❝In my faint whispers, you will easily surrender.
In my touch, you will falter.
In my kiss, you will wither. ❞
❅ ❅ ❅ ❅
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It is a fate you we can never escape. @princess--ofthedamned
Death lingers around them, around her, sometimes even swirls around her fingers, red liquid laced in red tips.
‘Red for Christmas?’ Her nail stylist once asked her, a question that earned the questioner with a plain chuckle, followed by a soft curve of her lips, which, by the way, was painted the same color as her nails. ‘No.’ was her plain reply.
Red is the color of sweet, sweet death.
And red is screaming in neon bumper lights, in hands tightly grasping on steering wheel, and in the vessels of her eyes.
Red is screaming at the sight of liquid swirling around one’s body - a body all too familiar for her – a body she had known since its birth.
Samantha.
Emily was enough, she thought. It is the fact that Lorraine could not be there when her mother took her last breath that breaks her and allows guilt to resurface. Was her absence during her last moment an easier pill to swallow? She thought no, but in just a sight of her sister’s body lying on the street, almost lifeless, everything turned and she could not even fathom letting the idea of death touching her life once more.
Was it her unusual agility or the adrenaline, Lorraine does not know, but it took just a few seconds from the moment her tires screech to a full stop up to holding her sister’s face, red tainting red, blood all over.
“What the hell happened?” came her voice, barely a whisper, but she knows he could hear from a distance –camouflaging with the humans. And she knows he had something to do about this.
Romanovs know how fuck things up. It runs in their blood First, Casper. And now. Damon.
Lorraine didn’t have to wait for an answer – his presence alone was enough proof and she hated how he could smile amidst all of these.
She could break his neck in front of the crowd. She doesn’t care. Nothing matters anymore.
“Eom….ma…” The younger mumbled in between painful breaths, steering Lorraine’s attention back to her sister. She could hear her weakening pulses and soft whispers. Eomma… eomma..
“Don’t you dare follow her, Samantha. Get a grip of yourself!” was all that she could say as she carried her on her back, her limp body heavy on her back, head hung on her right shoulder. The ambulance siren can be heard from afar, but they’re too far, too late to save her sister.
Only she can.
Weaving through the crowd of curious people, she went her way to her car, laying her sister at the back before she dashed to her seat. Her foot smashed the pedal and there was not a single second wasted. Engine ignited, her eyes set on the road, her hands trembled in fear. And as if the sight of Damon wasn’t enough bad luck, each intersection was on a stop. Red is everywhere. Death is everywhere. But it didn’t matter She didn’t care. She passed by each red stoplight, cars at the intersection honking at her but truth be told, there was nothing else she heard at that time.
Nothing else but her prayers pleas.
‘Don’t do this to me, Sam. Wake up!”
There was a warm droplet flowing on her face. Tears?
I’ll generate a number from 1-77 (YES SEVENTY SEVEN OPTIONS!) to see what is in our muses’ destinies, then I’ll write some drabble based on the number generated.
NOTE: This meme was originally posted by frommemetoyou, which has since deleted, breaking the read more. Further notes on that at the end of the read more.
He who comes back for a monster | @destructiveurgxs
Emptiness is embodied in her.
And she should have known. Oh she had known it well, back when everything in her life fell down in a one simple bite, two scars and two lives. The fact that her existence is a bane is enough for her to accept the hollow being that was her.
Lorraine is a void. She knows it. She knows it all too well.
What made her forget about it?
What made her realize again how empty she is?
Simple
A home void of one’s presence. And a fear of losing that one.
The vast space of her house is full of luxurious furniture and all that is needed in an abode, and yet no matter how occupied it is, it had always felt empty because there was no one but her in there. And she did not mind. She did not mind at all. The dark silence is what she had sought for and the solitude is a choice. And yet how come today, a Sunday, if it even matter, it vexes her even if it shouldn’t.
There is a pit in her stomach the moment she steps inside her own house; the night possessing the entirety of it as darkness befalls and spreads in every corner. And the darkness doesn’t seem to fade as a switch is turned on, allowing the lampshade near the couch to blink a few before the amber light spreads dimly.
If anything, it is even unnerving.
What is?
There goes again the inner voice that questions her. It has been there for a good while now, and perhaps, it is the same voice that causes this strange dread inside of her.
He’s not here.
It wasn’t an answer to the voice but a fact that she ingrains in herself. An attempt to keep her calm, maybe. A scotch from the liquor bar is snatched, her glass is already waiting in the marble table and it only takes a few seconds for the liquor to stay on the glass before it reaches her mouth. An attempt to keep her calm, hopefully.
