If you are still doing the ship and number at thing, can you do XiuChen (Xiumin x Chen), and #1 (soulmates au)? Thank you and I love this blog so much!
Title:Â Light of smiles, dark of cries and grey of ashes
Pairing: Xiuchen
Genere: Fluff, slight angstÂ
Rating and warnings: nc-17 for drug abuse, self harm and mentions of death (none affect Jongdae or Minseok)
Prompt:Â SEND ME A SHIP AND A NUMBER AND IâLL WRITE A SHORT FIC
Summary: Human kind is cursed to only see the colors black, white and grey during their whole life. Unless of course, one finds their soulmate, then the world shall spring into color in front your very own eyes
Word count: 1850~
They saythings arenât always black or white, that one has many options, many shades andmixtures to choose from, to not always stick to what is right and what iswrong, neutralism is a nice and comfortable zone, grey isnât bad, it lets onesee from a distant point of view and so many more arguments that still donât makeit worth it. Donât make worth a world with only lack or excess of light, wherecolor is imaginary, a dream, a desire, something one craves more than anything.Humanity is cursed to be born completely color blind, in the most literal way,only black, white and the dull, boring, ashy grey.
Cries areblack and smiles are white, the rest is mere smoke, the color of everything isjust dust, and no one can do anything, scientists canât find a rational cure, onethat is explained by physics and chemistry, one that actually makes sense andis logical to be documented for the history to admire. However, of course thereâsa catch to this flawed and damned nature: love. As simple, clichĂŠ, ridiculousas it sounds, the only thing that seems to reverse and end with the sightproblem, and therefor, many others caused by the deprivation of color isfinding your soulmate.
Everyone isborn with that cognitive problem, but it isnât chronic, it doesnât lastforever, it isnât supposed to be eternal, for thereâs a catch: if one findstheir soulmate, the curse shall break and the world shall bloom into color. Yes,completely fairy tale like, right? The type of story one would half whisper toa sleepy kid that is yawning the world goodbye for another day, the one thatmakes the heart flicker with hope and desire. Everyone wants the soulmate, forcenturies and millenniums mankind has only thought of that other person Zeus partedus from when he created us and divided us. The motivation didnât cease, eachindividualâs subconscious hinted them who their soulmate was. Keyword: hint, theyhad a voice, they had a smell and even a touch the identified them as the one, but, when people woke up thesoulmate was gone. The only thing the person of your dreams lacked was a face.
Frustrationand irritation sprung because of that, society found that itâs easy to usedrugs, a huge contraband market spread like a spider web all over the world,countries forming part of the illegal affairs knowingly, the pills sold onpharmacies for the most desperate, expensive as oneâs kidney, they werenât anexact cure, in fact it was a poison, as much as one could see in a pastel liketone every color, it lasted only for a few hours, forcing people to consumemore and, in consequence ending their life. The majority of deaths during thepast decade was caused by the constant consumption of that liquid or suicides.People go mad when you take away joy from their eyes. Â
Jongdaegulped down when he walked pass the store, the cross above the crystal door withbeating lights and patterns reflecting on his cheekbones as he kept walking.His mother ended her life after taking three bottles of the poison one afterthe other, just like one drinks water, her husband wasnât her soulmate but shethought heâll love her forever. Colorless lives end up leading people to self-destruction,trying to find some sort of entertainment to feel the dull void, his father wasself-harm, his mother: drinks, Jondaeâs: art.
He enrolledin college, major in Belles Arts. Each page of the books assigned were his ownpersonal addictive substance, classes were robotic like but he had always hadbooks, books were meant to be black and white, the words were calming andsoothing, they told him stories of artists that lived a very long time ago,deities no one believed in anymore, and every single tale was better than the soulmatebullshit. Sculpture was made to be white, pure, and even if they werenât likepaitings, they screamed so loud to him that it was as if he could see beyondthat, beyond the shades and the lights, he saw the life behind the work.
Needless tosay, museums were his home rather than that plastic, all white and luminous apartmentthe government provided him after his second year of college, when he was leftorphan. He mourned, but didnât cry, when one doesnât see color, one has moretrouble to feel, to have extreme feelings, at some point to even have the brinkof a spark of an emotion. Poker faces and furrows, thatâs what his society was allabout. Humor was hard to comprehend, only made by people who were actuallyhappy, who had someone waiting for them with their arms open and a smile ontheir lips.
The receptionistgreeted him with a nod, at that point they knew each other by the sound oftheir footsteps, their conversations always fascinating, but excitement neverin their voices. Jondae spent his days inside those walls covered by large andheavy curtains that displayed works of art so beautiful one could forget aboutanything but the wonder they held. Skipping class wasnât frowned upon, or atleast so he thought but no one seemed to change from that eyebrow knittedexpression, not even a cringe or a curling smile, so he shrugged and kept withhis daily shenanigans.
Usually hewas alone, sometimes a silent group of middle scholars would pass by him withtheir electronic guides and their sepulchral silence, sometimes and old coupleholding hands, sometimes another student like him getting ready to copy the artpiece in front of them. But he never, in his life, hand seen a small boy, or soit looked like. Hands in his pockets, head looking upwards, his fair hair(Jongdae couldnât tell what color theyâd be but probably blonde) flying backwardsat the motion. A sudden thought shook Jondae, if the kid had fair hair, maybehe could see color, maybe he could tell him which color was which in somepaintings, just for mere curiosity.
So hedecided to give it a shot, the glasses of the other up the bridge of his nose,his lips motionless in a thin line. The more Jondae stepped closer to theother, the more he realized the boy looked actually older than him, maybe justa couple of years, but the way his jaw clenched, and his shoulders widened andhis expression tensed, Jondae thought that maybe, he was just as blind as him.Even so, he kept walking, he wasnât handling his body, he realized, he wasactually moving pushed by some other sort of force, and there was no stopping.His legs moved one after the other, like a robot, like the limbs werenât his anymore.His sweaty palms rushed through his curly hair, saliva hot down his dryingthroat.
Just onemore step, shoulder to shoulder with the other, hands behind his back, headtipping to look at the huge painting. One of many of Rubens the museum hadbought, it was dramatic and dark, the expressions of the demons down underwhere of pain, mischief and despair, the angels were peaceful, calm, and thehumans concerned, but some smiled even in the middle of the confusion.
It was nowor never, Jondae turned to look at the fair haired boy. And he caught hisstare.
White.
Black.
Grey.
Bloom.
