#adorablele | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kingfyre · 7 months

Text

– katabasis | p.js

There’s an incomparable beauty to it – death wearing the skin of life.

Jisung sees it too.

PAIRING. park jisung x gender neutral!reader

GENRE. urban fantasy, taxidermist!reader, rich buyer!jisung, monster hunter!donghyuck

WORD COUNT. 4.3k

WARNINGS. cryptids and monsters, folklore, mentions of corpses, implied murder

TAGLIST. @moonlightjeno, @haikchoo-main, @adorablele

NOTES. read the warnings if you get confused

He’s here again.

The tall man with the pearl necklace who never actually purchases anything, to your dismay, and instead spends his time looking, only looking, at the same mounts over and over again before rushing away when you get close. You often catch him nodding and whispering to himself. Studying them, perhaps? Looking for imperfections that aren’t there.

You have half a mind to shove the mounted specimen into his hands and dare him to find a single fault. You pride yourself on being the best at what you do. And so you find yourself walking up behind him, silent steps on porcelain floor. “Hello!”

The man startles, broken out of his stupor, turning around with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows. A timid smile fast replaces the look on his face, and he greets you in a hushed voice, "Hello."

"May I help you with something?"

"Oh, I'm just… looking around," the man says. He shakes out his hair and glances at the mounts, eyes flitting over them one by one. The smell of dried, pressed marigolds wafts through the air – a sweet floral scent with a bitter edge.

"Are you looking for anything specific?"

"I – I wanted to start collecting,” he says after a while, glancing at you before his gaze wanders away once more. “I'm afraid I haven't really thought past that…"

"Well, that's alright. Easily remedied," you nod, offering a smile you hope seems understanding. "Do you know what it is you’d like to start collecting?”

The man stands and stares at you with a blank look. Moments pass without the sound of the man’s voice and so you suggest, “Birds? Insects?”

You laugh at the face the man makes at your last suggestion. “A clear no for the insects, then.”

“Uh, well – I’d like a mount for my living room,” the man tries for a smile – bashful, sweet –, taking his hands out of his pocket. He clasps his hands together and tilts his head up to the ceiling, looking lost in thought before he catches himself and continues, “Something classy? Majestic? Something to make it less … empty.”

“I certainly have plenty that fit these conditions,” you smile, finding something oddly endearing in the way the man behaves himself.

You beckon for him to follow and begin walking toward the collection of your larger mounts, leaving the man to trail after. Though much unlike your usual clients, there have been few like him who have come to your shop without knowing what it is they want – typically the ones who walk out empty-handed. It’s not something that bothers you, but you’re determined to end this one differently.

The man stays silent as you begin to provide advice on the variety of mounts that would best suit his needs and expectations.

“And these… are sourced ethically?”

You blink, baring teeth in a wide smile. “Of course! I have different sources for all the specimens I work on.” You turn around, gesturing to all the different mounts and figures displayed around you. “Hunters, of course. Veterinarians, Animal Control, and the local Pet Store often donate as well – strays, pets that have passed away, and animals who cannot be re-released."

The man nods, mouth shaped in an ‘O’ as he listens to your usual spiel to clients who come concerned, asking the very same. ‘Ethical Taxidermy’ is a label you find as humorous as it is ill-defined, slapped on difficult work to make more appealing. It’s not something you’re innocent nor repentant of when it comes to the business you truly want to run.

"Better off here, wouldn’t you agree?” you tilt your head. “Better off taken care of, preserved to look as they had when alive, rather than thrown in the garbage or cremated.”

“Given a second life,” the man murmurs, looking straight back at you, unafraid to meet your eye.

A smile graces your lips, pleased. “That’s right.”

Silence ensues – strange, but not entirely uncomfortable. When the man averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the array of mounts he’s seen time and time before, you take the opportunity presented to you. You rake your eyes over raven hair and olive skin, a Greek nose, and full lips, rosy and dampened by a quick flash of tongue. Eye the patterned scarf, silk and expensive, draped over long limbs dressed in a brown sweater and a pink button-down, and the white pearls adorning his ears and hanging from his neck. It’s something out of a magazine – the way the man dresses.

“It’s an incredible collection you have,” the man remarks. He looks back at you with a curious gaze. “What has been your most extraordinary project to date?”

It’s not a difficult question to answer.

“An ongoing one at the moment,” you say, thinking fondly of the mount that waits for you behind closed doors. “A long, repetitive, arduous procedure that I continue to better my abilities with.”

The room stays quiet. You do not say more and the man strangely does not ask. You look back into dark brown eyes and smile, strangely aware of the beat of your heart.

Moments pass after moment until the silence is broken. “Which would you recommend?” he asks. “Out of all the mounts?”

“Generally, I would recommend starting small if you don’t know where to begin. Work your way up to bigger mounts. But if you have no personal preference and merely want something big – something that takes up a considerable amount of space in your living room without crowding it – I suppose it all depends on how large your living room is then.”

“Quite big,” the man says, nodding to himself. “Very big.”

“Then a bull moose, perhaps,” you say. You lead the man to where the mount stands; the proud being it is, and rightfully so. You’ve strived to keep it all in this portrayal – the confidence in its gait, the strength in its physicality, the pride in its abilities. “A majestic piece. Powerful. An incredible way to lessen the emptiness of a large room.”

You wait – wait until you’re rewarded with the words you want to hear.

“I’ll take it.”

