Seokjin urges, and Namjoon watches as best as he can around their bodies
blocking his view as Yoongi follows the principal’s orders—slowly, robotically—hands coming up
to bring the doll’s jaw down until its mouth naturally hangs open. But it isn’t until Namjoon sees
Seokjin’s hands falling to the front of his own slacks, undoing his belt and the zipper to pull his
cock free—already hard and ready—that a horrible, sinking feeling settles in the pit of Namjoon’s
stomach.
“No, that’s not going to be wide enough—it might bite me. Hmm...get the gag.”
“The gag, sir?”
“The Jennings gag, yes. You know where it is?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer, simply moves over to the cabinet beside Namjoon and opens it with ease,
reaching inside and finding what he is searching for in moments. He doesn’t meet Namjoon’s gaze
even for a second as the younger man watches the teacher draw out an admittedly frightening metal
contraption—though Namjoon, of course, understands its purpose perfectly, and it does nothing to
soothe his worries.
“Yoongi—” he hisses, “You can’t, it’s unconscious, you could seriously—”
“Hurry up,” Seokjin calls to him, and Yoongi slams the cabinet door shut and rushes back to hold
the gag out to the principal for inspection. “Yes, perfect. Get it fixed up for me, won’t you.”
While Yoongi undoes the straps on the gag and slides the curved metal bars of the gag into the
doll’s waiting mouth, Namjoon is forced to watch silently as Seokjin strokes his cock and stares
down at the doll with unfiltered hunger in his eyes. It’s been a long time, a very long time since
he’s last seen the older man in any sort of state of undress, and the circumstances couldn’t possibly
be more unpleasant. His stomach churns and churns at the sight, though Namjoon can’t decide
whether it’s because of what he’s seeing, or what he’s about to.
Beside him, Yoongi has fastened the straps of the gag in place and moves instead to the small lever
on the side of the gag which is affixed to small saw-like posts on either side of the metal frame. As
he pinches at the lever, the bars of the gag that have been placed between the doll’s teeth begin to
move, sliding further and further apart and dragging the doll’s jaw open with them. Each
subsequent shift of the lever makes a loud clicking sound, literally ratcheting the doll’s mouth open
until it has no choice but to gape wide and inviting for Seokjin’s cock.
“Very good, thank you Yoongi,” Seokjin praises, though Yoongi seems far from pleased to hear it
as he pulls away. “That should solve the problem, hm?”
“...yes, sir.” Yoongi repeats dutifully.
“You take its cock, then,” Seokjin reasons, stepping forward until the tip of his own cock presses
to the doll’s tongue, “and I’ll take its mouth, and together we’ll test all of its job duties.”
“But—”
“Yoongi.” Namjoon can see the way Yoongi swallows thickly at the sound of his own name from
the principal’s lips. “Make it orgasm, and we’ll have all the proof I need that the doll is perfectly
functional. Do you understand?”
The words aren’t directed at him, but every single syllable feels like another slap to the face for
Namjoon. He aches to get to his feet, to flee, to be anywhere but in this room—and yet something,
something ties him to the spot. Perhaps it is the fear of what will happen to him if he were to leave
—or perhaps, in some corner of his mind, it is the fear of what might become of the doll if he does.
Yoongi doesn’t vocalize his agreement, but he nods all the same, and Namjoon watches with baited
breath as the teacher’s long fingers slide down the doll’s chest, hesitating for only a moment before
wrapping around its cock and beginning to stroke it to full hardness.
Seokjin seems to take this to be as much assurance as he needs that Yoongi will follow his orders,
moving forward until he can slide his cock into the doll’s open, waiting mouth. The response is
immediate—despite being unconscious, the doll audibly gags at the unwelcome intrusion, the gag
forcing its jaw open but doing nothing to keep its tongue out of the way or help it to open up the
back of its throat.
The principal seems to have no trouble with this resistance, simply humming as if amused before
jerking his hips forward again so that his cock is fed back into the doll’s throat as far as it can go in
one try. Namjoon’s stomach turns over at the sudden gurgle and cough that follows this action,
watching an unmistakable trail of spit start to flow down the doll’s chin in its wake. This only
seems to encourage Seokjin more, the older man dropping one hand to the doll’s hair to drag it
even closer until every inch of his cock is buried in the doll’s throat.
The gagging noises are nearly constant now, and Namjoon has to drag his eyes away or risk his
own nausea; his eyes fall instead on Yoongi, who has struck up a careful, measured rhythm of
strokes to the doll’s cock—so very similar to his own technique, now that he thinks about it.
Yoongi’s eyes, however, are aimed across the room at the far wall, just as unfocused as the doll’s
eyes had been when he had checked them only minutes before.
Had it, truly, only been minutes? The wretched noises of Seokjin pulling back and thrusting into
the doll’s slack mouth have only just begun, and yet they seem to have already dragged on for
years. Yoongi seems to be just as affected by the goings-on as Namjoon is, and he just—can’t wrap
his mind around how, or why—why the teacher is just standing there, doing as he’s told, letting
Seokjin push him to do such a thing when he is so clearly revolted by it.
Namjoon’s mind turns, then, to the only obvious conclusion—looking at Yoongi’s face, the vacant
expression, he realizes that Yoongi has mentally retreated to a place just as far away from this
moment as Namjoon himself wishes he could be. It takes only a moment of contemplation more to
realize exactly where Yoongi must have sent himself:
Taehyung.
A secret worth keeping—just as Namjoon had thought before. Perhaps a secret for which it is
worth it to do such...terrible things, to allow them to happen.
CW: scene containing vomit
click to skip
Unaware of Namjoon’s sudden revelation, Seokjin seems to have lost himself to his own thoughts,
his own enjoyment instead. Despite his best efforts, Namjoon finds his attention dragged back to
the older man when a truly wretched noise catches his ears—and he turns his gaze just in time to
bear witness to the horrible sight of the doll being triggered into another vomiting attack.
There isn’t much, not given that the doll had already thrown up its breakfast less than an hour
before, but it’s enough to be horrifying all the same. Liquid slips out around Seokjin’s cock as the
man pays no attention to this development, continuing to fuck right into the doll’s helpless mouth
as bile spews forth with each thrust, and the awful smell of it immediately begins to permeate the
room once again. Yoongi wrenches back in surprise, nearly letting go of the doll’s cock as he’s
finally brought back into awareness by the sound—and then, from the look of revulsion on his
face, the smell.
Seokjin barrels on without a care in the world, and his face almost seems to slip into an expression
of... reverence, Namjoon decides. For once, it’s easier to keep his eyes trained on Seokjin’s face
than anything else, so Namjoon stares, helplessly, with fingers gripping the arms of his chair tight
enough to make it creak dangerously, as the older man takes his fill. Within moments, his thrust
grow completely erratic and he grips at the back of the doll’s head with both hands, holding it in
place as he finally seems to reach his peak.
Both Namjoon and Yoongi freeze at the sight, watching with barely-concealed horror on their
faces as Seokjin comes down the doll’s abused throat, only adding to the mess that he has made of
it—unsure whether or not the principal has reached an orgasm in spite of the vomit now making a
mess of his cock, and the open zipper of his slacks—or because of it.
Namjoon finally manages to raise a hand to cover his own mouth just as Seokjin finally pulls
away, satisfied, leaving the doll’s pried-open jaw dripping with bile and spit and semen in an
indistinguishable mess. Something about the motion seems to snap Yoongi back to attention once
again, his hand fumbling to resume its stroking of the doll’s cock as well before Seokjin notices the
lapse in his attention.
Seokjin, meanwhile, appears relaxed— relieved, even—by his release, and busies himself with
dragging a sheet up off the bed to wipe the mess from his skin and clothes before tucking his
softening cock back into his slacks and fastening his buttons and belt into place as though nothing
had happened at all.
Equally relieved, Namjoon found himself convinced that the worst had already passed—but he
suddenly found himself sorely mistaken. No, instead of moving away from the doll, now that his
business was done, Namjoon’s eyes followed Seokjin’s movements as if they were happening in
slow motion, tracking the way the older man bends down and reaches out a hand to slip his fingers
into the doll’s mouth, then dragging them across the doll’s clean cheek so that the mess of spit and
vomit smeared across its skin. Seokjin looks just as reverent and appreciative of the sight, watching
the movement of his own hand as it coats the doll’s face in all of the evidence of what he’s done.
And something about that motion, that tiny act of unnecessary cruelty on top of everything else that
Seokjin had done— that was finally enough for Namjoon to clamber to his feet, uncaring about the
way the chair bangs against the desk beside him or the attention it must suddenly draw to him.
Namjoon stands, staring just for a moment across the room where he locks eyes with Yoongi’s,
before he turns on his heels and flees.
Behind him, as he retreats down the hall, he hears the unmistakable sounds of Yoongi succeeding
in his mission to bring the doll to an orgasm as well, and he knows that Seokjin has gotten his
wish. The doll is functional, at least enough for Seokjin’s purposes—and damn the consequences.
“Should I follow him?”
The principal’s voice echoes through the empty office, confirming his suspicions as he hears the
man say, “No, no...let him go, we have what we need—”
And, worse, “—how disgusting. Call for janitorial. Get this mess cleaned up.”
Front Office—Nurse—First Floor 08-22-18 12:31PM
Swimming —he must be swimming.
He doesn’t remember going swimming.
Wet, though—he remembers wet. Remembers the way wet feels against his skin. Knows that he
must be wet.
The wetness is warm—soothing. Nice. He remembers nice. This is what he remembers nice feeling
like.
There is something else warm here too, but—warm like a sound, not like a feeling. It gives him a
warm feeling inside, not on the outside. He is on the inside now. The warm sound is on the outside.
It sounds like honey.
Around him—on the outside—there is buzzing, but—softer than before. Distant. Far above him.
He is down below.
There is warm in his ears and warm on his head and warm beneath him too.
The wet, warm feeling spreads, moving down the length of him, drawing the feeling into parts of
him that he had forgotten about. He remembers them—now that they are warm. The sound draws
closer, forms into shapes. He sees them in his mind, though he knows the shapes are in his ears.
The shapes have a name, but he—he doesn’t remember—
One of the shapes is familiar. It makes him feel warm in his middle, though the warm feeling on
the outside has moved away. It is down by his toes now—he remembers his toes, wiggles them
back and forth—but the warm feeling in his middle stays right where it is. The shape of the sound
in his ears is repeated, soft and round. It feels like a shape he should recognize, like a—
—a name.
His name.
Jungkook.
The sound of his name feels like the warmest thing yet, filling him up in his core. The voice that
says his name is—beautiful. Yes. Beautiful. A sound that he finds himself drawn toward.
His body moves without being asked, and he finds himself confined within the edges of it. Aware
of the shape of it. Knowledgeable of its limitations.
He is warm, but—tired. Heavy. He remembers heavy, feels it now. Feels it in the way the ends of
him refuse to move. Feels it in the way he is made of honey, made of—of rock-honey—of—
—cement. Made of cement.
That voice is close again, speaking his name like a prayer. He remembers prayer. He remembers
that voice.
“Jungkook…” it says, and his ears are warm again. His forehead too, as something wet is dragged
across it—wet and rough.
The roughness moves down the side of his neck, across his shoulder, and the warm feeling follows
behind. A different warmth is pressed to his other shoulder, tight like it has a grip on him. He
remembers the size, the shape of it—knows the feeling of a hand pressed against his skin.
Nice. It’s—nice. The warm. The voice. The hand. It’s nice when his name is said again, even
closer still. It doesn’t feel like honey, when more of the wetness—of the water —is put on his skin,
is dragged across his chest.
It feels warm on the inside and on the outside when something soft presses to his forehead. He
hears a small smacking noise, and the touch moves away before coming down to press against his
skin once more. His nose is touched, and he knows it is a kiss. He doesn’t know how he knows, but
he knows it all the same.
Another kiss is dropped above his right eye, and the rough, wet feeling drags back up his neck. He
feels it in his hair—remembers that he has hair. Feels that his hair is wet. Feels how it drips on his
skin.
The water does not feel like honey, but it is warm. His lips are warm when another kiss is pressed
to them, and the kiss tastes like honey.
“Jungkookie…” the voice whispers, and he feels the kiss change shape, feels the way his name is
formed by the lips that are doing the kissing. He remembers those lips.
“It’s okay,” the voice says, and he knows it to be true. He is okay. He is warm. He is being given
kisses. “You’re okay.”
The rough feeling disappears, but he is not left alone for long. His eyelashes flutter—he can feel
them against his cheeks. He remembers that he has eyes—remembers that they can open. He
doesn’t know how to open them, so he doesn’t try.
The hand reappears on his skin, followed by another. They land on his shoulders, press down. It
almost hurts, except for how it doesn’t. The warmth around him starts to move. He realizes that the
warmth is also wet, is also water. He is surrounded by water. He is warm on all sides.
Something touches his leg, brushes like a hand on his shoulder, but on his thigh instead. There is
another sound—not warm, just wet. Sloshing. Back and forth. The water is moving. Something else
moves against his other side—wiggles like toes. Not his own toes. His own toes are at the bottom
of his feet. These toes do not belong to him. The hands beside his legs are actually feet, and those
toes belong to someone else’s feet. The feet must belong to the same person as the hands on his
shoulders. He hopes that they belong to the owner of the voice like honey.
“Hold still, Jungkookie...” the voice whispers, and something above him moves, draws closer. He
is warmer than before. A weight settles across his legs, not heavy, but—nice. Firm. Close. Warm.
The hands on his shoulders squeeze tightly, and it makes the warmth in his chest grow—tighter.
The weight on his legs shifts, moves, grows still. The weight brushes against him from head to toe,
feels like skin against his skin. A body. A body that belongs to the hands and the feet.
“I’m here,” the voice tells him, and he knows that the body belongs to the voice as well. The body
is warm. The body is honey like the voice. The body presses close to him, and he is warmer still.
They are both wet.
“It’s okay, baby…”
Baby. He remembers baby. Remembers okay. Remembers that voice.
Another kiss is pressed to his lips, and he remembers how to use his own—how to make his own
lips kiss again. He feels like cement, but the kisses taste like honey, and he wants—he wants.
“I’m here with you, it’s okay...you’re not alone...it’s all okay now…”
He takes a kiss for himself, chases the shape of the voice, of the—words, of the words. They taste
like honey. Honey tastes like a promise. He swallows the honey down.
The voice hums to him, and the sound is warm. He is happy to have made the sound from that
voice. Happy feels warm in his chest.
“Stay with me, Jungkookie…” The voice asks him, and he stays. His eyelashes flutter against his
cheeks, and flutter again. Through them, he can see shapes—but not like the shapes in his ears. Not
like the words. Shapes in his eyes, shapes that make eyes—and lips—and a nose. Pretty shapes.
Shapes that draw closer, give him another kiss. He knows the face that the shapes make, and he
feels warm.
“I’m sorry, baby...I’m so sorry…” Hands cup his face, slide across his lips, across his cheeks. The
hands are wet, but his face is clean. He feels clean.
It’s okay, he wants to say. He knows that voice but cannot find his own. It’s okay.
“Stay with me, Jungkookie...stay, baby…” Arms wrap around him like an anchor, and his body is
made of cement. He couldn’t go even if he wanted to—and he doesn’t want to.
He is warm, and he is clean. He is not alone. There is nowhere he would rather be.
PSYCHIATRIC WARD—ROOM 34—CAMERA 2 08-22-18 2:11PM
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The sound is now as familiar to him as breathing. Ironic, all things considered.
The room is brighter now than it usually is during his visits—and he finds it refreshing, despite the
buzz of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. The room is clean, now, the bed neatly made, the sheets
crisp and clean. Despite the bars on the windows, sunlight filters through unencumbered, radiating
off the whitewashed walls.
He clears his throat to announce his arrival on instinct, but the figure lying before him in the bed
does not stir, and he did not expect it to. The patient lies perfectly still aside from the slow rise and
fall of his chest, a motion that accompanies the slow beeping that echoes through the small room.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
As he moves closer, the machines that line either side of the bed catch the light, their screens
revealing the myriad of bodily functions that they monitor—one revealing the steady crests and
waves of a heartbeat; the jagged paths of brainwaves.
Sacrilegious, he had once thought it to be—how nothing is beyond their sight. How they allow the
doctors to play at being God.
He has long-since learned to understand them, one and all.
He draws closer now, his footsteps quiet and respectful against the tiled floor. His gait is practiced,
his movements calm and easy even as he approaches a seat beside the plastic railings that cage this
patient into his bed. As he settles into the chair, a whiff of antiseptic reaches his nose, just as
familiar as the fluorescent lights, as the incessant beeping.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
He settles a book across his lap, heavy and leather-bound, the gilded edges catching the sunlight
much the same way the screens above him do. Now, he is free to raise his arms and take the hand
of the patient lying unconscious before him, drawing the man’s hand close so he can circle it with
both of his own. Movement is limited by the set of handcuffs that ensures that this patient can’t
stray from his bed, but he makes do as best as he can.
On the patient’s wrist, a thin, plastic band below the metal ring of the handcuffs declares his
information in bold, unforgiving letters:
Jung, Jaehyun Y.
ADM: 01/09/2018 ALG: NONE
DOB: 02/14/1985 PSY W ADM
▎││ ▒ │▐▐▌ │▒│││▎│││▌▒│││▎▌│
He pats a hand over the young man’s wrist for a moment, looking up scan over the patient’s slack
face and taking in the sunken nature of his cheeks, his eye sockets, the pallid nature of his skin.
The man’s lips are rough as though they have been nearly chewed through, red and cracked around
the edges, and they look almost as ragged as the man’s dark hair, which he knows has literally been
ripped out by the handful.
His eyes can help but wander, then, down to the man’s neck, and the deep, mottled bruising that
circles the entirety of his throat in a messy line. Though the marks have faded since he last took the
time for a visit, the size and shape of a rope is unmistakable.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The never-ending chorus of beeping that surrounds him reminds him of mercy, of the voices of
angels. It is a sign, he knows, of the divine intervention at work, of the mysterious machinations
far beyond his grasp within this mortal coil. He is but a servant, here to bear witness, to speak truth
—to see it through, his mission from on high.
With a sigh, he squeezes the man’s hand before drawing one of his own away, reaching into his
pocket for the familiar shape of a cross, cold and metallic, that he finds there. He draws out the
small figurine and brings it up to press it into the palm of the patient’s hand.
Then, with eyes closed and his own palm extended towards the heavens, he calls upon the spirit
within. In the silence of this hospital room—with a chorus of sounds celebrating this most precious
life surrounding him, and a most righteous anger filling his heart—he begins to pray.
BEEP.
“ God, be merciful to this sinner, and bring him to know and believe in Jesus Christ…”
BEEP.
“...for we see, that if his righteousness had not been, or if we have not faith in that righteousness,
we are utterly cast away…”
BEEP.
“Mr. Min...?”
A soft knock against the surface of his desk shocks Yoongi from his thoughts, leaving him
momentarily disoriented. His eyes rapidly focus on the face that is hovering above him—a familiar
face that suddenly fills the empty space into which he had been staring moments before, and for
minutes or hours before that too.
“...hm?”
The room is darker than he remembers it being, and a slow turn of his head to glance at the clock
above the door betrays the surprising lateness of the hour. Where had the day gone?
“Are you...alright?” He recognizes the face in front of him, though it takes more than a few
seconds for him to realize that it is Taehyung that is standing above him, the boy’s handsome face
twisted up with worry. He leans closer, glancing up above them for a second—to check the
cameras, he realizes—before resting a hand on a safe point between Yoongi’s elbow and bicep.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you…”
“Yes, yes—” he answers automatically, shaking his head and clearing his throat. He jerks to his
feet, his chair scraping against the tile floor below, and he rests his palms flat on the desk to
support himself as he gets his bearings back. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” The boy asks, and Yoongi can clearly see the concern in Taehyung’s dark eyes
now, the way his gaze flickers all over Yoongi’s face as if searching for answers in the tilt of
Yoongi’s lips, the curve of his brow.
He waves Taehyung off with a brush of his hand, shaking the boy’s grip from his arm as he
straightens up and squares his shoulders, wrestling with his own thoughts back into submission.
Now is certainly not the time to let himself wander, he chastises himself. They are always
watching, damn it.
“I’m fine.” He keeps his words short, and he can see the way Taehyung’s face falls immediately at
his dismissive tone. His heart gives an uncomfortable twinge at the sight, so he turns on the spot
and puts a few feet of distance between their bodies, enough that he can trust himself not to do
anything particularly stupid—like comfort the boy, for example. “What can I do for you?”
Yoongi’s limbs feel stiff and creaky at the joints as he moves, and though it may be all in his head
—he’s sure it is, really—there’s something about his body that just doesn’t feel...connected to his
brain any longer. Looking down at his fingers, they appear miles away, the length of time it takes
for sensations to travel down the length of his arm and all the way back up his neck feels almost
never-ending.
Taehyung clears his throat and Yoongi feels something in his head snap back to attention once
again, and he turns his head to see Taehyung staring at him expectantly. Oh—had the boy said
something to him? The most he can recall is a distant humming sound, barely distinguishable as
words.
“I’m sorry?” He says, tilting his head to encourage Taehyung to repeat himself.
The boy chews on his bottom lip for a moment, thinking something over with the utmost
seriousness. “I said...I’m here for my next assignment.” When Yoongi doesn’t immediately
respond, he adds, “...with the doll?”
Oh. Right. “Right.” Yoongi knows he probably looks as dull as he feels, his eyes straining behind
his glasses, and his mind doubly so as he forces his attention back to the matter at hand for the
second time. “Your experiment for today. Right.”
His eyes flicker up, over, across the room to the lonesome figure of a single body, suspended in the
air by the metal frame that holds it upright, but something in his mind, in his heart, won’t allow
him to focus on that image for more than a second before he turns away again. Even just a
momentary glance at the doll, at its unconscious form, invites a wholly unwelcome wave of nausea
through his chest.
He can almost feel the effort that it takes for his mind to dredge up any thoughts of his plan for the
day—truly, he can barely recollect the classes that he knows he has led up until now, or the lessons
that they included. Had he even seen Taehyung before just now? “Your experiment is...I
—...tomorrow, I have a lesson planned. I need your help to—to prepare for it.” He clears his throat,
but it does little to help with the waver in his voice as he says, “You’ll need to be...gentle...with the
doll, today—please.”
“Um…” Taehyung shifts his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Yoongi watches the
motion as the boy sways from side to side, the sight almost making him dizzy. “Of course,
but...before we get started, can we...speak in your office? Privately? There’s something I need to
discuss with you...sir.”
The implication behind Taehyung’s words is lost on him slightly, but Yoongi nods his agreement
all the same, stiffly following after Taehyung as the boy takes that as all the permission he needs to
turn around and lead them both towards the back of the classroom where Yoongi’s office door lies.
As a force of habit, they both glance up towards the camera aimed directly down at them as they
cross over the threshold into Yoongi’s office, a red light blinking menacingly in return. Once the
door has closed behind them, Yoongi finds himself letting out a breath he didn’t know he was
holding—
—only to find it knocked out of him completely by the force of his back hitting the door, head
knocking against the wooden surface, hands at his chest holding him firmly in place. Before he can
make a sound, a pair of lips descends on his own, and there is a few seconds of delay before he
pieces together that Taehyung is kissing him.
This kiss, however—this kiss doesn’t feel like an invitation, like the start of something more—no,
this kiss is a rare bit of contact between them that leads nowhere, nothing more and nothing less
than a single, shared point of warmth. Taehyung doesn’t move, just simply allows their lips to
brush together, his hot breath on Yoongi’s face, and with his eyes still open, Yoongi can see the
way that Taehyung’s brow arches into a desperate shape, his handsome face contorted in a pain
that Yoongi can’t remember ever seeing there before.
It takes several seconds longer for Yoongi to decipher why—to realize that Taehyung has braced
himself as though he expects Yoongi to push him away, to catch the flinch that the boy gives when
he raises his hands to do the exact opposite. There is a relieved rush of air against his cheek as he
circles his arms around Taehyung’s waist, dragging the boy closer to him so that they are both
leaning their weight against the door now. Taehyung tilts his head, their kiss breaking, but his lips
come to hover over Yoongi’s jaw instead. For several long moments, they simply rest together,
locked into an embrace, breathing the same air and basking in the others’ presence.
When Taehyung breaks their silence only to breathe out Yoongi’s name, Yoongi hears the
unspoken question beneath it, the 'what’s going on?’ that his mind fills in for him, the ‘please talk
to me’ that is accompanied by a squeeze of hands around his waist.
He doesn’t know how to put it into words, the ache, the revulsion that he has been carrying around
with him—the way everything seems to be overly vivid, technicolor, but that nothing around him
feels real. He can’t find it in himself to explain the way the world feels a million miles from his
body, how his feet don’t seem to be touching the ground. Yoongi doesn’t know how to safely say,
‘I haven’t slept in two days,’ how to tell his lover, ‘the only sound I could hear all night was
choking and gagging,' how to ask things like, ‘how can I breathe right now when it feels like I’m
drowning?’ He doesn’t know how, so he doesn’t say anything at all.
Instead, he answers with a whisper of Taehyung’s name in return, the sound coming out just as
small as he feels. Taehyung—beautiful, sweet, clever Taehyung—miraculously takes that
admission as all the answer he needs, and cradles Yoongi closer still. When Yoongi’s knees give
out under him, the boy uses his strong frame to catch the older man, to lower them down to the
floor together.
They land against the door, Taehyung kneeling between Yoongi’s spread legs, Yoongi’s face in his
hands. Taehyung kisses him again, softly, and it feels like a promise. And it is there that they
remain, a mess of limbs tangled together on the floor of his office, out of sight of prying eyes until
it is well past the hour that they had scheduled together. The body in his arms is solid, real, even as
everything that surrounds them feels liminal at the edges.
As the two men wallow together in the shadow of Yoongi’s intangible fear, one holding the other
afloat, Taehyung’s project is long forgotten. Tomorrow, Yoongi commits to himself. Tomorrow.
But for tonight, this is all he can manage. Tonight, this has to be enough.
ACCESS LOG
Device ID Site Name Device Event Type

00010080201182801 HEAD HOUSE MAIN ENTRANCE—KEYPAD ENTRY Keycode — Alarm D
BEEP-BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
BEEEEEEP.
Quiet—he needs it quiet. Even the sounds of the keystrokes on the buttons beside his front door is
too loud, but it is a relief to shut it behind him and leave the world outside to govern itself for one
night.
His house is blissfully dark, not a single item out of place from what he can see from the entryway,
and something tight between his shoulder blades seems to uncoil. It’s easier, then, to shrug out of
his suit jacket and hang it on its typical hook beside the door, loosen his tie, step out of his shoes.
With every article of clothing that he removes, he feels as though he is shedding a second, ill-fitting
skin.
On bare feet, now, he pads across his wooden floor and slumps into his favorite chair, his head
hitting a groove that he has worn in the leather over years of use. It took longer than he liked to
adjust the material to accommodate his body instead of that of its previous owner, but he was hard-
pressed to see the chair removed from the household—not with all of the history that it carries.
When he glances down towards his feet, a flash of memory catches his attention, as visceral as ever
—hours spent kneeling beside this very chair, begging for stories to be told; long nights of
clambering over the footrest as though it was his private throne.
The thoughts send his eyes casting across the room to where the imposing shape of a large,
magnificent fireplace takes up all but the entire wall opposite his seat, dark wood and intricately-
laid stonework coming together to build a structure that dominates the room. The fire is cold, at the
moment, but it takes no effort to conjure one in his mind’s eye, the glow of flickering flames across
the hardwoods as familiar as the leather creaking at his back.
Above the mantle, in a position of honor, sits a small wooden box—but this, he spares only the
briefest of glances, his eyes skittering away the moment they catch sight of its gleaming surface.
Instead, he busies his hands with reaching across the table beside him to open the small drawer set
into its side, pulling out the thin weight of a small tablet in its case. The device turns on
immediately when he opens it, unlocking with nothing more than a swipe of his fingerprint.
Just as he meticulously organizes every aspect of his life, the device is spotless—everything has its
place, and everything is in it—and this is precisely what makes it all the more apparent that
something is not where it belongs. As he looks over his home screen, he expects to see only rows
upon rows of folders with simple labels, but out of the corner of his eye he immediately spots the
one small file that has somehow been left sitting all by its lonesome against his plain background.
Making a mental note to bring this inadequacy to Jeongyeon first thing in the morning—not
wanting to hear another voice for at least several hours, at this point—he absentmindedly clicks on
the file to decide for himself where it should be logged away—
—and freezes.
Too tired to think much of the situation, he had missed all of the warning signs—but it takes no
more than one heartbeat for it to become clear that what lies before him is, once again, a spectre of
his past come to haunt him. On an otherwise blank, white page, creases evident even across the
screen, a single sentence confronts him from the center of his screen:
These are the first words that greet him from the screen, illuminated and startling in the darkness of
his living room. They glare up at him from the small device, an accusation in black and white that
is impossible to ignore.
But, as the document continues, it melts into what appears to be image after image of scanned
letters, the pages worn and yellowed and wrinkled across the middle, the ink lettering faded and
blotchy in places. Yes, though the words at the top of the document are certainly startling—it’s
what lies beneath that leaves him suddenly breathless.
The tablet begins to shake in his hands badly enough that he can’t make out the words any longer,
which may be an unintentional kindness. He is forced to set the device down upon his knees and
slide a quivering finger across the screen to continue reading, looking down at the long lines of his
own, familiar handwriting with his heart in his throat.
Breathless. Yes, that just about sums up the way his chest has constricted, as though his ribcage
had become a corset and each and every word that he reads tightens its grip on his torso. He
inhales as deeply as he can, though the air never seems to make it past his collarbones. At the
edges of his eyes, there is an unfamiliar prickling, burning.
The burning in his eyes is becoming harder and harder to blink away, and he should just stop
reading, he knows this, and yet—
His eyes are clouded over by the time he reaches the bottom of the letter, tears forming along his
lashes until he is forced to raise a hand and scrub them away to make out the last of the words at
the bottom of the page.
At the sight of his own name, scrawled unmistakably in a signature he has practiced for over thirty
years, his tears finally begin to fall. His hands fly up to cover his face, the tablet sliding down his
legs to the floor, and he does nothing to stop it from shattering against the wood. There is no room
for worry over the mess, or for contemplation over the source of these letters.
For the first time in over a decade, he curls in on himself and allows the sorrow to wash over him.
For the first time in as long as he can remember, Kim Seokjin sits alone in the dark, wishing that he
wasn’t, and allows himself to mourn for all that he has lost.
With the door solidly closed, there is no sunlight filtering into his office through the windows
across the hall. With only the fluorescent lights overhead to brighten the space, it’s easier to
imagine that it isn’t the hour that it is, that it isn’t quite so early in the morning, that he doesn’t
have to face another day of tasks and appointments and constant glances over his shoulder as he
works.
The lights buzz angrily as he bustles around the room, putting his day in order as a substitute for
the clarity of thought he so thoroughly lacks at the moment. Ice packs are refilled and placed into
the fridge, bandages are restocked, sheets are folded. Though he is not alone in the small space, it
is easy enough to busy himself with the monotony of task after task after task as a distraction.
Still, as his list of items left to complete dwindles, he finds himself faced with the inevitable.
Turning away from his desk, he has no choice but to finally address the body innocently laid across
the top of one of the sick beds that line the far side of the room.
‘Pull yourself together, Namjoon,’ he chides himself, shaking his head as if to rid it of a pest flying
in his ear—except, in this case, the pest as taken on the form of his own intrusive thoughts. With
his shoulders squared, the nurse forces one foot in front of the other until he stands in front of the
small fridge that sits on the far side of the counter, typically used for storing medicine and ice for
when they are necessary, but now containing something much more...sinister.
Upon opening the door, he finds himself, unsurprisingly, faced with row upon row of identical
bottles—bottles that he had placed there himself, after having painstakingly filled them each with
precisely the right mixture of protein, dairy, dietary supplements—and a single dose of midazolam
to see the doll through part of the day. Though the sight leaves his chest feeling tight, he dutifully
reaches inside and pulls out the bottle labelled August 24th — breakfast in his own familiar
handwriting, closing the refrigerator with an all-too-loud thump.
He hesitates a second time as he reaches into a cabinet for the rest of the tools that he will need, a
feeding tube, and a small funnel, his hand hovering over the device as he stares at the space just
next to it—a space that he knows had, just the day before, been occupied by a particular metal gag.
When he is finally able to move enough to snatch the tools that he needs, he slams the cabinet
closed with enough force that he worries that the sound might attract attention from outside the
office—or wake his patient from his sleep on the bed only feet away. When no interruption comes,
it doesn’t come as a relief. Namjoon is left with no choice but to return to the bedside, looming
over the prone form of the doll, looking down at its soft, relaxed face.
But it only takes one touch to the doll’s bare skin, to feel the warmth and slow rush of blood
beneath his fingertips, for Namjoon to lose all nerve. The plastic tube in his hand is discarded on
the next bed over, the plastic bottle of liquid food tossed across the room to land in the sink, his
hand jerked back from the doll’s skin as though it burned.
No.
Namjoon storms back over to the refrigerator, wrenching the door open and bypassing all of the
identical bottles on the top shelf in favor of reaching for a different kind of container entirely—this
one containing the unmistakable shapes of noodles piled up inside its plastic walls. He has to
fumble in his desk drawer for a pair of chopsticks to accompany the meal before returning to the
bed a final time.
Now, he sits himself down on the edge of the bed, leaving a small space between himself and the
doll, but bringing their heads down to be about equal height. With a gentle hand, he turns the doll’s
head against the pillows for better access—ignoring the bitter sense of deja vu that it gives him to
pinch his thumb around the doll’s chin and slide its jaw open.
With his free hand, he manages to work the lid of the container open, and the sweet smell of the
noodles hits his nose, making his own mouth water. Gently, he nudges his knuckles against the
doll's jaw, poking and prodding at it until he sees it stir, eyelashes fluttering momentarily before
parting to reveal a set of dark, sleep-hazy eyes.
Though the food was meant to be his own lunch, he pointedly ignores the stirrings of his own
appetite as he dips the chopsticks down into the dish—and with a renewed sense of purpose, and
more than a little irony, Namjoon once again twirls a strand of noodles around the chopsticks and
brings them up to the doll lips for it to eat.
Health Lab—First Floor—West 08-24-18 8:03AM
There is no sound in the room that surrounds him, except for the low hum of air conditioning in the
distance and the soft, harmless hum of the lights above his head. There is a light pressure against
his chest, his arms and his legs, cupping around the dip of his wrists and ankles on either side. A
soft breeze reaches his skin, tickling across the thin layer of hair that covers his forearms and
calves, and his skin breaks out in goosebumps from head to toe.
There is no reason for him to be conscious, and yet he is. There is nothing to have startled him
awake, so his mind returns to alertness all on its own, and it is a smooth, painless process.
He becomes aware of the temperature of the room first—warm, but not overwhelmingly so, with
only the interruption of the breeze to cool him down. Then, the soft light that filters through his
eyelids, turning from black to purple to a muted red through his skin. His eyelashes flutter of their
own accord, tickling the tops of his cheekbones. He licks his lips, an automatic motion, and thinks
idly of how thirsty he is.
And as he wiggles his toes and flexes his fingers, stretching his tired muscles as much as possible
within the confines of whatever restrains him, he finally opens his eyes. The sight that greets him is
familiar and unsurprising—a desk that faces towards him, an empty chair tucked in behind it, and a
chalkboard on the wall beyond.
Even closer to him are rows and rows of identical tables, each with its own set of chairs and a sink
laid into its top. Beneath each piece of furniture, the floor is tiled from wall to wall, and on the far
side of the room, the wall is lined with tall windows, their shades drawn back to expose the
sunlight filtering in from the sky beyond. The images are crisp and easy to focus on, his eyes
flickering from one object to another, blinking slowly as he takes it all in.
And for the first time in almost two weeks, with his mind sharp and his senses on full alert, Jeon
Jungkook looks out into the classroom with complete and utter clarity.
Chapter End Notes
Summary of the scene containing needles/blood:
Because the doll is exhibiting signs of illness, Namjoon has to take a blood sample
from it to rule out any potential causes.

Summary of the scene containing vomit:
Seokjin gets upset at Namjoon's insistence that the doll is broken because it appears to
be sick, and insists on testing the doll's ability to perform its two major job functions:
giving and receiving orgasms. He orders Yoongi to procure a Jennings gag to hold the
doll's mouth open, and fucks the doll's throat while it is unconscious until the doll
inevitably pukes from the abuse. This does not stop Seokjin from continuing to use the
doll until he reaches his own orgasm down the doll's throat.

Phase Nine: Machine
Chapter Summary
With several weeks of practice under his belt, Jungkook has all but mastered the skills
needed to perform well in his role as a sex education doll—but among his colleagues,
he finds that there are those he can count on as allies, and those who are determined to
call his abilities into question.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE NINE:
Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Mildly Dubious

Consent, Psychological Horror, Dubious Morality, Blackmail, PTSD, Nightmares,
Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation,
Abusive Relationships, Stockholm Syndrome, Voyeurism, Semi-Public Sex, Public
Sex, Public Nudity, Public Humiliation, Objectification, Dumbification, Dollification,
Human Experimentation, BDSM, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Multiple
Orgasms, Impact Play, Bondage, Forced Sub Space, Forced Submission, Oral Sex,
Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Fisting, Frottage
Fic Playlist
Phase Nine Playlist


the original
story here!
The forest is dark. An oppressive darkness, one that reaches out with invisible hands to lure him in.
He is standing in the middle of the forest, trees on every side. The trees are naked and lonely, too
far apart from one another—though they seem to draw closer to him by the second.
He is also naked, he realizes. The darkness is cold against his bare skin.
He moves forward through the space between the trees, following a path that is familiar to him,
though he does not know how—or why.
The trees part for him, jumping out of his way as he walks, and the dirt does not kick up beneath
his feet.
Before him, one tree does not move from his path, and he comes to a halt at the roots of it, staring
up into its wide trunk as though facing an adversary. At once, he realizes that the tree is staring
back at him—not with knots in its bark or an appearance that has been worn down by age, but with
eyes that are as human as his own.
In the center of the trunk, several feet above his head, there lies a face—the face of a doll, carved
to look like that of a small child. The face has delicate, refined features, tiny and cherubic. But this
face does not match his face—this face has been turned upside down, and whether it has been
placed there intentionally, or if the tree simply grew around the doll in such a way, he does not
know.
Though it seems to be looking at him, that much is impossible, for the doll’s eyes are closed
against the pull of gravity, looking serene and unbothered as though in a deep sleep.
He looks around him, then, at the trees that have gathered close to him on every side, and finds
that every single one of them is also covered in faces—not just one, but many, some covered from
roots to branches in the same round, dissected faces, all of which sit peacefully with their eyes
closed.
All of a sudden, his eyes flash back to the face embedded in the tree in front of him, and he watches
the doll’s eyes fly open to meet his own. In the same instant, he feels as though the ground is pulled
out from under his feet.
Impossibly so, his feet start to slide against the dirt as the world turns on its axis, the ground tilting
low on one side of his body while rising higher on the other side. It becomes harder and harder to
keep his bearings, his hands scrambling to claw into the dirt to keep his grip on the world beneath
him.
All around him, the faces in the trees draw closer still, and one by one they follow the pull of
gravity until their eyes drop open, beady pupils staring him down from every side.
His arms burn as he fights to keep a hold on the ground, but it rises above his head completely, and
his hands slip free—
{ art by @TheBlackWolf94 }
“—Mr. Kim?”
He jerks upright, head spinning as he pulls his head away from the surface of his desk. Sunlight
streams in through the windows of his office, burning at his eyes as he wrenches them open to take
in his surroundings.
“Hello, Mr. Kim?”
Seokjin’s hand scrambles across the surface of his desk, blindly reaching for the button to his
intercom to silence the grating sound. When he finds the button at last, he slaps it as though it were
the snooze button to his alarm clock, cutting off the voice of his receptionist mid-word.
“Not now, Jihyo…” he groans, fighting to keep his voice even despite the throbbing in his head, “I
need five more minutes."
The room is packed—unusually so. He hasn’t seen it quite this full before, not even in the last
lesson he helped facilitate. Students press in around him on every side, whispers passing back and
forth between them like so many bees. There is a tension in the air that he can feel prickling at his
neck, oppressive and heavy on his shoulders.
“U-Um, excuse me, Mr. Jung…” He hears a soft voice speak up from near his shoulder, looking
down just in time to catch sight of a shorter female student wriggle past him to move to the front of
the room for a better view. Hoseok allows his eyes to follow after her, over the heads of the other
students until his gaze continues moving towards the center of the room and the strange sight that
lies before them.
The lights in the room have been dimmed with the exception of one large lamp that stands in front
of the teacher’s desk, illuminating the space that has been cleared of desks in the center of the
room around which everyone has gathered. Looking across the space, Hoseok sees just as many
familiar faces as he does ones that he doesn’t recognize, and it brings him back to memories of the
last lesson he observed in this very same classroom—and how different the circumstances had
been.
This time, as Yoongi moves around the empty space that has been left for him, almost like a stage,
there is something that stands out as more strange than the rest—the way the older teacher’s dark
head hangs low, his shoulders hunched as though to protect him from the crowd that surrounds
him; the way Yoongi doesn’t look anyone in the eye—including the solitary figure that is propped
up in a stand before him. It’s all a far cry from the confident Min Yoongi who had goaded him into
coming forward, standing before the class, putting his hands on the—on the doll, bringing it to an
orgasm…
And the doll itself—standing in front of Yoongi as always, arms and legs bound into the metal
contraption that holds it upright—exactly the way Hoseok remembers it being the week before.
Something is different about it too, he notes, squinting his eyes as he tries to focus without pressing
any closer to the front himself. It’s difficult—though he would never admit it out loud—not to think
of the doll as ‘Jungkook’ any longer.
But as he lets his eyes trace across the familiar countenance of his best friend, the familiar face he
has missed seeing over the last few, long days—it suddenly clicks. The man in the center of the
room looks different than before because ‘Jungkook’ is nowhere to be found—
—and only the doll remains.
Hoseok can see this in the way the doll’s eyes stare out into the crowd before it—no longer
nervous or unfocused as they were before, but now—sharper, intense. Determined. An expression
he certainly remembers seeing on that face before. And although there is still an uncomfortable
tension that looms over his shoulder, accompanying the mild confusion that has clung to his mind
since he first received notice that all available staff were to gather in the Health Lab, the look on
the doll’s face assuages at least some of his worries. No, Jungkook—the doll—has clearly settled
into its responsibilities, and Hoseok is so proud.
Even more so, he’s a little—jealous, if he were to truly be honest. Looking at the determined,
almost business-like expression on the other young man’s face, even as he is shackled in place in
the center of the room, Hoseok can’t help but feel a twinge of envy. His own fumblings, his daily
efforts to improve, to dive in, to study and learn —they seem pathetic in comparison if Jungkook
could settle so thoroughly into his new role in such a short amount of time.
Hoseok has to tear his eyes away then, lest he find himself letting too much of his emotional state
show on his face. It seems to be just in time, since the very moment that he turns his attention back
towards the crowd is the same moment that a rush of movement from the doors catches the
attention of every single person in the room. The crowd scuttles back from the doorway, creating
an opening that almost perfectly mirrors the circle formed on the other end of the room, bottle-
necking the crowd on either side of the room.
Hoseok has to lean up onto his toes to get a better look at the cause of the disturbance, and what he
finds sends him stumbling back in fear. Behind him, a grunt and an impact of his shoulders to a
firm chest tells him that he has landed on another staff member, but he can’t bring himself to care
when before him stands the one person he most wants to see—and the last person he wants to see
as well.
In the open arch of the doorway, standing tall and proud, is the principal—Seokjin looking every
bit as beautiful as he did the last time Hoseok encountered him a few days prior—but on either side
he is flanked by two tall figures shrouded in black cloaks, and it’s the sight of those particular
individuals that sends his blood running cold. Faces covered, as always, in simple mirrored masks,
the Council members are as unreadable as always—but beside the principal, they cut an altogether
imposing silhouette against the light streaming in through the hallway.
He certainly doesn’t seem to be the only person impacted by their arrival, at least, as evidenced by
the rush of whispers that suddenly breaks over the crowd again on every side. Hoseok catches
phases here and there that make it clear he is far from the only person, staff or student, suddenly
feeling on-edge.
‘—can’t even remember the last time they—’
‘—wonder what’s going on—’
‘I hope this doesn’t mean they’re going to—’
Hoseok doesn’t catch exactly what they might be doing, his thoughts and the whispers interrupted
by the sharp sound of a throat being cleared in the center of the room. Along with everyone else,
Hoseok swings his head around to look back at Yoongi, who is now standing beside the doll’s
stand with his hands politely clasped behind his back, staring them all down as he waits for the
crowd to fall silent. Hoseok swallows thickly.
“If I could have your attention…” Yoongi begins, and his voice lacks the usual snappishness
Hoseok has come to expect from him. The older teacher waits until the waves of whispers die
down into silence before continuing, his hands clasped behind his back as he paces from side-to-
side in front of the doll stand. “I will begin the lesson shortly—but as many of you have noticed,
this lesson will not—look the way a typical lesson in my class might look. We have some guests
with us today—”
As he pauses, he nods his head towards the unfamiliar faces in the crowd, his eyes skimming over
to meet Hoseok’s for a second before passing over him and moving away. Hoseok feels his breath
catch in his chest, his hands clenching into the bottom of his shirt before he even realizes what’s
happened. Yoongi’s gaze turns instead, finally, to the most important ‘guests’ of all—Seokjin and
the Council members, who are standing silently before the doors just as before.
When Hoseok’s eyes are draw, unbidden, back to the principal’s face, the very sight of the older
man sends a thrill down his spine, the same feeling he had experienced when looking into
Yoongi’s eyes only moments before, and—oh. Oh.
He quickly tears his eyes away from Seokjin, afraid of what he might do, how he might feel if the
older man were to actually look at him as well. His gaze flickers back to Yoongi once more as if
drawn by a magnet, his attention inevitably captured by one of them or the other. Yoongi, however,
no longer pays him any mind, the teacher’s attention drawn to the back of the classroom still as he
continues his introduction. On the back of his head, Hoseok can feel the burn of eyes staring right
at him.
“—I would like to give my thanks to our leadership for taking the time to join us for—for this
lesson. It is a rare treat to have their presence. Please—take a moment to thank them for coming to
oversee your progress.”
As if on cue, all heads in the classroom turn away from Yoongi for a moment and they speak as if
in one voice, murmuring together to the Council members, “Thank you, Elders…”
Satisfied, Yoongi clears his throat again, drawing all attention back to himself and the position he
has taken beside the doll’s stand once again. “Very good. Now…” He holds up his hands—bare,
with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, Hoseok suddenly notices—and wiggles his fingers
around for all to see. “Today’s lesson is a special one. Can anyone guess why?”
Yoongi’s words suggest a hint of playfulness, though it isn’t lost on Hoseok that the sound doesn’t
quite reach Yoongi’s tone—or his expression. His handsome face seems—flat, somehow, eyes less
sharp than usual. He is no less commanding, though, as evidenced by the way his voice still leaves
Hoseok with goosebumps, and how he spurs several hands around the room into fly into the air.
When Yoongi calls on one of the students, a small but excited voice from the second row pipes up,
“Um, are you going to—tickle the doll? Like, to test its sensitivity?”
As Yoongi offers her a small smile and shakes his head, opening his mouth to reply, Hoseok’s
attention is drawn away by another sound—a soft murmuring from the far side of the room.
Looking around, he confirms that no one is chattering amongst the group as he starts to weave
through the crowd, knowing idly that it’s his responsibility—along with the rest of the teachers, of
course—to keep the students in line under these unusual circumstances. Still, even with his eyes on
them, the sound persists, becoming clearer the closer to the back of the room he moves.
“—that’s right,” Yoongi’s voice floats over to him from over his shoulder, followed by a wave of
other voices whispering across the room. It drowns out the murmuring from before, if only for a
moment. “We’ll be looking at the limits of penetration today. This is a first for our doll, so pay
careful attention—”
Hoseok turns his gaze back to the front of the room at Yoongi’s words, his attention dragged back
to the doll as Yoongi holds up a clear bottle for everyone in the room to see. Still, Hoseok can feel
a prickle at the back of his neck that has him raising a hand to rub at his skin, finding it sweaty and
clammy beneath his fingers.
Jungkoo—the doll —the doll is staring straight ahead now, not quite at Hoseok, but somewhere in
his direction, eyes dark. Its eyelids flutter slightly as Yoongi brings slicked-up fingers to its
backside and slides them down between its legs. Hoseok feels heat rising at his collar as he watches
the doll’s cock stir. In the distance, he can hear Yoongi’s voice droning on, explaining his actions
as his slick fingers press against Jung—against the doll’s tight hole.
The prickling at Hoseok’s neck continues, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. In
front of him, the doll lets out a soft sound of pleasure as Yoongi seems to finally breach his body
with at least one finger, and Hoseok curls his fingers around the edge of the desk in front of which
he has ended up. His own cock throbs in his pants as he watches Yoongi’s arm move, fingers
stroking in and out of the doll’s body, the doll’s cock quickly growing to full hardness and curving
up towards its lovely, flat stomach.
The crowd has fallen silent now, enough so that Hoseok can all-too-clearly hear the squelch of the
lube around Yoongi’s fingers, the way the doll chokes back a soft moan at the sensation, and then
another. He knows the doll isn’t supposed to make any sound, though, and his shoulders tighten
with worry as his eyes flicker across the room to where the Council members still stand. With their
masks firmly in place, it’s impossible to tell at all what they might be thinking—but beside them,
Seokjin’s face is clear as day, and it’s on Seokjin's face that Hoseok ends up focusing instead.
It’s been what feels like ages since he was last in the same room with the older man, though he
knows it must have only been days. Still, Seokjin looks as implacable and cool as always, sharply
dressed in a tailored suit with his hair combed back away from his forehead. He looks every bit the
man who had entranced Hoseok all those months ago, and Hoseok’s stomach does a terrible little
flip at the thought.
Without even realizing it, he starts to shift his way through the crowd—not towards the front of the
room, where Yoongi is clearly describing the way he has pushed three fingers into the doll, now,
but instead stepping inch by inch through the mass of bodies that separates him from the imposing
figures at the door.
He remains facing forward as he moves, eyes loosely focusing towards where Yoongi is standing
in the center of the room, not wanting to attract any attention towards himself, and the sea of
students and staff members that surround him seem to part easily around him as he toes his way
through the small gaps left between their bodies. The process is slow-going, taking him several
long minutes before he even reaches halfway across the room, and by the time he pauses and
chances another glance behind him towards the door, Yoongi is moving on to adding another
finger.
“This is four fingers, now,” the teacher is explaining to the class, and several students murmur
appreciatively. The familiar sound of Jungkook’s voice—the doll’s voice—breaking around
another moan reaches his ears, and Hoseok flinches. Beside the door, the two hooded figures turn
their heads toward one another, sharing a look that only they two seem to be able to see or
understand.
Hoseok glances at Seokjin again, catches the way the older man is biting at the inside of his cheek
—a subtle habit, but one that Hoseok had noticed him doing from time to time whenever he had
become a little anxious. It only spurs Hoseok on, then, his desire to be close to the older man
mounting as the seconds tick by.
He’s a little more reckless, then, as he pushes back against the crowd, stepping on a few toes and
pressing against shoulders here and there to make his way through the sea of bodies more quickly.
A few people hiss back at him, clearly not pleased by the way he is trampling over them, but he
can’t bring himself to care.
“Should I try for all five?” Yoongi asks the class, and a cheer breaks out across the room, the
crowd suddenly trying to press closer to get a better look. Hoseok takes it as the opportunity that it
is, twisting himself between body after body until he is only a few meters away, a few feet—
In front of him, one of the Council members raises a gloved hand to touch the other’s shoulder, and
they both turn towards Seokjin. Hoseok steps even closer, close enough that he can just barely
catch their words.
“We’ve seen enough,” one of them directs to Seokjin, who gives a curt nod in reply. He raises a
hand and presses on the door handle, opening the door into the hallway so that they can both pass
by him and exit the room.
“Mr. Kim!” He calls out after the principal, but the older man doesn’t seem to hear him. He groans
and tries to move forward again—but this time, he does more than step on someone’s toes, instead
stumbling over someone entirely so that he nearly falls face-first into the tile.
“Woah, hey—are you alright, Mr. Jung?” The student asks as he helps Hoseok to his feet, and the
boy’s face is familiar to him, someone he remembers from one of his classes. He doesn’t have time
to focus on putting a name to the face, or even for really answering the boy, waving a hand instead
to shoo the boy away. Once he’s righted himself and the boy has let him go, he looks up towards
the door—but Seokjin and the Council members have already disappeared.
Without worrying how it might look, he crashes through the door after them, pausing just outside
the door for a second to get his bearings straight before taking off down the hallway to his left in
the direction of the principal’s office. As he rounds the corner into the next hallway, he’s hit with
sudden relief as he spots three familiar, dark figures heading towards the far end of the corridor.
“Mr. Kim!” He calls out to them as he darts closer, but not one of them seems to hear him.
“Mr. Kim?” He tries again, but all three of them seem to be completely unaware of his presence.
He starts jogging forward again, his footsteps echoing off the ceiling and walls as he draws closer
to the small group, all of whom are moving at a slow, even pace in comparison. Still, even the
noise does nothing to alert them to his presence—or, perhaps, he thinks with a terribly sinking
heart, they are intentionally not acknowledging him instead.
In a moment of reckless abandon, his heart racing in his ears to egg him on, he changes tack and
yells out, “—Seokjin!”
The three figures reach the double doors at the end of the hallway that lead to the staircase, and
Hoseok slides to a halt in the center of the corridor. Seokjin reaches for the door once again, and
holds it open for both of the Council members to disappear through it first.
“Seokjin?” Hoseok says one last time, more to himself than anything.
The principal pauses just on this side of the doorway, hand resting lightly on the wood, and for a
moment Hoseok convinces himself that the older man is going to turn back for him. But Seokjin
simply turns his head enough to meet Hoseok’s gaze across the considerable distance between
them, his expression completely cold and unreadable, then turns right back to the door and walks
through it himself.
When the door slams behind them at last, Hoseok feels frozen to the spot—at least, until he is
startled into jumping away from it by the sudden sound of a voice near his shoulder.
“It won’t do you any good,” the voice says, and he whips his head around to look for the source.
Beside him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, is the terrifyingly familiar face of the school’s
janitor—Jimin. Hoseok hasn’t seen the younger staff member since their... encounter the other day,
and Hoseok had been silently hoping to keep it that way for a little while longer. His cheeks flush
hot with embarrassment as he is forced to meet the janitor’s unwavering gaze, his mind still reeling
from this sudden shift in focus.
“I—um, I’m sorry, what?”
“It won’t do you any good,” Jimin repeats with a shrug that doesn’t quite match his vacant
expression.
“What...won’t do me any good?” He asks, hesitant.
“Chasing after him.” Jimin shrugs again, this time turning back to the cart of cleaning supplies he
has been wheeling around with him. The smaller man reaches for a trash bag and steps away
towards the nearest trash can, while Hoseok is forced to stare after his at his uniformed backside.
“I...don’t understand,” he admits, and the janitor responds with a sympathetic hum.
“No one ever does, at first,” he tells Hoseok sagely. When he finishes replacing the trash bag,
Jimin turns back to the cart again and starts moving it down the hallway back the way that Hoseok
came from. He glances over his shoulder at the door that Seokjin had disappeared through, then
back at Jimin, and is forced to make a gut-wrenching decision to turn away from the doors and
chase after Jimin’s retreating back instead.
“You’re not making any sense!” He accuses, but his words don’t seem to affect the blonde man at
all.
“Don’t worry,” Jimin replies, “it’ll make sense soon enough.”
“Wait—” he has to jog to keep up with the janitor despite the other man’s shorter legs, “please, just
tell me what you mean. You’re being so cryptic, I don’t understand—”
Just as suddenly as he started moving, Jimin comes to a halt beside Hoseok and forces him to
stumble to catch himself from falling. The blonde’s head turns towards him, those down-turned
eyes suddenly wider and darker than before.
“It’s okay,” he says in that same low, monotonous voice, “you prefer me this way. You may not
know it, but you all prefer me this way. They are always watching, but they aren’t the only ones
with eyes. We all see more than they think we do, Jung Hoseok, and so do you. Keep your eyes
open, and one day you will understand too.”
“I—”
Before he can even get a word in, Jimin takes off again, not moving fast enough to be fleeing , but
fast enough that Hoseok knows he would have to run to catch up with him again.
He rubs at his temples, his shoulders hunched over as he tries to make sense of the younger man’s
cryptic words. “He’s...absolutely crazy,” he says under his breath.
“They all certainly think I am,” Jimin replies from the end of the hall, as though he had been
standing close enough to hear Hoseok’s words perfectly. Hoseok raises his head to reply, to
apologize—but before he can make a sound, the blonde turns his cart around the corner, offers
Hoseok one last look over his shoulder, and disappears from sight.
Basement—Storage Room 2—East 08.24.18 3:14PM
It is a strange sensation, to wake from a restful sleep of his own accord. He can’t remember the last
time he was eased from his slumber without having to fight through the heavy fog of sedation—
but, as he rises towards consciousness, he finds it a slow, easy process for the first time in weeks.
It’s almost as though he is being eased awake, the way his body is slowly wrapped in warmth. He
can hear a soft sound over his shoulder, a gentle but consistent trickle and splatter that he identifies
easily as the rush of running water. If he wiggles his toes, he can feel the slip and slide of his skin
against itself.
In the palm of his hand, there is a gentle pressure—a light brushing back and forth that is somehow
both firm and soft at once. He twitches his hand, spreading his fingers apart before bringing them
back together again to close around whatever is touching his palm—and suddenly finds a set of
fingers slipping between his own.
It is this, more than anything else, that prompts him to finally drag his eyes open, fighting the
heavy weight of his eyelids and the slight burn as the dim light in the surrounding room hits him in
favor of tilting his head just enough to catch sight of the owner of said hand—a familiar face sitting
above him. Sharp but delicate eyebrows above even sharper eyes, a straight and flat nose, round
and pouted lips that rest above a jawline that looks as though it could cut glass. More than just a
hazy memory, a distant recollection—he knows that face.
Jimin.
“Jimin—” he says aloud at the recognition, the name leaving his lips before he can catch it on the
tip of his tongue. His eyes widen at exactly the same time as the eyes before him do, and he moves
to jerk his hand away from the grip the younger man has on him—only to find it quickly tugged
back into place, Jimin’s fingers only tightening between his own.
There is a moment of silence, then, that drags between the two of them, as though they both fear
the same thing—that to speak would be to invite trouble. This is certainly how he feels himself, at
least, panic rising in his stomach like bile as the reality of his mistake—one single word, but a
terrible mistake nonetheless—settles over him.
Jimin doesn’t allow him to move away even when he eventually tries, squeezing at his hand again
to keep him still. And rather than being chastised as he expects, Jimin slowly lets his mouth quirk
into the smallest of smiles, plush lips turning up just at the corners before his lips part and he
returns a greeting of his own.
“Doll.”
Oh.
He flicks his eyes away from the younger man’s pretty face, glancing around at his surroundings
instead, the sight somehow safer in his mind. First, he catches the gleam of metal that surrounds
him, the checkerboard pattern of tile on the wall behind—and it only takes a few seconds to piece
together exactly where he is. The metal tub inside of which he has been placed is eerily familiar,
like a memory of a dream, but as he glances up and around the room beyond the man sitting beside
him, it all starts to click into place.
“This—” For the first time in his memory, he can clearly piece together every single detail of the
dimly lit space.
“This is my room, yes.” Jimin fills in his thoughts before he even has a chance to vocalize them.
“Do you remember being here before?”
He takes a moment to collect his thoughts—flashes of embarrassment, discomfort, hands sliding

over his skin—lips pressed against his own—and the truth is unmistakable. He nods. Jimin’s eyes
seem to flash with an emotion he can’t quite place.
“They made quite the mess of you earlier,” Jimin goes on casually, his voice low and even, “I had
no choice but to bring you back down here to get you all cleaned up.”
“...a mess?” He asks. His voice is low, raspy, a struggle to get from his chest to his throat, but
Jimin understands him all the same.
“Mhm.” He feels Jimin’s thumb trace along the backside of his hand, the slide of skin against skin
eased by the water that clings to them both. “You’ve been drifting in and out,” Jimin tells him, and
there’s a slight dip to the janitor’s voice now. It almost sounds... sad. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
Slowly, he squeezes each of his fingers around Jimin’s hand to get his attention, waiting until the
younger man looks up at him again. It’s only once their eyes meet and he’s sure that he has Jimin’s
attention that he very deliberately, slowly, shakes his head.
“No…?” Jimin asks, clearly taken aback. When he nods his head instead, Jimin’s small smile
widens even further and he feels something in his own chest give a small lurch. “Hmm…”
Jimin’s grip never leaves his own, but the younger man raises a free hand to run fingers through
the soft fringe of his hair that hangs in his eyes—and the soft touch only seems to tighten that spot
beneath his rib cage where his muscles seem to be attempting to strangle his heart.
“Your hair is getting too long…” Jimin comments idly, almost to himself, before switching subject
so quickly that it's almost startling. “The lesson, from before...do you remember it?”
He has to take a second then to really strain his mind, his eyes trained on Jimin’s face even as they
unfocus. His thoughts wander to the last thing he can remember—a familiar exercise, though this
time the process is much more fruitful. Images come back to him immediately—a sea of faces
swimming in front of him as his body is overtaken with pleasure, the stretch and the burn and the
burn of fingers working their way into him, the way he braced himself, wanting to be good,
wanting to be so good —
He cuts his thoughts off before they run away from him. Jimin’s eyes are still trained on him when
he focuses on the younger man’s face a few inches away from his own once more. He swallows
thickly, his throat dry, and gives a single, solitary nod as his answer.
If Jimin seemed mildly pleased before, there’s no mistaking his excitement at this new
information. What was once a twitch of the lips blooms into a radiant smile, only held back as the
younger man bites at his own mouth to contain it. He looks away, hiding a strange emotion in his
eyes, and clears his throat—quietly, but still loud enough to be heard. “Good—Good,
that’s...good.”
He gives Jimin’s hand another squeeze, usure why he feels the need to reassure the other man but
following the instinct all the same. Jimin doesn’t squeeze back before he extricates their fingers
from one another, but it doesn’t quite feel like a rejection. “We—We should get back to cleaning
you up before you’re needed again, hm?” The janitor asks, the question clearly rhetorical as he gets
to his feet, “I need to roll you over to finish up.”
It’s easy, then, to follow the gentle tug and pull of the hands that land on his skin, shifting his
weight to the side until he’s able to get his own knees beneath himself, Jimin gently placing his
arms along the rim of the tub and pushing down on the back of his neck until he rests his head
against his crossed forearms as a makeshift pillow. It isn’t exactly comfortable, what with the way
the metal immediately digs into his bare knees beneath him, but something about the way Jimin
places him so gently into position makes it difficult to protest.
He’s perfectly obedient as Jimin’s hands return to his skin, slick with what feels like soap as the
younger man drags fingers down his spine, fanning them apart around the small of his back where
his waist bows towards his hips before sliding further down to cup the swell of his ass. He doesn’t
move an inch when those questing fingers slide lower, tracing circles across the tight muscles of
his upper thighs, nor does he move towards the sensation when it sings across his skin—though in
this moment, there is nothing more in the world he wants to do.
Behind him, Jimin starts to hum under his breath—a soft, nearly tuneless sound. It’s
almost...comforting, a familiar lilt that drags something up from his memory, distant like a
recollection of a dream. The janitor’s fingers journey back up between his legs, pushing them apart
when necessary to scrub his fingers across every inch of skin. He can feel the way the touch slides
through the lube that has dribbled out of him and down between his legs, the tacky sensation
slowly washed away with every pass of Jimin’s hands in those same, small circles, again and
again. It’s almost maddening, how innocent it actually is despite the way it sets his nerves alight.
Jimin continues to hum that same little song, a slowly repeating melody that he begins to pick up
on in the back of his mind even as the janitor’s hands finally make their way to their final
destination. One finger, then two, slip and slide across the sensitive rim of his abused hole, circling
the puckered skin just the same as they had before on his thighs. Now, it’s impossible to keep
quiet, though he has every intention to. Now, it’s impossible to keep from shuddering.
Jimin’s soft humming pauses for just a moment, and at the same time his own breathing freezes in
his chest. Between them, another silence lasts only for a beat—but long enough that it leaves him
quivering in anticipation—until Jimin presses forward, his thin fingers finally breaching the furled
muscle and pressing inside.
All at once, his body seems to seize up, his fingers clenching into the hard metal beneath his face
as he pants into his arms, toes curling beneath the surface of the water. The drag of Jimin’s fingers
inside his body, sensitive as it is from all the abuse earlier, is enough to set his nerves alight. A
shock of pleasure runs up his spine, spurred on by the way Jimin’s fingers immediately crook and
twist around, never quite brushing where he wants them to but getting close enough.
“Mmnnnnn…” A groan leaves his throat even as he gnaws at his own lip to swallow it down, cock
stirring between his thighs as Jimin’s fingers slip away for a moment only to be replaced by the soft
rush of warm water down the curve of his ass. He hears a distant clanking noise that clues him in
to Jimin’s movement behind him, clearly dragging the detachable hose closer to spray the water
directly to his skin—and then those fingers return, sliding through the spray and pressing back
inside of him in one slick, smooth motion.
“J-Jimin—” he gasps, his hips stiff but still more than capable of jerking back into the touch, his
body stretched enough to eagerly swallow the digits down and hungry for more.
There’s something so different about the way it feels, now—though there’s nothing functionally
different between Jimin’s gentle ministrations and the way that Yoongi had taken him apart earlier
—it still feels distinct, special— something about the way Jimin handles him setting his nerves
alight.
“What is it, baby?” Jimin asks, the sweet term slipping off the younger man’s lips so naturally, and
it tugs at his memory—tugs at his heart where it murmurs beneath his rib cage, stuttering at every
small shift that Jimin’s fingers make inside of him.
“Mmnn…” he chokes, “E-Empty—feels—”
“You feel empty, doll?” Jimin asks, and he does, he does —he feels so very empty, his body
clenching around nothing as Jimin pulls his fingers free again, tracing around the clenching rim of
his hole where he had been stretched to the limit less than an hour before. But where Yoongi’s
fingers had sparked a pleasant burn in the pit of his stomach, the simple brush of Jimin’s fingers
spreads pleasure through him like a fire.
“—Yes, yes, please—”
And yet Jimin does the absolute opposite of what he is begging for—instead of fingers returning to
his skin, Jimin’s hands disappear entirely and the rush of water suddenly stops. He is left on his
hands and knees, extremities covered in rapidly-cooling water, shivering from the sudden loss of
heat and the goosebumps that take over his damp skin, until he is surprised by the sudden
appearance of a rough weight being laid across his bare back. Jimin’s hands land on him again, this
time through the fabric—a towel, he realizes—and he is gently eased back up to his knees.
“C’mon, doll...you’re all clean now. Let’s get you dried off.”
He turns his head to look over his shoulder at Jimin, the younger man’s dark eyes a heavy weight
on him, heavier than the hands that slide down his arms to grab at his wrists to pull him slowly—
very slowly, his neglected muscles protesting—to his feet. The water comes up to his calves now,
and he is achingly hard between his thighs, the towel doing very little to hide it when Jimin wraps
the fabric more securely around his chest and shoulders and waist—though after so many days of
constant exposure, he can’t find it in himself to be ashamed.
No, there’s no hesitation when Jimin steps away from the tub and pulls on his arms to guide him to
follow, his limbs jerky but altogether willing to move towards the edge of the metal basin and raise
one at a time over the rim—but they fail to hold him properly upright the moment they land on the
tile floor, and he finds himself crashing forward into Jimin’s strong embrace. No, there’s no
embarrassment at his aroused state—but it’s certainly humiliating to find himself pressed from
head to toe against the smaller man, his naked, damp skin soaking through Jimin’s coveralls as the
janitor’s arms slide around his waist to keep them both upright.
It’s instinctive, when he tries to bury his face against Jimin’s shoulder—but the shorter man
decides otherwise, tugging him back to hold him at arm's length and look him dead in the eye.
Jimin gives him a strange, unreadable look, his lips pressing tightly together for a moment before
he parts them to ask in a low voice, “...are you alright to stand on your own?”
Art by @littledolljin
He blinks rapidly, trying to fight back the blush on his cheeks, and locks his knees before giving a
shaky nod. Jimin’s lips press together into a pensive sort of pout now as the janitor shifts his hands
down the towel and pull it away, curling it into his hands instead. Jimin keeps his face tilted
upwards, never allowing their eye contact to break as the younger man slowly slides down to his
own knees know, leaving Jimin staring up at his naked form from the floor below. He feels the
breath being knocked right out of his body at the sight.
His hands curl into fists at his sides as Jimin brings the rough cloth back to his skin, starting at his
ankles where he gently scrubs any remaining water from the skin, then moving higher to do the
same to his shins, his knees. When Jimin’s hands move even higher to his thighs, an echo of
motions made only minutes before, he feels himself quaking.
He has no choice but to grab onto Jimin when the towel is dragged up the length of his cock, hard
and straining against his belly while Jimin’s gaze is hot on his skin. One of his hands grabs onto
the smaller man’s shoulder, the other darting out to circle Jimin’s wrist to stop his movement
before he even realizes what he’s done. All at once, both men freeze, and a fresh wave of heat
takes over his face as he looks down at the way Jimin’s eyes widen slightly at his action.
There is a tension that draws between them, one that he has never felt during all of their encounters
before—a palpable, galvanic presence in the space between his body and Jimin’s own. It doesn’t
register in his mind, at first, that he is waiting for something, anything—some indication from
Jimin that this is okay, that he can—
Jimin is so—good—he thinks, throat tight as he tries to swallow. He can’t tear his eyes away from
Jimin’s hooded gaze, his His eyes flicker across Jimin’s taut cheeks, his long, flat nose with a little
tilt at the end—the thick curve of his lips, hanging open just enough for a glimpse of teeth…
Jimin pieces it together first. Still without breaking their charged eye contact, the blonde slowly
nods his head once, twice. He wants—he wants Jimin closer. Wants to be able to see the younger
man’s pretty face up close.
He takes it as all the permission he needs—tension seeping out of his shoulders at once—and turns
Jimin’s hand in his wrist to drag the other man to his feet this time. Their bodies are drawn back
together by the motion, the towel rough against his chest but Jimin’s fingers soft when they spider
out across his skin at the small of his back. Jimin presses their foreheads together—just as drawn
in, it seems, as he feels himself—and for a moment the only thing they do is share in the same
breaths, the same air.
It is Jimin who breaks the silence first, subconsciously licking his lips before he breathes out,
“...can I...kiss you?”
And suddenly he freezes. That question—

What sort of question is that?
Jimin has certainly never asked him such a thing before. In fact—he can’t remember the last time
he had been asked if someone could touch him, kiss him. He can’t remember the last time anyone
but Jimin had kissed him at all. It makes him feel—something. Warm, mostly. Warm like Jimin’s
small hands on his skin.
When he doesn’t immediately answer, Jimin raises a hand to cup his cheek, and it feels as though it
belongs there, curled around the jut of his jawline. “Talk to me—” Jimin begins, then cuts himself
off immediately at the worried expression he is met with, starting again, “—You can talk, it’s okay
—as long as it’s just us two, you—you can talk...”
With his head on one side and his heart on the other, the space in-between leaves him stranded
with Jimin’s question echoing in his ears. He wants to be good—more than anything, he wants to
be good —but in a moment like this, how can he know what that means?
“Please,” the younger man prompts, and it is just as startling to hear as before, “I want to hear it
from you…” Jimin waits until he’s sure that his message has been received, thumb brushing over
the lips before him, before continuing in a whisper, “...can I kiss you, Jungkookie?”
He can almost hear the way his heart stutters in his chest. That name—
Jungkook whimpers, lips quivering beneath Jimin’s thumb even though he’s anything but cold.
Something about hearing it, hearing that name—his name—on Jimin’s tongue, it claws at his
mind, drags up a rush of memories—sweet whispers, soft promises, gentle hands in the dark. They
come to him through a fog, hazy and thick, but the shape of Jimin’s voice around his name is as
clear in his memories as it is to his ears.
Before he can reconsider, his head is already nodding into Jimin’s touch and he rasps out, “Yes—”
And then Jimin’s lips collide with his own.
How can it possibly be so different—the soft slide of their mouths together—now that he is fully
conscious to enjoy it? When he darts out his tongue for a tiny lick, Jimin’s lips taste bitter—but the
way the smaller man cradles him close by the dip of his waist is nothing but sweet.
For several long moments, there is nothing but the connection of their mouths, their hands, the way
they press together from head to toe. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, and Jungkook feels as though
he might catch fire from the barest of friction alone. Still, it can only last for as long as it takes for
Jimin to shift from one foot to the other, the drag of their hips against each other bringing into
sharp relief just how hard Jungkook still is between them, how Jimin has an answering erection
beneath his own clothes.
When they break apart at last, breathing heavily against the other’s cheeks, the curl of Jimin’s
hands around his body takes a more insistent form and he finds himself stumbling backwards step
after step until Jimin guides him to collide with the small bed that the room has been furnished
with. Jungkook’s legs quake as they bend under Jimin’s insistent guidance, but he finds himself
settled onto the soft sheets with a grip far stronger than it looks.
And suddenly, Jimin is towering over him. The normally shorter man suddenly looks feet taller,
long legs stretched out before Jungkook within reach of his questing fingers. Though this new
position puts Jungkook in a very vulnerable position—bare legs spread to welcome Jimin between
them—he feels safe, content, all-too-willing to close his eyes and allow Jimin to cradle his face in
his small hands.
“Jungkookie…” Jimin whispers again, a different weight clinging to the word now. His thumb
drags across Jungkook’s lower lip for a moment, dragging at the swollen flesh before sliding down
further toward the hard, naked planes of his chest. Jimin’s body, too, seems to follow the same
downward path—Jungkook suddenly feels a shift in front of him and opens his eyes just in time to
catch the way the janitor is bending at the knees and slowly sliding towards the floor.
In a split-second, Jungkook catches the older man by the elbows and stops him in his tracks, the
both of them equally surprised by the change in direction. Jungkook feels another soft flush taking
over the back of his neck, but now that he’s already jumped into action it’s much easier to lean into
the motion than it is to take it back.
“What is it…?” Jimin asks, hesitance in his voice, but Jungkook can’t bring himself to answer with
words. His arms ache as he tugs Jimin’s body upright, but it’s worth it when he’s able to reach up
and grasp the zipper holding the janitor’s dark jumpsuit closed over his chest. He doesn’t break eye
contact for even a second as he draws the zipper down towards the ground, catching out of the
corner of his eye the way it splits the fabric apart to reveal the toned planes of Jimin’s chest.
Jimin follows his lead exactly, shrugging his shoulders to allow the fabric to slide down his arms,
and Jungkook raises his hands to slip the sleeves from Jimin’s wrists. They both ignore the way his
fingers shake.
The younger man helps, this time, as the zipper is tugged down further, past his waist so that the
remainder of the jumpsuit slides down his hips to the floor. And though he knows he has felt
Jimin’s skin against his own, this is the first time that he can truly take in the sight of the man’s
bare body, the lithe shape of him, the way the beauty of his face is clearly reflected in every inch
of him. Something about the sight leaves him hungry.
And though he has, day after day, been used to serve other members of the community, lying still
and pretty while they take their fill of him—for once, Jungkook can’t help himself when he leans
closer to Jimin’s cock, hard and inviting before him, because he—he wants. Wants it in his hands,
wants it between his lips. Wants Jimin.
This time, when his hot breath is fanning over Jimin’s hard cock, it’s Jimin who stops him in his
tracks with a hand twining in his hair. When he looks back up at the younger man, now towering
over him, Jungkook catches a look in Jimin’s dark eyes that he’s never seen before—a hunger that
rivals and answers his own, and below that, a tenderness that Jungkook can feel.
“...are you sure this is what you want?” Jimin asks him, and once again the question rings
unfamiliar and strange in his ears. Even stranger is the way it makes his heart swell until his chest
feels tight with the sensation.
As his answer, he presses forward beneath Jimin’s hand until he can close his lips around the tip of
Jimin’s cock, darting out his tongue to sample the precome already clinging there. Above him,
Jimin’s breath shudders in his chest, and Jungkook can hear it as much as he can feel it. The small
fingers in his hair tighten until a delicious burn spreads across his scalp, and he catches the way
Jimin’s sharp exhale takes the shape of his own name. “Jungkookie…”
It only spurs him on, ignoring the way his muscles protest in favor of leaning forward to swallow
down more of Jimin’s shaft. Now, with weeks of practice, it’s easy to allow it past the back of his
tongue, swallowing easily as he bobs his head down until his nose presses to the smooth expanse of
Jimin’s skin. Now it is Jimin’s hands that shake as they gently hold his head in place—not pushing
or pulling, simply supporting Jungkook as he takes in all that he can.
Nothing about the way Jimin cradles him makes him feel pressured, forced—no, the younger man
may have grip on him, a familiar sensation, but as he pulls back to take a deep breath, Jimin’s
hands follow right along with him with no pressure at all. Rather than holding him down, putting
him where they want him, Jimin’s hands seem to hold onto him almost... reverently. As though
Jimin can’t believe he’s even there, needs the reassurance.
It’s a feeling he deeply understands himself. This is not a chore, not a job—this is a blessing, to be
able to give back to the man who has given him so much. Jimin has given him so much. The man
who stands before him cradles him with gentle hands that have guided him, have caressed him,
cleaned him, held him—dragging memories to the forefront of his mind that he didn’t know he
possessed.
When he curls his tongue along the underside of Jimin’s cock, the man in question hisses and drags
his hands down to curl at the back of Jungkook’s neck, his own hands taking in the way Jimin
quivers beneath him, and his heart feels warm. His own pleasure takes a backseat to thoughts of
making Jimin feel as good as he can, bringing the smaller man to his peak, showing him how he
feels, how much he feels—
But for a final time, Jimin seems to make a split-second decision and drags Jungkook away from
his cock with those same gentle hands, now insistent against his shoulders. Jungkook pants when
the cock falls from his lips, drool spilling down his chin as he opens his eyes to look up at the other
man in confusion. Jimin is panting just as heavily, his own lips red from biting at them, and he
drags one hand across Jungkook’s cheek to swipe at the spit clinging to his parted lips as well.
Jungkook can’t help himself when his lips close around the tip of that thumb, can’t help the small
smile that crosses them when Jimin pulls back and swears at the sight.
“Jimin—” he starts, but there’s no time to finish when Jimin is pushing at him again, this time to
press him back to the small mattress so quickly that all the air is forced out of his lungs. He doesn’t
even have a second to protest before Jimin is on top of him, having kicked his clothes away and
clambered up onto the bed in the time it takes Jungkook to suck in another breath, and then their
lips are pressed together again.
Jungkook groans into the other man’s mouth when Jimin wastes no time in pressing every inch of
their skin together, their cocks sliding past one another as Jimin’s legs situate themselves between
his own. And this— this is something he remembers, being in this bed with Jimin, their positions
all but the same as Jimin rocks his hips forward and sucks at Jungkook’s bottom lip and drives
them both closer to the edge.
But this time, there are no interruptions. No one bursts through the door, no one demands that they
stop, orders them to do anything—they are free of watchful eyes and free to revel in only this, in
each other. Jungkook indulges in the sensation as Jimin’s tongue traces at his lips.
“Jungkook, Jungkookie—” The other man whispers to him, and it almost sounds as though he’s
begging. Jungkook doesn’t have it in him to disobey, to deprive the beautiful man above him of
anything; he clutches at the trim outline of Jimin’s waist, fighting his stiff muscles to drag one leg
up over Jimin’s hips so the smaller man has all the room he needs to rut between Jungkook’s thighs
—and it only takes a few thrusts more for him to be hanging onto the edge of his own release.
“Please, Jimin, please—” He’s not sure what he’s begging for any longer, but Jimin doesn’t seem
to need to hear more. He can feel the blonde’s muscles tense and relax beneath his hands as Jimin
settles into a rhythm, dragging Jungkook’s legs up over his thighs so he can rut between them more
easily.
Jungkook tosses his head back against the mattress, but he can’t stop fighting to keep his eyes
open, doesn’t want to miss a second of Jimin’s face above his as the younger man’s features contort
in rapture. Jimin’s lips seem to be moving, murmuring soft words under his breath that Jungkook
can’t quite hear. With his head thrown back, eyes closed, face lax with pleasure—it almost looks as
if the blonde man is praying.
It only takes one well placed thrust of Jimin’s hips between his own, the tip of the younger man’s
cock brushing against his clenching hole, to bring him to his orgasm. He gasps out Jimin’s name
and instantly finds his lips covered by Jimin’s own plush pair, the blonde swallowing down the
sound as he continues his thrusting into the mess Jungkook spilled between them. His muscles
positively scream at him when he wrenches his hands up to fist into Jimin’s light hair, desperate for
Jimin’s release to follow his own, pleading right into his lover’s mouth an endless litany of “—
please, please—Jimin—please—c’mon, I want—”
The sound that Jimin feeds him in return is equally desperate, almost animalistic as his motions
grow more erratic until Jungkook feels the younger man freeze in his arms, the hot splatter of
Jimin’s come landing against his inner thighs.
In the aftermath, there is silence. Jimin’s head rests heavily against his own, their breath a
collective gasp in the inch between their lips. Jungkook feels another hot splatter of liquid against
his skin, blinks his eyes, realizes slowly that there are tears falling onto his cheeks. His hands slide
down from Jimin’s hair to cradle his cheeks, elbows stiff along the way, until he can chase the
tracks of Jimin’s tears across his skin.
He leans up and closes his lips around Jimin’s bottom lip in a sweet kiss—a far cry from the
hungry edge to their embrace from moments before—and Jimin seems to break, letting out a soft
sob in return. His voice is a broken sound as he gasps back at Jungkook. “T-Thank you—thank you
— Jungkookie, I—”
“Shhh…” he encourages, nuzzling their noses together as though he has done so a million times,
and Jimin chokes out another sob but otherwise falls silent. It takes several long moments for the
younger man’s tears to stem, and Jungkook’s heart aches at the sight, but Jimin’s face is etched
with an emotion that he has never seen—more emotion than he has ever seen on that beautiful face
before.
When it seems safe enough, Jungkook nudges at his shoulder, too weak to push Jimin off to the
side on his own, and Jimin follows the motion with a low sound in the back of his throat as his
body slides off of Jungkook’s and lands on the blankets beside him. Jungkook grits his teeth as his
sore body is tugged along until he finds himself cradled on his side in Jimin’s warm embrace, their
legs tangled together in the mess they have made of his sheets.
Their skin is tacky where it is pressed together, and after several long minutes where they simply
rest together, Jimin slowly slides a hand down between their chests to swipe his fingers through
their collective come and cracks a rare smile. “We’ve made a mess of you…”
“I guess I’ll...need another bath…” Jungkook rasps in equal humor.
“We can take a few more moments first…” Jimin reasons, and Jungkook nods, dropping his head
down into the crook of Jimin’s arm as his eyes close. Above him, Jimin begins to hum under his
breath—that same, almost tuneless song. Just as before, it catches at some distant memory in his
mind, but this time Jungkook is able to rein it in. “Hmm…”
“What?” Jimin whispers.
“That song…” Jimin waits patiently as he pauses, collecting his thoughts. “My mom...used to sing
it to me...I think…”
Jimin resumes his soft humming, raising his voice just enough to make the melody clear in places
it wasn’t before. When Jungkook nods his agreement, confirming that it does, indeed sound
familiar, Jimin pauses for just long enough to murmur, “...it’s a good one,” before continuing with
the tune.
No Service 4:27 PM 35% ◧
The forest is quiet, with the exception of the steady crunch-crunch-crunch of their shoes against
the dirt below. His hand is warm in hers, small fingers pressing against her palm where they don’t
quite reach the spaces between her own.
“C’mon, Jungkookie—we’re getting closer,” she tells him, and her son follows after her eagerly,
wide eyes swinging from side to side as though he is afraid to miss something. His cheeks are a
little red from exertion, but there is a wide smile plastered across his face. Beneath their feet, a
twig snaps—
There is nothing in her hand except for the branches that she pushes out of her face. The path
before her between the trees has clearly never been tread before, one that she has to pick out herself
with every careful step. Each crack of another twig or piece of bark beneath her feet sounds like a
gunshot through the air, seeming to echo off of each tree that surrounds her in turn.
She glances down at the screen of her phone in her hand, squinting down at the journey that it lays
out for her—a tenuous path to begin with, off any marked roads completely, but even more so after
she lost reception several miles ago. She is forced to trust the line through the forest that the device
had drawn for her in the nearby town when she had re-checked the directions for what felt like the
umpteenth time.
“Momma, are we close?” Jungkook’s voice asks, and she chuckles as he tugs on her wrists, the
drag of his small body just enough to propel her forward up the long, winding path that leads up
the hill. The sunlight through the trees leaves dappled patterns across the dirt, sending them into
patches of warmth and then back into shadows every couple of feet.
“Hey, hold on!” She calls out to her son as his insistent tugging nearly causes her to stumble. Still,
she is laughing as she catches up to him and grabs him around his waist, swinging him in a wide
circle before setting him back down on the ground again. With her hands on her hips, she looks
down at him magnanimously, though a smile still tugs at the corners of her lips.
“Yes, we are almost there, young man. Do you think you can be patient for an old woman like me?
We can’t all be tiny balls of energy bouncing around all the time like you! All this hiking has my
knees aching, you know…”
“Oh mom…” he groans, rubbing at the sweat dripping down his forehead and sticking his hair to
his skin. “You’re not that old.”
Her muscles burn with the exertion as she continues to clamber her way through the trees, batting
leaves out of her face at every turn. Her clothes barely make a barrier between the brush and her
skin, clearly not chosen for this accidental hike she has found herself on. She thinks back to where
she left her car parked on the side of the road, at the end of a trail that is just barely visible through
the overgrowth—the same path she is attempting to follow right now.
‘The road is closed,’ the locals had told her, when she had stopped for directions in the nearby
town after what seemed like hours of driving. ‘You can’t go up that way anymore.’
‘But there—has to be a way, right? I need to get there, I need to—’
They had looked at her like she was crazy, she’s sure of it. No one said anything to that effect, but
their faces made it clear. The first few people she had asked had looked at her as though she was
mad and quickly scuttled away, and at first she had passed it off as the same wary, exclusionary
way that people from small towns always seem to act—but now, as she scrambles over another log
that has fallen over a path that has long-since been maintained or used? She feels a little mad. As
mad as her husband had accused her of being.
“You say that now, Jungkookie, but just you wait—soon enough you’ll be so grown up that your
mother won’t be able to pick you up anymore.”
“Yeah right, I bet you can’t even do that now! I’m too big!”
“Oh really? Too big for your mom to give you a piggy-back ride?”
“Mhm, too big.” He crosses his arms, puffing out his chest defiantly, and she has to cover her
mouth to hide her grin from the small boy.
“Oh, I see...so you’re all grown up now, is that right?”
“Yep!”
“Too grown up to be carried by your mommy.”
“That’s right!”
“Ah, where has the time gone?” She asks dramatically, waving a hand in the space between them.
“My big grown-up boy. Well, I guess we’d better get started, then…”
“...with what?”
It’s chilly, almost unbearably so, her jacket only warding off some of the cold, and the air hangs
heavy and humid with a faint haze of mist between the dark silhouettes of the trees. Bark is damp
and tacky against her palm when she pauses to rest against a sturdy looking tree, checking her
phone screen again to make sure she hasn’t strayed too far off the proscribed path only to find that
her battery is running uncomfortably low.
With her charger miles away in the car and the sun dipping lower over the horizon through
overcast clouds, she has no choice but to rally and continue her charge up the next hill—hopefully
one of the last, if the map is even close to correct. It took more effort than she would have liked to
convince one of the locals to stop with her long enough to place the pin in the right location,
dropped somewhere in the center of the forest where there didn’t seem to be much of anything at
all.
‘Why do you want to go there?’ She had been asked by one incredulous woman who had been out
shopping with her own young daughter in tow, stopping only for long enough to answer her
question before quickly tugging the girl away by the arm.
When she had sharply retorted, ‘Why? What’s wrong with going there? It’s just a school, isn’t it?’
The other woman had hurried to break their eye contact and turn her back away. ‘Isn’t it?!’ She
had called after her retreating form, but no answer ever came.
“With climbing the hill, silly!” She points up at the incline in front of them, taking a rather steep
tilt upwards from where they have paused on the path. “You said you were a big boy now, and big
boys don’t get piggy-back rides from their mothers’. I guess that means you’ll have to walk all the
way up there by yourself...”
When his head whips around to gape up at the hill through the trees, she finally allows herself to
crack a smile again. “We’d better start moving, or it’ll take us allllll night.”
“Um—”
“C’mon, Jungkookie, let’s go!”
“W-Wait, mom—”
Jungkook. She has to remind herself, with every foot that she moves further into the forest, exactly
why she is doing this—for Jungkook. For her son. She could end up trapped in the trees all night,
stranded—all of this could turn out to be for naught and she could find him happily standing at the
front of a classroom waving to her in greeting—and it will all be worth it. Even if her husband turns
out to be right. Even if she is just as crazy as everyone has started to believe her to be.
But something miles back on the road told her that she was right to drive all the way out here, all
the way to a small town in the middle of nowhere—the last known address of the Academy.
Something all the way back in her apartment, when she heard her son’s voicemail message playing
in her ear for the second day in a row, told her that things weren’t the way they should be.
And it was that twisted feeling in her gut that she followed to every website she could find, every
tiny shred of information that led her here—halfway up a steep hill in the middle of Woraksan
forest with no reception on her phone, trying to track down the location of the elusive, secretive
school where her son has taken up employment.
“Hm?”
“I’m not too big!”
“Is that right?”
“I’m not too big, I was wrong! It’s hot and I don’t wanna walk n’ymore, I want a piggy-back ride!”
“Are you sure…?” She asks through a smile, and her son raises his arms up towards her and
pouts in the way he has long-since learned makes her unable to resist—not that in this moment she
had any intention to.
She only waits a moment longer before giving in and ducking down to sweep Jungkook into her
arms, swinging his small body around while he giggles uncontrollably. Once he settles down, she
holds him with one arm and helps him clamber onto her back, arms twining around her neck.
“Alright, you ready?” She asks while hooking her hands beneath his knees.
“Yes! Onward!” He cheers, waving one arm in front of them magnanimously.

“Yes, your majesty…” She starts her way up the hill, sun in her eyes and tiny hands clasped at her
throat, the joyous laughter of her son in her ears.
Thoughts of Jungkook have taken over her mind completely, powering her steps forward as the
trees seem to thin up ahead, hands on her knees as she forces one leg in front of the other and
slowly—achingly so—makes her way to the very top of the hill. Her son, her dutiful
boy...Jungkook was a wonderful, perfect surprise, a medical miracle even doctors couldn’t have
predicted. Her husband had always called him a blessing .
But more than that, Jungkook had always been a fighter —willing, eager even, to please—to live
up to the nearly impossible standards his father had set for him. She had watched, over the years, as
his bright smile had dimmed, his eyes filling with sharp focus instead, his voice growing quiet until
he was sure of what he had to say. He had exceeded their every expectation, even creating a few of
his own along the way.
If Jungkook was so willing and able to fight for their family, for his parents—then she was for
damn sure going to fight for him in return.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” She feels his little legs kick at her side like a horse as she reaches the crest
of the hill, sweat dripping down her hairline openly now. Still, she laughs joyously with her son as
he slides down her back and swings around her body, giggling as though he has just ridden a roller
coaster instead of taking a short trek through the woods.
Closer—closer—she can see where the trees up ahead suddenly stop, the green of an open space
just beyond—
“Come on, mom—come on, we’re almost there!” He grabs at her hand, dragging her with
impatient tugs at her sleeve, and she rolls her eyes to herself as she dutifully follows along. Up
ahead, she can see patches of red and orange through the brush, sure signs that they are indeed
nearly to—
She’s practically sprinting now, the ground evened out beneath her feet as she allows her anxiety,
her excitement to carry her forward, pushing through her exhaustion as she crashes through the
underbrush, branches catching on her sleeves as she goes. Jungkook—she’s so close, she can
almost feel him nearby—
‘I’m coming, Jungkookie, hang on—’
—their campsite. It’s only a few feet more before the trees part to show the clearing in which they
have set up their tent, and beside it, her husband sitting at the fireside to tend to the flames with a
stick.
“Daddy!” Jungkook yells out, breaking away from his mother at last to bolt across the grass to his
father’s side. The man sits up straighter and turns to greet them, but he doesn’t extend his arms for
an embrace. The boy stops a foot in front of the older man, seeming to catch himself at the last
minute, and hops on his toes before jerking down into a bow.
“Jungkook.” His father says. “Daeun.” He greets his wife, and she also offers him a small bow of
her head. “Did you have a good walk?”
“Yes!” Jungkook exclaims happily, “It was so much fun!”
“Fun. Hmm.” His father shakes his head, then places a hand on the log beside him, indicating the
open seat. “Come, sit down, and tell me what you have learned.”
Jungkook—Jungkook—Jungkook—
Her feet finally carry her through the treeline and into the open space beyond, and she comes
stumbling to a halt at the sight that greets her.
Just beyond the trees is a large space that has been clear-cut, only grass and brush having grown
across the ground in the absence of roots and trunks. The grass is unkempt, wild, in some places
standing as tall as her knees.
Beyond the grass emerges the edge of a structure—a building, though it could hardly be called one
now. The brick has long-since decayed and crumbled, overgrown with vines and moss until the
entire surface has become more green than stone. The windows laid into the side of the building
are blown out, glass shattered or missing from every pane.
What—
In a daze, her legs carry her forward before she even realizes she is moving. She steps carefully
through the tall weeds along the line of the building, keeping her distance from the wall as though
afraid of it—and truly, she is, if the way her skin has broken out into goosebumps is any indication.
Something is wrong.
Slowly, she moves around the corner of the building, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth and
muffle the gasp that is ripped from her. Just beyond the building, previously out of sight, what
appears to be a small town of sorts comes into view. There are at least a dozen structures, each in
various stages of decay, stretched all the way to the treeline a mile away.
Some buildings almost look as though they had simply been allowed to overgrow with vines, their
walls otherwise intact—others have nearly crumbled down to their foundations in some places.
And, most notably, on each and every building, their front doors stand wide open—if they are not
missing entirely—eerily dark and gaping holes that each seem to be trying to welcome her in.
No—no, this can’t be—
She hears her footsteps crunching against the gravel before she realizes that she has started to run,
her feet carrying her through the center of the ruins towards some unknown destination, head
whipping back and forth as she desperately searches for any sign of life.
Jungkook—
He’s supposed to be here, they said he would be here—!
She passes by buildings that almost look to be apartments, many small windows side by side in
uniform patterns, and a large, collapsed pavilion with decaying tables underneath—and finally
slides to a halt in front of the largest building, set right into the center of the buildings that seem to
circle around it.
She stands at the foot of the steps that lead up to what is left of the structure, eyes wide as she takes
in the way it seems to have been burned from the inside out. The wood is blackened and crumbling
through the plants that have taken over the structure, the center of the building all but gone while
only the external walls remain.
And at the the base of the stairs, not more than a few feet from her, sits a sign carved into stone.
Moss has grown over its side, but the words that have been etched into the front are still legible.
She reads through them, over and over and over again, her blood running cold as the shock hits her.
—no.
No. No!
It—it can’t be—
But her eyes don’t lie. She traces the letters over and over, but the words don’t change. Plain as
day, she reads the sign’s proclamation in horror.
‘The Academy of Higher Purpose.’

Institute 1—Conference Room 3—First Floor 08.24.18 5:39PM
“Please, take a seat.”
“We don’t expect to be here long enough to make ourselves comfortable, Seokjin.”
The principal bristles at their words, leaning back in his winged armchair as he considers his guest
across the top of the table. They stand magnanimously over him, dark cloaks only accentuating
their stature, and he finds his own face staring back at him from the mirrors that cover their faces.
Though he knows their intention, he feels nothing as he looks into their masks, meeting his own
gaze unwaveringly.
“At least do me the courtesy of looking me in the eyes, then,” he requests in his most political tone,
waving a hand as if to encourage them. There is a pause as the council members consider his
request, then one raises their gloved hands towards their hoods and the other immediately follows
after. As their masks are unfastened and pulled away, two pale faces are revealed—familiar to him,
though they might not be to anyone else.
“Much better,” he says conversationally. “There are no need for secrets here. Now,” he leans
forward again, resting his elbows on the tabletop, “If you are not intending to make this a long
stay, tell me why we have traveled all the way here for a simple conversation. My office surely
would have sufficed…”
The first of the two council members narrows her eyes at him, her shoulders square as she looks
down her nose and addresses him coldly. “You continue to question us at every turn. It should
suffice that we have made this decision, Seokjin.”
“I only question that which does not seem based in sense, Councilwoman Kim,” he replies, though
his tone remains cool and detached. “For example, your surprise inspection this morning. You
have certainly been able to observe our new recruits at any time—why now to suddenly spring this
on me?”
“We have our concerns,” the other council member interjects, his voice deeper but less icy than his
partner. “Which have already been made clear to you.”
“You worry needlessly,” he waves away their words with a swing of his hand, his other arm
reaching out to press a button laid into the center of the conference table. The crackle of an
intercom breaks through the silence, followed shortly by the voice of the front desk receptionist
sitting down the hall.
BEEP.
“—Yes, Mr. Kim?”
“Send Ms. Yoo and Mr. Oh in to the conference room, I have need of them.”
“ —Right away, sir.”
—CLICK.
“What is the point of this?” The councilman asks, crossing his arms over his robed chest. The
councilwoman beside him looks equally unimpressed.
“The point,” Seokjin replies, his voice dipping down to match their iciness now, “is to prove that
my actions are not baseless. I have done my research, I have done years of waiting—”
He is interrupted by the door on the far side of the room swinging open, the familiar face of his
secretary appearing, followed by the taller, more imposing figure of his lawyer. “Ah, Jeongyeon,
Sehun, come in. I am in need of your assistance.”
Both of his staff members look suitably surprised to see the council members standing before them,
particularly with their masks pulled from their faces, and both duck their heads reverently as they
make their way around the table to Seokjin’s side.
“How can we serve you, Mr. Kim?” Jeongyeon asks, her head still bowed respectfully as she
addresses the Principal.
Seokjin doesn’t bother looking at her as he asks, “Show our guests the documentation on Mr. Jung
and Mr. Jeon.” Jeongyeon immediately reaches into her bag and pulls out several manilla folders,
two of which she sets down on the tabletop and spreads open for Seokjin to view. He glances down
at the papers within, skimming through until he finds what he is looking for.
“Here—” He rests a finger on the page just below a photo of one Jung Hoseok, sliding it across the
table for the councilmembers to see. “Take a look at his initial assessment results. His scores are
off the charts.”
“Yes,” the councilman says before he even steps forward to look down at the offered page. “But
that does not change his performance since.”
“You assessed him personally,” Seokjin retorts, and the ice in his tone turns to venom, “Without
consulting me, I might add. And you deemed him ready for the next level after only one session
—”
“What we do with him now that he is here is not the issue in question,” Councilwoman Kim cuts
in, “Our issue is that you brought him here in the first place. Without consulting the council, I
might add.”
Seokjin narrows his eyes up at the woman, “And yet it was you who hired him. And our new doll.”
“You left us no choice!” The councilman bursts out, clearly more emotional about the subject than
his partner. “What were we supposed to do when you brought them to our doorstep—”
“What Councilman Ahn is trying to say,” Councilwoman Kim cuts him off with a hand to his arm,
and her partner falls silent, “is that your actions have forced the Council’s hand time and time
again. Bringing Mr. Jung and Mr. Jeon here was a foolish move, especially given their close
relationship with one another. You did not think before—”
“I thought plenty! You believe that I gave you no choice, but I was the one who had the difficult
decision to make, I was the one who had to think of the betterment of this community, of our
important work!” Seokjin rises to his feet now, pointing an accusing finger at both of the council
members standing before him. At his side, Jeongyeon’s eyes grow wide in fear, and Sehun drops a
comforting hand on her shoulder. “We need them here, we were fools for leaving them out in the
world alone without our guidance—think of the consequences if they had not been brought into the
fold—”
“Think of the consequences that we now face because they have!” The councilwoman shoots back.
“You cannot be naive enough to believe their absence will go unnoticed!”
“It does not matter whether they are missed, because they were missed here. They needed to come
home and you know it. They needed us.”
“Sir—” Jeongyeon tries to speak up, but she is silenced in a moment as Seokjin’s icy glare is
lodged at her over his shoulder.
“They are here now, they have had their eyes opened—there is nothing we can do to take that
back,” the councilwoman reasons, “but these abuses of your power cannot continue, Seokjin. We
will not look kindly on any further indiscretions.”
“You cannot stand against me and you know it.” Seokjin slides back into his seat, looking
magnanimously across the table at his guests. His demeanor changes in a split-second, though
behind his dark eyes, that same rage continues to churn. “I am the beginning and the end. You have
no one who can serve our cause as I can.”
“You are a man, Kim Seokjin. You were made and you can be unmade.”
“Remember who gave me this power,” he says, his voice dropping low.
“We do not forget.”
There is a tension that takes over the room, then, as all parties fall silent. Seokjin feels as though he
could cut through it with a single word, stir the embers back into a fire—but he chooses to end the
confrontation instead.
“Well, if that’s all…” Seokjin waves a hand towards Jeongyeon, who is still cowering beside him.
“Ms. Yoo will see you out.”
Jeongyeon jumps at being addressed, but hurriedly bows and scurries around the desk towards the
council members, bowing to them as well before murmuring for them to follow her out the door.
Both council members cast a long look over their shoulders at Seokjin before pulling their masks
back down over their eyes, leaving Seokjin looking right back at himself once more. He doesn’t
break eye contact until all three of them have filed out of the door and closed it behind themselves,
leaving Seokjin alone with Sehun at last.
“Sir…” Sehun pipes up after a pregnant pause, clearly afraid that he will be rebuked just as
Jeongyeon had.
“What is it?” Seokjin murmurs back, resting his head on his hands where he clasps them together
beneath his chin.
“Sir, I know that they are out of line to question you so…” He begins, and when Seokjin doesn’t
interrupt, he continues with more confidence, “but as your legal council...I would be a fool not to
raise my own concerns.”
Seokjin says nothing for another long moment, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the inside of
closed door across the room.
“Sir?”
“Go on…” He finally murmurs, and he can hear Sehun shift from one foot to the other at his side.
“I—Sir, I believe that the council members have a point. Mr. Jeon—the doll—sir, it isn’t as though
his absence has gone unnoticed.”
“...and what is that supposed to mean, exactly?”
“His mother, she has—well, sir, she has been attempting to contact him, or contact us, for weeks.
She has called and spoken to Ms. Park several times, and emailed as well, always requesting to
speak to him or to hear about his whereabouts, and—”
“Why wasn’t I informed of this immediately?” He slams a hand down on the table, and Sehun
jumps as though he has been shot at.
“Sir, I—I was only informed of this recently, Ms. Park didn’t believe it was important but the
woman is remarkably persistent—”
“Jihyo is a receptionist, and you are my legal council,” Seokjin snaps, still not bothering to even
look at Sehun. “You are here to council me, not to make decisions for me. Neither of you have the
ability to handle these matters or the authority to keep things from me.”
“But sir—”
“Get out.” He points at the door with one long finger, and Sehun shifts beside him again, seeming
to look between Seokjin and the door.
“Sir—”
“Get out!” In a flash, his hands swipe across the table, sending the files in front of him flying into
the air. Through the rain of papers, Sehun bolts for the door, not needing to be told again that he
needs to make an immediate retreat.
Seokjin watches the other man flee in silence, papers settling around him with sounds like a chorus
of whispers. One page in particular catches his eye, a single, black and white photo staring back up
at him from where it lands on top of the table. The young face almost seems to look up at him
fearfully from the paper—large, doe-like eyes staring into the camera like a deer in headlights.
Beneath the photo, the profile reads: ‘Age: 24, Sex: Male, Name: Jeon Jungkook—’
Teacher’s Lounge—Second Floor 08.24.18 6:53PM
“Um, Mr. Min?”

Yoongi looks up at the sound of his name, eyes falling on a lone figure who has just appeared
through the open door. This time of day, the teacher’s lounge is usually quiet, just the way Yoongi
likes it—what with the way the students enduring their punishment as furniture bolt for the door at
the first opportunity, and the other staff members scurry back to their households as soon as the
final bell rings. It’s rare to see anyone else here so late—a sentiment that his new companion
echoes out loud just a moment later.
“I’m glad I found you, I didn’t think anyone would still be here…”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jung?” He asks coolly, not really in the mood for conversation, even
with this kind newcomer who has done nothing to him.
“I, um—” The younger man gently closes the door to the lounge behind him, blocking out any
distantly echoing noises from the school at large. As he approaches, Yoongi can see the way his
handsome face is twisted up with nerves. “I could really use your help…”
Yoongi leans back against the couch, setting down the book that he had been reading to gesture the
younger teacher closer instead. He steps closer, each of his movements hesitant, until he can take a
seat on the cushion no more than a foot away from Yoongi.
“Again...what can I do for you?” He repeats, crossing one leg over the other.
“Well, I...I know we don’t know each other that well, but…” He watches the younger man
swallow thickly. “I have a bit of a...proposition for you, I guess?”
“A proposition, Mr. Jung?”
“You, um—you can call me Hoseok, if you’d like…” the other teacher offers, a momentary change
of subject.
“Hoseok,” Yoongi repeats. “Very well then. We’re colleagues, after all. You can call me Yoongi as
well.”
“Thank you, Yoongi…” Hoseok says with a soft exhale, as though some of his nerves have left him
at Yoongi’s acceptance. There’s something strange about the way his lips form the sound of
Yoongi’s name, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. “I appreciate that. It certainly makes
things a little easier.”
“What things?” Yoongi can help but ask, his curiosity being piqued more and more by the second.
“What exactly can I help you with?”
“It’s...a bit of a long story, I guess,” Hoseok says with a wry laugh, casting his eyes around the
room for a moment before bringing them back to Yoongi’s face, something darker in their depths
now. The younger man slides even closer across the couch, their legs almost touching, and Yoongi
is forced to turn his head to meet Hoseok’s eyes. There’s a hint of something there, a look that
seems oddly familiar—he recognizes it as one that he has seen from the younger man before, all
the times that he has watched Yoongi in the classroom and admired his work.
“The short version is that I, well…” Hoseok continues, “I’ve been given an important task, you
know...one that I can’t do alone. I really need some assistance, and since you’re definitely one of
the best people for the job…” He trails off meaningfully, but Yoongi is, to be perfectly honest,
completely lost.
“Hoseok, I—really don’t understand. Just tell me what you need,” Yoongi asks with a tilt of his
head.
He watches as the younger teacher licks his lips, hands fidgeting in his lap, before he leans just a
bit closer and whispers, “...you.”
“You— what?”
But then Hoseok’s hand is on his thigh and their lips are crashing together, and Yoongi is so
stunned that he can’t immediately bring himself to pull away. Hoseok seems to take this as enough
encouragement to slide closer, swinging one leg over Yoongi’s so that he can straddle the older
man’s hips and bury his hands in Yoongi’s dark hair to hold them together.
Yoongi tries to say something, his hands hovering uselessly over the younger man’s waist, but
Hoseok swallows down all of his protestations while dragging his hands down Yoongi’s chest to
pull his shirt from the waistband of his pants and ruck it up his stomach.
“Mmmmf—wait—” He tries pulling away, finding himself pinned back against the couch by
strong hands, the man above him using his height to his advantage. “H-Hoseok—”
“I’ll be good for you,” Hoseok murmurs to him when he pulls away at last, moving mere
centimeters away from Yoongi’s lips even as his hips press closer. “I’ll be so good, I promise—”
“What’re you—” Yoongi tries to ask, but Hoseok cuts him off with another kiss, dragging his teeth
along Yoongi’s lower lip until a small moan is dragged from his throat in their wake.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you—I’ll be so good for you—” Hoseok promises him between kiss after
kiss, rutting his hips into Yoongi’s until the hard line of Hoseok’s arousal through his clothes is
impossible to ignore.
“Hoseok!” Yoongi finally gets a grip on himself enough to shove his hands forward and push the
younger man away, at least far enough that they can look into each other’s eyes again. Hoseok’s
gaze is hooded, his breath coming out in short little pants, and even though Yoongi is holding him
away from his own body, he still feels pinned down by the younger man’s presence.
“Hoseok,” he says again, trying to bring some of his usual confidence back into his tone, “What on
earth are you doing?”
“I—” Hoseok seems confused by Yoongi’s question, shifting slightly in Yoongi’s lap so that the
older man has to bite back a hiss. “I’m trying to make you feel good…”
“Yes, I,” he clears his throat, his hands tightening and then relaxing on Hoseok’s stomach, “I
understand that much, but why?”
“You—don't know?”
“Know what?”
“I, they told me,” he stutters, all of his previous confidence melting away, “they told me I need a
Guide…”
“Wait…” Yoongi leans back even further to get a good look at Hoseok’s face, some of the pieces
finally coming together in his mind. “What level are you?”
“Thirteen,” Hoseok says softly, a blush appearing on his cheeks now.
Yoongi sighs and raises one hand to rub at his eyes. Of course. “I see,” he says, and he can feel
Hoseok shift uncomfortably on his lap as though ready to flee. “This all makes so much more
sense now.”
“I’m sorry,” Hoseok murmurs, sliding backwards until he is caught by Yoongi’s hands on his hips,
“I didn’t mean to—I thought I was—”
“Shh, no...no, it’s okay,” Yoongi assures him, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Hoseok .” He says
the younger man’s name in a sharper tone and ducks his head down to make sure that their eyes
meet when Hoseok tries to duck his head away. “Hoseok, I mean it. You didn’t do anything
wrong.”
“I thought you knew, really, I didn’t mean to surprise you like—”
“Hey, I’m serious...it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats, “I just didn’t
realize—it’s been a long time since we’ve had someone attempting level fourteen, I didn’t know
what level you were at now or I would have figured it out sooner.”
Hoseok bites at his lips, clearly at a loss for what to say, and Yoongi becomes acutely aware of the
way they are still tangled up in each other. He wasn’t unaffected by Hoseok’s earlier ministrations,
however brief they might have been, and his own pants are just as uncomfortably tight as Hoseok’s
own.
“You were doing really well,” he finally says, knowing that the younger man needs the
reassurance.
“Y-Yeah?” Hoseok asks softly, and he gives a firm nod. Strange as it had been, and how
blindsided it had made him feel, it wasn’t as though Hoseok’s kisses had been unpleasant or his
pretty words misplaced. There’s certainly a natural talent about the younger man, and even—a
romantic side, perhaps, though that thought is never one he would voice out loud.
“Yes, really. That certainly wasn’t a bad start for a seduction. If I hadn’tve been so surprised and
pushed you away…”
“Um…” Hoseok’s pretty blush darkens and he raises a hand to stroke his long fingers down the
side of Yoongi’s cheek. “Should I...continue, then?” He asks, breathlessly.
When Yoongi doesn’t immediately answer, Hoseok starts to lean forward again, his eyes falling
closed—but Yoongi stops him in his tracks with a gentle hand on his hip and the other moving up
to cover Hoseok’s hand on his own cheek.
“No, I’m sorry…” He pauses, fighting with himself as he sees the immediately crestfallen look on
the younger man’s face. He doesn’t want to disappoint him, doesn’t want to turn him away when
he needs help, and—well, he knows that Hoseok wasn’t wrong when he said that Yoongi was the
best choice for the role. Still, the thought of kissing Hoseok again makes something uncomfortable
twist in his gut, thoughts of another pair of lips coming to mind instead.
He tries not to focus too much on those memories, the way Taehyung’s mouth fits against his own,
how much smaller that Hoseok his body is when he sits across Yoongi’s lap like this—he doesn’t
want to allow his mind to wander too far down that path, lest he let something slip that he won’t be
able to take back.
Instead of voicing his true thoughts on the matter, he chooses instead to clear his throat and try a
different explanation entirely. “Hoseok, I’m sorry, but I can’t be your Guide. I wish I could—” he
says, fighting down the thought that he doesn’t want to be anyone’s Guide at all, “—but I already
have someone assigned to mentor. It wouldn’t be possible for me to take you both on at once—”
Not strictly true, though he hopes it at least sounds plausible. “—I wouldn’t be able to give you the
attention that you need.”
Hoseok’s frown deepens with every word, but from the look on his face, it’s more from
disappointment than anything else, and something about that comes as a relief to Yoongi. “I hope
you understand,” he adds, and Hoseok immediately nods.
“Of course,” the younger man says, his voice much smaller now. “I should have realized—”
“No, there’s no way you could have known, it’s okay…” And maybe he’s being kinder than he
should be, but something about Hoseok and his struggle, the things Yoongi can imagine him
having gone through in the last few months, it tugs at memories he has long-since tried to forget.
“Can I ask...who it is?” Hoseok says after a beat. It takes Yoongi a moment to realize exactly what
he means.
“Who I have been assigned to as a Guide?” He asks, seeking clarification, and Hoseok gives a tiny
nod. “Kim Namjoon.”
“Oh…” It’s hard to tell how the younger man feels about this news, his gaze focusing far away as
he seems to mull the information over.
“Actually…” Yoongi tilts his head thoughtfully, “He...might not be the worst choice for you,
instead of me.”
“What?”
“As your Guide,” Yoongi clarifies, and Hoseok seems to perk up slightly. “He’s certainly attained a
high enough level that he would be more than capable of teaching you.”
“You think so?” Hoseok appears more eager by the second, a small smile quirking at his lips.
“Would he be okay with that?”
“I’m sure he would be honored,” Yoongi tells him, though he’s unsure exactly how true that
statement might be. “At the very least,” he amends, “We are all charged with furthering our cause,
and that includes mentoring those who follow in our footsteps. I think it’s highly unlikely that he
would have any reason to say no.”
Hoseok nods thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip now, and they both fall silent for a moment.
Hoseok’s hand falls to his shoulder, and he shifts on Yoongi’s lap again. At the motion, it becomes
abundantly clear that they are both still hard enough from the earlier friction between them, and
Hoseok doesn’t seem keen to ignore it any longer.
“Yoongi…” he murmurs, and the older man braces himself for what he knows is coming. “I guess
we should...um, take care of this, right? Then I’ll—I’ll leave you be…”
Before he can say anything, Hoseok’s hands are on his belt, making quick work of tugging the
leather through the buckle to get at his zipper. He knows that Hoseok is just doing what he’s been
taught to do, but he can’t help himself when he reaches out to stop the younger man for the third
time that night.
“Wait, Hoseok, we don’t have to—”

Hoseok frowns, his heart-shape face contorted by the expression. “You don’t...want to? But…” He
seems truly confused by Yoongi’s words, and Yoongi can’t blame him. “I thought we were always
supposed to…”
Yoongi could almost slap himself for being so stupid. Of course Hoseok would be confused by
him putting a stop to things—what was he thinking?
Quickly redirecting, he squeezes one of Hoseok’s hands. “You misunderstand me,” he says with as
much authority as he can, “ Of course I want to.” Lies, all of it. “I just meant...we can do this
however you’d like. What would you prefer?”
The explanation seems to assuage Hoseok’s insecurity, his expression melting into one of relief.
He purses his lips, mulling the question over for a moment, then slides back on Yoongi’s knees to
grab at his shoulders instead. He pushes at Yoongi until he can manhandle him to the side, laying
the older man down on his back across the couch so that he can slide between Yoongi’s legs
instead.
“Like this,” he says, and it isn’t a question. Yoongi doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but
he’s surprised—perhaps pleasantly so—by this turn of events.
When Hoseok’s hands end up on his belt again, this time he makes no move to stop the younger
man from unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down his hips. When his underwear follow,
exposing his half-hard cock to Hoseok’s gaze, his companion makes no comment about his
lackluster arousal.
And when his pretty lips close around the head of Yoongi’s cock, Yoongi doesn’t want to enjoy it
—but he still tosses his head back and grips the arm of the couch above his head and allows
himself to do so all the same. With his eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend that the younger man is
someone else, someone with a sharp mind and a boxy smile and a heart that matches his own.
“Hello…?”
He peeks his head through the door to the classroom, rapping gently on the wood to announce his
presence. The room beyond is surprisingly empty, the lights turned off so that the only illumination
comes from the windows that line the far wall. Tentatively, he slips around the door and makes his
way down the center aisle lined with desks until he reaches the teacher’s desk at the far side of the
room.
He leans to one side, trying to get a better look into the office beyond the desk, the small space
completely dark and seemingly empty. “Yoongi?” He calls out, and receives no answer.
Sighing, he turns his attention instead to the desk in front of him, reaching over to turn on the small
lamp sitting in one corner. With its surface illuminated, it's easier to see the stacks of papers that sit
in front of the chair, ready to be thumbed through by the missing teacher.
He takes the liberty of thumbing through the documents—since Yoongi has left him alone, it’s the
most obvious way to entertain himself, after all. He moves around the table and settles into the
teacher’s chair, picking up a stack of papers with familiar names on them, immediately chuckling
at some of the asinine answers that his classmates have given on their latest assignment. How do
some of them even expect to graduate, he wonders—
His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the bang of the classroom door flying open again, the
lights flickering to life above his head. He jerks up in surprise, only to find a strange sight before
him: a man dressed in blue coveralls standing in the doorway with the naked form of another man
clinging to his back, both of them smiling and giggling softly to each other.
“—Jimin?” He asks, and the smile on the janitor’s face slips away in an instant.
“Taehyung?”
“What—What are you doing?”
Taehyung watches as Jimin’s hands seem to tighten on the doll’s legs before he steps into the room
completely, kicking the door closed again behind him with one well-aimed foot. He doesn’t answer
Taehyung immediately, instead making his way down to join the student at the front of the room
and setting the doll down on its feet before turning to face Taehyung again.
“I’m bringing the doll back to Yoongi, as I’m supposed to.” The doll stands behind Jimin now, a
few inches taller, though it isn’t immediately apparent from the way he leans against the janitor,
seemingly to hold himself upright. “What are you doing here?” He crosses his arms over his chest,
looking at Taehyung accusingly.
He stumbles to his feet, the chair sliding out behind him to hit the wall with a low thump. “I’m
waiting for Yoongi, we—I, um, I have another scheduled experiment with, um, the doll, so…” He
nods his head toward the man standing behind Jimin, watches as the man’s hands tighten on
Jimin’s waist now.
“Yoongi isn’t here?” Jimin questions, casting his dark eyes around the room suspiciously.
“No, he, uh—he hasn’t arrived yet. We were supposed to meet a few minutes ago, but…”
“That doesn’t seem like him.” Jimin frowns, and reaches down to place his hand over the doll’s
where it rests on his hip. “What do you need the doll for?”
“I’m not exactly sure what Yoongi had planned, just the subject matter…” He sighs, shrugging his
shoulders. “He usually instructs me on how to get started and then leaves me to gather my
observations, you know? It’s important that I can do the work on my own, so—”
“What subject matter?” Jimin interrupts, and when Taehyung looks up at him again, there is a
sharpness to the man’s dark gaze that Taehyung has never seen before.
“Um...endurance, I think? Why?”

