#blackbook.

[delinquart-blog]

haxveon:

He was looking into her eyes for quite a long time, before he burst into laughter, immediately covering his face with his palms and almost falling from the sofa, the both were sitting on. “Oh God..” He tries his best to stop laughing, ignoring her confused stare, which also had something scary about it. “It was.. Three? No, four years ago or so?” He finally pulled his hands away, looking at her.

her face scrunches into an expression of disapproval as she watches her friend fall into the grasp of an overly-excited fit of hilarity. the more he laughs, the more perplexed she feels, unable to derive the same amount of humor from the subject they are discussing. "something like that. but the years don't matter," she answers, reaching out to gently shove the male's shoulder. "that doesn't mean the hurt has lessened any. that was probably the most embarrassing moment of my life. i don't even know why i brought it up." leaning back into the cushions of the sofa, she throws her arms around the length of the back, tilting her head to gaze up at the ceiling. "it was kind of funny, though. i got in a lot of trouble that day."

[delinquart-blog]

blossominv:

   she’s curled up on the couch, thumb  against the controller as she    flicks through the    channels. her other hand feels around a bowl ;     picks up the last remaining chips and tosses them into her mouth.     when her   phone buzzes by her side, yoora glances   down to spot    an unknown number. 

[ 8:14 PM → unknown: ] ??? [ 8:14 PM → unknown: ] i wasn’t expecting visitors [ 8:14 PM → unknown: ] this is yoora. are you sure you got the right number?

thoroughly frustrated with her own stupidity, emi heaves out a sigh as she awaits the response to her message, grip unusually tight around her phone. honestly, she scolds herself mentally. how could you forget the house you have been to so many times? although it has been a while, she cannot forgive herself for pushing such an important location from her mind just yet. there is no excuse. she lifts a hand to rub her face in an attempt to calm herself, practically a second away from physically abusing herself for being so idiotic. 

her exasperated mood only worsens when her phone vibrates, disturbing her thoughts by sending a tingling sensation through her palm and up her arm that is startling. when the device is brought into her vision and the incoming messages are able to be read, emi has to refrain from collapsing with defeat in the middle of the sidewalk. today is simply not her day.

            ( ᴛᴇxᴛ » hana. ) yoora?             ( ᴛᴇxᴛ » hana. ) ugh. are you serious?             ( ᴛᴇxᴛ » hana. ) please tell me you're joking.

[delinquart-blog]

the stinging is not agonizing, but it is definitely uncomfortable. so uncomfortable that it renders her usually fluid movements undeniably stiff and rigid. geez. this incident will definitely lead to much more care when trying to reach the higher areas and when cavorting around childishly when success has finally been seized. any ledges and steps are hereby out of question for artistic review for the next few weeks. glancing down at the torn material of her jeans, she gently touches a finger to the red splotched scratches in the fragile skin. a heavy exhale leaves her. she's just happy it doesn't feel as bad as it looks. that thought makes her ponder about her elbow, which may be in even worse condition judging by the minimal amount of flexibility she currently has. worrying about that can come later. "hey, hey! excuse me!" she calls out, wobbling pitifully slow over to the stranger while bent over at an awkward angle. the position is required to keep a hand clasped over her brutally scratched knee to prevent blood from ruining her already tarnished jeans any further. "do you have a napkin or something? kind of bleeding here."

[delinquart-blog]

sephiror:

    ‘ are you serious——? ’ he cringes, staring at the stranger; what the hell? jeongguk didn’t even do anything. why was he being targeted? he didn’t want to play any stupid games. he needed to get to the library.

"nah, i'm just messing with you, kid," she replies, large amounts of sarcasm evident in her deadpan tone. hell, it won't matter to her if this boy winds up caught and terrorized in her stead. in fact, that would be somewhat of a godsend. "now you either follow suit or answer whatever questions some very, very furious guys have for you when they show up. that is, if they even decide to ask anything. they might just skip straight to the abuse. but that's not my problem, i guess." with a nonchalant shrug, her shoulder rolls to shift her dangling backpack into a more comfortable position before she turns to continue on her way, only bothering to cast one last glance in the stranger's direction. that way, no one could say she didn't try.

[makarovs]

CruelWidow: Undercover

John Doe & Andrea "Andy" Doe

She came to him with a proposal, a straight-forward undercover assignment, one he didn't think to turn down. But maybe he should have. Because it's easy—it's too easy. And it gets easier every day. He wakes up beside her in the mornings, shares her bed (and sometimes more) at night. They eat together, make conversation over coffee at midnight and detail new leads and information over breakfast at the table. She cleans his guns and sharpens her knives while he flicks through tv channels; she reads while he plays jazz piano for a few hours at a time. They wait for the neighborhood to fall asleep and then slip out like ghosts, to patrol the perimeter and check the dead drops. And then they come home and stretch out on the couch, laying opposite directions so when he knocks his knee against hers one time too many times all she has to do is sit up and shift herself over him, straddling him like she was born to do it—like she's been doing it every night for years. Like she'll do it every night for the rest of their lives if he asks.

And he enjoys himself. And he forgets. Forgets, sometimes, that the game is still on, that it's all (mostly) a charade. He forgets that they're being hunted and that they're also doing some hunting of their own. He begins to realize that if he doesn't remind himself he starts to lose track of the time, of his grasp on their original reality; he forgets that she's not his wife and that they're not in some unlikely love story and that this is not their life to live.

Sometimes, his heart wrenches in his chest when he remembers that they're just playing house with sniper rifles and throwing knives.

Sometimes, he forgets they're not in love.

But then—every once in a while—he thinks, maybe, just maybe, she does too.