#I consume it like a fistful of pomegranate seeds

[wisp-of-thought]

peonies & pomegranates: when eve meets persephone

Persephone meets Eve standing at the edge of the underworld

A fist full of soil

Persephone says,

Hello there

Eve says,

I thought

I might be able to see them

In the end,

Again.

Her hands unfurl and

Let the dirt fall

You smell like them

Do

You

Know?

You smell like the flowers

Left behind

In Eden.

And Eve turns to look at her then.

And it has been many centuries

For them both

But

Persephone recognizes the never fading gleam,

The twinkle in her eye

Birthed only from

The glazing nectar of

Forbidden fruit.

A mirror reflection

Of herself.

Two women who chose to

Give in

Honour

Their hunger

In hopes of a moments reprieve

From being devoured by their own

Longing.

Persephone says,

You must be

Eve

Eve flitches at her own name.

Merely says

Nothing grows here

And Persephone understands

Her heartbreak

Says

No.

I am sorry.

And Eve flinches at that too.

Breathes,

No

Whispers,

No more

Apologies

Here.

I have lived a life time of

Repentance.

And I

Am done with

All this

Asking for forgiveness

For things we are not to blame for.

For things we are not sorry for.

Persephone

Still scented with Eden’s greenery says

I know

And Eve looks at her with

More ache

Than doubt.

Let’s the goddess assure her

That

You do not have

To be sorry anymore

Here.

And she takes the woman's hand in hers.

Smeared with the kingdoms

Dirt.

A handful of miniscule stones

Ground to sand.

Caught beneath her nails.

Persephone can feel

Life rolling off the

Girl

In gentle waves.

Even here,

After,

She ought to have been

Drained.

As though

The only way to

Take her

Had been instead,

To drown her

Completely

In the sea of

Existance.

And she

Was still

Dripping.

I did not want

To go back

To a gilded cage.

Even if the bars were wound

In vines

And blossoms.

I just

Missed

The flowers.

Persephone sits with her

At the edge of the underworld.

Says

I know

And Eve

Is tired of a lifetime of

Biting her tongue.

What do you know

Of wanting

Persephone?

A Queendom in Spring.

A kingdom come fall.

A million miles below the ground,

When the frost strikes.

Do you know what it is like to be

Cold

Persephone?

To be exiled?

To be

Unwanted?

And it is Eve.

No malice and all

Curiosity.

And Persephone wishes

She could give her

The answers

She needs to be

At peace.

I know

Much of wanting

And the unwanting.

Persephone looks

Up

To

The ground

Above

They blame me

For the plague of

Cold and barren land

And Eve knows too

Well

They blame me

For the plague of

A lifetime of repentance

And Persephone knows too

Well

For paying the price

Of my spent desire.

And their contempt

Drips

Acidic

Into the soil

Eve picks at the dirt

Beneath her nails

As though

She can feel

The burning.

And replies

As though to say

How dare you want,

Woman,

More than what we have

Permitted you to have.

Don't be

Selfish

Persephone finishes for

Her

Own heart and fists

Twisting

Curling

Into themselves.

And Eve

Goes on.

As though to say

How dare you disobey

What you were told to be.

How dare you

Attempt to become

More

Than we have let you

Be.

Eve looks at Persephone then

And it has been many centuries

For them both

But

Eve recognizes the never fading gleam

The twinkle in her eye

Birthed only from

The glazing nectar of

Forbidden fruit

A mirror reflection

Of herself.

I was only

Hungry

Says Eve

I know

Says Persephone

And I did not know

What could stifle

My appetite.

I did not know

What I craved.

Just that

I was starving.

And that

Nothing

Was

Enough.

And he came to you

In your instability

And they both know this story

By heart.

And he said

Eat, love

If you would like

Only

If you would like

And he dropped it into your palms

And she can almost feel the weight in her hands.

Where it once rested,

Before it was digested,

And left for her to carry

In the pit of herself

For eternity.

And it smelt of sweet possibility

Eve inhales.

Though breath means

Nothing here.

But she does it anyways

For the sake of

Nostalgia.

And he gave you a fruit

And I brought it to my own lips

And he gave you a choice

And I laid it on my own tongue

Peresphone watches her

Mirror

Knowingly.

And you chose

To bite

To swallow

The consequences.

And it hangs between them.

Tangible.

Ripe.

And ready

To fall.

The culmination

Of two seeded

Choices

And it

Drops

Into

Persephone's lap

Persephone's palms

Persephone's mouth

And you would do it again

And the fruit always looks deceptively

Delectable

But the nectar

Of the truth

Is always

Bitter

And Eve cups her hands below

The goddesses chin

And lets the golden syrup

Accumulate

And

Sips

Yes

I would

Do it

Again

And they do not need to speak

To say:

If I was given the chance

The choice

To save myself

Again

I would do it

I would take it

Over

And

Over

And

Over

Again.

Because

I do not think

I could ever

Be sorry

For being

Hungry

And eating

Until

I was full

And Persephone

Nods

Understanding

The all consuming nature of

The desire to

Know.

I do not think

I could ever

Be sorry

For choosing to live

Over

Survive.

I was never

Sorry

Even when

They punished me for

Knowing

For wanting

For being something other than

A good girl

A docile daughter

And Eve laughs

And Persephone is struck

By how much the

Sound tastes of

Fresh bloom.

Have they ever met

Mother Nature

She is

No

Soft

Or

Submissive

Thing

And Persephone smiles then too

And Eve is struck

By how much the

Image looks like

The creation of

A universe.

My mother

Warned me

Her breath is breeze after

Rainfall

To be wary of bitter men

And their sweet offerings

Her gaze is an ocean

Rippling reflection

And my mother said

It is a dangerous game to play

Persephone

She is

The symphony

Of life.

And my father said,

Listen to me, Eve

And my mother said

Come home to me

Persephone

Or their will be consequences

You belong here

In the sun

In the garden

In my gaze

In my grasp

And they both

Know this story

By heart.

Muscle memory

Fear

Hate

Rage

Longing

Stillness.

And I thought,

I belong wherever

I please.

And I thought

I deserve

To know.

I thought

I will not be afraid

Of the dark.

I thought

I deserve

To eat.

I thought

I will not bow to death.

And Eve is looking at

Persephone.

And the reflection

Is cracking.

And instead

He lowered his brow

To brush his lips

Across your knuckles.

And Persephone is looking at

Eve

And the reflection

Is shattering.

And instead

He bent a knee for me.

The glass is

Falling.

I do not know

What that is like.

I do not think

He loves me

Anymore.

And the silence

Aches for them both

How do you

Know?

And Eve

Considers this.

The quiet

Holds her

Softly.

I do not think I know

What love ought to be.

I do not think

The tree

Taught me

This.

And Persephone

Picks up

The shards,

Dew drops of light

Healing the image

Into a make shift

Mosaic.

Hands still gentle

When they brush away

Her doubt.

Love

Is

The way

The truth

Made itself

Soft

And

Sweet

For you,

Love.

Love

Is

The way

You choose

It

And

It Chose

You.

And Eve is

Not staring

At a mirror

She is gazing

At

The entirety

Of the universe

At once.

And the truth is

My lover

My sin

My salvation

That I was not

Naive

Or

Ignorant

Or

Victim

To a man's

Deception

And when I committed the

Transgression

Of

Making a choice

That was wholly my own

I did not beg to be kept

To be released

I walked out of

Paradise

With my head held high

Bid farewell to the

Light

And entered

The shadows

Let the gates shut behind me

And I left

And I stayed

And it was

My

Choice

And it is

In Persphone’s arms

That Eve learns

For the first time

Of what it is like

To be held

Other than as

Grudge

Or

Guilt.

And Eve

Is embraced by the universe

Until

At last

She knows

e v e r y t h i n g

#writing #writeblr #writerscreed #poetryportal #persephone #quotes #poem #poetry #love #feminism #persephades #hades #greek myth poetry #greek mythology #greek myth aesthetic #art #sad #spilled writing #spilled thoughts #spilled words #spilled ink #spilled poetry #books #booklr #writing prompt #poets on tumblr #short story #wlw #love poem #night aesthetic

[sasorikigai]

“What happened was not your fault and it does not define you.” goddess liv @ scorpion!

Recovering from Trauma || @somniaxperdita || accepting 

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Some were meant to take and some were meant to give, and in this life, Scorpion has found nothing more satisfying than to watch his scorched soul burn each time it breaks and build itself up again, atom by atom, as Hanzo Hasashi’s disintegrated human carcass rebirthed as the undying flicker of flame, in a world completely stripped of compassion, love, mercy, and honor. In the throes of his excruciating suffering, Scorpion imprinted Harumi and Satoshi’s image over and over his mind. As he would feel them in his arms, between his asphyxiated breath, as the visceral poignancy of his sorrow and grief became everything that the wraith harbored, always and forever. In his reincarnation as the vindictive spirit entrapped in the ancient artifact of the Great Warrior’s weapon, the scorching flames becoming the remnants of his spilled heart as he tenaciously clung to the Earth, on all fours, crawling, in the throes of his last breath. 

