In Nomine Castus

Kris; Angel Of Chastity "When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve." — Ernest Hemingway

[goexcastus-blog]

† Rosarium †

[goexcastus-blog]

@goexavaritia

“I don’t bite,” he chuckles.

He’s watching for something unspecified, an indicator of sorts that would finally tell him that this is something he shouldn’t be doing as if he didn’t know it already and needed reinforcement, a backbone, a second opinion. Naturally the sounds draw in his attention, little flickers of interest and skepticism as pupils flit from one thing to another and back. He doesn’t like that there are so many aspects of this demon that are ambiguous all of the time and so when Chanyeol subtly asks for him to sit down he hesitates at first but ultimately does so, weighing all of the possible outcomes again and again, the same ones every single time they meet. That’s not to say they plan these incidents of crossing since he could only name a few moments in their history where it was in absolute black and white. Even now there’s a faint voice in the back of his head that he’s sure to be his guilt, attempting to speak over all other sentiment, saying this was not his original plan. From the blazer resting in Chanyeol’s lap, under the pressure of his decorated fingers, Kris can only assume that he was under similar circumstances. “Not you.”  A quiet denial as he carefully pinches the hem of the other’s sleeve and attempts to redirect the arm to join its counterpart. “You also wouldn’t dare bite me if you favor those ridiculously large teeth of yours,” he adds, tone flat but the humor slips small hooks over the corners of his lips and pulls tight. 

There’s a beat of silence that he welcomes selfishly because he doesn’t know where to start a conversation, hand raising to wrap lazily around the front of his jaw before sliding back down. He leans forward, eyes on his hands when he speaks again. Gentle, a little condescending but what’s new. “Why is it that we’ve crossed paths far more in this generation than the others where I see you once, maybe twice in passing? It must be for some unfortunate reason that our steps are overlapping enough to call what we’re doing right now a ritual.” No contact is spared with his inquiry, possibly because he doesn’t wan’t to perceive an answer prematurely nor does he want to know what it looks like when Chanyeol realizes that he’s said the wrong words because they’ll always be the wrong ones to use and Kris has a string of pity that sings inside of his chest when he thinks about it, how helpless they are to circumstance. The irony leaves a metallic taste on the flat of his tongue. A grimace follows. “If we do not discuss this we’ll be enemies, more than we are now. You know this, Chanyeol.” Finally his head turns, eyes landing on the mouth that often finds a way to ridicule him with a simple smile. He looks to find out if there’s a frown that mirrors his own. He looks to see if Chanyeol knows just exactly what he means. 

A memory hangs like raindrops on spiderwebs, like a beautiful and delicate thing between them and it glimmers with just the right amount of risk; there are fields of wild daisies and buffalo grass and the crickets compose a lulled symphony that introduces them on some level of formality, not just sideways glances. He sits in a dent of greenery where the demon has carved out a place for himself. They didn’t need the complications that came with conversation then because they both knew exactly what they were trying to say. The stars danced back and forth across the sky before them. 

For a moment it felt as though they were not restricted by the chains of their loyalty.

For a moment, Kris had fooled himself into thinking they would be okay like this.

[ex-krkeru-blog]

Unfamiliar

[goexcastus-blog]

@goextakeru​

The night was cool and dark, much nicer than most nights. The night-life was busy and bright with the lights of the city. The streets were not busy but there were still some odd people hanging about at this hour but for the most part the night was calm.

{ ... }

He is the type to wander, always has been. Blame the admiration for simple things that courses meticulously through his blood, just enough to push his feet out into the city at an hour where the streetlamps turn on. He watches the people stir, lift their hoods over their heads and hug their arms closer to their bodies. It’s nearing summer but the nights are still cold and he accommodates with a large taupe trench, unbuttoned and lifting ever so slightly behind him as if it were dreaming of being a cape. The weather doesn’t seem to inflict him as badly as the humans, in fact, he hardly feels the temperature change at all whether it’s a shift in a warmer or cooler direction and saps most of his insight from his sub-par observatory skills ( water falling from the sky suggests there’s a chance for rain ). Scarves and jackets beckon him to blend in and the action isn’t hard. This human form is tall and lanky and his eyelashes sometimes hit the lenses of his sunglasses, but for the most part he looks mundane and a bit boring if he doesn’t strike up worth-wile conversation. People ignore him and go about their lives, untouched by the angel walking alongside them on the streets of Seoul. At first, it was odd; before adaptation took place he could hardly step a foot outside before someone would notably dart out of his way, judgement fresh and scalding on their lips. He was different. He didn’t blame them. In a short while he had discovered that the uncharted was more often a threat than it was an excitement to this planet. People were scared of what they couldn’t explain.

