Readingonmyown - M's Fic Recs - Tumblr Blog

Unsteady

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Little could throw Leon off, especially when he’s laser-focused on his objective, but the moment he hears that cry of pain all thoughts of acting rationally are out the window. 

He’s a steady man. 

Everything Leon does is meaningful. The way he moves, striding with purpose, the way he talks, to the point, those remarks rolling off his tongue naturally, the steady motions of his fingers as he smoothly reloads his gun with one hand, tossing a grenade with the other. 

Deployed to investigate an outbreak in the middle of the ruins of a city, Leon hadn’t liked being paired with her at first. 

Love and duty didn’t mix after all. 

“Watch your six.” She yells out, ducking to parry an incoming knife from the particularly agile species of zombies they found themselves in the middle of. Leon turns just in time to dodge a zombie lunging for his neck. A bullet through the head sends it down. 

Together the both of them move as a deadly, well-oiled machine. Wordless communication glances that silently request support or warn, a punch there, a chamber of bullets lost here.

“There’s too many of them, we’re overpowered!” He calls out, holding his position. 

“Retreat back to base for now!” She yells back, yanking her knife back out of a creature’s head with a sickening squelch. She scowls as the blade comes out half broken, tosses it aside, and extracts another one. “We’ll regroup and come up with any strategy. Charging forwards isn’t working-”

A creak cuts through the air, halting all conversation. Even the mangled corpses go quiet. 

“Move!” She shouts and before Leon knows it, he’s shoved roughly away as an old oil tanker collapses mere inches from where he stood. The massive barrel explodes on contact with the ground, engulfing the world in flames, bright red and hot. She lets out a strangled yelp as it burns right through her shoulder and chars her skin. A surface burn but still stinging and painful. 

“Are you alright?” Comes a yell from the other side of the wall of flames. “Shit, are you hurt?” He sounds…panicked? No, that wasn’t right. Leon Kennedy didn’t panic. He fought, thought, and charged his way through any problem. 

“I’m fine!” She tries to find a way to him, but the wall of flames produces so much heat it makes her eyes burn from the smoke. Pulling the collar of her shirt to cover her mouth and nose, she gives up finding a path back to their original position. 

She curses under her breath, “I’ll meet you there! Go back to base, I’ll find another way!” His protests come through, but she ignores his demands for her to stop and find another way. If she stayed she’d be charred to toast. The fire spreads onto the old creaky building, columns of flames mounting higher and hire. The creatures at least seem to have just as strong a dislike for the heat as she does because they’re nowhere to be seen. 

“Go!” She yells one last time before taking off into the nearest alley, clutching her burning arm. 

Getting separated was never ideal, but it couldn’t be helped. She knows he’ll be alright. Leon was anything but stupid. He was deadly, he’d be fine she tried to convince herself. 

As she starts to think she might have gotten her bearings back, a crack sounds from above her. She whirls around, gun aimed to the ceiling of the wooden beams she’s passing under, thinking it’s a zombie. 

It’s not. 

The beam creaks under the weight of the fire eating away at it, and before she can dive out of the way, it cracks and falls straight into her, trapping her in rubble and splinters, pinned to the ground. 

She screams, hot wood pressing against her skin as the fire around her seems to close it. “Fuck,” she gasps in a breath, trying to think. Prying the beams off of her does little but burn and embed splinters into her palms. 

Shit, Leon. She had to meet Leon back at the base, had to let him know she was alright, had to know that he was alright. 

 After a couple of minutes of struggling, it dawns on her that she’s not going anywhere. Her lower half and left arm are trapped. There’s no way she can lift the beam on her own, not with her injured shoulder at least. 

Was this it? She squeezes her eyes shut, chasing the thoughts away as she sweats and burns. Was this how she was going to go out? Smoke threatens to choke her, acrid and bitter in her throat, in her lungs. 

She imagined she’d go down protecting someone, maybe even her boyfriend, or that she’d be torn apart by some sort of bioweapon, but no.

She’d burn and suffocate under a goddamn beam. 

Feeling tears prick her eyes at the thought, her head feels too heavy to keep lifted, her forehead dropping to press against the dirty pavement below.

Leon…God, she hoped he wouldn’t blame her too much. 

They’d just started to make a life together. Years of dancing around, subtle flirting, and lingering glances finally led to them dating a year ago. She loved him. She really did love him and now she was never going to see him again. 

Two beady eyes glare at her from the far end of the alley.

Cold and dead. 

A zombie staggers towards her, snarling unfazed by the fire around them. It stumbles and drags itself closer and closer.

A dry sob rips itself out of her throat, the heat unbearable, panic clawing at her. Breathing short and shallowly, she wishes she could reach for something to end her pain a little quicker, but she can’t reach any of her for any of her weapons. 

Helplessness threatens to drag her under until her eyes catch on a sharp splinter of wood the size of her palm just within reach. With a shaking arm, she reaches towards it, crying out when her movements put more of the wood’s pressure on her. The splinter of about the size of her palm, is wickedly sharp. 

Glancing up again is almost too much effort to handle in between her hacking coughs. It’s halfway down the alley already.

She’d rather kill herself than end up like them.

Trembling, she presses the sharp point of the wood right onto her jugular, swallowing nausea and hesitation. 

She couldn’t let herself turn. What if she was the one who found Leon? What if she hurt him? No, she couldn’t bear it. 

Another sob wracks her body as the living corpse staggers closer. Steeling herself, she closes her eyes and tries to think about anything else. 

Don’t be too mad at me, Leon, she thinks to herself, before-

The sharp bang of a gunshot startles her, her hand jerking and digging painfully into her throat. Before she can blink away the blurriness in her eyes, her wrist is yanked away from her neck forcefully, the grip on it like iron as the wood is ripped out of her hands. 

“Not yet, baby.” She could cry at the voice, low and determined. “You’re not done yet.” 

“Le-Leon.” She coughs, “You won’t- the fire.“ A gasp rips out of her when he tries to tug her free. “Stop!” She cries out. “Can’t-you can’t. I’m stuck. Go before it’s too late.” Is all she manages to choke out. 

The look Leon gives her is one that she might have laughed at if she were in the laughing mood. 

“Like hell.” He says roughly, “We’re staying together.” She knows that tone of voice, the one that’s immovable and molded out of iron. Too tired to argue, she nods. He moves out of her field of vision behind her. 

“I’m going to lift the beam.” He says calmly but quickly. “I need you to drag yourself out from under when I do. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

When she doesn’t respond, he calls out her name, repeating himself more urgently. 

The most she can offer him is a weak nod. Her throat feels like it’s on fire.

Suddenly the crushing weight is gone, and all she wants to do is sob in relief and curl up right there and then, but Leon’s voice filters in and out of her mind. With the meagre remaining strength she has left, she claws her way out of the rubble, collapsing a bit away onto her stomach. 

Leon doesn’t waste any time asking questions when he runs over to her and picks her up, ducking through a gap in the brick wall a couple of feet away. 

“You’re going to be okay.” He says aloud, glancing down at her as he moves. Steady. Always so steady and calm. She takes comfort in it, but it’s only when she sinks farther into his grip that she notices. 

The tremor in his hands. 

The slight shake of his voice.

The poorly hidden panic in his eyes whenever he glances down at her. 

He’s panicking. Leon Kennedy is panicking. 

“Shit, don’t close your eyes.” He urges, squeezing her closer to his chest. “Stay awake. Stay awake for me, okay?” He talks, getting increasingly shaky when she can’t find the will to respond to any of it. 

In and out of darkness she drifts. Every time she feels herself swim too deep, his voice always pulls her back, like an anchor she couldn’t lose even if she tried.

When she comes back to this time, clinging onto his voice to drag her back she finds they’re back in the bunker they’d chosen as their temporary base for the mission. She’s laying on her bedroll, Leon’s roll draped over her to keep her warm. 

The man in question is wrapping her shoulder with a bandage. The numb coolness suggests he’s treated the worst of her burns

Trying to speak, nothing but a hoarse noise comes out. 

“Don’t talk.” He instructs, immediately reaching for his canteen. Gently he props her up in his arms and brings the vessel to her lips, guiding her to drink. “That’s it, sweetheart.” He praises her as she drinks. “Slowly.” 

Swallowing a few times, she tries again. “Are you…are we?” 

“You’re alright.” He assures her. “I got you out in time.” Still, in his arms, he feels her physically relax at the assurance. 

It’s not enough. Seeing her accept her demise, laying there half-trapped with a weapon to her jugular ready to end it all before his eyes…

He feels sick thinking about what would have happened if he’d been a mere second late. Seeing her slit her throat in front of him…he may have just pulled the trigger on himself there and then. 

The thought washes over him, overwhelming. He can’t stop himself from clutching her tighter, drawing her into his chest and tucking his chin over her head. “Thought I lose you for a second.” He admits hoarsely.

“I…I thought I did too.” She whispers, feeling him draw his arms around her tighter. “Thank you.” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you there.” 

“How did you know?” She asks, shifting to meet his eyes, taking solace in the deep blue. 

“I heard you scream.” 

It had stopped him in his tracks, all thoughts of anything regarding his own safety and the mission dissipating with the single sound. The only thing on his mind was to find her, to help her, to make sure she was alive and that she never made such a sound ever again while he was alive. 

“I’m glad I did, then.” It’s a weak joke that doesn’t pull a smile or a chuckle out of either of them. 

“Scream or stay silent, I’ll always find you, sweetheart.” He mutters into her hair. The trembling in his body seems to have subsided now that they were out of the fire. 

Her heart warms at his words, and even as their world is quite literally burning down outside their little safe haven, she finds that there wasn’t a place she’d rather be right now than in his arms like this, comfortable and safe. 

“Rest. I’ll take watch.” He presses his lips to her forehead, lingering there for a couple of seconds. 

Her last mumbled thanks barely makes it past her lips before she’s out cold, trusting him to keep her safe while she recovers. 

Requests Are Open!

(22/06/2023)

adonis | pjm x reader

🚨 summary: your crackpot of a neighbor will not rest until you throw yourself at the gorgeous paramedic in town. she's nuts, y'all.

