I Have Not Written In Like A Year So This Is Gonna Be Great 🤩

pink sapphire

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 11k

glimpse: having jungkook for a husband is great as far as arranged marriages could go; he’s easy to love. your relationship’s perhaps become so easy that jungkook doesn’t think sometimes — and that’s what makes it the easiest for you to hate him.

alternatively, you and jungkook married each other for business, but the both of you stay for love.

[ angst, arranged marriage au, fluff n really wholesome scenes (it cancels out the angst i swear), Jungkook Tries Hard (affectionate), miscommunication, jealousy, self-deprecation, sexual innuendos (no actual smut here!!), did i already say that jungkook tries rlly hard and is remorseful the whole time ]

notes: my year-ender fic for 2022 :) thank u for being here — i’m grateful for all ur love n support!! i’ll see u in the next one <3

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

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The good plot twists aren't the ones that are wild left turns out of nowhere, they're the ones that make all the other little things that didn't quite add up before suddenly click

run, run ❤‍🔥

Of course I'll draw him attacking our hearts like this AAA

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I AM NOT READY

this is the CUTEST thing I've read omg theres so much love flowing through it i can feel it

in this light

pairing: jimin x reader

wordcount: 2k

glimpse: love, within normalcy.

alternatively, jimin has a routine at 5:35 in the afternoon.

[ married + established relationship au, jimin's a NICU nurse and reader's a pediatrician, fluff n comfort all-rounder, they're expecting first-time parents <3 ]

notes: happy jimin day!!! i've never been this relaxed writing a piece <3 as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

There’s not a single thing in this world that would remain unmoved at Jimin’s warmth.

He's the embodiment of warmth, all the way from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. All the way from the flush in his cheeks and the skill in his hands.

You know it with the way he works at NICU with the fondest smile you’ll ever see, picking up babies left and right and rocking them to have them soothed and tucked. He’s always been adamant on caring for people, already having the specific profession in his mind even back at high school.

You know how he’d budge and grant atleast just one more minute for a parent to be with their baby, giving them their space as he pretends not to know the time. Sometimes he even offers to take their phone and capture a picture, one they could take home with them as their peace of mind.

Your husband tends to be more practical than he is luxurious but you know how he'd treat everyone to coffee every now and then at the expensive café outside the hospital, even going as far in blocking out the dates in his calendar. He greet everyone on his way then, not a single personnel left ungreeted.

You know it because you're married to Jimin and you know that it would take a lifetime to known every single thing about someone, from the inside-out and the way people constantly change.

You’re sure of him because of the way he's your lover that makes every day worth getting up for.

At every 5:35 PM on workdays, he'd show up to your office with his arms outstretched and his eyes slowly blinking. He’d always go on the dot because it’s what works best; after all, you're a pediatrician and all your appointments normally get done by 4 with a significant grace period because you feel sorry for children who'd get cut off. Meanwhile, Jimin's shift ends at 5 but he allots a significant grace period just like how you do, taking the time to always do extra rounds on the babies by swaddling them comfortably and changing their diapers with little to no fuss.

He’s particularly excited to see you today, even if he's just as happy seeing you in other days regardless — nonetheless if he's just woken up and you're beside him, or if the two of you had the longest week and barely saw each other throughout.

He tucks his stethoscope in and lightly hits the knots on his nape as he starts greeting people goodbye, a giddy smile on his face even before they could reply.

"Jimin! I was about to ask if-..."

Hoseok’s the new guy in the ward and he’s known Jimin for his entire introduction period to be so approachable and yet the guy whizzes past him as if hadn’t heard him at all, nearly getting whiplash from being ignored for the first time.

"Not a chance. He shuts down completely, don't even bother," he blinks rigidly at his supervisor who’s just looking at charts, setting an unwavering glance at him that makes him regret even showing confusion at the whole interaction.

"It's 5:33," Namjoon nods towards the clock behind him, looking at it lazily as if he isn’t certain about it at this point.

If there’s one thing Namjoon would purchase as luxury, he’d no doubt splurge on watches. Yet the expensive piece on his wrist, the Patek Philippe Grand acomplication watch he’s saved up for more or less two years, is no match at all for Jimin. The watch doesn’t hold a candle against him because as soon as he sees the guy run his hands through his hair and walk with a smile on his face and a perk on his step, he knows it's 5:33 in the afternoon.

He walks eagerly to your office, oblivious to the way his colleague’s face is agape in confusion as his no-nonsense superior seems to be fond talking about you and Jimin to Hoseok.

You don’t have to look up at the door to know it’s Jimin by the way it clicks and immediately shuts, already foretelling the squeak in your cushions not a second later.

"There's my favorite girl," he dives into your pull-out couch that almost never functions like it nowadays, practically turned into a bed at this point.

You murmur a greeting to his hair as he lowers himself down your tummy that he immediately pokes with his finger.

"There's my favorite baby," Jimin looks straight to your barely-visible bump before he grins up at you, slinding his warm hands underneath your shirt and setting them right onto your stomach.

You've already changed into your going-home clothes and you look snug, propped against your pillow in drowsiness. You’ve passed the time by knitting baby blankets for the NICU department while you waited for your husband, because the sleepiness is there but just wasn’t enough to knock you out, instead choosing to do something that relaxes you.

Jimin nuzzles to your cheek, playfully crossing his eyes with how close he is that it makes you laugh.

"Kiss, please."

He asks for one so politely that you can’t help the fond smile that forms on your face in no time, barely turning to put one on his lips.

He blinks once, twice until he figures that it already happened, the all-familiar whine on his throat as he rocks his leg on your bed in complaint, shaking his head as he deadpans.