Everythingspun, his eyes itched as if a nest of wasps had attacked him, there was snotrunning down his nose and tears down his cheeks, his knees impacted with thefloor and his heartbeat rate increased so quickly so fast Jondae was waitingfor his left arm to stop responding. But it didnât, hand clutched on his chestas his lungs coughed exhales and welcomed intermittent and sharp inhales. Hisother arm around his middle, his stomach was rebuking every meal he had evereaten and it hurt, spikes clenched the organ against itself.
Andsuddenly it was gone. There hadnât been screams, or blood, just pain. Andcolor.
He had seenthe green of his childhood when the grass grew for spring in the front yard,the yellow of his motherâs hair even if she wasnât aware, the blue of the skywhen he tried to find meaning and form in the clouds, the red of the cherrieshe used to place on his ears as earrings, the orange of high school bag and thebrown of the mud where they used to play soccer. He saw the white of thesmiles, the black of the cries, the grey of the ashes and the color ofeverything.
The otherâshair was pink, bright pink, his glasses golden and his eyes brown as chestnuts.His shirt had a drawing with pinks, purples and black. Both their trousers wereblack but their shoes were ones red the others lilac. Jongdae helped the otherup, sweat still shining in his forehead, eyes open wide, sitting down on thefloor with his legs spread in a manner that resembled of someone who had fallendown once their legs stopped. His skin was soft and warm to the touch. Wordsescaped them, no one knew what to say, shock on both their faces. They staredat one another until their pants turned into even breathings. And then, afterGod knows how long, their lips curled, in perfect and complete synch, theirbodies moved again, now lungs filled with laughter, joy, long lost happiness.
The smallerthrew himself on Jongdae, arms wrapped around his neck. It took a split of asecond for the taller to reciprocate. Holding the other there, home wasnât themuseum, but the boy he was holding. He could see dim moonlight on his cheek ashe looked back at him, laying on a field with fresh grass that tickled them, hecould see him in a window seat, looking at the rain pour, tracing his fingersdown the window pane following the drops, Jondae could see them blowing dandelions,could listen his giggle like a distant memory, could even remember a name. Likea dream, like lost memories that were coming back, like they were meant to bein a past life, like they had found each other before.
They pulledapart, again looking at each other. The piece of art long forgotten, the otherbeing the only thing his new born eyes could see. Jondae recognized that kittenlike smirk, the crescents in his eyes and the voice. He read his lips but healready knew what he was saying.
âIâmMinseok. Please tell me you remember me from our dreams.â âBecause I sure do.â
Maybe hadbeen inside the building the whole time, between the dull and smoke, andperhaps thatâs why he kept coming back. And just, just perchance, in art they found each other, the threat that linked their dreams, those fantasies they had ever since they wereborn, with each other.
Rating and warnings: nc-17 and gore, swearing and sex
Prompt:a superhero story where the villain and the superhero are roommates and they keep making excuses to each other about why they are out all the time and they stitch each other up after battles but neither has any idea that the other is their nemesis and they keep on having to lie to each other why they are covered in scratches and bruises
Summary:Â There had been a lot of times Sehun was urged to take his mask off, in all of those times he refused, he stood behind it, curled in a ball, knees against his chest and head on top of his knees, breath hitching in anxiety. Therefore, itâs funny that it just took one face, one smile and one look of despair under him, with a bloody lip and heavy eyelids, a face of someone who knows is going to die doing good, for him to take his mask off.
Word count: 3868
The bathroom is just as old as the rest of the apartment building, which is twenty years. The tiles used to be white all of them, some long time ago, not the mismatched scheme of yellows they are now alongside with a bluish pattern recovering all the four walls. The tub is still enchanting, at least to him, for surprisingly he fits in it, toes donât stick out the edges and the depth is enough for him to drawn if he wants to. However, they have to put some kind of weight on the tap in order to make it stop dripping, a terrible constant noise that creeps the shit out of both of them.
His eyes wonder to the ceiling, blurry vision blinked away to focus on the cracks forming root-like drawings, some of them painted with rot and humidity, black as they can be, but apparently, not a harm for their health. The cold nightâs air that has somehow found its way into the apartment, hit his skin, hair raising just slightly at the soft, frozen, caress, now that his arms and torso have been exposed.
After the noise of the cabinet being closed shut, Sehun wakes up, snaps out of his daze and slumber, itâs past midnight and almost past night over all since he swears the sun was waving hello from behind the skyline when he was walking (dragging) himself home. And just as quickly as he has perked up, he drifts off again. Clouds of sleep, confusion and a feeling he has been afraid to name since half a year now, numbing his senses and reflexes, he is a rack doll at someone elseâs mercy. He has always been. But this time, Sehunâs owner is Kim Jongin. And somehow that doesnât sound as terrible.
The wounds arenât that deep, or even worrying, his skin has seen better days, as well as worse. Once a bruise covered his whole upper arm, a circle a shade darker than the other, creating a horribly beautiful rose there. A fascinating nebula of pain that lasted a month and a half. Soft but firm hands apply just the right amount of ointment on the newly made bruises, again, not as furiously purple as they had been. And moments later a damp cotton is being tapped on his cheek, where a long and open cut has been blooming for minutes.
It stings, so bad.
Sehun finds himself hissing at the touch and swatting the gentle and also, wounded, hand again. Just as he does so, he regrets it. He misses the otherâs fingers on him the moment they leave and itâs clichĂŠ, and corny and cheesy, but he is too gone to even care.
âFine, then just do it yourself. I need to patch myself up too, you know.â And the voice is so weary, so tired and done. It makes Sehun want to claw the eyes of the one who caused that. But he couldnât do that to his father. However, the knot in his guts doesnât fade, throat swelling and drying.
Before Jongin turns to away, Sehunâs skinny arms stretch, reaching for the other, digging on the worn out shirt he is wearing, warm and old, pulling him closer, burring his head on his stomach and resting it there, heavy and drained, squished until the last drop was shed. Sehun was never made to care about anything or anyone, a machine to kill and destroy, to obey and remain in silence, so how on Earth was he supposed to deal with such an intense emotion like love? No book he had ever dive his little head in since he was six said anything about it. Just research, knowledge and self-teaching, learning every feature known to mankind. Literature will come later, when he moves with a roommate at the age of twenty-one, his fatherâs idea and choice, forcing Sehun to shatter the antisocial mask he had been building during his years of self-isolation. Â
Literature comes when he steps into the shared apartment, Debussi playing too loudly (he has never met anyone who liked to blast classical music), when the shy sun of April filters through the white curtains of the living room, glowing on Jongin, no, better, making him glow even more. A precious jewel, a rare gem Sehun gets to hold dear. Jongin is blind founded, dancing, practicing in the living room a routine that make him stand on his bare tiptoes, arms stretched and chest puffed up. Frowning, focused, he hasnât even heard Sehunâs arrival, much for the youngerâs satisfaction, hands quickly searching the notebook in his back, clicking the pen open and writing. Ink tracing the paper, outlining it, just like the sunset light is doing with Jonginâs body as he moves.