Scorpion both aches with the need to convince himself that he does exist in the real world, that he is a part of all the sound and anguish, and he strikes out with his fists, he curses internally and he swears to make them recognize him. And alas, it is seldom successful as he carries perpetuating loneliness everywhere he goes. Even in company of the others, he would find himself adrift in the shadows of his nothingness, existence amidst nonexistence, as Scorpion agonizes in silence to swallow the poisonous burning of his memories, the back of his throat sore and throbbing in slow, painful moments. The perpetuated silence in his mien is chilling, haunting, killing a mind once dwelling with innocent thoughts and aspirations with tragic emotions. It’s consuming a soul tortured by the still air, the stagnant flow of the dust. 

“It is all too confusing because I want to change myself endlessly and improve, and ultimately, forgive myself, and yet, all those burning of infinite capacities feel like luxury when so many of my people -” still remain entrapped in eternal suffering. How contained rage and regret soars up, flashing the contours of his expressive face. When he tries to chase the visceral depth of such unbridled emotions, they retreat back into nonexistence, beneath his exhausted emotional toil and onslaught of familiar pain. 

How the vulnerable malleability of his heart remains confined, and yet, burst like pomegranate seeds; delicate and peeled, as once jubilant and graceful embers scorch with black, obsidian smoke. While this isn’t directed at the Sun Goddess, how the paramount surge of his scorching maelstrom breaches through the guarded walls of his heart, the last flame in him lit to siege, as if he was crying a torrential river of flames. “Knowing I could not protect my people from such a catastrophic tragedy still renders me beneath a vicious paroxysm. For my heart gapes and my head hurts, I’m lonely and depressed and I’m worried about everything and the world is collapsing and full of evil. Do you expect me to say ‘I’m fine’ and just bloody move on?” 

The effulgent, resplendent dawn of his solar flare darkens, as spectral tenebrous tendrils engulf Hanzo Hasashi’s cleansed light. How Scorpion fulminates like thunderstorm, in his stifling wrath and frustration as the cataract white of his eyes swell with surging magmatic eruption, with wreaths of flames engulfing him, rendering his incorporeal form to gleam ivory amaranthine skeleton with nothing, but conflagrations of incinerating wrath and frustration. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion) #✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv) #(mortal kombat 2021) #(relationships; olivia) #somniaxperdita

[cupsofsuga]

Henlo! Could you do a yandere bts reaction where their crush/love interest think theyre dating or in love with someone else so they back off and end up falling for another person?

OCTOBER DAYS  ━ YANDERE BTS REACTION*:･。.

WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers.  I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

Thank you for requesting, sweetheart!

P.S this reaction was entirely inspired by my nostalgia for October 😬

KIM SEOKJIN

━━━ The chilling, October wind dances with Jin as he tracks through the empty woods. Dead leaves and twigs crunch under his boots as he hurries to the overlook to meet you there. He must hurry, he must hurry. Jin cannot waste a single, living, breathing second before declaring his eternal love for you. His clothes are painted with crimson blood. Not his, but rather the boy who claimed to be your lover. Jin’s got a stern facade, the blood adding onto everything intimidating about it, but you must look in his eyes. He’s got love in his eyes. Soft, sweet, equivalent to the doe-eyed fawn’s you see in the awakening of spring. Entirely pure.

You sit at the edge, looking over the town in all your glory. You radiate a tranquil aura; so calm but yet, so blissfully excellent, in a certain matter. Jin can’t help but marvel at the way you sit so calmly in the milky way of your own galaxy. You hear the flutter of footsteps behind you, quickly turning only to meet with horror. Like petals falling gracefully of a flower, only to turn to ash once they meet the surface. There’s heartbreaking beauty in your expression, but Jin mustn’t stay silent now. He must scream from the rooftops of his infatuation for you, his everything, his childhood best friend, his one and only lover.

“You have my heart, Y/N. You always have… But you’ve given yours to some filthy heathen who surely does not deserve a single second in your presence… Y/N, please. Please let me spend every waking moment in your presence, please let me show you how strong and dominant but soft and sensitive my devotion for you is… Please love me the way I love you so…”

MIN YOONGI

━━━ This new school year was supposed to begin differently; perfectly. Yoongi would gain confidence and finally, find the privilege to be held in your arms, but fate had other plans for him and left him beaten bloody in the parking lot, cold, October wind against his exposed skin. Memories now begin to prance and frolic in his head. His mind is filled to the brim of screaming turned to white noise and the sight of distorted rage and blood. Yoongi, in a state of blurred fury, attacked your supposed “lover” thinking he could possibly defeat him with his tiny figure.

But, what’s this?

As he awakes to the beeping of a monitor and blinding lights, he can smell the sickeningly sweet stench of honeysuckle, the musk immediately calming him from his rage-filled mind. Like early June air, he inhales the scent and exhales fluttering heartbeats and rosy cheeks. The lights, which were once as blinding as the sun, simmer down and he can see a figure sitting before him. And once Yoongi regains complete consciousness, he can finally make out the person before him. It’s you. His midnight muse, his golden sun, his lovelorn daydream, his Y/N. You gently brush his hair with the tips of your fingers, lulling him into an empty trance with your touch and delicate reassurance, and Yoongi forgets what it means to breathe.

“Y/N… Y/N… I-I’m sorry. I-I-… I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you… I-I love you- I love you so much!!”

JUNG HOSEOK

━━━ All Hoseok ever truly desired was to feel your seraphic touch in the dead of nightfall and to taste the sweet, sweet nectarine of your kiss. He desires to inhale your scent of honey and lavender and to watch as your beaming smile challenges the light of a million stars. All Hoseok truly ever desired was you. But this demon has taken your soul and kept it locked in a cage for his amusement. Hoseok watches and questions, what is this feeling? It’s like pomegranate seeds stuck in his teeth! Red like the petal of a rose but sharp as its thorns. It’s like a rot has formed in the pit of his stomach, slowly spreading over time and killing him with ease. For the first time in such a long time, Hoseok feels pain.

Step after step, Hoseok must run. Run, run, run until these sins he has committed can melt. Moonlight brightens up the empty road before him and the chirping of the crickets turn to white noise. Everything turns so hazy in the light glimmer of the October fog; everything turns fluorescent in this velvet night. Reliving the moment, he can see the eyes of your lover lose their light as they consume the antifreeze that was hidden in the pie that Hoseok baked out of “the goodness of his heart.” He remembers the way they seized and the guttural sounds of their choking and cringes at the inhuman thought. Hoseok giggled manically during the process but now feels reality settle deep within his aching chest. Sweat forms on his forehead, his knees grow weak, his breathing becomes increasingly rapid as he questions over and over again, what have I done?

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!!! I need my Y/N!! God, I feel like I’m dying!! Where did you go…!!? Please don’t leave… I’m sorry for what I did, please!!!”

KIM NAMJOON

━━━ There’s a garden that rests in Namjoon’s heart. All fluttering birds and butterflies and the swaying of trees and flower petals in the wind. Fluffy grass and fluorescent sunbeams, entirely a place of magic within his chest. There are fruit and vegetables littered around, dusted with the dirt and there are fairies that linger and sing all around the isolated area. Even though you’re late into October, summer lasts for eternity in this haven. This seraphic haven may be a fairytale of some sort or even just a metaphor for the sweet shock you bring to his heartbeat, but this eternal garden is what keeps him alive. 

But now, someone is trying to take this paradise away from him.

He must seek revenge for the hellion that robbed him of his happiness, no matter the circumstances! But Namjoon can’t seem to pull you two apart. He could drown you out in 15,000 love potions and the elixir still wouldn’t drive your attention away from that heathen! Resent cradles his heart and he can feel the garden inside him. Namjoon is so utterly desperate to bring an end to this torment! Finally picking himself up from the dirt, he regains his logic and musters up the perfect plan. He kills an innocent. A girl that lived in the same apartment complex as your lover, then planting their DNA all across the crime scene and the girl’s limbs. Namjoon then watches in amusement as he’s pulled from your arms in handcuffs, giggling once hearing his distressed screams. The fairies sing, the wind tousles with the grown leaves and these gray clouds have finally departed. His garden is finally healthy. He can finally be yours.

“Oh, Y/N… I can’t wait to feel your arms around me. But, I must wait. I can’t be greedy… This plan must work out before you can finally call me yours~…”

PARK JIMIN

━━━ How could you neglect an angel crafted from the purity of the clouds? Deny someone with a heart made of glass but an infatuation made from stone? You interlock your hands with your newfound lover in the October wind and turn oblivious to the teary eyes burning wounds into the boy. Jimin is livid, shaking with such a resentful force in his stance with a tear running down his pink cheek, seen so profoundly stuck in this cold embrace of anger that even the strangers who pass by seem to shutter into submission under his facade. They don’t matter, though, only you do.

Jimin is so genuinely infatuated with you. So, so terribly in love with you that he’d let you shred his fragile heart to bits and pieces, then pick them up and put the fragments directly back into your palm. He shows up at your window, practically banging with such force that could shatter it. You answer, worry vivid in your expression as you open the window, letting the October air and broken boy sink into the room. Jimin now lies on your bedroom floor, remnants of a broken heart in his chest and desperate begs ghosting his lips with permanent broken sobs.

“W-W-Why him, Y/N? Why did you choose him? Was I-I not good enough or-..? I-I think of suicide when you touch him like that; when you touch him the way you should be touching me… It hurts, Y/N, it hurts! Just, please… Please make it stop…! Please hold me and make it all stop…!”