And so? Why does it matter that he’s not here? It’s like he’s been here for so long.
But he’s been here long enough to….
How do you call it?
To long for?
What does she long for? Those moments when she’d arrive home to the sound of a hum and the smell of grilled meat and sautéed vegetables from the kitchen, partnered with that smell of vintage wine waiting for them at the dining table? Or those moments when she’d arrive home to hear the ticks of the keys as he sat on the couch with his computer on his lap? Or those moments when she’d arrive home to a silent house only to find him soundly sleeping in her bed?
To be missed?
Or to make her feel not empty after such a long time?
Because she had been so used to days like this before - alone with only whisky, or scotch, or any other wines or blood to fill her up on nights. She need not the noise, she hates it. Human food isn’t even a necessity. She’s possessive in her own things that she despised having another person sits on her couch, more so laying on her bed. She enjoyed the company of darkness and nothingness.
So why is she being like this?
Because it’s Noh Minwoo.
And so?
Because he’s not here. Noh Minwoo is not here.
What if he’s not here? Will her world collapse? Will she even be bothered by the emptiness that she had long felt before? Will she feel hollow once more when she’s always been in the first place? Will she be in pain? Will it devastate her?
Isn’t it what is happening right now, Lorraine?
“Fuck it.”
Longing turns into anger – turns into self-loathing. Just how her slim fingers which once holding the glass gently in her hands comes into crushing it, letting the shards scrape her own skin. The blood oozes quickly, but her skin seals itself back.
The pain is there, she can feel it. And how she longs for the pain to disappear just as her wound had.
He’ll never come back.
She takes another glass, letting it sit onto her palm before crushing it again. She wants to bleed. But her body betrays her.
Because Lorraine thought she was immune to the pain. And yet it just simply won’t go away.
See what he has done to you.
What has he done? It’s not as if she hasn’t lived her life without him. This will pass. This is nothing.
Another glass shatters.
See how you destroy yourself, Lorraine.
I am long devastated.
And another.
Don’t say I did not warn you.
The continuous smashing of the glass causes shards to remain on her skin, preventing it to heal itself quickly and thus, allowing blood to trickle down her hand. It is such a sight, her own blood, her own pain visible – a concrete reminder that she isn’t inevitable to pain after all. And she still bleeds, she still hurts, and she still have some humanity left in her.
“I turned it off.”
The verbal declaration does nothing but temporarily disturb the silence that has slowly become irritating. It is still there, the inner voice echoing screaming at her.
You are a monster.
No one loves a monster.
He will leave you.
Now is the time he will.
Your home is gone, Lorraine.
STOP. MAKE IT STOP.
It crashes. The bottle of whisky and her composure. And possibly her tears.
It is too loud that she fails to hear the entrance of another person inside her house, the person who is the root of all these.
He’s here.
He’s finally here.
He came back.
But the pain and the anger don’t stop.
“Why only now?”
It isn’t a plain question but frustration set with each word and the sternness of her voice. He is probably taken aback by the aggression and fury that could be seen in her eyes. Or by the shards of glass scattered around her. Or by the fact that she is yet again vulnerable in front of his eyes.
“Answer me!”
Did you come back only to leave? Do you fill in the void in me only to empty me out again? Did you come to really devastate me?
The shards on her hand cuts deeper with a clenched fist. It is an attempt to dull the pain that would come at his answers.
✖ Send me a url and I’ll write some positivity for it. @themidnightsiren
Uh… seriously? u_uI have nothing good to say and you know what? Do you just want me to expose you to everyone?Honestly… talking to them is so easy. They have this skill to make you feel at ease and conversations with them flow. Talking ooc can be difficult for me, but I never had to think twice about it with them and it helped a lot with plotting and writing. Oh but don’t even get me started about their writing… like seriously they would write a 5000 words essay as a reply to three lines. I just can’t with them. It can be quite overwhelming to reply to them, because I would always worry about writing something even quarter the quality of what they write. Truth to be told, writing with them is fun especially angst.
sometimes, it is personal and malicious in its intention. here, we are not talking about death. death has no prerogative. it’s always a result of something else, or someone’s decision.
chance does not belong in a business exchange. so, it was not chance either.
it was his hands around her throat. his gun digging into her temple. her death as the result of a pulled trigger. while she haunts his dreams and lives with the intent of revenge, he does not remember the way her life drained from eyes, wide and brimming. free from terror. his eyes void of guilt and hands leaving no room for hesitation, he killed her this way.
far too simple.
