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ushidoux · 4 years ago

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Not Enough - Oikawa (Haikyuu) x Reader x Gojo (JJK)

Summary: Your relationship with Oikawa feels more like a curse than anything else as it comes to a close. (~4.2k words) or tl;dr gojo is mr. steal your girl

Warnings: breakup, idk Gojo is a warning, cracky angst?, pegging mention, yandere themes

A/N: Ngl I’m patting myself on the back for making a crossover fic work somewhat LOLLLL, you can roll your eyes if you want this is hella melodramatic.

(if you wanna commission more niche things, you can always dm me <3)

---

“I-I think it’s best for us to end things here, Tooru...”

Oikawa’s fingers tightened around the cell phone in his hand at the sound of your shakily delivered proposition, and further at the abrupt pregnant pause thereafter - not because he was angry, nor afraid, but out of an all-encompassing confusion.

Two things were wrong with this situation. First of all, it was late enough for you, thousands of miles away, that he was genuinely surprised that you were still awake in the first place and the fact that your voice was thick with tears was particularly upsetting, implying that you’d been up all night before you decided to call. Second, you had to be feeling unwell because you were talking pure nonsense.

He must have not heard correctly. You wanted to ‘end things’?

End what? You and him? That couldn’t possibly happen.

Moments passed, maybe even a full minute, and Oikawa stood perfectly still in spite of the uncomfortable combination of a weightless sensation in his legs and a feverish pounding in his chest as he tried to let himself understand what you were saying. Suddenly lightheaded, he realized he had been holding his breath while you remained quiet on the other end of the line. Maybe he was hoping for you to fill the silence, but he knew you wouldn’t offer anything additional; he could tell from the single soft sniffle that betrayed your sadness.

He sucked air into his lungs.

“I... don’t know what you mean,” Oikawa replied, his voice steady even if his body wasn’t.

You continued.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. It’s really hard… and I get so lonely, and I know it’s wrong, but sometimes it hurts to see you so happy without me…”

Your voice was smaller still, enough that he strained to hear you past the rush of blood past his temples. For a moment, he considered pretending he couldn’t hear you say such unpleasant things just so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality unfolding in front of him in this disdainfully sunny early afternoon, while he stood in the middle of the hallway right outside of his high rise apartment.

The fact that you had finally given up on him after all this time.

In a small way, Oikawa couldn’t blame you. While he had been gone chasing his dream, the emerging star had just as quickly been running further away from you day by day. He knew this was mostly his fault: he called you less frequently and whenever you did talk, the conversations were shorter and less substantial until you and he both felt like your interactions were a simple chore, a checkbox on his never-ending to-do list.

But yet, he could and would absolutely blame you. Long distance was hard but you had promised you’d stay by his side, hadn’t you? You’d promised him, rain or shine, through drought and storm. What could possibly be the issue now?

Even if you hurt, it would only be temporary, and he could always make up for it in full or even twice-fold. In fact, he was on his way to come see you in person this very second; it would just be mere hours before his flight would depart. Coming suddenly on holiday like this was meant to be a surprise, and his suitcase beside him was filled with gifts and souvenirs for you that would, at least partially, assuage your hurt.

At least he thought. Maybe the issue stemmed deeper, starting with the very fact that you weren’t such a fan of gifts - what you really craved was loyalty and quality time - and that too, he had chosen to ignore. Because it was easier to love you the way he wanted to love you, rather than the way you wanted to be loved.

You were often indecisive anyway. Did you ever truly know what you wanted?

“___, stop being silly. I love you -”, he paused at this last declaration for emphasis, gauging your reaction, of which you gave him none, then continued, “-and I’m coming to see you before the sun sets tomorrow,” he insisted, a stern edge in his voice to further supplant the denial that was keeping him able to breathe. Strength returning to his limbs, he resumed his path to the elevators, dragging his belongings behind him.

You were silly. You missed him and you were delirious from loneliness and sleep, and that’s why ridiculous things were coming out of your mouth, that’s all it had to be, he figured. End things? What you had was something precious and irreplaceable. Nothing could be better than what you were together.

It would be you and him for life, at least to him.

Unfortunately for you, that ideal had long since perished.

Any other time, you would have paused, your breath hitching in your throat, your heart pounding as you conjured up the image of your Tooru coming to be in your arms once more, to cross the vast distance and be yours again as it should be. He’d be quick to show you that he chose you over crowded gyms full of adoring spectators, a perfect set, the rush of victory, or a pretty Instagram model.

Any other time before, but time had run out with both you and him unsuspecting, in a flash of clear blue eyes.

---

A few months earlier...

“I’m not interested.”

Your voice was flat and so was your expression. Muttering a soft ‘excuse me’, you walked past the tall young man who had taken the fact that he’d helped you reach an item on the highest shelf (despite the fact that you were still somewhat tall, you still had struggled), as an invitation to follow you around the grocery store.

The stranger had started off indiscreetly at first, and you had to admit, when you’d passed him in the aisle, you had given him a double-take, and it wasn’t just because you were wondering how he could see the food before him with a black blindfold wrapped over his eyes, so you hadn’t thought too much of it. He was admittedly handsome - at least the lower part of his face was - and his relaxed voice and posture as he reached over and handed you your box of cereal reminded you just a smidge of your Tooru.

Your Tooru wouldn’t be caught in that nondescript dark ensemble, though.

Saying “thanks” and continuing on your merry way should have been enough. But instead, this same man had immediately started walking besides you as you pushed your cart as though he knew you, making comments about your groceries.

“I’m not particularly fond of eggs, but they’re a good source of protein.”

“You seem to have a sweet tooth, just like me!”

You probably should have been concerned about this man’s mental state, but he didn’t exactly seem harmful or delusional, just weird. But you were almost done with your shopping trip, and now he was in line with you with a single bag of chips in his hand, and it occurred to you for a while that this stranger might try to follow you home.

“Do you need something, sir?” You told him in exasperation.

He furrowed his eyebrows in mild confusion, still a smidge too close behind you and raised his bag of chips. “No, I’m fine.”

“Why are you following me?” You finally said, bolder than usual in this semi-crowded grocery store. You had had enough of being polite and you’d tried very hard so far. Today had been a long day and you just wanted to cook a meal and sleep, not argue with strangers.

“Oh, I was trying to be friendly,” he replied, shrugging, as though that were normal behavior, and thus here you were, switching lanes abruptly while making it clear to him that he needed to leave you the fuck alone.

Checking out of the store with your items occurred without incident but you had to admit you were both irritated and confused about that encounter, and again, while you didn’t exactly feel malicious intent or really any sort of ‘creepiness’ from the young man, the behavior was nevertheless alarming. You surreptitiously glanced over your shoulder just to make sure he wasn’t still in sight, only to catch him walking in the other direction, whistling again with the single bag of chips in his hand, now paid for.

Again stunned, you found yourself lost in a stare for a moment, a million questions in your head.

What was he trying to accomplish? And most importantly, how could he see with that blindfold?

What did he look like without it?

Quickly realizing your questions were getting absurd, you decided that whether he was attractive or not was a completely inconsequential thought, because the fact of the matter was that he had to be clinically insane. Absolutely.

With that thought in mind, you texted a friend briefly sparing the least salient details.

Call me in about thirty minutes if I don’t call you first. I’ll fill you in later.

Just for safety’s sake, but thankfully, you didn’t think you’d ever seen him again.

You may have brought up your odd encounter to Tooru that night, if he had managed to return your call.

---

“Go to sleep, I’ll talk to you when I land tomorrow. I love you, ____.”

Before you could protest, the line cut off abruptly and you lowered your phone to your lap. Now it was no longer just your voice wavering, but your entire body trembling as you sat over the side of your bed. You lurched forward, the pit of your stomach heavy with guilt.

Your Tooru was coming to see you and for once, he was the last person you wanted to see.

---

You had left your home a little later than usual but given that you would rather die than miss your morning coffee and croissant, you still stopped by your neighborhood bakery.

Noting that the line was a little longer than expected, you queued up, humming softly to the beats of your favorite song, not registering that the man standing before you had turned slowly in your direction and was now smiling down at you.

“Fancy seeing you here again.”

Your eyes furrowed as you looked up, then almost yelped in surprise when your eyes registered the same white-haired stranger who had stunned you at the supermarket lined up just two paces before you.

What the-

Of all the coffee shops in this city, why here? The hairs on your neck stood up on end, worse when he decided to keep speaking.

“Let me buy your coffee,” he proposed, tentatively. “Only condition is that you have to drink it with me.”

Today, the strangest of strangers almost looked normal; rather than a blindfold, his eyes were hidden by a dark pair of sunglasses and his hair had been allowed to fall into a slightly windswept cut. He was also dressed less eclectically, in a loose-necked long sleeved shirt and a pair of fitted dark jeans.

Like this, you could call him fashionable. He was definitely forward, at the very least.

He was obviously flirting and normally you would have a curt prepared answer for him, but the manner in which he leaned forward, smirking with hands on his hips, again felt too familiar. Like Tooru, who had forgotten to call you back and instead sent you a quick text that promised he’d get back to you.

If he remembered.

Before you knew it, and almost embarrassed as soon as it left your mouth, you blurted out, “I… have to go to work.”

It wasn’t a lie but for some reason it came out like one. Perhaps because what you would have normally said was, “I have a boyfriend,” without giving him a second look.

He frowned nevertheless.

“That’s too bad,” he finally said, letting out a loud sigh, excessively dramatic for the situation. You stared at him, dumbfounded, and he suddenly clasped his hands together, preparing to say something else but the barista had called for the next customer.

He made a motion for you to go before him, and flustered, you obliged, giving the barista a look that implored for help in any way he could offer it. The barista knew you well enough to ring up your order before you even asked for it, but not well enough to sense that the man behind you was actively harassing you.

“I can buy my own coffee, sir,” you murmured once you saw him rummage in his pockets and pull out his wallet while the barista went off to toast your pastry.

He grinned widely.

“Call me Satoru.”

---

“A drink for you, sir?”

The flight attendant’s voice betrayed a hint of irritation under her sweet tone of voice, hinting that she had been waiting for him to answer a while, and Oikawa realized that he had been staring at his phone for a lot longer than he expected. He flashed her his classic pearly whites before nodding, but the wheels in his head were still turning.

A mere couple of hours into the first leg of his flight back to Japan, he had taken to poring over his last few conversations with you.

Conversations that, at least from his end, had become pressured, short, and at times, he had been downright dismissive.

But he loved you - you had to understand that! It was a lot to manage: being available for you but also giving 150% of himself to the game.

So what if he missed your calls but kept his Instagram up-to-date? So what if he was a little bit too cozy with his fans (and known to be so)?

There was always you, and you were supreme. He’d do anything for you.

“Wine?” The attendant offered him the higher octave in her voice making it clear that Oikawa had managed to charm her back into her retail persona.

Maybe a glass, but he’d limit his drinking. He wouldn’t want to disappoint you when you met.

---

You were shocked.

Satoru stopped a car that was meant to crush you, and you were still trying desperately to comprehend what had just transpired.

You were possibly too eager to escape that coffee shop, to get away from the young man whose presence both unsettled your stomach and made your face grown warm, that you’d hurried out into the crosswalk, somewhat complicated drink and slightly crisped pastry in hand, and right into the path of a car hurtling through a red light.

You didn’t have time to scream or rarely even time to drop your drink, but the impact of your carelessness and preoccupation, between him, being late to work, wondering why the fuck your boyfriend had yet again forgotten to text back, never came.

Instead, the car seemed to halt to a stop almost immediately before you, before him who now stood before you with lips held into a neutral expression, and one hand in his pocket. Even if time seemed to stop for a split second, the force that should have struck your body didn’t, instead hurtling around you in a terrifying gust of wind.

But you were safe.

There was a shatter of glass windows as energy redistributed and the car took the brunt of the shock, and airbags deployed, engulfing the driver who could have possibly ended your life.

When Satoru finally turned to you slowly, looking at your cowering form, you finally caught a glimpse of piercing blue. For once he wasn’t smiling, and he was suddenly much more terrifying than anything else.

