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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You? [MYG x JJK]

Yoongi’s not had it easy. For some reason - don’t ask him why, he doesn't know - everyone who touches him ends up spilling their darkest secrets. People don’t seem too fond of that, so he’s spent forever alone. An unfortunate encounter in a bar leads him down a road he’d rather have avoided, making him confront his past and look to the future for once.

Chapter 12: The Gala

Yoongi has been tracked down and is - well, not fine, but on the mend. Jungkook has other things to deal with now: there are confrontations to be had in Mafialand.

Previous chapter

chapter wordcount: 2.2k // fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending.

Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

Seoul’s elite knew how to throw a party. Brilliant, warm light fell from glittering chandeliers onto well-dressed waiters and their trays of sparkling champagne as they wove their way through the rich and powerful. It was a very select group, but even so there were enough people for the room to feel packed. Maybe it was a side-effect of everyone having (or projecting) egos large enough to fill the space available.

Jungkook was no exception. He had just as much of a reputation to uphold as everyone else; just as much to lose and gain according to the rules of the game. So, as he lifted a glass from a tray, he kept his smirk fixed firmly in place, a glint in his eyes that might well be mistaken for hunger. Behind him, Taehyung maintained his own mask of detached boredom, dark eyes roving over faces and across to the décor as if there was nothing even remotely close to holding his interest. If he met anyone’s eyes in the process, he would acknowledge them – the play was aloofness not outright rudeness, and a handsome face meant a raised eyebrow or slight inclination of the head would suffice for all but the haughtiest of the guests – but he wasn’t looking to start any conversations tonight.

Not yet.

There were the usual courtesy rounds to be done, of course. While Jungkook bowed politely to his investors and inquired after their families, friends, and off-shore tax schemes, Taehyung kept an eye on who was talking to whom, which unlikely pairings were sneaking off to the closed corridors upstairs. If it were a college party, he’d be storing up the gossip to see who he could convince to take notes for him or get him into another exclusive club. Here, though, it was a more metaphorical type of bedfellows he cared about. Taehyung knew Jungkook had inherited his uncle’s inclination to think of everything as a game of chess, but that had never made sense to him. Chess was straightforward. Two players, set pieces, standard plays with everything happening right in front of you if only you had the presence of mind to see it. This was more like Diplomacy. Everything was about alliances. The only way to know what was happening in any of the important rooms was to get a seat at the table or have ears at the door.

“He’s arrived, sir,” Taehyung murmured in Jungkook’s ear, interrupting his conversation with the newly appointed CEO of a tech company Sejin was particularly insistent they ingratiate themselves with. Without glancing either at Taehyung or towards the doors, Jungkook nodded to acknowledge the comment and continued listening intently to the businesswoman’s vast plans for increasing their market share.

Across the room, Taehyung could see that Jimin had also noted their target’s arrival. Freshly dyed pink hair bobbed its way towards the crystal doors, a tray of champagne no doubt in hand to offer to the latest guests. There were too many bodies in the way to watch the exchange, but Taehyung had moved on anyway. Jimin had been in the game just as long as Taehyung had; he could handle a headcount and first contact.

Their focus for the evening was a name that Jungkook had found cropping up in several of the interrogations he had been slogging through lately. It was harder, messier without Yoongi there, but they were into the second week of December already and there was no time to wait. No one had ever said the name in full, but between a few mentions of “Mr. Park” and one “JYP” listed as a recent contact on their local ringleader’s phone, they figured Park Jinyoung was a good place to start looking. He was by no means a small player; in the last war, his father had lost a lot of territory and influence to Jungkook’s uncle, but he retained control over large parts of the medical black market in Seoul, as well as a range of legitimate business interests in poorer areas. When they’d sent feelers out to gather more up-to-date information, word had come back that he’d been developing ties with the yakuza and buying up food delivery services in some of the districts south of the river.

Eyes and ears. Smart move. No matter how dreadful his choice of shirts (who wears neon leopard print to a black-tie event?) he was no fool.

Eventually, Jungkook finished his conversation. He was in no hurry: the event was due to run well into the night, and it was only 10pm now. Taehyung and Jimin could watch Park for him, while he took note of everything else that was going on. Two particularly pretty young women were hanging around by the dessert table, the diamonds around their necks reflecting the lights beautifully as they giggled at whatever the heir to the Babilon group was saying. Their faces were familiar from the dossier Jungkook had finally finished memorising, although the dramatic eyeliner threw him off for a second: he wondered absently, peeling off to left, whether Babilon knew their brightest hope for the future was flirting with their rival’s brand-new contract killers. Apparently, things were heating up in the scrap metal business.

In truth, being at these events was always calmer than preparing for them. The run-up to it was filled with cramming names, faces and alignments, gathering as much information as possible to make sure you always had one more card up your sleeve than anyone else. Once you stepped through the doors, though – it was like slipping underwater. Everything was muted and there was the utter calmness of knowing all you had to do was to survive. Jungkook knew what he wanted at the end of the night, but there were no specific plans or moves to make. The deck was in the air; they would spend the evening swooping like hawks and see where the cards had landed in the morning.

“Ah, young Jungkook-ah!” Exhibit A: there was no point in him planning some grand approach to Park when chances were high he’d be the one being approached first. Jungkook turned to face the older man, fake smile already plastered on his face despite the blatant disrespect. Even though he was a good twenty years younger, he had more power than Park and everyone knew it. There was no reason for him to be addressing him so informally at an event like this.

“Park-sajangnim. it’s been a while.”

“Ah, I’ve been so busy lately! I was going to come see you after your dear uncle passed on, but you know how things are. Always something getting in the way of social calls.” Frowning a little, Park reached out and adjusted Jungkook’s jacket, shifting it across his shoulders and smoothing the lapels. “You look so grown up, Jungkook-ah, even if the jacket is a little big on you.”

(It wasn’t.)

“Thank you.” Jungkook slid right past the intended slight. He wasn’t in the business of proving his competence with words when actions sufficed perfectly well. If Park thought Jungkook was struggling to fill his uncle’s shoes, he would be shown how wrong he was. “I understand you’ve taken on some new ventures lately.”

One slimy smile and an invitation, and the little group of them – Park and his three goons on the one hand, Jungkook and Taehyung on the other – were heading towards a quieter room to talk shop. They stopped several times so that Park could say hello to various friends, partners, random strangers that he professed an admiration for. Fine; if he wanted to show off that he had the new King trailing behind him like a lost puppy, that wasn’t a problem. Arm candy wasn’t a role Jungkook was easily forced into; all it took was an arrogant slouch and amused smirk and, quite without Park’s knowledge or consent, the situation could be flipped on its head. Where Park thought he was showing everyone he spoke to that he could make Jungkook wait around, Jungkook was showing that he was confident enough in his position to indulge an older, weaker man’s lack of focus.

It’s all in the body language, boy. Hold yourself like you don’t care. Never show impatience in public – people are only impatient when they aren’t in control. You are always in control. Never embarrass me like that again.

When they at last found a private room, Jungkook and Park took their seats opposite each other on two large, grey sofas. It was a small, bright room furnished in a Scandinavian-inspired style, like the rest of the building: big windows, pale walls, abstract sculptures as the focal points. Carefully placed on the glass table between the sofas was what Jungkook thought was meant to be some sort of woodland animal. Maybe a badger; maybe a deer. It really wasn’t very obvious.

With Taehyung wandering around the room behind him and Jimin no doubt positioned outside the door to ward off any eavesdroppers, Jungkook felt comfortable enough. Sure, Park seemed to have his fingers in all sorts of pies that Jungkook would really rather he stayed away from altogether, and he’d been in the game since before Jungkook had been born, but he didn’t hold all the cards. He was still fairly small fry. He just needed to be reminded of it.

“These new business of yours, then. What’s the deal? You know we operate in the south.”

“Relax, kid. It’s just a little bit of diversification. Can’t have all my eggs in one basket, can I? I just thought I’d venture out a bit.” Park was smirking and it wasn’t an expression that suited him at all.

“Rumour has it you’ve been cutting in on a few sales sectors you really shouldn’t be.”

“Oh?” The smirk dropped in favour of the widest eyes Jungkook had ever seen on a man in his forties. Some people aged gracefully, growing into each new era as it came to them and milking its benefits for all they were worth. Park, it seemed, was not one of those. He acted like he was still in his early twenties, playing the naïve young businessman who makes the moves he wants, unaware of the toes he treads on along the way. “I’m not sure what you mean, Jungkook-ah.”

“Funny. I’m sure I heard that you’d been sticking your paws into other people’s jars, Park-sajangnim. Something about car sales in Gangnam?”

“No, you must be mistaken. The only vehicles I’ve been dealing with are delivery vehicles – food deliveries. It’s a growing market, you know. I’d recommend it to you.” Licking his lips, Park leaned forward and lowered his voice. Jungkook resisted the urge to lean closer, keeping his left arm splayed across the back of his sofa and his right ankle resting loosely on the opposite knee, as if he couldn’t care less. “I hear that you’re already moving in that sector, though. One of my boys tells me your man over there–“ he nodded to Taehyung, who was busy examining the minimalist titanium clock on the wall– “was very eager to get him away from one of the staff.”

Taehyung hadn’t turned around, so Jungkook was unable to catch his eye and work out whether there was any truth to it. He didn’t remember sending anyone out to deal with food deliveries: it was a growing market, but not one he had the time or expertise to get into just yet. There were other things to focus on. Keeping his face blank, he shrugged.

“You must be misinformed, I’m afraid. It’s not something I’ve looked into yet – but if you say there’s something in it…”

“My mistake. You don’t know a Min Yoongi, then?”

“No.” All of a sudden, his blood was pounding in his ears, and Jungkook could only hope that it hadn’t lit up his cheeks as well. He’d answered too fast, he was sure he had, and the glint in Park’s eye as he sat back against the sofa – still smirking, damn him – suggested that he’d confirmed something Park had only suspected. Taehyung had done something (when? Why?) and it had wound its way back to Park, who had only made a guess at who had been involved. Probably whoever told him about the connection with Yoongi could only give him a vague description, and Park had done what Jungkook would have in the same situation: dug a little and seen who in the game might fit the description. Depending on how he had handled it, Taehyung might have been just distinctive enough to put his name to the top of the list and all Park had had to do was to lay it out for Jungkook and see if he’d take the bait.

Idiot.

“Not to worry then. You’re staying off my patch, I’m staying off your patch. Cooperation at its finest, wouldn’t you say?”

He had what he’d came for, and Park rose to leave, brushing down his monstrous shirt as he did so.

“I hear you’re having a little difficulty with your ranks, by the way, Jungkook-ah. Someone said you’re putting them through their paces, testing for loyalty. I wouldn’t push too hard, if I were you. You know how you children are; you don’t know your own strength.”

Then he was gone. Jimin slipped into the room a minute or so later to confirm that there was no one hanging around in the corridor, and Taehyung finally turned around. He at least had the sense to keep quiet.

“What the hell did you do?”

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You? [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 11: Located

Yoongi comes home.

