i will write some poetry for these images tomorrow i think

anonymous asked:

is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you? yano cuz u short

Anonymous looked up at the sky, not trusting the colour smeared upon the horizon. Horizons could be misleading, they knew. Horizons could convince you it was still daylight, even when the whole of the sky arced above you in a sprawl of midnight. Looking forward was not always enough. Sometimes, you had to look up. 

Directly above Anonymous, the moon cut its teeth into the clouds, drawing blood and bruising the darkness with its waxen light, waning at the edges. It was time. 

They did not have long. The witch had told them, as she reluctantly handed them the bag of herbs, that the spell would only be useful for the minute or so that the moon was at its highest. The minute was upon them. 

Fifty five seconds left. 

Cursing themself for having lost track of time, Anonymous reached into their trouser pocket and pulled out the little drawstring bag. With hands shaking in anticipation, they emptied the contents into the small well they’d dug into the earth all those hours ago, and covered it back over with dirt. Fingers crossed behind their back, they stepped away and waited.

It did not happen immediately. Magic takes time, the witch had said. Magic does not come to you when you ask for it; it comes to you when it’s good and ready. You can cast all the spells you like, scatter all the herbs and make all the offerings, but magic cannot be summoned - only tempted. 

The seconds ticked by, and Anonymous waited.

This had been a long time coming, they reflected. They had waited too long for the taste of power on their lips. They had been too long distant from how it felt to be in control. They had learnt too early their place in the world, and they had too soon come to rue it. The chasm between want and have had grown inexorably bigger since the day they were born, and now they were here. 

The mound of earth did not move. Anonymous thought about the time they had first felt insignificant - the first time they had realised that they stood small in the face of all things - and counted the seconds. 

With ten seconds left before the spell died, the magic came. 

Magic has no face, has no body. It takes no form and it holds no weight. The witch had told Anonymous this herself. Magic simply is; it is because no other word will do, but it is not. It cannot be, and has never been, and yet it is. 

When Anonymous thought about it, it was all rather complicated.

Best, then, not to think at all. Best to give voice to thought and make it speech. 

Anonymous cleared their throat and began. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you here - ” 

I was not summoned. 

They flushed, the soundless sound surprising them even though they had been expecting it. Do not fear the voiceless voice, the witch had warned. It speaks, and is silent. The words are only half your own. 

Breathing slowly, they tried again. 

“No, of course not. Sorry. I’m not - I haven’t used magic before.” 

And you still have not. I am not here to be used. Say what you would have, and I will do the same. This is not a service. This is a trade.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” They inhaled, exhaled. This was the only chance they would have to resolve the conflict that had been the shape of all their life. This was the resolution of aporia; of feeling as though they deserved everything, yet having nothing. Of knowing that they should be free, but being everywhere in chains. Of wanting, and of not having. “I want to feel powerful.” 

In what sense? Power is not all-encompassing. The queen ant is powerful to the workers, but weak to the heel of the boot. What power would you hold? Do you seek to command nations, or to master the arts, or to take another as your own? 

Anonymous considered how best to formulate their response before replying. Precision was key here. The witch had made it clear that magic would grant you what you asked, whether or not it was exactly what you wanted. 

“I’m tired of being silent,” they said eventually. “I’m tired of being unable to say whatever I want. I’m sick to the teeth of thinking all these thoughts - great thoughts, too; thoughts that could topple cities and part seas - and being forced to keep them to myself, all because other people think that their own feelings are more important. Well, what of my feelings? What of feeling inadequate? What of the weight of being told to keep silent? Do they know what that does to a person?”

As they spoke, they could feel their heartbeat rise, pumping and roaring in their ears, in their veins. “Sorry,” they added. “I’m getting carried away. But to answer your question - I want to have the power to speak my mind.”

In all things?

They contemplated it. “Yes. In all things.”

The silence was real for a few moments before it became illusion.

I can help you.

“And will you?” 

Yes. It will require exchange, however.

At these words, Anonymous could hardly contain their excitement. “Anything. I’ll give you anything.” They took their purse out from their other pocket, and held it out towards the mound. “I have money. I have a house, too, but that’s back in town. You mightn’t like it there. My neighbours - ”

I would have your face.

Anonymous faltered. “My what?”

Your face. That is my offer. I will give you unlimited and unprecedented power to speak your mind. All thoughts you have will be given voice, and you will never again be forced to turn away from speaking aloud what you have always been taught to keep silent. In return for this extraordinary power, I would take from you your face, and in so doing I would give myself form and body. You would never again be silent; I would never again be invisible. 

“But wouldn’t I suffer without a face? How would anyone know that it was me who was speaking?” Anonymous asked, wringing their hands around their purse. 

I have named my payment. Now I would name my price. The price of this power is thus: the knowledge that all thoughts you give voice to will be dampened by your lack of face. That everything you ever say to another will be tempered by your lack of identity. That no-one will again know whose thoughts you speak; only that you do speak, and in all things. 