As though the mask had come off.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Instead, he asked you to control your grief.

---

You shouldn’t be able to love anyone so much that your heart breaks repeatedly.

Something about you had to be pathological - it couldn’t be normal to feel the pain of separation this acutely. It was just a long-distance relationship, even if he was just getting more famous and less available by the day.

You shouldn’t wake up wondering if you could still breathe without him.

You shouldn’t.

---

“I’m a sorcerer,” Gojo revealed as he stirred a warm caramel latte, as though he had said the most natural thing in the world.

You tilted your head over so slightly, knit eyebrows betraying your confusion.

“... Like a circus performer?”

The repetitive turn of his wrist halted almost immediately and he looked at you, the constant smug smirk immediately awash from his features.

“Do I look like I belong in the circus?!” He half-exclaimed, half-whined, as though you were the only patrons in this bustling coffee shop. Part of you was bent on saying yes, but you kept mum yet staring at his face in distress, you find yourself stifling a giggle.

Now that he’d saved your life, you felt (and probably erroneously so) obligated to at least indulge him in coffee, and your curiosity about the young man sitting before you a whole day later now waffled between morbid and genuine.

Cursed energy? Leaking from you? Sorcery?

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair once he realized you were more entertained by his distress than anything else, crossing his arms and raising his legs on the table. You stared at the bottom of his shoes with mild disgust but instead focused on his face.

He really was like your Tooru, the boyfriend that slipped away from your reach in your nightmares, causing you to wake in a cold sweat. You shook the thought of your head, a quick barely perceptible movement, and crossed your own arms.

“You’re sad enough that I can sense it, which despite the fact that I am obviously quite gifted, can be a bit of an issue long term.”

“Why would it be an issue to you?”

“Because grief creates spirits and spirits are a pain in my ass.”

You furrowed your eyebrows again.

“So you followed me because you thought I was sad?” It sounded far fetched enough but absolutely on brand for a weirdo like the man before you. You took a sip of your tea - you’d picked chai for this… meeting. It wasn’t a date.

He grinned, an elbow rested on the table propping up his chin as he leaned back towards you.

“No, it’s because I thought you were beautiful.” ---

For the first time in a year, Oikawa’s first step back on Japanese soil did not immediately bring him joy but anxiety.

It was odd for him to feel anxiety, this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, but of course it would dissipate the moment he saw you.

But first, a warm shower in his new hotel room. Then he’d go to see you.

It felt odd not to have you waiting for him, your million dollar - no, priceless - smile on your face, so he could kiss you dramatically in the midst of all watching to again reassert that you are his, and his alone.

But you were upset, and understandably so.

So he would come to you, as a good boyfriend should.

---

“I have a boyfriend,” you told him immediately and indignantly, as you got up to leave. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I’m not interested.”

He didn’t rise as fast as you did, watching you calmly instead as you balled your fists in irritation. It’s so shameless how he flirts, you thought. He’s so bold and rude and even if he’s a ‘sorcerer’ as he claims, there’s no spell that he can cast onto you that will make you leave Oikawa for him.

Not your Tooru, whose last Instagram post features a beautiful, tan, large-breasted and bikini-clad woman you’ve never met.

“Where is he then?” Satoru said in a low voice. He didn’t necessarily mean to cut but it did anyway. A lump formed in your throat.

“Overseas.”

---

The sound of chirping crickets is surprisingly loud for this part of the city, Oikawa considered, as he made his way towards your apartment building. It was an atypically warm evening for this point in the spring and he briefly mused if that is what excited them. Maybe they were cheering for him. They sounded a lot like the crowds if he closed his eyes.

He also hoped you had room for the gifts he carried with him, the most important of which was a Cartier bracelet he would hand to you once he departed, with a solid gold T for Tooru.

If he was on the search for fame and glory, he had to spoil you too, right?

To think that you were so angry with him that you had not yet contacted him since he had landed.

He knocked on your door finally, noting the shuffling of too many feet towards the door. This was the right door. He didn’t understand. Did you have friends over?

He called, and you didn’t immediately pick up.

---

“You have to leave!” You hissed. The statement was a plea and it was a command and it was a curse.

The blue of Satoru’s eyes was less electric in the dim moonlight, now more of a cool ice. Bare naked like this and barely visible save for the cracks of the illuminated city through your blinds, he was unfairly beautiful, as though he were carved out of marble. Again like your Tooru. Like, not better.

But still, he was there when Tooru wasn’t.

But Tooru was there now, knocking on your door, having traveled thousands of miles despite the fact that you had broken up with him just yesterday.

It was too little, too late.

But you didn’t love Satoru. He was just a band-aid for the loneliness that wrung agony out of you.

Right?

“I don’t want to leave,” your makeshift lover replied, flatly.

Your glare was sharp and instant, but Satoru matched your look, less pointed but unwilling to sway.

An unstoppable force, no different from the day he’d saved your life.

But he’d caused the problem in the first place, hadn’t he? Would you have run out so carelessly if not for him?

Your voice softened as you slipped on your clothes. The fight was lost before it started.

“Please? I… I can’t do this to him.”

Only a plea was left.

Your phone started to ring and your throat felt as though it would close up.

“___?”

Before you knew it, you heard your front door open and your heart dropped into your throat.

---

“What the fuck-”

Blue eyes were cruel.

Oikawa prided himself on his height but Satoru was taller, and his smirk was wide, while Oikawa’s face was ghostlike, devoid of any appreciable expression. Stunned.

“So you’re the boyfriend?” His voice dripped with mock amusement and he patted him on the shoulder before swinging open the door wide, letting Oikawa into his own girlfriend’s apartment, only to stand face to face with you whose feet seemed glued to the floor in shock.

“I.. T-Tooru..”

“Are you fucking serious?!”

His voice came out as a cry and his tears hot and fast. You never thought you’d see him crumple so fast, for you, for anything.

Your mouth opened and closed, and your hands shook but again, you stayed planted to the same spot while Satoru, still shirtless (but at least with the decency to have worn a pair of pants before answering the door), settled himself on the couch.

Before you could open your mouth to find a word to defend yourself to your sobbing boyfriend, your visitor let out an exaggerated yelp.

“____, you really showed no mercy on my asshole, did you?” he jeered. Then covering his mouth, he made a gesture of ‘Oops.’

What could you do?

Oikawa looked like he would stop breathing any second. He wanted to fight and maybe scream, but what use was that?

You had broken up with him yesterday.

You approached slowly, attempting maybe a touch, anything that would make your mistake less grievous.

You’d only been seeing Satoru for several weeks to… you weren’t sure why, really? Tooru was the one you loved. And to see him curl up like this… someone who was normally so proud...

You were disgusted with yourself.

“Tooru-”

“You said you’d wait for me.”

It was shocking how quick he rose, broken dignity, gifts and all.

“Tooru!”

He turned to leave, while Satoru contented himself on picking the earwax from his ears. It was easier to be like this, insufferable, than to gracefully accept the idea that his object of affection loved someone else.

He’d coveted you from the day he’d met you.

“Tooru!!!”

You were running after a man who gave 150% to everything, yet again.

Everything but you.

But had he at the very least given you 100%? You weren’t sure.

Oikawa was the last person who could accept the thought of someone else. You weren’t sure if he’d call you ever again. You weren’t even sure you wanted to break up.

Cursed energy. Maybe you didn’t just leak cursed energy. Maybe you were just cursed.

Heart shattering to pieces once Oikawa was no longer within view, you made it back to your room. Satoru was there waiting, and you couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but his arms were open, and so you fell into them.

#oikawa x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #commission work #crossover fic #haikyuu x reader #jjk x reader #haikyuu x jjk #mae.writing

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literalite · 3 years ago

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tldr: i apologise, i'd like you to understand why i went 👀 over something many view as progressive / inconsequential, i understand why you do it and i wanted to know that you didn't subtly hate (i only saw one of your works).

hi i'm that "don't racebend characters" anon from before. i'd like to apologise for speaking rudely and making you and your fans feel that way because it was insensitive of me, especially towards your community.

if it helps at all, i'm an asian living in a country as the majority race at almost 80% of the total population. i've never been discriminated against / oppressed by ANYONE before so please excuse me. i only came across your blog just 24 hours ago while scrolling through my "stuff for you" thing. after seeing your reactions i ran around reddit, dominated by people from usa which has history rich with racial discrimination who have perspectives closer to yours (the only thing i know important to the country lol), reading opinions about making originally japanese characters another race / mixing their heritage. and now i think it's absolutely fine to do anything with art if it isn't made with conscious or subconscious offensive thoughts ("AAA is better than BBB so i'll make this BBB thing AAA / give this BBB thing AAA origins so it makes them less bad"). now, i just want to confirm that you're racebending without any discriminatory idea against any race.

as someone living where i am, i don't care personally about usa, but get what's going on in the east. lemme point out that 1. japan doesn't have huge communities that actively hate on minorities in their own country unlike usa 2. ~90% of people there are the exact same race so nobody cares because there's almost nothing to represent other than themselves + indigenous peoples? there are only two (2) extremely minor non-japanese characters in jjks. that's why your art made me 👀 it seemed pointless to make a character with canonically full majority lineage (gojou) part minority, but i'd understand if you created it for yourself since it makes you happy. i'm sorry for not understanding this in usa's context before (my own country's media had blackface backlash from the public (most majority went "that's just wrong" while the minorities had a more vigorous reaction) but the gov very powerful here. they got gagged within a week then gov mommy fixed everything)

it's so long because i wanted to give you culture shock like what the people four years ago on reddit did to me hehheh

because this is such a long ask i'm going to respond at length under the cut so i'm not inconveniencing anyone

hi! after reading this through like a handful of times to make sure i'd understood it correctly, i'm going to preface this by correcting some assumptions i think you may have made in error about me. i think you think that i'm black and american, of which i'm neither- i'm fully asian like you but unlike you i've been living in australia which (like the usa) is a majority white country my entire life. there is where our experiences differ. i have experienced racial discrimination, both on a personal and on a systemic level, and i have watched racial discrimination been inflicted of differing levels upon both complete strangers and the people i love alike. i've had to dismantle my own socially implanted racial biases against myself and other people- it's still an ongoing process and i suspect it will take a very long time. i am not perfect but i am at least trying to be self aware enough to address issues within myself that i can solve. i'm capable of antiblackness, i'm capable of xenophobia and i'm capable of internalised racism. however i can tell you pretty confidently i didn't make gojo black out of some bias against japan/japanese people. that would be incredibly backhanded of me considering my country of origin is basically a little south west of japan and i have a lot of respect for the country and the culture, from what i've learned through my school(s) and my japanese friends. so to answer you, no this was not done out of hate, subtly or otherwise.

what i've done with gojo is not out of a desire to (and i'm gonna quote from your ask so i know i'm addressing this correctly) "create(d) it for yourself since it makes (me) happy." i don't see myself in gojo, whether canon or my own headcanon. i made gojo black and japanese because thats my own personal interpretation of his character influenced to edits and art i've seen of him in the past that were done by black people who had seen themselves in him. i've absorbed their vision of that character and found myself agreeing with it because simply i think it's cool. i don't think gojo is better or worse for being (in canon) a nonblack character- that would be counterproductive to myself. i don't consider what i've done here blackface, i've just reworked a character to match the version of him that i have in my head, something i've actually done quite a few times before. if we were talking about my vietnamese albedo, yeah i did do that just purely to make me happy- i do see myself in him, and i disregarded his (probably?) white ethnicity with explicit intent to erase and replace that part of him with something i preferred more. this isn't what i've done with gojo- i've maintained his japanese ethnicity. the edit is at an angle and it's a bit hard to see his face in its entirely but i assure u i made that man blasian lmao. there's no intent of erasure, just addition that neither negates nor lessens the canonical content.

i appreciate your efforts to educate yourself through reddit, but i think you've missed the point a bit. people of minorities like myself and the black people who gave me the inspiration for blasian gojo edit the source material to see ourselves in it. we don't get a lot of representation otherwise- and when it is done it usually is created by people who are more concerned with enforcing outdated and prejudiced ideals about us than making well rounded and nuanced characters, a privilege that people who aren't minorities often take for granted. we don't get a selection of characters who look like us and are well developed enough to be more than caricature. we literally just don't. so what we do is alter source material in our favour, and for characters who are already poc (like a lot of anime characters) it rarely comes to the point where we remove their original ethnicity entirely. i did not strip gojo of being japanese - he still is. i'm racebending but at no one's expense.