You smile. “Perfect.” You’ve done this hundreds of times before – but this feels different. This man will be back, hasn’t even left yet, and you already find yourself looking forward to it all the same.

“I’ll need you to fill this out,” you tell him, when you’ve relocated to the counter and you’re handing him the formalities. “Your name, date of birth, the address you’d like me to deliver it to, and your signature, please.”

It’s a process as swift as it is quiet.

The bell rings when the man leaves your studio and you glance at the paper in your hands.

Park Jisung.

Jisung returns not even two weeks later and purchases another mount – a towering menace of a beauty that you had slaved on after Kun had brought it in nearly a year ago. One of the oldest mounts still left in your store, you’re almost sad to see it go. Almost.

You had seen him before he came in – watched him bumble in his patterned scarf, pearl necklace strung neatly on his neck, pausing right before he pulled the door open. The bell had rung and you smiled from your desk, bright and wide.

“Here for another?”

Jisung had nodded, a sheepish smile on his lips, and it was all too easy for you to lead him to your biggest mounts.

Jisung naturally gravitates to your bigger mounts, looking for more to make his space less empty he says. Make it comfortable, make it occupied.

It’s all Jisung will consider seriously, all he’ll consider with the intention of actually taking it off your hands. Naturally, you disagree; reasons with him that smaller specimens can have a mighty presence too, when displayed correctly.

(Jisung takes home a box that visit, a golden hamster inside that you find Jisung bears a resemblance to. You find out later on that Jisung keeps it in his bedroom and is elated.)

It becomes a routine. You see the passing months in pieces, but standing front and center of your mind is this: Jisung returning with his bottomless pockets of money and simply buying another creature, another mount – whatever he likes like it’s nothing to him. Thousands spent, tens of thousands spent, all on finished works, but he comes back, intervals never longer than a dozen days.

“These can’t all be for your living room,” you remark one day, watching as Jisung signs away thousands of dollars yet again.

“It’s not,” Jisung says easily, not even bothering to look up. “I’ve emptied out a room for them.”

You stare until Jisung meets your eyes and you laugh, suddenly breathless. You tell Jisung to show you a picture the next time he comes back, but Jisung merely shakes his head.

“You should see it in person,” Jisung says. “It’s better in person.”

Your heart thuds, and you smile, “I’ll wait for your invitation.”

Change comes in a quiet voice, thinly veiled curiosity asked in a voice that’s grown so familiar you don't register it at first.

It's a simple question – but it changes everything, that much is clear.

“How do I commission a specific creature?”

“Usually, you’d have to pick a hunter first,” you say. “Commission the kill and then instruct them to bring the corpse to me.”

“Oh.”

You glance at him, wandering back and forth, unable to stand still, from mount to mount like he hasn’t seen these a dozen times by now. “Which would you like?” you ask, tilting your head. You place your pen down and lean back into your chair. “I have friends who can hunt it for you.”

Jisung looks back at you. There's a moment of prolonged silence and you observe the way Jisung lowers his gaze to the ground and blinks – the way his eyes glaze over like he’s gone somewhere else entirely. He walks back to the counter slowly, meets your eyes slowly. It takes a while for Jisung to communicate what he wants. “I want something so special I believe only you would be able to provide.”

“Flattering,” you say, eyebrow raised and a smile pulling at your lips. “I won’t do it for free despite that.”

Jisung doesn’t hesitate with his answer. “I’ll pay whatever amount you’d like.”

“What is it then?”

Jisung blinks – opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Cryptids,” he says. “I’d like to commission a cryptid mount.”

It’s hard to ignore the spark that crackles inside your stomach after Jisung utters his request. The ceiling lights feel a little stronger, white and bright and casting shadows on Jisung’s face. Angular lines on the essence of youth.

“And if I told you I don’t do them?”

Jisung’s face stays carefully blank. “Then I would ask you to forget I ever asked.”

You laugh. Shaking your head, you comb a hand through your hair as you stand from your seat. “Cryptid mounting isn’t illegal here, Jisung. Looked down upon, sure. But it’s never really done by the people who matter, is it?”

It's endearing to you – the way Jisung ducks his head, skirting the statement he could've easily known through some research, skirting the question he already knows the answer to. You don’t wait for an answer Jisung won't provide. You turn around; Jisung follows.

The cryptid room is bigger though less filled, with a higher ceiling to accommodate for the towering heights the creatures have. You look back at Jisung who looks around, eyes brimming with the sort of wonder you would argue one could only see in a child.

“Not your first time seeing one?”

“No,” Jisung shakes his head. “No, my parents kept one on display in our living room as I grew up.”

“I see,” you say. “What was it, exactly?”

“A Baku.”

“Dream-eaters,” you note. Common then, rarer now, after all the hunting history and folklore have put it through. You’ve never mounted a Baku before. “Did it work?”

Jisung makes a face, pressing his hands to his cheeks, eyes still trained on the exhibit, jumping from creature to creature. His voice comes out distracted. “Hm? Not really.”

“Is that what established the curiosity?”

“I suppose so.”

The answer comes in a voice bordering absentminded, so you leave it at that, letting him pace the room and explore the options he's been presented.

“I’ll take this one,” Jisung points to a Wendigo you’d mounted months before you ever approached Jisung, abandoned by its original buyer after seeing the sheer size of it. “Along with the commission.”

You smile, thinking of the present that came alongside it.

"A what?"

