↺ adagio for strings
yeonju is no saint. from her head spills demons, globs of blood and black tar. from her heart beats something hedonistic, hymn to the devil, vile rooted in the crux of her chest. it isn’t to say that she wasn’t kind. that she is incapable of keeping her demons at bay and a disarming smile on hand. it is the fact that she is wretched. rotted. the fact that the only thing that ever ever mattered was gratification; release.
that she is made, product of society’s worst attributes, into the thing she is. a burning star ready to implodes.
yet here she stands—barefoot (she’s kicked her heels somewhere, she’s not sure where), and towering over the drugged body of a stranger. lucky them, to have her around to intercept, prevent something triggering from happening (not out of the goodness of her heart, she wasn’t that high, but it is hard to ignore the guilt that inevitably surfaces; flashbacks of girls she’s let it happened to).
“huh.” the muscles around her mouth twitches in consideration, moving with deliberation in the way her fingers hook into their belt, throwing the otherwise malleable person onto their front in favor of procuring the wallet from their rear pocket, picking through multiple bills—hers now. “i’ll take this as compensation, then.”
again, may i remind you, lee yeonju is no saint.
nevertheless, she pivots on cold floorboards, head lulling to the side carelessly while she surveys the flat. a night spent in joule is certainly not one spent sober, lucky for them, she hadn’t been too far gone to notice the drug slipped into his drink. “y’got anything to drink around here?” yeonju questions to nobody in particularly—doesn’t expect any reply in particular as she moves, akin to a snake in the way she slinks, shedding layers of clothing to relieve heated skin.
“whiskey, rum, soju, hard cider, i’m not picky…” a laugh. clearly she finds it more entertaining than one should. “though you look like a pretentious wine kind of dude—a romanée-conti 1887 or something?”
