Fail-safe

fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-…”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane. 

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it.  “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye. 

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself. 

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.” 

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot. 

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.” 

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion. 

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place. 

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn’t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor. 

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to.  You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder. 

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation. 

It’s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears. 

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.” 

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her. 

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

“Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know,  try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts. 

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

.

.

.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas. 

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with. 

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it. 

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

The Horrible Un-Haunting of Elliot House

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Ghost!AU / Romance / Comedy (?)

Pairing: Seokjin / Reader (she/her)

Synopsis: Some houses are harder to sell than others but you, Y/N, are determined to find the (supposedly) haunted Elliot House a new owner. That is, until it's very real and very hot exceedingly well-dressed ghost decides to make himself known. If only you didn't find yourself enjoying the knowing.

Rating: PG-13 (kissing but nothing beyond that)

Word Count: 6,214

Author's Note: hope you enjoy this random Halloween "drabble"! This got oddly angsty? I suppose that happens with ghost love LOL

[ Cross-Posted to Wattpad ]

“Through here,” you say, leading the Gundersons through an arched door. “You’ll find the most adorable sunroom.”

The Gundersons both gasp, appropriately awed by the tall walls of windows. Each panel is topped with stained glass, casting colorful patterns across the checkered floor. Technically, the sunroom isn’t part of the original house – it was added in 1975 during a brief period the address was owned by a cult – but you rarely disclose this fact during tours. Most people don’t care which parts of the house are original, so long as they can say they bought a 19th century Tudor.

Not that you blame them. Most people (or at least, sane people) appreciate the romanticism of an old structure without actually wanting to live in one. Modern amenities are the top benefit of progress, after all. The government couldn’t pay you to live without modern heating, plumbing, or refrigeration.

“Margaret, did you see?” Arthur Gunderson, a slightly rotund lawyer, and husband of said Margaret, gestures emphatically. “I’ll be damned if this stained glass isn’t Tiffany! See there, see that stamp in the corner?”

“Good eye, sir!” you chirp, barely glancing up from your clipboard.

Truthfully, you aren’t sure whether the glass is authentic. The cult that installed could hardly be called profitable (they sold the house at a loss after less than ten years, although this likely had more to do with crimes committed on said property than their income, but you digress), so you’d be hard-pressed to believe they could afford real Tiffany.

If this is what convinces the Gundersons to buy though, you’re hardly a realtor to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Ticking a box in the upper right corner – sunroom – you look up. “Right, well. That’s most of the lower level.” Pivoting on your heel, you head towards the corridor. “If you two will follow me upstairs, we can –”

“What’s that?”

Steps slowing, you stare at the plaster wall. A moment passes, then two before you convince yourself to turn around. When you see where Arthur Gunderson points, a relieved breath leaves your lips.

“Oh, that?” Floorboards squeak as you cross the room, sounding almost like laughter. “That’s the cellar. I’d offer you a look but unfortunately, the staircase isn’t quite up to code. You’ll need someone to look at that ASAP if you buy.”

Hovering at the wooden door, you grasp its bronze knob and pull. Tugging the cord for the light, you briefly scan the stairs but spot nothing unusual. Mostly convinced, you dutifully step aside.

“Feel free to look,” you say brightly.

The Gundersons crowd the landing you vacated.

“Careful, honey,” Arthur warns, holding Margaret’s elbow. “These stairs are steep.”

Standing on tiptoe, Margaret peers beyond him into the basement gloom. It could be your imagination, but she almost seems disappointed. A few cobwebs and shadows line the staircase, but nothing more sinister.

Hiding a smile, you check the next box. Cellar. Sometimes, people request to see this house not because they’re interested in buying it, but for the thrill. Entering the haunted Elliot house and surviving will make a great tale to tell their friends over cocktails.

Lowering your clipboard, you glance upward. So far, everything has gone to plan, which is partly the problem. You must’ve shown this house thirty times and always, something has gone wrong by now. Before being assigned its realtor, you believed in the paranormal, but only in a theoretical way. Not because you’d witnessed anything spectral.

Your opinions since then have changed.

Turning sharply, you plaster a smile on your face. “Shall we?”

Stepping back, Margaret pulls wiry frames from her jacket pocket. “I must admit,” she says with an embarrassed laugh. “Based on what our last realtor said, I was expecting far worse from this property.”

Although your smile tightens, you nod. The other realtor had a point – Elliot house could be temperamental, at best. Downright petulant, at worst. You glare again at the ceiling.

“We get that a lot,” you say, ushering them down the hall. Best not to linger. “Whenever a house sits too long on the market, you know – people talk. Lots of rumors!”

“Oh, sure,” Arthur says, passing you with a chuckle. “We’re not superstitious, don’t worry.”

“Oh?” you say lightly, remaining behind. “That’s good to know. Now, if you head down the hall, you’ll reach the foyer. All the crown molding you pass is original. The house’s first owner and builder, Daniel Baker, was something of a craftsman. He –”

Abruptly, you cease talking and stare at the stairwell. Halfway down the steps, where before there was nothing, sits a perfectly ripe orange. Eyes narrowed, you stare at this a long beat before yanking the light cord down and shutting the door.

Glancing upward, you hiss, “Not today, I swear to – well, whatever hellish being you worship.”

The wind sounds almost like laughter, but you don’t stick around long enough to find out if that’s true. Shaking your head, you traipse down the front hall in search of the Gundersons. Luckily, they’re too busy taking pictures of the aforementioned crown molding to have noticed your absence.

“Shall we?” you say, gesturing at the front stairs.

Pocketing their phones, they begin their ascent. You wait at the bottom, giving them space to discuss the house. From personal experience, buyers tend to appreciate when you don’t hover.

Besides, the grand staircase is your favorite feature – equal parts artwork and functionality. From your place at its bottom, you admire the craftsmanship. Starting the climb, your fingertips skim whorls in the wood and for a second, you feel a phantom hand rest over yours.

Scowling darkly, you yank your palm away. Reaching the landing, you clutch at your clipboard tighter and walk forward.

“This way!” you say, practically shoving the Gundersons into the first bedroom.

While they ooh and ah about the bay windows, you tick another box on your spreadsheet. Master bedroom.

The second you’re done, the pen slips from your grasp and hovers in mid-air. It then turns, point-down, to scrawl something in the margin.

‘Master’ bedroom? Kiiind of racist, don’t you think?

Teeth gritted, you snatch your pen back. “I wasn’t the one who created the spreadsheet, okay?” you whisper. “And while, yes, I agree, and other realtors are moving away from that language, I don’t–”

“Pardon?” Arthur Gunderson peers, confused, over his shoulder.

Somewhat manic, you smile. “Oh, nothing,” you say, the words sounding high-pitched, even to you. “I was just reminding myself to show you the main bathroom. Beautiful claw-foot tub.”

“Oh. Sure,” says Arthur, returning to his wife.

Head whipping sideways, you glare at the most likely place Seokjin would be. A chuckle drifts past your ear on the other side, and your scowl deepens.

Once an appropriate amount of time goes by, you usher the Gundersons into the next bedroom. Hovering outside, you calculate how quickly you can convince them to leave. The longer they stay, the worse the so-called haunting will be.

You should have known better than to show them this house, but they were insistent. Or at least, Arthur was. Margaret seems reasonably paranoid, which you deem a positive quality. Everyone within a hundred-mile radius has heard of the haunted Elliot house.

Even the name is confusing, since it doesn’t bear the name of its builder, Daniel Baker, nor its longest resident, Mr. Josiah Whitley. Instead, it’s named for Nathaniel Elliot, the cult leader who murdered a man on its premises in 1978. Obviously, this fact wasn’t known to the public until after the cult sold the house and moved far away.

Eventually, Mr. Elliot was tried and found guilty of murder, but this was much later. Wincing a little, you glance at the ceiling. Seokjin has said many times that ghosts can’t read minds, but you wouldn’t put it past him to lie for a punchline. Even if he can’t read your mind, the faint scent of cedar lets you know he’s nearby.

Quickening your stride, you show the Gundersons the next bedroom. “This is one of my favorites,” you say, pulling hard on its warped door. “The view from that window is stunning. You can see all the way to the brook!”

Taking the bait, Margaret crosses the room. “Oh, look, Arthur!” she exclaims, leaning forward. “There’s a gazebo!”

He follows at a more leisurely pace, frowning when he spots a lone cobweb in the corner. Sighing, you swipe at this as you pass, almost certain the web wasn’t there this morning.

While the two converse, you pull out your clipboard and run down the list again.

Most days at your job are like today – running down lists and waiting for other people to make their own life decisions. Becoming a realtor wasn’t so much a choice as it was thrust upon you. When your mom got sick your senior year of grad school, you returned to take care of her and finished your coursework remotely.

There were only so many jobs with flexible hours, and you ended up getting your realtor’s license to support her on the side. When your mom passed, you stuck around to sort out her paperwork and affairs. Two years later, everything is in order and still, you remain. Stuck in a holding pattern, showing houses and too afraid to try your hand at anything different.

BANG.

The sudden noise from above plunges the room into silence. Both Arthur and Margaret swivel, wide eyes landing on you.

Margaret’s glasses chain trembles. “What was tha–”

“My assistant,” you blurt, backing towards the door. “He mentioned he would stop by to drop off some keys. That must be him – I’ll go and check!”

“But…” Arthur stares. “The noise came from above.”

“Be right back!” you call, stepping into the hall.

As fast as possible without raising suspicion, you rush down the hall. “Seokjin,” you hiss, hand skimming the banister as you descend. “Stop that right now!”

No one responds – not that you thought he would. Crossing the foyer, you reach the cellar door and yank it open. Flicking the overhead light, you see the orange has disappeared. Rolling your eyes, you shut the door.

“This isn’t funny,” you huff out loud to no one.

