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.

“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.”

230402 ; JIMIN x LIKE CRAZY 

Yoongi + “runaway bride” I’mma leave this one up to your interpretation bc I know I’ll love it either way and also wanna see what you come up with 👀

oooooooh!!! v excited by this prompt, lol. this is, um, going to hurt kind of a lot at the beginning, but stick with me!!!! also, i accidentally made this >3.3k words….. which i will proofread when i am no longer exhausted 🤪

the one with yoongi and the fucking hydrangeas

ft. POV shift, pining & correlating angst, reader who’s🎵 a runner she’s a track star 🎵, a #nonspon vans product placement, a very unfortunate namjoon (sorry, buddy,) childhood idiots in love

Yoongi sat in a seat chosen specifically for him not because he wanted to, but because he knew how much time you’d sacrificed in writing every place card by hand.

To be clear, he’d never wanted to attend this rehearsal dinner in the first place. Unfortunately, he knew the stakes. That wasn’t something he’d dare to say out loud — especially not to you. Not in that restaurant while you fluttered between tables and shined your warm light on every single guest, one by one. Not ever, because you’d slipped through Yoongi’s fingers the second Namjoon slid that ring on yours.

If, in twelve hours’ time, Yoongi could force his deflated body out of bed, he’d have to watch quietly while you got away for good.

There was nothing he could do about it, either, so he swallowed that grief with a mouthful of bibim nengmyun. He knew it wasn’t the food that tasted so bitter on his tongue; however, on the off-chance that it was, he followed suit with another ill-advised swig of makgeolli.

During the two subsequent hours he sat and stewed at that table, Yoongi had lost count of just how many glasses he’d had. His eyes never lingered on the bottle, sticking instead to you and the smile that didn’t seem to spread beyond the curve of your lips. Every now and then, you’d glance his way — and every time you did, there was a microscopic twinge at the corner of your mouth.

It felt like a signal, something cryptic, but he wasn’t in the proper headspace to begin making assumptions. For the first time ever, you’d hit Yoongi with a look he didn’t know what to do with, and that fact drove him insane. This was what he was afraid of, after all — that the invisible string between you would be re-routed to someone else, and the telepathic link you’d always shared would disappear with it.

Your friendship had started early because your respective mothers had grown up together, and found each other once again as adults with two kids each. Back then, both of your front teeth were missing and — if Yoongi made you laugh too hard at routine, weekend gatherings — banana milk would occasionally fly out through the gap. He was nine-years-old and had no concept of it, but now he knows that he loved you then.

He loved you when you were ten, and you kneed a classmate in the dick for bullying Yoongi on the basketball court. You were two years younger and half his size, but you were a force to be reckoned with.

He loved you when you were fourteen, and a wave of brand new hormones made you a little bit of a fucking nightmare to be around.

At seventeen, twenty-one, still.

Now.

There, while everyone around him clinked their chopsticks against their glasses and Namjoon accepted the crowd’s wordless demand that he kiss you.

Yoongi had done well enough with your previous relationships. None of them made him feel like this, though, and he’d spent two years unable to put his finger on why. Sandwiched at that carefully chosen table between his mother and older brother, it finally clicked: None of them ever threatened to last.

Yoongi had never been a particularly hopeful person, but buried deep in the back of his brain, there had always been a crumb of it. Part of him, however stupid, thought you’d end up together at a dinner like this. All of this was the last nail in the coffin, the alarm clock screaming that it was time to wake up.

Suddenly more nauseous than he’d ever been before, Yoongi scooted his chair back so abruptly that it scraped along the floorboards. Just as quickly, he got to his feet and made a beeline for the exit. Of all the heads that turned to watch him leave, yours was the only one he noticed in his peripheral vision. He could feel your eyes on his back — pictured how confused you must look — and it only made his stomach acid churn faster.

When he finally made it out to the patio behind the restaurant, Yoongi’s suspicions were confirmed: closed for the season. Fitting. He wasn’t in the mood to heed the signs, so he stepped carefully — one leg at a time — over the hip-high metal gate and gulped down sharp, late autumn air. As he did, he begged himself to get his shit together for you, if not for him.

