sugaflake - Tumblr blog

sugaflake · 9 months

Text

love you for infinity | kth

Kim Taehyung and his fiancée met their untimely deaths when they were young and heartbroken. When he's doomed to roam the earth as a ghost with unfinished business, Taehyung is convinced that finding the soul of his true love and righting his wrongs will set him free. However, you have no intention of being haunted by a ghost for the rest of your life.

» pairing: ghost!taehyung x human(f)!reader

» wc/date: 24k 🫣 | March 2023

» Part of the To Love a Monster Collab

» notes: i'm sorry this took me so fucking long to write. i really hope it's worth the wait! this is the longest fic i've written so far and tbh i feel like my brain is scrambled eggs after finishing it. i hope it doesn't read as though i wrote it with scrambled-eggs brain 🫣 ghostie tae is just very near and dear to my heart and i love him. that is all

» more notes: pls be sure to check out the other works in this collab! i'm so happy i was able to write this fic with the support of my friends, and i'm excited to read their stories, too 😍 and a huge thanks to lati @/jjkeverlast and hali @/sailoryooons for putting up with my incessant whining over taking too long to write this thing

» what was jai listening to? infinity - jaymes young

Time doesn’t mean much when you’re dead.

When he was alive, time meant everything to Taehyung. It was one of life’s most elusive luxuries during a period when humanity was far more fragile than it is now.

Now, he’s been on earth long enough to hardly notice when the sun and moon dodge each other at the beginning and end of each day. It’s a cruel dance, what the sun and moon must perform. Taehyung wonders how much it hurts to see his other half die and be born again. He’s sure his decrepit heart wouldn’t be able to take it. Too much pain has made its home there.

He’s been on earth long enough to hardly notice that, too. Pain means nearly as little as time.

He knows he’s lying to himself, but no one can stop him. Well, there is one person. Taehyung doesn’t find his advice agreeable with what he wants, so he ignores him. Unfortunately for Taehyung, it’s a bit difficult to ignore Yoongi.

Even now, when Taehyung desperately wishes to be left alone, he can sense Yoongi’s presence. The groundskeeper’s keyring jingles as he twirls it around his long, knobby index finger.

Taehyung tries to tune out the sound, focusing his thoughts on what he sees rather than hears. He sees that dusk is approaching, although dark clouds rolling in from the east threaten to mute the sky's magnificent hues of pink and orange. He sees that the damp grass he’s kneeling on has turned the shins of his trousers a dark green. He sees a chip on the edge of the tombstone in front of him.

“Yoongi.”

His throat hurts when he swallows, as though it’s peeling open wide enough to let his voice through. The action makes Taehyung realize he can’t remember the last time he’s spoken to someone. But he knows it won’t matter if he's too quiet. Yoongi doesn’t need Taehyung to speak out loud to hear him.

The jingle of the keyring gradually gets louder until it stops. Taehyung knows the groundskeeper is standing over him, staring with those cat-like eyes that have become so familiar. He can smell the smoke of the cigarette Yoongi has stuffed in the corner of his mouth before he sees a bit of ash float to the ground beside him.

“Hyung?” Yoongi waits with his thumbs in his belt loops.

“This chip.” Taehyung reaches out to touch the bright white spot where the edge of the tombstone is chipped. The jagged chip in the stone is sharp enough to draw blood. Taehyung presses his thumb into it as hard as he can. “It is new.”

Yoongi sighs from above Taehyung, but he doesn’t look up. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the pad of his thumb. His skin is smooth and unscathed.

“We got a new guy mowing the grass. He’s still learning how to use the equipment properly.” Yoongi drops more ash as the cigarette bobs between his lips. “It happens, hyung. There’s not much I can do to prevent accidents.”

Taehyung has to give him some credit; this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. After nearly a decade of friendship, Yoongi’s patience has never run dry. He wishes he could say the same about himself. After nearly two hundred years, it may be surprising that the man’s patience hasn’t strengthened. For Taehyung, life both drags on and passes by unnoticed. It’s a strange feeling, nothing he knows how to articulate to anyone. Not that he has anyone to talk to aside from Yoongi. And Yoongi doesn’t ask questions.

When Taehyung doesn’t respond, Yoongi shifts his weight from one foot to another. Taehyung can feel the motion through the ground beneath his shins.

“Y’know, maybe you should go out, hyung,” the groundskeeper says after a moment. He mumbles his words, and more ash falls from the sky. “It’s Halloween. There’ll be more of you out there, y’know.”

From the corner of Taehyung’s eye, he can see Yoongi sweep his hand in the air, motioning toward the large black gates at the cemetery’s entrance. His cigarette sits nestled between his fingers.

It’s not a bad idea, going out. Taehyung used to do it all the time, especially during Halloween. He’s unsure when he stopped but knows it’s been years.

That’s a lie.

He knows when he stopped and knows why he stopped. He stopped going out on Halloween when he decided to stop looking for you.

With a sigh, Taehyung rises from the ground and brushes off his stained trousers. He doesn’t understand how his clothes can get dirty, but your chipped tombstone couldn’t cut him.

There are no indents in the grass where Taehyung had kneeled atop your grave.

“Not this year,” Taehyung declares.

First, he fiddles with his suit jacket, and when he gets tired of that, he fiddles with the top button of his dress shirt. It’s not what his friend wants to hear, and Taehyung knows that, but he can’t pretend. He’s too tired to pretend.

Whatever Yoongi has to say behind that is drowned out by a distant shriek. The two men flinch before whipping their heads toward the sound. Yoongi’s tension dissipates quicker than Taehyung’s when the shrieking morphs into cackles of laughter.

A group of young people loiters down the winding path toward the middle of the grounds. One has climbed on the shoulders of an angel statue, the rest of the group giggling as the climber shows off his athleticism.

“Dumbass kids,” Yoongi mutters under his breath. His boney fingers grip the waistband of his jeans to adjust them on his hips before he stomps through the rows of tombstones. “Ayy! Get the fuck outta here!”

They don’t look like kids from here. They’re probably around the same age Taehyung was when he died, although twenty-seven seemed much older then than it does now. His engagement to you is simply one example of how times have changed. When he was alive, the engagement was long overdue. In today’s society, people in their late twenties are okay with being unwed and childless.

Taehyung doesn’t quite understand what else someone would want to do in life. All he ever wanted was to be a husband and a father.

When trespassers cause trouble on the grounds, Taehyung lets Yoongi take care of them. There’s not much he can do to help, anyway, nor does he want to help. It’s all ridiculous, cliche, and a bit offensive. The living think death is something to play with and laugh at. Today shouldn’t be any different than all the other days.

Yet Taehyung gingerly steps around your grave as if he could disturb it. Something compels him to sneak up behind Yoongi. He’s too tall and broad to hide behind him and doesn’t need to. The trespassers can’t see him. No one can see him except Yoongi.

Half of the group has already taken off. Taehyung assumes it’s the more athletic ones of the group that are throwing their legs over the fence by the time Yoongi reaches the statue. The trespassers left behind stand with their heads hanging and hands clasped behind their backs.

“Please don’t call the cops!”

The one who looks the youngest is trembling so badly that Taehyung feels sorry for him. He’s got the roundest, brightest eyes Taehyung has ever seen, and his cute front teeth are all Taehyung can look at as he begs for forgiveness. His clothes are torn and bloody, but the ugly rubber mask that looks like a monster in his hand reminds Taehyung that it’s Halloween and the living love to mimic death, too.

“I swear we weren’t doing anything bad! We were just looking for ghosts or or or vampires. I mean, not that we think they’re real or anything, but it’s Halloween and-”

An elbow to the ribs makes the young man gasp.

“Jungkookie, shut up.”

With an amused smile, Taehyung drops his eyes from the trembling young man, Jungkookie, to the person who has interrupted him. Although the command is hissed rather harshly, this other trespasser is also trembling in fear. He wants to laugh, but his throat hurts from the little talking he has already done. There’s nothing scary about Yoongi. He’s all bark and no bite, but these people don’t know that.

“Nah, I’m not gonna call the cops. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Yoongi scolds, adjusting the waistband of his jeans again.

Taehyung wonders if he thinks it’s an intimidating move.

Jungkookie lets out a loud sigh of relief, but his friend still trembles. Their head is bent, so Taehyung can’t see their face. All he can see is the dark robe they wear. There’s a gold crest stitched onto the front. Taehyung thinks it might be a design from a witch movie he saw many years ago on one of the Halloweens Yoongi convinced him to enjoy.

Taehyung doesn’t know why, but he wants to see the stranger’s face. He wants to press his fingers against the underside of their chin and lift their head. He could if he wanted to. He can touch people. It doesn’t feel the same as a human’s touch; at least, that is what Yoongi told him. Yoongi says his touch feels wispy and cold, like the chill air that rushes out of the freezer when the door opens.

His arm extends before he can stop himself, causing Yoongi to give him a side look with eyebrows raised in confusion. But before Taehyung can reach the stranger, they look up, dark eyes seemingly staring straight into his.

Taehyung gasps despite the air meaning nothing to him. He feels Yoongi tense beside him, but he can’t look away.

It’s you.

What little human skepticism is left in Taehyung immediately tells him it’s impossible that this stranger could be you, but he has seen the impossible happen plenty of times. He is a ghost, after all. Isn’t his existence supposed to be impossible? Yet here he is, haunting the cemetery where his betrothed was buried two centuries ago.

Haunting isn’t the right word. Taehyung hates that word. He’s not haunting; he’s waiting, waiting for you.

In all the ways he’s fantasized about this moment, Taehyung always assumed you would be like him: a ghost, an apparition, a specter. He thought you were doomed to wander the earth like he was, searching for a love ripped apart unjustly and prematurely. Taehyung once heard humans refer to the wandering as unfinished business. He supposes his business is unfinished. The two of you were meant to be married and live a life of unwavering love until you grew old together.

But you are standing before him in flesh and blood, breathing air with trembling lungs.

For a moment, Taehyung thinks you can see him. Perhaps you’ve been reincarnated as a medium like Yoongi. It would be a convenient turn of events, but Taehyung has never been lucky. Little good has come to him, both in life and in death. The only good, he thinks, was you, and you were taken from him.

After getting over the shock of seeing your face, Taehyung looks hard at your eyes and realizes you are not looking at him. Your eyes aren’t focused on the foreground; you’re peering through him. When he turns to follow your gaze, he finds a truck parked outside the cemetery, headlights blinding in the sudden darkness surrounding them.

Yoongi breaks the silence. “Well, get outta here unless you want me putting you to work cleaning up the mausoleums or somethin’.”

The two trespassers scramble toward the gates, not sparing another glance at Taehyung and Yoongi. Well, at Yoongi.

“What was that about, hyung?” The medium flicks his cigarette onto the ground and digs it into the yellowed grass with the toe of his boot.

Taehyung doesn’t have to ask Yoongi what he’s referring to, but he can barely hear the man over the rush of white noise assaulting his brain. If he could sweat, he knew his hands would be clammy and the back of his neck hot. He bends over at the waist, delicate hands clasping his knees as he tries to regulate his breathing. Breathing! Like as if he needs it.

“I believe… I may faint,” Taehyung gasps, staring up at Yoongi with wild eyes.

“Faint?” His friend croaks with concern. “Hyung, I don’t think your body can. Passing out happens due to a lack of oxygen, but you don’t need oxygen….”

“It can; I can feel it. I believe it can.” Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut. Can ghosts vomit? A wave of nausea overtakes him as another round of laughter floats through the cool autumn breeze. The group is still here. You’re still here, just beyond the rusty metal fence.

Remaining doubled over, Taehyung starts dry heaving, his shoulders tumbling forward in a rocking motion.

“Fuck,” Yoongi quietly curses. He wraps one arm around Taehyung’s waist and rubs between his shoulder blades. “Hyung, why, what’s happening to you?”

Taehyung also didn’t think ghosts could cry, but Yoongi’s image blurs when he looks up at him.

“That was Y/N,” Taehyung sputters. “I must go to her. Yoongi, I cannot stay here.” The declaration is frantic, but at least he’s standing now.

“Whoa, calm down, hyung, alright? How could that be her? She’s, that person was a human. I know it. You know I would sense something.”

Taehyung grabs both of Yoongi’s shoulders and does his best to ignore the way his friend shivers beneath his grasp. “Yoongi, please trust me. There is absolutely no way I can possibly be mistaken. There is nothing I am more confident in than her.”

Perhaps it’s the crazed look in his eyes or the pained edge to his voice, but Yoongi finally nods. Taehyung can find his way back to the cemetery, and there is no danger threatening him out in the world behind the gates. He’s already dead.

He wants to kiss his friend on the cheek but forces it down. The times are different now, and Yoongi isn’t as affectionate as Taehyung is. There’s also a shameful feeling that licks at Taehyung’s burning throat. He knows his touch will be cold, and he’s tired of making his friend shiver.

Before Yoongi can change his mind, Taehyung sprints toward the gates. He could float if he wanted to, but something is grounding about how his dress shoes sink into the earth, even if no footprints are left behind.

The trespassers are climbing into the truck by the time he reaches them. With one last look at Yoongi, his form small in the distance, Taehyung ducks his head and slides into the backseat. He has no idea where he’s going, but he doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is that he sits in the empty seat between you and Jungkookie.

He doesn’t have a working heart, but he could swear there’s a frantic flutter in his chest as he takes in your side profile. Everything is the same. The delicate features of your face, the curves of your body, even the way you sit with your eyebrows furrowed when you’re deep in thought.

He wants to touch you so badly.

You shift in your seat and rest your hand, palm up, against your thigh. All it would take is a slight extension of Taehyung's arm for him to intertwine his fingers with yours.

“Jimin,” you whine, making Taehyung jump. “Can you turn the heat on? It’s so cold back here.”

He clasps his hands in his lap and watches you with wide eyes. Your voice is still the same but a bit rougher. People’s voices these days do seem rougher than when Taehyung was alive. Everyone is more casual now. Taehyung likes it. He likes the idea of you being free to express yourself, to be loud and rough. Too many women were made to be demure back then. It never befitted you.

“It’s already on, all the way,” the man called Jimin states from behind the steering wheel.

Taehyung realizes he’s never been inside a car before. It’s nice, he decides. He enjoys how comfortable the seats are, even though he knows he can only sort of feel them. It’s odd how his body works. He can feel, hold, and sit on things without falling through. But he’s not all solid, not all the time. It’s hard to understand. He’s both here and not, real and make-believe.

“I’m so fucking cold,” you mumble as you wrap your arms around yourself. “I feel like I’m going to get hyperthermia. Jungkookie, are you not cold?”

Jungkookie reaches over to rub your arm. Taehyung does his best to sink further into the back of the seat lest Jungkookie accidentally brushes against him.

“Maybe you got cursed by evil spirits,” Jimin offers. “Cemeteries are full of them. The deranged souls of those who’ve been murdered. Or worse! The murderers themselves.”

Taehyung decides he doesn’t like Jimin very much.

“Ghosts aren’t real,” you scoff as though you’ve had to make this statement one too many times.

Even though Taehyung knows most people don’t believe in ghosts anymore, hearing his betrothed say he cannot exist still stings. It’s not your fault, though. How could you possibly know? Taehyung cannot expect you to retain memories from a past life. However, he hopes he can find a way to coax them out from somewhere deep inside your soul. He hopes he can make you remember. Remember him. Maybe this was his purpose, why he was trapped here instead of moving on to the afterlife.

“My love for you has been eternal, beloved,” Taehyung whispers. “I promise I’ll never let you down again.”

You gasp when you feel his cool breath against the shell of your ear. He knows you can’t hear him, but he watches as goosebumps trail down your arms.

Your mind might not know he’s there, but your body does.

By the time you kick off your shoes in the entranceway to your apartment, the cold has settled deep into your bones.

For fear of freezing even more, you quickly change into warm pajamas, with fluffy slippers and a blanket thrown over your shoulders like a cape. The thermostat is set at the same temperature you always set during this time of year, but you crank it up anyway.

You shouldn’t have gone to the stupid cemetery with Jungkook and his friends, if you can call them friends. Jungkook can’t seem to understand why you find his so-called friends unworthy of his friendship. They all seem to thrive off of scaring the poor kid, which gets you scared in return because Jungkook can’t do anything without you. Although you love him like the little brother you never had, a level of self-preservation kicks in when confronted with scary things. You’re a firm believer in leaving the paranormal alone. Unfortunately, Jungkook’s friends typically have other ideas.

“Maybe I have the flu,” you mumble to yourself. Illness is the only explanation for why you feel like you’ve been tossed naked into a frozen lake when the leaves barely fall from the trees outside.

Even though you sluggishly shuffle into the bathroom, your eyes stare back at you from the mirror so brightly it scares you. You don’t feel alert; you feel as though you can barely keep your eyes open. Yet you’re wide-eyed and blazing in the mirror as you brush your teeth.

