Renjun Drabbles - Tumblr Posts

Wrong For You | hrj

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞.❞

↳ He's been your best friend since college, and you've been in love with him just as long. Procrastination can only get you so far; now he has a girlfriend, and she's so very, very wrong.

↳ Renjun x female reader

↳ 8.6k

! Strong language, friends to lovers, bestie vs. gf, themes of rivalry, gaslighting, insecurities poked at, gf is an unpleasant individual beware, mutual pining, tension and angst, explicit sexual content, so much making out, dirty talk, angst w a happy ending, adult themes throughout !

「suitable for 18+ readers only」  「© April 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

Today, the city is grey.

The sky is a blanket of heavy, dark cloud, the winter rainfall is dense and unforgiving. Gathered puddles on the pavements spill over to the roadside drains, collecting in dips and cracks of concrete. Passing cars kick up waves of surface spray, their windscreen wipers frantic. Pedestrians huddle under their umbrellas—the only sight of colour around—rushed in their paces and keen to get out of the cruel weather.

Staring listlessly through the rain-streaked window of the second-floor café, you try to recall what the city looked like basking in the warmth of sunshine. You miss it; this winter has felt especially endless. Two months until spring comes.

Renjun snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Hello?”

Pulled from your daze, you blink back to clarity. Renjun frowns at you from across the table, his pout a tempting swell of glossy pink. His two-tone black and blonde is swept back from his forehead, his white jacket finished with the blue beads around his neck.

“Might as well have come here by my damn self,” he grumbles.

“Sorry,” you sigh. “I’m so out of it today. Hate this weather.”

He hums, stirring his cappuccino with a dainty teaspoon. You know he agrees; he’s a sunshine bug too.

“We should go on a trip,” you suggest.

Renjun pauses his stirring; he looks at you incredulously over his silver rimmed glasses.

“Like we used to,” you press. “Remember the hot springs? God, they were so fun. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Your enthusiasm is staggering, Jun. I can go by myself.”

“No, sorry. I didn’t mean to be a downer. It’s just... things are complicated now.”

Complicated. You wonder if he knows that’s not how most guys refer to the existence of their girlfriends.

“Right,” you nod, looking back out the window, heart sinking.

Renjun’s finding of a girlfriend was as unexpected as it was painful; when he’d announced he was getting on the dating apps, you’d put no real stock in it, knowing from experience how difficult it was to form any tangible connection amongst a sea of people simply looking for short-term thrills. That was never Renjun’s thing. He’d get bored and move on eventually. Yet if anyone could find and catch a coveted rainbow fish, it would be him, and he’d done just that. Hence the unexpected.

As for the painful...?

“I, uh, actually have something to tell you on that front,” he says.

You quirk a brow at him, none too keen to hear anything related to his relationship, yet resigned to the fact that you’ll have to if you wish stay in his life.

“Zara’s coming here.”

Your throat constricts amidst a surge of dread.

“Like, any minute now,” he adds.

“You’re ambushing me?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not, I swear—”

“Jun—”

“I just want you meet her, is that so bad? I’ve been trying for weeks! I talk so much about you and she’s curious, you know? I’d love for the two of you to get on—”

“You should have told me,” you seethe.

“So you could make another last-minute excuse to get out of it?” he challenges, dark eyes determined, and in that, you suppose he’s not so wrong. His attempts to introduce you have so far failed at every turn, and if you really look to reason you can see why desperation might drive him to such a pincer movement as this. His intentions are good; he wants the people he cherishes to come together, and any sensible individual couldn’t possibly resent him that. Indeed, you don’t. You simply resent how much it all hurts.

Moments pass suspended in tension, and when Zara eventually arrives, she does so looking every inch the early ‘Gen Z hot girl’ that she is. A cropped white tee reveals tan skin and the makings of abs, fitted flares accentuate her hips and thighs. Her blonde mane is tamed by a silk scrunchie, her makeup minimal, but still somehow statemented. She turns heads—literally—and you go about making rapid, unhealthy comparisons as you rise and greet her, the hug you offer turned handshake by her subtle recoil.

Renjun glows as she settles beside him; you feel not unlike an alien specimen being examined by the very standard of beauty itself, male and female, perfect and untouchable. It strikes you that, at least aesthetically, they appear made for each other. Couple goals; is that what they call it?

“Want something to drink, baby?” Renjun asks her.

Your gut churns uncomfortably. Zara looks around the café, at its quaint, rustic décor and charming ornaments.

“No, thanks.”

“Hungry?”

She shakes her head, linking her arm through Renjun’s. Yet more churning.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” you say after a beat of silence, keen to fill it. “Jun talks about you a lot.”

Zara smiles; it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Ren-ren talks about you, too.”

Ren-ren...?

“You both mean a lot to me,” Renjun says innocently. “It’d be cool if we could do more stuff together.”

“Totally,” Zara appears to agree. “Do you work out? We could go to the gym.”

“Oh, well, no,” you reply, suddenly self-conscious. “Not so much. With work and everything—”

“Yeah. Thought not. You should totally start.”

Oh.

“That’s actually how Ren-ren and I met,” she turns to him, closing into his side. “It was love at first squat.”

Renjun scoffs, a blush rising over his cheeks; you’ve never seen him blush before.

“That’s sweet,” you force.

Renjun looks at you sheepishly; you wonder if he detects anything outside his bubble of apparent bliss. If he does, he doesn’t give it away.

“You and I met in college, right?” he then says to you. “Feels like forever ago.”

“Yeah. It really does.”

Zara’s nose scrunches; she looks around aimlessly.

“She actually works in publishing,” Renjun tells her, oblivious to her waning attentions. “Worked her way up from an internship to assistant editor. Awesome, right?”

“Sure,” Zara smiles, pulling her phone from her pocket. “If books are your thing.”

