✕ gone.

thank you. i'm sorry. i love you.

[reminiscis]

Gone. So long.

[reminiscis]

TAG A QUALITY BLOG, YOU’RE IT! QUALITY DOESN’T MEAN THAT YOU HAVE A LOT OF FOLLOWERS, OR A LOT OF MESSAGES. IT MEANS THAT YOU’RE NICE TO OTHER PEOPLE, AND YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY. IF YOU GET THIS MESSAGE, SOMEONE IS TELLING YOU THAT THEY LOVE YOU AS YOU ARE, AND THEY DON’T CARE HOW MANY FOLLOWERS YOU HAVE. SEND THIS TO 10 BLOGS WHO DESERVE IT. IF YOU BREAK THE CHAIN, NOTHING WILL HAPPEN. BUT IT’S JUST GOOD TO LET SOMEONE KNOW THAT YOU LOVE THEM! ❤

[ i’m. HELLO YOU CUTE CINNAMON ROLL. I am just gonna hug your face and tell u that I love you even though I don’t know who you are and u should tell me. But anyway. Thank you so, soooooooo much for sending this in. Knowing that at least one person things my blog is quality and worth interacting with brings me joy. Thomas is the muse I’ve had for the longest active here and I’m proud of what I’ve achieved with him. I’m just – speechless really. This made my day ; u ; Thank you, again, from the bottom of this awkward potato’s heart.

[pxrxnnial-deactivated20211212]

@reminiscis

“IF YOU don’t say anything within the next thirty seconds, I’m going to stuff my face with this cake and you can’t get mad at me for it later. Are you sure I can have the last piece?”

[reminiscis]

“... are you really that hungry?” Hazel pair of hues roll by the back of his skull in feigned annoyance, the muffled sound of a laughter contained by the surface of a delicate palm over his mouth. “Go ahead. I baked that once. I can do it again--though this time, please, and I beg you, pay attention to learn the recipe and help me or I’ll pour flour on your head.”

[reminiscis]

@cvelia clawed at the depths of a delicate rose ✘

Blood, velvet, red. When will it cease? When will a restrained soul be set free from its confinements? Not tonight, child. You are a puppet made out of sheer lust for death. You are nothing.

A brutal pang piercing through fragile sculptures of sharp ribs drags a limp body to collapse to the hard ground, coated by fallen leaves and the gratifying scent of nature, embracing a sinner into the roots of what was once a beloved mother nature – but he became a monster, a loathing killer shooting through the thin skulls of its victims and torturing cracking bones to the very limit. Who had he become? What was he? A puppet. The figure lies to the cold surface as the sheer stains of red velvet engrave his wrongdoings across the cotton fabric of a black shirt, ripped pair of jeans demonstrating the relentless attempts of rebounding every scratch, every punch and every piercing made through a pale skin tissue.

Seconds are all it takes before the real world begins to contort into an outer reality, the blurring coating hazel pair of hues as air refuses to fill stringed expanse of bruised lungs. It could be the very end, and yet the certainty that is it not scares him most of all – they won’t let him die, not now, not anytime soon. He is a puppet and a puppet must serve its purpose.

By the far end of the vast forest makes itself present he distinctive pacing of unusual steps, unknown to his hearing and perhaps too agile to belong to an average human, then again, no senses are to be trusted when he lies into the nest of anxiety all over again. It doesn’t matter who it is, he doesn’t care anymore if he is caught under the eyes of a commoner in such state – let pity be made.

[reminiscis]

@codeno12 summoned the undead into the world ✘

The dead of dawn osculates at the speckles by the back of a strained nape as the hyperborean breeze embraces the frail figure of a human body into its glacial arms, lithe chains of pale fingers found delineating the very outlines of a professional camera hanging around the curvature of his neck by a single strap as careless steps lead a mindless being through the hard soil of the sidewalk, welcomed by the darkness of night time. It is an unusual happening -- being able to roam through the streets in a sane state of mind past midnight isn’t usually a privilege Thomas can grace himself with, matter of fact, it is beyond his will for it has been stripped from bare hands years back.

