Status: Closed
This round has closed. It remains open for fills and comments, but prompts are no longer accepted.
About
The world is full of beautiful words. The tongue has no bones but is strong enough to break a heart. Words start wars and end them, create love and choke it, bring us to laughter and joy and tears. There is no falsehood in words, only in things.
Calling all readers, lovers of poetry and music, screen and stage. If you have a google spreadsheet of Metric/Marina/Mitski/Macklemore lyrics, now's your time to shine. What does Nobel Laureate Louise Glück have in common with the Future of Kpop Lee Chan? I don't know, but we can find out.
Examples
Junhui + The Archer
"Easy they come, easy they go
I jump from the train, I ride off alone
I never grew up, it's getting so old
Help me hold onto you"
Taylor Swift - The Archer
Verhao; "I loved him from the moment he walked in"
Just thinking about all the verhao soft feelings from the last week of November, especially the killer tweet from @literarykpop with the quote:
"I laughed and said, ‘Life is easy.’ What I meant was, ‘Life is easy with you here, and when you leave, it will be hard again." - Miranda July
95 line - R18
"Houston, we have a problem."
Rules
- Sign up is not required.
- Fills have a minimum of 400 words for prose, haiku-length for poetry (3 lines), and 400px by 400px for art (memes are also art). Other mediums are fine too!
- There is no maximum cap.
- Tag and provide content warnings at your discretion, but a good guide are the Ao3 four (Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage) and this list of common CWs (cr: SportsFest).
- NSFW/Explicit content should be tagged
- NSFW art should not be visible. Please provide a link to the art. You may crop the artwork and embed a SFW preview.
How it works
Prompting
- Click on [Post a New Comment] at the bottom of this post;
- Change the subject to something interesting and saucy;
- Copy+Paste the following HTML into your comment and fill in the sections. Feel free to add as much detail as you want!
Filling
- Reply to the original prompt;
- Change the subject to [FILL], you may add a title or stay chaotic;
- Copy+Paste the following HTML into your comment, fill in the sections, and add your text
You may also upload your fill to the AO3 Collection
Filling with art/media
- Do the same as above, also;
- Upload your work to any platform (twitter, imgur, youtube, soundcloud, google maps, etc.)
- Insert the link to your work, done!
- Optionally, you can embed a picture into your comment. Please use the following code instead.
(To explain, the HTML resizes your picture to 400x400px so that it fits on most screens, users can view the full size if they click on it. You can also add a link to your work on twitter so that others can share it, or to any other website you want)
|
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Minghao + Night & Rain + Linkin Park
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Do Not Wants: None
Prompt:
+
I... will zip my mouth for this but I am very much thinking of how Minghao wrote this song after he woke up to an empty dorm and felt a surge of loneliness. Feel free to go anywhere with this!!
[FILL] I've never been perfect / but neither have you
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: alternate universe - science fiction, nightmares
Permission to remix: Yes
// OOOF sorry this is long + strayed from the original prompt, but thank you hwa for the excuse to loop Linkin Park while writing <33
***
Minghao misses grass.
He’s dreaming of it again, spiky and soft underneath his body when he lays in the meadow behind his parent’s house. Its heavy, summery smell. How the shadows of each blade stretch sunwards at the end of a long, lazy afternoon.
In the dream he always hums. Some lullaby he can’t remember the words to anymore. The notes crescendo until they shake his whole chest with a shuddering vibration, like he’s screaming with his mouth closed.
The earth starts shaking, too. Humming along. He digs both hands into the dirt, ripping up inelegant tufts of grass. A crack emerges beside his head. It elongates with an awful creaking noise, disseminating a hot and sulfurous fog, robbing the air of its sweetness. Minghao rolls sideways, feeling his heartbeat rabbit away.
The ground beneath him crumbles anyway. Minghao’s shoes inexplicably fall off. His nails leave gouges in the dirt, but he loses purchase and falls—falls—
Wakes up. Cold, sweating, curled into the fetal position with the blanket splattered on the floor.