They thin out after a block or so as he continues to walk against the crowd that’s vacating a public area before dusk gives way to the night sky. From his view he guesses they might have at least half an hour until darkness, but between then and now the expanse above them was bidding farewell in a shroud of purple, melted plum and quivering blue in the farthest points of the eye. After the towers become sparse enough he attempts to gets a better look, walking forward to a clearing that only sported a few benches and a sandstone fountain. Pennies painted the bottom that bounced the light back and forth between ripples in the water and he briefly muses over how many wishes were made and how many were just left as mementos to something that couldn’t cherish their value. The thought is what counts in that situation, really. He digs a similar coin out of his pocket and tosses it in, watching as it plunks into the surface and sways its way to the bottom of the tank, all a bit foggy-eyed because his mind is somewhere else where lovers promise outlandish things on tokens that rust and grow moss at the bottom of a structure such as this. 

His peripheral distracts him and as it usually does, drags his attention to something or someone he shouldn’t be impeding upon. There’s a flicker of silver from behind the central structure of the landmark, and before he has the chance to think it’s the moon, he watches the breeze stir small sections of hair. A color that he’s familiar with, that he’s not scared of. He glances back down into the eyes of his reflection where dark tendrils lay flat against the contours of his temples, a well constructed facade that he’s maintained long enough to fool himself. A second passes where he looks around for any other bystanders he might have missed and when deemed alone with the stranger he lifts his hood over his head and back down again, just a little more himself than before. The pearl colored hue of his hair stands out stark against the dimming atmosphere, but he’s not all too bothered by the obtuse presence of it when he’s not the only one. He moves forward by a quick shove of his own will, shoulders a bit lopsided and small looking in the ocean of his coat. The proximity is something he pays very close attention to; being too close warrants discomfort while being too far evokes indifference. There could be a body between them, a whole person width of distance that gaps them once Kris sits down on the edge of the same structure, hands folded instinctively in his lap. He’s stiff, physicality leaning towards a rusted machine with creaking joints and disproportionate limbs but he’s quiet and his breathing is even while he looks ahead. 

The last splash of color sinks behind the horizon and he clears his throat, “ It’s been a while since I’ve watched the sunset,” he admits in no particular direction, although mid sentence his words feel a bit more hollow, consonants harder but fleeting, vowels like feathers on his lips. He’s speaking to the person next to him, and he knows so because the language changes unbeknownst to him until it leaves him along with his train of thought.

[galaxychen]

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[goexcastus-blog]

