Wrong Target Audience - ksj
Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader (Y/N)
This story came to life because of a tiktok I saw that's exactly like what yn sees in this story lmao (except i'm the right target audience thank god)
Tell me if I should continue this I feel like it's bad I just wrote this in my phone's notes app and if there are errors and bad formatting it's because i did this on my phone. enjoy i guess?
You’re sprawled on your couch, hair in a messy bun, half-finished iced coffee sweating onto your thigh when it pops up on your FYP. A photo dump with that one caption that always kills you:
“Whatever happened, at least you’re not pregnant.”
You snort, scroll, and think of that night: the one you and Seokjin promised never to talk about. The one that happened after too many glasses of wine, too many years of friendship, and one too many “just one more drink, what’s the worst that could happen?”
It’s been almost two months. You’ve both gone back to normal: game nights, inside jokes, him stealing fries off your plate like nothing happened.
You still can’t look at his hands for too long, though. Or his mouth.
But whatever. You’re fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
You double-tap the TikTok, giggling to yourself.
Except—
When you swipe open the comments, it’s chaos.
“Girl I said this two months ago and now I’m seven weeks along 😭”
"Wrong target audience 😭😭😭"
"Everyone on this sound is pregnant HELP"
every. single. one. of us. got hit with karma.
You blink.
Laugh nervously.
Scroll some more.
There’s not a single comment not about pregnancy.
You freeze mid-sip of your coffee.
Your brain, unhelpfully: Wait. Wait.
Then: When was my last—
“NOPE,” you say out loud, tossing your phone aside like it just insulted your family.
You try to ignore it. You really do.
But twenty minutes later you’re pacing the living room, muttering calculations under your breath, because somehow your brain is combining TikTok superstition and genuine panic into one disastrous cocktail.
And of course that’s when your phone lights up with:
🧃Seokjin: Movie night or are you bailing on me again, traitor?
You stare at the text like it’s a trap.
You know he didn’t do anything wrong. You know you both agreed it was a one-time, heat-of-the-moment mistake.
But now? Now all you can think about is that one damn comment:
You rehearse casual in the bathroom mirror like it’s a monologue: cool shoulders, loose smile, normal breathing. “It’s just a dumb comment,” you tell yourself. “Internet superstition. TikTok noises. You’re not a statistic, you are you.”
You return to the living room with a bowl of popcorn and a facade so immaculate even your cat, if the cat possessed any dignity, would be impressed.
Seokjin is already on the couch, hair falling perfectly into his eyes the way it always does, one leg tucked under him, the other draped over the armrest like he paid for front-row real estate at your living-room premiere. He has that look on his face that says he intends to watch the movie and also micro-analyze the plot, every predictable plot twist, and your face.
“Traitor,” he says the second you sit, pointing a dramatic, accusatory finger at your phone on the coffee table. “You opened my text, ignored it for twenty minutes, let me stew, and then came back like nothing happened. Rude.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek. “I was—” you search for a normal excuse. “—rehearsing lines for theater club.”
“You? In theater club?” He scoffs mockingly, but he’s grinning. “Okay. Which part? The overdramatic lead who is secretly anxious about everything but pretends to be fine?”
You nearly choke on a kernel of popcorn. “Shut up.”
“You're twitchy,” he continues, all soft amusement and very little sympathy. “You’ve been blinking like a nervous rabbit since last Tuesday.”
You force a laugh, because if you laugh you don’t have to explain your way out. “Maybe the lighting is weird.”
He studies you for a minute, eyes narrowing the tiniest fraction. Then, mercifully, the opening credits roll and his attention slides away, only to return after thirty seconds when he nudges you with his knee.
“You’re wearing my sweater,” he observes, because this is how he tests you. “Do you want it back?”
You pat the front like it’s a ritual offering. “I gave you the honor of borrowing it last week. Fair trade.”
“Mm.” He hums. “Fair trade. But you’ve been scrolling the whole ad break. And you screamed at your phone earlier.” His voice is calm. Dangerous calm. “And you spilled iced coffee on your thigh. A whole tragedy.”
You did not scream at your phone. You merely (very loudly and dramatically) exhaled a long, theatrical sigh that is somehow both guilty and defiant. “Fine. I saw something dumb and I laughed, okay? That’s it.”
His eyes pinch together. “Dumb like government conspiracy dumb or—” he holds up a finger dramatically “—dumb like ‘that’s probably a sign from the universe you’re due for a cat’ dumb?”
You clamp your jaw shut. “Seokjin, please.”
He drops the act and leans back, face placid—very placid. He is about to watch the film. He is going to leave you alone. You breathe out, victory in your chest.
