Jo. Forever 21. Madly in Love with Park Chanyeol from EXO. I've lost track of the countless Fandoms I'm in. My reblogs make it obvious of my current obsession. Park Chanyeol being the only constant shining star in this dark and damaged world I live in.
if you score, you can have it ft. multiple blue lock men
ć»ā„ć»smut mdni he wanted a kiss for a goal, but you know he deserves far more than that ;)
ft. shidou, kaiser, karasu, bunny
there's a particular kind of chaos that comes with dating a footballer whose ego is already astronomical before they've even laced their boots.
it starts the way it always does. pregame. him stretching, half-dressed, shooting you that look across the room like he's already decided how the night ends. and you, sitting there with your legs crossed and a coffee going cold in your hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
"if i score today," he says, casual as breathing, "i want a kiss."
you don't even look up. "cute."
"i'm serious."
"i know." you take a sip. "the answer's still no."
a beat. he shifts closer. you can feel him watching you now, that particular brand of attention that's more pressure than patience.
"what do i have to do, then."
not a question. more like he's already negotiating terms, already assuming there are terms. you set your cup down, finally look at him, and let the silence stretch just long enough that he starts to think you might actually shut him down completely.
"score," you say, "and you can hit it from behind."
whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. something shifts in his expression, sharpens. the pregame adrenaline that was already simmering in him finds a new target.
"yeah?"
"yeah." you pick your cup back up. "if."
the emphasis on that word does something to him you'll feel later.
he scores.
of course he does.
ryusei shidou
he texts you from the pitch. while the game is still going. second half, 73rd minute, one goal up, and your phone buzzes with a message that just reads told u with three of those stupid cat-face emojis.
by the time the final whistle blows he's already abandoned his teammates mid-celebration to find you.
you're barely through the tunnel before his hand wraps around your wrist, that sneaky grin stretched across his face, slitted pink eyes lit up like something feral got fed. he smells like sweat and grass and he doesn't care even a little bit. neither do you, though you'd die before admitting it.
"locker room." not a suggestion.
"ryusei, the others are stillā"
"don't care." he's already pulling you. "made a deal."
the locker room is half-empty, a few guys filtering out, and he walks you past all of them like they're furniture, like there's only one thing in his field of vision right now and it has your face. someone wolf-whistles. he flips them off without turning around.
he pushes you into the back corner, tiles cold against your front, and his body against your back is the opposite. hot. solid. built like he was designed to be difficult to escape from, which, honestly.
"scored twice, by the way," he murmurs into your ear, breath warm, voice dropped to something rougher than his usual sharp-edged energy. "so technically i get it twice."
"that's not how the dealā"
"shhh." his hands find your hips, grip them, fingers pressing in hard enough that you'll feel it tomorrow. "made the deal. scored the goals. now be good and let me collect."
he gets your pants down quick and efficient like he's done this a thousand times in his head already, which, he has (but thats not the point). he doesn't tease. teasing requires patience and patience is somewhere else's problem. he just lines himself up, kicks your feet a little wider apart, and pushes in.
"hahā" the sound comes out of you before you can swallow it, fingers scrambling against the tile. he's thick and he doesn't ease into it, just fills you in one slow drag that makes your legs want to buckle and then he laughs, quiet and delighted, at the sound you made.
"there it is." he presses his mouth to the back of your neck. "that's what i wanted."
he fucks you like he plays. instinctive, aggressive, no wasted movement. each thrust snaps your hips forward against the wall, the tile cold on your palms, his hands keeping you exactly where he wants you, one gripping your hip and the other sliding around your front to press flat against your stomach, keeping you pinned against him on the pull-back.
"feels good, yeah?" he's grinning, you can hear it. "say it feels good."
"you're so annoyā fuckā"
"that's not what i asked." he angles up, hits something that makes your knees genuinely try to give out, and catches you. holds you up. like he's done this before, like he knew exactly what was going to happen when he pushed there. "try again."
"it feelsā god, it feelsā"
"say my name," he murmurs against the back of your neck, grinding in deep, grinding the words into you. "ryusei. when i'm inside you."
you say it. you say it twice. his grip tightens like a reward.
he comes with his face pressed into your shoulder and both hands locked around your hips so hard the bruises will last a week, jerking into you through it, making this low rough sound that you'll be thinking about at the most inconvenient possible times for the foreseeable future. you follow him down not long after, shaking against the tile, completely wrung out.
he stays pressed against your back afterward, breathing hard, and then, very casually, says: "gonna score a hat trick next game."
you laugh despite yourself. he feels it and grins against your skin.
michael kaiser
he doesn't text you. he doesn't need to. you were in the box seats and you watched him score, watched him turn to the camera right after with those light blue eyes and that insufferable golden smirk like the goal was addressed personally to you.
and then he winked.
the man actually winked at a camera in a professional stadium because he knew you were watching.
by the time you reach him in the tunnel he's already separated from the post-match cluster, leaning against the wall with his arms loose at his sides, wet-haired from a quick rinse, rose tattoo dark against his skin. he looks like he was put together specifically to be impossible to look away from. he knows this. intimately.
"i scored," he says, simple, like he's remarking on the weather.
"i saw."
"so." he pushes off the wall, tips your chin up with two fingers. "you know what that means."
he takes you to the car. his car, which is obscene and he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh just above the knee the entire way, not moving it higher, just keeping it there. possessive and patient. the patience is the worst part because his patience has teeth.
the parking garage of his building is quiet. he turns the engine off and doesn't move, and neither do you, and then he says: "climb over."
you know what he means. you move to the back seat, he follows, and the confined space makes everything immediate, makes his height and the breadth of his shoulders suddenly pressing.
he takes your wrists in one hand, pins them behind your back, and uses the other to get you arranged exactly how he wants you. face down, knees on the leather, his chest against your spine.
"i want to hear you say i earned it," he says into your ear, voice smooth as cut glass, quiet in the way that's somehow louder than shouting.
"michaelā"
"say it." the correction is patient. territorial.
"youā¦" you swallow. "you earned it."
"good girl." he rewards that with his hand sliding between your thighs and you stop thinking about much else.
he fingers you open slowly, deliberately, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing to prove, two fingers curled and working until you're trembling and he has extracted several sounds from you that you're choosing not to reflect on. then and only then does he pull his hand back, and you hear him, the breath, the shift of fabric.
when he pushes inside you it's a long, controlled slide that feels intentional in a way that none of your exes could manage. he means every inch of it. means the grip on your wrists and the tilt of his hips and the way he pulls back just far enough before driving back in, making each thrust land with enough force that your breath stutters.
"you feel that?" he asks, not rhetorically. he actually wants an answer.
"yes, god, yesā"
"good." satisfied. almost academic about it. "so do i."
he fucks you with a kind of deliberate precision that should be clinical but isn't, because underneath the control there's something genuinely hungry, something that surfaces in the way his grip tightens every time you make a sound, in the way his composure develops cracks around the edges the longer this goes on.
"mine," he says, near the end. not loud. just factual.
you come with your cheek against cold leather, his name dragged out of you and he follows with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, breathing hard for the first time all night, the composure finally, entirely, gone.
he keeps you close after. doesn't say anything. just keeps one hand curled around your hip like he's not ready to let the moment dissolve yet, fingers tracing absently over the jut of bone.
possessive even in the quiet. maybe especially in the quiet.
tabito karasu
karasu, predictably, acts like the deal was already a foregone conclusion.
he'd told you before the game, with the particular flat certainty he uses for things he considers obvious, that the opposing team's left defender had a weak right ankle and would be over-compensating by the 30th minute and that he'd exploit it for an assist by the second half. what he didn't tell you was that he'd also time the actual goal himself, sliding into the box at precisely the moment nobody was watching him.
tactical. infuriating. completely him.
he finds you after, still in his kit, gloves still on, and he has that look on his face that he gets when something goes exactly according to his calculations. not smug, exactly. more likeā¦ vindicated.
