“Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.”

Vladimir Nabokov (via ladystigmata)

denihiliste

                    There was the man on the street, the same one that popped up every weekend to hold out religious pamphlets at passersby. Hyunseung never bothered to approach him, he didn’t need to see what he was giving out because it was evident with the way the brochures lay scattered across the streets. The faith the faith the faith. No – the lack thereof of faith in every human that roamed the Earth was disgusting. He’s spitting out his disgust, saliva almost accidentally hitting of the handouts. He almost spit on religious propaganda. He’s disgusting. He’s uncomfortable in his own skin, and it’s for that reason that he sits with his back against a store window. There’s a heavy scent of alcohol clinging to his body, but it’s not his own. It’s the homeless man who sleeps a few feet away from him. An emptied bottle rolls towards him and he kicks it away. And oh boy what a kick.

                    It slams against the shin of passing female, and his eyes go wide as he immediately stands up, hands up in the air as if pleading for innocence. “I swear on God, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, and so many other names that you’ve probably never heard, that I didn’t mean to hit you!”  

-- !!

So yea this needed to be said. I hope people realize that this muse is going to be one where I won't be writing regular, frequent replies. Why? Just because it takes quite a bit of effort to write out replies for this kid. Don't ask me why, I don't know maaan. It's not that I don't have muse, he just drains me a lot with his weird, sad, messed up thought process. SO this is basically me saying that consider this muse to be a perpetual sort of semi-hiatus state because with my activity trend, that's basically what he is. Doesn't mean I'm not up for plotting and interactions though, hit me up kiddos! 

antidouleurs:

She’d stopped in her tracks, alright she had and it could have been taken as anything really. From how she’d been so quick to escape whatever the presence overwhelming her senses in the streets was to just suddenly stopping dead short like she needn’t no to run away from this. When had taken the easy road and turning into a coward been the only solution for her? It had her curling her lips in faint distaste, casting her eyes around to catch sight of whoever had made the discomfort so strong that she’d almost ran out of her shoes.

She did not run. She preyed and chased, she was not the one who had to run if anything whoever was threatening her safety had to be on their guards not her. So that she waited. Felt them getting closer, even though she had a feeling that they’d been close from the beginning. But she waited still, ignoring the few passer bys stare, the few ones that were in a hurry not even daring to bump into her when she’d actually look up anticipating even just a brush of their shoulders against hers.

She’d bite their throat and tear at the flesh if she had ot do it in front of everyone—figuratively of course. Although the thought had her lips curling around a small grin. But then it was a jolt, a shock that ran all the way down to her toes and had her letting out a choking noise, bent over her form to stop the feeling from getting too close. He was there. So was his voice, asking if she was in pain like he did not know he was the cause of this.

Her mother had told her once, that the ones that came from heavenly place, be it cursed ones or blessed ones tended to have this effect on them, the pure bloods, the ones that were born out from the curse and not from the bite. The scent and memories they carried often caused them to double over in pain if not for the overpowering feeling they had when they neared their senses. She had to control this.

"No, you just really stink." The words were spat and with it followed her spit, down on the ground she held her fists tight in her pockets and looked up to see what features he wore. The one who actually dared to make her look this weak among other humans, a race that was allowed none of the privileges they thought they had over her kinds because they read it in books and saw it on their big screens.

She was a splash of the strangest shade of burgundy in a crowd that was nothing but black and white. Naturally, he was drawn to her and there was something in the pit of his stomach that caused him to grin because he knew she felt the opposite. Like a magnet, he drew closer and closer, the attraction fuelled by curiosity resulting in steps that grew rapid. When she broke into a run, he itched to chase her, to watch her cower because it reminded him of what power his sheer presence still had. He doesn’t run, that would draw too much attention. Instead, he blends in with the flow of the crowd, carried down the stream that seemed to travel towards her either way. Fate, is what he called it. He’s not sure he’ll catch up to her by the time she turns the corner, but an angel’s luck often wins out.

