#f8less

continuation of x

   it is what it is until it isn’t. twenty-three years seem like a step closer to finiteness and Kyungmin embraces it, mind clear and ambitions high. yet right here, under the covers, with Lev’s body pressed up to him and the warmth of his touch trailing down the sensitivity of his waist, reality blurs. his heart is not supposed to twist as Lev hides his face in the crook of his shoulder—it’s not supposed to stutter and then race as closeness transforms into territories ahead of his imagination. it’s too late to back down—he could never; not when Lev stands right there, afraid and uncertain making Kyungmin’s heart leap and speak before his mind catches up with it.

   such is the power Kim Lev holds.

   attraction is simple when ground to the basics. like chemistry, the equation works or it doesn’t. Kyungmin’s lips find their way to Lev’s mouth and the kisses they share transform into a language of longing. his body fizzes as their kissing deepens. fingers are buried in the softness of raven strands and every single nerve of his body is ignited with greed and recklessness. Lev moans his name into his ear as lithe fingers find their way around his shaft, Kyungmin’s head begins to spin as he smiles, dangerous, possessive. fingertips trail down, tease the crown as he licks his way into his lover’s mouth. it’s easy to find his way on top, to press Lev into the mattress and pin him under his weight. Kyungmin takes a look down, sees his young lover looking back at him and it's so fucking much because lust should not lead to thoughts, desire should not transform into anything else but hunger. he noses the line of his jaw, hips grinding down in the familiar rhythm he wills himself to get lost into. thunder flashes outside.

   ❛ could we… ❜ Lev asks as Kyungmin’s teeth graze the column of his neck. hands settle over his hips and it should be scary, that the blond can tell what Lev is trying to ask from him, what’s making his ears redden even more as hips buckle into Kyungmin’s cruel playfulness. it should be scary that Kyungmin is eager for this, that he knows he will not say ‘ No ’, can’t, doesn’t want to.

   he wants this part of Lev to be his, always, no matter what.  

   ❛ are you sure? ❜ the blond asks even when his mind is a thousand miles away thinking of the best ways to break Lev apart, of all the ways he can drive himself in, take his name and carve it into the younger’s soul, brand it with fire and make sure it sticks and doesn’t go, ever. ❛ what if I hurt you? ❜ and he’s not uncertain. eyes glimmer, eager to watch what Lev wants him to see. it isn’t sweet—it isn’t kind to be this covetous. 

   ❛ you could never hurt me, ❜ Lev whispers. Kyungmin can see it, Lev’s heart on his eyes, on his sleeve. his core trembles and he should know—he should admit that… 

Send a symbol for Cường’s reaction to…: (No longer accepting.) ☀: Giving him a gift.

He sinks into dream. It swallows him up, devours him, and it’s a crash, a wave, and the suck, deep and crushing, of ocean swells. 

A wonder comes, then: how can you survive it all, plunging and drowning in these nightmares? These visions fouling up your head?

Who knows, but each night, he survives. And each morning with the sunlight pale through the curtains, he stirs peaceful and angel-glowing. How odd. It’s like it little bothers him, all these summer-robbed dreamscapes freckling with frost because he doesn’t scream, you know, and he doesn’t think to tremor, rivers all about him flowing with corpse. The dead. Rot. But maybe -- certainly -- he’s grown too used to the terror; it wears him like his skin.

And why, he thinks, should he balk at his body? The ghosts that cling to him? The visions in his head?

At-- “Tae,” he starts, stirring beside the dream-river. The phantom looms there. Still, there’s fog that wreathes thick about them, and through the whispering white, their hand reaches out. Hello, they seem to say.

Cường blinks. Something glints in their palm, and he grabs it, careful. It almost bleeds him. He raises it, dream-moon licking it silver, and his wonder bubbles wild. “A gift?” he asks, blinking back. The mirror shard captures that face of his, and again: god, how alive he is. How breathing, unabashed, and pink, rosy in the full of his cheeks...! Tae looks. Tae settles.

Of course, they might have said. Cường’s not too sure; his head’s foggy, and hey: a present, straight from one’s heart, is a present, no? And a special one, too, don’t you think?

Hm. The dreamer tilts the shard to capture both their faces -- him, sun-warm and lively, and them, sharp and cold -- gazes met. Suddenly, a gust takes, pleasant, and the grasses between his toes tremble... "Do you--” there, bumped against my shoulder, “hate what you see so much?”

