[recantive]

anyway, i don’t care enough about this blog to bother with it. i tried messing around with a theme to see if it would revive my muse, but nah. the characters are stale and i don’t feel like expanding whatever mess of a world i started with. don’t even feel like deactivating so i’m just gonna keep it dash-only to archive. 

[jjear]

⚡

[recantive]

jihoon / pnwhccl‌

         Jihoon stops, stammering, pulling the hood over his head laughing at his own mess up. “Ah, I’m so sorry, that was… that wasn’t very… that wasn’t okay of me to assume that.” He could feel his ears burning down to his neck as he tries to let his hood swallow him up. “I, uh, thought you would have… it.. from the clue and I–” Oh, he wasn’t gonna survive this trip. // @recantive  >> sc.

the serenities of a summer morning are transient. as one voice becomes many and each one wanders across the leisurely shore, tepid waves of quietude become lost to a faraway ocean — in retrospect, there was no other way to live in the city. five minutes becomes ten becomes twenty and, as the sun blesses its views with marigold, the world seems to have changed entirely. indeed, how the day twists past noon, because hayeong stands bewildered at the far corner of a backstreet, dwarfed by a stranger.

if there was no such thing as chance, no such thing as coincidence, she would have never been a casualty to bold curiosity; whether that stands to be good or bad, she’s not quite sure. “it’s okay,” in relation to her polite smile, she lowers her head and shoulders in a slight bow, “really, it’s fine.” (though, truthfully, she wonders where he had gotten such a strange idea in the first place.) held between lithe fingers is the leather strap of her purse, knuckles turned a sickening ivory in contrast to lively flesh. 

feline eyes follow the trail of pink from his ears downwards then dart back up, the corners of her lips relaxed. “clue? are you a detective?”

[thelxckyones-blog]

wishlist: a thread where each reply is a letter, signed and dated and everything. it could either be really long ones written over a long period or short telegrams. it would work so well with historical muses

[memetaped]

nonverbal starters prompts featuring nonverbal scenarios.

guide take them by the hand, arm, or shoulder to guide them.

shelter protect them.

shove push them.

loop drape an arm around their shoulders.

touch a gentle touch like rubbing their back, hugging them, holding their hand. 

kiss a kiss on the cheek, knuckles, forehead, in their hair.

palm smack them upside the head.

bed rest gently push them back down when they try getting out of bed.

aid help them with a task.

note pass a note to them.

cry wipe away their tears.

wash wipe something off their forehead, cheek, so on.

bandage patch them up when they get hurt.

heal take care of them when they get sick.

book silently read a story with them. 

carry pick them up. 

scrap punch them.

cherry find blood on them.

sit help them sit down.  

medical wake up in the hospital and find them holding their hand.

steer place a hand under their chin to make them look up. 

beat dance with them.

stare stare them down. 

off track get lost with them.

no shaking their head in disagreement. 

yes nodding their head in agreement.

rush tackle them to the ground.

open hold the door open for them.

[recantive]

youngjae / solorne‌

                  HIS EXPRESSION SHIMMERS INTO A CALM .  /    eyes flickering o’er her mien   ,   head tilted to the side .   ‘    i usually share my snacks with my coworkers  !    ’     he’d grin again  ,    an idle hand slipping into his pocket     ;     basket hanging down his forearm.   chip messiah indeed  —  his coworkers at the  velvet covera  barely had any time to sit down during their shifts  ,  much less take a lunch break.  the least he can do ,  standing behind the scenes  &   tweaking with their sound equipment.  darkened forest eyes flicker downward at the outstretched chip bag  ,   plucking it up between his fingers.  ‘    thank you very much !   i’m … ah , i’m sorry about before …did you want anything else ?   i can buy it for you !   ’ 

“oh. that makes sense.” her hands drop to her sides but they aren’t sure of what to do now; manicured nails scrape against the outermost layer of her skirt, a sheer mesh tinted a vague yellow — almost pastel, surrounded by flower print. “it’s okay.” it’s an awkward smile that spreads into a scrunched nose and knitted brows, like hayeong’s been cornered, but her polite countenance returns in the blink of an eye. as if she never faltered. “i don’t want anything. i was just loitering around to wait for, uh, my friend.” driver, she should say. the sun hasn’t quite lost its battle with the moon yet and, given how often she’s spent the twilight in public relations training, there’s no room for impatience about the delay. “i hope i didn’t keep you from getting back to work, if that’s where you’re headed.”

