#even if it means i am so exhausted that the rest of my life stops existing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

berryispunk · 1 month ago

Text

Slow Motion

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: dual POV, slow burn, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning, angst, all of it, longing, best friend! Frankie, feelings denial, soft! Frankie, everyone knows before they do, Santi and Benny are support actors in this, only allusions to smut with this one, the girlfriend is not the villain, idiots in love, kissing

summary: Best friends. Always there, never quite enough. He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away.

word count: ~ 8k

read on ao3

You and Francisco Morales had been you and him for as long as anyone could remember. Not in the romantic, hand-holding, Sunday brunch kind of way—but in that soul-deep, private-joke, finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of way. Inseparable. A pair that moved through life side by side, facing every challenge together like you were built for it.

He was your person. You were his constant. You’d both sucked at love, made terrible choices, fallen for the wrong people, gotten burned, and picked each other up off the floor more times than you wanted to count. And somewhere along the way, you’d decided Frankie just needed a little push.

So you pushed.

Blind dates, setups, meet-cutes at your yoga class—you threw him at every semi-decent woman within a 15-mile radius like some emotionally-invested Cupid. And he let you, mostly because saying no meant watching that bright-eyed hope in you fade. And he couldn’t stomach that.

But tonight?

Tonight, you could tell, something had changed.

You pulled up to the curb outside the sad little Italian place you’d sent him to, elbow resting on the open window. “Hey, hot stuff. You survived?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. He opened the door, flopped into the passenger seat like someone returning from battle, and just sat there, staring out at the glowing neon of the restaurant behind him.

You laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “That bad?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Was it the weird laugh again? Or did she talk about astrology like it was a PhD?”

Frankie exhaled hard through his nose. “Can we not do this tonight?”

Your smile faltered. “I’m just asking, Frankie. You’re the one who said you wanted to meet someone.”

“No,” he snapped, turning toward you, his voice sharp. “You’re the one who decided I should meet someone.”

You blinked. “Okay... what’s your problem?”

“My problem is I’m exhausted,” he said, his voice heavy. “Tired of these setups. Tired of pretending. Tired of you pushing me into dates I never asked for.”

You sat up straighter, your frustration rising. “Excuse me? You agreed to them. I never forced you.”

“Yeah? Because every time I say no, you look at me like I’m broken. Like you’re trying to fix me.”

Your heart twisted, his words landing on your chest. “Maybe I am trying to fix you, Frankie,” you fired back. “You’ve been stuck for years—half-living, half-dating, half-everything. You don’t even try. I’m the only one who’s been in your corner this whole time, and you’re making me out to be the bad guy?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t!” you shouted, anger flooding through you like molton. “You’re mad at me for caring? For trying to help? What is this really about?”

Frankie didn’t respond, instead clenching his jaw and gripping his thighs like he was holding back something too big to say.

“Say something!” you demanded, your voice cracking with the weight of everything that had built up between you.

He finally turned to you, eyes blazing. “You want to help? Stop trying to build me a life with someone else when you don’t even know what the hell you’re taking from me.”

And then Silence. Thick, stunned silence.

You stared at him, your throat tight, heart pounding like it may jump out of your chest. “What does that mean?”

He shook his head, suddenly looking like he regretted everything. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, you don’t get to say something like that and then shut down,” you snapped, your voice trembling now. “Why are you acting like I’ve betrayed you? Why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“Because you did,” he said, voice softer now, but still laced with fatigue. “And you don’t even see it.”

You looked at him—really looked—and felt something twist in your chest. A rift you couldn’t name but felt in every part of you, ugly and all consuming.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, more vulnerable than you meant to be.

Frankie stared at the windshield, his face tense. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and resigned. “You never do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or rewind everything to five minutes ago when it was still just you and him. But instead, you turned the key in the ignition and said nothing in return.

And for the first time since you’re hovering in each other’s orbit, the silence between you wasn’t comfortable.

It was unbearable.

Frankie didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on his couch in the dark, the TV on mute, some old movie flickering across the screen while the same sentence looped in his head: "You don’t even know what you’re taking from me."

God. He’d said it. Almost said everything. Too much—but not enough.

He dropped his head back against the couch, eyes stinging. The fight had cracked something wide open, and now he couldn’t shove it back inside. it broke free and was hovering just nearby like a giant shadow of something even bigger than both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You never fought. Ever. You bickered, teased, got under each other’s skin, but you were a constant in each other’s lives. You knew when to push and when to pull back. You always knew.

Until now.

Now you were probably sitting in your apartment, running the argument over in your head the same way he was, wondering what the hell just happened—wondering why he was the one suddenly flipping the board when you’d only been trying to help.

He stood up and started pacing restlessly.

You didn’t deserve that. He’d lashed out like you’d hurt him on purpose, like it wasn’t killing you too, watching him drag himself through one failed connection after another. You were trying to give him something he couldn’t reach for. Because it wasn’t there.

Not in those other people. Only in you.

And he was such an ass to you, you. The only person in his life that kept up with all his bullshit and by some miracle didn’t leave.

Frankie grabbed his keys twice that night. Almost left. Almost showed up at your door to apologize, to explain—but what would he even say? “Hey, I’m sorry I lost it. Turns out I’m in love with you and watching you help me find someone else feels like dying."Yeah, No.

Instead, he stayed up until morning, slumped in his hoodie on the back steps of his building, smoking a cigarette he didn’t even want, tasting as bitter as the words he told you on his tongue and watched the sky change color. For the first time since you’d become friends, he didn’t know how to come back from this.

Didn’t know if there was a way back.

The night stretched on like an endless tournament—one exhausting round after another, only there was no prize at the end. Just pain. Like you were being tested for some higher purpose you couldn’t quite grasp, and you’d failed without knowing why.

He’d never been like this with you before. Sure, Frankie had a temper, always quick to boil over when something pissed him off—but never at you. Never like that. And now, all you were left with was confusion and this dull, aching hurt in your chest.

All you ever wanted was for him to be happy.

He deserved that. Deserved someone who saw past the sharp edges, the emotional clutter, the history he carried like a second skin. Because despite all of it—despite everything—Frankie Morales was one of the last real gentlemen. A dying breed. Being around him was like witnessing an extinction in slow motion, only you had front-row seats and the last perfect example sitting right there in front of you.

It’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind—showing up to one of those dates and pretending to be his date instead. It had. More than once.

But every time, you chickened out. Too scared to ruin the one good thing in your life. The thing you’d somehow, miraculously, managed to hold onto.

The next morning, everything was too loud.

The clink of your coffee mug. The buzz of your phone. The way the silence in your apartment felt like it had grown teeth overnight.

You kept checking your messages like maybe he’d say something. A joke. A half-apology. Anything.

But nothing came.

Not even a stupid meme.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over his name. The little photo you took of him months ago still sat there in the corner of the screen—Frankie in his kitchen, shirt inside out, pretending to argue with a toaster. You remember thinking, this is it. This is what home feels like.

And now it just felt like you’d been locked out and someone tossed the keys.

You typed a message.

“Hey. Are we okay?”

Deleted it.

Tried again.

“I didn’t mean to push. I just…”

Backspaced until the screen was empty again.

You tossed the phone onto the couch like it had personally offended you—then immediately picked it back up. Paced the apartment. Whispered test messages under your breath like they were spells you could get right if you just said them enough times.

But eventually, something clawed its way up from inside you. Something sharp and tired and aching.

And you stopped overthinking. Stopped editing. Stopped protecting both of you from the truth that was already out there, bleeding between the cracks. Lingering.

You sank onto the edge of your bed now, change of scenery, thumb trembling slightly as you typed:

“Frankie, I don’t know what happened to us last night. But I miss you.”

And this time, you hit send.

Then you sat there, phone in your lap, staring at the floor, leg nervously bouncing as you waited for a response.

You kept your phone on loud for days.

It never buzzed. Not once.

You told yourself it was fine. Frankie just needed time. You fought, and it hit hard—maybe harder than either of you expected. Maybe he was licking his wounds. Maybe he didn’t know what to say.

But Frankie always said something. Even when it was stupid. Even when it was sideways and barely made sense, he showed up. A meme, a photo, a “you good?” that carried the weight of a whole conversation.

But this time? Nothing.

And it didn’t just sting—it unraveled you.

The texts stopped. The late-night calls and with it the way you could feel him across town without a word. It was like he'd ghosted his own life, and you were collateral damage.

Until three weeks later, Santi said it like it wasn’t a big deal.

You were helping him stack chairs after a backyard cookout, trying to pretend you weren’t checking your phone every five seconds. And Santi, half-distracted, said:

“You heard Frankie’s seeing someone, right?”

You blinked. Thought maybe you misheard him over the wind chimes or the clatter of metal legs.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Santi shrugged. “Some girl he met at that dive bar on the 14th. It’s new, but… he seems into it.”

You laughed. But it came out too sharp. Too forced. “Since when does Frankie get into anything that quickly?”

Santi paused, squinting at you, like he suddenly realized you hadn’t known. That maybe he’d said too much.

“I just thought—he’s been MIA lately. Figured he told you.”

He hadn’t, not a single word.

And suddenly it all made sense. The silence. The distance. Why he never answered your message. Why it felt like you’d been cut out without ceremony, like a chapter he just skipped over.

It wasn’t like it was with you. You knew that. You felt that.

But it was something. Enough to pull him away. Enough to make him forget to look back.

And standing there with your hands clenched around a folding chair and your heart somewhere between your ribs and the dirt, you realized it: This was heartbreak.

Not the kind that happens when love ends— The kind that happens when it almost begins, and then doesn’t. Impending grief for a feeling, for a connection, for him.

You tried not to spiral after that.

Tried to be the cool, collected version of yourself—the one who let things roll off your back, who didn’t let silence crawl under your skin and nest there. But the truth was uglier than that. It curled up in your stomach, sick and sour, and stayed there. A constant pain you just learned to shoulder.

You stopped texting. Stopped staring at your screen like maybe it was broken.

He’d made his choice.

And you weren’t part of it.

Still, when the group chat lit up about drinks at the bar on Friday, you didn’t bail. Part of you wanted to—wanted to ghost the whole damn night and pretend you were busy or tired or just over it. But the other part, the louder one, needed to see. Needed proof that it wasn’t just in your head. That the silence hadn’t lied.

The bar was warm and loud and exactly the kind of place you used to end up in together, laughing over too many wings and trash-talking each other over darts. You walked in and found the usual suspects—Santi, Benny, Will—clustered near the back corner table.

And then you saw him.

Frankie.

He was already there. Drink in hand. Hair a little neater than usual, no cap whatsoever and a button-down that wasn’t flannel. Beside was a girl perched close. Too close.

You didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t beautiful in that cinematic way, but she had this softness about her—easy to look at, easy to fall into, maybe. Her hand brushed his arm when she laughed. And Frankie—

Frankie smiled.

Not the dumb, half-smirk he used to give you when he was being a pain in the ass. Not the tired, grateful grin that came with late-night takeout and long silences that didn’t need filling. No. This smile was different. Smaller, careful. Like he was holding something back, but offering it anyway.

And that’s when you knew.

He brought her.

To this.

To your table, your friends. The little circle that had always been you and him and everyone else orbiting around the mess you made of each other. You didn’t walk over right away. You hovered by the bar too long, pretending to wait for your drink, pretending your heart wasn’t jackhammering in your chest, pretending you hadn’t just been sucker punched without warning.

When you finally made your way over, Santi gave you a look—one part apology, two parts brace yourself—and pulled out a chair for you to sit.

Frankie’s eyes met yours for half a second. Not a word. Not a smile. Just a blink, a shift in his jaw almost unrecognizable, and then he turned back to her.

That was it.

No hey. No you good? No flicker of the person who used to make space for you without even thinking.

And you sat there, surrounded by laughter and the hum of conversation, with the hollow roar of grief in your ears. Because now you knew what it looked like—what it felt like—when someone moved on and left you behind. Frankie hadn’t just found someone new. He’d brought her into your world like you were never part of it.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t even blame him, because you were the one who told him to try. You were the one who pushed him. And now he was gone. Gone in the way that matters most—not out of your life, but out of reach.

You made it thirty-two minutes.

Thirty-two minutes of nodding along, sipping watered-down vodka, laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, and pretending like your entire chest wasn’t about to collapse every time she touched him.

Every time he let her.

You didn’t even know her name until Will leaned over and said it like it was normal. Like it didn’t feel like a knife being twisted right under your ribs.

“Mira seems sweet, huh?”

You smiled. A tight, practiced thing. “Sure. Sweet.”

Mira.

The name tasted wrong in your mouth.

And maybe it would’ve stayed quiet—maybe you would’ve kept swallowing it all down like poison you could survive—if Mira hadn’t looked at Frankie, all wide-eyed and innocent, and asked, “How come you’ve never brought me here before?”

Before.

You heard it before he even answered. Before implied history. Ritual. Something that existed long before she did. Frankie paused, just a second. But it was enough.

“This used to be our spot,” he said, voice casual, not looking at you. Giving the words no meaning at all. “It’s been a while.”

Our.

As in you and him.

You swallowed hard and stood up too fast, chair scraping against the floor like a siren. “I need some air.”

Nobody stopped you. Not even him.

The night was warm and loud, headlights dragging down the street like slow thoughts. You didn’t make it to the curb before you heard footsteps behind you, you didn’t need to look to know it’s him.

Frankie.

“Hey,” he said. Not urgent, not guilty. “You good?”

You turned, eyes narrowed. “Do I look good?”

His jaw tightened. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say anything,” you snapped. “Anything real. Because for the past three weeks, you’ve been radio silent and now you show up with her—like I’m just some extra in your new life?”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d take it like this.”

“Like what?” Your voice rose, sharp and brittle. “Like I’m hurt? Like maybe you bringing your rebound into our space like it means nothing would actually mean something to me?”

Frankie’s eyes flashed. “It’s not a rebound.”

“Oh, right. Of course not. It’s serious, huh? That’s why you brought her here—to mark your territory?”

“Stop,” he said. Quiet, but there was power in it. This voice meant no bullshit. “You don’t get to make this ugly.”

“You made it ugly the second you ghosted me.”

That shut him up.

You pushed forward, voice trembling. “You always text back. Always. Even when you’re drunk or pissed or halfway asleep. You always showed up. And now what? I’m just gone?”

Frankie’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t. Which pissed you off even more.

“You owe me, Frankie,” you said, stepping in close now, eyes wet but your voice firm. “You owe me honesty. Because I was there. Every time you fell apart, every time you doubted yourself, every time you needed someone—I was there. And the second you get a maybe-kind-of-working-something, I’m just background noise?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And it cracked something in both of you.

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, raw and low. “After what I said. After how I said it. I was pissed, and I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” you whispered,brows furrowed deep. “I didn’t.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and ugly.

Then you added, “And now you’ve got her. So I guess I was just... convenient enough”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him.

“You were never convenient,” he said, almost a whisper. “You were the constant.”

You stared at him, heart clawing at your ribs, and for one stupid second, you wanted to kiss him just to make it all go away.

But then Mira opened the bar door behind you and called out, “Hey, babe, everything okay?” her voice was so sickeningly sweet, it made your stomach turn. You didn’t look at her, didn’t need to. Frankie looked back once at her, then down at the ground like it was suddenly the only thing that made sense. He didn’t even look at you.

You stepped back, more stumbling than walking. Shaky steps, as unsafe as you felt.

“Yeah,” you said, voice steady now. Cold. “Everything’s crystal fucking clear.”

And then you walked away.

Frankie tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, counted sheep. It wasn’t because of the heat or the creaking pipes in his apartment or Mira breathing soft and even beside him—but because your voice kept replaying in his head like a broken record.

“I was just… convenient enough.”

He’d heard a lot of things in his life. Screaming commanders. Crying civilians. Doors slamming, hearts breaking, all kinds of silence. The one that makes your ears ring and the one that makes your chest tight. But your voice cracking like that?

That was new, brutal.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The digital clock blinked 3:47 a.m in an alarming red light. Mira shifted behind him, half-asleep.

“You okay, babe?” she mumbled, barely conscious.

“Yeah,” he said. Automatically. Out of habit, out of guilt. “Just need some water.”

He got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and stood there in the dark, palms braced on the countertop like it was the only thing holding him up.

There was a photo stuck to the fridge—one you’d taken. Him and Santi arm-wrestling at your place, stupid grins on their faces, half a beer spilled in the corner of the frame. He remembered you laughing behind the camera, saying “Act natural, idiots.”

He hadn’t taken it down, he couldn’t.

He grabbed a glass but didn’t fill it. Just stood there, staring into vast nothingness, thinking of you. How you didn’t yell until the end. How you didn’t cry until he turned away. How you said “crystal fucking clear” like you meant it.

And for the first time, it hit him:

You weren’t mad because he was dating someone. You were mad because he’d shut you out. You were hurt because he made you feel replaceable.

But you weren’t. God, you weren’t, you never could be.

You were the one person who saw through all his bullshit and still stuck around. You were the reason he even considered fixing himself. Not for you—but because when you believed in him, he started thinking maybe he could believe in himself too.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye sockets like he could rub the image of you out of his head. Didn’t work. You were everywhere.

In the mug you left once and he never returned. In the hoodie Mira kept asking about—"Whose is this?" your scent still clinging to it. In the way he couldn’t laugh at dumb memes anymore without checking if you’d seen them too.

Frankie Morales was in a relationship, sure.

But he was in love with someone who wouldn’t even look at him now.

And he only had himself to blame.

The next morning, he made breakfast. French toast, Strawberries on the side, just how Mira liked them. He kissed her shoulder while she sipped her coffee and made her laugh hard enough to snort. He was attentive. Present. Trying his best to silence the ghost in the room that only he could feel.

And when she asked, softly, cautiously, “You okay? You’ve been a little... distant,”

He smiled and lied. “I’m good. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

She lit up. Actually lit up. And the worst part? She bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

And Frankie hated himself for how easy the lie slipped out.

It was supposed to be game night. You showed up late on purpose—half hoping maybe he wouldn't be there, half terrified that he would. But the second you walked in and saw him sitting on the couch, hand resting on the back of her chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world?

Your heart dropped.

You tried not to stare. Tried not to see it. The way her laugh came easy. The way Frankie leaned in to say something just for her, close enough to catch the scent of her hair. How she reached for his knee when she laughed too hard at something Benny said. He’d never brought girls to this. Not game nights. Not Sunday barbecues. Not this space—the one sacred little pocket of your friendship he used to keep just for the people who knew him best.

For you.

Your chest tightened like someone was wringing out your lungs.

He glanced at you once, a flick of the eyes, and then quickly away like it burned. No smile. No wave. Just... nothing. Like he hadn’t spent the last few years orbiting your every step. Like you weren’t the one who held him through half of his worst nights. Like that fight didn’t leave a crater between you big enough to swallow this whole damn room.

Santi handed you a beer. You didn’t even remember asking for one.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah, fine.”

But your hand shook when you took a sip, and you hoped no one noticed.

Mira laughed again. Loud, beautiful, perfect. And Frankie ? He laughed with her. Not that half-hearted chuckle he used to do when dates didn’t land. This one was full. Real.

You excused yourself to the kitchen before you could break down in front of everyone.

You barely made it in there before the tears started.

Silent at first—just a sting in your eyes, a tightness in your throat. You braced your hands against the counter, trying to breathe through it, trying not to fall apart like some cliché in a movie. But it wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the kind of grief that comes when someone doesn’t die, they just stop being yours.

And then you heard footsteps.

Santi.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just came up beside you, leaned his hip against the counter, and cracked open a beer like he hadn’t just walked in on a silent breakdown.

Then, quietly, observed like he always was. “Yeah... I figured this would happen.”

Your lip trembled, and you shook your head, wiping under your eyes quickly like it might hide the mess.

“I’m fine,” you lied even if your voice betrayed you in its thinness.

“You’re not,” he said gently. “And it’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

That broke something. A small, shattering sound in your chest. You let out a breath that turned into a sob and folded into him before you could stop yourself. Santi pulled you in without hesitation. No questions. no pressure. Just arms that held tight and steady while your shoulders shook, his hand on the back of your head.

“I didn’t think he’d really...” you started, but the rest dissolved into his shirt.

Santi rubbed slow circles on your back. “I know. None of us did.”

You stayed like that for a moment, tucked against him, letting his steady presence fade out some of the noise when another voice cut through the quiet.

“Jesus,” Benny muttered from the doorway. “He’s a goddamn idiot.”

You laughed against Santi’s shoulder, the sound more broken than amused. “Don’t say that. She’s not the problem.”

“I’m not talking about her,” Benny said, stepping inside. “I’m talking about him. He’s sitting out there like you never existed. That’s not Frankie. Not the one I know at least.”

Santi nodded. “He’s... stuck. Pretending so hard he forgot he’s not that good at it.”

And they didn’t say it—no one said it—but you all knew exactly who Frankie used to be good at pretending with. You. He never had to.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, trying to pull yourself together. “I don’t want to ruin the night.”

“You’re not,” Santi said firmly.

“You showing up tonight?” Benny asked. “That made the night.”

You offered a shaky smile, grateful even if you couldn’t quite show it yet.

Out in the living room, you could still hear Mira’s laugh. Still hear Frankie’s voice, low and warm and not at all the boy who used to show up at your door at 2 a.m., asking if you had Pop-Tarts and time. And maybe everyone thought he’d moved on. Maybe he thought he had, too. But if he had even glanced toward the kitchen just once—he would’ve seen the other two important people in his life holding up the one person he’d forgotten how to hold.

