━━ ❛ BLOOD OATH

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y’all...lads....lasses....gals....pals....buddios.....amigos....my apologies for dropping off the face of the earth school came and really drop kicked me into trying to get my shit together. fret not, i should be back tmrw with some spici replies !! 

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vbyun‌:

“i shouldn’t have even asked–i know how much of a hard on you get when death comes up in conversation. and here i was thinking you were just happy to see me.” vincent scoffed, thinking it was probably time he went further out of the city to drift or changed his route. he wondered if anso predicted where he’d be because vincent’s actions had become repetitive ( and dangerous as a result, if anyone actually wanted to cause him harm ). upon hearing anso needed his legal help, his unsurprised expression played out his thoughts: does a bear shit in the woods? is the pope catholic? he was truly his worst, but favorite, client. “a text would have been fine, but i’m flattered that you felt the need to interrupt my moment of peace. i can tell you truly can’t get enough of me.” vincent would be lying if he said anso’s cases weren’t at least entertaining. on top of that, if any trouble came vincent’s way, knew he could cash in a favor or two. his family were all still major power players in elysium, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he was already targeted after the way he’d cut ties with his family. perhaps it was his own paranoia, but he constantly felt watched. unfortunately he was never the type to get his hands dirty, ( befitting for the resident pretty boy that did his dirty work between the sheets ) but at least he knew anso was someone that was. “how much damage did you manage this time?” he asked nonchalantly, gesturing to his vehicle. “please, step into my office. ruin my night a little more. and buy me a drink, at least.” 

it’s not a prance he takes to vincent’s car, but it’s something close. when anso grins in return, it’s all teeth – hands coming to rest in his pockets as he makes his way towards the car. ( it’s all shining chrome -- - he doesn’t think vincent would be caught dead in anything less. ) “don’t you just know me so well, you flatter a man.” he replies, something slick in his words as he climbs into the passenger seat of the car. he doesn’t bother buckling in, but he does reach into his pocket for another smoke, gleam of the traffic light catching the steel of his lighter as he lights it; gives his mouth something to do, in this momentary stasis.

“well then, jet us off to wherever pretty boy wants to go.” anso calls to vincent, nonchalant; what he means is that if he gets his tequila and maybe a glass of bourbon – he’s going to be good to go for the night. ( he has an early morning call to a pretty little thing’s grand suite; he doesn’t take gigs up often that need storytelling, that need him to play part puppet and puppeteer alike – but he takes the role up sometimes when he thinks the iron of the blood will taste so much better with his hands around thin necks. ) bottom line is, he’s not drinking much. shame, that is.

“i’m coming to you before the shoe drops, aren’t you so happy about it?” anso starts, sharp brow cocked as he leans his head back and tilts it up – long neck exposed even as he exhales the plume of smoke. –all a show. when his head lolls back to the other side, he keeps his graze traced to the stretch of the road ahead of him. “i made some rich banker disappear, but the clean-up got messy. he doesn’t have enough believable leads tying him to a mid-life crisis fueled escape to the maldives – people are gonna start gettin’ real curious about it real soon. y’know what they say ‘bout hungry dogs.”

[timotaychalamet]

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he happens upon the sight when he opens the bedroom door he knows to be of the reporter they’re both hunting--one that’s been getting too dangerously close to the reigns of the elysium & cicada alike, she was bound to gather some attention--something beady about his eyes when they land upon the scene ahead of them. ( he had been expecting her. ) the cream of the plus carpet sighs and pushes under his feet as he makes his way to the scene in front of him, quiet, scarily steady hands shutting & locking the door behind him, silently. ( there was a thrill in the aspect of being caught in the act, something inherently voyeuristic about it – but there was a time and place for it all. )

she has her back to him, arms raised from where he can only assume she’s holding a gun—probably a sleek, small thing to get through the security for events like this gala—said reporter’s fading body rests on the chaise. his head tilts, steps slowing the nearer he gets, a light coo on his tongue -- - what a pity he hadn’t had the chance to finish her off himself. ( he could yet still, the woman prone seems to gasp for air, the bullet drawing blood but not instant death -- - but there’s something sweeter promised for him here. ) dark eyes turn to the woman, amari – assassin for the elysium ( it’s all he knows of her ), watching the lines of her face as it contorts carefully for tells, for gives. “it’s not over yet, you know—” his voice breaks the stark silence like a gunshot in itself, something in it just as insidious as the way his lips rise, as if they’re baring his teeth. he’s but a hair’s breath away from her, mouth close enough to her ear when he finishes his sentence. “—she’s still breathing. won’t you finish the job?”