🚨 pairing: reader x paramedic!jimin

🚨 genre: meddling neighbors? horny little old ladies with bad-slash-good intentions? awkward OCs who can't find the words to speak in the presence of greatness?

🚨 warnings: one very mouthy senior citizen, sweet/shy jimin, an OC who can't find a clean shirt throughout the entire fic, one very spoiled pomeranian, smoking, sexual innuendo, literally one line of implied smut

🚨 word count: 3.4K (lmao)

🚨 notes: this is my drabble *snort* for the possum anniversary and i am celebrating the wonderful @starlostjimin who is such a cool, funny, amazing, talented person. did you know that 911 is 911 in america AND canada? anyhoo. i hope you like my very first jimin fic ever, and i hope it delivers on the things that you wanted 💕

thank you always to @hobi-gif for being the most amazing beta and person in general.

If you had to wager a guess, you’d say it was Mrs. Choi from the fourth floor who’d dialed 911. That miserable old bat has always struck you as kind of a snitch.

At any rate, that’s how you find yourself standing outside your condo at ten o’clock at night, wearing nothing but a faded bathrobe and a pair of worn-out house slippers. Lights mounted on top of the fire truck idling at your building’s entrance turn the courtyard into a tragic makeshift disco, everything and everyone splashed in flashes of red and white. 

You mill around on the damp grass with the rest of your neighbors, each of you turned into temporary exiles in mismatched sleepwear. 

Mr. Nam from the sixth floor is yelling into his phone as he paces, giving someone an earful about the disruption. Mrs. Song from the seventh floor was smart enough to grab a lawn chair and she watches the scene unfold like it’s one of her beloved dramas. Mr. Baek from the first floor doesn’t pay any mind to the fuss around him, engrossed in a book good enough to drown out the grumbling and sirens. 

But you don’t spot the woman who lives in the unit next to yours – not right away – because it takes her an absurdly long time to heed this whole evacuation business. 

When Mrs. Yun finally breezes through the condo’s glass doors, she does so with all the subtlety of a pageant queen. She makes a beeline for you, decked out in a Hawaiian-print muumuu loud enough to wake the dead – accessorized by a full face of makeup, a full set of curlers, and her trusty Pomeranian tucked under one arm.

“What is all this fuss about?” she pouts, giving Chichi an affectionate scratch. You lean over to give the dog your own scratch and she licks your fingers as thanks.

“Hell if I know,” you shrug. “I came outside when I heard the sirens. Which, by the way, was about ten minutes ago.”

“I was busy,” Mrs. Yun sniffs, affronted by your reprimand. She sets Chichi down to pat her curlers and make sure each is still in place. “I have a friend coming over tonight.”

“A friend.”

“Yes honey, a friend,” she echoes, tone haughty. “You should try it some time.”

God, you really should. The only man in your life these days is the Doordash driver and the last time he’d come by, he’d made a clumsy joke about your sodium intake. You’d been embarrassed, sure, but somehow that pales in comparison to this reminder that you’re being outsexed by the little old lady next door.

“You should ask someone when they plan to let us back in,” Mrs. Yun says, tapping her foot impatiently. “You should ask – ” she pauses to look out over the crowd, eyes lighting as she points one fresh gel nail in the direction of the fire truck, “ – him.”

You follow the trajectory of that thin finger with your gaze until your eyes land on Mrs. Yun’s intended target. And then you blink as you take in what is surely the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. Dark eyes and sandy blonde hair and a jawline so sharp, it could have been cut from granite.

Holy shit.

“I’ll say,” Mrs. Yun grins, and your face burns with embarrassment when you realize you’ve spoken out loud. It flames even hotter when she raises an arm to wave him over. 

“Sir? Sir!”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.”  You panic, whispering in the most threatening tone you can muster. “Put your hand down. Don’t – ”

But it’s too late. Mrs. Yun has already caught the attention of this Earth-bound Adonis. He makes his way towards you both without delay, wearing an easy smile so devastating it makes sweat bead at your temples.

“Hi there,” he greets kindly. “How can I help you?”

“Thank you, Mr. – ” Mrs. Yun pauses to squint at the name embroidered on the man’s dark navy uniform, “ – Park. What’s all this uproar about tonight, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he chuckles, and you find yourself mesmerized by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Someone called 911 because they smelled smoke, so we had to come check it out.” A radio secured to his shoulder crackles with an incoming transmission and he pauses to listen before he speaks again. “Pretty sure they’re almost done checking the building. Old places like this, we’ve always got to put in a bit more attention where the wiring is concerned. Wouldn’t want to leave you ladies in a dangerous situation.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mrs. Yun purrs, making no effort to hide the cheeky once-over she gives him. “We certainly appreciate you being thorough.”

The Adonis – Mr. Park – flushes, clearing his throat as the tips of his ears turn pink. You make a mental note to sit Mrs.Yun down later to explain that a few things have changed since her heyday.

The radio crackles again, a garbled voice coming over the line.

“Sounds like they’re almost done,” he explains, looking down at his feet to find Chichi sniffing at his boot. He crouches down to pet her and she curls into the curve of his hand, eager for his touch. 

Somehow you’re willing to bet this man has that kind of effect on everything in his path – men, women, and houseplants alike.

He gives Chichi a few firm scratches before getting back to his feet. The rigid fabric of his uniform pants strains against the lean muscles of his thighs as he moves and Mrs. Yun’s eyes practically bug out of her face. You’d jam an elbow in her side if you thought there was a chance you could pull it off without being caught.

“I’d better get back,” he says, turning to you with one of those debilitating smiles. Your toes curl inside the shabby velvet of your slippers. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

“Oh, we won’t!” Mrs. Yun calls out, appreciating his retreating form with a lifted brow. You wait until the man is well out of earshot before turning on her.

“What the hell was that?” you demand.

“That – ” she says with her nose in the air, “ – is why you never leave the house without your face on.”

“You were practically undressing that man with your eyes,” you accuse hotly. “You do know what sexual harrassment is, don’t you?”

Mrs. Yun huffs as she bends down to scoop up Chichi. “I wasn’t harassing the man, I was appreciating him. Fine art is meant to be admired.”

“Oh, please,” you grumble. “And don’t think I missed that little detail about the smoke.”

She narrows her eyes at you.

“Mind your business.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

One week later, a knock at the door nearly startles you right off the couch. You frown into your half-eaten carton of ramen and set it down on the coffee table, taking a moment to seriously contemplate pretending not to be home.

But then there’s more knocking – more insistent this time.

You pad across the floor, crack the door open and the ramen in your stomach threatens to come right back up.

“Hi again.”

You blink. 

“Sorry to bother you, it’s just that your neighbor suffered a fall and she said you would have a key to get into her place.”

The Adonis – Mr. Park – looks a little sheepish as he stands in the doorway, waiting for you to speak like a normal human being with a passable set of social skills. He shoves one hand through his sandy blonde hair and the locks seem to fall back in slow-motion.

“I – y-yes of course,” you stutter, so flustered that you nearly trip over your own feet in your haste to scramble for the kitchen. You dig Mrs. Yun’s spare key out of the silverware drawer and rush back to drop it into his waiting palm.

“I hope she’s okay,” you worry, biting at the inside of your cheek. “I’m right here if you guys need anything else.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” another voice promises, and you crane your neck to peer past the stunning Mr. Park to search for the source of it. A second man stands out in the hallway, a heavy duffel bag slung over one muscular arm covered in a myriad of tattoos. His face is boyish and beautiful and soft, a stark contrast to his powerful body.

Jesus. Who’s doing the recruiting in this city?

“We’ll have this back to you right away,” Mr. Park promises, and your neck heats when he rewards you with one of his sweet smiles. 

The second they leave, you make a beeline for the bathroom – and cringe as you stand in the mirror and peel one half-dried ramen noodle off the front of your shirt.

🚨🚨🚨 🚨

15 minutes later, Mr. Park’s picture-perfect partner is knocking at your door.  

“Hey there.”

You might have run a brush through your hair and dabbed on a bit of tinted chapstick in the last five minutes, but he notices that – or the absence of one half-dried ramen noodle, he makes no indication.

“Hi again,” you say. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, for sure. Maybe a little banged up, but otherwise she’s alright. She’s asking for you though, if you can walk over with me.”

“Yes, of course.” You shuffle into the hall and let him lead the way, through the open front door to Mrs. Yun’s unit and the narrow foyer that opens up into her living room. She’s upright on the couch, holding an ice pack to her head. The glorious Mr. Park is bent down on one knee at her side.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, looking as pleased as a queen holding court, “I’m grateful every day for the very dedicated public servants in this city. That was terrifying.”

“But you’re okay, right?” you ask.

“Nothing broken, so far as we can tell,” the Adonis says. “She’s probably going to be good and sore tomorrow, but for now she’s doing just fine.”

“Thanks to Mr. Park and Mr. Jeon here,” Mrs.Yun says sweetly. A little too sweetly, in fact. The wheels in your brain start to turn and you eyeball her from across the room. She peeks at you from behind the ice pack and dons an angelic smile.

“Yes, they are certainly appreciated,” you say slowly, the skepticism in your voice vibrating at a frequency only Mrs. Yun can hear. She beams at Mr. Park as he gets to his feet and starts to pack up his things.

Mr. – Jeon, was it? – slings his heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. “Be sure and take those anti-inflammatories tonight, okay? You’ll be all locked up in the morning if you don’t.”

Mrs. Yun practically preens at the personal attention she’s gotten from these two insanely good-looking men. “I will.”

“You’re lucky to have a good neighbor,” the Adonis says to Mrs. Yun, turning to you with a genuine smile. Your heart thuds in response. “If it’s alright with you, keep an eye on her tonight? She might need your help.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her, alright,” you say with a tight smile, and Mrs. Yun clears her throat.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

“Promise me – right now – that you really fell.”

“What did I tell you about leaving the house with your face on?”

“Answer the question,” you fire back and Mrs. Yun sighs, tossing the ice pack down on the couch.