<< REWIND
Send ♣ for a drunk message
>> [ 1 missed call ]
PLAY VOICEMAIL MESSAGE?
[ YES ] [ NO ]
“I think…”
His fingers are curled tight around his phone. His breath snakes out between chapped lips like smoke. The night is cold. His nose is red. He’s not wearing a coat even when it’s a record low temperature in Seoul. As a kid, he would stand outside in the rain for hours. Then under snowfall. The ice under feet only protected by the thin layer of his socks. Cold never really sinks deeper than beneath the first layer of skin. It’s not the type of danger he fears.
“I think you’re working for him– my uncle.” It makes the most sense– that this woman would appear in his life. Again, and again. Sometimes a vision in a dream. Distorted and unreal. Other times in his daily life. A solid representation of something he cannot piece together.
The cigarette between two fingers burns down to the filter as he stands in silence. His hand is shaking, and it’s not from the cold.
“Get the fuck out of my life.”
FAST FORWARD >>
Send ✘ for an unsent text
[ txt: Lorraine ] You should be more careful about the company you insist on keeping. I know for a fact most of them aren’t out for your best interest.–[ txt: Lorraine ] You don’t terrify me, you never have. –[ txt: Lorraine ] There are moments I think killing you was a mistake.
Send ☠ for a threatening message
[ txt: Lorraine ] Death is a form of mercy. It’s an escape.[ txt: Lorraine ] I’ll make sure a bitch like you never knows mercy again.
“Yes,” Adrian says with a shrug. It’s not like he’s lying to her either. He really has no idea what’s going on and what exactly he’s supposed to be hiding. “Listen, noona,” the honorific bitter and heavy against his tongue. “I would tell you, or you’d have some way of finding out whether I’m lying or not.” Lorraine always has a way of knowing, and it creeps him out. He makes a face at her, one that she would expect from him. “Oh yeah, don’t ask me about what’s happening here, because fuck do I know. I’ve been in Toronto for the last few years and just got back here to fix whatever mess is going on here.”
The term felt like poison leaving on his lips, dripping onto her ears and it did not sit right with her. It could have been better to call her Miss Lee, for bitterness lies with the actual truth that maybe hiding behind that word. Noona. So Lorraine dismissed the thought, raised an eyebrow over the younger instead, skepticism drawn all over her face. “I do, but it would be better to know the truth from the person itself, right? Because really, my dear, I hold grudges on people who lie to me.” Her arms crossed over her her chest, annoyance clearly budding. “What a mess has happened when I was away? I thought I could rely on you, but you left the company in the hands of my pretty little sister who knows nothing. Such disappointment.” In Samantha. In Adrian.
Misery is a villain, the anti-hero toanyone’s story and to anyone’s life that it twists and turns and transformspeople in the ugliest ways possible. It is inconspicuous and it can easilylinger and dwell onto one person, stretches long and sears deep into the bones.
Misery is a tragedy in itself, andmisery can be a bullet one could use to protect oneself.
That is how Lorraine uses her miseries –a reminder to the burning fuel that keeps her alive. A prompt to the ugliestdemons that these miseries awakened at its occurrence.
It is a tool that she used – void ofany emotions but only of her demons – to prove herself, and prove the bringers of such, of what huge mistake they have doneto unleash her monsters within. Yetto be grateful for it is something that Lorraine wouldn’t even consider.
Why would you be grateful for somethingthat gradually destroys you?
It is through a gentle voice that theweight of its words is heavily dropped, allowing Lorraine to ponder througheach word in a quirked brow – eyes set on the skyline that boasts its dullestof yellows and oranges – to purples and dark blues, ready to surrender to the dark. The early autumnair preserved the warmth of the passing summer; it pricks through her skin, asthough the summer aims to leave its unwanted heat behind. Much like misery in itself.
Iwill never be grateful, for it is how I changed to be someone I loathed myselfto be. I will never be grateful, for gratefulness is defunct in a being without a soul.
“Gratitude is too kind to be bestowedupon something that brought you toyour own misfortunes and sufferings.” She starts, peeling her eyes away to takea glance at the younger lady, hand slinking to cross over her chest. Acuriosity, perhaps, but it may probably be the absurd statement that urges herto oppose the other’s statement, to convince her otherwise. “I wonder howyou were able to say that.” The disbelief in her tone says ‘you shouldn’t.’
‘You should only despiseit.’