"i scored," he says.
"you assisted twice and then snuck in a tap-in."
"still counts."
you laugh before you can stop yourself. he watches you do it with something shifting in his expression, something quieter underneath the usual sharpness. you've learned to notice that thing. it doesn't come out often.
"car," he says. then, after a pause: "please." the word sounds like it costs him something. you take it anyway.
his car is less flashy than his personality suggests, which is very him. clean interior, no nonsense. he drives you back to his apartment without discussion, because there was never really any question.
he gets you upstairs, gets the door locked behind you and then doesn't rush. stands in the hallway for a moment just looking at you with those blue eyes doing that thing where they're taking inventory, cataloguing, noticing everything.
"you look pleased with yourself," you say.
"i am." he peels one glove off. then the other. sets them down carefully. "you look flustered."
"i'm notā"
"you are." he steps close, tilts his head slightly. "but i can work with flustered."
he gets you to the bedroom with minimal theatrics, which is also very him. no posturing, no extended performance. he just knows what he wants and moves toward it with the same economy he applies to everything. he turns you around, unhooks, unzips, works through each piece of clothing like a problem being solved. by the time you're face-down on the bed with a pillow pulled under your hips you feel like you've been systematically taken apart and laid out.
"you're going to tell me when it's good," he says and it's not bossiness, exactly. more like he's establishing terms. collecting data. even now.
"tabitoā" and something about saying his name like that, easy and familiar, makes something in his jaw shift.
when he enters you it pulls a broken exhale out of both of you, his breath stuttering just once, barely audible, before he steadies. starts to move. his hands are precise and attentive, one on your hip and one flat between your shoulder blades, adjusting the angle by small degrees until you make a specific sound, and then he keeps it exactly there, relentless and measured.
"there," he says, mostly to himself. "that's the one."
he's quiet during, mostly, which makes the sounds he does make matter more. a rough exhale when you clench. a low, involuntary sound he immediately tries to suppress when you reach back and find his hand. he lets you hold it. threads his fingers through yours.
you come first, undone by the precision of him, the way he never stops paying attention, and he follows close behind with his face in your hair and that quiet, controlled exterior finally, briefly, completely unraveled.
afterward he lies beside you and doesn't speak for a long moment. then: "your reaction time for goal number two was better than i expected."
you turn your head to stare at him.
"the pun," he clarifies, and his mouth does that almost-smile thing.
you throw his pillow at his face.
he catches it. still almost-smiling.
bunny inglesias
he doesn't tell you before the game that he's going to score. he just does.
and afterward, in the slow drift of the post-match hour, he finds you in one of the corridor spaces outside the locker room and he's wearing that gentle closed-mouth smile and his cap with the rabbit face, hair loose and a little damp, and he says, very softly:
"i scored."
"i know."
"so." the smile stays exactly where it is. "you said."
"i know what i said."
"okay." he tilts his head. "are you going to make me ask, amor?"
the thing about him is that he's calm in a way that doesn't read as passive. there's something underneath it, something attentive and patient and quietly certain. he's not demanding. he's not performing. he's justā¦ waiting, with the full confidence of someone who already knows the answer and is giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.
you take him back to the apartment. his. it has very little in it, which you've noticed before and never quite asked about. clean lines. practical. like someone who hasn't decided yet whether they're staying.
he takes off his cap, sets it on the table, and looks at you across the small space.
"how do you want me?" he asks.
which is not what you expected. you blink. he laughs, soft and brief, the most unguarded sound he makes.
"i'm asking," he says, stepping closer, "because i want to do it right."
he's gentle in a way that feels considered rather than careful, if that distinction makes sense. like gentleness is something he chooses rather than something that's just the absence of roughness. his hands move over you slowly, unhurried, taking stock, and when you finally get horizontal his body settles over yours like he was measuring the exact weight to apply.
he flips you over, easy and unhurried, your cheek finding the pillow, and he presses a single kiss to the back of your neck before he lines himself up.
when he pushes in he goes slow, slow enough that you feel every increment of the stretch, slow enough to hear his breath change, and you exhale the tension out of your spine all at once.
"okay?" he asks.
"yeah," you breathe. "yeah, it'sā"
"good." he starts to move.
he rolls his hips with a rhythm that builds and doesn't rush, deep and patient, and he keeps his weight on one forearm beside your head with his other hand finding yours and pressing your palm to the mattress with his over it. not pinning. just covering. it's unbearably tender for something supposed to be a reward.
his mouth finds the curve of your neck, your shoulder, the soft place behind your ear. he doesn't say much, he rarely does, but once, quiet enough that you almost miss it: "you're so warm."
you don't know what to do with that. you hold it anyway.
he builds you up slowly, methodically, like he's reading something in your breathing and adjusting, and when you finally come it's with his name muffled into the pillow and his hand tightening over yours, lacing your fingers together. he follows with his face pressed to the back of your neck, a long shuddering breath, his whole body going still and then carefully, slowly, soft.
he doesn't move right away. stays draped over you, heavy and warm, and the room is very quiet.
then: "next game i'll score two."
you're so wrecked you barely process it. "bunnyā¦"
"just letting you know," he says, and you can hear the smile in it, small and private and pointed entirely at you, "what you have to look forward to."
i hate mischaracterizing characters, so for anyone who wants these, here are some facts/implied info about characters:
isagi is a loner and often skips out on parties and social events. this is because of how shy and awkward he is around other people and loud environments. (light novel, implied in the manga)
itās impossible for nagi to hate anyone. even if someone is constantly making him work hard or taking his phone and games away, he is always calm and a pacifist. (egoist bible, implied in the manga)
rin is extremely kind and emotional under his stoic and emo exterior. he gives foreign tourists extremely detailed directions and is implied to be a good captain. (light novel, implied in the manga)
rin is also academically stupid in everything other than english. this is because heās dead set on being a soccer player and therefore sees no point in any class other than english. (light novel)
karasu loves anything he finds special. he thinks that even rin and isagi are mediocre even though their blue lockās number one, but he had a childhood crush on the only person he found special, a girl named marissa. (egoist bible)
sae doesnāt realize that heās rude or has any malicious intent when heās being an asshole. he just says whatās on his mind, no matter how mean or blunt. itās confirmed that he does have friends, so heās probably not always like this. (egoist bible, manga)
your boyfriend gets pretty clingy when youāre on his lap, bouncing up and down on his cock. heās unlike those guys who prefer to lean back, arms behind their head as they watch their lover do all the work. instead, he prefers to wrap his arms around your waist, holding your body close against his, just so he can feel the way youāre shaking from how good it feels.
āfeels good?ā he murmurs. heās not exactly asking, since he already knows the answer. he can feel it just from the way your body keeps tightening around him, clenching with every slow bounce, alongside that dumb, fucked out expression you have on your face. āso warm around me, babyā¦ keep going, yeah? jusā like thatā¦ā
your thighs are trembling, struggling to keep up with the rhythm, but it doesnāt matter, not with the way heās whispering things to you right against your ear, causing you to collapse onto his chest as you desperately try to lift yourself up and down. heās not even thrusting up, just holding you there and letting you use him to your heartās content.
