C6H12O6

Soulfriends!au

Hobi: embarrassed, legs, and uhhh…sugar.?

            The math problem stared back up at you, a silent, yet glaring taunt at your inability to solve its mystery. This was your fifth time reworking this problem, and boy, weren’t you royally frustrated with it?       

You threw your pen down onto the library desk, the sharp sound of plastic hitting metal reverberating along the ornate shelves, drawing a few annoyed glares towards your corner. Sheepishly smiling an apology, you sighed deeply, before clutching your head in your hands. It was already 9pm, and with the library about to close, your heart sank at the thought of being unable to solve the damn calculus problem.           

Normally, you wouldn’t be caught sitting behind one of the cold metal tables of the university’s library, rough paper strewn across the whole desk, pens in disarray and your face creased by the frustration that arose with doing math problems. Math was something you absolutely hated with a passion, and you were never one for completing the work given on a normal basis.

On a normal Friday night like this? You would be at where you loved the most: behind a mixer, multiple launchpads and two turntables, huge headphones slung around your neck, soaking in the screams and cries of the crowd partying beneath you as you became one with the electrifying atmosphere with the heavy bass pulsing through your veins. Being the resident DJ for your campus on Fridays meant a small dream come true, another small victory in your book. While you never got yourself drunk and found yourself in the arms of a stranger the next morning, you did have your fair share of flirting and fun.    

And your passion may have very well landed you in some trouble this time round.

Looking around, you slowly drew out another packet of brown sugar from the pocket of your hoodie. You gently shook the packet before pinching the edges with your fingers, casually scanning the library for the roaming librarians. You feigned a look of absolute concentration at the problem before you as you slowly tore open the packet. Coaxing a few granules out of the packet, you put on an elaborate show of coughing as you jerked your head backwards, the granules landing lightly on your tongue.

Sugar. To many, sugar was just a spark of life to revive their taste buds, a little thing to switch up a boring cup of coffee. Sugar was annoying to some, hating the sticky sweetness that clung to the back of their throats, of cheap cotton candy and store-bought corn syrup sweets. Sugar, was just something ordinary people used in their ordinary everyday life, without giving it an extraordinary second thought.

Oh, but sugar, to you, was an aphrodisiac. It was what made all your migraines dissolve into nothing, melting away all the tension existing in tight little knots in your back and shoulders, relieving the stress from your entire being. Sugar was what made you function throughout the day, giving you the inspiration you needed in your course as a music major.

You didn’t know why sugar gave you that reprieve, or why you were so dependent on sugar to function. In addition, only those brown sugar granules helped with whatever pain or frustration you had, white sugar or sweets just worsened the situation.

There was, however, one theory that you had mind, which was the possibility that you had a soulfriend in this lifetime, existing somewhere in the world, eating the exact same type of sugar, for the same reasons as you did. Soulfriends were a rarity, occurring only to a handful of people in every generation. You had no way of knowing who your soulfriend was, or when you would meet them, apart from a unique habit that no one else, other than you and your soulfriend, would share.

Even if you met your soulfriend, it wasn’t that much of a big deal. It just meant that you had someone who was really destined to be by your side through the years, as a confidante and as someone you could really depend on.

To make things even better, there was the chance that your soulfriend could also become your soulmate. Not that you’d want one at all. What if, god forbid, your soulmate-to-be was someone you just couldn’t live with?

Letting the sugar dissolve slowly on your tongue, you thought about your last gig, mentally kicking yourself repeatedly. How could you have been so stupid, so careless, as to play DJ J-Hope’s remix instead of your own? And not just any other DJ, but DJ J-Hope, someone whose skill was almost on par with big shots such as Hardwell, DJ Snake and Calvin Harris?

DJ J-Hope was one of the best DJs not just on campus, but in the underground music scene as well. He was incredibly famous for producing beats for underground rappers and producing the backing track for their mixtapes for a minimal fee. On campus, he was just the bright, cheery Hoseok who everyone liked and the resident DJ for the Sunday night slots. All these, were amazing feats for someone who had only started dabbling in mixing for less than two years.

