wasteyrtime

nod my head, don't close my eyes halfway on the slow move

[disclosuer]

sweet spot

[disclosuer]

ofsouls‌:

(...)

“are you planning on starting a riot, hyun?” she is painstakingly aware of everybody looking at them. it’s not a pleasant feeling. “people might think we are in cahoot now. wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea.” 

it’s a sigh, but a brief one. her head hurts already, but she’s too far winded into a graceful descent down the stairs and trying not to trip on the hem of her dress or slip from the polish on the marble. everything at cross academy has always been exactly this level of refined. wouldn’t want to ruin it. “in any case. please keep an eye on the night class until this is all over.”

unconcerned is his natural state of disposition. comes from an unraveling of years, an ebb and flow of time that floods in and out with less feeling, every time. little of which, he's stopped to think to claim. disposable is the cruel word for it, but what privilege doesn’t exist in the world without the press of cruelty? it’s only by design he knows to not expect the same from others. 

“it wouldn’t be by the books, sumi.” hyun hums lightly as they glide through the room, their surroundings a blur of sun gold glitter, thick plumes, and opulence. “but,” with a chuckle, as if the opportunity to tease her would ever be passed up. “maybe if we have time...” 

he glances around, takes stock of these so-called people she speaks of with pleasant nonchalance. at the moment, they remain blissfully occupied, even if through their masks he can feel the way that their eyes slide up, then hold them in the frame of their scrutiny. “and what would be so wrong with that?” he asks innocently.

it’s rhetorical at best, and the least of his concerns. instinctively, his free hand carefully raises to rest over hers momentarily. the tension in her grip is palpable, has him well aware of all the possible ways this night would end in blood that run amok through the forefront of her mind. 

hyun slows their leisurely pace by a pulse, voice lower as he leans into her ear. “i already took extra measures. they’ve been practically overdosing on blood pills the past week leading up to this.” his timbre dips by an octave, gentle and firm as his hand moves away. “breathe.” trust me.

[unorthcdox]

suspect.

[disclosuer]

unorthcdox‌:

(...)

which makes this – her, here, spying on him – an odd fit to the puzzle. because if she did it, there’s really only one reason to be here. but it’d be a terribly stupid one. who’d kill so immediately at risk of being found? and if she didn’t? well, she’s suspicious of the wrong person. at least in this instance. but it doesn’t wash away that buildup of suspicion. for all he knows, she’s a complete idiot. but he stashes the information away for further examination.

“should i be?” he asks her, tries to gauge her reaction. to pull some amount of truth from it. “why are you here in the middle of the night? just here to admire – or, maybe i should ask around for opinions?” his voice trails off in the cold of the night. it’s a thinly veiled threat. jian talking about this would no down add fuel to the fire, help stoke the pyre to lay end to their witch hunt. 

he’s not above it. 

equilibrium sets, sinks. he stares and she simply stares back, seeking nothing in his hard, hard gaze. only standing, mirror to mirror as they are, under a bruise-black sky, and will remain, if misfortune of such kind is their shared fate.

the strain in his timbre is new: where the anger slips, like flashes of snakeskin through the thick of a deep, dark jungle jewel green. dangerous maybe, but in the way exposure of any kind is an opportune vulnerability. like how a knifepoint knows the sensation of that first slit into bare skin, she knows this intimately. 

“feeling unprepared? don’t be so difficult, jian.” yejin’s voice is calm, nears sickingly pleasant in the taunt. had no time to plan ten steps ahead, did you? “figured you’d know a thing or two about being flexible.” 

it’s what she’s had to be, after all. 

twisted like a noose, and hung high: the inept, the vexed, now the murderess, one after one, a hook dug deep into the skin of her back without mercy. all they’d need are puppet strings and she’d be their own filth marionette. in a way, she’s halfway there, what with what little she’d said and done to refute their notions. 

she has blood on her hands? so be it.

had it not been somebody else, it would’ve been her doing in the end.

nonetheless, there’s a flicker of genuine disappointment in him bearing the same accusations. has her tempted to ask, to urge if he couldn’t possibly be more creative, for the sake of murder being a fine art, or the works. two possibilities stem then: 1) herd mentality rearing its ugly head, and 2) deliberate curiousity. both purposeful, and for the sake of whatever enigmatic pretenses he holds onto. 