A slow, devious smile curls at the edges of Jimin’s lips at this revelation. Taehyung knows that
smile, knows it from years of friendship with Jimin, knows that it can only mean trouble . “Oh no
—what are you thinking?” He groans.
“You need help, don’t you?” Jimin asks, stepping away from the doll, though their hands never
leave each other. “I have an idea.”
“You...would help me?” He’s shocked, to say the least, at Jimin’s implied offer. “Are you
even...um, allowed?”
“Don’t worry yourself, they won’t see,” Jimin assures him.
“But...Jimin, they’re always watching,” he replies, almost on instinct.
“They see less than they think they do,” Jimin says, cryptically, and when Jimin locks eyes with
him again and gives him a meaningful look, he knows that Jimin is referring to Yoongi, him and
Yoongi together.
Changing tack, he poses a completely different argument altogether. “Sure, but...why would you
risk it? Just a few days ago you told me to stay away from you completely—”
“This is different,” Jimin cuts him off with a wave of his hand, though he doesn’t quite meet
Taehyung’s eyes now. “This is...work. If Yoongi has been caught up somewhere else, then
someone needs to make sure the work gets done, right?”
It’s hard to fault him for that logic. After considering Jimin’s words for a moment, Taehyung gives
him a small nod, and the janitor breaks into another small smile. “Excellent.” He turns on his heels
to face the doll instead, raising both of his hands to cup the older man’s face. “Will you be a good
doll for us, baby?” He asks, and Taehyung feels some unnamed emotion clench at his chest. “With
you be good for me and Taehyung?”
The doll nods immediately, staring straight back into Jimin’s eyes as though they are the only two
in the room, and Jimin ducks his head forward to press a single, sweet kiss to the doll’s lips in
reply.
“Hey, uh—” Taehyung jolts at the sight, glancing over his shoulder to the security camera that
blinks down at them from the corner of the room. “Don’t you think you should be a little more
careful?” He had known that something...illicit was going on between Jimin and their newest
recruit, but it’s something else entirely to see the evidence for himself.
Jimin breaks away from the doll with a shrug, and the dark-haired man chases after his lips
immediately. “I can take care of myself, thank you.” He pushes against the doll’s shoulders,
guiding the man back towards the metal stand that sits just to the side of Yoongi’s desk. “Should
we get started?”
This is a totally different Jimin than the one he saw over a week ago, and a far cry from the boy he
knew all the years before. This Jimin doesn’t cower in fear—no, somehow, over the last few days,
something has changed. This Jimin stands before him with a newfound confidence that he has
never seen the man wear before.
It’s all too easy to follow his old friend’s lead, moving around the desk to join Jimin as the janitor
begins wrapping leather cuffs around each of the doll’s wrists. “What’s the, uh...the plan?”
“You said that the subject of your experiment tonight is endurance, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right—”
“And Yoongi held a lesson last week on over-stimulation, yes?”
“Well... yeah, but how did you know that?” Jimin glances over his shoulder at Taehyung and winks
—actually winks —at his old friend. The amused quirk of his lips doesn't reach the vacant
expression in his eyes, even in the slightest.
“You hear a lot of things, when you’re in my position,” Jimin says, and Taehyung feels as though
he’s been spun for another loop—is Jimin actually joking about this? Who is this man standing
before him? Taehyung wonders, because it’s certainly no version of Jimin that he’s ever met
before.
“Over-stimulation is all about quantity, right?” He asks, carrying on as though nothing odd has
transpired. “But here’s what I’m thinking…” He finishes buckling the last strap of leather around
the doll’s wrists, and holds them up above the doll’s head to where a metal pole extends from the
back of its stand at the perfect height for chaining it in place.
“Help me fasten these?” He calls to Taehyung, who hurries over to Jimin’s side and reaches up to
clip both of the doll’s wrist cuffs into place. When they both step away, he watches as the doll is
forced to spread its legs and straighten its back to keep its balance on the stand. Jimin, meanwhile,
looks very pleased with himself.
“Perfect. So, what I was thinking,” Jimin says as he turns back to Taehyung, “is that we need to try
for duration.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that we know our doll here can handle quite a lot of stimulation—but for how
long?”
“Ohh…” Taehyung replies as it all starts to come together in his head. “Yes...yes, that might work
perfect for this experiment.”
Jimin looks even more pleased with himself at Taehyung’s agreement, almost bouncing on his
heels in excitement now. “Great! Then let’s get started, why don’t we?”
“I’ll, uh...follow your lead,” he concedes, and Jimin takes it all in stride.
“Works for me,” he says, and gestures for Taehyung to stand behind the doll while he takes his
own place directly between the doll’s spread legs. “Are you going to be good for us, doll?”
Taehyung watches in wonder as Jimin leans forward and places his hands against the doll’s bare
chest, lips hovering above the doll’s own. “I know it’s different, baby, but…you have to hold back
for us now, okay? You have to keep yourself from having an orgasm for as long as you can.” He
places another soft kiss to the doll’s lips before whispering to it, “Can you do that for us?”
“Jimin…” The doll whines, and Taehyung startles at the sound, realizing that it’s the first time in
weeks that he’s heard the dark-haired man speak in more than a whisper.
“Shh, baby...just nod your head for me. Can you be good for me and Taehyungie and hold yourself
back, hm?” The doll whines but nods dutifully, and Jimin strokes his hand down the doll’s chest as
a reward. “Good…”
Taehyung remembers at the last second to glance behind them at the clock on the wall, registering
the time as 7:12 PM a split second before Jimin’s hands make their way down between the doll’s
legs to wrap around its cock.
The result is instantaneous—the doll jerks against its bonds, back arching into Jimin’s touch while
Taehyung stands behind the both, his own hands hovering insecurely inches above the doll’s hips.
“You like that, baby?” Jimin whispers, and the doll lets out another broken moan. Jimin glances up
at Taehyung then, as though suddenly remembering that he is there. “Come on, Tae...this is your
experiment, isn’t it?”
Taehyung takes a deep breath and follows his first instinct, settling his hands on either side of the
doll’s ribcage and, after only a moment of hesitation, slides his fingers up to brush over the small
peaks of the doll’s nipples. When the doll hisses under its breath, Jimin nods approvingly at him.
“That’s great, Tae, that’s perfect...our doll has such sensitive nipples, doesn’t he?”
“Y-Yeah…” Taehyung stutters out, and with more confidence he twists his fingers, rolling both of
the doll’s nipples between his thumbs and forefingers with increasing pressure on each pass.
“I bet you could come just from that, couldn’t you baby?” Jimin asks the doll, and the answering
moan that he receives spreads another smile across his lips.
The doll’s skin is so soft beneath his hands, Taehyung thinks, and the rippling of its muscles
beneath is mesmerizing. It’s so different from touching Yoongi—where the doll is broad and
muscular, Yoongi is thin and lithe, though they are both beautiful. It is, perhaps, not as pleasurable
to have his hands on this stranger’s skin, not as...meaningful—but it’s enjoyable all the same. It’s
easy to follow his instincts now, dragging his hands back down the doll’s sides until his fingers
brush against Jimin’s own, feeling the way his friend has worked the doll’s cock to full hardness,
before sliding his fingers back up to pluck at each of the doll’s nipples again.
The doll’s dark head falls back against his shoulder, leaving him with the long expanse of the doll’s
neck only inches away—and Taehyung has never been one to resist temptation. That’s exactly how
he ended up in this situation, he thinks, as he brings his own mouth down to kiss at the doll’s
exposed skin.
He hears a little noise from above him, not from the doll but from Jimin, and when he raises his
eyes he finds his gaze met with his friend’s dark pupils, blown wide in arousal as he watches
Taehyung move his lips along the doll’s skin. This only eggs Taehyung on, his hips pressing
against the curve of the doll’s bare ass as he drags his lips up to mouth at the shell of the doll’s ear.
He knows that Jimin has resumed his stroking of the doll’s cock when he feels the rumble of a
moan beneath his lips, and Jimin darts forward to cover the doll’s mouth with his own to muffle
the sound. He can feel the hot rush of their shared breath against his cheeks, and one of Jimin’s
hands seems to find its way around the doll’s hip to grab onto Taehyung’s instead.
When he raises his head to look at the others, he’s surprised when he finds Jimin’s lips sliding over
to cover his own. The kiss is just as plush and soft as he remembers, though it seems like years
since the last time he and Jimin were this close, and he can’t help himself but scramble closer
around the doll’s side for a deeper taste. It isn’t the same as kissing Yoongi, it doesn’t have the
same intensity, but it’s intoxicating in its own way—like a ghost from his past come back to haunt
him.
Beside them, the doll seems to squirm at the sight of the two of them together, and he knows
precisely why—knows how they must look together, how they had always looked whenever they
would sneak a moment alone to be intimate like this. It feels like a lifetime ago.
When Jimin pulls away from him at last, it is to turn his head and make a soft shushing noise to the
doll, his small hand tightening around the base of the doll’s cock. It seems to come not a moment
too soon, the doll’s head tossed back onto its shoulders as it groans and shudders its way through
the shocks of what would have been an orgasm. Taehyung watches on in wonder, mouth hanging
open and dripping spit from Jimin’s lips—never having seen before someone’s release being
stopped like that. In the back of his mind, he realizes that he had never even considered it before.
“Wow…” he breathes, and Jimin flashes him a small smile, his dark eyes a little wild, before
turning back to the doll to offer it another kiss.
“Shh, baby...that’s it...let it pass…” The doll whines again but gives another dutiful, shaky nod.
“Remember what we’re trying to accomplish, doll...we need you to last…”
“J-Jimin—” the doll gasps again, and Taehyung looks down to see Jimin’s fingers resume their
slow slide up and down and up the doll’s straining cock. Something about the sight has his own
fingers twitching at his sides, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by his old friend.
“Oh, you want to give it a try, Taehyung…?” He asks, clearly already knowing the answer.
Taehyung finds himself nodding eagerly, and Jimin’s hands are on his before he can second-guess
himself. The smaller man drags him forward, replacing his own grip with Taehyung’s fingers, and
Taehyung finds himself curling both of his hands around the doll’s cock immediately.
When Jimin steps away, Taehyung’s focus seems to tunnel in on the doll completely, taking in its
shuddering breaths, the way it seems to melt into his touch in spite of himself. It’s a feeling he
understands better than he would like—when your body is feeling pleasure in spite of the person
who is giving it, when you would rather it be someone else but for the moment it’s enough.
He catches movement out of the corner of his eye as Jimin reappears, holding one hand gingerly in
front of himself, his fingers now slick with lube that he has procured from somewhere. He steps
right up behind the doll, taking Taehyung’s previous place, and slides that hand down between the
doll’s legs. Taehyung can tell the moment that Jimin slips at least one finger into the doll by the
way the lips before him part in a desperate hiss, and Jimin answers with a sly smile.
“You like that, doll?” He whispers into the doll’s neck, dragging his full lips along the doll’s taut
skin. “How much can you take? To be a good doll, you have to handle everything…”
As he speaks, his eyes flash up to meet Taehyung’s again, and there is something dark and
impossible to define curling behind his gaze. And yet, the smile that hangs from his lips splits into
a wide grin, growing wider still by the moment as the doll positively quakes at the over-
stimulation.
It’s bizarre, seeing Jimin like this. This strange, almost...manic version of him that stands before
him is a far cry from the shy young man he used to know, and even further from the frantic,
sobbing mess that he had stumbled across the week before. Not a week before that, he had seemed
cold and robotic as they passed each other in the hallways. What had they done to him?
“Don’t get distracted, Taehyung,” the older man warns, as if sensing Taehyung’s mind wandering,
and he drags his focus back to the present moment, to the much easier to swallow task at hand.
“Sorry…” He murmurs, and his rhythmic stroking of the doll’s reddened cock resumes, one had
sliding down to tug at the doll’s smooth balls while the other circles the sensitive ridge just below
the head of its cock. It’s a technique he learned from his time with Yoongi, one that he has learned
well. As the doll gasps and gasps and tugs at the bonds above its head in an attempt to stave off the
pleasure, he thinks that Yoongi would be proud.
“That’s it, doll...that’s a good boy...” Jimin praises, and by the shifting of his arm that is visible to
Taehyung, he can tell that Jimin must be timing the thrusts of his fingers to match with Taehyung’s
own strokes.
It’s simple, the way they move together—nothing too complicated about this particular
experiment, nothing like the last one that Yoongi asked of him, and yet—it feels complicated, it
feels...significant, somehow. As though they are enacting some great change together. It feels
magical.
Remembering all of his previous lessons, he stops fighting his own instincts, recognizing them as
the guiding force that they are meant to be. When he leans forward to capture the doll’s lips with
his own for the first time, it feels right .
Jimin hums, pleased, beside them, and brings his free hand to Taehyung’s hip to close the loop
between them, all three of them tied together in their shared pleasure—the doll from being so
thoroughly taken care of, and Taehyung and Jimin from giving that pleasure themselves. Taehyung
nearly feels on the edge of his own release without having been properly touched at all, and can
only imagine how the doll must be feeling under the onslaught of sensations.
He nibbles at the doll’s soft bottom lip, drags his nail across the slit of its cock, and finds his
mouth suddenly filled with a soft litany of “Please, please—Jimin—please—” that the doll can’t
seem to hold back. Behind them both, Jimin hums sympathetically and shifts closer.
“Poor thing, can’t you hold on just a little longer?” He asks, while unmistakably curling his fingers
into the doll’s prostate—if the way the doll sobs and rises up onto its toes is any indication.
“No, no—J-Jimin— please—!” It cries, and Jimin finally seems to take pity on the taller man.
“Oh alright, go on then…” He encourages, and that seems to be all that the doll needs to let go.
Within seconds, Taehyung finds his fingers covered with the hot splatter of come and the doll’s
shuddering, relieved moan fed to him through the hot slide of their lips together.
“Good, good...that’s very good,” Jimin praises, and Taehyung can’t tell which of them his
comment is directed at, but he feel the warm pleasure of being praised all the same. The doll
continues to gasp even as he finally pulls away, riding out the waves of its orgasm as Jimin fingers
him through it, Taehyung’s own hands falling still as he watches the two of them together.
Beautiful, he thinks.
When Jimin finally pulls away as well, he gives Taehyung another smile—this time, a softer, less
self assured one. It’s as though the older man has been caught in the middle of doing something
illicit—which, he reasons, they sort of have.
“Do you think you have enough data for your experiment?” He asks, voice dropping lower now.
Taehyung glances up at the clock. “7:23,” he says, “Over ten minutes under direct stimulation.
I’m...not sure whether or not that’s a good result, actually.”
“Hmm…” Jimin looks at the doll appraisingly, and Taehyung watches as the dark-haired man
opens his eyes to stare up at Jimin longingly, vulnerably. “That sounds pretty impressive to me,” he
admits, “but you’re right—I have no idea whether or not it’s actually a good result.”
And then Jimin’s smile returns, and after their previous experiences together tonight, the sight no
longer makes Taehyung’s stomach twist in dread. Instead, he feels a little thrill run down his spine
at the thought of whatever the older man has planned for them.
Jimin doesn’t disappoint. “I suppose the only solution is to repeat the experiment over again, don’t
you think? See if we get the same result?”
“Do we, uh...have time for that?” Taehyung questions, needing to assuage the one fear that rises in
his mind. He glances towards the door, still closed behind them.
“It’s a Friday night, Taehyung...we have all the time in the world,” Jimin assures him, and he
finally meets Jimin’s smile with one of his own. He follows Jimin’s lead again as they both move
in around the doll on either side, hands falling to its bare skin, taking in the reward of another
broken moan from its lips.
Principal’s Office—First Floor—West 08.24.18 11:28PM
Something about the darkness of his office makes him feel more secure than he has in days. It’s
perfectly quiet, just as it should be—the soft buzz and lull of the school beyond his door long-since
silenced for the day. He should be at home, he knows, but his restless mind certainly won’t allow
him to sleep there any more than it will here , and at least here he can get some work done.
The paperwork in front of his eyes is just enough to keep his attention, figures and information of
the sort that he so often uses to amaze the community. When he can analyze it in private, or
complete all of his work during the hours when all of the other members are sleeping, he knows
that he can continue cultivating the belief that he is all-knowing and unflappable.
He rubs at his eyes, trying to shake off the weariness that clings to the muscles that surround them,
and throws himself right back into his reading—anything to distract him from his wandering
thoughts. He’s so focused on the words in front of him, in fact, that the sudden interruption of a
loud noise breaking through the silence nearly sends him jumping out of his own skin.
RIIIIIIIING —
He immediately jumps up, looking around for the source of the sound, and after a few moments of
searching, he realizes that it’s coming from the desk right in front of him.
RIIIIIIIING —
Shifting aside some of the papers he has scattered across the desktop reveals his personal cell
phone, a luxury that only he is afforded to have. Across the screen, an inbound call is waiting for
him to answer—but the number only registers as “Unknown.”
No one should have this number, he knows it, knows that he purposely paid for it to be unlisted
and virtually unreachable by anyone except those that he has authorized to use it. The list of people
with that sort of access is extremely slim.
RIIIIIIIING —
His morbid curiosity outweighs the immediate hesitation he feels, his hand going for the phone
before he can stop himself. His thumb hesitates for just a moment above the answer button before
he gives in and accepts the call, immediately raising the device up to his ear.
“...hello?”
“Seokjin—” he hears on the other end of the line, the voice muffled but clear enough to be
understood.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Baby, c’mon—” the voice continues, followed by a soft rustling noise, and then an answering
groan. “Right—right there, that’s it—”
It takes longer than it should to realize exactly what he is listening to—without the visual that
accompanies it, he doesn’t immediately recognize the sound of the voice in his ear until it
continues, “—just like that, o-ohhh—Seokjin, baby—you feel so—so good—”
And just as it occurs to him that this is a recording—the same recording, in fact, that accompanies
the video that has been haunting him for days on end—he hears his own voice filtering through the
receiver like a ghost from his past.
“F-Fuck—” He hears himself say, “Don’t stop, don’t stop—you’re—ohhhh—”
In an instant, his blood seems to run cold. He feels clammy, his hands quivering at his sides, his
vision tunneling in to focus only on the desk that sits immediately in front of him, the remainder of
his office momentarily disappearing from view.
“Stop it,” he hears himself say as well, but this time the sound comes from his own mouth in the
present moment instead. He didn’t even mean to say anything out loud, but once the words are out
there, he knows that he meant them. “Stop—”
“Shhhh—” the other voice on the recording answers him, almost as though he had heard Seokjin’s
plea, “g-gotta be quiet, baby—can’t let them hear you—”
And when he hears himself whine pathetically through the phone, a noise that he hasn’t made in
years , he finally reaches the end of his rope. He ends the call with a sharp jab to the screen, then
immediately tosses the entire device across the room for good measure.
In the absence of the noise in his ear, the room is eerily silent—but the reprieve only lasts for a
split second before another loud ringing noise cuts through the room, this time from the more
traditional phone set that sits on the edge of his desk.
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIING —
“No—” he jumps for the new device, grabbing the receiver off of the phone’s base and jerking it
up to his ear. “No, stop this,” he says onto the line before even listening to whatever is on the other
end.
“Oh fuck, don’t—don’t stop—please don’t stop, baby—” the sound of his own voice replies, and
it’s absolutely mocking him now.
“Enough!” He shouts into the line, not even caring that there is probably no one there to hear him.
“You’ve made your point, enough!”
“Ah—! Seokjin, Seokjin, baby, I—”
He doesn’t waste any more time thinking, simply wrenching the entire receiver until the cord is
wrested from the phone’s base, the sound on the other end of the line fading away instantly. He
bolts around the side of his desk, tearing the phone’s plug from its outlet and picking up the entire
device, only to smash it to the ground alongside his cellphone where it lies broken and dark on the
carpet.
Then he is left with nothing more than the sound of his own heavy breathing in his ears, the office
otherwise as still and undisturbed as it was before. He stares down at the two broken devices in
front of him for a moment as though daring them to make another sound, only satisfied when
several seconds tick by without a peep from either of them. It’s only then that he rests back against
his desk, hands at his sides for balance, and takes a minute to try to calm his heartbeat back to
normal.
But it seems that Seokjin can’t have even a moment of rest—not when his very worst mistakes
have come home to roost. Even as he is sucking in a single, calming breath, the back of his neck
seems to prickle in warning, moments before a different sound entirely hits his ears.
BEEEEEEP.
From behind him, the intercom on his desk comes to life, the crackling of the open channel causing
his skin to break out in goosebumps. It’s with a looming sense of dread that he slowly turns on his
heels to look down at the small device as sound begins to filter through it, picking up exactly
where the last phone call left off.
“—that’s it, o-ohhh, you’re—you’re perfect—you feel so perfect—”
“I—I can’t—I’m so—”
“Are—are you close, baby—?”
“Yes! Y-Yes, please—”
Seokjin stares down at the desk in horror, knowing exactly what is coming but completely
incapable of stopping it, with no way to turn the speaker off from this end and no way to tear the
device from the desk altogether. He starts backing away, hands raised in front of himself
defensively as though that will somehow protect him from what he is about to hear.
“—I—Seokjin, I—I love you—I love you—”
No.
No, he can’t—
“I love you too, oh—oh god, I love you so much—”
No.
His mind is trapped in a fog, but his feet seem to know enough to carry him away, turning him on
his heels so he can stumble towards the door and away from that wretched sound.
The office, the front office—he has to get there. There’s nowhere else that the recording can be
coming from.
His office door flies open with a reverberating slam against the opposite wall but he couldn’t care
less, positively sprinting now as he makes his way down the hall from his office to the opening
that leads to the receptionist’s desk, flying around the corner at a reckless speed. He comes sliding
to a halt just behind her chair, finding the entire space shockingly, completely empty.
He can hear the sounds of the recording still playing in the distance, echoing down the hallway as
though chasing after him, and it only fuels the terrible clench of fear that sends him crashing into
the desk, tossing papers and supplies this way and that as he searches for the matching intercom
box that he knows is somewhere within reach.
When his hands finally settle on its metal surface, he’s relieved to find that it sits atop the desk
instead of being installed within it like his own device, and it’s with a triumphant shout that he
tears the entire thing from the desk as he had previously done with his phone moments before. He
jerks on the device until it comes free of its power cable, sparks flying from the torn connection as
he drops it to the floor and this time, stops fiercely on the metal box until it crunches and fizzles
beneath his shoe.
When he steps back, the machine lets out a small, pathetic whine before dying completely—and in
the distance, the sounds from his office also disappear into silence once more.
He stands there, hunched over the desk chair like a madman, for what feels like a lifetime, afraid
every single second that something else would come along to disrupt the peace—but that
something never does.
Finally, he has to resign himself to straightening up, tugging on his suit jacket to rid it of the
wrinkles it had accumulated from his mad dash down the hall. He raises his hands to skim his
fingers through his hair, an attempt to straighten any loose strands as well, and his eyes slide across
the room in front of him—
—only to be met with another pair of eyes staring right back at him through the window between
the office and the main hall.
He recognizes the face that contains those eyes immediately, the blank expression and pretty
features of their janitor unmistakable even in the darkness. Hidden in shadow, Jimin’s face seems
almost... menacing as he meets Seokjin’s gaze unwaveringly.
The janitor seems to be standing just a foot outside the door, a bag of what looks to be trash in his
hands, and it appears that he has stopped while making his rounds at the sight of Seokjin’s little
outburst inside the office.
For a moment, neither of them do anything to acknowledge the other, and Seokjin’s chest tightens
around the breath he suddenly can’t help but hold inside. It almost feels as though, if he were to
move, he might startle the younger man like a wild animal—and who knows what the
consequences of that might be? Seokjin knows he’s been caught, knows there’s nothing he can do
to take back what Jimin has just seen.
But only a few more seconds tick by before the moment is broken, Jimin’s elongated eyes closing
slowly in an exaggerated blink, before he turns his head away from Seokjin as though he hasn’t
seen a thing, and with only a few steps down the hall, the younger man completely disappears into
the darkness.
Chapter End Notes
Phase Ten: Prototype
Chapter Summary
Jungkook is a good doll. Really. A good doll, and nothing more.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE TEN:
Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-Consensual Bondage, Dubious Consent, Altered

Mental States, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Brainwashing, Conditioning,
Psychological Torture, Imprisonment, Public Nudity, Public Humiliation, Ritual
Public Sex, Medical Kink, Medical Examination, Forced Orgasm, Forced Sub Space,
Forced Submission, Anal Sex, Vaginal Sex, Bondage, Feminization, Crossdressing,
Erotic Birth, Birth Kink
Fic Playlist
Phase Ten Playlist


the original
story here!
Basement—Rear Exit 08.25.18 9:47PM
In all of his time in this strange place, he has never been blindfolded. It serves as a unique form of
torment, to be able to move, to feel with his body but be unable to see where the sensation is
coming from or where he is being led. His feet are bare, as always, leaving him perfectly capable
of feeling the uneven, cool texture of tile beneath his feet—but a very different tile than that of the
basement, of the small room in which he has spent so much time with Jimin in the past few days.
The man in question is in front of him, guiding him—he would know this based solely on the
rough fingers that have twined with his, tugging him forward, if Jimin had not been the one to put
the blindfold across his eyes in the first place. The fabric is rough, thickly woven, and reminds him
of the suit Jimin wears every day to cover his body from head to toe; it unequivocally blocks his
vision, leaving him completely at Jimin’s mercy as they continue to travel down their slightly-
sloping path. It brings into sharp relief how much he trusts Jimin completely, the way he didn’t
even question the younger man’s actions before being led away.
“We’re almost there, baby...hold on…” Jimin murmurs to him, his voice just as hushed as their
careful movements. He knows what they are doing is forbidden in one way or another, but it
troubles him no more than what they have already done together—it’s worth it, he thinks, to be
with Jimin like this. He would follow the younger man anywhere.
Wherever Jimin is leading him must be underground, he reasons, based on the sounds that echo
around them and the oppressive nature of the air that weighs down on his shoulders. It isn’t chilly,
per se, but his bare skin prickles with goosebumps all the same. When the ground seems to
suddenly slope downward and he stumbles across a particularly uneven portion of tile, Jimin’s
strong arms wrap around him without hesitation, encompassing his bare shoulders in familiar
warmth, and he feels safe.
“Here we go, Jungkookie…just a few steps further…”
Suddenly, he finds his body being directed to a halt, and the sound of Jimin’s booted footsteps stop
beside him as well, the noise echoing distantly around whatever large space he has been brought
to. It certainly doesn’t sound like any place in the community that he has been in before, though he
can’t quite be sure without seeing it for himself.
As if reading his thoughts, Jimin’s hands steady him for just a second before pulling away and
reappearing at the back of his head to tug at the knot holding his blindfold in place. Jungkook’s
eyes weren’t covered for long enough that he struggles to adjust his eyes, the room before him
dimly lit enough that it only takes a few blinks for him to be able to clearly see where Jimin has led
him.
The space before him—hardly a place he could call a room, with how cavernous it is—is lined on
every side in tile like the ones he has been feeling beneath his bare feet, spreading up on each side
into a large square that reaches above his head. With Jimin’s help, he spins around slowly to get
the full picture of where they are, and all at once it clicks into place.
A pool. The deep, carved out space they are standing inside of is a swimming pool—or what would
be one if it were filled with water. As it is, the pool sits empty, tile dry beneath their feet, and as
Jimin continues to spin him on the spot, Jungkook can clearly see the angled end of the pool from
which they entered. But when the younger man finally pushes him to face forward again, he
catches sight of something else—something that makes his breath catch in his chest.
In the center of the empty pool, sitting a few feet in front of where they stand, is a small round
table with two chairs set up on either side of it. The table is set for two as well, plates of food
sitting side by side with a small candle flickering between them, casting the space around the table
in its soft glow. It’s a strange sight indeed—unmistakably romantic. Jungkook makes a small noise
of surprise at the sight, and feels Jimin’s hand curl comfortingly into the small of his back.
“What—”
“Surprise…” Jimin hums, and Jungkook takes a hesitant step towards the table. “I wanted to do
something...nice. For you.”
“I—” For the first time since being given permission to speak again, Jungkook finds himself at a
loss for words, unable to wrap his mind around what he is seeing. It almost looks like a beautiful
illusion, the small image of...normalcy that has been laid out in front of him.
He feels Jimin shift beside him, can hear the nervous edge in the man’s voice as he asks, quietly,
“Do you...like it?”
Jungkook can’t hurry to nod his head quickly enough. Like it? Of course he likes it—looking down
at the simple meal, the privacy that Jimin has set it up within, Jungkook feels his throat grow tight.
Jimin lets out a small sound, almost like a chuckle, and presses his hand more firmly to Jungkook’s
back to encourage him forward.
“I had an idea…” he goes on, and Jungkook nods immediately in agreement. Jimin’s fingers are
rough on Jungkook’s bare skin as he strokes them along Jungkook’s spine for a moment before
pulling away. The blonde man steps over to the table, bending over to scoop up a bundle of cloth
that has been left on the nearest seat, and returns back to Jungkook’s side to show him what he
holds. “How would you like to be dressed up pretty for me today, Jungkookie?”
Jungkook forces himself to look away from Jimin’s piercing gaze to sink his eyes down to the
bundle being offered to him, recognizing it as one of the long tunics that the women around the
community wear—soft fabric with buttons all down the front, collarless and flowing. His eyes
flicker to the clothing, up to Jimin’s face again, then back down to the offering; his movement is
jerky and hesitant as he raises one hand to touch it when Jimin makes no move to stop him, and the
texture of the weave beneath his fingers is just as soft as it looks to be. The thought of being
clothed, of being allowed that small amount of dignity...though Jungkook has resigned himself to
his complete nudity, he feels tears instantly prickling at his eyes at the thought of being otherwise.
“...for me?” he asks, and Jimin’s lips quirk into a brief semblance of a smile.
“For tonight. What do you think?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer, only curls his fingers into the fabric as if to slide it free of Jimin’s grip—
but Jimin stops him with fingers that circle around his wrist immediately. “Ah-ah,” he tuts, and
Jungkook freezes. “Let me,”Jimin orders, and Jungkook complies immediately, dropping his hand
away from the fabric in an instant.
Jimin’s fingers slide up his arm, then, stroking along the jut of his elbow and over the taut muscle
of his bicep before sliding across his shoulder and back down his bare chest; Jimin’s touch is firm
but gentle, appreciative— reverent, almost. Only once he seems to have taken his fill of admiring
Jungkook’s naked form does he turn his attention to the tunic in his hands, shaking out the folds
before holding it up to Jungkook instead.
Before Jungkook can even move, Jimin takes it upon himself to reach for the older man’s arms,
one at a time, and feed them through the loose sleeves of the tunic, dragging the rest of the fabric
over Jungkook’s head and following it down Jungkook’s sides with his hands until he is happy
with where it sits. Jungkook holds perfectly still under Jimin’s attention, his eyes tracking every
one of the younger man’s motions as his hands dart here and there across Jungkook’s body to
adjust the tunic just where he wants it.
There is something...electric, charged, in the air between them, in the intensity with which Jimin
pays such close attention to getting this one action correct. The tunic falls down to his mid-thigh,
offering him more modesty than he has had in weeks, fitting more like a dress than anything.
“Alright,” Jimin says when he finally seems content. He brings his hands up to cup Jungkook’s
face, stroking his thumbs across Jungkook’s cheeks before sliding his fingers back into Jungkook’s
hair to toy with the dark strands. “Let’s get you dolled up, hm? Will you do that, Jungkookie? Will
you...be a good doll for me tonight?”
Jimin’s tone is heavily laden with meaning. Jungkook knows exactly what those words mean,
understands what is being asked of him without even needing to be told. He feels his spine stiffen,
his motions slowing immediately. When he nods his assent once more, the motion is barely
noticeable, but Jimin catches it all the same. Jimin leans forward to offer him a brief kiss, barely
more than a brush of their lips together. A casual affection. A rare delicacy.
“Come this way,” Jimin whispers and drops one arm to slide his hand beneath Jungkook’s knees.
Jungkook allows himself to go boneless, sliding easily into Jimin’s strong arms so that the smaller
man can carry him to the table. Jimin sets him down in the nearest of the two chairs, and he meets
no resistance as Jungkook’s limbs are adjusted here and there—one of his bare legs crossed over
the other, his hands laid across each of the armrests with care.
When Jimin is done, he looms over Jungkook, turning his head this way and that while he looks
down at the man before him, his eyes growing wider by the second. The longer the silence between
them drags on, the more Jungkook feels as though Jimin is becoming...almost childlike in his
appraisal. Afraid to break the silence, now, Jungkook holds himself as still as he can, slipping—
perhaps too easily—back into his compliant role.
“Good doll…” Jimin murmurs, slipping a thumb across Jungkook’s lips again. Jungkook blinks,
slowly.
The younger man slides his other hand into his pocket and pulls out a few small objects that clatter
against each other as he sets them down on the table on his side. Blindly, he raises one up in front
of his face and Jungkook catches sight of the shape of a pair of scissors.
“Your hair...it’s so untidy…” Jimin comments as his fingers wander back into Jungkook’s dark
strands, and Jungkook realizes where the other man is going with all of this. He lets his eyes fall
closed just moments before he feels the fingers in his hair tug on one side of his head, and hears the
unmistakable sound of scissors slicing through the ends of his hair.
Jimin repeats this motion again and again, dragging Jungkook’s hair away from his scalp in chunks
at a time and trimming it here and there, and Jungkook finds himself almost being soothed by it,
lulled into a sleepy, complacent state by the repetitive motion and sounds. He almost doesn’t notice
when Jimin moves all the way around him and ends up in front of him again, snipping delicately at
the short hairs that hang in front of his eyes. He doesn’t stir from his trance until he hears the clink
of the scissors being set down on the table and a pair of gentle hands swiping at the stray hairs on
his shoulders, then his cheeks.
His eyes flutter open to find Jimin only inches away, dark eyes unfocused and expression
completely blank. He wants to speak, to say something—but his voice gets caught in his throat at
the sight. Jimin also remains silent as he reaches for another object from the table, this one even
shinier than the first.
When Jimin raises the small tube up to Jungkook’s face and uncaps it, Jungkook struggles to
recognize the shape of it this time—the long, tapered end of it, the crimson color. It’s only when
Jimin twists the end of the golden tube that he recognizes it to be of lipstick, and a very old-
fashioned kind at that.
{art by @asphyxjk}
Jungkook has never worn lipstick before, so he’s unsure how to feel about the slightly waxy
texture as it is applied to his lips, but he indulges Jimin anyway and holds perfectly still for him
throughout the process. Jimin repeats the same motion again and again, first with a brush and a
pink powder to his cheeks, and again with a tube of what he recognizes as mascara similar to the
sort his mother wears.
There is something about the process that seems to drag them both under, Jungkook’s eyelids
growing heavy even as Jimin’s eyes become wider and more unfocused. Jungkook doesn’t even
notice when Jimin finishes his task, his hands falling back to Jungkook’s body to smooth over the
lines of his tunic—more of a dress, now, than anything—too entranced by the way the younger
man’s head tilts to the side like an animal examining its prey.
“Pretty doll…” Jimin murmurs, barely moving his lips now. Jungkook feels warm all over at the
praise. Yes, a pretty doll, he thinks. I can be that.
Jimin’s hands move back to his face for a third time, his thumb swiping across Jungkook’s painted
lips—and he can feel the way it smears the red tint across his chin. Something in Jimin’s eyes
darkens at the sight. Yes, Jimin seems animalistic—or childlike. Both. Neither. Someplace in
between, perhaps. “Pretty doll...so pretty…” he repeats.
{art by @brokend0llhouse}
Jimin leaves him like that, dolled-up and then slightly ruined, as he retreats to the other chair,
settling himself at the table next to Jungkook in silence. He says nothing more as he places a
napkin across Jungkook’s lap, reaches for a bowl of the dish he has laid out on the tabletop, and
brings the food to Jungkook’s mouth.
Jungkook knows not to move until prompted to—a lesson learned weeks before—no, he waits until
he feels the pad of Jimin’s thumb against his lower lip again, dragging it down until his mouth
parts and a spoon can be pressed to his tongue. The soup is lukewarm but surprisingly flavorful,
and he swallows it greedily, uncaring about where it could have come from or how Jimin must
have prepared it.
Jimin gives him a small, crooked smile at his obvious pleasure, his own pride at this small
accomplishment evident on his handsome face. Jungkook closes his eyes and allows the soup to
slide easily down his throat, savoring the taste of food on his tongue for one of only a few moments
in as many weeks.
It is in this exact configuration that they continue to sit on either side of the table for what seems
like hours. What a pair they make, in their strange clothes and even stranger demeanor. And as the
time drags on, there are thoughts that cross Jungkook’s mind, thoughts about Jimin and this odd
game they are playing—but they are thoughts, and nothing more.
He wonders idly about where Jimin learned to do this, thinks about how it all reminds him of—of
playing house when he was a child—
But those musings quickly fade. It is so much easier to give in to it, so much easier to be silent.
Once he truly allows it to, his mind goes as quiet as the space around them, broken only by the
sounds of silverware against the dishes and their echoes around the empty pool, his mouth only
opening when Jimin reaches up to part his lips and serve him another bite.
Academy—Practice Room 2—First Floor 08-26-18 9:04PM
It’s hot—almost unbearably so—the room filled with the soft haze of smoke and flickering
shadows from the candles that line the walls. A smaller room than where they met previously, the
space is no less lavish in its decor than before—soft velvets and rich designs covering every inch.
He sucks in a sharp inhale, taking in the rich scent of the smoke while trying to center himself,
hands flexing into the fabric beneath his body as if to ground himself to the bed below. He can feel
hands hovering over his skin, close but not quite touching, the memory of a sensation in his mind.
“You’re doing well, very close…” he hears whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning over his face,
heavy with the wine they had both indulged in earlier. “One more try…” he is encouraged.
He nods against the cushion below his head, fingers unclenching and clenching into the velvet on
either side, eyes squeezed closed even as he tries to relax his brow. He feels hot, hot as the flames
that circle him on every side—he can feel their hot tongues as though they actually lap at his skin,
as hot as the mouth beside his ear forming the encouraging shape of his name.
“That’s it, Namjoon…” he is told, as if his guide could possibly know where his mind has slipped
off to, what sensations are rushing through his body. There is a shifting sound beside him,
footsteps moving from left to right as his companion steps around the cushion he is lying atop to
observe from another angle. “Let yourself be taken over by it. Your body is your greatest tool…”
“I—” He sucks in a deep breath, trying to focus on the depth of warmth in the pit of his stomach,
the tight clench just above his aching cock—but as always, his distracted mind wanders at every
sound. “Yoongi—”
The older man’s breathing is so heavy in the otherwise silent space; he can feel the rush of it
against his skin even though that’s impossible, not from this distance, it couldn’t possibly be—
“Shh,” Yoongi replies, and Namjoon swears he can feel the shape of it against his own skin even
though he knows Yoongi is standing by his feet now, hands hovering over his ankles as if to hold
him down. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does, he’s sure of it. His eyelids don’t budge
against their tight clench, but he can still picture it so clearly—the way the smaller man must be
watching him with such intensity, his beautiful eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. “Shhh, don’t fight it.
Can you feel it? You’re doing so well, you were so close…”
‘Was I?’ Namjoon thinks. ‘Am I getting anywhere at all?’ There’s a bitter tint to the words even as
they pass through his head, a flavor he dutifully tries to ignore.
He grunts, fingers relaxing and tensing into the velvet again, mimicking the motions of the grip
around his cock that he is trying to conjure from his memory. He tries, he tries to drag the
sensation to the surface of his skin, his muscles tensing all along his legs with the effort it takes to
hold still. It’s all he can do not to rock his hips up into the air, to instinctively seek some sort of
stimulation even though there’s absolutely nothing above him to help.
Yoongi’s hands settle atop his legs, drifting down from where they were hovering just above
Namjoon’s skin to hold his body still, and Namjoon finds himself gritting his teeth at the sensation.
He shouldn’t need it, he shouldn’t need it—
“Take a deep breath,” Yoongi murmurs, and Namjoon finds himself huffing out all the air in his
lungs, only just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes beneath his lids. “You’re doing well. Just
remember what we discussed last time—the sensation has to come from you, the power has to
come from you— ”
“I know.”
“Stop fighting it,” Yoongi instructs, and under any other circumstances, Namjoon would reach out
and hit him. As it is, he only digs his nails into the velvet until he feels the fabric give beneath the
pressure—perhaps leaving a permanent mark of his frustration, he thinks.
As he shifts against Yoongi’s grip, he feels the hard length of his cock drag across his belly, a stark
reminder of the progress he has made so far—and on the other hand, a taunting presence that
positively mocks him with every move. He’s gotten this far—Yoongi was right about that, at least
—but now he just can’t seem to take that final step forward. He tries to put his mind back to the
task at hand, he really does—forces his breath in through his nose as a slow, steady stream, pushes
it down through his body to ground him in place, feeling the sensation moving all the way down to
his toes—
But when he tries to picture fingers winding their way around his cock again, it isn’t Yoongi’s hand
he imagines. Worse, it is Yoongi’s eyes staring down at him that immediately flashes through his
mind—followed by images of the smaller man wrapping those fingers around his cock, crawling
atop of him, pressing their flesh together—
But the images change in a flash—his cock twitching, his hands scratching desperately at the
cushion, the fingers on his ankles tightening as if to match the sensation he remembers around his
cock—his mind twisting the memory to one more sinister, to a darkened room, a single television
screen, two naked bodies writhing with one another—his brother, his brother, Taehyung—
Yoongi makes a small sound across the small distance between them—nothing more than a small
breath, not even quite a sigh—but it’s more than Namjoon can take.
“What?!” He snaps, his head jerking up, eyes flying open to glare down the length of his own
body at the man standing between his splayed legs. Yoongi steps back in surprise, the tight grip of
his hands slackening, then slipping away completely. Unsurprisingly, Yoongi’s face betrays
nothing of his emotions, but Namjoon has known him too long not to notice the way the older
man’s body tenses, the minute raise of his shoulders towards his ears.
“You were doing so well,” Yoongi chides, his eyes boring into Namjoon’s own. “Why did you
stop—”
“I wasn’t doing well at all, and you know it.” Namjoon snaps in return, dragging his bare legs up
the bed as if protectively curling them away from Yoongi’s reach. “We weren’t getting
anywhere.”
“You don’t know that, you’ve only had a few lessons,” Yoongi attempts to reason calmly,
extending one hand back to Namjoon.
Namjoon ignores him completely, swinging his legs back over the side of the bed so that his bare
back turns to the older man now. Somehow, it makes him feel less vulnerable when he can’t
actually see Yoongi looking at him. He runs a hand through his short hair, wiping sweat from his
brow to slick back the strands away from his face. His entire body aches, small quivers taking over
his muscles beneath the very surface of his skin to betray his overexertion. He casts his eyes across
the room, trying to remember where he placed his clothes before their session began.
“Namjoon.” Yoongi takes a step closer, he can hear it, and it makes him jump immediately to his
feet.
“Don’t, I—...I don’t want to hear it.” Still looking around for his clothes, he finds them sitting atop
the table on the far side of the room beside the door, and though he has no memory of placing them
there, he immediately bolts over to grab at them. Yoongi is silent while he struggles to unfold the
clothing with shaking hands, but speaks up when he starts stumbling his way into his pants without
bothering to even pull on his undergarments.
“Stop, please...there’s no need to be hasty.” He can feel Yoongi drawing closer, cautiously, as he
manages to get one of his legs through the fabric and then the other. “I know it’s frustrating, but
you were doing well, you really were. This just takes time, I promise you.”
“Stop—” he tries to say, resting one hand on the wall as he pauses in dragging the fabric up his
thighs.
Yoongi pays him no mind, continue as though he hadn’t been interrupted at all, reaching out to rest
one hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. “You’re so capable, Namjoon, really. A natural at this. I don’t
want to see you waste a perfectly good opportunity by standing in your own way—”
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Really?” Namjoon shrugs Yoongi’s hand off and finally turns
back to look over his shoulder at the older man, taking in his dour expression with narrowed eyes.
He tugs at his pants once again, finally getting them up his legs and over his backside before
turning his entire body to face Yoongi once more. “You think I’m just, what—self-sabotaging?
Not trying hard enough?”
“That’s not what I—”
“That’s really rich, coming from you.” Namjoon snorts, shoving a hand into his pants to force his
hard cock beneath the fabric before jerking the buttons closed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yoongi bites back, crossing his arms over his chest. It makes
him look even smaller than usual, though his sharp eyes lose none of their edge as he glares right
back at Namjoon now.
“It’s really rich for you to tell me I’m somehow not trying hard enough when what we’re doing
here isn’t. even. real.”
“I—” Yoongi looks properly stunned at the words Namjoon spits at him, stepping back as though
they were just as acidic as they sounded. “What?!”
“You heard me,” Namjoon says, none of his earlier hesitation still clinging to him. “I know the
truth, I know this whole—this game you’re playing with me is just a bunch of bullshit. ” He points
accusingly at Yoongi with the hand still holding his shirt. “I don’t know what you get out of it,
maybe it’s just some sort of sick satisfaction of messing with me—”
“Namjoon, I would never—”
“—or maybe you’re the one trying to sabotage me.” His eyes narrow as he takes a step closer to
Yoongi, the other man immediately taking a step back as well. “That has to be it, doesn’t it?” He
asks, rhetorically. “You’re trying to stop me. I should have fucking known—”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Yoongi bursts out, holding his hands up protectively in the
space between their bodies. “Namjoon, I don’t know what you’re saying—”
“You’re trying to stop me! You don’t want me to get to your level so you’re just making up all of
this bullshit to keep me busy, I know it. But it’s not real, is it? None of this shit is real.”
“How can you say that? You know how important this is—”
“Do I? Do I?!”
“Namjoon, you’re acting crazy. Of course this is important, this is the final level, you know how
much this matters—”
“Yeah? Well, how do I know you’re even teaching me the right thing, hm? Because I’m pretty
fucking sure that you’re not. ” He shoves his hand against Yoongi’s shoulders, forcing the man
back another step. Yoongi keeps his cool, but only just barely—Namjoon can see the way the older
man’s eyes narrow nearly to slits, but he doesn’t care anymore. “Seokjin told me—he told me this
isn’t what I’m supposed to be learning. It’s all wrong, and you’re a fucking liar.”
“Is that where all of this is coming from? From Seokjin? Since when do you believe him?”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Namjoon doesn’t like what Yoongi is suggesting—he
doesn’t like it one bit.
“Oh come off it, it’s obvious to anyone who has eyes that you hate him!”
Namjoon takes a step back from Yoongi now, his hand shaking even as he jabs his accusing finger
towards the older man again. “He—He’s our leader, that’s not—you can’t just—”
“I saw the way you stood up to him the other day, I’m not blind. Clearly you don’t agree with him
—”
“Disagreeing with him isn’t the same thing, don’t put words in my mouth!” Namjoon shoots back.
“And what about you? One minute you’re kowtowing to his every whim, letting him abuse the
doll, letting him abuse all of us—and the next, you’re betraying him—”
“How have I betrayed him?! Or you?! You keep saying that—”
“I saw you!”
“...what?” Yoongi’s arms tighten around his chest as if to protect himself from Namjoon’s ire.
“Saw me?”
And Namjoon is past the point of no return now, he doesn’t care what he’s saying, doesn’t dare to
stop the words that are spilling from his mouth. “I saw you with him,” he spits, “I saw you with
Taehyung.”
And with that one word, with the sound of his brother’s name leaving his lips, the temperature of
the entire room seems to change. Before, where the sharp words between them were getting hotter
by the moment, licking over him like tongues of flame—before, where the room was hot from
Namjoon’s sweat, from the sexual tension between them—suddenly it is practically glacial.
Yoongi’s expression shutters immediately, any emotion on his face slipping away as though it
were never there in the first place.
The silence that stretches between them is so uncomfortable that after only a few moments,
Namjoon finds himself compelled to speak again if only to break it. “I saw you fucking him—you
—you were alone in your office, I saw you fucking him, I know you were doctoring the tapes—”
And Namjoon expects Yoongi to bite back at him, to yell or defend himself or shut him down...but
Yoongi does none of those things. It is almost eerie, how still the older man is as he replies—
quietly, calmly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Namjoon argues, undeterred. “I saw you with him. I know you were
trying to hide it, you didn’t want anyone to know—you’ve been keeping all these, fucking secrets,
Yoongi—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yoongi repeats, insistent, and Namjoon can feel his
own hackles begin to rise again, instead of how calm Yoongi is acting—or perhaps because of it.
“No, you know what?! I know for damn sure what I’m talking about this time, Min Yoongi. I know
exactly what you’re up to.” And the flash of what he can recognize as fear in Yoongi’s eyes only
spurs him on, “You’re trying to keep it to yourself, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You want
to keep all the power to yourself. Sabotaging me, keeping your, what? Your little fucking tryst with
my baby brother a secret from everyone? Even going so far as to mess with the doll, when you
know how fucking important it is, how dare you—”
“Kim Namjoon, you had better watch yourself.”
If Namjoon thought that the room had grown cold before, it was nothing compared to the
absolutely icy tone that Yoongi uses to cut through his ranting like a blade. His words die on his
tongue, his feet catching on the floor as he tries to back up the moment Yoongi starts moving
towards him this time, cornering him against the wall with only a few inches of space between
them. He doesn’t even so much as touch Namjoon, but the younger man can feel Yoongi’s
oppressive presence against his skin all the same.
“You think you’re so smart, do you?” Yoongi asks, his words barely more than a whisper now, a
menacing hiss. “You think you know better than everyone.”
“I—”
“You have no idea what dangerous waters you’re treading. I’m trying to do the best I can for you,
for everyone. The things I teach you, they’re vitally important, even if you don’t fucking believe
me. Whatever Seokjin told you, whatever he said, it’s not true. You have no idea—” Yoongi
breaks off for a moment, looking away, and Namjoon has no idea what the older man is going to
do so the pause makes him flinch, but when Yoongi resumes speaking, it’s with an even softer
tone. “If it was only my ass on the line, I wouldn’t care. I really wouldn’t. But whatever you saw,
whatever you think you saw—you have no idea what the truth really is. You’re lucky that you
brought this to me instead of someone else, or your pathetic fumbling might have ruined
everything.”
“Ruined—what? What are you talking about—?”
“Do you love your brother?” Yoongi interrupts, staring Namjoon down with the strangest look in
his eyes. Namjoon’s jaw falls open as if to answer him, but no sound comes out. Love? How—How
was he supposed to respond to that?
When Yoongi seems to realize that Namjoon doesn’t understand, not really, he sighs and rephrases
the question in a sort of stilted, jerky way. “Do you...care...about your brother? Do you
have...affection for him?” Namjoon continues to stare at him blankly, the gears in his mind turning
desperately to make sense of what the older man is asking of him. “Namjoon, do you want your
brother to be well?”
“Yes, of course, I want—”
“Do you want him to be successful? To see him move on to the next level?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Do you want to see him be punished, then? Cast out? Shamed?”
“Well no, of course I don’t want that! I want him to be happy!”
“Happy…” Yoongi repeats, thoughtfully. “Yes. Of course...you want him to be...happy… ”
Namjoon doesn’t know what to make of that cryptic statement, but he nods his head anyway,
relieved that at least Yoongi isn’t berating him any longer. Yoongi seems to take his agreement at
face value, staring at him in silence for a beat before giving a slight nod of his head. “Then keep
your mouth shut.”
“I—”
“I mean it, Kim Namjoon. Keep your fucking mouth shut, or you’ll ruin everything. Not just for
me, or for Taehyung—for yourself too.”
Those final words feel like a slap to the face. Yoongi stares Namjoon down, an immovable force
before him despite the difference in their height, and waits until Namjoon finally caves and ducks
his head in submission.
“That’s what I thought.” Yoongi sniffs, stepping away for a moment before thinking better of it and
crowding right back into Namjoon’s space, the older man’s smaller hands sliding down his chest
until the find their way between his legs. Namjoon hadn’t even given a thought to his cock through
their entire argument, not noticing the way it had gone completely soft until he feels Yoongi’s deft
fingers press against it through his slacks.
“Hm,” Yoongi hums softly, shaking his head. “What a waste.” A sick wave of guilt rises in his
stomach, but before Namjoon can even dig up an answer from his overloaded brain, Yoongi has
pulled away for good.
“Practice on your own,” he says dismissively, “come find me when you’re ready to continue.” He
then turns away without another word, and Namjoon is left leaning against the wall, desperately
trying to catch his breath as though he had just run a mile instead of going toe to toe with his
mentor for only a few minutes.
The door to the private room clicks shut behind Yoongi’s retreating form. It leaves Namjoon alone
in silence, nothing to keep him company but the gently flickering candles as they continue to burn
and drip wax to the tabletops—one slow drop at a time.
Jung Household—Rear Entrance 08.26.18 9:15PM
The hallway is dark when he finally dares to peek his head outside, his desperation finally winning
out over many long hours of pacing back and forth behind the door wondering if he should find
some way to knock himself out instead. His entire body aches, cock sore from so much overuse
today—not that he’s complaining, even inside his own head. No. Certainly not.
There are whispers coming from the far end of the hall, soft groaning sounds that he recognizes as
some combination of creaking furniture and voices crying out in pleasure. It took days to truly tune
it all out long enough to get some rest, even though he knows he was equally guilty of creating just
as much noise on occasion. Still, in this moment he is grateful for the noise that masks the soft
thumps of his bare feet against the wooden floor towards the stairs.
He still feels the permanent prickle of eyes on the back of his neck even as he descends the
staircase, turning the corner away from his closed bedroom to start moving towards the back
entrance to the house instead. There are cameras everywhere, he knows, especially inside of each
of the rooms—how else would they know if community members were fulfilling their duties? He
learned his lesson the hard way about not committing to his purpose, and he’s been sure to openly
perform for the cameras every night since.
But as he makes his way down to the bottom of the stairs and casts his eyes around the darkened
main floor, he silently prays for the cameras to be the only eyes on him tonight. There is no sign of
movement through the hall, no shadows dancing around the edges of his vision, but he can’t find it
in himself to breathe easily until he manages to take a few steps backwards—hand curling behind
his back around the doorknob to push the door open with a soft squeak—and passes through the
rear entrance to slip out into the night.
Only once the door is shut behind him, the moonlight on his neck, does he feels free to suck in a
deep breath. Around him, the air is filled with the soft rustle of leaves against branches, a few
cracks of small animals moving in the brush, the distant creaks of crickets in the trees. A beautiful
picture, really—one that reminds him of the rush of happiness that he felt on his very first day
visiting the community. The sight before him now as he looks down the dirt path between
buildings couldn’t be more different from that first experience—all shadows and cool autumn air
where before it was sunny, joyous, bright—but the path he walks is the same.
The blue haze of the full moon raining down on the rooftops is his only light as he steps as quietly
as he can down the gravel path away from the center of the community, following the slight curve
of the hill before him as it leads him towards a lone structure in the distance. There are no lights in
any of the windows that look down on him, no lights shining from the building he is headed
towards, but his shoulders still hunch towards his ears all the same, his movements slow and
calculated.
There are no eyes on him, no cameras following his every move, but that knowledge does nothing
to dissuade his heart from racing, the tight clench of his chest, the way he is gnawing at his bottom
lip in an effort to keep his breathing even and his mouth closed—but it takes nothing more than the
reminder of his goal to keep his feet moving forward: Seokjin. Kim Seokjin.
Thoughts of the older man press against the front of his mind unbidden, same as they have every
night since his arrival. Kim Seokjin. A complete mystery, and a beautiful one at that. There is a
clenching in his chest when he allows his thoughts to stray along that particular path—when he
remembers the rough pads of the older man’s fingers on the backs of his thighs, when he recalls the
exact shape of Seokjin’s mouth against his own. It’s a dangerous game to follow those thoughts,
dangerous indeed when it also draws forth his memories of that same man with his back turned,
broad shoulders and suit jacket like a concrete wall keeping him out.
Just as he chased after the man the day before, tonight he finds himself pursuing Kim Seokjin once
more—but this time, he’ll catch his former lover unawares. This time, Seokjin won’t be able to
ignore him. No, tonight, Seokjin will remember exactly how special what they had together was—
he’s sure of it.
Determined now, his legs ache as the hill only grow steeper but it does nothing to slow him down
as he moves past building after building, sticking to the shadows and keeping a wary eye out for
any passers-by along the way. The absolute last thing he could possibly want is to be found out, to
be caught out of bed without permission, sneaking around—the consequences of that are...beyond
contemplation. But any punishment, any consequence—it would be worth it, if only for him.
That thought it particular consumes his mind as he passes yet another building, soft gravel
crunching beneath his shoes as he moves, the repetition of one name in his mind perfectly
mirroring the back and forth of each labored step.
Seok—jin—
Seok—jin—
Seokjin—
But as just as he takes another step, his foot slides on the gravel and he is nearly brought down to
his knees—not by a misstep of his own making, not by the thoughts running through his head, but
by a sound completely unrelated to him at all.
As soon as he catches himself, barely managing to stay upright, his head immediately quirks to the
side to follow the source of the noise that had startled him so badly. For a split second, it sounded
like—
No...it couldn’t be. Certainly not.
He pauses, trying to temper his breath and focus his attention towards what seemed to be the only
possible source of the sound: the darkened building beside him. After several long beats, he lets out
his bated breath, reaching up to rub at his weary eyes and focus on calming his heart rate. Clear
mind, he thinks—he has to have a clear mind. He’s just hearing things. He can’t go to see Seokjin
flustered, it’ll only make things more difficult. Calm, calm, calm.
But just as he shoves his hands back in the pockets of the loose-fitting pants he is wearing, head
tucked down to focus on his next step, he hears it again—there!
The unmistakable sound of a human scream.
It splits through the air like breaks before a crash, a terrible, bone-chilling noise that has him
freezing in place as if braced for the impact. What the fuck—
And again, the sound catches his ears, muffled by the wall beside him but clearly coming from
nearby. His head whips around again, eyes narrowed as they flick back and forth, trying to trace the
source of the sound. He doesn’t even notice the way his hands have raised defensively in front of
his body as he takes a step forward, watching the ghostly outline his own reflection move in the
glass of the nearest, shuttered window as he tries to peer through it.
The next sound that follows is more muffled, a low howl almost like an animal, but he recognizes
the timber of the voice to be the same. Kneeling down beside the window now, he pays no mind to
the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes as he presses his face directly to the glass in an effort to see
more clearly.
Before his eyes, the window is fogged over with some sort of tinting, and as if to dissuade prying
eyes further, he can see something shifting just behind the glass like a dark curtain. Still, there are a
few tiny flickers of light through the darkness, and it’s enough to make it clear that there is
something—or someone—moving in the room beyond.
As if to confirm his suspicions, he is nearly startled back from the window frame by yet another
piercing shriek, this one clearly an exclamation of pain, of distress. It’s enough to drag him to his
feet, gravel flying everywhere as he scrambles back from the glass. He sucks in a deep gasp, eyes
once again frantically searching the space around him—but this time for some sort of entrance to
the building, some way for him to get even a little closer to the source of the noise. Someone needs
my help, he thinks.
Pacing around the building in his search is fruitless for a few moments until he finds a single door
in an alcove on the wall beneath a tree. It doesn’t appear to have been used recently—whoever or
whatever is inside the building must have entered some other way—but it only gives a minimal
creak at the hinges when he drags it open, his access key to the school also working in this
particular lock.
Inside, the long hallway he enters is tiled black and white beneath his feet in a repeating pattern,
spotless but completely empty around him. The walls are devoid of any decoration, painted a stark
white color that appears almost blue in the small amount of light that the open door lets in, the only
light in the entire dark space. There are no windows lining the hallway, only doors that are all
tightly closed to keep their contents away from his prying eyes.
His footsteps are much quieter now, the soft soles of his boots hardly making a sound against the
smooth tile as he tentatively starts moving down the hall to his left, heading in the general direction
of where he had been standing on the outside of the building. Yes, the noises he is making are
barely distinguishable, truly, now that the screams he was hearing before now echo towards him
freely, made all the more loud and startling by the way the long passage causes the noise to
reverberate and double on himself. It’s almost all-encompassing, now, the way it surrounds him.
He feels as though he is being swallowed by it, this strange space he has stepped into. Where is he,
exactly? He mistakenly believed this to be another housing building—from the outside, it was
indistinguishable from any other, a simple structure that blended into the rest along the path up the
hill. Rustic, wooden, homey. But now—now that he is taking in its stark interior, it almost
feels...clinical. Foreign. Bizarre.
He doesn’t notice the shaking of his fingers until he tries to close them around one of the
doorknobs lining the wall to his left, towards the outside wall of the building, and finds it difficult
to get a grip. When the door doesn’t give under his efforts, he keeps his back to the wall and
scutters along to the next one, squeezing his eyes shut as he goes as if it would somehow shutter
out the terrible screaming assaulting his ears. Closer, it’s only getting closer—
Here.
This has to be it.
He stops beside a door that seems to be equidistant from either end of the hall, just as plain as any
other, but the shrieking is so loud at this point that he can’t imagine it coming from anywhere else.
He lays his shaking hands flat against the door and turns his head to press his ear to its surface, for
the first time picking up other noises from within—rustling, thumping, and a strange, rhythmic...
hum of some sort.
He should—he should just turn back, he knows it. He should turn away from the door and
disappear back down the hallway and run right back to crawl into his empty bed. He should go to
the head of his household and tell them of his mistake—surely they already know, don’t they?
They are always watching. He knows this—he knows this!
But it is almost as though he is in a trance, the way his hands move for the doorknob all the same,
the way he feels himself drawn in by that low thrum, that heavy sound, the way it pulses through
him like his heartbeat. The doorknob is the only thing he can see, his vision tunneling just like the
passage of the hallway before.
This time, the hinges make no sound as the door is slid open, swinging inch by inch into the dim
space beyond. For a moment, there is only darkness. But as his eyes adjust, tiny pinpricks of light
catch his attention, small and unassuming at first but brighter as he dares to step through the door
and move closer.
It takes a few long moments to realize that the problems with his vision are not caused by
something wrong with his eyes, but rather caused by a heavy haze of smoke in the air and
complicated further by a gossamer cloth hanging in front of him that separates the remainder of the
room from the door.
The heavy thrum from before is nearly deafening now, seeming to come from everywhere at once
—and he realizes in short order that it is not truly a humming at all. No, the sound is that of dozens
of voices, all overlapping one another, chanting some sort of repeated phrase over and over and
over again, a chorus that seems to ebb and flow all around him. It pulses through his body, leaving
his skin covered in goosebumps from head to toe. Behind the curtain, there are shapes moving in
the dim light—he recognizes that now—shapes that seem almost...human.
His feet move without permission, dragging him forward step by step until he has no choice but to
draw back the curtain or run the risk of knocking it down. The texture is silken smooth beneath his
fingers, a heavy velvet that feels expensive, important—
But it is what lies behind the curtain that finally stops him in his tracks. Beyond the velvet, he is
met with a wall of silhouettes—dark figures shrouded in black cloaks that drag on the floor, hoods
that hide all faces from view. They sway to the rhythm of that pulsing hum—and he truly hears it
now, the accumulation of all their voices singing as one. Above that, like a melody—the
screaming, the ceaseless screaming.
Beyond the figures, in the center of the circle they seem to form, is the same glow he spotted
earlier, flickering in and out of view. It’s enchanting, drawing him even closer still, and he can’t
help but take another step to the side to see through the gaps between their bodies, desperate to
know what lies beyond.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he finds within.
In the center of the circle, ringed on all sides by those same hooded figures, reflected in the masks
they each wear, is a writhing, naked figure. A woman. Her head is flung back, mouth agape, and
his mind slowly connects her open lips to the terrible screaming he has been hearing. Her hair is
wet, hanging down around her flushed face like vines. As his eyes follow the line of her body
down towards the floor, he finds her to be completely naked, skin flushed and glistening. She has
been placed on her knees, legs spread to either side, and between them—the rounded curve of her
swollen, pregnant belly.
He feels dizzy, grabs onto the wall behind him for support. His tunnel vision makes it hard to take
in the entire scene at once, his eyes forced to flick from one place to the next to see more than the
woman’s illuminated body—but what he finds behind her is almost more shocking, somehow.
She is obviously weak, her body shaking and shivering from the obvious labor she is undergoing,
her voice raw from screaming every time a contraction passes through her—but her body is
supported by hands beneath her arms, hands holding her legs apart. He rubs at his eyes with his
free hand, squinting to focus on those hands and the bodies attached to them, following the long
lines of their bare arms until he can zero in on each person in turn.
There is one before her, a man kneeling between her spread thighs, his hands cupping her bare legs
to hold them firmly apart. There is another person beside her, a woman with hair just as wet and
clinging to her naked chest, her own hands on the pregnant woman’s body—sliding back and forth
to cup the woman’s breasts, playing with her nipples one at a time, spreading the condensation
across her flushed skin.
And finally, he traces his eyes up behind the woman’s pregnant figure, forcing his gaze to take in
the owner of the hands that are holding her body the most secure—hands that belong to a strong,
masculine figure behind her, his body covered in as much sweat as it is covered in water. The
man’s muscles tense and ripple with his movements, the back-and-forth motion he is making as he
clings to her writhing body, clearly thrusting into her even as she screams.
She’s—
She’s being fucked, he realizes. The woman is being fucked through her labor.
If his stomach was turning before, now it feels positively unbearable. He feels sick, woozy—
When he closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath to calm his churning stomach, he is assaulted
instead by all of his other senses—the sloshing of water, the slippery drag of skin against skin, the
labored breaths that punctuate the never-ending screaming that rises above it all. Of all of the
sounds, it’s the soft splash of water that forces him to peek out between his lashes for another look,
eyes darting fearfully across the entire scene for the source of the sound.
He finds it beneath the writhing pile of bodies, a large metal pool of water that comes up to their
thighs, submerging their legs from the knees down in murky liquid. The water is tinted with
something, pale and hazy, and it takes him a few moments to realize that the flushed tint to the
liquid must be from the woman herself, possibly blood from her labor—or something else.
A groan pierces through the chorus of chanting and screams, drawing his eyes back to the man at
the back of the pool and the way the man’s face contorts in rapture, the jerky thrusts he is making
only speeding up as he seems to be crashing towards his release. He realizes, belatedly, that the
man must be fucking into her ass, must be using her for a source of pleasure even as her body
undergoes the terrible strain of pushing a baby free. Judging by the way she shakes, tears flowing
freely down her face, he knows the end must be drawing near.
What...is going on here?
The woman kneeling drags her hands down the pregnant belly before her, reverently stroking the
swollen skin until she reaches her destination and slips her fingers between the other woman’s legs,
fingertips disappearing into the flushed and straining slit of her pussy, stroking at her clit through
the water. It only causes her screaming to intensify, but they pay her no mind, the man beside her
ducking forward to take one of her nipples between his lips as if feeding from her. All three of
them hold the woman in place, bracing against her resistance as wave after wave of contractions
pass through her, their enraptured moans almost as intense as her screams.
And though he found himself dazed, dizzy, overwhelmed from what he had seen so far, the worst
was yet to come. He watches on in absolute horror, unable to tear his eyes away, as her body
suddenly tenses from head to toe, back arching in agony. Between her legs, the other woman adjust
her arm out of the way—and then he sees it. The stretch, the impossible shift—as her baby’s head
begins to appear.
Her screaming is almost deafening now, but the chorus of chanting from the circle around her
swells in volume to match her, their rhythmic words overwhelming her torment as though their
message were more important than any pain she could possibly be experiencing. It’s impossible to
catch more than a few words of what they are saying, his ears positively ringing with the
cacophony of sounds that is swallowing him up—but he hears one thing all the same, one thing
over and over and over—
“—blessed be the blood of the womb—”
“—life unto power—”
“—blessed be the blood of the womb—”

Behind her trembling form, her captor is completely lost to his rapture, continuing to fuck into her
as though the way her body is being torn apart only intensifies his pleasure. The man between her
legs skirts his fingers around her opening, smearing blood down her thighs before it is immediately
washed away by the water, and the woman leaning above him presses her fingers into the pregnant
woman’s clit where it is stretched above her gaping pussy, clenching around the crowning head of
her child—
Her body is wracked with tension again as she gives a desperate push, and the bodies around her
writhe with her, rising when she is tense and falling back into the water when she relaxes for a
moment for a desperate gasp of air. Their hands never leave her body, never stop twisting at her
nipples, teasing at her holes, their lips caressing every inch of her slick skin. They seem
determined, all of them, to create as much pleasure through the process as possible, but all he feels
as he watches is sick, sick, sick—
He knows he isn’t supposed to be here, knows this is wrong—but somehow his feet are anchored
to the spot. He wants to leave, wants to go—wants to forget—
This—
This is a dream, he decides—it must be. A terrible dream. These things don’t just happen—
Before him, a bellowing groan draws his attention back to the moment before him. The man
kneeling tall behind the woman’s captured figure stills completely, his hands clutching at her body
tight enough to bruise as the man finally seems to reach his peak, hips freezing to ensure that his
cock is buried deep within her as his orgasm passes through him. From behind the curtain, he can
only see a fraction of the man and his body—but his face is visible clear as day through the haze of
smoke, his head tossed back until his neck strains with the effort, his lips moving as though
forming the words of a silent prayer.
“—blessed be the blood—!”
Before he even realizes that it’s happened, his body seizes up in a desperate gasp as he realizes
what he’s seeing at last, realizes what on earth is happening here—
“Jung Hoseok.”
The sound of his own name has him whipping his head around, body locked in place. Through the
darkness, his eyes meet the wide-eyed gaze of another, staring back at him with a terrifyingly
familiar expression. The man’s pupils are totally black, blown wide from peering through the
shadows. Hoseok feels like he is being consumed by them.
Before he can open his mouth or manage a single word, he hears a sharp, terrible cracking noise
night above his head. He doesn’t realize that the noise is the result of his skull being impacted by
something heavy until he suddenly collapses to the floor, his legs boneless beneath him under the
draw of gravity. His face hits the hard concrete below, and his vision swims, swims—
There are feet beside his head now, hushed voices whispering hurriedly over his head.
“—take care of this—”
“—do you want—”
The light is flickering in and out of view—or perhaps—perhaps that’s his vision, tunneling in at the
edges. The room is growing so dark, so—dark—
“—all of it—rid of it—”
“—but sir—”
There are arms around him now, grip like a vice. The room is dark, his mind is—darker—his body
—his body a limp doll as he is lifted from the floor.
There is nothing now, nothing but the arms that are carrying him. He is flying—
There are eyes in the darkness, eyes that are watching. The rhythmic chanting continues. Chanting,
and screaming. Always screaming. Screaming that accompanies him as he finally succumbs to
unconsciousness.
“—out of here—”
“—it isn’t over yet—”
Front Office—Security—First Floor 08-26-18 10:22PM

The keys feel heavy in his hand as he toys with them between his fingers. The metal makes the
faintest clinking noise—but there is no one around to hear it. The hallways are wide, empty,
echoing. His footsteps are twice as loud in the hallway when he turns the corner away from the
front doors and down towards the East wing, but it only takes a few steps to reach his destination.
The security office is empty when he enters—as expected. The new guard has left for a small
break, right on time. Punctual. He likes that about the man, he supposes. Doesn’t ask many
questions, doesn’t try to socialize, but that’s hardly a bad thing. It’s too bad, what happened to the
last man, but...things work out the way they’re supposed to, don’t they?
He sets a timer on his watch, double-checks it to make sure it is correct, then lets his sleeve fall
back over the bright screen and turns to the recording room, quickly placing the key in the lock and
sliding the door open without a sound.
He is greeted by a familiar wall of screens, each one dimly lit with a different image of familiar
locations—the library, the teachers’ lounge, the front office—
And finally, the unmistakable shape of the back of his own head, his silhouette dark but clearly
captured by the camera situated in the ceiling behind him. It’s eerie to watch himself move in the
room, but he still makes his way forward—his own image shifting across the screen before him—
to sit in the solitary chair before the many screens.
He fumbles with the keyboard for a moment before finding the right controls, cycling through the
video feeds on the master screen in front of him until he recognizes the familiar sight of the
classroom he was looking for. The room is dark, obviously empty, shadows playing across the
desks from the windows along the far side of the room, the floor blank and shiny even in the dim
light.
In the center of the room, just as expected, there is a single, solitary figure that cast a long shadow
across the tile. Its arms are outstretched to either side, an almost Christ-like figure with the way its
body forms a cross shape in its bindings.
The doll. Right where he left it. Perfect.
With new assurance that all is as it should be, he can finally set to work on his real purpose. It only
takes two clicks to find what he is looking for—or rather, to not find it. His stomach twists
uncomfortably, though it isn’t unexpected. His looped tape—it’s gone. Months of going
undetected, months of carefully crafted work, all undone by one bumbling fool with his hands on
the wrong keys.
He makes quick work of navigating through the software, pulling up the tools he needs to take a
clean snip of the footage—nothing out of place and nothing moving—and clicks ‘save.’ The file is
dragged onto his flash drive, the device quickly plugged in and left in place just long enough for
the feed to be switched over to the next camera—the inside of the attached office, also completely
empty—and the process repeated. The files join several that are already saved, the device housing
what might as well be a library of his sins.
With the files saved, it’s simple enough to pull open the device console, launch a targeted attack on
the vulnerable streaming protocol as usual, and wait for the device to go down. It leaves him with
only a second to overwrite the stream—but a second is all he needs. Especially with no one
watching.
They are always watching, a voice in his mind reminds him, like a pre-recorded statement
triggered to play on command.
Not this time, he thinks.
The camera flickers to black, giving him the opportunity he needs to drag his looped files back
over the feed—one that is new, and one that is old. He sets a timer, buries it into the code where no
one will think to look for it, and takes the extra time to lock the footage into place. No more
mistakes.
The tourniquet of anxiety around his chest that has lingered since he stepped foot through the door
finally seems to loosen when he taps at the mouse, bringing the camera back online to watch the
new, ‘live’ footage. He plays through it for a moment, appreciating the smoothness of the
replacement, watching for little skips in the image but finding none.
One final timer set, and he knows his work here is done. It’s with some small degree of satisfaction
that he finally tugs his flash drive free, carefully bundling it up and slipping it into his pocket for
safekeeping, ready to place it back into hiding where he knows it will never be seen.
He gives the cameras one last glance as he rises to his feet, scouring the screens before him for the
usual occupant of this small room, and finds him sitting just outside the front doors, what looks to
be a meal of some sort propped open in the man’s lap. The timing is just perfect, the guard’s meal
still well underway, and he knows that he has at least a few minutes to slip away undetected as
always.
With only a few taps on the keyboard, any trace of his activity disappears. The screen is set back to
normal, the chair pushed carefully back into place just where he found it, and he turns his back to
the screens at last.
Over his shoulder, one camera shows his movement through the room—but he pays it no mind.
Without looking back, he knows that the saved footage is already scrubbing itself clean, leaving a
gap of just a few minutes in the tape that will be invisible to the untrained viewer—which the new
security guard surely is. Even as he slides the door open, his shadow moving out of frame, he
knows that he has already disappeared. When he closes the door behind himself with a small click,
it is as though he were never there at all.
But as the room falls into silence, screen after screen of dimly lit images that flicker and waiver but
could otherwise be replaced with photographs for all that they change—
—there is movement.
Darkness slowly creeping across the wide expanse of tile that stretches from one end of the East
hallway to the other.
A figure, one that would be unmistakable as human—if there were anyone around to observe it.
It pauses, standing deathly still in the center of the hallway, spine straight, shoulders tense. The
figure pauses, waiting.
From this distance, its face is muddled in shadow, features unreadable—but it is unmistakable
when it raises its head towards the ceiling. The head turns, the body staying perfectly still.
Its eyes disappear into the darkness of its face, but it surely has eyes. Eyes that are watching,
carefully.
Eyes that stare straight into the camera, straight through the screen—eyes that seem to look directly
into the empty room beyond.
INCOMING CALL — 10:41PM — CONTACT: JEON DEUN
RIIIIIIIIIIIIING—
RIIIIIIIIIIIIING—
RIIIIII—
“Hello?”
There is a terrible crackling noise in his ear the moment he puts the receiver up to his head. A soft,
distorted voice sputters through the line, only audible every other second. “J—ng—in—”
“Hello? Daeun?!” He knows that voice, he knows it—
“Jung—Jung-in?”
It’s her, it has to be. He can just about make out the sound of his own name through the line, and
without hesitation he drops down to the ground beside the kitchen cabinet where the phone is set
up. Once he is out of the line of sight through the windows, he clutches the phone closer to his ear
and says as clearly as he can, “Daeun, can you hear me? Is that you?”
“Y—es—”
“Daeun, if that’s you, I can’t hear you, the reception is really poor—”
There’s a rustling noise on the other end of the line, a few thumps and then suddenly, the distortion
on the line begins to fade away. “It’s me—it’s me—”
He rests his head back against the cabinets eyes closed in relief. “Oh, Daeun, thank god—”
“—Jungmin—can’t—”
“What—?”
“I can’t—him—”
“Daeun, please—I have to tell you something, I still can’t hear you, dear—”
“I can’t find him!” Her voice breaks through the line, shrill and unnerving. He jolts upright at the
sudden sound, then immediately ducks his head down low again, dragging the cord of the phone
with him as he curls around the receiver.
“I can’t find him! I can’t f-find him, oh god—” His wife seems to be moving, running somewhere,
maybe? She sounds frantic, out of breath.
“What did you say?”
“Jungkook! Jungkook is gone! My baby—”

“What do you mean, he’s gone—?” Jungmin fights the urge to sit up straight, crawling away from
his spot in order to get closer to the window instead. It’s wrinkling his nicely-pressed suit, but he
doesn’t care.
“—I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him! He’s not here—it’s only ruins, there’s—something very wrong—I
can’t find him—!” His wife is panicking now, truly panicking, past the point of worry and into
downright hysteria. He knows he is making it worse by not immediately understanding, but he
can’t figure out what on earth she is trying to say—
“Daeun, Daeun, slow down!”
“—I can’t, I can’t—”
“You have to calm down, I can’t understand you—”
“Jungmin! Please! Our son, our son—! He’s been taken, I knew it, I knew it, something horrible
has happened—!” And all of a sudden she dissolves into tears, her words being replaced with sobs
that echo through the phone line
He pauses for a moment, taken aback by her tone, but they haven’t been married for 25 years for
nothing. He softens his tone, hating to hear his wife crying despite the situation. No amount of
stress will ever cause him to raise his voice at her. “Hey...it’s alright, dear...just let it out, I’m
here…”
She continues sobbing softly into the phone, clearly no longer moving. From the sounds coming
through in the background, she seems to be on the side of the road somewhere, the soft rush and
crackle of cars driving behind her cutting through every once in a while.
“I’m here,” he repeats softly. He keeps his head down low, back to the wall below the window.
Despite being closest to the outside wall of the house, he feels the safest here, somehow. He knows
for sure that here, at least, he is completely out of sight. He will tell her, later—
“I tried, god, I tried to find him!” She eventually says once her tears have died down enough, “You
have to believe me, there’s just...nothing here...” Daeun trails off for a moment as though confused
and frustrated by her own words, a hint of that same anxiety creeping into her voice as she rambles,
“The information I had was—was all wrong...I just don’t understand—!”
“So you weren’t able to find the school?”
“Well, I—I’m not sure, I don’t think—” Another pause, punctuated by the sound of gravel
crunching in the distance. He can easily picture his wife turning around in circles like she
sometimes does when she’s nervous. “I went—went to the location, to the address, but—oh, it’s so
t-terrible, it’s all wrong—”
“But he wasn’t there?” He prods.
“There’s nothing here, it’s all abandoned, it was all a lie—”
Wait...something isn’t adding up. He sits up a little straighter now, clutching at the phone as if
trying to shake the answers free of it. “The school was...abandoned?”
“There h-hasn’t been anyone here for y-years, Jungmin—” She sounds desperate, desperate to
make her husband understanding. Her voice becomes louder as though she has clutched her phone
closer to her face as well, her words turning into an urgent whisper. He sits even further forward,
staring at the blank tile in front of him as he waits for his wife to reveal her secret to him. “It’s all
gone, like they were never here! It must have all been some sort of—of scam or something.
Jungkook definitely isn’t here, I don’t know where he’s gone—”
“Are you okay, are you safe?”
Her voice is nothing more than a broken whisper now. He feels the desperate urge to run to her, to
wrap her in his arms. For the first time since this fiasco began, he believes her when she says, “I’m
—I’m so scared...”
Come on...think, think—
He has to get to her, he has to. “Do you know where you are right now?”
“I—I—yes, I think I’m at—”

“Don’t tell me! Don’t say it—” His hand flies out in front of him desperately as though he can cut
her off across all of the miles between them. His tone is too sharp, perhaps, but he has to make his
point clear.
“I—” He can almost feel her reel back from the phone, a stunned silence greeting him for a few
minutes “—what? Why not? Jungmin—”
“Please. Just...don’t say it out loud. All I need is an answer. Do you know where you are right
now?” Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it—
“Well...yes, I do…”
“Good, that’s good…”
“Jungmin, what’s going on…?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing—” He runs his free hand through his hair
“I’m coming home, I can’t be here anymore, I have to—”
“No!” He should have figured she would be stubborn about this—she’s never been anything else.
It’s one of the reasons he fell in love with her all those years ago. He curls his body up along the
edge of the window, peeking just enough of his head above the windowsill to see outside. “No, you
can’t do that!”
And there they are, on the corner opposite the house, same as always.
“W-What? Why?!”
“You can’t come home right now, Daeun—” He has all of the blinds drawn, the entire house dark
—he can only hope it’s enough—
“Why not?!”
“Because—” He can’t keep it from her any more, and he knows it. “Because you were right.” He
sighs, his head hanging low between his shoulders in defeat. “You were right. Someone is
watching the house.”
This time, the silence that greets him from the other end of the line has a different feeling to it. Not
shocked, exactly. Just...thoughtful.
“...W-What?”
“Listen to me, you can’t come back here right now,” he hurries to say, not wanting to dwell on the
subject for longer than they need to. “There have been people outside with cameras, driving by,
they’re taking photos of the house,” he peeks his head up to look at the shadowy figures in the
distance again, their position unchanged. They’re always watching. “I saw them when they were
following me to work—”
Daeun is engaged now, he can hear her footsteps start up again as she chimes in, “I—I think they
were doing that to me too, I felt someone was following me home—”
“They probably were,” he agrees, his stomach dropping at the thought. God, what a fool he was.
“Daeun, it’s not safe, you can’t come back here right now, I don’t know what’s going on but you
were right—”
“It has to be the same people,” she insists, her tone sharper now. Gone is the fear in her voice,
replaced with determination. “It has to be. This can’t be a coincidence, not with Jungkook going
missing—”
“We don’t know that—”
“No, no! Don’t you do this to me, Jeon Jungmin. Don’t you dare.” He can practically feel her
waggle her finger at him.
“I—”
“There are people watching our house, our—our youngest son has gone missing, something is very
—very wrong and I’m terrified out of my mind, don’t you dare act like I’m crazy—”
“Alright, alright! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. You were right, I admit it. I’m sorry.” He throws his
free hand up in defeat, her words nothing compared to the way he has already been beating himself
up over the situation. “But that’s why you can’t tell me where you are, okay? I don’t know if
anyone is listening—”
“You think they’re—they're listening to your phone calls—?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore! I just want to be careful, I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Please.
“I’ll be okay, Jungmin...I can take care of myself—”
“Please, just...humor me, okay? I can’t...I can’t lose both of you. I can’t.”
“...Jungmin...”
“I’m scared too…” he whispers, his heart heavy. This may be the first time he has ever admitted
fear to his wife in all their years together. This may be the first situation that has ever demanded it.
Daeun, tactful when she needs to be, carefully chooses not to acknowledge it, and for that he is
grateful. “So...what...what do we do?”
“You can’t come back here,”
“But—”
“No, no argument. You can’t come back here, and I can’t stay here.” He looks around the room,
desperately, searching the kitchen with his eyes as though it will somehow give up the answers he
needs. “We need to...get somewhere they can’t find us…”
“Where...can we go?”
He doesn’t answer her for a moment, his eyes fixating on their small refrigerator in the corner, a
small luxury he chose to splurge on several years ago. He takes a risk and crawls across the tile
towards the appliance, dragging the phone cord with him as he goes.
“...Jungmin?”
His eyes flicker over the many photos that are attached to the front of the fridge, catching sight of
different pictures of his family over the years, himself and Daeun, their son, his close friends, his
own friends from college—location after location of their travels together as a family—
Wait.
There.
Perfect.
He cradles the phone between his shoulder and his face, leaving both of his hands free to pull a
single photo from its magnet. It’s almost too dark to see it properly, but he can still make out the
image of himself and his wife, nearly 30 years younger, sitting on a bench together. “Meet
me...where we had our first date. Do you remember?”
Daeun’s voice is softer when she whispers back, “I remember…”
“Can you get there?”
She hesitates for only a moment, and he can hear his own heartbeat racing in his ears as he waits
for an answer. “I—yes, I can get there, I’ll find a way.”
They have to hurry, he thinks, only marginally relieved at her agreement. “Turn off your cell
phone, don’t use it for anything. Wait for me there, I’ll come find you.”
“Okay—Okay, I can do that—”

“And Daeun?” He interrupts, the photo creasing in between his fingers as his grip tightens, his eyes
fixated on his wife’s face. He has to fix this, he has to.
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
The room is quiet, dark.

Empty.
He is alone with only the sound
of
his
own
breathing.
He is neither standing nor sitting.
His body is not supported by anything.
He has no body.
He is a mind, a mind only—
A mind existing in the dark space.
There is a voice in his head—
a voice that speaks without opening a mouth.
There is no one around. The voice speaks nonetheless.
Jeon Jungkook.
Yes, he thinks.
Yes.
Jeon Jungkook.
The voice says his name so sweetly. The voice knows his name.
He smiles, listening to the voice as it addresses him.
He is floating. The space is so dark.
He is floating.
Jeon Jungkook.
He likes the voice.
The voice knows him well.
The voice is that of an old friend.
He fought the voice, once. He fought the voice,
and he
lost.
The voice knows better. It is not wise to fight the voice.
You are nothing, Jeon Jungkook.
Nothing, yes. Yes, that’s right.
He is nothing.
You have no body. You are only what we made of you.
Yes, there is nothing outside of the darkness.
He is falling into it. He is floating inside of it.
He is a mind alone in the darkness.
The voice knows what is best. The voice is powerful.
You have nobody. You are alone.
Nobody, yes.
He is alone.
Alone in the darkness.
His mind is at peace.
The darkness is safe.
The voice knows what is best.
You have no family.
Family?
What about—what about family?
He doesn’t rememb—
You have no family.
Yes, that’s right. He has no family.

There is no such thing as family.
He is alone. Alone in the darkness.
The darkness is his friend.
The voice is his friend.
He is floating, floating—
You have no family.
I have no family.
He is alone in the darkness.
You are home.
Yes, this is his home.
He loves his home.
Yes.
You are a doll.
I am a doll.
The darkness is changing now, shifting around him.
The darkness is moving.
He is floating inside of it.

Y o u a r e a d o l l.
I am a doll.
The darkness moves.
There is a face before him in the darkness. A nice face. A familiar face.
The voice whispers to him.
J e o n J u n g k o o k.
Yes, he answers, though he has no voice with which to speak.
He is nothing.
He is
nowhere.
Look.
He
is
doll.
L o o k.
The voice commands, and he looks.
He sees the face before him.
It is a mirror.
There is a face.
The face is his own.
L o o k.
There is another face beside it.
Another mirror.
There is a reflection.
He is the
reflection.
L O O K.
He looks closer.
He focuses his mind on the faces,
more and more appearing around him.
There is a circle of faces.
He is every face.
Y O U A R E N O T H I N G.
I am nothing.
The faces repeat it back to him, their lips moving with the words.
I am nothing.
L I S T E N.
He listens.
Listens to the chorus of voices now, all telling him the same message.
The faces before him speak the words.
He speaks the words.
He is the voice.
Y O U
W I L L
F O R G E T
Yes. I will forget.
The faces repeat it back to him.
Forget.
You will forget.
Let it go.
Forget.
F O R G E T
I will forget.
Y O U
A R E
NO T H I N G
Nothing.
He is nothing.
There is nothing.
The faces look
back
at him,
and they are at peace.
He looks into
his
own
eyes.
He tells himself—
You are nothing.

Y O U
A R E
D R E A M I N G
Yes.
Dreaming.
This is a dream.
A nice dream.
The faces smile back at him.
D R E A M I N G
They are dreaming too.
This is a dream.
The darkness is his
friend.
The faces
smile.
They
are his friends.
He is limp.
He is floating.
He is
nothing.
Y O U A R E D R E A M I N G.
Yes.
FORGET.
Main Hall—East Wing—First Floor 08.26.18 11:39PM
“Mr. Kim!”
Taehyung flinches, his hand flying out to catch himself against the wall beside him. He knows that
voice.
His shoulders are still hunched up towards his ears when he turns to face the man addressing him,
his eyes respectfully turned down towards the ground.
“Hello, Principal Kim…” he says, careful to keep his voice even. Don’t let him see your fear, he
thinks. They are always watching.
“Would you like to explain to me what you are doing here so late?” The principal asks as he takes
the last few steps that he needs to stand right in front of Taehyung, looming over the boy
completely.
“I—um—”
“Something wrong, Mr. Kim?” Seokjin asks, his tone making it clear that he has no patience for
delays.
The hallway is dark around them, only the security lights illuminating the space every few feet,
which only serves to make the older man seem taller. His eyes are totally black in the dim lighting,
matching the dark strands of his perfectly coiffed hair.
“I—No, no, of course not, sir. I was just—” he clears his throat, “—just making my way to, um,
Mr. Min’s office.”
“On a Saturday night?” Seokjin asks, his words suggesting that he is curious, his tone insisting that
Taehyung is already wrong.
“Well—yes, sir. I have to.”
“Do you.” It isn’t a question.
“I have been assigned to assist Mr. Min with his research, sir.”
Seokjin pauses, then, staring down at him silently while the gears in his head seem to be turning.
Taehyung chances a glance up at the older man, catching the little crease between Seokjin’s
eyebrows that signifies his displeasure, and only just barely manages not to flinch again at the
sight.
“I see,” Seokjin says slowly, his eyes looking at Taehyung but somehow seeming to look through
him instead. For a brief moment, the principal seems to be a million miles away. Then, in a split
second, he is back, his eyes relaxing at the edges. “Yes. Of course.”
Seokjin gives his head the smallest of shakes and waves a hand in the space between them. “I trust
that you are doing excellent work with Mr. Min, yes?”
“Um, I hope so, sir…” He answers, hedging around the subject. There is nothing he would like to
do less than have this conversation right now.
“Hmm…” Seokjin says thoughtfully, “I’m sure that you are. You’re a bright boy, Mr. Kim.” The
principal reaches out to land one hand on Taehyung’s shoulder, and he thinks he might just puke.
The grip feels—significant, somehow. Heavy.
“Thank...you, sir…”
“You’ve had a few rough patches, that’s for sure,” Seokjin goes on as though he hadn’t said a
word, almost seeming to speak to himself more than anything. “But every child does, truly. I had
my fair share of—”
Suddenly, Seokjin stops speaking, his hand tensing against Taehyung’s shoulder, and Taehyung
narrows his eyes. Even for this man who terrifies Taehyung so much, this behavior is
particularly...bizarre.
“Um...sir?”
Seokjin takes a deep inhale through his nose, gives Taehyung’s shoulder another squeeze, then lets
him go to pat at the boy’s shoulder instead. “I’d very much like to hear more about the
experiments you are completing, Mr. Kim. Walk with me?”
The hand on his shoulder grips at him, turning him on his feet with such pressure that he can’t fight
against it. “But—sir—the experiment? Yo—Mr. Min is expecting me, I should probably—”
“Nonsense,” Seokjin interjects, and he wraps his arm around Taehyung’s shoulder completely,
dragging the student along as he begins to walk in the opposite direction that Taehyung had been
heading. Taehyung turns his head to glance over his shoulder, looking longingly down the hall
towards the classroom at the very end, the light in the window the only sign of life in the darkness.
‘Yoongi...I’m sorry…’
“So, start from the beginning. Tell me all about your work with Mr. Min.”
“Sir, hasn’t...hasn’t Mr. Min already reported all of this to you?” He’s stalling, but his curiosity is
real. How much has Yoongi been passing along? There are things they hide, of course, but the
work they’ve been doing is still important—
“Yes, yes...of course.” Seokjin pats his shoulder again, their steps carrying them past classroom
after classroom towards the center of the school. The front windows cast long shadows across the
tile in the entryway, extending towards them like reaching hands. “But I’d like to hear it from
you.”
Taehyung opens his mouth to answer, but before he can make a sound, there is another noise that
gets there first. A voice, one that comes from neither of the two man, echoing down the hall
towards them from the distance. Seokjin stops in his tracks, dragging Taehyung with him so that
the boy lurches backwards. “What—?”
“Shh!” Seokjin shoves at him, pushing Taehyung a step away while he moves a step forward
instead, hunched over as he looks around the darkened hall suspiciously. Taehyung claps a hand
over his own mouth to muffle the sound of his surprise as he stumbles and catches himself,
watching the principal move with wide eyes.
Has someone broken in? Is there someone else here who shouldn’t be? He’s always been so careful
to make sure that he is alone when visiting Yoongi, and he knows the older man has done the
same…
He thinks back to the last time they experienced a break-in, the way the students were punished,
the terrible, overwhelming fear—and he can barely swallow around the knot forming in his throat.
When Seokjin pays him no more attention, creeping forward in pursuit of the voice instead,
Taehyung follows after him silently, taking the softest steps possible so as to not disturb the older
man. Seokjin approaches a door on the right side of the hall first, pressing his ear to the door for a
moment before grabbing at his keys from his pocket and quickly unlocking the handle to swing the
door open. He ducks his head inside, looks back and forth across the dark space, then seems
satisfied that the sound isn’t coming from within and abandons the room entirely, leaving the door
carelessly open behind himself.
Taehyung tiptoes behind him when Seokjin crosses to the other side of the hall to the next door
and repeats the process, finds nothing, then switches sides of the hall and checks one door more.
The sound grows louder the further along they go, the words becoming more distinct by the
minute. They are nearly to the front office, the lights from the parking lot illuminating their steps—
Suddenly, Seokjin takes a sharp turn to the left, skipping over several doors in order to head
towards one in particular at the very end of the hall before it begins sloping upwards toward the
security office, clearly hearing something that Taehyung isn’t. He isn’t sure whether or not to
follow, but—he’s come this far, hasn’t he? And his curiosity is just too much to ignore, always has
been.
The keys jingle in Seokjin’s hand now as he brings them up to the lock, his hands trembling
enough that Taehyung can see it from a few feet away. He feels as though he definitely shouldn’t
be watching this, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away, moving even closer still. The voices are
definitely coming from behind this door, it’s unmistakable—someone is there—
“—that away? I don’t know—”
Taehyung braces himself as Seokjin finally gets the key situated in the lock, but the man hesitates
for a moment before finally turning the handle, leaving Taehyung with his heart beating against his
chest. This is...wrong. Something is wrong.
“—you’re always—in my face—”
When the door finally opens, the voices become perfectly clear, eerily familiar when they reach his
ears at last.
“Come on, I just...wanna capture everything, you know that!”
“No—”
Seokjin charges forward into the room, his keys left hanging in the lock, and when he turns
towards the front of the room, Taehyung gets a good look at the principal’s side profile for the first
time since they began walking. He’s illuminated by something from within the room, a deep
orange glow that throws his features into sharp relief, and the wild desperation that is written all
over the older man’s face is enough to make Taehyung’s stomach turn.
Who is it?
A grunt comes from within the room, clearly not from Seokjin himself, who seems to be frozen on
the spot. If Taehyung thought the man seemed disconnected earlier, it is nothing compared to the
way he looks now, eyes wide like a deer caught in the center of the dirt road that leads up to the
community. Taehyung has only seen that happen once, but once was enough to remember.
There’s some sort of rustling noise, followed immediately by soft giggling. Familiar giggling.
Again, Seokjin doesn’t move. Taehyung takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then dares to creep
forward just one step, leaving him a foot away from the doorway. He still can’t see anything aside
from the principal himself, but Seokjin seems not to notice him at all.
More rustling, shifting—what is going on inside that room? And then, “Put that away…”
“...I don’t wanna forget…” Another voice answers, also familiar, though masked by its husky
tone.
“...sir?” Taehyung dares to ask, taking another step towards Seokjin again, his hands instinctively
raised in front of his chest as if to protect himself. Seokjin blinks, slowly, but makes no other move
to show that he heard Taehyung speak. The light is much brighter now, hitting Taehyung’s skin as
he draws closer to the threshold.
“Okay, okay—I—”
“Yeah?”
He needs to see, needs to know what is going on. His skin is covered in goosebumps now, his
stomach churning. The voices seem to be having a perfectly normal conversation, but Seokjin’s
expression tells him there is something to be very afraid of lying just inside the room.
“Sir?” He tries again, reaching out towards Seokjin’s shoulder. He glances to the side, able to see
more of the room now, rows of desks that are illuminated, but he can’t quite see beyond the man’s
outline.
“Y-Yeah…please—”
“Okay, baby...okay, shh…”
When his hand finally reaches Seokjin’s shoulder, everything changes in an instant. Seokjin’s head
whips around to look at him again, the man’s eyes positively wild. His pupils are drawn to
pinpoints from staring into the light, only contributing to his animalistic appearance. Taehyung
jumps back in shock, his hand falling away, but Seokjin is faster, his own hand snapping out to
grab at Taehyung’s wrist.
“Get. Out.” Seokjin hisses.
“Sir—”
“Get out!” The man barks at him, tugging his wrist forward before flinging him back into the
hallway again. In the split second that he is drawn closer, Taehyung catches a glimpse of the
source of the light—a large, illuminated wall of the room, bright enough that he can’t quite make
out what he is seeing before he is flung away.
He crashes back to the floor, landing heavily on his ass, one of his wrists stinging where it flies
behind him to catch his fall. When he looks up again, Seokjin is framed in the doorway, cutting an
imposing and terrible figure out of the light beyond. There is no sign of remorse on his face, no
indication that he is worried at all about what he’s done—just a blank, wild shine to his eyes.
“Leave,” he hisses, and Taehyung scrambles backwards until his back hits the far wall. “Go
home.”
“S-Sir, I—”
“Go home, Kim Taehyung,” Seokjin barks, and he doesn’t need to be told a third time. Using the
wall for support, he manages to clamber to his feet, and immediately bolts down the hall towards
the entryway. He doesn’t look back—can’t—can’t look back. Something about Seokjin’s eyes has
him convinced that if he did—
—it might be the last thing he would ever do.
Those eyes—
His feet carry him to the front of the building in a matter of seconds, the thudding of his feet across
the tile drowning out any noise from behind him, and he all but crashes through the closest door. A
wave of hot, humid summer air hits him like a wall, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop—careening
down the steps and across the small parking lot towards his family home.
His chest is searing, his lungs burning with the effort of keeping himself going, his wrist twinging
with pain every time his swings his arm forward, but it doesn’t matter.
Get out.
Get. out.
Go home, Kim Taehyung—
He nearly makes it to the dirt path that takes him up the hill towards building five—he can see it’s
outline in the distance, the moon full enough to light his way—when he stumbles across the dirt at
the sound of the last voice he wants to hear cutting through the night.
SHHHHCCRRRKKKK —
“Attention—”
Seokjin’s voice appears out of nowhere, and Taehyung whips around on the spot, expecting to see
the man chasing after him—
But the sound isn’t coming from nearby—instead, it seems to be emanating from everywhere,
particularly above Taehyung’s head. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath enough to look
around clearly, rubbing at his sore hand as he looks up and finds a pole alongside the path, what is
obviously a loudspeaker attached at the top. Of course. Beside the speaker is the unmistakable
shape of a camera, and Taehyung shudders.
“—Attention—” Seokjin’s disembodied voice repeats from the speaker. Taehyung’s heart feels as
though it is beating hard enough to kill him.
No—
“—All members of the community must report immediately—”

No—please, no—
“—for a mandatory gathering. Proper attire is required. All members school-age or older must be
in attendance.”
He didn’t—he didn’t mean to—
“—Again, report immediately for a mandatory gathering. Any community members who are found
not to be in attendance will be promptly punished. That is all.”
—CLICK.
Taehyung stares up at the camera in stunned silence for longer than he should, he knows it—but
what else can he do? His eyes wander to the night sky above, dark and foreboding except for the
glow of the moon that illuminates the spot where he is frozen. He lets his eyes sink down-down-
down until the reach the tree line on the horizon, showing the skeletal outline of branches reaching
towards the stars.
For only the second time in his life, Taehyung looks towards the forest with longing. In the
distance, he could just disappear—no one would notice—
With a deep breath that seems to rattle in his chest, he squares his shoulders, clenches his eyes shut
as if to steel his nerves, then picks up his feet—and starts walking.
It would be nearly pitch-black if it weren’t for the glow of the flashlight in his hand that
illuminates the path before him, bouncing back and forth across the gravel and the legs of the
people marching one step ahead. For the most part, they say nothing as they make their trek,
nothing more than whispers in the distance undercutting the crunch-crunch-crunch of dozens of
footsteps echoing off the trees. Despite the late hour, it’s unbearably hot—humidity sticking to the
back of his neck, but he makes no move to swipe it away. The uncomfortable tension in each of
their bodies as they march is far more uncomfortable still.
The path bends to the right up ahead, just over the crest of a familiar hill, and the crowd falls into a
single-file march through the small gap between the trees to, one-by-one, step down into the
clearing beyond. No one looks happy. No one. No one dares to pretend that they know what is
coming.
When he reaches the top of the hill, he has a full view of the gathering below, hundreds of swaying
shadows lit only by the dim glow of their lights—some carrying flashlights same as him, others
holding up lanterns and a few at the front of the clearing even holding torches that send dancing
shadows across the entire space.
His breath catches in his chest as he steps down over the threshold, ducking beneath the
interwoven branches that form an arch over his head though he is in no danger of hitting it. He
feels an overwhelming pressure settle over his shoulders, heavy like a cloak.
This space—
This space is special.
It’s been months since he’d last been here.
The same sentiment seems to roll through the crowd as they follow after him one after another,
each letting out a sigh upon crossing that same threshold—the overall effect being that of an eerie
hissing sound that masks the rustling of their movement until everyone finally files into the
clearing and takes a spot facing the front of the small space. They line up in practiced succession
along the wide, curving platforms that have been carved into the clearing, each one dropping down
a few feet further than the last until they culminate into something of an amphitheater, giving
anyone an equal view of what is going on down below.
He hovers towards the top of the stairs, back where the shadows keep him mostly hidden from
view, and allows the next people in line to step past him towards the stairs, keeping his eyes peeled
for one person in particular—the one person he hasn’t seen yet tonight.
It only takes a few moments of waiting for his patience to be rewarded. Through the archway, a
crowd of younger community members appear, all wearing the unmistakable blue jackets of the
student body. The students walk single file as they move into the clearing with wide eyes, hands
clutching at each other as if afraid they may get lost along the way. It isn’t often that they are
allowed into this space, he thinks idly as they trip past him and begin descending the stairs. Well—
most of them.
Predictably, one student is lagging behind the rest, nearly head and shoulders taller than some of
the youngest, hands shoved deep into his pockets despite the muggy air. He waits until all the other
students have passed, waits until the boy is right in front of him—clearly unaware of his
surroundings—and reaches out to grab at the boy’s arm in order to tug him right out of line.
The boy almost yelps at the contact, drawing stares from several of the people around them. So
much for being stealthy, he thinks. He makes a small shushing noise, running his hand over the
boy’s shoulder as a pair of wide eyes stare up into his face, flickering back and forth between his
own eyes until they seem to come to the conclusion that he is familiar.
“...Yoongi…”
His name leaves the boy’s lips as a relieved sigh, though it does nothing to relax the boy’s
shoulders. He turns his head to nod reassuringly at the other community members that are still
staring at them both suspiciously, and waits until they all seem appeased enough to turn back
around towards the front before grabbing at the boy’s arm again to drag him into the shadows.
Once he knows they are both out of sight behind one of the larger tree trunks, Yoongi’s touch
melts into one much less commanding. Softer. Affectionate. “Taehyung.”
“Yoongi, I—”
“I’ve been looking for you, where have you been? You were supposed to be in my office an hour
ago…”
“I know, I—I’m s-sorry, I just—”
The boy is shivering, muscles twitching beneath Yoongi’s touch, and Yoongi feels any frustration
left in him giving way to worry. “Tae...are you alright? What’s wrong?”
“Did something happen?”
Taehyung can’t seem to bring himself to answer—or perhaps, Yoongi muses, he doesn’t know how
to. The boy’s mouth opens and closes several times without a single word coming out, but the
positively hunted look in the boy’s dark eyes tells him everything that he needs to know—for the
moment.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he says, voice dropping lower, and he reaches out to gather Taehyung’s
quaking form into a warm embrace, his lips pressing directly to his lover’s ear. “Whatever it is, it’s
going to be alright.”
“No, you don’t understand—”
Taehyung tries to push against his chest, but Yoongi doesn’t budge, squeezing the boy tighter until
Taehyung gives in and lets himself be held, his hands still shaking where they have fisted into
Yoongi’s jacket.
“It’s going to be alright,” he repeats more firmly. “Whatever it is, I’m going to make sure nothing
happens to you. You’re going to be just fine, okay?”
Taehyung says nothing, just gives a tiny nod against Yoongi’s shoulder that he will have to accept
as enough for the time being. There are still footsteps passing by them, their owners on their way
down the steps for the gathering, and it’s all happening far too close for comfort. Yoongi’s only
reassurance comes from the fact that Taehyung is here, he’s safe and well and there are no cameras
to catch them here in the woods. None.
“Please, take a seat!” Someone announces from down into the clearing, and Taehyung stiffens in
his arms once again.
“Shhh…” he whispers, “Come on. We should join the others before someone notices that we’re
gone.”
Something about his words makes Taehyung’s grip on him tighten, but the boy nods all the same
and lets Yoongi step away from him so they can see each other’s faces again. The moonlight is
partially blocked by the branches overhead, but he can still make out the slight shine of unshed
tears in Taehyung’s eyes. He is beautiful.
But just before he can move away completely, Taehyung jerks forward and catches his lips in a
brief kiss, their teeth nearly clicking together from the force of it. He doesn’t have enough time to
respond, Taehyung pulling away before he can move a muscle, and the boy has taken several steps
away and returned to the line of community members filing into the clearing before Yoongi can
gather his wits about him.
It’s all going to be alright, he thinks, telling himself those words now. It has to be.
He takes a deep breath to compose himself, squaring his shoulders and brushing his shirt free of
wrinkles before he walks right back out from behind the trees, blending easily into the crowd with
almost no effort. No one seems to have noticed his absence at all, just how he prefers it to be.
“Leaders, please make your way down to the front,” he hears, and it is with great resignment which
he doesn’t allow to show on his face at all that he drags his feet one after another down the stairs
towards the front of the amphitheater.
He descends every single one of the steps until other members of the crowd around him begin to
split away from the center, leaving him standing alone. It is only then that he turns his attention
forward as well—when it would be suspicious not to. He steps to the front of the space along with
several other members of the staff and moves off to the side where he is always the most
comfortable, turns his body so that he is clearly situated among the presenters, and raises his gaze
to the man who stands waiting patiently before them all.
“Welcome,” Kim Seokjin says in a crisp, clear voice once everyone has settled into their seats, the
man’s tone immediately cutting through any lingering whispers until they fall into complete
silence.
The crowd hangs on that single word, almost leaning forward in anticipation of what their leader is
about to say next—what they have all been called here for.
“I am sure you are all wondering what business we have here tonight, and at such a late hour...”
they are told, and though no one makes a sound, the agreement of the crowd is palpable in the air.
His eyes leave the front, leave Seokjin for just a moment to investigate a disturbance at the back of
the amphitheater—footsteps, and then shadows that mark the appearance of some last-minute
additions to the crowd. Once his eyes adjust to the darkness enough, he can make out the
unmistakable shape of their cloaks, can’t miss the glint of their masks—
The Council have arrived.
He tears his eyes away from the sight—god forbid they catch him looking—forcing his gaze back
down into the crowd again. He searches the familiar faces in front of him for one in particular,
barely catching the words that are being spoken from beside him. He has no idea what is going on,
same as anyone—but it hardly matters. He is here to support, to keep up appearances, and he
knows it. Tonight is no different.
“—we are here to serve a very important mission. We all know exactly how vital our work is. This
world needs what we have to offer, but more importantly, we need what we can all offer each
other.”
When Seokjin pauses, he is answered this time by a soft murmuring of agreement from the crowd,
neighbors turning to nod to each other thoughtfully. But he isn’t interested in the crowd—only truly
looking for one person among them, one person who was supposed to show up at his door hours
ago but never did.
“This community is strong,” Seokjin continues, brandishing a fist in front of himself with a
flourish. He can see the movement out of the corner of his eye and nods along at the right moment,
though his face is flat, his eyes sharply darting from one face to the next through the shadows and
haze that have taken over the clearing. He has to be here, he has to be here—
“This community is vital!” Seokjin calls out, and the crowd cheers in response. He looks back-
back-back, up into the higher steps of the amphitheater, looking for the unmistakable blue jackets
of the student body—
—there! There, among a group of his peers, sits the boy he was looking for. And Taehyung is
looking right back at him, eyes wide and focused on his face instead of the Principal.
“—community has seen its fair share of trials and tribulations, has it not?” Seokjin asks, and the
crowd nods along immediately. Taehyung does not join in. “We have protected ourselves, protected
our good work, protected our power,” the principal shouts, and he is met with an immediate
affirmation of cheers from the people gathered before him.
“But there is work still to be done…” Seokjin goes on, his voice dipping lower, softer now, and it
is almost as though the entire crowd draws closer to listen. “There are mistakes to be corrected,
wrongs that we must right…”
His eyes are totally fixated on Taehyung’s face now, watching as the boy’s eyes flicker back and
forth between his own face and that of their leader standing a few feet away, the fear in the boy’s
gaze still palpable. Each of Seokjin’s words seems to make Taehyung’s eyes widen, his brow
screwed up in confusion—and suddenly he realizes exactly why the boy hadn’t shown up, why he
had been left hanging—
What had Seokjin done?
Taehyung’s eyes are back on him again, and this time there is something pleading in his
expression, some message that he is desperate to get across. Though his face is shrouded in
shadows, the small lights around him illuminate his face just enough for it to be clear when he
moves his mouth.
‘Yoongi,’ the boy mouths at him, and he nods his head in return.
“For too long, we have lived under an oppressive rule—” Seokjin informs the crowd, and Yoongi
turns his head for a split second to glance at their leader—a second that proves to be too long. The
crazed look in the man’s eyes is one Yoongi has only seen one time before, an experience he had
hoped to never repeat.
“—but it ends now.”
There is a hush that falls over the gathering again at this sharp statement from the principal, no one
quite sure what to make of it. Yoongi drags his eyes back to his lover just in time to catch the boy’s
next message, the way his mouth twists into a grimace as it forms the shape of the words ‘I’m sorry
—’
“Long has it been our practice to share pleasure among ourselves,” Seokjin says. There are a few
whispers from the back of the crowd, the source of the noise hidden behind the haze of smoke that
has started to gather between the trees. “To keep from being selfish, to maximize our potential.”
‘Sorry...for what?’ Yoongi thinks, but Taehyung says nothing more, sitting quietly with that same
apprehensive—no, fearful—look on his pretty face. Yoongi fights down his own instinct to raise
his shoulders protectively, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The sweat on the back of his
neck drips down between his shoulder blades.
He wants to run.
“Long have we kept to our houses, protected our traditions—” Seokjin almost seems to spit the
word, “—with no knowledge of what damage we were doing.”
The whispers grow louder now, the buzzing of a thousand bees on every step of the amphitheater,
the hollow space only amplifying the noise on itself. Seokjin only seems to be spurred on by the
crowd’s energy, growing louder right along with them, his gesticulation only growing more wild
out of the corner of Yoongi’s eye.
“But no more!” A few members of the crowd cheer, swept up in their leader’s enthusiasm as he
preaches to them. “We have all been trapped by a decision made before our time, a decision that
has been undercutting the very nature of our vital purpose here together.”
There are a few boos and hisses from the crowd now, the audience catching on to the appropriate
points in which to respond. When Seokjin’s voice dips low in disgust, they are disgusted. When he
is hopeful, commanding, they respond with joy and obedience.
“And this is a decision that I have the responsibility, as your leader, to overturn.” Seokjin is
practically theatrical, what with the way he bows his head as though humbled by the burden he has
taken on. Yoongi would laugh at his old friend—if it weren’t for the creeping sense of dread
taking over him. Something is...very wrong.
“For too long, we have fought the natural connections we feel towards one another. For too long,
we have limited our own pleasure, our own power, by diluting it.”
This sends another shock of murmurs through the crowd, Seokjin’s statement clearly shocking
many in attendance. Where is this going? Taehyung hunches down in his seat.
Seokjin pauses, then—for dramatic effect, Yoongi knows—before spreading his arms wide to
either side of himself as if inviting the entire community in. “I have had a vision.”
A gasp from the crowd.
“A vision of our future. I saw a future in which we achieve our mission—not in solitude, but in
partnership with each other.”
Taehyung’s eyes are pleading with him, begging him to understand something, something—
“As of today, committed relationships between individuals are no longer forbidden. ”
“What?!” cry several people in the front rows, looking around at each other in shock. Seokjin
seems to be carried away by his own words now, barreling on with no care for his audience.
“The creation of coupled units will resume!”

People are on their feet now, shaking their heads in shock. Some seem happy, almost gleeful at
their leader’s words—but more still are silent, confused, perhaps even totally unaware of the
meaning behind the principal’s proclamation.
“You will discover your partner from the inside out—body, mind and soul. You will attend to your
partner’s needs. You will learn to bring them to the heights of pleasure. Imagine the possibilities!”
Seokjin shouts, gesticulating wildly with his outstretched arms to punctuate each and every
sentence. He’s so taken with his own declarations that he doesn’t appear to notice the way some
members of the audience are upset, even frightened by his words.
Yoongi’s eyes fix on Taehyung again, and the boy is openly shaking his head now, his own arms
wrapped tightly around himself. The students around him look similarly stunned, though their
expressions lean towards bafflement rather than terror. Only Taehyung seems to fully grasp what is
happening.
Taehyung—and Yoongi himself.
His stomach is a twisted knot, his rib cage a vice around his lungs. His back remains ram-rod
straight as he stares out into the crowd, giving off his well-practiced, cold and dismissive
expression same as always, hopefully giving away none of the turmoil in his mind. They are always
watching, he thinks. They are watching right now.
“In order to further this vision of our glorious future, I will take on the important task of creating
these units.” Again, Seokjin dips his voice as if trying to show some humility, humbly accepting
the burden of changing the very nature of their entire existence as a community. “Requests must be
made on an individual basis. Final assignments will be made in seven days.”
There is a clamoring of voices from the crowd now, people no longer shocked into remaining
silent. Some of them are whispering to each other, while others begin shouting their responses
directly down at Seokjin himself. The principal takes it all in stride, beaming as though he is
receiving a standing ovation, his head held high in absolute pride.
“Choose wisely,” he warns them all, the severity of his words not reaching his tone, “or your
decision will be made for you. For the good of our community, this must be done.”
He bows his head, stepping back from his place in the center of the stage. And with nothing more
to say, Seokjin dismisses the group with a single wave of his hand.
For a moment, no one moves. Seokjin turns, a grin still plastered on his face, and walks straight
back from the stage into the trees. Yoongi doesn’t need to look to know the moment that their
leader disappears from sight, because the crowd suddenly bursts into shouts, people reaching for
each other over the heads of others, pushing and shoving their way up the stairs to reach the people
they are searching for.
Above them all, Taehyung sits perfectly still in the very top row, his classmates jostling him from
side to side in their hurry to speak to one another. Seokjin’s announcement doesn’t affect any of
them, but it doesn’t stop the gossip from immediately beginning to spread right before his eyes.
But Yoongi only has eyes for one of them, for Taehyung himself. And as he stares right back at
Yoongi, tears begin to fall down his cheeks.
Yoongi immediately takes a step forward at the sight, then catches himself. No. He can’t.
He drags his eyes away, for once desperate to look anywhere else. Beside Taehyung, at the top of
the stairs, older members of the community have begun to file out of the clearing from the same
direction that they came. The pathway is totally clear—the Council have disappeared from sight.
Almost as if they, too, had stepped back into the trees and vanished.
Yoongi watches, frozen to the spot, as people he has known for nearly his entire life—his
neighbors, his colleagues—begin shoving at each other, their raised voices only growing louder as
they try to drown one another out.
And as he turns his head to finally look across the stage, taking in the line of other school leaders
dissolving at his side—he finds one more pair of eyes staring directly back at him over their heads.
Through all the commotion, one other person has remained firmly planted in the same exact spot.
He swallows thickly, sweat soaking through his shirt, his stomach falling through his feet—
—as he meets the narrow, unwavering gaze of Kim Namjoon.

Chapter End Notes
Phase Eleven: Model
Chapter Summary
Every school is, at times, required to embrace change. The Academy is no different.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE ELEVEN:
Teacher-Student Relationship, Non-Con, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual

Touching, Blackmail, Altered Mental States, Mind Manipulation, Brainwashing,
Stockholm Syndrome, Semi-Public Sex, Humiliation, Degradation, Objectification,
Medical Examination, Medical Testing, Violence, Mild Blood, Omarashi, Watersports,
Forced Orgasm, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Bondage and Discipline,
Punishment, Forced Sub Space, Forced Submission, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Anal
Fingering, Face-Fucking, Breathplay, Cock Stepping, Submission, Cockwarming,
Cock Worship, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD,
PTSD Flashbacks, PTSD Triggers, Dissociation
Fic Playlist
Phase Eleven Playlist


the original
story here!
“Set it down right there.”
He points dismissively to the bed nearest to the door without really looking, hands instead shifting
through the paperwork sitting across the desk in front of him. Most of it is unfamiliar to him,
though he’s perfectly capable of reading the labels across the top to know where to begin. He
doesn’t want to be here.
He pointedly keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, shuffling the papers into a neat pile and tapping
them against the desktop as he hears the sounds of boots shifting on the tile floor behind him, the
rustling of bedsheets, soft whispers.
“All done,” a low voice answers, “Is there anything else you require...sir?”
He turns around at last to look at the speaker, taking in the janitor’s placid face, his vacant eyes. As
usual. There is a prickle of eyes fixed on his own face, their gaze heavy, but he ignores them all the
same.
“No, that’s all. Thank you, Jimin.” The janitor gives him a small bow, eyes flickering over to look
at the body that has been laid atop the bedsheets. He pretends not to notice, clearing his throat to
draw Jimin’s attention once more. “But I believe you are required in the Principal’s office.”
From his left side, he hears a small huff, and grits his teeth to bite back a response. Jimin stares up
at him blankly for a moment, blinking slowly, before bowing again—this time, stiffer than before
—and turns on his heels to march out of the room without so much as a goodbye.
“Your attitude is wholly unnecessary,” he says to the empty space that Jimin left behind, and out of
the corner of his eye, he watches as another body rises from a chair set up in the corner of the
room.
“We’re never going to get through this if we can’t agree to disagree on that particular point.”
“Your presence here is unnecessary as well,” he bites back. He receives a humorless laugh in
return.
“It’s my office.”
And it’s true, though he doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to be here.
“As you continue to point out to me, yes.” He turns to face the other man, trying to school his
expression to be as smooth and emotionless as Jimin’s had been moments before. “But I have need
of it, as you’re perfectly aware, Namjoon.”
The nurse narrows his eyes, arms crossed over his chest, and tilts his head as if to encourage him to
continue. “I’m not leaving, so you might as well get used to it. It’s my office and it’s my job that
you’re taking over—”
“You think I wanted this?” He snaps at Namjoon, and the younger man kicks his chair out of the
way to step closer, squaring up to him just as they had the day before. This time, he can see the
whites of the nurse’s eyes, his stature much more impressive in the light of day, no longer hunched
over or backed against a wall, no longer naked. It’s difficult, but he stands his ground even as
Namjoon towers over him. “You think I wanted to take on more responsibility? More of your
messes to clean up—”
“Ha.” Namjoon laughs again, stepping back as if his anger has suddenly disappeared, though it still
sits clear as day in his eyes. “You know what, Min Yoongi...I don’t know what you want at all.
That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? I have no idea what you want. I have no idea what it is that you
stand for.”
Yoongi freezes, hands curling in on themselves at his sides. Namjoon doesn’t move, staring
Yoongi down with that same, knowing stare from the night prior—the illuminated room around
them only serving to make his eyes darker, the shadows beneath them deeper. Namjoon looks like
a haunted man, though Yoongi is the one who feels haunted now. Beside them sits a body, not
moving, waiting for their attention. Were he to step one foot to the right, it would be a mirror
image of his last encounter with the nurse in this very office. The déjà vu is striking. He doesn’t
want to be here.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he says in lieu of answering, breaking the eye contact first.
Namjoon doesn’t know what he doesn’t know—and now isn’t the time to correct that. Namjoon
scowls at him, but Yoongi ignores that too. “Where do I start?”
“You mean you don’t know?” The nurse scoffs at him, and Yoongi sends him a withering look.
“Do you want this to take all day? I have a class to get to in forty minutes, with or without this
exam—”
“No,” Namjoon insists, pushing past Yoongi to reach into the cabinets above his desk, “It’s
Monday. This must be done.”
Yoongi purses his lips, a question on the tip of his tongue, but—again, now is not the time. Instead,
he moves opposite Namjoon to stand beside the sick bed instead, waiting for the nurse to gather
everything that they will need to begin. The task that weighs over his head settles heavily on his
shoulders as he turns his attention down to the body laying before him, the eyes staring up past him
to the ceiling beyond.
The doll is still as a corpse, limbs laid out carefully atop the sheets, naked as ever. Yet somehow,
Yoongi is the one who feels stripped bare as he looks it over, his hands shaking at his sides. His
mind fills with the sounds of gasping, retching—the acrid smell of bile that clings to the inside of
his nose—
“Here.” Something is shoved unceremoniously into his arms as Namjoon steps up to his side,
breaking him of his thoughts. He looks down to find his fingers wrapping around a stethoscope
wrapped up into a circle, the plastic tubing aged and browned from use. “Get started.”
And Yoongi would protest the way Namjoon is ordering him around, but the tips of his fingers are
tingling and his eyes don’t seem to want to focus—and the truth is, he needs Namjoon. For this, at
least. Neither of them wanted to be here.
“I—I don’t know how,” he admits, his voice small when it leaves his lips. Namjoon looks up at
him in surprise from where he has settled on the other side of the bed to observe. Yoongi doesn’t
know what expression is on his face now, but the younger man seems to see something there,
something that softens the lines of his own face as he straightens up and reaches out for the device
to be returned to him.
“Here,” he repeats, “I’ll show you.” And his tone is softer now—now that they’re finally focused
on the task at hand.
Yoongi hands the stethoscope back easily, watching closely as the nurse slides the earpieces into
each of his ears and takes the rounded end of the device between his fingers. Yoongi may have an
excellent knowledge of anatomy, but it’s limited in its scope—limited only to what he has been
allowed to absorb: that which would be productive for their purposes, that which is fitting of his
position. Namjoon’s knowledge is much more practical, if not terribly productive. In this way, in
this place, the teacher has become the student.
“You start here,” Namjoon instructs, leaning down towards the doll’s chest to place the
stethoscope head against its chest, just below its bare collarbone. This forces Yoongi to look at it
properly, though his eyes remain steadfastly down below its chin where it’s safe. “Place it just
above the heart, and listen carefully. Make sure the pulse is even, calm, sounds the same every
time.”
Namjoon demonstrates as best as he can, closing his eyes as he tilts his head and listens through the
device—though, of course, this does nothing to help Yoongi understand, and Namjoon knows it.
After seemingly satisfied with what he hears, he slides the earpieces out of his own ears and
reaches across the bed to place them in Yoongi’s instead, letting the older man take the device to
replicate his actions.
As soon as he places the drum against the doll’s chest, he hears it—the steady thump-thump—
thump-thump that Namjoon wants him to listen to. The sound is strong, heavy, beating away at his
eardrums every second, clear evidence that despite its stillness, the doll is most certainly alive. He
listens for a few moments to make sure, as best as he can, that the beats are consistent and even,
before nodding for Namjoon to continue.
“Then place it here,” he is instructed, the nurse pointing to a spot just below where he believes the
doll’s heart to be, against its ribcage, “And repeat.”
Yoongi follows his instructions immediately, sliding the drum down to give the heart another
listen—then shifts again when Namjoon points to another spot on the doll’s left side for a third
attempt.
“If it all sounds good, then you move on to listening to its lungs. Might as well while you’re
already here, right?” Namjoon doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, so Yoongi doesn’t give
one, just nods and waits for further instruction.
“Start here, and slide down each side.” Namjoon points to the right side of the doll’s chest now.
“Listen to each breath and make sure they sound strong and full.”
Yoongi complies, fumbling with the device for a moment before settling it into place. This time, it
takes more effort to ignore the thrumming of the doll’s heart to focus instead on the rush of breath
in and out of its lungs, the sound not unlike waves crashing along the shore. It’s a remarkably even
noise, almost peaceful. Yoongi listens to it for so long that Namjoon startles him out of his reverie
by placing a hand atop Yoongi’s to slide it where it needs to go along the side of the doll’s body,
and their eyes connect as Yoongi listens intently to the way the sound changes as they go.
Once he’s sure that he’s listened long enough and found nothing to be concerned with, he nods at
the nurse and Namjoon pulls away to stand upright again.
“Wait here,” he tells Yoongi, and moves back to the desk for only a moment, returning with what
appears to be a band of fabric attached to a long plastic tube, similar to the stethoscope, that ends in
a rounded bulb and what looks like a clock on the end—a gauge of some sort.
“Take this,” Namjoon says as he hands the device over, “and wrap it around his bicep, a few inches
above his elbow.” Yoongi blinks, staring down at it for a few moments, before tugging the
stethoscope around his neck to free both of his hands and reaching down to as he’s told.
At first, he places the band too far down, and Namjoon gently corrects him—seeming to slip more
and more into coaching Yoongi rather than berating him as time goes on. Together, they correct
the band until it sits at the center of the doll’s bicep and Yoongi is instructed to squeeze on the
plastic bulb until it inflates the band, forming a soft tourniquet that immediately causes color to rise
to the doll’s skin from that point downward towards its fingers.
“Alright, now we’re going to listen here,” Namjoon points to the inside of the doll’s elbow where
its veins are visible, “and check the gauge as soon as you hear the blood start to rush. Remember
that number. We’ll check it again afterwards and compare. Got it?”
Yoongi knows that Namjoon isn’t telling him every single step in the process—he watches as the
nurse makes some small adjustments to the device and twists the valve on the side of it until it’s
ready for use—but there’s something kind about his actions, rather than sabotaging or cruel. He
tells Yoongi exactly what he needs to know, and nothing more. ‘Ha,’ he thinks, ‘Sounds familiar.’
When Namjoon is ready, he indicates for Yoongi to continue, and he places the stethoscope back
to his ears. If he thought the sound of the doll’s breathing through the device was like the ocean,
the rush of blood against his ears as soon as the valve is released is the crash of a waterfall. It
startles him enough that he has to shake his head and snap himself to attention in time to read the
gauge before the number changes.
After that, it is only him, and the noise. The heavy thump-thump-thump-thump of blood in his ears,
that of someone else instead of his own. All in all, it may only be a matter of seconds—less than a
minute, even—but in his mind, the sound stretches on for hours. It is the crashing of a fist against a
locked door, the heavy movements of two bodies against each other, the thudding of footsteps
running through the woods—
“Yoongi?” He hears Namjoon call, and he blinks slowly. The world comes back into focus
between each close of his eyelids, the nurse’s face forming only inches in front of him. “I said, did
you get the first number?”
“...ninety,” he replies numbly.
“Ninety,” the nurse repeats, lips pursed. “Ninety over fifty. Low.”
“What does it mean?” Yoongi hears himself ask, though his voice sounds terribly far away.
Namjoon doesn’t answer right away, clearly mulling over his words. Dimly, Yoongi thinks, he
doesn’t trust me. Not after last time. There’s no accounting for the reason that statement makes his
chest feel tight.
“Nothing.”
Before he can say anything, the stethoscope is pulled from his hands and quickly replaced with
something else—small and long and thin. He recognizes it by shape alone, and swallows thickly. A
thermometer.
It’s too quiet—Namjoon is too quiet. It’s disturbing. His silence seems to disturb his companion,
who finally asks, “...what is it?” He asks, when he can take it no more. Namjoon doesn’t answer,
staring down at the thermometer in his hands with an unreadable expression. He asks again,
“Namjoon?”
“Normal,” the nurse finally answers. He’s biting his lip. Yoongi doesn’t know whether or not to
believe him. “Perfectly normal. No fever.”
“Well...what does that mean, exactly?”
The nurse sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “It means that it isn’t sick—or, at least,
that it doesn’t have a virus or an infection of some sort—”
Yoongi doesn’t know what to make of any of this, but he knows that something—something is
wrong. Something is very, very wrong. “So then what could cause it to just...throw up all over the
place like that? It made a total mess of my classroom...”
Namjoon pauses, seeming to think the question over as he turns his gaze back to the prone figure
laying before them in the sick bed. “I’m not sure. A number of causes, I suppose…” He gives
another sigh. “I need to test a few more things. You don’t have to stay, Yoongi, if you don’t—”
“Yoongi?”
His head snaps up so quickly that it causes a twinge of pain in his neck. Namjoon is next to him
now, reaching for him with a gentle hand, concern written all over his face. The thermometer drops
from his hands, shatters against the floor in a tinkling of glass. Neither of them flinch.
“Yoongi…” Namjoon steps closer cautiously, as if approaching a startled, wild animal. Yoongi’s
stomach twists into a knot. He wants to run. He doesn’t want to be here.
“Hey,” Namjoon’s hands close around his biceps, holding him firmly in place. There’s nowhere to
run, a voice in his head says. Nowhere to run if there’s nowhere to run to.
‘No—wait—’
‘That’s not right.’
“You should sit down, Yoongi. Come on—” He’s being pulled now, pulled along the floor. His
feet don’t feel like they’re moving, but they must be.
There’s nowhere to run—
He feels a chair beneath him, is suddenly looking up at the room from a lower angle. His face is
level with the doll across the room. It’s naked body looks like a corpse against the white sheets.
“You’re...you’re not okay, are you?” Namjoon’s voice asks him. “I don’t think you’re okay,
Yoongi.”
He feels his face being cupped by large hands, broad with long fingers. It’s achingly familiar—tugs
at his heart like a hook. ‘Taehyung—’
But it’s not his lover’s face that comes into focus before him, but rather that of his brother. His
brother, who was for so long Yoongi’s friend. His confidant. His companion.
And now, his student. His rival. His combatant.
And now, the only thing holding him together.
“Just...Just sit there,” Namjoon instructs, holding Yoongi in place against his chair until he’s sure
that Yoongi won’t move. “I’ll, uh—I’ll take care of the rest, okay?”
“They’re always watching…” Yoongi mumbles.
Namjoon frowns, looks up at the camera in the corner of the room, considers it carefully.
“But there’s no audio,” he adds. “As long as it looks like you’re the one in charge here, they’ll
never know.” Yoongi knows that by ‘they,’ he really means ‘him.’ One person. One person who
can never know that Namjoon is disobeying orders. “Just stay put, and I’ll finish up.”
Yoongi nods, numb.
It’s a blur as Namjoon cleans up the shattered glass at his feet, sweeping it away into the corner or
into the trash or into thin air, Yoongi doesn’t know. From somewhere else, the nurse procures a
second thermometer and holds it up for Yoongi to see as if to say ‘see? no harm done,’ but to
Yoongi it’s all just a bit too hard to keep track of.
He watches as Namjoon backs away from him, still looking as though he’s afraid Yoongi will
topple forward without him to hold the teacher up—but Yoongi holds firm. He straightens his
shoulders in spite of every instinct telling him to curl up on himself, to hide from the sight before
him with Namjoon turns back to the doll at last.
It’s so much worse, somehow, to watch from this angle as the nurse puts his hands on the man,
grabbing at one of the doll’s legs to drag it up towards it’s chest, exposing the tight clench of its
hole beneath the soft, hairless dangle of its balls. Namjoon presses the thermometer inside the
doll’s body with no preamble, though he’s far from rough as he does so. Truly, everything the
nurse does may be clinical, but it is done with such care, such intention.
Namjoon doesn’t say a word as he waits for the thermometer to take a proper reading, doesn’t say
a word when he pulls the tool away and observes the temperature indicated through the glass—he
is just as silent as the doll lying beneath him, pliant and blank. Namjoon slides the doll’s leg back
against the sheets just as easily as he lifted it, the doll going easily. He shakes the thermometer to
reset it back to normal, never vocalizing what it told him about the doll’s well-being.
Yoongi focuses on breathing. In and out, in and out.
“Tell me to check its pupils next,” Namjoon instructs him in a soft voice, and Yoongi has to blink
firmly for a few moments to bring himself back to the present moment.
“What?”
“Tell me to check its eyes,” Namjoon repeats. “Make a show of it. For the cameras,” he elaborates,
when Yoongi doesn’t immediately catch on.
‘Oh.’
He fights the stiffness in his muscles, sits up straighter in his chair, points his finger towards the
bed without following it with his eyes. “Check the doll’s eyes,” he repeats, and Namjoon nods
immediately.
Yoongi blinks, and suddenly Namjoon has a flashlight in his hands, clicking to life in his direction
so that Yoongi is forced to close his eyes against the glare. When he opens them again, the light
has turned away, and Namjoon has bent over to place his fingers around one of the doll’s eyes to
hold it open. The doll is as compliant as before, eyelashes barely fluttering as the light is flickered
back and forth in front of its face.
“Is it alright?” He murmurs, and Namjoon gives him a short nod in response. The nurse’s attention
is wholly focused on the doll—on his patient—his attentiveness evident even from a few feet away
where Yoongi observes him.
He has never quite had the chance to watch Namjoon like this, he thinks—not since they assumed
these roles, not since everything changed between them. Namjoon was never quite the studious
child Yoongi had been, it’s true, but as an adult in his own right, Yoongi can’t deny that Namjoon
takes to his role with utter seriousness and pride.
The light is drawn back from the doll’s face, then brought closer again.
“Follow the light,” Namjoon instructs in a low voice, and Yoongi does.
‘Follow the light.’ Yes.
“Don’t move your head, just follow the light—”
It’s growing dark, but the lights from their lanterns are more than enough to illuminate the spaces
between the trees as they dart back and forth, the sound of their giggles turning back on them as it
echoes all around.
“You can’t catch me! You can’t—!” he shouts over his shoulder, the upturn of his smile making his
cheeks ache. Behind him, there are footsteps dogging his every move, matching his own step-for-
step.
He ducks and weaves, dipping below a branch that hangs low in his eyeline. Their feet kick up dirt
around every turn, their chests burning with the exertion of running—but still they run, chasing
and winning and chasing again.
“I’m gonna get you, Yoongi!” A voice over his shoulder swears, though the threat is difficult to
take serious when the smile on the other boy’s voice is clear in every word. “Just you wait, I’m
gonna get you this time!”
“You’ll never catch us!” A third boy joins in, cutting across Yoongi’s path into a thicker patch of
trees. Yoongi follows after him without a second thought, holding his lantern aloft in front of
himself like a beacon. They’ve been running for an hour that seems to have stretched on all night,
their legs and lungs burning with exertion, but the ache in his cheeks from smiling is a welcome
pain.
“Hey—!” Their companion cries out, the clatter of rocks being kicked up by his feet as he swerves
to follow after them breaking through the darkness. “Wait up!”
“That’s not how this game works, Joonie!”
“Good, that’s good. One more time, follow the light—” Namjoon steps further back, swinging the
flashlight from side to side in a much wider arch now. Yoongi’s eyes follow after it dutifully, the
room around him falling away until there is the light—only the light—
“Shh! Come on!”
A hand reaches out to take his own, dragging him down into the bushes along the edge of their
path. The branches scratch at his clothes, at his skin, but he goes eagerly. His companion tucks his
body down into a ball, hiding the glow of his lantern beneath his shirt, and he is quick to follow
suit with his own.
He’s barely known the boy beside him for more than a few hours, but he trusts his new friend
completely, especially when it comes to hiding places. And sure enough, it seems that the cover of
branches in front of them is more than enough to hide them both from sight when their third
companion finally heads back their way.
Footsteps begin to approach from the path they just abandoned, heavy breathing filling the air in
the absence of their shouting and glee. The footsteps pace back and forth, crossing through the dirt
just beyond the bush where they have taken cover, receding away only to draw closer again after
the scrape of shoes pivoting against the ground. The heavy breathing turns quickly into panting,
drawn deeper and more desperately with each inhale. He can practically feel the panic rising in
the other boy from where he crouches, and the smile begins to slip from his lips.
At his side, an elbow is prodded into his ribs, and he looks up to lock eyes with the older boy that
is pressed against him in the brush. The light that seeps through their clothes is hardly much to go
by, but the angles of the boy’s face are clear enough that the grin that still decorates his
companion’s lips is easy enough to see.
‘Come on,’ the boy mouths, nodding his head towards the path, ‘let’s go.’ He nods and lets himself
be dragged to his feet.
The footsteps begin to approach again. Together, they brace themselves, bending their knees and
dragging their lanterns back out from beneath their shirts only to hug the lights to their chests
instead. They give each other one last look before lunging forward as one, the branches of the
large bush parting beneath their sudden movement and giving way to spit them back onto the path.
“AAAAHHH!” They shout, and the boy that they startle with their sudden appearance echoes the
sound right back at them. His lantern crashes to the ground, glass shattering around his feet. The
look on his face is priceless, and they are sure tell him so.
“We got you! We got you so bad!” They taunt, and he pouts back at them with hands balled at his
sides.
“Look what you made me do!” He cries dramatically, kicking at the broken glass around his feet,
and they laugh even louder. In a few minutes, they know all will be forgiven, and the game will
pick up again.
In the midst of their friendly teasing, they do not think to keep an eye on the path. They do not think
to hold their lanterns aloft, or follow the light into the trees. They do not think to watch for danger
until it has crept up on them all.
“Namjoon!” A voice bellows from behind the smallest, youngest of their group, and he whips
around in fear. Together, all three boys stare into the darkness with baited breath—hands curled
around lanterns, around each other—as a shape begins to emerge from the darkness before them.
The shape is human—tall and formless at the edges where it blends into the shadows that surround
the, but unmistakably human—a dark spectre shrouded in an even darker cloak, hood drawn up
over its head. Below the hood, there is no face, there are no eyes—only those that are reflected
back at them.
“Yoongi.”
“Hm?”
“Are you with me?”
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” The figure asks—the voice female, familiar—gentle at
the edges but hard in the middle. It comes to a halt just feet from them, looming over their
significantly shorter frames. All three boys immediately huddle together, hands shaking as they
clutched each other in trepidation. It’s hard to swallow now, his ribcage
“Uh—we—we were just—”
“We were just playing, Elder Kim!” The boy beside him pipes up, chest puffed out defiantly. He
clutches at the boy’s side, hiding his smaller body behind the older boy’s wiry but broad frame to
keep some distance from the menacing glint of the mirror that reflects his own fearful expression
back at him.
The figure takes another step forward, and he flinches down until his body is completely hidden
behind the taller boy’s shoulders. A sudden warmth begins to spread through his pants between
his legs, and he squeezes his thighs tight against the embarrassing wet patch that is undoubtedly
appearing there.
“Is that so, Seokjin?” The woman speaks, her voice dropping lower. The figure leans forward until
the shiny surface that hides its face is completely illuminated by the lanterns still clutched in their
quivering arms. The boy—Seokjin—stares right back, meeting the eyes of his own reflection with
no sign of hesitation.
“Yes!” Seokjin barks, and he is answered by a huff of breath from beneath the mirrored mask.
“Playing. In the dark.”
“Yes!”
“On such an important night,” the voice continues, clearly unimpressed. The longer he listens, the
more he can tell that the figure and the voice belong to the same creature—same person—but the
image of its tall, hooded frame emerging from the darkness is still too frightening to stare at
directly.
“We—We were only gone for, uh, for a few minutes,” Namjoon tries to pipe up, though his stutter
undercuts every word. “Elder,” he adds hastily.
“I’ll deal with you later, Namjoon,” the monster—the woman—snaps at the smaller of his two
companions, and Namjoon immediately cowers away.
“Yes ma’am…” he whispers towards the ground.
“And as for you, Seokjin…” She begins, then pauses. In front of him, he feels Seokjin’s body stiffen
as if he had straightened his back. He can just imagine the older boy glaring back up at the woman
defiantly. He’s barely known Seokjin for a few hours, but the one thing he is sure about when it
comes to his new friend is that he doesn’t take kindly to the rules, no matter what rules they are.
“What?” Seokjin drawls, “Gonna tell daddy on me?”
“I think your entire house would like to know where you’ve been, don’t you?” She snaps back, and
this time Seokjin is the one who scoffs.
“Seokjin, don’t…” Namjoon whispers beside him, the words coming out as a desperate hiss.
“What?! What’re they gonna do? They can’t—”
“—Yoongi?!” A voice cuts through their argument from somewhere in the darkness nearby, and
his head perks up from behind Seokjin’s shoulders at last. “Yoongi, where are you—?!”
“Mom?” Yoongi shouts back, swinging his head around to try to catch sight of his mother through
the shadowy outlines of the many tree trunks surrounding them as if ghostly bars to a cage.
“Yoongi!” His mother’s voice draws closer, dogged by the sound of footsteps thudding heavily
against the decaying leaves that litter the forest floor. He steps out from behind Seokjin, hand
outstretched into the dark, and suddenly the familiar face of his mother appears through the
shadows—her face framed by curve of his thumb like a noose.
“Yoongi, there you are!” She exclaims as she rushes to his side, brushing past the hooded creature
as though utterly unafraid of its towering form—though, how could that be? “I was so worried
about you!”
“Yoongi—don’t, um—don’t move, okay? Just stay there. I’m going to finish things up, don’t
worry. Just stay still—”
“We were just playin’ a game—” Seokjin tries to insist again, but this time he is cut off—not by the
hooded figure, but by the appearance of another shadow just beyond the edge of its cloak. This
figure is not hooded, though it scares Yoongi all the same.
“Seokjin.”
“Father,” Seokjin answers immediately, his voice no longer taunting, no longer full of defiance. It
is only one word, but it leaves the boy’s lips like a confession.
Another shadow joins their small group, and then another—each one slowly transforming out of
the darkness into a person, some with familiar faces and some without. But none hold the boys'
attention quite like Seokjin’s father, who stands imperiously before them with an utterly dangerous
expression.
“Your behavior tonight is completely unacceptable, Seokjin.”
“Yes, sir…” Seokjin immediately responds, and it’s as though he has become a different person
entirely. Yoongi hasn’t known the older boy for more than a few hours, but the change is dramatic
even to him.
Seokjin’s father gestures towards Yoongi, who huddles closer to his mother’s chest immediately at
the attention.
“Do you believe that you have done right by our newest family member tonight?”
“No, sir...I haven’t.”
“Do you fail to understand the significance of a night like tonight, Seokjin?” His father’s voice
never rises in volume, but Yoongi can practically feel the way it cuts through the air.
“No, sir. I know how significant it is.”
“Then why have you dragged Mr. Min away from the most important night of his life?” Seokjin
recoils as though he has been struck.
Yoongi flinches in sympathy, and his mother’s arms curl more protectively around his shoulders
from above. He cranes his neck to look at her face, but her eyes are fixed on the scene before her,
and her expression is carefully neutral. Behind her, his own father now stands silently, just as
enthralled by Seokjin and his father as Yoongi’s mother is, his hand resting firmly on her
shoulder.
“It was a mistake, sir—” He hears Seokjin begin, and he turns his head back to watch just in time
to see the boy’s father swing back an arm and strike his son cleanly across the face.
The boy’s dark head flies back but he otherwise remains perfectly still, feet rooted to the ground as
though he had immediately braced himself for the impact. Yoongi lets out a startled gasp—but he is
the only one. His mother’s fingers tighten around his upper arms, and he quickly snaps his jaw
shut.
Looking beyond Seokjin’s reddening face, Yoongi catches sight with their third companion—the
only other person who seems surprised by the man’s actions. Namjoon stares directly back at him,
his young face blank except for the widening of his eyes and the fear that is reflected within. He
wants to say something, anything—to speak up and reassure the man that everything was alright,
that they really had been just playing, that it was his fault that they decided to run off in the first
place—
“A mistake? You are in no position to be making mistakes, Seokjin.” The boy nods, stiff. “You must
be above such things.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Apologize to your new brother. Now.”
Yoongi straightens up just as Seokjin’s dark eyes turn towards him at last. There is nothing behind
his eyes as he looks at Yoongi, no indication of how he might be feeling as he murmurs, “I
apologize, brother. I did not mean to lead you astray.”
“Seokjin—”
The boy’s father claps his hands, cutting Yoongi off before he can say another word. Yoongi isn’t
even sure what he would have said—the words disappear from his head before he can reach out
and catch them.
“There. That’s that. This has been more than enough excitement for one evening, wouldn’t you
say?” Seokjin’s father is addressing the adults in the clearing now, all of whom nod along
immediately, some with smiles on their faces. Yoongi can’t even imagine working his face into a
smile at the moment.
“Back to the compound,” the man urges, reaching out with a large hand to grab his son’s
shoulder and steer him around to walk in front of him, “Let’s go.” Seokjin goes easily, following
his father’s urging like a puppet on a string. The moment the man begins to move, the crowd on
every side of them follows in kind, and Yoongi and his parents are swept up with them.
Glancing to his left, Yoongi spots Namjoon being herded along as well, though his arm is held in
the tight grip of the hooded figure from before—a long-fingered and dainty hand peeking out from
beneath the billowing sleeves to squeeze the boy’s bicep as though he might make a break for it at
any moment. ‘Human after all,’ he thinks. ‘Not a monster.’
“Momma?” He asks, turning back to look up at his mother’s face. Her expression is clouded by
the shadows cast over their heads, only the slightest sliver of moonlight highlighting the curve of
her cheekbones.
“Yes, dear?”
“...’m sorry for runnin’ off,” he mumbles, kicking at the dirt as he walks. Her thumbs stroke along
his upper arms.
She doesn’t reply with ‘that’s okay,’ or ‘don’t worry,’ or any of the gentle reassurances he has
become so accustomed to. Instead, for a long moment, she is silent. Then, softly, she tells him,
“You are so very young, Yoongi. You can’t possibly understand, and I know that. But one day...one
day I hope you will come to know just how important you are—how important all of this is.” She
sighs. “I’m very glad we found you. Don’t run off like that again, do you hear me?”
“Yes, momma...I’m sorry, I really am!”
He feels one of her hands move, fingers reaching up to stroke through his short, dark hair.
“Just follow Elder Kim, and stay on the path.”
“I will!”
“And remember, Yoongi...there’s nothing to run from. No more of these silly games. No more
playing around. Promise me that.”
“But—momma—”
“Promise me.”
Yoongi hangs his head low. He doesn’t understand —what’s so wrong with a game of tag? They
weren’t hurting anyone, just having a bit of fun.
But as they approach the edge of the trees, the lights of the compound filtering through the brush
in the distance, Yoongi nods his head in solemn agreement all the same. This is his home now, he
tells himself. Learn to like it here. This is home now.
“Good,” his mother says, and squeezes his hand affectionately.
“Momma?” He asks again, one more question burning at his mind, and his mother hums in
acknowledgement. “Who is that man?”
“You mean Mr. Kim?”
“Yeah.” He knows that Mr. Kim is Seokjin’s father—obviously—but he’s clearly important. More
important than all the other adults around them. He remembers seeing the man giving loud
speeches earlier in the night, though he couldn’t quite understand what they were about. Still, he
knew they were significant. When his mother answers, she mirrors his thoughts exactly.
“Mr. Kim is a very, very important man, Yoongi. He’s going to be your teacher.”
“Teacher for what?” He can’t help but ask. Around him, several of the adults seem to find this
particularly amusing—a wave of soft chuckles takes over the crowd.
“Everything, sweetheart,” his mother assures him. “He’s going to be your teacher for everything.”
Yoongi comes back to himself slowly, the fluorescent lights overhead slowly bleeding into his
vision until it’s all too bright all at once. He raises his hands to rub at his face, blocking out the
light for a moment until he can adjust, and focuses instead on the way his breath feels inside of his
chest. This is what Taehyung had him do the other day, and—though he hates to think of that
moment of weakness—it’s immensely helpful to bring him back to the present moment.
His ability to hear what is happening around him returns next—the rustle of movement somewhere
in front of him, the soft murmuring of words in a familiar voice that he can’t quite parse. He peeks
out from between his fingers, body still hunched over, to try to focus on the source of the noise.
Before him, in a familiar office, in a familiar bed, lies a naked body—another, clothed individual
leaning over it with its back turned to Yoongi.
It seems to take hours, though it is likely only a few seconds, before his brain kicks online and
helpfully reminds him of where he is—where he really is. The nurse’s office. Namjoon’s office.
Watching the man in question go about his work as though Yoongi hasn’t just had a meltdown a
few feet from him. The body beneath him comes into sharper focus next, immediately
recognizable as the doll—the very thing they are both supposed to be here to tend to.
At the crown of his head, there is that same familiar prickle of what feels like eyes on him, though
he knows there are no other occupants in the room. No, the heavy weight of being spied upon
comes from above, from the camera Yoongi suddenly remembers is affixed to the ceiling above
them all. What has the recording captured? He wonders. What has he been doing for these last few
minutes while his mind was transported to a different time, a different life—
‘They are always watching,’ he remembers.
There is nothing to run from—
When he’s really able to focus on it correctly, he recognizes the words that Namjoon is murmuring
under his breath and is able to connect them to the smooth motions of the man’s arms, watching as
Namjoon carefully and meticulously strokes his fingers up and down the doll’s now-hard cock.
The doll’s fingers curl into the sheets beneath it, the only indication that it is conscious, present,
and very much affected by the pleasure that the nurse is giving him with his simple touch.
Yoongi watches him carefully, not wanting to interrupt. Clearly he’s caused enough trouble
already. Namjoon carries on without noticing Yoongi at all, the pace of his strokes never faltering
even as his other hand roams across the doll’s pretty body—stroking the doll’s lips, it’s nipples,
across the sensitive skin of it’s inner thighs. Yoongi doesn’t know how long he was...somewhere
else, but it was clearly long enough for the nurse to have worked the doll nearly to completion. It
takes only a few moments longer before the doll lets out a small whimper as it comes across
Namjoon’s fingers and the bare expanse of its own chest, splattering against quivering muscles and
pale skin.
Namjoon continues to whisper beneath his breath, eyes closed as he continues to stroke the doll
through its completion until the doll is practically whimpering from the sting of over-stimulation.
Yoongi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight, from the careful precision of Namjoon’s motions
and the utter dedication the younger man pays to seeing his task through.
It’s the same devotion Namjoon has shown in their sessions together, the same intensity and
determination that his pupil has demonstrated when pursuing his studies toward the final level—
but there’s something different about watching it as a third party for once. Unlike the moments
when they have been intimately tangled together, this time Yoongi can fully take in the clench of
Namjoon’s jaw, the twist of his brow, the utter depth of his belief—
“Namjoon…” Yoongi croaks out, drawing the nurse’s attention. Namjoon whips his head around,
his hand falling still around the doll’s cock. The doll seems to sag in relief beneath him, though it
goes mostly unnoticed by them both. Just like that, the spell is broken.
“Yoongi,” the nurse answers, quickly, “I was just finishing up.”
Yoongi nods, silent. Not sure what to say now that he has the younger man’s attention. It’s a very
strange thing, to have that same level of intensity focused on himself now, the sharpness of
Namjoon’s eyes on his face even more disconcerting than before.
“Just give me a moment,” Namjoon tells him, and waits for the older man to nod again before
turning back to his task. Instead of returning his hands to the doll’s skin, the nurse reaches for a rag
beside the bed and drags it along the doll’s stomach to clean it of the remains of its release, gentle
all the way. It’s striking, the way his actions now are soft when before they were so undeniably
sharp, focused—yet throughout they remain just as professional, just as devoted.
‘What does he believe in?’ Yoongi thinks, ‘ That’s what Namjoon wants to know?’ Perhaps the
answer is standing right in front of him.
“There,” Namjoon says definitively as he finishes, stepping back to look down at the doll’s prone
form lying before him once again. “Alright,” he turns back to Yoongi, “That just about does it for
now.”
“That’s it?” Yoongi can’t help but ask, surprised. Somehow he imagined there was...more to this.
Namjoon suddenly looks a little sheepish, keeping his eyes turned away as he busies himself with
carefully putting away all of the tools they have used. “There is, ” he admits after a moment,
though he sounds just as reluctant to tell Yoongi as he was before, “But I figured I would just take
care of it once you left.”
“Why?”
Namjoon scratches the back of his neck as he turns back towards Yoongi again. “You, uh...don’t
really seem up to it right now, I guess. I thought I would save you the trouble.”
“Hm.” Yoongi squares his shoulders, fighting back the way the movement makes his head spin a
little. He’s still a bit uneven on his seat, and can’t quite imagine standing up just yet, but his pride
stings at the nurse’s words all the same. “Save me the trouble, or save yourself?”
“Yoongi.” Namjoon crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the older man, and Yoongi
only just barely manages to meet the nurse’s eyes. “You’ve been completely checked out for the
last half an hour. I thought you were going to pass out at one point. We’re lucky I took over when I
did, or you very well might have. I am trying to look out for you.”
Yoongi says nothing. What can he say? His stomach twists uncomfortably beneath his ribs. He
tries to look away from Namjoon, but the moment his eyes skirt over to the doll’s prone form, they
flicker right back to the nurse’s face again.
Namjoon seems to sense his discomfort, for his shoulders relax just the tiniest amount as he speaks
again, his voice a hint softer. “I didn’t want them to see anything they shouldn’t see.” He pauses,
then asks, “Are you alright now?”
Yoongi gives the barest of shrugs.
“How long has this been going on?” The nurse asks, a bit of professional curiosity seeping into his
voice. Another shrug—partially because Yoongi isn’t entirely sure how to answer, and partially
because he doesn’t want to admit that the answer is likely far longer than it should be—and
Namjoon makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. He drops his arms to his sides and
comes to stand beside Yoongi, reaching up to rifle through one of the cabinets above their heads as
if to mask what he is really doing when he asks, in the softest voice yet, “He really got to you,
didn’t he?”
Yoongi feels fear run down his spine like a shock of cold water. He nearly chokes on his breath
before quickly shooting back, “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do,” Namjoon answers, his voice gentle, “But that’s okay. I understand. I won’t say
anything, I promise.” Yoongi swallows around the knot forming in his throat. “Bring the doll back
to me every morning, and I’ll take care of the morning routine for you, okay? Just like today. We’ll
play along and they won’t notice a thing.”
He nods, unable to form words around the swell of gratitude in his chest. Where had the angry
Namjoon gone, the man from earlier in the morning who had stood across the room from him as if
facing down an opponent in battle? Is he truly so pathetic, so pitiful that he has melted away the
younger man’s ire over the span of less than an hour?
Instead, standing before him is a man he suddenly recognizes as the friend he once had, the boy
who stood before him and tried to protect him from the monsters in the world despite his own fear.
Only now, Namjoon towers over him, body strong and broad, his boyish expression hardened into
one that seems to permanently pull the corners of his mouth towards the ground.
“What now?” He manages to ask once he’s found his voice again, “What else do you need to do?”
“I’ll take care of it’s bodily functions, clean it up a little more,” Namjoon tells him as he closes the
cabinet with a snap, hands empty.
“It doesn’t need to be fed?”
“I’ll grab something for it to eat when I get myself breakfast, don’t worry.” Namjoon sounds
casual as he replies, but there’s something niggling at the back of Yoongi’s mind that urges him to
press on.
“You don’t use the prepared mixture any longer?”
Namjoon hesitates before answering, clearly considering whether or not to trust Yoongi. But he
appears honest when he finally replies, a little defiantly, “No. No I don’t.”
He reaches out a hand, and Yoongi slides his own hand into the offered palm, letting the nurse help
him to his feet. He sways for only a moment, but Namjoon catches him easily with a hand around
his waist and holds firm until Yoongi can stand under his own power again.
“You should head back to your office, rest for a little bit,” Namjoon encourages, patting Yoongi’s
shoulder.
“What about you?”
“I’ll bring the doll back to you quickly, don’t worry. You’ll have it in time for your first class.”
Namjoon lets out a small sigh, so soft Yoongi almost doesn’t catch it. “I have to hurry, anyway.”
“Why?”
Namjoon stares at the older man for a moment, clearly puzzled by Yoongi’s ignorance. “Don’t you
know? We have new community members joining us today. I have to be ready for their physicals
shortly—”
He carries on, but Yoongi is no longer listening. His mind is instead slipping back into the forest,
back to his own very first night in the community. He blinks his eyes firmly to ward off the way
his vision begins to fade at the edges.
“Yes, yes,” he chokes out, “That’s fine. I’ll—” He swallows, taking a step forward. “I’ll just be
going, then. Leave you to it.”
“Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine, Namjoon. Thank you.”
He steps towards the door, moving a bit too quickly for how off-balance he feels—but he has to
leave, he has to get out of this suffocating room—
The moment he pries the door open and turns down the hall towards the front of the office, it’s as if
he can suddenly breathe for the first time in hours. He sucks in breath after grateful breath, leaning
against the wall beside him as carefully as he can. He can feel Namjoon’s eyes on him as he starts
stumbling towards the stairs, but he can no longer bring himself to care. He swings his hands out in
front of himself, falling heavily against the door beside the security office to force it open, and
careens out into the hallway beyond.
Above his head, another security camera stares down at him, red light blinking menacingly beside
its lens.
‘There’s nowhere to run,’ he thinks, finally getting it right, ‘if there’s nothing to run from.’ And yet
here they are.
Principal’s Office—First Floor—West 8-27-18 5:51AM
So early in the morning, the office is completely quiet—save for the soft hum of the air
conditioning overhead, the gentle clatter of a keyboard from the front entrance. He allows himself
to follow the sound towards the only other occupant of the small space, down the hallway until he
reaches the large desk that stands between him and the front door.
He remains silent even as he approaches the solitary figure sitting behind the desk, her dainty
fingers dancing across the keys in front of her and causing the sound that had brought him to the
front of the office. Now it is his turn to draw her attention, standing still and silent until she feels
his presence looming behind her and slowly cranes her neck around to look at him. At the sight of
his dark figure hovering nearby, she nearly jumps out of her seat, a hand flying up to clutch at her
undoubtedly racing heart.
“Oh! Jimin!” She sags back in relief the moment she recognizes the janitor, sighing dramatically.
“You scared me. Don’t do that!”
He doesn’t apologize—it would be dishonest if he did, and it would take far too much energy.
Jihyo isn’t worth that, even if she is family. With her dark hair swinging into her face, they don’t
look anything alike—but they’re family all the same.
“Jihyo,” he greets her, his voice flat.
At her side, a pile of machinery has been ripped from the desktop and pushed to the side, leaving a
large hole in the wooden surface that exposes the wiring beneath. He doesn’t smile at the sight.
But he wants to.
“What are you doing here this early?” She asks, and he considers not even bothering to answer her.
What a stupid question.
“I’m always here,” he says instead, and feels a tiny flicker of pleasure at the look of horror that
flickers across her face.
“Oh. Right.” She flushes, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Forgot,” he fills in automatically, “I know. Everyone does.”
She appears to be at a loss, tapping her foot nervously against the foot of her chair for a moment
before she jumps to her feet.
“Did you need something?” She finally asks, tapping a key on the keyboard beside her to turn off
the computer screen. It’s a subtle motion, almost casual, but he knows immediately that whatever
is sitting on that screen isn’t for him to see, and she does a surprisingly decent job of keeping him
from noticing it. Not perfect, obviously, but almost enough to keep from drawing his attention.
They never seem to believe that he sees all that he does—but he is always watching.
“Principal Kim asked for me,” he answers. Jihyo purses her lips thoughtfully for a moment as she
considers him. Her hand immediately reaches out to her side towards the hole in the desk where
there was once an intercom, before she belatedly realizes her mistake and drags her arm back to her
side with a sigh.
“Alright,” she concedes. “Follow me.”
It isn’t that he couldn’t find his way to the Principal’s office himself—far from it—but there is a
way of these things. A certain decorum. He knows it as well as Jihyo does, and his sister makes no
more fuss as she leads him back the way he came, down the hallway towards the solitary door
sitting at the very end, past the closed door of the nurse’s office he had just left.
The receptionist pauses before the door, standing completely still and silent for a long moment
before finally raising her hand to rap her knuckles across the wooden surface in a series of firm,
even knocks.
“Yes?” Comes a voice from within, and Jihyo clears her throat nervously before raising her voice
to call back, “Sir, I have Jimin for you? He says you have asked for him—”
It’s awkward, the way she is forced to raise her voice to announce herself in the absence of the
intercom system, and her frustration is clear in the taut line of her shoulders before him. He
watches as they tighten up towards her ears as a deep voice from within the room interrupts her.
“Come in.”
He pretends not to see the way her fingers shake as they reach for the doorknob.
“Thank you, Ms. Park,” that same voice says from the far side of the dark room as they step inside.
Without overhead lights, the sunrise through the windows in the distance is the only illumination in
the large office, and when Jihyo closes the door behind them both, she throws the room back into
relative darkness.
Jimin blinks, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim space. A lone figure, outlined by a red glow
from the windows beyond immediately catches his attention, the unmistakable profile of the
Principal sitting tall and proud in the large wingback chair behind his desk.
“Yes, sir,” Jihyo answers, “is there anything else you require? Or should I leave you two—”
“Stay,” Seokjin orders her with a small wave of his hand, “You can join Ms. Yoo in a moment.”
That draws Jimin’s attention to the floor in front of the principal’s desk, where—sure enough—a
pair of bare feet peek out from beneath the large wooden surface. If he strains his ears, he can hear
the soft but distinct sounds of a mouth moving across skin, accompanied by tiny moans that betray
just what they have walked in on. Jihyo says nothing in response to the principal’s order, just nods
her head, tucks her hands behind her back, and stands at attention at Jimin’s side—and together,
they look on as their leader is pleasured right in front of them.
Jihyo is warm beside him, and it’s easy enough to close his eyes for a moment and enjoy the small
break, no matter how strange it is. The deep, rhythmic sound of the principal’s breathing across the
room becomes the only noise that breaks the silence. Jimin’s breath matches the beat easily.
Jihyo’s long hair prickles against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” Seokjin groans. Breathe, Jimin tells himself. Just breathe. “Good girl…” The principal
praises the woman between his legs. Beside him, Jihyo’s fingers brush his wrist where it hangs
limp at his side.
The principal’s breathing begins to stutter, the wet sounds of his secretary’s mouth being fucked
into becoming sloppy. Jimin can clearly imagine what is happening, doesn’t need to see—
especially when the small moans that the woman is making turn into choked-off sounds, and then
outright choking. Images of long fingers wound into blonde hair flicker through his mind, thick
lips wrapped around a thicker shaft—
“Ah—!”
Jimin’s own lips are moving, forming the shape of words that come even more naturally to him
than breathing. The tiny smack of lips and tongue moving to his side let him know that Jihyo has
followed suit.
Jeongyeon is positively retching now, presumably held down on the principal’s cock until each
breath is forced out of her chest as a horrible scratch of a noise. Jimin doesn’t flinch at the sound
but Jihyo quivers beside him, and he makes no move to stop her when her fingers slide fully around
his wrist for support. The contact is terribly uncomfortable, but not nearly so much as the muffled
shout and broken moan that they are forced to bear witness to as the principal reaches his peak.
Jimin knows the exact moment that the secretary is pulled free thanks to the sudden, frenzied gasp
that cuts across the dim space—that of a desperate set of lungs clawing for air they weren’t sure
was coming.
Jimin opens his eyes. He is greeted by the sight of the principal’s tall silhouette rising to his feet,
cutting dark and striking figure against the warm glow beyond the windows. At his feet, Jeongyeon
has slumped to her side, still only her bare legs visible from beneath the desk.
Seokjin clears his throat, the squared edges of his broad shoulders tossed back in pride as though he
had not just nearly suffocated a member of his staff in front of them—or, perhaps, because of it.
“Hm. Thank you for your service, Ms. Yoo,” he says down to his secretary, a hint of glee in his
voice. Jimin blinks slowly. He can hear the older woman panting in the distance, unable to answer
the principal until she has caught her breath.
“A—Always—” She manages, eventually, her voice barely more than a rasp, “—sir.”
Seokjin buttons the front of his pants—the gesture familiar to Jimin, even in profile—and steps
around the desk towards them, leaving Jeongyeon abandoned on the floor behind him.
“See to her, Ms. Park,” Seokjin orders the receptionist, and Jimin feels Jihyo’s hand release him at
last as she darts forward to obey. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the way she throws herself
to the floor beside the desk to desperately reach for the older woman—but his gaze remains fixed
on the man before him, the man slowly approaching with a gleaming smile.
“Jimin...” he says, drawing out the end of the word until it curls at the edges. Jimin is frozen in
place, cornered with the door securely closed behind him, nowhere to run as their leader draws
closer and closer until Jimin is forced to crane his neck to meet his gaze.
“How nice of you to join us,” Seokjin says, and Jimin does not appreciate the way the older man
truly sounds pleased to see him for once. Seokjin appears triumphant, like a hunter displaying the
spoils of his hunt—yet Jimin feels as though he is being hunted still. Something isn’t right—
Behind him, Jihyo has managed to extricate the secretary from beneath the desk, wrapping her
arms securely around the taller woman as Jeongyeon stumbles to her feet. Her dress is rumbled,
buttons along the length of her chest undone as though they had been ripped apart by insistent
hands.
“Sir.” Jimin keeps his tone flat, even, as he addresses the principal in return. He feels a twinge of
nervousness in his stomach—insofar as he feels anything at all, at least.
Jihyo brings Jeongyeon forward, and even without looking directly at her, it’s impossible for Jimin
not to catch the way her face is red, splotchy, framed in blonde waves that have been pulled down
from what was once a neat updo. Though she wears no makeup, her lips and eyes are ringed in red,
swollen and discolored enough to appear as though she is. Jimin feels the weight of her gaze heavy
on the side of his face as the women approach.
“Ms. Yoo, Ms. Park, I have no further need of your service today. You’re dismissed,” the principal
says, eyes still fixed on Jimin. “I have need of our janitor’s...services now.” The janitor is pinned
in place by that gaze, Seokjin’s pupils blown wide and dark and Jimin just might drown in them.
“Sir—” Jeongyeon pipes up again, then stops to cough through the rasp in her throat. Seokjin turns
to look at his staff members at last, and Jimin lets out a breath the moment that heavy gaze is no
longer directed at him—a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “May we—may we stay,
sir?”
Jimin’s eyes fly over to the blonde woman against his will, nostrils flaring at her daring question.
She wants to—?
“You wish to watch?” Seokjin asks, amusement dripping from every word at her request.
“Yes, sir,” she confirms, and the edges of her abused lips curl into a shadow of a smile. Her eyes
are sharp when they turn to stare right at Jimin—at her side, Jihyo looks stunned by the older
woman’s daring, her eyes wide and doe-like, but Jeongyeon’s gaze cuts through him like a blade.
There’s something like hatred in her expression, something bitter and ugly that Jimin can’t
remember the origin of.
“Perfect.” Seokjin is more than pleased, as evidenced by the way he gestures for the women to
each take a seat in the chairs that sit opposite his desk with a welcoming smile, as if he is a host
ready to put on a show.
Jimin hasn’t moved from his spot—couldn’t even if he wanted to. His knees are locked, his feet
tingling inside of his work boots, his palms sweaty at his sides. The sun has risen fully now,
bathing the entire office in golden light, turning the woven carpet in the center of the large space
into the perfect stage.
“Now...Jimin.” The principal’s eyes are back, tracing over the expressionless span of his face.
“Undress yourself.”
It’s as easy as breathing, the way his hands move to the zipper along the front of his coveralls and
drag both sides of the jumpsuit apart. He shrugs the sleeves from both shoulders, and the entire
outfit falls to the ground in a pool around his ankles, leaving him to only toe off his boots one foot
after the other to leave himself completely bare from head to toe. He slides one foot off to the side,
dragging the pile of discarded clothing with it, and stands naked before the three people before him
as if it were nothing.
“Kneel.”
He’s on his knees in an instant, his body obeying the command before he can even fully process
what was said. The impact rattles his bones, but his lips remain tightly sealed against any sound he
might make. This new position puts him at eye-level with the principal’s groin, leaving him with a
clear view of the growing bulge in the older man’s slacks that is impossible to ignore. Seokjin,
already a tall man, is terrifying when Jimin finally raises his head to look up at his looming figure.
From his left side, he catches the hiss of two voices whispering back and forth, their words
unintelligible but their judgement all too clear even from such a distance.
“Are you ready to serve me?” Seokjin asks, already knowing the answer. He’s always been like
this, demanding that Jimin take part in his own subjugation—but it’s never been quite this bad.
Gleeful. Pointed.
He gives the barest of nods, and Seokjin’s hands are immediately at his waist, unfastening the
button to his slacks once more. “It’s been too long, Jimin,” he murmurs as his long fingers toy
across the front of his waistband as if to free his cock from its confines. “I’ve missed your mouth.”
There’s a twinge of gratitude in the back of his mind, a memory of a time when he would have
been thrilled to hear such a compliment from this man. A memory of another life. In this life, Jimin
simply tilts his head back further, putting his plush lips on display, giving them a little lick to make
them glisten just the way the principal likes.
“Have you missed serving me in this way, Jimin? Tell me.”
Jimin licks his lips again, an answer freezing on the tip of his tongue. How can he possibly answer
such a question honestly? He fees both so little and so much. But it is not honesty that the older
man is asking for. He swallows down the words sitting in his mouth, parts his lips with a different
shape and sound entirely—the words he is expected to give falling from his tongue instead. “Yes,
sir...always. It has been...too long, as you said.”
Seokjin raises one large hand and drops it down onto the top of Jimin’s head, long fingers curling
possessively into the light strands of the janitor’s hair. He drags Jimin’s head back with one quick,
firm jerk of his wrist, baring the long, taut expanse of Jimin’s throat to his eyes.
“Open up.” Jimin knows how this part goes, even if Seokjin is being particularly aggressive in
going about it. He can’t remember the last time he spent a day without being forced to his knees,
without having to take what he is given—without—
Seokjin presents the bulge in his pants to Jimin now, having grown back to full hardness sometime
in the moments since putting Jimin beneath him. Jimin’s lips part immediately, obediently, for the
offering, and Seokjin steps forward the few inches required to drag the line of his cock along
Jimin’s thick lower lip. The taste is strange, a hint of bitterness buffered by the fine fabric against
his tongue when he allows it to dart forward to welcome the offering—but before he can so much
as close his lips around it, Seokjin freezes.
Jimin opens his eyes, unsure when he allowed them to fall closed, to find the principal positively
sneering down at him, a hint of danger in his gaze. “Oh?” The man drawls, “You thought it would
be that simple?”
“I—” Jimin doesn’t know what to make of the older man’s words, his brain all but short-circuiting.
What?
“Poor thing,” Seokjin tells him, his voice dropping lower. From the other side of the room, the
whispering grows louder to take its place, a chorus of judgement that crashes against his eardrums
like waves. “You thought you could just treat me like everyone else? Do your duty and be done
with it?”
Jimin doesn’t respond, and the grip on his hair tightens until his scalp burns. Seokjin drags him
back by the roots, pushing Jimin past his center of gravity until he has no choice but to throw out
his hands to catch himself lest he be at the mercy of Seokjin’s grip alone to keep him upright. The
new position he finds himself in puts the long expanse of his bare chest on display for the
principal, his legs spreading apart on instinct to help him keep his balance to expose the soft length
of his own cock hanging between his thighs.
“But I am not everyone else, am I?” Seokjin asks, “Am I, Jimin?”
“N-No, sir—”
Seokjin slides one foot forward between the janitor’s legs, pressing the shiny leather toe of his shoe
beneath Jimin’s balls where they hang vulnerable and bare.
“You are here to serve me. You serve this community at my command, isn’t that right?”
“Of course, sir—” There’s ringing in Jimin’s ears now. He can’t look at Seokjin any longer, his
eyes focusing somewhere through the older man instead. His fingers clench on his ankles where
they hold him upright. He is—getting lighter by the second—
“I think it’s important that you are reminded of this fact every once in a while, boy,” Seokjin goes
on, the corner of his lips turning upward. “We wouldn’t want you to forget.”
He nudges the top of his shoe against Jimin’s balls, shifting them from side to side while looking
them over with the sort of casual detachment one might have while evaluating fruit for bruises.
“Who am I, Jimin? Tell me.”
“You—you are—” It’s becoming harder to force the words out of his throat. “You are our leader,
sir—”
“And why am I your leader?” The man goes on, digging his shoe directly into Jimin’s balls now.
Jimin chokes, fingers slipping along his own skin where he is holding himself upright. He’s so
sensitive, so sensitive—it’s been too long—
“Answer me.”
“You—ah—” He hisses, trying to focus through the buzzing in his own mind and the whispers in
his ears. “You are—our l-leader—because you a-are—” He has to suck in a deep breath before
continuing when Seokjin twists his foot back and forth, clearly amused by Jimin’s struggling. “—t-
the one who rose from the a-ashes—sir—”
“That’s right,” Seokjin agrees, and his shoe slides up Jimin’s cock until it has been flattened against
his stomach, giving the principal the perfect angle with which to press all of his weight down
against it. All of the air seems to leave Jimin’s chest at once.
“I rose from the ashes to take my rightful. place. as your leader.” Seokjin emphasizes each stressed
word with a little jab of his toe. Jimin can’t breathe through the pain, his chest burning at the sides
as his lungs struggle to fill again. “And as such, I am to always be respected... isn’t that right,
Jimin?”
He can’t—he can’t force a sound out of his lips at the moment, the burning sensation rising from
between his legs too overwhelming to allow it. He manages a shaky nod of his head, Seokjin’s face
swimming in and out of focus as he tries to meet the man’s dark eyes. Upon Jimin’s agreement,
Seokjin grins. Through Jimin’s blurring vision, there appears to be not one, but two devilish smiles
floating before him.
Without warning, Seokjin pulls his leg back and swiftly drops it right back onto to Jimin’s stomach,
the impact sending him sprawling back onto the wooden floor. His legs twist at an uncomfortable
angle beneath him, burning and cramping until he’s able to drag them out from under himself. His
head spins, his arms burning where they were flung out to catch his fall.
There’s no time to catch his breath, managing to suck in a single inhale before Seokjin is looming
over him once again.
“Spread your legs,” the older man orders, tapping at the inside of Jimin’s knee none-too-gently.
His body follows without a thought, his mind far-too-occupied by trying to force air back into his
lungs.
“As your leader,” Seokjin carries on, his lecture turning more braggadocious by the second, “I am
not to be questioned.” Seokjin doesn’t ask for his agreement this time, opting instead to jump
straight to the punishment. Jimin’s instinct should be to protect himself, to cover himself before
Seokjin can harm him further—but Seokjin gets there first. The principal’s shiny leather shoe
comes down, hard, against the length of Jimin’s exposed cock, and—
Oh god—
Floating. He’s absolutely floating now. The tips of his fingers, his feet, they hardly seem to be
touching the ground at all. What use does he have for the support when he is nothing, weightless—
The smooth leather drags against his sensitive skin, the pressure behind the touch acting as the
only tether that keeps him pinned down, he’s sure of it. Somewhere along the way, his mouth must
have fallen open, for he can hear the harsh rasp of his own breath in his ears, nearly drowning out
the next words that are spoken to him.
“Do you know why I gave you this role, Jimin?”
Role?
His... role…
Another jab at the underside of his balls with the tip of the principal’s toe forces his focus back to
the present moment, if only for a second. “I said—do you know why I gave you this role?”
“Y—Y-Yes—sir—I—”
Seokjin only seems to be asking him to reply for the enjoyment he gets out of watching Jimin
struggle, for he barrels on without even listening, “I gave you this role to remind you of your
place.”
The nerves along the surface of Jimin’s skin seem to be dancing, prickling in and out of his
awareness in some indiscernible pattern he can’t bring himself to parse. The principal’s shoe
presses higher, and higher, until the ridge of its heel digs into the flared head of his cock, and—
Oh.
He’s getting—he’s getting hard from this. He can feel it now, through the fog hanging low and
thick across his mind—the way his blood is rushing south towards the sensation, his skin flushing,
his cock hardening where it is sandwiched between his stomach and the foot keeping him
grounded.
“—were never meant to be a person, Jimin,” Seokjin is saying when the words catch Jimin’s
attention again. Above him, what little he can see of the ceiling is a spinning, whirling mess of dark
lines and white tiles. “You were born to be an object, don’t you see?”
The principal is either unaware of Jimin’s aroused state or chooses to ignore it, grinding his foot
down just as sharply as before into the hardened shaft. Jimin’s spine arches away from the floor at
the pain—at the pleasure —his nerves far too over-sensitive for this—
He isn’t—isn’t supposed to—
This is wrong —
“It was my wisdom that saw the truth in you,” Seokjin declares as he gives Jimin the smallest of
reprieves, moving his foot away to kick at the inside of Jimin’s thighs until they fall open for him
to stand between them. “It was my wisdom that brought you to your rightful place, wasn’t it?”
The best response Jimin can manage is the choked end of a sound, an aborted attempt at replying
that dies on his tongue as soon as Seokjin brings his shoe back into place and rolls his foot from
heel to toe along Jimin’s length, throbbing terribly now. Every movement is like a knife to his gut,
a terrible and deadly pleasure. His body is a terrible, rooted thing, held fast to the ground as this
cruel man stabs away at it—but he sees it as if far above it all, his mind tingling, floating—floating
—
“When you graduated, I saw the potential in you, Jimin...I knew what a perfect object you could
be…” This time, when Seokjin moves his foot away, it is to press down on Jimin’s chest instead,
keeping him pinned flat against the floor even as his mind drifts and drifts and drifts away. “Look
at you...getting off on this, aren’t you?”
Yes—yes—getting off—
“This is all you’re good for, isn’t it? You’re here to lie still and take what you’re given—isn’t that
right, Jimin?”
Yes—yes, please—I’ll t-take—take it—
“How long has it been, hm? Eight months? Longer, perhaps?”
T-Too long—please—
“Should I be merciful, do you think?”
M-Mercy—?
“I’ll tell you what…” The foot returns to his cock—not pressing down, this time, just gently resting
over the top of it, the smooth leather and rough stitching the only sensation he can bring to the front
of his mind any longer. “Your leader is a merciful man. I’m going to give you a gift, Jimin.”
Now, there is pressure.
“If you can bring yourself to an orgasm, just like this—”
And more pressure still.
“—then I will allow you to have it. Just this once.”
W-What—? No—No, no—he can’t—I can’t—!
“Go on. Come for me.” Seokjin’s heel grinds into his balls to emphasize the order, digging down
as though Jimin is dirt beneath his feet—no more than the dirt below the carpet and floor and
concrete and basement beyond. “Now.”
There is nothing left to do but obey.
With his mind floating somewhere towards the ceiling, he can only watch as his body follows the
command without hesitation, hips bucking up into the pressure, into the way it burns through his
core.
Seokjin watches on imperiously, his shoulders straight and his hands tucked into his pockets as
though he is bored by Jimin’s acquiescence—though the look on his face barely contains his
obvious glee at Jimin’s submission. “That’s it,” he encourages, his voice dripping with
condescension, growing more excited with every word, “That’s it! Go on, get yourself off like this
—this is all you’ll ever be, Jimin! Just a worthless object like this for me!”
His pleasure is building quickly, welling up from deep within as though bubbling through the
cracks of his pain. It’s too much—it’s too damn much —
“Remember what you are, Jimin!” Seokjin cackles, digging his foot into Jimin’s cock until his hips
can no longer leave the ground, forcing him to find his release by the terrible pressure alone. He’s
breathless, utterly breathless, his lungs having abandoned their attempts to breathe through the
agony—
“Come for me!” Seokjin demands, and Jimin obeys, an orgasm dragged out from the very core of
him—feeling for all the world as though the pleasure was clawed from his body against his will.
He watches his own release from a million miles away, seeing his own face contort in rapture
while come spills across his bare chest in a pathetic dribble from beneath Seokjin’s shoe. His lips
are moving now, forming words he has only spoken once in nearly a year—words that are as
ingrained in him as breathing.
Seokjin pulls his foot away before it’s truly finished, leaving Jimin gasping, floundering for
sensation as the last of his release peters away—and for several long moments, he doesn’t realize
that the desperate howl of a noise that he hears is coming from his own throat. It’s a broken sound,
a wounded sound—the sort of sound an animal might make just before it is put out of its misery.
“Pathetic.”
More than anything, the way that Seokjin spits that one word at him is painful—sharp enough to
slice at him even through the fog.
“Look at the mess you’ve made.”
Jimin can’t look at it—can’t bring himself to do anything now. And it is this mistake that leads to
him being caught completely unaware as Seokjin brings his foot down against his body once again
—not against his cock, this time, but as a well placed kick directly to his side.
Jimin screams—or, at least, he thinks he does, though perhaps the sound only rings out in his mind.
His body curls in on itself around the point of impact, turning on its side as if to protect his middle
from the pain even as it blooms across his skin.
Seokjin wastes no time slamming his foot down again, this time to the exposed length of his bare
thigh, and Jimin’s entire body convulses at the strike. Above his head, he hears a sudden gasp and
the drag of wood against the floor. The principal pays it no mind, a laugh bubbling up in his chest
as his leg swings back once again.
“Sir—” One of the women still observing on the other side of the room tries to interrupt, but
Seokjin’s single-minded focus is on Jimin now. Jimin’s eyes can barely focus on the man’s face
above him, but still—that wicked grin shines through.
“Silence.” It is not Seokjin who speaks, the voice female, lower and commanding.
There is a sharp inhale, a sniffle, but Jimin can’t place it—can’t do anything when his body is
overtaken with another wave of pain as Seokjin strikes him again at the side of his ribs, rattling
every one of his bones. It should bring him back to his body, this agony, but instead he drifts even
further—far enough away that his body hardly feels real at all anymore. It is a comforting place he
finds, so far above it all.
Seokjin is positively cackling now, his laughter as wild as the look in his eyes, as dangerous as the
way he aims each kick without much care for the damage he is doing. Another strike to his
shoulder sends Jimin’s body sprawling back the other direction, and a second kick drives him up
onto his hands and knees for just a moment—but only so long as it takes for the principal’s foot to
come down on the small of his back and flatten him back to the floor.
There is movement above his head. He can’t trace the direction, whether it is coming or going,
whether or not it is only the way the room seems to be spinning like a top. The click-clack of high
heels echo against the wood, rushing closer, and he flinches instinctively.
The laughter continues. The footsteps pass him by. Somewhere, in this distance, a door slams.
Another set of feet draw closer, padding softly across the carpet.
Seokjin’s foot makes contact with his stomach this time, and he can’t remember moving onto his
side until his cheek presses to the floor. Something in the back of his throat bubbles up, gurgles as
he tries to suck in another sharp inhale, tastes of salt and metal, stains the carpet red when he
coughs it up.
He drags his eyes towards the heavens, but what stands before him is anything but holy. The
principal has hunched over him now, a dark spectre before the bright glow of the world outside the
far windows, madness etched into every line of his face. At his side, one of the women has come to
stand and observe what is being done to Jimin; she wears no smile on her face, but the expression
framed by her blonde hair is nothing but menacing.
His vision fades in and out, not only from the pain but also from the tears that have filled his eyes.
When did he begin crying? His cheeks burn. The other woman is nowhere to be seen, his sister
having abandoned him at last.
“Pathetic, isn’t he?” He hears the man ask, voice nothing more than a drawl.
“Yes, sir,” his companion answers immediately, “Completely worthless.”
“Oh,” Seokjin gives another laugh, and his absolute glee at Jimin’s predicament is palpable in the
air, “I don’t know about that. I’d say Jimin here is good for one thing…” Jimin knows he should
brace himself, but he can barely wrench enough control over his body to twitch the tips of his
fingers, blink his eyes open and closed. “Entertainment!”
The final kick that Seokjin aims at his body strikes just above his bladder and forces him to curl up
upon himself. Warmth begins to spread across his thighs, the unmistakable, bitter smell of piss
immediately hitting his nose. There’s no escaping it, not when he’s struggling to breathe as it is,
and the sight sends the two figures standing above his head into another fit of laughter.
“Poor little toilet, can’t even hold its own piss inside…” Seokjin chides, digging a toe into the
bruised flesh of Jimin’s piss-stained thigh. “Making another mess of my office.”
“A shame, sir,” the woman replies, likely shaking her head in disapproval. Jimin’s stomach has
disappeared from his body, leaving nothing but a pit of humiliation in its place. Humiliation tastes
like bile. His lips tingle.
“It would be a pity to waste the opportunity, don’t you think?” Seokjin asks her, and Jimin hears
the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone somewhere in the distance.
“Certainly, sir,” she agrees.
It hits his chest first, the burst of warmth—and within seconds he recognizes the sensation of
wetness. He identifies the scent next, the acrid smell of ammonia hitting his nose much closer than
before, as distinct as the odor of his own urine had been. Closer to his face now, it’s almost
suffocating.
Seokjin seems determined to completely cover him in it, if the way the stream shifts along his
body is any indication. The principal starts at the center, soaking his way through the skin of
Jimin’s shirt before moving down towards his legs, pissing right atop Jimin’s now-flaccid and
oversensitive cock as if a dog marking its territory. Finally, he turns to piss directly across Jimin’s
face, and the younger man is helpless beneath the onslaught. It fills his nose and burns at his eyes
and slips between his lips when he desperately gasps for air. Just as with his blood before, it
gurgles in his throat when he struggles to spit it back up.
It seems to go on for hours, as though the man had been saving up all night just for this—but
eventually, it must come to an end. Jimin doesn’t realize at first, that the ordeal has ended, still
feeling the ends of his own hair dripping down onto his cheeks. It is only the sounds of the
principal’s zipper being redone and his footsteps receding that indicate that his torment is coming
to an end.
“Shall we?” Seokjin asks his secretary, and Jimin follows the sound of her bare footsteps as they
step over his body towards the door. It’s unclear if he sees it for himself or only imagines it, but the
derision on her face is emblazoned on the back of his eyelids now.
Seokjin’s footsteps, much louder, pause in their own retreat. “Jimin,” he hears the man call out to
him. There is no reply. “Clean this mess up.”
Somewhere, a door is opened. Two sets of footsteps disappear into the distance. The door is
closed.
He is floating. His body is on fire, but he is floating. It burns from his skin to his bones.
In the distance, the sun has risen. The clouds overhead are gray. There is nothing for Jimin to do
except listen to the light pattering of rain as it begins to strike the windows.
Somehow, he smells smoke. A memory of a memory of a dream.

