synthes

[synthes]

mental health break.

i’ll be on a further hiatus until i’m ready to be back, but for now, if you’d like you can reach me on discord ! ! !#0444.

#ooc. #upd.

[synthes]

Anonymously send me your favorite detail about how I play my character.

I will publish and respond OOC.

#ooc. #mms. #( i know anon is not on but— ) #( :pleading: )

[synthes]

unsolvedmemes​:

send  me  a   📱  and  i’ll  take  you  on  a  tour  through  my  muses’  phone.

their lock screen photo:

their home screen photo:

how many alarms they have set:

their default ringtone:

their favourite app(s) to use:

their most used app(s):

someone they have blocked:

the last person they texted:

#mms. #( hehe )

[synthes]

hiatus until next week.

it’s been so refreshing waking up to no pressures online, being more present offline. i turned off my notifications for both tumblr and discord for the past few days, but you can always send me things, be it ic or ooc! i’ll get to them as soon as i’m back, but for now self improvements are thriving! i’m going to focus on nanowrimo too, so there’s that. please let me know if you are doing it so that we can be buddies. <3

#ooc. #upd.

[synthes]

RICHARD SIKEN / WAR OF THE FOXES Change pronouns as necessary and tweak sentences as appropriate!

I am faithful to you, darling.

When you bang on the wall you have to remember you’re on both sides of it but go ahead, yell at yourself.

Some people don’t understand anything.

He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him.

No one wants to know what’s in his head.

To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

You’d break your heart to make it bigger.

Will you defend yourself? From me, I mean.

Let’s kill something.

I prefer to blame others, it’s easier.

All these ghosts come streaming down and I wish I had something else.

We all move forward anyway. Ripples in all directions.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

All thoughts finish themselves eventually.

Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory?

When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

Look away but I’m still there.

Want something to chase you? Run.

Take only what you need.

Never finish a war without starting another.

I’ve seen your true face: the back of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.

The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

All these things and what to do with them. We carve up the world all the time.

I like dead things. They cannot hurt me.

We like things related to our survival: soup, arrows - they expand the range of the species.

My body is a graveyard.

People like to think war means something.

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other. We know who our enemies are. We know.

There are many loves but only one war.

You will need to comfort him, or we will never be finished with this.

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.

Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in two directions.

The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.

You cannot get in the way of anyone’s path to God. You can, but it does no good.

Some say God is where we put our sorrow.

In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.

What can you know about a person?

Difficult thing, to be scrutinized so long.

Even when I look away I am still looking.

Everyone secretly wants to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer version of the self.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

Why build a room you can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?

There wasn’t much left but it felt like him, wild and scared.

The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice.

If you don’t believe in God, then who are you talking to?

But truth doesn’t count in law, only proof.

Was I discovered or invented? Feels like I’ve always been here.

Measure yourself against the truth and not the other way around.

Perfect and completely dead.

People don’t learn anything unless they are afraid of being left behind.

Logic is boring because it works. Being unreasonable is exciting.

I am your arrival, there is no refusal, we are here, you see, together, we are already here.

This is also part of the story: how the story changes. This is something I forgot to tell you.

You might like it here. I think that you might like it here.

I tell you these things because I love you.

It’s nothing like I thought it would be and closer to what I meant.

Maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere.

It reminds me of where I was going without you.

You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of.

I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

I live in big spaces, so I’m left alone in big spaces.

We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge.

To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery.

I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story.

I surrender my desire to be healed.

Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it.

Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are.

There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time.

Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail.

You want to solve something? Get out of your own way.

What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalisation.

I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.

I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.

I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work.

I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

What happens when I no longer want to meet you?

Nothing lasts forever: we know this.

Longing and suffering? Of course, of course. You want it to mean something.

You can disconnect it or you can try to glue it all together.

We could pull it apart, spend our whole lives pulling it apart and have no time left to do anything smart with the pieces.

The sooner you embrace it, the sooner it will leave you.

You are what you cover up.

Noise and more noise. Noise up to heaven.

One wonders why a story like this exists.

I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

Someone has to leave first.

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

All this was prepared for me. All this was set in motion long ago.

I stayed as long as I could. Now look at the moon.

What does all this love amount to?

#mms.

[synthes]

sucrebuns​ / raven:

“ do you like being used for the benefit of others ? ” the heiress starts to wonder about the gift they happen to posses. it’s been a terrifying past couple of months , every time she ends up getting provoked , she just goes out of control with her thoughts and emotions which drives her to commit something she isn’t very proud of. no one would thought , that someone with an innocent feature would be responsible for a mass murder. either for her family affairs’ benefit , or simply her own. raven still has no idea where this all started , nor does she have any idea why this happens to her. if it’s in the genes or not. so far , she observed that only her can posses something so powerful. despite having this great ability , she actually wants nothing to do with it. “ aren’t you tired of it ? ”

the companion bleeds naught but absence sometimes, the vacancies in-between an embodiment of what seohyuk is. he’s never that present, his silence a form of typical response elicited from the man of very few words. he lets his so-called friend... acquaintance ( ? ) enunciates more than what he cares to concur, but in the conundrum lacing this humdrum, he doesn’t seem to have a lot of choices. he doesn’t know what to tell her, his façade withers as she delves further with the question, the implication behind the inquiry something that he doesn’t truly comprehend: does she refer to the reality of their lives as apparent heirs, or as the perused mutants, the latter being something that the public doesn’t know about? his disguise polished, he’s reassured that she’s merely speaking of the former.

it’s not like he’d ever form any response in return to the latter, after all: she’s no member of the house of x, and he doesn’t harbour any interests to divulge facts about his being crux. his mutation sealed, he’s certain that she is one too, but he isn’t into merging himself into issues he has nothing to do with. and therefore, feigns interests, as always. he is the notch in this society, their pointed chins a symbol of luxury that they both have attained. and for that, he looks at her in attention, as if ruminating the answer, before launching it as if in a mannerism so careful when he cannot care less on the matter. “i don’t think people ever like being under such a grip, being used,” he says, humming. “what makes you say that?”