Night shots are somehow the most captivating and fascinating to be snapped, when the city dives into deep slumber, when the streets are left to be dominated by ghosts and the rumbling sound of an abandoned wind, finally setting peace to common grounds and giving birth to nothing but the sweet melody of silence. Oh, he just happens to be a sucker for the beauty of it. The extraordinary event draws curious set of orbs to scan through the corners bordered by the delicate touch of an everlasting moonlight above, illuminating the city to unleash its most breathtaking corners to the eyes of daring soul.

A brief thought is brutally interrupted by the ghosting of an ice cold breath by the incurvation of an exposed neck, an unknown, foreign source nowhere to be found when hazel hues dismantle every corner of its surroundings by an observant pace. Nothing -- no one, other than the figure standing by the far corner of the street. It could not be the source, the owner of such breath ascending goosebumps through the entirety of his anatomy. There was something else, no, someone else. Through the edges of a shorter figure hovered an aura, mysterious and amorphous, inhuman. The hitching of a  breath halts the passage of oxygen through the photographer’s epiglote, bony rows of fingers grasping the cold material of a neglected camera to align the rectangular frame by the height of his right eyes. Click. There goes a picture. Click. And another. Careless he was to assume the flash was turned off. 

The imminent collision of strange worlds makes its burst seconds later as a reverberation of his act -- any stranger would question their figures being capture into a camera at random. “I apologize for the picture taken without your permission.” Apologetic words spill from rose tinted lips as the tall stature of his building plants itself by the latter’s front when steps were more than quick to warn his path made towards the other. It was a hasty reflex, a mistake -- how to explain he was able to visualize creatures from the downworld into their own? “I just happened to see something--oh. No, nevermind. It was probably just my imagination.” A lie. It seems to always be the way. They say those who lie often tend to believe in their own lies -- sad it would be to dive into an unreal reality.

[seoulborne]

Young mischevious and delicately boned , he wanders into the distance. Tree limbed and forsaken , the curve of a dirty path does nothing to deter him from the way he continues to walk on. Blood cold and skin coldest , Haesol is that young boy no one recognizes , but somehow everyone knows thanks to his face being splattered almost everywhere as that exciting up and coming boy who can do most things. He’s scent oriented and just following that crowd along , interested in the way time ticks on and seems to leave him behind. He is a memory space , bracketed by the dense reminders. To disappear even if he wanted to is out of the question , invisible to the world , but somehow broadcasting his hurt out into the world. Bite hard and cry harder , and he’ll never remember the face of the person who did this to him. Haesol never liked being young.

That is until he bumps chest first into the person in front of him , mouth popping open in shock of his own actions with very little to do with just how good they smell. And it interests him more than anything (—a fawn kid , nose twitching as he tries to determine the safety of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ Haesol says abruptly , jerked out of thinking by the strangeness of his own stare. ‘I didn’t mean to run into you. I’m lost. You see I—’ He pauses, thinking up a proud lie. What would an idol like him be doing in a place like this? Swamped full of people , and suffocating , mouth-watering because of that scent.

‘I’m looking for a civic center?’ he says timidly. He tilts his chin like a kid his age should , and blushes delicately at the pressure. The words are odd even as they dance coveted on the tip of his tongue , a glance from beneath his eyelashes all he can offer. He presses his fingers together , and bites his bottom lip. ‘Or—a convention center , maybe? I have a practice for my show and I got separated from my manager.’ He just wants a bite , a nibble. Nothing to be afraid of.

@reminiscis

[reminiscis]

It is by the uniformity of an unfortunate collision with a stranger that the photographer’s absorption is diverted from its previous point, from the cold material of a camera hanging by the surface of his torso -- it should’ve been an average event, it should have. By the piercing of observant hazel orbs through the depths of young hues reflecting before him makes itself existent the presence of an unknown being, the ardent slice of a breath across the delicate speckles coating the flesh of his cervix and the very flick of a switch is bound to alarm every vivid sense relaying withing the caged structure of rib cages. Curse the strings entangled by the figure of stone bones with an outer world. He never asked for it. Across the pale facade is plastered nothing but an act, a lie plotted through every synapse sparking into the depths of a never-stopping brain.

