YEEESSS

YEEESSS

I think you polish it until what you really have to say is ready, you know? Like until you gave it your all. No works of art are ever perfect, there's always something that can be corrected in one's eyes, but it might be perfect in another.

buT omGGG you're so right

fuck perfection because that's an illusion

WRITERLY WOES RIGHT THERE,, seriously I think I'm writing a great scene and I pull some cringy romance line that I'm just like: this is for future me to figure out

the writing cycle

being an author goes like this: you think about a book idea you get excited and you outline or pants it you write the idea but get imposter syndrome halfway you push through with coffee and tea and hope for the best you finish the book and you celebrate but then you realize that there’s this thing called… editing

how can i love the heartbreak, you're the one i love [kim namjoon]

drabble count: 3

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summary: The loss follows you everywhere you go. The loss of your sister. Of music.

In the whirlwind of life, somehow, he approaches you. Kim Namjoon, with no attention to leave. You'd never thought you'd fall in love again, yet you do. And it consumes you.

pairing: bts namjoon x reader

chapter warnings: angst, swearing, mention of loss and suicide, fluff

a/n: hello hello! this is a heavy one, and i highly recommend listening to how can i love the heartbreak, you're the one i love by akmu, as it is inspired by that song (linked below). this is basically a series of events of how one came to fall in love with namjoon, almost like scenes of a music video.

i've always wanted to write a drabble based on namjoon for a while, and he's such a sweetheart, that I had to write one that was just... pure, in a way? I don't know how to explain it, but I might've almost shed a tear writing this :]

i love writing drabbles based on prompts, so if you want one, please don't hesitate to ask/submit on my page. thanks so much for reading! support is also greatly appreciated, for my crying college loans <33

Your relationship with Namjoon was meant to end before it even started. Or, so you thought.

“Oh, hey, you—fuck,” he tumbles out when you stumble into him. All you were trying to do was catch what he was working on. Of course, while tip-toeing over to him, you tripped over a wire and somehow landed in his chair.

“It’s fine.” You laugh and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Thank God you weren’t a blusher, you think, until his large hands wrap around your waist. His gaze is just as intense, too, mouth parted as he gazes down at you like you hung the stars and the moon. The wave of warmth hits you immediately, with such force that you can’t breathe. Your heart squeezes when his jaw clenches, as if trying to restrain himself from pouncing on you.

“What are you doing?” You ask instead.

“I was going through the playlist you sent me and listening to them. Maybe if we choose one that resonates you the most, your musical skills will come back.” As if to make a point, he scrolls through the 23 songs you carefully organized, ensuring that one defined each year of your life perfectly.

You snort. “I’ve been listening to this playlist nonstop for the past week. I think it would have come back by now if it wanted to.”

“Maybe.” Namjoon frowns, and you can’t help but like that he’s worried about you.

“You have a favorite so far?” You make a bold move—lean your head against his chest. The heartbeat is steady, like a background noise you don’t usually notice. But it’s a reminder. Of warmth. Of existence.

“All of them,” he replies immediately. “They all define you, so how can I not?”

In that moment, it comes back. In your mind, you hear the faintest melodies of You are my everything. Whispering in your ear, Namjoon repeats your name.

And you?

Heart full of love, you kiss him. You cup his cheeks and let his mouth graze yours. Soon enough, he’s pulling you closer so that you’re pressed against him, no inch of space between you two. I love you, his mouth says, moving softly against yours. I love you, his fingers say, threading through your hair, caressing your cheeks, moving you impossibly closer. I love you, his eyes say, bearing into yours.

Just like that, the music grows louder, and time rewinds.

“Do you not know who I am?” The man in front of you looks confused, and glances around, most likely searching for his six other members. Him—currently questioning you—is the tallest out of all of them, and sunglasses frame his face. Hair cropped short, hands in his pants, Namjoon Kim looks impossibly handsome. And impossibly unattainable. As the leader of BTS, you know he has responsibilities and rules he must follow. As do you.

