#to be like me=to be mentally and physically unstable ahah

[kyri45]

How do I start making an AU like yours? What do I have to do?

Break your dominant arm (pls don't) so that for 2 months you are unable to draw and the will of drawing those characters rotting in you head physically pains you so much that when they will remove your cast your silly first comic will end up in drawing dozen of panels everyday because the characters just keep you insane

Have perfectionism issues that everytime you make a project you actually want to put effort and construct a linear story instead of doing ONE THING and just let the thing BE one thing (again, pls don't)

Have a workaholic obsession (once more, pls don't) that makes every waking moment you pass without doing something productive, even for a hobby project, feel like you're wasting time.

have insomnia so that you have more time to draw (for the final time, pls don't)

Bonus tip: read around 2 millions of words of slow burn/enemies to lovers fanfiction a year to learn by heart every single possible story structure so much that you have it tattooed in your head.

[scriptaed]

his hurricane.

genre: angst; fwb!au; roommate!au;

pairing: reader x jimin;

length: 2.3k;

synopsis: he always loved you and he always will; but this time, for the sake of his sanity, he had to run somewhere far away from your whirlwind and the chaotic hurricane you always brought with you... because when his mustered confession is met with your disrespect, he’s finally calling it quits.

commissioned by @jiminssizzles​: thank you for the support, lovely! i know you’re a sucker for fluff but i hope this fic will sway you toward the dark angst side c:

The winds are merciless tonight and the wrath of midnight that engulfs you only urges you forward toward the alluring warmth of your apartment. As if a prelude to the impending predicament of the night, your keys could not be any less cooperative. All you want to do is burst through the doors, kick off your heels, and jump into the arms of your roommate for a night-long cuddling session, as you’ve always done after another disappointing date, but here you are: nearly kicking the door down in frustration, stomping your feet to keep the breeze out of each hole of your stockings that only exacerbates the cold, and fumbling with your keys all whilst a downpour of curses tumble from your lips. 

Living vicariously through your own memories of just last week’s moment of intimacy, you can still recall the way he held you protectively in his arms, you can still remember the path of his fingers that weaved through your locks, and you can practically feel the circles that he drew into your right arm with his thumb as he caressed you in his embrace. It’s been a week since you’ve jumped into his arms—a week ever since that particular conversation—but the recollection of Jimin’s touch is like that of a magnetic force, drawing you in and emphasizing the throb in your gaping chest that yearns for the feeling of home. 

It probably isn’t right for you to expect all that from him, not after what he had told you last week, but your body reacts indifferently to your mind. His whispers of sweet nothings are all that pushes you onward after a long day of heartbreak. His touch is a necessity, an innate fuel that you hadn’t realized you had taken for granted until it became an unhealthy addiction.

Ahah⁠—the one key out of your other dozens finally slides and clicks the lock open and finally⁠, finally you’re allowed in… and when the door nearly comes busting down, a gust of warmth comes flooding out to envelop you, and the first thing your dreary eyes lock with is that of his own as he stands in the midst of his tracks on the way to the living room couch, you arrive at an epiphany that would stir you for weeks on end.

Nothing and no one, no dates nor one night stands, could thaw your stilled heart like Jimin does, right here, right now. 

The excitement overwhelms you; and the next thing you know, you’re tossing your bag to the floor, opting not to to kick your heels off in the hasty spur of the moment, and skipping forward to jump into his arms with a half-squeal, half-yelp. On the other hand, the boy proves caught off guard when his eyes pop wide just a split second before you leap and has no choice but to accept your demand for a welcoming. 

His arms wrap around you, one on your bottom and another on the small of your back, as you wrap your legs tightly around his hips and hug him as closely to your chest as you could. The boy stumbles backward for a few steps but the slight chuckle that leaves his lips and tickles your earlobes tell you he had you and your whirlwind of a chaos under control, as he’s always been more adept than others in. 

