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bloodpacks-archive · 3 years

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

hey.... 35 with jihyun??

i love you, i love you, i love you

pairing: jihyun “v” kim x reader

wc: 1.3k

warnings: just a little hurt comfort!! they kiss :)

note: me? with a v fic? yes yes i am back!! i have so many requests to get through but i’ve missed this man more than life itself so !!

Jihyun awakens early that morning, even for him.

It’s barely dawn as he rolls over, the sun just breaking through the horizon, adorning the room in faded oranges and vibrant blues. He’s not quite sure why he’s awake as he palms at his eyes, but when his gaze meets her frame—draped in sky-soaked sheets, hair pooling at the ridges of her shoulders—he decides it doesn’t matter all that much.

She’s more than he ever could’ve wished her to be. Her presence is constant, unwavering, a dig in the back of his mind that feels like diving into cold water. It’s torn him to pieces—splaying out fragments in front of her—and yet she’s gentle with each one, a puzzle between delicate fingertips.

He’s always claimed to be an artist, but the idea of such a thing makes him laugh now. The way she’s assembled a mosaic from his skin, the way her fingertips paint at every scar, every blemish, every piece of him that he’d cursed for being there—

She’s much more of such than he could ever wish to be.

Yet, she stirs beside him and he holds his breath, hoping not to wake her so early. Her face is still soft with the lure of unconsciousness, but her hands twitch and her fingers stumble as they reach across the mattress—as they reach for him. He’s quick to oblige, allowing her to wrap her arms around his torso and bury her nose into his collar.

Part of him wishes to kiss her then—to drop his head low and press his lips to the flash of sunlight across her cheeks, or the skin just behind her ear. Part of him wishes to hum soft words into her skin—to tell her I love you, I love you, I love you until he’s memorized the way his voice reverberates against her flesh.

But he lingers there, silent and still, eyes flicking over her skin. He can feel her breath along the side of his neck and the way her fingers tangle into the hem of his shirt—a reminder that yes she is here, and yes she is his. She, in all of her grace, in all of her kindness, and humility, and wonder—is here with him, swallowed by the hum of dawn.

His fingers dance at the top of her hipbone, pressing into soft skin as goosebumps follow his touch. He’s careful—as if there’s porcelain beneath his hands—but warmth splays under him and he’s melted by the feeling, just as he always is.

And as the sheets begin to pool at her waist, something terribly needy begins to grip him. His head hangs low, the smell of her shampoo (a lavender one she’s always used religiously) heavy in his nose. He presses his lips to her forehead and gentle hesitation sprouts throughout his body, but he continues along the side of her face, kisses falling down to her jaw.

She moves then: an arch in her back with a sudden intake of breath, and he curses himself for the way he’s drawn to her. Her eyes are slow to flutter open, but he still freezes at the sight of them, fixed on the way they sparkle in morning blues.

A gentle sound falls from her lips as she reaches up, soft fingers brushing against his jaw.

“Oh, I’ve awoken you, haven’t I?” He leans into her touch, his skin humming against the warmth of hers. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, a drowsy smile soft upon her cheeks.

“Don’t apologize. Now I get to see you.” He laughs at the statement—warm and breathy and drawn low in the air of the morning.

“What?” She murmurs, her face falling back into the crook of his neck. “I’m completely serious.” He can hear the pout in her voice, but a snort is quick to follow suit.

And yet there’s an ache in this—a soft, tender thing that twists in his bones and soaks through his flesh and sings to parts of him that he nearly forgets are there. It’s in the way her voice falls around him, in the way the sunlight, just barely bright enough the tear through the curtains, spills swirling patterns across her skin, in the way this feels so terribly sweet and kind and real.

When did he begin to deserve this? How could he ever deserve this? It’s a whisper that lingers, a thought that licks at the back of his skull. He wishes to love her, to adorn her in everything she could ever desire, but the voice in the back of his head will forever ask him why he should have the honor of doing such; why should he get to feel the warmth of her patience and the buzzing of her touch; why should he—

“You’re thinking, aren’t you?” She hasn’t moved from her spot, the tip of her nose tickling at the skin just below his jaw. It doesn’t take so much as a glance for her to reach through the pieces of him that have fallen across their sheets; it never does.

“I…” He knows better than to lie to her, but as he opens his mouth to speak, something dies in his throat.