Nobody prepares you for the call you get late at night when you were supposed to sleep, telling you that your dad is in the hospital because of a heart attack, his condition critical.

Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his hair, breathing like he’d forgotten how. Mira stirred beside him, mumbled something soft and half-asleep, but it barely registered. The words from the phone call were still ringing in his ears like a fire alarm.

Chest pain. Ambulance. Unresponsive for two minutes.

His first instinct wasn’t to shake Mira awake.It wasn’t to call his mom, or Benny, or even Santi. It was you.

His hand moved before his brain could stop it—phone unlocked, your name already pulled up in the recents even though it had been weeks. His thumb hovered over the call button like it had muscle memory. Because in every other version of this moment—in every other emergency, every broken-down car, every fight, every loss—it had always been you.

He didn’t call. Not right away. He just stared at your name, and the photo next to it—blurry, laughing, eyes shining from that road trip last year when the AC broke and you threatened to abandon him on the side of the highway.

And that’s when it hit him, hard, fast and cold:

This isn’t a best friend anymore. This is the first person I think of when my world ends.

His hand recoiled from the phone, like it bit him.

Mira was sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. “Frankie? What’s going on?”

“My dad,” he said, voice as hollow as he felt. “He’s in the hospital.”

She was by his side in a second, hands on his shoulders, asking the right things, offering to come with him. She said all the things a good girlfriend should say, but they didn’t land.

Because all he could think about was you. Not just because you would’ve been there in a heartbeat—but because you’d know what to say. Because you’d reach for his hand before he asked. Because you’d sit beside him in that sterile waiting room and not talk unless he needed you to. Because with you, he wouldn’t have to explain what this felt like. You just… would.

And that’s when it shifted. In a way that couldn’t be undone. It wasn’t about dating, or jealousy, or the fight, or Mira. It wasn’t even about the timing anymore.

It was about truth and for the first time in weeks, it crushed him.

The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed low, mechanical. Too bright for a place this heavy with dread. Frankie sat hunched over in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the tiled floor like it owed him something—answers, maybe. A break. Mira had gone to grab coffee, or air, or space. She hadn’t specified and he hadn’t asked.

And then he heard your voice.

Soft, tentative.

“Frankie?”

He didn’t look up at first. Thought maybe his brain had conjured you again—just like it had when he’d scrolled past your name in his phone and nearly called you on instinct, like some kind of survival response. But then you were closer and right in front of him.

There, not just an imagination. Real.

Hair in this messy bun you always did when you couldn’t be bothered to straighten it. Eyes wide and red-rimmed like you’d cried in the car before coming in. Like the thought of him hurting still cracked you open even if he hurt you first.

“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “Santi told me. I just— I needed to be here.”

His breath caught. Not because you were there. Not even because you showed up without needing to be asked. But because part of him had known you would. Even now. Even after everything.

“You didn’t have to come,” he muttered, but it came out hoarse. Hollow, useless.

“I know.” You sat down beside him anyway. Close, but not touching. “But I wanted to.”

Frankie didn’t know what to say. His hands shook. He dug his nails into his palms like that could stop the ache building under his ribs. But it was too much, everything was too much.

“I can’t lose him,” he said, voice cracking on the last word.

And that’s when you moved. No hesitation. Just reached for him, pulled him in like you’d done a hundred times before. Only this time it broke him.

His arms wrapped around your waist and he buried his face in your shoulder and for the first time since he got that call, Frankie cried. Not loud, not dramatic. Just silent, shaking tears against the only person who ever made him feel like he was allowed to fall apart.

You held him, steady and firm. Holding his broken pieces together like you always did. Your hand in his hair, your breath steady and close. No questions, no anger, no I-told-you-so.

Just you, the one constant that always has been there and it all made it worse. Because this wasn’t Mira. This wasn’t temporary comfort, this was home. And he’d spent weeks pretending it wasn’t.

You were still holding him when Mira walked back in. Frankie’s face hidden in your neck. His hands clutching the back of your sweatshirt like he’d sink without you. His entire body folded into yours in that desperate, wordless way that doesn’t look like friendship. It looks like gravity.

She stopped mid-step.

You didn’t see her at first. You just whispered, “I’m here, okay?” and brushed your fingers through his hair the way you always did when things got bad.

But Frankie did see her and lifted his head. Eyes glassy, face streaked with silent tears, breathing uneven. His gaze locked on Mira—and in that instant, everything in the room went still. Her expression didn’t crack. Not really,not yet. But her eyes said enough.

This wasn’t the grief of a girlfriend who’d been left out. It was the grief of a woman realizing she’d never been in.

“I brought you coffee,” she said, voice tight, like she was reading a script someone handed her last minute. Frankie stood up too fast. Swiped at his face like he could erase what she saw. “Mira, it’s not—”

She held up her hand. Calm, composed. Kind.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe me a performance.”

You stepped back instinctively, putting space between you and Frankie like that might fix it. Like that might soften the blow. But Mira wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t cruel, either. She just nodded, a silent resignation and set the coffee on the table beside him, looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“You should’ve called her first,” she said. “I think we both know that.”

Then she left.

No big scene. No yelling. Just the hollow echo of her footsteps down the hallway and the sound of a door swinging closed behind her. Frankie didn’t move.He just stood there, looking at the coffee, shoulders stiff like they were holding the rest of him. And you?

You didn’t say I told you so or she deserved more or what are you doing even if you had every right to. You just picked up the damn coffee, pressed it into his hands, and whispered, “Drink, you’re shaking.”

And he did, even in the wreckage, in the fallout of his silence, you stayed.

It was sometime after 2 a.m. when you finally convinced Frankie to sit down again.

The ICU floor had gone still, lights dimmed, nurses moving in hushed, practiced rhythm behind sliding glass. No updates. Just waiting. You were still there. So was Santi—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a vending machine coffee and a million-miles-away stare. Benny had shown up with tacos no one asked for, claiming ‘grief makes you hungry’ and refused to leave since.

Nobody asked questions. Not about Mira, not about crying. Not even about the way Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand since you laced your fingers through his hours ago.

Santi finally passed him a coffee. “Still hot. Miracle of science.”

Frankie took it with both hands. “Thanks.” His soft brown eyes full of sorrow.

Benny threw an arm around the back of the chair beside him, stretching like he owned the room. Typical. “Listen, Morales, I know it’s not a great time, but if your old man pulls through and you don’t tell him we all waited like a bunch of loyal golden retrievers, I’m gonna start charging emotional support fees.”

That pulled the smallest breath of a laugh out of Frankie, which was the point. You gave Benny a grateful look over Frankie’s shoulder. He winked and shoved a half-eaten taco into his mouth like it was his life’s mission.

Santi leaned forward, arms on his knees. “You good on food? Water? Want me to harass a nurse?”

Frankie shook his head, lips pressed tight. Then softer, “Thanks, man.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly against his. “This is what we do.”

Frankie didn’t answer. But his grip tightened. Because he felt it—the thing that held him upright. It wasn’t Mira. It wasn’t some illusion of romance or a picture-perfect fix.

It was this. You, Santi and Benny.

People who’d sit with him in fluorescent hallways all night long. Who didn’t flinch at his mess. Who knew him and stayed anyway. Chosen family. And for the first time since he got that call, Frankie felt the sharp edge of loneliness dull just enough to breathe.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the nurse smiled.

“He’s stable,” she said gently, as if the words might shatter in the air. “It’ll be a long road, but he made it through the worst.”

Frankie didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the tiles like he hadn’t heard her. Then something in his shoulders sagged. His whole body exhaled. Like the fear that had been coiled so tightly in him all night finally let go.

You touched his arm. Lightly. Carefully. “He’s okay,” you said. And the words felt like a blessing.

Santi clapped him on the back, eyes tired but warm. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Get some rest if you can.”

Benny stood, stretched like a lazy cat, then leaned down and pressed his knuckles into Frankie’s shoulder. “Try not to emotionally combust while we’re gone. I’ve bonded with your old man now—I’m personally invested.”

They left without needing to be told. That’s what family does.

The quiet that followed was heavy. It settled over the waiting room in soft waves—early sunlight through the blinds, the hum of machines, the lingering tension that hadn’t quite disappeared with the good news. Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand all night, it’s been sweaty and uncomfortable at times but you wouldn’t say anything. But suddenly he let loose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the floor.

“You didn’t have to come.” You swallowed hard.

“Don’t say that.”

He didn’t look at you. “I called her first.”

Your heart twisted, but you kept your voice steady. “Of course you did.”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to call you.”

He said it like it was a confession. Like it cost him something to get it out.

“I started dialing,” he went on, “but I hung up. I told myself it wasn’t fair. That I couldn’t ask you to show up again—not after everything I’ve already taken.”

You stayed quiet, let him speak.

“I tried,” he said, voice breaking. “I tried so fucking hard to move on. To convince myself that Mira was good, that she made sense. That she could be the person I needed.”

He finally looked at you and it took all your air out of your lungs.

“And she’s not you, she’ll never be.”

The words slammed into you. Hard and simple and impossible to miss.

“I thought I could keep it buried. That if I never said it out loud, I could live with it. But when I got the call about my dad, when I thought I might lose him—I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. The only person I wanted was you.”

You couldn’t breathe for a second. Couldn’t think.

Frankie scrubbed a hand over his face, tears in his eyes he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “I don’t expect anything. I know I wrecked it. I just… I needed you to know. Because if I lost him and never told you the truth, I don’t think I could’ve carried that.”

You reached out before your brain caught up, threading your fingers through his again, lifting it up to your lips and kissed his knuckles.

He looked smaller like this. Not weak, just real. Raw. All things he never let anyone see except you. You didn’t say anything. Because some truths didn’t need answers right away—they just needed air. And this one, between you and him, was finally breathing.

It didn’t happen in a single moment. There was no dramatic speech, no fireworks. No declarations in the rain.

Just… quiet.

The kind that came with knowing someone inside and out. The kind that had always lived between you.

A few days after the hospital, you showed up at his door with two coffees and a bag of something warm, and he didn’t question it. Just stepped aside and let you in like you’d never left. You curled up on the couch, tucked your legs under you like you always did, and when your fingers brushed reaching for the remote, you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

After that, it was movie nights again. Grocery runs together. Your hoodie hanging off the back of his kitchen chair. Your hair in his sink. He never asked you to stay, but you did.Until one day, you just… were. A part of his , his rhythm, his everything, like you always were, just without holding back now. Frankie wasn’t afraid to name it anymore.

No one asked questions. Not Benny, not Santi. Maybe because they’d all seen it before he had. Maybe because it was written all over both your faces the second the storm passed.

You were all at Benny’s one night—barbecue smoke thick in the air, beers half-drunk, someone playing music off an old speaker—and you were curled into his side like gravity had always meant for it. Your head on his shoulder, a small gesture but so monumental to him.

And Santi, mouth full of ribs, just grinned and muttered, “Finally.”

Frankie looked over at him. “What?”

“You two. Took you long enough. Benny and I had a whole betting pool.”

Benny snorted. “I lost, by the way. Thought it’d take ‘till Christmas.”

You laughed into his shoulder. Warm and soft and unmistakably you. Frankie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at his mouth. “Real supportive friends I’ve got.”

Benny raised his bottle. “We’re rooting for you, Morales. Doesn’t mean we can’t roast you while we do it.”

Later, after the sun dipped low and the night got quieter, you tugged him out onto Benny’s balcony. Just the two of you. The city stretched out in front of you, all hazy lights and faraway sounds. You leaned on the railing beside him, arms brushing against each other.

“I know you were a bit slow at times,” you said, eyes on the skyline. “But this… this was slow motion.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I had a lot of shit in my head, okay?”

“I know,” you said, voice softer now. “But I was right there.”

He turned to you. Took in your face, lit by the dim glow of porch light and stars above you. That expression he’d always known but only just let himself hold onto.

“You’ve always been there,” he echoed.

And then he kissed you.

Not like the end of something, not even like the start. His hands in your hair, your mouth meeting his like it already knew the shape of him. Slow, sure and welcoming.

The sun eased into the room slowly and quiet, like it knew better than to speak after the kind of night that changed everything.

You lay on your side, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him—like heat and skin and something you’d waited years to have. Frankie was asleep beside you, one arm stretched toward where your body had just been, hand curled loose on the pillow as if even in sleep he couldn’t let you go too far.

You reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing the curve of his shoulder, then trailing down his arm like you were retracing last night’s map.

It played like a movie behind your eyes. His hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it broke something open inside him every time. The first kiss, not rushed but anchored, like he’d known exactly what he was doing—like he’d been dreaming about it and was just finally awake. Your lips tingled at the memory of where he’d kissed you. Where he lingered. Your skin still hummed in the places his hands had claimed, like he’d memorized you with his fingertips.

You pressed your fingers to your own mouth, not to stop a smile, but to feel him again. To remember how it felt when he whispered things you never thought you’d hear from him—need you, been dreaming about this, can’t believe it’s real.

Your breath caught. Not from lust, but from how right it all had felt.

The mattress dipped behind you and suddenly, there he was—still half-asleep, hair a disheveled mess, voice low and rough as he murmured, ‘Where’d you go?’ Only one eye open, just enough to peek at you.

You smiled, settling back into the warmth of him as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like you belonged there.

“Was just thinking.”

Frankie pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, slow and warm and so him, it made your throat go tight.

“’Bout what?” he mumbled.

You smiled. “When it happened for me.”

He went still behind you. “What?”

“When I fell for you.”

His breath hitched, just slightly, and his hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah?” he whispered. “When was it?”

You let out a soft laugh. “That day you showed up at my apartment soaking wet ‘cause your car broke down and you needed to borrow a charger. You were dripping water on my rug and swearing in Spanish under your breath like the world personally offended you. I made you tea, remember?”

He groaned. “I do. I was a mess.”

“And I just… looked at you. And felt it.”

Frankie was quiet for a second, then leaned in, lips brushing the back of your neck. “You know when it happened for me?”

You turned your head slightly. “Tell me.”

“That night we crashed at my place after the bar. You passed out on the couch, and I tried to sleep. I thought I’d be fine, but I had one of the nightmares. Bad one.”

Your breath held in your chest.

“I woke up sweating, choking on my own damn breath, and before I could even sit up, you were there. Not scared, not freaked out. Just there. Sat beside me, hand on my back. Let me breathe. Didn’t say anything stupid. And most importantly you didn’t run.”

Your heart clenched.

“That was it,” he said quietly. “That’s when I knew.”

You turned in his arms, met his eyes, your hands cupping his face like he might disappear if you blinked too fast, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

He looked at you with those warm, deep brown eyes—like melted earth after rain and it felt like he’d never seen anything more certain. More beautiful. The same way he looked at you that night on his couch, when you didn’t flinch at the worst parts of him. When you just held him, no questions asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe love had already happened and neither of you had realized it yet.

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t wild or desperate—it was soft. Full of all the things neither of you had said for years. The things you didn’t need to say anymore.

Because you knew.

You both knew.

thank you so much for reading <3

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gldrushh · 6 days ago

Text

GUILTY AS SIN? | DRABBLE

→ PAIRING: brother in law!jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ WARNINGS: oc being a damsel in distress, emphasis on distress, mentions of insomnia, handyman!jk because he got us all feelings things, oc driving him insane (quite literally), whipped jk, flirty jk, unholy thoughts (can you blame her?), suggestive, kissing, fluff, domestic moments

→ W.C: 5.5k (whoops)

→ A/N: request from a cutieful ask that I accidentally deleted 😭😭🤦‍♀️ I'm so sorry anon I really hope you see this!! This was the ask for more context or if anyone's curious (I really hope I did it justice): "since you said you accept requests for drabbles etc.-or did you or am i making this up lol- i’d like to request a little thing. since i want y/n to understand how jungkook fits her life so easily, i imagined a little scenario in my head where something in her house gets broken and she can’t fix it by herself and gets it even messier and everything, and jungkook comes in and being a perfect handyman. Like literal husband material. Would fit in her house so well omg don’t judge me please you know what i mean right? Maybe she’ll get struck by a lightning and finally understand how jungkook is perfect for her and stops treating him with only little’s “i don’t hate you”😭😭😭 like helloo that is the most husband thing ever don’t live apart live together!!! plus handyman jk got me feeling things in my head ngl lol don’t judge me I’M SORRY HAVE A NICE DAY!💌"

Fridays didn’t feel like Fridays anymore.

There was a time when they smelled like oven-warm pizza and the kind of laughter that made your cheeks hurt.

They arrive tranquilly now, slipping in like a breeze through the kitchen window, brushing past your ankles before vanishing again.They were tired, you presume. Dragging their feet behind a week’s worth of lectures and papers, staff meetings and half-hearted nods in break rooms with bad coffee.

Tonight is no different. You return home just shy of the rise of moon, the university car park already thinning out as you sling your bag over your shoulder, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of your limbs. Your bag slumped onto the floor, missing its usual hook, but you didn’t bother correcting it. You barely managed to toe off your shoes when you enter inside, your mind already curled up beneath the comfort of your duvet, not asleep, but still.

The warmth here is a familiar fondle. The scent of coffee beans lingering from the blurry kind of rushed morning, a sweater thrown carelessly over the arm of the couch, your favorite mug turned upside down on the drying rack. You nudge your shoss beneath the bench for some dignity, and hang your lanyard on the little ceramic hook shaped like a leaf--a flea market find you told yourself you didn’t need, but bought anyway.

You tell yourself you’ll spend the night in. Maybe watch reruns of that one reality show where couples decorate homes under a tight budget, even though the drama feels scripted and the contestants are always suspiciously good-looking. You’re too tired for anything else. And sleep isn't exactly your best friend. Hasn't been for years and the slender orange bottles in the bathroom shelf only help so much.

But you'll try to make peace with it. You'll pour yourself some tea. You'll pretend to rest.

You shrugged off your coat and padded into the kitchen, your socks catching on the cool tiles. Your mother had sent a whole box of chamomile tea and though you had deemed the purchase dramatic and unnecessary, it had become a part of your routine, even had helped. Maybe not with the sleep exactly, but with the ritual. The motion of it. Perhaps there was something about the way the steam curled from the mug, about the soft floral taste blooming on your tongue.

You flicked the kettle on with one hand, digging through the tea box with the other, thumb brushing over foil packets and paper tags. You were just reaching for the mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle, the one you never threw out because it had once been Minho’s favorite—when it happened. A sputtering hiss, like the dying breath of an appliance on its last leg. You freeze.

You pad toward the sound with the kind of dread that only adult independence teaches you. The overhead light flickers as you walk in—rude. You flick it again, squinting into the sudden brightness, only to be met with the absolute betrayal of your faucet spurting water like it’s trying to reenact a geyser, sounding alarmingly like a cough—if sinks could cough.

You turned, slowly. The faucet gave one last shake like it was shivering, then spat out a violent stream of water that shot sideways—directly across the counter and onto the floor.

“Oh, come on—!”

It happened fast. One second you were watching, horrified, and the next, you were slipping on the tile, a yelp caught in your throat as you stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding a face-first dive into the cabinet doors. Water sprayed in chaotic, unholy arcs, and all you could do was scramble for the towel drawer and grab anything vaguely absorbent to try and... do what? Patch it? Mop the mess?

The kettle beeped softly behind you, as if offended that you weren’t paying attention.

You drop to your knees, arms full of misguided hope and whatever towel you had on hand. You tug open the cabinet beneath the sink, only to be greeted with a far more dramatic leak than you were prepared for. It's not just dripping—it’s running, and you don’t need to be a plumber to know that water should not be forming a shallow puddle across your kitchen tiles.

Still, you try.

From what you learned from that one experience ages ago. Atleast it felt like it. The last time this had happened, Minho had still been here. Not that he was a great help. He had crouched down next to you, equally clueless, wearing an old college hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and a flashlight clamped between his teeth. The entire operation had failed in spectacular fashion—he had twisted the wrong knob, somehow made it worse. You remember him saying, “This is why plumbers make so much, sweetheart,” shaking his dripping bangs out of his eyes like a soaked retriever and you both ended laughing so hard you forgot to be mad.

You wedge the towel beneath the pipe, curse softly when it does absolutely nothing, and press your palm against the cabinet in frustration. It doesn’t help. “No, no, no,” In fact, the towel slips, sending a fresh arc of water across your shirt, soaking you down to the skin.

“Cool. Great."

The kitchen light above you flickers again. The universe, it seems, has a flair for theatrics.

And somewhere deep down, as water laps against the hem of your slacks and frustration coils behind your teeth, you think that maybe you should call your father but even if he dropped everything, it would take him hours. And any plumber worth their salt wasn’t showing up past eleven on a Friday night.They’d quote you something ridiculous and half of them wouldn’t even show.

You sat back on your heels and stared at the faucet as if it had personally offended you.

“I just wanted tea,” you said to it, as if it cared.

The towel slipped again. A fresh wave of water hit your calf.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

When you opened them, you stood, sedate and careful, the weight of water squelching in your socks. The kettle had long since finished boiling, and the kitchen now smelled faintly of wet cloth and chamomile. It hit you then. Sharp, stupid, and far too late.

You were going to have to deal with this yourself.

You looked around the mess—water creeping toward the rug, the under-sink cabinet now a tiny swamp—and, you felt like stomping on the floor.

But you didn’t. Descions. Descions.

Instead, you walked toward the living room, your wet socks squelching softly on the floor like some small betrayal with every step. To your phone.The living room lamp glowed with its usual mellow burke, casting a familiar amber tepidity against the old armchair and the book you never finished last week.