[def-ars]

[recantive]

klaus / lcsientc‌

He’s a bit pissed off, and he’s trying not to take it out on Nuri. He knows the laws, knows how much of a problem it would be if he just went and committed murder. As much as he wants to, of course, he’s not about to get his mother in any trouble. 

“Shut up, Nuri or I’ll rearrange your nose.” Klaus growls. It’s a bit obvious he hasn’t really worked on his anger and it’s probably best if he did. Still, he glares at Nuri. He’s not about to tolerate this, and he takes a tentative step toward the other male.

“I know better than to punch you, dickhead.”

nuri can’t bear to count the amount of times he’s been told to embark on a vow of silence, to bear the searing tortment of a punctured throat. he may have ten fingers to fold into his palm now but, when the time comes, he’ll awaken to none. he talks because he has no reason to — his words were meant to paint a blank image across a canvas of too-vibrant hues and invoke emotions beyond rationale; it works or, at least, it has thus far. “now, now,” a gloved hand raises but nuri stands his ground, devoid of human fears and inhuman precautions, “sabres beat you to it about a year ago.” 

(there’s a scar on the bridge of his nose that he points to, a lopsided scuff across otherwise impeccable skin that seems to have healed erratically. had such sturdy bone not twisted upon the moment of impact, perhaps there would be no scar at all.)

the subtle quirk of his brows, almost obscured by tousled hair, acts as an amused taunt. nuri takes a bold step forward when it seems klaus is hesitant, his stride significantly wider to ensure a congenial space between them was nothing more than a distant dream. he can almost feel the other male breathe and it spurs on an inkling of a smile, near devilish in its intentions. “if you know better, then why do you want to be so close to me?” faux innocence laced in his tone, nuri questions with a raise of his shoulders. “if you wanted to kiss me so bad, you could have said so.” 

he tilts his head. “i could have been chewing on a breath mint all this time.”

[recantive]

sicheng / yuseongu‌

               ❝ from here, or somewhere else? ❞ sicheng asks in confusion. he doesn’t remember sending out any late returns recently. if anything, he tries to hold off on sending them for as long as he can. sicheng inherently believes books should be accessible by everyone – stamping a fine on late returns puts off those from less affluent households – but his library isn’t government funded, and he has to pay the bills somehow. ❝ if it was from me, don’t worry about it. just bring the books back, and pay it when you can, ❞ the librarian says with a smile, taking a sip of his tea.

“somewhere else.” in a way, it’s a blasé admission that raises his discomfort. there are so many libraries in seoul, so many archives to borrow information from, and he manages to accrue an inhuman debt to each one — an inequivalent exchange for a mere handful of his spare seconds and, a lack of stable income aside, jihae thinks it cruel. “i have a few books from you too. somewhere.” a frown grows beneath his mask when the heat’s gone from his tea; cup held steady with one hand, the other hesitates at the cusp of black material obscuring most of his nose, index finger hooked under it and touching cold skin. (the definition of exposure therapy comes to mind in these moments: a cognitive-behavioral psychotherapy intended to expose target patients to their worst fears.) jihae barely takes the leap, leaving enough material to cover a portion of his scar when he lowers his mask. he takes a sip of tea and it’s still warm. still enough to soothe his frayed nerves. “i just can’t stop borrowing books, you know? my livelihood depends on it.”