Gathering Hall—Front Entrance 8-27-18 11:27AM
The clouds hang above like a dark ceiling that walls them in from the outside world, casting
everything in shades of grey. Bodies huddle together in indiscriminate groups, identical red jackets
pulled around their shoulders while they shift from one foot to the other in an attempt to stay warm.
The rain itself is not particularly cold, not so early in the year, but the wind that tugs at the ends of
their hair also drags the warmth away from damp skin without a second thought.
His family is nowhere to be seen, their familiar faces blending easily into the throng of people. He
is left standing relatively alone at the back of the group, eyes trained over their hooded heads
towards the skeletal outline of the front gate in the distance. Along the dirt road that leads out
towards the gate, the forest, the world beyond—a single vehicle approaches, its wheels kicking up
mud along the way.
The image tugs at a corner of his mind like a hook caught in flesh and pulled taut by a string. He
blinks, jerking his head back and forth to clear it—and when he opens his eyes again, the vehicle is
nearly in front of them, its distinct, boxy shape clear to see. The van swings out in a wide circle
across the dirt road and comes to a stop with its doors turned to face the gathering. There is a happy
murmur that takes over the crowd, hushed voices being passed back and forth as though it was a
game.
A driver jumps out of the front of the van, grinning at the crowd as he slams his own door and
steps over to the side to slide open the door that gives access to the back of the vehicle. Out of the
van spills several new people, one after another, all with wide eyes and eager faces, their bodies
swathed in identical flowing cloaks the shade of deep umber. They stumble their way to the
ground, their sandaled feet immediately caking with mud, but their faces are clean and bright with
excitement as they swing their heads back and forth to get a good look at the community for the
first time.
All at once, the crowd around him begins to cheer, hooting and hollering, swaying back and forth
in their enthusiasm, and his body is dragged right along with those at either side of him as they
move. He finds his hands coming together to join in the clapping without realizing it, his lips
breaking out into a sympathetic smile when he catches the way the woman at his right side turns to
grin at him.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asks.
“Of course, so wonderful,” he answers immediately, mouth moving on auto-pilot. Wonderful. Yes.
The crowd surges forward to surround the newcomers, dragging each of the strangers into warm
and familiar embraces, hands rubbing all along their backs and arms and chest wherever they can
be reached, and the strangers accept it all with equal parts surprise and elation. No one is surprised
by the contact, but instead revel in it.
“Welcome!”
“Come closer, that’s it—”

“We’re so happy you made it…”
He remains solidly on the outskirts of the crowd, only moving forward when pulled to do so by
eager hands, but the smile that remains on his face becomes more genuine by the second. It is hard
not to give in to the joyful energy that surrounds him, warm and welcoming from every side.
Through the mass of moving bodies, he recognizes a familiar face, stoic and cat-like, standing out
from the crowd. Yoongi. The man stands out among the crowd if only by the rather flat expression
on his face, his lips quirked into a smile as though in spite of himself, though the expression
doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes behind the frames of his glasses. Still, this does nothing to
stop one of the newcomers from turning to him and crying out in elation the moment he recognizes
the teacher’s face.
“Mr. Min!”
Yoongi’s head jerks around in surprise, drawing his attention away from the crowd completely as
he watches one of the newcomers dart around several other people to make his way to the teacher’s
side. The man is at least a head taller than Yoongi, broad where the teacher is lithe, his face a little
weathered at the edges—but the way his face lights up with joy as he reaches out to drag Yoongi
into a warm embrace gives him an undeniable, youthful glow.
It’s almost laughable, watching the way that Yoongi stiffens at the contact, his eyes wide over the
newcomer’s strangers as he is nearly picked off the ground in the man’s enthusiasm. When the
teacher is put back down on his feet, the stranger holds him at arm’s length and looks him over as
if appraising his appearance.
“I almost thought you were a dream,” the man tells him, and Yoongi blinks dumbly back at him.
“Excuse me?”
“When you found me, I was so outta my mind,” the man continues, seemingly unphased by
Yoongi’s lack of response, “I thought I’d dreamed you up! But the Institute was real, so you had to
be real too, right? And here you are!”
He’s never seen Yoongi look so...off-kilter. There’s a brief moment where Yoongi seems to be
mulling over the man’s words before his eyes suddenly widen and he looks up at the newcomer in
shock. “You were the one—”
“If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t be alive right now!” The man continues, looking just
about ready to sweep the teacher up into another embrace. It’s almost amusing to watch the range
of emotions that flicker across Yoongi’s face as he struggles to catch up, but eventually he
manages to pull himself back and hold out a hand towards the other man.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, my friend! It’s wonderful to see you, I’m so glad to hear that you
made it,” he says, “but I don’t believe we were ever properly introduced—”
The newcomer takes his offered hand in between both of his own and shakes so vigorously that
Yoongi’s entire body sways with the movement. “Gong Jicheol, sir. At your service.”
Yoongi is able to give a somewhat shaky bow and introduces himself in return, just barely
managing not to stumble over the words, “Yoongi—Min Yoongi, at yours.”
“Thank you, Yoongi, for everything—” The man begins, but his gratitude is cut off by another
voice that calls out over the crowd, cutting through the noise with ease.
“Welcome! Welcome to you all!” All eyes turn towards the sound of the voice, a hush falling over
the crowd as they all spot the unmistakable, towering figure of their leader standing to the side of
the crowd.
He feels a strange, sick lurch in his stomach as his eyes fall on the principal’s familiar face.
“Today is a momentous day, a day for celebration!” Seokjin’s face is split by a wide, exuberant
grin, hands thrown out to his sides as he addresses the crowd. He is immediately answered by a
wave of cheers and claps from the congregation, though they fall silent again with a single wave of
his hand.
He feels a body drawing closer to him from the side, though nothing could possibly drag his eyes
away from the man standing before them now. Seokjin is—so beautiful. So very beautiful. Even
from several feet back, the sharpness of his jaw, his eyes, seems to cut like a knife. That terrible
lurch in his stomach has turned into a living, coiling thing.
“The weather will not keep us from greeting our new members the way they deserve,” the
principal carries on, and there is a smile on every face in the crowd. “Let us head into the gathering
hall at once!”
This time, as the crowd cheers again, Seokjin does nothing to stop them. The newcomers are
quickly surrounded on all sides by grinning, cheerful community members, hands reaching out to
take their arms and guide them down the dirt path towards the nearest building where it towers in
the distance.
He follows automatically after the crowd, but a gentle grip on his own arm stops him in his tracks,
turns him away from the path.
“Hoseok,” he is greeted, and Yoongi’s face is suddenly in front of him. He blinks slowly,
swallows.
“Yoongi.”
The teacher’s face is gaunt, almost grey, eyes heavy with dark circles. Those sharp eyes flicker
across his face as if searching for something, but Hoseok has no idea what the man finds that
makes him lean back and give his arm a soft squeeze.
“How are you doing?” he asks. Hoseok doesn’t respond. Doesn’t know how to respond. His
thoughts filter through his brain as though it has been filled with cotton. “Hoseok?” The teacher
asks again, and Hoseok swallows. His throat is so dry.
“I’m—” he tries, tongue heavy in his mouth, “—fine.”
Yoongi doesn’t believe him, he knows it. But the words won’t come out of his throat the way they
should. The rain on his forehead is so cool.
“Are you sure?” Yoongi questions again, eyes narrowing. He seems to know far more than he
should. Hoseok feels sick.
This time, when he tries to answer, the words are no easier to form, but they seem to come to his
mind unbidden. “Yes—Yes, I—I’m fine. I’m wonderful.”
‘Wonderful, yes. I am wonderful, all is well.’ The words filter through the haze in his mind like oil
rising to the surface.
“You weren’t at the gathering last night…” Yoongi continues, and there is a hint of suspicion in his
voice that causes prickles behind Hoseok’s eyes.
‘Gathering?’
“I was—busy.” Again, the words rise to his lips as if pushed from within his mind. “Training.”
“Training…” Yoongi says, and Hoseok isn’t so far gone that he can’t hear the disbelief in his tone.
The prickling behind his eyes begins to burn. “I see.”
Yoongi squeezes his arm tighter now, and the sensation is—odd. Real. Almost too real. Like
watching something in high definition that wasn’t intended to be.
“Have you...spoken with Namjoon, then?” He asks, “About being your Guide?”
‘Namjoon…?’ An image of the older man’s face flickers through his mind, there one moment and
gone the next. ‘Guide?’
“Do you remember speaking with me about this the other day?” Yoongi prods. He blinks, looks
back up at the older man’s face, doesn’t remember looking away.
“Yes,” he answers immediately. The word tastes like a lie.
“Good…” Yoongi murmurs, and raises his other hand to Hoseok’s free arm. “That’s good. He can
help you much more than I can. I think he’s the best choice for your Guide. Make time to begin
working with him as soon as possible, okay?”
Hoseok nods numbly. “Yes sir,” he agrees, his voice hollow. Yoongi’s eyes narrow again, but he
makes no comment.
“Come on, then...we should head inside before they notice we’re missing.” The teacher’s hands
turn his body around easily, putting Hoseok in front of him so he can push him forward to step
down the path after the others. The space is now completely empty, the doors to the gathering hall
in the distance closed behind the crowd that has, presumably, retreated inside.
Hoseok blinks, surprised. When did they all leave?
“Let’s go.” Yoongi’s hands are gentle as they guide him to move down the empty path, his body
robotically lifting one foot and then the other at Yoongi’s insistence. Hollow. He feels hollow. His
eyes burn when he closes them, slow as mulyeot.
In between one blink and another, the steps to the building appear in front of him. Yoongi gives his
shoulders a much more firm shove to set off the momentum he needs to climb them under his own
power. It’s silent—completely silent—until the moment Yoongi reaches past him to pull open one
of the heavy wooden doors.
They are met with a wave of sound that nearly knocks Hoseok off his feet, joyful cheers and the
dull roar of dozens of voices overlapping one another creating a din of noise that overwhelms his
senses. The crowd from before has congregated inside the large space that takes up the entire
inside of the building, one long room with benches that line the walls in rows that circle the empty
space in the center.
It is only Yoongi’s hands on his back pushing him forward that encourage him to join the fray,
stumbling his way to the back of the crowd so he can get a better look at what is happening in the
middle of the room with the older teacher boxing him in from behind.
‘There’s nowhere to run,’ he thinks, before he can stop himself.
“—now that we are warm and dry,” Seokjin is saying, and Hoseok’s eyes fly immediately back to
the older man’s face. There are others that surround him, dressed in the plain white clothes of the
newcomers, but they are nothing more than shapes that distract him. The principal’s eyes are dark,
cold, as they pass over Hoseok as though he isn’t even there. The pain that slices through him
might as well be a knife. The beast in his belly begins to bleed.
“It’s time to give our newest members the welcome they deserve, hm?” Seokjin asks, arms once
again spread magnanimously to either side of his body. The crowd answers with an immediate
cheer as if with one voice. “Yes!” The principal’s exuberance grows by the second, fed by the
energy of the crowd.
There’s something—something brittle that crackles at the back of his mind as he takes in the scene
before him, one hand rising to cradle his stomach as though it might hold back the pain. ‘This is
just like my first day,’ his mind fills in, ‘just like—’
No—
“Bring them forward,” Seokjin command, and several members of the crowd break away to take
the newcomers by the hands, bringing them one by one across the space until they are lined up in
front of the principal in single file. Their movement is a blur, hazy at the edges.
“Tell me your name, my dear,” Seokjin asks of the first person in line, a slight woman who gazes
at him with wide, awestruck eyes.
“Ahn Youngmi,” she answers with a shaky breath. Her name is followed by a murmur from the
crowd, though Seokjin silences the disturbance with a single wave of his hand.
“The Ahn household,” Seokjin asks, looking up into the throng of people that surround him, and
after a moment filled with shifting bodies, a group of individuals weave their way towards the front
and face the principal with heads held high.
“Yes, sir,” a man standing at the front of the Ahn family group answers.
“Will you accept Miss Youngmi into your home?”
Without deliberation, the representative nods his head firmly. “It would be an honor, sir.”
The woman, Youngmi, stands completely dwarfed at Seokjin’s side, shoulders tensed up towards
her ears, hands curled into her sleeves—but at the acceptance of the household, her face lights up
in unmistakable joy, her relief palpable even from across the room.
“Excellent!” Seokjin shouts, clapping his hands together.
‘Yes, this is how it was—I—I remember—’

The Ahn household rushes forward to embrace the woman at Seokjin’s acceptance, completely
overwhelming her with hands that tug her forward until she can barely be seen between their
bodies. The principal watches on with a broad grin that doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Alright, who’s next?” He asks, and a young man steps up to the front of the line, much more self-
assured in his stance than the woman who came before.
“And who are you?” Seokjin asks, not unkindly. Hoseok shivers as he catches the way the
principal stares down at the newcomer, a heat in Seokjin’s gaze that he has never seen directed
anywhere but at—at himself, truly.
‘This is just—just the way it was—’
Impossibly, his skin suddenly feels cool, as though splattered with the gentle sprinkle of rain once
again. His eyelashes flutter, hand moving up to his face to brush the imaginary water from his
cheeks.
‘Yes, it was—a—a rainy day,’ he tells himself.
Across the hall, another cheer rises as the Lee household accepts their own newest member.
‘An overcast day, just—just like this—’
Yoongi shifts behind him, hand tightening on Hoseok’s shoulder, and he finds him attention being
drawn towards the man that Yoongi had been speaking to before with such familiarity, now
standing at the head of the line looking directly into Seokjin’s eyes.
“And what is your name?” The principal asks.
“Gong Jicheol,” the newcomer answers for the second time today, smiling broadly.
“Gong…” Seokjin says thoughtfully, turning his head to look across the crowd. As if pulled by a
string, Hoseok follows the older man’s gaze until it lands on a group he recognizes as the Gong
household. “Gong Hyungjin.” An older man in the center of the group straightens up at the sound
of his name. “Will you accept Mr. Jicheol into your home?”
The man, Hyungjin, turns to whisper to an older woman at his side, clearly deliberating back and
forth between themselves before finally turning back to the principal with a sheepish look on his
face. A terrible sensation takes over Hoseok’s body, as though he was dipped in ice from head to
toe.
“I’m sorry, sir...we don’t have the room to accept anyone new into our household at this time,”
Hyungjin informs the principal, who looks utterly unsurprised by the news.
“Hmm…” Seokjin muses, “That presents us with a challenge, doesn’t it?” The crowd is silent as
they watch his deliberation, several people jumping back when the principal claps again in
excitement—including Hoseok. Yoongi’s arm finally slides away from his shoulder, leaving him
free to take a step backwards—and then another.
“Who among us will take in this wayward soul?” Seokjin asks the crowd, turning around with his
hands outstretched as though offering them for someone to grasp. “Who will step up and open their
doors to our newest brother?”
The room is—the room is spinning, a carousel of blurred faces and voices that warble at the edges.
He stumbles, steps backwards again. There is a pair of eyes staring at him from somewhere in front
of him.
“The Jung family will accept him!” A cry rings out, somewhere far, far in the distance.
Someone is saying his name, but he can’t answer it—can’t do anything except stumble backwards
until his back strikes the wall, his hand flying out for the door handle at his side. His retreat is
completely ignored, the crowd roaring as they reach out to embrace the newest member of the Jung
household—of his household.
“Very well!” He hears the principal’s distant, echoing voice as he manages to tug the door open, a
blast of cold air striking his side, “You will now be known as Jung Jicheol. Welcome, brother!”
He blinks, and his feet have carried him out the door, stumbling down the steps into the downpour.
The rain, which had before been no more than a sprinkle, now has him soaked within seconds, the
shower warm and soaking and very much real.
‘This is—’
Hoseok’s hands are on his face, clutching at his head where it aches and spins and takes him down
with it. He lands on his knees, striking the ground hard enough to rattle his bones.
‘This is how it happened—’
The terrible thing clawing at his insides seems to make its way to his chest, filling him with an
ache that makes it hard to breathe. He can’t—he can’t remember —
‘This is how it happened—right? ‘
No.
The voice that had been filling his head, so foreign and firm in its direction, gives way to another
voice entirely—one that is as familiar as his own heartbeat.
‘No. That isn’t right.’
Remember.
“Hoseok—?”
“Hoseok?”
He turns on his heels, almost running right into a broad chest inches from his face. His hands
splay across that chest to catch himself just as he looks up the few inches needed to gaze into a
very familiar set of dark eyes, alight with mischief.
“Why, hello there…” The taller man rumbles, ducking his head closer to press his lips to Hoseok’s
cheek. He feels his skin burn beneath the touch with a heady mix of embarrassment and pleasure,
something he has come to associate with this man’s presence.
“Seokjin…” He murmurs in return, and feels the plush lips against his cheekbone split into a
smile. Long arms wind around his smaller form to hold him tight to the taller man’s chest, and he
tucks his head beneath Seokjin’s chin to hide his blush. “Someone will see…”
“Let them look,” his lover replies, a challenge in his tone, “there’s no reason to hide what we
are.”
He hums, softly, already used to losing this argument. “At least—let’s go inside, before we lose our
table?”
He feels his hair ruffled by an amused exhale. “Alright, if you insist…”
When their bodies pull apart, he accepts the hand that is offered to him, twines their fingers
together easily, steps through the door first when Seokin waves him through with a smile. Seokjin
gives his name to the hostess and he is amazed, as always, by the way the woman scrambles to
immediately usher them to a private booth.
When the waiter arrives, he pulls one of his hands from Seokjin’s grip to point to an item on the
menu, ordering an expensive slow-roasted black pork dish that he remembers the older man
enjoying the last time they had a date in this restaurant. It brings him no shortage of pleasure to
see the way Seokjin’s eyes light up at his thoughtfulness, and gives himself a mental pat on the
back for taking the initiative.
When the waiter disappears to place their order, he reaches back across the table, lays his fingers
across his lover’s bare wrist. “So...how has your work been?” He asks, much more casual than he
feels.
Seokjin raises his beautifully sculpted eyebrows and leans back in his chair, though his hand never
pulls away from Hoseok’s touch. There is something...electric between them, charged and pulsing,
something that makes the small distance across the table feel far too wide for comfort.
“Things are going well…” Seokjin says in his usual, deflective tone. “We are still in the process of
preparing for the new school year, finishing the harvest and all. I’m nearing the end of my search
for new teachers to fill our vacant positions…”
When he trails off, Hoseok feels a familiar tug in his chest, a guilt that he can’t explain. He chews
on his bottom lip, staring back at the tempting look in the older man’s dark eyes, the way it entices
him to take the bait being laid for him. There’s some distant voice in his mind that whispers to him,
warning him of possible danger ahead—but there’s nothing dangerous about Kim Seokjin. There
can’t be. Not with the way he makes Hoseok feel.
“You’re always so deflective,” he teases, though they both know that he means it. “I distinctly
remember us meeting under similar circumstances...you were looking for teachers at that event
too, weren’t you? And yet here we are…”
“You became more to me than just a recruit—” Seokjin hedges.
“But I was looking for a job—and I still am.” He pauses, considering. “That wouldn’t be
a...conflict of interest for you, would it?”
“Certainly not,” Seokjin dismisses immediately, giving Hoseok’s hands a firm squeeze. And at his
words, it’s as though the concern has been banished from Hoseok’s mind. “I would be honored to
have you as a member of our staff, if you were interested…” Seokjin looks at him significantly.
“After all, you’ve seen what we have to offer…”
“I have,” Hoseok answers, “and I’m...deeply intrigued.”
“Are you now…”
“Very much so. I feel very privileged to have such...individual lessons with someone of your
position,” he admits.
“There’s far more to learn than what I have been able to show you in our brief time together,” the
older man teases, stroking a thumb across Hoseok’s pulse again and again and again.
“I have no doubt…”
“So you are interested, then?”
“Yes, yes I am.” When he slides one leg across the space beneath the table and drags the toe of his
shoe down one of Seokjin’s calves, it feels a little mischievous, a little manipulative, to use the
intimacy that has been built between them to get his way. But he has to know, he just has to—if
there’s more than what he’s already seen, then there’s nothing he will let stand in his way. And if
there’s more of Seokjin for him to claim as well? He would be a fool not to try.
“Tell me about this school of yours…” He says, not quite asking. Seokjin grins, and his amusement
feels like a shared thing, a secret only they know. The older man looks as though there is nothing
he would like to do more than answer Hoseok’s question.
“Why don’t you come with me when I return, and you can see it for yourself?”
Suddenly the memory shifts, twists, his mind dragged with it as though a switch had been flipped
and the next memory rushes in.
There is someone calling his name. In the distance, chanting, chanting—
“—and here we have the gathering hall, where we hold daily meetings,” his tour guide is saying,
though he is hardly paying attention. How could he, when every single thing he sees draws his eye
—the beautiful craftsmanship of the wooden structure they’ve entered, the large tapestry hanging
in on the far wall that glints with gold stitching, the bright sunlight that cascades in from every
window?
“Announcements that are only for the students are given at the school, but this is used for the
entire community to come together.”
“I see…” he murmurs, tracing his fingertips along the sleek wooden surface of one of the main
pillars that holds the cavernous roof above their heads.
The man who has been showing him around, Choi-something-or-other, gestures towards the door
through which they entered. “If you’ll follow me, we can visit the gardens next—”
“Actually,” another voice interrupts, achingly familiar, “I believe I will take over from here.”
He whips around to find himself facing a tall figure standing in the doorway, hands casually tucked
into his pockets. The man smiles easily at him, plush lips breaking into a gentle curve. Suddenly,
his chest feels alight.
“Seokjin—” he says, just as the other man with him practically stumbles over himself to fall into a
deep bow.
“Mr. Kim!” The man exclaims, his back ramrod-straight as he stands upright again and greets
Seokjin. “Y-Yes, yes of course, sir, whatever you’d like.”
“Thank you, Mr. Choi, for your service today,” Seokjin says warmly as he approaches, resting a
hand on the man’s arm. “You’ve done well.”
“Thank you, thank you, sir—” the man says as he bows again, his words brimming with
overwhelming gratitude.
“Please, return to your regular tasks now. I will take care of Mr. Jung from here.” Immediately at
Seokjin’s words, the man hurries to the door, giving one last bow before scurrying away.
Suddenly, he is alone with the older man at last, the few feet between them achingly far. They
stare, silent, for what is—though it feels like hours—likely no more than a split second, before
Seokjin steps forward and drags him into an embrace.
“Hoseok…” he murmurs, and Hoseok is powerless to resist as his chin is tilted up for a sudden,
searing kiss. He moans, the sound no more than a broken thing in his throat, the touch reminding
him of the desperate ache in his chest he has been left with every second he has been away from
this man.
Seokjin refuses to release him until his neck his burning from the strain of craning back to reach
the older man’s lips, his chest burning much the same from the lack of air. His lips feel swollen as
he licks over them, staring up into his lover’s eyes in wonder.
“Why, hello there…” Seokjin teases, a familiar joke between them now, and Hoseok instinctively
reaches out to swat at the older man’s chest.
“Must you always do this to me?” He asks, still breathless. “Just once, I’d like to be the one who
surprises you.”
“There’s plenty of time for that in the future, I’m sure,” Seokjin says sagely, though there’s a
twinkle in his eye that tells Hoseok he certainly doesn’t believe it. “How was your journey?”
Hoseok takes a step back, running a hand through his hair to comb it back into place where
Seokjin’s questing fingers had ruffled it. “Long,” he admits, though with a smile. “Longer than I
expected, to be honest…”
“Yes, we’re certainly...isolated,” Seokjin admits, “but it suits our work.” He reaches out a hand
for Hoseok to take, and Hoseok slides his fingers around the older man’s without hesitation. “How
much have you been shown so far?”
“Um...the main entrance, of course...some of the houses? And then we ended up here—”
“Wonderful, there’s still so much to show you!” Seokjin interrupts in that wild way of his,
excitement breaking through his usually stoic exterior. Rather than startle Hoseok, it makes him
grin—every moment with the older man like this feels like a treasure, a special treat that only he is
able to see. “Follow me?”
“Of course.”
Seokjin wastes no more time, dragging Hoseok by their joined hands towards the front of the
gathering hall, past rows and rows of benches that circle the center of the room until they reach
the end of the aisle and Hoseok finds himself being escorted through the heavy wooden doors and
out into the sunshine beyond.
The sight that greets him is just as breathtaking as it was the first time—wide, sweeping fields of
grass, allowed to grow wild except where they have been carefully cut back to make way for dirt
paths that crisscross throughout the space; long wooden buildings with sloping roofs that sit at the
end of each path; figures dressed all in red that move in groups throughout the space, hemmed in
by trees on every side. He takes a deep inhale as he stares out at it all, still not quite believing that
such an idyllic place could be real.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Seokjin’s voice whispers in his ear, and Hoseok startles, unaware that
he had paused in the doorway until he feels Seokjin’s hand on the small of his back to bring him
back to himself.
“Yes,” he agrees breathlessly. “More than I ever could have imagined, even with the way you
described it to me…”
“Words don’t quite do it justice, no,” Seokjin agrees, still smiling. “But there’s so much of our
community you still haven’t seen. Shall we?” He gestures down the steps of the gathering hall
towards the nearest dirt path, and Hoseok once again follows his lead.
As they walk together, Seokjin’s hand remains resting firmly at the base of his spine, just above the
line of his pants where his shirt has been tucked in, and it burns through the fabric like a promise.
Here and there, they pass others who walk along the path opposite them, and Hoseok feels terribly
out of place in his slacks and button-down shirt that stand out so clearly—though Seokjin seems not
to notice.
What Hoseok notices more and more as they make their way through the community, passing
building after building while Seokjin keeps up a constant narration—”That’s the Go household,
and the Han household over there...”—is that every single person who catches sight of them
stares. They stare with wide eyes, surprise barely hidden once they realize that Hoseok is looking
back—though he doesn’t sense any hostility from them, exactly. They look at him more in...wonder.
Amazement.
Or, perhaps, he cautions himself, it is Seokjin they are looking at with such awe—a theory that he
considers confirmed once he notices more than one person scrambling to bow towards the older
man as soon as they spot him.
Thinking back to the way Mr. Choi had done the same in the gathering hall, he turns to look up at
Seokjin as soon as the community members are out of earshot, and asks, “Do you have that sort of
effect on everyone? I thought it was just me.” He’s joking, but the words taste a little too much like
the truth.
Seokjin lets out a loud laugh, almost squeaking as he tries to rein it in. Hoseok feels his cheeks
burn as his own smile widens at the sight, loving to see his lover give such a genuine display of
amusement.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Seokjin reassures him, but his words are
undercut slightly by yet another person reverently bowing to the older man as they pass, dropping
the basket of crops that she is holding in her haste to do so.
Hoseok raises an eyebrow pointedly at Seokjin, but the older man only chuckles and pats Hoseok’s
shoulder. “The people here are just grateful, Hoseok. They appreciate the work we are doing here,
and they wish to show it. I don’t ask for this sort of deference, but they give it all the same.”
Hoseok mulls that over as they walk silently past the last of the houses, the land clearing to reveal
large fields spread all the way to the treeline. He’s amazed to see the variety of crops that are
planted so neatly in their own sections—corn, wheat, cabbages, and what appear to be potatoes,
radishes, and onions from what he can see above ground. More plants grow beyond where he can
clearly make them out, even what he recognizes as fruit trees in the distance. With such an
incredible wealth of fresh food in front of him, it’s not hard to understand what Seokjin means
about the people being grateful.
But their path slowly comes to an end, landing just in front of a tall, stately house that sits on the
top of the hill they have climbed, overlooking the entire community from its place backed up to the
treeline. Unlike all of the other houses, this one stands apart not only in its position, but also in its
composition—clearly crafted with skill and care far above all of the others, which look nearly
identical even upon careful inspection. This house has been painted while all the others remain
wooden and plain, decorated in the same golden adornments that had been present in the
gathering hall, the glinting lines catching the light as the sun begins to descend over the treetops.
“I truly am so happy that you are here, Hoseok…” Seokjin confesses as they stop just a few feet
from the staircase that leads up to the house. The older man turns and reaches up to stroke his
thumb across the expanse of Hoseok’s cheek, and he tilts his head into the touch automatically. “I
want this to be your home.”
“I’m so happy too,” he breathes out, “It feels like—like I was always meant to be here. I can’t
believe I never knew this place existed…”
“We keep ourselves, our work hidden for a reason...you know this…”
“I do—”
“I am trusting you immensely by bringing you here, you realize —"
Hoseok’s hands fly up to cup Seokjin’s, staring into those dark, familiar eyes in front of him.
“Hey...I know. I know. Don’t worry.” When he strokes his fingers across the older man’s hand,
Seokjin squeezes his cheek tighter, eyes flickering all across his face as if trying to take it all in at
once. “You can trust me, I promise…”
“I’ve made the mistake of trusting people I shouldn’t before—” Seokjin tries to say, but Hoseok
cuts him off before he can even finish his sentence by rising up on his toes and sealing their lips
together again.
“So have I,” he admits when he pulls away, just far enough to whisper the words against his
lover’s lips. “But that doesn’t mean we should keep ourselves from trusting again, right? I trust
you—I trust you with all of me, don’t I? I’ve trusted you to guide me on this journey, and now I’m
here, I’m here, and I still can’t believe it but I’m so happy that you’ve trusted me this much, and I
—”
“Hoseok—”
There are hands on him now, hands on his wrists, tugging him forward—
No—No, that’s not right. There is a hand on his cheek, not his wrists—Seokjin is here, right in
front of him—
“Hoseok...”
“I know it’s only been a few months, but I—I would never betray you. That’s not something you do
to someone you—someone you love…”
In lieu of a response, Seokjin has him back in his arms within a second, their lips pressed together
before Hoseok even realizes that the older man had moved closer. He squeezes his eyes shut
immediately, making it all the more disorienting when Seokjin bodily moves him with almost no
effort, shoving him backwards until his spine collides with the rough surface of what feels like a
tree trunk.
It takes almost no time for Seokjin to drop him under, pulling him down into that all-too-familiar
place where Hoseok is nothing but putty in his hands. There are fingers questing across his chest,
rucking his shirt up from under his belt so they are free to roam his bare skin; lips and teeth that
drag moan after moan from his throat; a pair of hips pressed so tightly to his that he can pinpoint
the exact moment they both begin to grow hard from the friction.
He can barely speak when Seokjin finally pulls away, plush lips dragging down his neck to mark
him, claim him. He has always been Seokjin’s, he thinks—always. He has belonged to Seokjin long
before he knew it, long before such a thing could even be possible. When Seokjin all but rips his
shirt open, he bares his chest to the older man without hesitation, giving himself over to the
questing fingers, the insistent declaration that every inch belongs to someone else.
Seokjin tugs his pants down his legs, barely bothering to undo his belt, and he forgets that they are
—technically—in public, forgets to be ashamed, remembers that Seokjin assured him he no longer
needs to be, not here.
“Hoseok—” Seokjin groans in his ear when he manages to wrap his fingers around Hoseok’s cock,
tugging and tugging with such intensity it is as though he believes he can force an orgasm from
Hoseok’s body by sheer force of will. Given some of the experiences Hoseok has had with this
hurricane of a man, he wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if that proved to be true.
“Please, please,” he begs, and Seokjin wastes no more time.
“Up,” Seokjin orders, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to let himself be manhandled up the
tree trunk, ignoring the way it rubs at his skin through the shirt just barely clinging to his
shoulders in favor of wrapping his legs around Seokjin’s long legs.
“There you go, baby,” the older man whispers against his lips while his fingers journey further
south, slick by means that Hoseok can’t decipher, pressing inside of his body without meeting a
shred of resistance. “Let me in.”
“Always,” Hoseok breathes, a promise, “always, always—”
“Let me worship you,” he commands, and Hoseok has tears in his eyes. Seokjin manages to get his
own pants open with practiced ease, undoubtedly leaving smears of lube along the fabric and
Hoseok’s bare thighs. His cock forces its way into Hoseok’s body with no preamble. The way they
join together feels like an inevitability. Hoseok sobs.
This is—
This is holy—
“Hoseok, I need you to focus,” someone is saying. The voice is deep, hushed.
The hands that previously guided his body now hold him firmly against something, hold him
upright. It is not a tree trunk. It is wooden. Smooth.
“Look at me, please,” the voice requests, gentle and familiar. He tries to force his own eyes open,
finds that they already are. Blinks, hard.
“Where—?” He tries to ask.
“Look at me, I’m right here,” the voice tells him. Hands slide up his arms to cup his face, directing
him to gaze straight ahead. The hands are large, and painfully warm. His cheeks feels like ice.
Coming back to himself is not unlike being born, a rush of light and color and the damp cling of
rain that fills his senses exponentially with every blink, every inhale. It is sound that returns first,
the soft smattering of water against the rooftops in the distance. Next comes his sense of space,
accompanied by the awareness that he is standing somewhere he was definitely not before, outside
of a building he doesn’t immediately recognize for all that it looks similar to every other. It is only
then that he realizes, as he blinks, that he can see the world around him once again.
“That’s it, you’ve got it,” that voice tells gently. The hands on his face squeeze him tighter. He
squeezes his eyes shut, forces them open again, follows the long lines of wrists to arms to a broad
set of shoulders several feet away. The shoulders slope up into a tanned neck, visible above a
neatly pressed, collared shirt that brushes the ends of honey-brown hair.
“Where am I?” He rasps, his fingers quivering when he tries to reach towards his own face and
falters halfway there. The eyes in front of him are dark, piercing, pinning him in place. It’s almost
impossible to look away from them, but just as impossible to continue meeting that intense gaze.
When he manages to flick his eyes over the man’s shoulder to answer his own question, the hands
cupping his face gently direct him back to center, and the man shakes his head. “Stay right here,
right here with me. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
“Where am I?” He repeats, and the man gives a soft, understanding smile.
“Outside of the Jung house. I brought you here.”
“Why...?”
“It seemed like the safest place,” the man says with a shrug. He strokes his thumb along the
sensitive skin beneath Hoseok’s eye, brushing away tears he didn’t know he had shed. Those dark
kind eyes are so—
Familiar.
“N—” He stumbles over the word. “N-Namjoon?”
“That’s right, I’m here,” the nurse assures him again. Against the strain of his muscles, suddenly
weighed down by overwhelming exhaustion, Hoseok manages to drag his hands up between
Namjoon’s arms to clutch at the front of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric in his quivering grip.
“Namjoon—” The word comes out shaped as a whimper.
“It’s okay, you’re just coming down from it, you’ll be alright…”
“He h-hurt me—s—s-so much—”
Namjoon doesn’t ask who the ‘he’ is—perhaps already knowing, perhaps not caring. He simply
nods, understanding, and lets Hoseok collapse forward into him, the hands on Hoseok’s cheeks
making their way instead to his shoulders to cradle him with care.
“I know, I know,” he whispers, his lips finding their way into Hoseok’s damp hair, and his words
suddenly feel as weighted as Hoseok’s body. “Trust me.”
It is a different experience, the way he loses time now—not a sudden jump from one moment to the
next with no memory of what has transpired between, but instead a sort of slow tumbling through
what happens next as though his mind has decided to spare him the details. He goes from leaning
precariously against the taller man’s chest to being lifted and cradled to it instead, Namjoon’s arms
somehow finding their way beneath his knees and shoulders to hold him as though he were as light
as a doll.
“Let’s get you home,” he hears Namjoon murmur as he begins to walk, and somewhere along the
way he loses any sense of where they are headed. Namjoon’s heart is a steady drum under his ear.
The beast in his own chest has finally settled, leaving him instead with a terrible ache where it once
was.
As Namjoon begins to climb a set of stairs, his body sways back and forth with the motion as
though a boat rocked on the sea. The swaying lulls him, his mind sinking lower and lower towards
unconsciousness. The last thought he is left with drifts away like smoke before it becomes fully
formed—a vague musing at the edges of his mind about where his home really is after all.
Front Office—Reception—First Floor 8.27.18 2:51PM
The office is just as silent as he expects it to be, the desk that greets him the moment he passes
through the front door sitting mercifully empty. He raises an eyebrow at the mess of machinery
scattered across the desktop when he chances a glance behind it as he passes, but it is no more than
a fleeting curiosity.
He is acutely aware of the limited time he has. The ceremony won’t last forever. He’s already
wasted too much time as it is, though it was at least for a good purpose. Still, his steps are hurried
as he continues toward the back of the office, not bothering to quiet his footsteps as he moves when
he knows that even the security guards are busy elsewhere.
He passes by his own office, casting only a brief glance to the darkened space and the empty beds
inside before continuing down the hall and grabbing the handle of a door that has likely not been
opened for weeks. Months, even.
When the door closes behind him with a snap, he finds himself surrounded almost entirely in
darkness, the room lit only by the dim outline of overcast skies at the edges of the window on the
far wall where the blinds don’t reach all the way to the frame. It is just enough light to see by,
enough to know that the room has—on top of being unused—remained completely untouched
since he last saw it.
He reaches for the light switch, closes his eyes, opens them again to a room bathed in light. The
desk between him and the window is broad, devoid of any decor or supplies, the entire wooden
surface covered in a thin layer of dust. He blinks, and blinks again, and in between his mind fills
the chair with a familiar silhouette, a face, a smile—
No.
He rubs at his eyes, shakes his head, opens them again—and the image is gone. ‘ Now is not the
time,’ he tells himself. ‘Focus.’
When he approaches the desk, he does so gingerly, each step carefully placed so as to not disturb a
thing. The office might be empty now, but that isn’t to say no one will eventually come looking.
‘They are always watching,’ he thinks absentmindedly.
But there are no cameras in this room, this he knows for sure. He still gives an instinctive glance
towards the ceiling in the corner where a camera would be, if there were one, but finds only a blank
space overhead. When he kneels between the desk and its empty chair, he is careful not to touch
the surface, all-too-aware of the dangers of leaving any evidence behind in the dust.
The first drawer he slides open houses only various office supplies, though upon closer inspection,
almost every single one of them appears to be broken. Some of the items he recognizes—the
familiar, though fractured, shape of a cup that he knows once held pens, all of which are now
scattered through the drawer in various stages of disrepair; a golden ball he remembers seeing
tossed up in the air over and over again in contemplation, now dented on one side; a photo frame
that is coming apart at the edges, glass shattered, the picture it once contained now missing. There
is another frame that he doesn’t see, though he isn’t surprised that it is also absent. He knows
exactly where it has gone, and the thought leaves him frowning.
All in all, it looks as though the objects that had once been sitting atop the desk had been flung
from its surface, only to be swept back inside as if to hide the damage that had been done. Still,
nothing here is useful.
He slides the drawer carefully closed and moves on to the next one down. Finds it empty. Repeats
with the next drawer, which is also completely bare. Slams it shut, his shoulders tensing.
‘There has to be something here,’ he muses, ‘something—’
He rifles through every single drawer of the desk, tugging on handles he has already pulled open to
examine their empty contents again, fingers running all along the bare wooden surface within as if
he might find something hidden in the corners, a false bottom, anything at all. Every one of his
searches ends in vain. By the time he finishes digging his fingers into the last drawer at the bottom
for the second time, he ends up shoving it closed with his foot—uncaring how it makes the desk
teeter—and throws himself back against the wall beneath the window with a scowl. His heart
races, his forehead damp with a sudden sweat.
‘Damn it.’
He drags his hands up in front of his face and flexes them—open and closed, open and closed—
breathing with the motion for as long as it takes to feel the sudden rush of anger subside, no longer
a hot flush in his face and chest but rather a low simmer below the surface. The process is much
faster now, and he continues to breathe deeply—all the way down into his belly—until his head
feels almost light, floating. Not quite enough to be distracting, but...pleasant, for sure.
His hands drop to the ground at his sides and he focuses on the sensation of the carpet beneath
them, the way his weight presses down on his backside, his feet, how solid the floor feels beneath
him. The grounding process takes longer, several minutes dragging on before his heart no longer
feels as though it is going to beat out of his chest, but once it has settled again, he drags his eyes
back open with renewed determination.
‘There has to be something,’ he tells himself again, as though speaking it into existence.
Back on his feet, he turns to the wooden cabinets that line the wall beside the desk, eyes narrowed.
‘There has to be something.’
But these cabinets are just as vacant, no matter how many he tugs open. Every shelf is sprinkled
with dust, covering the wood so that its rich grain is washed out and gray through the film. There
are no imprints in the grime, no sign of disturbance, the contents removed long before the dust
settled.
He kneels down to peer along the back of every low shelf, feeling along the underside in the hopes
that something might have dropped behind them in the moving process, but there is still nothing.
Nothing, that is, until he reaches the very last shelf in the corner, and has to squint in the dim light
to be sure he is seeing what he thinks he is.
There, at the very edge of the shelf, is the unmistakable shape of a handprint in the dust. The
outline of four long fingers darken the wood, covered only in a very thin layer of newly deposited
grime that is clearly more recent than all the rest. Just a few inches further back, there is another
shape dragged across the wood, reminiscent of the swipe of his windshield wipers against the glass
in his car.
He weighs his options for only a split second before deciding to slide his own hand across the
shelf, disturbing the dust himself for the first time as he follows the imprint back, back, back—
—and finds his fingers closing around the edge of something flat, sharp and cold.
‘What—?’
He drags the object back towards him, likely sweeping all the dust away in his haste, and springs
back to his feet to get to the window. When he holds the item up to the edge of the blinds where a
strip of light creeps through, it slices across the white letters stamped into the golden strip of metal
—and he feels his breath stop in his chest.
‘Jung Jaehyun, Vice Principal,’ it reads.
He traces his eyes over the letters, and then over them again. His fingers turn white at the knuckles
from the strength of his grip. The metal digs into his palm hard enough to bruise. Despite his best
efforts, that heat begins to rise in his chest again and—
Suddenly, he whips his head around towards the door, a strange sound from somewhere beyond
drawing his attention. The nameplate nearly slips from his fingers in surprise.
If his heartbeat was rising before out of anger, now it is the sudden kick of anxiety he feels in his
chest. Is someone here? His eyes flicker over to the window as though he could see beyond the
shades, see if the ceremony has ended—but that shouldn’t be possible. He may have been
searching for longer than expected, but not that long.
He turns his wrist towards his face to glance at his watch, but—sure enough—it has been less than
ten minutes since he first entered the office. Still, when he waits long enough to hear that noise
again—a low rumble, close enough to reach him through the walls—he knows he is no longer
alone.
What follows is a flurry of quick movements, as quiet as he can make them—the chair pushed back
into its place behind the empty desk, every drawer closed, all of the cabinets shut—until he is left
standing in front of the very last one again, staring down at the golden nameplate in his hands.
Should he leave it behind? Put it back so that no one is any the wiser?
Another sound from outside of the room makes his decision for him. In a split second, he resolves
to close the last cabinet, the small piece of metal slipped into his pocket before he can think better
of it, and he slips away towards the door without looking back.
With his ear pressed against the wood, he can tell that there are no footsteps outside and takes his
chances with tugging on the handle. The moment the door is open once again, the source of the
strange noise becomes obvious, drawing his attention to the right where it echoes down the
hallway. His eyes land on a nameplate attached to the only door left, glinting in the overhead light,
almost identical to the heavy weight of metal in his pocket.
The noise he hears is identifiable now—not the indistinguishable hum that had caught his attention
earlier, but instead the low groan of a voice, a human voice. A voice filled with pain.
Similar sounds from within the principal’s office are all-too-common; he knows from years of
personal experience, what with his own office just down the hall. But they are not typically sounds
of anguish—especially when the principal is, indisputably, not within the office himself. He left
Seokjin behind at the ceremony, still gregariously addressing the crowd—he knows this much for
sure.
With only a single glance over his shoulder towards the front desk to make sure the coast is clear,
he slowly closes the vice principal’s office door behind himself and steps towards the end of the
hall instead, footsteps as light as he can make them against the carpet. He repeats the same action
he took before, leaning forward until he can press his ear to the principal’s door, extremely wary of
what he might find waiting beyond it.
The loud moans have died down now, but with such close proximity, he can make out the noises
that have taken their place—rustling, the thunk and clatter of movement, the unmistakable shape of
a whimper. If he hadn’t already determined that someone is inside the room beyond, he might have
been convinced that it was an animal instead—and a wounded one at that.
“Hello?” He calls out through the door, deciding to throw caution to the wind at last. If someone is
hurt, it is his duty to assist.
He is answered by another whimper, this one louder and more desperate. “Hello?” He asks again.
‘If Seokjin finds out—’
“Please…” He hears whispered in reply—or, at least, he thinks he does. But it’s enough to drive
his hand to the doorknob, enough for him to force the door open, enough to send him darting inside
to find—
“—Jimin?”
The janitor looks up at him from where he is curled against the front of Seokjin’s large desk, naked
from head to toe. The younger man’s eyes don’t seem to fixate on him directly, even as he moves
closer, instead staring through him as if seeing into the hallway beyond.
He knows that look—knows it far more intimately than he ever should. He is cautious for an
entirely different reason now as he approaches the younger man, hands raised in front of his chest
to make sure he appears non-threatening. “Jimin, can you hear me?”
For a long moment, the janitor doesn’t respond at all, making no movement except for the slightly
labored rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. ‘How many times in one day—?’ He starts to think,
but stops as soon as he catches sight of Jimin’s eyelashes beginning to flutter. The smaller man
blinks and blinks again as though trying to force his eyes to focus, and at last he seems to be able to
meet the offered gaze above him before giving an almost imperceptible nod.
“Okay—” He sighs in relief, “Okay, good. Stay with me, okay?” Feeling reassured, he finally
kneels down directly in front of Jimin, and then nearly recoils at the horrible stench that suddenly
hits his nose. His own eyelashes flutter as he blinks back sudden tears, and he can’t help but raise
the back of his hand to his nose to block some of it out.
‘Ammonia...’ he realizes after a beat. A smell he has come to associate with Jimin at times, though
certainly never like this.
Upon closer examination, he finds that the normally soft, shiny strands of Jimin’s blonde hair
instead cling to his cheeks, clumping together as though they have dried against his forehead. He
traces his eyes down Jimin’s body, instinctively beginning to take stock of any injuries or signs of
illness—and what he finds makes his stomach drop.
Jimin’s lip is split along one side, a trail of blood long-since-dried clinging to his chin. One
shoulder is decorated by an angry red bruise, an identical one along the side of his bare thigh in the
unmistakable shape of a shoe print. Jimin’s arms quiver when he reaches forward to try and pull
them away from Jimin’s knees for a better look at the rest of him, a sharp whimper from the back
of the smaller man’s throat cutting through the silence.
“Okay, okay—we won’t do that,” he assures Jimin, pulling his own hands back immediately.
“That’s fine. Just—can you tell me what happened to you?”
Jimin’s mouth falls open as though he is preparing to answer, but no sound comes out. He blinks
rapidly, his eyes shining as he stares up at the man above him, and closes his mouth again.
“Who did this to you?” He tries instead. Jimin’s face hardly changes at all, and yet it’s almost as
though he can immediately hear the young man’s voice mocking him inside of his own head. He
glances around the room they are currently in and gives a little humorless laugh. “Right...silly
question. I’m sorry.”
This time, when he rests his hand against Jimin’s arm, it is to soothe him rather than to move him.
“I’m going to get you all taken care of, okay?” He waits until Jimin gives another minuscule nod
before pulling away again. “Just...stay here, alright? I’ll be right back.” Jimin’s lips twitch and
years of familiarity leave him with the knowledge that if Jimin were in his right mind right now, he
would be rolling his eyes at the obviousness of that statement.
He clambers to his feet and wastes no time dashing from the room the way he came, turning this
time to the right and sliding through the open door of his own office. A flick of the light switch
reveals everything right where he left it, the two beds perfectly made as always, his desk neatly
organized.
But it is toward the attached bathroom that he hurries now, reaching for the handle of the shower
built into the far wall in order to get the water running. It immediately sends out a blast that is
frigid, but he knows that by the time he returns it will be piping hot. He scurries back into his main
office and flings open the doors of his own storage cabinets, rifling around for a large set of
bandages, alcohol, gauze, scissors. Once he has everything in hand, he returns to the bathroom and
deposits the supplies on the counter, sticks a hand out to test the temperature of the water again,
and spins on his heel to rush back out of the room.
Jimin is exactly where he left him when he returns to the principal’s office, the only change in his
demeanor the way the younger man’s eyes have drifted closed again.
“Jimin?” He asks softly, and receives a breathy hum in return. ‘Good, still conscious.’
“Do you think you can stand up?” When no reply comes this time, he takes it as a no. “Alright,
let’s try this…” He slides down on one knee at the smaller man’s side and slips his hand beneath
Jimin’s knees where they are curled to his chest. Jimin gives no real complaint, just a small,
unavoidable whimper. But when his hand slides behind the janitor’s back to curl around his side,
Jimin yelps, his eyes flying open to stare wildly up at the man above him, one hand darting out to
clutch at his shirt.
He pulls his hand back immediately, afraid to cause the smaller man more pain, and Jimin slowly
relaxes back against him again as the shock wears away. ‘Definitely not a good sign…’ he thinks,
but now is not the time to examine it further. When Jimin makes no protest at the way his hand has
wrapped around the younger man’s upper arm instead, he takes it as the best he’s going to get.
“Okay, up we go,” he warns, then collects Jimin’s small body to his chest and lifts him right up off
the floor.
Jimin sighs, head falling to the side to rest on his shoulder, and he hastens from the room again—
stepping around a pile of what appear to be Jimin’s discarded clothes on the floor as he goes. He
curls Jimin’s shoulders closer as he passes through one, then two doorways to avoid hitting his
head, and makes a beeline for the shower that is now steaming up his entire office.
“Let’s get you clean, hm?” He suggests, softly, and Jimin’s fingers tighten in his shirt.
It’s more cumbersome than he expected to lower the young man to the floor inside the shower, but
he manages without letting out any complaints. Jimin seems to immediately want to curl up on
himself again, but he coaxes the janitor’s body to straighten out as much as possible beneath the
water so he can get a better look at him from head to toe.
The bruises he noticed earlier are nothing compared to the galaxy of discoloration spreading
around Jimin’s ribcage and stomach, a veritable constellation of black and blue and green that turn
his pale skin sickly and frightening. Again, there are several distinct shapes within the bruising, the
clear indent of a shoe print just like on the young man’s thigh, and it isn’t hard to piece together
what must have happened.
“You definitely have a couple broken ribs…” he informs Jimin softly, carefully, and Jimin just
blinks at him. The splatter of water across his face doesn’t seem to disturb the young man at all.
“Your pupils are dilated too,” he continues, “you probably have a concussion.”
Jimin closes his eyes again and this time doesn’t open them, letting the water run down his face
with no reaction. He takes it upon himself to reach for the medical grade soap he always keeps
nearby and begins to lather it between his hands before gently reaching for Jimin’s battered body.
“Once you’re clean, I’ll bandage up those ribs for you, okay?” No response. “You’ll probably need
to keep compression on them for several weeks. And practice taking deep breaths, so you don’t end
up with pneumonia. Do you understand?” A small nod. “Good. Also—” He hesitates, not sure how
to phrase his next instruction. “You...probably shouldn’t sleep alone tonight, if a concussion is
likely. I can—I can stay here with you, if that would—”
Jimin shakes his head this time, letting out an involuntary grunt from whatever pain it causes him,
his brow furrowing.
“No?”
The younger man gives another stubborn shake of his head.
“You really should—”
He feels fingers against his wrists where he has been massaging the soap into Jimin’s thigh, looks
down to find the younger man’s hand curling over his own. When he looks up again, Jimin’s eyes
are open once more, a somber expression clouding their dark depths.
“Okay,” he sighs, “okay. Whatever you want.”
Jimin’s eyes fall closed again, and for several long minutes, there is nothing but silence between
them, broken only by the rush of water overhead. His clothes are soaking through from where he is
leaning into the shower to reach all of Jimin’s soiled skin, but he pays it no mind. It is no different
from the downpour outside, he thinks, and considerably warmer. His fingers are gentle, methodical
as they work across all of Jimin’s body, careful to skirt over any of the darker bruises when he
reaches them to keep from disturbing the young man’s rest.
It is only when he reaches the top of Jimin’s chest and his hand’s start working up the janitor’s
neck and into his hair, now tinted dark from the water, that the silence is broken again, making him
freeze with Jimin’s head cupped in his palms.
“Namjoon…” Jimin mutters, barely loud enough to be heard over the spray.
“Hm?” He tilts his head down to look at Jimin’s face again, but the younger man’s eyes remain
closed. From this angle, with the lines of his face smoothed away, it is absolutely striking—how
very young Jimin looks.
“Did I…” Jimin rasps, his voice hardly more than a scratch, and Namjoon has to lean closer just to
catch every word. “...did I really deserve this?”
Stunned, he says nothing for several long moments, his heartbeat heavy in his own chest. He
cradles Jimin’s head so gently, looking down at the angry tear in his lip, the smattering of broken
blood vessels along his hairline, the dark circles under his eyes so deep they might as well be
bruises too.
“No.”
It’s the only answer he can give. Without qualifiers, without explanation. No.
His hands return to their task, and Jimin falls silent again, no more words needed between them.
The bottom of the shower begins to overflow with water. Namjoon’s knees soak through. The
metal nameplate in his pocket digs painfully into his skin. Jimin’s question weighs heavily on his
mind, echoing over and over and over in a feedback loop just as broken as the man in his arms.
‘You don’t deserve any of this, Jimin,’ he thinks, ‘none of us do.’
Hallway—Second Floor—West 8.27.18 6:09PM
‘Meet me in my office.’
He clenches the note in his fist as he makes his way down the hallway, lit only by the wash of gray
light drifting through open doors scattered here and there along his path.
‘I am allowed to be here,’ he reminds himself. ‘I am supposed to be here. You can’t get caught if
you’re not doing anything wrong…’
But the words feel false, hollow even as he thinks them. Especially since he can’t take more than a
few steps without casting his eyes about nervously for any sign of a camera overhead, any shadows
moving out of the corner of his eye. It’s only been 24 hours since he last made this very same
journey, and his trepidation is almost palpable. Every step he takes up the stairs echoes like a
gunshot off of the narrow walls, the creak of the door at the top of the stairwell might as well be a
scream for how loud it seems to his ears.
The second floor hallway is even more foreboding as he makes his way to the science lab at the
very end, the lights dimmer here, the shadows darker. Outside the few windows he can see, the
lights over the parking lot have flickered on to ward off the darkness cast by the heavy rain clouds
above.
He raps his knuckles lightly against the classroom door, tossing another cautious glance over his
shoulder, but there is no answer. When he rises up on his toes to get a better look through the
window set into the door, there is no movement inside.
‘Meet me in my office,’ that’s what the note had said. He tugs the door open, and prays that he isn’t
making a terrible mistake.
“Yoongi..?”
It is with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that he creeps across the classroom, slipping between
the shadows of desks that reach out towards him like so many questing hands. Rain collides with
the windows that line the far wall, sending tiny specks of light refracting across his path. He passes
by the teacher’s desk and the doll stand that is unusually empty in the center of the room,
practically tip-toeing all the while.
“Yoongi?” He calls again when he reaches the office door at the back of the room, pointedly
ignoring the blinking light of a camera over his head before it causes him to lose his nerve.
“Yoongi...if you’re in there, I’m...I’m coming in, okay?”
There is no answer, but there is also no resistance when he grabs at the door handle and pushes his
way inside. The office is even darker than the classroom with no windows to illuminate it, and
shockingly bright when he fumbles for the light switch on the wall.
He is immediately greeted by a grumble from the couch against the far wall, a dark shape atop the
leather shifting and moving until it rolls over and reveals itself to be Yoongi himself.
“Tae…?” The teacher mumbles, slapping a hand over his face to rub at his bleary eyes.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Taehyung answers while sliding the door shut behind him. On instinct, his fingers
search for the lock in the doorknob and twist it until it makes a distinct click, all but guaranteeing
their privacy.
“C’mere…” Yoongi mumbles, extending his other hand, and Taehyung takes the few steps to cross
the room automatically. Their fingers slide together with such practiced ease that it is as though
they have never been apart, and Taehyung finds himself tugged down to the couch and wrapped up
in Yoongi’s embrace in the blink of an eye.
“Missed you,” Yoongi murmurs into the side of his neck, his breath hot and inviting. He doesn’t
seem to mind, or possibly to even notice, the way Taehyung’s hair and shoulders are drenched
from the downpour outside. He chuckles at the teacher’s sleep-addled state, nuzzling his own nose
behind Yoongi’s ear.
“I missed you too.”
“You got my note?” Yoongi asks, and he nods immediately. His fingers clench around the paper
again from where he has them tucked to Yoongi’s chest, the crinkle it gives off proving his point.
“Good, I...I wasn’t sure you would come, after—”
“Of course I came,” Taehyung hurries to correct the older man, leaning back so he can look
directly into Yoongi’s eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He can see the way Yoongi hesitates, the way his brow furrows in the middle until it forms a little
dimple that Taehyung has grown so fond of. He bites at his lip from the inside, dragging his small
lips into an even more pronounced pout than usual. “You were so...afraid…” He answers,
eventually, not quite meeting Taehyung’s gaze.
“I still am,” he admits, more honest than he would like to be. But that’s the thing about Yoongi—
he has always inspired the best in Taehyung. Always. “I’m not going to lie, coming up here tonight
was...terrifying.”
Yoongi immediately retreats at his words, sliding away from Taehyung to sit up at last, leaving the
younger man sprawled out on the couch beneath him. “I shouldn’t have asked you here, then,” he
says after a long pause in which he carefully considers Taehyung’s face. “I apologize.”
“What—”
“You’re free to go whenever you wish, Taehyung...I will not keep you here.”
“Yoongi—” He sits up as well, hands reaching out to grasp at Yoongi’s where they sit in his lap,
and tighter still when the teacher tries to pull them away. The paper of Yoongi’s note rustles
between their palms. “You’re not keeping me anywhere. I want to be here, don’t you get that?”
Yoongi frowns, but doesn’t argue.
“I came here even though I was terrified—even though I still am terrified—because I had to see
you. I had to. After what happened—” He breaks off, a little hiccup in his voice that makes his
throat tight, and Yoongi finally squeezes his hand in return.
“Alright…” Yoongi concedes, the look in his eyes softening at the edges. “Will you...tell me about
it? What happened before we were called to the gathering place?”
Taehyung takes so long to consider his answer that Yoongi decides to rearrange the two of them as
he waits, leaning back so he can pull Taehyung to his chest with his legs curled over Yoongi’s
thighs. They’re nearly the same size, with Taehyung seeming to grow taller every day—but as
always, when they are entwined together like this, Yoongi manages to make Taehyung feel nothing
but small. Small and safe.
When he begins to speak again, his words are voiced into the secret place Yoongi has managed to
create between them, their bodies like parentheses that wall out the rest of the world so that their
secrets remain theirs and theirs alone.
“I was coming to see you, just like we planned,” he says, and Yoongi nods along, already knowing
this much. “The moms knew we had a scheduled session, so I left right after dinner.” He picks at
the buttons lining the front of Yoongi’s dress shirt absentmindedly. “I was running a little late but I
figured you would wait—”
“I did,” Yoongi assures him softly. “I kept wondering where you were, if you were okay…”
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting so I was trying to hurry, but I ended up getting stopped by—”
“—by Seokjin,” Yoongi fills in for him immediately, voice a little bitter, clearly starting to piece
things together.
“By Principal Kim, yes,” Taehyung agrees. Yoongi’s hand finds its way up the back of his neck
and into his dark hair, scratching soothingly against his scalp as if to encourage him to continue.
“He was—I’ve never seen him like that before, you know? He was so—”
When he can’t find the right word to use, Yoongi fills in the blank for him again. “Wild?” He says
knowingly.
“That’s...a good way to put it,” Taehyung agrees. “One minute—it’s like he was sure I was doing
something wrong, trying to catch me, and then…” He swallows thickly. How much should he tell
Yoongi? How much is safe to tell the older man?
“Then he just...snapped. Panicked.”
“Why?”
“There was this...noise, I guess. Coming from down the hall where he stopped me. And he dragged
me with him to go find it.” One of the buttons he is fiddling with on Yoongi’s shirt is particularly
loose, spinning freely in his fingers as he mindlessly plucks at it. “I thought somebody had broken
into the school again or something, like they did a few weeks ago…”
“But that’s not what it was?”

“I don’t...think so? I’m not really sure what it was. He just—one second, we’re walking down the
hall and all I want to do is leave, but I can’t, and then he figures out what door it’s coming from
and unlocks it, right? And when he goes inside, there’s all this...light? And...noise?”
“Did you see what was happening?” Yoongi encourages, his thumbs stroking over the curves of
Taehyung’s ears. There’s an edge to his voice now, just like when he told Taehyung to leave just
minutes before—but he gets the distinct impression that Yoongi is trying to be as gentle with him
as he can.
“No, and—”
“And…?” Yoongi prompts when he fails to continue speaking.
That tight feeling in his throat has returned, making it almost impossible to force the words out.
The confession comes more as a whisper than anything else. “...I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad. I want
to know so bad, because whatever it was, it—it drove him mad, didn’t it? He—He told me to run
away, to leave, and I did. I just...left. Before he could get even more angry with me. And then just a
few minutes later, he called us all to the gathering...”
He shudders, his mind filling with flashes of their leader standing before them—of Yoongi, gazing
up at him as he watches on, helpless. “I want to know, but—Yoongi…”
“Shhhh, it’s okay…” Yoongi whispers into his hair, pulling Taehyung even closer, and he doesn’t
realize it until he feels liquid drip down his chin that he has begun to cry again.
“I just—I knew, if I stayed, if I s-saw—” He sucks in a shuddering breath that shakes both of their
bodies. “He wouldn’t have let me w-walk away. I know it, I j-just know it! Everything he’s done to
—to Jimin, it would be s-so much worse—”
Yoongi cuts him off completely this time, pressing Taehyung’s face back under the safety of his
chin. “It’s alright, Tae...you’re safe, it’s okay...you’re safe…”
“N-No, I’m not—”
“With me, you’re always safe, Tae—”

“But I w-won’t be with you much l-longer, will I?!” He bursts out, striking his fist against the
teacher’s chest.
Yoongi says nothing. The body beneath him goes rigid as a stone.
And therein lies the rub. The one thing neither of them want to acknowledge, the one thing that
kept Taehyung from sleeping a single second the night before.
Yoongi’s hands resume their gentle stroking through Taehyung’s shirt, skirting up and down
Taehyung’s spine as though he has no idea what else to do with them. The motion continues until
Taehyung’s sobs have long since died down to sniffles, and then to silence again. They sit like that
together for long enough that he loses any awareness of time—just two people cradled together for
warmth, taking refuge from the storm.
“That...is why you were so apologetic, isn’t it?” Yoongi eventually speaks up, his words almost
starling Taehyung. “You thought it was your fault.”
“It is my fault,” he whispers, “It is.”
“How could it be your fault, Tae? You didn’t make him—”
“You don’t know that! You didn’t see the way he looked at me. Like he—he knew.”
Yoongi sighs into his hair, the sound betraying a weariness that runs far deeper than he shows on
the surface. “He doesn’t know, Tae...I promise you that. He doesn’t know, or neither of us would
be here right now.”
Instead of comforting him, the words only cause that terrible sinking feeling in his stomach to
burrow deeper. “I just...don’t want to lose you,” he confesses, his voice breaking in the middle.
“You’re never going to lose me—” the teacher starts to say, but Taehyung cuts him off with a
sharp shake of his head.
“No, that’s not t-true, I know that’s not true. They’re—They’re gonna assign you to someone else,
someone—better —”
Suddenly, there are hands on his shoulders, wrenching his body back until all he has a hold of is the
front of Yoongi’s shirt, the older man forcing him to look directly into his eyes. There is weariness
there still, but it’s completely overtaken by a sharpness, a sense of determination.
“You listen to me, Kim Taehyung.” He swallows around the knot in his throat, giving a shaky nod
when Yoongi pauses to make sure he is paying attention. “There is no one that could ever be better
for me than you. Do you hear me? No one.”
“But—”
“No. You can’t argue with me on this, Tae, I won’t listen to it.” He shakes his own head now, eyes
closing for a moment as he sighs in frustration. “Yes, they will likely assign me to partner with
someone else. Probably Namjoon, if history continues to repeat itself.” His distaste at the idea is
written all over his face, and Taehyung feels Yoongi speak his brother’s name like a knife to the
chest. “But they will have to force me. They will have to force me because I refuse to choose any
partner that isn’t you.”
“Oh.”
Those words cut through him as a different kind of knife altogether. Not of anger, or of jealousy—
those feelings he has been so long reminded that he should cast aside—but of a strange emotion he
has no name for, one that shreds through him instead of slicing.
“You know I love you, Taehyung...don’t you? I love you.”
“Yoongi—” His lover is using words he’s never heard before either, but the utter conviction he
sees shining in Yoongi’s eyes tells him that the older man means them. “I don’t—”
“I love you,” he repeats, cradling Taehyung’s face in his hands as though he is holding the whole
world between them, “I cherish every single moment I’m able to steal with you. I have risked so
much—I’ve risked everything to be with you, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Even if it meant
watching them take you from me over and over again. You tease and you taunt me and you
challenge me every day, and damn if I don’t adore that about you too. You are the best thing that
has ever happened to me. Taehyung—” Now it seems Yoongi is the one choking on his words,
“Taehyung, I love you...do you—do you understand?”
He can’t—
He can’t breathe. It’s all too much, far too much. His chest is tight, his eyes burn, he can’t manage
to swallow because his heart has somehow made its way into his throat. But Yoongi—Yoongi is
right there, saying words he’s never heard the man speak before, not in all the months they’ve
dared to be together. There is vulnerability emanating from the older man in waves, just as
palpable in his own chest as the thrum of his own heartbeat. Yoongi loves him.
“Yoongi—”
“Yes?” The answer is immediate, hopeful.
His mouth is painfully dry as he opens it again. “You—You want to be with me?”
“Yes.”
“All the time?”
“Yes.” More conviction now.
“No matter how much trouble we get into?”
“No matter what.”
He hesitates, then asks the last question lingering in his mind, immediately bracing himself for the
answer. “...forever?”
Yoongi draws his face forward until their foreheads rest against each other, each breath they now
take a shared one. “Forever,” he whispers, “or as long as you’ll have me.”
He knows he’s crying again, knows it because Yoongi’s fingers slide across his cheeks and come
up wet, but he can’t bring himself to care. Love —if all of those things are what love is—
“Yoongi?”
“Hm?”
“I...I love you, too.”
Yoongi’s face immediately breaks into a smile—a little tense at the edges, as though he doesn’t
quite believe Taehyung, but a smile all the same. The sight is nothing short of beautiful. “You do?”
“Yes...yes, if that’s what love means, then...I must love you—”
Yoongi doesn’t bother replying, instead sweeping Taehyung forward into a kiss that knocks the
breath right out of him. He tastes salt on Yoongi’s lips but it’s unclear if it comes from Yoongi’s
tears or his own, and he doesn’t care, Yoongi doesn’t care, neither of them care about anything
except becoming as close as possible to one another.
Yoongi is whispering something against his lips, forming the shape of those same words he has
just learned—I love you, I love you, I love you —
And though his skin tingles, his body hot from the way he and Yoongi are pressed together, neither
of them make any move to take things further—content, instead, to simply bask in the other’s
presence, the press of their lips a simple connection between them. Their kisses turn from feverish
to slow, molten, giving way to soft brushes of skin to skin that leave them panting heavily against
each other’s cheeks, their foreheads still tightly pressed together.
Yoongi slides his hand down to thumb at Taehyung’s lower lip, tracing along the swollen pink
flesh as though he can’t quite believe he is allowed to touch it. “Tae…” he breathes, and Taehyung
offers him another kiss to the pad of his finger.
“Lie with me?” Yoongi asks, his voice rough with emotion now. “Stay, just for a while?”
“I’ll stay all night, if you want…”
“They’ll notice—”
“We’ll give them an excuse,” he counters with a small smile, “more extra credit work, right?”
“You did miss your session yesterday,” Yoongi agrees, and Taehyung is happy to find that they can
both chuckle about it now. He allows Yoongi to manhandle him into a more comfortable position,
their bodies stretched out along the length of the couch, their legs tangled together while Yoongi
cradles Taehyung’s head in the crook of his arm.
“True. What was it supposed to cover, again?”
“Honestly...I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Yoongi kisses him again, smiling all the while. “It
doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re done, Tae...you’ve finished all the work I had for you.” Yoongi’s eyes are warm
now, crinkling at the corners. “You’ve done more than enough to earn back the credit you were
missing.”
“Then—why—?”
“Why did I call you here, yesterday?” Taehyung nods and Yoongi ducks his head down, looking
far more chagrined than Taehyung has ever seen him. Without the sharpness in his gaze, he can
almost picture the way Yoongi must have looked when he was younger, less sure of himself—
more like Taehyung. “I just wanted to see you,” he admits in a small voice, “I thought it might be
one of my last chances.”
“Even before—?”
“Even before. I’ve been scared every damn day that I’m going to lose you, Tae…”
Taehyung leans up to offer Yoongi another kiss, and he pours all of the hope he dares to have into
the simple touch. He kisses Yoongi like a promise.
“You won’t,” he says, “You can’t. We’re going to make it through this.”
Yoongi hums and nods, settling down more comfortably with his cheek atop his young lover’s
head. Taehyung can tell that the older man doesn’t believe him. But there are words now, churning
in his head—thoughts tumbling over themselves as his mind races to process all that he has
learned. Yoongi might not have faith, but he doesn’t need to.
‘I know what I have to do,’ he thinks to himself. And then he settles in, and he waits.
Gumandeok-ro
Southbound
08:17:34
18/08/27
There is something particularly eerie about this place in the middle of the night—the way the wide
open spaces around her are devoid of any movement, the long-limbed reach of trees silhouetted
against the sky, just now beginning to shed their leaves. In the distance, the skeletal remains of a
playground juts up over the grass, clearly falling into disrepair after years of being abandoned.
A single swing still attached to the frame of what used to be a long swing set creaks as it shifts back
and forth in the breeze. Rain patters against the ground around her, leaving the air muggy and
humid, the moisture clinging even through her jacket. It isn’t nearly close enough to fall for the
weather to warrant it, but she still feels the need to wrap her arms around herself as if to ward off
the cold.
Oh, how much things have changed since she was last here, she thinks. Even the buildings across
the far street look unfamiliar, knocked down and repainted until they no longer resemble the
neighborhood she once grew up in. Still, this has to be the right place, there’s no other option.
‘Meet me where we had our first date,’ he’d said. She casts her eyes across the park to a secluded
spot beneath the trees—now overgrown, but unmistakable as the place where he had laid out a
blanket for her, presented her with a picnic in the shade…
She can almost see it in her mind, the way they had posed for a photo—shoulder to shoulder with
identical smiles, shy and a little reserved, but both very much enchanted. She hadn’t been able to
keep her eyes off of him, that tall, educated man who treated her like a lady.
‘It’s been...twenty-seven years…’ she muses, squeezing her arms more tightly around her middle.
‘Twenty-seven years, and look where we’ve ended up…’
She’s not quite sure how long she’s been here, her phone turned off and tucked under the seat of
her car just as instructed. But just when she begins to itch for a glance at a clock, she finds that she
might not have to wait much longer at all.
Where before, there was silence—cut only by the rustle of branches in the distance, the occasional
call of a bird through the darkness, the impact of raindrops on the leaves overhead—she now hears
crunching along the path off to her left side. It’s unmistakably footsteps, soft as though their owner
is trying to avoid making any noise, though made impossible by the gravel underfoot. Instinctively,
she slinks back from the lamp she has been standing under, shifting onto the grass just outside of
the beam of light so she can better see through the darkness—and on the other side of the glow, she
spots the silhouette of someone approaching from around the curve of the path, a hood pulled up
over their head to hide their face from the rain.
‘Is it him?’ she thinks, ‘I can’t tell—’ She shifts again, trying to get a better look, and hears a
sudden crack beneath her foot. Looking down, she finds a twig snapped in half beneath the sole of
her shoe—and when she jerks her head back up, the figure has frozen in the middle of the path
several feet away. She holds her breath, hoping, praying—
“...Daeun?” A voice calls out towards her, barely more than a whisper. “Is that you?”
It sounds like her husband, but she can’t quite be sure—not with the terrible twisting in her stomach
that hasn’t left her in days, the prickling memory of eyes on the back of her neck, the sight of ruins,
crumbling—
“Step into the light!” She calls out before she can think better of it. She has to know. “Show
yourself.”
The figure raises its hands to either side, an obvious sign of surrender, and takes one slow step
forward after another until it reaches the edge of the lamp’s glow.
As soon as she can make out his face clearly from beneath his hood—the neatly parted hair, the
sharp square of his jaw—she dashes forward to meet him, tossing her arms around her husband’s
neck and trusting him to catch her. He staggers back under her weight but doesn’t let her fall, his
strong arms wrapping around her securely. “Daeun…” He wheezes, the wind knocked right out of
him, but he sounds just as happy to see her.
“Jungmin, thank god…”
“You made it,” he whispers, “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
“Of course I remembered, of course I did,” she babbles, and they sway back and forth together for
a moment, simply enjoying their embrace.
But Jungmin breaks away sooner than she would like, leaning back to throw a cautious gaze over
her shoulder into the shadows. “We shouldn’t stay here too long,” he warns.
“Do you think they followed you?” She whispers, horrified at the thought.
He shakes his head, but the wary look doesn’t leave his face. “No, not the people who were at the
house...but I wouldn’t put it past them. And I’m not sure they are working alone.”
“Who are these people?!” She bursts out, and her husband makes an urgent shushing motion with
his hand.
“I don’t know,” he tells her, and at the sight of her crestfallen expression, he hurries to add, “I
don’t. But we are going to find out.”
“How…?”
“For starters, we need to get out of the open.” He nods his head to the left, back up the path where
he came from. “Follow me. We’ll leave your car here for now, okay?”
Daeun takes a deep, steadying breath and slides her hand into her husband’s offered palm. He
squeezes her hand before tugging her along with him, passing through the glow of the streetlamp
before starting off along the path that forks off to the left.
They walk side-by-side in silence, both casting suspicious looks over their shoulders and squinting
through the shadows cast by the full moon just barely visible through the low-hanging clouds
darkening the sky overhead. Every dark shape looks like another figure waiting to spring out at
them, every shift of a branch causing her to jump and clutch at Jungmin’s arm like a lifeline. He is
exceptionally patient with her, far more than he usually would be, only raising his free hand to
reach over and pat at her arm comfortingly every time.
Without a clock to check, she can only guess at how long they have been walking, but it’s long
enough that she doesn’t recognize the stretch of park they are in any longer. In front of them,
quickly moving lights become more and more visible through the thinning trees, eventually giving
way to dump them at the end of the dirt path where it connects with the sidewalk on the edge of a
quiet street.
The neighborhood opposite of the park is lined with small business, also unrecognizable to her,
though Jungmin seems to know where he is heading as he begins to lead them both across the road
the moment traffic has cleared away. He pulls her down the sidewalk past a laundromat, a florist, a
law office that has definitely seen better days—all the way down the block until the concrete is
stained red by a bright neon sign overhead.
Jungmin immediately turns into the parking lot beneath the sign, but she pauses, looking up at it in
disbelief. “A love motel? Really?”
He tugs on her arm again, pulling her forward in spite of herself. “It’s the best place to go if you
don’t want to be found, isn’t it?”
And he has a point—Daeun knows he has a point—but the sight of the building ahead, covered
from bottom to top in advertisements, row after row of identical doors lining the balconies of every
floor, has her stomach turning in distaste. It’s not the idea of staying in a place like this that upsets
so much—just the sickening reality that they have to.
Luckily, her husband is prepared, fishing a key out of his pocket to open a door on the far corner of
the bottom floor, at least sparing her the embarrassment of having to be seen during the check-in
process. The room that it leads to is small, simple, a single bed in the middle of the room—and not
much else. But when he closes the door behind them and slides the deadbolt into place, she feels a
weight she didn’t know she was carrying lift off of her shoulders.
Jungmin hurries to secure the curtains closed over the window as she settles down onto the bed and
flicks on the small lamp that has been provided on the nightstand, casting the entire room in a haze
of yellow. The bed creaks when he slumps down on the opposite side, head thumping off the wall.
He lets out a long sigh of relief, inhaling and exhaling slowly as if to calm his heartbeat, then tosses
his hand out to his side and feels around until it lands on top of the practically archaic telephone
resting there.
“What are you doing?” She asks as she watches him drag the entire device onto the bed with him.
“I’m calling the police,” he says, matter-of-fact, as he dials 1-8-2 on the keypad. Before she can say
anything, he has the handset against his ear, listening intently to the voice that answers on the other
side.
“—Yes, hello,” he says after a pause, “I would like to report a missing person.”
Basement—Storage Room 2—East 8.27.18 9:14PM
The sound of the downpour outside is muffled by the three floors above his head, filtering down
through the walls as nothing more than a dull roar in the distance. He remembers being lulled to
sleep by it some time ago, though the sound was much closer then—only a thin layer of glass
between him and the storm.
It is surprising, then, when he is startled awake by a crash of thunder—not close enough to be

dangerous, but one that echoes closer and closer, doubling in on itself as if being funneled directly
towards him. He jolts, hands flying out to his sides to clutch at the bedsheets that have tangled
around him, lifting himself up on his arms to take a look around with wild eyes.
The first thing he notices is the room surrounding him, small and familiar. There are no windows
along the walls, but there is enough light filtering in from the door on the far side of the room that
he can make out the end of the bed, the concrete floor below, the stairs that disappear out of sight
beyond the door frame.
Another flash of light illuminates the room, now clearly coming from the top of the stairs where
the door into the hallway must be left open. The glow is gone as quickly as it comes, retreating
back up the stairs in the blink of an eye—but not before he catches something dark looming in the
opposite corner of the small space.
He jerks his head to the side to catch it, but in the absence of the light from above, it’s impossible
to tell one shadow apart from the next. A prickle of warmth spreads across his shoulders. He feels
the impossibility of a pair of eyes on him.
Somewhere, in the distance, the deep crackle of thunder rumbles through the air.
“Hello…?” He whispers into the dark, straining his eyes to make out anything beyond the narrow
strip of dim light that cuts across the floor. He sees nothing. There is no answer. That prickling
sensation only grows stronger, burning at the back of his neck as though scalded. He shivers.
When the next flash of lightning comes, his head is still tilted in the right direction. The same
shadow from before is suddenly cast into sharp relief, defining the distinct outline of a human
form. He lurches back in shock, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest long before another
sound can come from the sky above.
But when his eyes adjust, he realizes that the shape—the person—isn’t moving closer, but rather
remaining perfectly still, head tilted slightly to the side, arms hanging loosely towards the floor.
More importantly, the more he blinks, the clearer the image comes into focus, and he knows—he
knows —exactly who he is looking at.
“—Jimin?”
The younger man stares down at him from no more than three feet away, his features cast heavily
in shadows that highlight the angles of his cheekbones, the jut of his jaw. Another burst of
lightning gives him the chance to see the janitor from head-to-toe, completely immobile where he
appears to be frozen, his eyes fixed on the bed.
And those eyes —those eyes leave him with the immediate instinct to recoil, their dark depths
completely void of any emotion, any signs of life at all. The heavy rings beneath them are nearly as
black as his pupils—or at least they appear to be when his skin is washed out by another crackle of
electricity from beyond the stairs. And most unsettling of all, no matter how many times the light
flashes down upon them, Jimin never seems to blink.
{ art by @urme_imu }
“Jimin…?” He whispers again, his voice barely audible over another clap of thunder in the
distance, crackling from disuse. Cautiously, as though preparing to approach a wild animal, he
slides his legs out from under the sheets one after the other, rising to his feet as slowly as he can
manage against the strain of his underutilized muscles. Hands outstretched before him, he takes
one step forward—and when Jimin seems to take no notice, he risks another. The only sounds that
fill his own ears are the heady thump-thump of his own heartbeat and the rush of unsteady breath
in his chest.
“Jimin...can you hear me?” He asks, and takes his chances with reaching out to settle just the tips
of his fingers against the younger man’s arm.
At the contact, Jimin shows the very first sign of life since the moment he woke up, his eyes
shifting up until they are looking straight at each other again. Up this close, he can see the way
both of the smaller man’s pupils are completely dilated, giving him an even wilder appearance than
before.
He chooses to take the movement as a good sign—a sign of awareness, at least—and dares to raise
his other hand to cup the man’s other bicep as well, holding himself stead against the smaller
man’s immovable frame. “Jimin...it’s me. It’s Jungkookie.”
At first, the janitor doesn’t seem to hear him at all. Then, slowly—so slowly that he can almost
hear the younger man’s neck creaking—he tilts his head further and further to the side as though he
is an animal that isn’t quite sure what he is looking at. Finally, he blinks, though the movement is
so delayed it almost looks as though he has fallen asleep until he opens his eyes again.
“It’s okay...it’s just me…”
Jungkook decides to risk it and steps right up to the shorter man’s chest, his hands sliding down
Jimin’s arms before wrapping around his waist instead. Jimin is rigid as a board against him, but he
tucks his face into Jimin’s hair and holds him close all the same. He knows he should be afraid—
and truly, his heart is still threatening to burst with how fast it is beating—but—
This is Jimin.
His Jimin.
It’s a thought he’s never had before, but one that rises so easily to the front of his mind now. This
is his Jimin, the one person who has taken care of him, who has taught him so much—
Jimin would never hurt him. He knows this above everything else.
So he stands, and he waits, the smaller man wrapped up in his embrace while Jungkook surrounds
him in warmth. He doesn’t care how long it takes. There’s something obviously...not right with
Jimin, but he’s known that for a long time. The longest time, really—it feels like a lifetime that
they’ve known each other. A lifetime of Jimin protecting him, helping him, teaching him to be the
very best doll he can be. This is the only way he knows how to help the younger man—so he holds
on, and he waits.
“Wake up, Jimin,” he whispers, “please…”
It could be minutes or days later, for all that Jungkook is keeping track of the time, when he feels
the body beneath him start to relax. The change is subtle, something shifting like tectonic plates
below the surface—but one moment, it feels as though he is holding a statue, and the next, a
person. Just as slowly, Jimin’s arms rise under his own in order to rest his petite hands against the
small of Jungkook’s back.
When he pulls back just enough to look at Jimin’s face again, the younger man is blinking more
naturally now, his eyes just as unfocused but somehow less clouded. He doesn’t know how he
knows this, but he’s sure that Jimin is returning to him. There’s something familiar about whatever
place the janitor had disappeared to, someplace he’s sure he’s traveled to himself.
“Hi…” he whispers, and Jimin’s mouth twitches.
Leaning his head forward, he rests their foreheads together so there is nowhere for Jimin to look
but at him. Up so close, the discoloration of Jimin’s face becomes apparent even in the dim light.
“Are you with me?” He asks, squeezing at Jimin’s back where his hands rest securely between his
shoulder blades. If he wasn’t looking so intently, he might not have caught the way Jimin’s brow
twitches at his words. “Please...come back to me,” he whispers again, “I’m right here…”
He has no idea what possesses him to do it, but he feels inexplicably drawn closer to the younger
man, some higher force pushing him forward until he seals his lips against Jimin’s soft, plush pair.
There is a huff of breath against his face, as warm as the body against him, and he positively revels
in the contact. There’s no explanation, no logic he can drag out of his own head to make sense of
the way being closer to Jimin feels like a necessity.
And all of a sudden, it’s as though the ceiling has opened up to allow the storm inside, something
warm and wet dripping down onto his cheeks like so many raindrops. When he pulls away again,
he finds the source—that at some point in their embrace, Jimin had begun to cry.
He stares back at Jungkook with eyes much wider than before, tears falling silently down his
cheeks to collect on the edge of his chin. Those that have fallen to Jungkook’s own face drip down
onto his bare chest, a startling reminder of his own nudity. But Jimin—Jimin’s expression finally
shows a discernible emotion, no longer blank, twisted. Jimin does not look at him with judgement,
he feels no more threat from the younger man’s gaze than he ever has before. No, instead, Jimin
looks at him with unmistakable awe.
“Jimin…” His hands shift from Jimin’s spine to his chest, then his neck, never losing contact with
his body as they move. Jimin’s fingers clutch at him in turn, as though he is afraid Jungkook might
disappear.
“It’s okay.” His thumbs swipe across Jimin’s cheeks, brushing the tears away even as more begin
to fall. “Whatever it is—it’s okay. I’m here.” It’s painful to speak so much after so long going
without, but he pushes through without a thought.
Jimin’s head tilts again, this time forward until it rests against his own. Beneath his hands, it is as
though Jimin is melting, the rigor mortis that had overtaken his body before softening as though
Jungkook has revived him. Somewhere, far, far in the distance, lightning still crackles through the
sky—but all Jungkook can see, all he can feel or hear is Jimin—Jimin—Jimin.
The younger man’s eyes close again, and this time they do not immediately open. He breathes
deeply, clutching Jungkook to his chest until there is not a centimeter of space between them.
When he finally speaks, his voice is no more than a deep rumble, as though the thunder is coming
from within his body instead. “Jungkook…”
Jimin’s tears continue to fall, but Jungkook finds a smile curling at his own lips, relief washing
over him like a flood. “Yes...yes, it’s me…”
“Jungkook,” he says again, more firmly, and Jungkook nods, their noses brushing together. Jimin’s
eyes flutter open, and now there is absolute recognition behind his gaze. In contrast to Jungkook’s
own lifting spirits, the wonder in the younger man’s eyes is tinted towards bitterness, sharp at the
edges.
He leans forward and kisses Jimin, wanting to erase that expression from his face. He kisses the
younger man, and kisses him again, the touches simple but all-consuming. Jimin allows himself to
be kissed, for once not taking or giving, simply receiving all that Jungkook has to offer him. His
fingers continue to dance across the younger man’s cheeks until they have wiped away every last
tear and come up dry, and it is only then that Jungkook lets himself pull back again.
Jimin whimpers when their lips lose contact with each other, almost chasing after him like a dog
after a bone, but Jungkook holds him at bay. “I’m here,” he assures the other man for the third
time, and this time Jimin seems to understand.
“Jungkook…” His face contorts as he speaks, twisting as he clearly struggles to grapple with his
own thoughts. Jungkook is patient, leaning his weight on the smaller man as he gives Jimin time to
wrap his mind around what he wants to say. What Jimin settles on, eventually, is a single word:
“Why?”
“Why?” Jungkook repeats, puzzled.
Jimin struggles to force out his reply, the lines of his face crumpling as he tries to articulate his
question. “...why...aren’t you afraid of me?”
He stares, not comprehending. What sort of a question is that? Jimin’s face is so very warm
between his palms. He feels as though he is holding the entire world. There is nothing else, only
Jimin. He answers the only way he can, the only truth that he knows. “...there’s nothing to be afraid
of.”
Jimin shudders, steps away—far enough that Jungkook’s hands fall away from his skin, and he
catches them in his own palms when they hang in the air between them. His head hangs as he stares
down at their joined fingers, contemplating them very seriously.
A bright flash of lightning suddenly illuminates the entire space, throwing their shadows like
spectres on the wall. Jimin’s head snaps back up, and Jungkook startles.
“Will you come with me?” He asks, and his voice is deathly serious now.
The next clap of thunder is close enough that he’s convinced he can feel it shaking the concrete
floor below. Jimin’s eyes hold his attention completely, dark and mesmerizing. A snake charmer in
the shadows. Jungkook is no longer trapped in a cage with a wild animal—he is being lured from
behind the bars to join him. He has no idea where Jimin might lead, but it is all he can do to
follow.
“Yes.”
Principal’s Office—First Floor—West 8.27.18 10:48PM
The rush of raindrops against the windows that line his office completely drowns out the crackling
of the fire at his side, but the flames prove to be enough to stave away the chill. He stretches
languidly along the couch before the fireplace, the leather buttery-soft beneath his long limbs.
He isn’t drowsing, exactly—rather basking in the sense of utter contentment that has settled over
him. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of success, he decides. Nothing at all. For the first time
in weeks, his heart rate is slow, his shoulders relaxed. He closes his eyes with no worry of what he
might find behind them.
It is easy to drift, lulled by the crashing of the storm, and lose all sense of time entirely. When a
knock at the door stirs him from his calm meditation, the world outside is much darker than before,
but he calls out to whomever is waiting on the other side without hesitation. “Come in!”
“Mr. Kim, sir?” A timid voice asks, and he turns his head to find the receptionist peeking her head
through a crack in the door, her dark hair concealing part of her face.
“I said come in,” Seokjin repeats, beckoning her forward with a lazy wave of his hand. He makes
no move to greet Jihyo as she slips through the door and tiptoes closer, head bent in subservience,
clearly afraid of disturbing him.
‘Good,’ he thinks, ‘know your place.’
“I have your dinner, sir,” she says, raising the tray she has propped between her hands for him to
see, “and your deliveries.”
“Set them here,” he gestures towards the table between his prone form and the fire, the only light in
the room now. She hurries to follow his request, heels clicking rapidly across the wood floor until
they disappear into the soft carpet. The plate she sets down in front of him is still sizzling when she
removes its lid, the hardy smell of marinated beef and a blend of hot spices hits his nose, and
Seokjin hums in satisfaction.
Jihyo leaves a small bundle of mail beside the tray then takes several careful steps backwards, her
head still bowed, hands clasped submissively in front of her. She is completely silent as he sits up
enough to swing his legs over the edge of the couch, fading into the background as though no more
than another piece of furniture as he brings his first bite of the dish up to his lips.
He will never tire of the taste of blood, the tear of flesh between his teeth, an indulgence he has
reserved only for his own consumption. He has no attention to spare for when his staff eats, but he
knows that whatever they do is grown by their own hands, harvested by their own efforts.
Premium meat such as this is as much of a special delivery as any other package the secretary has
laid out for him, a daily occurrence at his insistence.
After several mouthfuls—of which he makes no effort to hide his enjoyment—he turns his
attention to the other deliveries that have been offered to him, hoping for, at least, some
entertainment to round out his evening.
There is, unsurprisingly, a mix of solicitations and requests for appearances, most of which he
opens and thumbs through with only mild interest, resolving to send Jeongyeon to deal with
responding to them in the morning. Scattered through the pile are, here and there, more personal
correspondences, including one from the head of a new Institute chapter that had recently opened in
Incheon that he was particularly interested in reading.
But there is another letter in the stack that draws his attention immediately when he reaches it—
one that is folded into a crisp, white envelope, the address adorned with a golden seal that catches
the flickering light of the fire.
“What is this?” He asks without looking up, and he hears Jihyo’s footsteps quietly approach.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“This envelope is from the local police station. What is this?” He brandishes the envelope towards
her.
“I—” He can feel her lean closer, “I—I don’t know, sir, I’m sorry—”
“You brought it to me, and yet you don’t know what it is?” He demands, his voice sharpening at
the edges. She makes a sort of choked noise in the back of her throat but can’t seem to find the
words to answer him. ‘Absolutely useless,’ he thinks.
He grabs for the letter opener that sits beside the pile and slashes through the top of the envelope
with more force than necessary, nearly taking the entire address off with the motion, and rips its
contents out with a flourish.
Yeongdong Police Station
Yeongdong County Constabulary
Chungbuk Provincial Police Agency
August 27th, 2018
Mr. Kim Seokjin, or To Whom It May Concern,
This letter is to inform you that a request has been made under the Act on
Disclosure of Information by Public Agencies (the RTI Act) to unseal records
concerning the missing persons case of your mother, Kim Eunah (née Jung), opened
on September 17th, 1993. In accordance with the RTI Act, we are fulfilling our
responsibility to notify you of this request as the legally recognized next-of-kin.
The scope of the request includes:

Any information related to the investigatory activities of the Chungbuk
Provincial Police Agency as it pertains to the whereabouts, condition, and
recovery of Kim Eunah. The term “information” includes matters recorded in
documents (including electronic documents), drawings, pictures, films, tapes,
slides, and other media corresponding thereto that were made or acquired in the
course of the CPPA investigation concerning the disappearance of Kim Eunah.
Important Disclosure: The RTI Act excludes from its scope information collected
or created in the interest of national security, public safety of the safety of individuals
or property; any information as it pertains to the ongoing investigation of a crime,
criminal prosecution and litigation; and any information that pertains to trade secrets
or particular private interest.
In light of this request, the CPPA Information Disclosure Deliberative Committee

has elected to approve the release of information pertaining to this case as
appropriate. Additionally, The CPPA is obligated to inform you of our decision to
reopen the missing persons case into Kim Eunah, to be investigated by the recognized
officer assigned to the original case (#349-010818).
It is your right, in accordance with the RTI Act, to appeal this decision. You are
permitted 10 business days to submit an administrative adjudication, whereby an
appeal can be made to the Administrative Appeals Commission under the
Administrative Appeals Act. Should you choose to submit an appeal, your objection
will be reviewed by the Information Disclosure Deliberative Committee. If there is no
response from the body in 20 days, the request will be considered rejected. If an
objection to the release of information is approved, the requested information will be
re-sealed by the committee, and any actions taken—
With every word that he reads, his heartbeat thuds heavier and heavier in his ears. He skims the
letter faster by the second, the small print blurring together as he nears the end of the document
until he can no longer make them out. His entire body is hot, so hot, rage building in his core until
his hands begin to shake.
“What the fuck is this?” Seokjin roars, jumping to his feet. The tray of food clatters to the floor,
silverware clanking together, the dinner plate shattering against the carpet. Jihyo jumps back in
alarm, her large eyes wide and desperate.
“What the fuck did you do?” The letter falls from his hands as he takes a step forward, and the
way the receptionist flinches at the motion makes something inside of him snap. Without warning,
he charges towards the small woman, completely ignoring the way she backs away with hands
raised in front of her body as though it might save her from him.
“Tell me what you’ve done!” He demands, snatching at one of her wrists to drag her forward, her
feet snagging on edge of the carpet below. “Tell me!”
“P-Please—sir—I don’t know—!” Her words are cut off by his other hand closing around her
throat, pulling her forward until they are face to face, her toes just barely reaching the ground. She
immediately claws at his fingers, her cheeks coloring as he squeezes tighter by the second. His
thoughts melt under the heat of his anger, leaving him only with the desire to make it stop, make it
stop —
“P—” She sputters, “—P—Please—!”
“How dare you.”
“—S—Sir—”
“You disgust me,” he spits at her, and drops her body to the ground. She collapses immediately to
the floor, boneless as a ragdoll, her legs giving out beneath her. Her hands fly up to her reddened
throat, gasps wrenching from her chest as she struggles to regain her breath, tears beginning to spill
down her round cheeks.
“Get up,” he orders her, coldly—and when she doesn’t immediately comply, he reaches down to
grab a handful of her dark hair to wrench her head upward, dragging a scream out of her abused
throat. “I said get up.”
She manages to turn onto hands and knees and coughs into the rug, but the sound doesn’t even
penetrate his thoughts. His mind consumed by the need for answers, for action, and there is no
room for anything or anyone else.
“I want the name of the person who delivered that letter immediately,” he shouts over her
complaints, voice rising with every word, “Bring me security, bring Sehun to me now —”
Before he can finish his sentence, the office door slams open, cracking against the wall with the
force it was flung. He whips his head around to find the intruder only to find his secretary
Jeongyeon stumbling through the doorway, her face twisted up in worry.
His hands immediately curl into fists at his sides. “What do you think you are—”
“Sir!” She interrupts, and he closes his mouth in shock at her insolence alone. She seems utterly
indifferent to the sight presented to her, Jihyo on the floor coughing pitifully at his feet, her eyes
instead trained on Seokjin’s face. “Come quick, please—it’s urgent!”
“Excuse me?”
She gestures to the hallway, her expression pleading for him to understand. “Please—we have a
serious problem on our hands.”
Basement—Stairwell—East 8.27.18 9:27PM

If his footsteps climbing the stairs earlier were heavy, conspicuously loud to his own ears, his
movement down from the main floor is shockingly quiet in contrast. It isn’t that his fear has
disappeared—far from it—but now the anxiety fills him with a sense of purpose, a direction.
Yoongi has long since drifted off to sleep, barely stirring even when he extricated himself from
their embrace to slip away, and there hadn’t been a single soul to cross his path as he made his way
back through the building in the dark.
He takes the stairs two at a time, descending into the basement without hesitation, refusing to let
the oncoming gloom deter him from his goal. When he reaches the landing, he skids to a halt in
front of a familiar door—unmarked, devoid of any windows or decoration—and pauses to catch his
breath. This might prove to be a terrible idea, but what choice does he have?
‘None,’ he tells himself, ‘this is the only way.’
Before there is any time for his nerves to get the better of him, he curls his hand into a fist and
raises it to rap his knuckles firmly against the door. As he stands in the relative silence of the small,
subterranean hallway and waits for a reply, he’s struck by an odd sense of déjà vu. When he
receives no answer, that tickle at the back of his mind only grows stronger, a quiet voice crossing
his thoughts to whisper to him: you have been here before.
“Jimin?” He calls out, as loudly as he dares to. The clatter of the storm above drowns out his words
even to his own ears, so he leans closer to the door and knocks again, more firmly this time.
“Jimin, are you there?”
With his ear pressed firmly to the wooden surface, he hears something odd from the other side—a
sort of rumbling that doesn’t match up at all with the roll of thunder echoing overhead. Whatever it
is, it’s definitely not an answer.
“Jimin, open up! It’s me,” he pounds on the door again, using his full fist this time, “it’s
Taehyung!”
Still, he receives no reply—or at least, not one that he recognizes. Ear to the door again, he strains
to listen for anything he can make out, but the noises in the room beyond are impossible to
decipher.
“I can hear you in there, Jimin—please, answer the door! I need to talk with you!” The strange
noises are somehow closer now, finally forming into the clear shape of a whisper, though the
words being said are still unintelligible. “Damn it, Jimin! I know you said not to come down here
again, but I had to, it’s important—the most important thing. Please!”
The whispering suddenly stops, leaving Taehyung with only the rush of rain at the top of the
staircase for company. He holds his breath, waiting to hear footsteps approaching, an invitation to
enter the room, something—
He turns until his forehead rests against the wood instead, closing his eyes with a sigh. “Maybe you
can’t hear me, I don’t know...but I need to talk to you. Even if I just have to shout through this
door.” Still no response. “Fine! If that’s how you want to be, then—fine! I just thought you’d want
to know that I’m going to do it!”
‘See if you can ignore this.’
“I’m going to do it, I’m going to apply for Level Thirteen.”
Nothing.
Then, somewhere in the distance, a thump echoes towards the door. It sounds heavy, reverberating,
strange.
It’s not an answer, but it’s something. Enough. Enough for Taehyung to keep talking, even if it is
only to himself.
“I have to do it, there’s no choice anymore. If I don’t, then Yoongi will—” He pauses, choking
down the knot forming in his throat. “I just—I need to know I’m not crazy, Jimin. Please tell me
I’m not crazy for doing this…”
He waits, hands pressed firmly to the wood, eyes closed, for long enough that his legs begin to
ache. He waits, but the signs of life from within the room beyond seem to have ceased entirely.
With a turn of his head, he glances at his watch, squints at the time. Frowns, and bumps his head
against the door again.
“Alright, that’s it…” he mutters, and slams his hand down on the handle, wrenching the door open
before he can think better of it.
Jimin’s room is pitch black as he steps inside, illuminated only by the light that suddenly streams
through the doorway to cut across the shadows like a knife. He pauses, hovering in the entrance,
his eyes scanning what little he can see of the small space for any movement, any sign that he has,
perhaps, startled Jimin, or maybe disturbed his friend from his sleep.
The only motion that catches his eye after a very pregnant pause is the shifting of his own shadow
as he moves from one foot to the other. At the back of his neck, a prickle begins to form just below
his hairline. He heard something moving in here, he knows he did—
“...Jimin?” He calls out, voice falling to just above a whisper. “Are you there?”
But the darkness answers only with the whistle of wind against the side of the building, a moan that
emanates from too far away for comfort. His hand reaches up of its own volition to fumble against
the wall, sliding along the door frame until he finds the tiny light switch embedded in the concrete.
With one flick of his fingers, he is able to flood the entire room with light. He blinks, startled by
the sudden brightness, eyes watering as he struggles to adjust.
The room is small—less than 300 centimeters across, if he were to take a guess—and only made
smaller by the furniture that has been wedged into the corners to convert the storage space into a
makeshift bedroom. The room is small, and leaves little to the imagination, no place for one to hide
even if they wanted to.
And it is precisely for this reason that it takes Taehyung only a split second of gazing across the
room to realize that one of his worst fears has been realized. Despite the noises he had heard only
minutes before, the room is completely and utterly empty.
He stumbles forward to collapse onto the empty bed, staring into the empty space across from him,
unfeeling, in disbelief. But night has long since fallen, a storm rages outside—and Park Jimin is,
undeniably, gone.
Chapter End Notes

Hi guys, thank you all for being so patient while I've been working to get this chapter
out to you. Some of you know the details of the changes that have been happening in
my life lately and some of you don't, but the short version is that my dad very recently
passed away. It made writing incredibly difficult for me while I was dealing with the
situation, and every time I had to delay working on the chapter, it got even harder to
pick this story back up. But things are settled now and I'm in a much better place, and
I honestly cranked out about 2/3 of this chapter in the last two weeks. I hope you all
enjoy, and thank you for your continued support.
If you follow the playlist I created for this story, it has now been split into playlists by
chapter as well! Check the beginning of each chapter to find the playlist that
corresponds to it if you want to listen along.
Phase Twelve: Figurine
Chapter Summary
They do not question. They do not hesitate.
This is what they have been preparing for.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE TWELVE:
Rape/Non-Con, Body Modification, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Medical

Kink, Needles, Needle Play, Gun Play, Torture, Blood, Bondage, Non-Consensual
Bondage, Altered Mental States, Mind Manipulation, Conditioning, Psychological
Torture, Medical Torture, Emotional Manipulation, Abusive Parents, Stockholm
Syndrome, Solitary Confinement, Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Sexual Slavery,
Voyeurism, Semi-Public Sex, Public Sex, Public Nudity, Public Humiliation, Public
Punishment, Degradation, Objectification, Dollification, Forced Orgasms, Cock &
Ball Torture, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Impact Play, Bondage and
Discipline, Discipline, Punishment, Forced Sub Space, Forced Submission, Anal Sex,
Submission, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, PTSD flashbacks PTSD
Triggers, Dissociation, Violence, Aftermath of Violence, Beating, Stalking,
Harassment, Threats, Death Threats
IMPORTANT NOTE:
This chapter includes several scenes that contain needles, blood, gun play,
torture, and graphic non-con. Some readers may prefer to skip parts of these scenes.
There is a link at the beginning of each section containing one of these elements that
will skip you to the very next scene without having to scroll past it manually. There
will also be a link to a description of the scene if you would like to know what you
missed. Please consider your options before reading these scenes! Bypassing these
scenes will minimally affect your understanding of the plot.
IMPORTANT FORMATTING NOTE:
This chapter contains some unusual text/characters. If you are unable to read the text
as it is formatted, please hover over the text with your mouse to read a clearer version.
(Unfortunately, this option is only available on the desktop version.)

Fic Playlist
Phase Twelve Playlist


the original
story here!

Kim Household—First Floor—Entrance 08.27.18 11:17PM
“—THIS IS NOT A DRILL—I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL—”
Hundreds of footsteps marching across the grass, down the stairs, through the gravel—they might
as well be a herd of livestock for all that they are being shepherded as one away from their homes.
They follow the urgent commands being blasted over the loudspeaker as though programmed to,
falling into step with one another with practiced ease, huddling together to stave off the cool night
air and the shock of being dragged from their beds in the middle of the night so suddenly.
They do not question. They do not hesitate.

