"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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3RD PERSON.
Velveteen eyes and smiles stitched together with a merciless needle; the faint stench of rotting lavender, that a bee may turn it's nose up at; artisanal calligraphy dripping down from placid hearts, in weeping displays of preternatural solemnity. Taehyung thinks it's such a revolting atmosphere. He can feel stars screaming from above the ceiling, begging for his eyes to be graced by their pulchritude, as opposed to the falsehood of delirium surrounding him.
There's an essence of faux-importance consuming the coruscating ambience of the ballerina's dress — which is far too boring, by Taehyung's standards. There was simply no pizzazz about her outfit, all of it was gracing the realms of naff, with her dull eyes bringing out the moribund of her forcedly cheerful gown. The silk was so haphazard and derivative, it made even Taehyung's bouquet of red roses wilt with an unstimulated vigour.
He groans inwardly at his watch, wanting to spit at the woman who can't keep her eyes off of him from her place beside him. Though he couldn't particularly blame her, the showcase, thus far, was more conventional and leaden than a tween drama. He himself would probably people-watch, if he wasn't so intent on searching for Jimin. He couldn't even complain about the complacent tick of his watch, as he couldn't hear it beneath the irritating thrum of a boring symphony.
After what seemed like years, the lights slowly dim and transmogrify into a sultry purple, which leaves sinister and compelling waves throughout the theatre. A vague sense of anticipation rifles through him as he comes to the conclusion this is precisely where the person he was here for was going to show up. Oh! And here he comes.
Like a nymph straight from starlight, making his descent from the heaven's via the beautifully laid out stepping stones labelled under the pretence of stars. Gasoline burns at his silk-wrapped feet, these immense purlins of beatitude and poise rupturing from his magnificent body.
Oh, did he pull off the boring outfit so well. He wore tight, buttocks-inducing, black trousers, that clung to the tantalising muscle of his legs and my, how mouthwatering, Taehyung thinks to himself, at the sight of honey-lacquered, sweat-enamelled skin, that boasts coverage of the intense muscles of his chest, on show through his half-unbuttoned white shirt. He has these cute, little suspenders which seemed so so sinful when clinging to his sacrilegious eruptions of muscle. God, he was ethereal. Heat pools throughout his loins and Taehyung finds his own breath hitching, as he observes, positively enamoured by the sight of the newsboy hat perched upon his boyfriend's head, gifting him this crepuscular, somewhat terrifying glint within his eye, face darkened and shadowed by the hat, endowing him with this villainous tincture.
Holy shit, he's hot.
Coals burn softly against the soles of his feet and he dances, oh so beautifully, like the flickering warmth of candlelight, fighting forlornly against the waxy prison that keeps him hostage. Yet, to spite the swarth of dewy elegance, he holds this grave sense of control and agile danger, these heavier ideas corrupting the vain nictation of serenity and embedding his dance with the characteristics of evil.