Then his thumb ghosts your wrist, casual as a weather report. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”
You freeze. You’ve told him things you’d never repeat to anyone else: childhood embarrassments, an entire spreadsheet of your crush phases, the exact way you like your eggs (over-easy, with more salt than sense). This, though, this small, terrifying, potentially life-altering thing hangs on the tip of your tongue like a foreign word you can almost pronounce.
No. You made a promise the morning after. One night. One mistake. No labels, no pregnancy scares, no awkwardness. There were rules. You keep your rules.
So you do the stupidest, most immature thing possible: you smile and say, “I’m fine. Really.”
Seokjin stares at you for a long time like you’re a puzzle he can solve by mere focus. Then, with the predatory calm of someone who loves stirring trouble, he pats the seat beside him. “Come here. I want to watch—”
You try to sidle away. “I’ll stay over there—”
“No,” he says, a mild, merciless command. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and tugs you in until you’re half in his lap, your knees pressing against his. “You’re not escaping me.”
Your heart stutters. This proximity should be normal. After all, you are best friends, longtime comfort human, the kind of person who knows the exact shape of the other’s phone case. Who also knows what he looks like under his clo—But tonight it’s not normal. Tonight it’s a loaded gun under the coffee table.
He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching your face, cataloguing: the tiny crease near your mouth, the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when worried, the rapidness of your breaths. He’s being a maniacal detective and also your messy, infuriating best friend.
“Okay, spill,” he says finally. “What did the internet say that made you designate me as public enemy number one?”
You could say nothing. You could invent a story. You could, idiot that you are, blurt the dumb, honest panic that’s been building since you saw those comments: what if I actually am pregnant? what if I missed something? what if we—
Instead you choke on a laugh that isn’t funny. “It was a meme. People are—everyone in the comments is pregnant. It’s like a cult. It’s—”
He grins, slow and entirely too smug. “Wrong target audience,” he parrots the comment. “So. Are you—”
“No!” It bursts out. The word ricochets through the apartment. Your face flames. “I said no. We said no. We were careful-ish—”
“You keep saying ‘ish,’” he says, voice honeyed and sharp. “What does that mean?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “It means I don’t know. It means I don’t want to be thinking about it. It means it makes me anxious.”
“You could’ve told me earlier,” he says softly.
“I didn’t want to make a thing out of it,” you murmur. “I told myself the comment was dumb and I’d laugh and then move on. But now my brain will not stop doing math and I’m about to buy out every pregnancy test at three pharmacies and—”
The words tumble out like a confession. He does that little intake of breath that always precedes either a dramatic reveal or a barrage of affectionate teasing. You brace for both.
“I am not happy you didn’t tell me,” he says, and there it is: the edge. “But also—” He leans in like he’s delivering a secret. “If you’re about to buy every pregnancy test in Seoul, I am fully prepared to drive you to every pharmacy and make you take every single one while I hold your hair back, if needed.”
Relief flickers through you, bright and immediate. Then, because Seokjin is an absolute menace and you asked for him to suffer, he folds his arms like a judge and tilts his head. “But,” he adds, “we can’t have you running around like a loose wire. That would stress me out. So here’s what we’ll do.”
You squint. “We have a ‘we’ll do what’?”
“You will take one test now.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that says he is both serious and deriving terrible pleasure from your discomfort. “And I will… wait.”
“I’ll wait,” he repeats, as if that isn’t the most diabolical sentence he could have uttered. He slides off the couch, stands, and then—bless him—goes to the kitchen. He emerges with a bag of groceries, a ridiculous amount of chocolate, and a single, tiny cardboard box triumphantly. “I went prepared.”
You stare at the box. He peels the plastic with exaggerated care and reveals: one pregnancy test.
“You bought a test,” you say, dumbfounded.
“You asked to make me suffer,” he says simply, brandishing the stick like it’s a wand. “I’m making you suffer right back. Let’s see whose anxiety is worse, yeah?”
You glare. “You. You are the worst.”
He dumps the chocolate into your lap and sits down again, very close. “You’re going to the bathroom,” he instructs. “You’re going to use the test. You’re going to come back and we will both watch the result together.”
This is ridiculous and intimate and possibly illegal in some countries and also exactly what you needed: someone to make the panic smaller by making it shared.
You take the test like it’s an object of solemnity. The bathroom light is harsh and unforgiving. Your hands tremble. You think of the night of wine and tumbled sheets and the wordless, fragile thing that happened between you two and you want to heap an apology onto it, to line it up and alphabetize the embarrassment in your head. But there’s no time. The plastic feels cheap under your fingers. You do what you must.
