#ur not allowed to be mean within 3 weeks of stealing his first kiss with a dude man that's just poor manners

[bitbrumal]

                                                                            QUESTION           @predvestnik​​​​​   ↤   accepting    ::   HE’S A 10, BUT...   ↩

‘ He isn't a ten. He's more like a bad, incomplete joke: seven, eight, nine. ’ Honestly, this was meant to target one Master Diluc, but can be about anyone—

DILUC  the rag in his fist creaks. red eyes drop to it with an incredulity that peers further inward: down into the tight, discomfiting squirm of his chest.       oh. i’m going to be sensitive about this. fantastic.  how mean. to be bullied like this, after a smooch? after allowing him to feel vulnerable & stupid & delicious—

it’s certainly impossible to guess what has his cheeks grow ruddy all over again:  the memory, or this shameless return to the norm.  perhaps it should be a blessing...

                            “ugh.”

 at least it asks for no delicacy in return. it wouldn’t be rude not to feel. no weeping maiden stands in line to curse his lineage for an affront she should have expected, angled for. ( no. no, that’s him right now, isn’t it? holy sh- )         don’t have to feel anything about this. ( right. because that was ever an option. )

[yeojaa]

IDK IF UR STILL TAKING REQUESTS🥺🥺🥺 sorry if IM botherinh😭😭 BUT MYBE A FINDERS KEEP HERS drabble where jk n oc get in to an argument after chap 3 n jk apologizes or something like that😭😭🥺😭🥺🥺

[ read part one / main story ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  this is soft angst. JK being his usual idiot self, reader being... well, sad, and yeah. just pain (but w a resolution. ish).  wc. 1.5k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif beta’d a bit of this but i wrote most of it after so any dumb mistakes are my fault and my fault alone. 🤡  author note.  this isn’t 100% what you requested but... the first part kind of is, and then this is the resolution (because people requested it). if you’d like another drabble, please feel free to request!

In true fashion, Jungkook tries to fix the problem in the only way he knows how:  with money.

He puts the two of you up at the Four Seasons for the entire week, orders room service at all hours of the day and has treats from all of your favourite spots in the city delivered.  (Macarons, candied nuts, that one bakery that does those salted honey pies you inhale like a wild animal.)  He runs baths for you, fills the tub with your favourite scents (always Diptyque) and massages his tattooed hands all over your scalp.  He makes sure you wake up to the smell of French toast and fall asleep on a bed of roses, curled up in his arms and little else.  

He spoils you until you can hardly see the floor, designer shopping bags strewn throughout the suite.  (His sisters help him decide what to buy, mouths sealed shut otherwise.  They know better than to get too involved in his relationship with you.)  Dinner is somewhere new every night but always at a Michelin-starred restaurant, space booked out to the extent it’s just the two of you and a bouquet of your favourite flowers.

Of course, he thinks things are better.  Assumes they must be, because there’s never been a time where money hasn’t solved his problems.  No matter how much, throw enough of it at something and the problem will go away.

But you don’t go away.  Neither does your sadness.

“Baby.”  It’s your last night together before you’re back to some semblance of normalcy (not that Jungkook’s life was very normal to begin with).  He thinks he’ll miss it more than you will, if your lacklustre reactions have been any indication.

You’re fresh out of the shower - you’d turned down his offer of a bath, locked the door on your way into the washroom - and wrapped in a fuzzy white robe.  “What?”  You’re focused on running a comb through your hair, unbothered by your boyfriend who sits at the edge of the bed, legs wide and hands extended toward you.

It bothers him a bit (read: a lot).  You’re better than you were, offering tiny smiles when he begs for them, accepting his kisses without complaint. It isn’t you though.  Not the snark and the sass and the decades of friendship that normally thread your relationship.  A book with its spine about to snap, held together by cobweb.

Despite the time you’ve spent together the last few days - almost every hour, sans when you were at work - you’ve been distant still.  Not mean, of course (no, never mean, because you’ve always been soft on him) but different.  Softer and harder all at once.

“Come here,”  he coaxes, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you between his knees effortlessly.

Normally, you’d curl around his shoulders, rake your nails through his hair.  This time, you only allow yourself to be with him, palms flat upon the ridges of muscle plating his back.  You don’t pass affection into his hair, don’t form a cradle for him to rest his head.  (It doesn’t feel like home - not like it should.)

Jungkook hates it.  Absolutely fucking abhors it.  He wants his girlfriend - his best friend, his love - back.  Not this spectre that’s taken up your space. 

(He almost forgets that he’s the reason you’re the way you are.)

“What’s wrong?”  The shape of his mouth curls, bottom lip pouting into that trademark expression that usually has you relenting, melting into a puddle of goo in his arms. 