“Books are my thing, actually,” you exclaim, stewing in disbelief. Snide quips on your physical state aside, your profession is not for belittling. For everything else about your life that might be vague, work explicitly isn’t. You did get the dream job, and you’ll die on the hill that is protecting it.

Zara stares vacantly, then unlocks her phone. “Cool.”

And she spends the remainder of the time on it, scrolling through whatever social media platforms she no doubt reigns supreme over. You detect Renjun’s consistent discomfort; he scratches his nape, his leg bounces beneath the table, he surreptitiously slances at her phone and attempts to engage her in the conversation. It’s painful to watch.

Parting ways from the café comes as a relief; you bid them goodbye and decide that the manuscript you weren’t going to look over today suddenly doesn’t seem as daunting a task as it did two hours ago. Some time after the event, a text from your best friend comes through.

>> what do u think?

Never being one to abstain from honesty with him, you reply to that end.

<< Not what I expected.

The response comes instantly:

>> meaning?

<< She’s just not who I thought you’d end up with.

>> who did u think i'd end up with?

And it seems that being irrevocably in love with your best friend has a way of filtering every thought and word to cautious extremes. It overshadows everything, drives your decisions and your actions. Your hitherto avoidance of his girlfriend, your reluctance to accept that she is it for him, your inability to find love elsewhere. Part of you miserably concedes that if anything romantic were to occur between you, it surely would have by now, after so many years spent together. Another part—irritatingly naïve—clings to hope that things may yet change. There are moments; fleeting occurrences where gazes linger and a weight of anticipation shimmers, where his hand hovers in stillness over yours, and you’re so sure that if you tried to cross the boundary of friendship, you wouldn’t suffer rejection. It would be your name on the tip of his tongue, your arm linked through his.

But timing is a fickle mistress that suffers no procrastinators, and now he has a girlfriend.

***

Renjun and Zara are a package deal.

That’s what you’ve learned over the last four weeks. Getting him alone is an impossibility, for wherever he is, there Zara lingers. Impromptu dinners and last-minute coffee catchups are a thing of the past; Renjun needs notice now, and ample of it. On the occasions you do see him, invitations are naturally extended to his girlfriend; he says she has a ‘thing’ about best friends of the opposite sex, to which you’re too dumbfounded to argue. Equally as dumbfounding is the suddenness with which he’s become so unavailable; prior to your meeting, his girlfriend was never a problem. Now, she seems to be the obstacle central to everything.

So: Renjun and Zara are a package deal. Fine. You can tolerate it, if it means making Renjun happy. You most certainly prefer having him like this than not at all, which is the only other alternative save for his ending of the relationship, and as things stand, you think Hell is likelier to freeze over before that.

Still, you feel his absence. It’s worse at night, when memories of time spent huddled over popcorn and in the company of a Netflix thriller encroach on your loneliness. A glutton for punishment, you find yourself scrolling through his Instagram; a once sparse but artistic affair turned a hub of grand romantic gestures and #couplegoals monochrome reels; his arms around her, his hands on her, their love edited to perfection. Your follow request to Zara still pends approval.

First impressions count for everything, and yours of Zara was far from rosy. Ever the optimist you sought to give her the benefit of the doubt; first meeting nerves can taint one’s character, a lack of confidence may manifest obnoxiously. It soon became clear that your doubt was misplaced; Renjun is kind and conscientious. Zara is not. She’s wrong for him.

She’s wrong for him, but he doesn’t see it. He’s in love, you muse silently, watching as the pair stroll ahead down the street, gathered close under a black umbrella. He talks to her with a gentile tone that makes your stomach twist; she giggles and stays close. Occasionally, when Renjun looks elsewhere with attention diverted, she’ll glance back at you, the eye contact pointed. She does the same to others that pass by, every one of their stares injects her ego, and still, he doesn’t see it. If you were being kind, you might draw her nature up to a symptom of her generation; she craves the attention, wants to be wanted, is only validated by the longing gazes of others, and by that reasoning can’t help the way she seeks it out. If you weren’t being kind; well, you’d get in trouble for that.

The destination is the restaurant down the street; a newly opened vegan place that claims its food tastes ‘just like the real thing’, and really, you can’t help but think that’s doing vegan food an overall disservice. Still, when Renjun texted you two nights prior suggesting dinner, you jumped at the chance. It’s been over a week since you last saw him. You have yet to say much more than ‘hello’ to him; Zara hanging from his side makes it difficult, as is customary now.

 Approaching the restaurant, umbrellas are drawn down and Renjun holds the door open, firstly for Zara, then for you (to her pouting disapproval).

“Thanks,” you offer him a timid smile, unable to meet his gaze.

“Sure.”

Inside, you’re shown to a table near the rear of the venue. The whole place smells distinctly herby, though not unpleasant, the décor colourful without being too garish. Adequately hipster, you suppose. When seated, it’s the same affair as usual: Renjun and Zara versus you. You realise now that she waits for you to sit before positioning herself directly opposite; you’d thought it was coincidence.

Renjun picks up a menu and hands it to you; Zara takes it. He smiles awkwardly. A pierced and tattooed waiter takes everyone’s orders (you rush to choose the first thing you really see thanks to Zara’s menu-hogging), and all that remains is to wait.

Silence falls over the table.

“How have you been?” you eventually ask, chipping away at the iceberg. Your question is directed at Renjun.

“Great, thanks for asking,” Zara replies.

Renjun clears his throat. He puts a hand on Zara’s, which seems to placate her. “Good, yeah. You?”

“Good,” you lie.

“How are things at work?” he asks, dark eyes trained to you. In risking a glance up at him, you realise the gauntness to his cheeks, his sallow complexion. Alarm sweeps through you in a hot wave; you reign in the urge to hug him.

“Fine,” you mumble. “Busy, you know. As always.”

Renjun smiles. “Right.”

“I, uh... I actually read a manuscript the other day that made me think of you. You’d have liked it. It was about this—”

“Oh my gosh, where is this food?” Zara suddenly complains in a huff.

