beauty, terror.

( moved to baudellare lol )

[baudellare-archived]

moved here: @baudellare 

[baudellare-archived]

yet another note.

since tumblr made my very explicit account (bec ballet and art???) totally private and i cannot change my icon to something other than a cone, i’d have to remake and archive this one.

i’ll refollow everyone, ofc, and post the starter memes in the new account as well. that said, here’s a tracker so u know i got ur msg 🐇 

@actwo

@illblooded

@consilian (i am eggcited!)

@asteraeis

replies for:

@heshidden

starters are still welcome and so are plots. i just haven’t been able to message everyone to get things movin movin. for now, pls excuse the mess here.

have a lovely one! 🐇 

[baudellare-archived]

yet another note.

since tumblr made my very explicit account (bec ballet and art???) totally private and i cannot change my icon to something other than a cone, i'd have to remake and archive this one.

i'll refollow everyone, ofc, and post the starter memes in the new account as well. that said, here's a tracker so u know i got ur msg 🐇 

@actwo

@illblooded

@consilian (i am eggcited!)

@asteraeis

replies for:

@heshidden

starters are still welcome and so are plots. i just haven't been able to message everyone to get things movin movin. for now, pls excuse the mess here.

have a lovely one! 🐇 

[baudellare-archived]

( per: @orionin​ )

“Open the door, please.”

as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end. 

at the elysian, they were first taught the art of falling and that trust only comes second to it. one must learn how to fall with grace, whether or not there were hands ready to catch and bear one’s weight. had it not been repeated to her one too many times? to not rely on another, that there will be no safety nets. trust can get broken so easily and is often too fragile to last.

perhaps that’s why it took her a while to trust jongin and why she continued to trust him despite the curiosities she has been observing. not wanting to admit that she had been wrong to do so. choosing the comfort of what she wants to believe over facing the unfamiliar, what he had been hiding from her all this time. 

it began with the cherubs, the fading frescoes which decorated their living room. he had been playing a new piece on the baby grand whilst she fought off the summer heat with a glass of wine. when she noticed the flutter of tiny wings, she thought she had been dreaming. but she saw it a second time, then a third; when she pointed it out to jongin, he merely laughed at her.

“no more wine for you. you’re starting to hallucinate.”

and perhaps she was, that time. but all the other instances? not quite.  

still, she trusted him. even after the thorns on her costume became as pointed as his words. in anger, she stormed off to her dressing room. once out of sight, she let it all fall. cocooning herself in layers of tulle, unable to control her body from trembling. she did not understand, but she did not question him either.

she'd find jongin waiting outside for her, hours after. hands offered up in lieu of words, which haneul accepts with only the slightest hesitation.

even now, his patience has not worn thin.

“i see him.” she responds softly, now perched by the open window. like a scene from a renoir, the man plays to an audience of night revelers. souls drawn to him like moths to a flame, their silhouettes glowing beneath the lamplight. the sight of which makes her heart ache. “it was in navigli, when you insisted that getting lost was our initiation to the city.” the man plays, missing notes here and there, but the melody remains inviting and soothing. she turns to the dark wood door, picturing jongin resting against it. 

she wants to tell him that they’d have more sleepless nights. more mornings walking around dazed and fatigued, but content. that there were plenty more hours to lose in museums, in all their simple pleasures. but she’s also weary of the illusions. 

"his reason is no different from ours. why we’re both still here despite what we now know.”

[andhungry]

richard siken sentence starters.

quotes are all taken from various poems out of richard siken’s poetry book crush.  feel free to change pronouns/etc if needed.