āmmāās too much,ā you whimper into his shoulder, burying your face there as your pace falters. but his hands slide to your hips, guiding them again. āno itās not,ā he mumbles, lips brushing your ear. āyou can take it. you always do. look how good youāre doing for me.ā
when you let out another shaky moan and sink fully onto him, he hugs you tighter, arms locked around you like he needs you to breathe. he loves this position, because he gets to be so close to you, never having to let go.
"stay right here," he sighs, burying his nose in your hair, breath ragged. "donāt go anywhereā¦ not till i finish inside you, ākay?"
req, sorry this took so damn long, law + history is destroying me n iāve been procrastinating like crazy š
youāve seen countless pictures of other soccer players and their girlfriends together. the cute photos of their dates, the reels, the videos, all of it ā their vacations in hot sandy countries, visits to bakeries that were famous for tooth achingly sweet treats and bubbly couple spa days.
their girlfriends too. models, actresses, influencers, all women of high regard that sparkled with confidence. glamorous was always the first word that came to mind when thinking about any of them.
compared to you, where organised dates between you and sae usually werenāt carried out, calendar dates forgotten and going out with him sometimes felt like you were wasting his time ā you couldnāt help but be riddled with a lingering anxiety.
he would come home from practice tired and all you could do was sooth him with words. small praises that you thought would help put his mind at ease. your quality time felt empty, and you were insecure.
no dates, no outings, nothing.
you just felt like you couldnāt compare. you were such a parallel to the usual ātypeā of soccer players. why was he with you when he could have one of those top models who likes to travel? or one of those influencers who would benefit his career? someone who could give him more than soft sentences and sweet words?
with the lack of intimacy, you believed the romantic days of your relationship had began to diminish and naturally assumed he felt the same.
which was exactly why you had to end it.
the chill was unsettling as you waited for him to come home. your entire body was on edge and there was a thick lump in the back of your throat as the silence of the apartment was filled with the soft tick of the clock. it echoed almost eerily around the room and you glanced at it.
the hands read ā23:19ā and you knew he would be home soon.
seconds felt like hours as you thought about what you were about to do. was breaking it off really the best thing to do? the more you thought about it, the less convinced you were. he deserved someone with all the qualities you lacked, sure. but you loved him. wasnāt that enough?
the lock clicked at last and you raced up, heart sinking as sae stepped in. āyouāre up?ā he sighed while dropping his stuff, āi thought i told you to stop staying up for me.ā
āyeah i know butā¦ā you cleared your throat, āi have something important to tell you and i thought itād be best to say it as soon as possible.ā
he was hardly listening, emptying out his bag āgo on.ā
āi think we should break up.ā
your sentence most definitely caught his attention, his rummaging hands came to a halt before he was looking over at you. ābreak up.ā he repeated the words back, not as a question but more like a distasteful statement. āas in end it.ā
āyes sae, end it.ā the lump in your throat was back, heavier now as you spoke. āi know youāre busy but you try your best for me. you buy me gifts, spoil me crazy, shower me with money. thatās the problem, what do i do for you?ā
you fell silent and the ticking of the clock filled the room once more. āhave you seen kaiser and his girlfriend online? she organises their trips, she helps himāā
he was running a palm over his face, āand why are you believing what you see on social media?ā
āthatās not the point,ā your voice dropped as you spoke, ājust, wouldnāt you prefer someone who isnātā¦ boring?ā
you picked at your nails as you waited for his response. in truth, you didnāt want to hear the answer. you were already full of so much uncertainty about breaking up, to hear him actually say the word yes would break your heart.
he didn't though, approaching you while he spoke, āthat's what this is about? youāre trying to breakup with me because youāre insecure.ā
āiāā
āand youāre consoling yourself by saying that i deserve better.ā his voice was gentle, not condemning.
you had no argument. he was right, awfully horribly right. this ābreakupā was just a justification for you to put yourself down and spare yourself the heartbreak if he ever left you for someone āenjoyableā. a pathetic excuse to compare your relationship to others you didn't even know.
ādo you really think iām dating you for fun?ā he was standing in front of you now and you shook your head weakly. he had read you like a book, of course he had.
āiām not with you for dates or gifts or whatever.ā he was wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, āiām dating you because i love you.ā
your chest tightened with affection and you wondered how the words had left his lips so effortlessly. you burrowed into his chest with slight embarrassment, āso you donāt think i'm too boring for you?ā your voice was barely a whisper.
āi donāt.ā
āand you donāt care if we donāt go on fancy holidays?ā
ānot at all.ā
āand you wonāt leave me for a pretty model?ā
āobviously not, stop asking me stupid questions,ā he rubbed softly into your back, āif you want to spend more time together, just ask. i appreciate anything you do for me.ā
āthen... will you stay home with me tomorrow? we can sleep in and iāll make you breakfast.ā
āif thatās what you want.ā he was pulling back and giving you a soft peck, āthen it sounds good.ā
it looked like you had underestimated just how much sae really cared about you. the once impending tick of the clock sounded much lighter now after communicating your fears, each passing second now a moment for you to relish with sae instead of worry.
"WHY ARE WE ACTING LIKE SHE'S A CELEBRITY?" Yukimiya asks.
"Because she tamed Rin Itoshi," Karasu says immediately. "That's historical."
"Like discovering fire," Otoya nods.
Nagi is lying upside down on the couch."I skipped my nap for this."
Barou clicks his tongue from the corner."Tch. Pathetic." meanwhile he has absolutely been standing there for fifteen minutes waiting.
Chigiri notices. "You've been fixing your hair."
"I have not."
"You literally checked your reflection in the window."
Barou looks ready to commit murder.
Meanwhile Rin has no idea what's waiting for him. He has just returned from training, towel around his neck, tired and sweaty and already irritated because everyone wouldn't stop smirking at him during practice. And the second he enters the hallwayā
EVERYONE SCATTERS.
CRASH.BANG.
Someone falls over a chair.
Rin narrows his eyes immediately.
"...What are you idiots doing?"
"Nothing!" Bachira says too quickly.
"Absolutely nothing," Reo agrees while visibly trying to hide behind a pillar.
Rin looks deeply disturbed.
"...You're all acting like serial killers."
Karasu snorts. "Says you."
Rin ignores him and starts walking toward the locker room. And thenā
The front entrance opens, and you walk in.
Nobody notices at first, until Aryu gasps dramatically
."ā¦GLAM."
Everyone turns.
And there you are, standing awkwardly near the entrance with a small bag in your hand, looking around like you accidentally entered a military base instead of a football facility.
You smile politely. "Um... excuse me?"
Bachira's jaw drops, Isagi chokes on air, Reo shakes Nagi's arm hard enough to wake him up.
You glare harder, Shidou grins like a psychopath. "Awww, Rin-chan~ your girl's scary."
"Good."
Everyone turns toward Rin.
Because he said that WAY too proudly and now his ears are red again.
Shidou suddenly leans closer to you dramatically.
"So if Rin-chan and I fought to the death, who would you save?"
"Rin."
"No hesitation?!"
"He'd probably win too."
The room EXPLODES AGAIN.
Rin genuinely looks like he might ascend spiritually.
Barou scoffs. "Tch. Simp."
Isagi points immediately. "YOU FOLLOWED HIM TO SEE HER TOO."
Barou immediately looks insulted. "SHUT UP."
Then suddenly, Nagi appears beside you. Silently,Ā like a ghost.
"...Can I test something?"
You blink."What?"
Without warning, Nagi gently drops his head onto your shoulder.
The room gasps.
Rin immediately tries to push him off you.