Previous chapter | Next chapter

chapter wordcount: 2k // fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending.

chapter warnings/tags etc: mentions of injury, a lil bit of blacking out

Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

Ok, half an hour was a lie. But Taehyung was bored. The kind of bored that made him want to check his phone every 30 seconds because surely – surely – at least an hour had passed and it was nearly time for him to head off again. He’d managed to stay at the desk for all of about 5 minutes before deciding that staring at the tragically busted door hinges wasn’t how he wanted to spend his morning and giving in to the temptation to snoop. Only the cupboards were nearly as sad as the door. All but one were completely empty – and that one only had a depleted pack of bottled water and a few tubs of spicy ramen.

The dilapidated fridge wasn’t even plugged in.

Venturing past a dingy plastic curtain to the left of the small oven, Taehyung found that the bathroom was really as you’d expect from an apartment like this: small, functional, and far too mouldy to be healthy. An all-in-one body and hair wash was perched on the shower ledge, a toothbrush and paste on the sink. From the middle of the room, he could reach both end walls by leaning a little to each side.

The most exciting thing in the whole apartment were the identical notebooks stacked on top of each other in the corner of the desk, a loose collection of pens and chunky highlighters idling atop them.

All in all, it was a miserable, empty place that reflected a miserable, empty life and that wasn’t something Taehyung had ever missed from his childhood.

Nine o’clock rolled around to find Taehyung back in the creaky chair, restlessly twiddling his thumbs because his phones were running low and he needed to be able to contact Jungkook and Jimin if he didn’t want his ear chewed off. Plugging them in was always a possibility – but he knew from experience that Yoon would be counting every won and he didn’t know what his financial arrangements with Jungkook were. No need to hike the electricity bill. He could handle boredom. For sure.

A few times, he got excited by the sound of footsteps in the stairwell and stuck his head around the doorframe. It was always just the neighbours though, tramping their way up and down the stairs and stopping to whine about the lift. Apparently, it was more often broken than functional. Like the kind soul he was, Taehyung commiserated politely and wondered what kind of relationship Yoon had with his neighbours that they neither questioned the state of the door nor why there was a stranger hanging around.

(Probably a non-existent relationship.)

By the fourth time he heard slow, heavy footsteps stopping on the landing, Taehyung wasn’t bothered. It was probably some old man making his way up after a morning walk, lugging groceries or –

“There’s nothing worth stealing, so just go. I don’t have time for this.” A voice rumbled through the doorway. Ah, there he was. Yoon. Undoubtedly the guy from Shadow, from the car a few days ago, but now looking like death warmed up. (Or maybe not so warmed up – he was wearing a comfy black beanie and gloves, but his nose was bright pink and his lips verging on blue.) He barely gave Taehyung a second glance, slowly shrugging his tattered jacket off his right shoulder and then easing it along the other, grimacing heavily. With the leather off, Taehyung could see what was causing the pain – shoulders really shouldn’t be that square. Still, if he had been in a car accident, he was lucky to walk away with just a dislocated shoulder. It could be worse.

The man waddled his way to the cupboard – the one with stuff in it – and pulled it open roughly, grabbing himself a water bottle that slipped right through his gloved fingers and landed on the scratched countertop, tilting and toppling but not rolling off. Yoon sighed heavily and closed the cupboard again, taking a moment to stare blankly at the bottle before standing it up. He seemed to have forgotten that he had an audience, but Taehyung watched, amused, from across the room as he struggled to twist the cap without removing his gloves. When he growled at the bottle and pushed it away, Taehyung spoke up.

“Need a hand?” It earned him a small jump and a glare that was probably aiming at ‘scary tough guy’ and landed closer to ‘sleepy kitten’.

“I really don’t have anything so just get out, ok?” Yoon’s voice was scratchy and thin – low in pitch and volume but with none of the syrupy depth that would have made it pleasant or comforting.

“Sorry, Yoon,” Taehyung replied with fake cheerfulness, sauntering towards the other man but stopping a few steps away when he saw how the advance made Yoon shrink ever so slightly into the counter. “I can’t do that. I’m here for you.”

His eyes seemed to glaze for a second, small creases appearing momentarily between his eyebrows as he bit his lip. Taehyung watched his thoughts seem to trip over each other until, with a glance towards the door, the man cleared his throat.

“I don’t know who Yoon is, but it’s not me. So leave.”

Yoongi’s brain was closer to being apple puree than a functioning organ right now, but it was working well enough to tell him that he was screwed. It had taken him way longer to get home than he had though because he had to keep stopping (to catch his breath; to let the dark spots in his vision settle; to avoid the throngs of people that had descended onto the streets while he was panting his way through a dizzy spell in an alleyway). Like always, the lift hadn’t been working and he’d managed to psyche himself up for the stairs – done it in one go like a champ – so, honestly, the fact that his door was already open had come as a relief. He hadn’t questioned it. Maybe the universe had taken pity on him or whatever. Weird Suit Guy would surely just leave now he was home.

Home. Food, water, bed.

But then his gloves had decided to foil him and he didn’t have the energy to work out how to take them off, and Suit Guy wasn’t leaving, and he was here for Yoongi and – honestly, his confused brain short-circuited. Someone was here for him? That sounded unlikely.

Until he processed that it was the bad kind of “here for you”. Figured.

Now Yoongi was realising that his door wasn’t just open, it was hanging off its hinges. And Weird Suit Guy was – as the epithet suggested – in a suit. An expensive suit. And he knew his name. Was he not going to catch a single break this week?

Plan A: deny.

“I don’t know who Yoon is-“ Did that sound convincing? Please, God, let it be convincing. He just wanted to sleep. The damn water bottle had nearly brought him to tears and he really couldn’t be doing with any more rich strangers intimidating him. Oh – Suit Guy was nodding. That – was good? Nodding meant agreement. So, he was convinced, right?

“Sure thing, Trouble. Shall I tell Jungkook that?”

“Who’s Jungkook?” That at least was honest. He’d never met anyone called Jungkook in his life. Suit Guy seemed to be fighting a smirk, though, as he tilted his head to the left, his ear disappearing into one of the black spots dancing its way across Yoongi’s vision.

“Oh, no one. Don’t worry. You are definitely who I’m looking for, though. Shadow, remember?”

Remembering was getting a little difficult, to be honest. (So was breathing – his chest was so tight; when had that happened? When had Suit Guy grown so tall? Why was he looking so concerned?)

“Ok, Trouble, just keep breathing for me. Here – have some water –“

“Don’t touch,” Yoongi managed to slur out as the man crouched next to him (oh, he was on the floor now. That made sense). He didn’t touch him, though, carefully keeping his distance as he tilted a water bottle gently against his lips. The water was freezing, stinging Yoongi’s tongue and making him splutter as it crawled down his sore throat. He turned his face away from the bottle, pouting.

“It’s ok. Small sips. There you go.”

Suit Guy stood up again and Yoongi just blinked slowly as his blurry figure headed towards the window. Breathing was easier, expanding lungs keeping rhythm with closing eyelashes – or maybe not, because suddenly Suit Guy was back, speaking deep and quiet, and there was a gap in Yoongi’s memory between him leaving and returning.

“I need you to lean to your right for me, ok? Just lie down – good job, Trouble, just rest there for a minute.” This was more comfortable than not-Seokjin’s doorway had been. There was a pillow and something comfortingly heavy settling across his torso, clear of his aching shoulder and –

Me, 9:24: Got him. Go home.

PJM, 9:24: yes!

Me, 9:24: He’s here.

JJK, 9:25: Good

Me, 9:25: Call?

Taehyung didn’t even have time to reply to Jimin before Jungkook’s name was lighting up his phone screen. He answered immediately, crossing the room to prop the door closed and then settle in the desk chair.

“He’s ok?” Taehyung wasn’t even offended by the lack of greeting. Jungkook had probably stepped out of the interrogation and needed to get back in there ASAP. That was the reason for the short tone. And the fact that he’d called straight away, like the fate of the city wasn’t resting on the information they might get from that questioning. Yep.

“Dislocated shoulder for sure, exhausted, probably other things. He’s had some water but hasn’t eaten; he’s sleeping now.” Maybe it was the cold talking, but he could have sworn Jungkook growled down the phone. “He’ll be ok, Kook.”

“What happened?”

“Collision, I think. We’ll work it out. Can I get a doctor out here?” An immediate affirmative came over the line, followed by a heavy pause and a whispered negative.

“I’ll find someone. It’s – the touching, you know?” And no, Taehyung didn’t really know – no details at least, Jungkook had never explained what had happened to them in Shadow that night, even though he clearly knew why touching this man’s shoulder had caused the whole thing – but now wasn’t the time to get into that. He knew that Jungkook had made it clear that no one was to touch him under any circumstances; hell, Yoon had made it clear he didn’t want people touching him. That was enough.

Thing is, you can’t really put a joint back in place without physical contact.

“Sure. We’ll be here.”

“Good.” He didn’t sound very sure. “I could-“

“Hyung’s got it, Kook. Tell Hoseok I’m spending his money, ok? This place needs heating or you’ll be thawing me out like Captain America.”

It didn’t get him the laugh he had been hoping for, just a quiet hum before the line went dead. Taehyung breathed heavily through his nose, casting weary eyes over the ragged man sleeping slumped over his mattress, head falling off his pillow and knees curled up under the blanket Taehyung had had to just drape over him without adjusting too carefully. He was so different to the sweet-faced pianist he remembered spilling soju over in the bar; so different to the grumpy fireball who’d climbed into the back of the car and pouted his way through being blinded. So fragile.

What a shame.

That wasn’t something Taehyung could fix. What he could fix was a) the heating and b) the door. Yoon would have quite enough work on his hands recovering and catching up on what Jungkook wanted him to do. At least it was better than being bored. First, though –

Me, 9:35: Sleep well, hyung <3

Soulmate, 9:37: zzzz <3

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You? [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 10: The Apartment

Taehyung's not sure how things are going. On the plus side, he didn't get yelled at. On the other hand, he does now have to deal with some jumped up nobodies who think they're the Real Deal and wonder what on earth has gotten into Jungkook.

Previous chapter | Next chapter chapter wordcount: 2.2k // fic genre + rating: SFW (15+) work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending. chapter warnings/tags etc: bullying.

Yoongi stayed right until Minho didn’t. He went to Minho’s high school graduation, took him flowers and a card that he’d bought himself from his first pay-check, now that he was old enough to have a part-time job in the kitchen at the café down the street, doing the washing. (He had no plans to go to university right now: he had time to work instead of studying himself into the ground with the rest of his class.) He waited at the back, tucked away where no unsuspecting parents would brush up against him, and waved enthusiastically as soon as he saw Minho. It had been a bit of a risk, coming when no one had invited him, but the closest thing he had to a friend was leaving and Yoongi wanted to be remembered. He wanted… well, he wasn’t sure what he wanted as he handed the gifts over. Minho took them, smiling, and put them to one side without even opening the card or smelling the flowers.

He didn’t want that, but time refused to stop for him to process the thought. Although - oh, maybe it was ok. Minho wasn't walking away, wasn't ignoring him. If anything, he seemed to be moving closer.

“Ask me what I think of you, Yoongi-yah,” Minho said gently, knowing that finally hearing the sound of his name spoken so softly, so informally would have the other boy’s breath hitching and scatter stars into those deep, dark eyes.

