#xnoctuary

[illota]

To the typist: What is your relationship with writing?

AHA well

that’s actually an interesting question that i don’t really have a definitive answer to.

i’ve been writing since i was twelve or thirteen. it’s been a long, long time. at first it was just small stuff, never anything too large, convoluted, or requiring a commitment. i did some rp, never really did fics. still don’t

it’s always been something that was a sort of lesser hobby of mine - art was always the Main Thing. and now it’s kind of reversed, because of reasons... that are kind of personal. there are a lot of things going on there.

it’s become a lot closer to my heart recently, after meeting so many people by doing it. 98% of my life-long, closest friends were met via writing and posting it on the internet. i love them a lot, and this one cool activity was crucial in forming those friendships.

i really think i have a long way to go still, though.

tl;dr: i think it’s pretty cool, i guess.

[luxinexitium]

To the typist: What is your relationship with writing?

writing is my childhood friend.

we’ll meet up on the weekends for coffee, and in between are random outings to the bustling streets of downtown or a hike along crudely packed trails, or even on a spontaneous trip to that concert a hundred miles from home. we never quite know where we’re going, but we’ll always find each other even after years of distance.

writing is the friend i always talk about, the friend i will bring up in conversation because that reminds me of the time when. there are also times when we can’t get together; sometimes for days, maybe even years. but you can be sure that we’ll be smiling when we meet for coffee on a random tuesday, snapping our fingers and wondering oh, what was that word. hey, do you remember when.. what do you think about..

[illota]

❝ZERO PERCENT❞

    He can feel cartilage crushed under his fingers, bruises forming on tender skin, flowering to life as he ruptures an underlayer of blood vessels.

    It doesn’t feel like slow motion, like you see in the movies. In fact, his fists are rocketing through space faster than he can even register. He keeps going, going, going, and there’s nothing he can do to stop himself. Call it anger, desperation, or impulse - the only option available is to go with it. He is washed away.

    There are ragged breaths coming from below, his peripheral senses are picking up distorted screaming, pleas, and he can’t respond.

    He is yelling.

    In their darkness, these are the only sounds. His hand finds purchase on the skin of this man’s throat and he’s squeezing; shouting shut up, shut up, shut up.

    There are embers flaming in his stomach, spewing fire up his windpipe, and lava flows through the veins in his arms. His legs are cemented into place - he can’t leave now.

    Just over four thousand days should’ve given him enough time to find a way to control himself, to re-purpose himself, mold himself differently. He could have been anything, he could have done anything. And yet, here he is, still drinking, binging, hurting, killing.

    He mirrors his biggest nightmare without realizing it.

    The realization floats into his consciousness and then it spreads, leeches, draws the heat from his limbs into his head. And then he only sees red.

    “SHUT YER FUCKIN’ FACE ‘FORE I FUCKIN’ KILL YA!”

[ssicariuss]

〖   ♛   Starter for @xnoctuary​ ♛   〗

↬      ♚ HE PLAYED With the knife in his hand scanning the streets from the shadows. It was a silent and easy night, one he enjoyed. Warm but with a soft breeze on his skin, a lot of people outside for him to watch to decide his VICTIM upon. It where always the nice and easy nights that made it so much more fun for him so much more challenging. He was waiting though. Waiting for something to really capture his attention waiting for someone who could keep his bored mine rolling and wouldn’t roll over and die when he only appeared. He brought his long slender fingers up as he covered his yawning mouth. “Why are humans so tiresome...” Because they are pitiful imagine living your life caring for others, living your life dependent on others.

Rhyss agreed with his shadow. It made them so weak to depend on others, to not be able to be alone to always need something or someone around them. He sighed pushing himself out of the shadow to move along these CREATURES, walking between them like he was apart of them. A beautiful, strong stranger. Dominant in every way his demeanor ready to scare. He walked casually, like he had no care in the world while he scanned every persons soul ready to find the one that was going to entertain him this night.

It was only when he left the busy street to the more quiet spaces of Seoul that he finally found something interesting. A face so FAMILIAR that it couldn’t be true. A face unable to appear on another person. A shiver of anger went down his back as he followed the man. The man that looked like him the man that was the same as him. He engulfed himself in the shadows trailing that man, that man caring his face.

He lurked in the shadows not ready to make himself known to his prey yet watching his prey confined in darkness, reading his soul watching the DARKNESS that consumed the other. His flaws what kept him awake at night. Rhyss watched scanning his prey with his hawk eyes learning all he can. Why carried this man his face, how dare he carry the same face that Rhyss had worn for CENTURIES.  His fist where bald in anger his shadow firing behind him He would take him down enjoying tearing the other apart limb for limb feasting upon him but there was something else. Something more evil at play he could see it in him. In the man standing there he could see more evil. He curled his fingers around the corner barely visible in the darkness of the night

“Who are you?..”

[emxsg-blog]

{ @xnoctuary }

The day is dark and heavy and filled with clouds, and Sanggil knows this because it's raining in his head, too. He'd just barely forced himself out of the house this morning ( even though he knows it's the best thing for him on days like this -- when everyone inside of him is crying, trying to convince him that he wants to sleep forever, that it's better to die ), throwing on something disgusting and heading off to buy eggs and milk. 

He's heading back now, thin fingers clutching tightly a cheap plastic bag from the grocery store a few blocks down from his apartment.

He knows something is wrong as soon as he approaches, before he can so much as reach to pull his keys from the pocket of his jacket. 

There's someone else in his apartment, feelings other than the dull tiredness and contentment of his cat flowing through the cracks beneath the metal door. They're feelings of -- well, something, though Sanggil doesn't know what. He tries not to think of how new he still is to all this, of how there are still so many things he doesn't have names for, and cannot possibly put into words; for all of the information he's given, it is still so hard for him to understand. Meanwhile, something loud and twisted and violent and painful ( despite its distance ) continues to float towards Sanggil. He takes a breath, telling himself to stop stalling and just fucked live for once ( everyone is in pain anyway, always in so much pain ), and opens the door. 

What greets him is a strange sight: an ugly ( or perhaps beautiful ) stranger sitting amidst the mess of Sanggil's apartment, flipping through one of his old journals. The other man is peculiar -- he has dark hair and dark eyes but pale skin; his face is oddly shaped, and his limbs are so gaunt it's almost disgusting. "What the hell are you doing?" Sanggil asks, perhaps frightened and tentative ( as he always is ), but also curious and thrilled and reckless.