Just Happened to Be (1)
Summary: Jimin was an asshole, yes. And you were supposed to be nice, meek, and afraid of people like him. But you weren’t; even with a knife at your throat you stayed quiet and unforgiving–and he wasn’t allowed to like it.
Based off this request:
“Anonymous said:So how about bad boy Jimin I mean
that’s cool I guess cause I mean who need bad boy jimin right pft not me.”
Usual warnings . This is a drug gang fic so naturally there’s gonna be a lotta shit.
From the moment Park Jimin came in to find you at his work–a tattoo shop in the center of his group’s territory–he decided that he hated you.
He was stepping through the front door, ready to go prep his station for a client coming in later today, only to find you and your best friend waiting in his lobby. Apparently your bombshell of a BFF was waiting to get a piercing done by Namjoon and was perfectly fine with Jimin’s eyes raking down her form and to the curve of her ass (barely covered by frayed shorts). Compared to you, Yoorin–Jimin only knew her name because Namjoon referenced it as he called her back to his chair–was far more Jimin’s type of girl.
He loved skin-tight clothing on a perfect frame and flawless skin. Plus, if the girl looked like the poster image for the definition of Wild Child, then she was given bonus points for attraction. Yoorin fit the bill perfectly–the whole good girl by day, bad girl by night lit a fire underneath Jimin that had him winking at her as he moved towards Namjoon’s station.
But he couldn’t ignore you. Because there you were, standing next to that beautiful piece of work like an absolute monstrosity of a prude.
It was evident that you had never once stepped foot into a tattoo shop–hell, it looked like you hadn’t even sipped a drink before 21, or kept your cell phone on during a movie. You stood with your head ducked forward, wearing a long-sleeved cardigan and a flowery, floor-length skirt that reminded him of grandmothers’ church dresses. Even the damn buttons on your sweater were clasped all the way to your fucking collar bone. You refused to look up or remove your hands from their white-knuckled grasp on the straps of your purse; you staid nothing at all–not even to your friend.
While Jimin found the wicked smile your friend gave Namjoon incredibly hot, your blasé appearance and attitude annoyed the fuck out of him to the point that he wanted you both gone.
With his lip curled, Jimin slapped his stencils on his desk. “Yoongi–what’s with the prude? I thought this was a tattoo & piercing shop, not some strip mall for Sunday school mothers.”
Said older male, at the shop’s customer service desk, only rolled his eyes so far back in his head that Jimin swore he was about to be possessed by some she-devil. Probably you, but maybe it could be Yoorin–a girl with a rack like that had to be from hell.
“You know, if you don’t start accepting more clients then I don’t know how you’re going to afford your 33rd tattoo, you asshole.” Namjoon shouted from his corner, slipping on his rubber gloves to prepare the equipment needed for Yoorin’s bellybutton piercing.
“Ay, I’m fine–my clientele at least understands what kind of shop we’re running. If the girl wants to follow her friend then she should at least dress like a normal human being.”
You said nothing to defend yourself against the onslaught of Jimin. Instead, Yoorin snapped her head to meet Jimin’s glower with her own fiery glare. Jimin couldn’t help but smirk at her anger. “Hey douchebag, your boss is right–shut the fuck up and leave her alone. If you have clientele that want to deal with your bullshit then great–go find one of them. We clear?” You shifted to give Yoorin this relieved, thankful look that had Jimin’s inner bitch gears grinding.
“Well, unlike your prude friend, you seem to be the perfect clientele for this place so I guess you get to deal with me, huh babe?” Jimin winked at Yoorin, causing her to curl her lip in utter disgust. Before she could give him a snappy retort that would further infatuate Jimin, you grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly. She looked up at you, her eyes softening.
“I’m fine. I’ve got you here, right?” Yoorin chuckled before her eyes suddenly bugged out; she gripped onto you for dear life as Namjoon slipped the needle through her skin. Jimin didn’t know what telepathic connection the two of you had, but when you looked up to stare at Jimin, it made him want to force you to speak. He wanted some sheepish smile, some old woman apology or a prudish version of contempt.