“Yes, honey, I did fall. I fell in love with that scrumptious Mr. Park the second I saw him. And if I were a woman thirty – ”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“ – Okay, fifty years younger than I am, I would be taking him for a spin myself. But since I’m not, I’ve decided that you should have him. Did I bend the truth a little? Yes. But for a good cause. I’m a very thoughtful person, you know.”

“You are outrageous,” you hiss, pacing as Mrs.Yun pretends to look for dirt under her fingernails. “This is a waste of public resources! They’re supposed to be responding to emergencies. Real emergencies.”

“First of all – ” Mrs. Yun is defiant, chin in the air, “ – Nothing ever happens in this town. Nothing. And second, there’s dust in your panties, sweetheart. If that’s not an emergency, I don’t know what is.”

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream and Mrs. Yun ignores it, climbing off the couch with ease to cross the room and crack open a window. She pulls a box out of the tiny accent table perched beneath it and proceeds to light an absurdly long cigarette.

“You’re too damned young to be shut away in your house all the time,” she argues, pursing her lacquered lips to blow a stream of smoke out the window. “Work. Couch. Work. Couch. How can you stand it? Let me tell you what I’d be doing right now if I could turn back the clock and have your youth again: Mr. Park. I’d be doing Mr. Park. You should be doing Mr. Park.”

You stifle a disbelieving laugh. The novelty of your neighbor’s loose lips and bad habits wore off a long time ago, but sometimes she still manages to catch you off guard.

“Well, I’ve got an early morning so unless you have any more unsolicited sex advice to share, I’m going to have to call it a night.”

Mrs. Yun blows another long stream of smoke out the window. 

“Nope. I’ve got it all off my chest.”

“Good then,” you say, turning on your heels. You make it all the way to the door before you pause and call out to her.

“And put that thing out!”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

Three days later, you find yourself struggling with an overloaded paper bag from the grocery store. Yes, you’ve purchased the reusable ones and yes, they’re a hell of a lot stronger – but you never miss an opportunity to leave them hanging in the closet on your way out the door.

Something in the bag is wet – well, moist at the very least. And it’s enough to have you gripping the bottom tight with both hands as you try to maneuver your way through the revolving door at the entrance to your condo. It’s an awkward fit inside the narrow sliver of space and as you’re shuffling forward, the door’s momentum dies. You push at it with one foot and lose an onion from the bag, nearly losing your balance in the process.

You blow out a heavy breath and go to push the door again, only this time it smoothly glides away before you even make contact. The misstep makes you jerk forward, but at least the door keeps moving long enough for you to step out of it.

“Think you lost something back there.”

Most of your hair has slipped out of your ponytail holder by now, the strands matted to your forehead with the sweat you worked up on the walk from the car. But when you turn, you can still make out the glorious Mr. Park quite clearly. He drops the onion back into your bag and smiles at you.

“Please, allow me.”

He lifts the bag out of your arms, carefully securing the bottom like you’d done just moments before. With your hands now free, you push your hair out of your face and silently pray that you don’t look as unfortunate as you suspect you do.

“You don’t have to do that,” you demur. “But I appreciate it anyway. Mr. Park, right?”

“Well, I’d much prefer you call me Jimin,” he laughs, the sound of it making heat bloom inside your chest. “But yeah, it’s me again.”

He’s not wearing his uniform, you realize. And though some small part of you mourns the loss of those fitted shirts and pants, his off-duty look – an oversized sweater, jeans and pair of sharp boots – sure as hell doesn’t disappoint.

“Do you… live here?” you ask stupidly, as though a man this handsome could live anywhere on this entire street without someone taking notice. “Or – ”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I came by to check on your neighbor. You know, after the fall and all. I told her she could call me if she ever needed anything and she asked me to stop by.”

“You gave – ” you pause, shock forcing your voice at least an octave higher, “ – You gave Mrs. Yun your phone number?”

His cheeks pink at the observation. “She’s in her 70s, you know? Lives alone. I really don’t mind.”

You truly have no idea how your chain-smoking, jazzercising, oversexed hellion of a next-door neighbor has managed to convince this man she’s a frail old woman in need of a hero.

Will wonders never cease?

“Besides,” he says, “She’s kind of...quirky, you know?”

“That’s a very strange way to say unhinged,” you counter.

He laughs.  

“You’re funny. Come on, I’ll walk you up.”

yun: DID YOU HAVE YOUR FACE ON [ 9:15 PM ]

yun: he told me he helped you with your groceries [ 9:15 PM ]

yun: now tell him to help you out of your clothes [ 9:16 PM ]

you: go to bed [ 9:16 PM ] 

Two days later, legs like noodles from spin class, you limp through your front door and sag onto the couch. You might have napped for a second, you’re not entirely sure – but after a knock sounds at your door, you are most definitely alert. Your thighs protest as you force yourself off the couch to answer it.

You crack the door open and it’s him. Adonis. Mr. Park. Jimin. 

And you’re wearing a gray workout shirt with what you are certain is one very sizeable sweat stain down the front. Good God, will there ever be a time when you see this man and don’t look like a complete wreck?

“Oh my gosh, did she call you again?” you ask, incredulous. “You are so sweet to do this for her, really but this is too – ”

“ – She didn’t call,” he interrupts, looking just the tiniest bit bashful.

“Oh.”

“Listen, this is kind of embarrassing and maybe not entirely appropriate given I know where you live, but it’s just that I don’t have your number.”

Your eyes widen and your already distressed legs start to feel a bit more weak. Jimin scrubs a hand down his jaw before he speaks again.

“I was actually wondering if you might let me take you to dinner sometime.”

You blink. 

“Or I could cook you dinner. I make this really great prawn dish? But again, I’m not trying to be a creep or anything and it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with that – ” he’s backpedaling now, his words coming out in a rush.

“– You are not a creep,” you insist, when you’ve finally come to your senses and figure out how to access your words and use them to form sentences. “I just – I was just not expecting that. But yes, I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

Your knees threaten to buckle at the slow smile that comes over him.

“That’s great.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

You fling the silverware drawer open and practically rip Mrs. Yun’s key out of it in your mad dash to her apartment. No, you do not feel guilty for letting yourself into her house, the woman has absolutely no boundaries and could use a taste of her own medicine.

You slam the door behind you when you walk in, and Mrs. Yun squints at you from her perch in the window. She blows out a perfect ring of smoke and then raises a brow.

“Got a bee in your bonnet?”

“Give me one of those,” you demand. “Right now.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

There’s a knock at your door – again – only this time, you already know who’s on the other side. It’s your beloved Doordash driver, bringing an order of your beloved shio ramen. Two, actually.

You open the door to grab your food and Jimin calls out from the couch.

“Need some help with that?”

“Nah, I’m good,” you say over your shoulder. 

When you turn back to thank the Doordash guy, he’s staring into your living room, eyes wide and trained on Jimin. You clear your throat and he snaps his focus back to you.

“Have a good night,” he says pleasantly.

And then he gives you a thumbs up.

yun: can the two of you keep it DOWN  [ 11:22 PM ]

yun: some of us need our beauty sleep [ 11:22 PM ]

you ever read angst so beautiful it feels like you’ve put your heart on a stick and watched it beat in the best way possible? Now you have !

Yet another amazing piece of art from my (and yours very soon) favorite author. As I’m posting this (08/18/2022) there is only part one out, but the author says that part two is in the works !

Read this and be prepared to be literary-ly kicked in the chest and beg for a punch too

…𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙢…

• type: bts x f! reader • masterlist • about: angst! discusses themes of abandonment and inadequacy

• tagging: @introlxv; @pinkcherrybombs • pictures taken from Pinterest

• a/n: It's raining a lot here today so I was just lingering around what comparing yourself feels like

NAMJOON: "There's honestly no way to undersell your influence," the woman gushes on and it's like you don't exist. Joon is giving her the trademarked, polite smile, one of neutrality. It means nothing. But also at this moment, you mean nothing.

"You went to the White House and the UN, and now you're visiting my little gallery! Gosh, it's such an honour."

"Ah, it's...it was unprecedented. I'm just doing what I love, it's the people I should be thankful for. They helped me to get to these heights."

"Don't be so modest!" she pats his arm, perhaps lingering a tad too long but where once there would be a kindling flame of jealousy, there's nothing now. Her words have poured a bucket of ice-cold water soaked with a certain realization, washing away all happiness of the day.

You can't compare.

You won't ever compare.

"I have a private screening of the latest works. Usually, I wouldn't reveal such a thing, but you're Kim Namjoon!"

He takes a step back, sporting quite the awkward stance. Because this is Namjoon. He's polite. Tries to not show judgement upon anyone else. Like you, for example.

"I was actually preoccupied -" he waves at where you've been standing mute and unmoving whilst whatever this was unfolded.

"Oh, your secretary!" all too confident the owner of the gallery calls out and you can only muster to stand there. No strength left to argue.

"She's not my se-" Namjoon fruitlessly sputters but the lady waves his indignance away.

"Are you familiar with the work of contemporary artists?"

"No," you truthfully reply. They were but colours to you.

"Oh, not very educated in this field, are you?" she coos in a farce of sympathy and blankly you shrug.

"No."

"Well, then, let's go. This level of art needs viewers of...worldly inhibitions."

Her long red nails sink into Namjoon's beige shirt, one you gave him on his birthday, like a reborn harpy of old tales. He looks back at you, eyebrows furrowed in million confused questions but you quietly wish him to have fun. His educated, smart fun, remaining to stand there in the middle of a fancy art gallery. And you can't stop thinking about that shirt and laughing dryly to yourself. A multimillion pop singer, donating his money to art galleries, collecting masterpieces, visiting presidents and here you were gifting him shirts because that's all you could afford.

"What are your thoughts on this piece?" a stranger approaches you all of a sudden probably thinking that just because you were here you belonged here, that you earned your spot here when in truth you were just someone Namjoon dragged along.

And with a carving, empty feeling you don't see any reason at all why would he do such a thing.

