#jimin.doc

“Tell me I’m good,”  he all but pleads, begs into the modest swell of your chest, the cleavage that disappears past the pretty white macrame that holds you together.  His hands are everywhere, eager as ever, tracing over your skin like he’s a man lost at sea and he might find home in the notches of your spine, the rungs of your ribs.  He seeks out your warmth, hopes to find treasure buried beneath your valleys and peaks.

You try to do as he says - try to offer him the words he so desperately wants to hear - but it’s hard when you’re gagged and bound, barely able to move an inch.

He knows that.  That’s the whole point.

“Tell me, baby.”  Jimin’s face disappears into the crook of your neck, mouth sucking bruises over every part of you he can reach.  (As if he hasn’t already painted the expanse over and over, layered rouge so dark you’ll be forced to wear turtlenecks for weeks.)  

You whine against him, the sob muffled by the silk that sinks into the spaces between your teeth.  It’s terribly soft - one of your favourite toys, printed with a lovely pattern - and soaked in saliva, the same wet warmth dripping down your chin.  

The hands looped behind your back wiggle, fingers stretching in desperation.  They’ve been bound for so long they’re starting to tingle, though you’re not quite sure it’s not just pleasure branching through your limbs.  You’ve been pushed to the edge so many times everything’s just a little hazy, soft at the edges and dream-like.  

Even fatigued, it feels okay, if not a little too much.  (You don’t mind.  You never mind.) 

Something like a laugh comes, so incredibly sweet you can’t help but hone in on it, letting it wash over you.  It’s not your fault your boyfriend sounds so pretty, lyrical and intoxicating.  He can’t blame you for how your lashes flutter shut, lids sliding darkness over blown-out pupils. 

He does blame you, though, and he’ll punish you too. 

“I’m sorry.”  But you think he must not be that sorry.  If he were, he wouldn’t do this again and again and again.

You’re so exhausted.  He knows that.  He must know that.  

Can’t he hear it in the way your voice trips over its own two feet, the heart cradled carefully in your hands shattering into a million little pieces?  Surely he can feel it when those same shards dig into his fingertips, begging to be put back together.

“You can’t keep doing this.”  There’s that desperation colouring your words the same pretty mosaic of black and blue as your broken heart.  “You can’t always come running back to me.  It isn’t fair.”

His silence speaks volumes - says more than the words you know he’s trying - and failing - to find.

“I love you.  You know I love you.  I’d do anything for you.”  Have done anything for him.

From staying up all night nursing his fever to picking him up at 3 AM when he’d decided he’d had enough to drink, you were always there.  You were always loyal.  A reliable presence in the otherwise unpredictable life of Park Jimin.

Maybe that’s why he did this.  Because he could - because you’d never stop him.

You were there, no matter when or why he called.  Even after he’d been out chasing the next big thing - and there was always something shinier, something better - you’d welcome him back with open arms, letting those devilishly long legs dance across your feelings as if they weren’t being crushed beneath his soles.

“I’m sorry.”  The apology is the same as it always is - heartfelt and affectionate.  All the love in the world is laced into each syllable.  It’s supposed to make you forget all about the pain, the way he strings you along and keeps you around.

And it does.  You hate it, but it does.

Because despite yourself, he’s the one.  He’s your one.  The one whose coffee order - two creams, a dollop of honey - you can’t get out of your mind.  The one whose hand warms yours when you’re cold, who loves you when you’re at your worst.  The one who you’ve invested every ounce of yourself in.

“I need time,”  he continues, as he always does.  “You know I love you too.”  You do.  Of course you do.  Even when you think he might not, you know better.  Despite all he does, he loves you in his own way.  “We’ll figure it out.  Just give me some time.”

You don’t dwell on the fact that you’ve given him days, weeks, months. That he’s had all the time in the world since he broke your heart a year ago.  Instead, you let yourself get lost in the way he tells you he loves you and how that ignites butterflies in your stomach, pretty little wings propelling your heart out of your broken brassy rib cage.

“How long?”  It’s a foolish, stupid question that you shouldn’t ask.  You’re never going to get the answer you want but you let yourself hope anyway.

“I don’t know.”  And that might be the most honest thing he’s said tonight.  He must realize it too, because his usual facade cracks and crumbles in the form of his voice faltering, hesitation creeping in like a cold chill.  You feel it in your bones, icicles forming beneath your skin.  You wonder if the patterns they form might resemble his silhouette.  “The right time will come.  It’s just not... right now.”

“I don’t know what that means.”  He doesn’t either, of course.  There’s no such thing as a right time.  You don’t live in a fairytale where things just fall into place, glass slipper fitting perfectly.

“Please trust me, baby.”

You hate how the pet name burrows into your thoughts, pervasive in the way it warms you from the inside out, thawing whatever icy exterior you’re trying and failing to uphold.

“This is so hard.”  You want to cry.  You can feel the tidal wave of emotion just beneath the warble of your words, a gargantuan wave threatening to overtake the current.  It climbs and recedes, never quite cresting.  You applaud yourself for holding it together so well.

“I know, I know.”

He has no idea. “You don’t know.”

“I do,” he insists in that way of his, the one that makes you feel silly and small.  It’s not condescending - far from it, in fact - but it’s so insistent that you momentarily think that you must be wrong.  “I think about you all the time.  You know that.”

“Don’t say that to me—”  Don’t get my hopes up, you think.

“You don’t want me to tell you how much you mean to me?  How it kills me to hear about you with someone else?”  You can just imagine his face, the way his mouth must pout around the question, already confident in the answer.  How he’d tilt his head just so, distracting you with the adoration in his eyes and the way his fluffy fringe would support his stare like a goddamn perfect picture frame.  “Because I do and it does.  I think about you every day.  I hate thinking of you with someone else, but as long as you like me more, I try to understand.  That’s how much I love you.”