Far above you, a low groan shakes the house. Honestly, it sounds more sexual than scary, but you suppose that only makes it more sinister. Reaching the foyer, you slow your pace and set down your clipboard. Suppressing a sigh, you glance at the clock. This has happened enough times that you can predict things to the minute.

Crossing your arms, you tap your foot and count down in your head.

One – increased groaning. Sometimes from the cellar, often the attic and, during one memorable visit, from behind a locked bathroom door.

Two – shuffling feet while the Gundersons (insert buyer’s name here) debate whether to run or wait it out. They hastily whisper, wondering if it’s their minds playing tricks.

Third – laughter. Seokjin will say it sounds lilting but to you, his laughter is more akin to a car’s windshield wipers. Today, said laughter drifts from the main bedroom, immediately followed by the Gundersons’ screaming.

Directly above you, Margaret’s heels pound wooden floors. Wincing, you make a mental reminder to buff the scuffs from the wood.

“ARTHUR!” she calls, her voice pitching upward.

“Right behind you!” he bellows.

When the lights in the foyer flicker, you lean against the grand railing. In your experience, there’s nothing you can do now to save the showing. As soon as Seokjin reveals himself, it’s only a matter of time.

“Whoooo dareeessss to disturrrrrb meeeee!” he wails, and you try not to laugh. “This is MYYYY homeeee and you are nooooot welcomeeeee! OoOOOOooooOOo!”

Arthur is first down the stairs. Reluctantly, you step forward – as their realtor, you’ll try to calm them down and get them out. All part of the plan. What’s not part of the plan is Arthur’s blind panic, elbowing you – hard – in the stomach as he runs past.

Concaving, you stumble, your foot catching on a loose floorboard as you fall backwards. Suddenly, a pink cushion slides between you and the floor. You land in the middle of it, shocked but unharmed.

Arthur yanks open the front door. “You!” he blurts, whipping around to point. Blinking, you fight the urge to glance over your shoulder. “Yes, you,” he scoffs, spittle flying as Margaret runs past. “I don’t know if this is your idea of a sick joke or what, but your manager will be hearing from me!”

Before you can formulate a response, Arthur is out the front door. You hear the sound of their car starting, exhaust billowing behind them as they speed down the street.

Propping yourself on one elbow, you release a sigh. The house has fallen silent, almost sheepish in its total lack of sound. Head lolling back, you glare at the ceiling.

“You are so annoying,” you groan, well-aware you sound crazy. “I honestly don’t know what you’re looking for, Seokjin. The Gundersons were fine.”

The front door slams.

An outline of a person materializes between you and the living room, seeming composed of dust motes and sunshine. Turning your glare in their direction, you tap your fingers against the oak floor.

Seokjin solidifies fully, rakishly leaning against the paneled wall. He’s dressed in the same navy three-piece suit he wore when he died, albeit with his hair styled in this century’s fashion. Seokjin once said ghosts are able to change their appearance, but most choose not to. There’s little point to it, and it wastes precious energy.

Sadly, he shakes his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Seokjin says, his deep timbre resonating through floorboards beneath you.

“Show off,” you mutter.

Lips twitching, he crooks a finger. The foyer light ceases to flicker, and Seokjin straightens. Dusting invisible dust from his shoulders, he walks forward.

“The Gundersons were tiresome,” he says. “I would’ve been bored of them in months, started haunting again, and this house would’ve gone right back on the market. Really, I saved you trouble in the long run. You can thank me later.”

“Oh, no,” you deadpan. “Two commissions on the same property. What a horrible fate.”

“Exactly. You’re welcome.”

Fighting an eye roll, you push yourself upward with cushion in hand. At least Seokjin was kind enough to break your fall, even if he caused the circumstances which led to it in the first place.

Brushing the dirt from the cushion, you shake your head. “You do know that eventually, someone will buy this house and you’ll have to make peace with that fact. Right?”

When Seokjin doesn’t immediately respond, you look up. His dark gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, briskly looking away when he catches you watching.

“I know,” Seokjin says, turning around. “Might I point out though, that I don’t have to make peace with anything. Ghost,” he adds, pointing at himself. “Not making peace with things is our bread and butter.”

“People have owned this house before, though.”

“Boring people,” Seokjin mutters.

“That didn’t seem to bother you back then!”

Seokjin enters the living room. “Ugh,” he groans, dropping onto a chaise. Dust motes spiral around him, as though he were solid. “If I must be trapped on the material plane, Y/N, the least the material plane could do is provide some entertainment. And the lovemaking of two seventy-year-olds doesn’t count,” he adds, fixing you with a glare.

Stifling laughter, you follow him into the parlor. Fluffing the cushion, you replace it on its chair and survey the room. Seokjin lounges dramatically and it could be your imagination, but he almost looks solid. More so than the first time you met, anyways.

He nearly scared the shit out of you, back then. Everyone at the firm warned you this house was haunted but were purposefully vague on the supernatural. The warnings they gave you were borderline mundane.

Oh, yeah, that house has been on the market forever. People say that it’s haunted, but I’d honestly be more worried about rats. Or asbestos – popcorn ceilings didn’t age well for a reason. And I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard a convict once lived in the basement for three months before the cops caught him. Watch out for that!

You entered this house with more than your usual trepidation, pepper spray in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Apparently, the wiring wasn’t all up to code – something you’ve since rectified with the city.

The sound of the door creak could’ve been written by the Brothers Grimm themselves, textbook gothic. Your flashlight swept over dusty floors, faint footprints remaining to remind you of its past. Spine steeled, you forced yourself to continue.

Finding a light switch, you flicked upward, and the chandelier came to life. The lighting was dim, barely enough to see by on a rainy day. Keeping your flashlight, you wandered into the parlor and came to a sudden stop. Forest green wallpaper lined the walls, remarkably intact for its age. Stunned, you turned in a slow circle.

Moody maximalism was one of your favorite design styles, and this room was made for it. With a slightly better attitude, you resumed your walk-through, discovering a hidden cupboard in the kitchen and a dumbwaiter to nowhere. The second-floor entry point had been boarded up, but that could be rectified.

Some of the woodwork of the house was scuffed, and a few corners held fallen leaves, but overall, it was in great condition. None of the realtors had prepared you for that – you arrived expecting a war zone and were pleasantly surprised.

On the second floor, you found a library – or what had once been the library, given the shelving was empty – that made you audibly gasp. Blue-black custom shelves extended along three of the walls. Closer to the door, a bright square of color remained from where a painting had hung.

Curious, your fingers traced the edges. “This place is unreal,” you murmured to yourself.

“I know, right?” said a voice directly in your ear.

Like any sane person, you screamed and jumped skyward. Your flashlight fell, its beam rolling over and over until it hit a baseboard. You didn’t stick around to find out, turning fast on your heel and bolting into the hall.

Thundering down the front stairs – wincing as the wood groaned – you nearly reached the foyer when Seokjin appeared.

“Boo,” he said calmly, between you and the door.

Coming to a shuddering halt, your hand gripped the railing. The ghost was impeccably dressed, if slightly invisible, and raised a dark brow in response to your flight.

Gaze darting sideways, you sought a second exit but all you could recall was the cellar and that wasn’t an option. Years of training from watching scary movies kicked in at that point, and you slowly straightened. Running away would do nothing – a ghost could follow you anywhere – so, maybe reasoning with him would be the best option.

“What do you want?” you asked, masking your fear to plant both hands on your hips. “Who are you?”

Surprise flared in his – admittedly attractive – gaze. Some of the shock had worn off by then, and you could admit to yourself (if to no one else) that the ghost before you was hot. Even thinking this felt ridiculous, and you wondered if your already-fragile grasp on reality was slipping.

Taking a single step forward, the ghost cocked his head. When you stumbled back, his lip quirked, and he appeared by your side.

“Who am I?” he mused, walking in a slow circle. “Awfully strange to ask me that, when I’m the person that died here, and you’ve never stepped foot in this house until now. I would know.”

Started, you turned your head.

This was a mistake since it allowed you to see every ridge of his features. The rounded tip of his nose, his enviably full lips, and a curve to his jawline which could likely cut glass.

Forcing your gaze upward, you found him focused on you. “You… died here?” you asked before you could think better.

His lips thinned. “You know, it’s very rude to ask a ghost how they died. It’s personal.”

“Oh,” you said. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask,” the ghost replied with a sigh.

Your eyes narrowed, hearing barely hidden laughter in his tone. This ghost was making fun of you. The audacity!

Incensed by this, you lifted your chin. “Wouldn’t asking you whether it’s polite to ask about death be asking you about death, though?”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, slipping both hands in his pockets. “There really isn’t a good way for you to bring up that conversation.”

A laugh escaped, despite yourself.

His gaze flickered, as though oddly pleased. Quickly, the ghost scanned you from your shoes to your face, where he lingered.

“I’m curious,” he mused, resuming his walk in a circle.

Despite your discomfort, you forced yourself to stay still. Even though you could feel each place his gaze lingered – your shoulders, your collarbone, tacing the slope of your cheekbones.

“What are you curious about?” you asked, pushing the words past your lips.

He stopped between you and the door again. Slipping both hands from his pockets, he crossed his arms over his chest. The way his biceps strained against his suit was intriguing, implying there was something to strain against. Dimly, you wondered what a ghost’s gym routine looked like.

Your lips twitched at the thought, and the ghost scowled.

“Stop that,” he commanded. “You should be terrified. I was curious about why you haven’t run yet. Anyone else would’ve by now.”

“Would they?”

“Based on my experience, yes.” He tilted his head. “This is the first time I’ve introduced myself to someone and they stayed. Well,” he amended through teeth. “Stayed without crucifixes, holy water, and a priest.”

“Does that really work?” you wondered, genuinely curious.

“Does what work – exorcism?”

You nodded.

