Conquest of Spaces by Woodkid
Send me a song blah blah shit drabble thing dies.
Behind the dreams of masteryLove dies silentlyTorn to the flesh as the fire bleedsEchoes of historyI’m ready to start the conquest of spacesExpanding between you and meCome with the night the science of fightingThe forces of gravity
Park Chanyeol wants the world.
Acquisition is a game. The world is a metaphorical black and white checkered board and he is skill wrapped under the skin of innocent mischief. He is an assemblage of well-woven, fabricated lies, speaking fibs disguised as poetry and hiding agendas behind a carefully constructed mask. If there was a language Park Chanyeol would be flawlessly fluent in, it’d be deceit.
“This has got to be your worst idea—” she hisses, dragged along by a bumbling fool with his long, bony fingers curled around the thinness of her wrist. “…in your entire fucking lifetime— Don’t smile at me like that, Park Chanyeol,” her tone is accusatory at best, dipping lower in warning while her frown deepened at the sight of the grin that curls his lips. Dark, scandalized eyes flicker around and scan her surroundings: they’re going to break into private property, she’s going to spend a night in jail. This is going to be Chanyeol written all over it, like the way he’s written Park Chanyeol all over her.
He begins chuckling, Soojung knows trouble is brewing.
“Come on, Jung Soojung, show me your sense of adventure.”
She falls as a constant prey to his whims. Always baited by a challenge written in a smirk (Soojung is towers of pride hidden in a tiny body), but underneath the cutthroat exterior is a girl that’s so eager to please. He discovers, he conquers, he exploits this to his advantage. Secrets are currency for a barter; he played the inquisitive boy so well, she starts believing in his lies. He wins somewhere in between his fingers curling through crimson locks and the sound of warm breaths mangling together. Jung Soojung might just want the world for Park Chanyeol.
This is a game of give and take, Soojung gives, gives, gives; Chanyeol takes, and takes, and takes.
Betrayal leaves such an ugly scar. Denouement is a heartbreak buried under mistakened felicity. She doesn’t find a flicker of remorse in his eyes the second he steps in her apartment and finds a gun pointed at his head, her pretty finger around the trigger. She looks almost regal this way. Soojung is a queen and this war is her kingdom. She’s about to add another body to hide under her corroding throne. Yet she looks in his eyes and sees no remorse.
Just acknowledgement.
(Soojung is not a queen, she’s a fool.)
“So you found out?” she listens to him hum, mellifluous sound ringing incessantly in her eardrums. Tilting his head slightly as he watched her, he offers her another smile (because he’s not sorry, he’s not) and she wants to rip into his skin with a silver bullet. She doesn’t answer, he doesn’t deserve an answer when she wasn’t worth an explanation.
"How?"
"Should it matter? I want you to get the fuck out of my apartment," she emits something close to a growl, watches him quirk his eyebrow in response, glancing at the door before he fixates his gaze to her features. Anger murders every star that had taken refuge in the brown of her eyes, fury replacing phantoms, replacing compassion. The room is filled with the sound of him clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth; mockingly, tauntingly — she knows this game all too well. "Letting me go so soon, Soojung-ah?" Park Chanyeol knows her too well, knows that her trained fingers might never pull the trigger. Not on him at least.
“This is a head-start,” and he laughs; Soojung might be a good liar, but he was always better. “I want you to start running,” there is steel melted and wrapped in her words; this is not a warning, this is an instruction. His fingers dance along the muzzle of her gun, tips gliding along the cool metal pushing it lower and lower until it’s pointed at his chest. The sound of his laughter makes her push the weapon harder against him; until its pressed against his bone, until he feels the whisper of a weapon against his beating heart. Soojung just can’t pull the trigger and he knows. Pathetic, you’re pathetic. He leans in, lets her feel his lips ghosting over hers and she holds the gun tighter until the pain spills and seeps into every joint, infects every bone until her knuckles begin bleeding ghostly white.
Soojung feels sick, she feels absolutely sick.
Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare fucking touch me.
"I’ll catch you later then?" she hears him coo, barely letting those rough fingers brush against the paleness of her cheek. She sees confidence in the way he steps back, not before tucking her crimson locks behind her ear — she feels something curdle and rot in the pits of her stomach, they were daisies. The same ones he’d planted once upon a time. The door shuts softly, Soojung finds no traces of Park Chanyeol in her periphery but feels the ghost of him haunting her veins.
Park Chanyeol wants the world, Jung Soojung wants a world without Park Chanyeol.
”Come on, Jung Soojung, show me your sense of adventure.”
