MUST READ!

This story is a short one shot that is NOT connected to the eight-part connected story thing I'm working on, I simply had it in my "written works" binder and decided to put it up here.  Reminder:  While this is very short, I enjoyed writing this and hope you enjoy reading it.  So to all those "invisible reader" out there, I hope that you "invisibly" enjoy it and try to write something of your own.  Even if you don't post it, like I had originally planned for this one, I think that you'll find it betters yourself as a writer...  AND PERSON!  :)

Yoongi

For him, I fell.

For that blunt and honest man, I fell.

I crumbled in the presence of his small, grand smile, his piercingly knowing eyes, and his ruffled look; he was, in effect, my heavenly Hell.  Those lips, so teasing and chaste; those hands, so dexterous and warm; that voice, the voice of reason and unspoken truth, spoken...  So unpredictably soothing.

Min Yoongi was a loyal and fairly outspoken man, taking it upon himself to tell me when I looked nice, or "y;" he told me when I needed to brush my hair or "wipe that damn makeup" off my face.  But he always sent me off with a quick peck (or intimate liplock), showing that he didn't really mind, through his actions, not words.

He wasn't perfect, that was for sure, but that was prefectly fine, and we certainly had our differnces.  He was jealous while I was not, and many times, any of even the slightest glances I received were brushed away with his possesive behavior.  What irked him even more, though, and what agitated him to his very core, I could tell, was my lack of reaction when he was admired from afar, and he usually resorted to grabbing my hand roughly to both signal his "taken" status, and alert me to the situation.

My mindset was, that as long as he didn't respond to the attention, I was fine; I myself made sure never to even glance twice at my occasional admirers, lest I indite his rage.

He was the most persistant, hard-working person I had ever met, while I was one of the lesser.

He was a rough, passionate lover, while I was a hesitant, conscious one.

He was the kind to stay up late, and I was the kind to wake early.

He liked Coke, and I liked Pepsi.

His mistress was music, while my affair consisted of a pen, a sheet of paper, and myself.

He was in love with me, and I had fallen for him.

There was a difference, he always told me, and he often liked to whisper in my ear late at night, arms holding me tightly against his body, breath ghosting over my jaw and neck, just what that difference was.

He breathed about the way in which loving me was liike drowning; a deep, merciless thing that tugged him down and down, gripping his ankle like a shackle.  He loved to say, and whisper, and reiterate, that even if the shackle fell off, he would gladly snap it back into place.  That he would never have it any other way.

I, who was lesser of a linguist than he, could only sigh the vaguest of words.  But I understood my feelings, and he understood my mouth's meager translations to be only the faintest lining of what my heart really sang, and he  would seal the cold, dismal nights with a sweet kiss.

To be in love is to be enveloped endlessly in waters too rough and clashing to escape from; Min Yoongi was indeed, as he murmered often, drowning.

To fall in love is just as it sounds; my resolve crashed quickly and all at once, the weight of his affect on me an anvil dropped from Heaven, the piercing sensation of cupid's arrow a forked spear throw right up from Hell.

Was it a fall onto a bed of nails, of bed covers (quite literally at times), of thorns, of love's sharp barbs?

Of the soft melody of a tune, to be sure.  Fortes and pianoes descending and crescending; he was a musical drug just as he was a musical man, and falling was easy.  Standing up, letting go, or leaving would've been difficult; but for him, for that blunt man who was ever so imperfectly flawless, toppling over the lip of his cavernous heart and tumbling into its endless depths was impossibly... effortless.