人为什么会变？

[ 가을: ] he whispers a discreet ‘fuck’ as he stands there, panic-stricken. elbow on door frame, other hand on waist, he falters sloppily ; managing a simper that is nothing more than open-to-question.

( 은봄 )  ➝  untongued, flushed: with him, she’s learned to speak with earnest, trembling hands, not the comforting lies of her otherwise crooked tongue.  “ it’s unfair. ”  having lost all of what was left of her verbal spirit, earthen fingers prance at the opportunity of his untwined arms to embroider affection her mouth is unable to speak onto his skin: they curl around his own, tugging him slightly closer — her fingers waver and his flesh sears hers, but it’s hardly fear that gnaws at her very bone — only to trail past his knuckles and seize his wrist, pulling his frame meekly against hers.

what fondness did then, fondness does now: gnaws her skin and gnaws her through.  “ how i can’t be mad at you. ”

[ 가을: ] timidity puts the boy in hesitation, fingers rippling sedately. not too coastal yet not too warm, amative yet tranquil enough to hold his faineant sentiments, his love. he is beholden to her warm patience, and there lies fear of having to relinquish her someday, perchance–––what if she’s sullen? weary of him, maybe? what can he ever be so sure of, with this trenchant disquiet of his on the notion of affection? 

          a mild kindling of distress, and smidgens of regret. her embrace is locked, arms enfolded above dainty shoulders. his previous doubts are held together in delectation by her courage, once again, as always. an avarice of wanting to protect, to cherish, to reciprocate. it slowly clouts him on memoirs that only consist of reluctances on his part, since the dawn. 

( 은봄 )  ➝  in his deterioration she does away with a cosmic laugh, waylaid by the outburst of his masked affections:  “ my my, ”  — childish, —  “ are you taking me back without having to hear my excuses, then ?  ”  but kind of cute.

she halts her laughter, however.  “ you’re one to talk, aren’t you, though ?  ”

[ 가을: ] since when did his little spring get a way with sapient replies? in a tizzy, he stares, feeling as if his flair’s been filched. “honestly, honestly—how can i not? don’t do me questions like that, babe.” a mild moue in indication of unrequited rejoinder ; affection? maybe a just nod, even? somewhat of an emotional dilemma for him, it seems—and he fuckin’ hates it!

source | accepting

          ( wanderers, lost amidst the storm of themselves. )

‘THE SANDMAN’ SENTENCE STARTERS - sorry, closed ! 

“have the letters finally cut to your heart?” his preoccupation with his novel halts to throw the girl a glance from the pages of what pronounced of sickening romance (wuthering heights, emily bronte). his words always pronounce all there is to love, 

why of course he has her entranced. in the need for him illicitly, alone in dream. fool-proof.

hearing these words he had longed for from bom ignites a shot of adrenaline into his hungry veins, chest throttling. “and what would you have dreamed of?” sehun asks, his voice piquing to coax some elation to his ears. to allow the relief drown him softly at the words this stubborn heart. 

(like a shot into the vein, drug-like and wildly addictive. adderall, a heart’s dance.) 

his chest burns fast, he finally clutches her in his greedy hand. oh sehun had waited, waited for - just too long. his words were the magic that was suppose to warp this foolish girl’s heart, her prancing mind in the blessed grasp of his divine hand. the human’s vulnerability lies in their sleep and what consists of their dreams. 

(his fingers drum against the back of his paperback, in silent, shriling delight.) 

shoving his seat to stand, approaching the now splayed out girl before him. vulnerable, chest out - sehun will have a finger, then three, then a hand flushed between the cages of eun bom’s chest and fish out the muscle of her palpitating chest, bloody. this is how a god takes the sacrifice of a mortal. 

oh sehun, with a master of language and the ability of his predecessors, like magic, can induce such vulnerability.

“do you dream of me and what i had promised you in my letters? do you dream of battering eyelashes, stolen breathes and my fingers aching to trace you?” stepping closer, “that i dissipate this ennui with a touch, a kiss and the wrinkling of cotton sheets?” 

stepping closer, intrigue winding in the highest tract of tension. smiling, of course. what is the harm to a friendly dabble of sarcasm and dangling of vulnerability? 

( - he’ll tear it out her veins and heart strings and maybe sink canines in to know what a denying heart tastes like, he’s never had one of those so determined before. seamless. this is how a god blesses a mortal with his touch.) 

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