wandering

to live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.

[ofsouls]

So, hello there!

I'm looking for people who might be interested in creating a private 1x1 literate verse with me. Or in other words, roleplaying 1x1. I have a keen need for para-ing like back in the old days and am looking for likeminded writers who miss, well, writing on tumblr. For the general writing style I have you can check out this blog - it has been my private 1x1 blog for the past 5-6 years. I'm generally just looking for other literate people and I don't have much preference about the plot we will do - I have a couple ideas, but I am very open to suggestions or ways we can change them to fit our characters and their arcs better!

I am a working student, so I might be slow to reply, but despite that I do hope if any of you are interested we can write long-term. You can contact me on a PM here or send me an invite on discord - antagonistic#6559. Or you can just like this post and I'll check out your blog.

[ofsouls]

@pulpc0re

once upon a time there was a beautiful girl who forgot her own name.

of course, ghost stories don't usually start like that. they begin quietly, in the shadow of one's mind, in the hushed corners and dark autumnal nights. this isn't that kind of story, but in most ways it also very much is.

maybe there's a better prelude to this. a lot has happened in the short span of three weeks. the girl sometimes found it funny, the way that time works. she could be left to rot alone for centuries and just as easily pulled out of her decay in minutes.

so, given that, let's begin again. once upon a time there was a beautiful girl and all she wanted was for her one true love to die. but she didn't, and that complicated things immensely.

the girl thought, honestly, that she would never get to see her again. she had unhinged chandeliers onto her head and drawn her crude corporeal form on the walls with pig's blood and made it so terribly cold during the witching hours that she could not sleep, in hopes that the chill would latch itself into her bones and the plague might take her quietly. she had been cruel to her in ways one can only be cruel to somebody they love. and yet she had persisted.

out of all things, it was a tiny puddle of condense that had tripped her and sent her head crashing into the ceramic tiles of her bathroom. the girl had watched her bleed out into the canals of the mosaic, the lines growing out like branches of trees in the late burn of the fading summer. she had felt a great bit of grief and guilt, but was also consoled in the mention that soon she would never, ever have to be alone.

but she survived. a man came and called for medics. a man, like always, had taken even the last thing she had left from her. so, she thought, this was the end. she would be left in her gilded cage of a house to sit in silence as the world around her spun and changed until the next century when anybody over the age of a codling would dare venture there, only to turn on his heel the moment the wind blew a little louder than usual.

she wasn't like this. she had been brave.

she came back.

now the girl watches her braid her hair on her toilette, tired and almost -- peaceful. she steps forward and wishes she could touch her, feel something, anything. being stuck in this realm is so cold. she casts her gaze into the mirror, as always hoping to see her reflection staring back at her and, as always, coming up disappointed.

what does she even look like? she wishes she had made herself a self-portrait while she was still alive.

"i'm glad you came back, though, haerim." she finally reasons, pretending to herself that she is stroking her hair.

[poisonlip]

shallow graves

[ofsouls]

flincch‌:

“you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you too, now, would you?” his eyes glint. “i mean, angel dust wouldn’t hurt either.”

charming as always, nate. but it takes one to know one, so she can’t complain in any good faith. at family gatherings, and especially at funerals, degenerates have a way of smelling each other out. “hardly. according to auntie i haven’t aged a day since the last nosejob.” she reaches to tap the side of her nose, right at the nostril and trusts at least he would get what she means.

he takes things too personally. she doesn’t actually care much about the two inches he grew since he paid his way to harvard, but there’s a certain satisfaction in the idea that he is not without his own weak-points. it’s easy to be nice when you’re rich, but the lack of pretense is relatable. she takes a sip and draws it out for the aftertaste. whisky’s always better with a metal finish.

“he would’ve told me if he had.” there’s maybe half a smile that sneaks into her tone. she can almost picture it; old man, the basement, grainy tvs and stereo static, dotting down a tear counter. damn the modern industry. now all mascaras are waterproof and take double the effort. that’s true showmanship.

but she stays silent, because she doesn’t really know what else to say. there’s always another test, and always another trial and you’re always just going to make it, but you never really do. she didn’t return to jeju for this. fuck this. she pulls out her cigarettes before she even realizes that he already asked. “somebody’s in a mood for ghost bustin’. i’ll bring some next time. since you’re spiritual family it’ll only cost you double.”

his skin is smooth when she passes him the box. a finger to knuckle bone. he’s almost as cold as she is, but with the added benefit of a residual pulse. “i think we should place bets.” she’s in no hurry for time to pass, now that they’re in the gutter. when she slides out a cig, she rolls the top between her thumb and index, and lets it dangle from her mouth. “i have a feeling he’ll leave the estate to his brother.”