You considered, briefly, knocking on a neighbor’s door. There was that older couple two houses down, always kind, always offering extra tangerines from their tree. But it was too late. Every window was dark. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people stayed up. It was made of quiet porches, retired teachers, and families who went to bed after the ten o’clock news. You didn’t know many of them by name.

Besides, no one young lived here who had a wrench or a better idea or just... two working hands and a sense of plumbing.. Not anymore.

Your thumb hovered over your contact list. You scrolled aimlessly at first, names passing in a blur—colleagues, an ex-classmate from grad school, your old roommate who now lived somewhere with palm trees and said things like “detox weekends."

You paused when the screen stilled on him.

Jungkook.

The last message between you was just hours ago. You tapped it open, heartbeat hitching like it always did when you saw his name.

Jungkook [10:03 PM]:

"I can come pick you up."

You had replied right before you clocked out. The university halls had been emptying, and his voice had played in your head, low and patient in a way he rarely was with anyone else. But you had remembered his mother’s voice too—her mentioning something about an urgent meeting, his father stressed, something about a time-sensitive deal.

So you had told him no.

You [10:04 PM]:

"I heard mom talking about some big deal tonight. Focus on that. I’ll be fine, I promise."

Jungkook [10:05 PM]:

"I want to focus on you, angel."

You’d stared at that one a little longer. Your reply had come thorough.

You [10:06 PM]:

"I’ll be okay. Just heading out now. I’ll text you when I reach."

Jungkook [10:06 PM]:

"Send me your location anyway, yeah?"

And you had. You remember the map loading. The little pin that showed you halfway between the library steps and the bus stop, your tired feet dragging. You had gotten home. You meant to message him.

You just… hadn’t.

And now you thumbed over his contact again, chewing the inside of your cheek.

Would it be selfish? What if he hadn’t wrapped up work yet? What if that deal was still unfolding across tense boardrooms and cigar-stale air, with his father pacing like a panther? You didn’t want to pull him away from it just because you couldn’t tame a faucet. You should figure this out alone. You could figure this out alone.

Your phone buzzed before you made a decision.

A message. From him.

Jungkook [11:40 PM]:

"Tell me you've reached home, angel."

Your stomach twisted. Guilt blooming like mold in the back of your throat. You opened the message and typed quickly.

You [11:41PM]:

"Yes! Sorry. I got in and just crashed a little. Long day. I forgot to text."

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Jungkook [11:43 PM]:

"Live location. Again."

Your fingers hesitated. You frowned. That was odd. He sounded off. Sharper than usual. Not even the quietly protective version of him that surfaced on late walks or busy subway platforms. This was tight. Worried. Paranoid? You don’t wanna argue with that.

You tapped the map again, sent your updated location.

Your phone lit up again the second after, not even giving you the chance to type out and ask if he's good with his hands? (He is.)

Jungkook [11:43 PM]:

"I'm coming over."

You stared at the message. Read it twice. It was… certain. No question mark. No soft preface like he usually gave. Not like, “Should we stop by that bookstore again?” or “Feel like something sweet tonight?” No, nothing of that sort. He sounded definite.

You [11:45 PM]:

"Wait, now? Why? Is everything okay?"

Jungkook [11:46 PM]:

"It will be after I see you."

You sat back against the armrest, stunned silent for a second. And then, unexpectedly, your chest loosened. Not all the way. Not enough to erase the mess in your kitchen or dry your clothes or make you feel less like a walking soggy dishrag. But enough to let the weight shift, to let something else settle in.

You didn’t have to ask.

He was just coming.

You didn’t even get the chance to ask.

There was something wild and lovely in that. And you had no reason to say no.

If anything, your knees were starting to ache and the towels weren’t doing much and if one more cabinet decided to leak, you might genuinely lose it.

You padded back into the kitchen with an exasperated sigh, hair tied up in a lopsided bun, wet socks thrown in the laundry basket and sleeves shoved past your elbows. The faucet was still dripping—not a full-on spray anymore, but enough that you had to keep a rag pressed under it while kneeling on a folded towel, praying the water wouldn't reach the hallway. The bucket you’d shoved under the sink was nearly full now.

“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wrench tighter. “Just cooperate for once, you stupid little—” The knock came—two sharp raps, low and firm. The kind that didn’t ask for permission, just announced itself.

You startled, bumping your shoulder into the edge of the cabinet with a muffled curse. You stood up too fast, nearly slipping on the wet tile again as you shuffled your way toward the door, leaving a trail of soggy towel behind you like the saddest version of Hansel and Gretel.

When you opened the door, the hallway light spilled over the man in front of you—and for a moment, all you could do was stare.

Jungkook looked… wrong. Not bad. Just undone.

His hair was mussed, not in that calculated, magazine-cover way but like he'd dragged a hand through it too many times. His under shirt that complimented his navy blue suit jacket real nice was half-buttoned, slightly crooked, and the faint glint of moisture on his collarbone made you think he might’ve walked part of the way in the rain without noticing. Or maybe he’d driven with the windows down. You didn’t know.

But it was his face that startled you most.

There were creases that hadn’t been there earlier. Between his brows, along the line of his jaw—like worry had clawed through the muscle. His lips were pressed into a firm line, but his eyes—God, his eyes—landed on you like an earthquake landing on calm soil.

You opened your mouth to speak, maybe to ask what was wrong, but he beat you to it.

“Jesus, y/n.” He crossed the space in two strides and hauled you into him.His arms came around you, sudden and firm and full.

He pulled you to his chest like he needed to feel you breathe. You didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. Your cheek bumped against his chest and a sound of confusion spilled out of you, the worn material of his shirt warm under your skin, and his breath stuttered above you. You wondered if he hadn’t been breathing right. You wondered why.

Your forehead barely brushed his collarbone. He smelled like wind and smoke and his usual cologne, but the sharp edge of it was dulled by warmth. You didn’t even know what to say at first. Your hands fumbled before curling into the fabric of his coat. Your heart beat a little faster. “Jungkook…are you okay?” you managed, a little breathless, a little confused.

He didn’t answer immediately.

You felt it more than heard it—His chest rose again. Slowly this time. Not panicked. Just… relief. You felt the faint tremor of it, the way he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long. His hand at your back tightened, his other curled lightly around your shoulder, fingers flexing once, like he was still checking you were really there.

"You gave me a fucking scare." He rasped against your temple, low and rough like tension left him one muscle group at a time.

Your brows pulled together, breath catching. "What?"

"Your location glitched." His hand curved around the back of your head, his voice dropping to your ear. “Said you were halfway to some fucking bridge, then blinked out. You didn’t text, you didn’t call—” He closed his eyes for a second.

You blinked, contrition and some sort of realization crashing into your chest like a tidal wave.

His grip tightened as if remembering it. "I think I broke half the traffic laws in this city trying to get to you." he muttered, jaw clenching as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Red lights. Lanes. Might’ve clipped a side mirror. I don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Oh my god,” Your voice went small. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I thought I sent it properly. I didn’t mean—”

He looked down at you then, brows still furrowed, frustration still etched into his face, but it was laced with something softer. Quiet worry. A tension he couldn’t seem to shake off even now, not when you were in his arms and clearly fine.

“I thought something happened to you,” he said, quieter now.

You couldn’t hold his gaze for too long. The penance burned too hot. You ducked your head, pressing your face into his shoulder, cheeks going warm. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“You should be.” he muttered, but one of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head. It took you a second too long to realize your fingers were still curled in his coat in an embarrassing grip.

Inevitably, you did pull back—just enough to catch your breath, to speak properly.

But his eyes didn’t leave you. They tracked you, unwavering.

And then they dropped.

His brows furrowed again, more subtly this time, like he was recalibrating. His eyes skimmed your form with a confusion you couldn’t quite place, until he paused halfway down, raising a lone brow.

You followed his line of sight and—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Your dress shirt had soaked through somewhere along the way. You’d been too distracted, too frantic, to notice that the thin cotton now bore a dozen little damp spots where stray faucet spray had kissed your chest and abdomen. The fabric clung in places it shouldn't, half translucent under the low light, revealing the outline of the camisole underneath, and your cheeks went hot in record time.

Your eyes widened. You stepped back fast. “Shit—oh, god, the kitchen—” you breathed, half to yourself.You turned abruptly, feet splashing against the wet tile again, panic reigniting as the sound of dripping water resumed its dominance in your ears.

Jungkook followed. Of course he did. His long strides eating up the hallway carpet before he stopped at the kitchen threshold.

You, for lack of a better word, flung yourself inside and the sight that greeted you was even worse than before. The bucket was near overflowing. Towels had started slipping from their makeshift barricade. Water gleamed beneath the fridge now, threatening to reach the living room carpet. You cursed again, louder this time, and bent to wrestle the mop back into place even though it had already given up.

There was a beat of silence behind you.

Then Jungkook’s voice, dry and unimpressed: “What the hell happened in here?”

You turned your head, heat rushing to your face, your soggy sleeves dragging like guilty flags. "I didn’t mean for it to get this bad. The faucet handle cracked while I was making tea, and then it wouldn’t stop leaking. I tried to turn it off underneath, but I think the valve’s jammed or something, and then I slipped, and the towels weren’t enough, and—”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face now. Exasperation flashing over his features—but not directed at you, not exactly. More at the mess itself, at the helplessness it had clearly stirred in you.. "Baby."

"I know I didn't do great." You wipe your hands on your thighs uselessly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then—with that bone-deep steadiness you had come to expect from him—Jungkook moved. Sliding off his suit jacket with one smooth pull, the fabric whispering against itself as he tossed it over the back of a dining chair, careless in a way he never was in public.. His undershirt clung to his shoulders in a way that made your stomach tilt.

Then he undid his watch with practiced fingers, slipping the leather strap open before placing it gently on your counter, far from the puddles.Quiet. Like he had done this a thousand times. Like fixing your mess was just the next item on his list. The silver caught the light, but your eyes didn’t linger there long. They trailed upward. To his arms.

The moment he reached for the knot of his tie, you forgot how to breathe properly. He reached up, his fingers working the knot loose with one practiced twist, tugging the fabric from his collar slowly. His throat flexed as he did, and you felt something shift in your stomach. The black silk slipped from his collar like a sigh, and your eyes followed it. His sleeves rolled up.

That’s when the stuck breath made a movement. Stuttered in your throat.

Ink emerged from beneath the fabric-those familiar lines, curves, the dark threads of his tattoos curling up his forearms like they had grown there, like they belonged. They caught the light and your memory all at once. Your mouth went a little dry.

His voice low, almost careless, as he crouched beside the sink. “Where’s the valve?”

You blinked. “Um. Under—under the cabinet.”

The same hands that had once made a mess of you in entirely different ways, in stolen moments, now curled around a rusty wrench.

"You need to do nothing." He gave you a brief look over his shoulder. “I’ve got it.” I've got you.

You stared. Blankly. Still half-dripping, still overwhelmed. "Do you… actually know how to fix that?”

A small, sardonic huff left him, like he found your surprise kind of insulting. He looked at the wrench—smaller than his palm, honestly—and turned it in his hand before answering.

“One of our safehouses in Daegu had pipes older than me,” he said, voice low, casual. “No plumber, no hot water. I figured it out. Got pretty good at it too. Don’t act so surprised.”

"I'm not. I know you've been good with your hands." You're not being cheeky when you say this, and are definitely not filing away the movement of his hand as he runs a practiced palm along the copper pipe.

Jungkook glanced up then. His eyes looking at you again—his gaze heavier this time, traveling down your soaked sleeves to the water-darkened hem of your shirt that clinged stubbornly to the side of you, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You sound like you’re remembering something, angel."

You turned quickly, heat crawling up your neck, your voice tumbling out too fast. “I’ll go change.”

Jungkook chuckled behind you. Low, deep, satisfied. Your silhouette vanishing behind a bedroom door with the softest click. He didn’t realize he was still listening for your footsteps until the silence settled in, heavy and warm and whole.

It was the first time in a long while that he’d been in your home like this. Not standing stiffly by the entryway waiting so he could steal you away.Not brushing fingertips against yours in a room half-full of people who didn’t know better. But here.

He let his eyes wander.

The place smelled like you. Something sweet, something quiet. A little bit like cinnamon and tea leaves and the faintest trace of your shampoo, clinging to the walls like memory.

His gaze drifted as he adjusted the position of the pipe, letting it drain into the bucket beneath. He didn’t rush. He didn’t want to. The metal pipe groaned as he tested the pressure, the familiar resistance grounding him. It was easy, this—manual labor. Straightforward. You tighten what’s loose. Replace what’s worn out. Drain what’s overflowing.

If only the rest of life were that obedient.

The photo frames caught his eye next.

They were perched on the shelf beside the kitchen door, slightly crooked from where you’d bumped them a hundred times, probably too tired to fix them. His knees ached slightly as he shifted for a better look.

The first was a wedding photo. Your wedding photo with his brother kissing your cheek. You were by his side, the most beautiful, your eyes squeezed shut, mid-laugh, a smear of cake icing on your chin.

Somehow, instead of jealousy, instead of resentment or guilt or the thousand other things he’d prepared himself to feel, what rose in him now was something fonder.

Before he could read more of the notes sticked to the fridge, you walked in, in softer clothes—an old cotton shirt that had seen too many laundry days and a pair of worn drawstring sweats that swallowed your ankles. Your hair was still damp at the ends from where the faucet had christened you earlier, but your skin was warm, your breath easier.

Your hands rubbed at your arms as if still chasing the chill away, but your eyes found him instantly. Crouched in front of the sink, sleeves rolled up, inked arms flexed in motion as he twisted the wrench one last time.

You watched the slow ripple of muscles beneath his skin, the way his jaw ticked in concentration, how his thumb brushed the valve like it mattered—like the faucet had personally wronged you and he was going to make it pay for its sins. There was something magnetic about the way he worked—focused, assured, steady like he belonged exactly here, doing exactly this.

“Is it… better?” you asked, voice soft, tentative, almost afraid to interrupt.

He didn’t turn, but you saw his shoulders relax at the sound of you. “Better than it was,” he murmured, tightening the last screw with a grunt. “Still leaking a little. I’m gonna seal the joint. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll hold.”

You nodded. And then you stepped forward without thinking.

“I can hold the light,” you offered. “Or the bucket?”

He blinked once. “You know I've got—”

Your shirt pooled at your wrists when you pushed up the sleeves. "I know."

He glanced up then, eyes catching on your legs first—his eyes always had a way of pausing before they moved—and then up to your face. A slow blink. A flicker of something unreadable behind his gaze. But it softened when you sank to your knees beside him, close enough for your thighs to brush.

He passed you the flashlight without a word, and you angled it as best you could while he unscrewed the makeshift clamp he’d used. Your shoulders brushed. His hand bumped your knee. You didn’t move.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his gaze shift again—upward, this time. Toward the shelf by the kitchen door.

He was looking at the oldest photo. The one most guests skimmed over. Minho in the middle with his mouth wide open in laughter, arms slung around Jungkook and her both, pulling them close like they were parts of himself. Jungkook’s hair had been longer then, messier.

That photo had never made sense to others. Why he was in it. Why the three of you looked so stitched together. But you’d always known. Jungkook had been there. Not just in the periphery of your memories, but rooted in them. Always just close enough to feel like something vital.

He turned his head then, catching your gaze, that made the tips of his ears turn pink and averted his eyes back to the situation in his hands so quick, you assumed it was to hide the color before it got any more prominent. You suppressed a giggle. Cute.

You looked back at the photo, softer now. “That was the summer he dared us to eat all the ice cream in one sitting.”

Jungkook’s lips twitched. “You threw up. On my shoes.”

You grinned, head tipping back just a little. “That does sound like me.”

“Got it,” he said suddenly, wrench twisting one final time, the valve clicking into place. The pipe stilled. No more dripping.

Relieved and stupidly proud, you said. "You actually did it."

“I said I would." He confirmed.

"Just had to find the right valve. It’s mostly just pressure build-up now.”

You didn’t really understand what that meant, but you nodded anyway, watching his hands as they moved, shoulders finally sagging with something like satisfaction as he leaned back against the cabinet door and sank onto the kitchen floor fully, legs stretching out across the wet tile without care. His hands—damp, calloused, smudged faintly with sealant—fell to his thighs, fingers flexing once, then going still.

He looked… tired. In that content, bone-deep sort of way that follows after fixing something with your own hands. There was a smear of dust on his cheek, his shirt clinging to his frame in places from residual dampness. But his jaw was loose now, his brow no longer furrowed, and the sharp concern in his eyes had faded into something tamer.

You watched him for a beat longer than necessary. "I could make you coffee." You offered, gently.

His head turned slowly to look at you, blinking like he hadn’t heard right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, already rising to your feet and brushing off the knees of your pants. Pretending it's not a excuse to have him longer.

for a second, he just processed, like the idea hadn’t occurred to him. And then his lips curved into a lopsided smile. “Okay. Yeah, I’d like that.” Pretending he's agreeing not because that he'd get to stay around you more.

You moved through the space like you’d done a thousand times before—reaching for the coffee tin from the cabinet, setting the kettle to boil again (this time with crossed fingers), and pulling two mismatched mugs from the drying rack.

You poured the dark roast into one mug and the steeped chamomile into your own, then carried both back toward the floor where he still sat, one knee bent, arm slung casually over it, eyes trailing the edge of your bookshelf like he was trying to memorize every title. He looked so at home, it hurt a little.

You sank down beside him, passing him the coffee, fingers brushing, fleeting but lingering just long enough. He murmured a quiet "thanks, baby" and took a sip, eyes falling shut for half a second.

Your though dipped to his wrist.

The thread. Still there.Faded, frayed, stretched just a little thinner than it once was; all crooked knots and uneven loops, a charm shaped like a crooked star dangling lopsided from the string.That same dumb knot you tied when you were kids, tangled so tight neither of you could undo it without scissors.

Your nose scrunched. “It’s going to fall off if you keep pretending it’s not ugly.”

Jungkook glanced down like he didn’t even know it was there. Like it had become part of him. He flexed his wrist, the fabric barely clinging to the bend. Then he said, almost immediately. "It's not ugly."

You gave him a look. Is it?

Jungkook took a slow sip of his coffee. “A little angel once told me to never take it off.”

You rolled your eyes. “That angel was, like, ten.”

He leaned back against the cabinet again, looking at you sidelong. “She knew what she was talking about.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just looked—really looked—and saw every year layered across his face. The boy, the teenager, the man. The moments between. And how maybe you weren’t so different from him.

His eyes slid toward you again, a subtle flick of attention like the tug of a thread. “What’re you drinking?” he asked, nose twitching, playful.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

He nodded at your mug, brows pinched slightly in thought. “That’s not coffee. I smelled it when you handed it over. Doesn't seem like mint, either."

You raised a brow. “What, are you some kind of tea sommelier now?”

"Just curious, angel. Smells like flowers."

You opened your mouth to respond. You really did. The words were halfway to your tongue—about how it was a new chamomile blend, how your mother sent it to you from some little organic store that also sold hand-knitted socks and lavender bath salts—but before you could speak, Jungkook leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even planned, you were sure. His hand didn’t even touch you. He didn’t brace your face or cradle your jaw like he had in other moments-those aching, desperate ones.

Your breath caught-stolen in the way it always had been with him. His mouth brushed yours-warm, careful, lips parted just enough. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your hand hovered somewhere between your mug and your lap, suspended like your pulse.

His mouth was doing all the grab and push.

He coaxed yours open, suckled at your bottom lip like he was trying to draw the flavor from it. Tenderly sucking at your bottom lip before he bit it, just barely, like he couldn’t help himself.

A sound escaped you, half-breath, half-surprise.

He pulled back just a fraction. And when your eyes fluttered open, he was already looking at you with that maddening calmness of his, like he hadn’t just unmade you with his mouth.

“Chamomile,” he said, deadpan.

"W-What?"

He didn’t look even the slightest bit ashamed while licking the taste from his lips. "With a little honey. Suits you."

You scramed for coherence. “You're ridiculous.”

“And you’re flushed.” He smiled into his mug. "So pretty when you're flushed, angel."

You scoffed into your own mug, taking a long sip of tea you no longer needed to explain.

Fridays are forever changed. Perhaps, they are now for laconically returns and falling over people who never stop feeling like native land.

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hajihiko · 5 days ago

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Aren't you tired of being nice, don't you just wanna go apeshit: a ramble about the despair gimmick

In short- in my mind & my world, despair is basically just giving up on your/society's principles and deliberately becoming the worst version of yourself. It's kind of a rejection of society and expectations to a catastrophic degree- I am tired of being nice and I am going to go apeshit (I'm sick of trying to keep everything together, I'm doing a 180 and burning it all to the ground). Who hasn't fantasized a little bit about giving up the long fight for good and doing all the things you know are bad?

In long:

I do think the whole despair and hope, specifically, are moreso gimmicks to have easily recognisable and iconic words in your game rather than something you can actually summarise. I mean, the concepts are real, and the feelings are as real as any feeling is. But the spiral-eyes and super-saiyan mode are obviously moreso to make it dynamic and On Brand, and it's simply more fun that way. As a visual artist this is great for me!

But like, the actual despair thing to me is a more familiar feeling that a lot of people might recognize; a kind of sickness, not illness, but being sick of the world you were born into. Especially these gifted kids with their whole future already defined, whether they like it or not. If your world is rigid and unyielding, you might be sorely tempted to take a sledgehammer and just wreck it.

