– selfish, @mwxtao-blog - Tumblr Blog

Guidance ↦ Cancer & Nabi

mwxhansol:

Moonlight fell through the trees on the ground and illuminated the dark night. The only sound audible was the soft rushing of the river as Hansol was kneeling on the river side, bending over and looking into his own face. The rays of light reflected on his pale whiteish blonde hair, making them a shimmering spot in the dark that can’t be missed. Reaching out to stroke through them the young man noticed the dark – nearly black – hairline growing fastly. It’s been months for sure that he arrived at this island and ever since he didn’t have had the chance to bleach them.

Before Hansol has been brought to Murderworld some guys have been offering him to dye them dark again because it would be more helpful to him but without even thinking for a second he had declined. Hansol wasn’t normal and he felt comfortable to show that off in a usual way. Bleaching his hair was just part of him. But if he’d be stuck in this wildness for about a year more nothing of the blodish hair he loved and got used to over the years would be left.

He let his hands fall, dipping his fingertips into the cold water and smeared it over his face. He was wide away despite the late hour and knew that it couldn’t be changed. Everything on this island has been creepy and scaring to the young man but the nights were the worst. It was dark and either way too silent or too loud for his liking. And there were people around. All the time Hansol heard them being close to him but tried to run from them. He closed his eyes shortly and sighed. He couldn’t stand this place. But he couldn’t flee as well.

There was a sound again. And it wasn’t a natural sound. Hansol opened his eyes again and looked around. ‘Could it be that there is someone around again?’ He furrowed his brows lightly while scanning his surroundings. And after about a minute he figured out where the source of the noise was located. On the other side of the river he saw two people standing. Slowly Hansol moved a few inches backwards, trying not to make a single sound at it. He didn’t want to be spotted by whoever it was but at the same time he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene.

'What the hell is going on there?’

solitude had sensationalized him, empty clutches caressing the metaphorical bruises with infatuation's unseen hands. death to him a silent companion whose unrequited love had been that but no longer, it's like a sorrowful accompaniment whose tune had haunted his mind like some miserable lullaby but now completed its task, persuading him to some eternal slumber. desensitized, nullified and excavated, wishes for a rushed conclusion having never been granted and where he had mourned its lack thereof, he now rejoiced. life proposed no beauty to him for certain; he is captivated by the end.

the inevitability of demise, something that he personifies; he is the end, every inkling of breath that slips from his lungs dedicates itself in contribution of that, it's his role to play. he is the end, a devil, a savior; release, condemnation. it's this unspoken glorification that's finally driven him into the arms of that darkness. shapeless abyss now detailed; it's their cerulean eyes that peer back at him, it's the ice of jongin's touch that sanctifies him, it's the quell of heron's voice that monopolizes him — shapeless abyss now detailed as everything and everyone that he knows and that he loves.

unnamed darkness that beckons him to the circumstances he's created for himself now, fingers coalesced to the flesh of a choking throat in a grip that seems nigh merciful, space between the slits of his hands suggesting alleviation like a hint he lets their victim pick up on. like a hope; faith that he watches dissipate as the spark diminishes within the depths of dilated eyes, lips agape and breathless, countenance overridden by a monstrosity of anguish and shock. how had they hoped for him to let go; he can't — he's never been able to, that's why he is where he is now.

death to him is like a long-time sanctuary. it's ritualistic, the way he lingers above the corpse, empty gazes fulfilled with the vision seeping euphoria through every vein of his body. an intimate dance betwixt the virgin and the reaper; when he lingers it is in dedication to them, that beauteous abyss. yet he distinguishes an interruption, crushed brambles and twigs a violent shriek in the woodland and he pivots in cadence to the cry, defense mechanisms at the ready; murder still ripe on his fingertips.

"who's there? no use in hiding — get the fuck out. show yourself."

#mwxhansol #reply #para: guidance #{ tao is very high-strung orz }

littlehailang

well…

#;t #{ great content. }

“It happens like this.

One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else—closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel—one sent to you for some higher purpose; to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them—even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering—the reason for their presence will become clear in due time.

Though here is a word of warning—you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn’t to save you but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled; the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.”

