hi, it’s me again! it’s been a while since my last ad so i figured i would post again now that i’ve updated my rules. they are now, essentially, as follows:
looking for 1x1 bts rp partners that are 18+, regardless of nsfw or sfw. i (generally) write maknae line or yoongi. only looking for member x member plots at this time. life right now is really insane (yay capitalism!) so my replies are super varied. i might respond ten times a day or every two days. it's honestly just a box of chocolates. lastly, please don't try to pigeonhole my character into a specific role. i'm always happy to plot together but i will not respond if you're just looking for someone to fill as a top/dom/etc.
if the super honest tl;dr above hasn't turned you off, please feel free to check out my official page. i swear i'm not nearly as unfriendly as this might come across.
ps. if you're previously reached out to me and i haven't replied, it's likely because i've been so busy and my dms got a little crazy so i just... deleted everything. chances are, i just suck but i'm not ignoring you. 🤡
to everyone that has reached out, i promise i’ll get back to you this weekend. work is insanely hectic right now but i really appreciate the interest. ✨
If you believe the tabloids, Jeon Jungkook is a bad boy (at least, by the standards of the Korean media). He's seen at tattoo shops, caught in candid photos with a tattoo gun to his skin, and frequents bars, spotted with classic green soju bottles in his hands. While he isn't necessarily a bad person, he doesn't fit the usual standards for an idol, marching to the beat of his own drum. Big black boots, big dark clothes, bucket hats. Over two dozen tattoos scattered over his arm, tracking up his shoulder and littering his fingers. He's not the IT boy everyone wants him to be.
But the thing is, Jungkook isn't all that bad. He's just young and living his life in the ways he can, under intense public scrutiny. What's said about him just comes of its own accord, spewed by supporters and haters alike. And he does read everything, scrolling through the different forums in his spare time.
Time like this, seated in the same corner he always takes up on very evening he can, laptop set on the table, notebook cradled in his lap. It's his third straight hour here at his new favourite coffee shop - the one he'd stumbled across one day on a search for coffee. He likes the pastries and loves the lattes, which he doesn't actually get that often, mostly sticking to Americanos unless he really needs the energy boost.
Now is one of those times, so he strides up to the front counter - swaggers, really, in his big chunky sneakers, baseball cap pulled low over his round doe eyes - and sets his old cup down. When he meets the other's eyes, he flashes a deceptively sweet smile, teeth digging into his bottom lip. "Could I get an almond latte, please?"
001. writing sample (long) / jeon jungkook x reader
There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart. A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare. It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.
It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs. He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around. No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled. The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.
He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else. Cautious, worried, scared. Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.
And then you’d appeared. Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.
You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks. Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses. Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments.
So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun. “Happy Valentine’s day,” he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away. He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight. But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose.
You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves. Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.
“Don’t you like them?” He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns. They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out; your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight. It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own. It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious. “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”
“They’re lovely.”
Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash. Surely you’d appreciated them - him. Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.
“But they’re kind of a waste.”
A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions. Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness. Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred. Thoughts without end and often without start.
He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up. (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.)
“What’s wrong?” You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore. You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer. He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.
Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets. You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime. His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.
“Nothing,” he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red. He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best. “Just don’t feel well.”
Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago.
“Don’t lie.” It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt. It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest. A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes. Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings. Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder. It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin. He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.
Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting. He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close. It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core. (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)
“For what?”
He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten. It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself. He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer. A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat. He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean. “For being too much.”
“Jungkook.” The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut. A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake. “You’re never too much.”
He believes you. He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all. “You didn’t like the flowers.”
“So what?” You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit. You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so. “I don’t need flowers. I don’t need gifts.” (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue. Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems. Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.) “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”
Something he’s never heard before. Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness. That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.
hey, hi, hello! not sure if my posts are showing in tags yet, since tumblr can be a right butthole, but fingers crossed.
i’m looking for partners to write 1x1 with me (bts or otherwise). i’m a literate writer with a love for juicy, well-developed plots. i’m most familiar with jungkook but have experience with all of the boys. my preference is for maknae line or yoongi, though. i do also write original characters and am happy to do non-bts rps.
if this tickles your fancy, please feel free to take a look at my official page and reach out if we sound like we might make a good duo. in the next few days, i’ll be adding desired plots and inspo but i’ve got some writing samples up in the meantime.
