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ONESHOT | 38 requested by @MikasaRose7
🚨 Disclaimer: This story contains elements of graphic violence, murder, and disturbing psychological themes. The content may be unsettling, especially regarding themes of obsession, manipulation, and brutality. Reader discretion is strongly advised. If you are sensitive to these topics or find them distressing, please proceed with caution.
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"Useless little rat! You think smiles feed us? You think crying fills the tent?" The ringmaster's voice thundered through the cold night air, sharp as the sting of his whip. His boot struck the ground just inches from your face, the cracked heel splashing dirty water over your bare legs. You flinched. The performance that night had barely drawn a crowd—just a handful of drunk men who tossed a few coins, too busy laughing to notice how badly your legs trembled during your routine. You'd stumbled once. Just once.
But that was enough. You were only eight, dressed in an oversized costume that used to belong to someone else, your cheeks painted red to hide the bruises. Your ribs ached from hunger. You hadn't eaten in two days. You tried to apologize, voice small, terrified. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to mess up—" CRACK. The whip lashed across your back before you could finish. Your knees buckled, and you fell face-first into the muddy straw. "Don't talk back!" the ringmaster barked. "You cost us coin. You think we keep you little pests alive out of kindness? If you're not making money, you're nothing."
You barely lifted your head. Blood mixed with the dirt on your chin. And then—"Stop!" A boy's voice—louder than the whip, louder than the laughter echoing from the other tents. You felt arms wrap around you—warm, shaking. Jungkook. He knelt behind you, shielding you with his body, hugging you so tightly that you could barely breathe. You felt his heart pounding against your back like a caged bird. "She didn't do anything wrong," he said, voice cracking. "It's my fault. I trained with her. I should've helped her more. Hit me instead." The ringmaster didn't hesitate. The whip cracked again. And again. And again. You screamed, trying to push him away.
"No! Jungkook—stop it! Don't—!" But he held on, teeth gritted, arms wrapped around you as he took the lashes for you. His body flinched with every strike, but he never let go. Later, after the ringmaster had stormed off, muttering about "ungrateful little freaks," you helped him back to your shared corner of the old train car—the one you called a room. It was barely big enough for two. The window was cracked. The blanket was thin. The smell of mildew clung to everything. Jungkook winced as he sat down. His lip was split. His shirt was torn open along the back, the skin beneath angry with red welts.
You soaked the last clean rag in cold water and pressed it gently against one of the bruises. He didn't say anything. Neither did you. Until you couldn't hold it in anymore. "Why?" you asked, softly. "Why do you always take the hits for me?" He looked away. "I messed up. It wasn't you. But you always—" your voice broke, "you always jump in. Every time." "I'm older," he muttered. "That's what I'm supposed to do." he added. "You're only three years older! That doesn't make it fair!" He clenched his fists in his lap. His nails dug into the skin of his palms. "I don't care what's fair." You stared at him, eyes wide and wet.
