#1k drabblepalooza

[eoieopda]

PM already sent for smut authorization! The Bad Thing - Arctic Monkeys with Kim "NOT a Good Boy" Taehyung. <33

ayyyyyyyy! one of my favorite bands! this might be the smut fic of mine that i like most??? who am i……

listen here

cw: SMUT — 18+ so minors must avert their eyes! married!reader strays from her god-awful husband, public (restroom) sex, v fingering, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, implied continuing affair, not fully proofread yet lol

(3/4/23) A follow-up, full-length one-shot is available here once you read this!

do the bad thing / take off your wedding ring / but it won’t make it that much easier / it might make it worse

Taehyung hates these firm dinners.

His boss is an asshole with bad taste in restaurants; and the majority of his team is full of retired frat stars who peaked in college. They drink too much, they get loud, and then they get rude to the waitstaff. The worst of them was sat two seats away, guffawing from his spot at the head of the table: Park Ji-won.

Taehyung doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help it. Fork clenched a little too tightly in his right hand, he can neither pretend the food in front of him is edible nor peel his narrowed eyes off Ji-won.

That sanctimonious fuck was on his fourth shot of whiskey, ogling any waitress that passed by, and spewing tasteless jokes. Taehyung used to push back in these moments, but he stopped trying because it seemed to hurt more than it helped.

The only person more mortified by Ji-won’s actions — who would be further humiliated by additional attention drawn to them — occupied the space between him and Taehyung: his wife.

Taehyung has spent the past two years wondering if you hate your husband as much as he does. Truth be told, likely more so.

You were supportive. You came with your shithead spouse to all his important work events and you looked perfect at every one of them. To top it all off, you were an incredible conversationalist — successful in your own right, sharp as a tack, and all smiles despite the mouth-breathing troglodyte at your side.

Until he’d start acting like this, that is.

Jaw-dropping as you were, the only one present not paying attention to you was the one who vowed to do so. Publicly, and in front of all your friends and family — in sickness and in health, as long as the two of you live.

And Taehyung can’t fucking stand to watch him ignore you.

You’re not eating, he notices, just sitting quietly with your eyes and head lowered. Maybe you finally look as neglected as you feel. Or maybe, like him, you get through your husband’s antics by imagining you’re elsewhere.

Somewhere exciting.

Taehyung, for example, imagines you staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror while he fucks you from behind.

“— and then I told her, if you really wanted my business, you should’ve dressed like it. This stupid bitch showed up in a turtleneck like there’s a brain somewhere above those tits!”

You flinch at your husband’s words, then at his laugh, then at the high-five he exchanges with his boss. God, you poor fucking thing — cheeks burning with embarrassment, eyes flicking over to Taehyung to communicate an apology you shouldn’t have to make.

You don’t flinch, however, when Taehyung’s right hand bumps against the side of your left thigh as he pulls it off the table.

Your little black dress is tasteful when you’re standing, but it rode up when you sat down earlier. His knuckles brushed against your bare skin when he retracted his hand and he saw the way it made you hold your breath. He sees the way you keep glancing at him and the way you’re pretending not to.

So, Taehyung gambles.

With how closely everyone is packed at the table, no one’s the wiser when he slowly extends his arm in your direction. Millimeter by millimeter, his hand hovers closer until he’s able to run the knuckle of his index finger over that same bit of flesh.

Not an accident, but calculated. Subtle, too, and soft as a whisper. You clench your thigh reflexively, but you don’t move away. If anything, your leg shifts closer.

So, you did feel it — and you liked it.

Taehyung is emboldened; his rapidly beating heart has blood pumping through his veins, down down down instead of up. Certainly not to his brain, the one thing that could’ve stopped him from sliding his hand overtop of yours.

From pinching that gaudy wedding ring between his thumb and middle finger, and slipping it off to claim in the palm of his hand.

You don’t stop him when he pulls his hand back and stuffs it into the pocket of his slacks. You do follow him with your eyes as he stands up, pushes in his chair, and excuses himself.

One quick glance over his shoulder tells him you’re still watching as he walks towards the hallway ahead.

When he dips out of view, he keeps walking until he reaches the single, gender-neutral bathroom at the very end of the hall. Unlike the gendered bathrooms on either side, this one has no stalls — less risk of interruption.

Even better, the speaker spilling soft jazz into the restaurant is built into the ceiling, directly above its door — less risk of being overheard.

He ducks inside, shuts the door behind him, and crosses to the counter. Once he reaches it, he turns and leans against it with his gaze zeroed in on the door in front of him. He doesn’t know for certain that you’ll follow, but he hopes to god that you do.

After a few minutes, there’s a soft knock at the door.

He doesn’t say a word in response, opting to wait with his arms crossed over his chest. He tilts his head to the side as the door opens slowly. Warm all over, he smiles to himself when he sees the pointed toe of your black stiletto through the widening crack.

Then you appear, looking good enough to eat. There’s conflict in your expression, but your body language doesn’t convey the same sense of doubt. The steps you continue to take toward him are purposeful. When you finally close the distance, he can see it clear as day:

You want this and you feel awful for that, but you can’t stop yourself. Taehyung won’t be the one to try.

“I’ve never received a proposition in the form of grand theft,” you words tease, but your tone is the shyest he’s ever heard it. Oh, you angel. “Are you always this forward?”

He scoffs and tells you the truth, “Absolutely not.”

Never in his life had Taehyung pictured himself being so reckless as to make a pass at someone’s wife while they’re seated right next to her. But, then again, he’s never seen someone sit next to their wife and fail to give a shit that she’s there. Time after time after time.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. So fucking cute when you’re shy. You decide to be reckless too and quirk an eyebrow, “Then, what? You’ve decided that I’m special?”

Taehyung feels the heat radiating off your body with how closely you stand to him. He leans forward, lowering his head as he towers over you and whispers, “No, I didn’t.”

Your eyes are locked on his when they narrow. Your red-tinted lips form a pout that he wants to kiss right off your face; and you part them to speak.

“You did,” he answers before you can ask. It surprises you, judging by the way you blink in response, but it shouldn’t.

So, Taehyung puts his hands on your waist and silently instructs you to switch places. As soon as he’s got you in front of the mirror, he spins you around so that your back is pressed against his chest. You gasp, but he’s not sure if it’s the movement that shocks you, or the pressure of his hardening cock against your ass.

Through the mirror, your puzzled eyes regard him carefully. He looks down, only for a moment, to watch the way your chest heaves with the weight of your breathing. When his eyes drift back up to yours, he drops one hand to pinch the hem of your dress between his fingers.

“You’re not special because someone looked at you and decided you were.” His voice is low as his lips hover near the satin skin of your neck. You’re vibrating in his arms when he begins to tug the bottom of your dress upwards. “He never looks at you and you’re still this fucking perfect.”

With the fabric pulled up high enough, his hand falls slowly down towards your core. He can nearly feel your heartbeat with his mouth so close to your pulse point; but he doesn’t kiss you there.

Not yet.

If he had, he would have missed the desire washing over your face when his fingers nimbly pull the lace of your thong to the side. All he can do is behold that whimpering mouth as he slides his finger through your slicked folds; and makes contact with your touch-starved clit.

“What I don’t understand,” Taehyung starts with a murmur. You gasp as his fingertip swirls against you, but you still look straight ahead at his reflection through fluttering lids. “Is how anyone could stand to look anywhere else.”

God, you’re so fucking wet.

You moan so softly, it sounds like a sigh. It’s all he can think about, and he has to ask:

“When was the last time you were touched like this?”

His finger glides from your clit slowly, relishing your arousal as he approaches your entrance. Whether consciously or not, your hips swivel slightly against his pelvis.

A girl like you should never have to beg.

His middle finger penetrates you and your breath catches in your throat. When it finally slips through your parted lips, that mewl is the prettiest fucking sound he’s ever heard.

“Like you deserve to be touched.”

His palm is drenched in your wet heat as you grind against his hand. Your reservations leave you when the pad of his finger finds that neglected spot behind your pubic bone. You bite down on your plush bottom lip and swirl your hips in tandem with his ministrations.

He leaves a chaste kiss on your neck without taking his eyes off of you. You unravel in his arms, fluttering around his finger as your orgasm overtakes you. Biting harder on your lip to muffle your moans, your manicured fingernails dig into his arm as it holds you tight against him.

“You shouldn’t have to silence yourself for other people,” he mutters against your skin before he kisses you again. Then, his tongue leaves a wet stripe over the same area. “Or shrink yourself to make anyone else feel taller.”

Your voice is raspy when you finally speak, but despite the hushed tone, there’s no ignoring your demand:

“Fuck me, Taehyung.”

Taehyung removes his hands from you just long enough to wrestle with his belt. He jerks down his slacks and boxer briefs, all in one urgent move. You lean forward against the counter; your perfect cunt glistening, begging him to sheath himself inside of you.

The sound you make as he fills you is just as heavenly as it is obscene.

He clenches his jaw as he bottoms out, but he manages to grunt, “Shit — what kind man wastes pussy like this? You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

It’s an unconscious decision — something primal, instinctive — to hold your arms behind your back, pinning them with his own against his chest. You whimper at the change in angle. Now, his cock drags over your g-spot with every thrust as he fucks himself into you.

