âŸâŒ einnâs writing dump đ€ infj, 18 :-)
đŠčâ masterlist đŠčâïœĄ main đŠčâïœĄ
all writing belongs to @seo8inn. Please do not repost! :-)
Xuebing Du
Misplaced Lens Cap

izzy's playlists!
noise dept.
I'd rather be in outer space đž

blake kathryn
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

Product Placement
Show & Tell
No title available
Three Goblin Art
đȘŒ
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă
Claire Keane

tannertan36

JVL
Today's Document
styofa doing anything
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
dirt enthusiast

seen from United States
seen from Lithuania
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from India

seen from United States

seen from Maldives
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada

seen from South Africa
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from India

seen from Finland
seen from United States
@seo8inn
âŸâŒ einnâs writing dump đ€ infj, 18 :-)
đŠčâ masterlist đŠčâïœĄ main đŠčâïœĄ
all writing belongs to @seo8inn. Please do not repost! :-)
Unbreakable; with KIM MINGYU
And suddenly she could feel her naivety radiating all over; from the balls of her feet to the backs of her knees to the tips of her fingers, she felt overcome by it.
Between erratic flashes of the inebriating disco lights, CHOI SEOL dances like thereâs no tomorrow. She doesnât see her friends pushing past the crowd to get to her, or that the neon pink lights have faded into a milder blue, or that directly in her line of sight, the dull ache that is KIM MINGYU stands, wide-eyed, where everyone else is jumping to the beat.
When she catches sight, the music slows, and the heavy beats of the EDM replace themselves with the slow, steady, thumps of her heart.
Wide open, standing in momentary shadows and sudden flashes of light, heâs a head taller, and his shoulders are twice as wide as they used to be. His eyes are darker, and his jaw sharper. His hair is cropped to his ears and she suddenly doesnât recall being away from him long enough for all these years to have worked their ways on him.
When she thinks about it now, the dull ache throbs back into life, into something more whole. Itâs strange, and heart-breaking, and she can almost see the gap of years. Almost jump right into the chasm. And heâs just standing there: like the universe had folded upon itself again and again just to put him in her path, in this exact moment, in this exact trajectory.
She attempts to make meaning of this cosmic coincidence. That it may have been a sign from some higher deity. But she knows better â she knows that silly, superstitious thoughts are beneath her; that they will bite.
And yet, still, still, after all this time, and no matter how many promises sheâd made to herself, in the face of this man â this boy â she was still the same, stupid girl she always was.
And suddenly she could feel her naivety radiating all over; from the balls of her feet to the backs of her knees to the tips of her fingers, she felt overcome by it.
She felt as though he had come to rip open and pin her up for the whole world to see: putting her foolish, soft, heart on display.
âSeol,â
And the music might have stopped; sheâd never know. Heâd call, and sheâd drown out the background noise to hear.
And itâs a giddy feeling, to hear your name hung upon a familiar pair of lips, to be struck by the familiarity in the way a word is enunciated. And how dare he? After all these years, how dare her name slip from his tongue like it had never left it?
She bolts for the exit.
First,
Everything is blue.
Getou Suguru is seventeen. Gojo Satoru is blue. He is wild flashes of indigo peaking through dark lenses, and comically large movements, and loud words, loud laughter, louder feelings. He is warm, inebriated hues of dark, ocean blue in quiet corners of the school. Where no one is watching. He is soft sighs, and bruised lips, and cracked-open hearts. He is steady desire, blatant and thrumming at the bone and refusing to let go. Then he is also crystal-cobalt, glimmering like a divine entity, glass-fragile and out of reach, cosmically beautiful and simultaneously, cosmically doomed.
Then,
Everything is grey.
Gojo Satoru is twenty. Getou Suguru is grey.
He is the washed-out grey of the bags under his eyes, the void of his dark eyes, the dull of his linens. The wispy smoke of a burnt-out cigarette, the kind heâs been told not to smoke and does anyway. The tainted venom that is his reputation. The poison of thousands of curses roaring, raging in him. The dark matter bites, eats, burns.
