304 @genesis304 - Tumblr Blog

darth-thotticus

Strangers From Hell x Jane Eyre

(Part 4)

#자기 : the self.#자기야 : the lover.

nemfrog

“Ligation of the superior thyroid vessels.” Local and regional anesthesia. 1914. Internet Archive

he had first seen him when he was playing shadow to someone else — a smaller, angrier man, beautiful like a painting, imbued with the wrath of god. jun thought of following him too, of seeing what was so interesting about him that made him worth following. his shadow, however, was the one that ultimately caught jun’s eye. a ghost of a man, as beautiful as he is plain, despite his perfect hair and striking eyes he so easily melts into the landscape around him. is he even human? is he like him?

the desire radiates off him in waves and jun just wants a taste. he wants to see those eyes up close — are they really as deep and dark as they look from afar? is he like him? mild curiosity turns to obsession fast. obsession fuels his casual stalking. and when he is finally noticed, his heart skips a beat.

oh, finally! you want see me?

jun emerges from the shadows, tamping his cigarette out first and tossing the butt before he nestles down in his chair. he wears a sweet smile — the same one hyuntae claims looks just a little too insidious to be taken seriously.

“ thank you for the coffee, ” he holds the takeaway cup in his hands but does not take a sip. not until he sees him take a sip, “ can i pay you back by getting you dinner? ”

genesis304

That’s bold.

His first thought is that the boy is some sort of baby-faced private investigator. If that’s the case, his methodology is certainly unique. His overt friendliness is akin to that of a used car salesman, or perhaps a scammer. The sort of friendliness that triggers alarm bells.

He’s going to have to try harder. Moonjo stares at him from across the table, smiling faintly, but otherwise unresponsive. He takes a sip of coffee, still watching him. Digging with his eyes. Try as he might, though, he cannot descend into this stranger’s depths—which, admittedly, makes him curious.

And cautious. Moonjo can handle it, of course, but if he’s more than an investigator, the body he leaves behind might have value. Someone might come looking. The police might weasel their way back into his life. Moonjo doesn’t want that. He’s worked hard for this life. He’s made sacrifices. He'd rather not make more.

“Who are you?” he asks plainly, for now ignoring the (flirtation?) invitation.

#wickdcreatures

fiveteeth

HIS LIFE HAS FELT LIKE A MERRY-GO-ROUND SINCE EDEN — the world around him spins on and on, leaving him dizzy and clutching to whatever he can to keep himself upright. he feels off-kilter and unsteady, and only truly stable thing, the only constant in his life since the great upheaval is —

if i were to kill you, who would i write about? if i were to kill you, who could i blame this all on? if i were to kill you, you would be dead, and this would be all over. that thought on its own is more dizzying than anything else. his shadow is the manifestation of everything that has happened. he is the only thing that reminds him that it was all real at all.

his head is pounding, a vein on his temple pulsing with every quickened heartbeat. the calm, steady footsteps of his shadow help keep him from floating away entirely, so too does the cool, soft hand that guides him.

he can’t yet face what it means about himself to follow his shadow on his own, so he decides now that he will change the story — tweak the narrative to write himself in a better light, as the protagonist in his own story. i'm being coerced, dragged along. the weapon is placed in my hand, i did not grab it. i feel nothing but disgust and horror when i look upon the boy tied up. it is His heart that flutters at the sight.

jongwoo lowers himself into a chair positioned right before their sacrifice, his saint and savior's shadow blocking heaven's light from reaching him. “ who is he? ”

genesis304

Your shadow is in his element. The smile that looks so alien out in the light of day is right at home here, easy, almost relaxed. “You don’t recognize him?”

It would be difficult for anyone to place him now. His face is swollen and bloody, mouth a gaping wound. Several teeth have been taken and his tongue is damaged. When he pleads for your help, what comes out sounds less like words and more like choking. His eyes are desperate, incoherent, animal—but resigned, too. He recognizes you, and he knows the end.

“He doesn’t look exactly like his profile picture.” With the snap of a glove, a spidery hand reaches out to grab the victim’s face, turning it toward the light. “But he was giving you quite a bit of trouble.”