Just as he had hoped for, he finds himself staring at her doubled over figure for quite some time. The question isn’t laced with concern, but only asked to make sure that he had his facts right. He knew what she was, what her kind did, but there were no feelings of hatred for her. She didn’t have a choice; something he knew far too well to hold any hostility against her kind. Yet he took cautious steps towards her, knowing that the closer the proximity the more pain he would cause. He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind driving a knife through a heart, and he surely wouldn’t mind to see the way her nostrils flared, body practically convulsing. He’s a physical reminder that there’s more above her, that he’s of an essence she’ll never be, that he’s not meant to be on this Earth. His existence came with a consequence, one she was feeling because He couldn’t smite his favourite creations like this. ( Favourite; a rather subjective word. )

“You’re not much better.” He’s only an inch away now, the heat of her body reflecting off his. There’s a crooked grin on his lips because he’s enjoying this too much. There’s power coursing through his veins, kept under a lock and key for too long. His fingers itched to aid in creation or destruction, and one was much easier than the other. They curl around her jaw as the malice is wiped from his factions, only to be replaced with nothing but genuine interest. He yearns for knowledge, thrives off it, and so he asks with greed in his tone, “How does it feel?”

Sorry? Sorry. A word that rings against his ear drums, deafening him and driving him mad. The same words they would always say with their fingers clasped together in prayer, or head bowed down to their deity, but sorry never meant anything. Sorry didn’t stop them from commiting the same sin not once more, but twice, daily, frequently. Why apologize when it means nothing? The same way the man spoke as if he was a wounded animal. There were no scars he could mend, so what would sorry do? Sympathy for being "drunk"? When in reality, alcohol does nothing but result in a placebo effect – an excuse for him to speak his mind with no repercussion. “You can’t. Don’t even think about helping me, your help is no use. A drop of salt in a pile of hay.” He meant to say a drop of water in a vast ocean, but there are an infinite number of phrases bouncing off his skull and none fit together seamlessly when he speaks. He’s still handling the bottle, driving it closer to the singer. “Sing about something better. Throw away the songs about sex, love, drugs, and more sex. Sing about the heavens, about your Lord, about things that matter.”

〈 ♪– Generations nowadays have become scary even to those who had long since surpassed teenage years. The obnoxious laughter of twenty years olds next to him made him smile uncomfortably. Not the kind to ever reproach, he just leans against the stool chair and watches them, pretends to laugh along with them so he’s not left out of the group ( or to generally not appear rude.) Things tended to get out of control from time to time, two girls pushing around each other and giggling immaturely about whatever boy they’d been watching across the room. The only thing to his advantage was that it was an anti-smoking area, so his lungs were completely safe. It all comes to an eerie silence after the glasses shatter by his foot, drawing a gasp from his lips along with a step back, looking towards the disturbed man. The teenagers hurried out to leave the singer take the blame for this, and Yoseob sighs, takes a couple of steps closer to the unknown man and offers a sympathetic smile.« I’m sorry about that.. How can I help you?! »  

simulapia

                     Sometimes he sees people and wonders what would happen if he followed them around for the rest of his life. Not because he necessarily wants to, but because he really doesn’t have anything better to do. It would relieve him from his toxic habits, and maybe – just maybe then he’d feel like he was doing something with his life. Surely he could protect the boy he watched from a far. With hair so light he wondered if he was made from the wings of an angel. He couldn’t be. ( Why would he even think that? ) A laugh catches in the back of his throat, hollow and bitter, and before he knows it he’s walking towards the young boy with sleeves rolled up, determination on his features. “Salutations, kid.” It’s a strange combination of overly formal and friendly – awkward on the ears, but he sees nothing wrong with it. How can he when he has so many languages weighing on his tongue that nothing seems to come out right? “What if I said I was your Guardian Angel?”