#also your point about there being no major groups being discriminatory of minority groups seems a bit naive to me #racism is often invisible to the oppressor- i'd advise you to process the world a bit more critically #your feelings about this are still your own and valid but yeah educate urself first ya #ask #reply #anonymous

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btsmosphere · 4 years ago

Text

Flame on Water | JJK

~summary:

Either you win or he does. Either you get paid or he does. Either the target winds up alive or dead. Jungkook’s job becomes a little more difficult any time you are around.

Jungkook x female!reader

~word count: 5.2k

~ mafia!au, assassin!jk, bodyguard!reader, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort

Rating: pg-15

Warnings: violence, guns, knives, hints at poison, mentions of death and killing, mention of blood, homelessness

~a/n: okay here is the mafia jk you all wanted! This was inspired by this prompt by @whumpster-dumpster along with all the subsequent replies of people screaming when they’re enemies, and I had to agree heheh - but it kinda spiralled from there, as you can see. Hope you enjoy!!

The first time, you were introduced as Ash.

The first time, he just saw a pretty face, a coquettish smile.

With plenty of time on his hands, target in sight and plan in action, what would be the harm in a little mingling? Especially with a girl as attractive as you.

Of course, he would not reveal his name. He was here for a purpose that would become compromised if anyone knew who he was. Who he worked for.

Jungkook had picked two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and slid through the bustle at the edge of the dance floor. A waltz was floating through the air.

He stopped beside you, and you took the drink in delicate fingers. As you watched the dancers, you stood with such poise, he assumed you had been born and bred in these circles – the elite that somehow found time for balls straight from a fairytale, something Jungkook never believed until he became privy to them himself.

You were dwarfed by the grand pillar you stood under, its ornate trimmings extending up until they spread onto the expansive ceiling above like golden cobwebs. Gold adorned your dress too, combined with cream lace against your skin. You looked right at home. Jungkook’s tailored suit lent much the same impression to him as well, but he did not belong.

You looked good together.

You talked and you were utterly charming, matched only by Jungkook himself. You danced and you knew all the steps. Though he did too, he felt like a fraud knowing he had only learnt them for the job.

After the dance, that was what he had to get back to. Maybe after it was all finished, he would find you again, take you to a hotel room.

But not yet.

Eventually, the plan had fallen into place. Jungkook was watching the target from afar as she sipped at her champagne. Red lips smiled at something her husband was saying before drinking again.

Satisfied, Jungkook turned smoothly away, looking for Ash.

You weren’t there.

He supposed you had gone with someone else while he was indisposed. Whoever it was, they were a lucky one, he thought, resigning himself to inconsequential dances with other girls.

His dress shoes spun smoothly on varnished floor. Clasped hands and velvet. Silver glinting under candlelight. The sophistication passed in a blur, dancing with the minute hand of the grandfather clock in the corner.

People were leaving.

Tables bare bar the lavish cloths, candlesticks extinguished, chandeliers dark behind the mansion’s arched windows. Straightening his lapel, he leaned idly on the grand banister leading down to the driveway.

Then the target walked out. Red lips open in laughter, she accepted her husband’s arm to descend the grand staircase.

Jungkook tensed, standing forward to watch them, eyes darkening.

She wasn’t dead.

His shoes clacked against the stone as he followed them through the dark garden, hidden within wisteria arches. Their chauffeur waited. Jungkook stopped himself, gun aimed between roses.

He was a clean shot.

It was perfectly lined up.

They approached…

The trigger clicked uselessly, no resistance meeting his finger. No bullet leaving the gun.

The target drove away.

The first time, you were introduced as Ash.

Until that night, he had not failed a hit.

The second time, you were Amber.

It had been months, but he was sure he recognised your face. He wasn’t surprised to see you: after all, you acted like you had been in a ballroom your entire life. Red silk clothed you now, hands gloved identically.

As you conversed with a small group, he approached. He bowed and you smiled. You were just the same as before.

So why then were the gentlemen calling you Amber?

Unfortunately, one had already asked you to dance. Jungkook circled the hall again, eyes returning to you in the arms of your partner. Boredom drove him to enact his plan only halfway through the evening.

Later, he eyed his target as the man wiped his brow with a blue handkerchief. That was how it always started.

Turning back to his company, some businessman, Jungkook saw a flash of your wine-coloured dress. Two drinks rested in your hand as you slipped behind a waterfall of dark velvet.

“Amber?”

He had excused himself from the prior conversation, now walking along dark wood floor, between dark wood walls hung with portraits. These corridors needed to be clear, the velvet curtain providing convenient cover.

“You called?”

You laughed as he whirled around, finding you behind him emerging, glass in hand, from a doorway. The ladies’ room, he realised.

“I wasn’t able to request a dance earlier,” he smirked, not revealing his discomfort.

“I would love one,” you smiled, “you were very good last time.”

“I like to think I’ve improved since then,” he spoke, holding out his arm. Yours looped through it and together you walked back to the ballroom.

“So how do you know Sir Alpin?” you asked, lips pressed into a delicate smile as he took you in his arms.

“Business acquaintance,” he said curtly.

“Of course,” you stepped after him perfectly when the music began, “all you men are.”

“How observant of you,” he smirked, “but many of the women are his colleagues too.”

“Oh I know,” you laughed lightly, “but us women are better at hiding our purpose.”

“Is that so?” he raised a brow.

All he got in response was the twinkling of your eyes as you moved below the chandeliers. Lapsing into silence, he let your bodies move together, hand steady on your waist.

Once the music ceased, you collected your drink again, and one for him. Magnetised, he stood close to you, hand still hovering along your waist while he sipped at the champagne.

“It’s getting late,” you smiled, stepping from his hold, “I should retire soon. Goodnight.”

Though he longed to walk in your wake, grasp your hand and bring you with him, he was not any other guest. His eyes followed you where his feet could not as you melted away, a mirage.

Scanning the room soon after, the blue handkerchief waved in his field of vision again. The man looked no less sweaty than before. But somehow, his neatly cuffed hands were pouring scotch with unwavering movements, glass clinking with his companions.

Itching dread that Jungkook had only felt once before rose from his collar. The reaction should be happening.

Since that night, he had always made sure his backup options were sturdier. But until now, they had not been required again.

Quickly he paid one of the serving boys to deliver a message to Blue Handkerchief, soon darting behind the curtain once again to lie in wait. As he strode through the dark hallway, his hand fell on his breast pocket, feeling the security of his gun stashed there.

He should be feeling calmer. Somehow, he felt he was sweating just as much as his red-faced target. He refused to acknowledge the shaking in his hand.

Another curtained wall. Another doorway concealed.

Jungkook backed in to wait for his prey.

A gasp behind him. He jerked around.

“Amber? Are-are you alright?”

You weren’t supposed to be here. A deer in headlights, he stood before you, eyes moving between you and the curtain, beyond which his target would soon arrive.

“I’m fine, thank you,” you smiled, and oh god your eyes glittered even in the low light of this forgotten hall. His eyes finally found their rest and you crossed slowly towards him, eyes big and alluring. You were so close, and wasn’t this exactly what he had wanted?

Blinking, he saw your face swim out of focus for a moment, hyper conscious of the pinpricks of sweat on his brow.

You were pressed against him, rising to your toes, closer to his lips and he watched you, entranced. Naturally, his arms rose, hands grazing your waist.

Just as your lips brushed over his, footsteps.

“Sorry-“ his hands jerked off you, rising to your shoulders, “I have to-“

“You’re staying right here.”

Something sharp and cold dug into his ribs. Eyes widening, his palms froze where they pressed against your shoulders, body going rigid against the wall you had him pressed to.

The footsteps were getting closer. He had to get out.

In one swift movement, he grasped your wrist and pushed it down, other hand diving for his gun. As he pushed you away, the knife you held ripped into his suit, a jagged hole opening in dark fabric. Jungkook didn’t notice, cocking and lifting his pistol level with your head, but a blur of scarlet and it was forced from his hand in the same kick that caught his forearm, bringing him crashing to his knees with an oof as metal scraped on the flagstones.

But he was stronger than you.

Forcefully pulling himself away, he swung around, getting one foot underneath him. What he hadn’t anticipated was the lurching of the room, the blackness threatening to close his vision.

He stumbled right into your arms, instantly struggling away but he was so dizzy, and he could not resist. Cold stone met his back – he was sitting.

Your face came into focus. Arms around him, propping him against the wall, calm and collected as he sweated, chest heaving.

The footsteps passed by.

“Nice try, Jungkook,” you smirked. And you left, barefoot in your ballgown as Jungkook lost his battle with consciousness.

He had never told you his name.

The first time, you were introduced as Ash.

The second time, you were Amber.

Then Red.

Now, he knew your face. And he knew your purpose. You were no other ball guest: you were a bodyguard and he was an assassin.

But though he knew your face, he didn’t know your name.

Somehow, you knew his, but though he told Bangtan about you, they could find nothing.

Then he met you as Red, and he realised he knew nothing of you at all.

You didn’t belong in the ballroom. No, you were just like him, presenting a polished lie.

Here, you looked just as much at home in a dirty back alley, surrounded by dangerous criminals. In fairness, the ballrooms had been equally full of such people, but these ones kept their weapons on show.

Jungkook had been working tirelessly for months, infiltrating a gang that threatened his own, and he was to strike tonight. The leader would fall.

And though you wore a black hoodie rather than a ball gown tonight, standing under the night sky instead of a chandelier, he would not underestimate you.

Fog hung heavy in the air, close to the ground, blurring the neon signs visible further down the road.

A car rolled up. Dark windows slid down, but no one inside showed their faces.

He had to admit his surprise when you tailed the leader so closely as the man strolled to the car, stuffing a gold lighter in his pocket. What he would deny, however, was the way he had to restrain himself from stepping forwards, knowing what was about to happen.

The driver clicked his fingers. The passenger bent to retrieve the goods.

A pistol lifted instead, a bang splitting the night.

The effect was instant.

Like cockroaches, the gang scattered. They melted back into the web of backstreets they had come from, not sparing a glance for anyone else. Jungkook, of course, didn’t follow them as the mist swallowed them up, eyes staying locked on target.

You had pulled the leader to the ground before the bullet could reach him, gun already in your own hand.

Another shot rang out as you pushed the man behind you, despite your smaller stature. Somehow you were managing to restrain him. He looked seconds away from throwing himself into danger, rage twisting his face, but you simply fired and dragged him into the darkness behind the building.

From his vantage point in an equally dark mouth of an alley, Jungkook saw you look back around the corner, a shot whipping past your head in response.

You retreated further.

Now it was Jungkook’s turn to move. Holding a hand up, he stepped from his hiding place, the car instantly setting off.

In an ideal world, the first shot would have killed the target, but when you were involved, nothing was ever easy. However, he was not discouraged.

He was a wolf who had just broken up the pack.

Time to pick off his prey.

Smirking, he watched as you looked around you. By now, he had followed you for a few minutes as you led him through streets, pistol at the ready. You kept your distance from the man himself, who had already flicked his golden lighter open for a smoke.

An engine roared close by; you stopped.

You were in a small barely-lit square, one side dominated by a chainlink fence. A gust of wind whistled through the alleys, shaking the barrier, and you jumped around to face it.

He knew he had you off guard. Pressing on, you led Golden Lighter away, already fading among the fog, but footsteps in another alley made you double back. Jungkook saw his target’s cigarette glow through the mist.

Deliberately disturbing the stones by his feet, Jungkook quickly moved to the next alley between buildings in silent steps, a shadow among many others. Emerging again, he stepped slowly forwards.