“No,” you lie, and bow your head. Why did your company have to book a first-class fight, and why did BTS board a plane that wasn’t private? There’s never a shortage of them, especially for world class idols. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” his fingers go around your waist, and his eyebrows are knit together. “You look familiar.”

You look familiar. The words you hate the most. You pull away, making sure that your hair covers most of your face. The last thing you want is someone who knew your sister to analyze you, then offer you their condolences. It’s the same words every time, and though you understand that they have nothing else to say, they don’t understand that you have nothing to say, too. Because what are you going to do? Launch into her life story, like they’ll want to stick around?

Better to be alone than be the party pooper.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. Then add, “Goodbye.”

Except it’s not a goodbye. Because you see him, in front of your face, outside in the hallway, a month later. His face isn’t covered at all, the sharp eyes boring into yours, yet conveying so much softness. And your head starts to run with questions about the paparazzi, who crowded your building less than a year ago, and all the fans who would start dating rumors.

“What are you doing here?” You hiss, and pull him inside. “You don’t have the luxury to wander around Seoul like this.”

“So you do know who I am.”

Is that all he got from the two sentences you uttered? You stare at him like he’s an idiot, and may—just maybe—his IQ is a fluke in terms of social conversations. He could be more textbook smart than street smart, after all.

“I’m not stupid,” he continues, like he could read your mind. Namjoon’s eyebrows raise like he’s challenging you to say otherwise. His head tilts, revealing the strands of his ashy hair that sticks out from the hoodie that covers his head. “I came because I’m on a mission.”

“Oh, yeah?” The sarcasm comes back. “What mission?”

He’s quiet for a minute, before saying under his breath, so low you almost can’t hear it, “Your sister sent me.”

That knocks the wind out of you, and you stagger back. Which says a lot, because you’re never one for dramatics. Mei was the one who liked to be the drama queen in your family, and you would always shake your head and smile at her antics.

“She’s dead,” you say tightly. “I imagine you were at her funeral.”

“I was,” he clears his throat. “And I’m genuinely sorry—”

“I’m sure you said the same thing a year ago.” Everything is strained. Your smile. Your stiff shoulders. Your fingers—bending them feels so robotic you’re surprised they’re not creaking—grab the single polaroid he produces from his pocket. Of her and the group at Music Bank. Beaming. Her arm is slung over Namjoon’s shoulder. You can see the intention in her smile: I have to show this to my little sister! She’s going to be so jealous. And the fact that you can still read her so well—through a picture, for God’s sake—brings the onslaught of tears.

Even after a year, the remnants of your sister is still here. And so are you, stuck in this country because you can’t find it in you to leave her.

“I’d say it a million times if it’d bring her back,” he murmurs, and you screw your eyes shut. God. Stop the fucking burning.

“She—” He sticks his hand in his pockets. “It sounds weird coming out of my mouth, but she told me that I was your favorite idol for a while. We were friends, or I’d like to think so, and every time our schedules clashed, she talked about you constantly. And she made me promise that I’d take you out somewhere fun. Or, well, she said the three of us should go out somewhere fun and I took it as a promise after her death. Mei nuna was a great sunbae, and I respect her so much…”

The two of you are staring at one another as the tears continue to roll down your cheeks. Respected. Well-liked. Beautiful. Popular. A diamond.

A diamond that shattered under society’s expectations.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Let me take you out. Or treat you to dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

Music has been the background noise growing up your whole life. The moment where you came home crying because your ex broke up with you, you swore that Don’t Push Me played the whole way home. When your sister became a trainee—then an idol—you hummed Euphoria for countless days. And when you graduated high school and entered Seoul University, Heaven entered your mind, and the notes refused to leave.

In fact, you were so in tune, you had a song for every mood, and could name its title after listening it in a second.

Until it stopped.

Of course, you knew why. Yet, you questioned it when others asked you where your supposed skill went. The only—supposed—facts you could give was the fact that this “gift” disappeared when you were organizing your playlist. And it was as if the music knew, at the song: How can I love heartbreak, you’re the one I love.

