in all their colorful glory

Color

Member: Kang Daniel

Genre: Soulmate!AU

Word Count: 1200+

Description: You lost the ability to see color at the young age of 5. Now, you’re a sophomore in college but you still haven’t met your soulmate. Will you ever see color again?

A/N: This wasn’t requested but I really like soulmate AUs, haha. I haven’t written in a while so sorry about that! I have a couple requests right now and I’ll get started on them ASAP. I’ll be traveling soon, so I won’t be working on requests during that time frame, please forgive me! Enjoy this Daniel scenario!

By the way, I still can’t believe he has female cats named Peter and Rooney.


You never really understood the concept of soulmates, never really became interested in them. Everyone around you were infatuated with the idea of meeting their soulmates and were utterly determined to meet their soulmate.

Your mother and father were soulmates, their soulmate bond was with the concept of matching tattoos. Growing up, your parents always told you these mystical stories of soulmates and how the bonds work.

There was the matching tattoos, where a couple would be born with the same tattoos at the same exact spot on their body. One of your closest friends, Somi, had this bond. She met her soulmate during her third year of high school. The two of you were at the convince store, buying snacks for your sleepover later that night. Somi was reaching out to grab an ice cream bar when suddenly a male grabbed it too. On both of their wrists were their tattoos. A small infinity sign on the front of their wrist.

Another bond you heard of had to do with the sense of smell. This particular bond was quite an interesting concept, due to the fact that once you are in a relatively close distance with your soulmate, you can smell their scent. For example, your sister, Jisoo, had this type of bond. One Monday morning, you trailed along her side to get a fresh cup of coffee. The cafe smelled completely of coffee and bread, and yet she kept mentioning that it smelled like fresh laundry. She mentioned that it was very faint, until she went to the cashier to order. When she reached the counter, the scent of fresh laundry was tremendous. Thus, just like that, she had met her soulmate (according to your sister’s soulmate, she smells like strawberries to him).

At the age of 5, your world of color stopped. It ceased to exist. On your 5th birthday, you asked your parents why everything suddenly became dark, why everything became grey. 

Keep reading

8

I feel like I should name this .. The Room of Much? The Room of Happy? The room where I try and cram all my shit into and fuck anybody who goes ‘OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU’ ?

It’s like the ultimate acid test in an relationship - bring a man into this room and if  he doesn’t run away screaming he’s a keeper. 

Anyhow. This is where the arts happen.  I might make a video. Photos don’t really capture the epileptic glory of all the color and… stuff. 

STOP THE MATCH! BY PALUTENA, HE’S ALREADY K.O.d! ARCEUS BLESS THE RING!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m not dead yo, just out in parties.

(and actually self loathing a lot because my own drawing skills and perfectionist attitude)

BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT, the point is, i’m always cooking new things for you guys.

This drawing here, however, was inspired by two things: the Skullgirls N.M.O. Arena theme (i’ve been picking up skullgirls again) and the little funfact that Peach -of all mario characters- was originally intended to be the extra boxer in the remake of Punch-out wii (but wasn’t included because…you know…battle damage, DK was a more acceptable punching bag), so the idea of peach being able to duke it out with the best in the ring amuses me so.

So i got to work and this piece came out, i hope you all enjoy it in its colorful glory, because lemme tell you, this one was BIG.

Oh, by the by, the banners in the backgrounds? HAVE AT THEE.

Yes, i even spent some quality time with these lovely background thingies, I’m a man of detail don’t you know?

3

18.02.2017

So here is my weekly spread in all its rose and red colored glory! I’m very happy with how it turned out since it was inspired by Jimin’s rose colored hair for their comeback I mean did you look at him?? Oh and btw i died watching their new mv of Spring Day but I’m going to stop here since I don’t want to fangirl too hard haha and also because red and rose are some of my favorite colors 🌸

2

Thank you, darling! Actually, there was a time in my teen years when I dyed the ends of my hair blue during the off-season! I thought it looked really cute! But Lilia made me cut it off before the first Grand Prix event, so my fans were deprived of seeing me in all my colorful glory. (Yuuri somehow found a picture online of me with dyed hair though??? It always kind of shocks me when I remember how big a fan he was.)

So, I might’ve done 50 things wrong setting up my first Digivice, but, at least now I can sit back and watch my kiddos demolish the enemies on that official website…

My World is a Kaleidoscope

My world is like a kaleidoscope, I want to tell them
Soft pastels bleed into a setting resembling a Monet painting, while a single thread of focus holds my attention
A book, a particularly rhythmic piece of music, the bliss of a soft pair of pants
It sounds silly, to say it out loud, but my world is not the same as your world
Or maybe we just experience it through different lenses

I won’t lie, it isn’t all beautiful
The sound of someone using a paper towel grinds on my ears like the shriek of monkeys
If you say something to me in the wrong tone of voice, I have to try and convince myself you aren’t angry