Irritation ticks your jaw. You take a slow inhale and continue, “It was about this artist that's been having a recurring nightmare since childhood. He decides to try and understand it, and paints it, and basically gets—”

“I am starving.”

Renjun cringes, but does a good job of hiding it. He pats Zara’s hand. “It won’t be much longer, baby.”

He turns back to you. “Go on.”

Gathering the fragments of your worn patience, you try to collect your thoughts again. “Uh, so, he’s been having a nightmare, and he paints it hoping it’ll help him figure out why he’s having it. It becomes this massive work, spanning over several canvases, and he can’t control it. He can’t stop painting. It ends with him—”

“Ren-ren, could you get me a water?”

And you snap.

“Do you not hear me talking?”

Zara blinks at you nonchalantly, thick black lashes fanning over her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“I’m talking,” you repeat sternly, “you keep interrupting me.”

She scoffs and shrugs. “Well, damn. I’m just out here emoting, honey. You don’t have to get so—”

“Could you maybe emote in silence?”

Renjun looks frantically between you.

“I’m sensing some aggression that I’m not enjoying,” Zara states patronisingly. She turns to Renjun. “You need to get her under control.”

“Okay,” you rise from the table, collecting your bag as the chair skids across the tiled floor. “I’m done.”

Renjun calls your name. “Wait!”

But you’re already halfway across the restaurant, and it’s surely a mercy that you don’t see the dainty wave Zara affords after you or the smugness on her face.

Outside the venue, it’s pouring down; in your eagerness to leave, you’d left your umbrella behind. Looking up at the grey sky, you once again lament the sunshine. One month until spring comes.

Starting down the street at a rage-fuelled pace, you hope to walk it off if the downpour doesn’t dampen it first.

A voice from behind calls your name again, and in the next moment, a breathless Renjun catches up to appear before you, umbrella raised over your head. You expect the shrill cry of his girlfriend to follow mere seconds after, yet it doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry about her,” he pants, rain cascading from the rim of the umbrella. Patches of damp stain his white shirt. “She can be a little feisty sometimes.”

You balk at him. “Feisty?”

Renjun blinks cluelessly, and you suppose so many weeks of withholding is long enough.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Her,” you point back in the direction of the restaurant, “the way she is. She’s a bad person, Jun.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know you’ve had a falling out, but isn’t that a bit extreme? You can come back from it—”

“Come back from it?! Don’t you see the way she treats people? The way she treats me? Like I’m dirt on her shoe?”

Renjun stares, seemingly dumbfounded.

“I have tried to be amicable for your sake,” you continue, “but I can’t anymore, Jun. She’s the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever met. She’s the total opposite of you in every way that matters, which makes me wonder what it is you even see in her past the obvious.”

“I... I’m with her because I love her.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It can’t be, Jun, because your being in love with her would mean you’re a bad person too, and that’s simply not true.”

Renjun’s jaw locks; he drops his gaze to the puddles at your feet.

“You are my best friend,” you speak over the din of rainfall, “but she doesn’t respect that. She doesn’t respect either of us. Maybe I should have told you all this before she drove a wedge between us, but I wanted you to be happy. I thought you were.”

“I am—”

“Don’t lie to me. I have eyes, I see the state of you. Even if I didn’t know you, I’d think you looked like warmed up shit.”

He scoffs, but it’s far from amused.

“It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I’ll still call it as I see it. She’s so wrong for you.”

Renjun tips his head back, his breath condensing on the chill air. He looks at you, the ends of his two-tone black and blonde dripping water.

“And you’re right for me?” he says.

Your heart seizes. You try to say something when he steps forward, concealed from the world under the umbrella that he lowers over you.

“Is that what you’re implying?” he presses, his voice an octave lower. Something warm and heavy swoops through your gut; he reaches to your chin, gentle thumb and forefinger tipping your head back to his view. It gets harder to breathe.

“After all this time?”

Gaze flicking from your eyes to parted lips, it defies all sense that this should be happening now. Even in moments past where you thought something could have happened, it’s never been like this; so heated and apparent. He’s never been so—

“Ren-ren!”

And the fragile knitting of the standoff is shattered.

Returned to self, you shove him by the chest, snatch the umbrella from his grasp, and take off down the street.

You can't discern the tears from the rainfall.

***

Watching the slow-moving bicycle icon trail across the tracking map with a concerning intensity, your stomach growls impatiently.

“Cycle faster, you shit,” you grumble.

Ultimately conceding that staring at the delivery driver probably won’t make food come any quicker, you toss your phone to the sofa. Immediate problems are a decent enough distraction from the events of the day, especially when easily solved: you didn’t get to eat earlier, thus are wasting away, therefore require sustenance in the form of the saving grace that is Deliveroo. Easy.

The problem of your best friend, however, requires rather more thought. If before there had been uncertainty surrounding his feelings for you, you suppose there isn’t now. It’s crossed your mind that his earlier advance may well have been a product of the momentary turmoil; that wouldn’t be out of the realms of possibility, if a little harder to swallow than the pleasant, preferred alternative.

Either way, you suppose the ball rests in his court. Whatever happens next should be down to him; you’ve said you piece and made your feelings on his girlfriend clear. When he ends it, that’ll at least be a weight removed from your shoulders.

A sharp buzz resounds from your side; you scramble for your phone. It’s not the delivery driver.

You answer the call, tapping loudspeaker. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

His voice always deepens when he’s tired. You wait for him to speak.

“Did you, uh... make it home alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Silence passes; anxious anticipation curls around you.

“I wanted to apologise. Like, properly.”

“For what?”

“For... what happened earlier. For trying it on with you like that. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Oh.

“So, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” is all you can manage with the lump solidifying in your throat. Renjun clears his and speaks again.

“Zara wants to apologise too.”

The anxiety warps to sickness.