Pulling back to grin cheekily at the surprisingly stark contrast that was his own expression, you exclaim, “I’m home!” 

“Yeah,” he responds, pressing his lips into a thin upcurve. 

The absence of his usual vigor that once mirrored yours after a long day apart has you frowning in concern. Perhaps he, too, had a rough time, although over what, you’re not too sure of; but that’s okay, because that’s what you two always spent the night conversing and rambling over until nothing was left but the gratitude of having the other to hold in each other’s arms⁠—and that is exactly what you need after tonight. 

“Hey, Jimin,” you stop in your tracks when he flinches slightly at the touch of your hands that cup his cheeks, “...are you alright?”

“...yeah,” he says, carefully letting you down despite your evident reluctance to oblige. 

Jimin stares off to the side, stuffing his hands into his pockets and out of your vicinity; and when you follow his line of sight, you finally notice how oddly empty the apartment seems. What was once riddled with his shirts and jackets tossed over your own sweaters and jeans is now scattered with just your belongings. 

“What were you up to today?” you ask warily, glancing at his avoidant gaze. 

“Just,” he responds, “tidying.” 

“Oh,” you utter, pursing your lips and nodding at the silence that follows in the wake of an absent elaboration. 

It isn’t too rare of an occasion for you to return home to a tidied apartment, considering Jimin has always been the more organized of the pair that was you and him, but usually you would find your own belongings neatly folded on your bed as well⁠—lest he happened to be extremely lethargic that day, which you figure he must be at this very moment, because usually he would be the one to ask you about your day first and not the other way around. 

Something about the stagnant silence and his closed off profile calls your attention to the gaping distance between you and him; so, like you’ve always done, you take a step forward to wrap your arms around him and nestle your head against his chest in a fruitless attempt to diminish the gap⁠—because although you’re physically as close to him as you could be, the both of you are familiar enough to know how mentally and emotionally detached the other is tonight. 

At the very least, as you lay your head against his chest and count his melodic heartbeats that thump against your ear, you can internally sigh in relief because not all has been lost, for the race of his pulse still sparks in the wake of your electric touch. 

Even so, he remains completely still; neither uncomfortable enough to move nor desperate enough to embrace. 

“Sooo,” you mull over how to intervene the gap that only seems to widen by the second, “the date didn’t go so well today… are we surprised at this point, though?”

“...no, not to me.”

“Hey, am I supposed to be offended that you agreed or relieved that you understand where I’m coming from?” your pout seeps into your playful bickering before another sigh of relief leaves your lips and you hold him even tighter. 

Usually, a simple nuzzling of your head to his chest and an even more snug fit of you against him would have been enough to put you at ease; but this time, when his response is a silent stiffening in place, you can’t help but start to worry⁠—an anomaly for the usual, carefree and whimsical you. How could you get through to him? How do you lift his low spirits? He’s always been the type to perk at the sound of praise, akin to a puppy when his master returns home, so like the way you’ve always done when he was upset with you, your tactic begins with a shameless albeit truthful praise. 

In hindsight, when this very scene would replay like a loopless tape for the entirety of the next agonizing month, this decision would be your first dire mistake. 

“But then again,” you begin as the flutters in you manifest the ear-to-ear grin that adorns your face, “no one makes me feel the way you do, Jimin.” 

The receiver of your heartfelt confession, however, stiffens in response. That, in itself along with the worry that creeps into your gradually fading grin, is enough for you to freeze in place. After a few seconds that seem to last for a lengthy minute, he finally manages to mutter, “Y/N, can you not say things like that anymore?”

Slowly and reluctantly, your body obliges to his request, even though his hands that hang helplessly by his side make no demands. You always thought you knew your roommate, Park Jimin, inside and out; but at this moment, as you retract yourself from him and meet those distant, stoic eyes of his, a daunting thought reaches you: have you ever really understood him?

“I don’t…” you stammer, failing to follow through. 