#scr. #scr: pak seohyuk. #chr: pak seohyuk. #sucrebuns

[synthes]

fairyblooms​ / sophie:

she wants to ask him why he never bothered going to the hospital, but from what she can gather ——— his wounds, his clothes, what he looks like ——— sophie can tell that he’s thoroughly avoiding stepping into an emergency room for plenty of reasons, even if it means that he bleeds out into the street. it’s fortunate that she passed by him tonight ; she isn’t quite sure if the gravity of his wounds will last him until morning. & with limited medical supplies, it’s difficult to tell if he’ll make it through. regardless, sophie wants to do what she can to make sure that he, at the very least, holds out.

❛ yes, ❜ she responds. ❛ i’m a doctor. well, i’m a surgeon. i’m just a first year resident, though. ❜ she won’t lie to him about her expertise. sophie won’t tell him that she can pull out miracles out of a box, but even he knows that, she’s guessing. ❛ this will hurt a lot, ❜ she frowns. ❛ i’m going to put liquor on your wounds to stop the infection, okay ? you can bite on to this. ❜ sophie offers him her handkerchief before she pours the content over his open lesion, then she covers it with a cloth & wipes away the liquid. ❛ the next step will hurt even more, but . . . you’re probably used to this, aren’t you ? ❜

in the caricature of the moment’s reprieve is the portrait of concaved tongue, tied. he doesn’t speak often, his words often reserved to the modicum of timing, but he knows that he has to enunciate something at the very least in the presence of this woman. she is an aid for free, proffering kindness that john doesn’t believe still exists sometimes—ambiguity in moral values tend to carry him over to the ricochets of silence. his words are lacerated with the weight of pain, but pain has been nothing but a drive that propels him forward, always. he isn’t one to indulge in self-pity, but realism tends to speak over him; he might need to learn how to stitch his own wounds, truly. perhaps also to carry a first-aid kit with him to prevent such an instance. he dislikes the concept of owing a deed, how in his world it often ends in bloodshed, always bloodshed.

he listens to her intently amidst the throbbing ache, trying to fixate his gaze on the lips as she admits the truth about her life. a complete stranger, no name attached, and yet, her deft hands are to handle his most intimate rendezvous with his demise, preventing such a notion from happening. indebted, indubitably, so john simply follows what she has instructed him to do, biting into the cloth as she cleanses his wounds. the murmur of pain against the bitten fabric is rather usual, almost customary in nature. and when she asks if he’s used to it, he just takes a long stare at her, the absence of denial supposedly telltale. he grunts, back slightly arched in response to the pain shooting up his spine, overwhelming at best but he’s known this like the back of his hand. eyes shut, he absorbs the spikes of pain for the time being until she’s done with the alcohol, before removing the handkerchief from his mouth. “you’re not wrong in your assumption,” is all he can at least return. he believes that responding to none is impolite considering her help. “what can i do for you in return?”

#scr. #scr: john doe. #chr: john doe. #fairyblooms #tw gun #tw wound #( all g likewise! )

[synthes]

noctevita​ / richard:

movements downstairs draw his attention. his chin dips, his gaze flicking behind him. for one span of a second, his heart lobs, wild and untamed, in his chest; anticipation at its finest, the dark need to see and be seen licking through him. the polished leather of his armour makes no sound as he shifts, his hands clasped behind his back, the athletic frame of him drenched in the outpouring of neon from the billboards and gambling signs beyond the window. the light of the fallen at his front, the shadows of the invisible evil at his back — what was it that he was truly here for? was it to confront, was it to have his questions answered at long last? no, he was not so foolish as to believe there would be answers.

clink, clink. an indistinct sound. hyunwon already knows he is here, just as he knows hyunwon is here, meandering through the halls, heading up to the second floor where richard awaits him. son myung has been his alias thus far; an alias as light and gossamer as a dressing gown, bare when it comes to revealing the minerals of his soul, the essence of him. whomever looks much too long at richard would know that he was drenched in something fragile, thin, easily undone with the flick of two fingers and pulled, unravelled like thread. the good news is that there never is a man who wishes to look, to scrutinise for that long. it allows richard to purvey his target from beneath the radar — until the target himself is the man who scrutinises.

he cannot deny that he has enjoyed these scrutinising looks. that it filled him with a different kind of thrill at the concept that someone found him out. hyunwon enters the bedroom, with his elbow against the door, holding two glasses of bourbon. he wears indigo, a death’s cloak in its own right, and a mask perched just over his eyes, swathes of black lines against the dark timbre of his melanin. a scattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose is also hidden by the mask. oh, so many things are hidden. whenever he has looked at hyunwon, he has seen more similarities than he would care to admit: the fastening of that easy smile before a meeting, that surveying of the room to figure out how to better control its occupants and understand them. it was uneasy, it was disconcerting. still, he was here. here to look upon that face, that same face he had seen so many times when looking in the mirror, the same face he had taught himself. will hyunwon unravel? if there is a chance for richard to, then hyunwon —

“long day, director?”

he speaks this into the air between them without turning around. the purple of a nearby sign reflects off the broadness of his shoulders, the sinew and muscle of him concealed but not a mystery, as he remains standing, a sentinel, a protector, a seeker of the darkness. i wasn’t wrong in expecting a guest, and it confirms richard’s suspicions. he is little more than startled to hear his true name spoken back, a secret, a seal in dark wax upon the blank parchment of a new letter, as though they have written to each other the deepest concerns of their own mind, the movements of the players in their game so that they may continue to meet. 