calloused hands that are etched with too many years of building him up to be walking blasphemy trace her raised arm, the same one that has the holding grip on the gun – it trails up past the elbows, down the length of a body in a touch that doesn’t wander anywhere other than upon the skin itself. ( it follows a strict trajectory, suggestive enough with purpose – ) down it goes past the curve of a shoulder, the straight of the side of a torso, past the hip to where a thigh stretches -- - remains on the outside until he feels the telling strap of a knife holster pressing just past the cloth of the dress she is donning. when his grin widens again, it can be felt on skin – victorious, it sings. “—make it personal…why waste another bullet?” ( @amrvi )

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he doesn’t know when he’s made a routine of it. he is the man on the stone bricks climbing up the high castle; this is a fairytale, is it not?  ( she is pearls and diamonds -- - she is already something so far away from flesh & bone to him. )

sohee had been an enigma the moment he had chanced upon her. hired by her father, he had all but seen her across the stretch of a long hallway when he’d been making his exit from the quarters. it had been like a rift in his peripheral, a separation in time and space – she was otherworldly, composed and strung together like roughened pearls strung along on a diamond chain. ( something so potently dangerous about her, even if she was beautiful grace embodied. ) he had encountered her like a reverence, something hymn like in the relationship that had followed. and there was nothing of it, for he shed his snakeskin on her doorstep before ever reaching out to her. there was nothing more he liked in his hands than the stain of blood, but he wanted to leave her untouched of it -- - washed clean.

she was -- - and was she? or was she a marble pedestal he had molded with his own cavernous gaze?

it’s like clockwork, he’s here again. he knows when to come to assure there’s no one at her place but her. there’s blood on his knuckles, cuts on his cheeks & lip where he’d wanted to taste the iron he had spilled – some bruising smattered along the lines of his body. this is as good as brand, spanking new for him; yet, he finds himself here, like clockwork. it’s a dance they play, the only slow waltz he’ll ever be allowed to attend with him on her arm.

he knocks once, twice, thrice – waits for the door to open with tight fists squeezed up enough to keep the knuckles split open, crying slow beads of blood. ( @srslysohee )

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dubovs‌:

         MACAU WAS ROTTING AND they were all standing on its graveyard. leonard counted his blessings rather than his flaws, a survival instinct he found kept him sane — afloat. he was caught in a crossfire he no longer knew who had ignited, but the goal had always been the same: staying alive. he could give up a life of wealth and power if it only meant he would not burn. he was not too proud to see they were all pieces on a chessboard. he just intended to win.

the flamingo was bustling at this time of night, and leo had always enjoyed being an anonymous presence in a crowd of people that did not matter. elysium and cicadas — flesh and bone. none of them would make it in the end. still, he always wanted to prove a point. «i think that one’s mine, actually,» he pointed out with an indifferent grumble when the person to his right sipped his beer carelessly. «not that it matters now.»

when he’d first broken the bare age where flesh & mind became more tactile, more potent to greed and all the ways in which he hungered for it – anso bodied places like this quite often. his arrival to macau had also been followed by a procession of visiting the dark corners in the darkest nights, because he knew the likes he’d want to run with wouldn’t be found touting their own gaudy desire for death around their necks anywhere else. now, it was something of a place of comfort, at best. perhaps, he’d come here if he wanted a mindless night, or wanted to trace the breaths and paces of a target before he bloodied them. –depended on the night, really.

and tonight, was far less about pointing his barrel down someone’s throat, and much more about staking lazy claim. ( there was always a restlessness to him, like he was nothing if he wasn’t running – chasing; the only moments he was sedentary was after the thrill of the high, the chase, the flesh. even that didn’t last long. ) fitted in something that shows far too much of his chest to be considered happenstance, he takes a hold of the beer that passes onto the counter as soon as he steps up to it – pulls it to his lips before it can be claimed otherwise.