“What – what do you think of me?” The stutter made Minho smile brightly, leaning close enough to feel the way Yoongi’s reddening cheeks radiated warmth. Close enough to have Yoongi’s eyes fluttering and his throat bobbing in anticipation. He wrapped his arms around the younger boy and pulled him flush against his chest to whisper directly into his ear:

“You’re just a tool, Min Yoongi."

That was the last time anyone had ever put their arms around him.

The Jungkook that Taehyung first met five years ago found absolutely everything overwhelming. His mother had done well at keeping him safe from the nastiness of her family, which had meant keeping him at home and holding his hand through every step of his life. He had done his own work, of course he had, and had developed into his own person if the piercings in his ears and piles of bulging sketchpads in his room were any indicator, but he was exactly as sheltered as his doe eyes and nervous smiles suggested.

The first time he’d seen the bullet scar across Taehyung’s hip, he’d cried in the bathroom for three hours.

He’d shaken like a leaf all the way through his first audience with his uncle, choking on dread and the notion of one day having to fill those ugly shoes, but he’d kept a hold of himself at least until they were out of the building. They had made it five blocks away before Jungkook had ducked into an alleyway to empty his stomach.

These days, very little shook him. Plenty of things kept him up at night, Taehyung knew that – plenty of things wormed their way under his armour, burrowing into the soft core his mother poured her heart into creating and protecting – but practically nothing fazed him like this.

Apparently, the boy from Shadow had made it onto that very short list, because despite the fact that, to Taehyung’s knowledge at least they had only met three times, Jungkook was now looking like that scared seventeen-year-old again. Taehyung had prepared himself to be yelled at for losing track of a valuable asset. He hadn’t prepared for a frantic interrogation.

After a good ten minutes of fretting and throwing out questions that no one knew the answer to, Jimin had managed to calm Jungkook down enough to get a sensible plan into his head. The interrogation had to go ahead, Trouble or no Trouble (Jimin had started saying a name at one point, but stopped after the first syllable – so, Yoon? Interesting.) Jungkook and Hoseok had headed off to that, taking Sejin with them to help try and work out what information was reliable and what wasn’t. Jimin was headed off towards Yoon’s last known location, dosed up on painkillers and a stern warning from first aid to go to bed if he found nothing and to pull over if he started feeling squiffy. Taehyung himself was on babysitting duty, destined to spend the rest of the day hopping between the apartment building and the university in the hopes of just running into this boy.

All of them were to report back to Jungkook if they found anything at all – including, he’d taken time to stress, if they found nothing – because apparently he was the world’s softest mob boss and had somehow already become very invested in this guy on some kind of personal level. Taehyung knew what Jungkook looked like when he lost a useful tool. It wasn’t this.

Seemingly, he’d missed something between running into Yoon in Shadow and picking him up on Sunday morning, something that had turned things around. That was a mystery for later, though, because he had things to do.

There was something almost comforting to Taehyung when he turned left at the traffic lights and saw his surroundings getting rougher. Ragged shops, soulless pillars of concrete huddled around boarded and broken windows, the barest glimpse of a basement apartment like the one he had grown up in around the stacks of slowly disintegrating cardboard boxes: well, it meant he knew where he was. He didn’t need to second guess whether he was giving someone the wrong sort of signals with the way he held his chopsticks, or whether the pinch-faced man in the corner could tell that he was out of place just from the way he stood with one hand in his pocket and his jaw slightly jutted to one side. It was straightforward here. You stay out of everyone else’s way and they stay out of yours unless and until you’re looking for a fight.

And the guys hanging around Yoon’s door when Taehyung pulled up and killed the engine gave off the distinct impression of not wanting to stay out of anyone’s way. There were four of them, one in a baggy, cheap suit and large black coat, with rings on his fingers and fake chains resting heavily across fragile collarbones. The others were far more non-descript, in simple all-black outfits that gave nothing away and nicely matched the switchblades they were fiddling around with.

He hoped they were there for someone else – it was a big apartment block, you know, the chances weren’t zero – but something told him that it wasn’t exactly likely. In any case, no matter whether they were there to pick on Yoon, they seemed there to pick on Taehyung from the way they turned and leered at the expensive car. Cocking one eyebrow and taking a deep breath, he opened his door leisurely and stepped carefully out of the car, buttoning his suit jacket as he did so and making sure to keep a calculated but relaxed smirk on his face. First impressions went a long way to influencing the rest of the interaction, after all. Sure, he could show them just how outclassed they were – but it would be nice if they could come to that conclusion on their own without making him break a sweat. Or the skin across his knuckles.

“Morning, gentlemen. Waiting for someone?” The smirk lost a little of its calculation, leaning more towards genuine as Taehyung watched two of the men blink in confusion at just how deep, how smooth his voice was, not a hint of satoori to be found. Good start.

“Yeah, you know how it is.” Taehyung smiled politely at the suited man, raising his eyebrows in question as he leaned on the bonnet of the car, arms folded casually across his chest. “Some worthless little brat decided to try screwing us over. Thought we’d come return the favour but he isn’t in at the moment and there’s not even anything in the apartment worth roughing up.”

The man was grinning, aggressively bright teeth gleaming. When Taehyung simply nodded his commiseration with a politely disinterested, “Indeed?” he jumped on the opportunity to keep talking. Maybe it had been a while since he’d been able to flex about whatever his pathetic little operation was. Fine. So long as he got round to saying who he was after so Taehyung could work out whether he needed to take care of them or just get friendly enough to pass through without trouble, he could say what he liked.

“Yeah. Little side gig I’ve got going on, you know, bringing in quick cash. Some jumped up kid decided he wanted in and then tried wrecking our machines on his first day.”

“It’s hard to get the staff these days.”

“Oh, you’re not wrong, friend.” No way was this guy passing the vibe check. Nuh-uh. Control the scoff, Taehyung. “Honestly, this kid was beyond desperate. Didn’t even read the contract, filled out all his details quick as you like – and then what? Smashed our bike up and left it in the middle of the junction like it wasn’t worth more than his life.”

Junction. A collision would make sense, explain why Taehyung’s calls wouldn’t even connect.

“Hm. I don’t suppose this kid would be about yea high–“ he held his hand up to his eyebrows, pushing off of the car to stand straight and unbuttoning his jacket to give just a hint of the pretty little pair of daggers strapped at his sides – “with bleached hair? Daegu satoori, bad attitude?” Ok, he was assuming that Yoon was always as grumpy as he had been on Sunday morning, but it didn’t seem an unreasonable assumption. He’d seemed polite in Shadow as a one-off. He hadn’t been in the alleyway afterwards or in the car, and if these goons were here for the same guy then they already didn’t have a favourable opinion of him, so he figured it would slide.

“Oh, you know him too, huh? Kid gets around.” Right.

“Well, I don’t mean to get all up in your territory, but we’ve got some business with him, so I’m sure you won’t mind backing off on this one. We’ll compensate you, of course.” He wasn’t surprised when the man laughed in his face and looked to his little gang, all of them sporting similarly disdainful looks.

“Nice try, boy. Your fancy car doesn’t let you skip the queue. You want a piece of him, you’ll have to wait in line. We got here first.”

“Mm, I understand. You want your pound of flesh, huh?”

They were nodding, smug. What a waste of time.

“That’s just too bad, friend. You see, I’d love to leave you to it, I really would. Nothing I enjoy more than being patronised first thing on a Wednesday morning – but I’ve got my orders. How does ten million sound?”

Oh, it was always so good to just shut people up, even if he'd probably have to buy Hoseok dinner in repentance for not running it past him first. There were plenty of things he hated about the world of the rich, but this – this ability to just make little problems go away so much more easily was something that Taehyung would never get bored of. People like those men, he thought as they scuttled off, liked to think they were tough and would quite happily make life miserable for the kind of person Taehyung had grown up as; the kind of person Yoon clearly was. The people who couldn’t afford to stand up for themselves or threaten any sort of consequence. Money was power though, and power meant consequences and there was nothing like the threat of being put in their place to send the rats scuttling back to their holes.

Problem one solved. He had two texts to send off, though, tapping them out in his work phone as he started heading up the stairs towards the room number Jungkook had given him.

Me, 8:39: collision

PJM, 8:43: yes

Ah, Jimin. Always so helpful. Whatever.

Me, 8:40: Here. Nothing yet.

JJK, 8:40: Read.

Then, on his personal phone,

Me, 8:41: hyung’s on it kook dw

Kookiee, 8:42: <3

At least the idiots downstairs had taken the trouble of ramming Yoon's door in, so Taehyung didn't even have to bother picking the lock before striding into the tiny room and settling himself on the desk chair in one corner to wait for - well, probably for 10 o'clock to roll around so that he could head off to scour the university, as planned. He was a very polite intruder, if he did say so himself. He'd leave it at least half an hour before snooping through the cupboards.

Maybe he should draft a text to the building management about the broken heating in the meantime, though, because he didn't fancy losing his fingers to frostbite. Not today.

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You? [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 9: A New Day

Yoongi needs some help getting home; and Jungkook gets some bad news.

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chapter wordcount: 3.2k // fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending.

chapter warnings/tags etc: Yoongi's still injured so all the stuff that goes with that, brief non-descriptive panic attack.

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For two years, Yoongi let Minho use him like a truth serum, deploying him whenever and however he wanted and keeping him in his pocket when he didn’t need him. After a while, the niceness stopped. They had never used his first name, and he was never allowed to call any of them hyung so they hadn’t really been all that close, but the rejection still stung. They would “forget” to invite him to things; they would ignore him when he sat with them. They no longer told him they wanted him around. They didn’t hurt him, though, and that was something. They didn’t whisper about him; they didn’t add fuel to the rumours going around school that Minho must be getting something else out of their little arrangement, that maybe the limp Yoongi had had two weeks ago wasn’t from tripping like he’d claimed it was. They excluded him unless they needed him, sure, but they left him in peace.

He considered stopping, once, though, after a classmate was hospitalised because of the shame of something he had been forced to say – something Yoongi had forced him to say. But what could he do? If he stepped away from Minho’s protection, he would have nothing left. Now he really had earned the school’s hatred and derision; and Minho had so much to hurt him with. It wouldn’t just be generic bullying, he told himself through salty tears, curled up tightly around his pillow one night, trying to calm his own erratic breathing because heaven knows no one else would do it for him. It would be targeted – he’d bring up every terrible thing Yoongi had ever done, peel him open layer by layer and dig at his vulnerabilities, carving him open for everyone else to see. (The way he did to everyone else, something in the back of his mind said as it squeezed around his lungs. The way Yoongi did to everyone.) His gullibility. His need for attention. His absolute desperation to be good enough. He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready to have no one to hide behind.

After the cold and sheer exhaustion had dragged Yoongi to sleep, a passing truck shoved him awake again. It was still dark but beginning to blue, the clouds having cleared and left the sky bare. Although Yoongi was grateful that it was no longer raining, he didn’t appreciate the temperature drop that came with clear skies. It was time to get moving again. He needed to get home, get warm, before he had to add hypothermia to his already far from clean bill of health. Besides, the man from last night probably wouldn’t be too happy to find him still camped out on his doorstep. He had seemed nice enough given the circumstances, but that wasn’t a reason to hang around. Especially when hanging around came with the risk of being stepped on or tripped over.

