Genre: Heavy angst, smut, Rebel Jungkook, Fuck Buddy Jimin, Soulmate AU
Word Count: 3,691
A/N: AHHHH THANK YOU ALL FOR 200 FOLLOWERSSS (idk how i got here without smut LMAO) AS A THANK YOU I decided to attempt to write what is probs really bad: SMUT. If this turns out well, you guys can request for more it’s up to you BUT ANYWAYS THANK YOU SO MUCHHHH
*Italics is foresight.
You were nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but a parasite in a greater hold.
You were worthless.
You weren’t welcome here, slipping your boots on to wander. Wander off to hiding spot number 134. The railroad. You met your father only once. Your mother raised you poorly. You felt shipwrecked, stranded, folded out over the waves of water. Your feet took you away from the mother, passed out drunk with a stale cigarette in her fingers. They took you away from the fucked up house with the creaky floorboards on the porch, the nails stabbing out from beneath you. The night was unholy around you, the black swallowing everything on the streets. The dim lights were emitting a warm hue, shielding you from the monsters of the dark. Your eyes flickered around you, fingers twitching around the knife in your fingers. The boy. He came. And you swore you saw him blur around the edges, his mind tangled with yours.
Neither of you knew the others’ name. He was the boy, you were the girl. No words were exchanged, splashes of beer replacing the unknown voice of the boy. The static silence, the one everyone wishes for, was found instantaneously. You found yourself running after him, his black clothes hiding him from your eyes. Your teary eyes. Again. Blurred on the edges.
You shot up in your bed, eyes wide with cold sweat running down your face. You were met with the same room, dirty white walls with peeling paint, splintering floor covered in towels to prevent having to pull wood out from your feet in the bathroom. A single dresser with mismatching drawers, and a makeshift desk you threw together with plywood. You slid out from the old patchwork quilt you had over you and picked up your phone from the ground, looking at the digital time glowing on the screen. 3:32 AM. You knew you shouldn’t have tried to sleep. The dreams had been coming in since you were fourteen, the man in them seemingly haunting you ever since. You had heard of the stories of soulmates, the single item showing up in all your dreams, pulling you two together.
There were two stages in the whole “Soulmate” idea. The first was the dreams. They started when the both of you started to mature, learning in on the ideas, storing away the facts, pondering the possibilities. Thinking of how your past life was, if you ever met them before, how you died. You would start to get anxious, question if anything was true, if it was all a fairytail people told, a bedtime story for imaginative little kids. No one could ever remember their full dreams, the events staying in their world were everything was better. You started pulling out key details, things that would show up every time you closed your eyes, and you sketched them on your wall. But you quit sleeping at night. The dreams started haunting you, following you around, appearing in every minuscule thing you did every day. Last night had been the first time you had tried to sleep at night for months.
Entering the bathroom, you looked at yourself in the cracked mirror. Still as fucked up as ever, you thought. You shed your clothes, letting them fall to your feet, stepping out from them and slowly getting into the shower. The curtains were grimy and covered in god knows what, but you couldn’t bother to clean it. You started the water, the slow stream of cold hitting you like a bullet. There was no warm water - as per usual. You guessed you mother stayed up at some point to waste it on herself, thoughts of her head floating under, darkness enclosing her, stealing her warmth away ran through her head.
From fucked up parents come fucked up kids.
You ran your hands through your hair, feeling the water run down your arms like blood from wounds. The second stage of the soulmate thing was death. Cheerful, right? The story goes, you have to die before getting your memories of a past life. Pretty obvious. But, it made sense. Things would pop up, kind of like special items. For example, your friend Hoseok had been getting visions of Mr. Goodbars for quite some time. He found his soulmate at a gas station with her arms full of bars. His memories flooded back to him that night, and he spent an entire week looking for that girl. She got her memories back a few days later, and she went looking for him too. He found her eating one of the bars on a park bench, and a happy reunion went on between them. But you hadn’t had jack shit so far. You had seen few repetitive things here and there, but they all ended up staying away from your mind after a while. Either you were bad at this, or your soulmate just couldn’t pick something and stay with it.
You jumped out from the small space of the shower after being hit with deathly cold shivers. You wrapped a ripped towel around you after drying off and got ready for the day. It was any normal day of the week; way up way too early, shower, do makeup, attempt to find something to do to kill time before school, and get out of the house without your mother seeing you. You finished getting ready and climbed down the side of your house, the sole of your boots making a quiet thump in the dewy grass. The sun was still hiding away from the town’s eyes, gracing some other country with it’s annoyingly bright rays. You slid your phone out and checked the time again. 4:46. Better. You slid your key into your old pickup, named Fucker, for never working. After about twenty times, the ignition finally started and the rusty thing purred to life. You slid out of the driveway and down the streets, your eyes grazing over every little thing. You noticed one thing - the For Sale sign wasn’t hanging in Mr and Mrs Johnson’s rickety old place anymore. Keep that in mind, you told yourself. You drove down the road, parking outside of Jimin’s house. He was your childhood friend… And occasional fuck buddy. You were fine with it, you didn’t have anything else to do. But you had to admit, it was really confusing. Everyone was right - friends with benefits never work out.