“i was counting on it.” he replies, easily -- - long stretch of limbs coming to lean across the counter as he looks at the man, as if in itself, a challenge. ( he doesn’t like men on pedestals, wants to tear them down with bloody teeth. ) “—i took the drink, now i owe you a conversation. isn’t that how it goes among the civil?” his words are a mockery, but they aren’t biting -- - he’s not bored enough to pick a fight tonight. ( anos bides his time preciously; there is nothing offensive about the man past the title he carries, and that alone isn’t, unfortunately, enough to ruffle anso’s feathers. )

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kwcnyvri‌:

           — IT WAS A TYPICAL EVENING for yuri kwon. she found herself at yet another lavish cocktail party with some of the biggest names in all of the big industries of the city. politicians, business men, and starlets all mingled and laughed from their positions on top of the world. her gown glittered as she moved about the room, catching everyone’s attention even if only for a split second as she walked by. she nodded in recognition at the vice president of a big pharmaceutical company ( yuri made a mental note to greet him on behalf of her brother later on ) before another familiar face caught her eye near the bar. now this was not a face she had been expecting to see tonight. yuri reached the bar without addressing the other, choosing instead to order a drink from the bartender first before acknowledging the other. “ fancy meeting you here. is this some sort of special occasion ? ”

anso had nothing more than a name to go off of -- -but that had never been much of an issue in the past. there’s a deep crimson suit lining his body, the sheen of it pearlescent under the tasteful lowlights of the room. he’s not much for socializing and rubbing shoulders with the elite, the high & mighty, so he stows himself away to the corner where the bar is. though, stowing away himself away isn’t generous enough for the pillar of his stance; broad shoulders leaning back, he rests elbows along the counter top – hand clutching a drink that’s chilled down past the pads of his fingers from the ice he asked in it.

the voice breaks him out of his reverie, something snake skinned as he eyed the crowd. ( he’d spotted his target ten minutes in and was no just biding his time. all in good patience -- - he knew the strike would be so much sweeter if he waited until he could really spill guts. ) attention turning to the approaching figure, he eyes her with a languid sort of ease. the smile that grows on his face comes just as easy, though it’s too sharp edged to be considered harmless. “sorry darling, think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

[lifeinpoetry]

I want to leave you dirty with the memory of me unable to wash my scent off your skin.

— Ally Ang, from “Durian Girl,” published in Francis House

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hacuns‌:

     —  THE  VOICE  MADE  HAEUN’S  PEN  ABRUPTLY  STOP  its movements, her whole body going on lockdown, before she silently continued what she was doing. anso and haeun had happened upon each other by chance, one of the reasons why the cicadas found her in the end. because she found them first. at first, haeun hadn’t really bothered with following up on the situation, he was another blip on her radar ( along with his general contact info, criminal and medical records, credit card information as well as his web browser history ) and then he wasn’t.

all of a sudden he was everywhere.

she didn’t notice at first, which bothered her when thinking too much about it. because she was in the business of noticing stuff. the small details that made the impossible happen. the fact that she hadn’t noticed 6 ft of man walking around after her was embarrassing. but once she had seen him it had been hard to miss. he was always a few too many feet away for them to be considered to be close in proximity, but not too far away that it would be considered an accident. no, he knew what he was doing. haeun was pretty sure of that.

“song anso,” she said in a casual tone, tint of boredom laced on top. the pet name, however, made her clench her teeth and she wondered silently if draining his bank accounts would be considered a petty thing to do. “i don’t think we do.” for the first time since he’d sat down she lifted her gaze and looked at the man in front of her. “but you seem to be awfully interested in me, sweetheart !”

hands busy flicking open a beloved lighter—it’s a thing of steel with a snake head etched out on it, rough around the edges like someone took to it with their own tooth & nail—he lights the cigarette resting upon his lips, takes an inhale and blows it out in soft plumes just above their heads. look at him playing nice like that.

