post #8
TL;DR RULES
1. post anonymously unless linking to a fill posted somewhere else
2. use the subject line to indicate pairing (in alphabetical order using stage names i.e.baekhyun/chanyeol) prompt details go in the comment.
3. use trigger warnings
4. do not embed on meme. link to images/videos. label nsfw content.
5. do not repost prompts ( Read more... )
1. post anonymously unless linking to a fill posted somewhere else
2. use the subject line to indicate pairing (in alphabetical order using stage names i.e.baekhyun/chanyeol) prompt details go in the comment.
3. use trigger warnings
4. do not embed on meme. link to images/videos. label nsfw content.
5. do not repost prompts ( Read more... )
“So, here’s the deal. If I win, we start dating immediately and you get over your issues with commitment. We go on dates at least once a week until you shyly declare your everlasting, unwavering love for me whenever you choose, as long as it’s random and I’m surprised. After five years or so, I propose you to under a cherry blossom tree on an impromptu trip to Sasebo during the paper lantern festival and you cry and jump into my arms. And say yes, obviously. After our winter ceremony, we grow old and wrinkly together in lake house you buy me with your lawyering money. As testament of your love.”
Lu Han stops tossing the soccer ball into the air and glances across the field at Minseok, making sure his conditions aren’t too unreasonable, not that he thinks they are. But Minseok is a little more practical, likes to waste time with caution before he jumps into things, so five years may be a little too soon for marriage.
It’s a compliment to their relationship when Minseok only looks slightly appalled at the life Lu Han has planned for them. He shifts around in his shorts and mismatched knee-high socks, but doesn’t deny the conditions. “And if I win, you hold off on all your crazy for like, ten more years. Until I’m ready to settle down.”
Lu Han frowns. “Five years.”
“Ten years.”
“Seven years.”
“Ten years.”
“Nine years.” Lu Han pouts dramatically enough for Minseok to see. “And five months.”
Minseok rolls his eyes, and Lu Han pumps a fist into the air at his small victory. “Whatever. You got anything else to add or are we playing?”
The ball is sunken in the mud before Minseok finishes. Lu Han traps it and dribbles down the field, crossing over Minseok and rushing toward the makeshift goal of a faded green rucksack and a broken traffic cone. Minseok closes in on him from the side and Lu Han pushes him back with a lip-biting grin, knowing cheating is encouraged in their duels. Minseok mirrors his energy and throws a leg out to trip him up.
The red thread linked between their smallest fingers follows them, twists loosely around their legs and drags through the grass, but never dirties or tangles. Ever since Lu Han had found Minseok by chance months ago, car dead on the shoulder of the highway and cursing into his mobile phone, the thread has never tangled.
They play until the sun is low and gleaming orange, casting their shadows over roughly trodden mud patches. They’re tied for points and Minseok has possession, tiring legs carrying the ball up-field to Lu Han’s goal for the winning point. Too far away, Lu Han is desperate and praying for an extra boost of speed because he can’t lose. Nine years and five months is too long!
Minseok makes to kick when Lu Han’s goal is in distance, pulling his leg back for added power, and Lu Han watches in abject horror as his foot sweeps forward. It hits the ball all wrong, glancing over the top and sending Minseok off his balance with the momentum. He slips forward and falls back onto the ball, squishing it and shooting it back into Lu Han’s range. Dazed, Lu Han turns to kick the ball in the opposite direction, watching absently as it rolls into the goal before he rushes to check on Minseok.
He’s still on the ground, groaning lowly with his arms and legs spread on the ground. Lu Han crouches beside him, takes in the twisted face and subdued movements. “You didn’t lose on purpose, did you?” Lu Han asks with disapproval.
“Yeah, I broke my spine just so you could win. Absolutely,” Minseok grunts between his teeth.
Excitement and concern war inside Lu Han, and he’s not sure which emotion is more appropriate to display. He chooses concern for now. “Where does it hurt? Are you dying? Do you need help getting up?”
“Nah. Just get down here.”
He does so, smudging his clothes with dirt and lying with his head cradled against Minseok’s arm, hand over his chest. Their breaths come out in pants and Minseok winces periodically, but it’s good. “So, where do you want to go for our official first date?”
“Are you seriously gloating right now? While I’m in pain?”
Lu Han huffs and slaps his chest. The thread gleams brightly. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t want me to win.”
After all, this is the third retry Minseok has given him.