“How could anyone leave a bed that they get to share with you?” He purrs with his mouth at your ear, and you keen, “I’d never leave the house again. Fuck!”

You whimper until he rolls his hips at a more feverish pace. Notably, you don’t silence yourself when you orgasm a second time. It’s music to his ears, hearing that uninhibited moaning as he fucks you through your high.

And that face!

Your eyelids shut so delicately despite how completely your orgasm consumes you — still so beautiful, even with the mess he’s making of you.

How can a person fall asleep next to you, wake up next to you, and not see you? He can’t fathom it — how someone could ignore the soft angles of your features and the ethereal glow of your skin. This is the face that could launch a thousand ships; and he’d volunteer to go down on any one of them just to see you like this.

“Holy s-shit,” you hiccup as he continues to drive himself into you, “Don’t ever stop fucking me. Fuck — Taehyung, you’re going to make me come again —“

The third time hits you the hardest.

Your back arches away from him and your head falls against his shoulder; you’re shaking. But he doesn’t stop, not when he follows you off the cliff, not while he releases inside of you — not until your cunt milks every last drop from his twitching cock.

The two of you are silent for the few minutes it takes both of your souls to return to your bodies. It’s just panted breaths, the rustling of clothes. You shimmy your dress back down to hide the evidence; he locks himself away behind a zipper.

When you’re both presentable again, you turn around to find him reaching in his pocket. Taehyung swears there’s disappointment stowed away in your eyes, but he doesn’t know what to do with it. His fingers finally find that gaudy, broken promise — but your hand on his forearm stops him before he can fish it out.

“Hold onto it for now.”

Your eyes are wide as if you also can’t believe what you just said. There’s a spark in them as they flit from your grasp to his face. The tiniest upward twitch at the corner of your mouth when you follow up with:

“It’ll be my reason to swing by yours later tonight. Ji-won won’t notice its absence — or mine.”

(3/4/23) What happens next...

[eoieopda]

For drabblepalooza: Can’t Remember to Forget You by Shakira ft. Rihanna with fuckboy!ex!Yoongi please!

P.S.: This is such a fun idea. I love how creative you are, Jade-nim 💚

P.P.S.: I’m gonna send you a message with my age because I neeeeed this and don’t want to get bounced at the door!

oh shit! i haven’t heard this song since it came out and by god, it’s still a banger.

cw: exes au, fuckboy!yoongi, protected sex, oral sex (f receiving,) p in v penetration, ref to squirting, yoongi is a menace.

When Jiyu asked you to be her Maid of Honor, you knew it was going to be a clusterfuck. As her best friend, you wouldn’t dream of saying no to her. As the best man’s ex-girl, you’d created a nightmare by saying yes.

Last night’s rehearsal dinner went exactly the way you knew it would. You did your best to mitigate the chaos that was your friend group, but you’d failed. You tried to stay sober, but you’d failed. You tried to keep your eyes off Min Yoongi and his goddamn gold chain, but —

Could it even be deemed a failure if there was never any hope of succeeding?

Jimin, half-cut and scheming, kept furnishing you with overfilled glasses of pinot noir. You’d protested, told him over and over and over that you couldn’t get through the ceremony with a hangover. Had he sustained your objection? No.

Had you actually meant it when you objected? Also no.

At the bottom of a bottle, you’d found a headache and the absolute audacity. You’d then walked right up to Min Yoongi and declared — unprompted — that you would not be hooking up with him at this wedding. He’d looked at you, unbothered, and said, “Bet.”

And he’d been right not to believe you.

You’d survived him escorting you down the aisle prior to the ceremony; and you’d withstood the way his smirk always seemed to find you over the shoulders of the two exchanging vows between you. Through the ride to the photoshoot location and the shoot itself, you stayed on task and away from him. Even during your respective speeches, you’d refused to let him get to you.

Your final task, however, seemed to be designed to kill you. It’d started with Jiyu’s mother handing you a giant, godforsaken box of rose petals; shoving you and Yoongi towards the exit; and instructing you both to decorate the honeymoon suite.

It’s tradition, she’d gushed. It’s torture, you’d thought.

It had ended up with you and your ex-boyfriend alone, semi-buzzed, in a room specifically intended for one purpose. You were doomed. You knew it — and judging by that look in his eye, so did Yoongi.

Cut to: Yoongi looking at you and flicking his tongue out to wet his smirking lips.

Cut to: Yoongi innocently touching your hip as he reached around you for a handful of petals to scatter.

Cut to: Yoongi’s pelvis brushing against your ass as he passed behind you towards the bed.

Cut to:

“I’m curious,” he hums, “Did you forget your declaration last night and your panties?”

His tongue flattens and drags up over your cunt, lapping up the orgasm he was so quick to pull from you. You can’t respond because you’re still rocketing through different planes of existence. Astral projecting, fucked into oblivion — yet again — by that fiend and his goddamn tongue.

Yoongi stands and your trembling continues — not solely because of the aftershocks you’re still experiencing, but because he’s undoing his belt with one hand and fishing a condom out of his pocket with the other.

It’s masterful because of course it is; he’s well-practiced.

“Or did you purposefully forego them both because you can’t forget me?”

He’s smirking as he rolls the condom down his length, amusement dripping — like you — with his words. You can’t even generate a response to his teasing. All you have to offer is a moan as he lines himself up and sheaths himself in you.

Yoongi rolls his hips, grinding into every stupid part of you, and your reply is merely to whimper. Like his pace, his teasing is relentless. He grits his teeth and punctuates his sentences with unimaginably deep thrusts, “Don’t pretend you don’t remember, doll — I hear how wet this pussy is — squeezing me like this because your body — refuses to let me go.”

The comforter you’d dutifully covered in rose petals is now clutched in your white-knuckled fists. Just like Yoongi, those petals press against your sweat-slicked skin. Would they stick to you afterwards, the way he always seemed to?

You shove your guilt into the back of your brain and resolve to feel like a bad person later. For now, all you’re capable of feeling is Yoongi rearranging your goddamn guts.

“I may need a reminder, though,” he laughs menacingly while his hand drops from the nipple he’d been pinching to your clit. A wolfish grin spreads across his face; you jolt the second his finger flicks over your clit, “Am I still the only one who can make you squirt?”

[eoieopda]

For the drabblepallooza :D

Hoseok:

hannah, this song 😩🥹 i hope i did it justice!

oh, you kissed me just to kiss me / not to make me cry / it was simple, you are sweetness / let’s just sit a while

It was a test - albeit an unfair one - but it was necessary. You were becoming comfortable and if your life had taught you even one (1) thing, it was this: the other shoe will always drop; and when it inevitably does, it’ll hit you square in your unsuspecting face.

Constant vigilance, or whatever. Sleep with one eye open. Hell, maybe two.

You weren’t sure what you’d done in a past life - what cursed mirror you shattered, or which witch you pissed off - but you didn’t get to be happy. Happy was for other people. Fate took your pretty, golden string and dragged it through the mud. You were polluted; you were sure of it.

But then Hoseok sprung up so unexpectedly like a daisy blooming through a crack in a city sidewalk. It was shocking, made you do a double take to prove you weren’t seeing things. Even worse, it made you hope. You were concrete, busted and so stubborn, and he was sweet. As much as you wanted to, you didn’t know how to trust that.

It had to be a ruse. Some long con - right?

Life lesson number two (2) was that no 2:00 AM text goes unpunished. You’d only ever been on the receiving end - in more ways than one - and it always ended up the same way: with you slumped on your couch with your best friend; you shoveling handfuls of dry cereal into your gaping maw; you ugly crying.

You couldn’t get a read on him, despite the month you’d been seeing each other. Was he the kind of person that would even be awake to receive your invitation? If he was, what would he make of it? And if he did show up on your doorstep, what then?

As usual, you got bored halfway into thinking it through. There was only one way to find out.

[02:03 AM]: Come over? 👉🏻👈🏻

Once you’d rigged the bomb that would blow you sky-high, all you could do was wait. You sat on your couch and faced the television you still hadn’t turned on, but your restless eyes kept darting down to the phone in your lap.

No matter how many times you tapped its screen to wake it, you couldn’t make a notification appear. All you accomplished with this course of action was repeated, glaring, minute-by-minute reminders that this whole thing was stupid.

At 2:39 AM, you accepted defeat. Hoseok was a hard-worker and an early-riser; it only made sense that he went to bed when respectable adults did. You should’ve been glad that you hadn’t ruined his good night’s sleep.

You were halfway back to your bedroom when a quiet knock stopped you dead in your tracks. Body still frozen, you tilted your head to stare incredulously at the door.

It worked? Fuck! Now what?

It took several seconds to convince your feet to move. When they finally did, the sound echoing through your apartment wasn’t that of bare soles on hardwood. Instead of muffled footsteps, you heard your brain repeating one word rhythmically, over and over, with each step: idiot, idiot, idiot.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you opened the door. Perhaps it was Hoseok, standing there like a fuck-boy with a condom wrapper clenched between his teeth. Maybe instead of a condom, it’d be a rewards card that he could redeem for a free coffee once your hole was punched. Or maybe he’d be naked, concealing his naughty bits with a sign that said I’m going to ruin your life!