You were closer now. The fog had grown thicker, but he saw your face, thrown into relief by the red glow of a fading streetlight. You barely dared breathe as you stalked forward, towards the alley he had just stood in.

Recreating the sound from before, he watched with satisfaction as you whipped around, hood falling away from your face.

Now you moved quicker, more intent as you rushed towards him. Stepping out of sight, he watched as you ran around the corner. Before you could blink, he had you pressed against the coarse brick, caging you in with his palm beside your head.

“Jeon Jungkook,” your voice was cool as the air around them.

“Red, was it?”

The corner of your mouth twisted upwards.

“Don’t fancy dancing tonight?”

“No, I’ve enjoyed watching you dance far more,” he cocked his head to one side, smile sliding onto his face as he watched your eyes darken.

Strong hands pushed his shoulders roughly and he stumbled back, smile infuriatingly still on his face. His only reaction seemed to be an eyebrow raised.

“Not like you to lose your cool, Red,” he observed.

“Red?” a voice barked, cutting through the haze behind them.

Your eyes locked across the alley, knowing what the other was thinking.

He raised his arm, you dived at him. A shot rang through the night as your bodies collided. Behind you, the leader did not fall. He was still there somewhere, concealed by grey tendrils of cloud that enveloped the square.

You did not think of him anymore. Not when Jungkook’s gun had fallen from his hand, far from reach, but instead of going after it he brought his arms to your waist. Instead of hunting his target, he pulled you in.

Your lips touched this time, for real.

It was hot, despite the cool night. It was demanding and your eyes were closed, intoxicated, as was he. He tugged at your waist, fingers gripping tight and no space left between you, the kiss so intense only a gunshot could break you apart.

It does.

A shiver and your lips would have touched again. Still wrapped in each other, your panting breaths fell between you, white in the black air.

But horror was frozen in your veins now.

Jungkook pulled away, hard metal of your own gun trailing your waist as he slipped from your grasp, dropping it at your feet.

He only looked back once. Mist swirled around you, stained red with the dying light.

The first time, you were introduced as Ash.

The second time, you were Amber.

Then Red.

Then Blue. A casino this time. You win.

The two of you are playing a dangerous game, gambling with the lives of the damned.

The first time, you were introduced as Ash.

The second time, you were Amber.

Then Red.

Then Blue.

Then simply ‘your worst nightmare’.

A ball, again. Back to your roots, but this time, he did get you alone.

“Who are you?” he panted, pulling his lips from yours, though the distance between you was still slim.

Even in the low light of the space, no bigger than a cupboard, he saw you smirk.

“Your worst nightmare.”

Blue, Red, Amber, Ash.

You were a flame dancing on water. Smoke in his hands.

How long until you were snuffed out?

When your employment took you so often into the lives of the elite, it was difficult not to compare.

Biting into you, the ground was harsh. Clinging to you, your clothes were no comfort. Every now and then, the door just along the alley would open, alluring glow spilling from inside, but you could only dream of sharing that warmth.

The club you had your back to didn’t care for the likes of you, but at least they would leave you alone.

But when a figure stopped at the end of the alley, you began to wish you were in a place people might have noticed you after all.

Another shape joined the first, and another. By this time, you knew it was no coincidence. Getting to your feet, you watched them draw nearer, blocking out any light that may have reached you from the main street as they approached.

“Red,” the growl sent chills through you as you looked into the first man’s face. His scowl was so entrenched, you wondered if he had ever smiled.

Swallowing, you met his eyes with fire. There may be five, no, six men, but you were a good fighter.

When the scowler stepped forwards heavily, you fought to stand your ground. He leered down at you, now towering right above you from within your own space.

Seeing his punch coming, you finally caved and darted to the side. He may be strong but you were quick, and now two more men crowded you, you lashed out, ducking under an arm and kicking one to the ground, righting in time to force the other into an armlock.

Whipping around, you shoved him with all your might into the next man, but by now the first was back.

Cut off one head, and three more take its place.

Now they were surrounding you, and it only took one to react and trap your arm before the fist initially intended for you found its mark. You had been right earlier – he was strong, and knocked the air from you, sending you reeling for longer than you could afford, and now your limbs were captive and brick smashed against the back of your head, outnumbered by men you could not overpower.

Still, you thrashed in their hold, refusing to go down easily. When an iron grasp clamped down on your neck, you kept it up, but only as long as your body was able. Another eye-watering blow and you were fighting for air, all of it expelled from your body when you were starving for it.

The grip relinquished just in time to keep you conscious, but barely a second passed of your gasping and choking before hot pain exploded by your ear. Tears swam in your eyes from the impact. Blinking them away, you only saw a distorted image of darkness, of the men holding you to the wall.

Then the scowling face came back into view, closer than the others. Turns out he did smile, but it was one that terrified you.

“Let. Me. Go!” you spat, jerking again in their hold.

You barely processed the sharp metal jab at your ribs as a dark blur flew towards you, landing another punch to your head that snapped your neck to the side, rendering you limp for a moment. When your eyes opened, it was to blinding pain, scream tearing from your lungs before you could help it, kicking out to no avail.

Though the hand pressing a blade into you did not budge, your every move caused blood to spill, carving into you.

Breathing heavily, your head dropped to your chest as your entire frame shook, pain wracking through it from whatever fire blazed at the base of your neck.

“What do you want?” you whispered.

To your shame, it sounded more like a whimper.

“Revenge,” the first man savoured the word. Lifting your head with a wince, you saw his deadly scowl back in place.

“Chan Kitae is dead because of you.”

His glare bore deep within you. For a moment, he was still, seething rage fizzing like static in the air around him.

Then all at once he exploded forwards, burly hand shoving your shoulder into the wall behind you, head slamming back too as you yelled yourself hoarse with pain. His shaking did not let up, only intensifying as his other hand joined in with a bone-crushing grip.

“I- didn’t- kill him,” you choked out through your teeth.

“But someone did,” he bit back, “and you didn’t stop them.”

You don’t know when he stopped. Everything was dark, everything was pain. You hit the floor without realising it, men finally backing away as a boot stomped down onto your wrist in a parting gesture. Your cry of pain was alien to you.

The pain and the dark had not receded when you opened your eyes.

How long had you been there?

The alley was still bare. No one had come for you. But who would?

Your first attempt to pull your body from the ground crashed and burned, as pain shot through you the moment your raised your head.

Collarbone.

Once again your eyes opened. You had passed out?

Remembering what was broken, you kept your neck still as you could. The pain never left, but you had to sit up. Gritting your teeth, you brought a hand under you to prop yourself up.

Another wrong move.

A cry fell from your lips as you crashed back down.

Okay. Collar, wrist.

Thankfully nothing else, and you finally hauled yourself upright, vision hazy again by the time you made it. Luckily there were some trash bags lumped here by the wall for you to fall back on.

No one else would help you. You had to keep yourself awake, take stock of your injuries, patch yourself up…

Your eyes slid closed.

Jungkook’s smart shoes crunched on the asphalt as he stepped from the club, fingers loosening his top button to let in the cooler air. Wearing a suit to a club was something he despised, but the job necessitated it.

Behind him, the fire door clunked shut. For now, he didn’t need to worry about getting back in.

Only allowing himself a moment to throw his head back and breathe, he soon pulled out his gun, checking the magazine with his back to the main street. No one ever looked down here, but he felt more shielded like this.

Clicking back into place, his magazine nearly drowned out the sound.

Not quite.

Head snapping up, Jungkook’s finger rested on the trigger as his wide eyes searched the darkness in the grimy alley. He was sure he had heard something.

All that faced him now was silence.

Without disturbing it, he stepped forwards. After a couple of paces, a small sound reached his ears. If he hadn’t already been straining his ears to listen, he would have missed the low hiss, but something was definitely here.

Or someone.

He kept going at the same cautious pace, staying quiet.

But then another noise reached him, a mix between a gasp and a cry, choked off as soon as it sounded, overtaken by the ruffling of plastic. Accelerating, Jungkook finally made out a shape in the low light.

A person, slumped on a pile of trash bags. A person he recognised.

As your eyes turned towards him, his step finally faltered. He was frozen at the sight of you, able to make out some of the bruises on your face already.

Then he snapped out of it and rushed forwards, gun hastily shoved away as he fell to his knees in front of you, heart clenching when you flinched away from him. His panicked eyes zig-zagged across you, lips parted in horror at what he saw.

Your face and neck were bruised and blood dripped steadily down the side of your face. Cradled against your chest was one of your hands, and where your sleeves had fallen down he saw fingerprints mottled purple there too. Slowly, hand steady, he brought his fingers up to your chin, raising your head to look him in the eye.

At first, your eyes seemed glazed, not really looking at him. But he chased your gaze, and your eyes widened in recognition as they finally locked with his own.

His thumb was soft against your cheek as he brushed at the stream of blood there, red staining his fingertip. His eyes drifted down to it, jaw clenching before he looked back up with burning eyes.

“Who did this to you?”

“Chan-“ your lips barely moved, the word but a breath past them before you coughed, the force wracking through your body to Jungkook’s alarm.

“Red!”

He hurriedly lifted his hands, catching you by the shoulders as you lurched forwards.

Your weight hung on his arms as you spat blood on the ground, head falling onto his shoulder while he looked around in panic. The alley was empty. Actually, that might be a good thing, but he needed some help here.

Lifting his palm to rub your back, he knew something had changed. He couldn’t pinpoint when, or how, but somewhere along the road, it had.

He couldn’t leave you here.

There was a target, still alive in the club behind him, but that was long forgotten. He took lives every day. It wasn’t often he could save one.

Rolling your head to the side so your profile became visible, your breath hitched for a moment as you swallowed, air falling harshly from your lips straight after.

“Chan…” you hissed through gritted teeth, “Chan… Kitae… his brother…”

Jungkook pressed his lips together at your revelation. Chan Kitae – the man with the golden lighter, the gang leader he had killed. The man Red was charged with protecting.

“Okay. It’s okay,” he murmured.

Keeping one arm firmly held around your back, he dug furiously in his pocket with the other, emerging with a phone.

“Hey, Jin, I need a car,” he glanced down at you, phone pressed to his ear, “yes, I’m still at the club. No, they aren’t dead. No, I’m fine, just- just come here, alright?”

“Red,” he raised you off him after his phone was back in his pocket, “hey. We’re getting out of here.”

Your head was sagging again, so he held the side of your face, pushing your hair away as he balanced you against him.

“Look at me,” he ducked his head slightly to catch your eye.

Obeying, you heaved your eyelids open again as a low rumbling grew and stopped at the end of the alley.

“That’s our ride,” Jungkook smiled.

Looking beyond his shoulder, you saw a sleek black car waiting on the street. Jungkook shifted beside you, lifting you with him as he stood. Despite your attempts to help, to get your feet beneath you, something jolted with every move.

If you thought he didn’t notice your choked-back hisses and whimpers, you were mistaken.

“Come on, it’s not far,” he encouraged, supporting you out into the light of the main street and into the car.

“Jesus, Jungkook!” Jin’s eyes turned to saucers as he saw you slide into the back, “What did you do?!”

As Jungkook climbed in after you, arm still around your waist, he felt you tense, pressing yourself against his side. Away from Jin.

“Don’t worry, it’s just Jin,” he muttered into your ear, tightening his arm around you nonetheless.

But instead of turning back to the wheel, Jin just stared at his dongsaeng, eyes bulging and lips moving around words that never came out. Jungkook could guess what Jin would be saying if he could talk, having been on the receiving end of that incredulous glare several times before.

Are you crazy? What the hell is this?

Who is she?

“This is…” he shifted in his seat, clearing his throat, “this is Red.”

Though Jin finally stopped gaping like a fish, mouth shaping into an understanding ‘o’, he still didn’t start driving. Letting his eyes fall to you in disbelief, he took in your state.

Of course, he had heard all about you. The famous girl that had outsmarted Jungkook.

If it hadn’t been so frustrating for his own business, he would have been delighted someone had finally put his younger brother in his place.

