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titan-fodder · 4 years ago

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Prima Vista Part IV

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Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao.

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings.

The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow.

The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway.

"Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!"

A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough.

"Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy."

"My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

"'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice.

Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you."

You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it.

"Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

"Didn't even notice," he reassures you.

Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen.

Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

"Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later.

"You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

"Uh, yeah. I could eat."

Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything.

"Sandwiches okay?"

Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth.

"Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich.

You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask.

He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days.

Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow.

After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer.

"It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free."

Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better.

You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie.

He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow.

"I can pick something else," he tells you quietly.

You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften.

"'S'fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be.

He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies.

"You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

"You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress.

Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep.

That's good. You could use a nap.

He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours.

But first.

As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf.

It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before.

The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses.

Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward.

They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother.

Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book.

Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole?

Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible.

It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on.

Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left.

The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album.

He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

"Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album."

Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"What's there to tell?"

Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth.

"It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books.

"Is it, though? Is it really?"

"I..."

Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language.

Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you.

It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

At least it makes sense now.

"I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it.

You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch.

Then, you flop back down on your pillows.

"So. Any questions, Zacharias?"

He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

"Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease.

"Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up.

"Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous.

"He left."

"Yeah."

And then he gets the full story.

Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

"Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom.

"He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick."

He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since.

"I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

"Were you ever close with him?"

You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him.

He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk.

"Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice.

Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him.

"I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies.

"Have you seen him since?"

You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction.

You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

"Anyway," he mimics.

"I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

"Is this why?"

"Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

"Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know.

Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months.

"So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

"For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

"Mm. I guess."

The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better.

Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster.

Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark.

When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest.

It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate.

You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth.

He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer.

He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth.

Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you.

After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other.

He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now.

If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back.

He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself:

I love you. I love you, I love you.

You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day.

You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear.

Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it.

And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening.

The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail.

Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence.

Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can.

Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

“Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

“Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip.

“Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you.

“I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way.

You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done.

Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it.

Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock.

He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying.

Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger.

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books.

It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice.

Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town.

It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway.

Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder.

The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!"

Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles.

"It's fine. You can calm down."

You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused.

The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him.

"You're Zeke Jaeger."

He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players.

You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face.

"Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself.

"Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

Your stomach flips at the mention of him.

"We're not dating."

Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

"No. Just friends."

He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain.

"Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try.

He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

"I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

"Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

"I'll walk with you," he states more than offers.

Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.

But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does.

Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip.

Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

“You listening, sweetheart?”

Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

“No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

“That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

“It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor.

Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

“Yeah, okay.”

He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said.

What a fucking joke.

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside.

“You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

“Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

“Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

“Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.”

He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day.

And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece.

If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

What is happening to you?

“So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car.

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys.

“I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

“Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

“I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes.

“Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

“Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

“You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

“I—”

“It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him.

But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that.

“What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

“Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

“Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.”

God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

“Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

“Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem.

“I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

“For some reason I don’t believe that.”

You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his.

He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth.

You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more.

And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

[ next ]

#mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #aot fanfic #aot fanfiction #mels prima vista

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eleventoes · 7 years ago

Text

freesia | oneshot

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader ⟶ word count: 7.2k ⟶ ♫ : take you home - baekhyun, good morning - kassy, freesia - bolbbalgan4 ⟶ themes & genres: childhood friends to lovers!au, semi-bad boy!jk | fluff ⟶ warnings: none ⟶ synopsis:

Just about all of Jungkook’s life had been spent in an endless cycle of smothering you with flowers in a silent confession, but you never seem to get it.

(You did. Eventually.)

The beginnings of the fickle emotion we adoringly call love had always been tricky; the concept being like a handful of sleek sand your palm could never really grasp. They say it hits you out of nowhere, but for Jungkook, love was all he ever knew—especially when it came to you.

First.

“Jeon Jungkook! Kim Taehyung! Be good boys and go back to your seats,” Ms. Ryu, ever as gentle as Jungkook could remember, ushers the two six-year-olds towards their tiny plastic stools, a soft smile adorning her equally soft features.

“But Miss—,” the adorably mischievous rascal by the name of Kim Taehyung protests, “We were in a middle of a competition—”

Fixated on trying to prove his point, his stubby fingers reach for the nearest drinking straw he could find (which just happened to be the straw Mina was in the midst of drinking milk from), before triumphantly shoving it up his nostril, “See? I was winning.”

Even at six years old, Jungkook knew a bluff when he saw one.

“Tae’s lying,” He speaks matter-of-factly before turning to his best friend, “Mommy says lying is bad.”

And because even at six years old, Jungkook was already cultivating his somewhat competitive streak, he immediately proceeded to pluck the drinking straw right out of Seulgi’s tiny fists, pushing it as far up his nose as humanely possible.

Taehyung wasn’t one to back down from a challenge either, and before Ms. Ryu could interrupt with another one of her thinly veiled threats to take away their juice boxes, a hesitant knock on the door has all heads snapping up to look to the entrance of the bright classroom.

