#mvllia

“Um, hey, I hate to bug you, but can you do me a favor and pretend to be my boyfriend or something?”

Character building time: fill my inbox with questions about my muse!

He lies about his poems, says they’re nothing but a bunch of imagined facts but they’re actually his own feelings, his own experiences. The truth is: Minseo knows he goes a little bit too deep into his verses and rhymes, he tells too much of himself into the poems and he’s afraid someone willsomeday notice what’s going on in his mind through the few stanzas on the paper. 

His inspiration comes from his experiences with his victims, his frustrations, his anger, his jealousy and his possessiveness, his obsession in general. And when he feels those things he usually locks himself in his room and spends hours in there, writing and thinking about what he should do next — what he should to do make it even clearer that what’s his is his and nobody else can touch it other than he himself.

My muse has been acting strange, send one for you muse to… ⅋ - Bring my muse hot chocolate and a warm blanket

She’d been distant the entire day long. It felt weird having Wen around but not cuddling with him or at least touching him in some way as she always did. It wasn't in a sexual or romantic way, but they were both rather affectionate people and these touches gave them a feeling of security, hence it was more than odd for her to keep her distance.

It was only a matter of time until he'd speak up about her flinching away from him whenever he got close, especially since she gave up on masking the frown on her face after a good hour of them meeting up.

Wen seemed pretty down about her mood as well, and his attempts to cheer her up became more desperate. Yoona felt seriously sorry for being such an inconvenience, yet there wasn't much she could do about it besides hoping that he'd leave her alone to sulk soon enough. However, he did give it one last try: in form of a cup of chocolate and a warm blanket draped over her shoulders.

A clear conscience never fears midnight knocking, yet an irrevocably tainted soul finds himself traversing the plain of darkness where the moonless sky bled into the ground, indistinguishable except for the prickle of stars thrown haphazardly overhead. He spares them a glance, equal parts contempt and awe before continuing on towards the specified location. Pinned up against the sky, they give meaning to darkness; a constant within an endless universe. Stars on earth however were fascinatingly pedestrian— reduced to a commoner’s analogy for beauty, another word inserted into pretentiously written poems, and one-third of his sullied name. But just like the stars, his soul was decaying, burning out in the night, unnoticed and viciously untamed. With ten bags of stolen blood lying snugly within the parcel in his arms, one would reckon anxiety to be a constant in his illegal act; a prick on his withering morals, a crack in his facade, but oh would they be disappointed for nothing more than a wicked peace remained. Lips curved confidently in a familiar amoral smile, the boy sets the parcel down just beneath the seventeenth tree in the empty park, fingers soon sent to work stealthily upon a dimly lit screen.

[ text sent ] red souls ready for collection. seventeen. [ received ] stay for five and then leave. dues will be given at dawn.

There, his work was almost done. Leaning against the rough trunk of the tree, Hanbyul closed his eyes and willed the seconds to pass— oh how he hated to be constrained by fabricated time. But once the accumulated minutes hovered near the five that he was ordered to stay, a deep rumble resonated out from beyond the horizon. The contempt in its message was clear: an anger at his willingness to transgress, a warning from above. But the lone boy remained purely tickled, amusement flashing through guiltless eyes as he spat a string of loving curses at the sky. “ Fuck you. Don’t pretend to care. ” Hitching his rucksack higher for comfort, the nurse took his leave just as another disapproval rolled through the night.

Perhaps he should have listened and reconsidered, then maybe he would have noticed the handwritten note left attached to the side of his parcel. Elegant calligraphy containing details of the completed assignment aside, the note was largely mangled from multiple yet careless cross-outs of a discarded diagnosis— utterly irrelevant information for the final receipient unless one knew what they were looking for.

protective sentence starters ( accepting )

five word prompts ( accepting  )