❝  tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  ❞

❝  tell me we’ll never get used to it.  ❞

❝  there are so many things i’m not allowed to tell you.  ❞

❝  i swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth.  ❞

❝  i want it back now, baby. i want it back.  ❞

❝  i’m sorry. we know how it works. the world is no longer mysterious.  ❞

❝  that’s a nice touch.  ❞

❝  i like him and i want to be like him.  ❞

❝  i’m sure you remember, i was on the phone with you, sweetheart.  ❞

❝  history repeats itself.  ❞

❝  there are many names in history, but none of them are ours.  ❞

❝  you could drown in those eyes.  ❞

❝  but damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.  ❞

❝  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.  ❞

❝  i couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time.  ❞

❝  you wanted happiness, i can’t blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.  ❞

❝  there is no way to make this story interesting.  ❞

❝  i want to tell you this story without having to confess anything, without having to say that i ran out into the street to prove something.  ❞

❝  tell me we’re dead and i’ll love you even more.  ❞

❝  you will be alone always and then you will die.  ❞

❝  i’m sorry i came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.  ❞

❝  who am i? i’m just a writer. i write things down.  ❞

❝  i take it back.  ❞

❝  here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.  ❞

❝  you still get to be the hero.  ❞

❝  what more do you want?  ❞

❝  love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. it’s like a religion. it’s terrifying.  ❞

❝  no one will ever want to sleep with you.  ❞

❝  you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things i want to ask you.  ❞

❝  you had not expected this.  ❞

❝  walk a mile in my shoes.  ❞

❝  a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river.  ❞

❝  you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.  ❞

❝  hush, my sweet. these tornadoes are for you.  ❞

❝  that sounds overly valorous.  ❞

❝  do you love yourself?  ❞

❝  i don’t have to answer that.  ❞

❝  you wanted more.  ❞

❝  i had a dream about you.  ❞

❝  there’s nowhere to go. there’s nowhere to go.  ❞

❝  in these dreams it’s always you: the boy in the sweatshirt, the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge.  ❞

❝  will you love me even more when i’m dead?  ❞

❝  you didn’t show up. i kept waiting.  ❞

❝  i swallowed crushed ice pretending it was glass and you’re dead.  ❞

❝  i don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.  ❞

❝  you can sleep now, you said. you can sleep now. you said that. i had a dream where you said that. thanks for saying that. you weren’t supposed to.  ❞

❝  hello darling, welcome home.  ❞

❝  please keep him safe.  ❞

❝  i just don’t want to die anymore.  ❞

❝  you want to die for love, you always have.  ❞

❝  you didn’t think you’d feel this way.  ❞

❝  you saved my life. i owe you, i owe you everything.  ❞

❝  please, just for one night, will you lie down next to me, we can leave our clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up.  ❞

❝  you’re all i ever wanted and worth dying for, too.  ❞

❝  drive into that tree, drive off the embankment. ______, make something happen.  ❞

❝  we are not dirty.  ❞

❝  you keep singing along to that song i hate. stop singing.  ❞

❝  here is the sink to wash away the blood.  ❞

❝  this is not harmless. you are not breathing.  ❞

❝  i will come back from the dead for you.  ❞

[ezgiguherguler-deactivated20151]

Visit Original Link

[lesgardenias]

Le thème “Jeune & Jolie” composé par Philippe Rombi pour le film de François Ozon

[baudellare-archived]

where you??? - m

here me!

[thewinedarksea]

10.5k awards: personal aesthetic for @andromedes

[orionin]

@baudellare

[baudellare-archived]

“I’m here. Did you want something?”

for haneul, there’s only two kinds of waiting.

the first is one that’s filled with calm, no different from being seated by a window as rain continues to pour. waiting for the skies to turn blue again, content with the knowledge that it will do so after some time.

then there’s the other, marked with heaviness and restless hands that know not what to do with themselves. every exhale bears weight, while her thoughts scatter about in search of a place to hide.

she’s experienced the latter more times than she can count; perhaps far too much for someone her age. her body knows the beginnings of it all too well; the way it tenses. cold palms, dry mouth. something close to a feeling of illness, only abated by fleeting moments of clarity. when she reminds herself that this fear is all in her head.

it’s all in her head.

that’s the problem.