"A Katshituashku," you drawl into your phone, dragging every syllable out. Donghyuck is seated, in what you would guess is the little gas station at the corner of Main and Seventh, toying with the straw in his drink. You see Jaemin in the background and consider sending him a wave before he disappears from the frame entirely.

"No, shut up, I heard you the first time," Donghyuck says, a scowl pulling at his lips. He looks up from his drink, “A Katshituashku?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s –” Donghyuck pauses. The interest on his face is evident; taking down a Katshituashku would make for great publicity, near invincible as it is, only wounded through the soles of its feet. You already know the answer before Donghyuck says it. “Where?”

“How would I know? That’s your job.”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes and sets his drink aside. “Sorry I assumed the buyer knew where what he wanted was?”

You sigh, “He mentioned Maine?”

“How much?”

“For free.”

Donghyuck reaches out and grabs his phone from whatever it’s leaning on, shoving his face closer to the camera. He narrows his eyes, “I’m hanging up.”

“Have you ever known me to be a cheapskate?” you huff. “Do it quickly and you can name whatever price you want, yes?”

Donghyuck lights up, well aware that you would give him whatever amount he asks for – if kept reasonable. He grins and salutes you through his screen, “Whatever you say goes, boss man.”

You text Jisung as soon as it arrives.

The body was delivered today. You can come see it, if you’re free.

Jisung shows up in record time.

You don't know why you ask, but the words come easy, like it's been sitting on your tongue for years, waiting to be said at that exact moment. "Would you like to watch?"

Jisung stills, looking at you with wide eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"Would you like to watch me work on your commission?" you cock your head to the side. "You can come whenever you’d like to. If you have nothing else to do, that is."

“I’d love to!” he beams, clasping his hands together akin to a prayer. “To stay and watch, please.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a job? Matters to attend to?”

“Not one that expects me too much.”

"A strange job. Or the ideal one. If you're earning enough to be buying as many mounts as you are." You purse your lips. “Stay where I can see you. Peripheral or central vision. I don’t like people wandering around my workshop without my knowledge.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Jisung tugs at the ends of his clothes, nodding at every word that comes out of your mouth.

“Most importantly – do not distract me,” you warn him, wagging your finger at the taller man. “Else it is your commission quality on the line.”

The smile on Jisung's face is brighter and warmer than any bonfire you’ve ever set.

Jisung proves capable of following your simple rule the first few weeks, only asking his burning questions once you’ve put down your tools and seated yourself beside him for a break.

“Isn’t it limiting?”

“What is?”

“Not opening during business hours. Being open six hours a day, only three days a week limits your market reach.”

You shrug. It’s always worked for you. More time to dedicate to the crafting process, more to maximize productivity. “I reach the people I want to reach. Friends, friends of friends.” People who can afford it. People who can and have no problem ignoring the illegal aspects that could come with the practice, you leave unsaid.

“You’re one of the only ones who come to visit my lonely little store, anyway. Most customers don’t personally come to the shop,” you continue. “They call, they email, they make the order and put in a deposit. Then I ship the mount when I’m finished.”

Jisung keeps quiet. Stays in his place, in the corner of your eye, and absentmindedly traces the wood grain of the table. His eyes never seem to leave you. Not until you look back.

“I’m not in it for the money,” you say, after a long stretch of silence. God knows you have enough.

“I know,” Jisung says, a small smile on his face. “Otherwise you’d be charging me for this commission a whole lot more.”

Jisung leaves and you finally get to work on what you’ve been looking forward to all week.

A present from Donghyuck. A burden lifted from Donghyuck.

You open another door to Mark’s smiling face and take in the cool air that greets your face. You sigh – deep, anticipatory. Content.

Mark is smiling at you, and so you smile back, wide and full, eager to keep Mark at his best.

“I almost thought you were on display.”

You look up from what you’re doing and stare at Jisung, sitting straight and proper from where he observes. “What did you say?”

“I almost thought it was you on display,” Jisung leans forward onto the table in front of him, “So focused. Unmoving. Beautiful.”

“You should be,” Jisung murmurs, nodding to himself, and you watch the way his eyes rake over your face, the way he stares and so unabashedly meets your eyes with an indecipherable intensity. Something close to wonder. Something close to desire.

“Jisung-ah,” you say and imagine yourself standing from your seat. Walking over to Jisung and bending him over the table he’s leaning on. Jisung would let you. You know that much.

“Yes?”

“Be quiet.”

When Jisung leaves, You stay in your workshop and stare at the closed door leading to the cold room. Stare until your breath deepens and your heart rate rises.

I almost thought it was you on display.

You find that you don’t dislike the thought of it at all.

You could be. In another world. Created by the very few hands you trust. You would be a beautiful mount – Jisung’s mount – situated in his living room, his study, his bedroom. Wherever Jisung would want to place you.

Like Mark.

The first and only time Jisung breaks your rule is at your own instruction.

It comes with a cost.

“Jisung-ah?”

No answer.

You sigh, pressing your lips into a frustrated frown. “Jisung, I need those tools now.”

How long does it take to retrieve a honing steel and a simple sanding stick? Still, you receive no answer. You shudder, feeling the brush of cool air on your skin. Did Jisung open a window?

“Jisung-ah, what in the world are you doing –”

Then, you look back and see the door to the wrong room open, feeling your heart drop from your chest. The drag of your chair echoes loudly through the room, scraping against porcelain tiles. You reach for the shaving knife on the next table and wrap your fingers around it with a vicelike grip, taking tentative steps toward the opened room.