In the gloomy-grey autumn of 2007, their legs dangle off the edge of a parapet.
Suguru Getou has a cigarette wedged between his pearly whites, lighter flickering with his thumb.
âThose are gonna kill you before a curse gets to, yâknow,â Satoru Gojo mumbles, humming in disapproval. He nudges the brunette, who scoffs, bringing the flame to the tip of his tobacco. Gojo chokes at the wispy smoke Getou exhales.
âIâd much prefer it that way.â
(This is Satoruâs cosmic trajectory. The choosing. The loving. The loving despite.)
Despite being the âstrongestâ, there are some things that Gojo allows to hurt him. (Whether his heart knows it or not is a different story altogether.) He knows deep down that something is going to go wrong. That this will not end well. He chooses to live this story anyway. This trajectory, with this man with the piercing black eyes. He will always choose the heartbreak. Like he chooses the cigarettes that are bad for him, the second-hand smoke.
[Gojo Satoru is beautiful. But heâs also real.]
In the summer of 2006, they are invincible in the way all seventeen-year-olds are invincible
They sit under the shade of one of Jujutsu highâs many trees. Suguru, belly flat on the ground, ankles wet with morning dew, nose buried in some yellowed pages of a book. Satoru, back splayed against the soft grass, palms defiantly pressed against the azure blue sky.
âYo, Suguru,â Gojo interrupts only the sounds of the cicadas and the wind, squinting through his glasses,âwhat dâya think theyâll make us do on our next mission?â
âMm?â The brunette brushes his bangs out of his eyes, shutting the book, shifting his attention to the boy with the white hair and gorgeous blue eyes.
âOur next missionâŠah, I donât know. Probably something manageableâŠGrade 2 curses or something.â
âYeah. Youâre probably right.â Gojo shrugs, retuning to lie flat and stare at the sun, bright blue peeking through the gaps in his eyeglasses.
Heâd do this sometimes. Think up some redundant question and ask it out of the blue, as if in between the longer moments of quiet, he felt the need to remind Suguru of his presence. (Itâs not like Getou, or anyone, really, could have ever, in any lifetime, any cosmic trajectory, forgotten.)
Sometimes, Suguru wondered what heâd done in the past for this celestial-like being of a boy to be lying beside him now, in the sticky-hot summer air and wet grass, speaking to him about the little irrelevancies of their high-school lives. Wondered if this was just some cruel joke. Between his dreamy, crystal-cobalt blue eyes and the way the sun cast misty shadows of his white lashes on his undereyes, none of it felt real, all of it a sickly-sweet fever dream, balmy heat of summer and the boy who looked like snow.
On a late night of the windy-blue, salty spring of 2007, Gojo Satoru whispers his secrets in the dark. Thereâs no one in the room to hear him but the scratchy cotton sheets of Jujutsu Highâs years-old dormitories, a knocked-out Getou Suguru, and the curses that linger.
His tugs at the frayed-out wires of his earpiece and sets it to the side. Shifts around in the bed to lay down, (where heâd previously been leaning against the wooden bed frame.) The bed is too small for two but they share anyway, because Gojo insists, because the world is so big, too big, because he sometimes feels their youngness thrumming throughout the backs of his knees, the balls of his feet, and his bones. Because itâs a cruel world they fight for. Because the world is big and the bed is small.
âYouâŠâ he starts, his voice raspy, throat dry. He blinks, snow-white eyelashes fluttering in the dark. Suguru sleeps deeply, blissfully unaware.
Gojo knew it all along. These feelings, this ache. He gently traces the characters on his back.
Now he had to say it. No matter how much the rest of the world or Getou, might have already known. (back in those spring days, and whenever, and forevermore, they are the same thing to Gojo Satoru)
âYouâre the only one. For me.â He sighs the words into quiet existence, secretly hoping the brunette would somehow hear. âYou knew that, though. You always know everything.â
Have so many thoughts abt geto but also i cannot articulate any of them
A taller, aged, Spanish-speaking Oikawa Tooru enters, a frown stitched upon his features, scanning the room. Heâs wearing a black jersey and Nike shorts, and heâs tanner now. Probably from being in South America for so damned long. Itâs funny, him being here in all his glory. As if time was taunting Hajime. This is everything he became. This is everything he became in all those years without you. And what have you done?