"GET OFF HER."
Nagi sighs peacefully, not moving at all. "Warm. I get it now."
Reo grabs Nagi now and pulls him off you."DON'T STEAL RIN'S GIRLFRIEND."
"She smells nice."
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT."
You're laughing so hard now you can barely breathe.
Even Rin is struggling not to smile.
And somehow against all odds, you fit in immediately like you've always been there.
You're laughing with Bachira, listening to Hiori's nonsense theories, watching Reo and Nagi argue over snacks, telling Tokimitsu to relax, complimenting Chigiri's hair.
Even Barou tolerates you sitting near him without threatening murder. Rin watches all of it quietly from the side and everyone notices.
Because Rin Itoshi, the coldest person in Blue Lock, is staring at you like you hung the moon.
Isagi elbows Bachira. "...He's doomed."
Bachira wipes fake tears. "Our emo boy grew up."
Rin hears them. "Shut the hell up." He says and immediately grabs your hand. "We're leaving."
You let him drag you away while everyone screams behind you.
"BRING HER AGAIN." "SHE'S COOL." "I STILL WANT A COMPATIBILITY READING." "ASK HER IF RIN LIKES CUDDLING." "DOES HE MEOW BACK AT HIS CAT."
Rin nearly trips from rage.
You look up at him, laughing.
"Your friends are funny."
"They're not my friends."
From behind everyone scream "YES WE ARE!"
Rin screams back, "I HATE ALL OF YOU."
And somehow, for the first time in Blue Lock historyāRin Itoshi walks off the field holding someone's hand while smiling, very slightly.
But enough for everyone to scream like they witnessed the second coming of Christ.
It was the night before rin had to leave again for blue lock after his U-20 match.
You were sitting on his lap, fingers tangled in his hair. He was staring forward like he was already thinking about his next goal.
āYouāre already in Blue Lock mentallyā
āObviouslyā
You rested your chin on his shoulder, his hand moved to your waist. Instead of arguing, you pressed a small kiss to the side of his neck.
He stiffened instantly.
āWhat are you doing?ā
āNothing.ā
Another kiss. A little slower this time.
Rinās ears started turning pink.
āStop staying in one spot.ā
But you misunderstood the instruction completely.
Instead of moving away, you stayed right there and pressed one more kiss , longer this time, lips lingering without realizing how much pressure you were putting.
He grabbed your hair gently and pulled you back just enough to look at you.
āā¦Youāre troublesome.ā
His thumb brushed your cheek .
You grinned.
He leaned forward, kissing your lips.
Neither of you noticed the mark forming.
------------------------------
Next day
He was back to blue lock, back to training.
Bachira stopped mid-step.
āā¦Rin chanā
āWhat.ā
Aryu leaned slightly closer
āYou have something on your neck.ā
Isagi blinked.
āā¦Itās pretty noticeable.ā
Rin finally turned toward the nearest reflective surface.
And froze.
A dark, very obvious mark stood out against his pale skin.
Two seconds.
Three.
His ears flushed first.
Then his jaw tightened.
āā¦Tch.ā
Bachira grinned.
āYou didnāt know?ā
Rin adjusted his collar quickly, but it didnāt fully cover it.
āShut upā
āYouāre blushingā
āIām not.ā
He absolutely was.
āSo she surprised you?ā
āKeep talking and Iāll make sure you regret it.ā
But he looked away again.
He wasnāt angry. He was embarrassed.
Bachira laughed.
āItās kind of cute though.ā
āSay that again and Iāll kill you, bob cutā
He turned and walked off before they could continue.
Meanwhileā¦
You were at home, scrolling through your phone when suddenly, a shiver ran down your spine.
āā¦Why do I feel like Iām being insulted from a distance?ā
You touched your lips .
And miles away, Rin was muttering under his breath during drills:
āShe really didnāt noticeā¦ stupid... next time I'll...ā
But he didnāt cover it completely. And he didnāt try to hide it that hard.
Because even if he was annoyed.
Even if he was embarrassed.
A small part of him liked that you left something behind.
Just because Rin doesn't initiate physical intimacy, you start to think he doesn't want you "physically", not knowing how much Rin is trying to hold himself back.
Rin Itoshi is the perfect boyfriend. Too perfect sometimes.
He notices when you skip meals, when your hands tremble from anxiety even though you claim you're "fine." He memorizes what you like and what you don't faster than even you can keep track. You love him. You're so full of love for him it sometimes hurts.
But there's somethingā¦ off.
It's when your lips are against his and you realizeā he never initiates.
Ever.
Whether it's a hug, a kiss or even a lazy arm slung around your shoulderā it's always you. He's never been the one to reach out first.
You lean into him when you're cold. You climb onto his lap when you're tired. You lace your fingers into his when you're nervous. And Rin always lets you.
But that's just it. He lets you.
Never pulls you closer. Never bites down on your lips. Never presses into you like he wants more. His expression stays unreadableā always calm, always still, like kissing you is something to tolerate, not something he aches for.
You begin to wonder if he even wants you like that.
Maybe he only loves you because you understand him the best. Because you're easy to talk to. Maybe he doesn't feel desire because you're not the type who drives a man crazy.
Maybe it's because you're too short for him. Too ugly. Maybe your body just doesn't do anything to him.
The thoughts spiral before you can stop them.
And then one evening, after an exhausting long dayā you take a hot shower and step out in Rin's oversized hoodie. The lights are dim in his apartment, and he's sitting cross-legged on the couch, jaw sharp and focused, eyes narrowed at the TV screenāwatching old match replays, probably studying his own movements like he always does.
Without a word, you pad over and wordlessly slide into his lap, curling into his chest.
Rin stiffens for just a moment before you feel his arms hesitantly rest on your back, almost protective. You nuzzle into his heart, letting your tired limbs mold into him. His heartbeat thuds quietly beneath your cheekāsteady, familiar.
"I missed you today," you mumble softly.
His hand moves once across your spine.
You don't realize when you fall asleep but you wake up later to the buzzing of your phone.
It takes you a moment to register you're no longer on the couchā Rin must've carried you to bed. His scent is clinging to the pillows and you're wrapped in a blanket. The shower is running, faint through the walls.
You blearily pick up your phone, expecting a text or twoā but instead you're met with a barrage of messages.
Your group chat is blowing up. A few from your friends and a few from Rin's teammates, with whom you're close with.
Yo check Twitter RIGHT NOW.
Rin?? Since when does he post stuff like THIS??
Your pulse jumps.
You switch to Twitter and tap on Rin's verified account. The latest post has nearly half a million likes already.
Your breath catches.
She climbs on my lap and I lose my sanity. Worse, she has no idea what she's doing to me.
Your fingers go slack.
What...?
Your mouth goes dry. You stare at the post again and again.
Rin? Rin posted this?
You neverā not onceā suspected he was ever holding himself back. He always seemed so distant when you kissed him, like he was just letting you love him.
But he was struggling? This whole time?
The shower stops.
You look up just as Rin walks into the room, towel slung around his neck, droplets of water trailing down his bare chest. His hair is still damp, sticking to his forehead. His body glistens in the low light, lean and defined.
You sit up immediately.
"Rin?"
He pauses. "You're up already?"
You hold up your phone, not answering his question. "You posted this?"
He blinks, eyes flicking to the screen and immediately turns his face away, a rare flush creeping up his ears and jaw.
"Didn't think you'd see it that fast," he mutters.
