dont worry about me doll

summary: 

He stares at the hand centimeters from his face. At the slight curl of the fingers. The baby blue veins that faintly traced the pattern of freckles sitting idly along the back. He can’t help but stare. Watch in silence. A slight tremble in the wind brings him back to reality.

There is blood mingling with ginger curls.

Maroon tainting pale orange.

His own eyes hardly remained opened, pained gasps rising as he attempted to sit up. “Shan,” he mumbles, cringing in the dark, “Get up. Come on. Come on, Shan.”

There’s no response. There hasn’t been one for a while now. His shoulder screamed in agony as he raised an arm, pushing Mo onto his back.

Dainty face crushed. Thin nose broken. Pronounced cheek bones reduced to a muddy mess.

His eyes widen, heart seizing it’s pounding, lungs unable to contain an ounce of oxygen.

“Shan?”

the 19 days boys are 15 years old. they are minors. they are literal children. yall should not be sexualizing children. because, like i said, they are minors and that is extremely weird.

summary:

Something flashes across Qui’s face, almost anger, “Ya know, you never would’ve pulled this shit when you were younger.” “Or sober,” Mo says, dropping the empty bottle at Qui’s feet, “It’s stronger than I thought.” His head feels heavy, his heart slowing, and he can just barely feel fingertips tracing his knee. He blinks at the expanse of pale skin, the robe he wore flapped open, “Huh,” he clicks his tongue, kicking the robe away from his feet, “It’s not that cold, anyway.” “What do you want?” Qui sighs, crossing his arms, feigning annoyance. Mo knows a bluff when he sees one, shit, he was full of ‘em himself. He shrugs, “What do you got?”

He was poking a bear, knowing damn well it would bite. But fuck, if he didn’t want to be chewed and spat out.