Mark has always been the most dominating presence in a room. It extends to death, still the center of attention, situated in your cold room. Jisung is transfixed.

Something ugly blooms inside your chest, a bitter flower full of thorns.

“So this is why Mark hyung’s body hasn’t been found,” Jisung says when you step into the room. “Everyone assumes he’s just been eaten by something. Flesh stripped to the bone.”

Jisung takes a step closer, and you watch as he tilts his head and begins circling the mount with a blank look on his face.

You grip the tool at hand a little tighter, and imagine what Jisung would look like – head bashed in, flesh and bone drenched in red, a face once so handsome unrecognizable to the human eye. A shame, really.

Or perhaps you’ve earned a new addition to your growing collection.

“He looks so,” Jisung pauses, lips pressing together in a tight line. “Preserved.”

“You captured his smile so well—” Jisung laughs softly and you do not know what to make of it. It’s not what you’ve expected, not what you’ve daydreamed or dreaded during those few sleepless nights.

You don’t know what you expected.

“This is embalming, isn’t it?” Jisung asks. The smile on his face is still the same – as good and as pure as you’ve ever seen on his lips. “How long does it take you? How often? Do you do it by yourself?”

“Get out.”

Jisung reaches for you, a kind, excited look in his eye that must betray what you imagine he must truly be feeling. “Y/N, it’s –”

“Get the fuck out of my store before I change my mind, Jisung,” you snap.

Jisung pulls his hands back and looks at you, taking a step back. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks at you – a graveyard in his mouth, filled with all the words you won’t let him say.

It’s a terrible decision that hits you full force in the stomach once Jisung disappears from sight.

Jisung doesn’t come back the next day. Or the next week. Or the week after that.

The shop feels emptier, colder. Mark’s family do not come barging in, looking for their son’s dead body, still whole and preserved, like you had intended to keep.

You continue working on the commission during the day and scream your frustration into your room during the night.

Jisung returns twenty-three days later, an hour before closing times.

You see him before he comes in, in his brown sweater and pearl earrings, pulling at the door with the certainty that he’d grown into all those months ago.

It’s too easy, inviting him back into your workshop. Too easy, falling back into old habits.

“How did you get his body?”

You evade the question and throw one of your own. “You knew him?”

“Our families are friends.”

“And were you?”

“I looked up to him,” Jisung shrugs. “I wanted to be a hunter like him – and his whole family before him, I suppose – when I was younger.”

“But?”

“My parents forbade it.”

You hum as you prepare the mold, carving muscles and veins into place one after the other. You’re making good time – further along than you had expected to be at this point. “Well, it’s a good thing they did. You’d likely fall on your weapon before even spotting the cryptid.”

“I wouldn’t fall on my weapon at all!” Jisung makes an offended sound, plump lips pursed into a pout before you send him a look that reminds him of his volume. He slouches, curling into himself before murmuring, “I’d just need training. I could’ve been a hunter if I’d gotten some.”

"Maybe." You could see it. Bloodstains on hunter's clothes, dried mud on leather boots, lethality at hand. You glance at Jisung, pressing your lips together. “You could’ve.”

“We might’ve met earlier if I had become one,” Jisung muses.

"You could still be one," you say. "Then I'd have you hunt for me."

“Was Mark your first?”

A face flashes before your eyes – striking features complemented by delicateness; sharp eyes and full lips with a captivating draw. The first. The failure. The reason why you started.

So significant then, now a muddled memory you struggle to hold on to by a loose thread. A corpse in the ground that you’ll forever regret.

You try to smile. Was Mark your first? Of course not. First victory? First triumph? Perhaps, you could say that. It’s not perfection yet, but it’s the closest you’ve gotten by far. But to get to even this level of mediocrity, you needed practice, you needed failure – as all great artists do. “What do you think?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

Moments after moments pass. You don’t need to look up from your work to know that Jisung is staring. He always is. You don’t ever want him to look away.

“Could I see him again?”

You close your eyes, pausing your work and hovering your file over the foam. “Jisung –”

“Please,” comes the plea, “Just for a moment.”

Jisung has a way of slipping through defenses, a way of pushing through the rifts with glittering eyes and quiet pleas.

Or perhaps you simply let him.

Walking inside the cold room with an audience to something you’d never meant to have on display just yet is disconcerting.

Not as it had weeks before. But unsettling nevertheless.

It's not ready. Not perfect. Not worth presenting to someone you want to show nothing less than magnificence to.

But Jisung seems to think otherwise.

"Have I mentioned how much I love your work?" Jisung turns back to face you and smiles widely. There’s something in his eyes that washes a wave of warmth all over your body. It's admiration. Devotion.

Slowly, sweetly, you smile back and tilt your head. “No, I don’t think you have.”

Black loafers click against porcelain tiles as Jisung walks towards you, closer and closer, until you see nothing but kind eyes and full lips. The air smells like marigolds and you draw in a deep breath.

“Y/N,” Jisung says.

Mark’s watching as you reach up, cold fingertips on warm skin, cupping Jisung’s cheek. Jisung sighs, deep, content, and presses closer, closing his eyes.

“Y/N,” he says again.

Inhale. Exhale. A breath of warm air against your lips.

Jisung will make the journey with you.

The journey to perfection.