“We talked things through. She didn’t see what an asshole she was being. I know you have your... reservations about her, but I really think if you just hear her out, you’ll change your mind.”

Tears prick and streak down your cheeks; there’s no reasoning with him now, you realise.

“I gave her your number. She said she’d call so... heads up.”

“Okay.”

“I hope that was okay to do.”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jun, I have to go. Food’s here.”

“Alright. Well, I’m sorry, again. See you soon?”

“Sure.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever actively sought to get off the phone to your best friend; the first time you’ve ever been relieved to do so.

Food arrives twenty minutes later, which is time enough for you to regain a sliver of composure. You pay the cyclist, and tip him well.

A shame that it goes cold on the table.

***

The next day, you’re so buried in work you don’t have a spare cell capable of affording thought to anything else.

Meetings with authors first thing and manuscript approvals mid-morning, lunchtime is worked through responding to emails and early afternoon is spent reviewing submitted redrafts. Late afternoon is yet another meeting with a partner publishing house, and as early evening ticks over, you’re brutally reminded by a dizzy spell and mercifully brief spate of double vision that you’ve yet to consume anything other than coffee in more than sixteen hours.

Checking your phone on the way the café down the street brings a dose of reality: seven missed calls from an unknown number, two from Renjun, and a text from the unknown number that reads:

>> hihi, it’s Z, call me x

Better to do it before there’s food in your stomach, you suppose. You’d rather not have to see it again. Dialling the unknown number, it rings only twice.

“I have been calling you, like, literally all day.”

Your gut twists uncomfortably; even the sound of her voice manages it.

“Yeah. I work.”

She makes an obnoxious sound of realisation. “Right! The magazine?”

“If by that you mean the publishing house, then yes.”

“Hey, so, Ren-ren wanted me to call and say sorry for yesterday or whatever but I figured it’d be cooler for us to meet up.”

“Zara, this is all kind of pointless. You don’t actually want to apologise and I’m not—”

“Awesome, I’ll text you the deets. You’re free tonight, right?”

“I actually have quite a bit of work to do—”

“Cool! TTFN honey!”

And just like that, the line dies.

Simmering in irritation all the way to the café, not even the sweet delight of a chocolate muffin can lift the funk. Back at work, you reschedule everything you’d planned to do that evening, supposing there’ll be overtime tomorrow instead.

You begrudgingly google ‘TTFN’.

Do people just say acronyms now?

***

The bar Zara instructed you to meet at is further from your part of the city than you really like to venture; you’re far too jaded by now to believe the inconvenience isn’t deliberate.

An hour-long taxi ride later and nursing sufficient anxiety for being in unfamiliar territory, you send her a text:

&lt;;&lt; I'm here.

The message reads as delivered and seen, but no response comes. Scrolling up the sparse messages to check the name of the bar she sent you beforehand, you’re sure you’re in the right place; the slick stainless-steel sign above the door reads ‘Hub 069’. Supposing that loitering outside won’t do you any good, you gather the scraps of your courage and head in.

It’s immediately apparent that this isn’t a place in which you belong. If money had a tangible aesthetic, the décor of Hub 069 would be the epitome of it; glass and sleek metal curves into furniture, the low lighting is deep blue and white to compliment the sultry atmosphere. Tall poles stretch from floor to spot lit ceiling, several with empty, open cages built around them. There’s no obvious dancefloor, but there is an elevated stage of sorts, its curtains drawn over and floor dark. The consistent hum of a low track plays over the space; it’s too anonymous for you to make out anything other than the occasional bass drop, but it fits the vibe regardless.

You spot a back bar that’s quiet save for two others propping it, the shelf behind it mirrored and lined with vintage liquors on opaque shelving; it gives the illusion of going on endlessly. Heading over to it, you attempt to carry yourself with the self-assurance you know you would have if you were anywhere else, striding through the mix of beautiful people both stood and seated.

Approaching the bar, it takes a moment before you’re noticed; even ordering a double vodka and tonic makes one feel inferior. With no sign of Zara anywhere, you check your phone again and send her another message.

&lt;;< I’m at the bar. Where are you?

Twenty minutes later, a familiar voice spikes your already shot nerves. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Zara entering with two others; a man and a woman, both dripping glamour. Zara herself is wearing the shortest little black dress you’ve ever seen, finished with thigh-high platform boots and a thick chain choker. She looks around, spots you, says something to the man who affords you the most judgemental thousand-yard stare you’ve ever been subjected to before ushering the other woman off across the floor. Zara approaches you; you knock back the rest of your vodka tonic.

“Hi, honey,” she breezes, smelling as expensive as she looks.

“You’re late.”

She pouts dramatically. “I know.”

Rooted in disbelief, watching as she orders a drink, it strikes you just how deeply you don’t want to do this. Nothing about Zara is likeable or relatable; at least not from where you’re standing. You’re chalk and cheese, oil and water. The best friend and the girlfriend.

“So, I’ll keep this short, because, like, my friends are waiting,” she says, “but I’m not here to apologise to you.”

You resist the urge to laugh—as though you hadn’t known that—and instead manage a stilted, “Okay.”

“You and me don’t vibe, like, at all,” she continues. “I know you’re Ren-ren's bestie or whatever—”

“No,” you interrupt her, “not ‘whatever’. I am his best friend, Zara. I have been for a long time, and I’ll continue to be whether you’re in his life or not.”

She blinks, her thick, fake lashes fluttering. “Right. Whatever. But, like, the thing is, we don’t vibe, and so I’m going to need you to leave him alone.”

This time, you don’t resist the urge to laugh. Zara—for the first time—falters, her face dropping.

“I don’t know why that’s, like, funny to you—”

“Funny? It’s fucking hysterical.”

“I’m not joking. You really need to stay away from him.”

“Okay,” you try to compose yourself, “let me just make this clear, because you obviously didn’t hear me the first time. I will be in Renjun’s life whether you like it or not, as his best friend, as his support, as whatever he needs me to be. Nothing is going to change that. The sooner you make your peace with it, the better.”