That they’d give him this thing? That they’d join him, staring?

“Or do you just like what you see in me?” That I live? That I can wake from here?

Fighting is not new to Maxwell. He’s camped out in foxholes, wrestled toe to toe with the enemy and seen his fair share of blood shed... but nothing like this. 

“Fuck, CHRIST-!” The ex-infantry man yells as his fists, now bloodied by this point, land another punch against this twisted creeps jaw and though he goes down, he still refuses to stay down. 

Maxwell had stumbled out of a bar, as he was prone to do on really any night of the week, as his sad-sack of a life continues to spiral and like all hopeless fools, he finds solace in the bottom of a bottle, or the warm body of another. Only this night the drink wasn’t sitting right and his sour mood had scared away any potential interest so he’d decided to cut his losses, and head home. Stepping out of the bar, he’d almost missed it - the quiet commotion in an alley not far away until he glances over to see two people pressed close, a strangled scream, and what looked like the other bite their neck. “What the fuck?” He’d cursed under his breath, before the soldier in him kicked in, and he moved forward to intervene. No matter how drunk and broken, he never could stand to see someone attacked when he could help. 

  “  I  want  to  what  and  with  who  now  ?  ”    It  was  an  understatement  how  baffled  poor  Burak  was  at  the  proposition.    “  I  know  Lev  though,  but  he  is  Ruru’s  friend.  I’ve  known  him  since  he  was  a  baby.  I  would  pick  him  up  and  put  him  on  my  shoulder  and  run  around.  I  think  he  used  to  like  that.  He  would  always  be  talking  about  those  orange  aliens,  ”    a  halt  there  as  Aurora’s  distressed    ‘  oh  no  ’    was  heard  in  the  distance.    “  He  was  an  adorable  kid.  I  once  saw  him,  Ruru,  and  Taewon  pretending  to  be  Power  Puff  Girls.  They  were  so  cute  saving  Townsville.  ”    He  chuckled,  before  his  smile  faded  at  the  remembrance  of  the  question.    “  Uhh  …   I  think  Lamia  can  do  karaoke  with  Lev  instead.  I’ll  clap.  ”

thoughts on seeing your muse from a distance | accepting

the diner she frequents is the only one open at this hour within a ten block radius of her train station. the moon is long past it’s peak, every decent person having quit the evening hours before, the only other patrons a street cat that steals pieces of bacon from the sleepy-eyed server & a stiff breeze that rattles through the crack in the window next to her booth. 

the cellphone shakes angrily against the table as tired eyes pour over spreadsheets as the the project that’s been months in the making threatens to split away at the seams. why do they torture themselves this way?

another hour slips by as the server replenishes an ever empty mug of bitter, black coffee & sungji has half a mind to fall asleep right there at the table.

the chime of bells signals the entrance of another, pulling sungji from the warm embrace of an almost slumber, golden hues blinking away the sleep to refocus on the screen. the other takes a seat a few booths away, quickly cracking open their own computer and books and whatever else they brought that manages to fill up every square inch of the tabletop surface. bronze gaze casts over to the other table, silent curiosity welling at the softness of the features. determined, wildly so. almost destructive in the way their brow furrows a deep chasm of focus or concern or perhaps a dutiful mix of both as they pour over the materials & whisper quiet mutterings to themself.

hmm.

sungji eyes the stranger over sly sip of the steaming coffee, ignoring the burn searing across a sensitive tongue, & wonders why they’re typing like they’re running out of time. wonders what has their gaze glowing with some unmarred passion that feels far too unfamiliar. they touch the frame of their glasses often, gently. as if coaxing a thought from their own mind with each nudge. the ping of an email draws her attention back to her work & she doesn’t allow her mind to stray for the following hour until the task is complete.

karma was bound to strike him down, sooner than later. he admits, fleeing yiseol’s apartment, in the middle of the night, wasn’t his smartest move ( in his defense, he never claimed to be smart ) but he was attempting to avoid something like this happening. flings are no common occurrences in his hectic life, and the few times it’s happened he’s strayed from people in the same line of work, or susceptible to work with him in the future. too messy, and he has no wishes to deal with clingy and information about his personal life possibly leaking to the media. until now, it seems. having perfected a neutral mask, over the years he’s been involved in this industry, no recollection shows on his face as his partner for the shoot is introduced to him by his manager. head bows politely. “it’s nice meeting you.”