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Books and teachers and his parents have told him that the thread of fate isn’t meant to be toyed with or forced. The process of finding his lover is supposed to be natural, by chance, and gradual. Which means he has to be patient and wait without interfering.
And he’s been relatively good about following those directions. He tugs sometimes when he’s bored during a lecture or wraps it around his fingers to guess the length of the thread or pulls it straight and stares out until the thin red line disappears into the distance. For months, he’s been patient.
But how is he not supposed to be curious about who fate has set him on a blind date with? What if it’s someone like him, with plenty of energy and great ideas and a perfect set of teeth?
Sitting under a tree on campus, stretching a bit of the thread between both his hands, Chanyeol thinks he’s quite done with patience. So he stands tall, wraps the thread around his hands a few times, and pulls. Pulls until the extra length begins to recede into the knot around his finger, pulls until the thread stretches taut in the air, pulls until he feels a bit of resistance before the eventual give.
It takes less time than Chanyeol had anticipated, and he thinks his fated love might be on campus, maybe even a student he knows. He yanks particularly hard when the thread resists again, and he’s sure he hears a door open nearby before it slackens again. It’s a good sign to him, and excitement grips him as tightly as he grips the rope.
The thread bends around the corner of the science building. Someone pops into view, tripping along with Chanyeol’s tugging and tumbling to the grass. Chanyeol winces in sympathy and pulls more softly, not wanting to damage his fated love before they even got the chance to meet. There would be plenty of time for damage later.
Chanyeol drags the stranger along the ground by the finger until he can see them properly. It’s a guy, Chanyeol notes, taking in the tousled sandy brown hair and the hooded-sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. A guy he probably just dragged out of bed. His eyes are rounded more than Chanyeol’s, staring up at him with an expression that isn’t completely annoyed.
“Hi!” Chanyeol shouts and waves. The stranger returns the gesture tentatively. He’s cute. “I’m Park Chanyeol. What’s your name?”
“…Do Kyungsoo.”
“Sweet! Hi, Kyungsoo. Sorry if I woke you up or anything, but I was curious. So.”
“You know we’re supposed to be patient and wait for fate, don’t you?” Kyungsoo questions. Chanyeol smiles sheepishly at the clear scolding in his voice. “It’s fine. I needed to get out of my room anyway. Fresh air is nice.”
“Yeah, air is awesome for junk.” Chanyeol drops to his knees and bends over Kyungsoo, so his excited eyes meet Kyungsoo’s widening ones upside-down. Being promised to someone as mellow as Kyungsoo has to be an error on fate’s part, but Chanyeol thinks it’s much better this way. “Are we in love yet?”
Kyungsoo pulls his hand down to examine the string knotted around his finger, then the one Chanyeol brandishes quite proudly, and hums. “I guess so.” Chanyeol grins wildly and presses a sloppy kiss to his new love’s forehead, gaining a scandalized squawk. “I wasn’t being serious!”
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Before coming into the fame acting, Wu Fan hadn’t considered “quaint” to be an element he relished in, but sitting now hunched over the bar, fading brown sweatshirt blending in with the brick walls and the bill of his hat covering his face, he doesn’t think he could manage without the temporary silence the bar gives him.
He tosses back his hit of whiskey, swallowing a pleased groan when the drink scalds down his throat. The game on the television is predictably uninteresting, but the droning of the announcer and the crowd’s cheers keep him watching, not really paying attention.
“You look too young to be a lonely drunk already.”
Wu Fan glances left to see a man slide into stool next to him, dropping guitar case in the space between them and leaning it against the bar. It’s worn with scratches and peeling in some places, but it matches the clothes the man himself is wearing, dirty jeans and jacket with torn pockets. Wu Fan doesn’t bother hiding his grimace.
“I’m almost in my thirties, plenty old enough to make my own decisions,” he grunts, looking away when the man smiles in return. The image of a sweet dimple is already burned into his eyes, though. He focuses on the soccer match.
“Sounds like a good excuse to be pathetic, if you don’t mind me saying,” the man replies bluntly. Wu Fan does mind. “You could at least invite your fated love out with you. It’d keep chatty strangers like me away, at least.”
“Fated love?” Wu Fan snorts, not sparing a glance down to his little finger. He had long ago given up on finding whoever tugged at the other end of his thread. The people he knows are fake and dispensable, all cheap make-up and greedy hands, no one he has any desire to spend the rest of his life beside. For the past seven years, he has been completely content with ignoring the thread’s existence all together. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The man whistles low with sympathy. “Almost thirty and you haven’t found your fated one yet? Hope nothing’s happened to ‘em.”