[ofsouls]

i totally forgot to do my intro yesterday woops. i’ve already chatted with some of you lovely people, but if i haven’t, hi, i’m kallie, i’m 21 and i never learned how to read. jk, i’m just a student struggling under quarantine. i love plots and i have a mini-page set up on my profile for convenience just about that, but i am also very much open to brainstorming and coming up with something together. i also have a discord, but i don’t mind tumblr IMs, tbh i’m pretty slow either way (it’s not you, it’s me, i swear). aaand that’s pretty much it for now.

looking forward to writing with you all <3

[poisonlip]

shallow graves

[ofsouls]

flincch‌:

“you look like you could use a sip.”

the airplane was tiring, but nothing could prepare her for the day ahead.

at this point she’s been to too many funerals, so she knows how it works. you put on your best grief face, you clutch your little satin handkerchief and hope people deem you sad enough on the socially acceptable scale. that’s fine.

of course, she did all the crying beforehand. sometimes people mean something to you and that’s probably the worst part. one day you’re talking over the phone about how amazing the eiffel tower looks at night and the next you’re staring over a dead man’s face in an open casket. they’re never as pale as you expect them to be. all that make-up almost makes a corpse seem like it could spring out for one last game of checkers.

it won’t.

so, now, she’s under house arrest, but worse, because instead of guards it’s his family, and the specifics of the situation need not to be underestimated. she spoke with aunt kim about how much the kids loved him. she even let uncle jisung cry on her shoulder about all the times he could’ve visited, but something oh so important came up last minute. in fact, she’s subjected herself to enough emotional baggage to last a lifetime at this point, so she decides a moment of free time is well earned.

they used to plant carnations in a little spot at the back of the garden. grandmother hated red, so it was their little secret. now it’s all lilies and soulless deathly bullshit, but she’s the one who’s been gone, so she finds she can blame nobody but herself. everything is cold to the touch and warm to the eye.

then nate rolls over the corner, as always uninvited and unwelcome, but somehow looking almost amiable so she can’t refuse him. when he extends his hand to offer her the bottle, she scoffs, “cool. so you’re old enough to drink now?” she doesn’t mean for it to sound so snappy. it’s just the way she is. perhaps a bit apologetically, she fishes through her bag for a little metal flask, tipping it right to the mouth. “gotta do better than that.”

a tree behind her looks comfortably stiff, so she straightens her back against it. the inside of the house is like a puppet show, all long shadows of exaggerated anguish. “i wonder if they’re scared being dramatically sad is an inheritance requirement.” she glimpses at how big the moon is over the still bright sky and takes a sip, “fuck. i should make that a requirement for my will.”

[disclosuer]

sweet spot

[ofsouls]

disclosuer‌:

“shall we?” 

she feels vulnerable like this; out of the comfort zone of isolated safety and the calming idea that she still has control. she should’ve never let this happen. should’ve kept her mouth shut and accepted the blow to her ego and she wouldn’t have to worry now about imminent threats and paper cut catalysts. 

it is easy for him to be so nonchalant. he wouldn’t have to bear the blame. it’s now on her shoulders. it is her responsibility.

no twenty-year old should hold the lives of so many people in the palm of their hands. and yet.

she knew the frilly venetian mask would be an easy veneer to uncover, but she didn’t think he’d pick her out of the crowd so quickly. she chose red for this event. long skirt. tightly laced corset with an ultimately modest neckline. a part of her considered he’d find it ironic. now, some little voice in the back of her mind reminds her that being the belle has never been her role.

“i am fashionably early.” she offers, sucking in a breath and holding it so the thank you that follows would be kept carefully quiet and out of the reach of anybody whom it didn’t concern. she falters, looking at the extension of his arm for a brief moment of contemplation. when she laces her fingers around him her grip is tight.

“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.”