Sehunâs hand hurts after the second page, he is writing about the otherâs beauty, his grace, his patience. A bible about Jongin, writing beyond his dancing skills, now focusing on his kind, friendly, honest, brilliant self, his selfless self. Jonginâs mesmerizing self. Â
Time is ticking, so is telling the drops on the tub. Still no movement.
In a silent plead and apology, or at least he hopes Jongin gets it that way, the younger waits for his hands on him again, yearns for it internally, until it happens. Thumb and index finger pulling his chin up, cotton a little bit drier now tapping again along the cut, as Jongin wears a small accomplished smile. Â
The tub is also quite wide, taking over almost all the space in the room, but in that moment is so convenient, fitting the two rather tall boys in, a bit cramped but, none of them seem to mind. Jonginâs head is now lolling to the side, he has kept his composed façade for way too long that night, and itâs finally running out. Now Sehun can see the exhausted guy, with deep dark circles and chapped lips, the uncountable bruises and wounds, some patched a few nights ago, the others open and challenging. Bare chest against bare back, Sehun holds the other close with one arm around his waist, keeping him on Earth, not giving Morpheo the pleasure to take him to dream land. Not until he is patched up.
First he is careful to remove the bandage on his hand, itâs going to heal soon, but just in case he puts a new one right after the ointment that also uses to treat his brassies, his are less, the cuts are what worries him. Once Jongin had to be taken to the hospital, for Sehun didnât have the guts to sew the tear on his side, even though he could have done it. However, the risk of hurting the other made him back off of it. Now, he is applying some new cottons with alcohol on them, gaining a grimace of pain from Jongin every once in a while. His eyes are shut, plump lips against Sehunâs pulse and sweaty hair tickling his jawline.
So many questions have been jumping on his mind, since the very beginning, when he saw the other arriving with a black eye and open lip, he mumbled something about a bar fight and stumbled to the bathroom, playing drunk, Sehun could tell. The second time, he was the most damaged, and with all honesty, he wanted to go to his house, not the flat. It had just been 3 months since he moved in. 3 months since he had fallen in love. However, the second he wanted to inquire, to show his worries, he thought of the backfire, Sehun himself looked as if he had returned form a battle. That was enough for him to bite his tongue every time curiosity tickled. And it looked as if Jongin did the same.
When he comes back to the present, his hands are massaging Jonginâs shoulders, which feel tense and hard as rock under his hands, eventually, he eases them, a sigh muffled on the youngerâs neck that makes him shiver all over, eyes rolling back. Maybe thatâs the only time in his damned life he will have the opportunity to hold Jongin in his arms. He is going to make the most of it.
Thatâs why he doesnât shake the other off, not even when he is snoring softly against his flesh, his rhythmical breathes being Sehunâs lullaby, and slowly also forgets about the uncomfortableness of the tub and gives in to Morpheoâs spell. Â
âSorry for falling asleep on you last night.â
âNo worries. Howâs your hand?â
âGetting better, thanks for changing the bandage.â
âHow was college?â
âYou really want to know?â
âAbout how much you despise your classmates and teachers and college, and how much you will give to be in a dancing school instead of learning about economics? Yes, I do.â
âWas you day that boring, Sehun?â
It is whenever you arenât there. âI want bubble tea.â
âNewsflash people, Oh Sehun wants bubble tea.â No melody, not even created by Mozart himself would compare to Jonginâs chuckle right in that moment. âLetâs go, you spoiled brat, Iâll tell you all about my miserable life on my way there. Oh by the way, that book you recommended me, Lorcaâs best work? Amazing, will you ever write poetry like him?â
âI wish. Maybe I just need a muse or inspiration.â
âGood luck with that.â
Yeah, good luck.
Thereâs nothing heartwarming or even welcoming on Sehunâs house anymore, the place that had seen him grow, grow cold and wise, deathly and caring, the place he would hide and spend all days into, never felt so foreign. He almost runs out of breath when his mother hugs him, from the bed she lays all day every day, suffering from a disease that was revealed too late, and a regret that is shortening her life even more, she urges her two kids to go visit her as much as the can, and Sehun complies, always complies.
His father isnât that approving in all of that affair, he has given up on her, saying that she is weak and has forgotten about the main rule, one mustnât care, when one starts caring everything goes wrong, emotions and feelings get the worst of you and mislead you to the wrong side.
Wrong side, thatâs how everyone describes Sehunâs fatherâs side, the bad guys, the villains, the ones kids kick while playing, the figures that never sold out. And Sehun knows, he is otherworldly intelligent, he knows that the torture isnât the only way to take out information form someone or make a third person feel pain, knows that drugs kill people before making them go completely mental, semi-savages, knows that guns arenât a toy and one can kill with them. He knows all the atrocities his father does are wrong, are inhuman and violate every right on the books.
Not that his father cares, of course he doesnât, he doesnât mind about all the threats, the chasing. He doesnât mind about Kai.
Kai, what a kid.
Appeared out of nowhere, literally, from thin air a few years from now, and he continued to do that, disappear and reappear to doge bullets and confuse the hell out of everyone. He always managed to know what wire to pull to stop the bomb, even if there isnât any. He is the hero to Sehunâs villain, he is our nemesis. And he is Sehunâs next target. Thatâs what his father tells him just the second he opens the door of his office: unmask Kai, and kill him. No torture, no sweet vengeance, let them all know and see what they do to adversaries.
Easier said than done. Have you ever tried to catch someone who can teleport? With a snap of his fingers he can vanish from Earth?
Oh, but thereâs a trick.
Thereâs always a trick in order to catch heroes.
Sehun looks at the gadget on the desk, it looks like a phone, an old fashioned one, all screen and no keyboard. When he turns it on, a light blinks on a two-dimensional map he knows well, itâs his street, the flicker focused on his house. âA beeper.â He states, and his father nods.