                     He’s lying. He shouldn’t lie. But it’s not a lie, because it wasn’t a fact. It was a question. He’s not insane. At least not in the way humans define insanity ( the angels called him that now in the heavens too far for him to reach ), but only curious. Just curious.

yosukehasghosts​

                     He doesn’t look any different from the crowd, and yet he’s always easy to spot. Eyes run to him, glances last for too long because they all know there’s something unreal about him. Something they refuse to admit because every human’s biggest fear is the fear of the unknown. He can’t blame them, but he laughs at them when there’s too much alcohol in his system, or when he’s tried one of the new substances the kids give him. Whatever it is, when he’s off his rocker, he laughs and laughs. Now? He pities them. The thought doesn’t last long because suddenly he hears it. It happens once in a while, but it’s only faint enough for him to hear. A whisper of sorts, and he’s frozen on a road consisting of only him and another man in the distance. In a matter of seconds, he’s grabbing the stranger by the shoulders, eyes wide and lips just barely translating words in his head to Korean. “I need a pen, and a paper, or maybe just a pen – yea, a pen will do. Hurry! We don’t have time!”

"Do not touch me, I don’t require affection from anyone."

He’s not touching her. He’s feeling her. Not feeling, but feeling. Or rather, trying to feel her. Trying to dig out what light there is left in a candle flickering. There’s a second of hesitation as his fingers dig into her shoulder blades. What once had seemed like an affectionate pat on the back now became his fingers pressing harder and harder against skin that wasn’t his and yet his flesh hurt. It burned, bled, and bruised all at once, and yet there was not a single mark on milky white. Pressure of skin against skin has him irritated because it didn’t take this much for wings to sprout. Why was she any different? His lips press together as he suddenly reels away from her, taking a good step away because he’s become too personal and that’s bound to hit him hard. ( Quite literally. )

"Where are they?" Though his fingers are done their search, it’s clear that he hasn’t given up just yet. "Where where where are they?” Now frantic, and on edge, his eyes search the premises as if she might have misplaced wings she never had in the first place. Maybe it was the coffee he had in the morning, or the lack there of one in the afternoon. Maybe it’s because he can feel him drawing closer as sins wash over him. Maybe it’s because he can almost hear Him telling him off for touching a woman so harshly. Maybe maybe maybe. There was no definite answer, and his teeth grit against one another at the notion. 

yosori

                     There’s a burn in his throat, but nothing comparable to the way his skin is alit with heat as the liquid seeps into his veins. He’s surrounded by the younger generation, those who have accepted him even with his odd quirks. He only remembers a few names. There’s an Ashley somewhere, maybe a Jinwoo, and most probably at least two Daejung’s. It doesn’t matter because they’re nothing but mud and dirt while he’s of the brightest lights. The loudest laugh, the most exaggerated groan, the one who drank too much and made the least amount of sense. His voice is practically drowning out the bar singer as he recites a prayer in Hebrew but no one understands. No one's faith is strong enough. The kids laugh, the bartender’s definitely amused, but all of it dies out when he yanks the bottle of alcohol out of the man’s hand and smashes it only an inch away from the bar singer’s foot. With the jagged end of the bottle pointing at him, he practically hisses – words dripping with venom, glass glittering around his feet. “Shut up.”

Yejun. Was it Kim Yejun? Jung Yejun? Choi Yejun? He’swriting the name over and over and over again on the paper put beside the keyboard in front of him. He’s not sure, but it doesn’t really matter until they call out his name, only then will he need to care. He’s the messenger, nothing more, nothing less. As the days grow long, and the nights stretch even longer, the court trials get worse and worse. He can sense the guilt in the child’s body when he comes into the room. Immediately, Hyunseung feels a snap under his palm and his eyes are flickering from right to left to make sure no one saw. He frantically rubs the ink spilt from his, now broken, pen onto his thighs before readying himself for this painful hour.

His fingers work at the speed of light, or at least they should. It’s boring to have them flit across keys at such a speed. Would it even be called speed at this rate? Slow, cutting through honey. The task is relaxing, almost familiar but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. His fingers are harsh on the keys, and an hour flies by with his teeth grit and jaw set. He hates human. He hates hates hates -- loves them. He repeats the word love under his breath once, twice, three times, and then continuously till he makes it to his dingy apartment in under twenty minutes.

The place smells of moth balls he meticulously places in every corner, changing them every two weeks. It’s a barely furnished flat. A couch here, a small television there. His room only consists of a bed, desk, and a shelf filled to the brim with various types of scriptures. He’s about to pull one out when he reminds himself to write down the hearing that replays fresh in his memory. Word after word spills across the page, becoming a blur of text only to be cut by the phone vibrating beside him. He practically glares at the unknown number, picking it up and remaining silent. If they wanted to talk, they would – and so they did.