âYouâre so fucking lucky I was nearby, Mattsun,â he says, as if anyone in the room thought he would have ever passed up any opportunity to see Hajime again.
He still felt as though he was a 23-hour flight away. And itâs half strange, half heart-breaking, to be honest. To hear the way his mother tongue now sounds awkward on his lips, after all these years. To be in front of his brown eyes again, and be reminded that this Oikawa Tooru was no longer his. And as unbelievably drunk he might have been, he couldnât pretend it was nothing. Couldnât hide the look of desire that was probably written all over his face.
â Colours; Iwaoi (2024)
Cry | Hoshi
I swearâŠIâll only make you cry
Heâd pull, and pull, but he could never really give her what she wanted, thatâŠlife beyond all of his stardom and restraints. No matter how much he could have wanted her, heâd always want his career more.
She bumps into KWON SOONYOUNG in the dead of night, when the rest of the world is asleep. They slightly fall into each other in that moment of collision, a bit drunk, a bit soul-tangled. He grabs her arms and steadies her, despite being tipsy, and looks at her with that look of desire that made her want to crawl into a hole and hide away forever. His eyes are dirt-brown, illuminated by the gentle glow of the moon.
This memory would stay with her for years after. Him in a tank top and bermudas, smelling like soju and the jasmine flowers. Him, barefaced, moon-soaked and sweet. He looked soâŠnormal, yet so fatigued, yet so beautiful. For a moment she thought she could forget how doomed they were from the start. For a moment it seemed like he didnât belong to the worldâjust her.
âHey, IâmâŠsorry.â He says, trying to steady himself, still holding on tight to her arms. (She wonders if thereâs a double meaning to the apology)
âYou okay?â She asks gently. She stares up at him with the same kind of yearning in her eyes that he knew to see through. He loosens his grip to push her hair out of her face, so gently, so softly, the cold of his fingertips on her skin made her want to cry.
âWhy do you do this to me?â She says, not breaking her gaze. Her eyes water, but the worldâs too blurry for him to notice.
âI donât knowâŠâ he slurs, intoxicated.
She pulls away. Heâd pull, and pull, but he could never really give her what she wanted, thatâŠlife beyond all of his stardom and restraints. No matter how much he could have wanted her, heâd always want his career more.
Heâd forget about this in the morning.
âGo home, Soonyoung. Rest well. You still have work tomorrow.â
Hold me tight | Jeonghan
It seems the spring flowers can only sigh, for no one is and will ever be as beautiful as you are.
In the spring, YOON JEONGHAN sits with a girl on a slab of cement under the cherry blossoms of Gangbuk. His legs dangle off the edge, arms at his back, propping him up. The girl with raven-black hair leans against him, reading, the faint sounds of her cassette player leaking through her earpiece.
He watches the pink leaves drift and fall slowly to the ground. Then, interrupting only the sounds of the birds and children playing:
âYouâre a bit like them, yâknow? The cherry blossoms.â
âHm?â she asks, not taking her eyes away from her book.
âYou remind me of the cherry blossoms,â he says, eyes lathered in wonder.
âIn what way?â She asks, smiling. She still doesnât look. The wind blows her bangs into her face. How could he have only noticed it then? That she was gorgeous. The way she laughed, or the way her uniform clung to her frame in the breeze.
âThey enthrall me.â
âYeah?â She sits up and faces him. Shuts her book. The wind is soft and cotton in his hair. The sun cast soft shadows of eyelashes on skin. She tangles her fingers with his, leaning forward; never once letting go.
[It seems the spring flowers can only sigh, for no one is and will ever be as beautiful as you are.]
Keep on loving you | Seungcheol
Iâll be honestâŠI have not written anything new in AGES. Anyways enjoy this. Sheâs really short but I love her.