Akane example: her life was really rough, and her only way out was sports and the privileges being good at them brings. If she doesn't keep up, she just might end back in poverty, and at least in gymnastics there are less people abusing her. But she still needs to practice, mind her diet, wear the right clothes, socialize, compete, go to school, worry about her family back home, etc. Eventually she throws it all away, says FUCK IT and lets herself do whatever she wants, even ruins her body so there is a very slim chance she can even make a comeback- no expectations, nothing to live up to. Then, she can finally stop trying so hard to be good. It's easier to lay down and deteriorate, and after so long pushing yourself to make it, there's probably a kind of delerious joy to finally just. Give up, and stop trying. Absolving yourself of all responsibility for your life and others', whatever happens from here on out just doesn't matter.

Imagine your life is a castle of blocks (you know, the kind kids play with).

When you're little, everything is impressive. You made one block stand up, wow! Good job! Keep going, here's a block coloured improvement, here's one coloured discipline.

You should have a block coloured father figure, but instead you're handed violence. That one is misshapen and ugly and makes your whole construct unstable and much more difficult to work with in the future, but you're too young to know the difference. Once you're old enough to know, it's too late- you already built so much on that foundation.

As you go on, and make a bigger castle, not only does the building get harder, but people expect more, and it gets more and more imperative that you keep going and do not fuck up. Especially when you're a gifted kid that's supposed to be the very best at that one thing you do - it's exhausting!! Every time the castle so much as rattles, you're terrified it's all gonna come down, and you just start hating this stupid castle.

Then someone shows up and says, hey. You can just knock this whole thing down, yknow? If you do, people will stop hounding you about it, and if you do it with a big tantrum and a bang, they won't even expect you to try again. You can just rest.

And god, doesn't that sound good.

She hands you a baseball bat and you delightfully start smashing your castle to bits, and get splinters and blisters and tire yourself out with it. Once you're done, maybe you even start smashing other people's blocks. Maybe you even think you're helping them. It's just stupid blocks and you're so over treating them seriously.

(It so happens that she is making her own empire out of the wood chips of your life, but you don't see that. Or you don't care, or you're just happy to give something back to her.)

But of course it's not actually a castle of blocks. It's your life, and you don't get to switch out broken blocks for new ones and you can't un-smash them.

Kind of like waking up from a bender, a fun wild crazy time while it lasted, but now you feel sick and gross and hurt and you'd like to go back to the comforts you had, but... too late.

You get put into a rehab coma. Everything is a mess, everything hurts, and you don't really want to live in a pile of wood chips after all. You don't need to make a castle, you can make whatever you want, actually. But it's gonna be pretty hard.

A guy hands you band-aids and some glue and says, better get to work.

And you get to work.

#Talky talky #Ive been writing into this on and off for so long lol #Just some thinks n thoughts #I am hovering my own baseball bat over my own house of blocks lmao as always i am Projecting #Fuyuhiko: im sick of trying to do good while running a criminal empire. Im gonna be the bad guy everyone assumes #Sonia: I'm tired of putting everyone in my country before myself. I'm going to boost myself up at their expense #Etc etc etc #There's like. A vindictive little man in your brain that kind of wants to just be let loose and tear into things #And you gotta tell it nooooo I understand how you feel but we can't do that. Let's microdose on it by punching a pillow

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justarkive · 2 months ago

Text

TABLE 3 | JJK ch10

“For good service, and cute waitresses.”

pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

warnings: SMUT, super emotion heavy chapter, Jungkook is selfish as hell. oc starts getting sus, super domestic shit, field date, profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idol! , mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity, alc consumption, jk cant stop thinking of his enlistment :((

smut warnings: THEY FINALLY FUCK!! protected sex, dry humping, nipple play, deepthroating, oral f + m receiving, missionary, doggy, reverse cowgirl but like her back is on his chest??, spanking, clit rubbing, clit spanking, idk guys its kinda nasty. BIG DICK JUNGKOOK DUH, oc cries during sex, its too big </3 oc is slightly tipsy but not enough to cloud her judgement.

wc: long.

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92

a/n: it took me a little while to get this chapter out so i apologise but its here!! they finally fuck. jungkook is honestly a dick for what hes doing atm but they are so so sosisisoss cuteeeee aaaa!! im not the best at writing smut as you can tell from this probably and my other chapters, but enjoy ;) and as always thank you for reading and lmk what u think!

masterlist < prev | next >

You wake up feeling wrecked.

Like, full-on regretting every life decision that led you to staying on the phone with Jeon Jungkook until 5 a.m. Your eyelids feel like they’re weighted blankets on your eyes, your body refuses to cooperate, and your brain is running on fumes.

Still, you blindly reach for your phone, squinting at the screen. There’s a text waiting for you.

Jungkook: good morning:)

Jungkook: don’t even argue. im picking u up at 8 tonight.

You blink. Once. Twice. But the messages stays the exact same.

You: ??

You: good morning

You: Where are we going??

You: jungkooookkk

You: Hello????

Nothing. No reply.

This man is actually impossible.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, already knowing today is going to be a struggle. After a quick omw text to Nari, you somehow get to work. The usual chaos, the usual weird customers, the usual banter with Nari. Nothing out of the ordinary—except for the fact that the hours feel endless.

By the time you finally get home, you’re exhausted, but there’s no time to rest.

Because, of course, Nari is already on your ass.

“Oh my god, why the hell are you moving like a grandma?” she yells, yanking you into the bathroom. “You need to shower, like, now.”

“I just got home—”

“And Jungkook is going to be here in an hour, meaning you have maybe 30 minutes to get ready before the inevitable breakdown over what to wear. Go.”

You grumble but obey, stepping into the shower. The warm water is a blessing, and you end up standing under the spray for way too long, completely losing track of time.

Bad move.

Because when you finally step out, towel wrapped around you, you’re met with Nari’s wild eyes and a frantic, “You have five minutes before Jungkook gets here—”

Cue full-on chaos.

Nari is aggressively blow-drying your hair while you rush through your makeup, both of you talking over each other.

“Why are you taking so long—”

“I lost track of time—”

“You literally always do this—”

“Okay, but you’re not helping—”

The real panic sets in when it’s time to pick an outfit.

“What is he wearing?” you demand, rifling through your closet.

“I don’t know,” Nari replies. “How am i supposed to know?”

You pull out a dress. “This?”

“Too fancy.”

A hoodie. “This?”

“Too casual.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to wear?”

Just as you’re debating throwing on pajamas and giving up entirely, theres a soft knock on the door which you dont particularly notice, too busy rummaging through your closet.

“NO!” Nari practically lunges out of your room for the door, blocking you from going anywhere near it. Opening it unimpressed, seeing Jungkook smug as ever.

“Do not let her know you’re here,” she hisses. “She will lose her shit. Be a gentleman, Jungkook. Wait.”

You frown, shouting from the bedroom. “Who are you talking to?!”

“Um. Myself!”

Suspicious. But you’re too distracted to question it.

Finally, you throw on something casual but cute—jeans and a sweater, safe and simple.

Nari peeks back to where your room is, then finally lets Jungkook in. “Okay, you’re good.”

You turn and leave your room, expecting him to have just arrived—only to find him standing there, looking way too nice. You freeze.

He’s in a button-up.

A fitted one. With nice pants. And his hair is styled in that annoyingly perfect way that makes him look effortlessly cool.

“…Jungkook.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

His brows furrow. “Like what?”

“Like—like we’re going to a five-star restaurant.”

Jungkook blinks. Then shrugs, completely unfazed. “Didn’t know what you’d wear, so I played it safe.”

Panic sets in all over again.

“I need to change—”

“You look beautiful.”

“No, no, no, I can’t be underdressed while you look like that.”

Jungkook sighs. “You’re really gonna—”

“Yes.” You’re already bolting to your room. “Give me two minutes.”

Nari watches the scene unfold like it’s her favorite reality show. As soon as you disappear, she turns to Jungkook, arms crossed.

“By the way. Where are you actually taking her?”

Jungkook rubs the back of his neck. “A field.”

Nari stares. Confused, but trusts him anyway.

“A field.”

“…Yeah.”

“Jungkook, you dressed up this much to take her to a field?”

He shrugs again, completely unbothered. “Didn’t want to give it away. And it’s special, promise.”

Nari presses her fingers to her temples. “You realize she’s about to come out looking way too nice for a field, right?”

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change. “Yeah.”

“…And you’re not gonna warn her?”

“Nope. It’ll be fitting.”

Nari groans, but ultimately just sighs. “Fine. But at least tell her to change out of her heels before you leave, or I’m gonna feel guilty.”

Jungkook smirks. “Deal.”

Two minutes later, you finally emerge, having swapped your casual outfit for something much dressier. Jungkook just smiles, saying nothing.

And as he leads you out the door, you have no idea you’re about to be wildly overdressed for a field.

You give Nari a kiss on the cheek goodbye, her giving you the usual playful warning of not doing anything stupid before you lock the door behind you and let Jungkook lead you to the car.

The warmth of Jungkook’s hand around yours startles you at first. Not because it’s unfamiliar, but because of how effortless it feels. There’s no hesitation in the way he intertwines your fingers with his, no anxious glances over his shoulder like he’s worried about being seen. It’s easy—too easy—and you’re not sure what to make of it. Something’s changed. Something’s made him suddenly not care.

Still, you don’t say anything.

He leads you toward the car, your steps falling in sync with his, and even as he lets go to open the passenger door for you, the absence of his touch lingers. You slip inside, settling into the seat as he rounds the front and slides in beside you.

“Where are we going?” you ask immediately, twisting to face him.

Jungkook merely smirks, hands steady on the wheel as he starts the engine. “Not telling.”

You huff. “Why not?”

“Because,” he hums, shifting gears before pulling out onto the road, “it’s a surprise.”

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “I hate surprises.”

“No, you don’t.” He grins, eyes flickering to yours briefly before returning to the road. “Patience, baby.”

The word slips from his lips so naturally, so effortlessly, that it catches you off guard. Your heart skips, but you force yourself to ignore it, focusing instead on the scenery passing outside the window.

The drive is quiet, but comfortable. Every now and then, you steal a glance at him—the way his hands grip the wheel, the sharp cut of his jawline, the soft curve of his lips as he hums under his breath.

It’s when you’re stopped at a red light that he catches you staring. Again.

His head turns slightly, and your eyes meet, his gaze dark and knowing. The corner of his mouth tugs up in amusement, but he doesn’t say anything—just watches you, lets the moment stretch between you until the light changes and he’s forced to look away.

Your face burns as you quickly avert your gaze, clearing your throat.

You swear you hear him chuckle.

By the time you finally arrive, you’re still mildly flustered. But the confusion quickly overtakes that feeling when you see the sign for the park, the open field stretching ahead.

You blink. “Wait—why are we at a park?”

Jungkook cuts the engine, then turns to you with a soft smile. “Trust me.”

You stare at him for a second longer before sighing. “Fine.”

Again, he reaches for your hand, pulling you along with ease as you step out of the car and onto the grassy path. The air is warm, tinged with the soft scent of wildflowers, and the sky is painted in hues of pink and gold, the sun dipping just below the horizon.

It’s beautiful.

And then you see it.

A blanket spread neatly across the grass, fairy lights strung up in the nearby trees, twinkling just faintly against the evening light. There’s a small picnic set up, a couple of bottles of wine and an array of food that—upon closer inspection—looks like it was ordered from a high-end restaurant.

You turn to Jungkook, raising an eyebrow. “You seriously made me dress up for a field?”

He chuckles, the sound deep and warm. “Would you rather I took you to a fancy restaurant?”

You pause, glancing back at the setup. “No… This is perfect.”

And it is. It’s simple and intimate and feels like something entirely Jungkook—something that’s just for the two of you.

You settle down onto the blanket beside him, letting yourself take it all in. The quiet hum of crickets in the distance, the soft glow of the fairy lights, the way Jungkook sits beside you, one leg bent, the other stretched out, his gaze set on the sky.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, finally, he does.

“The reason I brought you here,” he starts, voice quiet, “is because nobody really knows about this spot.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “It’s where I’ve always gone to calm down. After work, practice, tours—whenever things got too much.”

You turn to look at him, his features bathed in soft orange light.

“And I felt like you belonged in it,” he continues, finally meeting your gaze. “With me.”

Your breath catches.

And just like that, it’s no longer just a field. It’s his safe place. And now, it’s yours too.

The warm hues of the sunset had long faded into deeper shades of indigo, the sky now dotted with the first few stars peeking through the velvety dusk. The fairy lights strung up around the backyard glowed softly, casting a golden shimmer over the remnants of dinner. Plates pushed aside, your wine glass half-full, and the gentle hum of night settled around the two of you like a comforting embrace. The food is long gone, but the night is still young.

Jungkook, who had spent the last few minutes idly running his fingers along the rim of his water bottle, suddenly cleared his throat. “Okay, don’t laugh,” he started, reaching down beside his chair, “but I saw this thing online, and I thought it might be fun.”

You raised a curious brow as he pulled out a canvas, still blank, resting it carefully on the blanket between you. “Painting?” you mused, tilting your head.

“Not just painting,” he corrected, shifting in his place as if suddenly second-guessing himself. “It’s this thing where, like, one person starts a painting, then passes it to their partner, and they add something to it. And you just keep passing it back and forth until it’s finished. Thought it’d be nice if we tried it.”

The idea was so… him. Thoughtful, sentimental. Something that would leave behind a memory you could actually see, touch. Your heart swelled at the simplicity of it, the sweetness.

“You think of everything, don’t you?” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand, squeezing it softly.

His ears pinked, but he tried to brush it off with a casual shrug. “I just—thought it’d be nice. To make something together.”

You traced your fingers over the smooth surface of the canvas, something bubbling inside you that you hadn’t felt in a long time. A nostalgia, a fondness for something you’d once loved.

“I used to paint a lot,” you admitted, eyes flickering up to him. “When I was younger. But life got busy, and I kind of just… stopped.”

Jungkook’s eyes lit up. “No way. You never told me that.”

You smiled, a little wistfully. “I guess I forgot. Or maybe I just didn’t think about it much anymore.”

He hummed, thoughtful. “I get that,” he admitted, glancing down at the canvas. “Sometimes I wonder if—” He hesitated, lips quirking in a wry smile. “If I wasn’t, you know, in one of the biggest bands in the world, maybe I’d dabble in art a little more. I love painting from time to time.”

You laughed softly. “Jungkook, you are an artist. Your art just exists in a different form.”

His gaze flickered to yours, something tender settling in his features. He didn’t say anything, just smiled, that small, knowing smile that always made your chest tighten.

A quiet moment passed between you before he reached for the paintbrush, dipping it into the paint and pressing the first stroke onto the canvas. A soft, curved line.

Then, he turned it toward you.

“Your turn,” he murmured.

The canvas starts out blank with Jungkook’s random green curved line, a fresh slate for the both of you to bring something beautiful to life. You sit cross-legged on the grass, the cool night air brushing against your skin, while Jungkook kneels beside you, sleeves rolled up, eyes alight with quiet amusement. His brush strokes are careful at first, blending soft pastels into delicate swirls. You mirror him, dipping your brush into a gentle shade of yellow, filling in the spaces between his colors, and for a while, it’s peaceful—just the two of you, creating something together.

Until Jungkook, the menace that he is, drags his brush across the page and suddenly there’s a cartoonish face staring back at you. A dumb little smiley face, right in the middle of your work.

You gasp, scandalized. “Jungkook!”

“What?” He grins, clearly unrepentant. “I think it adds character.”

“You just ruined it,” you huff, grabbing your brush and scribbling wildly over his addition, turning the face into an abstract mess of color.

“Oh, we’re doing that now?” He challenges, eyes gleaming, before he swipes his brush across the canvas again, this time completely disregarding any previous attempt at an actual painting. You do the same, jabbing color after color onto the canvas until it’s an explosion of chaos—brilliant, vibrant, utterly nonsensical. You’re both laughing now, breathless with amusement, hands stained with paint.

“Okay, fine,” Jungkook leans back, dramatically sighing. “You can have it.”

“Really?” You brighten, reaching for the canvas.

“You thought you could get away with it so easily?” His tone is teasing, and before you can react, he swipes his paint-covered fingers across your cheek, smearing blue and red onto your skin.

Your jaw drops.

You’re too whipped- more than you’d like to admit- to care that Jungkook has just ruined the full face of makeup you’d rushed through.

“Jungkook.”

He just grins. “What?”

“You’re dead.”

The next few seconds are a blur. You launch at him with your own paint-covered hands, swiping green onto his nose, red across his jawline. He yelps, scrambling up onto his feet, and then you’re chasing each other across the field, laughing so hard your sides ache. Jungkook catches you by the waist at one point, spinning you around, making you shriek before you retaliate by dragging your paint-slicked fingers through his hair.

“Okay, okay, truce!” He gasps out between laughs, both of you collapsing onto the grass, completely out of breath.

The world is quiet now, the night sky stretching above you in endless black, stars twinkling like distant dreams. Jungkook’s hand finds yours in the grass, fingers lacing together with ease. Neither of you say anything for a while—just lying there, hearts still racing, skin covered in smudges of color, the remnants of your laughter still lingering in the air.

And somehow, it’s perfect.

Lying on the grass, still out of breath, you soak in the quiet hum of the world around you. The night air is cool against your sweat-slick skin, but the warmth of Jungkook’s body beside you keeps you from shivering. The only sound between you is the occasional rustling of the grass and the distant chirp of crickets. It’s comfortable—so comfortable that you could almost forget that moments like this don’t last forever.

Jungkook, however, is still stuck in his head.

He shifts slightly beside you, staring up at the sky, his fingers absentmindedly playing with a loose thread on his sleeve. You feel it before he even speaks—the way his energy shifts, his body tensing ever so slightly as if he’s about to break the silence.

And then he does.

“Hey…”

His voice is quiet, thoughtful. You turn your head, looking at him, waiting for whatever is on his mind. He hesitates, lips parting just enough, but no words come out at first. There’s something there—something heavy, weighing down his chest.

You don’t rush him. You just wait.

Jungkook swallows, gripping at the fabric of his hoodie, his heartbeat thrumming against his ribs. Tell her. Namjoon’s voice echoes in his mind. You have to tell her.

But he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to break this. Doesn’t want to watch the light dim in your eyes. Doesn’t want to see the shift in your body language when you realize he’s leaving. Not yet. Not when he still has this—still has you.

So instead, he blurts out, “You should come to my tour next week.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“My show. You should come.” He turns his head to look at you now, his eyes searching yours, like he’s hoping you won’t catch onto whatever he was originally going to say. “You’d like it. You’d get to see me perform properly, you know, instead of just messing around.” He flashes you a smile, playful, teasing, but there’s a flicker of something deeper beneath it.

Your lips curve up. “You mean instead of hearing you hum while you burn eggs on my stove?”

“Exactly,” he breathes out, relieved that you’re going along with it. “Totally different experience.”

You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Well… yeah, of course, I’ll come.”

Something in Jungkook’s chest tightens. You don’t hesitate—not even for a second. He doesn’t know why, but that makes it worse.

“Good,” he murmurs, looking back up at the sky. His heart is still racing, but not from the run earlier.

He knows he’s being selfish.

But he can’t bring himself to say it. Not tonight. Not yet.

The walk back to his car is slower than it needs to be. Neither of you say it out loud, but you’re both dragging out the moment, reluctant for the night to end. The streets are quieter now, the city winding down, but the tension between you is anything but.

Jungkook’s hand brushes against yours for the third time, but he doesn’t take it. You don’t know if you’re disappointed or relieved.

When you finally reach his car, he hesitates before unlocking it, turning to face you instead. His eyes roam over your face, like he’s trying to memorize the night through you.

“You have work tomorrow?” he asks, voice softer now.

You shake your head. “No.”

He exhales, like that was the answer he was hoping for. “Do you wanna come to my place?”

The words settle between you, heavy with meaning. His fingers drum lightly against his car door as he watches for your reaction. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just quiet hope.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, but your lips part before your brain catches up. “Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His lips twitch into a small smile, and he unlocks the car. The drive to his apartment is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. The air is thick with unspoken words, anticipation weaving through every glance he steals in your direction.

When he pulls up to his building and kills the engine, he turns to look at you properly. “We don’t have to if—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, already reaching for the door handle.

His brows lift in surprise before he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he follows you out. You don’t know what’s going to happen next, but as you step into the elevator beside him, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, you know one thing for sure—tonight isn’t over yet.

You step into Jungkook’s apartment, the soft creak of the door marking the start of another quiet evening together. The place is… neat. Too neat. There are no plushies, no bright colors, just the quiet calm of minimalism. A stark contrast to your pastel-yellow chaos at home.

Jungkook is still holding the canvas you brought in from the field, walking in front of you. Your feet are sore—aching from running around the field, being on your feet for hours. You don’t say anything, though. There’s no need to complain. But Jungkook notices immediately, like he always does, his sharp eyes catching every detail, even the smallest of ones. You feel his gaze on you, and when you look up, he’s already sitting down next to you on the couch, inspecting your feet.

“Let me help,” he murmurs, gently tugging your feet onto his lap.

You blink in surprise. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gently removes your sneakers, revealing blisters that have formed at the top of your heels. The sight makes him frown, and you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed, even though it’s nothing new to you.

“They’re nothing,” you protest, but he’s already examining your feet, looking concerned.

“Don’t act tough. This looks like it hurts,” he says softly, his voice gentle but serious. He disappears into his bathroom for a moment, coming back with a small tube of ointment.

You tilt your head in confusion. “I’m fine, Jungkook. Really.”

But he doesn’t listen. He’s determined. He squeezes some ointment onto his finger and carefully starts rubbing it on your blisters. His touch is soft, careful, like he’s trying to heal more than just your feet. And there’s something so intimate about the way he’s doing it—like this simple act of care is his way of showing affection.