You laid down over the passenger seats and kicked your feet out the window, letting the radio spill songs that swam through the air and graced your ears. You pulled out your phone again and called up Jimin, telling him you were waiting for him by the corner. He made his way out from his house slipping on a shirt, his bangs sticking to his forehead sweat. You swept your legs back down to the floor of the truck, scooting over so he could drive. He stepped in and leaned his head against the back of the seat, heaving a sigh.
“Bad dream?” You said with a hint of playfulness in your voice, glancing at his disheveled state; crumpled, ripped shirt and tight jeans that he hadn’t bothered to button, sex hair and sweat dripping down the side of his face. He let out a breathy laugh, his Adam’s Apple bobbing.
His head lolled over to look at his, his pupils blown wide. From the darkness, from you, you didn’t know and didn’t care. He looked sexy as all hell. He laughed again at the sight of your legs crossing from his intense gaze. “If you call fucking you senseless on your kitchen counter a bad dream, than it was a fucking nightmare.” He sat up, his hand curling around the stick shift and shoving the truck into gear. His foot floored the gas pedal, speeding off to your favorite clearing in the woods. The clearing where you first met him, swinging at the air with a stick while on an old swing. A swing that you grew up on, had fun on, had sex on. You felt bad for that poor old thing.
His right hand was gripping your thigh, smoothing over the folding denim of your jeans. You melted under his touch, he had complete control over you. You should’ve hated it, you knew it, you wanted to show that you still had control over one of your brains, but you knew you didn’t. And you fucking loved it. With two taps of his finger, your legs spread apart, the muscles of your thighs tightening, your core enclosing around nothing. The radio was still blasting, and Jimin took his foot off of the gas. By the time the truck was at a stop, his hands gripped your waist and pulled you to his lap, lips crashing against each other. His hands were running up and down your back, his cold fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your tongues were clashing, fighting for their territory, a battle of which he immediately won. Your fingers were curling around his shirt, tugging it over his head. He chuckled at your impatient actions, the sound sending a wave of heat that rippled down your body, eliciting a soft whimper from your lips. You were desperate, ad he tugged you closer - but it seemed like he couldn’t get you close enough. You both needed more.
You both split, and the air was rushed into your lungs, but he pulled you down again, moaning into your mouth. His hand gripped the back of your neck, the other clutching onto your breasts. His hand slipped under your shirt, his nimble fingers playing with the sensitive bud, pinching and rolling it between his index finger and thumb. You could feel him against your leg, sending shivers down your spine. His hand flew from your neck to your legs, growling at your choice of clothing for the night. “Fishnets and shorts, but no panties? You should’ve thought about that babygirl, now you’ll be walking around with my cum dripping down your legs.” his voice was deep and gravely, the sound sending chills throughout your body, making you even more wet. His fingers danced over the damp patch of your denim shorts, before roughly pressing the material onto your clit.
He chuckled and shushed you as you cried out from the feeling, pressing a finger to your lips. “Shhh, be any louder and the entire town will wake up baby.” He helped you shimmy out of your shorts, ripping an even bigger hold in your tights. His thumb went back to your clit, sliding two fingers into you. He smiled at the sounds that came from you, as he slipped your shirt off and expertly unclasped your bra. He stilled his motions and sat back, looking at you sitting on his lap. Just for him.
You were his.
He bit down onto his swollen bottom lip, moaning at the sight of you. “God, you’re such a good girl for me.” His lips attached to your neck as he pulled his pants to the middle of his thighs, bringing you closer to him. His fingers started their doings again, shoving knuckle deep into you. He was sucking on your neck, your collarbones, leaving a trail of his marks everywhere his mouth touched. The coil in your stomach was winding tighter and tighter, his movements slowing as he felt you tightening around him.
“J-Jimin, fuck, I-I’m gonna-” Your sentence was cut short by his lips on yours, but the absence of his fingers left you feeling empty. But before you could do anything more, you were met with the feeling of him deep inside you, wasting no time. Your hands were pressed against his chest, balling into fists, trying to find something to cope with from the immense and unimaginable pleasure he was giving you. He grit his teeth, his jaw tightening as a moan fell from his plump lips. He gripped your waist, helping you move up and down. There were bound to be bruises of his hands on your waist later that day.
Not matter what the occasion, the issue, anything - Jimin always seemed to be able to mark you as his. His mark was left on your soul, and there was no way to change that. A ghost of his touch would have you shaking, trying to clutch onto something of him, to get him back to you. he had such a big effect on you, but you knew. You knew he wasn’t the boy. And it hurt.