You were listening to the harmonization, noting the time. Umma and Appa came home later than usual, and that itself was odd. They were—still are—the two most punctual people on Earth. Except they did come home late—hours late, probably, if you hadn’t called them. You still could recall their sobs, the gasps in between every word they struggled to push out, and the sirens in the distance. Umma took so long composing herself, that Appa had to grasp the phone and tell you, his voice hoarse, the persona of a strong, diligent father gone.

No. This was a father who was grieving. “Your sister… she’s dead.”

And in the background, ran the lyrics: waiting till it runs dry will be our farewell.

Since then, you removed music from a part of your life. There was no more k-pop, no more dramas, nothing. It was like living in a void of constant, endless silence. Others didn’t understand. But your heart was cracked in half, nearly turned into stone without the music keeping it beating—your sister’s music keeping it beating.

She was, after all, the reason why you grew up attached to it. With her constant singing in the showers, and her shoving an earphone in your ear, music and you merged together. Mei was the glue in between. Now she was gone, and you fell apart.

That was two years ago. The dinner with Namjoon went well. Not life-changing, but eye-opening. Eye-opening enough for you to realize that there was more than one person grieving. Several of her friends wanted to meet you, but had no way of contacting your family, who had closed themselves off.

Slowly but surely, you opened up again. Allowed the possibility of music to flow through you, hoping it would come back. To you, hope was the thing with feathers. It came as quickly as it left.

But it was also the only thing you could do.

“Still nothing?” Namjoon teases, spreading his legs apart as he leans his elbows on them, facing you. You’re in his studio, perched on the sofa, taking a bite of the kimbap he ordered. This friendship is the best thing that happened to you in the past year, and you’ll be forever grateful to Namjoon for picking up the pieces of your heart you left behind. It’s a little joke between the community that he breaks things the instant they enter his hands, but he’s a healer, too.

But sometimes, when seeing the frustration clearly evident on his face, and his lips pressed together, you wish that you had the power to heal him as well. There was so much stress on him as a leader—it being a heavy burden to carry—but he’d never regret taking on the responsibilities. And he shouldn’t, but you wish you can ease the load for him.

“No,” you growl, scrunching your nose. “This is stupid, isn’t it? Why can’t I just be grateful that I’m able to digest music again? And don’t making some weird eating joke. I hear enough of them from Jin.”

He holds his hands up in the air. “In my defense, I make better jokes than that.”

“Uh huh,” you roll your eyes. “You know what they say. The top five people you hang out with define your personality. And there’s a very high probability that Jin is in your top three, which says a lot.”

“You’re in my top three, too. Shouldn’t that counteract his lack of humor?”

“Kim Namjoon, if you think I’m funny, we really have a problem.”

He pouts. “You have a dark humor I can appreciate. Unless I can’t appreciate that?”

You shake your head, unable to believe him.

“On the bright side, I was able to sing along—not off key, either—to every song you guys performed to!” You cheer, handing the leader a bottle of water backstage. It’s impossible to wipe the grin off your face. This is your first concert after your sister’s death, and you can’t believe that it went so smoothly like this.

“Obviously because Namjoon chose the songs you listen to the most—”

“Hyung,” said idol cuts off. “It was a coincidence. You know that.”

“Do I?” Jin smirks. “Sorry. I’m getting old, so you know how my memory comes and goes.”

Jungkook takes the chance to pipe in, “So you admit you’re a grandpa now? I can call you Halabuji?”

“Ya—” As the eldest member chases after the youngest, the two of you are left alone. The other members are most likely waiting in the van, and you’re positive that all of them are no doubt tired now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

“You want me to take you home?” Namjoon offers, breaking the silence that ensues between the two of you.

“You can’t even drive,” you tease. “I’m good. More than capable of taking myself home, but thanks for offering.”

“Okay.” The words are slow, like he’s reluctant to say it. But it’s probably you reading into it. Just like them, you—as a fan—had been in a haze for the last few hours, having eyes for a certain member only. The others were amazing, exceptional even. Still, your gaze drifted back to Namjoon’s, wanting more.