“Hello?”

Mellifluous. Euphonious. Dulcet. Years later, Jungkook would be able to describe the sound of your voice to a tee, but for now the only word that could come to mind was pretty.

Jungkook would also later come to recognize the absurd fluttering in his chest as infatuation, but at present, he could only stare open-mouthed at your doe eyes and your fluffy locks whilst you stared back at the boy with just about three straws stuffed into each nostril.

“Children, we have a new student joining us,” Ms. Ryu announced, having only just pried the boys apart moments prior, “Why don’t you introduce yourself, honey?”

“I’m Y/N, and I’ll be in your care from now on,” You were probably reciting the phrase you had rehearsed approximately five hundred times in your head, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jungkook was positively enthralled, his wide eyes never once leaving your small frame.

It was with mortification that Future Jungkook would look back on your first meeting, because silly little Jungkook was too captivated to bother taking the goddamn straws out of his nose, not even when you perched yourself daintily onto the seat next to his (the only free seat available) and shot him a polite (if not obligatory) smile as the both of you got ready for Art class.

And the ensuing Art class saw Jungkook frantically trying his might at drawing flowers, because his mom was a girl and his mom liked the flowers his dad periodically gave her and thus the obvious conclusion was that girls liked flowers, and he decided he liked you.

Yet, little did he know that he had been graced with a sneak peek into his future when you breezily eased over the drawing that embodied his affection, only to pass it on to Ms. Ryu because you had understandingly misunderstood his shy silence.

Of course, six-year-old Jungkook had been too bashful to say anything.

As a result, his drawing of a lone flower would eventually find itself onto the pastel blue of the classroom noticeboard, put up for display because the teachers wouldn’t stop marveling over its apparent artistry.

It had been a single white freesia; symbolic of innocence and purity, a flower commonplace on school grounds.

A flower that would subsequently symbolize Jungkook’s countless years of yearning, and your countless years of oblivion.

Second.

“5…3…2…and…1!”

It was the 13th game of Hide and Seek just for recess break alone, but no one had any objections against that, because they were all a bunch of six year olds, and six year olds loved Hide and Seek with a burning passion.

Joonyoung, notorious for being the most savage out of all the kids in your kindergarten (as savage as a six year old could be anyway), was It this time; which was honestly a little frightening because if Jungkook thought he had a competitive streak, it was nothing compared to his.

It has been a couple of weeks since your transfer, and like every other kid out there, your ability to adapt was outstanding and soon enough, you knew every nook and cranny of the kindergarten almost as well as you knew your alphabet.

This translates to you successfully emerging the victor in the past twelve games, having found a foolproof hiding spot that guarantees your lack of visibility—a shadowed area between the supply closet and the storage room, adjacent to the edge of the mini flower garden behind the classrooms.

As you sat there hugging your knees to your chest, trying your hardest to diminish your size as much as possible, you realized that the view that greeted you was a gem in itself.

White, white, a whole field of white.

And it was beautiful; astounding even.

So captivating, in fact, that you hadn’t even noticed the arrival of the doe-eyed brunette you knew as Jeon Jungkook, breathless and panting, up until he half-whispered, “Y/N!”

“Wha—”

“Shhh, Joonyoung’s done counting.”

He sure was quick to hush you when he was the one hollering your name like no one’s business, but was nonetheless still trying to squeeze himself into that narrow groove next to the supply closet—the very same one you were already suffocating in.

You decide that Jeon Jungkook’s harmless enough, borderline idiotic shenanigans aside, and shuffle to make space for the excitable boy (whom miraculously quietens down every time he was around you, for reasons your six-year-old self was not yet sure of).

Quietude settles in peacefully, until—

“Do you like those…um…freeeshas?” He speaks first, squinting hard at those wooden signboards stuck next to every flower. Jungkook was more observant than people usually gave him credit for, after all, and he caught the faint glee in your dark irises when you were busy gazing into the never-ending field of white.

“They’re pretty.” your reply was plain, simple, and straight to the point; Jungkook likes it more than he should.

“I’ll give them to you, this entiiiire field of freeeshas.”

Maybe you were both being childish, like the children you were, but you bought it with a toothy grin anyway, “Okay, this is ours from now on.”

And now whenever you think back to your days back in kindergarten, only hot summer afternoons spent huddling next to overgrown weeds, along with the image of strikingly white petals and a boy with a bunny smile, would surface.

Third.

“Kookie, I’ll miss you,” Taehyung was downright howling by this point, the endless streaks of thick tears pooling at the collar of his mini graduation robe, staining the vermillion color an even darker shade of crimson.

Jungkook was not amused. Six-year-old Jungkook was not easily amused (and this holds true even in the present).

“Tae,” He started calmly, small hands holding tightly onto the handmade farewell bouquet he was planning on surprising you with, “We’re going to the same elementary school.”

