Fearless
A/n: This is the first in a series for the Monster Smash Halloween project for Ksmutclub! I am attempting to do all seven BTS members with a supernatural (read: spoopy) theme by the 28th.
Summary: Min Yoongi doesn't want anyone moving into the house he's been haunting, especially not someone who reminds him what it feels like to be alive.
Warnings: is it considered unprotected sex if he's a ghost? Teasing, clothed sex, some angst Ghost!Yoongi is horny yet soft, reader is kind of a top really, less spoopy than horny, praise, dirty talk
Word Count: 2276
Min Yoongi doesn't like change. Change makes him anxious, it always has, even before....well....before.
He feels his chest tightening nonetheless when you view the house, eyes wide and bright, surveying his bedroom like you're imagining all your stuff in there.
Yoongi hates you on sight. You must have drifted through life, being that pretty, with a bright smile.
People make him more anxious than change, and a beautiful girl in his space? Standing in the living room, inches from where he'd taken his last breath?
It felt oddly intimate.
Imagine being anxious when you have no heartbeat to speed up, no breath to get short.
The movers start bringing your things in before you know it and he sulks, pushing over boxes marked fragile, laughing when it's blamed on one of the younger movers.
Yoongi doesn't particularly like to scare people, but it's easy. Just a few toppled boxes and the movers rush out of the house, and he can't help but smirk as you struggle to bring everything in yourself.
The first night, you curl up on the couch with a book and he watches you for a couple of hours, the line of your jaw, how long your legs look, and he's angry at himself for looking.
He's more angry at the way he wishes he could wrap a hand around your ankle, brush the hair back from your face.
He's the most angry for suddenly feeling lonely after god knows how many years of shuffling around the house, content in his solitude.
So he makes the lights flicker, and when you get up to check the breaker, he hides your book down in the couch cushions.
You're frowning as you look for it, and how does he feel his heart speed up when it isn't even fucking beating?
It's weeks of this, of him toppling over your drinks, hiding your books, flipping the breakers, slamming doors, doing everything he knows has worked in the past, but you're unbothered. You're...fearless.
He's never appeared to anyone before, never even known that he could, and when he appears to you, it's completely by accident.
Yoongi doesn't watch you shower, he's never been that kind of guy, but he can't help how his eyes catch the curve of your ass when you walk around in a men's t-shirt and panties, can't help wondering whose shirt you're sleeping in.
His throat tightens when you go up to the attic and find the box he'd left there, full of his clothes and books, and part of him hopes you throw it away, but when you don't, when you squeal in surprise at some of the books, gently fingering the pages, it's his chest that tightens.
The night you end up seeing him, just for a moment, you'd washed the box of his shirts and you were wearing one of them, a black one, with the bottom knotted to show your stomach and a pair of black panties, dancing around in the kitchen, making popcorn.
He feels his lips curling in a smile, watching you, and he wonders how long it's been since he's smiled.
Yoongi finds himself crouched behind you as you lie on the couch, reading over your shoulder, that night, and he tells himself that it's because he's bored and not because he likes the way your shampoo smells, likes the view of your legs stretched out on the couch.
It’s almost 3am, and he kind of likes that you’re an insomniac, because he had been once, when he was alive, and he tries not to think about why that pleases him so much.
You huff out a breath, frustrated suddenly, and he stands to come around and see your face, frowning down at you.
You slide your hand down what used to be his shirt, slip a thumb beneath the waistband of your panties, and if Yoongi had still had lungs, he would have surely stopped breathing.
When you slide your hand further down, slipping beneath your panties, fingers finding your core, he crouches down again, watching your face. Your eyes are squeezed shut.
He hadn't even known that his anatomy still worked this way, that he could still get this hard, that his heart could thud against his chest, hands aching to touch you.
You hitch in a frustrated breath and your eyes pop open, widening a bit, and Yoongi realizes you can see him.
***
You don't commonly fantasize about anyone in particular when you touch yourself, and you've been single for so long you don't even conjure up past experiences anymore.
So when you can't quite get there, alone on your couch, you're shocked to open your eyes and see a pair of hungry brown eyes, a man crouched down in front of you, black locks falling over his face.
He's gone just as your breath catches, as heat floods through you.
That night, when you dream, it's of those hungry brown eyes and pouty lips, how his tongue flicked out to the corner of his mouth.
He seems familiar, and you wonder if it's someone you'd seen in passing, someone you'd been attracted to.
It isn't until days later that you go through that box you'd found in the attack and that one Polaroid of the same man, except this time with a gummy smile, eyes softer, that you realize that all the flickering lights and lost books weren't just your imagination after all.
It doesn't even occur to you to be scared, you've grown up seeing things that other's couldn't, believing in things like the tarot and the other side, and nothing about the energy you felt here seemed malignant or frightening.
You wait a few days, and you stop feeling the random rushes of cold, there's no flickering lights, there's no more hiding your books or toppling your glasses.
After two glasses of wine and a particularly trying day at work, you speak out loud.
"Are you shy now?" You ask, tipsy enough not to feel stupid in case you're talking to yourself.
You wait a few seconds, and nothing happens.
"Do you only show up when I'm half naked?" You continue, smirking a little. You slide down one strap of your camisole, revealing a bit of cleavage.
When nothing happens, you huff a little, but then the lights flicker.
"Aren't you afraid?"
You flinch at the deep voice right next to your ear, shivering at the sudden chill, but it isn't from fear.