There was nothing for it. They would have to decline. They could not accept these terms. What power came at such a price, after all? What king had ever ruled his country with no name or face? What lover had ever made another theirs with no identity? 

All the times they had been asked to hold their tongue; all the times they had been scolded for speaking their mind; all the times they had uttered the wrong words at the wrong time and had suffered for it: all this had been for nothing. 

Although, Anonymous admitted to themself, the thought did appeal on one front, and one front alone. It was undeniable that a certain freedom was gained by completely giving up one’s identity. After all, who could be held accountable for a deed when the deed was done by one with neither name nor face? Who would they scold when the words that were given were not the words that were wanted? Who would suffer when the things said were not things that people wanted to hear?

Only those who heard them, of course, and not the one who spoke them. 

And immediately, ashamedly, wonderfully, the decision was already made, had perhaps been made years ago. 

“It’s a deal.” 

You agree to the payment and price?

“I do. Take my face, and give me the power I seek.”

The deal is struck.

And then the moon, which had begun to falter at its peak, was suddenly once more at its highest. The minutes had been returned. 

Hand trembling, Anonymous reached up to touch their face, only to find that, of course, there was no face. Where their image had been - the folds of their mouth, the curve of their nose - was now smooth and featureless. There was nothing there at all.

“Are you happy?” came a voice from behind them. 

Anonymous whirled around, and came face to face with their own face, worn by another. “Who are you?” they asked, and a thrill chased up their spine at the realisation that there was no fear behind these words at all. Their voice did not falter. The question was biting, crystalline.

“I am Magic,” replied the impostor, “given form by our deal. Is it to your satisfaction?” It cocked its head inquisitively, Anonymous’ old eyes seeking validation in their new setting, and Anonymous felt powerful. They were looking at their old self - their weaker, voiceless self - and they were free.

Anonymous drew a deep breath in before responding. “is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you?” they asked.

Magic blinked. “I don’t understand.” 

“yano,” continued Anonymous, “cuz u short.”

“Why are you saying that?” asked Magic, eyes darting left to right in placid uncertainty. “I don’t understand. I gave you what you wanted. You could say anything you wanted, and no-one would ever hold you accountable. You could take a lover with intricately crafted sonnets, bend ears with your scintillating rhetoric, and yet you choose - ”

“is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you? yano cuz u short,” interjected Anonymous, feeling giddy and drunk with power.

Magic blinked again. “You have the choice of a thousand languages, billions of words - ”

“is having a ginormous fat peen - ”

“Sometimes,” Magic interrupted, “silence is the more powerful weapon after all. I could undo what I have done, but I think it best not to bother. Some people will never learn. I wish you luck with all things, and may you one day find your power useful, for it will not aid you in the pursuit you have chosen.”

With that, Magic was gone, and Anonymous’ face was lost to them forever. Now alone, Anonymous looked gleefully at the small mound of earth that had been their salvation. They thought of all the things they would say tomorrow, and they smiled.

At least, they would have smiled, had they been able.

Far away, Magic rolled its new eyes, and decided to write a sonnet. 

unfair

I haven’t written Nursey/Ransom yet! Hope this works.

It’s the eve of graduation and Nursey can’t sleep.

Not because it’s a big day for everyone tomorrow. Not because of regrets, or unfinished poetry, or unwon championships.

Because tomorrow he’ll be helping Rans and the guys load up their stuff, and then moving his own stuff into the attic, along with Dex.

And that attic is gonna feel hella weird without Ransom there.

Nursey hasn’t been able to wrap his brain around that image – an attic that’s home to him and Dex, but one where Ransom doesn’t come up the stairs to convene a D-men meeting. An attic he can’t escape to when he really needs to jam to some tunes, where he can sprawl out on Holster’s bed and spread his arms behind his head and just enjoy being in the company of someone who gets it.

How’s it gonna feel like home without Ransom there? Nursey hasn’t got a fucking clue.

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How to: Approach Poetry Analysis in an Exam

An in-depth guide to write super-awesome commentaries. So my IB paper 1 unseen text exam is tomorrow, so thought I might condense all that I’ve learnt on poetry analysis over my high school life here. 

Reading the poem/those first 5 minutes:

The first time you do so, don’t worry about finding literary devices etc. Just read it. Feel the mood, feel the poem. Often in exams, you are given 5 minutes of reading time when you’re not suppose to write anyway, so really make use of that time. Remember your initial impression of the poem. 

  1. Ask yourself the following questions: WHAT is going on here? (What is the “dramatic situation”? WHO is speaking? (Known as the voice or persona. What kind of a person, what is their attitude to the situation? Who are they speaking to? How consistent is the speaker with the situation? 
  2. Ask yourself how the poem achieves the effect you noted above. Look for:  PATTERNS: The effect of the structure, the construction of the stanzas, lines. Repetition? Look for use of rhyme, metre, rythm, and sound patterns. IMAGES: What appeals to the senses? Look for taste, touch, sight, sound, smell, movement. What about literal images? Or are they figurative? Why? WORDS (Use of diction): Why the choice and position of words? What extra implications, connotations, dimensions, allusions? Ask yourself how these contribute to what the poem is doing.

