#jyargal

tokyo  twinkles,  starlight  &  fairy  dust,  as  winter  presses  sweet  kisses  to  the  earth.  frost  covers  the  world,  the  city  sighs  &  relief  clouds  the  atmosphere.  there  is  something  quiet  about  this  time  of  year,  despite  the  hustle  &  bustle  of  the  holiday  crowds.  quaint,  peaceful.  its  light  &  lofty  in  a  way  that  sungji  cannot  quite  put  her  finger  on.  airy,  its  hard  to  pin  down.  but,  as  she  huddles  closer  to  taís  &  begs  the  heat  from  her  warm  body,  there  is  little  else  to  think  about.  she  feels  familiar:  the  sun  peaking  through  the  clouds  on  a  tuesday  morning,  the  warmth  of  brewed  tea,  slipping  into  a  freshly  cleaned  t-shirt.

One hundred and thirty years ago. 

Memories came to him. Not a collision, all at once, but a rolling sea, slow and coaxing. He remembered this temple and its old wooden floors, its cracked stone lions. He remembered curling smoke. Ringing bells. He remembered a rice bowl full of ash and incense burnt down to stubs, and he remembered a black-haired woman kneeling before it, her hands small and cold and clasped together in prayer.

He remembered other things, too. A ram-headed monk. The two of them tending to him. Her lingering kisses and a village in ruins. 

Bacunawa looked to a tea set on the floor... to a stick of incense, newly burning...  

A wren called, and he did not blink.

"They have forgotten, Dorje fǎshī. But not you or I," he echoed. Each word was punctuated. Hard. He turned, and for the first time since that night, Bacunawa found him. "What do you think -- now that we are here again."

Spots to Kiss: 4 (Between the brows.)  Still accepting.

Kojo's house is warm, fragrant and bustling with the promise of dinner.

Still, that doesn’t make his own frigid, staunched as it is with Vietnam’s dribbling monsoon months. Nursing his teas, he’d never want or care to shiver, and he'd swaddle in his sofa as he pondered over dreams–or perhaps a stray, runaway thought: ‘had I locked the store's doors?' he'd wonder over his brew. 'Or the ginger. Thyme. Have I laid their trays to dry?' The bitterness clings, dew-like on the purse of his lips, and he’d sit there bereft of company and talk... Walls all barren like the bowels of his cabinets, and the clockface trembling when the rice pot clicks. Ticks. Hello. Dinner’s ready, it calls to the empty.

Yes, Cường’s known it, the vacant wrap of a sun-lit home. Still, he bemoans it never. But it’s familiar, almost, chopping these scallions in Kojo’s kitchen, feeling a swathing warmth beyond that intrepid bleed of summertime. There’s photos littered everywhere, and shoes crowd the doorway, and swelling laughter fills the hallways as it floods unto the crowning.

Tender. Lived-in. Cường welcomes it, chopping away as he eyes that knot working frustratingly at Kojo. It’s puzzling, he thinks decidedly. Doenjang jjigae isn’t troublesome, but his knife works slowly, and it’s enough, whatever it is, to set his jaw at a line. Mother dips, miming a sighed phone call, and Cường, in her absence (and even not) stares shamelessly.

Those eyes are warm as ever. Both siblings can peer to them for a burst of inspiration, and his hands, so embracing, will bear their troubles like upon his back, doubtlessly through piggy back-trips that one lifetime ago. A good man, he is, in a warm home whose laughter he treasures. The sun strokes his collarbones, and his hair burns nutty.

Cường blinks. Overwrought with an aging memory, he takes Kojo’s wrists over the cooking.

Hm. “Set the table for me, won’t you?” he asks, seeing that funny knot twitch a little. Kojo turns to his sway, and his broad shoulder loom. “I’ll impress your mother, and I’ll impress you, too. A good dinner will do for you. So, let me, won’t you?” I know something’s on your mind.

And that’s not exactly fair, no, and yet— Enough. He leans in, and, gosh, mother, don’t turn, now, he presses his mouth against that gnawing worry. It warms blisteringly–abundantly even; has July tumbled uninvited into this room?–doenjang jjigae and sunsets be damned. His mouth sweeps pleasant, and on it bleeds jasmine, and Kojo’s fingers struggle to corral the moment. The pot kicks on the burner now quite stubbornly. “Let me. I want to, so pace yourself,” he whispers quaint. “You invite me in a warm home. Let me make you a warm meal.”

Kojo gawps, and the summer has freckled his skin with a charming blush. He counts freckles like popping daisies, sprouting in a fierce, growing April, and their chests lay near as a heartrate badumps. His? Theirs? Who cares, the churning pot waspishly demands.

big machine, pt. 2. / accepting!