"Iā I thought you didn't want me like that," you confess, voice shaking slightly. "You never... you never touch me first. Even when I kiss you, you barely react. You never get intense. I thought maybe you just didn't feel that way. Maybe I'm just notā"
"That's not it," he cuts you off, finally looking at you. His voice is rough, lower than usual. "You have no idea how much I want you."
The way he says it makes your stomach flip.
He steps forward slowly, placing both hands on the bed, caging you in without touching you. His hair drips slightly, eyes fixed on yours with a heat that makes your breath hitch.
"You think I don't want you?" he says, voice calm.
Too calm...
"Every time you kiss me, I'm fighting to not pin you down. Every time you touch me, I have to remind myself not to grab your hips andā" He exhales harshly. "I've been trying to be careful. You're so soft and sweet. I didn't want to ruin that."
"You won't ruin anything," you whisper, grabbing his wrist. "Rin... we're in a relationship. You don't have to hold back. Not with me."
He sighs, looking down at you with something dangerous in his gaze.
"You don't get it," he murmurs. "I've never felt like this before. I want you so much it's scary. I'm scared I'll lose control. Scared I'll scare you. You always look at me like I'm gentle, like I'm your safe place. But Iā"
You press your forehead against his, stopping him.
"Rin... I want all of you. Not just the careful parts."
His hand slides into your hair, gently tipping your head back so he can see your face. He studies you, searching.
"You sure you won't get scared of me?" he whispers.
You smile, teary-eyed.
"I'm in love with you. That's all I know."
Rin's eyes widen slightly before he just sighs.
"You really are going to be the death of me."
And just like that, his lips crash into yours and this time, it's raw. His hands are everywhereā on your back, your hips, your waist. His tongue traces your bottom lip before he bites it gently, pulling a small gasp from you. He kisses like a man who's been dying of thirst and finally found water.
"You drive me insane," he whispers against your skin, kissing your neck, your shoulder. "Always touching me, always sitting on me like it means nothing. I can't stop thinking about it."
"Why didn't you say anything?" you whisper, breathless.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
"Because you're the most important person of my life," he confesses. "And if you leave me just because I couldn't control myself... I wouldn't survive it."
You cup his face, wiping the damp strands from his forehead.
"You won't lose me, Rin."
He leans into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment. And then you feel itā the way his arms wrap around you tightly, possessively, burying his face in your shoulder.
"Promise me," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Promise me you'll never leave."
"I won't," you breathe, hugging his neck. "I'm not like your shitty big brother."
Rin smiles against your skin, hugging your waist tighter.
"Sometimes it feels like you hate Sae, more than me."
"Hell yeah I do." you say hissing. "I hate everyone who hurts the my boyfriend's sweet soul."
He chuckles this time and tilts his head to look at you.
"I love you." he says, gaze soft and with a soft smile on his lips.
ĖąØą§āļ½”pro footballer rin itoshi x reader headcanons
pro footballer rin itoshi who has a scoring celebration thatās literally just your initials in the air. he does it without thinking now, muscle memory, fingers tracing the letters quickly in the air before he jogs back to position. his teammates tease him every time, nudging him like, āmate, youāre so gone for her itās embarrassing.ā rin just rolls his eyes and mutters, āshut up,ā but he doesnāt stop doing it.
pro footballer rin itoshi who comes home after a match and doesnāt say a single word before collapsing onto you. he just walks in, drops his bag somewhere on the floor, and heads straight for you like heās on autopilot. his face goes right into your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist. if you ask, ābig day?ā he just hums and holds you closer.
pro footballer rin itoshi who asks you to move with him when he signs with a new club. heās awkward about it, rehearsing the words in his head before blurting out, ācome with meā¦ please.ā he even goes to your parents, standing stiffly in their living room as he says, āiāll look after her. i promise.ā he means every word.
pro footballer rin itoshi who spoils you absolutely rotten with his salary. you mention liking a bag once and suddenly itās sitting on your bed with a little note that says āthought youād want it.ā your friends roll their eyes when you tell them, saying, āof course he did.ā rin doesnāt care -- if you want something, heāll get it.
pro footballer rin itoshi who keeps his life private, barely posting anything online. but once in a blue moon heāll upload a photo of the two of you on holiday, usually something like you holding gelato or standing by the ocean. his fans lose their minds every time, commenting things like, āthank you y/n for getting this man to post.ā rin pretends he doesnāt read the comments, but he does only because it has to do with you and smiles to himself.
pro footballer rin itoshi who always shows gratitude for your support. he thanks you constantly, even for small things like making him tea or watching his training clips. when heās talking to teammates or staff, heāll casually mention, āshe moved her whole life for me,ā like he still canāt believe it. whatever you choose your own career or supporting him he backs you without hesitation.
pro footballer rin itoshi who opens up to you about his brother, his fears, and the pressure he feels. he talks sheepishly, eyes down, like heās scared youāll think less of him. but you listen, and he slowly relaxes, leaning into you as he admits things heās never said out loud. he trusts you with the parts of himself he hides from everyone else.
pro footballer rin itoshi who is the ultimate gentleman and only has eyes for you. he opens doors, carries your bags, and walks on the roadside without thinking. when someone tries to flirt with him, he just says, āi have a girlfriend,ā in the flattest voice known to man. he loves you deeply, only you, and with a loyalty that never wavers.
It's rare to see your boyfriend calm especially when he's an egoist who keeps talking about killing everyone. But the version of him when he's calm is dangerous in a completely different way.
It was a weekend, you both decided to try some desserts in a small cute cafe .
His shoulders were relaxed, one arm resting lazily on the table while he looked down at the dessert menu. His voice when he spoke to the waiter was low and steady.
āMont Blanc.ā
That was it. Two words.
But somehow it made your stomach flip.
You pressed your hands against your cheeks, pretending to read your own menu.
(Why is he like this todayā¦?)
Because when he was calm he did things unconsciously things that made your heart race.
Like when he reached over and wiped a tiny bit of chocolate cream from the corner of your lip earlier without even thinking.
Or when he pushed your chair closer to him because he couldn't come hear you.
Or when he spoke your name in that quiet, steady voice.
He wasnāt even trying. And that made it worse.
Your desserts finally arrived.
Your plate had a rich chocolate cake layered with cream, while Rinās Mont Blanc sat tall and delicate, chestnut cream spiraled perfectly on top.
You took a bite from yours while he took it from his. His dessert was looking too appealing so you wanted to try it.
āThat looks good.ā
āItās just chestnut.ā
āBut still.ā
āā¦Can I taste yours?ā
He scooped a bit of the Mont Blanc with his fork.
You opened your mouth slightly thinking he would feed you.
Instead
He leaned forward, his hand gently tilted your chin up and his lips pressed against yours. Your eyes widened as he kissed you slowly pushing his tongue inside your mouth and for a second your mind completely blanked.
Then you tasted it.
Sweet chestnut cream.
When he pulled away just as calmly as if nothing happened his thumb brushed your lower lip.
āThere, now you tasted it.ā
Your face turned completely red.
āR-Rin?!ā
He simply picked up his fork again and continued eating like that hadnāt been the most shocking thing heād done all week.
You stared at him in disbelief.
āā¦You know, youāre surprisingly hot when youāre calm.ā
He looked at you for a second his ears starting to turn red then he looked away.