KIM TAEHYUNG

━━━ Every fleeting moment spent in your presence is entirely ethereal. Those brief seconds of eye contact and those several times you bumped shoulders, mumbling an apology to the teen bring warmth to his soul. Taehyung clenches those memories in his fist, inhaling the scent, wishing it was your musk that smells of petals and early June wind instead. Taehyung sighs heavenly inhaling the fragrance of a sweater of yours, then casting his eyes to the assortment of polaroids of your face that holds the elegance of shooting stars and diamonds. And as much euphoria this brings to Taehyung, there’s that small, bitter piece inside him that craves more.

He needs to be held by you, to feel to rose petals that make up of your skin. He needs to feel your attention, to feel the sunbeams kiss against his skin whilst your eyes made up entirely of stardust gaze into his. But, he can’t. 

Some other boy; a boy much better than him has been granted the holy privilege of being called yours. So now, Taehyung sits under the golden light on his desk, the musk of nightfall brushing against his skin, writing in red ink with tears falling down his cheeks. He resorts to writing anonymous letters, pouring his soul into each word but so desperately craves to cut open his chest, pull out his heart and place it in your delicate palms. But his insecurities overpower him, and he cannot act on anything besides writing and breathing in your sweater, trying so desperately to calm him of his raging emotions while tears drench the paper in front of him.

“My dear Y/N, Was I not enough? The thought of seeing you touch him once more haunts every breath I take and it brings me to tears every time. My heart has been torn, my skin’s been flawed with scars and I’m choking on blood. This lovelorn relationship you and I have is exhausting, but I will fight through. For you, I must fight through.

Sincerely, Your One and Only Lover, Taehyung.”

JEON JUNGKOOK

━━━ The trees dance, the wind whistles and the moon shines. The evening twilight was just like any other night, soft, peaceful, glorious, but there’s a sudden shift in the October air. This shift is so horrifying that the wolves thirsty for blood scurry away. You see, Jungkook has met with the cracking conclusion that he truly never mattered to you, seeing as you benefit from that parasite that’s constantly giving you affection. Jungkook thrashes, screams and chucks items of all sorts around his room, shouting profanities and such with tears flowing down his cheeks. All Jungkook ever truly desired was to feel your touch of July as he sinks into a deep slumber, or to feel your lips pressed against his cheek during the pearly sunrise on an early spring morning.

He so desperately craves to spill every feeling buried deep within him, but he can’t.

Jungkook always held his head high and had faith in every tomorrow for you to be his, but he’s been stained by heartbreak. He has opened his heart for you like a ruby rose but you’ve crumbled the petals to ashes. He’s given you a light and screams for you to follow, yet you follow the fog of darkness when it whispers in your ear. Yet, you still let that cretin drape upon you, letting him cover your golden aura with his own. And as Jungkook sits on the edge of his bed, head in hands with cracked sobs echoing in the room, he has a sudden revelation. He has been wounded, bleeding right from his shattered heart, and the only anecdote for this eternal hell within his own mind was to pay with blood. Jungkook needs that man’s blood and he needs it now!

“You filthy, disgusting heathen! How dare you touch them with those dirty hands of yours…!? The way y-you just love them with ease fills me with jealousy and it gets so hard to breathe and I-I just- I can’t fucking take it anymore…! I need you dead so these thoughts can finally just leave me alone…”

#yandere!bts #yandere bts #bts yandere au #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere headcanons #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere!seokjin #yandere seokjin #yandere!yoongi #yandere yoongi #yandere!namjoon #yandere namjoon #yandere!jimin #yandere jimin #yandere!taehyung #yandere!jungkook #yandere jungkook #bts #bangtan #bts imagines #bts headcanons #bts reactions

[radiantmists]

A Playful Diversion

Read on AO3

The demon Aziraphale arrives in the Garden and takes a deep breath, smiling at the full moon above and savoring the taste of rich earth and growing things.

He looks down at his pale new body, admiring the soft rolling curves of it, and stretches just to luxuriate in the pull of the muscles below. Then he spends rather a lot of time brushing off the dirt from his travel through the ground, finding a stream to wash his face in until he’s sure he looks nothing like some of the filthy demons he’d seen down below.

(This thought comes with a prim, petty sort of disgust that feels extraordinarily satisfying, now—Pride is a sin even if it’s passive-aggressive and condescending rather than loud and bragging.)

Aziraphale wanders through the Garden after that, keeping a vague eye out for the two humans. He’s supposed to be causing trouble, and they seem to be a likely target, given Her special interest in them. He doesn’t make too much of an effort, though, not even to stay hidden; it’s not as though he could truly hide from Her anyway, so why bother? She will do what She likes, after all, so he might as well just enjoy himself. There’s no rush.

(Sloth is also a sin, but he’s a demon now; no reason he should try to be diligent.)

And he is enjoying himself. Whatever quibbles he may have had regarding the reasons for the whole thing, the Garden is gorgeous, replete with flowers and butterflies, with charming little streams and hidden nooks where the wildlife sleep peacefully. And the fruit…

Aziraphale tries everything he sees. He delights in the tartness of the raspberries and the crisp crunch of the pears, the sweetness of strawberries and the cool juice of the peach running down his chin. He finds that biting through the rind of the orange is a mistake, but ultimately the bitterness is rewarded with the sweet tang of the flesh within. After that, he starts to peel away thick skin and crack open gourds, scooping out the white meat of coconuts and cherimoya with his fingers. There’s a false start before he realizes that the good part of the pomegranate is the seeds, but once he does… oh.

(Gluttony is also, of course, a sin, when appetites are selfishly carried to excess, and Aziraphale has no thoughts of moderation.)

Pineapples and watermelon are a bit more of a challenge; while plucking gooseberries, he raises pale pink scratches on his arms, and the less said about the ordeal with the prickly pears, the better. And that’s to say nothing of the honey. He has to do some very fast talking to convince the bees that he’d repaired their hive, see, there was no need to sting, and he’d be ever so careful in the future, if they’d just let him have a little more…

Eventually, though, he finds the most well-guarded fruit in the Garden.

It isn’t immediately obvious; the fruit is an inviting dark red, with skin that looks thin and easy to bite through. But as Aziraphale reaches up through the branches, a warning hiss makes him jerk his hand away in surprise.

In the dappled shadow of the leaves, a pair of glittering golden eyes reflect the moonlight. Slowly, he makes out the shape of a great long body wound through the branches of the tree, sleek black scales shifting to a deep crimson at its underbelly.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. I’m Aziraphale.”

The snake stares at him, and he thinks it would probably blink in bemusement if that were something a snake could do.

“I’m Crawly,” it says finally.

“You certainly are,” Aziraphale replies dryly, and then realizes—that was its name. Creatures do not have names, which means that he isn’t speaking to a snake. He’s speaking to an angel. And he’s just told an insipid joke about his (admittedly rather ridiculous) name.

Before he can panic at all, there’s an odd hissing sound, and he realizes that the angel is laughing.

“I really didn’t mean to disturb you,” Aziraphale says uncomfortably. “Just… the fruit looks rather lovely.”

“It’sssss forbidden,” Crawly hisses, scales whispering over the branches as he readjusts his perch in the tree, freeing up the front of his body to strike.

Aziraphale blinks. “This one? Are you quite sure?” When the angel only stares, unblinking, he adds doubtfully, “only there are others that seem to be rather more… threatening, you know.”

“I moved all the poisonous ones, honeyface,” Crawly says, defensive. Aziraphale resists the urge to self-consciously scrub at his suddenly very hot face, trying to find a retort, and then pauses suddenly.

“There are poisonous ones?” he asks, a sort of retroactive worry curdling his full stomach. Beelzebub will not be impressed if he’s ruined this body already. “Where did you move them to?”

“A cave. It’s got a stream running through and a great hole in the top for light, but you couldn’t have just wandered in there in that shape,” Crawly assures.

“I should like to see that,” Aziraphale replies, relieved now and imagining the picture it must make, light shining down in a column on the lush greenery, the whisper of water trickling along just out of sight.

Crawly eyes him suspiciously. “I’m sure you would, demon,” he accuses. “I put those out of reach for a reason, I’m not showing you where they are so you can go make the humans sick.”

“Are you implying I’m going to poison them?” Aziraphale asks, affronted. Then he tilts his head in thought. “Actually…”

The angel winces.

“They—they know better than to eat those anyway,” he insists, and angels don’t lie but there’s something a little too keen in the warning. “She pointed out all the things that were dangerous.”

“Then why did you have to put them out of reach?” Aziraphale asks mildly, and Crawly hisses in frustration. Which means that poison is still a possibility, assuming he can figure out how much is needed to just make the silly things sick without getting himself in too much trouble. Fortunately, he realizes, there might be a much more interesting opportunity right in front of him. “What’s more, if you moved all the others, why did you leave this one? Did She forget to point it out? Or,” he adds inncocently, “is it too big?”

“I’m an angel,” the angel says, testily. “I can move any tree I like, size isn’t an issue. And She did tell them if they ate it they would surely die and all that. But She placed it specially here—“

“Did she now?”

“Um, yeah…”

“The Lord took special care to place one single poisonous tree in this specific spot? In Her rather enormous Garden?” Looking around, there is a grassy sort of clearing around the tree that Aziraphale might have noticed if he hadn’t been so consumed with excitement over the fruit. What’s more, it seems possible based on where he’d started, and the direction he’d been walking and the amount the moon had moved, that this was the exact center of the Garden. Which means it must be a rather important tree.