@jyargal​ said: do you know what a determined man can do? impossible things. / Regis to Jaskier if that works!

| Monochrome | Sounds thunderous without care, made worse from the downpour, Silas cursed out loud the whole time he was stuck outside in the storm, drenched head to toe wit groceries hugged to his chest. Without looking up, glasses already slick with rain, he jogged blind towards his apartment complex, his most unexpected company in tow, equally irate. Sheer luck had it so he managed to see through his wet bangs at the familiar brickwork laid in the pahvement by the building, whereupon he fumbled for his keys after passing off the wet baggage into Kirin’s reluctant arms.

“Almost, alm-most,” he chanted, more to himself than by any means of comfort, and practically yelled once the key turned, tumbling inside quickly into the empty lobby. Heaving from exertion, annoyed and then some, Silas pushed back his bangs with a lift of his glasses, nestling them to his crown, revealing  his damp forehead and the exasperated arch of his pale brows. He wrung out the front of his shirt, the dark navy now practically black clinging to him in sharp angles, contrasted heavily to his soaked skin. He sneezed. “I’ll get you change of c-clothes when we get ins-side.”

The walk up to his apartment was an entirely separate affair, but getting out of that awful humid rain was enough soothe some of Silas’ ire that by the time he unlocked the door and stepped inside, it all but melted away. Ra’s lively chirps immediately brightened the gray fog, pulling Silas in without another word after he ushered Kirin inside and shut the door behind him. The air conditioning whirred alive, struck a strange chord to the dampness sticking to his skin, and he sneezed again while trying to set down his soggy groceries.

Honesty meme || Not Accepting

3. What current rp trend do you hate?

you know that thing in Fancy RP Layouts where you have a bunch of little aesthetic buttons that don’t say anything about what they link to and you have to either hope there’s a tooltip that tells you what it is or maybe it’s noted in the URL? And you have to like go on a fucking scavenger hunt to find somebody’s rule page? Oh my godddd I hate it. 

Also, anyone out there ever tried hovering over bits and bobs in a layout that looked like they were the Aesthetic Buttons That Link To Things, but they actually were just decorative theme elements, and the actual Aesthetic Buttons you’re supposed to click are something else? Like you see a bunch of little squares above the bio and it’s like “Oh! It’s probably that!” But you hover over it and get nothing, because it turns out the actual Aesthetic Buttons you’re supposed to click were like these tiny star graphics hovering over the sepia tone sidebar picture, but they also blend in with the graphic so they don’t immediately stick out, and like goDDAMNIT I JUST WANT TO READ YOUR ABOUT PAGE DUDE

35. Do you read other people’s threads or do you only read your own?

I primarily just read my own, but I definitely will pause over close RP partners’ threads when I’m scrolling through the dash now and again! Especially if it’s a scene I know they’re really into or excited about.

36. What’s one thing that other people seem to hate that doesn’t bother you?

I think I talked about interacting with personal blogs last time I got this question, and beyond thatttt... idk, I don’t really care when someone posts a lot of OOC content or shitposting? If I’ve literally never seen you write a tag and it’s pretty clear your blog is primarily a personal, sure, maybe I’ll unfollow, but it’s to a point where I have seen people noting specific percentage IC-to-OOC content ratios in their rules sometimes, just. Come on y’all. 

And like!

Yes! 

I am biased! 

Because I definitely post OOC content and I am a perpetual shitposting machine! 

( taken from pridefulsuggestion )

[x]

   The sheer dismissal of the sentiment that Atieno witnesses is deeply amusing. She’s not remotely offended by the response that is provided. Honestly, it’s a lot more relatable than she would have initially let on and so a wicked dark smile appears on Ati’s face. If anything her reaction to his laughter was enough to cue him on that she was probably just goofing about with that statement. “Oh.. no, no. I know better than that. Time certainly doesn’t heal all wounds. And it’s foolish for anyone to expect it to. Besides, in all truth any pleasant moments certainly aren’t connected with agony, that’s for certain.“ There’s something of a honesty to her response, glad to be able to be more forthright with someone who clearly demands that sort of thing.

“I admit you’re right about suffering existing just for the sheer.. suffering of itself. There may be those who want to make something more out of it. But whether they will actually get anything... well? Anything else that arises is certainly not because of the suffering that’s for sure.“ Always due reminder, correlation does not equal causation. Too much actual chaos in the multiverse for them to even expect that chasing pain would get some kind of profit, no.  Absurd truly to think of it. It’s certainly more interesting to hear this than the conversation happening at the other table. That’s easier to ignore, all the better as far as this entity is concerned.