You sighed, slumping against the table as you waited for the sugar to course through your veins. In the library, you could hear the distant sound of a wild gig going on, familiar beats echoing off the walls. Your fingers itched for the controls on the mixer, ears yearning for the harsh scratch of the turntables and the cheers of the crowd, eyes wishing to be blinded by the bright spotlights lazer-trained on you.

But you had already embarrassed yourself at your last gig, playing his remix on accident. What made things worse was that he was in the crowd that night, and when his complex interwoven beats and melody came on instead of your beat drop, those bright brown eyes of his immediately darkened, irritation clearly displayed on those beautiful features of his.  

You had immediately switched the music once you found an opening to transition, resulting in a less than perfect transition. Still, his expression never wavered, his eyes trained on your flustered figure as you rushed to check that the songs you played next weren’t his.

He came to find you backstage after the night was over, his light voice a stark contrast to his eyes, an intense anger swirling withing a warm brown.

“Seriously Y/N, that was such a dirty trick. Just because you had no remix of your own, so you think you can play one of mine? What kind of DJ are you?” he fumed.

Your blood began to boil, incredibly pissed at the way he threw those baseless assumptions at you. However, with your cheeks painted a flaming red, you hastened to apologize to him, giving a few jerky bows as if you were strung like a marionette, knowing better than to anger him further.

“I’m really sorry, I meant to play my remixes but I had accidentally lined up the wrong file,” you explained, struggling to keep your tone as level as possible. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“And it wouldn’t be that your reputation would be ruined on purpose by tomorrow morning then,” he levelly looked at you.

Narrowing your eyes, anger flared up hotly within you. How much of a jerk could he be over an accident?

“Maybe if you let me take over your next gig, next Friday, and do my calculus homework for me instead, I’ll let you off lightly,” he drawled.

Thus, here you were, reworking the same problem again, refusing to give up until you had solved this final question. You threw back the rest of the sugar packet into your mouth, not caring if the librarian caught you.

The sugar quickly dissolving on your tongue, you scanned the question once again, recharged. After a few minutes, you dropped your pen on the table with a sigh, looking at the problem you had just finished.

At least your reputation would be intact for now.

Walking into Composing 3, you found Hoseok hibernating in a corner with his head slumped on the table. You quietly made your way to him, being careful not to make any noise as you drew the piece of paper out of your bag.

As you towered over his sleeping figure, a small smile toyed at the corners of your lips. Taking the piece of paper in your hand, you hovered the corner of the paper above his exposed neck, allowing the corner to brush against his skin lightly.

And his hand shot up to catch your swaying arm, catching you totally off guard. Your fingers released the worksheet of its own accord, causing the paper to slowly flutter downwards into Hoseok’s waiting hand.

Your eyes grew wide and your mouth slightly agape at the chain of events that had just occurred. How dare he touch you and the absolute nerve of him to sit there and give you a cherubic smile when his eyes clearly reflected the depths of hell?

Tearing your hand out of his grasp, you shot him an irritated glare and reached into your pocket to draw out a packet of sugar as you left, only for the damn packet to drop on the floor.

Today’s really not my day, you thought, pinching your eyelids closed before inhaling a deep breath in a bid to calm yourself down. Slowly exhaling, you opened your eyes and bent down to reach for the packet, only to touch the cold linoleum floor.

You whirled around in anger, eyes darting around quickly as you tried to find your sugar packet. A triangle of white peeked out from the underside of a black loafer, and you quickly looked up, only to see Hoseok’s face.

But this time round, while anger radiated from your face, his was one of shock, the smile completely wiped off his face.

You were absolutely livid now, banging Hoseok’s table with your hand. The sugar needed to be in your system right now, before you completely blew up.

Gritting your teeth, you spit out, “Get your foot off my sugar packet before I tear up the work I had done for you on Friday. Now.”

Hoseok remained frozen, his eyes fixated on yours. Rolling your eyes in frustration, you banged the table before raising your voice.

“Now!”

But Hoseok was still unmoving, a slightly awed expression replacing the former one of shock. The boiling in your veins reached a peak, and you let out a scream of frustration, turning around and storming away from the annoyance that was Hoseok.

