TO THE FRAY.

dragon blood / caporegime is it better to drown beneath the waves or to die of thirst?

[vcyongtae]

heya !! ur friendly neighbourhood wench is back from her hiatus !! i think a few threads have been dropped and im hella bad at keeping up w things, so if i owe u a reply / starter or if ud like to plot / continue plotting ( i honestly cant remember where i left off i have such bad memory ) could u please hit the LIKE button ?? t’is much appreciated thx thx :~)

[niaoniaos]

woo do hwan x high cut

[vcyongtae]

›     PHANTOSMIA ( solo ) ​​   .

there are many ways to destroy a village, though none quite as spectacular as that of wildfire. it is more than a simple beast that prowls between the tall grass, for a beast is made of teeth and skin and bones, its internal organs coherent in its organisation. no, the anatomy of fire is unique in that it does not possess the biological structures typically required for one to live. instead, here are the tongues of flame, of which there is an infinite number, that which curls into the crevices of windows and hallways lest it passes over a crumb. and because fire is absent of flesh, its belly simply spills out of its structure, that whose gruelling hunger only grows the more that it is fed.

here is how a fire spreads: first, it latches its many rows of teeth onto all that stands, all that dares boast of structure and life. in its decimation, it dawdles, fully aware of the little threat that exists to threaten its feast. and once it is done, when there is nothing left but blackened ash, it simply leaves.

see, yongtae knows this of the fire within him. he understands its nature perfectly, makes peace with the sensation of flesh burning from its innards first.

what he means to ask is this: 

how much longer before there is nothing left? how much longer before it leaves? how much longer before he can return to build anew?

[familiarhaunt]

Visit Original Link

Tonight You Belong To Me (1956) - Patience And Prudence

[vcyongtae]

vcnanami:

where  does  our  story  begin?  three  crones  with  gnarled  fingers  fastened  around  a  golden  chalice,  mugwort  and  its  hazy  prophecies  swirling  in  its  basin.  they  solicit  their  gods  for  a  glimmer  of  truth  and  in  turn  they  cast  visions  of  ephialtes  drenched  in  all  that  is  carmine  and  bruised.  black  meets  blue  as  the  haemorrhage  ushers  in  a  tale  of  monsters  and  men,  but  a  blackened  fingernail  eddies  the  mist  of  a  single  strand.  the  other  two  remark  that  there  is  no  need  for  this  particular  parable,  that  the  accursed  siren  who  forgets  herself  and  falls  in  love  with  a  dragon  is  not  worth  the  damnification.

but  what  of  her  now  ?  with  her  ocean  eyes  all  too  keen  to  inundate,  fixed  on  the  embers  of  her  beloved’s  ire.  nanami  lets  his  words,  suspended  by  the  noose  of  inevitability,  hang  there  minutely,  knowing  to  taste  the  words  on  her  tongue  before  uttering  them  into  the  expanse.  instead  she  leans  into  his  touch,  a  fiend  for  the  prickly  thorn  of  this  sort  of  embrace.

“  peace,  dear  kaji.  i  understand  your  choler  and  i  give  way  to  it,  ”  she  says  in  surrender  as  she  leans  upwards  to  find  his  lips  with  her  own,  pray  she  stop  his  mouth  with  a  kiss.  it  would  be  easy,  she  thinks,  to  slip  a  song  into  his  musings  but  aye,  here  is  the  rub.  to  whisk  away  his  will  is  to  not  know  the  yearning  in  which  he  displays  here,  where  it  freely  spouts  from  the  fountain.  let  it  be  a  morsel;  let  it  be  but  a  fragment  of  his  devotion  and  let  it  be  known  that  she  is  entirely,  eternally  his.  should  he  be  her  god  then  she  is  pious,  knees  marred  with  a  hope  for  redemption,  buoyed  on  the  vespers  of  his  immortal  praise.