He spent several minutes out there, maybe even hours, sitting on a bare, metal chair and glowering out at the trees at the edge of the property. He hated himself, he realized, for how easily he wasted time. Let it slip by unnoticed while he stood still.

The clock seemed to mock him, ticking faster from behind him as if time was going to outrun him again.

At least, that was his first guess.

Yoongi quickly learned that the clicks weren’t signaling the passing seconds; they were broadcasting the urgent beat of stilettos on brick. So, having figured that his mother had appeared outside to gun him down, Yoongi glanced over his shoulder and braced himself for the be-all, end-all of scoldings.

What he got instead was you and the undeserved concern that caused your eyebrows to furrow.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly once you reached the gate. With your manicured hands on the cold metal, you shivered, but you didn’t seem to notice. “Did you eat too much of the gochujang? I definitely did, and now I’ll be up all night with heartburn.”

Yoongi felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. The memory caught him in a riptide, beat him bloody against the rocks because he could’ve sworn he was sixteen again, stacking old encyclopedias under the headboard of your bed. He’d read somewhere online that, while sitting upright in a chair can exacerbate reflux, sleeping at an angle could help.

He was dizzy when he blinked back at you and saw your lips moving. He had to focus hard to figure out what you were saying.

“You remember that?”

Yoongi struggled to even out his breathing; he had no hope at all of finding the plot he’d lost. “Huh?”

You grinned and it made up for all the stars that had been hidden by grey clouds overhead. “The encyclopedias,” you chuckled, “They worked, you know.”

Yoongi didn’t mean to say it. He knew it before, during, and after it slipped out of his mouth that it was the worst goddamn thing he’d ever done, but he couldn’t stop himself — couldn’t shove the bullet he’d shot back into the gun. With the way it exploded through his chest — I love you — he was surprised that his body was still intact. No viscera sprayed out from the exit wound, no stains appeared on your chic, white cocktail dress.

You opened your mouth but closed it soon after, so clearly stunned by his unsolicited admission that you couldn’t find the words. Yoongi had no expectations whatsoever when it came down to your reaction because he hadn’t meant to provoke one in the first place. Even still, the wounded look on your face was worse than anything he might’ve imagined.

The two of you stood in tense silence for so long that Yoongi’s soul had nearly ejected itself fully from his body.

“That’s not fair,” eventually came your shaky reply. You clenched your fist tight around the top of the gate to anchor yourself and stammered, “Yoongi, that is not — Why would you —”

As soon as he aimed to take a step in your direction, your shock gave way to a scowl that could’ve boiled him alive.

“Why would you dump that at my feet? Tonight, of all fucking nights, Yoongi — seriously?” You snapped, though it sounded like a sob. “What am I supposed to do with this now?”

Now?

He didn’t know how to respond. He was paralyzed, inside and out, and he deserved it. Who the fuck was he, forcing the burden of his feelings onto you?

Selfish. Stupid. Out of time, as usual.

The makeup you always took so much time on started to run alongside your tears. Yoongi had seen you cry before, though he’d always been the reason you stopped, rather than started. He hated every single one of those muddied, black tears because he knew you. He knew you would have worn waterproof mascara if you’d had any reason to anticipate crying on your special night.

“I’m getting married in the morning!”

Your reminder was a dagger flying out of your mouth, sticking him right between the ribs. It stung as images flooded his mind — of you and Namjoon, your guests, and your out-of-season, imported fucking hydrangeas. It hurt even worse to see how badly you shook as you glared at him.

“Yoongi — fuck!”

Before you walked away, your eyes locked on his for a fraction of a second. In that moment, Yoongi promised himself that it was the last time you’d ever have to see his face.

When you were little, you pictured your wedding day like a moment ripped straight out of Cinderella. In your head, you’d wake up to birds singing at your window and mice scurrying around your feet, eager to dress you in a gown of epic and magical proportions. It’d be perfect. For years, you’d been sure of it.

In reality, there was no waking up because there hadn’t been a single second of sleep to begin with. No beauty rest, no sweet dreams of marital bliss — just you, feeling as if you’d swallowed a car battery. It sat heavy in the pit of your stomach, let acid burn all the way up to your esophagus. And it’d been all too easy to toss and turn in your hotel bed, which laid perfectly level on top of a plush, floral rug.