The quiet in the room feels warmer now, as he focuses on tending to your blisters, his brow furrowed in concentration. You lean back against the couch, feeling the warmth of his hands and the soft hum of the apartment. It’s almost… domestic. The sound of the soft swish of ointment being applied, the quiet hum of his voice as he checks if you’re okay.

“You’re stubborn,” he murmurs, focusing on each blister with an intensity you didn’t expect from such a simple task. “Let me take care of you.” His voice is low, almost soft. It’s the kind of tone that makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters in that moment.

You can’t help but smile, just a little. “I get these all the time at work,” you say, trying to brush it off. But it’s clear from the way he’s treating you that it’s not just about the blisters. It’s about something deeper—something you can’t quite explain. But he knows what it is.

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of your ankle. “You don’t take care of yourself enough.”

You chuckle lightly, half-drunk from the wine earlier. “What do you mean? I’m fine. You’re acting like I’m falling apart.”

Jungkook’s lips twitch into a smile, but he says nothing. Instead, he finishes rubbing in the ointment, his eyes still soft as they meet yours. “You should let me take care of you more,” he adds, his words careful but intentional.

There’s a brief moment of silence, and you finally pull your feet back from his lap, sitting up. You glance around his apartment again, the stark, clean surfaces, the minimalist furniture that looks like it could belong to anyone but him. It’s… boring. Everything looks so empty. So… plain.

You smirk, teasing him. “This place is so boring, Jungkook. You need some color. And, like, a few toys… maybe a stuffed animal or two.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “You think I need stuffed animals?”

You nod. “A hundred percent. Your apartment is practically a morgue without them.”

Jungkook chuckles, but there’s a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. He runs a hand through his hair, looking a little flustered. “What do you mean? It’s—”

“You need some of my energy in here,” you continue, tipsy confidence taking over. You look around the room again and immediately start pointing out places where you’d put everything. “That shelf would be perfect for a few extra plushies, maybe a little neon light over there,” you gesture towards the corner of the room. “The couch could use a yellow throw. Maybe… a pillow? Or ten?”

Jungkook laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. “Maybe you should just do it, then,” he says. You can see the shy glint in his eyes, as if the idea is both absurd and exactly what he needs.

And you’re already nodding, a little too tipsy to be subtle. “I will,” you say with a grin, “It’s all part of my master plan. You’ll love it.”

The alcohol buzz makes you bold, and you’re already imagining what his place would look like, completely transformed into something warmer. More you. Maybe a little chaotic, but at least it would have personality.

Jungkook watches you, still a little flustered but clearly enjoying the way you’re taking charge. You feel a sudden warmth in your chest as you realize that maybe… maybe it’s just the beginning. This apartment. This moment. The way he’s looking at you.

Maybe you’re already home.

You’re curled up on the couch again with Jungkook, the TV playing something in the background, though neither of you are really paying attention. You’re lost in your own thoughts, flicking through your phone, when suddenly Jungkook shifts beside you.

“About these plushies,” he says, voice a little too casual, like he’s trying to hide the excitement. He disappears into his room for a second, and when he comes back, he’s holding something big, something fluffy.

Your eyes widen in disbelief. “Wait, no way…” you murmur, eyes fixed on the plushie he’s holding. It’s huge, like, absurdly huge for something meant to be hugged, and when you finally realize what it is, you burst out laughing.

“Seriously? How have you not had this on display?” you say, reaching out to touch it. “This is adorable.”

He grins sheepishly. “I’ve had it for years. Won it at an arcade, I don’t know, just never thought it was something I should show to someone.”

It’s a Hello Kitty plushie, and it’s wearing a purple onesie. Not just any onesie, though – it’s soft purple with a rainbow fade, almost like cotton candy. The plushie’s face is as sweet as ever, but the oversized onesie adds this adorable charm to it. Jungkook’s expression as you ogle it is almost funny in how genuinely embarrassed he looks, though you can tell there’s a soft, endearing pride hiding behind it.

You’re trying not to laugh too loudly, but it’s hard when you’re holding it in your arms like it’s the greatest thing ever. “Jungkook, this is too cute, I have something exactly like this from when i was young” you say, squeezing it to your chest. “How have you not shown this to me before? This is, like, peak childhood nostalgia.”

Before you know it, you’re tugging at the plushie, not letting go. “No, this is mine now,” you tease, pulling it away from him. Jungkook grins, and the next thing you know, you’re both in a tug-of-war, both unwilling to admit that you secretly want to keep the thing for yourself.

The fight only lasts a few seconds, though, and you find yourself tumbling into his lap (On accident… obviously.) the plushie now caught between you both. You’re laughing, but it’s a different kind of laugh – one that feels deeper, more genuine, like you’re both letting go of everything and just enjoying the moment.

For a second, you stop pulling at the plushie, both of you just breathing and looking at each other.

Jungkook’s hand is on your waist, his touch warm and steady. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and the energy between you two shifts.

The playful moment is still there, but it’s mixed with something else now—something more intimate, something that’s been building between you two for a while now. You can feel the tension rising as his hand brushes against your skin, and his breath becomes heavier. You’re so close now, you can feel his heartbeat in his chest as your body presses against his.

You both know what’s about to happen, but for a moment, neither of you move. It’s a moment suspended in time, the world outside of the two of you disappearing.

That’s when you feel it. You feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against you. Jungkook’s hands immediately gripping your waist harder, stronger. This time- he’s not scared, he’s not hesitating. As if he’s been waiting for this as much as you have.

He pulls you closer, his smirk mischievous as he ground up into you. You haven’t even got started and you’re already fucking drenched. “Feel that?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Feel how much I want you?”

You moan softly, body arching into his, your hands tangling in his hair. “Shut up, kiss me,” you demand, pulling his lips to yours.

The kiss was hungry, carnal, nothing at all like the previous pecks or quick kisses you’ve exchanged. Your lips finally meet, and he wastes no time. His tongue invades your mouth as his hips move against yours in a rhythm that was both teasing and relentless.

Dry humping jungkook was… electric in a way, you could do it for hours, the friction between your bodies sending waves of heat straight to your pussy. Like seriously. There was something different about doing it with him, like you could probably do this rather than fuck-

A lie. But pretty close to the truth.

You feel your panties growing damp, clinging to you like it’s second skin, and you knew he could feel it too. You will yourself to push away the icky feeling and focus on the pleasure instead.

“You’re so wet,” He murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “You like this?”

You bite your lip, biting back a smile, nodding as he stood up suddenly. Your about to protest until he lifts you so… effortlessly and it has your panties absolutely drenched.

His strength was intoxicating. And you wrap your legs around his dainty, tiny waist, hands gripping his shoulders. He’s kicking the door open, rushing to what you can only guess is his bedroom, and you have no time to even process your surroundings, not like you’re expecting anything different than a bed and some boring white walls, maybe a desk, until his mouth is back on yours.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, his lips brushing your neck as he carries you to the bed. Compared to his particularly rough way of handling you previously, he sets you down gently, just long enough to rip off his shirt, revealing his tatted arms and muscular chest. But after that, his hands are immediately back at your skin. You swear you see them itching to touch your skin while he took off his shirt as if removing his fingers from your warmth electrocuted the poor man-

The soft glow of his lamp casts golden hues across his skin, tracing every ridge and contour like a painter’s careful brushstrokes. And now you really take him in, hands running down the expanse of his chest and his abs. And he lets you.

His tattoos on his arm shift with every slow breath, the inked designs stretching over taut muscle, telling stories in a language only his body knows. Shadows dip between the carved lines of his abs, the definition sharp yet effortless, a testament to years of quiet discipline.

His collarbones catch the light just right, leading your gaze lower, where the steady rise and fall of his chest keeps time with the quiet space between you. He’s beautiful—undeniably so—but it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he holds himself, the quiet confidence in his stance above you, the warmth of his gaze when he catches you staring.

“Like what you see?,” he smirks, his tone low and teasing. Like always.

Without hesitation, you get up to your knees, ignoring him. Jungkook’s clearly taken a back when you start fiddling with his dress pants. Whimpering like a fucking dog. Mentally thanking yourself for drinking some wine cause you probably would faint doing this sober.

You aren’t waiting any longer. The sexual tension between you both has become unbearable recently and if today is another test to your patience…you’re definitely failing.

“Please-“ Your fingers trembling slightly as you unzip his pants, pulling them down to reveal the print in his black calvins.Pawing at his boxers. He helps you a bit, pulling them down and cradling your cheek with the other hand, almost as if he’s keeping you and himself grounded.

His cock springs free, and you shamelessly ogle at it. Thick and throbbing, he’s big. You knew he’d be big. There was always something about Jeon Jungkook that screamed ‘big dick energy’ - Like Nari would say.

A singular vein starts up from the bottom, leading all the way up to his engorged, pink, wet tip. His dick is clean of pubes around the base, but he has one thing that has always had you absolutely weak in the knees. A happy trail. Faintly trailing up just underneath where his abs start, and you genuinely don’t know how you’re still steady on your knees.

You aren’t really. His mattress is far too soft to kneel comfortably, but you don’t really care about it.

You waste no time when Jungkook’s patience has ran thin and he’s suddenly wrapping his tattooed hand around the base of his cock, filling the room with nasty, lewd, wet noises as he strokes it, and before you know it, he’s swinging it across your cheek with a soft smack before finally you wrap your needy lips around his head.

You tease him first, yet you don’t know if you’re teasing him or yourself- You tease him with slow, deliberate licks, savoring the slightly salty taste of his precum as his groans fill the space around you. “Fuckk-“ he moans out loud, and you’re taken aback by how vocal he is, yet you dont let it distract you from the real mission at hand… or mouth.

He threads his fingers through your hair, and it feels so fucking intentional and intimate you cant help but break the eye contact. His thrusts at first into your mouth start shallow- as if he’s hesitating. Testing the waters. But once your soft sucking turn into full on gagging around his cock, he’s gripping your hair tighter, guiding you deeper.

You don’t even know why. Usually you aren’t the one for deepthroating, in fact you absolutely detest it. But it’s different when it’s him, and you think you know why.

You moan around him, impossible not to. The vibrations sending him closer over the edge already, but he holds back. “Take it,” he instructs. You look up again, and he looks like he’s in a different world. You aren’t surprised when you see him staring right back at you, and you abide, hollowing your cheeks as much as you possibly can for him as he starts to fuck your throat, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that was both rough and desperate.

The room is full. Full. Of obscene noises. Some you are sure you’ve definetly never heard before in your life. And you didn’t even know you could make them. They’re mixing with his own moans, and for the weirdest reason- your mind slips to the fact he has a dog- Bam infact, who’s probably somewhere waddling around in Jungkook’s apartment waiting to be put to sleep. You completely forgot to meet him. Oh dear. That poor dog…

Anyways.

You pull off with a pop, licking your lips and grinning up at him. He looks down at you, carefully removing the sweaty stray hairs rhat have stuck to your forehead and you can’t help but nuzzle slightly into his hands. You can’t help but think when you look back up that there’s something different about the way he looks at you.

Recently, you’ve gotten used to it. Since the first night you slept over, and Jungkook tasted you as if he was eating dessert for the first time ever. When he woke you up with breakfast. That specific way he looked at you and made you feel so… loved? you couldn’t handle it.

But this time, it’s different. It feels more intense, more intimate. You don’t dwell on it too long, fearing the outcome of it.

Your lips are swollen and shiny when you finally break the silence, it getting far too heavy than what this was- “Your turn,” You tease, breaking the tension, pushing him back onto the couch. You straddle him after ripping off your soiled panties and your sad excuse of a dress, which has now became a bundle of fabric resting above your waist. Thighs brushing against his, your poor little clit is throbbing as you feel his cock pressing against her.

You sit up for a minute, looking around the room and as if Jungkook can read your mind, you’ve noticed that he basically can, he’s reaching over to the nightstand, pulling out a packet of condoms.

You roll it on after ripping it open with deliberate slowness, giving a few languid strokes to his cock, which was now as hard as ever, and it’s shining a deep red in the light of his lamp, before you straddle his meaty thighs again, you’re sure you’ve leaked all over them- but you can’t bring yourself to care anymore.

Your eyes lock on his, and you will yourself not to look away. “Impatient?” he smirks, but you just smile and nod, positioning his cock at your entrance, nudging your folds slightly.

The moment you sink down on him for the first time it’s… euphoric. It feels like it goes on forever, stretching out as long as possible. It’s different to anything you’ve ever felt before, and you’re sure it has nothing to do with the sheer size of his dick- no. It’s because it’s simply him. And you know it. His cock fills you in ways that you could never imagine at home when you felt particularly lonely and needed some quick satisfaction from your fingers.

You look down at him, seeing that this position was probably not the best choice for the first time a dick this size is entering you, a pained expression on your face. Earlier, the slight buzz of wine had you particularly cocky and to be honest- you weren’t expecting Jungkook to be this… big. He notices your discomfort, his hands finding your waist like it’s second nature.

“Slow, don’t rush.” You nod, trying your hardest to settle the ache in your walls, trying your hardest to force your expression to be neutral, but it’s the hardest part now, his base- which is noticeably thicker than the rest of his length.

Frustration slowly builds up in you, your eagerness to please and also your eagerness to chase your own pleasure and release eating you up, but when Jungkook notices- because of course he does- he immediately stops you by tightening his hold on your waist and he holds you there.

“Too big?” He smirks, but his usual cocky remarks do nothing to help your frustration like it usually does, and he notices immediately. The furrow of his concentrated brows softening as you slip off of his dick and sit on his thighs with a huff.

He’s leaning up to cradle your face, kissing the corner of your lips with a sweet peck. Your own embarrassment creeping up, evident of the slight red blush on your neck. “Hey.”

You feel your own tears creeping up and betraying your attempted facade of being well… tough. It’s clear however, Jungkook isn’t convinced, he’s sitting up now. The ache in his cock suddenly not so overwhelming as he watches your tears get the best of you. “God this is so stupid- I don’t know why i’m crying-“

He shushes you. Simply hugs you, and suddenly the need to please- the need to clear your own pleasure- it’s gone as fast as it came. Jungkook’s arms ground you, you’re still slightly buzzing from the wine, and for a bit, you just lay there. The tears have somehow come to a stop, and you just breathe. For once tonight you finally breathe. Bare chest pressed against his, and despite how sexual it all sounds, its everything but.

Its been a while- A few minutes maybe, but the silence has slowly become deafening and the twitching of Jungkooks still-hard cock beneath your stomach has definitely not gone unnoticed. And moreso the ache in your lower abdomen. He notices the shift- how suddenly you brush off your discomfort. And like the gentleman that he’s always been, has none of it.

“Hey- Stop-“ You’re scrambling around in his arms, trying to shift your position. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable okay? Relax, i’m not going anywhere.”

“Please-“ You’re grinding up on his cock now, folds melting around his base like butter- moulding to the shape of it, as if you’re pussy’s never getting a taste of it again, trying to remember it. Above you, Jungkook’s gritting his teeth, his own pleasure being satisfied by you simply grinding on his dick, but the guilt from before eats at him, and he can’t focus.

He’s opening his mouth to say something before you get up, repositioning his cock at your entrance. You’ve had enough. Deciding to get over it. Get over the pain and ride his dick like you fucking need it to breathe oxygen. You don’t care, it’s happening.

Jungkook sees your determination, he is however, hesitant. The second his tip is swallowed by your lips, hes groaning, using every bit of composure to not thrust his whole cock into you and fuck you dumb. “Slow.”

It’s simple, his words, but they help. Tremendously. You slowly start sinking down, the easy part being a breeze, until you reach the familiar barrier and stretch of his base. He’s gripping your waist tighter than ever now, and you focus on his nails that dig into your skin as you lean down and capture his lips in a kiss.

Just to distract you.

You moan into his mouth when you finally get past it, smiling on his own lips.

Encouragement, thats all you needed. And despite the pain of the stretch, Jungkook’s own moans that spill into your throat distract you enough to start moving. “You’re doing so good. Im so proud-“

Your walls clench around him, as you gasp, head falling back when you sit up and detach from his lips as he fills you up completely.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, hands gripping your thighs. You finally pick up the pace, the ache from earlier soothing down a bit until its finally gone. And you laugh. You probably look so fucking stupid, but you laugh. Bouncing on his cock, the friction finally sending waves of pleasure through you.

Jungkook’s always been fiddly. Being unable to keep his hands at one task for maybe no longer than five minutes. He decides his hands get bored of gripping your thighs, though they were really there so he kept his composure. Now they grab at your breasts, squeezing them softly, leaning up to lick the little nubs that erupt from between his fingers. And “Ffuck-“ It’s great. It’s fucking great. Because now you’re gaining confidence, his tongue just laps at them the same way he did with your pussy, and you gain speed. Satiating both of your pleasures.

Your plump ass bounces with each movement, soft slaps filling the otherwise quiet room. Jungkook of course, moves on from your tits to grab and squeeze at your ass. Perky breasts freeing from his hold and jiggling as you moved. He watches intently, letting you go at your own pace, and your heart just fucking clenches at it, he cares about you so much. Eyes dark with desire. “Yeah, babe.”

You go at it for a while, a mix of bouncing on his cock and grinding your little clit down on his stomach, before the pace suddenly is doing nothing to stimulate the throbbing in your core and before you know it he pulls out briefly, the loss making you whimper. And he redeems himself cause hes such a good boy. Gently flipping you around, helping you position on your hands and knees, pushing your back down into his sheets, which you also make a mental note of asking him what fabric softener he uses, and smoothing his hands down the expanse of your spine. He rubs the tip of your cock against your folds, fucking his cock there briefly before shoving it back into you in one quick move from behind.

“That’s it,,” he growls, his thrusts deep and relentless.

There’s something different about his movement now. It’s no longer slow. Calculated. It’s rather needy and rough, and you’re moaning obnoxiously, sure the neighbours are probably screaming into their pillows due to all the racket you two have made, but you dont care. Not anymore.

“Jungkook-“ He’s leaning down, hard chest pressed to your back. The proximity makes you blush, and the heat of his body envelopes your own, quickly making you realise how cold his room is.

His lips press against your ears, “Ugh, fuck” Deep, raspy moans travelling down them, and his thrusts dont lose rhythm. Not once.At all. His needy hands grab at whatever he can, your waist, your tits, briefly pulling on your nipples before he’s leaning back up and delivering a sharp smack to your ass. It’s light, though, as if he’s worried if you wont like it.

And you’re quick to show him you very much do.

“Jungkook!” His head is tucked into your neck against, lips lapping up at the sensitive skin there, your manicured fingers grab at his hair, pulling him closer, trying your hardest to balance on one hand, your body being thrown forward with every single thrust.

And of course, he’s teasing you again. Giving you a fat, wet kiss on your cheek before ripping away from your hold on his hair and slowing his thrusts down.

He watches your pussy just swallow up his cock up in awe, slowing down his thrusts. Slow enough to make you scramble around, thrusting your ass back against his hips. And he stops you. Because he likes to torture himself, but he also wants to hold himself back. Cause he knows he’ll regret coming now.

He switches it up after trailing kisses along your back, soothing your whines with them. Gently. His ever so gentle hands pull your little body up and rest your back against the mattress. Cock still tucked inside you. And he realises that moment on, that hes so fucking whipped for you. And it’s dangerous.

Not like he hasn’t been since the start, but still.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, spitting down at your pussy, just because, pulling out again. Chuckles at the whines of protest from you. Slaps the tip of his cock against your pussy until he cant physically handle it and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. You open your mouth, ready to protest until he pushes your back onto the pillows.

“Spread,” he commands, his voice firm but laced with desire. And you obey. Like a “Good fucking girl.” Your breath hitching. Confused when he retracts completely, only to widen your eyes when he’s arching his body down and getting so close to your pussy until-

“Fuck!” His tongue comes out, licking at your folds, lapping at your hole, his fingers join in to rub your clit in slow, torturous circles. It’s nothing different to the first time he ate you out, but theres something different in the way it feels. And you can’t quite pinpoint exactly what it is, but decide you won’t dwell on it further when a particularly harsh suck is delivered to your clit. “Mmmhhgh-“ He’s moaning. Full on fucking moaning into your pussy, and you’re not sure you can handle tonight any longer.

You were close, so close, hips bucking against his mouth as you whimper his name. Grabbing at his locks, frantically tugging. You’re probably hurting his poor scalp, but you don’t care. And Jungkook? He looks like he’s absolutely loving it. Theres some movement on the bed, and surprisingly it’s not from your insistent squirming around, instead, Jungkook is grinding his cock into the duvet.

He goes at it for a bit longer. And for a millionth time tonight, you whine at his audacity to edge you…again! He presses one little kiss to your clit, and it makes the pink on your cheeks turn a darker red.

“Patience,” He pulls away before you can cum. You’re whining once again, at this point it’s all you can fucking do, but he’s quick to shush you. Moving you again with that same gentleness he’s had for half the night.

You’re now sat on his lap, except this time reverse cowgirl style. Now feeling extra confident, you slip his fat cock in your walls, moaning louder than ever tonight. Your close, He is too. You can tell by the way his cock slightly twitches inside of you. “So b-big.”

“Babe, fuck-“ Jungkook manages to get out. You don’t see the tortured expression on his face from how he’s been holding back this entire night, but you can hear it in his voice. And you start bouncing on his cock with a speed that you weren’t even sure was possible.