(  in  his  spotlight,  life  is  breathed  into  this  empty  chest  and  the  bronchial  report  is  more  than  a  reward  for  such  a  beast.  )

alas,  is  that  not  perchance  an  apparition  of  dearest  sister  that  watches  from  shadows?  just  there,  behind  thine  shoulder  !  nanami  blenches,  pulling  away  from  her  beloved,  her  fingers  struggling  to  find  purchase  on  what  is  reality  and  what  is  not.  “  i  would  not  allow  such  a  thing,  not  after  all  we  have  shared,  ”  she  answers,  finally.  there  is  truth  in  the  statement  but  it  is  flimsy  in  the  way  promises  made  out  of  parchment  are  wont  to  be  around  a  naked  flame.  so  to  fortify,  she  adds,  “  come,  let  us  not  talk  of  the  ill  when  our  reunion  is  to  be  honeyed  and  sweet.  we  shall  sup  our  tea  or  if  sleep  burdens  your  brow,  we  can  retreat  to  my  chamber.  ”

it is in the red and brown of ochre, purposefully stained onto the ancient walls of uncharted caves, that one may discover the secrets and customs of the first breaths of humanity. perhaps one may marvel at its preservation, but any artist worth their salt understands that the proper way to store a painting is to shelter it from the sun, that which is so greedy in its shine that it would rather steal from the mural’s vibrancy.

and what he means to say is this: he is eight when he first puts paintbrush to canvas and thirteen that he finds confidence in its strokes. from his fingers spill the contents of his soul, and much too often would he take steps back to inspect its progress, stained hands ever ready to tear apart and begin anew should he find it lacking. it is only when critical eyes can find nary a flaw that he would allow his lips to give way to a proud smile, and precious is the way he balances the painting in his hands as little feet carry him to mother. here, lying among the paint sullying his alabaster white sleeves, you may observe the swelling of his heart.

do you like it, mother? oh, my dearest, you never paint me in a good light.

ah yes, like every artist worth his salt, yongtae learns to store his paintings in the darkest fissures of the globe where no light can touch.

and here, as she stands before him—her, whose eyes are curved at angles that his hands have since memorised, and her, whose lips are a careful mixture of red and yellow that he has long since perfected—he is reminded of the importance of swallowing his tongue. instead, he is like a ragdoll, who kisses when he is kissed and pulls away when he is pulled away from. and yes, perhaps anger had once governed the walls of his heart, but there is nothing quite like the threat of vulnerability to extinguish its flames.

and what he means to say is simply—

let us run away together.

for what is it they truly share, if he visits her once a full moon to sup tea and fuck, only to be ushered out by the crack of dawn, but not forgetting to pay for the hours that he steals from her? all he has to hold onto are the sweet nothings she whispers into his ear, a sordid secret hidden within the four walls of the chamber she likely shares with many others like him.

( oh, mother would think him a fool— )

she offers him escape yet he longs to hold her here in this space, to catch her wrists and speak his doubts and to make sure she hears them and responds. he moves to close the distance between them, to stretch for her palm and entwine their fingers to keep her here and—

and yet—?

“then let us make haste,” and yet, his words are hesitant in the way they fall. the curl of his lips are tender, comforting, and unsteady, “i wish to hold you.”

/

it is here at the crack of dawn, when light shines through the peek of her curtains, that he wakes from his sleep. he knows this scene all too well, had once desperately painted it to immortalise their moments together, yet now it exists in his sleep-filled vision as a sore sight. for is it not only cowards that oft find themselves stuck in the same reel?

he finds his distraction in the raw appearance of his slumbering lover, a content smile dancing atop his lips. it is in these moments that he finds his desire to paint her, though that is not to say she is any less breathtaking with her face painted white, nor is she any less radiant in the heat of her coordinated performances. and perhaps it would be kinder to let her rest, for they had spent their late hours tangled in her white sheets, but he is due to leave and finds need in sharing their last moments before the next full moon.

so he rises from his rest and hovers atop her silhouette, his strong arms bearing his weight as he strategises to wake her by planting butterfly kisses atop her breasts and within its valley. if he is an artist, then she is his muse, and as an artist would, he drinks in the sight of her.

