Youmistme - Life's Too Short For A 5'2 Bitch

youmistme

2 years ago

how dyu make friends on tumblr.... like i even see authors make friends on wattpad yall are so brave goddamn

Tags :

youmistme i have one friend on tumblr and she's my classmate

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youmistme

2 years ago

i swear to my neighbors dog and her broken teeth if this fanfic or any from OLI2L DISAPPEARS LIKE THE HOW TTCOOS DID THEN THERE WILL BE ARSON

Our Love in two lines

✑Pairing: Idol Boyfriend! Taehyung X Pregnant artist! Reader

✑ Genre: Angst and fluff (beginning has some angst.)

✑Warnings: pregnancy, crying, thoughts of breakup.

✑ Words: 2.5K

☞ Summary: Taehyung always wears his heart out on his sleeves. You get pregnant unexpectedly, why don’t his emotions come rushing through as usual?

prequel- Her Love in two lines

read the sequel too! His Love in two lines

this is a work of fiction, does not represent the artist in it and their behaviour!

Do not repost or plagiarize my work! You’re an untalented weak imbecile if you do so :)

Keep reading

Tags :

im pissed tumblr what is this behaviour i loved ttcoos WHY

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youmistme

2 years ago

tumblr I WILL FIGHT YOU

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youmistme

2 years ago

ok wtf tumblr, the original fanfic just disappeared, I only have this reblogged ver left???? its gone from my masterlist too??? man wth???? i literally love this fanfic with all my heart wtf happened bro

trace the colours of our skin

✑Pairing: non idol! Taehyung x Reader

☞ Summary: It was comforting knowing you could see the rawest and truest form of your blind date just like how he could.

OR: agreeing to go on a blind date for a YouTube video where you both are naked and talk about yourselves while drawing each other might have been the best idea.

✑ Genre: fluff, honest emotions, and just really a heart-to-heart conversation.

✑ warning: talks about self insecurities, body image issues, cultural acceptance

✑ Words: 2.5 K

this is a work of fiction, does not represent the artist in it and their behaviour!

Do not repost or plagiarize my work! You’re an untalented weak imbecile if you do so :)

Expectation is an interesting concept. You can either expect too much or too little. It's often rather difficult to expect just the right amount, albeit from a person or circumstances or yourself. So when you opened your phone that Thursday morning to 27 missed calls from Material gworl Vera, you knew something was up. And you didn't have the slightest clue on what to expect.

Considering the fact that Vera, your friend who is the manager of the youtube channel CUT, decided to call you this many times, the very thought of expecting anything positive was out the window. A dreadful sigh and several excuses over the phone later about wanting to watch Hell’s Kitchen instead of what new shit Vera had planned, it was over. She wanted you to be in a YouTube video.

The premise of the YouTube video was simple; you and a stranger are to strip down your clothing to the bare, paint each other, and talk, on a blind date!

Although the thought behind the video was simple, it was also vulnerable. You from a couple of years ago wouldn’t have agreed to something that shows such a raw and true self. The person you had become now was much more comfortable in her skin, the thought of showing any ounce of your flesh came at ease. You didn’t feel anxious or worried about the very little, insignificant insecurities of your body anymore.

Vera texted you the details for the video and certain precautions as soon as you muttered a ‘yes.’

The white-walled studio with large studio lights caught your eyes first since the light coming from them was so bright that you had to squint.

“Y/n! Here!,” a slender pair of arms wrapped around your shoulder, turning with a dimpled grin you hugged back. Vera stood back, a few inches taller than you, a sparkly grin on her as she swayed her hand behind with a click of her black heels.

Another figure came into view and you can swear you regret every second for not noticing earlier. There stood a man, his face angled to his right side, seemingly focused on the black pomeranian trotting on the marble floor. His hair was chocolate brown allowing the studio lights to make the ends look honey caramel as his slender fingers played with the thin silver ring on his index finger.

Vera nudged her elbow, catching the man's attention, his once focused and stoic expression quickly melted as his lips curved into a plump smile, only growing into an open-mouthed smile as his attention fell to you. Before Vera could begin to introduce you two, as a mutual connection- his hand raised upright to you. A bounce to his step as he stepped closer; your eyes travelled down to his white rolled sleeve till his elbow; hand with thin red and green bracelets dangling.

Shaking his hand, your eyes curved into glassy crescent moons as he spoke, “I’m Kim- eer- Taehyung Kim. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

His accent was heavy, flowing wonderfully with his baritone voice. You figured with his name that he was Korean, but still chose to respond back in English out of respect.

“All the pleasure of meeting you, Taehyung. Can I gloss over the formalities? I’m Y/N by the way!” a cherry smile played over your lips as you saw his eyes glimmer with every word you said, processing it, then fluttering his eyes to respond.

That’s when your eyes caught the thin gold-rimmed glasses, he adjusted them with a title of his head and his unoccupied hand. “Of course, Y/n! It’s only fair if we get com-comfort? Sorry I don’t know the word.”

“Yes yo-” a bark emerged from the corner of your leg, jumping back a bit, you saw the little pomeranian he was looking at earlier. He sighed before chuckling at the puppy admiringly and picking it up with ease. “I’m a dad by the way.” you tilted your head in confusion.

He waddled the little fur ball in his arms and bit his lips, “he’s my son, Yeontan. Tannie say hi to her!”

The dog puckered his nose and sniffed in your direction seemingly trying to get closer to you while still in his dad’s arms. A laugh broke out as you cooed at the cute puppy. “He usually doesn’t go near people, I’m surprised he uh- approach you.”

“Awwww! Tannie, c’mere baby!” the Korean easily slipped out of your tongue and Taehyung’s laughing figure halted to look at you, he handed Yeontan to your embrace. “Korean’s better isn’t it? Even tannie can understand us.”

Smiling foolishly to himself, he nodded his head. “You’re right.”

“I know~” “Yes yes, you’re right at everything. Maybe I should start calling you Miss Right.” he joked.

Vera who was watching this unfold raised her brows wondering how the hell she paired these two together.

A deep exhale left you as you looked at the studio lights and Vera setting up a few cameras in different parts, some other staff placing the painting easels and paints on two sides with a set of two chairs.

Taehyung appeared by your side, he nodded his head and gently placed his hand on your slightly exposed shoulder. His hand was warm. His glasses were still settled on the bridge of his nose, he looked at you and then in the camera. Even with this small gesture, the feeling of your nerves feeling tingly went away. Or, the feeling of Taehyung’s warmth interfered.

You had to admit, he looked good in the satin green robe that ended a few inches before his ankles. His little bracelets complemented well with the robe, you thought. You were draped with a velvety red satin robe that ended right below your ankles, falling a bit long.

“Your lipstick shade and earrings match your robe,” he stated like he was also thinking about you as much as he was. You returned a grateful but shy smile in return.

Vera took a breath in before clapping her hands to get you two's attention. She raised her fist up to a thumbs-up, signalling the camera has started recording.

“Hello!” Vera greeted you guys loudly behind the camera.