“It’s no concern of mine.” Wu Fan raps his knuckles against the bar. The owner distractedly pours him another drink, which he immediately drains. “Neither is it any of yours,” he says in a rasp.
The man isn’t affected by his malice and his mirth doesn’t waver. “Didn’t mean to pry. I get a little too curious about people’s stories sometimes. Everyone has a bit of inspiration in them. I like to borrow from time to time when I’m low.”
Wu Fan doesn’t respond, and their dialogue almost ends there. He watches the television, pretending that the game is interesting, that the conversation with someone who doesn’t know Kris hadn’t been a welcome change. The man doesn’t press further and watches the game in silence, no drink in front of him despite how long he’s been sitting.
Wu Fan doesn’t last long before he’s pointing down to the case sitting between. “Inspiration for that?”
“It’s a guitar,” the man informs. “I like to travel, play, sing a little. Figured I’d make a life out of it for a little while.”
“That explains your clothes.” He doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but he doesn’t apologize.
The man smiles wider and dusts a hand over his stained jeans ineffectively. “Let’s say I’m on a budget. Can’t afford tailored suits and designer brands like a world-renown actor, can I?”
Just like that, Wu Fan’s mood sours. It was too good to be true, finding a person he can talk to without his fame, his wealth preceding him. “Of course you know who I am,” he mutters and knocks against the bar again, ready to drown his bitterness.
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The logic isn’t lost on Wu Fan. He loosens his grip around his drink. “…it’s Wu Fan,” he says, hoping the man takes it as an invitation.
“Call me Yixing.” He rests his chin in his hand, the hand hidden from Wu Fan during their entire exchange, and wiggles his little finger, drawing Wu Fan’s eye to a red knot. His eyebrows shoot up and he leans back, following the line of his own string in disbelief, but the length is short now, leading right to Yixing. “I have a feeling you’ll be learning a lot about me.”
After the realization sinks in, Wu Fan chuckles harder than he has in years. His drink is left untouched.
-
The last few students in the classroom file out into the halls, letting Joonmyun slump heavily onto the podium. With the school day halfway finished and his morning class leaving for their midday break, he’s ready to declare his new position a success. For someone with his brand of bad luck, it’s an achievement worthy of recognition.
After funding cuts from his previous school left his department, and he himself, out of the job, Joonmyun had been ecstatic to find an open teaching position before he had to dig into his savings. The campus had been too far from his old district, meaning packing up quickly and migrating to an unfurnished apartment in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
The move isn’t an issue as is the apartment itself, with an oven that takes three hours to heat properly and a front door that doesn’t allow most of his furniture inside and deigns he eat lunch on a stack of unpacked boxes. His neighbor on the floor above, a practitioner of a martial art Joonmyun can’t comprehend, flips around in the morning and knocks bits of ceiling plasterwork into his bowls of porridge. His neighbor below is a blonde woman with a fantastic voice, which he gets to hear every night when she belts to Western soul music and startles him out of a good sleep.
His commute to work this morning had taken longer than it should have since his navigation system had “calculated” for four blocks and lead him down the scenic route to campus, but since he had arrived harried into class and started his lecture, there had been no other fouls. The students were respectful and studious, and public speaking with a willing audience has never been a problem for Joonmyun.
It’s a good reason for him to celebrate, only his friends and relatives are now in a completely different district and the closest relation Joonmyun has nearby is the custodian who irritably wiped Joonmyun’s coffee from the floor after a particularly harsh stumble. Celebrating with him doesn’t seem very viable.
By now, anyone else his age wouldn’t have issue with loneliness. All of his friends, his family, the cats in the alley beside his apartment building have partners to come home to and share good news with. At twenty-six years, the cord around Joonmyun’s finger still starts thick and bright, trails down to the ground and travels maybe a meter before it fades smoothly out of sight, sooner than what books have taught him is normal. The condition has been the same for six anxious years and Joonmyun is still too fearful to research the cause.
With his luck, fate just might have screwed him over and left him alone, and he’s too young to give up on companionship already.
Joonmyun slumps over even further, wondering if calling back home so soon is too pathetic. He’s just about to pull out his mobile when there’s courteous knock at the open classroom door. “Uh, excuse me?”