Instead, you gave him a curt nod and went back to rooting your gaze to the floor as if Jimin got all the answers he needed from that one glance.
After that first meeting in his shop, he never expected to see you again–nevertheless in the same day. That should have been his first inkling that fate was playing a cruel, cruel trick on the both of you.
But he was still stupid then, and his eyes landed on your form as you poured yourself a cup of coffee from the machine at the only convenience store within three blocks of his place–the only shop still open so late at night. Jimin’s eyes locked with yours as you jolted from the sound of the bell announcing his entrance into the store.
The look you gave him made him want to torment you. It made him want to smother that spirit out of you–after all, with the way your eyes met his, it seemed that there was little fight in you.
He liked it when his victims bit back.
He wanted to see what it would take to get you to do so.
“You live close by, Prude?” Jimin raised an eyebrow, stepping close to you to grab a paper cup from the stack by the self-serve machines. “It’s dangerous for a lady to walk out at night by herself, you know–especially one just begging for it.”
You said nothing to him, only turned your back to him to address the syrups in a row next to the coffee.
“I know you’re not deaf, Prude; so how’s about you say a couple sweet words for me? That pretty friend of yours isn’t around to defend you, so get the damn guts to do it yourself.” He hissed, purposefully bumping into your shoulder so your coffee spilled onto your sweater.
You stared down at the stain in your sweater, your lips pursed at it before you lifted your gaze to meet his, one eyebrow raised incredulously.
“What?” He smirked at you from the corner of his eye. “It was an accident.”
The look on your face was perhaps the largest display of emotion Jimin had seen from you yet.
He chuckled, leaning against the stainless steel ledge to fill his cup up with steaming coffee. “If you’re going to be such a bitch about a little stain then how about you make me apologize? Or can you? Remember, Prude, this isn’t the place or time for you to be picking fights with angry men. What would happen if one followed you out the store?” He started towards you predatorily, moving towards the lids you seemed to be guarding behind you. Jimin’s stare engulfed you, swallowing you whole as he invaded you personal space.
And then, before he could grab his lid, you did something unexpected.
You upturned your entire cup of–steaming, mind you; burning actually–coffee all over his shoe. His sock quickly turned into a rag of fire that seared into his skin and caused him to shout in pain, dropping his own coffee to the floor.
“Shit! Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” He hissed, his gaze flickering up as he pulled his hand back to smack whatever stupid expression awaited him–instead, he found you with your hand over your mouth as if to say ‘oops, sorry’.
But he saw the hints of a smile on your face and if he listened closely past the bland elevator music of the convenience store, he swore he could hear soft laughter.
“You bitch.” He curled his lip at you, “you want me to kill you? You have a fucking death wish?”
You shrugged and strode past him to grab a fresh cup to fill with coffee.
“Hey!” He shouted, reaching out to grab your shoulder. “I’m talking to you, you fucking–”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The forgotten clerk stepped between him and you, name badge glinting under the fluorescent lights as if the fucker thought he was a damn sheriff at a fucking 7 eleven.
“And not the bitch who spilled coffee on me?” Jimin snarled, squaring up to the guy.
“Not unless you want to still be here when the cops get here.” Sheriffeleven grinned, knowing he’d won. Jimin clucked his tongue and threw a handful of eye daggers at your back before jogging out of the convenience store.
Now where the fuck was he going to go for coffee?
The third flip of fate happened weeks later, as if life had planned to consistently throw you in Jimin’s face. Whatever bullshit powers were up in the sky or down below, it seemed like the world was conspiring to throw the two of you together until something either stuck or died. Jimin was betting on the latter and that the ghost-to-be loser would be you.
This guess was probably due to the fact that you had Taehyung’s knife against your throat despite the earlier struggle of your attempted escape.