“that is a method of protection. just as you wear your suits, and pretty smile.” when hyunwon holds out the drink in his right hand, only then does richard turn to look at him. he makes eye contact when he does, dark eyes beneath the dark mask, reaching for the drink. he has taken off his gloves, revealing long, slender fingers capable of a steeple’s grip. “it’s flattering that you act as though you’re taking a chance on getting my alias and name wrong. you won’t.”

he takes the glass. his ring finger brushes against the knuckle of hyunwon’s middle finger as he does, removing it from hyunwon’s hand to sip at. “call me richard then. there are already so many obstacles to peruse through. let not names be one of them.”

the coast is clear, pints of the absence in presence a synagogue for the lonely. that is to read that he’s a product of its conduct, sometimes. hyunwon is not afraid to admit that, he is the antimatter of the anathemas, donning the mantle of symphonic reveries. never one to shy away from the notion of sentiments, it is almost risible that dysthymic anthems are the ones to accompany his heartbeats. as always, he sinks into the clarity of these signatures smiles of the empty: how he picks on cues nobody else can. relishes in the thoughts of being the odd one out, he peruses those he’s interested in with the precisions of their skewed rhythms. he gauges them based on all the signs as exerted via their bodies, the signifying sounds, how sometimes it feels like the bodies forget how to function in its normative cadences.

richard is of no exception. hyunwon has been eyeing him for too long, elongated. the interests harboured have grown too many folds that hyunwon feels almost odd that he has richard here, in his bedroom, now to confirm the probability over the feelings being reciprocated. he imbibes each ratifying signals coming from richard’s physique upon his arrival. sure, richard might assent the consensus that he is to disguise the interests returned, but hyunwon surmises that richard is well aware that hyunwon is not quite humane in any way plausible. the feigned dissents are bound to fade within this very chamber that hyunwon has set to shift the aperture.

there are only them within these confines.

a pair of beating hearts, the thud, thud, thud an assertive statement to the fact that the symbiosis is mutual. the smile that lines the seam of hyunwon’s lips is laden with curiosity. wonders fleetingly if richard knows the intrigue that has been blooming, wilting in hyunwon: how he wants to know how richard tastes against the lips, locked against his own. but that’s for later, as for now they are synthesised to indulge in the tug of war, their tiptoeing around the filaments a consistency amidst all of this. still, in depth of this dark, the bare illumination as it floods from the street outside outlines richard’s muscles well, rimming the way each of the slope, the concave and convex a story of hyunwon’s lust, amplified. still, he’s in full control, absolute over his bodily responses.

the conversation exchanged between them justifies a sensical gravity exchanged; now that they’re no longer the pretences, their hierarchies removed, they’re on the same standing that leaves hyunwon longing for more. it is an asserted want, if he were to be honest, given just how richard is a flask of enigmas, waiting to be sipped again and again and again, richard’s pit bottomless. hyunwon could always use some instances like this, the volatility always sought, welcomed. richard’s retort is rather expected. no longer donning the façade, there’s never any need to be cordial anymore, and hyunwon welcomes the change with open arms.

“i’m glad you think my smile is pretty,” he replies, almost solemn. the way the warmth brushes over his own skin another expected intent, and richard knows how to play the exchange well, too well. hyunwon covets more, but he himself pays attention to the palpitation of the heart in richard. the exterior might lie, but the interior might not. this perpetuates their responses to each other, and hyunwon has no qualm in closing the distance between them even more as he sips at his own drink after raising the glass as a sign of the so-called toast. singular this time, and he downs the alcohol in three. not exactly graceful, but tonight he wants to not let the time go to waste. “and so, let the perusal begin then. we have our secrets, would it bother you to keep some to ourselves? after all, too much of this honesty might ruin the… interests.” he fixates his sharp gaze at richard, knowing all too well that he can undress the man figuratively with the vital signs plucked. even clad in the mask, richard is both a subject of infatuation and inscription. “out of all places, you chose a place so private. must i feel flattered?”

and lets his eyes linger on richard’s exposed lips after he sets the glass on the nearby table.

#thr. #thr: nam hyunwon. #chr: nam hyunwon. #noctevita #( aghhhh ) #tw alcohol

[synthes]

Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued.

Richard Siken (via quotemadness)

#ism.