You both echoed back a series of ‘hi’s’ and ‘how are you’s’ back.

“Do you guys know what we’re doing today? What are we here for?”

“Get naked and paint each other!” Taehyung’s daegu accent enthusiastically responded back.

Vera chuckled and muttered something about putting in subtitles for the video.

“Very excited, huh, Taehyung?,” you asked him directly in front of the camera after seeing his enthusiasm.

“Absolutely! I’m gonna bring out my inner Vincent Van Gogh and You. Will. Be. Amazed.” he concluded by showing some jazz hands to further emphasise.

“Excited for what you draw! Now, let’s get started, shall we? You guys take the robes off, take as much time as you need to adjust yourself.”

Behind the camera, you could see Vera with a determined face, fists joined- giving you a silent “it’s going to be all good, good luck” sign.

Taehyung looked at you with a gentle smile and spoke in his heavy English accent, “Should we take the robes off together?”

“Yeah!” you instantly agreed.

1

2

3

You braced yourself a little before remembering your own ongoing journey of accepting your body and tugged the rob off.

The air was chilly, the robe which you held as a shield of some sorts was now bunched up at your ankle and you realised everyone around you could see you. See you through and through, every mark, stretch mark, your figure, your breasts- all of it. Looking to your right, stood Taehyung, broad and tall. He gave you a shy smile before opening his arms and gesturing for a hug. Was it random? To hug a stranger naked whom you met 20 minutes ago? Yes. Even though it may seem weird, the tension that was built when the robes fell slowly disappeared as you quickly hugged him back. His warm body was a contrast to the chilly studio air, you almost didn’t want to let go until you did.

“So-! Who’s gonna paint whom first?” Vera asked.

“I’ll paint you first? Is that alright?”

Taehyung nodded in response and for the first time noted in Korean, “your accent is very good.”

Muttering a thank you, you sat on the chair in front of the easel.

He angled himself with his hips bending on one side and hands resting on either side of his hips. For a short while your eyes scanned his figure, he was toned but not too much. He was lean and had body hair in a few places. Some parts of his thighs had the smooth white lines of stretch marks which you smiled at. He was a confident man, who knew how to appreciate and love his body for who it was.

As you began sketching on the canvas, Vera dropped the first question. “Taehyung, ask Y/N what her ideal type is.”

Perking up on the question, “M’lady, may I have the pleasure of knowing the type of people you fancy?”

His french accent was adorable to the point where you held your stomach laughing. “Monsieur Taehyung, I would say my ideal type does not exist. I always try to keep my eyes open to all sorts of people- I don’t have an ideal type. Whoever makes me feel right, is my type.”

He smiled and nodded. “How about you? Do you have one?”

Furrowing his brows he shook his head a little. “I used to. I haven’t in recent years. I believe if they can make me feel loved and worthy, they are my type-but, isn’t that everyone's type?” You agreed.

“How confident are you in your own body?”

You took a moment to gather your thoughts to give a worthwhile answer, “ My body, you know, it’s been through a lot. Scarring, self-hatred, others hating on my body- it’s not just me who has felt and gone through this, my body has too. I feel like every word I say about my body, it feels it. And it’s hurtful ‘cause this is the very body that has carried me and helped me live for the past twenty-two years. It is only fair if I care for it like it has for me. Throwing baseless accusations at it like “why aren’t my boobs bigger?” or “why do I have hip-dips?” all of this stopped mattering as I grew older. I am much more confident in my body now.``

He stayed silent for a while before nodding his head. “I truly understand that. Growing up I always wanted to be all bulky and a hunk, I realised how difficult my eating habits had become in college. Wherever I am now with my body, it is all because I made myself do it, no one else.” he replied back as you continued on with your painting.

You both continued talking back and forth as your painting progressed and was near its end. You did not miss the way Taehyung used every opportunity to tell you how beautiful you were. You were sure the camera caught your cherry red cheeks and nose.

After adding the final touches to the painting, you declared it was over. Taehyung leaped excitedly and you swear you could melt a little from how cute he was. Vera gestured you to show the painting to the camera. You proudly presented your work with a cheeky grin.

His mouth flung open, awing your painting. “Don’t tell me. You’re an actual artist?”

Chuckling, you nodded. “Yes, silly!!”

He looks back at the camera with wide eyes, dumbfounded. “Guys, I had no idea she was this good. This is all a trap- let’s end the video here-” he joked.

“Aw c'mon'! I’m sure whatever you make will be special in its own taehyung-charm way.”

“Whatever”

“No seriously, you’re this handsome, only fair if your painting looks just as handsome.” he turned his head away as his ears started getting pink.

And so started his painting. You stood in front of him with your legs crossed and arms stretching behind you, giving your body a nice shape- a thing or two you learned while drawing the models.

“What are your biggest insecurities?” you asked Taehyung like how he did to you before.

Without missing a beat he replied, “ I don’t think this is an insecurity but growing up I always felt pressured to act a certain way, act more westernised. Being Korean and of course looking Korean, it was difficult to stand up for myself when i got picked upon for being a small little asian boy. Now, I am proud of being Korean and representing my nation.”

You hummed in agreement while adding a few points about insecurities yourself.

“What are you proud about in your body?”

“My entire body, it has nurtured me and taken care of me. I sing and dance a lot since I’m a performing arts major, my body listens to me well and co-operates. I’m glad at how flexible my body is with me.”

“Yes, especially for people who dance or are athletes, taking care and understanding what your body needs is very important,” you added to his words.

The conversation continued and drifted off to other things. You learned that he loved Jajangmyeon and pear-flavoured cider. He hates coffee but has acquired a sudden liking for rose wine and vintage watches. You shared a few things about yourself like how you eat extra spicy buldak ramyeon on days when you are angry or sad and how you don’t like tea but prefer strawberry shakes instead.

Vera gently broke off your continuing conversation as he neared the end of his painting.

“Ta-da!!!” he gave a boxy boyish grin while showing off his little painting to the camera. You cooed at his cuteness. The painting did look very inspired by van Goh, the strokes of the paints not really blending with each other.

To you, it was extraordinary, any one being painted with the look he had in his eyes while he painted you would be extraordinary.

“I wanted to capture y/n’s like-ness. She has a very gentle but fierce look to her. She seems like a very well thought out person who has their morals straight and I wanted to capture that essence,” he explained in a shy voice while scratching the back of his neck.

You clapped for his painting followed by the other people in the studio and he gingerly placed one hand on top of another and bowed.

“Would you guys like a second date?” a question popped up form one of the staff members behind the camera.

Without hesitating, you both said yes. “Maybe with clothes on, next time.”

“Or not,” Taehyung added with a sly smirk.

