#archaistes

she sits cross-legged on his couch, phone just in reach to the side in case she needed it. but her social media is all but forgotten — a rare occurrence for kim yerim — as she looks at the kitten in her lap, eyes drawn to it in full attention, watching it with the sort of loving expression a parent might give their child. not that yerim would know, but she always assumed these sorts of things.

“so what i’m saying is, she’s not mean or anything, but she’s just ugly.”

pure, unfiltered judgment runs through her voice, scrunching up her nose just the smallest amount as an image of the mentioned girl flashes in her mind and raising her head to look up just to make sure he was still listening. not that it mattered — either way she would keep talking, but having someone pay attention boosted her ego, made her feel important no matter how pointless her teenage rants could be.

“i’m just saying she needs to fix her teeth or something. she looks like a rabbit, honest to god. and i don’t mean one of those cute fluffy ones, i’m talking about...you know.” she pauses, waves her hands in the air as if that would help her think of an appropriate comparison. “ like bugs bunny or something.”

not the exact likeness that she wanted to portray to him, but yerim decides that it’s good enough, though her standards for these types of things have a tendency to be remarkably low.

               @archaistes​ // fckn... reborn

in the winter chill, what she wants most is comfort, in arms outstretched, in hearts welcoming; an ache that hadn’t changed in the slightest since she was young, asha yang had always spelled to be this kind of simple. as always, she craved warmth (love), alabaster skin stretched over bleached bone, hollowness is a constant, an insistent itch she can’t seem to scratch no matter how deep she reaches in to claw at her insides. 

till recently, she thinks she’s found a remedy in dating, the embodiment of all things cuffing season stands for, asha dated till she could date no more—could handle no more (heartbreak, anything soft has long been plucked from the warmth of her chest, leaving jagged edges she throws layers and layers of fabricated sanguine in desperate attempts to cover her faults—she’s always had too much, too many; that’s why they all leave).

but now, now, she figures, she could chance the frigid winter alone. she figures romance is a tired term, a withered sentiment she can no longer keep by her side to warm her insides. she figures she couldn’t survive another heartbreak as desolate as her last.

her roommate, newer and kinder than last, strives to set her on a healthier path, one that has asha on her own two feet, depending on no one but her own (and she tries, she does, but when attempts fail and nights grow lonely, gavin’s bed (arms and all) welcomes her with solace asha need not seek anywhere else). 

and before she’s known it, months has past.  months without a lover, without charming smiles and gentle touches that has her heart racing. months with a crushing sort settled on her chest that eventually dissipated into a faint dull tinge. 

months later, she thinks she’s gotten over it. 

but life is funny—fate is predetermined, red strings entangled and pulled, inescapable no matter how hard she tries—it didn’t matter if it had been months or years, for better or for worse, she’s bound to run into oh sehun again.

luckily, this time, they manage to settle on a means of friendship, no matter how shaky.

but it was ever so easy to fall into step with past habits, ever so easy to care for the shakespearian boy with bitter rotted hands once again—too much, she has always cared too much about oh sehun. so when time winter rolled around, it was as if nothing had changed, as if they hadn’t spent months apart, as if sehun’s brilliance in his articulation with crudeness hadn’t torn her apart and left her crying on a curb just months prior. 

by the time christmas eve comes by, asha is standing at his doorstep hour to midnight, cheeks flushed, arms weighed down by presents and hot food. technically, she hasn’t a logical reason to be here—sehun had asked, but obligations had kept her from spending christmas eve with him. yet her thoughts are never far, even surrounded by friends and peers in a christmas party; thoughts of her former roommate easily surfaces, and in the face of asha’s happiness lies guilt, lies worry over a man she knows surely shouldn’t be spending the holiday alone—so before she knew it, she had been on her way, out of her shared flat with nothing but dinner (she’s sure, sure as the snow falling outside, he hasn’t eaten) and his gift.

it had been impulsive, stupid impulsive, but she was here. 

standing cold in front of his door, she is struck by anxiety (the pros, the cons, the volatile tendencies of his temper) despite the brashness of her actions, teeth worrying her lower lip. she has a million of what ifs—twice shy after the first, asha doesn’t think she could stomach another door slammed in her face—but only a glaring worry seems to settle in its distinction. 

the idea of sehun spending the holidays alone and hurting has her heart aching, heartstrings plucked and pulled taut—if anything, she’s always cared less of herself (she’s nothing now, her heart’s barren now), hasn’t she? and it’s with that, that she knocks on thrice (for luck) on the door.

through the surface of a porcelain canvas pricks the incessant airflow, child of a previous deluge and merged by the forces of nature as the young male stands by the entrance of a building, embraced by the chilling arms of autumn’s making its astonishing entrance through the gates of mother nature’s heart, presenting the scientific matter of tips affected by the drop of temperature where rough finger pads are seized by the lack of warmth. it is a fitting weather, pleasant even, at least for him.