Arguing with strangers online isn’t your best look, but then again, it isn’t your sparring partner’s, either. And the things he said were far more offensive. It was all fun and games at first; he was righteous, preaching against the obscenity of your work, wringing his hands over such vile depictions of depravity. He questioned your motives, your morals, and accused you of the fetishization of violence. Clearly that horrible thing that happened to you broke you, he said, and you need help, not a platform. This, of course, did not sit right with you, and you refused to sit down and take it. You pointed out each and every flaw in his argument, and you called him an idiot. In turn, he called you a sensationalist prick and pathetic for engaging with him in the first place. You called him a masturbatory shut-in and an incel, at which point he decided slurs were necessary, which was awfully ironic considering the moralistic posturing he was doing earlier. You pointed this out too, of course. He called you more slurs, said you “deserved to be killed with hammers,” threatened to “find you,” and then started going on a diatribe about Kim Jong Un.

It was easy to find him. Even easier to subdue him. So much for all those threats.

Your shadow has provided you with some hammers, ever the comedian.

THERE ARE TWO QUESTIONS HE HATES THE MOST WHEN HE TELLS PEOPLE THAT HE IS A WRITER. the first, and most obvious one, is when someone asks him what his novel is about. their face journey usually tells him all he needs to know — dark topics such as deception and murder are best left to the shadowy, faceless writers. someone with a pretty face like him should not concern himself with something so morbid — it makes others uncomfortable.

his second most hated question has to be when someone has the audacity to ask him how it’s going. it’s always horrible, don’t they know? it’s horrible, even when the words are coming naturally to him. even when he has been sitting in front of his screen and writing until the wee hours of the morning. even when he wakes up the next day and the words still resonate and he realizes he really made something of them — it will always loom in the back of his head that nothing will ever come of this.

but, most importantly…

jongwoo sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. usually he wouldn’t be compelled to confess his woes about his art — but something tells him that 304 will understand. “ something feels… missing. the words are there and they feel and sound good but there is some secret something that is missing from the meat of it. ”

genesis304

The meat is exactly what’s missing. He smiles patiently, watching you the way one might watch a child struggling to take its first steps. You’re on the cusp of getting it—so very close—but not quite there yet. It’s charming. Cute. The way your brow furrows inspires in him the same teeth-grinding adoration the twins must feel with those cats.

“It will come to you.” His conviction is calm, matter-of-fact. There is no doubt in his mind. “You can’t rush a masterpiece.”

Lately it seems everyone needs reminding of this. The others are eager to move on, away from Eden. They don’t like how long this is taking and they don’t like you. They don’t understand the artistry in this, the meticulous process of crafting something beautiful and true. They don’t understand what we share.

“Inspiration can be so fickle,” he goes on, sighing his way through the sentence. “I understand the frustration. But keep going.”

Others will tell you to give up, grow up, leave behind the reason you breathe for the sake of a steady paycheck. The real world, they keep saying, as if you’ve been living somewhere else all your life. As if you are less real than they are. Laughable, when they are so choked by artifice, consumed entirely by the performance of their roles in this so-called ‘real world’ that they wouldn’t know truth if it ripped the molars out of their empty, worthless skulls.

Never stop writing, Jongwoo. And never bend the knee.

#fiveteeth

wickdcreatures

some days, salem likes to hide in the shadow of trees, painting those who enjoy the sunshine and fresh air — those that come out to be creative, just like him, unaware of his presence. pure and authentically them. it’s in this hidden state, a ghost in the company of others, that salem feels like he does his best work.

his muse today sits with a notebook spread out in his lap, crosslegged in the grass as the springtime sun playfully peaks and dips back into the clouds. he looks so enthralled, so focused — salem tries to capture his likeness on his canvas, tries to replicate the scrapes in his knuckles, the rosiness of his lips. a prick on the tip of his finger, a paintbrush dipped in the bloom — the color is almost perfect, and once it oxidizes, it should be perfect —

salem doesn’t notice his muse’s shadow watching him — he’s learned to tune out the feeling of eyes on his back a long time ago. it can’t, however, be ignored when he feels the warmth of another body over his shoulder. he knows his works is being appraised. he raises sheepish eyes up at @genesis304.

“ it’s not done yet. ” that much is obvious, but the lingering silence makes his skin crawl. this guy, kinda… makes his skin crawl.

genesis304

It isn’t that he’s threatened. There is nothing even remotely threatening about a boy like this. But he’s been watching Jongwoo for an awfully long time, and that’s notable. Moonjo has taken note. He makes no effort to hide it, either: there is satisfaction to be found in the stranger’s shimmering anxiety at being watched. The very air around him seems to vibrate with it.

He is reminded of someone else. Nervous, friendly, eyes begging for validation. Artistic. A demeanor like a kicked puppy, stumbling over its feet to be kicked again. Jongwoo liked that dog. He liked that dog a little too much. Shame it had to be put down.