[synthes]

cvvalier​ / jaehong:

neither of them regrets it in the end, do they? didn’t surrender to buried secrets and untruths. jaehong wouldn’t say he entirely understood her language, ara being an enigma that he studied and learned from every single day. she was unpredictable, but someone that him as her husband was used to. he married her after all, knowing her should’ve been a given. besides the painful lie between them, resulting in burning tension and frustration. they weren’t the couple to lie. brute honesty that seldom would hurt another’s sentiments. ara was the best at making it hurt, pushing the knife deeper and deeper into his chest until he bled for her. his bleeding heart was all for the woman he married. didn’t matter how many times it stung because many other significances in their life had been nothing but blazing love.

she’s the devil that haunts his dreams and strains his pants with utter desire. even now, with the clear mischievous tone in her voice, and the usual bratty behavior that made ara who she was. jaehong still strongly yearns for her. ❛ pains to admit that i do― it’s how i will die. death by the pettiness of his wife. ❜ he joins in with the slight laughter, shaking his head at the whole notion of tonight. His face was still burning from sickness. the soup was also turning cold on the table. its the first time that he reaches out to taste from the broth. the soup slides down his throat comfortably, immediately warming up his stomach. it makes him sigh in content,  ❛ hmm― does that hurt you? me playing you like that ? and you’re comical to think that any normal human being would ask such a thing? but i guess i’m not considered normal. ❜ another bite of the soup, spoon digging into soaked chicken. ❛ you can acknowledge it as wishes for change ? my beautiful flower. i’m much as a fool for you as you are for me. but don’t change that to hatred or despise. ❜ he snickers as he becomes awfully poetic. ❛ sometimes, a husband just wants to love his wife, or more surely make love to her. ❜

the clasp of the moment doesn’t leave her with the absence of question marks; she isn’t one to prod into her husband’s secrets, yet something so potent, so... buried, it carves something akin to wonder as to how much they’ve been honest to each other, if it’s much at all. not that it matters when the facts are now laid out in front of them, the turning table enduring. still, she doesn’t relent towards anything that he says, deserting him for a moment to get a bowl, filling it with more of the soup she’s left to simmer. truly, ara wouldn’t have learned how to cook had it not been for him, but not like she’d ever admit that. especially not now that he knows she’s a demon, the pride a calamity that constructs the pieces of her being. she returns to his side to set the bowl on the coffee table, and starts spoonfeeding him, the love that she exhibits shouldn’t be a subject to inquiries at this point.

“mm, sounds good,” she says. tongue clacks against the palate of her mouth, she chuckles lightly. “you’re to die in my hands, and that’s good to know. would’ve hated it if it was under some other woman’s stilettos or something.” she spoons another, almost shoving it into his mouth, the warm broth the scent of home. “no, it’s not that easy to hurt me, really. i’m a demon, after all,” a shrug. not an utter lie, but not entirely a truth either. “being lied to is the least of my concern—you kind of grow immune to that living with hoards of other demons, you know.” a smile, solemn. she doesn’t miss hell all that much, the place more fleeting now than ever. “sure, oppa,” now the honorific is laced with sarcasm. she is much, much older than he is after all. “don’t you know that demons feed off hatred. makes us feel so full,” a hum. “and that’s more than what i can ask for... also you’re always so driven by your cock at this point.” she quirks an eyebrow. “i suppose i’m too enticing, no?” now, curls into a smile, lips crescent. “you were so sweet before, and now you’re telling me... no, warning me to not turn your love into hate, and yet, asking for sex at the same time?”

#scr. #scr: jung ara. #chr: jung ara. #cvvalier #tw nsfw #( hahahah all good ) #( and here we go again )

[synthes]

phantombs​ / cường:

“Your eyes,” Cường, bold, less honest and more blunt, forward, and curiously odd, mutters weightily. His considering brows knit a touch. “I can stare and wonder for hours. For days.”

and so, whenever he looks at his own reflection in the pervasive mirrors, he understands the remarks often engraved in the mouths of many. his appearance has been anything but indistinctive, which contradicts his line of work. the incongruence an antithesis to the necessity to become incognito, gaining attention from plenty. sometimes, ma proffered the blessings that he’s never asked for... in which the silt of his agnostic prayers finds home in the uncanny nooks like how he imagines if there are those who look like him ( pa, ma ) looking for a lost cause, a lost son. still, there’s nobody. it’s been years and years... now, in this foreign place he locates himself back, anchoring himself back to the reality that feels more and more detached these given days. he’s with a company that arrives late—but time is undefined, their relationship almost impossible to define at this point.

maybe a touch of some sentiments that john—now donning the name of maxence, still—is not entirely accustomed to. cường is a denominator that he tends to leave out of any equation, albeit less often than he thought he would. when cường makes the remark, his attention is drawn to the man seated next to him, he places his glass on the bar top, meeting the face of the offender, the comment about his eyes not at all misplaced. he knows. he knows too well when everyone keeps asking whether those are lenses. in which he tends to shrug it off, a reply too much to afford for strangers on the streets. no, he is not interested in any modelling opportunities. and now, with cường commenting, he finds it almost... normal. still, it is a tad of something, coming from someone who’s not exactly a friend or foe. the world consists of too many shades of grey, that he sinks into the customary furrowed brows. for hours, for days. “haven’t you done that regardless? what makes this the time for you to say it?” 