Whatever horrible thing you could’ve imagined, it wasn’t what you got: Hoseok and his cold-bitten cheeks, wearing a big, flannel scarf and the sleepiest fucking smile you’d ever seen. He quirked an eyebrow at your shocked expression, but he didn’t ask after it.

He simply raised a white, styrofoam to-go box, and said, “Sorry it took so long. I stopped at that late-night pizza joint by my place. You wouldn’t believe that line.”

Dumbstruck, you accepted the box from him and stepped aside to allow him in. He kicked off his shoes, then tossed his coat and scarf onto the nearby coat rack. But then he kept moving, talking all the while, without noticing the sparks flying off your broken brain.

“Seriously, it wrapped around the entire block. As bad as it sounds, I’m kind of glad you weren’t with me this time,” he snickered as he dumped himself onto your couch. He threw you a wink you weren’t prepared to catch, “I don’t know if I could’ve stood there for twenty minutes while wearing you like a back-pack.”

Your face scrunched up. For the first time, actual words clambered out of your slack-jawed mouth, “Hey! I’m perfectly capable of waiting in a line!”

His brows furrowed above twinkling eyes. There was no point in arguing; you both knew you were full of shit. Right on cue, a montage started playing in your mind. It chronicled every single time you whined for a piggyback ride -

Spoiler alert: The total was somewhere between 12 and 20.

- because your legs were tired, or your shoes were giving you blisters, or because you were a dumb baby who needed to be held, or because maybe you were starting to lo- Nope, stop right there.

“Okay, fine, I’m not,” you conceded with a sigh as you joined him. Looking down at the pizza box - which was miraculously still warm despite his cold walk here - you bit down on your bottom lip.

He saw your shy silence and raised you a gentle nudge with his shoulder.

“You were sleeping,” you eventually whispered. Declaratory, not inquisitive because you woke him up, you menace.

Hoseok was so visibly confused by your uncharacteristic quietness, “Yes? And now I’m not.”

You were already melting into a puddle under that sunshine in his eyes, but he nevertheless persisted:

“You always get hungry this late. Was I supposed to let you starve?”

Your knees were wobbling even though your ass was firmly planted on that cushion, “That’s why you’re here?”

“I mean, I also missed you,” his bemused laughter carried you off like a breeze, “But keeping you fed is priority number one - for national security purposes, obviously. You get so cranky when you’re hungry.”

You were not going to cry, you adamantly refused, but your eyes got a little blurry when that giggle flew out of you. You kept giggling, too, until his cold hand cupped your cheek.

Then he kissed you and it was cotton candy, so sugary sweet in the way it melted in your mouth. You waited for him to pull you into his lap, to deepen the kiss, for that other shoe to collide with the top of your thick skull.

But he stopped.

He tucked you under his arm.

He smiled as he held a piece of pizza up to your buzzing lips, and he chuckled when you finally took the bite he offered.

[eoieopda]

JADE! Congrats on 1K!!! As a treat, can we have NFWMB (Hozier) smut with Jimin and either brat or dom!reader? PM sent for age verification <3

me, rubbing my hands together like a mischievous lil raccoon upon receiving this. you get me, anon. tbh i’m not going to track the word count, so this may very well be way longer than a drabble should be 😂 this is going to be in jimin’s pov due to the nature of the lyrics. also it’s in present tense, which i literally never do!

listen here.

cw: SMUT (18+ - minors dni or you’re grounded!) body worshipping, unprotected sex, domme!reader, sub!jimin, thigh riding, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, orgasm denial, mild degradation, cockwarming, masturbation (f,) jimin is p obsessed with you so you can decide for yourself whether it’s a toxic relationship dynamic or he’s just v deep in sub space & completely in love.

if i was born as a blackthorn tree / i’d wanna be held by you / felled by you / fuel the pyre of your enemies

When Jimin walks into the bedroom, you’re sitting at the small, velvet stool in front of your vanity. One elbow rests daintily on the ivory top. The fingers of that adjoining hand hold dark waves back at your ear. You don’t look up, or otherwise acknowledge his presence, but he can’t blame you.

He wouldn’t take his eyes of you, either.

The diamond earrings he bought for you swing ever-so-slightly with your subtle movements. Catching the light emanating from the mirror’s frame, they send a flurry of sparkling, soft white across the expanse of your neck. It twinkles up to the curve of your jaw, now even sharper with your chin angled just so towards your reflection.

Your eyes eventually flicker over to study him through the glass. He doesn’t need to see it to know it; he feels your gaze burning white hot on his skin. No, he was too preoccupied with your other hand - the one holding that tube of Russian Red, swiping it slowly and expertly over your plush lips.

Do you know? Do you have any idea of the power you hold? Not just over him, but anywhere - any time. One look from you could very well split the Earth into pieces; level the entire city. And if you ever did, he’d lay his body down over the cracks like a bridge to give you safe passage through the rubble.

There’s a small twitch at the corner of your perfect mouth that tells him yes, you absolutely know what effect you have on him. Any doubts he may have had drop dead at his feet when you your eyes trail downward from his face to the erection making itself known behind the grey fabric of his slacks.

“Is it really that easy?” Your laugh is pure ice, but it scorches all the same. He swallows hard - he has no response - and then you coo at him, “Poor baby. It must hurt to want me this badly, huh?”

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

It aches.

But nothing he could think of to say would matter much at all. All he wanted was whatever you did, even if that meant he wouldn’t spend a second inside of you.

He’d light himself on fire to keep you warm.

When you unexpectedly stand from your seat, your hair spills over your bare shoulder. The thin strap of your dress - the one you’ll ask him to tighten, he’s sure, when you’re done with him - follows suit off the edge.

You turn to face him and you may as well have turned him to stone. Waiting so patiently for direction, he’ll go wherever you want him to. Your side, outside, straight to hell.

“Then lay down, pretty baby,” you gesture to the nearby bed with a manicured finger. Your nails are sharp, matching the glint in your eye. “Rest that empty head on the pillows.”

He’s too eager.

Has he ever moved so quickly?

When your directive has been carried out to the letter, he blinks up at you. Not expectant, but confused.

Why are you still so far away?

“Aren’t you coming, love?” He asks shyly, truly afraid that you’ll say no. It sounds more like a whine than a question, but for you, he’s never been too proud to beg.

You’re sauntering over to him when you reply and the wickedness of your smirk stings, “I intend to.” Carefully, you hike up the hem of your dress and climb atop the mattress. You settle with one leg on either side of his slightly bent knee. “Jury’s still out on you, though.”

His entire body shudders when your palms press against his abdominal muscles, smoothing up the fabric of his white button-up only to slide back down again. As you paralyze him with your touch, you swirl your hips against his thigh.

Fuck.

You lean in and whisper with red lips hovering close to his ear, “There’s nothing between my cunt and your trousers.” You exhale intoxicating heat against his skin as you grind against him a second time. “I’m wet enough to ruin them, baby. Can you feel it?”

His whole body jolts when you do it again, this time with your teeth nicking his lobe. Your pointed acrylic nails rake down his neck as his head lulls back.

Fuck.

“I said -“ you press yourself down more forcefully onto his thigh. His muscle tenses involuntarily underneath you; the dampened fabric chills his impossibly warm skin. You continue pleasuring yourself as you repeat between heavy breaths, “Can you feel it?”

The stain your arousal is leaving on his thigh matches the spot of pre-cum seeping through the crotch of his slacks. A helpless whimper flees from his mouth as you fuck yourself faster against his taut quadricep. Your knee just barely brushes against his cock, but it’s touch enough to make him stammer, “Y-yes.”

Without thinking, he releases the duvet he’s clinging to and brings his hands to rest on your bare legs. At this, you raise your own hand and grip his flushed cheeks, pushing his lips into a pathetic pout and guiding him to sit upright. “Oh, my beautiful, brainless boy - do you want to touch me?”

Breathless and at a loss for words, all he can give is a frantic nod. To touch you is all he ever wants; to worship like a dog at your altar; to give you his best and all the rest of him, too. You could have his still-beating heart if you gave him a moment to pry it from his chest. You had his soul wrapped around your finger already.

“You want to taste me,” you moan with your whole, heaving chest as your feverish pace slows. It isn’t a question because you already know the answer. You then stop your movements entirely and the sudden stillness is jarring - until your hands push hard against his chest. As his head hits the pillows, you smirk at his startled gasp, “Then don’t waste a drop.”

You grip the bottom of your dress with one hand and shimmy it up to be held at your waist. Simultaneously, you use your other hand to steady yourself.

You ascend over him easily until your knees rest at either side of his head. Even without your core pressed at his mouth - or your thighs squeezing tight against his head - he struggles to catch his breath.

He wasn’t asked for his thoughts, but they spill out anyway. He couldn’t keep them to himself, not when the glistening slick above him made his mouth water. It was a whisper - no, a prayer: “You’re perfect, every part of you. Please, baby, let me taste you.”

When you graciously oblige and begin to lower yourself onto him, he sucks in a breath. He doesn’t care if he suffocates, but he refuses to disappoint you.

His tongue finds your clit easily, and he greets it with little kitten licks while his hands slide up your naked thighs to grip your hips. Gently, he pulls you even closer; any distance - even microscopic - is too much to bear.