she floods the studio with light when she enters it, not leaving a single fluorescent unlit. the brighter, the better. the ballerina is expectant, waiting for her phone to chime, anticipating the message that would go along with it. a simple no, her offer being rejected– she wouldn’t be surprised, of course not. a piece of her remains unsure of why she had asked for this meeting in the first place. uncertain of what it was that she really wanted to talk about – if there was anything at all.

in that quiet, however, echoes from earlier come all too easily. crawls up her spine and pulls her shoulders taut,

“You don’t have to become the villain. I do hope you’ll recover fast. I simply loathe the idea of being favored because you’re injured.”

and it repeats, and it repeats;  much like the image of joohyun’s fall. haneul’s certain it was done on purpose. how that sickens her – no, frightens her – for she knows not of the reason why. the mistrust colors everything between them black. murky and impenetrable by light. she only knows joohyun, the old joohyun. she knows the way her hands get cold just as her does whenever they would wait during evaluations. how waiting turned into planning – both girls wanting escape, just for the moment.

but these reminiscences are disrupted by the opening of the studio door, her eyes following the apparition slipping through. it’s all too muted just before the first word leave her lips.

“an explanation.” the debt goes both ways. “why are you doing this? why–” yet, it’s almost as if the burden of which is all hers to bear. “but first, sit down. you don’t want pressure on that foot, it’ll worsen your minor injury.” behind those pink lips, she bites her tongue. there’s a time for holding tight onto a weapon and another for simply choosing the shield, this moment calls for neither.

“i didn’t think you’d come, honestly.”

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“She knows what she wants: an event, by which she means a slip of the knife, a dropped wineglass or bomb, something broken. A sharp thing that will wake her up.”

— Margaret Atwood, from Good Bones & Simple Murders

[orionin]

(jong and han) things you said through a closed door

@baudellare 

“Open the door, please.” 

One minute of silence pass of complete silence. Jongin focuses on the light beneath the bottom door — he lets another minute pass this same way then knocks on the bathroom door with the back of his knuckles for a third time. “You know we can’t talk if you refuse to let me in….” 

A brief pause, the shadows cease movements. He knows her well enough, seen it for himself too many times to not know how her movements are kept to a minimal as she looks in the mirror with her hands gripping the brim of the porcelain sink hard enough to make her pale hands even paler as they loose circulation. “Let go of the sink, Penny.” Jongin leans against the door frame now, arms loosely crossed over his chest his back to her even as the closed door divides them.

“We have a performance tomorrow, don’t do this– not now, please.” 

And it’s both a plea to her and himself.

The mention of work is normally both of their breaking points. The achilles heel in either of their tempers or stubborn ideals, it was such a strong point that when touched gently one could easily abuse either parties dedication and passion to achieve absolute perfection even if only for 30 seconds in brilliant limelight. 

Tonight however he had made the mistake of confronting her after their performance because what is the night to a pair who have insomnia, and ride the high of yet another near perfect routine. The midnight hour was a welcomed friend to either of them by now that followed them from Seoul to Italy on a mid-summers breeze.

“Outside your window there’s a man roughly in his middle 40s playing the classical guitar, he’s fumbling on a few strings almost like, he hasn’t played this song in a long time.” Jongin leans his head against the door closing his eyes as if he can hear him as well as she can. “Haneul, can you see him?” 

It’s a pity, really— dark hallways, humid nights, and tired limbs. This is not how he envisioned his month milan to play out with him in the wrong after being careless, and bluntly ignoring the signs that she was beginning to take notice of what he was doing. Jongin breathes in, thinking of how when he lost his temper this evening the roses on her costume grew thorns. 

He can’t seem to erase the look on Haneul’s face when she pricked her finger on a thorn.

On the other side of the door he can hear the latch of the window before it swings open and though the silence between them is loud — exuberant even. He can hear her breathing, and the music is sweet. “Tell me, where have we heard that song before? And more importantly, why does he play a song he’s uncomfortable with?”

