#re: the one with namjoon and the u haul | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eoieopda · 1 year

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Namjoon + “sibling’s best friend” except the sibling has been rooting for them to get together for years

combined with your other namjoon request 💕🫶🏻

Namjoon + “stuck in an elevator” bc god of destruction or simply bad luck idm either

the one with namjoon and the u-haul

ft. jeon!reader, moving day, a mild age gap, jk being a lil shit as usual, and blondejoon 🥵 (cw: claustrophobia / brief depiction of a would-be anxiety attack)

If you ever managed to get your hands on your brother, you might kill him.

Of course, you’d have to find him first — and if your sixteen unanswered calls were any indication, Jeon Jungkook might’ve left this mortal coil already. Unfortunately for you and the rented U-Haul parked outside your apartment building, you needed that evasive little shit and his inhuman stamina.

More importantly, you’d needed him an hour ago when that rental clock started ticking.

The minutes you’d burned up already — firing text after unacknowledged text at your twin — were ones you’d quite literally pay for later in the form of late fees. Jungkook knew this, knew you, knew that your neurotic, Type-A brain had calculated exactly how much time would be needed for the two of you to orchestrate your cross-town move. Just like he knew you were simultaneously too weak to move these boxes yourself; and too poor to shell out for the full-day rental package or professional movers.

And yet, there he wasn’t.

You’d worn crop circles into the carpet already with your relentless pacing. One more step, and the pedometer built into your Apple Watch might give up altogether, explode into a cloud of sparks around your wrist. Worse, it might send out an emergency alert to the nearest mobile crisis unit and get your ass pink-slipped. Maybe, you think, you should try being still for once in your life.

You hit the brakes so suddenly that the inertia makes you wobble, but you don’t fight it. Instead, you let that anxious momentum drop you unceremoniously onto the nearby sofa.

The one was supposed to be loaded up an hour ago.

Not that you’re counting.

Just as soon as you slump with a huff into the cushions, a rhythmic knock at your door yanks you back to your feet. All you see is red as you stagger over a sea of cardboard boxes, wind your way through garment bags, odds and ends to reach the entrance to your apartment. Your hand snaps like a bear trap around the doorknob when you finally clear the obstacle course; and you nearly rip the door off its hinges when your rage propels it open.

The preparatory breath you’d sucked in — gunpowder in your lungs, ready to pop off at your unbelievably tardy brother — instead leaves you in a startled gasp:

“Oh, God.”

Immediately, your face begins to burn with embarrassment. You don’t know what to do with your hands, either; they’re still balled up into fists and ready to swing. Fuck! Sweaty palms! You wipe them furiously on the back pockets of your denim shorts and try to keep the rest of you from liquifying.

“Actually,” comes a surprisingly soft voice from a body so contrary, “It’s pronounced Namjoon.”

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Not that lopsided, tight-lipped smile.

Anything but that.

You, a fool, blurt out the obvious, “You’re not Jungkook.”

Of course, this offering is worthless. The twerp who entered this world three minutes before you was sixty-three minutes late; and his friend — the one you still can’t believe Jungkook manages to keep — was standing in his place. His older, smarter friend, whose massive hands you picture when you —

Kim Namjoon has a laugh that makes less noise the more he means it. Based on the melodic little hiss that erupts in response to your declaration, he finds your buffoonery hilarious.

You are not long for this world, you fear.

“Got me there,” he concedes. Looking up to find him beaming at you, you’re not surprised that staring at his grin — the one that shows all his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle — feels a lot like staring into the sun.

Don’t you dare faint. You’ve survived three years with that face. You can and will be normal about this.

As if that wasn’t enough, Namjoon has the audacity to lay his palm flush against the door jam above your head and lean down and — shit, his biceps just look like that? All the time?

You’re already a puddle at his feet when Namjoon hums, “Heard you needed an extra set of hands.”

You want to ask if he’s psychic — his hands, in any context, are precisely what you need — but you don’t. You clear your throat and throw on your best approximation of nonchalance. Cross your arms over your chest in a way you hope looks casual, tilt your head to the side.

You raise a single eyebrow before responding, laying it on thick, “So, he lives, huh? Texts you but not his own flesh and blood? Sends his poor hyung as a proxy?”

“I have free will, you know,” Namjoon chides you without any real heat. “And a free afternoon, too.”

He then shrugs his shoulders before pointing over yours. The target he’s acquired sits at the very edge of your peripheral vision, a beast in velvet upholstery. His grin is downright impish when he continues, “Unless your plan is to yeet that couch straight off the balcony, I suspect your options here are limited.”

If you’d been given the opportunity, you’re confident that you may have come up with some witty remark. Instead of ongoing banter, you get a hand on either side of your waist, picking you up and moving your rag doll body out of the doorway. Namjoon smirks as he sets you down, ignores your slacked jaw, and invites himself into your apartment.