“Well, it’s technically not—“

Crawly cuts himself off, but it’s too late—Aziraphale’s mind is in motion, picking the words apart. What was not what? The Garden is certainly enormous, and certainly Hers; the angel had said himself that She placed the tree specifically, and that She told the humans the fruit was—

No. No, that wasn’t quite what Crawly said, was it?

“It’s not technically poisonous, is it? You even said,” Aziraphale realizes, “you moved all the poisonous ones. This fruit isn’t poison at all, it’s just forbidden.”

“They’ll die if they eat it,” the angel insists stubbornly. “She said so.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale says, because trying to convince a loyal angel that the Lord lied is a fool’s errand. “But if it’s not the fruit that will kill them, what will? Her?”

“Ssssshe wouldn’t do that,” Crawly replies, hissing with outrage. “It’s wrong. They’re her favorite creation, and it’s just a fruit, that wouldn’t be—“

“Right? Fair?” Aziraphale scoffs, fists clenching, and Crawly rears back at his sudden vehemence. “It isn’t right to make us create all this and then ignore us to focus on them, and then cast out anyone who wants to know why. It isn’t fair to pick favorites.”

(Envy is a sin, a horrible ugly little ball of resentment that sits in the stomach like rotten fruit, weighs the soul down like a stone.)

There’s a long, bitter silence. They stare at each other, neither willing to budge, until finally Aziraphale sighs and relaxes his posture, shaking his head.

(Wrath is a sin when anger festers and vents itself at undeserving targets, but it’s one he frankly finds rather distasteful.)

“It’s hardly fair, either, to put such a delicious-looking fruit they can’t eat right in the center of a Garden full of ones they can. It seems… confusing.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” Crawly says.

“She put an angel here to remind the humans not to eat a fruit?” Aziraphale had known she was fixated on them, but that seemed excessive.

“Well, all She said was that I’m a guardian, gave me venom and a flaming sword and all,” Crawly replies, mouth wide to show his teeth, and Aziraphale resists the urge to flinch back at flaming sword. “But I mean, it seemed implied. Who else would I be guarding, the trees?”

Probably just this specific tree, Aziraphale doesn’t say, because he’s too busy gaping at this ridiculous, wonderful angel. ‘It seemed implied’—maybe it had, but only from a very specific vantage point. A naïve one, of course, one of blind, unquestioned faith, yes; but it was faith in the idea that She reflected this angel’s simple, perfectly instinctive love, the conviction that nothing was more valuable than life.

Aziraphale doesn’t have that kind of faith anymore, has felt firsthand the imperfections in Her love. But perhaps…

No. Crawly is an angel, he reminds himself, a loyal soldier of the Lord who might be friendly and delightfully witty but who has been armed with a flaming sword that he’ll probably try to drive through Aziraphale’s heart when their conversation ends. His love is no more perfect than Hers.

“Hey, you okay?”

Aziraphale started, blinking up at the branches. It made sense how he’d managed to miss Crawly; weaved between the branches as he was, his black scales blended with the night shadows, while the glimpses of red scales that were visible were a perfect match for the fruit.

He’s not up to date on serpentine body language, but Crawly actually seems concerned.

“Yes, yes, quite alright,” Aziraphale replied, trying to regain the thread of the conversation.

“Do you still want one?”

And now Aziraphale’s completely lost. “What?”

Crawly laughs, the same soft, hissing delight. “The apples, do you still want to try one?”

“I—well,” Aziraphale stutters, thrown. Is this some sort of test? Will he be allowed to go without a fight if he doesn’t seem interested? “I don’t want to ‘surely die’, if that’s what you’re asking—“

“Oh, that’s just for the humans.” At Aziraphale’s surprised look, Crawly explains, “I asked, because the animals kept trying to eat them.”

“I see… but this still feels like a trap,” Aziraphale says worriedly. All the same, he can’t stop himself from glancing at the fruit again, ripe and inviting and new.

Crawly laughs again, sounding almost fond, but this time he starts to move, coils flowing over the branches until he hangs in a single loop, and for a moment Aziraphale thinks the angel’s laughed himself right out of the tree. Then something changes, the loop over the branch melting into strong fingers with black-tipped nails, the head shifting and the red scales flowing back over it into long russet curls, lids forming gently over golden eyes and then blinking open to reveal them glittering in mirth. The black scales have retreated but not disappeared, tracing a path down Crawly’s neck and disappearing over his slim dark shoulder, reappearing at the bony hips and branching over lean thighs to curl around his dark, pointy knees before spilling out to cover his slender calves and ankles.

Crawly drops to the ground on scaled feet with a final chuckle, plucking an apple from the tree as he lets go of the branch.

“Look,” he says, and with glinting white teeth and thin, grinning lips he bites into the apple, ripping away a full mouthful, large enough that when he swallows without chewing Aziraphale can follow the lump down that long, slim throat before it disappears.

Aziraphale jerks his eyes away from sharp collarbones and what lies below them and gulps convulsively.

(Lust is a sin, he tells himself, and you’re a demon, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, but maybe it’s a sin he doesn’t understand all that well, because somehow Aziraphale is sure that Him Below would disapprove of the way he wants to stare at this angel just as much as She would.)

“It’s perfectly safe,” the angel tells him, and Aziraphale wants to snort derisively, but then Crawly smiles soft and a little teasing. “Come on, I know how much you want to—it’s delicious, really, and I promise I don’t sting.”

“How do you know—“

“It’s all over your face, honey,” Crawly drawls, eyes shining with amusement, and it takes a moment for Aziraphale to process the jibe, to blush brick red again and scrub viciously at his sticky chin with the heel of his hand. So much for not looking like a grubby demon, he thinks.

“Why,” he asks, and Crawly softens.

“It really is delicious,” he repeats, “and it’s clearly meant to be enjoyed. And somehow, I don’t think anyone will enjoy it more than you.”

And he holds out the apple.

Of course no one is going to enjoy it more—neither demons or angels, or even the Lord, make a habit of eating, and the thing is forbidden to the humans. There’s no one else who’d enjoy it at all, really. But somehow, it’s obvious that that’s not what Crawly means. Aziraphale can’t suppress the feeling that there’s something being offered here beyond a sort-of forbidden apple, something intangible but very, very important.

He reaches out and takes it.

(Greed is a sin: wanting in excess, more than you need, more than you deserve, all for yourself, and it must be excessive the way he wants everything, it must be too much and selfish even if he has the fleeting, mad impression that Crawly is offering.)

The apple is delicious, divinely sweet without being cloying. He savors the first bite, the way his sharp front teeth pierce the delicate skin easily and the satisfying crunch between his molars as he chews, the weight of the fruit on his tongue and the way the juice lets it slide smooth down his throat.

He opens his eyes to find the angel staring at him with eyes wide and shocked and almost plaintive, sort of leaning forward and altogether consumed with something Aziraphale can’t identify.

“Do you want another bite?” he offers.

“No,” Crawly blurts, “no, you can finish it. Like I said, never see anyone enjoy it like you.”

“Alright then,” Aziraphale replies, and does. Crawly leans back against the tree and watches, smiling, and maybe that should make Aziraphale feel self-conscious but something about that golden stare just leaves him feeling warm.

When he’s done, he licks the juice off his fingers, closing his eyes and humming in satisfaction, then startles as a wave of pure lust hits his demonic senses.

He opens his eyes and grins knowingly, and Crawly sucks in a breath, biting his lip with teeth that are a touch too sharp. Aziraphale fancies that there are more scales spreading across that dark skin than before, and for a moment he thinks Crawly will dart back up into the tree to coil up and hide in the branches again. He suppresses a laugh.

“That was wonderful, thank you,” he says, and Crawly shifts a bit before leaning back, deliberately careless.

“Well, I’m glad you found it… diverting,” he says.

Aziraphale chuckles, surprised and a little delighted. “Were you distracting me?”

“Well, it’s been twenty minutes since you walked up, and who knows how much trouble a demon could cause in twenty minutes,” Crawly replies. “Think I did a good job.”

“In that case,” Aziraphale says, “I suppose I should be getting on. I can’t have a sweet little angel like yourself thwarting all my demonic wiles.”

For a moment, it looks like Crawly is going to take issue with that description, but then he tilts his head, challenging.

“You could do that, and see how sweet I really am,” he drawls, “or I could show you some other sweet things in this Garden. Have you tried mangoes?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Aziraphale replies, intrigued, and Crawly grins, standing.

“There’s a tree over this way,” he says, starting out of the clearing.

Aziraphale goes to follow, frowning back at the apple tree. “Shouldn’t you be on guard?”

“I am. I’m guarding them from you,” Crawly insists, turning back. His tongue flickers out from between his teeth, and he shrugs. “They’re asleep miles away, and besides, I’m sure you could get them in far more trouble than any apple tree.”

(Later, of course, he’s proven quite thoroughly wrong, and Aziraphale laughs himself silly. Crawly glances up at the twitching white wing still sheltering him from the pouring rain, and has to remind himself to glower rather than laughing along.)

***

I'm not sure if I'm going to write more for this, but I sure have a lot of thoughts about it, so if you have an opinion, a question, or just want to know a random fact about this au, or just want to yell about good omens, my ask box and chat are open for business :). Also, if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #writing #aziraphale/crowley #GO fanfic #my writing

[atomkrp-blog]

WELCOME TO XAVIER’S, SONG DAEHYUN !