People tell me I look nice with my hair up, but what they don’t know is that wearing it down makes my neck feel as though a million pine needles are rubbing against my skin
I couldn’t wear jeans until I was in middle school, because their fabric felt like sandpaper on my skin
When I went to primary school in England, my mother had to order special shirts for my uniforms because if someone tried to put a polo on me, I would cry and scream because the collar felt like someone was strangling me

There used to be a commercial about recognizing the signs of a stroke, with Sharon Stone in it
She wore all white makeup, and the lighting would menacingly flicker in, and she’d talk in a deep, monotone voice
And every time I saw that commercial, up until I was 12 or 13 and they stopped airing it, I would instantly feel my blood go cold and my skin go clammy
My heart would start beating really fast, and since I didn’t know what was happening to me, all I could do was scream until someone else ran in to mute the commercial
It was involuntary, I have no idea what it was about that commercial, but I remember it vividly
I remember being ashamed, embarrassed, that I could not control myself
That part never went away

I want to tell them that I am an artist
When I was little, I mean, like two years old, I used to memorize the names of all the Crayola colors in the box
And when I went to pre k, and everyone else was learning red, green, blue
I knew magenta, burnt sienna, turquoise, sky blue, royal blue, violet, periwinkle, lime
I said these colors like they were the gospel because to me they were something beautiful, and I loved all of them

I couldn’t hold a pencil until I was in third or fourth grade, and I had to get special permission to type my assignments
My hand didn’t have the fine motor skills necessary for writing, which meant it didn’t have the motor skills necessary for coloring or drawing neat little pictures

But everyday, I’d bring my parents piles of artwork, piles of colored pictures, all outside of the lines, all scribbled glory and unabashed youth
Kids used to make fun of me, and I spent so much time crying out near the cubbies because I couldn’t color like they did, or write my name like they did
Then they made fun of me for crying, but I kept drawing

Today I’ve won county, state, and regional contests, when I was a freshmen my art made it to a national contest through 4H
And still, sometimes my hand will drop a pencil, or fling a utensil out in front of my desk for no reason
And everyone will look at me, but I don’t cry anymore
Never in front of them again

I want to tell them that I love science
When I was very young, I mean, 4 years old, my mom pulled up videos of amoebas on our home computer
I thought those were the greatest, funniest things in the world, the way they ate up the other organisms and absorbed them into their own mass
I used to look up different types of bacteria, strep and staph and their different strains, I looked up genetic diseases and the rarest medical conditions
My favorite show was House M.D. as a fourth grader

When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said a neurologist, than I said neuro-genetics, and now I say biochemistry and genetics
I used to be ashamed and scared of my interests, and nobody ever wanted to talk to me about CRISPR or gene therapy or cloning, and now these things are assets to me
I’ve been lucky enough to know what I wanted to do since I was six, and I think how many people get to know what their passions are before they even know how to write

I want to tell them about my family
My sister, the nonconformist who loves to read and despises fractions with a passion
Whose wit is sharp enough to slice steel, whose stubbornness and perseverance earned her the affectionate nickname “little buffalo”
My little sister with perfect pitch, who plays two instruments and isn’t even in middle school yet
My sister who has the best stories but can’t spell to save her life, who is the most creative mind in school but is confined to fill-in-the-blank standardized tests that confuse her
My sister, who people keep reminding me “isn’t like me,” they see me the say “prodigy”
And they see her and they think “unfocused, doesn’t apply herself, isn’t academically gifted but has a great personality,” which is to say they only value creativity when it’s measureable, profitable

My mother, who knows what I am going through and sees too much of herself in me for this to be an accident
Who grew up dissecting animals on the farm because she loved anatomy, who couldn’t follow social conventions, who never had the opportunities I do now
My mother who grew up in a time where people like my sister and I weren’t accommodated but beaten, whispered about, stared at in the middle of small town gatherings
My mother who lost friendships with other parents who took personal offense to me as a child, who raised me with no knowledge on what Autism Spectrum actually meant
My mother who has grown so much, who sees her own childhood and experiences finally explained in me and through the information now available

My father, who is so quiet and also the entire comforting roar of ocean waves
He is an artist like me, but also a builder, a thinker, an innovator
A master of blending in, and still I recognize an air of familiarity
In the exhilarated discussion of the Everglades and tropical fish, and in the brutal scrutiny in his carpentry
I hesitate letting him in on school projects because even though I know that with him it will be absolutely perfect, he will spend an hour trying to get the paper on the poster board straight
My father, the kitchen’s beat boxer and repeater of words, the artist and builder and crafter, who loves my sister and I and understands as closely as anyone will ever get

I want to tell them that I, that we, people like me, are not accidents
We’re not just mistakes in genetic code, or a series of environmental factors, or puzzles waiting to be solved
If they really want to get to know us, they can just ask us
Our lives aren’t always easy, we suffer sometimes, I know I’ve suffered sometimes
Sometimes we can be tedious, our needs may be difficult to pinpoint, our behavior may shock you or horrify you or scare you or bewilder you
But then, at this point I ask, doesn’t everyone have moments like this
We are all burdens, we are all gifts, we are all worthy of living as we are