She wants to tell him how she loves him more than he could ever love her. How thereâll be no one else for her but him, but she is silent.
âI don't think I can do this anymore!â She cries, at last.
Sometimes, we say the things we do not mean to the people we love the most.
âWhat?â CHOI SEUNGCHEOL asks.
âIâŠitâs too much. All of it. Your life is so big and vast and more than I could ever imagine. I am too small to fit in it! Letâs be honest here, Cheol. I am not cut out for this.â
âI love you.â He simply says.
And she wants to tell him how she loves him more than he could ever love her. How thereâll be no one else for her but him, but she is silent.
âLook at me. Please.â
She shouldnât. Otherwise, sheâd catch those dirt-brown eyes, see the way they soften on her, and then feel some sense of dread because nobody will ever look at her like that again. So intensely. Baring into her soul.
Crush | Seungkwan
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! :-)
âYouâll remember this place, right? Like if you get big and famous and stuff, and everybody knows your name, you wonât forget, right?â She asks quietly. She says âthis placeâ like it doesnât really mean âmeâ.
âYouâll remember this place, right? Like if you get big and famous and stuff, and everybody knows your name, you wonât forget, right?â She asks quietly. She saysâthis placeâ like it doesnât really mean âmeâ.
The two sit on a pavement by the beach, legs pulled to their chests. The air is salty and sticky. Her fifth ice lolly of the day melts on her tongue in the summer heat as she asks the boy next to her. He stamps his feet at the ants that had gathered over the melted dessert she had dripped on the floor.
Sheâs afraid of being forgotten. He was two years older, and it wasnât hard to imagine him leading a life without her in it. She could see him, glittering idol, glory etched in his bones. He was always meant for greater things. She knew that.
ââCourse not,â BOO SEUNGKWAN laughs, âwhy would I?â He rumples her hair. She doesnât really believe this, and she hates the way he makes it (her) seem like a joke. Like a kid. Like the things she wants are childish, and stupid, so ludicrous he had to laugh it off.
The sun set over the island, and the tides lapped over the shore in their own rhythmic manner, and she felt waves of sorrow and desire swirl about in her chest. She felt like she was losing this boy sheâd grown up with and always ever loved to the rest of the world.
âJustâŠdonât forget, okay, I mean it.â
âI wonât. Seriously.â He assures her. But it was useless anyway. She knew him leaving and someday forgetting her was bound to happen. She just had to wait for the pain to settle.
Yes to heaven | Mingyu
âI mean, Iâve been waiting quite a few years now. I really, really, fucking want to kiss you. Can I?â He laughs a bit at the desperation in his own voice. But also the raw emotion behind the words.
âI think youâll want this to sober up,â she calls, holding out a cup of instant noodles at the tall boy. He reaches out to get it, letting his cold fingers gently touch hers.
She doesnât move away. Never did. Heâd always do this, reach out, move closer, so subtly, so silently, like a question. And sheâd never pull away, but never give him an answer, either. They understood the complexity of their situation. He was always going to be out of reach in his big, glowy, K-pop star way. And she was always going to be a nobody.
Yet it seemed today KIM MINGYU was adamant on giving a voice to his questions.
âCan I kiss you?â He asks, voice shaky.
âHuh?â
âI mean, Iâve been waiting quite a few years now. I really, really, fucking want to kiss you. Can I?â He laughs a bit at the desperation in his own voice. But also the raw emotion behind the words.
She nods. What is there to lose? On this quiet winter night, there is so little space between the two of them. Heâs just him. Not some crazy celebrity, just the boy sheâd always known.
Breaths twisting together as mist in the cold, she says yes. Yes to heaven. Yes to you.
He leans in, (smells like strawberries and soju and all things lovely) and his palm finds the nape of her neck, cold in the winter. He leans forward; fingers tangled with hers, and he kisses her like he has been thinking a long time about where heâd touch her. How heâd hold her. (So broken and delicate in his arms) They are two bodies pressed against each other, so full of yearning. Love stories and slow songs melting over their lips.