āā¦Youāre the one who asked to taste it, there's nothing...hot about it..ā
I CANT STOP LOOKING AT HER TI-TI-TIā FACEļ¼ft. rin itoshi
suggestive themes. established relationship. shy rinrin.
rin itoshi was many things. he was a horror addict. a fantastic football player. a brother. heās beyond that of many, but.. there was one thing he wasnāt. there wasnāt many things he couldnāt find himself talented at, but that doesnāt mean that heās perfect. thereās a good few things he could think of that just werenāt suited for himāone of them was being a boyfriend.
he was completely, and quite obviously new at this factor of life. never once had the infamous younger brother of the football prodigy ever been in a relationship. his life revolved around football, of being the bestāof beating his elder brother. he told himself plenty of times before that he had no time to have a relationship, no time to take on the burden. he couldnāt escape from itās grasp, however, as love found itās way to his heart painfully sooner than heād expected, nor wanted.
and it was you. it was you who had him flushing at the tips of his ears, you who had his heart hammering out of his chest, you who had him stuttering over his words when all he wanted to do was give you back your pencil youād dropped in the middle of class. it was you who made him hopelessly fall in the warm blossoms of young love.
and unfortunately for him, he was facing new problems that he couldnāt find solutions for. one of them being his self control. he always thought he had spectacular self control before you came along.
but now that youāre here, he canāt seem to stop himself from these urges he keeps getting. these urges that gives him the need to constantly have his hands on your body, to constantly check up on you, to constantly be near you. he tried to push them away, but god, these feelings were fatal.
the more he pushed them away, the more the back of his head muttered for him to text you, to suddenly show up at your house with flowers, to give you his spare jersey so he can have the pleasure of watching you cheer for him in his jersey in his games.
one of his main problems at the current moment was staring. he had a bad habit of pathetically staring and acting innocent, as if you donāt know where his eyes keep traveling. heāll deny it with his life, but you saw the way his cheeks flushed as he tried to keep his eyes off of your chest when he saw your cleavage in that pretty, low cut tube top.
he did everything, he tried working out, playing with fidget toys, taking a nap, but god his brain wouldnāt shut off. it was like it engineered itself all of a sudden to think solely about you and your body and it just wouldnāt shut off.
getting up from where he was pathetically staring at the ceiling on the couch, he tried redirecting his mind to anything other than you once again, his mind racing withā
ārinnie!ā
oh just kill him alreadyā make the suffering end.
āwhatāre you doinggg? it feels like youāve been avoiding me all day..ā
ānothing. trying to nap.ā but his jaw was tight, his fists were clenching at his trousers, and his eyes were averting to anywhere but you.
you knew this man too well. scarily well.
ārin. whatās so interesting on the other side of this room thatās making you look at it and not me?ā
...
silence. he was so fucked.
the clock on the wall ticking repeatedly was louder than the silence the both of you shared, sweat building on rinās forehead as he tried desperately to keep his cool, to cling to what was left of his dignity.
and, suddenlyālike clockwork, he spoke up just as his head snapped in your direction, his head tilted up to look at you from where he was sitting, as if to avoid seeing what was below.
ā...nothing. iām not looking at the wallāā
ā...rinā iām slouching and leaning against the couch, that youāre sitting on, and your tall ass is looking up. are there birds flying above me that i donāt know about?ā
ā...ā
then a loud gulp.
it was then that you noticed how he was blinking incessantly, his pupils going from down to up with each blink, trying to hide the way he kept looking.
oh. so thatās what it was.
ā..rinrin, youāre not acting like yourself.. is something bothering you?ā your voice suddenly found itself expressing your words in a new tone, a small smile gracing your lips.
āw-well, itās.. itās not reallyāā
āno, no, donāt worryā come here!ā
your smile grew wider as youād wrapped your arms around his neck, one hand reaching up to pet him and toy with his hair as youād pushed his face into your chest. completely on purpose.
his brain short-circuited. it was safe to say he needed a reboot. maybe a repair.
his body was rigid, his breathing shallow and coming out in short, slow huffs. he didnāt move, didnāt say a wordābut wrapped his arms around you in return. smothering his face into your cleavage like a needy child seeking affection from their mother.
ā...yeah. something is wrong actually. i just need a stay like thisā for a little while..ā
pushing his face more into your chest, you patted him on the head with a cheeky smile, mumbling back in that sugar-sweet tone, āfor a little while, hmm.. anything to make you feel better, rinnie.ā
I really like the colours you get on magpies, what at first glance looks like a other black and white bird is actually full of these wonderfully iridescent greens and purples
ā¤¹ WEIGHT OF WORDS ā š²šą āæ ā (oneshot)
āšļø jeon jungkook x f! reader .š«§
ā In which eight months of perfect harmony are shattered by a single, sharp sentence. What starts as a silly argument over weekend plans turns into a cold, suffocating silence when Jungkook accidentally triggers a trauma you thought youād outrun. Now, trapped in a "shutdown" you canāt control, you have to watch as he fights the urge to walk away, choosing instead to stay and wait for you in the dark. Itās a story about the messy, unglamorous work of unlearning your past to save your future.
ā established relationship | first intense argument | childhood trauma mentions | hurt/comfort | emotional growth | non-smut | patient jungkook | communication is key!! |wc:4k ā Req by @goldenjjksworld š§” ā Dividers: @chrisssiren š¤
ā¦
The eighth month of a relationship is a strange, beautiful middle ground. You are no longer on your "best behavior" 24/7, but you haven't yet reached the stage of effortless, decades-long predictability. For you and Jungkook, this was the sweet spot. You knew his coffee order by heart, and he knew exactly which playlist to put on when you had a long day of creative work. It felt safe.
That evening started with the kind of comfortable domesticity you had come to cherish. The apartment was warm, the scent of a failed attempt at a new pasta recipe lingering in the air. Jungkook was sitting on the edge of the sofa, scrolling through his phone, while you were trying to organize a cluttered shelf nearby.
The disagreement started over something incredibly small: a weekend trip.
"I already told the guys weād probably join them at the cabin," Jungkook said, his voice casual, not looking up from his screen.
You paused, a stack of books in your hands. "Wait, this weekend? I thought we were staying in. I have a deadline for my draft, and you said you wanted to help me with the new product shots for the shop."
Jungkook sighedāa small, tired sound. "Itās just two days, and I haven't seen them in a while. You can bring your laptop. Itās not a big deal, right?"
"It is a big deal if we already had a plan," you countered, your voice steady but rising slightly. "Iām trying to get this business off the ground, Jungkook. I can't just drop everything because you 'probably' told them weād come."
Jungkook finally looked up, his brows furrowed. He was tired from a long day of practice, and the frustration heād been suppressing bubbled to the surface. "Itās not about dropping everything. Itās about being flexible. Sometimes it feels like if things don't go exactly your way, you just... stall."
"I don't 'stall,'" you snapped, feeling a defensive heat creep up your neck. "I prioritize. Thereās a difference."
"Is there?" Jungkook stood up, tossing his phone onto the cushion. He wasn't yelling, but his voice had that sharp, competitive edge he used when he was pushed too far. "Because whenever things get a little complicated or stressful, you start overthinking and making everything a hurdle. Youāre so focused on your own little world that you forget thereās someone else here trying to move with you."
You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that your "little world" was the career you were building from scratch, but he wasn't finished.
"Honestly," he muttered, turning to grab a glass of water from the table, "itās like I can't ever fully rely on you to just... be there without a thousand conditions. Youāre always looking for a reason to stay guarded."
The room went icy.
It wasn't a loud sentence. It wasn't even the meanest thing someone could say in an argument. But the word rely and the accusation of being guarded hit a tripwire deep inside your chest.
Suddenly, you weren't in your apartment with Jungkook. You were years back, hearing a similar tone from a voice that should have loved you unconditionallyāsomeone telling you that your needs were a burden, that you were "too much" and "too difficult" to deal with. Your brain didn't process it as a lovers' spat anymore. It processed it as a threat.