“You’re my soulfriend.”

Those three small, whispered words, those words that you hoped that you would never hear in your life, stopped you entirely in your tracks and leeched the heat from your veins.

You had never imagined you would even have one, since the chances of having one were so rare, so unheard of, much less even meeting them.

No, no, this is not happening, you thought.

You slowly pivoted around to face Hoseok, stumbling slightly in the process, only to see him draw out an incredibly familiar packet of brown sugar from his pocket, his face stretched into a grin.

Most people in the world would be beyond happy to find their soulfriend.

But for you, at that moment, your whole world shattered right before your eyes, like those granules of sugar, never meant to be pieced back together.

L I N E D

Past request: Could you write about how you are an aspiring graphic designer and Suga is your inspiration so you planned on giving him your first drawing of him at a hi touch but you missed the chance and as you were mourning at the park at night, Suga was there. 

The soft snow beneath your boots yielded soundlessly to your weight as you trudged across the once grassy field of the park. A dim, yellow light, cast by a fluorescent bulb encased in a dingy, wax yellow casing, caused your shadow to loom in front of you, an apt description to the endless pit of disappointment swirling within you. Seemingly undeterred by your state, the lamp lit the way to those beautiful wrought iron benches beneath the bare cherry blossom tree, tinged a slight mint green with the constant weathering of water and air that came with the changing seasons. Delicate metal roses were carefully intertwined with the frame of the bench, that you always sought solace in.

 Your thick felt coat did little to protect you against the biting cold of the bench as you sunk into the chair. At this point, however, you couldn’t care less. Apart from the disappointment you felt, your mind was empty, a stagnant pool of darkness that seemed as thick as oil, darker than obsidian; choking, choking and filling every nerve such that you were absolutely numb.

 Mechanically, you jerked your head down to where your gloved fingers were tightly wrapped around a poster tube, your unfocused eyes finding purchase on the matt mint green plastic before your head violently twisted away, a string of gnawing guilt from within controlling you like a puppet.

 You couldn’t bear to look at it now.

 The sleepless nights, endless tumblers of coffee and countless edits you had painstakingly made were all wasted in a blink of an eye, a click of a random generator, and you didn’t know what else to do.

 As an aspiring graphic designer, the feeling of disappointment was not new to you. From the competitions you had diligently entered ever since you were thirteen, your amateur sketches of different idols, painstakingly drawn on the computer using a mouse pointer, competing valiantly against professionals that wielded styluses and drew on graphic tablets that could cost you almost 3 years of your allowance, to the numerous companies that rejected your resume after you had acquired your graphic designing diploma, disappointment was just a regular visitor to you.

 You could definitely deal with that kind of disappointment: it was only an indication that you had to work harder, you had to push yourself even more to be even better, to be so good in your skill that doors would open for you. That kind of disappointment was feedback, constructive criticism that you took it in your stride.

 Admittedly, after three months of being jobless, doubt started to settle in. Was graphic designing really meant for you? Why did you keep receiving letters of rejection when you had obtained a diploma? Was your diploma even an indication of your skill? How were you going to repay your parents for the education they tried so hard to dissuade you from? Did the company you interned in really think you were capable? Only after emerging from the protective cocoon that being a student granted did you realize that the working world was harsh, dirty and incredibly difficult to survive in.

 Leaning against the backrest of the bench, you tilted your head up to look at the sky, a peaceful black that was dotted with little stars struggling to shine amongst the glaring neon signboards. You settled your eyes on a star, one that seemed the brightest to you, and admired the way it shone so bright against the inky sky, as if it was its last night. That admiration, however, plunged right down to the depths of the swirling oil within when the star moved, and reality forced its way back in as you watched the airplane streak silently across the sky.

 Even the stars have turned their back against me, huh?

 It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t unable to attend the fan sign. You couldn’t rewrite the algorithms of the random generator to your favour, you couldn’t determine the order at which your entries were entered. Those were out of your control.