"It's beige," you breathe thinly, glimpsing at the painting on the wall and he leaves upon hearing the simplistic answer. Figures.

YOONGI: "Already thirty and still unmarried? Is there no one in your life?"

He looks almost apologetic into the camera. A glimpse lasting a second, travelling through infinite miles as if he knew you were watching.

"No," he lies. "No there is no one."

He lies for your safety because it's what he has to do. It's what you agreed to but right now you couldn't name a worse feeling to have than to be called nonexistent. A ghost. A void, not a living human being occupying space and deserving it.

"No way," your cousin laughs loudly across the table. "No way this guy is dating you!"

"It's true," you object poking at the plate of dinner you have no intention of eating anymore. Her words have created a gaping hole in your stomach, that honestly had been churning away for longer than you had noticed.

"What's he doing with you then? A charity?"

"Keep your mouth shut!" her mother hisses sharply but bolstered by the many wine glasses, she drones on.

"What? I'm just stating what we're all thinking. This is what? Just a reprieve, a cleanser! He'll have his fun with you and then will marry a supermodel or a singer. Cause it's what they all do. No rich person marries a commoner."

Yoongi is not like that. You knew he was not like that. He liked to eat tangerines by your side and fix the broken shelves, night upon night he'd cried how he just wanted to make music but be that as it may his life was set.

And a quiet librarian was in no sort of way part of cameras and red carpets.

And he'll have to say it time and time again that you did not exist.

And you feel like you don't.

The night is empty and cold with the house gone deathly quiet. The water runs underneath your hands as you scrape the dishes - to have something to do, to not be consumed by the gaping wound of being hidden away. Like a scab almost.

A phone rings.

"How was the dinner?" he immediately asks, sounding a bit rushed. "Sorry, I couldn't make it this time."

Or the time before that and the one before that, and a hundred others in the past, making you seem like a lonely ghost wailing false moans that you were loved by a star. He was an innocent idol onto whom you had delusionally pushed your need of companionship, pictures could be downloaded, and lies could be spun.

And as far as most people knew - you did not exist.

"It was fine," you answer monotonous. There's a wobble in your lip so you have to really frown to not let it spill.

"I didn't mean it. None of what I said. It's just something I have -"

"- to do," you finish for him and your voice wavers. "Yeah, I get it. Listen I have to go, alright."

"Wait, no-!" you drop the phone and lean over the sink, swallowing down tears. Pulling a determined breath, you wash the remaining dishes in complete silence and no one calls or talks to you anymore.

JIN: "Yeah, right," the front desk lady sneers. "Get out of here, freak."

"I'm literally handing you my ID. You saw me before!"

If only any proverbs were ever listened to. A wise saying once claimed to not judge a book by a cover. What a wonderful world would it be if it was actually listened to.

Dripping rainwater and mud, you scoffed, frustrated and just wanting to lie down. It had been an exhausting day. The kind where you regret ever waking up.

"Do you not have a register or something? This guy literally is vouching for me."

You point at the gardener of Jin's apartment building and he nods, eyes full of compassion. He was a good guy.

"It's true she was here and the day before that."

"So, you're a hooker. I'm not letting you up. Just look at yourself."

Look at yourself. Those words were like an axe to your head. A dull blade swinging time and time again as you bent your knee at the podium.

Wherever you went they reverberated like ripples in a lake.

"Just look at yourself," one woman sneered while you went to the bathroom at a party with Jin.

"Really look at yourself. You must think you have some sort of inner beauty? People like you make me sick! You're all delusional," and she had stormed off, face warped in such contempt as though you'd done something wrong. But you just stood here.

"Don't listen to her," you told your reflection but the eyes looking back were tired. "You did nothing wrong."

You can only insist that you did nothing wrong but no one listens. Certainly not the cops shoving you in the van on the charges of stalking.

The holding cell is very cold and you're freezing, wet hair seemingly lowering your body temperature even more.

"HOW DARE YOU?" Jin's voice rings even down the hallway. "WHAT SORT OF COUNTRY IS THIS WHERE INNOCENT PEOPLE GET ARRESTED?!"

"We apologize, sir, but the front desk worker phoned in as it was susp-"

"IS SHE THE CHIEF OF THE POLICE?! YOU JUST CARRY OUT THE ORDERS OF SOME RANDOM WOMAN?! LET MY GIRLFRIEND GO THIS INSTANT!"

The doors open and stiffly you clamber out, immediately swarmed by Jin's warm embrace.

"Don't think I'll let this go so easy," he growls at the nearby officer before guiding you away.

"I'm so sorry, honey, it won't ever happen again," he strokes your head all the way home but the cold doesn't dissipate. It's all a blur and you're just so very tired.

"What are you doing?" Jin asks gently opening the bathroom doors where you finished taking a warm shower as he had ordered. You wipe the steam off the mirror. The shoulders are hunched and there's no spark. Just another face in the proverbial crowd.

"Just looking at myself."

HOSEOK: It's nothing that anyone says. They think it, you can certainly tell by the snide glances occasionally thrown at where you're standing, but they don't dare to say it. The rest of the group is here and they wouldn't tolerate any off-hand remarks just as much as Hoseok himself.

But they don't need to say it. No one needs to do anything. You just have to look.

He's swarmed by celebrities, the A-listers, the top of the top, all celebrating the genius of his album and they blush as he pays they some attention. Because he's not just a celebrity, he's the top celebrity, he's what the people above aspired to be. And he wants this, he wants more of this.

And you don't belong here.

You don't belong here at all.

Like a piece of furniture or a fallen decoration, you stand in the corner invisible. The scarce attempts of talking all ended with an awkward side glance. The one given to friends, saying: "who invited her?" They excuse themselves with gritted teeth, sometimes just simply walking away and you stand by the side, admiring and not participating. How could you when this was not your world? But it's his and amidst all the fans and all the meetings, even Hoseok has forgotten you're here.

You don't belong here. You don't want to be here. Didn't want to see anyone ever again.

"Where are you off to?" a voice asks and you peek underneath the table, surprised to see Jin's head poke through. His phone light illuminates the hiding spot with flashing bright colours of a nameless webtoon.

"Just need some air," you answer emptily before pointing at the device. "You're having fun there?"

"Ah, I don't want to meet anyone," he whines and you offer a small, meaningless smile.

"I get that."

He glances up and you think he sees something in the way your eyes gaze grayly around, observing but not seeing. Though in the end, he says nothing and you're free to walk on the street. The music of Hoseok's album party pours out even there but at least it's dull. Another world now.

You push your hands deep into the jacket and not wanting to return to an empty apartment, end up in a 24/7 convenience store. It's cheap and common. Your spot, a planet familiar.

"Rough night?" the guy at the counter asks as you quietly slurp a cup of noodles on a rickety chair nearby.

"You probably had it rougher," you point out at the 2 am flashing on the clock hung behind him. He only shrugs.

"Not really. People leave me alone during night shifts and to be honest during day shifts as well. It's like I don't exist."

You frown at the red noodles and there's nothing but an empty pang in your chest. It's not one of hunger you realize now.

"Yeah. Me too."

JIMIN: The day is long and weary. Your legs ache and your apron is stained with dry milk. You're trying very hard to not cry in the break room and then you see him and you want to cry yourself to death. Be the princess that drowned in her own tears.

He's beautiful, the literal "It" boy of the nation. Kind, gorgeous, determined and you're crying in the break room.

The TV shoved in the corner has no sound but you don't need it. It's plenty enough seeing him laugh generously on the main story of the day, one discussing his success.

"Good day, sir, how ma-"

"Iced espresso," he interrupts and doesn't spare you even a single glance. You're just a machine here to obey. Nothing more.

"Damn, ________, you're still here?" a coworker asks, tying her apron hastily around. "I thought you applied for that new job?"

"Yeah, well, they rejected me," you explain lifelessly, face turned away.

"Is there no one else?"

"Yeah, and they rejected me as well. And all the other thirty places I applied."

She sucks in a breath through her teeth.

"Damn, that sucks. Still, don't keep your nose low, you might end up staying here forever."

Yes, that's just what you might end up doing. Someone had to be at the bottom of the barrel. Someone always had to do the dirty job you just never assumed it'd be you. That it'd be you who'd be the failure.

"She's a surgeon, you know," your mother says on the phone and you scuff your shoe against the tile ground.

"Yes, I know."

"Since this degree of yours didn't work out, you might apply to study something useful you know like a lawyer."

"Mom, I don't want to be a lawyer."

"Do you want to be a barista all your life? Because this art degree is certainly accomplishing that. And you're not marrying a rich man."

"What if I did?" you snap back spitefully.

"Well, then I'd be embarrassed to have a daughter whose such a liability."

"I have to go."

You're trying really hard to not cry but it's not quite working.

"I'm not a liability," you mutter underneath your breath but it feels like a lie in your mouth.

"Hey,______, we need you out here. It's a madhouse!" the frazzled head of your coworker pops in and all you can do is wipe your face and raise your aching legs once more.

"Good evening, ma'am! What would you like-"

"Iced espresso," she orders without looking up from her phone. You nod.

"Can you take the register?" you whisper to your colleague switching places.

"Why?" she furrows her brows.

"Just don't want to talk anymore."

Thankfully, she only nods curtly and you're free to do what is needed, alone and unbothered.

It's evening already but Jimin is still on the news and he smiles brightly as the sun. You don't even remember when was the last time you met him in real life, held his hand in yours. Last time he felt like a real person and not just someone you can look at through the screen.

"This dude really has it all," your coworker mutters underneath her breath whilst counting the register once there's no one in the sight.

"Yeah, he does."

TAEHYUNG: It's nothing but the truth to call jealousy a disease, a fatal one at that. Uncurable, unstoppable rot wrecking you from within. Never before had you looked at a video of your boyfriend and felt...felt bad. If bad was even a word to describe the awful hollow that washes the world grey.

The entire Paris screams for him, hell, maybe the whole of France. They talk of Lisa, Park Bo Gum and V. The infamous V. And they talk of Lisa, the A-lister, the star, the face of the fashion, the top girl of the top.

