Always For Us - Tumblr Posts

sunshine boy 💫

whoah. jade.

wow. this is beautiful. i’m speechless.

“Hoseok doesn’t know, but love is at his feet, struggling to smooth out wrinkles in a folded, fitted sheet.”

mmm 😮‍💨

the one with hoseok and the teapots

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Type: Drabble, Hurt/Comfort Word Count: 1K CW: AFAB!Reader, established relationship AU, implied miscarriage/pregnancy loss (not described). A/N: I received a special request from someone (who wishes to remain anonymous,) going through something heartbreaking. They asked me to write something to help them “cry it out” but find comfort, too. I hope this drabble can give them a piece of that. This is not something I have personal experience with, so please take that for what it’s worth.

Standing in the doorway, Hoseok can’t think of a single thing worse than the image before him.

You spent months whirling around this room like a hell-bent hurricane, oscillating through paint swatches at the speed of light. You’d settle on one shade just to think better of it seconds later. As you moved through your indecision, his t-shirt fluttered over your busy body. Flecks of mint green were covered with a corrective white — then delicate yellow — then white again — then soft, blue-toned grey.

Once you’d finally gotten the walls the way you wanted them, you went on to second-guess the angle on every single item you placed between them. You’d gently shift him around, too, keeping his input in mind and his body out of the way. Your partner became your independent contractor, compensated with giddy kisses in exchange for his consultation.

It started with the chair in the corner, first too exposed to direct sunlight — what if it hurts their eyes? — then too shadowed — Vitamin D is important, isn’t it? — then just right.

Next was the humidifier, shaped like a thick tear drop, that glows like the Northern Lights when it sprays cool — not hot, though, because that can be drying and it defeats the whole purpose, I think — mist from the corner near the closet. Not too high up on the floating shelves that its moisture traps itself in the ceiling, but just enough to escape the threat of spills.

Then you moved on to the rug, which ended up tucked at the edge beneath the dresser; itself stabilized by dutifully-placed brackets. He held the hammer and you held the nails next in line, kissing his sore thumb when he got distracted by your smile and missed his target. A few little bruises were worth your sigh of relief; and the reduced risk of tripping in the dark when your feet were more awake than your brain. 

In the present, you’re sitting on your knees on that rug. There’s no giggling, no singing to pass the time; just you, packing away sheets too small for any other bed, in a house too big for just the two of you.

Now, Hoseok realizes: he can’t think of any sadder scene because there isn’t one. 

It’s all too heavy on his shoulders to keep standing there, but he hasn’t been able to step foot inside that nursery for fifteen days. It feels offensive, even the idea of entering. Like it takes audacity he can’t muster to bring his grief over that threshold and exist with it inside those walls.

Those walls were painted with broad-stroked joy, he thinks, but where is that joy now?

Hoseok doesn’t know, but love is at his feet, struggling to smooth out wrinkles in a folded, fitted sheet.

He lowers quietly into the space behind you. One leg on either side of your weary frame, he leans forward to wrap his arms around your waist. Gentle, irrationally fearful that if he blinks too hard, the physical misery you only recently shook off — that kept you curled up on the living room couch for days — will seep back into your bones. 

You lean back against him, though, dropping elephant-print fabric into your lap so that your hands can cling to his forearms. It’s still quiet, but your fingers beg him to hold on tighter. He does. 

He will.

Hoseok will stay like this forever if that’s what you need. Career be damned, he’ll sit on this floor, holding you, until that suffocating fog eventually clears. And it will, he knows, somehow. Enough time will pass and some day, this room won’t be empty. All of that untapped, unconditional adoration will compound interest in the meantime, until there’s a new tenant to spend it on.

You’ve both been at an uncharacteristic loss for words lately. So, Hoseok does what comes naturally: he presses his lips to your temple and keeps them there. For a second, a minute, an hour, he isn’t sure —  until he hears your voice.

All cried out, your signature softness sounds like sandpaper.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You continue in a voice that’s a little bit louder, more than a little wobbly. “The logical part of my brain knows that this happens and that it’s not my fault. I do know that. I just — I feel so fucking sorry.”