long hasn’t gone by since an unexpected collision between mirrors occurred, gracing hazel pair of hues with the sight of another being, coated by resemblance of his own shapes of features however little did it unleash about the differences to be set -- it was true that they were alike in a matter of visuals, yet never had similar looks been deemed so disparate. thomas came across sehun at some point, both lead by the strings into an entangled world of immersive artistry, a writer and a photographer, connoiseurs of a deeper meaning behind letters and shapes other beings are stripped of the right to envision -- it is a privilege for the minority, for founders of true devotion and passion towards a more than just a like of work.

for the matter of deeper understanding of art shared between the visual entities, the young male had grown somewhat attached to the older, read: pestering the latter through a vicious mean. it happens to be amusing. entangled by lithe fingers is found the flat figure of a mobile phone, engraved by digitals to a sensitive flat of glass with the purpose of writing out a set of virtual messages, after all, the long, black coat enveloping his figure by the height of his knees does not count as a shield from the slicing breeze shooting through the streets. 

( SMS → 세훈 ) Sehun. ( SMS → 세훈 ) Sehun. ( SMS → 세훈 ) Sehun. ( SMS → 세훈 ) I’m waiting outside your building. Come down. ( SMS → 세훈 ) I'm gonna throw eggs at your door somehow if you don’t come down. ( SMS → 세훈 ) Not kidding. I’m waiting.

@archaistes

It is easy to gain power, the trick here is to keep it until the world falls down in ashes. If they are smart enough, they will watch the world ends, the front row is always a marvelous place. Her seat is made of golden leaves, nothing less for the favorite of Olympus, she studies mortals fighting in the name of her brother, in her name. Oh for Ares, Oh for Athena, they sing until their blood stains their skin, unable to stay still in their veins. A gentle roar they scream for the gods to hear them out. But the night has fallen and Morpheus has already returned to their holy home. It is time for them to cheer, to scream. Athena knows, Dionysus is having his own circus, his party to create a mess behind celestial doors. She sees him as a crow, a tortured one. She should save him but she knows there is nothing to do with him. She tried over and over again but stupidity is stronger than knowledge. Not everyone can achieve to develop a mind as sharp as a sword.

Maybe this night, she will try again to save the damned he locked in his golden prison.

They bow before her, the loud music isn’t enough to cover her grace, she cannot be ignored. Blood of nymphs, moans of satires, she can almost laugh at their existence but she is kind, forgiveness is a virtue they created to show their mercy. These soft beings were born to entertain them, a show she did not enjoy as she watched them rot for a love they could not obtain. Her thoughts are fighting, children of the oblivion aren’t her problem. He made them this way, he tainted everyone who asked him to. A form of cruelty.

He sits, proudly on a throne he does not own, he does not live here. Her fury unleashes as she climbs the stairs to reach him as if he was more important than her. Foolish, she is the favorite, the one everyone admires and worships from dawn to dusk. Idyllic voices are already rising from the drunken bodies around them, singing to their glory. Siblings, they call them, but she doesn’t associate with someone so irresponsible, so mortal.

Gods don’t bleed, but if Dionysus had veins, they would be filled with a crimson color. Wine, he is made of wine.

Her presence doesn’t stop the chaos, not just yet. These souls surrendered the minute the circus started. They aren’t in Rome, they aren’t in a land destined to the excess but he made it all happen, he called them with his voice they all fell for. Similar to a venomous snake, as handsome as Death itself. His parties are nothing but a short path to Tartarus. Deep down, she wished Cerberus would have his skin. The home of HER father is similar to a battlefield full of corpses. An abomination, an insult. She doesn’t expect less from a vulgar god. He is a child she has to take care of and, for a second, Athena considers she should leave his guests the opportunity to kill him under their drunken kisses. Exhibitionism, what an atrocity.

“Silence.” She asks and they obey, her eyes ignoring all of them but her “equal”. Her pointy stick is taller than her as she holds it proudly, showing the other she isn’t here to join the grandiose festivities. “Your many travels are, perhaps, confusing you.” Her natural sarcasm couldn’t be hidden behind intellectual words as she makes sure she speaks with simple words, simple enough for him to understand. “Maybe you thought this was the Lupanar of Pompeii. But, you see, it is not.” A place like this has been built for beings who did not belong in commonplaces, it was an insult to see others exposing themselves so freely in a place they should worship. What if mortals learned about his eccentric parties?    

AMONGST THE MONTHS spent, head submerged under water, it is the palliative firmness of gavin’s touch that manages to coax her from the edge of bitter turmoil; pacify the demons, if you will. it isn’t to say that asha wasn’t troubled, that years of despondent heartbreak after heartbreak hadn’t forged stronger foundation to what asha yang was as a whole; in other words, she would not crumble, but it did not stop her heart—a needy organ thoughtlessly offered to any man who’d cast her a look long enough to be counted as affection—from falling into shambles.

as it turns out, she had mistakenly attempted to made a home out of the impossible. 

now, months later, there’s little to suffocate under with the amount of distractions her new roommate had so graciously piled up for her to keep busy. but yes, her heart still gnawed sour, ripped and corroded and unforgiving in the darkest of nights with the way it twinges, it beats loud in its ache, its defeat—the crippling fear of being alone. 