“Clearly not.” He waved a hand down his body. “At least, not in my case. When I first died, I wanted to move on. I was even excited when the first priest arrived, but he did nothing, and neither did the next one… eventually, I stopped hoping. Started haunting, instead.”

“Well, sure,” you said, dazed.

His lips twitched. “My name is Seokjin, by the way. Not that you asked.”

“That was literally one of the first things I asked!”

Ignoring this, Seokjin stuck out his hand. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” you said, ignoring the impossibility of what you were about to attempt while extending your palm. “Nice to meet you.”

Your hands met in the middle and, instead of passing through, you felt your palms brush. For a moment, you touched calluses and warm skin, smelling the faint scent of cloves.

Seokjin went utterly still.

Chin jerking down, he stared at your joined hands. “That’s… never happened before.”

Retracting swiftly, you said the first thought that came to mind. “What? Never touched a woman?”

Scowling, he retracted his hand as well. “I was thirty when I died, Y/N. Not thirteen.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, then paused. “You… haven’t been able to touch anyone since you died?”

“Things, yes. People, no.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “A psychic visited me once. The owners at that time brought her, wanting to see if she could get rid of me.” Seokjin snorted. “She got them to pay her, then said, ‘No.’ Hilarious. And interesting,” he added. “She told me she’d met other ghosts, ones that could interact. Never seemed to work for me, though.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. For it being your first encounter with the supernatural, nothing about this had gone as imagined. You weren’t sure how to converse with a ghost who, for all intents and purposes, seemed fairly normal.

Except for the whole ‘being dead’ part.

“Well.” You shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

His expression remained inscrutable, but for the faintest of seconds, you thought Seokjin looked intrigued. After a moment, he moved closer and leaned in. You caught the faintest whiff of orange, cloves, and cedar on what could have been his breath.

“I suppose there is,” he murmured, and then disappeared.

Since then, Seokjin has appeared each time you returned. The second time, you were halfway convinced your first visit was a hallucination. A theory Seokjin seemed content to feed into, refusing to show himself until you were about to leave. Then, he jumped through the hall closet to yell, “MUTINY!” and cement his presence in your mind.

Seokjin doesn’t dress the same every time. A few weeks into your friendship (if one can call it that), he informed you he could change his appearance but hadn’t done it much. It took energy to appear on the mortal pane, more so if his appearance was altered.

Still, you’ve learned Seokjin will do pretty much anything to commit to a bit. His brand of haunting tends to border on comical. Putting his arms on backwards, headless juggling, vomiting wine – really anything is fair game if not truly grotesque. By now, you’ve seen his whole gambit, which is how you can say today’s performance was lackluster.

Sprawled on the chaise, one foot dangling, Seokjin looks every bit of the tragic lothario. Again, you can’t help but wonder whether he’s gained permanence since the last time you saw him. You could almost swear the chaise sinks under the weight of his frame.

“What is it?” he demands, lazily pushing himself upward.

Something in your chest flutters, although you ignore it. Arms crossed, you fix him with a look of disdain. It’s sinful for Seokjin to look as good as he does – and the worst part is, you know it’s not an illusion.

After you met the third time, you Googled his name along with the house and found multiple hits. Seokjin Kim was killed on October 31st, 1978, by Nathanial Elliot, the leader of the Sunny Days cult. Both Seokjin’s parents joined two years prior, and he’d tried unsuccessfully to convince them to leave by mail and phone.

Eventually, he visited in person and convinced them to go – unfortunately, Nathanial caught wind of the situation and killed Seokjin before this could happen. You saw photos of Seokjin from then and can confirm he was always devastatingly handsome. Often, you’ve wondered if he left someone behind – a wife or a girlfriend – but can’t bring yourself to ask. You aren’t sure which answer would hurt more.

Regardless, you know Seokjin was missed. His parents were the ones who took down the Sunny Days cult, putting their leader behind bars for killing their son. Seokjin admitted once that they tried to tear this house down. They didn’t know he was tied to the grounds, and he didn’t want to tell them. It would’ve been harder for them to move on, he explained, and your heart broke a little.

Not long after that, you accidentally let it slip that Seokjin had a scent. It made him howl with laughter, nearly falling down the front stairs – not that this would’ve hurt him. From then on, Seokjin showed off his growing ability to move solid objects by leaving oranges for you in the house whenever you came. Only another of his practical jokes but lately, it’s made your skin hot to think of.

You realized you felt more than you should for him last month when he saved you from falling. Determined to clear out the cellar, your entire foot went through the first step and Seokjin pulled you to safety.

“Careful,” he murmured, one arm wrapped around your waist. Gently, he eased you backwards and onto the landing. “The top step is rotted through. You’ll need to call in someone to fix that.”

Unable to speak, you nodded and quickly disentangled. Each place he had touched, your skin tingled, and not at all unpleasantly. Since that day, your feelings have only worsened. Sometimes, you wonder if he knows.

Sometimes you wonder whether he feels the same, no matter how hopeless it is.

Heaving a great sigh, Seokjin stands from the couch. Lifting both arms, he stretches this way and that like an overgrown cat. The end of his shirt comes untucked, displaying a flat strip of skin you refuse to acknowledge.

Forcing your gaze to his face, you lift a single brow. Weeks after meeting, you considered Seokjin your friend, or at least an acquaintance. Now, you can’t call this friendship, but not because things between you have worsened. It’s because the more time you spend together, the more you find yourself wishing for something impossible. Something more.

“You know what,” you tell him. “There’s no need to scare off every potential buyer.”

Seokjin pauses, then lowers his arms. “There’s a need when they’re terrible. I’m the one forced to live with them for eternity, not you.”

“It’s not an eternity, though,” you tried to joke. “Eventually, they’ll die – or, so one would presume.”

Seokjin’s face hardens. Before you can take another breath, he’s standing before you. “Much better,” he says, his voice like steel. “I love being reminded that, while the world continues to age around me, I never will. I’ll simply stay on this godforsaken plot of land until the earth is destroyed by its own inhabitants. How long do you think that’ll take, Y/N? One decade? Two?”

Eyes wide, you stare at him in shock.

Seokjin has never spoken to you like this before. Usually, he’s far more cavalier about his reality, easily accepting the fact that he’s a ghost. Never once has he ranted about the world passing by. In fact, Seokjin frequently throws in your face that you’ll soon have more wrinkles than him.

For the first time, you wonder if all that is a front. If perhaps, deep down, all his lackadaisicalness is merely a cover for a deeper kind of fear.

Slowly, you move closer. “I didn’t mean to be dismissive,” you murmur. “Of course, I don’t want you to be forced to live with people you hate. I just meant…”

You trail off, uncertain and Seokjin’s face softens. He moves even closer, his scent comforting you in a way you can’t explain. In a way it shouldn’t be.

“I’ll never get used to this,” you sigh.

You aren’t sure why you’re speaking so softly. Possibly due to his proximity and possibly due to the look in his eyes, studying you as though you’re the impossibility, and not him. Dust motes trail through the air when Seokjin lifts a hand.

With bated breath, you watch as he reaches towards you. At the last second, he shifts and lightly brushes your jaw.

Sharply, you inhale because you feel it. You feel him.

“Seokjin,” you whisper. “What are you…”

Gently shushing, he leans in, and you feel his breath, feather-light, across your skin. Utterly shocked, you go still. It’s his breath that you feel. Breath that shouldn’t exist, according to logic.

Slowly, his gaze drops and stays on your lips. If Seokjin can’t read minds, he must hear your heart racing. The sound of it is all-consuming, drowning out rational thought.

“You want to know what I’m waiting for?” he murmurs, his gaze lifting. “I’m waiting for someone to look at this… house the way you do.”

“A lot of people have liked the house, Seokjin. People who –”

“I don’t want you to sell this house."

Startled, you stop. “Why not?”

His expression twists, revealing his vulnerability. “I think you know.”

Roughly, you exhale.

Yes. You do know. It’s the same reason you’ve half-assed the last six showings at this address. It’s why you keep people from looking, and when they insist, barely attempt to stifle Seokjin’s shenanigans. You could have come earlier today and requested Seokjin to be on good behavior. He would have done it. For you, he would have.

Which is exactly why you didn’t ask.

“I… want to hear you say it,” you say, so low, you’re surprised that he hears.

Achingly slow, Seokjin’s hand slips from your jaw to your neck. When he pulls you closer, you can feel the weight of his hand, the solid pressure that comes from his fingers on your skin.

Your eyes flutter shut.

“I don’t want you to go,” Seokjin murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “If someone else buys this house, you’d stop showing it. You wouldn’t come here again, and I can’t leave these grounds. If someone else buys this place” – his breath hitches – “I won’t see you again. I can stomach eternity, Y/N, but not without you.”

“Seokjin.” His name leaves your lips as a whisper, or prayer.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever…” Eyes opening, you look up. “I don’t want to say it out loud.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Your voice breaks. “That might make it real. What I want can’t be real, so if I say it out loud, it might vanish and right now, it exists in this tentative space. We exist in this space.”

Lightly, his thumb strokes your throat, and you feel your knees buckle. Every callous, every touch feels so horribly real, it’s making it difficult to remember why this can’t be.

“I’ve stopped wondering what’s real and what’s not,” Seokjin murmurs, his gaze tracing your mouth. “Most people say I shouldn’t exist and yet, here I am. They say I shouldn’t be here, able to touch you like this and yet, I am. They say I shouldn’t–”

Rising on tiptoe, you cut him off with your kiss. Seokjin shudders, his lips parted and warm in the shock of the moment.

 “Fuck,” he groans, breaking away to stare at you in wonder.

Before you can respond, he returns, his kiss wild and fierce. Your own desire surges, touching him hesitantly at first, and then with full abandon. Hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, your fingers curl in his hair to anchor him to you.

Cupping your face, Seokjin pulls your body to his. His touch is reverent, deifying while his hands travel lower to land on your waist. His body curves above yours, catching your gasps with the tip of his tongue. Seokjin feels solid beneath you – solid, and warm, and painfully real.