 But you could have bought more, a small, persistent spoke up in your head. Borrow money from your schoolmates who are already earning a salary. Take on more part time jobs. Ask Mrs Park to waive the rent for this month. All the money that you had painstakingly saved over the past year was gone, a small stack of wrinkled notes and a pile of coins all snatched by the cashier’s hands from your trembling ones, when you purchased an entire carton of their latest album just so that you could increase your chances of entering the fan sign.

 You rubbed your wishes on the lucky charm you always wore on a thin silver chain around your neck, drifted your hopes up towards the heavens with the delicate smoke of the incense the temple beside your house always lit in the mornings, curling skywards like pleading hands. You poured out your longing in the lines that bloomed from the tip of your stylus, branching and taking its own form.

 But you just weren’t meant to go.

 Peeling off your gloves, the biting cold of winter nipped at your bare hands as you opened the poster tube, hooking a finger into the mouth of the tube to fish out the drawing that you drew. The glint of the glossy paper that it was printed on flitted across the paper as your numbed fingers gently unfurled it, obsidian eyes meeting your very own.

 Soft, blonde strands of hair shyly peeked out from the base of the black beanie that fit snugly on his head, like a little child hiding behind a door in a game of hide and seek, waiting to be found. You curled little bands of silver that hung gently from his earlobe, a fitting companion to the snarky smirk that adorned the sharp angles of his face. Lastly, you smeared black on the canvas and splattered “Stussy” in white across his chest, creating soft creases in the hoodie that he loved to wear.

 Hours, and hours of endless scrutinising of the angle, of the proportions, of the lighting, and countless drafts that had so many minute mistakes that it physically pained you to see that single imperfection in the midst of a portrait that you had been able to almost replicate perfectly. There were some nights where you picked up your stylus in a hurry, eager to draw your muse, the gratitude within you spilling over every time you drew a stroke; but there were also nights where you were so discouraged by yourself, that you didn’t even want to spare so much a glance at your stylus.

 The picture stared back you, emotionless and unmoving. A puff of white curled past your lips as you sighed wistfully, carrying your sorrows skyward. You willed your frozen fingers to gently curl the picture back into a loose cylinder, trying to get the picture back into the poster tube. Maybe, you thought, you could always mail it to his company with a note attached.

 But your fingers, numbed by the cold drafts, refused to move to the will of yours, choosing instead to release its grip on the picture. You fumbled, a jolt of pure panic shooting through your veins as you desperately tried to save the picture from falling on the wet snow.

 The picture fluttered its way down from your frozen fingertips to the glistening stone pavement, before a gentle wind swept your picture away from the pavement just before it touched the water.

It drifted away from you, and landed on a pair of black boots.

 Scrambling, you pulled on your gloves before your fingers were further subjected to the cold, grabbing the poster tube with your gloved fingers as you ran as fast as you could without slipping on the pavement. The figure bent down to pick up the curl of paper from his boots, gingerly holding the paper with his gloved hands.

 You skidded to a stop before the person, adrenaline furiously pounding away within you as you breathed a sigh of relief, happy that your picture was not destroyed. The man standing in front of you looked at you curiously as your eyes wandered from those boots and up a light brown felt winter coat, and up to the man’s face.

 And the man looked extremely familiar. Blond strands of hair peeking out from under a beanie, a snarky smirk carved on a familiar sharp angled face, slim metal rings hanging from both earlobes.

 As well as sparkling obsidian eyes that pierced through your very soul.

 In that moment, you wondered if your drawing had come to life the moment it touched those boots. Maybe it had never touched the boots at all, maybe the moment it touched the ground, the person you drew sprung out of the paper and materialised in front of you. But when you realised he wasn’t wearing a black Stussy hoodie, your heart stopped.

 Standing right in front of you, living, breathing, and absolutely alive, in flesh and blood, was Yoongi; and he was holding on to your drawing of him.

 His fingers ran along the length of the curl of paper, coaxing the end of the paper to appear under his touch. Just as his woolen digits snagged on the edge, on their way to unfurling the picture, you lunged for the picture and snatched it back gently, cradling the picture with gentle hands.

