#lolnxcole

[outroshooky]

when you see me, when you touch me | pjm

⇢ genre: fluff, the tiniest touch of angst / stripper!au

⇢ pairing: park jimin x reader

⇢ word count: 2.8k

⇢ warnings: implied or stated nudity, strip clubs.

⇢ a/n: this came to me while listening to exo’s the eve, and i wrote the entire thing in one go while listening to that and the full length version of serendipity on repeat because that’s just how i roll. a huge thank you to @minnsvga, @bultaotae, and @lolnxcole for reading through and editing this. i love y’all to the moon and back.

“You brought me to a fucking strip club for my birthday? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Your best friend shrugs beside you, bracelets clanking as she adjusts the purse on her arm, her heavy eyeshadow giving her raccoon eyes in the darkened hallway. “You need to get out more.”

“‘Getting out more’ does not extend to strip clubs! My parents would kill me if they found out we were here!” You hissed, eyes flickering from stranger to stranger hidden in shadows, taking seats at tables whose- centerpieces- stretched from floor to ceiling.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re literally a legal adult.”

“Shut up!”  You shuffled your high heel-clothed feet uncomfortably, fidgeting with the snap of your clutch. “I know we had joked around about this in high school, but seriously, you went too far this time.”

“Okay, I’ll put it to you this way.” Taken by the wrist, you were led to a corner away from the trickle of people flowing through the door. Your best friend faced you, hands steadying your shoulders. “Four years ago, while discussing the looming threat known as university and its beloved sidekick, student loans, we made a pact that if we ran out of cash, we’d ditch school and open up a men’s strip club.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I remember, continue.”

“We ended up not running out of cash- well, one of us anyways, but that’s beside the point- and I still wanted to honor the bet. I thought it’d be a fun surprise, hence why I led you in here with your eyes closed. Look-” she met your eyes, thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your dress. “If it makes you that uncomfortable, we can leave. I thought it’d be a nice flashback to the past, and an ode to the I’m sure absolutely booming club that might’ve once been. So, ya know...”

A tiny spark of curiosity alit inside you, igniting, growing into a small fire as the seconds passed. The flames swelled into a bonfire, licking at your fear of the unknown- what could be, what will be, what might be- and you sighed, caving in, the decision having already been made. “Let’s go grab seats.”

The air was choked with smoke and mist, the sheen of silver tables and leather chairs glinting under candelabras and chandeliers. Reflections flashed on mirrors inset into dark walls, heavy ivy-clothed columns hinting at royalty yet betraying nothing. Crimson curtains hung low on a stage illuminated by floor lights, the neon glow whispering secrets and possibilities untold, luring with a siren’s call the lonely, the needy, the weak.

You were shown to a table by a- could you call him a waiter?- whose face was lost in darkness, and you settled on the edge of the leather chair with hesitance. Before you had a chance to brace yourself, someone stepped into your frame of vision, and you glanced up to be met by the most beautiful man you had possibly ever laid eyes on.

Oiled combat boots met the bottoms of skinny jeans that clung to sinewy thighs and slim waist. Fine lines and muscles pulled taunt the fabric of his button-down shirt. His sleeves were half-rolled to the elbow, showcasing veiny hands, slender fingers, silver rings that glinted in the low light. Oriental dragons peeked from under the fold of his sleeve, curling over his bicep, tipping back their crimson and ivory-scaled heads to roar triumph eternal.

Following the sharp edge of his jawline, you took in lips, puffed and plush, a button nose, soft cheeks. His raven hair was swept off of his forehead, and you glimpsed a flash of honeyed skin when the strobe light swept across his back. Hooded eyes stared back into your own under an elegant brow, unceasing and undeniably sexy.

Your best friend let out a sound somewhat akin to a squeak, clutching your shoulder and muttering some bullshit excuse; just like that, your sole companion was gone, and you were alone with him.

When he spoke a greeting, his voice was higher than you’d expected, yet commanded authority, made your back ramrod straight with inhibitions not whispered, hints of what could be to come and what might never be.

“I, uhm-” That was it. Your train of thought disappeared, and you were left blank-minded in front of this unbearably attractive stranger who belonged here, in this swirling mess of cologne and neon and leather, belonged to a place where you most certainly did not. It was too much, and you faltered, begging for an escape, something, anything, but it seemed as if you could do nothing but stare and fall headfirst into his stunning eyes.

His face softened when he saw you struggling, the seductive poise of his features giving way to a soft, easy smile. “First time here, huh? Can I take a seat?”