-- Lang Leav, “Angels”

#mwxheron #para: se #q

#ooc #important if you actually care; understandable if you don't #tl;dr hiatus until august 1st

❝ stop and wait a sec, when you look at me like that, my darling.. what did you expect? i’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck. or i did last time i checked.

"i want to share something with you." "what?" "my darkness." no quiver to tease the man's lips, no ignition to spark repressed dreams of acknowledgment. silence is a muffled hymn that consumes what space he will allow between their touching bodies.

"that sounds intense." it's my laughter that ensues because these are also my words. my education comes with time but i know now; i cannot expect responses – i don't anymore.

being worthy is so such an idealized sensation when it is jongin's mind that conceives it. when it is jongin's tongue that construes the benediction, anoints his tainted flesh with it. being worthy is something he is not worthy of; he knows this every time jongin breathes. being worthy is exposure to a gate whose keep jongin has guarded, years of unvoiced warfare bathing the corporeal adonis in hellfire and ice, destinies left untouched because he does not care, they offer no recovery. no restoration for the darkness that creeps through him; the same darkness of disease, though jongin's is particular – refined as empty failure in the guise of father and son. a human mistake, some unexpected accident – jongin does not deserve any penalty. they both know this; gods do not make err like humans, that is the true separation of king and man. that is the distance between them now; the distance they have closed. have closed maybe because the disease begs, shrouded implores manifesting in obsidian depths, promising respite in its continuity of death, words and things jongin does not believe but he knows this death will not kill him. should this death ever harm him, it would turn and kill itself. the truth in this conviction is the solidity that tethers betwixt their gazes now. topaz pulchritude smothering onyx confines, silence is uncovered and its screams drag bloodied nails along the corridor of his mind. i want to share something you, my darkness. they do not understand, but i know that you do. i know that you can see it; i know that you can feel it. i know that you do not fear it, because you know darkness already; because you know pain already – its cruelty left invisible scars on the both of us. but do you understand that you are what keeps my lacerated flesh intact? you sew me shut, even in all your silence, jongin; your unspoken words.. they resonate in me. i can hear them, jongin. i can hear them, i promise i can; i just need you to say them. i have too many fantasies, jongin. that is probably my darkness; that i dream too much where my dreams should have slit their throats, because there is no hope for fruition here – they will die. like me; with me. but not you. i will not let you die, jongin. even if i have to die to prevent that death, i will. it's okay; you deserve it. this isn't entitlement on behalf of your grace (though it could be, if you wanted); this isn't an expectation birthed through the womb of sublimity (though it is, you make me feel blessed). you deserve it, yes – everything about your existence, every second to every minute to every hour to every day to every week to every month to every year, everything that you have ever done to make yourself human and alive, it has led to you deserving life in exchange of life. copious opportunities in such an infinitesimal frame. you deserve everything. my flesh, my blood, my tears, my pain. you do; you truly do. you always do, you always have, you always will. "jongin, i–" i love you, i think. is that your finger against my lips? you halt my words against their most dangerous precipice: existence. you know what i am going to say. you don't want to hear it, not because you have foreseen it; not because i should already know – i don't. you leave me in the dark. that's my darkness too, jongin; you leaving me in it. because you just don't; you don't want to. your breath runs a frost of my flesh, "shh."

#para: se #mwxjongin #[ breathes out toxicity. ]

wnq-writers

It is the ones you love the most who can lift you in an instant, and destroy you without trying.

mimisophalkalyan (via wordsnquotes)

#muse #q

thatmusictasteslikeheaven

Visit Original Link

Arctic Monkeys | I Wanna Be Yours

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner Breathing in your dust I wanna be your Ford Cortina I won’t ever rust If you like your coffee hot Let me be your coffee pot

#[ *stares directly at sei.* this is even better. oh my god. my muse. ]#muse

mwxaurum-deactivated20150820

we could pretend it was amnesia.