[personalcult-deactivated2020030]

get some

[ofsouls]

personalcult‌:

“you belong up there.”

she knows the way this looks.

lone pretty girl at the bar? high heels? bargain-bin red lip, smudged by cheap vodka? people notice. people would probably think that she’s one of those desperate creatures chasing their dreams of vip section riding tickets through the night.

granted, people would be right. but that’s not the point here. 

she’s built to withstand societal pressure. she’s also, as it stands, as much of an opportunist as anyone unwilling to admit it, but oh well. it probably makes her a bitch to the guy who’s buying her two hoping she’d bring him home when the night is over. to her it’s the privilege of achieving permanently tipsy status while also sending doll eyes to the crowd above.

fuck, she hates the way clubs are structured. like gods and mortals divided by a set of shiny stairs and grey goose vomit. an unreachable capitalistic heaven just 3 meters away.

so close. so far.

that’s only kind of the point.

when the girl (woman?) approaches to talk to her she sends her gaze top to bottom. gut instinct. there are three obvious things that stand out from the very moment the net is cast:

one - her shoes look expensive. and, as far as common knowledge goes, rich girls wear very expensive shoes.

two -  her make-up has not budged. so either she just arrived or she hasn’t been dancing. been looking for something else instead. 

three - she carries herself with an aura or prominent dignity reserved for a specific breed of individuals who don’t have to worry about this month’s rent. so why the fuck is she down here?

she savors a second of intent apprehension. then, she takes a two consecutive sips and shrugs with her shoulders drawn. “i am too pretty.” a small laugh sticks in her throat in the kind of fashion that would seem polite yet familiar. “but so are you.”

a quick glance up at the gates, still guarded by the archangel of personal demises. she’s never had any luck with this. don’t they ever take breaks to go to the bathroom? “it’s been a tough night.”  she doesn’t mean for it to sound so defeated, but the wording doesn’t really allow room for any other emotion to crawl through. her brows raise slightly. “don’t suppose you have a table for two? i don’t know you, but i have a feeling like we’d get along.”

[ofsouls]

                                  IT’S THE SIN OF TURNING                                   WINE TO WATER.

                                         shim miho / act I

[ofsouls]

under construction for a new era.

[actsix-deactivated20191009]

&&. verona.

[ofsouls]

they’ve had a plethora of bad ideas before, but she never thought it would all come down to this.

there’s a picturesque moment of unruly aestheticism to be found somewhere in between the folds of the scene; her, one end of the couch, knees tucked closely to her chest as her eyes blur over the same sentence she must have read for close to hundred times already; him, on the other, sprawled about and expression containing a sort of negligent distaste that one can only consider as his personal trademark.

outside, the rain pours. she listens as the droplets collect along the chapped metal linings of the pipes, thudding against the windows like the dull of a heartbeat, before eventually finding their hasty descend into the guts of the house. she flips the page, sighs, looks up.

jinhwan has the actual audacity to have his eyes closed.

“stop! act alive!” she kicks him, there’s no pretty way around it, but also she wishes she had a thicker book to hurl at him instead. his dramatics are hardly unwelcome, but she has to act the part - roll of her eye would do, she thinks, waves a hand in a dismissive motion, “i don’t think there is anybody in history who has died from reading a book. we have to get a grip.”

and she tries, in all fairness. but then it’s hard, because it’s shakespeare, and everybody is so dumb all the time. but then it’s hard, because when she looks up and he’s already looking and she’s not quite sure how exactly that makes her feel. he seems to be very intrigued by it. the moment passes.

she sets her book down after that, this is more interesting. sometimes she wonders how he manages to flip, from one emotion to none at all, if it’s on purpose ( it’s probably on purpose, it’s jinhwan ), if he knows how confusing his reactions are. there’s a lot to be said there. instead she nods, because it’s a simple gesture for a simple time. “it’s the set up for a love story, you’re being very insensitive.”

and then he goes and does that, of course he does. bravo, jinhwan. if it was startling her he was after, the bravado of his tone succeeds well in sending her into a sudden jump, mouth forming into a silent curse that never leaves the roof of her mouth. she could say so many things - oh, how long have you been preparing?; wow, jinhwan, i haven’t seen somebody work so hard for an oscar since anne hathaway in les misrables!; i thought you would at least remember my name properly.

and yet.

there’s a smile that tucks at the corner of her lips. it sits there, and it waits, and feels warm even as she tries to push it down into containment. the gentle in his eyes is out of place, the words resonate in a funny way.

and yet.

it seems that she had leaned forward too, if only for the familiarity of his grin.