Annotation:

Now use lots of pretty highlighters to annotate the poem. It helps to use a colour scheme! For example, use orange for literary devices, green for specific use of diction etc… It makes it easier to identify and go back to what you’ve found while writing the essay.

  1. Literary devices: So, so important. Focus on how language shapes meaning. I have created a page with all useful devices you could use HERE. 
  2. Structure: Look at the number of lines per stanza (Is it a tercet? A Quatrain? - Find the names of your poem structure on the same post as the literary devices) Look at rhythm (pentameter) and rhyming scheme. (ABAB or ABBA…) OR is it free verse? Drop all of this down somewhere on the page. 

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Reading Material

OK, here it is! This is dedicated to karis-the-fangirl, for two reasons - one, our shared love for the novels of Sir Terry Pratchett, and two, because she posted a bit ago about her fanfics and how she feels like half of them need re-writing and I was thinking, ‘But they’re all great! They don’t need any work!’ and it is giving me the confidence to post this even though I secretly feel like most of it is pants, because I think maybe all writers feel like that. (but what if mine is the one that is actually pants? Worry)

Anyway, here we go. 1009 words, rated probably T? Very silly.

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I don’t know if you take requests or not, but I would really like to see a kinda continuation of nico bringing will lunch, but with like nico hanging out with Ben and will does too and he gets there late and will isn’t what anyone expects? If you don’t take request than that’s okay, I just really love your writing :) have a nice day!

Dear anon, you asked me this like, a month ago and I’m so sorry it took me so long, I hope you like it!
If you haven’t read the first part, I think it’s it’s probably better if you do. Enjoy!


Ben was liked by the majority of people at his school. Of course there were always those you’re just unable to get along with, but he never gave them much thought and preferred avoiding drama by simply ignoring them. He had a lot of friends and even more people with whom he got along pretty well and that he thought were nice enough. One of those people was a boy named Nico di Angelo.

The boy had dark hair, dark eyes, a dark mood. Ben wasn’t sure if Nico was shy, reserved or if he 0just hated any human contact, but he was going to figure it out. He wanted to be more than just a boy Nico sometimes talked to. He wanted  to be Nico’s friend. There was just something about the boy that he found intriguing. He was mysterious and had some kind of aura around him that, weirdly, felt like magic.

He mentioned this to his friend one day, but she just shrugged and told him she thought he was kind of scary. Ben supposed Nico was kind of scary, but the same way a black cat with eyes that shine in the dark is scary. And although Ben was aware that cats can start attacking someone without warning, he was also aware that they can turn out to be gentle and sweet. So, he decided to just go for it and find a way to unravel Nico like a mystery, clue by clue until he came to the verdict.

He approached him in the hallway one day and asked him if he perhaps wanted to join him and his friends to have lunch. Nico looked kind of surprised, but he answered, what Ben thought was truthfully, that he had something else to do and maybe some other time? That he had to meet with his boyfriend, it was the first time Ben had seen Nico smile and it looked so sweet and small, made him seem young and innocent. And before he could refrain himself, Ben started firing questions at Nico who looked quite uncomfortable. They parted ways and Ben had sketched an entire image of what Nico’s boyfriend looked like in his head. He could see them sitting on a bed somewhere, both boys a little shy and not necessarily talking much, but both doing some artistic thing like drawing or writing deep poetry while sometimes looking up and exchanging a little smile and maybe a sweet kiss too. Some slow music playing in the background. Maybe Ben had too much imagination.

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BMP Butler Headcanon: MC Gives A Gift That Makes The Butlers Fall in Love With Her

Okay this is kind of a ‘Part One’ because I didn’t really want to put these into one post plus I still need to finish the other half of the season 2 butler substories.

Headcanon received by lephrasia <33

Claude: I think he would appreciate cufflinks because they aren't super  noticeable and he would love that he could always wear something she  gave him. 

“I know you don't like standing out much, but I saw these at the clothing  store today and I couldn't help myself…" she blushes and hands me a  small box. I eye it suspiciously but still take it from her. I open the box to  find… Cuff links? Upon further inspection, I notice engraved on the silver circles was a smiley face. I crack a smile to myself, suppressing a laugh. 

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1.) because you’re here, right now. alive, breathing and you’re not smiling, i know that, but you still exist.

2.) if every lover was ‘the one’ and they all fucking stayed, we’d never grow up to be parents who showed our kids how to love someone right, even if it feels wrong. if everybody was perfect, we wouldn’t be human. remember that.

3.) just because he left you for someone else, does that mean he still holds your heart? yes, of course he does. you gave him that power, now give yourself the ability to smell smoke, fire and tragedy. everything hurts worse at 3 a.m. get some sleep, drink some water and love yourself. sweety, i know it hurts, but sometimes you just have to say fuck it.