Zara huffs, her overly glossed lips pressing to a thin line. “People shouldn’t have friends of the opposite sex. It’s weird.”

You gesture across the bar. “Didn’t you just come in here with a man?”

“Doesn’t count. He’s gay.”

“Right,” you laugh, thoroughly exasperated. “Sure. Are we done here?”

You move as though to leave, retrieving your bag from the bar. Zara grabs your arm, stopping you in place.

“Get your damn hand off me—”

“You’re in love with him,” she deadpans.

Momentarily stunned, your face must give away the truth of things when your heart plummets. Zara sneers, her lips curling back over white teeth.

“Knew it.”

 You snatch your arm out of her grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re really going to pretend?” she presses. “It’s, like, so obvious, the way you pine after him.”

Defensiveness rears its ugly head. “My feelings for Renjun are my business, Zara. They’re not for you to poke fun at.”

“They totally are though.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, like, what else am I supposed to use against you?” she shrugs.

You stare at her, horrified.

“I mean, imagine hanging onto someone since college hoping they’ll notice you one day,” she giggles, “it’s totally pathetic.”

A lump of emotion solidifies in your throat. You’d known she was a bad person, but this? Zara leans in, her voice dripping vitriol.

“News flash, honey. If he didn’t want to fuck you then, he doesn’t want to now. He never will. It’s giving super desperate.”

“How dare you—”

“Aw,” she coos, “does the truth hurt? It must, right? Because, like, you’ve been so delulu all this time.”

Upset warps to seething rage, and before you do something you know you’ll regret, you’re storming out of the bar, leaving the high-pitched cackles of Zara behind.

Outside Hub 069 is when you remember you’re an hour away from anywhere familiar; too tightly strung to even entertain despair, you simply start walking. Through darkened city streets until your feet begin to blister and your soles ache; until you start to feel the downpour, already soaked through to the skin. Until the heat of anger has subsided so that it gives way to hopeless weakness; until you finally start crying, taking refuge under the striped canopy of a brightly lit convenience store.

What hurts the most about it is that nothing she said is too off the mark; none of it you haven’t considered yourself. There was a time when you were certain your feelings would be perpetually unrequited, in fact. That you and Renjun would never be more than just good friends. Now, however? Things are different. You’re different.

Dragging your sleeve over your tear-streaked cheeks, you fumble for your phone, pulling it from your bag. Dialling Renjun’s number comes easily; it’s muscle memory by now.

After a few rings, he answers.

“Hello?”

“Can you come and get me?”

“Wh—” there’s ruffling from the end of the phone. Was he in bed? “Weren’t you meeting Zara?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Silence; he takes a breath.

“And?”

“And I need you to come get me. Please.”

You wonder if he hears the torrential patter of cascading rain, or the distant sounding of a car horn. Does he hear the billowing of wintry breeze that inspires you to a shiver?

“Drop me a pin. I’m on my way.”

***

Renjun’s car is warm.

It’s also a chaotic mess of empty bottles and aged art supplies; but it’s warm.

Holding your hands by the dashboard vents that blast out hot air thaws the winter chill from your bones; your sodden clothes still stick uncomfortably to your skin. Renjun hasn’t said much aside from instructing you to get in and throwing a blanket from the backseat over your legs; he drives now in stoic silence, his face drawn sombre.

Through the car window, the nightscape passes by in wet streaks of red, white and amber. The steady swish of the windscreen wipers fills the silence; they squeak against the dry glass when he passes under a bridge. The engine hums when in motion and rattles when at a stop, indicative of a problem he ought to look at, perhaps. It wouldn’t be the only one.

After half an hour of silence, you can’t take anymore.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” you say quietly.

Renjun hums. “Sure.”

“I appreciate it.”

He nods, eyes trained to the road. “I know.”

Stuck for something else to say, you’re grateful when he finally sighs.

“Why would she drag you right the way out here?”

You only realise he’s not looking for a genuine answer when he speaks again.

“It’s like she’s trying to be awkward,” he huffs.

Despair curls around you. Why must you be forced to be the bad guy?

“Pull over, Jun.”

He glances at you. “What?”

“Stop the car.”

“O— Okay.”

He pulls into a side street, then around again into a small car park fenced off by thin chain-link; there’s only one streetlamp that burns brightly in the centre of it, several other dark, empty cars are parked up.

He switches off the ignition, stares down at the wheel. Part of him must know what’s coming.

“Zara didn’t meet me because she wanted to apologise,” you sigh. “She warned me off you.”

Renjun’s brow furrows, his already tired eyes narrowing. “Warned you?”

“She told me to stay away from you. To get out of your life.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t believe me?” you press.

“No, I do. I mean, I know you wouldn’t lie.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t.”

He rakes his hands down his face, his exasperation rife. “I don’t know why she’s being like this.”

“She’s a bad person, Jun. I told you this.”

“Is that really it?” he mumbles, hands dropping to his lap. “Why don’t I see it?”

“Because bad people are good at manipulating others,” you confess.

“You think I’m being manipulated?”

You shrug. “I think you love her, and it’s hard to see past that.”

Renjun’s head falls back to the rest of his seat. He stares through the windscreen that’s just beginning to fog over.

“Do I love her?” he mutters.

Another question he doesn’t want an answer to, you suppose, but the opportunity seems as good as any you’re going to get. A diversion, perhaps.

“Can I... ask you something?”

Renjun’s head lolls towards you; he nods.

“The other day, outside the vegan place...” you assess his reaction on mention of the event. He doesn’t look away from you. “What was that?”

He puffs a small laugh. “Who knows? Another one of our moments, probably.”

Your chest seizes with the ache of hope.

“Moments?” you press.

“What, you’ve never noticed? We have moments.”