† A Beginning, An Ending †

When did his hands become this careful? They say you can tell a lot about a person through the appearance of their hands so you wonder just how he’s learned to conduct himself like this where a touch can barely even be called a dusting. Touching something like he is the sunshine that illuminates it daily,  but never tangible. Maybe, you ponder briefly, he’s been stuck in a world where actions are too quick that they’re impermeable or too rough around the edges so they cannot be appreciated and thus he can only be the softness he wishes to see. Maybe on some superficial level that you’ve been dragged down to contemplate nowadays, he’s acquired the skill of not trembling or pressing down on precious items too hard, just to assure their safety and this is one of the hundredth if not more times that he’s repeated such an action. The first few dedicated to learning and messing up and trying again, as most humans do. If only they treated each other like this, with the fragile nature one would have when touching a priceless work of art; you’re staring and you’re staring and you’re lost somewhere in a part of yourself that has opened up after decades of neglect.  “I handle paintings nearly every single day and yet I’ve never seen someone treat them as you do.” You say finally, through the fissure of your mouth that curls up at the edges, trying valiantly to hide the way it feels like daybreak in your chest to see someone be so tentative after only dreaming of being this close to what reminds you of your own existence within this world. It’s the little things, you’re reminded, that still faintly capture your kind, not as a whole but specifically you and the ones that held your name before you did, and maybe you’re not a loudness in this society anymore but you exist in their subtlety and in the moments that matter. It’s not anything you expect him to know but you think that you’re ready to tell him anyway, even if you’ve only witnessed the side of him that’s never turned to look you in the eye. You’ve spent a lot of time, possibly more than you can remember, observing him in the distance which would make today the first day you’ve actively created a bridge. No one but you accompanies him in this small space of the museum where the display lights illuminate the angles of his face and the soft dip of his cheekbones that accentuate a path to the corners of his lips, delicate but prominent as are the rest of his features. Whereas the windows flood blue daylight over you, sticking incessantly to your skin, gluing your shadow to the floor.  A downwards glance before the other has time to notice and the darkness that stares back has your wings, even when you’re positive they’ve been hidden away by the form you’ve favored in this occasion — dark hair just over your brow, darker eyes that look familiar to your face as if they were meant to be that way in the originally — a little more familiar and less adorned in statements that you don’t have the time to explain so you hope that it’s a play of the silhouette from where you’re perched on the outwardly stretched arm of a statue, but your uncertainty is infectious and quickly the bend of your mouth declines into a fine line. There’s nothing to base this situation off of because you’ve never been this forward before, overstepping lines is not something you do often if at all so you’re wondering if you’ve poorly assessed your ability to control the facets in you. Harmony thrown off kilter and favoring celestial blood. You drag your eyes up, a bit hesitantly on your end but holding their facade of serenity nonetheless and they collide with his. Meteorites. Freight trains. The first touch of snow on a proud camellia. You exhale what breath was left in your lungs through another fracture line, unmoved from its previous change in expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” you add dully, swinging one leg over the other out of habit and rolling your hoisted ankle. The white loafer matches your entire suit. A royal-purple pocket square is the boldest statement on you. Or, at least you hope. 

[goexcastus-blog]

Introduction*

Hello everyone I’m Leo ( He/him ) 

You’ll have to forgive me because I’m terrible at introduction posts. For the most part, I’ve been contacting a few of you on messenger and although there are some I’ve yet to get to, I do plan on doing so sometime soon. I’ve had a small amount of time off but am unfortunately starting up the new work week so I’ll be a tad bit slower in replying so if you could bare with me. Kris does not have a plot page up but I am attempting to the best of my abilities at trying to construct one. For now, he is not a terribly involved angel and his influences are not as celestially motivated as they are by the natural presence of empathy. His strengths lie heavily in his want to understand why and how things happen, as he isn’t so much a figure of purity but of mentally and emotionally dedicating oneself to their endeavors and clearly making decisions unrestrained by the shackles of baseless desire. This isn’t to say he’s not clouded by romantic concepts, but that as long as someone remains true to themselves throughout, then he will still hold them in high regard. I have more info below, call it a tl;dr if you will that touches upon some key points concerning his character:

Kris sponsors a few different art galleries in Seoul, many of them have his favorite modern pieces as well as historic ink paintings and pottery. A lot of his work is travel based so his presence in these locations is seldom. He lives in a basement level suite with a flare for old Victorian decor, rich dark woods and crushed velvet with metal and marble accents. He hardly brings people there unless it’s absolutely necessary and even he doesn’t frequent it much save for sleeping purposes. It’s safe to say, the place is collecting dust. Albeit having a soft heart, he’s a bit cryptic so he has a tendency to come off unsociable but give it some time and what once appeared to be a wall between two individuals can turn into a window where the littlest of details become far louder than anything he could say.

Kris is not an invasive individual and so he’s not much of a guardian unless the soul under his care is contracted to him. This being said, he is painfully selective which is befitting to the name ‘Chastity’ and has acquired quite a rocky past with seemingly leading humans to believe he’s going to save their soul, but inevitably letting it slip through his fingers.

He’s not flashy or loud but there are a few cases where he’ll unintentionally evoke surprise with how quietly he moves. His ability has the potential to suspend him mid-air without the help of his wings and floating ( when comfortable of course ) tends to be his favorite method of transportation. 