4.) it doesn’t matter if you were in the wrong or if he was, if he moved on… then you should too. you have what he doesn’t have, you. you are strong, even if you have a couple cracks inside. even if you’re a shattered teacup trying to refill itself. you may be empty, but you must keep telling yourself that you are lovely. if not, i will. you are lovely.

5.) some people stay forever and i don’t mean physically. i mean mentally, emotionally and spiritually inside of your fucking soul. you can’t erase them. you can’t delete them. you can’t forget them. you can’t sleep. the least you can do is embrace the best parts of their undying memories. smile because you guys happened and move on. i believe in you. i do, i do. stranger of mine. because some love never leaves.

6.) i’m almost certain that you’re crying. can you feel it? you smell like rain. want to know why i love the rain? because it’s natural. baby girl, it’s natural to be a part of the earth. to love yourself enough to be emotional. you are loved and it doesn’t have to be romantic to be loved. i love you, dear human of mine. you are nature. remember that. we came from the earth before we came from our parents, you are natural. it is a natural response to cry.

7. it is a part of the soul. what is? the need to understand. to know why. to know how. to know when. to know what. i’m here to tell you that it’s okay to be confused. to be damaged. to be a bird that fell from the nest, you did not die. you’re simply injured. you will fix your own wings and you’ll make it. that’s called hope. have you hoped for anything lately? if you haven’t, here’s to hoping that you’ll smile today.

8.) i’m probably the worst person on tumblr to ask what to do and how to do it. i am, i fucked up my last relationship pretty bad, but you still mustered up the courage to message me. that makes you brave to me. you are strong. solid. as unmoving as the mountains. as unwavering as the ocean. as life-giving as the sun. you are sturdy, supportive and warm. remember that. now give it back to yourself, okay? you’re special too.

9.) has anyone called you pretty lately? yes? no? it doesn’t matter. idk what you look like or how you are, but it doesn’t matter. we need to be open. change happens everyday. i think you’re pretty even without your face. it’s a reminder to be proud of who you are for how you are. don’t let a guy decide your worth, you’re better than that. if all 8 reasons failed you so far, let this be the one to pull you back. you’re gorgeous. you’re beautiful. you’re amazing. now tell yourself those things. we all need a boost. insecurities hurt worse than heartbreak. that, i know.

10.) i know it feels like you can die at any moment because he was your arms, legs, fingers, hands, wrists, shoulders, tongue, lips, eyes, thighs, waist, bed, blanket, sun, star, moon, pen, paper, favorite color, favorite smile, and he gave the best hugs too probably. i know it hurts, i know darling, but i love you because we’re all human and we need affection. i know it isn’t quite like his, but stranger of mine. you can have my arms. you will survive this. some smoke needs to escape. some fires die out. some oceans dry out. some universes doesn’t hold much life. some hearts don’t beat as quick as ours. some lovers disappear quicker than when they appeared as true love, soul mate, or the one. i’m here to say you are the one. the one to keep yourself sane. to love yourself. to improve. to forget him. to be you. you are you and that’s all you’ll ever need to be. i promise.

11.) you are pure. simple as that. even if you lose your purity. virginity. mind. body. heart. soul. if we lose that light inside, we’ll all surely burn sweety. keep yourself going. sometimes we get dirt in our eyes, but you need to wash that part away. move past it. you need to feel your want to be better. you need to believe in yourself.

12.) the best things in life hurts us in the worst ways when they are no longer around. that’s why it’s called memories. you remember the stories. the light moments. the way you cried alone. how he was there in her arms and not yours. what’s this called again? oh yeah. maturity. you will grow from this. again… i promise. i promise. you will be amazing with this growth thing.

13.) if you made it this far and still crying, hey. you’re still cute and wanted. you just need to find yourself among the pile of tears. it stings to be unloved, trust me, i know. the image of him kissing someone else probably runs through your mind every night, but you know what? you aren’t running across his. remember that. you are not. you are not. you are not. but you know what? you’re all over these reasons. a stranger cares for you and you need not return anything but a smile and have some faith in your ability to thrive within this depression. some people die before they live, does that make sense? i still believe in you. little stranger of mine.

14.) it’ll take days to stop the texting. it’ll take weeks to stop calling. it’ll take months to stop answering. it’ll take years to not need them and even then? you’ll still be spitting out his poison, but remember he also holds the cure. who he was when he held your hands and never let go. who he was when he kissed your lips and only wanted you. that is the one you keep forever. not the one that let go, that isn’t him. what do they call this again? oh yeah. change. sweety… he changed. you should too. because loving him is swallowing you into the abyss and i heard demons don’t drown well in the dark. try one of my poems, i drown those fuckers every day. every day. i believe in you. even if you have doubt. hate yourself. want to die. swear you won’t make it to tomorrow. can’t get out of bed. crying on that cold restroom floor. thinking too much. eyes swollen from tears. upset and kicking. eyes blurry from sleepless nights and restless a.m. crusades to find his fingers. i know it hurts, but he let go and so should you… my brutal truth to you. but you already knew that.