“Jimin just made me nervous, that’s all,” you reassure yourself, pausing to wash your mouth of toothpaste. “It’s just nerves.”

Your skincare routine is next. If you don’t do it tonight, it will start a treacherous cycle of skipping your daily routine. So, you splash your face with water and start massaging a pale blue cleanser into your skin.

“It’s so silly. What am I even scared of? Nothing happened.” You pout at the mirror, and it pouts back, somehow looking more judgmental than expected. “So, I’m cold. No biggie.” Your mom always insists that you’re anemic because of how cold your hands get. Maybe you are anemic, and this situation is a sign that you should go to the doctor.

The thought of doctors makes goosebumps rise and shiver down your arms. No doctors, no hospitals. You’ve dealt with them enough in your life.

As you climb into bed with your skin clean and tingly, you’re too tired to consider it strange that you have no other symptoms of illness aside from being deathly cold. With heat pumping through the vents and blankets surrounding you, you fall asleep with the confidence that you’ll be fine in the morning.

Except you aren’t fine.

Your body temperature isn’t the problem anymore. You wake up warm enough to be somewhat sweaty beneath the mountain of blankets. It feels good to defrost, although your bones ache as you throw your legs over the side of the bed. You don’t get very far, however.

No, the problem isn’t your temperature. It’s your clothes.

You know for a fact that you stripped down with haste last night. Exhausted, cold, and admittedly still spooked by the cemetery situation and Jimin’s ghost stories, you didn’t have the energy to put your clothes away. Sundays are laundry days. You planned to throw everything in the wash in the morning—no need to be neat.

But now, as you sit on the edge of your bed with lips parted, you come face-to-face with your laundry basket.

It sits beside your dresser on the floor across from your bed. It’s stacked with folded, clean clothes, including the Hufflepuff robe from last night and the all-black attire you’d worn underneath.

There’s no way you did that. Sundays are laundry days. Today is Sunday, but you just woke up. And you know for a fact that your pile of dirty laundry had been obscenely large yesterday.

Your fingers sift through the blankets to find your phone. An image of you and Jungkook flashes on the screen when you check the time. You’ve got your cheeks pressed together, Jungkook’s flushed a deep pink, sweat making your faces shine. His twenty-first birthday was a year ago. It was the worst year of your life when your mental health plummeted for seemingly no reason, but taking Jungkook out for his birthday is one of your happiest memories.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glare at the translucent orange medicine bottle sitting on your nightstand. The antidepressant you take to battle your insomnia can sometimes make you feel groggy enough to be disoriented. Still, you’ve never done anything as extreme as laundry without remembering anything in the morning.

Wiggling your toes to wake them up, you walk to the cursed laundry basket. It’s ridiculous, you think, how you slowly reach out to press your fingertips against the folded t-shirt on top of the stack. You tell yourself you’re overdramatic, snatching your hand back quickly.

The t-shirt is warm.

“What in the fuck,” you whisper amidst a breathy exhale.

You pray your heart will slow down, but your hands are already shaking. Holding them against your chest does very little to settle the trembling.

Usually, the smell of clean laundry would comfort you. It reminds you of Sunday mornings with your mother. You’d tiptoe around her in the small laundry room in the basement of your childhood home, hips bumping into each other as you sorted through the clothes. Your little sister always left things in her pockets. When you moved out, you were sure you’d collected hundreds of dollars in coins from inside her clothes.

There’s not much you can do about the freshly-folded laundry in your bedroom. However, you can set a reminder on your phone to schedule an appointment with your psychiatrist. Clearly, you need to reevaluate your medication. Who knows how many other things you’ve done in your sleep?

You snatch your phone from the bed and skip over the unread notifications.

To: Jungkookie

have you ever slept walked before?

Your gym rat of a best friend is probably getting in his morning workout, pumping iron to whatever hyperpop hits Gen Z is listening to right now, so you’ll have to wait for a response to your text message.

With a sigh, you shuffle down the hall with the blanket draped over your shoulders. The fear of growing cold again makes you unwilling to part with all the extra layers.

Rubbing your eyes won't do much for fog in your brain. Rarely do you succumb to coffee, but today might have to be one of those days. You don’t particularly enjoy drinking coffee. It’s bitter, and excess caffeine makes you jittery, but Hoseok left it behind when he moved out. Unfortunately, the part of you that likes to hurt hasn’t allowed you to throw it out. So, you make the dumb coffee and tell yourself it’s not weird that you drink from his favorite mug.

It’s your second day in a row drinking coffee, and you’re already grumbling about handwashing the mug before you can get your drink. Of course, Hoseok’s favorite mug would be the one you can’t conveniently throw into the dishwasher. At least you’ve gotten a headstart on cleaning today, having miraculously finished laundry in your sleep…

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear it. It’s the rumbling sound of liquid bubbling, like water brought to a boil on the stove. Behind that sound, you think you can faintly make out water running from a faucet.

There’s someone in your fucking apartment.

You freeze, every muscle in your body clenched in terror. Your apartment complex isn’t the nicest out there, but it’s a relatively secure building. Nothing has ever made you feel unsafe.

The smell of coffee wafts down the hall, and the bubbling sound slowly disappears. The running water has also ceased, but you’re still in the same spot in the hallway.

If someone was here to rob or murder you, would they make themselves a cup of coffee? It doesn’t seem likely, although you vaguely remember your favorite true crime podcast covering a story about a murderer who made himself a sandwich after killing his entire family. So maybe coffee is this intruder’s sandwich.

A shiver runs down your spine like nails raking into your skin. The thought that the intruder may have done your laundry flickers across your mind, but you swiftly brush it aside. You need to get a grip on the situation. All you have on you is your phone, and there’s not much you can use as a weapon from where you stand in the hallway. However, if you move, you will alert the intruder of your presence.

You’re fucked.

With your heart in your throat and bile swirling in your stomach, you tiptoe into the kitchen, fully prepared to launch your phone as hard as possible at the intruder’s face. Perhaps that can buy you enough time to grab a knife. (You try to ignore the recent memory of Jungkook scolding you for letting them grow dull.)

If you die because you didn’t listen to Jungkook…

“Get the fuck out of my—”

The kitchen is empty. Hoseok’s favorite mug sits on the counter. Steam swirls from the coffee, where a few bubbles float on the surface, undisturbed. The drying rack on the other side of the kitchen sink is full of clean dishes.

You could explain away fresh laundry by blaming the medication that makes you drowsy. You could even use the medication to explain the clean dishes you know were dirty when you went to bed. But you cannot explain how a fresh, pipping hot mug of coffee sits on your kitchen counter when you just woke up.

You chew your bottom lip and twist your fingers into your blanket as the air around you grows cold. You can’t help but think the draft feels like cool fingers caressing your forearm. You don’t have time to linger on the sensation, but you try to hold onto the feeling despite how it makes your entire body shake like a leaf in the wind. Then, just as abruptly as the cold comes, it disappears as though it is being pulled in the opposite direction.

Your apartment is small. There’s no way someone could have left your kitchen without running into you in the hallway unless they left through the front door. You allow yourself half a second to look to your left; the door chain is still in place.

The sound of ceramic dragging against marble brings your attention to the kitchen. Jimin’s ghost stories were some form of dramatic irony, you think as you watch the coffee mug slide across the counter toward you. And before you can stop yourself, you’re screaming, the sound ripping from somewhere deep in your chest.

Your only source of defense goes flying in the air. When your phone hits the coffee mug, it shatters against the floor in explosive, navy blue shards. Black coffee splatters on the tile floor and against the lower kitchen cabinets.

It takes great care to maneuver around the shards of the ceramic mug, but you barrel forward to retrieve your phone. You don’t realize you’re crying until your voice cracks when Jungkook answers your call after the third attempt.

“Noona, sorry, I was—”

“Jungkook, Ineedyoutocomeoverrightnow!”

“What?”

“Right now!”

You’re slamming the front door behind you as Jungkook hurriedly promises to drive over as soon as possible. Fight or flight has you crouching on the floor in the hallway outside your apartment. It seems safer being out there, even though ghosts can supposedly float through walls, right? That’s a consideration you push to the back of your mind. Nothing good will come from it. Besides, you’ve still got the grating sound of that mug moving autonomously across the counter ringing in your head.

Jungkook arrives fifteen minutes later, clad in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie. His cherry-red bangs stick to his sweaty forehead, and his cheeks are just as colorful.

“Someone’s in your apartment right now?” His inquiry comes out in an exasperated huff. If this was a normal situation, you’d feel bad for the anxiety you know you’re causing.

This isn’t a normal situation.

You rub your face with the corner of your blanket and shake your head. “It’s a ghost.”

To your friend’s credit, it is a ridiculous statement from you. You’re the friend group’s biggest skeptic. When Jungkook’s nose scrunches, and his cute bunny teeth poke out, you try not to get pissed off.

“A ghost?”

“Yes, yes, a ghost. Can you just go in there?” You gesture to the front door.

If Jungkook cares that you have an iron grip on his shirt when you trail behind him, he doesn’t say anything. The need to be protected overrides your disgust for his sweaty back.

“Where was it?”

You shush Jungkook, whispering, “The kitchen.”

Jungkook leads you into the kitchen and comes to a halt in the middle of the room. “There’s nothing here, noona….”

Peeking around Jungkook’s shoulder reveals to you a pristine kitchen. Not a single drop of coffee remains on the floors or cabinets, and you can’t find even the tiniest shard of the broken mug.

“B-But, there was the coffee; Hobi’s mug was broken….” You’re babbling, one hand still squeezing Jungkook’s shirt and the other keeping your blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I’m telling you, JK. There was a cup of coffee here. Fresh coffee. And it moved by itself, but I threw my phone and….”

Humor drains from Jungkook’s face. The stark difference alarms you, and you turn to look over your shoulder in case he’s seeing something you don’t.

“Y/N noona.” He takes a slow step toward you, causing you to let go of his shirt. His hand is warm against your forearm. It’s a different sensation than the cool caress you’d felt earlier. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m so serious, JK. Weird shit has been going on today.”

Jungkook’s teeth dig into his bottom lip for a moment. It’s easy to get lost in his large, round eyes. Even easier to find yourself being taken apart by them.

“I just know it was tough for you, seeing Hobi hyung at Jimin-ssi’s party.”

“This isn’t about Hoseok,” you snap.

Jungkook only nods. He never takes your outbursts personally. There’s worse you’ve put him through. Jungkook has seen you at such low points in your life that remembering those moments is embarrassing. Regardless, it means he knows how to work with you much better than most people.

“Can we watch a movie? I was gonna hang out with Ryujin, but we can link up later.”

You know Jungkook is trying to keep your mind off of the situation. Redirection. It only works to an extent, but you’re thankful for his efforts, no matter the outcome.

You let him lead you to the couch, pliant as he tucks you into his side and wraps his arm around your shoulders. He’s still sweaty from working out, but it feels good to melt into him. The two of you mold into the couch and stay there for hours.

Jungkook is good for uninterrupted cuddles. It’s hard to come by people willing to set their phone down, turn it off, and give you their undivided attention for so long. Jungkook has always been that person for you. His kindness makes you hold your tongue when he orders delivery from your favorite ramen place, knowing he’ll refuse to let you pay even though you’ve got a stable job with a good salary and he’s a broke college kid.

When he finally leaves, once the sun sets and you’re full of ramen and soju, you feel thoroughly comforted. Getting lost in the fantasy worlds of the movies you watch on Netflix helps you momentarily forget that you’re living in an odd fantasy yourself.

You’ve been called crazy plenty of times, but you know what happened today was real. All you can hope is that whoever or whatever this thing is, it leaves you alone.

If coffee, clean laundry, and clean dishes are the only supernatural occurrences you need to worry about, you’ll be fine.

The next day you find the coffee mug on the kitchen counter.

You pick it up gently, running your fingers over the thin, translucent cracks scattered along the surface. It appears as though someone has glued the broken shards together. You’re shocked even the tiny pieces survived the ordeal without completely shattering to dust.

Like the day before, there is no one else in your apartment. The draft is still there, a constant cool air caressing your arms and making you want to crawl back into bed, but you must go to work. Looking at the time on your phone (and ignoring a good morning text from Jungkook because you’re not ready to talk yet), you take a hesitant sip of the coffee.

You’re not sure what you expect to happen. Nothing, maybe. And nothing does.

The cracks in the mug are proof, though, that this is real. It doesn’t matter that Jungkook didn’t see anything because you have proof. Proof you can hold in your hand, sip from. It’s more than just clean dishes and folded laundry. Although unsure of what you’re fighting against, you almost feel triumphant. Perhaps it’s your skepticism, forced to admit that something abnormal is happening here.

You finish the rest of the coffee and set the mug in the empty sink. You wish you’d paid attention to all the scary stories so you’d know what to do. But, then again, if there is a ghost from the cemetery here to haunt you, they haven’t done anything malicious like most stories say they do.

Nothing malicious, yet.

Clearing your throat, you zip up your backpack and sling it over your shoulder. You look around the empty room, knowing you won’t see anything but doing it anyway.

“Umm,” you start to speak to the empty kitchen. “Thank you?”

Fuck, you’re crazy.

A fresh, hot mug of coffee is on your kitchen counter every morning for two weeks. Fourteen coffees, even on the weekends, as if the ghost knows when you’re about to wake up and rushes to prepare the drink. It’s odd how you’ve quickly grown accustomed to the ghost’s helpfulness. Not once in the past two weeks have you had to clean your dishes; every morning, the dirtied dishes from the previous night’s dinner are clean and out to dry. Your laundry stays clean and folded. You’ve even noticed that the plants in your living room windowsill stay hydrated.

Despite the thoughtfulness of your new houseguest, you don’t like the idea of there being an invisible entity just there. Doing what? Watching you? Scheming? What if they decide to hurt you? What if they watch you while you shower?

What if you’re making all of this up in your head?

It’s all too much for your brain to handle. You’re so far out of your element you don’t even know where to start. You could ask Jimin for advice, but you’re not willing to risk the chance that he makes fun of you. You’re also unsure if Jungkook has told anyone about your outburst. He hasn't told a soul if he’s as great of a friend as you think.

You roll onto your stomach and stretch your arms out to hold your phone while you lounge on your bed. Then, with the mantra, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, cycling through your mind, you allow your thumbs to glide across your phone screen.

benevolent hauntings

Google tells you that friendly ghosts do exist. They save people from minor inconveniences (you suppose chores are minor inconveniences). Should you trust refinery29.com? Maybe not, but who should you go to for this, anyway? The fucking Ghost Busters?

Discouraged, you toss your phone to the side and grab your pillow instead, squeezing it to appreciate its pliable fluffiness. Weekend nights are hard for you, even without the stress of an unwanted ghost roommate. Negative, cyclical thinking is most prevalent at night when you’re alone in your apartment with nothing to do. At least during the week, you have work to distract you. Staying well past your standard work hours isn’t uncommon for you, though your boss does his best to push you out the door at a reasonable hour.

“We’re not brain surgeons, Y/N,” Namjoon often reminds you. “We’re not saving lives. Go home.”

He’s not wrong; you aren’t saving lives. You spend countless hours authenticating and appraising historical documents and archival materials. Then you spend even more hours creating, organizing, and maintaining electronic records of said materials for the museum’s database before handing them over to the curators to handle. Yet, the romantic in you wants to say that you’re at least changing lives because you firmly believe in the importance of society understanding its history. It’s why you studied history in college and got a job at the local history museum once you graduated. Five years later and you’re still happy with the route you took with your career. Even if people told you it wasn’t worth it.

During the week, you come home at night with only enough energy to eat dinner, watch a few episodes of whatever comfort show you’re revisiting, and pass out.

But you don’t work on the weekends.

Jungkook used to serve as the perfect distraction. Despite being a few years older than him, the two of you fit together better than anyone you’ve ever met. The ghost situation is the perfect example of his unwavering kindness and calming presence in your life. But you can’t monopolize his time. Jungkook has his own life to live. He’s finishing up his degree. He has a girlfriend now. He’ll start looking for jobs and applying for graduate school soon. You’re supposed to be the older, wiser friend who provides advice and support while Jungkook figures out adulthood.

Instead, you end up crying on the phone to him more weekends than you’d like to admit.

There’s a hole. It looks and feels different depending on the day, but it’s always in the middle of your chest. Some days it’s small and perfectly circular, like a cookie cutter was pressed into your soul to extract just the right amount to leave you aching but not debilitated. On other days it is large and jagged, the way you imagine a black hole would look in outer space or how flesh is blown through by the bullet of a shotgun. Unfortunately, you’ve failed to find the perfect suture in twenty-seven years.

There’s nothing wrong with your life. You grew up with loving parents and a strong relationship with your sister. Friends have never been difficult to make or maintain. Romantic relationships have been a bit rocky, but nothing terrible. None of them have been worth the number of tears you’ve shed over such a short lifetime. Yet you’ve lived with a hole for as long as you can remember.