His mouth moves to your jaw, trailing heat down your throat and across your bared collar. Shivers of pleasure shoot through you as he walks you backwards, pressing your spine to the wall. Briefly – wondrously – you laugh, the sound caught again by his kiss.

Within minutes, you’re panting, heart beating wildly as you grip his hair tighter. Seokjin’s leg presses forward, pushing your thighs apart and you nearly dissolve. He moves harder, faster, as though scared that you’ll vanish. This is the opposite of disappearing, though.

This is together, beneath, and on top as –

“Shit,” Seokjin growls, the sound torn from his throat.

Dazed, you look sideways and realize his hand has gone through the wall.

Seokjin stares at his wrist, his chest rising and falling. Everything you can feel is solid, but his hand sinks through the wall about an inch deep. It’s hard to concentrate with him above you, looking like that. Seokjin’s hair remains mussed by your hands, proving you touched him – however briefly.

Lips thinning, Seokjin pulls his hand out. Purposefully, he lays his palm flat on the wall but it’s clear to you both that he’s concentrating. Some of his pressure dissipates.

“I – fuck,” he exhales, dropping his chin.

Gently, you soothe a strand of hair behind his ear. This is the first time you’ve seen Seokjin anything less than immaculate and goddamn, if it doesn’t look good on him. That’s making it difficult to focus on the matter at hand.

The matter at hand. Ha.

Thinking this, a snort escapes your lips before you can stop it. Stunned, Seokjin glances up with wide eyes.

“Did you just… snort?” he asks, incredulous.

You shake your head, and then nod, sheepish. “Um, yes. I did. It’s just…” Now that you’ve started, you can’t help but continue. “I can’t believe the hottest make-out session of my life ended with your fucking hand through a wall.”

Seokjin stares for a long moment before – impossibly – his chest starts to shake. Before long, you’re both laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. Once your laughter has faded though, comfortable silence remains.

Pulling you into his chest, Seokjin’s hand strokes your neck. “I don’t know what this means,” he admits with a sigh.

“Me, either.”

“I do know I want to do that again.”

“Same,” you say, pulling back.

“But…” Seokjin hesitates. “Y/N. You know I’m not… real, right?”

Your heart sinks to your shoes. “You’re real to me.”

“I know.” He speaks softly. “But I –”

Lifting a hand, you press a finger to his lips. “Don’t,” you warn. “Please. I don’t want to think about the future right now. I know I don’t have eternity, but I don’t want what I have without you.”

Something in his gaze breaks but Seokjin merely nods, letting silence fall again. You fear that he’ll vanish, leaving you alone but he merely exhales. The breath brushes your skin.

“Alright,” Seokjin murmurs, winding his hand with yours. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

The ghost of a smile crosses your lips. “What if… we talk about me buying this house?”

© kpopfanfictrash, 2023. Do not copy or repost without permission. Author’s Note: thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and Happy Halloween!

Please Don’t Go | JJK

Pairing | Jungkook x Reader

Word Count | 12K

Genre | Spider-Man! Jungkook x Childhood Best Friend! Reader

Summary | Jungkook’s never kept anything from you, ever. Not even the time where he tripped and accidentally kicked your dog, or when he fucked the most popular girl in high school and couldn’t make himself cum (poor guy was embarrassed for weeks), or when he accidentally rubbed all of his acceptance letters in your face without realizing. To put it short, Jungkook is an open book to you. So when he suddenly disappears, there’s a lot to question. Even more to question when he finally gets back and won’t tell you anything, going as far to avoid you. You’re on a mission to figure it out, even if it kills you.

Index | Jungkook is so smart, but so stupid at the same time. Jungkook is not sly in the slightest. Kind of angst, fighting, arguing, bickering, etc. Criminal activity, it’s a Spider-Man fic. Injuries and mention of blood. College setting and age, reader and Kook share the same major. Some cute fluffy moments in between all of the action. Aunt Yoon is essentially Aunt May in the Marvel story line. 

A/N | Something kind of different than what I normally write, but I’m excited about it nonetheless!! It’s sad, cute, exciting, nerve wracking, etc. I also just love the concept of Spider Kook more than I can even explain. 

All throughout your childhood years, you constantly swore that you could never truly hate Jungkook. The both of you grew up together, lived in the same apartment building with guardians that knew each other. You were always over at his apartment for annual holiday parties, or play dates (which you’re pretty sure was just babysitting because your parents worked so much.) Even in school, you both gravitated towards each other due to matching intelligence and thought processes. You can’t recall a single school project that you’ve done without being partners with Jungkook, or at least in the same group. Sure, you two would play fight, argue, bicker back and forth about stupid things, or wrestle, but never truly get to a point where you hated one another. However, as you sit in class on the first day of class after break, you’re fuming. You swore you could never hate him in your entire lifetime, but right now, it’s pretty damn close. You can’t think of a time where you’ve been this angry at Jungkook, face red as you fight off the urge to interrogate him to hell and back. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Jungkook’s voice calls softly from beside you, almost in a whisper as class begins. You don’t even answer him, simply glancing over before returning to stare down your syllabus as you struggle to control your thoughts. You genuinely can’t understand how he disappeared all summer without a single text, call, letter, email, anything before showing back up like nothing happened. Even when you went to his aunt’s apartment to check up on him (he went back home for break), she simply told you Oh, he didn’t tell you? He went on a summer trip, I don’t remember all the details. Before sheepishly closing the door in your face. Jungkook never keeps anything from you, you’ve told each other almost everything, that’s just what best friends do. You honestly can’t help but feel hurt that he wouldn’t think to tell you about his 2 and a ½ month summer trip before leaving. “Are you mad at me…why are you mad at me?” 

Keep reading

nine to five

pairing: jimin x reader

wordcount: 9k

glimpse: dr. park jimin's unbreakable when it comes to skill, dedication, and work ethic; meanwhile, you jump between part-time jobs for the fun of it. he's just trying his best to look out for you — too bad he sucks at it. (spin-off to take five!)

alternatively, you're friends with benefits with jimin and you always kiss him on the cheek before he leaves — but one day you stop.

[ mutual pining, 30% angst (there is Redemption I Swear), smut, fluff n wholesomeness, jimin's rude + out of touch towards ppl outside of his tax bracket for a hot minute, minor injuries (dog bites n scratches, bruises, blood, etc.) sustained from part-time jobs ]

notes: inspired by workman on youtube!! you don't necessarily have to watch it in order to read this <3 a lot of people told me they started watching hospital playlist after reading take five, so i'm doing the same with this to try and convert u into my emotional clutch shows agenda :D also a reminder that i am in no way making fun of any of the jobs mentioned below!!

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even replying to this post sends me over the moon :)

It's not easy to throw Jimin off.

Simply to say, his tolerance is as good as boundless. He just continuously endures and although it doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s passive, he just chooses to let things slide. He, of all people, would know that constantly furrowing your brows speeds up one’s wrinkling process. It’s not like Jimin doesn’t care enough — it’s just that he’s almost always unfazed.

He remains calm and doesn’t yell any louder than necessary when he’s dragged into haunted houses and escape rooms. If he was being blunt, he’d say that anyone who willingly puts themselves through it and scream bloody murder, must have never learned about the concept of cause and effect. You pay to get scared and in turn would go through the experience, and you still have the nerve to be surprised about it?

Tiny internal rant aside, Jimin is still calm.

He's patient with pranks and laughs it off, no matter how impractical they could be. It’s as impractical as his parents spending two hours in the crack of dawn to fill up his room with balloons on his 15th birthday, and it is a little lame, but Jimin isn’t heartless — of course he wakes up laughing! The little stretches of his genuine laughter outweighs his knowledge that he had been hearing latex squeaking since two hours ago.

All throughout their medical careers, if Dr. Min is known to be patient, then Dr. Park is known to be a saint. He was the junior that every senior wanted to tuck under their wing, and the senior that every junior wanted to bag with them. There was a time in their fellowship when Yoongi kept replacing Jimin's stethoscope with a toy version of it right when he was about to do rounds, for a whole week, and the most reaction he got was a flick to the forehead at the end (read: surrender) of his prank.

Jimin’s just so unbothered to the point that it’s unnerving.

He’s not exactly clueless with the way that the people in his life still strive to throw him curveballs; in fact, it’s amusing.

Was it annoying that Yoongi moved every piece of furniture in the clinic two inches to the right to try and grit at his co-owner’s gears? Yeah. Was it fulfilling to pretend that he didn’t keep bumping his hip into table corners and mess up his depth perception, just for the sake of frustrating Yoongi? Completely.

Sure, it did tick his nerves a little when Hoseok kept paging him into the lobby, only for the receptionist to tell him that he didn’t call his name. It must have went for only ten times, and the only reason Jimin went for the previous nine was because he wanted to save face! What would the dozens of clients in the lobby think when their doctor doesn’t come when asked for?

Yoongi is far from giving up.

Hoseok is long done.

The latter is what completely confuses Jimin.

Jimin had never been caught off-guard this badly and when it happened, he tried to reel himself in the moment he came back to his car.

It's when he's getting dressed to leave after the best, most fulfilling, and only sex he's had in a long while, making conversation with you while he makes himself coffee to drink while driving back home.

Jimin thought that since you’re Hoseok’s friend, he must’ve put you to the task. It’s not that far off to think that for the three months you’ve been fucking, all of it was his friend’s plan to throw him out of his rhythm.

What’s more confusing, is that he’s beyond certain that what you did was sincerely done out of your own accord. No one dear to him could faze him to this extent.

But you? You throw Jimin off.

You do it in such a genuine yet nonchalant way that Jimin thinks he must’ve conjured the whole scenario in his head at one point.

It’s surreal to think about because you lean into him with ease, a gentle hold on his forearm as if he just didn’t blow your back out minutes ago.