‘You don’t have to apologize. I am at fault for being distracted as well.’ words flow past the rose lines of his lips, an excuse laminated by his best effort. The source of an undying fear could’ve come from any corner of the crowded surroundings he stands lost within, yes, it could, but every ounce of sanity screams otherwise. Lost. He shorter male planted before his figure was but lost, or so he claimed. An unusual happening for a singer, he deemed, however wariness was to be thrown under the sheets or else the outburst of an auburn chaos threatened to take place. ‘Oh—so you are a singer.’ 

Inhale, exhale. Keep your shit together, Thomas. Myriad were the events where the young male was caught by the same set of claws piercing through the fragile flesh of a human body straight through a pulsing muscle caged by bones -- dysphoria, he is trapped with the demons of his sins for an eternity.  ‘I happen to know this area quite well. I could perhaps help you find your way to said conventional center?’ he manages by the paradox settling withing his chest. Every cell of his body screams that he should run away, but Thomas Oh has always been a curious man, and curiosity will be the protagonist of his demise.

[reminiscis]

— ᴄᴀᴛᴛᴇʟʟ’s 16 ғᴀᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴛᴇsᴛ ʀᴇsᴜʟᴛs ;

✘ Tagged by: @erbxs & @avnoire ✘ Tagging: @luxinexitium @spinecollection @codeno12 @laundrybleus @fallenupcn @vxlpiine @kabonvi @enoumatic @infernalkai @archaistes & whoever else wishes to do it. ✘ Rules: Take this test for your muse, post the results and tag as many people as you want.

WARMTH - 70% ⤷ cold, selfish | supportive, comforting. INTELLECT- 82% ⤷ instinctive, unstable | cerebral, analytical. EMOTIONAL STABILITY - 50% ⤷ irritable, moody | level headed, calm. AGGRESSIVENESS - 14% ⤷ modest, docile | controlling, tough. LIVELINESS - 74% ⤷ somber, restrained | wild, fun loving. DUTIFULNESS - 58% ⤷ untraditional, rebellious | conforming, traditional. SOCIAL ASSERTIVENESS - 14% ⤷ shy, withdrawn | uninhibited, bold. SENSITIVITY - 82% ⤷ coarse, tough | touchy, soft. PARANOIA - 78% ⤷ trusting, easy going | wary, suspicious. ABSTRACTNESS - 82% ⤷ practical, regular | strange, imaginative. INTROVERSION - 90% ⤷ open, friendly | private, quiet. ANXIETY - 90% ⤷ confident, self assured | fearful, self-doubting. OPENMINDEDNESS - 90% ⤷ close-minded, set-in-ways | curious, exploratory. INDEPENDENCE - 90% ⤷ outgoing, social | loner, craves solitude. PERFECTIONISM - 66% ⤷ disorganized, messy | orderly, thorough. TENSION - 26% ⤷ relaxed, cool | stressed, unsatisfied.

[spinecollection]

it’s a shame he’s a client. wooseok holds a preference for pretty faces, and it shows in the way he watches him, his gaze coveting heavy with curiosity. it’d be nice to have him in his collection, locked up and ready to destroy. what a pity, what a waste. wooseok would have put thomas in a good use, if he was his. 

of course. he comments mentally as his greeting goes unanswered. his palm is left empty and cold, and wooseok glances down at it before withdrawing with a polite chuckle. no hard feelings. “yes, of course. i’ll bring them to you right away. would you like something while you wait? some tea, maybe? i’ve prohibited coffee around here recently since some of my little angels found it too anxiety inducing,” he briefly mentions the young killers in training, his gaze crawling back to the red curtain behind the cashier. “…anyway, give me a minute.”

“ah ha, i definitely will,” wooseok almost tilts his head to see if there’s any flicker of interest in thomas’ eyes before turning away to retrieve the stored weapons. 

he’s back with two large black cases in his hands, placing them onto the desk between them as he opens them one by one. “feel free to check if they’re okay,” a simple routine has developed between them after thomas’ first visit. “please do keep in mind you have a month until they have to be returned. they’re quite high in demand these days. i see that you’re a trend setter, mr. oh.”