He’s very understanding which leaves a lot of room for others to assume he’s a pushover, but he knows when he’s being played with and the repercussions for attempting to take advantage of that are as otherworldly as someone of his standing can muster.

Lastly: I am open for contact through messenger/ask/fan mail but solely those outlets. If, by chance, you’d like to discuss something for a plot or just have questions about my muse I will definitely try my best to respond in a punctual manner but i cannot promise anything because my schedule fluctuates constantly. Thank you all for being so welcoming, I really appreciate it and hope that you’ll continue to take care of me as we write together.

[goexcastus-blog]

† Rosarium †

Darkness sighs into the right wing. Display lights that bend around the marble sculptures cast a caramel glow in the belly of shadow, stopping just before a mural where a small mahogany viewing bench lies a breath beyond its grasp. Footsteps. In the hollows there are two, maybe three but underlying the prominence of only one, of which belongs to a janitor hurrying to escort himself out, eager to return home after a long day. Minutes after the door closes behind said gentleman do the remaining two amplify in the face of solitude, melting into something comfortable and lazy, reverberating off of the plaster then stopping abruptly in time with each other. As they always do because this isn’t the first time nor certainly is it the last that sin and savior meet after closing when the sun isn’t exposing their secrets and eyes have somewhere else to look, when they’re nothing but two make-pretend individuals with the world revolving under their feet. There’s a subtle noise of rustling fabric that breaks the still, moments gone without a sound, suddenly rippled at the surface in preparation for whatever would proceed it. The angel’s wings tug in tight to his back, falling humbly behind him where the lowest feathers dare to hover just above the floor, nearly touching. “Evening,” he offers and finds a seat at the edge of the bench, bare ankles crossing and the firm, inky black of the suit he’s wearing appears just a bit more tired around the hems, wrinkling under his weight and yielding to the fold of his legs. He presses back into the paneled expanse of the support behind him, each slot of space creasing into his spine. Truly, the simplicity of it makes him out to be as human and as palpable as every person who’s taken this spot before but there are details that cannot be dismissed; crystalline hues that have lost their saturation, tracing bedtime stories into the paintings while simultaneously sinking into that telltale distance that would make it appear as if he were looking at nothing in particular, floating past an unreachable place in his mind where the archives are kept under lock. It’s not about the wings but the avant gaurde hair and how it’s stripped of its pigment, falling limp and shattered over his forehead. It’s not about the wings but the inexpressible way he folds in on himself when people aren’t watching, even if it’s not with his entire body. It’s not about the wings but they’re an undeniable presence between them, placing a larger divide on a smaller scale. There’s always been a polarity but visually it’s never been more present then when they’re like this, next to each other, living in the dying embers of trivial moments, writing their names in succession; right now it’s Chastity with an abrupt punctuation, red ink dribbling into a bead upon parchment. Chastity an exclamation. A headline. An ending signature. 

He exhales then, in a way that would make it feel as if he’s been holding his breath for years, ribs creaking when his chest falls back into rhythm. Never has he been very good at hiding how exhausted he is from expending his energy on tasks he once could only imagine partaking in. The reality of flesh and bone and using it to assimilate into society is one that even decades cannot ease him into. Chanyeol knows this, he believes. Somewhere he thinks not much is different for them, but the thought is muted by what’s been instilled — they are not like his kind. There’s a war. There’s a war and he’s sitting in the Grecian art section of a vacated museum with a soldier from the other side like some anticlimactic cliche  — this isn’t the first time he’s questioned the reliability of his better judgement, but he thinks that if he were to foolishly die at the hands of darkness if darkness held melted onyx in their eyes and the warmth of hell at the gate of their lips, then perhaps he was not meant to live alongside it. Danger does not only exist in toeing the lines between their factions, it thrives regardless if they’re shedding blood or sharing tea. Trust is a fragile word between beings like them, but Kris would use it when explaining the fine text. To trust that there are greater things than rivalry, that even though it will be what consumes them in the end, it does not confine them in the days between. 

@goexavaritia

[galaxychen]

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[frankocean]

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