All of his senses shut down and the remaining control he has left is all used into squeaking a goodbye, speed-walking out of your door and holding his breath until he reaches his car.

He’s far from calm and he’s the furthest thing from collected. There’s no reasonable explanation to anything that happened in the last two minutes, and that’s as far as his mind could go.

You kissed Jimin on the cheek.

( ♡ )

Did Jimin lose sleep over you kissing him on the cheek? Without a doubt. He’s been jumpy since this morning and it’s beginning to startle everyone in the clinic — everyone.

Awhile ago, Yoongi was being observant and good-natured as usual that naturally, he tried pointing out to Jimin that he sees a pimple forming on his cheek. He only poked it for the sake of locating it, and he was just about to offer treating it for him, when Jimin jumped two feet away from him the moment his cheek (the one you kissed) was touched.

True enough, there is a pimple forming and with abrupt agreements, Jimin told Yoongi to do his magic with it the moment he gets a break. He did wear a mask to try and avoid unnecessary attention, but of course someone just had to startle him even more.

“Ah, you look sleazy with that mask on. Kisses? Really?” Hoseok squints his eyes, unaware of the way Jimin’s eyes bulge in panic. All he cares about is sitting on the comfiest chair in the breakroom and eating his lunch, but that plan’s steadily bound to be overthrown.

He’s pointing to the pattern of kisses on his face mask, a spare stock of what all the staff wore back for valentine’s day. Hoseok knows that he’s pertaining to the design, but Jimin clearly doesn’t.

“Y-you know?” he mutters under his breath, caught breathless in a situation he’s unsure to whether or not it favors him. At his surprise, Hoseok has an inkling that they’re not on the same wavelength at the moment.

Not at all.

“What do I know?” Hoseok tilts his head, still grasping at nothing with how Jimin’s now doubting him.

“Are you faking?” Jimin counters, swallowing the lump on his throat. They’re literally going nowhere and he wants to get somewhere at least before the day ends, atleast starting off with someone who knows you better than him. “Listen, what if we both say what we think we’re talking about at the same time?”

It’s a half-baked idea but Hoseok just shrugs it off, saying the first thing that came to his mind the moment Jimin started counting down.

“Aren’t we talking about your pimple?”

“You know that Y/N kissed me?”

Hoseok groans in annoyance at the instance the words leave his friend, putting his head on his hands to try and shrug the image off his brain.

Sure, he has an inkling that the two of you looked at each other a little too suggestively for your first meeting. He introduced you to Jimin when you came into the clinic bearing his homemade birthday lunch (one that you’ve been making yearly for him the past five years), and it’s not like he regrets introducing you! Both you and Jimin are good people; he just didn’t want to know too much information.

"Gross. Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear about your sex life with my friend."

"But she kissed me," Jimin half-whispers and half-whines, gripping into Hoseok’s arm as if it was his lifeline. The receptionist doesn’t budge him off, but his furrowed brows are telling enough that he wants the conversation to be over soon.

"Okay...? What do you want me to say to that?"

Jimin grows exasperated, tempted to throw a tantrum as he runs his hand through his hair.

"Hoseok, I meant she kissed me in like, a lover way and not a friends-with-benefits type of way!"

There’s obviously too much information being shared with yours and Jimin’s mutual friend, and mutual friend does not like it, but said mutual friend now knows too much to the point that he’s invested.

Hoseok pauses his eating, blinking slowly with no malice peeking from his tone.

"But don't you like Y/N in a lover way?"

Jimin’s not mad that Hoseok’s caught on to him this quickly, the emotion isn’t even in his vocabulary when it comes to you. It’s just that he’s torn and confused and wary — all the other three feelings that he despises going through.

"Yeah but like not completely, y’know? I still said I was unsure if I really do have those feelings for her," he admits with a shake of his head, his cheeks puffing in a sigh out of recollection about what he was really discussing. “A cheek kiss! She kissed me on the cheek before I went out of the door."

"Again, Jimin," his friend rolls his eyes, setting down his chopsticks after a large bite because he knows the younger won’t stop talking anytime soon. "What do you want me to say?"

Jimin quirks his lips to the side, looking down on his lap. What does he want Hoseok, a friend to you first and a friend to him second, to say? He doesn’t necessarily know if he wants him to hyper-analyze your actions. He can’t tell if he wants advice. He’s unsure if he wants to be reassured.

He goes with the first question that pops into his head, no matter how blunt it sounds.

"Don't you find it weird? Who kisses the guy they fuck on the cheek after sex?"

Now that he phrases it that way, Hoseok sighs deeply, shaking his head in passing. Quite frankly, even he doesn’t know what to say to that.

"Dunno. Never happened to me before," he shrugs his shoulders, waving his hand off to further prove his upcoming input. "Calm down. It's probably nothing."

"But it's something!" Jimin rebutts, eyes widening now that he realizes that the reassurance he wanted to hear does not comfort him at all.

"Well now you sound like you want it to be something,” Hoseok snorts, electively humming to provide background music to Jimin’s mini meltdown.

"Why would she kiss me on the cheek?"

"Eh. She kisses me on the cheek too,” he says as a matter of fact, thinking that the tidbit of information is gonna help calm his friend’s nerves down and stronghold him into letting him eat without interruption.

Jimin narrows his eyes, a quiet scoff leaving his lips as he crosses his arms.

"Why would she kiss you on the cheek?"

"Now you're just jealous."

Hoseok stares Jimin down and the look of emotional constipation on the latter’s face makes him hiccup, making the former chuckle while raising his hands in surrender.

"God, I don't know! Friends can kiss each other on the cheek, Y/N's affectionate like that. Don't think too much of it."

Right. Of course Hoseok’s right!

Friends kiss each other on the cheek all the time and it just so happens that your love language is physical touch and affection. It all just happens to be and you don’t actively make it happen.

That’s probably the answer that Jimin of five minutes ago would’ve wanted to hear, but the Jimin of now is unsatisfied, the plausible explanation still not tickling his brain in the way he thought it would.

Just as if on cue, Yoongi enters the room, audibly gasping at the sight.

"Ugh. Breakroom gossip without me?!" he whines, pouting at the door in irritation.

"Yoongi! Finally. I need your opinion on this one," Jimin beckons him over and Yoongi doesn’t waste a single second, immediately replacing Hoseok in the throne of his comfortable chair.

"Good. You deal with him," Hoseok mutters, but not before swiping Yoongi’s coffee on the way out.

Jimin clears his throat to repeat his previous narration, instantly getting a wince not even two sentences into his recollection.

"Do I really need to know about your sex life?"

"You don't need to but of course, you just have to be sulky when you're left out with breakroom gossip, don't you?" he rolls his eyes, his coat sleeve being tugged in franticness when he pretends to stand up.

Yoongi straightens his posture, giggling whilst shaking his head.

"Kidding, kidding. Don't leave me out ever again," his voice deepens, leaning closer with knitted eyebrows to hear the gossip he sensed that’s been brewing since this morning. "I'm listening."

( ♡ )

Yoongi is not the devil’s advocate.

However, he is an occasional asshole that really just wants to get on Jimin’s nerves every once in a while.

He cares about his friend’s feelings, he really does, but Yoongi thinks that Jimin just really isn’t looking at his problem in the right way. His girlfriend would call him out for meddling but really, all that he’s doing is merely teasing — a tiny bit of teasing won’t hurt, especially if he knows it would launch Jimin into a different yet positive spiral (but it’s still a spiral nonetheless).

“What if it was a cheek kiss out of pity?”

Now in hindsight, maybe that wasn’t Yoongi’s brightest idea up to date.

He said the words playfully and yet Jimin sits shocked as if he cussed his family tree out, mouth slightly part open at the syllables that keep ringing in his head. What’s worse is that he misinterprets the shock as amusement, going much further this time.

“Kinda like a participation certificate, y’know? A thanks for showing up badge.”

Out. Of. Pity.

“I’m just uh, I- well would you look at the time? Lunch break’s over,” Yoongi awkwardly excuses himself, looking at his bare wrist that’s not even adorned by a watch today. The look of distress is just too overwhelming on Jimin’s features that it makes him squirm, too preoccupied in giving him space that he doesn’t fully realize that it’s perhaps the first time he’s seen him in such disarray.

He breezes through his schedule for the day and honestly speaking, he wasn’t even paying half the attention he usually would to his clients. Barely engaged in small talk and if that wasn’t enough, he also managed to call a client (or two) the wrong name.

It was an indelible loop that keeps playing in his ear, the buzzing so obnoxious that he physically has to shake his head to block it out.

Did he not satisfy you enough?

Jimin, against probable and rational judgement, calls if he can come over — not to talk, but to rather prove himself instead.

You look beat as soon as you come home to your apartment, fatigued eyes widening in surprise to see that Jimin, against patience and virtue, really did take your offer of letting him in with a spare keycard.

You told him you would be coming home late awhile ago and he hummed in recognition. By late, you meant an-hour-overtime late and not the usual fifteen minutes that you’d warn him about.

Jimin’s been waiting for you in your own home for an hour straight.

It’s odd, to say the least. The whole context is weird but what’s even more weird is that you’re not surprised at all to see that true to his word, he waited for you patiently. There’s not a single thing out of place — the only space being occupied being your couch, and particularly in that specific spot he always sits on.

Jimin’s sneakers are placed next to yours on your shoe rack. His car keys are placed on your counter, in the same tray you’d also put yours in. He’s wearing the sweatpants he’d wear inside his own place.

Jimin looks like he belongs to your home and in all honesty, you don’t hate one bit of it.

“Hiii.”

You drawl in recognition as soon as you enter your front door, immediately padding towards Jimin while he smiles at the sight of you. He doesn’t even know that an hour has passed already since he let himself inside your apartment, and he isn’t even aware that not once did he look at the time in impatience.