At what cost does Lorraine wants to twistthe other’s thoughts? Nothing.
But as cliché as it may sound, misery always love a little company.
Repost, replacing the old information with your muse’s information. pass it on to your mutuals for a better understanding of their muses.
Face claim: Kim Jungah ( former member of After School )
Name: Candice Lorraine Lee | Lee Jungah
Age: 34 (stopped aging at 24)
Gender: Female
Nationality: British-Korean
Birthplace: London, England
Birthday: August 2, 1983
Star Sign: Leo
Residence: Gangnam, Seoul, South Korea
Marital Status: Single
Alignment: Lawful Evil.
LIKES —
Drink: Vampire’s Blood, liquor, coffee
Food: Nothing in particular
Day or night: Night
Song: Classics
Quote: "She was a lion’s roar, broken glass, and a thousand tiny paper cuts: frightening, beautiful, and very, very cruel.”
Pet: None
Color: Red, black, royal blue
LOOKS —
Body type: Ectomorph
Eye color: Brown
Hair color: Naturally black, currently dark brown
Body reference: one two three
TAGGED BY: @eterneli ( thank you! )
TAGGING: idk who else hasn’t done this yet. i’m always late for the party. tags ppl nonetheless. (for multimuses, your muse of choice <3)
@amanikables , @eloquent-nightmare , @destructiveurgxs , @pxlimpsest , @somecrazylads , @stcgnant , @ksung , @ketaminhcl , @kmortale , @pandemxnivm , @eruvos , @cxntrxctkiller
“no and although I love your straightforwardness, It’s still a jab to my ego knowing that’s the first you want from me.” he chuckled. Joon wasn’t upset at the realization since he was used to people wanting to be close to him only when it benefited them and he cautiously entertained the behavior if he liked them. Lorraine was one of those people. “I will accept your suggestion after discussing with my colleagues. Unfortunately, I can’t make all the decisions alone so I can’t give you a definite answer.”
It is a quirk of both a brow and her lips that responds to the other’s reaction, something that she has expected – from men overall and it’s suffice to say that he is part of the general, of men and their egos. Lorraine easily criticizes this, how fragile these are compared to how virile they present themselves to be. Yet Lorraine herself is one who bears such a chauvinistic ego. And to stroke someone’s ego is something she wouldn’t even think of doing. “Oh, were you expecting something then?” A playful tone overlays the slight jeering, snickers in between lips. One leg crosses over the other as she eases onto her seat, contemplating on desserts or perhaps wine, or to whether to stretch the dinner that is about to end. “Alright. I understand, and I’m really hopeful for a positive response.” I trust that you will. “I’m willing to return the favor, Joon-ssi. This is how important it is to me.”
taken from the book ‘ the gay science ’ by friedrich nietzsche
❛ their whole nature fails to persuade ❜
❛ they have never remained silence about any of their good deeds ❜
❛ he always carries a biscuit for cerberus ❜
❛ either we have no dreams or our dreams are interesting ❜
❛ let those who have ears, hear ❜
❛ before the effect one believes in different causes than one does afterward ❜
❛ anyone with a very loud voice is almost incapable of thinking subtleties ❜
❛ the purpose of punishment is to improve those who punish ❜
❛ the sacrificial animal does not share the spectators’ ideas about sacrifice ❜
❛ our eyes are also intended for hearing ❜
❛ the mistrustful speak empathetically ❜
❛ how can one constantly admire without constantly feeling contempt? ❜
❛ is that not a blasphemy against your ideal? ❜
❛ in applause there is always a kind of noise ❜
❛ they are running away from people ❜
❛ one hears only those questions for which one is able to find answers ❜
❛ they know how to make things simpler than they are ❜
❛ this is by all means a matter of taste, nothing more ❜
❛ i’d sooner have people steal from me than be surrounded by scarecrows & hungry looks ❜
❛ thoughts are the shadows of our feelings ❜
❛ all voices sound different in solitude ❜
❛ who has had the most convincing eloquence so far? ❜
❛ i spoil the taste of their party for everyone ❜
❛ some people need open enemies ❜
❛ they are in a bad way ❜
❛ we are always only in our own company ❜
❛ in a moment they will be ready with a lie ❜
❛ in the end one finds more than one might have wished ❜
❛ why not be defeated some time too? ❜
❛ all is lost if we fall ❜
❛ you have no idea what you are living through ❜
❛ to have a virtue one must really wish to have it in its most brutal form ❜
❛ happiness is not nearly so contagious a disease ❜
❛ even one’s thoughts cannot reproduce entirely in words ❜
❛ there is no selflessness in my soul ❜
❛ you are beyond all embarrassment ❜
❛ i do not want to have people imitate my example ❜
❛ no victor believes in chance ❜
❛ what we do is never understood ❜
❛ those who have greatness are cruel to their virtues ❜
❛ with a great goal one is superior even to justice ❜
❛ you shall become the person you are ❜
❛ what do you love in others? ❜
❛ i still live, i still think ❜
❛ we were friends and have become estranged ❜
❛ few people have faith in themselves ❜
❛ there is yet another world to be discovered — and more than one ❜
❛ at the very bottom of my soul i feel grateful to all my misery ❜
❛ i have given a name to my pain ❜
❛ one must learn to love ❜
the water bottle - still completely filled - is in hand when she faces the woman again, bag readily slung on a shoulder. a subtle warning, anxious hands rubbing the material of her skirt between lithe fingers, nails digging into the fabric. “here you go.” a step forward, just enough to leave the bottle on the pew closest to the other. there’s a tight smile on pale lips which she politely offers.
