ship/member: seokhao major tags: canon compliant additional tags: heavily inspired by the tsoa prose and how patroclus describes achilles! ♡ permission to remix: sure~ word count: 540
is this an excuse to write in a minghao pov so i can talk abt how pretty kyeom is? maybe...
***
the scene is set like this: two pairs of hands sift through dirty laundry at the hour in which gold streams past fluttering curtains and passes through gleaming glass. they hum a familiar tune (an old song) as they work, lips moving to let loose silly jokes and comments, then their bodies trembling in an attempt to keep their laughter muted. they're asleep! a voice hisses, playful and through his teeth, his hands working to toss clothes into the machines with a wrinkle of his nose. he wonders how he's gotten to this point— vague, murky memories resurface and he sees blips of drunken antics between thirteen men and an intense yet drunk game of mafia on the living room floor. "who was sober enough to remember to put us on laundry duty..." he grumbles, sniffing in a slightly distraught manner.
laughter breaks through the silence, pitched and giggly. it's a musical sound which is fitting considering it belongs to a body that's all too versed in the art of vocal music. minghao doesn't look over, finds that he's busy with the copious amount of laundry piled in the corner and also busy with his grumbling. on times like this, he always reaches a mental understanding with mingyu. "i think it was seungkwan," comes the response— soft yet eager, syllables clear when he speaks. it's candy to his ears and minghao's body leans towards it subconsciously. seokmin giggles again. "this isn't so bad, i think."
this time, he looks.
what he sees is this: a circlet of gold like a crown around seokmin's head and the light that slants onto his features just perfectly, making his skin glow a soft golden and accentuate the sharpness of his visage in a way that renders minghao speechless. his fingers itch to find his camera, his phone, anything to immortalize this moment but all he can do is curl them into soft fabric, easing the urge to trace fingertips down golden-kissed skin and down the bridge of that high nose.
seokmin has always been beautiful. a muse, of sorts, if minghao is allowed to call him that. his features and proportions have been the subject of his own envy and when minghao takes pictures, his lenses catch onto the way the sun cups seokmin's chin to press a kiss to his sculpted cheekbones. when he looks at the photos in the privacy of his room, he traces his fingers over the pixels and wonders what it would feel like to touch the real thing during golden hour.
then what he sees next is this: weeping, morning stars glittering in the darks of those eyes, a shine so bright that it has minghao's heart stuttering in its place. the curve of that mouth tugging upwards so high it bunches up his cheeks, his eyes, makes it feel like helios kissed seokmin's mouth and had filled him with tender sunlight.
"what?" the word is tumbling out with some laughter, flustered. "am i pretty?"
and that should've shattered the illusion for minghao but his fingers grip onto the shirt tighter, teeth gently worrying at his lower lip before he smiles, too. "yes," he manages to say. in chinese, then. "you're the prettiest, like my sun."
[FILL] we were like gods at the dawning of the world
major tags: canon compliant
additional tags: heavily inspired by the tsoa prose and how patroclus describes achilles! ♡
permission to remix: sure~
word count: 540
is this an excuse to write in a minghao pov so i can talk abt how pretty kyeom is? maybe...
***
the scene is set like this: two pairs of hands sift through dirty laundry at the hour in which gold streams past fluttering curtains and passes through gleaming glass. they hum a familiar tune (an old song) as they work, lips moving to let loose silly jokes and comments, then their bodies trembling in an attempt to keep their laughter muted. they're asleep! a voice hisses, playful and through his teeth, his hands working to toss clothes into the machines with a wrinkle of his nose. he wonders how he's gotten to this point— vague, murky memories resurface and he sees blips of drunken antics between thirteen men and an intense yet drunk game of mafia on the living room floor. "who was sober enough to remember to put us on laundry duty..." he grumbles, sniffing in a slightly distraught manner.
laughter breaks through the silence, pitched and giggly. it's a musical sound which is fitting considering it belongs to a body that's all too versed in the art of vocal music. minghao doesn't look over, finds that he's busy with the copious amount of laundry piled in the corner and also busy with his grumbling. on times like this, he always reaches a mental understanding with mingyu. "i think it was seungkwan," comes the response— soft yet eager, syllables clear when he speaks. it's candy to his ears and minghao's body leans towards it subconsciously. seokmin giggles again. "this isn't so bad, i think."
this time, he looks.
what he sees is this: a circlet of gold like a crown around seokmin's head and the light that slants onto his features just perfectly, making his skin glow a soft golden and accentuate the sharpness of his visage in a way that renders minghao speechless. his fingers itch to find his camera, his phone, anything to immortalize this moment but all he can do is curl them into soft fabric, easing the urge to trace fingertips down golden-kissed skin and down the bridge of that high nose.
seokmin has always been beautiful. a muse, of sorts, if minghao is allowed to call him that. his features and proportions have been the subject of his own envy and when minghao takes pictures, his lenses catch onto the way the sun cups seokmin's chin to press a kiss to his sculpted cheekbones. when he looks at the photos in the privacy of his room, he traces his fingers over the pixels and wonders what it would feel like to touch the real thing during golden hour.
then what he sees next is this: weeping, morning stars glittering in the darks of those eyes, a shine so bright that it has minghao's heart stuttering in its place. the curve of that mouth tugging upwards so high it bunches up his cheeks, his eyes, makes it feel like helios kissed seokmin's mouth and had filled him with tender sunlight.
"what?" the word is tumbling out with some laughter, flustered. "am i pretty?"
and that should've shattered the illusion for minghao but his fingers grip onto the shirt tighter, teeth gently worrying at his lower lip before he smiles, too. "yes," he manages to say. in chinese, then. "you're the prettiest, like my sun."