“Yeah, sure,” you managed, gesturing to the empty seat next to you. He sat, angling it to face you and sitting with his elbows on his knees, fully invested in you. The tiniest hint of a smile crept onto your face as you admitted: “I got dragged here by a friend as a surprise birthday gift.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Your friend brought you here for a birthday gift? I’d seriously reconsider who I’m friends with if I were you.”

“I don’t have many to pick from.” It was an easy confession, one you’d said more times than you’d like to remember, and your fingers twist the hem of your knee-length dress.

When he smirks, something in your stomach burns low, twists in a way you haven’t felt since high school. “Are you accepting applications?”

You struggle to control your breath when it hitches; the curl of his smirk tells you that he’s noticed it all. For fuck’s sake, you don’t know this man. You don’t know him, this very, very attractive man who may very well only want a nice tip along with his salary rather than hearing the sob story of the ages from a client who most certainly did not come prepared. I’m not nearly good looking enough to entertain him, you think, this is only his job. He is only doing what he has to do. And with that, you change the conversation topic. “So, what’s your name?”

He signals a passing scantily clad male, asks for two glasses of water, turns back to you. “You can call me Jay.”

“Okay, Jay. Do you work here?”

His gaze is piercing when it slips from two grinding bodies to your own. “Does it matter?”

“I just want to know, like- if you’re trying to get me to ask you for a dance, it’s not gonna work, okay? I’m not that kind of-”

Jay brushes the query away with a wave of his hand. “If I was trying to get you to ask me for a dance, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“Why are you, then?”

Two glasses of water are placed in front of you, and Jay sips one, glancing to the side, watching the lanky male onstage strut, bare thighs and naked chest shining. “I like to appreciate beauty.”

The water, halfway down your throat, catches when you choke, garbling: “Wh-what kind of beauty?”

“Dance.” He says the word with such reverence, such respect. It seems to affect him at the very core when it’s spoken aloud; he awakens from the intoxication that is alcohol and sweat and perhaps a faint hint of sex to come alive. You wonder who you’re seeing now, Jay the salesman or Jay the man who seems to have struck up a conversation with the most out-of-place person in the room simply because he wanted to. “Whether it’s alone in a studio or on a street corner at midnight, a trained professional or a little kid, dance is beautiful. And where else to appreciate it than a place like this?”

Jay looks up at the chandeliers that seemed so gaudy upon first arrival, at the columns behind you and silver poles next to you and swept-back curtains that surround, insulate the tiny, brief little world you share with him. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Isn’t this hypocritical? How can dance be beautiful here? They’re just trying to show off their bodies and earn some cash.’ Well, let me tell you.”

When he faces you, his voice drops low, intimate; this is meant for you and only you. “Showing off your body for the sake of cash isn’t dancing. That’s not art, that’s desperation, or some sort of fantasy. Showing off your body because you desire to emote, to create something beautiful for your own sake? That is dancing. Our canvas is our surroundings. We are the paintbrush, our movements the strokes that layer to form a transient work of art. You’ll know when you see dancing rather than its antithesis. Trust me.” Jay turns to watch the stage, smoky eyes flitting from one figure to another, seemingly a master studying his students. You have to ask him.

“How long have you been here?”

He tilts his head back and forth, pondering. “Long enough to miss Monet, Van Gogh, and Picasso.”

“I’m sorry.” Something in your heart goes out to this man, this stranger whom you’ve just met, who you feel has just told you his life story in a few brief sentences. You regret your initial mistrust, but there is still a wary feeling, something that screams that Jay is not all he is made out to be. Yet, when he stands, you cannot help but feel a pang in your chest.

He smiles, wider this time, and god, he’s so magnificent when he is himself, not just sultry and sexy but human, an unintentional work of art worthy of the finest galleries. “That’s the way things are sometimes.”

Jay pauses by the side of your armchair, bends so that his lips nearly graze the shell of your ear, his breath curling hot against your cool skin. “But you, my darling- you are a masterpiece.”

When your friend returns, much, much drunker than before, and several hours later, loudly announcing she’s ready to vomit her liver from the amount of alcohol she’s consumed, she finds you still staring at Jay’s chair, apparently lost in thought.

She slurs, hollers if you’ve had a dance, asks if you’d enjoyed it, but you don’t hear any of it at all, because-

But you, my darling- you are a masterpiece.

The next night, you find yourself surrounded by the very things you swore to forget.

Smoke and mist and mirrors, an endless maze of gauze and gold and leather that’s hot to the touch. A raven-haired man, a two-faced artist, the enigma, living and breathing. He is as out of place as you are here, yet he hides it with an aura, weaving the atmosphere of sex and bodies and beauty into his own personal shield. He wields the very thing that holds him back as a weapon- one only has to look a little closer to strip away the layers, to carve away oil paint and pastel to find the original pencil sketch hidden, buried underneath the finished final product. Not perfect, but still beautiful.