Mingyuâs eyes do not break away from hers as they pull apart, gasping for air. Under the moonlight, he gently pushes her hair out of her face, tracing soft lines down the right side of her neck.
âI love you.â He breathes the words, so quietly she wouldâve thought they were meant for himself.
âI know.â She says in response, because she did.
Youâre the only good thing in my life | Hoshi
Ah, well.
âI want her,â he simply says. His fingertips tremble under the weight of his desire. The confession shocks him.
âItâs obvious, you know. The way you stare like no oneâs watching.â
He turns to see Seungcheol in the doorway. His tone is a mix of understanding and warning.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â he says. Though he did. She had come to get something from the studio, and although he kept to himself in the corner, (pretending not to notice) (pretending not to care), he almost bore into the mirror with the intensity in which he was observing her. And now Seungcheol had seen it. Understood it. ThisâŠdesire.
âSoonyoung, Iâm saying this for your own good. You have to decide what you want. For yourself and her. Iâm saying that waiting around like this isnât an option anymore. People notice things, you know.â
âI want her,â he simply says. His fingertips tremble under the weight of his desire. The confession shocks him. The meaning behind the words, the consequences it could bring. The fact that his heart had known it all along, but he had been too afraid to let the words slip into existence. The fact that heâs admitting this so easily now, into a space she frequents, as if the walls had ears and lips to whisper his secrets to her.
âI know.â
âI justâŠI just want her. But I think I canât have her, and IâŠjustâŠâ
âI know.â
Places we wonât walk | Wonwoo
Heavily inspired by this scene from âHidden Loveâ!
Her heart had remained the same. She still had all this desire seeping out from everywhere every time she looked into his eyes for too long, or when he bared all his teeth in his usual boyish grin.
The man sat by the steps, phone in his lap, lips red and dry from the cold. He looked up at her.
2 years and nothing really changed. JEON WONWOO looked tired. But he had the same smile. The kind that felt like he wasnât really smiling at all. And the same eyes. The same meaningful stares. She pulled the sides of her jacket closer together. A pack of cigarettes tumbled out.
He picked it up, eyeing it, and then stared at her the way he always did, like he was so much older and wiser, that he knew so much better, that he could see through her. âLearnt to smoke, have you?â
She had known this forever: His eyes always had this wet look, like he was about to tear. With the redness of the harsh wind, she actually almost believed it.
âTheyâre not mine.â
That was true. She must have grabbed the wrong jacket on the way out.
He nodded.
âAnd in these 2 years, have you forgotten my name? Why have you not greeted me, kid?â He says this jokingly, but she has always hated the way he brought age into the conversation like it was a matter of fact. The way he called her âkidâ, or nagged at her, as if to him, she was undoubtedly nothing but a child. And after all these years, had he not stopped to think that she had also grown? (It made her feel stupid and small. It made her feel less than he was.)
He only grins. He reaches out to touch her hair and tease her, and she moves away.
âWhatâs up, kid? Why do I feel like youâve got something against me?â He asks, slightly confused at her cold treatment.
âOppa.â She says. And then she stops to think for a while. And then she says again, âI wish you would not call me a kid anymore. I am nineteen now. I am a grown up.â
She expected him to think, to realise, maybe, that she was no longer the kid he knew since she was fourteen. Maybe heâd acknowledge that, then. And see her as a woman rather than a child. But he simply laughed, and the left side of her chest stung again.
âHow grown up could you possibly be? I will always be five years older. You will always be a kid to me, even when youâre forty.â
She wished could make sense of all these feelings she had that sheâd hidden for so long now. Maybe then, she could let him go. Find someone her age. But she couldnât, no matter how many years it had been since she last saw him, no matter what sheâd told herself or the new people sheâd met, her heart remained the same. She still had all this desire seeping out from everywhere every time she looked into his eyes for too long, or when he bared all his teeth in his usual boyish grin.