Your phone vibrates beneath the blankets, but you ignore the call. It’s too late for your family to call you, and Jungkook hates talking on the phone, so you automatically rule out the most important people in your life. So whoever it is can wait to hear from you in the morning when you’re done sulking.

What’s more difficult to ignore is your buzzer, signaling that someone is attempting to enter your apartment complex. You don’t bother checking your phone to see who called you. It probably is Jungkook. He’s been worried about you after the incident, though he hasn’t mentioned it again.

You convince yourself it’s him when you use the buzzer to let your guest in without using the intercom to confirm their identity first. It’s stupid. You never let people in without checking, but you’re tired and feel angry and guilty for being depressed when you have nothing to be upset about. Later, you’ll beat yourself up over opening the door without looking through the peephole first. It’s as though your subconscious likes to ruin things for you, likes to hurt.

Smelling of thick cologne and cheap alcohol, Hoseok stands in your doorway. He’s dressed in black leather pants and a flowy lavender shirt unbuttoned enough to expose his collarbones and the top of his chest. The combat boots he’s wearing look new and remind you of the ones Jungkook likes.

“Y/N.” He speaks your name like a dirty word and lets it drip off his tongue so sweetly that it turns sour on the way out.

The hole in your chest morphs into a craggy crater.

“What are you doing?”

His glassy eyes soften when your voice cracks, but the red tinge of his eyes prevents him from looking gentle. “Wanted to see you. I miss you… so much. It hurts, Y/N. It still hurts.”

You step back when he advances, but he’s graceful even while drunk. One hand squeezes your hip lightly while the other grips the back of your head. Despite the cool November air, Hoseok’s skin burns yours. His fingertips are like irons branding the skin on your neck, and his thumb's hot swipe along your hip bone may as well have sliced through your muscle.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you try, but you both hear how weak your resolve is.

“I should be here, though,” he murmurs. The alcohol on his breath bites at your nose. “We picked this place out together. Our first apartment. You said it was perfect, remember?”

You shouldn’t look him in the eyes because you’ll give into your emotions, but dropping your gaze means staring at his mouth and seeing how his tongue swipes over his bottom lip.

Hoseok is the drunk one, but your body feels too heavy and slow to react when his lips slot against yours. At one point, kissing Hoseok was as natural as breathing, and you craved it as though you’d die without it, too. Now, his touch feels nothing like the home it once was.

It’s not his fault. You were the one who made the relationship difficult. Hospital visits, cycling through therapists, sadness more explosive than any anger either of you could fathom— Hoseok was kind, but no one can be expected to be a saint. Only human, he had needs, hopes, and dreams that seemed incongruent with caring for you. Relationships are a two-way street; you’d created a roadblock spanning both lanes.

Ultimately, he broke things off, but not without plenty of sobbing and repeated promises that he didn’t want to do it but couldn’t keep living with the stress. Hoseok had struggled to keep his head above water, and you had pushed him down.

Hoseok should have never felt like home to you. You can’t find your home in other people.

You wiggle your arms between your bodies enough to rest your palms against Hoseok’s chest. There isn’t any weight behind the pressure— not yet. If Hoseok was sober, you know he’d be distraught over his actions. You can’t let this continue but can’t bring yourself to end it.

Crack!

For a brief moment, you feel something cold graze your jawline as Hoseok pulls away, but the jarring sound vibrating through your apartment keeps you distracted. It’s electric and powerful, like the way lightning must sound when it splits a tree trunk down the middle.

“What the fuck was that?” Hoseok slurs.

The confession that you have no idea dies in your throat when the lights begin to flicker. Three quick flashes, and then the entire apartment goes black.

“Shit.”

A few flips of the light switch in the entranceway confirm that the power is out. You groan and press your forehead against the cool wall. All you’d wanted to do was watch Netflix, eat ice cream, and maybe cry. Now there’s no hope of being able to charge your laptop, and there’s a death threat out for your ice cream if the power doesn’t return quickly.

Maybe you should eat it all before it can melt, just in case.

“Why’d it go out? The weather isn’t bad outside. Should we check the breaker?” Hosek shuffles behind you but, thankfully, doesn’t reach for you. Perhaps the abruptness of the power outage and whatever the crackling sound was sobered him up a bit.

“We aren’t doing anything, okay?” You hope your tone is softer than you think it sounds. “I’m getting you an Uber, and you’re gonna go home.”

It’s too dark to clearly make out Hoseok’s expression since you keep the blinds drawn, but you’re sure he’s pouting. All the better that you can’t see him. You’re not interested in knowing how his pout might make you feel if you look at it head-on.

You give him a glass of water to sip while you wait for the Uber driver to arrive. Small talk is impossible, so you let the awkward silence envelope you— much like the cold sensation draping over your back and wrapping around your torso. Your body misses the warm security of your favorite blanket discarded across your bed. Despite the slight discomfort, you’d rather not leave Hoseok alone in your kitchen to retrieve it. You're unsure whether it’s because of your invisible roommate or the simple fact that it's Hoseok.

Luckily it doesn’t take long for the driver to arrive. You find yourself practically pushing Hoseok out of your apartment. Although he’s sober enough to get to the front doors on his own, you accompany him.

You loved him. A part of you still does. So it’s hard to watch him stumble, knowing you are the reason.

It’s too cold to stand outside longer than necessary when you only wear a t-shirt and pajama shorts, but you linger on the sidewalk. Hoseok has the car door open, and you’re sure the driver doesn’t appreciate that he’s letting all the cold air in.

“Y/N…”

“I hope you have a good night, Hobi.” The smile you give him is tight, but you don’t want to risk hearing whatever he has to say. The anguished look on his face is already too much.

Taking the hint, Hoseok ducks his head in acknowledgment. As he slides into the car, his “g’night, too” is nearly swept away in the wind.

You’ll see him again; you run in the same social circles. But something about the slam of the car door feels final.

Good, you think as you trek back up the stairs to your apartment unit. There’s no reason for Hoseok to waste time pining for you when there’s plenty of fish in the sea.

Your unbothered, objective attitude quickly disintegrates once faced with a dark, empty apartment. It’s easy to put on a brave face in front of others. Unwavering strength has been expected of you since your youth. You can give people that, and you tell yourself what you do behind closed doors is your own business. So the moment you lock your front door, you slide your back against it until you’re sitting on the floor, curled up with your arms wrapped around your bent knees. The tears that slip down your cheeks are just as hot as Hoseok’s hands were on your skin.

It’s the first time you’ve cried since the mug incident. A wet, humorless laugh tumbles out of your throat at the thought.

“What an accomplishment,” you mutter to yourself. Real sad if life is all about keeping track of how many times you cry a week.

By the time you finish your thought, the power returns. Unlike when the lights flickered out, it’s an immediate change this time. One second, you’re surrounded in darkness; the next, you’ve blinked, and every light in your apartment shines as brightly as ever. Oddly, even the clock on your oven is correct instead of beeping to indicate that it has been reset. There’s no point in questioning your good luck. As you’ve heard your grandmother say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Although you are grateful for the turn of events, the return of power can’t stop the tears. They were never about the power outage.

“Now playing ‘I Like You (A Happier Song)’ by Post Malone featuring Doja Cat.”

You yelp at the robotic voice echoing through your empty apartment. The light, upbeat pop song drifting through the air instantly disrupts the quiet.

You’re breathing hard; however, it’s no longer due to panic and tears. Instead, you’re breathing hard because your Bluetooth speaker is on a loop of the type of love songs teenagers add as background music to TikTok videos about young love. Your Bluetooth speaker… is now operating all on its own. Sure, sometimes when you talk, the voice recognition on the speaker will think you’re talking to it, but you hadn’t said anything when the device announced the song. You were crying, for fuck’s sake.

Silently you sit, listening to the song’s cliché but cute lyrics, a proclamation of romantic infatuation. You don’t realize you have your arms wrapped tightly around your ribs until you’re throwing them out before you as a cool tingling sensation tickles your jaw.

“Is… is it you?”

The song pauses. Silence hangs thickly between you and the speaker, with no airy pop music to swirl through the tension. Fortunately, it only lasts for a second before the robotic voice returns.

“Now playing ‘Go Ghost’ by Jackson Wang.”

That makes you laugh. You can’t help it; clearly, your paranormal roommate has a sense of humor. Your laughter isn’t much more than a huffed exhale with just the corner of your mouth twitching upward slightly. But it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“You’re funny,” you croak, grimacing at how scratchy your voice sounds. “I love Jackson’s new album. I’m supposed to see him in the summer. I bought tickets to go with… Well, I bought two tickets.”

Why are you oversharing with a ghost? You should be scared like you were during the mug incident, but you lack that instinctual fear of the unknown this time. Instead, you’re curious.

“What do you want?” Even without fear, your tone is laced with insecurity. If this ghost were evil, it would have hurt you long ago, right?

“Now playing ‘Talk’ by Khalid featuring Disclosure.”

“You just want to talk….” It’s not what you were expecting, but by now, it’s clear that this ghost isn’t anything like you’ve imagined ghosts to be. Hell, until now, you didn’t think ghosts existed at all.

You quickly wipe your face dry of tears and scramble from the floor. It doesn’t matter what the ghost wants to talk about. Curiosity buzzes beneath your skin, a slow heat that makes you shiver where you stand at the entrance of your apartment.

“Using the speaker is going to be too hard,” you mumble.

Trekking down the hall toward your bedroom gives you time to think through how to communicate with the ghost you’ve been living with for a week. You wonder if they’ve followed you into your room and are watching you scoop up your blanket to wrap around your shoulders. It’s a habit they must have observed a hundred times by now. Security is hard for you to come by; the heavy warmth of your blanket can provide that for you. So what if you’re in your late twenties with a favorite blankie?

Wrapped up in the red fabric, you go to the living room to plop down on the couch. It’s weird knowing someone is there, but you can't see who it is. You don’t know where to look. Is the ghost even in the room with you?

Much like a cool breeze, a sensation glides across the edge of your jaw. The suddenness causes you to jolt. The chain reaction has already begun, though. Goosebumps make the skin of your arms and legs tingle, and you tremble despite how hard you fight to keep still.

Fingers. It’s fingers you feel pressing gingerly into your skin, applying pressure to one side of your chin to gently coax your face toward the empty space on the couch next to you.

“Oh…” you say with a breathy exhale. Despite the cold, warmth is creeping along the nape of your neck and simmering in your stomach. You don’t understand why your body is reacting how it is, but you’re trying not to think about it.

“Now playing ‘Overthink’ by Lucch.”

The invisible fingers trace the edge of your jaw, starting at your chin and dancing upward until you feel a fingertip lightly flick your earlobe. A tiny part of you cowers deep in your chest, terrified of feeling something you can’t see. Knowing something out there can touch or hurt you without knowing what’s coming is terrifying. Without you knowing what it even is. But another part of you leans ever so slightly into the ghost’s caresses. But, really, you don’t need to think about that.

“You’re right,” you finally manage to choke out a response when the cool touch disappears. “I’m overthinking.”

You take a deep breath and focus on why you entered the living room. The ghost wants to talk. A quick scan of the room leaves you still in need of ideas. How do you talk to something invisible? That can’t even speak? At least, you assume the ghost can’t. Otherwise, it would have already.

Even though you can’t see the ghost, you can feel it watching you. You’re almost embarrassed to admit you don’t know how to help it, but your eyes fall on the bookshelf beside your TV.

“You can move things!”

It’s a question that comes out more like an observation because, although you’re asking, you know the answer. There’s no music in response, but it doesn’t matter. You’re already launching yourself off the couch to snatch up what you’d been eyeing on the bookshelf.

Instead of returning to the couch, you sit ungracefully on the floor beside the coffee table in front of the couch. A thud echoes through the quiet room when you drop a small red box on the table. Removing the lid reveals around a hundred little wooden tiles, each engraved with a letter.

“Scrabble,” you beam. “I’m so fucking smart.” Dumping out the tiles, you organize them alphabetically to make selecting the correct letter easier. “Have you played this before? Um, actually, don’t answer that; it doesn’t matter.” The sound of the tiles sliding across the table consumes the silence for a moment as you concentrate. “Okay, just arrange the tiles into whatever it is you wanna say, okay?”

It briefly crosses your mind that this ghost might be illiterate, but you hope the universe is on your side today.

Leaning back, you sit with your hands trapped between your thighs and try to be as patient as possible. It probably only takes a few seconds for the tiles to begin moving independently, but it feels like a century as you watch with eager eyes. The more tiles that collect to form words, the harder it is for you to keep your excitement bottled inside. The buzz you felt earlier returns tenfold like a violent tickle inside your chest that makes you want to laugh until the feeling subsides. But you keep your lips clamped shut and stare.

After a long pause, you assume the ghost is finished, so you lean forward with your elbows on the coffee table.

MY NAME IS TAEHYUNG

The warmth that has settled in your stomach flares back to life as you read the sentence messily strewn together in front of you.

Taehyung.

“It’s nice to meet you, Taehyung.” Your voice is tight, but only because you’re trying not to grin at the empty room. You realize he probably already knows your name, but you introduce yourself anyway.

He. Because this is a person you’re talking to. You think. That’s what ghosts are, right? Dead people.

The sudden thought of Taehyung being dead makes your stomach twist. However, you don’t have the opportunity to linger on that feeling because the Scrabble tiles are moving again.

YOU ARE UNEQUIVOCALLY CHARMING

You choke over your words as you read the sentence out loud, immediately regretting the decision. Yet again, this ghost has done something you wouldn’t have expected. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, but you can’t help yourself. The grin breaks free, and you ignore how your cheeks hurt.

No one has ever said something quite like that to you before. It’s more than flattering. You ignore what feels too similar to butterflies in your stomach.

“Oh, um, thank you. You’d win a lot of points for such a big word.”

You hope you’re not coming off as awkward. It’s such a weird thing to worry about while getting hit on by a ghost. If that’s what the ghost is doing. Maybe your brain has been jostled by the fancy words, and now you’re reading into everything too much.

The tiles begin to rearrange themselves. You fold your arms on the table and rest your head against them to watch the invisible Taehyung form his thoughts. Again, the idea that you should be scared flits through your mind, but you quickly push it aside. This ghost — Taehyung — made you coffee and watered your plants for a week. So what was there to be afraid of?

As you tilt your head to the side to watch where you assume Taehyung is also sitting, you realize you trust Taehyung. You trust him even though you know nothing about him. Even though he’s a ghost, perhaps even a figment of your imagination.

Maybe that should scare you.

THE PLEASURE IS MINE

Judging by how he “talks,” you assume Taehyung is very old. As it’s impossible to accurately guess, you decide to ask him.

His answer of TWENTY SEVEN is yet another shock. You laugh a little to yourself, with small puffs of air that shake your shoulders, and consider that this is all ridiculous. If only Jungkook was here to see the Scrabble pieces slide across your coffee table.

“Same age as me,” you muse. “But I’m guessing you… um, well you….” Died, but you don’t want to say that. “I’m guessing you’re not from this time period, right?”

Scrabble pieces shift, the rough sound of wood against wood echoing through the otherwise silent apartment.

ALMOST TWO HUNDRED YEARS

By this point, you’ve convinced yourself that the worst thing that’ll happen to you is that Taehyung realizes you’re an idiot. How often can you breathily whisper, “Oh,” before he thinks you have nothing inside your brain?

You wrap your blanket tighter around your body. Its warmth and comforting pressure give you the strength to push forward with your questions. Part of you feels bad for bombarding the ghost, asking him everything from where he grew up (the same town you live in now) to his job when he was alive (a fisherman, which sounds terrible). You’re barely hanging onto the steering wheel of this conversation while the historian inside you tries to take over. Would it be considered rude if you started taking notes?

There’s one question scratching at the corner of your brain, but you push it back the more the ghost answers your other questions. It doesn’t seem appropriate to ask your new friend how he died while he’s telling you his favorite color is mauve and his best friend’s name is Yoongi.

You’re not sure how long you sit at the coffee table. At some point, the conversation flips, and Taehyung asks you questions. You never excelled in small talk, but with Taehyung, it’s easy. Perhaps it’s because you can’t see him. There are no social cues or facial expressions to worry about misinterpreting. You can talk to the air, and Taehyung is guaranteed to respond cutely— calling you charming or praising your ability to secure a recent job promotion.

WHO WAS HE

The question is unexpected, but you’ve already gone over your favorite color and your best friend, so Taehyung likely believes he’s warmed you up enough to start asking the serious questions.

You don’t have to ask him who he’s referring to. It’s painfully obvious.