"You just have to work hard, okay," your mother always said. "You work hard and you can do anything."

It was such a comforting lie. Because you did work hard, you worked so hard it nearly crushed you and all it did was land you in an office cubicle, creating documents day upon day. Just like millions of others before you and like millions after you. Just an expendable tool.

You can't help it, because it's a disease, it's wearing down all the kindness in your heart, all your confidence and reducing you to a husk slumbering on the bed. What did they have that you didn't?

As a sick sort of punishment, you continue watching the video. V is getting quite cosy with the other celebrities, the 1%, the people not doing the office jobs, not doing the sowing of the fancy clothes they wore, not serving the drinks like the nameless waiters people treated as mindless robots. You ponder how horrible they must feel, how tired. The video suggests you want this, this is the world everyone should aspire to but it leaves a sour taste in your mouth and the fact that V is there makes it only more appalling. Because that is the fact. He was your boyfriend, Taehyung, the guy from a line of farmers, a simple guy who respected everyone but it's hard to see that Taehyung in V. The fashion icon, the creme de la creme sipping champagne far far away from you. He seems happy. Happier than he was when you parted.

Coincidentally, it's your birthday the next day and there are only three calls - your mother, your best friend and for some reason Jimin. Jimin who remembers it's your birthday before Taehyung or should you say V.

You get yourself a cake. It costs a pretty penny but it's cute and just this once you want to have nice things. Just this once. You take a picture of it, almost upload it on Instagram but then think better of it. Who cares what you post. It's there that you scroll upon a video of V cutting up a cake and you just know it's much more expensive than yours will ever be. This cake he seems almost bored with costs more than your life and it's given to him. Even if he would get it himself he wouldn't have to worry about the cost. It didn't matter how much you work hard, you will always have to worry about the cost.

In the end, you blow out the candle right there in the bakery and the girl working the register is the only one who claps. She asks what wish did you make, you answer none but secretly you just wish he would call. That he would remember of his girlfriend at home as low as she was.

He doesn't call but at least a video floating around the internet tells you he has a grand old time spinning around the pole with Lisa.

JUNGKOOK: "I don't like dispassionate people, I guess. I can't imagine how can one live without a goal. I'd rather die than live without passion."

It wasn't like Jungkook to be cruel and he probably didn't intend to be one as well but it still is cruel. Your own boyfriend just told everyone on national television that he doesn't like you. You're everything he loathes - the dreamless drifter, people who are just here.

"Why are you frowning?" a voice asks and you turn to look at him standing in the doorway with a frown. He must have said something before this but you hadn't heard. The mop in your hands lays still as you finish sweeping. Bam is there as well, his big brown eyes flickering in between both of you.

"Nothing," you reply quietly.

"No, it's something," he insists. "Don't lie."

"Why is passion so important to you?"

The frown on his face deepens and Bam begins to whine from the surging tension.

"I don't know," he laughs, sound falling strained and awkward. Because it's not funny. "It just is. I mean what's the point of life then? Hanging around? That's useless, isn't it?"

"I'm useless?"

His eyes widen for a fraction the second he understood his own words.

"I didn't mean you," he corrects but whether or not it's real or just in your perception, you don't think they sound sincere enough. It's just something he has to say.

"You just haven't found your passion yet."

"Because it doesn't exist!" you don't mean to yell. It upsets Bam, upsets you and most importantly it upsets Jungkook but he's never understood this. Never grasped that it's not the matter of you not finding your special devotion, it's because you simply didn't have one. And you're tired of trying to explain yourself over and over again.

"I don't care for jobs! I don't care about hobbies! I just want to live!"

"Okay," he brushes off passively. Not that he believes you, not that he listens to you at all, he just doesn't want to fight.

"Why is it so hard for you to comprehend that I don't have any aspirations? Yoongi -"

Abruptly he rolls his eyes, arms tightening around his chest.

"Again with Yoongi. Would you stop bringing him up?"

"Because he makes me feel heard! I don't have goals, I don't have great dreams and aspirations! Does that make my life meaningless?"

"What do you think?"

For a while, the only sound are the whines and the scraping of Bam's nails against the linoleum.

"You think my life is meaningless?" you echo breathlessly. Jungkook merely scowls at the floor.

"Right, who are we commoners against the mighty Jungkook? The millionaire, the young idol, right?"

"It's what my passion led me to," he mutters obstinately and for all intents and purposes, he might as well just have punched you in the gut.

"You won't achieve anything if you're just hanging around."

Exhaling a shaky breath you gather the most strength you ever needed.

"I have a dream, Jungkook, it is to live happily. And I'm not happy with you."

There's really, absolutely no way of knowing now either whether the flash in his eyes is out of fear or anger. They remain only as assumptions but what is an indisputable fact are the words spoken out loud.

"Well, I'm not happy with you, either."

The floor dries as you stand in front of this man, a stranger suddenly, one to whom you're too exhausted to defend yourself anymore.

"No, you can't come with me," you whisper to Bam who tries to squeeze the nose in through the door gap, tail wagging behind him. He must think you're going on a walk. How lovely animals were, they didn't care how you looked, who you were, or what you lived for. They simply were, and enjoyed life at its face value.

"You have to stay."

Bam is a sweetheart through and through but above all he's well behaved. His eyes are brimming with sadness but he does as he's told and steps away.

"I'll miss you, buddy."

"Enjoying the weekend?" the man at the local bakery friendly questions and you cast him a smile.

"Yeah, you know, appreciating the day."

"Ah, preach! It's nice to just enjoy yourself, isn't it?"

As you pay, your phone lights up and a picture of Jungkook flashes in front of you. Briefly, you break and zone out in his eyes. Weeks have passed, you should change it.

"Does that make my life meaningless?"

"What do you think?"

You shake yourself out of it and lock the phone.

"It is," you agree with the baker.

© soraviii, 2022

This fic made me actively seek out angst because it displays how beautifully the genre can be written. This fic is phenomenal as a stand alone, but if you fall in love with it (not if. When. You will fall in love) it’s part of a bigger over-arching series that I haven’t read yet but WILL be reading in the very very near future

close call | myg x reader

🎵 summary: burying your head in the sand won't change the fact that the man you love walks a thin line between life and death. and sometimes you can't outrun your worst fears.

🎵 pairing: reader x mafia!yoongi

🎵 rating: mature, 18+, a wee bit self-indulgent

🎵 genre: smut, mafia AU, guarded AU drabble though it can be read as a standalone story

🎵 warnings: smut with feelings (of course) angst, a lot of angst, super angsty you have been warned this is a veritable angst buffet

🎵 word count: 4.5K

🎵 notes: so, uh...long time no see? phew fam, these past 4-5 months have been really tough for me from a writing standpoint. i've probably written and deleted hundreds of thousands of words and just felt really out of touch with my writing voice. why am i telling you this? because therapy is expensive and because even though i struggled, i did manage to push through it and that makes me feel really hopeful about a light at the end of the tunnel where this writing block is concerned. i'd love to hear from you if you like this and thank you guys always for hanging with me 💕

i borrowed these people's beautiful eyeballs and brains on this fic and i owe them all a debt of gratitude: @hobi-gif @thatlongspringnight @illneverrecover @miscelunaaa thank you all for being rad people and writers.

You hear music the moment you step off the elevator.

The sound drifts down the long stretch of hallway before you, echoing off the walls and then diffusing into the soft carpet beneath your feet. It gets louder with each step you take towards the apartment, swelling higher as you near the heavy steel door.

The sound makes you frown.

It’s dark and melancholic. The cadence is sloppy and the notes bleed into one another like muddled watercolor paints. There is no real melody to speak of, no cohesive thought binding the chords together. They hang in the air overhead like a line of mismatched laundry.

It doesn’t sound anything like the beautiful music Yoongi makes when he sits down at his piano. The lovely, lilting melodies he pulls from the instrument after you’ve both slept in and made love on Sunday afternoons.

That observation alone is enough to give you pause about what awaits you on the other side of that steel door. Never mind that it’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.

You take a deep breath and slide your key into the lock.

Behind the heavy door, your apartment is shrouded in blackness.

In the dark, the couches and lamps and artwork are reduced to rudimentary shapes and outlines. You drop your bag and coat on the table in the foyer, peering into nothingness until your eyes slowly adjust.

Until the man you love finally takes shape.

Yoongi is hunched over his piano, dark hair falling into his face as one hand pounds carelessly away at the keys. The instrument produces a series of sounds so mournful they make goosebumps bloom up the line of your back. Slivers of moonlight slip between the gaps in the curtains, casting shadows across his silhouette.

You take a few cautious steps closer and the finer details start to come into focus.

The rocks glass gripped tight in his free hand. The papers strewn haphazardly across the piano’s lid. All around him the air seems unsettled, crackling with a dangerous energy that makes the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end.

Then music comes to an abrupt stop.

“I waited up for you.”

He speaks without so much as a glance in your direction, the sound of his voice strangely foreign. There’s a hollow quality to it you haven’t heard before, some peculiar disconnect between the words and the man speaking them.

“I see that,” you say slowly, stepping closer. “Did you want the neighbors to wait up for me, too?”

Yoongi doesn’t laugh at your jab. Doesn’t do or say anything at all, just continues staring down at the keys.

Your heart starts to pound a bit faster.

You close the distance that remains and slide into the empty space beside him, close enough now to breathe him in. Close enough to make out the scent of his damp hair, the spice of the aftershave clinging to his skin. Close enough to smell the whiskey he exhales with every heavy breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Guess I’m a little fucked up.”

Guess so. You could count the number of times you’ve seen Yoongi drunk on one hand and you’ve never seen him drunk like this. Like he’s trying to drink himself numb. Like he’s trying to drink himself to blackout.

“It’s okay,” you lie, as if anything about this scene you’ve walked into is okay. “Happens to the best of us sometimes.” You reach a hand out to brush the hair away from his eyes, breath catching in your throat when he turns to face you.

He looks like he’s been to hell and back tonight.