* * * F L A S H B A C K He is salvation for the escaped soul. For once, air doesn’t smell toxic and the taste is light on the tip of a protruding tongue – no taste of chemical compounds tickling her taste buds. There’s an unspoken eulogy tarnishing the walls of calcium bricks in her mouth and it takes pliers to extract every single cavity to relief the burden of her role: Mother and Father’s pathetic daughter. Yet, the stones still engrave her family’s name – She mustn’t disappoint their unsettled spirits in the afterlife. Their lessons embedded well, her bones are their home. She is the core of hidden research. She is Secret holding her hammer. Savagery becomes one of her qualities, naturally, when all she had been taught is how to be inhumane during the time when her brain still had their functions. ( It’s her hippocampus. They’ve toyed with her hippocampus. The only thing the girl remembers is gushing red. )

The laboratories are now forbidden and barren. The place isn’t a house anymore. Absence of home nulls the only sense of belonging she had. Aurum casts a raven gaze at the district as she passes by, and there’s a boy with shagged clothes and daredevil eyes following her steps next of her. Sealed lips don’t spill a word of what she knows of her past and her thoughts are digressed when she holds up a pack of crumpled bread. Unappetizing – slapped on with raisins and covered with a revoltingly dull orange. There’s a satisfied smile that colors her cheeks red with it, pausing to hold the loot proudly to his face. “I thought you’d get hungry. I took this.”

mwxtao-blog

he doesn't deserve this.

there is universal applicability to the thought, references to a wound too newly excavated within the chambers of a broken heart only deepening the lacerations, so when his hand extends and the opulence of fingertips is greeted by the subtle pulsation of corporeal, emerald threads it is a gesture synonymous with mercy. reigning in a mind too prone to absence, too weak for isolation to comprehend a moment as infinitesimal as this, subconsciously revel in the presence of the jejune girl; in her existence, which was detached from his own and when interlinked, crossed no bridges whose pathways he had recognized. it was a momentary respite for soulful unrest — a haven.

"i appreciate it." shapeless lips find their curvature in the guise of a smile, its genuine warmth eerie in juxtaposition to an ocular reflection of death. he did not bother sharing that he was not hungry and he did not bother sharing that the deprivation that had begun to carve him, to hollow him, could not be salvaged by wheat and nutrition. "i'm not hungry though, so it's probably better that you have it. it's better to use things when they're needed." he doesn't need to specify this to her and he realizes this, his smile twisting itself into a frown as he sighs. "sorry, that sounds harsh."

there is silence then, absentminded gaze prying into her own and he does not bother retracting, he figures this is the best way to testify her monopolization of his attention. "do you know why you were on this street? it's pretty busy."

#mwxaurum #reply #para #we could pretend it was amnesia

“Wow, it’s really dark in here.”

“it’s supposed to be dark.”

the words themselves are like daggers, their pronunciation being so thoroughly lathered in venom that drenched even the seams of his flesh. Its surface resisted by an intangible barricade only centimeters had constructed, familiarity having cloaked him in the guise of a predator as this is his home; his territory and he knows it too well. he knows which pieces of the floor creak when under pressure; which angle the door whines when pushed apart and it is meticulous, particular and specified avoidance that guides his steps until he rests again the edge of an unexplored proximity. predator so close to his prey – hushed breath consuming the silence, smothering the audibility of his moving hand although surely not its sensation, his fingertips are too soft and too lithe to be ignored. They crawl like spiders, trekking the slope of a spine until they hover against a trachea. lacking reluctance, halted only by coincidence.

“it’s easier.” he paused. “to find things and destroy things when you are in the dark.”

#mwxwolfram #reply #*mm #weeps this was so late i'm a trashcan; sorry

japanmangafreak21

Visit Original Link

In this shaken, twisted world,

I gradually become transparent,

unable to be seen.

Please don’t bother looking for me

don’t stare at me..

I merely don’t want to hurt you, inside a world,

that came out of someone’s imagination.

So please remember me as vivid as I was.

#muse

mwxjongin:

Jongin peaks at the resonance of footsteps and maybe it’s foolish of him to recognize their familiarity enough to conclude the owner of them to be of no threat to him. In this world, everything is a threat, he thinks. Some are just easier to face than others and Tao, with his calculation lingering on every footstep, his unbridled grace despite destruction, is the easiest and simultaneously the hardest he’s shouldered for the sake of unnamed things. Attachment living, feeding off of a scathing ambiguity. What nourishment is there to find among the ruins of a boy? A cant of the head, diminutive sunlight filtering through the curtain of lashes after persuading itself through the canopy of foliage above their heads; it’s sympathetic of the sun to find purchase on the undeserving, to feel its warmth prickle over his jawline. Such a reassuring touch as his lips fissure at the corners, then settle into a practiced nothingness.