Well, Taehyung really wasn’t after you to begin with, it was Jimin’s mobile group that captured his interest–you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It seemed that “just happened to be” was a phrase that suited your existence. You were unaware of it–up until the moment Taehyung’s hand had snaked around your waist when Jimin snarled “Prude” to the streets–but Jimin’s tattoo shop was a front for a major drug business in the surrounding territory. Unfortunately for you, you were caught between Jimin’s and the neighboring territory: Taehyung’s. Taehyung, and most of his crowd, were knife wielding crazies never content with what they had; there was always more–the grass was always greener.
But then again, people in Jimin’s line of business tended to be greedy to the point of self-destruction.
Jimin stared over you, knowing full well that he was the cause for you being trapped. The old Jimin would be pissed; the current Jimin gave no fucks. “Tch, Taehyung. What the hell are you doing here?” Yoongi rolled his eyes as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, stopping his gang in their tracks to create a strip of no man’s land between Taehyung’s side and his own. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Say…I don’t know…your bar or something? Isn’t 10 the start of the weekend boom?”
“We close at 10 on Sundays.” Taehyung let out a wicked smile.
“It’s Friday.” Namjoon raised an eyebrow.
Jungkook stuck out his jaw, narrowing his eyes on the older man from across the way. “We have our connections. We know when you’re coming and when you’re leaving from our territory. Especially when you all move at once.”
Taehyung jostled his shoulder into the youngest’s. “Now now, let’s be polite to our guests. Shouldn’t we offer them some dinner?” Taehyung stared down at you. “How about you, sweetie? Want something from our cook? Big Mama Jin’s got the best stuff across five different cities.” It felt like the man was talking through you more than he was to you.
The fear was evident in your eyes, but Jimin couldn’t find it anywhere else in your expression or mannerisms. He almost wanted to see Taehyung cut you just to see something he hadn’t from you before.
“We were going to a restaurant in your territory. It’s nothing that concerns you, Taetae.” Jimin winked, causing the knee-jerk reaction in Taehyung that he loved more than anything else. It was a flick of salt in a wound that gave Jimin the coppery aftertaste of revenge on his tongue.
“Say that again.” Taehyung threatened you instead of Jimin, playing the only card easily available in his deck.
Jimin locked eyes with you, sensing your pleading fear as your lips parted. But you said nothing. “Taetae.” Jimin growled.
“Taetae! Ah! There’s my little bro!” Taehyung’s older brother rubbed his hand into his hair until the prettyboy’s locks entangled themselves into a nest. “How’ve you been?”
Jimin hated that man; he hated the man that took his best friend away from him.
“Shut up, Jimin.” Taehyung shouted, the vein in his neck popping. He was building up to an edge that would probably take you down with him, but Jimin was more than willing to shove his once-friend over that cliffside. Even if the world burned, Taehyung had to pay for his sins as much as Jimin had for his. “Do you want me to hurt this girl here?”
Jimin raised an eyebrow, unable to help the sputter of laughter that had him half folded with laughter. “Do you mistake me for the Jimin I was years back? You’d be doing me a favor if you took her out–the prude’s been annoying me the moment I met her.” Jimin’s cold gaze met yours. “Get rid of it, take it out for dinner, kill it–I don’t care.”
“She’s one of your clients, no?” Jungkook shouted. “I saw her walk out of your shop!”
Jimin let out another bark of laughter that seemed to pierce across the bubble of no man’s land. “Yeah no; does she look like she’s got any tattoos or would be willing to put up with my shit? Hell, she’s about to piss herself right now. She’s weak and the weak die. Your brother should know that, shouldn’t he Taetae?”
The knife twitched dangerously in Taehyung’s hands as he glowered at Jimin with the intent to murder–kill who was another story, but the concept of death was apparent. Your chin had to dart up to avoid the sharp edge of his blade as it came frightfully close to the thin skin of your neck; the movement brought Taehyung’s attention from Jimin to you. “Oh babygirl,” Taehyung chuckled as you shivered in his grasp–even unintentional on your part; it was the exact wrong move if you wanted to escape. Taehyung fed on fear. “You better calm down or else an accident might occur–I really don’t want to kill you before desert.”