#bjnet #nct dream #nct #park jisung #nct dream angst #nct dream scenarios #jaemin #nct drabbles #nct scenarios #nct dream fanfic #haechan #mark lee

38 notes · View notes

kingfyre · 2 years

Text

– all those times are now memories (bye, my first…) | n.jm

There was no one like Na Jaemin. As beautiful as a flurry of glittering snowflakes drifting and swirling down from the sky with grace and tenderness, always an overwhelming kindness and compassion flooding out of his actions like water bursting out of a broken dam.

Just as much as you loved him – everything about him – you thought he felt the same.

PAIRING. na jaemin x reader

GENRE. fluff, angst, college!au

WORD COUNT. 4.3k

WARNINGS. profanity

TAGLIST. @moonlightjeno, @haikchoo-main, @adorablele

NOTES. this is a repost ! took the time to reread this again after such a long time and good god (derogatory)... still reposting though because this was my first born (read: first attempt at a longer fic) and it still holds a special, little place in my heart

JAEMIN HAS never been one to wait. Coming home, there was rarely a day where you didn’t find yourself smothered and doused with kisses, his lips always so eager and starving. He’d be so impatient, wouldn’t even give you the time to set your things down. Your shoes would still be on, but you’d kiss him back just as hungrily, as if you had waited years to finally lock lips with him. As if decades had gone by without a mere glimpse of his sweet, absolutely marvelous smile.

ㅤ

Jaemin hated Mondays. Aside from it being the start of another dreaded week, you’d constantly come home late on Mondays, complaints about Mark prolonging dance rehearsal on the tip of your tongue. He’d jump up from his place on the couch, the tv playing on as he rushed to your drooping figure leaning on the doorway. His arms would wrap almost instinctively around your waist, hauling you up in a warm embrace.

You’d exchange shy smiles, foreheads against one another’s, greeting each other with quiet mumbles of hellos and how are yous. Once his lips were pressed against yours, all your complaints vanished, his kiss more intoxicating than anything you’ve ever drunk. He never failed to take all your grumbles away, his tongue dancing with yours, constantly drowning you with all his love. Mondays were exhausting, no doubt, but Jaemin never ceased to find ways to keep you up.

ㅤ

Tuesdays weren’t anything special. They were busy, the day filled with everything but a tiny break for you two to enjoy in each other’s company. Jaemin left early on Tuesdays, leaving you to the empty sight of his side of the bed. Maybe it was just you, but waking up on Tuesday always seemed so quiet.

Tuesdays weren’t anything special. But Jaemin made them special. The cute good morning texts he’d send when he knew you were finally awake always had your cheeks reddening, always sending a flood of warmth up your neck and into your face. He’d leave you little notes – on the fridge, on your bedside table, on the bedroom door- reminding you to eat before you go, to bring a snack with you, wishing you good luck on that test you’ve been stressing about. His love poured out of every word etched on. Jaemin was always right beside you – even when he wasn’t.

ㅤ

Both you and Jaemin looked forward to Wednesdays. Wednesdays were movie nights. Hand in hand, you’d come home with Jaemin, arguing about whose turn it was to pick the movie. You’d listen to the sound of the popcorn popping in the microwave, the smell of butter in the air as you and Jaemin fetched blankets and pillows for the night. Once settled, you’d still spend at least half an hour bickering over what movie you should put on.

He’d be so stubborn, insisting on watching the same rom-com movie you’ve watched so many times, you swear you could quote it word for word. But when he starts acting cute, eyebrows all furrowed and eyes shimmering, you’d let him win so easily, always so soft for that pout he gives you when he wants something. He’d put the movie on and wrap his arms around you, and you’d both giggle like fools, not actually paying attention and staying up till god knows when.

ㅤ

You loved Thursdays. The only day in the week where you both could sleep in.

You adored Thursdays. You relished the fact that you‘d wake up to his serene and seraphic face, that only you were allowed to see him like this. You’d sit up lazily, arms stretching upwards as you let out a big yawn, only to yelp in surprise when he pulls you back down to the bed and into his warm embrace. He’d try to avoid your halfhearted swats at him, and you’d grin back at him before he slides his lips on yours again. If you didn’t push him away, protesting and whining about his morning breath, you two easily lost track of time, snuggling with each other for at least half an hour more. If one of you came late to class you’d blame the other and apologize, and with no evident remorse, you’d promise for it to be the last, knowing wholeheartedly it’ll most certainly and never would be the last.

But oh, how you cherished Thursday mornings like they were the last one every time.

ㅤ

It goes with no saying that Jaemin was a sweetheart; popular and smart, he was near perfect to all the other students, befriending almost everyone he meets. So on Fridays, if you didn’t manage to convince Jaemin to let you stay home, you’d find yourself at another house or club, music blasting loudly and desperately clinging onto Jaemin. You were never one for parties, but seeing Jaemin in those tight, black skinny jeans that hugged his thighs so well, white shirt loosely tucked in, leather jacket on – rather than those jogging pants he’d insist on wearing to class because, oh, but they’re so much more comfortable – affected you more than you let on. From the way he’d smirk at you and tilt his head, you don’t doubt he knew just how crazy he drove you.

When he’d keep his arm around your waist and stay beside you throughout the whole party, a silent claim, like he was afraid anyone would try and take his princess away – that made your heart race faster than you could ever describe. So, you decided Fridays and parties weren’t all that bad.