Everything he says is a sucker punch knocking all the air from your lungs.  It’s like a certified K.O. that leaves you delirious on the ground, punch drunk in love and pain.

“I miss seeing you in my sweaters.  Or waking up holding you.  I think about how good you smell after a shower, or the way you laugh when I steal too much of the sheets.”  He’s so good at this - so fucking good at making you forget everything you hold against him.  It’s that patented Park Jimin charm that he turns on and dazzles you with.  It’s your weakness and he knows it.

It doesn’t mean it hurts any less, even when he’s spinning these cotton candy words that promise to keep you cozy.  Because you know the way it’s only temporary - that at any moment you might plummet through those sugar-spun clouds and shatter beyond comprehension.

“If you miss me so much—”

“Don’t say ‘if.’”  It’s not unkind and yet your cheeks heat, flooded with a guilt that gnaws at the pretty red ribbon that you’re sure connects the two of you.

“—then why can’t you just be with me?”  The million dollar question - another you know you’ll never get the right answer to - but, surprisingly, one you haven’t voiced. You’ve always been too shy, too soft, to make such a query.  It wasn’t in your wheelhouse of skills - so maybe that’s why it takes Jimin off guard.

He hesitates, pauses a beat too long as he mulls over your question.  “You know I don’t like ultimatums.”  It’s more of a relenting, a half-earned admission that doesn’t truly satisfy your curiosity.  

Somehow, it’s exactly what you’d expected.

Finality isn’t something he takes lightly.  He always weighs his options, considers all the pros and cons.  That’s why he still keeps you around - because you’re a safety net.  Even if he makes the wrong choice, you’ll always be there to welcome him back with open arms.  At least that’s what the horned advocate on your shoulder tells you, all red-eyed and spiteful.

“I know.”  There’s an unspoken - and unnecessary - apology threaded loosely between your words and the devil bristles, scowling at the man that could give her a run for her money.  Because surely that’s what Park Jimin is - Satan in disguise, leading you through the halls of Hell and calling it love.

You wonder how long you'll continue to follow him or if you'll ever stop.

It's two weeks later, on an overcast Wednesday afternoon, when he appears at your doorstep. 

"What're you doing here?"  The words come before you can help it, tipping off your tongue and crashing into the silence between you like a boulder.  It drags his sunny expression down with it, all the light in his eyes suddenly dimmed.  It makes your heart twist uncomfortably.

"Do I need to have a reason to come by?"  It's rhetorical, you're sure.  You can see it in the way he stares at you, the subtle turn of his jaw that doesn't leave much room for response.

He steps past you, silver-adorned fingers finding the shape of your waist, thumb drifting lazily over cotton as if it's the most natural thing in the world.  You suppose it is, but that doesn't keep your heart from thudding in your chest, nearly bursting out of its confines.  You have to remind yourself not to lean into the way he coaxes you closer, invades your personal space like you're one and the same.  It's near impossible.  You almost forget to breathe.

He smells so good - like Christmas morning, bright and crisp and dizzying to your senses.

"Didn't you miss me?"  Another question that doesn't beg an answer.  Yet he still demands one, presses insistence into the curve of your cheek, the silk at your temples.  His lips - full and pink and endlessly soft - trace his request, as intoxicating as cherry wine. 

"You know I did."  You mean to be reproachful, to steel your nerves against the fire he ignites beneath your skin.  "But you can't just show up like this."  Like you mean something to him - like he'll stay for longer than the day.  All words you should say, but can't.  Because despite it all, you'll take these secret, half-given parts of him and hope that you can piece them all together into something whole.

"I won't do it again,"  he says so sweetly you almost believe him.  

He's looking at you like you'd hung the stars in the sky and he's trying to find the meaning of the universe in the way your mouth curves and the flutter of your lashes.  But then again, it's nothing new.  You know he'll be distracted when the next meteor shower comes, all too fascinated by the streaks that illuminate the night sky and dim your light.

When you don't immediately respond, giving into him in that same way you always do, his expression shifts, twists and turns around a poorly hidden frown that marks his otherwise pretty features.  There's an edge now, all sharp corners that you cut yourself on in your haste to appease him. 

"Let's not fight."  

Three simple words and he's  your own personal Apollo again, bringing the glory and warmth of the sun into your atmosphere.  He strikes you with the way he smiles, how his eyes wane into little crescents - the moon and sun to your stars.  It's like basking in the July heat and it warms you from the inside out;  it reminds you of every happy memory, painted in rosy shades that keep you coming back for more, more, more.  

"Good idea."  He's catching your hands in his own and pulling you close, booted foot kicking the front door closed with a soft thud.  "Let's watch a movie and lay in bed all day.  I'll even braid your hair."  A small, inconsequential thing to anyone else but one that makes your heart soar. 

It feels so much like what it used to be.  How can you say no to this?  To him?

"I get to pick what we watch,"  you finally give in, relaxing into the way he holds you.  It's home in every sense of the word, lulling you into a sense of security you can't find anywhere else.  Your head slots into the space between his neck and shoulder, nose cold against his collar.  You inhale once, twice - the sweet scent of nectarines and flowers - and try to commit this moment to memory, tucking it neatly among the folded pages you've written together.  

"Of course, baby."  

And before you know it, you're two bodies folded as one.  Where his breath is yours and your heart beats in his chest, limbs tangled and intertwined as wholly as can be while some movie plays forgotten in the background.  When his laugh sounds from your lips and you can feel his pulse in your ears.

You wish it were enough.  It'll never be enough.

notes.  this fic is mainly based on the idea that... jiminie is a big libra baby.  a big, flirty, won’t-let-go-but-won’t-make-up-his-mind libra baby.  i say this with experience, as a fellow big libra baby.