When you return, Seokjin is sitting on the edge of the couch like a man sitting on the edge of cliff. He’s made a show of messing with his phone screen, pretending to read, but his attention snaps to you the second you cross the coffee table. He holds the test in his palm like a white flag.
“Ready?” he asks, playful and suddenly small.
You laugh, because what else will you do? “No. But also yes.”
He takes a breath and presses the little plastic button under his thumb like a ceremonial gong. “We watch.”
Time, for a few suspended seconds, condenses to the size of a breath. The little window holds its secrets like an ocean. Seokjin’s fingers drum a restless beat against his leg. He hums an old song under his breath—something calming, something that used to play at the bakery you both haunt on Sundays.
You don’t do anything at first. You just let the relief fold over you like a soft blanket. Your hands go slack. You laugh, a high, ridiculous sound that is part hysteria and part genuine mirth.
Seokjin exhales in a single, grateful sound and then looks at you—really looks—like he wants to make sure the relief isn’t just an illusion. His thumb slides to your chin and tips your face up gently.
“You alright?” he asks, voice stripped of mischief.
You nod, because nodding is easier than the torrent of feelings under it. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He doesn’t let it stay there. He leans in, closes the space between you, and kisses you, soft at first, testing the water. It’s not the clumsy urgency of that night two months ago; it’s different. Slower. Considered. The kind of kiss that asks a hundred questions and doesn’t expect immediate answers.
You respond before you’re fully conscious of deciding to, because the world narrows to him and the heat at the base of your throat. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
Your eyes widen. Wait, what the fuck?
“I should probably make you suffer more,” he murmurs, a grin creeping back. “For being secretive.”
You shove him lightly, but there’s laughter in it. “Shut up.”
“Not until you promise to tell me sooner next time.” His voice, suddenly earnest in a way that thumps through your chest. “We’re dumb enough to mess things up—together, not apart, yeah? If it’s scary, tell me. I’ll be annoying, but I’ll be there.”
Your chest tightens in that particular way that means feelings are rearranging themselves without permission, packing for a trip you didn’t sign up for.
He kisses you again, gentler this time, then tilts his head back and glares at the TV like it betrayed him. “Alright, movie,” he grumbles. “But no more scrolling during ad breaks. You ruined my popcorn count.”
You laugh, the tension easing into the kind of easy warmth only years of friendship can build. You don't ask about the kiss. The two of you are just weird like that. He squeezes your hand, fingers hot and steady. For now, the universe is a little less menacing. For now, the two of you, messy, stubborn, absolutely exhausting will navigate whatever comes next. Together.
And honestly? You kind of like the way his suffering looks on him. It suits him.
The test was negative. You saw it with your own eyes: one line, clear as day. Seokjin even made a dumb little “see, we’re fine” victory dance that involved way too much hip movement for a crisis moment.
So you moved on.
…or at least, you tried to.
You still hang out like always. Movie nights, late-night ramen runs, Seokjin texting you memes at 2 a.m. because he “couldn’t sleep without telling you how bad your taste in actors is.”
Except you can’t keep food down some mornings.
Except your jeans feel tighter even though you swear you didn’t eat that much.
Except you’ve been tired like, “I could cry if someone hands me the wrong pen” tired.
But the test was negative.
Right?
You tell yourself that every time you wake up nauseous. You blame stress, caffeine, hormones, the weather, Mercury retrograde, literally anything. You even Google “can stress mimic pregnancy symptoms” at 3 a.m. and nod along like, see? science agrees I’m fine.
You almost believe it — until Seokjin starts noticing.
You gag when he sprays cologne before dinner.
He frowns. “Since when do you hate this one?”
“It’s just strong,” you mumble, waving a hand. “Maybe I’m allergic to your expensive taste.”
Then a few days later, you fall asleep on his couch mid-conversation. Like, full-on snoring while he’s halfway through a story. You wake up with a blanket over you and a sticky note on your forehead:
you okay, grandma? we gotta get your bedtime schedule checked.
You laugh when you see it.
But he doesn’t.
He starts hovering more. Bringing snacks, asking if you’re eating, if you’re “feeling off,” if you’re “sure you’re not coming down with something.”
Every time, you brush it off.
Because what are you supposed to say? “Hey, remember that one-night mistake we swore never to talk about? So funny story, I might be living out a karmic TikTok prophecy”?
You’re in denial. Strong, Olympic-level denial. Until one afternoon you’re in Seokjin’s kitchen, trying to help him cook, when the smell of garlic hits you wrong.