“you decide.” yejin doesn’t shrug off the hand still clamped firm on her, only holds her chin up in casual defiance. there’s no telling what he’s capable of, and she feels it in the warning wound into his grip. “wouldn’t make you any different from anyone else if you did. how convenient.” 

[disclosuer]

sweet spot

@ofsouls​

location: the banquet, 7:55pm

it's nothing more but pomp and circumstance overload, though that's to be expected. at cross academy, anyone who steps past its wrought iron gates has some brand of high-brow elitist fuckery woven into their dna, and at first glance, he’s merely the poster child of such vanity. it’s bold of him to assume it’d be any other way, but perhaps that’s why the venetian masks were a last minute but necessary addition. with it on, hyun is one with the crowd, a face with no name to speak of nor speak to.

this changes at a mere glance, when he finds her making her way down the stairwell. there’s a sixth sense at hand here, familiarity in the stern way she holds the square of her shoulders as her heels click down the marble steps, or the unmistakable scent he can pick up on even with his eyes closed shut. hyun confesses to neither of these things, only moving forward to greet her. 

“with only five minutes to spare. you look good.” he’s got the smile to match beneath the beak of his plague doctor mask, earnest and hopefully no longer a novelty. straightening up, he extends his arm out for her to take, or push away all together. like always, he lets her call the shots. “shall we?” 

[unorthcdox]

suspect.

[disclosuer]

unorthcdox‌:

(...)

it’s in the middle of wondering ( and wondering when they might be picking up tracks and moving away from these newly born ghosts ) that he feels a strange sort of sensation. like cold water spilled down the back of his neck. spiked skin, and he shivers. throws a sharp look over his shoulder. there’s someone, hovering off near a window. like they’d been peering in. it takes three jarring steps to jam his shoulder to the creaky-hinged door. two more and an outstretched hand to grab them – her – by the shoulder.

her profile, when he finally makes it out in the dull moonlight, is somehow predictable. 

“enjoying the show, kang yejin?” his voice is a whisper, though jian isn’t sure he ever meant for it to be.

she moves without forewarning, as if she's merely a shadow of many tonight. there's not a hint of nausea or second guessing involved, and where it should terrify her, there's nothing but the clammy familiarity of apathy. it speaks volumes on everything and nothing—the fingers raised high in accusation, and a conscience gone askew.

his silhouette is framed by the window, caught by the dim orange glow and ungodly timing. with silent steps, yejin moves through the surrounding bramble and gets closer, fingers gripping the ledge, in wait.

the minutes tick. her gaze roves on equal parts curiosity and an unspoken thrill that runs quick down her spine. any second now, she thinks, like a mere ripple in motion will provoke the same startling sensation from the night before: witnessing a phantom figure in seunghyun’s now vacant dressing room that’d been far too real to be anyone’s ghost. call it instinct, or a twisted manifestation of guilt-grievance, she deems it a reason to stay and lurk.

this is her first mistake. not staying, but staying too long. he moves too fast, she too slow to play it off to be innocuous. before she can so much as flit past the doorway, jiyeon's tugged back hard and she gives in to the pull all in an instant.

"jian." his name is oil-slick at the tip of her tongue, and nothing about the sensation is pleasant. yejin smiles in spite of it. "didn't find much to look at.” here, her eyes deliberately dip down before they raise up to meet his face. “what a shame." 

sick. you’re fucking sick. but she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t just a little fucked in the head, now, would she? hadn’t so much as flinched when “big brother” had fallen limp like a rag doll mid-performance, and she sure as hell doesn’t have any reason to do so now. so yejin remains, steady leer and all, reveling in the momentary stillness before she cuts through it knife-clean. “what? afraid you’ll be next?” 

[moonwoos-remade]