"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 .
A hypothetical spotlight burns it's pugnacious fulguration against my skin, prompting my palms to clam together. It constantly reminds me of the endless rows of contaminating eyes forced to my figure, judging my every move. My criminal heart shakes the bones of my ribcage, making my breathing erratic, further establishing the work of this invisible spotlight.
In this moment, as eyeballs eat me raw, no thoughts of salvation come to me, no thoughts of anything calming. I can't bring my brain out of the mindset of fear for long enough to muster up a coherent thought; I'm so consumed by terror, I can't even force myself to think of my solace. My head is in the hyperspace of condemning shame, a feeling that I can't just shake off. It consumes every fibre of my body, tangling itself amongst my will to move, rooting me to the spot. This fear nocks any clear thought from my mind and leaves me a vacant mess of quivering anxiety.
I shrink under their softened gazes and, shuddering, I walk out of the room, too petrified to look back and address my militaristic dance instructor and the company scout. I don't care enough to seek consolation within Jungkook nor Hoseok. No, I just want him.
°•ิ.•
"So, you just walked out?" Taehyung confirms as I finish ranting to him in a very emotional manner.
We meet in our usual spot — and I'm so shamelessly gleeful that we have a usual spot — as he had already asked a few days in advance. Today, he had excitedly requested I model for his pictures. Honestly, I'm nowhere near as nervous as somebody like me should be, especially around somebody as intimidating as Taehyung. But, the thing about Taehyung is he's able to fill me with this curious feeling of tense tranquility; it's the most indescribably beautiful feeling.
However, despite the comfort he's able to provide, the way his fingers are caressing my cheeks, manages to emit the opposite effect. Currently, he's applying layers of makeup to my face, but it appears he's doing it in the most contentious way possible: his artificial brushes and natural fingers lingering upon my skin for far longer than necessary.
"Yes," I exhale wondrously, I had been so focused on his skin against my own, I barely recollect him asking me a question, "I couldn't think straight, so I just left."
"That's not a good mindset to have about your problems — you can't just run away from them."
"That's rich." I say without meaning to, suddenly overly self-aware of the upsetting halcyon that may seep around Taehyung's thought process. I consider myself perhaps becoming a little too comfortable with Taehyung to quite think over my words.