[vicitamore-deactivated20191009]

🎵

( prompt : closed )  — red sex, vessel. 

this smile is the product of an awful thought, and precedes a wrongdoing.

Keep reading

[iyoonssaem-blog]

✜ (rolls this in ur direction)

[✜ ] my muse collapses in front of yours, all bloodied and bruised.

Seungyoon never thoughtthat working at the grilled meat restaurant could be this exhausting.He got a phone call from his mother earlier this week to help out hisuncle who ran a family restaurant. He was short on employees, and inneed of helpers as soon as possible. Helping a family never madeSeungyoon think twice before, but he somehow regretted it on thefirst two hours on the job. Seungyoon’s mother used to run arestaurant too, but it was too small to ask for extra helps duringthe weekend. She also never asked Seungyoon to do some chores, so hewasn’t sure how his presence would benefit his uncle’s restaurantin such busy weekend hour. He calculated it wrong. It was a hard andtiring labor work. He reeked of smokes too, and fats and alcohol (andalso the bad puke at the front of the store he had to clean up, wherethe slimy pieces of meat were still distinguishable). Somebodyneeds to chew their food properly, Seungyoon told himself as hescrubbed the sidewalk.

He had never seen thatmany people came at once in one place, that he had to move the tablefrom corner to another since the customers were coming in a largegroup of people. From his experience, there had never been a groupdinner after work once  Seungyoon started working at the kindergartenfor two weeks now, because the teachers were also mothers of theirown family, that Seungyoon mostly embraced his weekend in loneliness.He asked god to kill time, but he never expected to get suchemergency call, wiping off a drunken man’s puke on the sidewalk. Itwas Friday night, and Seungyoon promised to god he would never asksuch request again.

The way back to hisapartment was never smooth in addition, ever since Seungyoon paid forthe rooftop place at the top of the hill. The place was cheap, hadenough room for himself, a great view, an average working heater onthe cold days. The alley road was finely asphalted, but the slope wasanother challenge. It was a nice combo after a tiring day of work,with painful joints and stiff neck as the extra weights. There was nosign of his grunt  stopping when Seungyoon walked along, almostreached the top (but there’s also a spiral staircase; so he whinedagain). He wanted to take a long shower and a nice comfort food, andfalling asleep until Monday. He saw the stair and thought how thelong night finally ended in peace.

As if.

On the first step, heeyed a figure sitting down. Seungyoon was not sure who it was, andassumed probably just another drunken old man falling asleep beforehe headed home. He was about to ignore the stranger until the imageof them became clearer. It was a familiar lean figure he knew. Longhair dangling on their shoulders, being blown by the breeze at times.Her face was red and random bruises on her arms and legs. The clenchin his stomach told Seungyoon to speed up, because they were alarmingbad signals inside of him. He kneeled in front of her, calling out aname that usually gave him warmth, but that night it sent him aslight terror. “Haneul-ah?” he said, in a trembled voice. He heldup her head which was lolling over, and Seungyoon caught apparentblood on her features. “What happened—hey, hey!” Before hecould catch any consciousness from her, she was already falling intohis arms.

He cursed, reaching forhis phone to call the ambulance.

[drogonqueen-archive]

favorite lit quotes ➤ shakespeare edition

[orionin]

The baby grand sits in the corner of the room both entirely too solid, too dark in contrast to the pale cream of the walls and redwood of the studio floor. Even as he leans against it he, too, is a contrast to its dark exterior. The white of his shirt sticking out like that of a ghost, lurking, as always drawn to the sound of music. 

Jongin reaches over and hits a random key on the piano as he refuses to look at the studio mirror, knowing already what he’ll find there. 

“A little too close to home.” Jongin says, confirming her words. A tiny look of concentration falls onto his face as he hits another random key, then another. There seemingly isn’t any correlation between the keys he plays, never actually playing anything that resembles a tune but what he is doing, by varying the notes is casting a spell in disguise. Each vibration, and each variation of sound act in place of words, the order designed specifically to chase away the ghosts in the room.