           ( what i’m saying is: yes, it still hurts.            —if that’s what you wanted to know. )

however there is naught in fixating on the sordid past, not when she’s climbed and clawed till fingertips raw her way out and into normalcy—a sort of domestication sought in the arms and apartment of a stranger’s in order to survive. contentment, for once in quite a while, easily strikes her as she stands, doing little else but picking up groceries for the week.

if it’s like this, like this, she’d gladly live the rest of her life out like such.

of course, no such luck, no such thing as salvation for god’s unloved, a soul washed in sin—no, asha should have expected it ( as always, too good to be true ) and yet here she stands, caught in headlights by a smothering gaze, spine frigid with tension unknown in months.

oh sehun.

here, her heart pounds. a beat of hurt and another of ire, red hot that pulsates beneath fair skin and within river-like veins. how quickly his appearance unsettles her, in fact, threatens to do more than just that. but it’s expected, his presence in her life marks a lesson asha would never forget, one that has her torturing her lower lip between teeth for a lack of better things to do — sharpened words pool at the back of her tongue, desperate to be put to use.

but instead she makes a move to turn, mentally chiding herself to at least find some semblance of a grip, a bit of pride and dignity — oh sehun hasn’t been worth it since the day he kicked her out.

move back in with sehun

starter for @archaistes

there was a certain kinship she felt towards flings and one night stand. friends with benefits especially -- she liked that the most, as she preferred knowing who her partner was rather than learning just their names. nevertheless, they all held an appeal towards her, one that wasn’t fond by many, yet practiced by most people secretly. unlike those people, jaehwa does it publicly and doesn’t care about what the world would think of her. a whore, a slut -- the same old shit everyday. there’s nothing new to it. jaehwa learned through the hard way, that no matter what you do, people were always going to find faults in your actions. so fuck what the haters think, is what she tells herself everyday.

regardless, she was also careful about who she told her personal stories to. there were many snakes disguised as humans after all. she smiles softly and nods her head, listening to the small group of friends she surrounded herself with. taking in what they were saying and giving her own two cents once in awhile. consciously, jaehwa makes an effort to not look at a particular person’s way -- one whom she fantasizes about way too often than she likes to.

fortunately enough for her, the ceo knew she wasn’t the only one who felt the attraction. the longing gazes, the almost kisses, the skin burning touches; each occurred very frequently whenever they were around each other. what was suppose to be subtle and vague, turned into a spectacle that a lot of people noticed. jaehwa didn’t need her employees to ask her about it, the way her assistant acted whenever sehun’s name was mentioned was all the indication she needed to know, that the truth was out after 2 months of exchanging silent affections.

brow raised up, head cocked to the side, eyes raking this boy. sehun’s own knowing mind, knowing eyes glimmer at such words, ears perking in delight. what fun it is, mingling with children. “and are you saying this from experience i believe?” (mock curiosity, humour the boy now sehun.)

“and usually, if so, it isn’t one isn’t it?” - not that this said ‘experience’ piques the gracious mind of his, mind that only knows of art but speaks in canon with firing chambers. (mind that speaks of universes and said to know of love and tragedy.) but, he a, meddler in other’s affairs if they care to share.

of course such an unorthodox brilliance such as himself knows.  

but then who is this? this child, morph of a boy who thinks he can exist, open the snatch of a mouth to spew of fragments of this mundane, possibly sadistic comedy of a life? sehun’s eyes, though mortal in physical existence, does not have a faltered switch, no - he doesn’t have a faulty moment.

oh sehun, art; in it’s purest form, knows ofno fault, but only of beauty. what does such a child know of hardship?

(and such beauty, is the most profound, most important all-knowing ability.)

“so who are you to tell me this, boy?” (mouth full of mockery, tongue scathing- venomous by habit, poor kid. - sehun’s eyes, raking at his this juvenile self.)

“well, experience is all I have.”

he’s got this way of speaking, that’s too damn honest and comes straight from the heart. like he doesn’t have skin or flesh, only his bones for the world to see, and his trembling heart nestled within his ribcage. now he has a hand on his chest, where his fingers are digging into the cotton fabric of his shirt, nails disappearing into the black of what he wears. it’s not that his chest hurts, or something as easy as that. there’s a phantom pain, an ache, as he toils in memories of childhood.

“don’t believe me, do you?” there is no anger in his words when he speaks. perhaps, it is a sort of emptiness that feeds upon its hunger. existing in the most terrible of ways within the boy. living in his throat when he talks, and melded into his spine whenever he uncurls himself from the truth. his hand is no longer on his chest. instead, it rests on his neck, where he plays with the hair on his nape and tries not to think of the shit this world has come to.

( really, he was thinking about the first time he met wonshik, and how, after all these years, he still could not close his eyes without first seeing the deep red of blood in that man’s eyes )