Then the tiny rascal straight up whips around to face you head on, whining, “Y/N, I’ll miss you.”

“Jungkookie,” It was your turn to scoff lightly, “We’re all going to the same elementary school.”

“Oh.”

The bouquet sits untouched for the rest of the graduation ceremony, and Jungkook only remembers that he hadn’t actually handed it to you when he was already snugly under his comforter, after he had wished his mother a good night.

“Oh.”

Fourth.

“Y/N, um, I really like you.”

The sun was halfway through its trek in the azure sky, but the classroom was long empty; third graders get off school pretty early after all.

A minute shift of your head and you could see the light from the windows behind dancing vividly all across Jungkook’s features, leaving reddish tints on his dark head of hair and soft glows on the curve of his cheeks.

“I like you too?” The words left you with a questioning glance. To you, Jeon Jungkook embodied many wonderful things; things like binge watching your favorite cartoons side by side while wrapped snugly in blankets in the dead of winter, playing catch for 3 hours straight (he always won), hogging your older brother’s game console together, the list goes on.

But of many things, Jeon Jungkook was not one to confess something random out of the blue.

“Really?”

You didn’t really understand why he was asking with such a hopelessly hopeful look drawn across his features, but you tried to reassure him anyway, “Of course, wouldn’t it be weird if I didn’t like you for all the three years we’ve been friends?”

Again, you didn’t understand why Jungkook simply deflated right there and then, and you couldn’t quite decipher the taut smile on his lips either.

“Yeah, I know right? Weird.”

Before you could call him out on the way his face was twisting in ways you never thought possible, he swiftly places something in your outstretched palm, before bounding to the doorway as if everything was back to normal again, “Come on, let’s go get ice cream.”

You looked down at the foreign object, fingers clasping curiously around its stems.

Flowers.

Fifth.

“You know, our parents are going to kill us,” You nonchalantly remarked, “And if they do, I’m going to haunt your grave.”

“That’s comforting to hear,” Jungkook, armed with an expression of reciprocal indifference, responds with a shrug.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

At that, he smiles as if he was in on some big secret, before speaking so quietly you weren’t sure if you heard him right, “So are you.”

“What does that even mean—”

“Just hurry up already.”

Thirteen years of age—you both were at that point of time in your lives where hormones were gearing up to lead a wild rampage all around, and suddenly you weren’t quite the same little girl as you were seven years ago. Likewise, Jungkook wasn’t quite the same cheeky boy you had the pleasure of growing up with ever since you saw him with straws up his nostrils; no, he had grown to be even cheekier, and judging from how he was currently trying to haul your ass up the night bus, he was pushier too.

“Let loose a little, I promise it’ll be worth it,” He says, now comfortably in the seat next to yours, his voice a mere accompaniment to the subdued rumbling of the bus engine.

“It’d better be,” Giving in with a huff of resignation, you reclined further in the hard bus seat, throwing your best friend a mock glare while you were at it, “Though I don’t see why we have to do this at night.”

“Ah, Y/N, you’re no fun, sneaking out is all part of the thrill.”

You don’t look at him, opting to get some shut-eye instead of getting yourself riled up over the infuriating and outrageously reckless nature of Jeon Jungkook, “Sure, whatever you say, you bad boy wannabe.”

He has the audacity to gasp as if your comment had deeply wounded his pride, “I’m the real deal, don’t you ever forget that.”

Tuning him out as you usually did whenever he started to go off tangent, you allow the lassitude of the day to seep into your tired skin, artfully maneuvering his arm such that it served as the perfect headrest. In a habitual fashion, Jungkook twists his torso to accommodate yours whilst melodramatically muttering ‘be still, my heart’ and fervently praying that you wouldn’t be able to hear the fierce palpitations.

A bad boy indeed, that was Jeon Jungkook, the very one who had been harboring a crush on his best friend for about seven years and counting, without even the notion of confessing to you present in that mind of his (not after your ‘rejection’ back in third grade).

Sighing, he turns to gaze out the window unfocusedly.

***

“Jeon.”

“Y/N.”

“Jungkook.”

“It scares me when you say my name like that.”

Your exhale clouds the already misty night air, exasperation very clearly eased into all of your features, “I can’t believe you got us lost.”

“We aren’t lost,” Says Jungkook as he stands forlornly between a couple of trees and a bush, the last of any source of light deserting him along with whatever map he had on his dying phone. In your pocket sat your phone, which had been very uncooperative ever since its screen had shattered an hour ago when you had scrambled to clamber off the bus in your languid state.

“At least try to say that more convincingly, you idiot.”

Only a sheepish grin crosses his lips, not that you could actually see, because it was so dark and there weren’t even any streetlights, for some insane reason.

“I swear it’s here somewhere,” The brunette inexorably treads into the vast unknown of more greenery (unknown because it was pitch black and you literally couldn’t see anything), muttering under his breath.