He feels you shiver, hears your faint mewl when his lips encircle that swollen bud of nerves. You gasp at the pressure of his suckling mouth; and you grind against the tip of his tongue as it flicks slowly over his target.

Thighs clenching against his head, you jolt when he releases your clit with an obscene, wet pop. And when the flat of his insatiable tongue laps up your arousal, you hiss through gritted teeth, “I knew there had to be a purpose for that fucking mouth. Not completely useless, huh? Are you my little fuck toy, baby?”

His eager reply darts from between his lips, through yours, and penetrates your hole. You gasp at the intrusion and sink further down onto him whether or not you mean to. He doesn’t mind; you could crush him and his last breath would be spent thanking you for it.

Every time the tip of his tongue enters you, it flips a switch. If he keeps going, he knows, your climax will rip through you like a power surge. Crackling, electrifying, and paralyzing.

Your shuddered moans increase in frequency while the pace of your writhing intensifies. He wants you to unravel into his open mouth. His dutiful ministrations, interrupted only by brief gasps for air, tell you as much.

The cry that rings out when you orgasm hits him like a thunder clap. It rumbles through his bones and unsettles every already-dizzy part of him further. He doesn’t let up until you decide that you can’t take his continued assault anymore.

Pulling yourself off him, you press up on your knees only to sit back against his chest. His gaze can’t decide between your sodden cunt as it drips onto his shirt, or your flushed face. In the end, it’s the painted lips that win.

If he had to kill a man just to kiss you, someone wiser would have to talk him out of doing so.

You reach backwards once you catch your breath and then you catch his swollen dick in your hand. You squeeze suddenly, firmly - but not cruelly - and he bucks against your touch.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Do you deserve a reward?” Your tone is innocent but the tilt of your head and your patronizing doe eyes paint a different picture. He doesn’t know how to traverse this minefield without losing a limb, so he says nothing.

You squeeze him tighter and he can’t keep from groaning, thrusting his head back against the pillow, screwing his eyes shut.

You perfect, torturous thing. How did you end up in this bed with him, so far from heaven? Did you fall like Lucifer, you beautiful devil?

His eyes fly open when your presence on his chest disappears. When they re-focus, you’re shifting backwards down the length of his torso, stopping to loom over his pelvis. His cock twitches, so acutely aware of its proximity to you.

You say nothing as you undo his belt. You stay silent when you slide it through the loops of his slacks and cast it aside. When you address his button and zipper, all he hears is his pulse hammering in his ears.

The warmth of your fingertips only graces him briefly - in the moment before you sink down onto his length without hesitation. He moans loudly when you bottom out in an instant, velvet walls gripping tight.

The only move you make is to slip your hand between your spread legs. Your middle finger swirls over your clit, but you’re otherwise still with his cock buried deep in your wet heat.

He’s throbbing inside you despite it all; he aches so badly for friction you won’t share. It’s just you, the pad of your fingertip, and the gaze you have handcuffed to his.

Your eyes struggle to remain open as your nimble finger inches you closer to your next orgasm. All he can do is watch as your lids flutter shut. Withstand the way your cunt squeezes him tighter and tighter.

Feeling you come around him would’ve been enough for him to follow you off that ledge, but mere moments before he could catch up, you quickly slide off of him.

Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts to love you enough to let you slip away like this.

His parted mouth fails to keep his whimpering breaths a secret. Your hand - still wet with your own juices - returns to his face. There you capture his jaw in the space between your thumb and index finger.

When you lean in with puckered lips, he thinks you might finally kiss him. Please, for the love of god, just kiss him. And you do, but not where he craves it.

You slink away, leaving devastation on his face and a bright red stain on his crisp, white collar. With satisfaction twinkling in your eyes, you hum, “There. Ain’t you my baby?”

He is, he is, he is, he is.

[eoieopda]

I loved the dad joon and dad yoongs drabble 🥹 it's freaking cuteeee omg jade 😭😭 *whisper* can you do dad-to-be or dad seokjin too please...? I'm on a seokjin missing hour 🥹 thank you ❤️❤️

of COURSE! i’m combining this with a request @cinnamin-ji made for my 1k drabblepalooza which, of all things, was SUPER TUNA 😩😂

listen here

c: marriage!au, dad!jin, fishing? lol, not proofread because i’m tired but i’ll come back later to fix what i imagine are numerous, glaring errors!

Kim Seokjin wasn’t known for his quietness. In the years you’d been together, you’d only identified two circumstances in which he was silent. Still.

Come to think of it, perhaps sleeping didn’t truly belong on that list. After all, Seokjin had a habit of talking to you even while he slept. More alarmingly, he proved that sleeping and making himself laugh weren’t mutually exclusive. On more than one occasion, his unexpected giggling broke free from his dreams and ripped you out of yours.

With sleeping crossed off, the only circumstance left on that list was fishing. He went often and, thanks to you, he never went alone.

Initially, it confused you whenever he asked you to tag along. It was well-known that you didn’t have the stomach for catching - or releasing - living, flopping, terrified fish. So, you figured, he wants someone to talk to. Unfortunately, you learned the hard way that your constant chatter scared off all the nearby wildlife.

After spending countless, sleepy mornings by the water, it finally dawned on you: conversation was never the point. Seokjin simply wanted to do his favorite thing, in his favorite place, with his favorite person at his side. Even if you were half-asleep, or reading, or knitting to pass the time, you were along for the ride. That was all that mattered.

Well, not all.

Someone had to be there to praise him whenever he successfully caught something. Clapping for himself was too difficult to do while reeling in his prize; and it didn’t hold a candle to your proud grin. Lucky for him, he’d married his biggest fan.

Well, you used to be his biggest fan. Now, there was stiff competition coming for your title. A brand-new contender, a dark horse vying for the role of Seokjin’s favorite person. You were, of course, amenable to a tie. Negotiations were stalled, but would resume once your sole competitor could speak in sentences.

This morning’s trip was a special one. For the first time, it wasn’t just the two of you on that dock, basking in that lakeside sunshine. Importantly - though he was too shy to say so - Seokjin was eager to share his beloved pastime with someone who might actually, meaningfully participate in it. Unfortunately, that dream was a few years away from becoming a reality.

After all, his new fishing partner had only just mastered the art of sitting up on her own.

As you sat in your foldable camp chair, you tried and failed to think of anything better than your current view. No sight could ever compete with that of your husband trying his very best to cast a line, all with a seven-month-old baby strapped to his chest. Two perfect halves making up the whole of your heart.

Every time he drew back, Jinseo’s relentless wiggling prompted Seokjin to lose his focus, his balance, and his - self-proclaimed - perfect aim. When he did manage to follow through on his dutifully-practiced cast, his baited hook would end up in the shallows with the weeds. So, he simply kept trying.

After his seventh unsuccessful attempt, he turned around to face you. You expected him to whine out all his frustration, but he quickly proved you wrong. Instead, he was laughing so hard that his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched. If you looked closely, you might’ve spotted a stray, mirthful tear making a break for it.

Jinseo, that chubby-cheeked menace, was unbothered by her role in her father’s downfall. She babbled and kicked her little legs as if her life depended on it, none the wiser. And when she giggled, she did so with her entire face.

Just like her father.

Through your own laughter, you gestured to the marshmallow baby squawking happily under the brim of her floral sun hat. “Do you want me to take her off your hands for now?” You called out, but quickly amended, “Er - off your chest?”

“We’re okay!” He chirped with a wave. Unbeknownst to him, his most-loved accessory echoed his movement - albeit with a tiny, far chunkier hand.

Copy, paste.

With the fondest look you’d ever seen in his eyes, he beamed down at his fishing partner and tickled her sides. As he did, he cooed, “Isn’t that right, Jinnie?”

Her reply came in the form of giddy squeals and spit bubbles, but it sure sounded like a resounding yes to you. Having drawn the same conclusion, Seokjin shot you a wink and a smirk to match.

“See? I’m finally not the only Kim who likes to fish!”

a/n: did give my own name to the aforementioned marshmallow baby? yes. yes, i did. do i regret it? absolutely not! lil beeb ain’t the only jinseo droolin’ over kim seokjin 😂

[eoieopda]

hello! i have a song for the game. Thank you for doing this!

I really like Anywhere by Rita Ora and Namjoon.

thank youu x

oh this was such a cute song! 10/10

listen here

ft. boyf!joon, a whole-ass adventure across Europe in the span of 30 days, reader getting zooted after consuming the tiniest bit of an edible.

just take me anywhere / take me anywhere / anywhere away with you

Until now, every bit of your month-long trip across the European continent had gone according to plan.

Well, plan was generous.

Apart from identifying locations in each of your favorite books; purchasing all necessary travel tickets; and making hotel reservations, there had been no real plan. It was simply you and the best boy, taking in whatever sights you could. Good wine, even better cheese, and perfect company.

You’d left Korea on the first of November, landing in London and staying for two days. The turn-around was almost as quick as the Eurostar, projecting you onward over the rails to Paris. Most of those four days were spent nudging Namjoon along through the Louvre, wondering if he’d ever willingly leave. Begrudgingly, after several hours, he did — no assistance from security was necessary.