Uncurling himself from his nook in the doorframe, Yoongi swallowed down a whimper of pain as best he could with how dry his throat was. Coldness was meant to be numbing, he was sure, but this air wasn’t – it made his shoulder ache and twisted around his fingers and toes like barbed wire. There was nothing for it though, no way to get warm other than to move, however much it aggravated his new injury. It was still too early for any of the shops to be open for customers, although some owners were beginning to open up and make their preparations, the noise of shutters slamming up and crates being moved beginning to fill up the street. If Yoongi looked even half as bad as he felt, he’d probably get thrown out of any shop anyway. Fine. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with people.

All he wanted, as he staggered into the centre of the empty road and looked around to get his bearings, was to crawl home (soon, preferably) and lick his wounds in peace. It was what he was used to, after all. He didn’t need anyone else, so it was just as well that he hadn’t found Seokjin in the end. That need to have someone make it right for him had just been the shock talking. Definitely. He didn’t need anyone to brew him coffee or feed him something warm and homecooked or dab at his bruises with a wad of cotton while he wrapped himself tightly in a blanket and stayed as still as possible to avoid accidents.

(He certainly never missed the days when his dad had done that for him in their ridiculously green kitchen, with the radio mumbling in the background and soup heating up on the stove.)

Catching sight of the café next to the door he had slept against, though, Yoongi thought that maybe he had found Seokjin – or, at least, where he used to be. The sign was new and the awning was cleaner than Yoongi remembered, but it was still the same Moon café he’d worked at in his teens. Maybe Seokjin hadn’t taken it over when his mother had retired in the spring, then. Yoongi tried to think back to the last time they had spoken. It had been just before his last birthday, Seokjin having come over with a small cake and some food and insisted that he take a 10-minute break from the track he’d spent the last 27 hours tinkering on. Zombielike, Yoongi had followed him to a clear patch of floor across the room where Seokjin had already laid out a blanket, since there wasn’t anything that could even vaguely pass for a dining table. He remembered hot food and the comforting wrap of rambling conversation, but nothing about leaving. Seokjin hadn’t said anything about not taking on the café like he’d planned to for years. There had been something, though – a new boyfriend? Some clumsy young teacher who had literally walked into him at a market on the other side of town. Maybe he really had swept Seokjin off his feet and far away from the dreams he had thought were his, into a life of domestic bliss somewhere far away. Maybe that was why they hadn’t spoken at all since that evening. Maybe Seokjin was just too busy with his prince to have time for a charity case.

Whatever it was, if this was the same Moon then, Seokjin or not, Yoongi knew where he was. Only – the street wasn’t quite familiar. It could just have been the odd half-light of the burgeoning dawn making everything seem strange, but the shops around him didn’t fill him with confidence and – oh. He was still standing in the middle of the road, he realised, as a loud horn sounded behind him. Scuttling to one side, he narrowed his eyes and huffed at the angrily gesticulating driver accelerating over the spot he had been standing on. Yes, he was standing in the wrong place, but after the night he’d had, he was allowed to space out. Thinking hurt; standing hurt. And he had to do both on very little sleep, an empty stomach, and shivering limbs. Sue him.

“You trying to get yourself killed, kid?” The voice coming from Yoongi’s right was rough, the words impatient, but something about the tone made Yoongi feel like a child. He turned to the stranger with his eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open, eyebrows raised. A small woman stood on the threshold of a corner shop, one hand holding keys and the other perched on her hip as she stared him down. “You look like you’ve taken a few hits recently, hmm? Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to wander around in the middle of the road?”

“Uh – yes, ma’am.” The old woman pursed her lips and tutted before turning back to the door and unlocking it.

“Why are you dressed like that anyway? Think you’re too cool for this weather, huh? You boys, all the same. Snow on the way, but do you wear gloves? A hat, a scarf? No, just leather and your fragile masculinity to keep you warm. You know, my husband used to –“ She kept talking, drawing Yoongi into the shop with words as she took off her own fluffy, purple hat and coat, stashing her gloves into the pocket before hanging it up with her long scarf. As she recounted the various questionable decisions her husband and his friends had made in their younger days, Yoongi couldn’t help but think of his grandmother – a prickly cactus of a person, but with love deep enough for the whole country. Harsh words from her had somehow always come as a reassurance that she cared for him, always pitched perfectly to show him where he was going wrong without leaving cuts in his confidence or his feelings. It wasn’t really tough love; or, at least, not the kind where you have to spend time convincing yourself that they really do love you, very, very deep down. Just the barking type, the kind that grumbles and complains even as it manifests itself in handknitted jumpers and incisive advice and far too many plates of hotteok.

Women of their generation seemed to have an instinct for finding the people who needed that kind of love and foisting it on them until they didn’t need it anymore.

“Ya! What are you doing just standing there? You should go home. Is anyone waiting for you?”

“No, ma’am.” Yoongi reckoned an ajumma’s stare was a better truth serum than even he was. The day he could lie in the face of it would be the day pigs learned to fly. Maybe Tattoos should have gone to his grandmother instead of sticking his nose in Yoongi’s business and ruining his life. Keep him safe. What a joke.

“Well, you should change that. It’s no good going home to empty rooms. Find someone to live with, eh? You’ve got a sweet face, even if the rest of you is a mess. It shouldn’t be too hard. Nothing to do about it now, though. Take these and go.” She threw a pair of gloves at him, thick and well-made, along with a black beanie and he caught them against his chest, one-handed.

“I can’t – uh. I can’t pay for these, I’m sorry–“

“Shop doesn’t open for another two hours, how on earth would you pay for them? Off you go, now.”

Yoongi bowed as deeply as his aching body allowed, stuttering out his thanks and backing towards the door.

“Uh – by the way, I, um, I–“

“Spit it out, kid.”

“Where am I? I got lost trying to find my friend yesterday.” The old woman tutted again from behind the counter, heading towards a door that was probably the storeroom to get started on her chores.

“You children. Tell your friend to look after you better in future.” When she told him where he was, Yoongi wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or hurt.

On the one hand, he knew where he was now, and it was only about a 20-minute walk home at this time of day. He could manage that.

On the other, he had never been lost in the first place. He’d shown up at the right door. So where on earth was Seokjin now that he needed him?

By the time Seokjin came down to open up the café, waving brightly to the friendly old woman across the street as she put up the glove sales rack outside her door to entice customers in, Yoongi was already round the corner and powering home as fast as his trembling legs could carry him.

It wasn’t even dawn yet and Jungkook was already waiting for the day to end. The lighting in his offices was turned low – had been since about 3am. Glaring white lights looked great when he was fully alert, highlighting the clean sophistication of the office and consolidating a general air of power. They were distinctly not what he wanted, however, when he was running up his 30th consecutive hour awake and had no prospect of sleeping in the near future. Pounding headaches all round had prompted the switch to gentler tones, and the pale walls were now washed in gentle shades of warming yellow, slowly gaining the grey tint of the morning.

On the sofa to the left of Jungkook’s desk lay Hoseok, stretched out on his back with his legs dangling over one of the arms, occasionally running one hand over his chest and upper arm in sleep. Soft snores were accompanied by murmurs of nonsense, and Jungkook was glad that Hoseok was usually tucked away safely behind a desk or the wheel of a car: he slept far too loudly for field work. At least someone in the Organisation was able to rest unmedicated without one hand on a weapon or dreams of deals gone wrong and dire consequences.

By Hoseok’s head, one of the new recruits he had brought up with him from Gwangju was sat on the floor: an eager and thoroughly capable young woman with just the sort of knack for keeping her head down and working hard that would see her go far, if she wanted to. She was sifting through papers, organising them into piles with a precision and energy that Jungkook could only envy. He was struggling to keep his mind on his own work, desperately wishing he could just put his head down on the desk and take a nap. There were things to be done, though: a brief respite from the internal drama that had been causing all his recent sleepless nights to memorise the guest list for a gala he would have to show his face at in a few days. So many of the rich and powerful took such delight in replacing the people around them every few months and it was exhausting tyring to remember how all the pieces fitted together, and then build a strategy on top of that. It was like 4-player chess but with everyone moving at the same time and new pieces being added at will. He was used to how it worked, though, had spent long enough watching his uncle that the utter lack of a rhythm to his life was familiar. He was confident he could keep his own pieces safe and moving where he wanted them.

Or he would be, if he could just work out for sure which pieces were his, damn it.

When all the names and faces started to blur into one, Jungkook let his head drop backwards and closed his eyes for a moment. If he hadn’t had company – if he didn’t have to pretend to be at least vaguely in control of the city, the situation and himself – he would have let himself groan at the feeling and slump down in his seat. He certainly wanted to curl up, press his cheek against the warm leather and let the heaviness lull him to sleep. Instead, he had to settle for just a light sigh before sitting up straight again, rolling his head and then his shoulders in an attempt to soothe some of the ache in his muscles. Maybe he could bribe Tae into giving him a massage if they ever found a spare ten minutes.

“Anyone for coffee?” he asked softly, aware that Hoseok was still sleeping and Sohee might well have her mind on something important. Her head snapped up from the pile she had just shuffled into a neat stack, though, back straightening out quickly, and Jungkook heard the crackles along her spine.

“I can get it, sajangnim.” Jungkook smiled slightly, tilting his head. Maybe she was tired, after all. She should know that when he said coffee, he wasn’t suggesting making it himself.

(Taehyung used to hide the coffee machine from him, back when they had shared an apartment.

“I love you, Kookie,” he said one afternoon, sitting him down for an intervention, “but your coffee is a crime against humanity and I refuse to be complicit any longer. If you want caffeine, I’ll use the machine. Or you can drink tea, or go to a coffee shop – just not the café by our ramen place because one of the guys there ghosted me even after I gave him the best head and…”)

“We have phones, Sohee-ssi. It can be delivered.” Although they had been speaking softly, on the sofa behind the now blushing woman, Hoseok stirred.

“Meeting time already, boss?” His voice was almost painfully dry and still so exhausted. Jungkook made a mental note to give Hoseok a few weeks off once everything was ironed out.

(If, the tired, cynical part of his brain said. If you ever sort this out.)

“Nearly. Jimin signalled about twenty minutes ago, so he and Taehyung should be here any minute. I’m just putting in a breakfast order, if you want anything?”

That got him a bright smile, and they quickly ordered copious amounts of both coffee and food – it might have been early morning, and he might have been very stressed, but nothing less than sheer necessity could suppress Jungkook’s appetite. Reluctantly, Jungkook turned the lights back up to full power, pushing through the pain behind his eyes and fumbling around in a desk drawer for some painkillers as he told Sohee she could head home once the delivery came. She had been a great help with the papers and she had vast potential, but for now she wasn’t in any position to be sitting in on meetings at this level.

Jimin had been sent to follow up on some of the information they had retrieved during the interviews so far. Most of the people they had been speaking to were small fry, too small to really know what was going on, and only one had had the kind of information that needed a proper follow-up interrogation with Yoongi. That interview, though, had pulled up several names that were a bit more promising, and whilst they’d easily tracked down one of them – currently in a holding cell downstairs, probably having a nice nap, Jungkook thought bitterly – some of the others weren’t answering their phones. It made it rather difficult to call them in for a little chat, so a more personal approach was required. It didn’t fill Jungkook with confidence, though.