“Um, well,” you’re hesitant as you start. “Hoseok and I used to date. He was a great boyfriend he was. But… it has always felt like I have something missing. No matter how much Hoseok filled me with happiness, I could never keep any of it inside; the hole in me was too big. I couldn’t patch it up. So I thought if I worked on myself and didn’t rely on him, I could patch it up on my own. Now I think maybe happiness is predetermined. Not everyone is destined for it.”

You’re nearly gasping by the time you finish, and your hands shake as you pull your blanket tighter around you.

Taehyung’s cold fingers brush the apple of your cheeks, just below your eyelashes.

“It’s okay,” you say with a light huff of a laugh. “I already cried out all my tears for the day.”

Although you sit at the coffee table long enough to feel like the bones in your knees are fusing, you can’t find the energy within you to get up. To an outsider, it looks like you’re talking to yourself. But inside, you feel heat spread to the tips of your fingers and down to your toes every time the Scrabble tiles are thoughtfully adjusted. From how the tiles move, you can tell Taehyung is the type of person to think deeply before speaking.

A certain level of fun comes with watching the tiles and waiting to see what they’ll turn into. Taehyung continues to surprise you, though his next question is what you’ll look back on as the catalyst for your life turning upside down.

CAN I HOLD YOUR HAND

There should be a logical part of you that convinces you to say no. If that part of you still exists, it doesn’t make itself known. Without hesitation, you place your hand on the coffee table with your palm facing the ceiling.

The cool touch doesn’t surprise you anymore. Looking back, over the past week, you’ve felt it numerous times. A brush of what you now know was fingertips along your forearm or cheek. Tender, gentle touches that grounded you. You’re too nervous to ask, but you think he even hugged you while you waited with Hoseok for his Uber driver.

Taehyung laces his invisible fingers with yours and gently squeezes your hand.

There’s no reason your heart should be beating erratically, but you can’t seem to calm your nerves when you squeeze Taehyung’s hand back. It’s much larger than yours, and although his skin isn’t warm, it’s unbelievably soft. You can feel the ridges of his knuckles and the veins on the back of his hand. He’s solid and real.

Taehyung’s hand engulfing yours feels right.

You let out a shaky breath when you feel him lift your hand. Then, a spike of fear shoots through your heart for the first time. It’s the fear of the unknown, the uncertainty surrounding what Taehyung will do to you.

“Oh,” you squeak with widened eyes and a fluttering heart.

You don’t need to see his lips brush against the back of your hand to know they’re there. Taehyung’s breath is a cool breeze drifting over your skin. His lips feel like they’re parted as they press against your knuckles and then slightly lower until he trails kisses down to your wrist.

It’s overwhelming, to say the least. When Taehyung flips your hand over to press a kiss against the inside of your wrist, you let out a small whimper. You immediately retract your hand and straighten your back with a quick inhale at the sound.

“I’m, I’m, I, uh….” You trip over your words without knowing where you’re trying to take them. “I should go to bed.”

It’s not very late, and you typically stay up on weekends, but you refuse to confront whatever you’re feeling in your chest right now. Is it silly to feel the need to escape an invisible being? It’s not like you can see whatever expression Taehyung is making now. Is he disappointed by your reaction? Hurt? Amused by the fact that he has managed to fluster you? Has he turned his face away, equally as embarrassed as you are about the pathetic noise you exhaled?

You try not to think about it.

When you stand, you knock your knee against the edge of the coffee table, but you don’t let it deter you. Even if you have to hobble to your bedroom, which adds insult to injury. With your bedroom door closed, knowing something separates you from the embarrassment you hope to leave behind in the living room is comforting.

You should have asked Taehyung if he can float through walls.

Forgetfulness proves irrelevant in the morning, for you receive your answer when you open your eyes.

You first notice the pill bottle in its usual spot on your nightstand. This is the first time in months that you’ve fallen asleep (and stayed asleep) without being plagued by the usual anxiety-ridden cyclical thinking you’re prone to get lost in when you close your eyes and darkness envelops you. Your embarrassment had been so severe that you’d forgotten to take your medication. So instead of grogginess, you feel suspiciously well-rested as you sink further into your bed sheets.

However, being well-rested doesn’t mean you’re ready to get out of bed.

You wonder if Taehyung will make your coffee despite how rudely you left him the night before. Part of you is pained to think he would shun you— or worse, leave you. It’s that thought that pushes you into a bit of a panic. You’re afraid to get out of bed for fear of just that— that there would no longer be a presence to keep you company. Perhaps he’d write you a goodbye note with the Scrabble tiles. But, if you were him, you’d probably leave without a word. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve pushed someone away rather dramatically, and you’re sure it won’t be the last.

Sighing in an attempt to release the sudden tension built up in your chest, you turn onto your side, away from the confusing pill bottle and your daunting bedroom door, and right into a tuft of seafoam-green hair. The colorful strands are soft, tickling your nose as you inhale sharply.

No one would be surprised if your neighbors called the cops after the scream you let out. You nearly throw yourself off the bed from the momentum of scooting away from the seafoam-haired man. What saves you is the cool press of a hand squeezing your forearm, long fingers wrapping around you to yank you back to the center of the bed.

It’s better to believe that sleep still clouds your vision. You don’t want to investigate the gentle glow emanating from the body sleeping beside you. Instead, you focus on the finer details, like the sharp slope of Taehyung's nose and his piercing eyes that slowly soften until you’re staring at eyes rounded with… wonder? Concern? They’re unreadable, and that doesn’t sit well with you, but you’ve never been good at reading people.

Even if you wanted to investigate the look in his eyes, you’re distracted by the freckles and other beauty marks scattered around his face. They make an otherwise stern face look kind and approachable. The rest of him is just as confusing as his expression. Tailored dress pants and a buttoned shirt topped with a sleek blazer, and finished off with dress shoes— the man’s attire certainly isn’t sleep-appropriate. Your body shudders at the thought that this stranger is wearing shoes in your bed.

“What the fuck is going on?” Your whisper is laced with accusation, and you don’t do anything to fix your curt attitude. There is a strange man in your bed.

This situation has a million and one terrifying outcomes, but you can't move. You feel like a bug stuck to flypaper, glued to the spot to wait to be plucked and ripped apart. All you can hope is that Jungkook doesn’t think his attempts to teach you self-defense went to waste if you’re murdered in your bed without putting up a fight.

The man now appears fully awake. He lifts his hand to brush his bangs away from his eyes, and something feels… odd when you meet his gaze. Instead of fear, there is something gentle that settles in your chest. It’s relaxed and rhythmic, like the waves of the ocean lapping at your toes as you slowly sink into the sand. You can practically smell the salt in the air, maybe even taste it if you poke out the tip of your tongue from between your lips. Your town is near the coast, but the ocean is at least an hour’s drive from your home. The air you breathe here never smells or tastes like the ocean.

Something deep inside of you tells you it’s the seafoam-haired man’s doing.

He slowly sits up to mirror your position, the two of you facing each other, sitting crossed-legged on the bed. The distance between you is close but respectable. It’s only when he adjusts that you are hyperaware that you’re only in a long t-shirt and underwear, whereas he’s dressed as though he’s meant to attend a wedding— pocket square and all.

You start at the boxy smile that blossoms on the man’s face, stretching so wide it puffs up his cheeks and squints his eyes. His teeth are as bright as a full moon and just as impressively large. The sincerity makes the corners of your mouth twitch, even though you have nothing to smile about.

“Good morning, Y/N.”

If you were standing, your knees would have given out from hearing your name uttered by the smoothest voice you’ve ever heard. Yet, somehow it matches the waves in your chest.

“How do you know my name….”

The man reaches forward before you can react. Even if you had the time to move, you couldn’t. You sit frozen as he tickles the skin on your forearm, long fingers leaving cold touches that make your entire body shiver.

Cool, barely-there touches.

He gives you a knowing look, and you feel your heart plummet into your stomach.

“Taehyung?”

Somehow, his smile grows. “Mmm, a version of me, yes.”

You don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but you’re more focused on the sudden realization that you can’t bring yourself to tear your gaze from his. Dark brown eyes glitter in the slivers of morning sun shining through the blinds.

“How? How can I see you? Why are you here? Why didn’t you just talk to me before?” You huff your way through words, only vaguely aware of Taehyung’s fingers tracing patterns into your skin. Too many questions swarm your mind like a colony of angry wasps.

Why does my body feel different when I look at you?

“May I?” At your consent, Taehyung’s hand slides down to loosely grasp yours. “In all candidness, I am unsure of the answers to your questions. I have my questions, as well.” He pauses for a moment to lace your fingers together with his.

You’re reminded of how his lips felt pressed against your wrist's delicate skin.

“Yoongi was sure you were not a medium. Therefore, you should not be able to see me. But…” Taehyung pauses again to avert his gaze from your linked hands. Those strikingly dark eyes focus on the full-length mirror hanging on your wall.

You wonder if seeing his reflection surprises him. When he doesn’t continue speaking, you lightly squeeze his hand. It’s nice being able to see his hand while you hold it. Still just as large and certainly more beautiful than you could have imagined.

“But?” You coax.

If getting to know Taehyung has taught you anything, it’s that you don’t know anything about ghosts. So when he turns back to you with glistening eyes, you realize you have no idea what to do to console him and why he’s upset. And now you’re learning there is more to this world than ghosts. A medium was never something you’d have ever associated yourself with.

“I would like to show you something,” he whispers. Holding in unshed tears strains his voice, but you swear it’s still the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Remaining silent is the best way to stay sensitive to the fragility of the moment. Nodding your head, you let go of Taehyung’s hand so he can search through his blazer pockets. He only takes a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Whatever the object is drowns in the palm of Taehyung’s hand. Aside from seeing a flash of gold before his hand is fisted closed, his hand engulfs the item, so you can’t get a glimpse of it.

“I told you I was a fisherman when I was alive.” Taehyung brings his palms together, trapping the gold object between them. It remains out of view. “In a way, my occupation led to my death.”

“Taehyung, you don’t have to-”

“No, please listen. I must share this with you,” Taehyung pleads, glistening eyes wide in what you believe is desperation.

“I was engaged,” he begins solemnly. “It was hard for… her when I went away. It was for a few months in a poor fishing town far from our home during our peak fishing season. Brutal months. Cold and dreary. Hunger and homesickness sat like a rock in my stomach. Though she suffered much worse, being left alone. It seemed she was always waiting on me due to work or our relationship. I did not have the money to marry her immediately, which weighed on her heavily.”

Taehyung takes a deep breath, and you wish you were still holding his hand.

“There was a disease. We did not know how to understand it. The children died first, then the elderly. Few fell and survived. She was… she was strong, but I believe the emptiness I left inside her made her susceptible.”

Your heart clenches in your chest. It doesn’t take a psychic to know where Taehyung’s story is headed. Silently you wish it wasn’t true, that you’re wrong. You wish for a different ending than the one you know he’ll tell you.

“She died two days before I returned.”

Somehow it hurts worse than you anticipate, but you’ve always known life to operate that way. Planning for the worst-case scenario provides a false sense of safety. It doesn’t matter how much you prep yourself for pain; it comes no matter what. And no matter how familiar you are with pain, things never hurt the same way twice.

You watch as he places his closed fist in the middle of your palm, though he still doesn’t open his hand.

“I also fell ill, though I am unsure if it was the disease or a broken heart. Sometimes I wonder if I suffered longer than the others, months of withering away, decaying while still alive, as punishment for not being there when she needed me. Perhaps having been banished to wander the earth like this,” he gestures to his body, “is also part of my punishment.”

You want to tell him that can’t be true. Taehyung seems so soft and caring. The love with which he speaks about his fiancée sounds so pure and true that every word forces another crack into your already broken heart.

When he removes his hand from yours, what’s left in your palm is cold and heavy. A gold locket sparkles in the warm morning sunlight.

“My mother buried me with this locket. It is the only item I have to remember her by.” Taehyung gives you a slight nod when your eyes flit up to meet his, seeking permission to explore further.

Bringing the locket to eye level reveals an etching on its surface: initials that you realize are Taehyung’s and—

“My initials,” you say quietly. It’s not a question, and Taehyung doesn’t provide you with an answer.

Like the conclusion of his fiancée’s life, you know what the locket will tell you before opening it. Yet, you don’t know why it doesn’t scare you even as the gentle waves in your chest abruptly turn into a tumultuous tsunami.

The locket makes a slight clicking sound when you slowly pry it open. It’s so unbelievably old, and the sentimental significance of it makes your palms sweat with the fear of breaking it. Luckily, you open it without any trouble, and you’re immediately met with a tiny, faded, colorless photo of Taehyung. He looks exactly as he does now, although his hair is dark brown or black rather than seafoam green. You’ve always wondered why most people didn’t smile in photographs back when photography was first invented. Even without a boxy smile, the man’s beauty is unparalleled. You chide yourself internally at the thought that floats through your mind: Taehyung’s beauty is otherworldly.

Despite that fact, Taehyung’s photo isn’t what makes you gasp.

Opposite Taehyung’s photo, on the left side of the locket, is another portrait. The second portrait is just as old as the portrait of Taehyung, faded and monochrome. Familiar eyes stare back at you. A familiar frown Jungkook would call your resting bitch face greets you.

The ocean's roar is deafening as it rumbles in your ears, shaking your eardrums until you’re sure the sound is vibrating deep inside your skull.

Only one sound cuts through the noise.

“It is utterly impossible for me to express how painful waiting for you has been.” Taehyung’s voice is only a choked-out whisper, but somehow it overpowers the mess inside your head. “Seeing you… It has been nearly two hundred years, Y/N. I ached, and now I feel complete.”

“I don’t understand...” Except you do. You just need to hear him say it.

“You must feel it, don’t you?” Taehyung gives you a timid smile. “Our souls— we have finally found each other. It is like all the pieces of me have fallen back into place.”

Looking away from Taehyung, you look down at your portrait in his locket. You’re not sure what you feel, but you feel something. The crash of waves against a shore inside your chest feels familiar like you’ve woken up tossed onto the sand many times before. The violence of it subsides as you watch Taehyung’s hand find yours once again. He interlocks your fingers and brings your hand to his mouth once again. Seeing his lips press softly against the back of your hand makes your skin tingle even more than when he kissed your hand the night before.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you lock eyes with Taehyung as he presses his lips against the inside of your wrist. Your fingers twitch on their own, and you feel the tingling sensation shoot straight to your lower belly.

“Taehyung…”

With his hand pressed against the back of yours, he slides your palm along his jaw until you’re cupping the side of his face. His cheek is freezing.

“You have always felt empty. A piece of you lost. Or perhaps never existed in the first place, yes? You believe happiness is not meant for everyone.” He speaks with his eyes closed. His face tilts slightly so he can press further into your warm skin. “Do you still feel that way?”

A part of you wants to challenge him. How could the existence of a ghost you’ve known less than two weeks possibly cure you of the hole you’ve spent nearly thirty years attempting to patch up?

Yet he’s right. What was a jagged crater in your chest now feels as small as a pinprick. You’re not sure when the hole started to close. Perhaps every light caress Taehyung left against your skin when you were sad, every grounding touch reminded you that you weren’t alone— even if you didn’t know who it was that did small acts of service to make your life a bit easier. You can’t be sure, but you remember how horrible it felt for the hole to be ripped back open by Hoseok’s impromptu visit. And you remember how quickly you’d forgotten about it the moment Taehyung began speaking to you through music.

“The emptiness… it was because of you. Missing you.” Can you miss someone you’ve never met in this life?

You watch Taehyung, follow the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks and the quirk at the corners of his mouth. You’re once again reminded of how beautiful he is.

“Mmm, it was.” Taehyung’s eyes open. “You deserve happiness, Y/N. You deserve to feel whole.”

Is it insane to believe in ghosts? Are you crazy for being so willing to accept that you may be the reincarnated version of Taehyung’s long-lost love? How unrealistic is it to feel connected to a man you don’t know so quickly? And with very little reason to be? You feel crazy as you look into Taehyung’s eyes and find nothing but love and adoration. The desire to cling to that look and its promises is so strong you can't breathe.

You let your hand fall in your lap when Taehyung lets go of it. You miss the feeling of his skin on yours immediately, but you don’t have to wait long for his touch to return. Now it’s your turn to close your eyes. You don’t realize you’re crying until Taehyung’s thumbs carefully wipe away the tears on your cheeks.

“Please don’t cry, beloved,” Taehyung whispers. He scoots closer to you on the bed, close enough that your knees bump into each other when he leans forward to hold your face in his hands.

“I feel insane,” you whisper back. It’s as though the two of you don’t want to speak loudly for fear of somehow breaking the other. “I shouldn’t feel so comfortable with you. I don’t even know you.”

Taehyung lets out a low hum to acknowledge your concerns, but he takes a full minute to respond. The only thing keeping your nerves in check is how he smooths out your tear streaks with his thumbs.

“Would you feel more secure if you spoke with Yoongi?”