“come away with me,” it slips from his mouth before he can catch it, and it lingers in the morning air for her to hear, a phrase that he fears he can no longer retract. the breath that puffs from his lips is shaky and unsure, “back to agdoeg.”

( and perhaps, some paintings are so spectacular that they would find their own way into the light. perhaps some paintings are so transcendent, it would be an insult to keep hidden. as for nanami, he deems her a masterpiece. )

“let me take care of you.”

[enidsinclair]

Bates Motel | 4x02: Goodnight, Mother

[vcyongtae]

›    DANCE WITH THE DEVIL ft. @vcsypha​​   .

within the time-worn pages of history documents the era of romanticism, that which exists as a blur of draping gossamer dresses, delicate picnics amidst flowering greenery, and stealing illicit kisses atop a cloistered balcony. surely, it is from its womb that the beginnings of artistry should emerge. though perhaps, should one peel back its muted undertones, they would find its canvas to be, quite simply, bland. for the romantic movement comes not from the decree of the gods, that its beauty should be exquisite down to its bare bones. no, it is instead devised in the self-serving minds of men, that they should fabricate a delusion to atone for their mediocrity.

simply put, there is nothing romantic about the birth pains of an artist. from the awkward sketches of conflicting shapes to the weak strokes of an overly wet paintbrush, it is a novice art piece that is to be tucked away for the mould. yongtae knows this to be true, has the evidences of his first dabbles into the visual arts left carelessly amongst the dregs. and oh, the horror that should overcome him, as would anyone, should these paintings be uncovered for all to see.

perhaps in this way, he understands mother’s shame. for in the present days, where he stands polished and composed, was this not the image that mother had so carefully painted with her capable hands? is it not her precise brush strokes that first coloured his gallant smile? and as he stands now, battling with his deformity in the mirror, is this not the very drawing of her first dabbles into motherhood, that which she longs so desperately to hide?

it is his anger that summons this form, that which treats his different parts as individual entities, that they should all ebb and flow into dragon-like features so erratically and unnervingly out of sync. amid his rage, he had felt its threat in the impression of growing claws into sweaty palms, and like clockwork, yongtae had ducked into a proximal room lest he be found out. why, here he stands now, in a room where only moonlight sheds, as he writhes in a losing battle with the dragon that resides within him.

it is in this chaos that he hears a knock, and in the midst of his own scrimmage, he remembers his duty to the jeup daughter. it is the very thought of her discovering his distortion that sends a kind of panic to wash over him, not unlike a hesitant sinner in the dishonourable act of crime, and it is all he can think to duck behind a nondescript surface in an attempt to conceal himself.

“get out!” it is roared more than it is spoken, as he curls into himself in dread and, quite simply put, shame.

[vcyongtae]

THE INBETWEEN (n), a place somewhere between the living and the divine where children of the gods can come and live out their royal pampering with their parents. these places exist outside of time and space, and is significantly unique to their parent.

beyond the imposing portal lies something akin to a barren wasteland of navy and gold. the ground is a kind of pitch black to incite the fear of falling into the void, and between its cracks stream rivers of molten lava, that which is thick like the nectar of the gods. should one breathe in the ashen fog, they would find their lungs consumed by fire, an effective warning for those that do not belong. one could deem such a place uninhabitable, but a dragon made of scorching fire finds only belonging in its capacity to destroy.

look closer, and you will find traces of life. why, imprinted in xenolith are the colossal footprints of fire dragons, as told by the silhouette of thick digits ending in sharpened claws. within the earth’s fissures sprout flowers resembling roses and sunflowers, its petals charred and its veins flowing with magma. and perhaps, if you survive long enough, you will hear the deafening roar of a dragon. over there! high above! amidst the blackened cloud swirling atop the volcanic peak, a dragon’s shadow will be your last sight before death takes you.

and here he strides, a man of great stature crushing cinder under his feet. to walk upon this holy ground with mortal feet is a symbol of humility, for such is the climate of the in-between, that it would mean to destroy you if you do not first destroy. and is this not why yongtae finds home in its desolation? for there is nothing quite as exhilarating as the capacity to simply be, to roam the land and breathe fire without a care for that which threatens to be ravaged in the process. such is the nature of men like them, to default to devastate.

