Blogging About Him Isnt Enough I Need To Put A Picture Of Him In A Heart-shaped Locket

blogging about him isn’t enough i need to put a picture of him in a heart-shaped locket

hi lovely! for the 2k drabblepalooza, could I get Jin and friends to lovers? I just 🫡 ( i feel like he'd be perfect for it <33)

lmao, i went to pinterest before i started writing because that’s where i get the photos i use for fic headers. i am not exaggerating that i got sidetracked and spent ehhhhhh an entire hour just smiling fondly at my phone like a fool

the one with seokjin and the marathon

ft. childhood bestie seokjin, a critical analysis of rupaul’s drag race, and someone’s penchant for rapping while they rant.

It’s baffling, really, how you can be presented with the same circumstances — over and over — for two (2) decades and still not learn your lesson.

If you know anything at all, it’s that you should know better. You don’t, though, because all time seems to have done is weather down the ridges of your brain until experiences like this one slide right off.

Coincidentally, that’s precisely what happens to your tumbler full of coffee, which you’d had precariously balanced on top of your stack of books as you unlock your apartment. More specifically, when you unlock your apartment and find a half-slumped body on your couch.

Underscored by an unjustifiably startled gasp, your travel mug hits the hardwood floor with a dull clang and rolls somewhere unseen. Your saucer-wide eyes lock onto the unexpected head of black hair resting back against the cushion behind it, even though — realistically — you should expect this by now.

You gave him a key years ago, after all.

“Seokjin, you scared me,” you whine, but all you get is an absent-minded wave in response.

He’s too focused on whatever it is he’s watching to turn away from the laptop perched on your coffee table. From where you stand, you can’t see the screen — or the subtitles that would make sense of all the English flooding your ears.

“How long have you been here?”

It’s a mumble, he’s transfixed, but you think you hear him say, “Episode two.”

After accepting that vague reply, you shrug; then set your new — to you, anyway — used books onto the nearby console table. A quiet jingle rings out as you sling your keys over their designated hook. Then, once your hands are free, you wriggle free of the corduroy jacket and crossbody bag that weigh you down at your doorstep. With those quickly tucked into your hallway closet, you kneel down to unzip your boots.

Despite your thick, wool socks, the floor in your apparently heatless apartment is freezing. You hiss without meaning to, creep on tiptoe through your kitchen as if the floor is lava — or, more accurately, a lake not quite frozen enough to be trustworthy. You don’t stop until you find your runaway tumbler in its hiding place near the dishwasher. Thankfully, the absurd price proved itself worthwhile; your scorching hot coffee is still trapped where it belongs.

Your chilled hands cling to that warmth as you hop towards the rug splayed out over the adjoining living room floor. In a flash, you skirt around the coffee table, take up your usual spot on the couch, and promptly do what you do best: shove your frozen feet under the thighs of one shockingly patient Kim Seokjin. Relieved in an instant, you let go of a satisfied sigh.

He doesn’t react beyond a tiny smile, still staring intently ahead with thoughtfully narrowed eyes glued to the screen ahead. Too cold to wait, you take a hearty swig from your mug and immediately regret it. Your poor taste buds may be withering, but it’s a sudden realization that nearly makes you spit molten coffee out onto Seokjin’s lap.

For the record, you don’t.

“You’re watching RuPaul’s Drag Race?” You cough while blinking rapidly through forming tears. Seokjin, as if in a trance, lifts his hand and pats your back firmly — twice — to wordlessly assist you through your mild choking fit.

Still shocked by this development, you persist, “Without me?” Your brain is thoroughly scrambled, so you amend, “Without me making you?”

You’d blathered on about this show in particular for years. Adored it, avoided making plans if they would conflict with new episodes. And all the while, you nudged Seokjin, asked him repeatedly if he was ever going to give in and join you. Every time, he said he’d add it to the list.

Seokjin and that goddamn non-existent list.

It drove you absolutely nuts that Seokjin rarely watched anything new. No matter how much you’d rave about something or how many other people would tell him he’d love it, he’d watch the same, short list of shows and movies on a rotating basis. You’d nearly dropped dead when he’d watched an Oscar-nominated movie in the same year it was released — but that was 2008 and it was a Batman film.

You still maintain that this deviation from pattern doesn’t count.

Maybe it’s not necessary for you to see the screen any better, but something in your frazzled little lizard brain tells you to scoot closer. You don’t fight it; you untuck your thawed feet from under his lap, drape your legs over his lap, and lean in to rest your head on his shoulder. Seokjin doesn’t react, and this time, you can’t attribute that fact to his fixation on the lip sync performance.