This is what they have been preparing for.
“—ALL HOUSEHOLDS ARE TO REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THEIR DESIGNATED

SHELTER—”
He places his hands on the shoulders in front of him, helping to guide the older woman down the
path that stretches out in front of them, the only sound that accompanies their movements the
rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch of their footsteps, one after another, across the gravel.
That, and the horrible wailing of alarms overhead, echoing around the buildings like some terrible
siren song warning of impending doom. The downpour lays a chill across their skin, soaking
through their standard-issue sleepwear with a determination that betrays the winter yet to come—
but they march along all the same, undeterred, knowing that safety is only a few moments away.
“Just a little bit further…” he murmurs, and the woman one step ahead of him gives a small nod,
her shoulders straightening beneath his hands. “We’ll be safe soon, don’t worry—”
“—joon?!” His head whips around at a sudden cry from behind him, eyes squinting through the
dark to find the source of the sound. ”Namjoon?!”
There is a disturbance in the mass of bodies trudging along the path further up the hill, people
stepping back to either side to allow a single figure through. Namjoon stops in his tracks, letting
the woman continue on without him, knowing that another leader of his household will take care of
her instead.
“I’m here!” He shouts back in the direction of his name, ignoring the way passers-by glance up at
him as they are forced to part and step around him. From in between two of his own family
members, a familiar silhouette appears—eyes wide and frightened beneath the dark, wet hair that
has plastered itself to his heart-shaped face.
“Hoseok—?” He asks, just moments before the younger man barrels into his arms, nearly
knocking Namjoon off his feet. “Hey! Hey—what’s wrong?”
He holds Hoseok securely in his arms for a moment, the shape of the teacher’s shoulders now
familiar to him beneath his hands, before leaning back to get a closer look at the man’s face again.
“What’s—What’s going on?” Hoseok asks, his pretty lips pulled together into a pout as he speaks,
his mouth nearly as round as his eyes. “It’s so loud—I was just—I was sleeping, and then—”
“Shhh, it’s okay…” He raises a hand and cups Hoseok’s cheek, stopping the nervous flow of words
spilling from his lips with an earnest look. “We’re evacuating. I know,” he reassures when the
younger man’s face twists up in fear, “it scared me the first time it happened too.”
“This has happened before?” Hoseok whispers, and Namjoon nods soberly. “But—how is
everyone so calm?”
Just as Hoseok speaks again, the loudspeakers overhead crackle back to life, that same serious
voice drowning out anything Namjoon could say in response.
“—ATTENTION! ATTENTION! THIS IS NOT A DRILL—”
Hoseok flinches wildly beneath his hands at the sound, though—true to the younger man’s
commentary—no one acts as though there is anything unusual happening. Namjoon slides one arm
up around Hoseok’s shoulders and tucks the smaller man back into his side, guiding him along as
his own feet join the steady march down the hill once again.
He doesn’t know how to explain it to Hoseok—isn’t sure if he could even if he tried. No one is
surprised because they have no need to be. Every single person moving in step with them has
waited, night after night—just as he has—for a moment such as this.
“This has happened before?” Hoseok repeats, his voice remaining low enough so as to not disturb
the solemn silence of the crowd around them.
“Once,” he admits after a pause, “long ago.”
“What was it? What happened then? I—what’s happening now? It’s like—it’s like we’re being
attacked—”
His next words stun Hoseok into silence at last. “We very well might be.”
After that, there are no more questions, the younger man going easily where he is led. When
Namjoon chances a glance at his companion out of the corner of his eye, he finds the teacher’s lips
pulled taut into a serious line that he has never seen adorn the man’s face before. The nurse gives
his shoulder another comforting squeeze and raises his other hand to gesture off to the side of the
path where some of the crowd has begun to split away. “There.”
Hoseok follows the line of his gesture but the dip of his brow betrays his confusion. “There—
what?”
“That’s where the Jung family is to meet,” he explains, pointing out a dark shape in the distance—
an entrance, a doorway, that has been hewn from the side of the hill, through which one
community member after another is disappearing down-down-down into the darkness. Hoseok
stumbles at his side, a shiver running through him severe enough that Namjoon can feel the
shudder beneath his fingers.
“I—” Hoseok sucks in a deep breath through his nose, and the skittish way his eyes dart back and
forth between the doorway and the crowd before them brings Namjoon immediately back to the
desperate state in which he had found the younger man only the day prior. “Do I—can I come with
you instead? You—your family would—would keep me safe, right?”
His mouth falls open immediately to disagree, to turn the younger man away—it’s against the
rules, it’s dangerous, his mind supplies—but—
—he swallows the reply down instantly at the expression that Hoseok turns on him, upturned eyes
brimming with earnest hope. The teacher’s fingers clutch at his sleeve, burning through the damp
fabric, and Namjoon is agreeing before he can even fully form the words.
“I—yes, yes, I—of course you can, just—” He glances around, eyes peeled for someone, anyone
who can—
“Jung Jinsoul!” He calls out, spotting a familiar face among those still passing them by. Startled by
his sudden shout, the woman in question jerks to a halt, her blonde hair swinging wildly around her
face as she whips around to face him.
“Kim Namjoon,” she answers, clearly a little stunned.
“Ms. Jung, will you, uh—” He waves a hand unhelpfully towards Hoseok at his side. “Hoseok is
coming with the Kim family to the shelter. Will you make sure he is not missed? He will be under
my protection—”
Jinsoul blinks up at him slowly and nods her head, eyes narrowing. Namjoon doesn’t bother to
spare her more time than that, taking it as consent enough to barrel past the woman he had stopped
with Hoseok firmly in tow, thin arm gripped in his much larger palm as he steers them in the
opposite direction down the path from the Jung family.
Hoseok follows willingly—even eagerly —now, keeping pace with Namjoon without a hint of
trouble, reaching up with his opposite hand to cover Namjoon’s fingers where they press into his
damp shirt. Without hesitation, Namjoon allows his grip to loosen just enough to slide down the
younger man’s arm and twine their fingers together instead, a much more secure way to ensure that
Hoseok sticks by his side as they jog to catch up with the familiar silhouettes of his family down
the path in the distance.
The voice still clamoring for their attention overhead is quieter here, at the edge of the trees. The
orders that they repeat are still distinct, but overshadowed by those of one of the Kim elders
standing beside the subterranean entrance as she ushers people through the doorway and into the
darkness beyond.
“One at a time!” She is shouting, waving each family member through the door in single file, “Stay
calm and alert! No pushing or shoving! Remember your training—”
Hoseok’s palm is undeniably sweaty against his own, fingers still quivering, and he gives
Namjoon’s hand a tight, nervous squeeze as they slow their pace and slip right into the line,
stepping quickly up to the front to be scrutinized themselves. The elder gives them one look-over
and decides not to comment, waving them past without a word.
Hoseok shudders again when the darkness swallows them up, their steps taking them down-down-
down beneath the dirt until the siren is nothing more than a ringing in the distance. There is light
up ahead now, flickering out from the darkness like grasping hands dragging them into the warmth
and safety of the belly of the earth. Hoseok clutches at Namjoon’s hand in turn, and Namjoon takes
the opportunity to swing the younger man in front of him so he can envelop his body with both
arms. It feels... natural, the way Hoseok’s smaller body is completely dwarfed by his own.
The teacher remains in his arms for the rest of their journey, making no protest as Namjoon pushes
him through the crowd that has bottle-necked at the end of the passageway until they emerge into
the strange subterranean space beyond. It’s a room he hasn’t seen in many years—so many that he
nearly forgot the long, angular lines of the bunker, the low ceiling that just barely brushes above
his head, the way it looked with bodies crammed inside until there is barely room to move. He
keeps a protective grip on Hoseok as they shift towards the back of the space, lanterns casting their
shadows along the wall to dance with them as they move.
“Namjoon?” Hoseok whispers when they finally choose a spot in which to settle down. The nurse
pulls the younger man toward the safety of his chest and slides them both down the wall together,
placing his body between Hoseok and the dirt wall to keep him warm.
“Hmm?” He hums back as they settle into place. Hoseok curls his knees up to his own chest, and
the shivers wracking his body only seem to intensify when he ceases moving for even a few
moments.
“Are we—going to be okay?”
“Don’t worry,” he says—which isn’t quite an answer, “we made it.”
“We—” He can feel it as Hoseok gulps, his entire body shifting with the motion, “We’re...at war,
a-aren’t we…?”
He sucks in a deep breath and leans his head down to bury his nose in Hoseok’s chestnut hair,
exhaling warmth directly into the dark strands. “Yes...” he breathes out, “we’ve been at war for a
long time.”
“I—I’m not—I’m n-not ready, Namjoon, I’m not ready—”
“You’re also not alone, Hoseok,” he interrupts, giving Hoseok another squeeze. “I’m here,
okay...I’m going to help you.”
“B-But—how—?”
Namjoon takes another deep breath, bracing himself for the words he knows are about to tumble
from his lips, ignoring the way their bodies are being jostled back and forth by the oncoming swell
of bodies cramming in beside them in favor of focusing on the way that Hoseok’s body, and only
Hoseok’s body, feels in his embrace.
“I will...be your Guide,” he says, and Hoseok’s answering gasp makes his own chest tighten. “I
know you’ve been waiting to ask, and...I’ll do it. I’ll be your Guide. You deserve to have someone
show you the way.”
“You—You’d do that for me?!” Hoseok asks, trying to crane his neck around to squint up at the
older man through the shadows. His high cheekbones are made even more dramatic in the
candlelight, and Namjoon is forced—for the first time in his life, probably—to refrain from laying
claim to the skin before him with his lips.
“Yes,” he sighs, “Yes. I’ll do that for you, of—of course I will…”
“Oh my god, thank—” Hoseok squirms, wriggling until he can turn around completely in
Namjoon’s arms, his pretty eyes more wide and doe-like than ever. Namjoon is struck by the
wonder that he finds there, behind those chocolate pupils glowing in the candlelight, so familiar for
all that he has never seen the man quite this up-close before. “Thank you, Namjoon,” Hoseok sighs
to him, and his entire body seems to melt with relief.
He gives a slow, jerky nod in return, not entirely sure how to respond to the earnestness he is being
faced with.
“If we even make it through this,” Hoseok is saying, “I promise I’ll be the best pupil, I won’t
disappoint you—”
“Shhh…” Namjoon hushes the younger man again, raising a hand to smooth the hair back from his
colleague’s—his new student’s—face. “We’re going to be just fine, I promise. And I know you’ll
do well.”
“Really…?”
“It’s just...a feeling…”

Before their conversation can continue any further, the small space is overtaken by an oppressive
silence brought on by the sudden closing of the outside door. The moment that the metal barrier is
secured into place, any airflow from the outside is cut off—along with any chance of escape.
They’re sealed in now, and for the long haul.
No one seems willing to be the one that breaks the silence, and the hush draws out longer and
longer. They huddle together in the dark, some with their eyes cast upwards towards the ceiling as
though they could see any oncoming threats if they only looked long enough; others with their
knees drawn up towards their chests, lanterns cradled in their arms or between their thighs, the light
walled in by their shadowy limbs.
Across the room, he spots a crowd of shorter bodies huddled together against the far wall.
Students, he realizes, and a tension he didn’t know he was carrying unfurls in the pit of his stomach
as he recognizes Taehyung’s face among the others, his head floating a few inches above all the
rest.
‘Safe,’ he thinks, ‘we’re all safe now.’ With a small, relieved smile, he closes his eyes and rests his
head down against Hoseok’s soft hair, breathing in the soft, clean scent that emanates from him.
Namjoon quickly becomes acutely aware of the shape of Hoseok’s body against his own, unable to
see him property but every angle still clear as day in his mind. He allows his eyes to sink closed,
giving himself over to the pull—the instinct, now—to catalog the sensations, to imprint them in his
own mind. Hoseok’s clothes are still damp from the rain, goosebumps decorating every inch of his
skin.
‘Hoseok, Hoseok, Hoseok,' Namjoon thinks, and the words are almost deafening inside his mind.
Every sensation is amplified a thousand-fold. Their skin, their hair, their clothes are soaked
through—but Namjoon might as well be on fire.
With each inhale and exhale, he sinks deeper, letting the warmth from Hoseok’s body seep through
him. His heartbeat is as steady as a drum in his chest, slowing to a deep, rumbling presence in his
center—thudding in his ears to the same beat as their marching footsteps on the ground above. He
is as deep as this bunker has been dug—and deeper still.
On every side, the people wait, and listen. Above their heads, they hear nothing, and should feel
relieved. Yet they are restless, more so with each second that ticks by without the drop of a bomb,
without the crashing and cataclysm of the attack that looms on the horizon.
In the world above, the storm rages on. Here, in their safe haven, there is silence. There is nothing
but their breathing, and the dark.
The hand clasped around his own is warm—warm enough that it keeps him grounded despite the
heavy chill in the air. The raindrops that make their way down to soak into his skin are less
frequent now, warded away by the canopy of branches overhead.
Still, the dirt beneath his feet sticks and clings, slippery underfoot where it might once have
crumbled away. The hand that leads him forward is sturdy, insistent, enough to keep him upright
when the uneven ground threatens to bring him down and enough to reassure him when it is his
spirit that feels likely to give out instead of his legs. He squeezes the fingers that are laced between
his, instinctively seeking their comfort.
The owner of said hand pauses, turns to look back at him, sharp eyes piercing through the dim light
to land on his face. He stares up at the face above him, watches as it seems to melt through several
different emotions before breaking into a small smile.
“Are you alright, Jungkookie?” He is asked, and he immediately gives a nod, ignoring the way his
neck creaks at the movement.
“Good,” his companion hums, and tugs on his hand again to set Jungkook’s legs back into motion.
He stays a step or two behind as they continue to climb, but their hands always stay clasped, their
arms like a chain hanging between them that keeps them locked together.
A twig snaps between his toes, echoing sharply off the dark silhouettes of trees that surround them.
The rough bark is painful as it rasps against his bare skin, but he does not complain; the sudden
snap is startling, but he does not flinch. His focus is trained on the silhouette in front of him, not the
ghostly shapes that surround them, and that is where it will remain.
Despite his concern for Jungkook’s well-being, his companion is surprisingly stoic, entirely
focused on their journey forward as though he has a destination in mind. His feet are steady and his
movements self-assured as he climbs, heavy boots digging into the wet dirt with relative ease.
Jungkook with his feet bare is hard-pressed to keep up, and even more so to understand.
“Jimin…?” He whispers, his voice still sounding far too loud as it cuts through the dark. “Where—
Where are we going?”
He receives no answer. Jimin’s footsteps continue as if driven by an unheard beat, one foot
following after the other almost mechanically, robotically. They continue climbing, the crest of the
hill in sight, more and more raindrops making their way down to drip across their shoulders and
crown their heads.
Jimin’s head tilts to the side, glancing around at their surroundings with mild interest. “We used to
play in these woods,” he says, voice just as soft as Jungkook’s had been, “when we were young…”
Jungkook is too startled to reply, the burn of his straining muscles taking up far too much of his
energy for him to expend any on speaking anyhow.
“We would play games here,” Jimin continues, clearly content to carry on the conversation by
himself. He waves his free hand out to the side, pointing a finger to the spaces between the tree
trunks as they pass. “We would run and hide, stay out all day until the sun went down and our
mothers would come hunting for us instead…”
Jungkook blinks, his eyes unfocusing as he tries to picture it. The moonlight overhead makes the
trees glisten, casting long shadows down the slope of the hill, but if he focuses enough, he can
imagine sunlight striking their bark instead. As if from a dream, a distant memory, the sound of
laughter rises to his ears—childlike, teasing. It’s harder to picture Jimin himself as that child in his
vision, what with the serious set of his jaw, the sharpness of his eyes, the wild determination that
keeps him marching forward.
But as Jungkook stares up at his companion again, he finds the details becoming more clear.
Jimin, with his soft blonde hair ruffled by the wind—
Jimin, with his sharp jaw softened, his cheeks rounded by youth—
Jimin, with his plump lips turned up in a laugh, in a smile—
His heart positively aches at the image his mind conjures, especially when Jimin’s voice draws his
attention again and he blinks up at the janitor, his older and more hardened face contrasting
painfully with the picture of a younger and more innocent Jimin that Jungkook has conjured.
“Taehyungie would chase us but he’d never win,” Jimin is saying, carrying on as though
completely unaware of Jungkook’s mental wandering. “We were too fast for him. He always fell
behind—”
Suddenly, Jimin’s voice fades to nothing. Jungkook turns his eyes to the path ahead and finds that
they have reached the crest of the hill, an obvious flattening of the ground before them giving some
relief to his burning muscles as they both slow their footsteps to a stop.
The moonlight is brighter here, the trees spaced further apart along the slope to allow the bright
rays to seep through along with the rain. Jimin tugs him along to the very top of the hill where
there is a small clearing between the roots that gives them space to stand side by side. He doesn’t
let go of Jungkook’s hands even when they stop completely, and Jungkook makes no move to pull
away.
“Look,” Jimin whispers, nodding towards the view on the other side of the hill. There, cast in the
moonlight, spread out before them as though painted across the horizon, the forest spreads out as
far as the eye can see. Rolling hills cascade down below them, but Jungkook can see that they are
standing at one of the highest points possible for miles.
“This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home,” Jimin mutters, his eyes unfocused as he stares out
into the trees. Jungkook tears his eyes away to look over at the younger man again, watching his
lips form every word as he continues to speak. “I’ve never gone any further, even when I wanted to
sometimes…”
“Jimin—”
“I would come up here and look out there, you know?” Jimin continues as though Jungkook hadn’t
spoken at all, “I’d stare out the world out there and wonder what sorts of monsters were
hiding...waiting…”
‘Monsters?’ Jungkook thinks, and squeezes Jimin’s hand again. Jimin seems to falter at the
pressure, blinking slowly—possibly for the first time in far longer than could be comfortable—and
turns his entire body to face Jungkook instead. The dirt squelches and crunches beneath his boots.
He blinks again, slowly, eyes unfocused even as he meets Jungkook’s gaze.
“But there are monsters here, Jungkookie—so many monsters—”
Jungkook feels himself swaying forward under the weight of the other man’s words, the pull of his
intense expression, the way he clutches at Jungkook so desperately—
“Jimin, I—”
“They were supposed to protect us! They were supposed to keep us safe!” Jimin is almost shouting
now, his hands shaking in Jungkook’s grip. He had remained calm for however long they had been
climbing, but now the younger man seems thrust right back to his troubled state from hours before.
“But they’re horrible, wretched things, all of them! They’re always watching because they’re
monsters—”
“Wait, who—?!”
Without warning, something in Jimin’s mind seems to falter. His head whips around towards the
view in the distance, his hands finally leaving Jungkook’s as he steps away towards the edge of the
hill just before it declines again. With his stabilizing presence gone and his back turned away,
Jungkook has nothing to hold him upright and immediately wavers on the spot, his knees locking in
an effort to keep him from toppling right over into the dirt.
Jimin, meanwhile, has extended a hand out into the air above the slope of the hill as it cascades
down away from them, fingers outstretched as though he is reaching for something invisible in the
distance.
“Jungkookie…” He’s saying, and Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to force his mind
to focus, goddamn it. When he wrenches his lids open again, Jimin has moved again, leaning so far
forward that Jungkook is instantly awash in fear that the younger man might slip and topple down
the hill in front of his eyes. “Will you show me?” He’s asking, “Will you show me the world out
there?”
‘What—?’
“You—You’re from there, out there!” Jimin whispers excitedly. Jungkook can only imagine the
look on the blonde’s face, the way his elongated eyes must be spread wide, almost child-like—
“You’re not a monster, Jungkookie...you’re so good.” Jimin takes a deep breath and barrels on,
“You could show me the world out there, couldn’t you? You could—”
“I—”
Jimin whips around at the sound of Jungkook’s voice, cutting him off completely as he rushes back
to grab at Jungkook’s biceps. It’s like having whiplash, watching the way he is darting back and
forth, filled with an energy, an excitement that Jungkook has never seen from him.
“Please, will you come with me? Will you come with me to see the world?” Jimin asks—begs,
almost—his eyes wide as planets and shining in the moonlight. His skin glistens with rain, hair
darkened by water as it clings to his forehead and cheeks. His lips are so close, so tempting.
Jungkook is so stunned by him. Jimin is beautiful.
What can he say, truly? When Jimin is looking at him like that—
“Y-Yes, I—” Jimin’s face breaks into a smile before he even finishes talking, “I’ll—go anywhere
with you, Jimin—”
“Oh, baby—” Jimin lurches forward, pressing his lips to Jungkook’s before he even finishes
speaking, the end of his words murmured into the older man’s mouth. The touch is slick with rain,
their lips sliding against each other desperately, Jungkook immediately carried away by Jimin’s
fervor as though caught in the flood. He’s shivering, soaked from head to toe, but there’s warmth
beneath the layers between them and he wants more.
But just as he is regaining his bearings, leaning closer to be an active participant—Jimin’s lips are
gone. “Come on!” the younger man half-shouts, mouth splitting into a grin.
His small hands slide down Jungkook’s arms until their fingers twine together, and Jungkook finds
himself tugged forward a few steps, then jerked to the side, and pushed back again. They turn
around in a circle, Jungkook helpless to resist his companion’s much stronger grip as their
momentum begins to build—
Dancing, he realizes with a start. Jimin has begun leading them in a dance.
“We’re going on an adventure!”
The younger man leads Jungkook in a circle, their arms swinging wildly between them, Jimin
tugging one of Jungkook’s hands to his own hip while the other is held aloft. Together, they form
some semblance of a pose that would be appropriate for ballroom dancing—waltzing, maybe—
Jungkook’s feet just barely able to keep up as Jimin pulls him along in a circle between the trees,
twirling together all the while.
The raindrops hardly seem to touch them like this, their feet moving fast enough that the water
feels too slow to catch up, the trees around them blurring together in the periphery. And Jimin—
Jimin laughs, he laughs and laughs and laughs as they go, head thrown back in unadulterated joy.
He has never seen Jimin like this, not even close. It is almost like looking upon a completely
different face, for all that the lines of Jimin’s become soft and unfamiliar with use. Beautiful,
Jungkook thinks again. The world around them blurs into one indistinct mass of color and shadow
in the distance, the dark depths of his companion’s eyes the only thing he can properly see, the only
safe port in the storm.
Eventually, their spinning slows nearly to a stop, Jungkook’s head unconvinced for several long
moments more, and Jimin’s arms curl him closer until they are simply swaying in one spot
together, shuffling from side to side in the mere suggestion of the ludicrous dance Jimin had been
leading them in only moments before. Jungkook’s face immediately gravitates to the crook of
Jimin’s shoulder, nose pressed to his warm skin beneath a fringe of dripping-wet hair.
Jimin’s lips find his ear, pressing skin to skin as a soft rumble rises in the younger man’s throat,
giving life to a soft tune with which they can sway together. The tune is achingly familiar, the
same song Jimin always seems to gravitate towards in these stolen moments—a simple melody,
deceptively so, that makes something deep within Jungkook’s chest twist in pain.
Best as he can, he starts to hum along, ignoring the way it grates at his weakened vocal chords,
gravelly from disuse. He has never been one with a talent for music, but the notes fall from his lips
easy as breathing. They seem to be called from somewhere deep within, a life he has forgotten.
At first, their voices blend together into a strange harmony, Jimin’s tone floating easily just above
his own. He chases each note through his mind, following a melody that resonates somewhere
deep inside of him, forming from nowhere and then disappearing again to a place he cannot follow.
Their voices together are beautiful, he decides. Perfect.
But it takes only a few long moments for Jimin to falter. The younger man’s voice drops away
between one note and the next, leaving Jungkook to sing from memory alone. He continues on
unaware for probably too long, carried by the music, by the memory—too caught up in the sheer
comfort of it to realize that his voice is the only one he hears. It doesn’t occur to him that Jimin has
stopped moving as well until he starts to sway to one side and finds himself tugging against the
younger man’s grip, jerked sharply back into place by Jimin’s flexing fingers.
Jimin is no longer singing. The pitter-patter of rain on the branches overhead suddenly sounds
dangerously loud.
He draws his head back and finds himself eye to eye with a gaze that is now as black as the sky
above. The momentary softness of Jimin’s face has melted away again, giving way to sharp
cheekbones and a clenched jaw. The joy that had crinkled the corners of his eyes is nowhere to be
seen.
“J—Jimin?”
The younger man blinks slowly, and Jungkook recognizes the same blankness that greeted him
from the darkness earlier.
“Yes...?” He answers, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“What—” He swallows thickly. “What’s wrong?”

“We...can’t be doing this…”
“Doing—what?” He asks. Jimin releases him. The janitor’s expression is shockingly irreconcilable
with the man that had just spun him around in his arms; his posture suddenly intimidating, the
space he puts between their bodies turning instantly cold.
“We need to go back.”
Jimin’s tone leaves no room for argument, but Jungkook feels his mouth falling open to reply all
the same. He doesn’t even know where to begin making sense of this—
“But..I thought we were—”
“We need to go back.” Jimin hisses, and this time it shuts Jungkook’s protests down completely.
He takes a sharp inhale through his nose, fists clenching at his sides as though it could keep his
fingers from quivering.
“This is—this is all wrong,” Jimin begins to mutter, taking a nearly-stumbling step backwards,
then another. His stoic face seems to be crumpling by the second, collapsing in on itself under the
weight of the emotions that are rising within him. “No, no—this isn’t right—”
His hands come up to clutch at his head, fingers clenching in the water-darkened blonde strands,
his eyes staring through Jungkook far more than they seem to be looking at him.
“Please,” he whispers to himself, “not again!”
“Jimin—” Jungkook tries to take a step forward, “I—I don’t—understand—”
“Not again!” The younger man shouts, startling Jungkook back again. “You have to go back, you
have to go back—!”
The utter panic in Jimin’s voice is enough to spur Jungkook into immediately agreeing, his hands
flying up in surrender. “Okay! Okay, Jimin, I’ll go back, I’ll go back, it’s okay—”
“Yes—yes—you have to go back, we can’t—can’t let it happen again—”
“I—I’ll go with you! Let’s go back!” He urges, gesturing with one hand towards the path by which
they came, the other waving Jimin closer as though he only needed some light encouragement.
Jimin’s wide eyes flicker from his hand up to Jungkook’s face and then back again, the younger
man clearly sprinting through mental calculations to decide if Jungkook is telling the truth.
“You’ll...go?” He asks, haltingly. Jungkook offers his companion an earnest nod of agreement,
beckoning Jimin closer as though dealing with a skittish animal more than a man.
“O-Of course I’ll go,” he reassures the other man, “I promised, didn’t I?”
“Promised…” Jimin blinks firmly, his face pinching tighter in concentration as he considers
Jungkook’s words. Eventually, Jungkook feels a set of tiny fingers slide into his outstretched palm,
their owner clearly still in the throes of anxiety but willing enough to draw nearer.
Jungkook fights through the scratching and burning of his vocal chords as he tries to pour every
ounce of sincerity he can into his words. “I promised, I—I would follow you anywhere…”
“Yes...yes...Jungkookie…” He mutters, and allows Jungkook to lead this time as he takes a step
back towards the downward slope of the hill again.
“It—It’ll be alright, Jimin,” he whispers over and over again. “That’s it...we’re g-going back, see?
It’ll be...it’ll be alright…”
He’s not even sure what he means, but it seems to reassure the younger man all the same, Jimin
following more easily by the second. With their positions reversed, Jungkook takes the lead
through the tree trunks, fingers clasped between Jimin’s much smaller ones, trusting some
rudimentary part of his brain to remember how to take them back the way they came.
The further into the woods they travel, back down-down-down into the valley where the
community lies, the darker their path becomes. The moonlight overhead swiftly disappears above
the canopy, no more than a sliver of light peeking through here and there to guide their way.
Unconsciously, their bodies drift closer together for warmth, even as the rain, too, disappears
through the branches.
At his side, Jimin shivers. Jungkook squeezes his hand as tightly as he can manage. His
companion’s earlier words seem to play louder and louder in his mind even as his own voice
eventually dies in his throat.
‘There are monsters here, Jungkookie,’ Jimin had said, ‘so many monsters.’
But as he chances a glance down at the man now curled into his side, trembling like a leaf barely
clinging to a branch, eyes wide and haunted as he stares out into the shadows before them—
Jungkook can’t help but wonder what sort of demons Jimin carries inside of himself that will
follow wherever he goes.
Choi Household—Second Floor—Hallway 08.28.18 12:34AM
“Tear it all apart.”

As he stands in the doorway, his patience has all but failed him. This is their final house to search,
and the odds of success are running thin. He gazes down the hallway to the rows of doors flung
wide on either side, the rooms’ contents spilling out on the floor where their inhabitants dragged
whatever they had with them in their haste to evacuate.
‘This is pointless,’ he thinks, though he shows none of his misgivings on his face.
The sirens wailing overhead are dampened slightly by the walls that surround them, but still loud
enough that it is hard to make out the words being passed back and forth between the guards that
have followed him inside. Yet, at his short command, they snap to attention, all eyes trained on
him.
“Yes, sir!”
The rush of motion that is set off the moment he speaks is deeply satisfying. It does little to quell
the anger simmering beneath his ribcage, but he knows it is only a matter of time.
It will be found. He is not to be denied, not again.
Guards rush by on either side, leaving him a wide berth as they dart forward into each open room
with single-minded determination. What immediately follows is the sound of hundreds of closets
being flung open, drawers tossed to the floor, sheets being ripped from their beds—all collateral
damage in the pursuit of their prey.
Ignoring any voices that call out to him from behind, he picks his way through the building as
though supervising their efforts, though his eyes barely take in anything in front of him, his mind
focused on more important pursuits entirely. They have nothing useful to tell him, nothing but
unwelcome news.
“Mr. Kim—” He raises a hand to cut off whomever has dared to demand his attention, passing by
without a word.
This is fruitless, and he knows it. It’s time for a different tack entirely.
His hand drops to his pocket to retrieve his radio, bringing it up to his lips without so much as a
greeting. The device crackles to life with the press of a button, connecting him instantly to the one
person he has any interest in at the moment.
CRRRHHHH—
“Yoongi.”
A pause.
“—yes, sir?” His right-hand man answers, voice familiar even through the microphone distortion.
“Any news?”
“None, sir. Nothing has turned up here.”
“I expect answers, Yoongi.”
“Of course, sir,” Yoongi replies, and Seokjin knows that the younger man means it.
The radio is heavy in his hand. He feels a prickle at the back of his neck as he stares down at the
device, considering his next words carefully.
CRRRHHHH—
“Check the tapes.”
“There’s a guard already working on—”
He cuts the teacher off immediately. “No, I want it to be you. There’s no one I can trust more. It
has to be you, do you understand?”
Another pause.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Take care of this for me, Yoongi. You know what’s at stake—”
“—say no more, sir. Consider it done.”
The prickling has spread across his shoulders, alerting him to eyes on his back, a presence drawing
near. He straightens his shoulders, his hand dropping down to his side. Taking a deep breath, he
swings his body around with a snap—
—and comes eye to eye with his own reflection.
“Kim Seokjin,” an even, female voice greets him.
He refuses to take a step back even as his reflection draws closer, intimidatingly so, framed in a
long, dark robe that conceals the figure beneath. He blinks, and watches the mirror image of
himself in her mask follow suit.
“Councilwoman Kim,” he replies, keeping his tone just as even.
“This is quite the mess you have on your hands.”

“Indeed,” he grits out, “it certainly spells trouble for all of us.”
As always, the Councilwoman’s face is hidden from view, so it is only in his mind that he pictures
her raising one eyebrow at him, judgment clear even in her imaginary expression. He feels heat rise
in his chest, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around the radio he clutches.
Behind the Councilwoman’s shoulders, several identical hooded figures appear in the hallway and
make their approach, their gloved hands clutched sagely in front of their stomachs.
“The Council is concerned, Seokjin.”
“Understandable, we should all be concerned that the doll has—”
“We are concerned,” a second voice interrupts from behind one of the masks, male this time, “that
you have lost control of the situation.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do not pretend to be surprised, Seokjin,” the Councilwoman continues, pointing an accusatory
finger at him. Seokjin grits his teeth, biting back a response he will only come to regret. “A
valuable asset has gone missing under your nose, not once but twice now. We will not forget this.”
“Do you think I have forgotten—”
“We are under no delusions about you, Kim Seokjin,” a third Councilman clarifies, picking up the
conversation as though he had been the one speaking all along. They speak as though they are of
one mind, a multi-headed dragon. He could cut off one head and find two more ready to swallow
him whole. “Do not mistake our meaning.”
“I—”
“We are observing very closely, Mr. Kim,” another, more familiar voice chimes in. The crowd of
Council members only seems to grow larger by the second as their ranks grow with new additions
appearing in the hallway unannounced, moving silent as the grave in their approach. If he did not
know better, he would wonder if they had added new members among their ranks without
informing him, but—no, that would be impossible. It only feels as though he is being surrounded,
he tells himself.
“Certainly,” he bites back, fixing a pleasant smile on his lips. “I would expect nothing less.”
“See that this is resolved, and quickly,” the Councilwoman adds, taking another step forward so
that she and Seokjin are nearly toe-to-toe. If it weren’t for the mask separating them, he imagines
he might even be able to smell her breath, see the whites of her eyes. “We are always watching.”
Seokjin hesitates, swallowing thickly. He gives a twitch of his lips, then finally concedes and takes
a step back—leaving space enough to bow slightly to the crowd standing before him.
“Councilwoman Kim, Councilman Lee, Councilman Im, Councilwoman Choi...esteemed elders,”

he addresses the group, naming those whose voices he recognized, “Thank you for your service
and dedication. Your wisdom is always appreciated.”
There is no reply, though he hears the subtle shifting of their robes as they move. He straightens
upright and stares them down with as much confidence as he can muster, meeting his own gaze
reflected in their masks without hesitation now.
“Rest assured, this situation will be taken care of and peace will be restored. I have every intention
of regaining our lost resource within the night—and those who are responsible will be...swiftly
dealt with.”
“See that they are,” the Councilwoman agrees, bowing her own hooded head towards him as well.
And with that, the Council members behind her seem to take her words as a dismissal, ending the
conversation by turning on their heels and beginning to make their way back down the hallway
much the same way they had arrived.
The only member who lingers is Councilwoman Kim herself, remaining still even as the last of her
companions disappears from her side. For a long moment, Seokjin finds himself staring her down
in silence, feeling the heavy weight of her gaze upon him. Together, the Council are an imposing
force, but somehow—her solitary figure is much more intimidating all on its own.
Still, she too decides to take her leave eventually, breaking the tension as she turns her back
towards him as well and follows after her counterparts without another word. Seokjin waits, eyes
trained on her retreating form until the dragging ends of her dark robe disappear through the
doorway at the end of the hall.
CRRRHHHH—
The radio is back at his mouth before he even realizes that he has moved, the line open and
crackling. His hand is trembling as he grips the device at his lips, but the voice that leaves his
mouth is eerily calm.
“Yoongi.”
“Sir?” The teacher answers after only a beat.
“Change of plans. Leave the tapes, that can wait.”
“What do you—”
A smile begins to curl at his lips again—but this time, a genuine one. Now that his mind is made
up, he can almost taste victory on the horizon.
“There’s no more time to waste,” he orders. “Get the dogs.”

{art by @asphyxjk}
The building is eerily quiet on the inside, a chilling counterpart to the horrible howl of warnings
outside. The noise echoes back from the trees—a true siren’s call.
The classroom is a gaping maw, chairs piled atop desks like teeth attempting to bite as they pass.
His footsteps are as silent as he can make them, the doll’s even more so.
Here, the world is dark and quiet.
Here, there are monsters in the walls.

Classroom 3—First Floor—East 08.28.18 2:07AM
His footsteps echo off the rows of lockers, made heavy by every impact of his boots against the tile
below. This is far from his usual post, and his eyes remain peeled for any movement out of place,
any shift in the unfamiliar shadows. The rain pattering against the front windows strikes loud
enough to set him on edge. From this distance, the sirens at the center of the village are muffled,
delayed by the walls and the distance—but still loud enough that he worries he might miss
something in his search.
He sweeps his flashlight back and forth across the wide, empty spaces between classrooms, other
hand always resting against the gun clipped at his hip, ready to draw the weapon at the slightest
sign of trouble.
When a light springs up from inside a nearby classroom, his fingers dance along the harness—but
relax again when he spots the unmistakable shape of a second flashlight beam emerge from the
doorway, held aloft by another guard who has finished searching the room beyond. They offer each
other a brief nod of acknowledgement as they pass, his colleague turning towards the right while
he continues down the left side of the hall toward the other wing of the building.
Here, the sirens are even more distant and haunting, catching his attention like a mother awoken by
her baby’s cry in the night. The west wing is darker, as of yet unexplored, and he has to take a deep
breath to steady his shaking hands before forging on. What threat might lie in the shadows? How
could they have penetrated this far past their defenses, to attack the very heart of their community?
He shudders at the very thought.
‘But Principal Kim will protect us,’ he thinks. ‘Yes, he always protects us.’
He squares his shoulders at that. It is Principal Kim who has called him here tonight—Principal
Kim who is trusting him, trusting all of them, to make the community safe again. To recover what
they have lost. He will not let their leader down. They are always watching.
With renewed vigor, he marches straight into the next classroom he comes across, refusing to
hesitate as he crouches to peer beneath the skeletal outlines of the desks that spread across the
room or flings open the doors to every closet that lines the walls. With every empty space, his
heartbeat rises in tempo. He should be reassured by their vacantness, but instead it tightens his fist
around his flashlight, sends goosebumps along his arms, raises his hackles in warning. There is
something—there has to be something—
Suddenly, he freezes. His foot hangs in the air, halfway through the motion of taking another step.
His body has registered it first, but his mind is quick to catch up. He turns his head to the side,
craning his neck towards the sound that had caught his attention—
There!
There, somewhere—faint, distant, but clearly audible—his ears catch the unmistakable sound of
voices, of...whispering.
He pauses there for a minute, moving only to put his foot down, and focuses all of his attention on
that sound, ears peeled to determine the direction of the source. It has to be close, somewhere
nearby—at least close enough to reach him on this far end of the building where he is supposed to
be alone. The sound is eerie, unnerving. Unlike the sirens, which serve as a warning—the whispers
feel distinctly like a threat.
Even worse, they seem to be coming from everywhere.

The more he listens, the harder it becomes to pinpoint the source. The sound doesn’t seem to be
getting louder, exactly, but certainly growing in intensity. The whispers are unintelligible, but he
can hear them distinctly, so close—they have to be so close—
His cage is empty. Just the way he left it.
The bars are solid, sturdy and strong. The moon has abandoned him here.
He strips away his clothes like shedding a second skin. Back to basics. Back to nature. It’s safer
this way, he thinks. He is a snake trapped in the weeds.
The water is cold when it strikes his skin, cold like the rain. If he cries while it runs over his
cheeks, there is no one around to see. The water washes him clean all the same.
He wraps his naked form in new layers. Protection from the world, from the cold. Each one is a
shield. Each one is a mask. All are a lie.
Basement—Stairwell—East 08.28.18 2:13AM
Before, his footsteps felt thunderous—now, they are as silent as the grave. One misstep might give
him away, he knows this. There is far too much to risk. The community is relying on him.
He tilts his head down towards the stairs, craning his neck to hear as much as he can. Here, the
whispers clearly waft up towards him from the dark. There are two voices now, distinct and
separate from each other. He fights down a smile, proud of his own cleverness.
The sound wasn’t coming from everywhere. It was coming from down below.
One after another, he descends the steps, his flashlight now dark in his hand. His breath is shallow,
his ribcage tight with anxiety around his lungs. ‘There’s someone down here,’ he thinks. ‘There’s
someone down here that’s not supposed to be.’
The closer he draws to the sound, the more distinct their words become—and the more
frightening.
“—could you be so stupid?” He hears someone hiss, and a heavy thud accompanies the words. He
can only imagine something being struck—or some one .
There’s a pause, filled only with the sounds of heavy breathing, both his own and that of someone
else, there, in the darkness. He steps closer, and closer again. The edge of a door frame comes into
view on his right as he blinks, his eyes adjusting to the limited light.
“I’m sorry!” A different voice suddenly bursts out, startling his hand back to the clip over his gun.
“I’m sorry—!”
It’s a wretched thing, the sound of that apology. It seems to come from a deep, guttural place. The
owner of the voice is crying, clearly, and shrill, desperate—
“—have to clean up your mess now,” the first voice interrupts, and the words are spit like venom.
He swallows around the knot in his throat, his palms sweaty. These two, they must be—
“You don’t—”
“Yes, I do!”
“I never wanted—!”
“I don’t care what you want anymore—”
CRRRHHHH—
At his hip, his radio bursts to life with a terrible crackle. Around him, all falls back to silence, the
voices disappearing instantly at the interruption.
“Mr. Kim, sir?!” A familiar voice hisses through the speaker. One of the other guards. She sounds
frantic.
“—what?” The Principal’s voice answers immediately, curt and impatient.
“Sir, we, we found it—” His heart jumps up into his throat, replacing the knot that had formed
there. “—we found it!”
“The doll?!” Their leader demands.
“Yes, the doll, the doll, it’s here—”
“Where—?!”
“In the classroom, sir, it’s—it’s right where it was supposed to be! We don’t—”
Seokjin cuts the other guard off so swiftly that through the distortion of the radio, his words nearly
sound like a snarl. “Bring it to me, immediately.”
“Right away, sir—”
CRRRHHHH—
As the last crackle and hiss of the radio fades away, his eyes fly up to the doorway just before him.
For the briefest of seconds, he meets a set of eyes staring right back at him, a gaze as black as the
shadows around it, a horrible, consuming darkness—
He blinks—and the image is gone.
A hallucination. A trick of the low light.
Still, that does not stop his hand from flying to his gun, the weapon thrust out into the air before
him. It does not stop his heart from giving a thunderous chorus against his ribcage. It does not stop
his voice from wavering as he shouts, “W-Who’s there?!”
There is no answer.
He fumbles to turn his flashlight on, fingers slipping across the button before it clicks into place
and casts a sudden beam straight ahead of him. The light is far braver than he, dancing far past the
door frame and into the room beyond, illuminating nothing but empty air in his firing line.
He lets out a shaky breath, muscles nearly too tense to cooperate, and musters a step forward,
raising his voice again. “I said, who’s there?! Answer me!”
When he again receives no reply, his feet manage another step, and then another, carrying him
forward into the small room with as much confidence as he can muster—all the while he reminds
himself that he has to be brave, he has to do this for the good of the community, this is his job—
Yet the room is empty. Completely empty as far as his eyes can see. He spins in a circle, the beam
of his flashlight casting long shadows around the room as he aims it every which way, searching
for the source of the voices from before—and finding nothing.
It is only when he begins to lower the light, to reach for his harness to clip his weapon back in
place, that he hears it—a whimper. So small that he almost believes for a moment that he imagined
it, just as he imagined a shadowy figure in the dark before—
But as he pauses, he hears it again. There, off to his right. He whips around, the light preceding
him, to the far wall of the small room, where he finds a simple bed pushed up against the wall,
sheets rumbled from use. The mattress is bare, clearly no one hiding beneath the threadbare sheets
—but as he shines the light across it, he hears that same sound again, clearly coming from directly
in front of him.
Taking a deep, steadying breath once more, he holds his gun aloft as he lowers himself—slowly,
very slowly—down to one knee beside the bed frame. And as he casts the light beneath the
mattress, he finds himself face to face with the wide, frightened eyes of an animal—
No, of a human—though one that seems nearly as wild as an animal at first glance.
Its body is curled in on itself, shivering from head to toe, eyes unblinking, unseeing, as the light
shines directly at them. And that face...he knows that face.
“—Park Jimin?” He asks, stunned.
The young man makes no move at the sound of his own name, body still quivering uncontrollably
as the light is swept up and down his form.
His radio is back in his hand before he even processes what he is seeing enough to realize that he
needs it.
CRRRHHHH—
“S-Sir?” He asks into the receiver, his eyes never leaving the body before him as he waits for a
response.
“—what?” The Principal’s voice shoots back immediately, this time directed at him.
“Sir, I’ve, uh—I’ve found the janitor, too—”

“The janitor?” He winces at the sharp, disbelieving tone that he receives in return. “Why on earth
would I care about that?”
“Well, uh, sir—he—he’s in the building, sir, he’s still here, and I thought—”
“I don’t have time for your babbling, deal with it yourself!”
“But, sir—”
“Do whatever you want with him, I don’t care anymore. He’s useless to me.” The Principal’s tone
makes it clear that there is no room for argument.
“Yes, sir—”
“And I want no more distractions tonight, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir—”
CRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHH—
The line suddenly fills with static, effectively cutting off anything more he could have possibly
said. His eyes flicker back down to the young man lying before him, just barely visible beneath the
bed frame—still not looking at anything in particular, which is especially unnerving—and he
ponders his next move.
CRRRHHHH—
He flicks the radio over to a different channel, one that allows him to speak only to the other
guards—and hopefully not disturb their leader any further. The very thought makes him sick to his
stomach.
“Team, 10-33,” he calls out into the receiver, “10-33.” All available guards respond. “I have a
Code 8 in the basement, requesting backup.”
A pause, then—
CRRRHHHH—
“—Code 8, responding. What’s the situation?”
“Possible intruder in the janitor’s quarters—”
“—Is the janitor detained?”
“10-4, I have the janitor detained, but—” He hesitates, wondering how to explain what’s on his
mind. “I have reason to believe that we are not alone down here.”
For a long moment, there is no reply. He considers repeating himself, explaining—but just as he
lifts the receiver to his mouth again, he is interrupted by another burst of static.
CRRRHHHH—
“—10-4. We’re on our way. Stay put.”
There are hands, so—so many hands—
Hands that claw and teeth that bite—

Front Office—Security—First Floor 08-28-18 2:11AM
The office is eerily silent, even for this time of night. The walls muffle the unmistakable cry of
sirens outside, but the pitch still manages to pierce through wood and stone. At a time like this, it is
inescapable. And every instinct in his body is telling him to run, to hide, to take shelter as he has
been taught to do for all these years—
But he has his orders. And so, he sits, and he waits.
His fingers scrub over the goosebumps that have crawled over his skin, rubbing at them through
his tunic as though the fabric might somehow erase them from his flesh. It’s a futile effort—his
body has been on edge since he was wrenched unceremoniously from his bed hours before. Not by
the sirens, as everyone else had, but by a thunderous series of knocks against his door that dragged
all of them, eventually, into this mess.
The bay of screens in front of him is unsurprisingly void of movement, the only motion that catches
his eye the flicker of static across the screen at random intervals.
That is, until a dark shadow draws his attention from a screen far to the left side of the panel. When
he flicks his eyes over to trace the movement, leaning forward in his chair so suddenly that it
creaks threateningly under his weight, he finds himself dumbfounded.
They found him.
He can’t believe his eyes, but the sight he is confronted by is undeniable. Three figures, moving
swiftly, have cornered a fourth in the center of the screen—and the room beyond is a familiar one.
Tile floors and rows of desks and a chalkboard covered in his familiar scrawl. His classroom.
He doesn’t immediately recognize the men who have entered the room, but he knows by the shape
of their silhouettes that they must be security, especially when they each draw weapons from their
hips and point their barrels at the smaller figure that they have surrounded.
The doll.
He knows the young man immediately on sight—what he doesn’t know is how he could have
possibly gotten to where he is. Back in the classroom, back where he’s supposed to be. Back to
where he had somehow disappeared without a trace hours ago.
He slides closer to the screen, knuckles white with the strength that he grips the tabletop in front of
him as his eyes flicker between each of the guards, watching the way they circle around the doll as
though afraid that he might lunge at them, might attack like a cornered animal. The doll,
meanwhile...does nothing. Not that he expected the young man to.
‘Fools,’ he thinks, watching the barrels of their guns as they are waved around, always pointed at
the doll even as their free hands gesture to each other. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that they
are far more likely to attack than the doll ever will be. He may be broken, but he isn’t wild.
Suddenly, at his side, he hears the tell-tale crackle of his radio signalling the arrival of an incoming
transmission seconds before it lands.
CRRRHHHH—
“Mr. Kim, sir?!”

“—what?”
“Sir, we, we found it—” He watches with rapt attention as one of the guards paces away from the
doll, clearly speaking animatedly into his radio. “ —we found it!”
“The doll?!”
“Yes, the doll, it’s here—”
“Where—?!”
“In the classroom, sir, it’s—it’s right where it was supposed to be! We don’t—”
Seokjin is beyond furious, that much is clear as he growls out, “Bring it to me, immediately.”
And, god—he’s so grateful to be away from that scene at the moment, to be watching all of this
from a distance—to be able to stay here, in the comfort of these four walls, away from the chaos.
And yet, some small corner of his mind unkindly reminds him that Seokjin is only feet away,
really—his voice may be filtering through the speaker as though he is a million miles away, but the
older man is truly only three steps up and two doors down from his current hiding place.
And it is this thought, more terrifying than anything he is watching unfold in front of him, that
spurs him into action.
“Right away, sir—”
CRRRHHHH—
He swings his chair back into place at the center of the desk, nearly sliding too far in his haste
before he manages to catch himself. With only a few practiced keystrokes, he has the masterlist of
security tapes open in front of him, now showing him all of the different feeds collected on one
screen. Here, he can watch side-by-side as the doll is wrangled over one of the guard’s shoulders
and carried from the room, down the hallway, and to the stairs that descend to the first floor.
But it isn’t their current movements that concern him, no—
CRRRHHHH—
“Yoongi.” His radio crackles to life beside him once more, this time on the private channel he
shares with the principal alone.
He scrambles to bring the device up to his lips, clicking open the channel without looking, his eyes
still fixed on the screen before him even as he answers.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want those tapes searched from beginning to end.”
“Of course, sir,” he begins, his fingers sliding over the keys as he rewinds the tape of the
classroom to do just that, “I’m already—”
Seokjin doesn’t seem to hear him—or, more likely, can’t be brought to care.
“I need answers, Yoongi, now!” He snaps, and his words crackle at the edges as the device
deforms them. “Find me the person who is responsible, do you hear me?!”
“Yes, sir, of course—”
CRRRHHHH—
Before he even has a chance to complete his sentence, Seokjin has disconnected. And in the
absence of the crackling and sputtering of the radio frequency in his ear, the tape he is staring
down at is painfully quiet. He clicks the rewind button and watches hours skip by in a matter of
seconds.
Without sound, every motion that is recorded is all the more startling. Without color, every figure
is a dark shadow that creeps in from off-screen. And without the ability to stop it, to change what
he is watching, every movement is a ghost come to haunt him in the night.
Wailing.
That’s the only noise he can possibly compare it to—the wailing of a hundred voices raised in
grief, in fear. A thousand voices. More voices than he has ever heard at once.
It is a sound that grates at his nerves, setting his entire body on edge even as he tumbles from his
bed, locking up his knees when he tries to take to his feet. His hands pull trinkets from his desk, his
shelves, as he tries to grab for something steady to keep himself upright. His heart beats against his
chest like a war drum.
As he flings himself across his room towards his door, the wailing begins to subside, slowly fading
as though it is moving away from him to torture some other frightened soul instead. His hands
shake as he tries to grip the door handle, quivering fingers barely able to muster enough of a grip
to turn the knob and fling the door open to enable his escape.
When the wood strikes his wall, he hears several other doors along the hallway do the same, their
inhabitants spilling out one by one like so many ants scurrying above-ground to protect their hive.
Every set of eyes he meets is as wide as his own, their expressions as frightened. Their faces are
familiar, but there is only one particular countenance that draws his attention, draws his shaky
legs forward into a pair of familiar and comforting arms.
“Jinnie, what’s—”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, it just—”
Their words are cut off by another terrible rise of that same wailing, the sound piercing through
the walls and blistering at their ears. It’s so loud, so terribly loud, and they can barely raise their
voices to be heard over it.
“Namjoon—!” He tries saying the younger boy’s name, but even in such close quarters, he can
hardly make out the sound of his own voice.
Namjoon’s hands squeeze at his shoulders, communicating at least a tiny shred of comfort to him
without words, the most they can manage at the moment. On every side, the crowd of their family
members grows larger, pressing in, the people shaking and quivering and wondering what to do as
one.
Same as before, the wailing eventually begins to fade. All eyes cast up towards the ceiling, as that
is where the noise seems to be coming from, staring this way and that as though they could
pinpoint the source of it if they only looked hard enough. Seokjin buries his face in Namjoon’s
shoulder, and waits.
“What do we do?!” A voice from somewhere behind them shouts as soon as it is safe to be heard
again. An answering murmur of indecision and confusion rises immediately after, every voice
undercut with a current of fear.
“—I’ve never heard anything like—”
“It scared me awake!”
“Where is it coming from?!”
“Is this it—?”

“Is this it?!”
“Are we going to die—”
“Quiet!”
A single, powerful voice cuts through the crowd, and all falls to silence. All, but the returning rise
of that terrible wailing from every direction.
They turn, necks craning, bodies shifting apart to make room, as a tall an imposing figure cuts
through the crowd. Seokjin extricates himself from his friend’s arms, turning as well and
straightening his shoulders best as he can as he raises his head to meet the dark eyes of his father.
“Seokjin.”
“Father,” he answers, bowing his head slightly in greeting.
“Why are you all here? Don’t you understand what’s happening?” The man barks, raising his
head to stare around at the other members of the household with an icy expression. Seokjin can’t
see, but he can feel the way the bodies that surround him immediately recoil in shame at their
leader’s judgment.
“Sir—”
“Go, go now!” He commands, pointing forcefully towards the end of the hallway, “The sirens are
going off for a reason!”
Even as he speaks, that wailing—the siren—starts up again, rising in intensity until it nearly
drowns out any other sound. And yet, his father’s voice seems to cut through it all.
“Women and children, to the shelters! Men, arm yourselves. Gather in the meeting hall. Go,
now!”
A flurry of motion erupts at his words instantaneously. Voices all around rise in frantic cries for
one another, hands reaching over and under and around bodies to grip their loved ones, their
children. Seokjin feels Namjoon’s hands giving his sides a comforting squeeze. He begins to turn
with the rest of the crowd, but the sound of his name stops him in his tracks.
“Seokjin.”
He turns back, finding his father’s eyes fixed on his face again. He swallows thickly. The ongoing
siren has begun to make his ears ache. “Yes, sir?”
“Come with me.”
“But—” He glances to the side, towards where he knows Namjoon is still lingering, waiting for
him.
“Now.” His father leaves no room for argument. He never does.
“...yes, sir.”
His father turns without another word and disappears through the crowd of people frantically
weaving back and forth, their clasped hands only parting to allow their leader through before
scrambling for one another again. The air crackles with fear.
Seokjin waits until his father is just far enough not to hear before he whips back around, relieved to
see that Namjoon had, in fact, lingered behind for him.
“Joonie,” he says, and Namjoon sweeps him back into a tight hug. He pulls away faster than he’d
like, but—there’s no time. There’s no damn time. “You have to go.”
“But what about y—”
“I’ll be fine, you just have to go, now, okay?” His friend’s hesitation is written all over his face,
the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands refuse to release Seokjin’s sleep shirt. “Please.
Find Yoongi, okay? Just—find Yoongi, and make sure he’s safe. Get to the bunker. Can you do that
for me?”
Namjoon bites his lip, but eventually nods and lets his fingers unclench. Seokjin takes a step
backwards, his gaze staying fixed on the familiar face in front of him, those comforting eyes. “Stay
safe. Please.”
“Seokjin—”
“I’ll see you both again soon! Get Yoongi. That’s the most important thing, okay? I’ll be there
soon, just—wait for me.” Namjoon looks as though he is about to cry. Seokjin feels his own eyes
burn as though mirroring the younger boy. “Go!” The siren rises in pitch around them again,
forcing him to shout as he begins backing away. “Go!”
He turns away before he loses his nerve, taking off down the hallway without a backwards glance.
They’ll be okay, he tells himself. They have to be.
The crowd does not part for him as it did for his father, his shoulders bumped and brushed by
dozens of stragglers as he fights through the crowd the opposite direction, eyes now fixed on the
silhouette of his father’s head and shoulders towering over the crowd. He catches up as quickly as
he can, not uttering a word when he makes it to his father’s elbow, not wanting to draw attention to
his previous absence.
In any case, his father doesn’t seem to care, wholly focused on the path he is taking as he reaches
the end of the hallway and swings himself around the corner to begin descending the stairs.
Before, the older man had taken on a calm, collected appearance, his expression carefully
schooled to remain perfectly in control even as the other members of the household panicked
around him—now, however, his pace becomes more frantic, his pace suddenly difficult for Seokjin
to keep up with as they bolt down the steps two at a time. When he catches glimpses of his father’s
face, he watches the man’s calm exterior melt and give way to raw, unfiltered anger.
“Sir—?” He tries to ask as he is led around another corner and down a second set of stairs, their
footsteps thunderous as they echo through the empty stairwell. His father ignores him completely,
only picking up the pace further so that Seokjin begins to fall behind.
His heart is just as thunderous in his chest as his footsteps are on the concrete, blood rushing in
his ears so that the siren begins to sound muffled, faded in the distance.
Or—no—
No, not because of his heartbeat. The sound is truly growing softer, thinner, the further down they
travel.
Up ahead, his father has stopped at a door across from the bottom of the stairs, now staring up at
Seokjin impatiently. He nearly stumbles on his way down the last few steps, collecting himself at
the last second as he comes to a sliding halt beside his father.
“Out of the way,” the older man commands, and he springs back to allow his father access to the
door he had just blocked. His father snatches a set of keys from his own pocket and unlocks the
handle with far more fervor than necessary, flinging the door open with such force that its handle
crunches into the drywall on impact. His father pays no mind, diving down into the darkness
beyond the door without hesitation.
It occurs to Seokjin as he hurries to descend past the threshold—nearly tripping again when he
realizes that a steep set of stairs lies before him—that he has never been to this part of the house
before. He has probably walked past this door thousands of times in his life, but he has never seen
it open. If he really racks his brain, he can vaguely remember believing the door to lead to a
closet, or some sort of storage—but nothing more.
And yet, as they reach the bottom of the staircase, turn a corner and descend even further below
the earth, he realizes just how very wrong he had been.
‘Just how far down does this go?’ He wonders, though he does not dare voice his question out
loud.
Eventually, his father throws out an arm and catches Seokjin square in his chest, knocking the
wind right out of him. His heart, which was already beating double-time from his efforts to keep
up, seems to skip a beat at the sudden impact. He chokes, coughs, blinks back tears from his eyes.
And when he can finally see again, his father is holding another door open for him, one that he can
barely see in the darkness.
This door does not open to another staircase—he would surely believe he was going mad if it did—
but instead to a small room, barely large enough for them both to stand side-by-side. Here, the
sirens above are barely more than a ringing in his ears, a distant reminder of the chaos above.
Here, the world is dark and quiet.
His father flicks on the lights and settles down into the single chair in the center of the room,
scooting forward toward what looks like a desk before Seokjin’s eyes can even adjust to the sudden
brightness. He scrubs his fists over his eyes and opens them again to find his father fidgeting with
some sort of strange device, plugging in wires and pressing some sort of buttons with practiced
ease. Seokjin has seen electrical devices before, built into their light system and whatnot—but
nothing like this.
“What is it...?” He can’t help but ask as he draws closer.
“It’s called a ‘computer,’” his father replies briskly, his hands fluttering across the rows of
buttons laid out on the tabletop. Something shifts, appears, moves on the flat surface in front of
them, some sort of light from within illuminating words on the front of the device.
“Is it—” He reaches out to touch the glowing surface, but his father shoulders him out of the way.
“Is it magic?” He asks.
His father snorts, shakes his head. “No, not magic. It comes from the outside world.”
“Out—”
“You may be still a child, Seokjin,” his father goes on, speaking while he types, “But soon you will
be a man. And there is much you still have to learn, much I need to teach you.” He presses one of
the buttons in front of himself with a flourish, and something on the front of the device seems to
spring to life. Seokjin leans closer to look at it, squinting—then lurches back as he recognizes the
familiar image before him.
The device, the computer, is projecting an image of their house—of the very hallway they had
vacated only minutes before. Only now, the carpet is bare, the doors that line their home flung
open, the building completely empty.
As his eyes trace all along the image in wonder, he catches a small string of text printed at the
bottom of the image, detailing the sight before him perfectly.
Kim Household—Main Floor—Hallway 09:17.93 3:47AM
“How—how is this possible?” He asks, his mind spinning in wonder.
“Cameras,” his father explains, but gives no further detail.
‘Cameras…? The ones we use for portraits?’ He wonders. ‘But how could that show what is
happening right now?’
But his father is far too engrossed in his work to answer any more questions, and Seokjin knows
enough to keep his mouth shut as the older man begins pressing at the buttons on the device again.
The image before them flickers like a lamp, then shifts to the side, replaced by an entirely new
image with a different label.
Kim Household—Main Floor—Entryway 09.17.93 3:48AM
Sure enough, the image depicts the front door to their home, just as he has always seen it from the
main staircase that leads upstairs. The entryway is just as empty, now, as the hallway had been in
the image before.
Another press of a button and the image is replaced again, but this time outside of the building
altogether.
Kim Household—Front Door 09.17.93 3:48AM

Before he can even fully register it, his father switches the image again, and again, faster every
time. He barely has time to read the label before his father moves on to the next. It occurs to him
after a few moments that his father is looking for something.
Academy—Main Floor—Entrance 09.17.93 3:47AM
He recognizes the school, the gathering place where he usually spends his free time with his
friends—
Academy—Basement—Tunnel 3 09.17.93 3:47AM
Suddenly, a dark place, a tunnel he has never seen before, one that appears to be constructed
much like the one that leads to this very room—
Gathering Hall—Main Hall 09.17.93 3:48AM
For the first time, he recognizes people, the silhouettes of familiar people, members of his own
household. They hold weapons in their hands, knives and guns and torches. And the people—
The people are moving. Moving across the image, shifting here and there as they gather together,
their mouths open in silent shouts.
Magic. It must be, despite what his father says. If this is not magic, then—
External Camera 12—Rear Gate 09.17.93 3:48AM
He sees the forest now, the ghostly outline of trees with their branches bare, only illuminated by
the barest sliver of a moon overhead—
With every new image, his father’s shoulders seem to hunch in on themselves more and more, his
movements more aggressive, his teeth gritting so tightly Seokjin is sure he can hear them groaning
under the strain.
“Where—?” He demands, “Where?!”
“What are you l—?” Seokjin tries to ask, his voice soft and unobtrusive, but he can’t finish his
sentence before his father has jumped from his seat, slamming his hand down atop the computer.
“Where are they?!”
He strikes the buttons again, cycling through the images more rapidly now, so rapidly that Seokjin
isn’t sure he’d be able to see what his father was looking for even if he knew who it was.
“Where the fuck is she?!” His father shouts, his fervor sending Seokjin back a few steps and out of
the line of fire.
It proves to be a wise choice, and one made just in time, for his father seems to reach the end of his
rope at the very same moment, arms swinging out to swipe the entire device from the tabletop. The
computer comes crashing to the ground, the box splitting apart into dozens of pieces to reveal its
strange, colorful innards. With a dreadful whirring noise, the illuminated front of the device
flickers wildly, an image of the forest outside of their home flashing in and out of view for a few
moments longer, before the light—and the moving picture—both disappear completely.
His father is panting, shoulders heaving with the effort, when he turns on Seokjin again, grabbing
at his son’s shoulders to shake him wildly. Seokjin’s head whips back and forth, his eyes
unfocusing at the dizzying motion, and he fights to stay upright.
“They took her!” His father shouts, spit flying from his mouth.
“I—w-who—?” He chokes out, trying to make sense of this, trying to make some sense of this—
“Your mother!” His father bellows, and Seokjin's stomach suddenly drops right to the floor. “They
took Eunah! They took her from me!”
8/28/18 2:15 AM
CAM 04 — ROOM 218 01 : 20 : 15 : 22
There is nothing silent about this place.
Every phone call from another room is an alarm that startles her awake. The rush of a nearby
shower might as well be the incessant buzz of bees in her ear. Traffic passing by outside reminds
her every few minutes that they are only feet from the street, only feet from being discovered.
At the moment, she is unable to find a moment of rest for a different reason—not from a
disturbance coming from outside of their small room, but from one within.
With her back turned to them, she can’t see but she can hear every word that is being spoken by the
two men on the far side of the room. Their voices are hushed, an attempt to be respectful—but in
this environment, every sound is like a gunshot.
“—been missing since July 23rd,” she hears her husband explain.
“36 days, then…” A second voice joins in, followed by the sound of a pen scratching across paper.
“And you reported this to the police?”
“Of course we took it to the police, do you think I’m an idiot—?”
She turns her head into her pillow to keep from interrupting, biting at a lip that has already been
chewed raw from stress.
“I’m not saying that, Jungmin, I just need to review all of your options—”
“I know, I know, alright,” her husband replies, and she can imagine the way he undoubtedly has
scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration. “I’m just—it’s frustrating.”
“Of course it is, this is your son we’re talking about,” the other man replies, voice even softer than
before, “I would be feeling the same way.”
“Mm.”
There is a pause in the conversation for a brief moment, making her own breathing seem twice as
loud beneath the covers she has pulled up nearly over her head. With her knees tucked up to her
chest, she is as small as she can possibly make herself.
“Yes, we’ve reported his disappearance to the police,” her husband repeats, voice much more
reasonable than before.
“When did you first make your report?”
A pause. One that feels guilty even from across the room.
“...Yesterday.”
The other man gives snort of disbelief, one that seems to be startled out of him, and she curls her
body in on itself even more tightly, as though she could ward off the truth of their situation if she
could only disappear.
“Yesterday?!” Their visitor goes on, “Why did it take you 35 days to report—”
“I made a mistake, okay?!” She hears Jungmin slide to his feet, the all-too-familiar thumping of his
feet across the carpet as he begins to pace back and forth following immediately after. “Can we
please skip over the part where you tear apart my decisions, and just help me?”
The other man lets out a resolute sigh.
“Okay, fine. You reported him missing yesterday. What did the police have to say?”
Her fingers curl into the sheets, only the fabric keeping her nails from digging into the sensitive
flesh of her palm.
“Nothing. A whole load of nothing. ” Something slams against the table, probably a fist. “They
said the situation doesn’t meet the criteria for a missing person’s case because we ‘know where he
is’ and he ‘left of his own free will.’ And he’s an adult—” The word is spit with absolute bitterness.
“—so apparently he’s ‘allowed to go missing if he wants to.’ That’s what they said. ‘Allowed’ to?
Can you believe that bullshit—?!”
“—Jungmin, please sit down.” The command is not unkind, but certainly firm enough to stop her
husband in his tracks. She hears him hesitate, then his footsteps shuffle against the carpet and a
whump of his body falling back into his seat follows. “I understand, ” the other man stresses, “and
you know it. That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it? I know these laws inside and out.”
“You’re right, Yongjoon—”

BBBBBRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIING —
Her body jolts up off the bed before she even realizes what has startled her, the covers flying every
which way from her body as she scrambles to keep her balance. She whips her head around, eyes
suddenly wide open and darting every which way in search of the source of the sound.
Oh—
The phone.
Her head swings around to stare at the device sitting innocently on the tabletop to her right,
outdated plastic illuminated by the dim glow of the lamp above it light a spotlight. Her heart is like
a hurricane in her chest, now battering against the barrier of her ribcage with all the force of a
summer storm. She rubs instinctively at the center of her sternum to calm the sudden ache.
“Daeun—?” She hears her husband call out to her from the other side of the room. Shooting a
quick glance over to him where he sits beside another lamp across the room, a table shared
between him and their guest, she waves a hand at him dismissively as if to say ‘I’m fine. Don’t
worry.’
BBBRRRRRIIIIIIII —
She snatches the receiver off the hook before the ring can even be completed, bringing it up to her
face so quickly it almost hurts.
“...Hello?”
On the other end of the line, there is static. It is clearly connected, the hiss of a live phone call in
her ear. But after several long seconds, there is no answer.
“Hello?” She repeats, but—again, no answer. A prank call, most likely—or perhaps the faulty
wiring in this godforsaken hotel.
With a huff, she slams the phone back down on the receiver, curling her body back up on the bed
again. She draws her legs up to her chest and rests her chin atop her knees, turning her attention
back to the two men sitting across the small room from her. Yongjoon clears his throat, drawing
her husband’s attention again, and mercifully they both look away from her.
“As I was saying,” he continues, pointing a finger down at the documents spread across the table
between them, “Your options are pretty limited right now if the police won’t get involved...”
Daeun turns her face towards the only window in the room, illuminated beside the door from a
single streetlight that filters through the flimsy curtains. There are bars across the window, though
they make her feel far more trapped than protected.
“—you’re sure you don’t know where this school actually is?” She hears over her shoulder.
Outside the window, a crowd of shadows passes by towards the stairs. Despite the late hour, she
hears the unmistakable creak of the gate and the splash of several bodies landing in the pool only
moments later.
“Daeun tried to travel to the address we were given, but there’s nothing there, just a bunch of ruins.
There isn’t even a street anymore. And yet the police think we ‘ know where Jungkook is’—”
“They have to follow the laws, that isn’t their fault,” Yongjoon continues with a sigh, “It’s
unfortunate, but it’s actually very difficult to report an adult as missing if they just don’t seem to
want to be found—”
“You think Jungkook doesn’t want to be found—?”

“That isn’t what I said. But it’s where we’re at, so we need to explore other options.”
“Fine...what can we do?”
“Well, the issue is really two-fold…”
Somewhere along the way, she stops really listening. Her eyes unfocus as she gazes up at the light
through the window. There is laughter echoing towards their room from the pool below. The ever-
present threat of tears prickles at the corners of her eyes.
“—but doing so would, technically, be illegal—”
“—I don’t care, this is my son we’re talking about—”
“—don’t want to be pulled into something—could reflect poorly on me—”
Daeun whips her head around, her hand releasing the sheets to reach for the phone before she can
think better of it. The receiver is up to her ear in a split second, her voice shaky as she answers the
call a second time. For a brief moment, her heartbeat is so heavy in her ears that she can barely hear
the static on the other end of the line.
“H-Hello?”
This time, her husband and their guest don’t pause in their conversation, still droning on in the
background as she waits for a response. For a few long seconds, there is once again no response,
and her mouth falls open to repeat herself again—
“H̵̄ȇ̶̳̃ ͉̽͋̋̊l̵͎͉̓ l̠ ̷̯̿̐o̶͉̠̟͗̏ ̓ ͌.”
̔ ̤
The word comes through the line as though it has crackled into existence from the very electricity
that powers the device. For a split-second, she isn’t sure she heard it at all—possibly a trick of her
imagination. Wishful thinking. Fear. Something.
“Is someone there?” She asks, and this time, the reply comes immediately—and the words are
undeniably real.
̐̈ ̯ ̅́ ͘ ͐͋ ̃̌
̿ ͎͉̔͜l̸͕͕̤̯ ̟͇̈͘ỏ
“H̶̨̾ ̠̍ ͛̃́̕ë̈ ̵͗ ́ ̨ ̡̡̠̩ ́͑l̴ ̊͋̌͂ ̤ ̶͛ ̑͗̚ ȧ̸ ̢̹ ͉̮͉̮͆̈̒ ̎ ̄ͅě́ ̶̹̗̆̋̕͠ừ̴̢̧̐͝ņ̷̱ ̞ ͛.”
̼̄̏ ̸̡̖̞̭̳̆ ̷͙͊ͅD
̫̥
“Who—Who is this?” She asks, her voice dropping down to a whisper.
̽
̙͘ ̚ ̚ ̍ ̉̈̅̐
͘ ̿
̵̧̨̡̣̩̦̇ ̡͎̤ ̋̒ h̸̘ ̔ ̬ ̙ ͚͓̐͒̍͆̍͒͝
̉̿̄
“Y̵͙̥͊ ͝ơ ̂ ̶ ͙̝̚͝ ͌
̍ u̷̖͗̒ ̵͐̒ ̠ ̦̊ ̀̓͆̆ ̎ͅķ̣̤̼ ̷͊̽ ̋̇̀͒̌͘ n̵͖͔ ̖ ̢̥ ̶̝͎͛͠ộ̳̹ ͔̓̚ ͅẅ̵͕͖̮ ̲̪ ̉́ ̃̊w̵ ̴ǒ̘ ͇̬ ̖ ̷͊ ̿ẗ̎ ̴̢͕̗ ̜ ͔̞̺ ͑h̸͎̮ ͅĩ̪ ̵͔̺ ̝̙ ͚̀s̵ ̓ ̙̟̟̅ ̛ ̸͔̑ į̴͖͖̱̮͆̈ ś̆ ̘̯ ̷͗ .”
̹ ͉ ̗̹ ̝ ̫ ̞́ ̱̔ ̜ ̆
̳̥ ̦
̫
“No—No, I d-don’t know who you—”

́̅̉
͝ ̌ ̀ ̛ ̌ ̑ ̂ ̍ ̊
͒͌
͆ "W̴ ͝
̙̪ ͚̙͔̙͖̱͉̋̋͊̂͐ͅ ̶ ȩ̡ ͚̦͌ ͉̞͓͎ ͇ ̗ ̮ ͝
̄ ͌ ̆ ̵
͚
́
̱ ̰ ͋̿̏͑̆̈ ͂̚͝
͔ ̍ ̌ ̷ ḧ̨̜ ̢̝͘ ͕̘͜a̵
̇ ̑ ̆ ̙ ̲ ̫ ̯ ̆
̎ ̢̞̰̟̠͑͊̃̓̉ ͊̍͋̃ ͛͝v̵ ̓ ͘ ̚ ͠ ͔̼̥̤̿ ͛̏ ̏ẹ̶̜̒̓̃̉͛̇̉͒̒ ̋͒̄͝ ̨̖ ̢̯ ̸͕̫ ̯͛̽ ͐͑̏̿ b̸̂ e̸̛̯̋̇ ̢̘ ͗̆̃̌͝e̶
̎ ͊ ̊ ̏ ͘ ͌ ̎ ̾̅̏ ̖ ̢ ̧ ͓̫͙̮͓̲̽̂͗̃̔̑ ̾ ņ̵͍̬ ͉̙̂ ͋͠ ̓
͎ ͊ ͋ ͝
͝ ̀ ͐ ͒
͑ ̠ ͌ ́ ̅ ̽ ̇ ̱ ̫ ̚ ̋ ͌ ̂ ̌ ̇ ̗ ̩ ̕ ̓ ̺ ̪ ͒̾ ̟ ̣ ͕
͊ ̓ ̅ ̊ ͐ ̀ ͂ ͛ ͉ ̿ ̎ ̏ ͑͑͘ ̾ ̔ ͑̍
̨ ̯ ̧ ̴͈ ͎ ̼ ̻ ̽ ̊ ̉ ̘
̯̳̼ ̭ ̤̃ ̛ ̴͊̉ ͊̔͝ä̴̡̠̲ ͕̘͔̺ ͕̦ ͉̜̯͒̽́ ͗ṱ̸̨ ̻ ͈̽͊͠c̄ ̡̛ ̶͖ ̗ ͕̟̘ ͊̄͐̚͜ ̙ ͆
͐ ̳ ̂ ́ ̉ ̅ ̈ ̿ ̕ ͠ ͗
̩ ̮ ̲ ͖͓͕̘ ͓̦̝̥̩̻̤̀͂̅ ̶͙ ͕̻̖̮ ͂̎̆͜ ̑ ̧ ̃ ̚ ̝ ̌ ̦ ̼ ̨ ̫ ̭ ̆ ̑ ̊ ̔ ̾ ̋ ̀
̍ ̶̯̥̠̈̌̄͗͌ ̊͛̏ḁ̲ ̴͛ ͆̇́ e̵͓̖ ͈̺ ̐ ̞ ̦͑ ̌͐ͅų͂̈͘ ̜ ̞ ̴͇͗͑͐̍̎ ͗n̵̔ ̳͒ ̋̓͠.̿ ”
̝ ́ ̚ ̘
̜ ͕̺̣ ͅw ̈ ̰ ̭̣ ̗ ͝ ̡̛ ͙͍
̕͝h̶ ̰̫̰ ͕ ̝̝̄͆͋͐͘͝í̴̱ ͉̹̔̏̾̉͘͝
̩̥̿
͂̌̈ ņ̸̢̻ ̧ ͖̠͙̗ ͇̠̳ ͒͋̃̕ ͝g̷
̮ ̹ ̞ ̲̉͝y̸̨̬̙͇͙͍̩ ̳̳ ͕̹̩ ̮ ͎̔͜͠ò̵͒ ̥̤̪ ͛̉ ͝
̘
̆ ͠ u̶̠̹ ͖̙͖̠̻ ͈̖ ̘ ,̵̬͗̊ ̤̹ ͝
̩ ̭ ̮
ͅ ̵͖̩ ̢̢̺̣ ̠̤̬̼̔̈͛̋ ̔̌͘̚Ḋ
̞ ̼ ̰̔ ̮
̠̮ ̩ ̦ ̝ ̙ ̦ ̬̖ ̥ ̗̗ ̬ ̭
̦ ̝̺ ̘
̰
“You—” Her stomach clenches tight enough that she fears losing her dinner. “You’ve been
—watching? You’re the—”
͆ ̖̀̒̓̽̔̆̐́ ̨ ̢̤ ̴͖̱ ̳̣̫̩̥͛̋͋̏͐̓̍̌ ͂̓͝ ̀̈́̓̅̑̇ ̕ ͘ ̽̿ ͗̏̍̄

“Ẅ̶́ ̤ ͑̏͆́ e̶̒ ͠ ͎ ͎̤͖̞͚̮ ͉̳̩ ̭ ͕̼͖̬̂͆̈͌̾ ̯ ̇̓͛̍͑̊͜ ̵ ̨̾̓ ̲ ̧̦̊ ̜ ͍̻͛̾͂͌ ͌́̍̈̾̕ͅr̵͚ ̳ ́͐ẽ̴
͝a̷̬ ̈ ̣ ̓ ͅ a̷ ̐ ̬ ̦ ̩ ̼ ̺ ̠ ̌ ͋ ͑́ l̸
̞ ͚̥ ̿ ̧̛͆ ͘̚͝
̈ ẇ̴ ̂̍̿͂ ä̴̢̛̒́̊y̴̫̘͓̞͎̆ ̩͂̽͒ ̕ ͘ ̆͝ṡ
̽ ̀ ͌̾̿̂ ̇ ͠ ̶ ̮ ̡̞ ͇̺͙̠͚̩͆̄ ̀̃
͝ ̼ ̪ ͒̎ ͍͝ ́ ͊ ̓ ̝ ̖ ̊
͒̿̿̀̈́͋ a̵͍̮̬ ̺ ͍ ͍͓̻ ̟͍͔̬ ̟̥ ͌̕͜ ̫ ̪̣ t̷̛ ̡̰̟̅ ͒͋̿̑c̈́͌ ̡̢̠ ̛ ̸͈ ̻͉̘̙̯̗͛̑͐̈́͜
͒h̶̆̅͌ ͖̗̯̾̂̄̔͗̕͝ ̬ ̘ n̴̥̉ͅģ̶̨̗̬̞̘̈͒̎̌ ̋͋͐̊̈́ ́̕͝ ͅ ” ̱ ̤̲̣
̩́ͅ w̶̡̼̫̙͍̪͘̚͝
̤̱ ̣ ̷̧̧͈̺ ̮ ͕̰͜
̃ ̭ ̳ ̤ ̿ ̭̼ ̡ ̤ ͅ i̷̗͎͍̩
̤ ̓
̓̅̈ .̶̤̰̫͚̻͖͕͙̟̗ ̻ ͈͙̂͜
̭
̝
Her eyes flick up the men across the room, hoping they haven’t noticed her strange behavior, the
way she has started to sweat through her robe. ‘Crazy,’ she thinks, ‘I’ve gone completely insane—’
“—you’re my lawyer, Yongjoon. This is what I pay you for—” Her husband is arguing, his voice
raised as he points a finger accusingly at the other man.
Yongjoon adjusts his glasses, his lips drawn into a thin line. “You don’t pay me to break the law
for you, and I won’t—”
“W-What...What do you want?” She whispers helplessly into the receiver, the plastic squeaking in
protest as she grips it too tightly. She cradles the device against her ear with both hands in an
attempt to hear better, to understand—
̈́̏
̋̊ ̇ ͒ ̀ ͠ ͝ ́ ̈ ͂ ̐ ͐̆ ͑
̌ ̏ ̽ ̐ ̛ ͊ ͊ ́ ̈
̽ ̅́ ̈́̊
̄
̌ ̂
͐
͑ ͂̈͊̕ ͘ ͠ ̯ ͋ ̔ ̭͝ ͌
̄ ̏ ́ ̈
͆ ͂͂ ̌̐̈́̐ ͕͈ ́
̯
“W̴̤̞ ͇̰͔͙̺ ̒̍͝ ̋ ̟ ̂
̅ e̴̗ ̢̤ ͎̭͈̖͑̾ ̹ ͋̅͑͋̿͗̎ ̕͜ ̧ ̉
ͅ ̶͓͙ ͇̣̹ ͙w ̨ ̺
̅ ̛ ̴͆ ̽͝͠ ́ ͘ ̊ ̎ ̄
̇ ͝a̸͉͙͌̾͊̔̈ ñ̵ ͋t̰̅ ̴̨̼̖̯̱̲͗̿ ̔͛̈ ̚͜ ̬ ̶ ͓ ̱ ͖̰̳ ̖ ͝
͍ ͠ ̘ ̧ ̫
͋̀ t̴͍̹͘ỏ̜ ̵͓̙ ͖͔̫̹͈̫ ͈̜̦ ̒ ̹̣ ̶͚̥ ͔̙͚͜ ̂ ̉ ̦̾̌̏͝h̷ ̎ ̌ ̃ ́ ̏
ͅ p̴̡͈̙͇͙̠̗ ̘ ͛͐̓̌̄͂ ̔ ̡ ̧ ̶͖͇̱ ͇̖̰̫ ̜͒ ͑̿͌̉ y̴̝̪ ͎̼͖̲̞͖̟͂̐͑̀͊̂͆ŏ̴̒̏ ̤ ͊̅͒u̴͘ ͠ ͔͚̳̩̒ ́̚͠.̓̉̈ ̨ ̧ ͎
̩
̭ ̣̟ ̺ ̤̮ ̞ ̗ ̮̓ ̤ ̳ ̱̜ ̤̲ ͛ ͝ ̤͍ ̯̓ ̗ ̚ ͝ ̜ ̘̞̅ ͂̍͒̂ę̶͔̱͈̝͙̩̝̻̮̘͆̇ ̒͂̊͗ͅl̿ ̴̛̬͐̉̄ ͝ ̜̪ ̯ ̱ ̼̤ ̫ ̦ ̠ ͔͙ ̼ ̼
̴ ͈̺ ͖̣ ̓̿.̦̝̉ ”
̲̝ ̤
̻ ̗ ̹̪
The voice is even more distorted than before, barely even sounding human now. But she makes out
their words, even if she can’t even begin to wrap her mind around them. Help her? How could they
want to help? They’ve been stalking her, terrorizing her family—they took her son, they took her
son —
“H-How could you h-help me? You’re the ones who have been—been f-following us, aren’t you?!
You did this to us!” She hisses, tears finally beginning to spill from her eyes now. “I don’t w-want
your help, I want you to l-leave us alone—!”
“Daeun, what’s going on…?” Her husband asks from the other side of the room, but his words
barely register to her. Especially not through the crackling that is growing through the phone line,
nearly drowning out the words that follow.
̈̍̐ ́ ̃̈́̆́̌̈̂ ̭͗͊̋̑̍̑̏ ̻ ̱ ̗ ̀̊ ̚̚ ̖ ̉ ̀̍̈́ ̋̔

͙̿ ̅ ͖ ͗̎ ̓̒ ͠ ͎͙̇͂̈́̍̅ ̕ ̨ ̝ ̎̀ ́ ͋ ͓̄
“Ẁ̷̿̿̒̐̕ͅḙ ̱̳̼̓̏̆ ̵̻̈͑ ͠ķ̴̛̭̘̒̏̂ ̶͚͙ ̓̍͌̉n̹ ̭̂ ̻ o̶ ̵͉ ̡̡ ̧ ͚̱̗ ̙ ͋̚w ̴ ͚ ̿ ̓ ̪ ͆̄
̭̮ ̘ ̯̫̳ ͍ ̟ ̱ ̘̽ ͖̿̽̊ ͠ ̵ ͙̬
̳ ͗̋
̌ ͂ ̐ ͂ ͝
̕ ̒ ͅ ẅ̷ ͎
͈ ͛
̽ ͂ ̊ ̊ ͠
h ̚ ̕ ̌ ̓ ̻ ̷ ͈ ̥ ͓̫
̢̡ ̬ ̳ ̫ ͙͛ ͍ ͋ ̐ ͂ ̀ ͐ ̃ ͝ e̸ ̨ ̪ ͓
̡ ̾ ̣̝
̺ ̺ ̊ ͂ ͋ ͊
̿ ̔ ̚ ͜r̶ ͈ ̱ ̣ ͔̹
̫ ͑
̿ ́ ̈ ͑
̀ ̄̒̉͘͝
̅ ̊ ͝ ͠
ę ̜ ̠ ̡ ̫ ̛ ̧ ̶ ͔̩ ̽ ̑ ̯ ̬ ̹ ̜ ͛̾ ͐̿ ͌̕͜͠ͅ ̸͙͇̗̜ ̫ ͔̪̏̄͑̓́̈ ̐͒̿̑̕ ͅy̟̝ ̸͔̦ ̖ ̤ ͚̪͎ ̙ ̌͂ ̴̓̿̋̒̀̈͂̑͠͝ơ̺̝ ͎̇͆̕ ̶ ̓ͅȗ
̾ ̡̺̺ ̧ ͈͘͜r̷͍̗͍͔͚̳̱ ̣̠ ͈̦̣̿͐̇̆̏ ̓ ͛̉̉̓̀̃̚͜
͝
͜
͝
̴͈̎̓̂̾̋͒̀͝s̴ ̠ ̽ ̋ ̎ ̬ ̠ ̓ ̅ ͌ ̅ ̙ ̤ ̛ ́ ̋ ̬ ̠ ̣ ̩ ̜ ̼ ̖ ̲ ̦
̓̉ ̢ ͚̖͗̏͂̎̆ ̶͆̚ǫ̠ ͔͍̠̻ ̅ ̺̘ ͅņ̘̞ ̰̰ ̙̥ ̷͉̞ ̰̄͋ ̵͉̮ ̡̢̪̩ ̧ ͎̞ ̠ ͑̋ ͊ ̐ ͘
i ͌ ̍ ̲ ̷ ͆
̧ ́ ̈ ͝͠ s̘ ̷ ͚̤ ͉ ̘ ͇
̠ ̹ ͍̺ ͍ ̦ ͗̄ ͝
ͅ .̸ ͉ ̙ ͙̣ ͔ ͇
̲ ̫ ̟ ͝
ͅ .” ̳
̝ ͘ ̝̩ ̘̼ ̤ ̧̦ ̥ ̱ ̨̮ ̟ ̭ ̓̃ ̖ ͘ ̮ ̰̲
̫ ̼̹
“—Then g-give him back! G-Give him b-back to me!” She bursts out, no longer trying to stay
quiet. They have her son, they have Jungkook—
“G-G-Give him b-back and leave us a-alone!”
“Daeun!”
Jungmin moves across the room towards her, fear written all over his face as he tries to meet her
eyes through her tears. His larger hand closes over hers, trying to wrestle the phone from her hand,
but she can’t let go, she won’t—
The distortion through the phone is almost painful to her eardrums now, accompanied by an eerie
ringing that grows with intensity every second. She’s sobbing openly now, her body doubled over
against the pit of desperation in her stomach.
“G-Give me my s-son!!”
̏̈́
͆
͆ ̂ ̈́̆̏ ̂̿̄̊ ̚
͖ ̿ ̎ ͛ ̆ ̌ ́ ̽́͝
͐ ̊ ̋ ̀
“L̶̠͎̼͓̮͊̀ ̓̔̀͊̾̈́ ͋̕ͅę̑̄ ̨ ̥ ̷͔ ͇̺̻̫ ͔̼̂̐̓̔̒̏͛͘͠͝ ̋ ̂ ͛ ̏
̐ ţ̶̝̻͓͈̻̩̞ ͚̤̞ ͙̭̘ ͉̇̐̽ ̓ͅ ̛ ̵͓ ̖ ̒̀ ̫̲͊̎ ̅̾̔̀̒̆͒̈́͘̕̚͝ ̛
̾͂̎̋ͅ ų̷̗ ̜ ͓̯̂̓ ͔̞͐͊̇̀̕ͅş̨ ̡ ͍
̶ ͉ ̟͈͎̠ ̊ ̄ ̋ ̚
̹̳ ͔͒̓̒̇̎̈́ ̄̏͐̂͂͆͑̑̈̐͋ ̘ ͍ ̶ ̴̻̳̪̈́͆͐ ḩ ͘ ̿ ̰̺ ̧ ͚͕͈̱ ̼ ͙̤̪ ͚̫̖ ̞ ̈͛̎̾̿̆̃̊ ͠͝ę̵̛͙̠̤̳ ̊́ ͇̜̳̹ ͕͉̮̬ ͙̰ ̗ ͅl̟ ̞̣ ̛ ͎̣
̛ ̸ ͛̔ ̈̚͝ ̫ ͖͙̟͚̭ ͚̣̺ ͖͔͆̐̓ ̑ ̽̓̒̏͒̕ ͝
̓̀̂̅ p̶̨̜̬ ̡̢ ͍̜ ͎̼ ́
̾ ̪̤ ̬ ̠̝ ̨̱̾ ̏̆̿̀̈̃ ̈̎ ͍ ̎̐́ ̢ ̬ ̪ ̾ ̜ ̼̪ ̚ ͝ ̗ ̠ ͐ ̃ ̰ ̺̼ ͒̈̽͋ ͜
̐ ̹ ̙ ̦ ͘ ̜ ̰̞ ̏ ̖ ͍ ̪
̫ ̵͊̃ ̉ ͛̊͌̆̾̎̑ ̚͠y̥̰ ̸͈ ̱ ͚̟̠̲̝ ̒ö͂̃͋̈ ̴͙̦ ̯̫ ͕̹͚͕͉͙͐̏́ ̳ ͑͝ ͠
̉ ͠ṷ ̦ ͎̱ ̸ ͎̮͉̟͙̦͖̺͈̬͛̒̕͜ ́ ̦
̈ͅ —̶̗ ̛̭ ̩͚͇͓̭̭̜ ͖̙̜ ͕͍̹ ̥ ͐͑̇̾̋ ” ̤ ̞̤
̱̮̭ ̟̥ ̥ ̱ ̱ ̰ ̭ ̂̾ ̫̫̺ ̜ ̟ ̦ ̱ ̤ ̮
̖ ̹̞ ͍͇
Suddenly, the phone is wrenched from her hand, her fingers finally relinquishing their grip when
Yongjoon appears to help hold her back. She hears a clatter and a crash to her right, the light
swimming in front of her eyes, and the whining sound disappears.
For a brief moment, the room is quiet except for her sobs, now pressed into the chest of their
lawyer as he holds her upright. From the far side of the room, a series of thumps through the wall
is accompanied by the muffled shout of their neighbor demanding that they be quiet, but that
disappears just as quickly as it had come.
“Daeun…” Her husband whispers, reappearing at her side, and she feels herself being passed
between the two men, Jungmin’s strong arms wrapping her up more securely in an embrace as he
settles on the bed beside her. “Shhh, it’s okay...I’m here...I'm here, they’re gone…”
“H—” She hiccups. “H—H-How did they f-find us?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know…” He sighs, and squeezes her tighter. She waits for him to question
her, to doubt her as he had so many times before—but it never comes.
“What—was that?” Yongjoon asks, clearly taken aback.
Jungmin sighs against her hair. “This is what I’ve been telling you, Yongjoon...this is what she’s
been dealing with, what we’ve been dealing with. I thought we’d be safe here, off the grid…”
She sobs again, her entire body quaking, and the end of her husband’s sentence goes unsaid.
Yongjoon takes a deep breath from somewhere above her. She can feel his eyes on her, watching
her distress, can easily imagine the expression he must be wearing—but she can’t bring herself to
care.
“Do you understand now?” Jungmin asks the other man, “Why I will do anything?” He squeezes
her closer, letting her tears soak through the front of his shirt. “We can’t keep living like this. This
is my family. Please.”
There’s a long pause as Yongjoon seems to consider her husband’s words before he speaks again.
“Alright,” he concedes, “I’ll contact the investigator, if you’re willing to pay the price.”
“Anything,” Jungmin answers immediately.
“Just...stay offline,” Yongjoon continues as he moves back across the room, fabric rustling as he
gathers his things. “Don’t answer the phone any longer. Switch rooms if you have to, or switch
hotels completely. And track anything that happens. The police might not be able to help with your
son, but if someone is harassing you—”
“We will, I’ll handle it.”
“And Jungmin, Daeun—” He says, moments before she hears the click and squeak of the door
opening. She raises her sleeve to her face with a shaky hand, rubbing away the tears and snot that
are clinging to her skin before she raises her head enough to look at the other man. His face is tight,
his lips drawn into a serious line, his brow heavy with consternation.
“Stay safe,” he says softly, “And remember...I was never here.”
The door swings shut behind him before either of them can reply, and Jungmin finally releases her
to spring across the room and slide the deadbolt back into place.
Outside, the idle chatter of the young people in the pool carries on as though their world hasn’t just
been invaded. From next door, a game show plays on a TV, laughter and applause filtering through
the wall as though there is anything that could possibly be amusing right now. And her husband
begins to dart around the room, shoving their things back into their bags as though there is
anywhere they could run where they would be safe anymore.
But as Daeun looks up at the bars that cross the window, bisecting the moonlight that filters in
across the bed to where she sits, shivering and broken—she knows that safety, true safety, is only
an illusion that allows the ignorant to sleep peacefully at night.
Front Office—Nurse—First Floor 08.28.18 2:21 AM
“How did you escape?”
The question is spit into the air for what feels like the dozenth time, and his patience is running
thin.
The office is completely dark save for the one light he has aimed at the center of the room, giving
him the perfect view of the body swaying in front of him. Long limbs barely reach the floor, mud
streaked up to its knees, its nudity barely covered with a clearly borrowed tunic that is soaked
through from the rain outside. There is no mistaking where the doll has been. There is no hiding its
betrayal.
“Answer me,” he demands when the doll makes no sound. With a quick shove against one arm, he
is able to bring the doll’s body around to face him again, the chains that keep its arms restrained
above its head rattling with the motion. The doll doesn’t protest at the motion, but he can see
discomfort written on its face beneath its obvious fear.
Fear…
‘Good,’ he thinks, his lips curling up in the suggestion of a smile. ‘Be afraid.’
He grabs at the front of the tunic with both hands, gripping the fabric tightly and pulling sharply to
each side until it tears cleanly down the front, exposing the doll’s pale skin beneath. He drops the
shreds, letting them hang from the doll’s bound arms, and drops his hands to its chest instead,
fingers wandering across every inch of the damp flesh in search of imperfections.
The doll squirms slightly as his questing fingers shift to its sides and down to its thighs, making it
shiver and clench its toes against the tile. The chain rattles raucously overhead, its entire body
swaying as it tries to avoid his touch.
“Hold still,” he commands, and slides one hand down between its legs to grip its flaccid cock in his
palm. A soft, pathetic noise rises from the doll’s throat, its eyes squeezing closed as though it is
trying to transport itself somewhere else.
‘Well that won’t do,’ he thinks, and tightens his grip.
“Tell me,” he says slowly, sharply, as his hand begins to stroke up and down the doll’s length,
feeling it immediately begin to fill with blood. “Tell me how you escaped.”
Once again, the doll says nothing, though another whimper escapes its tightly clenched lips as its
hips can’t help but buck into his touch. He turns his gaze down to the cock in front of him instead,
appreciating the way it twitches as he digs his thumb into the sensitive flesh just below the head,
the skin turning an attractive shade of red at the attention.
“Fully functional, I see,” he comments lightly, and lets his fingers drift down to fondle the balls
hanging below. They jump and recoil at his touch just as expected, perfectly soft and round as he
rolls them between his fingers. “At least nothing was damaged on your little adventure—”
His words are cut off by what sounds like a laugh from above his head. He rears back, eyes
narrowing, and stares the doll down again.
“Is this funny to you, doll?” He asks, and taps against its cock with a single fingertip, looking up
just in time to catch its face contort as though recoiling from a slap. “Do you have any idea the
trouble you’ve caused?”
Again, no reply, though he didn’t expect one this time. He sighs and turns away, clasping his hands
behind his back as he paces the length of the room between the beds propped against the far wall.
His heels click forebodingly against the tile with every step, echoing around the small office and
out through the open door to the hallway beyond.
”You’re naive.”
His head whips around at the words, eyes narrowing immediately at the doll. “What did you say?”
The doll stares back, eyes wide and confused as it slowly blinks, its mouth firmly closed.
“What...did you say?”
With a furrowed brow, the doll slowly—painfully slowly—shakes its head back at him. Its long,
unkempt and wet hair sticks to its cheeks with the movement, framing the fear in its large eyes.
“What—”
”I said, you’re naive.”
He blinks, and for a split second, he can see the doll’s lips moving, twisting. But in between one
shutter of his eyelids and the next, the image changes back to the frightened face he had been
staring at a moment before.
“Excuse—”
“—Sir?” A familiar voice calls from the doorway.
“What?!” He shouts as he rounds on the intruder, hands curling into fists at his sides. He finds
himself face-to-face with Yoongi, the younger man’s eyes widening beneath the frames of his
glasses as he freezes in the doorway, hand still outstretched to rap against the wood.
“Am—I interrupting, sir?” The teacher asks haltingly.
He takes a deep breath through his nose, wriggling his fingers at his sides to relax them again.
“No,” he grits out through his teeth. “What is it, Yoongi?”
“Well,” Yoongi says, stepping closer, eyes flicking over his shoulder to where the doll is hanging
from the ceiling only a few feet away. “You—uh, you asked me to review the footage, sir, and—”
“Yes, yes,” he sighs, raising a hand to rub at his forehead. That’s right. “What did you find?”
“That’s—That’s the thing, sir…” He hesitates, and a strange emotion flickers across his face that
seems terribly out of place. It’s there one minute, and the next, gone. “I—I really didn’t find
anything.”
“...what?!”
“I went back hours, sir—I scrubbed through it all, but—well,” it’s obvious from Yoongi’s
expression that he doesn’t want to be giving this news, “there’s no footage that shows how on earth
he—it—got out—”
“That’s impossible,” he snaps. There’s a prickling at the back of his neck now, slowly spreading
down from his hairline. He can feel eyes on him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“No, that’s impossible.”
‘It can’t be, it can’t be—there has to be some proof, it didn’t just disappear,’ he thinks, and his
chest begins to grow tight.
“Sir—” Yoongi starts to say.
“I want answers, Yoongi! I trusted you—”
Yoongi’s hands are raised now, shielding himself, and he didn’t realize that he had taken a step
towards the younger man until he feels the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt fisted in his fingers. “Seokjin,
please, I tried, but—”
“No, you missed something,” he bites back, shaking Yoongi with one firm shove. “You missed
something, go back! Find me answers, Yoongi, I won’t accept failure! This was a direct attack
against me—against all of us—”
“I know, I’m sorry—!” Yoongi tries to say, his voice fading to barely more than a whisper. He
raises his hands up to cover Seokjin’s, perhaps to pull him away, perhaps to reassure him—and
Seokjin recoils as though he has been burned.
“Get out,” he spits, shoving Yoongi away from him. The younger man stumbles away, staring up
at him in shock. “Get out! Go! Find me answers, now!”
He points towards the door, and Yoongi scurries backwards through it until his back strikes the
wall on the far side of the hallway, his eyes never straying from Seokjin’s face.
Seokjin charges forward and the teacher flinches, clearly expecting the older man to come after
him, but Seokjin only grabs at the door and slams it shut between them, sending a resounding thud
echoing through the entire office. Behind him, he can hear the rattle of chains as the doll recoils at
the noise.
He rests his head again against the wood, hands holding himself upright, and waits until he hears
Yoongi’s footsteps recede on the other side. One hand reaches out to fumble for the deadbolt,
locking the office securely from the inside—and then they are well and truly alone together.
“Well, that wasn’t very smart.”
There it is again, that voice—
He braces himself, turning around to face the body swaying in front of him, shadows cast across its
face now. For a second, neither of them moves. He takes a deep breath, blinks—and then watches
as the doll’s lips begin to split apart, revealing rows of perfect teeth as it smiles.
“You really think I just stood up and ran away?” It says, its voice even.
‘No—’
“Look at me. I’m not going anywhere , am I?”
“How dare you talk to me like—” He starts, taking a step forward, but the doll cuts him off with a
bark of laughter.
“You’re naive. A fool.”
“How dare you!” His heartbeat has jumped up into his sternum, his throat, making it hard to
swallow. His face feels hot, his neck still prickling. “No one is allowed to speak to me in such a
way, especially not the likes of you—”
“And what are you going to do about it?” The doll drawls, head tilting to the side patronizingly.
Gone is the apprehensive look in its eyes, replaced by something far more...sinister. “What more
can you do to me, really?”
“I—I—” He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can barely wrap his mind around it. The room around
them both seems to be warping, spinning—
“Hm. I expected more, really, from the great Kim Seokjin.”
“S-Shut up—” He can feel himself shaking now, staring down the hardened look that the doll has
lodged at him. The smile across the young man’s pretty lips is broad, now, his teeth shining and
pointed. Seokjin takes another step closer, his breathing labored. “Stop it.”
“And after all I’ve done for you…” The doll hums, rattling the chains above its head for emphasis.
“This is how you treat me?”
“You—You’ve been nothing but trouble from the start—”
“No, I’m actually a very good doll, and you know it,” it counters, narrowing its eyes accusingly.
Its feet are now standing securely against the floor, though Seokjin could have sworn that moments
before it was barely keeping itself upright on its tip-toes—
“No, no, you—” He raises a hand, ignoring the way his fingers shake as he points one finger at the
doll’s chest. “You’ve—you’ve caused so many problems, you caused this—”
“Perhaps you just haven’t considered that the weak link here is you, Kim Seokjin.”
It’s still grinning down at him, grinning maniacally now, triumphantly. Seokjin feels sick to his
stomach, his teeth gritted so tightly together that his jaw aches. His mouth tastes of iron.
“You’re weak, Seokjin,” the doll spits at him as he draws closer, close enough that they are face to
face now, “Weak like a child. A failure.”
His upper lip begins to curl, his fingers flexing of their own accord at his sides. The heat in his
cheeks has spread, taking over his shoulders, his chest. The metal in his mouth tastes like fury.
“You’ll never be good enough to measure up—”
Before he realizes what’s happened, his hand has drawn back and smacked straight across the
doll’s face, cutting its cruel words off mid-sentence. The sound echoes around the room, bouncing
off the tile for several seconds—and for a moment, he believes that it’s over.
Then, to his astonishment, the doll does something he never would have expected.
It begins to laugh.
It’s head is still turned away from the force of the impact, but he can clearly see the way its lips
part to let out the sound, shiny and red with spit as they hang open.
Slowly—so slowly that time seems to move like molasses—the doll’s head shifts, tilting, turning
towards him so he is forced to watch its lips form the next words with a sickening grin.
“What would your father think?”

“Stop—” He says, taking a step back, bracing himself against the desk behind him.
“Poor little Seokjinnie, lost in the woods—”
“Stop it!” He shouts, grabbing at his own hair now.
“You shouldn’t play in the dark, Jinnie—”
“Stop! Stop it!” He shrieks, shoving against the doll’s chest. “Shut up!”
The motion pushes the doll away for a moment, but its body comes swinging back towards him
only moments later, still swaying from its wrists by the chains he had used to string it up. He
dodges out of the way, landing against the counter beside the sink.
Behind him, the chain rattles, the ceiling creaks, the doll’s laughter continues.
“Seokjinnie! Seokjinnie!” It calls out to him mockingly.
‘No—No no no—’ he thinks, frantically, his hands scrambling against the countertop for something
— anything—
‘Make it stop, make it stop—’
His fingers find the edge of a drawer and jerk it open, and he dares to tear his eyes away from the
doll’s looming form to stare down at its contents instead. He finds it full of bandages, sterile wipes
—all useless to him—and wrenches open the next drawer instead.
It takes three tries to find something useful, but he knows it immediately when he sees it, grabbing
the package and tearing it open with his teeth so viciously that its contents spill out all over the
counter and the floor, glinting dangerously in the dim light.
CW: scene/graphic art containing needles, blood and torture
click to skip
‘Yes, yes, perfect!’ He scrambles to collect the needles from the countertop, pricking his palm in
his haste and yet completely uncaring, far more focused on the laughter over his shoulder that only
seems to grow louder by the second. ‘This will shut it up—’
But as he examines the small metal tubes, his heart falls as he realizes that they are of the
hypodermic variety, capped at one end with plastic to affix them to a syringe. One last search of the
drawer leaves him with no sutures, no thread, nothing to use with the needles he has clutched in his
palm. And yet, the laughter carries on, grating at his ears, sending his heart racing so fast he fears
it might burst right through his flesh.
“Enough!”
He rounds on the doll, his entire body braced for impact now.
“What’s wrong, Seokjinnie?” It sing-songs at him, body wriggling sickeningly against its bonds.
“Scared?"
“Enough!” he repeats, and storms forward, his mind only fixated on one thing any longer, the
words barely registering through the buzz of anger in his brain. “Be quiet!”
The doll opens its mouth again, laughter already rising in its throat, but Seokjin is faster. His hand
reaches out and grabs at the doll’s waist, dragging it’s cock—still hard—close enough to reach.
“You wanted to know what more I could do to you?” He growls. “How about this.”
The doll tries to squirm away, but he has a needle in his hand before the doll seems to realize what
is happening. And in one swift motion, be brings the metal down—and stabs it right through the
head of the doll’s cock.
He expects screaming. He expects crying. But the doll just continues to cackle at him, mocking
him even as blood begins to seep out through the wound and over his fingers.
“No—!”
Another needle follows immediately after the first, criss-crossing through the doll’s cock as he jabs
it as harshly as he can, trying to really make it hurt. But when the doll just continues to mock him,
face contorting inches above him, eyes growing wider and wider, pupils dark as the night, he loses
all sense of control.
“No!” Another needle is forced through its shaft, then one pierces its right testicle. Blood is
flowing freely over his fingers now, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop— “No!”
“You can’t stop me, Seokjin,” the doll cries out, and it’s smile is little more than a threat around
the words, “You can’t make it stop—!”
“SILENCE!”
Before the doll can spit out another word, he jerks up and grabs at its face instead. With one hand
squeezing at its cheeks, he holds it still enough that he can get a good look at its dark pupils for a
split second—
—then drives one of the needles down straight through its lips.
This time, the doll does writhe in pain, trying immediately to jerk back from his grip, and Seokjin
shouts out in triumph. With the metal piercing through its mouth on both sides, the laughter
immediately ceases, and Seokjin can taste victory on the horizon.
“That’s right,” he shouts back, “Can’t laugh at me now, can you?!”
There’s a thudding heavy in his ears, drowning out even his own voice at the edges, but he
pointedly ignores it. Nothing is going to stop him now. With a wicked grin of his own now, he
brandishes another needle and stabs it through the doll’s lips just a few centimeters from the first, a
sick pleasure taking over him at the way it crunches and drags through the resistance of the flesh.
THUMP—
THUMP—
The doll begins whining, the sound rising from somewhere deep in its chest now that its lips are
unable to part. He chokes out a laugh, humorless. Another needle follows the first two, slicing
through the center of its lips, and then a fourth just to the other side.
The whining is louder now, filling the whole room. He holds a final needle out between them
making sure the doll’s eyes completely focus on it before he brings it to the left corner of the doll’s
mouth and slams it through the flesh, sealing its mouth shut for good.
There. He steps back, hands now empty, and trembles as he revels in the silence around him—
—only to find it broken by that same, heavy thudding in his ears.
Or—not in his ears. Not in his mind. The sound continues even as he shakes his head, echoing
around the room even though the laughter has disappeared completely.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—THUMP —
“—Seokjin?!”
A voice filters into the room from somewhere far away, catching his attention. He blinks, hard.
“—Seokjin, answer the door!”
The voice is frantic, terribly frantic, and painfully familiar. A shake of his head helps the room
stop spinning, but the thudding continues, coming from somewhere behind him. He falters, turns,
glances over his shoulder at the door—and freezes.
His breath freezes in his chest. His hands are shaking when he glances down at them, and his
stomach gives a terrible lurch when he finds them positively dripping with blood.
As if on autopilot, his body turns away from the door against his will, forcing his gaze to slide
across the wall, over the beds and the counter—and up-up-up the body that has been strung up in
front of him.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—THUMP —
“Seokjin, are you alright?!”
Just like his hands, the body is naked. Just like his hands, the body is bloodied. Rivulets of crimson
make weaving tracks down its pale legs and neck like rivers heading to the sea. He follows them
backwards, recoiling immediately at the sight of silver glinting where it peeks out from the flesh
between its thighs.
And with icy horror replacing the blood that is pumping through his heart, he finally jerks his head
up to stare at the face hanging above his—meeting the wide, frightened stare of a young man. A
young man, only human, barely more than a boy. A young man with no traces of malice in his
gaze.
Tears stream from his disbelieving eyes—tears that have clearly been falling for quite some time,
dripping down his ashen skin to mix with the blood that flows from his mutilated, punctured
mouth.
The whining that he had been ignoring has now faded to silence, but he can still hear it ringing in
his ears clear as day.
{ art by @KimRaito }
“—Seokjin?!”
What—
What has he done?
click to read summary of skipped scene
Jung Household—Second Floor—Hallway 08.28.18 3:04AM

He has never once before pondered the nature of the quiet after the storm. It is almost oppressive,
the way the world has silenced, the way the crowd on the path before him now march along
without uttering a sound. The sirens have receded into memory, but the fear—the fear remains.
At his side, Namjoon’s torso provides constant warmth, his tall figure steady even as he leans
against it for stability. The older man’s arm never leaves its place around his waist, holding him
securely to the nurse’s larger body as they climb.
On every side of the path, elders offer a helping hand, directing them back towards their respective
households in hushed tones. The sun has yet to peek over the treeline, but already he can hear the
chirping of birds in the distance, sounding terribly out of place in the wake of so much chaos.
“This way,” Namjoon murmurs in his ear, and he feels the warm hand at his side gently nudge him
up the stairs towards a familiar house on the hill.
“You’re coming with me?” He replies as he follows, climbing the stairs in perfect time with each of
Namjoon’s steps.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” he is told, and a burst of warmth spreads through his chest. He ducks
his head down and curls closer to the taller man’s side, relieved when Namjoon’s arm only
squeezes him tighter in return.
When they reach the top of the stairs, the other members of his household slow their progression
by bottle-necking at the door, and he is forced to step in front of Namjoon to slip through the
crowd. He’s overcome with a deep sense of déjà vu as the older man’s grip slides down to his hips
and gives him a reassuring squeeze before pushing him forward through the sea of bodies in their
way.
When he emerges on the other side of the doorway, Namjoon is only a step behind, and therefore
crashes directly into him when he is forced to stop only feet inside the door.
“Wha—?” Namjoon starts to ask, only to be cut off by a sharp voice from the crowd.
“Jung Hoseok, where on earth have you been?”

Hoseok’s shoulders hunch up beside his ears as one of the leaders of his household stares them
down, her hands on her hips. Her voice is not quite a shout, but still loud enough to cut through the
crowd and draw all attention towards them anyway.
“Hello, mom…” he mumbles, eyes cast down towards the floor. And here he had been hoping to
sneak back inside unnoticed.
“Don’t you ‘hello mom’ me, young man,” she snaps, and he flinches again. Namjoon’s hands slide
up his back to grip at his shoulders instead. “We've just been through hell, and you know what I
was doing the entire time? Sitting there in the dark, worrying about you.”
“Mom, I—”
“You just disappeared, we had no way of knowing where you are, and then you just reappear out of
nowhere as though—”
“I didn’t—”
“Excuse me, Ms. Jung,” Namjoon cuts in, drawing both of their eyes up to him instead. “I
apologize for Hoseok’s absence in your shelter tonight. It was actually my fault, not his.”
“Kim Namjoon,” she says as though only just noticing his presence, the hard line of her shoulders
deflating somewhat.
“Namjoon—” Hoseok hisses under his breath, glancing up at the underside of the older man’s
chin. Namjoon ignores him completely, plastering a charming smile on his lips that brings out the
soft little dimples in each of his cheeks.
“Your fault?” The older woman echoes back disbelievingly. “How is it your fault that Hoseok
neglected his duty to his family in this—”
“I asked him to come with me, to my family’s shelter,” Namjoon is quick to explain, shrugging his
shoulders sheepishly. “He was nervous because of the sirens, he’s never heard them before, so—”
Namjoon’s arms wrap more securely around his shoulders, bringing Hoseok back towards the
warm chest at his spine. “—so I asked him to come with me, so I could take care of him.”
He pauses for a second, and Hoseok watches the way the older woman’s eyes skate over his face
for a moment, assessing him with a sharp eye. “Hmmm…”
“I apologize for any distress or inconvenience this caused to you and your household, ma’am,”
Namjoon goes on, and Hoseok is thoroughly impressed by how genuine he sounds, how charming.
“I tried to request the assistance of another member of your household to inform you of his
absence, but clearly my efforts weren’t enough…”
“Another Jung?” She says, her frown deepening for a moment. “Who?”
“Jung Jinsoul, ma’am,” Namjoon says plainly, “I stopped her along the way, but clearly the
message didn’t make it all the way to its destination…”
The older woman huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well...she will be dealt with, Mr. Kim,
don’t you worry about that.” She looks them over for a moment longer, and then her expression
seems to soften at the edges. “Thank you for taking care of our Hoseok, we appreciate your
leadership.”
“It was nothing, really…” Namjoon raises a hand to pet at Hoseok’s hair. “I just wanted him to be
safe.”
“Ah—” Something in her expression changes that he can’t quite place, but the way a smile breaks
across the woman’s lips makes him suddenly feel like squirming. “Are you two…?”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but Namjoon seems to understand her meaning well enough.
“We’ll see…” He says cryptically, and pulls back from Hoseok’s shoulders at last. “But for now,
ma’am, with your permission, I’d like to make sure Hoseok finds his way back to his room safely.”
She watches as the older man’s hand slides down Hoseok’s arm to slip his fingers between
Hoseok’s open ones, clasping their palms tightly together.
“O-Oh, oh, yes—yes, of course, go right ahead,” she stutters, waving them along, and Hoseok
watches in disbelief as the normally matronly woman flushes slightly at the sight.
“Thank you, Ms. Jung,” Namjoon says with a slight bow, and pulls at Hoseok’s hand to get him
moving again. “I hope you find some rest today.”
“And you as well...” she murmurs back immediately, watching their exit as Hoseok is then pulled
along behind Namjoon across the room.
He falls into the older man the moment they’ve passed through the door that leads to the stairwell,
nervous giggles suddenly bursting from his lips. Namjoon chuckles along with him immediately,
tugging him into a hug as they lean back against the wall for a moment to catch their breath.
“That was amazing,” Hoseok breathes out, and Namjoon hits him with a blinding smile. He can tell
the difference, then, between this grin and the one that he had offered to the Jung elder just
moments before—the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the warmth of a flush in his cheeks, the
twinkle of happiness in his dark irises.
Hoseok reaches up to brush his fingertips against the edge of Namjoon’s lips, feeling that smile for
himself, and Namjoon’s fingers rise up to meet them. “Come with me?” He breathes against
Hoseok’s palm, and Hoseok nods in agreement immediately.
They stumble together, then up the stairs towards his room at the far end of the hall, giggles still
breaking free of their mouths here and there when they can’t hold back any longer. They’re alive,
Hoseok thinks to himself, elated—they’re alive, they made it, they’re together—
“Hoseok…” Namjoon murmurs when they reach his door and he turns around to look up at the
older man, eyes skirting all over his broad face. Perhaps he’s only imagining it, but Namjoon
seems to share his thoughts, his same sense of hysterical elation—
Before he can even reply, the older man confirms his suspicions—not with words, but by crowding
him back against his door with arms on either side of his head, holding him still for only a moment
before their lips crash together for the first time.
And—oh, Hoseok is suddenly floating.

Namjoon’s lips are soft like a dream, immediately swallowing down the gasp that escapes from his
own as they slide together. Those hands—those large, strong hands that have protected him all
night long—now cup his cheeks and draw him closer, fingers stretching from his hairline down to
the underside of his jaw where they stroke his skin so tenderly.
“N-Namjoon—” He pants when their lips part for only a moment, but the rest of what he was going
to say—whatever that was—dies in his throat when Namjoon presses one of his thick thighs
between Hoseok’s own and flattens their bodies together completely.
He’s completely surrounded by Namjoon’s warmth, his body completely dwarfed by the older
man, and he finds himself being consumed by the embrace. But, unlike his encounters with
Seokjin, Hoseok doesn’t feel lost to the experience. No, instead the way Namjoon’s hands caress
down his sides to cup at the underside of his ass, the demanding slip of his tongue against
Hoseok’s lips, the inescapable pressure of their chests and thighs and cocks together through their
clothes—it all serves to ground Hoseok here, right here, in this moment. It has only been a few
seconds, a minute at the most, and yet Hoseok isn’t sure he’s ever felt so present in his life.
His own hands get with the program a moment later, fisting in the thin fabric of Namjoon’s tunic to
ruck it up his chest, suddenly giving himself access to what seem like miles of burning hot bare
skin beneath. Namjoon’s own hands follow suit, toying with the waistband of his loose pants
where they are only held over his hips by a drawstring that is growing more lax by the second.
His hand wanders up Namjoon’s firm chest to rest above his heart, pressing firmly against the
heady thrum as he pulls his head back for just a second to suck in a much-needed gasp of air.
Namjoon takes the opportunity to trace his tongue over the deep set of Hoseok’s cupid’s bow
before pulling back as well, nuzzling their noses together instead.
“C-Come inside?” Hoseok hears himself say, and immediately agrees with his mouth even though
it seems to have a mind of its own. In the distance, the soft movements of the other members of the
household filter up to them, drawing ever closer, and Hoseok wants Namjoon to himself.
“Yes, yes—” Namjoon agrees immediately, panting the words into Hoseok’s open mouth before
crushing their lips together again. He kisses as though he is starving, positively consuming Hoseok
—but Hoseok gives back just as good as he gets, and a quick flick of his tongue to the roof of the
older man’s mouth has them both groaning.
“C’mon—” He begs, his hand flying backwards to fumble for the doorknob. Namjoon’s hand finds
his again and together they manage to work it open, Namjoon catching Hoseok just before he falls
straight back through the open doorway—
And simultaneously, they both freeze as they catch sight of the room beyond.
Hoseok breaks away from Namjoon’s embrace, a hand flying up to cover his mouth as he takes in
the carnage that is left of what was previously his very neat and orderly space. They—They really
were attacked, he realizes, horror quickly dousing the arousal that had been burning under his
skin.
“Damn…” Namjoon whispers at his side, and Hoseok glances up at the taller man, his expression
falling immediately.
“W-What—”
“I’m so sorry, Hoseok…” He wraps an arm around Hoseok’s shoulders, his voice suddenly soft
with sympathy. The tension that had crackled between them has completely fizzled, and his touch
is comforting now where moments before it had set his nerves alight. “I didn’t think it would be
this bad, not after the alarm stopped—”
“I don’t understand,” Hoseok whimpers, taking in the way his mattress has been completely torn
from its frame, the sheets and blankets strewn all over the room beneath piles and piles of his other
personal belongings. The curtains are barely hanging on to their rod above the window, caught on
the bare lightbulb from his bedside lamp, and all of his little knickknacks that had been sitting on
the table are now nowhere to be seen—probably lost somewhere amid the chaos. It’s as though a
hurricane had struck the room, leaving nothing safe in its wake.
“Here, let me help,” Namjoon offers, and kneels down to begin extricating the sheets from the
tangled mess that has been made of Hoseok’s closet, now strewn out across the wooden floor.
Hoseok sucks in several deep breaths, blinking back a sudden wave of tears, before he is able to
join him. And together, they begin straightening the mess, silently working through the clutter until
there are at least small, organized piles that leave the floor mostly bare.
Namjoon shoves at the mattress, pushing it back into place against the far wall, and slides up the
side of it until he can take a seat on the top of the springs instead of the floor. He waves a hand,
gesturing for Hoseok to hand him the sheets from the floor—but as Hoseok lifts them up for
Namjoon to take, he finds himself looking straight through a gaping hole in the fabric.
“Oh god…” He groans, then lets out an incredulous laugh as he balls up the fabric again. “Of
course.”
Namjoon stands and gently takes the wad of fabric from Hoseok’s hands, chuckling under his
breath as his fingers find the frayed edges as well. “Ha...that won’t work, will it?”
Hoseok pouts, and Namjoon offers him a soft, understanding smile. “Hold on a second, let me just
replace these—”
He dumps the now-useless sheets in a pile beside the door and picks his way across the room
towards Hoseok’s closet instead, ducking around the door that is now hanging from its hinges to
dig for another set of sheets in the mess.
Hoseok turns away, picking at the edge of the mattress as he stares down at it forlornly. This was
his only place of solitude, his private space, the one place where he didn’t feel like he was being
watched all the time—
“AAAAHHHH!”
He nearly jumps out of his skin as Namjoon suddenly yelps from the other side of the room.
Hoseok whips around, fists somehow finding their way up in front of his face as though he were
readying for a fight—and then immediately falling away when he finds himself staring at a truly
adorable sight.
The nurse, usually so composed, has now reared back on one leg, the other held aloft while he
shakes it frantically, trying to free himself from the ball of fur and claws that has suddenly attached
itself to his ankle
“Hoseok! What the hell is this?!” He yelps, and Hoseok dissolves into startled giggles.
“Mochi!” He cheers, rushing forward to grab at the tiny little cat and extricate its paws from
Namjoon’s pant leg.
“Mochi?!” Namjoon says, dumbfounded. “What’s a—”
“Mochi!” Hoseok repeats, raising the cat up between his palms for Namjoon to see. The older man
screws up his face in confusion, reaching out a curious finger towards the animal—then jumping
back immediately when the little gray creature takes a playful swipe at him. “He’s—He’s my cat,”
Hoseok explains, “or—he's my cat now, I guess.”
“A cat,” Namjoon says slowly, clearly no less confused than before. For a brief moment, Hoseok
wonders if the older man has ever even seen a cat before—what with the way he’s acting, it seems
possible—but brushes the thought off a second later. Ridiculous.
“Please don’t tell anyone he’s here,” Hoseok rushes to say, pulling the creature back towards his
chest to cradle it beneath his chin, cooing softly as the cat swipes its tiny, sand-papery tongue
across his skin. “I don’t know if it’s allowed, but—I keep him confined to my room, he doesn’t
bother anyone, I promise he’s not a problem—!”
“Shh, Hoseok,” Namjoon says gently, reaching out to run his fingers through Hoseok’s hair again,
“It’s alright. I won’t tell anyone about your...cat, okay?”
“Really?” Hoseok feels his whole face light up in a smile, and Namjoon answers it with one of his
own—just as blinding as it had been on the stairs.
“I promise.” He strokes his thumb across Hoseok’s cheek for a moment, then pulls back to shoo
Hoseok towards the bed again. “Now go on, go sit down, I’ll get the new sheets, okay?”
Hoseok hums his agreement and turns away, nuzzling his face down into Mochi’s soft fur and
ignoring the way the cat mewls in protest. “I knoooow,” he coos as he paces back and forth, “You
must have been so scared, weren’t you? Poor baby...I was scared too. But the scary noises are all
gone now, hm? And I’m here, so it’s all going to be okay…”
When he looks up again, he finds Namjoon standing beside the bed now, looking at him with an
odd expression that he can’t quite place, one that feels particularly warm and...fond.
“...what?” He asks, and Namjoon just shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he assures Hoseok, and turns back to his task.
Even with Hoseok watching, it only takes him a few quick moments to have the sheets placed back
onto the bed, the ends neatly and uniformly tucked under the mattress as though he’s had years of
practice getting it just right. Hoseok leans against the wall, needing the support to keep himself
upright as his head begins to feel heavy, content just to watch Namjoon’s broad shoulders as he
works. Once finished, his companion glances up at Hoseok and pats the center of the mattress,
gesturing for the younger man to come closer, and Hoseok obliges immediately.
“Thank you…” he sighs as he climbs beneath the soft sheets, humming in contentment as Namjoon
drapes one of their thick blankets over his legs as well. His clothes still stink of the rain, but now
that his body has hit the mattress, he feels the dead weight of exhaustion taking him over.
“Of course,” Namjoon replies easily, watching as he lies back against the pillows with Mochi
curled up on his chest. “You should try to get some sleep, it’s late.”
He begins to back away from the bed, his eyes turning towards the door, but Hoseok darts out a
hand to catch him before he can go too far. “Wait—” he murmurs, even as his eyelids start to grow
heavy. “...stay?”
Namjoon offers him an affectionate hum in return and kneels down at the side of the bed, curling
Hoseok’s hand in between both of his own so he can bring Hoseok’s knuckles up to his lips for a
kiss.
“I wish I could, but I need to go...I’m sorry.” He kisses Hoseok’s knuckles once, then his palm, and
then tucks the hand back against the sheets. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”
“Mmm,” Hoseok hums in reluctant agreement.
“Sleep, Hoseok,” Namjoon whispers. “You’re safe now.” Hoseok feels the heat of his body draw
closer, and the unmistakable press of those lovely lips against his own. The kiss only lasts for the
briefest of moments, soft where before it had been searing, but the touch still makes Hoseok’s body
feel warm from head to toe. His fingers twitch towards the older man, but before he can grab hold,
Namjoon is gone.
He doesn’t hear the click of the door opening or closing, but in between blinks of his eyes, the
lights turn off, and Hoseok is suddenly surrounded by darkness. Against his ribcage, the cat has
already slipped off to sleep, purring contentedly in a way that vibrates his entire chest. As Hoseok
finds himself drifting off himself, he feels content.
The world may have nearly come crashing down around them today, but they made it out the other
side alive. He can now remember the exact shape of Namjoon’s lips against his own. And for the
first time in god knows how many months, his unconscious mind is no longer clouded and heavy
with thoughts of Kim Seokjin.
Academy—Basement—Lockup 08.28.18 2:47AM
The concrete beneath his knees is freezing cold, no longer mitigated by any layer of fabric to
separate his skin from the floor. His clothes were the first things taken from him. He’s sure they
won’t be the last.
He has no sense of how long he has been kneeling here, the minutes slipping into hours into days
into weeks in his mind. There are no shadows underground to help him keep time, in any sense.
Across from him, a guard sits against the far wall, the barrel of a gun pointed casually in his
direction to keep him pinned in place. He has no intention of running away again, not that the man
is likely to believe him if he says so.
So here he sits, the ache in his legs giving way to a blissful numbness as the minutes tick by—his
mind empty, his face expressionless. When the guard’s head perks up, attention drawn by footsteps
approaching in the hallway, he gives no indication that he’s heard it himself.
“Did you find anything?” The man asks the newcomer, climbing to his feet to open the door to the
cell they are currently occupying. Beyond the steel bars, there is only the faintest illumination from
scattered lamps here and there, economical and functional enough to make it possible to find one’s
way around, but barely more than that. He knows that if he were to look up now, the figures
standing around him would be little more than phantoms painted against the backdrop of concrete
beyond.
“No,” another guard replies as she steps inside, followed by a second set of boots that pass in front
of his line of vision. “There’s nobody else down here, we searched all the tunnels twice.”
“But that’s—that’s impossible,” the first guard blusters, his feet shifting uncomfortably against the
stone. “I heard two voices, at least. There was someone else with him, I know there was—”
“We believe you,” the other guard replies, his voice low, placating. “There’s no way he could have
done this on his own.”
“Then, what—”
“Clearly they must have escaped somehow. Probably the same way they did when they took the
doll the first time,” the female guard muses, huffing out a heavy breath. “And we still don’t know
what that was.”
“What I don’t understand is why,” the third guard replies. “Why take it only to bring it back? What
could they possibly have done—”
“We can’t begin to try to make sense of their reasons, Minhyung, for there is no reason to it.”
“But,” the other man interjects, “it was only gone for a matter of hours. That feels...deliberate,
somehow. Like...a message.”
“You think they’re trying to—to tell us something?” The guard—Minhyung—asks incredulously.
He feels the heavy weight of attention being turned to him, a prickle at the top of his head where it
hangs low.
“I think someone is,” the female guard corrects him, “and I want answers.”
The heavy thud of several boots approach, followed by the sudden press of a heel against the small
of his back, shoving him forward against the frigid stone of the floor so that the back of his neck is
bared to them like a dog.
“Where’s your accomplice?” She demands, and he’s sure now that there’s at least one weapon
drawn on him. “Tell me!”
The first guard sighs and paces around his head. “Won’t do you any good, Hyeri,” he says, “I’ve
already tried. Won’t say a peep.”
“There are other ways of making him talk,” Hyeri replies, and there’s a sly twist to her words that
he doesn’t like. “Get him up.”
There are hands, then, sliding beneath his armpits, dragging him to his unsteady feet. His limbs
immediately tingle with the heady rush of blood back to his extremities, sending prickles of
electricity shooting across his nerves. He wavers unsteadily, forcing those same arms to catch him
when he threatens to collapse back to the stone below.
“Damn—he—he’s heavy, ” the first guard complains as he clutches the dead weight in his arms.
“Can’t you fucking stand on your own?”
“Get him on his feet, we don’t have time for this,” Hyeri orders, and he hears the clank and scrape
of metal from somewhere nearby. “Over here, chain him up. If he won’t stay upright, we’ll make
him.”
His body is dragged by his torso across the filth that covers the floor unceremoniously, bare feet
scraping against the stone as he is moved like a rag doll from one end of the cell to the other. His
head still hangs down towards the ground, but there is more light here—he must be near the door,
he thinks idly.
Something heavy and cold clamps down around his wrists, far too tight for comfort, and his arms
are wrenched in their sockets as his hands are dragged above his head. Again, the clanking and
rattling of metal reaches his ears, and then the guard pulls away to admire their handiwork, gazing
up at the shackles that have affixed his wrists to the top of the cell door.
“There...that’s better, isn’t it?” Hyeri says, her tone even and reasonable as though he should be
agreeing with her. He doesn’t bother trying to raise his head or look her in the eyes, and she seems
to take umbrage with that. When he doesn’t immediately respond, her fingers appear in his line of
vision, curling beneath his chin and forcing his face up to be level with hers. There is something
dark swimming in her eyes, even in the dim light—a darkness that only comes from being given
too much power, and not knowing quite what to do with it.
“There you are…” She murmurs, staring him down. “Park Jimin. How nice to see you again.”
In some distant corner of his mind, there is a twinge of familiarity at the sight of her round face
framed by short, dark hair, the way her lips curl downwards in a pout. She bats her long eyelashes
at him and shakes her head in sympathy. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”
The other guards are silent as she speaks to him, but now that his head has been raised, Jimin can
see the way they hover just over her shoulders, watching them both curiously. Their faces, too, are
familiar to him—prickling at his memory like a dream that slips away just before you awake.
“I never thought I’d see you in a place like this,” she tuts, tapping at his chin patronizingly. “Not
the golden boy. It’s sad, really, to see you fall so far.”
His lack of response seems to frustrate her. Her hand drops away almost immediately and she turns
back to the other guards to address them instead, letting Jimin’s head fall down to hang between his
arms again. “Search him.”
They trade places, the two tall men approaching him from either side with hands outstretched, and
he is powerless to resist as their fingers press and prod at his tired muscles, his bruises, his pride.
The particularly sensitive spots have him hissing involuntarily, especially the tender curve of his
ribcage where the men take no care in shoving him this way and that despite the obvious
discoloring of his skin over the bone.
Hyeri, meanwhile, stands back and watches this all with an appraising eye, humming in
appreciation as his thighs are pried apart to give her a good look at his cock as it hangs flaccid in
the cool air. With their search clearly turning up nothing—for really, what could he hide when laid
bare like this, she appears to change tack completely.
“Mmm...someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?” She asks rhetorically, her eyes flicking
across the myriad of bruises that litter his skin. “What did you do, Jiminie? Were you naughty?”
The men both chuckle at the derision dripping from her voice, clearly enjoying the way his limbs
tense at the humiliating accusation.
“Look at you, though…” She hums, stepping closer between the two other guards, “Just as pretty
as you always were—even if you are broken now.”
He can feel a retort creeping up the back of his throat, but it dies on his tongue long before he can
give voice to it. Whatever he had intended to say fades from mind as her small hand darts out to
wrap around his cock, tugging cruelly as if trying to get his attention. Jimin lets out the smallest of
whines at the contact, thighs flexing against the strong grip that holds them apart, and she grins.
“It’s too bad, really…” She goes on, her tone as light as ever, “I hear the staff at the Academy get
to have their fun with you every day…” Her fingers twist at the head of his cock, positively toying
with him now—and if she is trying to make him hard, she’s positively failing at it. But no, Jimin
thinks, that’s the opposite of what the young woman wants. She isn’t looking to give him pleasure,
only pain—and she’s certainly succeeding.
“Just imagine, if things had played out differently, that could have been us.” She looks between the
two men at her sides, a mocking pout back at her lips. “We sure do miss seeing you in class, don’t
we, boys?” She asks the men, and both hurry to nod their agreement. "You always were the very
best student."
Something about the way she says it makes his stomach turn on its head beneath his diaphragm,
giving a terrible lurch of foreboding.
“I bet Hojoon here would have liked to use this pretty mouth of yours,” she adds, raising her free
hand to thumb at the curve of his bottom lip with the long edge of her nail. Hojoon hums at her
side, but Jimin can see the way it’s her eyes, really, that are clouded with desire as they stare down
at his mouth.
She falls silent, then, for a long moment, simply gazing at him as though lost in her thoughts. It
carries on long enough that Minhyung clears his throat to catch her attention, and the sound seems
to snap her back to reality so quickly that she drops his head completely, letting Jimin’s chin strike
against his sternum in her haste to back away. She clears her own throat, then, seeming to
straighten her uniform to busy her hands—at least from what he can see out of the corner of his
eye, that is.
“Hyeri—” One of the men whispers to her, “Aren’t we supposed to be, uh—gathering
information?”
“Of course,” she snaps back, the playful edge to her tone all but abandoned now. “I’m getting to
it.” She smirks, then—he can hear it in her tone, the way it slices—and adds, “Just wanted to have
a little reunion first.”
Still, she is quick to back away from him now, barking at the two men to release him. The moment
their hands slip away, his body crashes back against the steel bars at his spine, knocking the wind
out of him with a pained ‘oof' that he’s sure she appreciated.
“So, Park Jimin, ” Hyeri drawls, “You don’t want to talk?”
He says nothing, focusing entirely on sucking in one deep breath after another.
“We’re not stupid,” she continues, “It isn’t hard to put together what happened here. And we’re
going to get it out of you one way or another...aren’t we?”
He pants, strains the muscles in his arms against the unnatural way they have been contorted over
his head, and manages to lift his head up just a few inches to look her right in the eye again.
That proves to be exactly the wrong decision.
“Turn him around,” she snaps, her tone now frigidly cold. Minhyung rushes forward to comply,
grabbing at his sides to spin his body around, the chains above his wrists clanging raucously
against the cell bars as he is slammed back into place. His teeth clack together as his face strikes
the metal, the fractured edge of his ribs just barely managing to avoid a direct impact—although
the jolt knocks his breath right out of him once more. He chokes, coughs, gags on his own inhale as
he tries to fill his lungs—and through the sudden ringing in his ears, he can hear the soft tinkling of
Hyeri’s laughter.
“Did you think you could get away with it, Jimin?” She asks, her voice drawing closer again. “Did
you think you could just betray us, and no one would notice?”
He tries to shake his head, but it’s nearly impossible to move with with way his arms have been
bent back on themselves, contorting his shoulders in such a way that threatens to dislocate them
completely.
“Tell us where your accomplice has gone,” Hyeri demands. He whines, fingers flexing uselessly
against the shackles that dig into his wrists.
He feels her draw close enough that the heat from her body radiates towards him.
“Tell us,” she repeats, “how they escaped.”
Even if he wanted to answer her now, he can’t—he can’t —not with the way his chest is being
crushed from the front by an immovable wall of iron, pressed down from behind by a grip far too
powerful to overcome.
“Fine,” she goes on, not even pausing long enough to give him a chance to reply, “we’ll do this the
hard way.” Behind him, there’s a rustling of clothes. “Give me your gun,” she says to one of the
other men.
“Wait—” Hojoon interrupts, suddenly sounding nervous. “Hyeri, I don’t think—”
“What?” She snaps back, and he sucks in a deep breath.
“I don’t think Principal Kim would like to hear—”
“Principal Kim,” she shoots back before he can finish, “has made it very clear that he doesn’t care
what happens to our friend here. So give me your gun.”
CW: scene containing gun play, blood, torture, and non-con
click to skip
He squeezes his eyes shut, hands curling into fists despite the numbness in his fingers now. The
hand pressing him into the bars immediately releases him, and it’s all he can do to force a breath
into his lungs.
There’s a click, a clatter, the whirr and clinking of metal against metal somewhere over his
shoulder, but he can’t focus for long enough to piece together what he is hearing. His arms are
shackled firmly, holding him still, but—
He takes in another deep breath, letting the air fill him completely. His toes, once aching beneath
the strain of holding him upright, no longer feel as though they have any contact with the stone
floor beneath.
“Alright, Jimin,” the woman calls his name, her voice sounding tinny now, filtered from
somewhere far away. “Let’s try this one last time.”
There’s something cold at his back now, cold and round. The object is pressed roughly between
his ribs, a painful pressure that cuts through the fog in his mind for a moment.
“Tell me what I want to know, Park Jimin,” the woman’s voice positively hisses in his ear, “or I’ll
take a chance with this gun and find out whether or not the one bullet I left in the cylinder has your
name on it.”
‘My name—’
The thought floats through his mind, unhurried and untethered, the only piece of her question that
makes any sense to him. He feels his lips turn up at the corners, a silly grin spreading across his
face. His cheek digs into the bars, feeling the cool metal of his cage soothe the flush beneath his
skin.
“Three,” her voice tells him, but he can’t piece together why—why she is counting at him—
“Two,” she says, more harshly than before. It feels as though she is warning him of something,
though he couldn’t begin to imagine what.
“One—”
—CLICK.
All of a sudden, it feels as though the entire room lets out an exhale at once. He follows suit,
sucking in a deep breath and letting it out as a long sigh, the motion pressing that cool, hard object
deeper between his ribs.
“Hyeri—” Someone says from inside the cage.
“Shut up,” one of the other animals hisses back. That sharp pressure at his ribs disappears, only to
make another appearance moments later at the small of his back, grinding into his tailbone. He
imagines that there is a tail there, bushy and strong, swiping the pointy thing away. His grin
widens, making room for his teeth—
“Tell me where they’re hiding,” the beast growls at his throat. “Tell me!”
‘Hiding?’ He thinks, ‘No one is hiding…’
“One!” This time, the growl is louder, angrier. What does it want—?
“Two!”
“Hyeri, stop—!”
“Three!”
—CLICK.
What follows is the most animalistic sound yet, a wild roar that seems to rattle the cage from the
inside out.
“—Damn it!”
“He’s not going to answer, maybe we need to try—”
“Oh, I know what we need to try!” The beast screams, “It’s the only fucking language he
understands anyway—”
There are claws at his back now, claws digging into his haunches, wrenching his legs apart. The
sharp, stabbing pressure drags along his skin, travelling down-down-down until he feels it breach
through his defenses, forcing its way inside of him now.
Ah—oh—oh how it burns, how it burns and it tears at him—the intrusion cold, so very cold, and
yet it licks at his insides like the tongue of a flame. The beast is cackling now, digging her her
claws into his flesh so he can’t run, he can’t escape—
“Tell me what I want to know, Jimin, or I’ll send a bullet straight through you, I swear I will—!”
He can’t, he can’t—
His own hands flail against their restraints, a chain rattling like a warning above his head. The cage
is closing in, it’s so small now—
That terrible burning pulls away for a moment, retreating, only to invade him once again, and it
tears at him, it shreds—
“Tell me!”
There is no warning this time, only the terrible echo of a wordless shout as he feels the claws at his
hip flex and pierce through his skin, as the pain that slices through him comes to a halt, and—
There is a crash, a loud bang—and then silence. The burning suddenly ceases, the claws torn away
from his flesh.
“Let me go—!” Someone screams, but the words are cut off at the ends, muffled. His head is
swimming, his vision twisting before him as he tries to wrench his eyes open, but all he can make
out are the limbs of shadows, spectres, wrestling in the dim light.
“Grab her hands—”
“Hyeri, calm down, please—calm down—!”
“He tried to destroy us all, he—he d-deserves it—!”
“Go, get her out of here!” A voice calls out, much closer to him now. His muscles tense on instinct,
his numb fingertips scrambling for purchase against their bonds. “I’ll take care of this—”
There are hands on him now—hands, not claws, their touch rough but not unkind as they grip his
waist, his shoulders. Something clatters above his head, his arms swaying—and suddenly they
collapse down on him, knocking against his head as gravity drags them towards the ground.
They are wrestled upwards again, held firm by a solitary grip while a warm paw at his hip guides
him down onto his knees—the position familiar now—safe, even. His chain rattles against the
cage, the bars in front of him as it is secured back into place, his wrists now at the perfect height
for him to rest his weary head against them. His cheeks are wet as he presses them to his own skin.
He can smell copper in the air.
He can hear heavy breathing behind him, the sound overloud in the small space, and the owner of
the lungs creating the noise seems to just stand there for a minute, looming over him. He pants into
his own hands, his forehead soothed by the metal beneath them, and waits.
But the guard says nothing, only shuffling from one foot to the other—the crunch of gravel
beneath his feet unmistakable—before deciding to step away at last.
Jimin’s shoulders curl instinctively up towards his ears at the sudden screech of metal against
metal as the door to the cell opens beside him, swift as though he might suddenly find it within
himself to dart for the opening. But there is little left inside of Jimin now, his skin hanging loosely
over his bones. There is no strength left in his limbs as they hang from the bars, and somehow, he
is grateful for it.
His entire body trembles with the vibration of the cell door slamming closed, his ears ringing at the
heavy click—thump of the lock being twisted into place.
And with a sense of finality, those boot steps begin to thud away against the stone, each impact
echoing three-fold around the chamber as they recede into the distance. There is no hesitation in
those steps, no pausing. Their pace is brisk, almost anxious.
There is no one coming back for him, he realizes, and the final shred of tension leaves his body.
He closes his eyes against what little light there is left in the space—and finally, finally surrenders
to the darkness.
Chapter End Notes
Summary of the scene containing needles, blood and torture:
Seokjin grabs needles from the nurse's office supplies and attempts to use them to
torture Jungkook into submission by stabbing them through his cock. When the pain
from those wounds doesn't stop his mocking, Seokjin resorts to grabbing his lips and
stabbing the needles through them instead, effectively stopping him from making any
more sounds.

Summary of the scene containing gun play, blood, torture, and non-con:
Hyeri gets fed up with Jimin's unwillingness (and inability) to answer her interrogation
questions, so she takes a gun from one of the other guards and removes all but one
bullet from it. She places the gun at Jimin's ribcage and threatens to shoot him if he
doesn't answer; when he still refuses, she pulls the trigger, but no bullet comes out.
She moves the gun down to the base of his spine and repeats the question, threatening
again to shoot him if he doesn't comply; when he still refuses, she pulls the trigger, but
no bullet comes out, and she becomes enraged. The other guards attempt to stop her,
but she insists that Jimin will only understand her if she "speaks his language," and she
drags the gun down between his legs to shove the barrel into his asshole. She repeats
her question for a third time, but Jimin is in too much pain to understand her and
couldn't answer even if he wanted to. Furious, she begins to count down again, but
before she can even reach for the trigger, the other guards pull her away and remove
the gun from Jimin's body.

