Silver Wings {Jungkook x Reader}

ONE

"No, not like that!"

"What now?" I halt my movements at the sound of my dance instructor's voice, nerves sparking with annoyance.

My dance instructor abandons his rickety wooden chair in the corner of the room and sidles up to where I'm standing in front of the mirror. "You're still doing it wrong."

"I'm doing it exactly how you showed me." I retort, tucking a lock of long ebony hair that had escaped my ponytail behind my ear. I repeat the move to the best of my abilities, only to receive a shake of my instructor's head.

"No, you have to do it this way." The young man says. I jump slightly as he steps behind me, his hot breath fanning the nape of my neck as he encompasses his large hands tightly around my waist. "I'll help you." He murmurs in my ear, pulling me flush against his body as he guides my body to the thrumming beat of the music.

Crimson tips my ears and spreads across my face at the feeling of his hands on me, disgust beginning to flow through me. I don't think so. I step away from him and calmly remove his hands from me, turning to stare right into his confused and stunned face.

"Please do not touch me." I order. "You can teach me the steps without touching me, right?"

His cheeks flush a deep shade of red and he dips his head instantly. "Y-Yes, I'm sorry. It's just that many woman would rather be touched me, so I just assumed..."

Revolt contorts my face as I shake my head vigorously. "That's a horrible assumption. Don't just go after women like that, because some aren't as forgiving and light-hearted as I am."

He averts his gaze, his embarrassment painfully obvious in his failure to respond and even look me in the eye. "Is it alright if we end the lesson a little early?" He asks, his wandering eyes resting on the clock above my head.

I nod my head silently and move away from him, striding quickly over to my duffel bag that I had carelessly tossed to the side upon my entry. I shove my water bottle inside and trade out my clean, white shoes with rougher-looking, black converse, feeling my instructor's eyes boring into my spine all the while.

I leave the studio in a hurry, jogging down the cracked pavement of the sidewalk as sensations of relief begin to course through me as I ensure that he hasn't made an attempt to follow me.

I've never enjoyed skinship, even as a young child, but it's mostly because my parents never demonstrated it towards me. Neither have I ever exposed my body to anyone but my mother, despite being seventeen. They've always been extremely secretive about everything, rarely answering any of my questions that may pop into my mind and refraining from sending me to a religious school without explaining why. I don't hate them; I never could. But after dragging me to live with them in South Korea without an explanation and forcing me to abandon my former life, I'm beginning to wonder if they really value and care for me at all.

As I slow my pace and make my way further down the sidewalk to our apartment, I receive a few puzzled and judgemental looks from bystanders. It does little to faze me, however, having become used to it after a few months of living here. It's painfully obvious that I'm not of full-blooded Asian descent like most of the people that cast dirty looks my direction, even though my father is. My long hair cascades down my back in loose ebony curls, my full lips having a strange ruby tint, and my complexion is a honey-coated caramel color. I have more of my mother's features than Korean, my mother's side having overpowered my father's. However, my eyes and a strange silver lock of hair among my pitch-colored strands. Inexplicably, my wide eyes are a royal blue hue speckled with the shocking color of spun gold. Neither of my parents possess either color, their eyes being a stark crystal-blue and an extreme deep brown that could be classified as an empty black.

I fling open my front door, limbs heavy with fatigue, and drop my duffel bag onto the floor of the foyer with a dull thud. "Mom, I'm home!" I call wearily.

"In here!" She chirps from the kitchen, her usual bubbly tone present as the scent of cinnamon wafts from the kitchen and tickles my nose.

I head into the kitchen and feel a smile tug on the corners of my mouth as I spot my mother flitting busily around the kitchen. A black apron that's been splattered with God knows what is tied around her waist and her hands seem to move with almost inhuman speed as she collects ingredients and moves back to the counter. She has ebony hair like I do, except hers bears a permanent crimson streak that I've questioned her about numerous times, only to have been dismissed.

"What are you making?" I inquire, stepping up beside her to peer down at the mixture in the bowl before her.

"Snickerdoodles," she responds, eyes skimming the open cookbook leaning against the wall. I wait for her to say something more, but she refrains from elaborating.

I'm about to leave when her loose shirt slips away from her shoulder for a moment due to her flurry of motion, exposing something that only coaxes a sigh from me. An indescribable, quarter-sized crimson symbol has seemingly been tattooed on the skin on the back of her shoulder. Both of my parents are marred with a "tattoo" in the same place, except they're drastically different and my mother's is crimson while my father's is a pristine white.

"Hey, Mom?" I ask, intent on asking once more even though I know that she will probably just disregard it. "What does that symbol mean?"

I jump as the wooden spoon in her hands suddenly clatters to the floor and she stiffens.

Maybe I shouldn't have asked again. I regard her warily as she turns slowly to face me. Her expression is emotionless, which surprises me since I was expecting to see anger written on her face.

"Why do you keep asking?" She sighs, closing her eyes momentarily.

"Because I want to know and you won't tell me." I say evenly, squaring my shoulders so I don't look intimidated even though she looms about half a foot over me.

"I don't tell you because it isn't important." She shoots back.

"If it isn't important then you shouldn't have an issue with telling me!"

"If it's not important then you should understand that I don't want to tell you!"

"Just because it's not important to you doesn't mean that it's not important to me!" I retort. My eyes and voice soften. "Mom, come on."

I could practically see her fight draining from her and she sighs again. I recoil at the sight of her defeat, never having gotten this far before. "It really isn't important." She says. "Your father and I just got matching tattoos after our marriage, that's all."

My blood boils at her blatant lie, knowing full well that no one but them knows what those symbols mean. They aren't from any sort of language or any kind of mythology and they can't be just drawings because there's too much detail for it not to have a meaning.

"Alright." I say shortly, turning away instantly and sprinting up the stairs to my room, not bothering to bring my bag with me. I slam my bedroom door and duck quickly into my connected bathroom, closing and locking the door.

I shed my flimsy, sweaty t-shirt and allow it to drop to the floor to expose my torso, save for my black sports bra.

She's lying, I grit my teeth in anger, because if that were true, then why do I have one?

In the exact same place on the back of my left shoulder, there's a huge symbol with the circumference of an orange rather than a quarter. However, where hers is a bright crimson against her pale skin, mine is a shining silver that glows under the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. It's too-intricately done to be a tattoo and too metallic and glowing to have been done by a regular tattoo artist, and there's a white floral pattern hemming in the symbol, only adding to my confusion. I'm also positive that it hadn't been done by a tattoo artist because I never went to get a tattoo nor did I ever elect to get one. It appeared the day of my sixteenth birthday, and no one but me, not even my parents, has seen it.

I remember the state of panic it locked me in, scrubbing and scrubbing to try to remove it. Instead of smearing or coming off, it only glowed brighter despite my feverish attempts.

They've been lying to me for ages, and I want to know what this is and why it's here and what this means.

And I want to know now.