You crawled out of bed without the assistance of altruistic rodents and shuffled your dead weight over to the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. For once, your imagination had been accurate. Your puffy eyes were red in the aftermath of all your tears. They ached above circles so deep and dark that they would’ve alarmed you if you hadn’t expected them.

Namjoon had seen you at what you both believed to be your worst. Neither of you could’ve ever predicted that the Corpse Bride would be the one staggering down the aisle towards him. He’d love you anyway, you knew it, no matter how you looked. But if he knew what you spent all night toiling over…

You shook your head and abruptly turned away from the mirror. There were several of your dearest friends bustling around the room next to yours, all of whom were waiting on you. Swallowing hard, you headed for the adjoining door and promised yourself that the only person you’d let down today would be you.

You lost all track of time when a blur of hands went to work on you. If you’d closed your eyes while you dissociated, you could’ve pretended that your assistants were those woodland creatures you used to dream about. But you couldn’t close your eyes, couldn’t sleep through this part, couldn’t let your mind wander all the way back to that patio.

It’d been terrifying, staring your own heart in the face like that. More than anything, it was confusing because it didn’t look like you expected it would — not like an organ at all, but a person. You’d gotten so good at ignoring it that you couldn’t reasonably expect yourself to recognize it. It knew you, though, and loved you. Apparently, it always had.

As you sat in that hotel room, far away from the patio, you pictured every other moment you wished Yoongi had said what he did. The thousand times you’d thought for sure he felt the same, and all the ways you distracted yourself when you resigned to believing he didn’t. Every person you dated until you finally managed to move on —

“— please, love?”

You blinked rapidly to force your eyes to focus. In front of you, your mother stood with a knowing smile on her face and a sokchima in her hands. You didn’t need to ask her to repeat herself; you took the hint and rose slowly to your feet.

“I was nervous on my wedding day,” she hummed as she pulled the undergarment gently over your head. “Hungover, too, but your grandmother does not need to know that. Frankly, I’m surprised she couldn’t tell with how bloated I was when she helped me get ready…”

The bright scarlet chima followed without so much as a word from you. Your heart slammed helplessly against your rib cage when your mother proceeded to tug the sleeves of your jeogori up your arms. This moment should be special, you thought bitterly. All you wanted to do was cry; to apologize to your mother for your total inability to care while your wedding happened around you, not for you.

Soon enough, you were dressed. Your friends and older sister gushed about how beautiful you looked — the perfect bride — like you weren’t caught in the web of an anxiety attack. Like it wasn’t all wrong, and you weren’t dangling on the precipice of your life’s greatest mistake. Like you hadn’t spent so much of your hard-earned money on invitations and greenhouse-grown, special-ordered fucking hydrangeas.

Like you could catch a fucking breath under all the layers of your hanbok.

Sensing that a moment alone was necessary, your mother kissed your cheek and ushered the others out the door ahead of her. Before seeing herself out, too, she stalled in the threshold, turned back around to look at you, and exhaled through a pause.

“I left your shoes by the dresser,” she chirped.

The gentleness of her tone was reassuring, but there was a faint gleam in her eyes that caught your attention. Before you could ask after it, she nodded firmly once and let the door click shut behind her.

Alone again, your instinct was to do the same thing you’d spent ten consecutive hours doing — burying yourself under pillows and crying until you ran out of tears. But you had run out, which was precisely was the problem. You had no options left, nothing left to do but lean in.

At least, that was your first guess.

Your list of choices expanded by one when you saw the well-worn pair of slip-on Vans your mother had set out for you.

Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

Only two meters away, a garment bag hung from the hook on the back of his bedroom door. That bag — and the crisp, black suit it concealed — lingered there for weeks in the shadows, untouched since the day he bought it. Even though it hadn’t left its hanger, he felt it smothering him throughout the night. It choked him while one thought ran circles in his sleep-deprived brain:

The reason he bought it was the same reason he’d never be able to wear it.

Sick of the way he’d trapped himself with his thoughts, Yoongi pushed himself to his feet and crossed over to the door. With the way he flung it open, knob slamming against the wall, he’d likely never recover his security deposit. It felt good, though, taking his grief out on that godforsaken suit.