“and these-” he takes the roman scissors out, sliding a gloved finger across the hooked blade, “short range, about 18 inches and weighs 5 pounds. you just have to put it over your hand- would you like to try it on?” 

[reminiscis]

to unveil the exact thoughts rushing through the latter’s mind as the heavy gaze remains on his features proves itself to be nearly impossible task even for observant pair of monochrome hues such as his own, however his demeanor remains unaffected through the entirety of the lingering moment, sparing an empty glance towards the source keeping attentive eyes on him. why was he staring?

the echoing of words piercing through delicate eardrums is the sole reason to snap the young male from the cosmic trance he had been dragged into, driving hazel orbs to scan through the extensive surroundings he never quite bothered to observe -- not that he had a choice when caught under invisible strings. “i do not drink tea. you are unfortunate to have prohibited coffee considering it is the only sort of energy drink i have allowed myself to consume. shame on your little minions for leading you to such decision.” the flow of words is coated by a the ghost of a snapping tongue by the roof of his mouth, a quiet complaint as his gaze is guided by the other’s every motion in an observant state.

it is by the moment the new pieces of weapon come to be showcased over the table that a swift motion of lithe rows of fingers makes itself present -- it all happens faster than a human’s eye may be able to process, the grasp over the sharp roman scissor and the slice of the metal through the air until its sharp blade lands mere inches away from the latter’s throat. he needed no further consent to make use of the piece, features contorting into an atrocious and bloodlusting expression.

“it seems good enough for me. i’ll take it.” and word by word the blade comes to be lowered from its spot, the material left cold over the table once more as slender fingers trace out the outlines of the cold surface by rough pads. “i will make good use of it ... it’ll be perfect to make yet another masterpiece.” he is not himself and he hates it -- however through his figure is showcased nothing but sheer madness.

[reminiscis]

@laundrybleus​ wrote a symphony through brittle bones ✘

A sweet melody comes piercing through acute eardrums as the reverberating timbre echoes through the enclosed room, his tall stature leaning against the door’s frame as hazel orbs trace out every vivid kissing of the latter’s rough pads against the piano’s delicate keys, long rows that dance across the surface of the refined instrument as if they were meant to be. It’s fascinating, to say the least.

The simple symphony draws the young photographer back to their very first meeting -- an event where the male was hired by the hosts in order to photograph moments through its entirety, however it was the captivating chant of a sharp notes that caught his attention, absentmindedly leading cautious steps towards the latter. An exchange of contacts was then the seed to be watered, the source of a blossoming friendship between the two.

Perhaps the halt of notes mixing into a pleasant song came when his presence was perceived and he snaps out of a trance, his figure lead all the way towards the other male until lithe rows of fingers are running through the outline of the piano found before his figure, the ghost of a smile plastered along rosy lines of perfectly sculpted lips. “You still play as beautifully as the first time I listened to it.” It cuts through the air only to fade seconds later when his palm is idly retracted from the cold surface of the instrument in respect to its owner, diving into the depths of his jean’s pocket instead. It is, indeed, still as fascinating -- music, especially the soothing harmony of a piano, has always been one of his most cherished passions.

“It’s been a while, Solomon. How have you been?” The flow of words spills from the back of his throat as the young male settles by the latter’s side, a buff of air exhaled through delicate nostrils before his attention may be directed towards the fingers still in contact with keypads before them. It has indeed been a while ever since the last time he paid the other a visit, or even dared to contact him, however life sliced through every path made present within his agenda, blocking any sort of communications with the outer world. It was about time to come find one of the most inspiring pianists he has ever had the pleasure of developing some sort of friendship with.

[baekphia]

160930 // artificial love solo

[reminiscis]

@fallenupcn has creeped through darkness ✘

The dead of dawn enveloped a frail figure cutting through the merciless, arctic breeze as unstable steps were set along the sidewalk, a vivid moonlight kissing porcelain features painted by the soft brushes of red velvet, staining the cotton fabric of unkempt pieces of clothing into paradoxal shapes and carrying the blood of a lifeless body left behind across a broad building. Another night, another kill. Desperation reigns withing the reflection of hazel orbs,  screaming for mercy, aiming for a string of hope amidst chaos settling within the delicate cages of a human’s ribs -- he was left to his own yet again, made out into a mindless puppet under the invisible strings of its puppeteer.