The air in your lungs felt thin. You looked at Jungkook, who was now leaning against the kitchen counter, looking slightly guilty for the sharpness of his tone but still waiting for a comeback. He expected you to fire back, to defend yourself, to keep the "silly" argument going until you both got tired and apologized.
But you couldn't.
The familiar, heavy curtain of silence began to fall. It started in your throat, a physical tightening that made swallowing difficult. Then it moved to your limbs, making them feel heavy and disconnected. You didn't want to be angry at him; in fact, you could see the slight regret in his eyes already. But the "shutdown" wasn't a choiceāit was a door locking from the inside, and you didn't have the key.
You carefully placed the books down on the table. You didn't look at him.
"Hey," Jungkook said, his voice softening. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just frustrated. Letās just talk about the schedule properly."
You didn't answer. You walked past him toward the bedroom.
"Are you serious?" he asked, his frustration returning, fueled by the sudden lack of feedback. "Are we doing this? Youāre just going to walk away because I said one thing you didn't like?"
You stopped at the doorway, your back to him. You wanted to say, Itās not that I don't like it, itās that it hurts. You wanted to say, Please don't use those words with me. But the words stayed trapped behind the wall of your trauma. To speak would be to show the wound, and your brain told you that showing the wound was dangerous.
You stepped into the room and gently closed the door.
Outside, you heard Jungkook let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Fine. Great communication. Truly."
You sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room ringing in your ears. You knew, logically, that you were making it worse. You knew that shutting him out was a flawāa reflex you hadn't outgrown. You loved him, and you knew he loved you. But as you stared at the wall, the weight of the words heād spoken felt like a physical barrier between the bedroom and the kitchen.
Eighty-five feet of hallway felt like a thousand miles. The silence had officially begun.
Inside the bedroom, you sat perfectly still. The "shutdown" wasn't just a lack of words; it was a sensory experience. It felt like being submerged in deep water where every sound from the surface was muffled and distorted. You could hear Jungkook moving in the living roomāthe clink of a glass, the heavy thud of him sitting back down on the sofa, the restless tapping of his foot. Each sound felt like a physical pressure against your chest.
You hated this. A rational part of your brain was screaming at you to stand up, open the door, and say, āIām sorry I froze, letās talk.ā But the rest of your body was in survival mode. To your nervous system, Jungkookās comment about being "unreliable" hadn't been a critique of a weekend schedule; it had been a confirmation of your deepest fearāthat you were fundamentally difficult to love.
When you were younger, silence had been your only shield. If you didn't speak, you couldn't be blamed. If you stayed quiet, you were invisible, and if you were invisible, you were safe. Now, as an adult in a loving relationship, that shield had turned into a cage. You felt the guilt pooling in your stomach, heavy and bitter. You knew you were punishing him with your silence, even though you didn't want to.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, Jungkook was vibrating with a mixture of confusion and mounting irritation.
He stared at the closed bedroom door, his chest tight. He was a man who lived loudlyāhe spoke his mind, he laughed with his whole body, and when he was upset, he wanted to hash it out and move on. To him, the silence felt like a weapon. It felt calculated, even though it was anything but.
āIs this how itās going to be?ā he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. āEvery time Iām honest about how I feel, she just disappears?ā
He felt a flash of resentment. He had worked hard to be a good partner, to support your business, to be the "reliable" one. Seeing you pull back felt like a rejection of everything he had invested over the last eight months. He wanted to knock on the door and demand an explanation. He wanted to tell you that it wasn't fair to leave him hanging in the middle of a conversation.
But then, he stopped.
He remembered a night three months ago, early in the relationship, when you had briefly mentioned how your parents used to stop speaking to you for days as a "lesson." You had said it with a forced laugh, dismissing it as "just how things were," but Jungkook had seen the way your fingers trembled as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
His anger flickered, replaced by a cold, sobering realization.
He looked down at his hands. He had used the word unreliable. He had told you that you were guarded. To him, they were just words born of frustration. To you, they were the echo of a ghost.
The silence stretched for hours.
Around 11:00 PM, you finally emerged. Your throat felt dry, and your head ached from the internal tension. You walked into the kitchen to get water, moving like a ghost. You saw Jungkook still on the sofa, the TV on but muted, his eyes fixed on the blank screen.
As you passed, he looked up. His expression wasn't angry anymoreāit was exhausted.
āDo you want to talk now?ā he asked, his voice low and cautious.
You looked at him, and for a second, the wall almost crumbled. You wanted to reach out. But then you saw the flicker of expectation in his eyes, the "demand" for a resolution you weren't ready to give yet, and the wall reinforced itself. Your throat tightened.
You didn't say a word. You filled your glass, drank the water in a few quick gulps, and walked back toward the bedroom.
āSeriously?ā Jungkookās voice cracked slightly. He didn't follow you this time. He just stayed there, shadowed by the dim light of the TV. āYouāre just going to pretend Iām not even in the room?ā
You closed the door again, but this time, you leaned your forehead against the wood. Tears finally began to prick at your eyes. You weren't pretending he wasn't there. You were painfully aware of every breath he took. You were just terrified that if you opened your mouth, you would fall apart, and you didn't know if he would be there to catch the pieces or if he would just see the mess and finally decide heād had enough.
The silent treatment wasn't just hurting him; it was isolating you in a way that felt like drowning. And for the first time, you realized that if you didn't learn how to swim, you were going to take the person you loved down with you.
Jungkook didn't sleep. He spent most of the night on the sofa, the cushions feeling less like furniture and more like a raft in the middle of a dark ocean. He was used to fixing thingsābroken electronics, a difficult dance routine, a bad mood. But this? This was a silence he couldn't muscle his way through.
By 4:00 AM, his mind was a chaotic loop of frustration and guilt.
āIām the one who should be mad,ā he told himself, staring at the ceiling. āSheās the one who shut down. Sheās the one who walked away.ā He thought about the weekend trip, the work heād put into the relationship, and how much it hurt to be treated like a stranger in his own home. He felt a surge of prideāthe part of him that wanted to stay silent too, just to show her how it felt. A "tit-for-tat" strategy that his ego whispered was only fair.
But then, he looked at the bedroom door.
He thought about the way your shoulders had slumped when you walked to the kitchen. You hadn't looked like a person winning a fight; you looked like a person who was lost.
Jungkook sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. He realized that if he chose his pride, he might "win" the argument, but he would lose you. And the thought of a life without your quiet laugh, your messy baking sessions, and the way you leaned into him when you were tired was far more terrifying than the thought of swallowing his pride.
āShe isn't doing this to hurt me,ā he realized, the thought landing like a heavy stone. āSheās doing this because she doesn't know what else to do.ā
As the sun began to peek through the blinds, Jungkook stopped focusing on the argument and started focusing on the person. He knew he couldn't force you to talk. If he pounded on the door and demanded a conversation, you would only retreat further into your shell. He needed to build a bridge, not a battering ram.
He spent the morning in a state of quiet, focused energy. He didn't try to initiate a conversation when you finally came out of the bedroom to start your day. He didn't huff or puff or give "loud" sighs to let you know he was bothered. Instead, he simply existed in the same space as you, providing a calm, non-threatening presence.
He saw you sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your laptop, your fingers hovering over the keys but never typing. You looked paralyzed.
Without a word, he moved into the kitchen. He didn't ask if you wanted anything. He just brewed a fresh pot of coffeeāthe roast you liked, not the one he preferred. He placed a mug next to your hand, along with a small plate of the brownies you had made the day before.