The appreciation reaches out, but he has yet to take its hand. Summer quells; there are clouds in his eyes, December ripe upon his breath. Then a hum, he pivots slowly. Cold silver at his feet, a back ebbing into the dark. Jongin lingers, saturated with the scene until it turns him heavy, unsettled by an unusual absence of what would be filled if there were a chance to discover normalcy between them, because normal is not a title common to their kind in the slightest, lest it be bathed in blood. Regardless, he searches for it, that semblance; what is he but the desecration of precious things, the act of placing those things in a person’s hands and only hoping they do not bleed around his edges. Craning to pick up the weapon by its hilt, he examines, briefly, how it fits back into his palm with slight discomfort. And maybe it is a matter of reacquainting himself, but maybe it’s the subtle fruition of an idea misshaping his palms out of guilt, that something had changed. That as he followed Tao, steps baited, familiarity would no longer be their sanctuary.

darkness has the signature of a love lost and the omnipotence of divinity. once it's been seen, it is unforgettable; once it has touched, it begins to saturate. it fills those empty places until it memorizes the flux of normalcy. until it becomes them.

he guesses that the other is already ailed with that same perpetual sickness, it's the only explanation to justify why their feet both trace the earth with a pace orchestrated carefully. his steps to lead the other through the trees whose bark had the resilience of titanium; a fortress impervious to the competitive game it pressed against, while their steps merely emulate his own. they are not something he can hear though, not something he can see. he only expects them to exist, not because of some rewarded trust but because they had both agreed to remind each other of humanity, of morals; both agreed to be the respite of a perpetuated moment they resumed whenever in the presence of each other. they had no one else and somehow became so contented with each other that they did not seek anyone else, not genuinely. that was why he had allowed it to flourish as it had, tighten as it did.. the invisible tether that bound them to his heart. why the imagination of his flesh, bloody and cut was something that the mind of corporeal demise could not withstand. being so fazed by the conceptualization of jongin's pain, yet untouched by the actualization of ten lives ending by his hand. lives he didn't know, lives he wouldn't care to actually know. there was no question, no remorse.

they deserved it. if it was a matter of him or them, they always deserved it.

it's this conviction that pauses his steps then, what was once woodland now reshaped and carved into the appearance of a house whose doorway he stood within. teetering somewhat on its entrance, thoughts engrossed by deeper contemplation of where to begin before realizing that he doesn't want to start. what was wrong with him, to be so committed and so invested in the survival of a life that had already made it this far without him? what was wrong with him, to be so willing and so able to even think that thought? they always deserved it.. then doesn't that mean that jongin deserves it, too? who merits death without splashing in its ink? that respite he was supposed to give, it halted nothing. he could feel his own descent; hellfire creeping at his fingertips, igniting his veins until it explodes his heart and his mind is not enough to be salvaged. instead, tucking himself away in a corner, affluent with the scent of death and dirtied by its rot and dirt. withering somewhat, dying probably and jongin was still at his heels.

"go away, please."

#mwxjongin #replies #[ 1: this is late as fuck; i'm sorry. 2: oh my fucking god. ]

ϟ

it has the potential to be more than this.he knows; he likes to lie to himself, surmise the other knows as well.

the refuge he’s captured can barely breathe between the braid of their individual fingers, a corporeal twine he weaves to ensnare the other albeit momentarily. soft tips tracing the edge of his flesh, its course being something that he guides meticulously, his lacerations still bloodied and raw with the pain of memory. he had collapsed when he sought to return those corpses, exhaustion quelled only by a moment’s respite in the presence of a conceptualized jongin that had now actualized – concerned, questioning, oblivious to the imaginary salvation he had given the disease. “there are no repercussions to being there for you.” he explains, voice gentled by encroaching night. it doesn’t feel like darkness for once; there is starlight peering through loosened crevices and its fire is enough to illuminate what he needs to see. “if you wanted to know why, that’s why. it was either them or you.” his eyes search for solemn counterparts then, replicating their graveness, solidifying something deeper than the sheer adoration he hadn’t voiced, just acted.