#scr. #scr: john doe. #chr: john doe. #phantombs

[synthes]

she’s a body of drowning. the art of sinking propels her to fall this deep, there’s not even an ounce of safety that she cared about when she decided to relent to these feelings. in which this is never her forte, the clarity of her being an antithesis to all this. and yet, here she is, falling for a man, the mere mortal none other than a threat to the entirety of her being. not that she wanders, wonders if she would be purged out of hell sans atonement—that’s the privilege for a demoness, to do as she pleases, to do as she wishes.

unlike heaven, there’s never such a concept as worrying over falling when she’s from the down under to start with. this might be an allegory, allusion to something unholy… but teeth-wise, she understands jaehong from the way that he would leave crescent marks in her chest, sternum bitten a myriad of times too many. and she doesn’t mind, which is the issue at hand, when she’s clad in white, her opulent wedding gown almost too simple for the eyes even when it costs jaehong quite a bit of a number.

it was a test after a test after a test. there was no monetary limitation to what she can have with this, the wedding their affluent dreams as concocted into one. she had a lot of say, the blooming white roses a symbol almost too risible for her; still, jaehong cared naught for the digits accrued, the so-called wedding attended by both sides, of whom she paid lowly actors to pretend to be her parents, and one convincing grandmother. believed to come from old money, she’s quite pleased with the couture all three are dressed in, her own gown standing out amidst the sea of outstanding luxury. and here she is, as she prepares to walk down the aisle.

the vicissitudes between the truths and lies juxtaposed, she doesn’t bother inquiring herself if all this will ever be revealed as a pint of fabrication. he is to marry her, after all—not her family, who’s supposedly adamant on staying out of their business. ara smiles wider as the dusk, purple that fades to tinted soft red, complements the shades adorning this sacred ritual. almost too incredulous for her to marry a man who, as far as she knows, will succumb to demise in a few decades, but she loves him. she does, and for that, she fixates her gaze on jaehong as her ‘father’ walks her down the marbled accents, the scattered petals swept by the rims of her shimmering gown. witnessed by the audience, her smile is now an open one, liberated from any kind of pretence when it pertains to the sentiments.

feat. @cvvalier: park jaehong.

#thr. #thr: jung ara. #chr: jung ara. #cvvalier #tw sacrilege #( for once feeling the fluff as i'm writing it?? ) #( who am i?? )

[synthes]

CHORUS: And the grace of the gods (I’m pretty sure) is a grace that comes by violence.

Aeschylus, Agamemnon (tr. Anne Carson)

#ism.

[synthes]

chaosgrieves​ / jaebeom:

the wind brushes over his shoulder, before he opens the gate to the house though, jaebeom has taken a deep breath. he hates it. they have offered him from the beginning and it surely continues to be a possibility for the negotiator to pick up one day, to be trained in martial arts. in general, all of the helpful hints and tricks that revolve around self-defence. however, jae has only participated in the basic course and never returns after losing interest in the first 20 minutes or so. especially, because the heir knows there are people he can buy to do the very same tasks for him. why should he steal them their jobs then?! somewhere along these thoughts, jaebeom has met him, cha sejong. now jae is on his own again, despite being even closer to sejong than when they’ve worked together.

many know about jaebeom’s weaknesses. of which one recently returns once sejong has decided to cancel the job for the benefit of their relationship. jae hasn’t objected his lover’s wish and understands his reasoning. he never judges the demon for this decision and rather wants to be as supportive as possible. on the other hand, it has meant for jaebeom to be more careful with the negotiations and the way he expresses himself. although there are plenty of members in his own gang ─ able to protect jaebeom, he’s way too stubborn to allow them to join these meetings and absorb sensitive information.

that’s exactly where the thing jae despises roots from, to look inward because the other party is pissed off by the smallest inconveniences and has a lively fantasy when it comes to interpretation. this suffocating feeling, stress and pressure, a stupid mistake that could cost him his life, which jae has no desire of taking inside his home. still in front of the gate, he counts to ten and when he reaches “1″, jae enters. he doesn’t need to think for long to recognise the familiar pair of shoes in the entrance area. theoretically, sejong could be anywhere, the villa is big enough to disappear from any nosy being for at least an entire day. yet, jaebeom believes there should be no reason for his boyfriend to do that. the attendants don’t stay for long any more, in the evening hours they’re almost always alone, unless either jae or sejong asks them to stay. a smirk slinks across jae’s lips, it’s one of the things jaebeom absolutely adores about sejong. the power he has to release jae of all the burden that has collected ─ with a single image of him in jaebeom’s head. slowly the older walks up to the living area, following the lights.

❛ babe, ❜ he begins, before taking the next and last corner. ❛ i’m gonna take a shower first, alright?! today’s meeting spot was a garbage … ❜ in the middle of speaking, the words are suddenly cut off. even though his mouth is gaping the next, jae fails to give it a sound ❛ wow. ❜ quickly leaves his tongue instead. jae takes the last few steps separating him from his beloved and closes the space between them with a hand on the other’s shoulder and a kiss on his lips. winning himself some time. sejong’s new haircut immediately returning into the centre of jae’s attention, once he leans back again. ❛ you got something done, right? probably thought i wouldn’t see but… ❜ he lifts the other’s hand and pulls at a couple fingers  ❛ how could i not notice this perfect manicure. ❜ at which he glances back up to sejong, hiding his grin behind sejong’s hand. 

conceived thoughts that turn to reality have almost felt too surreal. his caprice eventually did end the long-lived, long-kept length of his hair, the price of simply shaving everything off is more visceral than material. he finds himself losing a part of him, it seems, but he believes he does what’s necessary… a changed needed to be made, somehow, somewhere. he might usually be the type to remain complacent, monotony a company that he doesn’t often dismiss. there’s inevitably a sense of comfort in the latitude of familiarities. still, today he did it, the determination was not difficult to come by. when the night beckons, he draws his hood up, pushing his hands into the pockets of his casual jacket just so that the ones serving his lover in this villa aren’t those witnessing the change first. he wants the initial shock to be worn by none other than his lover, whose whereabouts he hasn’t checked as of yet.