@youmistme

a/n: YALL THIS WAS INSPIRED BY A LITERAL YT VIDEO I WATCHED A FEW MONTHS AGOOOO HAHAHAH

the youtube video if u guys wanna watch it, its really cute : video

i hope you guys liked this!!! @hopelesslylivv

thank you @hopelesslylivv for being part of my taglist💗

Tags :

tumblr youre the 6the circle to hell i hate u ahhhhh

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youmistme

2 years ago

TELL ME THERE IS A PART 2 BECAUSE I NEED, I REPEAT I NEED TO KNOW MORE!!!!! the writing, the little flashback scenes, the sincerity and hurt that taehyung felt, the betrayal and nostalgia the reader feels- I LOVE IT

when I tell you, i sobbed my eyes out with this one. Not to mention my breakup-firstlove playlist was going on in the background ughhhhhh

i really liked this 🫶🏼

but we were something, don’t you think so? roaring 20s, tossing pennies in the pool, and if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you.

⇢ title: the 1.

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x f!reader

⇢ genre: exes!au, non-idol!au angst, fluff

⇢ word count: approx. 7.4k

⇢ summary: a return to your hometown also means reminiscing what has been — and even pondering what could have been. but in the middle of your trip down memory lane, who should turn up but the person behind every bittersweet memory?

⇢ warnings: angst!!!, crying, swearing, lots of flashbacks, lots of nostalgia and bittersweet stuff, mentions of pregnancy (not reader!!), like a 0.2 second implication that oc is shorter than taehyung??, i cried writing this (but also i’m an emotional bitch so that might just be a me problem)

⇢ italics mean it’s flashback.

⇢ reblogs, comments and asks mean the absolute world to me. likes are very much appreciated, but a reminder that they’re not as motivating to content creators!!

THE SKY IS cracking open, leaking shades of gentle pink and hues of vivid orange when you step outside and onto your balcony. The soft twitter of a bird accompanies the gentle breeze that tugs at the locks of your hair as you take a small sip from the mug cradled between your hands, surveying the achingly familiar city around you.

It's been six years, but you're home.

Returning to your childhood city wasn't an easy choice, but when you'd arrived late last night, memories indwelling every corner your car took, somehow, you knew you'd made the right decision. Funnily enough, it was the fountain in the town centre that really cinched it. A glimpse of it had sent you careering backward into a time when your world was a boxy smile and a deep laugh.

Now, as the sun peeks over the horizon, and your drink is drained, you exhale. Content. You have your own place. You have a steady job, a job you love. You have friends. You're happy. You're home.

Life is good.

Later, you're wandering the streets, in a nostalgic attempt to reacquaint yourself with the places you've left. Isn't it curious, how pieces of you seem to remain behind in places you've long abandoned?

The gazebo bench you chipped your tooth on when you were nine, wild, carefree, full of helpless laughter and happy cries. The park you frequented every day after school with your large group of friends, age thirteen, the beginnings of adolescence, the belief that not even high school could tear you apart. The cafe you studied in for hours after school with your two remaining friends, at sixteen, desperately driven by dreams and ache and longing to escape the confines of your suffocating town.

"I've decided that I hate her," you say, flopping backward and squinting up at the sky, blinded by bright sunlight

"Baby, if you keep changing positions I can't draw you," he remonstrates lightly, his dark eyes fixed on the sketchbook in front of him, pencil flitting over it in long, light strokes while he looks between you and the paper.

"Oh. Sorry!" You sit back up, reassume your position leaning against the tree trunk, and watch him work quietly, interested in the easy movement of his pencil, the furrow of his brow, the soft bottom lip he chews on in concentration.

"Keep talking," he says, without looking up. "Who do we hate?"

"We?"

He shrugs, surveying his drawing critically. "If you hate them, I hate them."

It's stupid, really, how warm that sentence makes you.

"Lindsey Green," you add after a second. "I am telling you, she's had it out for me since kindergarten!"

"You've known her since kindergarten?"

"Known and hated. Lifelong enemies, her and I," you say dramatically, because you know it makes him smile when you're like this.

"Oh? Do tell," he plays along, biting back a smile.

"I don't know. I think she has a crush on you. And she has for a while, apparently. Which is, you know, fine, you can't really control your feelings, and fair enough, she fell for you first. But I don't want to her to flirt with you right in front of me!" You rattle off, and he humours you between pencil strokes, nodding and making approving noises in all the right places. You move on to other topics, complaining about school, about Mr Seo, about anything and everything, just because he asks you to keep talking.

You ask him why, and he shrugs again, a simple "I like listening to you." falling from his lips.

You tell him it's dangerous to make girls' hearts flutter like that. He smiles, and tells you with a kiss on the nose, "You're my only girl."

"I hate this place too," you say, a few moments later, scanning the streets surrounding the park, the trees, the houses, everything the same as yesterday, everything the same as tomorrow.

"Why?"

"I don't know. Everything is so boring," you say. "Everything is the same. Everyone knows each other. I don't like going to the supermarket and running into three of my teachers. I don't like that everything is so small and so cramped. It's suffocating here."

"Where would you want to go?"

"The city," you say dreamily. "Somewhere big and busy and bustling with people and places and somewhere where you feel alive. I want more than this. I want more than existing, I want to live."

He looks at you, a gentle smile on his face. "You deserve it," he says softly.

Funny, how life does that, because here you are, back in this very town, outside this very cafe, ordering the very same coffee you drank all those years ago. Yet somehow, you don't regret it. You don't find the town too small anymore. You don't find it suffocating. You've seen the world, and you've come home now.

The owner of the cafe is the same, only he's more wrinkled now, and salt and pepper sprinkles his hair. He doesn't recognise you, and you don't try to make him. This morning is not for catch-up and small talk and life updates — today is for you, one day solely to remember the traces of your youth, before you settle into dull reality of adulthood once more.

You pass by someone else in the cafe, a teenage girl, cupping a hot chocolate in her hands — it's loaded with marshmallows and whipped cream, more sugar than anything, and the whiff of it sends you hurtling back to four years ago.

"That shit is like, a mug of pure sugar."

"And it's so-ooo-ooo good," he moans, licking whipped cream from the top, eyes meeting yours with a grin. "Your coffee is too bitter."

"Coward," you retort, sticking your tongue out. "Your hot chocolate is too sweet."

"I have a sweet tooth!" he defends. "I like sweet things." His dark eyes glint mischievously. "Like you!"

You try to brush off the heat that rises on your cheeks, blaming the flush on the steam from the coffee in your hands. But he catches it anyway, of course. "You're cute when you're flustered."

The memory has your mind reeling for a second, but after a weirded out look from the girl, you emerge from the cafe, second coffee of the day in hand, and decide to wander around town aimlessly.

You pass a bookstore, the bookstore, and a smile turns up your lips as you remember you and your best friend, Sora, trawling the shelves for hours, desperate for words, words, words. The two of you had worn down the grumpy bookshop owner, Mr Hwang, to the point that sometimes he'd even smile at the two of you. Reluctant, small, but there. He'd always joked dryly that you two girls were the sole reason his bookshop stayed afloat; the number of books you bought were unhealthy.

But of course, there's no escape, because as you sort through your fond memories of the bookshop, you stumble across one that even now forces a wistful smile.