“Shit! Shit! Shit-“ Your hips are moving up and down with his now, and he can’t even keep up with the immense speed of your thighs clapping down on his. You bend down, grabbing on his knees for support, drooling onto them. You can practically see him smirking behind you ass he grabs at your ass cheeks like they’re fucking stressballs, watching them clap in his hands in absolute awe. A ring of white has accumulated under the condom, and the sight of your other hole just winking at him has him so tempted to just-

“Ah!” His calloused thumb starts rubbing at it, slow at first, but when your pussy clenches around his cock, he rubs at it rampant.

God this is so embarrassing.

You’re so fucking close. And at the worst timing ever, your knees start giving out, but Jungkook notices, and is also chasing his own release he’s been edging against the whole night, and he cant help it when he’s frantically grabbing your waist and pulling you back, your back now meeting his sweaty chest.

“Harder! Harder!” You chant between your gargled moans, he takes over, the speed of how you rode his cock just a few seconds is nothing to how fast he’s just jackhammering up into you now. “Fuck Jungkook!”

Wrapping his tatted arm around you tightly, his other hand is around your breasts, forearm pushing them up. You feel his frantic breaths and moans against the skin of your back, shifting slightly so your heads are next to eachother.

Jungkook genuinely has no fucking idea how he hasn’t cum. Especially when you turn his head to kiss him, even though you’re both practically moaning incoherent sentences that just sound like begs and pleas into eachothers mouths rather than actually kissing him. His arm moves down, rubbing at your little clit in fast circles, ignoring how his hand slips around occasionally cause of how wet you are.

You kiss him, shoving your tongue around his mouth, moaning into it. “Mmm, fuck Kook-“

The nickname slips from your mouth. And it seems to set him off, cause he’s looking at you properly now. Looking so deep into your eyes that you have to shift your gaze elsewhere. And before you know it.

He’s literally fucking drilling into your pussy.

“Say it again.” A spank to your clit.

“Kook!-“ Hands grab at your face again, holding your chin. Way harder compared to the gentle touch hes gotten you used to. Forcing you to look him in the eyes, making your lips pucker up in front of his as he pecks them.

“Cum on my cock like you were fucking born for it-“ He forces your gaze to your pussy, and that’s what does it, cause it finally comes crashing down on you.

“Nggghhgg! FUCK JUNGKOOK-“ He rubs at your clit even faster now, prolonging the orgasm that just rips through your whole body. His thrusts are relentless and he dosent stop, until he’s moving his face back to yours, moaning into your mouth as his cum spills in the condom.

He doesn’t slow down until you beg. Until you swear you see stars. But he keeps his cock tucked into you, practically eating your face at this point with short, little thrusts into your pussy. “Fuck.”

——

You’re lying on the couch in his shirt, the heat in his room finally starting to get far too uncomfortable, leading to Jungkook carrying you to the sofa. Not after cleaning the bed up by himself, insisting you sat awkwardly on his desk and watch. Not after he’d cleaned you up and hugged you obnoxiously tight until you had to tickle him for him to loosen his grip. Not until he calms you down with his lips against your scalp, leg tucked around his waist as if this was a regular thing between you.

And it probably is at this point.

The fabric swallows you up as you relax into the soft cushions. Jungkook’s in his own shirt, and his boxers, which—of course—look way too good on him, as usual. You feel like a kid playing dress-up in his oversized shirt and your own pair of his boxers that you borrowed. Your ruined underwear probably tucked somewhere between the mattress and his unsurprisingly boring headboard. You know it’s ridiculous, but you’re too comfortable to care.

The air is warm from the low hum of the AC, and the quiet around you is peaceful. Maybe too peaceful. It feels a little too… perfect. The kind of perfect that makes you want to take a deep breath, but you’re scared it might slip away if you do.

Jungkook’s lounging next to you, his arm casually draped behind your waist, his eyes half-lidded in that way he gets when he’s content. But you can’t help feeling like this is too much. Too close. Too perfect. Too… romantic. You start fidgeting a bit, your mind beginning to spiral, the weight of everything pressing in on you.

Your hand brushes against his chest, but your breath hitches for a second, and then you start pulling away, barely catching yourself before he notices. You feel stupid, but you can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.

Jungkook, of course, notices anyway. His arm tightens around you, drawing you back in with that magnetic pull of his, but this time you don’t resist.

“Everything okay?” His voice is soft, but there’s that tone underneath—concern and attention.

You avoid his gaze, your fingers picking at the hem of his shirt, like that might somehow make things feel less intimate. “Yeah, just… I dunno. It just feels… like everything’s happening too fast, you know?”

He doesn’t let you pull away. Instead, he leans in a little closer, like he’s trying to read you, then grins that lazy grin of his. “You don’t have to worry about everything. Just be here. With me.”

You sigh, trying to hold onto the lingering unease, but it’s hard when he’s pulling you back so easily. You roll your eyes, trying to joke, “Okay, Mr. Perfect.”

Jungkook chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m not perfect, you know.”

“Yeah, but you’re close enough.”

You feel yourself relax against him again, but the uncertainty still nags at the back of your mind. And, just like that, he gets up with a small grunt, his muscles flexing as he stretches.

“Stand?,” he says suddenly, his tone commanding but playful.

“What?” You blink at him.

He doesn’t let you finish, hoisting you into his arms with a grin. You’re too caught off guard to protest, but the laugh that bubbles up from your throat is a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Jungkook, are you seriously carrying me right now?”

He just shrugs, his grin widening. “Yeah. You’re too cute to just leave on the couch.”

“Please. You’re just showing off,” you mutter, but you can’t help the smile that sneaks its way onto your face. It’s ridiculous, and you’re not sure why he does it, but there’s something so undeniably charming about it.

“I could carry you anywhere.” He winks as if it’s just a fact. “And I will, if you want.”

You roll your eyes, though a soft laugh escapes your lips. He’s impossible.

He carries you into the bathroom and sets you gently on the counter. His hands linger on your hips as he lets you settle, and you don’t even realize you’re already relaxing again until he turns around to grab his toothbrush.

“Hang on, I’ll get something for your makeup, and the paint.” he says, rummaging through the drawer. His eyes light up as he pulls out a tissue and water. “This work?”

You stare at him, trying to keep a straight face. “Water and a tissue?” You can’t even hide the laughter that bubbles up. “Are you seriously offering me that?”

Jungkook looks sheepish, but there’s a spark of humor in his eyes. “What? I tried.”

You roll your eyes again, but it’s soft this time, affectionate. “Seriously, though, you don’t have any makeup wipes, or… I don’t know, a proper remover?”

He freezes, his face contorting slightly as he remembers something. “Wait.” He digs around in the cabinet and finally pulls out a bottle of micellar water. “I forgot I had this. Don’t judge me.”

“Are you serious?” You laugh. “You’ve got a skincare collection, but not makeup remover?”

He shrugs with a grin, still not admitting he’s been slacking on the basics. “I take care of myself. Just didn’t think to get wipes.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm, “Sure, because micellar water is so much better.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls the bottle open and starts using it on a cotton pad. “Fine, laugh it up. But It’ll still make sure your skin’s clean.”

You watch him, the familiarity of the moment bringing warmth to your chest. It’s domestic, sweet. In a way, you don’t even realize you’ve fallen into this routine with him. It’s easy, natural.

“I’m gonna steal your skincare someday,” you say, the words light but carrying a promise.

“Not unless you want to use my stuff forever.” His eyes are playful, though, as he pulls his shirt off and starts getting ready for bed. “I’ll keep you stocked.”

You stand in front of the mirror now, legs still wobbly, cotton pad in hand, gently wiping away the last traces of your makeup and the paint from earlier, The micellar water is cool against your skin, a grounding sensation, but there’s still an unshakable hum beneath your skin, a leftover buzz of adrenaline, of him.

Jungkook has discarded his shirt in the laundry basket, leaving him in just his boxers, and yet, somehow, he still looks so put together—so effortlessly beautiful. His bare chest is still slightly pink, flushed over from exertion, from being pressed against you for so long, and his damp hair falls over his forehead in soft waves. You can feel him staring before you even lift your eyes to the mirror, and when you do, his gaze is heavy, unreadable.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. He does it all the time, with that same quiet awe, like you’re something rare, something he can’t quite believe is real. But there’s something different about it this time. The way his brows twitch ever so slightly, the way his lips part like he’s about to speak, like he has something to say but doesn’t know if he should. There’s something behind his eyes, something dark and guilty, and for a second, you think he might actually say it. That thing, whatever it is, that he’s holding back.

“What?” you ask, voice quiet in the stillness.

“Nothing,” he says, smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then, before you can question it further, he reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His touch is warm, grounding, and he holds your hand like you’re something delicate, something precious, something he doesn’t want to let go of. He leads you out of the bathroom, walking you towards the bed in comfortable silence, and when you reach it, he tucks you in as if you’re a child, pulling the covers up over you with such gentle care that your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

And then, he’s slipping in next to you, immediately wrapping himself around you, pressing his body close, his arms caging you in. His nose nudges against your temple, his breath warm against your skin, and you don’t even think to resist. You just let it happen, let yourself melt into him, let him pull you in like you belong there.

There’s something about the way he’s holding you tonight. It’s different. He’s always touched you like he wants to, like he enjoys it, but this—this feels like something else entirely. It feels desperate, like he’s trying to commit the feeling of you to memory, like he’s afraid he’ll never get to do this again. His hold is just a little tighter, his touch lingering a little longer, his fingers brushing against your forehead in slow, absentminded strokes. And then there’s the way his lips hover over your skin, like he can’t help himself, like it’s in his nature to always be kissing you.

Your heart stutters.

Jungkook’s is racing.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is steady against your palm, but underneath it, his heartbeat is erratic, fast, too fast for someone who should be relaxed.

Jungkook can feel everything. The warmth of your palm against his chest, the soft, absentminded way your fingertips trace over his skin like you’re trying to understand the way his heart beats. It’s fast—too fast—and he knows you can feel it.

And then there’s you. The way you’re looking at him, brows slightly furrowed, eyes searching his face with something gentle, something questioning. Concern. It makes his stomach twist, makes his throat tighten, because you don’t even realize what you’re doing to him.

He shouldn’t be selfish.

He shouldn’t be holding you like this, keeping you this close, memorizing the weight of you against him like it’s something he’ll have to remember later. But he is. And when your fingers press a little more firmly against his chest, when you whisper, “Why is your heart beating so fast?” he nearly tells you.

Nearly.

He bites down on it, swallows back the words that threaten to spill, the truth that sits heavy on his tongue. Because if he tells you now—if he tells you that time is slipping through his fingers, that he doesn’t know how many more times he’ll get to have you like this—you’ll look at him differently. You’ll ask questions he’s not ready to answer.

So instead, he exhales slowly, forcing his body to relax beneath your touch. And then, finally, he settles on something—something softer, something safe.

“Guess I’m just trying to hold onto this.”

The words are quiet, slipping into the space between you like a secret, like something unspoken that neither of you are ready to pick apart.

Your fingers still against his chest. There’s a pause, just long enough for him to know you’re thinking about it, that you’re trying to make sense of what he means. But then you blink up at him, and whatever question was about to form in your mind, it passes.

“Dramatic much?” you mumble, rolling your eyes.

Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, something light, something easy—something to make sure you don’t linger on it for too long. “You love it,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against your temple before pulling you closer.

And just like that, you let it go.

You don’t think about the way he looked at you in the bathroom, or the way his fingers linger a little too long against your skin, or the way his voice sounds just a little sad, a little wistful. You don’t think about any of it. You just let your eyes flutter shut, let yourself sink into the warmth of him, let yourself drift off with his heartbeat echoing against your palm.

Just like that, you press yourself against him, letting his warmth lull you to sleep, unaware of the way Jungkook keeps his eyes open just a little longer, staring at the ceiling—holding onto this, just like he said.

And neither of you say anything else.

Because in this moment, in this quiet, tangled-up mess of limbs and longing, the silence is enough.

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so-i-did-this-thing · 27 days ago

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How do I stop being anxious all the time in relation to being trans? I have an appointment to go on T in 2 weeks. I'm anxious about coming out. I'm anxious about someone figuring it out before I come out. Ahhhh. I have a therapist for anxiety but I don't think it's helping.

Hoping I don't make you even more anxious, but the bottom line is some folks *will* find out and you just gotta learn to roll with it.

What has helped me:

Getting good at identifying red and green flags in cis people

It's become a habit of mine to scope out people when I join a new community. I look at profiles, what people post, etc. It's a little tiring, but I try to find the allies and other trans asap in a new fandom or whatever.

Planning for the worst

To be trans is to always have a plan to Get Out of Dodge.

A lot of times, The Worst is really only temporary embarassment. I deal with this by keeping my head held high and leaning into the more "don't fuck with me, I am tired" part of my personality.

Fake it 'til you make it -- I used to have a paralyzing fear of public mortification, and over time have ripped that apart. Sticking to my boundaries helps a lot, and I am not afraid to say, "I will not answer that question."

Here's the thing, though -- people tend to be impressed when you weather the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, and you'll likely find yourself as someone to be looked up to. Cis folks routinely ask for my advice about their own Big Life Changes, because they have been impressed to see me go through mine. I've also helped crack a few eggs.

Sometimes The Worst is truly bad, and you should always be vigilant here. Again, I know it is exhausting, but always plan for your personal, emotional, and financial safety. Build an emergency cash fund. Cultivate friends who have your back. Always be looking for new job opportunities. Lots of stuff you can workshop with people.

Cultivating a very matter-of-fact relationship with Coming Out.

I focus on any relevant logistics and keep out my emotional backstory. Most people do not need to know how much of a mess I used to be. And I firmly state what I am doing with my future, rather than ask for permission.

My last HRT-related Coming Out email (to one of my orchestras, which is a very gendered biz) was essentially: "FYI, I am medically and legally transitioning from female to male. Just a heads up, as I'll look and sound a bit different at rehearsal -- I have a tux already for the concert. See you Friday!"

That's it. At a company, you can work with HR on your announcement, assuming one will even be necessary in your case based on your transition timeline.

When I changed my name years later, I was also direct:

"I am legally changing my name to Nicholas. It may take a while to update all my clients, so you're welcome to tell them, "Oh, [deadname] goes by Nicholas now. Thanks!"

And when I came out to my spouse in tumblr chat before our first date, it was literally: "Hey, jsyk, I am 35 and a trans man, in case that changes anything."

It takes a lot of practice to get to this point, and is something you can roleplay with your therapist.

Don't be afraid of your past

I am at a place where I will sometimes casually out myself to make a point ("No one ever needs to change the gender field for this form? I recently needed to.") or a stupid joke ("Ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted to be...").

There is a lot of value in the trans experience. You can decide how much of it you want to casually share, but it does get easier each time.

I hope this helps. Being trans means you will be coming out for the rest of your life (obviously, there are times where stealth = safety), so cultivating a no-nonsense, and even humorous, approach will go a long way for your mental health.

#trans stuff

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hyunebunx · 8 months ago

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Wow I’m stupid I pressed send way too fast 🩵 with Lee Know??

˖˙ ᰋ ── 🩵 - kissing in the rain with Minho

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: a teeny tiny amount of angst but it has a happy ending

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: thank you sm for requesting!!! <3 i had soo many ways of writing this in my head that i struggled lol. i really hope you like what i came up with. it's loosely (very) based on the rain scene in pride and prejudice so enjoy!! <33

Arguments were not a usual occurrence in your relationship. Most of the time you managed to settle any disagreement before it could escalate to such heights, the perfectly communicating couple all of your friends couldn’t help but feel a little envious of.

Now was not one of those times; your stress and emotions were getting the best of both you and Minho in the most unpleasant way. You hated arguing with him, getting angry and unable to see the other’s point of view, clouded by the desire to be right and make each other understand where you were coming from.

“You don’t get it.” Minho shakes his head with a sigh, forearms resting on the wheel as the rain poured outside your safe haven, hitting the windshield at an alarming pace and preventing you from seeing anything, even with the headlights on.

“Explain it to me, then!” You bite back, body facing his in the heated passenger seat that was keeping you warm and cozy despite the chill outside. Even when arguing you could admit Minho was the most considerate person alive – you didn’t ask him to turn on the heat, he must have done it when he noticed you trembling like a leaf after getting in.

He surprised you after work, dropping by and driving directly to one of your favorite restaurants just in time for dinner and a well deserved date night. Everything was perfect, the location, the food, and especially the company, laughing and having a great time with the love of your life.

Until things turned sour on your drive home, and what started as a silly disagreement turned into a full-on argument about something you didn’t find significant enough even to remember.

“That’s what I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes but it seems you don’t want to listen!”

You’ve been walking (or driving) in circles, with him getting frustrated and you following right on his tail until the car came to a stop right in front of your apartment building.

It’s not like you didn’t want to listen or care to hear him out, it’s just that Minho seemed to make something out of nothing, insisting and pushing forth the same idea like you were nothing more than a child who lacked basic comprehension. It was frustrating and exhausting, especially after the long day you’ve had.

“Min, I’ve been listening.” You try to smooth things over, warm hand landing on his thigh comfortingly. “Just because I’m not giving you the answers you want doesn’t mean I’m not hearing you.”

Minho remains silent, head turned the other way to stare out the window and not acknowledge your presence. When the silence stretches on, you give up with a sigh and retract your hand, reaching for your purse in the backseat and opening the car door in the same breath.

“What are you – “ You close it right before he can finish the sentence, set on getting inside with or without him to finally take the bubble bath you’ve been daydreaming about all day at work.

“Kitten!” His voice follows a moment later, the sound of the car door slamming louder than him amongst the deafening rain. “Y/n!”

Despite yourself and the insanity of spending even one more minute in this storm, you stop and allow him to catch up, not protesting as his warm hands land on your shoulders and turn you around almost desperately.

“Where are you going? We are not done talking.” He states, dark hair and clothes getting soaked at an alarming pace as the rain spares neither of you.

“But I am!” You exhale, the chill settling into your bones. “We won’t reach an agreement like this so let’s just stop!”

His eyes widen as he pulls you closer, chest to chest, figures illuminated by the bright headlights almost blinding. “Baby, wait – “

“I hate fighting with you, Min.” Without meaning to, you interrupt him once again, reaching up to cup his face and drag him closer. “I’m sorry, okay? We can talk this over calmly inside after we cool down. Just not like this, please, I can’t do it anymore.”

He nods instantly, agreeing without a doubt and most likely seeing his faults too, and not only yours. Then, when you expect him to let go and finally follow you in, Minho surprises you the second time tonight by leaning over and connecting your lips in a kiss full of passion and love, reminding you once again that the heart in his chest beats first and foremost for you. His upper limbs cling to your body just like your clothes, hugging you tightly while your hands squeeze his face affectionately, a smile sneaking past and pulling one from him as well, on the verge of beaming into the kiss.

The rain seems to disappear, the cold too, like you weren’t bothered by either in the first place. Minho has that effect on you, helping you see the good in every situation. Sure, the location was not ideal – nothing could be less romantic than a barely lit parking lot – but as always, the company mattered more. And the message he was trying to send. When words failed you, actions worked better, speaking louder and getting your point across without much effort.

Sure, the argument wasn’t resolved but you both managed to make the other understand what mattered the most. You might be disagreeing now, momentarily stuck in a small pothole along the way, but you still loved each other, you would get over it and be okay in the end.

Because that’s what true love meant. Getting through things together and continuing to walk down your joined paths, hand in hand, no matter how many potholes or rough patches you encounter. A small setback won’t ever erase your feelings for each other, or make you forget all the beautiful moments you’ve shared.

And maybe, just maybe, a kiss was all you needed to finally understand Minho’s point when you sat down and resolved things that night. He, on the other hand, needed a few more to be satisfied.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids headcanons #skz headcanons #stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst #stray kids soft thoughts #stray kids soft hours #skz angst #skz fluff #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know fluff #lee know angst #lee know x you

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Baby, I'm Cold

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your boss is a stubborn man but even he can get sick. (plus!reader)

Character: August Walker

Day Twenty-One of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - I swear I'm not sick

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Mr. Walker leaves his bag at the door, his jacket too. You move his shoes so they sit neatly on the drip tray and hang his jacket. You pick up his briefcase and carry it up to his office. As you near the closed door, you hear him coughing from the other side.

You slow as you approach and knock on the door, “sir, I have your things.”

He coughs again then calls through hoarsely, “in.”

You twist the handle and dip inside. You set the bag on the leather armchair where you always do and retreat as your employer sniffles. He lets out a crackly sigh after. He sits behind his desk, silent, stony. His usual self except for the raspy breaths he lets out.

You don’t await his dismissal. You know if he has to tell you to go, it means you’ve overstayed. Mr. Walker prefers discretion. He prefers solace. It makes your job both easy but difficult.

You leave and go down to the kitchen. At this time, he won’t have eaten. He’ll need dinner. With his cough and stuffed nose in mind, you prepare him some chicken and rice soup. You put a thick hunk of artisinal bread with it and a cup of tea.

You carry it up to him and announce your purpose at the door, “dinner, sir.”

He grumbles. You know his sounds well enough to enter. You bring the tray to his desk as he sits back in his chair, unmoving, eyes closed, hands firm around the rests. You hear the rattle in his chest from there.

“Anything else, sir?”

He opens one eye and the icy blue chills you. His single iris flicks down as he considers the tray. He opens his other eye and sits forward. He swallows another cough.

“What is this?” He touches the mug’s handle.

“Tea, sir. I found some ginger. I added a touch of honey--”

“Why?”

“Why, sir?”

“I don’t drink tea. I haven’t ever drunk tea. It’s for my mother. So why--” He snaps his mouth shut and his throat strains as he holds back another cough. He lets out a single croak and clears away the rocky crags. “Why are you serving it to me?”

“Oh, uh, sir, it will soothe your cough--”

“I’m not sick.”

