#sheathen

Spots to Kiss: 18 (A kiss on the throat.) No longer accepting.

She’s bursting. Spilling. Filling. She's the earth in its soils and its lost, buried things, nameless after the unrelenting give of age and time. The clockface ticks and the brass bells clamor, and every pealing of its toll asks the rotting to the earth--and it is another blistered one this very time, skin perforated and flesh ruptured like gauze. Or bandage. Bloodied-up cloth. Yes. Cường watches on hazily. He understands the look of those children that have passed with June’s ire in their bellies and their dribbling along the ripening smolder. They burn too longly for candied or sweet tenderness, so off to drooling in their rot do they go--branded, as it were, by the sun’s heat, but never ever deeper than the anger they nurse.

Rest assured, they are the dead that rankle to the bellsongs. They will bloat the earth. They will make the ground split. Yes. She is, as he comes to understand, a woman like them, an unrelenting give.

Cường rakes his mouth up her throat. “So much.” So much. His fingers lay calm, sliding delicate about the counter’s polished woodtop as they sit there, toeing this strange and dangerous line. The far off bars come dithering pale, and yet their karaoke echoes still, trembling in their marrow and up, up, up, through the soles of their feet. His brows notch curiously as her hair falls all river black. He listens beyond the Friday night clamor. She bears all those notes of June-time burial, of course, but the crescendo of it never comes in the clang of shovel or the drop of the lid. She’s one foot in the grave and another on the pedal, it seems, yet the car’s more a bullet train tearing down its rails--blindly, raucously, and not least of all, he imagines, boldly and with immeasurable pride. Desperate, perhaps, even licks about it somewhere. She burns life-warm. He groans overwhelmed. The notes of it tremble earthily  up her throat.

“You’re so much. You’ve so much. Of all things. Everything. How do you do it: keep it all?”

The nothing? The anger? The chasing and yearning and the needing and thrill? Cường’s palm finds its way to her waist, there about its delicate curve, and holds her steadily as though she’ll shatter with it. (But she won’t. She might shatter him, in fact, but he knows a thing or two about setting his bones.)

And he she thinks she little gleans sense in his ramble, but it’s bare, naked, and stripped of embellishment; it is as she hears it. Still, he’s terribly good at keeping the seconds rolling, isn’t he?, lips soft and hiking high into the shallow beneath her jaw all slow-burn agony. Her pulse finds itself beneath the searching of his kisses, and it vies, almost, for her heart’s every and defying pulse.

I’m alive, it tells him greedily. And I’m not sorry about it. Not one bit.

@razortccth

@asmodcus

@dtchthistown

@sheathen​

@evenstide​

85 didn’t talk much seeing as her occupation as a thief dealt mostly with gathering information and being stealthy; both traits become much harder to do when one was talking all the time. But sometimes, like right now, speaking was necessary to brush aside suspicion. 

📂 RANDOM, USELESS HEADCANONS 📂

Still Accepting.

Leslie is a master of disguise— no, actually, he’s just an idiot with enough false mustaches and various other facial hairpieces to have a different face every day of the year. It can be somewhat helpful when he’s attempting to be low-key or if he’s already been banned from an establishment and is, once again, illegally trying to trespass on the premises in the name of crime-solving. 

Sunmi (선미) Starters ♡ still accepting.

texts  from  last  night  starters  ! | accepting 

@sheathen​ said:  ✉ ↠ I remember going home with 2 girls. Woke up with 4. (@whichever muse would find think this is hilarious)  | minjae

For the longest time, Minjae just stared down at the phone, cackling madly as he chewed on the straw in his iced coffee. People around him were starting to stare, but he waved them off with a, “friend got laid. mind your business,” that had them scowling - but leaving him to his own after a few mumbled words under their breath. 

there’s   naught   but   a   hushed   whisper   ,   veiled   mumbling   within   strangely   spent   nocturnal   approach   of   long   set   dusk         ––––      hours   that   would   come   as   a   torturous   plague   to   the   blonde   ,   pained   by   insomnium   and   chased   by   the   devouring   mess   of   a   mind   as   iron   wall   would   crumble   to   his   feet     ;      a   mere   reflection   of   himself   he   would   not   dare   to   face   .      hands   would   shift   over   keys   ,   lay   themselves   silently   on   polished   surface   of   beloved   steinway      ––      but   not   today   ,   no   ,   there   is   business   to   be   finished   and   for   once   can   the   male   not   tell   if   whether   to   his   advantage   or   its   contrary   position   such   interference   within   his   initial   desire   did   make   up   to   be   .      thoughts   leave   themselves   scattered   at   usual   ,   basking   in   the   cold   rays   of   eternal   moon   that   would   spill   through   glacial   windows   onto   his   grand   instrument      –––      clad   by   the   quietude   ,   whenever   mind   halted   .   such  loss   of   attention   deems   itself   to   be   alike   a   noose   snaking   its   way   tight   around   the   poor   fool’s   neck      ;      full   remembrance   of   things   long   forgotten   that   would   come   to   haunt   him   .      and   in   silence   would  he   mourn   .   blonde’s   basement      ;      a   rather   bleak   sight   to   behold   as   above   ,   mansion’s   initial   heart   and   his   residing   place   would   remain   abandoned   for   tonight      –––      behind   the   walls   of   solitude   would  he   no   longer   find   such   rest   today   and   artificial   is   the   sterile   ,   white   light   ,   blinding   ,   burning   him   with   all   his   presence   .      he’s   been   here   many   times   before   .      yet      –––      never   had   such   corner   of   estate   felt   this   alien   ,   this   strange   as   if   to   doubt   that   it   had   ever   posed   as   a   part   of   the   building  they   are   stood   in      ––      lost   has   he   himself   again   ,   hour   grazes   midnight   and   sunken   is   the   fool   in   entirely   different   spheres      ;      melody   begins   to   dance   ,   disrupted   merely   by   the   glimmer   that   breaks   the   light   it   meets      ––      something   hues   catch   out   of   the   corner   with   almost   painful   awareness   for   striking   realism   .   earthed   ,   glance   glides   only   merely   before   he   is   ultimately   shaken   off      –      out   of   the   momentary   slumber   own   web   had   caught   him   in   .      folded   arms   are   quick   to   loosen   albeit  executed   reach   of   extended   hand   holds   a   calm   pace   as   the   male’s   behaviour   usual   and   ever   often   did      ;      grip   of   cold   surface   within   silent   manner      ––      he   had   noticed   the   other   figure   taking   particular   interest   in   his   very   own   personalised   weapon   ,   chromatic   and   heavy   lying   in   one’s   hand   ,   had   it   now   rested   on   the   grand   table   .