The first of your horrifying, turbulent, rickety, budget flights — in a tin can with wings — had delivered you to Barcelona. The second carried you to Milan, with your death grip on Namjoon’s hand lasting for the duration of your time in the air. After train rides from Milan to Rome, then Rome to Venice, a bus had carried you off to Salzburg.

When you’d found yourself in those living, Sound of Music hills, you didn’t even have to ask. Namjoon — without question or comment — joined you in spinning like a fool until you both dropped dizzy in the grass. Maybe it was the altitude, but you could’ve sworn the “I love you” he‘d murmured in that moment hit a little harder than usual.

A train to Vienna, a bus to Budapest, then — gulp — another panicked flight; this time to Kraków. Two days there, then — with a whine and several glasses of its homophone, downed quickly at the airport bar — a fourth flight to Prague. Shortly after, you’d boarded a train to Berlin.

By your fifth low-cost, high-anxiety flight, Namjoon had discovered an antidote. If you were at least as high as the plane itself, the creaking of that tiny, shaky hunk of metal was significantly less upsetting. It was fitting, after all, landing in Amsterdam while still floating off one (1) quarter of an edible.

God, what a light-weight.

Your incessant giggling had been overpowered by Namjoon’s, though he was stone-cold sober — just thoroughly amused. There, the two of you realized you’d made a mistake: the phallogical museum you were fascinated by was in Iceland, not the Netherlands.

On the subsequent train ride to Bruges, you’d vowed to hit the world-renowned dick museum on your next trip. Your current trip was now at its end, leaving you to scurry off to Brussels for a commercial flight back to Incheon.

Unfortunately, inclement weather had grabbed Belgium in a chokehold.

With your backs pressed against the wall, you and Namjoon sat weary on the floor near your gate. Your respective legs were sprawled out in front of you. Head resting on your shoulder, Namjoon spent a large portion of your wait in the liminal space between the dream and waking worlds.

If there had been any local hotels available for the night, he might’ve actually gotten some proper rest — in a bed, but likely still using you as a pillow. Instead, you were stuck where you sat: huddled together in the same terminal you’d been in for many, many hours.

Languidly, you traced mindless patterns into the denim fabric holding onto his quads for dear life. You sighed through a frown as you glanced down at him, “I’m sorry we can’t seem to get home, love.”

Too tired to move, Namjoon merely mumbled from where he’d nestled into your side, “Home is anywhere with you.”

[eoieopda]

First off, congrats on 1k 👏👏👏👏 you are so incredible at writing and when I followed I assumed I was late finding you but it appears to be I came in early(?) on time, any who…

More than you know - Axewell /\ Ingrosso

With Jungkook 🙃

Thank you if you do this ❤️ keep up the great writing 🥰😎

tysm sweet bb! i’m so glad you found me, whenever and however you did 🫶🏻 also, this is such a banger omfg. i had to physically get up and jump around my bedroom, lol.

listen here

ft. truly the most chaotic and adorable jungkook i’ve written to date, i think. this is also the first 1k drabblepalooza piece to literally include the inspo. song, which feels kind of fitting since it’s the last one!

you had your reasons, you had a few / but you knew that I would go anywhere for you / ‘cause it ain't over, until she sings

A slump.

There was no other way to put it. You were simultaneously too wired to sleep, and too tired to do much of anything else. Above all, you were bored. No matter how many times you checked your phone, the time on the home screen never seemed to change. The seconds slid by like syrup, sticking to everything as they passed.

Ugh.

Jungkook should have been home from work hours ago. When he wasn’t, he swore up and down that he was nearly finished with whatever it was that held him up. As soon as he did finish, he’d said, he’d be right there to keep you company and keep you occupied. Unfortunately for you, that last text was sent more than two hours ago.

You’d watched so many episodes of Sailor Moon in the meantime that you felt your brain turning to doenjang.

Listless, you flopped back onto your mattress with your arms outstretched on either side. As you did, your phone slipped out of your hand, over the edge of the bed, and onto the floor. You stared after it but didn’t bother to grab it. It wasn’t doing you any good, anyway.

Stretched out over the mattress, it dawned on you how rarely you got the opportunity to take up this much space. Now, you could truly bask in it: the newfound ability to spread out without arms around your waist, or a head resting on your chest, or a leg flung over your side to keep you close while you slept. It also dawned on you that you actually kind of hated feeling this untangled.

Between you and Jungkook, you certainly weren’t the clingy one. As he’d once lovingly phrased it, you were a cactus. You didn’t need constant attention or physical contact to thrive — just some, now and then, in moderation. Low maintenance. Jungkook, on the other hand, said he needed enough to drown in. Until now, this assessment seemed spot-on.

Of course, you’d never dream of telling him that his neediness had — shockingly — rubbed off on you. If Jungkook knew that his affection was missed this badly, you’d have to have him surgically removed.

Eventually, your eyes began burning from the way you’d zoned out, staring at the ceiling. You closed them and, like a child, you made a wish: When they open again, Jungkook will be standing in the doorway. So, you kept them closed to increase the likelihood of your wish coming true.

And you waited, waited, waited…

You might’ve stayed asleep if there wasn’t a car honking emphatically outside your window. There was intermittent shouting, too, and — music?

Sitting up, you tried to rub the sleep from your eyes. As it turned out, it was confusion — not exhaustion — that kept them narrowed. With a groan, you dragged yourself to your feet. Then, you stumbled through the dark towards your balcony door. As you slid open the glass pane and stepped out in the cold, you braced yourself.

Oh god.

Standing on the sidewalk with a boombox at his feet was one Jeon Jungkook. You didn’t recognize the song that was absolutely blaring from the speakers, but his chaotic charm was nothing new. Truthfully, you couldn’t tell which of those two things had drawn more of the onlookers’ attention.

“I just need to get it off my chest,” he belted — in English — with his eyes shut tightly and his raised fist shaking in the air. It was the most absurd display of exaggerated emotion you’d ever seen out of him; and that was saying something. Judging by his smirk, he found himself immensely entertaining, too.

“Yeah, more than you know!”

You snorted, but immediately slapped a hand over your mouth. As hard as it was, you tried to keep your laughter off the list of noise complaints you’d surely receive. Across the street, an old man shoved his head out the window just to bark, “Babo, hajima!”

“Yeah, more than you know.”

Jungkook’s eyes flew open, focusing hard on you. His fist opened, too. With one finger extended, he let his arm drop slowly until he was pointing right at you. As if you weren’t blushing badly enough, he wiggled his hips in time with the music, “You should know that, baby, you’re the best.”

Torn between swooning and dying of embarrassment, you expected to drop at any moment. There was a young couple sitting at a bus stop a few meters behind Jungkook that showered him with praise, though. Ever the crowd-pleaser, Jungkook pointed finger guns at both men and shot them a wink, too.

“Jungkookah!” You whined loudly enough for him to hear but — hopefully — quietly enough to avoid further upset. You could no longer restrain the full, belly laugh that made your shoulders shake.

“Sorry I’m late!” He shouted back, entirely unbothered by the passersby who heckled him. “Also I’m sorry for forgetting my keys!”

Your eyebrows shot up into your hairline. In your confusion, you forgot your manners; you yelled down through wheezing laughter, “You what? Is that what all this was for?”

Jungkook was beaming more brightly than you’d ever seen when he shrugged, “Well, you didn’t answer when I texted or called. What else was I supposed to do?”

Before you could even think to ask after the stereo he’d somehow acquired, you ran to the door and headed for the stairwell. Hopefully, you could whisk your boyfriend away before someone called the police to do the same.

[eoieopda]

hello my dear jade, heard you were summoning the hyung line girlies 🫡 how about 'feel the same' by the millennial club for one mr. kim seokjin?? (and congrats on 1k!!! ✨)

i have ABSOLUTELY listened to this song (and this artist tbh) on loop since you brought them to my attention 💕 also, jin is a doctor for no reason other than “because of course he is.”

listen here

maybe this is heaven, or maybe it’s just you / i don’t trust my judgment ‘cause i’m just 22 / my mind is running circles, my heart’s out in the rain / i know that this is sudden, but do you feel the same?

ft. fluff, seokjin m.d.’s pov, getting together au, and the most rom-com shit my brain worms have likely ever produced

Kim Seokjin was, by all verifiable accounts, an adult.

He could drive, drink, and be reaped by the draft. He had an investment portfolio and a license to practice medicine, for fuck’s sake. So, why did he — an adult man — swoon like a school kid whenever you called?

It was the same every night: Your name and contact photo would pop up on his screen with a chime. No matter what he was doing, he would drop it. Then, he would drop himself onto whatever flat surface he was nearest to. Whether that was his bed, his couch, or his floor, it wouldn’t matter.

Seokjin needed to be horizontal, but he couldn’t explain why. Maybe a cozy position was necessary in order to properly appreciate the warmth of your voice. Maybe his knees — fully-grown and alarming achy, if he was being honest?— got a little too wobbly whenever you laughed at his jokes.

Whatever the cause, he had to brace himself for the effect: when you eventually — tragically — hung up, he had to stare up at the ceiling until his racing heart got a fucking grip.

In his profession, this kind of cardiac event was called tachycardia. Although this occasionally required immediate medical attention, it often resolved on its own. Unfortunately for Seokjin, the fluttering in his chest couldn’t be shocked away with a defibrillator. The prognosis for this mystery condition was bleak.