Phase Thirteen, Pt. 1: Sculpture
Chapter Summary
While Jungkook sleeps, the rest of the community is wide, wide awake.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE THIRTEEN, PT. 1:
Necrophilia, Rape/Non-Con, Somnophilia, Incest, Needles, Blood,

Violence/Aftermath of Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, Nightmares/Night
Terrors, Altered Mental States, Mind Control, Torture, Psychological Torture,
Emotional Manipulation, Solitary Confinement, Imprisonment, Semi-Public Sex,
Public Nudity, Objectification, Multiple Orgasms, Bondage, Anal Sex, Anal
Fingering, Daddy Kink, Mommy Kink, Cockwarming, PTSD, Dissociation,
Hallucinations, No Lube, Spit As Lube, Threesome - M/M/M
IMPORTANT NOTE:
This chapter includes scenes containing mentions of Necrophilia, Rape/Non-Con,

Somnophilia, Incest, Needles, Blood, and Violence. Some readers may prefer to skip
parts of these scenes. There is a link at the beginning of each section containing one of
these elements that will skip you to the very next scene without having to scroll past it
manually. There will also be a link to a description of the scene if you would like to
know what you missed. Please consider your options before reading these scenes!
Bypassing these scenes will minimally affect your understanding of the plot.
Fic Playlist
Phase Thirteen, Pt. 1 Playlist



the original
story here!
Classroom 4—Second Floor—East 8.28.18 3:15AM
In the absence of sirens, the building is eerily quiet. Every one of his footsteps sounds like a
gunshot down the hallway, echoing back to him in the form of his companion keeping pace no
more than one beat behind him. The teacher’s hand is warm through his tunic where it rests against
the small of his back, a gentle reminder of the older man’s support that helps keep his racing heart
from beating through his ribs.
They move together as one, each intimately familiar with the ins and outs of the building even in
the dark. When he feels a tug on his shirt, he moves instinctively to follow, allowing himself to be
wrapped up in a pair of strong arms and cradled to a firm chest, their bodies rolling around an open
doorway and pressing back against the wall on the other side. A palm covers his mouth before he
can even wrap his mind around a single word to say.
“Shhh,” the older man whispers, lips pressed to the back of his own palm, breath warm even
through his fingers.
He nods slowly, his pulse creeping up the side of his throat to form a knot just below his jaw.
On the other side of the doorway, footsteps—much heavier than their own, made by sturdy boots
—appear in the distance. They squeak against the tile as they move closer, accompanied by a
flickering light through the doorway that wavers in time with the noise —left, right, left, right, left
—
Suddenly, both the footsteps and the light freeze. He doesn’t dare suck in another breath for fear of
making a sound, and his lungs begin to burn at the edges. In front of him, he can feel his
companion’s heart thudding beneath his fingertips.
THUMP—THUMP—
THUMP—THUMP—
An abrupt rattle breaks through the silence, followed by a long creak and rattling thud. He jolts in
surprise and the fingers around his cheeks tighten immediately in a silent warning. The footsteps
shuffle against the tile, moving away, then away further still. A low voice mumbles something, far
enough away to be unintelligible but still far too close for comfort.
The chest beneath his hands rises with a nearly silent inhale, and he dares to follow suit. The
footsteps are moving again, loud enough to mask the sound of air hissing through his clenched
teeth, the slow leak before an explosion. It’s too dark to make out the face in front of him, but he
can imagine the shape of the older man’s eyes beneath the frames of his glasses, the downturn of
his brow, the corners of his pout as they pull at his cheeks—
THUMP—THUMP—
It’s hard to tell if the heartbeat he hears is his own anymore, what with how close they have
pressed together. It’s probably painful, the way his nails are digging into the other man’s chest, but
neither of them make a sound. He tilts his head slightly, straining to hear what’s happening out of
sight only feet away—
THUMP—THUMP—
THUMP—THUMP—
THUMP—
The footsteps draw closer again—slowly, and more deliberately. He can hear the heavy rush of
someone else breathing just outside the doorway, the scrape of boots as they come to a stop against
the stone below. Light floods the room, a steady beam cast from the open doorway towards the far
windows inches from where they are tucked out of sight. The light casts his companion’s face into
sharp contrast, handsome features suddenly illuminated, and he catches the very slow, silent
movement of the older man’s lips as they form two words:
‘Don’t. Move.’
He blinks and gives the smallest possible nod, invisible to the naked eye but enough to be felt by
the hand over his mouth. Once again, he does not dare to breathe.
THUMP—THUMP—
He can feel the guard’s presence just outside of the doorframe, can practically feel her eyes on
them through the shadows. Any second now, they would be discovered, any second—
THUMP—THUMP—
The trapped air in his lungs has grown claws, teeth—
CRRRHHHH—
“—All hands, report in.”
The light dips low to the floor, the sound of rustling masking the small huff he can’t help but
release. The grip on his side tightens until it’s nearly painful.
CRRRHHHH—
“—second floor reporting—”
CRRHHHHHH—
“—basement reporting in—”
CRRHHH—
“First floor reporting.” The guard’s voice joins the the chorus of other replies, almost startling loud
in its proximity. She sounds terribly businesslike, holding perfectly still as she waits for a reply. He
isn’t sure how much longer he can do the same, his muscles positively aching under the effort. The
older man’s foot presses tightly against the inside of his own, their legs tangled together in their
efforts to stand as close as possible.
CRRHHHHHH—
“—Principal Kim requests a perimeter check immediately. Wrap up in your area and return to the
rear entrance—”
CRRRRHHHHH—
“—10-4, on my way—”
CRRHHH—
“Be right there.”
The radio lets out a little chirp as the connection is severed, followed by more rustling as the guard
slides the device back into place on her hip. The movement sends the flashlight in her hand
wavering, light flickering from side to side, and he shudders as it glints dangerously close to
illuminating their hiding place. The thumb against his cheek begins to stroke back and forth, a
minute but comforting gesture. He closes his eyes and braces for the worst and—
The door slides shut with a long, low creak. The handle clatters as the latch clicks into place. The
footsteps recede, taking the light along with them.
He lets out his breath all at once and feels his ribs creak in relief. The older man breaks the silence
with a soft laugh under his breath, and it’s as though the levee breaks all at once.
“World’s end, Yoongi—” He swears the moment he has tugged the older man’s hand away from
his face at last, the words barely leaving his lips before he lunges forward and slides their mouths
together. Their teeth clack with the force of the movement, but neither of them can bring
themselves to care. Yoongi’s hand slides back into his hair, nails dragging deliciously across his
scalp, pulling him closer for a moment only to drag his head away again.
“Taehyung—”
“That was so close,” he breathes, his voice heavy with wonder. “She nearly—”
“I know, I know,” Yoongi says, and kisses him again, face pinched tight in barely-concealed
worry. Taehyung can’t see it, exactly, but he can feel the way the older man’s jaw is tense against
his own, nose pressed so tightly to his own cheek as their mouths move together that it couldn’t
possibly be comfortable.
Yoongi kisses him plainly, desperately, without hesitation or pretense. For a brief moment, they
take the risk—here, alone, in the dark—for this single, beautiful connection.
Yoongi kisses him the way he always has, as though this time may be their last.
“Taehyung,” he sighs as he pulls away, his furrowed brow resting against Taehyung’s own.
“I know,” he parrots back, clutching at his lover’s shirt for a brief, greedy taste of the warmth
underneath.
“We can’t linger here,” Yoongi warns, tilting his head just enough to take a glance towards the
door. “They’ll be back, we need to hurry—”
“Wait—” Taehyung begs, tugging the older man back down to him again. Following his instincts,
he nuzzles his nose against the side of Yoongi’s much smaller one, enjoying the way it wrinkles
beneath his touch in feigned disapproval. “Just one more,” he murmurs even as he presses their lips
back together, enjoying the way the older man’s small pout instantly molds to his own.
Yoongi’s lips quirk into a small smile as he hums contentedly at the soft contact. He can feel the
older man’s eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. “Baby…” Yoongi murmurs into the kiss, and
his knees quiver.
“Daddy…” he whispers back automatically, and something about that response feels so—right .
Yoongi’s smile curls higher beneath his lips. The older man’s long fingers brush against the
sensitive skin beneath his eye, looking down at him as though he can’t believe Taehyung is there.
“I love you,” he says, and it sounds as much like a confession as it had the day before.
“I love you,” Taehyung echoes back, the words sending his heart jumping into his throat.
“If you—” Yoongi begins, then pauses and sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “I shouldn’t
have brought you with me,” he says instead, “it’s too dangerous. You should—”
“No, Yoongi—”
“I could never—never forgive myself if anything happens to you, Tae—”
“I—I need to be here,” Taehyung argues back, shaking his head so their noses brush against each
other again, “I have to. You know this.” He bumps their foreheads together, eyes flicking back and
forth until Yoongi meets his gaze. “You know this. I’m not going anywhere.”
Another deep breath, then Yoongi lets out a long sigh. “I do.”
“Please...please don’t try to send me away,” he pleads softly. “This is my fault, I need to fix it.”
“It isn’t—”
“We don’t—we don’t have time to argue,” he interrupts, pulling away from the older man at last.
“Didn’t you say we need to hurry?”
Yoongi looks ready to argue anyway, his lips and eyebrows pinching together in obvious
disagreement, but he says nothing. His hands slide down to Taehyung’s shoulders, give them one
final squeeze, then drop back down to his sides again. Without the touch, Taehyung suddenly feels
cold.
“Let’s go,” Yoongi says, turning towards the door. “Stay close?”
He looks over his shoulder at Taehyung, and the younger man can’t help but pause for a moment to
gaze at him, really taking in the handsome lines of his lover’s face in the dim lighting available
from the far windows. Yoongi’s hair, already dark, becomes black as ink in the shadows. His
glasses reflect a tiny sliver of light from the moon overhead that cuts across sharp angles and
concerned furl of his eyebrows. When Taehyung’s stare carries on for too long, Yoongi raises one
brow a little higher, a silent question in his expression, and Taehyung steps forward before he can
say anything more.
“Always,” he says, and reaches out to slide his fingers between the older man’s, bringing their
palms tightly together. Yoongi squeezes his hand firmly, a wordless promise not to let go—then
tugs the two of them forward and reaches for the door handle, opening the door with as much care
as possible before leading the charge out into the silent hallway beyond.
STATION ONE
FIRST FLOOR ENTRANCE
2018-29-08
04:52
The precinct is quiet. Rain dribbles off the edge of the roof and over the windows in sheets that
block out any view of the street beyond the glass, leaving only shadowy figures moving past from
time to time, illuminated only by the streetlight beyond. Every time a new shadow appears, some
part of his brain perks up in attention—but at this time of night, it’s more likely than not that no
one will step into the building at all.
He sighs as he lifts his feet up onto the desk in front of him, no one around to chastise him for
unprofessionalism at such a late hour. It’s quiet, yes, and at times that is a blessing—but tonight, he
finds himself at risk of drifting off from the boredom. Sure, there is a pile of cases on his desk that
need processing—mostly traffic stops and minor infractions—and he can hear another officer
somewhere across the room shuffling papers around himself, but…
It’s late. Late—or early, depending on how one looks at it—enough that the receptionist hasn’t
made her way into the office yet. The sun hasn’t risen yet, and the advancing months towards
winter mean it will only remain this dark for longer and longer each day. Tomorrow, he’ll have a
whole new stack of cases to slough through, mostly accidents caused by the rain more than
anything else. But for tonight—tonight, he deserves to take a break. In fact, he glances at the clock
and decides that taking his government mandated break is definitely in order.
But just as he is settling in behind the kitchen counter to make himself a cup of coffee, hoping
caffeine might give him enough of a boost to make it through several more hours of monotony
until he can slink home, his thoughts are interrupted by the familiar jingle of the bell above the
front door. He takes a few steps so he can peer around the break room wall towards the front desk,
and is startled to find not one, but two unfamiliar figures making their way inside.
Abandoning his coffee mug on the counter, he hastily brushes his hands over his uniform to
smooth any wrinkles and clears his throat as he hurries back to the front of the room, slipping
behind the front desk to greet the new visitors.
“Hello, welcome to—” He glances up, and the words die in his throat at the sight of them.
Standing just inside the doorway is a woman, her body encased in a crimson dress so tight it looks
as though it has been painted on. She is glancing around the precinct when he actually lays eyes on
her, but he can tell even without her gaze on him that her own eyes are dark and piercing. She takes
in her surroundings with an appraising air, lips pursed slightly as she glances over every
announcement posted on the wall opposite. Surprisingly, there doesn’t seem to be a drop of rain on
her—her outfit is impeccable, her hands clutching a small purse against her flat stomach, not a
single golden hair on her head out of place.
Behind her, the other newcomer shifts, drawing his attention to the umbrella being closed with a
snap at the woman’s side. The man holding it is much taller than her, broad-shouldered and
dressed more plainly in a black suit that perfectly matches the shade of the hair swept off of his
forehead. Still, he cuts an impressive figure in contrast to the woman’s slight form, his broad chest
creating a dark canvas that only serves to outline her striking curves. The strange man turns his
eyes towards the center of the room, and his eyes land on the officer with a glint of discernment in
their depths that forces his own gaze to instinctively shift away.
“—w-welcome to Yeongdong...Police Station…” he finishes lamely, his voice fading as he

realizes how weak he suddenly sounds.
“Thank you,” the man answers, his voice deep and rich in timbre. “It seems we’ve found the right
place.” Judging by the slightly darker fabric at the man’s shoulders, he had been holding the
umbrella for his lady companion, taking the brunt of the storm in order to keep her dry.
“How—How can we help you?” The officer tries again, straightening his shoulders and trying to
bolster his professionalism and courage. Based purely on their looks alone, he can tell that these
two visitors are important. They certainly don’t dress like anyone that usually comes stumbling in
off of the streets, at least. “If you have, um, something to report, I would be happy to—”
Just as he is reaching for a pen and a blank incident form from the desk in front of him, the woman
turns her attention towards him as well, and his movement is left aborted, hands hanging
awkwardly in the air. She doesn’t say anything for several long moments, only taking several slow
steps towards the desk, her tall heels clicking on the wooden floor below. In the empty precinct,
the sound seems to reverberate at ten times the usual volume, announcing her presence
dramatically. The fabric of her skirt clings to her shapely legs as she moves, and he swallows
thickly in an attempt to manage how dry his mouth has suddenly become.
“You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?” She asks after pausing in front of him for a moment, her dark
eyes flitting across his face.
“I—” That’s the very last thing he expected to hear leave her lips. “Uh, I—”
“We’re in need of some assistance, I’m afraid. I hope you can help us. We’ve come such a long
way…”
“Well, I—uh, of course, what can I—”
“You see,” she continues, as though she had never stopped speaking, “our employer is in a bit of
a...difficult situation. And recently, word from this very station indicated that his case may have
some new...developments. Would you be the right person to speak to about that?”
“D-Definitely,” he rushes to say, hands now fumbling to find the intercom on the desktop. “Let me
just call my partner, and we’ll—”
“Certainly,” the woman’s companion interjects, his tone reasonable. “We’re happy to wait.” He
steps forward and places a hand on the woman’s hip, stroking her side in an almost comforting
way, and she seems to lean back into him with the smallest hint of a smile ghosting across her
painted lips.
“Right, uh—just, just one second—” Once he finally tears his eyes away from the two imposing
figures in front of him, it’s embarrassingly easy to track down the microphone for the intercom
system only inches from his hand. He grabs at the device and raises it to his mouth, clicking it on
and hearing an answering crackle of a walkie-talkie echoing from somewhere in the distance.
“Officer Im?” He asks, “Please meet me in IR1. Send Choi to man the desk, no one is up here.”
CRRRRRHHHH—
“On my way,” the familiar voice of his colleague answers. He nods, satisfied, and takes a deep
breath before plastering a smile back on his face and raising his head to face their visitors once
again.
“If you’ll come with me—”
He is once again interrupted before he can even take a step, the woman leaning over the desk
between them with a raised brow.
“Officer... Im , did you say?” She asks, her voice inquisitive.
“Uh, yes—Officer Im is my partner, he is going to—”
“Wonderful.” She tilts her head and leans even closer still, the overhead lights glinting off of the
golden strands of her short hair. “And you are…” She reaches out towards him, one perfectly
manicured finger on display, and taps on the nameplate pinned to the front of his uniform.
“...Officer Lee Hoseok, yes?”
There’s a lump in his throat now as he tries to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. “Y-Yes—”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer Lee, ” she drawls, and something about the way she says his
name is laden with meaning he can’t quite grasp. An inside joke, likely, if the way her crimson lips
curl up at the corners is any indication. “Please...lead the way.”
She pulls away again, but not before raising that single finger to tap underneath his chin almost
affectionately. He can feel the heat rising from his own face as he freezes for a second, staring at
the woman for a moment until she raises her eyebrows again and gives him an expectant look that
spurs him into action.
“I—uh, r-right—right this way, ma’am,” he says, bowing and gesturing off to the right. “—A-And
sir,” he adds, nodding towards her companion, a moment too late. “We’ll take the, uh—first
interview room over here. That should give us some—some privacy…”
Their presence is heavy like a weight at his back, shadowing his every move as he weaves his way
through the desks and leads them towards one of the secluded rooms they keep separate from the
rest of the precinct—the perfect place for interviews and interrogations alike. Hoseok can’t shake
the feeling of their eyes on his neck, hot under the collar of his uniform—particularly that woman’s
dark, heavy lidded gaze, lined in kohl and perfectly applied mascara. That woman, he thinks—that
woman —
“We can, uh, talk in here,” he offers, breaking the silence as he pauses before the open doorway to
the interview room and gestures with one hand for the visitors to walk past him and take a seat at
the table within.
As the couple pass by, he catches a whiff of—something—something sweet and cloying, a scent
that seems to waft from the woman’s clothes and hair as she moves. Some part of her brushes
against him as she passes and his skin erupts in goosebumps. And once the two figures are settled
into chairs at the table—facing away from the door, a particularly odd choice he can’t help but
notice—their spines ramrod straight and hands folded against the tabletop...
Hoseok is struck with the thought that they both appear almost alien to him. Foreign . His
shoulders hunch towards his ears in unease.
Just as he is about to swing the door closed behind himself, footsteps catch his attention from
down the hall, hurried and echoing as they rush towards him. He peeks his head out and spots
Officer Im carefully jogging closer, his partner’s uniform jacket missing and his undershirt
rumpled. The older man looks chagrined as he approaches, a stack of files tucked under his arm
and several cups that appear to contain water in each of his hands.
“Sorry, sorry—” he’s saying as he comes to a halt, handing one of the mugs over as he attempts to
juggle the files into a better arrangement, nearly slopping the contents of his own drink onto
himself in the process. “I didn’t know which case this was about, I thought I’d—”
“It’s fine,” Hoseok hurries to say, grabbing at another of the mugs in an effort to assist, “I’m not
sure either. They’re asking about some sort of update, but I’m not—not sure. Just—let’s get in
there, okay? This is...I don’t know, exactly. Something important.”
“Important?” The other officer asks, brushing his dark hair back with one hand to sweep it away
from his raised brows, clearly just as surprised as he is to hear that anything important might
happen in the province at this hour.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, and doesn’t bother to elaborate.
Officer Im purses his lips for a moment, clearly skeptical, then pushes past him into the room and
settles into one of the chairs opposite their visitors. The younger officer slides two of the cups of
water across the table towards their guests and plasters a smile onto his full lips, one that Hoseok is
all too familiar with—one that says ‘ Yes ma’am, we’re happy to help search for your missing dog,’
or ‘Of course I want to hear stories about your grandchildren.’ It is the smile of a professional with
many years of experience under his belt, the smile of someone who has honed his skills by dealing
primarily with the trivial concerns of a rural population and listening to the rambling stories of
octogenarians with nowhere better to be than at their front desk.
It is an expression Hoseok can’t seem to muster on his own face, not with the spread of
goosebumps still covering his skin and his shoulders still attempting to migrate towards his ears.
He closes the door behind himself with a soft snap, and the sudden silence inside the room is
oppressive to his ears.
The walls are sound-proofed, of course, to ensure the safety and privacy of anyone seated within.
But as he moves around the table and slides his chair out to sit down, he feels the heavy weight of
two sets of eyes tracking his every move, practically predatory in their observation. The chair
squeaks against the concrete below when he scoots back towards the table, and for a long moment,
no one speaks a word. And something about these close confines leaves Hoseok feeling as though
he has walked himself right into a trap—as though the safest place in the building would be
anywhere but this very room.
“Well…” Officer Im speaks up, leaning forward with that same smile on his lips, his tone
hospitable. “Thank you for coming in tonight. It’s my understanding that there is something rather
important you’d like to discuss with us, and my partner and I are at your service.” He gestures
towards Hoseok with one hand, never looking away from the couple seated across from them.
“I’m sure you’ve already been introduced, but this is Officer Lee Hoseok, and I’m Officer Im
Changkyun.”
As always, Hoseok is amazed at his partner’s ability to handle the public with such ease. He may
have personally made the choice to complete his military service in the police force as a matter of
convenience, but the younger man seated beside him—this is clearly where Changkyun is meant to
be. In a year, he may decide to depart to explore other career prospects, but he can easily imagine
Changkyun continuing on in this very precinct for years to come.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer Im,” the man seated across from them repeats, just as the
woman had said before, though his tone is not laden with the same implication as hers had been.
Neither of the visitors make a move to accept their offered water, but the man leans forward as
well and continues, “your partner has been very hospitable, and we appreciate your time. I would
apologize for the lateness of our arrival, but afraid we have a rather serious matter to discuss.”
Changkyun waves his hand silently as though dismissing the apology, and nods for the other man
to continue. Hoseok is happy to sit back and allow his partner to take the reins for now. His
attention is drawn to movement from the other end of the table and he watches as the woman
reaches down into her lap, snapping her purse open to retrieve what looks like a letter from its
confines.
“My name is Oh Sehun,” the stranger goes on, “and I’m a lawyer in the service of Mr. Kim
Seokjin. I am here to represent my employer in a matter that must be resolved with haste.”
Hoseok nods without realizing it, recognizing the explanation from only moments before. Still, it’s
been several long minutes since the pair had entered the precinct, and he knows almost nothing
about what they want. People who come in from the street to speak with an officer are usually
much more forthcoming, he thinks—
“Jeongyeon,” the man says, clearly referring to his companion. He holds out his hand to his side,
palm open to receive the document that the woman hands over without a word. He carefully
unfolds the letter and slides it across the table towards the two officers, turning the page so that the
words printed across it can be read.
Hoseok immediately recognizes the official Korean National Police Agency crest in the upper
right-hand corner, but the woman opens her mouth to speak for the first time since entering the
room before he can read any further.
“You see, gentlemen,” she says, her painted lips curled into a placid smile that doesn’t quite reach
her dark eyes, “we are in need of your... cooperation.”
“What—uh, what can we do to—” He tries to ask, but once again, she continues on as though she
never stopped speaking.
“Bring us the missing persons file—” she says, tapping a nail against the document as she speaks.
The words are clearly not a request.
“—related to one Kim Eunah.”
Front Office—Security—First Floor 08.28.18 3:22AM
He hates coming in this office even in the light of day, but the long shadows that creep across the
room towards him somehow make the experience so much worse. The door that always creaks
when it is used now feels like a threat at his back. When it closes with a soft thump , it sounds like
a warning shot ringing over his shoulder.
A warm hand in his gives a firm squeeze, tugging at his arm as if its owner knows just how
desperately he needs to be grounded. “Yoongi…” He hears the younger man whisper, the sound of
his own name barely registering to his ears.
He turns his head and raises his free hand to press a finger to his lips, shaking his head slightly to
warn against any future noise. The young man in front of him hesitates, eyes flickering around the
dim space, then gives a shaky nod and another squeeze of his hand to indicate his understanding.
‘There’s so much to do,’ he thinks, his mind buzzing with thoughts moving a hundred different
directions at once—but the insistent prickle of fear at the back of his neck makes his decision for
him: Taehyung’s safety must come first.
Yoongi glances over his own shoulder towards the upper level of the office, warily searching for
any movement, any sign of life—but the office is as silent as it was when he left it only hours
before. The guards must have moved on already, he decides, and tries not to count it as a lucky
break, knowing full well the dangers of letting his guard down for even a moment. Decision made,
he tugs on the younger man’s hand and pulls Taehyung gently towards the closed door to their
right, tucked out of sight at the bottom of the stairs, a single red light staring ominously at them
both from the keypad beside the doorframe.
He could use the keycard dangling from his waistband, but he knows better. The keys he tugs from
his pocket instead give an innocent jingle as he sorts through them for the right one, and he trusts
that they will leave no trace of their presence once they leave. He can feel Taehyung eyeing him
curiously but doesn’t spare him a glance, instead one-handedly unlatching the lock and pushing the
door open to the security office beyond.
The screens along the far wall are black, silent—just as he left them—and he tugs Taehyung
forward to seat him in one of the chairs in front of the desk, releasing the young man’s hand to cup
his face in both palms instead. Taehyung opens his mouth again, no doubt to ask a question, but he
silences the student immediately by leaning forward and pressing their lips together in a brief,
sweet kiss. Every time he is able to steal even such a small bit of contact, it’s immensely
comforting, relieving, and he can’t help but give into the temptation now.
Taehyung hums softly in the back of his throat as he accepts Yoongi’s kiss easily, his long fingers
coming up to trail along the backs of Yoongi’s wrists, and it takes all he has to pull away from the
touch after only a few moments.
“Stay here,” he murmurs, eyes still closed, as soon as their lips part, and he can feel the breath
Taehyung sucks in before trying to reply. Again, he covers the younger man’s mouth with his own,
stealing the words off of Taehyung’s lips before they can be given a voice. “Stay here,” he says
more firmly, pressing the words into the kiss until Taehyung listens, nodding complacently.
“Please.”
“I will,” Taehyung whispers, barely making a sound, and it is only his agreement that gives Yoongi
the strength to pull away.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. Don’t make a sound.”
He has to turn away without looking at Taehyung to keep from turning back, forcing one foot in
front of the other until he is out the door. He closes it with a small snap behind him, leaning against
its surface as though holding it closed against the world outside. He lets out a long exhale, risking
the slow hiss of air for the small amount of relief it brings him. Only then can he open his eyes and
take in the office beyond through a more critical eye, his biggest worry now behind him.
His first target is the front desk, which appears to be empty even from where he stands. He peels
away from the door and creeps towards the stairs, back pressed to the wall to disguise his
movements among the shadows. The railing creaks under his weight as he leans against it and
drags his tired legs up each of the few steps that take him to the upper level, his gaze cast towards
the front desk confirming the absence of any movement even from a distance.
Still, it takes a long, deep breath to brace himself before daring to tilt his head and glance down the
hallway to his other side. Doorways loom tall and dark on either side, all but one open to the rooms
beyond. There’s no sound emanating towards him, but his shoulders rise towards his ears as though
blocking it out all the same. He can feel it, the terrible echo of screams in his ears, the twist in his
gut—
But the conference room is bare and the Vice Principal’s office is nothing more than a skeleton as
he passes it, sparse furniture their only inhabitants. His brain fills in the shadow of a silhouette, a
memory of a tall figure with hands across the desktop looming towards him as he moves past the
doorway. Once he blinks, the figure disappears, banished back into his memory like smoke after a
flame.
He turns, and another figure hangs before him, dark against an even darker space, only the outline
of features betraying its human shape. When he blinks, this figure remains. He sucks in another
breath at the sight but the air gets caught halfway down his chest, trapped by the instinctive clench
of his muscles around his ribs. The body before him is no longer swaying or writhing, but the
image before him is no less gruesome than it was when he last stumbled upon it.
He has to move on—he has to keep moving —or he’ll end up trapped by that image for the rest of
the night. He scrapes up the resolve to continue down the hall, pausing before the only closed door
among the bunch, his fingers itching to curl into a ball and knock. “Kim Seokjin, Principal and
CEO,” is the label that greets him, the words almost mocking. He resists the urge by the skin of
his teeth, choosing instead to lean forward so that one ear can press to the solid wood. He’s struck
by the familiarity of the movement, of the fear, of the waiting—
But no sound inside greets him, not even after he pauses for several seconds, not even breathing as
he waits for something, something, to signal any life beyond. It would make his job easier, he
thinks, if there was. But with no indication of movement, he has no choice but to reach for the door
handle and investigate—for his safety, for Taehyung’s. For everyone, really. He has to know.
The office feels positively cavernous when he makes his way inside, dark like a cave. There are no
street lights outside the windows tonight, the community in the distance still and silent. But still, at
his feet, he finds the evidence of carnage. Just the same as their rooms, furniture and paperwork is
strewn across the carpet, uprooted from their proper place as if weeds ripped from the ground.
Taehyung had quivered in his arms when he came to collect the younger man from his own,
upturned bedroom—but this sight sends his own heart fluttering. He knows the cause of this
destruction. He knows the man behind it—nearly as well as he knows himself.
The man in question, however, is nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of his presence is the
obvious cracks where a foot has made contact with wood, with plaster, shelves and furniture torn
asunder. He can almost trace the older man’s movements around the room, can picture him
posturing, raging—towering tall against the skyline through the windows, shoulders broad and
presence imposing. It would be easy to linger—to bask in this time in the principal’s private space,
so rarely allowed—but he has seen all he needs to. The office is empty, truly empty. They’re not
safe, but they’re as close as they can be. This is their chance.
CW: scene containing blood, needles, aftermath of violence
click to skip
He does not bother to soften his footsteps as he turns around, carefully closing the door behind him
without disturbing a thing, then jogging back to the Nurse’s office that he had abandoned before.
This time, Yoongi does not allow himself to dally at the doorway, instead charging right into the
room and grabbing at the body hanging in the center before his nerve can abandon him.
Above their heads, chains rattle in protest, but he pays them no mind. There’s no time to waste, no
telling how long it will take the guards to return or his strength to fail him. He doesn’t hesitate,
pressing his body to the doll’s despite the blood he can feel seeping through the fabric of his
clothes, and lifts its body up-up-up until the ropes around its hands are tugged loose from the hook
overhead.
The doll’s arms fall limply to its chest and it sags against him, its weight barely light enough for
him to handle, and he stumbles backwards the few steps it takes to reach the nearest sick bed. This
would have been easier with Taehyung’s help, he thinks—but as he turns around and manhandles
the doll’s body up onto the sheets and steps back to gaze down at the sight before him, he knows
that he could never put the younger man through such a thing.
Though the light is dim, metal still gleams where it sticks out from the doll’s body at odd angles,
the same grotesque image he was faced with after breaking down the door in the dead of night.
There is something softer about it now—eyes closed, limbs akimbo, face relaxed as it rests in the
clutches of unconsciousness. He can’t leave it like this, he knows—but doing too much would
attract unwanted attention, and they’re already risking so much.
‘I can at least remove the needles,’ he reasons with a nod of his head. The wounds will close
quickly, he knows from personal experience. The doll may be shaken, frightened—but the damage
will not last.
He sucks in a deep breath before reaching for the first needle, pinching the doll’s softened cock
between two fingers of his other hand as best as he can for purchase. It takes a bit of effort, more
than he expects, to draw the thin piece of metal free, blood having congealed around the wound in
his brief absence—but eventually he manages to work it loose and drop it to the sheets beside the
doll’s body instead.
He follows suit with each of the needles in turn, eyes glancing up at the doll’s face every few
seconds to catch any signs of stirring. But the doll remains blissfully unaware of the teacher’s
actions, giving no indication that it can feel his hands on its skin, no retreat from the pain the
needles would otherwise be causing. Yoongi finds himself relieved when he realizes that he can
work unencumbered, that he will not be adding to the doll’s suffering in the process of trying to
relieve it.
All in all, he drops 12 needles to the sheets, leaving a small smear of crimson across their stark
white surface. Blood also seeps from the doll’s cock, wounds freshly opened by Yoongi’s
ministrations—but in the darkness, the liquid looks black as night.
He turns his attention, then, to the doll’s lips, the carnage somehow so much worse there. Perhaps
it is because blood has dripped down the doll’s chin and throat, leaving it with a gruesome smile
painted across its pale skin. Perhaps it is because he can remember the doll’s eyes, wide and
terrified, peering across the room at him from above the butchery, watching as he retreated with
the Principal wrapped in his arms. Perhaps it was the betrayal he saw there—or the utter silence
that followed.
The doll’s eyes are closed now. It’s long, dark eyelashes fan out against its cheeks, barely fluttering
from the depths of its slumber. He brushes its hair back from its forehead before bringing one hand
down beneath the jut of its jaw, holding it gently but securely as his other hand moves towards the
first of the needles left pierced through the corner of its lips.
He doesn’t realize how much his hands are shaking until he manages to work the metal free and
nearly drops it to the floor, his fingers coming away slick with blood. Yoongi tosses the needle
over the doll’s body into the pile, the metal making a small clink as it lands. He wipes his fingers
against the dark fabric of his slacks and takes a deep inhale, willing himself to have the strength to
continue.
‘We don’t have long,’ he reminds himself, as though he can’t hear the heavy tick-tick-tick-tick of
the clock overhead. ‘Taehyung is waiting.’
It is only this thought that gives him the push he needs, helping him will his fingers back down to
grasp at the next needle, and the one after that. He wrenches them free as gingerly as he can, trying
not to focus on the way it tugs at the doll’s skin, nearly makes its lips look like they are moving on
their own. Each needle that is freed sends new rivulets of blood across the doll’s face, dripping
down its previously clean skin towards the pillow. It will be a hell of a job to clean up tomorrow,
he thinks wryly, but that’s his problem now anyway, isn’t it?
Another 8 needles join the pile in total. 20, altogether. ‘Of course,’ he thinks, rolling his eyes.
And with all of them free, the doll’s lips look so...small. Bruises have begun to spread across its
chin and jaw where it was gripped so tightly, fingerprints betraying the size of the hand that had
held it, a smattering of smaller bruises like dark freckles circling its swollen mouth. There’s no
way the doll can be seen like this, he thinks—there’s no way he can leave it like this.
He bustles over to the sink and grabs at one of the clean washcloths Namjoon keeps at the side,
running it under the quietest, thinnest stream of warm water he can manage. The drain still makes a
tiny glug-glug as it empties, but it’s not so loud that he worries. Still, there is a prickling at the back
of his neck, the heavy weight of invisible eyes on his shoulders as he works, and there’s something
about the movement of his limbs that just doesn’t feel fast enough. It’s as though the world around
him is playing in fast forward, and his section of the tape is paused.
Yoongi wrings the rag until it stops dripping, the fabric pleasantly warm in his palm, and turns
back to the bedside again with an appraising eye—where to begin? He settles on the most non-
threatening patch of skin, the inside of the doll’s bare thighs where blood has been smeared across
the exposed curve of muscle. It feels safe enough to run the rough fabric over the doll’s skin here,
where a large, bloody handprint circles its thigh—at least there are no puncture wounds to avoid,
although there certainly are bruises. He tucks the pads of his own fingers over the splashes of black
and purple and green that are revealed with each swipe of the rag, lurking like shadows just
beneath the surface, the finger span nearly as wide enough to match.
‘What was going through his mind?’ He wonders, a shudder passing through him from head to toe
as he imagines the circumstances under which this handprint made an appearance, tries to match it
up with the sounds he remembers echoing down the hallway towards him, the screaming—
His throat is tight, the sight of his own hands blurring in front of him as he turns his attention to the
doll’s cock now, his own giving a sympathetic twitch in his trousers. Though it had been brought
to hardness before, forced to suffer through torment in the midst of pleasure, now it has fallen soft
and almost pathetic looking against the doll’s stomach. He slides his fingers beneath the flaccid
length gingerly, raising it up just enough to clean away the bloodstains beneath before wrapping
the cloth around the entire shaft and gently stroking along the puncture wounds until he’s sure that
every smear of crimson is gone from the sensitive flesh.
He flicks his eyes back up to the doll’s face again, brow furrowing as he watches for any sign of
distress, any sign of stirring—but the doll’s face is as serene as always. It’s so... soft, he thinks, soft
as the cock in his hand. Smooth features, dark lashes above a long, shapely nose and pert, rosy lips
—despite the way they’ve been distorted by wounds—like this, the doll almost looks like
something out of a fairy tale, a story for children he remembers dimly from so many years ago. A
lifetime, almost.
With his eyes fixed on the doll’s lips, he leans over and holds the rag aloft, fingers twitching
towards the streams of blood that paint the long stretch of the doll’s neck to pool at the basins of its
collarbones. The stains are harder to scrub free, here, clinging stubbornly as though unwilling to
allow Yoongi to erase the traces of what has been done. Though the community has spent several
hours hunkered down to brace for the worst, the sirens still ringing ominously in his ears—it’s the
doll that appears to have lived through a warzone.
His fingers sweep higher and higher up the doll’s neck, chin, jaw—high enough that he has no
choice but to drag the cloth over the still-weeping punctures that circle its lower lip in an attempt to
stem the bleeding. His fingers shake as they push down more firmly, the pressure increasing the
flow for a brief moment before, mercifully, it begins to slow beneath his hand. Only then does
Yoongi feel comfortable enough to scrub away the last of the drying flakes, moving as gently as
possible, before finally dropping the rag atop the pile of needles as if to hide them from view.
He purses his own lips as he gazes down at the doll’s, knowing there’s one last thing that needs to
be done. He swallows, his tongue heavy in his mouth, filling his teeth from corner to corner as
though it is as swollen as the face in front of him. He doesn’t want to, not after—he doesn’t want
to, but—
Before he can lose his nerve, he brings both hands to cup the doll’s cheeks, thumbs pressing down
against its distended lower lip until it splits from its partner, the skin cracking and oozing as he
pushes until its jaw has no choice but to fall open. Long strings of red-tinted spit extend from one
lip to the other and he brushes them away with one finger, his stomach twisting and turning
uncomfortably beneath his ribs at the sight.
It takes a considerable amount of courage to let his fingers delve in deeper still, to drag them along
the doll’s slick tongue in search of any punctures, any splits in the appendage, any open wounds.
He could never do what Namjoon does, handling this sort of thing every day—not with the way his
stomach threatens to upend itself at the slimy texture, or the reminder of the last time the doll was
in this bed under similar circumstances—
He feels a lurch in his throat at the reminder of that morning, of the stench of vomit in the air—
He looks up at the doll’s face, then, taking a deep breath through his nose, trying to will away the
memory—
And finds the doll’s eyes open, wide, staring directly at him.
They are not the eyes of a person just rousing from sleep, nor the eyes of someone confused, afraid,
unaware of what is happening to them—no, what he sees before him are eyes opened so wide their
pupils appear to be nothing more than pinpricks, sclera almost shockingly white in comparison.
These eyes stare straight at him, mouth opening wide to match until the doll’s face is little more
than a horrifying mask stretched into a silent scream. He can hear it—in his mind, if not with his
ears—a screeching, wailing siren —
Yoongi lurches back with a startled scream of his own, stumbling across the tile for a few steps
until his back hits the wall. His hand suddenly burns like fire is licking across the tops of his
metacarpals, and he jerks his arm up until he can see where a shallow gash has erupted on his skin.
Blood begins oozing immediately down his palm and wrist, flowing from a row indents in the
exact shape of the doll’s upper teeth.
His eyes fly back up to where the doll still lies, zeroing in on its face, that—that horrible face —
The doll is still, relaxed, eyes peacefully closed, head resting back against the pillow as though it
has never been roused from its slumber.
Yoongi’s heart gives a heavy thump-thump as though knocking against his ribs, demanding that he
let it be free of him. His ears are still ringing, his head filling with a scratching, gnawing sensation
like the weeds they pull from the fields have grown inside his skull instead.
‘Just—just a dream, just another dream. Just like—’ He blinks, hard, holding his eyes closed for a
moment as he takes the deepest breath his chest will allow. ‘It wasn’t real,’ he tells himself, ‘it
wasn’t real, you saw it—’
When he opens them again, the relief he feels at the unchanged sight before him is palpable. He
can almost taste it at the back of his throat when he swallows around his dry, sticky tongue. He
tries not to think of the doll’s tongue—the way it moved beneath his fingers, the way he could feel
its gag reflex kicking in—as he tugs his shirt from his waistband and gingerly wraps his wounded
hand in the fabric to stem the flow of blood.
“Just what I needed…” Yoongi mutters under his breath, shoulders hunching, as he marches across
the room to the sink again and shoves his hand under the spout. He’s less cautious now with the
volume of water, choosing speed over subtlety in his efforts to irrigate the small punctures in his
own flesh. ‘ No good deed goes unpunished,’ he thinks, his mother’s voice pulled from the far
recesses of his mind.
It takes a bit of awkward fumbling to tug open the cabinets over his head with his non-dominant
hand in search of bandages. Much to his chagrin, he is forced up onto his toes to reach far enough
back on the shelf to land his fingers atop the package he is looking for, and several attempts more
to drag it close enough to fully grasp. He nearly drops it on his head when he manages to jerk it
over the edge, and only catches it by the very tips of his fingers. Nervously, his eyes flicker over
his shoulder towards the bed, the door, body still on high alert and hypersensitive to the amount of
noise he knows he must be making.
‘There isn’t time, there isn’t time, Taehyung is waiting—’
He rips one package of bandages open with his teeth and binds it around his torn fingers in much
the same fashion, holding one end of the gauze in his mouth as he circles his hand with the other
until it is tightly wound enough to feel secure. Tearing through the bandage with a tug, he then
winds it into a sloppy knot and tucks the ends away, refusing to be particular at a time like this.
For a moment, he pauses and considers the remaining gauze thoughtfully, the presence of the doll
weighing heavily over his shoulder. ‘No, no,’ he thinks, shaking his head, ‘don’t be stupid. There’s
already too much to try to explain away tonight.’
He tosses the bandages back up into the cupboard above his head without looking and settles the
door over it with as little sound as possible. Turning on his heel, he glances over at the sheets
beside the doll’s body, considering what to do with the needles left behind—but the decision is
clear.
He keeps his eyes down as he approaches the bedside again and spreads the discarded washcloth
out atop the sheets, then plucks the needles one-by-one from where he dropped them and piles
them up neatly in the middle of the rag instead. Once they are all shifted over, it’s simple enough to
fold the fabric over itself and roll it up, making a neat little package around the instruments that he
can slip right into the pocket of his slacks for safekeeping.
This leaves him with only one thing left to do, and it is the task that sets his heart at ease like
nothing else tonight. With gentle hands, he grabs the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and lets it
fall open, holding it aloft so that it drifts down atop the doll’s naked form and settles silently over
its bare skin to ward off the chill of the night. Yoongi steps around the bed and tugs at the blanket
until it covers the doll up to its shoulders, hiding all evidence of its suffering from view.
All evidence, at least, with the exception of the mottled bruising dotting its lips and cheeks,
somehow even more gruesome without the blood masking it from view. He considers, for a
moment, tugging the fabric up further—completely covering the doll from head to toe, like a
cremation shroud—but he can’t bring himself to do it. His hands won’t even twitch towards the
blanket again when he tries. It feels too—real, he thinks with a shudder, too much like calling that
reality into existence.
‘Besides,’ he tells himself, ‘they are always watching.’
With one final glance over the doll where it lays—his eyes taking in its soft, pretty face, the
relaxed curve of its brows, not a hint of stirring—Yoongi decides his work is as done as it can be
for the moment, and something seems to uncoil in the pit of his gut at the thought.
‘You’ll be alright, Jeon Jungkook.’ The thought rises in his mind like oil floating to the surface, a
silken, slippery thing that weaves through his other musings without quite touching them along the
way. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

His feet have carried him back out the door before he even thinks to move, fingers circling the
doorknob to slide it closed behind him without so much as a creak. His footsteps are equally silent
as he makes his way back down the hallway and around the staircase towards the office he had fled
minutes before, the door still mercifully closed as he left it.
But when his hands move for this doorknob, it turns on its own before he can even make contact.
Immediately, his mind jumps to high alert, hands flying up in front of his chest defensively—
But the face that greets him on the other side as the door swings open is as familiar as breathing.
Taehyung’s eyes are wide, his expression apprehensive, his body leaning back away from the door
as if he, too, is braced for an attack. The moment their eyes meet, Yoongi collapses forward into
the room and gathers Taehyung back into his arms, letting out a shuddering breath into the young
man’s hair.
“What on earth are you doing?” He whispers, and Taehyung shakes his head.
“I heard a scream—”
“That was me, that was me, I’m sorry,” Yoongi hurries to explain, swaying their bodies together as
he tries to comfort his lover. “I didn’t realize you could hear it from here—”
“What happened? I thought you had been—hurt, or, or—attacked—”
“I just—had a little accident, it’s okay, I’m okay, I promise,” Yoongi reassures him, pressing a kiss
to the younger man’s temple. What an idiot he had been.
“I was scared you—”
“It’s okay,” he whispers again, his mind drawing a blank on anything more he could say, anything
to set Taehyung’s mind at ease. “I’m right here, I’m all done. I won’t leave you again, okay?”
“Okay…” Taehyung whispers into his shoulder, and Yoongi feels his heart crumble at the way the
younger man’s voice twists itself up into something small and fragile. This isn’t the same
Taehyung who had faced down the possibility of being discovered earlier in the night, who had
demanded to be included—this is a Taehyung who had found himself in the dark, danger lurking
just outside the door, powerless to defend himself—and completely alone.
“I won’t leave you, Tae,” Yoongi promises, forcing as much conviction into his voice as he can.
He shakes off his own fear, wipes the sight of haunted eyes and a gaping mouth from his mind.
‘For you, I will be strong.’
Taehyung nods again, this time more firmly, and his body ceases quivering in Yoongi’s grip. Only
then does the teacher feel safe letting him go, meeting the boy’s eyes for a moment before
gesturing behind them. “Get the door,” he instructs, and Taehyung hurries to follow suit.
Meanwhile, Yoongi steps across the small room to the chair that Taehyung had vacated and slides
himself into the seat instead, his eyes focusing on the screens in front of him. Taehyung, not
knowing any better, had left them powered off and dark, but it only takes one press of a button of
Yoongi to call them back to life again. The monitors flicker on one by one, bathing the room in a
soft blue haze, and behind him, Yoongi hears Taehyung take in a sharp breath.
“What—What are they?” He asks, and Yoongi allows himself a small smile.
“Computers,” he says, tapping on a few keys to log himself into the system.
“Computers…” Taehyung tries the word out in his own mouth, the shape of it clearly unfamiliar
and clunky.
“Think about the cameras that are in every room,” Yoongi elaborates, and he feels Taehyung step
up right behind him to get a closer look at what he’s doing as he moves the mouse along the
desktop to direct the security system to the right screen. “They’re always watching, right?”
Taehyung makes a small, noncommittal noise, clearly too transfixed by the strange images before
him to form actual words.
“This,” Yoongi points at the camera feeds that begin appearing across the bay of screens, the
images flickering with static here and there to show that they are recording, “is how they are
always watching.”
“The cameras…” Taehyung murmurs, “they...show things? Here?”
“Yes, on the computer screens.” When Taehyung says nothing, Yoongi glances over his shoulder
at the younger man and finds his face screwed up in concentration, eyes flickering back and forth
to try to take in everything before him. Yoongi can practically see the gears of his intelligent mind
ticking away. “This is a screen,” he adds, tapping on the monitor in front of him. “The camera
looks at us like we look at each other with our eyes, but this is its brain. The things the camera sees
shows up here, on the screen, and we can record it.”
“Record?”
“Yes, like...writing something down. The camera writes down what it sees, and we can go back
and see it again and again and again if we need to, like reading something that we’ve written. A
record. It’s...our history. Does that make sense?”
There really isn’t time for this sort of lesson, but Yoongi can’t help himself when Taehyung’s
handsome face positively lights up in understanding. “Yes…” he says, slowly, thinking his words
through, “the cameras...are like extra eyes. They can always see us—from here?”
“Exactly.”
“Can they see us... right now?” He adds, and a hint of worry creeps into his voice.
“Yes,” Yoongi admits, and points a finger over his shoulder to a blinking light in the corner of the
ceiling, its red glow ominously betraying the presence of a camera even here. “They’re always
watching. I’ll have to come back later, erase any ta—any record —” he corrects himself quickly,
using the words Taehyung has come to understand, “—of us being here. But for now...it doesn’t
matter. Put it out of your mind.”
“Why are we here, then?” He asks, fingers curling into the back of Yoongi’s chair. “What—What
do we need to see?”
Yoongi’s chest is tight with pride. ‘Smart, smart boy.’ He has to clear his throat before he can
speak again, turning his face away from Taehyung’s so he can focus again.
“Excellent question.”
The mouse flies across the screen at his direction, sending one of the tapes—the one he had been
looking for—scrolling backwards at four times its normal speed. Images whirl past them at an
almost nauseating pace, and watching it go makes him feel a little queasy, but he keeps his eyes
pinned to the screen. He’s worried when it seems like he’s gone back too far, nothing on the screen
shifting for several long moments, when suddenly—
“There!”
Taehyung leans over Yoongi’s shoulder to take a closer look as he suddenly pauses the tape,
freezing the image on a small group of shadows that have appeared from off-screen. He presses
play again, watches the figures move down a long hallway and out of sight, rewinds the tape, plays
it a second time.
“What is it?” Taehyung asks softly, puzzled.
“The answer we’ve been looking for,” Yoongi replies, triumphant. He clicks the mouse a few more
times, and the screens suddenly fall dark again. Taehyung reaches for him immediately, and
Yoongi intertwines their fingers once more. “Let’s go.”
Basement—Prison—Cell 24 08.28.18 3:51AM
The darkness holds a weight he has never experienced before. All around him, shadows take the
form of knives, piercing through the space towards him—or worse, hands—claws—talons that
extend through the night to tear at his skin. There is no protection from them, no escape from their
adamantine reach.
His knees curl despite the drag of gravity, his body refusing to hear the message of its own pain or
listen to his silent cries to stop , to lie still.
There is a screeching, a wailing in the distance—a chorus of horrible voices that rises and ebbs like
waves that rush ever closer to drown him. It is impossible to pinpoint only the sounds of other
victims, their cries joining the unholy symphony that drifts towards him. A terrible caterwauling
that sets his nerves alight. Which are the monsters, and which are the men?
An impossible question. Here, all are darkness. Here, all is pain.
SCREEEEEEEEE—
Closer now, there rises another screech, one with a familiar edge. This blade is one that has kissed
his skin before, this fang one that has known the taste of his flesh.
Somewhere, in the distance, there is a flickering of light. He opens his eyes to track its movements,
forgets that he had ever closed them.
He is in the belly of a whale, he thinks, gazing down the gaping maw that stretches before him.
The sharp jut of a ribcage spreads wide around the cavern contained within, the air foul, the scent
of decay thick as he sucks in a breath. His own ribs protest, kicking the air right back out of his
body as a long, low sound. It echoes around the belly that has consumed him, returning to hang
around his ears and mock him with a bifurcated tongue.
“You did this,” it says to him.
No—
“You are Jonah,” it says, “Jonah. Swallowed whole. God is testing you.”
Please—
“Foolish boy,” the voice spits, “Foolish child.”
He opens his mouth to respond, finds his throat too dry to speak. He is heavy—so very heavy—his
body itself an anchor, his own weight the cause of his submergence. Thrown overboard, he thinks.
I have been thrown to the waves for my sins.
“Repent,” he is commanded, the words springing forth from nothing, the very voice of his cage
given life. “Those who repent shall be spared.”
A sob is torn from his body, a terrible and wretched sound. The shadows around him dance and
taunt, their hands always reaching, reaching—
“Jimin—”
He hears the whisper of his own name hissed across the space, the sound barely more than the
rush of waves against the shore. But the sound is there —there, certainly. He wrenches his eyes
open once more, unsure when they had last been shuttered, peering through the haze for the
source. On all sides, all is shadow. Shadow cut through by the wavering—no, flickering
—beckoning of a mirage in the distance, glimpses of light that only prove the depth of darkness on
every side.
Then, there—again, in the distance—

“—Jimin?”
Something shifts closer through the gloom, the hissing voice taking on a darker timbre.
Movements thud across the floor, against the base of the belly all around, scattering pebbles and
dirt with each step closer.
The shadows move, but he cannot. With each strain, his muscles scream with a voice that rings
ever louder, demanding his stillness, cooperation. Please, his body begs, stop, stop —
The shadows that draw nearer are darker still, figures that circle and bite.
“Jimin—where are you?”
His own voice is nowhere to be found, but another reaches his ears with clarity now, no longer a
whisper or suggestion of his mind. The voice is a familiar one, tilting at the edges, unstable with
some deep emotion he can’t bring himself to name. It hardly sounds like something to be feared,
but he does not dare to hope. He hangs, body hardly more than a ballast, forced to do nothing more
than await whatever has come for him.
“Oh—” It says, and the crunch of movement above his head falters, stops. “Oh god— Yoongi—”
Yoongi … He thinks. Another name, one that is not his own. He knows that name, that name—
“What—W-What did they do to him?!” The voice is sharp with fear now, the shadows within his
line of sight taking human form as they draw one step closer, then another. There is another sudden
clang, a clanking and rattling that reverberates towards him. It ripples at the water, vibrates
through the bars of his cage, shakes the teeth inside his skull.
“Hurry!” The voice begs, accompanied by a screech so present at hand that it sends every muscle
in his body seizing.
“Go on—” Another voice joins the fray, deeper and more difficult to hear over the swift rustle and
clatter of movement.
Inside, he thinks—they are trapped in this cage with me now.
“Willing offerings to feed the beast,” the cage answers. “They will be consumed, same as you.
Repent!”
“Help me, please—we—w-we have t-to—” Hands land on his sides, footsteps pausing somewhere
behind him. The fingers that press into his skin are soft, clawless. The voice shakes, wavers.
“Taehyung,” its companion interjects, and another grip joins the first, prising fingers from his
flesh. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, let me—”
“Yoongi, I—this is m-my fault, I h-have to, I—”
“Come,” the cage interjects, “let us cast lots to find out who is responsible for this calamity…”
“Shhh,” the deeper voice answers. Hot breath hits the side of his neck, another body pressing
closer to him from behind. Fabric scratches against his bare skin. Instinctively, he recoils away
from the touch, another groan punched from his gut. “I’ve got him,” he hears, “just back up and
help me catch him, okay?”
The first voice doesn't reply, but the scraping of shoes against concrete behind him indicates
agreement. Hands skirt up his sides towards his shoulders. Guilt tastes of salt in his mouth, but—
good, it feels so good —
“Careful, careful—”
And abruptly, his entire body lurches, a pressure around his wrists that he didn’t notice before
released in an instant. His arms fall from above his head, dropping like wings to his sides, his entire
body following suit with only a moment’s delay. If his weight before was an anchor, it is only now
that it drags him to the sea floor. Swaying like the tide, he collapses backwards under the burden of
his own body—
“—I’ve got him!”

—and is embraced by a warm set of arms and a thin but firm chest long before he can sink fully.
“Jimin.” The word is pressed directly into his skin by lips that bare no fangs. He sighs, knowing
that he has been found. Without the bite of steel against his chest, his lungs fill again with a
grateful gulp of air.
No longer sinking—no—
The shrieking has subsided, washed away with the undertow. He is hauled against the tide, bare
feet dragging against sand, rock, stone—
“I’ve got you, Jimin. It’s—It’s gonna be alright,” his savior reassures.
“Three days and three nights,” the cage whispers.
Both are promises. His weary mind cannot make sense of the words. He is lifted, lowered again,
prostrate form cradled now in something soft, warm.
“What do we do?” That familiar voice asks overhead, though the question is not meant for his
ears.
“We take care of him,” the answer comes, tender. “We pray...and we wait.”
The arms around his middle tighten, reminding him of their presence—a lifeline to keep his head
above water now.
Cast me into the deep, his mind supplies, it is my fault that this great storm has come upon you.
No—
“Jimin,” he hears once more, and it rings with the weight of a benediction. He has been
regurgitated, pulled to the shore. He has been offered a chance for deliverance.
CW: scene containing necrophilia, non-con, incest, somnophilia, blood & mild gore
click to skip
The house is quiet. It has been quite some time since he last ascended these stairs, but his feet
remember the path around every loose board, every creaking joist. His fingers trail along the
banister as he moves silently from the first floor to the second, bare feet hardly making more than a
whisper against the wooden floor below.
He pauses on the landing, gazing up towards the top floor where a long hallway extends towards a
single door framed at the end. It seems to mock him, standing innocently open, almost inviting him
to venture beyond. He doesn’t dare look off to his right as he continues up another stair, then
another—can’t bring himself to acknowledge the room in which he spent so many sleepless nights,
endured so many intrusions.
His shoulders migrate towards his ears as he keeps his head facing forward, spine rigid, jaw
clenched. His footsteps are heavier here, the floor sagging from years of use and disrepair. The
walls on either side of him show the marks of his childhood, of his brother’s childhood—scratches
and dings in the paint, around the corners, even smudges like handprints if he looks closely
enough. He follows the line of them along a familiar path, feet padding across the wood towards
that open door beckoning him closer in the distance, the room beyond bathed in dim light.
The hinges creak when he presses his palm to the door’s wooden surface, the noise cutting across
the room as though declaring his presence. His eyes fall immediately to the large bed in the center
of the room, lined on all four sides with wooden posts and curtains that separate it from the room
beyond.
He breathes a sigh of relief as he sweeps his gaze across the space and finds himself blissfully
alone.
The room is bare, sparsely decorated as it always was. The walls are white, coated in a creamy
paint that once seemed like such a luxury. Outside the window on the far side of the bed, dappled
sunlight cascades through tree leaves and freckles across the pale sheets atop the mattress.
He dares to take another step forward, some part of his mind screaming that he is not supposed to
be here, that he is intruding —but it’s hard to make himself care more than he is curious.
The path of his feet carries him around a large wooden chest sitting at the edge of the bed and
lands him right in front of a beautiful, handcrafted dresser. He can practically feel the effort taken
to carve each design as he drags his fingers along the edges of each wooden drawer, up and over
the top of the dresser until he finds them buried in a large dish filled with jewelry, their chains and
baubles snaking across his skin.
Mindlessly, he drags them from their container, searching through the glinting metal for one
particular trinket—the shape familiar even to his fingertips as they close around it, sight unseen.
He tugs the necklace in question free from its companions, turning it over in his hand so that the
gold glints against his skin.
A single cross, barely more than an inch tall, hangs from the metal chain, the gold plating worn
and tarnished in places but doing nothing to diminish its simple beauty. He turns it over again,
resting its face against his palm so his thumb can stroke over the small characters that have been
engraved along the back.
English. Unusual. Achingly familiar.
He glances up at the mirror that hangs atop the dresser, meets his own eyes for the first time. His
cheeks are gaunt, his jawline sharper and more pronounced than he’s ever seen it before. He
blinks, and for only a moment, his face is replaced with that of someone older, more stern, eyes
piercing—
“Mmmm…” He hears, a groaning over his shoulder. He doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing. The
hair on the back of his neck stands on end, jumping to attention in his place. You aren’t supposed
to be here, his mind supplies.
“...Seokjin?” The voice murmurs.
He turns, slowly, the floor creaking and creaking again under the shift in his weight. His eyes
catch the bottom of the bedframe first, then the side of the mattress, up-up-up along the sheets and
blanket, up further than the flat surface he had seen before—
—and over the curve of a body, laid prone beneath the sheets.
He sucks in a deep breath that doesn’t seem to reach the bottom of his lungs. His gaze follows the
dip of a knee, the curve of a hip, up along the planes of a ribcage to a set of shoulders that are
brushed by a fringe of dark hair that just barely peeks above the edge of the sheets.
“Seokjin?” The voice asks again, and the body begins to stir, an arm stretching up as though just
waking from a deep sleep.
“...yes?”
“Is that you, baby?” The soft voice asks, and the head of dark hair peeks up higher until he
catches sight of the edge of a soft cheek, an upturned nose.
“Yeah...it’s me,” he answers, his own voice barely more than a whisper.
“Come closer, baby, I wanna see you,” the figure asks, sliding out from beneath the sheets to curl
up against the headboard. Bare feet peek out from beneath the hem of a nightgown, and it’s all he
can focus on as he follows the command and steps closer to the edge of the bed.
A hand stretches out towards him, fingers brushing along his bare arm on its path towards his
face. He shudders openly now, afraid to raise his eyes to look at the woman the hand belongs to,
scared to know what he might find looking back. Her grip tugs him down onto the bed beside her,
forcing him to perch against the edge of the mattress or risk sliding to the floor.
“My son…” She murmurs, her voice affectionate and warm. The skin against his cheek is cold to
the touch.
“Mother—” He starts to say around the knot in his throat, but she cuts him off before he can say
anything more.
“What do you have there?” She asks, her free hand pointing towards his lap where he has curled
his own hands. The necklace is heavy in his palm, and for a moment, he considers lying.
“It’s yours,” his voice says instead, traitorously betraying him with the truth. “See?”
And it’s as though his body has a mind of its own, hand raising and palm splaying to reveal the
glinting gold metal inside, the chain that dangles down his wrist.
“Oh…” She sighs, “that old thing. You’ve always liked that one.” Her finger darts forward to
trace along the lines of the golden charm, pressing the shape of the cross into his palm until his
skin turns white around it.
For a moment, the room is silent. She makes no sound, not even breathing.
“Put it on me?” She sighs, and he catches the curve of her smile out of the corner of his eyes.
“Of course...” He answers, his voice robotic. He isn’t sure if he actually speaks the words, or if
they're pulled from him by her will alone.
He pauses for a moment as her hands fall away, her neck bared for him. Clumsily, he rises up on
his knees and shifts from side to side until he can slide between her legs and draw closer, hands
trembling as they fumble for the ends of the chain. He unhooks the clasp with the edge of his nail,
reaches up on either side of her throat, and smoothes his fingers around the back of her neck until
they meet in the middle.
It’s only when he finally releases the chain that he dares to look at her, really look at her—it’s hard
not to, what with how close they are together—and he watches as his mother’s eyes crinkle at the
corners with her smile.
“Seokjin,” she says again, and he takes in the sharp jut of her chin, her thin, bowed lips, the way
her dark hair curls to frame her face and brush her shoulders.
“Mommy—” he replies, and his voice is softer, younger than before. He wants to say more, but he
can’t—not with the way his breath sticks in his chest, the way his mother’s hands raise up to
cradle his cheeks again, the way her lips suddenly, completely cover his own.
She kisses him softly, thoroughly, reverent in the way she pulls him closer. Her hands slide down
the front of his chest now, nails scraping gently against his skin—bare skin, for suddenly his
clothes have abandoned him. He can feel the shape of her body against his, only a thin layer of
fabric between them now, and his stomach lurches, gravity shifting beneath him—
“Seokjin,” she breathes against his lips, pulling him even closer still, and he’s aching, he’s so hard
against her, he wants to vomit but he can’t—
“Look at me, Seokjin,” she commands, and all at once his body remembers how to move. He
lurches back from her kiss to stare at her, his eyes open before he even remembers that they were
closed.
Where before her face was achingly familiar, beautiful as the last day he saw her, kind eyes and an
easy smile—now there is nothing but blackness staring back at him. Rather than eyes, dark pits
hollow into her skull. Her mouth is cracked, skin fractured, blackening at the edges as though
decay has begun to set in.
He opens his own mouth to scream at the sight, but no sound even dares to form in his chest. Her
grip on his sides is like iron, frigid and implacable. She drags him bodily into another kiss, this
one intended to devour. Her breath fills his lungs with the putrid scent and bitter tang of
decomposition.
The longer he breathes it in, the less vile it tastes on his tongue, the less he fights the slide of her
tongue against his own. He can imagine it, blackened and cracked like her lips, but he still allows
her to tease his own tongue forward to meet hers, his mind filled with a singular thought:
‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy—’
She spreads her legs, wraps them secure around his waist, drives his cock inside her with all the
power of rigor mortis behind her grip. She kisses him again, and for a moment—he forgets.
Forgets that this is wrong, that she is gone—forgets that he has never felt the clutch of her body
around him like this before, and simply allows it to embrace him.
His hand finds her breast through the front of her nightgown, teases over a nipple, feels the way
her flesh gives too easily under his touch. He thrusts, clumsily, his body unfamiliar with the
motion, feels her crumbling beneath him. She moans into his mouth, the sound a wanton and
ardent thing. It slithers down his throat, farther than her tongue can reach, strangles his vocal
chords until they echo the sound right back at her.
“That’s it, baby,” she pants, turning her lips away at last, breathing encouragements into his ear,
“that’s it—”
There are tears on his cheeks, but he has no memory of when they appeared. The world outside the
window is no longer bright, darkness instead creeping through the glass to permeate the room
around them. His mother’s jaw, her shoulder, her arms—the shadows cast across her turn them
skeletal and thin.
The clutch of her body around him is no longer soft, no longer welcoming—there is something
gritty, clawing, about the way she clenches on his cock. Her voice in his ear is more of a croak
than a whisper, but still she eggs him on.
“I want it, baby—please—”
“M-Mommy—”
When her lips meet his again, they taste of dirt.
There are hands on his hips now—firm, strong hands. Hands that grip until it bruises.
Hot breath covers the back of his neck. His mother cries out, clenching tight enough around him
that he fears he will never escape again. He is buried inside her, buried—
A hand hot as fire closes around his throat, tightening until the breath in his lungs is trapped
within, nowhere to go but down-down-down until it burns.
His release is torn from him as though dug out by a blade, a painful and terrible thing. He feels
himself spilling inside her long before he feels even a shred of pleasure at doing so.
His mother screams as though she had been the one stabbed instead.
Her body is rigid beneath his.
The hot breath on his neck is a barely concealed threat.

“Seokjin…” A voice whispers in his ear, one dark and deep and decisively not that of his mother.
The burning hands drag his body away from hers, his cock pulling free, and the sheets beneath
them both are pooled with blood.
His mother lies deathly still against the sheets, nightgown hitched up around her hips. Her stomach
is rounded, swollen—full where before it had been flat, empty—
“What did you do, Seokjin?” The deep voice in his ear asks, but it hardly sounds like a question.
There is blood spilling out from inside of her, and he can’t look away from it—the hand at his
throat won’t let him look away from it—
As he watches, a single bloom of crimson spreads its petals across her belly, blood painting the
white fabric with rivers and tributaries until they spill down over her sides.
“What did you do, Seokjin?”
“I—” He tries to speak, he tries, but his voice has abandoned his body entirely.
“Look at her!” The voice commands.
I am, he thinks, I am, I can’t look away!
“Look what you’ve done to her!”
There are no eyes in her skull, but he can feel her staring at him all the same. Blood drips from her
lips as she opens them to speak.
“What have you done to me, Seokjin?”
“What have you done?”

Those burning hands clench down on his wrists, drag them up between their bodies as though they
are shackled in the air.
“Look!”
His own fingertips are stained crimson, blood dripping from his nails as though he has clawed at
her flesh himself. His mouth tastes of copper, his mouth filling—
“Look!”
The fingers circling his wrists are cracked and blackened, covered in soot and ash, crumbling even
as they tighten against his skin.
“Look what you’ve done!”
Their voices bounce off of the walls, echoing back against one another as though arguing amongst
themselves. He is naked between them, left bare for their scrutiny.
“What did you do to me?!”
I’m sorry! He attempts to cry, but no one is listening.
He tries to part his lips, finds them no longer able to open at all.
“What did you do to me?!”

The harder he fights it, the more they seem to disappear.
Copper fills his lungs.
There is nothing but the blood now.
“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE—”
“I’M SORRY—!”
The words are ripped from his lips as he jerks awake, the momentum nearly toppling him from his
bed. His entire body is overtaken by shudders, crashing through his limbs as though his very bones
are fault lines. His fingers scramble over his lips, needing to confirm that they can open, that he can
breathe—
Suddenly, he jerks his hands away, holding them out in front of his face as though the touch has
burned him. Even in the dim light cascading through his curtains, he can see the bare skin of his
palms, as clean and dry as they were when he had slipped into bed hours before. His palms are soft,
smooth, free of the signs of manual labor and the roughness of commonality—but he can still feel
the slick, viscous rivulets of crimson that had painted his fingers, the way it had seeped into every
crevice, wormed its way beneath his nails—
His body is wrenched from the bed as though possessed, feet carrying him as far from the mattress
as he can manage within seconds. In a direct mirror of his unconscious motions, he finds himself
leaning over his own chest of drawers, hands thrust out before him. The wooden frame is much
more modern than that which his parents owned—but the mirror that hangs above its smooth
surface reflects his wide, frightened gaze all the same.
He rests his weight heavily on his hands, lungs burning, and wills his heart to stop the stampede in
his chest. Between his spread arms, a small, unassuming box sits pressed against the mirror, and its
mere presence seems to mock him silently. Before he can think better of it—and with adrenaline
still coursing in his veins—he lurches forward and grabs the box, hurtling it right into the center of
the mirror.
Fragments of glass cascade down in front of him like so many drops of rain, some large as plates
and others smaller than diamonds. They fall together with the contents of the box itself, scattering
across the top of the dresser with a deafening clatter. He steps back and watches it fall, chest
heaving as though he has run a mile, until the last of the tinkling glass disappears into silence.
There, among the wreckage, is a glint of gold that draws his eyes. Robotically, he leans forward,
glass crunching against itself as he searches through the fragments for his target. Tiny shards
prickle and bite at his fingertips, but eventually they close around the end of a chain, and with a
sharp tug, he manages to free it from the mess and hold it aloft in the air before his eyes.
The necklace is just as he had pictured it in his dream—the same shape, the same delicate clasp—
but its golden surface is blackened and tarnished, dark where it has been kissed by a flame. The
cross spins as he holds the chain between his fingertips, and as it rotates around completely, the
moonlight through his window catches on the inscription still engraved into its spine, those same
letters that have haunted him all these years.
A sudden drop of liquid lands atop one of the arms of the cross, startling him from his reverie. He
glances up to find a line of crimson leaking from a small cut at the tip of his pointer finger,
dripping down the digit until it connects with the chain and coats its surface in red.
‘There is nothing but the blood now,’ he thinks, numbly, as he watches it fall, recalling his last
words before returning to consciousness. Nothing but the blood, nothing but the blood. Blood that
he can never wash from his hands.
Basement—Prison—Cell 24 08.28.18 4:11AM
If the hallways above are deceptively quiet, these tunnels far below the school are oppressively so.
The darkness that surrounds him on every side is like walls itself, closing in on him with every step
until the air itself seems confined, thin, limited. Shadows spring apart in front of him around the
glow of the torch he holds aloft in one hand, the flickering flame making them dance and mock
him at his sides before they close ranks behind him again. The torch itself stinks, soaked in the fat
from their last hunt to keep the flame fed, but it is his only protection against the night and he’s
more than relieved to have it.
The supplies he has gathered rest precariously in the crook of his other arm, but he doesn’t have
much farther to carry them—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, he counts as he passes cell after
cell on his right side, moving as quickly as he can while still keeping his footsteps light and quiet.
There are no markers to guide his way, only his trust in his own memory making him feel at all
sure of the direction he’s marching. Still, he gets turned around twice before settling on what looks
like a familiar corridor, the soft murmur of voices echoing off the walls towards him to confirm his
suspicions.
“—so sorry,” the voice is saying as he draws closer, little more than a whisper but still loud enough
to be clearly heard through the unnatural stillness of this dark, subterranean space. “I never meant
for this to happen,” the voice says, and he recognizes it immediately as Taehyung’s the moment the
deep timbre of it catches his ears.
He slows his footsteps immediately, carefully picking up his heels to keep from scattering any dirt
below as he moves himself off to the side of the corridor against one of the cell doors. The space
behind him is—as he glances back to check—mercifully empty, giving him a place to rest for just a
moment. From this distance, it’s unlikely that Taehyung can see the glow from his torch, though he
holds it further away all the same. He doesn’t want to interrupt, wants to know—
“Will you ever be able to forgive me?” The younger man whispers, and his own heart gives a soft
lurch in his chest at the sound. “When I went to tell, I—you were missing, and I got scared, so I—”
Taehyung keeps stumbling over the words, clearly getting choked up just from explaining himself.
He knows that Taehyung must be speaking to Jimin as he sleeps—he can picture it so clearly even
through the dark, their positions unchanged from when he left them only minutes before.
Taehyung’s fingers are probably carding through his friend’s hair, gently cradling Jimin’s neck in
his lap while the older boy rests against him. It’s easy to picture the way Taehyung must be
hunched over, guilt twisting at his body as he continues to speak—
“—I never meant for this to happen, you have to believe me,” he goes on, his voice dipping even
lower. “You have to—I would never hurt you, Jimin. I’m s-so—so sorry—”
From the darkness, there comes another sound, another voice—this one no more than the
suggestion of a word, barely passing through heavy lips and the haze of unconsciousness. “—T—
Taehyung…” The voice murmurs, and he can hear Taehyung himself startle at the sound of his
own name.
“Jimin?” He says, voice growing louder, more excited as his friend shows signs of waking. Yoongi
wants to shush the boy, to step forward and make himself known as a reminder that their time here
is borrowed—but it’s hard to begrudge him a sense of excitement at Jimin’s return to
consciousness when his own chest tightened at the sound of the older boy’s voice. At the back of
his mind, something begins to stir, the familiar presence of a memory that draws closer and closer
—
“Jimin, Jimin—” Taehyung goes on, “Oh, you’re awake, thank god—”
“Jimin?! Jimin—oh my god—”
‘This is such a bad idea,’ Yoongi thinks to himself, hovering back a few feet even as Taehyung bolts
across the small space. ‘What am I doing?’
Taehyung collapses down on the ground beside a prone body slumped onto its side, naked from
head to toe. The room is utterly dark, not a wink of light making its way inside with the exception of
the beam emanating from the flashlight he has held aloft before him by one unsteady hand. The
light illuminates Taehyung’s shoulders as he leans over the body, hands flying across its skin as
though unsure where to settle. Taehyung’s clothes are as soaked through as Yoongi’s are, his pants
darkened by mud around his bare feet, the middle of his shirt stained by the imprint of bark where
Yoongi threw him up against a tree only hours before—
“Oh god, oh god—” He’s muttering to himself as Yoongi steps closer, tilting his head to the side to
get a better look at the body beyond. “Please—!”
“Is he alive?” Yoongi hears himself whisper, the words slipping through his lips before he gives
them permission to.
“I—I don’t know what that—I—he’s not breathing!” Taehyung chokes back, his hands resting on
the still chest before him.
“Move,” Yoongi tells him shortly, and Taehyung flings himself out of the way immediately, his
back slamming into the wall as he drops his head backwards and buries his face in his hands to
block out the room from his sight. Yoongi kneels down in front of the limp body in the student’s
place, his expression carefully neutral even as his heartbeat picks up in his ears until the
drumming is so loud he can barely hear Taehyung sobbing over the sound of it. His hands shake as
he reaches down to feel at the chest in front of him, the skin bare and cool on the surface, but—as
he spreads his fingers and holds his own breath—he catches the heat still emanating from below
the surface, the slow thrum of a heartbeat beneath his fingers, the minuscule rise and fall of the rib
cage below that betrays the breaths the boy is still taking. Diminished, yes, but still there.
“Oh god oh god oh god—” Taehyung is still chanting at his side, rocking back and forth on the
spot now in an attempt to soothe himself.
“He’s alive,” Yoongi informs him, sitting back away from Jimin’s body as soon as he has
confirmed his answer.
“W—W-What?”
“He’s breathing,” Yoongi rephrases, “he’s going to be okay.”

“Mmmm…” Jimin replies, and the sound of the cot creaking betrays his movement, no doubt
shifting uncomfortably against the bare sheets.
“It’s okay, I’m here,” Taehyung hurries to assure his friend, and he can so easily imagine the way
his lover curls Jimin’s body closer to him—the same instinct that rises in his own body at the
broken sound from the janitor that follows. “Shhh, shhhhh,” Taehyung hurries to say, no doubt
stroking his hands across his friend’s skin in a soothing manner. “I’m right here, we’ve got you.
We’re—We’re going to take care of you, okay?”
Listening to Taehyung’s voice brings his attention back to his purpose here, to the bucket full of
supplies he has tucked under his arm waiting to be used. Time is of the essence, he knows it, but—
it’s hard to bring himself to interrupt the boys when Taehyung sounds so emotional, so broken.
This is clearly something he needs. They both do.
“Yoongi will be right back, he just went for some things to help,” Taehyung explains, his words
soft, soothing, and Yoongi has to take in a deep breath and bite his tongue to keep from making a
sound. Jimin makes another small noise, clearly in pain, and it takes all that Yoongi has not to run
right back into that cell to fix it. “I know, I know,” Taehyung murmurs as Jimin seems to move,
letting out another shuddering moan, “I know it hurts, Jimin—I—I’m so sorry—this is all my fault
—”
“No—” Jimin rasps, taking the word right from Yoongi’s mouth.
“It is—it is —I know it’s m-my fault!” Taehyung argues back, his voice breaking a little in the
middle. The twinge in Yoongi’s heart from before has grown now, taking up all of the space
behind his ribcage. “I came l-looking for you, I needed to see you—”
“—t-told—you—not to—” Jimin’s voice is barely more than a croak as he forces it out of his
throat.
“I know, I know , but—I needed your help, you’re always so s-smart—I thought—”
“—help?”
“Y-Yeah…” Taehyung admits, quietly. Yoongi finds himself leaning closer to hear, silently
damning the terrible acoustics in this godforsaken place. “I came to find you. Earlier. That’s—”
The younger man’s voice breaks off for a second before he can manage to continue again. “That’s
how I k-knew—you were gone—”
“—’m s-sorry…” Jimin murmurs, and Yoongi can hear the way Taehyung lurches forward
immediately, the way the sudden movement makes the janitor hiss in pain.
“No, no—ah, shit, I’m sorry, Jimin, I didn’t mean to—”
Taehyung stops speaking mid sentence, and Yoongi can only imagine what might be going on in
the cell a few feet away. For a moment, no sound seems to echo towards him, the silence a bit
startling.
“I’m sorry,” Taehyung repeats again after a beat, his voice no less earnest for all that it is soft,
hushed. “I needed to see you, I was—s-so foolish, selfish —I just needed—” He sighs. “I needed
my best friend back. I needed your—your guidance. So I came down to see you, even though you
told me not to—”
“—T-Tae—”
“—I just wanted—w-wanted to know I wasn’t crazy, you know? You—You warned me about
Yoongi, but—Jimin, he’s so good to me. He takes such good care of me, it was never what you
were afraid of. He—we—”
Yoongi can’t swallow around the lump in his throat as Taehyung falters on the words, trying to
find a way to explain his relationship with the older man. Yoongi knows precisely what Jimin had
been afraid of, what he had warned his friend about—it’s not the fact that Jimin did that surprises
Yoongi, just the fact that they had been able to find time for such a conversation at all. ‘When?’ he
wonders to himself, ‘When had they been able to steal away together?’
He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, since he and Taehyung have always managed to find
opportunities, to carve out a few minutes or hours here and there together, but—
“—we’re together now, just me and him. I never want to be with anyone else now that I have him,
do you know what I mean?” Yoongi has to lean back against the wall for support as he hears the
way Taehyung describes the two of them together, his heart clenching something terrible beneath
his ribcage.
“Yoongi says it’s called love , the way I feel about him. He says he—he loves me too.” There is
awe in Taehyung’s voice, a sense of wonder—and for the first time, Yoongi himself doesn’t need
to wonder whether or not the younger man’s feelings match his own. “When I’m with him,”
Taehyung goes on, and Yoongi finds himself holding his breath, “I just...it’s like the whole world
stops existing for a little bit, and there’s just the two of us. That’s love . I never knew what it was
before, but now that I do—”
“W—W-What are you d-doing?” Taehyung asks, clearly startled, as he wraps his arms securely
around Jimin’s chest to keep his unconscious form aloft, the flashlight dropped over the edge of the
pool so both of his hands are free to do so. The light bounces off of the metal surface, fracturing
across the walls in strange patterns that turn the once-dark space into something softer and
stranger.
“Getting undressed,” Yoongi says shortly.
“But why?” Taehyung pushes, his features contorting in confusion.
“Do you want me to help him or not?!” Yoongi snaps, and watches with immediate guilt as the boy
flinches and darts his eyes down to Jimin lying in his arms. He says nothing more, but gives a
small nod to signify his agreement, and Yoongi immediately schools his features into something
softer. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone much more gentle now, “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. It’s
been a long night.”
Taehyung nods again, but looks up at Yoongi and raises no further argument, the discomfort
slipping from his expression. Yoongi’s fingers pick back up where he paused, undoing one button
after the other until his shirt falls away from his chest and he can shrug his way out of it, tossing it
to the side so that it lands on the concrete outside of the pool. But when his hands fall to the
fastenings of his slacks, Taehyung’s eyes follow, and there’s something heavy about the young
man’s gaze as he watches Yoongi unfasten one button after the other until the fabric falls free of
his hips and slides down his thighs. He lifts one leg and then the other, carefully extricating
himself from the fabric and tossing it aside as well, and suddenly stands naked in front of his
student for the first time.
Taehyung cuts off suddenly, and Yoongi’s neck is craning closer to the soft shuffling sounds that
emanate from the cell only a few meters away.
“I’m scared, Jimin,” Taehyung breathes, his voice much softer now, as though he is telling a secret
within a secret. “I’m scared that I won’t be able to—that he’ll be assigned to someone else, and I’ll
—I can’t watch that, Jimin. I can’t let it happen. I have to move up to the next level.”
‘What—?!’
“That’s what I was coming to tell you, last night,” Taehyung continues, his voice so businesslike,
so serious. He carries on as though he has not just jerked the ground out from underneath his
lover’s feet. “I’ve decided—it’s the only way. I have to do it.”
‘No—no, no no—’
“Then maybe there’s a chance we can be together. I can’t just let anyone else have him, I’d—I’d
rather—”
‘Die ,’ Yoongi fills in for him. Taehyung is undoubtedly unfamiliar with the word, but Yoongi
knows it all too well. ‘I’d rather die than see him with someone else.’
He finally lets out the breath that has been rattling around inside his chest, the soft woosh of air
masqued by Taehyung’s voice continuing to drone on in the distance. It barely registers as words to
Yoongi’s ears, not with this new information taking up all the space in his mind. ‘Taehyung is
going to—’ He can’t even think it, can’t stomach the idea, not when he knows full well what it
means.
‘But—Jimin does too,’ he realizes, belatedly. Jimin understands exactly what Taehyung is
committing himself to, he knows how serious this is…
“—do you think?” He hears Taehyung say, and it feels like the sound is coming from miles away.
If Jimin makes any sound in reply, Yoongi doesn’t hear it. Gravel crunches loudly beneath his foot
as he shifts, giving them some warning of his approach before he turns his torch to the path before
him. The flame sends light flickering into each of the cells on either side of him as he begins
moving once more, the sudden illumination sending their inhabitants scrambling away from the
bars. When was the last time any of them saw the daylight, he wonders.
“Tae—” he hears Jimin whisper—a warning—only seconds before he raises the torch up higher
and comes to a halt outside of the cell he was looking for. As he turns, he finds two sets of wide
eyes staring back at him.
“Yoongi!” Tae sighs, and the tension in the younger man’s body seems to melt away immediately.
It’s hard to keep a soft smile from curling at his own lips when their eyes meet, so Yoongi stops
trying.
“Tae...” He mutters back, and watches his lover gently extricate himself from behind Jimin’s prone
form, picking his way across the cell to swing the door open for Yoongi to enter. The metal makes
a terrible scraping noise as it moves, but it can’t be helped. Still, Yoongi moves as quietly as he can
into the small space, careful not to kick at anything lying strewn across the floor as he places the
torch into a holder along the wall and joins the two younger men beside the small cot tucked into
the opposite corner.
Taehyung reaches out to cradle the edge of Yoongi’s jaw, and it’s easy to let himself lean into it for
a second as he kneels on the concrete beside the bed, setting down each of the items he has curled
against his chest.
“Did you get bandages?” Taehyung asks, and Yoongi passes over a roll of gauze without further
prompting.
“We should wash him off first, though,” he encourages, pointing to the bucket of water he
managed to procure. “I had to go all the way to the kitchen for this, but I think it was worth it.”
“Of course,” Taehyung agrees immediately, his expression eager. “Whatever you think is best. I
just—I need to—”
“I know... it’s okay,” Yoongi repeats, feeling those same words on his lips for the nth time tonight.
“Here, just—take this.”
He hands over the bucket and shifts towards the foot of the bed, wringing out the rag over the floor
as he heads for the worst of Jimin’s injuries—
“Should I—join you?” Taehyung asks after a moment.
“If you want,” Yoongi replies, non-committal. His attention is focused elsewhere, on the task at
hand, his eyes skirting over Jimin’s naked body where it lies between Taehyung’s spread legs in
the water. From even one glance-over, it’s clear that Jimin has been battered terribly, bruises
across his skin betraying the many ways he has been restrained and the many more types of pain
he has been subjected to. It’s hard to wrap his mind around, even a fracture of it. He didn’t deserve
this, neither of them did—
“What’s wrong?” Taehyung asks nervously, clearly picking up on his teacher’s hesitation.
“Mm?” Yoongi’s eyes flicker between Jimin and Taehyung for a moment. “Nothing. Just
thinking.” He kneels down in the water again, the sensation much more pleasant on his bare skin,
and reaches out for Jimin’s limp form. “Help me turn him over? I need to take a look—”
Taehyung lifts Jimin off his chest and passes him back into Yoongi’s control, helping guide the
movement as Yoongi manhandles Jimin onto his knees. The gasp that the student lets out as soon as
his friend’s back is exposed to the light only confirms his fears, and as Yoongi twists Jimin’s
unconscious body around to take a look for himself, he understands why.
Every inch of the boy’s skin, from shoulders down to his calves, is red and angry, criss-crossed
with the clear evidence of whipping in layers that go two or three deep. The marks aren’t deep
enough to cleave skin apart, at least not in most places, but the skin is ablaze as though it was
burned over an open flame—and Yoongi is suddenly very grateful that the young man is
unconscious at the moment.
This is not the work of someone trying to harm Jimin—not the sort of punishment that would teach
him a lesson, or leave a lasting mark. No, this is the work of someone angry. Someone who wanted
to prolong the pain for as long as possible. Yoongi can only imagine how many times Jimin was
roused from his unconsciousness only to endure more of this treatment, how many hours it had
gone on before he had been abandoned like a sack of garbage for Yoongi to come clean up.
“—wait!”
He freezes, startled by Taehyung’s sudden outburst, quiet though it was. Turning, he finds
Taehyung halfway off the bed, having discarded the bucket to the floor a few inches away, his
empty hand outstretched. “Yes?”
“Wait, I—I want to do it. I should do it.”

There’s a look in Taehyung’s eye that is impossible to define, let alone argue with. Yoongi
hesitates for only a second before reaching his hand out and dropping the rag into Taehyung’s
palm. For a moment, they share a silent look, and Yoongi can see the pain reflected back at him
from his lover’s dark eyes. He nods and steps aside, allowing the student to pass by him and settle
between Jimin’s legs instead. Yoongi shifts to take Taehyung’s place at the head of the bed, sliding
his leg behind Jimin’s head so that the blonde can rest back against him like a pillow, and his
hands shake as they come down to settle on the younger man’s bare shoulders.
Jimin is a mess, truly, too broken for Yoongi to look directly at quite yet. His eyes remain fixed on
the safer things—the soft bend of his ankle against the sheets, the gentle rise and fall of his chest,
the soft dip of his Cupid’s bow beneath the sharp angle of his nose. Taehyung’s hands spread
across the janitor’s skin, tanned fingers covering mottled bruises from sight for a moment.
“I’m so sorry, Jimin…” Taehyung sighs again, and it’s as though he can’t stop himself from saying
it. Yoongi tracks the younger man’s movements as he wrings out the rag himself and spreads the
fabric against the arch of one of Jimin’s feet, gentle as he drags the damp cloth across each of his
friend’s callouses.
It takes a surprising amount of effort to scrub Jimin’s skin free of the layers of dirt it has
accumulated—not only from his time in the basement, but clearly earned by traipsing through the
woods barefoot only the night before. There are streaks of mud and even a few pieces of grass and
leaves still clinging to him as Taehyung diligently cleans between each toe, up along the length of
each calf and into the divot behind each knee. With every swipe of the damp cloth across his body,
more of Jimin’s skin is revealed—every inch of it startlingly pale around the bruises that remain.
Though he may not know about every prisoner kept in this place, it’s clear to Yoongi that Jimin
hasn’t seen a lick of heat from the sun for far longer than his tenure in this cell.
A hissing noise breaks through the silence, and for a second Yoongi jerks his head down,
expecting to find Jimin’s face twisted up in pain beneath him. But it is Taehyung, kneeling
between Jimin’s legs, whose face shows signs of discomfort when he raises his eyes again. It is
Taehyung whose hands recoil from Jimin’s skin, fingers shaking as he holds up a rag now stained
with blood, its source clearly between Jimin’s spread legs. “Y-Yoongi—”
“What—?”
“H-He—He’s bleeding, they—oh god —”
“Let me take a look…”

“You’re going to help me, Mr. Kim. Are you ready?” Yoongi tries to keep his voice as steady as he
can, though he can hear the nerves in his own tone and prays that the young man remains
oblivious to it. This will only work if they are both wholly focused, he knows this.
“Yes! Yes, o-of course, whatever it takes—”
“Then I’m going to need you to take him again.” He nods towards Jimin, and Taehyung hurries to
wrap his arms around his friend’s waist. When Taehyung moves to turn Jimin’s body around to
face Yoongi again, the teacher raises a hand to stop him. “No, like this.”
He helps guide Jimin’s body into place, pushing until Taehyung leans back and Yoongi can
arrange Jimin’s legs so that they are splayed across Taehyung’s waist. The position is ideal,
leaving Jimin propped upright with his ass perfectly exposed to Yoongi’s eye, Taehyung taking the
brunt of his unconscious weight. “Just like this. I need you to support him, do you understand? He
can’t do it for himself right now.”
“I—I understand.”
“Good...that’s a good boy…” Yoongi absentmindedly praises. Taehyung seems pleased by the
compliment and grips at Jimin tighter.
With the boys situated right where he needs them, Yoongi is now free to focus on the task at hand.
He can feel the heavy presence of Taehyung’s eyes on him as he raises his palm to his mouth and
spits across his fingers, rubbing them together to coat each digit the best he can before bringing
them down between Jimin’s legs to rub against his exposed hole.
Yoongi slides his body out from beneath the weight of Jimin’s head, leaning over the younger
man’s torso where his abused cock lies against his bruised stomach, heading towards Jimin’s
spread thighs. He is stopped halfway in his journey by a hand that brushes against his wrist, and
turns back to find Jimin with one bleary eye open, staring up at him with a look in his eye that
reveals years of pain.
“Don’t…” the young man whispers, cracked lips just barely parting to form the word.
He frowns, glancing between Jimin, Taehyung, and the smooth expanse of skin between Jimin’s
parted thighs. “What is it…?” He asks, eventually.
“L-Look—”
Taehyung’s finger trembles as he gestures between Jimin’s legs, and Yoongi leans closer to see
what has shocked his lover to such a degree. Some of the blood is smeared away from Taehyung’s
earlier ministrations, but a clear trail of crimson is still visible where it has dripped down in a long
trail to Jimin’s knee from the clearly abused, swollen, and blood-encrusted furl of his hole where it
peeks out above the sheets.
“W—W-What did they do to him?”
“W—What d-did they do to him—w-what did they DO to him??”
Taehyung rises up on his knees, scooting forward in a desperate attempt to be closer to his friend,
to alleviate some of his pain. Once again, tears spring to the boy’s eyes, and it’s impossible for
Yoongi to meet his gaze. Taehyung has no more attention for Yoongi, however, his hands flying up
to cup at his friend’s face as his own crumples into despair. “I’m s-so sorry, Jimin, I’m so s-sorry,
I never s-should have—”
“Taehyung.”
Yoongi can’t bring himself to answer. Wouldn’t, even if he could. How can he possibly find the
words to explain to Taehyung the many ways that people can harm one another, ways that have
never even crossed the young man’s mind? Or perhaps not the ways, for he knows that Taehyung
has seen more than his fair share of pain already—but the why .
In lieu of a response, Yoongi circles his fingers around his lover’s wrist, bringing the rag back
down to Jimin’s skin with their shared grip. Taehyung goes easily, seemingly content to allow
Yoongi to move him, to make the decisions; if he were in Taehyung’s shoes, Yoongi knows that he
would feel no different. Together, they scrub away the signs of Jimin’s torment inch by inch, the
janitor lying still and quiet for them all the while.
The rag dries out quickly, prompting Yoongi to shift away from the familiar warmth of Taehyung’s
body towards the bucket, his skin immediately screaming at the loss of contact. Taehyung, too,
makes a small and disappointed noise in the back of his throat as Yoongi disappears, and Jimin’s
leg moves to press against his friend’s side as though to reassure him.
Yoongi bends down and considers the water at the bottom of the bucket for a moment, rubbing the
rough fabric of the rag between his fingers as he contemplates his next move—but one glance up at
Jimin’s face, his dry, cracked lips and pale skin, makes Yoongi’s mind up for him. With one hand,
he lifts the bucket and holds it up towards Jimin’s face, dropping the rag to the mattress for a
moment so he can scoop up some of the water in the bowl formed by his hand.
“Here…” he says softly, and the sound of his voice prompts Jimin to crack open one bleary eye.
“Drink.”
Jimin makes a small noise in the back of his throat, barely a sound at all from how dry his mouth
is, and it only confirms Yoongi’s suspicions. “Please, Jimin...drink.”
“W-What do we—what do we do?” The boy asks, eventually, snapping Yoongi from his thoughts.
“We aren’t going to do anything. I am going to take care of him, and you’re going to sit there and
keep a lookout.”
“But—”
“No arguments, Mr. Kim.” Yoongi cuts him off immediately, sending a sharp look over to the
young man that causes Taehyung to recoil. “We don’t have time for this. Jimin is going to be
alright, but I need to—” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. How to even begin to explain?
“Please, take the light,” he says instead, gesturing towards Taehyung with the flashlight so that
the beam skirts across his handsome features. Taehyung flinches at the sudden brightness, but
quickly fumbles to take the device and turns it around to illuminate the teacher instead.
With his hands now free, Yoongi is able to reach for Jimin’s body instead. Exceedingly gentle, he
slides a palm beneath the young man’s knees and tilts his limp body to the side, ignoring the way it
causes Taehyung to suck in a surprised breath beside him. He catches Jimin behind the shoulders,
and pulls the small, battered body towards his own chest. Taehyung follows after immediately,
shifting his own grip over Yoongi’s so that Jimin’s legs are cradled in the crook of his arms.
“Lift on three, okay?” Taehyung nods and slides his feet beneath himself, ready to stand. “One—
two—three—” Together, they push off the ground, holding Jimin’s limp form between them, his
arms and head dangling as—together—they raise him from the floor.
“What now?” Taehyung asks, his voice slightly strained beneath the weight he’s carrying.
Yoongi turns and the student follows with him, moving around in a slow circle until they face the
center of the room instead, the light from Taehyung’s mouth now illuminating the strange setup
that lies before them. A few feet away, no more than two feet tall, sits a pool filled nearly to the top
with water. The liquid is still, undisturbed, but the entire space is permeated with the heavy stench
of brine from its surface.
“Into the water,” Yoongi decides, and if Taehyung is confused by his decision, the student says
nothing.
The water slips between his fingers before Jimin can raise his head properly, so Yoongi drops his
hand back into the bucket and scoops up another palm full, holding it close enough to Jimin’s lips
that the janitor has no choice but to open his mouth and let it drip inside before it lands all over his
face. The sound of Jimin’s first gulp is thick, strained, loud enough that it can be clearly heard in
the silence of the dungeon. Yoongi swallows in sympathy.
“More?” He asks gently when his palm is empty, and Jimin gives the barest of nods. Yoongi
scoops up another handful of water, then another, allowing Jimin to drink as much as he likes,
making no comment on the greedy way Jimin’s lips gravitate towards his hand. What the younger
man must have gone through…
“Better?” He asks, when Jimin seems content enough to drop his head back to the mattress again.
Jimin makes another small hum in the back of his throat, his eyes closing, and this time the sound
is a little more full, more rounded at the edges.
Yoongi nods, reassured, and grabs for the rag again to soak it through, wringing the fabric out
thoroughly before he deposits the bucket back to the floor. He makes no move to hand the rag back
to Taehyung, however, despite the heavy weight of his lover’s eyes on the back of his neck.
Instead, Yoongi folds the fabric in two and bends over Jimin’s smooth face, brushing the light hair
from his eyes before bringing the damp rag down to trace across Jimin’s soiled skin.
The young man’s features contort for a second at the contact, his nose wrinkling and eyebrows
furrowing in an all-too-familiar way, before relaxing back into stillness again. Yoongi feels a tight
swell of fondness in his chest at the sight, and gentles his touch as he scrubs away the sweat and
dirt and grime clinging to Jimin’s brow. There was a time, once, when this boy, not Taehyung,
might have drawn the attention of his heart, and he knows it. As it is, Yoongi feels that endearment
settle peacefully somewhere beneath his collarbone, a familiar presence of a life gone by. He keeps
it tucked away there for safekeeping just as he always has, safely cradled beside memories of his
mother, of his friends, of Taehyung—
His body moves automatically as his mind wanders, and it’s only a matter of moments before he
finds Jimin’s face completely clean, his hand falling away to his side until he’s simply...looking,
looking at Jimin’s face, taking in the sharp edge of his jaw, the dark circles so deep beneath his
eyes that they might as well have scarred. Beside that affection in his chest lies a deep scar of his
own, one that he carries with the same duty as he does anything else. When he looks at Jimin, that
scar twinges, and his mouth tastes of regret.
Jimin’s face looks peaceful, but it is the only part of him that does. His expression is smoothed over
with the haze of unconsciousness, but it lies beneath swelling and bruising across his once
beautiful features that render him almost unrecognizable. Had he not been sent here, had he not
been looking for the young man specifically, he might not have been able to identify him at all.
Taehyung seems to share his thoughts, the student’s face now shining with fresh tears as he looks
down over his friend’s naked form, hands hovering over each wound without ever making contact
as though he can’t decide which of them is the worst of the damage or where to even begin to help
—
“—Yoongi?”
Taehyung’s soft voice breaks him from his reverie, his head swinging around so quickly it nearly
makes him dizzy. He expects to find worry, suspicion, perhaps even jealousy on his lover’s face—
but when Taehyung meets his eyes, there is nothing but warm understanding in his expression.
Taehyung’s lips turn up at the corners in a shadow of a smile, and Yoongi can’t help but return the
expression, a far larger swell of affection taking over his heart now. He gives Taehyung a nod and
finds it returned, no more words needed between them.
He turns away from Jimin, then, picking up the bucket to bring it back to Taehyung, handing over
the rag entirely this time. Taehyung takes it with fingers that are much more sure of themselves, a
new sense of determination taking over the younger man’s face, and Yoongi simply curls himself
around his lover and allows him to work in silence.
Taehyung takes charge completely, dunking and wringing out the rag before bringing the fabric
back to Jimin’s skin without hesitation. Jimin gives no indication that the motion is causing him
any pain when Taehyung’s long fingers quest higher and higher, despite the bruises that his
ministrations continue to reveal. The mottled discoloration gives shape to a sickening image, that of
older, more sallow looking marks covered by what are clearly more recent imprints, ones that
create the unmistakable shape of handprints across his limbs. From that sight alone, Yoongi can
piece together enough of what has been done to Jimin that his stomach gives a lurch beneath his
ribs.
Despite the gruesome sight, Taehyung soldiers on, diligent in his efforts to fix this, to make this
right, to take care of his friend in the only way he knows how. Yoongi watches on, proud, as
Taehyung leans forward and begins the arduous task of cleaning away the worst of the blood
where it has dried to Jimin’s skin at the apex of his thighs. Tenderly , Taehyung slides his free
hand beneath one of Jimin’s thighs and lifts his friend’s leg up high enough to get at the scabs that
have formed around the young man’s hole. Taehyung is exceedingly gentle as he cleans away the
last of the blood—and though it may be all in his head, Yoongi can feel a sense of relief emanating
from Jimin as the final remnants of his abuse are washed away.
Even the skin around Jimin’s hole is red and abused, and his touch is as gentle as he can make it,
but spit is a poor substitute for lube under the best circumstances—and these are far from the best
circumstances. Still, what must be done must be done. Taehyung seems to realize this too, for he
makes no move to question Yoongi as the teacher’s first finger works its way through the tight furl
of Jimin’s hole to stretch him open. Taehyung simply cradles his friend to his chest and turns his
head to press another kiss into Jimin’s blonde hair, though his eyes never leave Yoongi’s face.
The first finger is followed quickly by a second, and then a third, the teacher less concerned about
causing the unconscious man any discomfort than he is with getting to the point as quickly as
possible. They can’t afford the luxury, can’t waste a second. He’s already pushing his luck by
bringing Taehyung here—
But Jimin is as stretched as ever, ready for him after only a few moments of preparation, and
Yoongi has never been more grateful. He makes quick work of slipping in a fourth and final finger
for good measure and decides that this will have to be good enough. Jimin, at least, has no
protests.
“Better?” Taehyung asks, mimicking Yoongi’s earlier question.
Jimin hums tunelessly again, twitching one of his hands down towards Taehyung blindly.
Taehyung drops the rag back into the bucket and reaches up to take the offered hand, bringing it up
to his lips to press a soft kiss to Jimin’s knuckles. Jimin sighs contentedly at the contact, and this
seems to spur Taehyung into action. Yoongi watches with interest as his lover climbs up onto the
cot properly, Taehyung ignoring the way it squeaks in protest at the added weight as he crawls up
between his friend’s spread legs.
He hovers over Jimin for a moment, simply looking down at the older man’s battered body. From
this angle, Yoongi can barely see the expression on Taehyung’s face, but he catches the focused
dip of the younger man’s brow, the intensity with which he is focusing on his friend below. For a
moment, Yoongi doesn’t dare to breathe, waiting with baited breath to see where Taehyung is
going to take this. The air around the three of them feels charged with a heady energy, one that
only builds as Taehyung leans down to rest his forehead against the center of Jimin’s chest on a
patch of unmarred skin, taking a deep and shuddering breath as his eyes fall closed. Yoongi reaches
up to rest his hand against Taehyung’s ankle where his bare skin peeks out from beneath his pant
leg, and he sees the corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitch into a small smile.
Jimin squeezes Taehyung’s hand again, muscles twitching just enough to tug at their grip until
Taehyung gets the message and scoots up the mattress further, his nose dragging along Jimin’s
skin until he can nuzzle against Jimin’s collarbones, the hollow of his throat, the underside of his
jaw.
“TaeTae…” Jimin mutters, barely more than a whisper, his eyes still peacefully closed. The noise
that Taehyung makes in return is a fragile thing, barely carrying across the small space to Yoongi’s
ears, and it twists at his heart something terrible to hear it. Taehyung takes a deep inhale through
his nose and slides his body up the bed until he and Jimin are face to face, their breaths mingling in
the small space between their lips. Taehyung hesitates—only for a moment, with Yoongi watching
on—before leaning forward the remaining inch necessary to slot his lips over Jimin’s and capture
the older man’s mouth in a soft kiss.
It’s a sight Yoongi hasn’t seen for many months, though the image of the last time these two young
men locked lips has been seared into his mind for all the time in between. How could he ever
forget, when together they simply look so... beautiful? Even under the circumstances, with barely
the dim light of a single torch making it possible to see the way Taehyung’s long fingers curl over
the shadow of a bruise on Jimin’s cheek, the bed barely large enough to hold both of their bodies
when Taehyung curls their legs together above the sheets. His own legs are clothed while Jimin’s
are just as bare as the day he was born, the contrast between the two a striking reminder of Jimin’s
dire circumstances.
The boy falls silent aside from his sniffles, and leans forward to rest his head against Jimin’s own
for a moment. Though they have a job to do, Yoongi allows him this brief moment of grief, allows
the student to share in this pain with his friend while he can. Taehyung bends forward, and for a
moment, there is nothing but the sounds of his lips softly shifting against Jimin’s unconscious ones.
It’s an innocent kiss, but it still stirs something in Yoongi’s stomach, a feeling he can’t quite name.
The ache in his heart, though, when Taehyung pulls back again and wipes at his tear filled eyes
—that is a feeling with which Yoongi is all too familiar.
“Okay,” Taehyung says, and his voice is steadier now, his earlier determination slipping back
into place. “Okay, okay...what do we do? How—I need to fix this, Mr. Min. Please.” His expression
is so earnest when he turns his gaze back to Yoongi’s face that the teacher wouldn’t be able to turn
the boy down if he wanted to. As it is, a plan has begun to form in his head, and having seen what
he’s just seen, he knows exactly how Taehyung can help.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Yoongi says, “get undressed.”
“Minnie…” Taehyung breathes against his friend’s lips as they part, resting his head against
Jimin’s brow for a moment before ducking down to hide his face in Jimin’s shoulder instead. Jimin
is weak, barely able to move, but he still forces one shaky hand up to cup the side of Taehyung’s
body, offering his friend as much comfort as he can manage. Yoongi takes this opportunity to
move closer—not wanting to disturb them, but needing to offer Taehyung his own comfort as well.
Perhaps he should feel jealous, just as he had feared of Taehyung earlier, but Jimin has never
stirred such feelings in him and it doesn’t seem likely to start any time soon. Instead, it comes as
easily as breathing to drop his own hand over the janitor’s where it rests on Taehyung’s side and
bend down to lay his own, soft kiss against Jimin’s temple.
Taehyung sucks in a breath at Yoongi’s touch, raising his head to peek up at the older man
curiously. Yoongi gives him a small nod that Taehyung seems to understand, for he immediately
slides himself up off of Jimin’s body, leaning off to the side to re-situate himself along the length
of Jimin’s body instead. He curls himself around Jimin, a protective leg still slung over the
blonde’s bare thigh as if to hold him in place. Jimin peeks up at Yoongi with one eye as the teacher
pulls back from his kiss, a curious look in his gaze.
“Will you let us take care of you, Jimin?” He hears himself ask, and Jimin takes only a second to
hesitate before closing his eyes again and giving a final nod. Yoongi takes it as all the permission
he needs to bring one knee up onto the cot under himself. The metal creaks under his added weight,
then creaks again when Taehyung takes the initiative to circle Jimin’s waist and tug his friend back
towards his chest. The fit will be tight, but it leaves just enough room for Yoongi to fit his slight
form down onto the edge of the bed, plastering himself to Jimin’s front while Taehyung moves
Jimin’s battered body onto its side and drapes along the curve of his spine.
Face-to-face now, Yoongi can just barely make out the smattering of freckles that cross Jimin’s
nose and high cheekbones. With his eyes closed like this, the blonde could pass for resting
peacefully if it weren’t for their surroundings to marr the view. Over Jimin’s shoulder, Taehyung
makes eye contact with Yoongi, watching his lover even as he leans down and drops another kiss
along the curve of Jimin’s neck where it lays bare before him. The look in the student’s eye is
intense, meaningful, purposeful—and Yoongi's mind follows that train of thought all-too-easily.
“Jimin?” He asks softly, stroking his fingers down the younger man’s bare side.
“Hmm?” He receives as a croaked reply.
“I’m going to touch you now.”
“—please.”
—this is for Jimin, he reminds himself. For Jimin. His brow furrows as he presses forward, sliding
his bare thighs up against Jimin's where Taehyung is holding his friend aloft, and bends himself
over the younger man's spine as he lines his cock up for the plunge. Just before he presses through
the resistance he meets, his eyes fly up to lock onto Taehyung's again as though pulled by a
magnet.
The boy gives him a serious look, his dark eyes still filled with that same intangible emotion from
before, but Yoongi takes it as the encouragement he needs to continue. ‘For Jimin,’ he repeats in
his mind, and presses his hips forward until his cock breaks through the clench of Jimin's hole and
slides inside. Taehyung takes a deep inhale as though he is the one being penetrated, as though he
is the one Yoongi can feel clenching impossibly tight around him—
It’s less of a show of desperation and more a sense of inevitability that takes over Yoongi’s body as
his hands fall to Jimin’s bare skin. He drags his fingertips down along the expanse of bare thigh
before him, careful not to press too harshly into the discolored smatterings of skin here and there
that make Jimin flinch when he draws close. Still, when his hand finally circles Jimin’s soft cock
and begins to stroke, it spurs the younger man into a moan that is decisively not of pain.
Yoongi rests his head against the soft curl of Jimin’s light hair, taking a deep inhale as he sets a
steady, gentle pace, stroking Jimin slowly but surely to full hardness. From months without
contact, it’s immediately apparent how sensitive Jimin has become, no more than a few moments
all that it takes for his former student to be hissing at the contact. He smells of sweat and rainfall,
but underneath is the same plum blossom and apricot from the soap the young man has always
favored. It’s familiar in a way that tugs at the teacher’s heart, as is the feeling of Jimin’s skin
beneath Yoongi’s palms and his body in Yoongi’s arms.
On the other side of the young man’s body, he feels stirring. Taehyung’s hand slides down from its
place across his friend’s chest and lands lightly over Yoongi’s, their fingers twining together as
Taehyung joins in the stroking. Jimin hums contentedly against Yoongi’s throat as Taehyung
tightens their hands around Jimin’s cock, twisting Yoongi’s grip just beneath the head the way he
knows Jimin likes it.
Immediately realizing his lack of expertise here, for once, Yoongi smiles against Jimin’s ear and
allows Taehyung to take control. There are many things Yoongi may still have to teach Taehyung,
so many experiences the young man has yet to go through—but here, with Jimin cradled in the
small space between them, his student is certainly the master.
Taehyung takes to the challenge with that same determination Yoongi saw flashing in his eyes
earlier, only now the focus has shifted from finding Jimin to keeping him. Taehyung’s lips fall to
Jimin’s skin as though he is a drowning man searching for water, his fingers dragging Yoongi’s
over Jimin’s cock in a clear attempt to drag an orgasm from his friend if it’s the last thing he does.
Yoongi follows his lover’s direction easily, moving his hand wherever the younger man tugs him
and breathing deeply to control his own pleasure as Taehyung’s knuckles drag along the hard line
of his own cock where his body is pressed tightly to Jimin’s.
It doesn’t take long, however, for Taehyung to get the picture, and a flash of a mischievous smile
over Jimin’s shoulder is the only warning Yoongi has before Taehyung suddenly tugs their hands
free and directs his attention towards the front of Yoongi’s slacks instead. Sight unseen, the
younger man manages to unfasten the front of the teacher’s pants and work Yoongi’s hard cock out
into the cool air. Yoongi hisses against the edge of Jimin’s jaw as Taehyung tugs their hips back
together again, this time with nothing between them. Against the side of his cheek, Yoongi feels
Jimin’s plump lips curl into a small smile.
Yoongi’s hands scramble across Jimin’s body to reach for Taehyung on the other side, grabbing at
the front of his clothes in an attempt to get at the student’s bare skin—but within moments he finds
that Taehyung has beaten him to it, the younger man’s cock already freed from its confines so that
Taehyung can rut against the bare curve of Jimin’s ass. Yoongi moans appreciatively and wraps
his fingers around Taehyung’s cock just as Taehyung mirrors the motion, pressing Yoongi’s cock
and Jimin’s together in one palm. As one, the three men move their bodies together to chase that
delicious friction, their hot breath cascading over exposed skin wherever it meets the air.
The first time, this was a necessity, a demand of their circumstances. Yoongi remembers the heavy
thrum of his heartbeat in his throat, the splash of water across his skin, the heavy weight of a pair
of eyes on his skin—
Tugging his hand free, he reaches down to wrap his fingers around his own cock instead, finding it
not quite interested enough at the moment—but before he can manage more than a few strokes, he
is interrupted by the soft clearing of a throat only a few inches away. For a moment, he wonders if
Jimin has suddenly awoken—but it’s Taehyung’s eyes that meet his when he looks up again. Of
course it is.
“What—?”
“Can I—can I help?” Taehyung asks, the words tumbling from the student’s lips as though he
hasn’t had time to think them through before giving them voice. His cheeks flush immediately the
moment Yoongi raises an eyebrow at his request, and it’s a horribly endearing sight.
“Yes…” He finally agrees, and slides forward a few inches to bring his cock within Taehyung’s
reach. The student has to shift Jimin’s dead weight in his arms to ensure that the older boy is
steady—but once his long, warm fingers wrap around Yoongi, all other concerns fall away
completely.
Taehyung's gaze is unwavering, dark eyes boring into Yoongi's own as his damp grip tightens at
the base of Yoongi's cock, fingers twisting with surprising expertise as he works his way towards
the tip. Yoongi has never been particularly easy to arouse, but Taehyung has always been an
excellent student, and within seconds, he feels a stirring in his stomach at the young man's gentle
touch. Taehyung seems unperturbed by the softness of his cock, his expression determined, no
judgement in his eyes. No words pass between them, and Yoongi is suddenly afraid to be the one to
break the silence.
When the buzzing of his nerves begins to translate into actual blood flow, his cock slowly
hardening in his student's grip, Yoongi reaches out with one hand to steady himself against the
wall of the small pool. The other lands along the curve of Jimin's spine, and the feeling of skin
beneath his own is grounding, somehow. Taehyung's tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath
growing heavy as he stares up into Yoongi's eyes—and though the water around them is barely
more than lukewarm, he feels heat growing just beneath the surface of his skin—
But now, this is an indulgence . He drops his head to Jimin’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the edge
of a long scar that peeks out over the top. It might be invisible to the average bystander, but Yoongi
knows it’s there. Yoongi remembers.
Taehyung bends his neck to press a kiss just beside the shadow of Yoongi’s, their eyes meeting
over Jimin’s shoulder between them. The air is cold, the dungeon dark, but the heat in Taehyung's
gaze cuts through to warm him from head to toe. Taehyung squeezes around Yoongi's cock and
raises an eyebrow, and Yoongi can't take it anymore. He lurches forward, probably squashing
Jimin a bit in between their bodies, but he doesn't care —not when his mouth crashes into
Taehyung's, tongue immediately parting the younger man's lips for a taste.
He can hear Jimin panting in his ear, the janitor clearly just as affected by Taehyung's touch as
Yoongi is—and Yoongi can't get enough, can't get close enough, will never have enough of this.
Taehyung whispers Yoongi's name into his mouth, his lips greedy as they part for air only to claim
the teacher's once more. Taehyung's touch, his skin, his kiss—it is an addition Yoongi will never
recover from. And he knows that he should be focused on Jimin, that all of this is for Jimin—but
the desire they feel, the connection they have forged between them? That's the real secret, and
Yoongi knows it. Their passion is the key.
"C'mon, baby..." He whispers as Taehyung pulls away again, and the younger man nuzzles their
noses together and redoubles his efforts. Yoongi feels the way the student drags an affectionate
thumb across the head of his cock, and from the moan that Jimin lets out, Taehyung must have
repeated the action on him as well. Yoongi returns the favor, slipping his own fingers between
Taehyung's cock and Jimin's ass to tease around the rim of the younger man's hole. Mindful of
Jimin's injuries, he isn't foolish enough to try to press inside and neither is Taehyung, but the
combination of pleasure and pain is enough to have Jimin's back arching up into his touch.
"P-Please—" Jimin begs against the side of Yoongi's neck, and the teacher knows from years of
experience that his charge is growing close to his peak.
"That's it, that's it," he encourages, kissing up along the line of Jimin's neck until he reaches the
curve of the young man's ear. He nips at the sensitive skin he finds there, enjoying the way it
sends Jimin shivering but enjoying the encouraging squeeze of Taehyung's fingers around the base
of his cock far more. Taehyung sits up slightly and nudges his nose along the side of Yoongi's jaw,
humming softly until Yoongi looks up at him again. When he meets the young man's dark eyes,
Taehyung tilts his head to the side and looks down at Jimin meaningfully, raising an eyebrow
again. Yoongi gets the picture immediately, and that warm pressure in his chest only seems to
increase in size.
"Are you sure?" He mouths towards his lover, and Taehyung gives a firm nod and another squeeze
of his hand that sends a spike of pleasure straight to Yoongi's gut.
With Taehyung's permission, Yoongi turns his attention back to Jimin's face beside him, finding
the young man staring back at him with barely parted, hazy eyes. Beneath the smattering of bruises
that cross his cheek, Jimin is as beautiful as always. It hurts Yoongi's heart to look directly at him
like this after so long, but he doesn't dare look away. Jimin's eyelashes flutter as Taehyung gives
another smooth thrust against his backside, and Yoongi's mind is made up for him. It takes
everything he has to push forward, but with the heavy weight of Taehyung's gaze on the side of his
face, Yoongi leans across the few inches and presses his lips to Jimin's in the first kiss he's allowed
himself with anyone but Taehyung for eight long months.
Taehyung's hand on his hip only serves to encourage him, pressing him closer and closer to Jimin's
body. The unconscious boy has begun to slip down-down-down atop Taehyung's chest below, and
within a few firm strokes, Yoongi finds himself face to face with the student with only a few inches
and Jimin's body between them. Taehyung groans and tosses his head back, and Yoongi wonders if
Jimin is hard against him, if the young man is drawing some pleasure from this in spite of his
unconscious state.
Taehyung, in any case, is certainly drawing close to his own peak, if the uneven rhythm of his
thrusting back up to meet Yoongi is any indication. His grip on Jimin must be iron-clad, for the
clench of his fingers around Yoongi's hip is certainly so. He tosses his head to the side as Yoongi
makes a particularly pointed thrust, the heavy pant of his breath a sudden, warm presence in
Yoongi's ear.
"That's it, Taehyung..." He encourages, and the boy whines desperately against his jaw. "T-That's
it, come for me, come for Jimin, you can do it—"
Taehyung shakes his head back and forth at Yoongi's words, though out of disagreement or out of
that same desperation, Yoongi isn't sure. He redoubles his efforts either way, turning his head to
nip at the shell of his student's ear as he feels his own orgasm creeping up at him, a tightening in
his chest and stomach and thighs an unmistakable warning—
Jimin sucks in a deep breath in surprise but does nothing to pull away, allowing the older man to
slip a tongue between his lips at only the barest prompting. Yoongi runs his tongue along the
bottom edge of Jimin's teeth, exceedingly fond of the one familiar, crooked tooth he still finds
there. Taehyung's fingers slip away from their cocks and Yoongi feels them reappear at the back of
his neck, pressing him closer and only encouraging him to kiss Jimin deeper, more thoroughly.
Taehyung makes a pleased sound at the sight, and beneath him, Jimin shudders and clutches at the
front of Yoongi's shirt. With no hand to guide them, Yoongi is forced to rut his hips forward to
give Jimin's cock the stimulation he has so desperately been missing, and Jimin gives a wanton
sigh into Yoongi's mouth at the pleasure it brings.
"Good," Taehyung encourages them both. "Kiss him for me, Yoongi..."
Yoongi bites at Jimin's lower lip, feeling his own desperation rising, his own orgasm creeping up
on him. Something about the deep rumble of Taehyung's voice, the confidence with which he
directs them, makes Yoongi feel as though he's on fire . He can almost picture it, the way
Taehyung would look while holding him down, pinning his arms above his head—
"You're doing so well," he is sure to praise Taehyung, and the boy's fingers clench into his skin
tight enough he's sure he'll find bruises to accompany the memory of Taehyung's touch in the
morning. No longer able to deny the electricity he feels between them, he tucks away every sound,
every sensation, memories to keep in the back of his mind should he ever have need of them.
"P-Please—" Taehyung begs, and Yoongi would be powerless to resist him even under better
conditions. As it is, Jimin feels so delightfully tight around him, the friction from their unfortunate
lack of lube only serving to heighten every sensation. The water around them is warmer now,
heated by their ministrations, and every wave feels like another set of hands reaching for him,
stroking across his skin. It's glorious, glorious, and he darts out his tongue to lick at the broad
expanse of Taehyung's throat for just a taste of the sweat on him. The briny air clings to his nose
and his throat, sweat clings to their brows, and Yoongi knows that they are nearly there, nearly
there—
Yoongi pours all of his love, all of his desperation, into this kiss, biting hungrily at Jimin's lips as
though it were Taehyung pressed so tightly against him instead. His mind fills with images that he
can't control, flashes of tanned skin and a boxy smile, of the first time he was able to fully
appreciate the student's body without fear of interruption. He practically devours Jimin in his
attempt to get closer to his lover, as though the barrier that Jimin forms between them might
disappear if he only tried to reach through him. Jimin moans prettily into his kiss, clearly so
grateful for their attention, for the pleasure that they are giving him, that words have failed him
completely. Still, it is Taehyung's deep timbre that Yoongi longs to hear, it is Taehyung's moans
that Yoongi craves.
And it is with that single-minded focus that Yoongi chases after Jimin's lips as the younger man
tries to pull away, not letting him escape for even a moment. "Come for me," he commands against
Jimin's mouth, and Jimin is powerless to resist.
"A-Ahh—please—!" Taehyung cries out, no longer trying to keep his voice down. Yoongi, who
should be worried, instead finds himself hungry for the shape of those lips against his own. He
runs a hand down between their bodies, his fingers trailing along Jimin's side until he finds the
curve of Taehyung's ass beneath his grip and tugs the young man closer, all three of their hips
moving as one now. He thrusts with absolute intention, using Jimin's body between them as a
means to pleasure for Taehyung, using the slick slide of Jimin's cock against Taehyung's to do what
he can't do with his own and drive the young man over the precipice he is so clearly clinging to.
"Come for me, Taehyung," he commands, and Taehyung turns his head to stare up at Yoongi with
wide eyes, desperate tears clinging to his dark lashes. Their lips hover only centimeters apart, their
breath moving together as one long inhale and exhale, their gaze never breaking. "Come," Yoongi
says a final time, a familiar authority leaking into his tone.
"F—F-Fuck—!"
When Jimin reaches his peak, it is without sound, without a single cry. Jimin's head falls away
from Yoongi's just far enough that his mouth can drop open, his pretty eyes screwed tightly shut as
he silently screams through his release. Yoongi feels a sudden rush of wetness against his own
cock, Jimin's come easing the slide of their bodies together, and he only speeds up his thrusts to
chase his own release against Jimin's slowly softening cock. He pants against the corner of Jimin's
mouth, no longer able to properly kiss the young man, encouraged by the hand that Taehyung has
buried in his hair.
On the other side of Jimin's body, his lover is equally affected, Taehyung's thrusts still driving
Jimin's hips forward into Yoongi's own. Taehyung has given up on looking at the two other men,
his face instead buried in his friend's neck as he uses the back of Jimin's thighs and the curve of
Jimin's ass to drive himself over the edge. He and Yoongi are so in sync that Yoongi feels in his
own throat the moment before Taehyung cries out, the tight clench in his own stomach suddenly
too much to bear. Almost as one, they both let out a broken moan, Jimin's body nearly crushed
between them as they spill their seed over both sides of his body. Yoongi presses his lips back to
Jimin's, whispering a benediction that Jimin swallows down like air as Yoongi rides his orgasm out
against the young man's body until the very last twinges of pleasure fade into memory.
It's undeniably beautiful, the way the boy's face contorts in pleasure as his release crashes over
him, his spine arching up away from the water like an offering to Yoongi's hands. Yoongi supports
their shared weight and fucks the young man through it, Jimin's body little more than a tool by
which Yoongi can continue to stimulate Taehyung until he's nearly whimpering from the sensation.
In his classes, Yoongi so rarely has the opportunity to truly appreciate the way rapture spreads
across a face, the way the body contorts and buckles under the onslaught. Here, he can feel the
way Taehyung responds to him, can nearly taste his moans as he rides out the very last of the
pleasure. And it is this sight that drives Yoongi to his own peak—
Immediately, Yoongi's hands fall to Jimin's skin, rubbing the come into the younger man's bruises
wherever he can reach. Jimin hisses, but Yoongi's hands don't stop until there isn't a single trace
left. Over Jimin's shoulder, he can see that Taehyung looks a little stunned by his own orgasm, so
Yoongi reaches over and grabs at the student's wrists, bringing Taehyung's hands down to Jimin's
skin as well.
"Don't miss a drop," he rasps. Jimin shudders in their arms, so overstimulated now that every touch
drives him to whimpers. Still, Taehyung dutifully spreads his own come over Jimin's back and
thighs until every single drop is gone.
—the way Taehyung's mouth falls open as though he has no choice but to express the way Yoongi
has made him feel, the way the student shudders from head to toe, the desperate attempts his
fingers make at grabbing purchase on Yoongi's slick skin wherever they can reach.
Yoongi needs only to thrust once, twice, three times more before he too is chasing his own release,
his body nearly collapsing over the two younger men as the sensation overwhelms him. Taehyung's
shaking hands hold him upright, but only just so—the student's body taking the brunt of the weight
as Yoongi finally loses his balance and allows his orgasm to drive him forward into Taehyung's
arms.
Taehyung slides his arms around Jimin's waist and practically drapes his body over the smaller
man, glancing over at Yoongi from beneath his dark fringe. "Is he going to be okay?" He whispers.
Yoongi isn't entirely sure of the answer, but he tries to look reassuring all the same. "Yes," he says
slowly, glancing down at Jimin's face. The janitor looks so... young now, with his eyes closed, his
body curled up and cradled in a much larger pair of arms. Between them, he almost appears
childlike in his vulnerability. "He's going to be just fine."
"You promise?" Taehyung insists, and Yoongi almost regrets teaching his lover that word.
"Is he going to be alright now?" Taehyung asks, looking nervously between Yoongi and Jimin's
body where it still floats in the water, only the salinity of the pool keeping his weight upright. From
this angle, Jimin almost looks as though he—
No.
"He'll be fine, I just need to—"
"I promise," he agrees, chagrined.
Jimin hums happily and curls his fingers into the front of Yoongi's shirt again. Remembering
himself, Yoongi reaches down and tucks his now soft cock back into his slacks and haphazardly
fastens the buttons again. On Jimin's other side, Taehyung appears content to lie just the way he is
for a moment, his hands sandwiched between Jimin and Yoongi's bodies as Yoongi settles back
into place on the janitor's other side.
"We should go..." he whispers after a beat, not wanting to break the silence but knowing that he's
right.
Taehyung flinches and squeezes Jimin so tight it pushes a small sound out of the young man. "I
don't want to leave him," he protests.
CRRRHHHHHH—
The radio usually clipped to Yoongi's hip bursts into life, static crackling through the receiver from
beneath the pile of clothes Yoongi discarded earlier. Suddenly very aware of his own nudity,
Yoongi darts forward to tug his clothes into his arms and scrambles for the radio just as a voice
begins to filter through the speaker.
"—Yoongi, status update."

He takes a deep breath at the sound of the Principal's sharp tone.
CRRRHHHH—
"Yes sir, I'm here."
"Did you clean up the mess I asked you to?"
"Yes sir, it's all been taken care of."
A few feet away, Taehyung has wrapped himself up in his own arms, his knees tucked up towards
his chest as he makes himself small against the far wall. His eyes are wide, fearful, as he stares up
at his teacher. Yoongi raises one finger to his lips in a silent shushing motion, and the student gives
a shaky nod to signal his understanding.
"—And the doll?" Seokjin asks.
"It will be taken care of shortly—"
"—No, take care of it immediately. There isn't a moment to waste, Yoongi. It needs to be replaced,
now."
Yoongi watches Taehyung's brow furrow nervously at the principal's words, confusion evident in
his features.
"Do you have a replacement in mind...sir?" He asks, already dreading the answer.
"Certainly one of your older students would be suitable, if only temporarily—"

CRRRHHHH—
"—I'll take care of it," Yoongi dares to interrupt, not trusting himself to hear anything more. His
eyes never leave Taehyung's as he answers, "Don't worry about a thing, sir...I have an idea."
One of Taehyung's hands comes up to cover his mouth, barely containing the small gasp that the
boy lets out. There's a brief, pregnant pause in which Yoongi is left worried which version of
Seokjin will respond.
"Good, that's good, Yoongi...I knew I could count on you. You will be handsomely rewarded for
your dedication to the cause."
"Thank you, Mr. Kim." The relief that takes over Yoongi's body at the Principal's agreement is
palpable.
"Finish what you're doing, and bring your selection for the new doll to me at once."
"Yes sir—"
"—and Yoongi?"
"...yes?"
"Be quiet about it."
"Of course, sir. Right away."
CRRRHHHH—
"I know, baby, but...we have to. We can't get caught down here."
Taehyung almost pouts, the look in his eyes enough that had Yoongi been standing, it would have
made him weak at the knees. "Five more minutes?" He asks as a counter-offer.
The teacher offers his lover a small smile and wraps an arm around both of the young men.
"Alright, five more minutes. Then we have to leave, you understand?"
"I understand," Taehyung murmurs, but he is already turning his face into Jimin's light hair and
closing his eyes. “I love you...” he whispers as an afterthought.
The dungeon is silent and dark as ever. The sound of their breathing settles into something so quiet
it barely resonates off the walls. They aren't safe, not by any means—but for just a second, Yoongi
lets himself pretend it could be true. “I love you too,” he whispers back, and closes his eyes, if only
for the moment.
Jimin will be alright. Taehyung is here. Tomorrow will be better. Yoongi allows the thoughts to
wash over him and settles down for a brief respite, permitting his mind to chase the recollection
flitting at the edges of his memory down the proverbial rabbit hole at last.
The line falls silent, and Yoongi tosses his clothes and the radio to the floor in disgust. A few feet
away, Taehyung suddenly drops his hands and lets out the sob he had been holding back. Yoongi's
eyes fly immediately up to gaze at the boy, and the sight of tears forming in Taehyung's dark eyes
spurs Yoongi forward before he even gives his body permission to move.
"Taehyung—" He starts, kneeling down to reach for the boy. Taehyung reaches out and grabs at
Yoongi's hands, not allowing him to get any closer.
"Please, p-please, Mr. Min—"
"It's not—I'm not—"
"P-Please, don't m-make me—"

"Taehyung." Yoongi twists his hands in Taehyung's grip until the student releases him, and reaches
forward to shake the boy's shoulders instead. "Listen to me."
Taehyung freezes, his mouth snapping shut without another word, although silent tears continue to
spill down his cheeks. When Yoongi continues to stare him down, waiting for a reply, Taehyung
gives a small, shaky nod of agreement.
"Listen to me," Yoongi repeats. "I'm not going to allow anything to happen to you, okay?"
"B-But—"
"I know what Mr. Kim said, but I'm not going to let them do that to you. Do you hear me?"
"I—I don't w-want to be the d-doll..." Taehyung whispers brokenly, and Yoongi can feel the boy
trembling in his grip. He lets out a deep breath and tugs Taehyung forward, wrapping the boy's
smaller body up into an embrace. Their naked skin presses together all along their chests, their
arms, even their legs where Yoongi slides closer between Taehyung's knees. He tangles one hand in
his student's soft, dark hair, and holds him as close as possible in an attempt to stem Taehyung's
trembling.
"You won't be. You won't be. I won't let that happen to you." Taehyung clings to him like a lifeline,
his sobs muffled against Yoongi's shoulder until they eventually peter off into pathetic little sniffles
that Taehyung tries to hide. "Shhhh, it's okay..."
"I'm j-just...scared," Taehyung admits. "I never m-meant to—"
"I know, I know," Yoongi is quick to reassure the boy, rubbing up and down his spine now.
"Do you—" Taehyung starts to ask. Yoongi squeezes him encouragingly, and waits patiently until
the boy finds his voice again. "Do you think—Jimin? W-Will they try to make him—"
"After this? No." Yoongi is quick to reply.

Taehyung takes a deep, steadying breath. "Okay...okay..."
He doesn't know where it comes from, this protective desire simmering in his heart, but Yoongi
means every word now as he says, "I'm going to protect you both, Taehyung. I won't let anything
happen to you."
Taehyung must feel the gravitas in his tone, because he accepts Yoongi's declaration without
question, only squeezing the teacher more tightly in thanks. Yoongi allows them both a moment to
bask in the comfort of the embrace, stroking Taehyung's back for as long as his anxiety will permit.
Still, the sound of Seokjin's voice echoes in the back of his mind, and he knows they can't linger
any longer.
"Taehyung..." he says, patting the boy's shoulder. "We need to go."
"Mhmm," the boy agrees, and pulls away from Yoongi at last, raising one hand to wipe at the tears
still clinging to his cheeks.
"Here," Yoongi says, offering his hand to help Taehyung up. The student takes his hand easily, and
in moments Yoongi has them both tugged to their feet, naked and face-to-face once more. "You
should, uh—get dressed," he murmurs, turning away.
Taehyung doesn't allow him to get far, tugging on Yoongi's hand until the teacher is forced to turn
back around to face him. Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, to ask Taehyung what more he
needs—but before he can get a single word out, Taehyung steps forward and covers Yoongi's
mouth with his own.
The teacher is so surprised that for a moment, he forgets to close his eyes, staring down at
Taehyung's face only inches away as the boy's brow furrows in concentration. Taehyung raises his
hand up to Yoongi's face, his fingers shaking slightly as he cradles the older man's jaw in his palm,
and Yoongi positively melts . Before he can think better of it, Yoongi crowds Taehyung back
against the wall and slots their lips more firmly together, their naked bodies pressing together
properly from head to toe now. Taehyung fits so neatly in his arms, and Yoongi allows himself this
one brief moment of gratification. He practically devours the boy's mouth, his tongue slipping
inside for a gratuitous taste—and if Taehyung is surprised, he shows no indication, allowing
Yoongi to map out the inside of his mouth with eagerly parted lips.
"Taehyung..." Yoongi whispers as he pulls back at last, and Taehyung pants as his head falls back
against the wall, his eyes hazy and dark. "What was—"
"T-Thank you," Taehyung interrupts, breathless. "Thank you, Mr. Min."
"Yoongi."
Taehyung blinks up at him in surprise, his brow furrowing slightly.
"My name is Yoongi. You can—you can call me Yoongi, if you'd like." He doesn't know why he
says it, but it feels right all the same.
Taehyung considers him silently for a moment, then curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of
Yoongi's neck and slowly eases Yoongi's head back down towards his. This time, when their lips
meet, it's a much gentler affair. There's no heat behind it, but the soft pressure of Taehyung's lips
against his makes Yoongi's heart soar.
"Thank you...Yoongi," Taehyung repeats as they break away again, and up close, Yoongi can see
the small crease above one of the boy's eyes. It's such a small detail, but so, so very beautiful.
Everything about Taehyung is...beautiful.
"I have to go," he whispers eventually, not wanting to break the spell between them but no longer
able to ignore that little voice at the back of his head warning him that they are currently on
borrowed time.
"Okay..." Taehyung drops his hold on Yoongi at last, and the teacher reluctantly backs away, never
breaking their eye contact.
"Stay hidden, okay? Stay safe." He continues to back towards the door, bending down only to
snatch his pants off the floor and tug them up his legs.
"I will," Taehyung whispers softly.
"I'll come back for you, I'll come back—" Yoongi promises, and Taehyung gives a small, sad smile.
"It's okay, Mr. Min." He says, then corrects himself. " Yoongi . Just go. I'll take care of Jimin, it'll
be alright..."
There’s a confidence in the student’s tone that wasn’t there before, and it gives Yoongi the
reassurance he needs to take his leave. He reaches up and catches his shirt as Taehyung tosses it
towards him, still never breaking eye contact. The fabric is slipped over his shoulders as he
stumbles out the door, leaving Taehyung staring after him in the dim light of the dark room. He
can't bring himself to look away until there is a wall between them that forces his eyes to the
hallway before him instead.
Outside the small room, the second floor of the school is silent as the grave. The only light that
illuminates the space flows in from a few doorways left open, exposing the moonlight spilling in
through the windows beyond. Now free of the small, isolating space, he can hear the soft pitter-
patter of rain against the roof above.
Absentmindedly, Yoongi's fingers fall to the buttons that line the front of his shirt and quickly fasten
them back into their proper place. With every closure, Yoongi's spine straightens slightly, his mind
slowly slipping back into his usual, businesslike demeanor.
'You have to find a replacement,' his mind helpfully reminds him as he heads towards the stairs.
'Keep them away, keep them from suspecting—'
Still—as he descends towards the front office, his shirt now tucked properly into place and his hair
as neat as he can manage to make it using only his fingers as a comb—his lips tingle with the
memory of the shape of Taehyung's mouth against his. He takes deep breath after deep breath,
slowing his heartbeat as much as possible on his way to meet his maker—but he can't bring himself
to get the image of Taehyung's pretty eyes out of his mind.
And as Yoongi swings the door to the front office open, shoulders squared and face firmly fixed
into a placid, blank expression, it is those memories that give him the strength to soldier on. He
marches straight past the front desk, ignoring the shocked greeting of the receptionist as he passes,
and heads down the long hallway towards the Principal's office with his head held high.
'Damn the consequences,' he thinks. 'I did the right thing.'
And as he raises his hand to knock against the solid wood of the door before him, Yoongi knows
that he never wants to kiss another pair of lips other than Kim Taehyung's ever again.
Chapter End Notes
Wow, an update has been a loooong time coming, hasn’t it? Thank you all for
returning to this universe with me after so long! This chapter is part 1 of 2, and part 2
is coming shortly tonight! Two chapters for the price of one makes up for the wait,
right?
I’d like to take a second to thank my beta readers for these chapters, Sarah and Hera,
for keeping me motivated and reducing the number of ridiculous, sleep-deprived typos
both chapters were riddled with.
Summary of the scene containing blood, needles, aftermath of violence:
Yoongi removes the needles that have been left in Jungkook's skin and cleans up the
mess left behind, but is startled when he looks down at Jungkook and sees his eyes
and mouth wide open in a terrifying expression. He blinks, and the image disappears,
making him realize it was a hallucination. He is injured by his fall and has to bandage
his hand up before returning to his work. Once Jungkook is all cleaned up for the
night, he leaves the Nurse's office.
Click to return to text
Summary of the scene containing necrophilia, non-con, incest, somnophilia, blood

& mild gore:
Seokjin has a dream in which he is wandering through a house that feels very familiar
to him. He climbs the stairs and enters the master bedroom, walking past an empty
bed towards a dresser against the opposite wall. He rifles through a bowl of jewelry
until he finds a small golden cross on a necklace that has the initials "J E" carved into
the back. He is startled by a figure behind him, and his mother's voice calls out to him.
He follows her to the bed and she asks him to put the necklace on her. Then she kisses
him, and he fights to stop her, but she wraps him up in her arms and forces her to fuck
him. Suddenly, her body turns to that of a corpse, which terrifies Seokjin. Still, she
forces him to fuck her until he comes inside of her. Behind him, hands appear and grab
at him, and they are covered in ash and burns from a fire. He looks down at his mother
and realizes that she is pregnant and bleeding on the sheets. The two people scream at
him to remember what he has done and tell him that it is all his fault. He looks down
and finds blood on his hands, and startles awake. Now conscious, he moves across his
own bedroom to his own dresser and throws a box at his mirror, shattering it
everywhere. Inside the box, he pulls out that same necklace, now blackened from a
fire. He looks down at his hands and can't stop imagining them covered in blood that
he can't wash away.
Click to return to text

Phase Thirteen, Pt. 2: Statue
Chapter Summary
Let sleeping dogs lie, they say—but Jungkook is the one sleeping now, the dogs have
long since found him, and all anyone ever does is lie, lie, lie.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE THIRTEEN, PT. 2:
Rape/Non-Con, Blood, Knifeplay, Violence, Forced Intoxication, Alcohol Abuse,

Extremely Dubious Consent, Blackmail, Nightmares/Night Terrors, Altered Mental
States, Mind Control, Torture, Psychological Torture, Emotional Manipulation,
Solitary Confinement, Imprisonment, Voyeurism, Public Nudity, Humiliation,
Degradation, Objectification, Human Furniture, Forced Orgasm, Cock & Ball Torture,
Orgasm Delay/Denial, Multiple Orgasms, Submission, Punishment, Oral Sex, Anal
Sex, Anal Fingering, Face-Fucking, Breathplay, Choking, Cockwarming, Cock
Worship, PTSD, Crossdressing, Dissociation, Hallucinations, Non-negotiated/Under-
negotiated Kink, Comeplay, Come Eating/Drinking, Foot Fetish, No Lube, Spit As
Lube, Blood As Lube, Orgy, Foursome - F/F/F/M
IMPORTANT NOTE:
This chapter includes scenes containing mentions of Rape/Non-Con, Blood,

Knifeplay, and Violence. Some readers may prefer to skip parts of these scenes.
There is a link at the beginning of each section containing one of these elements that
will skip you to the very next scene without having to scroll past it manually. There
will also be a link to a description of the scene if you would like to know what you
missed. Please consider your options before reading these scenes! Bypassing these
scenes will minimally affect your understanding of the plot.
IMPORTANT FORMATTING NOTE:
This chapter contains some unusual text/characters. If you are unable to read the text
as it is formatted, please hover over the text with your mouse to read a clearer version.
(Unfortunately, this option is only available on the desktop version.)
Fic Playlist
Phase Thirteen, Pt. 2 Playlist



the original
story here!