You have no idea if he’s here. You are alone, and somehow, you feel that is enough to draw him out of hiding, but all inhibitions are thrown to the wind when you see jet-black hair, a well-knit frame, honeyed skin glowing under the sweeping lights.

It is as if every eye in the room is on him.

Jay does not merely grind and drop and thrust like every other body you have seen grovel before you onstage. He commands an entire crowd, demands attention and relishes in the spectacle. When his body rolls, ends with a sharp thrust of his hips into nothing, a deep heat liquifies in your stomach, burning hot and searing with want. He levels his gaze to the crowd, drinking in their scrutiny, melting away all skepticism. He is the one in control. He grasps all in the palm of his hand, paints a picture of sensuous escape with his own hands and actions and expressions. We are the paintbrush, our movements the strokes that layer to form a transient work of art. You’ll know when you see dancing rather than its antithesis.

You pause, your hand on the faux carved marble railings near the back of the room. You are hypnotized, he is sucking you in like he is everyone else, bringing them higher in this haze. The siren calls the weak, the needy, the lonely.

His head snaps up, and his eyes find yours.

It is beyond late, and you are beginning to wonder if this entire venture is fruitless.

The club is closing down, Speedo-clad men beginning to wipe down tables and clean up empty glasses. You take one last look, the room now looking like any other, intoxicating atmosphere eradicated under overhead lights and empty tables. The bouncer is eyeing you, arms crossed, and he’s about to step over and give you what for when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

Jay takes you by the wrist without a word, leading you through changing rooms and open doorways and profiles of people throwing on sweatshirts and wiping off makeup and being human, and you wonder if so many paintbrushes remain dry for the sake of fitting in with the rest.

You follow Jay out into a small side alley, into a pool of light from a flickering streetlamp that catches the edges of his jaw and brow so perfectly. He paces to the very edge of the lamplight as you lean against the chipping brick wall, and when he faces you, half of his profile is in shadow.

“I have to apologize for what I said to you last night,” He murmurs, steps closer. “I wasn’t completely honest with you, and-” another step. “I understand if you can’t forgive this kind of thing, but there’s something I need to tell you. My name is Jimin. Park Jimin.”

“Jimin,” you whisper. You like the way it sounds, you feel it in your bones that this is him, and your stomach flips when you see him shiver slightly, imperceptibly.

“I am a dancer here at Satan’s Den. I work in a strip club, this strip club, and I’m sorry for misleading you like that when we met. I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to get you to pay for a dance; I was on break when I saw you through the curtain, and- can I be honest here? I think you’re the most beautiful work of art that’s ever walked into my club.” When Jimin closes the distance, he outstretches his arm slowly, hesitantly, cups your face in one hand and strokes the apple of your cheek with his thumb.

“Why?” You don’t mean for your voice to crack, but it does, and your hand comes to rest over his own. “I’m literally the most awkward, out of place person in there, Jimin. Are you sure you have the right person?”

His eyes shine in the glow of early morning and fading streetlight bulbs, the same eyes that drew you in hours ago, fascinating and seductive and so very very real, unguarded this time. “That’s exactly why I found you. Don’t you see? You’re different from all the rest.”

“I hate that I’m different,” you protest.

Jimin hushes you, his index finger pressing lightly to your lips. “Don’t. It’s why you are special to begin with.”

Your eyelids flutter shut when the back of his finger grazes your lips, tracing the rosebud curves and soft corners, and you can feel it, feel him everywhere, and then he’s kissing you.

“A masterpiece,” he mumbles against your mouth. “So beautiful.” He sucks gently on your bottom lip, nibbling carefully, lightly. “And I’m not going to let you forget that.” He is the first to pull away, but when Jimin does he beams, all open heart and soft, vulnerable man, a vulnerability he is okay with expressing in front of a muse who has stolen his heart from the first moment he opened his color palette.

You sigh against him, hands fisting in his sweatshirt. “This isn’t something I expected to happen when I got dragged to the first strip club of my life.”

He gazes at you, thumbs tracing down your jaw. “This was different from all the rest, yeah.”

“Would you have it happen any other way?”

Jimin leans in closer to you, this girl, his muse, an enigma who slots so perfectly into a place he never knew was empty. You are different from all the rest, a masterpiece worthy of plaster museum walls, worthy of being cherished forever simply for being you. He tilts his head, brushes his lips against yours. A masterpiece. His masterpiece. “Never.”