her clapping comes in faux astonishment, blending with the chime of her laughter as her eyes crinkle into half moons. “oh, yes, that was amazing! you must do an encore, it was truly inspiring! here i’ll help you out--”

and she does, hands fumbling with the pages, fingers dragging over passages until her brows unfurrow from the concentration and leave way for a sparkle in her gaze. “there it is, romeo.” clears her throat, shuffles forward so she’s closer, so the drama in her voice won’t go to waste “o romeo, romeo! wherefore art thou romeo? deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a capulet--”

[ofsouls]

&&. rise

[ofsouls]

andfantasies:

( * * * )

hers was the dark.

and she hardly ever lingered; on things, feelings, people. they had always had the melancholic quality of being disposable, superficial wants; soojung itched for a passion that ceased all others, in death, in its part, in all its parts. she never stayed.

( but always came back. always came back, for him, for him only, came back in all her glorious hurt and pain and endless idealized obsession for the human want. she was not human. she had not counted right; one night there beside him was one night too many. )

it wasn’t fair.

this wasn’t fair.

he wasn’t supposed to want her or say he misses her, or miss her at all. coldly, he should’ve looked into her eyes - fleeting gazes, drifting away like the makeshift dreams he had endured - and turned her away, and spared them both the pain of the chase. she was not sure anymore, who’s the pray and who is praying. 

( yes, these kind of feelings she hardly understood. perhaps they have proven to be too beautiful to comfortably bear. )

it was all reminiscent, she thought. how she wished that she could hold him, lips on his neck, fingers in the gaps of his, and pull, away, into the dark, until it devours them whole, until it too becomes a part of who they are. but they were too many things in too many places, torn apart in their grief and bitter loneliness to which they had become accustomed to.

to adapt was her only means to survive. to think that soojung is a person would be a mistake. she was an illusion of a girl, wrapped inside her own eternal winter frost, semblance of something that could have been there, once, something young and curious that got beaten out of her a long time ago.

( she was not a god, although he saw her light as godly, but an idol, blank enough for them to make her anything they wish to see. )

she took a step.

in the end, she had nothing to lose.

“missed me?” i missed you too, missed you, wanted you, needed you, want you, need you. “who would miss a monster, kyungsoo? that sounds terribly masochistic to me.”

and yet she dared not take another.

again, he said, so lovely transparent, and she knew that he would give, give as much of himself away as she could take, until there was nothing left but the whisper of a promise: forever is a heartbreak away. 

( after love, no one is what they were before. )

“i just wanted to see you. is that strange?” pain at the tip of her tongue, she gave herself away already. game over, jung soojung. this battle of yours was lost the moment you looked into his eyes.

( the moment they watched the fireworks together. the moment they stayed up all night to see the sunset past the hills. the moment she read him edgar allen poe on the rooftop of his apartment, walked barefoot back inside, climbed into his bed, limbs on limbs, noses bumping --) 

( you are weak, jung soojung. )

( that’s okay, though. we are all allowed one moment of indulgence at a time. he was every single last one. )

“i’ll only break your heart if you let me.”

[ofsouls]

&&. rise

@andfantasies

soojung has a heart that yearns.

he stays, as simple as he has always been; slouching over his desk, writing in the shadows. sharp ribcages and sharp teeth, darkness that swallows them up whole, all things that define them. this is why they fit.

( clockwork mechanisms, spinning copper wheels, digging nails into each other, setting things in bloody motion. tick, tock, tick, tock. time is wasting, jung soojung. )

( all good things in life demand a sacrifice. )

the floor boards feel cold beneath her soles. her lungs fill and - slowly - drain, brain dizzy, oxygen never enough. he doesn’t even notice. or maybe he pretends he doesn’t. kyungsoo always notices - things, all things, probably has counted her lashes when they have laid, together, in dream land, their bodies intertwined. probably knows more of her nooks than she does herself.

( one is always only as great as the sum of their parts. )

( he puts her together. she pulls him apart. )

( is this not a love that burns. )

he turns. her breath hitches.

it has always been somehow devastatingly wonderful. a moment of silence. the glances. him, one arm reach away. touch. she longs to, more than anything. but she can’t.

( her heart breaks. ) 

“kyungsoo.”

( it’s been so long. )

here they are, again. awake in the truth. drowning.

[andfantasies-deactivated2019100]

&&. chat-shire.