Eyes haunted and skin pallid but for the ruddy whiskey flush across his nose and cheeks. He holds your gaze for only a few heartbeats before looking away. Like he’s embarrassed to be in this state. Like he’s embarrassed for you to see him this way.

Worry immediately climbs up your throat and threatens to claw its way out of your mouth, but you take a deep breath and force it back down. You stroke your fingers across Yoongi’s brow, sweep them over the curve of his jaw. He leans into the touch and catches your hand with his, turning his face to press a soft kiss to your fingertips.

“Yoongi, did – did something happen to you tonight?”

Your stomach twists at the pained expression that comes over him, at the way his eyes fall shut like he’s trying to push away a terrible thought. His grip on your hand tightens and so does your chest.

“Yoongi?”

“Listen, Doc,” he breathes, “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

That awful twisting in your stomach sharpens. If you hadn’t known something was wrong – horribly wrong – before this very moment, you certainly know it now. You watch with your heart in your throat as Yoongi sets his whiskey down to reach for the papers strewn across the top of the piano. He presses them into your hands and you stare down at them, afraid to look too closely at the fine print.

“Look at me,” he commands quietly, and you immediately snap your eyes up to meet his. “This is important. This is everything. My accounts, the investments. This apartment and two properties in Daegu. It’s all here.”

The room goes quiet as Yoongi gives you a moment to absorb his words. As the meaning in them slowly begins to crystallize inside your brain. He watches the realization wash over you with a troubling calm, completely composed as you begin to stare back at him in wide-eyed horror.

“If anything happens to me, you take this money and you get the hell out of Seoul,” he continues evenly, as though the two of you are discussing dinner plans or something equally as innocuous. “You buy a house on Jeju and you spend the rest of your life working on your tan. Do whatever you want with it. But it’s all yours.”

Now you think you might be sick.

“Tell me what is going on.” Your voice comes out brittle as spun sugar, barely audible over the heartbeat now pounding violently in your ears. “You can’t just come home and say – ”

“The first thing you do is go to Namjoon. He can walk you through everything. He has copies of –”

“Yoongi, please –”

“Hoseok has copies, too. Just as a backup,” he keeps talking like he can’t hear you at all, undeterred by your rising panic. “They can have cash to you that same day if you’re strapped. Plus the rentals in Daegu have –”

“Yoongi, listen to me – ”

“So it’s not like it’s a finite amount of money. There will be more coming in every –”

“Stop!” You’re shouting now, barely able to think around the noise in your head. “What – what the hell is wrong with you?”

You stare at him in utter disbelief at how easily these words seem to come to him. By how unaffected he seems to be while speaking your worst fears out loud. It has to be the whiskey that’s making him like this. It has to be the reason he can sit here and calmly lay out a blueprint for his death while you’re falling apart in slow-motion.

But he’s not calm anymore, is he? Not now. Not if the spark of anger that lights behind his eyes is any indication. Your outburst seems to have jarred Yoongi out of whatever bizarre state you found him in. Now the set of his jaw is hard. Now his dark eyes bore into yours, the intensity in them unnerving.

“Let’s just talk about this in the morning.” You swallow thickly and add,“You’re drunk and I’m exhausted and – ”

“We’re going to talk about this now,” Yoongi interrupts, in a tone so cold and flat it makes you shiver. “We’re done tiptoeing around the shit that makes us uncomfortable, Doc. We’re not doing that anymore.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m done letting you pretend that this situation is normal. Because it isn’t. You need to get it through your head that every single time I walk out that door there’s a good chance I might not come back.”

He could have slapped you and it would hurt less.

It doesn’t matter that he’s right – about the way you lie to yourself about the risks he’s taking. About the way you don’t allow your mind to dwell on what he’s doing when you wake up and he’s not there. It doesn’t matter that he’s right about the hundreds of ways you’ve come up with to avoid the uncomfortable truth. It still hurts like hell to hear him spell it out so plainly.

“This money – ” Yoongi pauses to drag a hand over his face, “ – This money is the one fucking thing I can do for you if I’m not here, Doc.”

You let your eyes fall to the papers in your hands, the fine print you’d barely been able to see just a few minutes before now painfully clear. Line after line after line of numbers – numbers so long you’re afraid to acknowledge where they begin and where they end. Numbers so long they seem ludicrous. You don’t even know where to begin wrapping your mind around this kind of wealth.

And it means nothing to you. Not without him.

Tears start to fall against your will. Angry tears you try to hide but Yoongi sees them anyway. He reaches for you, tipping your chin up with his fingers and swiping at your cheeks with one calloused thumb.

You sit there with watery eyes and a battered heart and watch as the change comes over him. As the fire in him dies out and the frustration slowly drains from his features. He strokes your face until the storm behind his eyes ebbs away completely, leaving only remorse. Regret.

“God, I’m sorry, Doc,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m so, so sorry.” He presses kisses to the bridge of your nose, your wet lashes, your hair. “I’m such an asshole, God, I’m so sorry.”

You don’t say anything. Not until you’re sure you’re not crying anymore, not trembling anymore. You wait until you feel strong enough to use your voice without falling apart all over again and then pull away to look him in the eye.

“Why are you so angry, Yoongi?” You dab at your damp cheeks with one sleeve and straighten your spine, lift your chin. “Why are you so angry with me?”

Yoongi exhales deeply as he takes the papers out of your hands and wraps his arms around you. He pulls you in close, close enough to feel the way his heart is hammering inside his chest. Close enough to feel the way his throat works as he swallows over and over and over again before he speaks.

“I’m not angry, Doc,” he says after a while, voice thick with emotion. “I’m afraid.”

He’s passed out by the time you get out of the shower, face pressed deep into his pillow.

You dig in his drawer until you find his oldest, softest t-shirt – the one with the hole in the neck – and then you slip it on. You slide beneath the covers and press yourself to him; bury your face into his back. He doesn’t stir.

I’m afraid.

Yoongi’s words echo in your mind as you lie there in the dark praying for sleep to take you. You think about all of the horrible shit he’s confessed to you after a hard night, all the truly terrifying shit you’d only gotten wind of after a night of beers with one of the loose-lipped maknaes. Not once has Yoongi ever uttered those words to you.

Not once has he ever admitted to being afraid.

You lie there in the dark and try not to think about what that means. Try not to run down the list of terrible possibilities, one by one. You lie there for what feels like forever, certain that sleep will never come.

But eventually, it does.

You wake to the sound of the shower running.

A quick pass of your palm over the sheets beside you finds them still warm, so you slide over a bit – burrowing into that part of the bed that still smells like him. You lie there and listen to the water fall until you can finally summon the will to move.

Your hair is wild this morning on account of sleeping on it wet. It mocks you from the mirror as you brush your teeth, as you comb through it with your fingers, trying to tame the flyaway strands. Yoongi’s worn t-shirt skims the tops of your legs, the soft, tattered edges brushing against your thighs.

This is how he finds you when he opens the bathroom door – dressed in his ragged hand-me-downs, hair chaotic, a mouthful of fluoride foam. He stops to lean in the threshold and your eyes rake over the beads of water still clinging to his skin, the towel slung perilously low on his lean hips.

“Hey.”

Steam billows out from the open bathroom door and Yoongi shoves a hand into his wet hair, brushing back the curtain of dark strands that fall into his eyes. They tumble right back into place, disobedient. You spit and rinse.

“Hey yourself,” you reply slowly, unsure of where he’s landed this morning after all the emotion of last night. Probably a bit unsure of where you’ve landed, too. “How are you feeling?”

“Not as bad as I probably should,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck.

He steps closer and you force yourself not to look down, not to be distracted in any way by the dusting of hair that starts low on his abdomen and disappears beneath the terry cloth knot. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, but fight the instinct to curl into it.

“I’m sorry about last night, Doc,” he says quietly. His eyes are clearer this morning, but the sadness still lingers. “I was way out of line.”

You shrug, toeing at a non-existent spot on the gleaming marble. “Yeah.”

“I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time and – I think I just kind of lost my shit. I should have done better.”

He cups your face in his hand and tilts your chin up, compelling you to look him in the eye.You find his gaze turbulent – some strange mix of contrition, arousal. Fear.

“Last night – ” he stops to blow out a heavy breath, “ – Was a shitshow, Doc. Hoseok was two steps away from taking a slug straight to the head. Everyone was shooting. It was fucking chaos.”

Suddenly it feels as though you’ve swallowed a spoonful of sand.

“But he’s, okay? Right? He’s not – ”

“No, he’s not,” Yoongi breaks in, saving you from having to voice the rest of that thought out loud. He drags the rough pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “He’s okay.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re okay, too.”

“What about you?”

Yoongi’s entire body tenses at that question. His hand drops away from your face and the muscles in his shoulders and arms stiffen as he takes a half-step back. He sucks in a breath so sharp you nearly hold your own in response.

“I’m not going to push you,” you explain, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, you’re not ready. But if you tell me you’re afraid, then I’m going to ask you why, Yoongi. You have to know that.”

Yoongi drags a hand down his face, the tips of his ears pinking as a flush branches across his chest, his neck. You can’t help but feel like you’ve embarrassed him and the guilt is instantaneous, sinking in your stomach like a stone.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Really. We don’t have to do this right now. I can give you some space.”

You turn to make good on your promise, but you don’t get far. Yoongi catches your wrist with one hand, pulling you back to him with a firm grasp. “Don’t go,” he insists, dark eyes pleading.

“Then I won’t,” you promise. “Tell me what you need and I will do it, Yoongi. I swear it.”

He nods slowly, chest rising and falling with the series of steadying breaths he takes before he speaks.

“I went a really long time without anything to lose,” he starts. “It never mattered if I was out in the streets taking stupid risks every night because the only person who ever counted on me is me. Now all I can think about is you. What’s going to happen to you if I fuck up out there and get myself killed.”

“Then don’t get yourself killed.”

The words come out strained, despite your best attempt to make them sound lighthearted.

“It’s more than just that, Doc,” he persists, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. “Sometimes I worry that there will come a day when you wake up and decide this is too much for you. That it’s not what you signed up for.”