He turns towards you slightly, angling so he can stretch his left arm over the back of your seat, his shirt pulling tight across his broad chest. Heat rises up your nape, blooms in your cheeks.

“I’ve noticed.”

He quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I thought it was just me.”

“It wasn’t. It’s not, I mean.”

Misty condensation crawls over the windscreen, the eerie glow of the streetlamp casting strong shadows down the planes of Renjun’s face, the smooth length of his neck.

“Have you ever thought about us? In that way?” you ask.

Renjun swallows. He wets his bottom lip, gaze drifting to your mouth. “What way?” he rasps.

“In the way that friends shouldn’t.”

He smirks gently. “Yeah.”

A heavy swoop of wanting renders you somewhat lightheaded.

“But you never made a move,” you breathe.

“I was never sure. Had a lot to lose.”

“Are you sure now?”

It’s stunted, the realisation that during this whole exchange, he’s been gradually closing in on you. When the next words roll from his lips, they’re inches from yours.

“So sure,” he whispers.

And the connection you’ve been longing for is made; Renjun kisses you, softly and with a tenderness that clutches the fibre of your being and forever tethers you to the man. When he breaks off carefully, it’s a mere second to allow for acceptance; you clutch his shirt and drag him back.

The rain bounces off the hood of the car, relentless in its tinny rhythm. The blanket of darkness outside, the tangible weight of heat in the car makes this a secret so far removed from what you had hitherto believed; that your best friend was never a realistic option. Now, with your lips on his and your groans on his tongue, it feels pretty damn real.

He breaks away again, flushed across cheek and chest. “We should stop.”

“No—”

You kiss him again, a clashing of lips and momentum that Renjun counters with his weight, leaning over you to press back against the creaky seat. His hand closing around your throat, gentle and clammy, sends a wave of voracious wanting straight to your core; you hold his wrist, urging him closer, licking into his mouth.

“Jesus,” he pants breathlessly, “you taste even better than I imagined—”

You groan softly. “You can’t say things like that to me, Jun.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me crazy.”

He grins against your mouth. “I don’t mind a little crazy, baby.”

***

Back at your apartment, things move quickly, and perhaps that’s for the best.

In the dim of your living room, Renjun strips the wet clothes from your skin, the sliver of moonlight bleeding through the curtains bathing your complexion. Every hitch of breath and wanton sigh feels deafening in the silence; it’s vulnerable, to be so open and bare like this, but all the more natural.

There’s a conversation to be had, you know, and were you not the victim of years’ worth of crushing longing you might pause to entertain it. As it stands, you’re far from able to tear yourself away from the man. Better then, that it appears to be mutual.

He likes the way you taste; he’s told you as much. He likes the way your lips feel, an apparent glutton for kissing every inch of your mouth. His are swollen now, temptingly plush. They travel down the column of your throat, a tingling trail left on your skin. The nearest hard surface is a chest of drawers tucked near the television unit; you’re backed to it, lifted to it, legs spread for him to stand between. His shirt discarded to reveal broad chest and a gentle wave of abs brings you to near frantic delight; your hands roam over him, appreciating every curve and blemish.

“It’s so weird,” you mumble quietly.

Renjun watches you. “Weird?”

“To touch you like this; like I've always wanted to. I feel like I should be reprimanded or something.”

He curls a grip around your wrist, bringing your arm around his neck. His lips close on yours as he whispers, “That can be arranged, baby.”

Arousal pools silken in your core; with one hand he lifts your right thigh up and apart, with the other he traces a teasing touch over your naked centre, the expanse of his palm cupping you warmly. You grind instinctively against him, the desire for friction demanding it.

Renjun grins and says on a staggered breath, “So pretty right here.” He isolates his middle finger, dragging it through your folds. “So wet.”

 “Jun, fuck—”

“Want my big cock, baby?” He palms over the swell in his jeans, guides your hand to do the same. The thick impression under your fingers sends butterflies in your gut to soar; you make quick work of his belt buckle and zipper, tugging the clothing down his thighs until he takes over. When free, he strokes himself slowly, tightly. Gripping the lip of the furniture you’re perched on, your core throbs with wanting on the suggestion of being filled, for Renjun’s lengthy appendage promises such satisfaction.

“Well?” he quirks a brow. “Do you want it?”

You nod weakly.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes, Jun. I want it. God.”

“Better,” he rasps, a step forward connecting your bodies for him to angle just so. By the curve of your ass, he drags you sharply to the edge of the furniture, his blushed head catching on your entrance when he aligns. You hold your breath, arms thrown around his neck, so much more than prepared for this.

He locks your lips when a gentle ease of his hips guides him inside; every nerve ending fires off and white static descends over your consciousness, your whimper of delight in taking him so deliciously dying out on his tongue. Renjun draws tight, holds so until the relief of being sheathed inside you allows him to relax. Connected on most every level two people may be, he breaks away to lift your chin with thumb and forefinger, attaching his mouth to the underside of your jaw as he whispers, “Hold on tight.”

And his warning is not unfounded; Renjun fucks you with a vivacity you thought him incapable of, the rhythmic drive of his hips strong and pointed on every thrust. The thump of the drawers against the wall accompanies the litany of expletives falling from your lips, bruised and bitten from his enthusiasm. Held spread by his hands hooked under your knees, Renjun moves with a steady fluidity that sees you stimulated in the deepest reaches.

Over his shoulder, the darkened window of your living room reflects the moonlit scene back at you; the toned muscles of his back and thighs that wave like an artform, the rigidity of his stance that speaks to his seemingly endless stamina, the thin coat of sweat that renders him almost iridescent.

“Jun,” you whimper hopelessly, “I can’t—”

“You can,” he hisses, “you can, baby. You’re doing so well.”