Embarrassed, he straightens and smooths his rumpled tie down, hoping his face doesn’t look as heated as it feels. A male student stands in the doorway, eyebrow quirked and fist suspended in the air. Joonmyun clears his throat. “Yes? Can I help you?”
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Instructor Ham, the transferred teacher whose position Joonmyun had taken. “Ah, no, I’m afraid not. For personal reasons, they requested to transfer out of the area, so I’ve taken over for them. Are you a student of theirs?”
The student is visibly disappointed and nods. “Yeah, in the afternoon. I was going to ask if she could…” He trails off, lips pursed, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, thank you.”
He turns to leave but Joonmyun stops him. “Hey, hold on. As her replacement, it’s my duty to make sure all of her students are well taken care of, and that includes you.” He pays the student a kind smile. “Though I may not be up to her standard at the moment, I’m willing to do better than my best with whatever you need.”
“Geez, is there a teleprompter behind me?” the student mutters and trudges toward the podium. Joonmyun pretends not to hear him. “I just wanted her to look over my entry for the Chinese writing composition contest. To make sure it looks as good as I think it does.”
“Oh, you’re participating in the district-wide competition? Very impressive,” Joonmyun remarks while the student rummages through his backpack and pulls out a crumpled folder.
“Thanks, I get that a lot,” the student boasts, and Joonmyun almost laughs. The student takes a stapled packet of papers out of the folder and slides them across the podium. “I don’t think it needs too much work, but I suck at adding particles correctly and I want to make sure it’s, uh, coherent. Especially the introduction. If that’s all right?”
Joonmyun nods, flipping through the pages. “No problem at all. I should have this back to you by tomorrow,” he says, hoping it doesn’t imply too much about his social life. “If you’d like, I can inform the language department head that you’ve completed your entry.”
“Really? You know how to do that already?”
“Of course!” Joonmyun grins bright with assurance, his eyes curved and cheeks rounded. “All I need is your school identification number.”
The student blinks for a silent moment that lasts a bit too long, his dazed eyes and parted lips worrying Joonmyun, but he snaps out of it and fishes through his pockets to take out his student card.
Joonmyun reaches out to accept the card. And promptly has a panic attack.
It’s faint, invisible if he isn’t looking carefully, but there knotted around the student’s finger is a red cord, one Joonmyun should not be able to see. He drops the card on the podium and recoils, looking down at the cord around his own finger. It starts thick as always, droops down until it barely grazes the floor, then fades up to the student’s extended hand. There’s no room for error and no mistaking.
Eyes wide, Joonmyun gawks down at the card. Kim Jongdae, third year, eighteen years of age. No wonder the thread was fading on the opposite end; his fated love isn’t even old enough to see his own knot yet!
For the first time, Joonmyun actually looks at Jongdae without the comforting barrier of a professional relationship, looks at the hard jawline and tilted eyebrows and thin lips, and it’s horrific.
“Um. Are you okay?”
Joonmyun starts and looks down immediately, furiously scribbling down Jongdae’s student number. “Yes, I - yes. I’m fine. Just a bit of vertigo, that’s all.” He holds out Jongdae’s card with a shaky hand, refusing to look back up. “Is that all you need?”
“Yeah, but…are you sure you’re good?”
The concern in his voice ignites guilt in Joonmyun’s chest. He steels himself and straightens, smiles as genuinely as he can through his anxiety. The cord gleams right then, becomes a bit more tangible around Jongdae’s finger. Jongdae’s expression doesn’t change any, but the cord doesn’t lie. Joonmyun trains his face into neutrality and vows never to smile again. “Yes, I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Go off and enjoy the rest of your break before it’s over.”
Jongdae shrugs. He has narrow shoulders. “Kay. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
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Groaning, Joonmyun drops his head into his hands and curses fate. He’s so going to get fired.
-
Though he hasn’t been dumped before, Zitao thinks being slapped the morning of his twenty-first birthday is pretty high on the scale of bad break-ups.
“I can’t believe this!” Huan screeches in his ear, retroactively covering her chest with the bed sheets. “What the hell am I to you then?!”
If not for the dense fog of sleep over his mind, he would have considered a different manner of informing Huan of fate’s plan for his love life, a plan that apparently skewed away from her. Huan had woken him early, eager to confirm her place on the other end of his string of fate since it would be months before she could see for herself, and Zitao, eager to bury his face back in his pillow, had told her his tangled string led off the bed and under the bedroom door before trying to return to sleep.
Behind his cradling hand, his cheek still smarts. “I, uh, you’re my girlfriend?”