Neither did the look on Jimin and Taehyung’s faces when they entered the office without knocking, carrying the breakfast order and a distinct air of worry.

“Bad news all around, boss,” Jimin said hoarsely, words confirming what the bruising across his throat and face had suggested. “Two are dead and one’s done a runner.” Jungkook took a deep breath to control the simultaneous urges to throw something at the wall and burst into tears, then nodded. He looked to Taehyung, who was fiddling with his fingers nervously. Their eyes met and Taehyung cleared his throat.

“And I can’t get hold of, uh, Trouble.”

“He’s not answering his phone?”

“Not exactly. The call won’t connect and I can’t get his location. He, uh. The last location we have for him is a junction downtown. It cut out just after midnight. Um. In the middle of the road.”

Panic.

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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gaaah i just found out one of my flatmates is army this is fantastic

#don't mind me

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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whoever decided yoongi and joon needed to be on their knees was 100% correct, thank you very much for that

BTS x GQ KOREA

#also jk looking aggressively hot #photoset #ot7 #woweeee

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You? [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 8: Communication Breakdown

NamJin have an unexpected visitor.

Previous chapter

chapter wordcount: 2.2k // fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending.

chapter warnings/tags etc: mentions of a panic attack, mentions of past injury, general non-explicit aftermath of a car accident, mentions of intoxication

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Fic Masterlist

We want you around. Four words were all it took. The next day, Yoongi tentatively hovered by their table at lunchtime, smiling a little when Minho readily shuffled over to make space and had him take a seat at the end of the bench. He had to keep an empty seat between him and the others, and no one sat opposite him (“We don’t want any accidents, Min. We want you around, but we have to be careful, yeah?”) but it was the most included he’d felt since he was eight. If after a few days the price of that companionship was letting his new friends use him to get answers from teachers or embarrassing confessions from more vulnerable students, it was a price he was willing to pay.

It left him with pounding headaches and – on more than one occasion – so nauseous that he would spend an hour huddled, alone, in a toilet stall, retching at even the thought of moving, but he was finally being included. Even if his father sometimes looked at him with overwhelming disappointment in his eyes after he’d been sent home for cheating and threatened with expulsion yet again, it was worth it. His father didn’t care for him, that much was clear – Minho had made it clear. If his father cared, he would touch him even though it meant saying things he didn’t want to. After all, it was only the truth that came out. What was so bad about the truth between a father and a son? No, his father clearly didn’t love him, so Yoongi owed him nothing in return. The only people who cared about him, the only people he owed any sort of loyalty, were Minho and his friends. That was it.

Everyone else could burn.

Seokjin was so cosy – mind foggy from sleep, arms curled up under him and face pressed against something warm and solid. Namjoon. For a moment, he hummed and nuzzled in closer, wondering what had woken him from the rocky sleep he’d finally cried himself into after… Well, whatever yesterday had been.

Hammering downstairs. The noise bouldered its way up the stairs and through the bedroom door they’d left ajar. Sighing and tucking himself closer to the warmth under his cheek, Seokjin tensed his fist around his boyfriend’s t-shirt and whined until Namjoon also woke with a grumble.

“Wha’sit?” he rumbled, groggy.

“Door.” Seokjin’s voice was thin, still hoarse. (Namjoon had brought a glass of water for the morning, he seemed to remember. He needed it now. Bedside table?)

“Hm.” A noise halfway between a grunt and a hum wandered its way out from Namjoon’s throat and into the half-darkness of the bedroom, losing itself somewhere in another bout of pounding from outside. He gently prised Seokjin’s fingers from him and switched the bedside lamp on before kissing Seokjin’s temple softly and swinging his legs out of bed. “I’ve got it, love. Go back to sleep.”

As his boyfriend threw on a sweatshirt and found some socks from the pile of clothing that had taken up permanent residence in his corner of the room, Seokjin fumbled blindly for the glass that should be somewhere – there it was.

(Permanent, Seokjin thought contentedly, even as the hammering downstairs continued and threatened to drag him further from his sleepy haze. The water soothed his throat and his heart beat a little faster. Namjoon had finally moved in. It was their flat now. Perfect.)

“Don’t take too long. Need my Joon-bear,” Seokjin mumbled as he snuggled down under the covers, pulling them up to his nose and blinking slowly. Namjoon paused to look back at the door, hair all ruffled and face still puffy in the lamplight. Seokjin sent him a flying kiss, smiling sweetly even as he pulled his arm quickly back under the warmth of the duvet. His boyfriend snatched the kiss out of the air and pressed it to his heart with a grin that made Seokjin explodingly fond before disappearing onto the landing.

“Use the lights, baby,” Seokjin called after him. “We don’t need another hospital trip.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes a little at the reminder. The first time he’d stayed the night – a whole year ago, crikey – he had wanted to cook Seokjin a romantic breakfast in bed before he had to go to work. Well. Tea and toast. He was realistic about his cooking abilities even then. It had been the middle of winter, though, and the stairwell had still been dark when he got up and plodded down to the kitchen. Or at least when he had intended to plod down, since he’d missed the first step entirely and instead of waking to gentle, sweet kisses and the warm smell of lovingly made food, Seokjin had been treated to the sound of his new boyfriend knocking his pointy elbows against every stair on the way down and rounding it off with a fractured ankle.

He’d never been allowed to live it down, never mind that he’d successfully navigated the stairs every time since. Including during his six weeks on crutches.

Nevertheless, he did as he was told and flicked the landing light on before heading down to the door. Whoever was outside really wanted their attention, continuing the racket even though they could surely now see the light through the frosted glass. Namjoon could certainly see their silhouette – it looked like there was only one person, even though they were making enough noise to wake the entire street. Thankfully, there was no one else to wake up, or they might have been facing a noise complaint. It was mainly shops and cafes, including Seokjin’s next door.

The sight that met him when he pulled the door open was pretty much what he’d expected. Everything was somewhat blurry: he’d remembered to put on socks so that his feet didn’t freeze in the draught, but he’d forgotten his glasses. In any case, the man leaning against the doorway, fist raised to bang against the heavy plastic again, more or less fitted the non-police option Namjoon had conjured up on his way down the stairs. Messy hair dripped into his face from the rain that was pouring beyond the little porch over their doorstep, his rough leather jacket glossy with water but otherwise looking rather worse for wear. Even now that Namjoon had opened the door and poked his face into the small gap (because a. it was too cold to open it all the way and stand there nattering and b. only fools fully open their doors to strangers at 2 o’clock in the morning) the man was slouching against the doorjamb, letting it take most of his weight. Probably smashed. Tuesday was an odd night for someone to get drunk enough to turn up at the wrong house, but it had happened before. (Ah, Jackson. Namjoon would have to text him one of these days, see how he was doing.)

“Can I help you, sir?” Namjoon asked, more out of politeness than anything else. It wasn’t someone he knew; it wasn’t someone official. His mind was already back upstairs with his vulnerable boyfriend, hoping he would be able to sleep without too much rocking and reassurance so that they could both get some proper rest. Missing work tomorrow was an option – of course it was, anything for Jin – but it wasn’t one their bank accounts or the customers would thank them for.

“Oh. I don’t know you.” The words were slurred and deeply confused, a scratchy, chesty voice tripping over them. Definitely smashed. On another day, Namjoon might have taken pity on the man, invited him in out of the rain to figure out where he was meant to be without contending with inclement weather. He really didn’t seem like a threat, one arm tight across his chest as he huddled close to the building and left a small puddle on the doorstep where every thread of clothing and every inch of him was slowly dripping dry. Today had been a rough day, though. He’d come home to find the love of his life mid-panic attack in the bathroom and was yet to find out what had caused it. Other people’s problems came further down the priority list for now.

“No, sorry. Can I call you a cab?” The man blinked up at him, dark eyes a little foggy, dazed. Bars shouldn’t let people leave alone in this state, Namjoon thought as he watched the man try to process the question. It was like watching a small child stir a bowl of thick cake batter, slow and clumsy. Even with the chill in the air and the coldness that must come from being that soaked by a rainstorm in the middle of November, the man was clearly not thinking straight. He could practically see the words turning over in his mind, a crease forming between the man’s eyebrows as he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Call – have to call work.” At Namjoon’s raised eyebrows, the man cleared his throat and shook his head, icy water flying from the ends of his bleached hair even as the movement made him wince. “Sorry – I need to call work. Explain this.” He motioned to himself with the arm he had pressed against the building. “I was trying to get to a… friend’s house. Must have got lost. Could I borrow your phone, please? Mine broke.” It took the best part of two minutes for him to get the words out, stumbling over them and having to restart a couple of sentences when they wandered away from him. When he was done, he looked up at Namjoon pitifully, gaze somewhat unfocussed beneath heavy, hooded eyelids.

(It didn’t exactly fill Namjoon with the confidence necessary to hand his phone over to a total stranger. Outright refusal would be mean, though – the guy was evidently in a difficult position – but there was noise upstairs, as if Seokjin had climbed out of bed and stumbled over something.)

“I mean – do you have the number?” A beat and then the man’s face absolutely crumpled. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper, almost lost under the sound of the rain.

“No. I don’t know.” He wasn’t even looking at Namjoon, now, staring at the ground as his head hung heavily between his shoulders. Another noise and Namjoon glanced behind him – Seokjin’s head was poking out onto the landing upstairs, one eye closed and the duvet seemingly wrapped around his shoulders. There was the softest pout on his lips and a question in his furrowed eyebrows. It made Namjoon smile, despite the numbness that was starting to seep into his fingers and nose from the winter wind curling around the door. Time to wrap this up.

“Right – well, you should probably just get home then, call them in the morning. Goodnight.” He didn’t even wait for a response, closing and re-bolting the door before taking the steps two at a time. His skin prickled pleasantly as he headed away from the outside chill, and when he reached the bedroom door, he gladly huddled into his boyfriend’s open arms, pulling them tight around him so that he was also wrapped in the duvet cape. Seokjin huffed a little but clung tightly anyway.

“You’re cold. Who was it?” Seokjin asked sleepily as he nestled into Namjoon’s shoulder and let him walk them both backwards towards the bed.

“Just some drunk guy. Got the wrong house.”

“Oh.” Namjoon was speaking quietly, deep voice barely making the journey down to Seokjin. He liked it when he did that, liked feeling it rumble against his chest. It made him sleepy again. “Can we go back to bed now?” He was gently lifted onto the mattress and rearranged so that he was pressed against Namjoon like before, the duvet pulled taut around them and keeping him warm. Safe. He was drifting before he even heard Namjoon’s response.

(If Namjoon had been wearing his glasses, he might have seen the scrapes along the man’s hands, or the purpling bruise blending into the shadows across his left cheek. He might have noticed the way the man was shaking – not just shivering from the weather but trembling as his legs struggled to keep him upright. He would have seen that the jacket wasn’t tattered by design or by age but by the sudden roughness that comes with being thrown onto tarmac by a moving vehicle. He would have seen something to make him stop and consider that, maybe, this man wasn’t drunk and lost but exhausted, injured and in desperate need of assistance.