Your phone call that night produced familiar symptoms, though the presentation felt different. Novel. This time, the two of you talked for hours longer than usual. Chronic, not acute. About nothing, about everything. No obligatory small talk, just any and every thought that came to mind. Generalized.

Most confusingly, when a sudden call from your sister required you to hang up, you sounded as disappointed as Seokjin felt. Communicable? He was starting to get hopeful and that felt dangerous. After all, they called it a crush for a reason. If he was truly out on this limb alone, he’d crumple. Terminal.

Did you feel the same?

Seokjin couldn’t get that question of his mind. He’d spent every minute since you’d hung up pacing in his living room; so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the crop circles he’d worn into the rug. If he didn’t ask you tonight, he wouldn’t know a moment’s peace.

So, he decided, he’d ask.

This could’ve been a simple call back, but Seokjin was nothing if not dramatic. You were you and you deserved a grand gesture. Something memorable, something cinematic. Something he’d figure out on the way, because he was already tugging on his coat and walking out the front door.

Your apartment wasn’t far from Seokjin’s. In fact, his adult knees had successfully gotten the walk down to a cool nine minutes: ten blocks to the North, then one to the West. As he sped down the sidewalk, the restaurant across the street caught his eye. Like he was greeting an old friend in passing, he smiled fondly over at it.

Though it was an eyesore, the hole-in-the-wall ahead served the best fried chicken in Seoul. The two of you often swung by after late nights on-call, swapping french fries and war stories from your night in the emergency room. Part of him felt inclined to stop over there, to incorporate your ritual into his gesture, but he was riddled with doubt:

Did fried chicken adequately communicate I’ve loved you since you sat down next to me in that introductory anatomy lecture six years ago?

You were a reasonable person, unlike him. He couldn’t reasonably expect you — or anyone — to open a take-away container and decode the secret messages written in grease. The risk was even greater than the reward.

Instead, he opted for a clearer metaphor: a single red rose from the florist’s nearby stall. This, he hoped, proclaimed you’re beautiful, even with someone else’s vomit on your scrubs. Or, at the very least, I wouldn’t want to remove foreign objects from a stranger’s rectum with anyone else.

With his heart on his sleeve and his metaphor in hand, Seokjin continued on his mission. He made record time, even with the detour, and walked through the front door of your building a mere eight (8) minutes after exiting his. He made a mental note to brag about this achievement after you each exchanged declarations of requited love.

Too eager to wait on the elevator, Seokjin said “fuck it,” and chose to take the stairs. The first two flights were a cakewalk; the third was pushing it. With four flights down and one to go, he wished he had the schoolboy endurance to match his schoolboy crush.

But he didn’t, so he was both embarrassed and out-of-breath when he finally reached your door.

He didn’t hear any movement after knocking the first time, so he waited and tried again. There was no telltale shuffling of tired feet in fuzzy slippers. Accordingly, Seokjin did what any grown man would do:

He knelt on your doormat, leaned in towards the crack underneath your door, and squinted as he searched for signs of life. Nothing. He groaned with his whole chest as he clambered from the floor to his feet.

Alone on your doorstep, Seokjin was a deflated balloon. If you were home — and you were simply ignoring him — you likely heard his poor heart whizzing and whining down the hallway before dropping unceremoniously at his feet. He glanced down at the flower in his hand and prayed that you hadn’t.

As he turned towards the elevator, Seokjin stole a glance at his watch. With a rueful laugh, he realized that he’d set a second personal record that evening: getting his own hopes up and letting himself down in only thirty minutes. For a hopeless romantic with disappointment in near-permanent deferment, this feat was impressive.

Not one he’d brag to you about, though.

It was dark by the time Seokjin made it back to his own building and he was grateful for that fact. With the sun down, he could convince himself that it wasn’t too early to go to bed — to put this day in the discard pile and draw again tomorrow. And when he went to work in the morning, he’d see you and think of a better way to determine whether this something was mutual.

Turning out of the elevator and into his hallway, Seokjin realized that he wouldn’t have to wait until his sunrise shift to find out. There you were, sitting cross-legged on his doorstep, ten meters away.

“Jinnie!” You called out to him as soon as you saw him at the other end of the hall. The tone of your voice didn’t match the starlight in your eyes when you whined, “I’ve been waiting for half an hour.”

Wearing the cutest grin anyone’s ever directed at him, you lifted a take-away container from your lap, held it in the air, and giggled.

What you said was: I brought you chicken, but it’s probably cold by now.

But Seokjin heard what you meant: I love you, too.

[eoieopda]

hello, ms jade!

i’d like to request a hobi x reader for the drabblepallooza, to the song “only for a moment” by lola marsh.

congrats on 1k!

- 🔭

this is a certified gd bop™️ and it gave me several different ideas that i really struggled to choose from?? i ended up assigning them numbers and then literally drawing one from a random generator lmao. anyways, here’s this!! 🤪

listen here

ft. fuck buddy hobi who accidentally stays the night. it’s implied that he and reader knocked boots the night before. brief reference to nudity, but def nothing explicit.

you stayed only for a moment / i said, "stay with me a while" / you faded like a pretty snowflake / that I was holding in my hand

When you wake up, it’s not due to the sunlight blaring through your never-shut blinds. There’s no insistent beeping of an alarm, no great clatter from the neighbor’s apartment echoing through your apartment’s crêpe paper walls. It’s warmth, surprising but perfect.

Your eyes open slowly. As they adjust to the light — seriously, you need to remember to shut your blinds at night — they settle on Hoseok’s face. Still asleep, his bottom lip flutters just slightly as he exhales through a barely-open mouth. He’s never stayed before. He came over often — weekly, for months — after dark; he was never still around when the sun came up.

This feels special. A little treat, entirely unexpected and exclusively for you.

Really, you could stare at him like this all day and never allow yourself to blink. You could map the heights of his cheekbones, the sharp L-shaped angle of his jaw, and the adorably upturned tip of his nose. Hoseok is beautiful, even while he mumbles through his dreams.

Maybe he feels the way you’re studying him. As if you’d flipped some secret switch, his eyes crack open.

Based on the shocked arches of his brows, Hoseok doesn’t recognize his surroundings. He doesn’t sit up to join you or say a word, so you both simply exist there in silence. The quiet seems to get louder as you watch his eyes scan over every surface of your room. Though he’s been here many times before, you can’t say that he’s ever truly seen it.

There’s a tiny twitch at the left corner of his mouth that prompts you to look at whatever he is: a framed photo of you and your older brother at your high school graduation. There you were, a decade ago, with your short, choppy layers jutting out like porcupine quills. You should’ve been held liable for the abuse your hair suffered at the hands of your flat iron. Those split ends are visible to you now, even from where you’re sitting. You can almost hear the way they sizzled.

Just like Hoseok, you continue to quietly assess that embarrassing old photo. Unlike Hoseok, you steal glances out of the corner of your eye to gauge the reaction. He’s smirking at the sight of you back then, thoroughly amused by the unfortunate fashion you flaunted. For you, it’s like watching a car crash: painful but compelling. You find it extremely difficult to look away.

Maybe you could forgive the unfilled eyebrows, barely registering on your uninhibited forehead. That said, you’d never get over the bright purple eyeshadow smeared — not blended — over your eyelids. There isn’t a darker color in sight to even hint at a crease? That poor, misguided baby.

You cringe a bit and glance over at Hoseok, who still hasn’t looked your way. “You stayed,” You state the obvious and try to stash the giddiness away, out of sight.

“It looks that way,” Hoseok’s voice is heavy with the sleepiness still lingering. Slightly scratchy, too. So, this is what he sounds like in the morning. He reels in the arm that had been extended under your pillow. Had he cuddled you at some point in the night? Then, when he’s free to do so, he scrubs his hands over his face to wake himself up more fully.

For the first time, his eyes flicker over to you and oh my god, you want to be the first thing he sees every morning.

“Can we make breakfast?” Hoseok asks quietly with a hand on his bare stomach. Oh. You beg your pupils not to dilate when you remember the state of him. “I’m starving.”

When your heart somersaults in your chest, it takes a considerable amount of willpower to keep from doing the same yourself. Instead, you slip out of bed like a normal human being, grinning and nodding a little too eagerly. Quick as a flash, you re-introduce your baggy sweatshirt and sleep shorts to your body.

As you head off for the kitchen, you steal a quick peek over your shoulder at Hoseok, who still hasn’t gotten to his feet. He’s upright now and facing away from you. The well-defined muscles of his back nearly have you stumbling.

Beautiful, even more so in daylight. Could you keep him — like this?

You make a beeline for your cabinets to figure out what you have at your disposal — not much — and then you turn to the refrigerator. Bent in half with your face in the cold, you holler, “Kimchi eggs or dakjuk?”

Hoseok had made no noise whatsoever as he entered your kitchen, so the suddenness of his voice right behind you makes you jump. Your head collides with the underside of the freezer door. With a yelp, you wheel around with your hand gingerly rubbing the forming lump.

Instantly, you note the way he grimaces. Gently, he reaches out and places his hand on on top of yours. “You okay?” His hand is gone again before he continues speaking, “I’m so sorry. I thought you heard me come in.”