the waiting time is prolonged—he endures the ennui as he waits in the living room. sure, the villa feels like a second home already since he’s been with jaebeom for a while now, yet he’s never been used to the lavish lifestyle that jaebeom dons even though his own parents live comfortably. busan is a home far away, and this should be the home close to his heart, but sejong typically would attribute that to the presence of his lover instead of the cocoon of this luxury. the villa might be comfortable, but he still feels a tad awkward around everything without the presence of his beloved. despite that, today is one exception of the few that he’d make to ensure that jaebeom is the one with the honour to become the primary eyewitness to the drastic measure.

so, he waits. the ticking clock seems to be keen on engraving a tally in his flesh, the seconds another source of mind atrophy. the house is eventually emptier, emptied. the employees no longer present, sejong feels incredibly out of place without the house owner in it. standing by the window, the dimly lit living room proffers a sense of solace that can only be said to resemble jaebeom, his embrace something that sejong has missed. truly, there’s the space between them, the gaping hole that sejong dug himself in his decision to relinquish his position as the hired bodyguard. it keeps him from being too close with his former boss, that much is true, but it also does not interrupt with the romance. there is a line to be drawn… but—

the train of thoughts is cut short by the succinct steps of the beloved’s. he listens intently to the telltale signs of jaebeom’s footfalls, the way their weight makes the floor shift. the sharp, enhanced senses pick up the clues rather effortlessly, but they also hear his own throbbing heartbeats, given the rising anticipation. as the distance between them is nullified within some more strides, sejong pushes his hood down, letting his lover catch on the sight first thing to see. and when jaebeom enters, he’s trailing mid-sentence, leaving sejong’s grin to widen. he knows jaebeom would perhaps try to pull this kind of jesting—manicure being a word foreign but sejong figures it has something to do with nails; he nods along to the words said. “mhmm,” he hums. “just so that… you can admire it as i… you know.” a chuckle, he knows that jaebeom understands the implication as clear as day. a lewd joke aside, he worries his lower lip between his teeth. “i hope you like it.” now his turn to close the gap, he places his free hand on jaebeom’s cheek. “you’re the first to see my manicure.”

#thr. #thr: cha sejong. #chr: cha sejong. #chaosgrieves #( BINCH )

[synthes]

nouvelis​ / seojung:

“don’t say that.” his words are harsh and stern, uncompromising, as though they are an order passed amidst military ranks instead of the murmurings of lovers. doesn’t uriel know he’s the only one his heart still aches for, the only one he cares for in this rotten earth? how can he do anything but worry upon hearing the violence dawned upon the beloved? “you should be in bed.” another statement delivered with more solemnity than affection, but not from the lack of it but the abundance of it. the love for uriel so ponderous that his bones can barely bear it, the creaking sounds perceptible if anyone cares enough to listen. people at the base know this well enough, how seojung is perpetually unfazed unless it is something that has to do with uriel. it is how they have him controlled so well, manipulated like the finest of puppets, defection no longer an option when both his and his lover’s lives are at stake.

he sighs when uriel does not respond, acting more like an unrelenting boy with bruises and a heart too full with pride to admit defeat. how can uriel let this happen? seojung has had his bout of questions when he finds the two separated in respective missions — a rarity since it is found out how well they work together in combat. he has tried his ways of gathering information, but only flimsy fragments can be found about the classified case. could well be a suicide mission, but why would they do that if uriel and seojung have so far kept their side of the contract? isn’t it enough to surrender their liberty just for another breath in their lungs, another beat of their hearts?

the flight to the ward after he hears of the aftermath was swift and desperate once he caught wind of the news. he was on the brink of losing it when uriel was nowhere to be found. he heard there’s blood, a piscina of it — the unraveling of his mind took only seconds before he was told uriel left to rest on his own and the lacerations are not half as bad as his frantic mind imagined. the walk to uriel now within the near soundless confines of their penthouse is steadier than his dash in the chlorine-filled compartment, even though his heart’s trembling has yet to cease. he lowers to kneel next to the bathtub, his weary eyes stare at the silhouette of his lover and watch in quietude as the rise and fall of uriel’s chest confirms that he is real, not a mere fabrication of a mind too inundated by grief. 

“let me look.” he demands as his hand reaches to rest on grazed knees, but his lover is too adamant to hide himself in an embrace. seojung only sighs when uriel does not yield, swallows the wrath and fear and lifts himself up again, not to depart but to retrieve a washed towel from the rack, wetting it with hot water from the tap before he returns, letting himself sink onto the cold marble as his knees greet the ground again, his hand moving slowly to clean uriel’s face, effacing the dust and grim from the battle, the perilous existence they lead. his touches are delicate as he forces himself to suppress the vexation, but the deluge of emotions chooses to manifest in the form of tears brimming in his reddened eyes. “how can i do anything but worry?” his voice has dipped low, near cracking as he erases a trail of dried blood from the cut on uriel’s forehead. “you’re so fucking irritating.”

in a world where cruelties abound, they’re the products of its grotesque moulds. it’s almost quixotic, how they became the murderers intended without a hitch: their clarity in love a smidgen left in their humanity a means to exploit. they are to die on their knees, but they would still die for each other regardless. standing on their feet no longer a choice. thus, how risible for uriel to die if it was not for seojung? it should have been a subject to engrave question marks for, when seojung is the only reason he’d die for.