No matter how many times he nightmares, waking up is the worst part.
Minghao lies flat on his back and takes deep breaths. A silvery glow of light under his door means that it’s too early to rise. He feels his own forehead, wipes the sweat away with the back of his palm. Suddenly he can’t bear the dark.
He clears his throat. “Computer, main lights.”
Warm orange lines alight along the ceiling. Minghao sits up and pushes open his observation window, through which he has a tiny glimpse of the stars. Ursa Major II is known for its gas giants and spectacular frost line, where enormous, multifaceted crystals hang suspended in a row. Like a naturally-occurring art gallery.
Minghao can’t see any of that shit. Just darkness and faraway pinpricks of light.
He slams the window closed, shivering, feeling lonely in a horribly abstract way. A ship of twelve hundred people is nothing compared to the vastness of space. If something were to happen here, he’d never see Earth again. He’d never feel the sun on his face in the idyllic farmlands of his hometown, he’d never weave another grassy flower crown for his little neighbor, he’d never...
Numbers on the clock flip and catch his eye. 4:13am. Minghao is jittery with this homesickness, this late-blooming form of spacial anxiety which he thought he quashed during cadet training. Three weeks after his inaugural launch, why does he still feel like this?
There’s nothing to do but wait until Beta Shift, when his work begins. Minghao tugs on his shoes without changing out of his black sleeping suit. He’ll walk, familiarize himself better with the ship, and hopefully clear his head.
His mood lifts as he rounds the corner out of the dormitory wing. Here the lights are white but dim, sliding along silver molding like phosphorescent snakes. There’s no one else wandering around at this time—in the middle of Alpha Shift—and he enjoys a quiet so profound that he can hear the ship’s engine humming far below his feet.
Minghao means to veer into the cafeteria, but a shadow catches his eye. Hoping for one of the friendly lab cats, he follows it, only to emerge in front of a massive observatory window with a curved sill wide enough to seat several people. A man is lounging in the shadow of a passing planet. Its glittering green rings reflect bulbous shapes off of the man’s bare feet. He’s wearing the same standard black suit that Minghao has on and nothing else.
Curiosity compels Minghao a few steps closer—then bites him in the ass.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
Junhui turns with a comical expression of surprise. A box of rambutan sits on his thighs, and the shock of seeing such a bloodred, ordinary thing makes Minghao freeze.
“It’s me,” Junhui smiles.
His hands continue working over a rambutan like this is a perfectly normal mid-morning activity. Spiky clumps fall back into the box. He pops the pit into his mouth and sucks the meat clean, pursing his lips and hollowing his cheeks like he’s in a goddamn porno.
Minghao almost walks away from the sheer impropriety of it all. But he has to know— “Where did you get those?”
Junhui spits out the pit like he’s kissing it goodbye. “The cafeteria. Do you want any?”
“I was just headed to…” Minghao looks down at himself, still vaguely nightmare-sweaty. Looks back at the tropical fruit. “Actually. Yeah, I want some. Scoot over.”
If someone had told Minghao two years ago that he’d be splitting rambutan with Wen Junhui, he would’ve laughed in their face. Junhui? That air-headed idiot who somehow cheated his way into the top spot of every cadet class, beating Minghao by a fraction of a point? Yeah fucking right. Minghao was more likely to make a voodoo doll of Junhui and shave its head.
Being in deep space together has changed things. They aren’t friendly—at least, Minghao isn’t, and he’s never figured out if Junhui’s relentless flirting is mean-spirited or just a distraction tactic. But they can work on the same bridge without tasering each other. Sometimes, there are group dinners with the captain. Mutual nods of acknowledgement.
Junhui usually ruins it with a joke or a cheesy pick-up line.
Minghao rolls a rambutan between his palms, enjoying its spiky nonsensical body, before peeling it. He works quickly, juice dripping down his thumb. It feels like they’re breaking an unwritten rule. He can imagine Seungkwan making a severe face. Guys, I’m sorry, but eating in the middle of the night is discouraged by the Space Federation. You might upset your stomachs.