If Namjoon had picked his glasses up rather than his socks – or, better, if Seokjin had been able to answer the door – Yoongi wouldn’t have spent the next few hours huddled in their doorway to avoid the rain because he thought he was lost and couldn’t find his way home in the dark. He might at least have had some painkillers.

Alas.)

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #mr. kim joonior #mr. kim senior #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic #kim namjoon #kim seokjin

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 7: Dream, Reality

Everything seems utterly surreal. How can so many things go wrong in less than a week?

Previous chapter | Next chapter

chapter wordcount: 2.8k// fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending.

chapter warnings/tags etc: injury, mentions of a car accident, vomit, hyperventilation, Professor Choi is a dickTM, Unnamed Driver is even more of a dickTM, sensory deprivation (Yoongi is given gear that means he can't see or hear)

Masterlist

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Minho was two years older than Yoongi and significantly bigger in every way that mattered: taller, stronger, more confident and far higher up the school hierarchy. One afternoon, he cornered Yoongi against a sink in the bathroom and made him an offer.

“Listen here, Min. You have a problem. Everyone’s messing with you, right?” Yoongi, staring at him through the mirror, frozen, had no choice but to nod, noodles still hanging limply from his uniform jacket where someone had tipped his lunch over him. “How about we make a deal, hm? You stick with me, do what I tell you to do, and no one will bother you. You’ll be under my protection.”

Yoongi’s stuttered, “Why?” had drawn a perfect smile out of Minho, the kind of smile Yoongi very rarely found aimed at him by anyone other than his father. It seemed genuine and almost soft, with none of the mocking, spiteful edge he was usually subject to.

“You’re not so bad, Min. I reckon you’d fit in well with us, if you want to.” The younger boy didn’t look convinced, so Minho very carefully picked a noodle off him and threw it into the bin, pulling a fresh paper towel from the roll and passing it over with two hands before moving towards the door, shrugging. “We want you around, Min.”

Yoongi was almost convinced that at some point in the last week or so, he had hit his head very hard and was now hallucinating in a warm (if expensive) hospital bed somewhere. It was infinitely preferable to the notion that the car wheel beside his head and the searing pain in his shoulder were real.

If he thought about it carefully – which he tried to, blinking slowly and flicking the visor on his helmet up with his right arm but not quite able to move more than that just yet – something had probably happened at the end of his shift on Friday. That’s when things had started to get weird. A recruitment visit from the mafia? It hardly seemed likely. Saturday, Sunday and Monday had also been decidedly odd, in their own ways. Tuesday had been normal, but one day out of five didn’t do anything to suggest that his alternate-reality theory was incorrect.

No, he thought as adrenaline started fading out the pain in his left shoulder and turning up the shaking in the rest of him, his eyes refusing to focus on anything and leaving a pretty constellation of distorted streetlights across the back of his eyelids every time he blinked. This was definitely some sort of hallucination.

If that was the case, he had nothing to worry about. His manager hadn’t looked at him with something like panic on Saturday night when he turned up for his shift, only to tell him that they hadn’t expected him to come back and had already given two of his slots away to some pretty, preppy boy currently waltzing his way through Chopin with a dopey grin on his face.

(Tattoos had said they’d protect him; he had said he would be able to keep his job. Clearly, they had different ideas of what that looked like.)

If this was all in his head, Professor Choi hadn’t called him up in front of the whole class on Monday morning just to throw a copy of his assignment in the bin and tell him she wouldn’t be marking it. (He’d submitted it electronically. She had gone to all the trouble of printing it out just to throw it away in front of everyone on top of failing him for submitting late. It would be nice for that to be fake.) He hadn’t spent the rest of the day trying to find a job that would pay him every couple of weeks and not a month in arrears. He hadn’t signed on for some stupid job delivering cheap fried chicken just because they paid weekly in cash, provided the bike and helmet and didn’t care about references so long as he had a clean licence and an address.

And whatever the hell Sunday was definitely hadn’t happened. It was just a very detailed, oddly specific memory of being jolted awake from the pillow of his laptop keyboard to the sound of a private number ringing his phone at 7am. A memory of groaning and picking up, consciously thinking that it was too early for telemarketers or scammers so it had to be something real.

(For just a moment, as the call connected, he had hoped to hear his father’s voice and then worried that it would be some hospital in Daegu telling him the unthinkable had happened. Then he remembered being told in no uncertain terms that that would never happen because he was not down as his father’s next of kin, and ice had settled into his heart even before he heard a tired, young voice tell him to be ready for a car to pick him up in ten minutes. He hadn’t even had a chance to confirm who was on the other end of the line before they hung up.)

Then there was the ridiculousness of leaving his cold, damp flat (hah, flat – room) and climbing into the back of a sleek, custom-made black Hyundai that probably cost more than a decade’s rent. The doors opened for him automatically; the rear windows completely blacked out. He remembered fiddling with his mismatched socks (he was tired, ok, the project had taken all night and still wasn’t finished) as a computer-altered voice filtered through the screen separating him from the driver, telling him to put on the blindfold lying on the seat beside him and keep it on unless otherwise indicated. “Blindfold” was a term being used in the very loosest sense of the word: certainly, what he found next to him would prevent him from seeing anything, but it was more a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, blacked out like the windows. At least there were lights in the back of the car – as soon as Yoongi put the sunglasses on, he lost vision completely. When, seconds after he panicked and removed the glasses, the voice impatiently reminded him he had to keep them on, he suspected that the lights were not entirely for his benefit. Of course he was being watched. What had he expected?

Yoongi felt the car halt, the quietness of the wheels telling him that whatever surface they were on, it wasn’t a gravel driveway. Ok, so not a fancy mansion. Not a forest floor either, from the sounds of things (probably not going to be murdered and abandoned to the wild animals, then. Hopefully). Beyond that, his detective skills were far too poor to tell him anything other than that the door to his left had opened, a cold breeze drifting across his arms from that side.

“Get out of the car, trouble.” Ah. The man from Shadow. Since their meeting on Friday, Yoongi had been trying to recall his name, the one that had been shouted at him back in the alley when his friend had wanted to get in the car and go. The memories from that night were so homed in on the man’s proximity and angry questions that he couldn’t tease it out.

“Yes, sir,” Yoongi muttered sarcastically, knowing that he probably looked foolish shuffling along the leather seat with his arms outstretched, foot tapping to make sure he had found the door before swinging left and making the little hop necessary to touch the ground. He lost his balance a little as he landed, deprived of the visual cues he usually relied on – for crying out loud, someone could have told him they were on a hill – and the chuckle he heard in response put him in an even fouler mood. No sleep, no coffee, and now no dignity. He was distinctly unimpressed.

“Well done, trouble,” the voice said condescendingly to his right once Yoongi had regained his balance, and he levelled his grumpiest glare in what he hoped was the right direction. “Follow my instructions. I’ll direct you inside to a room where you will put on the gear we have to protect your identity and make sure you don’t hear or see anything you shouldn’t. Until you get there, the glasses must stay on – and it would be best if you avoid reaching out too much, hmm?”

“Don’t you think there’s more risk of me accidentally touching someone if I fall over, sir?”

The tone was bitter enough that a more awake Yoongi would have worried about its consequences, but this sleep-deprived Yoongi had little to no self-preservation instinct. His new boss didn’t seem in the mood for his petulance today, though, because he simply replied, “Either way, it will be your problem, not mine. Now walk in the direction you’re facing. Three steps forward and then there’s a small step up over a threshold. Move.”

It took at least ten minutes to get to the room and Yoongi was a churning mass of impatience and embarrassment by the time he pulled the glasses off and threw them onto a plain grey table in front of him. Nothing quite said “welcome to your new job” like being humiliated, blind, in front of an unknown number of strangers. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know his left from his right and had walked into a wall.

This room was small and plain, maybe ten metres wide, five deep. From a low ceiling a bare lightbulb flickered, dim and barely reaching the corners of the room. The table and two chairs were as bland as the scentless air and cold when he sat down. Off to one side was a darkened window – or maybe a mirror. One-way, probably. Right.

An interrogation room. He probably should have seen that coming.

“Ready, trouble?” The sudden noise made Yoongi jump in his seat. He was alone in the room and he hadn’t seen any speakers, but there was the distinctive tinny crackle of a poor-quality microphone.

“You keep calling me that,” he grumbled, lounging in the uncomfortable chair.

“We agreed that I’d protect your identity, didn’t we? Don’t complain. Put the earpieces in.”

On the table was an assortment of items: the glasses Yoongi had just taken off; a grey motorcycle helmet, visor fully blacked out; and two small, clear earbuds, the wiring inside visible through their casing. Picking them up, Yoongi pressed them into his ears, clearing his throat to dislodge the discomfort that arose when he pushed them slightly too far in.

“Hello, sunshine.” Bloody hell. The voice was directly in his ears now, much clearer than before – and deeper, maybe? It was clearly the same voice, still Mr. Tattoos from the bar, but he seemed to be messing Yoongi around, following up with a chuckle and a, “You’re cute when you blush.” Yoongi scowled at the mirror. “Don’t pull faces, trouble. Just trying to get you to relax. I’ll talk to you through here if I need to, ok? Otherwise, you won’t hear anything. Now put the helmet on.”

Once he had done that – so dark, why had he agreed to this? – he was given a few more instructions through the earpiece, business-like directions to shift his chair closer to the table and rest his hands on it, palms down. Then he was told to sit in silence.

What was he going to do, say no?

He sat as he was told for the next forty or so minutes, reaching out twice on command. The first time, about ten minutes in, he had gasped as his fingertips came into contact with the warmth of human skin. He hadn’t even realised there was anyone else in the room; it made sense, obviously, but he hadn’t realised that when the man said he wouldn’t hear anything, he meant nothing. No coming or going, no questions, no answers. Just the instructions in his earbuds and his own breathing.

It almost felt nice, though, feeling someone else and not having to hear them say things they didn’t want to for once, not having to watch them blink off the haze and realise what had happened with growing horror or anger. Even just the back of someone’s hand for a few seconds was more than he’d had in years and though he kept his fingers still and lifted them immediately when he was told to, he didn’t shy away from the contact. He’d forgotten that people were so warm. (Was that creepy? Maybe it was creepy.)

He paid a price for that touch, naturally. By the time he was finally allowed to take the stuffy helmet off, there was a deep ache behind his eyes and the sight of vomit on the other side of the table. Oh. Whoever had been on the other side was one of the particularly susceptible ones, then. The bad taste in his mouth as he left the room, blinded again, wasn’t just from the lingering acidic smell pressing up against his gums. Even the promise of his rent being paid didn’t sweeten it.

Yeah, he’d like it very much if that had all been fake. He didn’t want to hurt people in exchange for protection. He didn’t want to have to choose between being thrown to the wolves and joining them. Not again.

If this was a hallucination, though, it was very persistent and developing clarity with every shaky breath. Eventually, Yoongi managed to get his limbs to cooperate enough to roll onto his right side and heave the remnants of his rice dinner onto the tarmac, the pain in his shoulder twisting his stomach.