… loading statistics. currently aged twenty-two, entering first semester of xavier’s in seoul, south korea. decrypting files… mutant has the following records: strength +4, durability +7, agility +4, dexterity +4, intelligence +6. currently, he is classified under tier omega.

BACKGROUND.

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares—                                                           sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

             you come out alive.                            but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

            o.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

             i.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

             ii.

                                 maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

             iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

             he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

             iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

             you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

            v.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

                                       you were architected to carry an empire in you.

             vi.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

             vii.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

             viii.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

                                                      ( or both. )

             ix.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

                                                                     a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

            x.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

             somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

                             ( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

             xi.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

                                             question:

             do you run from the beasts in your reality,                   or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

              ( you don’t. )

MUTATION.

he has the ability to become the embodiment of contagion, meaning that he can spread influences accordingly. his state of abilities is dependent on his current mental as well as physical status, although at the peak he can infect up to one kilometre radius, or even more considering the complexities of the influence being spread. his influences include, but not limited to, diseases and insanity, as well as appeal to negative emotions. when it comes to emotions, he finds it easier to amplify than inflict from zero, although the latter is far from impossible. negative influences in the mind are usually formed through the similar systematics of killing serotonin, and sometimes, in more severe cases, inducing necrosis. he’s most educated in terms of disease manipulation, however, compared to the other aspects of his powers.

STRENGTHS.

he can generate, induce, and manipulate diseases — also called disease manipulation in terms of power. while this application greatly varies, it’s highly based on his own knowledge in regards to these illnesses. he cannot inflict what he doesn’t know, and while he can create the diseases, he needs to comprehend the systematic of the diseases: how it affects the immune system, how it affects the body, etc. his understandings about diseases when it comes to this ability are vastly different from that of medical knowledge, and it cannot simply be explained in words.

he can also accelerate and suppress diseases, although healing is a far-fetched idea that he has yet to apply a lot. thus, curing is an aspect least touched upon, rendering it almost obsolete in his deposit. other applications of this are: infection empowerment ( ability to become empowered by the presence of diseases ), pathogen manipulation ( transferral, mimicry, elimination, hypnotic ), cellular disintegration ( to destroy cells by inflicting diseases ), healing factor nullification, as well as mutation inducement, although this one is extremely limited to what might be received by the victim’s dna. poison manipulation — which includes all scopes of poison, including toxin and venom, is also within his reach considering the similar systematics to disease manipulation.

he also possesses a fragment of parasite physiology and virus mimicry, although this is the least harnessed out of the other powers. through his parasitic characteristics, he’s able to tap into genetic memories, and upon touch, replicate an extent of knowledge, despite not much. it’s typically only on the surface, enveloping the conscious. through this, he can read the minds, be they memories or understandings, although this doesn’t last long after the contact is cut off.

in a sense, he’s also bestowed with regenerative healing factor by absorbing someone else’s health, also through direct contact. as for the virus mimicry, while he’s unable to perform anything that alters his solid form, he’s able to execute some of the applications in it, such as rupturing internal organs, although in order to do that he needs to have the victim remaining still — for it takes time. he can also perform cellular disintegration, which relates back to regenerative healing factor nullification, in which he can overpower cellular regeneration.

WEAKNESSES.

he is, by no means, immune to his own powers, and therefore anyone who mimics this power can hit him at his point of vulnerability. he has no superhuman immunity, albeit slightly more enhanced in a way that he doesn’t fall sick as easily, but he’s definitely still able to contract diseases that he himself can spread onto others. the only way to cure himself is by applying his own healing power, which is far from polished. another way to lessen this effect would be through empowerment, although not all diseases can be empowered, and may weaken and eventually kill him instead.

emotional influences are limited to negative scopes only, with the spectrum lying at the corner of fear and madness, and he cannot spread other types of emotions apart from these. it also limits the amplification of emotional states for those around him, where he can only magnify the negative ones as opposed to the positives.

also, in terms of mental stability, he’s slowly decaying considering his powers consume a lot of him. they feed off his sanity, in a way that his emotional responses towards his own influences cause a decline. these powers also rely heavily on his imagination, and most of the time, he feels the imaginary pain of the emotions and diseases before being able to transfer them.

the spectrum of illnesses that he can spread highly depends on the amount of knowledge that he has on said specimens. it’s easier for him to inflict diseases on humans, knowing their specifics of immune system and whatnot, rather than vigils and mutants considering that they vary highly. with the variants, he needs to gauge a measurement as to how much influence is needed to affect them at all.

his power is mostly effective towards those around him as opposed to himself, meaning that while he’s able to apply some of them onto his own benefits, most of it is actually an output. his powers rely on offensive instead of defensive manner, in which if someone manages to replicate and outpower him, he’d be unable to form a defence mechanism. his mimicry might bring some powers inward, but as they’re not as trained as the rest of the powers, they do not work as effectively either.

being mentally unstable also takes a toll on his powers, seeing that they’re reliant on his stability to perform the tasks. it turns into a paradox where his abilities make him unstable; it formulates a never-ending ring of fire, which he knows will eventually consume him mentally. while he can regenerate his own brain cells by the various techniques that he can apply, be it through absorption or empowerment, he cannot fix what’s broken from the sanity for it’s intangible, leaving him with a rotting mind. and unfortunately, his ability to affect emotions are also increasing the volatility of his mental state, further worsening his conditions.

knowledge replication through parasitic tendencies can only be acquired through direct contact, skin on skin without any hindering fabrics and the likes. upon having the contact terminated, knowledge that isn’t obtained in his understandings ( e.g. adoptive muscle memories, as well as other types of knowledge which systematic is foreign to him ) would dissipate as soon as it comes. this doesn’t mean that he can replicate powers either, unless it has something to do with the mind. he can only read memories and thoughts superficially, and although some might be retained depending on how long the contact remains, the majority of it is usually forgotten.

#at:profile #tw mental illnesses #tw parental death #tw body horror

[funtimes-inbabylon]

fenrir greyback

"Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’ hierarchies? And even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying."

Rainer Maria Rilke

Mother told you that her life ended when yours began.

-

Sacrosanct are the fruits of your labor. Rotten in their root, rotten on the tree grown from holy soil. The tree that sheds its skin for you, reaches its tender branches out to you for you take its decaying legacy. Divinity is what you breathe into his flesh, after sinking your teeth so lovingly, so tenderly, into the boy's side. And he tasted so sweet, aromatic to fill your senses with blossoming honeysuckle, pomegranate blood to drip from your full lips. His body a parable, he who is made saint among the wretched. You do not call him son but instead savior.

A pariah, a chosen Messiah. Succinct is your will, writ into him, etched into his skin. Scored stories, didactic in their prose, the way the words form and fall about him. Illustrious in their verses, their psalms that sing into your ears. You'd make him your Bible if he refused to be your godly Prince. You would line him in gold and spin him tales of grandeur. Of kingdoms on clouds, snow-capped spines of mountains and white-feathered servants. You would place words on translucent page, use his skin as script, imperial in your longing.

He'd call you manic in your preaching, your fables and fantasies until you convinced him otherwise. No, not manic, not crazed, lunacy does not run through these veins. He is kept from you, hidden and mistreated - yet you need him near you, where you can plant seeds of righteous thought, where hallowed ideas can bloom. Child, Christ-like, to fulfill a self-appointed prophecy. Delusional, you bit him, delusional, you wanted to raise him.

You read passages from the Old Testament, memorized Lucifer and his morning star. Where Lucifer speaks, the fallen angel breathed through him. He who loved God so dearly, an angel with wings that failed him.

-

It comes to you in fluid dreams, of Catholic renderings, of Ancient Canaanite and Greek mythos poured through your veins. For Eros and the morning star to enter you, to salt the wound that the ropes made, daffodils that grew around you. Fogged vision, surrounding red, blanketed in violet and lily. Lucidly, you line your fingers with golden rings, diamonds placed on them in faceted ovals.

Their teeth flash white ivory in your vision. Their wailing is but illusary to you, it echoes in your mind, overtakes your psyche, as a malign moon burns ocular, circling where you stand. Its silvery light touches you and you cry out, in pain as bones break and form anew. Rip your skin for the sake of change, bleed infected blood, cardinal and ruin.

Hangs like steel manacles around your wrists, tethered to the canine feeling. Imagery and spooled fraternal revelry at your feet, they call you home by howl, compulsion driven by eternal feeling.

-

There is no existence without fear

-

LUCIFER: It may be thou shalt as we.

CAIN:

And ye?

LUCIFER: Are everlasting.

CAIN:

 Are ye happy?

LUCIFER:

We are mighty.

CAIN: Are ye happy?

LUCIFER:

No: art thou?

-

There is no happiness without worship

-

Monarchs fell long before you rose as King. The cushioned crown placed on your head, dealt in jewels and pearls, in where insects surrounding - locusts swarming, their frail bodies quivering, carrying news of your reign on their paper wings. Royalty changed Canis Lupus, and wolves replace soldiers, replace your people, bare their fangs for you. Reach gullets and bite through tendons for you. Bathe in blood, pupils dark, claws tear flesh for you.

You want the same from him, your Godly Prince, to be cloaked in crushed velvet, swathed in red silk, dripping and dripping with golden ruby'd chains for you. You would place him in pelts of wolves, their lives given to you for his return. Where you'd wait on your marble throne for him to beg mercy, forgiveness, divine exoneration from his sin of betrayal, a blaspheme crying crystal tears before you.