This crush on him was kind of getting ridiculous. Like the snowball effect, though, your feelings began to grow and grow, until you couldn't handle it. Can't handle it.

“Hug?” You blurt, and spread your arms out. With a chuckle, he steps into your embrace, picking you up.

“Namjoon!”

“It’s not my fault you’re tiny.”

It’s not your fault he’s tall, hovering over you. His body is hard, and the sweat clings to his skin, but you don’t mind. In fact, you melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, face inches from his. He’s gorgeous, from his full lips to the warmth of his chocolate eyes that give you more than a sugar rush. Namjoon makes your body buzz, and your heart stutter, like it desperately wants to beat in sync with him.

“Thank you for giving me tickets for today,” you whisper, the words almost lodged in your throat. If there was no BTS concert today in Seoul, you would have sat there, in your room, thinking today of the day your sister killed herself. It’s pure coincidence that the company scheduled to have a concert on this certain day, but you truly needed the distraction.

His gaze softens, and he presses a kiss to your jaw. “Anything for you.”

It’s crazy how much happiness this person in front of you has brought you. As you pull away from the kiss, the memories dissipating, there are so many things you want to say to him. So many confessions, you don’t know where to start.

“Uh—” He pulls back, eyes widening in alarm. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—fuck. Shit.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard you curse so much within 24 hours.” You giggle, but let the tears flow. Your heart is so full, the emotions need to escape elsewhere. Because you love this man. You love Kim Namjoon.

In truth, you never thought you’d love again after your sister died. Though with her, it was the familial love, she was your other half. And you never wanted to go through the pain of loss again.

Yet, for Kim Namjoon, you’d willingly rip your heart to shreds.

“I love you,” you choke out. “I love you.”

“You do?” he breathes out.

“I shouldn’t,” you murmur. “But I do.”

But he bought you dinner and made you laugh by searching for dad jokes online. He bought you a pasta because it was your favorite food and then took you to a street market and bought tteokbokki. And ever since that night, he’s been a constant in your life.

“It’s crazy, but I love you too.” At his confession, you sob harder.

Somewhere, far away in the distance, how can I love the heartbreak, you’re the one I love plays again.

writing my korean romance fantasy be like:

the bulletproof duke [yoongi x reader]

drabble count: 2

join my tag list for future works masterlist of all works previous | next drabble

summary: You've always been a wallflower during the season, content with watching the supposed "bulletproof" Duke Min Yoongi have women fawn over him. Except, when he shows up to your home with a wound and curses that'll haunt your family for the rest of your life, you choose to take care of him. What you didn't expect is to gain favor in his eyes.

tldr; Duke Min Yoongi might fall in love with you as you're nursing him to health

pairing: min yoongi x reader

warnings: swearing, slight slow burn

notes: ... I've been watching too much Bridgerton and reading Lisa Kleypas's historical fiction books. this is the aftermath, whoops. and the ao3 version of it is here. i love writing drabbles based on prompts, so if you want one, please don't hesitate to ask. thanks so much for reading! support is also greatly appreciated so my college loans won't cry <33

thinking of making a pt. 2 of this. let me know!

There are certain things to be expected of women in the season.

Chasing after men isn’t one of them. Er, well. You do have to chase men, but not literally. You have to chase them with your eyelashes—which will probably all fly off by the end of the year with the number of times you bat—and with the way you talk, with the way you dress.

Personally, you thought it was stupid. Because you thought it was stupid, you were not only violating one law, but you’re violating another: being a wallflower. How horrendous, your chaperone would say, if she was here. Instead, she’s finding your trouble-causing twin, the chaos loving sister, allowing your thoughts to be alone. You’re the quieter, book-loving twin, and you appreciate the corner. You have your wallflower friends, who are more than welcoming. Certainly more welcoming than—

“They said that the eligible bachelors are actually looking for a hand in marriage this year,” Chunga murmurs beside you. You realize that you’re staring in the center of the ballroom, directly in the sight of Duke Min’s exasperated expression as he twirls a lady around. The unfamiliar lady who has the honor giggles, like this made her whole year. Like she could get pregnant by dancing with him.