in the heart of the wasteland lies a castle whose visage is akin to those belonging to the middle ages, with a moat of lava and stone walls encompassing the dragon’s keep. the castle is tall and vast enough that it should accommodate a dragon roaming its halls, though that is not to say that the castle has not suffered damage to its impressive architecture. and as is clichéd of all dragons, gold litters the fort from its high ceiling to its nondescript corridors.

it is within such a corridor that yongtae marches hastily through, lest he keeps the red deity waiting. it opens to a magnificent throne room of intricately carved columns and glinting treasure troves, and it is here that the young dragon folds himself into a reverent bow, knees kissing the beaten earth. on the throne sits the great fire dragon, whose prominent blaze inevitably destroys without an equilibrating force.

“father,” the young dragon calls in reverence, and in his words, a sort of relief finds rest, “i am home.”

here, in the heart of the in-between, he and the son who he breathes his fire into.

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

“I barely fit inside myself.”

— The Complete Stories, ‘Brasilia’ by Clarice Lispector tr. Katrina Dodson

[vcyongtae]

›    NOCTURNE IN D MINOR ft. @saikavc​   .

in the hands of a pianist lies the aptitude to create true art, that which transcends mere beauty and finds vocation in the undoing of tangled heart strings. it is in its crescendos that one’s heart should recite the song of glee, its adagios that should coax a tear into one’s eye, and it is for this very reason that yongtae finds veneration in its craft. it has always been mother’s request for him to dabble in the musical arts, and he is five when he first stares down keys of ivory and ebony, though it is not for lack of trying that he fails to replicate its polished song with his own hands. sure, perhaps he had gotten as far as to correctly follow the crochets and semiquavers pencilled onto white paper, but to inspire emotion requires patience and heart, his teacher explains. alas, it is written in the stars that yongtae should struggle with either concepts from when he is just weaned. so he is demoted to a patron of the musical arts, his love for its craft at the mercy of one’s skilled hands.

what he means to say is this: on days where his strategic distractions fail him, his mind is ferried away to the year 1921. within its many moons holds a whirlwind of gooseflesh and pounding hearts, of tangled sheets and waking to the tresses of midnight hair atop his nose, of steady arms pulling her porcelain waist closer and ever closer still as he breathes in the scent of her, of running too fast but no matter, for it was never quite enough. from it, springs the supercut of his fondest memories and yet, it pours a kind of melancholy with the consistency of blackened tar into the base of his heart. in her auditorium, he is an audience of one waiting with bated breath, and it is here that his fallen lover finds the first note of her delicate song.

and so begins the melody of a man who comes quickly and utterly undone.

in da capo there is pacing, dirty fingers tousling his onyx hair as shaky hands guide a lit cigarette to his welcoming lips. it is a notable effort to disguise the fervour of his emotions in the habits of a smoker, though as usual, as always, he fails. in its crescendo, strong fists slam suddenly against a decorative wall, so hard that his hands turn pink with the promise of bruises. coda, he falls, settling amidst thrawn cigarette butts as he holds his weary head in his palms, wounded and soiled with cigarette ash. a desperate hand reaches for his phone and he dials a familiar number.

“lilith…”

he finds himself before she can reply, and hurls his phone across the marble floor in rage.

[7sxvxn7]

[vcyongtae]

What brought you to Agdoeg City? Anybody interesting you've met so far?

“i was born here,” for someone who has lived in agdoeg since the 1870s, he finds it a curious question, and puzzlement worries his brow. “this is home,” it leaves his lips more as a hard fact absent of any warmth. a snide smirk fixes at his features as suspicion rises from his core and finds rest within his cheek. a retort to trigger mother’s flying rage balances on his tongue, so in her memory, he opts for deflection, “you interest me.” a deceiving compliment, for it is written in history that anyone who does so typically ends up with a bullet between their temples.