[recantive]

hyemi / consilian‌

hyemi’s learned a handful of things since stepping into the life she now occupies:

never ask to be seen and heard simultaneously. (this sometimes translates into “be pleased that someone’s looking at you. you need not be heard.” the girl dreams of eyes following her every move, eyes that are decadent and insufferable, a gaze that pulls the oxygen right out of her throat. it didn’t take long for her to understand why a person’s eyes are the portal to their soul.)

smile with your mouth closed. (that’s an advice she learned too well far too quickly. but she finds herself at ease when she catches hayeong’s smile in the mirror and she looks much the same: like a beautiful flower, unafraid of blossoming. and hyemi concedes that maybe she’s not the only one taught a lesson which is too dehumanizing to capture with words.)

there are more lessons to share: to listen well to her elders (“your generation is too impertinent.”) and to do as she’s supposed to (”there’s a reason why things are the way they are.”). repeat a lesson (read: command) often enough and people are bound to fall in line, doing as they need to. patriarchy is by far the best example for this and although hyemi smiles with her mouth closed, she never lets herself forget how sharp her teeth truly are.

but when her hands are done working and she’s marvelling at how the updo makes hayeong more regal, like a person of authority in comparison to her gentle demeanour, it’s then that the heaviness rolls from her shoulders and makes room for a light to flicker in her own eyes: the gaze of admiration, of childish pride at the beauty her own hands have managed to craft at the behest of no one but a whimsical need to paint a smile on another’s face. and hayeong’s smile offers just that: a sense of peace that hyemi hasn’t expected.

perhaps they are indeed more than just a caricature of expectations and social norms.

still, it’s not without surprise that she catches the first offer, then the second     however subtle, they exist and are made with no ulterior intentions. hayeong wishes to share and return what she has been given and the thought has the other woman pausing in her movements for a moment, reflecting on what must have happened for them to be so giving, so careless in their desire to empty themselves out. women are supposed to, that’s their job    always for others and their pleasure and joy and entertainment.

“i always wanted to try a style to resemble an actress in these old, black-and-white movies. can we do that?” she sounds small, like a child asking for candy. hyemi knows her hair is, unfortunately, only half as beautiful, nowhere near as well-tended as hayeong’s. it’s a byproduct of bleaching her hair, of coloring it and never trimming it to entertain her clients; hair is beauty is power and hyemi will always be the first one to admit that power’s something she can’t quite get enough of. but the thought of seeing hayeong smile again the way she did mere moments ago is enticing enough for hyemi to relent and to proclaim that even if she decides to go with another hairdo, she’ll be just as happy.

“we can.”

her velvet tone smoothens in fine suede when she speaks again, stitches of compassion overlacing intrinsic benevolence, because hyemi seems to loosen her threads with relative ease — one by one by one, until hayeong is no more than a lopsided stack of cotton. hands weaving between thin and thick strands of an ashen brown that she thinks vaguely resembles wet beach sand, suspended between her fingers as the ocean waves sing, she mumbles, “i can do whatever you want me to.” maybe, in a sense, it was meant to be ambiguous. an enigmatic confession, unsure of its own connotations. 

she tastes warm breezes and summer sunsets when she’s with hyemi, even if carbon clouds are never more than an arm’s reach away from their spot in blue paradise. 

(maybe, hayeong dives in too far too fast.)

fastening hair pins is no more a talent than it is an obligation, as is a steady hand when expensive jewels are mere millimeters away from a burning iron, but she took them in stride. before she moved back to seoul, it was always someone else that would brush and style her hair — always someone else deciding how blatantly, traditionally, odiously feminine she should be. (“it’s to offset your features, dear,” her mother used to say, “because you still resemble your father too much.”) an intricate ribbon whose fanciful fabric flows below her palm, one more curl of hyemi’s hair is released from the iron’s jaws.

“it’s been a long time since i’ve done someone else’s hair.” is it an attempt at small talk, or is it a burden she can hardly lift from her chest, barely lightened by the illusion of trust? hayeong can never answer her own questions but she continues to speak as though she can, excess pins held between her teeth now fastened into the neat folds of her sleeve. “i missed it a little.” because it’s lonely to work amongst women years older than her, because it’s lonely to be considered untouchable in a world she doesn’t consider her own, because it’s lonely to dwell, because it’s lonely— “no, i... i missed it a lot, actually.”

how strange it is, to stare at their reflections in the mirror and start to wonder if they’ve ever existed at all. hayeong looks at hyemi for the thousandth time and she’s reminded of the ocean again, in all its arcane serenity. 

for once, she doesn’t forget how to breathe.

fastening two pins into one curl becomes less of a chore and more of a routine, but she never misses a beat. not even when she says, “you’re so beautiful,” as she doubles ‘round to face hyemi, bent at the waist to ensure nothing was out of place.