15.) you are more than how a man sees you. more than how i see you. you are more than how they see you. you are a star. a galaxy. a universe. a bleeding heart. a kindred soul. a lover who is learning to let go. you are passion. you are human and my god, you’re beautiful. okay? i love you if nobody told you today. sleep tight sweety.

—  15 reasons as to why you are good enough
take my hand, we’re in foreign land

Title: take my hand, we’re in foreign land 
Author: phansomniac 
Artist: vocalsinmyveins
Beta: geistergeschichten
Word count: 13.5k
Rating: PG-13 (mentions of sex)
Warnings: TW alcohol, swearing ( a lot yikes dan) 
Summary: dan studies english lit and creative writing at university, a writer wound up in the works of art words can create. phil transfers to english lit, and after a one night stand they face the trials of living with each other for a year, coping with each other through ups and downs and, eventually, they find they’re closer than anticipated. 
Author’s Notes: i can’t actually believe this is finally completed!!!! it’s been a real Journey writing this fic but i’ve really loved working on it and i’m happy with the result!!! it took a lot of pain and suffering but i got through it and grown too attached to the characters (sven is my Son (#den otp)) so i’m really excited to see if you all like it <3 i am extremely grateful for all the lovely people who have helped me with this fic, especially my wonderful and supportive beta anna, my lovely artist sarah and my BFF amy for helping me so much throughout this whole writing process. thank you all for putting up with me and being so lax on me for cutting it so close to the deadline :’) i hope you like it!!!! msgs are encouraged bc i love feedback and i’d love to hear your opinion <33 alSO i was going to have a playlist for this but i gave up so the most important songs associated with this fic are death cab’s a lack of colour and transatlanticism, debussy’s clair de lune and tøp’s ms believer .

~~LINK TO ARTWORK HERE~~   // READ ON AO3 HERE

-

Dan sees colours in words and atmospheres between the spaces of letters and sometimes, his hands stain under the weight of black ink.

He has this theory, as the type of person who never leaves their hands without a pen or a notebook for more than a few minutes, that one day the words he prints onto paper will jump up and make something out of themselves. It’s more of a wish, really, when everything he writes seems to flatten into the paper and shrink into nothing, have no depth whatsoever. Because he wants his stories to thrive, to actually have a presence in peoples’ minds and be remembered, but it’s not so easy when his words don’t cooperate the way he wants them to.

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Galaxies in his eyes

Pairing: Jimin/everyone
Fandom: BTS-fandom / A.R.M.Y.
Genre: Fluff, angst (? …kinda)
Word Count: 2 458
Request: My sweetest happy vitamin, @luvarin requested me to write some non-AU Jimin/everyone fic in which the members love to stare at Jiminie~ So I wrote a ficlet where Jimin is everyone’s and nobody’s haha I hope you’ll enjoy reading it. (*๓´╰╯`๓) ❤

1. Namjoon

Jimin always comes at the right moment.

He always comes exactly that moment when Namjoon wants to collapse. When Namjoon wants to scream because he feels like shit, when feels like he is still not good enough. When he feels like the whole world is against him, and the stress and exhaustion and responsibility becomes unbearable.
These are the moments when Jimin comes in, quietly like a cat, a plate full of sandwitches in one hand and a mug of hot tea in the other. He glances at Namjoon with worry while sitting down next to him.

“Are you okay, hyung?”

“Yes,” Namjoon sighs. I wasn’t, but now I’m okay, he adds internally. “Thank you,” he points at the plate and a ghost of a smile appears on his lips when Jimin’s whole face lights up. Jimin’s smile burns his skin more than the tea.

“Did you read some rude comments?”

“Yeah, but I’m alright. It doesn’t matter.” It doesn’t matter but it hurts. Words are creeping under Namjoon’s skin and eating him from inside.

Namjoon likes to think about Bangtan as artists, not just idols. He likes to pretend that he is a tough guy, a totally ’manly’, strong leader with deep voice and unbreakable heart. They supposed be bulletproof, after all. But his image is a paper-thin mask made from ice and sometimes it scares Namjoon how easily that mask melts when Jimin is around.

“C’mon, hyung! Eat some sandwitches, food will lift your mood!” Jimin says encouragingly. “I made them for you.”

Namjoon hums and Jimin – to demonstrate how delicious the sandwitch is – grabs one and starts eating it. Namjoon studies the younger silently, Jimin is chewing on the food happily, mouth full and eyes sparkle. Like a little child, so easy to please him: only a few praises and thank yous, or some food is enough. He is slender, sensitive and small. Still, Jimin is Bangtan’s wall – they are punching him verbally with endless, playful teasing but in the end, Jimin is the one they can all lean on when everything feels too much to handle.

“What are you lookin’ at, Monnie hyung?” Jimin blinks at him with wide, innocent eyes, and Namjoon has to fist his fingers in order to fight down the urge of pinching or caressing the younger’s round cheeks.