All he could think now, however, was-

“What the fuck?”

Your head was lolling against Jungkook now, but Jin still hissed his words, careful to keep the volume down. Nonetheless, Jungkook jumped in his seat, doleful puppy eyes meeting Jin’s narrowed slits.

“She needs help,” Jungkook fired back with as much urgency.

Despite the exasperated sigh he let past his lips, Jin had to agree. You really didn’t look fit to be defeating any world-class assassins at the moment.

Illuminating the street with his headlights, Jin finally put his foot down.

“Why did you help me?”

Jungkook stopped in the doorway. Pouting, a slight frown crossed his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why would you help me?” you repeated, watching as he crossed the room to place a glass of water by your bedside, “we… we’re on opposing sides. You have to kill someone, I have to stop you. Only one of us gets paid. Why-“

“You don’t get paid?”

“Sorry?” you blinked.

“You don’t get paid if you don’t succeed?”

“No.”

You said it like it was obvious and it broke his heart.

Slowly sinking down to sit beside you on the bed you were healing in, he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not the same here. This is where we all stay-” he gestured to the room around you, “-and we have what we need, no matter if we’ve carried out our missions.”

You had nothing to say, so you stayed silent.

Carefully studying your face, Jungkook swallowed. Since you had met, being on opposing sides hadn’t held back the thoughts of you that plagued him every day and night.

He couldn’t pass up this chance.

“Would you…” he took a deep breath, “would you like to stay?”

The world froze in place around you. Staring at Jungkook, you couldn’t stop the tears pooling or breaking free as you nodded, leaning forwards to capture his lips.

Melting into him as he held you close, arm circling your waist and one hand cupping the back of your head, you felt safe for the first time you could remember. You knew you were home.

You and Jungkook had been enemies for so long, equal strength on opposing sides. But that night, those men made a grave mistake for the people who once depended on you, driving you into the arms of Bangtan once and for all.

Thanks for reading! Please reblog, it really helps me out!

@aianloveseven @preciouschimine @jessyimpala

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

finders keep hers, iii.

read parts one and two! the long awaited conclusion! i’m sorry it turned into a friggin’ novel. i hope it does the first two parts justice, though. these kids are... idiots. i love them and you (and also the best beta reader @hobi-gif)! 💖

pairing. jjk x named f!reader. rating. explicit, ofc. tags. this is... really soft at certain parts. and then really raunchy at others. oops? but fr - mainly fluff with some smut at the end. you might need a filling. wc. 5.4k.

You’re buzzed into the building without a moment’s hesitation, the kind concierge with the gummy smile and greying temples beaming at you as you enter. “Nice to see you, Miss Lee.”

“You too, Mr. Choi.” A grin of your own is offered, gym bag hiked higher over your shoulder as you pause to chat. You’re in no rush. “Is he home?”

“I don’t believe so.” The sudden look of disapproval that colours the older gentleman’s features is almost comical, reminiscent of a disparaging parent. It’s the same expression you’re greeted with nearly every time you visit. “He left in a town car yesterday afternoon and I don’t think he’s been back since. That boy’s going to get himself in trouble one day.” As if Jungkook didn’t already - as if it didn’t follow him around, glued to the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes.

“Tell me about it.”

“You know…” There’s that twinkle in Mr. Choi’s eyes again - the one that tells you he’s about to repeat the same words he always does when he catches you alone. “A nice girl like you could get him to settle down.”

Your response is what it always is - a scoff and a laugh rolled into one. It careens off your tongue, ringing in the spacious lobby. “I don’t think anyone will ever get him to settle down.”

How true that is, you’re not sure. For your sake, you try not to think about it too much.

The old man is undeterred though, shrugging his narrow shoulders beneath the neat uniform he wears. It’s a little loose in the chest but immaculate otherwise, tie knotted in a classic Windsor and collar ironed perfectly. He levels you with that shrewd stare of his but says nothing further, simply engaging you in an unspoken staring contest.

Sometimes, you wonder how much he sees. How much he knows .

You break before he does, tearing your gaze away and blinking rapidly. He laughs, full bellied and deep from the chest. “Get on upstairs, Miss Lee.” You aren’t offended by the dismissal. “It’s always nice chatting with you.”

You remind yourself to bring him chocolates the next time you’re by. The ones with hazelnuts, because those are his favourite. A fact you only know because you’ve helped your best friend pick up a box for him every Christmas, writing the card and having him sign it right before it gets left behind the desk.

Actually, you helped Jungkook with a lot of things. Always had. It was simply the nature of your friendship - passed down by your parents and forged stronger by childhood playdates, your fair share of teenage squabbling, and college hangovers so bad they’d created an unbreakable bond.

Whenever he would need you, you’d be there - whether that meant picking him up at 4 AM from the airport because he wanted “some shitty fast food and to see you” or helping him pick gifts for Mother’s Day. There was no task too small, no moment too inconsequential.

Unconditional love, they called it.

It’s why you have no problem swanning into his apartment with the extra key you’ve had since he moved in, kicking off your trainers and tucking them neatly alongside the rows of black leather and expensive sneakers.

You do so much for him that you take where you can, indulging in all of the luxuries you’ve never been afforded. Unparalleled view, stupidly expensive toiletries, a damn jacuzzi tub .

You pull your sweater over your head - truthfully, one of Jungkook’s from college that you’d never felt inclined to give back - and toss it over the back of a barstool on your way into the guest suite. Your bag follows shortly after, deposited at the foot of the bed that exists as a rotating welcome mat to your and Jungkook’s circle of friends.

The rest of your clothes - sports bra, shorts, thong, socks - are stripped, folded, and tucked into the laundry bag you keep handy. You know you could leave them here and Jungkook’s housekeeper would take care of it, but you’ve never been too comfortable with that. Different upbringings.

The spray is like sweet relief the moment you step beneath the rainforest shower. It’s the perfect temperature and pressure, melting the sweat and tension from your bones.

But it isn't why you’re here, so you make quick work in the glass enclosure, scrubbing your body bare and lathering and conditioning your hair into a squeaky clean mess. Any other time, you’d just spend a good half hour standing beneath the head but you’re feeling particularly indulgent today.

Call it a spa day, courtesy of one Jeon Jungkook.

You don’t bother to dry off, water splashing across the floor as you step from the shower and sink into the spacious tub that overlooks the heart of Seoul. Diptyque bath oil encapsulates the room in a bubble of sweet almond, similarly branded candle burning on the ledge. The jets release a steady stream against your tired back and legs, massaging your limbs into jelly.

You can’t help the sigh of utter relaxation that rolls off your tongue, sinking into water in the same instance your shoulders do.

This is what dreams are made of. Anyone who says differently is an idiot and a liar.

“When are you going to tell her?”

You’re not expecting the voice and it breaks the silence like a thousand pound weight, shattering the calm and nearly startling you enough for you to knock your head on the edge of the tub.

There’s no reason for you to be surprised. Not really. This isn’t your home, after all. You aren’t entitled to any sort of privacy.

It doesn’t matter, though. The discomfort in your chest is unfolding regardless, lodging rocks in your throat.

Because it’s a female voice. Lilting, soft, draped in familiarity. Not someone brand new.

Your heart stutters at the realisation. The rush of blood against your eardrums is so loud you momentarily wonder whether they can hear it all the way in the living room. They must be able to - it’s practically deafening. You can’t even hear the rest of their conversation.

Their conversation .

Which seems to have ended, leaving only silence.

You suddenly remember your shoes, your sweater. Traces of you littered throughout the apartment that isn’t yours. God, you’re an idiot. He was going to kill you - or she was. You’re not sure which is worse.

You’re reaching for the fluffy white towel on the rack when you’re scared near half to death yet again. This time, by your best friend who cuts an imposing figure in the doorway, broad form resting casually against the frame. He looks surprisingly unbothered, curls pushed back from his forehead by a pair of sunglasses and arms folded over his chest.

“Jesus!” The shriek comes four octaves higher than it normally would, pitching into the open so loudly you wince. “You scared me!”

You can’t help the way you peek past his shoulder for a sign of the girl he’d brought home.

“Enjoying yourself?” There’s something amused dancing in the darks of his eyes, his mouth curving around the same emotion as he steps into the bathroom. You’d be bothered if he were anyone else, unnecessarily long legs carrying him to you in three strides.

“I didn’t know you were home.” You can’t quite meet his stare, still far too distracted by the mystery woman. Had he left her on the couch? Maybe his bedroom as he snuck you out? What excuse could he come up with?

“Didn’t know you were home either.”

He’s made himself comfortable right on the ledge of the tub, marked fingers dragging lazily through the still-scalding water. He doesn’t seem terribly in a rush. That puts you on edge.

Was he going to hide you in here?

“I wanted to relax after my run.” You don’t owe him an explanation - not really - but you offer it anyway. You figure you need to, when you might’ve ruined his Sunday morning romp session. You can’t bring yourself to address it, though. The words just won’t come, sitting on the tip of your tongue like thorns. It hurts to swallow.

Jungkook doesn’t further the conversation - a first for him. He’s normally a chatterbox.

The silence stretches on. Suffocating.

You force yourself to speak, staring down at your hands that are slowly pruning beneath the water. “Should I… go?” The way it comes is feeble, soft, uncertain. You hate it.

By the look of surprise on his face, he does, too. He cackles suddenly, like a goddamn witch. “Why?”

Heat floods across your cheeks. You wish you could blame it on the bath or the steam that still collects on the mirrors. It pulls high over your ears, colouring them tomato red and embarrassed. Surely, he knows why.

When he repeats himself, it’s harder, without any of the laughter from before.

Rather than answer, you wave a hand through the air, fingers wiggling. The universal sign for you know . It should be enough - you hope it’s enough. Your ego won’t let you verbalise it.

“Suddenly mute, baby?”

It isn’t quite mocking - teasing, maybe - but it stokes the fire that burns in the pit of your stomach and licks uncomfortably at the organ in your chest. You don’t even look at him as you nearly spit the words, petulant and far more bothered than you should be. “You’ve got a girl here.”

A laugh that isn’t quite a laugh comes, swathed in velvet and coloured blue. The effort you make to not shoot him a glare is herculean.

He’s still snickering when he speaks. “You mean my sister?”

“Your sister?” It’s more surprise at yourself that has you whipping to look at him, bewilderment tossing all other emotion out the window. Because his sister was practically your sister. How had you not recognised her voice? You feel silly all at once, the embarrassment from earlier fading into reticence.

“Yeah. I spent the night babysitting the twins.”

You sometimes forget how much Jungkook loves children - especially his sisters’. It’s hard to reconcile the family man he effortlessly transforms into when he spends most of his waking hours playing the perfect part of unaffected bachelor.

“How are they?” You ask because you care - you adore Minseo and Minhyuk - but also so you can move the conversation along. The last thing you want to do is dwell on your mistake.

“They’re good. Getting big.” He’s got that smile on his face - the one that’s softer than any other, with deep lines at the corners of his eyes. Reserved especially for the people he cares about most. Your favourite sight. “You can come with me next time. Minnie asked about you, anyway.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest.

Being liked by peers? Great. Being respected by your superiors? Rewarding. But being loved by children? It was in a league all its own - better than ice cream on a hot day.

“Sure.” You can’t keep the grin away.

That is, until he speaks again, circling the conversation back. “So, were you jealous?” His ability to piss you off is uncanny. It’s like it’s written into his genetic code, each molecule of his body tasked with ruining your day.

“No.” It’s meant to be a scoff. It’s not very believable.

“You sure, princess?” The fingers on your chin are wholly unnecessary - he’s got you caught in his stare, locked in place with nowhere to go.

“Yes, Bunny .” You know how much he hates the nickname, only tolerating it because it’s you. You can’t deny the pleasure that comes at the sight of his jaw tensing, muscle jumping in agitation. Just as he’s your weakness, you’re his, too. “Now let me finish—”

He cuts you off, sharp and unrelenting: “Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out of the tub or I’m pulling you out myself.” Risen to his full height, he’s an imposing figure. Even worse, there’s something you can’t read in his expression - something that has your nerves firing wildly. Your heart rattles around in your chest, uncertain.