"You know we've been in here for an entire hour, right?" He appears next to you, one eyebrow raised, leaning on the bookshelf as you scan the first few pages of a sci-fi novel. When he doesn't receive a response, he glances down at the book too, and wrinkles his nose. "You don't even read sci-fi! You like contempany."

"Contemporary," you correct with a giggle. "Besides, I'm trying to broaden my horizons."

His eyes soften at the sound of your laugh, and he twirls a strand of your hair on his finger. "My point stands, by the way. We've been in here forever. I'm hungryyyy," he drags out the last word, eyes widening beseechingly.

You pout. "But I haven't chosen yet!"

He gestures to the stack of six books beside you. "I thought you wanted those?"

You sigh. "Unfortunately, I'm not made of money. I can't buy six. I need to pick one or two, and I'll come back for the rest another time, I guess."

He makes a noise of disapproval. "Boring." And he sweeps them into his arms, plucking the sci-fi out of your hands too, before striding towards the cashier desk purposefully, plopping them down on the wood.

"Wha — wait!" You follow him helplessly, trying to grab books from the pile. "What are you doing?"

He glances at you like it's obvious, simultaneously handing his card to Mr Hwang, who ignores your protests. "Buying your books?"

"But — wh — you can't! Mr Hwang!" you splutter, pink-faced and struggling to form coherent sentences.

Mr Hwang remains unbothered. "Transaction's gone through," he tells the two of you, bored. "If you want to pay, I'll refund it."

"No thank you!" Your boyfriend tells him cheerfully, takes his card back, and taking the brown bag of books too. "Come on, baby. D'you feel like burgers? Or maybe pasta?"

He turns when he realises you're not following him, just gazing at him, stunned, and he smiles, shakes his head, and grabs your hand to tug you with him out the door.

"You shouldn't have done that," you scold, suddenly recovering your speech capabilities. But at the same time, you're holding back a delighted smile as your gaze fixes on the brown bag in his hand. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't," he says, an aggravating half-smile on his face. "Burgers or pasta?"

When you don't respond, he sighs. "Baby, don't. I wanted to, okay?" He steps closer, cups your cheek with his free hand, and smiles at you. "I like seeing you happy, alright?"

He drops a gentle peck on your nose, and a sudden beam overtakes your lips.

"Thank you thank you thank you!" you squeal, and fling your arms around his neck. He laughs, taken aback by the sudden change, but catches you in his arms anyway, tightening his hold.

Then you pull away, taking his free hand in yours, and give him a radiant smile. "Pasta!"

"Pasta," Sora decides finally, snapping the menu shut, and you giggle at the full circle she's come. She'd said pasta, then debated a salad, and then sushi and then just a bowl of fries, before finally settling on pasta once more.

"Indecisive as ever," you tease lightly, reaching over to pinch her cheeks once the waiter melts away. You can't help yourself — it's been months since you've last seen her, and despite her claiming that nothing has changed, you can detect something is different. In a good way; she's glowing, and you tell her as much.

"I'm not a fucking lightbulb," is her sharp, characteristic retort, that has both of you descending into a bout of laughter — so akin to the whispered conversations at the back of Mr Seo's Physics classes that another wave of nostalgia hits you.

But of course, this is different. This is the here and the now, not the past duo, stressing about pimples and tests and giggling in hushed whispers at the back of the classroom. Those days are far over, and now what's left is two older (less-pimpled) successful women, but somehow, the two of you seem to have remained equally as immature.

"So...?" You drag out, waggling your eyebrows at her expectantly.

"So what?" she asks, and you scoff.

"Oh, come on, asshole, spit it out! There's something you're dying to tell me, I can see it on your face. What, is it Jimin? You guys finally set a date for the wedding?"

Her face creases into a pout. "I hate that you know me so well. No, no date yet, but we're thinking late spring, actually."

"So? What is it?"

"Alright, alright, fine!" she sighs dramatically. "You're the first person I'm telling this to, by the way. Other than Jimin."

"Oh?" You lean forward, intrigued. "Tell me more."

A wide grin splits her face open, and there's the glow again, washing her delicate features with radiance. "I'm pregnant."

You blink once, and then your mouth falls open. "Shut the fuck up," you say lowly, and then again, much louder. "Shut the fuck up! Oh my God!"

"Shhhh!" she hushes frantically, as half the restaurant turns towards you in confusion — but you, of course, pay no mind to them, hands flying to your mouth in shock.

"Sora!" you whisper-yell, tears springing to your eyes — you can't help the way your heart clenches with emotion, so full with pure, unadulterated happiness for your best friend of over a decade.

"I know!" Her face mirrors yours, and suddenly the glow makes sense.

"How far?"

"Just about three months. I'm starting to show."

"And you haven't told anyone? Your parents?"

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. "No, not yet."

You nod understandingly, mind briefly flashing back to the late night calls you'd get in high school, asking if she could stay over.

"Oh my God," you repeat, shaking your head. "Holy shit, Sora."

"I know," she repeats, a little smile on her face.

"And Jimin? When'd you tell him? How'd he take it? I need everything," you urge, suddenly desperate to know everything you've missed out on, suddenly desperate to wrap your arms around the achingly familiar girl in front of you. You know her inside out, and you have for over a decade, and now she's going to be a mother. Your Sora, your bold, beautiful best friend with a sharp brain and sharper tongue — you remember holding her after her first boyfriend broke up with her. You remember sleepovers painting each other's nails. Movie marathons and debating over which actor was hotter. You remember the day she met Park Jimin, the way she came home from their first date, all starry-eyed and dreamy sighs. You remember, you remember, you remember, and now she's sitting across from you, more beautiful than ever, and pregnant.

The food comes, giving you a moment to collect yourself, as Sora regales you with the tale of how she told Jimin, how he cried almost straight away, and your lips turn upward at the thought of the soft-spoken man with a heart of gold.

But Sora wipes your smile off in a second when she reaches over tentatively to grab your hand. "Hey, me and Jimin talked, and we thought..." she trails off, looking at you unsurely.

"You thought?"

"___, we want you to be the baby's godmother," she says softly.

Tears spring to your eyes a second time, and a second time, your hands fly to your mouth, pressing against your lips with a sharp breath.

"Hey! I'm the pregnant one, I should be emotional!" Sora teases lightly, but softens her gaze when you speak again.

"Me?"

"Of course," she says simply. "Who else?"

"God, I don't — yes, yes of course!" you say quickly, and you shake your head, overwhelmed. "I — I know I haven't been the best, at being here, especially the past few years, but — "

"No." Her voice is calm, quiet, firm. "Don't be an idiot. You're my best friend, and nothing will change that, alright?"

You swipe the single tear that escaped your eye away, furious with yourself for letting emotions overwhelm you.

"Alright?" Sora repeats herself, relentless.

"Alright," you say obediently, and force a watery smile on your face.

"You're here now, and that's what matters," she says, with that signature, million-watt grin, the one Jimin claims let him know she was the one.

"I am," you agree quietly. "And I'm going to be the best damn godmother there ever was," you add resolutely, and Sora grins.

