People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can...
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As Taehyung finally lifted his heavy eyelids, awakened from a deep sleep, rays of sunlight crept into his dark eyes, ruthlessly penetrating through an unblinded window. He grimaced and raised his hand to cover his face, shielding his eyes from the excessive light of the morning. But when he moved, he realized that he wasn't in his apartment at all, and what's more...
He wasn't in bed alone.
He immediately looked at the man who lay next to him. The young musician slept like a baby. His left arm was still around Taehyung's narrow waist, and his naked body pressed against him practically at the entire length. He could feel the warmth emanating from him and the steady breath of the man, which, escaping from the gently parted lips, crashed against his exposed shoulder. He's almost forgotten what it feels like to wake up next to another person. Another man. Not counting, of course, the few times he'd woken up on the couch in Hoseok's apartment, when going through the case files together turned into late-night drinking at his partner's house and ended up both of them falling asleep on the narrow, uncomfortable couch in his living room as a result.
No. This time it was something completely different.
Pushed by some strange force, he turned carefully so that he could get a better look at him. In the morning light, the boy looked as good as in the dim light of his friend's bar, or perhaps even better. Lying so close, he could get a better look at his face. Only now did he see a small scar on his cheek and a cute mole just below the arch of his lower lip, now in a delicate pout. Looking at him, he wanted to kiss him again, but knowing that he couldn't allow himself to do it, he just stared at him for a moment longer with undisguised delight.
The guitarist looked younger when he was sleeping. For a moment, he wondered how old he really might have been. As he guessed, the stranger might have been a little younger than him. He studied his face carefully for a moment, as if to read his life story. His eyelashes were unbelievably long, milky skin without any blemishes, jet black hair spilled across the pillow in a disarray. One of the strands fell on his cheek, making him want to reach out and, grasping it with his slender fingers, brush it away from that beautiful face, but he didn't have the courage to do so. So he shifted his gaze a little lower and lowered his gaze to his soft lips. He could still feel them against his skin, and at the mere memory, his abdominal muscles twitched painfully.
His work has taught him that sometimes you can pay an extremely high price for a moment of inattention. He didn't like to submit to someone else's will and lose control of what was going on. He didn't feel good when something happened in his life that he had no control over. Perhaps that's why in his earlier relationships he was the dominant one, even though he never had the prejudice to switch roles. But he had never felt comfortable enough to put himself in someone else's hands. He had to admit he never felt so comfortable being dominated before. Nobody had touched him like this in a long time. Nobody kissed him like he did. He liked the fact that although the guitarist was penetrating him quickly and deeply, deliberately rubbing against his prostate to stimulate it, stealing breath from his lungs, he was also placing wet kisses on the line of his spine, running his tongue over his swarthy, hot skin, or putting his soft lips against his earlobe and whispered how damn wonderful he was. This combination of strength, a certain wildness and carnal desire, mixed with incredible tenderness, was downright intoxicating. So much so that he regretted it was morning and that this magical night was over.