Thank goodness you all have the same reaction: snorting. There are a plethora of eligible bachelors, but when Chunga—who rarely gossips, and when she talks, speaks facts—mentions them, you all know what she means. Or, rather, who.

You call them the bulletproof bachelors, the seven of them. Not because they dodged a bullet or survived a gunshot wound—though, that would be far entertaining than seeing them grimace and dodge the love bullets directed their way.

“I can see the marry me eyes coming from Daeun,” Mina comments dryly, and tilts her head to the side. “Though, I can’t blame her. Good for her, for being so forward.”

A smile starts to form on your lips. “I still can’t figure out whether you hate half the people here for are rooting for them.”

“Why can’t it be both?” She replies innocently. “Oh, there comes Cassandra.”

By Cassandra, you mean your twin, along with your chaperone right behind her heels. The former has a face of glee, eyes bright with mischief. The latter is red-faced, crumbling a handkerchief in her hand while glaring at your sister’s head.

“I wonder what she did now,” Mina snickers.

“You know what I’ve heard in the powder room—”

“Cassandra,” your chaperone places her hands on her hips. “You will not run off again. This is the second time tonight. And the first was because your feet needed air.”

Ha. Well, at least she was becoming more diverse in her excuses. You did have to applaud her for that.

Cassandra waves her off, and takes a seat. “The bachelors are all up for the season because of Duke Kim Taehyung. Apparently, the rake thinks it’s time to settle down and find a wife.”

Ah, that makes sense why he seems the most genuine.

“I’m sure it’s because he wants to wed the high class now,” Mina mutters. You didn’t understand what was up with her, but she’s hated him since the beginning. And based on how her face darkened at the mention of him, you didn’t pry.

So you sat there, watching the women fawn over the bachelors and approach them.

That’s how you spent the rest of the season.

“You can’t enter,” you whisper to Cassandra. “He’s sleeping.”

“He’s not sleeping,” she snorts. “He’s dying. Haven’t you heard him groaning and growling in pain? The man is temporarily blind, in a fever haze, and for God’s sake Devon’s taking care of him. We all know that he even rubs his face with vigor, like he’s trying to scratch the whole thing off when he’s simply cleaning himself.”

Your brother in law, Devon—once a rake, sleeping around with all of London, but now happily married to Kathleen—had connections. You know that. You also know that he loves you and your sister more than anything, but what he is unaware of is the unfortunate circumstances the three of you were in.

Kathleen and your older brother who—upon taking the responsibilities, died after a brawl in the tavern because he had the ‘urge’ to get drunk—used to be the ones managing the estate. What was left of it, at least. Devon came and picked up the pieces like an angel, and fell in love with Kathleen, saving them all.

Emotionally.

Financially… you still didn’t have the money to buy fancy dresses, or the carriages to go around the season. The estate was still breaking down daily, from the leaks to the fragile doors. And yet, he had decided to invite his friend, Duke Min Yoongi.

Then he’d gotten into an accident upon coming here. A bullet wound and his carriage falling in the river was how Devon found him. Maybe they aren't so bulletproof after all, you muse.

And that was that. It’s been a few days since he entered your home, because it was impossible to move him elsewhere. Also because—

“Do you think we can find who the murderer is?”

You shoot her a look. “Cassy. Kathleen said no more trouble, especially when the Duke is in the house.”

“But he’s so boring,” she sighs. “There’s a permanent scowl on his face, too. What do you think he’d be good at? Drinking?”

A smile curves in the corner of your lips, and you shake your head.

“Fuck!” A string of curses follow, and the two of you stare with widened eyes.

“I don’t—”

“He’s not—”

“Should we—”

“No,” Cassandra announces. “You should go take care of him. If we let Devon do it, I think the Duke might kill him. Come on.”