Even you could see the tension between the two in particular, despite the fear in your eyes, you stared between Jimin and Taehyung. But you did not speak; not even with a knife at your throat did you open your damn mouth.
It was something that increased Taehyung’s interest in you, causing him to let out a cackle more monster than human. “Come on baby–you gotta speak up. I need some of that vocal material to work with later on.” When you pursed your lips tight together it only enticed Taehyung. “Cat got your tongue, eh? You know I could give you a reason to speak–or at least make more noise than you are now.” He chuckled, causing Jimin’s hands to curl at his sides.
That crude attitude was the main difference between Jimin’s group and Taehyung’s–Taehyung was ready to be predatory, they were ready to attack, kill, hurt, maim, and assault innocents; namely innocent females. Jimin’s group was only ever interested in the drug money; if they had to kill and torture to obtain the cash then that was what they’d do. This fact alone was one of the reasons Jimin joined Yoongi’s tattoo shop–that and Taehyung’s pack was the main rival in the underground business.
When Taehyung’s eyes lifted to meet Jimin’s, a horrible flash of a smirk lit up his face as the crazed man tilted his head to hover his lips dangerously close to your skin. “You know,” Taehyung’s eyes never left Jimin’s, “I bet you could make far better noises than Sooyoung.”
“Leave her out of this, Taehyung.” Jimin snarled, his anger barely wrangled in by the skeletons of his closet. “She was never yours to begin with.” Jimin could feel his neck pop; if it weren’t for Yoongi holding his arm out to stop the younger from lurching forward, Jimin would have been beating the shit out of his once friend.
“You’re just angry because she liked me better.” Taehyung chuckled.
“And she died for it, you fucker.” Jimin hissed, savoring the idea of having Taehyung’s neck under his tightening thumbs. And then your gaze pierced through that hopeful satisfaction; there was something about the glitter in your eyes in that moment that had him reeling back in Yoongi’s grip.
“Jimin,” She giggled, even trapped in an idyllic memory, he could feel the goosebumps rise up his skin, “What’re you thinking about?”
He could almost feel the grass again, that one spot that he enjoyed lying in more than any other; he could almost feel the sun on his face–before Sooyoung blocked it out with her shadow. “Taehyung.” He murmured, squinting to see past her halo. Yoongi always told him memories were skewed; the way that we see people we lost is always a bit crooked.
We forget the bad.
Her fingers were in his hair and he savored that feeling over the tightening knot of worry in his chest. “You need to relax.” She whispered, her fingers soothing his scalp. “You’ll get wrinkles early and then you won’t be handsome anymore.” She chuckled when he opened one eye to glare at her.
“You know what that part of the city means, Sooyoung. You know what he’s going to get himself into–you know–”
She gently flicked his forehead, pouting at him. “You worry too much, dummy.” But he could never tell if she was joking; she never let anything real pass through her eyes. “You’re too nice for your own good sometimes.”
He grinned up at her, pretending like there wasn’t more to her words. “But that’s what you like about me, right?”
Taehyung cut him from his memory trap.
“Aren’t you going to go get food, Jiminnie?”
“Jiminnie!” She shouted, her arms wrapping around his waist so she could bury her face between his shoulder blades.
Yoongi couldn’t stop Jimin this time; instead, the younger was lunging past his groups’ grasps to bolt out into the no man’s land between the warring gangs.
Instead of clashing with Taehyung like he oh so wanted to, Jungkook–the youngest and toughest of both sides–rammed into Jimin.
