#manakane

Send ❤ for a lusty/loving/affectionate message.

Send me 'I want the K' and I'll use a number generator to write a drabble about my muse kissing your muse. > The Love Kiss.

This was new and certainly unusual. Normally, Junmyeon was careful when choosing the people he surrounded himself with, especially when it came to developing certain feelings for them. He and Yongguk, they were close although not too close, friends who saw each other every now and then and enjoyed each other’s company. 

Yet this was something different. Never once before had Junmyeon even thought about the other as anything more than a friend, someone with whom he went for a drink or who got him out of his episodes that Yongguk was more than accustomed to. But it didn’t feel quite as weird as he would have imagined, nor did it feel burdening in some sort of way. It was relieving, though he lacked the ability to tell in which way.

”For once shut your mouth.”

Send me a ツ if you like the way I portray my muse.

"You know that I turn this stupid thing on when I’m sleeping or working which means I’m not available," he retorted before letting out a sigh. While he could clearly comprehend what the other was going on about, it still felt unfair to be accused of not having time to pick up the phone. Well, that wasn’t far from the truth to be honest but Junmyeon saw little need in explicitly telling him that. 

‘There he goes again,’ Woobin thought to himself as he rolled his eyes. Every time the consulting detective would encounter the other male he would without fail say the same thing. It was always something about a lesson that should have been taught and blah blah blah. Quite frankly, he found it to be rather tiresome to hear the same thing. The other was like a broken vinyl record on repeat and he figured it was time to change the tune.

Waking up cold had to be one of his least favorite things, right beside waking up sweating. Honestly, he didn’t know which was worse; though waking up with both, when he had a fever, was probably what he’d have chosen. Thankfully, when his dark eyes did flutter open slowly, he found that he was simply shivering, the motion of which had probably been the thing to rouse him from his… was he even sleeping? Where was he even? A stiffness seemed to have taken hold of his normally lithe body, a sort of heaviness. A feeling of vulnerability.

Right in the middle of the street. His cheek was still numb from where it had been pushed into the thin dusting of snow for god knew how long, and he rubbed it with an equally frozen palm as he sat up onto his knees, wisps of his hot breath trailing into the air above him as he huddled closer in on himself and quickly noted that he was clad in his usual attire of a t-shirt and torn jeans. Not dressed for the weather at all, so it seemed. Above his head, he heard a tired sort of creak, of rust and metal, and he raised his head slowly to find that he’d—passed out?—smack dab in the center of an intersection, a broken traffic light swaying back and forth in the chilled winds. Ahead of him, a single street, lined by eerily empty-looking buildings, dead windows and cars that he had a sinking feeling would not run even if he tried to fumble through driving one of them. He turned his head left and right, but only an obscuring fog met with his vision. It was like all that existed was himself, the bit of asphault his feet were planted on, and what lay on the path laid out in front of him.

Far off in the distance, he could make out the shape of some kind of building, sitting raised on a hill, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The road seemed to lead directly to it, albiet quite a trek on foot from where he was now. It was probably also abandoned, if he had to guess. But he had to try to find someone, right? How the hell had he gotten here in the first place?

Put simply, because he knew. An unwavering conviction buried deep in that subconscious that he’d grown to detest so much as of late. A frigid gust blew, and he was pushed to his feet merely by the motivation that maybe one of the buildings would have some semblance of heat—or at the very least, something with sleeves that he could ‘borrow’.

Another reflex: he patted his pockets for his phone.

Gone.