[vcyongtae]

vcnanami​:

lo,  there  is  nary  but  a  truth  that  it  is  in  the  nature  of  a  woman  to  wield  brutality  with  a  gentle  hand!

on  the  precipice  of  the  newest  of  moons,  what,  pray  tell,  is  tonight’s  manifestations.  the  teahouse  vibrates  with  possibility  for  a  patriarchal  throng.  nanami  knows  when  to  slip  her  spell  in  between  the  delicate  space  of  their  heartbeats  in  the  way  a  virtuoso  knows  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  diminuendo.  she  knows  that  the  deluge  of  her  pelagic  hues  is  enough  to  drown  them  in  her  affectations  and  it  is  so  they  empty  their  pockets  and  their  hearts.  but  what  of  the  inferno  seated  in  the  front  row,  all  heady  heat  and  a  cool  surety,  a  cruel  juxtaposition?  what  of  his  observance  of  her  every  movement,  how  close  he  is  to  cutting  himself  on  the  fragments  of  her  conditioning?  the  slight  tilt  of  her  sanguine  lacquered  lips  is  an  indication.

kaji-sama,  welcome  home.

tonight,  her  body  has  a  story  to  tell  and  so  he  will  hear  it.  it  begins  with  a  fair  maiden  consumed  by  the  death  of  her  beloved.  grief  is  a  house  without  windows  so  the  dismantling  of  her  universe  makes  way  to  an  utmost  profound  hysteria.  to  interpret  death  is  to  imitate  the  throes  of  love  and  so  nanami’s  body  contorts  to  the  purr  of  the  shamisen  as  if  suspended  in  a  rapture.  dare  she  draw  inferences  from  her  paramour  ?  it  is  easy,  as  to  imagine  his  demise  is  to  imagine  the  demarcation  of  atom  from  atom,  to  be  wrenched  apart  by  the  gods’  divine  chariots  limb  by  limb.  silence  folds  neatly  around  the  room  as  they  all  watch  her  and  as  the  denouement  signals  the  maiden’s  death,  the  siren  ends  her  display  collapsing  into  a  neat  bow.

hark _! _ the  proclivities  of  the  human  condition  is  to  crave  their  demise.  whether  they  perceive  this  malady  or  not  does  not  matter  here,  their  penchant  for  ruination  is  embedded  between  sinew  and  synapse.  it  is  in  this  way  that  nanami  appeals  to  their  nature.  she  absorbs  their  applause,  like  raindrops  upon  a  jade  sea,  rising  to  her  feet.  had  she  not  been  looking  for  him,  perhaps  she  might  have  missed  the  chance  to  preserve  a  life.  perhaps  she  would  bear  witness  to  a  decimation  of  sorts,  one  that  would  bring  this  teahouse  down  to  its  knees.  but  her  eyes  are  quick  to  spy  her  lover’s  movements  and  it  does  not  take  her  long  to  become  cognisant  of  his  umbrage.  there  he  is,  built  for  the  fury.  he  is  incendiary  in  the  way  he  moves  and  it  is  a  wonder  how  he  doth  not  scorch  the  earth  he  walks  upon.

she  moves  towards  the  pending  altercation,  orbs  of  lantern  light  dissolving  into  the  fine  silk  of  her  kimono.  her  presence  itself  is  enough  to  incite  momentary  pause;  witness  how  they  become  lost  in  the  architecture  of  her  physique,  how  they  are  all  too  quick  to  drown  in  her  ocean  eyes.  she  dips  gracefully  into  a  bow,  onyx  gossamer  threading  from  her  scalp  cascading  forwards  as  this  geiko  is  not  of  normal  convention.  she  does  not  hold  her  hair  up  like  the  others,  another  facet  of  her  guile.  she  straightens  her  spine  and  gently  rests  a  hand  on  the  sleeve  of  the  besotted.  the  exchange  is  quick,  she  plucks  a  song  from  her  throat,  places  it  behind  his  left  ear  where  the  others  cannot  hear  it.  “  the  sky  is  heavy  with  rain  so  please  be  careful  on  your  way  home.  ”  her  voice  is  akin  to  the  chime  of  the  a  forest  stream,  and  it  brings  a  flush  to  the  gentleman’s  face.  with  that,  he  stumbles  off  into  the  night  and  nanami  looks  up  at  kaji,  her  kaji,  as  if  he  is  the  glow  of  helios  outlining  a  mountain  peak.  in  the  darkness  of  his  eyes,  the  crease  in  the  space  between  his  eyes,  she  makes  a  home  in  his  anger.