An echoing disturbance reverberating from the left corner of an alley came to be the cause of a diverted focus of his attention, still caught into a murderous state and under the risks of being caught be the law under his current conditions -- it did not matter. Lithe rows of stained fingers, painted by the delicate fissures with the thick liquid running under one’s veins, were naturally guided towards the right edge of his belt, sliding rough pads along the cane of a knife and drawing the deadly material by the coiling of bony rows around it, mirrored by the other set of fingers found on his opposite palm, the handle of knives set by the displaying of swift motions before his very own eyes as cautions step cut through the dead of darkness across the alley.

Through the depths of fragile entrails made itself present a piercing sense, viciously cutting through the expanse of his thorax as the young male’s steps came to a halt. Such a familiar feeling, presented strictly when an abnormal being is found within the neighborhood. Seconds settle within the scene before curious orbs may adjust to the lack of light at the enclosure, settling over a standing figure over a lifeless body sprawled over the loathsome floor. Death, it was all he could smell. "Who are you?” Careless words spilled from rose tinted pair of lips and yet showcased little to no emotions regarding the lack of a puppet’s humanity.

It was, however, the wrong question to be set over the table. No, it was not a human he found himself faced with, it was not an everyday being wandering through the city’s busy streets -- he was different and that simple fact aroused curiosity to burn through every vein of his anatomy. “What are you?”

[reminiscis]

@avnoire blossomed delicate flowers through thick walls ✘

the intoxicating scent of delicate petals slices through the young male’s senses by the second a step is set within the enclosure -- a flower shop, well known to his fancy and the current location of a friend. “jinhee?” monochrome pair of hues scan through the entirety of the store as cautious step drag along the hard ground beneath his feet, delicate string of fingers drawing the outlines of hanging flowers along his step by the touch of rough pads in curiosity, caught in the delicacy and smooth texture of a petal under a human’s touch.

a rummage echoing from the depths of the shop draw the curious male towards its source, palms soon to be folded behind the expanse of his lower back in order to avoid the deterioration of such beautiful flowers by the taunt of an unknown touch, yet orbs are naturally lead to trail the sweet scents mixing along his way and settling a certain type of calm within his ribcages.

by the corner a figure is made present, a female with long locks of ebony and a fragile ribbon laced over the side contrasting with the fair complex reflecting the faint sunlight peeking through the windows. “oh, there you are. i finally managed to drop by and i apologize for taking so long. i would’ve come earlier if i knew there was such a variety of flowers in here.” it has been a while since a promise was made to make himself present within the shop, however unfortunate events stumbled across plans that had been previously set, a hint of guilt coating the timbre of his voice as the corner of rosy lips curl to the shape of a ghosting smile. “i hope you don’t mind me dropping by so suddenly.”

[reminiscis]

@vxlpiine​ has witnessed havoc in its padarox ✘

Reminiscing the anterior shower of dawn came with the caress of a tender breeze through the delicate surface of a porcelain flesh, bony rows of fingers drawing the dead cold outlines of his professional camera’s material as absentminded thoughts pressured through the entirety of his brain. The demons bite at the edges of his soul, claw at the innocence left and shielded by the last bits of love left within what could be deemed as an empty shell -- they are haunting the imaginative and relentless mind of the human, building up fear of failure over a target set by unknown entities. There was a flaw, an espace and no strings of velvet emerged to stain the plain fabric of his clothing. She ran away.

The consequences of a runaway target comes according to a puppeteer’s wish; pain, torture, and sometimes the simple fear of what is to cut through his throat for the following seconds and yet being left in the echo of desperation without a single move. It is a destructive method applied to deteriorate the young male -- the most effective of them all. Psychological damage.

And silence was made.

Daylight was graced by a monotone routine, no disturbance as a boring human was granted the peace of making it through yet another day, haunted by an never ending shadow stalking his every step yet unable of demonstrating any sort of reaction. However, it’d be foolish and extremely naive of the male’s part thinking retaliation of angered souls would not crawl back from the depths of hell to pierce through his stomach.