Your heart seizes painfully inside your chest. “No.” You shake your head vehemently, rejecting the notion with your entire body. “I won’t. I couldn’t.”

“The truth is that I can’t remember how I used to process all this bullshit before you. Now I think I have no idea how to do it without you. And that’s – ” He trails off, letting the thought hang in the air.

“Scary,” you murmur.

“Terrifying,” he corrects.

“Look at me, Yoongi,” you insist, stopping to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “I know what I signed up for. I know who you are. And I don’t want anyone or anything else. I’m not going anywhere.”

He takes you off balance with his kiss. It’s frantic, frenzied – tongue in your mouth, lips at your ear, teeth at your pulse point. You gasp when he crushes his towel-clad hips to yours, the swollen outline of his cock already growing against your belly.

“I love you so fucking much, Doc.”

Yoongi growls the words into your mouth, blunt fingertips digging into the rounded curves of your ass. You free your hands long enough to tug at the towel around his hips until it falls away, snaking your fingers between your bodies to seek him out. Yoongi hisses when you wrap your warm palm around his cock, grip tight as you stroke him from base to tip.

“I need you, Yoongi. Right now.” You whisper the admission against the corner of his mouth, one hand guiding his cock to the juncture of your thighs. He shudders when he realizes you’re bare beneath his old, thin t-shirt, as you slide the length of him against the slippery heat that’s already pooling between your legs.

“So fucking wet already,” he gasps, the muscles of his stomach straining when you rock against him, slicking him with the moisture between your thighs. He shoves impatiently at the hem of your t-shirt, swearing under his breath as he tears it over your head without a single care for its fragile state. Then he tongues at both your nipples, gets them messy and wet before taking one of them between his teeth.

You whine at the drag of his tongue, at the rough way he toys with it until the peak is stiff and throbbing in his mouth. His hips rock faster against yours, cock now gliding easily through your wetness. Your inner thighs are slick with it and when Yoongi takes your other nipple into his mouth you can feel yourself grow even wetter.

You dig your hands into his damp hair.

“Yoongi, oh god, yes – ” you gasp, when he adjusts the angle of his slide so that he’s stroking against your clit. He likes the praise, he always has – and he drives closer, harder, just to hear you gasp again.

“I gotta get inside of you,” he mutters, cock twitching when your hands find and squeeze the muscles of his lean ass. “Right now, before I come like this.”

You release him from the vice grip of your thighs and turn around for him, pressing your palms flat to the counter. In the mirror, you watch as he runs one appreciative hand down the slope of your back. His fingers linger on the curve of your ass for a moment before he slides them lower, slipping two fingers inside of you.

Your hips jolt at the friction and Yoongi swears under his breath again.

In front of you, Yoongi’s reflection looks serious, brows knit in concentration as he slowly fucks you with his fingers. A flush spreads across his chest and up his neck as he works you, one hand pressed into the small of your back while his other hand stays buried inside your cunt.

“Yoongi,” you beg, arching your back to push harder against the heel of his hand, “Please just fuck me already.”

He chuckles darkly, slipping his fingers out of you. Then the slick sounds begin. You watch him in the mirror as he strokes his cock, jerking roughly at the blunt head before he’s pressing it to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward, sinking that first thick inch and your body gives way with little resistance. You’re so wet he buries himself to the hilt with one fluid thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, pulling out all the way to the tip and burying himself again. “Shit, that’s so fucking good.”

He experiments with that same stroke a few times, reveling in the way your whimper each time he bottoms out. But he needs more, you need more, and after a while he abandons the slow, torturous pace and sets to fucking you with determination.

Your fingertips go as white as the bathroom counter.

He knows your body well by now, can bring you to the brink and back with just a few expert touches. The force of his thrusts makes you fold over and he uses the angle to his advantage, one hand gripping your ass tight as he fucks you and the other reaching for your clit. The combination of both touches has your legs shaking, the sound of his ragged panting sending a sharp spike of arousal directly to your core.

“Come for me,” he says from between clenched teeth. “You’re right there. I can feel it.”

He bends down to scrape his teeth against the back of your neck, his strokes becoming more erratic with each thrust. And you arch harder into the press of his fingers. Then you are coming, so damn hard your arms give out and you collapse against the counter, body pliant and weak.

Yoongi rides out his own release only a heartbeat later. Between his heavy breaths, you hear him say your name.

Your real name.

The human body is a remarkable thing.

It’s incredibly resilient; capable of withstanding terrible trauma. Designed to mend muscle, seal skin and fuse bone.

The scar that sits just below Yoongi’s clavicle is well-healed by now, barely visible at a distance. But you can feel it – what little evidence remains of both crisis and cure. You run a fingertip over the raised skin and marvel at the tiny dips and dents that live just above and just below the surface. Perfect in its imperfection.

Yoongi cracks one eye open to steal a look at you, quiet as he watches you absentmindedly map the faint line of his scar. The shower steam has evaporated now, leaving a chill lingering in the air. He draws the sheets draped around you both a bit tighter.

“This give you any trouble lately?” you ask.

“Nah. I noticed it a bit last week when it rained, but it hasn’t bothered me much since then.”

That’s another thing about the body. It forgives, but it doesn’t always forget. Pain can simmer just beneath the surface for a lifetime following an injury and some people even feel pain in limbs they no longer have. All it takes is the right trigger and all that hurt can feel fresh again.

Perhaps that’s true for more than just the body.

“You were right last night,” you admit, burying your face into the crook of his arm. “Sometimes it scares me so much to think about what you’re up against out there that it’s just easier to pretend it’s not real.”

Yoongi pulls you a bit tighter into his side, turns his head to press a kiss to the wild mass of your hair.

“Right or not, it was still a pretty fucked up way to go about talking to you about it,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you walking around every day waiting to get a call. That’s no way to live.”

Sometimes you don’t know how he does it. How he can leave this bubble of contentment the two of you have created together to go out there and walk a thin line between life and death. Sometimes you don’t know how he manages to keep one foot in that world and one foot in yours without fracturing in two.

The comfortable space you’ve settled into against him shifts as he takes a deep breath.

“You’re not going to fight me on this thing with the money, right?”

“No,” you sigh. “I’m not going to fight you about the money. I know why you did what you did.”

“Good.”

“But if I’d known you were sitting on that much money, we would have had that argument on a yacht instead of in this apartment.”

Your smart mouth earns you a pinch to the side and you yelp, pinned in place by Yoongi’s iron grip.

“That hurt.”

“It was supposed to hurt.”

Yoongi’s mouth curves into a lazy grin as you glare at him.

“Funny. Anyway if I were you, I’d be sleeping with one eye open, Min. I might off you myself and get a beach house and a pool boy.”

“I would haunt that motherfucker.”

The two of you share a laugh at that – a good one, the kind of laugh you feel from your scalp all the way to the tips of your toes. But after a while the laughter subsides. The humor slowly seeps out of Yoongi’s face. His dark eyes go serious.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your face in one hand. He looks down at you with such sincerity that your heart trips inside your chest. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that right?”

It’s not a lie. Not really. He means it when he says it, though both of you know it’s a promise he’s not in any position to make. But you’ll believe it, for him. For you, too.

You close your eyes and press your cheek to his chest; allow yourself to savor the feel of his solid warmth.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I know.”

hi i actually wrote something and i'm feeling very happy about this. thank you for reading i hope you find an extra $20 in your pocket 💕

when i saw this fic again i practically squealed. This is the perfect example of life changing character development and writing that should be making millions

the wedding planners | jjk

↳ alternative title: ‘til death do us part? i’d rather die than be with you.

⇒ summary: jeon jungkook is three things: cocky, terrible, and your worst enemy. then your best friend hoseok gets engaged to the love of his life, and suddenly jeon jungkook is four things: cocky, terrible, your worst enemy, and the man you will be spending the next seven months with in order to plan your best friend’s wedding. 

and then, as if your life couldn’t get any shittier, you make the poor decision of sleeping with him on the first day of the job.

⇒ enemies to lovers!au, wedding!au

⇒ pairing: jungkook x female reader (and some side yoonseok)

⇒ word count: 28k of self-indulgent banter

⇒ genre: fluff, light smut, light angst

⇒ warnings: alcohol consumption and too many clichés

⇒ a/n: woo boy. i don’t want to make this a/n too long but i know it will be. first, this is the longest fic i have ever written, ever. second, thank you to all of the support i’ve gotten while writing the original fic and the revamp. it’s been a long 6 months, people. third, i am tagging: @jeonhoney, @wicdrop, @gukhopes, @workofteaguk, and @army-author for being so damn supportive while i was writing this, and @kitschkylo because u asked me to! fourth, this is way better than the original fic and thus makes me even more proud of it. i finished it, you guys. it’s here. also, @macfullyloaded17 made this Hecking Amazing playlist for this fic that you should 100% listen to while you read this, and shoutout to her. 

⇒ DISCLAIMER: in no way is this a realistic portrayal of planning a wedding/getting married. if you’re planning a wedding, don’t rely on this fic to guide you. it’s just a bad idea.

check out the post-script drabble here!

