"I'd just like to be yours and I guess I want you to be mine."
"Sweetheart, that's not weird. It's cute."
･ﾟ:* jimin is a sad ballerina, who falls for the lies of taehyung, a mysterious photographer who is nothing but trouble.
( complete )
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JIMIN .
We sit beneath a canapé of ataraxy, Taehyung and I, entanglements of protruding branches leaking across the vast span of woodland. It's a sanctuary just south of our haven which consists of various blooming flowerbeds; ecstasies of beautiful, romantic colour glorifying the spread of land.
Of course, I'd feel a tad less tense if said male's head wasn't resting on my thighs, his fetching eyes reflecting adequate desecration as they linger on my face, his gaze never faltering.
"Jimin," my name effortlessly issues from his lips, the fervent treacle of his voice intermingling with his words and dripping from those pretty lips, as if an exude of syrup drenching a stack of pancakes. Diffidently, he reaches his arm up, drawing my face with his fingers, imprinting every aspect of my features into his fingertips, "do you think you're attractive, Jimin?"
I'm, admittedly, slightly taken aback by this sudden question, and my thought process is slurred evermore due to Taehyung's prevalent gaze.
"Do I think I'm attractive?" I repeat dumbly, the regurgitated words being the only ones I can muster with Taehyung so close.
He nods in affirmation, smiling somewhat childishly at me.
"Duh, I'm like a walking God, babe." I declare in an obviously joking manner, not knowing of a better way to answer, my awkwardness making sarcasm the only option.
He rolls his eyes, removing his hand from my face, "no, but, seriously, do you?"
Sensing he's somewhat serious about his question, I genuinely take time to ponder over it. The less narcissistic thing to say would be a 'no' but that's just something people say in order to receive fickle compliments: it's an easy way to receive false validation to briefly inflate one's ego. It'd be the most anticipated answer when asked such a question. But, with Taehyung, something's always told me I shouldn't try to say what he'd expect me to - I should just be honest.
"Well, I don't think I'm ugly."
He nods and beams in a satisfied fashion, "good, I can't stand when pretty people pretend they don't see it."
I gulp, trying to maintain a steady heartbeat, not allowing myself to blush at the words he utters so effortlessly.
"I mean, I'm beautiful, and I bloody know it, why should that make me self-centred?"
Chuckling lowly, I somehow find my fingers in his hair, shamefully loving the feeling of him shuddering beneath my touch, "knowing you're beautiful doesn't mean you're not insecure though."