I want to tell them that I don’t want to be fixed, because there is nothing to be fixed
Maybe I’d like to not bang my head against a wall when I’m stressed, or not be too uncomfortable to be hugged, or not scratch and pick at my skin when I’m anxious, or not be unable to talk sometimes, or not feel like my brain is stuffed with cotton during verbal conversations
Maybe I’d like to be able to write like other people, to be able to copy down pictures and graphs in my physics and math classes with ease like they do, to be able to read numbers like they do, to be able to go to parties and malls and social gatherings without feeling like I’m floating away like they do

But I think of all the things I’d potentially be giving up if they would have their “cure”
My drawings, maybe I’d still be an artist, but I never would have had the determination, the passion I do now because I would have known what it was like to color inside the lines, my art would not be the same
Maybe I’d still like science, but I would never have spent hours researching the human brain and psychology and genetics, I would never have known the joy and amusement I felt when my mother showed toddler-me the amoebas

Maybe my sister would still be a musician, but she would not have the focus to listen to the same song over and over, the ability to recognize when a note is flat or sharp or just right without looking at sheet music
She’d never have the compassion and open-mindedness she has now because she knows what it’s like to truly function differently from everyone else and be ridiculed for it

Maybe we wouldn’t have our problems anymore, but we also wouldn’t be us anymore
Our experiences would be taken from us in the name of our own good, our passion exchanged in the name of normalcy

They can argue with me all they want, tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, call me a liar, dare to call me “high-functioning”
But they will never know what it’s like at all, they’ll never see the world as a kaleidoscope

And that’s okay, but what I really want to tell them, is that they don’t have to be afraid
I want to tell them that their children are going to be okay, and they are too
I know it’s hard, I know it’s confusing, but they will get through this and their kids are not broken, they too will persevere

I want to tell them that vaccines did not cause this, we have always been here
I want to tell them that people don’t grow out of this, there are plenty of adults on the spectrum, and that’s okay

I want to tell them that trying to make their kid “normal” only teaches them to be ashamed, and only teaches them to hide their true nature, which only causes more problems
I want to tell them that even if there was a cure, they’d be altering the entirety of a person’s mind, their interests, behavior, personality, potential experiences, and I don’t think that that is a choice anyone should get to make

I want to tell them that they’ll never entirely understand, no one can entirely understand another person’s brain anyway and it would be foolish to try and generalize anyways
I want to tell them that’s okay
We just experience things from different lenses

Timed Prompt (20 min)

  • Prompt: Kyungsoo likes art, and he sees a painting in an exhibit of a male dancing. Yet, he isn’t aware the inspiration for the art stands beside him.

Kyungsoo eyes the painting in all of its pure glory. Perched on a cream colored wall, it boasts its elegance and comes to life within the room. The dancer steps onto the pearly tiled floor, the light tap of his toes inaudible. Long and slender, his frame moves with graceful motions, each step practiced to perfection–for that it was he is; utterly fluorescent and enchanting. The dancer pulls him in with little to no effort.

As his eyes trace the gentle lines of the figure within the frame, he loses himself in thought and doesn’t notice someone taking a step beside him. Even breaths spew from his lips as his pupils travel from the top to the bottom, never breaking from the chromatic mixture of colors that speaks life into his being.

Inspirational–this painting, it almost wills his limbs to move. He misses dancing. It was once his passion. Yet, the cruel reality catches up to him quickly from the subtle ache in his knee that presents a restriction. An injury, an obstacle, something which he thought he could come back from. However, when fate can not turn back time, acceptance is recognized in its place.

“Do you like it?” A voice rich and deep says beside him. Curious tones hang from the ends of the man’s words and maybe even a bit of hesitation.

Kyungsoo doesn’t pick up on those things however, because his eyes have landed on a face of heaven. They soak in the richly bronze skin under the ethereal features of passionate eyes, plush lips and dark auburn hair.

“Yes,” his voice is scratchy and low from lack of usage, “I love it.” he says, turning his eyes to the painting once again. “The dancer speaks to me, I used to dance.” Kyungsoo continues, aided by an odd sense of comfort he seeks in a mere stranger.

“Why don’t you?” The question is soft, faint, as though he knows such a delicate matter could shatter Kyungsoo’s existence. And it very well could have, if he’d asked months ago, but not now. Kyungsoo has accepted his path.

“An injury…they said I can never dance again…” he fades into a tone bathed in sadness.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” The man says, and Kyungsoo thinks he is sincere. He turns to face the stranger again and sees a sharp jawline of a picture-perfect profile as the man looks up at the piece of art. “I hope that through this painting you can find the peace in your heart.” With those words, the man begins to leave.

“Wait…” he hears falls off his lips, and the man stops. Kyungsoo isn’t sure why, but this man, he needs to know. “What’s your name?”

The man turns with a simper on those soft lips before he says, “Jongin.” he continues walking and Kyungsoo bites back his next inquiry.

Contemplative eyes loop up to look at the art once more, and when they land upon the golden plaque situated just below–he reads, Jongin.

Warmth spreads in his cheeks as the sweetest smile stretches across his face, he whispers, “Jongin.”