You want him crawling back to you, your heir, your only. You want him on hands and knees for you. With head bowed and neck craned, asking for regalia, cratered paradise, elysium nowhere but the palms of your hands. Which, for him to take, is paramount desire. To kiss each jeweled fist and vow loyalty, again, lupine in its hunger. Raven-winged, his plumage onyx iridescent, covertly viridian and cerulean. A jigsawed jaw, the amber of the moment, the snapping of fangs and where bone breaks cleanly to reveal itself rimmed with iron and wine.

Dionysiac in your raging prowess, you'd no choice but to tie his hands with the fated red thread.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet

I. INTIMACY WITHOUT FEAR

For his name to be on your tongue, to embrace your very teeth and cushion between words. He was pillowed, perfect synonyms of grace and utopic euphoria. Placed, crucifix, in a crown of laurel and olive. To feel him before you, come to life, reverie-like in a fixed reality. How mist surrounded him, a pull inward, to fold over himself not in pain but ecstasy. To feel the divine glory, venerated light drug through gaps in the wall, pellucid in window panes, behind stained glass mosaics, your portrait hung from the wall behind him. A line of pews for his followers to preach, to listen with intent, eager ears - to hear that their worries would ebb, as he would grant their redemption.

II. INTIMACY IN WAVES

He'd come to you in a daze, in a trance of circling hounds, a canine ouroboros. He pulls cuspid and molar from his mouth, places them in your hands, pearls of bones to be stringed together, to hang from your blessed throat.

Metacarpus in mineral, a backbone carved from lapis lazuli, bruised, redolent eucalytpus leaves to cloak in archaic fashion. A wine reminiscent of velour. He'd look at you with glazed eyes and you would speak his name, feel it wash over every inch of you.

III. INTIMACY IN A SHARED MOON

It wanes, a harvest moon riding your shoulders, and you'd be haunted - a spiritual representation of the past before you. Wrapped in waving neon, tender kinetics of ghosts squeezing your soul between histrionic fits. Fistfuls of ripe berries, bleeding violet through fingers, digits veiled in pulpy residue.

Morning is pure, stained carmine in the wake of savage passion.

"There is to me about this place a smell of rot, the smell of rot that ripe fruit makes. Nowhere, ever, have the hideous mechanics of birth and copulation and death — those monstrous upheavals of life that the greeks call miasma, defilement — been so brutal or been painted up to look so pretty; have so many people put so much faith in lies and mutability and death death death"

Donna Tartt, The Secret History

#i love my take on fenrir #dont @ me #also fuck jkr rot in hell bitch

[sergeantfcx]

WHEN | the evening of july 5th, 1845 WHERE | crew quarters  WITH | @paenumbra​

after the carnivale, its difficult not to think of the descent below deck as something akin to a descent into the underworld. each face that passes by him is cast partially in shadow, neither fully alive nor fully dead until it is fully within reach of the lantern light, each brush of skin against his own as he moves down the narrow corridors of the ship feels cool to the touch in a way that has jack withdrawing his hand, tucking it back into his pocket and curling his fingers into the meat of his palm until there are crescent moon shaped marks to remind him--that he is still capable of feeling momentary pain in the way that belongs exclusively to the living, that there is still blood inside of him that he could displace by there mere action of pressing too hard against the skin, he isn’t quite sure which. crew and guests alike seem to be holding their secrets clutched in their fists like pomegranate seeds, as if they can’t decide for themselves if they should eat them, resign themselves to spend their winter months in this faux tartarus.

you should feel right at home, he thinks to himself, as he makes his way towards the quarters set aside for crew. you, who have lived so long among the dead already. how is it possible you are not yet used to the feeling?

perhaps he is not as alive as he thinks--perhaps that is why he turns the corner and sees enoch, lingering near his berth, obviously waiting for him. surely only someone already dead could attract so many haunted--or perhaps the answer is far more simple. perhaps the rot in his soul is simply functioning like rot, stinking and spreading until it eventually comes to consume the whole of the dead thing--perhaps his decay has simply begun the process of looking for something else to latch onto, and enoch was the unfortunate soul that got caught.

he sighs and drags his hands over his face, tries to brush the gossamer threads of macabre nonsense from his mind like cobweb--but they’re cold and still mostly numb. the hands of a corpse. “enoch.” he says in way of greeting, before taking his cap from his head so he can collapse into his hammock in a proper heap. sleep, not like the dead--just sleep, is what he needs. “how are you faring? i hope you weren’t injured in all of the chaos?”

#some things you do ; just to see how bad they will make you feel | the shadow #lmk if you'd like any changes my love

[glorykrp]

taken from nebulaent.com: loading the profile of tae…

yoon taemin ( born october 31st, 1996 ), better known by his stage name tae, is an idol under nebula black as escape’s leader and main vocalist. prior to the group’s debut, he trained for six years. his hometown is recorded as incheon, south korea. loading latest news…

PERSONAL LIFE.

of all things unearthed, his hands bear the most callouses:                                                       pomegranate heart, wireframe veins—

                   i.

introduction to dawn that spills too late, succulent with the reek of deaths: against the pale of the night comes the wither of the day, all sickly yellow with its spidery fingers fissuring the sky. this is what has become of the war, and despite the victory marching around the edges with its tapestries and encores, there’s no turning back to the ink that bleeds dark in his bed. it is as though the darkest hour has moved to the crack between him and him, and draws an abyss too wide for them to cross.

still, he searches blindly in his sleep, a wrist dangling off the cliff.

one an end lay his fiends, growing milk teeth sharper than any surgical instrument, and on another lay his priests, raising golden goblets filled to the brim with wine of emotions. the clatter of the metals is always distant, almost unheard of. the former tends to draw the canyons and flees with the rest, leaving the latter with nothing but nullified intents.

                  ii.

umma soaks bone-deep into the haunting silence of threnody.

last child was birthed with poems tangled in his hair, pulverizing the bones of wishes of birthing a daughter. three sons, a legacy. named after another king, he’s destined to become another puppet on elaborate strings. taemin for every sharp contour of her framed reflection, taemin for every stilled mayhem of umma’s sullen heart. he resembles umma in too many ways, and when umma combs her fingers through the locks of his brown strands, he can almost hear the whisper of doctrines infused through the scalp.

umma binges on private moments of catastrophe, humming too many elegies veiled as lullabies. he sees through umma’s sorrow as a child and learns to wear his own like a robe. this is the art of rebirthing after a young death.

                   iii.

skeleton beckons for a name that splinters. this bridge is rotten pomegranates, seeds dripping from each creak. the red stains her soles and draws her blood; the red consumes to construct and deconstruct. in the morning hours specked with singed stars, she drains her body of life – her life is fading in a room too many. in her hand, the clammy fingers of a husband’s. she’s a lungful of a quiet battle cry until the war comes to a close, its lips sutured by the weight of his scream.

he steps out of the holy room with a death in a hand and a message in another.

a wife’s last wish becomes the liberty of a last child’s.

                   iv. 

umma’s closed casket ceremony shapes the family: appa wrings his iron fists around his brothers, and leaves him behind for the house beasts to feast on. he swallows loneliness for breakfast and fragile longings for dinner. he closes his eyes to his brothers’ weary faces, and opens them again to see their backs turned on him. all that he knows is how their paths are mapped before them, while his own is a barren road devoid of a parent’s hand. all that’s there would be the signs carved out of umma’s abraded fingerprints.

taejun and taehyun house appa’s insignia in their stomachs, with their names written on the family legacy. skyscrapers of a hospital mark their futures effortlessly.

he drowns in limbo for a moment, hands clasped in prayers with nails embedding themselves into umma’s favorite rosary. but sooner or later, he’s bound to forget the church halls, as god does not answer to a boy whose mouth is full of howls.

                   v.

teenage wasteland comes, and he sinks into another ocean. youth anthems become the anchor tied to an ankle. mother’s shame a forgotten sailor song, and he submerges himself deeper into this manmade euphoria, baptizing himself as another lost boy. the water body swallows him and never spits him up for years. when he surfaces, he sees her as a beacon that guides him back to the shore.

two years, almost three. he’s a mouthful of cigarette smokes, corruption running thick in his veins. decadence is another brand of the night, until a wake up call comes in the form of the ghost that dreams of his future. he thinks of her in every step, and starts working to become the person that he wants to be.

he never truly leaves his youth behind, however: this is a dichotomy that divides him. this is a dilemma that encloses him. he takes a gulp of adulthood, but still dons his adolescence like a second skin. this is the age of transition.

PERFORMANCES.

a vocalist through and through, with a unique tone to his voice, taemin has a lot in his disposal in terms of musicalities. he owns an extreme prowess in altering the colors of his voice according to the genres of the music, rendering the songs versatile and rich. he’s blessed with both talents and fortitude when it comes to singing, but the same cannot be said for other parts. he’s a strong dancer only after the years and years of rigorous trainings, refusing to go home until he perfected certain moves, but this did not happen until the last of his training years. at the beginning of it, he tended to be complacent with his position as a vocalist, until the possibilities of not debuting loomed.

he also understands that having his background checked might cause a lot of troubles for escape. thus, instead of letting people find his old faults, he chose to cover them by his current reckless actions and wordings. this is against the company’s plan for him, for sure — he was only asked to become the clown, not the troublemaker. he makes calculated reckless comments, cunning on his own rights. this, however, has been something that the company warned him about, although he’d say that changing wouldn’t really be that easy.