âYouâll have to put that on Kai as soon as you see him.â As he talks, he raises his hand, a little button with a red, also intermittent, light on his palm. Sehun takes it and nods.
âHow can we be sure this wonât drop off when he teleports?â he is incredulous, the solution seems too simple for such a rare and uncommon power.
âBecause itâs made of titanium. Every hero has a kryptonite, Sehun.â The manâs voice has always been rusty, due to the constant smoking and when Sehun supposes, the war. He was a volunteer in the Vietnam War running away from the luxuries of his bloody wealth, in favor of the Vietnamese and was sent back when his parents arranged him a last minute marriage. Sehunâs father didnât have a spark in his eyes anymore, it didnât held ambitions other than make more money or have more power, he was always demanding, always setting the bar higher, making Sehun study more and farther to answer his questions.
He nodded back after his words, turning on his heels to leave after bowing, an action he repeated after closing the door shut.
Three hours. They had been fighting for three hours then, when Sehun had looked at his watch as well as he could with his mask on. Never forget to wear a mask when you go on a field mission. Field mission aka every other errant that involved stepping out on the open. And they were so on the open: the sun setting on their backs, jumping from one to the neighborâs rooftop until Kai wanted to disappear. He couldnât. The titanium was obstructing him from vanishing, not because it weakened him but because of itâs chemical composition. Kai always wore cotton clothes, a few layers of it, but not much of an armor, for this very reason.
It hadnât been easy to put the damn thing on him, thank goodness for a kid that happened to be walking by as they fought, Sehun had turned to look at the kid, thus making Kai focus also on him. Easy. So easy to trick, those heroes. Never thinking about their own safety.
When the other fell, knees giving up after so much running and jumping, Sehun attacked, throwing himself on top, elbow on the otherâs pie as he coughed, gasping for air. Rage took over, a sudden feeling of power filled Sehun from the very end of his guts as he beat the other up. Punch after punch, grabbing his collar and colliding his head against the ground until he cried.
Wait.
He knew that sound.
That sobbing, he had heard it before. In the silence of the night, right beside him, when the sky was roaring and there was a power shut down, when someone was pleading for protection on the other side of his bed, under the same covers as him.
The world stop its spinning, he held his breathes in as Kai coughed through his black balaclava, soaked with sweat, saliva and blood.
His hands stuttered, clumsy when they started rolling the piece of clothing off of Kais face.
Sehun was praying. In a mantra under his breath, to not be him, to not be who he thought it was, to all of this to be over, to forgive him, to please, please, forgive him.
The gasp turned into steam in the air and floated away to the now night sky.
The air was piercing his lungs when he crawled away, hands digging into the hard and cold floor of the rooftop.
He wanted to throw up, the food he ate a few hours ago was ready, threatening on the back of his throat.
Indeed, Oh Sehun was a being created to destroy and shatter, and not care about anyone or anything. If he did, if he dared to love someone, he would do what he was born to do. Even without realizing.
His feet drag him away, to the outskirts, residential neighborhoods follow one another in a dizzy monotony. Thereâs a lot of thoughts in his mind, a lot of words tangling with themselves, his mouth is trying to put them away, trying to make them have sense, to see if thereâs any logic in any of this.
He stops.
Thereâs logic.
The constant bruises. The similar schedules, the old, worn out clothes, even the wounds that his father or himself did to him matched Jonginâs, the side one, when Sehun found a rusty metallic peace ofâŚsomething, in that factory his father wanted to use as base to spy every government on this planet. He had thrown it as the last chance to wound Kai, he had succeeded, but he passed out before knowing it. Waking up hours later with wholes in his memory and running to go home, to the flat, to his refugee, to Jongin. Thre was also Jonginâs selflessness, his desire to be better and to do better, those words said out in exhaustion telling Sehun about a world without crime and real justice.
Every second he is there, kneeling, on the desert road, consumes him. His head is about to explode, blood beating on his temples and he wants to rip it off. To rip it all off. To run away and never look back. He knows he will never be worth Jonginâs love, or even be in his level, Jongin is a selfless angel, he is there to help the ones in need, and his father, himself are the ones who put them in this state of in need.
Jongin is his nemesis. His antithesis, the light to his darkness, the right to his wrong, the angel to his demons, the cure to his torments.
And thatâs why he has to head back. Sehun is selfish, he is absurdly intelligent and obedient. And he is about to change that. For Jongin. For himself.
He knocks on the door after leaving the two suitcases beside him, one is filled up with the memories, the good ones, he took from his house, his old one, where his mother is dying and his father is damning his luck. He has taken everything positive, which wasnât much, saving space to do the same in the flat.
His plans are to pack his bags and leave. Disappear just like Kai does, forget about his father, his family and rotten society, forget about Jongin, for the sake of the two of them. And move on. But, he can only do that after telling Jongin. Isnât it fair?
The door cracks open, and Sehun steps in to the sound of that honey-like voice that is now cracking and weaving. âCould you prepare me a bag of ice?â After those words, Jongin turns. His lip open again, like a months ago, like the first time, his clothes shed and eyes swollen. Eyes which are now widening in surprise.
Sehun breathes from behind the mask. Takes another deep breath, quickly before the other can vanish, and lifts his arms. He hasnât taken the uniform off, the black leather outfit still on him, the cuts intact and the mud spotting it just like Kai left it. Jongin pauses, knees flexing and eyebrows knitting together, as the person behind the Guy Fawkes mask reveals himself.
There had been a lot of times Sehun was urged to take his mask off, in all of those times he refused, he stood behind it, curled in a ball, knees against his chest and head on top of his knees, breath hitching in anxiety. Therefore, itâs funny that it just took one face, one smile and one look of despair under him, with a bloody lip and heavy eyelids, a face of someone who knows is going to die doing good, for him to take his mask off.
Itâs even funnier, that that person, was the one Sehun irrevocably loved.
Jongin holds him in his arms now, Sehunâs chest hurts but he wonât stop sobbing words and apologies, arms loosely wrapped around Jonginâs middle locking there. Head buried on the crook of his neck, tears rolling down the elderâs neck and to his collarbones as they collapse in the middle of the hallway, holding each other for dear life, one looking for forgiveness, the other giving him whole to the first one.
Itâs so gentle. Tender touches and soft kisses, trailing down warm and wounded bodies, lips working as band aids, patching them all back into place, healing those which were there from even before their meeting. Bodies melting into one in the most marvelous explosion of passion, which could be heard from the first floor. Eyes rolling backwards, muscles clenching and stuttering movements, teeth nibbling the skin as softly as it was humanly possible. All to end up in a mess of limbs and sweaty bodies which lied on the too warm bed, head against the chest which held a frantic heart. Fingers intertwining.