He leaves you without another word.

You scramble out of the bath as quickly as your confused limbs allow you, knotting the towel beneath your arms. You’re not quite sure what to do next, caught between pulling your clean clothes out of your workout bag and demanding an answer from your sphinx of a best friend.

What the hell was his problem?

Your impatience wins out as you’re tugging a brush through your hair, fumbling uncharacteristically through knots until you’re too frustrated to continue. You’re ready to tear into him when you storm out of the guestroom; you’ve got a barrage of insults on your tongue, proverbial gun cocked and ready to unload.

They melt away when you spy him on the couch, neatly wrapped bouquet laid across the coffee table.

“Come here.” It’s not a request so much as a demand - commanding and soft all at once. A small part of you wants to fire off a rebuttal; that part dies when he repeats himself, louder this time.

The seat you take beside him is begrudging, a good foot of space held between your bodies. You fiddle with the hem of your towel, turning a loose thread over and over your index finger.

“What?” It’s snippy, discontent - kerosene on the fire that burns beneath Jungkook’s skin.

“Watch it,” he retorts, though there’s no acid to his words. Frankly, he sounds more frustrated than angry, more exasperated than pissed off.

That makes one of you.

Only he can bring out this side of you - brusque and biting. “ You watch it, Bunny.”

Fingers find the bridge of his nose, a gesture you don’t see very often. Guilt blooms behind your ribcage as he rubs at the tension between his eyes. For someone who has it all, he looks like he’s a moment away from losing it.

“You’re a brat, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you retort, not unkindly.

“You’re making this really hard,” he snaps in the same instant he all but throws the overwhelming bunch of flowers at you.

You nearly drop them you’re so surprised.

“What are these for?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Did I stutter?”

If you weren’t so busy studying the arrangement of florals, you’d have some witty comeback. As it stands, you’re preoccupied by the pretty bunch of peonies and tulips. You wonder what he’s done wrong - why he’s found it necessary to soften the blow with your favourite flowers.

Your thoughts drift back to his sister’s words: when are you going to tell her?

All at once, you want nothing more than to leave. You don’t want whatever heartbreak is about to come. You’re not ready for it.

“Listen—”

He cuts you off, again. “I love you.”

You’re not sure how your face looks. You imagine you could look up flabbergasted in the dictionary and you’d find a photo of your expression right now. “What?”

Jungkook won’t quite look at you, intently focused on an indiscernible point against the far wall. When he speaks the words again, they’re full of uncertainty - but not in the way you expect. The confession is as believable as any you’ve ever heard - he really does sound like he loves you - but somehow, it’s draped in dread and held aloft by hummingbird wings. “I love you.”

He’s nervous, you realise in amazement.

“Come again?”

He meets your stare then, brow knitting with unease. He doesn’t say it again, though.

“Are you messing around with me?” You don’t mean it how it comes - a little accusatory.

“I’m not an asshole.” Except both of you know he certainly can be. You don’t call him on it, though, opting instead to peer curiously at him, hands fisted around the bouquet in your lap. “I talked to my sister. She…” He shrugs once, an almost helpless roll of his shoulders. “She told me I was an idiot.”

You’re not surprised by that. Lina had always been the one to give it to him straight.

“She said I would lose you if I didn’t get my shit together.” There’s a bit of childish petulance that works its way into each syllable - he hates being told what to do. “Said I needed to tell you or I’d regret it. Which is stupid, because we’ve been best friends forever and she’s younger than me so what does she know—” He must realise he’s rambling, something he never does. “But—”

“But?” Quiet, hopeful, coaxing.

There’s a warmth in your chest - illuminating and golden and so bright it hurts to think about. It grows with each moment that passes, spurred on by the look in his eyes and how they find yours.

Hesitation pulls the silence a beat too long. The light wanes. You wonder if the moment has passed.

And then he continues, a little more earnestly. “Was she right? Am I going to lose you?”

You’re not entirely sure what he’s asking. You don’t think he even knows what he’s asking. You try to answer anyway, as honest as you can without pinning your heart directly on your sleeve. “You’ll never lose me.”

“You know what I mean.”

Did you? “You’ll never lose me.” You’re the one repeating yourself this time, just that bit harder.

“Then say it.” Again, not a request. A prayer, perhaps. Ardent and needy - a world away from the Jeon Jungkook you know.

You don’t hesitate. “I love you.”

He doesn’t either - upon you so quickly you don’t have time to blink or think.

How he kisses you now feels different. More . It’s like being consumed entirely - changed from the inside out in ways you never thought possible. Where he touches, sparks fly, filling you like stars in the night sky. Lava rolls over every inch, dragging heat and want and need from the soles of your feet to the tip of your nose. You’re gasping rather than breathing, clawing against the front of his shirt and twining your fingers into the strands that curl over his nape.

“You never told me you could kiss like that.” It’s lacking coherence, made by a partial inhale and wild, wondrous eyes.

His response is a laugh and another kiss, forceful and adoring and utterly devastating. “Shut up,” he mouths against your lips, tongue licking over your teeth and gums like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you. Hands follow in the same amorous motions, tugging and pulling and aching for you closer; the tips of his fingers sear white hot heat over your hips, the small of your waist, the delicate bones of your ribcage.

“I’m serious...” You really are - far more than you should be. You’d been missing out on this ? It’s incomprehensible.

The sound he makes is more of a growl, playful and resounding in the cavern of his chest. It rattles your own, sending your heart on a downward spiral into the pit of your stomach. His nose traces the column of your throat, soft lips guiding him further until he’s mouthing hotly over the bare skin of your shoulder. Tongue teases, delves ever so gently into the dip of your collarbone, and swipes back up, laving over the maroon that peeks around the edge of his teeth. You can’t help but keen, holding him so closely you wonder if you’re suffocating him.

“So am I.” Each syllable is punctuated by another nip, another nibble. It seems like his goal is to bloom roses across your skin - a wreath to welcome him home, made by his own touch.

You don’t mind.

“Say it again,” he demands, hopeful and unashamed from his place against your neck.

The admission comes easily, as if it’s always lived on the tip of your tongue. “I love you.”

“Again.” You’re not ready for the way he stares at you - like he’s never done before. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and he’s awestruck. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” Hands find the familiar contours of his face, thumbs brushing over the hollows of his eyes, over the beauty mark that sits front and centre beneath his lip. Each graze follows a repetition of the confession, as if you might burn the three simple words beneath his skin - write it into his DNA like he’s written into yours. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Bunny .”

He holds you close - so tightly it feels almost as if he’ll crush you - and captures your mouth again. It’s more gentle but just as lovesick. A thousand unspoken words spill from his tongue to yours, swallowed whole with greed you don’t bother to hide.

“I need you.” It’s whiny, framed by a pout that could end wars and paired with doe eyes so wide and innocent you almost want to roll your own.

“You have me.”

“Do I?” There’s a very deliberate roll of his hips, denim of his jeans rough against the exposed softness of your inner thighs, hands manoeuvring over the partially covered swell of your hips. The press of his fingers is purposeful, digging tension into every inch. As if he might transfer some of the unadulterated need that thrums through his veins, turning his heart to jelly and brain to mush.

“Since when do you ask?” You have a point.

“You’re right,” his grin is almost lazy, drawing over his mouth in a measured crawl. “Good girls just do what they’re told, right?” His grips tightens almost imperceptibly, holding you to him almost effortlessly. You’ve been in this position a hundred times before but it’s never been this easy - like breathing.

The gasp you offer is all mock affront, hand laid palm-down across your chest. You don’t miss the way his gaze follows it before ticking lower, unabashed in its admiration. “Are you saying I’m not?”

“Don’t know, baby.” The war on your neck has resumed, teeth traded seamlessly for the softer promise of his tongue, the dry brush of his lips. It’s almost sinful, garnering sighs of affection and need from somewhere low in your throat. “Want to be a good girl for me?”

You’re not quite used to this version of him - playful and needy and not nearly as demanding as usual. A part of you wants to draw out the side of him you know is there, hidden just beneath the surface; the other wants to bask in this, all feather soft and cotton candy sweet.

“Always,” you return, with a coquettish smile and fluttering lashes.

“Always,” he murmurs, tasting it for the first time. He sounds almost giddy when he repeats it once, then twice, then a third time for good measure. You think it’ll come again, laughter rolling off your tongue as you stare into the eyes of the boy you love. Instead, he speaks in a voice full of gravel and grit, all traces of your sunshine boy suddenly swallowed whole by the darks of his pupils. “Fuck - I can’t wait to have you.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?” You don’t need to push him. You like to do it anyway. It feels right .

“You’re the worst.” What Jungkook means is you’re the best and I love you and I’m going to fuck you six ways into next week . What he means is this is the scariest thing he’s ever done but it’s all right because he has you. What he means is thank you - and how he shows it is through worship.

On the way to the bedroom, he crowds every inch of you, holding you so closely you wonder if he’s trying to carve himself into your bones. He’s firm and unrelenting, balancing you against his chest as he smothers every available inch of your shoulders in sweet, sloppy kisses. He revels in the way you cling to him like you’ve never needed anything else.

In his bed, he lays you out and strips you bare. He offers devotion with every pass of his fingers, every trail of his tongue. He wants you so badly it’s hard to focus on giving you everything you deserve, but he tries anyway. He sucks love into your neck and over your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers until you’re panting and he’s aching for the same treatment.

On his knees, he prays at the altar of your body, taking his time to map the constellations on your skin, the memories written into each scar and dot. His tongue follows the raised flesh that sits across your hip - an unfortunate mishap from a schoolyard dare. You whine and he nearly cries, soothing over the sensitive spot with hands and lips and tenderness. He lays kisses on each freckle, each irregular mark. From your navel to your knee and everywhere in between, he caresses and comforts, turning those blemishes into stars.

He also teases - subtly, quietly, with wandering hands and focused breaths. You don’t realise it until it’s too late, your insides molten, your pulse a thunderclap in your ears.

“Jungkook.” It sounds more like begging than anything. Exactly what he wants.

“What’s up, princess?” Spoken so casually, as if he isn’t between your legs, long fingers tracing through the slick that coats your thighs. He gazes up from behind too long strands, all wide-eyed and terribly sweet - until he pops a digit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the taste of you. “Something wrong?”

“Stop teasing.” You hear yourself whine but it doesn’t quite sound like you, higher pitched and needier than you’ve ever been.

“I thought you were going to be good for me,” he returns with a tut and a push of that same finger deep into your cunt. He flexes it experimentally, beaming up at you when you clench around the intrusion that’s too much and not even close to being enough all at once. “You’re so wet, baby. I just slide right in.”

As if to drive his point home, he drives another finger in, scissoring them languidly to stretch you open. It’s such a pretty sight, messy and inviting. He can’t resist a taste, dragging the flat of his tongue over and around the fingers that continue to fuck into you at a faster pace.

“ Jungkook! ” You’re shrieking, bucking against the onslaught of sensations. A shapely arm immediately cages you against the bed, palm splayed across your hips.

“Stay still.” It’s a growl, teeth bared against the sensitive pearl between your legs. Words are punctuated with the softest pressure - a silent threat that goes no further. You wonder what he’ll do if he has to repeat himself. “Good girls listen, remember?”

You’re fumbling across his shoulders, nails digging crescents everywhere you can reach. You need him so badly it hurts . “Please.”

“Please what?” That patented, stupid smirk cradles his mouth, tongue peeking out as he stares at you expectantly. “If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.” He watches the way your eyes roll back into your head when he slots another finger in with the others and curls them against that particular spot that has you seeing stars. The bastard has the audacity to coo at you. “What’s wrong, baby? Can’t speak?”

You’re near wailing, gasping and whining around words that sound like his name. Angry red lines sprout across his shoulders, his arms - demands carved into flesh.

He makes a sound, wistful and resigned. You think - try to think, beyond the pleasure that’s building steadily in the pit of your stomach - that he’s finally going to give you what you need. You’re almost crying for it, moisture crowding your lashes and threatening to spill over.