2017 INTERVIEW.

it tasted like a paradox: fame is a cathedral of both virtues and vices. after years of struggling to win his family’s approval, especially coming from his father’s stern disprove, debuting almost felt like ashes disintegrating on his tongue. it felt like swallowing glass shards too, sometimes, after years spent under the artificial lights of the trainee studio, practicing the choreographies again and again until his ankles ached. but he’s finally here, on the stage, with their fans chanting his full name.

and it feels like a race on a fast-paced track, knowing no moment of pausing. knowing no sliver of breathing. there’s no room for it — simply a schedule after another, suffocating him. and that’s when he started to speak up, acting out. he shouldn’t, he knows. as a leader, should’ve set a good example. yet, he doesn’t. yet, he isn’t. he’s a weary mind with a sharpened tongue, going against the current set by nebula. it’s only about time that the company will reprimand him for his actions — but while he’s on top, while he’s protected by the silhouettes of the light sticks waved by ctrl, he’s safe. he’s safe, at least for now.

#krp #kpop rp #glr: profile #glr: black #glr: escape

[denouae]

finifugal: verse iv.

cigarette ash like wildfire, burning holes in the nighttime. verse four, as endorsed by the historical portraits, hung askew.

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares—                                                            sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

              you come out alive.                             but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

             o.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

              i.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

              ii.

                                  maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

              iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

              he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

              iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

              you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

             v.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

                                        you were architected to carry an empire in you.

            vi.

she is a ticking clock at the back of your head. she spells morse code that sinks into your flesh, splitting you open, red and raw.

on good days, messages become concave like braille and you will trace the letters that perforate your skin, thinking that it is how it feels to have a mother. on good days, the kids that wear cheshire grins and early claw marks will leave you alone, at the corner of the room, so that you can speak with her.

                                              she is beautiful.

              ( they call her imaginary. )

you are six when you draw your first carnage: your knuckles against their teeth. then, your knife into their pets’ guts.

              vii.

the architecture of your nights is made of skyscrapers colored in questions:

a. ) he takes you for a walk. your shadows are elongated, and sometimes they shiver. you swear they falter when they are not trying to smother. their crooked smiles become the shade of your existence. how do you tell your father that you are haunted?

b. ) she is background noise, static. when you’re awake past midnight and staring at the blank space, she’s there. you can feel that she’s withering, her ashes becoming more and more prominent on your fingertips. how do you hold onto your mother when she fades?

c. ) god feels like a dream at the back of your head. you cover your knees with dust and fold your hands in prayers. you close your eyes to see god, but instead, you see flickers of faces. how do you whisper to god and ask him to save you without them listening?

              viii.

the moon speaks in various languages. it is, they say, a polyglot.

                              first:

acid corrodes the corners of your mouth. you smile too much, too wide. he is proud of you when you do, not seeing the globules of red that form on your lips. sometimes, you trade them with an ashen mouth: say you’re older than you actually are, pretend you’re smarter than you actually are. he is proud when you do, not seeing that it’s a forked tongue that grows underneath your palate. they will laugh with you, at you. the kids with cheshire grins and early claw marks are no longer present. instead, it’s the grown-up kids with christened lust and empty decadence that won’t leave you alone, even on good days.

                              second:

you are a hollow blue shell when it’s three in the morning. fold your legs against the bare of your chest. water, streaming. warmth, engulfing. it’s so cold outside, inside. what brews within: the purpling heartbeat of a growing child, trapped in the illusion of adolescence. it is hard, harder when you are in the company of the darkness that stutters on your collapsing hands. unanswered questions, engraved on your bones — except that it’s too late to ask, too late to pass it as another excuse for a childhood disturbance. there is no such thing as an imaginary friend when you’re twelve.

                              third:

ask the god in your sleep if you’re dreaming. ask him if you’re sleeping with your eyes open. primal desires embed themselves on the lines of your arms. he is a stark contrast against the skin of your thighs. maybe it’s because you have her eyes. maybe it’s because she lives inside your bones. you don’t know, don’t care. he tastes like stale cigarettes and too much alcohol against your spine, stubborn and inebriating.

              ix.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

              x.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

              xi.

you are pronounced dead on your sweet sixteenth; a detonation within the ribcage in the company of an unpinned grenade. the pin: between your teeth, clasped so tightly you shudder. and in here, where you buried your corpse without an open-casket ceremony. nails burrowed in your flesh instead of the coffin. in here, where you decayed your insides in the process of atrophies. talents illuminated a number of necrosis instead.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

                                                       ( or both. )

              xii.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

                                                                      a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

           xiii.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

              somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

                              ( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

              xiv.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

                                              question:

              do you run from the beasts in your reality,                    or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

              ( you don’t. )

#abt. #ver: iv. #tw parental death #tw parental neglect #tw animal cruelty #tw mental illnesses #tw body horror

[adventk-blog]

                                             — ARE YOU WHO YOU WANT TO BE, 

       introducing KIM JONGIN, a MUTANT, under the moniker of PLAGUE — and currently a believer of SEPARATION. age ( twenty-four ) and gifted with the ability of CONTAGION EMBODIMENT, they are currently working as an HEIR.

WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN STORIES,

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares—                                                            sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

              you come out alive.                             but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

             o.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

              i.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

              ii.

                                  maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

              iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

              he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

              iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

              you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

             v.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

                                        you were architected to carry an empire in you.

            vi.

she is a ticking clock at the back of your head. she spells morse code that sinks into your flesh, splitting you open, red and raw.

on good days, messages become concave like braille and you will trace the letters that perforate your skin, thinking that it is how it feels to have a mother. on good days, the kids that wear cheshire grins and early claw marks will leave you alone, at the corner of the room, so that you can speak with her.

                                              she is beautiful.

              ( they call her imaginary. )

you are six when you draw your first carnage: your knuckles against their teeth. then, your knife into their pets’ guts.

              vii.

the architecture of your nights is made of skyscrapers colored in questions:

a. ) he takes you for a walk. your shadows are elongated, and sometimes they shiver. you swear they falter when they are not trying to smother. their crooked smiles become the shade of your existence. how do you tell your father that you are haunted?

b. ) she is a background noise, static. when you’re awake past midnight and staring at the blank space, she’s there. you can feel that she’s withering, her ashes becoming more and more prominent on your fingertips. how do you hold onto your mother when she fades?

c. ) god feels like a dream at the back of your head. you cover your knees with dust and fold your hands in prayers. you close your eyes to see god, but instead, you see flickers of faces. how do you whisper to god and ask him to save you without them listening?

              viii.

the moon speaks in various languages. it is, they say, a polyglot.

                              first:

acid corrodes the corners of your mouth. you smile too much, too wide. he is proud of you when you do, not seeing the globules of red that form on your lips. sometimes, you trade them with an ashen mouth: say you’re older than you actually are, pretend you’re smarter than you actually are. he is proud when you do, not seeing that it’s a forked tongue that grows underneath your palate. they will laugh with you, at you. the kids with cheshire grins and early claw marks are no longer present. instead, it’s the grown-up kids with christened lust and empty decadence that won’t leave you alone, even on good days.

                              second:

you are a hollow blue shell when it’s three in the morning. fold your legs against the bare of your chest. water, streaming. warmth, engulfing. it’s so cold outside, inside. what brews within: the purpling heartbeat of a growing child, trapped in the illusion of adolescence. it is hard, harder when you are in the company of the darkness that stutters on your collapsing hands. unanswered questions, engraved on your bones — except that it’s too late to ask, too late to pass it as another excuse for a childhood disturbance. there is no such thing as an imaginary friend when you’re twelve.

                              third:

ask the god in your sleep if you’re dreaming. ask him if you’re sleeping with your eyes open. primal desires embed themselves on the lines of your arms. he is a stark contrast against the skin of your thighs. maybe it’s because you have her eyes. maybe it’s because she lives inside your bones. you don’t know, don’t care. he tastes like stale cigarettes and too much alcohol against your spine, stubborn and inebriating.

              ix.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

              x.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

              xi.

you are pronounced dead on your sweet sixteenth; a detonation within the ribcage in the company of an unpinned grenade. the pin: between your teeth, clasped so tightly you shudder. and in here, where you buried your corpse without an open-casket ceremony. nails burrowed in your flesh instead of the coffin. in here, where you decayed your insides in the process of atrophies. talents illuminated a number of necrosis instead.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

                                                       ( or both. )

              xii.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

                                                                      a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

           xiii.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

              somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

                              ( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

              xiv.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

                                              question:

              do you run from the beasts in your reality,                    or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

              ( you don’t. )

summary + developments:

000. born to a mother that passed during the labor, he was raised by a single father who was never quite there, often found mourning over the death of his wife. seemingly blamed his son for it, although jongin inherited some of his mother’s looks, which caused his father to pay occasional attention towards him, in the most distanced ways possible.

001. he started developing a sense of hallucination, seeing his mother as an imaginary friend, which was scratched off as something typical of a child. this worsened to the point where he fought his peers over being called out for hallucinating his mother. untreated, he eventually started resorting to venting his anger on pets and strays. this apathetic tendency never reached his father until it was too late, in a sense, and that was the beginning of the fracture in his sanity.