“Yes?” He doesn’t know the voice, but he still refrains from hanging up like he normally would. It's that gut feeling again. ( He hates it. ) With phone between his ear and shoulder, he continues writing rapidly. “Who is this? If it’s a telemarketer I don’t want anything, my windows are fine, and whatever else you’re trying to sell.”

ᴅᴏ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ғᴀᴠᴏᴜʀ ℠

Being deposed in court is nobody’s favorite pastime. It’s a long series of back-and-forth with lawyers who really don’t care what you have to say about someone you barely know. The jurors don’t want to be there, the defendant doesn’t want to be there, and she doesn’t want to be there, either. But it is a requirement for her job, sometimes. Helping others requires a sacrifice, and usually the most she’s ever willing to give up is her time - she’s got plenty of it to go around. Sometimes she wonders why, exactly she’s so nice. Today she has come to the aid of Yejun, a regular at her rehab sessions. She’s known him for about a year now, and he seems like a good enough kid. However, she also knows that he’s probably guilty of what he’s being accused of; aggravated battery. He’s being charged for allegedly going after a neighbour with a switchblade. She’s here to vouch for his sobriety and temperament. She’s only questioned for a few minutes, and then she’s released. But the session lasts for a little while longer, while everyone sits and overheats. Then a recess is called and they’re all allowed to leave for the day. It’s not until after she’s halfway home that she remembers she should’ve gotten a copy of the case transcript. She texts the legal representative for Yejun and gets the name and number for the court stenographer, who she then proceeds to call up. Who else would be able to make a copy? It’s difficult to hear the ringing on the other end of the line over the cars flying past, but she just manages to make out the click that signals she’s heard by a person or an answering machine. "Hello?"

“The treachery of demons is nothing compared to the betrayal of an angel.” ― Brenna Yovanoff, The Space Between

(via exile69)

dearath                    

                     Admiration. The dictionary definition is something he can recite in all the languages in the world, but knowing and understanding are two completely different things. He only has admiration for one person. For Him. No, not for him. Not the man who caused him to tumble and fall, never. But lying is a sin: he did kind of admire him. But true admiration was reserved only for Him. He’s programmed that way, and there was nothing that could change that. Lying is a sin: he already had changed. With thoughts bouncing around in his skull, he doesn’t pay attention to where he’s grabbing, he’s lucky he caught her arm and nothing else. “Why?” The question he’s been slapped with ever since he was sent down to this world, leaving his lips once again as he stares at a line of teenage girls waiting in a line for some man with strangely colour hair who was frantically signing for them. “Why does everyone like him so much? I don’t like his hair, I don’t know why they do.”

you worshipped him like God and followed him like your shepherd, but didn’t anyone tell you that he was neither of those things and that you confused your butcher for your shepherd, little lamb

[ amen, amen, amen ] by Keith M. (via vespeir)

“My lover’s got humour she’s the giggle at a funeral knows everybody’s disapproval I should’ve worshiped her sooner.”

"Why are you hugging me?"

She fell as hard as he had, but what was she? Did she fall like a shooting star just like himself, left to drown in a lake of misery? Or did she fall with much more grace? He’s assuming things because maybe she didn’t fall at all, maybe she came here on purpose. There’s no denying the aura he gets from her and he knows – he just knows – that she’s not human. She stands on a pedestal higher than any other human, closer to his home than anyone on Earth could ever be. These human could easily touch the heavens if only they bowed their head, sang their hymns, and sacrificed meat on Fridays with utmost faith. They’d be closer to God than he could ever be in his prayers, but there was no such thing as faith anymore. It was a lie, a myth, something that flickers in the mortal’s heads but not for long enough to set a fire ablaze.