Failure was far from being acceptable and the puppet was brought to life yet again the dead of the night. Step after step against the hard soil, dragging circumspect through the refinement of a moonlight, awakening the devil kept caged withing the depths of his heart -- an assassin, cold blooded and inhuman. It was a trigger set by the moment monochrome orbs lied on the balletic figure of a female nonchalantly standing few meters from him. An unusual feature to be displayed before the upstanding aura of a killer, yet she did not showcase any ounce of fear, in fact, no reflex was brought to light by the second the trigger of a silent pistol came to be muffled through the screeching of bats through the time.

The very tip of the hard material was aligned by calculations straight towards the female’s skull, and in his voice was presented sheer frustration in a mixture of anger and boldness. “You have escaped once. I do not plan on committing the same stupid mistake twice.”

[hirxeth]

[reminiscis]

「✘」

—  ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋᴇʀ.

Since I am done with all replies I was notified of, here is a tracker. There may be replies Tumblr did not notify me of so please, do not hesitate to tell me if you’ve replied and I didn’t see it. Notifications have been fucking up lately ; _ ;

Waiting on:

@infernalkai (x) @archaistes (x) @ofsunsandstcrs (x) @nerevm (x) @feastofallsaints (x) @nightscaped (x) @luxinexitium (x) @aniimvs (x) @yuketsuki (x) @erbxs (x) @yokviboy (x) @anomxlie (x) @spinecollection (x) @precinctboy (x)

Important Note: Please take your time! This is simply a tracker so I don’t lose sight of the threads I have going on. You are all so precious and great writers with amazing muses that I don’t want to miss up on ( :

[hqgodspeed]

there were only a few ways to piss kim jongin off, but even fewer to neutralize his temper once it was set off. he was momentarily caught off-guard by the fucker’s reflexes–impressed, even–although the thrill that accompanied the presence of a formidable opponent was short-lived. the fucker had him by the horns, and if there was anything that boiled his blood more than a rude encounter, it was being made vulnerable. made a pitiful sight in front of passing pedestrians.

“get the fuck off me,” he growled. he felt it in that instant, the same sort of blind fury that could have triggered his own father to lodge a bullet in his son’s shoulder, and it was glowering red behind his eye sockets. using his own self-defense techniques, he pried himself free from the other male’s grip, fists still curled and tense at his sides. he would have jumped recklessly into a fight he would have been physically outmatched in if it weren’t for the semicircle of onlookers that had surrounded them to watch the brawl. it was too risky. not worth it, most importantly. he was already on an unofficial probation with his boss for a few counts of reckless violence and another was sure to land him in an unfavorable position in his boss’s office. not worth it. not worth it.

but that voice. the fucker was one of them, one of those “holier-than-thou” assholes that had only one condescending tone of voice for every occasion. again, not worth it. not worth it. “shut up,” he interrupted the other male curtly. “you call the shit you just pulled there polite?”

the crowd around them was thinning, too quickly bored by the lack of drama. even the security officer that had been observing them from his post at the bank’s entrance turned a blind eye to them, and that was when jongin stepped forward. “you walked into me, fuck-face,” he muttered. now, fuck-face was far too vague in terms of how he wished to concentrate all his anger into one spiteful word. “polite side,” he mimicked mockingly, spitting a wad of saliva onto the pavement just an inch from the other male’s shoe. if only his aim had been better. with that, he brushed past him, and only when he was a safe distance away did he reach a hand up to massage his stiff shoulder. after surviving a fatal gunshot wound that had shattered his clavicles, the shoulder thomas had twisted back hadn’t healed the same, and had left an indescribable burn to settle in his flesh.

it was times like these he felt the worst, the most helpless, when he could still feel the burn of shrapnel in his skin and acknowledge the fact he was a cripple who couldn’t even raise both arms over his head anymore. 