Grabbing your hand, the two of you venture up the stairs and down the hallway, where the Duke is. He’s laying on the bed, with Devon disinfecting his gunshot wound, shouting every curse in existence.

“How are you too tired to talk, but not too tired to curse me?” Your brother in law asks in wonder, but hesitates approaching again. And you see the tiredness in the Duke’s face, his jaw clenched, lips pressed together, and hair messy. He hasn’t showered in days, struggling to survive.

But what shocks you is that Devon’s face seems to match his.

“Devon,” you begin. “I can take care of the Duke for an hour or so.”

“Get some rest,” Cassandra pipes up. “You look uglier than the time you stumbled in drunk.”

“What she means is,” you add hastily, “We care about your well being.”

“I can’t leave him unattended.” He shakes his head. “Much less with a young lady.”

“The door will be open,” you respond gently. “And you should spend some time with Kathleen.”

A knock on the door, and Kathleen seems to say her agreement.

And that’s how you find yourself taking care of the Duke.

Believe it or not, the Duke was proud of his ability to steer people away from him. He knew he was an influential figure in society, knew that people came to him for a reason to use him.

Being alone was better than being used.

Yoongi groans—he hates this. The feeling of vulnerability. Of having Devon and his family see how weak he is. But his body did ache. His lungs stopped working a while ago, every liquid going down is throat is like someone is strangling him. He’s a workaholic, not someone who jumps from tavern to tavern. There are things he needs to do.

Laying in bed is not one of them.

His caretaker switched out hours ago. He knows that much, from the hushed whispers of a feminine voice, and Devon’s gravelly one. One of his sister in laws, he assumes.

A cup presses against his lips.

“No,” he manages to spit out, throat on fire.

“Please,” her voice is softer, much better than Devon shoving the thing down his throat. “Water will make you feel better.”

He shakes his head—or tries to.

But the cup stays in place. The only difference is that a palm slides against his. Yoongi jolts at the contact.

They’re soft. Warm. Reassuring in a way.

So he swallows the liquid, even if it came from hell.

In the middle of the night, he feels a warm towel against his forehead. A hand pats his chest, as if he were a kid needing a lullaby to sing.

“Tell me your name,” he grinds out. This whole day, she was taking care of him, and he didn’t have a name for her, much less a face. It annoyed him to no end.

You reply.

Huh, he thinks. It suits you.

Duke Min has a lot of demands, you realize. And possibly a very limited vocabulary when it comes to dealing with people. It’s either “say something,” “come here,” “give me your hand,” or “get me your sister-in law.”

The last one to Devon.

Most of the time, you sit in silence with him, until he makes you talk.

“I like flowers,” you explain. “Not because they’re pretty, but because each one has a meaning to it. It’s symbolic, like a thousand of emotions in one living thing.”

It’s hard, talking about yourself to someone who barely replies. But you do it anyways, because you’re awful with silences.

The Duke grunts in acknowledgment. His fingers find yours, and his thumb caresses your palm. The callouses on his hands rub against your soft ones, and you glance down to see how your fingers intertwine so nicely together.

Thank goodness he’s blind, because you don’t want him to see the flush on your face.

Something clatters downstairs. You’re pretty sure it’s Cassandra dropping a plate. But it’s enough to startle you that you attempt to pull your hand away.

The Duke pulls back, keeping you where you are.

“Duke—”

“Yoongi. We are past that stage, are we not?”

“Ah, yes?”

“Good,” he says, voice lowering. It’s soft. Well, the softest you heard him say so far.

What you don't know is that in his head, he realizes: he might fall in love with you.

@noooodlllleeee @hahaha-darn-it

THE WAY THIS MANGA HAS MY WHOLE HEART-

❣ 14 DAYS OF LOVE & PASSION ❣

WITH: @mokacheer ↪ Day 12. Shoujo With the Best Animation ♡ Kimi Ni Todoke

every word matters

remember, no wip is insignificant or trash.

every word matters. every word is a step of you becoming a better writer. every word is a reminder that you are a writer, because you're building these characters and creating this world from your own imagination.

and that itself is an accomplishment.