[outroshooky]

a morning’s vignette (five o’clock) | kth

⇢ genre: oneshot (artist!au) (fluff, a touch of angst)

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x reader

⇢ word count: 2.2k

⇢ a/n: written for the one and only @lolnxcole. love you, tapioca dearest!!

It’s 5:13am, and Kim Taehyung finds himself sitting cross-legged outside his neighbor’s house, the scattered dew from the grass staining his jeans as he hunches over a moleskine journal and sketches furiously.

It’s early, too early for the rest of society to awaken on this lovely Monday morning, but deep in the heart of summer, and thus the world is illuminated in hues of scarlet and tangerine, the sky streaked with merigold and cider and coral in a celestial masterpiece worthy of the likes of Monet. He notes how the glow frames the houses around him, the fences and trees and stirrings of this residential block, and no matter where he looks, it takes his breath away. It reminds him of Rembrandt, he thinks; the supernal mastery of light and shadow will never cease to stun him.

As much as color defines how he sees the world around him, he misses how subtly it influences others’ perception of him. His tawny bangs are tucked neatly under a backwards snapback, splatters of vermillion dart their way up his forearms to meet chartreuse and periwinkle, inky lines curl around the toes of his worn canvas low-tops. His oversized shirt is soft white cotton, but it might as well be a canvas all unto its own. There’s a mauve stain in the faint shape of Australia on the left sleeve, mahogany and medallion like archipelagos and atolls, and Taehyung smiles at the memory of the continent’s formation.

The velvet tones of Chet Baker pour in through his tangled earbuds, the sound a little tinny in one ear. The damn cord got stretched, thanks to Jeongguk- ironically, on the same day they’d bought the new paints that are so carefully balanced on an upside-down milk crate in front of him now. He’s lost in his work, in perfectly capturing the hints of mulberry in the peach expanse- so lost, in fact, that he jolts, accidentally smearing sangria across the opposite page when you clear your throat loudly.

He topples backward in surprise, falling on his elbows, and the first thing Taehyung sees is a pair of neon sneakers, one of which is tapping the dirt impatiently. His gaze travels up your calves to your torso, noting pitch leggings, an oversized sable sweatshirt, and a palpable amount of self-restraint you exercise to control the bright salmon that flushes your cheeks. It reminds him of the scattered pink stipples that dust his knuckles, and he has to bite back a signature Taehyung™ smile at this.

“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing on my lawn at five in the morning?”

He takes out an earbud and gazes up at you, carefully dabbing at the misstroke with a shred of paper towel and the ease of a practiced professional. “Who are you, and why are you awake at five in the morning?”

You cross your arms, your tongue pressed into your cheek at the surprisingly dulcet baritone emanating from the stranger. “Sorry, but you’re the one technically trespassing, buddy. Answer the question.”

Taehyung shrugs. “Your crabapple trees looked nice with the sunrise behind them. I’m an artist. It’s self explanatory.”

“Normal artists don’t sit on my lawn and draw my crabapple trees.”

“They don’t?” He carefully sets his sketchbook on the crate, stands, and extends his hand. “Kim Taehyung. Foreign exchange student, fine arts. it’s a pleasure.”

You raise an eyebrow apprehensively and take his hand. “Pleasure.” He shakes firmly. “I was running, by the way. I run before work.”

He laughs, and something in your chest leaps in response. “So you run this early in the morning, but you don’t see how beautiful the sunrise is every day?” One of your shoulders rises and falls.

“I don’t draw.” Your statement is firm and concise.

Taehyung’s brows furrow at this like it’s something he’s never heard before, and he rolls a filbert brush between his fingers like a patron’s cigarette. “That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate art.”

“It’s nice, I guess.” You check your watch and whirl in place, suddenly impatient. “I’m late.” You’re halfway down the gravel driveway before you notice him still standing, wide-eyed, in the middle of your front lawn.

“You have an hour.”

There are three elements to one of Taehyung’s most simple pleasures in life. Firstly, he prefers cappuccinos to Americanos, and he insists on having a cappuccino every other day at four-fifteen in the afternoon- to him, the perfect time for a midday pick-me-up. Secondly, he must be sitting at the back left corner table inside of Helen’s, the café frequented by artisans and businessmen alike at all hours of the day. Third, he must have his sketchbook with him, plus or minus his watercolor set. These three elements, when combined, give rise to a pastime he loves perhaps nearly as much as sunrises and paints and low-fi hip-hop Spotify playlists.

People-watching.