He can feel the shift in the air. A chill that kisses his skin before it moves to kiss hers before leaving. Jongin looks up, observing the raise of sudden goosebumps on the skin of Haneul’s bare arms and shoulders, adding. “But the idea is not entirely un-doable.” 

After all, they both have secrets to tell so why not channel their stories through their art? It’s a great idea the more he thinks about it. He’s already imaging it on stage and how to bring what haunts them both to light. He nudges her arm back, a small smile replaces the frown. “I think resting up early tonight will do us both good. I think we’re both near to hallucinating something strange because sometimes, if I stare hard enough, I swear the dancers in the Degas painting move every time i blink.”

He helps her gather her things before walking her out of the studio. As he shuts the door behind himself his eyes catch sight of the light of the afternoon as it is fading, the last of it lingers on the piano and its ivory keys. He breathes a sigh then shuts the door tight. 

When the light is gone it’s long after they’ve left and separated for the night. The only thing that shifts within the quiet space inside the studio is the red flower that falls from one the girl’s hair that is in the Degas painting and onto the studio floor. 

[baudellare-archived]

saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

i. speak softly.

she counts the seconds between every inhale and exhale, watching the rise and fall of their chest. listening for the sound of air moving, the unintelligible murmuring that often accompanies their dreaming. her fingers move down her neck, feeling for the missing necklace. on the floor, the broken chain is tangled with everything else– its bejeweled crucifix nowhere to be found. “i’ll buy you another, don’t worry.” she believes him, as she always does. hides the thought of the heirloom away with every other promise she’s been told. things get lost and people forget. she’s used to it.

ii. listen well.

every theatre has its ghosts and if the stories are true, the elysian is home to two. they are the reason why she hurries down the halls whenever she overstays in the studio, wary of even a lamp flickering. afraid of the sound of her own footsteps as she races down the stairs, imagining phantom footfalls chasing after hers. they tell her not to be silly, that ghosts are nothing but old tales meant to keep children in bed. but, what they don’t know is that she’s seen them– how quickly they fell. how easy it seemed.

how, sometimes, she would hear them whispering. voices carried by the breeze whenever she dares crack a window open.

( leap, leap, leap. )

iii. ________.

what does she know of shame? it’s caving to a desire that she once believed herself to have full control over. the simplicity of saying no despite the screaming want in her head. and what of guilt? it’s the sound of their voice speaking of things she’s only ever thought about. the way her her body responds to every word as if it were a note; they lead and she can only follow. muscle memory. she tries to wash him off after, but he’s stained her dark, and the want continues still. 

that evening she dreams of schiele’s twisted forms. bodies contorted. eyes looking from beyond the canvas. in that dream, she takes a knife to each one until there’s nothing but shreds left.

how quiet it was then.

iv. always smile.

the pain does not come until someone points out the bloom of red growing on the tips of her pointes. spreading as she continues with her performance, the shards of glass cutting deeper into her foot. she  doesn’t stop until the music does, until one of the staff halts everything– taking her into a corner, their eyes wide with fear. “i’m alright.” she reassures them as the door to the studio is locked; nobody leaves until the whole things is figured out.

she’s treated like a walking crime scene. the pointes are taken from her, every inch of her costume is checked. there were extra pins there, too, and she wonders how she missed those. they tell her she’s lucky that the glass didn’t cause much damage– everything should heal in a month or two. 

“it’ll be fine in a week.” she counters, even as she almost bites down on her tongue as they bandage her up. 

v. say your prayers every night.

“she hasn’t stopped throwing up– really bad food poisoning, apparently.” 

“doesn’t sound too bad. everyone knows jihye needed to lose some weight.”