Without a word, your hand slipped right into his, like it had been made for each other all along (or at least that’s what Jungkook likes to think); you’d always done that whenever you were feeling uneasy, though that doesn’t mean Jungkook doesn’t hyperventilate whenever he feels your thumb digging into his palm.

“Let’s go get out of here.”

***

“I’m gonna kill you right now and dump your body here; wherever we are,” You hiss after a good ten minutes, still clasping onto his hand like it was your lifeline; it sort of was, given how much you hated not being able to see where you were going. The hatred (or maybe it was fear, but you preferred to acknowledge the former) was further amplified given that you were in the middle of nowhere with lifeless lumps of metal for phones.

“You won’t,” Jungkook scoffs, leading the way as he pushes aside the thick branches that were wrestling in order to thwack him in the face (you hope they land a few good hits), “You’re too scared to be alone.”

You contemplate that for a moment, before nodding, “You’re not wrong, but I still hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“It’s here, the place I wanted to show you,” He spoke so abruptly that you had crashed face first into the back of his head (the two of you were pretty similar in height, and it was something you prided yourself on, though you spoke too soon because he eventually left you in the dust thanks to puberty).

“Jeon,” You start gently, “You know I can’t see anything, right?”

That was what you said, but the telltale fragrance of flowers, carried fleetingly by the night breeze, soon infiltrated your senses, and you realized belatedly the reason why the stubborn boy had insisted on taking you here.

It was a field of flowers, very much reminiscent of the (much more scaled down) one of your shared childhood. Your heart swelled with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, but you instead turn your attention to the boy who was nervously awaiting your reaction.

“Aww, Jungkookie,” You couldn’t help but tease, “Did Mr. Bad Boy here miss our childhood?”

“You’re really ruining the moment.”

Flitting out his snide comment was an easy feat, especially since it was already like second nature to you, “Thanks, for bringing me here. Even if we’re probably going to get grounded for a month.”

Grinning that same unchanged bunny smile, he only murmurs, “I’m glad you like it.”

And then the two of you were simultaneously grounded for the next six weeks. Not that it mattered, because he snuck up to your room everyday anyway, and you push your irregular heartrate aside.

Six.

“Wow, Jeon, you got game,” Impressed, you slap your best friend on the back, “Three days more to Valentine’s and you’ve already gotten, what, fifteen love letters?”

“What can I say?” His smirk falters a little, though it goes unseen because you don’t notice little things like that, “Girls love me.”

“Correction: they like the way you look. How many of them have actually talked to you for more than three seconds? Because if they had, they would already be running for the hills,” Shuffling the books around in your locker to source for the notebook reserved for your nonsensical doodles, you were about to panic when Jungkook, otherwise known as the devil himself, magically materialized it from the pile of books in his arms.

“Looking for this?” With the most taunting smile plastered on his face, he purposefully lifts the minimalistic notebook way out of your reach, taking full advantage of the (more than) a couple of inches he had on you.

Gasping, you glared at your supposed best friend, “How’d you get that?”

“You left it at my place yesterday,” Irritatingly, he was still dangling the notebook in the air, just about high enough for you to brush the edges with your fingertips.

So close, yet so far.

“Before I give it back, answer me: am I or am I not the most charming guy you’ve ever met?” The (not so) little shit was almost relentless whenever he wanted something; a trait that occasionally gets on your nerves.

“Yes, yes of course you are. Consider me charmed,” Deadpanning with your straightest face, you continue reaching for the notebook that was still hopelessly an inch or two from your outstretched fingers.

“More charming than this Seokjin guy?”

A beat passes before you understood what he meant, and you let out an inhumane shriek, startling the mass of students all around.

“Jeon Jungkook, you went through my notebook?”

The carmine dotting your cheeks was so unbearably adorable, but Jungkook only feels a dull pang in his chest. Still, the shit-eating grin on his face doesn’t give away anything, “We’ve only just entered high school, and you’re already crushing on a senior?”

“Yeah, go ahead, Jeon, let the whole world know.”

“Aw, Y/N, there’s nothing to get all shy about.”

Or so he says, but it hurts, and Jungkook wants nothing more but to scream.

Oblivious like always, you churn out something resembling an explanation, “He’s just a senior, and we talk sometimes during theatre and stuff, I’m sorry I hadn’t told you earlier okay? It’s just…embarrassing and I feel like some lovestruck six year old.”

You were rambling, and Jungkook hated that you were rambling, because you rarely lose yourself like that. He hated that you had that flushed look on your face, because it wasn’t for him, and it wasn’t ever for him, and yes, he had heard of Kim Seokjin, the gorgeous (and borderline unreal) senior who had recently snagged the role of Prince Charming in the school’s adaptation of Snow White. And yes, he had heard that he was absolutely enraptured by a freshman in theatre—you. Not that he was going to let you know that juicy little tidbit anytime soon.

Suddenly sullen, Jungkook only hands over your notebook (you decide to burn it the minute you get home) without even putting up a fight, stalking off before you could even say anything to his retreating back.