You blink. Did he say something? You were still buffering through the feeling of this rare, non-sexual contact. He’d touched you a thousand times in places much more intimate, but this is what makes your stupid heart skip a beat?

“Kimchi eggs or dakjuk?” You repeat, barely above a whisper this time around.

Hoseok smiles at you. Then, he steps closer. You wait, wait, wait, for him to kiss you; he simply glances over your shoulder into your refrigerator. He chuckles when he comes to the same conclusion you had: you need to go to the store. Your heart drops a little lower in your chest.

“Kimchi eggs,” He hums, then he provides an explanation you wish he hadn’t, “I have to head out soon.”

You force a smile, then you nod, then you turn around to grab the carton of eggs and container of kimchi from their respective shelves. Hoseok moved again when you weren’t looking — the reflexes on that man are simply absurd — and he now digs through one of your cabinets for a pan. There’s no reason for him to know where you keep them, so he’s either psychic or a phenomenal guesser.

He looks pleased with himself when he turns back around with a frying pan in hand; the triumphant smirk on his face makes you giggle. When you reach out to take it, though, Hoseok wags his finger at you, “If I’m eating the very last thing in your refrigerator, the least I can do is prepare it for you.”

“Are you sure?” You trap your bottom lip between your teeth to keep from admitting that no man has ever offered to cook for you before. If you tell him that, who knows what else you’ll let slip?

Hoseok answers by shooing you away and clicking on the bottom-right stove burner. To your surprise, he hums while he cooks — occasionally getting so caught up in the song that he sings. You watch adoringly with your chin in your hand as he finishes, plates his masterpiece, and sets yours down in front of you on the kitchen island.

He looks so natural as he plops down on the stool next to you, but Hoseok has never joined you in your kitchen before. You want to linger at his side all day, but you know that’s not how this arrangement works. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t ache a little, though.

Clearly, you’re both famished because your meals and breezy conversation are both finished too quickly.

To your dismay, Hoseok glances down at his watch. He sucks a breath in through his teeth before he looks up to meet your eyes. “Shit,” he says sheepishly, “I’m so sorry to leave you with the dishes, but I’m apparently going to be late for —“

“It’s fine!” You chirp with a smile you’re sure doesn’t reach your eyes. It’s not, but who are you to say so? “Thank you for cooking.”

He flattens his palms against the countertop and pushes himself to him feet. Casually and gently, Hoseok bumps his fist against your shoulder with a sideways smile.

The only thing he says before leaving is, “Go to No Brand or something later, okay? Your refrigerator makes me sad.”

[eoieopda]

I’m back again actually with one more request 😔😔

Jungkook:

^^^ this is actually the artist whose name I snatched for most of my online personas lolol

The entire album is banger, but this song is what introduced me to him. ^^

🤍🤍🤍

um, i made myself sad? anyways, here’s this! it doesn’t exaaaaactly follow the lyrics, but it’s what my brain conjured when i listened to this. i hope it’s okay 😵‍💫

listen here.

hey, old friend / hope to see you again / someday when the seasons change / i don’t mind a little wait / as long as i can pretend that i’m okay

It’s been exactly a year since you left home.

With 365 days between you and Busan, you’re still waiting for that bittersweet taste to leave your tongue. There’s a small, sad part of you that wants to dive headfirst into that pit of nostalgia in your chest; to swim down, all the way home to that city by the sea. The rest of you accepts reality: when your life calls you elsewhere, you have to pick up the phone.

Unlike a year ago, when you walk into your apartment this time, you’re not struggling to balance more boxes than you should’ve reasonably expected to carry at once. It’s not dark, it’s not empty, and there’s no longer a bare floor creaking under your unanticipated weight. Now, it’s home, filled with all your best-loved belongings.

Well, most of them. Somehow, there’s still an odd box or two tucked away, yet-unpacked.

On the walls hang framed prints of your very first designs: the awkward silhouettes you dreamed up as a kid, and the disproportionate people you’d drawn wearing them. The sketches flow across the wall in chronological order, reminding you how much your skills have improved over the years. At the end of the line, there’s proof in the form of a poster.

Your past self would never believe it, but your persistent inability to draw hands did not preclude you from showcasing your work at Seoul Fashion Week.

With your heels now off your feet and in your hands, you pad down the hall to your bedroom. The second you cross through the doorway, you make a beeline for your closet, flicking on the light switch next to the door before addressing that, too. Shoes returned to their meticulously organized, color-coded rack, you move on to a more daunting task: unzipping yourself from the dress you struggled immensely to zip in the first place.

It takes multiple minutes of twisting, turning, and contorting, but you finally manage to reach the zipper hiding between your shoulder blades. When you finally wiggle free of it, the dress falls into a puddle at your feet. Quickly, you bend to grab it. You promptly hang it in the “to be dry-cleaned” section of your closet, to be swiftly replaced with pajamas.

As you turn to walk back into your bedroom, a cardboard box catches your eye. It sits on the top shelf next to out-of-season outfits in vacuum-sealed bags. Visibly out of place among your artfully curated clothes, it’s a bit worse-for-wear — especially after the four-hour drive from its first home.

It takes less time to stack two hard-top suitcases on top of one another, climb on top of your haphazard pile, and pull the box down than it did to win the fight against your zipper. You waste no time in shooting a glare over your shoulder at the antagonist hanging remorselessly behind you.

Impatient as always, you drop to the floor and sit cross-legged with the box in front of you. Unlike every other box you’d moved with to Seoul, this one isn’t labeled in your chicken-scratch hangul. A little mystery, you open it cautiously as if its contents might bite.

Inside are the little trinkets you’d forgotten you’d kept: theatre ticket stubs, loose bits of confetti you’d saved from various concerts, photo booth picture strips with people you hadn’t seen or spoken much to since you left. Your heart twinges as you take in their faces. All of you had grown up and apart since you sat there, squished together and smiling.

There’s one artifact in particular that makes your heart flip. Sitting at the very bottom of the pile is the cell phone you thought you’d lost — one you apparently packed, but assumed was gone forever. As soon as you got to Seoul, you’d replaced it, but none of your data survived the switch over.

In a flash, you scramble to your feet and scurry out of your closet into your bedroom. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you vault yourself onto your bed and you don’t stop crawling until you get to the nightstand on the other side. Within seconds, you slot your new charger into your old phone. You wait with bated breath for signs of life.

It takes an eternity to finally turn back on, but once it does, your old phone screams at you for the multiple software updates you’d missed over the last year. You ignore those notifications, but there’s one you can’t.

A missed call and a voicemail received at some point during your drive north.

There’s no way to describe the feeling in your chest. Halfway between a thunderclap and an electric shock, it forces out a gasp, nonetheless.

Jeon Jungkook.

You’d gotten into a fight the month before you left, and just like that, years of friendship went up in smoke. He was angry at you for leaving him when he needed you; you’d cried because he didn’t seem to care what you wanted. It was messy and it broke your heart in two.

You never told him precisely why his lack of support stung so fucking bad.

By the time you piled your life into the trunk of your car, neither one of you had apologized for the cruel shit you’d said. His contact information was gone in a few hours’ time, and you never heard from him again.

Or so you thought.

Hey, it’s me. I — uhhh — I know you’re on your way out of town, and that I’m way too fucking late with this, but I can’t let you go like this. I can’t let you go, period. Not — not the way that sounds. I’m not trying to prohibit you from going anywhere. I mean that I — Fuck, I should’ve written out a script or something…. This isn’t going well, is it? Anyways, I miss you. I’ve been missing you this whole fucking month. And I really am happy for you — proud of you. Most of all, I’m sorry for being so fucking selfish. I just — call me when you get there, okay? Call me, and then I’ll know we’re okay. That we can be okay. I, uh… I love you. Drive safe.

[eoieopda]

Jade unnie, don’t kill me, but can you do “What Sarah Said” by Death Cab for Cutie with darksided!Yoongi? (I know, I know, I’m a monster but I feel like you can make something so haunting and beautiful with this!)

oh my gooooooood. how could you? ☠️ i love this song but FUCK. okay okay okay. this one may be shorter than others given the whole thing??

Darksided AU Masterlist

listen here

cw: ANGST, hospital, OC is terminally ill (brief reference but no detailed description or specific illness mentioned), discussion of death, just the saddest shit (but nobody dies in this story fwiw)

but i’m thinking about what sarah said / that love is watching someone die / so who’s gonna watch you die?

Nobody says the quiet part out loud.

When you stand in front of all your friends and promise to be with someone in sickness and in health, you don’t comprehend the former. It’s a hypothetical, statistically inevitable but impossible to fathom; and you’ll turn a blind eye to it for as long as you can. A promise you can’t feel the weight of until it’s sitting heavy on your shoulders, forcing you to your knees.

How fitting that his very first promise to you came the same way.

When Yoongi made his vows, he meant them. And when he said til death do us part, he said it with his eyes locked on yours; with his entire chest. All he ever wanted was to spend the rest of his life tied to you, loving you, growing with you.

It all seemed so simple back then, looking at you in that white dress.

It didn’t dawn on him until now that, sooner or later, the bill comes due. When you reach the last stop, one person has to get off first. Someone has to live a life built jointly, alone.

Yoongi didn’t know how to do that.

