KPOP X READER SMUTS ONESHOTS FF

PJM 🌧️ + 🔞

Red pines creak and bend outside. Last time you checked, the alley had been deserted with no car or person in sight. Jimin’s not home yet, you’re waiting.

He promised to be back around eight or so, now it’s nine with little sunlight left. Just heavy, mourning clouds. Endless rain comes gushing down with thunder’s angry boom from the distance. It must be hell in the mountains. Seoul is so unkind these days.

Unkind, and too humid. The current festival in Itaewon is as good as spoiled, the poor people. No text message gets a fast reply like it normally would, your phone just falls abnormally silent. There’s no point in trying again and again.

The storm keeps raging and whirring between the pines, leaving much debris and puddles on the street. You’re giving up on ordering pizza for tonight, the microwave will do. The fridge is entirely raided, so you take the small wooden steps down to the icy-cold cellar. A few convenience foods are still left in the freezer, but your tormented stomach feels like ramen is the better alternative. There are two packages left, you pick the spicier, stronger one.

You’re glad to be fast with warming it up because electricity shuts down at roughly half past, leaving you with candles and “goodbye TV” on the couch. You’d be outside if you’d know where he actually is, even in that weather. The impatience is like venom, you wish you wouldn’t have it.

It’s quarter to ten when the key turns. You rush to the front porch to haul in Jimin as he opens, soaking wet and gloomier than ever. He apologizes in a grumpy tone, no eye contact. The heavily kinked umbrella just gets cast in a corner. Jimin later slouches down next to you on the couch with your oversized bathrobe on.

Downtown he had gotten himself at least some fries and visited the drug store to fill up the fridge in a last effort. Most of the paperboard packages and vegetables got horribly wet and squashed in his backpack because the rain just didn’t want to come down vertically, and Jimin just stuffed them in without care. At least one time you see the value in thick plastic wrappings. You don’t even know if that crumbled mess is still useful in any way, but he thought about everything you’ve written on the grocery list in the kitchen.

Jimin hardly speaks while he’s trying to get his hair dry with a towel, rubbing and chafing it aggressively at the back of his neck. There’s no answer why he took so long and didn’t answer the phone, none. He’s been like that since the doctor proposed the diagnosis this summer.

You have a hard time telling him that you received the important, long anticipated letter from the clinic today. But you didn’t open it yet. You told yourself that this was something you’d have to do together. It’s hard. His face turns more somber when you mention it but he won’t protest when you bring out the plain envelope. The dismal gleam of the candle barely suffices to read, it flickers too much.

A darker wall of clouds outside has you pulling out your phone to shed at least a bit of light on the dreaded paper. It’s the result from October’s final check-up. All the numbers and paragraphs are just blurry. As you finished reading, passing over the letter you just say to read it twice. You didn’t get the majority of the words, or perhaps you’re too nervous. Maybe just in disbelief. The only thing you understood was that they charged a whooping lot. Jimin does have to read it twice. He puts it down, the first eye contact follows.

“You’re okay?”

“I’m… okay?” You don’t know what he means. That you’re fine, or that the diagnosis states you’re fine. Jimin angles the letter to you and points at a bolded part. “It says the result turned out negative. They tested for “infertile, yes or no”, not for “fertile, yes or no”. Infertile — negative. And below,” he points toward the end, “it says we could try it.” You practically rip the letter from his hands. It makes sense now, it really does. There it is.