[ofsouls]

andfantasies:

( * * * )

mindful kisses, lusty minds.

chanyeol unravels; tears layers with gentle lips and the press of fingers on her skin, grounding, lifting, and her, in between, breathy sighs drowned in their friction. for this shall be the hunger’s truest form, thirst for the senses, which make them feel most purely and exquisitely alive.

( exchange of eyes, finite, at the wrong time. ) 

( silent pleas, he knows; touch me, feel me, kiss me more. hold me closer. never let me go. images, they are; bound to each other in their need for - something? - messy interpretations of hands, lips, gazes. )

what else can she ask for than this, a resolution; his head bowed down in the crook of her neck, teeth grazing rails of starry bruises onto her, painting pictures of the sky, pink, purple, blue. fingers in his hair, pulling, pushing, hoping somehow they will prevent the inevitable departure of flesh against flesh; she whimpers in his ear.

( it’s not a sign of defeat, but a sign of a quiet surrender, as all affairs of the heart really are. )

she is as willing as he lets her be. his to take in most regards. his now, this feels comfortable, a new voyage into him - she kisses and kisses, red cheeks and puffy lips - and in the small blink of the eye, the squeeze of her thigh beneath her skirt, their gazes meet.

( tell me a story. tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. )

( this isn’t love though. a jarring reminder. )

so, with lewd lips on her chest and his rough hands further down, she says, “chanyeol.” once, a sigh of pleasure, as he gently rocks against her, “chanyeol.” twice, a warning response to his greedy touches, “wait, chanyeol, no--” thrice, fingers intertwining, halting all of his attempts.

and in the aftermath all they’re left with is each other’s stolen breaths, huffing steam of fuming passion, the assurance with which they had explored each other nothing but a reminder for the consequences they will have to face. she bites her lip, shivers at the loss of contact, “god. that. that was something.”

and with nothing left as an excuse, cheeks red and heart drumming, she closes the distance between them, one last time - softly, innocently, kisses at the corner of his lips, more painfully transparent in her intentions than she had been the entire night. she had wanted him, see. this little moment of cosmic luster dust. this little magical moment of the first kiss, of his desire for her, of his everything.

 she regrets it and she never regrets anything - she wishes it could mean less to her than it already does. she wishes they were somehow even.

“thank you, chanyeol. that was the best first kiss.”

( tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. )

( tell me how we’ll never get used to it. )

[andfantasies-deactivated2019100]

&&. chat-shire.

[ofsouls]

ofsouls:

quiet breaths, his touch commands. nails dig shivers from her skin and fingers instill a tingling warmth that lingers long after their departure. how strangely wondrous it is, this game of theirs; eyes chasing limbs and smiles provoked out of their own false coyness. this isn’t timid. his hands - calloused fingers - heavy palms on the back of her thighs. this isn’t timid.

( this is heaven. )

and she laughs, shamelessly transparent in her intentions, shoulders shrugging as she twists her head to watch him drown another shot, straight from the bottle, “of course i’m doing it on purpose! we have to even out somehow, the goal isn’t to get me drunk, it’s to get both of us drunk, and you once again seem to have the advantage of experience.”

as he always does. briefly, half-bitter and half-curious, she ponders on how many others he has touched like this, smiled to, held inside his grasp, twisted. silently, she wonders how many more he’d like to have, how many more instead of her ( but why should it be her anyway, she isn’t the kind of girl he likes ). 

( she has nothing new to offer him. somehow the thought makes her sad. )

but no matter, she’ll gladly take the distraction he offers to set her mind back on proper track and away from all those things that pain her. she must not make him her dream; that would be unreasonable, but damn it if it isn’t the hardest thing she’s ever tried to do, with the way his eyes devour her, with the way he’s leaning in for more. he isn’t being fair. he isn’t being fair at all, imprinting sweetness onto her; and where her mind forgets, she’s sure, her skin will always remember, crave more, want, need. eyes, hands, lips. soul, body, mind.