Later, after the two of you have devoured into your pasta, and are wandering the streets again, you find something amusing on your phone. "Says here your baby's the size of a lime at twelve weeks," you inform Sora, showing her the website. As she takes the phone, you direct your voice to her stomach. "Hey, little Lime."

"You are not calling my kid little Lime," Sora says instantly, poking an elbow into your side.

"Ow! Why not? You don't know the gender yet, and the first time I met your baby, it was a lime."

"My baby is not a lime! They're the size of a lime!" Sora cries, throwing her hands up in exasperation, and you cackle deviously.

"Little lime it is! Hey, are you having a gender reveal party?" Your mind takes a turn, picturing balloons and streamers already. "You could do one of those — "

As you begin to chatter about cakes, your mind strays to the street opposite, absently watching people climb onto a bus, but your breath catches and your voice sticks in your throat, your ramble dying out instantaneously.

Fluffy brown hair. Long coat. Tall, broad-shouldered.

Fucking breathe.

And then the man turns, and you catch a glimpse of his face, decidedly unfamiliar, completely and utterly not who you thought it was.

Exhale.

"___?" Sora's looking at you oddly, and you shake your head, coming out of your trance.

"I — yeah, sorry, I got — distracted." Your voice is suddenly quieter, because the sight of the Almost-Him has you drowning in thoughts.

If you see him, what will you do?

Will you be able to take it? Will you cry? Will you smile, hug him, paint over the cracks in your heart to make a few minutes of small talk?

"Okay," Sora says dubiously, looking between you, and the bus pulling away, your gaze transfixed to it as you lose yourself in your thoughts. "Well, Jimin and I were thinking about doing something, but nothing too big, you know?"

"Yeah," you say, slowly returning back to the here and the now. You shake your head once more, snapping out of it. "Well, I don't know... I'd say little Lime deserves the best."

You grin cheekily as Sora lets out a pained groan, and suddenly things are back to normal.

Only for a time, because once you're home, in the late evening, curled up on the couch alone, your thoughts return.

You can't pretend to yourself that you haven't thought about him. Of course you have, countless times, endless minutes picturing him, his devastating smile, the curls of brown hair, the way his eyes sparkle. You've made up what he's doing; after a double major in business and photography, maybe he's started his own photography company. He travels. Adventurous, like he wanted. He doesn't date a lot, but eventually a friend convinces him to try a dating app, and it works, and now he has a beautiful girl with a heart of gold, and a great sense of humour, who treats him right.

Of course, that's the writer in you. Creating a little story, patching up the loose ends, tying them together so everything's wrapped up nicely and topped with a bow.

If only life was that easy.

The next day brings the first day of your new job — journalism has been something you've had your sights on since high school, and by now, through years of studying and work and toil, you've made a small name for yourself in the media community. Leading you full circle, back home, back to a town bursting with memories . College had made you grateful for your vivid memory, but when you're turning a corner and thrown back to the time that Linsdey Green pushed you over by kindergarten playground, you wonder if it really is such a good thing.

Your first day passes smooth and uneventful, but after hours cooped up inside, you decide on a walk before returning home. The cobbled streets you know so well, the trees dancing in the winter breeze — the chill in the air makes you wonder if it's going to snow.

You don't have a particular destination in mind, but two streets down, you find yourself at a fountain. The fountain.

It's like your feet brought you there automatically, tracing past footsteps, walking a path you've walked many, many times before. Still, that doesn't brace you for the nostalgia that hits when you see the grimy cast stone, and the bubbling water, the pennies glinting in the pool.

It seems smaller, somehow.

"It's a wishing fountain," he informs you proudly, and you shake your head at him.

"The whole town knows it's a wishing fountain, dork."

He sticks a tongue out at you, but slips his arm around your waist as he does, pulling you closer to him. The two of you watch a small girl, no more than five or six, clutching her mother's hand, throw a penny into the pool. You see the smile that spreads her lips wide at the splash, see her squeeze her eyes shut and mumble a little wish for herself, as her mother looks on, endeared.

"Cute," he mumbles, from above you, and you glance at him, an agreeing smile on your face.

The girl and her mother leave, with the girl's small question of "Do you think my wish will come true?", and the mother's reply of "Of course, sweetie. That's what wishing fountains are for."

And then a small, round piece of metal is pressed into your hand, the other hand being dragged toward the fountain. "Make a wish!" he instructs eagerly, bouncing on his heels

"Wish for what?" you laugh, peering at the fountain, and then back at his figure beside you.

"Anything in the world!" he declares, and he looks so glorious in the late afternoon light, eyes like dark honey, chestnut curls glinting in the sunlight, face alight with childish excitement.

You take a sharp breath in as you watch him squeeze his eyes shut and whisper a wish of his own, the words blurring together too fast for you to make out. And then you close your own eyes, clench your fist around the penny in your hand, because suddenly you know what to wish for.

"Miss?"

A quiet, tiny voice, accompanied with a tug on your coat drags you out your reverie, and a small girl of maybe eight stands beside you, blonde hair in two dainty braids and eyes peering up at you.

"Are you okay?" she asks you importantly.

"Ye — yeah," you say, slightly perplexed. "Are you?"

"You're crying," she informs you, tiny finger pointing at your cheeks.

And sure enough, when you bring your fingers up to brush against your skin, they come back wet.

"You can't not have balloons at a party!" you argue, balancing a too-big cardboard box in one hand and your phone in the other, struggling desperately up the stairs to your apartment.

"That's what I'm saying!" Sora agrees, from the other line, but Jimin fights back.

"It's going to be so much work to blow them all up," he argues. You can picture the two of them, Jimin leaning on the kitchen counter while Sora perches on it next to him, the phone on speaker between them

"Lame," you sing. "Just admit you're a lazy butt, Park."

"I will revoke your godmother status right now," he warns, and you gasp dramatically.

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Sora, he's trying to take me away from little Lime!" you wail, as you finally get the front door of your apartment open and drop the box by the pile of shoes next to your front door. "Fuck, that box is so big."

"How are you still not done unpacking? You've been here two weeks." Sora's disapproving voice sounds, and you tilt your head back in a groan.

"Yeah, okay, mother, I'm sorry."

"Who's the lazy one now?" Jimin crows triumphantly, and you scowl.

"I hate you both."

"You want to come over for pizza?" Sora asks.

You brighten. "I take it back, I've never said anything bad about you in my life. I'll be there in like, twenty minutes."

"I'm really craving Hawaiian," Sora muses.

"You hate pineapple!" Jimin says immediately, utterly bewildered.

"Pregnant woman," she reminds him, and he groans.

"I hate pineapple," he grumbles, and you giggle, hanging up and leaving it to Sora that he's capable of ordering more than one type of pizza.

It's forty minutes later, you perched on Jimin and Sora's couch in sweats and a ratty old t-shirt, devouring a slice of pizza, when he arrives at the door.

Of course, when the bell rings, you don't know it's him. As Sora and Jimin exchange bemused glances ("Who's that gonna be? You didn't invite anyone?"), and Jimin gets up to check, you remain oblivious, totally unassuming.