“Good, huh?” Junhui plucks shedded skins from the box and begins stacking them beside his hip. Anyone else would sound smug, but Junhui just sounds delighted.
Minghao makes a noise of agreement. “I don’t want to hear whatever nefarious crimes you committed to get these fresh, but yeah, they’re good.”
Junhui laughs. They fall into an unusually camaradic silence, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with green bokeh lights rolling slowly over their faces, shucking rambutans. A heavy peace falls over Minghao. Between the rhythmic motions and the soothing, sweet flesh, he forgets his dream altogether.
Until Junhui says, “Soooo, why are you up this early?”
Minghao accidentally scrapes his teeth against a pit. “No reason. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh, no!” Junhui lowers his fruit. “I have a few sleeping pills if you want one. Old school melatonin, nothing synthetic, but they really helped me before launch.”
It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine—that’s always been the issue between them. Minghao doesn’t trust sweet words. In this dramatic lighting, though, with their voices pitched lower, things feel almost… intimate. He can see straight through Junhui, to an earnest childishness underneath.
“Sure,” Minghao says slowly. “That would be great.”
Junhui smiles. His lips are slick and shiny with juice, and something in Minghao’s stomach swoops when he notices.
Then Junhui’s smile falls away. The change in his expression is so sudden and jarring that Minghao blinks, stupidly, unprepared for Junhui to spit a pit at him.
It ricochets off his chest and skitters across the floor. Junhui throws his head back laughing, all caution tossed to the fucking wind, and despite himself, Minghao stutters out a laugh, too.
From shock. Not amusement, of course.
“Gross.” Minghao wipes a hand over his shirt and bites back the smile threatening to conquer his face. He has to pretend to be unaffected or Junhui will win, somehow. “Are you gonna pick it up?”
“Of course.” Junhui bends backwards to snatch the pit. “I won’t litter, that’s rude.”
“But spitting on me isn’t rude.”
“Not when it made you laugh.” Junhui knocks their knees together and does a weird, macho voice. “Anything for you!”
Minghao rolls his eyes and braces himself for what he expects to follow: a follow-up compliment that will take things too far, Junhui’s rakish smile, the blush that will inevitably pinken his ears and make him scurry back to his room. But it doesn’t come. Junhui simply begins peeling another rambutan. His hands are sticky-loud and his eyes, though sleepy, watch Minghao with a certain heaviness.
“Why do you always do that?” Minghao blurts out. “Make fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.”
“Yes, you are. When you say all these nice things.”
Junhui shrugs. “I say them because they’re true.”
“But—um. Not to be rude, we’re just, not exactly friends?” Minghao feels silly even as he says it, thinking of how many hours they’ve spent side-by-side in a classroom raising their hands at the exact same time. Thinking of their matching uniforms. “Well, we’re not close.”
“I don’t want things to be that way,” Junhui says, and his earnestness is like a phaser beam right through Minghao’s chest. “We’re not kids anymore.”
Oh, the irony of being told to grow up by Wen Junhui!
So Minghao nods. The least he can do is accept that. He doesn’t know what to say in response, and as he looks at Junhui, their eye contact takes on a life of its own, becoming charged and gravitational. It feels like Junhui is warming up his very soul with those dark, beckoning eyes. Like their rivalrous tension is fizzling into a new shape.
Minghao panics. He flicks a discarded peel into Junhui’s lap. It’s a declaration of war. Junhui’s eyes go wide as the sky. He grins, teeth glinting green as he turns and lobs the peel back into Minghao’s shoulder.
Thirty seconds later they’re pelting each other with damp handfuls of rambutan skin. A pit goes down Junhui’s shirt and Minghao bursts out laughing.
“Truce!” Junhui collapses across the windowsill, his legs curled like noodles, looking as disheveled as he did after combat classes. “I give up! Have mercy, Xiao Hao, these are my pajamas.”