He looks away, Jimin always makes him feel weak and embarrassed and dumb: despite his high IQ, his thoughts become messy and mind gets empty when Jimin is this close.

“There are crumbs on your chin,” he murmurs and watches as Jimin quickly wipes his lips.

Cute.
Too damn cute. Park Jimin should be illegal.

Still, Namjoon is more than thankful for Jimin’s presence, even though it’s hard for him to admit it. Jimin makes his thoughts messy but at least he is not thinking about the negative comments on twitter, either. Jimin makes his mind empty but his chest is full of warmth. Jimin makes him feel weak, but Namjoon knows that without him, he – and the entire Bangtan – would be nothing.

“Thank you,” he repeats suddenly, voice barely above than a whisper. But Jimin hears it and smiles, widely and dazzling, and even though Namjoon didn’t eat a single sandwitch, his mood is definitely a lot better. “Thank you, Jimin.”

“Woah, what’s with you today, hyung?” Jimin giggles and Namjoon quickly stuffs another sandwitch into his mouth.

“Just shut up already and eat, okay?”

***

2. Seokjin

Jimin sniffs and grins widely when the so-loved smell of chicken reaches his nose. The boy walks towards the kitchen and hugs the other male from behind. Jimin barely can wrap his shorter arms around the broad shoulders.

“Do you need some help, hyung?”

Seokjin smiles softly and nods a little. He turns on the radio and they continue to prepare dinner in perfect synch while singing their favorite songs. The older almost cuts his finger while staring when Jimin tries to reach some ingredient on his tippy toes and his shirt curls up, exposing his tummy.

“Yah, Jimin-ah, stop distracting me!” Seokjin shakes his head while frowning but his voice has no bite in it.


“Hyung, do you need any help?” Jimin asks the next day as well, but now it’s dance practice time and Seokjin is not in the mood to smile.

“Yes, please,” he huffs resignedly and watches in awe as the younger boy dances that difficult choreography without problems.

“You’ll learn the dance really quickly, I promise,“ Jimin gives a thumbs up to him and takes off his sweater, exposing his toned biceps.

“Yah, stop distracting me again!” Seokjin punches his dongsaeng lightly and laughs at Jimin’s confused look, but on the inside he wants to melt into a puddle right now.


"Hyung~” Jimin singsongs as he walks in the older’s room and plops down the bed, right next to Jin. “Tomorrow will be your birthday! Are you excited?”

“Mhmm,” Seokjin is half asleep, tired after the rough and long practice.  

“I prepared something for you! A gift!” Jimin says enthusiastically, while looking at him with shiny puppy eyes. “I hope that you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure that I will,” Seokjin pulls the other into an embrace and caresses the younger’s back. Jimin’s body is small and warm and smells like cinnamon – and he wants to tell him that he doesn’t want any gift as long as Jimin is on his side. But before he could say anything, he falls asleep with colorful, sweet, cinnamon-flavoured dreams; and Jimin between his arms.

***

3. Yoongi

Yoongi is not staring. He just collects inspiration. That’s it – inspiration.

Sleeping, dancing, singing, inhaling and exhaling – it doesn’t matter, because Yoongi could watch him forever. Every flutter of those eyelashes is a pull on Yoongi’s heartstrings, the sweet note resonates inside him and then later embodies in the form of lyrics and music.

Every bump of Jimin’s spine and the knuckles of his hands are art themselves, and there is poetry written on the smooth crook of his neck. There are invisible lines and patterns drawn on his soft skin but Yoongi can see them, he follows every shape and curve with his gaze, and every inch is so beautiful, so achingly perfect, he could write a million songs about Jimin’s jawline only.

But Yoongi’s favorites are the eyes, always the eyes. They are closed right now but Yoongi knows them well enough without looking at them. Those dark irises are sometimes calm and eternal like the sky, sometimes full of undulating emotions – and Yoongi swims in the depth of them.

His fingers are hovering over the blue paths of veins, but he never touches Jimin. It would burn his hand, it would burn him down like a ruined building.

“I want to see you playing the piano again, hyung,” Jimin suddenly opens his eyes and smiles at him.

Shit! He was awake the entire time?! Yoongi flinches away and there is no air in his lungs.
There is no air but flower petals and ash.

“Then dance for me,” Yoongi grumbles, his raspy voice cracks on the words ’for me’. He can hardly say no, not to Jimin. His eyes linger on the younger’s plump lips just a second more than they should before looking away.

Yoongi is always cold and Jimin is like the sun – life-giving, radiating warmth and brightness. But if you are too close, then dangerously torrid and blinding.

“Okay,” Jimin chirps with a toothy smile. “Could you please play ’I Need U’?” He suggests innocently.

Innocence grows in your brain and as the time goes, it eats itself alive. Yoongi nods, his long, bony fingers are trembling nervously. Love grows in your heart and eats you alive.