Slinking from him to rest against the wall, Renjun releases your knee to drag an appreciative touch down your clammy chest, to your navel.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, then guides your thighs up and spreads wide, exposing your tender centre for his viewing pleasure. He watches with smouldering intensity as he disappears inside you, coated in your arousal, the repeated entry slick and easy. He manages what length of his throbbing cock is given to you; sometimes the inches of his tip and one more, sometimes the full seven.

“J— Jun,” you claw at his chest, “I’m coming—”

“Yeah, fuck... good girl.”

When your orgasm hits, it brings his. Removed from physical constraints of the body, you float boneless through the euphoria that is having the most incredible sex of your life. The sight of Renjun falling apart amidst praises of your name is one you won’t soon forget; hopefully won’t have to.

Swaddled in bed with him after the clean-up, (he insisted on showering with you), it strikes you that this is how it must feel to cross a line you’ve been tiptoeing along for so many years; like fulfilment. Uncertain, but somehow complete. Your best friend naked at your side, you turn to him and take him in. His plush lips relaxed in content, his eyes closed as sleep crawls over him. His black and blonde hair freshly washed and towel dried, the gentle rising and falling of his still blushed chest.

“Jun?”

He opens his eyes slowly.

“We did a thing,” you whisper.

He smiles lazily. “Yeah. We did. A good thing?”

“It feels like a good thing.”

He hums his agreement. “It does.”

“You’re a talker though, huh?”

“You knew that about me.”

“I guess. I didn’t think it extended to everything though.”

He eyes you dubiously. “You don’t like it?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t say that.”

“Good. Because there’s still scope for that reprimanding you wanted.”

Silken warmth blooms in your core; this is certainly a side of him that’ll take some getting used to where your sanity is concerned.

“So... you’d want this to happen again?” you ask, somewhat timidly.

His brow furrows. “Would I want to have the best sex I’ve ever had, again? Are you kidding?”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Yes, I do. I’d like it to happen a lot, actually.”

You swallow over the lump in your throat. Renjun taps his chest, opening his arm for you to snuggle beneath. In doing so, you’re almost as confused as you are thoroughly delighted; this is all so new.

He kisses your crown softly. “I’ll get things straightened out with Zara in the morning,” he speaks into your hair. “I know this wasn’t the right way to do things, but I’m glad it happened all the same.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. If it didn’t happen now, it might never have.”

“It would have,” you whisper. “I’d have made sure of it.”

Renjun laughs gently, the vibrations in his chest under your ear.

“You were always supposed to end up with me, Jun.”

He sighs listlessly, his fingers soothing through your hair.

“I know.”

***

Five weeks ago, in this very café, you met someone who had everything you wanted.

Now, you sit opposite that same person, and her countenance is just as icy as it was back then. Yours, however, is decidedly lighter. You don’t look at Zara and see all the things she has that you don’t; you look at her and simply see her for what she pretends to be.

And in the spirit of pretence, you place your phone to the table.

“What is it that you wanted, exactly?” Zara huffs, arms wrapped around herself as though fearing she might catch a disease from the rustic venue.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Zara scoffs. “What?”

“I wanted to say thank you,” you repeat.

“I don’t get it.”

You smile sweetly. “If it wasn’t for you, I never would have had the courage to go through with telling Jun how I felt.” You pause, pleased with the vacant gloss that crosses Zara’s face. “Or, I suppose, showing him how I felt.”

Her mouth opens, then promptly closes. It reminds you of a pufferfish.

“You gave me an epiphany, Zara.”

“A what?”

“After your attempt at blackmailing me yesterday, I figured I had nothing to lose. Why was I keeping my feelings to myself? I mean, I’d always had an inkling that if Jun and I ever tried to cross that line of friendship into something more, we’d hit it off big time. I guess I was super right.”

Zara leans across the table. “What the hell are you saying to me? What happened?”

“Well,” you speak thoughtfully, “after I left the plastic club, I called Jun. He picked me up, and we talked, and then...” you look around sheepishly, then pull down the collar of your sweater just enough that the mark of Renjun’s passion is exposed; perhaps you exacerbated it with some brown eyeshadow.

Zara’s cheeks turn a strange, beetroot colour. “You’re trying to tell me you screwed my boyfriend? Like, you?”

You nod triumphantly.

“There’s no fucking way,” Zara laughs, “like, look at you. Look at me. He’d give up prime fucking steak for a mouldy old hamburger? Be serious right now—”

“Best sex of his life, I think he said.”

“You’re a fucking liar!” she rises from her chair. “I’ll totally destroy you, bitch. You think Ren-ren would even look at you? That he would cheat on me!? I knew you were delulu but this is giving psych ward—”

And at that moment, the venue door opens, inviting the street chill inside. Still sitting calmly, you glance over your shoulder. Renjun, having just entered, holds his phone to his ear, his expression sombre. The colour drains from Zara’s face.

“Ren-ren...?”

He lowers his phone, holding the screen to her. Your caller ID dances across it; you tap the screen of your phone, still positioned face-up on the table, and promptly end the call. For Zara, the pieces click into place relatively quickly.

“You... heard all that?” she mutters.

“She told me you were a bad person,” Renjun says coolly. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

Zara starts across the café towards him; you rise quickly from your chair, stepping into her path. She falters but doesn’t push it.

“You blackmailed my best friend,” he continues, “belittled her. Dismissed her at every turn. Made her feel like she was worth nothing; like her feelings were worth nothing. What has to be fundamentally broken in a person to make them capable of doing that?”

“You’ve got it totally wrong, Ren-ren—”

“Enough!” he hisses. “Just stop pretending, Zara. For once, be real.”

And something in her demeanour appears to snap; like the mask falls away to reveal the rot beneath.

“You know I have, like, three other dudes hanging off me, right?” she sneers. “I’m not short on attention. Guys trip over themselves trying to get to know me. My DM’s are so packed it’s like the fucking Superbowl in there.”

You breathe out a laugh, unable to withhold it.

“What? That’s funny to you? You wouldn’t even know what attention feels like, how good it feels to be wanted—”

“Oh, I know how good it feels to be wanted,” you smile saccharine.