This time, you shrug, movement dislodging the soft soft terry cloth from your shoulders.  “Nothing.”  Dumb as he might be - oblivious in the way only someone like he can be - he can tell you’re lying.  Offering the untruth right between your teeth, expecting him to accept it.

That bothers him even more.  It’s one thing to put up an act, entertain him as if you were a court jester.  It’s entirely another to treat him as if he’s a child, feeding him lies without a care.

(Notwithstanding the fact that Jeon Jungkook is, for all intents and purposes, a manchild.)

“You’re a shit liar,”  he retorts, grumpy, coloured green and blue until his insides feel like mud.  It’s strange, the discomfort that sinks beneath his skin and sticks his bones together.  Like wading through quicksand or a bog, stuck to a place he doesn’t want to be.  “Talk to me.”

“About what?”  You’re deflecting, refusing to meet his stare, holding yourself within the confines of your robe as if you can’t bear to open up to him.

That hurts more than he expects.  Slips sadness in alongside the frustration.

“About what’s bothering you.”  The fact he has to do this is driving him mad.  It’s akin to pulling teeth and he hates the dentist.

You scoff then - which he doesn’t expect.  The sound kicks him right in the stomach, a sucker punch he doesn’t see coming.  “You want me to talk about you?”  It’s an uncharacteristically mean answer, brought on by whatever’s been bothering you, turning blood to battery acid.

“Excuse me?”  

“You heard me.”  

For the briefest moment, he considers lashing out in response - giving back exactly what he’s getting.  But then he spies it, just there, past the usual warmth of your stare.  It’s hiding behind crystallised amber, peeking past the edges.  So much sadness it steals his breath right from his lungs, stripping him bare of red hot fury and leaving him lily white and lovesick.   

When Jungkook speaks again, it’s feather soft, terribly light, begging and pleading in a single utterance.  “Please.”

There’s silence for a beat, then another.  It stings for each second it continues, treading misery all over the thing that beats in his chest.  He’s not used to this.  (You’re his first and only love.  A part of him is grateful for that;  another hates even this.)

He almost asks again - readies it on the tip of his tongue.

Then you’re unloading, giving him everything he’d asked for and more.   

“I love you,”  you tell him in a reedy voice, uneven like the foundation you’ve built together.  Haphazardly thrown into place and hoped for the best on.  “But you’re an idiot.”   

(He deserves that, he supposes.)

Your voice is static, stretched thin and gossamer thin.  Cheek pressed to his curls, you find comfort in your hiding place, as if shielded by the dark.  “I’ve loved you for years and that’ll never stop.  But when you do stupid shit, it’s so hard.”  Your words are honeyed, thick and heavy as they lay into each strand, seep quietly into his ears.  Where they’d normally fill him with ecstasy, delight, send him on a sugar high - these ache, sink right to the pit of his stomach.  “I would give you anything.  Anything.”

“I know.”  Really, he does.  He’s known that since you were kids.  It’s why he’d fallen in love with you, even before he’d realised he had.

“Then why do you test me?”  

It’s not rhetorical.  You want an answer - something real you can hold between your hands.  Something to act as the salve for all the hurt, to bandage the wounds left behind by your uncertainty.  (He’s the same as you - needs to know he means as much to you as you do him.  But you show it in different ways and that’s what’s brought the two of you to this point.)

“I’m sorry,”  he answers, sliding his arms more securely around your waist, face buried into the soft fabric of the robe, into the warmth that lies beneath, into the heart that beats a rhythm identical to his.

“I don’t want sorry.”  After all, you’d already gotten one.  Weeks ago, when he’d pulled the stupid sophomoric stunt, he’d apologised.  Had been apologising every day since then, but in all the wrong ways.  “I want better.” 

It’s as if all of his bones have been cracked open, the weight of your words settling like sand, discomfort and grit snapping his head to attention.  “You want better?”  There’s nothing but alarm in Jungkook’s expression, eyes wide, throat knotted in worry.  “I—”

As always, you read him like an open book.  Hands smooth down the sides of his cheeks, palms searing over his reddened cheeks.  “Not like that.”  You’re reassuring him even as it should be the other way around.  (How ironic.)

He exhales a deep breath.  Doesn’t tear his stare from yours.  

“I just need you to be better.”  You’d never ask this of him if it weren’t important, if you didn’t feel his ignorance and immaturity splintering your insides into glass shards.  You’ve always accepted him exactly as he was, all the good and bad and ridiculous.  

This is different though.  You love him.  You’re taking a chance with him just as he is with you.  Laying your heart in his hands and trusting him to keep it safe, handing out the key in the hopes of building a home.  

So you ask - for both your sakes. 

He promises he will be and you believe him.  Have to.

For both of your sakes.