“Tired, baby?” he asks gently, humming as he puts his hand on your lower back out of instinct, a chuckle involuntarily leaving him when you decided to sit on his lap.

It isn’t even sexual to begin with. You sit on his lap because you’re tired and he’s warm and in the little time you decided to initiate skinship with him, you melt.

Jimin feels you get comfortable in his lap and he has no qualms in bundling you in his arms, hugging you as he realizes it belatedly.

He doesn’t hate one bit of your warmth.

“Mhmm. Lifting candy makes you so tired,” you murmur to his neck, trying to fight away the sleep that’s weighing down on your eyelids. You try to fight it by realizing that you’re dirty from being outside and you need to take a shower before heading to bed, but the lingering scent of Jimin’s perfume on his neck says you don’t necessarily need to break from his grasp now.

“Candy? I thought you worked in sports,” his eyebrows knit in confusion, turning his head to look at you to confirm his knowledge, but you’re just so close that all he sees is your cheek; so close to the point that the tip of his nose nudges it.

You hum in response, unabashedly nudging your head closer to Jimin’s neck to breathe in his scent that calmed you to no end. “The court cleaner gig? Ah. That was from a week ago.”

He blinks earnestly, pausing from looking at you to look at your framed certificate on the console across the room.

“Didn’t you graduate with a double major in finance and accounting?” he knows the information to heart because it was the first thing he learned about you from Hoseok, so he doesn’t know why he looked at your certificate.

Actually, Jimin doesn’t even know why he’s so curious about it, because the last time he checked, he came here to disprove his insecurities and prove himself to you — even if you know nothing of the matter. “Never mind that. Are you sore, hmm?”

“Very,” you wince at the reminder that the entirety of your arms are aching, the sensation reminding you why you even accepted Jimin’s meek question if he could come over.

“Jimin,” you mumble and he perks up attentively, using everything in your strength to will yourself at prying your face away from his neck just so you could deliver your request sincerely. “Fuck me to a good night’s sleep, please.”

He buffers.

He buffers for one, two seconds — and it doesn’t help that you go back to nuzzling into him as if you didn’t ask of him to basically fuck you into next week.

In fact, Jimin even forgets that he’s here for that exact reason. He thought that he was here to be your furnace as you sit on his lap because you’re spent from lifting candy all day, but he’s obviously not opposed doing the other, first-most reason.

He chuckles at your choice of words now that it really sinks into him, feeling you peek one eye open with a faux mocking look.

“Can you do all the work?”

“Can I do all the work?” he lilts his voice and it’s enough to know that he’ll deliver on your request, a content smile forming on your face the moment you feel his hands roaming to undress you.

Jimin chooses not to move you because it’s clear to him that you already have a favorite spot at the moment (on his lap regardless if he’s naked or not), and just makes the reminder to carry you back to bed once you’ve finished.

“Up,” he lifts you by your thighs, taking off both your pants and your underwear in a few swift motions. He feels your sigh elongate in contentment because you return to his warmth once he sets you back down, immediately making quick work of massaging your thighs from standing up all day. “How many hours do you sleep?”

“A minimum of eight if I sleep late on the weekends.”

Jimin can’t help but to chuckle at your prompt answer, shifting his thumb closer to your heat when you hum to his ear. He finds you moving yourself closer to his hand that’s removing his sweatpants, flattered enough that he doesn’t even try to lift you a little so he could undress himself easier.

“It’s only nine in the evening.”

He finally acknowledges the time on the clock behind you but you don’t even follow his gaze, simply just groaning and making an off-hand comment that the candy industry is just not for you.

“What time do you want to wake up tomorrow?”

Jimin nudges you by your thighs again to shift, this time to put his straining cock in you. It’s merely an innocent question at first glance, even if he grunts the second you put all your eagerness into sinking down on him slowly to savor the stretch.

He’s amused with the way you chuckle with your chest even if he’s already cock-deep inside you. It isn’t in his routine to you know, normally talk and make conversation while he fucks! It throws him off his distraction so for any other occasion, Jimin just resorts to showing his presence by letting out absentminded grunts while chasing his climax.

The two of you are exclusively fucking, by the way.

It’s all just so casual and easygoing with you that even if you’re half-asleep and wholly turned on at the moment, Jimin finds no real rush.

“I wanna say one in the afternoon, maybe?”

He clicks his tongue, audibly groaning to look down where the two of you meet. Nobody takes him as well as you do and Jimin really can’t be willed to test that fact with anyone else.

“1 PM on a Saturday?” he repeats for clarification, grunting when your pussy clenches around him, your core already done with adjusting to his.

He gets a first shallow thrust up into you, the position burying him into you deeper than he normally could. You feel so good that it makes his bottom lip quiver, ripping away a shaky moan from his throat.

“Yeah, no problem. I can fuck you good enough tonight to knock you out until tomorrow noon.”

True to his word, Jimin fucks you good — more than good. He thrusts into you slowly and deeply while he holds you just as tightly, kissing your lips more than he ever did before and it's all too euphoric.

Maybe the question all along wasn't about if he satisfied you enough.

Maybe it's about if he appreciated you sufficiently.

Jimin carries you to your bed and cleans you up, going the extra mile to tuck you in with pillows on either side of you. He fills up the bottle on your bedside table with cold water so it wouldn't be room temperature by the time you wake up tomorrow. He arranges his house slippers next to yours, preparing to tell you good night when you beat him into asking.

“Driving home tonight?” you ask even if you already know the answer, no hint of malice in your tone.

“Yeah. Early morning tomorrow." He's apologetic but he just doesn’t know why. He never apologized before for leaving, because after all that's what friends with benefits do, but the reminder of the status doesn't calm him like he expected it would.

Jimin looks lost and you don't know why, and you want to know why, but your head is just too fuzzy to bring it up and you figure that no one likes an existential question after a head-splitting climax — so you reserve the question for next time.

“Come here.”

You beckon him over because you’re clearly too tired to stand up, and for a second, you don't even know why you ask him to do so.

Jimin doesn't know why he complies either, but he does it nonetheless.

You kiss him on the cheek, again.

“Drive safe.”

Jimin tenses up, an involuntary squeak leaving his lips that you mistaken it for words you can't even place just because with how blurry your mind is, taking it as his goodbye for you instead.

“If I wake up even a minute earlier than one in the afternoon tomorrow, I’m blocking your number.”

He breathlessly laughs, holding on to your side table for support. You've already closed your eyes even before he can leave your room, the belated realization that you kissed him on the cheek after sex, again, making him clutch at his hair.

You wake up the next day at 2:03 in the afternoon.

Jimin barely got any sleep throughout the night.

( ♡ )

One thing that Jimin can't do is be discreet.

He can't hide his nosiness when he's curious. He physically just can't keep it to himself no matter how small or big is the information intentionally withheld from him, considering that the ones closest to him know how inquisitive he could be.

Jimin particularly can't be discreet when he sees Hoseok at the next workday, only pretending to look at the logbook for a grand total of five (5) seconds before he caves in and rushes behind the receptionist booth to sit next to his friend.

“Where does Y/N work now?”

Hoseok sighs, having already foreseen Jimin's nosiness the moment he stepped foot into the clinic. He keeps his eyes at the monitor though, double-checking and organizing the booked appointments for today.

“She’s a window cleaner at Lotte at the moment.”

“The World Tower?" Jimin scrunches his nose, tilting his head because maybe the new angle would make him understand better. Hoseok wordlessly nods, making him shriek in surprise. "You mean the high-rise?!”

Jimin's too loud and the clinic hasn't even opened yet so there's no establishment music nor client chatter to act as buffers, the sound whole enough to make Hoseok wince.

He grunts, furrowing his brows because they both know they're on the same page but Jimin keeps skimming to the next one.

“Yes...? What windows do you want her to clean?”

“But she was making candy a week ago!” he stammers in reply, the confirmation coming from your best friend further plummeting him into disbelief.

Hoseok tuts, nodding understandingly. He surely remembers your candy job because he became your tester, remembering the taste of caramel that was too bland and watermelon candy that oddly enough, didn't taste like watermelon.

“Ah, yeah. That was last week though.”

Jimin's not hearing things. You did work as a part-time ball and mop cleaner for a basketball team last month, you did work as a candy maker last week, and now you do work as a window cleaner for a high-rise.

It throws him off-guard completely, his curiosity unable to be contained at this point.

“Why does she do this?” he blurts, face scrunched up in confusion. “Jump from one part-time job to another, I mean.”

The additional thought crosses his mind and Jimin really tries to reel himself in, the side comment slipping from his lips before he could notice. “Or if you could even call them jobs at this point.”

Hoseok clicks his tongue in distaste, rolling his eyes.

“Heard that.”

He's typing a little too loudly now and even Jimin notices it, meekly apologizing for the comment. He just waves him off, turning to the next spreadsheet at hand to keep himself occupied. “You want me to call her and ask that? The signal might be good on the 83rd floor.”

“Why’s Y/N like that?”

Jimin asks again this time but the genuine wonder is more evident this time compared to the condescension, making Hoseok indulge him begrudgingly.

“The cheek kisses or the career shifts?”

“I think you could hardly call them careers.”

“Jimin,” Hoseok scolds, his tone warning him to not cross the line any further than he's already doing.

He frowns, fiddling with his fingers but relenting later on. “I’m just being realistic, Hobi.”

“Shh. Don’t speak on it," he asserts. Hoseok finally stops what he's doing to give his undivided attention, spinning with his chair to face Jimin. "Y/N just loves doing the things that she wants, alright? Don’t ruin it for her.”

Your best friend did just say to Jimin to not ruin it for you, but maybe one last interjection won't hurt to point out. After this point, Jimin swears he'll shut his mouth.

“A cum laude. Double-major in finance and accounting. And your best friend’s cleaning windows on a high-rise!”