“You’re nothing,” she continues.

Renjun takes your hand, seemingly done with the display. “Come on.”

You nod at him, turning away from the first person you’ve ever seen spiral into their own built-up delusions in real time.

“You’re a pair of fucking nobodies!” she cries.

You wonder if there might have been another way to do this. Not so publicly, perhaps. Does a bad, brutal person call for a bad, brutal comedown in every case?

“You think you got one over on me!? I don’t get cheated on; I do not get dumped!”

You turn back to her as Renjun opens the door for you. A snide wave and a smile of genuine delight, you simply say:

“TTFN.”

***

“Oh, fuck, Jun—”

Among your plans for this Sunday afternoon, getting your back blown out wasn’t quite on the list. Having said that, it’s a welcome addition.

Renjun holds you at the curve of your hips, the rhythmic smack of skin timing to his brutal thrusts. He groans your name and curses aloud, the thick length of his cock driving every staggered breath clean from you in a litany of whines and moans.

Five weeks since the incident you’re mutually calling ‘the great breakdown’; spring is finally here.

Life is a level of blissful you hadn’t thought was achievable. You’re not sure there’s such a thing as moving too fast when you’ve both suffered such longing; there’s been talk of him moving in with you, talk of meeting parents, talk of future plans that—while somewhat daunting for the most obvious reasons pertaining to change—are inexplicably exciting.

“God, you’re so good baby. So good at taking me—”

And as Renjun still talks, your susceptibility to his filth has only grown.

“Want it,” you whimper, “want all of it, Jun, please—”

Blonde strands fall into his eyes amongst the black as he doubles over you, close to crisis. Hands and knees imprinting the mattress that creaks steadily beneath you, Renjun’s appreciation for your body manifests in the handprints on your ass, the soft teeth marks over your shoulders, the dainty blooming of colour on your throat. He flips you over—a somewhat clumsy affair until limbs are situated and he’s back inside you—and the final drives of his hips bring him to release.

When he comes, he does so while consuming your lips, for that’s yet another thing you’ve discovered of his nature; Renjun feels never more connected than by a kiss, the need to feel your lips a crutch on which his pleasure rests.

Good thing you’re more than happy to oblige.

Amidst post-coital content, strewn out naked under the sunny spring rays that cast through your bedroom window, Renjun sighs softly.

“Still want to take that hot springs trip?”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡

short but sweet renjun blurb ^^

you and renjun have been best friends for as long as you can remember. sure, you’ve hugged him plenty of times, but you always wondered what hugging him would feel like if you ever dated. it would surely feel different…but now after a couple months of dating, you still haven’t been able to identify that feeling you were expecting to change. it worried you. you felt at fault for not feeling any different about him, everything still felt the same to you, thinking maybe you just didn’t love him in that way. but it took you long enough to realize that it’s not that you didn’t love renjun… hugging renjun didn’t feel any different because you’ve loved him all along.

kiss it better

pure fluff

bf!renjun x gn!reader

—{7:07pm} ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

as much as you adored your boyfriend, renjun, he was a bit of a klutz… your so called ‘dates’ were practically babysitting. thank goodness he has you by his side, otherwise, he might set something on fire.

it was sunday night. it’s typical for you to invite renjun to your apartment so you can keep him from doing anything too stupid. you sat on your bed as you watched renjun sit at the desk in front of you, typing away at an essay due tomorrow. you admired how his pretty hands moved across the keys to make clicks and clacks. the rhythm almost lulled you to sleep, but of course, renjun, who might as well be your child, had something to say.

“done!” the boy said while closing the laptop that gleamed in front of him, darkening the room ever so slightly.

“yay. good job.” you yawned and rubbed your eyes simultaneously.

“now i just need to print it.” he jumped out of his chair. “do you have paper?”

“yes.” you gestured over to your dresser. “it’s in that drawer.”

renjun waltzed over to open the drawer and reached in to grab a sheet of paper.

“ow ow ow” renjun suddenly exclaimed.

“what, what?!” you ran over to the boy.

“paper cut.” he cried over-dramatically.

you slouched a little in relief after remembering that renjun is just a drama queen, and it’s not actually the end of the world.

“yn,” he tried to pout while holding in his laughter, “it really hurts.”

“knock it off renjun.” you scoffed and turned around to walk back to the bed until renjun grabbed your shoulder and pulled you into his chest.

“kiss it better.” he said while pulling you closer.

“renjun. you’re way too old.” you tried to squirm away from his embrace.

“ynnnnnn” he whined. “ow ow owwwwwwww it really hurts.” he tugged on your arm.

you rolled your eyes before picking up his hand and placing a gentle kiss onto the teeniest tiniest cut on his pinky. “there. feel better now?”

“almost.” he replied, now pointing to his cheek, “it hurts here too.”

and so you kissed his cheek softly.

“and here.” this time pointing to his other cheek. then his nose. then his forehead. then his lips. the next thing you know, you’re kissing renjun all over the place.

“there.” you patted his cheeks. “all better now.” turning back to your bed, renjun pulls you in again.

“wait.” he whisperd. “bandaid.”

you slapped his shoulder playfully. “it’s not even bleeding! you can barely see it—”

“owwwwwww” you were cut off by renjun’s whining.

“fine. I’ll go get one.” you brought back a bandaid and wrapped it around renjun’s pinky, placing it over the invisible wound.

“now draw a smiley face on the bandaid.” renjun made yet another request.

you reached for a marker and traced over the surface of the bandage.

“ow that hurts.” he let out a very unnecessary whimper.

“you and i both know that didn’t hurt.” you said.

renjun looked to you and smiled. “it did! so can you at least do one more thing?”

“what, renjun.”

the boy looked down to his hand, and held out his bandaged finger in front of you.

“can you kiss it better?”

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thx for reading! pls send requests ! ＾＾

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