For once, you can’t even pretend to be surprised.

None of this closeness was out of the ordinary. If you were telling the truth, it would be unsettling if you’d ever hung out with Seokjin without one or both of you hanging on to the other. You hope the day never comes where you find out what that feels like. Though you’re certainly not a doctor, your best guess is that it’d be a very rare kind of phantom limb pain.

You don’t bother to unpack why you feel that way, though. You simply nestle into the same comfort you’d always relied on and join him in watching two men in wigs spinning and kicking to Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair.” Neither of you says a word.

It’s not until the performance is over that you realize Seokjin’s arm had, at some point, shifted from his lap. Now, it’s draped over your shoulder; and you’re closer than you were before. When did that happen?

“You’re already on season five?”

You don’t know why you’re whispering. Is it because you don’t want to interrupt Roxxxy Andrews’ tearful monologue about being left at a bus stop as a toddler, or because his face is right there?

The latter.

It’s the latter and oh, god, his cheek looks so soft. Your last brain cell is screaming at you to place your lips there, so you bite down on them instead.

Seokjin laughs as he continues to watch the drama unfold, like the answer is obvious. “Told you I’d add it to the list. I have to study up if I want Friday nights back.”

Something about this statement makes your heart flutter. The confirmation that the list is real and not some urban legend? The fact that he misses your unspoken yet semi-standing plans to do whatever? You feel another weird compulsion — this time, to cry — but you ignore it.

Instead, you timidly ask another question. “Do you like it so far?”

Maybe you shouldn’t have asked because you can’t say your prepared for how he might answer. Nothing is more nerve-wracking than offering up something you love for review by someone you love. Of course, it’s disappointing if they don’t end up liking it, but it’s soul-crushing if they have no reaction — and Seokjin hasn’t reacted.

You chew on your bottom lip and brace yourself for the worst.

“Don’t think I’ll ever understand,” he sounds something akin to annoyed and your high hopes crash-land in the pit of your stomach.

Jesus.

It was a gamble, asking your heterosexual, male friend to watch an absurd reality show — in a language neither of you speak — that centers around drag queens and their outlandish personalities. You knew this and you’d hoped that the only real barrier to him enjoying it was language.

When he tears his eyes away to look at you for the first time, your heart and brain both stop on a dime. There’s a pensive crease between his eyebrows, making you swallow in anticipation.

“If you’re going to do a wig reveal, why would you do it in the middle of a verse?”

You didn’t hear a starting whistle, but that doesn’t stop Seokjin from sprinting through his rant.

“No, seriously! If you’re lip-synching for — your — life, —” After emphasizing those three words with gentle yet impassioned pats on your shins, he sucks in a breath and lets the rest of his words fly out like machine gun fire.

“— against Alyssa Edwards, of all people — why wouldn’t you time your stunt with the music? Am I wrong? There was no crescendo! Not even a beat drop, just this very casual — oh, let me shrug off this first wig like I just got home from —”

Seokjin doesn’t get to finish what he started. Before you can even think once about it, you cradle his flushed cheeks in your hands and kiss him, hard. In the process, you shut him and that needy voice in your head right up.

When your own shock wears off, you expect him to pull away. You expect you to pull away. Wrong on both counts — yet again — you melt into him as his right hand shifts. Now anchored at the back of your neck instead of doodling mindless shapes over your cardigan, he presses himself closer to you until you can feel his pulse racing against your rib cage.

Experimentally, your tongue laves over the plush bottom lip you’d been staring at in wonder for years. Seokjin surprises you once again by opening up, groaning quietly into your mouth as you breach that perimeter and card your fingers through his hair.

You’re ready to throw yourself all the way into his lap — straddle him if you have to, just to kiss him deeper — but he pulls back, panting. You try very hard to swallow a whine. You fail miserably.

He stares at you like your answer might stop the world from spinning: “Does this mean you agree with me?”

“Seokjinie,” you snort as your laughter forces you to go limp in his lap. Your forehead bumps against his; it doesn’t hurt, but there are tears in your eyes, nonetheless. You wheeze, “It’s iconic!”