All forgiveness was given.
Everything was forgotten.
And it was agreed, it was time to move on.
âBut this city still needs a Kai! We canât just leave.â
âLook at me, Sehun. Iâm a 21 year old boy, with no motivation whatsoever, with a body of a 45 year old veteran of war and a mind so twisted and tired Iâm afraid Iâll end up losing myself.â Jongin leans forward across the table in the kitchen, all breakfast set aside. âThis is why Iâm begging you to come with me, you are my anchor and youâll keep me from ending up in an asylum. Sehun, please.â
The real question is, why is it taking so long for Sehun to say yes? After all, this thought was what was leading his actions the past night, leaving everything behind, run away, escape his fatherâs claws and, like Kai, disappear. Perhaps it is too ideal, too good to be truth, to be able to just go, move out and away just like that, without leaving any trace. They donât have anything to stop them, except of courseâŚ
âShit.â Sehun stands up from where he was sitting, rushing his way through the flat and to the bedroom. Quickly, he kneels down in front of the pile of clothes they left the night before. Jonginâs shirt, the one with the worn out drawing, where was it, where the hell did Sehun throw it. Looking at the wall he even tries to remember the direction where the piece of clothing fell.
âAre you looking for the beeper, Sehun?â Jongin said from the door frame. Eyebrow raised, arms folded on his chest. âI found it on my way here and attached to a street light, I hope your superior wonât mind.â
âWhy didnât you tell me!â
âWhat should Iâve known you stuck that thing on me!â
âWell who else could-â But his words die, for Kai has walked towards him, trapping his lips in his own and kissing him with his hands cupping his cheeks.
âYou still havenât answered me.â There is a hit of sadness, maybe disappointment, maybe absolute despair in his voice. And maybe thatâs the reason Sehun says, pulling him closer again.
âyouâre a celebrity incognito trying to hide from paparazzi and youâre sitting right next to me and iâm the only one that recognizes youâ au
âsomeone starts a rumor that weâre dating so letâs turn the tablesâ au
âyou made an obscure literary reference and iâm the only on that got itâ au
âwe were both late to class and walked into each other in the hall and oh god do you have a concussion? iâm so sorryâ au
âoh my god youâre my exâs other exâ au
âweâre both actors and keep showing up for the same auditionsâ au
âi keep overhearing you make fun of me so i finally try to stand up for myself and it actually had nothing to do with me at all iâm sorry i never meant for this to happenâ au
weâre both teachers and all our students ship usâ au
âi kissed the wrong person on news yearsâ au
âiâm yelling to my friend about how attractive this celebrity is and then plot twist youâre the celebrity and in front of me wtfâ au
âthe only two people in the movie theaterâ au
âwe showed up at a party wearing the same exact outfit. this is awkward.â au
I was bored and wanted to write teeny things, so thatâs the idea behind this. Obviously, some things are going to work better together than others (Pirate blind date! High school wedding! Mermaid coffee shop!), but some things could conceivably be pretty cool (Steampunk rom-com! Parallel universe roadtrip! Superhero roommates!).
Feel free to steal and adapt this for your own writerly needs. If you guys like this you can toss some ideas for a version 2.0 my way! :)
"i jokingly told you that the only way iâd marry you was if you did this weird outlandish thing, and you actually did it, and iâm kind of charmed."
"this is probably a bad time, but marry me?"
"weâve been dating forever, and you just caught the bouquet at our friendâs wedding"
Yoongi remembered Jimin stating those words as if it was the most universal thing to know about him. Perhaps it was, from the way the boy shrugged his shoulders, brushing off the possibility of commitment and relationships. There was a glimmer of a reason within those telltale eyes, but it was the first time they had met through their mutual friend, Taehyung. Yoongi couldnât ask such personal questions just yet; he wasnât allowed to delve deep into anotherâs story so soon. He had to keep his curiosities at bay if he wanted to hear it eventually.
A droplet of sweat rolled down his neck as the clock ticked three a.m, not that he was paying attention to the clock, itâs rhythmic and persistent noise annoying him to no end, no, his full focus was on himself, in front of the practice mirror. There was no apparent reason for him to be there even less in such ungodly hours, however there was no apparent reason either to stop, to sit down, pack his things and go back to his room. So he might as well just stay and sweat his thoughts away.
That was the plan, the goal he had set three weeks ago and still didn't manage to reach. Jimin took a deep breath, lungs reaching for that source of life desperately, stinging the walls of his rib cage in the process. His vision was getting blurry, the roomâs increasing temperature not really helping in calming the boy down. Shaking his head, he found himself walking towards his phone, one more time from the top.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Arms were tensed, so were his legs, moving just exactly where and when then had to, steady breath as he turned, first the body then the the head. Stop. Breathe. Hand on chest, clench it, pull the fabric to the right, follow it with you arm, arm wave, step to the front and knee to the right, point at the reflection. Slap.
And another.
The third thundered and now there was a mixture of tears in his already sweat-wet face.
He wasnât sobbing, there was barely any noise coming out from him but the music vibrating, echoing through the room. His knees bumped on the wooden floor, his head bounced because of the fall and then he noticed how much his headache had increased, he was burning, boiling, a nauseating feeling climbed all the way up to his throat and he had to swallow the bile back down again.
Piece of worthless shit. You canât even get that fucking routine right, and you are majoring in dance? What a fucking disgrace you are, Park Jimin. Everyone is expecting you to ace this, you are going to disappoint everyone, you always do. Pathetic, look at you, weeping like a lost child, you really are disgusting to see.
Now he was sobbing, noises muffled against the palms of his hands, head between his knees, back bouncing back and forth in each intake and outtake of air, gasps as an accessory of his mewls, eyes closed shut because he refused to look at his own reflection.
Itâs all pointless, you canât do anything. You are going to end up on the streets, hopefully someone will pay you for a lap dance, not even that, you are going to fail again, you fucking piece of bullshit.
âStop.â
No one is here, you are alone.
âNo.â His voice rose, and a memory of a blinding grin hit him, quick and out of the blue. He fell backwards.
He doesnât love you.
Hands were now pushing his ears, numbing him from any external sound. The song had long finished.
No one does.
âShut up!â
You only have me.