( everything. )

( how selfish. ) 

“this kind of understanding is exactly why modern cinema is struggling!” she says, and sails off into her own little rant, if only as a reassurance; her conscious is still clear, and her heart is only beating faster now from all the toxins in her bloodstream. ( can chanyeol be considered a toxin? )

but he doesn’t stop, offers no small moment of solace before he’s back to painting her body as his, one small patch at a time ( the back of her knee, the mid of her tight, bravely parting the ruffles of her skirt to venture further, both mocking and adoring her at the same time ) ( as he always is. ) and in that flash of quaint honesty, her heart hushes, his gaze prying all the breaths out of her lungs. kitten. a small death, he clutches.

and no amount of protest can make up for the inevitable, but she doesn’t think it matters now anyway. ruby cheeks and diamonds in her hazy eyes, and utterly defeated, she lifts the bottle for another shot, if only to thrust it back to him soon after. she demands, see, he must drink two, for he is an awful liar, and an awful friend for bringing it up in the first place. “is this payback for my question?”

doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. she’s sitting on her knees and he’s pulling her closer, and he’s tugging at her seams, loving and devastating and cruel; and as she hears his own breath hitch beneath the layers of his brazen boldness she realizes. death is but a game for two. “chanyeol.” a prayer. a sign. give me a sign, give me a reason. they’re so close now, so close to the borderline.

( he gives a sin to purge, lips stained in alcohol and lust and something else. )

and he kisses her - cheek; and he kisses her - jaw; and he offers hands that softly cradle in his grasp, dreams that curl within her chest as her eyes glimmer with stardust. to touch is to be real, she thinks, she feels, more alive than she has ever been, raising palms to slide along his neck, nape, jaw, gasping when he grounds her, leaning in to follow in his adoration of the flesh. curiosity over innocence, this is what he does to her, and says, you’re mine, and says i’m yours. seems like a vow now more than ever.

and with her innocence unhinged, flushed face colored by the soft lamplight and blood pulsing in tact with the beats to their side, she nods into his shoulder, whispers with her eyes cast down, “yes.” once, they flicker upwards “yes.” two times, meet his gaze, “i want you.” and the rest gets swallowed by his lips, buzzing electricity.

lips quiver, everything feels hot; chanyeol kisses slow and tender and sweet and in all the right ways, so much better than she ever imagined. and this must not be sin, it can’t be, so right and gentle and secure, falling deeper, mouth splitting softly as her body dips closer into his. more, she wants to say, hums into their kiss instead. and when they part, breathless, her fingers still trail on his neck, noses bumping, “–again?”

but she does not wait for any answer, lips falling onto his, eager and inexperienced, body shifting.

( and he is more intoxicating than any other thing she's drank tonight )

[poetryprosepeopleandplaces]

“Peter and Alice”, a play by John Logan (Noël Coward Theatre London, 2013)

[andfantasies-deactivated2019100]

&&. chat-shire.

[andfantasies-deactivated2019100]

( * * * )

[ofsouls]

tender is the night, their hearts on fire, and he is just as before; and he is, warm hands, always warm hands, always the warmth of his sins sneaking past the cracks in the smirks and the blink of the eye. and he is the teenage heartthrob, the one that got away, fingers feather-light breaths against skin, travelling up, past the tense of his muscles, a linger of their tips along his jaw. so it becomes promptly apparent, tonight they are all but human in vows and stripped of the pretense. park chanyeol, human, bone, flesh.

( park chanyeol, cut ribs, molten guts, a star on the inside and out. park chanyeol, to whom she owes those fleeting beats of her heart, because she does not have the will to grasp helplessly for them any longer. )

( she can’t fight a battle against herself. )

goosebumps raise at his touch, chest stilling with a breath well-kept, bubbling as her thoughts of them begin to spiral. what could he do, she wonders? this night in which she’s his, how could he pry her whole with bladed lips, warm hands grounding her beneath the sheets and the stained linens. his kitten. his angel. his sohye. has a ring to it.

language? who has time for language when you have this, when you have his body next to hers, when you have his heart at the fingertips? who needs words when you can have closing of space, a sigh, so close yet so so far. its not fair.

this is her first language, laying next to him. this is the way her smile curves into a hum at his touch, forever leaning in for more, just a bit more, promising tonight will be the last time she sheds herself to pieces to fold her own self into stars. all for him.

( liar. )

she wants his everything, she decides then, drunk and dizzy and maybe a little in love with the singularity of the moment. she wants the near-death late-night stake outs and the glory mornings and the drunk firsts, maybe not just the drunk, all the firsts, all the firsts and then the seconds and the thirds--- 

perhaps, above all, she wants to kiss him.