Then he withdraws, all at once.

You could scream. In fact, you do, red in the face and chest heaving. “I hate you!”

“No.” He’s upon you in an instant, insistent and terribly smug. There’s a playground in his smile, childish laughter spilling into the spaces between you. “You actually love me.” He noses at your neck, the heat of his palm searing against your side as he sighs almost dreamily. “Say it again.”

You answer him with something more than love - frustration and annoyance and so much devotion you can’t keep it out no matter how hard you try. “No.”

It’s a challenge more than anything. He knows it; you know it.

He accepts it readily, just as you expect him to.

“Say it.” Enamel presses steady, heavy, into the sensitive spot right beneath your ear. He mouths over the skin that blows out red and inviting beneath his ministrations, the firm press of his fingers gripping you without hesitation. You can feel the entire weight of him against you, length nestled comfortably against your core. He repeats himself as he rocks against you, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock through your folds with an agonising slowness that has you clenching around nothing. “Come on, baby.”

You’re keening, adjusting your hips and grinding against him. You still won’t say it, hoping to find a rhythm in the quiet that’s punctuated by your laboured breaths and his occasional laughter.

“Just say it and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you everything. Promise, sweetheart.”

Framed against the late morning sun, hair spilling across his forehead in curls of india ink, he’s so handsome your heart leaps into your throat. “I love you.” It’s a wet confession, carried by a wave of emotion you don’t expect.

“I love you,” he echoes, sinking into you so gradually you feel like you’re caught in slow motion, all of your focus balanced on the tip of a needle.

It’s never been like this before. Each inch is a delicious stretch, filling you and claiming you. The drag is incredible, your walls fluttering around the intrusion and aching for more. You bite back a sob, digging into the wide expanse of his back with your nails as your mouth seeks purchase anywhere it can - over his jaw, up his neck, across his shoulders. He soothes you as he presses deeper, reassurances whispered against your temple.

“I’ve got you, baby. Let me make you feel good.” When he bottoms out, you demand more - somehow, somehow - locking your ankles against the small of his waist. He doesn’t miss the way you clench, so tight around him it almost hurts , when he says those three words once again. “I love you.”

His lips find yours and he brushes them over and over - a salve for the burn he ignites beneath your skin. It doesn’t matter that he’s both the calm and the chaos. Jungkook’s always been everything to you.

The rhythm he sets is unhurried and perfect. Each snap of his hips has his cock dragging against your walls, filling and stretching you so well; everywhere his skin brushes yours, you’re alive. There are a million nerve endings going haywire beneath your skin, flashing bright as holiday lights.

That’s what it’s like - Christmas morning . Picture perfect and filled with wonder.

He’s completely smitten when he draws back just enough to see the entirety of you - your fucked-out expression, the rose-wreath he’s wrought around your neck, the sweat that beads between your tits and tempts him to duck his head. “I love you.” It’s almost hypnotising - watching you take him, pussy dripping and needy around his cock.

“I love you,” you parrot back - or try to. It’s not very coherent, driven to a point of nonsense when his hips begin to stutter and he makes up for the loss of rhythm by slipping his fingers over your clit in circle eights.

You’re at your breaking point. He knows - can read you like the back of his hand - and holds you there, back bowing to kiss you breathless, pressure unrelenting against the bundle of nerves.

“That’s it, princess. Right there.”

The coil snaps at the third pass and there are hot tears streaming down your cheeks, his name spilling off your tongue in tandem with the erratic thudding of your heart. White spots your vision, entire body electrified as you crash headlong into an abyss of bliss. You hear him join you with a hoarse whine, a mix of your cum slipping out of you as he rides out his own high with shallow thrusts, mouth open and panting against your shoulder.

The comedown is hazy, dusted in exhaustion and a thin sheen of sweat. When he slips from you, he doesn’t go far, tugging you comfortably against his side like you’re not both a little gross. It’s not the first time you’ve fucked but it feels different.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, Bunny.”

You realise - it feels exactly like that. Making love.

614 notes · View notes

yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

they don’t love you like i love you, ii.

read parts one and three! i loved this universe too much not to write a second part.

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. general. tags. angst because the reader is a jealous ass mf. but also, crack and romance because these two are so dumb and still in love it hurts. wc. 1.1k.

“You know he’s seeing someone new.” It’s an off-hand comment and certainly not supposed to hurt the way it does, as if the words are glass shards and not an inconsequential breath of air. They’re not supposed to dig beneath your fingernails like splinters and slip between your third and fourth rib like a dagger to the heart.

“What?”

How you manage to keep the emotion out of your voice, you’re not very sure. You deserve an Oscar.

“Yeah, I was over at his place the other day while he was doing laundry.” Jimin tells the story like it’s just another Friday - like he isn’t tearing your heart apart in his hands. “He had a thong in his basket. Looked pretty fancy, too.”

The clear liquid in his glass swirls before he takes a careful sip, humming delightedly.

“Wait - sorry. Is it okay for us to be talking about this?” You can’t deny the sweet frame of his mouth, how the Cupid’s bow rounds so cutely as he levels you with a look that could cure even the worst of broken hearts. “I know you guys are friends still but I mean—” He scrubs his hand across the back of his neck, sheepish.

“It’s fine, Chim.” You don’t quite look at him when you squeeze his knee. You hope he doesn’t notice.

Whether he only pretends not to or truly doesn’t isn’t clear. He’s good like that - intuitive in ways most people could only hope to be. You appreciate that now more than ever.

You do notice, however, that there are no further mentions of your ex - or his new girlfriend.

You almost forget about it entirely.

Until you’re standing on the curb, tired and more than a little tipsy. You’d said your goodbyes over a half an hour ago - pressed adoring kisses against Jin’s cheek until he was red in the face and spluttering loudly - and had finally, thankfully, stumbled your way out of the exclusive restaurant. Your feet feel awful, throbbing everywhere you apply even the slightest amount of pressure, and you lean heavily against the light post. It doesn’t do much to alleviate the pins and needles.

Your Uber should be here any minute now.

“Need some help?”

It doesn’t matter that it’s like listening through a door, wobbly and distorted from the alcohol that buzzes in your veins. In a hundred life times, in a sea of thousands, you’d recognize that voice. It’s the devil himself, called to your side like you’d made a deal at the crossroads.

You flinch away from the sound, nearly toppling over in your haste to put some space between you.

Because he’s seeing someone new now and you can’t lean on him, no matter how much you want to. Not that you want to.

We’re just friends, you remind yourself.

Jungkook’s wearing the strangest expression - some heady blend of vaguely fucked up and all too observant. The slope of his jaw shifts, grows tense as the muscle jumps. You can tell he’s grinding his teeth by the set of his mouth. It’s one of your favourite looks.

When he speaks again, he sounds strange - guarded, almost. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you snap, belligerent like an all-too typical twenty-something year old who’s had too much to drink. It breaks off the edge of your teeth, snapping from your tongue like bubblegum.

Exasperation takes over so quickly it gives you whiplash. “You don’t look fine.” Before you have time to react, he’s stooping down to undo the straps on your towering heels. “You look like you’re about to eat shit on the curb, actually.”

Despite his tone, he’s utterly gentle, easing your poor feet onto the bare ground - you shudder at the thought but god, does it feel good - and looping your Valentino’s around his forefinger.

“It’s not your problem.” Antagonism spills out of every pore, dressing your words in a brattiness that very rarely sees the light of day. You can feel yourself being an asshole. You just wish you could blame it entirely on the cocktails or the three doubles of shōchū you’d knocked back with Jin but you can’t.

You’re bitter as hell and you have absolutely no right to be.

“Then whose is it?” He’s not crowding you like you’d expected, instead pulling your loose-limbed frame against his side. It’s easy when he’s so broad, shoulders swallowing you whole. He smells terribly good, like sunshine and the beach. It reminds you of your last vacation together - of ice cold beers and saltwater, skinny dipping and funny tan lines. You almost lean into the scent, eager to wrap yourself in the memory.

He has a girlfriend! The angel on your shoulder is practically screaming at you, tugging at your ear in a poor effort to deter you.

“You’re dating someone!” The words explode out of you like a bullet. It’s not the answer he expects, nor is it the one you mean to give.

By the look on his face, though, they’ve hit their mark.

His grip slackens at your side and for the first time in five years, you can’t read him. You think he’ll let you go then. You’re ready to steady yourself back against the light post, ready to snatch your shoes out of his hand.

And then he starts laughing. Not even a chuckle, but a full-belly, shoulder-shaking laugh. It vibrates through his entire body and because he doesn’t let you go - still holding you far too close as the sound bounces around and fills up the entire street - you feel it too, all the way down to your aching toes.

“Stop laughing,” you hiss, vehement and angry and more than a little embarrassed.

“Who am I dating?” He’s not even bothered, wiping at tears with his free hand. You note that the other remains steadfastly curled around you, the edge of your heel digging into the exposed expanse of your back.

“How am I supposed to know? Jimin saw her thong in your laundry.”

You know you sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend but you’re not. You swear you’re not.

The smuggest look fits itself over his face, crinkling his nose and slotting between his teeth. You regard him warily because he looks like he’s really just won the lottery - or is about to prove you wrong, which is almost the same thing. “You mean your thong?”

You realize then that you’re an idiot. Jungkook reminds you of it the next morning when he tosses said scrap of lace at you from across the kitchen island, nearly landing it in the cup of coffee he’s just made for you.

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

( GHOST IN MY BED. )

Sometimes, hating someone is the only thing you can do.

pairing. jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre + rating. rockstar!au. e2l (exes n enemies!). general angst.

tags / warnings. everything about this is pain. you can literally spin in a circle and point at somewhere on the page and it’ll be pain. i’m sorry.

beta reader(s). @midnighttifa (your comments make my days better, @pars-ley (you’re so lovely), and @papillonsgf (i owe you my life and all my love). thank you, my dears! 💖

wc. 3k

chapter three.

You’d thought they’d left - all the memories of him. Packed into cardboard boxes and plastic bins, folded between clothes and bare picture frames.

You realise now, they’d only been hiding, waiting for his return.

The smell of your perfume. His favourite one, strawberry jam and cosy cedar wood. It calls to moments together, of his face buried into the side of your neck. Wandering hands and wondrous laughter, warmth crowding everywhere. The wet of his teeth against your skin as he’d smile. Springtime and Sunday matinees, fresh picked fruit and messy kisses.

The mirror in your hallway - the one you’d taken too many photos in front of, that’d you almost broke one drunken stumbling night. The one he’d loved you breathless in, with a hand at your throat and another on your waist. Where he’d whisper sweet nothings with eyes only for you. Where your little piece of paradise was preserved by a pretty iron frame.

The tee shirt that you’d washed and promised to return but never had, keeping it as a trophy. A rightful reminder of his love. How it fits you just right without fitting you at all, comfortable and lazy and effortless. A mirror image to the one he wears now.

You find pieces of him scattered everywhere, swept under rugs and tucked within cupboards. He’s there in the kettle that whistles and the tea that steeps, dipped in the honey pot and hidden behind your curtains. He’s there in your thoughts, tucked away on the top shelf that you pretend doesn’t exist.

Even as he sits, still and unimposing on the couch you’d both picked, he’s everywhere.

How is he everywhere?

“Want some help?” It floats across the space, comfortably as if he’d never left. It fits easily, familiar and lovely. You hate it. You hate how it makes you feel, digging up emotions you’d buried from their rightful place in the ground.

“I’m fine.”

A lie. Lily white and inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things.

You’re not quite sure why you bother. Whose feelings were you sparing - his or yours?

“You sure?” It’s closer than you anticipate, a ghost of a breath over your shoulder. It sends your mind reeling, feet following in the same fashion as you all but slam into the hard block edge of your counter. You nearly topple mugs as you go, only avoiding a disastrous mess when hands find you, catch you like that’s what they were made for.

Jungkook’s an indomitable figure, palms searing heat into every nerve ending beneath his touch. You can’t help the way you instinctively lean into him. You love him somewhere deep in your bones, in the stardust that makes up every atom - a moth drawn to his flame.