the firmaments beyond them are the colour of demise, and still, they fold their hands to pray towards the decay.

uriel swallows the vultures of his thoughts as they climb between the columns of his throat. he cannot be salvaged; this moment is not his to own, justifying himself when he doesn’t have any defence to speak of. seojung is right in all his remarks, carving the similes of hurt in each of the tone. it ruins uriel inside, no longer in pieces. nowadays, uriel just understands how to crumble at once, no longer step by step. he could’ve left seojung tonight, leaving nothing but a trail ablaze. of sorrow, the bereavement perhaps would never be satiated. or so uriel thinks, as he wants to believe this symbiosis is mutual, their love feeding on each other that he believes it’s almost parasitic. still, uriel remains quiet. he lets seojung speak, until the faltering tonality arrives. he cannot meet seojung’s eyes as he knows what is to come if he does, the heartbreak a manifestation of ripe and ruin. he cannot do it to seojung. he cannot…

he holds himself so close, too close… closing in every manner possible, including how he does so towards seojung. he knows none about embracing his current vulnerability, the gradual inclination of adrenaline returns as he listens to the way seojung’s question breaks at the edges. he doesn’t know how to be a gauze when he’s wounded himself. still, he isn’t one to share this kind of pain with seojung, for he doesn’t want to inflict more ache in his lover—yet the paradox remains. he still does, the cut is deep now as the way seojung’s words falter ricochets in uriel’s mind. he almost flinches at the touch, as if seojung would set him aflame, but he stills himself, savouring the way seojung erases the trail of blood on his forehead. schadenfreude at its best, isn’t it?

“i just… i’ll be fine,” he eventually says, closing his eyes after the pause. he tucks his jaw behind his knees. “it happens. it was a moment of weakness… i’ll be more careful next time.” doesn’t eliminate the fact that he could have died had the bullets not strayed, missing his vital organs.

#thr. #thr: jung uriel. #chr: jung uriel. #nouvelis #ver: ii. #tw blood #tw wound #tw gun

[synthes]

nouvelis / seojung​:

they are no strangers to this tragic tune, this deathly desire. months have gone by since uriel’s unanticipated return, since the ghost of his past dragged himself back to his door, since seojung asked him to leave. but he has never been as cold as his words, his body as feverish as it was at seventeen under the boy who’s carved his name on the crown of his heart. there is nothing he can do to deny this longing so desperate for decay. no medications, no borrowed playthings enough to extricate him from this malady — he’s tried. god knows he’s tried.

the glimpse of uriel pressed against someone else still burning on the brink of his mind, bright as the flickering fluorescent in a moonless night. isn’t this what seojung wanted? isn’t this what he wants? for them to be nothing more than bodies entwined, wearing each other’s bones until they are naught but ashes? how can he claim injuries when these are the same instruments of cruelty he has used for so many times? but reasoning gets him nowhere with the fragments withering in their crate and he should know better by now. should have known better to negotiate with arsonists who care less about what is right than what feels right. 

perhaps it is time for him to cease the fight he’s never stopped losing. for he is just as much as a hopeless, painless prey under the same dark eyes that deceive and devour. which of them gets to call themselves the victim when both necks are smothered with bruises from the other’s clutch? which of them gets to plead innocence when the crimson has coloured the creases of their palms so well? when can his revenge suffice, before attrition annihilates them both? amidst the heaving chests and vaporising sweat, the moment arrives again, for him to part his lips and ask uriel to leave, walk out and never come back. 

but he’s never been as cold as his words. always the first to shiver and surrender, to bend and beg — love me again, please. love me again and mean it this time.

he can no longer tell which is which, the marks on his lover’s neck the aftermath of their sins or uriel’s with the man seojung can still taste on his lips. seojung wishes he has the answers to why he feels the way he does, why the moth always takes flight into the flame. he has never found the answers, perhaps he should stop trying, perhaps he should stop fighting. he can sense uriel shuffling by his side, having grown just as used to this sickening dance — but tonight seojung longs for something different. he wants to wake up warm, he’s tired of trembling alone. “don’t leave.” a sunken whisper against his lover’s chest, his wish to be heard as feeble as his wish to be missed. “just… stay with me tonight.” 

the bedroom warfare spares none. he lives on the precipice of each move, their apertures often tilted that the bottom resembles the beyond; this chasm the skies. calligraphed in his skin is the tattoo embossed in ways all too familiar that somehow, it is easy to trace it, bringing back the deluge of nostalgia since this is the reality of their current chemistry. they are a synthesis of the virulence that colours their flesh, so well, so deep. to be entirely honest, uriel has realised this for so long, too long, he’s been hanging himself off a noose with seojung’s name embedded into the rope. there’s no forgiveness found at first, but he’s adamant. the persistence manifests, sure, but when uriel did relent to the thought that perhaps it was a lost cause after all, he did sink his teeth into the apple of eden.

to besiege his own emotions—this is a futile conversation with this carcinogenic feeling.