 Alarm spilled across those defined peaks and dips on his face, his hands suddenly very empty and light without the weight of the paper.  Your face was flushed, cheeks tinged a soft rosy red at the thought of him looking at the portrait that you drew, and the realisation of it isn’t perfect enough dawned on you.

 Yet here was your chance, a private, one-to-one meeting with him. A totally unexpected one but the heavens must have finally received all your messages, fringed with disappointment, that they made your path and his cross. You could finally give it to him, express your innermost feelings about him inspiring you to continue graphic designing without the incessant shouts of please move on by the fansign assistants. This was your chance.

 Yoongi met your gaze coolly the entire time, unfazed by your reaction. But somehow, you couldn’t will yourself to speak, to explain why he wasn’t allowed to open the picture, not now, and you couldn’t tell him all you wanted to say. You weren’t good with words, so you chose to express your feelings in the form of lines that took shape as you willed it to be.

 “Wait here,” you breathed. Running back to the bench, you picked up the poster tube and slowly coaxed the picture back in and sealed the poster tube shut. A rummage through your bag, a uncapping of a marker, and series of squeaks sounded as the tip of the marker met the cold plastic. Snatching up the poster tube, you made your way back to him, taking his hands and placing the poster tube in those hands, before taking a step back. You bowed deeply, pouring every bit of gratitude into that bow, before you straightened up and left him there, poster tube balancing delicately on his hands.

 As he watched your figure retreat further into the distance, he looked down at the poster tube, which was now covered in black, glossy Korean characters, all repeating the same phrase, the same 5 letters over and over again.

 감사합니다.*

 *감사합니다 (gamsahabnida) is “thank you” in Korean

return.

Hello to my followers (which arent many)!

I am back and I will be posting all my works here exclusively. The past works that I have posted on BGS will also be posted here, as well as future works that I am working on right now.

Thank you for all your support and I hope to grow with each and everyone of you :)

-Mystique 

PSA

I have been mulling over this issue for a while now, and I think it is time to say it out.

As a fic writer, I have chosen to only write fluffs, angst and the occasional AUs. It is my personal preference that I do not want to write smut as 1) I am uncomfortable with the thought of writing smut (as much as I do enjoy reading it), and 2) I feel that I am unable to portray a smut realistically and as descriptive as possible for my readers to be able to imagine that scene as if they were physically experiencing it. I am sure that there are writers out there beyond the community I write for and beyond the tumblr community that feel the same way.

I understand the amount of work, effort, blood, sweat and tears that go into writing every piece of work first hand. I started off as a reader, and I am inspired by many other wonderful, talented writers out there to create worlds of my own. My writing is not perfect, it is not the best, but I would like to pose this question to all readers of fanfiction on Tumblr, on Wattpad, on AO3, fanfiction.net, anywhere online and free.

Why are smuts give more notes, kudos, likes compared to fluff and angst, when all these were written with excruciating effort, taking up laborious hours each day, written with the purest intention of sharing creative work to the world?

As a writer, sometimes I do get discouraged when I do not see enough notes on my work. Is it because it wasn’t written well enough? Or is this content not what my readers want? I see other fic writers who write smut and the note count on the fics with smut are significantly higher than any other genre written.

Yes, smut is enjoyable, I admit. Note/kudo/like count is not an indicator of how good a fic is, maybe. But to someone who’s doing their work willingly, and freely for the entire world to see, would giving a comment such as “Keep the good work up!”, just a simple thumbs up emoji, or clicking the like/kudo/reblog button for a fluff or angst fic kill? It serves as motivation for us to write more, to see that we are appreciated for the time and effort that we put in. In that 10 minutes that you spent reading a fic, any writer could have spent from minutes to weeks over it.

Please, show more appreciation for fluff and angst writers. We use the same language and words as smut writers, but we present them in a different way that is as equally beautiful.

heads up!!

i'll be continuing Burn ((the assassin!au)) on the blog im admining for which is @/bulletproof-girl-scouts!!

DOTS Pt. 2

i have just binge watched 5 episodes of dots in one sitting and I HAVE TOO MUCH FEELS JUST TELL SI JIN YOU LIKE HIM ALREADY