On his way to the couch, he spots something that catches his eye. He pauses, bends down towards a laundry basket full of assorted bullshit, and pulls out what can only be described as a cursed object. It’s your most hideous and most beloved possession, having joined you in every major move since you left your parents’ house: a ceramic shelf-sitter in the form of a rooster, the body of which is entirely made of sculpted fruits.

Namjoon is absolutely baffled by it, open mouth forming a circle as he stares down at his discovery. You should be baffled, you think, it’s God’s ugliest creation. Then, as if the force of his quiet blinking was too much for it to handle, the bunch of bananas composing its tail feathers pops off and promptly falls to the ground.

Horrified, he watches in slow motion as it hits the hardwood below with a thump. You watch as his shoulders sag; unable to tell whether the fond little tug in your chest is based on your weird, broken art, or how completely crushed he looks.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry!” He gasps, ducking down to grab the runaway appendage. Fuck the bird — it’s him. Then, he mutters directly to the object looking laughably small in his palm, “What’d you do me like that for? Rude as hell.”

Instinctively, you cross to where Namjoon stands in the center of your living room. When you reach him, you feel him brace himself for your reaction; but all you do is bend at the waist, grab a small tube of super glue from that same laundry basket, and hold it up. He glances from your fingers to your face.

“A must-have when you break shit as often as I do,” you chirp. Then, you gesture with your free hand to the basket. His gaze follows and locks onto the small, strawberry knee joint that you’d accidentally severed as you packed. To say that his eyes light up is an understatement.

Namjoon taps at the “made in” sticker on the bottom of the rooster and smirks, “This is what you get for buying American, honestly.”

_____

You didn’t have “spending time with Kim Namjoon” on today’s bingo card, but you’re certainly not complaining.

Lucky for you, he was stronger than your idiot brother and infinitely less frustrating to be around. The pair of you moved around your apartment like you were ballroom dancing; neither of you needing the steps called out to know them. It was easy, it was synchronized, and you didn’t have to beg him to stay on task.

Absolute none of that would be the case if your day had gone as planned.

In thirty minutes’ time, all of your possessions had been loaded into the U-Haul except one: the couch. Due to its bulkiness, you knew it’d be difficult to maneuver despite its relatively light weight.

Namjoon, boasting more brain cells than you by a long-shot, had suggested using the elevator. So long as it was angled properly, he reasoned, the two of you could make it fit without issue. Then, you wouldn’t need to wrangle the first neighbor you came across to help you pivot the blasted thing around every stairwell.

It was a short trip, only four floors, so you’d decided not to explain why you’d taken the stairs for every previous run of boxes.

Maybe you should have, because forty-five minutes have passed since you entered that elevator, and you are swiftly running out of ways to pretend that you’re fine.

From where you sit cross-legged on the elevator floor, you can hardly see Namjoon, who is believed to exist somewhere on the other side of your couch. Every now and then, there’d been a flash of blonde hair next to one of the couch’s arms — proof of life — but he’s more often invisible than not.

You’re okay with that fact, you realize. It means he can’t see the way your anxiety is manifesting only half a meter away from him.

“D’you think this call button even works?” He calls out to you, unknowingly contributing to the cold sweat slicking the small of your back, “I’ve pressed it a hundred times and — as you know — we haven’t been rescued.”

You wonder if you sound as strangled as you feel. Throat tight, you mutter, “Nothing in this building works. ‘S part of why I’m moving.”

Apparently, you do sound as strangled as you feel. You hear shifting in Namjoon’s corner of the elevator, and then you see his face materialize near the bottom of the couch. His eyebrows were initially furrowed, but the concern he carried there migrated. It settles and causes his eyes to widen when they find you.

“You alright?” He asks immediately. Sweetly.

In the grand scheme of things, yes, you would concede that you are — generally — more or less alright. You’ve been in worse places with worse company, and relatively speaking, this isn’t your ultimate nightmare. You’re capable of far greater panic than this.

In this moment, however, in this godforsaken metal box with walls that feel like they’re getting closer by the second, and stale air that gets heavier and heavier when you try to breathe it into your lungs, the walls of which are also getting —

Namjoon answers for you, decidedly but without even a hint of judgement, “You’re not alright.”

There’s more shuffling from the corner. Within a few moments, he manages to wriggle himself into a standing position. With two hands now on the couch’s spine, he glances urgently in your direction. His eyes soften, but you’re distracted by the loose lock of blonde hair that falls over his forehead, over them.

“If I find a way to you, does that make it better or worse?”

Of course, big-brain Kim Namjoon has the sense to ask. Of course, he’s emotionally intelligent enough to realize that joining you in your space could either calm your anxiety, or force it into X-Games mode. Of course, you feel like you’re being hydraulically pressed, so you don’t have the available brain cells to run a proper cost-benefit analysis.