He was raising his hips to meet with you, snapping them up, reaching all the perfect spots in you. He re-positioned his hand, pressing his thumb against you, moving it in circles. You were already on the edge, but that shoved you over it and you landed in a pit of pure euphoria. Your mouth fell open, jaw slack, but nothing except the quiet pleas of his name escaped your throat. His hips sputtered as he watched you, a loud moan leaving his lips, as your name rolled off his tongue countless times. Sliding out of you, he watched as his cum ran down your thighs, a groan coming from him. He pulled your head down, holding it against his chest. His hand instinctively wrapped around your waist, protecting you from anything else. His other hand went to your hair, stroking it soothingly as he pressed a kiss to your head. “You’re perfect (Y/N)… Absolutely perfect.” He laid his shirt over you, covering you away from the world.
You smiled up at him, pressing one last kiss to his jawline before slipping away into the best sleep you’ve ever had.
You awoke in the middle of the day, wrapped up in Jimin’s arms. The radio was quieter now, soothing music flowing out from it. It looked to be about mid-day, the sun shining through the leaves on the trees. You quickly sat up, reaching for your clothes and pulling them on. Your hurried movements stirred Jimin in his sleep, his grip loosening around you.
“Baby? What’s wrong? Why are you in such a hurry?” His voice was deep and husky, teasing you even more. Before he could pull you back down to him, you sat on his lap, kicking the car into drive.
“If my mom’s awake my ass is toast,” you said, speeding out to the town roads. “Last time she burned her cigarette out on my eyelid. I don’t know why she give a fuck anymore.” You slowed down when you neared his house, leaning over and kissing his neck one last time. His eyebrows furrowed, his hand grasping yours.
“Babygirl… I’m worried for you. You don’t deserve the shit your mom puts you through. God, I’ll fucking kill her if she lays a hand on you today…” There was a look in his eyes, one that told you - he wasn’t lying. His gaze hardened, glaring at nothing in particular. Your hand rested on his thigh, looking at him.
“Jimin, it’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” You weakly smiled at him, unlocking the doors for him. “Now get out before she really does hurt me.” You smiled and kissed his cheek, watching as he slipped away into his house. Your eyes glanced back to Mrs. Johnson’s old house, a moving truck sitting outside. Boxes were sitting on the curb and on the sidewalk, the stairs being taken over by a couch and a boy, clad in black jeans and white shirt, sitting on his phone with earbuds in. He had some tattoos scattered around his body, piercings gleaming in the sun. He must’ve been a senior, looking a few years younger than Jimin. You wondered why anyone would transfer to this shithole of a town when they only had a year of high school left. His sleeves were rolled up, his forehead doused in sweat, his shirt collar damp from hauling boxes under the summer rays. He hoisted himself up and slipped his phone into his pocket, muscles flexing against the weight of a box. His eyes trailing towards your figure sitting in the truck. Your hand flew to the stick shift, gunning it into gear. You sped around the corner, circling the block to get home. You pulled into the driveway, putting it into park and switching off the key. It was eleven by now, and you knew you were gonna have to get your own lunch rather than having your mother cook. Her car wasn’t in the driveway, so you figured she was either one, day drinking, or two, going out to fuck another piece of trash. With your head resting against the back seat, you looked around you. You had grown up in this small, boring town, your being doing nothing to make it more interesting. You wanted to get out of here so much, but you always told yourself: Two more years.
You backed out of the driveway again, passing the new boy’s house on the way to the grocery store. To your surprise, the familiar stance of Jimin was standing next to the boy on the steps. Pulling up behind the moving truck, you rolled down the passenger’s window and peeled your head out. “Jimin? You know the new guy?” Both of their heads turned to you and your jaw almost visibly dropped. He’s fucking gorgeous. They both are. A smile graced Jimin’s lips as he briefly turned and said something to the boy, and jogged over to you. He was sweaty again, and images of this morning’s antics flooded into your mind. You cursed your legs for crossing.
“Yeah, I do now. But what are you doing here baby?” He leaned in through the window and rested on his elbows, one of his hands running through his hair.
“I was just running to Jeff’s to get some chicken. Want me to bring you two some?” He smiled, his cheeks raising into his eyes and turning them into those adorable little crescents. The boy came back up, his gaze magnetized by yours. His eyes were deep, dark. Sad. People say that eyes tell all the secrets - his showed none. Nothing but a deep dark abyss, pulling you in farther than you would like. He was the sad boy; the one with daddy issues, who’s momma left after he was born, and copes by chain smoking and drinking. Scars on his back from his father’s belt. He looked like that type of mess. He wasn’t a person. He was a bomb, ready to self-destruct at the push of his button, hidden behind his left ribs. His hands were resting at his sides, fists clenched, knuckles scarred. Burns were scattered all over him, the butts of cigarettes leaving their imprints on his body, skin stretching over him like the most expensive canvas. He was a Mona Lisa in himself. A mystery.