âShut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!â
An ice cold substance was poured on him then. It was soothing, making his head stop beating for an instant, eyes flashing open and mouth slightly open. The water made it was to his back, multiple drops leaving a wet path as they finished their race a the small of his back. He dropped his hands to the side, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as his lungs remembered how to function properly once more. Jimin hadn't noticed how elaborated his breath had been, nor he had the notion of how long he had been in that state.
âJiminâŚâ his name was half whispered by what had to be his favourite voice in the whole entire universe. Hoseok didnât need to ask anything else, for his worry and concern were all packed in that one word. So, the questions such as: why are you here? what just happened? are you okay? etc. were omitted, skipping to the most needed hug.
Long slim arms wrapped around the younger as the remaining sobs left him for good. His own locked around the otherâs neck, face against the soft fabric of the otherâs shirt as he, slowly but without pause, pulled himself together. The soft touch of Hoseokâs pats helping him in the process, head slowly raising to nuzzle the otherâs shirt.
âBabe, do you want to talk about it?â Hoseokâs lips were tickling the otherâs temple, small smile on them but the caring tone never leaving him.
Jimin shook his head, blinking the tears away. Feeling like he was leaving home for the second time when he pulled away from the embrace.
âYou need to sleep.â
Again there was a negative response from the younger, only this time more determined. Furious, almost.
âThen Iâm staying too.â
âIâll be fine.â
The thing about having been with Hoseok for almost two years now was that it wasnât necessary for the other to even sigh, to make no noise whatsoever, for the younger to completely understand the other, like a sign language. So when Hoseok furrowed his brows at youngerâs words and his lips curled Jimin knew there was no argument, existent or not, that would change the olderâs mind.
Jimin sighed then, eyes finding the wall rather interesting, his teeth coming out to bite on the flesh of his bottom lip. Before Hoseok kissed him, lips tender and gentle on his. Hoseok had his way to gain Jiminâs attention, there was no doubt in there. However, it ended too soon, Jimin following the other right after it ended, not willing to let go, not even in his next thousand lives. The older took the hint and placed his forehead on the otherâs.
âTell me, love, what is worrying you.â
All it took was that, one lonely solo simple sentence from Jung Hoseok, to break Jimin again, this time all kinds of desperate noises came out, in a bizarre and loud mixture of words, please, self loath and despair. This time, however Hoseok was there, he was holding him, listening, comforting him, the patch and bandages for all Jiminâs open wounds. The younger told him everything, not missing a comma or a silence, nothing. Everything was spit right out of his mouth with all he got in his guts.
When it was over, when the stream had stop from flowing, when Jiminâs throat was as dry as the Saharaâs desert, when his head ached from all the crying and the skin under his eyes felt like it was pulling them apart, sore and red, Hoseok was left speechless. Eyes all watery and expression completely compassionate, a stuttering hand came up all the way to cup against the otherâs still slightly red skin of his cheek.
âI love you so much, Park Jimin.â it was out of context, Jimin was aware of that. But he didnât repress the shy smile creeping in his lips. âPromise me that the next time you feel just a little like that, just the one percent of you have told me, promise me you will tell me. Please.â his voice had cracked during the whole time to end in the whispered plea.
Jimin felt like crying again, instead, he asked. âHow did you find me?â
âI heard you getting out of the bed every night for the past three weeks. I figured.â Hoseok shrugged and Jimin looked down, then to their reflection on the mirrors, two boys half hugging each other sitting on the wooden floor, and somehow it was ideal.
âIâm sorry.â
âLetâs go back to bed.â
Hoseok kissed every inch of his naked glory, then, when sweat was forming in both their foreheads, his lips ate each moan, groan or gasp the other would let out. Everything Jimin had to offer, Hoseok took it. Stomach against stomach, breath hitching and hands marveling up and down naked bodies, Jimin felt like dying right in that spot if that would mean the last thing he ever got to see was that sight: Hoseok on top of him, brows knitted in a slight furrow, jawline clenching in each thrust and hips slamming against his, slowly, deeply.
His back arched upwards when a wave of pure pleasure invaded him, moved every last fiber of his body, and even if his eyes were closed in that moment, he could see the satisfied smile on Hoseokâs face. After a moan which the older interpreted as more Jimin left room for his lips, now sucking and nibbling his flesh. His nails digging on the otherâs back, drawing red paths and patterns all over the canvas that was that vast part of Hoseok.
The bed squeaked in discomfort as they both came, Jimin before Hoseok, and was rewarded with pepper kisses all over his face again, earning a bubbling giggle from the younger who tried to return said kisses. âI love you...â those were the first words said in a long while after the couple returning to their room. âso so so much Jimin.â each word was followed with a kiss until Hoseok rolled over, pulling the younger closer. The latter curled against the older, limbs wrapping around bodies.
âAnd I love you too, Jung Hoseok, just as much.â it was no surprise Jiminâs voice being so hoarse, even if it was a whisper.
The kiss that followed was longer, deep and passionate, what every kiss should be, it involved brave tongues and wet noises but meant so, so much more.
Person A frolicking happily through the snowâperhaps seeing it for the first timeâas Person B watches, more content with relaxing/observing. Person B looks away for one second and Person A jumps into a bed of freshly fallen snow, only to discover that itâs at least four feet deep. Person B glances back up to find A flailing their arms, stuck waist-deep in snow.Â
As much as Jackson groaned and buried his face on the pillow deep enough to run out of oxygen in a matter of minutes, he couldnât make the nuisance stop. A bouncing weight on the mattress and a raspy yet high pitched noise disturbing him and his dreams. It took awfully long for the black haired to put the pieces together, blame it on the lack of sleep and finals. Now, with a frown on his face that made all his wrinkles stand out, and thatâs a lot to say for a 21 year old college student, the person standing on the way from him and his dreamland was tapping his bare arms rather forcefully, moving him slightly with every push.
His ears popped suddenly, the buzz finally becoming a voice, a familiar one, which created words. âCome on Jacks, please, wake up.â Lips were close to his ear, that was no good if what the other wanted is Jackson to get out of bed. âItâs snowing and the field is free, come on letâs go.âMore please followed, at some points even interrupted by kisses on his shoulders and even bites, still no luck.
âIt still will be snowing in three hours, Mark.â that was the squeaky answer Jackson give to his boyfriend, and frankly, he didnât have to open his eyes to see the pout forming on the brunetteâs lips and the disappointment in his face. Sadly, he had seen that face too many times in the past three years. The lack of response, however, was the reason why he cracked one eye open. Yes, the pout was right there, and it made something sting in him.