âNever mind that,â he waves his hand, âhow are you going back to your hostel? Iâll send you. Youâve been drinking, havenât you?â
âYes, but no. Itâs okay. Iâll go back with my friends in a while.â
She does not want any more favours from him. She does not want him anymore.
âAlright, then. Be safe.â
She nods, and turns to leave, but he says again: âAnd hey, two years without seeing you and youâve learnt to dress up. You look different now.â
She didnât know if he meant different in a good way or bad way. But she knew that nothing was different inside of her. She still felt like that stupid girl.
Masterlist! đđŠčđŒê©â
Jjk (Stsg) đđŠčđŒ
(Unnamed 1)
(Gojo Satoru is beautiful. But heâs also real.)
Unnamed 3
Colours
Haikyuu! (Iwaoi) ê©
(Unnamed 2)
Svt â
Donât let me go; Minghao
Sunday morning; Joshua
Starry eyes; Mingyu
Strawberries and Cigarettes (and the god damned Polaroids); Jeongcheol
Summer rain (and the awkward conversations); Dokyeom
Places we wonât walk; Wonwoo
Youâre the only good thing in my life; Hoshi
Yes to heaven; Mingyu
Crush; Seungkwan
Keep on loving you; Seungcheol
Hold me tight; Jeonghan
Cry; Hoshi
Unbreakable (1); Mingyu
Summer rain (and the awkward conversations) | Dokyeom
[In which heâs your brotherâs best friendâŠ]
She knew it now. That all she had with him would ever really be the heavy, awkward conversations. Yet they were everything to her.
âHey,â
She raised her gaze for it to be met with that of a familiar boyâs worried eyes.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded, and LEE DOKYEOM reached out to help her up, though when he noticed her struggle to balance herself on the skates, he bent down to take them off for her. Her throat dried out. She rather felt like a child, in only her fluorescent red socks against the hot, hard cement.
"I'll walk you home," he merely said and she nodded, because who would not, when he looked like that, dirt brown eyes and messy hair, skin still glistening under the shade. She could not comprehend how every feature of his could be beautiful to her but they just were.
Sometimes she wondered if he only treated her the way he did because she was his best friendâs little sister and he saw her as his own. If he saw her as a child. After all, she was fourteen to his nineteen. Those five years, however, were everything to her. As if in those five years, heâd seen all the parts to the world she hadnât uncovered. As if in those five years, he might have been waiting for her to come along.
As she walked toward the boy, however, feelings of shame rose to the back of her throat. She was embarrassed, to say the least. She felt stupid, and childish. So she hid her face behind her hair in hopes of keeping away from the urge to look at him. She didnât dare to, anyway, it reminded her too much of the previous times that summer where those shrewd eyes of his caught hers.
There wasnât much to say when they were alone, she realized. She resented the fact she had so much trouble merely conversing with the tall boy. She was not sure if the slightly uncomfortable feelings were mutual, but she was sure that them being together like that, alone, was unusual.
As the sun set, the sky broke into hues of pinks and oranges. When they reached the end of her driveway, Dokyeom extended his arm, dangling the skates in his hand.
âAh," she nodded and retrieved the very object that caused the butterflies in her stomach and the scrapes on her knees.
"Thanks, by the way," she said to him.
He looked at her for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to the path in front of him and grinned slightly to himself. "For what?"
She shrugged. "For helping me? And walking me home, I guess."
He shook his head. "It's nothing."
Then, there was the familiar silence she knew so very well. She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it again, for reasons even she could not explain. She was about to thank him again, continue the conversation, but heâd caught sight of her brother.
âHey, hyung!â he called, rushing forward.
âDokyeom! What are you doing here,â YOON JEONGHAN grinned in return. He slipped into some slippers and rushed to open the gate.
The two began to converse in their own language. She realised, soon enough, that sheâd never really have a part in that world. She didnât understand; after all, fourteen year-olds didnât have much in common with nineteen year-olds. Jeonghan whispered into his ear, and the gorgeous boy burst into a fit of laughter.
She knew it now. That all she had with him would ever really be the heavy, awkward conversations. Yet they were everything to her.