"Not that," he frowns, rolling his eyes at you. "A nice and proper one, please."

"Nice and proper," you parrot back, snorting instinctively at the antics he’s pulling today because he also said it in the morning, another running joke for the week.

Jimin doesn’t wait for you to kiss him because he does it himself, growing restless at your playfulness that he grants himself the relief of your taste.

He leans before you could even tell, warm hands on the side of your face as he slots the pillows of his lips ever so gently, eyes closed at bliss and tongue firm and fluid against yours.

Jimin kisses slowly yet deeply. Languidly yet not flatly. Fully and completely, in all ways.

He clutches onto you by the side of your top that he feels the indents of your tiny bump that’s eleven weeks along, humming against you as he massages your lower back that’s been in need of warmth to tame the ache.

Your husband lies next to you and yet it isn’t enough because he has half of himself draped on you, his leg on top of yours with his arms surrounding your figure, the other surely not leaving your tummy.

"Want me to massage your calves? Your feet? Got you new compression socks yesterday, I think I put them on your desk this morning," he pulls away in favor of nuzzling to your neck, nosing the spot below your ear before pressing a tiny kiss on it.

"Mhmm, I did," you hum, eyes slowly blinking because all the tension and stress you’ve been feeling have already erroded by now, "get changed, baby."

His eyes are squinted at you in faux confusion, each one of his queries answered beside the first one.

You nod sheepishly because you can’t pass up, tilting your head at him in confirmation. "I'll take you up on that offer at home. I get more tired these days."

“I got you," he reassures you with no hesitstion at all, already undressing from his scrubs in front of you while he hums in conversation. "Let's go up to Seokjin tomorrow morning. Let's ask about your vitamins."

It’s normal.

It’s mundane.

You're talking about vitamins and groceries and there's love within it still, figuring out schedules even if it meant errands getting pushed back because of how they conflicted at times.

The two of you are conversing about traffic and how the cold makes you drowsy while at work but there's adoration in it still, the quiet inputs of how the two of you are sharing socks and yet there’d always be rogue ones missing.

You’re sharing a makeshift dinner on one large bowl to have the least amount of dishes to wash, enough to forego washing tonight and instead just rinse and soak in water if the two of you get sleepy beyond measure to function.

It’s in the most casual of things that you get to learn about your husband more and how you’d stop at nothing of realizing that you love him even when the sun is low and the lights are out.

Jimin's the type of warm for you to romanticize the most mundane, everyday things.

"Good night," he yawns with his mouth wide open, stretching until his limbs go jelly before he snatches you to his chest, a noisy kiss pressed on your cheek. "I love you the most." He basks in your slight annoyance of him whispering so lowly to your ear that it tickles you, patting your bare tummy as his hands once again found refuge underneath your shirt. “And you too, cutie."

You return his sentiments back but it doesn’t end at that, the phrase that’s been stuck with you all morning resurfacing even when it’s nearing midnight, the only difference being that it’s you who asks.

"Kiss please.”

Jimin complies slyly just like how you did, pinching his thigh that makes him release a tiny yelp, reverting into a fit of giggles with how you look pointedly at him even underneath your nightlight.

"Nice and proper."

"Hmmm," he leans in with the hint of amusement never leaving his tone, warm hands outstretching, "anything for my wife."

Jimin loves you in the same way he kisses.

The same way of love that’s slow yet deep; languid yet not flat. Full and complete, in all ways —

the same warmth at 5:35 in the afternoon, in every minute with Jimin.

yeah they dropped a new love language. yeah a sixth one. its biting

Smashing Pots

Every now and then, people ask me if I should go to art school, and I usually say something like “Do you want to go to art school?” and if they say “Yes,” then I say “Yes,” and if they say “No,” then I say “Don’t.” This is why I am a crappy source of career advice.

However.

There is ONE class that I think nearly every writer, artist, and creative type out there would benefit from, and as it happens, it’s ceramics. Preferably with a strong wheel-throwing component.

No, really.

Back in ceramics class, in college, at the end of the year we would gather up all our dishes and pots and sculptures that we had labored over for weeks—and you really do labor for weeks, because you’re sculpting and drying and firing and glazing and firing again—and we would look at them. And what we generally realized was that we had created a lot of things that sucked. There is just a point where you hold this lumpy-ass thing in your hand and you realize that it has not added to the sum total of awesome in the universe—and that you don’t have to keep it. And then you wind up and fling it into the massive dumpster behind the ceramics studio and it smashes against the bottom and a demented exhilaration surges through you and you grab the next one and smash it and it is glorious. Now, there are people who do not smash their failed work, who cannot bear to do it, and so there was always a shelf full of sad lumpy clay things with a little “free to good home” sign on it. Some of them possibly were adopted eventually. Mostly, though, we learned to smash. Pottery, particularly wheel-throwing, is wonderful for this, incidentally. You fail over and over and you fail fast and you are creating quantity to lead to quality. You throw and throw and throw and things die on the wheel and things die when you take them off the wheel and things explode in the kiln and after you have made a dozen or two dozen or a thousand, none of them are precious any more. There is always more clay.

It breaks you of preciousness and perfectionism. You can’t fiddle for two hours with wet clay on the wheel getting it perfect. It’ll be an over-saturated lump of mud long before then. If the walls are thrown too thin, they are too thin. It’s not worth fixing. Start over. Do it again. Finish, don’t fiddle. I can’t do pottery any more because if I tried to hunch over a wheel these days, my back would go out so hard that I would never walk upright again. But I still think it was one of the most valuable classes I ever took, because it taught me to acknowledge failure, not to fear it, and then smash the hell out of it.

more artworks