The moment Jungkook’s forearm hit Jimin’s chest (though he did manage to land a hard kick to the youngest’s shin), the street broke out into chaos. It was the first shot–the first bullet to start a war. It became a haphazard mess of limbs and metallic flashes of hidden blades. No one brought a gun this time–a plus in the unexpected expected fight. In the cacophony that was a gang fight, Jimin lost sight of both you and Namjoon; he could still catch glimpses of Yoongi attempting to get to him through the battling limbs of snarling men. And then Seokjin appeared behind Yoongi and Jimin’s efforts to escape Jungkook’s grasp intensified.
Honestly though, Jimin had just wanted some fucking noodles and instead he was getting punched across the face so hard that fell backwards and crashed back first, crashing back first into the ground. Through the flurries of pain that erupted up his spine, Jimin grabbed Jungkook’s ankle, yanking the younger to the asphalt.
In the distance, he could here sirens–though they might have been closer than he thought; Jimin really couldn’t hear much past the blood rushing in his ears and the pain of his skin scraping on the busted road.
Jimin threw Jungkook off of him and rammed his boot into the younger’s chest to keep him down enough to throw a hard punch to his jaw. It was in that moment, when Jimin was going to hunt down Taehyung, that he felt the sharp pain of cold metal slipping deep into his skin.
Sharp pain wasn’t the correct term for it either–it was more like an agonizing stab that tore through his entire body and made it hard for him to get air to his lungs. He turned, as the steel left him, catching sight of Taehyung’s favorite knife sparkling with blood–Jimin’s blood. He stared at his once friend, remembering them pinkie promising as children that they would be best friends forever.
Jimin crashed to the ground on his knees, clutching at his side only to find it slippery as blood gushed between his fingers. His arms quickly went weak and he smashed his shoulder into the asphalt, rolling onto his good side in an attempt to find Namjoon or Yoongi. All he could see was running footfalls, sirens and lights blurring his vision as people shouted and ran away from whatever doom was about to befall upon Jimin. He couldn’t even lift his head off the asphalt, nevertheless get up and run from the cops. For once, his group was nowhere to be found. Was this what happened when you were about to die?
Everyone that you believe cared about you left you to bleed out?
“Shit.” He cursed, trying to scream for someone–anyone–but he was unable to raise his voice above a low whine. Jimin’s vision spun, a whirlwind of a muddled mess that blurred the feet coming to and away from him. Suddenly, he realized that there were shoes before him and a hand on his arm, lifting him up. The person slung one of his arms over their shoulders, their free hand pressing his tighter against his wounded side. With huge, quick, and limping steps, they pushed him toward and into the blurriest blob of a car.
“Yoongi?” He croaked out.
“No.” It was a voice he didn’t recognize; he couldn’t care less, he just wanted out of there, away from the cops. If he was to die it wasn’t going to be in chains.
So, for the time being, he trusted the person buckling him into their car enough to allow himself to pass out from the pain.
The last thing he remembered from that moment was that his savior had soft and gentle hands.
Almost like they cared about a lowlife loser like him.
When Jimin finally awoke, he found himself in a bathroom–specifically in the bathtub of a bathroom that appeared to belong to a female. He eyed the organized chaos that was the rows of makeup, hair and other beauty products that he was unfamiliar with.
He tried to sit up to get a better picture of where the fuck he was and who the hell had nabbed him from the street, only to be met with a spike of agony that pulled at his side the second he shifted. He hissed in pain, his hand flying to the wound. Somewhere along the way he removed his shirt and threw it into a puddle on the floor, revealing tight stitches pulling at raw skin dried with blood. Homemade–he’d recognize the sight anywhere; though these are far more even than any he’d done himself.
Jimin threw a glance over his shoulder, staring at the pillow, the rosy pink comforter now stained with red, the rags crusted with dried blood lined on the edge of the tub–he saw the whole story in the mess. This person knew what they were doing. He forced himself up into a sitting position, gritting his teeth as his gripped the edges of the tub to aid him. The pain was an intense heat wave that bloomed beads of sweat across his forehead and neck.