“And I’m proud of her,” Hoseok means sincerely but says nonchalantly, pursing his lips. “That job pays, by the way. Eight hours for three days and her wage is like, yours and Yoongi’s combined.”

Jimin, finally, shuts up.

He'd be the first to admit that knowing your new job at the moment, or even just knowing a somehow 555m high life update about you but doesn't come from you directly, makes him miss you more.

Getting the update from Hoseok may have made him take his phone out and text you, asking if you have any plans for lunch. Friends with benefits shouldn't ask the other to go to lunch together, and friends with benefits shouldn't agree when the other asks them for lunch.

Neither of you adhere to the supposed FWB etiquette.

At this point, maybe (and the two of you are well-aware now) you aren't just friends with benefits.

"Jimin! There you are. Jeez, I almost went dizzy out there."

You attach yourself to Jimin's side the moment you spot him, his face lighting up in recognition. He's been trying to locate you for the past two minutes assuming that you were wearing something from your closet that he's already familiar with, but of course, he forgot that you work here.

He locates you not a second later because of course, he wouldn't miss you who's wearing a neon orange jumpsuit and is jogging towards him.

Jimin bites his cheek and wraps his arm around your waist in greeting, the urge to do so being so natural that it feels like a second instinct.

He could've went to see you without lunch being involved but seeing that he used the latter as an excuse, Jimin brings you up to the café upstairs and orders for the both of you.

He only left you for a total of five minutes and the moment he comes back, there's a guy sitting on his seat. The guy with the red hair is probably familiar to him, judging by the way you're motioning to him slyly with a knowing smile, but Jimin is just too annoyed to play courtesies.

“Get out. Go search about enemas on your own and shit,” he mutters his remarks based on the tidbits he managed to overhear, tapping the back of his seat impatiently.

Jungkook, your friend, hurriedly gets up from the chair. He only sat in briefly because he's been sitting alone prior to your arrival and of good nature, and also because he wants to ask if your current part-time job has any more openings, he decides to make himself comfortable at the chair opposite to you.

Jimin, however, does not wait for Jungkook to leave before he talks about him to you directly. "Didn't you work with him in that café?"

“Did you mean éclairs?” Jungkook mutters, correcting the extremely different assumption of Jimin as to what he was talking about. Jimin clicks his tongue and groans audibly, making him equally as irritable to go out. “I’m going, I’m going! God, I’m completely harmless to your girlfriend, jeez!”

You freeze upon hearing, but the guy who's now in his rightful chair doesn't.

Jimin doesn't correct him.

( ♡ )

It's only a matter of time before something else entirely throws off Jimin.

He's no longer bothered about the cheek kisses, the gentle pecks on his skin unable to make him lose his sanity at this point in time. He came to accept that you just happened to love giving them to him, and although he could do something about it if he really wanted to, he chooses not to.

He came to accept that you're the only one, if not one of the few people who manage to throw him off his track without prior notice. It's not as if your life's goal was to get under his skin, but it feels like it.

No, Jimin doesn't hate the cheek kisses — he’s bothered about something else now.

Your part-time jobs.

It's been boggling his mind for months now. He didn't necessarily hate each job you've been willingly putting yourself in, but what he hates is that it's completely unnecessary. He'd understand jumping from one job to another if it's what pays the bills, but what he doesn't understand is you don't need to do these jobs at all.

In all fairness, even if you needed them to get through, you could just find part-time jobs that were normal in a sense that it didn't require you to look like a fool or risk your safety.

You simply just like making a fool of yourself and Jimin hates it.

He hates it especially like that time when you asked him out for dinner and you didn't show up, or atleast that's what he thinks of in the first ten minutes. Turns out you signed him up for a floating restaurant that's suspended 70 ft. into the air with a crane — and you showed up! You showed up, not to be his date, but to be a floating restaurant staff member.

Jimin remembers gritting his teeth when you secure his seatbelt and harness, all with an excited grin on your face and whispering "It's me, Y/N!" as if he couldn't pick you out in a sea of a thousand people.

He doesn't remember if he was gritting his teeth because he made the mistake of looking behind him and realizing that maybe he does have a fear of heights or if it was because the food he's been served looks undercooked. What he does remember is getting the fright of his life when you playfully pretend to trip over the edge, but it was all just part of a skit, and Jimin yelled out your name in panic for nothing.

Jimin hates your jobs especially like that time when you worked as a K-9 apprentice trainer. On the first day, your boss asked you to test out the prototype dog bite suit they were trying to patent, and as soon as the agitated Belgian Malinois comes charging after you, you could feel its teeth. Of course the bite neither broke your skin nor the suit, but what you and your boss didn't anticipate is the other German Shepherd who broke out of its cage to tackle you from behind.

It's a miracle that they immediately let go of you after some stern commands, but that didn't exactly mean you came out unscathed. There was one particular scratch on your calf that you think would scar, so you immediately come to the clinic where Hoseok works.

Sure, he was the receptionist for Serendipity Aesthetics but that doesn't mean he's batshit clueless when it comes to the products they carry. Hoseok's clearly intrigued to see you drop in his workplace all of a sudden, but he's even more baffled when you reveal the story and the accompanying marks to it.

Without a word, he tells you he'll take you to the inventory where they keep all their products, but turns out he takes you straight into Jimin's clinic.

He doesn't ask, doesn't even talk, as he cleans up your injuries. You didn't ask him to do that for you, but you don't want to tell him to stop either because for some reason, Jimin looks mad at you. The whole time that he aids you, his jaw is clenched and his grip on you is firm, not making eye contact with you once.

Jimin hates your affinity for taking ridiculous part-time jobs especially like that time when you part-timed as a diving guide. There was a special opportunity for clients in your program wherein an hour prior to their dive, you would hide special gold coins for them to hunt and later exchange for prizes.

You were doing just that in your full-body scuba suit, and Jimin just happened to meet you by chance because he didn't know you would be on the beach at the same time as him. What he didn't expect to happen was to see you and realize that you're wincing out of pain because a fucking jellyfish had stung the bare portion of your skin that was showing.

You were frantically asking him to pee on you because you've heard that it's effective in taking the sting out, and you haven't actually tried that for yourself, but Jimin is just so panicked that he actually considers doing it until your head instructor finally finds you.

No, the jellyfish sting on you isn't fatal.

No, the peeing-on-a-jellyfish-sting myth is pure bullshit.

Yes, Jimin actually feels like passing out from the whole ordeal.

Everything is just too ridiculous that Jimin can't handle seeing you in this state. You said explicitly to him that you were having fun but he isn't.

There's nothing fun seeing you go about your part-time jobs like they're children's cartoons who promoted nothing but risky behavior without a glimpse of dire consequences. There's nothing entertaining seeing you have fun despite knowing the risks.

It's like you weren't even concerned for your safety. All you're after is your enjoyment and the next big thing that would make your heart race.

Even now, Jimin feels like you can't take him seriously because the bruise on your elbow says so. A bruise you obtained from your part-time aquarium job because you tripped over a fucking penguin, from running away from another penguin who was trying to attack you.

“Get a grip, Y/N! Can’t you just for once in your life do something mundane? Something boring? Something that I don’t know, pays your bills without having to make a fool out of yourself?!”

“I like what I do, Jimin.”

You whisper in reply but you don't even know why you're whispering out of shame. No one had particularly called you out before, because everyone dear to you supports you — from your parents, to Hoseok, and to even previous co-workers who cheer you on.

Everyone dear to you loves seeing you do what you want to do — everyone except Jimin.

“For god’s sake, you were grooming sheep two months ago! Then a week after that, you were making soap and massaging people’s hands! Hell, even this month you’re working in that aquarium! You put on a scuba suit, wipe the glass, and for what? To swim with some fucking shrimp and shit like that?”

He's only been angry with you once, atleast what you know of, but it's now that you don't like Jimin the most. Perhaps you took his little smiles and breathless chuckles as affirmations that he loves what you do. Perhaps if you just looked a little closer without the blind expectation that everyone tolerates you because you could be a little too much for some, maybe you could've seen that the smiles were grimaces and the chuckles were groans.

“Y/N, I’m saying this because I care about you,” he runs his hand through his hair, exhaling deeply to look at you in the eye. “But please just grow up. You’re only a few years younger than me but just– look! Look! You graduated the top of your class for a real degree. Please do something useful.”

Please do something useful.

Do something useful.

Now do you realize that you can’t keep grazing your elbows on repainting daycares and have your pants frayed from volunteering at animal pounds. You can't keep doing spontaneous jobs for the sake of them because in simple terms, they're just not useful.

Jimin's perhaps the smartest guy you know and if it comes from him, you know to believe him. Perhaps he's the smartest guy you know amongst everyone dearest to you because from all of them, he's the only one that ever spoke to you this way.

In this brutally honest, albeit painful, way.

“Okay," you nod definitively, swallowing the lump the lump in your throat. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I should do something normal.”

Jimin purses his lips in regret because now that you put it that way, it sounds more cutthroat and unforgiving.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think you should get going,” you squeak, humming to yourself as you turn away from him, vaguely pointing to the door so he could see himself out. “You made a good point. I just need to be alone right now, try to get my shit together, y’know?”

Jimin really should've kept his mouth shut.

He should've heeded Hoseok's advice to not ruin it for you. But judging by the way you avoid his eyes and walk away from him, he knows he's already done that and more. He doesn't want to leave but you want him to leave, and if it's any consolation for you to help ease the pain he's caused, he'll do it this time. “Okay.”

He doesn't know why he's still expecting at this point, but Jimin feels heavy getting out of your door — without a kiss on his cheek, and with the knowledge that he had hurt you.

( ♡ )

Unsurprisingly, Jimin hasn’t heard from you in awhile.

It's been almost a month that he hasn't seen you. He had apologized numerous times over text, to which you only reacted to with an emoticon but didn't reply to, and that was it. He felt uncomfortable to ask to see you in-person because even he is ashamed of himself, mad at himself if in case his presence reminds you of his words.