***

Along with a small pile of chocolates, you open your locker on the following Friday morning to find a mini bouquet of roses perched daintily atop your Chemistry textbook, and next to it, a lone freesia sits patiently.

The singular freesia was from Jungkook, you knew that without question because he gives you one every year without fail, and this year wouldn’t have been any different. ‘To commemorate our friendship’, was the rationale seven year old Jungkook had conveniently offered after you caught him trying to sneak the flower under your desk at school.

The roses, however, were a different story.

And so, at fifteen years old, you got your first boyfriend, and honestly you don’t remember much happening in that year aside from you constantly being high in the clouds.

Shortly after, Jungkook got his first girlfriend; a pretty girl with a cute smile and a tendency to make plans that effectively clashed with all the ones he made with you. They didn’t last long, and neither did the twenty odd others that followed.

You never asked why; you never wanted to.

Seven.

“Stop crying.”

“I’ll cry whenever I fucking want.”

Bawling. Wailing. Sweating from your tear ducts. Whatever you called it, it didn’t matter when you were sprawled out on your bedroom floor, blotching half the carpet with your tears.

Stepping gingerly over your form before crouching down sympathetically next to you, your best friend pads a thumb over your tear-stained cheeks, “You know that wasn’t what I meant.”

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” Sobbing near hysterically, you hiccup through every sentence you coughed out, “I wish I hadn’t joined theatre back in freshman year, I wish I hadn’t had that stupid crush. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known how painful it was.”

Now sitting upright and no longer an amorphous blob on the floor, you continue whining into the nook of the familiar shoulder, the scent of laundry detergent comforting to your distressed state of mind.

“No, you would have, because you’d have regretted it otherwise,” Combing through your hair with his fingers, Jungkook absent-mindedly remarked, his words enveloping you in what’s equivalent to a warm blanket on a freezing night, and you pull him closer.

It does hurt, Jungkook knows that for certain. The same way it had hurt when your relationship with boy wonder Kim Seokjin continued flourishing even after a year and the next, the same way it did whenever he saw your face light up with the most radiant of smiles the moment you get a text from your long-distance boyfriend. As such, he couldn’t fathom how much it would have hurt for you to have stayed rooted in high school while Seokjin ventured out into the world and all the freedom college had to offer. He hadn’t cheated on you, no, he was never that kind of man, because Jungkook would have bashed his head in otherwise.

It wasn’t anything, really, for Seokjin had simply fell out of love.

The relationship had spanned three years only to come to a dwindling halt, and Jungkook aches for the pain you must feel having to long for someone who had moved on without you.

“You sound somewhat sad, for someone who’s never been in love before.” You speak after a long pause.

“Who says I haven’t?”

“Wha—”

Only throwing you a coy smile in place of the previously reassuring one, Jungkook huffs resolutely before pulling you to your feet, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

***

If there’s one thing about Jeon Jungkook, is that he never breaks a promise.

In this case, the promise he made good on was the whole bad boy thing he was determined to carry through throughout his teenage years. As proof, his shiny Harley-Davidson stood before the both of you, glinting under the midday sun.

“Get on,” The bad boy himself gestures to the pretty contraption, much to your surprise.

“Are you serious? Didn’t Solar break things off with you last week because you refused to let her ride with you?” Imploring the sudden but kind offer, you tilt your head in a silent question, but what you don’t know was that just your gaze was enough for Jungkook to give you his entire world and beyond, brand new motorbike or whatever be damned.

But a simple ‘you’re different’ tumbled from his slightly chapped lips instead, and it had apparently sufficed because you hoisted yourself up immediately, “Talk about perks of being your best friend, I’ve always wanted to ride on one of these.”

“You could’ve just asked me, Y/N, you know I’d do anything for your homemade cookies,” His words were a little muffled as he fumbled about for his helmet, letting out a triumphant noise when he finally grabbed ahold of it and in one swift motion, placed it over your messy head of hair.

“You were going around calling it your baby and whatnot, so I didn’t want to take a chance.”

His fingers fasten the clasp of the helmet expertly, his eyes softening before “you look like a bobble head” leaves the mouth he needs to learn how to shut.

“Just a friendly reminder that I’m still heartbroken and distraught, thanks very much.”

He only shrugs, like he did five years back when you were both thirteen and stupid (mostly him), and revs up the engine, “Sit tight.”

Your hands were locked around his waist, the thin material of his white t-shirt bunching up where your hold was, and Jungkook hoped his thundering heartbeat wasn’t as audible to you as it was to him before speeding off.

***

“It’s amazing, it’s as if going around claiming a bunch of plants as our own is our thing,” Exclaiming, you proceeded to tug on Jungkook’s sleeve as you weaved your way through the same field of flowers from five years ago. He follows without much protest, only pointing out a small clearing in the middle before plopping down on the soft grass and pulling you down next to him.

“No one ever comes here, so it’s ours,” He says simply.