( there is no metaphor for that. )

“well if i’m yours then you should be mine too. seems like a rather unfair deal otherwise.” a laughter, she knows her connotations, she lets it slip, just wants to hear him say it. just once. ( liar. ) once will be enough. ( liar. )

 you’re lovely, you’re lovelier, she fails to see now where one ends and the other one begins, and what had bloomed those pretty roses in her cheeks this time. and her hand forgets to move from his jaw even as he does, and remains a presence at his chest for seconds too long, counting every moment, until it too is forced into submission. and so, she rolls onto her belly, mind clicking to find ways to take a proper sip in her strange position.

“first year fencing instructor,” the clarification comes with an added shrug, giggle stifled by the sting of the alcohol, “he was a two-time world champion, quite young too. very pleasing to the eye. also he really liked to personally show students how to fix their posture or hold the sword, which wasn’t all that bad either.”

and with a scrunch of the nose, she lazily stretches her limbs, “lets see. never have i ever--- went to a movie projection just to make-out with somebody.”

[andfantasies-deactivated2019100]

&&. chat-shire.

( & )

[ofsouls]

don’t let go, says the heart to the mind, and it shivers. how lovely it is to watch angels bend their wings and fill their bones with reckless thoughts, until they too become part of the anchors dragging them below the surface. ( down she goes, below the gazes; below the layers of dead, lost souls; human scraps; with his fingers tangled in the cracks of hers, a little awkwardly, a little too big, but resolute. )

the devil says her name. the devil pulls her forward. the devil makes her want to sell her soul for seven minutes in a false hope heaven and a liquor breath for keeps. and she is a; willing victim, a catalyst, a chemical innocence that’s not really innocent at all. 

( she fools him well enough at least. )

and with an acute morbid fascination native exclusively to her, and her only, her mind wanders in-between the gaps of half-nervous giggles and settles on his hands, and thinks of all the ways they could unhinge her. thinks of; the bruise purple thinning on her skin, a kiss on the bite-mark of a shoulder, her prince that speaks in knives.

there’s a  warmth in that resolution - no one out there better for a monster than a witch.

“names don’t work well for tramp stamps, though.” she says, an absentminded wave following short after, “i propose you get it on your forearm. that way, every time you flex, it’s going to pop out real nice.”

she can feel his everything, his gaze against the dainty, lamp-washed silhouette of her skin, his mouth aligning in the smirk she cherishes so dearly. there is nothing in the world she could adore more than this prospect of fresh blood against the linens, another one that bites the dust. today her. tomorrow her again. again and again until all that’s left is the initial sigh.

( first sips always burn the tongue, until you learn to love the pain of it; until you force yourself to swallow. )

and she could say something about that awful line of his, but she doesn’t, because she doesn’t like lying to herself. she’d give him anything if he so much as asked.

instead, she settles for the familiarity of the back of her hand connecting with his shoulder, overrun by crackling laughter and lips shaping into a playful pout, “yeol! that’s not fair, you can’t toast to you only! you have to toast to us. to this.” words coil into themselves in her mind, a flash of a grin on her features melted by the sting of rushing alcohol at the back of her throat. she lifts her bottle, toxins swaying in the pale of the night, and realizes, “to youth.”

youthful.

( and they are. they are. )

( young enough to believe nothing will change them, they step, hand-in-hand, into the bomb crater. )

she takes another complimentary sip, and then another, too bold and too inexperienced to know she must give it all time to recoil softly, and instead rushing into the punch in the gut, like she’s used to, like she likes it. first times are only times, so they must be done memorably and lacking all precision. precision makes things boring, she thinks. maybe it’s just chanyeol’s influence.

and the music makes her sway, lids heavy and cheeks heated by the alcohol; she looks at him and smiles, maybe just a little bit dizzy, in the sort of confusing fashion that leaves her wondering if it’s the long-awaited effects or just the way he grins at her. she doesn’t think it matters, though, not when she gets to pull on his sleeve and urge him forward, hips gliding side to side and giggles resonating through her whole unwavering existence.

“you just make me feel old. which is a feat, considering i’m younger.” and she brings him down on the bed with her, weight silenced to a simple shuffle of fabric on fabric, her fingers unwillingly leaving his, “what else do people do when they drink these days? truth or dare? never have i ever?” a warning in her voice, “don’t laugh at my inexperience, you are my teacher for the night, i am yours to guide.”