“i really can’t stay long.”
the truth.
lying is not her forte, has never been. but centuries have taught her to twist truths in a way that her pupils remain still, eye contact steady, when the words finally slip from between her teeth. “walk with me?” she says instead. “outside,” she continues, words then coming out in a sporadic manner, jumbled, much like her thoughts. “there’s food outside. i’ll pay.”
this, the woman’s, existence should count as blasphemy.
( aeri should be no different. )
there’s a refusal to acknowledge the existence of another creature much like she is. a creature that embraces the darkness within instead of trying to grasp whatever light is left in her heart. aeri doesn’t want to involve herself in a feat that’s evidently much too dangerous even for the likes of her. just the way the woman’s looking at her - as if she’s prey - is enough for aeri to wonder:
can vampires taste their own kind?
to be sure, she extends a hand in offering. her eyes see through the other, landing on the open church door instead. there’s an eerie breeze that enters, the hem of her skirt swaying in the process. “please,” she says. finally, their eyes meet. “come along.”
outside.
Can’t stay long. Why? Is it shame? Conscience? Or does the sacredness of the place sears into her? If so, then why is she here in the first place, donned in a garb like those of servants to this church as they call it, with a wooden crucifix as a pathetic excuse of a god, or a reminder of its presence despite the unknown. The hilarity is seen in the irony of this whole predicament, and it takes Lorraine a lot to swallow down the scoff that wanted to escape from her lips.
They’re quivering from thirst. Swift hands take the bottled water, letting the tasteless liquid run on her aching throat, and it does nothing to quench the urge inside her. Never has it, even if she has chugged half of its contents in one go. Lorraine looks at her, the palpitations throbbing against her sensitive ears and the thought of the woman’s blood running through her throat instead of the water is enough to entice her.
Enough that she sees no sense in dragging this longer anymore. Control is out of the question as her gums ache once more, eyes webbing its veins in crimson. There’s no food outside, but you will pay.
I’ll make you.
Suppressing has remained futile – it may be the effect of the serum injected, or of the loss of humanity and control that made it so. A witch’s herb has its own boundaries of its effectivity, and much like anything that is suppressed, it throttles back at you in full force. It does, in the way that she has craved for this kind of feed than the other, and especially this woman’s. The allure of its scent is beyond her own comprehension and she had lost interest in knowing – only to make the instigator of the experiment pay. Unfortunately, the woman has to become a sacrifice. Actually, anyone could.
She was just at the wrong place, at the wrong time – but Lorraine’s perfect time.
“But…” Another sliver of silence separates her words from her next, dark orbs seized by nothing but the prey in front of her and it is feigned pondering that she keeps a few seconds of stillness in furrowed brows and pained expression before a hand rises. The abrasions faded as easily as they have been inflicted but smears of clotted blood remains, smudging onto the other’s palms as she lays her hand over the other.
It started with a gentle graze, palm over palm, until thin fingers slowly curl and trap the smaller hand onto her grasp. And then tighter, and tighter. A deplorable face easily transforms into a wicked smile, shedding off the fabricated weakness to impose her sternness over the other.
“I already told you, right?” Her hands now grasp tighter onto her wrist, skin slowly paling in pressure.
It only takes a fraction of a second to break all mask, swiftly pushing the smaller woman against one of the pillars, a hand on her pulsating neck as her body towers over the other.
jacobvanloon
ellievsbear
stormborns
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