When you open your eyes, Taehyung is watching you with the same adoration he’d worn on his face when you closed them. You keep waiting for the catch— when he turns this back on you, admits that this was all a joke, or realizes you are crazy. Isn’t that what everyone has always said? You’ve always been lost in your head, making something out of nothing and expecting everyone else to play along. Or so you’ve been told.

Taehyung seems adamant about making you feel safe and validated. It’s unequivocally unfamiliar. The only other person you trust to give you a sense of security is Jungkook.

This is why you end up in the front seat of Jungkook's car, fiddling with his aux cord, while Taehyung is crammed in the backseat with gym bags, stray mismatched sneakers, and yoga mats. You think you saw a few jump ropes wrapped up like nesting snakes on the floor when you slipped inside, but you were too busy explaining to Taehyung how to use his seatbelt.

Initially, you’d assumed Jungkook wouldn’t be able to see Taehyung. A strange, selfish part of you wanted to keep Taehyung your little secret. However, it was clear that you wouldn’t be getting your wish when Jungkook parked outside of your apartment complex and gave Taehyung the dirtiest look you’ve ever seen come from your sweetheart of a best friend.

“He creeps me out,” Jungkook quietly huffs into your ear once Taehyung is secure in the backseat and the two of you still stand outside.

You don’t have time to deal with that right now.

“So, you want me to take you… to the cemetery… that we got kicked out of….” Jungkook is speaking to you as he gets comfortable in the driver's seat, but you can tell he’s got his eyes on Taehyung through the rearview mirror.

“Yoongi will let you return,” Taehyung pipes up from the backseat.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow as he pulls out onto the street. “Yoongi?”

“Mm, he is the groundskeeper. You met him on Halloween.”

Jungkook shoots you a sideways glance, eyes narrowed. You don’t know Jungkook to be such a defensive person, but something about Taehyung is rubbing him the wrong way.

You twist in your seat to take a look at the seafoam-haired man. He sits straight back, his hands clasped together in his lap. You wonder how often he explores the town or if he leaves the cemetery at all. How familiar is he with cars? With the modern buildings and the little nature left in your town? You wonder if seeing the town change over the years hurts him. Something tells you that his pain doesn't have much to do with his surroundings— but more so with what isn't here.

“How the fuck do you know that?”

Jungkook’s question makes Taehyung flinch, drawing his eyes away from the window and toward the front of the car. Despite his discomfort, when his gaze meets yours, Taehyung visibly relaxes. He gives you a small smile. It’s boxy; you hadn’t noticed before. It makes your heart clench even tighter.

“He was there, weren’t you, Taehyungie?” You match his smile. It may be the first time you’ve genuinely smiled at him, and that fact isn’t lost on Taehyung. His eyes widen, and he fervently nods his head.

“Yes, I saw you both. And Jimin.”

A loud snort shoves through your nose at the disdain written on Taehyung’s face. You’re happy you’re not the only one skeptical of Jungkook’s friends.

Jungkook isn’t having any of it, though. “Where were you, then? I didn’t see you,” he pushes.

Taehyung shrugs. “I am dead. I would not expect you to have seen me.”

You have to bite your bottom lip to hold yourself together. The look on Jungkook’s face is nearly too much for you to bear.

"What's your name again?"

"Kim Taehyung. It is a pleasure to meet you, Jungkookie." The diminutive nearly makes you choke. If Taehyung is discouraged by Jungkook's rough tone, he's doing a fantastic job of masking it.

"And how do you know Y/N?"

"College!" Taehyung opens his mouth, but you interject before he can speak. "We went to college together." Jungkook is young enough to not have known you while you were in college, so the excuse works perfectly.

"Oh, okay." Jungkook loosens his grip on the steering wheel. "What did you study?"

For a brief moment, Taehyung's eyes flick toward yours in a panic. He's smart, though, and he hardly misses a beat when he responds, "Marine Biology."

"Oh, seriously? That's really dope! As a kid, I went to Jeju with my parents and saw a ton of dolphins. Did you study them?"

Taehyung knows a great deal about marine life. You shouldn't be surprised; he lived in fishing towns for months at a time while he was alive. He was bound to learn about more than whatever fish he caught, you assume.

While Taehyung and Jungkook talk about their favorite fish species, you distract yourself with your phone. The cemetery is close, so you spend the rest of the car ride rereading your text conversation with your boss, Namjoon. You texted him shortly after asking Jungkook to drive you to the cemetery. Although you trust Taehyung (more than you probably should), the historian and skeptic in you need to know more.

To: Joonie

SOS

From: Joonie

Oh god. What is it now?

To: Joonie

can you do me a favor? 🥺

From: Joonie

… That depends on many things.

To: Joonie

i just need you to check the local databases for me. there’s a person i want to look up

From: Joonie

Name? DOB?

ASL?

Sorry, Jin hyung told me to send that, and I regretted it immediately.

To: Joonie

omfg you’re both weird

kim taehyung

i don’t know the exact date, but the mid-1800s?

From: Joonie

You’re lucky there aren’t a ton of Taehyungs from around here. I’ve got an obituary, a few handwritten letters, and a banknote. The scan job is shit. You know how the librarians are with the records they get from City Hall. Not much, but I’ll email you. What did you want them for?

To: Joonie

i’ll tell you later

As efficient as ever, Namjoon’s email is in your inbox as soon as you close out of your messaging app to check. Skipping the obituary seems like a good idea. The banknote doesn’t tell you much; it’s faded, and the font is hard to read. That’s fine, though, because you’re most interested in the letters.

The cursive elegantly sprawled across the page in neat black wisps is Taehyung’s; you know this without even needing to check the bottom of the page to see his signature. Of course, you don’t know why you’re already privy to this fact about him, but you suppose that doesn’t matter.

My dearest Hanbin hyung, the letter begins. Chunks of the writing are illegible due to water damage and tears. From what you can make of it, Hanbin is — was — Taehyung’s older brother. Your thumb drags along your phone screen, leaving smudges from how clammy your hands become as you read.

Kun hyung delivered the locket to eomma. Thank you for requesting it so quickly. I plan to present it to Y/N once I return. I do hope she—

Per Namjoon’s email, the letters seem to have been preserved for a historical collection of letters to and from significant government officials. Hanbin must have been someone very important. It makes sense, then, that he would have the money to pay for a gold locket.

You only look up when Jungkook clears his throat. He’s parked the car, but you hadn’t noticed. Embarrassed, you slip your phone into your pocket and twist around to check on Taehyung.

The cemetery appears more inviting in the daylight. It's relatively early, so the sun still passes through the morning clouds. The sun casts gentle rays across the still-foggy cemetery grounds, glistening the dewy grass and tombstones. Your gaze shifts between the solemn serenity of the cemetery and the otherworldly glow of Taehyung, and you can't imagine that such a gentle soul would be banished to wander the empty grounds with no one but a grumpy groundskeeper to keep him company.

"Sooo... does he live here?" Jungkook bobs on the balls of his feet with his hands shoved into his pockets.

"No," Taehyung scrunches his nose as he denies the inquiry. "Yoongi lives in an apartment complex nearby but should be in the visitor center."

It only makes sense for Taehyung to lead the way. You follow close behind, shivering only slightly from the cold that drifts from his body the nearer you get. It's worth it, though, when Taehyung reaches his hand behind his back. His palm faces the sky, and his fingers stretch out, beckoning you. You don't bother considering what Jungkook may think as you slide your hand in Taehyung's and curl your fingers around his. You only let go once you step through the visitor's center.

The lobby looks precisely how you'd expect a cemetery visitor's center to look. The carpet is gaudy, a deep burgundy with a pattern of faded gold swirls. There isn't much room to stand at the front desk because the room is crammed with wooden furniture: sturdy chairs in the corners; dressers with intricate designs carved into them, and weary-looking flowers in vases sat atop them; and a few floor lamps whose shades cast a sickly yellow glow. Stacks of maps and brochures for funeral arrangements sit on the front desk.

"Yoongi?" Taehyung calls out as he leans against the desk.

It only takes a few seconds for the man to appear from the backroom. His eyes light up when they rest on Taehyung but quickly grow hard when he sees you and Jungkook standing behind him.

"Dumbass Halloween kids,” Yoongi says with a sigh. "If you think I'm gonna let you run around and play pretend graverobbers, you've got it all wrong."

"No, no," you blurt out, standing beside Taehyung against the desk. "Taehyung brought us here. I want to..." You turn to look at Jungkook, who is struggling to keep up. It doesn't matter now. Ever since Taehyung showed you the locket, you've thought about how to approach this situation. "I want to know how to bring him back to life."

Taehyung lets out a strangled noise, something in between a gasp and a choke. "Pardon?"

You ignore him, instead focusing on the dark orbs of Yoongi's eyes. If his inability to keep his eyes locked with yours says anything, you wonder if it means he's conflicted.

"You can see him?" Yoongi is hesitant with his question.

This may be Jungkook's breaking point. He throws up his hands and lets out a loud huff of air from his chest. "Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on? Why are we here? Why is he green?"

"I told you. I am dead."

Jungkook stares at Taehyung in disbelief, which makes wrinkles appear on his forehead. "Fine. Whatever." He sinks into one of the wooden chairs and glowers at the ugly carpet.

The rest of you ignore Jungkook's sulking. It's for the best; you know he'll get over it eventually. You've kept him in the dark, so it wouldn't be fair for you to expect any other reaction from him. So instead, you focus on Yoongi and try blocking Taehyung's protests.

"Is it possible?"

You practically lean over the desk to get into Yoongi's space. It doesn't matter that you don't know Yoongi. It doesn't matter that you only know Taehyung from the silly game of 20 questions you played with him through Scrabble or the emotionally-charged conversation you had that morning. Your soul knows Taehyung. Logic won't explain it. Following your heart is something you've kept yourself from doing for a long time— if ever. But your heart settles with the calming waves in your chest, each brushing against the shore, washing over the darkest parts of you until nothing but light shines through. You've never felt so at ease before.

Yoongi looks down at your hand intertwined with Taehyung's. The gentleness of his hold on yours is so natural that you don't even know at what point he'd reached for you.

"I don't know," the groundskeeper finally admits. "I'm a medium, not a witch. I can see those who've died. Talk to them. But I don't know anything else. It's not like you can learn this shit in school." Yoongi's fingers twitch at his sides, nails digging into the seam on the outer thighs of his jeans. "You don't think I woulda brought him back already if I could? Never woulda left him here like this. It's a half-life. He doesn't fucking deserve it."

"Yoongi..." Taehyung murmurs softly.

The intimacy the two men hold in each other's gazes is so intense that you avert your eyes, not wanting to intrude on something that isn't meant for you. You're reminded that Taehyung has spent all of his afterlife in this cemetery, befriending groundskeepers over the years— well, those that can see him. Yoongi is one of the few, and by far the kindest, according to Taehyung, even with his gruff attitude. It's love, you now realize.

"Sorry," Yoongi grunts, his eyes eventually finding yours again. "I wish I could help. I don't even know why he's... like this."

"Maybe it's because Y/N believes in him." The three of you turn in unison to face the corner of the room. Jungkook sits with his arms crossed against his chest. His scowl has melted into a look of determined concentration. "Y'know, like Tinker Bell."

Taehyung makes a quiet humming sound. You understand that this is his way of indicating that he's confused, even though you don't know how you know this. You lean closer to his left ear, somehow knowing this is his good ear. "Tinker Bell is a character from a children's story. She's a fairy, and fairies must be believed in, or they will die."

Taehyung nods. It's unbelievably endearing how he bites his lips, folding them into themselves as he thinks through what you've said. You try not to linger on how he wets his lips with his tongue once he's released them or how pink and perfectly bowed they are.

"She believes in me, which makes me more real," he surmises. This makes Jungkook perk up.

"Exactly!" Your best friend has apparently decided to accept Taehyung for what he is. Either that, or he's simply playing along with whatever game he thinks this is. Then again, he has always been one to believe in ghosts. "The longer you go, the more real you are. Until..."

"He becomes human again?" You don't mean to whisper, but you're struggling to maintain control of the unshed tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks.

Taehyung intertwines his fingers with yours, and you let the cool breeze of salty air calm the storm inside your chest.

“I don’t know, maybe? I’ve believed in him this whole time, though….” Yoongi frowns at Jungkook. His gaze softens when he turns to Taehyung, and you think it must be impossible for anyone to not be charmed by the seafoam-haired man. “I guess it’s a waiting game.”

Taehyung stands with wide eyes so soft and innocent that your heart nearly crumbles with how deeply you ache for him.

“I’ll wait.” You’re resolute with your words.

The draw that pulls you to Taehyung isn’t a coincidence. All the pieces are there; you just need to assemble the puzzle. The longing for a wholeness you could never find, the portrait in the locket, the locket’s initials, the way your heart flutters every time Taehyung gifts you with his small, hesitant smile— it’s all too perfect. No matter how bizarre this entire situation is, you know you were supposed to be here, right now, at this moment. This was supposed to happen.

Squeezing your hand, Taehyung says, “I would like to take you somewhere.”

His eyes fall on Jungkook, although he’s speaking to you. Your friend’s mouth hangs open as if Taehyung had interrupted him before he had a chance to speak. Taehyung must be in tune with your thoughts because you aren’t interested in hearing Jungkook question your decision.

As Taehyung leads you into the hallway, you don’t see Jungkook stand up to follow after you. Nor do you see Yoongi splay a hand across Jungkook’s chest or hear him whisper, “It’s okay.”

“Yoongi is fond of you,” Taehyung admits as he leads you down the hall.

“Really? I’ve done nothing but harass him with questions he doesn’t have the answers to.”

Taehyung looks over his shoulder to give you a boxy smile that makes your stomach do something weird. “That is no reason not to like you.”

You wrinkle your nose in disbelief. “How do you know?”

The two of you stop in front of a closed door at the end of the long hall. You let out a small gasp as you watch Taehyung’s hand disappear into the door. He twists his wrist a few times, and the sound of metal grinding together rings through the empty hall. He’s unlocked the door from the inside.

“We can hear one another’s thoughts when we’re nearby,” Taehyung finally responds with a shrug that feels too casual. He doesn’t give you a chance to question this new information before he pulls you into the room.

The room is small, just big enough to be an office or a storage room. A metal-frame daybed is shoved in one corner. In another is a tiny desk covered in books and loose sheets of paper. Despite no bodies of water nearby, the faint saltiness of the ocean permeates the room. It reminds you of childhood trips to the beach when long, hot days splashing in the waves ended with tracking sand into hotel rooms. There is something comforting about the smell of salt and sunblock on your skin, even when your skin is gritty with sand.

It isn’t until Taehyung sits on the edge of the daybed that it all clicks.

“This is your bedroom.” You let your eyes roam a bit longer, taking in the familiar cursive scrawled across one of the pages on the desk and a pencil sketch hanging on the wall of the flowers outside the cemetery gates.

“Mm, yes,” Taehyung hums, watching you with the adoration you can’t believe is truly meant for you. “I do not need to sleep, but Yoongi insisted I have a space for myself. It's nice,” Taehyung muses. “Especially when it rains.”

You don’t want to think about Taehyung having to hide out in random buildings when the weather gets bad.

“It’s really cute,” and you mean it. It’s simple, but it feels warm. You’ve found that Taehyung feels warm, even when his touch makes you shiver.

Like now, as he gets up to stand in front of you. You lift your chin slightly to look him in the eyes, but he isn’t looking at you. Instead, he looks down, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the locket again.

“I was meant to give this to you when I returned home,” he explains softly. You don't think he’s tearing up, but his voice is rougher than you’ve grown used to. “It was meant to be my last courting gift to you before we married.” Taehyung lets out a shaky sigh and finally meets your gaze. “I would like you to have it now.”

You find yourself unable to speak. You step to the side with a slow nod so Taehyung can stand behind you. His elegant fingers bring the locket around your neck. You can feel the faintest of cool touches tickle the back of your neck as he secures the locket’s clasp. The weight of the gold feels grounding as it sits against your chest just below your collarbones.

Somehow you know Taehyung giving you the locket doesn't mean the same thing as it would have before, back when you weren't quite you. It's weird to imagine that you had a second life (or, rather, a first life). But, from what Taehyung has told you, there's very little that's different about you now than before. You were happier, perhaps. Although Taehyung still stares at you with sadness as though seeing you reminds him of what he believes was his gravest mistake— he left the past you when he should have stayed. You don't think it's your place to argue with him over his guilt, but it makes your heartache regardless. Could you blame him in any life? Any version of yourself? Holding onto guilt for nearly two hundred years must do something sinister to a person's heart.