“Of course.”

His fingertips are tracing over the piano’s keyboard and Jimin dances; gracefully and elegantly like some gorgeous butterfly swirling in the wind. Yoongi could watch him forever. Every movement is like breathing and every smile is like rebirth. But Yoongi doesn’t want to rebirth, he wants to burn down like a ruined building.

***

4. Hoseok

Hoseok stares at him, pretending to focus only on the accuracy of the choreography. Jimin’s face is gleaming with sweat and he bites in his bottom lip while concentrating. His brows are furrowed, his muscles are jiggling and tensing. Every movement is sharp and clean, powerful and lithe. Hoseok can feel those strong emotions boiling in his chest, it always happen when he stares at Jimin too long. He is not really subtle about his feelings, though – but Jimin always shrugs them off like some overused joke.

“How perfect you are,” Hoseok murmurs, eyes never leaving Jimin’s body. Not for a single moment – no, it would be a big waste of time.

“Hm?” Jimin stops and turns to him, he couldn’t hear Hoseok because of the loud beat but somehow he just knows when to stop and ask.

Jimin always knows. He knows when to keep quiet and listen obediently. He knows when someone needs a hug or an encouraging speech. He knows when someone needs harsh but honest words. And he doesn’t only knows; he always does his best at comforting others, helping others, notice their wishes, too. It’s some magical ability what Hoseok could never understand but admire.

“Nothing, Jiminie. You did very well, please continue~”, Hoseok shakes his head, but when Jimin nods and flashes a smile at him, he can’t hold back himself anymore.

He walks to Jimin and hugs him tightly. Jimin always knows when someone needs a hug, except if that someone is Hoseok; because Hoseok needs a hug, his hug every second.

“Yah, hyung, I’m all sweaty~ Don’t hug me, it’s gross!” Jimin giggles, and Hoseok only pulls him closer.

“Someone who is almost perfect is never gross, Jiminie,” Hoseok whispers into Jimin’s ear, the younger shudders at the hot breath against his sensitive skin.

“Almost?” Jimin laughs but Hoseok doesn’t reply.

Yes, almost, Jiminie. Your only flaw is that you doesn’t love me back the way I want you to.

***

5. Taehyung

The interview is boring and Taehyung looks at his best friend to whisper something funny, a great pun – but the words die in his throat and his breath hitches when a smile spreads across Jimin’s face.

They are living together for four years now but Taehyung sometimes forgets it – and then the reality slaps him in the face with its full force. He sometimes forgets how beautiful Jimin is – and when he notices, when he realizes, it makes his mind numb and mouth dry.

Taehyung stares at him and hopes that the cameras are showing the talking Yoongi right now. He hopes that he is not that obvious, when wraps an arm around Jimin’s shoulders because his body is suddenly aching for contact – it’s a friendly gesture, best friends do this, right? The expression on his face softens when Jimin starts laughing at Jeongguk’s weird jokes and antics. Jimin’s voice is Taehyung’s favorite sound in the world, it makes his spine tingle and head dizzy. It makes Taehyung see stars at daylight.

Taehyung was a huge space enthusiast as a child. His dream was to become an astronaut; flying where nobody else, explore what nobody else. He liked the tales about aliens, he liked gazing at shooting stars and learning about interesting space facts.
Then he had to grow up and change his mind. But since he met Jimin, he sometimes feels like an astronaut or a little kid again, exploring a foreign universe.
Because Jimin is warm and bright like the sun. Jimin has whole galaxies in his irises and when he cries, it’s as if stars are falling from his eyes. He is so breathtaking Taehyung sometimes can’t take off his eyes of him.

“V-sshi, please answer the fan’s question,” the MC’s voice wrests him from his thoughts. “Did you have any other dream besides becoming a singer?”

Taehyung steals a glance towards Jimin. Normally he would answer this question like ’model’ or ’actor’, but–

“Yeah, I did. I wanted to become an astronaut.”

“Aw, so great, so unique! But don’t be sad that you couldn’t fulfill that dream, V-sshi! At least the other one came true!” The MC winks at him with a grin.

Taehyung smiles back while pulling Jimin even closer. “I have a third dream but that’s a secret. I will tell you when it’ll came true!”

The MC laughs and Taehyung squeezes Jimin’s shoulder. His third dream will came true; he will make those galaxies in Jimin’s eyes his and only his, as soon as he will able to gather enough courage.
But until then, he has to be content only with exploring.

***

6. Jeongguk

Jimin is gentle wake ups in the morning and the one who always tugs back the slipped down blanket to cover Jungkook’s sleeping body. He is optimism and sunshine filtering through leaves. He is beaming smiles and sparkling eyes, always filled with kindness and passion. He is steaming coffee in a colorful mug and long singing hours in the studio. He is diligent practice and the freedom of dance. He is the massage for aching muscles and the one who always takes care of him and listens when Jungkook needs it. He is occasionally used Busan satoori. He is safety, a shelter – Jeongguk can nuzzle his nose into Jimin’s soft hair, or bury his face into Jimin’s shoulder. Jimin is home.