“The usual?” She asks, her shoulders arching back with a stretch as she turns to look up at him.

“The usual,” he replies.

She sighs, a soft breath spilling across the room, the heat laying over his skin. Her shoulders twist with a stretch and she looks up at him, meeting his gaze through the darkness.

“Oh, Jihyun.” Her voice is nothing more than a hum, a whisper in the morning. “Do you ever let yourself rest?”

No.

“Of course. Aren’t I resting right now, my love?” He regrets the attempt at humor as soon as the words fall from his lips and her mouth winds lightly into a frown.

“You know what I mean,” she scorns. He sighs, falling back into the pillows, his skin twisting with the silk of his sheets. She’s quick to follow him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as her lips meet his cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth.

“I do.” His voice, in the light of the morning, as the sun crawls its way into the sky, is barely his voice at all. It creaks with a sound so terribly weak that he can’t help but clear his throat after his breath hits the air.

“I love you,” she hums into his skin and he can feel the way her voice reverberates throughout his flesh. “Now—” Her mouth meets his with a kiss soft enough to melt him into the mattress below him. “And forever.” The words buzz so strongly against his face that he twitches at the sound, his fingers reaching for the sides of her hips.

“And you deserve that.” Another—this time barely the ghost of her lips against his, but it’s enough to shake him to his core. “You will always deserve that.”

He has no words to say, no awful form of self-deprecation to speak. His mind is quiet, his mouth unmoving. His fingertips lace endless shapes into her skin, each one lingering in the air between them.

He wishes to hum soft words into her skin, to tell her of the endless ways he loves her, to be her strength and her will and the humility he so adores. But this morning, in the gentle blues of their bedroom, she will give that to him. She will dull the ache that crawls so deeply through his bones and he, ignoring all that seems righteous to him, will accept each word that leaves her mouth. She will be his strength, and his will, and his humility.

And though he hates to admit it—hates to hear that he should have anything more than the absolute minimum—he will hear that she loves him, over and over, just as he deserves.

taglist: @zenicksnina @bloodpacks @dis-gorl @decayz

#oh my fucking GOD HANNAH #JESUS CHRIST #DO YOU EVER CONSIDER??? NOT GOING SO HARD????#im not even in love w jihyun kim but now i am in love w jihyun kim #NO BUSINESS #NO BUSINESS GOING THIS HARD #GOD THEY KNOW EACH OTHER SO WELL!!#THE WAY YOU WRITE THEIR DYNAMIC #SO WELL #JESUS CHRIST SO WELL #YOU'RE A STUPIDLY BEAUTIFUL WRITER AND I HATE YOU #AAAAAAAH #SCREAMING AND PISSING AND SHITTING #hannah #fic recs

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bloodpacks-archive · 3 years

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hello everyone!! as some of you already know, it’s my birthday today!! :) as such, i’d like to do something fun on here! i’ve decided to (attempt) to fill out a prompt list, or at least most of it. the prompt list i’m using is from @shannaraisles and here is the link to it!! if you wish to use her prompt list, please reblog it from her!! i have cut down the prompt list though, so it's 22 different prompts for the 22nd of may !

i’ll be linking to each of the blurbs/fics i write, and i’ll try to reblog this regularly every time there’s a new large output of work. (though i’ll dearly try not to clog up your dashes). everything will also be cross-posted on ao3, as usual :)

if you guys want, you can send me requests for certain prompts that you have ideas for, but i'll be trying to do all of them no matter what! i hope you all enjoy what i do with these :) also!! everything will be tagged with #sav's birthday event, so if you want to blacklist that tag, go right ahead!!

scrosciare - the action of rain pouring down or of waves hitting rocks and cliffs

aspectabund - letting emotion show easily through the face or eyes

rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat // requested!!

hiraeth - a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past // requested!!

apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter // requested!!

messaline - soft lightweight silk with a satin weave // requested!!

psithurism - the sound of wind rustling leaves

lapidoso - full of stones, said of roads or of the bottom of a river

liberosis - the desire to care less about things

cafune - the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

ignipotent - presiding over fire

balter - to dance gracelessly, but with enjoyment

verklempt - completely and utterly overcome with emotion // requested!!

cruore - it literally means “flowing blood” // done here!!

marcid - incredibly exhausted

petrichor - the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of dry weather

basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss // requested!!

meriggiare - to rest at noon, more likely in a shady spot outdoors

ansare - to hardly breathe, to be out of breath

arcuate - arched; bow-shaped

noceur - one who stays up late

astral - of or relating to the stars // done here!!