“And do you love me? Only me?”
“Of course!”
“Don’t lie to me, you bastard!” Huan grabs a book from the nightstand and repeatedly smacks him with it, anger making her hits a lot stronger than he’s accustomed to. “Who the hell does your string lead to?!”
His arms don’t work well for defense, incurring more bruises from Huan’s wrath. “I- ow - I don’t know, I swear! I’m not cheating on you!” Huan stops her assault long enough for Zitao to believe she’s calm, then she shoves him hard and sends him tumbling to the floor in a flurry of linens.
She’s already pulling on her clothes by the time he untangles himself, and he starts to realize the situation is more serious than he first took it. “Are you seriously leaving? You know I’m not seeing anyone else, it’s been two years. Where’re you going?”
“Home. A bar. A dumpster in an alleyway. Anywhere but here,” she spits with venom and gathers her things into her arms.
“Huan, wait. Huan!” He calls her name several times while she stomps out, his voice going from calm to pleading to shouting, following her down the stairs to the building’s door. “Just give me a chance to fix this! It’s a just a mistake, I can fix it.”
“It’s not something you can ‘fix’!” Huan turns back, and he flinches at the scowl she shoots at him. “Don’t you know anything about fate? You may not be in love with someone else now, but you will be. I’m not going to sit around for that.”
In a few minutes, she’s peeling out of the parking lot and down the road, leaving Zitao to make sense of how things had fallen apart so quickly. First he’s confused, eying the kinks of string down his finger and wondering why it didn’t link to Huan when he’s sure his heart belongs to her. Then he’s guilty, the jilted downturn of her lips stuck in his mind. His fists clench and his arms shake, anger setting in at the unknown girl fate had chosen, his tattered relationship searing through his stomach.
Zitao jumps in his car and drives, following the red glow of the string and putting every vehicle around him at risk. In his mind, all he needs to do is find the girl on the other end of the string, ruin any sort of relationship they could possibly have, then tie the other end of his string to Huan’s finger. The drive is long and takes him out of town to a coffee shop he’s never seen before. The string curls and slides under the entrance door, and he follows it bent at the waist, uncaring that his haphazardly chosen clothes and unkempt hair make him look crazed. The string rises and knots around an elegant finger, a hand wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee.
“Hey, we need to talk.” Zitao jostles the back of the girl’s chair. She turns her head and happens to not be a she at all, but a guy with mildly feminine features.
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“Do I know you?” the guy questions, but Zitao’s jaw is heavy and he’s too preoccupied with gaping in shock to answer. “Hellooo?”
“What - who the hell are you, asshole?”
A few patrons turn their way. The guy frowns. “Most people call me Baekhyun, but asshole works too. I guess.”
Zitao sputters and points shakily, words coming to him slowly. “A-a man. You’re a man. Why’re you a man?”
Baekhyun’s gaze drops to Zitao’s hand where the string hangs like a curse weighing on Zitao’s life. He’s amused when they meet eyes, gratingly so. “Well, whaddya know? Hey, good lookin’?” He settles his chin in his palm and winks.
“Shut up!” Zitao hisses, working to keep his voice calm in public. “Do you know how bad this is? I lost my girlfriend because of you, and you…you’re a man! I like girls, not men. Why would it link me to you?!”
“I feel like you’re gonna freak out no matter what I say, so maybe I should keep quiet?” Baekhyun raises his eyebrows at Zitao, whose fists are clenching with the urge to punch him. “If you ask me, though, I’d say you haven’t considered some things. Like penis. Have you ever considered penis, husband?”
Horrified, Zitao holds his hand up to silence Baekhyun, face heating red. “Stop! Don’t ask that, don’t call me that.”
“Why not, husband?”
“Because I’m not gay.”
Baekhyun reaches to pat his arm with a consoling hand. Zitao pulls away with a warning growl. “No one said you were. You’re just not straight, is all.” Baekhyun gestures to the seat on the other side of the table. “Sit, husband. Let’s talk chat about penis together.”
The teasing becomes too much for poor confused Zitao. He starts to back away from Baekhyun, bumping into a few tables on his way to the door. “No, no way. This - I’m going to fix this.” He juts a finger down at the red string perfectly content with ruining his life. “I’ll use a sword or find a pair of magic scissors if I have to, but I’ll fix this.”
“I’ll be waiting for you, husband!” Baekhyun blows his fleeing love a kiss, receiving a paled face and an enthusiastic middle finger in return.