Until Jimin opens the door, and the deep sound of a familiar baritone reaches the living room.

It's been four years since you've heard that voice, but you know it instantly, and everything in your freezes, some inexplicable dread growing from your stomach to your chest, trickling like you've been doused in cold water.

Not like this, is the first thought that comes to your dumbstruck mind. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

In reality, there isn't a way it's supposed to be.

How could you forget that he and Jimin are just as close as you and Sora?

Sora recovers from the shock faster than you, and claps a hand over your mouth. "Don't say anything, and he won't know you're here," she hisses, and in your haze of confusion and the rush of emotions tugging at your heart, you thank your lucky stars that she's much more quick-minded than you.

Gradually, your ears strain to hear the conversation.

"...-ting pizza? Without me?" His voice is light, filled with mock outrage, and something in your heart cracks when you imagine the teasing expression you know is on his face right now.

"Pregnancy cravings," Jimin says easily. "I'd ask you to come in, bro, but Sora's a little... y'know, emotional right now."

("Bitch, where?" Sora mutters darkly.)

"Ah," he says understandingly. "Pregnancy, I guess. Speaking of, I can't believe you kept it from me for so long!"

"Well," Jimin snorts, "I listen to what Sora tells me, and she wanted to tell _ — someone else before I got to tell anyone."

"Idiot," Sora curses her fiancé's slip up quietly, and you're struck by how absurd this whole thing is. You and Sora, deathly silent in your sweats in the living room, you wide-eyed and clutching a limp slice of pizza like it's an anchor, and Sora keeping her hand over your mouth, both of you listening intently to the conversation down the hall.

"Well, I'm jealous of whoever it is," he hums, apparently not noticing Jimin's mistake. And you wince, wondering if he'd still be jealous if he knew the truth. "Anyway, I just wanted to drop that off, so I'll go, leave you to Sora. See you, man."

And as the two men exchange their farewells, Jimin stepping outside to hug him goodbye, you and Sora let out a joint exhale of relief.

Then you look at each other, just once, and collapse into hysterical laughter.

"That was — the tensest five minutes of my entire life," Sora gasps out, "and I've sat on a toilet holding a pregnancy test!"

And the statement only has you collapsing further into laughter, tears pooling in your eyes — and that's how Jimin finds the two of you, gasping for air and holding your sides.

"Wh — you guys make no sense at all," he says, brows furrowed in bewilderment. "You know who that was, right?"

"Of course we do," Sora giggles out, and you nod.

"It's just — you should've seen us, we looked ridiculous," you say, through helpless laughter.

"___'s eyes were so wide," Sora agrees, bugging her own eyes out and sending you off into another fit of laughter.

"How are the two of you still as immature as high school?" Jimin asks, a smile quirking at his lips.

"Shut up, grandpa, let us have our fun," Sora says, and throws a chip at him — unfortunately, the effect is ruined when he catches it in his mouth easily, a smirk settling on his face.

"But in all seriousness, are you okay?" Sora turns to you.

You blink. "I — yeah, fine. Spectacular. This pizza's just as good as I remember, actually."

She fixes you with a Look, and you sigh, relenting.

"I don't know," you admit truthfully. "I don't know how I feel right now. I'm just confused."

"Well, that's fine, right? You quite literally heard your ex's voice out of nowhere, after four years. It's normal to feel weird," Sora offers, a slight question in her tone, because she doesn't really know what she's saying.

"Yeah," you agree distractedly. It had been weird, knowing he was mere metres away from you, so close after so long, and you'd heard him talk.

"Does — does he know I'm back?" You turn to Jimin.

Jimin frowns, shrugs. "I actually... don't know. I didn't know whether to mention it to him." He hesitates. "He was... a mess, afterwards. Really. I don't think he meant to hurt you."

"I know," you say softly. "I know."

"I just didn't know if you wanted me to say or not," Jimin adds, and you wave him off.

"No, it's fine. I mean, we'll run into each other eventually, right? It's a small town, and with the baby too... we're both gonna be around. It's inevitable."

And it is inevitable. Maybe it always has been, maybe fate always wrote it this way. Maybe you and Taehyung are the moon and the sun. Destined to cross paths again and again and again in a blinding eclipse. Destined to meet over and over, but never to linger, never to stay. Maybe there was never a forever written in your stars.

"D'you believe in fate?"

Your question is sudden, shattering the comfortable silence that had settled over your figures. The two of you are laying in the park — three in the morning, gazing at the stars, before rolling over to gaze at each other; when he'd shown up under your bedroom window, and you'd climbed out, a mixture of excitement and nervousness bubbling at your chest, you'd thought, 'Maybe this is living. Really, really living.'

He lets out a low whistle. "Whew. Just like that, huh?"

"Willy-nilly," you say with a smile in your voice. "It's the only way."

"Well." He sucks in a breath, his gaze growing distant in thought. "I don't know."

You wait, and when he doesn't say anything else, you groan and dig an finger into his ribs. "Ahh, come on. There's gotta be more than that."

A reluctant smile spreads on his cheeks. "Well," he begins, rolling onto his back to look at the sky again. "I never used to."

"I sense a but," you tell him, waiting for more.

"I have — " he rolls back to face you, a mischievous smile adorning his face " — a great butt. And you can sense it any time you'd like," he adds, winking at you exaggeratedly, and you muffle a laugh with your fist.

"No, seriously," you whine.

He mimics your pout. "Seriously?" And then reaches out to tug lightly on a strand of your hair with a gentle smile, as he drifts into a thought. You let him, content to just gaze at his face, strewn with thoughtfulness, and wait.

"I didn't used to,' he echoes slowly, still fiddling with your hair. His gaze drops to yours, and a fuller, brighter smile adorns his lips at the sight of you. "But I think something must have brought me to you."

"Yeah, Mrs Fui, remember?" you joke, trying to ignore the blush rising on your cheeks, the warmth stirring your chest.

He shakes his head at the mention of your Literature teacher. "I owe her so much," he says dramatically clutching his chest, and you giggle, which turns into a squeal when he suddenly tugs you closer, arms warm around you, tucking you under his chin.

"Better," he sighs, satisfied, and you try to wipe the ridiculous beam of your face.

A few moments of silence.

"I think fate brought me to you too," you whisper into his chest. The only sign that he's heard comes in the form of a lingering kiss on the top of your head, and the tightening of his arms.

A longer silence.

"D'you think —" (a shuddering yawn) " —there's bugs in this grass?" you ask sleepily.

His body shakes with a bout of surprised laughter, and he presses his face into your hair as the deep chuckles fall out his throat and into the air. "God," he mumbles, so quietly that if you'd breathed wrong you wouldn't have heard it. "I fucking love you."

The fountain becomes a haunt for you in the next week.

It isn't even purposeful, but almost each and every time, you end up there, staring thoughtfully at your reflection in the water. The air is getting colder and colder, and you're sure within a few weeks the water will freeze over, locking the pennies in a prison of ice until spring rolls around and wishes are made once more.