#im just reblogging this since i now have two fics done for this!!#this will probably be a slow process i deeply apologize #but yeah #im super excited to do all the requests :))#reblog

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bloodpacks-archive · 3 years

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ooooh if it hasn't been done yet could I request cruore with Seven!!

these were meant to be blurbs. this one is not a blurb. i don't know what happened. also if there are typos shhh. also second part of my birthday event wooooo

cruore | saeyoung choi

warnings: blood/wounds, trauma, it's a hurt/comfort fic w saeyoung it is what it is y'know

word count: 1.9k

Sometimes, it can feel as though Saeyoung Choi is man meant be a painting—someone meant to be adorned in the grotesque shades of scarlet, azure, and violet that are only meant for those who dare test the limits of what life can be. He is covered in differing textures, scars that she cannot fully see now as he wraps himself tighter in his clothes, but ones that she knows lay beneath those layers, ones that she can see peak out from under the seams and the hems.

A bitter crimson now flows from his brow down to his jaw, and he does not dare meet her gaze, not as she gingerly raises a hand up to press at the wound, her touch interrupted by the raised skin of an old scar there.

Sometimes, it feels as though Saeyoung Choi is nothing more than messy watercolor—an outline that was meant to be followed that has now flown out past sketches and black pen. There is too much of him to contain, too much of him left to leak out from the barriers he’s set, even months after he’d sworn he’d take them down.

Of course, he doesn’t feel that way to her. Those are all his words, ones said in poetry or in the confidentiality that only the bloom of nightfall can bring.

Soap and water touch the wound, and he winces, his eyes scrunching and a breath searing past his teeth. He mumbles an apology, leans back into her touch; this is where her interpretation of Saeyoung Choi can begin.

He’s come home to her more times than she could ever wish to count, bloodied and beaten and begging for something of forgiveness as if there was anything he ever had to be forgiven for. She’s seen him collapse onto chairs and lean onto walls, a half-felt smile pressing into his cheeks as though he could hide how hurt he was through the weakest of facades. She’s held his weight against her, led him to their bathroom and helped him sit on the counter when walking made his head feel a little too light.

She’s seen the ways color has adorned his skin in the worst ways, and though she hates to see him like this, wishes to never press another bandage into his flesh, she knows part of his messy watercolor—the part that has broken past the original sketch—is the part that allows himself to come to her.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers again, as though any louder and he may bleed in darker hues than before.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” She replies, a sweetness in her voice that contrasts against the bitter feeling that pushes into his flesh, a softness in her touch against the bandages that lay just ahead of his temple.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“And you should do it yourself?” She says, and although it hardly feels appropriate for the situation, there’s a familiar air of teasing that lays somewhere in her voice, one that makes Saeyoung’s lips perk into a hesitant smile. “You can hardly stand, babe.”

He doesn’t speak again, only bows his head further into himself. She can see the way his fingertips press into his own thigh, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches at the silence that settles into their little space.

She cleans a scratch on his cheekbone, a bruise and a scrape formed together into awful hatch marks amongst the wash of violet. He winces again beneath her, and an ache forms somewhere deep in her chest. By habit, an apology falls out of her own mouth, but as the words curl around the room, as the trill of her muttered voice creeps past both their ears, he leans into her—he pushes himself into her torso, and she’s so sure that he can feel an undeniable ache from the way his wounds press into her, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even make a sound.

His name falls past her lips in a question, her hands now in his hair, her fingers careful against his scalp. She feels as he slips his hands around her waist, wrapping them closer together.

In this moment, it feels as though pieces of him have fallen apart into her hands, as though she can feel the hues of his hurt and his pain slipping through the cracks of her hands, seeping into the pieces of her skin that she’s left open to him (Which is every part. No matter how deeply 707 lays into him, no matter how many layers he’s left for her to uncover, there is nothing he would ever have to work for to know every part of her. It’s the only gift she can think of that may be good enough for him).

She knows the words that lay on his tongue. In the death of nightfall, he’s murmured them into her ears thinking she’d been long asleep—but that pull could never outweigh the wish to hear his every thought, and so she knows.

There is so much more you could do without me.