“Yes, sir, the air is dry this time of year,” you agree.

“I don’t want the fucking tea.”

“Sir.”

You come around and take the cup. He sits back again and turns the seat away. You hold the steaming cup and quickly head for the door. You stop, remind by his reprimand of something else.

“Your mother and father will arrive tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged their room and all else.” You confirm.

“Great, you did your job,” he sneers dryly.

“Sir,” you murmur and turn to the door.

Just a few more hours and you’ll be free. It’s the holidays and even Mr. Walker gave you a day to spend with your family. Though you suspect it’s more that he doesn’t want you around his.

For the three years you’ve worked for him, you’ve never met a single other person in his life. You clean the house, you pick up his laundry, and you order groceries. You are peripheral. You are the tedium that fuels the more concerning parts of his life.

🌟

Your mother and stepfather are arguing on the porch. Again. Your aunt and uncle are showing off their toddler grandchild, and your brother, the terrible twins, more than a decade your junior, are flipping through their phones. You sit and observe it all.

You glance at the window, your mom’s anger expounded in the wag of her finger. You get up as the smell of ham draws you into the kitchen. You check to make sure it’s not overdone then piddle around, trying to distract yourself from the chaos.

Your back pocket rumbles. You ignore it. It’s some promo trying to entice you into ordering food. On Christmas of all day. As the vibration persists, you assume it’s some poor telemarketer, forced to make the rounds for a bit of overtime pay.

You ignore it. You work on finishing the brussel sprouts your mother left in the strainer. You cut of the ends and slice an X into them. Your phone starts again. You don’t put down the knife until the third call.

Walker.

You hesitate but pick up. Why would he be calling, today of all days. You fix your posture as you answer, as if he can see you.

“Mr. Walker,” you eke out, nervous you might have missed something.

“Hello, is this...” a woman says your name curiously.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you affirm.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, especially today, but we are in need of some help,” her voice is tremulous.

“I told you,” a male can be heard more distantly. “We shouldn’t bother them. There’s a reason they aren’t here, dear.”

“Pish,” the woman dismisses. “Very sorry again but my son--”

“Katherine,” you say, “Mr. Walker’s mother?”

“Yes, Auggy is my son,” she tuts. “As I was trying to explain, he’s doing rather poorly but he’s refusing my care. He’s always been awfully stubborn, you know?”

“Kath,” the man drones.

“Oh, I know, I know,” she squeals at him. “He doesn’t want his mommy fluttering around him like an old hen, but you understand, he’s my baby. I’m worried. And so we were looking and saw your name. A girl’s name so you must be someone special.”

“Katherine,” the man sighs once more.

“I’m his housekeeper, ma’am,” you explain.

“Hum, oh, of course. You would be,” she says. “Oh, my, I’m afraid I’ve assumed so much.”

“Is he still coughing then?” You ask.

“Oh, yes, terrible. He sounds as if he’s swallowed glass.”

“We’ll call a doctor,” the man intones.

“Octavius, please, which doctor do you suggest we call? They all fly out of the country on their salaries,” she chirps. “Honey, please, if you don’t mind, you might be able to coax him. If you are his maid, you’d only be doing your job. He can’t turn you away.”

You frown. She doesn’t know how wrong she is. He would and he will.

“Lucine, please,” your step father’s voice blows through with a gust as he comes inside. His anger is forged into his tone and the door slams. You wince.

“I can be there,” you tell Katherine. It won’t make a difference but it will get you away from all this.

🌟

Katherine as good as drags you through the door. You didn’t even knock before she swung it open. She’s a tall woman, plump, and her face is rosy. She’s not what you expect.

“Yes, come in, come in,” she says. “Oh, what’ve you brought?”

She gestures to the canvas bag on your elbow.

“Just some stuff to help,” you explain as the warmth of inside seeps beneath the chill in your cheeks. “Hopefully.”

“Oh, yes, how clever of you.”

She takes the bag and you let her. She sets in on the bench and unbuttons your top button before you can stop her. You gently catch her hands then do the rest yourself.

“Sorry, dear, sorry. It’s only, I’m so worried.”

“He’s a man, he’ll be fine. If you’d stop pecking at him, he wouldn’t be hiding,” a man appears in the archway to the den. He’s big like Mr. Walker, with white hair and paler eyes. He crosses his arms in the same way. That must be the father.

“He’s sick! You heard him. He wouldn’t listen--”

“He was doing just fine, Katherine.”

“Tosh, you don’t know that. You never were there when he was home sick. He needs his orange juice and chicken noodle.”

“He needs you to stop,” the man you assume is Octavius reproaches.

“I can check on him but... it’s probably just a cold,” you say as you slip out of your boots.

“So long as you try.”

“Right,” you grab the bag and twist the handles.

You go to the bottom of the stairs and look up. You peer side to side, from mother, to father, both tentatively watching you in turn. It seems Walker puts everyone at arm’s length.

You take the first step with trepidation. Then the second. Up and up, you climb until you reach the top. You turn down the hallway and come to the office door. You bite the inside of your lip and knock. You don’t get an answer.

You look at the bag in your hand and contemplate running back downstairs. You can say you tried and got the same result. Still, that Walker doesn’t shout for you to scram is worrying.

You knock again to the same result. Several more taps go unanswered before you are faced with another decision. Do you go in, just to make sure?

It would be a waste. You left your family, Katherine waited around for you, you suppose you can brave Walker’s wrath to give her the gift of knowing all is well.

You inhale and hold it in. You enter the office, peeking through as you do. It’s dim but for the light of the glass lamp on the desk. As you look for the broad figure behind it, you find only an empty chair.

You frown. He must be in his room or--

The grumble jars you. You squint as you try to see through the dark. You find Mr. Walker on the leather settee near the artificial fireplace set into the wall. Great. You should go. You can do that still. He’s not answering you so obviously he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

He coughs, a sharp, agonizing cough that makes even your throat hurt. You let your breath out. Ugh. He’s a big boy, literally, he can handle it. Right?

Shit.

You cross the room and turn the dial on the artificial fireplace. It lights up, casting a soft glow over the office. You turn to find Walker shivering on the cushions, arms crossed as he hugs himself, legs bent to accommodate the short furniture.

“Mr. Walker, I brought some cough drops and some cold medicine,” you say.

He groans and doesn’t move. He hacks again, the couch frame creaking under his weight. Why? You shouldn’t feel bad for him. Not for as unpleasant as he’s consistently been.

You move a leather stool closer and sit. You cradle the bag on your knees and sift through the contents. You take out the bottle of Buckleys. You shake it and reach with your other hand to touch his shining forehead. His eyes pop open and his mustache twitches.

“Mr. Walker, I have cough syrup--”

“I’m fine,” he insists, only to cough again. “I don’t want that—sh-- *cough*-- shi-- *cough*” He devolves into a fit and you wait patiently.

“If you don’t want it, you should try some of these ginger drops.”

“Why are you here?”

You steady your agitation. “Your mother called me.”

“Why did she--” He can’t finish the question.

“She asked me to help you. I’m trying but I can’t do much if you won’t let me. However, you are my boss so you can tell me to go back home to my family,” you shrug.

He looks at you then closes his eyes. He shifts onto his back and lifts his legs, extending them over the armrest. He is ridiculous big on the short sofa.

“Do whatever. I thought you were a maid, not--”

He can’t finish the insult but you get the gist. You dig around in the bag and take out the tin of menthol rub. You uncap it as his face contorts in an effort to repress his coughing. You hold it out under his nose and he sucks in and flinches.

He grabs his nose as you recoil and blinks, “what is that?”

“Just menthol, it will clear your airways a bit.”

“Oh,” he furrows his dark brows.

“Typically, you put it on your chest but it’s kind of greasy so--”

“Do that,” he insists and sniffs deeply, “it’s helping.”

“Oh, uh...” you stare at him.

He’s sallow, the brims of his eyes reddened, and his face drawn. You nod and lightly touch the gel. You hesitate. You won’t be able to reach him and... right.

“Can you...” You look at his shirt collar, “unbutton.”

He coughs again, a rumble in his chest, and he clumsily pinches his buttons until he frees them. He pulls the fabric apart to reveal his furry chest and you stand. You move closer and bend over him as you gently trace beneath his throat, that little crook of bone above his muscled pecs. You focus on spreading the menthol as he breathes deeper, further puffing out his chest.

“Better?” You ask.

He makes a noise, something akin to a purr. You rub the cream in until It’s absorbed then pull away. You cap the container and put it back in the bag. You put it all on the stool and back away.

“Where are you going?” Walker mutters.

“To wash my hands,” you say.

“Mmm, be quick.”

You take his orders and hurry out. You come down the hallway and dip into the bathroom to rinse your hands. As you dry off, you nearly squeal as a shadow appears in the door. Katherine wrings her hands as she shifts back and forth.

“Is he okay?” She asks.

“He’s fine, I think. Just sick. Stubborn.”

“Oh, very,” she agrees with your last statement.

“I’m just trying to get him to take some cough meds,” you explain.

“Ah, good luck,” she trills, “I will make some tea, if you like?”

“Uh, yeah, we can try that,” you agree.

She hurries off and you go back down the hall. The smell of menthol and the crackle of the fake fire welcome you in. You go to the settee as Walker lays quietly, breathing in and out, as his shirt remains open.

“I think the cough syrup will help,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. You watch the cadence of his chest. Is he asleep. You move around slowly, trying not to knock anything with your hip or step too heavy. You gather up the bag. He can probably sleep it off.

You let out a squeal as you feel a brush against your bum. You spin as Walker’s arm extends to you and he catches your hip. You stutter in surprise.

“S-sir!”

“I’m sick,” he whines, though the surrender is hardly a triumph. “Please...”

You stare at him. You don’t know what’s worse. The brave face or the pathetic victim.

“Baby, I feel so bad,” he squeezes and you look down at his large hand. He must be really sick if he’s calling you that.

“It’s alright, Mr. Walker,” you take his hand and move it off your hip. You lower yourself onto the edge of the couch and bend his arm over his chest. “Your mom’s going to make you some tea.”

“Mmmm,” he drones and reaches for you again. “Don’t leave.”

“Sir,” you look down as his touch follows your sleeve to your shoulder then curls down your back, stopping on your waist. You grab his wrist again. “I’ll stay, just... relax.”

“Yes, baby,” his fingers dip into your soft side, “whatever you want me to do.” He tugs free of your grip and trails along the top of your butt, “just stay.”

You narrow your eyes and once more stop his stray hand. You cling to it as you direct it away from you, keeping hold of him to keep from another rogue groping. He’s sick for sure. So sick, he must be delusional.

“Alright, I'm here, Mr. Walker.”

He opens his eyes and looks at you. You wince at the intensity in his glassy irises. His cheek ticks and he hums again.

“Mm...” he drawls weakly. “So... soft.”

#august walker #dark august walker #dark!august walker #august walker x reader #fic #december daze #mission impossible: fallout #navy and roo's sleepover

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tangyneon · 2 months ago

Text

too busy being yours

Gojo has no need for the sun to break through the dark clouds of rain, when you're standing in front of him, frowning so sweetly at him.

There's nothing brighter than you in his eyes—be they Six, or be they just two—in any case.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; fluffy and not-too-mildly sappy; lovesick gojo; realisation of feelings; gojo loves you while you tolerate him; he's somewhat obsessed with you but not in a toxic way—yet; very heavy on the 'one-sided enemies to lovers' vibes; word count–2487. warnings: implied bullying—gojo isn't involved!! but that doesn't mean he isn't a warning—the boy very much is, along with his extreme want to be your knight in shining armour and beat the bad guys up. this is a sequel of sorts to 'it was over from the start', but please feel free to treat it as a stand-alone if you wanna!! notes: not me rewriting and reposting one of my most popular works from my old blog—ONCE MORE!!!! the fic title is from "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys. hope you'll enjoy reading this!! ❤️❤️

Gojo believes, there exist two kinds of people.

One: those who aren't but love to pretend being better than everyone else. And, two: those who aren't, but will do anything to be viewed as the worst in the world—the latter category housing no one but you—

Tingles dancing behind his ribs, down his arms, and right to the tips of his fingers, the boy hums when questioned why he wants to meet you out of all the people he could. That too now, when the sky is darkening from a mix of night and storm. That too—to meet you.

Candy crushed between molars, Gojo grins.

"Let's just say I'm a little curious about her, shall we?"

Then pauses, grin mellowing when he finally feels your cursed energy—if his Six Eyes were working as usual now and weren't fatigued after today's spree of killing curses, maybe he could have determined your location too in a moment or so, and not have had to rely on others for that...

The blinding beacon, which your cursed signature is, brushes soothingly against his exhausted self—he adds, "Also maybe because I'm a little in love with her—she's really sweet, y'know?"

Whatever response he might have been expecting, a scoff is definitely not one of them.

Utahime makes a face. Almost as if she just bit into a lemon... Almost as if she doesn't believe Gojo can fall in love... Almost as if she deems you to be not sweet... That last implication nearly makes him want to throw hands with the girl, opting to ignore the fact that she's Shoko's girlfriend—

But he stops when she jabs a thumb to the corridor to the left.

Your cursed energy caresses his Six Eyes gently. Something burns behind his two eyes. The boy begs his mind to listen to the directions being given to him—the directions to you!!

"Go down this hallway, then turn right at the end. She'll still be in the gardens—" The rest of the sentence doesn't reach Gojo.

Nor does anything else, for that matter.

Nothing does—except for the steady thump! thump! thump! against his ribs and in his ears. And, of course—how did he even forget this—the lodestar your brilliance is to his too impatient self, too stumbling feet, this squally evening as he skids past empty hallways...

Your smile is the first thing the boy notices.

So sweet. So sweet.

It's the sweetest thing Gojo reckons to have ever seen in his life. The pretty little smile carving your lips and illuminating your equally lovely face, as you lie on your stomach on the grass. Legs swaying with the wind. Gaze dancing over the fluttering pages—

Everything changes in a beat—or perhaps even less than that—with your eyes no longer on the book.

They're on him. Drowning him. Suffocating him. Squeezing whatever infinitesimal life left in him after the past three days' missions. Taking every bit of who he is, all for themselves to glare at so sweetly.

Your pretty little smile falls into an adorable frown. "Why are you here, Senpai?"

"Why am i here?" he echoes your ask. Your frown deepens. He grins, brushing his bangs away out of his view. "To see you, of course!! Mind if I take a seat beside you?"

You do mind. Gojo knows, yet doesn't find a fault in you minding him so—shutting your book, you don't waste an extra second to move to sit upright. Nor to scoot away when the boy takes your absence of an answer as an invitation to plop down onto the grass.

Your scowl stays unfazed, he watches, heart lurching and tumbling. Falling onto his back, he shifts to lie on his side, an elbow propped up to support his head, and hums.

"Why do you look so mad, sweet—"

"Please don't call me by such terms," you cut him off, sharp and terse, "And, please don't pretend you don't know why I'm mad—acting like a fool doesn't suit you."

"Acting like a fool doesn't suit you either, darling," The boy replies, not borrowing even a moment to mull over his words. It's honestly so like playing with fire... arguing with you, that is. But he is nothing if not an extremely devoted lover of danger, so he will keep doing whatever he is doing now—plus, don't the two of you appear so 'married couple'-y right now, huh?

He continues—not disturbed, rather delighted by how your features tighten and stiffen: eyes narrowing a touch, lips pursed a pinch. The boy wonders if you know how much you're endearing yourself to him the longer you keep looking at him that way—

He allows his grin to simmer down to a sly twist of lips.

"But i'm not going to question that... your love for your family is pretty cool—" Not really. He finds it boring at best, and stupid at worst. But since it's you... he tries to deem it as neither. "—so whatever amazing plan you've concocted: pretending to be weak, so that you aren't sent to any difficult mission, and you have a 100% chance of staying alive, ANDDD your dear family doesn't have to get sad—"

"Why are you here, senpai?"

Obviously, to see you, silly!!

—is what Gojo should say. Is what Gojo wants to say. But he finds his tongue numb and unmoving; rendered useless by the sight you, your cursed energy, both have become...

If you were a fire before, you're nothing less than a solar flare now.

And the boy loves it. His Six Eyes love it. The boy loves you—

Your brows gather close. His stomach does a flip. Your voice assumes an adorably serious tone, "You didn't come here to ask me out, again, did you, Senpai?"

Did he?

Oh, Gojo doesn't really know.

Maybe he did... he does want to take you to his favourite restaurants. But maybe he didn't... seeing you has been the only thing on his mind ever since he was informed of his mission being in Otsu, Shiga.

Only fifteen kilometres away from the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech—you don't allow him to utter a single syllable in reply, however. Gojo wonders if this is how all your future arguments will be like—he decides it is not that bad.

Not when you lean a little towards him. Narrowed gaze. Earnest tone.

"Look—I know keeping another's secrets is a big deal, and some folks need some sort of... uh, reward for that—but how about this? Instead of me going out on a date with you, why don't I buy you a box of gourmet chocolates? Or a ticket to your favorite band's concert? Or a gift voucher of your favourite clothing store—this is better, isn't it?"

Better... it would have been... if only he was dead set on making you reward him, as you oh so eloquently put it, for keeping your secrets.

But the thing is, he isn't. The boy doesn't want any sort of silly reward from you—he just wants to take you out on a date. Always has, since his eyes met yours few weeks ago and he felt something strange and sweet unfurl within his chest—

Making it seem like a payment for him shutting his mouth about you, was only a tactic. A very cheap tactic, the boy chides himself, looking at the worry etched into the dip of your lips.

Slipping his shades off, he sits up and offers a tiny smile. It feels... too weird... too soft on his lips.

"You do know who you're talking to, don't you?"

It takes you a while to reply—throwing back a question of your own, "Is this you telling me I can't buy a rich guy's silence, Senpai?"

He is. He very much is. But heaven knows why you make it sound this rude—the same as before, you don't stop speaking. Not allowing him squeeze a single word in.

"But everyone likes free stuff, don't they? I mean, I'll be buying all that for you, and you won't have to spend even a single yen..." you heave a sigh. So minute, he almost misses it. But he doesn't 'cause he's pretty much focused his every sense on you—

Exhaling yet another sigh, you ask, "Don't you like freebies, Senpai?"

He does. He very much does. Even more when you say it that way with your cute little frown and exasperated little tone—

"You're too sweet, y'know?" he breathes out, hoping he sounds just as fond as he feels of you now—extremely likely, forever. "I don't get why Utahime doesn't see you to be so."

You make some sort of a noise then.

It isn't quite a chuckle... nor is it a snort... it's very cute, nonetheless.

You hum, "Iori-senpai's the kindest out of everyone here. If she thinks I'm not someone sweet... I don't know but doesn't it ring some sort of warning bell inside your head, hm?"

"Hell no," Gojo mutters in that same instant—a bit miffed at how you refer to Utahime, a quiet respect lacing every letter you say—not-too-little miffed at the implications behind you calling that sharp-tongued girl the kindest here—

For the first time in your company, the boy feels his lips collapse into a frown.

It's something, he realises you realise too, the way your lips part a touch, in something akin surprise... but not the very pleased kind.

He doesn't really think before adding, "The only bells i can hear when I look at you are—" You frown. He bites his tongue. Maybe... he ought to think a bit before speaking...

Chuckling, he continues as if you did not just shoot his soul a look.

"Never mind what I can hear... but the thing is you can never be one who rings warning bells in others' minds—like, hell no!!" he repeats. Letting some force seep into his syllables, into his unwavering stare, fixed on you—on every minute expression you're making—

He really decides to think, however. Softening himself on noting your shaky exhale, your nails digging into the cover of your book—Gojo lets himself borrow a beat before resuming.

Forcing his face into a bright grin when he does so.

"Feel free to text me the names of the dipshits who have ever made you feel bad, by the way—but, don't worry," he adds, the memories of his previous error of ways hitting him in the face.

"I won't ask you out on a date in return for that—I'm just in need of an intensive punching practice, and you will do me a big favour by doing as I asked you to—you will text me, won't ya?"

Yeah. No. Thank you. Fuck you—

You say nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

For a very painfully long ten seconds.

During which you do nothing except look at him—just look, only look. Neither glare nor gape nor gawk—just a quiet, scarily quiet looking—Gojo swears his heart skips a beat when you finally open your mouth.

And inquire, words so slow and soft.

"This isn't some ploy of yours to get my number, right?"

"Hey, no—" he rushes to explain, fuming at himself because how the hell did he fuck up this bad again!?!?—but as is the norm, you do not allow him to speak any more than that. Cutting him off with yet another one of your queries—except this time, it is not too slow.

And more of a statement than a question, now that he thinks about it—"You did not really tell anyone about my secret in these past weeks, did you?"

No, he didn't. Obviously, he didn't.

Gojo Satoru may be several things, but an intentional villain isn't one of them. Something skids across your face when the boy tells you as much—but he finds himself not too sure.

Thanks to the lightning streaking across the sky.

And the torrential rains following not an instant late.

And the way your gaze jumps from him to the sky, to the book in your hold—only to come back to his face. Wide, unblinking, all-consuming for a scanty moment there—

Gojo tries his best not to collapse into the mud when you break into a sprint for cover from the downpour. He tries his best not to follow you as he feels your warmth go farther and farther away, and the boy's Six Eyes stare at the trail of your addictively bright and hot—and they are not talking about just the temperature—cursed energy—

He tries his damnedest best not to shout, overwhelmingly happy and relieved as he realises the rapidly reducing distance between him and your cursed signature.