The thought of you had preoccupied his mind for hours, and graphite marked his fingers like ash as he selected a woodless 2B and outlined the sole of your shoes. If it’s one thing Taehyung is known for, it’s his portrayals of life in all of its simplicity, and perhaps that’s why he always preferred Bruegel the Elder to Bruegel the Younger. He sits in this shop for hours, plaid sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and sketches.

He draws sweaty, overworked waitresses and new mothers with infants and the youthful innocence of children, palms pressed flush to the glass of the pastry display. He draws the table and his battered book and the slender hands that grip the pencil unceasingly. He draws succulent lemon tarts and glistening cinnamon rolls and the emptied sugar packets scattered across the plate in front of him. But today, he does not draw his waitresses and hands and cinnamon rolls. Today, he muses, is different.

Today, his mind refuses to budge from neon sneakers and feminine curves and the quirk of your eyebrow. No matter what he tries to put on paper, your features emerge from the tip of his pencil, and after a while he gives in and covers an entire page, front and back, in you.

Taehyung has the mind of an artist, and the little details are his specialty. He observes with immaculate precision the curve of your lip and the angles of your shoulders; he captures your posture and immortalizes it in 4H, in HB, in the soft paper-on-paper brushing of his tortillion. Never has he been so fixated on developing dozens of mental snapshots into black-and-white Polaroids, marked by pens and pencils and neutral tone paper. He scrawls line after line, embedding you into forever by his own pure talent, and he is nearly breathless by the time the bell atop the door jingles, and he realizes it’s closing time.

He has filled four new pages.

Today, he muses, is different.

It becomes a rhythm.

By 5:09am, Taehyung finds himself standing on the sidewalk in front of his host family’s ranch. He looks up and down the street, selects a colonial or gambrel or maybe the new construction under, well, construction, sits on the curb, and opens his sketchbook.

He sees you every morning, of course. You see him, and when he looks up to follow your usual morning route, you stifle the thought that the increased beat of your heart has nothing to do with your strenuous exercise, and instead focus doubly harder on the quickened rhythm of your sneakers slapping the concrete.

It is a day like any other when you pause in front of him, taking an abrupt left instead of continuing straight, and he’s looking up at you with his boxy smile before you have time to catch your breath.

You shift, suddenly uncomfortable, and rock back on your heels. “You can draw, by the way.” Fuck. “On my lawn, I mean. You can draw on my lawn. You have an hour.”

His eyes are deep and all-encompassing, and you swear you can see countless galaxies swirl when his grin grows ever wider. It pangs somewhere deep inside, brings memories of children’s fingers and apple red and denim blue-

You turn on one heel and begin to run.

The rhythm shifts, but not unpleasantly.

He’s surprised at how well he can adapt to the minor adjustment, and he comes to welcome it.

By 5:09am, Taehyung finds himself standing on sweet dewy grass instead of hard concrete. He looks up and down, selects a bush or tree or angle of the roof, folds his legs under himself, and opens his sketchbook.

He’s gone by the time you get back, of course. An hour and thirteen minutes on the dot and you are standing on your front stoop with nothing but curling blades of green to memorialize his presence by. There’s an odd pang in your chest now- one that you hadn’t anticipated, one that drowns out the staccato drumbeat, and the harder you push yourself, the harder it is to focus on keeping tempo.

Some days, you stop for a breath, rubbing sleep out of your eyes as he rubs and smears carbon across the page. On these days, you may exchange a word, a sentence, as much as you can bear before you turn and run like you have every day since you first bought this house eight months ago. You’re no longer sure if you’re running to somewhere, or running from someone.

It is a day like any other when you take a sharp right and a left, and he doesn’t hear you when you approach him from behind. Louis Armstrong leaks into the filmy morning air, and the music is so fittingly Taehyung that you hesitate, and the meter of your heart skips a beat when you look over his shoulder at his sketchbook.

Familiar faces sing to you from two-tone paper, faces from the grocery store and the coffee shop and the laundromat. The pimpled cashier slouches, swiping a bag of potato chips with one hand on the pinpad. A toddler’s pigtails bounce as she skips, strawberry lollipop in hand, around the counter. The surly, suited executive nudges a coin into the pewter machine, frowning when his wash refuses to cycle. A woman runs, arms and legs like pistons as sweat drips into her eyes, and her sneakers are accentuated with dabs of tiger orange and canary gold.

Ruby and burgundy pop alongside boysenberry and heather; apricot blazes the sky, peeking over the eave of the roof. Juniper leaves and amber bark scratch their empyrean, and lace is speckled by sepia where dirt stains the siding. Alabaster is the shine on your front window, and hazelwood is your fence where parchment has chipped away.

Your breath is exhaled in a shocked rush of air, and he misses it over the muted tones of brass and piano.