With a defeated sigh, Jackson dragged himself into a sitting position, arms stretched to reach the other but just his fingertips succeeded in doing so. âMarkâŚâ he dared to whisper, maybe he had fucked up for real now, it was a very mundane and childlike thing for Mark to do, in all honestly, Jackson was surprised of the otherâs reaction, nevertheless, he knew he had to patch it up before-
âIâd never seen snow in my life. Only in movies, pictures and whatnot.â He was also whispering. The whole atmosphere tightened, a rope that someone was pulling the ends of it. âAnd, well I hoped you would like to go out with me and play with it now that no one is looking and your bad boy reputation would not be damaged.â as always, Mark had the knife to cut said rope and break a half smile out of Jacksonâs lips.
âGive me five minutes.â
Mark nodded smile widening on his lips,waited until his boyfriend stopped yawning to kiss him too passionately for a person who has just stumbled out of slumber and ran off.
In all his years of living, Jackson Wang could proudly say that he had never meet a paradox as complex and beautiful as Mark Tuan, and that he was the luckiest man alive to have the pleasure of dating him. At first, when we met on a utterly long but fancy dinner, that later on they would find out there were some of the most important people in the business world, Jackson would have pointed out Mark as cold and quiet, therefor dull. Truth the brunette wasnât fond of sneaking out of the living room and make a mess in the garden that would end up with their too expensive suits getting ruined. He didnât like talking that much either, there goes another con.
As the days went by and the meetings, now more private with just their families, became a frequent event every saturday night, Jackson couldnât deny having the other listen to his ramblings was, to say the least, relieving, he never had the hazardous idea of opening his feelings and most terryfing tormets to the older, until the latter did.
It took the raven haired by surprise, leaving him completely spechless afterwards. Even in that moment, when he was leaning against the hall of their apartment building, Jackson can remember it vividly: they were in Jacksonâs room, he was showing the other his new fencing set, all maybe too shine and with his last name, almost as a pattern, plastered all over the equipment. The other had been looking down at his fingers, watching them dance and interwine with eac hother with spasmodic movements. Jackson counted how many times he licked his lips wet, five in total, before his almond eyes found his.
âIâm gay, Jackson.â
How much he wanted to say something in that moment, tell him it would be alright, that he didnât mind, just anything. But he couldnât, because Mark had already begun his speech, a stream of words that flew from his mouth, thick and unstoppable, until him himself started to stutter, it was in the middle of the part my dad is going to find out and kill me of his ranting. His hands had flown to his hair, twisting and pulling, eyes had grown wider and were unfocused, breath was getting elaborated. The loud thud of the fencing helmet hitting the floor made him perk up momentarily, though not long enough, because seconds later his face was buried on Jacksonâs chest.
From that point onwards it felt only fair for Jackson to also open up to the other, punch a hole in his walls and let the other have a look. This required long conversations on skype of text messages that left the black haired with aching fingers and sore eyes, arguments at some point even, those he wants to erase from his memory.
The more he found out about the other, the more the paradox grew, because Mark Tuan appeared as this introvert yet observing boy, whose eyes would never leave your mind out of how intense they are, his expression never curving, never changing, always focused. Words ready at the back of his throat, witty and incisive, his brow would raise at some point only to come back down in a blink of an eye. With that figure next to him, this manufactured being with his chest puffed up and chin straight upwards, Jackson could only think about tickling him, about doing something completely stupid to get his friend back. Then, the sun appeared from behind the thick dark grey clouds, and Mark as smiling at him, echoing his words as the black haired spoke and laughed with him, he jumped, hugged, electrifying touches were left as they walked along the streets. And Jackson wondered if he could keep that boy forever.
Turned out, he could, at least during their stay in one of the most prestigious college there was. Not that they were staying in a, how did his father call it? oh yeah: a tacky, cheap college residence, and so, they managed to get an apartment in the capital, all white walls and black furniture and a closet too big for only two teenage boys. Jackson wasnât the one to complain, neither Mark.
Mark.
Then that name made his insides burn with nervousness. It had been almost three years since he had last seen his best friend in his all mighty glory, only through pixeled screens and intermittent connections between Los Angeles and Hong Kong. So one could tell he was in the verge of hysteria while waiting at the airport, the banner he was holding suddenly looking too infantile to bare, embarrassment quickly filling his cheeks. Okay, since when did Mark make him feel like a second grade girl with jelly legs? Sincerely, he couldnât remember, perhaps since the very beginning, though that he hadnât noticed until Mark got on that plane and left him for more that he could bare.
The hypothesis turned out to be truth, after all, when the kiss in front of all the busy people scrolling along the building, seemed too good to be real, it wasnât awkward, Jackson would have punched the other if it hadn't been Mark. But it was Mark, Mark Tuan, his best friend, partner in crime, and finally, just then finally, his Mark. If the kiss was all sorts of right, so was holding hands to the apartment, the otherâs now red hair tickling his cheek as he drove, or even cuddling with just their pajama pants on while watching the most horrible chick flicks out there.
It was completely awful how much Jackson took to realise how much he needed Mark in his life. He was the ying of his yang, the right to his wrong the light to his shadow, and he was holding onto his tanned chest as if he was the last brink of hope, of energy that was keeping him from the abyss he was destined to fall into.
Snow continued to pour, white crystallized confetti dancing all the way down to the ground, trees, benches and Jacksonâs shoulders. His eyes were focused on the boy in front of him, sitting on the pile of snow they had made into two not so comfortable snow chairs, his nose against the other, steam mixing together, holding hands as it flew to find the snowflakes midway, lips found lips and all cold seem to vanish like the steam, leaving only smiles and mid sentences that maybe werenât supposed to be said, not in that moment. They would find another time for them.
When Markâs hand trembled as it cupped his cheeks, Jackson made the move to stand up, said hand trying to keep him in that snow throne. âIâll get us something warm, Iâll be right back.â He said against the otherâs knuckles before turning around. âOkay let me come wit-â
The sound of snow getting smashed intensified as the otherâs words were cut. Turning around immediately, Jackson really tried hard to burst into a fit of laughter, he really did.
Mark, from his position, butt deep buried under a big hole in the snow, only arms and legs pointing out, oh-so-comically, also found it hard to appear mad or even slightly upset, joining the mad laugh of the other with his own, breaking the terrible silence of the night. His hand quickly grabbing into Jacksonâs as he was pulled out of the trap. The cold hit him then, making a violent shiver shake him from head to toe, teeth clattering and voice cracky and trembling. âLetâs just continue in the morning.â Jackson talked sweetly was they walked back towards the apartment. âNow I think we should prevent you from having an hypothermia.â
âWe could sleep some more and then ask the others to come for a snowball fight.â Mark asked looking at the other.