Floor 3
Camera 7
08-28-18 TUES 21:41:07:00
She can hear rain splattering against the roof, the chill permeating through the thin walls of their
new hotel room. It’s altogether indistinguishable from their previous room, except that it takes two
flights of stairs to reach it, and something about that makes her feel more secure. All in her head,
she knows, but the only way she can feel safe at the moment is to trick herself into believing it.
It’s the same instinct that causes her to wrap the blanket around her shoulders closer to her chest,
fingers curling into the fabric to keep them from quivering. At her side, her husband sits with his
spine ramrod straight, eyes fixed forward, seemingly unbothered by the few inches of distance
between them. His attention is focused entirely on the guests sitting at the table before them,
crammed into the tiny space on borrowed chairs so they can all speak in hushed tones and still hear
one another.
Her eyes are heavy, so many nights in a row going sleepless finally taking their toll on her, but she
forces them open all the same. Tonight is not the night to give in to her exhaustion. ‘Later,’ she
tells herself, ‘in a few hours, you can sleep. For now, we have to focus.’
“—thank you for meeting with us,” her husband is saying as she takes a deep breath and brings her
mind back to the present moment. The fabric between her fingers is scratchy, rough, grounding her
as she rubs it between two fingertips. She turns her gaze to follow her husband’s, her eyes warily
settling on the man sitting across from her as he unloads a large stack of files and papers from his
bag.
“Sure, sure—” The stranger says, his tone nonchalant and distant, not bothering to look up at them
as he answers.
“We—uh—appreciate your time very much,” her husband goes on, clearly as out of his depth as
she feels. While usually much more composed, years of government work turning his demeanor
businesslike and stoic, she can hear how sincere he is now from his voice alone. She nods along
immediately.
“Well, you’re payin’ for it,” the man grumbles, and she catches her husband’s expression
darkening slightly out of the corner of her eye.
“We—yes, we’re paying for it. Whatever you require, money isn’t an issue.”
“Yongjoon made that much clear, don’t worry.” Still, the man hasn’t looked up at either of them,
shuffling his papers into piles on the tabletop with some organizational logic she can’t quite
follow. “I’ll bill you when this is all said and done and we see how much work it turns out to be.”
It isn’t a question, so neither of them bother to agree out loud. ‘ What other choice do we have?’
She thinks, chewing on the inside of her lower lip nervously. ‘If he can’t help, I have no idea where
to go next—’
Her thoughts are interrupted as their other guest, sitting at the strange man’s side, clears his throat
and interjects, “Ahem, yes, well—I’ll handle all of that, Jungmin, you don’t need to worry about a
thing. I’m well aware of Mr. Seong’s fees. His work is certainly worth the price.”
Jungmin glances over at their lawyer for a moment, some silent communication seeming to pass
between them, then nods his head and lets out a long breath. “So, tell me... Mr. Seong ...what can
you do for us?”
“I’m so glad you asked,” the stranger says, and pats his hands down against his organized
documents. He lifts his head to look at them both at last, and the smile that graces his lips is a bit—
silly, she thinks, or perhaps a bit reckless . “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“I—um—”
“You are Jeon Jungmin, 55 years old. Born April 25th, 1963 at Gangnam Hospital in Suwon
outside of Seoul.”
Jungmin is clearly taken aback, blinking dumbly across the table at their visitor as his personal
information is rattled off to him. When he doesn’t answer for several long moments, she takes pity
on him and clears her own throat, drawing the man’s attention to her instead. “That’s correct,” she
answers in a soft voice.
Mr. Seong nods before continuing as though he never stopped speaking, “Raised in Seoul for 17
years, moved to Busan in 1980 to attend Busan National University for a degree in Finance.
Graduated third in your class.”
“Yes—”
“Currently holding an Economic Analyst position in the Busan Service & Finance Division of the
Employment & Economy Office under the Vice Mayor for Economic Affairs.”
“That’s right, but what does—”
“Married to Jeon Daeun, previously Park Daeun, in Busan, 1989.”
“Yes,” Daeun answers this time, sensing her husband’s rising ire at this stranger’s casual recitation
of their important details.
“Currently 53 years old, born February 21st, 1965 at Dong-eui Medical Center. Adopted on March
29th, 1965 by Park Dongyul and Park Eunae when your birth parents could not be located.”
“That—That’s right, how did you know—”
“Currently working for Busan Regional Bank as a liaison with their client, Air Busan. No college
education on record.”
“Well, I—”
“You have two sons together,” he interrupts, tapping a finger on the page in front of him while
resting his chin on his other palm. “Jeon Junghyun, born 1992, and Jeon Jungkook, born 1994, both
born at Dong-eui Medical Center.”
“Yes, yes, this is all correct, what do you—”
“You currently reside at 383-19 Jangjeon 1(il)-dong, Geumjeong-gu, Busan. Yes?”
“That’s our current house—”
“And you’ve lived at that residence for the past five years?”
“Yes, we moved there when Jungkook started high school, and—”
“You enjoy shopping outside of Dongnae Station on your days off. You eat breakfast frequently at
the Tous Les Jours location on the other side of the highway despite there being closer locations
because a family friend owns the franchise.”
“How—How do you know—”
“You both attend services at Jangjeon Central Presbyterian Church on Sundays. You own a 2017
Hyundai Sonata, white. You previously owned a cat, male, calico, adopted in September of 2016.”
“He...was a birthday present for Jungkook…” Daeun mutters under her breath, her chest suddenly
feeling tight at the thought.
“What does any of this have to do with finding our son?!” Jungmin has stiffened beside her, his
knuckles white where he has balled up his hands against the tabletop. “Why do you need us to
confirm all of this—this useless information—?!”
“This information is all a matter of easily accessible record, Mr. Jeon,” the stranger says, tilting his
head thoughtfully, clearly utterly unphased by her husband’s outburst. “I don’t need you to confirm
anything.”
“Then what the fuck is—”
“This is simply a demonstration of the information I have been able to uncover since Yongjoon
contacted me this morning.” He flattens his hands against the table and slides two of the piles of
paper towards them, tapping his fingers in the center of the top page. “The remainder of your
information is here, in your background checks.”
Jungmin grabs for his paperwork immediately, holding the pages up to his face to better read them
in the dim light. Daeun is slower to reach for her own, having to untangle her arms from her
blanket first and coax her fingers into cooperating before she can lift up the first page. Sure enough,
right across the top of the paper, her information is listed in plain black letters that look almost
startlingly clinical as she reads them over:
The information goes on and on for pages. She feels dizzy as she tries to look it all over, her eyes
catching specific details of her youth as she skims—her elementary school, the names of her
neighbors as a child, a copy of her driver’s license—
“You both passed, by the way,” the man adds, nonchalant, and Jungmin tosses the papers down
onto the table between them so they scatter across the wooden surface.
“Jungmin—” She tries to say something to her husband, to calm him down, but he’s out of his seat
before she can even reach him.
“Yongjoon, what’s the meaning of this?” He demands, pointing an accusatory finger across the
table at their visitor. “I asked you to find me a private investigator, to find my son, and you bring
me this—this clown to investigate me and my wife instead? How dare you—”
“Please—sit down—” Their lawyer reaches across the table to put a hand on her husband’s
shoulder, gently easing him back into his seat with a stern look. “There’s no need to make
accusations like that, please.”
Jungmin lets out a sharp breath through his nose, but says nothing more. His arms cross over his
chest as he returns to his seat, eyes moving between the two men across the table as though waiting
for an explanation. Daeun lets out her own breath and clutches her blanket more tightly around her
shoulders again, her lips pressed thin between her teeth.
“Mr. Seong is the best at what he does, I know from personal experience,” Yongjoon explains, “I
don’t like being involved in something like this at all, retaining a private investigator is highly
illegal—” He raises a hand to stop Jungmin from speaking the moment her husband opens his
mouth to interrupt. “—but if I need to trust someone to do this right, he is the only person I would
call.”
A beat of tense silence follows his statement, but Jungmin makes no move to speak again, and
Yongjoon clearly takes it as permission to continue.
“Mr. Seong is showing you this information because it is the result of the work I have asked him to
do. Everyone, everyone, ” he stresses, “must be cleared of suspicion in a missing person’s case. Mr.
Seong is doing the same thing the police would have done, had they believed you. But they didn’t,
and here we are. Do you understand?”
Daeun nods immediately. They’re in no position to argue, and she knows it. Still, her eyes flicker
to the investigator’s face, taking in the flat expression across his features, the way his eyes stare
placidly back at her and her husband. He might be an attractive man under other circumstances, but
something about the uncaring look on his face sets her teeth on edge.
‘This is just another case to him,’ she thinks, ‘probably something he’s seen a hundred times
over…’
Her heart positively throbs with pain at the thought of her son, her Jungkook, being just one more
missing person—god, her son is missing —
“Please,” she whispers, unable to hold her voice back any longer, “we understand, we do. I—I’m
sorry, we didn’t mean to—we’re just—” She has to pause for a moment and suck in a deep breath,
the tightening around her ribs making it nearly impossible to speak. But she needs him to know, to
understand —
“This is our son. He’s my—my everything. This might be normal to you, but he’s—he’s all we
have left. Our older son was always more independent, off on his own, but Jungkook—this was his
first time out in the world by himself, and we— we let him go, we did this—”
“I understand,” the investigator says, and something about his tone has shifted, become softer at
the edges. Perhaps it is only in her mind, but his eyes seem warmer when they drift back to her
face. “Please,” he gestures across the table between them, “tell me more about your son. I have
done preliminary research to better understand this case, but the real work has yet to begin.”
“What do you need to know?” Jungmin speaks up, and his voice has settled back into something
neutral and businesslike again. She chances a glance over to her husband and finds the man leaning
forward now, his chin resting on his crossed fingers. Instinctively, she reaches out from beneath
her blanket and brushes her fingertips against his wrist. He startles at the contact, whipping his
head around to look at her—but his eyes soften the moment they land on her face. Without a word,
she can almost hear his voice in her head telling her it will be alright, that he’s there with her, that
they’re in this together now. He brings his hand down and laces his fingers with hers, giving her
hand a firm squeeze, and some of the pressure around her chest suddenly seems to ease itself back.
“Everything.”
Daeun takes a deep breath, considering where to start. Her hand flies to her pocket, tugging her
phone out from beneath the blanket to lay the device along the tabletop. Jungmin gives her a
concerned look and reaches out to still her hand when she moves to turn the phone on, but she
shakes her head at him and gives him her most determined look. After a beat, he releases her and
gives an encouraging nod, his hand settling comfortingly in the crook of her elbow instead.
Once the phone has been turned on, the four of them sit in a pregnant silence as the screen comes
to life. Daeun makes no move to hide her passcode when she enters it, thinking that if she can't
trust the men in this room with her, then there is no one on the planet that she can.
"This..." She says, as she taps on the phone screen, bringing up her photo library. "...is my son."
She slides the phone across the table towards the investigator, a single photo selected on the screen.
He gingerly picks up the device and holds it up to his face, the image reflecting in his eyes. It is an
old photo, one of many she had insisted on painstakingly scanning and uploading to her phone for
safekeeping; one that shows Jungkook, barely more than five or six years old, playing happily on
the beach less than a kilometer from their old home. He is red-faced, covered in water from head to
toe, a small life preserver held around his waist like a skirt, grinning from ear to ear like he's just
won an award as he holds a shiny sea shell to the camera.
"This is my son," she repeats, "This is my Jungkookie. He loves pizza and foreign films, he takes
great care of his cat, and one day he wants to settle down and have a family of his own. He's my
beautiful, special boy, and he and his brother are my entire world."
Mr. Seong hums thoughtfully and raises the phone, a question in his eyes as he glances up at
Daeun. She understands immediately and waves for him to do whatever he needs to do, and the
younger man begins flipping through her photo gallery with flick after flick of his thumb. He says
nothing, so she takes it as encouragement to continue speaking, the words flowing from her
unprompted and impossible to stop.
"I wasn't supposed to be able to have children," she confesses softly, and Jungmin gives her arm a
soft squeeze. "Junghyun was planned, we went to the best doctors in the country—we shelled out a
fortune, to be honest. But when he arrived, I knew that no amount of money would ever be worth
more than the life of my child. We tried countless IVF treatments, dozens of medications...I fought
for him, Mr. Seong. I fought every doctor, I fought our insurance, I fought the hospital, I fought
with Mr. Hwang here—" she says, nodding towards their lawyer, who offers her a small smile. "—
and I won. We brought Junghyun home in spite of what they told us over and over again, and we
couldn't have been happier."
Mr. Seong gives another hum and nods in understanding. Daeun knows that the man probably
knows all of this information, probably found it in her medical records somehow—but she needs to
say this anyway. There's no stopping the truth now.
"But when Jungkook came along..." She pauses, glancing over at her husband for reassurance.
With only one look, she finds so much of their son in Jungmin's face—in the crinkle at the corner
of his eyes, in the slope of his nose, in the cowlick that always causes his hair to part the same way
in the middle. Her chest aches terribly at the reminder, but her husband's face is the closest she can
get to seeing her son again at the moment, and she can't bring herself to look away.
"Jungkook was...a complete surprise," she continues as soon as she finds her voice again. "He
arrived out of the blue and shocked us all."
"They told us it was too dangerous, that we had taken too big of a risk with Daeun's health having
even one baby," Jungmin jumps in to add, and she nods in agreement.
"Getting pregnant naturally was a miracle . We didn’t bother trying to prevent it, because it never
should have happened. But it did, and I was so—so h-happy. But—But the same doctors who told
us it was a risk trying to create one child, they—" She pauses, her throat tightening at the memory.
Jungmin's thumb strokes across her skin where he can reach, the calluses on his skin comforting
and familiar. Still, she can't bring herself to say it, what they told her to do—
"—they told us to abort him," her husband continues for her, his tone turning dark again. "They
looked my wife straight in the eye and told her to get rid of Jungkook."
"What was their justification?" The investigator asks, and his tone isn't shocked by any means, but
he sounds interested, at least. While legal now, every person sitting at this table knows full well
that the practice would have been wildly against the law two decades ago.
"We couldn't believe it. I refused to even hear it, it goes against everything I believe. These doctors,
" Jungmin spits, making no attempt to disguise his anger, "asked us to find some back-alley
practitioner to—to butcher my wife and child because they claimed that the pregnancy had 100%
chance of killing her."
Mr. Seong looks up from Daeun's phone at last, setting the device down on the table with a small
click. "They were wrong," he says, matter of fact.
"They were damn wrong," Jungmin shoots back, and this time, he sounds proud. "They didn't even
want to give her a chance, but here we are."
Daeun clears her throat and settles her hand over her husband's where he still grips her arm, easing
his fingers back from his tight hold. "They were wrong in the end, yes," she says, "but—it did
nearly kill me to carry him to term." This part, at least, is easier to say out loud. "He was born
premature— healthy—but I was forced to have an emergency C-section when my health took a turn
for the worse."
"I don't see any photos of that time in here," the investigator comments mildly, pointing down at
her phone.
"That's because I wouldn't let anyone take a single one. I was so sick," she says earnestly, "so sick,
and I looked terrible. My skin turned red and purple, I was swollen and blotchy all over, I even
started to lose my hair—"
"I thought I was going to lose her," Jungmin admits, his voice softening slightly, "I thought we had
made a mistake—"
"But they cut Jungkook out of me and placed him in my arms, a-and I—" There are tears in
Daeun's eyes now, though she has no idea when they began to form. "Everything was r-right with
the world, you know? He was p-perfect . He was perfect . He was my miracle, an unexpected gift
from God. He m-made our family complete."
"And that's why this is such an issue, his disappearance." Mr. Seong says it as a statement of fact,
not a question, and Daeun immediately agrees.
"It—isn't that we would be less upset if s-something like this were to happen t-to our older son,"
she hurries to clarify. "It's just that—you have to understand. Jungkook was s-so fragile when he
was little, and we—well, we c-coddled him. Protected him from everything. Jungmin was strict—"
"—too strict," her husband adds under his breath, shame evident in his posture.
"—and I—I hovered too much, wouldn't let him go p-play with other children. We—"
"You were scared," the investigator jumps in, finishing her sentence for her. "I understand."
"We were t-terrified that something would h-happen to him," she corrects, "and it took years
before we realized that we were—we were hurting him more than helping."
"The doctors assured us that he was healthy, that he was growing well and that we had nothing
more to worry about, but—well—"
"I wouldn't trust them either, after what happened," their lawyer interjects, crossing his arms over
his chest. "I remember the piles of paperwork we had to file to ensure they would even work with
you the first time."
"Exactly," she agrees. "So for years, we kept Jungkook close at our side...but Junghyun was a
strong child—a strong willed child, too—and we never would have been able to do the same with
him. They grew up very differently, and now..."
A pregnant pause falls between the four of them, Daeun not sure how to finish her thought. She
wipes at the tears on her cheeks, willing them to stop falling. The investigator looks at her
thoughtfully for a second, leaning forward to rest his chin on his steepled fingers.
"You think his disappearance is your fault," he says after a moment, and both Daeun and Jungmin
startle at his words.
"I, well—I—"
"Yes..." She admits, softly. "It f-feels that way." She glances at Jungmin for a moment, tilting her
head. "We sheltered him and were too c-controlling and he grew up a bit...naïve. Unaware of the
world in the way his brother is. So it's—it’s n-not that we would be less worried about Junghyun,
it's that—"
"—you know he would never end up in this situation in the first place," Mr. Seong says. It's a
matter-of-fact statement, not a question, and all Daeun can do is nod in agreement. He hums to
himself again, tapping his pointer fingers against his chin as he considers them both.
"Tell me this," he asks suddenly, "do you believe that Jungkook disappeared of his own accord?"
He reaches down and taps on one of the pieces of paper spread across the tabletop between them.
"That's what the police report indicates."
"Jungkook would never, never do that," Daeun replies immediately, clutching her blanket back
around her shoulders for comfort. "He's not the type to go wandering off, he's very introverted and
—"
"It's just absurd, what they're saying," her husband says over her, reaching forward to shove the
case report back across the table. "Jungkook is a good son, a smart and—and dedicated boy. He
wants nothing more than to make us proud. He would never do that. You can keep that report, it's
nothing more than trash."
"Then why did it take you so long to report him missing?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. He doesn't
appear to be accusing them of anything, merely curious, and Daeun knows that it's a fair enough
question. She feels stupid every second of every day for precisely that reason, after all. At her side,
however, Jungmin bristles at the question.
"What are you saying?" He barks. "You said we've been cleared of suspicion, you said—"
"And you have," Mr. Seong says calmly, not allowing her husband's anger to rise any further. He
leans back in his chair, staring across at the two of them with his arms crossed over his chest now.
"I don't believe you had anything to do with your son's disappearance, and I agree that the boy
you're telling me about would not simply get up one day and decide to disappear."
"Then what—"
"What I am trying to understand is how we ended up at this point." The corners of his eyes twitch,
betraying a hint of frustration. "Everything about your case makes sense, except for that. Your son
has been missing for over a month, and you only just reported his disappearance two days ago." He
uncrosses one arm and points between the two of them, and this time, the gesture is accusatory. "So
help me understand that, or there's nothing I can do for you."
Daeun scrubs a hand over her eyes, wiping away the tears that are still falling. "He h-hasn't been
missing f-for a month, he hasn't , I—it's so hard to explain—"
"Try."
"It's my fault," her husband says before she can get out another word. She whips her head around to
look at Jungmin, her mouth open to argue, but he raises a hand. "No, Daeun!" He slams his hand
down on the table in frustration, causing all three of them to jump. "Don't. Just don't. We both
know it's true." He purses his lips and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them
again to look across the table at the two men they have managed to wrangle into helping them.
"It's my fault that he's missing. I didn't want to believe it, and I kept it quiet." There's a little break
in her husband's voice that sends another wave of tears flowing from her eyes as he continues.
"And now, it might be too late."
"We don't know that yet," Mr. Seong tells them, and his voice is slightly softer now, but there is a
sense of urgency behind his expression. "There's no need to jump to awful conclusions. But we
can't afford to waste any more time."
"I've wasted enough of it already, not wanting to see what was right in front of me," Jungmin
agrees, hanging his head, "I didn't listen to my wife, and—and look w-where it's gotten me—"
"Shhh..." Daeun reaches out and takes her husband's curled fist into her own, easing his fingers
apart until she can slide her own between them and cradle her husband's hand between two of hers.
"It's okay. It's g-going to be okay. Let's just—t-tell him what's happened, okay? We need to t-trust
him, and stop passing b-blame."
"Precisely," Yongjoon speaks up, adding his agreement. Their lawyer has been mostly silent up
until now, but he leans forward and taps on the documents in front of them. "Mr. Seong has
compiled a great deal of information, but it's only a start. In order to find your son, we'll need to
give him a direction to start searching."
"I have some initial thoughts, but yes, please, tell me what you know. How does a polite,
introverted, studious boy—" He gestures towards one of the documents in Daeun's pile, indicating
the school report cards she had flipped past earlier. "—suddenly stop communicating with his own
parents and disappear?"
"He got a—a job offer," Daeun supplies, "out of the blue. He had been s-searching all summer,
looking for a school that would take a first-year teacher on, but it's become very c-competitive."
"He had excellent grades, what was the issue?"
"He's always been afraid to put himself out there," Jungmin sighs, "He didn't jump into the search
the way I wanted him to, and he was hesitant to apply for positions that weren't exactly what he
was looking for."
"Which was?"
"High school, specifically English."
"English?"
"He was never one for math or science, but Jungkook is a smart boy and he loved learning new
things. He learned English completely self-taught for many years, then decided that he wanted to
focus on that as his major his...second year?"
"Third," Daeun corrects, "but he—he struggled to find a teaching position in that area because
most of the schools locally have decided to hire people internationally to come teach foreign
languages instead."
"I was going to ask..." Mr. Seong says, nodding. "So what was different about this job he was
offered?"
"It was through a referral, through a friend."
"A friend?" The investigator asks, and something in his expression changes in a way that Daeun
can't quite place. He reaches below the table towards his bag and pulls out a small notebook and
pen, and waits for her to continue.
"Um, yes...a friend. Someone he met in college."
"So Jungkook didn't find this job opportunity on his own, then?"
"No, it was very last minute and he was very surprised by the opportunity, but he jumped at it
immediately. I mean," she laughs bitterly, "can you blame him?"
"Not at all," the investigator says plainly. "What was the name of this friend?"
"Oh!" She points towards her phone. "I have his information here, may I?"
He slides the phone back towards her, and she flips it around to quickly tap across the screen,
bringing up her contacts list. "I always tried to keep track of his friends, to make sure I knew where
he was and how to reach him. Out of precaution, you know? But—"
"That's very helpful, thank you," Mr. Seong says, and accepts the phone back as she offers it to
him. "Mr...Jung, is it?"
"Yes, Jung Hoseok. They met in school in the same program, they both wanted to be teachers.
Jungkook was so happy to make a friend in college, and we were so happy for him—"
"Jung..." The man repeats pensively.
"Is there something the matter?" Yongjoon asks, leaning closer to see the contact illuminated on
the screen.
"I'm not sure..." Mr. Seong says, his lips pursed.
"Is—do you think Hoseok d-did something? To Jungkook?! He's s-such a sweet boy, from what I
heard—"
"I wouldn't go that far," he interrupts, raising his head again. "But it's noteworthy." He points
towards the phone. "I assume you've tried to reach this Jung Hoseok?"
"Of course, we—we tried that immediately," she hurries to say, "they were s-supposed to be going
through their orientation together, starting at the school at the same time."
"But no luck, I imagine?"
"None. His number appears to be disconnected, or maybe it wasn't correct in the first place, I—I
don't know..."
"And you haven't been able to reach his family either?"
"We don't know them, unfortunately," Jungmin says.
"So...your son makes a friend in college, and this friend helps him network to get a job opportunity
when he's struggling. Sounds innocent enough, but...nothing about this situation is normal, is it?"
"Not at all."
"And you know where this school is? Where they accepted jobs?"
"Yes, it's all there in the police report—" Jungmin gestures towards the document he had so
unceremoniously shoved away earlier. "We showed the police the information we had, their
address and phone number—"
"They even answered, when I tried to call once, so there's someone there, but—"
"You spoke with them?" Mr. Seong asks, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, once, a f-few weeks ago. But I haven't been able to reach them since then, and w-when—
when I visited the address—" The words get caught in her throat again, the memory of what she
found waiting there in the woods too difficult to articulate.
"I understand," the investigator reassures her. "I've read the report several times over." He looks
down at the report all the same. "The Academy of Higher Purpose ...Hmm. You travelled to the
address that you have for the school to visit, but there was nothing there."
"Not nothing, not just n-nothing," she says, her voice wavering as she tries to stress her words. "It
would have been one t-thing if I had found n-nothing there, then I w-would have known for s-sure
—"
"What did you see?" He leans even closer, his dark eyes shining with interest.
"It looked like—like a d-disaster had happened, something h-horrible. There were b-buildings
everywhere, but they were—b-burned to the ground. And it must have b-been ages ago when it h-
happened, because it's all overgrown c-completely, the whole place abandoned—"
"So you found...?"
"The school w-was there, once. I s-saw it. There was a building w-with the right name, it was t-
there , but—"
"But it isn't a school anymore, I see."
"I t-tried to ask the local villagers, but no one w-would say a damn word to me, they wouldn't even
acknowledge that the buildings were t-there at all!”
"What do you mean?"
"I t-tried to stop and ask for d-directions, but they a-acted like I had asked them to—I d-don't know
—they were all very c-cold . It was like I was talking about a g-ghost."
"Hmmm..."
"What do you make of this?" Yongjoon asks, but for a moment, the investigator is silent. Daeun
almost feels like holding her breath, eager to hear his response but terrified of what it could
possibly be. She's run herself into the ground with exhaustion, her mind constantly running in
circles trying to figure out what horror might have befallen her son, what could have possibly
happened that would make this all make sense—
"I'm not sure," he admits, finally. "But something...very odd is happening here."
"This isn't even the worst part," Jungmin starts to say, but the investigator holds up a hand to
silence him.
"Yes, I was getting to that." He turns his gaze to her husband, eyes narrowing. "You reported that
you've been followed."
"Not me, not at first," Jungmin says, and the same sense of guilt creeps back into his tone. "Daeun
was followed first, while she was shopping—"
"Outside of Dongnae Station," the investigator says, repeating his words from earlier.
"Y-Yes. And then again when I w-was walking home, and—and a t-third time we were w-watched
in our h-home."
"How can you be sure?"
"I didn't want to believe her at first, I mean...it just sounds so outlandish, doesn't it? This sort of
thing doesn't happen to people like us. I didn't think it happened in real life at all."
"But you believe her now."
"I have no choice! I thought she was making it up, I thought she was just being paranoid, but then
they started following me too."
"Tell me about them," Mr. Seong asks, holding up his pen to take notes again. "Did you get a good
look at these people?"
"No, and that's what scares me the most. They drove by our house several times in a dark vehicle,
and the windows were tinted so we couldn't see inside. I don't even know how many people it was
—"
"But you saw the vehicle? The make and model?"
"Yes..." Jungmin says slowly, his brow furrowing. "In fact, I might have caught a photo of their
license plate—"
"You d-did?!" Daeun yelps in shock. "You n-never told me t-that!"

"I'm not sure if I caught it, but I took a few photos when they followed me home from work while
you were gone—" He drags his own phone out of his pocket and turns it on, tapping his foot
impatiently as the screen comes to life. "Here," he says, sliding the phone across the table to the
investigator just the same way Daeun had done before. "You can take a look."
"Hmm..." The younger man flicks through the photos thoughtfully, holding the phone much closer
to his face than he had with the photos of Jungkook. "I see what you mean, they're certainly trying
to stay nondescript." He flips the phone around to show them one photo in particular, the front of
the vehicle clearly visible but only the shadowy outlines of two figures in the driver and passenger
seats showing through the dark windshield. "That is a 2015 Hyundai Equus. Black Noir Pearl paint,
Tau 5.0 GDi model, likely a four-wheel drive."
"You can tell all that just by looking at it?"
"Yes," he says with a small, pleased smile, "and I can tell you something else. Do you notice how
dark the windows are?"
"Of course, but—"
"That means they're well outside of regulation. This is a luxury car, so whoever they are, they have
money. But even luxury brands won't let you buy windows tinted this dark, so it's definitely a
custom job. And!" He waves the phone back and forth in his enthusiasm. "It has certainly also
placed them on the radar of law enforcement before."
"And that means—"
"It means I can probably find them based on this car alone. They don't want their faces to be
known, but they don't seem to care if they're being surveilled. That's very telling. The license plate
would be more helpful, of course, but this is a start."
"I'm sure I must have captured it in one of the photos," Jungmin says, waving an encouraging hand
towards the phone. "Please, please, keep looking."
It only takes a few moments for the investigator to nod and smile again, pinching at the screen to
zoom in on another photo. "You sure did," he says, and turns the phone back over into her
husband's hand. "Look."
There, at the bottom of the photo, cut off by the edge of a building as the car drives away, is the
unmistakable shape of a long, white license plate. Not all of the characters are visible, but a few on
one corner are legible enough to read even on the poor quality photo.
"—0818," her husband reads out loud, and Daeun's spine straightens immediately.
"What?"
"0818," he repeats. "That's the last part of the license plate."
"Oh my god." She scrambles out from beneath her blanket, reaching for her own phone where she
had set it down. "Oh my god."
"What?!"
"It's the s-same, it's the same number—!"
"What do you mean?"
"Look!" She holds up her own phone and waves it frantically, forcing her husband to take it from
her hand to see the photo she had held up for him. Instead of a photo of a car, the image she had
selected is of a piece of paper sitting atop a table, which clearly confuses her husband for a
moment. But, as she waits, nearly vibrating out of her skin with excitement, she watches as
realization dawns across his face, his eyebrows raising up towards his hairline.
"Oh my god," he repeats. "This is—"
"The l-license plate of the car outside our h-house," she says, "I saw it. I wrote it down." 01 0818.
She remembers it exactly now.
"You wrote it down..." He says, a little dazed. "I didn't know..."
"May I see it, please?" A voice interrupts, and both of their heads whip around to face the
investigator again. At his side, Yongjoon's face has twisted up in cogitation as he watches their
exchange, his eyes flickering between the three of them.
"Yes, I'm sorry," Jungmin apologizes, handing over both of the phones again. "Look."
Mr. Seong sets the two devices side-by-side and considers the images for a moment, nodding in
agreement. "Well," he says after a beat, "Mr. and Mrs. Jeon, you are most certainly being followed.
And by the same people, this confirms it."
"Are they the ones who—who c-called me the other day too?" She asks in a small voice, shoulders
hunching as the memory washes over her. "They knew w-where to find us, they—they s-said they
know w-where Jungkook is—"
"I can't be 100% sure without further digging, but I can't imagine that it would be anyone else. The
hotel's phone records will help me confirm."
"They aren't going to just give you their phone records—" Yongjoon starts to say, but with a single
look over his shoulder, the investigator has their lawyer snapping his jaw shut without another
word.
"I think I have enough to get started," he says as he turns back to the couple. "Is there anything else
you'd like to add?"
"No, I—I don't think so?" She says, racking her brain for anything more to add.
"What do you need from us?" Jungmin asks instead, crossing his arms on the tabletop as he leans
forward. "Anything at all, just ask."
"Mostly I just need your cooperation."
"Anything," Jungmin repeats.
"There are some things it would be easier to have you provide, rather than hacking or digging
around to find it myself. It's faster and cleaner that way." Daeun swallows nervously at the mention
of him hacking into anything, but she nods in agreement all the same.
"Whatever you need," she echoes her husband's words. "Is there something in particular?"
"Banking and phone records, for a start. Anything that might help me track your son's movements
or whereabouts. Anything you can offer me in terms of known associates, recent acquaintances,
places he likes to frequent. It's not likely that he will have been anywhere locally, if he's truly off
the grid as much as you say, but it'll give my people something to go off of."
"Your...people?"
"I'll be in touch shortly. Stay off your phones and computers. In fact," he pushes their devices back
across the table towards them, "keep them turned off. Remove the SIM cards. Don't open them,
even to look at those photos again. Do you understand?"
"Y-Yes, I—"
He rises from the table, and the couple scrambles to do the same. "Stay away from the doors and
windows, and don't go out, even for food."
"But—"
"No buts," he says, raising a hand to silence them. "Listen to what I have to tell you, or I can't in
good conscience agree to help you."
Daeun's eyes flicker to the windows, barred over to keep anyone from entering. The door has a
padlock, but that thought offers her little comfort. "A-Are we...really in that much danger?"
For a long moment, the younger man doesn't answer, instead sweeping his pile of papers back into
a neat pile and sliding it into the satchel he picks up off the floor. The small notebook he has been
using to jot down his thoughts is slipped securely into a hidden pocket on the inside of his jacket,
and he slides it up over his shoulders to brace against the chill outside. Once situated, his bag slung
over his shoulder, he levels them both with a very serious look, the most serious he has appeared
this entire time.
"Yes," he says plainly. "You are most likely in a great deal of danger. More than you know."
"And—J-Jungkook?"
"Time is of the essence," he says in lieu of answering her. Daeun muffles a sob behind her hand,
and feels her husband wrap a secure arm around her waist to pull her into his side for support.
"Stay hidden, and I'll see what I can do."
"Please," Jungmin says above her head, "Please, find our son. Nothing else matters."
Mr. Seong meets her husband's eyes and gives a small bow, then turns and offers her the same. As
one, she and her husband return the gesture, and Yongjoon takes that as his cue to step up and head
towards the door. "I'll be in touch," the investigator repeats, "but first, there's someone I think you
should meet."
"Who?"
"I'll be in touch!" He repeats again, then turns without so much as a goodbye and nods for
Yongjoon to open the door for him. The lawyer draws the door back and allows the younger man
to pass by, then turns towards Daeun and Jungmin for a moment.
"I'll make arrangements, you won't need to stay here much longer. Food will be delivered shortly,
alright?"
"Thank you," Jungmin breathes out, and releases Daeun for long enough to clap the other man on
the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you."
Yongjoon gives a small hum at the back of his neck and bows his head towards them as well, then
turns out the door onto the landing without another word. The door swings shut behind him with a
creak, and her husband steps forward to firmly secure the lock and chain into place. Outside, the
storm continues to rumble in the distance, but the door blocks out most of the sound.
Daeun secures her blanket back around her shoulders from where it had slipped to her elbows, and
settles down onto the edge of the nearest bed. Jungmin steps away for a moment, then returns to
slip a familiar object into her hand. She glances down at her phone where it falls into her palm, the
screen still illuminated, revealing a portrait of their family secured as her wallpaper. Her husband
bends down to lay a gentle kiss against the crown of her head, rubbing at her shoulder
comfortingly, then silently steps away towards the bathroom.
Her eyes never leave the photo in front of her, even as she reaches for the power button and turns
the phone off. As the screen fades to black, she stares at the familiar shape of her younger son's
smile, and wonders if she will ever have a chance to see it for herself again. In the distance, a
rushing noise indicates that her husband has turned on the shower. The sound drowns out any
other, including the small sobs that begin to overtake her breath as tears resume spilling down her
cheeks.
Through the bars of the window, she can barely make out the sight of the buildings across the
street, their lights wavering. She tucks her knees up to her chest and allows her tears to freely fall,
mirroring the water dripping down the glass.
From the opening and closing of the door, the scent of petrichor lingers. Futilely, she attempts to
banish all hypotheticals from her mind—all images of human trafficking, of organ harvesting, of
worse. She forces her mind instead to focus on thoughts of her son—wonders if, somewhere out
there, Jungkook is safe and warm, if he has enough to eat, if he is thinking of her...
There is almost no moon to spot outside the window tonight, not between the heavy clouds and the
dark sky, not something they can share—but she wonders if he can, at least, smell the refreshing
cling of rain in the air too.
Front Office—Principal—First Floor 08.28.18 7:14PM
BEEP.
"Yes, Mr. Kim?"
"Come to my office. Now."
There is a pause on the other end of the line, the newly-repaired intercom buzzing with soft static
for a second before his receptionist's voice returns.
"R-Right away, sir—"
"And bring Ms. Son with you," he interrupts, twirling the glass in his hand absently, his eyes
following the motion of the ice that spins as he does so.
"Of course, sir. One moment, please."
BEEP.
Seokjin sits back in his chair, the leather giving a familiar creak under his weight. His eyes stare
towards the door without really seeing it, the room little more than a haze of shapes before him.
The space is dark, curtains drawn to keep even the lights from the parking lot from reaching him,
leaving the bright screen of his computer turned toward him to create a spotlight over his face.
From somewhere outside his door, he hears the creak and bang of a door, the muffled thuds of
movement. He gives his glass another twirl, then raises it to his lips and takes a deep gulp of the
whiskey inside. It burns all the way down his throat, and he embraces the pain willingly. When he
gives a slow blink, the entire room seems to swim back and forth before his eyes. With every sip,
he slips further from the present moment. With every gulp, he forgets.
It's been quite some time since he had his last drink of alcohol, and the sensation becomes more
familiar by the minute, dredged up from the back of his mind like a sunken treasure brought back
to the surface. There is a deep relief that comes from it, the pressure in his mind alleviated some
small amount with every sip that he takes, replaced by a pleasant buzzing that only drives him to
drink again. The bottle is nearly empty now, and he upends it without a care into his glass before
setting it down against the top of his desk with a loud thump.
Just as he raises the glass back to his lips, he is interrupted by a soft interruption in the form of
rapping against the door to his office. He takes another long sip anyway, letting it prickle all the
way down his throat for a long moment before opening his mouth again to answer.
"Come in."
The door slides open slowly, the large, familiar eyes of his receptionist peeking around the frame.
"Sir?"
"I said come in, Ms. Park." he orders, not even bothering to spare her a glance. Jihyo pushes the
door open further and offers him a quick bow before crossing the threshold, followed immediately
by a shorter woman who mimics Jihyo's actions and bows as well before stepping inside and
shutting the door behind her with a small click.
"What can we do for you, sir?" Jihyo asks, her voice unusually quiet. Seokjin sniffs dismissively,
his eyes turning towards the smaller of the two women instead of acknowledging her question.
"Ms. Son. Please come here."
The young woman walks forward silently, her hands clasped in front of her and her head hung low
so that most of her face is hidden by her short, dark hair. When she makes her way over to stand in
front of him, she gives him another respectful bow and asks in a soft voice, "How can I be of
service, Mr. Kim?"
"Ah, Chaeyoung..." he says, his voice slurring just slightly at the edges. "It's been a while."
"Yes, sir," she agrees immediately, her eyes still pointed towards the floor beside his shoes. He tuts
and reaches up with his free hand to place his fingertips below her chin, raising her head until she
has no choice but to meet his eyes with her own, owlishly large ones.
"I have need of your assistance tonight, Chaeyoung," he says, then takes another sip of his whiskey
while watching her over the brim of the glass.
"Anything, sir." The answer comes to her lips automatically, just as he expected.
"Wonderful," he tells her, tapping on her chin with one fingertip. "Get undressed for me, dear."
Without another word, the small woman's hands raise to unfasten the buttons holding the collar of
her dress together. He pulls his hand back and rests it against the arm of his chair instead, tapping
on the leather as he watches her tug the fabric up her body and over her head. Once she drops the
cloth to the floor and toes out of her shoes, she is left completely bare before him, wearing nothing
beneath the dress as expected.
Chaeyoung's body is small, skin pale and marred only by a few freckles here and there that match
the beauty mark that sits just to the side of her full lips. There's something that has always been
enticing about the contrast between her small breasts and curvy hips, giving her an appearance that
is at once sensual and mature, but also young and innocent. She is as hairless as the rest of his staff,
his view of her soft curves unimpeded—exactly how he prefers it.
"Come here..." He drawls, and she steps forward easily, accepting his outstretched hand to lead her
to stand between his legs. She says nothing as he brings his other hand up to her chest, trailing the
edge of his glass across one of her breasts so that condensation slicks her skin. Her nipple hardens
at the cold touch and a shudder takes over her small form—but still, she doesn't make a sound.
Perfect.
He trails his other hand across her stomach, slipping down between her legs for a moment to tease
aimlessly at the slit of her pussy. Her fingers twitch where they are still clasped together, but she
holds completely still for his examination, allowing his questing touch to teasingly circle her clit
before slipping back to press inside her for a moment. He enjoys the slick, tight heat he feels
around his digit for a moment, curling his finger forward just so in a way that sends her muscles
fluttering on all sides. When he pulls his hand back, his fingers are nearly dripping with how wet
she is for him.
"On your knees, Ms. Son," he orders, his voice dropping low, and she follows suit immediately.
Now, with her eyes looking up at him, they appear even wider, giving her an almost...doll-like
appearance. He raises his sullied hand to her plush mouth, trailing his slick fingers along her lower
lip, and she makes no move to stop him as he paints her own juices across her skin. "Good girl," he
praises, and her eyelashes flutter. "You know what to do."
Without a word, she unclasps her hands and brings them up to the front of his slacks, unfastening
the buttons so she can reach beneath and circle her fingers around his cock. He is still flaccid when
she draws his cock out, but it does nothing to dissuade her from leaning forward and pressing her
lips to the head, letting out a hot, fluttering breath at the privilege to do so.
He wipes the remainder of the mess from his hand on the side of his pants and raises the other to
his lips, taking another slow drink from his glass until there is nothing left but ice rattling around
the bottom. Chaeyoung's lips sink down around his cock, her talented tongue teasing with expert
precision at the sensitive spot just beneath the head and along the vein that lines the underside.
Though encumbered by the alcohol already buzzing in his veins, it takes only a few moments for
her ministrations to send his cock hardening between her lips, filling her mouth until she finally lets
out the smallest sound of discomfort. Still, she dutifully swallows him down, inch-by-inch, until he
feels her breath fan out against his stomach, the head of his cock tickling at the back of her throat
when she swallows around him. Her mouth is deliciously warm, a perfect place to keep his cock
hard and ready for a little while—and it's easy to see why Jaehyun had chosen her, out of all of the
recent graduates, to be his personal secretary.
"Jihyo," he calls out for the older of the two women, still standing obediently by the door as she
silently watches her fellow staff member at work. Jihyo's dark eyes rise to Seokjin's face but he
looks right past her once again, his gaze falling to a point somewhere on the wall over her
shoulder.
"Yes, sir?"
He holds his glass out to his side, dangling it haphazardly from his fingertips as he swirls it in a
circle, allowing the ice to clink around the otherwise empty cup. "Get me a refill."
"...sir?" She steps closer, but her brows have furrowed in confusion when he finally rolls his head
to the side to look at her. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up, realizing belatedly that she
couldn't possibly know what he means.
"There, over there," he snaps, gesturing to the cabinet a few feet away from his desk along one
wall, and she scurries towards it before he can say anything more. He lets out a frustrated huff and
resituates himself in his seat, uncaring when it forces his cock further down Chaeyoung's throat
with a little choking sound. "Get the small—small bottle..." he murmurs, his eyes unfocusing
again.
Distantly, he hears the sound of the cabinet opening, the clinking of glass against glass as the
receptionist looks over the many bottles he has stored there to find the right one. He blinks, and the
motion seems to take far longer than it should. Eventually Jihyo's footsteps pad closer, and her
voice draws his attention from his side. "This one, sir?"
He looks over, blearily recognizing the correct bottle in her hands, and his lips quirk up in a
sardonic smile. "That's it..." He holds out his glass, giving it another shake. "Fill it."
She fumbles to open the stopper, but eventually manages to turn the bottle on its side and fill the
small glass with a few inches of the amber liquid, the ice floating to the top with little innocent
clinks against each other. It's more than he would have poured himself, but at this point, he can't
bring himself to care. "Very good," he says absently, and brings the glass back to his lips.
"Should I...put it away, sir?" She asks, softly, and he halts in his motions, sliding his eyes over to
look up at the young woman as she nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She
doesn't quite meet his gaze, her head dipped low as Chaeyoung's had been before, but he can still
see her neck clearly enough to spot the unmistakable imprint of his own fingers bruised into the
sides of her throat.
'Stupid, stupid fucking girl,' he thinks—though from the flinch Jihyo suddenly makes, perhaps he
spoke the words aloud.
"Sir—"
"Drink it," he says, cutting her off before she can say anything, before she attempts to offer him any
simpering apologies or explanations. He's had more than enough of her disobedience as of late.
"I—"
"I said drink it, Jihyo. Drink it, now." He jabs a finger towards her, his glare sharp despite his
heavy intoxication. "And don't you dare spill a single drop. You don't want to—to disappoint me
again, do you understand me?"
Jihyo's eyes appear to fill with tears, though she makes no further protest. Her hands shake as she
uncaps the bottle again and raises it to her lips, hesitating for just a moment before closing her eyes
and sealing her lips around the mouth of the bottle. He can tell the moment the bitter liquid hits her
tongue because it causes her to immediately gag, spluttering as she drags the bottle away again. A
few drops of the dark alcohol slide down her chin, and he raises a brow at her.
"What did I just say?" He asks, voice darkening.
She realizes her mistake immediately and brings the back of one hand up to catch the drops before
they can fall from her skin, her face screwing tight in barely concealed disgust as her tongue darts
out to lick them from the fingers she raises to her mouth.
"Not another drop spilled, Jihyo," he warns, then turns his face away from her again, his free hand
falling down between his legs to smooth encouragingly over Chaeyoung's dark hair. When he
glances down at the young woman still kneeling before him, it is as though he suddenly remembers
she is there, the sensation of her hot mouth wrapped around him brought back to the forefront of
his mind.
She blinks up at him, her large eyes watering from the strain of holding still around his cock—but
still she makes no protest, not even a sound. He curls his fingers into her hair, twisting the strands
tightly in his grip so he can tug her head back, sliding her mouth up-up-up his length until the tip
just barely rests on on her tongue—then drags her all the way back down until her nose is almost
crushed into the skin just above his cock. Chaeyoung chokes immediately, throat fluttering
desperately around him for air, but she clenches her fists in her lap and closes her eyes, taking a
deep breath and simply accepting what her leader has to give to her.
'Good girl, so obedient,' he thinks with a grin.
To their side, Jihyo's progress is an entirely different story. Every few seconds, he hears the swish
of liquid against glass, followed by more spluttering and choking as his receptionist fights her way
through drink after drink of the alcohol she has been offered. Her body is ill-prepared for the taste
and the burn of the drink, and Seokjin knows for a fact she has never been offered a single drop of
liquor before, which makes it all the more amusing to listen to her struggle. He knows it must drive
her mad to receive such cold treatment, and he can hear it in the way she continues to gasp and
whimper and yet force herself through the same misery time and time again in the hopes that he
might turn his gaze to her once more.
Each sip of his own drink intensifies his own buzz until every minute slips right into the next
without his knowledge. When he mindlessly strokes his fingers down Chaeyoung's throat, feeling
the swell of his own cock through her skin, he finds that her spit has completely soaked through his
trousers where they hang open below, drool now dripping freely from her mouth towards the floor.
He wonders idly how long he has kept her there, how long she has schooled her breathing, how
sore her knees must be, and shifts his hips again for the simple pleasure of feeling her throat clench
around his cock once more.
A glance over at Jihyo reveals a now nearly empty bottle, her body swaying ever-so-slightly from
side to side as she takes another swig of the liquor. Her eyes are unfocused now, staring up at the
ceiling almost as though she is praying, and as he watches, she loses her balance for a moment and
stumbles forward a step before catching herself. The motion drives the last of the drink to slop over
the edge of the bottle, splashing down to the floor at Seokjin's feet, and Jihyo lets out a loud gasp
before collapsing down onto her knees. The bottle is discarded to the side as she throws herself
down on her hands and drops her lips to the floor, her tongue darting out to lick up every drop of
spilled liquid that she can find.
Seokjin watches her appreciatively, tossing his own drink back to catch the last dregs of ice and
whiskey on his tongue before discarding the glass atop his desk at last.
"You missed a spot," he drawls, drawing the receptionist's attention up to his face. He raises one
eyebrow and watches as her eyes widen fearfully, her gaze dropping back to the floor for any sign
of what he is referring to.
"Here," he says, and stretches out one of his feet towards her, Chaeyoung immediately shifting
between his spread thighs to make room. Jihyo's eyes fall to Seokjin's shoe, flicking this way and
that in search of the liquor, but she finds nothing. When she returns her gaze back to Seokjin's face,
expression twisted in drunken desperation, Seokjin wiggles his shoe at her again with a smile. "Go
on, Jihyo...lick my shoe clean for me."
With some direction now, she practically dives forward for the chance to redeem herself, her
fingers curling around the underside of his shoe to raise it to her lips, and she drags her tongue
hungrily across the leather in search of any stray drop of bitter liquor she can find. Seokjin watches
on, amused, as her eyes fall shut, her mind content to give in to the utter submission of the act.
"That's it..." he praises her, turning his toes up to prompt the young woman to continue laving her
tongue along the underside of his shoe as well, his fingers absentmindedly weaving through
Chaeyoung's hair all the while. The sight is enough to amuse his inebriated mind—or at least
enough to ease his troubles to the back of his mind where they can be ignored—
KNOCK—KNOCK—
An unexpected interruption from the door startles him, Chaeyoung gagging as he jumps. His head
whips around towards the door, and he drops his foot back to the floor and clutches at the armrests
of his chair for some stability as the motion sends his vision spinning again.
"Who—" He chokes on the word and has to pause and clear his throat before trying again. "Who is
it?"
In lieu of an answer, the handle turns and the door creaks open a few inches, a familiar face
suddenly appearing in the crack. Seokjin's eyebrows raise towards his hairline in surprise.
"Jeongyeon," he says a little dumbly, shocked to see his secretary back in his office quite so soon.
Just as her counterparts had done before, the young woman bows her blonde head respectfully
before stepping inside and shutting the door behind her once more. Her tall heels click against the
floor, the deep crimson of her dress catching the low light as she moves. Between the blood red
fabric, her golden hair, and her fair skin, she looks utterly enticing.
"Good evening, sir."
He's suddenly reminded of her last, and far more dramatic, entrance into his office—reminded of
the terrifying news she had barged in to lay at his feet. Her lips had not been painted scarlet then,
but her words had made him see red all the same.
"Jeongyeon," he repeats, blinking his eyes furiously as he works to clear his mind. "Welcome
back."
"I have news for you, sir," she says, and when he waves a hand vaguely for her to approach, she
steps forward to stand on the other side of his desk, arm outstretched to offer him the plain manila
folder clutched in her hand.
"Is this—?"
"The original," she answers immediately, not afraid to interrupt him. His eyes fall to the offered
folder, fingers quivering slightly as he reaches out to take it from her.
"And the others?" He asks as his fingers slip inside the folder to withdraw a small stack of papers,
adorned with an official golden seal at the top.
"All destroyed," Jeongyeon answers, and there is a hint of pride in her voice. "I saw to it myself."
His eyes skim over the document without fully taking in the words, but there is no need—he is
already intimately aware of its contents. When she spots his eyes reaching the bottom of the page,
Jeongyeon reaches forward to tap on the top of the paper to get his attention.
"While I was there, I found something else..."
"And what's that?"
"If you'll flip to the next page, sir," she directs him politely, and Seokjin does so with some
trepidation. Stepping closer to his computer screen for more light, he finds a nearly identical
document underneath, but this one on much nicer paper and much less worse for wear.
"He's been reported missing..." Seokjin mutters under his breath, his eyes scouring this page much
more carefully.
"Yes," Jeongyeon agrees, but something about her light tone tells him that she doesn't feel nearly
the same sense of urgency on the matter. "I requested the report during my visit. It wasn't a part of
my original task, but—"
"—I'm very pleased, Jeongyeon," he says, cutting her off as he drops the documents to his desk and
raises his head towards her again. "Thank you for your service."
Clearly startled by the praise, her eyebrows disappear behind her bangs, but she pulls herself
together enough to offer him another small bow. "Of course, sir. Anything for you."
"It appears your visit was very successful," he goes on, and when she straightens herself back up,
there is a mischievous smile playing at her painted lips.
"Very," she says, voice dropping lower suggestively.
His head still buzzes with the presence of alcohol, and he feels a little reckless now, as though his
body is one step away from falling apart at the seams.
"Show me," he demands, and Jeongyeon grins from ear to ear.
"Gladly, sir."
Stepping around the desk, the secretary spares only a passing glance at the two other women at her
feet, hardly blinking an eye at their compromising positions. She steps up in front of Seokjin where
he still sits, legs spread, Chaeyoung's naked body on all fours between his feet, and plops herself
down onto the younger woman's back without a second thought.
Chaeyoung, to her credit, barely wavers under the increased weight, only giving a long, low moan
as Seokjin's cock shifts in her throat. Jeongyeon hums thoughtfully, glancing down at the naked
body beneath her, and stretches out one hand to run her fingers over the plush curve of her fellow
secretary's ass where it sticks out from beneath Jeongyeon's body. Chaeyoung gives an
appreciative hum that Seokjin can feel vibrating around his cock, and Jeongyeon takes the
opportunity to raise her hand and lower it again in a firm smack against the naked skin.
"Jeongyeon..." Seokjin murmurs, drawing his secretary's attention, and she turns her head towards
him with a playful twinkle in her dark eyes.
"Yes, sir?"
Perhaps it is the alcohol, or maybe it is a sense of something more—affection, perhaps, though he

has long since forgotten how to identify the shape of such a feeling—that drives him to reach out
and draw the young woman towards him. She comes along easily—just as easily as Chaeyoung
did, or perhaps more so—and parts her lips for him easily when he claims her crimson pout in a
sudden kiss. If she can taste the alcohol on his tongue, she gives no indication, only leaning
hungrily into the kiss and allowing Seokjin to thoroughly plunder her mouth as he pleases.
Somewhere off to the side, a small whimper distracts him, and he pulls away from his secretary
with a scowl to whip his head around towards the noise. Jeongyeon's head follows his, their eyes
falling to Jihyo where she has slumped over on the carpet a few feet from them, limbs akimbo, a
pathetic pout gracing her pretty face as she watches them together. Seokjin hears Jeongyeon make a
mockingly sympathetic noise at the sight, and he squeezes the back of her neck encouragingly.
"Awwwww...what is it, Jihyo?" She asks, her voice positively dripping with condescension. She
seems to enjoy the sight of the young woman on her knees, and it sends a ridiculous idea sailing
across Seokjin's mind that he has no intention of dismissing.
"The dumb thing is being punished," he tells Jeongyeon, crooking his finger beneath Jeongyeon's
chin to turn her face back towards his. He leans forward, whispering against her lips. "Should I put
her to work?"
Jihyo makes a small, confused noise as they continue speaking about her as though she isn't there,
leaning forward eagerly to try and understand. "Of course," Jeongyeon purrs in response, and
Seokjin steals another kiss from her pretty pout.
"On your feet, then, Ms. Yoo."

Jeongyeon slides off of Chaeyoung's back, the younger woman below her giving a soft sigh of
relief. She tongues at the underside of Seokjin's cock, and he gives her head a condescending little
pat the way one might for a dog.
"Jihyo!" He snaps, shocking the young woman into nearly toppling over at the sudden sound. "Get
over here. Help Jeongyeon undress."
With a teasing smack to the blonde's ass, his secretary steps away, giggling, and watches as Jihyo
struggles to drag herself to her feet. The receptionist's small heels do nothing to help her keep her
balance, sending her stumbling forward into Jeongyeon's arms the moment the younger woman is
on her feet. Jeongyeon makes another simpering noise at the back of her throat and raises a hand to
smooth Jihyo's dark hair from her face.
"Poor, dumb thing..." Jeongyeon repeats Seokjin's words, and he sits back in his chair to watch the
show. "Come, help noona out of her dress, hm?"
Jihyo gives a little hiccup and nods her head dumbly to match Jeongyeon's words. She wipes at the
tears at her face with one bent wrist, then drops her hands to the older woman's dress and fumbles
at the buttons that line the front. When the task takes the receptionist a little too long, Seokjin
twists his fingers down into Chaeyoung's hair and tugs her head back away from his cock,
watching his slick erection fall from her now swollen lips.
She stares up at him with a haze in her large eyes that mirrors the intoxication clouding his own,
her cheeks as flushed as his feel, lips shining with spit that trails down her chin. She follows
automatically as he uses his grip to drag her to her feet, tugging her forward to lay an appreciative
kiss across her lips just the same as he had for Jeongyeon, then gives her bare ass a little swat with
his free hand. "Go help."
"Y-Yes sir," she rasps, and spins on her heels in a way that sends her ass swaying, and he watches
it hungrily as she steps up behind Jeongyeon and adds her hands to the buttons below where Jihyo
is working. Together, they manage to unfasten the entire front of the dress, peeling the crimson
fabric from her shoulders to expose the long lines of her body, the miles of golden skin hidden
underneath. Jeongyeon is almost a head taller than both of the younger women, and like this, they
almost look like ladies-in-waiting attending to royalty. Seokjin raises one eyebrow, the thought
echoing in his mind with a familiarity he can't quite place.
Jeongyeon turns her head to look at him coyly over her shoulder, shaking him from his muddied
thoughts, and he gives a magnanimous wave of his hand to direct her. "Over the desk, my dear."
As she walks, her hips rock from side to side in a way that tells him she knows exactly what sort of
effect she is having on him—precisely the same effect she must have had on her other victims
earlier today. She steps up directly in front of him, making quite the show of it as she places her
hands on the polished surface of his desk and slides her chest forward until she is bent in half, her
ass rising up like an offering before him. He can see it already, the way her pussy glistens with
more than just her usual slick, and he licks his lips at the image. From this angle, the height of her
heels makes the curve of her backside even more pronounced, practically an invitation to defile
her.
"Jihyo," he says, beckoning the drunken girl forward with a crook of his fingers without ever
taking his eyes off of the blonde before him. When she stumbles into his line of sight, he can see
that Chaeyoung has taken it upon herself to strip the receptionist of her clothes as well, exposing
her voluptuous curves and full breasts to the room.
"Y—Y-Yes—sir?" She manages to ask, still swaying slightly.
"Here." He bends forward and tugs open a drawer of his desk, rifling through the contents for a
moment while searching for something, anything that will—
—perfect.
CW: scene containing blood, knifeplay, violence, extremely dubious consent, non-con,
torture, forced submission
click to skip
The moment his fingers close around the handle, the idea is the only thing on his mind. He wants
it. He wants it, and the alcohol running through his veins only spurs him on.
Withdrawing his hand, he brings with it a long, thin letter opener, old enough to practically be an
antique at this point. The metal is ornately carved, shining gold in the light from his computer
screen, blade blunted by years of use but no less impressive looking as he holds it aloft.
"Use—Use this." He thrusts the blade towards his receptionist, uncaring when the sudden motion
makes her jump back in fear. "Take it."
Her hands shake as much as his do when she takes the handle from his grip, both of them far too
inebriated for what they're doing. "W—What—s-should I d—do with it...sir?" She slurs, looking
down at the blade in obvious confusion.
"I want it," he repeats, voicing his earlier inner dialogue aloud. "Get it for me."
"W—Want—?"
"Their come! I want it!" He snaps petulantly, pointing wildly towards Jeongyeon's presented
backside, his finger swinging in a circle as he tries to focus on her pussy where it peeks out
between her thighs. "I want it! Get it for me!"
Chaeyoung puts together what he means long before Jihyo understands. The small woman steps up
beside the receptionist and circles the older woman's wrists with her fingers, guiding Jihyo forward
until they both stand between Jeongyeon and Seokjin where he is lounging in his chair, legs still
spread wide. Chaeyoung kneels on the floor behind Jeongyeon and tugs the other woman down
with her, Jihyo following after her blindly.
"Like this," Chaeyoung whispers, and reaches between the other secretary's legs to spread
Jeongyeon's pussy lips with her thumbs. "Come here."
"W-What—?"
"Here," she repeats, and Seokjin is content to allow the young woman to take control for a
moment, sliding down in his chair as the buzzing beneath his skin settles into a comfortable
warmth all over his body, his limbs like jelly now. His eyes close for a moment, and when he pries
them open again, Jihyo has brought the blade between Jeongyeon's legs.
"Yes..." he sighs, and wraps his fingers lazily around his cock.
Jihyo tosses a glance over her shoulder at him for a moment, clearly still confused, but still presses
forward clumsily until the tip of the blade slides between the lips of Jeongyeon's pussy where
Chaeyoung has held it open for her.
The secretary hisses and shudders at the cold touch, and Seokjin can only imagine how the blunted
edges must burn against her slick walls as Jihyo dares to press further. As a long line of come is
pushed out around the intrusion, Seokjin squeezes at his cock and lets out a long, shuddering
breath. God, what a sight—
"How many were there?" He slurs.
"T—T—T-Two—sir—" Jeongyeon manages to gasp out as she turns her head to the side, resting
her cheek heavily against the top of the desk.
"Both officers?"
Jeongyeon doesn't answer for a moment, instead letting out a choked moan as Jihyo slowly,
experimentally twists the handle of the letter opener so that it turns inside of Jeongyeon's body. "Y-
a-ahh —y-yes sir—"
"Excellent," he says, and drags his thumb across the head of his cock, his mind beginning to fill
with images of the scene she is describing. "Tell me what happened."
"T-They—" She tries to say, but has to stop and clutch at the desk when the receptionist pulls the
handle back, a wave of come sliding out to drip down her pale thigh. "They were—stupid, naïve,"
she manages, sighing in relief as the blade is pulled away for a moment. "Just—Just two young
men—who had no clue what they were getting into..."
"Typical..." Seokjin mutters, distracted by the sight of his secretary's cunt weeping come right in
front of him. He licks at his lips, a delicious thought slowly appearing through the haze in his
mind. He wavers slightly as he leans forward, his buzz fading but not nearly quickly enough for
him to hold his arm steady as he reaches for his discarded glass beside Jeongyeon's hip.
"Use this," he says, haphazardly thrusting the cup towards his receptionist. She fumbles to catch it
with one hand as he slumps back in his seat again, staring down at it in confusion. "Just like before,
Jihyo..." Seokjin says, "don't miss a drop."
She glances between the cup, Seokjin's face, and Jeongyeon's body for a long moment, and he
watches in amusement as the realization of what he wants dawns on her.
"Go on," he demands, kicking at Jihyo with one foot. The young woman flinches away, nearly
dropping the glass in her haste to follow orders. She reaches out between Chaeyoung’s hands,
dragging the glass up along one of Jeongyeon’s thighs to catch the stream of come as it drips-drips-
drips from within the secretary’s body, and the cup begins to fill surprisingly quickly. Repeating
the motion on Jeongyeon’s other thigh, she catches all the come that she can and guides the rest of
it with her other hand as best as she can while still holding the letter opener in her fist. The blade
draws dangerously close to nicking the blonde’s skin, and Seokjin feels his stomach clench in
anticipation.
"They—” Jeongyeon starts to say, “were s—s-so—oh—ohhhhh—!” At that moment, Jihyo decides
to bring the blade back to Jeongyeon’s pussy and pushes it inside without so much as a warning,
the shock of the sudden intrusion sending Jeongyeon’s words dissolving into a loud, broken moan.
“Yes?”
“S-So—easy to— subdue—!” The words are forced from her mouth as though she had been
punched in the gut just as Jihyo twists the blade in a circle, the blunted edges dragging along
Jeongyeon’s inner walls. More and more of the officer’s come drips out from inside of her with the
motion, and Jihyo brightens up at her success, bringing the glass up to rest beneath Jeongyeon’s
pussy to catch it all.
"Tell me how you accomplished it,” Seokjin asks, completely ignoring the young woman’s
discomfort now. His hand returns to his cock, now stroking at his own erection in time with the
motions of Jihyo’s hand, imagining himself fucking into the woman instead of the blade.
With one particularly harsh twist of the handle, Jeongyeon hisses, her hands scrambling for
purchase across the desk. She lets out a noise that is barely more a moan than a sob—but still, her
legs seem to widen even further at the pain, and Seokjin bites his lip to cut off a moan of his own.
‘She’s become so perfect,’ he thinks, ‘she’s almost ready—’
“W-We—o-ohhh fuck—we—c-cuffed them to—to each other—” Jeongyeon explains, even as her
hips rock back into Jihyo’s hands as the younger woman pulls the blade out again. “S-Sehun—he
—t-took away their—clothes, a-ahh! He—made them t—touch each other—o-ohhh d-don’t stop,
don’t stop—"
His hand speeds up now, twisting around his cock to add a delicious friction against the sensitive
spot just below the head. "And—mmmm—they resisted, I assume?"
“They—! Mmmmnnn—” Jihyo presses the knife back inside of Jeongyeon’s pussy, pressing it to
one side to spread her hole wide, and the come that slides out now is tinged with a hint of blood. A
streak of crimson drips into the container, mixing with the viscous liquid as Jihyo presses the glass
closer.
“F-Fuck—ohhh, Fuck me—!” she begs, legs quivering. Chaeyoung takes pity on the older woman
and reaches below Jihyo’s hands to stroke her fingers across Jeongyeon’s clit, sending a sudden
bolt of pleasure through her body to accompany the pain.
“Answer—my question, Jeongyeon,” Seokjin demands, his voice slipping low.
“P-Please, sir—!”
“Answer me, and—and I’ll allow you to come,” he offers, his words slurring again as he feels his
stomach tighten to warn of his own impending release.
“T—They—were—w-were easy to—mmmmnnn—t-to overpower, sir!” She cries out, her hips
bucking recklessly back against Chaeyoung’s touch despite the danger the blade still presents
inside of her. The years have rounded the edges—Seokjin remembers the way it looked, once,
shining and threatening in his father’s hands—but it is no less capable of tearing at her flesh if
pushed too sharply, too deep. Still, Jeongyeon is his most obedient student, his treasured pupil, and
she takes exactly what he gives her every time.
“You—milked them for—for all they were worth, didn’t you?” He drawls, imagining it so clearly
now, how she must have looked standing with them at her feet, how her back must have arched
while taking in their cocks one after the other, or perhaps both at the same time—
“Y-Yes!”
Jihyo has pulled the knife away now, dropping it to the floor with a thunk to replace it instead with
her fingers, crooking them swiftly inside of Jeongyeon to scrape the very last of the come from
inside the older woman’s body. Jeongyeon shudders, muscles clenching, as she teeters right on the
edge of her release, the pleasure and pain clearly overwhelming—and for a single, cruel moment,
Seokjin considers not allowing it.
Still, she looks so lovely like this, thighs wet with her own arousal, dripping with come, smeared
with crimson as a testament to her devotion. She waits, suffering openly for his entertainment, and
Seokjin can’t help himself but reward her.
“Chaeyoung…” he draws the secretary’s attention, her large eyes wide as she turns towards him. “I
want her to come, now.”
“Please, p-please—” Jeongyeon gasps at his words.
“Yes sir!” Chaeyoung nods eagerly, and turns her head back towards Jeongyeon’s pussy, spreading
the blonde’s thighs even wider as she dives in to close her lips over the older woman’s clit.
Jeongyeon gives a wild moan—barely shy of a scream—as her hips jolt against the desk, sending
Seokjin’s belongings rattling across the surface. Chaeyoung moans herself at the taste of the older
woman’s wet folds, greedily licking and sucking at Jeongyeon’s clit as Jihyo’s fingers continue to
work their way inside just above her head. Between the two young women, it only takes a matter of
seconds to have Seokjin’s secretary, sobbing, knees finally giving out beneath her as her orgasm
rips through her.
“T—Thank you, s-sir—thank you, s-sir—th—thank you, sir—!” She pants as she rides out the
pleasure, rocking back into Chaeyoung’s mouth until the younger woman is positively dripping in
her fluids. Jihyo continues to finger her through the aftershocks until Jeongyeon’s moans turn to
outright sobs, and still, she looks to Seokjin for permission before finally pulling her hands away.
“Shhhh…” Seokjin says, rising to his feet. He wavers slightly before regaining his balance, but it
does nothing to dissuade him of the power he now feels coursing through him. Both of the younger
women sit back on their haunches, staring up at him with hazy, lust-filled eyes as he looms over
them, and he revels in their submission.
Stepping forward, he brings one of his hands down on Jeongyeon’s ass, slapping one cheek sharply
before grabbing a fistful of the flesh to pull it away from the other. It gives him a full view of her
pussy, of the red and abused flesh of her delicate folds, and he grins wickedly at the sight.
Jeongyeon, for her part, has taken his shushing seriously, her hand now covering her mouth to
muffle the soft whimpers she is still making from the aftershocks of her harsh treatment. Releasing
her backside, he drags a hand up her spine to fist at the hair at the back of her neck instead and
drags her head back just as he had done to Chaeyoung minutes before. She arches her spine, body
contorting to follow his grip, and the moment she is upright again, he spins her around in his arms
to look at her properly.
Jeongyeon’s blonde hair is slicked to her forehead with swear now, cheeks flushed and red under
the wet tracks her tears have made on their way to her chin. She meets his eyes without pause, still
not afraid of him, and the desire still coiling in his stomach responds immediately to the sight.
His hand forces her down towards the floor, her already weakened knees buckling until she drops,
the tight grip he has on her hair keeping her head turned up towards him reverently. Without a
word, he wraps his free hand around his cock, already aching with the need to release, and it takes
only a few strokes more to send his come splattering across the bridge of her nose.
She gasps, though not from surprise or disgust, her cheeks flushing even darker under the strings of
white that paint her skin. He watches, pleased, as her tongue darts out to lick at a drop that caught
on her lower lip, a low moan rumbling up from deep in her chest.
“Ladies,” he addresses the two other women, his voice like gravel now, “clean Ms. Yoo up for
me.” Jihyo and Chaeyoung perk up immediately, leaning closer to the older woman on either side,
and Jeongyeon lets her eyes fall closed as their lips and tongues descend on her skin.
Humming absentmindedly to himself, Seokjin glances down and decides to pluck the now-full
glass from Jihyo’s hands, the inebriated woman bonelessly releasing her grip in favor of pressing
her naked body along Jeongyeon’s side while her hands reach up to caress one the older woman’s
breasts. Seokjin raises the glass to his eyes for a moment, enjoying the way the milky liquid inside
catches the light from his computer—
—and then freezes, puzzled, as he notices movement reflected back along the side of the glass
from behind him.
Slowly, and with no small amount of alcohol-fueled trepidation, he turns on his heels to scour the
dark for the source, and for a moment, he finds nothing—and no one.
But—once he can force his eyes to focus for a second—something strange catches his eye. For one
single, horrible moment, his mind is thrown back to the dream that drove him from his bed, his
own reflection staring back at him from above his desk with wide eyes. Then, just as slowly, he
pieces together the source, and nearly drops the glass in surprise.
Above his desk, his computer is turned towards himself and the women kneeling behind him, the
screen no longer bright but instead reflecting the dark interior of his office across its surface. He
watches himself move on the screen as he steps closer, his ghostly twin matching his every motion,
and his eyes fly up to the top of the monitor to confirm that—yes—a small green light shines back
at him, indicating that the camera embedded above the screen is recording.
The realization seems to sober him immediately, his mind suddenly far too aware of his
surroundings, his skin prickling with renewed sensation. He makes no sound, unwilling to draw
any more attention to the issue at hand, as he moves to sit back down in his chair again in front of
the laptop. His movements are slow, but not sluggish from the alcohol as they had been before—
now, when he raises his hands to the keyboard, it is with the deliberate casualness of someone
unwilling to be noticed.
The computer, however, seems to have other ideas—or, rather, the person controlling his computer
does. Before he can even reach for the trackpad, the mouse is moving across the screen expanding
the window that reflects the room back to him. He immediately attempts to close it, but his
fingertips do nothing to move the mouse along, the trackpad apparently completely disabled.
Instead, he reaches for the power button—and his hacker appears to be waiting for him to do
exactly that. Before he can even get close, a flickering, static-like distortion takes over the screen,
blurring out the image of his own face until it disappears completely. In its place, he is left with
nothing but an ominous blue glow and a single flashing line in the top left-hand corner.
He blinks, and the cursor begins to move, characters spilling out across his screen to fill it from top
to bottom. It takes his bleary eyes a long moment to focus enough to understand what he’s seeing,
to make out the words that have been formed:
̕̚
́ ̕ ̕̕ ͆
̽̍̄ ̑̃ ̅̊ ̽ ͒̈̌̏̈́ ̕ ̚̚͘ ̓̒ ̈ ̄ ̏ ̈́̀̊̄̏ ̅ ̔ ̕ ͘ ͝
̿̂̐ ̑ ̕
͕ ͖̇ ̿́͐̒ ̈͊̐̀̌̅̋̊ ̅̂ ͌ ̒͊͌ ̏ ́͝
̑
Y̴̨̢̅̈́̉ ̧ ͚̫̮ ͍̺
̥ ̿ ́ ̜ ͚̩̌̆̿ ͍̳ ͖ ͈̞̟̝ ͍͓̼͓͙̻͔͇̥̻̠ ̗̗ ͔̞͇̫̅ ̿́͛̀͂̏̋̈ ̉̾̄̿̓͊̀̏̌ ̑̓̒͛̉ ͛͂̈͒͌́ ̉̽͗̔̇͂̃̅̆ ͘ ͜
͝ͅƠ
͝ ̸ ̗ ̬ ̡̠ ̧ ͚̻͕̪̲ ͈͕̣̳̤͇͈͍̼ ̝̫ ͖̪ ͙͇̮ ̘͓̭ ͇̲̘ ͛͊̀̌ ̀̄͛͂ ́̍ ̍̿͛̇͋̅̎́̑ ͆͐̊̉́̑̅͑̈͂̓̅̌̃̈̏̒͋̿̀͋ ̐̒͒̋ ͋̒͐͊̍̔̂̅͋̒ ̊ ̄͆̇͗͗̽͐͘ ͜ ̋͝
͝ͅ
͝ ̷ ̖ ̢̡̪ ͍̱͎
Ȗ ̳ ̋̈́ ͆̃́ ͇̳̗ ̟ ̭̈́̂̍ ͕̲͝
̝ ͍̣
͝
̪
͝ ̭ ͈̗
̻ ͍ ̣ ̪ ͈ ͉
̖ ͖
̹ ̱ ̠ ͙̭ ͚
͔ ͉
̗ ̞ ͈̮
̩ ̗ ͉̲ ͙̬̭ ̯̹ ͓̩ ̼̞̽͐͐̈ ͐̅ ͑͑͗̅̔̃ ͑͂̉ ͊̀ ͐̈̔ ̓͘̚͜ ͝
͝ͅ
͜
͝ ͘̚̚ ̛ ͐́ ̐̿ ̑̋ ̿̐́͆
͚ ͇͇͖ ͍͚ ̋̃ ̅ ͆͐̓ ̢̆̌̉̎͂̅ ̣ ̈́̽ ̳̠̙̌̏̎ ̪̩̥ ̗ ̤ ̗ ̜ ̩ ̘ ̈ ̦ ̘ ̓ ̽ ̋ ́ ̬ ̂ ̄ ͗ ̈ ̯ ̆ ̞ ͚ ̩ ̍ ͜ ͚
̛ ̸͕ ͎
̢̢ ͎͇̗ ͉̦ ͕̰̳̹̞ ͔̗ ͙͍ ͖̠ ͉̲̞̥ ͓̼ ͈̬ ̻ ͙̩̗ ̲̻ ͉̺ ̦͓̖ ͕̘ ͙̙͎̳̰̭̙̪̘͆͆̍͌̓̋ ͒̒͑̎͂̌̿͌̃̍ ̎̌͛͆͑́̈ ̬ ̲͝ ̯͛̓͒ ̒͗̕͜ ͠͝͠ͅH̭ ̡̛̪ ̶͉̝͍̠ ̛ ̤ ͉͙̱̜̜ ͙͍
̇ ̈ ̍ ̯ ͛
̍ ̃ ̏
͇̜̖ ̣͖̍̐ ͓̭̳̝ ͇̪̞ ̦ ͒̃͌̆ ̦ ̮ ̹ ͊̓ ̉͗͛̆͆̏͒̐͗͝ ̈ ̃ ͂ ́ ̈ ̓ ̿
͆ ̽ ́ ̈ ́
͆̀ ͒̓̂̾̈ ͆̾́ ͒͒̓́̆͘ ͜͝
̽ ̽ ̆ ͌ ͠ ͝ ̲ ͗
̆ ̢ ̢ ̅
͠ͅ Ã̴̛͔̖͉̭ ̰̯͐̀ ̡̧͐̇͛̂̈͌ ͛̐͛͆̓̒̋̎ ̓̐͊̏͋ ̪ ̒̆̕͘͝ ̔ ̓ ̎ ̎ ͗ ̎ ́ ̆ ̈ ̩ ̏ ̄ ̑ ̪ ̲ ͋ ́ ͝
̊̓̈ V̴̡̡ ͍ ̺ ̨ ̰ ̼ ̯ ̀ ͐ ̎ ̊ ̄ ̽ ́ ́ ̀
͎̠͈͈̫̫̫ ͇̤̟̞ ͇̬̟ ̭ ̥ ̦͕͙̭͎̖ ͈̘̦ ̞͗̎ ̿̄̄̈͗̃͗̋̽͂ ͐̑͌̑̾̌ ̒͒̑ ̔͛͑̈ ̒̈̕͜ ̎ ̌ ́ ̐ ̿ ̑ ̆͝ͅ ̕ ̡ ̧̛ ͎͇̝͍͉̲͖͓̰̫̪ ̬ ̛͕̲ ͈̥ ͕͔̺̳ ͖̖̣̟ ͗̓́̐̾̔̀ ͑̓̏ ͒̽̉ ͆̿̾̏ ͛̂͊͆̃͒͐̊̏̓̈ ͐̈̎̇̔̀̊͊̍ ̎̇̽́̀̕̚͜
́ ̆ ̂ ̽ ͛ ̈ ̍ ̌ ̎ ̄ ͂ ̑ ́ ̇ ͒ ͠ͅ ̾̒
̨ ̛ ̼ ̫ ͓̺̯̰ ̑ ̭ ̹ ̆̊̇̉ ͋́̅ ͌̓ ́́̈ ̎̀́̅ ͘ ̼̹͝ ͜ ̓ ͝ ͜
͝ ̛
̮ ̤ ͗ ̋ ̍
̠ ̐ ̓
́̂́̃̈ ͊̔ ̈̇́ ̗ ̪ ̎ ̜̬ ̗̉́̇͒ ̺̤ ̟ ̻ ̋̌ ̝̪̙ ́ ̈ ͝͝ ̢̩ ͝ ̨ ̘ ̓ ̫̙ ͙ ̡̡ ͔ ̢ ͍ ̗ ̮ ̪ ̫̟̼ ̺̫ ̿́̇ ̑͊͌ ̺͗ ̉̈́ ̑́ ́ ̏͒͑ ̊ ̒ ̈́̑ ̐̆̏ ̚̚ ̨ ̡ ͕͔͈͔ ͝
̉ ̀ ̏
E̴̕ ̨ ̨ ͝ ̰̰̠ ̖ ̨ ̛̛̪̗ ̰̯͎̩ ̦ ͙̮͈͉̙ ̦ ͂ ̅̒̀̈͜ ͜
͜ ̀
̷͈̹ ͎͖̠̖ ͕̩͙̰͍͈̯ ͚̯̖ ͔̥̓̉͐́ ̑͆̄͗͊̿͋̋ ͑̈ ͆̓͋̆̇ ͆̈ ̾͒̽̒̑̈͋ ̮͜ ̻̎͝ͅ ̨ ̛
S̴͈̲͙͇̲̜ ̠ ͎̟ ̏ ̄ ̂
̥͋̊͗ ͗̂͋̂̃ ͛̂̒̇ ͆̒̿̓̈ ͑̈̓ ͑̄̉͋ ̜̪̣͊̎͊ ͐̈ ̎͛̅͆͌͆̄ ̰ ̃͑̍͛͛̓̈ ̚̕͘͜ ̆ ͠͝͠͝ ͅ Ï̴̱ ̹ ͇͓̟͝N̵̢͕͔̩ ̦ ̝͍̺͈̟̯ ̬ ͈̻̥̫ ͇͙̭͚̜ ͈̘̹ ͎̖ ͕̤̳̺ ̱ ͎̬ ͈̪ ͍̼
̘̳ ͍̘ ͖̘͖̰̻͉̻͕͈̺ ̦ ͓̹̘̹ ͇̞̈ ̭ ̞̤ ͑̑͛͒̈ ̍͑̆͒͌̓ ̓͑̈ ͆̈ ̋͛͆̃ ̐͛͋͂ ͑̇̾ ͆͋̎̑ ͊̈̅͌ ͜ ͋̎͌͘͜͠͝ ̛ ̫
ͅ N̴̨ ̢ ̬ ̩ ͓͉͙̼̪ ͉̫̪ ̗ ͖̖̖̬ ͈͍̙ ̰̞ ͖͔̳ ͙͇̼̝̥ ͇̼̹ ̱ ͉̬̪ ͚͕̩ ͓̼̦ ͓̗̦ ͕̱ ͕̙̪̫ ̗ ͑̏̄̇͆̋̾͋ ̑ ͑
̱̜ ̢̡̡̰̤̺ ̥ ̗ ̫̝̙ ̭ ̥̝̲ ̤ ͕͓ ̭ ̲ ̼ ̖͕̥ ̗ ̳̰ ͝ ̺ ̟ ̲ ̮ ̢ ͍ ̘ ̤ ̳ ̮ ̳ ̘ ̰̯ ͜ ̪ ̯ ̯
̡̢ ̬ ̩̫ ̤̰̘ ̜ ̩̼ ̲̳̹ ̖ ̠ ̞ ̱ ̘̰ ̹ ̼ ̜̜
̖ ̢̰ ̬̥ ̮ ̣̳
̮̬ ̘̞ ̜̮ ̗ ̨̬ ̧̦ ̣̝̪ ̝ ̘̰̪ ̪ ̜ ̻̰ ̗ ̙ ̱̖̬ ̩ ̢ ̻ ̻ ̯ ̙̙
̢ ̖
̫̤ ̮ ̹̳̫ ̢ ̖ ̠̝ ̠
̲
̖
̮ ̯̠
“Wh—?“ he breathes out, but the text is already disappearing, overwritten by something new.
̓̏ ͆ ́̏ ̌̽̑̋ ̉̉̿̽̑̿
R̸̢̢̛͎
̛
͕͉͈̘̼̩͌ ̆̋̈ ͇̜̼ ͍ ͔̯ ͙̰ ͍ ͙̟ ͚ ͚̼ ̺̻̥́͆̄̋̎ ̀́̊͗̉̈͋̅̓̐̑ ̈̊͐̔̏ ̃̇͛̇͋̄̂ ̑̏̊͆̔̑̌̽̓́̑ ̓̾ ̄ ̊̊̔̏̎̚͘̕͜
̐ ͝
͝
ͅ ̗ ̧ ͍̦
͉ ̈́̽
͉ ͙̘ ͚̫ ͉ ͅ ͉̙ ͇̣ ͇ ͔̲ ͚̣ ͈ ͓̹ ͕ ͉̘ ͇ ͙ ͍
͓ ͙͓̤ ͖͉̮ ͉̖̩ ͇͓̪̿ ̽̓̿̉͜
͈ ͅ ̛ ̖
͚ ̧ ͓̮ ͉̻ ͇̖ ͈ ͕̦ ͈̟ ͖ ͍ ͚ ͓̯ ͈ ̻̫̜̐̎̎͊̉͌̈̃́ ͑̀̂͗͐͑̈́̐͛̇̽̈̑̆͌ ͌ ́̔̈̓͗̅͑̕ ͜
̋͝ͅ ̡
͖ ͔
̴̢͓͗ ̧̧ ̑͛̍̽̍̎̾̍̏͋ ̠ ̿̎͝͠
̲ ͓ ̯ ̯ ̹ ̳ ̥ ̙
̣̍ ̙ ̮̬ ̩ ̞ ̛̛ ̳̰ ̰̫̳ ͕̖̜ ̝ ́ ̃̏ ̌ ̔ ͗̕ ̚͘ ͂̓̿ ̈ ͝͝ ̒ ̃ ̢ ̞ ̴ ̙ ̗ ̽ ̀ Ê ̔ ̟ ̢ ̸ ̠ ͖̘
̭ ̢̢̡̯ ̨ ̭ ̥̻ ̜̮ ̝ ̼̯ ̦ ̬ ̢̡̻ ̧ ̠̙̘ ̘̻ ̋ ̣̲ ̦ ̭ ̤̝ ̭ ̣̯̪ ̱ ̳ ̦̦ ̪̙̻ ͈ ̙ ͝ ̞ ̗ ̗ ̰ ͚
͓ ̜ ͎ ̘ ̬ ̜ ̤ ̮ ̲ ͜
͜
͜
̛ ̵ ̨ ̡ ̪
̡
̮ ̖ ̜ ̞
̥
͘ ̫ ̦ ̘
̥̝ ͘͘ ̜ ̟ ̤̥̣ ͈͔ ̝̲ ̑̄̂
̖
͓ ̼ ̼ ͈ ̩ ̠
̌ ̉ ͉
̀ ͜
͝ ͈
P̵ ̢ ͚
̬
̯ ̯ ̫̲ ̰ ̘̤ ͌ ̗ ̫̣ ̿ ̹̝͑̐̋ ͛͑͆̅̾̒̌ ̂̃̌͘ ͜
͉
̟ ̯ ͍
̹ ͖ ̩ ̦ ͉̹ ͈̦ ͝ͅ
̬ ̠ ̷Ȩ͚̮͔̗͍͉̫ ̦͇̖̯̈͌͗̓͑̆ ̏͌̊͐͌̍͊̌ ͝͠ ̎͂̆̾͋̒ ͝ ̨ ̡̡ ̠̣̹ ̴͚̫ ̺ ͎̭ ̘ ̡͓̺͉ ͉̗̱ ̲ ͙̟͈͙̮̰ ͍̥̋ ͛̒̑͜Ņ̸ ̱ ̣ ̯ ̧ ͎̖͎ ̩̘ ̪͓͖̟̞̤ ͍͜ ̙͖͈̮̎ ̩ ̡̿͒͛̄̍͆ ̀͛̽̆͐̉͌̊͊͜ ̚͝ͅ ̳ ̡̙ ̱ ̴̪͔̠ ͖̥̲ ͉͇̣̝ ̤̖̫̋̄͗̓͛̔̇̈́ ͆̄̒̉͘ Ţ̨ ̧̛ ̴͉̠ ͈̯̫ ̭ ͈̤ ͚̜̙̙ ͓̙ ͈̝̗ ̫̥ ͔̻̰ ͔͉͖̯̼͇͕̜ ̝ ̩͙͉̮̳̼ ̬͊ ̪̩ ̎̆̒̄̿͋̊͛͛̿̈́ ̉͆͜ ̒̆͌̅̔̑̈̚͜͠ͅ
̨ ̢ ̧ ̳ ̫ ̬̭ ̺̫ ͕ ̹ ͖ ̢ ̧ ̲̠̯ ̣̘̺ ̙ ̦̦ ̨ ̢̡̢ ̱ ̟ ̦̦ ̗ ̟̳̰ ̙ ̺ ̣̻̺ ̦ ̼ ̔ ̭ ̩̩̯ ̖ ̟̤̟ ̢̝̪̳ ͍ ̜ ̳ ̠̞͜ ̻̰̼̩ ̯ ̱ ̳ ̱ ̫̲
͜ ̘ ̥ ͇ ̥ ̍ ͜
͜
̥ ̡ ̱ ̥̫ ̟ ̨ ̡ ̞̙ ̙ ̯̪ ̱ ̭
̜̗ ̰ ̺ ̗ ̤̱
̗ ̯̼̼ ̻
̤̥̹
̳
He swallows thickly, an icy shock of fear running down his spine. The text disappears after only a
few seconds more, the person on the other end of the message clearly aware that he is reading
every word.
͘
̽ ̿̈́ ̔ ͆
̃́̇
̊ ̄̎ ́̌
̿ ̐̿̽ ̕̕ ͘
͖ ͍ ̂̿ ̊
T̵̢̢͕̹̟ ̧ ̜ ͉̱̳̣ ͙̗̳̤ ͕̦̼̺ ̺ ͓̖͈͇̩̺̤̠ ̖͇͈̖͔̠̞ ͉̙ ̙͕͙͕̮̘̫ ̽̍͋̈̐͐͌̃̍͂̽̌ ̠ ̎͋͊́̂̉ ͆̌̓̈́͒̂͗̏͋̈̓́͊̄͆̌͗̓͐̐͊̚ ͜
̉ ̐ ͘̚ ͝ ̅ ̋ ̔ ̚̚ ͋̀
̏͋̇͝ ͠ͅH ̶̛̹͑̒̊ ͑̔͑͝͠ ̓͌̊ Ę̨̨̖ ̰ ̛ ̸͉̼ ͉̭̘ ͚͈̯ ͇̜̬ ̞ ͇̥̪ ͓͎̮
̛ ͔
̖ ̰ ͔͍̫ ̭̬ ̰ ͈̝̼̙ ͇̯ ͉͈̳̟̝ ͖̻̩ ͔̼̩ ͕͙̪ ͍̦ ̺̹ ̲ ͍͎ ̠̥ ̀̋́̈ ̖͎̬ ͚̩ ͙͚̗̓ ̤̙ ̿͛̋͌̎̅ ̋͜
̊̑ ̚͘̚
͋̕͝͠ͅR̨̮ ̡̛ ̧ ͍ ̶ ̗͍ ̦ ͔͉̰͙͎̖ ̣̳̪ ͈̱̘ ͎̱ ͎ ͖ ͍ ͙ ͓̹ ͍͕͓͇̼͈͓̆͆͒͋̂̇̂͊̾͋̃̐ ̍ ͛̊̂̑͌̃̎͗̿͌̿̀̈́̍͂̓̌̆̇̊ ̈̄̿̑͒̔͋̄̓̀̾̎̆͌̊͒̈̈́͌̃͐̋͌͒̽͒̆͐̌̉̍̚̕͜
̅
͠͝ ͅ ͇̙̥ ̗͈͈̬̜͈͕̫̞̙ ͇̻͇̭ ͈̯͈͍ ̈́̽̿̂́̀̌ ͛ ̕̕
̨ ̡ ̯̤ ̬ ̪̠̣ ̭ ̰ ͉ ͕ ͜
͝ ͐
̅
͆
͛ ͐̿ ̡ ͚
͖ ̱ ͔
͈ ̩̥ ̖ ̭ ̞͓ ̺ ̬ ̞ ̛ ̺̠ ̉́̑̀̅̀̃ ̥
̽ ̛ ̢ ̜ ̣ ̘ ̱ ̭ ͔ ̫
͎ ̤ ͕ ̬ ̜ ̦ ̼ ̩ ̻ ͛͌ ́̈̈ ͗ ͑͋ ͜ ̏ ̋
̇
̉ ̓ ͜
͝
͜
̑ ̽̉͌̍̏
͠ E̵ ̛
̲ ̟̣ ̮ ̯̳ ̤̳ ̾̈͂̓̆͗̐͌̔̇̄͋̋ ͊́͛͜
̬ ̣ ͖ ̜ ͓̿ ̹ ̂͝͠͝
ͅ
̡ ́ ̐ ́ ̉ ̋ ̌ ́ ́ ̀ ́ ̄ ̅ ̋ ̖ ̠̯ ̲ ̖ ̣
̠ ̗̻
̫ ̛̛̛ ͚͔̖ ̢̢ ̧̧ ̶͕ ̮ ͚̼̳̫ ̬ ͓̯̞ ̬͚̖ ͕̺̻̣̲̺ ͇͈̯ ̦ ̟͕͗͆́́̈̈ ͎͔̪̙̪̲͌́̑̈ ͖̜̩̪̺̄ ͕̤̄̆̽̌̈ ̦̦ ͑̊͛̕ ͘ ̾͗̑̍̌ ̅͆͂̍͑̒ ͝ ͝ ͜Į̸̨ ̢̡ ͇̙̮͈̻ ͍͔͉͙͙̖ ̟ ̻͉͖̱͍̮̱ ̹͚̟͍͔̿ ̞͍
̕͜ ͚ ̭͍̏̊ ͎ ̰̰ ͖̰ ͝ ̟͈̞͍͎
̋̇̂ ̣̌̃̆͝ ̹ ̘̥ ̛̛̛ ̩̰ ̭̖ ̯̺ ͎̳̞̥̲ ͜
̱ ̱ ͔̺̪ ̛ ͇͓̱̟ ͖̝͉̳̾̚̕͜ ̅̿͋̈͌̒̂̆ ͠͝͠ͅŞ̜̭ ̢̡ ̸͕̺ ͙̣̹ ͇̣ ̥ ͙̹̦ ͈̦͇͈̟̗ ̯̠ ̺ ͍̞
͜ ̯ ̢ ͉ ̟ ͔͉͓̜̮ ͙̭ ͖̥̳̪̝ ͎̝ ̫ ͔̱ ͖̮̪̲ ͖̰͈͙̹̘̙̤̑̌͊ ̗ ̳ ̱ ͖̯͇͔̺̰̄ ́̆̈ ͑͋̿ ̎̐̑ ͐̓̒̊̓̏ ͂̒͗̈̌ ̓͒̀̍ ͂͌ ͛̽ ͐̈ ͐́́ ̕͠͝
̂ ̠ ͊ ̉
̽͂́͌ͅ
̡̨ ̛ ̧ ͎ ̶ ͈ ͉̬ ̩ ̢ ͎ ̿
̱ ̲ ͙̬̻ ͕̟͔̼͙̝͓̠͒̈͐́ ͑̃̃ ̓͛͐̽̋͌̓̽̒̆̅ ̐ ͗̔͐̂̆ ̕͘͜ ̰ ̂ ̿ ̀ ̍ ̃ ̼ ̆ ̐ ̚ ̍ ͝ ̡ ̧ ̫ ̡
̓̐͌̿ ͠͝͠Ň̢̢ ̨ ̢ ̴͙̙ ͕̥̝ ͕̞̤͓̖͎͉̮͙̬̋ ̥ ͛̽͆͆̇̔̽ ͛̄̾̉̓̋̒ ̔̇̾͌̄͆̒̊ ͐̑̒̉̅ ̓̔̏̚͠͝ ́ ̈ ̊ ́ ̍ ̈ ́ ̽ ̃ ̋ ͅ Ơ ̵ ̡̻̞ ̧̧ ͉̝͈̻̼ ͓̩̣ ̻̼ ͓̻ ̤ ̖͕̗ ̖ ͍ ͜ ̳ ͉ ̯͖̤͔͕̟̟̯ ͖̗ ͍̞ ̝ ̡
̺ ̗ ̧ ͎̣͓͉̲̯ ͔͍ ̤ ̪ ́ ̿ ̽
̉ ͙̭ ̝͓̟ ͕̮ ̏ ̰͉̼͍̙̠͇̿͒̓͋̽͒͂̈̑ ͐̅ ̑͒͊̎ ̹̫ ͊́̿ ̒̽͛͗̒̓̿̏ ̾͊̓̿̎ ͛̿ ̚͘̕͜ ̅ ̦ ̹ ̾ ͋ ̐ ̑ ̇ ̈ ̀ ̇ ̐ ́ ̈ ̀͝͝ ͠ ͝
͠ ͠͝ ͝
ͅ
̛̛ ̻̲ ͚ ̹̞ ̟ ̘ ̯̲̹ ͙ ̃͑̋̍̑͌͋̑̌ ̔ ̮ ̤ ̏̆̈̌ ̹ ̽́̋͌̌ ̏̂̄ ̕̕ ̚ ͝ ̧̧ ̡͖ ̧ ͕̪̜ ͉̫͖̻͇̊͒͑͘ ̼̤́̋͜ ̦ͅ ͆ Ơ ͍͖͓͓͎ ̢̡ ̰͊́ ́͋̂͐̈ ̬̍̑͆̽͒͒̊̕͜ ̰ ͆Ṛ̵̠̲̯ ̛ ͕̗ ̭̬ ̙͕̟̪ ̢̢ ̧ ͖͕̺̬ ͎̮̮̖ ̯̩ ͚͕̻͓͛̏̌̋́̈͐̋̈ ̙ ̦ ̱̽̀̓͒̾̄̍͂̈̂ ̟̝ ̾͒̽̋ ͇̞̔ ̊̓̐͛̑ ͗̌̏̾͒̒̌̇̓̂̏ ͋ ͘͜͠G̡̝ ̛ ͎̣ ̩̦ ̂͛̄̓̒̍́ ̄̍̽͑̿̇ ̈́̍͂̈́̔̿̅͐̂̈̒͋̉ ̀̔̒̾͆̌̈ ̋̀̑͊̉͐̄̓̈́ ͗̂͆̽͂̔̂͐̄̈̃͐̀͗͊̇̽̏̂͗͂̾̉ ͐́̚̕͘͜
̨͙̫ ̡̪̼ ̸ ͍͇̪͉͔̱̞̘ ͍ ̼ ͔ ̱ ̳ ͉̝ ͓̙
̟ ͇ ̩ ͖̮
̫ ͎
͇ ̭ ͖̜ ̯ ͔̲ ̺ ̰ ̜ ͚̫ ̮ ͎̖ ͍̟
̤ ͙ ̰ ͇̝
̦ ̟ ̫ ͓
̈ ̮ ̿
͆̎̊ ͆ ͌ ̓ ̋ ̊ ͋ ̒ ͑
̇ ̊ ͊
̏ ͋ ̃ ̓ ̊ ͆
̅ ͌ ̓ ̉ ͗̉ ͗̎
̐ ̒ ̌ ͋ ̔ ͊ ̾ ͝
͝
ͅ ͠ F̴ ̨ ̡ ͉̥ ̮
̨
͚̬ ̫ ̨
͈
͓ ̬ ̫ ̭ ̈ ͂ ̑ ̶ ̢ ͖
͎ ̗ ͉̗
̱ ͔̟
̝ ͚̺ ̩ ̱ ̨ ̞ ̢
̢ ̬̜ ̜ ̩̫ ̛ ̔ ͇͂ ͎ ͎͛̄ ̲̻ ̦ ́̆ ̜ ̚͘ ̫ ̭ ̦ ̍ ͝ ̛̛ ̢̡ ̀̅̄ ̫̰̘ ̬ ̻ ̽ ̯̞ ̇̂́ ̥̝̲ ̟ ̟̆ ̱ ̝̯̉̆ ̭ ̰ ̺̤ ̦
̊
͜ ͒ ̫ ͎ ̭ ̼ ̖ ̫ ̳ ̮ ̪ ̲ ̤ ̨ ̟ ̧ ̴ ̱ ͓̹ ͉̠ ͉ ̭
͍ ͖
̤ ́ ̈ ̟ ͈̗ ͉ ̪ ͎̘
̹ ͇̘
̲
̌
͎̜̑ ̉ ͖̙ ͔ ̟ ͚
͉ ̯ ͚̾
̟ ͊ ̈̊͝
̀̈͝
͜
͝ ͅ Į̵̛̛̛͍
͠͝ ̨͇ ̡ ͎̝ ̰̘ ̬ ͙̮͉̥̜ ͔͓̹̳̘ ͇̪
̨̭ ̬ ̳ ̫ ̳̝ ̭̬ ̗ ̬ ̝ ̫̪̲̅̂̑ ̙̻ ̏̊́ ̇́̐̿ ̄ ̈́ ͒ ̛ ͎ ̢̢ ̧ ̭ ̼̼ ̖ ̫̝ ̯̙ ̙̟ ̖ ́̎̉̈̊ ̇̏̈ ̝ ̅̽̑͛̕ ͂ ̨̨͝
̼̤̣ ̢̡ ̶͇̗ ͖̼̺ ͈̳̟ ͖̦̝ ̯ ͙̖͕͙̘ ͚̫̞̝ ̜ ̝̔͛̈́ ̾̇͊̏̓̊ ͗̂ ̍͆̕̚͜ ̌͝͠ ̨͕͈ ͓̱̪̠ ͇̘̟ ̳̙ ͍ ̂
̮ ̹ ̐̅ Ơ ̘ ̼ ͛ ́ ̿͝ ́ ̈ ̊͆͝͠ ̭ ̛ ̔ ̯
̹̩ ͚͖̙ ͖̣̗ ̦ ̤̙̂͗̆̏ ͂̆̎͛̓̌ ̪̹ ̜͑ ̲ ͒̋̓̎̃ ̺͗ ̒̈͗̌̆̎̔̋ ̭ ̯ ̬̉͗̍̉͐̔͗ ̲̓̅͒̄̈́ ̯̻̚̕͝ ̝ ̯ ̐ ͝ ͠ ͜
͜ ̢ ̡ ̰ ̝̠ ̥̹
̗ ̠̟ ̇ ̉ ̾ ̍ ͜
͝ F ̫ ̢ ̠ ̷ ͖̯ ͕̼
̲ ͉
̙ ͎
̖ ̟ ͎
̰ ̥ ̜ ͙
̺ ̘ ͔̩
̰ ̮ ̖ ͍ ̃ ̙ ̯ ̐ ͋ ͊̐ ͑̇ ̐ ̾ ͂ ͗ ̕ ͝͠ ͝
ͅ ̡ ̂ ̸ ̗ ̖ ̡ ̢ ͇
͖ ͚
̹ ̭ ̲ ͕
͖
͉ ̭ ͕̠
̥ ͕̣
̺ ͈
̘ ̩ ͈
̺ ͆͌ ̥ ͇̞
̲ ͈ ̈ ̬ ̻ ͂ ̓ ͑
̌ ̙ ̋ ͊
̉ ͋ ̾ ̃ ͒
̓ ̚ ͝ ͝
͠ ͅ Ŗ̵ ̛ ͚
͉ ̫ ̽ ͠ ̨ ̡ ̭̝
̻̫ ̧ ̼̰ ̙ ̥̞ ̺ ̦ ̛̛͍ ̮ ̯
̮ ̼ ̦ ̛̛ ͎̜ ̵̬ ̢̡̠ ̦ ̠̞ ͚͈̬̗ ̟ ͓̮̯ ͇̣̤ ̬ ͇̙͜ ͙̓̂͒̃͂̓͌̽̏ ̎ ̡̡͆̉͊ ̧̧ ̀̈̽̿̊̇̆̉̃̚͘͜ ̫ ̫̜ ̦ ̱ ̺̘ ̢ ̰ ̟̲ ̖ ̩ ͚̰̤̯ ̮̖ ͚͙ ̽̊ ̈́̈ ̜̕ ̳̞̚ ͙ ̳ ͍ ͚ ̫̘ ̼̰̰̞͒͒̉̅̃̈̎̎ ̕ ̎̂́ ͝
̄
̘
̀ ́ ̈ ͝ ͒ ̛ ̝ ̞̼ ̹͉̪̠ ͇ ͜
̺ ̹ ͝ ̡ ̱ ̰̪̤
̝ ̜ ̹ ̼̳ ̱ ̘̤ ̜ ̩ ͉̟̥ ͋ ̡ ̌̓͌̅̃̒̂̐͝Y̵ ͜
͝ ̱ ̝ ̨͇̳ ̢ ͍
͕̻͇͖̩̭̜ ̗ ͙̗͙̯̟̫ ͖̗ ̱ ͉̤ ̟͔͖̙̼͇̭͎͈̘̬ ̝̫ ̬ ͈̠͚̤̳̣ ̮ ͚̪̾ ̔͊͌̉ ̓͛̌ ͜ ͘͜ͅ
͝ O̸̫͖̻̗͔̦̤̰ ͓̓͑̔̽ ̯̦͒̈̈̇͂̌ ͝͠ ͋̓ ͝Ų̷̢̡̲ ͕͕̼̘̞ ̭ ͖͇͖̦̼̩ ̭ ͕̣̜ ͓̹̩ ̖ ͍͉͇̼̲̻ ͇̘͚̞͈̗ ͇̰̜ ̭ ͓͎̻͔̩̙ ̭͙͓̹̻ ̫͔͙̹̩ ̣͈͠͝ ̝̪͋ͅ ̗
̠̞ ̬ ̙ ͜ ̼̯̹ ̨ ̧ ̦ ̬ ̻ ̣ ̣̳ ̬ ̘ ̼̫ ̗ ̫ ̞ ̦ ̜̭ ̨̢ ̝ ̬̟ ̘ ̺ ̖ ̣ ̣̤ ̲
̱ ̻̼̹ ̖̱ ̝ ̞̠̲̳ ̗̤ ̙ ̖ ̟̹ ̨̧
̨̡ ̭ ̦̦
̙̳ ̦ ̬
‘What the fuck, what the FUCK —’
̕ ͘͘
̒̒ ͆͗ ̛ ̕̚ ̀̐
̤ ̎ ͂ ̔ ̅ ̂ ́ ͕͙ ̏ ̅ ́ ̠ ̡ ͙ ͙ ̄ ̋ ̚ ̓̕ ͌ ̛ ̛ ̄̑̋ ̌́ ͊̍̀ ͊́̌̈ ̎̆́̋̅ ͑̊̽̄̽̈́ ͌ ̉́̈ ̕ ̚ ͠͝ ͝ ̍̽̄ ͓ ͔ ̿̓̄̍ ̑ ̏ ̃
T̶̛͚͉͎̈ ̞̹ ͊͊̄̍ ͐͛̄̄ Ḩ̶ ͋̏͂̈ ̧̨̡͔̲͉̜ ͉̺ ͙̥̹̫ ͚̲̫ ͈͖̭͖̲̤ ͎̩ ̭̱ ͚̲̻ ͎̲ ͕̳ ͍ ̃ ̲ ͇̖ ͍̯ ͇ ̐ ̲ ͆̍ ̄ ̾ ̓ ͐ ̈ ̒ ̽ ͜
͝Ę̶ ̟ ͓ ̻ ͉ ͕
̮ ͓
̦ ̰ ͔ ̻ ͓̞ ͙̙ ͙̘ ͇ ̙ ͉̻ ͔̩ ͕̗ ͕ ͍
̞ ̺ ͇̇ ͐̎ ͜
ͅ R̷ ̢ ͖̪
̦ ͚ ͕
̯ ̘ ͚ ̣ ͖̯ ͕ ͕
̘ ͇
̰ ̭ ͕̦ ͕̠ ͕ ̦ ͇̗ ̋ ̯ ̲ ͛̈ ͛ ̇ ̓ ̒ ̾ ͊
̈ ̄ ͑ ̂ ̿ ̓ ͒̆ ͋ ̑ ̆ ͒
̓ ͌ ͛
̅ ͑
̃ ̎ ͌ ̇ ̑ ̓ ̔ ͆̓ ͜ ͠ ͝ ͅ ̍ E̸ ̬ ̡ ͍̫ ͉ ͍
̠ ̈ ̯ ͍̭ ͓ ̥ ͔̖ ̗ ̼ ̭̜ ̦ ͉ ̼̳ ̓̑͗͋̾̋ ̔͜
͇̤ ͍ ̠ ͇̒ ̽͜͠ͅ
̢̛͕ ̷͙ ̳ ̭͚̜͔͕̣̺ ̝͍̙͙̫͍͙̻̮ ͎̪͙̭ ̟ ̜͓̎ ͍̙ ̪̩ ̖ ̺ ̟̹̝ ̭͗̈́ ̅̈̈̽ ̖ ̩̥̥̑͐ ́̇ ͕́ ͙͌ ̈̏ ͛́̇́ ̕ ͘ ͝ ́ ͜
͜
̀ ̆ ͝ ̈ ͝ ̨̭̜ ̢ ̬ ̙ ̭ ̣̻͔̭ ̠̼̙ ̗ ̗ ̣ ̩ ̱ ̳̥ ̬͔ ̎̉ ̳̰̳ ͜ ͛͛̊̎̏ ͛͌̋̇̑ ̉͝ ̿ ̭ ̡̤̫ ̧ ͎ ̼̲ ̦ ̗ ̙̤ ͓ ̜ ̺ ̰ ̮̖ ̳͖̺ ͜
͝ ̉̄̎ ̿ ́̌̍́̐̐ ̍ ̡͑ ̧ ̙̥ ̍̋ ̎̅̿ ͘̚͘ ̪ ̱ ̦ ̬ ̤̫ ͝
̄ ̧ ̼
̋
̃ ͝ ͜
̧ ̭ ͚
̪ ͈ ͔ ̙ ͇ ̓
̐
̯̝ ̕̕ ̗ ̝̘͚̬͇͙͙̫̮ ̟ ͖̖̺ ̩̪ ̠̣͆̽ ͐̓ ̊̅ ̍͆̑̃́͑̓͛̋ ͒̈̊ ͗̈͂ ͐̂̓́ ͒̓͂̂͛̈ ͝ ̃ ̿ ̓
́͂̂̍ ͠͝ ̩ ̰ ̧
ͅ ̬ ̦ ̱ Ī̴̢̢ ͍̫́ ̜ ͙̞́ ͓̱̠̲ ͚͕̖ ̥ ͇̪̣̠̙ ͕͖̠̼̲̙ ͎ ̙ ̟ ̂ ̺ ̋ ̃
͇͖͈̜̻̩͇̞̩ ̭ ͉̤͒͆̿̊̔̌ ͑̐͌̽ ͛͐̓́̏ ͐̇͋̑ ͑̎̉ ͘̚͜ ̋ ̍ ̽ ̽ ̑ ͝ͅ
͝
̬ ̧
Ş̶̈ ̗ ̨̢̛̺ ͓̭͆ ͇̟̳̪ ͎͈̗ ͙̮̮ ͍̱ ̻ ̲̩͇̗͙̺̙ ̝̥̫ ͍͍̖ ̭ ̬ ̺̪ ͍̬ ̹ ͙͎̪̟̳ ͖͓̭̱̬ ̯ ͓̝̙ ͕̫̤̳ ̙͚̹̜͙̣͒̓͋̏ ͆͊͒̋ ͊̓̉̏ ͛͋̈̂ ̨̒͒ ̧ ͑̌̓̒́̊ ̭ ͑̈͆͊̂ ͜͠ ̅ ̃ ̈ ̑ ̽ ́ ̡ ̂ ̖ ̋ ́ ̕ ͘ ̭̩͝ ̗ ̐́̽ ̜ ̹ ͠͝
̈ ̙ ͅ ͜ ͜
̛̛ ͇͉ ̡̡ ̧ ̮̬ ͎ ͇̫ ̼ ̻
̜ ̼ ͠ ̰ ̳ ̟ ̹̼̊̌ ̽́ ́̈̈ ̇ ̏ ̑ ̭ ̣̳̤ ͔͕̲̜ ̨ ̢̢͎̱̫̖̗̳̯̝̩̮̃̌̓̄̒̿̽̾͐̽̆ ́̈͋͆̈̈́ ̭́͐ ̻̪ ̭̮́͑́̋̈͝ ̯
̫ ̛ ͈͖͙̖̞ ̗̜̱̤̣ ͙͓̞̜̥̳ ͖͚̹̬ ͍̤͇͙̙ ͙̫̻ ͆̔ ̏̐͛̍̈́ ̄͛̽̾͐̉ ̌͌͒̉̈̓̏̽͂̃͌̄͒̔ ̡̢̬̟̺̒̾͒̈̊͌̎ ̧ ͛͐̈͊͂̓ ̄ ̑̑̚̕͜ ̾ ̄ ̓ ̱ ̤ ̭̬ ̜ ̢ ̰ ̖̖ ̪ ̹ ̩̯ ́ ̈͌́̃͗̓͋̉̏ ͌ ͑͛̐̈́͐͋̓̈́̃̍ ̿ ̪̙̅́̾̒̍͊͊̈́͑̆͛̇̈́̂̆̑̀͐͋̉̋̃̑̽̏́̊͐̽̃̒͊ ̅̕̚͘͜
̨͓ ̻ ̷̧ ̞͚̞̠ ̱ ͚̖̦ ͓̻̤ ͈͙̩ ̳͕̥ ̦ ͚͖̝̲͓͙̘ ͚̱ ̦ ̭͈͈̥̏ ̦̞̹ ̋͋̓͒̑ ̇͗̑̔̂̽ ̾ ͆̓̆̓͒͂̈́ ̇ ̚ͅO ̻̳ ̖ ̣̼̿̔̾̽̒̈̓̄͐ ͑̎̔̉̈ ͛̎̚͘͝͠Ņ̛ ̵͖ ̮ ̢̢̙ ̹͉͔͈͙͙̳͖͓͛̊ ͈̮̙̫ ͍̦
̈́͂͂̚ ̖̬ ̲̹ ͠ ̱ ̩ ̷͔̬ ͍̾ ͒͜
͜ ͋ Ļ̷ ̭ ͚̠ ͉̺ ̫̪ ̮̓ ̟͒͊̏ ͗ ̑ ̨ ͜
̭ ̠ ͝
͠ ͅ
Y ͠ ̱ ̛ ̶ ͚ ͎
̲ ̮ ͚ ̺ ͔̘ ͆
̹ ̏̽ ̬ ̘ ̍ ̪̼̳ ̖ ̟ ̹̠͕̞̼ ͙ ̖ ̲̩͉̦ ̤̳̞ ͇̣ ͕ ̖ ͔̜ ͎ ͍
̜ ̜ ͕̯ ͉ ̭ ͇ ͎
̠ ̮ ͙̋ ̊ ̄ ͛ ́ ̈ ͜ ͠ͅ ͝
͠ ͠
̖̗ ̫ ̘̟ ̱̥ ̦ ̡̪ ́̈̑̐̿͊̐ ̖̭ ̕ ͔͈̰ ̨ ̡ ̧̧ ̙ ̳̻̟ ̡̢̆́͊͜ ̧̿́ ̟̘̳ ͚̰ ̝̺ ̮̖ ̛̙͖̯̰̯ ̠ ͝ ͝ ̒ ̿ ͛ ̓ ͆ ̏ ̄ ̿ ̽ ̐
͝
͜ ̡̥ ̧̧ ͓ ͍
̡ ͛
̊ ̾ ̓ ̞ ͂ ͠ ̫ ̦ ̬ ͊͒
̝ ̦ ̐̂ ̓ ̋̓ ̭ ̧̛̛̰ ̶͎̩ ͇̳͎͙͓̺̲̹ ͔̝̤̥ ͈̦̝ ̼ ͎̍͐̾̈ ̇͒̿͗͝ ̽ͅ T̴̞ ̦ ͇̖̗̒ ̲̲ ͕̤̥ ̭ ͚̿ ̪̺̼͗̏̈ ̨ ̡ ̧̚͜ ̈͌͝ ̼̲ H̵̯ ́̈ ̛ ̢͔̠ ͉̙ ͝ ͚̖̜ ̤ ͈̣̜ ̠ ̞͊̐ ͆̓͑͂̋̑̄ ̋̀̒͛̅̆͛͆̉ ͊̓̾̂̄ ̕͝ ̇ͅ E̴̢̡̡̯̣ ͖͕͍̪ ̻̤ ͖̯̪ ͕̖̰̟ ͉̯̱̬ ̢̡ ͎̥͛̾͊̆̇ ͑͋̍̀ ̝̙ ͝ ̔ ̮ ̼ ̉̋̀ ̭ ̫̫ ̗ ̕
̨̛ ̛̛̯ ̶͖ ͎̼ ̽ ̂ ̋ ̤ ̉
̦ ̪̲ ̦ ͇̺̘̊ ̂̇͑̉̓̆̾̎ ͒̽̄͊̆̄ ͆̃̏͑̇ ͋ ̋̓̄͆̒̆̌̊ ̂͐̏̽ ̏͛̈́̊͑̋͌̔ ̏ ̓͗̑͒̅͑̊͗̿̑͐̂͘ ̓͝͠
̀ ̒ ͌̏ ͠͝͠ͅF̢̢̯̥ ̸͈ ͚̪̟ ̦ ͍͇̫͙̻ ͉̝̺̲ ͓̻̳ ̥̳̯ ͉̳̣ ͎̜
̢ ̛ ̦ ͈ ̜ ̻
͕ ̞ ͚̻ ͈ ̱ ͚̠
̥ ̑ ̢ ̮ ̫ ̕ ́
̉̓͊̊ ̃̀͂͊̔͋̋͒͒̐̓ ̞̿ ́͑̒̈ ͑̓ ͛̑̄̄͊̔̏͂̒͋ ̿ ̅́͊̂͌ ̞̙̎͑ ͂ ̔͋̿͆͛͒̾ ̑ ͘ ̒ ́̈͋͜ ̈ ͌ ̂ ̒ ̃ ͝
͠
͝
͝
ͅ
̰ ̣ ̮ ̼̟ Į̷̫ ͚͍ ̽
̻ ̼ ͔̞ ͖ ̝ ͍̩ ͙̞ ͇̯ ͕̤ ͚
͖
̢̡̖͆ͅ R̵
͋ ̮ ̣ ̝ ̻ ͓
̙ ̬ ̦ ̢ ͍ ̥
̗͔̙̟ ̳ ̧͓ ͓̻̯ ͔͎ ̢
̗ ̮ ͇̘ ̭ ̟ ͍ ͎
̞ ͓
̥ ̯ ͙̹ ͖
̋ ̌ ̐ ̯̳̪̞̤̽̊̌̍͊̃̉̾̇̊̒̄͒̿̀̄̕̚͜
̑ ̂ ͂ ̽
̲
̬ ̯ ̦ ̶͠ͅȨ ͠
͠ ̛ ͎̤͇͉̼͈͇̣̬ ͈͎ ͔
̜ ͍
̦ ͓ ͕
̱ ̙ ͎ ̤ ͇̣ ͍ ̻ ͎̥ ͓̹ ͒́ ́ ̈ ͐
̐ ̓ ͗
̏ ͊̃͌̿̆̋̅̑̄͌̇̓͑̾̈͋̑̔̿̐͂̉ ̽̍̆̿͊̓̓̽̏ ̈́̾͗̋͋̍ ̕̕ ͅ
̺ ̠̰ ̰̪ ̦ ̥̺̞ ̝ ̜ ͛ ͝ ̫ ̨ ̡ ̧ ͕̠̪ ͇ ̩ ͉̜ ̘ ̖ ̥ ̮ ̤̹ ̖ ̞ ̝͊ ̯ ̦ ̡̢ ̻ ̲̤ ̱ ͍͖͉̭̬ ͉̦ ̞ ̦ ̢ ̨ ̲ ̬ ̲̻ ̥̼ ͓ ͜ ͝ ̭ ̢̢̯̙ ̧ ̫̤̞ ̗ ̦ ̱ ̠̞ ͓͈ ̤ ̞̹ ͈ ̠̘ ̼̥ ̩̳̟ ̺̞
̭̮ ̳ ̤̥ ̨̨̬ ̰ ̧̧ ̱̜ ̦ ̭ ̙ ̖̖ ̢̡ ̻̟ ̜ ̘ ̩ ̼̩ ̖̣ ̯ ̢̯̩ ̧ ̪̯ ̼ ̗ ̝̞
̥̖̯ ̢̡ ̜ ̞ ̮ ̮ ̩ ̣̫
̢̢ ̬ ̫ ̮ ̹ ̻ ̱̯
̮ ̳̼ ̦ ̭̞
He lurches to his feet, chair clattering as it flies out behind him. The women behind him startle at
the sound, but he pays them no mind. How can he, when his screen begins to fill with more and
more threatening characters, spreading across the screen as though it is invading the computer from
the inside out.
͆
͐͌͌ ́̈ ͒͗ ̍́ ̚
̅̂ ͚ ̋ ̽̄̂̈̋̂̊ ̈̂ ͝ ͘ ͈ ̀ ̧̝ ̽̈́͝
Ŗ̶̜ ̡̡̛̛ ̧ ͉̯͈͓̩̲̣ ̭ ͍͓̜ ͓̤̳ ͙͍̤ ͇̞̪ ̈͒̏ ́̄̈͂̒̆͐̓͑̓ ͆̋̇͂ ̽ ̎̀͗̅ ̄̐̋̈͐̃̾̐̽ ͐͑͛̀̒͐́͋̆ ́̃̃̋̕͘̚͜
̺̘ ͎͕̭̗̗ ̥ ͎̭͕͙͎ ́͌̋ ͠͝Ë̵̛ ̨͇͔ ̡̪̳ ̧̧̦ ̱͙̣͚̳ ͕̼̦ ̖ ͓̯̠ ͖͎
̩̝ ͙ ͉̣̟̟ ͙̝ ͍̼͙̬ ͈̫̺ ͈̰̫̩ ͉̪͓͍
̯̹ ͕ ͍́ ͅ P̷̨̡̼̣̙ ͓̼͇̣̻ ͈͔̊̂͐̃̒̋̓̍ ͊̋͛͌ ̈́̊͛̋̒̃̔̏̉ ̑̽͊͊́͛̂ ͐͝
̫̞ ̈́̒̑͘͜ ̕͝
ͅ ͘ Ę̷͉ ̢̺̪ ͙͔͙͙̮̮ ̦ ͕̙̝̠̘ ͍ ͕̫ ̗ ͓̠̠̻ ͇̤̹ ͍
̫ ̫ ͙ ͔̦̪̳ ̟ ͂̑͜
ͅ Ṇ
̷ ̢̲ ̦ ͚̹͇͕̳̯̠̣ ̬ ͖̲͍̜
̙ ͍͈̗̗ ̰ ͉̬̯̪ ͉̘̰̠ ͓̭̦ ͈̩͑̈ ́̂̾͒͜
Ţ̵̛ ͇͕̬̼̻ ͔̯͍̖͍̎̄̂̏̇̈͝ ̾̓̃̔̀̑̿
̨̨ ̡ ̜ ̖̖ ̰ ̭ ̳̝ ̺ ̢̢͕͉ ̫ ̟ ̹̘ ̝̯ ̳̫ ̱ ̰ ̦ ͉ ̙̺ ̭ ̜ ̗ ̹ ̡ ̭ ̰̘ ̤̻̺ ̨ ̡̡̤ ̩̹ ̪ ̼ ̜ ̝ ̮ ̳ ̂ ̗ ̖
̨̡ ̘̯ ̤̺ ̪
̮ ̱ ̬̬̜ ̳̲ ̬ ̟̪ ̗̭ ̖ ̨ ̡̡ ̧̧ ̗
̡̧
He can’t breathe, his chest is so tight—
The room is spinning now, spinning without any help from the alcohol that seems to have vacated
his veins all at once—
́́̈ ͇ ̿̎̐ ̿̉̆̽ ̈́̍ ̀ ́

̄̍̉ ̍͐̈́̈́ ͆͒ ̈ ̍ ͊W̶
̏́́ ͊͊͋ ̗ ̫̟ ͝ ̳ ̛ ̧ ͕ ̫ ͍̣ ͓͝ ̯ ͖̘
̥ ͉ ̲ ͈̖
̹ ͊̑
̜ ͜
͘ ̊ ̓ ͅ É̶ ̜ ̡ ̢ ̳ ͈̥ ͕ ̳ ͓̖
̰ ͙̰
̠ ͇̲
̻ ͍
̦ ͇ ͔
̖ ̪ ͍
̹ ͖ ̤ ͗
̫ ͅ ͜
͜ ̵ ͕̲̮ ̪ ͚̱
̫ ͚
̯ ͚
̩ ̭ ̥ ͉̫ ͆̈
̟ ̊ ͐̏͗̿̉ ͑̿̆̚̕͜
͗ ̑̒͂̂͜͠A͍̠
̈ ̔ ̊ ̓ ̍ ̵ ̬ ̳ ̦ ͍̓̂̀̿͒͘̚ ̾ R̷
̍ ͠ ̭͛ ̡̤ ͇̯͕̼ ͙́̃ ̪̼͆͘ ̸Ȩ͎̥̖͖̍͗̈́͑̈ ̃̑͑̉̊ ̍̌̅͐̉̋̇̆͋̍͊̾̋̑͆̇̈́͐̅͜ ͊͋ ́ ͆̕
͛ ͝
͝ ̳
̙ ̟̯ ̱ ̩ ̛̛ ̰̼ ͝ ̢̰ ̿̑̉̎̌ ̱ ̹ ̉ ̻ ͠ ̘ ̦ ̯̘ ͒͊͗͛͌́̿ ̋ ͝ ̗ ͝ ͝ ̛ ̜ ͑ ͋ ̿ ̑ ͋
̭̬ ̤ ͋ ̲̄̈̃́ ̏ ̳ ̛ ͊ ͘ ̎́́ ̈ ͘̚
̵̤͔ ̧ ͇̲̺̥ ͍̪ ̉ ̀ ̍ ̐ ̂ ̈ ̉
̻̟ ͚͔͎͑̆͑͑̿̈̿ ̏̂̓͑̓͛͋̏ ̑̈̏́̆͑͜ ́ ̈͜
͝
̜ ̅ ̋ ̅
͠ͅȀ ̮ ̢̛̝ ̶͚̻ ͗͗̈͂́̀͋̏ ͛̓͐̔͐̄ ͜͠ ̈ ̑ ̂ ̚
̃͂̕ ͝ ͅ ̼ L̷̯̺̼ ̡̡ ͎̟̭ ͕̹̳ ͖͇͓͙͕̘̺̹ ͕͇̦͒ ̱ ͍̤ ̃ ̎ ̅
̣̪ ͈̘̪̯̝̲̱̮͑̽͂̓͌̽̔̂̑ ̠̥͛ ͆̇ ̓͆͌̇ ̙͜ ̐ ͆ ̂ ̕ ͘͝
͜ ̘ ̟ ͠ ̄ ̆
͠ͅ ̮ ̟ ̬̱̮ ̲ W̸̛̗̘̹̟̣̖̠̬̾̌͊͋̏̓́͌̆͂̍̉ ̓̏͝
͝ ̏ ̅ ̈ ̓ ̀ ̊͌̈ ̸Ả ͠ ̐
͠ ̢̡ ͙̟̮͙̱͙̙̹̞ ͎͇͓̠̱ ̙̲ ͉̮̹ ͕̰̟͒ ͒̈̓̋ ͒͋̔ ̍͑͛̒̒̎ ͗͜ ͠͝ ̃ ̔ ̈ ̂ ̐ ́ ̋ ̨ ̥
ͅ Y̶̢̛͚̩̺ ̧ ͙͍̱͔͍ ̏ ̏
̩̘ ͕̰̙̺ ̭ ͍̹͇̜͛ ̼ ͊̍͌̓̿ ͝͠
͎ ͘ ̈ ̒͂̌ ͅS̛ ̵͇ ̡̡̡ ̗͖͈͉͈̲̰̝ ͍͇͙ ̗͔̬̹̺̳̇͑̏̓̿͑̋́͐̐̓̌̒̑̔̈ ̉̔̌͆́̓͊̈ ̊͂͝
͠ ͋̔̕
̩̳ ̸͇̱͓̩͇̮̎͛̈͋̉ ̀̓͛̂̑W̷ ́́̈ ̮ ̽ ̖ ̰ ̢ ̧ ̗̗ ̃̀ ̇̑̎ ̘̘̓͌ ̟̹̎̆ ̘̦ ̲ ͜ ̺ ̦ ̱ ̝ ̑ ̕ ̦ ̅̽ ̢̔ ̓ ̺ ̀ ̮̩͘͝ ̏ ̣ ̫̰ ̓ ͗
̍ ͐́̏̆́ ̈ ̜ ̢̡̟ ̧ ͓̘ ̕ ̰ ̱ ̟ ̗ ̲̫ ̨͔ ͍ ̧ ̪
̤ ̓ ̋́ ̋
̯̙ ̑ ̬̜ ̤ ̧͚̯ ͙͇̮ ̥̫͓̜͌̈͜͠ ̋ ́ ̅
Ă̴͎̹͕̺͉̖ ͇̹̳̼ ͑̍̔̎̅ ͆̔̓̾̈ ̨͘͝ Ṯ̸ ̻ ͕͖͙̙̥̭̒͒̋ ͒̉ ̭̖ ͆̔̀ ͠͝ ̡
͌̂ C̶̼̣ ̢̢̹ ͎̹͈̟͇̞ ̣͎̮͖̮ ̳͂̉͒ ̟ ̈͒͛̑̏ ͐ͅH ̜ ̩ ̄ ̢
̿ ̵͚̖ ̖ ̢̹ ̧ ͚̖̫̫ ̥͒̈̔̇ ͑̈͛̆͊͑̀͘ ̭͝ ̚ ͠ ̳
̼ͅ I̷̫̟ ̠̙ ͚̲͚͔̭ ͙̥̯̙ ̜̜ ͓̺͇̓ ̟̣͊̉ ̔ ̒͊̚̕͜ ̈͌̔̍̊̓͂ͅ Ń̴͕̳̭̜͇̣͔̻͕͑͝G̵ ̍ ̺ ̖ ̩ ̡͈ ̧ ̬ ͇̖̞ ͈̬ ̤͙̯͉͕̝̬ ̻ ͔̮͙͔̳̜̭ ͕̮͚͇̠̹ ͘̕̚͝ ̓̄̾̈ ͠ͅ
̣̻ ̎ ̖ ̯ ̱̮ ̟̪ ̭̥ ̤̥̳ ̋ ̬ ̡̠̝ ̟ ̬ ̮ ̜ ̤
̝ ̬̺ ̱ ̭ ̭̘ ̪
̙ ̭
̱ ̞̞ ̭ ̞̘ ̦ ̪̤ ̘̘
̳̻ ̩ ̞
̲ ̭ ̫̤ ̦
̰̰̫
̯
̬ ̫̣
The horrifying writing grows to cover the entire screen, blocking out any discernible letters with
rows and rows of overlapping text that grows upon itself like a virus. He backs away from the
screen, retreating as though he can run from this, but he—he can’t— he can’t run from this—
̕̕ ̀̎̋
̄ ̂ ̚̚ ̇ ̍
͖
͆ ́ ͘͘ ̊̐̏
̈ ̒ ͘ ̂
̎ ̏́̑ ́ ̈ ̆ ̅ ̃ ̈
̅ ̍̌ ͐̔ ̇ ͊̉ ̚
̑ ͆
͋
͘
͝ ̽ ̿ ̏̈̽̊́ ͋ ̌̍̊̀̅̉͂ ̇̆̏̈̏ ̌ ̍
͝ ̛
̿
̻̏͊̃̓̍̈̔̎́ ͊̄̅̈͒̀̐̃ ͐̈́͑̎͒̐̆͋̔͂̌̄͊͂̓̎̂̔̌̄͊́̓͗̍̀̈ ̾ ͛̈̇ ̌͊̑̅̕͝ ͝ ͝ ͊ ̋́ ́̈̅̎ ͆́̅́̃ ͠͠ ̝ ̧
̌
0̶̮̭̮ ̡̡̡̛ ͕̪͈̟̻ ͈̤̞ ̮ ͚̦̤ ͎
͖̘ ̜ ͕̙̦̦ ͙̣̤ ͈̰͕̮ ͎̪ ̇
̩ ͕̦̼ ̘ ͚̠͉̘ ͚̤̹ ̙͛̏͛̓͗͌̿̊̾ ̔͊̈̕ ͜ ͌̿́ͅ 1̴̭̜ ̡̹ ̛ ͈̯̳͊̔́̈ ̈̽̕͘͝0̴̢̛͚̹͙̫̞ ͎ ͕̣ ͐̾ ́ ͆ ͐ ̑ ̕
̉ ͗̿̅̏ ͌̎̔̿͊̐̾̌̽ ̈́͆͗̃̏͂̃͌̓ ̓͊͋̅ ̽͗̄͂̍̎̒͒̎͐̌̄͊͌̔ ͠ ͝ ͅ ͇̯ ͖̮ ͙ ͖̞ ͈̯ ͖ ͔̗ ͎ ͉ ̇ ̃ ͗ ́ ̂ ͌ ͒
͐ ̽ ̊ ̈ ͌ ͐ ͆ ̐ ̊ ͐̽͂ ̍ ͆̈ ́ ͜ ͝ ͠ ͅ ̘ ̛ ͇ ̿ ͝ ͝
̨ ̢̙̻̲ ̠̳̯ ̜ ̞ ̰̳ ̬̘
̮
̼ ̣͓̪ ̊
̿ ̔ ̐ ̌ ̾ ̏ 8̸ ̳
̨̨ ̢̟ ̦ ̘ ̘ ̖̬ ̮ ̻
̧̨ ̗ ̝ ̲̯̺ ̖ ̦
̤ ̺ ̇ ̝ ̱ ́ ̏ ̈ ̂ ̓ ̌ ̒ ̎ ̍ ̓ ̃ ̾ ̊ ̃ ̏ ̚ ̕ ͘ ͠ 1 ͠ ̮̦ ͚ ̴ ̅ ̾ ́ ͠ ͠ ̨ ̡̥ ̧ ̮ ̣ ̞ ̮ ̙ ̖ ̞̪ ̥ ̺̘ ̼̲ ̪̟ ̗ ̫ ͗̊̈ ͗0̶͋̓̇̊̉̑̚ ̬ ̥ ͚͕͕͈
8̸ ͕̺ ͖ ͎
̬ ̞ ͖̦ ͍̲ ͍̱ ͈̺ ͔̭ ͎̩ ͎ ̭ ͇̭ ͔̣ ͛̇ ͊ ͑
̊
̩̹ ̭̱ ͔
̹ ̪ ̣̘ ̡ ̳̹ ̦ ̮
̗ ̝̣ ̭ ̜ ̳
“—sir?”
A hand suddenly appears on his shoulder, the pressure so starling that he lets out an audible shout,
spinning around to shove the offending limb away before he even registers who it belongs to.
Jeongyeon jumps back in fear, her previously hazy eyes now clouded with a different emotion
entirely.
“Sir...are...are you alright?” She forces out, face twisting up in concern. With the glow from his
screen now faded, she looks so much less beautiful than before—less beautiful, and more
threatening.
“Get out,” he whispers numbly.
“I—”
“Leave.”
“Sir—”
“LEAVE!”
Seokjin feels something rising in him, a desperation he hasn’t given voice to in so many years he
nearly forgot what it felt like. The tension in his limbs seems to build and build until it is the only
thing he is made of any longer. His hands coil into fists, positively quaking at his sides—
His arms suddenly swing out wildly towards his secretary, knocking items off the edge of his desk
as they pass, pens and documents flying. She jumps back several steps, crashing into Jihyo’s naked
body where the younger woman stands, frozen, behind her.
“LEAVE! LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Y—Yes sir!” One of the women says, but he can’t focus enough to tell which one. His blood runs
cold through all of his limbs, his body shaking fiercely now. Their naked bodies blur into shadows
as they retreat away from him, whispers passed between them like the temptations of snakes in the
grass.
His chest heaves as he tries to suck in a breath, his ribcage gripping his lungs in a stranglehold. He
can’t bring himself to look at the screen behind him, too afraid of what more it might say, what
they might have seen—
The door to his office suddenly slams closed, the room falling eerily silent as rapid footsteps retreat
down the hall.
Before he can stop himself, he reaches for the glass he had set aside earlier, flinging it wildly
across the room after them. The glass slams against the wood with a deafening thud and piercing
crash, shattering into pieces just as his mirror had in the early hours of the morning. His mind is
haunted by the noise, memory after memory crashing through him like waves against the shore,
sand slipping out beneath his feet until there is nothing left to hold him above the deluge.
He glances to the computer still perched on the desk beside him and finds the screen dark, the
camera’s light vanished, the menacing words long gone as though they had never been there in the
first place. Papers crinkle beneath his feet as he steps up to the desk and reaches out to slam the lid
of his computer closed, cutting off the backlight and dropping the room into near darkness.
He doesn’t need to look down at the documents he is standing on to know what they say, doesn’t
need the light to see the faces that flash before his eyes.
JUNG, EUNAH—34—MISSING
JUNGKOOK, JEON—24— MISSING

There is no forgiveness for you, the message had said.
On the other side of his desk, shards of glass litter the floor like so many landmines. A large dent
now decorates the dark surface, a permanent reminder of his recklessness. And below it, rivulets of
come trickle down the wood, painting the surface white and shining—the cascading evidence of
his conquests that drips and falls, wasted, to the floor.
The office is suddenly too quiet. His shoulders ache from the angle at which he has hunched over
his desk, but it creates the illusion of privacy and that's far more important than comfort. The pain
between his shoulder blades is nothing compared to the soreness in his wrist and the tension in his
fingers as he grips his pen, but he soldiers through it with the determination of a man who is
running out of time.
The notebook in front of him is nearly full, but he still hasn't finished his documentation for the
day and continues scribbling until he reaches the very end of the very last page, and only then does
he close the book and set his pen down on the tabletop. Raising his arms above his head, he
stretches this way and that with a groan that can probably be heard out in the hallway through the
open door at his back, but he can't bring himself to care.
It’s easier to keep his back turned, in any case, lest he be faced with the sight behind him—the
heavy weight of eyes that stare despite being closed, the voice of a mouth that is held firmly shut.
He shudders at the thought of it, at the haphazardly cleaned mess he was left to find this morning,
the sight he has been trying to erase from his mind ever since. He can feel it still, that revulsion,
that anger in the pit of his stomach, keeping him company as always like an ever-present, very old
friend.
His used notebook finds its way atop a pile of other, identical books that line the top of his desk, all
neatly arranged in a stack so that their black spines face outward, this pile nearly as tall as the
several other stacks that sit beside it. Soon enough, he'll need to move them all to storage and start
over, but for now there is just enough room. He reaches down into the cabinet beneath his desk and
withdraws another black book, opening it to the very first page to write out his name and today's
date in neat, clear handwriting.
August 28th, 2018
cont.
Kim Jinhwan is currently in perfect health. 165 cm, 55 kg, 17.78 cm long and 11.66
cm in girth. Responsive to all stimuli. Orgasm achieved after 2 min 48 seconds on the
first attempt, 3 min 15 seconds on the subsequent attempt. Jinhwan shows particular
interest in—
"Namjoon?"
The nurse's head whips around at the sudden noise, pen falling to the tabletop again. There, at the
door, is a familiar, heart-shaped smile and a pretty face to match it, its owner leaning against the
doorframe with a sheepish look on his face.
"Hoseok!"
"Hi," the other teacher says, stepping into the room and glancing around. "I hope I'm not
interrupting anything...?" His posture is tense, his eyes flicking from one side of the room to the
other as he takes in its contents, and it dawns on the nurse that the only other time they were both
in this room together was with a naked student between them. More importantly, Namjoon knows
that they need to leave the room, and now.
"No, no!" Namjoon hurries to say as he closes his notebook again, jumping immediately to his feet
and bolting across the room before Hoseok can say anything else. His hands grab at the teacher’s
shoulders, pushing him backwards—gently—into the hallway. He can see Hoseok’s eyes flickering
over his shoulder as they move, can see the glimmer of recognition that appears in the younger
man’s gaze when he spots the familiar form lying in the nearest bed.
“Is that—Jungkookie—?” He asks, craning his neck for a better look around Namjoon’s broad
shoulders, but the nurse has the door tugged closed behind himself before Hoseok can catch more
than just that brief glimpse of his friend.
“Shhh…” He says in lieu of answering, raising a finger to his lips. Hoseok’s jaw immediately
snaps shut, his pretty eyes wide as he stares up at the older man. Namjoon glances back and forth
along the hallway, ensuring they are completely alone for the moment before dropping his hands
down to wrap his fingers around Hoseok’s waist on either side. The teacher is very small around
the middle, Namjoon’s broad hands practically dwarfing the curve of his hips, and he has to tear
his eyes away from the sight.
“Yes, that was... Jungkookie…” He says, mimicking Hoseok’s strange name for his friend. When
the younger man perks up in interest, Namjoon hurries to squeeze his hips and draw his attention
back to Namjoon’s face. “But the doll is sleeping right now, okay? So we need to be quiet, not
disturb it...you understand?”
Hoseok’s pretty lips purse together as he considers Namjoon’s words, but eventually he nods and
lowers his eyes in clear disappointment. "So I can't see him?"
"Not...today," Namjoon hedges, "but...soon, I'm sure. Don't worry."
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Hoseok hums in agreement. Still, he shuffles back and forth
from one foot to the other, something clearly on his mind. “Did you need something?” Namjoon
asks after a moment, and Hoseok’s eyes fly back up to Namjoon’s face.
"Well, I—I just thought—" Hoseok shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders rising towards
ears that have begun to turn a pretty shade of pink beneath the fringe of his chestnut hair. "After
yesterday, I—"
"Ah," Namjoon says, nodding in understanding. Images of Hoseok with fire in his eyes, memories
of his head tossed back in pleasure fill Namjoon’s mind, standing in such stark contrast to Hoseok’s
current, hesitant demeanor. Namjoon smiles encouragingly up at the other teacher, tugging at the
waistband of Hoseok’s pants. "C'mere."
Hoseok seems to melt at the invitation, his feet shuffling against the carpet as he leans forward
across the short distance between them. Namjoon slides his hands easily up the curve of Hoseok’s
spine, the shape now familiar to him, and wraps his arms immediately around the smaller man's
shoulders to pull him close. Hoseok rests his head against Namjoon's collarbone, takes a deep
inhale, and when he lets the air back out again, Namjoon feels the tension slip right out of his body.
The nurse rubs his hands up and down the dip of Hoseok's spine, and for a moment, the two of
them simply stand silently together.
"Are you alright?" Namjoon asks eventually, and Hoseok nods against the side of his neck, raising
his head slightly so that he can nuzzle his nose beneath Namjoon's jaw. “Did you sleep?”
“Eventually,” Hoseok shrugs, “It wasn’t easy. We cleaned up the wreckage all day, and I should
have been exhausted, but...I couldn’t forget that sound—”
Namjoon knows immediately what Hoseok is referring to, the wailing of the sirens setting his teeth
on edge even from the echoes of his own memory. He tilts his head down and presses a kiss to the
crown of Hoseok’s head, inhaling the soft scent clinging to his dark hair.
“But you helped,” Hoseok goes on, and Namjoon’s lips quirk into a smile.
“I did?”
“Mhmm,” the smaller man hums, happily nuzzling closer. “I dreamt about you.”
“Oh really…” Namjoon’s hands tighten possessively on Hoseok’s hips. “What kind of dream?”
Hoseok leans back, then, his own lips curling up at the ends as his eyes darken with his thoughts.
“The good kind,” he whispers, and Namjoon puts up no resistance as he’s drawn immediately
down to capture Hoseok’s mouth in a soft kiss.
Unlike the night before, the flare of desire that bursts into life in the pit of his stomach isn’t all
consuming. Rather than taking over his body in a matter of seconds, driven by the heady allure of
relief and celebration, this is a deep, warm heat that simmers—a molten, fluid thing where before it
had been a fire.
Hoseok’s hands slide up the front of Namjoon’s shirt, long fingers winding into the fabric to drag
him closer, and Namjoon gives a little groan as their hips press together, heat already curling in the
pit of his stomach. Hoseok’s lips are just as soft as he remembers them being, his tongue almost
timid as it drags along his bottom lip.
“Hoseok…” He groans as they part for a moment, the both of them somehow already out of breath.
In lieu of a reply, the teacher's lips break into a wide, heart-shaped grin, and the sight of it is
practically stunning to an unprepared Namjoon. Where...has this man been all his life?
Hoseok tugs on the nurse's shirt, taking a step back from his office door, a leading look in his eyes.
He quirks his head to the side, dark hair bouncing with the movement, and asks, "Can we go
somewhere...else?"
"Go—?" Namjoon asks absently, his eyes following the movements of Hoseok's lips instead of his
words.
"Somewhere more... private," the teacher adds, and hooks two of his fingers beneath the waistband
of Namjoon's pants to tug at the fabric suggestively.
"O-Oh—" Namjoon stutters, finally catching on. Hoseok's smile only seems to widen at his
obvious fluster, a twinkle in the younger man's eyes. There's a sense of subtle confidence wafting
from him that does something funny to Namjoon's chest, clenching beneath his ribs in an almost
achingly familiar manner.
"What do you say?" Hoseok adds, his eyes dropping to watch his own fingers as they trace the
collar of Namjoon's shirt, dipping just beneath the fabric to drag along his bare skin. Namjoon lets
out a little, broken noise at the back of his throat and practically jumps forward to crash his lips
against Hoseok's again—and this time, the desire coursing through him erupts into a full-blown
fire.
"N—Nam—Namjoon—" Hoseok tries to say, giggling softly in between kisses, his fingers
practically tearing at the buttons of Namjoon's shirt as he pulls the nurse closer. "We should—we
can't—"
"I don't care—" He growls back, his lips slipping from Hoseok's to drag along his jaw and down
the younger man's throat instead.
"Not here—" Hoseok insists, and Namjoon's groan turns desperate at the edges. Pulling back, he
catches the slightly wild look in Hoseok's eyes, knowing it must be reflected in his own as well,
and without another thought, pushes the smaller man backwards until he stumbles across the hall
and through the open door of the office opposite his own.
He catches the teacher before Hoseok stumbles directly into the vacant Vice Principal's desk,
pressing Hoseok back against it instead as his lips descend back to capture another kiss. Hoseok
accepts it easily, greedily, but continues to try to speak even as Namjoon begins nibbling at his
lower lip.
"Mmmpf—N—Namjoon—" He tries again, and the nurse backs off just enough to allow the
teacher to finish his thought.
"Yes?" He asks, breathless.
"S-Someone could see, we should—"
"No," Namjoon argues immediately, shaking his head. It pains him to release Hoseok even for a
moment, but he tugs his hands away long enough to back towards the open door and slide it shut
behind him, one hand slipping around his back to turn the lock with a soft click . "There are no
cameras in here."
"Won't—Won't someone," Hoseok pauses, eyes glancing over to the wall that separates them from
the Principal's office, "...hear?"
Namjoon steps back towards Hoseok, hands extended. "No one is listening, I promise."
But before he can get too close, Hoseok stops him with a gentle hand to the center of Namjoon's
chest. He bites at his lip, looking up at Namjoon with a gaze that flickers between his eyes for a
few moments. Eventually, he seems to come to some sort of conclusion, and pushes himself off the
desk instead, rising towards Namjoon until his lips hover over the older man's.
"Can I..." Hoseok doesn't elaborate, but Namjoon finds himself nodding in agreement anyway.
'Anything,' he thinks, 'anything you want—'
With Namjoon's permission, the teacher seems to muster up his courage—at least enough to tug on
Namjoon's shirt until he can turn the larger man around and press Namjoon back against the desk
in his place. Namjoon braces himself against the wooden surface with both hands, leaning back to
watch as Hoseok takes a step away and brings his hands towards his own clothes instead.
Namjoon's eyebrows raise as the younger man slips a hand beneath the fabric and drags it up his
stomach enough to expose several inches of smooth, golden skin, to expose a peek of something
else, something—
"C-Can—" Hoseok suddenly says again, drawing Namjoon's attention back to his face, "Can you
close your eyes?"
Namjoon can practically feel the nervousness emanating from Hoseok, can see it in the hunch of
the younger man's shoulders, in the way his fingers curl into his own shirt until the knuckles turn
white. Still, there is an edge of determination in the clench of Hoseok's jaw and the pout of his lips.
Namjoon isn't sure why on earth Hoseok would ask for such a thing, but he nods in agreement
without a moment of hesitation.
The moment his eyes fall closed, he can hear the teacher let out a heavy breath as though he had
been holding it, followed by the unmistakable rustling and shifting of clothes as they are tugged
from Hoseok's body and then dropped to the floor. Namjoon feels it when Hoseok approaches him
again, heat from Hoseok's body growing as he steps between Namjoon's spread legs. For a beat,
Hoseok makes no noise, then suddenly clears his throat to draw the nurse's attention back to him
again.
"Can I look now?" Namjoon asks with a playful tone.
"Please..." Hoseok replies softly, and Namjoon's eyes fly open without any further prompting.
First, his gaze falls to Hoseok's face, to the now-familiar slope of his nose and the sharp point of
his Cupid's bow. Namjoon's lips tingle with the memory of the last kiss they shared, and it's hard
not to lean forward to claim another one—but something out of the corner of his eyes stops him in
his tracks.
"What—?" He drops his gaze to Hoseok's body, and moments later, his jaw drops open as well.
There is... something adorning the smaller man's skin, clothing unlike anything Namjoon has ever
seen before. The fabric is sheer like curtains, woven together to create what look like intricate
patterns of little flowers that bloom across Hoseok's chest and hips. The fabric itself is dyed a dusty
pink like faded petals, complimenting the golden color of Hoseok's skin and the pretty blush that
curls over his high cheekbones. Namjoon's hands immediately itch with the desire to reach out, to
touch—
"W-What...are you wearing...?" He whispers in awe.