“it is never –” a whisper as his hands seem to clutch now, not to caress but to solidify a point; to absorb a vital pulse by seconds that expanded to minutes. holding still, even when its stability falters and a reaper sharpens his scythe. “going to be you.” he completes, hands reluctantly set free and he breaks their interlock completely, himself still bound all the same.

“i care about you, a lot.”

#mwxjongin #reply #*mm #[ *continues to struggle with the rest of the memes*. ]

ellellusive-blog

For a star to be born there is one thing that must happen. A nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. Because this is not your destruction. This is your birth.

#muse

ϟ

he did not think that these memories would be relived.

it’s probably the attention her gaze seems to promise, concentration natural and easy within her eyes. it’s probably the warmth that her touch momentarily scintillates to him, an unspoken comfort whose endlessness bore refuge in the promiseland of death. that’s probably why her fingertips reference that particular scar and he allows it.

“it’s because they hated walking in parks all the time, right?” he reminisces and the memories are bittersweet on his tongue. twisting his lips into the smile they had given him, one that he can’t bear to imagine because he doesn’t deserve it and so he closes his eyes. “they hated walking in parks all the time so we decided, one day, to just go on a hike. it probably wasn’t really, but the park we went to had a pathway that would lead to a mountain trail. it was my first time walking there actually but i had went ahead regardless. i.. tried to take a shortcut through some trees or whatever, there were so many other plants and i just did not take any type precaution for thorns. so when my foot got caught up in a bush, i sort of tripped and cut myself open. it’s weird because i thought the scar would have cleared by now, but it hasn’t.” his eyes open and when they look at the permanent mark amongst his flesh, they reflect a saddened gratitude – it is a relic of them he is allowed to keep.

“i guess that’s something to be thankful for.”

#mwxrei #reply #*mm #[ bc i believe in their friendship tbh. ; ; ]

ϟ

he had meant to threaten her, the unidentified girl who had trespassed unto his sanctuary, but when he had proposed death and she could not see its catalyst, there was no hesitance in her steps as they closed the distance between them. electricity pulsating within her eyes; curiosity twisted like the edges of blades that had found their way into his flesh, puncturing and splitting until it was his bones she carved within and those secrets he had buried rose for the light amidst the crevice she had cut through him with just the tip of her finger.“so you aren’t afraid then?” it’s a question he gasps because the soft edge of her finger has hardened and the aforesaid blade she wields smites him, loosened skin cascading blood until he concentrates and reality is perceptible. demise not being actual and yet feeling so close – a sensationalized hex she curses and his guard had no ward against.the likeliness of his inferiority had devastated him.“you should be afraid,” the words are like a snarl.“death isn’t something you take lightly.”

#mwxjinx #reply #*mm #[ this is more jinx making the scar i guess; also this is probably uncharacteristic sry i got hype fucking up my own muse rip me. ]

ϟ [ :| ]

the blood was not hers.he could see when he had looked in her eyes.

it was this conviction that had made him betray his own words, the oath of death he had sworn in the presence of none but darkness and her now a hollow promise. a branch had snapped beneath her, claiming whatever equilibrium she had and giving the creature its sole opportunity. blazing scarlet peering through woodland shadows to herald the leap it had taken, metallic paws set ahead and as demise paved its course he had intervened – lacerations of his flesh confirmed by copious amounts of newborn crimson. it did not halter him; he did not feel fazed. adrenaline and empathy intertwining to create a hybrid endurance that had let him drag her, her carry him, to the canopy they rested under now.

that had led to the sensation of her touch in their moment’s respite, something delicate and cautious with a meticulousness he had only ever experienced once. fingertips that were already softened by minutes too soon made memories now only sought after another reminiscent as they traced his wounds, confusion and incredulity unable to be blinked out of her eyes.

“you looked like me.”it is an unasked question he answers.blanketed in death she had not wanted; could not guess.. he knew that feeling.

“stop.”

#mwxheron #*mm #reply

lil-duckling

fashionista Huang Zitao at Incheon Airport 141201

#;t #[ sweats. he looks so good i don't understand but also i still cannot decide on a hair color for tao. *taps my chin.* inspiration. ]

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

– selfish,