The thud of your sneakers on the cement floor of the building sounds nothing less than the best music the boy's ever heard. Or, maybe, it is the best music in this whole wide world...

Yet another lightning streaks across the sky. He twists himself around just in time to catch the awe-filled look you offer at its sight—features something out of this realm as your eyes trace its path, not even a bit bothered by the deafening thunder that sounds next—

Gojo thinks he'll die happy if he dies now.

Or, maybe, he'll die later, he changes his stance quickly—on noticing you dash towards him through the mud, face fixed in a deep scowl as you struggle to open an umbrella, and balance a pretty heavy-looking bag off your forearm.

You huff when you reach him.

The boy wonders if it's your finally-open umbrella, or you, who shields him from the numbing cold of the torrential rains—

Crouching down before him, you drop the bag into his lap.

And, exhale a soft sigh. His breath catches in his chest when he spies a hint of something... maybe fondness? curling up the corners of your frown, as you speak.

"Next time you wanna flirt with someone, try not to do that immediately after your missions—it is awfully difficult to get mad at a person if they look just a push away from passing out, y'know?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

No—Gojo does not really know.

But as he lets you press the handle of the umbrella into his palm—an odd look flittering over your features before you turn on your heel and hurry back into the school building—and his eyes fall on the contents of the bag you've left with him—

Cans of green tea. Chamomile tea. Dark chocolate. Biscuits. Water—

The boy muses if this is your bid to buy his silence—by giving him enough food and drinks to prevent him from blacking out from sheer exhaustion while on the train ride back to Tokyo...

Oh—it's enough for him to not worry about tonight's dinner as well, he tells himself on finding two cups of instant noodles at the bottom of the bag—

Gojo smiles.

Deciding not only his silence to be yours, but also a part of his heart—although... weren't either of them yours to begin with, huh?

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samanthacastano02 · 4 months ago

Text

Hold My Hand Pt1 (18+)

Han Jisung x FemReader x Lee Know

Warnings: Smut, PnV, Threesome, Established relationship, Safeword used, DomLeeKnow, DomHan, SubReader, Oral (FemRec), Fingering, Cursing, Angst, Rough Sex, Unprotected sex, probably more (I wrote this after an 8 hour shift at work, so I am sorry if it’s not my best work, later this week when I have time I’m going to go back and rewrite and edit it, when I’m not exhausted)

Minsung - Hold My Hand Pt2 (18+)

MDNI 18+

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: You unknowingly make a mistake that pisses off your boyfriends Han and Minho, but also turns them on to no end. Han can’t do anything about it at first so he leaves you to Minho, but when Han gets home, things get rougher than intended and things go wrong.

Photos not mine, credits go to photographers

I had spent the day in the studio with the boys, it was my day off and both Jisung and Minho had asked if I wanted to spend the day with them. Throughout the entire day both boys seemed to be on edge, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why and no matter how many times I asked them what was wrong they told me to drop it. It kept nagging me but I did what they asked and dropped it because I didn’t want to make the day even more difficult for them because it was a recording day for them. The rest of the boys also seemed to have no idea as to why both Jisung and Minho were on edge, which didn’t help my nerves. Finally they stopped for lunch and Minho grumpily stomped over to me, tossing his hoodie to me. I wasn’t cold but I figured that something about my outfit made them upset so I didn’t question him and slipped it on before following them down to the dining hall that the JYP building had.

Throughout the rest of the day I kept Minho’s hoodie on, but that still didn’t seem to make Minho or Jisung happy. I sadly couldn’t confront them until we got home because only the members of Stray Kids and their team knew about our relationship, everyone agreed that it would be best for now to keep the relationship secret until they could come up with a way to announce it where it wouldn’t cause backlash for the three of us since it was considered unconventional. When Minho had finished recording all of his lines for the day, Jisung must have either said something to him or texted him because he was pulling me up and dragging me out of the room and down to our car that we had taken this morning. As he dragged me, he didn’t let up on his pace, causing me to have to lightly jog behind him.

“Min, please slow down. I can’t keep up.” I try to tug on his hand to get him to slow down but he doesn’t slow down. He continues to walk quickly and ignores my pleas for him to slow down.

It’s a nice break for my legs once we get to the car, I can’t tell what’s wrong by looking at his face. His face is void of emotion, it’s unsettling to me because I have never seen him like this. I don’t know what I did to cause him and Jisung to get upset, but whatever it was I didn’t mean to. As he drives, his hand is on my thigh, kneading the skin not gently but also not enough that it hurts a lot. I try to put my hand on his hand, as a sign of comfort but when I look at him, he shakes his head no and I immediately know to take my hand away. He doesn’t glance over at me like he normally would, it worries me that something is seriously wrong and that this relationship is in serious jeopardy.

When we arrived at my apartment, the place the three of us had been staying so as to stay out of the eyes of the public and give the boys a break from the constant flirting and bedroom activities, he dragged me out of the car and up to my floor. The moment we got into my apartment and the door was shut he was shoving me against the door, his lips attached to mine. The kiss caught me off guard, I was expecting him to get angry and yell at me, for what I didn’t know. I decided to allow myself to indulge and deepen the kiss, I wrap my arms around his neck. I feel his hands tap my thighs, hinting that he wants me to jump. I do as he wants and jump, wrapping my legs around his waist, he pushes me against the door even more, but I know that he wont drop me.

“Min, what’s happening?” I question when he moves his kisses down to my neck.

“You think that you can get away with what you did today by playing innocent?” “But Min, I truly don’t know what I did? Whatever it was, I’m sorry.” “Lies, it’d do you best to be honest and admit that you did it on purpose.” “But I truly don’t know.”

“Am I going to have to spell it out?” “Yes, because I don’t know what happened, what I did to make you and Sungie upset.” “Wearing that perfume, and that shirt.” “What perfume and what shirt?” “The pheromone perfume we got you for your birthday and the shirt that we got you, that you agreed to only wear when you were free to use.” “What! But that shirt is black, the one I’m wearing is white? And the perfume, I was in a rush this morning. I wasn't looking. I’m sorry.” I say as he grinds his hips on me.

“No Jagi, that shirt isn’t black. It was white, with your favorite flower on it.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s too late for sorry now Jagi.” he says as he turns to carry me into the bedroom. I know where this is going and I don’t know whether to be scared or excited.

“Minho, I’m serious, I didn't mean to.” I say as he drops me onto the bed.

He doesn’t say anything, instead he crawls over top of me, kissing up to my lips. When his lips meet mine again, there’s that same frenzy from before but there’s also something different now that I can’t place. I decided to not dwell on it and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of his lips on mine. I know that Jisung will soon come home and I don’t know what that will do to our current dynamic.

“You decided to tease us, whether that was knowingly or unknowingly, so I’m going to deal with this. That ok, princess?” He asks as he grinds his erection on me. I don’t answer him verbally, I just nod at him.

He begins to kiss down my neck again, I can feel him grip the bottom of my shirt and tug at it. I sit up slightly so that he can tug it off. He throws it across the room, for once not even caring where it lands, he usually cares about keeping the room clean. Before I could lie back down he unhooked my bra, tugging it off as well and throwing it in the same direction as my shirt. His lips leave my neck and work down to the top of my breast, I close my eyes and allow myself to fully feel the pleasure that he is bringing me, even if it’s just kissing me. I soon feel his lips wrap around my nipple, while his other hand moves up to twist and tug on my other nipple, not wanting to ignore it. After a while, he kisses his way over to my other nipple and begins to give it the same attention. He knew that my nipples were sensitive, even just to touch. When he deems that he has given both of my nipples enough attention, he kisses his way down to the tops of my pants. He looks up at me, silently asking for permission to take them off, when I nod I expect him to just take my pants off but he takes off both my pants and my panties.

As he pulls off my panties, he leaves kisses on my thighs. He starts at my knees and kisses back up to the apex of my thighs. I expect him to tease me but he immediately licks a stripe up my clit, I didn’t expect him to immediately start eating me out. The man knew what to do and he was good at it, I was already seeing stars and he had just started. The man ate me out like a man starved, like it was his last meal, like he was desperate. One thing about Minho was that he loved to overstimulate me, and he knew the best way to do that was by eating me out and using his fingers. The pleasure that he was bringing me caused my brain to go blank, forgetting about the outside world, the reason why I was in this predicament in the first place. I feel his tongue on my clit and his right hand snake its way between my thighs while his left hand snakes its way up to my breast, squeezing it and rolling my nipple between his thumb and pointer finger. He’s being unusually soft with me, both him and Jisung are dominant, liking to be rough with me and each other. I don’t think anything of it, to focused on the pleasure that his tongue and fingers are bringing me, his fingers are hitting the perfect spot inside of me. I can feel the coil tightening, getting closer and closer to my release. He sucks my clit into his mouth harder and it sends me over the edge, I cry out his name shaking as he continues to eat me out and piston his fingers in and out of me.

He barely lets me come down before he’s picking up the pace of his hand again, he knows that once I’ve come once it’s extremely easy to make me finish again. I can feel the coil tightening again, the overstimulation becoming too much but I know that I can still handle it so I allow the pleasure to take over me again, finally after I come down from my second orgasm he gives me a slight break while he removes his clothes. I try my best to catch my breath as I take in the view of him, naked in front of me. No matter how many times I see him like this, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. He turns towards me again and begins to crawl over me, kissing his way up to my lips, I can feel his cock pressing against me as his lips meet mine but he doesn’t push in. I know he won't until I tell him that it’s ok to do so, I wrap my legs around him and try to tug him into me but he holds steady, not until I verbally tell him that it’s ok.

“Min, please. Please, I want this.” I pleaded with him.

“Ok Jagi, but I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I don’t want you to. Just please do something.”

With me giving him permission, he pushes into me. He groans into my ear as I let out an obscene moan, one that I didn’t actually think I could make. He slowly pushed his way into me, allowing me to adjust to him. His cock is impressive, both in length and girth, the stretch hurts so good. When he bottoms out, he sits there for a few seconds before he pulls back, pulling his cock out until just the tip was still in me. He pushes back into me roughly, pushing the air out of my lungs. I couldn’t form any coherent sentences, only broken words and moans fell from my lips. I clung to him, my arms went around his neck, his powerful thrusts rocking me and shuffling me up the bed. I was so far gone in pleasure that I didn’t hear Jisung finally come home, but I felt Minho pull his face away from my neck and look at the bedroom door.

“What number of orgasms is she on?” Jisung asked as he quickly removed his clothes, as if he knew this was what would be happening when he got home.

“Working on number three.” Minho moaned out after a particularly rough thrust

“Perfect, she stretched out good?” He asks Minho as his hand moves to my breast, playing with my nipple.

“She’s ready for you after this orgasm.” Minho moans as he continues to thrust into me, moving his head back to my neck. Sucking love bites up and down my neck, my arms tighten as I get closer.

“Perfect.”

I’m so lost in pleasure that I can’t even warn Minho when my orgasm crashes over me, I let out a guttural moan and dig my fingers into Minho's back. With my third orgasm crashing over me Minho picks up his pace and thrusts into me harder, extending my pleasure. After a few more thrusts I can feel him finish, his hot cum sending me into yet another orgasm, making it my fourth. While it wasn’t as strong as my first three it was still pleasurable and took me time to come down from. When I came down, I could feel Minho brushing my hair from my forehead, looking at me to see if I was ok. I gave him a weak smile before looking over at Jisung. As I look at Jisung, I can feel Minho pull out of me which pulls a weak whimper from me, the two boys switch places. Jisung now between my legs and Minho up by my head, I don’t even get a warning from Jisung as he thrusts into me.

“Sungie, slow down. She’s already sensitive.” Minho tries to get him to slow down a little, when he notices that he didn’t give me a chance to adjust.

“She can take it, can’t you baby?” Jisung asks as he continues to thrust hard into me, due to the overstimulation I’m already close to another orgasm. I don’t get a chance to answer him when my orgasm crashes over me, I moan out his name.

“Good fucking girl, squeezing me so tight.” Jisung says as he continues to thrust into me, tears now streaming down my cheeks from the stimulation. He wraps his hand around my throat, not tight enough to fully cut off oxygen. When he feels me stop clenching around him, he pulls out of me and flips me onto my stomach, shoving my face into the sheets and thrusting into my hard. I let out a mix between a moan and a cry.

“My good little cum slut, huh. That’s all you're good for, just a cum dump.” I don’t know what to feel about how he’s talking to me. He’s never spoken to me this way before, Minho has but never Jisung. He’s always been the softer of the two, his switch up shocking both you and Minho. Minho reaches for you, but before he can Jisung grips your hair and pulls you up.

“Come on baby, tell me. Are you my little cum slut?” He asks as he seems to thrust even harder into me, I don’t know if it’s the overstimulation or the words that he’s saying to me but I begin to cry even harder. Wondering if this is what he actually thinks about me, does he actually think that this is all I’m good for, just a cum dump, a hole to use?

“Jisung, slow down. Take it easy, you're going hard on her.” Minho tries to get Jisung to slow down but it’s like he can’t hear him, he doesn’t even respond.

“Sungie, please. Slow down.” I try, not as loud as Minho, taking a lot of energy to get the sentence out. He ignores me, seeming to thrust even harder now. I begin to panic, the moment no longer becoming pleasurable but before I can think about it I can feel my 5th orgasm crash over me.

Everything becomes too much, I can feel Minho by my head trying to be a focal point of comfort for me, pulling my attention from Jisung but it doesn’t help. I’m now in my head, thinking that maybe this is truly how Jisung actually thinks about me, that I’m nothing but a slut to him, a cum dump. It breaks me and I begin to cry even harder. I try to muster up the strength to utter my safe word but I can barely speak because I am crying so hard. I look over to Minho but his eyes are trained on Jisung, I can see the questions going through his eyes. Finally I muster up just enough energy to mutter out my safe word.

“R-r-red.” I say barely above a whisper, it’s loud enough for Minho to hear but it’s like Jisung doesn’t hear.

“Jisung, she said red.” Minho grunts out, but Jisung still doesn’t listen, I sob harder. Minho decides that he’s taking things into his own hands and pulls Jisung off himself. That seems to snap Jisung out of whatever trans he was in.

His eyes widen in shock when he finally takes in his surroundings, he looks at me, seeing me curled up in a ball by the head of the bed sobbing. Looking between Minho and I, I can see that Jisung is processing what just happened, as the tears well in his eyes realizing that if Minho hadn’t been here, things could have gone way differently. I hear a thump and turn to see Sungie on the floor, I can tell that he’s now panicking. I look at Minho and I can see he’s stuck between wanting to help me and helping Sungie, even after what happened, I don’t want Jisung to panic.

“Min, g-get me a b-blanket, a-a-and t-then help Hannie.” I make the decision for Minho.

“Are you sure, will you be ok for a few minutes until I get him calmed down?”

“Y-yes, I-I’ll b-be ok. W-we d-don’t n-need h-him p-passing out.” I hiccup as I finally stop sobbing

Minho’s POV:

I worry about leaving y/n in the bedroom, but I know she’s right. If I don’t calm Han down, he’ll panic to the point that he passes out. I grab both him and I some fresh underwear so that we aren’t sitting out in the living room naked. I grab Han and pull him into the living room, pushing him onto the couch before kneeling down in front of him and slipping on his underwear. I pull him up enough to pull them all the way up. He flops back down, crying hard while I slip my own on. I want to be angry about the fact that he didn’t listen to her safe word, and I am but there has to be a reason as to why it seemed like he couldn’t hear her.

“What the hell happened, Jisung?”

“I-I don’t know, I-I’m so sorry. I-it was like I-I wasn’t in control of m-my own body.” “Han, if I wasn’t here-” jisung cuts me off before I can finish my sentence.

“Please, I don’t even want to think about that. I could have seriously hurt her.” “I’m not going to say that you couldn’t have because you could have. Were you angry?”

“I think so? Recording didn’t go as well after you guys left and then the outfit and perfume didn’t help.” “You can’t bring home those issues, and if you do you cannot take them out in the bedroom.” “I know, god Minho she must hate me, she looked so broken.”

“I need to check on her, but I also need to make sure that you’ll be ok while I do?”

“I’ll be fine. Just please, make sure that she’s ok.” he begs me, still slightly crying

“I’ll be right back, ok?”

Han nods at me and then I get up, walking back into the bedroom. I find y/n laying where I left her under the fluffy blanket. I can see that she’s still shaking and shivering, I don’t know if she’s shaking because she’s crying or because she’s in subspace. That thought scares me so I rush over to her, I climb onto the bed and see that she’s crying. It breaks my heart that she’s crying this hard, I know she’s still scared and probably confused.

“Baby, are you ok?” I ask her softly.

“I-is he mad at me?” That question confuses me.

“Why on earth would he be mad at you?” “I-I ruined the mood.” “Love, you did not ruin the mood. And he’s not mad at you, he’s worried but not mad. He’s mad at himself for not hearing you.”

“Does he really think those things about me?” She asks as she snuggles into my side, seeking comfort in my arms

“What things, love?” “That I’m … a slut, a cum dump, a hole, good for nothing but cum.” “God no, baby. Of course he doesn’t think those things about you. He was in his head, some stuff happened at the studio and he was angry and he wrongly took it out on you. And he is so sorry for that.”

“C-could h-he come i-in here?”

“Lovie, we need to get you cleaned up.”

“Could he take a bath with me? I-I think that we b-both c-could u-use it.” “Let me go ask him, see if he’s ok with that.”

I tuck the blanket back around her, slightly surprised that she wants to be slightly intimate again. Even if it isn’t sexual, but if it’s what she wants I won’t deny her. I look back at her and can’t help but think about how adorable she looks. My heart swells with love, both for her and Han.

“Han, love. I have a question for you.” “Yea?”

“Y/nnie wants your help taking a bath while I change the sheets.” I can see his face pale.

“W-what? W-why me, after w-what just happened.” “Baby, she wants your comfort. She thinks that both of you need it. And I don’t think she’ll be ok with you saying no.” “Does she really want my help?” Before I can answer him, we both hear y/n yell from the bedroom.

“Sungie, get your ass in here and help me. Please.” We both chuckle, talk about comedic timing.

Jisung’s POV:

I hesitantly stand up, heading back into the bedroom. When I enter, I find y/n lying down wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, but she looks at me and smiles slightly. Like she’s trying to reassure me that it’s ok, that she’s ok when it should be me reassuring her that it’s ok. It makes me feel guilty, I can feel tears coming back, but I quickly blink them away not wanting to cry in front of her. I slowly walk towards her, stopping just in front of her, I sit down on the bed next to her. I don’t reach out for her and she doesn’t reach out for me, there is an awkward air between us and I don’t know how to fix this. I can see that she is hesitant and I can see the lingering fear, it breaks my heart to know that I’m the one that caused this fear in her. I’m one of the people that should protect her, not hurt her and tonight I hurt her. I hesitantly reach out for her and look at her, silently asking for permission to touch her. She slowly nods at me and I gently pick her up.

“Jagi, I cannot begin to explain to you how sorry I am.” I begin as I turn to carry her into the on suite bathroom. She surprised me by burying her face into my neck, giving it a gentle kiss.

“Sungie, I know you are sorry. I forgive you but do not let it happen again.” “I promise I will never let it happen again, I never want to hurt you that way again.” I respond to her as I set her on the counter, turning to the bathtub, filling it up with warm water and a bubble bath.

She doesn’t respond, rather opting to watch as I move around the bathroom, getting everything set up for the bath. I struggle to look at her, seeing the slight shake in her body still, knowing that I am the cause of it and it’s not a good shake. In the past Minho and I have caused her to shake from pleasure, even cry from pleasure but never like this. I shake my head to clear the thoughts from my head, not wanting to dwell on what happened. Once the bath is ready, I take off my underwear and pick up y/n, stepping into the bath, lowering both of us into the warm water together. She relaxes back into my chest, humming at the warmth, it makes me smile. I don’t know how long we lay in the bath, relaxing with each other, but it’s long enough that Minho decides to come and check on us. Long enough that we realize that the bath water is no longer warm and that it’s time to get out, I gesture Minho over. He comes over with a towel for y/n, I stand up before gently lifting her up and helping Minho wrap the towel around her. Minho leads her out into the bedroom while I step out of the tub and drain it, before I follow them. When I get out into the bedroom I see that Minho is toweling y/n off, I think quickly, getting slightly possessive and run and grab one of my shirts. I bring it over for him to slip over her head once she is dry enough, when he notices who’s shirt it is, he quirked an eyebrow.

“Really?” he questions me.

“What, she needed a shirt.” I responded cheekily.

“You’re a goof, get dressed, lovie.” he taps my ass before pushing me towards the closet

I listen and rush to the closet, grabbing myself a tank top but deciding that I don’t want to wear a shirt so I grab the pair of underwear that Minho had grabbed me earlier, slipping them on before walking out of the closet. Minho doesn’t seem to question it as we all slip into bed for the night, I can tell that he turned on the heating pad for y/n even though both he and I are walking furnaces. Y/n seems to be in the in-between state of falling asleep, not quite asleep yet, but also not fully awake. She turns toward me, noticing my tattoo, and begins to lightly trace it with her finger. I don’t stop her even though it tickles, I know that it calms her, she tends to do it every night before we fall asleep. I know that things aren’t completely ok, but things will slowly get back to being ok, that trust wasn’t completely ruined. I know Minho is hesitant to allow her and I time alone again, but we can work up to that again. He looks over at us, putting his phone down and wrapping his arm around her, while resting it on my stomach rubbing small circles. He may seem stand-offish but he shows both of us that he loves us in his own ways, and we show him in our ways.

Minsung - Hold My Hand Pt2 (18+)

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