{art by @Dillibar_}
Hoseok shifts nervously from one foot to the other, drawing Namjoon's attention down the long
expanse of his torso—bare from the bottom of the strange garment across his upper chest until his
skin is covered again by the waistband of another. The fabric appears to be cut off at the bottom so
that it skims just below the curve of Hoseok's hips, like a pair of trousers that had been sliced short
across the tops of his thighs. Namjoon has never seen anything quite like it in his life.
"It's—" Hoseok starts to say, then hesitates. Namjoon can feel the heavy weight of the younger
man's eyes on the top of his head, but he can't bring himself to look away from the strange
garments and the way they seem to dance over Hoseok's skin, offering only glimpses of the
features beneath. Namjoon catches a peek of a nipple here and there as Hoseok moves, and
something about the barest hint of the line of his cock beneath the gossamer weave of his strange
bottoms is so...enticing. There's no other word for it.
"Do you...not know what this is?" Hoseok asks, skimming his own fingers along the edge of the
fabric where it frames his ribcage. Namjoon finally wrenches his gaze away to meet Hoseok's eyes
again, shaking his head slightly. An unreadable expression crosses the other man's face before
melting into something soft and affectionate. "It's called lingerie," he explains, and steps even
closer to give Namjoon a closer look.
Namjoon wants to unwrap him like a gift. Hoseok's body—already haunting his mind for many
hours now—is even more beautiful than he had been imagining, especially with the teasing way he
can only catch glimpses of Hoseok's most important parts, hairless and perfect. He gives in to the
impulse and reaches forward, his fingers hovering just above the scalloped fabric but not quite
close enough to make contact. With a smile, Hoseok reaches down and curls his thin fingers
around Namjoon's broader hand, bringing it all the way forward so he can feel the gossamer
texture.
"Do you...like it?" Hoseok asks, and Namjoon nods immediately.
'Like it?' he thinks, 'I've never seen something so pretty in my life...'
"I thought you might like the lace," Hoseok goes on, bending his head down to watch as his own
fingers trace over Namjoon's where they lie against the most delicate looking pieces of material.
"So I wore this one for you..."
"Lace..." Namjoon repeats, committing the word to memory. Hoseok's head rises a bit and he looks
at Namjoon with a furrowed brow.
"Yes," he says, and tugs Namjoon's hand along the edge of the garment, "this part is lace, and this
—" Their joined hands move up towards the center of Hoseok's chest, where the fabric is more
tightly woven, slightly shiny in the dim light. "—this is satin."
"Satin...right..." Namjoon's hand seems to move of its own accord, then, stroking over the silky
fabric to take in more of its smooth texture. His thumb catches on one of Hoseok's nipples through
the material, and the smaller man leans forward with a small shudder, his other hand digging into
Namjoon's shoulder where he has reached up for support. That first glimpse of his pleasure sends a
spark of desire up Namjoon's spine. "Did you—where did you get this? I've never—"
"I brought it with me," Hoseok admits, and now his voice is a bit more breathless. "I—I know I
wasn't supposed to, but—well, I've always liked to wear things like this, but I've never shown
anyone this before...I just, I wanted to wear it for—"
His sentence cuts off suddenly, and when Namjoon glances up at Hoseok's face, he finds the
younger man biting at his lip to stop the words from coming out. Still, Namjoon isn't dumb. He
may be unschooled on some things—every moment he spends in Hoseok's presence makes that
more and more clear—but it's immediately obvious exactly who Hoseok is talking about.
Namjoon brings both of his hands to the smallest part of Hoseok's waist, his long fingers nearly
reaching all the way around, and draws the smaller man as close as possible. Hoseok moves his
own hands to Namjoon's shoulders, fingers locking together behind the older man's neck. "It's
beautiful," Namjoon tells him, softly but firmly. "You're beautiful."
Hoseok lets out a little sound, almost like a dry sob at the back of his throat, and Namjoon leans
forward to swallow it down, his lips slipping over Hoseok's to soothe the tender flesh where
Hoseok had been nibbling at it moments before. Hoseok's hands slide up into his hair, fisting into
the dark strands, and drag him closer with a desperation that betrays the suffering he is still
harboring inside. Intimately familiar with the sensation, Namjoon silently commits to himself to
erase every painful memory with something new, something wonderful. Before, he had helped
Hoseok to remember—now, he will help Hoseok forget.
He breaks away from their kiss only long enough to shift his weight, sliding up onto the empty
desk behind him before pulling Hoseok back between his legs again—and finds himself pleasantly
surprised when the scantily clad teacher climbs up after him, his knees spreading around
Namjoon's to straddle his waist. He settles himself astride Namjoon's thighs, and the nurse can't
help himself but slide his hands down to grab at the delicious curve of the smaller man's backside
through the delicate fabric, the garment—the lingerie— the only barrier between them.
Hoseok hums happily and cranes his neck down to press a soft kiss to the corner of Namjoon's lips,
ducking back just in time when Namjoon attempts to turn his head and capture a proper kiss
instead. He allows his lips to hover just out of reach, their hot breath mingling in the small space
created between their mouths, and there is a mischievous look in Hoseok's eyes that makes
Namjoon's stomach clench—though whether in nervousness or excitement, it's hard to tell.
"How am I doing?" Hoseok whispers, and there's a teasing lilt to his voice now.
"W-With what?" Namjoon answers, his mind a little fuzzy at the edges as he tries to control
himself with such a delectable body in his arms.
"With seducing you," Hoseok replies. He tilts his head to the side and licks his lower lip, watching
as Namjoon's eyes immediately follow the motion.
"Oh—" Namjoon blinks slowly, his mind racing to catch up with Hoseok's words. "Oh." How
could he be so stupid? Of course—of course this is all for his progression, why would he—
Before Namjoon can slip too far into his own thoughts again, embarrassment already heating up
his cheeks, Hoseok shifts forward so that his lips brush over Namjoon's again. Their eyes are so
close, Namjoon can make out every detail of Hoseok's pupils as he whispers, ever-so-softly,
against Namjoon's mouth, "...will you fuck me, Namjoon?"
"I—" He swallows thickly, something just not working right in his mind in the face of Hoseok's
undivided attention. "You—You don't have to ask—"
"I know I don't," Hoseok says, and he seems determined not to look away now, even as his own
ears begin to turn pink at the tips. "But...I want to. I want to ask you. I—I want you to want it."
"I...I do. I do."
"Are you sure? I don't want you to just because we have to—" Hoseok starts to say, and Namjoon
feels his mouth instantly tugged down into a frown.
"Hoseok—"
Hoseok hurries to speak over him, fingers tightening in Namjoon's hair. His brow furrows over
desperate, earnest eyes, and Namjoon couldn't look away if he tried. "I want you to want it,
Namjoon—or I don't want it."
"I want it, Hoseok," he says immediately, putting as much conviction behind the words as he can
muster, "I want you."
For a moment, they both fall silent. In the distance, someone is moaning, but neither man pays it
any mind. Then, all at once and as easy as breathing, they crash together like waves against the
shoreline. Hoseok lurches forward to kiss Namjoon with a passion that drives the older man flat
onto his back, the motion nearly knocking the wind out of him, but Hoseok swallows his breath
down right along with the moan that rises from Namjoon's chest.
This new position allows Hoseok to loom over him, thighs spreading easily so that he can sit
astride Namjoon's hips. No longer hidden by the fabric, the younger man's erection is clearly
visible through the lace of his lingerie, the head of his cock peeking out over the waistband.
Namjoon can't decide where to rest his hands, greedily reaching for all the skin that he can reach,
and Hoseok only encourages him by rocking his hips down against Namjoon's own cock where it
strains against his trousers.
"Fuck me, fuck me—Namjoon—" Hoseok groans in between their fevered kisses, his hands falling
to the front of the nurse's shirt to ruck the fabric up his chest for a taste of the bare skin below.
"Y-Yes, I will—" Namjoon answers as his own hands make their way beneath the fabric of
Hoseok's bottoms to cup his cheeks in each palm, questing fingers slipping between them to tease
at the tight furl of his hole.
"Now-now-now," Hoseok pants, his hands diving for the buttons at the front of Namjoon's pants
instead when he loses patience with Namjoon's shirt, and the older man grins against the teacher's
lips. "I want it—"
"Shhhh..." He whispers, and gives Hoseok's ass an indulgent squeeze. Using his grip as leverage,
he takes control of Hoseok's movements, slowly rocking the younger man's hips down against his
own so that their lengths drag against each other, the fabric between them only adding a delicious
friction to the motion.
Hoseok lets out a broken moan at the pressure, tossing his head back, and Namjoon takes the
opportunity to dive forward and latch his lips against the inviting expanse of Hoseok's neck
instead. He kisses his way up the length of golden skin until he reaches the younger man's ear, his
voice dropping low as he whispers, "Do you feel that, Hoseok? Do you feel how much I want
you?"
"M—Mhmm..." the teacher hums, tilting his head to muffle the sound in Namjoon's hair.
"Don't you worry, I'm going to give you want you want," he promises, and uses his grip on
Hoseok's hips to rock their bodies together once more. Hoseok nods eagerly, his eyes twisted
closed, back arching into Namjoon's hands as he gives himself over to the pleasure. The confidence
that the younger man had mustered moments before has faded—not gone, but overshadowed by
the obvious desperation that has taken him over.
'Hell...when was the last time Hoseok was touched properly like this?' he wonders.
"Lube?" He asks aloud instead, and Hoseok's expression contorts in confusion for a moment, then
he reaches out one hand to gesture blindly towards the pile of his clothes that lie discarded by the
door. Namjoon smiles and offers the younger man one final kiss to the shoulder, just to the side of
one of the thin straps holding the gossamer pink fabric to Hoseok's skin, then sits the both of them
upright once more.
His arms wrap securely around Hoseok's waist, holding the smaller man tightly as his feet hit the
ground and he stands, carrying Hoseok easily with him. Hoseok makes a surprised sound and
wraps his legs around Namjoon's hips, but the nurse turns the both of them around and presses
Hoseok back to the top of the desk in his place long before there is any risk of dropping the smaller
man. When he releases his grip on Hoseok, the teacher falls back bonelessly, only managing to
catch himself on his elbows as he looks up at Namjoon—and the sight before him gives him pause.
The sun has long since sunk over the horizon, only the faint, fading glow still peeking through the
trees outside the window above Hoseok's head. The dappled light drifts across the desk until it
reaches Hoseok, painting his skin nearly as pink as the fabric still barely clinging to him. His cock
appears painfully hard beneath the lace and satin, already leaking through the fabric. Hoseok's
chest rises and falls heavily with his breathing, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark as he stares
Namjoon down expectantly.
Something about him spread out like this—here, in this office, in this way—feels achingly familiar.
Hoseok lies perfectly still for him, flushed and expectant, and Namjoon may never have seen
anything quite so gorgeous before. It is though every moment in his life has led him to this, to
Hoseok.
Namjoon wants to absolutely devour him.
His hands fly to the hem of his shirt and he wrestles with the buttons that line the front as quickly
as he can, his bare chest being exposed inch by inch to the burn of Hoseok's heated gaze as he
goes. Once his shirt has been shucked to the floor, he makes quick work of the buttons Hoseok had
abandoned, half-undone, at the front of his trousers, and drops them easily from his hips to the
floor. Stepping out of the fabric and kicking them aside, he stands before Hoseok suddenly the
more naked of the two, and the way Hoseok is eyeing him from head to toe with hunger in his gaze
tells Namjoon all that he needs to know.
Without a word, he bends down and reaches into the discarded pile of Hoseok's clothes, his fingers
closing around a small vial of lube after only a few moments of searching. Triumphant, he stands
and sidles back to the desk to stand between Hoseok's spread legs in a perfect mirror of their earlier
positions.
"Namjoon..." Hoseok whispers, sliding his legs apart invitingly. "Come here."
Reaching down with his free hand, Namjoon grabs at the underside of Hoseok's thigh and draws
his legs even further apart, marveling at the younger man's flexibility. He drags the leg up to curl
around his hip, and Hoseok goes willingly. The new position leaves the teacher spread open for
him, only the thinnest stretch of fabric keeping him from what he wants.
"May I...?" He asks, fingers trailing up the inside of Hoseok's thigh until his fingertips disappear
beneath the lacy edge of his underwear.
"You don't need to ask," Hoseok says with a smile, his eyes hooded and dark. He lays back along
the surface of the desk, stretching out the long lines of his body for Namjoon to appreciate.
'He knows he looks amazing,' Namjoon thinks to himself. These pretty garments— lingerie, he
reminds himself—give Hoseok a confidence Namjoon has never seen from the younger man
before. He can't help but pause, his eyes raking over Hoseok's form, taking in the slope of his
shoulders, the slight curve of his thin waist, the tantalizing peek of his uncircumcised cock through
the delicate weave of lace—
"You're staring..." Hoseok interrupts his thoughts, voice soft as he pipes up. Namjoon drags his
eyes up to meet the younger man's, finding a nervous curl to the teacher's brow as he stares back.
"I just...want to take everything in," he tries to explain, stroking his thumb beneath the delicate
fabric, dangerously close to the heat of Hoseok's erection where it strains towards his touch. "I
want to remember everything about this moment. Just like this."
Hoseok considers him for a moment, tongue peeking out from between his lips to wet the rosy
flesh. "Then...have me. Just like this." He slides one hand down beneath his thigh and tugs at the
lace until the fabric moves to the side, giving Namjoon an unencumbered view of the tight furl of
his hole peeking out between his legs. "Just like this. Leave the lingerie, I wore it for you..."
Namjoon can't help but let out a hungry groan at the sight, and hurries to get both hands on the
little vial of lube. Dumping it unceremoniously over his fingers, he tosses the bottle to the floor and
brings the digits down between Hoseok's legs to prod at his hole without further prompting, and
finds that two of his long fingers slip inside with almost no resistance. Though it isn't uncommon
for people in the community to be well stretched on a daily basis, there is something about
knowing that Hoseok did this himself, did this for Namjoon—
Which Hoseok is the true Hoseok? The man who stares with wide eyes and speaks with stuttering
words, who gazes longingly after backs that have long-since turned away from him? The man who
smiles like concentrated sunlight through the forest, who laughs easily and is so eager to please?
Or this man, who lures him in with a magnetism and confidence stronger than that of almost
anyone else he has ever known? How many sides to Hoseok could there possibly be, how many
things does the younger man have to teach him? Namjoon finds that he wants to discover them all.
"Namjoon..." Hoseok sighs, his body opening easily for the older man's fingers as he slips out two
and returns with three. Bending forward, Namjoon follows his instincts and drops his lips to
Hoseok's skin, peppering his stomach with little sucks and bites as he works his way down from
the edge of lace that curls beneath the younger man's nipples to the reappearance of the soft fabric
stretched taut over his cock where it lies against his stomach. He glances up at Hoseok for a
moment, sharing a heated look between them as his lips drag down the length of Hoseok's cock,
barely more than a teasing contact as his tongue darts out to taste through the gossamer fabric. "N-
Namjoon—please—"
"Okay, okay—" Namjoon drags his fingers free, not wanting to wait a single moment longer. He
places one last kiss to the head of Hoseok's cock before pulling away, wrapping his fingers around
his cock for a moment to slick the skin before stepping closer and teasing the tip against Hoseok's
fluttering hole, watching as it spreads easily to invite him in.
"P-Please—"
“Okay, baby...okay, shh…”
When Namjoon finally pushes inside of Hoseok’s body, it feels like coming home. Hoseok tosses
his head back, one hand scrambling for purchase against the smooth surface of the desk while the
other holds his body open dutifully for the intrusion of Namjoon's cock. The older man presses
forward until he is seated fully in one long stroke, Hoseok's body welcoming him easily.
'God, he really is a natural...' Namjoon can't help but think.
"Ohhhh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—" Hoseok chants under his breath, tossing his head back and
forth. Namjoon chuckles, and bends forward to kiss beneath the edge of the younger man's sharp
jaw, enjoying the tight clench of muscles beneath his lips and the way it mirrors the grip of
Hoseok's body around his cock.
{art by @xiieru}
"But Hoseok..." He murmurs, smiling against the teacher's pulse, "isn't this supposed to be a
seduction?"
Before he can answer, Namjoon rocks his hips back an inch or two, the sudden friction making the
words die on Hoseok's lips. They are replaced by a gasp, and Hoseok's other leg flies up to wrap
around his hips and drag Namjoon back towards him.
"Mmmm," he can't help but groan, and gives a teasing nip to the side of Hoseok's throat for the
trouble. "Aren't—Aren't you supposed to be luring me in?"
Hoseok drops both of his legs, allowing them to wrap fully around Namjoon's waist in favor of
circling his arms around Namjoon's shoulders instead. "A-Aren't you," he pants, turning his own
lips to Namjoon's ear, "supposed to be t-teaching me?"
The teasing tone in Hoseok's voice, undercut by how breathless the man already is, sends a
shudder through Namjoon's entire body. He growls and pulls his hips back against the tug of
Hoseok's grip, slamming them back down against Hoseok's without warning. Hoseok's body arches
beautifully beneath him, the drag of his cock inside clearly hitting just the right places to send
Hoseok spiraling.
"O-Oh g-god—" The teacher's teasing demeanor drops away immediately, revealed to be the act
that it was in the face of such sudden pleasure.
"That's what I thought," Namjoon drawls, and rocks their hips together pointedly again. "Let this
be your first lesson."
“Right—r-right there, that’s it—!” Hoseok pants, barely seeming to register Namjoon's words as
the older man picks up his pace, angling his hips to hit the same spot inside that locked up every
muscle of Hoseok's body around him.
"You are—no longer—the one—in control here," he whispers between thrusts, leaning back just
enough to drag his heated gaze over the man spread out beneath him. "And a seduction—is all
about control."
Hoseok nods dumbly at his Guide's words, chest heaving beneath the dainty weave of lace that
frames his chest, his nipples dark and inviting as they peak through. Namjoon can't resist the
temptation for a moment to duck down and close his lips around one of the small buds, teasing at it
with his tongue and teeth through the fabric until Hoseok's hands fly to his hair and drag him away
again.
Not one to be dissuaded, Namjoon fights the younger man's grip and simply ducks his head down
to bite at the other nipple, and grins when he feels Hoseok's cock leak against his stomach at the
sensation.
“F—Fuck—!” The smaller man cries out, and Namjoon shushes him with a soft kiss that stands in
stark contrast to his teasing only moments before.
"You like that, baby?" Namjoon asks breathlessly against Hoseok's lips. His hips never falter in
their pace, driving relentlessly into Hoseok's body with an ease that only comes from years of
practice.
Hoseok begins begging immediately, his grip on Namjoon's hair almost painful. “Don’t stop, don’t
stop—y-you’re—ohhhh—”
Dragging a hand up Hoseok's chest, Namjoon watches as he presses a thumb to Hoseok's lips to
quiet his cries and finds the younger man sucking the digit into his mouth without prompting, his
tongue swirling greedily against Namjoon's skin.
"Fuck," he pants himself, and drags his hand back to capture Hoseok's lips in another kiss instead.
His fingers make their way down below Hoseok's jaw, lightly circling the delicate expanse of his
throat, and Hoseok whimpers into his mouth. As he pulls away, he tightens his grip, pressing down
firmly enough that Hoseok can't chase after his lips, and he watches as the younger man's eyes roll
back in his head at the sudden lack of air.
"Oh, Hoseok...you’re perfect," he can't help but to praise, and Hoseok's eyelashes flutter against his
delicate cheekbones. He chances another squeeze of his hand, and feels Hoseok's body tighten
around him in response.
"P—P— Please—" Hoseok gasps out as best as he can, and Namjoon picks up his pace,
mercilessly driving his cock into Hoseok's prostate now. He eases his grip on Hoseok's throat for a
moment, allowing the younger man to suck in a deep breath before tightening his grip on either
side again, and Hoseok drops one hand from Namjoon's hair to the back of his wrist. Instead of
pushing Namjoon away, as he expects, Hoseok only presses his hand down tighter, and Namjoon
nearly comes at the sight alone.
"So—so perfect...”
From somewhere outside these four walls, Namjoon's ears pick up the sounds of whimpering,
moaning—but they're drowned out completely by the moan that is ripped from Hoseok's throat as
Namjoon's hand gives its tightest squeeze yet, the sound vibrating through Hoseok's skin beneath
his palm. Hoseok's cock is leaking freely between them now, no doubt making a mess of his pretty
clothes and the table below, and it only spurs Namjoon to fuck him harder, faster still—
“Are—are you close, baby—?” He asks, already knowing the answer, and pulls his hand back just
enough that Hoseok can gasp out a reply.
“Yes! Y—Yes, please—!”
"Let go, baby," Namjoon commands, "Let it take over you..." He feels the tell-tale clench of his
own stomach, the familiar warning of his own impending orgasm, but he fights back against the
feeling, his attention wholly focused on Hoseok now.
“N-Namjoon, Namjoon—!”
He feels it the moment before Hoseok’s orgasm crashes through him, Hoseok’s body tightening
around him like a vice, his lips suddenly moving silently as Namjoon’s grip tightens around his
throat hard enough to bruise. Namjoon gives a single thrust more—one thrust, and Hoseok is
shuddering desperately beneath him, his come spilling across his stomach and Namjoon’s chest.
With Namjoon’s grip so tight around his larynx, the younger man can hardly make a sound, but
Namjoon feels his silent scream all the same.
The shuddering of Hoseok’s body in the aftermath is enough friction to drag Namjoon to his peak
in rapid succession, pleasure coursing through Hoseok’s muscles with such force that it feels
almost seismic. He presses his lips to the younger man’s, practically feeding Hoseok moan after
moan as they are drawn from his chest, his come spilling deep within Hoseok’s body to mark him
as Namjoon’s own.
“H-Hoseok…” He whispers into their kiss as their bodies fall still, still inextricably twined
together. He loosens his grip on Hoseok’s throat at last, smoothing his fingers over the marks he
has left behind to soothe the younger man’s honeyed skin. The heat between them fades slowly,
from a raging fire to a slow, simmering warmth that settles deep in his chest. Hoseok pants into
Namjoon’s mouth, accepting one kiss after another until he regains control of his breath enough to
speak again.
“...fuck.”
Namjoon chuckles affectionately and nuzzles their noses together, laying another kiss to the corner
of Hoseok’s lips now.
“So,” he says, his voice barely more than a deep rumble, “did you...learn your lesson well?”
Hoseok’s lips split into a stunning smile, his eyes finally fluttering open to meet Namjoon’s gaze.
Despite everything that has just transpired between them, it is this sight—the little crinkles at the
corner of Hoseok’s dark eyes, the way his chestnut hair sticks to the sweat across his brow, the way
his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip—that renders Namjoon breathless himself.
“I don’t know…” Hoseok drawls, and his voice is rough like gravel at the edges. He curls his
delicate fingers around Namjoon’s broad palm, humming in pleasure as Namjoon thumbs across
his pulse just beneath his jaw once more. “I’m not sure I—c-caught all of that…”
His heel drags up the bare backside of Namjoon’s thigh, his hole clenching tight around
Namjoon’s cock where it still rests hard inside of him, and Namjoon drops his head against
Hoseok’s temple with a disbelieving groan.
Hoseok’s smile is pressed to the side of Namjoon’s jaw, a huff of breath kicked from his lungs as
Namjoon gives a retaliatory pinch to one of his nipples. “Please,” he demands, breathless, and
Namjoon thinks that this man might just be the death of him yet. "...teach me again."
Basement—Prison—Cell 24 08.28.18 11:47PM
The bars are impenetrable, though he’s not sure what else he expected. Free of his chains, he is
able to move about the small space that has been allotted to him, but what good does that do? The
air is stiflingly thin, very little fresh air reaching him at this depth, and the darkness is more
oppressive still.
With only the single, low-burning torch to illuminate his cell, the shadows that creep in at the
edges are a chorus of hands and teeth that reach and reach and reach. Join us, they seem to say as
he paces past them, his naked flesh just out of their grasp. Join us and forget.
He shakes his head to free it of the whispers, his fingers trailing back and forth along the bars that
separate him from the world. The concrete beneath his feet is cold but firm, chipping away in
places. Behind him, there is a hissing sound, ever-present, a single vent pumping in recycled air to
ensure his survival. As he paces, he counts the bars with his fingertips, over and over again
reaching the same conclusion.
Sixteen—seventeen—eighteen—nineteen—twenty—
Twenty. Twenty bars that contain his freedom. Twenty bars between him and what he wants.
With hours of attempts to break free of them beneath his belt, the iron seems to mock him. He
pauses before the door of his cage and wraps his hands around two bars on either side, giving them
a firm shake with all the energy that he can muster. The metal doesn't do so much as budge, not
even giving a creak for his efforts.
He can imagine the local hands that must have welded it together, the pride with which its creator
must have looked upon its sturdiness. With this in mind, he pictures some faceless, nameless man
as he brings his hands towards bars in the center of the door now, imagines wrapping his grip
around the man's neck instead as he pushes and pulls on the door with all his might. The metal
gives no leeway, only a small creak being earned for his efforts, and he flings himself away from it
with a groan of frustration.
'Unacceptable!' he thinks, 'This is impossible! You're so stupid, so so stupid—'
In his anger, his feet carry him across the room to the small cot pushed against one wall and he rips
the pillow from the bed, tossing it towards the cell bars as though it might make some sort of
difference. His ribs ache with even that effort, but it doesn't stop him from tearing the mattress
from the frame as well, the stuffing rustling as it impacts the wall opposite him. None of this does
anything to quell his anger, driving his hands to the bedframe itself, and—upon finding that it is
not fastened to the floor as he expected—it too becomes a victim of his outburst.
The metal clangs pitifully against the bars, barely making a dent before it clatters to the floor at his
feet, and he collapses back against the nearest wall with a frustrated groan. Aside from his outburst,
the dungeon is silent, the only sound that catches his ears the hiss of the vent at his side and his
own labored breathing, in and out.
'I have to get out of here,' he thinks, but even as the words cross his mind, he feels his heart sink at
the knowledge that he absolutely won't. Possibly ever. This cell might be his cage until the end of
the goddamn world.
Though he is no stranger to nudity, the pressure of crumbled stone and cold concrete beneath him
is almost unbearable, the chill seeping through his bare skin to his bones. The hissing air at his side
is his only comfort, providing some semblance of warmth in the small, confined space as a waft of
heated air reaches his bare skin.
He aches, but rather than the discomfort with which he has become intimately familiar, it is the
gnawing, clenching ache that comes from emptiness. His stomach twinges with hunger—but more
than that, it throbs and tightens around absolutely nothing for the first time in nearly eight months.
He leans his head back against the stone wall behind him, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment.
His rib cage protests every time he inhales, and it takes a great deal of concentration to slow his
breathing enough to ease the pain. Sitting on his wounded backside would cause him more
discomfort if it weren't for how accustomed he has become to the pain, how regular an occurrence
it has turned out to be.
He rubs his hands along the bruises on his upper thigh, tracing the shape of a boot print that has
finally risen to the surface in terrible, stark detail. His lip cracks as he gives a sardonic smile,
shaking his head at the memory. They can break his body all they want, it wont—
"Pssssst!"
The hissing sound he had been drowning out becomes too much to ignore, cutting through his
thoughts like a gunshot. His eyes fly open and he drags his head down to gaze around the small
space, squinting through the dim light for the source. The vent at his side continues to whirr just as
before, a low rumble that is barely more than background noise covered by a higher, softer buzz as
air continues to flow through the grate. The noise is hardly anything that would startle him—
"Pssst!"
There it is again, a louder, sharper tone that reaches his ears again, and this time from the other
side of the bars. He whips his head around towards the entrance to his cell, expecting to find
something there, or someone, perhaps—but the entrance is as still and dark as always. With no
small effort, he drags himself back to his feet, keeping his back to the wall as he moves towards
the bars, his fingers sliding towards the torch that still hangs in a hook along the wall. Yoongi
shouldn't have left it—he'll probably get in trouble for having it, later—but now, as his fingers
wrap around the handle and he holds it aloft with the less injured of his arms, he finds himself
grateful.
"Pssst! Pssssst!!"
The sound is more insistent now, practically demanding his attention. He slinks towards the bars,
stepping over the discarded pillow at his feet so that he can press himself against the metal and
ignores the way their frigid touch seems to burn at his wounds. With one hand, he holds himself
upright, and with the other, he slips the torch through the bars until the dim flame illuminates the
small walkway between the cells on either side.
At first, he sees nothing. The cell across from his is empty, which is probably a blessing. But as he
turns from one side to the other, eyes peeled for anything out of place, a hint of movement catches
his attention out of the corner of his eye.
"Pssst!" He hears again, and this time, the sound is clearly distinguishable as a voice.
"Who's there?!" He demands, brandishing the light towards the source of both the sound and the
movement.
For a moment, there is silence. Then, between the bars of a cell a bit further down the passageway
that is almost diagonal to his own, a set of pale fingers appears out of the dark. They wrap around
the nearest bar, followed by a second hand on the other side, and between them, a face materializes
out of the shadows.
"Who—" he starts to say, but the sound dies in his mouth. The pair of eyes that stare back at him,
dark and shining in the small flame from his torch, are achingly familiar.
"...Jimin?"
The torch slips from his grip, his body freezing at the sight of the woman before him. The flame
flickers as it hits the ground, crackling at the impact, but by some miracle, it stays alight. It casts
dark shadows up towards, the two of them, but he can still see her so clearly. He blinks, slowly,
half expecting her to disappear between one flicker of his eyelids and the next like a spectre in the
night.
Something in his mind shifts, changes, lurching away from the anger and defensiveness and
towards a version of himself he hasn't stepped into for a very, very long time. Her eyes crinkle at
the corners as she gives him a small smile, her face no less beautiful beneath her ragged hair and
the dirt that has become caked to her cheeks. The look in her eyes is one of joyful surprise as she
looks him over, pressing closer to the bars once she's sure it's him.
"Jimin, is—is that you?"
He stares, slack-jawed and childlike, as the fire strikes the woman’s high cheekbones, her thin eyes
and plush lips, a face that looks so eerily like his own that under other circumstances he might have
sworn he was looking into a mirror.
"—M-Mom?"
She lets out a small, broken laugh, relief evident in her features as she clings to her own cell bars
and leans as close to him as she can manage. "It's me, it's me—I—oh my god, Jimin, is that really
you? Is it?"
"I—" Jimin can't seem to bring words to his lips, every thought he has screeching to a halt long
before they even reach his vocal chords.
"Please tell me I'm not dreaming," she whispers, more to herself than anything.
His mother looks just the way he remembers her, though he has admittedly kept thoughts of her far
from his mind for many months now. It was far, far too painful to think of her, to know that she
was out there, out in the community where he couldn't reach her, couldn't be held by her or see her
smile—
"Look at me, Jimin," she asks, drawing his attention back to her again, and he realizes with a start
that his eyes have completely unfocused as he chased after his wayward thoughts. When he brings
his gaze back to her, he finds her face twisted into a much more concerned expression, eyebrows
wrinkling in the middle as she looks him over. "What—what happened to you, my son?"
He can hardly remember the last time she addressed him in that way, acknowledged the connection
between them, now forbidden.
"I—I'm f-fine," he manages to stutter out, his lips numb.

"No you're not, Jimin, don't lie to me," she says, and her tone commands immediate respect.
Though it has nearly been a year since he last saw her, his back straightens up immediately at her
words. "I may not be able to see you very well, but I'm not blind."
"It's—it's nothing, just a few bruises—"
"Jimin."
He snaps his mouth shut, his brow pinching together. How is this happening—
"Who did this to you?" She asks, her hands worrying over the bars as though she might be able to
pull them apart to get closer to him.
Jimin understands the feeling, his own body itching with the need to be closer, to reach for her.
With the hand still dangling between the bars of his own cell, he extends his arm as far as it will
go, ignoring the pinching at his underarm and the strain against his bruised ribs as he wriggles his
fingers into the space between him and his mother. On the other side of the passageway, his
mother mirrors the motion, but there are several meters of space keeping them apart.
"Who did this to you, Jimin? Who hurt you?" She asks, but he shakes his head and refuses to
answer, and catches a flash of understanding in her eyes.
Out of the corner of his own, he spots other movement in the shadows, dark figures appearing at
the doors of other cells on either side of the passageway, their hands and faces pressed to the bars
as they appear to lean in to listen. Jimin glances over his shoulder down the passageway the other
direction and spots several more prisoners gazing through their own cell doors towards him and his
mother, the weight of their eyes on him almost unbearably heavy now that he's paying attention.
Looking back towards his mother, he finds her eyes now shining in the dim, flickering light, her
lips pressed together into a thin line. He feels tears prickle at his own eyes instinctively in response
and reaches up with one hand to scrub them away.
"W-What—What are you doing down here?" Jimin asks, though the clench of his stomach tells
him that he might already know the answer.
How many months had he imagined her going about her life outside the walls of the Academy?
How many months had he wondered about her, tried not to give in to the pain of missing her? How
many of them had she been locked down here all along, barely a few hundred meters from where
he slept? From the looks of her, it had been far too long. Her nails are dirty where her fingers cling
to the bars, her skin so pale she might as well be the ghost that has haunted his mind for so long.
'This is—' he thinks, with horrifying clarity, 'This is my fault—'
"You know why I'm here..." she answers in a soft voice, her lips turning down at the corners, her
eyes shining with regret. "I'm here for the same reason you are."
"W-Who did this to you?" He asks, mirroring her earlier words.
The watchful faces all around them seem to lean impossibly closer, their ears turned towards him
and his mother to catch every word, though he knows that it must be all in his mind. Even in his
own cell, he feels the pressure of eyes on him, of figures at his back.
They are always watching, he remembers. Even here.
"The same person who did that to you," she says, pointing towards his wounds. It might be a
guess, but her words are spoken with the finality of someone who already knows the truth. He bites
at his lip, his head tilting forward to rest against the bars in shame.
The eyes and ears on every side of them feel closer than ever, seeming to wait with baited breath
and barely concealed excitement to hear what she has to say. Between them, the torch begins to
fade, stifled by the dirt that smothers it below, but it does nothing to diminish the impact of her
next words as she sends them into the dark.
"It was him. He threw me down here to rot," she spits. "Your father."
Front Office—Principal—First Floor 08.29.18 12:13AM
He knows that something is very, very wrong long before the moment he knocks on the office door
and receives no reply. The front desk was abandoned as they passed by, not a sign of the usual staff
seated just inside the entrance to greet them or send them away. Just as it had been the night before,
the office echoes with their footsteps and no other sound, shadows dancing alongside them from
the moonlight as they move past the windows and down the hall towards the solitary door that
faces them in the distance.
Even the security guard he expects to find sitting at the desk down the stairs is suspiciously absent,
and he fights to school his expression into something neutral that doesn’t betray his confusion—
and his trepidation. There isn’t a light turned on in sight, but a bright glow flickers around the far
doorway—confirming his suspicion that they are not, in fact, as alone as they seem.
“Are you ready?” He asks instead, pausing a few feet from the door to turn to his companion and
rest his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. His voice is barely even a whisper, the sound
spread so thin by his vocal chords that the other man leans closer just to hear.
“Yes—”
“We don’t have to do this now—” He starts to say, and it feels like the nth time in so many hours
that he has tried. They don’t have to do this now, they don’t have to do it ever —but Taehyung will
never accept that as an answer, and he knows it. Still, he has to try, even when the inevitable
response comes, just as expected.
“I don’t want to wait another minute, Yoongi. I—I can’t risk it.” Taehyung presses his hands
forward to Yoongi’s chest, tracing over the heartbeat that thumps just below the fabric that now
covers it. “Please.”
He says nothing more, because what can he? Instead, he throws caution to the wind along with his
sense of better judgement, and dares to steal a quick kiss from the younger man’s lips only feet
from the door of the one person who might steal everything away from him. This may be the very
last time, and he knows it. Nothing will never be more important than this.
“Let’s go.”
Yoongi drops his hand to the small of Taehyung’s back as they turn, together, towards the end of
the hall. He can feel the younger man quivering slightly beneath his touch, but Taehyung’s face is
just as stoic as his own must be, expression flat enough not to betray a thing.
‘He’s ready,’ Yoongi can’t help but think, even as the thought makes his stomach drop like a
stone.
He raises his hand and knocks just beneath the plaque attached to the center of the door, it’s golden
surface dull in the darkness. Still, familiar words etched into the metal feel almost threatening as
his eyes scan across them out of habit: “Kim Seokjin, Principal and CEO.”
Then, the two men stand back together, and they wait.
And wait.
Taehyung shifts nervously beside him, and Yoongi rubs his hand comfortingly up and down the
younger man’s spine. They say nothing, only the rush of their breath drifting between them.
Yoongi feels like he could physically cut the tension in the air.
Raising his hand again, he gives another sharp set of knocks against the door, this time much
louder than before. After a beat, there is still no response, and he lets out the breath he had been
holding as a huff. Taehyung turns his head to look up at Yoongi curiously, but Yoongi’s focus is
turned entirely to the room beyond the door now.
“Mr. Kim?” He dares to say aloud, and Taehyung stiffens beneath his hand.
Still, no answer, and Yoongi’s mouth goes dry. He swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment to
consider his choices—before reaching down to grab at the door handle and turn it, cracking the
door open just enough to peer inside.
The first thing that catches his eye is the small fire that is burning low in the fireplace against the
far wall, casting the same flickering glow that he had spotted earlier and tinting the entire room in a
deep shade of amber. The second thing he notices is that the desk that sits before the fire is
suspiciously, conspicuously empty.
“Mr. Kim?” He repeats, louder, as he steps into the room—and feels something give a terrible
crunch beneath his shoe that stops him in his tracks. Looking down, he finds the broken fragments
of what appears to be a bottle or glass of some kind, the shards spreading out across the floor from
where he stands like a fan.
Glancing back towards Taehyung, he points down at the mess, nodding to make sure the younger
man knows to be cautious. Taehyung gives a small nod in return, and Yoongi turns back to the
room to step inside completely, stepping over the broken glass entirely now.
He sweeps his head back and forth across the room, squinting to see through the dim light for any
sign of movement, his mind filling with terrible scenarios that call up images of a similar mess
strewn across his bedroom when he returned home earlier in the day. What had happened here?
But it only takes one glance towards the windows to his right for a shadowy figure to catch his
attention, startling him enough that he nearly steps back into Taehyung where the younger man has
stepped up behind him. He reaches back to steady himself, and finds the student’s fingers curling
around his wrist reassuringly.
The figure beside the windows stands tall, imposing, perfectly still. Yoongi blinks a few times for
his eyes to properly adjust, and only then does he recognize the silhouette of the Principal looking
out onto the community beyond.
“Mr. Kim?” He repeats a third time, and when he still receives no response, he steps closer again
and tries a different tactic. “...Seokjin?”
For the first time, a reply comes in the form of a small noise in the back of the older man’s throat,
though Seokjin does not turn to face them or give any other indication that he knows they are there.
As Yoongi looks him over, he notices the haphazard state of the older man’s clothes—and the
large, glass bottle that hangs loosely in the Principal’s hand at his side. The light from outside
catches on the liquid inside, exposing its dark, golden color, and Yoongi watches nervously as
Seokjin slowly raises the bottle up to his lips to take a long, greedy swig of the drink right from the
source.
“Are—Are you alright, sir?” He asks, breaking away from Taehyung entirely to approach his
superior instead, hands instinctively raised in front of him to guard against any sudden attack.
Seokjin wavers on his feet as Yoongi moves closer, only catching himself with fingers on the edge
of the window frame at the last second.
“...what...do you want?” The older man croaks, surprising Yoongi.
“I—we—we came to—”
Seokjin takes another gulp of the drink, and something about the sight causes a gnawing, nervous
feeling to take over Yoongi’s stomach.
“What do you want?” The Principal repeats, but his tone is not nearly as commanding as Yoongi
has come to expect. No, Seokjin sounds... tired. Not tired in the sense that he needs to sleep, though
that is certainly the case, given the late hour. Seokjin sounds tired in a way that Yoongi can feel
aching in his own bones.
“We...came to make a request, sir.”
Yoongi is surprised that it is not his own voice that responds, but Taehyung who speaks up from
behind him. This time, Yoongi does not turn to look at the younger man, not willing to take such a
risk—but it is finally this interruption that causes Seokjin to turn his attention towards them at last.
“Kim...Taehyung…” he drawls, and there’s a softness, a sloppiness to his voice that Yoongi hasn’t
heard in many years. With a sickening lurch of his stomach, Yoongi’s eyes fly back to the bottle in
Seokjin’s grip, and he realizes that the older man is drunk . Very, very drunk, from the looks of it.
“What—hmmm—what can I do for you, Mr. Kim,” the Principal says, and Yoongi doesn’t like the
way he emphasizes Taehyung’s name at all.
“I—well, sir—” Taehyung pauses, looking to Yoongi for guidance. Yoongi can’t bring himself to
do much of anything, his mind buzzing with warning alarms as Seokjin staggers closer to them
both, bottle raised back to his lips. Taehyung carries on bravely, managing to keep his cool even as
Yoongi is deflating right beside him. “I have, um—completed all of my coursework, sir.”
“Mmmm…” Seokjin makes an absent-minded noise in the back of his throat at Taehyung’s
declaration, looking away towards the ceiling now.
“And,” Taehyung seems to be struggling to remember what he wants to say, and Yoongi can’t
blame him. Seokjin’s current state is certainly nothing the younger man has seen before, and it
becomes no less disturbing with repetition. “And I believe I’m ready.”
“Mmmmm...r-ready...for what?” Seokjin slurs, pointing one finger vaguely in Taehyung’s

direction.
“Ready...to begin Level 13, s-sir. I—respectfully, I have come to—to ask your permission.” When
Seokjin says nothing for a beat, Taehyung adds, “to...graduate, sir. I’m—I’m ready.”
“Ohhh, are you?” Seokjin suddenly bursts out, the alcohol in his bottle sloshing as he sways with
his words. “Are you?!”
“S-Sir—”
Mistaking Seokjin’s inebriation for honest anger, Taehyung does the only thing he can think of and
drops down to his knees, flattening himself out into a deep bow against the floor before Seokjin.
“Please, sir,” he whispers into the carpet.
Yoongi watches in trepidation as Seokjin lumbers closer, eyes raking lazily over Taehyung’s prone
form. “You think you’re ready,” he says, and it’s not a question. Taehyung, wisely, says nothing,
keeping his head pressed tightly to the floor. He bares the back of his neck much like an animal
would, a show of submission but not one of trust.
"Mmmm…” Seokjin hums to himself, and then Yoongi has to physically fight his instinct to flinch
away when the Principal’s eyes rise up to land on his face instead. “And what say you, Mr. Min?"
Yoongi takes the opportunity to kneel down and place his hands on Taehyung’s shoulders, drawing
the younger man back up onto his knees to kneel before him. Something in his gut is screaming at
him to draw Taehyung back, to keep him as far from Seokjin as possible—not a new feeling, by
any means, but he has never felt it more viscerally than he does right this moment.
"I...give Kim Taehyung my full endorsement for promotion to level thirteen,” Yoongi says slowly,
fixing his eyes on the older man to track his every move. He doesn’t dare look away from Seokjin,
even for a second. “He has proven to be an exemplary student, despite his... setbacks earlier this
year."
Yoongi can feel Taehyung’s pulse thump like a wild rabbit beneath his thumb where it presses to
the younger man’s throat. He wants to comfort the younger man, desperately wants to reassure him
—but Taehyung has no idea of the looming threat in the room, couldn’t possibly understand. The
Seokjin standing a few feet from them is not the man that Taehyung expected to be addressing—
and there’s no telling what the person they are facing might do instead.
"Hmmmmm…” Seokjin hums around the neck of the bottle when he brings it back to his lips. The
level of liquor still left inside appears dangerously low to Yoongi’s eyes, and he tightens his grip
on Taehyung’s shoulders on instinct. “There—There is a reason ...you did not graduate as
expected, yes?" The older man asks, and Taehyung stiffens before him.
“Y-Yes, sir—” The student starts to answer, but Yoongi cuts him off.
“Taehyung has completed all required coursework under my guidance."
Seokjin narrows his eyes at Yoongi’s assertion, the gears in his head visibly turning as he considers
the teacher’s words. "Hmm.”
“I...have every confidence that Taehyung will make an excellent member of the community,”
Yoongi adds. “He’s come a long way. I’m sure he will make us proud.”
Seokjin licks his lips and shakes the bottle of liquor idly for a moment, seeming to consider the
sound. His fingers tap across the glass, making a soft tinkling sound, and when his eyes settle on
the both of his visitors again, he seems to look through them far more than he looks at them.
"Have you—given any thought...” he asks, apropos of nothing, “to what you might—might want to
do once your graduation is approved?"
Something clenches in Yoongi’s stomach, this time in anticipation. ‘He’s really just going to accept
this?’ He thinks, ‘just like that?’
"Well, I—” Taehyung straightens himself up, clearly also picking up on the opportunity presenting
before him. “I've enjoyed my work with—with Mr. Min. The experiments, and—and whatnot. I
thought…”
Yoongi’s heart gives a little flip-flop at that. He gives the barest stroke to Taehyung’s skin above
the collar of his shirt, a silent ‘thank you.’
“...Mr ….Min,” the Principal suddenly drawls, and Yoongi feels the older man’s eyes focus on his
face again.
“Yes, sir...?” He says, but when Seokjin doesn’t reply, he realizes that—perhaps—the Principal
hadn’t been calling for his attention after all.
Seokjin purses his lips thoughtfully, glancing between Taehyung and Yoongi for several long,
tense seconds. Bringing the bottle back to his lips, he takes one final gulp and licks away any liquor
that spilled across his chin, then drops the bottle right to the floor. The glass is sturdy—sturdier
than the fragments they stepped over upon entering the room, at least—but still makes a startling
thump as it hits the ground, liquor sloshing out across the carpet. Yoongi feels his stomach clench
in fear, and it is his only warning before Seokjin lurches towards them.
“On your feet,” Seokjin demands, and Taehyung scrambles to comply, his feet nearly slipping out
from beneath him in his haste. Yoongi reaches down to grab at Taehyung’s sides to help him up,
the both of them taking a frantic step back from the wild man before them. “Get—Get undressed.”
“Sir—” Yoongi tries to interrupt, but Seokjin is already on them, his hands descending to
Taehyung’s clothes to tug ineffectively at the buttons lining his uniform.
“I—”
“W-What are you doing, sir?”

“You want to move up!” Seokjin bursts out, his hand fisting in Taehyung’s shirt. “Little Kim
Taehyung wants to be a real man!”
Yoongi doesn’t think, adrenaline rushing through his body, his pulse heavy in his ears. His own
hands fly up to cover the older man’s, grabbing at Seokjin’s wrists to stop him from doing anything
else, from going any further—
Seokjin makes a disgruntled noise and rips the front of Taehyung’s jacket open, sending the
student jerking back in shock. “Let’s get this over with, then!” He says, voice practically deformed
into a snarl.
“Seokjin!” Yoongi shouts, and moves to put himself between the Principal and Taehyung now. He
wrenches the older man’s hands away from the student’s body, circling his fingers around
Seokjin’s wrists like handcuffs. Seokjin lets out a huff and turns his eyes to Yoongi now, his pupils
wide and dark, his gaze wild.
“Seokjin...please...c-calm down—” He implores, and turns himself completely between Seokjin

and Taehyung. “This isn’t the way, you know this!”
“Excuse me?!”
“This isn’t the way,” he repeats, voice firm even as his heart feels as though it is about to give out.
“I—I will set up the ceremony, I will take care of everything—please—”
Seokjin’s expression can’t be described as anything short of disbelieving. He does nothing to tug
himself free of Yoongi’s grip, his unfocused eyes flicking back and forth between each of
Yoongi’s own, his mind clearly struggling to keep up.
“Please. Sir.”
“Fine,” Seokjin whispers, eventually. Yoongi waits for a moment longer before relaxing his grip,
allowing the older man to wrench his hands away. “Fine.”
“Do you—”
“You’re free to go, Mr. Kim.”
Taehyung shifts uncomfortably behind Yoongi, a rustling sound reaching Yoongi’s ears that tells
him Taehyung has attempted to fix his torn jacket back around his chest. The boy hesitates, clearly
confused and waiting for something more, and it takes all that Yoongi has in him not to close his
eyes and brace himself before he opens his mouth again.
“Are you...approving Mr. Kim’s request?” He asks, and braces himself for the answer.
Seokjin gives another huff and turns away from them both. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is short,
“you have my—permission. To advance.”
“Oh—” Taehyung seems genuinely surprised by the Principal’s agreement despite—or, perhaps,
because of—his aggressive actions only moments before. “Oh, t-thank you, sir, thank you!”
Taehyung and steps forward to give a deep bow again, but Seokjin waves him off without turning
around. “I said you’re free to go.”
The student hesitates for only a moment more, bowing again on instinct, then begins backing
towards the door. “Thank you, sir. I—I won’t let you down.”
Yoongi starts to follow after him, heart thumping against his ribs as though he had just run a mile—
but a sudden interjection stops him in his tracks.
“Yoongi.”
He freezes, halfway turned around, and cranes his neck back towards the older man. Seokjin has
moved towards the windows again, his back still to the room, but Yoongi can feel his icy glare
even without the older man’s eyes on him.
“Yes...sir?” He asks with no small amount of trepidation.

“You...stay behind. I haven’t dismissed you yet.”
Yoongi glances over at Taehyung, who has picked his way across the fallen glass to stand with one
hand on the door, waiting for Yoongi with a confused and equally fearful look on his face. Yoongi
swallows thickly and offers the young man a little nod of reassurance, trying to convey silently that
he should get away while he has the chance. At first, Taehyung seems ready to disagree, perhaps to
even insist that he stay instead—but with a single, firm shake of his head, Yoongi dissuades him of
the idea.
‘Go,’ he mouths at the boy, and Taehyung takes only a second more to stare him down, looking
deeply into Yoongi’s eyes, before turning the handle and bolting out the door like it might be his
last chance. As Yoongi turns back towards Seokjin again, hearing the door click shut with a sense
of finality behind him, he thinks that it very well might be true.
“Sir?” He says dutifully.
“Come here, Yoongi.” Seokjin’s voice is low and menacing, and it goes against every instinct
Yoongi has to follow his command—but still, his feet march one after another towards the older
man, unable to unlearn years of programming in a matter of seconds.
When he reaches the windows at Seokjin’s side, he finds himself looking out across the
community from the top of the hill where the school sits, small lights here and there revealing the
presence of people in rooms that feel kilometers away, blissfully unaware of their presence here as
they go about their lives. He doesn’t dare look at the older man beside him, his shoulders raised
instinctively, protectively around his ears as he unconsciously braces for whatever is about to
happen.
“How dare you…” Seokjin says, breaking the silence. Yoongi flinches but keeps his eyes staring
straight ahead, knowing that he deserves the anger now being pointed at him.
“Look at me, Yoongi,” the Principal hisses when he gives no acknowledgement, and Yoongi has
no choice but to obey. Seokjin grabs at his chin the moment he has turned to look up at the older
man where he looms tall above Yoongi, and the look in his dark eyes is as frigid as he imagined it
would be.
Using his hold on Yoongi’s face, Seokjin backs Yoongi up until his spine is flat against one of the
long windows, pinning him in place with an implacable grip. Yoongi swallows nervously and finds
it difficult to do beneath the pressure.
“How dare you,” Seokjin repeats, leaning down until they are face to face. He can smell the liquor
on the older man’s breath, but it is nothing compared to the way it tastes when Seokjin suddenly
surges forward and slams their lips together, his tongue prying its way between Yoongi’s to
plunder his mouth beyond.
CW: explicit rape, blood, choking
click to skip
Yoongi gags immediately at the intrusion, his hands flying up to push at Seokjin’s chest, but the
older man gives him no room to move away, barely even seeming to notice his protestations now.
His other hand dives for Yoongi’s shirt just as he had done to Taehyung—but this time, his grip is
far more vicious, his aim more precise as he tears through the buttons that hold the fabric closed.
Yoongi groans, trying to shake his head, but Seokjin holds him perfectly still, fingers digging
firmly into the sides of Yoongi’s neck now. Seokjin’s free hand moves down to tug at the buttons
of Yoongi’s pants, jerking sloppily at the fabric when he can’t get them to come apart. Growling in
frustration, he tears himself away from Yoongi’s lips for a moment to look down between
Yoongi’s legs—and Yoongi takes the opportunity to shove as hard as he can against Seokjin’s
chest in an attempt to move the older man away.
‘I don’t want this, I don’t want this—!’ He thinks, desperately, but the only word that is wrenched
from his throat is a resounding “NO!”
His sudden outburst seems to stun Seokjin for a moment, the Principal staring down at him in
disbelief. Yoongi watches in horror as, in a matter of seconds, the expression in his eyes turns away
from drunken surprise and melts into something darker—something sinister.
“No?!” He shouts, his grip on Yoongi’s neck tightening with the word. “No?!”
All at once, Yoongi finds himself turned around, his face crashing into the glass. The surface is
sturdy enough to handle the impact, but it feels as though it sends his teeth rattling inside his skull.
The collision knocks the wind out of Yoongi, his hands just barely flying out to keep his body
upright—but before he can do anything more, Seokjin’s hands have descended on him again.
“You think you can tell me no?!” He hisses, and Yoongi feels his pants being jerked down his hips
unceremoniously, the fabric ripping at the seams when Seokjin runs into resistance.
“P-Please—” Yoongi tries to breath out, but Seokjin only shoves him against the glass harder,
crushing Yoongi’s face into the window hard enough that it’s difficult to make more than shapeless
sounds.
“You think you can tell me no, Min Yoongi?!” Seokjin kicks his legs apart, leaving Yoongi’s
backside exposed, his body barely covered by the remains of his shirt where it clings to his
shoulder. Yoongi’s cock hangs soft between his legs, but it hardly seems to matter to Seokjin at all.
“You think you have any right to stop me?”
“Mmmfffff—”
Movement outside the window catches Yoongi’s attention, his eyes instinctively trying to focus on
the dark shape that appears out of the edge of his vision. Seokjin’s hand disappears from his skin
and he hears the distinct rustling of clothing behind him, accompanied by the small, slurred sounds
of effort that the older man is making.
It has long since stopped raining outside, but the ground is still darkened with dampness. The
shadow beyond the window begins to take shape, a figure appearing out of the darkness as it
moves under one of the lights that lines the front of the building. Yoongi recognizes the silhouette
immediately, the familiar shape of long legs and a trim waist, shaggy hair and a rounded nose
striking a chord in his heart.
Taehyung.
Yoongi whimpers, praying to whomever will listen that his lover just keep walking, that he do
anything but turn around.
‘Don’t look—don’t look—don’t look—’ he pleads silently.
Seokjin presses closer to him again, this time much less dressed than before, and Yoongi has only
one second of warning before he feels the tip of Seokjin’s cock press against his hole. Closing his
eyes, he braces himself for the inevitable, gritting his teeth against the scream that wants to tear
from his throat as Seokjin forces his way inside Yoongi’s body without a second of preparation.
He feels himself tear around the intrusion, every nerve in his body alight with pain, and tears
immediately spill from his eyes. If he was breathless before, now it is as though the air has been
stolen right from his lungs—stolen away by the man currently violating him along with everything
else. Seokjin presses himself against Yoongi’s spine, his hot, rancid breath pooling over Yoongi’s
shoulder, and in the reflection of the glass, he can see the maniacal grin that takes over the older
man’s lips.
Outside the window, Taehyung’s silhouette has begun to retreat down the hill, fading into the
shadows the further he moves from the school. ‘Go—’ Yoongi thinks, desperately, ‘Go, get away,
don’t look back—’
As if reading his thoughts, Seokjin turns his lips against Yoongi’s cheek and breathes out against
his skin, “I’ll have—whatever—I— want, Min Yoongi.” He punctuates each of his words with a
small thrust in and out of Yoongi’s body, the drag and burn unlike anything Yoongi has
experienced in decades. He feels a wetness begin to seep down between his thighs, and knows that
he is bleeding. “And there’s nothing— nothing you can do to stop me.”
Yoongi can’t make himself go limp within Seokjin’s grasp, can’t convince his muscles to stop
clenching against the pain—but all at once, he stops fighting. Seokjin seems to notice the moment
Yoongi no longer resists his grip, no longer cries out as Seokjin pulls back and slams his cock back
inside, and it only seems to encourage the older man.
“I know—I know what you’ve been doing!” He snarls, spit dripping from his mouth to land against
Yoongi’s bare shoulder. Yoongi says nothing, but on the inside, he is shattering. ‘No—’
“I know about all your— whispers,” Seokjin goes on, his grip on the back of Yoongi’s neck tight
enough that his nails might very well draw blood too. “I—know all about—your lies.”
Yoongi pries his eyes open, blearily trying to focus through his tears on the view outside the
window where the world is peaceful. His body is on fire —but outside this office, outside this
building, the world is quiet and still.
“You—won’t—defeat me!” The principal’s words are barely more than a growl now, his thoughts
positively rabid as they spill from his lips. “I am—! I am the beginning and the end!!”
Taehyung’s small, retreating form is nearly out of sight now, and not once has the boy looked back
towards the school, towards Yoongi. Though his body is wracked with pain, Seokjin moving him
this way and that as though he is a doll himself—some small part of Yoongi’s mind relaxes,
finding some peace in the knowledge that the boy he loves, at least, is safe. Perhaps it was a
mistake to intervene. He brought this punishment on himself. But Taehyung was spared, and no
price will ever be too high to pay for that.
Seokjin thrusts inside of him with abandon now, the friction doing nothing to deter the older man
from taking everything from Yoongi that he has to give, willing or not. His reflection over
Yoongi’s shoulder looks so little like the boy Yoongi once knew that he is no longer recognizable.
Taehyung’s shadow disappears at the bottom of the hill. Yoongi finally allows his eyes to fall
closed. Seokjin can have all of him if that’s what it takes.
When their leader finally reaches his release, it scorches like caustic acid inside of Yoongi’s body,
burns as though the older man had poured poison into an open wound. When Seokjin pulls away,
dropping Yoongi’s limp body to the floor like discarded trash, Yoongi allows himself to fall.
And when the older man stumbles out of the room and leaves Yoongi lying there, covered in his
own blood, not showing so much as a single shred of care or remorse for the suffering he’s caused
—Yoongi feels something inside his mind shatter, the last vestiges of hope for the man he once
revered fragmenting apart like so many shards of fragile glass across the carpet below.
Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes
We made it through part 2! Again, I hope this extra-long, two part chapter was worth
the wait! Thank you again to my lovely betas for putting up with me for so long
The Namseok scene in this chapter is dedicated to my friend Emily, who is having a
baby TODAY! Em, I hope the lingerie was to your tastes and that you enjoyed the
surprise! Congratulations on the new addition to your family!
Summary of the scene containing blood, knifeplay, violence, extremely dubious

consent, non-con, torture, forced submission:
Seokjin grabs a letter opener and hands it to Jihyo, demanding that she use it to scrape
the come out of Jeongyeon's pussy and into a cup while Jeongyeon is bent over his
desk. Jihyo is drunk and clumsy and causes Jeongyeon to bleed during the process,
although Jeongyeon willingly submits herself to the torture to please Seokjin.
Summary of the scene containing explicit rape, blood, choking:
Seokjin forces Yoongi up against the windows of his office and rapes Yoongi dry and
with no preparation until Yoongi bleeds. Seokjin yells at Yoongi the entire time,
blaming Yoongi for stopping him from touching Taehyung and Yoongi earlier in the
same night. Yoongi is forced to watch Taehyung walk away from the school while he
is being raped, and thinks to himself that he will accept the torture if Taehyung is safe.
Once Seokjin is done with Yoongi, he leaves Yoongi's body bleeding on the floor and
walks away.
Phase Fourteen: Monument
Chapter Summary
Jungkook is a good doll. Really. He is.
Chapter Notes
TAGS FOR PHASE FOURTEEN:
Fingering, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Molestation, Mind Control, Brainwashing, Dubious

Consent, Nightmares, Bondage, Imprisonment, Mentions of Suicide, Explicit Suicide
Attempt, Suicidal Ideation, Feeding Tube/Force Feeding, Aftermath of Violence,
Blood & Gore, Medical Prodedures, Medical Play, Bullying, Harassment, Violence,
Beating, Humiliation, Punishment/Discipline, Impact Play, Public Nudity, Public Sex,
Psychiatric Ward/Mental Institution, Mental Illness, Memory Loss, Religious
Imagery/Symbolism, Aftermath of Torture, Hallucinations, Breathplay, Mentions of
Drowning, PTSD, PTSD Flashbacks, Aftermath of Rape, Vomit, Body Horror,
Implied Underage, Implied Child Abuse, Implied Rape/Non-con, Implied Domestic
Violence, Mentions of Infidelity
IMPORTANT NOTE:
This chapter includes scenes containing mentions of or references to Rape/Non-

Con, Blood, Vomit, Implied Child Abuse/Underage, Domestic Violence, and
PTSD Flashbacks. Some readers may prefer to skip parts or all of these scenes. There
is a link at the beginning of each section containing one of these elements that will
skip you to the very next scene without having to scroll past it manually. There will
also be a link to a description of the scene if you would like to know what you missed.
Please consider your options before reading these scenes! Bypassing these scenes will
minimally affect your understanding of the plot.
Fic Playlist
Phase Fourteen Playlist

the original
story here!
Son Household—Second Floor 08.29.18 5:04AM
It is pitch black when her eyes fly open, and for a moment she feels a scream building in her throat
as the images from her dream carry through into her waking moments.
A box—she is trapped in a box, so tight she can’t move, so dark it would be impossible to see her
own fingers before her face if she could bring them that far. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ she begs, but
the box only seems to grow smaller, tighter— ‘I’m sorry, I won’t do it again—!’
The scream grows and grows in her chest and she can feel it rising to her lips the moment she
lurches awake—but it dies on her tongue as a large, heavy hand clamps down over her mouth and
she hears a soft hiss in the shape of her own name.
“Chaeyoung.”
Her entire body jerks in shock, muscles immediately tensing to fly out of her bed, but she finds
herself pressed down into the mattress by that same firm grip. Her eyes water as she blinks rapidly
to clear her vision, and she finds that the room is not nearly as dark as she initially believed, the
barest glow lighting the sky over the treeline out her window to foreshadow the sun’s appearance
on the horizon. She is not trapped in a box, no—this is her room, she knows these walls. It’s early
—very early—which makes the appearance of an unexpected visitor in her room all the more
frightening.
“Chaeyoung, get up.”
The hand slips away from her lips, giving her enough room to sit up properly for the first time, and
in the barely-there hint of daylight, it’s impossible not to recognize the distinctive features of the
face hovering above her own.
“M-Mr. Kim—?”
What little Chaeyoung can see of the older man is—terrifying. His gaze is as dark as the night
outside, pupils wide and his eyes even wider. His skin appears gaunt in a way that can’t only be a
trick of the light, and there’s something... wild in his expression. She can’t quite be sure, but his tall
form appears to be quivering slightly as he moves away.
“Get up,” he repeats, his voice barely more than a hiss.
As if on autopilot, Chaeyoung flings the blankets away from herself and scrambles to her feet, legs
trembling from both adrenaline and the heavy weight of sleep she has yet to shake from her limbs.
She knows immediately what is expected of her, what he must have come here for. Her hands fly
up to unlace the front of her nightgown as though programmed to do so, the fabric slipping easily
down her shoulders, and she has the garment tugged nearly to her waist before she feels Seokjin’s
fingers wrap around her wrists and stop her hands in their tracks.
“No.”
“I—s-sir?” If her heart was racing before, now it is nothing short of thundering beneath her
ribcage. Her eyes immediately flicker down to her bare chest, the swell of her exposed breasts
above the fabric that has pooled at her waist, and she can’t help but be filled with guilt, with
disgust. ‘Am I no longer pleasing to him?’ she immediately wonders, ‘Does he not want me—?’
But before her thoughts can carry her any further down a spiral of doubt and self-criticism, the
older man tugs her closer and seals his mouth over hers. She gasps into the kiss, but it is over as
quickly as it began. As soon as Seokjin’s hands leave her, she stumbles and self-consciously tugs
her nightgown back up to hide her bare chest from view.
“What—?”
“Get dressed,” Seokjin orders, cutting her off. He stares down at Chaeyoung with a gaze that seems
to pass through her, and she finds herself shuddering. In all the time she has known him, she has
never once heard him request that anyone put more clothes on than they had before.
This man remains a mystery to her, even after so many months in his service, so many long nights
learning the intimate details of his body. Though she has been well educated in the most effective
ways to pleasure him, she has never once learned to please him—and in her most secret of
thoughts, she wonders if anything ever will. Still, his presence fills the entire room, taking up
every inch of space with his commanding aura, and something twists deep in her stomach at the
thought of disappointing him. Not Kim Seokjin—one must never disappoint Kim Seokjin.
“Y-Yes sir, right away,” she hurries to answer, and takes a hesitant step away from the older man
to stumble towards her dresser.
With whatever parts of her that are not preoccupied with thoughts of the man behind her, she has
the presence of mind to be self-conscious of the space they are now occupying together, her
humble quarters filled with small, personal things to make it feel like home. Is her bed untidy? she
worries. Did she leave any of her things on the floor? These four walls make a box larger than that
of her dream, but no less a prison. Or, surely, she would think so, if she was not overwhelmed with
gratitude at being offered it at all. Kim Seokjin is here, here in her room, seeking her out to hold, to
touch, to kiss—
“Do you know how to drive, Ms. Son?” Seokjin interrupts her thoughts as he watches her, eyes a
heavy presence on her retreating back. His tone is light, almost conversational, as though he had
not startled her awake moments before, as though there is not an edge of something dangerous
lingering on his tongue. The way he hovers over her shoulder reminds her of a ghost, untouchable
but dangerous.
She turns her back to Seokjin and strips fully out of the nightgown at last, letting the fabric drop to
the floor at her feet while she rummages through her drawers for something presentable to wear.
Given the current topic of conversation, she can only assume they must be heading somewhere
important.
“I’ve...been on a few trips to the village, sir, so…”
She can feel his eyes tracing over her bare skin as she moves, an ever-present weight. After a
moment of deliberation, she settles on a simple yellow dress that had been gifted to her the year
before, a favorite of her former employer that she knows makes her look both professional and
appealing.
“Good enough.”
“Are we...going far, sir?” she tentatively asks as she slips the dress over her head, feeling it slide
over her skin and hug her curves just so. As her hands move to tie the top of the dress, she blindly
feels around with one foot for a pair of shoes to slip on to avoid wasting any more time.
“A little ways, yes.” When Seokjin answers, his voice is much closer than she expects, her body
tensing immediately and the straps of her dress slipping from her hands. His breath is warm on the
back of her neck, and his touch even warmer as his large hands slide over her shoulders to take hold
of the fabric in her stead. Chaeyoung feels her breath catch in her throat as he begins to fasten the
straps into place with a smooth bow, not daring to move a muscle with him so close once again. He
positively looms over her, his body so close she can feel every whisper of his suit against her
backside as he moves.
“T-Thank you…” she manages to whisper when he finishes his work, but the older man does not
step away. Instead, she has to catch herself with both hands on the dresser as the hot breath on her
skin is replaced with his lips, lips that trail searing kisses up the line of her throat until he reaches
her ear.
“Turn around.”
Chaeyoung moves without thinking, giving her body over to his grip as he twists her hips until she
has taken a half step to the side, his body following suit so that his back is pressed directly along
the line of her spine. When she looks across the room now, the sky is slightly brighter through the
window, illuminating the space enough that she can clearly see herself reflected in the floor-length
mirror that hangs on the wall at its side. More importantly, she can see the way she looks standing
before Seokjin, how she looks so small against her employer, her leader, her master—
“You look lovely,” he whispers in her ear, and she glances at his face in the mirror above her head,
finding his eyes meeting hers directly now. His gaze is just as dark as before, but now there is no
questioning whether he is looking at her, not through her—that he is seeing her for exactly what
she is. She finds herself suddenly unable to blink, unable to tear her eyes away, and the longer he
looks at her—really looks at her—the more naked she feels, far more naked than she had been in
the absence of her clothing moments before.
“T—Thank you, sir…” she manages to whisper with the last of the breath clinging to her lungs,
and his lips split into some semblance of a grin over her shoulder. Chaeyoung can feel his hands
moving on her body, but she can’t tear her eyes free, can’t look away for even a moment—
She gasps, air suddenly kicked back into her chest as his fingers slip beneath the hem of her skirt,
sliding up-up-up the bare skin of her thighs until they slip between her legs and tease at her pussy
where it is already wet and dripping for him. She shudders bodily, even the smallest touch from
this man enough to send her nerves singing.
The Seokjin whose office she had entered only hours ago was a vastly different man than the one
who pins her in place now, all cool indifference and sharp commands. Though his touch feels
exactly the same, it is laced with something menacing that lingers from the night before. Will she
upset him again? she wonders. How does one keep a god happy, anyhow?
This position is so reminiscent of the last time she had been in his presence—his fingers teasing at
her most intimate of places, his breath heavy on her throat, her legs spread for him—that she can
almost taste the sting of liquor on her lips, she can almost hear the lash of harsh words screamed at
her retreating back.
“M-Mr. Kim—”
Her hands clutch desperately at the chilly morning air, too afraid to hold onto the man behind her,
but she has no choice but to give her full weight over to his hold in order to stay upright as he has
his way with her. His clever, expert fingers draw one noise after another from her lips, shocks of
pleasure rising in her core as he plays her like a finely tuned instrument. He is whispering
something now, familiar words against the line of her throat that draw her desire from her like a
sieve. It has only been a few moments, but she is already floating, floating—
“Come for me, Chaeyoung,” he commands, and it’s far too soon, she can’t—she can’t—
But there is no refusing Kim Seokjin, and her body obeys with such ferocity that she is sure her feet
have left the floor entirely. There was pleasure building in her before, yes, but it was a small,
writhing thing, something that grew in her gut with each drag of his fingers. Now, at his directive,
it instantly balloons in size until she is breathless around it, an orgasm taking her body over as
though possessing her from the inside out. Her muscles positively scream in protest as she shudders
in his arms, her mind blinded by the shock of it all.
‘This is impossible,’ she thinks, even as the pleasure courses through her. But, perhaps with time,
she will realize how foolish a thought this is. Kim Seokjin, a whisper in her mind nudges her, this is
Kim Seokjin. Miracle worker. A rapturous experience at his hands should hardly come as any
surprise at all. Kim Seokjin, Kim Seokjin, Kim Seokjin—
And then, all at once, she has returned to herself. Returned to the four walls of her bedroom, to the
shadows that cling to every surface. Seokjin’s hands pull away with no preamble, leaving her
wavering on the spot, her mind crashing back down into her body as it shudders and sways.
“Finish getting dressed,” Seokjin directs her while wiping the mess on his fingers on the hem of
her skirt. His voice is just as steady as before, the last few minutes appearing to have had no effect
on him at all. When she manages to catch his eyes in the mirror for a split second before he
disappears from view, there is no sense of recognition in his gaze. His eyes are once again hollow,
empty, unseeing. He steps away silently, leaving her to fall against her dresser for support. Her
chest heaves with each breath so hard her ribs ache with the effort.
“Meet me at my car in 2 minutes,” he orders with his back to her, and tugs the door to her bedroom
open with a creak. His shoes click against the wooden floors as he steps away into the hall beyond,
the sound echoing down the long space as he passes each of her sibling’s rooms along the way.
Chaeyoung feels another shudder overtake her body, but this one a far cry from the rumblings of
pleasure from moments before. No, this shudder is that of a stiff breeze, a cold spot, an icy touch.
Her hands are numb as she scrambles to pull her shoes onto her wobbly feet, straighten her dress,
smooth her hair. The outline of his lips lingers on hers as she takes deep breath after deep breath to
calm her quaking lungs and unsteady limbs.
‘Two minutes,’ her mind repeats as she gives herself a final glance in the mirror, her gaze lingering
on the flush high on her cheeks, the glow that now clings to her skin. Her nipples peek through the
thin fabric of her dress. Her thighs press together in an instinctive attempt to quell the way she is
still dripping.
With one final glance around the room to assure herself that this was real, that this happened—to
her, her of all people!—she turns away from her reflection at last and moves towards the doorway
herself. Her heels send echoes up against the walls just as his had before, a pale, staccato imitation.
She does not bother closing the room up behind herself, knowing there is no use in doing so. There
is nowhere she can run from him—only run to him, or run after him.
And it is with that thought encouraging her forward that she makes her way through the house,
following her leader as he heads to the road outside, chasing the ghost of Kim Seokjin wherever he
asks her to go.
It is dark and almost oppressively humid, the small room filled with so much steam that it makes
the walls feel too close, the air too heavy on his skin. The bath is empty, his only companions the
echoes of his own thoughts and the pattering of rain on the roof above.
Still, the water is piping hot, its weight a comforting blanket over his naked limbs that wards away
the night. He sinks lower beneath the surface, feeling the sting as it laps against his collarbones,
his shoulders, his throat.
There is little more than a single light in the room—a lone torch that flickers overhead, casting the
space in a dim glow that both dances above and swims upon the surface of the water—a duet he is
content to sit back and watch for what feels like hours. Days, even. Here, there is no time—only the
shadows, and the pool below.
Though his skin should long since be wrinkled and pruned, his fingers feel smooth and young and
unmarred by work or toil as he wriggles them beneath the surface. He takes a deep inhale, feeling
the damp air make its way all the way down to the bottom of his feet. He is empty inside, no more
than a shell that rattles with his breath. The water is thick and warm and weighty enough to drag
him under—down, down, down until waves bite at his lips, his ears, his eyes—
He takes another deep, fulfilling breath, but finds his tongue coated in only air. His eyes part to
find the water where he left it, enveloping his legs and hips and chest and nothing more. He
reaches for a bar of soap, lathers his hands, runs fingers over skin and hair until he knows he is
clean—dips below the surface to prove it.
When he emerges, the dark is closer now, a looming presence on all sides. He blinks, and there are
shapes in the shadows—tall, hooded figures with their hands outstretched—reaching, always
reaching—
He blinks again, and the darkness settles. The figures melt into the walls. He is left alone with the
heat and a promise on his tongue. The water is above his head now, though it has never risen. All
around, there is only the deep.
He reaches for the soap again, coats his hands until they are slick and dripping, runs fingers over
skin and hair until they are spotless. When he dips below the surface once more, the water rushes
to his ears until all he can hear is the thrumming of his own heartbeat. If he listens closely enough,
it speaks to him.
'Come closer,' it says—though he does not know where he should be going. 'Don't be afraid,' it
whispers—though in his heart of hearts, he knows he feels no fear. This is precisely where he is
meant to be.
He knows he could stay below the waves forever, his lungs never once burning for a single gasp of
air. Still, the voice calls to him, and he must obey. 'Join us,' it says, and he rises back to the
surface.
The room above is as dim as before, flickering shadows dancing across every wall—their
silhouettes shapeless, nameless, and yet they dance all the same. And somewhere, in some distant
corner of the dark, there is also movement.
He opens eyes that were never closed, peering through the dark for a glimpse of his visitor.
Something stirs in the shadows. A figure approaches, one that is kissed by the dancing firelight
above, cloaked in long, gossamer robes that seem to grow out of the ground itself to shroud its
figure. He leans forward in greeting, but before he can say a single word, hands appear from
below the robe and gently whisk the hood from its head.
The face below—he knows that face—
"Hoseok?" He asks, barely more than a whisper.
The younger man smiles, his teeth glinting through the mist.
"What are you—?" he tries to ask, but Hoseok silences him with a single tilt of a hand. His lips seal
themselves shut, his throat all but forgetting how to form words.
Hoseok's long, thin fingers trace along the front of his robe, tugging at the ribbon that holds the
garment closed. He watches as Hoseok slips one sleeve down his arm, and then the other,
revealing nothing but long limbs and bare skin beneath. He seems to glow under the firelight, the
flames abandoning the walls to dance along Hoseok's skin instead, weaving along his collarbones
and down his bare legs. The light betrays the presence of one garment on the younger man's body
that remains even after his robes have slipped to the floor—a thin, delicate swathe of crimson that
clings to every curve and hard line of his body, trailing across his chest and skirting the tops of his
thighs.
Hoseok is a vision—a beautiful, terrible vision.
'Come closer,' the voice in his ear repeats—but it is Hoseok who seems to answer the call, stepping
out of the puddle of fabric on the floor and approaching the edge of the water without a word.
The moment the younger man dips a toe into the bath, it is as though the very atmosphere of the
room changes. If he were to look around, the shadows would still hang as heavy from the walls, the
fire would burn as bright—but the dense, opaque cloud of steam that surrounds him only seems to
thicken, fencing the two of them in until there is nothing he can focus on except the miles of
Hoseok’s golden skin as he dips one leg after the other into the steaming water.
The haze parts like curtains as Hoseok approaches, and with each step, he disappears further
beneath the surface until the water laps at the tops of his thighs. It soaks through the crimson
fabric, darkens it to a blood-red hue, makes it cling to Hoseok’s skin as he moves. There is
nowhere else to look. There is no way he could make himself do so.
Hoseok’s fingertips brush along his upper arms, and suddenly the man stands before him,
appearing between one blink and the next. He looks up and finds Hoseok’s eyes dark, piercing,
pupils entirely black where before they might have been a deep chocolate, russet, umber—
One of the delicate straps holding fabric to Hoseok’s skin slides down his shoulder as though
tugged by invisible fingers, and he can’t help but replace them with his own. Hoseok never once
breaks their shared gaze, eyes hooded but unblinking, as he raises his legs one at a time and
straddles the lap before him.
His hands drop to Hoseok’s hips and pull the smaller man closer, a possessive desire bubbling up
in his chest and clawing at his throat. ‘Mine,’ he thinks, and the beast in his chest purrs its
approval.
Hoseok pays him no mind, tilting his head to look down appraisingly while his hands dip below the
water at his sides. Somehow, when his hands reappear, they are filled with the discarded soap
from before, and Hoseok rolls his fingers across its surface until they are slick and glistening.
‘Be still,’ he hears, and his body obeys. Hoseok’s hands fall to his shoulders, his chest, his stomach
—tracing the firmness of his muscles and the bony points where his skin draws thin, worshipping
the shape of him and all his edges. Hoseok runs fingers over skin and hair until they are spotless,
reaches over his shoulder for a pitcher, upends it over his head.
He closes his eyes, tilts his chin to the sky, allows the water to roll over his features like a flood.
Within seconds, the liquid turns thick, viscous, clinging to his skin as it runs from his scalp to his
throat. When he parts his lips, there is no water—only the peppery, earthy taste of oil.
Hoseok’s fingertips find his mouth, find no resistance as they slip inside. The oil coats his tongue
until he finds himself drowning in it, but he can’t help but crave more. When his companion
replaces fingers with lips, he licks his way inside Hoseok’s mouth and finds oil hot and ready to be
swallowed. He drinks it down as though he has been starving in the desert, lets it fill him from
bottom to top.
Hoseok pulls away, and his lips drip with the substance, golden and glistening like honey. The
younger man allows it to cascade down his own throat, down the long line of damp skin in the
center of his chest until it soaks through satin and lace.
When he raises his eyes to Hoseok’s face once more, he finds eyes black as night staring back at
him. He is breathless, drowning—drowning in the depths of those eyes—
“Have you come to seduce me?” The words leave his mouth of their own accord, and Hoseok’s
lips tilt into a smile that takes the whole world with it.
“Oh, Kim Namjoon…” Hoseok replies, the words more hiss than sound, “I’ve come to devour
you.”
All at once, their bodies collide. Hoseok’s thighs clench around his hips, long fingers weaving into
his hair. Lips find each other once more, this time with teeth that bite and claim. Beneath the silk
and lace, Hoseok’s skin is a bare offering, and their cocks slide easily together below the water.
He draws closer, closer still—opening himself up until there is nothing left but for two to become
one.
Hoseok draws him in with insistent hands and a tongue of gold, parted thighs easing his body
down atop the cock between them. There is oil here, too, slicking the way between their bodies until
he is buried so deep within Hoseok that there is no end to himself and no beginning to the
beautiful, terrible creature in his arms.
As they begin to move together, the shadows descend from the walls once more, their ghostly,
hooded shapes looming closer and closer. They sway to and fro as he rocks his body into Hoseok’s,
driving deep into the tight clench of his lover’s waiting body—even with his eyes closed, he can see
them all around, watching, waiting. Their audience circles the bath, their bodies replacing the
walls until it is only their shadows that hem in the water; their hands emerge from the steam,
wraithlike fingers clenching, pointing—
‘Are you the one?’ they ask, and his throat burns with an answer his mind cannot find, even as
Hoseok’s lips trap any sound he might make atop his tongue.
‘Are you the one?’ they demand, and he swallows mouthful after mouthful of oil, milk, and honey
—
“Namjoon—” Hoseok breathes, tossing his head back into the fog. His throat is bare and inviting,
body an altar at which his lover comes to worship.
‘Are you the one who is to come,’ the crowd whispers all at once, pressing so close now that the
candlelight is swallowed by their darkness. ‘Or shall we look for another?’
The first touch of their spectral hands upon his skin all but draws his release from the pit of his
stomach, an offering he pours into the waiting grasp of Hoseok’s own. His lover cries out in
rapture, spilling his seed across the chest he clings to. The air is too thick, impossible to swallow.
Fingers descend upon his body, spreading the viscous release along his collar, his throat, his jaw
—anointing his skin—
‘Are you the one—?’
Hoseok lays another kiss against his lips, this one an offering of a different sort. “Namjoon…” his
lover whispers again, voice a far-flung echo, and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself suddenly
alone.
The room is quiet, the air is heavy with fog and nothing more. The bath is without edges now,
water stretching as far as the eye can see. Where before he was covered in sweat, his skin sprouts
goosebumps instead. The waves lapping at his waist are bitterly cold.
Somewhere, in the distance, he hears a lone bird cry through the haze. The wood behind his back
is replaced with rough stone, the reaching hands replaced with long branches that cast shadows
across the rippling surface before him.
“Namjoon…” a voice whispers, emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
“Who’s there?” he dares to question, throwing his own voice into the mist.
“Kim Namjoon…” the voice answers, and the water at his feet begins to churn.
Though his stomach clenches in fear, there is nowhere to run. The rocks trap him in place as the
turbulence grows, a dark shape blooming below the surface. He tries to turn his head away, but
invisible hands hold his shoulders, his chin, demanding that he watch, that he wait—
The dark shape breaches the surface of the water, dripping and monstrous. It looms towards him,
its figure almost humanlike, dark tresses cascading from its head into the waves below. For a
moment, he recognizes its face—the shape of its lips, the bow of its nose—
“Hoseok?” he asks, but—
No—
It is a woman that has emerged before him, body naked and eyes as dark and treacherous as the
sea. Her dark hair clings to her figure like so many cobwebs, embracing the curve of her hips and
the swell of her bare breasts. She is a great and terrible beauty—and though it frightens him to
look upon her, it is also impossible to look away. Though he knows she is a stranger to him, there
is recognition in her gaze as it meets his own.
“Kim Namjoon,” she says again, and he finds himself bowing his head in recognition.
The woman’s hands appear from below the water, spread flat and wide, and upon her palms she
offers something glinting, silver—
The water parts to reveal her gift—a shining sword with a gilded handle laid in gold. She offers the
sword towards him, still dripping—but as his hands reach to grasp it, he falters.
“Are you the one?” she asks, and her voice demands an answer.
“I—”
“Are you the one?” she repeats, brandishing the sword higher. Her eyes are dark and sharp as any
blade, her gaze as discerning—
“I don’t understand—”
“Are you the one?!”
“Namjoon…?”
A sudden clamor breaks across his thoughts, sending the nurse tumbling from his bed. When he
opens his eyes, his room is nearly as dark as he left it before descending into unconsciousness, lit
only by the faintest hint of sunlight over the horizon that paints the space purple and blue. His
sheets tangle around his ankles as he flounders to gain his bearings, hands flying out for any sort of
purchase.
Across the room, a thin strip of light outlines his door against the shadow of his wall, the glow
marred only by two shadows at the bottom of the frame where someone stands waiting. For a
moment, there is nothing but the sound of his heartbeat thudding dramatically in his chest, then—
“Namjoon, are you there?” A voice calls out to him, and he scrunches his face together to ward off
his exhaustion. Clumsily, he manages to extricate himself from his makeshift restraints, tossing his
sheets back atop his bed to be dealt with later before turning towards the source of the sound. His
legs are unsteady as they carry him across the small space, but he manages the journey with no
further accident, and takes only one deep, steadying breath before reaching for the knob and
wrenching the door open.
“Oh—”
There, in the much more brightly lit hallway, stands the very cause of his thundering heartbeat, one
hand raised towards the door to knock again and eyes wide as saucers.
“Hoseok?” He croaks, blinking blearily at the younger man in surprise.
“I—” The teacher drops his arm limply to his side, a blush striking across his high cheekbones.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you—”
Namjoon shakes his head automatically, his own shoulders mirroring Hoseok’s posture and
dropping down from their position beside his ears. “No,” he hurries to say around another deep
breath, “no, it’s alright.”
“I can come back if this is a bad time—” the younger man begins to say, but Namjoon cuts him off
with a wave of his free hand.
“It’s fine,” he repeats, this time with as much of a smile as he can manage. “You’re never bothering
me.” Hoseok mirrors the expression immediately, the worried twist of his lips melting into a grin
that is far more blinding than the lights overhead.
This Hoseok is nothing like the Hoseok from his dream, all soft creases at the corners of his eyes
and warm, tanned skin. This Hoseok steps closer eagerly at the first sign of welcome, reaching out
with tentative fingers to rest his palm against Namjoon’s bare stomach.
Namjoon doesn’t have time to marvel at the differences before Hoseok speaks again, his gaze
dropping low as his blush only grows deeper atop his cheeks. “I’m sorry I woke you,” he says,
voice softer than before, “I just...had something I wanted to ask you.”
“Is that so?” He murmurs in return. Though this Hoseok is nothing like the dark, commanding
figure that had been conjured by his mind only minutes before, the younger man’s presence is no
less intoxicating, no less alluring. He stands before Namjoon in simple clothes, the same tunic and
trousers that all community members wear, but Namjoon still finds himself swallowing thickly at
the peek of collarbone above the fabric. Perhaps it is only the dream still lingering in his mind, but
the brush of Hoseok’s fingertips along Namjoon’s belly is enough to send his cock stirring once
again.
He steps closer to the younger man so that his breath sends the soft, dark hairs atop his visitor’s
head fluttering, and Hoseok’s fingers clench more firmly into his waist. “Yes,” he breathes,
sounding just as affected by Namjoon’s presence as Namjoon is by his. “Yes, I—”
When Hoseok falters again, Namjoon bends his lips down to the younger man’s ear, his breath hot
against Hoseok’s throat as he says, “What is it, beautiful?”
He can feel Hoseok swallow thickly at his praise, and it is impossible to keep a grin from his lips
now. His heart thuds happily against his ribs for an entirely different reason than before, the pace
the same but his blood swimming with excitement when previously there was only fear.
“I...have a surprise for you,” Hoseok manages to say, finally looking up to meet Namjoon’s eyes
again.
“Oh?” He curls his arms around the small of Hoseok’s back, stomach clenching as Hoseok’s thin
hands slide up his chest to rest above his thundering pulse.
“Yes, I—tonight,” Hoseok hurries to say, stumbling over his words in some combination of nerves
and excitement. “Tonight, will you...if I asked you to meet me somewhere, would you—”
“Of course,” Namjoon answers before Hoseok can finish his sentence, the reply an easy one.
“Whatever you want.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says with a chuckle and a squeeze, and Hoseok grins brighter than ever.
“Okay, I—um—I want to show you something, but I can’t tell you what it is yet,” the younger man
explains. “Do you trust me?”
Namjoon pauses for a moment, considering. “I do…” he confirms, and his chest fills with warmth
as he realizes that the words ring true. “I trust you.”
“Then meet me on the edge of the third field at sundown, beside the large oak tree. Do you know
the one?”
“I do,” he repeats.
“Meet me there at sundown, okay? I—” Hoseok pauses, then shakes his head with a grin. “It’s a
surprise. Just—please?”
“Shhhh, don’t worry,” Namjoon soothes, his large hands running along the curve of Hoseok’s
spine. “I’ll be there.”
Hoseok lets out a little happy noise at his agreement, and Namjoon can’t help but chuckle at the
younger man’s excitement. Before he can say anything more, Hoseok leans up on his toes and
winds his fingers into the hair at the back of Namjoon’s neck, drawing the taller man down into a
brief but intense kiss that stops Namjoon’s breath in his chest.
“Okay, then it’s a date!” Hoseok chirps as he pulls away, cheeks straining from the force of his
smile. He bounces his way out of Namjoon’s grip and backs away down the hallway, his neck
craning back to look at the older man as he gives a wave and calls out, “I have to go now, I need to
get back to the house before someone notices I’m gone!”
“Right…” Namjoon replies, dazed, his arms still outstretched. A date, his mind echoes, trying the
words on for size.
“See you tonight!” Hoseok whispers as his feet carry him swiftly towards the end of the hall
towards the stairs.
“Tonight…” Namjoon repeats, letting his weight fall to the doorframe at his side as Hoseok
disappears around the corner. One of his hands makes its way into his hair, scratching dazedly at
his scalp as he tries to put his thoughts back in order.
At his back, he can feel the warmth of the sun just peeking through the trees now. If he were to
open his window, the very first of the morning’s birds may be chirping their greeting for the day.
His heart begins to settle back into place, his stomach no longer attempting to create knots below
his ribs.
His lips tingle with the ghost of Hoseok’s kiss as he runs his tongue across them and backs his
body into his room again—and for a moment, he remembers the echo of a different kiss in its
place, the taste of oil bitter on his tongue—
But the memory is as fleeting as the shadows receding across his floor, growing dimmer by the
second. His bed sits against the far wall, still a tangled mess but no less inviting—and yet the day
has already begun, and he has no choice but to face it. His mind wanders to the young man on his
doorstep as he stretches and groans, shaking off the heavy weight of sleep from his limbs.
‘No sense in putting off the inevitable,’ he chides himself as he strips off his loose sleep pants and
digs through his dresser for something new to wear. ‘There are things I could get done this early in
the morning, and nobody should be around to interrupt for once.’
He slips into a new pair of trousers and a freshly laundered tunic, the same as Hoseok was wearing,
the same as he wears every day—but something about getting dressed today feels... different. The
soft leather of his sandals feels smoother than usual as he slips them on, and there is a spring in his
step as he moves across the room once again.
‘Seokjin probably isn’t even in his office yet,’ he muses, the corner of his mouth twitching in a
sardonic grin, ‘so that’ll be nice.’
‘And besides,’ he thinks as he meets his own gaze in the mirror above his bed and straightens his
rumpled hair, ‘tonight...I have a date.’
Hallway —First Floor—West 08.29.18 8:20AM
The hallways are unsurprisingly empty for this time of day, all other students neatly tucked away in
their classrooms where they belong. His footsteps squeak uncomfortably against the tile, but there
is no one around to notice.
All the other students from his class have disappeared back to their households as he was expected
to do, but his feet have carried him far in the opposite direction. A cancelled class is rare enough,
but for it to be one of Yoongi's—
The teacher's keys are heavy in his pocket, making little clinking and jingling noises as he moves—
a constant reminder of both their presence and how much trouble he would be in if anyone found
out that he had stolen them away. Just one more infraction to add to the list, he thinks. He tucks his
head further down towards his shoulders and hurries around a corner, trying to banish the thought
from his mind. His time is limited enough, and he needs to focus.
'Jimin needs your help,' he tells himself with a shake of his head. 'Get it together.'
Up ahead, the sound of voices echoing off the walls catches his attention and he hurries to the side
of the hallway, stumbling as he tucks his body around the edge of an alcove and out of sight. The
voices are accompanied by heavy footsteps that are drawing closer, thumping rhythmically enough
that he knows they must be descending the staircase only a few feet from his hiding spot.
"—going to have to cover for him this afternoon if he doesn't show up," one of the voices is
saying, and he recognizes it immediately as his history teacher, Mr. Hong.
"It's not like him to be out sick," another voice adds, this one female. "I can't remember a single
time he has been, actually."
"Mr. Kim isn't going to be happy," Mr. Hong says as his feet hit the bottom of the staircase.
"Just be glad it isn't you," the woman replies, and he realizes her voice now as that of another
teacher, Ms. Go.
'Yoongi,' he realizes as he pieces their words together.
He is grateful for the opportunity to run freely around the school unencumbered like this, no one
expecting him to be in a classroom or at home for some time yet. Surely, eventually, the Kim
mothers will notice when he doesn’t show up along with all the others, but that’s a problem for his
future self to deal with. He had been feeling a strange sense of pride at being able to make his way
down to the prison from memory alone—hands trailing over rough-hewn stone in pitch darkness,
his steps counted one by one with the memory of Yoongi at his side—but now, hearing his lover
spoken about in such a way makes his skin positively crawl and sends any other emotions running.
The teachers’ footsteps suddenly turn away from him, their voices growing more distant as they
begin to move in the same direction he had been heading. Taking a chance, he peeks one eye out
around the wall hiding him from view, and finds their backs turned away from him as they retreat
towards the front of the school.
He gives them several seconds as a head start, then takes a deep breath and slinks out from his
hiding spot to follow after the two teachers, careful to make his movements as silent as possible
and match his footsteps with theirs. Their conversation carries on just as casually as before, and it's
odd enough to hear any of their instructors speak so informally, but even more so given the subject
matter at hand.
"—what do you think Mr. Kim will do to him?" Ms. Go is asking when their words catch his ears
again, and the other teacher snorts derisively.
"Who knows? All I know is that I'd give anything to watch it happen."
"Absolutely," Ms. Go answers immediately, leaning closer to the taller man at her side. "It's not
that I have anything against him, I just—well—"
"—it sure would be a sight to see, wouldn't it?" Mr. Hong finishes for her.
He watches as the two teachers share a sly grin with each other before turning their faces forwards
again, and his stomach twists into something ugly and repulsive beneath his ribs. He wraps his
arms more securely around his middle and hurries his footsteps as much as possible—certainly not
wanting to draw any more attention, but wanting to hear the rest of this conversation even less.
His focus is turned so thoroughly away from the teachers' retreating voices that he nearly misses
the doorway he is looking for entirely, shoes squeaking on the tile floor below as he slides to a stop
just past the handle and catches himself against the wall on the other side. Freezing in place, he
stares—wide eyed and suddenly trembling—down the hallway after the two retreating forms
moving past the auditorium now, but they don't give so much as a twitch to indicate that they
might have heard. Still, he can't bring himself to move another inch until they have rounded the
corner and disappeared out of sight, and only then does his breath leave his lungs in a sudden rush.
"World's end..." he mutters under his breath, sucking in one deep inhale after another until his
heartbeat slows its thundering pace against his eardrums. With a glance down at his watch, he
purses his lips and considers—not for the first time this morning—his decision, then squares his
shoulders and tosses a hand out to the side to grab at the door handle, taking one last, deep breath
before swinging the door open and stepping into the office beyond.
The room is surprisingly dark when he enters, the windows along the exterior wall that usually let
in dappled sunlight from the clearing beyond unusually shuttered so that the entire space is cast
into shadow, only illuminated by the sparing security lights overhead. Frowning, he takes a deep
breath and glances to either side, finding the security desk blissfully empty and the office unusually
quiet for this early in the morning. A light is on inside the door to his left—as evidenced by the soft
glow of light around all four of its edges—but there's no window through which to see him as he
passes by, and it gives him enough courage to take a few slow steps across the tile floor.
He makes it all the way across to the stairs on the far side of the room without making a sound, his
shoes barely squeaking against the tile below—a miracle in itself, he thinks—and turns his eyes
towards the top of the stairs to the closed meeting room door. He raises his hand to the railing and
lifts one foot onto the bottom stair, nearly holding his breath in an attempt to be quiet—
"—Hey!"
—and freezes before he can make another move as a deep voice calls out only a few feet behind
him. His eyes clench shut, as if he could block out being seen if he can't see anything himself—but
the damage is already done.
"What do you think you're doing in here?" the voice asks, and it takes all he has to fight down his
mounting anxiety and turn to face its owner. The door that hides the security cameras from view is
now wide open, the missing security guard leaning halfway out the entrance to stare him down. He
flickers his eyes towards the ceiling in realization, and—yes, sure enough—finds a single security
camera blinking down at him from the corner above the door to the hallway. Of course.
"I said what do you think you're doing?" the guard repeats, and he brings his eyes back to the older
man's face. This isn't the same guard he's used to seeing, and for a moment, the difference throws
him for a loop—enough so that he can't bring himself to come up with any sort of reasonable
answer.
"I—" he starts to say, but his brain feels like it might as well be full of bees for all that it's filled
with buzzing and absolutely no useful responses.
"What's your name?" The guard demands, crossing his arms over his chest, and he swallows
thickly as he considers his options. 'Do I tell the truth?' he thinks, 'I'm going to be in so much
trouble—'
But before he can open his mouth again to form the shape of his name, he finds it being said for
him—once again from a voice over his shoulder.
"—Taehyung?"
He whips his head around at the familiar voice, and finds himself looking up the stairs towards the
broad shoulders and strong jaw of his older brother.
"Namjoon—" he asks in reply, a wave of relief taking over him. Of course—of course he would be
here at this hour—
"You're late!" His brother says as he descends the short staircase towards them, clapping a hand
down on Taehyung's shoulder in greeting.
"I—" He has no idea what Namjoon is talking about, but with the imposing presence of the guard
next to him, still looming over him with arms firmly crossed and a gun obviously hanging from his
hip, Taehyung isn't stupid enough to question it. "I'm sorry," he settles on saying, then firmly shuts
his mouth.
"Students aren't supposed to be in here unsupervised," the guard complains, addressing Namjoon
now. Taehyung ducks his head slightly, respectfully, but watches his brother with some curiosity
out of the corner of his eye.
Namjoon gives a small, almost understanding smile and holds out a hand as if to placate the guard,
looking down at the other man from his significantly taller height. It should be intimidating—
Taehyung knows all too well how intimidating it can be—but something about the way that
Namjoon holds himself seems...friendly. Understanding. And he can almost feel the way the
tension in the air dissipates as Namjoon replies, "He isn’t unsupervised, I asked him to drop in for a
meeting today. I should have warned you that he would be coming by, my mistake.”
"You asked him to," the guard repeats, clearly suspicious, but his body language has relaxed
significantly. Namjoon nods immediately and squeezes Taehyung's shoulder, almost as if to say
'stay quiet.' Taehyung has no desire to do anything but. "At...8:23 AM?" the guard goes on,
glancing down at his watch.
"Ah, well..." Namjoon gives a good-natured little shrug and another smile—and if Taehyung didn't
know his brother so well, he might believe it was genuine. "Like I said...he's late."
Taehyung chances a glance up at the guard, expecting to find the man still looking suspicious,
perhaps with his arms crossed or his eyes narrowed—but to his surprise, the guard's posture has
completely relaxed and an answering smile has made its way to the other man's lips.
"Let me take him off your hands," Namjoon continues, and the guard nods immediately.
"Of course," he says, "thank you, Mr. Kim."
It takes Taehyung a second to realize that the guard is addressing his brother, not him, unused to
hearing Namjoon referred to in such a way—long enough that the nurse has turned him around and
pushed him forward towards the stairs before Taehyung even realizes that they have moved. He
stumbles his way up the stairs with his brother's hands guiding him, letting out a breath of air only
once he has reached the top and he can hear the distinctive sound of the office door closing
somewhere behind him.
"Thanks..." he mumbles towards the older man, and Namjoon just gives his shoulder another
squeeze and steers him towards the nurse's office off to the left. He says nothing as they walk past
the closed door to the Vice Principal's office, and Taehyung doesn't dare glance towards the
Principal's office at the end of the hall before he is turned through the doorway and it passes out of
sight.
It's been a long time since he's visited this office properly—which is to say, not in the dead of night
with his illicit lover—not since the end of the previous school year, if he remembers correctly. It
looks very different in the daylight, every surface kept white and crisp and sterile. The room is
empty except for a single figure draped in sheets, lying in the far bed along the back wall of the
office. Taehyung can’t see much of the person’s face, but between the dark mop of hair atop its
head and the way it lies so still, so quiet—Taehyung is sure he knows exactly who, or what , is
lying there. His stomach gives a little excited jump at the sight, but Namjoon draws his attention
away before the gears in his mind can start turning.
Namjoon keeps his workspace as sparse as always, little more than a few papers stacked atop his
desk where he has clearly been working—but as they step into the office together, his brother puts
his body between Taehyung and the documents and takes each of his shoulders in hand. Namjoon
still has to lean down to look him directly in the eye—and although he doesn’t have to bend as far
as he once did, his brother's familiar, dark eyes and stern expression make Taehyung feel as small
as they always have.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Namjoon says, repeating the guard’s exact words, but this time
his brother’s tone is far less authoritative and far more concerned.
“I’m sorry,” Taehyung repeats, and this time he means it. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble—”
“No, you never mean to, do you…” Namjoon mutters under his breath, not quite a question, as he
slumps back into his desk chair, rubbing a hand through his sandy locks. The words send a pang of
guilt through Taehyung’s chest that he doesn’t know what to do with. He shifts uncomfortably
from one foot to the other, shoulders hunching, trying to decide if he should explain—
‘Jimin needs your help…’
“Why aren’t you in class?” Namjoon asks, changing directions. He tilts his head to look up at
Taehyung appraisingly, and there’s some emotion behind his brother’s dark eyes that Taehyung
can’t quite place. Something... knowing.
“It was cancelled,” he says, which is—in the strictest sense—the truth.
“Cancelled?” Namjoon’s eyebrows raise towards his hair. “Classes are never cancelled, unless—”
“—unless the teacher doesn’t show up?” Taehyung interrupts, filling in the rest of his brother’s
sentence with a hint of bitterness in his voice. He knows his face is twisting to match the way he
feels inside—vulnerable and worried, which he has only ever been able to hide with aggression,
defiance. Slipping back into that mask feels as easy as breathing, now.
Namjoon is silent for a long moment, eyes narrowed as he considers the younger man’s words.
“What...class was it?” he asks, eventually, with a tone that says he already knows the answer.
“Sex Ed, of course,” Taehyung replies with a shrug, picking absentmindedly at the corner of his
uniform as he tries to keep his face from showing just how disappointed he is. “Always first thing
in the morning.”
“Yoongi d—I mean, Mr. Min didn’t show up?” Namjoon looks suspicious, if not somewhat
incredulous, at this news.
Taehyung considers his answer for a moment, his tongue toying with the inside of his lips. “Yeah,”
he says eventually, his tone a little sharp, “Yoongi didn’t show up.”
If Namjoon notices the informal way he refers to his teacher, his brother doesn’t mention it. “So
you came...here?”
Taehyung doesn’t answer, but Namjoon doesn’t seem to care. He runs his hand through his hair
again, a nervous gesture, and glances at the closed door over Taehyung’s shoulder with a strange
look in his eye. “Something’s...not right…” he mutters, mostly to himself.
Taehyung scoffs and kicks at the tile floor, his hands finding their way into his uniform pockets.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
In the blink of an eye, Namjoon is back on his feet, his spine straight and his eyebrows furrowed as
he brushes the wrinkles from his own clothes. His expression has settled into something that looks
determined, resolute, as though he has come to some sort of decision.
“You should get moving to your next class,” he says as he steps towards Taehyung, placing a
warm hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You don’t want to actually be late, and I’m not going to
cover for you again.”
“But—” Taehyung turns his eyes to the other side of the room, where that same figure is still lying
perfectly still beneath the sheets. There’s something magnetic about the added presence in this
small space, tickling at the back of his mind and refusing to let him leave. 'Jimin needs your help,'
he thinks again.
“Don’t worry about the doll,” Namjoon says immediately, pushing Taehyung towards the door.
“I’ll just lock up after we go and I’ll go find Yoo—”
“Namjoon, wait!”
At his outburst, his brother pauses with one hand on the door handle and the other on Taehyung’s
bicep. He turns to look down at his brother in surprise, and Taehyung raises his hands defensively.
“That’s why I came,” he explains.
‘Jimin needs your help, Jimin needs your help—'
“What is?”
“The doll,” Taehyung says, resisting the urge to make a face at his brother.
Namjoon’s eyes narrow again. “...what about the doll?”
Taehyung takes a deep breath, the gears in his head finally starting to turn. “You know I’ve been
doing extra credit work with Yoongi, right?” The way Namjoon’s face shuffles through several
unreadable expressions tells him that the older man did not, in fact, know this. “Well...I have. I’ve
been working really closely with him to, uh…take care of the doll.”
“Is that so…” Namjoon murmurs, and Taehyung can almost see the way his brother’s mind begins
to churn at this new information. They’ve always been alike in this way, minds always racing after
one thing or another—it’s one of the reasons Namjoon is his favorite brother out of his many
siblings, the only person who has ever seemed to understand the way he thinks. Now, though, it is
Namjoon’s mind against his own, a race to see who, out of the two of them, can puzzle through this
situation first.
“Yes, and I’ve been getting really good at it!” He pushes a bit of earnestness into his tone, letting
some of his standoffish mask from before slip away. “So when Yoongi’s class was cancelled, I—I
figured the doll must be here instead, and…” He waves a hand noncommittally, hoping his brother
would fill in the rest. It’s enough of the truth, again, to be believable. Namjoon’s expression melts
into something softer, more understanding.
“...you wanted to come help,” he fills in. Taehyung’s entire body relaxes in relief as his brother
picks up the threads of his story with ease.
“Exactly! I thought, well...if I can’t do my actual classwork, maybe I could find the doll here for
some more...practice?” His voice lifts uncertainly at the end of his sentence, betraying the mixture
of nerves and hope he is trying to keep at bay. 'Jimin needs your help,' his mind supplies once
more.
“That’s...That’s great, Tae,” Namjoon says, seeming to melt even further with affection for his
brother. “I’m really glad to hear that, you’re turning things around…”
“Y-Yeah, I...I guess I am.” Taehyung brightens up more genuinely at that, his mind returning
briefly to his meeting with the principal the night before. Still, this also brings to mind the
knowledge that Yoongi hasn’t shown up anywhere today, and that hopeful feeling in his chest
mixes with the sudden, nervous swoop of his stomach and leaves him feeling altogether queasy.
Namjoon hesitates, then, for a moment, his hand squeezing at his brother’s shoulder. “I’m—I
know you’re going to make me proud,” he eventually settles on, and Taehyung’s stomach gives
another disconcerting flop beneath his ribs.
It’s all he’s wanted for so long—to make his family proud, to make Namjoon proud, to live up to
their family name—but now, thinking of the secrets he keeps wrapped up in his heart and the
secrets that lie beneath his feet...he isn’t so sure he deserves it.
“I’m...trying,” he manages to say, and Namjoon gives him a warm smile in return. For a moment,
there is complete silence in the room, little more than three sets of breathing to disturb the air.
“So…” Taehyung interjects when he begins to feel too uncomfortable, “can I stay?”
“Stay? Here?” Namjoon asks, his eyebrow raising, as though he has already forgotten what he and
Taehyung had been discussing moments before. “Oh! You mean stay here with the doll?”
“Y-Yeah, like I said...that’s why I came by. I can watch over it while you’re gone, you said you
were going to look for Yoongi?”
“I really should, this isn’t like him…” Namjoon glances over his shoulder towards the closed door,
but his thoughts seem far away. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he finally agrees, giving Taehyung’s hair a
ruffle before he pulls away completely, “you can stay here. Just stay out of trouble, alright?”
“I can stay?”
“You can stay,” Namjoon repeats, rolling his eyes at his younger brother. Taehyung’s heart gives a
little flop to match his stomach.
“Thank you, Joonie!”
Namjoon laughs as Taehyung darts forward to give the taller man a quick squeeze around the
waist. His brother’s arms fall easily around his shoulders—and for a moment it’s as though they’re
young boys again, Taehyung’s head barely coming up to his brother’s stomach as Namjoon holds
him through his tears. He is overcome with a wave of sadness that appears from nowhere, leaving
him breathless and driving him right back out of his brother’s embrace.
“Ahem,” he clears his throat, looking away immediately. Namjoon doesn’t seem similarly affected,
which is something of a relief. “If you see Yoongi, um...tell him I was looking for him, will you?”
“Sure,” Namjoon says easily, and slides the door open. “I’ll tell him you’ve earned some more
extra credit too.”
“I—“ Taehyung glances towards the door in surprise, a refusal on his lips, but he stops himself
with a silent reminder that Namjoon doesn’t know . And it isn’t his place to tell the older man, not
yet. “Thanks,” he says instead, a little lamely. Namjoon offer s him another small smile, and then
he disappears out the door and closes it behind himself with a small snap.
The moment he is left alone, it’s as though all of the air rushes out of his lungs at once. Much like
his close call in the hall minutes before, he feels his muscles lose tension he didn’t realize they
were carrying, his shoulders slumping in relief.
His bookbag hits the floor in an instant, his shoes squeaking against the tile as he suddenly bolts
across the room towards the beds that line the right-hand wall. He skirts around one bed frame and
slides to a stop at the foot of another pushed into the corner, freezing as his eyes fall to the face of
the doll, up close and personal now, still and pale and terrifying.
He can’t make out the doll’s entire face with the sheet that has been pulled over its body draped all
the way up to its nose, but he can clearly see that its eyes are gently shut, the slightest of movement
detectable underneath as it is carried away by a dream. Taehyung takes a cautious step forward,
and then another, watching with bated breath to see if the movement will disturb the sleeping
figure. When he spots no signs of immediate stirring, he lets out a sigh of relief and settles himself
onto the bed opposite, letting his feet dangle aimlessly over the edge.
“Uh, hello…” he starts to say, then feels immediately stupid. ‘What am I doing?’ he asks himself
with a shake of his head.
‘Jimin needs your help,’ another part of his mind answers, and he sighs again.
“Hello,” he repeats, “this is...this is Taehyung.” The doll gives no answer, but he didn’t expect one.
“I—I’m not sure if you remember me. We, uh...I’ve been around a few times.” That’s a bit of an
understatement, given that he knows exactly what the doll’s lips taste like, the sort of sweet sounds
it makes when it comes—
He feels silly, sitting here talking to himself, essentially—but he pushes on with the thought of
Jimin on his mind, the twist of worry in his gut. “I...I’m not sure what I’m doing here, really, but...I
was asked by a dear friend to find you.” Taehyung pauses, picking at a loose thread in the sheet
beneath him.
“Jimin is...in a bad situation. Like...really bad. But—he asked me to find you, he wanted me to
make sure you were alright.” He lets out a little huff of air, exasperated at his friend’s behavior. “I
think he...cares about you very, very much.”
For a moment, he pauses, his mind returning to thoughts of the man who means the most to him, a
man with kind eyes and gentle hands and kisses that steal his breath away. Thoughts of Yoongi are
never far from the front of his mind, never leaving the ever-present cradle of his heart. Is this how
Jimin feels about the man lying before him? Is it love that drove him to ask this favor of
Taehyung?
Love—the emotion he has only recently learned to name but has felt growing in the core of him for
so long. Love that drives him from the comfort of his bed in the middle of the night, that spurs him
to reckless abandonment of his family, his duty, his home. Yes, perhaps it must be love that drove
Jimin to think of this young man, lying prone and still before Taehyung now, over his own
wellbeing. Even in the depths of a dungeon Taehyung hopes to never visit again, Jimin’s mouth
had only found the shape of ‘Jungkook, Jungkook—please, find Jungkook—’
“I met Jimin when we were barely toddlers,” he starts to say, the words welling up inside him
before he can think better of them. “I don’t remember a time before he was in my life, really. He
was just...always there. And my life was better for it.”
He hums out a little affectionate noise and brings his knees up to his chest, digging his heels into
the edge of the mattress. His eyes no longer trace the slope of the doll’s nose, focusing instead on
the way its chest rises and falls beneath the sheets, the ghostly edges of its ribs creating indents in
the fabric.
“Jimin was...my constant companion, my confidant. My first for so many things. He was
everything to me.” He feels his face twisting to fight back the sudden prickle of tears in the corners
of his eyes as a wave of memories drift back to him. “But I lost him. I was supposed to protect him,
we were supposed to protect each other—”
He has to pause, then, and wipe away the few tears that now threaten to fall. He can’t remember a
time he’s ever actually spoken about what happened that night—not in innuendo or whispered in
the dark, at least. He and Yoongi never have cause to discuss it, not when the memories live all-
too-presently in their minds. And Jimin—well—
“Now they have him trapped in a cage,” he spits, rubbing furiously at his cheeks as more tears drip
down his skin. “T-They—like an animal. As if he wasn’t t-trapped here enough already.” That
sick, writhing feeling has returned to his gut, coiling unpleasantly beneath his ribs. “L-Like they
don’t know who he is, like—like he w-was never important.”
‘But Jimin was always important,’ he doesn’t say, ‘always.’
“And yet he…” Taehyung pauses, laughing humorlessly. “He j-just sat there behind the bars, and
he asked me to—to find you.” And at that, he raises his eyes back to the doll’s face once more, his
focus flickering from an eyebrow to an ear to the soft swell of a cheekbone. The doll gives no
indication that it has heard a single word, but Taehyung can’t decide whether or not to be happy
about it.
“Why...you?” he asks, mostly to himself. “Why you?”
Then, for a long moment, he falls as silent as the doll before him, listening to the uneven hum of
their breathing, in and out on opposing rhythms in the otherwise silent space. Somewhere, beyond
these four walls, if he really strains his ears, he can catch the rumble of voices in the hallway, of
chairs being moved across tile floors and bodies moving this way and that. The building does not
breathe as they do—a structure made only of brick and stone, after all—but it has its own pulse, its
own spirit. Its own demons, same as he does.
He dries his eyes completely with the edge of his sleeve, willing his lungs to fill with one deep
inhale after another until their breathing aligns—one deep, long hiss with no echo, now.
“Jimin...told me that your name is Jungkook…” he finds himself saying at last. “Jeon Jungkook. Is
that right? Yoongi told us once, I think, but...I had forgotten it.”
The doll says nothing.
“Jimin wanted me to make sure you were alright, after you both—”
—the ground is wet, leaves slick beneath his shoes as he bolts between the shadowy outlines of tree
after tree, barely missing a tangle of root here, an overturned log there, the damp winter air
clinging to his face and lips and lungs as he forces himself to move, move move—
“A-After you ran—”
—his back strikes the rough bark with a thud, his mouth flying open to let out a groan of pain that
is quickly swallowed by the rough, warm skin of a palm pressed tightly over his lips. He can barely
breathe around the grip, but he suddenly finds he doesn’t want to, not with a pair of dark eyes only
inches from his own, staring at him wildly through the dark.
“Kim Taehyung?” the man says, face screwing tight in confusion. He manages to hear the
question over the thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat against his eardrums and nods as best as he can
against the grip on his cheeks.
The man pulls back enough to chance a glance around the thicket of trees, his head twisting this
way and that. Then, in the distance, a new series of thuds hits his ears, this time caused by the
heavy impact of boots against the frozen ground. Someone lets out a shout through the dark, and
their hiding place is suddenly illuminated from the other side of the tree trunk by a bright,
penetrating light—
“Why…” he mutters under his breath. “I don't understand…”
He is pressed more tightly to the wood, the hand never leaving his mouth as his captor’s body
covers his from head to toe, a blanket of warmth that shields him both from view and the biting
cold in the air. He can feel lips at his ear, the sharp edge of the man’s glasses digging into his
cheek.
For several long seconds, seconds that feel like eons, neither of them dare to take a single breath.
Then, as another shout rings out from somewhere further through the woods, the light moves away,
the footsteps receding.
“Don’t move,” his captor tells him, sliding back a few inches until they can meet eyes again, his
hand still covering Taehyung’s mouth. “You stay here, you stay hidden. Do you understand me
—?”
“...why did you come back?” His voice is almost pleading as he questions the still figure before
him, letting the memory wash over him and then fade once more. “Why?”
The doll still offers no answer.
Frustrated, Taehyung jumps back to his feet, clumsily reaching for the hand that he finds peeking
out from beneath the sheet closest to him. “Does Yoongi...take good care of you? Does Namjoon?”
he asks, now desperate to understand, because he can’t, he can’t— “Did you want to come back? Is
that why you’re still here? Is that why J-Jimin—”
‘—why Jimin came back? Again?’

The doll is silent still, but for a moment he imagines that it’s fingers twitch against his palm.
Taehyung squeezes the hand back, imagines that it’s Jimin’s fingers between his own instead.
‘Jimin needs your help,’ his mind supplies, and this time he follows through.
“He gave me a message for you,” Taehyung says, his voice rough. There are no more tears in his
eyes, but his face still aches as though they are falling. “I just...hope you can hear it. Forget
everything else I said, just...listen to this, please…”
He doesn’t know why Jimin sent him along with this task, of all things, but his lack of
understanding doesn’t stop him from kneeling beside the bed, squeezing the doll’s hand tightly,
and opening his mouth to sing.
“ A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain,” he begins, “softly blows over Lullaby Bay…”
It’s a song that all of the children in the community know, one of the few that every mother in
every household would sing while tucking them away to sleep.
“...it fills the sails of boats that are waiting, waiting to sail your worries away…” he continues. He
isn’t sure if his voice is quite suited for the simple melody, deep and rough as it currently is, but
the way Jimin looked at him so earnestly when making this request spurs him forward despite any
self-consciousness he might feel.
“...it isn't far to Hushabye Mountain,” he goes on, squeezing the doll’s hand again, and this time
he definitely feels a flutter beneath his palm. It encourages him to continue, a little louder than
before, “...and your boat waits down by the quay…”
He lets himself be carried away by the melody, as comforted by the song as he always has been.
Perhaps this is why Jimin wanted him to come here, to sing like this—perhaps he knew the doll
was in need of comforting. Perhaps he knew Taehyung was too.
“The winds of night so softly are sighing...soon they will fly your troubles to sea…”
The doll is unmistakably stirring now, it’s breathing disturbed as it moves beneath the sheets,
fingers twitching in Taehyung’s grip, which has now tightened to a point that would surely seem
uncomfortable if Taehyung had the presence of mind to notice. Instead, he lets his voice carry
through the next stanza with ease.
“So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain, wave goodbye to cares of the day...and watch your
boat from Hushabye Mountain sail far away from Lullaby Bay…”
“Mmmm…” The doll lets out a soft hum, barely more than a rumble in its chest, and Taehyung
relaxes then squeezes its hand again reassuringly.
“So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain...” he repeats, letting his memory carry him through
the very end of the song.
“Mmmmm—“ the doll rumbles again, and it’s hand twists in his grip.
“...wave goodbye to cares of the day...and watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain—”
—RIIIIIIIIIIIIING.
Overhead, the sudden, shrill cry of the bell rings out, signaling the end of the first period of the
day.
“Mmmmm!!”
The doll’s voice changed suddenly from a low rumble to a loud, distressed yelp, somewhat muffled
above Taehyung’s head. Between the two sudden sounds, Taehyung is startled enough that the last
line of the song dies on his lips, his eyes flying open to look back at the doll at last.
Unlike before, when the doll’s face was a placid, peaceful mask, hardly a ripple of movement
across its surface—now, its eyes have sprung wide as dinner plates, bloodshot and dark as night as
they stare right back at him. Taehyung lurches back in shock, blinking rapidly as if to clear the
image away.
Still, the horrible image does not waver, the doll meeting his gaze even after he rubs at his eyes to
clear them. This is no nightmare, no hallucination—as evidenced by another terrible cry that rises
from its throat as the doll begins to move.
Taehyung flings himself away, his back colliding with the opposite wall with a painful lurch as he
watches, frozen in horror, as the doll grips at the sheets and pulls itself upright, still making that
same broken sound from deep in its chest. And the moment the sheets drop away from its face,
pooling across its naked lap—Taehyung understands exactly why it had been pulled so high in the
first place.
The entire lower half of the doll’s face is wrapped tightly in bandages, obscuring its mouth and
chin completely from view. Up along the side of its neck runs a thin plastic tube, one that is taped
to its skin to hold it in place as it coils up its jaw and above the bandages to disappear into one side
of its nose. The doll’s hands tremble uncontrollably as it brings them up to its face and feels at the
bandages, moaning all the while as it realizes what it is feeling.
Taehyung is frozen, his own hands plastered to the wall at his sides as he watches the doll tear at
the gauze, crying out as it tugs at its skin before coming free. It’s cries become less and less
muffled as the layers are torn free, until finally the last circle of cotton falls away and leaves its
mouth exposed to the air at last.
Taehyung shudders, his stomach giving the most revolting twist yet at the sight he is left with—the
doll’s lips swollen and mottled with bruises in various stages of healing, small wounds ringing its
mouth on every side. The bandages clearly tugged loose some scabs that were healing, resulting in
small drops of blood dripping across the bruises, only adding to the macabre sight.
“D—D-Don’t—“ he tries to say as he watches the doll grab for the tube next—but it’s too late.
With one long tug accompanied by the most horrible scream yet, the doll grips the plastic and pulls
the entire length of it from its nose, inch after inch appearing until Taehyung is sure it must have
reached all the way down to its stomach.
‘For f-feeding,’ he realizes, and he feels bile rise in the back of his own throat.
The doll tosses the offending object as far as it can, the plastic hitting the floor on the other side of
the room with a disgustingly wet splatter. Between one blink and the next, the doll has clambered
from its bed and nearly collapsed onto the mattress on the other side, before righting itself with a
noise almost like a growl. Completely naked, it’s clear that the bruising across its face is hardly
limited, additional dark marks trailing down its chest and thighs and culminating in a set of
matching wounds that line its flaccid cock, tinting its skin a sickly collage of black and purple and
yellow.
‘Heaven help us, what happened—?!’
“Wait, wait—!” Taehyung tries again, stumbling forward with his hands outstretched, trying to
block the doll’s path before it can go any further.
It’s no use—even in the doll’s weakened state, it’s taller and older than Taehyung is, and far more
physically fit. The exact reasons it was likely selected for the position in the first place make it
easy for the older man to barrel him over, shoving Taehyung out of the way as it springs forward
towards the door.
“No!” he cries out, catching himself against Namjoon’s desk and pushing off to spring after the
doll, which has now slid across the tile and is tugging blindly at the door handle. He grabs the doll
around its waist, pulling with all his might to tug its grip free, but the doll bucks free and kicks
back at him wildly, sending Taehyung sprawling to the floor at last.
The doll makes a noise that can hardly be considered a word and jerks the door open, darting out
into the hall naked from head to toe.
“No-no-no-no-no—!” Taehyung scrambles across the tile, flinging himself through the open door
and out into the office, following feet behind the doll as it sprints for the front door
The receptionist, having heard the commotion, steps out from behind her desk only to shriek and
jump back out of the way as the doll makes another starling noise and flies past her, and he can
hear the clamor of security guards joining the pursuit behind him as he charges past the older
woman himself. With a clang and thud, the doll slams the front door open and flings itself out into
the entry hall, the door slamming shut just before Taehyung can reach it. He shoves at it with his
hands, feeling it give and swing wide to strike the opposite wall—and then freezes in the doorway
himself as he is suddenly faced with a large crowd of bodies that block his way.
Feet ahead, the doll is facing a similar problem, abruptly blocked by not just one or two people, but
a ring of students that stand between it and freedom. Several of the younger students let out loud
gasps or yelps at the doll’s sudden appearance, and a rush of chatter erupts through the crowd at its
gruesome visage.
“Is—is that the doll?!”

“Oh nix—!”
“World’s end, what is it doing—?!”
The doll lurches this way and that, trying to find some gap in the bodies before it to break free, but
the students only seem to press closer in their confusion and interest, completely walling the doll in
on all sides. Taehyung watches, horrified, from the doorway as the doll paces in a circle, limbs
twitching, pitiful sounds leaving its mouth in lieu of words. As it turns around to face him again, he
catches sight of those same eyes—not angry or aggressive as he once thought, but instead wide and
dark with fear. Nothing but pure, unadulterated fear.
“What do we do?”
“Why does it look like that—?”
“—you see where it came from?”
The doll gives a final, desperate cry and freezes on the spot, all at once seeming to realize that there
is nowhere left to run. Taehyung watches helplessly as the doll’s legs suddenly give out under
themselves, its entire body crumpling to the floor in a heap. Though it only takes a split second for
the doll to disappear from view, in Taehyung’s mind, it moves slow as syrup—the doll’s terrible,
broken gaze following him every second of the way to the ground.
The crowd seems to gasp as one, the students closest to the doll stepping back in a hurry to give it
more space. “What happened?!” someone from the back of the crowd cries out, and another
student from the front turns his head around and shouts “Who did this?!”
Taehyung feels as though he has been doused in ice. Before he has the presence of mind to move,
there are suddenly dozens of eyes craning around to stare directly at him, still frozen in the
doorway with one foot forward as though the chase is about to resume.
“Kim Taehyung—”
“—that’s Kim Taehyung—”

“It was him?”
“Him?!”
“What is Kim Taehyung doing—”
“—must have done something terrible—”
“I knew it—”
In an instant, several students reach for him simultaneously, dragging Taehyung from the doorway
by the front of his uniform. Taehyung doesn’t make a sound, still too stunned by the last few
minutes to manage more than moving his legs so that he doesn’t fall flat on his face as he is tugged
through the crowd of bodies and shoved up against the wall.
“What the hell did you do, Taehyung?” a familiar voice snarls in his ear, and he turns his head just
enough to see the face of Jinhwan looming closer, the older boy’s grip on his shirt pulling so tight
it hurts.
“I—I didn’t—” he tries to say, but the crowd is having none of it. Before he can pull together more
than a few words, a hand grips at the hair at the top of his head, tugging it back so that someone
else—Taehyung can’t quite see who—has a clear shot to strike him across the face. He cries out
immediately at the impact, a fresh wave of tears making it to his eyes, and this only seems to spur
the crowd on.
“Get him, Jinnie!” someone shouts gleefully from the back of the crowd, and Jinhwan gives a
glinting smile. He reels back his own arm and brings it down for a sharp punch to Taehyung’s gut
that knocks the air right from his lungs, leaving him doubled over and only held up by the arms
gripping his uniform jacket. He is unceremoniously dumped to the ground, then, and one of the
girls at Jinhwan’s side gives him another sharp blow to the gut with her foot, only narrowly
missing the bruise he must already be forming from the first punch.
“Still think this is funny, do you?” one of his classmates heckles. “Still messing with the doll after
all this time?”
“N-No!”
“Haven’t you learned your lesson already?” Jinhwan says, and leans over to spit at Taehyung’s
face.
Taehyung curls himself up into a ball as much as he can to hide himself from their taunts and any
more blows they might send his way.
“I didn’t! I d-didn’t!” he tries to shout, but his voice is lost among the jeering crowd.
“The teachers think you’re so special, but we know better!”
“You’re nothing but trash, Kim! Trash!”
Someone wrestles the bookbag from his shoulder and upends it over his head, letting his books and
pens strike him and scatter all across the floor by his feet.
“Look at this goddamn prude!”
“He really thinks he can get away with this—”
“ENOUGH!”
A sudden, sharp voice breaks through the commotion, startling the entire crowd into silence.
Taehyung feels feet shuffle all around him, the other students turning their attention away from him
immediately. As soon as he’s sure that no one is going to attack him further, he pushes himself off
the ground with shaking arms and leans back against the wall, his knees tucked to his chest, and
wipes the spit from his face as best as he can. His stomach aches with the echo of the footprint-
shaped bruises he is sure to be sporting come tomorrow, and somehow no matter how deep of a
breath he tries to take to quell his racing heart, the air never seems to make it all the way to the
bottom of his lungs.
It’s impossible for him to see what’s happening for several long moments, but something on the far
side of the entrance hall forces the crowd to shift and part above his head, students shuffling this
way and that to make room. When enough students have moved aside, he is left in something of a
small clearing between their bodies, a long expanse of open floor with only two occupants—
himself, and, lying several feet away in a ball on the floor—the doll.
The crowd has turned from jeers to hushed whispers, the entire room buzzing as though filled with
insects. When he cranes his neck as much as he can against his aching muscles, he catches sight of
several tall, dark figures looming over the crowd.
‘Oh, hell—’
The Council.
Without needing to say a word, the crowd respectfully bows their heads one by one and steps away
to clear a path for the hooded figures as they approach, leaving a clear path for the Council to
make their way to the doll’s prone form. Several members of the Council step forward and bend
down, sliding their hands beneath the doll’s limbs and lifting it with ease from the floor. Its arms
swing limply as it is held aloft between their bodies, and they move silently back through the
crowd the way they came with their new charge in tow.
“Alright, that’s enough!” a voice calls from the other side of the crowd, and the buzzing of
whispers slowly rumbles into idle chatter again, the students relaxing as the Council members
retreat one by one until only one hooded figure remains in their midst. One of the teachers
Taehyung had followed earlier that morning appears through the mass of shifting bodies, pushing
against students’ shoulders to guide them down the hallways to their next classes. “The bell is
about to ring, you don’t want to be late! Let’s get moving, everyone…”
Then, over the rush of movement and chattering, Taehyung hears another voice that makes his
already tortured stomach give a final, dreadful lurch.
“Kim Jinhwan, what is the meaning of this?”
Taehyung turns his head to the right and finds Jinhwan still standing there, his sandy head dipped
low in respect. Drawing near on his other side, Namjoon’s tall figure stands out amongst the crowd
as much as the Council members do, striking an imposing silhouette above the heads of the milling
children, some of them barely half his size.
“I—he was messing with the doll, Mr. Kim, sir,” Jinhwan hurries to say, keeping his head bowed.
“Be that as it may, you then took it upon yourself to dole out your own form of justice?” the nurse
retorts, and his tone is icy cool. He doesn’t offer Taehyung a single glance as he speaks, and
Taehyung tucks himself even further into a ball.
“I—well, I—”
“Kang Mina, Choi Youngjae, Go Eunbi, Im Hyunsik,” Namjoon rattles off the names of several
students that have hung back to wait on Jinhwan, “were you a part of this too?”
The students immediately shake their heads and raise their hands defensively, denying any
participation despite the fact that Taehyung knows the exact shape of one of the girls’ shoes will be
emblazoned on his side in the morning.
“Detention, all of you,” Namjoon says coolly, and raises his voice over their immediate protest.
“All of you! No arguments.”
“But—” Jinhwan dares to speak up, and Namjoon rounds on him again with narrowed eyes.
“What did I just say, Mr. Kim?”
“I’m sorry, sir…” Jinhwan immediately mutters, hanging his head low again. Still, his eyes flicker
back to Taehyung, who flinches immediately at the attention—something that does not go
unnoticed by his brother.
“Kim Taehyung will also be facing the consequences of his actions, rest assured,” he says, and this
seems to placate the other students as much as it sends Taehyung’s heart racing again. “Now, get to
class, immediately. Or I’ll make it two detentions.”
“Yes, sir!” all five of the other students call back immediately, and scramble away with their bags
in their hands. Jinhwan shoots one more look over his shoulder at Taehyung as he departs, and
Taehyung knows all too well that this...this is not over.
“Need a hand?” Namjoon asks, drawing Taehyung’s attention again. He looks up to find his
brother staring down at him now, one palm outstretched to help his brother to his feet. Taehyung
hesitates only for a moment before taking the offered help, and wobbles for a moment before
landing upright on his feet again. When Namjoon lets go of his hand and bends down to pick up
Taehyung’s discarded bookbag, Taehyung presses his free hand to the throbbing pain in his
abdomen as though covering it might make it subside faster.
“Are you alright?” the nurse asks as he hands the bag back to his brother. There’s something
swimming in his eyes, some emotion Taehyung can’t place. Just one more way the older man has
become unreadable these days, he thinks. He gives a short nod, the best he can do given how very
much not okay he feels right now.
“Good thing I was here, or they might have picked right back up where they stopped.”
“I thought you were going to look for Y—for Mr. Min,” Taehyung mutters under his breath.
“I thought you were going to stay out of trouble,” Namjoon returns, his voice just as low.
Taehyung can’t tell if his brother is ashamed of him or not, but he feels guilt wash over his body all
the same. “I really do have to give you detention too, you know…”
“I know…” Taehyung sighs, expecting nothing less.
“Just one though, okay?”
“Mmm.”
‘No more detention,’ he hears Yoongi’s voice say in his mind. Will he ever stop letting people
down?
“I’ll give you a note so you’re not marked as late for your next class, okay? Just pick up your
things and—”
“Kim Namjoon,” another voice interrupts, and both brothers’ heads swing around in unison to face
the source.
The solitary Council member who stayed behind has approached them now, standing only a few
feet away with hands clasped together in front of her dark robes. Though they cannot see her face
through the mirrored mask that, as always, shields her face from view, Taehyung gets the
impression that she is utterly unbothered by the scene she has just witnessed.
“Councilwoman,” Namjoon greets her, giving a short bow of his own. The Councilwoman inclines
her head, the mirror across her face glinting in the fluorescent lighting. Taehyung can’t remember
the last time he saw any of the Council in this building, and the contrast between her inky black
garments and the brightly lit hallway is striking and unsettling, to say the least.
He hurries to offer a bow of his own, and for a moment, he can feel her eyes move to land upon his
face from beneath the glass. She says nothing, but a shudder takes over his body all the same.
Around them, students give them a wide berth as they scurry to their respective classrooms, the
Councilwoman’s presence acting like an almost repelling force. Something in the air feels...colder,
sharper. His tongue tastes of metal as he swallows thickly.
Then, with no further acknowledgement, her eyes seem to move back to his brother’s face.
Namjoon stands perfectly still, perhaps having the same silent experience that Taehyung just
endured. Finally, she addresses the older man once more, her question sending a chill down
Taehyung’s spine of an entirely different sort, now.
“Where is Kim Seokjin?”