“What, are you going to give this ‘entiiiiiire field of freeeeshas’ to me?” Your teasing voice sounded faraway in the rough summer wind ruffling your hair into disarray, and Jungkook’s gaze lingers too long on the pink hues of your lips.

“I’d give you anything, you just need to ask.”

Shit, he’s really done it now. It was rare for an insult to not be dripping from Jungkook’s every word; you’d definitely catch on and find out that your best friend of more than a decade had been in love with you all this while and—

“Bitch, you said that yourself so I’ll be holding that against you from now on,” You cackle after a beat passes, not surprising because you couldn’t see Jungkook’s entire face crumpling from where you were facing.

Of course you hadn’t realized, he should have known. It’s been a whopping twelve years; you would have caught on ages ago if you were ever going to.

“Thanks Jeon,” He faintly registers you saying, “I guess I feel a little less heartbroken.”

He wished he could say the same for himself.

Yet, if he had stopped to look a little closer, he would have noticed the wondrous smile you were sending his way.

He lost count. Jungkook was never great with numbers.

By this point, Jungkook had desensitized himself to how dense you could possibly be.

“What’s with the fancy restaurant? I thought we were going out for dinner,” There you were, dressed in your favorite pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie (Jungkook tries not to be too overjoyed at the fact that it was his, because knowing you, you probably hadn’t realized), situated at the entrance of some posh and probably overpriced Italian restaurant, and you were as confused as ever.

And by this point, Jungkook doesn’t even attempt to retain any semblance of his diminishing dignity, instead just wordlessly shoving the bouquet he had prepared earlier into your arms. Yes, he’s very well aware that he had prepared so many bouquets in all of his nineteen years that he may as well drop out of college to be a goddamn florist.

“We are. That’s why we’re at a restaurant, you dimwit.”

You glanced down at his semi-formal clothes and how his dress shirt was crisp and white and ironed, before looking back down at your crummy sneakers, “Jeon Jungkook dressed in something apart from a white tee and jeans, who would have thought. What’s the occasion?”

Jungkook sighs, though not with exasperation, since he had already preempted the kind of reaction you would have, which was exactly this: you didn’t have much of a reaction apart from being confounded, because you didn’t get it. Not the first time he had to resist the urge to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours, although, the urge to kiss you senseless does come around a lot more often.

After having (awkwardly) consulted his dorm mate, girls extraordinaire and self-proclaimed player Park Jimin, Jungkook had been fully convinced that asking you out on a date would be the solution to all his problems. Maybe all it takes was a date for you to finally take a hint, because common sense dictates that a date meant that there were some romantic feelings involved; not that you had brain cells to begin with, because here you were, expecting to grab dinner at some fast food joint even when Jungkook had explicitly (and painfully) spluttered out the word ‘date’ (after which he fell off your bed blushing).

He did not sign himself up for this.

A hundredth. Give and take a few.

“Jungkook, you’re drunk. Go home.” Hands flailing in a scramble to support the swaying mass of muscle (also known as Jeon Jungkook, and also known as the Ultimate Lightweight), you nearly holler at the inebriated boy who was currently busy fumbling for the microphone, but Jungkook only smiles crookedly at your mortification.

“No, you’re drunk, baby girl,” He goes on to insist, and he guesses that you would cringe at the pet names he would be spewing out soon enough (it’s a hilarious drunken habit at best), “I’m Jungkook and I’m gonna sing you a love song, so you listen, puffle cheeks.”

“What the fuck.”

The room itself was pretty dark; but it did nothing to mask the odd smile smacked across Jungkook’s otherwise handsome features, and he eyes your reaction as his arm clumsily slops forward to hit the next song on the karaoke machine: a love song unlike any other, Carly Rae Jepson’s ‘I Really Like you’.

“What the fuck.” You say again.

Jungkook was about to frown until he realized you were repeating it mostly to yourself, because there was no one else in the room apart from himself; an idiot who was drunk out of his mind, and he was too preoccupied getting himself into the mood of the song, but not without pitched giggles and some dramatic flair.

Screeching his way throughout most of the verse, drunk Jungkook was also trying his best to blind you with obnoxious winks along the way; not that you would mind, because he knew all of this was going to go on SnapChat for blackmailing purposes.

“Wait for it, wait for it,” Jungkook breathes.

And then he loses it altogether, “I really really really really really really like you!”

Still giggling manically, he drinks in your stupefaction, deriving immense satisfaction from seeing how you could only gawk at whatever shreds of dignity he has left. Yes, Jungkook does understand that he would undoubtedly regret his entire life come morning light, but he doesn’t care. Not when he could literally hit you in the face with a gigantic banner with the words ‘I love you’ on it and it could still go right over your head, and you’d still just see him in a platonic light for the rest of his life and beyond.

Maybe that liquid courage was just what he needed.