Still, you can't help but wonder if the current you is truly as special as Taehyung believes. You certainly don't feel special; you feel like an utter mess. Even your ideals about life are different. Marriage was never something you’d strongly considered. Perhaps with Hoseok, but the loneliness you felt was debilitating enough that you could never imagine taking on the responsibility of marriage to someone else when you were such a mess. There's no reason to bring someone down into the black hole with you, right? But with Taehyung…

Something flares in the pit of your stomach when you feel his fingers gently massage your shoulders. And then you feel his lips brush against the nape of your neck, and the flares are full-blown flames climbing up your chest.

“Taehyung…”

You don’t know what to do with yourself, where to put your hands, where to look. So you close your eyes and let your body lean into Taehyung's, your back to his chest, your head against his shoulder. You breathe in the ocean and feel the waves carry you someplace you’ve never known but have always been homesick for.

“May I?”

You feel his breath against your lips.

“You may.”

Nothing else needs to be said.

Taehyung runs his fingers along your throat, eventually stopping to lightly press against the underside of your chin. You follow the movement, allowing him to tilt your face. It’s all happening so slowly, too slowly. You want to dig your fingers into his hair and pull him into you, but he somehow has complete command of your body with just two fingers at your chin.

As his other hand slides across your waist to firmly hold your hip, Taehyung brings his mouth to yours.

It’s no surprise that his lips are cold. The feeling is welcomed; your entire body is on fire in anticipation. Yet again, you find that Taehyung balances you out. He keeps you grounded with a secure hand on your hip and guides you into a steady rhythm as his lips move with yours. You twist slightly to angle your face, aiding yourself in deepening the kiss. Every slide of Taehyung's lips against yours sends cold electricity racing through your veins. The cold calms the burn of desire in the pit of your stomach, numbing you so you can dive into Taehyung further and longer. It takes the edge off just slightly enough to drink him in without fearing getting lost in flames.

Your quiet whimpers are met with his satisfied hums as he swallows everything you give him. You don’t know what kissing was like two hundred years ago, but you’re sure how Taehyung sucks your bottom lip into his mouth would have been scandalous, just like it makes you weak in the knees now.

You’re lightheaded when you finally pull away, your chest rising and falling with enough vigor to make Taehyung’s eyebrows furrow.

“Oh no,” he whines. You might die from hearing such a sound come from such pouty lips. “I am so sorry. You need to breathe.”

Ah, yes. Because Taehyung does not.

It doesn't help that you gasp as you answer him, "Don't apologize." Because why would something so sweet need an apology? You should be thanking him. Kissing Taehyung feels like being submerged in the ocean in the early morning before the sun can warm the water. It's shocking and refreshing. The sensation is unlike anything you've experienced before. You're worried you won't ever recover from it.

Needing to see him, you twist in Taehyung's arms to face him. Your arms are slung across his shoulders, and his hands rest on your waist, keeping your bodies at a respectable distance from each other. The expression you're met with is one of such blinding bliss that his beauty makes your heart ache. His grin is so powerful that it squints his eyes, and you realize you're honestly fucked.

"I know this is strange for you... and likely difficult to believe," Taehyung assumes. The brightness of his joy falters slightly, but he continues to hold your gaze. "And I do not want you to feel obligated to wait for me."

You open your mouth to protest, but he gives you a small smile and shakes his head.

"I want you to know you do not need to do this." You expect him to be sad, but his tone is light and kind, like he is terrified of offending you. "You are both her and not. You are your own person with experiences we have not shared, a life that does not include me. I would never take that away from you. I will do whatever it takes not to disappoint you as I did before."

You never believed in reincarnation, so Taehyung is correct in assuming this is difficult for you. But the connection you have with him, the demanding desire to look after him and keep him close, is enough proof that there is truth to all of this. Why else would you crave his presence and his touch? It's not love; you've known him for barely two weeks. But the feeling that stirs in your chest where the hole used to be is akin to the adoration that comes with love. It's not love, but it could be. It may be remnants of it from a time when Taehyung was yours.

You lightly tug at the hair at the nape of Taehyung's neck before inching higher. Then, twisting your fingers deeper into his silky hair, you try to use your grip to bring his face closer to yours. To your surprise, Taehyung is pliant under your touch, allowing you to tilt his head at whichever angle you want him in.

"You are not a disappointment, and I have a feeling you weren't then either," you whisper against his cheek before pecking it lightly. Light pink spreads across his tan skin, so you kiss his other cheek, too.

His response is another gentle smile, and you feel your heart crumble.

"Did I ever tell you how great a kisser you are, before?"

"Yes," he whispers. "But it was long ago, and I would very much like to hear it again." His once wide and innocent eyes have fallen heavy with an intensity you haven't yet seen on him. It's not just his cool skin pressed against yours that sends goosebumps shivering down your arms.

"Maybe you should give me another demonstration. Just to be sure."

As heated as Taehyung's kisses are, his passion doesn't show through his body language. He stands still with his hands lightly resting on your waist, maintaining distance between your bodies. He keeps you nearly at arm's length even as you pull him closer to you.

Although you don't want to push him to do anything he doesn't want to do, you test the waters by leaning further into him. The new position allows you to deepen the kiss, making Taehyung quietly moan into your mouth. It's when your hips brush against one another that Taehyung abruptly pulls away.

"W-w-we should go back," he stutters.

"Oh, okay." You blink for a few seconds, waiting for your brain to defog.

You mindlessly follow him out of the room, only pausing to let him lock the door (with a ghostly hand again). It feels as though you've been away for hours once you return to the lobby, though logically, you know you were gone for maybe twenty minutes at most.

Yoongi and Jungkook are on opposite sides of the room, sitting on the floor with stacks of maps beside them. When you get closer, Jungkook launches a paper plane across the room. It slices through the air with impressive precision until it lands tip-first into a potted plant, rather than at Yoongi, who you assume was the intended target.

"You're folding them all wrong," Yoongi chastises your friend. As you and Taehyung approach them, you see even more paper planes littering the floor.

"Am not!" Jungkook huffs. "These maps aren't good for folding. They feel waxy."

"Then how's it that mine fly just fine?"

You clear your throat, and both men look up at you from their positions on the floor. "Having fun?"

Jungkook grumbles intelligibly, and Yoongi gives you a noncommittal shrug.

You roll your eyes and turn to Taehyung for support, but he's standing at the perimeter of the room.

"Tae?" The nickname slips out without much thought, but you grow flustered when Taehyung's eyes widen.

"We should leave." His words mirror the recommendation (or command, really) that he'd given in your bedroom.

Yoongi launches to his feet and brushes his jeans off as if there's anything to make them dirty. The look he gives Taehyung is indecipherable to you, but you remember that they can read each other's thoughts. Their relationship reminds you that there is still much to learn about this world.

You wait with Jungkook at the front door while Taehyung says goodbye to Yoongi. It's not as though they won't ever see each other again, but you get the impression that they rarely spend much time away from each other.

"Ready to go home?" Taehyung asks once he's beside you at the door, and Yoongi has returned to his work behind the front desk.

His question squeezes your heart, making your blood rush through your veins faster than you're sure it should. At some point, your apartment had become home to Taehyung. You doubt he even realizes what he says.

The ride back is more relaxed than the ride to the cemetery for you. This time you tune into Jungkook and Taehyung's conversation, this time about what it's like to be dead. It concerns you at first that Jungkook might offend Taehyung, but the ghost answers all his questions with a bit of amusement hinted at in the twitch of his mouth. Many of the questions are ones you have yet to think to ask. It's no surprise; Jungkook has always had an overactive imagination.

"What's the coolest part about being a ghost?" Jungkook taps his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the song Taehyung telepathically turned on through the car radio. The clever trick launched Jungkook into a new wave of curiosity.

"Hmm..." Taehyung takes a moment to think. His gaze wanders over to observe the scenery flash by through the window.

Jungkook isn't the safest of drivers, you'll admit.

"Invisibility was fun, at times." He returns his gaze to meet Jungkook's in the rearview mirror. A small smile graces his face. "I liked going places others are not allowed in, like seeing how movies are projected at theaters or watching chefs in fancy restaurants. There was so much technology I had to learn."

"Wow. I thought you would say you spied on people showering or something."

"Oh my god," you exclaim. You twist around to catch a glimpse of Taehyung's horrified expression. "Jungkook, you're traumatizing him."

Jungkook spends the rest of the car ride describing all the perks he would take advantage of as an invisible ghost. It feels good to listen to Taehyung laugh at Jungkook's nonsense; you realize it's your first time hearing the sound, and it may as well be the trumpets of heaven calling to you with how freeing it makes you feel.

When Jungkook finally parks outside your apartment building, Taehyung makes a show of unbuckling his seatbelt to point out that he had, in fact, remembered to buckle himself in (and did it correctly). You laugh at the innocence of it all and try to ignore the nerves fluttering in your stomach when you realize you're about to be alone in your apartment with the ghost of your lover in a past life.

“Y/N, wait.” Jungkook grabs your forearm to stop you from getting out of the car.

You raise an eyebrow, aware that Taehyung now stands on the sidewalk waiting for you. “What?”

Jungkook leans back in his seat and gives you a serious look. “I would tell you to use protection, but I get the feeling a pregnancy and STIs aren't things you need to worry about.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, slapping Jungkook in the arm. "You're gross."

"Not as gross as the raging boner your ghostie boyfriend was sporting back at the cemetery."

"He did not have a boner."

"He absolutely did," Jungkook says with a grin. "And from what I could tell, ya boy's packin'."

"Jungkook!"

Your friend chuckles through the pain of another slap to the arm. Slamming his car door shut isn't satisfying enough. You feel like a petulant teenager storming to your bedroom after a fight with your parents. Except Jungkook is an immature little brat, and you're trying not to think about how he called Taehyung your boyfriend or that you also noticed Taehyung's...

"Are you okay?"

Taehyung rolls his lips as he follows you through the front door. It's an adorable habit you've noticed.

You take Taehyung's hand in yours and squeeze. "Never been better."

Living with a corporeal Taehyung is just like living with an invisible Taehyung, but more fun.

He still offers to wash the dishes after dinner, and he's likely the only reason your plants are still alive. When work is stressful or life gets too heavy, your Bluetooth speakers continue to play uplifting music, except now elegant hands aptly twirl you around to the song's rhythm (and sometimes off-beat, but life is more fun when you color outside of the lines).

You still find a mug of fresh coffee steaming on the kitchen counter every morning, but now there's always a man perched on the edge of the counter, too. You've decided he's always cute, but he's devastatingly cute in the mornings when his hair is messy from sleep and he's still in his pajamas. The shirts he wears are too tight for him because they're yours, but you selfishly like how the sleeves strain around his biceps and how his broad shoulders pull up the fabric to expose his midriff when he lifts his arms. The sweatpants you give him to sleep in are even more dangerous. They're grey and tight in the crotch. You try not to think about it.

Although Taehyung says he doesn't need to sleep, he starts to become tired at the end of the day. Sometimes you wonder if he complains of fatigue as an excuse to cuddle you at night since you have gotten into the habit of sleeping together. Chivalry nearly puts Taehyung on the couch; you have to fight him to agree to sleep in the bed with you. He finds it disrespectful, but you insist you have little honor to preserve anyway.

"That is not polite to say about yourself, Y/N," Taehyung often protests.

He still sleeps in your bed, though.

Despite your increased closeness, you never explore each other beyond kisses. Though you do plenty of that. Taehyung can't keep his lips away from yours, even when he puts a respectful distance between your body and his. No matter if they're light pecks or heated, kisses from Taehyung leave you breathless and, sometimes, a little sad. Sad because you know he's making up for lost time, and his desperation isn't just because he's attracted to you but also because you know he loves you, even if he has yet to explicitly say it.

And you are afraid to love.

What you are no longer afraid of, though, are the weekends. Instead of dreading them, you look forward to the days you can lounge in your apartment with Taehyung attached to your hip— even if all you do is binge all the movies and TV shows Taehyung has missed out on.

"Should we watch Ghost?"

Taehyung loudly snorts at your question, offense clear as day on his face. You feel his baritone voice rumble through your body from lying on top of him. He lies on his back on the couch with your head against his chest, both of your faces turned to watch the TV as you sort through video recommendations on your streaming app.

"I take offense to that," he grumbles and huffs in mock irritation.

You've noticed that Taehyung has recently started breathing. Your head rises and falls with his chest in a steady rhythm, but you're afraid to point it out. You aren't sure if he's intentionally doing it to feel real or if he is real.

Hope is something to be afraid of, too.

"Offense?!" You gasp. "What do you have against Patrick Swayze? It's a classic American romance."

"About a ghost," Taehyung huffs again.

You lift your head to look him in the eyes and wrap your arms around his shoulders. "And you are a ghost."

He averts his eyes to look somewhere over your shoulder. "You need not remind me."

Fuck. It was the wrong thing to say, and you should've known it. You're not sure why, but Taehyung has been particularly moody about his condition lately. Unfortunately, you aren't doing much to help.

"Tae," you whine, pressing your face into his chest to hide your shame, if only for a moment. "I'm sorry."

He's silent, but when you lift your head, he has a sad smile on his face. "No need to apologize for speaking the truth."

Propping yourself up slightly with your elbows at his shoulders and your knees on either side of Taehyung's waist, you tilt his face to look at you directly. Holding each side of his neck, you rub your thumbs along his jaw and slot your lips with his.

Taehyung lets you guide him through a slow kiss, almost lazy in how languidly your lips move with one another. Getting him to cuddle with you with so much physical contact has been a journey nearly as slow as the kiss you're losing yourself in, but it was worth it to finally feel Taehyung solid beneath you. He may be cold, and his touch still feels more like a whisper than anything heavy-handed, but he's here.

"You're my ghost, you know," you say when you finally pull away.

Taehyung lets out a pleased hum, his eyes still closed. Seeing him like this, so close and vulnerable, your bodies a tangled mess of safety and comfort. It stirs something within you, something you've tried to keep tucked away because you want it and you don't know what it means if you get what you want.

"I am yours?" Taehyung parrots with closed eyes but one eyebrow raised. You're starting to pick up on how to decode his expressiveness. The eyebrow quirk, along with the twitch of the corner of his mouth, can only mean one thing.

Determined to wipe off the recent development of cockiness in your new roommate (which you're convinced he picked up from hanging around Jungkook too much), you resort to playing dirty.

"Do you not want to be?" You tease the question against his lips, forcing him to chase yours when you pull away faster than he can react.

"I do. More than anything in this world and the next." He lets out a frustrated whine, but you aren't interested in showing mercy.

Instead, you take a leap of faith that you hope you won't regret.

"I have a question for you," you admit against the skin of Taehyung's jaw. Before he can respond, you roll your hips to grind against his crotch. Taehyung lets out a low moan, deeper and breathier than you've ever heard come out of him. The sound makes your entire body throb. “Did we ever do this, before?”

Taehyung shakes his head slowly, a shuddered breath leaving his lips as your mouth latches onto the sensitive skin of his throat just below his jaw.

“No?” Shock colors your reply. Your tone makes Taehyung rigid, and you immediately regret how freely you let your surprise show.

“It was customary to wait until marriage,” he admits meekly. “We kissed while I courted you, but that was all….”

You know it’s not logical to feel bad, but you can’t stop your stomach from twisting when you think back on all the people you’ve had sex with. Taehyung, essentially your soulmate, spent nearly hundreds of years waiting for you — only you — and what had you done? Sucked dick left and right!

“I’m so sorry, Tae. Do you want to stop?” You pull away from his neck to look him in the eyes.

Taehyung barely pauses to think before he shakes his head once again. “No, no, I want this.” He gives you a small smile. It’s cute how pink his cheeks have turned, and you wonder how a ghost can blush. “You are the only one for me, Y/N. If you will have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you,” you murmur, keeping your voice low and steady. “We can go slow.” You gently hold his wrists, guiding Taehyung to place his hands on your hips. “You can touch me wherever you want, okay?”

With his hands almost where you want them, you ease back down until your chests are pressed against each other. Then, your hands return to Taehyung’s neck. You use your hold on him to apply light pressure to his jaw whenever you need to adjust the tilt of his head, manipulating him into the position you need to deepen your kisses.

“How do you feel?” You shift slightly, so your hips are directly on top of Taehyung’s. You watch his face as you roll your hips slightly, applying more pressure against the growing bulge in his sweatpants, the loose fabric making it easy to feel how hard he is.

“Ahh,” Taehyung gasps. He instinctually tightens his grip on your hips. "G-g-good."

It feels incredible to have his fingers digging into your skin. You wiggle your hips, trying to coax his hands further down your body. The movement makes your shorts ride up, reminding you that you're both fully clothed.

"I wanna see you, Tae," you speak against his lips. Your fingers play with the hem of his t-shirt. When you hear him inhale suddenly, breath hitching in his throat, you take the opportunity to slide your hands beneath the fabric. His stomach is cold, just like the rest of him, but he's soft and smooth. You allow your ego to inflate a bit every time you feel his muscles spasm when you gently drag your nails along his abdomen.

"Can I take this off?"