ㅤ

Just like your heart and thoughts, your week was full of him. His wonderful smile. His bright eyes full of gentleness, with a hint of mischief lingering behind. His long, slender fingers that interlock with yours and weave themselves into your hair. His rosy lips that shower you with the sweetest of kisses. The way he perked up whenever you came into sight. The cute sounds he’d make- the way his breath would hitch, become shallow and rapid, heart pounding loudly. The way praises and compliments spill out of his mouth so effortlessly. Everything about him.

You loved every single trait and quirk, every wink, every stupid joke he’d make. There was no one like Na Jaemin. As beautiful as a flurry of glittering snowflakes drifting and swirling down from the sky with grace and tenderness, always an overwhelming kindness and compassion flooding out of his actions like water bursting out of a broken dam.

Now, your relationship with Jaemin wasn’t perfect. Like every other couple, you two fought. You had your ups and downs, twists and turns, ceaselessly going back and forth with each other. You’d argue about the little things you realize now were unimportant. You’d refuse to talk, just as he, and you’d glare at him furiously, while he’d look at you just as infuriated, head slightly tilted down, his gaze drilling holes into you from under his eyelashes. But the glares and fights and silent treatments never last.

Like him, you craved attention, you needed his love and affection. You wanted nothing more than to make up and melt in his arms. Swallowing your pride, you’d approach him, head down, apology and excuses at hand.

Occasionally he’d beat you to it. Sometimes, he’d walk up to you and shimmy himself into your arms, mumbling almost incoherent apologies- hasty and hollow apologies- and you’d echo those same promises back, albeit knowing it wouldn’t be the last time this would happen. Still, you two would be so relieved, so thankful, so sorry, that all that mattered was you were with each other again.

Just as much as you loved him – everything about him – you thought he felt the same.

So when he broke up with you on a Sunday, you didn’t cry. When he uttered those words that were now like lead and acid, your heart stilled and like glass, it took a blow, a crack slowly spreading as you took it in. But still, you didn’t cry. Instead, like it was one big joke, you chuckled breathlessly, eyes wide, telling him how bad of a joke that was. But he wouldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze zipping from one place to another – like everything else was suddenly so interesting. He said nothing else, gave you no explanation, no apology, no excuses, leaving you to wonder what reasons could he have- why the happy ever after you both envisioned, was ending here.

When did it start? Where were the signs? Why was it ending just like this?

It was like a jolt back to reality, awoken from a dream now lost. You nodded, smile long gone, eyes having had lost their sparkle and looked down. You didn’t cry – but you didn’t feel anything either. Body and mind numb, you let out a soft noise of understanding and nodded again.

ㅤ

The low hum of Jaemin’s laptop greets you as you come home late the next day. There are no kisses, no hugs – no Jaemin throwing his whole weight on top of yours. All your remaining energy evaporates, your legs ready to give out. You feel weak, vulnerable, but you can’t stand letting it show, so you stand there, waiting for him to finally look at you. When he finally looks up he gives you a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Nothing like the loving smiles and shining eyes he’d give you before.

“How was practice?” He asks, his usual enthusiasm reduced to a hushed murmur.

You shrug, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “It was okay. Like always, I guess.”

He nods, avoiding your gaze once more and pressing his lips together.

“I – uhm – there’s food on the table if you’re hungry.” His voice is so unbelievably hesitant. “Also, I’ll sleep here. So uh – you don’t have to wait up for me.”

He throws you another smile, the kind you’ve figured he does when he doesn’t know what to say. A sob threatens its way up at the back of your throat. It all seems too easy for him. Does it not affect him? Does it not hurt? Does he really not care anymore? Eyes burning and chest tight, you look away, shaking your head frantically in understanding.

“Okay.”

ㅤ

The apartment is eerily quiet on Tuesday.

This Tuesday there are no notes. Not on the table, not on the fridge, not on the door where he’d usually stick one to wish you a day as bright as the smile you’d give him. Or, used to give him.

There are no texts. At least, none that matter. None from him. You feel pathetic, clinging onto your phone, jumping at every notification you see.

Jaemin leaves early on Tuesdays. But this Tuesday is different. This time, he left with another piece of your heart. And deep down you know, this time, he won’t come back into your arms again.

(Jaemin doesn’t come home that Tuesday.)

ㅤ

You don’t see Jaemin on Wednesday. Not in the morning, not at lunch, not in the courtyards where he usually waits for you with his friends while you’re in class.

You go home alone on Wednesday. And yet, you still hold hope. You know the chances are less than slim, but you hope Jaemin is home. You hope he’s waiting, a bowl of popcorn in his hands, grumbling about how you’re making him wait. You can’t help the small, bitter smile that emerges on your face. He’s always been so impatient.

The apartment is still empty when you arrive. There is no Jaemin waiting, no popcorn in his hands, no complaints, nothing. Instead, you come home to a note. Lying on the kitchen counter is a bright pink note, very much like the ones he’d always leave you with.

A million thoughts race through your brain, so many reasons, so many scenarios. Maybe it’s an apology. Maybe he wants you to meet him somewhere. Maybe he wants you to get ready, to get dressed in that pink dress and white heels he adored on you, that you two were going somewhere once he came home. Your breath quivers as your hope rises, a nervous feeling spreading throughout your chest as you rush to the counter.

Hopefulness bubbled inside you, lips pressed together tightly. You gulp, whispering – pleading under your breath, for an explanation, for something – for anything to quench the questions and put out the fire of pain burning inside you.

