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THE WAY BAEKHYUNS HAIR WAS STYLED DURING THE DIAMOND SET 😫😫😫

#FUXK THATS CUTE AND HOT #IM CHOKE #personal

starsehun replied to your post “Asdfg wait wtf did chanyeol take out of his pocket in the middle of...”

Him dicc

pfttt how relatable lmao

#starsehun #im choke #pcy shows the whole world his dicc no suprose lol #replies

BABY IT’S COLD

@archaistes // fckn... reborn

in the winter chill, what she wants most is comfort, in arms outstretched, in hearts welcoming; an ache that hadn’t changed in the slightest since she was young, asha yang had always spelled to be this kind of simple. as always, she craved warmth (love), alabaster skin stretched over bleached bone, hollowness is a constant, an insistent itch she can’t seem to scratch no matter how deep she reaches in to claw at her insides.

till recently, she thinks she’s found a remedy in dating, the embodiment of all things cuffing season stands for, asha dated till she could date no more—could handle no more (heartbreak, anything soft has long been plucked from the warmth of her chest, leaving jagged edges she throws layers and layers of fabricated sanguine in desperate attempts to cover her faults—she’s always had too much, too many; that’s why they all leave).

but now, now, she figures, she could chance the frigid winter alone. she figures romance is a tired term, a withered sentiment she can no longer keep by her side to warm her insides. she figures she couldn’t survive another heartbreak as desolate as her last.

her roommate, newer and kinder than last, strives to set her on a healthier path, one that has asha on her own two feet, depending on no one but her own (and she tries, she does, but when attempts fail and nights grow lonely, gavin’s bed (arms and all) welcomes her with solace asha need not seek anywhere else).

and before she’s known it, months has past. months without a lover, without charming smiles and gentle touches that has her heart racing. months with a crushing sort settled on her chest that eventually dissipated into a faint dull tinge.

months later, she thinks she’s gotten over it.

but life is funny—fate is predetermined, red strings entangled and pulled, inescapable no matter how hard she tries—it didn’t matter if it had been months or years, for better or for worse, she’s bound to run into oh sehun again.

luckily, this time, they manage to settle on a means of friendship, no matter how shaky.

but it was ever so easy to fall into step with past habits, ever so easy to care for the shakespearian boy with bitter rotted hands once again—too much, she has always cared too much about oh sehun. so when time winter rolled around, it was as if nothing had changed, as if they hadn’t spent months apart, as if sehun’s brilliance in his articulation with crudeness hadn’t torn her apart and left her crying on a curb just months prior.

by the time christmas eve comes by, asha is standing at his doorstep hour to midnight, cheeks flushed, arms weighed down by presents and hot food. technically, she hasn’t a logical reason to be here—sehun had asked, but obligations had kept her from spending christmas eve with him. yet her thoughts are never far, even surrounded by friends and peers in a christmas party; thoughts of her former roommate easily surfaces, and in the face of asha’s happiness lies guilt, lies worry over a man she knows surely shouldn’t be spending the holiday alone—so before she knew it, she had been on her way, out of her shared flat with nothing but dinner (she’s sure, sure as the snow falling outside, he hasn’t eaten) and his gift.

it had been impulsive, stupid impulsive, but she was here.

standing cold in front of his door, she is struck by anxiety (the pros, the cons, the volatile tendencies of his temper) despite the brashness of her actions, teeth worrying her lower lip. she has a million of what ifs—twice shy after the first, asha doesn’t think she could stomach another door slammed in her face—but only a glaring worry seems to settle in its distinction.

the idea of sehun spending the holidays alone and hurting has her heart aching, heartstrings plucked and pulled taut—if anything, she’s always cared less of herself (she’s nothing now, her heart’s barren now), hasn’t she? and it’s with that, that she knocks on thrice (for luck) on the door.

“oppa-ya? it’s me.” she starts, voice raising a higher, peppier, octave. “open up!”

#archaistes #( * ASHA / THREAD )#IM CHOKE