Taehyung nods, eyes glassy and pink lips parted. His fluffy hair gets jostled around as you pull his t-shirt off.

"And these?"

He whimpers when your fingers curl around the edge of his sweatpants, catching his briefs, too, so one tug makes him fully unclothed beneath you.

Jungkook was not wrong in his assumptions about Taehyung's size. You take a deep breath and try not to let your gaze linger too long. This is Taehyung's first time; it's important to you that you make him feel comfortable. Ogling at his dick probably isn't going to help.

"Y/N?"

Like a deer in headlights, you snap your gaze up to stare at Taehyung with wide eyes. "Y-yes?"

"Yours too?" Taehyung reaches out to pull at the hem of your t-shirt. His movements are so endearingly timid that you almost feel bad for ruining his innocence.

Almost.

Your underwear is already soaked just from rutting against him, and your clit feels swollen as it throbs. Peeling off your clothes brings relief as much as it further pushes you into delirium from fully pressing your skin against Taehyung's.

“Touch me, please,” you whisper.

You reach down to grab Taehyung’s left hand, lifting it from your hip to place it on the back of your thigh just below your ass. Because of how you straddle his waist, your legs are spread apart. Maneuvering Taehyung’s hand makes his fingers brush against your core as his hand wraps around your thigh. Even with as light of a touch as it is, you stifle a moan into the crook of his neck.

"Tell me if I do anything wrong, please," Taehyung pleads as he wraps his free hand around your other thigh to hold you in place.

He inhales sharply when he drags his fingers along your lips and finds his fingers coated in your arousal. Seemingly overcoming the initial shock, he massages circles against your entrance, occasionally dipping further between your thighs to brush your clit.

You lift your face to press your forehead against Taehyung's. "You're doing everything right, baby. I like when you play with my clit."

It's clear that Taehyung is eager to please you because he takes your words to heart. His nimble fingers rub your clit in slow, intentional circles, maintaining a rhythm that has you grinding against him with more fervor. The faster you move, the bolder Taehyung gets until you're gasping against his mouth when you feel a finger slide inside you.

"Oh fuck," you moan, rocking back against his hand. The motion makes your pussy slide against Taehyung's cock. "Curl forward like this." You show him how to move his finger, and he watches you with the utmost attention, flawlessly executing your requests.

Whimpers fall from Taehyung like prayers, and the only thing he's worshipping is you. When he begins stuttering your name is when you finally halt your movements, afraid of pushing him too far too soon.

"What's wrong?" He chokes out the question, and you nearly lose yourself entirely to the gravelly sound of his voice. He already looks and sounds so fucked out, golden skin flushed and eyes droopy with lust.

"Nothing, god, nothing at all," you groan, sitting back on your knees to get up from his chest. “Sit up, baby.”

"Why?" Taehyung questions, but he follows your order.

With his back against the arm of the couch, you straddle Taehyung’s lap. "Wanna ride you."

The teasing joke you were going to make about how missionary was probably the only sex allowed back when Taehyung was alive immediately dies in your throat when you see the look on his face. His mouth hangs open, lips slick with spit and swollen from how much you've bitten them. His hands squeeze your hips so tightly it almost hurts, and his breathing is so erratic you're more than convinced it's real.

Simply put, he looks like he'll cum if you even look at him the right way. Of course, it wouldn't bother you; the guy's a virgin and hasn't had sexual contact with another person in nearly two hundred years. Can you really blame him for losing his cool? No, but that doesn't mean you can't plan to draw this out as long as possible.

“Tell me when it’s too much, and I’ll stop. I don’t want you to cum yet.”

Taehyung nods and makes an effort to relax his breathing. You don't even bother with any foreplay; too hard of a yank, and you'll find yourself in a mess of trouble. Instead, you're straightforward in your preparations, lining his cock up with your entrance. Rather than ease yourself onto him, you drop to his thighs in one quick movement. It's a bit of a mistake because Taehyung is big, but the beautiful look of pure ecstasy on his face and how he makes you feel so full makes up for the burning stretch and the sudden assault against your cervix.

Taehyung chokes as though he's had all the air punched out of him. His eyes close, and his eyebrows scrunch together like he’s concentrating. You watch how his pretty pink lips fall open. The way he puffs out shallow breaths is endearing, knowing he's trying his hardest to keep himself together.

“Talk to me, Tae.”

He lets out a breathy groan. You feel it vibrate from deep within his chest. It's not words, but it's something.

Sitting up on your knees, you swiftly fall back onto Taehyung’s cock. A choked version of your name sputters out of his mouth when your body connects with him again.

“Ahhh, too much, too much.” But when you pause your movements, Taehyung whimpers for you to keep going.

Desperation sounds pretty in his baritone voice. He moans your name repeatedly. It becomes a breathy, choked-out mantra every time your pussy swallows his cock and your ass slaps against the tops of his thighs.

Although you’re used to sex being hard and fast, taking things slow with Taehyung is more satisfying than any quick and dirty fuck you’ve ever had. You swear you can feel it more because each glide of his cock in and out of you is intentional. And because you’re in control, you can angle your body to ensure he hits that sweet spot inside you every time, all while creating friction between your clit and his abdomen.

“You’re doing so good, baby. You can try moving now, okay? Move with me.”

Taehyung squeezes your waist to help bounce your body onto his cock more forcefully. He bends his knees and tries out a few small thrusts. His dark eyes never stray from yours. It's what leads you to praise him even more.

“Y-y-yes, fuck, just like that,” you moan.

You let your head roll to the side as Taehyung thrusts into you. It takes him a few tries before his thrusts match up with the rhythm you’ve established, but soon he’s pulling you onto his cock at the same time he’s thrusting into your pussy. The force turns your whimpers into full-blown moans at such a high pitch they might as well be tiny screams.

“You sound so pretty,” Taehyung moans, and the thickness of his voice startles you.

So far, he's been quiet aside from his own whimpers and moans, but real words have been few. You're unsure if that's a blessing or a curse. What he says isn't even dirty talk, but you feel heat bloom across your body at the compliment. Taehyung thinks you're pretty. Of course, he does; he's given you even stronger compliments than that. But this time, you're pretty because you're bouncing on his cock and screaming his name.

One of Taehyung's hands slides across your stomach to squeeze your tits. When he tweaks your nipples, you let out another pretty moan. He mumbles something under his breath, his voice too low for you to register what he’s saying.

"Hm, baby?" His pecs are tight and bulge as you dig your nails to steady yourself.

"I-I-I'm," His voice tilts slightly, the rumbling baritone morphing into something whinier, needier.

“Close?” You struggle to speak as you pant, mouth dry from hanging open as Taehyung's hips slam into yours.

He bites his bottom lip so hard you can see how his skin turns white from the pressure. He scrunches up his eyebrows and glares at you.

“I cannot,” he hisses.

You know he’s close. You can tell from how tightly he’s holding his body, forcing himself rigid to keep himself under control, but you don’t understand why.

“Just let go," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair. You tug on the strands at the back of his head, making his face lift up to look at you as you press your chest against his.

“You first,” he finally manages to grunt out.

You're convinced Taehyung is the only man in the history of the universe that has lasted long enough during his first time having sex to ensure that his partner cums before he does. To not overwhelm him, you bring your own fingers down to play with your clit as Taehyung continues crashing your hips together. It takes minimal effort to make the coiled spring of heat in you snap and even less effort to have Taehyung follow behind you with a breathy moan that ends in a near sob.

"Fuck," you exhale one last time before collapsing into Taehyung's arms. "How are you doing?"

He sits with his head hanging backward off the arm of the couch. Sweat has his bangs plastered to his face, and you're too exhausted to wonder how a ghost can sweat. (Or cum, for that matter.) After a few seconds of silence, he finally lifts his head to look you in the eyes.

"Incredible," he says with the boxy grin you know you'll never get enough of. "A bit disgusting, though. But incredible."

"Disgusting?!" You slap his chest, but he clasps your hand in his before you can pull away.

"In a good way," he insists with apologetic eyes. "Disgusting in a sexy way."

You roll your eyes, only somewhat understanding what he means. Sex is kind of gross if you really think about it. "We can take a shower and get less disgusting."

Taehyung nods but refuses to move even after you've gotten up from the couch.

"Well, come on," you groan, tugging at his arm. "I can feel your cum on the inside of my thighs; that is disgusting." Your whining is overpowered by giggles, though, when Taehyung opens his eyes to give you the most pathetic look you've ever seen.

His eyes are unfocused and droopy as he speaks. "I cannot move my legs."

"Can't you just, I don't know, float or something?" You lift your arms to mimic... well, mimic whatever it is you think it would look like if you were Taehyung floating through the air.

You both fall into a fit of giggles, voices hoarse and ugly from the sounds of sex you're sure your neighbors will complain about later. Somewhere in the mix of pulling Taehyung off the couch and supporting his weight as you tumble into the bathroom, you realize you've never been this comfortable with someone before.

It's easy to be vulnerable with Taehyung, to let his dark eyes roam your body as you shower without feeling self-conscious. It's easy to joke around with him, even in heated moments when other men would have expected you to be serious and sexy. It's easy to be yourself, something not many people have wanted you to be in a very long time.

So when you're both clean and dry, tangled up in your bed sheets that night, it's easy to lean into Taehyung's touch. And when he brushes his lips against your ear, whispering, "I love you," it's easy to find yourself whispering, "I love you, too."

Waking up in love feels different somehow. You don't like to be cliche and say the sun shines brighter and your body feels lighter, and you don't have to because the next morning it's raining and your body feels like you got fucked within an inch of your life. But there is something different about this morning.

You don't know what it is until you venture into the kitchen, beckoned by the familiar sound of coffee brewing and the sizzle of pancakes (because Taehyung has been obsessed with breakfast foods lately).

"Good morning, ba—"

"Fuck—"

Your phone clatters to the floor at the same time Taehyung sticks his finger in his mouth. The two of you stare at each other, eyes wide and for different reasons.

"Why do you—"

"Can you get me a—"

You both clamp your mouths shut, eyebrows raised. Taehyung hums around the finger in his mouth as if to say, you go. But you can hardly get your words out because you now know what's different about today.

Taehyung's hair is brown.

"Why do you look like that?"

Taehyung scrunches his nose at you. At first, you think he's angry, but as he pulls his finger out of his mouth, you realize he is trying to smile.

"I cut myself."

"That's not what-" you pause, finally taking in your surroundings. There's a pancake getting burnt to shit on the stove. Your usual mug of coffee (in a new mug, not Hoseok's) sits on the counter. Beside the mug is a cutting board with apple slices and a knife resting on top. "You... cut yourself..."

Taehyung nods with a grin and holds out his finger. "See, look."

There is a small cut on the tip of his finger, just deep enough to release a few steady drops of blood, but nothing serious. Still, you take Taehyung's hand in yours to inspect it further.

But then you realize his hand is warm.

"Y/N," Taehyung speaks your name slowly. "I'm bleeding."

Your vision blurs as you desperately try to blink away tears. "You're bleeding."

"I'm bleeding! I do not know how to cook or use kitchen utensils, and I am bleeding!" Taehyung nearly cackles. He wraps his arms around your waist and twirls you around the kitchen, chanting, "I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding!" at the top of his lungs.

"Do you know what this means?" He comes to a stop in the middle of the kitchen.

You rest your chin on his chest and peer up at him, tear-streaked cheeks and all. "You're alive."

"I'm alive," he whispers. Thinks it over. Whispers it again. "I'm alive."

Your lips crash into each other with desperation unlike what you'd had the night before. This time you're both desperate for a warmth you've never experienced together before. Taehyung's tongue is hot as he licks into your mouth, and you feel the heat of his cock press against your thigh as it twitches to life in his briefs. He moans when you tug on his chocolate-brown hair, and his breath is hot against your skin.

Even when the deafening alarm of the smoke detector goes off from Taehyung's forgotten pancake, you struggle to pull away from Taehyung's warmth.

"Mmm, let me fix this," Taehyung murmurs against your mouth. He walks you back towards the stove, turning it off and switching on the vent to start ridding the room of smoke. "My beloved," Taehyung laughs as he tries to pry your arms from his body. "I am not going anywhere."

"You better not," you threaten, unwrapping your arms from his shoulders only to wrap them around his waist instead.

"My love for you is eternal," he declares with a quick kiss on the tip of your nose. "I promise to stay by your side."

And just as you have since the moment he spoke to you through your Bluetooth speakers, you trust him.

do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my work

880 notes · View notes

sugaflake · 10 months

Note

Okay hear me out, but maybe a little bit of enemies to lovers, little bit of smutty goodness between witch hunter!yoongi and witch!reader?? Idk why this popped in my head but I’m kind of desperate to see a little something now lol.

Also, I love you ❤️

❀ Pairing: Witch hunter!Yoongi x f. witch!reader

❀ Summary: For years, you and Yoongi have played cat and mouse. It’s his duty to rid the world of witches, but he always finds a new excuse to let you slip through his fingers. When you find yourself at his mercy, you wonder if the great witch hunter will finally end your game of chase, or if there’s something that will stay his hand.

❀ Word Count: 4188

❀ Genre: Urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, a hint of angst, smut

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Warnings: On screen character death (not permanent though), depictions of blood and intense action sequences, scary demon thing, depiction of weapons, hints at violence between two groups of people, mild world building, a bit of angst, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring light nipple play, unprotected vaginal sex, emotional sex, a lot of spit, UNEDITED.

❀ Published: August 3, 2023

❀ A/N: I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to control myself with some of these ideas because god dammit Sarah, I want to turn this into more than ~4k of a work. Like this idea inspired me so much, you have no idea how insane I wanted to go on this but I had to CONTROL MYSELF because I promised that this year I would keep it tame. I love you so much and I’m so sorry that this is like 90% plot and 10% smut but I kept inching toward 5k and I was like I HAVE GOT TO STOP MYSELF JESUS CHRIST and dkfgjdiogjfoigjg I am telling you right now, I want to come back and revisit this fic and makie it like a four chapter thing or something because GOD I LOVED THIS IDEA AND YOU KNEW JUST WHAT TO REQUEST. Also this is unedited!!!!

❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Most nights, Yoongi dreams of you. He knows better, and yet he can’t help himself. It’s like you’re living under his skin, a virus that has taken root in the marrow of his bones. He doesn’t know how he would dig you out if he tried.

If he tried.

If anyone from the Conclave knew the dangerous game that Yoongi is playing, he would be ousted or killed. Killing would be the mercy, but he’s garnered enough hate within the elite members of the Conclave to know they’d rather him suffer cut off from his resources. His friends. His family.

Still, Yoongi walks a dangerous line. He knows it’s wrong, letting a witch infect him like a sickness. He is sure that he’s under your spell. There’s no other explanation for the way he always lets you slip away. For the way he closes his eyes and imagines the flutter of your heart against his, the sound of your gasps, the warmth of your hands.

Stars explode behind Yoongi’s eyes as he presses the heels of his hands into them. He’s exhausted, limbs heavy and sore from a day of bloody work. The activity downtown has only worsened the last few months, making Yoongi hunt multiple times a day and return home banged up.

The pain he can handle. Witches and their demons are nothing new to him. But he knows there’s something he’s missing, something lurking beneath the surface of the increased activity and the strong demonic presence in the city.

Yoongi knows he could ask you. He’s thought about it a few times over the last few weeks but he’s talked himself out of it each time. The curiosity has always lingered there, waiting for him to ask in those moments where you cross his path, coy and sharp as ever. In the minutes you linger, shooting him insults he thinks you don’t mean and playing little word games.

He doesn’t ask, though. And you never offer, despite the fact that your sharp eyes and knowing smirk lead him to believe you know he wants to ask.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t. Not giving you what you want is part of the fun. He likes the way it makes you bristle, magic crackling at your fingertips. He loves the way it makes you narrow your eyes at him, lobbing empty threats that make him want to purr.

Whatever this effect you have on him is potent. He can’t shake you off, can’t outrun you.

And worse, he doesn’t want to.

Rain begins to beat on the bedroom window outside. Though his limbs are heavy from slogging through the sewer system downtown after a witch and her ivax demon, he’s a little too keyed up to sleep. Yoongi senses something staticy in the air, an energy that he can’t name.

Opening up his phone, he flips through his text threads with members of the Conclave. It seems everyone is in it tonight, the demonic activity buzzing and the monsters worse than usual. He frowns when he sees Seokjin mention a prowler crawling through the warehouse district. Yoongi knows that’s where you live and an unexpected sense of unease slivers down his spine.

He locks his phone and tosses it on the bed. He doesn’t need to worry about you. You’re one of the most skilled witches in the city and you’ve killed scores of demons and others alike. He should remove your head for the number of hunters you’ve put in the ground, but you’ve killed triple that in witches.