“where did those cupcakes even come from?”

fifteen stitches. tight and neat, all in a straight line. haneul counts each one again to be sure, eyes focused on preparing her pointes whilst she listens in. she thinks back to that evening, the final friday of february. the company dinner had been a quiet affair until jihye’s collapse. but after the macabre scene, it became a chaos of finger pointing and panic. fear spreading faster than poison. at least, one of a weaker kind. 

they say it was the cupcakes, but she had one from the same box. dark chocolate with a whole  cherry on top, how could she say no? she bit into the treat knowing of the risk. but the gods, they do listen, don’t they?

besides, one small bite couldn’t have hurt. 

it’s greed that’s the real deadly sin.

[baudellare-archived]

there are places in nature that absorb all sound and leaves nothing but light. light rays that look as if they’ve been drawn in by hand against the foliage. gold against green. light that hums when you touch it, if you listen closely. 

for: @reventide |  中島美嘉 - 傳說

i. she had read of tenkawa numerous times, even as a young girl. had dreamt of visiting it one day, but never really got around to it. life just happened a little too fast and some dreams simply became forgotten in time. some-- for time doesn’t always eat away at everything. not everything is lost within it. at least, that was what she thought upon randomly finding a brochure for the mountain village in her mailbox. whatever it was-- a sign or mere coincidence--  she decided to finally go. the perfect companion for the trip already in mind.

( and she’s grateful for rosie coming along despite the short notice. haneul would have never gotten on that plane had she been by herself. )

it’s late in the afternoon when they reach the village and mt. ōmine-san immediately catches her eye. it loomed in the background, blanketed in mist like a slumbering titan. for a time, haneul loses count of how long she’d been standing there, gazing at the darkening horizon. only that at some point, a hand moves to hold hers, followed by rosie’s weight leaning against her. “it’s beautiful, unnie.” spoken just above a whisper. she nods to the younger, wrapping both arms around her frame. “pretty magical, huh?”

ii. by nightfall, the the village has taken on a firefly-like glow. rows of golden light lined the many narrow paths, red lanterns marking entrances to machiya houses. they pause from their walk ever so often, mesmerized by the silhouettes moving behind paper thin doors. appearing like stringless marionettes. when it came time to find something to eat, rosie follows her nose and haneul lets herself be pulled along. still trying to take in everything, despite knowing it’s an impossibility. the entire village, it seemed to her, was detailed by an artist’s hand.

“sometimes i can’t tell if you’re real or an actual hayao miyazaki character.” she teases, eyeing rosie’s chopsticks as it snatches one of her side-dishes. “where do you even put all the food you eat?” of course haneul steals it right back, eyes squinted playfully at the younger. rosie takes a sip of her drink before replying in a voice so hushed, one would think she’s revealing one of the universe’s secrets. “i burn it all off, like... like magic.”

iii. sunrise finds them at the foot of the mountain, facing a stone marker that has both frowning. “so we’re not allowed up?” rosie asks, the beginnings of a pout already obvious upon her lips, eyes darting from the marker to the path ahead. haneul stifles a laugh, places both hands on the younger’s shoulders, turning her towards the other direction.“maybe if you dress up like a yamabushi. how fast can you grow a beard, rosie?.” she playfully chides, locking her arm with the other as they walk back to the temple. 

“ten-no-kawa” she reads off of another marker before calling rosie over, the other having wandered off. the temple itself is impressive-- not as grand as the others-- but it is its own entity. ancient. in places where there were no people and the only sound is that of the stream, haneul muses that she can hear the gods whispering; benzaiten sending her blessings. “it translates to milky way.” she tells the other as they sit on some stone steps, sharing a bento box of rosie’s choosing. “quite fitting, right? i feel a bit closer to the heavens just being here.”

“is it because i’m angelic?” the younger asks with a wink.

“no, of course not.” haneul looks out into open courtyard, momentarily distracted by a pair of little girls, each one holding a pink wagasa. she used to have one of those, but hers was white with a sprinkling of cherry blossoms painted on it. beside her, rosie had become unusually quiet, picking at the food instead of eating it. haneul nudges the younger’s arm as she chuckles softly. 

“you’re not just angelic, rosie. you’re absolutely divine.”