and my, my what a feisty one she is -- - he’d expected as much from what he’d seen of her in the past few months. little mosaic pieces of the world of sun haeun coming together to form a monet of a woman; all so pristinely perfect from afar, breathtaking enough when looked at afar. but the closer you got, the uglier each brush stroke was. what a woman to be looked upon. ( she had crawled her way under his skin the day she’d taken that opportunity from him, and settled in like an itch he wanted to scratch. ) he’s already taken another drag by the time she’s finished, the venom on her tongue falling so honeyed to his own ears. “oh i am, very much so. have you noticed? i don’t do too well with subtleties.” and it’s a statement of fact because anso really has no purpose or bother in belonging with the shadows. everything he does is with a bang, like he’s begging for life to hit him with a punch that he can’t get up from. ( and he is. ) “you took something of mine, miss sun. and i don’t take like sharing, or losing – particularly, in that order.” when he leans back, it’s as if he’s asserting the importance of that very statement – daring her to admit to it before even he does. it has hounded over him, twisted into something curled along the edges with smoke—the gig that had led him to her—even though in reality it is to probably mean of no importance or relevance to her. though, if reality regaled anso’s senses, he’d be a different man. ( he’d likely be a dead man. )

a hand coming to place itself down on the table, long, roughened fingers curl – dig into the cool glass surface before he continues to speak. “so tell me darling, how are you planning to pay me back? you certainly seem to have all the answers, don’t you?” a plume of smoke, the gleam of something distilled in a dark brown gaze – “so then, riddle me this.”

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vbyun‌:

⌜ OPEN ⌟ °. ♠︎ — THE TIRES ON VINCENT’S CAR squealed and screeched against the charcoal pavement, while an overwhelming stench of burning rubber and a trail of smoke following behind him. he hit the handbrake as he made a sharp turn around an intersection, pulling the car into a drift. it was just then that he hit the brakes to stop the car and jerked forward in his seat at the sight of a jaywalker. “HEY!” he yelled, immediately jumping out of the car and walking towards the person he almost ran over. "hey, you!” he yelled again, slamming the door. his face contorted into an angry expression, out of irritability, though a hint of concern was present. usually he was always in a good mood when he had a chance to drift along macau’s streets, find a race here or there. but simply put, he didn’t like it when people got in his way. he felt his rest and relaxation had been interrupted, and the person that stood in front of him in the street was now responsible. “what’s wrong with you? jumping into the fucking street like that. you want me to kill you? is that it?” vincent asked sarcastically, lowering his voice.

he wishes he would be harder to find, really make anso work for it – but he doesn’t. ( him and vincent…the way they work is nothing if not predictable. ) anso knows he’s likely going to find vincent taking to the streets tonight, and it only takes minimal digging to figure out which car he’s taking out. and well, that’s an easy tell because he saw the one parked outside the sinclair earlier in the evening. he doesn’t know why vincent byun had there, but anso was getting himself another gig. ( so he broke bread with the enemy -- - and what about it? money was money, and so was blood, even if it bled from pretty little necks that wore real class diamonds. ) and so he’d taken his leave early, decidedly before vincent had, and taken his casual stroll up the street downtown that he had an inkling the other man would take on his way to the outskirts of the city if he was planning on drifting tonight.

( something about the head rush, he assumed; the rich were always so bored. )

hands tucked in pockets, he’s whistling an off-tune rendition of a song that belongs on a record player, glancing behind him every now and again to clock his timing. when he sees the telltale signs of the headlights, he carries his merry way down into the street – almost waits for the sweet symphony of piercing metal on flesh. alas, it does not come. what does follow, though, is smoke and the screeching sounds of rubber burning on tar – and ah yes, the yelling. a slow grin takes to his face as vincent storms his way over, brows raising when anso does speak.

“sure is, pretty boy. such a shame you’ve got such good reflexes – all the blood & chrome…just think of it.” he smacks his lips as if in show, a shake of his head -- - pity, that. when he turns to look back at the man, that odd set of to his face never drops, even as he juts his chin in gesture. “i need a bail out.”