There’s no apology needed where no blame exists. He’s glad you understand that, but wishes that there was any better way to describe this feeling. Anger doesn’t fit; there’s nowhere to direct it and no use for it, anyway.  Disappointment is too small. 

Hoseok isn’t sure what’s big enough, but he’s fucking sorry, too. He says as much, voice thick. He swallows hard and it hurts.

Sorry that he couldn’t be the one to go through it instead. Sorry for the guilt you still feel, even knowing that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong. Sorry that wanting something so badly couldn’t guarantee the outcome.

He kisses your temple again. Once, twice, three times.

There’s a crack when you say, “I wasn’t sold on the elephants, anyway.” Then a shaky, shallow breath as you tilt your head to look down at the sheets, “They look like teapots.”

Hoseok drops his chin onto your shoulder to see what you see: white blobs on rustic blue. There’s no way to know which end is the trunk and which is the tail — if the little points are either one of those things.

“Kind of,” he hums in agreement, “Ducks, if you squint.”

That little noise you make has nowhere near the power of your usual laugh, but it’s something.

More than something —  it’s the prettiest song he’s heard in recent memory. One that sounds like a step in the right direction; like dust shaken off a back that’s been knocked hard to the ground. Rusty, sure, but not beyond repair. 

Still good, still you.

It sounds like hope.

I've just discovered this did not make it out of my drafts last week when every other thing I read was a jade fic so HERE YOU GO

i’m on a jade kick and i’ve never been happier i’m so glad to be here HI AGAIN

THIS HELD ME IN A COCOON gently patted my head and whispered it's going to be okay and I'm now crying. jade idk how you just do it again and again thank you from the bottom of my heart 💖

If you didn’t love yourself like this, how could he be expected to? 😭😭😭

you so perfectly captured the anxiety of someone seeing and witnessing the mess (when the phone rang outside the bedroom door my heart DROPPED with mc's)

and then it was immediately soothed and his gentle kindness and love is just mind blowing iiiiiii

he washed the dishes 🥺 took out the trash 🥺 organized The Chair 🥺 AND UNTANGLED MC's CROCHET?!?! 🥺🥺🥺

“I love you including.” 😭😭😭

I can't even begin to explain how much this fic touched my soul. I loved every single line and word (your bed as a tool not a tomb?!?!?) and will be returning to it when I need that hobi hug) thank you for writing it and sharing it 💜💜💜

can you please write about hobi helping his gf!reader with depression? thank you so much. I love your writing style.

Did I narc on my own depressive-episode habits? Yes. Yes, I did. 🫣 Shout-out to “the chair” - you keep me together, bb.

It’d been hours since you checked your phone. Maybe days, but it didn’t matter much to you. You lost the plot of linear time a while ago.

When you finally mustered the willpower to search for your phone, it took longer than you’d ever admit to find it among the battalion of cups assembled on your nightstand. For the past few days, their numbers grew; and so did your frustration with yourself. Most of the time, you laid with your back turned to your mess so you could forget that it existed. Who needed object permanence, anyway?

It shouldn’t have been so difficult to force your body out of bed, but it was. Eating, showering, staying adequately hydrated - it all cost more than you could currently afford, and you hated feeling this broke. But you had cement in every cell, and dealing with the fog in your brain was already exhausting enough. How could you practice “self-care” if you simply couldn’t give a shit?

The only force stronger than your desire to stay in bed was the guilt you felt in wasting another second there. It was supposed to be a tool - a respite - not a tomb. So why did you keep yourself buried there?

With a groan, you pulled yourself up into a sitting position and checked the stockpile of notifications on your phone. It was a cyclone of texts you hadn’t read, missed calls, and voicemails likely asking why you’d ignored the previous two attempts at contact. Even when faced with the consequences of falling off the radar, you didn’t care to put yourself back on it. Admitting that to yourself only made you feel even worse.

Still, there was one person who was entitled to proof of life. One person whose presence recharged your battery rather than depleted it. He didn’t deserve radio silence, even if you hadn’t gone dark of your own volition. The least you could do was verify your continued presence on this mortal coil.