Already, the tangles in their string begin to smooth.
-
“But what if you don’t love the person?”
The train shudders some, a squeal on the track piercing Jongin’s ears before it passes. He finishes the last few lines of the page in his physics textbook and flips to the next before he answers Sehun. “You don’t get linked to anyone you don’t love. They can’t be your fated love if you don’t love them at some point.”
Sehun nods, accepting the logic. A second later, he nudges his shoulder against Jongin’s. “What if the person dies before you find them? Do you get a second choice?”
Jongin doesn’t know the answer, so he improvises. “Nah. You have to marry a zombie instead.”
“No way. You’re lying.”
“How would you know?”
That quiets Sehun quickly, though he’s still frowning. More than usual. The pause is almost long enough for Jongin to recite the sine formula for wave displacement before Sehun is nudging him again. “Huh?”
“What if the person’s like, a thief or a murderer and you end up hating them? What then?”
“Then you’ve got terrible taste.” Jongin laughs. Sehun punches him in the arm. “Why do you wanna know so much about the string now anyway? We’re not even gonna see it for like, four years.”
“’Cause, if I end up with someone terrible, I want to be able to choose someone else to love,” Sehun answers, staring at the rapidly passing trees from the window opposite their seats. “It’s weird knowing we don’t get a say in it.”
Jongin nods in agreement, focused on the line of a wavelength and imagining it red. “Maybe fate makes us love the other person. Brainwashes us until we have hearts in our eyes. Like in the movies.”
“That’s worse! I don’t want fate touching my brain,” Sehun gripes and scrubs a hand through his brightly colored hair.
“You don’t have a brain to wash anyway.” Jongin palms Sehun’s head and pushes him over in his seat. Sehun returns the favor a moment later.
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The train passes over a river, rocking side to side and humming low. It’s enough to weigh on Jongin’s eyelids, his head tilting back against the window.
“We should be each other’s back-ups.”
“Hm?”
Suddenly he’s being shaken awake, Sehun’s grip on his arm bruising. “If both of us don’t like our linked…fated whatevers, we should be each other’s back-ups. So we won’t have to worry about being lame forever.”
Jongin squints at his friend and the very serious look on his face. “That makes us sound like bigger lames, man. Besides, shouldn’t you ask a girl? I don’t love you.”
Sehun cringes. “I don’t want you to be my boyfriend, gross. I could find a way better-looking guy than you. I want a friend in case I don’t like anyone else. I don’t want to be alone. Besides, it’s not like someone as ugly as you will find anyone good.”
Letting the barb pass, Jongin rolls his eyes. “You sound like a kid. Fine, sure.”
“Promise.” Sehun holds his small finger out in the sparse space between them, mouth stern. “Promise.”
“A pinky-swear? Really? We’re not nine anymore.” Jongin swats the hand away, but Sehun is insistent and jabs him in the side when he tries to ignore him. Finally, Jongin links fingers with him roughly so Sehun yelps.
Both being under twenty-one, neither of them see the translucent red string already attaching their fingers together.
“See, wasn’t that easy?” Sehun says while he cradles his injured finger. “I’ll be easier to deal with than someone else anyway. I’m already use to all your disgusting habits and your terrible fashion. Orange shirt and blue shoes,” he snorts.
Jongin looks down at his outfit and frowns. “It’s not orange, you dick. It’s red.”
“Looks orange to me.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Probably. I think my teacher said everyone might see colors differently.”
“Sounds like bull.”
I know I had to mess up somewhere.
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especially sassy baekhyun XD yeah, tao doesn't stand a chance. he should just give in and save himself the trouble lmao.
also, i'd love to see jongin's and sehun's reactions to finding out that they're fated to be together. lol.
loved this!
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Author, you are fantastic. You are the light of my life, my personal angel etc etc.
I was grinning all the way through, this is exactly what I had in mind. You wrote and executed the whole idea so well.
You also, even though I didn't choose them, picked awesome pairings.
You go author, you are awesome. It's perfect.
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so qt, all the pairings were so adorable and the way you wrote them was so precious and fasl;dfjsl;f rolls on the floor in excitement
I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ANYMORE i just want to know who you are cries
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OMG THIS IS PERFECT
UNANON YOURSELF LET ME LOVE YOU
They were all so cuteee omg i wanna know what happens
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i love how you ended it with Jongin and Sehun. it was a really nice ending to a really nice story.
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