“You know, I lied to you before, Taehyung.”

Your hands twist in front of you as he whips around and nearly falls backward, yanking his earbuds out, eyes dilated with surprise and apprehension.

“I used to draw every day of my life.” You are quiet but audible, and you watch the surprise and apprehension drain as wonder, curiosity, and finally, tenderness cascade like waves across his face. “I drew and drew and that’s all I did as a child is draw. I wanted to become an artist. One of the best, in fact. I wanted them to remember me like one speaks of Da Vinci or Vermeer or Masaccio.” Your laugh is empty of joy. “It’s funny how I thought one could ever reach that high.”

“Who says you can’t?” You are fixated on the way he murmurs, how the honeyed baritone instantly grabs your attention, and you nearly falter.

“My parents.” Your nails dig into your skin, and you wince at the memory harder than the pain itself. “They wanted me to become an accountant. Do I look like an accountant to you? No.” The shudder of your next inhale is unintentional. “They threw out my pencils. They burned my sketchbooks. They told me to focus on the future and not on the ambitions of a child, and the day after I graduated college, I ran.”

The last of your walls falls away, and the last of the tension drains from your shoulders as you stand before him, sweaty, defeated, wholly unmasked. “I’m still running.”

When Taehyung stands and your name falls from his lips, the empathy in his voice hits like a punch, and when his arms come to wrap around you, you let him hold you together, because for your own sake, you can’t anymore.

His thumb strokes your cheek, wiping the tears away, the tears that you hadn’t realized were falling freely. When his finger taps your nose, you open your eyes, and are met by stars and novae and nebulae in deep obsidian. The gesture is so wholly and utterly Taehyung, and the click of the metronome ticks a few beats faster when he tilts his head and cups your face in his sangria and juniper and alabaster-dusted hands.

“I see the sunrise every morning,” you whisper as he brushes moisture from your skin. “but I can’t bring myself to appreciate it.”

He hushes you gently, softly. “Let me show you how.”

And he presses his lips to yours.

[outroshooky]

Soft Bias Tag

Tagged by @tendershepherd (<3)

1. Who’s my bias?

The one and only Min Suga, genius.

2. What made you notice them?

I think the first thing that really made me notice Yoongi was his voice. There are few rappers who can put as much emotion into their voices as he can into his, and even though I don’t speak a word of Korean, I can tell the message he tries to get across through his tone and intonation. That spoke volumes to me, and I began to delve a little bit more into his backstory and such after that.

3. What’s your favorite thing about them?

HIs attitude about life and heart of gold. Yoongi grew from having nothing to having everything, and he’s seen both dirt poverty and the wealth that comes with being an idol. I’d love to sit down with him over coffee and talk about that along with topics like mental health and gay rights, since he’s fairly open about both. I don’t understand how people say Yoongi is cold; he’s one of the most emotionally deep people I’ve ever encountered. Even if he has trouble verbally expressing his feelings, he sacrifices and does so much for the people he loves. I feel like we think and express the same way, both creatively and emotionally, and that’s something I find really only in my closest friends.

4. Who would initiate skinship more?

Probably me, but my skinship levels vary depending on the person I’m with.

5. Who would hog the blankets more?

Blankets? I’ll just use him as a personal space heater, he can have them all he likes.

6. Who would be more clingy?

This is a pretty tough question. I actually don’t think either of us would be horribly clingy, considering the only relationship I’ve had was two years long distance, and both Yoongi and I are pretty independent people. Attention, though? I think it would be about equal.

7. Who would say I love you first?. Who easily be more flustered?

I don’t know who would say I love you first. I think it would just slip out at the right time, you know? Maybe we’d both say it at the same time, haha. I’d definitely get more flustered, because that boy has a poker face that I can’t even come close to competing with.

9. What cuddling position would you two have?

His head on my chest, or my head on his. I’m down for either. Also spooning. I don’t discriminate between cuddling positions.

10. Which colors remind you of him?

I’m pretty sure this post says it all.

11. What season would you like to spend with them?

All seasons? I guess winter would be the most entertaining because we have an excuse to cuddle and stay inside napping all day.

12. Who would bake the cookies and who would steal the batter?

I would bake and we’d both steal the batter; by the time I’m ready to put the trays in the oven, half of the original mix will be gone lol. Fuck salmonella, I make damn good cookies.

13. Which one of you would make bad puns and how would the other react?

My friends and family know that I’m the queen of bad puns, and if Yoongi spent five minutes around me when I’m on a roll, he’d probably look for the nearest window to jump out of. I have a feeling he would tolerate it though, and hopefully think it’s cute.