You barely make it to the sink before you’re gagging, hand clapped over your mouth, eyes watering.
Seokjin’s instantly beside you, worry written all over his stupidly handsome face.
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong? Did you cut yourself? Are you okay?”
You shake your head, breath shallow. “No, I just— ugh, I think the garlic’s bad or something.”
He sniffs the pan. “Garlic doesn’t go bad like that.”
“Maybe it’s just— I don’t know. Period’s coming. Hormones.”
He goes very still at that.
You realize a beat too late what you just said.
Because your period… hasn’t come.
Not last week. Not the week before.
You must look guilty because his voice drops an octave. “When was your last one?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
He folds his arms, expression unreadable. “Y/N.”
“...The test was negative,” you whisper, weakly, like that should mean something.
He doesn’t even say anything for a second, just exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters, “We’re buying another one.”
“Nope. We’re not doing this again. You’re clearly sick or… something.” His tone sharpens, worry and irritation tangled together. “I’m not letting you stress yourself into fainting in my kitchen because you’re scared to check.”
He’s already grabbing his keys before you can argue.
You sigh, following him out the door, muttering under your breath, “If I end up on that TikTok sound again, I’m suing the app.”
He’s standing in the pharmacy aisle, arms crossed, staring at the same pastel-colored boxes like they’re explosives. The air smells like disinfectant and regret.
The first time was almost funny. A shared panic, a what-if that ended with laughter and chocolate bars.
This time it’s quiet. She isn’t laughing.
She’s standing a few steps behind him, hoodie pulled up, eyes on the floor, chewing the inside of her cheek until he’s sure she’ll draw blood.
He clears his throat. “Brand loyalty or we diversify our portfolio?”
It comes out lighter than he feels.
Her head snaps up, tired eyes meeting his. “Just… pick one.”
He does. The first box his hand touches.
They pay in silence.
The engine hums. She keeps fiddling with the window switch like she’s searching for something to do with her hands. He wants to reach over and stop her, hold her hand, say something—anything—but his throat is dry.
She’s pale. She hasn’t eaten properly, and the sight of her flinching from garlic (garlic, for god’s sake) made something cold and sharp settle in his stomach.
He’s been through enough late nights and inside jokes with her to know every version of her face: angry, sarcastic, bored, happy.
Back at his apartment, she goes straight to the bathroom without a word.
He sits on the edge of the couch again, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles ache.
It’s not the waiting that’s killing him this time. It’s the what if.
What if it’s positive?
What if she looks at him and sees the ruin of everything they’ve built: ten years of friendship, gone in one bad decision and two pink lines?
What if she doesn’t want him there for it?
He leans back, stares at the ceiling, and tries not to think about the night itself: her hair against his pillow, the sound she made when he whispered her name like it was breaking out of him. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. He tells himself it can’t.
He’s still trying to breathe through that lie when the bathroom door creaks open.
She’s holding the stick like it’s radioactive, eyes wide, mouth pressed tight.
She doesn’t speak, just crosses the room and places it in his hand.
It’s not like the movies. No dramatic music, no time slowing down.
Just the small, clear symbol in the little window.
One line.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
His heart stumbles over itself.
“...It’s—” he starts, but his voice cracks.
She beats him to it, whisper-thin: “It’s positive.”
For a moment neither of them moves. The world feels too small for all the noise in his head.
Then she laughs. Not happy, not disbelieving, just broken and sinks onto the couch beside him, hands over her face.
“I took a test before,” she says into her palms. “It was negative. It was negative, Jin. How—”
He doesn’t think. He just reaches out and catches her wrist, pulling her into him until her forehead rests against his shoulder.
Her breath shudders against his chest.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey. We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this.”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t supposed to— we weren’t supposed to—”
His fingers find the back of her neck, thumb tracing small circles there. “But we did. And I’m here. Whatever happens, I’m here.”
He means it, every syllable heavy and certain.
He can’t take back the mistake, but he can make sure she doesn’t carry it alone.
When she finally looks up, eyes glassy and red, she whispers, “You’re not freaking out?”
He smiles — soft, tired, terrified. “Oh, I’m absolutely freaking out,” he admits. “Just quietly. Inside. Like an adult.”
That earns him the smallest laugh, the one he’s been chasing since the pharmacy aisle.
He pulls her closer again, heart pounding against her shoulder. Somewhere under the fear, under the panic and the hundred questions they’ll have to face, there’s a flicker of something else, something warm and dangerous and inevitable.
He knows he’s going to love this chaos.
He knows he’s going to love her through it.