ㅤ

Hey Y/N,

I’m staying at Jeno’s for a while. This seems the best for us. I know I didn’t- I never- You probably don’t wa-

I’m sorry.

Jaemin

ㅤ

At first, you feel nothing. Then, it comes in trickles and drops, until it grows stronger, faster, the hopefulness in your chest rotting away, replaced by all the pain you’ve kept locked away in your chest - an overflowing flood of hate, guilt, and bitterness.

For him. For leaving you like this. For abandoning you with no explanation. Did you not deserve one? What happened? Is it something you did? Did he fall out of love? Was that it? You wonder at all the possibilities and you feel the burning desire to hate him, for leaving you in the dark like this. Alone and lost in a maze you were supposed to find your way out together. You want to hate him and you struggle to think of all the reasons why you could, but you can’t. Because he’s Na Jaemin. Because he’s that person who can make you smile even in the most horrid of times. Because he’ll always be that person you hold closest to your heart.

“God Jaemin, god, god, god, I fucking hate you so much.” Stifling back a sob, you pull at your hair, a wail of anguish reverberating throughout the room. To say your heart feels like it’s being twisted and wrenched would be an understatement. Your fingers press the note tightly, wrinkles spreading around the edges.

You swallow back the lump in your throat and wipe your eyes, trying to blink back any tears that threatened to escape. “Jaemin, you absolute asshole.”

Tears stream down your face, eyes stinging and rimmed red. You slam your hand down on the table and you flinch, the impact feeling like a thousand needles prickling your palm. A string of profanities aimed at Jaemin leaves your mouth with no remorse and you heave, fighting for air.

You stumble miserably through the hallway, exhausted, your only source of energy and motivation your anger. You force yourself to change into a pair of clean clothes and lay down on your once shared bed. Your cries turn into quiet sobs when you decide to reach for your laptop, hoping to distract yourself with a movie. But your tears don’t stop. And you aren’t sure if they ever would.

It’s still early when you fall asleep, that stupid rom-com movie still running in the background.

ㅤ

It’s late when you wake up on Thursday morning, with only three minutes left till class begins. You turn to face Jaemin, a frown placed on your lips, to ask him why he didn’t wake you up. When your eyes meet the empty sight of his side of the bed, apart from the small space the laptop took up, your breath catches, throat tightening and your eyes start, despite your trying not to, tearing up.

You close the laptop before turning away, wanting to get up but feeling too tired to do so, regardless of the whole night’s sleep you got. You wonder if you could sleep all the pain away, to lose yourself in another dream where Jaemin never left, and he’s right there lying beside you.

An hour passes by, then two and three, before you steel yourself enough to get up and brush your teeth. You stare at the mirror for what seems like hours, questioning what’s changed, searching for flaws that could have helped him make up his mind and leave. With every minute you spend, your confidence shrivels, growing smaller and smaller as you debase yourself, looking for anything, everything that could have made him leave. You stutter out a heavy breath as your hands grip the sink.

Trying to reason with yourself, you shake your head, whispers of denial going through your head. Drowning in self loath, you waste your afternoon away, only moving to and from the couch and bed.

You’re lost in your thoughts when you hear the sound of a key being turned, opening the front door. You look up, expecting Jaemin, only to be greeted by the sight of Jeno, holding an empty bag and Jaemin’s keys. He stands stiffly, so unlike his usually relaxed posture, not knowing how to go on. The pity on his face is evident and you hate every bit of it. You waste no time in letting him know. “Get out.”

“Y/N,” he tries softly. “Jaemin sent –”

“Get out!” you scream, hurling the nearest thing you could grab at him when he makes no move to leave. “I don’t care whatever the fuck he said – get out!”

You don’t stop, repeating it over and over again, “Get out, get out, get out!!”

His eyes plead for understanding, wanting at least a chance to explain. You feel angry – you wanted no explanation. Not from him. All you could think of is how cowardly, how low, and how weak it was of Jaemin, to send someone else, instead of facing you himself. Your screams for him to go turn into broken sobs, into a beg for him to leave you wallowing in your sorrow.

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” he sighs, trailing off. “I – I’ll come back – another time…”

The door closes behind his retreating figure loudly.

Hours after he’s gone you continue to shed tears, because what else could you do but cry?

ㅤ

There’s a loud banging on your door on Friday afternoon. You struggle to get up from the couch and feel as though you’d just been run over by a truck. When you open the door to a frowning Renjun and a concerned Donghyuck, you know you’re in for a dreadful lecture.

Renjun’s frown deepens when he sees your terrible state, quickly letting himself in and closing the door after Donghyuck. Donghyuck doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his arms, his hand rubbing your back in an attempt to comfort you. For the third time that week, you weep, shedding hot and bitter tears, arms wrapping around his torso while you bury your face into his chest. You stay like that for a while before Donghyuck whispers, “Maybe it’d be better if we go sit down, Y/N…”

As you take a seat on the couch, Renjun and Donghyuck exchange uneasy looks with each other. Donghyuck wraps his arm around you comfortingly, not knowing how to ask and worried he might say the wrong thing. Renjun, however, is clear and straight to the point.

“Professor Jung’s prolonging the deadline by an additional week,” he starts, his frown still apparent. “So there shouldn’t be a problem with the project. But you still should’ve told us you weren’t coming today- and yesterday.”

He huffs, grabbing his bag and rummaging through it. He pulls out a folder and places it on the table, and before you could hiccup out an apology, he waves his hand dismissively and clicks his tongue.