A smile like winter—deceptively bright but cold. Unrelenting. Most don’t care to notice it doesn’t reach his eyes; they are too charmed by the welcoming shape of his lips. He takes a step forward, gesturing toward the details of the piece with a measured hand: “The veins in his hands are thinner. And his eyes are darker. Like he has a secret. But you capture his likeness well.”

#wickdcreatures

surrealisticduvet

(seriously unwell) don't you think he'd look nice in the garden of eden shamefully covering himself with leaves

#장난기가 많은 : playful.#신화 : the myth.

spectreboy

uuuuuuuuuhhhhh the gay dentist is a looming figure in the background right behind me, isnt he...?

#자기 : the self.#자기야 : the lover.

@wickdcreatures whispered: how long does it take moonjo to realize he is the one being stalked? how long does it take him to notice junmin in the shadows just out of sight? :: whisper through the walls?

It takes longer than usual, but he does notice. Just to be sure, he reroutes his walk, meandering down various side streets and alleyways at random. His pace is leisurely but he walks with intention. When his eyes wander, they do so naturally, without a trace of suspicion. He doesn’t bother to peer into the shadows.

Consistently he hears the light-footed steps of his admirer, or his enemy, barely audible. Consistently there is movement out of the corner of his eye. Never once does he stop feeling the probe of eyes on his back.

Eventually he finds a café to haunt. Here is as good a place as any. He requests a table for two outside, and orders a pair of identical drinks. The duplicate coffee is pointedly placed on the other side of the table, directly across from him. The seat is empty and expectant. Finally he stares directly into the dark: a confrontation, an invitation.

#wickdcreatures #대답 : answered.

guiltythirst-deactivated2025010

them: my eyes are up here

me, staring at their carotid pulse point: what

#장난기가 많은 : playful.

being sinister with mama

#사라져 : away.

fiveteeth

HE FEELS MOONJO IN HIS HEAD, SLITHERING AROUND LIKE A SNAKE FROM THOUGHT TO THOUGHT. the devil knows too much, he knows jongwoo’s every weakness so intimately that he wonders if he is really the only one in the world he will truly understand. staying in the light has never been so challenging. heady, noxious rust and antiseptic soap make good perfume. he wonders if the salty sweat at the crook of his neck would overwhelm his tastebuds.

a fist is thrown, and then another. jongwoo’s fists shake violently as tangles them in the front of moonjo’s shirt. it doesn’t take much to imagine what fate would await anyone in moonjo’s care for any length of time — he knows that, if he doesn’t do anything, more bodies are going to continue to pile up at his feet. he makes no move to help. he makes no effort to do anything about it. his eyes are wide and his lips quiver, eyebrows flexing with the wide range of emotions that floods him.

understand him now : understand that he needs you to help him take the first steps. understand that he’s terrified to freefall on his own, worried that his wings might not unfurl fast enough under him and that he might hit the pavement, bloody and mangled, before he had a chance to fly with you. please, take my hand and take my breath away from me again –

tears well within his eyes. jongwoo hears a noise in his ears, distant yelling — it’s coming from him, the fire in his throat giving it away.

“ you fucking psycho! stop playing mind games! ” he wants to watch, to feel compelled, moved – he wants to lock himself in his room and commit it all to memory. twisting the words and changing the names to perfectly sculpt their time together into the most incredible piece of literary art of this century. the morality waltz is necessary for his creative process.

“ you’re a sick freak! ” is he talking about moonjo? or himself? it’s hard to tell anymore — with how close he has pulled his shadow, jongwoo can feel the lick of his warm breath on his face.

genesis304

Every day you wake up and lie to yourself. But your shadow is also a mirror: that is how he knows you. A flicker of bitter poison in his eyes. Were you anyone else, he would have lost his patience by now, fascination rotted by contempt. But this time it’s more, he knows it, he can feel it, so he just laughs.

“If you want me dead, then kill me.” His eyes are filled with the richness of nothing. You have only ever killed him with words: in a police statement, in a book. One day you may kill him with your hands, but he doubts it will be anytime soon. Besides, it goes both ways—he could get rid of you if he really wanted to. That’s what makes this so beautiful. Open your eyes.

A smile like Gehenna. “‘And he came to attack me again, but I managed to slash him in the throat first…’ What was it after that? You climbed on top of me?”

Or is that part not in the official report? You’ve made up so many versions of this story. It’s been a minute since he last read over the draft you left with the legal department, but he keeps a copy tucked neatly with his things. He’ll have to look over it tonight to refresh his memory. It will be a thrilling read.

“Come on. He’s waiting for us.”

#fiveteeth