14. Who would want to adopt 50 cats and dogs?

Guilty as charged. I think once life settles down, we’d adopt a few cats and dogs, but I’ll have to be physically restrained from going into a shelter and adopting every s i n g l e animal. Adopt, don’t shop, folks.

15. Which one of you would nearly burn the kitchen down trying to microwave a pop tart and who would come to the rescue?

I hate pop tarts, so that would definitely be Yoongi burning the kitchen down. I’d come to the rescue with oven mitts and a fire extinguisher. Ironically enough I almost burnt down my kitchen in December when I set the contents of the microwave on fire. Rip my pumpkin bar, it was going to be delicious until I nuked it for four minutes too long.

16. Who likes to lean over trail railings and who pulls them back?

I have vertigo, so I don’t like leaning over things unless I’m in the mood to watch the world spin. I’d be pulling Yoongi back for sure.

17. What would watching a horror movie with them be like?

I hate watching horror films but don’t get scared by them, so we’d probably flinch occasionally, finish a bowl of popcorn, and fall asleep halfway through.

18. Who would be the cheesy flirt and who would be the smooth flirt?

He’s definitely a much smoother flirt than I am. I haven’t yet mastered that fine art called flirting... I’ll just come up with stupid pick-up lines until he gets [mock] annoyed.

19. Who would be more competitive?

Oh, Jesus. Two Type A high achievers? Competition between us would probably result in several broken bones and at least one small fire, i.e. the pop tart incident.

20. Who would have to be given constant reminders (to eat, sleep, drink water, etc.)

Yoongi would probably solely manage my sleeping and eating schedules, because how often I forget to do basic tenets of self care is astonishing. I’m worse than he is.

21. Who sends memes and who sends cute “i miss you” texts at 3 am?

That would be both of us. We’ll both be up at 3am anyway, why not share the love?

Tagging @lolnxcole, @joonbird, @pringtella!

[outroshooky]

I was tagged by @tendershepherd (thank you Shep!) to do the lockscreen challenge and post my lockscreen and homescreen. My lockscreen is my and my best friend’s biases, and my homescreen is my and another best friend’s memory from an evening we spent at the beach with bubble tea.

Tagging: @a-heart-full-of-javert @lolnxcole @wafwaf-waffle @superollie21 @guksheart @pringtella @94hixtape

[outroshooky]

Questions Tag!

Tagged by @tendershepherd (Danke Shep!)

Tagging: @a-heart-full-of-javert, @vankoya, @joonbird (If y’all’ve already been tagged or want to skip this, go for it)

1. Nicknames: Written, Seagull, Scuttle, Yun Mango Dango, Moon Yong (thanks @lolnxcole)

2. Gender: Female

3. Zodiac: Aries

4. Height: 5′5″

5. Age: 16

6. Time: 2:55pm (EST)

7. Favorite Bands/Solo Artists: Oh boy, there are a lot of these. Favorite bands would have to be Panic! At The Disco, Fall Out Boy, BTS, CHRVCHES, Imagine Dragons, Caravan Palace, Monstercat (technically a record company, but oh well), and twenty one pilots. Favorite solo artists would have to be blackbear, Agust D, Troye Sivan, Tristam, Muzzy, Dion Timmer, Conro, Grant, WRLD, San Holo, Karma Fields, Rameses B, KSHMR, TheFatRat, Alan Walker, Galantis, Avicii, Zedd, Loote... virtually anything electronic.

8. Song Stuck in my head: Where Did You Come From by BTS.

9. Last movie I saw: Pretty In Pink about a month ago... It wasn't a voluntary decision.

10. Last thing I googled: "BTS love and support memes" for love and support.

11. Other blogs: Nada.

12. Why I chose my username: I'm a very indecisive writer, and I erase and rewrite constantly before working out a final product. I originally selected the blog name "writtenthenerased", but mistyped it as "writtenthanerased" in a text to a friend. I didn't catch the typo until he asked me to clarify between two meanings, one of which was "Do you mean it as in 'I'd rather be written than erased'?" I thought it personally fit me rather well, and I selected writtenthanerased as my blog name.

13. Following: Twenty-eight blogs over a wide variety of topics: yourdaily, interior design, self-help, writing tips, best friends' blogs, art tips, and Bangtan writers.

14. Average amount of sleep: Either five hours, nine, or none at all. I'm a high school student, so I really don't have the concept of a sleep schedule.

15. Lucky Number: 7!

16. What am I wearing: An oversized high school band sweatshirt, a gray Monstercat Uncaged t-shirt and pajama pants.

17. Dream job: Airline pilot, professional procrastinator.

18. Dream trip: Since I've already gone on my dream Europe trip, I'm currently in the works with a friend about a Southeast Asia trip to Japan and South Korea. Owl cafés? Owl cafés.