“We took notes for you – but if you don’t understand, just know that’s all your fault and I’m not lending you shit.”

A short, breathy laugh slips out of you, genuinely finding great delight in his words. You hiccup and give the two your best try for a smile.

“Thank you.”

“I did most of it, of course.” Donghyuck pipes in. “You know how bad this loser’s handwriting is.”

Renjun shoots him a withering look, his fists raised in a threat, but Donghyuck only responds by sticking his tongue out at him.

You laugh breathily, appreciating the company in what seemed like months in a void of loneliness. The three of you aren’t particularly close; you share classes together, but you mostly know Donghyuck from practice, friendly enough with each other, while Renjun had the luck of being paired up with you two for this semester project. Although you’ve never met up with them for anything other than schoolwork, you hesitantly ask, “Would you guys like to stay for a while?”

Renjun is reluctant, but Donghyuck is all for it, beaming with his enthusiastic nods. You rush to reassure them that they don’t need to but Renjun only shrugs, claiming to have nothing better to do. Donghyuck wastes no time making himself at home, rushing off to your kitchen to go look for food while Renjun calls him out. You manage a grin, knowing for at least a little while, your mind could think of other things, like how to break it to Donghyuck that you ran out of ramen three days ago.

ㅤ

A week passes. Jaemin still does not come home. Two weeks. You get used to the silence, but you do your best to avoid it – voluntarily staying later to practice with Mark and Donghyuck, leaving the apartment as soon as you’re ready, cooping yourself up in the library and letting yourself be dragged into the occasional party.

Three weeks have passed when you come home and see Jaemin’s keys on the table. He’s finally collected everything he left; there’s no need for him to have it anymore. You don’t know why it affects you so much. You knew he seldom came to get his stuff when you were gone. You don’t even know if he actually came himself or if he’d send Jeno. But you knew one day, he’d have nothing else to get and he’d have no use for it anymore. You knew, and you expected it. But it hit hard; harder than you thought it would.

Donghyuck rushes to your place as soon as you text him, finding you seated on the floor in front of the couch, just staring at the wall like it has all the answers to your questions.

Jaemin’s gone, and he took along with him all his traces.

Jaemin’s gone and so are his things, why do you care so much?

“Y/N…”

“Hyuck, be honest with me,” you laugh out mirthlessly, “this is getting a bit too pathetic isn’t it?”

He purses his lips, taking a seat next to you. He gives you a sad smile. “Well, to be honest, you looked worse the first time we went out drinking.”

You snort, smiling at him wearily, “Really?”

“Oh yeah. Absolutely.”

“So you wanna stay and drink the night away with me?”

“It’s not healthy to bottle all your feelings up and expect them all to go away with a drink, Y/N,” he sighs. “But – you know, I’m never opposed to a drink. But, let’s wait till Renjun arrives.”

He opens his arms and you settle in them comfortably, nesting your face in his chest. He strokes your hair and you burst, tears flowing freely once more.

And so you two wait for Renjun in each other’s arms, quietly talking and an occasional sob ripping out of you. When Renjun arrives, he holds a bag full of alcohol and junk food, along with a stack of DVDs in his backpack and you think perhaps this night could still be salvaged.

ㅤ

Four weeks pass. Five. Six. You think you’re getting better. You’re proud of yourself. Proud that you don’t spend every waking moment thinking of him anymore. But Donghyuck still makes sure to remind you to eat and Renjun makes sure you do. They see right through the facade you put on for everyone. They know your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. But the sparkle in your eyes is returning, you think, slowly but surely. You think you’re getting better – and for a while, you were.

ㅤ

It’s been almost eight weeks when you see Jaemin in the park in front of the public library. Two months. It’s been almost two months when you see him again, his head on another girl’s lap, eyes closed and that serene smile on his face.

Renjun looks back at you, not knowing why you’ve stopped in your tracks. His eyes follow your gaze, wondering what could have you so stupefied.

Jaemin’s opened his eyes, laughing at whatever the girl’s said, not hesitating to intertwine their hands together. They don’t see you, lost in their own little world, like you and Jaemin used to be. She pecks him on the forehead and he sits up, returning it with a quick and happy kiss to the lips. Renjun’s furious, even more than you are, and you grab his hand when he tries to approach them.

“It’s not worth it,” you say. “Let’s just go, Renjun. Please.”

You don’t let yourself break until you get to the safe confines of your apartment.

Two months.

Two months, for him to forget about you and your two-year relationship. Two months, and yet, he’s already holding another girl, laughing and kissing, while you still sobbed over his stupid smile every damn time you came across a photo of him in your gallery. It took him two months – two months to move on and find someone else.

Was that all it had to take? Two measly months? Was that how important you were? Was that how much impact you’ve made in his life? So little that it only took two fucking months for him to push you out of his life?

You thought you’ve already hit rock bottom, but you realize there was still no end to be seen. You could fool yourself all you want, but you were still falling – spiraling down a bottomless pit of hurt. Every inch of you aches, and even in Renjun’s hold, you feel broken, like nothing could ever fix you and bring back that light in your heart.

Na Jaemin broke you in ways you never thought he would and yet, here you are, still wishing for him to return and piece you back together again.

#jaemin.#na jaemin #jaemin #jaemin imagines #jaemin fic #nct dream #nct #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct angst #nct dream angst #jaemin angst #nct fluff #nct dream drabbles

281 notes · View notes