But sometimes it surprises Jeongguk, how small and fragile and tired Jimin is. When Jimin is sleeping peacefully, between 3 and 4 A.M., that’s the time when Jeongguk likes to stare at him and listen to his drumming heartbeats. That’s the time when all layers of worry and pressure fall down, there is no make up on Jimin’s face and his eyelashes are painting long stripes of shadow on the canvas of his milky skin. Jeongguk counts them, all of Jimin’s eyelashes. His stomach tightens with some weird, joyful feeling when he presses a tiny, light kiss on Jimin’s eyelid, he can feel as the skin flutters under his lips. Darkness covers him and his blushing face when he noiselessly slips out Jimin’s room.

He is not ready to face with these emotions at daylight, he is not ready to tell Jimin about this. Not yet. It’s not about trust – Jeongguk doesn’t trust anyone as much as the members of Bangtan –, it’s about cowardice. Jeongguk is not ready to face with that how much he likes Jimin, needs Jimin. How much he craves his attention and affection.

Only darkness is his, yet; only the time between 3 and 4 A.M. But Jeongguk feels like he could never get tired of watching Jimin and counting his eyelashes.

Thank you so much for reading this!!! (*^ワ^*)
Also, my request box is open. Please give me requests, prompts, starter lines, or whatever else you want. I’ll try my best to fulfill them~ :3 ♥♡♥♡

Dear tumblr,
   
         I guess this counts as a “myblank” It’s to all of you, a true ‘blank’ because I don’t know you. They call it the tumblr community and I feel that it is more of a community than any other social media site. The very few of you I know in real life are the type of people who’s souls are too big for their bodies. You step into their soul when you’re near them as easily as stepping into someone’s shadow, they can’t hide it. They wear it like an overcoat. It’s warm sometimes, but that coat can drag you to the bottom of the ocean. And it’s because their souls are too big to hide that they are easy to step on. I kind of identify, we can’t defend it all. People step on it all day. We shelter other people in the shade of our best intentions, and offer pieces of ourselves in words, and paint, and even in our memes, often leaving little for ourselves to creep home and cover up in. This letter is to those of you younger than I am, and the demographic of tumblr suggests most of you are. A little background. I’m a 46 year old male, and I don’t lead what you’d likely consider an artful life. I unload trucks for a living basically. There’s more sweat and dirt, than poetry in my day-to-day living.
I enjoy drawing, and writing, and art. This is where I come to feed that part of myself. I wish there would of been a place like this to come to in the 80’s when I was your age. When family asked me why I liked the things I do. When I spent almost all my time alone reading at the top of the stairs in that drafty old farm house. When I gave up college to take care of sick family members. When I was voluntarily homeless for a time trying to save to fix up a family members home. It would of been so nice to know there were others like yourselves. Like me. What I had was one person. One lovely creature who encouraged me once, and disappeared the night we turned our tassels to the other side. It really was like a John Hughes movie back in the day. You didn’t step out of your clique. She did. The cheerleader told the nerd she liked his writing. Such a thing in 1988 was risky.  She noticed the only thing I liked about myself and publicly expressed that to me. Everything I’ve written for the last 28 years has started with the image of her smiling at me. More like a mermaid than angel she resurfaced from the faceless sea recently. I panicked and I ghosted her. Someone I thought about every day, and I added it up once, 4.89 times a day for 28 years, total stories and poems written, days since I last saw her….4.89 times a day, and I ghosted her. I think about her lot more these days. I contacted her again recently and we’re friends now. I wanted to get myself together before I saw her. That’s why I ran. I lost 90 lbs, got in shape, got some  money in the bank. I thought I was ready. What I was, was too late. She contacted me, and she wanted to walk with me under the light of a ‘super moon’ The next time, when I was 'ready’ she told me she had met someone and was happy. I’m glad she’s happy. I wondered over the years. I’m glad to be her friend. But, I feel like I’m keeping a secret, she knows little of this. Like ice cream, there’s a lot of flavors of love. Friends, can be a little bitter.
This is why I’m writing this to some of you, to Someone Waiting. It’s like reading posts by a younger me many times, and I want to tell younger me: Don’t wait. You love someone? Tell them right now. Don’t wait till you’re thinner, don’t wait till you’re financially stronger, don’t wait. Do it. Do it now. We have at best, AT BEST, 100 years, 80 if you’re lucky. It’s a tiny island of time in an infinate ocean of complete oblivion. I sit here on my lunch hour begging you to do what you want to do. People will tell you you owe them. You owe yourself. No one else. I sit here in a dead end job, covered in dirt, and regretting the missed opportunity of doing what I wanted for a living. Most of all regretting not waking up tomorrow, warm on the  inside, next to someone who’s soul is as big as their shadow. Too big to be contained. Fear lies. Time flies. I regret. Don’t wait.  Do it now.
                                      J.