to which everything is addressed based on the presence of this decapitated love, its head long gone. uriel is too aware of the fact that he’s an atrophic sigh of love that hasn’t and doesn’t wither. the wilted, wilting lie might have been the signature move that propelled him to disembark, leaving no goodbye. for that, he needs the penitence. for that, he needs the atonement. still, he doesn’t think that it’s probable anymore, this fight against the thudding, throbbing heartbeats. the thundering sentiments the hallmark to everything he’s come to know. uriel knew of the consequences all too well, but what could he do when he needed the comfort, finding none if not bullets in seojung’s words, acts? for that, seeking a one-off solace might have been somehow… capricious, but eyes closed to pretend it was seojung pretending that the stranger’s hands are seojung’s. but lies, lies.

when uriel wept the night after, there was still no hand to hold. so when the invitation came, he didn’t know how to respond. not like seojung did not know what had bloomed; their bruises free for perusal, this is a battle nobody can win between them. so, when he came, it was languid. almost guilty, but at least, this time he could moan seojung’s name and see seojung’s face as the cadence grew. between them was the gravity that can never be replaced. uriel calls it love, names it loss. except tonight, when he’s readied himself, wondering when seojung would loosen his embrace and request a farewell, it doesn’t come. instead, it becomes a plea. uriel is left aghast, blinking when he is asked to stay. swallowing, he tentatively wraps his arms around seojung again, as if to test the terrain—if seojung really means the words. “i’m not leaving,” he tells seojung with a pint of reassurance. hasn’t it been everything that uriel has been wishing all these years? “i want to… i want to stay with you more than just one night.” closes his eyes, then. “perhaps too much for now, so… this is to say that i will stay the night.” sighs. “you have every right to push me away, but why… tonight?” dares himself to ask, finally, bracing for the outcome.

#thr. #thr: jung uriel. #chr: jung uriel. #nouvelis #ver: vi. #tw body horror

[synthes]

syncopated heartbeats; the thud, thud, thud paint the chamber with clarity so pristine he doesn’t recognise the way the dripping water from the faucet collides with the pooled sea. drowning in an ankle-deep ocean feels too poetic at this hour. it must be past three. the night is soon to be diffused by dawn, colouring the cloak of the firmament with a sense of feigned sanity. and within these parentheses, it has always been the most difficult, with his conscious rimmed with the weight of the demons. so take himself back to the water that sloshes in his dreams, the latticework of terrors an exhibit of how he would watch the deluge of the ocean spilling into the car, drowning seojung in. in moments like this, he wonders if resuscitation would still feel like open-mouthed kisses with the only boy he’s come to love… and then there is this. the way he is submerged face-first, the suffocation a brand of heroine that he tastes as that was the closest he was to the death as proposed by the boy whom he thought would ever love him back. who knew that seojung had always been all along? that love was a sentiment, emotion preserved so well in the core, axed to seojung’s sternum, except for the fact that it wasn’t enough for seojung to stop the murder nearly committed towards uriel. ( or was it? )

so, here he is, letting the same weight collapse around his night’s entrée, for the poltergeists in his slumber might still smother him the same, but he isn’t scared of living anymore. not when he has the man that he wants to live and die for. tonight, inching close, so close towards the latter, he knew that he shouldn’t have been so reckless when he was flightless. he’s still the same bird with clipped wings, his ribcage made of the structure coveting flying to no avail. this is the architecture of demise, disguised so well it resembles sustenance. he’s both detached and attached, in which the latter speaks of his commitment to save seojung from the bargain. the former? he’s tethered to the knowledge that he’s the leverage all the same for seojung; disintegration only matters when it means his beloved’s liberty.

after all, what is this if not the intrepidity? to face his worst fears in the face of their adversity.

of course, he feared, fears death. does it make him selfish in his wish to outlive seojung?

the creak of the front door the susurrus that loose ns the teeth around uriel’s mind, leaving crescent bite marks everywhere. in which each of the muted footfalls on the floorboards each pint of euphoric dose that he downs by too many mouthfuls. now, he asks himself, the questions ricocheting in his mind, if seojung knows the frictions with death that uriel had today… perhaps someone from the headquarter might have harboured interests in informing seojung. some were concerned, some were apathetic. uriel likes the second better, but when seojung’s call arrives, echoing in their shared penthouse, uriel remains still, steeled. it’s as if he’s a wraith refusing to be seen. his presence annulled for once, but the panic dousing seojung’s voice doesn’t seem to falter at the end. he lets seojung’s steps reverberate more, until he’s found. the swish of the bathroom door as it swings open in a rush almost inflicts tiding anxiety in uriel, but he knows he isn’t the one to have the rights over such feelings.

two plastic bullets—he was discovered prior to the mission, it felt like a suicide assignment. the laceration of the wounds were not that fatal… yet. nesting in his flesh, another making it past. uriel winces when he stays fixating his gaze on the marbled wall before him, splaying his palms on the base of the cold white bathtub. he barely acknowledges seojung’s presence, but he expects at least some interrogative tone from his lover. still, he cannot meet seojung in the eye. when seojung is close enough, he moves his arms to wrap around his folded knees, thighs pressed against his bare chest, the tourniquets not enough to stop the bleeding from blooming on the white canvasses. “i’m fine,” he says after a lapse, the moment of silence almost disconcerting. “nothing fatal.” he sounds disinterested, almost. “don’t worry.” and still, avoiding seojung. the bathtub leaves a room for another. a tacit invitation, uriel casts his stare down onto the water that ripples slightly.

feat. @nouvelis: pak seojung.

#thr. #thr: jung uriel. #chr: jung uriel. #nouvelis #ver: ii. #( surprise! ) #tw drowning #tw weapon #tw wound #tw gun #tw blood