So, you peep, “I — uhh, I don’t know?”

He purses his lips like he’s trying not to smile — because, as you’ve learned, he’s a good fucking person — but you feel a little bit less like you’re actively dying when you watch the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. Taking that gut reaction at face value, you swallow and wordlessly wave him over.

Only one way to find out, you suppose.

The way he grunts softly when he single-handedly pushes the couch further upright would make your whole body clench if it wasn’t already. The same is true of your rapid heart rate and the simmering desire to swoon. Wait — it’s called “fainting” if it’s a medical event, right? Whatever it is, the urge only gets stronger when he slots himself into the tiny bit of space at your side.

“Here — Oh, hang on,” He says, prompting you to look his way.

Your eyes catch him just in time to watch him wipe his hand off on his jeans, then hold it out to you. Without a second thought, you accept it. Squeezing slightly to express your gratitude, you smile and let your joint hands rest against your thigh. Like a shot of clonazepam, he has you calm in an instant.

A few moments of silence pass comfortably. Eventually, when your pulse returns to safety, you tilt your head back against the metal wall behind you and gaze upwards. The ceiling is back where it belongs, no longer inching towards you with the intent to flatten you against the floor. You breathe deeply then sigh out the exhale.

“I’m so glad I’m not trapped in here with Jungkook,” you announce, “If he were here, he’d be jumping up and down to try to get this thing to move, and I’d be nerve-barfing everywhere.”

“Good god,” Namjoon snorts. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye; he’s thoroughly amused, not at all grossed out by the picture you’ve painted. You know I’m right, you think.

It’s not clear if he knows you’re watching when his smile turns shy. He says it quietly, like he’s divulging some heavy secret, “Glad I called him off, then.”

You hum in agreement before those words actually register in your distinctly soup-like brain. When they finally do, you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him in confusion. For the first time in three years, he gets to hear what it sounds like when you buffer in real time:

“Sorry, you — huh?”

The math isn’t adding up. The science isn’t — doing whatever it is that science does. The words? Well, they’re failing you. You’ve got nothing.

Namjoon’s free hand rubs against the back of his neck. He smiles sheepishly, so damn cutely. For a second, he nibbles on his bottom lip before coming clean, “I may have asked Jungkook if I could sub in today.”

No thoughts, head empty, just wide-eyed blinking. It’s all you’re capable of with your stomach doing backflips the way it is.

“He was — umm — more than happy to switch swifts, you know?”

Of course, he was. Jungkook is a brat.

Namjoon chuckles and it’s then that you realize you’d broadcasted your thoughts out loud. He shakes his head as if you hadn’t just spit objective fact out into the elevator. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to follow the plot.

“For being an older brother, Kook’s a surprisingly good wing-man.”

Your jaw drops. Finger raised, you interject immediately, all piss and vinegar. “Joon, he is three minutes older. Don’t you dare give him credit for that. His ego’s already hit the ceiling, and I am not calling him oppa —”

Namjoon purses his lips again. The corner of his mouth ticks upward again. He’s apparently waiting for a response that you haven’t given him, again. Your sentence dies out before you can punctuate it.

Oh. Did you —?

Eyes as big as the moon, you sputter, “Wing man?”

“There you go, champ,” he laughs, affectionately nudging your shoulder with his. “Is that lag one of those twin things people talk about, or —?”

You land a playful smack on his bicep, but let your hand linger. Not unlike the way he’d done twice before, you pinch your lips together and try not to grin like the fool you are. Taking advantage of your pause, Namjoon reaches across his body with his free arm and peels your palm from his bicep. He keeps on holding it and you only melt a little bit.

It takes effort on your part, but you squirm in your spot until you’re able to face him more fully.

“Namjoon, you have to tell me the truth,” you demand. You squint back at him, narrowed eyes emphasizing the dramatic tone you’ve taken. “Did you or did you not break this elevator on purpose?”

He laughs so hard that it’s silent. His heads ducks down, too, until his forehead rests gently against your shoulder. From there, he sighs, “I did not break this elevator on purpose.”

After a pause, he sits back up, handcuffs his gaze to yours, then grins with all his teeth. “I’d be a fool not to capitalize on the opportunity, though.”

You close the distance and kiss him with all you’ve got, cotton-candy sweet and fresh-linen soft. It’s easy — the way it felt when your busy bodies swirled around your living room, never once stumbling — and you swear you hear bells ringing.

Namjoon pulls away breathless. He begins to ask the question, but the gentle lurch of the elevator answers before he can finish.

#jade’s requests #jade’s drabbles #knj #2k drabblepalooza #re: the one with namjoon and the u-haul #kim namjoon #namjoon #bts #bts drabble #namjoon drabble #bts imagine #namjoon imagine #bts scenarios #namjoon scenarios #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #bts fluff #namjoon fluff

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