The laughter falls out of Minghao’s mouth and dies. He stiffens up, one foot sliding to the tile floor instinctively, as if to run away. No one’s called him that since his first year of cadet training. To hear it now makes his chest tingle with nostalgia. He’s not sure if he likes the feeling.
Junhui cheerfully collects the remains of their weaponry and forms the spiky flesh into an amorphous blob. The nostalgia in Minghao simmers into something warmer, more affectionate.
If there were more nights like this, peeling themselves raw in the dark, he thinks he could grow to like the parts of Junhui he once envied: his wit, his easy purity, his independence. His honesty. Maybe Junhui has been truthful all along in his affections, and Minghao was too petty and prideful to notice. That’s a big, sobering thought to have before breakfast.
“I accept your defeat,” Minghao says after a belated pause. “And since you lost, you owe me more fruit.”
Innocently, Junhui nudges the half-empty box of rambutan closer with one foot.
Minghao shakes his head. “I want lychee. Same time next week.”
As Minghao speaks, the ship finally slides fully beyond the green, ringed planet. A dark frontier commandeers the window. Endless faraway stars and silver clouds of dust swirl together into a gorgeous background. Minghao's heart leaps.
Junhui smiles. He leans back into the curved sill, gilded by the dim light of a thousand galaxies. “Deal! Maybe you can fix your sleep schedule by then. I’ll bring you a melatonin during Gamma Shift tonight.”
“What about your sleep schedule?”
“Oh,” Junhui says very seriously. “I don’t sleep.”
Minghao rolls his eyes. Junhui laughs and laughs. They’re both late to Beta Shift, but Minghao is gorged on sweets and laughter and the heady, blossoming sense of waking up.
Re: [FILL] I've never been perfect / but neither have you
Re: [FILL] I've never been perfect / but neither have you
and okay I have never in my life realized this but... Linkin Park has so many potentially knockout sci-fi vibe songs!! I went on a binge and thought about New Divide, In Between, Robot Boy, Powerless, The Catalyst... I feel like an idiot for never noticing the connection because there is such Potential. Let me know if you have thoughts~
Re: [FILL] I've never been perfect / but neither have you
Re: [FILL] I've never been perfect / but neither have you
[FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
(Anonymous) 2021-01-02 05:42 am (UTC)(link)Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Canon Compliant
Permission to remix: Yes
***
Minghao is 14. It’s the night after the last day of the Shanghai World Dance Competition and moonlight spills into his quiet house through the windows. His parents are in another room, sound asleep, but Minghao is as awake as ever, despite the fact that he’s tucked under his covers.
Sixth place isn’t good enough, Minghao hears. Nobody’s going to remember you for that. Sixth place. Sixth? Why couldn’t you have been first? What do you even think you’re doing? Why are you here?
It plays in a loop inside his head, and it sounds like his own voice, only each repetition distorts himself into something more bitter, something unrecognizable. He tries to replay his parents’ proud exclamations when he got off stage, tries to picture their beaming smiles and bright eyes, only—
It’s hard to fight the voices when you’re alone.
Minghao is 17. He’s under his covers again. This time, he’s in a different place, a different country entirely. The other trainees are sound asleep, but Minghao is as awake as ever.
The voices this time still sound like him. Only, there’s his voice, and the vocal coach’s voice, and the rap coach’s voice, and the dance instructor’s voice piled on top of one another. It’s the worst cacophony of voices Minghao has ever had the displeasure of hearing and they’re all saying the same thing:
You’re not good enough to debut. Why are you making so many mistakes? Why are you slowing down the rest of the trainees, who have been here for so much longer than you have? You can’t sing, can’t rap, can’t dance in sync with the others. What do you even think you’re doing? Why are you here?
This time, it’s worse because there’s nothing he can replay to help him fight the voices. It’s worse because those are all things he heard, an hour ago, a day ago, a week ago. It’s worse because it’s all he’s been hearing for months. The voices don’t distort because they don’t need to because he’s heard it all before.