This one, she’s different. She doesn’t need faith because she feels like stars, constellations, and his arms are around her shoulders before she can do anything to stop him. He doesn’t like the way his shirt wrinkles after being ironed with such difficulties, but she’s as close to home as he’ll get. He doesn’t know her. She doesn’t know him. He could easily be slapped for his actions, but he’s been there, done that. Human don’t like physical affection (at least not his), but he will never understand why when they brush their lips against certain individuals but push others away. He won’t ever understand the human race nor their ways, which is why he sees nothing wrong in the way his fingers wrap around her frame. His head is buried in the crook of her neck and he’s nothing but a pathetic excuse for a pile of bones strewn so beautifully together with galaxies in his veins.

“Because,” He has so many different languages at his disposal that he doesn't know which to wield in this moment. So he doesn't clarify at all. Don’t humans often do this too? Repress their emotions until the very last minute when they’re forced to speak? He could be human if he wanted to, so he only repeats the word one more time. “Because.”

ehontee:

There’d been whispers coming out of her lips as if she’d been chanting a prayer to herself. She had been, sitting there, with her rear not touching the ground for the ground was cold, icy with snow that kept falling. Snow that settled atop of her head and in the strands of her hair as if to mesh through and conquer her scalp entirely so. It sat white and her lips dry from the cold moved along with his voice against her ear. Against her cheek and warm against her neck. Fingers that danced on her skin, ghost of a touch that only she could see or hear so that sometimes the constant string of, What do I do, where do I put it? What do I do? Where do I put it? Was broken only by her eerie little giggling sound. Because he was amusing her while she was thinking of how to dispose of the tenth bodies.

She kept them all inside of a freezer, deep below in the building where most of them ended up giving out their last breath. So that she could dispose of them as she wished, some of them lasted longer because their bodies had sustained less bleeding wounds before it was thrown in the freezer. Some other perished before the due date she had planned to put them out for the world to witness the beauty of a body that was well kept, white as porcelain, a taint that no living humans would veer achieve. But that with her hands, with his guidance she could put upon the ones that had no breath, no heartbeat. Imagine how the world would be if it stilled, silent for a moment with nothing but just the sight of bodies that were paused in their brief moments, in whatever it was the were doing. That was the beauty they were creating. Masterpieces, even better, we’re building an entire new genre of beauty. 

Another giggle, soft, buried against her scarf but once her mouth was freed again came the chanting. Until a breeze swept by, her fists tightened in her pockets and she froze gaze straight ahead. It seemed she’d voiced it too loud, it seemed her rambling had been caught and it seemed someone was interested in what she’d been going on and on without any break, without any solution to it until the voice spoke, “Burn it. Dump it in the lake. Soak it in the fuel.” 

& she froze. Not wanting to look up, so as to not let it be seen that the interruption was not welcome, even if it wasn’t unwelcome as well, it was just stilling her world. The way he’d said and she released her breath, feeling the presence now that she’d stopped chanting the words that had been on the tip of her tongue from the moment she stepped out of her place. The thought heavy on her mind, like a fog that would not dissipate until she finally found the way to exit out of it. 

So that she remained silent after the stranger’s voice broke through her reverie, so that even he by her side, crouched to her level and looked for her because she would not look, not yet, maybe never. Because the more she thought of the words, the less appealing the idea was to her. Fire burnt, it soaked in everything, left nothing to admire, deteriorated the skin, made it charcoal black. An effect that was clearly not desired when she worked her fingers and the blade of her knife against veins that would drain them of blood. She did not desire for the tainted shadow that flames would not stop from creeping up the untarnished flesh she’d worked so hard to preserve. It irked her. Settled a bile low in her throat, made her pull a face at the mere idea of it. “That would destroy it all, then all of it would be gone, the proof of what I did, it would be gone. It is an awful solution.” 

The white of winter has him looking paler than usual, not to say that he normally did appear so bland. No, he looked quite like a photo drawn of saturation, left there for those to wonder what had happened. What had life sucked out of him that had left him in such a state? What could have possibly carved such deep bags under his eyes, caused such a hesitant step to his gait, what could have possibly tilted a smile that once used to be so straight and filled with glee? Every time he’d reply with the same words, looking them straight in the eyes. “The Devil made me do it.” And everyone would pat him on the shoulder to tell him that there are Devils in us all, yet no one would see the way he yearned to be taken seriously because the Devil really did make him do it.