But you knew better now. Fly too close to the sun - you’ll only get burned.

“Please don’t touch me.”

It’s you who breaks away first, turned towards the scent of chamomile and lavender. You can only imagine his expression; it’ll twist out of shape, crooked like you’ve just kicked him while he’s down.

You suppose you have, but he’d thrown the first punch.

“Why’d you invite me in if you’re only going to ignore me?” It hits like a shot to the gut, exactly as it’s meant to. He isn’t asking for the sake of asking - he’s asking so you’ll cry yourself hoarse and find comfort in his arms. He’s asking because he knows the answer and he wants you to regret it.

You know it. You know this side of him, even if you wish you didn’t.

Even if you wish he was still the same boy who you’d fallen in love with years ago, full of sunshine and promise. The one who’d have held you all night, kissed you senseless under the moon and held your hand through the sunrise. Who’d break his own back bending over, weather a hundred storms for the people he loved.

It’s a silly wish - a useless one, wasted on shooting stars and broken bones.

He would never be that boy again. He’d come too far, changed too much. You hardly even recognise him now, cut from stone rather than cloth. A thousand sharp edges you catch your hands on when you foolishly reach for him. He is an incomplete masterpiece and you’ve never been artistic. There’s nothing for you here.

A mug is extended - an unnecessary apology. An olive branch in the form of your old ritual. “Please don’t say that.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Can’t do or say anything.” It’s petulant and angry, a riot crowded behind his teeth. You’re worried what the words might do - how they’ll beat you black and blue.

“I don’t know what you expected.” You can’t hide the exasperation, the overwhelming sadness that starts in your heart and branches out into your veins. It creeps further, presents itself prettily in jewels nestled along your lash line and the tremble of your chin. You’d cry if you weren’t so tired, every ounce of your effort eaten up by the boy that glares at you now and demands more than you can possibly give.

He sighs - a long, unbroken sound - and something shifts, snaps into place as if the entire cosmos has aligned to allow this moment.

He looks like him suddenly, like the version of himself you’d thought long lost. It’s hidden in the peculiar shape of his mouth, uneven around his frown; it’s there in the light of his stare, where sunbeams pour past boarded up windows. It’s there, even where you can’t quite see it, in the corner of his soul and his drifting heart. He’s always been a wanderer.

But then he moves, retreats back to his seat and to himself.

He feels farther away than the moon, his silence that of the stars.

You take a careful sip of the liquid that burns through ceramic - anything to distract from the cold hands of memory that claw at your neck. You turn words over in your hand - test them for clarity and weight, a jeweller inspecting their most prized possessions. Was there anything you could say that would make this better? That would fix this gaping, Jungkook-shaped silhouette that tore a hole right through you?

You remember how you’d fallen for him, tumbled headlong into love with him - intensely, blindly, wholeheartedly. It’d been easy then. You’d dived into depths too shallow, climbed trees too fall; you hadn’t thought your heart would break, even if every other part of you did.

You’d thought it’d all be worth it.

Instead you’re left with alkaline bones calcified under paper-thin skin, parchment sewn together by shaking hands and sodden by saltwater. It’s hardly a body at all, ripe for the picking and bruising and tearing beneath teeth like knives.

Can you blame him for how he hurts you when you’d already hurt yourself?

There’s a tang on your tongue. It pools between seams, dripping misery into your mouth and swallowing the sob that’s formed in a wave. It crashes against your teeth, stings the pink of your gums with salt; it rises and crests, engulfing sandy shores you’d once built your home upon. It comes and comes and you can’t stop it - sound bursting forth like a siren song.

He’s upon you then, utterly defenseless to your call. He crowds you before he can think twice about it; a drowning man seeking air. It’s a pretty metaphor for a pretty boy. What he doesn’t realise is that he is a galaxy all his own - not a sailor lost at sea but a swirling vortex not fit for human life. Jungkook contains no oxygen of his own, smothering you in what he calls love and feels more like hell.

“I’m sorry.” It disappears into velvet, clinging to silk like electricity. They spark in your eyes, electrifying your thoughts. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

Arms do the opposite of what they’re meant to. They crush your resolve beneath the weight of them - pry open your insides - and you’re crumbling. The agony comes in sheets, like September rain. It streaks down your cheeks and soaks your clothes, sinking beneath your skin until you’re waterlogged.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you say that to me.”

Don’t lie to me, you think.

He speaks the words he thinks you want to hear, weaving them until they’re a muzzle for your sadness. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” As if good intentions make up for the way your heart aches.

They don’t. .

“Forgive me. Please. I need you.”

Forgive him. Forgive him? You don’t even know what you’d forgive him for. You’re certain there are more skeletons in his closet than in the ground. Dig one up and another three would rise - some sort of awful hydra’s head born from your nightmares.

“I can’t.” It claws itself out of your throat and into the air that suffocates, ripping it apart with teeth and nails. Hands find the collar of his shirt and it isn’t clear whether you’re shoving him away or clinging to him. You can’t make up your mind, fisting the material between your fingers until the strands might snap. It feels terribly familiar, like the thing behind your ribs that’s six seconds from tearing.

You’re pushing and pulling, hitting and halting. Hauled in a million different directions. It’s too much.

“What’re you sorry for?” A fist to his chest, right where your heart lives (or dies, rather). Your demands are barely coherent, words with no beginning and no end. “Tell me. Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

He could push you away. It’d be easy, really. You half expect him to. He hates being told what to do.

“I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for not realising how good I had it. I’m sorry for forgetting about what we had. I’m so fucking sorry.” They’re confessions you’ve heard a hundred times. Over the phone, through the door, on his knees. It never changes - a recital he knows intimately well. “I’m sorry for letting you down.”

You shouldn’t have expected more. It would never come - not with him. Not from him. He had too much to lose and you’d never be enough. Nothing in comparison to those thin white lines, those flashing lights, those women.

You thought you’d known that. You’d had three long years to learn that.

These apologies aren’t answers; they’re excuses.

You peer up at him - into those wondrous eyes, so full of light and swirling with constellations - that you don’t think he expects it when you thrust your hand into his chest, past sinew and gristle to find the truth. It squeezes, incremental, around the organ that you’d once thought beat in time with yours. Silly girl. It hardly beats at all.

“That’s not what you should be sorry for.” The tears still fall. They come, relentless, as if his mere presence undoes all your hard work; they carry your words, pull them off your tongue like white water rapids. “You should be sorry you’re asking me to forgive you. You should be sorry you’re putting me through this.” It’s those same fists, over and over again, as if you might force something more out of him.

“I’m sorry I can’t let you go.”

“Please let me go.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Jungkook cries like his tears might sway the tide. “Stay with me. I can’t do this without you.” It’s a lie - a terrible, poorly-dressed lie - but he speaks it like the truth, like you’re his truth.

He begs as if he doesn’t remember the harsh sting of reality and how it fits within your story. He pretends like these chapters haven’t been written together, passages underlined in garish red ink. He acts oblivious to the mistakes you point out, refusing to read between the lines even when they’re written in.

Fault lies with him - mostly, wholly - carried in the palm of his hands with small portions - sections of his knuckles - divided up to reflect the ache of your mutual loss.

He knows that - but knowing something doesn’t mean facing it.

“I need you, Pumpkin.”

“You don’t need me.” Hasn’t needed you in years, far longer than even the last three. He’d found others to need, others to fill the gaping you-shaped hole he swore was real.

Women with beguiling eyes and beseeching mouths. Women whose names you never learnt but whose perfume found a home somewhere along your shelves, whose clothes masqueraded as yours when you’d find a wayward scrap of lace in the back pocket of his jeans. Women who took your everything - but only because he’d been ripe for the taking.

I miss you, he’d insisted over those first few weeks. I can’t wait to come home to you. Nothing’s the same without you.

You should’ve known then that someone so used to having it all would never let go so easily.

In a perfect world, you would’ve fought less, given more - uprooted your whole life to travel across the world with him. He would’ve stayed at your side, found his vice in the shape of your smile, the beat of your heart. You would’ve been happy. Together.

You wonder - would it have made a difference? Or would all paths have led to this? Had you been doomed from the start? Star-crossed lovers?

You’d like to think so. Passing blame helps - softens the pain and drowns out the what-ifs.

You never had a chance.

He wants to tell you it’s true, that none of them mean anything close to you. He wants to tell you that you’re the love of his life and that, when he gives this all up - flickers out like a star that’s burned too bright - you’ll be the one he crashes into. You’ll be the only arms he seeks, his northern star in human form.

But you told him not to lie and you’d insist he was, so he doesn’t.

He stares at you instead, soft and sad and so desperate he can trace the fractures in your composure as he levels you with that unwavering intensity. It stutters to life a hundred hummingbird wings; he can practically hear them buzzing about in your chest. He thinks they’d burst out of your chest if you weren’t careful, caging them beneath brass.

“I love you,” he tells you, words so sweet, so tender - a melody he strings together only for your ears. It warms your cheeks and fizzles quietly in your stomach, melting away the ice that crystallises your heart and turns it cold. He strips you bare with the admission, hoping to find some sort of acceptance in your eyes.

He forgets that he is not a blameless boy and your body is more than a confessional booth.

You believe it when you say it, half-hearted and defensive. It would hurt more if it weren’t so wet. “You don’t love me.”

“I do.” What can he do to convince you it’s true? He thinks he’d do anything if it brought you back to him - where he wants you most - tucked away in his arms and his head and his heart. “I swear I do.”

He reaches for you with high hopes. It’s silly of him, he knows. You’re lightyears away, tucked among the stars. It’s where you belong, out of reach and shining bright. He can’t deny how badly it hurts. He wants you here, beside him; he wants it selfishly, as he wants most things.

“You don’t love me, because you don’t hurt the people you love.” It’s a phrase Jungkook’s heard before. From your lips, from movie screens, from god knows fucking where. What a stupid phrase. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He didn’t mean a lot of things and didn’t that mean anything?

Each time it comes, it agitates him, stewing his blood to a boil. It simmers in his veins like witch’s brew, a love potion rotten and ruined - sweet milk gone sour..

Was this that - a relationship that had run its course? A bond past its expiration date?

“I love you,” he repeats, ever harder. As if the words might turn to amber, remain forever on the top of his tongue, crystallised and perfect. It feels like it. He’s told you enough times, ever since he was fifteen years old - practically an eternity.

“”You don’t.” It’s your own insistence, biting and cold and yet somehow still a summer’s day. You weren’t always like this. He’d driven you to this. But you were never very good at keeping him out; warmth always crept in, sunlight streaming through the clouds. That was the glory of your love. It was irrefutable.

Your skin may have thickened but the fire roars on.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much.” He holds you, seeks to burn the truth of his words into your marrow. Thumbs sweep the point of your chin, right below where he’d like to leave the impression of his mouth.

There’s a sadness in your eyes - an ocean of melancholy that turns them bitter blue. “Love is sacrifice.” You pry each finger from your face, turn knuckles alabaster with your gentle ministrations. A part of him wishes you’d tear them clean off; your kindness hurts more than your hate. “And sacrifice is something you’ll never understand.”

You lead him to leave, just as he’s led you through hell. You don’t falter when the door of your home swings open, the one in your heart slamming shut in tandem.

When you tell him to go, he isn’t ready - wants to spend the rest of his life in this place with you - so you guide him out, with a tiny shake of your head and a click of the lock. He stares at the wood grain when it shuts in his face - memorises the patterns of the home you’d built together. He stands there longer than he should, setting sun searing upon his shoulders. He should leave, he knows.

But you’re his weakness and he doesn’t know whether he loves you or hates you for it.

author note. this was really meant to just... explore their past a little bit? so i hope that comes across? actual plot movement will be forthcoming. tysm for reading!!! 💜

tag list. @jalexad @aa-ronpa @kookiesbreaky @celestialflamefairy @xjoonchildx @pars-ley @seokjinssi @youwannabelostandnotbefound @patpus @dazedjjk @koozui @jinhitwhore @always-wishing-for-rain

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