“  kaji-sama,  would  you  allow  me  to  escort  you  to  the  tea  room  ?  ”  she  asks,  balancing  moonlight  on  the  apples  of  her  cheeks,  her  smile  donned  for  him  and  him  only.  to  start  their  reunion  with  a  tea  ceremony  is  mostly  for  the  courtesy  of  mother  standing  to  the  side  of  them  but  she  is  aware  of  his  appreciation  for  such  customs.  he  is  different  from  the  others  in  ways  that  she  does  not  fully  comprehend;  he  holds  a  history  that  she  cannot  claim  to  absolve  him  from  but  she  knows  the  right  ways  to  hold  him,  where  to  place  her  lips,  where  her  body  fits  in  the  puzzle  piece  of  his  form.

she  leads  him  away  to  the  private  room,  her  feet  whispering  into  the  oak  flooring,  careful  not  to  betray  her  haste.  pulling  the  the  screen  door  back  first,  she  moves  to  the  side,  allowing  him  entry  first  and  before  closing  it,  she  whispers  to  the  passing  house  aunty  to  gather  some  hot  water  and  jasmine.  “  there  is  no  need  for  a  fight,  kaji,**  ”**  she  begins,  dropping  the  honorific  as  she  closes  the  space  between  them.  “  we  all  know  i  am  yours.  ”

the ancient concept of rebirth finds its roots woven in religion, wherein priests and leaders breathe the comforting tale of the ouroboros snake grasping desperately onto its own tail with an iron bite. it is an elaborate allegory symbolising the simple concept of a boundless reserve, one bearing an infinite number of chances to right the ways in which one had been wronged. as for someone with the gift of immortality, yongtae finds redundancy in the concept of reincarnation and religion alike.

but could there, perchance, be a sliver of truth in their preaching?

what he means to say is this: in the darkest of nights, yongtae is haunted by recurring dreams of a vast island. yes, perhaps the island is pretty, lush with bountiful palm trees and blue hummingbirds, but at the heart of this island is a large, hollow peak, and in this peak lies a growing threat. see, not only are there trees and birds, but the ground is of xenolith and the air is thick with tephra. every night, it is the same scene that wakes him: that is, the bubbling lava which spurts from its mouth and slithers towards all that is doomed to die.

that is to say, he does not know a time when he had been ignorant of mother’s piercing screams. do not be mistaken, for he neither invites his wrath nor wishes to dwell in it. see, like the island, he is a victim to its spleen, and how exhausting it must be to hold the intensity of these emotions within the boundaries of his skin, that which is so ill-fittingly small for the rage that lies within him. like a zealot, he falls to his knees and pleas for mercy—his mercy—but does he not already know? a dragon’s pride is only fuelled by prayer.

( oh, woe betides him, who exists as an island ablaze. )

unfortunately, as mother often complains, yongtae fails to find a strong suit in learning. why, here he is now, a plea to halt dancing on the precipice of his mind’s eye. as for he who is in control—that is, this dragon—his glare sings a song of death.

and it is with this glare that he watches the drunkard sober to contest him, jaw hanging in preparation for the words he wishes to slur. it is all for naught, of course, for yongtae has already made up his mind not to hear it; instead, his eyes trace the curve of the former’s neck, and he curiously wonders if the blood of a drunk would pour out bitter, like red wine.

his thought is interrupted as his beloved steps into view, though his features are robbed of the chance to soften as he catches the infuriating sight of her delicate palm resting against his contender’s sleeve, of her whispering her sweet nothings into his ear. instead he bristles to the point where he is almost mad, and he swears he would rather curl his claws into the man’s throat, had she not saved his life by promptly dismissing him. as for yongtae, it has always been a fine dance between madness and sanity, rage and composure, and ah, it is only her endearing smile and her dulcet voice and everything else that makes up the shape of her that manages to put water to the flames that fan within him.

