Jikook ao3

nonstop

By: prettied
Summary:

"Look at you." Jungkook sounds mildly amused, like he's watching a puppy trip over its own feet and fall over. "Little slut on the ground where he belongs."

Jungkook's stepping on him.
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He didn't get a double degree in business and accountancy to be a maid, but it's crazy how life will screw you over like this.

Jimin's arms burn. He's been scrubbing the same floor for five minutes straight, and he's just about ready to quit. Frankly speaking, it looks clean enough to Jimin already, but he continues labouring.

The master of the house doesn't settle for 'inadequacy', which apparently, to Jeon Jungkook, means anything that isn't utterly pristine. The other maids told him that a floor, for example, needs to be so sparklingly clean that Jungkook could eat off the floor. Not that he ever would, of course - someone whose net worth was in the ten digits range would never, ever lower themself to that level.

Jungkook himself had made his expectations crystal clear in the beginning, when Jimin was first hired and learning the ropes of his new job - if he couldn't see his reflection in the marble tiles, it wasn't good enough. So Jimin slaves on.

His knees hurt, too. The uniform that he's been made to wear is a ridiculously sexualised mess; it's a cliché, lolita-style maid getup, complete with superfluous ribbons and frilly trims. With his pink, freshly-dyed hair, he's never looked more like an anime character. The sweetheart neckline dips dangerously low, lower than Jimin's ever been used to before, and the sheer pair of stockings he's wearing is doing nothing to help cushion his knees. Instead, the white ruffles only dig into his skin as he kneels on the cold, hard marble floor.

The outfit, other than being ridiculous and humiliating, is stuffy as hell. Jimin feels like his skin is suffocating through the material, despite how silky it is. It clings to him like a second layer of skin, the cinched waistline only making it more difficult to breathe normally. Plus, he's pretty sure he had a little too much water during his break, and the tightness of the dress on his abdomen is not making it any easier to hold it back.

Every time he moves, he can feel the fullness of his bladder, the weight an incessant reminder that he needs to use the restroom; but he'd already asked Jungkook, and the dry answer he got was "breaks are only allowed during allotted times."

There's no chance Jungkook would ever go easy on any of his employees, whether in his company or at his personal behest. He supposes that Jungkook might see it as attempting to shirk his responsibilities. So he sucks it up and shifts positions so less pressure is put on his lower stomach.

A droplet of pinkish sweat trails down his forehead - because of all times, his dye has to run now - and before Jimin can lift his hand to wipe it away, or hell, even catch it, it drips down, like the invisible string attaching it to his skin snapped, to land cleanly on the floor. There it lies, a spot of unclean on the immaculate floor tiles, staring up at Jimin like a pink accusation.

Fuck.

Jimin takes a surreptitious glance left and right, before frantically picking up his damp cloth to scrub as hard as he can. It's wiped away in a hurry, and soon enough, the floor is spotless again. Jimin thinks that he just might be safe.

It's just sweat anyway , he tells himself. There's no way Jungkook would be able to tell. He's really overreacting.

"Jimin-ssi."

Jimin startles, head shooting up and heart pounding. In his haste to turn around and stand to properly greet Jungkook, he trips over himself, loses his balance, and knocks over a pail filled to the brim with soapy water.