“Thank God, you’re not dead” a rough, unfamiliar voice said. At least, that’s what Yoongi thought it said. His head was ringing and there was a mechanical purring - an engine? – filling his ears.

“Get up, then, kid. I need to get going. You’re fine, right?” Right. Fine. He had to be – no hospitals. No time, no money, no touching.

(No time – no time. There was something he was meant to be doing, he just couldn’t get his mind to focus enough to remember what it was.)

Yoongi pulled himself up onto the curb, crawling across wet tarmac as a car door closed behind him. He nestled his arm close to his chest, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared up and having to use his right hand to pull it closer because it wouldn’t move on its own. It wasn’t broken – he’d broken a leg once, and it didn’t feel like this – but it was painful enough that he chuckled when he finally stopped moving, not quite able to wrap his head around how much it hurt. As the car that had knocked him off his bike pulled away without even an apology, never mind an offer of assistance (delivery, that’s what he was supposed to be doing) Yoongi wondered whether it wasn’t something fairly close to a break. Dislocation, maybe. That would be bad.

After five minutes of sitting alone on the curb, helmet off and gathering rolling raindrops beside him, Yoongi concluded that this was, in fact, happening for real.

He should call someone. The police, probably, but that would be a hassle because they’d want to get an ambulance involved. He didn’t have anything to tell them anyway. He hadn’t seen who had done it, and he hadn’t paid attention to the car so he couldn’t give a description. The junction was deserted, and this wasn’t the kind of area that would have cameras at all, never mind ones good enough to pick up details through rain and darkness. The mafia had promised him their protection, but he didn’t have their number – and in any case, he didn’t want to owe them anything. (Didn’t want to risk them laughing at him because who the hell calls the mafia to deal with a little car crash?) A friend, then. Well – Seokjin. They hadn’t spoken in months, but he might come to get him, help him sort everything out – oh. Work. The delivery. He had to call work. He had literally only just got this job and now he had to call and say that he’d wrecked a company bike and failed to pick up for his third delivery. They’d definitely fire him. He’d be lucky if they didn’t prosecute him, although he could hope their less than rigorous pre-employment checks reflected a general aversion to formalities. It would be much worse if he didn’t call, though. He’d give himself a minute to get his breathing back under control – count slowly, focus on breathing out, the breathing in will just happen, you’ve done this before – and then he’d just call them.

Except there was a problem with that, he discovered when he reached into his jacket pocket and touched broken glass.

Phones don’t do well with being hit by cars.

Damn.

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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i CACKLED

https://twitter.com/iot7army/status/1461994143006265344?s=21

#you kids go have fun give harry our love we're sleeping in #and joon-ah's reading #mr. kim senior #mr. kim joonior #yoongle boongle #ah these old men #meme

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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this man could legit squat with me on his shoulders and I don't know what to do with that info

uhm sir :)

#yoongle boongle #min yoongi #gif #woweeee

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 6: The Angle

Jungkook has an offer for Yoongi.

Previous chapter // Next chapter

chapter wordcount: 2.4k// fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending

chapter warnings/tags etc: mentions of past bullying, one (1) mention of a knife.

Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

When Yoongi was 15, he fell in with the wrong crowd – although maybe “fell in” was too generous a phrase for what had, in all honesty, been a deliberate decision. A new job for his father had meant moving across the country and enrolling in a new school where no one knew who he was or what touching him would do, and for all of three days Yoongi lived in the hope that he would be left in peace. He had no grand designs of making friends or of being popular, because popularity came with pressure: pressure to talk about your life and to accept hugs or simple high-fives or complicated handshakes. Pressure to fool around with people during lunchbreak, tumbling around behind the art block. Whilst Yoongi would have liked to be able to experience those things, they weren’t things he planned on doing. Not as he was. In an ideal world, yes. Right now – hell no.

As always, sports ed ruined his plans. He’d barely had time to cultivate an image of unaffected aloofness when their sports teacher inexplicably decided warm up would be a game of stuck-in-the-mud. Perhaps he thought he was working with seven-year-olds. Perhaps he forgot that any sort of contact game with teenagers is liable to quickly decline into the kinds of tackles that would be too violent even for a rugby pitch. Perhaps the universe just hated Yoongi’s guts. In any case, by lunchtime on Wednesday 7th September, everyone at Yoongi’s new school knew there was something decidedly odd about him and avoided him like the plague.

Naturally, “avoiding him like the plague” meant that those who wanted to stay safe kept away, and those who wanted to cause trouble drew closer.

It started with run-of-the mill bullying. Name calling, tossing his books in puddles, taking scissors to his sports kit. Chasing him out of the canteen until his only option for lunch was hiding around a corner somewhere and hoping some handsy couple wasn’t so busy falling for each other that they fell over him.

(Occasionally they did, and that only made things worse. Once he got caught in the middle of a fight when a girl stumbled backwards into him and immediately blurted that she was still in love with someone else, much to the surprise of the person who, only seconds before, had been swiping their tongue along her teeth. He got a black eye just for being there.)

Eventually, someone put all the pieces together. Choi Minho figured out that Yoongi wasn’t just generically odd; that these incidents of people blurting random things they would rather have kept to themselves lined up ever-so-nicely with Yoongi’s touch.

(The redness on his knuckles matched the healing bruise across Yoongi’s cheek perfectly. That might have helped him a little in drawing his conclusions.)

Choi Minho was decidedly the wrong crowd, but he pulled Yoongi in with no difficulty at all.

“Let’s start with a few rules, shall we, Min?” the tattooed man drawled, tilting his head slightly to the left such that his earrings caught the light prettily. “You can call me ‘sir’, for now. If you’re good, I might give you a name to work with, hm?” Extended silence and a raised eyebrow suggested he was expecting a verbal answer, rather than the stiff nod Yoongi had initially given him.

“Yes.” Yoongi cleared his throat, hating how his voice fell in the cold air. The other man clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Questions then. I should tell you, Min – I already know the answers. We’ve done our research –“

“So why ask?” Half expecting to feel a clip over his head or hear some sort of snarl in response to his interruption, Yoongi sunk down a little in his chair. What he got, however, was a snort from behind him and a quick flash of prominent teeth from the man in front of him before he schooled his features again.

“I want to know whether I can trust you, Min. I know you can make other people tell the truth; what I don’t know is whether you need compelling as well. Alright?”

Pouting a little, Yoongi wiggled in his seat and flicked his head to move his fringe out of his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said lowly. He was rewarded with another quick smile and a small nose scrunch as the two other men seemed to make eye contact with each other for a moment.

“Excellent. Let’s get to it then.”

Yoongi answered about thirty questions in quick succession, trying to keep up with the changes in topic despite the dwindling adrenaline in his veins and the swiftly surfacing headache. He hadn’t had a lot of sleep in the past week or so – see: missing project for Professor Choi – and he was a little dehydrated, but he seemed to have answered them all satisfactorily. They were an odd mix. Some seemed irrelevant: questions about his childhood, or his favourite food. Most were about his ability. What sort of contact is necessary? (Any pressure against him – no, touching an item of clothing alone probably won’t do it; no, there’s no lingering effect on clothes he’s taken off recently.) Are the truths always random? (They seem to be, although if someone is asked a question immediately beforehand, they’ll answer it truthfully; no, he doesn’t know what the time limit on ‘immediately’ is; no, he doesn’t know what dictates the level of detail they’ll go into; yes, it does work if someone else asks the questions.) Does it affect everyone the same?

He had paused over that one, unsure of how to answer. After a few moments of awkward shifting and heavy silence, the man said gently, “We’ve spoken to your father, Min, if that’s what you’re worrying about.” He told them the truth, then: no, it doesn’t affect everyone the same; yes, it does seem to have a cumulative effect. The more often he touches someone, the more they tell him. He didn’t tell them that this also extends to the trigger: that by the time he left home, he was beginning to suspect direct eye contact with his Appa was enough to put him in a more vulnerable state. They didn’t need to know that.

When the questions stopped, Yoongi was no longer shaking, but his throat was hoarse and he felt sweaty and distinctly uncomfortable. The man stood behind him had been utterly silent throughout, not even moving audibly, but Yoongi felt like he was being watched very carefully from both sides. It was like being in an exam – though with the fun bonus knowledge that the people judging him could very well put a bullet through his head and face precisely no consequences. Their attention shifted away from him after the last question, though, making eye contact with each other and seemingly having a quick conversation that resulted in the man in front of Yoongi – the one with tattoos, the one who has been asking all the questions in a soft voice, as if Yoongi wasn’t worth the effort of speaking up – clearing his throat and smiling.

(Yoongi had never been so keen to get back to his homework.)

“That’s good enough for me, Min. How would you like to work for me?”

“No way.” He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen where this was going; he’d already thought it over. Nothing this man could offer him would put him back in a position where other people dictated how he used his abilities. Not a single thing.

Jungkook wasn’t really surprised when Yoongi declined his offer without even hearing the terms. The older man had seemed uncomfortable the first time they met and downright terrified the second time; it was hardly shocking news that he wasn’t itching to get himself involved with mafia business, especially if he was under the impression that he’d be gaining sensitive information. He had his plans in place, however: carrot first, then stick.

“Oh?” he asked lightly, leaning back on one hand. (Jungkook was slightly regretting his decision to perch at the edge of the table. The desire to sit fully on it and swing his legs like a child had thankfully passed, but now it was digging uncomfortably into the top of his thighs. He just needed to engineer a moment where it would be natural for him to push himself up, saunter to the other side of the table, and sit down in an actual seat. So far, nothing had presented itself.)

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t want anything to do with you. The less I know about your business, the happier I’ll be.”

“Agreed, Min. I’m not keen on you getting involved in my business either – you can rest assured that whatever information I require your help getting will never reach your ears. Noise-cancelling headphones exist, you know. As do blindfolds. You wouldn’t have to see or hear any of it, and your identity would also be protected. You won’t know any of my business, or the people I’m working with; and they won’t know who you are. We’d pay you as well, naturally. Do a good enough job and we would happily cover your college fees and a move to an apartment building that actually employs maintenance staff and has updated its plumbing since the 1970’s. What’s not to like?” The pout was back, along with narrowed eyes that only served to make Yoongi look even more cat-like. Jungkook wasn’t one to coo, but he could imagine a drunk Taehyung all but begging to wrap this guy up in a blanket and feed him dumplings. Maybe he could imagine himself going right along with it. Whatever.

“I don’t want to be involved.” Every word was emphasised, firm, although tinged with a tired slur and a Daegu drawl that stopped it just the wrong side of crisp.

“You are already involved, Min.”

(This was a good moment for a dramatic walk around the table, and Jungkook seized it, declining to say anything else until he was settled into the chair. The squeak it made and the sight of Jimin scrunching his eyes shut and bringing his hand up to stifle a giggle made it less imposing than he’d envisioned, but at least he could sit down now. He continued.)