Maybe the Devil was with her too, and he’s sick to his stomach at the thought. For a moment he thinks he sees the man peering over her shoulder, whispering into her ear about just exactly where to pierce through to kill the other because Hyunseung sure as hell knew that feeling. When Hell’s fires ran through your ears, singed your veins and left you coughing up ashes. He should’ve helped the girl, told her to stop and given her a bottle of holy water he carries around with him from time to time. This time he doesn’t have it on him, but he does have a lighter. Maybe he should burn her and watch what colour her flames take on because each sinner is different. Murderer her written all over her flesh, crawls up her spine and spills from her lips when she begins her chant. Precisely why he watches without doing anything for some time. He’s no saint, but she’s no sinner. Not entirely at least, and it’s the thought that keeps him bordering on the edge of the trees as he does nothing but watch.

When the words leave his lips, they sound foreign on his tongue because once again – he doesn’t fucking (Lord forgive him for cursing) know why – but he’s letting a sinner go. He’s giving her one last chance to get rid of the evidence and repent for her sins because he’s far more merciful than He says he is. (Once again, may the Lord forgive him for doubting the extent of his mercy). Compliance is what he’s looking for, but the girl doesn’t have enough faith to look up at the creature drawing closer to her. Humans were terrifying creatures. At least when the angels sinned they had reasons to do so. Justice, equity, punishment. This was none of them. She played God in her fantasy realm, and he doesn’t understand what gave her that right so he crouches before her in a similar fashion, the way he always mirrors the humans.   

“What you did? You’re a fool, a jester, a clown.” There are too many synonyms on his tongue, stored away in his stacks upon stacks of knowledge so he uses them all to describe her. Not an attempt to degrade her but because he doesn't know which one suits the moment best. “Buffon, silly, ludicrous.” He could go on and on in various different languages but he’s wasting breath that escapes him in a cloud of smoke. Not smoke, air, air frozen because of the dropping temperature. “You didn’t do this, you didn’t do any of this. He did this.” He points one hand up to the sky as if that explains all before gesturing to the dying man before them. “He made this, He took this. Only He gives life, and only He takes it. You’re nothing to Him.”  

"He’s dead, let’s move on."

SEND ONE IF WE HAVEN’T INTERACTED ( OR EVEN IF WE HAVE THE MORE THE MERRIER)

She’s not of his kind, but at the same time she is. His bones shake and his heart races at the aura that she emits, fingers curled into fists at his side because he doesn’t know what to do. Wings itch to sprout from between his shoulder blades – his train of thought is cut short because what wings? They’ve been taken from him, and for good reason. There are no more wings to cut through flesh and soar through the night sky. He’s just like her. Damned. Damned to live the rest of his live in a firey hell with a man whose words he shouldn’t have followed, and whose temptations she shouldn’t have given in to.

He stares at the female, crouched before a body where her lips had once been. He’d watched the entire scene play out before him, one act at a time. What could he do to stop her? Would that really help when he’d only stumbled upon the find too late? It’d be either the human laying at his feet or both her and his carcasses. There was no need for two sinners when one was already overwhelming enough. He’s biting at the cuff of his sleeve, teeth grazing against the tattoos encircled around his wrist. His jaw is set as he stares at her bloodied jaw, attire, and eyes so bright that they make her an immediate target for questions.

“Move on?” There’s no malice behind the question but rather sheer curiosity as he crouches down beside a body, fingers pressed to its throat as if to check for a pulse he knows isn’t there. “He can move on, but how can you?” He’s not looking at her as he speaks, but rather holding onto the shoulders of the body to examine whether or not this soul was his. The souls of the sinners were – no, had been – his to collect and still that was his job. (Or so he assumes.) He can feel nothing but warmth draining from the corpse so he assumes this one isn’t his. “He was a good man, a man who’s going to sit with the angels and sing at the top of his lungs because a vile creature like yourself let him bleed to death between your lips. Oh how Iblis must love you, a woman with such spunk and the audacity to take a life.” His grin’s gone crooked and he sits with his legs crossed one over another as he spills his nonsense.

“But He must hate you.”