[reminiscis]

"i wouldn’t say i was being polite on my own part, however you presented me with such behavior and i simply responded by the same means.” it is a misuse of breath when there is a disjunction through the conversation (if it may even be called that), a figure departing from the enclosed bubble that had come to envelop both males with an unpleasant sort of name referring to his person. fuck-face, huh? how amusing. few were the ones daring to go against a cold blooded killer with a terrible personality. the mockery blossoms a pride of some sort within the caged rows of delicate ribs within his torso, feeding famished demons with the blood of his own entrails ripped by the thorns of wittering roses. they make it hard to breathe at time, yet boost the boiling carving underneath this skin. 

to think he would let it slip with no retaliation would be foolish, the feathery steps of a stalker through the depths of the night through endless shadows presenting thomas with the ability of tracing the latter’s paces one by one in the coverage of silence as observant pair of orbs trail along the male’s demeanor from behind. it strikes in a row. the motion of languid rows of tanned fingers reaching out for the curvature of a shoulder he had caught in a grip moments before sparks no longer frustration but an ounce of curiosity -- his motion previously was not applied with enough intensity to leave a lingering pain, it had come with the simple intent of retracting an unpleasant behavior from his facade. intriguing. the cause was to be uncovered at some point.

it was made clear that his presence is not welcome surrounding the latter, yet the fact doesn’t seem to stop the photographer from prompting his figure before the latter in a matter of seconds of catching up. “i did not imobilize you with enough strength to injure your muscles. i am not that rude to hurt a stranger.” hazel pair of hues scan through the referred spot over the male’s shoulder by the pointing of a delicate, pale index finger. it was not usual and as a figure who has taken enough damage to drop dead if caught only by the simple strings of human life, the young male is able to differentiate a previous wound from the current situation. “i apologize if it happened to be my fault. it was not my intent.” perhaps the so said timbre of regarding the reverberation of his voice dissipates into an earnest type of feeling, leaving aside any possible defenses regarding their meeting for the sake of satisfying his own curiosity.

yes, the photographer carries a terrible personality when ripped of patience, however that one instinctive feeling of pursuing a parallel line of logic happens to be more appealing than giving in to a fist fight with a stranger. for all he knows the latter may have more to show than a bad personality over a misunderstanding, just like he does himself.

[spinecollection]

@reminiscis

“thomas oh,” there’s a hint of enthusiasm in his greeting, the corners of his lips curling upwards and his eyes turning into crescent moons. “it’s been- a month? has it? so happy to see you again. how’ve you been?” an eager gloved hand reaches out for a shake, curved eyes resting easily onto thomas’. 

now, wooseok has a good memory, and amongst his long list of clientele, thomas, in particular, stands out. pretty face, yes, but that’s not important. what keeps him interesting is how he almost used every single weapons in store, from a to z. he keeps on coming back with the dead blank look on his face, as if all the blood washed whatever moral he had away, right down to the core. 

“i read your request, have them ready for you in the storage. would you also like to check out the new arrivals? i’ve got these roman scissors recently. they’re very nice, easy to handle and wound. it should come in handy if you’re in a rush. would you like to see them?”  

[reminiscis]

a killer grows hungry for the weaponry of its sinful doings. a cold blooded puppet assassin he is, yes, in need of a supplier for the perfection of a crime committed in the dead of the night when screams are but white noise swallowed by sheer darkness and washed away into a river of velvet reflecting the moonlight above. he is, yet again, caught by a puppeteer’s strings.

before monochrome hues lies a hand extended, a human greeting. oh, if he had any control over his own body perhaps it wouldn’t have come to the split of second ignoring the latter’s palm. he has no choice of his own. he’s a shell, empty and simply being used to shed blood and rip to shreds whatever was left of his sanity. there’s no reaction through the blank reflection in his eyes until the request is brought up through words, a measured flick of his gaze towards the other male shifting back the hoodie thrown over his skull. “i’d like to have what i came for.”

the next victim awaits through the streets of a sleeping city and dawn must last long enough to complete the annihilation of his target. “but i am also interested in the new arrivals. please present them to me.” the tone of his voice mimics nothing but echo, emptiness and the lack of any fragment of emotion. he comes for one thing and one thing only. it has the young male wondering just what would be of him if met by daylight with the latter when sanity washes over him once more. it’d be an intriguing situation to occur.