He saw your hand twitch toward the mug. You didn't look up, but your posture softened by a fraction of an inch.
Jungkook didn't linger. He didn't wait for a "thank you." He just went back to the living room and began to clear a space. He moved the cluttered boxes, straightened the rug, and set up a small, comfortable area with pillows on the floor near the windowāa place where you usually felt most creative.
He was setting the stage for safety.
Throughout the day, he felt the urge to snap, to ask, "How much longer is this going to last?" but he suppressed it. He was learning a new kind of strength: patience. He realized that his desire to save the relationship had to be bigger than his desire to be heard.
By the late afternoon, the tension in the apartment hadn't disappeared, but it had changed. It was no longer sharp and jagged; it was soft and expectant.
Jungkook took a deep breath and sat down on the floor in the space he had cleared. He didn't call your name. He just waited. He was proving to you that he wasn't going anywhereāthat even in the silence, he was reliable. Even when you were guarded, he would stay.
He was waiting for you to realize that the door wasn't locked from the outside. He was just waiting for you to turn the handle.
ā¦
The evening light filtered through the window, casting long, amber shadows across the floor. You had watched Jungkook all day. You watched him choose patience over anger, and every time he moved through the apartment without slamming a door or throwing a cold glance, a brick from your internal wall crumbled.
He was sitting on the floor in the little nook heād cleared for you. He wasn't on his phone; he wasn't distracting himself. He was just... there. Presence was his peace offering.
Your legs felt heavy as you finally stood up from the kitchen table. The silence was starting to feel less like a shield and more like a suffocating weight. You walked over, your heart hammering against your ribs, and sat down on the floor a few feet away from him.
Jungkook didn't jump to speak. He didn't demand an apology. He just looked at you, his large eyes soft and weary.
"Iām sorry," you whispered. The words felt like sandpaper in your dry throat. "Iām sorry I... stopped."
Jungkook reached out, not to pull you into a hug yet, but just to rest his hand on the floor between you, an invitation. "Iām sorry too," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have used those words. I was frustrated about the trip, but that was no excuse to call you 'unreliable' or tell you that you're always guarded. I know why you stay guarded, and I shouldn't have thrown that in your face."
The honesty of his apology made your eyes sting. You looked down at your lap, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "When you said that, it felt like... like you were seeing me the way my past saw me. Like I was a problem to be solved instead of a person."
Jungkook nodded slowly. "I see that now. But we need to talk about the silence, too." He moved a little closer, his voice calm but firm. "When you shut down, I feel like Iāve been evicted from our life. Iām standing right in front of you, but youāre a thousand miles away. I want to respect your space, but I can't fight for us if Iām the only one in the ring."
You bit your lip, the guilt finally finding a voice. "I don't do it to hurt you. Itās like... a reflex. My brain thinks if I don't speak, I can't make it worse. But I realize now that the silence makes it so much worse for you."
"It does," Jungkook admitted, his thumb tracing the pattern on the rug. "Itās okay to be hurt. Itās okay to be triggered. But you have to tell me, even if itās just one sentence. Tell me 'Iām triggered and I need an hour,' or 'That word hurt me.' Give me a map, so I don't get lost trying to find you."
You looked up at him, seeing the vulnerability he was showing. He was an "alpha" in so many parts of his lifeāconfident, strong, capableābut here, he was making himself soft just so you wouldn't feel threatened. It was a realization that hit you hard: a relationship isn't just about being loved for your best parts; itās about someone seeing your flaws and staying to help you work through them.
"I don't want to be the person who shuts down forever," you said, your voice gaining a bit of strength. "I want to be better for you. Because I want this... us... to be forever. I need to learn to trust you with the 'messy' version of me."
Jungkook finally reached out, taking your hand in his. His grip was warm and grounding. "Then letās practice. Next time I say something stupidābecause I will, Iām humanādon't run to the bedroom. Stay in the room. Even if youāre just sitting there being angry, stay in the room with me."
You squeezed his hand back, a small, tearful smile finally breaking through. "I'll try. I really will."
"Thatās all I need," he whispered. "We don't have to be perfect. We just have to be present."
For the first time in twenty-four hours, the air in the apartment felt light enough to breathe. The argument hadn't been swept under the rug; it had been dismantled, piece by piece, through the very thing you feared most: being seen.
ā¦
The weeks following the air in the apartment felt lighter, not because the problems had vanished, but because the fear of them had. You no longer walked on eggshells, and Jungkook no longer treated every disagreement like a battle to be won.
It was a Tuesday evening, and the coffee table was a chaotic spread of your brownie business spreadsheets and Jungkookās messy handwritten lyrics. The "S and M" logo you had been working on sat open on your laptop screen.
"I think we should go with the pastel cream for the packaging," you murmured, mostly to yourself. "The dark brown is too heavy."
Jungkook looked up from his notebook, leaning over to squint at the screen. "I like the cream. It looks... approachable. Like you."
You smiled, but then your eyes snagged on the calendar. "Oh, wait. Friday. You have that recording session, and I have the bulk order for the assorted samplers. Weāre going to be in each other's way in the kitchen again, aren't we?"
A month ago, this realization might have sparked a sharp comment about space or a defensive remark about whose work was more "urgent." You felt that familiar spark of anxietyāthe urge to preemptively protect your workspace.
Jungkook noticed the tiny shift in your postureāthe way your shoulders climbed a fraction of an inch toward your ears. He didn't ignore it, and he didn't poke at it.
"Yellow?" he asked softly, his voice humored but sincere.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and laughed. "Maybe a very pale lime green. Not a full yellow yet."
"Okay," he said, closing his notebook. "If it's lime green, let's solve it now before it turns bright red. I can move my setup to the bedroom for the afternoon so you have the counter space for the brownies. Then, when youāre done, we can clear the table and have dinner. Deal?"
"Deal," you said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
It was a small moment, but it felt monumental. You hadn't shut down. You hadn't retreated into the "survival mode" of your childhood. You had acknowledged the friction, and he had met you halfway with a solution.
Later that night, as you both lay in the quiet of the bedroom, the city lights filtering through the curtains, you turned to him. "I realized something today," you whispered.
Jungkook shifted, pulling the duvet up. "Whatās that?"
"I used to think that a strong relationship was one where people never fought. I thought if we hit a wall, it meant we were failing," you confessed, tracing the tattoos on his arm. "But I think I was wrong. The wall is where the growth happens. If we didn't hit it, I'd still be hiding behind my silence, and you'd still be shouting to be heard."
Jungkook turned on his side to face you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "I think the same thing. I used to think being a good partner meant being 'right' all the time. But being right is lonely. Iād much rather be wrong and be with you."
He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. "Youāve been doing so well, you know. I see you trying. I see you staying in the room even when you want to run. I know how hard that is for you."
"Itās getting easier," you admitted. "Because I know that even if I fall apart, you aren't going to use it against me. Youāve given me a safe place to be 'messy.'"
"That's the goal," he whispered. "Eight months down, and a lifetime of 'messy' to go."
You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reliable beat of his heart. You weren't the same people who had argued over a weekend trip a few weeks ago. You were older, wiser, and more deeply connected.
Love is about the hard, unglamorous work of unlearning your own defense mechanisms. Itās about choosing to stay when every instinct tells you to bolt.
As you drifted off to sleep, you didn't feel the need to be guarded. For the first time in your life, the weight of your words didn't feel like a burdenāit felt like a bridge. And on the other side, Jungkook was waiting, ready to walk across it with you, every single time.99
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