19. Favorite Food: My grandmother's pasta, which is utterly heavenly, or strawberry bubble tea.

20. Play an instrument: Clarinet, handbells, piano.

21. Favorite song (right now): I can't pick just one, sadly: Airplane Part 2 and Fake Love by BTS, Your Side Of The Bed by Loote, Wanderlust by blackbear, Questions by Tristam, an Airplane Part 2/Havana mashup, and a Monster/Save Me mashup on YouTube.

22. Play(ed) any sport: I played softball for two years before being hit in the head and realizing that catching things wasn't my calling. I have, though, played tennis for nine or ten years and counting.

23. Hair color: Dirty blonde.

24. Eye color: Namely green, although it changes to a more bluish or brownish shade depending on the light.

25. Languages you speak/are learning: I speak English and some various German profanities. I'm currently in year two of four of my high school Latin education. Yeet cum fiducia! (Side note, I'm not responsible for whatever links come up when you input that phrase into Google)

26. Random fact: So this is going to sound really freaking weird, but I'm actually a student pilot! I've been flying since I was thirteen (yes, here in the United States, it is legal to fly a single-engine plane before you can drive a car. Lovely lawmaking, isn't it?) and have nearly enough hours to apply for my private pilot’s license (a minimum of forty). As I just turned sixteen two months ago, over the summer I will be going to a flight camp for three weeks, upon which I will take my first solo flight! I'm looking to pursue this in college and obtain a Bachelor's in Aeronautical Science; from there I'll hop into the airlines and hopefully start working my way up from there. I've always been passionate about aviation, and I'm an air show junkie who's been to shows and air tattoos in numerous states and countries. It's a weird hobby for a sixteen year old to have, but hey, I like a little diversity in my life.

27. Describe yourself: I’m an INFJ on the Meyers-Briggs scale, and a 1w2 on the Enneagram. 

To be honest, I’ve spent more time thinking about this question than was probably necessary, but I struggle to accurately sum myself up in a brief paragraph, perhaps because I’m not quite sure who I am yet. Bear with me, this might be a little long.

People tell me I’m intelligent, self-reliant, mature, and wise; apparently I’d make a good therapist, and I’d have to agree. I’ll listen to you even if you’re my worst enemy, because everyone deserves to be heard, no matter what our relationship status is. I’m a natural mediator, and it takes a lot to get me truly angry, but once I am, it’s not a pretty sight. I’m painfully selfless, maybe too selfless at times, and I’ve learned that I give people too many chances. I trust a little too quickly, but I’m also terrified of telling people my inner thoughts (what a weird conundrum, huh?). I’m hung up on the “what if”s, they’ll haunt me until the end of time. I’m anxious; I love to be alone, but I’m scared to be lonely. I hope for the best and assume the worst, and the end product is usually somewhere in the middle. 

I’m usually fairly quiet because if it’s a weekday, chances are I haven’t slept well. I rarely take the initiative in conversations, but god, get me on a topic I love? I’ll talk your ear off for hours about Overwatch and European History and the F-18. My friends say I’m sarcastically savage, but also have a heart of gold, and will do anything for the people I love. I love without abandon; I like to assume the best in people and find the good in every bad situation, seek out the little things that bring joy to a darker day. I create endlessly, through writing and drawing and architecture and dreaming. My mind is always thinking, always conceiving, and rarely does it ever stop, but I’m painfully perfectionist; I criticize constantly, from the ragged edges of my chewed-short fingernails to the sentence I just typed on a blank Google doc. I run from the past and look to the future, and it seems so far away, but I blink and I’m suddenly looking at junior year of high school and the world of college and student loans and sweet, sweet independence. It’s right here, I’m right on the verge, and just about when I think I can see who I actually am, the kaleidoscope turns a little to the right, and there’s a different design in the eyepiece.

It’s been turning a lot lately, it seems. I’ve lost a lot of people, been burned at the edges, discovered what it’s like to have everything fall out from underneath you. But you know what? I’m still here, and that kaleidoscope is still rotating, because each time another block has been pulled out, I see yet another side of myself I never knew existed, and even in just a few months, I’ve learned countless lessons about people and feelings and even my own self. Thus, I’ll keep looking through the eyepiece and watching the pieces turn, beautiful and bright in their design.

Because I can’t do much else other than hope and dream, push forward to the future, to the days when things will work themselves out, to the moment when I can work myself out.

And that day, I think, I’ll finally see the whole mosaic.