Yoongi's pissed at him because Jimin definitely does not have a say in what you do and what you love, especially considering that he isn't your boyfriend, regardless if your feelings for each other were requited.

Hoseok’s angry at him. Not you-just-hurt-my-best-friend angry, but "not only did you hurt my best friend but you also changed the trajectory of her life, possibly for the worst, even if she didn't ask you to" angry.

Jimin's also furious at himself for the most part. He was selfish and projected his own frustrations to you because perhaps there was a tiny little part of him that envied you.

The tiny little green part of him that envies just how much happy you are even if you earn much less than him. He likes his job and he likes his salary, don't get him wrong, but no matter how shallow he sounds when he admits it — doing the same stable thing felt like a routine more than it was a passion.

You're carefree and Jimin isn't and it's wrong for him to hate that. He loves his job and he hates that he just had to make you miserable by grounding you only to your degree. He hates himself for saying that neither of the things you've done are useful because he subjected you as comparison.

He risks it ultimately when one day he texts and asks to come over. He didn't know if you would be mad at him and terminate your communication completely because after all, he still has the gall to ask you that despite the things he did.

He didn't know what to feel when you reply in less than an hour and tell him to just let himself in with the keycard you’ve left at his place accidentally, because you’ll be running a little late.

It's all too familiar because this has already happened before.

He wishes that it's familiar.

When you come home and he's waiting for you on your couch, he didn't know how to react seeing you look so manufactured.

You're as beautiful as always even if you're in a corporate suit, from a pink button-up to a leather pencil skirt to a pair of high heels.

You're you and you recognize yourself more than he does, but to him, you look off. The version that stands in front of him is unlike you; you’re not wearing overalls or chicken shop uniforms or wearing anything that resembles you.

“What’s with the get-up?”

It takes a few seconds for the question to buffer in your brain, a genuine laugh leaving your lips as you shrug off your heels.

“I work in stocks now,” you clear your throat, adding to the silence when Jimin remains still. "I'm the top fund manager in my company. Yay."

Your anger for Jimin has already passed which is why you didn't hesitate letting him wait for you in your apartment. Sure, the anger did pass but the ghost of it remains.

You're thankful that he gave you a fresh new perspective, but you just wish he could've done it a little more gently. Delivered the take a little more coddling. You wish he gave you a little more time for you to come to your senses by yourself.

“I’m sorry for everything I said,” Jimin speaks thickly into the air, the gravity of his previous words now just singeing a little worse. “You shouldn’t have to change. You were happy doing what you love the most and I gave you shit for it.”

In your head you've already forgiven him. It was a new, brutal perspective he had given you out of sincere concern. Even if there's truth to his words and you've come to accept it, it didn't necessarily mean that he was solely on the right.

“I’m happy now,” you offer with a weak smile, shrugging your shoulders carelessly.

“I’m not as happy as I was, but I’m still happy now. Besides, I have like a ton of money now,” you add playfully, giggling to yourself. “I could pay my monthly rent and your clinic’s yearly lease and still have extra.”

Jimin tries to find it in him to laugh, the return of your giggles easing him a little, but it's just not the same.

He's not gonna try and take credit for your change, but he does know that he's a large variable. He's remorseful and the guilt still doesn't leave him even if you let him into your home, the thoughts playing out in his mind like clockwork.

He thought he hated your part-time jobs but now, he realizes that he remembers every single one. He remembers every single bit of them that you tell him, all from the quirks of your job to the flaws of it.

“But you’re not bottle-feeding baby goats," he murmurs, looking down on his lap. “You’re not in a ski resort wearing duck feet to make children look for you.”

Your resentment for Jimin for presenting you a realistic truth may have already passed, but he hasn't. He's still strongly, and irrevocably, angry at himself.

“Is this still you?”

You throw off Jimin in both the best and worst ways possible but nothing beats the relief you provide for him either, but he knows that for the time-being, he's not entirely deserving of the latter.

“Still me,” you nod, unable to keep the next words to yourself as it hits you once again. “Just a more rational, useful me.”

( ♡ )

You and Jimin don’t talk as much these days.

If you were to describe your current state, it would be steady. It’s not much, but it’s honest.

The two of you would be lying if you deny that your previous relationship was strictly in a friends with benefits state. You both knew and shown (he clearly did) just how concerned you are for each other, never skipping a beat.

It’s been weeks since he last dropped into your apartment to personally apologize and after a long, agonizing yet much-needed conversation, you weren’t even sure if the two of you would progress after basically calling off your previous status with each other.

Until Jimin shows at your doorstep at one in the morning, right before you go to sleep.

“Jimin? What are you doing here?”

He’s dressed up in formal wear, still complete with a boutonnière on the lapel of his suit jacket. His hair’s gelled back but it probably went through much action because now it looks a little unkempt, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol he had.

“I took home way too many brownies,” he blurts as if it would explain why he suddenly manifested at your front door at a godforsaken time, laughing at himself before clearing his throat. “I volunteered to be a wedding singer for my friend’s ceremony. He let me have the first pick at the reception buffet.”

“Cool. Thank you for these,” you chuckle at the suddenness of the situation, taking the silk-wrapped container from his hands. It’s heavy, really heavy, and it’s endearing to think how Jimin’s first thought was to give this much to you. “Huh. These are really... a lot, huh?”

“Yeah. I know you like experimenting,” he smiles, scratching behind his ear belatedly at the double meaning, “with flavors and things like that.”

He took atleast five of each flavor and the buffet table stretched long, ignoring the appalled looks from the servers behind the booths. He’s certain that he picked up enough food to last you for three meals a day, for atleast a week and a half.

Jimin looks at you while you look at him and he remembers, even if it’s never left his mind, that you’re his dreamboat. It’s not just the alcohol talking, but it’s his truth even before a single drop of liquor.

“I’m taking a one-month sabbatical.”

He pipes in, immediately getting a whistle from you because even at the dead of one in the morning, perhaps the two of you miss each other that you’re ready to talk about anything.

“One month? That’s huge.”

“Yup.”

The silence stretches and although it’s not comfortable, Jimin’s still thankful that he gets to spend it with you. The thing he wanted to talk to you about since this morning finally pops up, eyes widening in realization before he forgets.

“I’m part-timing as a water park attendant two days from now, by the way.”

You want to say you’re confused but the pieces fuse together before they even separate. Jimin takes a one-month sabbatical from his duties as a doctor and instead of resting, he’ll be using it to work.

He’ll be using it to work part-time jobs.

“Can I call you tomorrow for some advice?”

The smile appears in your face before you could even stop it. You’ve only tried part-timing as a diving instructor once, but atleast it’s in the aquatic industry somehow.

“I haven’t tried that job before.”

“We could try together,” Jimin offers, unable to resist a giddy smile that makes his eyes crescent. “Are you free tomorrow?”

Your mental calendar is long-checked by your mouth before you can even pretend to think about it, a chuckle leaving you in return. “I uh... I actually am.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you parrot, eyes unblinking while you stare at Jimin. The two of you must have been staring at each other for a minute until you’re interrupted by the sound of your floor’s elevator dinging, snapping you both out of your dazes. “Drive safe.”

You’re sheepish as you bid him goodbye, cutting the interaction short even if you think it’s the perfect end to your night, or rather the start of your morning.

Jimin hums in acknowledgment but just before he goes, even if it’s the first of many, and hopefully the rest in a greater and better context than this is.

He’ll make it up to you somehow.

He stays rooted in his position and you don’t make a move to close your door either. You’re about to ask him if he’s fit to drive himself home but just before you do, you tense in the same way as he did before.

Jimin kisses your cheek.

fifth wish

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 18k

glimpse: jeon jungkook, world-class socialite and nepotism baby, should be out every night to celebrate while he’s at his prime. why should he fake-date his bodyguard instead?

alternatively, jungkook regularly throws coins to wishing wells with only one desire in mind — to get rid of you.

[ angst, unrequited love (at first), emotional constipation, jk is Very Frustrating to be with, so much pining, the constant repetition of the notion that one must amount to something to be deserving of love, rlly wholesome fluff, mentions of blood n injuries, whole 360 redemption arc dw i am not evil ]

notes: i’m back :) this belongs to the take five universe (take five feat. yoongi, nine to five feat. jimin) n although it’s a completely different jungkook, it’s still on the same vein!! thank u for waiting for me <3

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even replying to this post sends me over the moon :)

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Sail Away [Seokjin x OC ( ft. OT7) ] 🔞

✦Seokjin x OC* ( ft. OT7) 🔞 

*OC was intended to be Reader but it sounded weird to use second person in this format, so I switched to using “she” instead of “you”. 

✦Note: The story is told from Seokjin perspective. It takes place in the 60s.

✦ Read on Ao3

✦Tags: smut; comedy; historical!AU; captain!Seokjin; old flames to lovers; (kind of) forbidden romance; a little cheesy; a little fluffy; + there is a little twist

✦Word Count: ~15K

✦Summary: Seokjin is appointed captain of ‘Epiphany’ - the biggest, largest, most pompous ship to ever cross the Atlantic. Yet, everything gets awfully wrong when ‘Epiphany’ hits an iceberg…

Now the ship is sinking, a person hits Seokjin on the head, he gets tied to a pipe and he might end up at the bottom of the ocean… But, hey, a man must never lose hope; or lose an opportunity to kiss the woman he loves.

✦Warnings: explicit sexual content [both (♀️)x(♂️) + (♂️)x(♂️)] ; light bondage (use of handcuffs); oral sex; unprotected sex and other sex stuff. 

✦IMPORTANT Warnings: This story shouldn’t be taken too seriously under any circumstances. It’s an old, experimental draft I found in my folder and spontaneously decided to finish. It might contain typos as I edited it in a hurry.

ENJOY! :)

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