On his way to his front door, Yoongi stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cabinet he hadn’t opened in weeks. As he stared at it, the devil and angel on his shoulders warred over the action he wanted so desperately to take.

Sure, he’d recently — finally — quit at your insistence, but what did that matter now?

He gritted his teeth and shook his conscience off his shoulders with a shrug. Within seconds, Yoongi was on the other side of his kitchen, grabbing an unopened pack of cigarettes and the lighter that lay in wait next to it. He closed his hand tight around it so he couldn’t see the Hello Kitty stickers you’d placed all over the plastic; your attempt to dissuade him from using it in public.

Joke’s on you, he thought as he placed a cigarette between his lips, your plan backfired. Leaving your mark on it the way you had was the only thing that’d kept him from throwing it away — and the only reason he still had a lighter to use at all.

Yoongi opened his front door with one hand as he tried to ignite the lighter with the other. No matter how many time he flicked the pad of his thumb over those little metal ridges, nothing sparked. Defeated yet again, he slumped down onto the porch swing, closed his eyes, and willed himself not to break down over something so stupid.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed as he sat like that. He had no way to tell who those urgent footfalls belonged to, either. That is, not until panted breaths hit his ears and prompted him to open his eyes.

Admittedly, Yoongi had pictured you in your bridal hanbok more than once throughout the years. Half the time, it hadn’t even been purposeful. From first to third grade, you’d rambled to him about your dream wedding on your daily walks home from school. You spoke about it so often, in fact, that even he started thinking about what embroidery a mouse might add to the hem of your chima.

As the pair of you got older, you brought it up less, so Yoongi didn’t think about it often. The image crept up on him, though, once in a while. Every time you brought him as a plus one to your friends’ weddings because you didn’t want to dance alone; and he nearly told you that he’d always want to be your partner.

Or that time you cried through your worst ever heartbreak on his couch, lamented that you’d die an old maid, and never get to wear one.

Even as recently as last night, when he drank half a fifth of whiskey and grieved over the fact that he’d never get to see you wear one.

He couldn’t make heads or tails of the real thing, not with the way you’d doubled over to catch your breath; and bunched the ends up in your fists, presumably to prevent yourself from tripping as you — ran here?

“What did I tell you about the cigarettes?” You puffed, still with your hands on your knees and your face angled at the sidewalk.

Somehow, despite running five kilometers to Yoongi’s doorstep, you hadn’t displaced a single hair from your artfully crafted up-do. Your makeup hadn’t budged, either, which meant that the only sign of your expended effort was the tint of pink on your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

You’d outrun his train of thought in your scuffed, old Vans. Yoongi had to buffer for a moment in order to catch up, but the involuntary smile fighting its way over his mouth didn’t bother to wait. Eventually, he recited your long-suffering appeal, smirking all the while, “They’ll fuck me up, and I’ll have to be wheeled out onto the basketball court in an iron lung.”

“Exactly.”

With one last, deep breath, you returned to your upright position. The second you did, Yoongi was the one choking up.

Rapid blinking did nothing to stop the tears pricking at the inner corners of his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat to the best of his ability, but he couldn’t shake the inexplicable flutter in his chest at the sight of you. You’d always been perfect, but this was —

“Oh, my god,” he croaked, thoroughly melted from the inside out.

Yoongi stood before his brain could signal his legs to do so; or remind his hands not to drop the phone, lighter, and cigarettes he’d been holding. His eyes, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do. He drank in your appearance like he’d spent the last twenty-two years wandering, dehydrated in the desert — and in a way, he had.

You blinked back at him with swimming eyes as if you’d found sanctuary, too. Suddenly aware of what you were gripping, you opened your fists and let the fabric flutter down to the ground. While smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist, you asked softly, “Not bad for a bunch of mice, right?”

“Look just like a dream,” he replied just as gently.

Yoongi’s hands, which were thankfully now free, reached out and grabbed yours. You followed his lead as he spun you, twirled under his raised arm until you ended up with your face mere centimeters from his.

“Yoongi,” you breathed. Your eyes danced from his, to his lips, and back again. “If you wait another twenty-two years to tell me how you feel, please pick a time and place that is mutually convenient. I swear to God, I’ll —”

It came out much more easily the second time than the first; and when it did, it felt more like a beginning than a bomb:

“I love you.”