[recantive]

navarre / hanatabas‌

@recantive liked for a starter!

muse: navarre yeob

‘   let me just enter this and-   ’   navarre quickly typed in the code, completing the program.   ‘   it’s done! just don’t use it for bad stuff, okay?   ’   navarre was nervous creating the program, knowing how easily it could be manipulated. but he had trust in the other.

there’s a sneer inching across his lips — devious or mischievous, it becomes sedated by an impassive gaze, almost unique to acrisius. (though proteus shares similar features, he is built quite kind, almost incapable of his twin’s wily disposition.) “bad stuff is a little vague, isn’t it?” he looks from the computer screen to navarre, back again, and hums, “don’t be such a worry wart.” his arms are crossed over his chest, long sleeves out of place in the birth of summer; it was a program meant to boost the business, one that yunhee refused to build, and acrisius was no criminal. at least, that’s what he wants navarre to think. “it’s just to help keep track of clients.”

[witchstone]

Celestial Mapping and Celestial Proportions by Tallmadge Doyle

[recantive]

klaus / lcsientc‌

He’s familiar with Nuri. It’s not as if he’s completely void to others. He and his brother Rian have had plenty of interactions with other supernaturals, it’s how he even got roped into Renovare in the first place. 

The vampire narrows his eyes at Nuri. “Say it again Nuri, I dare you.” Even if he’s weaker than most, he still has fight and without his mother, he would be a dead man and not a vampire. So he does have to be grateful in that regard. He would have never gained this strength.

Klaus sighs heavily, because Nuri’s right. Hiding a body is annoying, it’s always hard to get blood off your clothes or fingerprints off glasses or watches. He shoves his potential victim, watching them stumble. “Try it again and I’ll really kill you next time. You’re lucky.” In which he turns slightly toward Nuri. “There, you happy?”

fun, fun, fun. klaus is fun, from the innate resentment that weaves through his words to his narrowed eyes and how nuri can find every bit of weakness that floats through the darkened horizons of their treacherous seas. the courier has no intentions of harm nor belittlement despite his kittenish advances, but his exuberant smile remains. “what, your mom’s a whore?” when he turns his head, he jabs a thumb at his ‘friend’ and directs his attention to the poor soul caught in his grasp, shoulders raised in an almost incredulous shrug. “get a load of him, huh— so offended over something i say about everyone’s mom.” 

(he doesn’t, actually.)

nuri laughs now because it’s an obvious sort of irony, torturous, but a minute later it’s become a mere chuckle doused in hot breath. acrisius once mentioned he should have been born a trickster, his thin features made wily and devious; maybe, he said, his loyalties would be transparent then. “i always am.” but his teeth aren’t shown now, though his smirk remains plastered on wet lips, touched by the seams of his tongue one too many times. he has two options: take a step back, or remain ever so uncomfortably close — nuri, true to his nature, chooses the latter. “ever thought about anger management classes?”

his voice drops a level, fiendish, “i can be a pretty good punching bag.”

[recantive]

aurane / tactilian‌

𝔸𝕌ℝ𝔸ℕ𝔼 for @recantive‘s 𝔸ℕ𝕐.

“ fine. totally fine ! ” aurane has a dry mouth, butterflies trying to burst out of it. he wasn’t going to bail, not on the championship. without him, without his signature face out there by her side, atranta’s chances of winning were clipped in half. calm down calm down calm down. he repeats the couplet in his head without pausing, but his hands start to shake like they’re cramping from holding the world. he’s going to drop her if he goes out like this. he whimpers against his will. “ i can do it, ” he whispers. then he’s licking the salt of a tear from his lip. 