“Sweetheart, why’re you so stunned, and dare I say, shook?” Jungkook could hear himself speak, but he had lost control of whatever filter he previously had; this is it now, he was going to spill everything, and then he was going to deal with the consequences whenever, “Hasn’t it been obvious that I’ve been in love with you for the past decade and a half?”

“Jeon, you’re drunk—”

“No, I told you, angel face, I’m not drunk,” Jungkook was desperate by this point, because he didn’t know what else to do, “I’m Jungkook and I’m pretty certain I’ve been in love with you all my life. But you never see it. You never did.”

By now it was getting difficult to gage for your reaction, the ground was shaky and his brain was effectively scrambled, so he takes your lack of input as a green light to continue.

“And I love you, I love you, I love you so much that it hurts to see you look right past me all the time, so please, please listen to me just this once, because I don’t know when I’ll have the courage to say it again.”

The room was getting hazier by the minute. The dim lights were spinning. Heck, there were two of you swimming in Jungkook’s vision, but he continues, because he couldn’t just stop there, “I love you, Y/N, even though you’re a scaredy-cat and you make the most inhumane noises when you sleep and you just suck in general. So won’t you please love me back too?”

This would be the day that Jungkook would look back upon and berate his lack of alcoholic tolerance. He doesn’t hear your reply to his slightly overdramatic confession because surprise surprise, he blacked out before you could even say a word.

***

The aftereffects of a wild night out were never fun to deal with, and Jungkook swears for the billionth time that he would never again try to pretend he could take shots when he obviously couldn’t. The throbbing in his temple was hitting him harder than usual; perhaps from the shock of having all the events that had transpired last night rush back to his consciousness the moment dawn had broken.

“Shit.” Was the only coherent word he could murmur before tumbling off the mattress and onto the familiar carpeted floor he recognized upon first glance.

He was in your room. Of course he was.

Steps languid and heavy, he somehow made the arduous journey from your floor all the way to the hallway without giving in to his persistent migraine. You weren’t anywhere to be found, but Jungkook wasn’t going to wait around just to be humiliated because you probably never wanted to see him again, not after that bold confession out of nowhere.

“Jeon.”

Ah shit. Too late.

Jungkook hates the way his body automatically turns at your call, he hates the way every cell in his body reacts at your every minute gesture, and he resents the way his heart could pick up pace with just your gaze alone. Even the stupid headache he had been nursing seconds ago had been diminished to almost nothing, all because you were here, in the flesh and wearing his sweatshirt (you had already claimed at least a third of his wardrobe, and that had been one of the many clothes you managed to get your hands on).

“Sorrygottagoneedtopee,” Brushing past your helpless form in the doorway of the living room, he all but hightails it out of there, hangover forgotten. As he scurries out the front door with only his Pokemon socks on, Jungkook once again reaffirms that he doesn’t make great life decisions.

***

“You gotta tell her again,” Resident fuckboy Park Jimin remarks as he twirls the dorm’s card key thoughtfully around his index finger, “She sounds kind of dense.”

And because Jeon Jungkook doesn’t make fantastic life decisions, here he was again, back in his dorm and seeking love advice from the one person he knows who doesn’t do love. Park Jimin does have the experience though, Jungkook supposed.

“But how?” Groaning into his palm, Jungkook was this close to tearing his hair out; maybe then the mortification from his drunken confession would disintegrate and he could pretend it never happened.

Jimin shrugs, casting him a pity-filled glance, “Just do it straight to her face, the same way you did last night. Kook, the only reason why this—whatever you call it, hasn’t been working out is probably because you’re just not forward enough. That and you have shitty luck, because she misses all your cues.”

Jungkook groans more because Jimin was probably right. As usual.

“Which is honestly kind of amazing, because wow, fourteen years?” The pink-haired boy continues, disregarding the worsening scowl on his companion’s features.

“Shut up.” Jungkook tries his hand at silencing the older male by hurling a pillow at his head, but it only hits Jimin with a light thump before falling flat on the crummy dorm floor.

“I’m serious, Kook, just go for it,” He goes on to say, “You don’t have anything to lose anymore.”

Jungkook hurls another pillow at him before gruffly agreeing, musing that he didn’t really have another option anyway.

He sighs at the notion of another confession (though sober this time), and the mere thought sent the butterflies flurrying back into the pits of his stomach, but along came a wave of unadulterated determination, and Jungkook hopes he holds on to it long enough.

And one last time.

Jungkook was hardly ever nervous. Public speaking? Yeah it was decent, he just has to turn on the charm and it’ll be a breeze. Exams? Jungkook never cared much about grades, he only studied with you whenever he worries that you’d get too caught up in studying and work yourself to death, so there’s that. Girls? Yeah, okay so they were a little intimidating at first, but puberty happened and Jungkook realized they weren’t as terrorizing as he thought. You were the exception of course, you were his exception for everything; you terrorize him with the prospect of heart failure every time you came too close.