Minghao is as awake as ever. There are tears slipping down his face, but he’s mastered the art of crying without noise. He turns to lay on his side so that his pillows catch the tears and the snot and, in the morning, it all will have dried.
He’ll wake with a puffy face that nobody comments on because that’s just what people look like when they wake up for the day.
He’ll wake with a puffy face and a cold ache in his heart and face another day alone. So alone.
Minghao is 20. It’s almost New Year’s. More specifically, it’s that terrible space in between Christmas and New Year’s where time isn’t real and everything feels like it’s in limbo.
Only, that’s the way Minghao has been feeling for a while now, unable to participate in anything because of his injury.
He blinks his eyes once, twice, three times to clear some of the fogginess that comes with waking up. He hadn’t even noticed that he fell asleep.
The dorm is empty. In its emptiness, save for Minghao, it is still. The air feels choked with it, somehow, feels thick and oppressive with stillness. Minghao is used to waking up to the sound of socked feet sliding against the floor, to water running and dishes clinking and people conversing and—
There’s nothing, now, when he wakes. It’s been like that for a while, ever since his injury.
It makes Minghao feel sick.
The members should be back from their schedule soon, but that doesn’t stop his chest from hollowing out, doesn’t stop the cold that seeps into the open space, doesn’t stop the voices in his head from saying:
Look, they’re doing just fine without you. They don’t need you. They have never needed you. You wanted to make your mark on the world, but all you’ve been is a burden. Especially now, when you’re injured and sitting out and have no use to them at all. What do you even think you’re doing? Why are you here?
Minghao grew up an only child, but he’s always been surrounded by the thrum of life and love. There were his parents, fluttering around the house, cooking and helping him with his homework. There were his wushu teachers, guiding him through the correct movements, and his fellow classmates, learning and laughing along with him. There were his members, breathing motion into motionless air, even when they were sleeping.
There is none of that now, in the empty dorm. There is only Minghao.
He has just woken up, but he thinks that if he sits there in silence for a moment longer, he might go insane. He puts on some jazz, spreads blank canvases in front of him, and hopes that when he puts the hollowness onto a page, that same hollowness will be filled in his gaping chest.
He’s supposed to have 12 brothers and yet, he’s never felt so alone.
But there is Hansol.
Hansol is 19. He walks into Minghao’s room unannounced, a question about what Minghao wants to eat later half-fallen from his lips when he opens the door. Minghao whips his head around, startled, sitting on the floor with half a dozen canvases staring back at him, all angry black strokes and unbridled disappointment. He watches Hansol’s eyes flit from painting to painting, feels something like fear crawl up his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says, heart hammering in his ears, “what were you saying? I didn’t catch that.”
Hansol’s eyes flit from Minghao’s paintings to his face. His expression is carefully blank. Minghao can’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. Hansol repeats his question; Minghao answers; Hansol closes the door gently behind him; Minghao thinks he doesn’t care. Hansol has seen his soul, laid bare in ink on paper, and Minghao thinks that Hansol doesn’t care.
Only—
It’s New Year’s. The dorms are eerily quiet for how many of them are still there. Minghao is reading on the living room couch when Hansol enters, video calling his parents and little sister. The low murmur of Hansol’s voice is comforting, a reprieve from the dead silence, and Minghao allows the English syllables to wash over him.
He tunes back in when he hears his name.
“Actually,” Hansol is saying. He’s switched to Korean now and his father’s face is filling the screen, “Myungho-hyung’s been painting a lot lately. I was wondering if you and mom could talk to him about it?”
Hansol’s already angling the phone towards Minghao’s face, his father’s enthusiastic “Yes, of course!”s spilling from the speakers. Hansol’s eyes are soft, gentle, encouraging. More than that, they are understanding.
We’ve seen this before, they say. We’ve watched mom and dad pour their hearts out onto the page, have seen canvases of happy yellows and heartbroken grays just like yours, and we don’t quite know how to help, but maybe they will.
Minghao is grateful for that, for the reminder that he has never really been alone.