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ok lads gals pals im calling it a night but i still wanna #plot w yall so hit up that heart and i’lll slide into your dm’s w me demon :,) also my discord is THE KNEES GO TAKI TAKI#0759 if u wanna add me for some plotting fun and buffoonery thrown in for free

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hacuns‌:

     —  IT  WAS  THE  START  OF  A  NEW  YEAR  which meant that haeun’s blog currently was full of yearly favourite’s and best of’s, as almost all of december had been some sort of filler month, with a bit of christmas sprinkled in the middle. she always liked the beginning of a new year, and the new beginnings they entailed. it was filled with promise.

haeun had just finished up a small interview with an up and coming designer ( apparently colour blocking would come back with a bang ) and was now finishing the coffee she had bought for their meeting. she always liked going over her notes before wrapping up. but, before she could do so, someone rudely interrupted her process. her brows furrowed in a deep frown, and before the person had managed to get too comfortable, she leaned forward, eyes still on the notes in front of her.

“excuse me, but that seat is taken.”

there’s something about him that looks just a bit off in the daylight. the sunrays don’t hit him quite right, slink along the curves of his shoulder just a little bit off like he’s stepped out into a world that’s not supposed to see him during the day – under the sun’s watchful gaze. and it’s likely enough, for anso always works better under the cover of night. the work he does doesn’t often take to the hours of the day. call it force of hand, if you will.

he supposes she doesn’t work by the same ground rules.

he hasn’t seen her since four months and three days ago, today. he’d barely gotten a glimpse of her before she’d left that crime scene behind—mundanely blood-less, alas, because anso hadn’t been able to get in and do his job because of her—but he’d known, he’d watched her move off and into the busy of the city with all the semblance of a woman on a mission. ( he supposes she did have one: one to celebrate a foiled gig. ) but that was all beyond them, or so they paraded, because now they both wore the badge of the cicadas and played ignorant at any moments that their paths did cross. anso supposes the ignorance isn’t half as feigned on her end given he’s never once tried to approach her, even if he makes a point to follow her around like a shadow that doesn’t do very well hiding. and well, what can anso do about that? nature always does best to color out her fiercest predators; his crimson hair is something of a testament to a tried & true evolutionary tick.

“yes. by me.” he replies, slinking easy into the chair. there’s reason to think smoking isn’t allowed within the premises, yet he’s got a cigarette hanging from pale lips—unlit, so far. he eases himself into the chair, the brown leather of his jacket dimming the way the sun seems to hit the fiery note of his hair, legs spreading in a sprawl that seems wholly unnecessary for where he’s seated. “they’ll understand. won’t they, sugar?” leaning in to match her stance, he cocks a sharp brow; the way his lips curve speaks of nothing other than trouble. “you and me...we’ve got some business to talk about.”

[anscs-blog]

heyo party ppl how’s it do. i’m kristen here with mistre anso song. i am 21, in the cst timezone, preferring she/her pronouns and no triggers. i cannot WAIT to get writing with y’all, and have some juicy tidbits linked under the cut xoxo gossip girl

quick links: stats pinterest

tldr (his intro post has this written in a more coherent way): tw weapons - born and raised in south korea by his aunt. never knew his parents, never got to know no matter how much he asked. - joined the mafioso at a young age, kinda grew up under their wing. used to get small gigs, was easily kinda brought into the folds of it. as he rose through the ranks, grew in age -- so did his incapability of dealing with authority figures and his sort of manic tendencies due to seeing too much too young and never truly knowing about his past. it all ended w him shooting mistre boss man in the head and fleeing the country to get away from it - that’s how he got to macau. doesn’t know if his aunt is still alive, doesn’t care about it (or does pretend not to we dont know stay tuned to find out ig) - worked as a hitman, eventually joined the cicadas. he’s pretty low in ranks in the group, doesn’t care about rising in power. just wants to fuck shit up  - self-destructive. will meet his eventual, timely, gruesome end - he’s really like off his rocks a little bit. there’s something unnerving about him and it makes you want to not stay with your back to him. so watch out xoxo, he’s unpredictable and looking for destruction ig lol possible connections: - give him someone to obsess over. the kinda hate that makes him obsessively want to kill them -- like a batman joker, but both people are the joker lmao. like you hate them and you want them dead but you can’t kill them cause they define you - give him one (1) genuine, actual pure connection? like anso’s real fucked up, but give him one person in his life, not necessarily romantic can be platonic too bc romantic would have to be felt out for chem over time i guess? idk just come plot w me help xoxo. but someone that he doesnt want to rub all the death he carries around with on - he’s always fkn so he could always use that spici plot - someone that’s onto him, someone that doesn’t let him spiral and be all crazy around -- someone that puts him out of his element and he doesn’t like how htat feels, not one bit - ??? anything everything pls write w me !