So yes, this was the sole moment in Jungkook’s entire twenty years that he felt as if his nerves were going to devour him without mercy on the spot. The spot referring to that same spot he always stood at on your doorstep whenever you took too long to get ready and he gets tired of lying shapelessly on your couch for two hours.

“Hi, so I like you,” Jungkook tries rehearsing, knuckles raised midair before he stops himself.

No, that just sounds ridiculously awkward.

“Good evening, my name is Jungkook and I like you.”

God, he sounds as if he was trying to sell something.

“Hey, I really really really—fuck, you scared me,” Face up in flames before you could even mouth the word ‘seagull’, Jungkook stands unabashed and frozen in position. He doesn’t bother hiding the bouquet he was holding on to, partly because it was fucking gigantic and he would have looked like an idiot if he tried.

Your front door had swung open without any warning whatsoever, but only your trademark glower had greeted him, “You scared me. What’re you doing out here? Also, you left your shoes here, you dumbass, how’d you go home without them?”

If the past fourteen years had amounted to anything, it was Jungkook’s ability to read you like a book. Glowering without much reason to—you had been worried, but you hadn’t wanted to show it. Showering him with a plethora of questions—you were frazzled by his sudden appearance (something that Jungkook would like to revel in for moment longer). That hint of color skimming your cheekbones—you were flustered by something, bashful even.

And so Jungkook’s eyes could only soften, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Were you worried about me?”

“No shit, you run out of my house with only your socks on whilst barely recovering from a hangover, refuse to pick up any calls throughout the course of the entire doorstep, and you’re asking me if I’m worried?”

“Oh god, you’re pissed. Please don’t be pissed.” Or so he says, but he already knew he was forgiven by that brief (though reluctant) nod of yours, “I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.”

And he really was an idiot. Your tousled and messy locks, the oversized Nirvana sweater you wore six days out of seven, your tiny hands and even tinier fingers, your obnoxiously adorable Chip n’ Dale earrings; they were all you. You, who came along and headbutted that boy who made fun of Jungkook’s small frame at seven years old, who cried so loud when Jungkook finally convinced you to watch The Lion King that the neighbors had been concerned, who finished all three cartons of Ben and Jerry’s because you insisted on buying them on sale despite them expiring the day after, who laughed so hard at Jungkook’s first (and last) bowl cut that you teared up; you were all that Jungkook has ever known, all that Jungkook will ever know, you were all that Jungkook has ever loved, and all that Jungkook will love.

Everything had been crystal clear, from beginning to end. From the very moment he had laid eyes on you as a meagre six year old, to the present, where the twenty year old Jeon Jungkook was standing before you with a confession that has yet to leave his lips; it had only ever been you. Nothing could even make this remotely complicated, really, because all he had to do was utter the three magical words, and there had never been any doubt that you would have understood, as you always have, because above all and beyond, you were his best friend and he was yours.

What had he been truly afraid of all this time?

“Y/N,” He starts, a bunny smile already working its way onto his lips, “I’m in love with you.”

With that, he lifts the bouquet (freesias, who would have known) right smack in your face, adoring how your nose scrunches up almost reflexively, “Here’s a bribe, so go out with me?”

Easing the bouquet into your arms and out of your face, you grin up at the endearing boy, whose eyes were crinkled in so much joy they had become crescents, “Sure. Come in, you loser, I ordered pizza.”

“You sure know the way to my heart.”

“Oh, don’t I?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes good-naturedly before tugging off his Iron Man socks, pausing only at the sight of a photograph sitting daintily on the mantelpiece. It was a photo taken back in elementary school, back when you were starring in some school play like the talented asshole you were, while Jungkook had been picked as Tree #3. The two of you were huddled close in the grainy photograph, smiling widely at each other despite the gaps in your teeth and the piercing flash of the camera. Jungkook had seen this photo just about a million times, and he had never ceased to notice the affection and longing dancing beneath his own irises as eleven-year-old Jeon Jungkook looked at you as if you held his entire world.

But what he never noticed was the way your gaze had mirrored his perfectly, almost precisely.

Yet now, it was more pellucid than ever that he was all you’ve ever known, and he would be all you’d ever love.

Another.

“Jeon, who’re the flowers for?”

“The dog,” Jungkook deadpans, giving you a blank stare as he looks up from his morning coffee, “Duh, it’s you, who else would it be?”

Silence.

Jungkook finishes the last of his caffeine boost.

More silence.

“It’s for our seventh wedding anniversary today?”

“Oh.”

Some things never change.

a/n: afshakjhf happy birthday to the memelord Jeon Jungkook!! he’s finally 20 and he’s grown up so well and my heart hurts ;__; shoutout to him for having always been the same adorable bunny we know and love. this fic ended up being kind of all over the place because it was meant to be around 2k initially, but i still hope yall enjoyed it regardless^^ im just glad that this was finished in time for the bun’s birthday~

#btswriters #sfwbangtan #bts scenarios #bts fanfction #jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic

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