Jimin, the gentlest and most considerate boy you know, persists with a voice of conviction that tells you: he speaks not for you and not for your unstable state of mind, but this time, he speaks for himself.

“And can you not hug me like that anymore?” 

In the entirety of your open relationship with your roommate, there has never been a single moment when he had managed to crack a dent in your ever-changing barriers. Tonight, however, would be the first. Grabbing ahold of his wrists and gradually unveiling his hands from his pockets until they fall into yours—powerless and still under your touch—your gander over his profile that avoids your watchful gaze settles uncomfortably in your chest. 

You’ve always been prideful of the way he would melt like a helpless puddle in your wake, as if you were his Achilles’ heel crafted by destiny itself, but tonight you feel otherwise; and even though guilt manages to halt you in your tracks for the slightest of seconds, your usual tempest demeanor charges through without fear. 

“Hey, Jimin, you can be honest with me. I’ll always hear you out. I did last week and I swear I will today, too.”

“That’s the thing,” he says, eyes lifting from the ground to reveal the darkness that stirs in the deep, “the fact that you’re doing this to me shows that you weren’t listening to me at all.”

In a spur of confusion, you can only squeeze his hands, “what… what do you mean?” 

What he says next might have been a mere recap of the storm that had blown over last week, but tonight it hits you differently.

“I love you, Y/N,” Jimin articulates. “I confessed to you last week and I told you I wanted to be exclusive. This, hugs, kisses, snuggles, and midnight conversations, I wanted us to be just us… and you denied me of all that, didn’t you?” 

“I…” you pause. “I said I would think about it.” 

He frowns, “and have you come up with an answer?”

Truthfully, the time to actually sit down and consider the thought had never once crossed your mind. Every moment his proposal of relinquishing your other relationships in exchange for his affection and every fear of losing him as a consequence of your reluctance to commit had been pushed to the back of your mind. 

Even for a dense person like you would acknowledge how much that would crush him.

“...no.”

“Then what are you doing to me right now?” he answers plainly, not to hurt but to defend. “You can’t hold me like I’m the only one you want to see.”

You can’t bear to meet his gaze so you look to the ground as he continues. 

“You can’t greet me like you’ve finally come home after willingly going out to meet some other guy.” 

You can only listen to him in silence.

“You can’t praise me and expect me to welcome you with a wagging tail,” he pauses just as his voice cracks, “when you know how I feel and how I know that everything you say and do with me is the second one of your day when it’s a first of mine.” 

So that’s how he felt all this time?

“Jimin,” you say meekly, squeezing his hand but still too ashamed to meet his intent gaze, “I’m sorry I never realized you would interpret it that way… but you know I didn’t understand until now, right?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “I know you wouldn’t understand.”

“Do you… hate me…?”

He freezes under your hold and all at once you’re scared for your life. Your delight, your way, and your being were all that mattered to you. You’ve never feared the words of another; but right now, as he takes a deep breath and sighs shakily, you realize you’ve been mistaken your entire life. 

“No. Even you would know I could never hate you,” Jimin confesses. “I love you and I always will, but this time I can’t just forgive you, Y/N. For the sake of my sanity and for the sake of me⁠—” he brings your hand to feel the heavy pulse against his chest “⁠—I need some space between us.”

“You mean, you need space...” you pause, “...from me.” 

His silence is a clear answer. His moving lips demand for you to let go, but he's still hands plea for you to hold on. Why does his body speak one language whilst his mind speaks another? 

Then it dawns on you: a hurricane like you would never get it. 

You’ve never been the type to truly listen. You’re an impulsive gal who did whatever she wanted whenever she wanted and always did so on her own accord and conditions. To him, you were an uncontrollable, brewing storm—thrilling to observe from afar but perilous to pursue up close. 

That night, he packed his bags and he left you in the apartment to escape elsewhere outside of your territories to find a peace of his mind; but after meeting you, the wildest phenomenon that had struck him mercilessly despite his lack of guard, the both of you know there’s no clear cut escape from you, his hurricane.