[xylttae]

⁺ ˳ ⠀⠀◌⠀⠀ ✩ 🚬 ࣪ ◦ ⠀⠀ 🫧⠀⠀◌⠀⠀ ✩ 📦

[jaemtens]

🍻🍻

[blaackholesun]

to @morosehues 

 if there’s one thing in the entire unending universe haechan hates, it’s waiting. haechan could count on one hand all of the things he loved, yet would have to count even mud smeared toes and stars just to amount up to the things he hates; though waiting will still always be number one. 

 balanced on a crickety bench and wobbly knees, haechan leans over his front gate in bored anticipation. sweat sticky fingers following the beat of a 50’s tune he hums. haechan has been balanced for as many short minutes as he can count, braced carefully for his daily observance of nothing and everything at once. watching eagerly as clouds take form and pass, silently as the elderly walk by, and sullenly as ants make passage between his fingers, descending down the wall opposite of his waned body. 

it’s only when a familiar scrape of shoes against pavement echoes off in the near distance does haechan break from his painful spell. hands gaining purchase on uneven blocks to hoist more of his weight onto his tippy toes in order to pop above the cement for better viewing. 

 there, lying past no point of return, a familiar face persists down the slope drawing his words out without thought. 

 “konichiwa～”

[blaackholesun]

for @zzukai

the metal of mark’s backpack zipper clinks rapidly against the metal support pole of the subway seat he sits smashed against on the subway train. his knee bouncing in tandem to the music, the latest hot 100, blaring in his ears to drown out the excitement bubbling up from his feet and into his veins. every friday afternoon begins like this: mark crammed in the spaces nearest to the exit as he travels back from his aunt’s house in busan to the center of seoul. where he slides between two dumpsters, shedding normality to enter his second skin that reflects a deep navy blue and blood red against the glass of skyscrapers.

but today as the train pulls to a slow stop, an unrest curls in his stomach at the sight of bold letters standing out against this morning’s newspaper crinkled and open mockingly in mark’s face: WHO IS SPIDERMAN?

maybe that’s why when mark slides on his spider suit and slips into the air space much later, he doesn’t see it as much as he feels the immovable force he body slams into until he’s peeling off the metal of a dump truck and falling to the ground with a quiet thump. his eyes viewing the world in triples as he lies there in both a stupor and possibly edging death.

[requiem-on-water]

“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.”

— Edvard Munch