Gazing at the fountain is a peculiar. It sends you tumbling into the past almost straight away, just because it holds so much of your life — it's wonderfully odd, how a glimpse or a whiff of a scent or a phrase can remind you of so many things, so many people, so many places.

Your first date ended up here. Your first kiss was here. He asked you to be his girlfriend here. This is where the two of you began.

It's also where the two of you ended.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," you whisper, voice cracking, arms curled around yourself tightly. It's late, it's cold, but that's the least of your concerns right now.

"Because I need to let you go," he answers, equally soft, his hands reaching out to cup your face.

"No you don't!" The frustration that seeps into your voice doesn't make him recoil.

"You're meant for bigger things, my love," he urges. "Bigger than us."

You don't understand, because what could be bigger than 'us'? What could be bigger than forever?

"That's not true," you beg through tears, hands coming up to cover his as they press into your cheeks. "You know that's not true, you have to know that."

His eyes squeeze shut for one long moment, and when they open again, they're glistening with unshed tears. "I'm not doing this because I want to, baby."

"Then don't do it!" It's so easy, it's so simple, you want to scream at him. You want to make him understand.

"It's not that easy," he responds to your unspoken thoughts. He's always been good at that.

"Why?" Who knew one word could hold so much pain?

"Because I love you," he says simply, but you don't miss the way his voice hitches slightly.

"I love you too, you know that, you know I do," you babble, tears slipping fast down your face. There are no sobs, no ugly, shuddering breaths — not yet. Those come later, buried in Sora's arms.

"I know," he promises, with a saddened smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But you want more, baby, and I'm holding you back. I won't do that to you."

Two years of high school. Two years of college — long-distance, packed with 5-hour long FaceTime calls and "I miss you"s and surprise weekend visits and over it all, the time limit.

"We were doing good," you insist, voice splintered. "We were doing so good."

And you were. You'd battled long-distance so well, fought off the cliches that had broken so many relationships, fought for each other so hard and for so long.

"We were," he agrees, and he twirls your hair with his finger, for the last time, this is the last time. "We were incredible. And now," he draws you closer, wipes away your tears, cups your cheeks with both hands and kisses your forehead once, long, lingering, sweet, painful. "Now, you're going to be even better."

"I can't," you weep, clinging to his hands, clinging to him. "Not without you."

"You can do anything," he says, so surely you want to believe him. "You're a miracle."

"I hate you," you whimper, finally leaning into his chest, wrapping your arms around him, and all the while remembering that this is the last time, the last time. "I hate you and I love you so much and I hate you."

"I love you," he says tenderly, and gathers you close.

He holds you for 78 seconds. You count.

And then he pulls back, and you finally see that he's crying too. "Promise me," he says, catching your jaw in his hand, tilting it to look at him. "Promise me you'll look after yourself."

You gulp back a sob. "Only if you promise the same."

He lifts a pinky, a bittersweet smile gracing his lips as you lace your smallest finger with his (for the last time, the last time).

"I love you," you say simultaneously, and a strangle giggle escapes both your throats. And then he cuts it off with a kiss, soft, painful — and the feel of his lips lingers. It lingers for months. Years. Sweet, but bruising.

Because even when shattering your heart into a thousand pieces, he is gentle.

You blink out your memory suddenly and without warning — but at first, you don't realise, because he is standing in front of the fountain. And, idiotic as ever, you think you're still in the rut of your memories.

Until he says your name.

You don't cry, like you thought you might, but you don't smile either. There's no hug. No small talk. Just your eyes widening in realisation, in recognition, and your lips parting in shock, and your voice trapped in your throat.

For the first time in four years, you allow your lips to shape his name.

"Taehyung."

He steps closer, and your eyes flit over his figure.

"You got taller," you say dumbly.

An unexpected smile lights his face up. "A little," he concurs, inclining his head. And he grins down at you, that mischievous glimmer in his eye, so familiar that your heart throbs. "I see you didn't."

An equally unexpected laugh slips out your mouth. And, just like those many years ago, his eyes soften at the sound. You almost expect him to reach out and twirl your hair on his finger.

Judging by the way his hand twitches, he almost does.

"You're back," he states the obvious.

"I'm back," you confirm, unable to tear your gaze from his. It's been so long, so incredibly long, but somehow you can still read him, read every tilt of the head and shift of the body.

He looks good. Handsome as ever; tall, well-built — he's gained muscle — and fluffy-haired. Laughter lines. And the eyes, still as deep and intense as before, like looking into two molten honey pools. Thick eyelashes, familiar moles dotting his face. He's the same, but he's different. He's not your Tae anymore, but he was, he really was.

"Here for a visit?"

"I — no," you explain. "For good. Got a place, a job and everything."

His eyebrows rise a millimetre. "Oh? What about the big city and the more?"

He remembers.

"I think the more became a little too much for me," you contemplate slowly. "But I'm glad I did it."

"That's good," he says softly. "That's really good."

"You? How are you doing?" You're being genuine. Maybe seeing him provokes an ache in your heart, but you sincerely want to know how he's been.

"I'm good," he says, and the smile reaches his eyes. "I'm really good."

A smile tugs at your lips. "I'm glad, Tae."

"Do you want to —" he motions to the wall of the fountain, and briefly, your mind reels back to the pair of you, sharing sweets on that wall, teasing, laughing, kissing, loving.

"Yeah," you agree instantly, and once the two of you are settled, you can almost close your eyes and pretend the past six years didn't happen, and you're eighteen years old, with the world in front of you.

"I can fit the whole world in the palms of my hands!" Taehyung declares suddenly.

You look up from where you've been dabbling your hand in the cold fountain water. "That's impossible, you dork."

"Nope. Want me to show you?" He has That grin on his face, but you give in easily, as you always do with him.

"Show me."

And he reaches over and cups your face in his hands.

"I think congratulations are in order, Miss Godmother," he says, pulling you back to the present.

You blink. "How did you — "

"Jimin messed up," he tells you with a rueful grin. "When I came to his house that night?"

You gasp. "You knew?"

"You left your scarf on his coat rack, next to the door. And you're the only person I know who'd wear bright pink, fluffy slippers to someone's house at 7p.m.," he tells you, and you internally groan, remembering that you'd kicked them off right next to the front door.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," you retort teasingly, and he laughs.

"No," he promises, wide smiles. "It definitely isn't." His brows raise. "So, how loud did you scream when you found out she was pregnant?"

God, he knows you inside out. You know him inside out.

"We almost got kicked out the diner, I'm sure," you say, and both of you laugh together.

"Franny's?" he asks, and you roll your eyes at him.

"Duh. Only the best pasta in town."

"Remember when we — "

" — had to take a drunk Jimin there because he was starving and we had to pretend like he wasn't drunk and — "

"— we got kicked out when he puked on the waiter," he finishes, and you both burst into laughter at the memory.

"He ended up with bubblegum pink hair that night," you remember fondly, and then gasp. "Remember when you went blonde?"

