Finally Out Of Bed Bc I Got Home At 5 In The Morning - Tumblr Posts

Can I request Jimin and the backwards relationship trope? Idk if that makes as much sense in words as it does in my head. Fuck buddies —> friends —> lovers kind of thing? Happy Drabblepalooza, Milestone, and five month Tumblrversary, lovely! You’re a gem 💎

tysm bb! i love this prompt 🥹

the one with the clownfish and the anemone

pairing: park jimin x gn!reader type: drabble (suggestive fluff) | wc: 863 rating: 18+ (minors dni) au: fuck buddies to friends to lovers cw: no explicit detail re: smut but it’s mentioned that they do, in fact, fuck; implied cumshot, lol; alcohol mention. summary: jimin entered your life by chance, but he stayed by choice. ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors and ageless blogs will be blocked, on sight. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

It started, as most things do, with soju. Too much soju, to be specific. 

As if there’s any other kind.

You were bold, but Park Jimin was bolder. He saw you at the bar, gave neither a shit nor a fuck that you were out with your friends, and sidled right up to you as if he belonged there. You balked at his audacity, but it worked. He slipped seamlessly into your life that night. 

And then, when you and your friends parted ways, he slipped his hand into yours. Slipped into your bed, into you, then back out the door like some thief in the night. So it goes, you thought. You went through the motions of your nighttime skincare routine, and went soundly to sleep in a post-soju, post-sex haze.

A few weeks passed by before you saw him again, entirely by chance. As it turned out, the gym you frequented — well, maybe not that frequently — sat centrally between your apartment and his. Neighbors, he mused. No neighbor you’d ever had fucked you like he did, pressing your back to a perforated metal door in a locker room, smelling like salted sweat and orange, sugar-free Gatorade.

“You’re an idiot,” you told him, dead serious. “Blue is the best flavor, hands down.”

He laughed so hard his eyes disappeared. “You’re an idiot. Blue is not a flavor.”

When you went your separate ways that night, he left with your phone number. He claimed it was in case of emergencies, shot you a wink, and disappeared again. Just like the last time you went back to normal, albeit with the grooves of a locker door imprinted into your back.

It took him three days to text you, and it wasn’t an emergency. Not to you, anyway. To him, it might’ve been; he was trapped, bored, at some friend’s bachelor party and needed an out. Needed you, he said, can I come over? So, he did — all over your tits while you were still gasping for air underneath him.

Life continued like that for months: inconsequentially. You came, he left, and the two of you left it like that. It was nice, having someone to pinch hit whenever a date didn’t pan out, or work was especially stressful. Or it was a Tuesday, or it was raining, or just because.

“It’s symbiotic,” you explained, and he nodded.

With a nonchalant wave of his hand, he offered, “Like a clownfish and an anemone.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it did every time. The person fucking your brains out on a semi-regular basis had brains of his own; and he was funny. He was thoughtful, too, which was something else you failed to account for.

The first time he showed up unannounced on your doorstep, he had a takeaway container in his hand. You were unwashed and entirely unprepared for visitors; and Jimin didn’t seem to notice — if he did, he kept it secret — that you were as much of a mess as your apartment. He simply stepped inside, handed you hotteok from the street cart you wouldn’t shut up about, and then he stayed.

You kept to your respective seats — him on the couch, you sitting cross-legged on the floor by his shins — and neither of you sought to change that fact. It was the latest you’d stayed up since college, and it was the hardest you’d ever laughed. The pair of you got through three movies, back to back, before he left to sleep in his own bed. The squeeze he gave your hand on his way out the door felt more intimate than anything else you’d ever done together.

So slowly that you couldn’t track the motion, Jimin slid into your daylight hours as if he belonged there. You took turns dropping coffee off to the other at your respective offices. You grabbed salads after your joint excursions to the gym as a way of apologizing to your bodies for what you'd just done to them. You called him to complain about your parents; he texted you every morning with your daily horoscope.

And throughout the months you spent like this, soaking into your routine, you didn’t realize that fucking was no longer part of it. It hadn’t been, not since you sat and ate hotteok on your living room floor. Fucking was casual, and this meant far more than that.

Whenever you found yourself in his lap now, it was because you loved to take up more than your fair share of the couch, and his thighs made the perfect pillow. He was comfortable. You were comfortable with him. So much so that your position, combined with the way he played idly with your hair, put you most of the way to sleep.

He must’ve thought you were all the way gone because he whispered, “I love you,” like he was sharing a secret.

It was mumbled through barely-opened lips when you replied, “I know,” just before taking his hand from your hair and brushing a kiss across his knuckles.

Though you didn’t say it out loud, you know he heard it, that he felt it, because — for the first time — he stayed the night.