002. his ability began to manifest at the age of eight, and the first time was how fresh flowers wilted under his touch. he blamed it on the darkness that surrounded him, thinking that he was haunted. paranoia infected him, and his father disregarded the fact that his son grew even less and less coherent by day, making him pretend he was normal whenever guests came around. being an heir to a multibillion company, he was turned into a puppet on strings for his father’s convenience, left in the backstage whenever the limelight was over.

003. hallucination continued, and abilities blossomed as he grew up. it took him years to comprehend the mechanism of his own powers, experimenting through touch onto the beggars that he seemed to pity. when the beggars died of mysterious diseases, he started to understand, and he thought he was doing them a favor, for there was no use living such pitiful lives. and that was when he realized how his mind had disintegrated, alongside the hallucination and paranoia.

004. when he was thirteen, he began to deviate, forming atypical moralities. he differentiated himself from the rest of his friends, experiencing the pit of his illnesses to the point where he eventually broke. this tipping point was when he became unfeeling, and started pretending. when he was brought to a therapist, it was too late. he never attended the next sessions, hiding behind fake smiles and false truths.

005. sixteen, and he basically transformed into a full-fledged malice. he still battled with himself, trying to salvage what little was left from his humanity, but the violence streaks simply triumphed over the smidgens of his morality. this was when he started terrorizing people without them realizing, spreading diseases unprompted. the idea of becoming “plague” didn’t develop until he was around twenty, however.

006. and a year later, he started donning the plague doctor attire whenever he needed his “release”, walking around the city to spread unnecessary terrors. at this point, his powers have developed so much that he didn’t need direct touch to spread diseases anymore, although certain physiologies still required it. now, twenty-four, he’s still doing his round as “plague” while harnessing his powers, as well as scopes of self-defense that his powers do not cover. he knows, nevertheless, that his powers corrode his mind, and he doesn’t truly let the fact perturb him.

THERE IS FLESH AND BLOOD BEHIND THESE TALES,

living up to his alias, kim jongin is a plagued mind through and through. the state of his mental and moral is currently questioned, even by himself, and the truths about his own abilities do not help but faltering his own beliefs in regards to his sanity. this, however, bothers him less and less by day, and it’s indubitable that he’s over halfway to succumbing towards this instability. amoral, apathetic, atrophic.

he relishes in schadenfreude, liking the facts that he can make other people suffer, although on the front he would be anything but. charming to the point where some would think he’s genuinely a kind soul, he is twisted with a lot of lies spilled easily from his mouth. a complex personality, he’s often seen as a friend by many, an enemy by some. as “plague”, he’s fully disguised in the plague doctor attire, that many do not seem to know his true identity.

also a cunning intellectual, he’s made of a lot of tricks to sate his violent mentalities. he is not above simple blackmailing, disguising it as various kindness, although the motives behind it are anything but. he enjoys moments with fellow intellectuals, talking about anything and everything. has an open view of the world, although he’s certainly opinionated, although he doesn’t push his opinions on others.

overall, a danger to most, but a danger undetected regardless.

AND EVEN MONSTERS CAN LEARN TO WEEP.

mutation: contagion embodiment.

applications:

000. he has the ability to become the embodiment of contagion, meaning that he can spread influences accordingly. his state of abilities is dependent on his current mental as well as physical status, although at the peak he can infect up to one kilometre radius, or even more considering the complexities of the influence being spread. his influences include, but not limited to, diseases and insanity, as well as appeal to negative emotions. when it comes to emotions, he finds it easier to amplify than inflict from zero, although the latter is far from impossible. negative influences in the mind are usually formed through the similar systematics of killing serotonin, and sometimes, in more severe cases, inducing necrosis. he’s most educated in terms of disease manipulation, however, compared to the other aspects of his powers.

001. he can generate, induce, and manipulate diseases — also called disease manipulation in terms of power. while this application greatly varies, it’s highly based on his own knowledge in regards to these illnesses. he cannot inflict what he doesn’t know, and while he can create the diseases, he needs to comprehend the systematic of the diseases: how it affects the immune system, how it affects the body, etc. his understandings about diseases when it comes to this ability are vastly different from that of medical knowledge, and it cannot simply be explained in words. he can also accelerate and suppress diseases, although healing is a far-fetched idea that he has yet to apply a lot. thus, curing is an aspect least touched upon, rendering it almost obsolete in his deposit. other applications of this are: infection empowerment ( ability to become empowered by the presence of diseases ), pathogen manipulation ( transferral, mimicry, elimination, hypnotic ), cellular disintegration ( to destroy cells by inflicting diseases ), healing factor nullification, as well as mutation inducement, although this one is extremely limited to what might be received by the victim’s dna. poison manipulation — which includes all scopes of poison, including toxin and venom, is also within his reach considering the similar systematics to disease manipulation.

002. he also possesses a fragment of parasite physiology and virus mimicry, although this is the least harnessed out of the other powers. through his parasitic characteristics, he’s able to tap into genetic memories, and upon touch, replicate an extent of knowledge, despite not much. it’s typically only on the surface, enveloping the conscious. through this, he can read the minds, be they memories or understandings, although this doesn’t last long after the contact is cut off. in a sense, he’s also bestowed with regenerative healing factor by absorbing someone else’s health, also through direct contact. as for the virus mimicry, while he’s unable to perform anything that alters his solid form, he’s able to execute some of the applications in it, such as rupturing internal organs, although in order to do that he needs to have the victim remaining still — for it takes time. he can also perform cellular disintegration, which relates back to regenerative healing factor nullification, in which he can overpower cellular regeneration.

limitations:

001. he is, by no means, immune to his own powers, and therefore anyone who mimics this power can hit him at his point of vulnerability. he has no superhuman immunity, albeit slightly more enhanced in a way that he doesn’t fall sick as easily, but he’s definitely still able to contract diseases that he himself can spread onto others. the only way to cure himself is by applying his own healing power, which is far from polished. another way to lessen this effect would be through empowerment, although not all diseases can be empowered, and may weaken and eventually kill him instead.

002. emotional influences are limited to negative scopes only, with the spectrum lying at the corner of fear and madness, and he cannot spread other types of emotions apart from these. it also limits the amplification of emotional states for those around him, where he can only magnify the negative ones as opposed to the positives.

003. also, in terms of mental stability, he’s slowly decaying considering his powers consume a lot of him. they feed off his sanity, in a way that his emotional responses towards his own influences cause a decline. these powers also rely heavily on his imagination, and most of the time, he feels the imaginary pain of the emotions and diseases before being able to transfer them.

004. the spectrum of illnesses that he can spread highly depends on the amount of knowledge that he has on said specimens. it’s easier for him to inflict diseases on humans, knowing their specifics of immune system and whatnot, rather than vigils and mutants considering that they vary highly. with the variants, he needs to gauge a measurement as to how much influence is needed to affect them at all.

005. his power is mostly affective towards those around him as opposed to himself, meaning that while he’s able to apply some of them onto his own benefits, most of it is actually an output. his powers rely on offensive instead of defensive manner, in which if someone manages to replicate and outpower him, he’d be unable to form a defence mechanism. his mimicry might bring some powers inward, but as they’re not as trained as the rest of the powers, they do not work as effectively either.

006. being mentally unstable also takes a toll on his powers, seeing that they’re reliant on his stability to perform the tasks. it turns into a paradox where his abilities make him unstable; it formulates a never-ending ring of fire, which he knows will eventually consume him mentally. while he can regenerate his own brain cells by the various techniques that he can apply, be it through absorption or empowerment, he cannot fix what’s broken from the sanity for it’s intangible, leaving him with a rotting mind. and unfortunately, his ability to affect emotions are also increasing the volatility of his mental state, further worsening his conditions.

007. knowledge replication through parasitic tendencies can only be acquired through direct contact, skin on skin without any hindering fabrics and the likes. upon having the contact terminated, knowledge that isn’t obtained in his understandings ( e.g. adoptive muscle memories, as well as other types of knowledge which systematic is foreign to him ) would dissipate as soon as it comes. this doesn’t mean that he can replicate powers either, unless it has something to do with the mind. he can only read memories and thoughts superficially, and although some might be retained depending on how long the contact remains, the majority of it is

THREAT LEVEL TWO.                           04+ BRWN, 04+ RSLNC, 06+ INTLCT, 02+ WLLPWR, 04+ FGHTNG, 04+ SPD

#avt: follow #kim jongin #krp #kpop rp #tw: parental neglect #tw: death #tw: animal cruelty #tw: mental illness #tw: body horror

[amortean]

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS?

( COLORS ) red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. mint. cream. teal. lilac. black. grey. white. silver. gold. metallic. matte.

( ELEMENTS ) fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. smoke. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. midnight.

( BODY ) claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. beauty marks. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. weak.

( WEAPONS ) fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow and arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. chains. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. explosives. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks.

( MATERIALS ) gold. silver. platinum. titanium. aluminium. iridium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

( NATURE ) grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. swamp. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. caves. cliffs. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains.

( ANIMALS ) lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. vultures. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons.

( CONSUMABLES ) sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea.  spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. pomegranates. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. burgers. burritos. pizza.

( HOBBIES ) music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. gambling. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. running.

( STYLE ) lingerie. armor. cape. dress. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup.

( MISC ) balloons. bubbles. cityscape. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. betrayal. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs.

tagged by: like everyone apparently

tagging: everyone i was gonna tag has already done this >:(

#;meme.