( for now, at least, it will suffice. )

he still suffers from the remnants of his rage, so he thinks it wise not to speak and instead, acknowledges her question with a single, cold nod. and yet somehow, he remembers the manners that mother had drilled into his once youthful skull, so he pivots to bow towards the madam of the house. then, he raises the hook of his elbow for her to rest her grip, just as he had once done for mother.

even when they are within the confines of privacy, it is his silence that betrays his anger. he barely looks at her, instead opting to glare at the intricate designs on the wall, as though he has not seen already it a hundred times before. it is only when she speaks, when he feels her presence looming behind his shoulder, that he finally turns to acknowledge her, a strong palm pulling her in from the small of her back. a thumb smears against the white that paints her cheek, and he swipes it off to gaze upon the hue of her skin, a pacifying reminder that underneath it all, she is just, quite simply, his nana. unfortunately, it does not work quite as effectively as he had hoped.

“do we?” it is a pained whisper into the night, a muted question risen from the cracks of his demeanour, “had i not been here, would he not have claimed you to be his, just as i am?”

he studies her expression closely and holds her even closer, as though she should disappear into the wind had his grip not anchored her. large palms reach to cup the curve of her jaw as he poses a dangerous question, one which he knows the answer to and fears it all the same—

“would he not have succeeded?”

[loethlifeyoulivelietelifouloe]

Visit Original Link

Jimmy Durante - Smile

[vcyongtae]

vcyyun:

stupid, extravagant, rich-person balcony - yun thinks to himself, eyes slipping shut - this place fucking sucks. and yet it’s the only place around that doesn’t make his body feel like it’s crawling, the one place where the highest winds and lowest clouds manage to intersect all at once, the earth left far behind. besides, sleep hasn’t been coming easy these past few weeks. he’ll sully some random rich person’s rooftop with his presence if it means ridding himself of these eye-bags for once. 

it’s the smell of smoke that eventually stirs him awake. vague images of fire weave themselves into his dreams at first, before the vestiges of sleep are slowly shed, and awareness returns in a burst. ah, of course the goddamn rich-person penthouse would have the goddamn rich person inside of it… with a mouthed curse, bleary eyes flutter open, and he pushes off with the intent to take the air.

it doesn’t quite work that way, a shock of aching pain racing down his back too fast for him to adjust his reaction. promptly, yun takes a tumble off the rooftop, landing with a soft thud onto the railing. knees hook around it to clumsily keep balance before his whole being can go into free-fall, and with a sleeve rubbed over his eyes he gets his first good look at the intruder. light from nearby windows illuminates the stranger’s form from behind, shadows cast across the planes of his face.

it’s not long before the warning bells begin to clang. ah. so it’s that rich person. the infamous one. that one… that one… ah, yunyun, you fucking idiot, you didn’t pay attention to where you were, did you?

nose wrinkles from the smell of the cigarette, and he averts his gaze, wings beating once, twice - enough to disperse the smoke out into the air. is he going to kill me? wait, does he even know who i am? in the grand scheme of things, he knows he’s next to nobody. especially in a place like this, worth more than his own self a million — a billion times over — there’s no way an important, rich bastard like moon yongtae has sacrificed brain space into knowing yun’s identity: a highly replaceable, highly dumb… okay, enough of the self-berating.