Sitting now at your bedside, your cold hand rested in his. You were smiling, though it burned up all your energy to do so. It was blinding and all-consuming, even under harsh fluorescents. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the cannula resting just above the curve of your lips.

This was the first time Yoongi had ever wanted to avert his eyes from you, and the realization made him feel sick. You had no business in a place like this and he couldn’t accept your presence here.

Effervescent. Magnetic, though that pull was steadily getting weaker.

He knew, of course, that the version of you in front of him was the same person he’d slept next to every single night for years. You were every perfect memory, locked in his heart forever. Laughing, crying, cooking, dancing, sitting quietly on the couch.

You, laying there now at half your weight, were the same person who loved him completely - even in his worst condition. The one who unknowingly helped him repair every cracked and dented piece of himself. Who had never once dropped him, scuffed him, shattered him.

He knew all of this - really, he did - but as he searched your face now, he couldn’t find you.

You were lightning in a bottle; and these sterile walls and muted, linoleum tiles didn’t reflect the way you inherently glowed. To the contrary, they absorbed it, took it hostage. They swallowed it whole and now Yoongi was sitting cold in the dark.

But he wore a black suit; slid that ring on your trembling, once-warm finger; and vowed to hold your hand for as long as you both shall live. Yoongi bore witness to your life. Now, he was going to have to watch you die.

And when it was his turn at the end of the line, he’d follow you into the dark.

[eoieopda]

hi jade! for the drabblepalooza, i wanted to request 'seven' by taylor swift and jin ^_^

here you go, my love 🦋

listen here

cw: angst, reference to character death (OC’s father,) funeral mention, implied childhood abuse (not depicted, not discussed in any detail,) alcohol consumption

sweet tea in the summer / cross your heart, won’t tell no other / and though i can’t recall your face / i still got love for you

You only came home for weddings and funerals. As time trudged on, the former became few and far between. Like you, the majority of your childhood friends left the second they were old enough to do so. Unlike you, the ones who hadn’t had tied that knot already.

The latter, on the other hand, had become more and more common over the years. They seemed to pile up, too. Former neighbors, past teachers, and extended family that didn’t stay in touch - like candles snuffed out, one right after the other.

Prompting train ride, after train ride, after train ride…

Eventually, you would run out of people to make this trip over. Though you felt terrible for thinking it, there was some comfort to be found in that. It was macabre, sure, but a relief nonetheless to picture yourself free of this place. To get rid of those skeletons swaying like windchimes in your closet.

This one, you decided, would be your last hatchet to bury.

It was funny - in some sick, sad way - that the reason you left town in the first place was what prompted your return. None of your friends could wrap their minds around your decision to go back to the start, but if you were being honest, you didn’t fully understand it, either.

Was it really closure that you were seeking? Or was it that inexplicable sense of obligation you could never quite shake? That lingering, undeserved loyalty gnawed at you, pushing and pulling until it dragged you all the way home.

Whatever it was, you hoped to discard it alongside your father in that hole in the ground. Then, you could finally wash your hands of all the dirt you felt but couldn’t see.

Having arrived back in town the night before his memorial service, you had time to kill. Without anyone to kill it with, you opted to burn moonlight at the local dive. There, drinks were cheap and conversation was easy to find. like always, both would be mediocre at best.

It wasn’t crowded when you first arrived, but the night would pick up speed sooner or later, you figured. Before the rush came, you snagged a prime stool at the bar. Sinking down, you greeted the bartender whose name you never learned; and you downed the complimentary shot of soju he’d slid your way upon recognizing you.

Lonely and now slightly buzzed, even your own mind failed to keep you company. It wandered back in time, giving you no choice but to follow.

“You can just stay here! We can sleep in the tree house for now, and when it gets cold outside, we can re-make the pillow fort in the basement!” He spoke so quickly, you nearly had to run to keep up.

You’d never forget that neighbor boy’s face, but his name had gotten lost over the years. Your memories were littered with potholes - little dips and hazards - and you hated that your hero’s identity had slipped through the cracks.

Your face scrunched up in thought as you considered his proposition. If you ran away for good this time, could you bring your dolls with you? He always said dolls were for babies, but they weren’t any different than his action figures.

You scrubbed your hands over your face, not thinking twice about the condensation you transferred from your half-empty glass to your flushed cheeks. Surely, that vodka soda wouldn’t do a thing to jog your memory. It did, however, reinforce the warmth you felt when you pictured the house at the end of your street.

Fuck!

You could recall every other detail about him. A gangly thing, he moved like a baby deer on long limbs he wasn’t used to yet. And he would whistle at you through the hole his baby tooth left behind. Front of his mouth, on your right.

He lived with his parents and older brother in a cream-colored house. It had charcoal grey shutters; a basketball hoop in the driveway; and a swing set in the backyard that you were never brave enough to jump from. He was, but that wasn’t surprising - then or now.

That boy didn’t push you when you paused. He didn’t tease you, even when you expected him to. He was kind in a way that only little kids seemed to be, so willing to share all of his earthly possessions and his sack lunch, too.

“Is your house haunted?” You asked in a whisper, as if the ghosts in yours could hear you from up the street.

He chewed on his puffy bottom lip for a moment, then he shook his head firmly.

You had to ask. The two of you had to make sure your escape plan covered every possibility; this was the worst of them. Even more quietly, you continued: “What if mine follow me and make your dad mad, too?”

His reply came easily, just like every other solution he found for your problems. “Then we’ll go be pirates! I don’t think ghosts can get on pirate ships, but we can ask my brother about it when he gets home.”

You were sure you loved him back then. You loved him still, for all the little ways he saved you. That neighbor boy deserved to be remembered fully, even though you moved away the following year. He may have slipped out of your life then, but his impact on it was lasting.

The fog in your brain was getting denser the harder you tried to wade through it. Perhaps if you slept on it, his name would come back to you in a dream. Whoever he was, you hoped he was happy. That his path forward wasn’t as obscured as yours.

After closing your tab, you steered yourself towards the front door. It chimed when you opened it, and it chimed again immediately when your shoulder knocked into it.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” He yelped, steadying you with one hand on each of your arms. “You alright?”

You blinked up at that clumsy stranger for longer than you meant to. Something about him seemed familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on what that might be.

A former classmate, maybe? A guest at a previous wedding or funeral?

You cleared your throat and smiled when you finally answered, “I’ll be okay! Did I hurt you?”

He towered over you, so you had to crane your neck to look up at him. He chewed on his plush lower lip for a moment, playing it up as if he was deep in thought. With a twinkle now appearing in his eye, he shook his head firmly. “Not a bit.”

His hands dropped from your arms as soon as he remembered he was still holding you. Shooting you a sheepish smile, he rattled off his next words without pausing to breathe: “Sorry, again. I hope you can enjoy the rest of your night without getting bulldozed by another stranger!”

You waved with a quiet chuckle and watched as that tall, kind man slipped away.

[eoieopda]

[1k drabblepalooza masterlist]

🎙️ song requests

closed as of 12/29/22. completed as of 1/28/23.

💿 genres

☁️ - fluff 🌊 - angst ⚡️ - smut (18+ - minors dni or i’ll call your mom) ⭐️ - same au as longer fic

🔊 recently played

“what sarah said” by death cab for cutie (myg - 🌊 ⭐️) “can’t remember to forget you” by shakira (myg - ⚡️) “nfwmb” by hozier (pjm - ⚡️) “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross (jhs - ☁️) ”only for a moment” by lola marsh (jhs - 🌊☁️) ”super tuna” by jin (ksj - ☁️) ”seven” by taylor swift (ksj - 🌊) ”feel the same” by the millennial club (ksj - ☁️) ”the bad thing” by arctic monkeys (kth - ⚡️) ”tomorrow’s ours” by lights follow (knj - ☁️) ”anywhere” by rita ora (knj - ☁️) ”hey old friend” by dearly somber (jjk - 🌊) ”more than you know” by axewell /\ ingrosso (jjk - ☁️)

[eoieopda]

holy shit, guys! i’ve only been here a month and a half, and y’all have really shown up for me. i’ll get emo if i think about it too hard, so i’ll put it simply:

thank you.

this blog was a hail-mary attempt to connect with people at a very weird/bad time in my life, and i’m so, so, so stoked to have found bts; to have found you. your engagement with my writing and with me as a human person have - to reference the great philosopher, marie kondo - sparked so much joy.

to celebrate, i wanna play a lil game ~

pick a song, any song, and drop it in my inbox (anon or not!) with the name of a member. i’ll do my best to write a drabble based on the song you’ve given me.

if the song you’re providing is spicy and you want smut in return, i need you to 1) specify that you’re actually seeking smut and i’m not simply on my hot girl shit; and 2) give me some way to verify your age - either by asking off anon, or pm-ing me so i can take a peek at the age in your profile. i won’t ID you as the requesting anon.

depending on what i receive, i may have to cap things off. that could be because i’m drowning in requests, due to very similar songs/themes, whatever. until then, let’s turn up the juice and see what shakes loose!

happy drabblepalooza, my sweet lil beans 💕✨

[eoieopda]

me trying to make it through this NFWMB-inspired jimin smut request alive

[eoieopda]

actual footage of me finishing my 1k drabblepalooza event requests, after over a month of work 😮‍💨

lmk if you have a favorite!!