It was when he was catching his breath that the bathroom door opened and you walked in–walked in nothing but a sleep tank and pair of shorts.
Jimin was unable to turn his eyes away from you; his gaze was rooted to your previously covered expanses of skin. Shocked that he was awake and staring, you hurriedly snatched a robe from the back of your bathroom door to hastily cover up. But it was already too late; Jimin had seen them.
He had openly stared at the scars that covered every inch of your normally hidden skin. Jimin couldn’t tear his eyes from the robe, as if he had x-ray vision that would allow him to go back to unashamedly uncovering all of your secrets.
You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, you wound up smacking your lips shut together, squeezing the ice pack that you had brought in with you.
“That for me?” He hooked a lazy finger to the ice, waiting until you nodded before stretching his arm out to grab it from you. You clung to your robe, stretching your upper body across the void between him and you without moving your feet. Jimin took the pack, laying it across the back of his neck to cool down his fevered skin. He wouldn’t show you, but even the simple movement tugged at his stitches and had him inwardly groaning in pain.
You flipped your thumb up and then down, your eyebrows furrowed on Jimin. He gave you a thumbs up accompanied by a dramatic eyeroll.
“Are you capable of speech, Prude?”
You nodded, your fingers digging into the plush fabric of your robe.
“But there’s something stopping you–or are you just choosing not to speak.”
You held up one finger, nodding fervently as if he would just drop the topic entirely.
He pursed his lips, staring at a section of your bathroom tile instead of at you. He tried to imagine the girl who was willing to pour hot coffee on him saving him from his death–but the pieces wouldn’t click in his black and white brain. “Why…I’m assuming it was you–why did you save me?” He shifted his gaze back to you at the end of his words, unsurprised to find you bold enough to keep your eyes level with his.
You only gave him a curt nod.
“Why?” He hissed with the sudden pain of shifting, of trying to stand up to shake the stupid out of you. Suddenly, you were there before him, offering your arms as support–the robe dropping to your feet, forgotten with your determination to help him.
“You know, Jimin, nice people like you always get taken advantage of; yet you’re never the winners.”
“Karma will come around.” He chuckled, trying to drag her out of her moment of seriousness. He didn’t like it when she got serious; it felt like he lost her when she got serious, like she was out on a raft in the middle of an ocean and he didn’t know how to swim.
“Do you believe in karma?” She whispered.
He didn’t know what to say; so instead he did the only thing he could do–he put his hand on hers with the hope that the pressure of his skin could pull her back. “I have to.”
“Well I don’t.” She retaliated quickly; her eyes lost somewhere he couldn’t reach. “Bad things happen to good people all the time, if there was karma then such instances wouldn’t exist.”
“Don’t touch me.” He shoved you away, grabbing his head from the sudden pressures of his memory. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
You jerked back from him, your hands still poised to assist him if need be.
“You’re stupid you know? I should just kill you right here and take everything away from you. Maybe then you’d finally learn something or get the courage to open your stupid mouth. Hey, then I’d be doing us all a favor, wouldn’t I? Because who in the hell would want to look at your scarred, ugly skin–”
You slapped him, staring down at him with a fury in your gaze that reminded him of his own.
Back when he was younger and still gave a damn.
But you didn’t leave; despite all his shit you crouched near him, flicked his forehead and forced him to sit back so you could clean the dried blood off his stitches.
“You’re stupid.” He groaned, resting his head against the pillow. “So fucking stupid.”
You raised both eyebrows at him as if to say ‘I know, and?’
“I should kill you, honestly. You’re more trouble to yourself anyways.”
You pinched his stitches and he let out a yelp of pain, your face splitting into a grin as his head snapped up to glare at you.
“For a bitch who can’t speak you’re pretty damn ruthless.”
You slapped a fresh gauze pad to his stitches with no mercy, grabbing your robe off the ground to pull over your shoulders and hide your exposed scars. Without another word or glance, you closed the bathroom door behind you as you left.