Jimin didn’t catch your entrancement in this boy’s deep orbs, so he turned nodding, saying to get a sixteen piece box. A hard smile spread over your lips, eyes ripping themselves away to look at the road.
He was his own secret.
You found yourself sitting on the boy’s front porch, a bucket of chicken on the steps in front of you, and two boys playing football in the lawn. For once in your life, you felt like you belonged somewhere. Somewhere where no one was dragging you down, where they’re drowning and pulling you down with them. Now, you were floating, because someone was stable enough to throw out a life preserver.
He didn’t have a name. Or, to you he didn’t. He looked like someone so pained, that they couldn’t bother letting another person into their life. You didn’t think Jimin knew it either, because he said nothing of it at the truck. You mind was getting fuzzy, like in your dreams, everything disappearing around the edges. The boy looked clean cut though, like he was really the person with the rope, pulling you out from the raging waters of self-destruction. The ink in his skin etched out his story, a book written on his worn pages. Pictures of black lungs, skeletons and whiskey, knives and guns. You had two favorites so far - one, a man in a box, holding his knees to his chest, pulling the trigger against his head. A bouquet of flowers came from his opposite temple. The other, much more simple. A dotted line with a small pair of scissors running across his carotid artery. A sad boy, indeed. You wondered how much more art his body held.
It hit you without any warnings.
Pictures flashed through your mind, clawing at you. Withered white roses laying on the ground, a shattered mirror, and the boy’s bloody face, laying in your lap, with a piece of glass protruding through his throat. His figure was fading, blurred, a smile spread over his lips as his smile was directed up to you. A smile you didn’t know was capable from such a broken person. Your hand in his, swallowing it and the only blooming rose in the room, stained by the blood laying around you. That was it. Your past life came to you.
And the boy in front of you was your soulmate.
Hiding problems was no big feat for you, so your face stayed straight throughout the episode, hands shaking. It was all too much, too fast. You felt like you were supposed to crawl way and hide in bed, cradling yourself until the sobs racking through your body stopped, and you could breathe without a tear running down your cheek. But you sat, with that stupid chicken, on a stupid porch, watching stupid boys, in a stupid town, on a stupid planet that wasn’t ever supposed to happen. And you stayed silent, because you were too scared to do anything. You were shivering in this summer sun, the picture on him laying on your lap haunting you.
The words to your favorite song swam through your stream of consciousness, your body swaying slightly as the bus drove from road to road. You leaned right in advance, just as the vehicle turned a corner. You smiled to yourself. Just like usual.
The bus slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Some passengers got off, new passengers filled the empty seats, and soon the bus drove off again, and you were back to minding your own business. Just as a new song played, you had a peculiar urge to look up. But maybe, you shouldn’t have.
Sitting right in front of you was the person that used to make your days a lot better; the one you shared all your thoughts with, and the one you hurt the most. Sitting right in front of you was Joshua and he was looking right at you with wide eyes. He seemed to get over the surprise fast though as his face melted into a gentle smile.
That voice, that honey-like voice that made your mornings, that voice that made your name sound so special, that voice that sang you to sleep when you can’t, and that voice that you heard so vividly in your dreams; it was his. It was him.
“Hey,” you smiled back.
“You still take this bus, huh?”
“Like always. You?”
He shifted in his seat, twiddling his fingers. “Just recently,” he nodded. And with that, silence.
The conductor’s voice came through the speakers after a while, announcing the next stop. Two more stops, you thought.
‘See you around?‘ ‘It was nice seeing you?‘ 'Bye?’ Saying that would be weird. How do you say a casual goodbye to the person you gifted with a painful one and with no reason?
The bus slowed to a stop once again and the doors opened.
“Well,” he said, bringing your attention back to him, “this is me.” He waved goodbye to you, albeit rather hesitantly, and all you could do was watch.
Right, you thought. It’s all different now. It’s not like before when he used to drop you off, insisting that he wanted to make sure you got home safe. This is not what you were used to. This was not like usual.
You turned around just as the bus started again. And he that used to always be by you, he that only loved you, he that wondered what he did wrong, now had his back turned against you, he that completely moved on.
WHY DO YOU WRITERS HAVE TO MIND FUCK US for once can the finale not ruin my fucking life
I love this show more than anything though…but seriously I am so not ready for this..
I am still not over last season’s finale…or Swan Song…I still cry when I watch it and I never fucking cry, only when I watch Supernatural…omg and No Rest For the Wicked…ugh this finale/hellatus is going to be SO much fucking harder than all of the past 9 season together… I can just tell