“you seem stressed,” but it’s a leading understatement, draped between them by an unusually stern tone turned to chiffon velvet, “anxious, maybe.” yumi was no stranger to another’s panic, though she may as well have been a stranger to him otherwise; her first time at a figure-skating competition, an indulgence encouraged by an excessively opulent cousin, and she runs into the same problem that crawls under her skin: a situation that she doesn’t know how to control, out of her jurisdiction and out of her reach.

he seemed to be talking to himself but, as she came to a slow halt, his words may have been directed — aimed at her, because there was no one else in the cramped spaces between connected hallways leading to the rink. the glint of a tear catches the light and her eye, and yumi almost curses her instinct to search through her purse. “here.” the click of her heel is almost non-existent against stiff carpet but she thinks it’s better that way when she holds out a handful of tissues to him, free hand resting on his shoulder. he’s a stranger, yes, but compulsions are difficult to tame. “thinking too much is most everyone’s worst enemy.”

[recantive]

youngjae / solorne‌

                   A SHEEPISH EXPRESSION O’ERTAKES HIS FEATURES  .   /     gaze immediately dipping downward ,  lips twisting up in a sort of half nervous way .    ‘    s—sorry …   ’     he’d sniff ,  fingers rubbing the back of his neck in slow circles.  ah  ,   it would be odd to tell her his habits wouldn’t it  ?  yet choi youngjae is an honest man ,  so despite his embarrassment  ,  he’d utter ,   ‘    it’s …  i dunno ,  it’s a habit of mine to buy one of each.  this chip brand’s real good n’ i just . .  .  need them all  ?    ’

idle but voluntary, she blinks. “it’s okay.” how strange, that food could become a vice to anyone; too much or too little, both she and this stranger waving at one another from either extreme. now she’s curious, eyes downcast and rose-tinted lips pursed into an almost-pout. in spite of an instinctive trepidation that warns her conscience otherwise, because she shouldn’t have a conversation like this with someone she’s just met, hayeong asks, “do you eat them all by yourself?” (or does he share them with friends, like some kind of self-proclaimed chip messiah?) glancing up at him again, she holds out the bag of chips once held prisoner in her arms. “here, by the way. i wasn’t going to take them anyway.” 

[recantive]

i. re:birth

sewn into dark irises is detached confusion. moonbin blinks when the needle pierces his eye once more, weaving black thread ‘round his vision — sheltering his senses from the nearest exits. the second-floor administration seems to decompose whenever he’s here, hands clasped over a tucked-in dress shirt that seems like it’s never been ironed, molars clenched ‘til the morbid grind of bone against bone echoes in his ears. it’s darker than he remembers, where cornered shadows creep across his face and neck, slithering into the very crevices of a barely beating heart. pervasive, even.

moonbin’s movement fluctuates, uncomfortable, but fear and darkness has already made a home in his conscience. "i’m being fired,” he says. (it’s to reclaim an illusion of control, to swear he made the rope burn his own hands and no one else’s, but he knows. he knows.)

she was a kind woman, his supervisor; somewhere between her forties and fifties, there’s creases in her skin, a lurid resignation dulling her eyes, and an expensive marker held in her trembling hands, moving across documents as though it could float on its own. kind, but made from the keenest edges, a blunt weapon to weakness. she, miss lee to her few coworkers and jangmi-ssi to even fewer, remembers him — pietous kwon moonbin, almost twenty-one, victim to his greatest vices, ever so desperate for an income. she remembers him, but that doesn’t matter now. 

it never did.

“dismissed,” jangmi counters, (corrects.) “you’re being dismissed, not fired.”

frustration sets in the wrinkled space between his brows, barely obscured by dark brown strands of hair stained a pale blue by the overhead flourescent light; he must seem so small in such a spacious room. it draws closer to his scleras, that sharp metal’s eye laced with black thread. its point glares at him from across the room when it catches the light too, silver-twinged blue amongst dark crimsons. someone is bound to throw it, he thinks, so why shouldn’t he do it himself? (because what goes around comes around and he’s never trained against puncture wounds in an office setting.) 

“bullshit.” jangmi’s gaze raises from her desk and his hands clench into fists, the cuffs of his blazer held in sweating palms as trimmed fingernails dig into the fabric. “the morgue is understaffed. if i were being dismissed—”

“noeul-ssi informed me of your status as an unregistered mutant.”

the needle’s pierced his throat and all he can do is swallow. again and again, so the neverending black thread can make a home in his stomach’s darkest trenches. 

[recantive]

do not reblog.