“You already know my face, and I know who you are. The fact of the matter is that I need to consolidate power. Either I do that with your assistance by getting the answers I need swiftly out of people who are threatening the collapse of the whole city – or I do it by selling you out and cementing a few key alliances with people far less bothered about preserving their assets than I am.” Jungkook purposefully kept his voice light, nonchalant, leaning back in his chair and regarding Yoongi with relaxed, slightly hooded eyes. I’m utterly serious about this, his attitude said, and your choice doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

Yoongi, on the other hand, looked like he was calculating his options, back straight and fingers fidgeting with the creases at the knee of his dark trousers. When Jungkook did nothing more than blink lazily and smirk at him, Yoongi’s eyes widened a little, something fearful behind them. Jungkook wasn’t sure he liked that, but he needed to sell this. He needed Yoongi on board.

(Hoseok had finally given him the list of names, and Taehyung had done his research into the rogue cells as well. The situation was not looking good. Sejin had taken one look at all the material and reluctantly declared that if they didn’t have this sorted out by the end of the year… Well, they would be better off preparing for war than trying to reign in the troublemakers. Jungkook needed answers from key parties fast, and he needed to be absolutely sure that his information was accurate. Letting Yoongi walk away was not an option.)

“What would you need from me?” The question was timid, and Yoongi was no longer meeting Jungkook’s eyes. Home straight.

“Your presence, upon request. I’d have someone pick you up and bring you to where you need to be; we would drive you home afterwards. You’d need to sit in on some meetings with people in my organisation, step in if necessary to make sure that they’re telling the truth.”

“Just within the organisation?”

“Yes – of course. It’s just internal stuff. I’m not going to be asking you to compromise national security or help me rob banks or anything, I promise. It’s just to help me weed out some rotten apples, ok?” Bleached hair bobbed as Yoongi nodded slightly.

“What if I’m in class, or working here?”

“I’ll handle that, don’t worry. We won’t compromise your position at Shadow if you want it, and you won’t have to give up your degree. Just come when I call and I’ll handle the rest for you.” Jungkook was letting his voice warm now – he didn’t need to be quite so detached now that he had Yoongi where he wanted him. He could be reassuring. He wanted to be reassuring. “Any other concerns?”

“You – you’ll protect me? You won’t sell me out?” Yoongi looked up at him, all shining eyes and vulnerability and Jungkook wondered for just a moment whether he really wanted to drag him into this. If it went south, if he failed – he knew he’d have a lot of blood on his hands anyway, but somehow this specific blood felt like it might be worse. He smiled anyway, hoping to reassure himself too.

“Of course, Min. No one will know you’re involved, and you won’t have to hear or see anything you don’t want to. We won’t compromise you.”

“Ok.”

“Great.” Jungkook stood and buttoned his suit jacket again, nodding to Jimin to lead the way. “One thing, though, Min,” he said firmly, looking back at the threshold. “Don’t ever touch anyone on my team without my authorisation.” He could hear Jimin flicking his knife behind him, and the wide-eyed nod he got was enough confirmation that explicit threats weren’t necessary. They left silently.

With one interrogation down, Jungkook spent the drive back planning for the sixty to come. He hoped they would all go that smoothly. (He knew they wouldn’t.)

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #maknae hyung #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #park jimin #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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ok but i was trawling through stuff, as you do, and i swear that's the necklace joon wore for their stage with lil nas x at the 2020 grammys...

fiddling w his ears/earrings while he talks is by far one of his cutest habits

#yoongle boongle #gif #by rosebowl #pretty

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taesramenhair · 3 years ago

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Would I Lie To You? [MYG x JJK]

Chapter 5: Round Two

It's been pretty quiet for the last couple of weeks. Yoongi's kept his head down, got on with his job and his classes and stayed out of trouble. What a shame trouble seems to have come to him.

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chapter wordcount: 1.5k // fic genre + rating: SFW (15+)

work warnings/tags etc: past abuse, neglect, mafia!Jungkook, sad!Yoongi, established Namjin, endgame Yoonkook, angst with a happy ending.

chapter warnings/tags etc: mentions of vomit (no actual throwing up), implied (past) sexual harrassment, implied past homelessness, worrying about money and employment

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Yoongi hadn’t thrown up in about three years (he used to believe people would think he was normal if he drank himself into a stupor – he knew better now) but oh boy was he close to breaking that streak. For the first time in forever, his manager had actually spoken to him when he came to collect his belongings post-shift. Not friendly chit-chat, not a mildly concerned, “I know we don’t talk, but I’ve seen shipwrecks in better shape than you: is everything alright?” (It’s not, but it has to be, so – yeah.) No, heaven forbid his manager say anything less than panic-inducing.

“Wait, here, Min. I’ve got to lock up and then we need to talk.”

Now, in Yoongi’s extensive experience, “We need to talk” was not a positive sentence to hear from the person in charge of his employment. It invariably led to one of three things: losing his job, having his hours or pay cut, or an indecent proposition. His manager had never struck him as the type for the last one, at least – not that there really was a type, or that it was always obvious. But he seemed decent enough. Comfortable in his middle age, family photo on the desk, kept his hands and eyes to himself. Low risk.

The other two possibilities, however… Sitting so tensely in the plush office chair that the slightest breath of wind from the open window behind him would have Yoongi jumping straight through the low ceiling, he wracked his brains for clues as to which it might be. The bar was doing well – they had opened a new location across town that was apparently thriving, and he couldn’t remember the last quiet night here – so a pay cut didn’t seem likely.

(Not that there was all that much to cut. Freelance pianist, precious little formal training, in no position to be making demands – he was lucky it was above minimum wage.)

They might cut his hours if they’d found someone else, since he had the prime weekend spots and variety was good for their image, encouraged people to come regularly on the promise of hearing something fresh. He hadn’t seen anyone hanging around the piano, though. The last time Shadow had hired a new pianist – not even for the weekend, for the Wednesday slot – Yoongi had predicted it weeks in advance just from the way the kid had been watching him, several nights in a row. Nothing like that had happened recently.

That left him with being let go. He didn’t think he’d done anything to deserve that. Alright, his playing had been fairly pedestrian recently, far short of “inspired”, but there had been no complaints either from customers or from management. He had kept himself under control, avoided a repeat of The Incident from a few weeks ago. Hadn’t spaced out while playing, hadn’t let trembling fingers leak into the notes. Hadn’t touched anyone. (Hadn’t found himself caged against the outside wall by a patron demanding answers he couldn’t give to questions he wished he hadn’t heard a million times before.)

Maybe there doesn’t need to be a reason, he thought bitterly as the air around him shifted from ‘A Little Chilly’ to ‘Why is the Window Open, It’s November’. He had been fired on flimsy excuses before now, from equally ‘respectable’ employers. Too many staff, sorry. You’re late. You can’t dye your hair, son, off you go. It’s not like he’d ever been in a position to argue with them or insist on his rights. (Did he even have rights?)

By the time footsteps approached the office door again, Yoongi had convinced himself that he was going to lose his job and be sent off into the night without so much as his severance pay. The skin around his thumbnails was ragged, copper sitting heavily on his tongue as he pulled his hands away from his mouth and shoved them under his thighs instinctively at the sound of the door handle twisting. As expected, his manager walked through, face set – tired, no one liked working the last shift – and keys jingling between his long fingers before he set them in his desk drawer.

To Yoongi’s surprise, however, the older man didn’t take a seat behind the large, plywood desk. Instead, he shuffled a few papers into a pile and then collected his coat and bag from where they hung by the door. Clearly, this was not going to be a long conversation. He sighed and Yoongi’s mouth was suddenly too dry to even start a protest.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, Min, and I don’t want to,” the manager mumbled, voice deep and firm despite its quietness. “If you’re in trouble, we can’t help you. We can’t protect you here and if you’ve got yourself into difficulties you cannot stay here. We have to protect ourselves, you know.”

“Sir, I don’t –“

“Min.” Yoongi’s throat constricted, words choked off, leaving him sitting there with his mouth hanging open awkwardly. “I don’t want to hear it. There are two men here to see you. That’s your business.” He hefted his bag onto one shoulder and glanced over at the young man rooted to the blue chair. He had always looked small, this kid, always like he was one small wave away from drowning. He hoped he was tougher than he appeared. “Leave the window open, Min. You might need it.”

Then he was gone, door clicking shut behind him, and all Yoongi could hear was his own heartbeat, too loud in his ears and too hard against his ribcage. So many questions whirled together, hurling themselves at each other and leaving only chaos behind. Two men. Evidently, his manager thought they were trouble. Why would anyone be there to see him? He kept himself to himself, he hadn’t been near the ramen shop in weeks – and ok, so he was a day late on that project for Professor Choi but he doubted she’d send someone after him for it.

(He doubted she could even remember what he looked like, never mind knowing where he worked.)

And then the window. What about the window? There were more footsteps in the corridor and Yoongi twisted in his seat, considering it more urgently. Oh – it was a fairly large window, the kind that slides up, with a grill outside that can be pushed to one side if – like now – it’s left unlocked. He could leave through there. It opened onto street level: he could probably just slip right on out, close it behind him and disappear. He could never come back – but he had already thought he was fired (maybe he was?) so how much worse could just leaving possibly be?

(‘The missing part of his rent’ worse, to be honest, but if he was in a lot of trouble, maybe moving on was sensible anyway. If he had to spend a little while on the streets and drop out of college and scrounge to get something together, he could. He’d done it before. Maybe not in the middle of what was proving to be a stormy winter, and not after years of living right on the edge of coping, but still. He would make it work.)

Not that he had time to, though. By the time he had processed everything and convinced his legs to tense in the right way to stand – wobbly, but upright at least – the door was opening again and two dark-suited men strode in. The smaller of them led the way, immediately turning towards Yoongi and taking confident steps to place himself between Yoongi and the open window. A black mask covered the lower part of his face and tinted glasses hid his eyes – still, Yoongi stared openly, trying to work out anything he could. The man wasn’t large in any sense of the word: he couldn’t be much taller than Yoongi, and the slim fit of his suit showed him to be of slight build. He held himself well, though, clearly at ease in this situation and unbothered either by Yoongi’s gaze or the chill coming in at his back that ruffled the blonde hair he had styled up off his forehead.

“Min Yoongi, I believe.” A familiar voice spoke from behind him, strong and demanding his attention. Oh. Of course, if there was going to be trouble, it would be him. “Pianist, music production major, 26. Born in Daegu, parents divorced. Financial situation… Unstable. Correct?”

Yoongi licked his lips and nodded, turning to face the young man perched on the desk. Tattooed fingers drummed across the surface carelessly and Yoongi couldn’t suppress a fearful shiver that had nothing to do with the still-falling temperature of the room.

“Good. I told you that we weren’t finished. I have some questions for you. Sit.”

Traitorous knees buckled. It had been one thing accidentally brushing up against this man in the bar and then again in the alleyway. There, he’d been slightly tipsy, slightly ruffled – plenty off-putting, certainly, but nothing like this. This was pure power. Relaxed against the desk, suit lines sharp, flashy watch, expensive earrings dangling out from underneath artfully tousled hair and reflected in highly polished shoes that were probably worth more than Yoongi’s rent. Yoongi swallowed again nervously, tucking his hands where the others wouldn’t see them shake. This was clearly a man who had come to show Yoongi exactly how far out of his depth he was.

As if he didn’t already know.

#fic #my work #yoongle boongle #baby kim #gym maknae #wilty #ok serious tags now #angst #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #bangtan fanfic #bts fic #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #min yoongi fic

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