âOh yes, that little shit Jaebum owes me one.â Jackson opened his anorak, wrapping the other with the left half of it.
âRancorous much?â They left a poodle in the elevator, snow slowly melting.
âIt wasnât fair! He didnât tell me he had played soccer in high school.â Their clothes were tossed into the sink, preventing them from soaking the wooden floor of the apartment.
âOnly if I get to be in your team.â Mark reached for two towels, Jacksonâs arms still around his waist, leading him towards the bathroom.
âThereâs no team without you.â Pepper kisses were left on the red hairâs skin as he spoke, the first cold streams of water splashing them as they stepped into the shower.
âGood.â Mark whispered against the otherâs lips, warm water now hitting their heads.
Your OTP are neighbors in an apartment complex whoâve never really talked beyond saying hello. One evening, Person A knocks on Person Bâs door; theyâve injured themselves and need to be driven to the hospital.
Many people would have find it annoying, almost irritating, the rhythmic, steady and harmonious noise of the raindrops against the window, right in front of him, composing a nice and soft beat as they did. Jongdae, however, found it calming, every last drop colliding against the surface a soothing sound that helped him focus on the papers on his desk.
Highlighted words and full sentences with bright yellow marker traced a path all over the sheets, the concepts slowly sinking into the boy's mind as his eyes followed the trail of ink. World literature wasnât actually his best or favorite subject, not a chance, but still, he found something...familiar, letâs say, in some authors that lived through the darkest ages of the literature: Machado, for example, the spanish poet who was forced to leave his hometown, bright and sunny, to work in a rather isolated, close minded, cold and arid. The only thing that made Machado stay there, Â a land which he despised, was love. Leonor.
He kind of saw himself in that: wanting nothing but to drop all the college studies, leave everything and everyone behind and travel the world. And that plan was supposed to work, it had every element for its gears to make it happen. But, like any other human, Kim Jongdae fell in love. That kind of love that settles there, inside oneâs hard, make a little nest, and blooms out of nowhere in the most unexpected moment, like a bizarre butterfly.
As much as Jongdae wanted to kill that butterfly --avoiding the one who made it fly for weeks, writing on pieces of paper over and over again how not in love he was and how much he hated the concept, even drowning her with alcohol until Junmyeon had literally slapped him out of it-- Jongdae gave up on a cloudy day, fog surrounding him as he walked, the other close next to him, sides touching. It had been so easy to lean over and nuzzle his nose on the top of the otherâs freezed hair claiming he was too cold. It was almost surprising how quickly the other had rested his head on the otherâs shoulder. And it was so delightful to feel their lips brushing oh-so-feverishly.
That was months ago, when the air of the newborn spring still was too chilly to wear the clothes they sold in stores with the tag âthis seasonâ. Then, with Christmas creeping around the corner and finals almost devouring one alive, Jongdae found himself smacking his head against the desk, a shocked little gasp on his right filling the air afterwards.
âYou okay?â the voice is weak, still a little broken after the long silence.
âMake it stop.â Jongdae whined and turned to the other.
Baekhyun sighed, dragging himself closer to his boyfriend on the bed, back leaving the pillow it was resting on and the book on his lap also falling forgotten to his side. His hand flew to stroke the otherâs fringe out of his forehead with soft touches that made the other smile beneath him. It was also soft, lips curling slightly and eyelids closing with exhaustion.
âLetâs have a break, then.â the brunetteâs voice was still gentle, almost a whisper as if he didnât want to wake the other up, though he wasnât sleeping, yet.
Jongdae just nodded and hummed pleased.
âIâll go get something to eat.â said the shorter and got out of the bed, his feet finding the ground in a thud.
âCaramelâŚâ
âMacchiato and a chocolate muffin, I know.â
After the door had closed Jogdae yawned, stretching his back and limbs as long as they could, feeling an electric stream flow through him and left him a little dizzy. Shaking the feeling off, his cheeks found his fists on the desk and stood there, not actually reading per se, but rather trying to store and understand what he had been trying to comprehend before. A sigh left his lips when his mind was done. At least he was going to pass that one subject this semester.
Baekhyun found him with his head resting on the mattress on his right and snoring slightly. Although the view was alluring (the dim light of the table lamp made Jondaeâs cheekbones stand out. Wait was Jongdae pouting on his sleep or where his lips this plump? The shadows his eyelashes shed on said cheekbones were longer than any other human being, beautiful, curved, dark drawings on the canvas that was his skin) Baekhyun knew that if he let his boyfriend nap he would never forget him. So, with two fuming cups of coffee he reached the wheelchair Jondae was napping on.
âJongdae.â his finger poked the otherâs cheek once. âcome on, wake up.â
No luck.
Now his fingers brushed his lips making a weird sound as they followed the digits. âJongdae, do you want me to tell your mom about how much of a lazy ass you are?â
The mother card didnât work anymore, apparently.
With the devilish grin back on Baekhyun left the cupboard cut out with the drinks on the desk and leaned forward. His tongue replacing his fingerâs and repeating the path.
Well that was getting both annoying and worrying.
âYah! Kim Jongdae if you donât wake up this very moment I swearâŚâ Bakehyun flicked his nose.
And that was it Jongdae perked up, almost hit the other with his forehead, eyes round and big with surprise.
âNo napping remember? You said this morning...â
âBut BaekâŚâ
âI will not sleep until I master this subject.â
âBut I do!â
Baekhyun snorted.
Which made Jongdae almost yell all the lesson avoiding the otherâs coming sarcasm because he really didnât need that right now. Jondae started from medieval poetry, listing all  the authors and relevant poems, then all the way to baroque, neoclassicism and romanticism to triumphantly finish with the past centuryâs authors.
âCome here.â was Baekhyunâs only response as he held Jondaeâs hand, pulling him in a hug that he managed to carry to bed, where they lied. Limbs tangled, wrapping the other wanting to feel each otherâs warmth tha felt like home when they knew their actual home was miles away. Nose in hair, breathing the fresh smell of the shampoo there followed by chest kiss the travelled all the way down to a forehead with a dark brown fringe, and ear on chest listening to a better beat than the teardropsâ still created while crashing to their sudden death against the window.
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