Which is why you’re alone. It’s not lost on Yoongi that you’re a witch without a coven and with unusual alliances living in a warehouse all alone with a prowler on the loose. If you know it’s there - you have to know it’s there, being you - he knows you’ll go after it.

“Fuck,” he sighs at the ceiling.

Grabbing his phone, Yoongi sends off a quick text.

Yoongi: Anyone dispatching to take care of the prowler?

Councilman Haer: Negative. The Conclave will not be dispatching. The Warehouse District is not critical and it’ll go back down after it’s satiated. Prowlers aren’t controlled by witches, it might even take a few out for us.

Yoongi stomach flips as he squeezes his phone tight before getting up. He’s tired of the Conclave’s inaction. He knows he’ll get in trouble for going after something so dangerous without backup, but he can’t ask Seokjin and Hoseok to back him up on this one. Not unauthorized, and not for something so dangerous.

Unsanctioned hunts is exactly how Yoongi has ended up at the bottom of the pool among Conclave members, but he doesn’t care. Politics can’t erase the fact that he’s the best fucking hunter in the city, and no councilman who won’t get their hands dirty can give him grief for doing what needs to be done.

This isn’t about the Conclave, though. Yoongi knows it. Seokjin would know it, if Yoongi told him what he was doing. But the thought of a prowler tearing through the low-income streets in the Warehouse District doesn’t resonate with him. Neither does knowing that you are one of the witches in the line of fire.

Yoongi dresses and arms himself with military proficiency. A black, long-sleeved shirt with a form-fitted leather vest over it to prevent most stabs and cuts, knives sheathed along the ribbing of the vest, breathable pants with a tactical belt and pockets full of hunting necessities, and his necklace with the Conclave helix.

At the last second, he grabs a jacket and pulls the hood up to keep the beating rain from soaking him through. While he has some talent with magic to help him heal faster and make his blows stronger and faster, he’s not skilled in the way of weather or anything advanced enough to keep him dry and comfortable.

Nervousness settles into him as he takes the subway to the Warehouse District. It’s not far, but the train is empty and filled with dirty puddles left behind from passengers. Lights flicker above as the subway rockets unevening on the tracks, making him dizzy.

When he steps off the train and into the wet underground of the station entrance, he knows something is amiss. His fingers twitch as he jogs up the steps, boots splashing loudly as the rain comes down. Wind whips at him here and when he hears a crack of thunder too loud and rumbling to be human, his instincts kick in.

Yoongi takes off running. He knows where your warehouse-turned-loft is. He’d originally scouted it out to eliminate you. Now, it’s something he’s always kept an eye on, steering other hunters away from your home. It’s silly, he knows. You’d call him weak if you knew, probably. And yet he does it, diverting danger coming your way when he can.

Now, danger is already there.

The storm rages harder as he heads your direction. Wind pushes at him, making Yoongi lock his muscles as he fights the freezing cold rain and the debris that blows down the street with the force of the storm. He hopes that it keeps people indoors and away from the prowler.

But Yoongi sees the purple lighting lance out of the sky, an explosion of radiant beauty for a moment before it strikes nearby, blowing transforms into white sparks and he realizes what is so uncanny about this storm.

It’s you. You’re the storm.

A roar of rage shakes the air as he comes around the corner to your street. The warehouse you live in is at the end of the road right up against the bay. The wind is mixed with salt spray, stinging his eyes as he runs towards the shadowy outline of your building, nearly impossible to see in the rain and night.

Yoongi manages to roll one of the heavy doors open to your loft, muscles screaming with effort. Stepping inside, chaos greets him. The ceiling is blown out above your home, rain pouring in from the sky. It tastes like lightning and blood. No doubt your storm is what ripped the ceiling apart, but when he sees the prowler, he doesn’t blame you.

A massive creature stands ten feet tall, rippling with leathered hide and spikes on its back. Long, gangly limbs drag on the floor with black, sharpened talons on the end of each of its three fingers. The prowler walks awkwardly and Yoongi notes the scorch mark in its left shoulder, making it lean as it drags itself toward its intended target.

Which is you, laying on the ground bloody and rain soaked. Yoongi doesn’t even think. He has no idea if you’re conscious or not, but he’s moving across the room, putting power into his step as he pulls out two of his daggers and jumps high up into the air.

Yoongi’s intent is to land on the back of the prowler and sink each blade in as he falls. He doesn’t anticipate the demon to turn away from bloodied prey, but it does, swinging its arm wildly to bat him away. He’s lucky that the forearm catches him in the stomach and sends him flying and not the flaws.

Closing his eyes and bracing for impact, Yoongi is surprised when he doesn’t slam into a wall. He opens his eyes to see himself floating toward the floor, suspended briefly before the phantom energy drops him gently. He lands with shock, looking up to where you’re sitting up, one hand extended toward him.

At least you weren’t out cold or dead. Yoongi is really happy that you’re not dead, but it’s cut short as the prowler charges him.

This time, Yoongi’s ready. He runs at the beast, waiting until he’s right outside of the window of its swiping claws before he dives to his knees, sliding under the creature and between its legs. He twists his hands, cutting the inside of the creature’s thighs as he goes.

It shrieks, shaking the building and scattering Yoongi’s thoughts. He feels fizzy and confused for a moment, the mind breaking scream of the prowler enough to make him vulnerable. He feels a hand on his face and he looks up, momentarily stricken with the thought that he sees an angel.

“Thank you,” you breathe, and he recognizes your voice. Usually it cracks like a whip, but this is soft. Strange. It terrifies him. “I’m going to do something that is probably going to kill me. Just know that I liked our game, Hunter.”

“What are you doing, Witch?”

Your smile is like the sun. He doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful. Your face is covered in blood and rain, turning your neck scarlet as it runs. There’s a gash above your brow and he sees a blackened wound in your stomach.

It is amazing, how a creature like you, bred to be an evil, wicked thing can look radiant. Holy. Wonderful. Your hand is cradling his face and it feels warm, despite the rain and blood on your hands. Your thumb is soft as it sweeps across his cheek, a touch more reverent than he’s ever known.

“Witch,” Yoongi starts, unsure what you’re doing.

“I’ll miss that. Take this.”

Before Yoongi can react, your hand falls from his face. You move past him with absolute confidence, lifting your chin. You have a limp as you do, and Yoongi reaches after you but you’re already out of his grip.

Something stirs in the air. He’s only felt power rippling like that once before when he was a child, and the entire Conclave worked together to slaughter an Eldritch Witch that had attacked them and taken out more than half of their hunters.

Now, Yoongi feels that dark presence again, energy buzzing against his ears as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. The prowler senses the power disturbance too, backing away from you as dark particles begin to gather around your hands.

Above you, the rain hovers, disrupted by the frequency of your magic. The buzz in Yoongi’s ears gets louder as he climbs to his feet, clapping his hands firmly over his ears, wincing as it gets higher and louder. He thinks it might burst his ear drums or crack his skull open.

Disks of dark particles circle you as you approach the demon, which is now roaring once more, trying to disrupt your thoughts. It doesn’t work, the air vibrating with dark matter. You’re at the center of the swirling darkness, the rings rotating around you like an access.

The sound stops suddenly, and for a moment, Yoongi thinks he’s deaf. Black matter pulses from you, exploding outward. Yoongi hits the floor, realizing if he gets hit with your magic, he’ll die. Never before has he witnessed the Eldritch Blast of a witch, but he knows that it's only used as a final stand.

I’m going to do something that is probably going to kill me.

The finality of your words shreds him open as the shockwave of your magic barrels at him. He thinks he’s going to die as it expands toward him, but instead, it arches over him, battling down against a magical barrier.

Take this. Yoongi realizes you’ve warded him from your destruction, keeping him safe as your blast levels the world around you. He feels the magic beating down on your ward like raging fits, vibrating and shrieking under the pressure of the magic.

It even keeps him from being injured by the collapsing debris.

Yoongi looks at you as the world falls to pieces. You go down to one knee, then the other, swaying as the darkness cascades around you in a final flutter of power. Then you fall over, heavy and unmoving as the rest of the building comes down.

All he can do is scream.

Most nights, you dream of Yoongi. You don’t know when it started - perhaps that first night after you met him? You can’t be sure. All you know is that at some point, the hunter poisoned you from the inside out, a disease taking root and rotting you all the way through to your core.

You always knew that dreaming of him would get you killed one day. But Yoongi was different. Wiser than the rest of his wretched Conclave. Smart enough to question his way of life and his faction’s merciless killings. You think he’ll start asking the right questions soon, that maybe he’ll start seeing the signs that who he has sworn loyalty to isn’t who they say they are.

But Yoongi never asks questions.

It’s easy to tell he wants to. There’s always that little pause at the end of your meetings. You used to think it was perhaps he was trying to decide whether or not to kill you. Perhaps it was that at first, but now it’s something a little different. A little more. Like he is on the edge of finally asking you what exactly is going on in the city that he protects from monsters.

Yoongi is simple, though. He likes his little life tucked away in the Art District and he likes the wash, rinse, repeat of killing demons and corrupted witches nightly. You think he likes your little run-ins.

Now, you’ve finally paid the price of letting him live these last two years. Had someone told you before you’d met Yoongi that you’d sacrifice yourself for him and the rest of a small neighborhood, you’d have laughed in their face. You weren’t a hero, though some might think slaying your own kind and their creatures was worth praise.

Penance and praise are not the same, though.

Dying seems like a good way of paying off your list of wrongs. Especially to save Yoongi. If only to save Yoongi, if you were being honest.

Witches have a lot of lore about death and where one goes in the afterlife. You’re not sure where you are, if you exist, or if you’re even really a thought. It feels like nothingness and everything all at once, a void of floating consciousness. There’s no pain, but you remember the warehouse. Remember the prowler ripping down the door and coming for you specifically.

And him. You remember Yoongi coming in, looking like a fucking angel of old as he leapt through the skies. Together you might have taken on the beast. But prowlers are notoriously difficult to destroy, and you were in no shape to protect Yoongi, much less fight by his side as a reliable partner.

That left you with one option, and though you knew it would end you, you’d done it anyway.

Yoongi’s face swims in your mind. Soft and round, eyes like the bottom of the ocean, a single pink scar carved through his right eye. Mouth soft and petal pink, hair silky and dark, reaching to his shoulders. He’s small for a hunter but he’s strong and broad, his mind his best weapon.

Witch, Yoongi had said. The last words you’d hear from him, spoken with a softness that you’ve never heard from him before. Rain-soaked and wide eyed Yoongi, looking at you like you held the flame of life, like you were something more than a creature on the other side of the trench.

The best thing you could do for him was die.

So you summoned your magic from deep within you, that ancient, sleeping thing. You try not to think about what Yoongi’s last memory of you will be, an eldritch horror that will remind him of the creature that slaughtered his family as a child.

Yoongi will never get to ask his questions. You’ll never get to tell him why you haunt the streets killing your own kind. Yoongi will never know the softness of your kiss. You’ll never know the gentle press of his hands.

Something brushes across your forehead. You feel now and you frown. Or can you frown, in whatever plane of death this is? You’re not sure, but you feel… the weight of your own body. The beating of your own heart. The rush of air through your lungs as you breathe.

Awareness prickles at the back of your neck like a needle. Slowly, you begin to feel solid. Your fingers twist in soft sheets, and when you turn your head, you feel the plushness of a pillow. Smell petrichor and cedar.

It smells like… Yoongi.

“Hmmm?” you feel the vibration in your throat at your unspoken question, nothing but a rumble of noise and confusion. Something cradles your face. “Hunnn..?”

A deep, throaty laugh. “Mmm, I take care of you for a week straight and we’ve moved on to endearments?”

Your eyes flutter open, lids heavy. The world swims into view, a little blurry as your eyes try to focus in the dimly lit room, taking in the bed you’re in and the face hovering above yours.

“Yoongi,” you breathe, your heart expanding with unfettered joy.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”

“What?”

“Say it more often.” He leans forward and you watch as his dark eyes drink you in. “And never do that to me again.”

Before you can ask him what that is, Yoongi’s mouth is pressing against yours. You melt immediately, going boneless in a bed you’re unfamiliar with, lost in the citrusy taste of his mouth and the gentle press of his lips. His kiss is soft soft soft, blurring reality as he pulls at your bottom lip teasingly before pulling away.

Eyes fluttering open, you stare at him in wonder. He hovers above your face, haloed by inky-black hair. “Yoongi.”

He smiles. “It sounds much better than hunter. Hun can stay, though.”

“You’re not calling the shots.”

“You’re in no condition to fight me.”

“I killed a prowler, I think you’re no problem.”

His eyes glow. “I think perhaps you’re right. But for now, you’re at my mercy.”

“Kiss me again.” You lift your hands and bring them toward his face, brushing a finger over the bottom of his scar. “And don’t stop this time. I’ll ask my questions later.”

“Of course, witch.”

Yoongi’s kiss is hungrier now. Desperate. Full of all the questions he never asked and you meet him with equal fire. You don’t care that you’ve beat the odds and lived. You don’t care about anything else but the weight of Yoongi straddling your waist and the feel of his velvet soft skin beneath your hands.

Every inch of him is warm, filled with the heat of the hunter’s fire that burns through every member of the Conclave. This hunter burns brighter than the rest, though. Warmth blooms where your fingers press over his stomach and chest, ridding him of his shirt. Fire burns where you grab his arms, arching into him as his teeth skim your throat.

You’ve never felt this in sync with someone, bodies twining together like you were made for one another. Yoongi’s hand is scorching as his touch ghosts down your body, his touch light and teasing as he lowers his mouth to your hardened nipple, catching it and giving a gentle suck.

Honey-dipped moans slip from your mouth. Yoongi’s mouth is wet-hot against your skin, tongue laving hungrily as his hand seeks the heat between your legs. Your thighs open for him easily, giving Yoongi access to the dripping mess of your folds. He curses when his fingers slide between your slit, gathering slick to circle his digits around your clit.

“Fuck,” you hiss, hips twitching. “Don’t bother. I can take you now. Want you now.”

“I told you that you were at my mercy.” You summon your magic, rattling his shelves. Yoongi leans over to your neglected nipple and plucks it with his teeth, making you squeal and shiver, pleasure rattling you. “Fine,” he agrees. “Greedy witch. Should have known.”

“Not greedy,” you shoot back as Yoongi sits up and sheds his pants. Your hands follow him, tracing the faint scars on his stomach, pressing against the muscle of his tapered hips. “I’ve waited for months for you to do something. To say something.”

“I’m not good at that.”

You hum. “It takes me dying for you to take initiative?”

“A lesson hard-learned and never to be repeated.”

Yoongi’s cock is hard, bobbing heavily as he shuffles you under him and presses your thighs open for him. The brown tip is sticky with precum, his shaft long and thick enough to make your cunt ache for him more.

“Nice cock,” you tease as he pumps himself, hand gliding and spreading his precum down his shaft.

He grunts. “Can’t wait to feel this fucking pussy,” he mutters, leaning forward and pressing the tip to your entrance. You make a breathy sound, eyes fluttering shut at the pleasure-pained stretch. “Think you can take it, witch?”

“Yes.”

Yoongi sinks in and you second-guess your statement for a second, but the stretch of his cock pressing you open feels good. Deliriously so, your back arching as he bottoms out. You feel him in your gut, deeper than anything ever before and you whine as he draws his hips back before snapping them forward, punching the breath from your lungs.

He sets a deep, hard pace. You grip his biceps, feeling the muscle flex in his arms. Every part of you is on fire, lit up from the closeness of your bodies as Yoongi leans down and melds your mouths together, continuing to fuck you so deep you know you’ll never forget what it feels like.

Every brush of his cock against your g-spot drives you mad. Every whisper of your name - your name, not witch - makes you shudder. His tongue is hungrily as it brushes against yours, his moans deep and throaty as your pussy grips him tight.

“Fuck,” he pants, sliding a hand down your body to grab your thigh and hoist your leg higher. It changes the angle, making his stroke somehow deeper. Your eyes roll back and your head digs into the mattress as you fist at the sheets. “You can fucking take it.”

“Keep going.”

“As if i could fucking stop.”

You never want him to stop. Fucking you, kisses you, teasing you, shadowing you as you take on the world. You want every part of your life colored with Yoongi. You want him to be a part of your mornings, your fights, your weaknesses, your strengths. You want to rile him up, needle him with little insults that get him going. Tease him to make him laugh and share that secret smile.

Every moment has led to this. You don’t know how you never saw this outcome, here with him, crying out his name as your orgasm crests into an unstoppable force. When you come around him, it’s with his name in your mouth and so much need for him in your heart that you think you might explode with energy for a second time.

After, when you’re wrapped in Yoongi and you feel his hunter’s skin blaze against you, sweat-slick skin pressed close, you think that finally, he’ll ask those questions. You’ll give him answers.

“Don’t do that ever again, witch,” Yoongi warns. “I will follow you into death.”

444 notes · View notes