Hansol is 20, 21. He keeps an eye out for things like new museum exhibits and vintage stores in the streets of whatever country they’re in and he asks Minghao if he would like to go.
Sometimes, when they’re walking, Minghao will pull Hansol next to a tree, in front of a wall, into a field, and ask him to pose. Hansol always agrees readily, doesn’t mind when Minghao arranges his limbs and shoves a camera in his face, and Minghao is grateful because he knows that Hansol does mind things like that. It gets a little old, after a while, when you’re an idol, but when it’s Minghao asking, Hansol never complains.
Sometimes, when Minghao is painting, Hansol will sit there with him, listening to whatever music Minghao has on or suggesting new songs, and he will simply watch. He’ll ask questions about what a particular stroke means or what Minghao was trying to express when he’s deemed himself done, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Minghao gets caught up in his head when he’s immersed in art, and sometimes, it’s not always the best thing.
It’s nice to have Hansol and his questions there as reminders that Minghao isn’t really alone.
Hansol is 22. They’re filming Going Seventeen and it’s cold outside but Minghao’s heart is warm, listening to the members compliment each other. It’s his turn next, so he hands his candle to Seungcheol as he climbs through the roof of the car. They tell him he has many paths in front of him, that he is wise.
Hansol tells Minghao that he wants to learn from him, that he wants to carve out his own space and style just like Minghao has, and when Minghao hears those words, he thinks, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what I’m doing and why I’m here. Maybe this is the mark I can leave on the world.
Later that night, in the darkness of his single room, Minghao realizes:
He hasn’t felt the loneliness in a long, long while.
Re: [FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
He watches Hansol’s eyes flit from painting to painting, feels something like fear crawl up his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says, heart hammering in his ears, “what were you saying? I didn’t catch that.”
This part in particular stood out to me, I love Minghao's seemingly chill cover up while his soul is spread out in the canvases all around and Hansol just leaves but he doesn't forget and he tries to help. Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Re: [FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
(Anonymous) 2021-02-12 05:23 am (UTC)(link)i really appreciate the lovely feedback!! <3
p.s. i'm so sorry for replying only now -- i forgot to check until today ;A;
Re: [FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
Hansol tells Minghao that he wants to learn from him, that he wants to carve out his own space and style just like Minghao has, and when Minghao hears those words, he thinks, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what I’m doing and why I’m here. Maybe this is the mark I can leave on the world. <333 My favorite section. Gorgeous! Thank you!
Re: [FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
(Anonymous) 2021-02-12 05:34 am (UTC)(link)UGH that moment of gose really Got me. i think verhao have one of the quieter, if you will, friendships in svt where we see them goof off a lot (viral dance trend buddies that they are), but we don't always see the more emotional side of their friendship, so when we do, my gremlin brain latches on to it and holds it close. i'm glad to hear that this moment turned into the section that was your favorite!!
thank you so much for your kind words!! <3
p.s. i'm sorry for replying so late :C i hadn't checked until now :C
Re: [FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
>“Actually,” Hansol is saying. He’s switched to Korean now and his father’s face is filling the screen, “Myungho-hyung’s been painting a lot lately. I was wondering if you and mom could talk to him about it?”
was my favorite, the particulars of vernon not knowing exactly how to relate to minghao, but doing the next best thing, really hit me. thank you for sharing, this was wonderful!! <3
Re: [FILL] 终有一天我会 dreams come true
(Anonymous) 2021-02-12 05:58 am (UTC)(link)aaAA thank you for liking that part -- to me, vernon has always come across as someone who treats everything he loves with sincerity and this part was definitely a reflection of that, where he loves minghao (romantic or platonic, it really doesn't matter) and even if he himself doesn't know how to relate, i believe he'd try to think of all the ways to help and show hao that he cares :') and i, personally, think that's one of the most thoughtful things someone can do for someone else, so i'm glad to have used that to write something that seems to have had impact
i'm really grateful for your sweet response!! <3
p.s. i'm so sorry for the late response i forgot to check until now :(