"Takes a lot to scare me," you murmur, and turn your head to see him sitting there, right next to you, close enough that if you moved slightly, your thigh would touch his....if you could touch him, that is.
You're not sure how this works, but you're insanely curious to try.
He chuckles a little. "You're fearless."
"Do you like fearless girls? Or...did you? Before?"
"When I was alive, you mean?" He gives you a half smile. "Didn't know very many. I worked too hard to date much. Worked myself to death, really."
"Do you get bored, hanging around here? Is that why you watch me?"
He flushes, looking away from you, and you wonder how a ghost can blush. You find yourself wondering...
"I didn't mean to spy."
You smile at him and reach out to touch his collarbone, not knowing what might happen, but it works, you feel his skin soft beneath your hand.
He takes in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "You...you touched me."
"I...I did some research," you admit softly. "It's the witching hour, the time when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest. My name is Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.”
He swallows hard, staring down at your hand touching his collarbone, and then looks back up to your face. “I’m Yoongi.”
You swing your leg over his waist to straddle him, impulsively, and his breath hitches again, and he's cold to the touch, trembling under your fingers when you wrap your arms around his neck.
"What are you doing?" He breathes, eyes searching your face.
“Don’t you ever get lonely, Yoongi? Don’t you miss being touched like this?”
He smirks at you then. "I think maybe you're the one who is lonely, doll. Looking for a phantom lover?"
"You offering?"
"Doesn't look like you're gonna move out anytime soon. And you keep prancing around in my clothes..."
He slips a hand under your t-shirt, spanning his fingers up your ribcage and hissing in a breath between his teeth.
"It's been so long since I've been been able to touch someone," he says, looking into your eyes almost in awe.
"So touch me," you breathe.
It's so slow, how his hands move up under your shirt to palm your breasts, your nipples tightening and not just from the chill.
He lets out a low groan when you arch your back.
"I don't think I was ever this hard when I was alive," he mutters, and you roll your hips against his erection, eliciting another strangled moan from him.
"You know what's great about having a phantom lover?" You murmur into his ear.
"What's that, doll?" He sounds distracted, voice muffled against your skin as he kisses the base of your throat.
"You don't need condoms."
He hisses in another breath and moves his hands from your breasts to unbutton his jeans, huffing in frustration when he fumbles.
"These aren't even real," He mutters, and when you giggle his eyes dart to yours, something so soft in them it makes your heart speed up.
"You're so beautiful when you laugh."
He moves his hand to your face and your throat goes tight. You don't want to think about what happens after, if he'll disappear forever, if you'll pine over your phantom lover for years, so you unbutton his jeans for him, freeing his cock from the denim, and he looks down at your hand instead of your face.
"Oh, fuck." He mutters, bucking into your hand, and he moves his hands to your hips, lifting you up to rock you against him.
When you just roll your hips, stroking his cock slowly, watching precum drip down the head.
His breath is hitching in his chest and he buries his face in your neck. "C'mon, doll. Y/n. Don't tease. We...we might not have much time."
Your throat tightens again at the thought and you push the crotch of your panties to the side, holding him at the base until you slide down on him completely.
"Oh, fuck!" He cries out, throwing his head back against the couch, throat working, hands kneading your hips.
"Oh. Oh." You mewl.
You don't know what you'd expected, but he was so warm, pulsing inside you, just like he was alive and breathing, and you rock forward for friction, adjusting.
Yoongi sits up straighter on the couch, rolling his hips beneath you, and he catches your mouth with his, and his tongue is warm, too, he's warm all over as if he's coming to life and you press closer to him, wanting more.
He breaks away from you, breathing hard, watching you ride him, an awed and almost pained look on his handsome face.
"My pretty little doll, look at you. You're so good, so perfect. You're going to make me come. You're going to make me come in that tight cunt, but I want you pulsing around me, want you to come first, yeah?"
The way he’s praising you makes your skin hot, your head dizzy.
He grabs your hips, thrusting up into you, dragging his cock along just the right spot as you grind against him for pressure on your clit, and when you come you cry out his name.
You feel your cunt pulsing around him, tightening like a vice and he throws his head back again before kissing you hard, nipping at your bottom lip.
“You feel so fucking good, doll. You feel like heaven. It was worth all these years being alone just to feel you, you know that?”
He lets loose a string of curses when he spills inside you, and his come is warm too, almost hot, and none of the biology of this makes any fucking sense but you can’t care when you can feel his heart thudding against your chest as he presses you to him, when you can feel his lips planting soft kisses along your shoulders.
You play with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, looking at the clock over his shoulder, and it’s nearing 4am.
You hug him tight, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. “Will you disappear after the witching hour is over?” You ask, voice hoarse.
He pulls back enough to look at your face, bringing his hand up to caress your cheek.
“I...I don’t know. You’re the one that did the research,” he jokes, but his half smile is a bit sad.
“Will you come back?”
He seems to think for a moment, and your heart seizes in your chest.
“I won’t leave. I never leave this place, and I damn sure don’t plan to now, after this. After you.”
You sigh in relief, but it’s shaky, and he leans up to kiss you, soft, and then you yelp as he disappears, making you plop down on the couch with a thud.
You feel cold, suddenly, cold and empty because whatever he’d left inside you was as gone as he was, and tears roll down your cheeks.
It’s not until the next morning, until you grab for the novel on your nightstand and it isn’t there, that a smile spreads across your face.