His eyes widen so much that you can see flecks of previously undiscovered amber within the deep brown. “It could be more iconic,” Seokjin rebuts, absolutely incredulous, “Think about it. If she had just —”

Flabbergasted, you interject with feigned offense and a gasp, “— You can’t show up ten entire years late to the party and start critiquing —”

“— I’ll do whatever I want, thank you very much,” he huffs, though a playful smirk is forming and causing his lip to twitch. He looks so pleased when you stop arguing and purse your lips.

You take the bait. Tilting your head slightly to the side, you hum, “Oh? Is that so, Kim Seokjin?”

It’s answer enough when he kisses you again.

230402 ; JIMIN x LIKE CRAZY 

namjoon for vogue korea ♡ cr. jung-koook

namjoon for vogue korea ♡ cr. jung-koook

“tomorrow’s ours” by lights follow for dearest joonie, please<3

-> 🔭

hope you like it, my sweet sweet 🔭🌸

listen here

i wanna pull you out and set you in the sunlight / i wanna tell you that your dreams are worth it / it’s all good, don’t give up / you’re gonna be all right

You’d had bad days before, but this one was for the birds.

It started at 2:31 AM with your apartment building’s fire alarms ripping you from sleep. You then spent over an hour outside on a windy city sidewalk, burrowing yourself into your boyfriend’s side — for warmth and for cover — as he miraculously slept while standing up.

Looking your worst with a bird’s nest where your bun should be; Pikachu slippers where your shoes should be; and Namjoon’s giant sweatshirt covering the bits where your pants should be.

The worst part about it all wasn’t your now-public appearance; it was that the fire department dealt with this same situation on a monthly basis. To wit: Your ancient neighbor, Min Ji-soo, and her inability — or, more likely, her outright refusal — to use her electric tea kettle responsibly.

At a reasonable hour.

Like a human being who lives in a society.

This unfortunate embarrassment and lack of rest would’ve been manageable if the universe felt inclined to stop there.

It, of course, did not.

The minimal sleep you got upon returning to your bed wouldn’t be enough to save you from the subsequent horrors.

When your actual alarm insisted, you excavated yourself from Namjoon’s perfectly cozy embrace. After he unconsciously replaced you with a pillow, he went right back to snoring. You showered without washing your hair because you had forgotten to replace the shampoo you emptied two days ago.

Then, because why the fuck not, the dry shampoo you relied on left a cruel and unmistakable white cast in your hair. No amount of aggressive brushing could force it to dissipate. Eventually, you gave up and left for work; frustrated and on the brink of tears.

It wasn’t until you reached your office that you noted the absence of your lunch: the leftovers you were so excited about, which you were sure could salvage this horror-show of a day.

Perhaps you were being a giant fucking baby about it, but picturing that lonely, half-full container of vegetarian lasagna broke your stupid little heart in two.

As a result, you were now crying at your desk like there was no tomorrow.

“Oh, shit.”

Your eyes are faucets when your boss’ voice swings the focus to your doorway.

Kang Ji-ah’s horrified expression doesn’t pair well with her high-end blouse and pencil skirt. It certainly clashes with your desire to fly under her radar; seen, if absolutely necessary, but not heard. The mere thought of disappointing her — the undisputed bad bitch of Gyeonggi — makes you want to curl up in a ball and wait for the sweet release of death.

She slinks into your office like she’s walking on eggshells. To both of your surprise, she crosses to you and places one awkward pat on your shoulder. She grimaces immediately, “That was weird, right? Vulnerability gives me hives.”

You, an idiot, can only blink up at her. There are still tears streaming down your face, sliding over your cheeks and swerving around your wobbling lips. You’d pray to shrink, but at this rate, the universe was more likely to quadruple your size.

“A bit,” you concede with a sniffle. At this, she laughs breezily, but you can’t bring yourself to join her. “Did you need something?”

Ji-ah’s gratitude for the change in subject is written all over her face. She nods once, then says, “I need the designs for the Lotte account.”

You furrow your brows. “I thought I sent them two weeks ago. Did you get my email?”

“I did,” she sucks in a breath through her teeth, priming herself to rip off a bandage on the exhale, “They — well, they passed on them. They want new options sent over by the end of the day.”

You wonder if she can hear in your restrained tone how badly you want to scream until you pass out.

“The first ones took a week.”

Another shoulder pat, another grimace.

“For what it’s worth, I thought they were incredible,” she confesses softly with a smile. You can tell she’s not used to comforting her subordinates; and you wonder if she regrets encountering you like this.

The horrified expression was less jarring than this unexpected validation.

