#blckvpr

@blckvpr | Peter Pan (2003) Starters (not accepting!)

   Jongin finds himself lurking in the coffee section inside of a convenience store under the faux pretense that he really couldn’t decide on wither or not he wanted to try french vanilla or pumpkin spice. In actuality he was avoiding two patrons that are currently engaged in a heated argument in front of the only exit. 

He can’t help but to roll his eyes as he approaches the cash register with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and there isn’t a sign of the argument ending anytime soon. “Listen, if I were you I wouldn’t make me angry.” Jongin pays for his drink— he evens takes the time to fold the receipt in fours before stuffing it into his wallet and then take a sip of the coffee. Not bad, he thinks before taking another swallow, could use a little more sugar. 

“If you were me, I’d be ugly.”

Send me 5 facts asks.↳ Status: not accepting

19. Five facts about you right now (it could be what you’re wearing, how you’re feeling, what you’re doing).

I should eat something healthier than ramyeon and smokes.

I haven’t had a good night’s rest since I came back to Seoul.

Not that I'm allowed to rest, anyway. There's much to be done.

Despite all that I have to do, I still find myself bored. BORED.

There are flames stirring up in his veins and he smothers a palm over their mouths with thoughts held by logic. He fists and closes palms in an attempt to abate the sparks -- but ignoring the fire does not stop its flare from ripping straight through him. This fire is wild, uncontrollable as it overtakes the city he has built up for himself inside his head. The citadel is weak; the walls are crumbling down faster than he can stack bricks with his nimble hands. The fire is a storm, and one that leaves him wrung dry with the need to fall to the ground in search for oxygen beneath the gray smoke above.

I want to ruin you. Selfishly and all by myself.

Another night against lukewarm sheets, with tousled hair by the pillows beneath and spent bodies lying still on the bedding. He pulls the other into his chest and he curves around the frame of him like an apostrophe. He paints his palms into the skin of him and the strokes of his brush are soft, coloring him where he is of lack. The tips of his fingers write skin letters for him along the curves of his shoulders. And then he spills ink over him with his arms, placing his lips at the end of his chest as if to mark the end of a paragraph.

He sees how his organs are constantly wandering, and how his heart only stops its journey in the boy's palm where it stumbles. There is shattered glass between their feet but he too, needing it still follows the beating organ. He steps over edged shards, crossing the violent Nile. There is no rain the clouds permit on this side of the plain, but one look into his eyes and the other pours into him as the rain does amidst a thunderstorm.

I need you to stay through the storm. This boy cannot offer what he needs. He does not offer what he needs.

excuse me what have you been doing at my house

There’s nothing intimate about what he engages in and in what they do.

He whispers a stranger’s name and it settles against their skin. Breaths soon hitch, bodies dance together and limbs intertwine as if they were not made to do anything but. Skin kisses skin and the contact stays for mere seconds that stretch into minutes prolonged to hours. There are collisions between matter and of course, rhythm and murmured nonsense in between lewd noises that remain trapped between their chests all throughout the midnights under turning galaxies.

A stranger he forgets the name of an hour later places a palm right above his chest. She brushes over his skin like the wind caresses over electric blue clouds during dawn’s sky. She whispers his name right beside his ear, yet his gaze becomes entranced by eyes of the moon who beams through the glass. His thoughts remain detached from the person that he holds against his waist. Something stirs in him and overtakes his thoughts; everything becomes an unimportant blur banished into distant recesses of his mind. He is attracted to the moon, because he knows he is just as empty as the moon is overruling her night.

There are canyons separating him and the rest – and a simple surrender of someone else’s body was not enough to fill the vast, fallow cracks spaced in between his handcrafted mountains of bare nothing.

So he does not think anything different of his body either. He is all the same, composed of the same organs and of the same matter. Placed in the same organization, with the only differences kept in letters of a code embedded in every inch of his body. 

So he does not understand why if he is all the same as the rest – why there is suddenly no exchange of spark between him and the celestial being in the midnight skies. The moon does not spare him a glance no longer. She purses her lips and the stars come around her while he fumbles to reach an explanation. He only finds it in the small of Sehun’s back, and in the way his hands make home on his restless hips while bringing him as close as physics possibly allows him. He finds the answer between the teasing skinny touches. He scopes out the truth in the way Sehun’s body fills up the spaces where he is hollow.

He listens to the moon that whispers to him as he lies against matted, ruffled sheets and besides one, slumbering boy.