“hello, sir,” he says weakly, sliding down from his perch atop the balcony rail - the soles of his shoes barely make a sound as they collide with the shining floor. “i… um… i was just lost in admiration… please, give my compliments to the architect, all right?”

in the most extreme instances of religious fundamentalism lies the case of the zealot, one which can only be described as fanatical and neurotic in his approach. his perfect devotion is like an endless fabric that he carefully weaves, day after day, night after night, as he sits alone in a tall tower of stone walls absent of exit or entryway. the trade is utterly paradoxical in its nature, for a god needs simply whisper the meaning of life in exchange for it.

what he means to say is this: in the reflective surfaces of wine glasses and metal, all he sees is mother’s holy ghost. it is her seraphic voice that commands his every movement, from the curl and stay of his tongue to the wax and wane of his heartbeat. too often does he find his hands shuddering in reverence as he reaches out to the frail shoulder of a familiar silhouette, only for him to be dispirited by the face that greets him instead.

in the heart of high society, he finds himself encompassed by her pervading scent. like a zealot, he feels her presence in his bones, and it nearly brings him to his knees.

hallelujah! and who is he without her commands?

hallelujah! who is he without these scars?

it is here, on an empty balcony where the wind carries, that he finds relief. he soothes the tremors in his hand with a cigarette, pulls in its smoke, and from his lips it rises like incense. it is almost like clockwork, the way in which he finds himself seeking reprieve from high society’s night-time soirees, mindlessly studying the billows of smoke if it means distracting himself from thoughts of mother. and as though she finds blasphemy in his actions, she conceives a divine intervention beginning with the sound of a loud thud.

he startles from his daze, brows stitching together in confusion as he acknowledges the contortionist with knees hooked onto the railing. perhaps it comes with his night job, to be highly alert and always suspicious, so he studies the face of the man before him, but a quick glance at his innocent features and cupid-esque wings and yongtae concludes that he is of little threat. he shakes his head and takes another puff of his cigarette.

and ah, he speaks. the smoke leaves his lips in a vexed sigh.

head turns partly in acknowledgement of the cupid’s request and from the corner of his eyes, he regards the façade of the penthouse to be atrocious. ah, he’s poor too. perhaps he should report the intruder to the hosts, but yongtae finds much better use of his time studying the art he creates with his smoke. he thinks he’ll paint it when he returns home.

“you shouldn’t be here,” idle is the way the words drag from his tongue, as he leans his arms against the railing to take in the backdrop of city lights for reference, “if you’re looking to rob the place, the entrance is on the right.”

[jaehyum]

Jo Young → The King: Eternal Monarch ep. 9

[vcyongtae]

›    NO REST FOR THE WICKED ft. @vckiyomi​​   .

there is nothing quite as understatedly spine-chilling as the creatures that, children claim, linger in the dark. oh, it is only through stutters and hiccups that the children would recall its winged ears pointing up and out, with skin tattered as though consumed by maggots. they would falter to describe the appearance of its blackened eyes that reflect moonlight, and that even through the vertical blink of its nictitating membrane, one could still spot the monster’s unbroken stare. oh, and its teeth? what of its teeth? 

why, razor-sharp and hungry.

this is what a fear of the dark sounds like:

the pitter-patter of bare feet against marble flooring, the hammering of small fists against a mahogany entryway, the desperate screams mother! mother! against a door that remains tightly shut.

it was once said that the most effective way to overcome that which you fear is to become it. and what he means to say is this: gone were the days where he would once seek refuge in the spot of light in the dark. no, these days, yongtae finds comfort in its dwelling.

so it is here, in the midnight black, that he spreads comfortably on a foreign couch. the beat of his heart is calm and constant as he balances a lit cigarette in his left hand. see, yongtae knows himself to be an impatient man, but mother had always warned him against wolfing down his plate. so in her honour, he promises to chew, to hold the food in his mouth before he swallows.

he finds his lips curled around his cigarette by the time he hears the door creak open. he finds no need to rush, instead pulling the smoke leisurely into his lungs. 

“shi,” he curls his tongue around the syllable, ensures that it is perfectly pronounced before he weaves it into the cigarette smoke that he eventually blows out. it is here when he finally turns his head to drink in the sight of her—she, whose hands were stained the crimson of his brothers’ blood. a rhetoric falls from his lips, a question whose answer he already knows, “is that right?”

it is the moonlight’s glare that betrays the revolver he holds loosely in his right palm. he dangles the trigger on his index.

“please, sit.”