Keep reading

THIS SERIES. I have never seen writing so perfect. I loved every part. Also still in progress but you’ll fall in love two paragraphs in and be just as invested as I am

“It’s a refurbished student housing,” you explain as they trail after you like ducks in a row. Even if they don’t understand what you’re saying, they seem to be clinging to every word. Wherever you look there’s always at least one pair of doe eyes staring expectantly back at you a.k.a. what do you do when you open your doors and find a certain retired boyband for some reason wants to move in

• type: ot7 x fem! reader (poly) • genre: (ex) idol! au, roommate au, soulmate au, slice of life, fluff, crack treated seriously (?), angst, slow burn like an elderly dog with a limp slow, lack of communication • rating: mature • status: ongoing

#1 Wacky Wednesday

#2 Tenebrous Thursday

#3 Solicitous Saturday

↪ #3.5 Jin Ponders the Meaning of Time over a Pot of Soup

#4 Munificent Monday

#5 Tiresome Tuesday

#6 Surreal Sunday

↪ #6.5 Namjoon Discovers the Definition of Love (His Own)

#7 Tender Tuesday(s)

#8 Furious Friday

#9 The Last Step Towards You

↪ #9.5 Jimin’s History of Having Bad Birthdays

#10 The Getaway Ploy

#11 Sh*t, again

#12 A New Slate

↪ #12.5 Jungkook and the Meaning of “Oh”

#13 Few Rights, Lots of Wrongs

#14 Helping Matters

#15 On Middle Grounds

↪ #15.5 134340 (slowed)

#16 The Tale of Two Sisters (& 8 Uncles & 1 Surprise)

↪ #16.5

#17 Mom

↪ #17.5 Neither, nor

#18 First, Tentative Steps Into Light

#19 Life Goes On

↪ #19.5 Jung Hoseok

#20 The Letter

#21 October 12th, 2012

↪ #21.5 The Long and Unexplored Road to You

#22 Goodbye.

The End.

© sor-vette, 2021 - 2022

IN LOVE with this series. It is still in progress at the time im recommending this (4/16/2021) but it is so amazing that you need to get as invested as I am and fast

if I can never give you peace — zero || Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: It starts like quite a few stories do, in your world. Girl meets boy, who happens to be a hybrid, girl buys him at an auction where hybrids are sold, boy falls in love with her, girl gets bored of him. Then it’s not so typical anymore, when the boy ends up forced into illegal fighting rings, until he makes a wrong move and the girl’s father decides he needs to be killed.

Where does that leave you? Well, you’re the one who handled Jungkook’s fight and generally organized his life, and, when the girl’s father, your boss and mafia leader, tells you he wants him ‘put down’, you’re the one who has to get it done. Except, instead, you let him escape, and everything turns out fine.

Until he comes back.

Also available on Ao3.

Word count (chapter): 5.8k

Genre: Mafia AU, Hybrid AU, enemies to lovers, heavy on angst, slow burn, eventual smut

Warnings & Tags (chapter): Descriptions of Violence, Tension, Dehumanization and general poor treatment of hybrids

A/N: So I have two modes and those are tooth-rotting fluff and angst feast. This is… not fluff. I hope you’ll enjoy this first installment and introduction to the series, and I will see you soon for the next one!

Next

Your eyes follow Jungkook’s every step as he walks through the crowd and enters the cage that serves as a ring. He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re watching. You’re always watching. You’re standing in your usual corner, from where you make sure everything goes smoothly. Two tall, muscular men stand on either side of you. They look like they’re your bodyguards, but really, they’re here to handle him if he tries to do something. To everyone in the room but the two of you, this looks like every other fight night since the very first time he came to the Circle.

You’re too far for him to smell you, especially over the crowd of excited, sweaty men, but if he did, he’s sure he would pick up on the bitter scent of anxiety, would hear your heart beating a little too fast. He’d say you’re lucky the guards aren’t hybrids, but he knows that’s not the case. You never count on luck. Everybody knows that. That’s what makes you so good at your job. That’s what might just save his life.

He glances at you, finds your eyes glued on him, and gives you a smirk, which reveals his abnormally pointy teeth for a rabbit hybrid. It’s been over a year since they’ve been sharpened for him, to make him look more threatening. You’re used to them, but he still sees you swallow. For the first time he wonders, vaguely, if you had any say in that. You’re the one he meets with nowadays, but you’re not his owner, after all.

Your eyes leave him to look at his opponent. The man’s taller and has broad shoulders, he seems to have some training based on his on-guard position, and he’s older than him. You couldn’t find many informations on him, but based on his attributes, he’s probably some kind of dog hybrid.

You both know he doesn’t stand a chance.

“On my left,” the announcer roars, “some fresh meat! I give you… Jin!”

There are enthusiastic shouts, and the man shoots nervous glances around him at the crowd all around him. It’s clear that he isn’t used to that type of setting, and you feel an unexpected wave a guilt in your chest. He’s going to get destroyed tonight, you’re sure of it. You’re the one who suggested that Jungkook should fight a newbie, for the show. You don’t regret your decision, but you don’t feel good about it either.

“And on my right! The man who needs no introduction, who has won thirty! Two! Fights in a row, I give you… Jungkook!”

The crowd goes hysterical, and the hybrid facing him winces again. If he thought he had chance before that, it’s clear that he doesn’t anymore. You wonder if he’d heard about Jungkook, if his owners had prepared him well enough, if whoever owned him was betting against him. You wonder if he’d just been told he would be fighting a rabbit hybrid and assumed he would be fine.

Jungkook’s long ears are flat against his head, carefully tucked under a headband, and without those, he doesn’t look like a rabbit hybrid, too tall and broad-shouldered. Then again, he had never really been your typical rabbit hybrid.

Keep reading

the best slow burn fic ive ever read. best arranged marriage fic ive ever read. best best best

love me or we both go down | kth

summary: after going through with an arranged marriage to please his parents and secure his inheritance of the family business, kim taehyung thinks he’s got it all figured out. he doesn’t. apparently just being married to you isn’t enough, not when everybody and their mother can pick up on the fact that the two of you absolutely loathe each other. but taehyung wants his inheritance one way or another, so he decides that desperate times call for desperate measures: the two of you need to fall in love, and you need to fall in love fast.

{enemies to lovers!au, arranged marriage!au, rich kids!au}

pairing: kim taehyung x female reader genre: fluff, angst, smut (i know, crazy right?) word count: 32k warnings: oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, multiple unprotected sex scenes (they’re married y’all), fat cock tae, tae has a wife kink, lots of praise, alcohol consumption (but they’re safe), minor character death (not explicit), mentions of heart attack, slow burn like there is no tomorrow a/n: hello and welcome to the fic everyone, literally everyone, has been waiting for! i am so, so, so excited to share this with you all, especially because none other than rose @kinktae​ helped me write the smut, and i am literally forever indebted to her. you all better go spam rose with all the love and support you can because this fic would not be here without her and i love her so much. 

also, to all my readers who aren’t comfortable reading smut, please know that the smut in this fic is not imperative to the storyline, and you skipping past it will not affect your reading experience., enjoy!

Never in your life have wedding bells felt so ominous.

Keep reading

another fake dating college frat au i know i know i have a thing for them BUT the banter in this one is SO GOOD i absolutely love it

“how much do you hate me?”

pairing: fuckboy!mark tuan/reader

genre: college!au, childhood neighbors, enemies to lovers, fluff, mild angst

word count: 2.3k

a/n: you should know how much i love enemies to lovers ok i really really love it,,,, this is based off the drabble prompt “how much do you hate me?” “not enough to say no immediately what do you want” enjoy! xx

Keep reading

this was one of the first werewolf aus i ever read and i absoluelty fell in love with the genre because of how amazing it is

»dog fever

↳ werewolf au | somewhat enemies-to-lovers au

⇢ pairing: park jinyoung | reader

⇢ genre: fluff + soft angst

⇢ word count: 9.860

author’s note: based on this prompt! hope you enjoy reading this!!

Keep reading

(just one rule. You can’t fall in love with me)

Fluff “Fake” dating college au perfection 

can’t fake a feeling - kth

pairing: taehyung x reader

genre/warnings: f2l, college!au, fuck boy!au without the smut, fluff, angst, very loosely based off of to all the boys i’ve loved before

word count: 12,458

summary: fake dating your best friend should be easy when you’re seemingly in possession of the only pair of pants on campus he’s never tried to get in or there’s a fake rule that’s broken. 

a/n: this is a little bit different than what i normally write so :’-) i rlly hope you guys enjoy it :-)

Taehyung’s cheek was warm where it leaned against the inside of your thigh, eyes open just enough to see a sliver of the white while a miserable moan crawled upward and out of his throat. You ignored the sound, digging the blunt edge of your fingernails a bit harder into his scalp, drawing bleached tendrils backward into a ball in your palm.

“What are you doing?” He mumbled, neck tilting and his head plopped deeper into your lap.

You released his hair, letting it shag like a bowl over his eyes. You nudged your index finger underneath the black elastic on your wrist, letting it snap back against your skin.

“Putting your hair up,” You roughed a hand through his bangs, drawing just those pieces off his eyes, “You won’t cut it and cleaning puke from your hair is not in my job description.”

“M’not gonna puke,” Taehyung’s chin lulled forward again and his shoulders sagged, “—and my hair isn’t long enough for that, anyway.”

“For a bun or to get puke in?” You twisted the elastic around a tiny bob at the crown of his head, lightly rubbing the free strands between your thumb and middle finger.

“Either.”

Keep reading

THIS FIC SERIES. This was the first fic I read and sat back and thought “the best pieces of written art are on tumblr dot com.” 

guardian demon “jimin” slow burn “enemies” (more like bickers) to...

read it immediately 

Unorthodox

You can’t tell whether you’re fortunate or not to have a guardian demon who thinks it’s funny to go around looking like your idol crush BTS’ Park Jimin.

Writing Prompt; Everyone has a guardian angel except you. You have a guardian demon. He deals with things in a much more violent fashion, but much more effective.

guardiandemon!Jimin x reader

genre: fluff, a little light, a little anxiety inducing though given what will happen, minor mentions of death and blood but nothing too graphic

word count: 3.7k

Related works: Genuine | 3AM Demon | The Grinch Who Stole New Year | Distance and The Heart

A/N: I thought this prompt was so good for Halloween but….late to the party again…. LOLL Also this is a bit of a mental gymnastic but don’t think too hard on it. Also, BST!Jimin is forever the look™ and I’m still not over it.

Keep reading

New Fic Rec Blog

Hiiii everyone i’m M and after years of reading fics on here I decided to share some of my favs and new favs as I continue reading. There probably won’t be a very in depth sorting system until a while later, but I’m going to start by reblogging all my favs. I’ll be so real this is 100% just so I can have them all in one spot and is very much just for me, but might as well share!

It’ll mainly be BTS and got7 fics with a few from my different interests here or there. Hope this helps you find your next fav!

-M