He groans, tips his head back. "I can't believe you let me do that."

"I was not responsible for your big kid decisions!" you protest through giggles. "Besides, you looked good. Honestly, if you pulled off the bright red you had for Halloween in senior year, you could probably pull off anything."

"Mm, that was a pretty good costume if I do say so myself," he winks, and your mouth drops open in objection.

"Excuse me? Whose idea was it exactly?"

He pretends to think hard. "I don't really seem to remember...."

"Asshole," you say, but you're smiling.

A silence settles, but it isn't painfully awkward, as you might expect. It's easy, familiar. Maybe because you've done it so many times before, sat in this very spot, enjoying each other's presence.

"You were wrong, you know," you say suddenly, quietly, shattering the illusion of memory. "Back then. I didn't want more."

He sucks in a breath next to you, you feel it, but you continue anyway, turning to look him in the eye. You refuse to pretend the two of you didn't happen, refuse to pretend you're old high school friends or something.

"I didn't want more," you repeat. "I wanted you. You were enough. More than enough. I'm sorry you thought you weren't."

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly, and he opens his mouth to say more but you stop him.

You smile, soft, tender. "I forgave you a long time ago. You don't need to do this."

"No," he shakes his head, and you remember his stubbornness so well it almost makes you smile. "I need to do this," he insists. "I need to tell you I'm sorry, because I am, I'm so sorry. I hurt you."

"You did," you agree quietly, voice slightly choked as you struggle with tears. How can this be real? How can he be here, next to you, the boy you loved and loved and lost? "I loved you," you tell him, gentle.

You didn't think it would be like this, soft and raw and aching. You thought it would be sharp, stinging, angry, but it's not. You're not.

"I loved you," he returns, equally gentle. "I loved you with everything in me."

"We both did," you agree, a ghost of a smile tracing your lips. "We were something, don't you think so?"

"Yeah," he sighs wistfully, and you glance to the side, take him in, this painfully familiar boy beside you. The boy who will always spell out love when you say his name. First love, first loss. Picnics and bookstores and pasta and stargazing and wishing fountains and a forever that was always promised but never came.

"We were something," he agrees.

Tentative, slow, his hand reaches over and takes yours. A gentle squeeze, hands warm, familiar. And then his touch is gone. Memory, like so many others.

"You're really pretty."

The deep voice snaps you out of your book almost immediately, and you look up from the words to find a boy gazing at you, bright-eyed, hopeful smiles. You know who he is, by sight. The funny kid, charms the teachers, cracks the jokes at the back of class, devastatingly handsome. And way beyond your orbit.

"I — wh — thank you," you stammer out, utterly perplexed, horrifyingly embarrassed.

"Assigned seats," he explains, gesturing to Mrs Fui at the front of the classroom as he slumps into the desk beside yours. "Whatcha reading?"

You hold up the cover, and his nose wrinkles. "Never heard of it."

"It's good," you tell him. "You should read it."

(He's not a reading guy, he wants to say, but he'll do it if you ask.)

"What's your name?"

"____," you respond, tucking your hair behind your ear prettily, and he wonders what it would be like to do that for you.

"Well, ____," he says, a dazzling smile on his face and a hand reaching out to to shake yours. "I'm Kim Taehyung, and I think we're going to be great."

"Great friends, you mean?" you ask, features scrunched in an adorable frown.

He shakes his head, repeats himself conclusively. "We're going to be great."

💌 let me know what you thought here! feedback is incredibly motivating to content creators so please drop a comment/tag or ask :D reblogs also help a SHIT TON

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taehyung fanfic taehyung x you this is so amazing I love it mUAH

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youmistme

2 years ago

i love you all for following my stupid blog and my silly fanfics x 100

₍⸍⸌̣ʷ̣̫⸍̣⸌₎ lil meow here wuvs yu!!!

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youmistme

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youmistme

2 years ago

Hello! I admit that when I first watched that YouTube video, I never imagined how two individuals could be so brave and strong to share their raw and naked selves to the world. Then only that I realised that they have had their own self-journey which helped them come to terms with their own shell and love it for what it is!

I'm ever so grateful that you enjoyed the concept! I tried to make it as honest and raw as possible, and put my emotions into it as well! It's so rewarding to see strangers here on this platform enjoy my work and appreciate it for the little it gives :)

thank you so much.

Mist.

trace the colours of our skin

✑Pairing: non idol! Taehyung x Reader

☞ Summary: It was comforting knowing you could see the rawest and truest form of your blind date just like how he could.

OR: agreeing to go on a blind date for a YouTube video where you both are naked and talk about yourselves while drawing each other might have been the best idea.

✑ Genre: fluff, honest emotions, and just really a heart-to-heart conversation.

✑ warning: talks about self insecurities, body image issues, cultural acceptance

✑ Words: 2.5 K

this is a work of fiction, does not represent the artist in it and their behaviour!

Do not repost or plagiarize my work! You’re an untalented weak imbecile if you do so :)

Expectation is an interesting concept. You can either expect too much or too little. It’s often rather difficult to expect just the right amount, albeit from a person or circumstances or yourself. So when you opened your phone that Thursday morning to 27 missed calls from Material gworl Vera, you knew something was up. And you didn’t have the slightest clue on what to expect.

Considering the fact that Vera, your friend who is the manager of the youtube channel CUT, decided to call you this many times, the very thought of expecting anything positive was out the window. A dreadful sigh and several excuses over the phone later about wanting to watch Hell’s Kitchen instead of what new shit Vera had planned, it was over. She wanted you to be in a YouTube video.

The premise of the YouTube video was simple; you and a stranger are to strip down your clothing to the bare, paint each other, and talk, on a blind date!

Although the thought behind the video was simple, it was also vulnerable. You from a couple of years ago wouldn’t have agreed to something that shows such a raw and true self. The person you had become now was much more comfortable in her skin, the thought of showing any ounce of your flesh came at ease. You didn’t feel anxious or worried about the very little, insignificant insecurities of your body anymore.

Vera texted you the details for the video and certain precautions as soon as you muttered a ‘yes.’

The white-walled studio with large studio lights caught your eyes first since the light coming from them was so bright that you had to squint.

“Y/n! Here!,” a slender pair of arms wrapped around your shoulder, turning with a dimpled grin you hugged back. Vera stood back, a few inches taller than you, a sparkly grin on her as she swayed her hand behind with a click of her black heels.

Another figure came into view and you can swear you regret every second for not noticing earlier. There stood a man, his face angled to his right side, seemingly focused on the black pomeranian trotting on the marble floor. His hair was chocolate brown allowing the studio lights to make the ends look honey caramel as his slender fingers played with the thin silver ring on his index finger.

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ggukkiereads i am so happy these messages from the readers make the happiest i love when you guys critique me or help me improve my work i have a physicals exam tomorrow lmao thank you so much tho i love this taehyung x you

170 notes View Post

youmistme

2 years ago

it's finally here~

a little heart-to-heart fanfiction with our boy tae before I go into my indefinite hiatus!

love love,

mist.