Something he’d said nearly five days ago, after they’d danced in the kitchen when she’d pulled him to his feet away from his desk, when she’d smiled into his chest as music filled their little kitchen.

I am forever indebted to you, and it will never be something I could repay. I can only wish for you to move to better things, for you to know how much you deserve, and that though I will always want to give it to you, I don’t know if I can.

A whisper after they’d gone for a drive, when they’d explored the fields and the stars and he’d told her of all the ways she’d made him better, and she’d only returned the favor. A night where dusk had fallen into his eyes and left him buried deep into her shoulder.

Why me?

Last night. He couldn’t bring himself to shower, had avoided any reflective surface they owned in this damn house. She’d blocked him from the mirror and undressed him, pulling him into the shower. She’d washed his hair and called him pretty and told him every good thought that had ever come into her mind—past and present.

And she’s sure that now, those words have found their way to crowd into his mind—a broken mosaic of doubt and hatred and hurt so deep into his flesh and his bone that she can’t tell where it begins and ends.

She wants to erase the sketch that was forced upon him, to create something new out of what he’s painted with himself over the years, to let his borders and barriers fall with the breath of morning air as though dusk had never fallen over his bruised and scarred body.

“Saeyoung,” She repeats, broken whispers forming through the cracks in her voice, “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He doesn’t reply, no shake of his head, not even a hum from somewhere deep in his throat, so she sinks lower until she can meet his gaze.

It’s the first time she’s been able to look him in the eyes that night. He’d been so careful about it up until this point, sure to keep his eyes hidden behind his lashes. Now, she can see everything so clearly in him, from the scar that rests above his brow to the way he can’t keep his gaze still on her, lets it flick over her face as though there would be something more for him to discover in her.

His face has become red, little blotches dotting across his cheeks and his forehead, and she knows it’s from how hard he had pressed into his bruises, from holding back a whine that had begged to settle into his throat.

He’s adorned himself in more colors, forced his skin to mold into the pieces he was given, allowed himself to be hurt because hell, what else has he been?

Loved. Something in her begs. He’s been loved.

Looking upon him, she knows she cannot take away his scars no matter how badly she wishes to erase them from where they lay on his flesh. She knows that every drop of blood is one that she can only attempt to bandage and heal, but it is not one she will be able to forever remove from his mind. Every bruise will never be the way it was before. She cannot love away the marks that rest on his skin.

But hurt is not the only thing that should ever define him.

“I love you,” She whispers, because there’s nothing else to say beyond that. She will love him until he doesn’t let her anymore, and then she will love him beyond that. She will love him until a last breath passes his lips, when crows feet have crossed the corners of his eyes because if he goes any sooner than that hell will whisper her name.

“I love you,” She repeats, and then again, until it is no longer the words that hold the meaning but the way her voice feels as it carries in her breath, and the way it meets him both by his ears and the way it hits his skin.

He doesn’t say it back to her, the words lost somewhere on his tongue, but he doesn’t have to. She knows by the way his lips purse and how his body lurches closer and closer to her with every moment that he means it too.

She lets him do as he wishes, so he curls into her once more, wraps himself so close to her that there is no separation between them. When he does speak, it’s a mess of languages that she doesn’t know, mumbled into her skin with the cracks of whispers.

Te amo in Spanish.

Je t’aime in French.

I love you in English.

Japanese, Mandarin, Russian, Arabic, Cantonese, and then Korean.

She doesn’t need the translation for the ones she doesn’t know, she knows by his breath that they all mean the same. He doesn’t press his flesh into her like he had before, but he holds her as though there is nothing else left on this Earth that’s keeping him here. He holds onto her as though the stars have begged him to leave, and he wishes for nothing more than to touch the grass with her one last time.

He holds her like he knows, like he has heard every one of her thoughts, like another border has been erased before her very touch.

Sometimes, it seems as though Saeyoung Choi is a collection—a movement of pieces that leave different whispers creeping at her skull. But, all the same, each of them are him. No matter the medium, no matter how much the paint spills past the canvas or the how far the protruding pieces reach past the glass casing they’ve been settled in.

Sometimes, it seems as though Saeyoung Choi is not a singular painting, but many, and she can only hope to be there as the gallery grows.

#saeyoung choi #707 #saeyoung choi x reader #707 x reader #luciel choi #luciel choi x reader #mysme fanfic #mysme #mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfic #saeyoung choi x mc #707 x mc

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