PSYCHIATRIC WARD—ROOM 34—CAMERA 2 08-29-18 9:12 AM
Even through the sealed door to his room, the hum and buzz of the hospital is tangible as the
emerging sunlight brings the building to life. From somewhere down the hall, he can hear the
steady beep-beep-beep of another’s heartbeat, the machine at his own side echoing the sound in a
strange, grating chorus. The floor squeaks as one of the nurses passes by, casting a shadow through
the tinted glass that decorates his door.
Something feels different about today, he thinks. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but
something about today...
He lets his tired eyes fall shut again and wriggles his toes beneath the sheets, stretching his limbs
as best as he can within their confines. The restraints around his wrists and ankles, despite being
slightly sticky and too hot against his skin, are at least a familiar presence now and he makes no
attempt to strain against them. He takes a slow, deep breath through his nose and ignores the
clinging scent of antiseptic as he allows it to fully fill his rib cage and stretch all the way down to
his belly.
The air scratches at his throat, still sore and tender enough that even this one breath makes his
airway clench in discomfort. A second attempt at filling his lungs makes his chest give an awful
lurch, and the instinctive third gasp finally sends him into a coughing fit that reverberates off the
walls and sends the closest nurse running in his direction. The door to his room swings open with a
slam just seconds after a familiar face appears in the window, the nurse’s expression distorted with
worry.
“Mr. Jung?” she asks as she pulls her stethoscope from around her neck. “Mr. Jung, are you
alright?”
He tries to voice his agreement, but he can barely manage a sound as another round of coughs
bursts from his chest. His hands ball into fists, unable to reach up to his face to cover his mouth,
and his own expression twists in discomfort to match hers. The nurse scans over the machines
beside his bed, her eyes quickly taking in his vital signs even as she places the earpieces of her
stethoscope into place and leans closer.
“Shhh, it’s going to be okay,” she says gently as she places the cold end of the stethoscope to his
skin just beneath his hospital gown, “remember, breathe through your nose and it will calm
down.”
He gives a shaky nod and closes his eyes, slamming his lips shut against the next shudder of his
chest so that the air is forced out his nose instead. With each subsequent breath, he allows his chest
to jerk and convulse with the instinct to cough until the itch in his throat begins to subside, though
the panicked sensation in his chest still lingers. After so many days of this torment, perhaps he
should be used to the sudden loss of control, but it never seems to get any easier. When he finally
levels out his breathing and opens his eyes again, he watches with bleary eyes as the nurse tilts her
head, listens to his lungs for a moment, makes a face he can’t quite decipher, then finally pulls
away.
“Better?” She asks, stethoscope now curled back around her neck, and he feels his shoulders move
towards his ears. “Hmmm…” she says and steps closer to bend over him and place her hands on
either side of his throat.
At this distance, he can see the small smattering of freckles that cross the bridge of her nose, the
slight discoloration of her right eye just below her pupil that gives her a distinctive appearance. Her
skin is fair below the freckles, and there is something about her features that immediately registers
as unique, different...foreign.
Dangerous, his mind supplies.

‘No,’ he thinks, his brow furrowing. ‘Stop that.’
Her fingers are cool as she presses them gently along the line of his throat, palpating the tender
flesh just above and below where he knows he is sporting a rather remarkable bruise that rings his
neck. This certainly isn’t the first time one of the staff has examined him in this way, but—there’s
just something about her—
She can’t be trusted, his mind repeats as she pauses to grab at a clipboard beside his bed and
scribble down a few notes.
‘Shut up,’ he shoots back, his hands curling into fists atop the sheets.
“Okay, Mr. Jung, I’m going to need you to try swallowing for me when I say so, alright?” she asks,
and returns her cold fingers to his throat. She waits until he gives another small nod, then presses
her fingertips into the flesh on either side of his Adam’s apple and says gently, “...okay, swallow.”
The effort of making his throat close around nothing strains at his muscles all the way up to his
jaw, bringing a fresh wave of tears to his eyes. Still, he’s able to successfully swallow some of his
spit without choking or coughing, and that seems to be enough to satisfy the nurse.
“Very good,” she says as she leans away. “Now let’s try this—”
She reaches to the table beside his bed and picks up a small cup of water, filled maybe a few
inches, and brings it up to his lips. He opens his mouth to accept the drink while she holds it aloft
—but this time as she reaches for his neck to feel his response, she holds his throat with only one
hand. Her fingers and thumb close in on either side of his trachea, and the moment she begins to
squeeze with any amount of pressure, the voice in his head screams back to life.
She’s one of them, she’s dangerous! You can’t trust her—
“—stop!”
Before he even realizes he has moved, his head has jerked away from her touch, his voice coming
out more like a growl as he yelps. The cup of water goes flying with his motion, splattering all
across the front of his hospital gown and the sheets tucked in at his waist. When he tears his eyes
open, unsure of when they fell closed again, he finds the young woman with her hands held up in
surprise, her own blue eyes wide and darting between his face and his throat.
“I—” he tries to say, “I’m—”
“It’s alright,” she hurries to assure him, dropping one hand to pat at his thigh while the other
brushes a few droplets of the water from her cheeks. “I should have warned you.” Her Korean is
good—nearly perfect, even—but for just a moment, he swears she isn’t even speaking his language
at all.
She slips off the bed and brushes the wrinkles from her scrubs with a little sigh. Clipboard in hand,
the nurse gives him a comforting smile and steps backwards towards the door as she says, “Just
hold on a moment, please. I’ll be right back with the doctor.”
Doctor. Right, that’s right. Here, they have doctors. He knows the doctor. Yes.
He gives no reply, just relaxes back against the pillows as much as he can. His eyes find a cross-
section of ceiling tiles above his head and focus on that for a moment, giving him something to
stare at as he tries to calm his racing heart. ‘In and out,’ he tells himself, ‘in through the nose and
out through the mouth. Breathe all the way to your toes…’
He takes a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the cool, antiseptic air pass over the back of his tongue
and down his esophagus until it hits the bottom of his lungs. The strain still itches at his sore
throat, but he imagines the air flowing further, deeper, imagines the sensation crawling all the way
down towards his stomach, his thighs, his ankles—
“—Mr. Jung!”
His eyes fly open at the sound of his door swinging open again, the loud, piercing voice of the
doctor cheerfully greeting him like a slap to the face. He glances down the bed and finds the small
man in his white coat flipping through the clipboard that the nurse had been using only minutes
before. In spite of his efforts, the machine over his head betrays the way the man’s sudden
appearance sends his heart racing again.
“Good morning, Mr. Jung!” The doctor repeats, “I see you’ve had an eventful day already, hm?”
He doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he just offers a non-committal shrug and traces the man’s
movements with his eyes as the doctor draws closer. That same nurse hovers over his shoulder
now, waiting for direction—and if she didn’t appear foreign and strange before, the way she
practically towers over the doctor when they stand side-by-side would be enough to do it.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks, finally setting the medical chart down in favor of pulling
his own stethoscope from around his neck. “I heard you having quite the cough from all the way
out in the hall.”
“...sore,” he replies, eventually, and even just making that one word causes his throat to burn.
“Hurts.”
“I can imagine!” The doctor is far too cheerful, and something about it sets his teeth on edge.
“That’s what happens when you try to break your own neck, hm?”
The bluntness of the doctor’s words is like a punch to the gut. “I—”
“Say ahhhh.” Suddenly, there is a wooden stick in his mouth, pressing his tongue down to an
uncomfortable degree. The doctor lifts what looks like a pen from his pocket, and within seconds
there is a very bright light pointed towards his face.
“—a-ahhhh?” he tries, still not used to these strange things the staff keeps asking him to do. The
doctor stares into his open mouth for a second before making a little noncommittal noise and
pulling away. He lets out a little cough, and the nurse gives him a worried look over the doctor’s
shoulder.
“Did you complete his swallow screen for today?” the doctor asks her, and she immediately shakes
her head.
“We were unable to finish, Mr. Jung had...a sudden reaction.”
“A reaction?” the doctor muses. “Is that so...”
“There was no aspiration or signs of struggle with normal swallowing function from what I could
see,” she continues, and the doctor nods. “And the petechiae in his eyes is quickly healing.”
“And aside from the coughing, the lungs sound clear?”
“Yes, no obstructions and his PFT results from yesterday were normal. Auscultation today also
sounded clear and normal.”
“Good!” The doctor grabs for the chair that always sits at the side of his bed, dragging it across the
floor with a rumble until it is close enough to use. He drops into the seat with an unceremonious
thump and leans closer to the bed, one eyebrow raised.
“So, tell me, Mr. Jung...are we remembering more today?”
—the sirens have been raised, a terrible chorus that grates at his ears, claws at the windows. His
office suddenly feels too small, far too small, the walls closing in around him as his mind
scrambles to find something, some solution, some way out of here—
“No.”
“Mmm...that’s too bad.” The doctor tilts his head thoughtfully, tapping his foot as he appraises the
man sitting before him. “How about this,” he says after a moment, “can you tell me who you are?”
“Who...I am?” He repeats dumbly.
“Yes, let’s start with your name. Can you tell me your full name?”
“—Mr. Jung?!”
A voice calls out to him frantically across the darkened office, barely audible over the piercing
alarm. He freezes in the doorway, one hand on the handle and half a mind to ignore the voice and
carry on. If the sirens overhead are nearly deafening, it’s nothing compared to the thundering of
his heartbeat in his ears—
“Mr. Jung!”
“Sir, come quick! The doll! The doll is gone!”
“Yes, I know!” he calls back as evenly as he can, “I’m on my way to join the search!”
He can almost feel the stomping of several pairs of boots behind him, the heavy movements of
guards as they flood into the office and slam door after door open in their search. His hand
twitches towards the handle, feet carrying him forward, his escape so close, so close—
“—in here!” he hears one of the guards cry out just as he pushes on the door and takes a single
step out into the front lobby. “What in the hell—?!”
He can see the moonlight through the front doors, the crisp night air calling to him. ‘Just a few
more steps to freedom, just stay calm—’
“—what the hell is this?!” another guard shouts, and his shoulders hunch towards his ears. “Hey!
Hey!!”
The office door swings shut behind him with a click, but on the other side he can hear the sounds
of scrambling bodies and approaching footsteps, shouting back and forth as they draw near. “It’s
him, it’s him!” they cry out, and his heart sinks to the floor. “He took the doll!”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he starts to say under his breath even as his feet carry him towards
the front entrance, the moonlight cascading across his upturned face as he draws nearer.
“Go! Hurry!”
“Stop him, we can’t let him go—!”

“—Mr. Jung? Are you sure?!”
“He’s the one! He’s working with the enemy!”
The door slams open with enough force to crack the glass that sits in its frame. Tinkling catches his
ears as the shards fall to the floor, the sound distinct beneath the roar of voices suddenly calling
out for his attention.
“Pray for us sinners,” he continues as lights suddenly illuminate his form from behind. He stops in
his tracks the moment he hears the cocking of a gun, arms raising above his head in surrender. He
closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the sky. “Now and at the hour of our death.”
“Jung Jaehyun,” one of the guards behind him shouts, “get on your knees!”
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please tell us your full name.”
“...Jung Jaehyun.”
“And your date of birth?”
“February 14th, 1985.”
“Very good,” the doctor says, scribbling something down on his clipboard. “Do you remember
who I am?”
This answer takes Jaehyun a little bit longer to dig out of the recesses of his mind, his memories of
the last few days a complete blur. “You’re...my doctor.”
“Do you remember my name?”
“Doctor...Cheon?”
“That’s right,” he says with a small smile, “and how about my assistant here?” Dr. Cheon points to
the nurse at his side, and this time Jaehyun narrows his eyes as he considers his answer.
Dangerous, she’s dangerous! His mind supplies, and he shakes his head as if to clear away the
sound.
“No?” Dr. Cheon asks, taking the gesture to be one of disagreement.
“No, I—” he starts to say, then pauses and takes a deep breath. “That’s...Nurse Diana.”
“Good, very good!” Another note on the clipboard. “Now, I need to ask you about some more
serious things, Mr. Jung. Do you think we can do that today?”
His hands ball into fists, arms instinctively tensing against his restraints. Still, he nods silently and
braces himself for what he knows is coming.
“Okay, let’s try this again. Do you remember how you got here, Mr. Jung?”
“...how I got here?” Jaehyun repeats, eyes shifting away from the doctor’s inquisitive gaze.
“To this hospital, yes. Do you remember how you got here?”
—cold, it’s so cold—

“—and you found him like this?”
There are hands, so many hands, reaching, grabbing—
“Yes, he was frantic, outside my window—scared my students half to death—”
Why—Why is it so cold?
“And he was naked when you found him?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He seems very troubled...I thought this was the best place to bring him, he
clearly needs help—”
“You made the right decision, Mr. Kim.”
Kim…
Kim?
“We’re going to take very good care of him, I promise.”
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
There is suddenly a light, a horrible, brilliant light. He can’t see a thing, the light is so bright.
“....is...this heaven?”
“Sir, you’re in the hospital. You’re going to be alright. Can you hear me?”
“....yes, I…”
“Can you tell me your name, sir?”
“H—Help me—”
“Come with me, Mr. Kim, we’re going to need some information from you…”
“However I can help, of course.”
“Help me!”
“No...I don’t remember.”
“I see. Do you know how long you’ve been here?”
CW: explicit suicide attempt, suicidal ideation
click to skip
—the sheets were harder to twist into a rope than he expected, but he sits back triumphantly when
the final knot is locked into place.
This is all your fault.

His hands are steady as he places the rope around his neck, eyes staring dead ahead.
The rope is secured to the frame of the bed, the metal creaking where it is bolted to the floor. The
mattress sways under his weight, but he plants his feet firmly.
You have failed.
He can hear the nurses chattering at the end of the hallway. It’s now or never.
Only God can forgive you now.
The metal supports for the ceiling tiles above are certainly not designed to hold his weight, but
they only need to bear it for long enough—
“...no.”
“What can you tell me about your life before you arrived here, Mr. Jung?”
—his hands are bound, they’re bound—it’s so tight, he can’t—he can’t breathe—
“—want it gone! All of it!” someone is saying. They’re so angry, why—why are they so angry—?
“Seokjin, we can’t just—”
“—you will do what you are told!!”
“How dare you—”
He’s naked and cold, the ground so hard beneath his knees. He can’t—can’t see, it’s so dark—
everything hurts—
“How dare I?! How dare you question me at a time like this!”
“You don’t have the authority to—”
“I am the only one who has authority here! And you will do as you are told or you will be next!”
“Mr. Kim—”
“Guards!”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I...don’t remember anything.”
“You were found breaking into a school. What were you doing there, Mr. Jung?”
“—Mr. Jung, what are you doing?”
The wood gives easily as he slams his foot down against it, the chair leg breaking off in one solid
piece. He leaves the upturned chair where it lies behind his desk and clambers up atop the wooden
surface instead, the leg held aloft in his hands like a club.
“Mr. Jung—?!”
“Quiet.”
With one swing, the camera beside the window is shattered, breaking away from its mount so that
it swings by its cables alone. Another swing sends it flying across the room with a crash, but he
pays no attention to where it lands, his head already swinging around in search of the second
camera beside the door. His companion is startled as he jumps down and darts forward, arm
outstretched over his head to knock the second device free of its bracket as well. They both jerk out
of the way as it drops to the floor at their feet, and he kicks it away unceremoniously.
“Here.” He thrusts the makeshift club into his companion’s hands. “Take this, stand outside.
Guard the door. Nobody comes inside, do you hear me?”
“But—Mr. Jung, I—I don’t understand—”
“Taehyung.” He raises both hands and cups the boy’s face, firmly squeezing at his cheeks on
either side. “Look at me.”
The boy’s dark eyes dart back and forth anxiously, unsure of where to focus in such close
quarters.
“Look at me,” he repeats, and Taehyung takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.
“There’s no time for questions. This is too important.”
“But—”
“You are a part of a vitally important mission, Taehyung. The fate of the world is at stake, do you
understand me?”
The boy nods in his grip, biting at his lip to keep from saying anything more.
“I’m trusting you to guard the door for me. There can’t be any interruptions.”
“Y-Yes sir.”
“Nobody comes inside.”
“Right...n-nobody comes inside.”
“Good boy.” He leans forward and places a kiss on the boy’s lips, feeling them part in a gasp at
the contact. Taehyung melts beneath him immediately, a little whimper rising in his throat—but
there’s no time to linger. When he pulls away again, the student wavers on his feet as though
Jaehyun’s hands are the only thing holding him upright.
“Go, Taehyung. Make me proud.”
“But—Jimin—?”
“I’ll take care of him. Go!”
With one final glance across the room, Taehyung nods and squares his shoulders, marching out
the office door and closing it securely behind himself. Jaehyun can hear the moment the boy’s back
hits the wood, and it sets him into motion.
From his pocket, he withdraws a small bundle of items, now intimately familiar to his hands.
Unwrapping the cloth that keeps it protected, he withdraws first a long chain adorned with a
large, elaborate cross carved in silver that glints in the moonlight. He turns it over in his free hand
for a moment, considering, before slipping it over his head and letting it rest against his sternum.
Immediately, he feels a sense of calm, of purpose, wash over him.
“Mother Mary, be with me,” he whispers, then withdraws a small vial of clear liquid from beneath
the fabric. “Come to the assistance of men whom God has created to His likeness and whom He
has redeemed at a great price from the tyranny of the devil…”
The words fall from his tongue easily now, so many months of practice making it second nature to
carry on as he steps across the room. The body hanging before him, held aloft by leather and iron,
makes no sound as he approaches. The doll’s eyes are blank, unfeeling and unseeing, even as they
stare directly at him.
There is evil in those eyes, he knows this now. An evil there that he must eradicate—
“Mr. Jung?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were thinking for a long time there, Mr. Jung—”
“I said I don’t know.”
Dr. Cheon seems to sense that he is getting more agitated and holds his hands up in surrender.
“Okay, alright. I understand. You don’t remember.”
He pauses for a moment, tapping his pen against his clipboard, then smacks his lips and slides to
his feet. “Well, Mr. Jung, you were brought to us in quite a state. A good Samaritan found you
wandering naked on private property, and you were clearly having a break with reality.”
Jaehyun says nothing, focusing on the texture of the sheets between his fingers as he rubs them
across the fabric.
“However, it’s my determination that you have now returned to a lucid state, and apart from some
lingering memory loss, you appear to be stable and in good health.”
“What...does that mean for me?”
“It means we will be discharging you today—”
“I can go home?” He interrupts, suddenly sitting up as much as he can against his restraints. The
doctor pushes down on his shoulder to force him back down to the mattress.
“Not quite.” His heart sinks immediately, but the doctor isn’t done. “You’re being transferred to a
different facility—”
“Why?!”
“—at my request,” another voice interjects, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. All
three heads crane towards the door, which has quietly opened to reveal a figure dressed all in black
with the exception of a small white collar around his neck, his hair neatly combed away from his
face.
“Father Noh,” Jaehyun breathes, his entire body immediately relaxing at the appearance of his
familiar face.
“Father! We didn’t expect you to arrive so soon—”
“I didn’t want to waste a minute,” the priest says, stepping further into the room with a smile.
“We’re very happy to have Mr. Jung transferring into our care.”
“Well, we’re just finishing up here,” Dr. Cheon says, tapping a finger on his clipboard where he
has been taking notes. “Will you be the one escorting him?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it.” The priest’s words could have come across as
judgmental, controlling even, but his easy smile melts away any nerves the staff might have felt.
The nurse returns his smile easily and gestures with one hand towards the now empty seat.
“You’re welcome to stay here and wait while we draw up the discharge paperwork, if you’d like.”
“Yes, thank you, I’d be happy to keep Mr. Jung company while we wait.” Father Noh gives the
doctor a congenial pat on the arm as he passes and sinks easily into the chair. He moves to reach
for Jaehyun’s hand, but stops halfway as he notices the restraints still securely fastened around the
man’s wrists. “Oh, certainly these aren’t necessary any longer?” he asks, looking up at Dr. Cheon
with a frown now twisting at his lips.
The doctor hesitates, shifting from one foot to the other. “Well...there is a safety concern—”
“I do believe I just heard you giving Mr. Jung here a clean bill of health, did I not?” he interrupts,
and the doctor immediately looks admonished. “I will be here to monitor him. Please,” he says,
and waves his hand towards the restraints again. With a nod from the doctor, the nurse steps
forward and tugs the leather straps free of their buckles, first on his right side and then after
circling the bed, his left. And when she steps away, Jaehyun is able to sit up properly and stretch
his limbs for the first time in many days.
“Alright, well...give me a few minutes and we will have the discharge paperwork ready for you to
sign.”
“Certainly,” Father Noh replies, a smile now returned to his lips, and the doctor takes that as
permission to usher the nurse with him out the door without another word.
The moment the door clicks shut, Jaehyun practically lunges at the older man, hands outstretched
for some form of comfort. “Father, Father, I’m so sorry—”
“Shhh, shhhh…” the priest immediately interjects, cradling the younger man in his arms. “It’s all
right, my son. I’m here.”
“I didn’t know you were coming, I thought—I—I thought—”
“There were important preparations that needed doing before I could return, but I do regret the
length of my absence,” he says, gently patting Jaehyun on the back. He shakes his head, a terrible
well of guilt opening in the pit of his stomach.
“Father—” Jaehyun pulls away, though his hands never leave the black, nicely starched fabric of
the priest’s clerical shirt. “Father, I have sinned, I have sinned—”
“Shhhh…” Father Noh repeats, reaching up to take Jaehyun’s hands between his own. He leans
forward and rests their foreheads together, forcing Jaehyun to meet his eyes. “No need to get upset.
I’m here. Tell me what troubles you.”
“I—Father, I lied to the doctor. I lied to him over and over again.”
“And what were these lies that you told?”
“I—” he hesitates, swallowing thickly around the knot of anxiety in his throat. “He asked me what I
remember...about my capture, about what—what happened that night. I told him I don’t know, I
don’t remember anything, but…” He clenches his eyes shut, trying to fight off the memory, but it
claws its way to the front of his mind all the same.
—the heavy waft of smoke quickly fills the small space, clinging to his clothes and the inside of his
nose until he can barely breathe. Still, he pushes on. “God the Father commands you...God the
Son commands you...God the Holy Ghost commands you—”
—the doll’s eyes fly open in between one word and the next, and from it’s mouth comes a sound—a
terrible, awful sound, an inhuman scream that nearly knocks him off his feet—
“—but Father...I remember everything.”
He shudders, and the priest squeezes his hands reassuringly.
“That’s a good thing, Jaehyun. That’s a very very good thing.”
“But—”
“Lying may be a sin, my son...but our charge is one of the highest order, and cannot be waylaid
with concerns for such trivial things. Lying in the pursuit of the greater good is hardly a crime,
hm?” When Jaehyun does not immediately look reassured, the priest leans back and brings one
hand up to tilt the younger man’s head higher. “God knows your heart, Jaehyun. And so do I. Don’t
let yourself be troubled by the things we are forced to do in the pursuit of His mission.”
Jaehyun’s lips tilt upwards in the ghost of a smile.
“God knows your spirit,” he goes on, bringing his other hand to the bruises that ring Jaehyun’s
throat. “He knows your wounds, your troubles. And he will take them all away if you let him.”
“Yes, yes,” Jaehyun sighs, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders at just the sound of the older
man’s words. “Please, I’ll do anything—”
“You’ve already done a great deal to serve our cause, my son...now, it is our turn to take care of
you, hm?”
His smile is wider now, more genuine, as he nods his agreement. “Where are you taking me?” he
asks, though the answer hardly matters.
Before the priest can answer, a knock at the door startles both men away from each other. “Mr.
Jung?”
“Come in,” Father Noh answers on his behalf, and the door swings open to reveal the same nurse
from before, this time pushing a wheelchair in front of her.
“Are we ready?” she asks with a gentle smile.
“Yes, thank you, my dear,” the priest replies, and releases Jaehyun’s hands so he can rise to his
feet. He reaches down to the side of the bed, and with well-practiced hands he easily finds the
button to release the guard rail on the side of the bed. Once it has swung down and out of the way,
he offers his arm to Jaehyun and helps the frail man to his feet as well. His hospital gown does
little to keep his modesty, the sterile air uncomfortably cold once he leaves the safe confines of his
blanket, but as soon as he is settled into the wheelchair, the priest drapes it back across his lap and
hides his bare legs from view.
“There, are you comfortable?” he asks, and Jaehyun makes a small sound of agreement.
“Dr. Cheon will meet you at the front desk with his paperwork,” the nurse says as she holds the
door open for them, letting Father Noh pass by with Jaehyun in tow into the hallway beyond.
‘I’m really getting out of here,’ he thinks to himself in disbelief as they pass by room after room,
the nurses smiling at him encouragingly as they pass. ‘It’s a miracle—’
“—wait!”
His train of thought is suddenly interrupted by a shout from somewhere down the hall, followed by
a crash that makes the nurses nearby jump. Father Noh brings the wheelchair to a halt, and Jaehyun
can practically feel the older man straighten up behind him.
“—don’t care, let me through!”
“You can’t go in there, sir, this is a closed ward—”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, do you even know who I am?!”
“Sir, you really must—”
“Get out of my way!”
Twenty feet or so in front of them, a set of double doors flies open with a crash, sending several
nurses scattering away in shock. Another nurse backs through the doors, her hands raised
defensively in front of her, clearly attempting to keep someone from barreling past her.
“Where is he?! Where is he?!” A familiar voice shouts, and the nurse flinches at the sound.
“Sir, I’m warning you—!” she says, but she continues to back away from the doors as another,
taller figure charges forward.
Jaehyun’s knuckles turn white as he catches sight of the intruder’s face, a terrible chill taking over
his body.
“Where is Jung Jaehyun?!”
“Mr. Kim, please—”
The man surges forward and shoves the nurse out of the way, his taller stature making it easy to
overpower her slight form. She cries out as she hits the wall beside the door, but he pays her no
mind as he stalks into the hallway with hands balled up into fists at his sides.
“Where is he?!” the man repeats, and behind him, Jaehyun hears Father Noh clear his throat. The
sound is enough to draw the intruder’s attention, his head swinging towards them like a snake
ready to strike. His nostrils flare as he catches sight of Jaehyun in his chair and immediately
changes course to head in their direction instead.
“Jaehyun!” the man bellows, and Jaehyun has to fight the urge not to spring out of his chair and
bolt away. Father Noh rests one hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and he forces
himself to stay still even as the enraged intruder storms towards them.
“How can I help you?” Father Noh addresses the man as he draws closer, his footsteps dogged by a
short woman with wide, frightened eyes.
The intruder ignores the priest entirely, his focus singularly fixed on Jaehyun’s face. “Where do
you think you’re going?!” he demands, squaring up only a few feet from the wheelchair’s position
in the center of the hallway. “I have been waiting for an hour and they tell me—”
Jaehyun opens his mouth to reply, but Father Noh beats him to it. “I’m bringing this patient to be
discharged,” he says, and his voice remains remarkably calm given the circumstances.
“Discharged?! I didn’t give permission for him to be—”
“I’m afraid your consent is no longer relevant for Mr. Jung’s care,” Father Noh interrupts, and the
intruder’s face turns an ugly shade of red.
“No longer relevant? RELEVANT?! I am the only person who has the authority to—”
“You are in our way, sir,” the priest interrupts again, seemingly unaffected and unimpressed by the
man’s outburst. Jaehyun’s chest feels so tight he thinks he might lose consciousness from lack of
air, but the heavy, warm weight of the priest’s hand on his shoulder gives him some degree of
strength. He tries to school his expression into something calm and unaffected, the way his
companion’s voice sounds, and it must be at least somewhat successful because the intruder reels
back in surprise.
“You dare—you—you dare to speak to me like this? You have no idea who you’re dealing with
—”
Father Noh seems to have had enough. In a matter of seconds, he releases the handles of the
wheelchair and steps around the side of it to approach the taller man, looking up at him with no
small degree of distaste.
“Make no mistake,” he says, his tone just as even as always, “I know exactly who you are, Kim
Seokjin.”
“What—” Seokjin begins to say, but the priest cuts him off with a hand suddenly fisted in the front
of his shirt, pulling Seokjin down to eye level with him.
“I know exactly who you are, and what you’ve done. You have no place here, and no authority.”
His voice drops to a menacing whisper, but from this distance, Jaehyun can still catch every word.
He tightens his grip until the collar of the taller man’s shirt cuts into the sides of his throat.
“Making a scene and flaunting your titles will do you no good out here, outside your gates and
walls. You are a charlatan and a false prophet and you will not lay another hand on Mr. Jung’s
head.”
Seokjin’s eyes widen with every word, the redness in his face slowly being overtaken with a sickly
pallor.
“Get off me!” he shouts, shoving the priest away. Father Noh backs away calmly, his hands falling
easily to his sides. “Who—Who are you?!”
“I am merely a messenger,” the priest says sagely as he returns to his place behind the wheelchair,
taking the handles in each of his palms. “And you are in our way.”
Seokjin takes a startled step backwards as Father Noh begins to push the chair down the hall again,
daring Seokjin to continue blocking the path. The short woman at Seokjin’s side reaches up with a
shaking hand to grab at his arm, but he jerks away from her immediately. “Sir—” she tries to say,
but he doesn’t bother giving her an ounce of his attention.
“You can’t just take him—”
“I think you’ll find that I can,” Father Noh says, and continues to push forward until Seokjin and
the woman at his side have no choice but to step out of the way or run the risk of being run over.
The woman’s eyes, already wide with fear, seem to widen even further when she makes eye contact
with Jaehyun as they pass. “—M—Mr. Jung?” she says, her face twisting in confusion and
recognition. “What—?”
“Hello, Chaeyoung…” he whispers to her as he is wheeled by her side, and he watches her hand
twitch towards him as if on instinct.
“You—” Seokjin seems to choke on his words, his temper flaring back to life as he hears Jaehyun
speak. “You know her? You remember?! That’s—That’s impossible—”
Father Noh continues walking, completely ignoring Seokjin’s outburst now. Jaehyun casts a glance
over his shoulder at the fuming man, meeting his eyes at last.
“Hello, brother,” he says, this time with a louder, more confident voice, one that scratches against
his bruised throat. The look of terrified realization on Seokjin’s face is enough to make the
discomfort worth it.
“No!” Seokjin shrieks, and as Jaehyun turns away, he hears the older man begin to charge after
them—but from either side, several nurses take this as their sign to finally spring into action.
Though he can no longer watch, it’s easy to imagine from the sounds of a struggle over his
shoulder the way that Seokjin must have been tackled by the staff members before he could take
another step closer. “Let me go!”
As they approach the doors that Seokjin so dramatically threw open minutes before, they are
forced to pause for just a moment to allow several security guards to pass by, their hands on their
hips as if reaching for their weapons as they approach the scuffle down the hall.
“Get off me!” Seokjin suddenly shouts in the distance, and beside him Chaeyoung lets out a
startled shriek. “No—No! Get off me! Jaehyun! Jaehyun—you—let go!”
“Sir, if you can’t calm down, we’ll be forced to restrain you!”
“Jaehyun, what do you know? WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!”
“Mr. Kim, please!”
Father Noh places a hand atop his head for a moment, and he closes his eyes, sending out a prayer
for his brother’s troubled soul.
“You can’t hide from me! I’ll find you!! I’ll find you no matter where you hide—!”
“Goodbye, brother,” Jaehyun says to himself as Father Noh moves his hand away and begins
pushing the wheelchair through the door.
“Put him out of your mind,” the priest instructs in a low voice, and Jaehyun knows that he’s right.
“The Order is proud to welcome you among our ranks,” he continues, “but we have a bit of a
journey ahead of ourselves.”
“It’s an honor to be invited at last.”
“Good, then we should get going. Mrs. Kim is eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
CW: extensive PTSD flashbacks, aftermath of rape, vomit, body horror, implied underage,
implied child abuse, implied rape/non-con, implied domestic violence, mentions of infidelity
click to skip
General Housing—Hallway—Second Floor 08-29-18 12:11PM
Burning—he is burning.
The water cascading down his naked skin feels as red-hot as the sun beating down on his shoulders
in the middle of a harvest day, as scalding as the wafting embers from a funeral pyre, blazing so hot
and high that it’s impossible to get close—burning like the bolt of pain that shoots up his spine
when—
He slams his fist into the wall, ignoring the way the tile crunches beneath the impact and his
knuckles scream with pain from the abuse. It’s a burning of a different sort, one that makes his eyes
focus and his lungs fill with air. He blindly reaches out and slides fingers against tile until they land
on metal, and without a moment’s hesitation, cranks the dial all the way to the side and tenses
under the suddenly frigid water that lands atop his head.
Burning.
He has already scrubbed his skin raw, his body tender but no less clean than it was before, no
amount of soap able to rid him of the disgust that lingers. He closes his eyes and braces against the
sensation, reveling in the way it sears across his raw flesh and instantly sends shivers down his
spine, his arms trembling as he brings his hands up in front of his face. If it is possible that burning
could take a third form, it would be this—the kiss of ice against his skin that sets his nerves alight.
The feeling is nearly enough to numb the thoughts out of his head entirely, nearly enough to stop
him from remembering the smash of his cheek against glass, the squeeze of hands on his hips—
—he feels himself tear around the intrusion, every nerve in his body alight with pain, and tears
immediately spill from his eyes. If he was breathless before, now it is as though the air has been
stolen right from his lungs—
No—
“—I’ll have—whatever—I—want, Min Yoongi.” Seokjin punctuates each of his words with a small
thrust in and out of Yoongi’s body, the drag and burn unlike anything Yoongi has experienced in
decades. He feels a wetness begin to seep down between his thighs, and knows that he is bleeding.
“And there’s nothing—nothing you can do to stop me—”
Please, please, no—
‘Don’t look—don’t look—don’t look—’
“No!”
He snaps back to consciousness, his entire body aching, his back and legs still being pummelled by
water so cold it stings like shards of glass. When he wrenches his eyes open, he finds his face
smashed against the tile before him, arms and chest pressed flat against the cold surface, legs
spread apart. The position is so familiar—so disgustingly familiar—that he flinches away
instinctively and sends his body flying, feet slipping against the slick surface below.
He lands with limbs akimbo, back sliding down the tile until he ends up on the ground, knees
tucking up protectively against his chest. It does little to shield him from the descent of cold
droplets from above, but at least now he feels like he has nothing left to fall off of. Here, on the
ground, his limbs are free to waver, his body free to tremble. Here, he can curl himself away from
the onslaught of memories assaulting his mind and pretend there is anywhere he can run where
they will not find him.
It is all he can do—to pretend.
The first that comes is recent, too recent, a memory that still sends his stomach churning.
—the principal’s cock looks indecent as it is forced between the bars of the gag, making the doll’s
already stretched cheeks bulge obscenely at the intrusion. He pushes inside as far as he can go in
one try, immediately drawing an unconscious gurgle and cough from the doll’s throat. Spit begins
to trail down the doll’s chin in his wake, and Seokjin only seems encouraged by the sight, grabbing
with one hand at the doll’s hair to bury himself fully inside.
Yoongi’s hand moves robotically over the doll’s cock, just as he had been ordered to do, but he
can’t bring himself to look any further south that the wall above the older man’s head, eyes tracing
over the rough drywalling as though it is the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. He can spot
where unpracticed hands made a few mistakes in the construction, where the paint isn’t perfectly
even at the top of the wall. It provides enough of a distraction that the rest of the room all but fades
away, his mind fixating on the motion of his hand and nothing more.
Up-down-up-down-up-down-up—
Someone is making noise around him, but he is blissfully far away, somewhere quiet and peaceful.
He imagines a warm set of arms around him, a soft pair of lips over his own, a quaint little house
where a beautiful boy greets him with a smile—
Up-down-up-down—
He is startled back to himself by a truly wretched noise, one that breaks through the fog with all
the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He looks down and immediately wishes he had gone blind instead,
for it would be a kinder outcome than having to watch as Seokjin’s cock suddenly forces a wave of
vomit out of the doll’s mouth and down its front to the tile floor below.
He wrenches back immediately, his face curling in absolute revulsion as the smell hits his nose—
His stomach gives an aborted lurch as he drags himself from the memory with a sob, shaking his
head beneath the water still cascading down against him. Nononononono—
Still, there is little he can do to stop the onslaught once it starts, he knows this well by now. There
is nothing more to be done except brace himself for the next wave and—
—He looks up at the doll’s face, then, taking a deep breath through his nose, trying to will away
the memory—
And finds the doll’s eyes open, wide, staring directly at him.
They are not the eyes of a person just rousing from sleep, nor the eyes of someone confused, afraid,
unaware of what is happening to them—no, what he sees before him are eyes opened so wide their
pupils appear to be nothing more than pinpricks, sclera almost shockingly white in comparison.
These eyes stare straight at him, mouth opening wide to match until the doll’s face is little more
than a horrifying mask stretched into a silent scream. He can hear it—in his mind, if not with his
ears—a screeching, wailing siren—
This one comes and goes like a flash of lightning—just as terrible as before, just as all
encompassing—but it disappears in all but the blink of an eye.
Okay—okay, just breathe, just breathe, that one wasn’t so bad, it was over quickly, and—
“—Yoonjae, you can’t just do this—”
He can clearly see both of his parents in the adjoining room through a crack in the door, and as he
presses his small body to the wall beside the door frame, he clearly picks up the words they are
saying for the first time. His father looks up from the bed he is bent over, pausing in between
shoving items inside the suitcase before him for just long enough to meet his mother’s eyes and
narrow his own. “Oh yeah? Watch me.”
“I can’t believe you’re just going to—to abandon us like this!” His mother says, voice shrill,
throwing her hands in the air. After everything we’ve done to get here, everything we’ve been
through—!”
“Everything we’ve been through is exactly why I’m leaving, Hyejin!” His father slams down the
items in his hands, pointing an accusatory finger at the small woman before him. “I never wanted
this! This was your idea—”
His mother throws her hands in the air, clearly exasperated. There is an edge to her voice that
makes it clear this isn’t the first time this argument has been had between them. “We’re part of
something incredible here, why can’t you see that—”
“Incredible?” His father steps out from behind the bed at last, advancing on his wife with his face
twisted in disgust. “You think it’s incredible that I had to watch my wife being fucked by strangers
every night?! I think the word you’re looking for is shameful—”
“This is the way!” his mother shouts back, planting her feet. “You knew that! You knew that when
we decided to come here, don’t pretend you weren’t participating every step of the—”
“I came here for you!” His father grabs his mother by her shoulders, shaking her firmly with each
word. “Because I loved you, Hyejin...but I can’t take this anymore.”
Suddenly, everything stops. The room falls silent as if someone has pressed pause on the entire
situation. His mother sucks in a deep breath and replies in a broken voice, “...loved?”
His father’s hands disappear from her shoulders and his eyes fall to the floor as he steps away. His
mother can’t let it go, she’s never been able to let things go. “...you don’t love me anymore?”
Her husband turns to the bed again, his back now squarely turned in her direction. He resumes
picking up clothing from the pile on the bed and shoving them haphazardly into the suitcase he had
abandoned before.
After a beat, his mother seems to grow sick of waiting and bursts out, “Answer me!!”
His father barely flinches, and answers her in a cold voice without turning around. “I’m leaving.
There’s nothing more to discuss.”
He can see exactly the moment his mother starts crying. “So you’re—j-just giving up on all of it?
The mission? Our m-marriage? Our son—?”
“Absolutely not,” her husband answers firmly, snapping the suitcase closed and reaching for
another bag off to the side. “He’s coming with me.”
It’s said so matter-of-factly that it would seem like the conversation is over, if it weren’t for his
mother stomping forward and grabbing at his father as though she might keep the much larger
man from leaving. “Like hell he is! You c-can’t just t-take my son away—!”
“Get off me!” her husband shouts, shaking his arm free of her grip and finally turning to look at
her again. “There’s absolutely no way I’m leaving Yoongi in a godforsaken place like this!”
At the sound of his own name, he perks up from his hiding place and leans closer to the door
frame, peeking his head forward to get a better view. The floor beneath him creaks with the
movement, and both of his parents' heads snap towards the noise.
All at once, the room is filled with a flurry of movement. His mother darts towards him, hands
outstretched, and pushes him back through the small crack in the door with a shout. “Yoongi, get
back inside!”
Yoongi falls to the floor, tears immediately springing to his eyes. His father moves after her
immediately, grabbing wildly at the back of his mother’s clothes in an attempt to drag her away.
She shakes him free enough to grab at the door and slam it closed with a resounding bang,
followed by a second thud as her back hits the wood.
Yoongi scrambles away from the door with hands and feet, scooting across the room until his back
collides with his bed frame. The door rattles again, the clear signs of a struggle taking place on the
other side. He hears his mother let out a pained sound, but the door remains firmly shut.
“Open the door, Hyejin!”
“No!”
Yoongi slams his hands over his ears and begins rocking back and forth, trying desperately to
block out the sound. No-no-no—
“Open the goddamn door—!!”
“No! Yoongi—!”
No-no-no-no-no—
“—Yoongi?”
—the hallway is silent except for the gentle hum of business taking place behind closed doors on
every side. In the absence of windows, the small space is darker than the rest of the building,
though no amount of sunshine would ever make the door in front of him less imposing or his hand
more willing to reach up and knock.
“Kim Seokhoon, Principal,” the sign at the center of the door reads, letters clear even in the dim
lighting. The sign is several feet above Yoongi’s head and he cranes his neck up to stare at it in
apprehension. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to BE here—
Before he can think better of it, his hand has made the decision for him and moved forward enough
to rap ever-so-gently against the wood. The sound seems to echo overloud in the empty space, and
he flinches immediately and backs away from the door a few feet. It doesn’t take more than a
second for a set of footsteps to begin approaching him on the other side, though he can barely hear
it over the thundering of his own heart in his ears.
The door swings wide to reveal a man in his prime, young and dark-haired and seemingly a
hundred feet tall from the angle Yoongi is forced to look up at him. He tucks his hands into his
pockets and looks down at Yoongi with an appraising eye, his expression unreadable.
“—ah, Mr. Min...come inside.”
Without a word, Yoongi hurries into the room in the small gap the principal leaves for him to pass
by, head tucked down towards his shoulders. The principal doesn’t bother asking why he’s come,
already knows precisely why Yoongi has appeared. The door closes behind him with a snap that
feels terribly final, and goosebumps break out across Yoongi’s skin.
“You may undress now,” the principal commands, matter of fact. Yoongi knew it was coming, but
it does nothing to quell the trembling of his hands as they reach for the buttons at the front of his
uniform. He slips free of his simple clothing as slowly as he can, every movement like molasses as
though he can delay the inevitable, but the principal simply stands off to the side and stares him
down without a sound, utterly unswayed by his hesitance. It is only when he stands completely bare
before the older man at last that the principal speaks again, and the words send a terrible chill
down Yoongi’s spine.
“Bend over the desk.”
He can’t breathe around the anxiety in his chest, his heart beating far too heavily for there to be
any room for his lungs to expand—but their leader is hardly known for being patient, and Yoongi
is far more afraid of what might happen if he disobeys than if he obeys, though it’s a close call. He
can almost hear his legs trembling as he stumbles his way to the center of the room where the
older man’s large, stately desk sits before a fireplace, currently out of use. He plants his hands
against the polished surface and folds himself in half, pressing his cheek firmly to the center of the
desk as his backside is exposed to the cool air.
There is a pause, and then the sound of those same footsteps approaching from behind. Yoongi
squeezes his eyes firmly shut as he feels the warmth from the older man’s body hit his bare skin,
and he can almost feel the hands reaching for him even before they make contact—
“—Yoongi?!”
He snaps back to himself in pieces, then all at once.
First, his hearing returns, alerting him to the sound of a deep pounding sound in the distance, and
then someone calling what sounds like his name. He blinks, slowly, and watches the room swim
back into view through the water still dripping down from the hair hanging in his face. Finally, his
body seems to remember how to send signals to his brain, and he becomes acutely aware that the
tumultuous shudders that have overtaken his limbs are not, in fact, the lingering effect of his
memory. He does his best to flex his fingers and uncurl his limbs, but finds himself just as frozen
as the water hitting his skin feels.
And it is in this vulnerable position—legs curled up towards his chest, arms wrapped securely
around himself, body shaking like a leaf—that Namjoon suddenly discovers him as the nurse
comes bursting through the door to his bathroom only moments later.
“Yoongi?!” The younger man says, voice a little rough at the edges, as his eyes dart around the
small room before landing on Yoongi where he has slumped to the floor at the bottom of the
shower stall. Though his mouth falls open on reflex, no sound leaves his mouth and Yoongi is left
staring up at his childhood friend through his sodden hair, the tears on his cheeks mixing with the
water until they disappear.
Namjoon takes a hesitant step forward, brows furrowed, clearly unsure whether or not Yoongi
needs his help. When Yoongi still says nothing, the nurse reaches forward towards him and then
immediately yelps and pulls his hand back as the frigid water also strikes his skin.
“Holy—” he starts to say, shaking the offending water free of his hand as though it is caustic.
“World’s end, Yoongi—what are you doing?!”
Yoongi opens and shuts his mouth robotically in an attempt to respond, but his voice appears to
have abandoned him. A fresh wave of hot tears leaves his eyes and he shakes his head miserably,
and the sight appears to be enough for Namjoon to dive forward into the deluge in spite of his
discomfort. The younger man’s strong arms wrap themselves around Yoongi’s smaller form and
tug him forward, sliding beneath his legs to support his slight weight as he is carried free of the
water at last.
The air outside of the bathroom is warm, a little muggy, exactly as a late August day should be.
Still, he trembles and shakes as though it is the dead of winter until Namjoon has placed him gently
down on his bed and wrapped him in a towel and then a blanket for good measure—and he quivers
even then. He can’t bring himself to meet the younger man’s eyes when Namjoon kneels in front of
him, narrow eyes flickering this way and that as though attempting to piece together his thoughts
by sheer willpower alone.
Only when it becomes clear that Yoongi isn’t going to say a word, isn’t going to offer up any sort
of explanation, does Namjoon open his own mouth to fill the silence. What he decides to say ,
however, takes Yoongi completely by surprise even through the haze in his mind.
“I have to stop finding people like this, it’s beginning to be something of a problem.”
A sharp, humorless laugh forces its way out of Yoongi’s chest. Namjoon’s lips quirk up at one side
into the smallest of smiles.
“H-How—many people...could you have p-possibly found like this?” Yoongi manages to croak out
after a pause.
“You’d be surprised,” Namjoon says wryly. The humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are still
darting over Yoongi’s face and body appraisingly—but for a moment, it creates a little space for
Yoongi to breathe.
It can’t last forever, though, and when Namjoon opens his mouth again, Yoongi knows there’s no
escaping the question to follow.
“What the hell happened, Yoongi?” the nurse repeats, this time softer and more earnestly.
Yoongi sucks at the inside of his lip and shakes his head, his eyes unfocusing again. He tightens
his fists into the fabric wrapped around him as though it might protect him from the memories
threatening to return at the edge of his mind.
“Was it Seokjin?” Namjoon immediately redirects, eyes narrowing.
Yoongi freezes—and again, says nothing. His silence appears to be answer enough for Namjoon,
whose nostrils flare and hands curl into fists at his sides.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he says, voice barely more than a rasp. Neither of them believe it the moment the
words leave his lips, and Yoongi can see the battle that must be warring in the nurse’s mind as he
decides how to respond. He has no authority over Yoongi, no ability to report him, no one else to
turn to for help. It’s just the two of them, now, as it has been for so many years.
“Please,” he whispers, when his companion seems unwilling to relent.
Namjoon mulls his request over for a long moment, then leans back and nods. “Okay.”
“…okay?”
“Okay.”
Yoongi feels the tiniest bit of stress leave his shoulders, though his hands still quiver beneath the
blanket.
“Why...are you here, Namjoon?” he asks, looking away towards the door that the younger man had
clearly crashed through to get to him minutes before. He would feel self conscious about his
current state, but he knows with absolute surety that no one at all will pass by his door, the building
around him as empty as it always is.
“You’ve missed an eventful morning,” Namjoon sighs, getting to his feet. He runs a hand through
his hair in a familiar, nervous gesture. “The Council has taken the doll away, for the time being.”
Yoongi feels his eyebrows raise at the news, but his emotions do barely more than wobble towards
surprise, still far too numb for more of a reaction than that.
“Your absence today was...notable,” the nurse adds, his voice dropping a bit lower.
“…I’ll h-handle it.”
Namjoon purses his lips for a moment, clearly carefully considering his next words. “Taehyung
sent me here, to look for you.” This catches Yoongi’s attention enough to make him raise his eyes
to meet Namjoon’s gaze at last. “When you didn’t show up this morning,” he adds, as if Yoongi
needed the clarification.
Yoongi swallows thickly, his heart giving a painful throb. He squeezes his eyes shut against the
memory of Taehyung that immediately rushes to the front of his mind—a slender figure, cast only
in the light from a solitary street lamp, back turned as he walks away and fades into the night—
His stomach twists. If there was any food in his body, he would think himself at risk of throwing
up again.
“I’ll...handle that too,” he chokes out, and Namjoon’s eyes narrow again.
“Yoongi, you’re clearly not in any state to—”
“I said I’ll handle it!” Yoongi suddenly shouts, his voice returning to him as something harsh and
almost like gravel for all that it grates at his throat. For a moment, the room is so silent that he can
almost hear the rush of wind outside, the gentle chatter of leaves rattling in nearby trees. Their
colors will be changing soon.
“…fine,” Namjoon relents, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine. I need to get back to the school
before my absence is noticed too.”
“Fine,” Yoongi echoes, more softly now.
Namjoon takes a few steps towards the door, then casts a look over his shoulder at Yoongi as
though he is about to change his mind. After a beat, he shakes his head and gives a little sigh, and
says instead, “Taehyung landed himself in detention again tonight.”
Yoongi’s heart gives a painful throb again and he closes his eyes, this time leaving them closed.
“…like I said—” he murmurs, and Namjoon fills in the rest for him easily.
“You’ll handle it, I know.”
The room is silent again, then, except for the soft thump of Namjoon’s footsteps against the floor
by the door. After a tense pause in which he can feel the heavy weight of eyes on him, they pick up
again and the sound steadily fades into the distance.
His shudders resume as though they had never left—and perhaps they never did. He takes inhale
after inhale to fill his chest, though the air never seems to fully reach the bottom of his lungs. He
wonders, in some vague corner of his mind, when the last time he could truly breathe really was.
As the water in his hair begins to evaporate, his skin breaks out in goosebumps from head to toe.
He burns and burns everywhere the fabric around him makes contact, burns from the inside out.
And when he finally manages the strength to force his eyes open again, the room is empty,
Namjoon is nowhere to be seen, and Yoongi is—as always—on his own.
Basement—Prison—Cell 26 08.29.18 2:38PM
The stones under her fingertips feel cold and damp and uneven as she uses them to guide her way
along the dark path before her, trailing along the wall on one side so she doesn’t lose track of
where she is going. The pathway isn’t designed to be traversed in the dark—the floor far too
uneven, the path unmarked—but there’s no other choice at the moment. Despite the sun still
hanging in the air above the horizon, not a single shred of light makes its way to this place for all
that it is buried far underground like a secret treasure. She knows it is rare to be aware that this
dark place even exists, and rarer still to have access—and she certainly isn’t going to squander it.
Her footsteps send small, crunching echoes up against the walls no matter how softly she moves,
the sound her only companion as she continues to walk blindly down the passageway, letting
muscle memory alone guide her way. It is this instinct that tells her to skid to a halt the second her
fingers lose contact with the wall, the stones disappearing beneath her touch between one step and
the next. She stretches her hand out and feels blindly for the stones again and lets out a little
relieved sigh as she finds where they come to a point, turning around a corner that is invisible to
her except by touch. This is it.
The bag slung over her shoulder feels heavy with more than just the supplies she has smuggled
inside of it, and she hitches it higher with her free hand and grips it tight as though it might
disappear into the shadows if she lets go. With her other arm outstretched, she takes a deep breath
and plants her hand back against the wall, turning her body down this new pathway off to the left
and marching forward into the darkness with as much courage as she can muster.
One turn left, one turn right, two turns left… she reminds herself, retracing the steps she’s taken
before to reassure her anxious mind that she hasn’t gotten herself lost along the way.
Within moments, her fingers strike the cold metal of cell bars, long cylindrical rods lined up one
after another to form a cage between her and the space beyond. In the dark, she has no way of
knowing if any of the cells are occupied—but with her ears on high alert, she knows there’s no
sound of movement nearby. She takes deep breath after deep breath and places one foot in front of
the other, trusting her hand to guide her way.
One...two...three… she counts in her head, tracing the metal edge where one cell ends and the next
begins. ...four...five...si—
If it wasn’t for the hand that she immediately clamps over her own mouth, she would have let out a
scream at the sudden twist of another hand around her wrist in the dark. She doesn’t have enough
time to fully process the touch before she hears the hiss of her own name being whispered right by
her ear through the bars.
“Jihyo.”
She sucks in a deep breath through her nose and lets it fully fill her lungs before letting her hand
fall free and opening her mouth so the air can slip back out again. It makes a little huffing sound as
it goes, and the noise is a startling break to the silence. She moves her hand over to grab at the
appendage holding her wrist, letting her sense of touch guide her in the dark until she feels a second
hand meet her own and twine their fingers together.
“Mom?”
“It’s me, I’m here.”
She lets out another relieved huff of air and squeezes the hands before her one more time before
letting go and stepping back for a second. She reaches into a pocket and closes her fingers around
the little matchbook she has tucked away.
“Where’s the torch?” Jihyo asks softly.
“To your right,” her mother answers, and she reaches out blindly to her side until her fingers come
into contact with the handle in question. Several swipes of a match against the box later, she has
the torch lit overhead, and her mother’s haggard face swims into view before her through the
shadows.
“Mom…” she breathes out again, and her mother gives a small, fragile smile in return.
Park Jiyeon has always been a beautiful woman, and these long months in captivity have done little
to diminish it. But now, in the dark, her features have become shrouded by layers of dirt and sweat,
her dark hair hanging limp and ragged around her high cheekbones. There are wrinkles at the
corners of her mothers eyes that Jihyo remembers, carved into place from many years of warm
smiles and joyful laughter, but there are also the signs of deep worry that crease her forehead and
the heavy burden of her circumstances seems to have dragged the corners of her full lips towards
the ground. Jihyo’s heart is no less broken by the sight than it has been by every visit, but she does
her best to school her expression into something less concerned than she feels. She knows her
mother will see right through it as always, but she makes the effort all the same.
“You got my message?” Jiyeon asks, squeezing her daughter’s hands tight.
“Yes, Minhyung delivered it the same as always,” she assures her mother, “though it was harder
than usual to keep it hidden.”
“But no one noticed, yes?”
“No one noticed, I made sure of it.”
“Good, that’s good…” her mother hums, looking away for a second. “I wasn’t expecting to see you
for another week, at least.”
“I found an unexpected opportunity to sneak away,” she admits, her words now heavily laden with
meaning. “...father wasn’t in his office this morning. He called us Maidens to him, but...he’s
nowhere to be found.”
“Well...that’s unusual…” Jiyeon says slowly, the gears in her mind clearly turning. “How do you
know he won’t notice your absence?”
“I can’t stay long, but...he’s been gone for hours and no one seems to know where he is. The
Council even came looking for him earlier…”
“Ha! Curious…” her mother says, and finally lets go of Jihyo’s hands to step away from the bars.
She reaches out to steady herself against the wall and lowers her body slowly to the floor, limbs
quivering slightly from the effort. Jihyo follows quickly after, kneeling down beside the cell herself
and dragging her bag onto her lap for safekeeping.
“Aish, I’m getting too old for this…” Jiyeon says, and Jihyo gives a little humorless laugh.
“Too old to be in prison?”
“Too old for all of it,” her mother replies, but doesn’t elaborate.
As the older woman stretches and groans as she works the discomfort from her tired limbs, Jihyo
distracts herself with unfastening her bag and pulling out the carefully wrapped package she has
tucked inside.
“I brought you something, momma…” she says, softly, and undoes the twine that holds together
the burlap bundle in her lap, revealing a neatly cut wedge of cheese, a good-sized pink apple, a
small loaf of bread and a single jar of jam.
“Oh—” Jiyeon sucks in a surprised breath at the sight and reaches out a hand between the bars
towards the food, fingertips hovering over the skin of the apple as though she isn’t sure if it’s real.
“It isn’t much,” Jihyo hurries to say, pushing the bundle closer to her mother’s questing fingers.
“but I grabbed what I could. I even got your favorite, look—” She picks up the jar of jam and holds
it up to the light, and all the trouble she had to go through to get it is worth it for the happiness that
she sees shining in her mothers eyes.
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble—” Jiyeon starts to say, but Jihyo just shakes her
head and presses the jar into her mother’s hands with gentle insistence.
“It’s the least I can do, mom, really.”
“You’re the best daughter I have,” the older woman says after she has broken apart the bread and
dipped a piece of it into the jam, admiring the way it shines in the light before taking a large, self-
indulgent bite.
“I’m the only daughter you have,” Jihyo replies with a chuckle.
Her mother pauses for a moment, considering. “That depends on who you ask,” she says,
eventually, and again offers no elaboration. Jihyo knows better than to question it, but the reply
gives her pause all the same. She ponders her mother’s words while she watches the older woman
hungrily work her way through each item of food she has been offered, shoulders hunched over her
lap as though someone might attempt to steal it from her. For several long minutes, they say
nothing, simply basking in each other’s company in the small circle of light that the torch overhead
provides them.
There is something itching under Jihyo’s skin, though—a thought that won’t leave her mind, a
presence prickling at the back of her neck. By the time her mother is licking the last drops of jam
from her fingertips, Jihyo can’t help herself, the words already hanging on the end of her tongue
the moment she opens her mouth. “Momma, I—I heard that...they put Jimin down here too...is that
true?”
When the older woman’s eyes snap up to meet hers, her mother’s expression isn’t upset, at least not
in the way Jihyo expects it to be. Instead, she appears surprised by the question, brows flying up
towards her hairline before quickly furrowing instead. “He’s...in the cell behind you, dear.”
“What?!” Jihyo is on her feet in a split second, her bag sliding off her lap to the floor as she goes.
She spins around and darts forward, scouring the dark space for any signs of the blonde man, but
finds the cell directly behind her to be empty. However, the cell just to her right—the same cell she
had walked right by on her way to meet her mother—is, in fact, occupied when she moves to stand
in front of it. The light from the torch is very dim at this distance, barely illuminating the inside of
the cell at all, but she can see the clear outline of a solitary figure curled up on a cot in the corner of
the small space, back turned to her and shoulders hunched so that only a small patch of blonde hair
is visible.
“He’s sleeping right now,” she hears her mother say over her shoulder, and when she glances back
towards the older woman, she finds that Jiyeon has gotten back to her feet as well and stepped over
to the bars to be as close to Jimin’s cell as possible. From this distance, she could probably get
nearly close enough to reach him if they stretched their arms across the space between them. The
thought alone makes Jihyo’s heart sink in her chest.
“How—How long?” She asks, hands shaking as she grips the bars of her brother’s cage.
“Just since yesterday morning,” her mother assures her, tone gentle, “at least, I think. It’s a little
hard to tell, down here…”
Jihyo can’t tear her eyes from her brother’s naked form, the bruises that are littered across his skin.
“I knew it was bad,” she whispers, “but…I didn’t know how bad.”
Unlike the spectre-like, looming figure he has become around every corner of the school these
days, when he is resting still like this—curled in towards himself as if to shield himself from the
world—it is easy to remember the boy he once was, sunny and bright and wonderful. The contrast
is striking, and sickening.
“What do you know about what happened?” her mother asks over her shoulder, voice also dipping
low.
“They—they think he was trying to escape with the new doll…” When she can’t stand to trace over
the discoloration of her brother’s skin any longer, Jihyo drags her eyes away instead to take in the
small confines of his cell—the chains hanging from the bars, the empty bowl by the door, the
small cot pushed into the corner, the air duct that breaks up the otherwise unremarkable and grimy
stone walls. “And...before that, father—he—”
She can’t bring herself to say the words clinging to the tip of her tongue, can’t find it in herself to
tell her mother what the principal had done, the horrible things she has witnessed—but her mother
doesn’t seem to need the explanation anyway. It’s no surprise that Jiyeon has somehow kept
herself abreast of everything going on above ground, even under these circumstances. Eyes and
ears everywhere, Jihyo, she always used to say with a twinkle in her eye, make sure you know as
much as they do.
“I know,” the older woman interjects when her daughter’s voice seems to fail. “Do you believe it?”
“I d-don’t know what to believe,” Jihyo breathes out, clinging to the steel bars as though they are
the only thing keeping her upright. She turns her eyes towards the ceiling for a moment, blinking
back the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “It’s all such a m-mess…”
“I know, I know…” her mother says, tone ever-so-soft now. “Come here, Jihyo…”
Jihyo turns around immediately and rushes back to the safety of her mother’s touch, reaching
through the bars to hold the older woman as much as she can. The tears she had been trying to fight
back break free, now, as her mother’s thin arms circle her sides and hold her as close as possible
with the bars between them.
“T-The—The t-things I’ve seen, m-momma—” she sobs out desperately, “the t-things—things I’ve
h-had to do—”
“Shhhh…” Jiyeon whispers into her hair, and Jihyo melts. For a moment, it’s possible to forget
where they are, or why. For a moment, the clock has been turned back, and all is right with the
world. “You’ve been so brave, my sweet, sweet girl...I’m so proud of you…”
The gentle reassurances only make Jihyo sob harder, but her mother takes it all in stride. They’re
being too loud, probably, what with the desperate little noises that keep leaving her throat as the
guilt and fear wash over her, but her mother does nothing to silence her even as the sounds echo off
the stone around them. She simply holds her daughter as best as she can and lets Jihyo ride out the
pain—and for a moment, this is enough.
“This will all be over soon,” Jiyeon assures her, once her tears have mostly subsided, and Jihyo
finally pulls back to wipe at her eyes and look up at her mother once again.
“...w-what do you mean?”
“There’s so much you don’t know…” her mother says dolefully, and reaches up to cup Jihyo’s
cheeks in her hands. “But soon, very soon, it will all make sense, and all of our hard work will have
been worth it, I promise you.”
“But—”
“No, no buts, there’s no time for that.” Her mother wipes a few stray tears from Jihyo’s cheeks and
brushes her fingers through her daughter’s hair to straighten any flyaways. “I need you to be brave
for just a little longer, can you do that for me? For Jimin?”
Jihyo’s mind fills with images, unbidden—the twist of her brother’s face as Seokjin’s foot collided
with his side, of bruises scattered across his skin and blood dripping from his lips—the first day
she ran into him in the hallways of the school, head hung low, darkness in his eyes—the bright,
joyful boy who used to hold her hand when she was afraid—
“Your brother needs your help, Jihyo,” her mother repeats, and the sick twist of her stomach grows
so tight she fears it will never come undone.
“Yes—” she gasps out around the feeling, using what little breath she can make room for in her
chest, “Yes—Yes, whatever you need, whatever he needs—”
“I knew I could count on you, my sweet girl…” Jiyeon squeezes her cheeks again, and Jihyo offers
her mother a fragile smile.
“H-How can I help?”
“Listen closely,” the older woman says, and there is a sharp flash in her eyes that doesn’t match her
gentle tone. “Here’s what you need to do.”
Library—First Floor—East 08.29.18 4:06PM
All is quiet in the building when he arrives, the hallway behind him only filled with the echoes of
his shoes on the tile below—but the moment he steps through the door of the library, whispers
erupt on all sides. He ducks his head down low and tugs his bag higher on his shoulder, shuffling
through the rows of bookshelves to the center of the room where the tables have already been
cleared out of the way.
It appears that he has only minimal company tonight, a handful of students gathered into small
groups the only other occupants of the large room. He wonders idly what they have all done to
earn their place in detention alongside him, knows it can’t be anything near the level of trouble he
has landed himself in now. His neck prickles from the heavy weight of eyes on his every move,
only sending his head further down towards his shoulders.
He chooses a desk towards the back of the room and tucks himself into a seat, fully planning to put
his head down on its surface and wait out the minutes until detention begins—but the sudden
appearance of a shadow to his left nearly startles him right back out of the seat again.
“Hey Taehyungie,” a surprisingly cheerful voice says just as a hand claps down on his hunched
shoulders, and he looks over to find his friend Bogum sliding into the seat beside him. Moving so
abruptly makes the bruise across his stomach ache and throb miserably, a pre-existing reminder of
his crime.
“Uh—h-hey, Bogum,” he stutters out, acutely aware of just how loud their voices sound in the
otherwise silent library. All eyes are on them, he can feel it, but Bogum—bless him—is just as
cheerful as always, seemingly unphased by the judgment thick in the air around them. “What’re
you doing here?”
The younger boy cracks a good-natured smile and leans back into his chair. “I talked back to Mr.
Byun last period.”
“Why??”
“Couldn’t let you sit here alone, could I?” Bogum says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“You…” Taehyung can’t believe his ears. “You got detention...for me?” It’s almost bizarre, the
thought that he has at least one friend in this place who would do such a thing for him. Does the
Park boy not know what he’s done, what all the others hate him for?
Bogum’s grin widens, then suddenly falls off his face entirely. His eyes flick towards the door over
Taehyung’s head, and at the exact same moment, the entire room falls completely silent again.
Bogum reaches out a hand and blindly swats at Taehyung’s arm, giving the tiniest tilt of his head to
get his friend’s attention. With a terrible sense of foreboding, Taehyung stiffens, then slowly turns
his head to follow Bogum’s line of sight towards the door where a small figure has just stepped
inside.
Yoongi.
Taehyung feels his breath halt halfway out of his lungs at the sight of his lover; first, because he
hasn’t seen the older man the entire day, and second, because of what he sees now that Yoongi has
reappeared again.
Yoongi appears to be moving far slower than usual, limping slightly with every step, though his
expression betrays no pain or discomfort as his dark eyes scan the room. Instead, his face is even
more stoic than usual, hardly a shred of emotion in any of the lines of his face. He is gaunt, skin
pale, making the dark circles under his eyes—always a feature, especially up close—even more
prominent. Those eyes appear swollen, even from this distance, and Taehyung feels his heart seize
up right along with his lungs at the thought of the older man crying.
What... happened?
His haggard appearance does nothing to undercut the power that Yoongi commands as he makes
his way to the center of the room without a word, passing by the few students gathered there and
heading straight for the large cabinet that sits against the far wall. He fishes in his pocket for a
moment before withdrawing his ring of keys and selecting a small golden one from among the
bunch and inserting it into the cabinet’s lock. Even from the other side of the room, Taehyung can
clearly see the way the older man’s hands tremble as he swings open the cabinet doors and reaches
inside to pull out the same flogger that he always chooses. He doesn’t dare look around at the other
students who are watching the teacher move in stunned silence, but Taehyung is sure he isn’t the
only one who noticed.
“Woah…” Bogum whispers beside him, leaning closer, and Taehyung jumps in his seat again.
“What happened to Mr. Min?”
Taehyung shakes his head, unable to even think about bringing words to his lips. Yoongi…
With the cabinets again firmly closed and locked behind him, Yoongi limps back to the center of
the room and takes up his usual position beside the front table. No one else moves. The teacher
sets his newly-acquired tool down on the tabletop and looks around, finally making eye contact
with a few of the nearest students for the first time since entering the room. For a moment,
Taehyung wonders if Yoongi is going to get angry at the sight of so many eyes on him, so many
students doing nothing to fall in line as they usually would—after all, he is well known for his
particularly strict methods, both inside the classroom and out—but Yoongi does nothing of the
sort.
Instead, when the older man finally opens his mouth, the voice that comes tumbling out is soft,
rough, even perhaps a little wobbly in the same way his hands were quaking moments before.
“You are all here...for one hour of detention,” he says, the words achingly familiar at this point,
though there is nothing familiar-sounding about them tonight. “...starting now.”
When, again, no one moves, he raps his knuckles against the tabletop to spur his audience into
action. Beside Taehyung, Bogum takes a deep inhale and pushes away from the table, the legs of
his chair scraping loudly against the floor below. “Let’s go,” he whispers, and Taehyung finally
does tumble from his chair in his attempt to follow.
The other students seem drawn in by the noise, suddenly shifting from their frozen positions to
drop their things and head towards the center of the room as well, forming a line a few feet from
Yoongi as though afraid to get too close. Bogum and Taehyung take their own positions at the back
of the line, finally leaving Taehyung free of the prying eyes that have weighed so heavily on him
since entering the room himself.
“Ten strikes each…” Yoongi says in that same odd voice. “...then you trade—…trade with the next
person in line.”
What happens next follows like clockwork—the first student in line steps forward and drops their
trousers to the floor, bending over the table to present their naked backside to Yoongi, who raises
the flogger and begins raining down strike after strike. The student below him grunts out a number
after each impact until they reach ten, and then hobbles off with a limp that could rival Yoongi’s
own.
Taehyung doesn’t need to look up to know what is happening—isn’t sure which of his fellow
students is currently receiving their punishment at any given moment and can’t bring himself to
care. The repetitive sounds of the whip whistling in the air, the clap of leather against skin, the
grunts and moans of pain all blur together while Taehyung moves forward, step by step, with each
passing turn. His eyes can’t find anywhere to look that feels safe, so after only a few seconds, they
cease to focus on anything in particular at all.
The closer that he moves to the front of the line, the heavier his heart rate thunders in his ears—so
much so that he doesn’t notice that someone is speaking to him until there is a sharp finger
prodding at the center of his back. “—Tae? Taehyung, it’s your turn…”
He shakes his head to clear the fog from his mind and finds himself meeting the tired, reddened
eyes of Yoongi, standing before him with a gaze that catches his own for the first time that night.
Taehyung freezes, blinks slowly. He has never before seen this particular expression in Yoongi’s
eyes—or rather, he has never seen the older man with no sign of awareness behind his eyes at all.
Taehyung isn’t sure what his own expression is saying, but Yoongi freezes just as he had, and after
a moment, offers a small nod.
Taehyung fills in the words from there, imagines that Yoongi is saying “I’m alright, I’m here.” He
frowns, disbelieving, and Yoongi nods again, nods in a way that Taehyung takes to mean “Later,
we’ll talk about this later” Perhaps it is only wishful thinking, but the thought gives him the ability
to suck in a deep breath before taking the plunge, as it were.
Out of the corner of his eye, Taehyung can see Yoongi’s hand tighten its grip on the handle of the
whip hanging low at his side. He swallows thickly and steps forward, unfastening the buttons of
his pants as he moves. He makes no attempt to break eye contact with Yoongi as he goes—far too
grateful to be making eye contact with the older man to throw it away—but eventually has no
choice but to turn his back to the older man to face the table at last.
“Bend—” Yoongi starts to say behind him, but his voice cracks terribly on the end of the word and
he stops in the middle of his sentence. “B-Bend over…the table,” he manages eventually, but not
without a stutter that is impossible to ignore, a roundness to his voice that Taehyung intimately
knows is caused by the older man choking back his tears.
When Taehyung doesn’t immediately comply—far too concerned with Yoongi’s odd behavior and
fighting with himself to not turn around on the spot to hold the older man—Yoongi’s hand finds
the small of his back and pushes him down until he is bent in half over the wooden surface before
him. Yoongi’s hand is shaking so badly now that it is almost vibrating through his shirt.
“Count,” he tells Taehyung, his voice smaller than before. Taehyung places his hands flat on the
tabletop and braces for the impact, trying desperately to send his mind back to a time when
detention was a fun activity, a game that he and Yoongi would play under the noses of everyone
else.
‘No more detention,’ Yoongi’s voice says, rising from the depths of his memory. He has failed.
Taehyung has failed him, and now look what has become of them, look what Yoongi has to do—
The whip whistles through the air and screams against his skin with a dozen vicious, leather
tongues. His skin erupts in flames. His throat tightens. The eyes on his back feel as heavy as
weights. This is no longer fun. Yoongi struck him with half the power he would normally use, and
yet somehow, the pain spreads through his skin twofold.
Taehyung turns his head to the side, facing away from the line of students at his back, and his eye
catches that same cabinet sitting innocuously against the wall. The school’s crest—emblazoned
atop the wood in shining gold—glints in the light, staring him down. And as he opens his mouth to
follow Yoongi’s command, it takes all that he has to force his voice back out of his chest under its
Knowing gaze.
They are always watching.
“One—”
The crunch of gravel beneath his feet echoes against all of the tree trunks around him as he shifts
from one foot to the other, the sound returning back to him tenfold in the small clearing where he
stands. He looks out over the field before him nervously, watching the tall stalks of grain sway this
way and that from the gentle breeze. It’s not nearly as warm as earlier in the day, the setting sun
casting long, flickering shadows through the tree line and across the field to the tips of his toes, and
he wraps his arms around himself to stave off some of the chill.
He glances down at his watch for what must be the hundredth time this hour, despite knowing full
well that he has arrived far too early. The final bell of the day rang several hours ago, but the day
doesn’t end when the school day does, as evidenced by the last few straggling helpers he can see
amongst the crops in the distance. Some fill their baskets with fruits or vegetables, others take
stock of the remaining crops to be harvested—but the third field before him is all grains, and as the
setting sun continues making its way past the horizon, he leans back against the large oak tree
providing his shade and watches the stalks of wheat as they sway and sway and sway.
It’s almost hypnotic, the cascading motion before him, which makes it easy for time to start
slipping away by entire minutes at a time, his eyes unfocused while his mind wanders. And it is
out of this state that he is startled when he hears a deep, gentle voice calling his name.
“—Hoseok?”
He jumps at the sound, surprised to find that he didn’t notice the approaching crunch of footsteps
until someone was nearly upon him. Whipping his head around, Hoseok finds Namjoon’s face
emerging from the shadows down the pathway, a bright smile already firmly situated on his lips.
Namjoon looks just as handsome as ever, dimples on full display as he stops just before Hoseok,
sandy brown hair brushing against his forehead as it is blown by the gentle breeze.
Hoseok immediately pushes away from the tree trunk at his back and skips forward to greet the
older man, unable to keep a matching smile from his own face. His heart all but jumped into his
throat the moment he realized his companion had, in fact, shown up, and his voice comes out
rushed and completely breathless when he greets Namjoon with a sigh and an “I’m so happy to see
you!”
Namjoon’s smile, if possible, grows even wider, and he tugs Hoseok immediately into an embrace
the moment he is close enough to reach. He buries his face in the shorter man’s dark hair and takes
a deep inhale, the tension easing out of his body as he lets the air back out again. Hoseok wraps his
arms securely around Namjoon’s waist and allows himself to be held for a moment, the warmth
wrapped around him already such a familiar, welcoming place.
“You have no idea how happy I am to see you, too…” Namjoon breathes out, his voice low, as
though he is sharing a secret that is only for Hoseok’s ears. “It’s been...quite a day.”
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hoseok asks as they finally pull away, at least far enough that they
can meet each others’ eyes again. Namjoon purses his lips thoughtfully, but eventually shakes his
head.
“No, no...I’d rather put it out of my mind.”
“Alright,” Hoseok says with a gentle voice, sliding his hands down Namjoon’s arms until he can
twine their fingers together. “Allow me to be a distraction, then!”
Namjoon tilts his head curiously, but says nothing and follows Hoseok’s lead as the younger man
begins walking backwards, leading Namjoon off the beaten path and into the trees beyond.
Eventually, he’s forced to turn around to watch where he’s going, releasing only one of Namjoon’s
hands while clutching the other one closer until they’re pressed together side-by-side. Namjoon
gives a good-natured chuckle at his clinginess, sending a flush across Hoseok’s skin, but it does
nothing to dissuade his grip.
“Where are we going?” Namjoon asks, eventually.
“Just a little farther,” Hoseok replies noncommittally, the smile playing about his lips turning a bit
mischievous. While he feels tense all over with nerves—wondering if his companion will like what
he has in store, wondering if he’s being ridiculous—there’s also an excitement bubbling beneath
his skin that he can’t ignore. It’s taken several nights of preparations to have everything ready, and
he can only hope that his efforts aren’t in vain.
“And you’re sure we’re not going to get lost?” Namjoon asks, a hint of a laugh in his voice. Still,
he follows easily as Hoseok guides them both through the trees for a few moments longer until
their branches begin to thin, revealing a small structure and a clearing that surrounds it. They could
have followed the road up the hill to arrive here instead, Hoseok knows, glancing up at the edge of
the path in the distance where it passes by—but this way was more fun.
“What—?” Namjoon asks, stopping dead in his tracks when he spots what Hoseok has been hiding:
a blanket spread out in the privacy and shade cast by the storage shed at the top of the hill,
accompanied by a small bundle that he knows is filled with a simple meal for the two of them to
share. He squeezes Namjoon’s hand and leads the taller man forward, giving an encouraging nod
and smile when Namjoon looks back and forth between the makeshift setup and Hoseok’s face as
if to say ‘is this for me?’
“What is this?” he asks as Hoseok pushes him down onto the blanket and takes his own seat at
Namjoon’s side, eagerly reaching for the bundle he set aside and tugging it open to pull out several
small loaves of bread, fresh cheese, various fruits and the like. “Where did you get all of this?”
“It’s...probably best if I don’t tell you,” he says with a self-deprecating shrug, thinking back to the
last several nights when he has gone hungry to save away a few things here and there, or his visit to
the kitchens beneath the school to ask for whatever they had to offer. He had wondered if he would
get in trouble for asking, but the cooks had simply rolled their eyes at him and passed the food over
without question as though it were a regular occurrence. “I hope you’re hungry!”
If he was worried about Namjoon’s reaction, he finds almost immediately that it was all for
naught. The older man looks around at what Hoseok has prepared with unbridled wonder in his
eyes, happily taking each offered item from Hoseok with a smile. “I—I am hungry, actually…” he
says, “I skipped dinner.”
“Me too,” Hoseok admits, thinking of the sporadic grumbles his stomach has been giving him for
several hours. “But I wanted to wait until our date so I could share it with you.”
He watches Namjoon for a moment, watches the way the older man keeps looking around in barely
contained amusement, his hands reaching out to touch the blanket as though he has never seen one
before, his eyes flickering up the hill towards the road as though expecting something else to
happen. And as Hoseok offers some of the food to the older man and watches him struggle to
figure out what to do with himself—a sudden thought occurs to Hoseok.
“Have you...never been on a date before?”
Namjoon startles at that as though he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing, hand
freezing in the air between them on its way to take a slice of bread from Hoseok’s offering palm.
The older man pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he clearly mulls the question over in his head. “...no,
no, I guess not,” he eventually says, and Hoseok feels his heart swell with affection.
“Well I’m honored to be the first, then!” he says, scooting closer.
“What...are you supposed to do on a date?” Namjoon seems nervous to ask, but still manages to get
the words out. Hoseok can’t help the laugh that bursts from his chest. It’s just too cute, he thinks.
“Hmmm,” he says, mulling the question over while he peels apart a clementine and pops a slice
into his mouth. That’s a good question. “People do all sorts of things on dates! I’m not sure I could
explain…”
Namjoon takes a slice of the fruit when he’s offered one as well. “But sharing food is one of those
things?”
“Yes!” Hoseok practically shouts, then flinches when the sound echoes off the nearby trees.
Namjoon chuckles at his antics, which only makes the blush on his cheeks burn hotter. “Yes,
sharing food is absolutely one of those things,” he repeats in a softer voice, “probably the most
common one. There aren’t exactly any restaurants around here, so...I wanted to share a picnic with
you.”
“A picnic…” Namjoon repeats thoughtfully, turning his gaze off to the distance. Hoseok can see
him silently mouthing the shape of the word, trying it on for size just as he had with previous
words that Hoseok had taught him. In some corner of his mind, the idea that Namjoon has lived
such a sheltered life brings up a lot of sadness for Hoseok, reminds him of his own childhood and
the things he knows he missed out on over the years—but still, it makes him feel equally happy to
be able to share these things with Namjoon for the very first time.
For several long moments, they sit in companionable silence, Namjoon accepting what Hoseok
presents him, taking bites of fruit directly from his hands when offered and licking the juice from
his fingertips when it begins to drip down. Hoseok can feel the stirrings of desire in the pit of his
stomach—could feel them since the moment Namjoon appeared at the bottom of the hill with that
smile on his face, the one he seems to reserve for Hoseok alone—but he lets the feeling simmer,
does nothing to fan the flames.
When the fruit is all but gone, the last of the blueberries curled in Hoseok’s palm ready to be
popped into his mouth, Namjoon casts a look around at the secluded little clearing and asks, “How
did you even find this place?”
Hoseok looks away, then, feeling the blush return back to his cheeks. “I—probably shouldn’t tell
you this either, but…”
When he doesn’t immediately continue, he feels Namjoon reach for the hand that has fallen at his
side, and the gentle touch gives him the strength to continue. “Seokjin...brought me here, when I
first arrived. He showed me around and—well...things were different, then.”
He stares down at their joined hands for a moment, then glances up to meet Namjoon’s eyes and
finds himself meeting a surprisingly compassionate gaze in return. The older man’s brow is
furrowed as he listens, his shoulders tilted forward as though he wants to lean closer to Hoseok,
perhaps even hold him. Hoseok’s heart does a little wobble and his lips quirk up into a little half
smile. Namjoon squeezes his hand again. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
Acting on instinct, Hoseok slides closer across the blanket and leans right up against Namjoon’s
side, giving in to his desire for more of that warmth from earlier. When Namjoon’s arms make
their way around his shoulders again, giving him a safe little shelter made of limbs in which to
bury his face in Namjoon’s chest and hide from the world, it becomes easier to bring the words to
his chest.
“Seokjin is—” he whispers, “My boss. The principal. He’s our leader. I know this. We trust him to
know what’s best for us.” He pauses, but Namjoon says nothing, leaving him room to continue
uninterrupted. Hoseok barrels on, “But...when I first met Seokjin, he wasn’t any of those things.
Seokjin was...well, at first, he was just a man. A handsome, charming man who picked me out of a
crowd, saw something... special in me.”
Even as he says it, the words feel ridiculous on his tongue. With hindsight on his side, he knows
how wrong he was now, how misguided. He shakes his head against the center of Namjoon’s
chest, and feels the man’s strong arms tighten around him. “He—S-Seokjin, he—he walked me
through the first levels, personally.” He pauses, sniffling. “A-And I felt so special, that he would
spend so m-much time with me, that he would—would m-make me feel so good, you know?”
Namjoon gives a thoughtful hum.
“But then I c-came here, and—and I realized that it was, uh... unusual for him to take s-so much
interest in someone, right? So—So...why me? I thought...well, maybe—”
This time, when his voice breaks in the middle, Namjoon pushes him back just enough to look
down at Hoseok’s face, catching sight of the tears that have begun to fall from his eyes now. This
isn’t the first time the older man has seen him cry, so he does nothing to try to conceal it, instead
leaning into the older man’s large palm when Namjoon reaches up to cup his cheek and brush one
of the tears away.
“You thought the two of you had something...special,” Namjoon fills in for him, parroting
Hoseok’s own choice of words back at him.
“R-Right,” Hoseok agrees with a doleful laugh, rolling his eyes at himself. “What was I thinking,
right? I’m s-sure he tells all the boys that.”
Namjoon just keeps staring straight back at Hoseok, not shying away from his show of
emotionality at all. And with that heavy gaze on him, and those warm hands holding him so gently,
it’s easy to let the rest of the words spill forth. “Well, it w-worked, didn’t it? He got me here, and
now—n-now—” He raises his hands to wipe a fresh wave of tears from his cheeks, but finds
Namjoon’s fingers already there. “Now l-look at me! I’m a m-mess, he w-wants nothing to do with
me, I’m s-so confused all the time, and so s-scared—”
Namjoon leans forward and presses a firm kiss to the space between Hoseok’s eyebrows, then
slides his own nose down from that spot until their foreheads are pressed together. “I am looking at
you, Jung Hoseok,” he says, and there is a conviction to his voice that demands Hoseok’s attention.
“I can’t seem to look away.”
“Namjoon…” He whispers, all other words failing him.
“Do you want to be here?” the older man asks, and the question gives Hoseok pause.
“Here...w-with you? Or here in...in g-general?”
“Both. Either.”
Hoseok considers his reply carefully, glancing back and forth between Namjoon’s dark eyes as
though they might hold all the answers for him. He thinks back to the first moment he entered the
community, the way the sunlight hit the trees and fields and how perfect everything seemed. He
thinks back to Seokjin holding him in his arms, promising Hoseok the world. He thinks of Yoongi,
of his training, thinks of his headaches and confusion, of the constant anxiety that lingers in his
chest—thinks of Namjoon, finding him wandering, holding his face in the rain—remembers
coming home to a room torn apart, remembers sirens that wailed and wailed and lingered in his
mind long after they had faded into the dark—
Thinks of Namjoon, how he held Hoseok through it all—how he holds Hoseok even now, just the
same. Thinks of warm brown eyes and soft dimples and a face filled with wonder. Realizes that
through it all, Namjoon has been there—a constant companion, a warm, stabilizing force.
And with all the sincerity he can muster, he gives the only answer he can give. “Yes,” he says, as if
it is that simple. And perhaps, beneath it all, it truly is. Yes, I want to stay, he thinks. With you, he
doesn’t add out loud, but feels the words so intensely in his mind all the same. I want to stay here,
with you, forever.
Namjoon’s concerned expression breaks apart into a grin—that same, warm grin. Hoseok can feel
his own lips curling in answer, even as the last of his tears make their way down his cheeks.
Namjoon leans forward and kisses the droplets away with the gentlest of touches, and Hoseok’s
cheeks burn and burn and burn.
“I’m glad,” the older man whispers, “glad that he didn’t scare you away. I wouldn’t blame you if
he had.”
Hoseok leans back and sniffles, rubbing at his nose with the end of his sleeve. He takes a deep
breath in and back out, letting it carry the last of his trembles with it. “...how come?” he asks,
curious. He’s barely seen Namjoon interact with the principal, for all the time they have spent
together.
Namjoon leans away at last, casting his gaze into the distance, one of his hands leaving Hoseok’s
face to run through his sandy hair instead. Hoseok takes the opportunity to glance around and calm
his own racing heart, finally noticing just how dark it has become while their conversation has
carried on. The sun has well and truly set beyond the horizon now, just the peek of a glow left
through the trees. Namjoon had been so close to him moments ago that he didn’t realize just how
difficult it would be to see the older man’s features at a distance.
Hoseok’s hands fumble in the shadows around himself for a moment before he finds his bundle
from before and roots through the folds until his fingers close around the handle of a lantern he had
borrowed from the Jung household earlier in the evening. Tugging it free triumphantly, he flips the
switch on top to turn the device on to the lowest setting and places the lantern down at the edge of
their blanket, casting the entire space with a soft glow.
“There,” he says, then sits back and gestures for Namjoon to come closer. “Isn’t that better?”
The nurse chuckles and follows after him, switching places with Hoseok so that he is the one being
held instead. Hoseok’s arms find their way around the older man easily, and after some readjusting,
they end up with Namjoon’s head pillowed on Hoseok’s lap, the younger teacher’s hands in
Namjoon’s hair as he gazes down with a patient ear.
When Namjoon doesn’t immediately pick up the thread of their conversation, Hoseok gives him a
gentle nudge. “What were you saying?”
Namjoon hums thoughtfully, casting his eyes up at the first stars that have begun to pepper the sky
above. Hoseok waits patiently, knowing full well that the simplest explanation isn’t always a
straight line.
“Seokjin…” Namjoon begins, slowly. “Seokjin is my oldest friend in the world.” He pauses again,
considering. “Or, he was. Seokjin was my oldest friend. There isn’t a single moment I remember
him not being here with me.”
Hoseok doesn’t want to interrupt too much, but his curiosity gets the better of him almost
immediately. “So you really both have been here, in the community...your entire lives?”
Namjoon nods, his mind clearly a million miles away. Hoseok scratches his fingers through the
older man’s hair and watches as Namjoon’s eyes fall closed, content.
“We were lucky. We never had to wander, out there...alone.” Hoseok’s heart gives a little twinge at
the words. “We always had the community, our families...we grew up prepared, safe. Always
knowing the truth.”
Hoseok traces a finger along the slope of Namjoon’s brow as he talks. “It hasn’t been easy, living
like this. But...I always had Seokjin there with me—and Yoongi too, after he arrived, which only
took a few years.” Namjoon chuckles under his breath. “We used to get into the worst sorts of
trouble together.”
“I’m sure you were a lot to handle,” Hoseok teases, and Namjoon cracks another smile.
He can’t imagine it—what it must have been like, growing up with so many children around. He
has nothing to compare the experience to except college—all those gangly adolescent bodies
forced together in close quarters, fumbling through their attempts at finding themselves and
learning how to be with one another—but even then, he was a outcast, lucky to have a friend here
and there to ease the experience along the way. Namjoon speaks about his childhood friends with
an affection that is hard to mistake—that of someone who has found their clan, as it were. But
underneath, Hoseok can sense a deep, abiding loneliness, one that he can identify with most of all.
“We were,” Namjoon agrees, “and it made the darkest days easier to handle, since we always faced
them together.” He pauses again, but this time it is because his face seems to have crumpled
beneath the weight of some heavy memory, a pain that has risen to the surface like oil. When he
opens his eyes again, he doesn’t look at Hoseok but rather through him.
“Somewhere along the way, we got...lost,” he explains, and Hoseok gives his forehead a gentle
caress to smooth the lines that have emerged there. “Seokjin...got lost.”
“What do you mean?” Hoseok whispers.
“He isn’t the boy he used to be,” Namjoon says, his voice breaking somewhere in the middle. “Or
the man.”
“So...he wasn’t always...like this?”
“No, far from it. Seokjin was always someone who wanted to forge his own path, never really
listened to the teachings of the elders and—” He bites his lip, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
His brow furrows again beneath Hoseok’s touch. “It’s funny, now that he’s the one making the
rules. It’s as though everyone has forgotten how many of them he has broken.”
“But…” Hoseok’s head is spinning now, trying to piece all of this information together with the
man he knows, the stately, commanding principal they all look to every day. It’s hard enough to
imagine Namjoon as a child, but Seokjin? Impossible.
“Hm?” Namjoon asks, seemingly broken from his reverie. He tilts his head back in Hoseok’s lap to
stare up at him expectantly, and Hoseok’s hands still in his short hair.
“I just...don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“How—He’s our leader.”
“Yes.”
“I guess it’s…hard to imagine that he wasn’t always that way. I’m having a hard time picturing
how it happened, or what—what all of this was like before Seokjin.”
“Ah,” Namjoon says, knowingly, and brings one of his hands up to rest atop Hoseok’s own. “That
certainly would be hard to understand, coming in as an outsider.” He purses his lips, considering
his next words carefully again.
“Kim Seokjin...took his rightful place as our leader, when the time came. And many people have
been hurt along the way, myself included.” Namjoon squeezes Hoseok’s hand reassuringly. “And
that’s why I said I wouldn’t have been surprised, if he had scared you away. Not many people
make it all the way here, to the community—and fewer still find themselves in such close company
to him. Not everyone has such a clear idea of how he can really be, and I don’t think most people
could tolerate it if they did.”
“But you did, you have,” Hoseok argues immediately.
“Yes, I have,” Namjoon agrees. He doesn’t elaborate on whether or not this is a particularly good
thing.
“And you trust him? To lead us?” Hoseok can’t help but ask. Flashes of Seokjin’s face cross his
mind, flashes of sharp eyes and sharper words, of a loud voice over a cheering crowd, of a back
turned to him and questions that have gone unanswered.
“He is our leader,” Namjoon replies, not quite an answer to either question.
“But do you trust him?” Hoseok asks again, more solemnly this time.
“Seokjin is our leader,” Namjoon repeats, and though it isn’t an answer—Hoseok realizes that it
tells him all he needs to know. And from Namjoon’s tone, it’s clear that this is the only answer he
will be getting.
“Okay,” he says, despite his mind buzzing with a million more questions to follow the first. ‘ He is
our leader,’ Hoseok repeats in his mind, willing himself to accept it for the truth that it is. ‘ This is
the way.’
“But he saw something special in you, didn’t he…” Namjoon goes on, his words more of a
statement than a question.
“I—I guess so.”
“He was right,” the older man says, and tugs Hoseok’s hand down to press a kiss to the back of his
palm.
Hoseok sucks in a deep breath, his heart suddenly in his throat.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before…” Namjoon murmurs, almost sounding entranced. He
tugs Hoseok’s hand down to his chest, where the younger man can feel his heartbeat heavily
through the loose tunic he is wearing. “You’re so...bright, and cheerful. Even when things are
difficult. I’ve watched you with the students, and how gentle you are with them when you think no
one is watching. You work so hard, and you’re so eager to learn…”
Hoseok instinctively looks away, the blush that has steadily risen on his cheeks with every word
almost painful to bear, now. Namjoon doesn’t let him get far, twisting in Hoseok’s lap until he is
half sitting up so that he can reach for Hoseok’s face and force their eyes to meet once again. “I
mean it.”
“I-I know you do—” Hoseok starts to say, eyes immediately flicking away, but Namjoon shakes
him ever-so-slightly and forces him to meet the older man’s gaze dead-on again.
“No, I don’t think you understand, not really,” he says, and his tone is deathly serious now. “You
make me laugh, and you surprise me every day. I—I’ve seen many people come and go through
those gates, but no one has ever made me wonder about what goes on beyond them the way you
have. If Seokjin can’t appreciate you, then I’m glad I get the chance to.”
“N-Namjoon—” Hoseok can feel tears returning to his eyes now, this time for a very different
reason.
“I mean, look at where we are,” he says, gesturing around them at the little secluded corner of the
world they are currently inhabiting—at the trees illuminated by their lantern, at the shadows they
send dancing across their trunks with every move. “Look what you thought of. I—I’m
just...amazed by you.”
Hoseok bites his lower lip, fresh out of things to say for once in his life.
“Where did you come from, Jung Hoseok?” Namjoon asks, and he sounds so genuine, so earnest,
that Hoseok can’t hold back a moment longer. Before he realizes what he’s done, his hands fly out
to grab at the front of Namjoon’s shirt, tugging the older man to sit up properly so that he can lean
forward and crash their lips together.
The kiss is wet, a little messy, and he catches a bit of Namjoon’s teeth in his haste. Namjoon is
barrelled over by his enthusiasm, and they fall back together onto their blanket with limbs akimbo,
Namjoon only just managing to catch Hoseok before he goes tumbling off the other side. It’s
perfect. For a moment, everything is perfect.
Hoseok’s legs wrap securely around Namjoon’s waist and he instinctively ruts their hips together,
finding a hardness between the older man’s legs that answers the desire that has been pooling in his
own gut from the moment their night together began. Namjoon gives a throaty groan and digs his
nails into the small of Hoseok’s back to encourage him, which is all the permission Hoseok needs.
With deft fingers, he manages to work a hand between them and tugs haphazardly at the
drawstrings of their matching bottoms, jerking the fabric out of the way just enough that he can
free their cocks from their confines and wrap his hand around them both at once.
Namjoon drops his head back to the ground, gasping at the sudden contact. “H—Hoseok—baby
—”
Hoseok’s lips fall immediately to Namjoon’s skin instead, kissing his way up the line of
Namjoon’s jaw until he reaches the older man’s ear and draws it between his teeth. Namjoon’s
cock pulses in his hand, only encouraging him, and Hoseok gives the soft lobe of Namjoon’s ear a
sharp bite. He is rewarded with a string of curses tumbling from his lover’s lips, many of which he
has never heard before, and it only drives him to repeat the motion, to squeeze his hand tighter
around their shafts where their cocks meet between their bodies, to drive more and more of those
delicious sounds from the older man’s lips so he can categorize each and every one.
He’s never felt more powerful than the moment he sits back, spit dripping from his lower lip, and
gazes down at Namjoon spread beneath him, the man’s hair a mess from his hands, mouth red
from his kisses, cock leaking against their clothes where they are rumpled and pushed aside by his
desperation to get closer-closer-closer. They’re already both so ready, he can feel it—can read it in
the tense line of Namjoon’s throat as he throws his head back, in the thighs that quiver beneath his
weight and the hands that reach for him as though they can’t get enough. He can tell his own
release is boiling just below the surface, feels his jaw clenching and stomach twisting as he fights
the temptation to topple over that precarious edge. ‘ Not yet, not yet—’ he tells himself.
It’s intoxicating, the power that Namjoon is giving over to him. The older man does nothing to
dictate the pace that he sets, makes no move to control Hoseok’s movements aside from the
desperate hands that scramble at his thighs and sides, reaching for any inch of skin he can touch.
He is beautiful in his surrender—as beautiful as he always has been, when leaning over Hoseok,
pinning him to walls, hoisting him atop furniture. But now, with Hoseok looming over him, his
face cast into sharp relief by the dim glow of the lantern on its side nearby, Namjoon is beautiful
for what he accepts as much as what he gives. Hoseok finds himself wanting to lay claim to every
inch of the man beneath him—and for once, not merely for his own sake. It is a possessive feeling
that emerges in him at the sight, yes. But it is also one of deep pride—and appreciation—for he
knows, knows in a way he could never explain, that he is being given access to a side of the older
man that rarely sees the light of day.
‘If Seokjin can’t appreciate you, then I’m glad I get the chance to.’ Namjoon’s words rise to the
forefront of his mind again, and as he watches the older man fall apart beneath him, he knows the
feeling is entirely mutual.
After a particularly tight twist of his wrist, Namjoon’s spine arches up off the blanket and he tenses
beneath Hoseok’s spread thighs, his hands settling on whatever stretch of muscle they can reach
and digging in. “Hoseok—Hoseok—Hoseok—”
It comes from somewhere deep in his mind, the words driven to his tongue before he has time to
consider them, time to feel self-conscious about what he is about to do. Without hesitation, Hoseok
leans down and captures Namjoon’s lips in a searing kiss, then all but growls into the older man’s
panting mouth, “Come for me.”
And Namjoon obeys. He swallows down Hoseok’s words like a sacrament, gasps Hoseok’s name
like a benediction. Hoseok comes tumbling right after him, his own release drawn forth like a
flood.
Suddenly, all is silent. He blinks, and finds the edges of the world start to bleed back into his field
of vision, realizes with a start that he had blacked out for a moment. He blinks again, and finds
Namjoon gazing up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, chest still heaving, a splattering of come across
his tunic. Hoseok’s entire body prickles from the intensity of his own release, and his skin sings at
the contact when Namjoon reaches up a hand to cup Hoseok’s cheek in his large palm—quivering
only slightly—and wipe away a few stray drops that managed to reach so high.
Hoseok tilts his face into the warmth instinctively, letting his eyes fall closed—then feels his entire
body falling too, falling sideways . Namjoon catches him before he manages to topple over
completely, easing Hoseok down to the blanket at his side and wrapping a strong arm around
Hoseok’s shoulders so that they are curled together as before.
When his breath returns to him, Hoseok laughs, and Namjoon joins in almost immediately, the two
of them basking together in the ridiculousness of their situation now that the desire has faded away.
“I...don’t think I’ve ever been seduced quite like this before,” Namjoon manages, breathlessly,
eyes cast towards the sky above them, now positively sprinkled with stars.
“Is it...working?” Hoseok asks, still feeling unusually emboldened.
“More than you know,” Namjoon answers, perhaps too honestly from the blush that Hoseok
catches rising on his cheeks. “Keep this up and I’ll have no choice but to sign off on your
paperwork for the next level in no time.”
“Perfect,” Hoseok sighs, turning his head to face Namjoon completely. When the older man meets
his gaze again, it almost seems as though he has stolen away the night sky and hidden the stars in
the depths of his dark eyes. He looks young, for a moment, and even a touch mischievous. Hoseok
can feel himself falling into them, and allows himself to enjoy it for a moment. He can feel himself
falling for Namjoon, and does nothing to try to climb his way back out.
Namjoon presses another kiss to his temple and reaches down with his free hand to gently tuck
their clothes back into place, tugging up the edge of the blanket to wipe away the mess they have
made. When Hoseok’s face twists up in disgust, Namjoon laughs again, folds up the blanket, and
promises that he will wash the evidence away. And when Namjoon rolls up onto his knees and
offers Hoseok a hand to help him back to his feet, Hoseok goes, and goes easily. No more words
are needed between them, at least not now, not tonight. No words, except for the final invitation
that Namjoon offers with a nod towards the path from whence they came.
“Let’s go home,” he says, and Hoseok agrees. He twines their fingers together and leads the way,
lantern held aloft before them, past the storage shed and the trees and back to the dirt road that will
carry them towards the dappled lights of the compound below—thinking to himself that perhaps
home is exactly what he has finally found after all.
The truck rumbles and lurches as it makes its way down the dirt path, bumping up and down as it
passes over divots where the rain has washed away parts of the road. The cab of the vehicle is hot,
uncomfortably so, especially with several other bodies crammed onto the bench seat beside him.
Sweat drips down the back of his neck and gathers in the neatly folded collar of his shirt where it is
sure to bother him all day, but there’s little he can do about it with the steering wheel tightly
clenched in both hands. He hates driving, but there’s not much that can be done about it now.
“Are we almost there?” a voice asks from the back of the cab, and it takes all he has not to snap at
the young girl.
“We’ll be there very soon, dear, just stay in your seat…” a gentle voice answers from the other
side of the truck, and he chances a glance at the older woman who is tucked against the opposite
window. She gives him a wry smile over the heads of the three students that are crammed between
them on the long seat, and he manages to quirk his own lips into a matching expression.
“Less than a mile now,” he says after a beat, his tone much more gentle than it would have been
before.
“Do you all remember the rules?” his companion asks of the students, and the youngest of the
bunch raises her hand proudly from the back row. The older woman gives a small, good-natured
laugh and points at the girl as though choosing her to speak in class.
“Yes, Inhwa?”
“Stay—Stay by the truck unless told to move by an elder,” the young girl, Inhwa, says excitedly,
“Always let the adults handle the money, and...uh…”
“You’re forgetting the most important rule,” he says, piping up from the driver’s seat when the
girl seems to lose her train of thought. “The absolute most important rule of them all.”
“Um—ummmm—”
“The villagers are not our friends,” the older woman fills in, her tone dipping seriously. The
children all lean forward in interest, suddenly falling completely silent to hear her warning.
Though her position has changed over the years, everyone knows to treat her with the utmost
respect and to listen to her words with absolute deference. “No matter how nice they may seem,
they are outsiders. They do not know the truth.”
“But—why are we going to see them, then?” another of the children asks, curious.
“We have many things to share with the villagers, my dear,” the older woman goes on, “both the
things we grow, and the things we know. We share with them in the hopes that one day they will
see what we see, and join us.”
“But—but!” the same child asks, bouncing up and down in her seat excitedly. The other children
stare between her and the older woman, and he watches their exchange in his rear-view mirror
with some amusement. “But whyyyy don’t they know the truth? It’s the truth!”
He can’t help but chuckle at that. The girl has a point.
“Well that’s why we’re here, Haewoo...to teach them. They aren’t our friends, but we’d like them to
be. Wouldn’t you like more friends?”
A chorus of “yes!” rises from the children packed into the truck with them.
“Then we have to do an extra good job today, okay? This is one of the last harvests for the year,
and then after that we won’t see them for a looooong time. So we have to be on our best behavior.
Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Park!” the children answer the older woman, and she offers him another smile when he
glances in her direction. Ahead of them, the trees have begun to clear, the rough slope of their dirt
path evening out as it joins a larger road at the base of the hill. The sun is already high overhead,
the pavement seeming to swim before his eyes in the heat as their tires thump-thump thump-thump
over the edge of the asphalt and carry their caravan towards the signs of civilization in the
distance.
“We’re here,” he interjects once the children settle down again, only to immediately find the cab of
the truck practically buzzing with their excitement. He feels hands at his shoulders as one of the
boys in the back seat climbs up to get a better look through the windshield.
On the other side, the small village appears around a slight turn in the road, and he can hear the
distant thuds of tires hitting the pavement behind them, the remainder of their small caravan
following in their path. He steers the vehicle off to the side of the road in a clear, familiar space on
the outskirts of the town and parks beside the same building as always. He can hear gravel
crunching through the sliver of his open window as the other vehicles behind him find their own
parking spots, and then the loud rumble of doors opening and excited chatter as students and
adults alike clamber out into the sunshine.
“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says while he unbuckles his seatbelt, and the children around him
break into excited chatter. “But—But remember!” He struggles to go on over the noise, “being
here is a privilege!”
The children hardly seem to have heard him, already scooting across the bench seat towards the
open door on the other side—but when he looks up over their heads, he finds his companion
smiling reassuringly back at him where she stands on the other side of the truck, holding the door
open for them.
“They’ll be fine,” she says, and he gives a tight smile of his own before sliding out his own door
and slamming it behind him.
All around them, other members of the community have begun unloading their own trucks, walking
past him with arms heavily laden with crates of fruit, boxes of jam, loaves of bread. They move
quickly to set up tables beside the road, and by the time their offerings are laid out properly,
several of the locals have already begun to appear with wide eyes and clear interest. There are a
few familiar faces in the crowd from the times he’s been on these trips before, but this is the first
time he has been in a position to hang back, observe, direct.
“Jaehyun,” he hears called over his shoulder, and turns to find the older woman standing at the
back of the truck, looking at him expectantly with several crates of corn held aloft in her arms.
“Sorry, Mrs. Park,” Jaehyun says, hurrying to her side to relieve her of her burden. The older
woman gives him a gentle pat on the arm before turning back to the truck to grab additional
crates, and then together they make their way to the tables at the front of the crowd. A few cars
have stopped by their setup by now, the children excitedly clamoring for their attention while
presenting—a little clumsily, but charmingly—their different crops. Jaehyun eyes the strangers
carefully as they approach, but the children are being carefully watched over by several other
community leaders behind the table, and he has to let that be enough.
With gentle instructions here and there, he and Mrs. Park get everyone into place, each student
given a clear job to keep them occupied while the adults manage the exchange of money overhead.
He's quite proud of what they have to offer this time, this particular harvest is as robust as the
summer had been sweltering. Once everything is settled well enough, he takes a step back and
admires their little setup, taking note out of the corner of his eye as a few of the older community
members step away when approached by one of the villagers. He watches with pride as his
brothers and sisters take the villagers’ hands and allow themselves to be led away.
‘Good,’ he thinks, ‘the important work is being done.’
"It looks like they have things handled," Mrs. Park says, stepping up to his side again. "We have a
moment to breathe before it really picks up." He gives a thoughtful hum of agreement. "Walk with
me?" she asks, nodding her head towards the back of the crowd, and Jaehyun follows obediently.
"I wanted to congratulate you," she says when they move far enough from the crowd that they can
speak softly and still be heard, "on your promotion."
"Ah," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. Right...the promotion. "Thank you, ma'am.
I'm...honored to have been chosen."
"You seem less than sure about that," she shoots back, a little humor in her tone. He chances a
glance at her and finds the corners of her thin eyes crinkled by her smile, betraying her age. She is
just as beautiful as she always has been, with her long and rich brown hair swept over her
shoulder, plush lips curled at the edges, sharp jawline softened slightly by the years. He
remembers the way she looked, once, standing in his classroom, towering above him, and thinks
that he much prefers this version of her over the other.
"If I can be honest—"
"Of course."
"I'm...nervous," he admits, staring down at the grass at his feet. "To take on this role. It's a large
leap for me, even after all I've learned—"
"You've been a teacher for several years now, Jaehyun, and you've done incredibly well. You've
made your family very proud, surely you know that." Her words are kind, but they make his
stomach clench uncomfortably.
My family...
"I've certainly done my best, and I know I've achieved a great deal, but—"
The older woman stops suddenly, and he nearly runs into her before catching himself. She turns
those sharp eyes of hers on him again. They've walked far enough away from the rest of the crowd
now that he has no trouble catching every word as she speaks again, though her tone is soft and
deathly serious.
"You have made it to level nineteen, Jaehyun. Something few others your age could even dream of!
And I've watched you mentor Mr. Kim—"
The mention of the younger man's name makes his stomach give another disconcerting clench and
flutter, a small flash of...something crossing his mind.
"—you've done remarkable work with him so far. Why do you doubt yourself?"
Whatever it was, the feeling passes almost immediately as she keeps speaking. Her gaze never
leaves his for a moment, staring deeply into his eyes as she waits expectantly for an answer. He
takes a deep breath, considering his next words very carefully.
"Doesn't it seem a little...sudden?" he asks slowly, shifting his eyes away. He shouldn't even be
saying this, he knows it, but the thoughts have been itching away at his mind for days now. "I know
I have accomplished a lot, but to be made Vice Principal—"
"Jung Jaehyun," she says, reaching forward to grip both of his arms, shaking him slightly to
punctuate each word and forcing his eyes back to hers again. Just as the children had before,
Jaehyun finds it impossible not to cling to every word from her mouth. "You were destined for great
things. I know this. I know this in my soul."
"W-What—What do you mean...?" Jaehyun asks, his voice thick. His hands twitch nervously at his
sides. The chattering and playful screams of the crowd behind them feels miles away.
"I mean that there are big things coming, and I know that you're meant to play an important part in
them."
He's stunned by her words, but before he can open his mouth to ask for something, anything to
make sense of them—
"—who's going to grab the supplies?" a voice calls out from behind them, cutting through all the
other noise. Both of their heads whip around in the direction of the question, and the older woman
gives his shoulders a little reassuring squeeze.
"Sounds like we're needed, hm?" Her serious tone and demeanor seem to suddenly melt away, a
smile returning to her pretty lips. “Fun time is over.”
"Mrs. Park..." He begins to say, but the sentence dies on his tongue. She gives him a look that
strikes him right in the chest, something very maternal and affectionate in her dark eyes.
"I think we've known each other for quite long enough, don't you?"
"Uh—"
"Call me Jiyeon, please."
He swallows nervously, but bows his head in gratitude. "Jiyeon," he repeats. "Thank you."
"For what, my dear?" She says as she releases him, and there's an almost playful gleam in her eye
now.
"For...believing in me," Jaehyun admits, voice softer now.
She gives her own little bow. "Always." And with that, Jiyeon turns back towards the crowd,
waving over her shoulder as if dismissing him. "I'll take over supervising the children, go ahead
and take the others to collect the supplies."
He watches her walk away with a funny feeling tickling the back of his mind, like there's something
lingering that he can't quite remember, something fluttering just out of reach. There's no time to
ponder the feeling further, though, when a handful of men move in his direction, clearly ready to
join him on their supply run.
"Where to, Mr. Jung?" one of the men asks as they approach, and he straightens his shoulders to
present as much authority as he can manage.
"Three blocks this way, same location as last time." He points down the street in the opposite
direction of their arrival. "They're expecting us."
"Do we need to bring more people, or one of the trucks—?"
"No," he shakes his head, "we aren't picking up much this time, we can carry it back ourselves."
"After you, then, sir," one of the men says, bowing his head respectfully. Hong, he thinks, Hong
Jonghyun. I'll have to remember to tell his house leaders about his good work.
"Let's go."
He leads their small group out of the grass and gravel and up onto the paved sidewalk, the sun
beating down heavily on their shoulders as they make their way along several storefronts in
relative silence. Curious eyes peer out at them from behind the windows, no doubt interested in
their matching tunics and the whispers about their community that have certainly begun to spread
since their arrival. Behind one door, someone—presumably the owner—quickly switches the
‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ and skitters away as they approach, but for the most part, the stares they
receive are borne of interest more than fear.
They do not know the truth. Jiyeon’s words echo in his head as he leads the group onward,
steeling his resolve to finish their work, and do it quickly—
But as their group moves around a street corner, something through the glass of another storefront
catches his eye—not the gaze of another, but something small and flat propped up in a display just
behind the glass. A book, he realizes. Before he can think twice about it, his feet stop dead in front
of the window, causing one of his companions to nearly crash right into him as the entire group
attempts to pass him.
"Sir?" Jonghyun says, hands hovering nervously in the air between them as he fights to keep his
balance without touching the older man.
The question falls on deaf ears, his eyes transfixed on the colorful series of covers laid out in clear
view to entice the average passerby. Each one is a different shade, adorned in ornate gold lettering
designed to catch the light, and it takes him a moment to make out the unusual, foreign titles. They
may be written in Korean, but these certainly aren't Korean stories, and something about this
makes it almost impossible to look away.
A Tale of Two Cities , he reads, Pride and Prejudice, The Canterbury Tales, The Picture of Dorian
Gray, The Divine Comedy, Frankenstein...
"...sir?" the other man asks again, his voice sounding far away. Jaehyun shakes his head to clear
it, feeling as though he has been pulled into a trance. He can't bring himself to look away from the
colorful images before him, but he comes back to himself enough to understand what he's being
asked. "Is something wrong?"
"No..." he mumbles, eyes tracing over the gold filigree in fascination. "No, nothing's...wrong..."
"Do we need something here?"
"Yes..." he hears himself say, "I—I need to pick up something, you all...should go on without me."
"Uh..." he can hear the hesitation in his companion's voice, but can't bring himself to care very
much about that at all. "If...you say so, sir."
"Yes, yes..." he mutters, waving a hand dismissively, "go on, I'll meet up with you shortly..."
If the other men say anything more, he doesn't notice. They must move away at his direction,
because all of a sudden he finds himself standing on the sidewalk completely alone. His head feels
fuzzy, vision swimming slightly as he stares down at the books before him and fights as best as he
can against the haze to make sense of where his mind is carrying him, why this feels so...familiar...
Jaehyun.
The hair at the back of his neck stands on end, his shoulders tensing as though something has
brushed across them just firmly enough to be felt. For a moment, the phantom shape of a hand
seems to rest between his shoulder blades, and he straightens up at the sound of his own name
whispered in his ear as though carried by the wind.
Jaehyun.
When the sound repeats itself, unmistakable this time, his head whips around at last for the source
of the noise.
"W-Who—Who's there?"
There is no answer, but the goosebumps on the back of his neck remain.
“Who’s there?!” he repeats, turning in a circle. When he returns to the window, his head spins,
and his eyes struggle to focus on the books still laid out before him. Glancing up, he finds another
set of eyes staring back at him, and his blood runs cold at the sight. The eyes clearly belong to the
owner of the store, judging by the pile of books in the older man’s arms and the startled expression
on his face as he watches Jaehyun through the glass.
Jaehyun…
This time, the voice is clearly coming from his left side, and as he whips his head around to follow,
he catches sight of something dark like a shadow moving in the reflection at the far end of the
window. But by the time he turns to look at it directly, the shadow is gone.
“Who’s there?!” he repeats a third time, the words followed immediately by his feet carrying him
after the fleeing figure towards the corner of the building. When he skids to a halt, he finds himself
staring down an alley between the bookstore and the next building over, relatively empty aside
from a few trash cans and some scattered litter. Most notably, the dark figure is nowhere to be
seen.
He glances to either side as though expecting to spot someone clearly slinking away, but the road
is clear, his companions barely inches tall in the distance now. His head still feels fuzzy at the
edges, his limbs unsteady as he shifts from one foot to another restlessly.
Jaehyun…
There it is again, that voice! He can hear it so clearly now, though there is no one in sight that
could possibly be making the sound. Making a split second decision, he charges forward down the
alleyway in pursuit of whomever is calling his name—and this proves to be exactly the right thing
to do, if the voice is to be believed.
This way, Jaehyun… it whispers, This way…
As though tugged by a string, he feels himself being pulled forward-forward-forward, down the
short alley and around a corner, then sharply around another, ducking this way and that between
the small, dated buildings at the prompting of that same ghostly whisper, shadows dancing
tauntingly at the edges of his vision all the while.
He’s practically dizzy by the time he slides to a stop once again, probably blocks and blocks from
where he started, the buildings around him entirely residential now and not at all familiar. The
bookstore from before is barely more than a wisp of memory, his hazy mind trying desperately to
make sense of where he is and where he’s being led—for he surely is being led...somewhere.
For a moment, he finds himself caught at a crossroads, the alleyway between houses splitting off
into two different directions before him. He pauses, bending over to catch his breath, but the
moment his eyes move away from the path ahead, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye
once again.
This way… the voice whispers, this way, this way!

“I’m coming!” he complains, though mostly to himself, “What do you want?!”
Hurry!
He takes off after the shadow once more—but this time, there isn’t far to run. The alleyway carries
him only a few meters before suddenly dumping him out into a relatively open space, a clearing
where the town reaches its end and civilization fades away, the land being claimed back into the
forest again.
“Jaehyun.”
This time, when he hears a voice calling his name, there’s no doubt the sound is more than a
figment of his imagination. Though not spoken loudly, the voice cuts clearly across the open space,
drawing his attention to the shadows beneath a tree that stands only a few meters away. Beneath
its wide, sweeping branches stands a singular figure, wrapped in a white jacket that hangs down to
a pair of bare knees, features obscured by a hood pulled down low enough to hide the face
beneath.
“Who—Who are you?” Jaehyun demands immediately, stepping closer with squared shoulders and
balled fists. “Are you the one who brought me here? Why? What do you want from me?!”
“I want many things from you,” the figure answers, voice soft and melodic and achingly familiar,
“but first—and most important—I’d like to look upon the face of my son.”
“Your s—” his voice falters in his chest. Still, he steps closer, and closer again, drawn in by that
same invisible force. “Who are you…?” he demands again, but this time all the power has drained
from his words, replaced by something fragile around the edges. “Show yourself!”
The strange figure says nothing for a long moment, but he can feel eyes on him from beneath the
shadows. Then, achingly slow, the figure raises their arms, long white sleeves slipping back to
expose a pair of dainty hands that raise up and tug at the hood until it falls away—revealing the
high cheekbones and pointed nose, the short hair and discerning eyes of a familiar middle-aged
woman.
Though the years have added lines to her face here and there, and her eyes seem to have grown
sharper while her body appears, perhaps, a touch more frail—there is no mistaking that face. He
will never forget that face, no matter how many times they try to make him.
“……mom?”
“Jaehyun…” she repeats, and this time it comes out in a rush, as though she is relieved to say it,
relieved at his recognition.
He takes a step forward, the movement wooden, his hands suddenly trembling at his sides. “M-
Mom? Is it—Is it really—?!”
“It’s me,” she says in a gentle voice, stepping closer herself with outstretched hands. “This is
real.”
If he felt off-kilter before, it’s nothing compared to the way gravity seems to have shifted beneath
his feet at the sight of her. His mother…the infamous Jung Eunah, missing for nearly a quarter-
century now. His mother, the ghost.
“M-Mom—” At the first touch of her hands on his skin, he finds tears already falling down his
cheeks. She draws closer without hesitation and cups his face in her palms, wiping away the tears
with a wet smile of her own as she gazes up at her son.
“Oh Jaehyun, my beautiful boy…look how you’ve grown.”
“What—what are you doing here? How?! A-Are you—?” He can barely get the words out, his
hands reaching up to grasp his mother’s wrists as if to ensure that she doesn’t disappear again.
Even as he holds her now, she feels like smoke, like she might drift away if he so much as breathes
in her direction. “W-Where did you go—?”
“There will be plenty of time for explanations later, my love,” she hurries to say, her fingertips
tightening on his cheeks for a moment before she drops her hands to his broad shoulders instead.
“But right now, I need you to focus.”
“I don’t understand—” His head is spinning, spinning.

“You will have all the answers you seek, I promise you, I promise you,” she says earnestly, and he
can feel both her sincerity and her fervor as she squeezes him tighter still. It should probably occur
to that in almost every sense, he does not know this woman any longer—but she looks exactly as he
remembers her, smells the same, smiles in the same crooked way. His chest aches just looking at
her, looking at the way the years between them have creased the skin between her eyebrows and
added a touch of silver to her hair when the light hits her just right. “…but we have to hurry, we
don’t have time. Listen to me, listen—”
Time? What do they need time for? His mother is here, she’s here , this is every dream he’s ever
had come true—
“I—I’m listening—” he hurries to assure her, staring down at his mother with eyes that must be as
wide as hers are, now. Meeting her gaze, it is as though he is eight years old again—clinging to her
as she climbs out of bed in the dead of night, begging her not to leave, feeling the terrible ache of
her absence when she does all the same. That ache is a bottomless pit, now, one that has taken root
in his chest and burrowed only deeper and deeper with each passing season. It’s been twenty five
years since he’s last seen this woman—he will for damn sure listen to anything and everything she
has to say now that she’s returned to him.
“There are very important things happening, Jaehyun,” she explains, brow furrowing. “Pieces—
Pieces being moved into place…” She glances around as if expecting to find someone lurking in
the shadows, just as she had done. “We have to be very careful, and we have to hurry—”
“Careful—?”
“They are always watching, my love…” she says, voice dipping even lower. The clearing is silent,
the sounds of the village, of the community members blocks away selling their offerings, are too far
away to be heard. Still, she whispers, and Jaehyun has to press ever closer to catch every word.
“Now, tell me...have they selected a new doll yet?”
“—what?!” It’s beyond bizarre to hear her speaking of such things, to hear his long-lost mother
discussing the ins and outs of the community as though no time has passed at all. Trying to
reconcile these two women—the mother he knew before, with soft hands and warm embraces, who
was so greatly respected and feared, and this older, far more serious woman, a mother no longer,
a stranger to him now—has his mind reeling.
“A new doll—have they selected a new doll, Jaehyun?” She shakes him by the shoulders, forcing
his foggy mind to snap to attention again.
‘A new doll?!’ He thinks, a chill running up his spine despite the heat of the sun still bearing down
overhead. ‘Why would we need a new doll?’
“N—No, why would they—?”
“Then you must be prepared, my son. A new doll will be coming, and we must be ready to act when
it does.”
“What are you saying?!” He suddenly exclaims, unable to contain the rising anxiety in his body
any longer. “How do you know these things?! I don’t understand—”
“Jaehyun.” She shakes him again, and something about the way her tone becomes harsher around
the shape of his name forces him to go still. It is as though all the years between them have
disappeared, and for just a moment, he is nothing more than a child being scolded after school
once again. “Soon, you will be offered the position of Vice Principal. You must—”
“I—I already have been—how did you know—?”
At his words, a broad smile dawns on his mother’s face—slowly, like the first hint of sunrise on the
horizon.
“All in due time, you’ll understand,” she assures him, and somehow, Jaehyun believes her. She
releases his shoulders at last and steps away, turning around as she appears to collect her
thoughts. He can see the way her mind is working as she stares down at the ground, eyes flicking
this way and that. “But this is good….very good…things are moving quickly.”
When she turns around to face him again, there is something different about her—a seriousness to
her posture, a darkness to her gaze. She straightens her shoulders as she meets his eyes again, and
though he is significantly taller than her now, her sharp, under her watchful eye leaves him feeling
almost unbearably small. There is something going on here, something strange—something far
larger than him, or the community, or anything he has ever known. He can see the threads of it
now, stretching before him, though he cannot for the life of him imagine where they lead.
His mother is all but a ghost, a spectre from his past come to haunt his every move—but as she
steps closer with a conspiratorial glint in her dark eyes, the world around them seems to melt
away. No longer is his mind hazy at the edges, but rather now he finds her features before him to
be almost too sharp, too defined. There is no rustling of leaves overhead, no crunch of gravel
beneath their feet. All at once, Jaehyun is struck by the strange, terrible knowledge that between
the two of them, perhaps he is the apparition after all.
“Listen very closely, my child…” his mother interrupts his thoughts with a voice that is laden with
all the gravity a human voice can contain. “Here is what you need to do.”
It is always quiet here.
Here is nowhere.
Here is
everywhere.
He knows this place, this darkness.
The darkness welcomes him like the embrace of an old friend.
Hello, Jeon Jungkook.
No!
He shouts into the void.
The sound echoes back to him tenfold.
no
no
no
no
no
no
Please be still.
The voice asks so sweetly, but he knows the words are not sweet.
No!
He knows this voice.
He knows this place.
The darkness is a friend he never wanted to make.
Do not fight us, Jeon Jungkook.
No!
Do not fight us, you will not win.
The voice always tells the truth.
He fought the voice, once. He fought the voice,
and he
lost.
Please—
You will not survive.
Let me go!
go
go
go
go
go
go
We are here to help.
I don’t believe you!
Please be still.
The voice is losing patience now.
He does not want to upset the voice.
Still, there is something clawing at his insides,
something—
something
wild
and
begging to be free.
B e s t i l l.
Still.
He is still.
All at once, he is still.
Be still and let us work.
No—
His voice feels impossibly small.
The darkness has him in a grip like a vice.
You are nothing.
No, I—
You are n o t h i n g.
Nothing.
Nothing, yes. He remembers this. He knows.

He is nothing.
You have no body. You are only what we made of you.
Yes, there is nothing outside the darkness.
He has no body. Still, he cannot move.
You will cooperate.
I will cooperate.
The darkness is within him and without him.
He cannot breathe.
He does not need to breathe, for he has no body.
But still—
Still, his lungs plead for air.

Hold him down.
The darkness grows hands,
hands that reach for him from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Hands that claw
and teeth that
bite.
Show us what we need to know.
Though he has no body, no face,
he can feel the hands pry at his eyes,
his mouth.
Show us!
The hands pry further still,
beyond his skin and bones.
He feels their touch in the very heart of him.
Something white flashes before his eyes,
a light that isn’t a light—

The grasping, clawing hands pull him
down
down
down
down
down
and though he no longer knows which way is up,
he knows that he is falling.
Show us where you have gone!
All at once, the darkness falls away.
He is unceremoniously thrown back into his own body, his nerves singing with the return of
sensation, his eyes blinded by the sudden rush of images that flash before him.
—a twig snaps between his toes, echoing sharply off the dark silhouettes of trees that surround
them. The rough bark is painful as it rasps against his bare skin, but he does not complain; the
sudden snap is startling, but he does not flinch. His focus is trained on the silhouette in front of him
—
Where are you?
I—I don’t—
Do not fight it.
The voice instructs him firmly, and he feels himself caving like the wet soil beneath his feet.
Show us where you are, Jeon Jungkook.
The images before him shift, lurch.
—heavy boots digging into the wet dirt with relative ease—
He is dragged from one recollection to the next as though his captors are flipping through
photographs, only glancing at each memory long enough to ascertain what information they need
before speeding along to the next.
—the moonlight overhead makes the trees glisten, casting long shadows down the slope of the hill
—
The whirl of sights and sounds, dim shadows and flashes of color, leaves him feeling sick to the
stomach he suddenly remembers having.
—the dirt beneath his feet sticks and clings, slippery underfoot where it might once have crumbled
away. The hand that leads him forward is sturdy, insistent, enough to keep him upright when the
uneven ground threatens to bring him down and enough to reassure him when it is his spirit that
feels likely to give out instead of his legs. He squeezes the fingers that are laced between his,
instinctively seeking their comfort—
So you were not alone after all...
The voice sounds pensive, interested.
Jungkook can’t spare a second to consider why before his body is lurched forward through the
memory, dragged along as though he is not the one at the reins but rather a passenger to his own
mind, now.
—they continue climbing, the crest of the hill in sight, more and more raindrops making their way
down to drip across their shoulders and crown their heads—
His limbs burn with the strain of exertion, heavy and out of use.
He cannot catch his breath, cannot even dream of filling his lungs—
Who?
Who took you, Jungkook?
Where did you go?

Nobody, nowhere, please—!
He begs, but the words do not leave his mouth.
His body aches, his limbs like cement even as they carry him up-up-up the hill, a chill in the air
clinging to his skin—
—cast in the moonlight, spread out before them as though painted across the horizon, the forest
spreads out as far as the eye can see. Rolling hills cascade down below them, but Jungkook can see
that they are standing at one of the highest points possible for miles—
There!
I’ve got it.
The voice is not speaking to him any longer, but it rings in his ears all the same.
I want to know who. Find me who did this.
Yes, ma’am.
His stomach gives the most sickening lurch yet, his memory steered to focus on the hand clasped in
his own, the body attached to it—
“Will you show me?”
He hears a honey-sweet voice rise in his mind, one that is far removed from the commanding tones
of the ones controlling him.
“Will you show me the world out there?”
No!
Closer, closer—
—the touch is slick with rain, their lips sliding against each other desperately—
P-Please, no!
—he’s shivering, soaked from head to toe, but there’s warmth beneath the layers between them and
he wants more—
No, no!
That isn’t yours!
Do not fight us, Jungkook.
For once, the words ring with that unquestionable power, but he does not heed them.
NO!
This is for your own good.
NO, NO!
He flounders, flinging his arms out to try to claw his way back to the surface,
but his hands do not move from the grip that holds them so tight, and there is nothing in the
darkness that will save him.
His memory twists, lurches, and he is powerless to stop it from hurtling towards the inevitable—
—the raindrops hardly seem to touch them like this, their feet moving fast enough that the water
feels too slow to catch up, the trees around them blurring together in the periphery. And Jimin—
...Jimin?
The voice suddenly loses all its power, ringing instead with confusion, surprise.
“J—Jimin?”
Park Jimin?
Jimin—Jimin—Jimin—
It can’t be...
He curls himself around the memory as best as he can, and though he cannot feel them, he knows
that tears have begun to make their way down his cheeks.
Show me.
The memory moves with all the force of a sledgehammer now, his mind careening through one
flash of skin, one flash of warm touches and soft whispers to the next.
—his hands sliding down Jimin’s arms before wrapping around his waist instead. Jimin is rigid as
a board against him, but he tucks his face into Jimin’s hair and holds him close all the same—
—he rests their foreheads together so there is nowhere for Jimin to look but at him—
—beneath his hands, it is as though Jimin is melting, the rigor mortis that had overtaken his body
before softening as though Jungkook has revived him. Somewhere, far, far in the distance,
lightning still crackles through the sky—but all Jungkook can see, all he can feel or hear is Jimin—
Jimin—Jimin—
“—We’re almost there, baby...hold on…” Jimin murmurs to him, his voice just as hushed as their
careful movements. He knows what they are doing is forbidden in one way or another, but it
troubles him no more than what they have already done together—it’s worth it, he thinks, to be
with Jimin like this. He would follow the younger man anywhere—
“—Please,” the younger man prompts, and it is just as startling to hear as before, “I want to hear
it from you…” Jimin waits until he’s sure that his message has been received, thumb brushing over
the lips before him, before continuing in a whisper, “...can I kiss you, Jungkookie—?”
Jimin.
His Jimin.
NO!
NO!
NO!
NO!
NO!
NO!
The claws finally retract, fleeing as though startled by his objection.
The memory of Jimin’s face, warm and beautiful, still lingers.
It lingers—until it doesn’t.
Jimin, please don’t go—
As with everything else, it slips through his fingers with all the gravity of sand through an
hourglass, and no matter how he clings to it, claws at it, begs for it—
Please, please don’t leave me—!
There is nothing left but the darkness.
He is falling, ever falling,
the ground never approaching and
nothing above or around him to slow his descent.
Where before, his nerves roared to life,
singing with an intolerable onslaught of sensation,
now he is numb in their absence,
nothing more than a single glimmer of consciousness in the black.
But even—
even as he drifts, falling ever further—

Somewhere, there is a lurch—a sickening twist,
the suggestion of a sensation from the vicinity of where he might imagine his stomach to be.
Something pulls at him from his very center,
not side to side as he was tugged before,
but rather—
upward
—if there could be such a thing as up in this place at all.
It is not unlike the rush that comes from standing in an elevator,
moving despite standing perfectly still,
how the ground slips out from under your feet,
how your heart and stomach protest by trying to escape your body entirely.
He is dragged by that lurch,
by an anchor that floats instead of falls
up
up
up
up
up
up
—until he crashes through the surface with a horrible, rattling gasp for breath.
The water around him is warm, calm except for where his movement makes it churn and slosh.
His lungs are on fire, burning as though the forest from his memory has been lit ablaze.
Somewhere, in the distance, he smells smoke.
“Hold him down—” he hears a voice nearby instruct, and those terrible hands return to his skin,
pinning his arms at his sides, his legs spread apart. He strains to be free, but the exhaustion in his
limbs was no trick of his mind.
“No—!” he gasps out, and feels water fill his mouth, bitter and salty as the ocean. He splutters,
gasps, sends more waves crashing from his movements.
His sight is the last of his senses to return to him, offering him still more flickers of light—same as
before—as he fights to pry his eyelids apart. Though it only takes seconds to focus on the shadows
moving around him, to his mind it feels like eons before he can make sense of them.
First, he notices the looming shape of shadows tall as pillars that surround him, making a circle on
every side, their figures moving this way and that as their dark robes part to expose hands that grip
his limbs like a vice. Then, he finds his attention drawn—very much against his will—to the
shining surfaces that adorn the tops of each pillar, masks that shield their visage from his sight.
Instead, their mirrored faces reveal to him his own predicament—his thin, naked, writhing body
reflected again and again and again on every surface, his own tear-stained face mocking him as
they loom ever closer.
“Be still,” another voice commands, but their words have no power here. He kicks his legs against
their iron-clad grip, his head tossing back and forth beneath the water that surrounds him on every
side.
“Be still!”
This voice is different, drawing his attention from directly above where he lies. Before he can stop
himself, he cranes his neck back to follow the sound, and finds himself meeting another pair of
eyes that are—surprisingly—not his own.
Whereas every other shadowy figure that surrounds him is little more than the suggestion of a
person, the woman he looks upon now has her face free from any disguise, her dark gaze fixed
solely to his own. He shudders at the sight, something achingly familiar about her appearance
sending his head spinning once again. When she opens her mouth to speak once more, it is not to
address him, though her piercing gaze never wavers.
“Put him back under,” she says, and a hooded figure at her side leans closer in response.
“What are we looking for, ma’am?”
“Everything.” Though the water that surrounds him is warm, the blood in his veins is all but ice at
her words. He opens his mouth to plead again—to say something, anything to save himself—but
his voice has failed him at last.
Too weak to resist a moment longer, he allows his eyes to close again as though surrendering to the
darkness himself might make it more welcoming as it swallows him whole. He knows the plunge
is coming long before those hands and their claws push him under again, and before the water
covers his ears once more, he catches the last trailing hint of the woman’s voice, the harsh echo of
her final command.
“I don’t care how long it takes. I want to know everything.”

Chapter End Notes
Howdy howdy! It's been a while, huh? I can't apologize enough for the wait, but I
hope that 45K of new content will serve as a decent reward for everyone who has been
so patient for so long! There are a number of reasons why I have been so slow to
update, most of them having to do with some very large changes in my life (involving
family, a new job, moving across the country, my physical/mental health) that on top
of the pandemic, have made writing a very difficult task for quite some time. I hope
you all can understand that sometimes things just...get in the way, no matter what you
planned to have happen. I've been chipping away at finishing this chapter for you all
for literally months on end, but it's only been in the last month or so that things have
really gotten to a place where I was able to sit down and dedicate the time that writing
this story demands and deserves. I hope the wait was worth it, and I can't wait to hear
what your thoughts are! I already have several scenes written for Phase 15 (a few
scenes got moved around) so I'm hoping to dive right back into writing the next part
starting next week! I will also be updating The Notes for this story to expand our map
and add some additional commentary and graphics that I hope you all will enjoy! If
you have any suggestions of content you'd like to see in The Notes, please let me
know!
Also, Ao3 has made some significant changes to its tagging system, so if you noticed
that the chapter has about 1/3 of the tags that it used to, this would be why. I have left
what I believe are the most important tags on the overall story, and I will continue to
mark each chapter and individual scenes with any relevant tags I can think of. If you
believe that additional tags are needed for a scene/chapter/the entire story, please
submit a comment here on Ao3 or message me on CuriousCat so that I can review
your request! I take tagging VERY seriously and have done my best to make the
warnings on this story as comprehensive as I can, but I am only human and am always
open to feedback.
Summary of the scene containing extensive PTSD flashbacks, aftermath of rape,
vomit, body horror, implied underage, implied child abuse, implied rape/non-
con, implied domestic violence, mentions of infidelity:
In the aftermath of his assault the night before, Yoongi ends up in the shower trying to
scrub himself clean of the horrible feelings that he is left with. He is bombarded by
memories of his previous trauma, beginning with the assault itself, followed by
memories of Seokjin making Jungkook choke and vomit as Seokjin used him while
unconscious for a blow job. This is followed by a memory from two nights before,
when Yoongi took Jungkook down from where he was hanging in from the ceiling in
the nurse's office and cleaned up the remains of Seokjin's abuse, and was then startled
by a hallucination of Jungkook turning into a monster and screaming at him. The
memory shifts to one of his parents fighting outside of his bedroom door as a child, his
father threatening to take Yoongi with him as he escapes from the community, and his
parents getting into a physical fight as his father attempts to remove him. Finally, his
memory shifts to the oldest memory of them all, when he was called to the principal's
office by Seokjin's father, Seokhoon, and ordered to undress and present himself over
the principal's desk, either for punishment or for something worse. Yoongi returns to
the present moment when Namjoon bursts through his door.
Summary of the scene containing suicide/suicidal ideation:
Jaehyun experiences a flashback to the night he attempted to hang himself in his

hospital room after being visited by Seokjin (Phase 8).
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Try To Erase Myself

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Try to Erase Myself

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/14852240.

Try to Erase Myself

Inspired by prayers for the guilty by starbaby

See the end of the chapter for notes

“I’m thoroughly fucked up after reading this...” —cflorez

“...so disturbingly hot...” —UCastex

“...the plot definitely challenges me as a person...I just. can't. stop. reading.” —

“...delightfully dark and filthy and hot and psychedelic...” —crownofdebauchery

“I am uncomfortable and intrigued all at once...it makes my hormones confused.” —

“...the kind of messed up story I'm living for...” —kaelaa

“...one of the most twisted things I’ve ever read...” —Marasny

“Holy shit...this [story] is messing with my head...it makes me so uncomfortable...nervous...my

“...so intriguing that even when I felt so uncomfortable...I'm speechless." —adyYellow

“...this is breaking my heart and mind!” —Izzy7831

“Hard to read but I can't stop...intriguing but stressful...” —SaraKagamine

“I'm triggered and speechless...” —Malie

“...insanely triggering and I feel disgusting from reading it.” —TriptychKitty

“This can be a New York Times bestseller.” —BeyTS

“...an incredible piece of work...” —hulahoop

“So ominous! So intriguingly interesting and captivating!” —JiminiesKitten

“Honestly [this story]...reminds me of why I love to read so much.” —Pork_Skewers

“I love this fic even though it hurts to read.” —BookWerm

“Both disturbing and thrilling at the same time...” —Agustyoongs

“B R E A T H T A K I N G. absolutely breathtaking...amazing, beautiful and a true work of art.”

Chapter End Notes

DISCLAIMER (MANDATORY READING BEFORE CONTINUING):

REPOSTING AND TRANSLATIONS POLICY:

1) I DO NOT ACCEPT REPOSTING OF MY WORK IN ANY WAY. If I find a

2) I DO allow translations of this story!

Translations must follow these guidelines:

Kim Seokjin is a patient man.

TAGS FOR PROLOGUE:

Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Conditioning, Brainwashing, Unhealthy

OFFICIAL FIC PLAYLISTS

REPOSTING AND TRANSLATIONS POLICY:

1) I DO NOT ACCEPT REPOSTING OF MY WORK IN ANY WAY. If I find a

2) I DO allow translations of this story!

Translations must follow these guidelines:

External Camera 5—Rear Entrance 01.08.18 2:13AM

How long—how long has it been running?

There are voices now, more than hissing—

“We’ve got you.”

No, no, no—

“We’ve got it, sir—”

“—Good, finally. Is it harmed?”

“No, it doesn’t appear to be, sir—”

“—but it doesn’t look good. Almost like—an animal, sir—”

“Bring the doll back to the school immediately.”

“Tell me, then—what brings a mysterious benefactor to our humble celebration.”

“Perfect,” he agrees—easily, happily. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, then.”

“Now,” he is pushed, and over the cliff he goes.

“I have to return to the school, I have other matters to—”

MAIN DINING—CAMERA 3—SOUTH 07.15.18 6:34PM

DATE TIME FROM TO TYPE

“I got it, mom! The job—I got it!”

He clears his throat, the sensation like gravel. “Dad?”

“Son, your mother just told me—you got a job offer?”

“Was this the one your friend recommended? Um, what’s-his-name—”

“Wait—the council?” His father interrupts.

“It was like that.”

“Oh...it sounds like you were really nervous, sweetheart…”