You scrub your hands over your face and keep them there even after you rest your elbows onto your desktop. A sigh withers and dies at the tip of your tongue, so you simply mumble, “Guess I’ll get started, then.”

She can’t get away from you fast enough — for her own comfort, or yours. When she’s finally out of sight, you fish your cell phone out of your blazer pocket.

[To: Joon 🌱] Did I recently acquire a cursed amulet or something…?

There has to be an explanation for the cartoonish awfulness of your day so far. It defies all known laws of nature, leaving you only with hexes and cosmic interference left to consider.

[From: Joon 🌱] Not that I know of. Unless you’re moonlighting as an archaeologist without me. In which case, rude 😒

He follows up immediately with his trademark sweetness.

[From: Joon 🌱] You okay, petal?

What your reply lacks in words, it makes up for in emojis — nonsensical and, frankly, a bit ominous. If he saw your flurry of sad faces, knives, skulls, and bombs, he doesn’t say so. In fact, he says nothing.

You stew over his radio silence for the next several hours as you toil over round-two of digital sketches.

With as hard as you’ve been gripping your iPad’s pencil, it’s a wonder you hadn’t yet drilled the thing all the way through the tablet’s screen. The updated logos you pull out of your ass are nowhere near as cute as your first offerings. This was the sort of generic, soulless shit your corporate clients ate up.

No character, no lovingly-crafted theme to encapsulate the re-branding — just unimaginative content, the graphic design equivalent of a stock image. These will pass with flying colors, you think with a humorless laugh as you email the files to Ji-ah; and drag your dejected husk of a body out of your chair.

It takes twice as long as usual to shuffle home because your first instinct is to give up and drop face-first onto the sidewalk. As you walk, you ruminate on the thousand different ways this day let you down — up to and including the way Namjoon ghosted you.

That tiny pebble of bitterness digs further into your heel with every step.

Finally home, you unlock your door and attempt to push it open — only to find that Namjoon engaged the chain which now prevented you from entering.

Glowering at this last, unbearable obstacle, you’re once again on the brink of tears. You pound your fist once against the door and whine, “Namjoon-ah! If this is you breaking up with me, your request is denied! You’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

He shouts from somewhere on the other side of the door, “Shit! I’m sorry!”

Instantly, you hear rushed footsteps; then the urgent clatter of the chain being pushed aside. His eyes are wide with a combination of panic and guilt when he cracks the door open.

But he’s still blocking your entry.

“I had to make sure you didn’t walk in ahead of schedule,” he offers without actually explaining a thing. “Close your eyes!”

Instead, you roll them.

“Please, petal?” He begs in that rare, breathy, needy tone.

Oh, he’s bringing out the big guns. Namjoon means business.

You finally acquiesce and he’s beaming down at you. The door opens fully and it only takes a millisecond for his large hands to envelop your small ones. He cradles them gently in his palms, leading you carefully inside like you’re the one thing he’d never allow himself to break.

You’re sad when he eventually drops them, but the faint clinking of glass distracts you from your disappointment.

And what is that smell? It’s heavenly: some sweet perfume with too many intricate and complimentary notes making it impossible to identify the source. Floral, but amplified in a way that puzzles you.

“You can open them.”

You cry immediately without any time to process your response.

Your living room and adjoining kitchen are fully canvassed in flowers; every type you can name and many more that you can’t. A gentle, artful explosion of color so breathtaking that you can only whimper:

“Joonie, what is all this?”

He hands you a glass of wine with a sheepish smile, blushing pink like the tulips on display beside him. When you accept your glass, he raises his and says, “Your Today is Over party!”

Oh.

He hadn’t ghosted you; he’d been purchasing every single flower in the city. Running around like a madman to fix what was never his responsibility in the first place.

You set your wine glass down on the counter gracefully, but fling yourself at him more desperately than you ever have. He easily accepts the weight of your jumping body and the legs you subsequently knot around him.

You cup his face in your hands and kiss him deep, with everything you have. He’s soft, he’s warm, he’s the porch light left on to guide you home safely. Most of all, he’s the sun that inspires you to wake up tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow, and every stupid day that dares to follow.

You’re breathless when you finally break apart, but you say it with your whole chest, “I love you.” You pause, then you quirk an eyebrow with a giggle, “But Joon, how do we — you know — move around and all that?”

He laughs so hard his eyes crinkle. Smiling sheepishly, he glances around at every beautiful, fully occupied surface.

“Honestly, petal, I didn’t get that far in the planning stage.”