Hoseok was pure magic - beautiful, baffling, and effervescent. No one you’d ever met was as intuitive as he was; and nobody had the capacity to care about anything as completely and genuinely as he did. He gave you space when you wanted it and closeness when you needed it. And he could tell which of those to provide without you having to say a word - even if you couldn’t make that determination yourself.

He knew you, and that’s precisely why you felt you didn’t deserve him.

Swallowing that thought before it could tug you deeper down the rabbit hole, you dialed his number. And when you heard it ringing outside your bedroom door, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach.

Oh god.

Your apartment had turned into a depression pit over the past two weeks. Incrementally, too, like a rot had taken over in slow motion. A scourge you couldn’t bring yourself to tidy up. Even the thought of someone seeing your uncharacteristic mess made you nauseous.

This was a side of you Hoseok was permitted to know about, but not one you ever wanted him to see. It’s why you dodged the question any time he asked about moving in together. There was a difference between discussing your insecurities and having him witness the root of them firsthand. If you didn’t love yourself like this, how could he be expected to?

You kicked the blankets off your legs as quickly as you could and scrambled up to unsteady feet. Your joints weren’t prepared for any movement, let alone this frantic of a pace, but you couldn’t hide forever. Your deep, dark secret was now out on display, and you needed to get this awful confrontation over - and him out - before your shame could kill you.

He froze when you stumbled out of your bedroom and into the living room. Standing several meters away in the adjoining kitchen, he held a duster in one hand and his ringing phone in the other - eyes wide and mouth frozen into the shape of an ‘o.’ Like he’d been caught red-handed with the gun still smoking.

“I figured you were sleeping,” He stammered as he turned around to tuck the duster back into the cabinet below your kitchen sink. The look on his face screamed please don’t hate me. “I thought I had more time.”

Your brain was so shell-shocked, you couldn’t form words - you couldn’t even blink. You had no idea how long he’d been in your apartment without you noticing, but in that amount of time, he’d made it unrecognizable.

Your sink, once full of the dishes you hadn’t tended to, was both empty and spotless. The rest of your kitchen was immaculately organized as if it wasn’t just littered with recycling you kept forgetting to take to the curb, and haphazard piles of items you needed to do something with. Even more confusingly, the long to-do list on your countertop now had every line crossed out.

Your wide-eyed gaze trailed over to the living room. The last time you stepped foot in there, it looked like ground zero of some major disaster. Now, thanks to Hoseok, it looked like home again.

The armchair that previously held the majority of your belongings - the island of misfit toys - was vacant. Everything you’d abandoned there over the past two weeks had been returned to its proper place. The mountain of throw blankets had been bulldozed as well. Its disembodied remnants were either neatly folded in the designated basket, or artfully draped over the back of your couch.

He’d even untangled the knot of yarn clinging to your abandoned crochet project.

Thinking of how much time it must’ve taken him to sort this all out - and how quietly he’d had to maneuver to avoid ruining his surprise - led to an explosion of tears. It was monsoon season, and you braced yourself before the flood could carry you off, out the door.

He exclaimed in horror when he saw the way your shoulders shook, struggling to carry the weight of your sobs. You couldn’t bear to see the look on his face, so you hid behind your hands and wished yourself invisible. Accordingly, you didn’t see him race over to you. It was the suddenness of his arms wrapping tightly around you, pulling you into his chest, that alerted you to his presence.

“I’m sorry!” His rapid, repeated apologies spewed out like machine-gun fire, “I just - I know your brain isn’t cooperating with you right now, so I wanted to - and I know you’d never ask, but you- “

You dropped your hands and buried your face into his sweatshirt; praying to any god that your running nose wouldn’t ruin it. It came out as an exhale, weightless and automatic: “Thank you.”

“For cleaning? Baby, you don’t need to thank me.”

With a sniffle, you pulled away from him just enough to meet his eyes. “For loving me despite all this… mess.”

His face dropped like a brick. You could feel the slight shift in his posture, and you wanted to disappear entirely. Maybe this was one final courtesy before he washed his hands of you. After all, why wouldn’t he? Were you worth any of this?

“I don’t love you despite,” his incredulous tone corrected you, but his subsequent, petal-soft words cradled you, “I love you including.”