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                               INTRODUCING: ANSO SONG

                                          ❝ —  valhalla, i am coming  ❞

mun info.

introduction: heyo folks how’s it do. name’s kristen, 21, she/her, in the cst time zone. i rlly don’t know what to say about me so here have my favorite vine as a gift a fun fact: y’all askin me for fun facts...to have any coherent sense of understanding of myself...to remember things about myself...ok, work ! my fun fact is i have never broken a bone or gotten a cavity so ig my bones rlly pop off  how you found the rp: cecy said vic n her made an rp, and i took my own soul out of my chest, handed it to the devil and said -- keep it we goin ✈️ DHQ. i really cannot wait to meet all your muses and write with them :’)

muse info.

why they are in macau: anso was born and raised in korea. he never knew his parents, and was instead raised by his mother’s sister. his knowledge about his own family is minimal -- and his aunt never provided much more information on it either, regardless of how much he pushed. he was something of a ‘troubled child’ from the get go. he was in and out of school because his aunt could barely afford to support the two of them, and he fell into the wrong crowd quite early on. he disappeared from home at age thirteen and became something of a runner, an errand boy if you will, for a local mobster. he spent eight years under his tutelage, rising in ranks and favor of work. anso really grew up to be the kind of person to have trouble with authority -- - a trait that was amusing and easily exploited when he was a young boy, but that made his presence with the gang increasingly at risk the older he got. his rage, self-destruction, and unhinged tendencies ( all that had been well-fueled and honed over the years ) led to somewhat of a volatile end to his association with the mob when he shot said mobster in the head and fled town to escape the bloodbath that was to follow. cashing out, anso ditched his previous name & life when he booked it to macau at the age of twenty-one. he’s been here ever since.  what made them turn to the group they’re in: for one, familiarity. anso doesn’t do well with authority or structure, but it is familiar. there’s not as much chaos to wreak as a lone agent. with the cicadas -- he has the purpose of wreaking havoc, and has the connections to be able to do it big time. with the nature of the work he’d been doing before joining the cicadas, his hunger for destruction is was ultimately led him to the cicadas.  what their ambitions in the group are: not to sound like a broken record, but -- - chaos. anso has absolutely little to no self-preservation; he’s here for a good time, not a long time. ( and a good time in his books involves a lot of blood. ) he doesn’t have any wishes to rise in ranks or gain any sort of power. he’s here because he wants to bring destruction, wants to see a city on its knees, and wants his hands soaked with the blood of it all.  how their group members would describe them: as i mentioned above, he’s not the best with authority -- so any time that that’s a key point in his relationship with someone, i can’t see it going very well. he’s also not power hungry or really too bothered with power dynamics, so i can see him not quite caring much for the unsaid etiquette of the cicadas. as he’s worked as a hitman for some time now, he’s the type of person to do it his way and not care of the consequences -- something which i’m sure ( and hope -- ) gets him into trouble often. there’s something unnatural about him, something unnerving in the stillness of him and the way there’s something unhinged in his gaze -- he’s a ticking bomb, anyone around him can see that. 

wow this got long thanks for entertaining me. if you’re still here, here are some spici links: stats & pinterest 

[anscs-blog]

[endless-unfolding]

I could say:  the part of you            that was ghostly            has grown

Or the wind this evening            whistles into the nightweeds

November drops the changes            upon us The short days overcome us A darkness laced between houses

           We become skeletal            We reach for whatever            feels like light  

—Joanna Klink, from “On Surmising”

[lifeinpoetry]

I keep my own personal terrible holy spirit. It lives in my faint blood and my whole animal heart. We beat together. He is so cold. Real gods knife you up.

— Talin Tahajian, from “I keep a strange list​,” published in Peach