#vanguardlost

          Another late night. That was something TAOJIN was way too used to. Sleep seemed to be a distant memory, fading into the recesses of his mind amongst the nightmares and restless hours. It was something he’d certainly taken for granted when he’d had it, and now that it was gone he felt something of an emptiness where the dreams used to be -- a deep ache that he’s missing out on some sort of the human experience.

          It wasn’t uncommon for him to find himself at the 24 hour gas station store well after the sun had gone down. Actually, this was the third time this week. Despite his lack of income, and the meager earnings he made turning tricks in the streets, he always managed to scrounge up enough for a pack of gum or cigarettes. Honestly, those were the only things that kept him going at this point, sickly thin frame seeming to rattle in the wind. The nicotine coating his lungs was the only thing keeping him weighed to the ground.

          On this particular night, he hadn’t the need for either of his two regular options. But plagued with restlessness, he found himself at the only store open that late nonetheless. He wandered the small aisles, looking this way and that and fighting the urge to get some sort of fattening snack. He was just killing time at this point -- even the shop clerk knew he’d either get an unsweetened tea, or a pack of cards he didn’t actually need, or just get out. But he let his mind wander off, thinking of what it would be like to buy up all sorts of things.

                             DING

          The bell at the door chimed as someone seemed to bulldoze their way into the building. Now, normally TAOJIN would mind his own business. But the immediate shouting at the front of the store was just begging for him to look over. He turned just in time to see a masked man pull out a gun and shove it at the clerk’s head. He was shouting something about the money, the clerk looking downright terrified.

          ┈• oh,  how  the  night  had  flown  away!  the  fire  still  burned  bright  behind  TAOJIN’s  eyelids,  despite  the  time  that  had  passed.  he  remembered  the  store,  and  following  the  stranger  --  his  name  was...  HYEOK,  yes,  that  was  it.  he  remembered  following  HYEOK  into  the  club,  drinking,  and  getting  fuzzy.  after  that  everything  mixed  together,  lights  falling  into  themselves  and  sounds  echoing  off  of  the  static  playing  in  his  head  until  he  was  positively  sure  everything  he’d  seen  had  been  an  illusion.  being  such  a  lightweight  who  only  let  himself  drink  straight  liquor  really  had  its  pitfalls.  he  didn’t  remember  leaving,  or  going  to  sleep,  or,  honestly,  resting  at  all.  but  by  the  time  he  came  to,  the  sun  was  coming  up  and  he  was  in  a  place  he  hadn’t  recognised.

          ❝  so  like..  does  that  shit  just  come  out  of  your  hands,  or  like  all  over?  ❞  he  asked  through  gritted  teeth  as  he  carefully  lit  a  cigarette,  head  pounding  as  he  tried  to  recall  exactly  what  he’d  seen.  he  was  cold,  but  he  had  no  idea  where  his  jacket  had  ended  up,  short  sleeves  leaving  thin  arms  to  the  air,  intricately  decorated  with  more  cuts  than  a  surgeon  would  ever  get  to  see.  he  didn’t  pay  it  any  attention,  knowing  well  that  the  patchwork  mess  of  a  man  in  front  of  him  had  no  room  to  pretend  to  be  any  better.  they  were  a  sour  lot,  and  there  was  no  room  for  judgement  on  how  they  treated  themselves,  that  much  he  was  sure  of.

Oh, clever man with the clever tongue. No, they certainly healed different, but he may be speaking of that post-burn numb. Anyway. “I have a sale today.”

Accepting.

✌ : Fondest role-play memory, between muses?

Back in the day like 2014 era of tumblr I had made a muse based on the god of dreams. This particular muse got insanely popular. This was back when it was like single verse muses so everything was one timeline and not many people were multiship. Anyways, this muse was courting another muse and we had one singular thread on all our threads that had like 300+ notes of 53464 para replies. Sighs, I really miss those days hahaha. In the very end they finally were together after literally 2 years of slow burn. LMAO, I think I am too impatient for this now but ya know :') I think fondly of it and really miss it.

😡 : Worst role play-related encounter and what advice you would give to others to avoid similar situations?

Well, it was with someone I also wrote with for years. [ I prefer to write with the same people over and over dkjskdfjsd but this also comes with some cons! ] I think the advice I would give is to be careful of people even if you think you're good friends. This particular person was dealing with things in real life that made them act differently with me. It got very toxic and mentally draining. In short, they threatened to harm themselves multiple times and would be very upset if I replied to anyone before them to the point it would be the make or break thing in our arguments. The crazy part to me is I would have never pegged them for this type of person in our first two years of friendship. I wrote with them for like five years-- in the end, they posted a self-para where they killed off their muse and left a bunch of dark goodbyes in the dark. It was so embarrassing and mortifying for me since our community was very small on tumblr so people took notice. :( So, just be careful y'all.

✉ : On average, how long does it take you to write a reply that you’re pleased with?

​The territory didn’t alert her. There was no surge of energy, no burst of colors into the sky that had her or the other Counters stopping everything they were doing. And yet, the demon she was currently holding down with a firm knee pressed against its stomach and her hand against its chest to send it to the afterlife kept blabbering on about a boy with blue fire in his hands. Hana would usually have dismissed such nonsenseㅡ she should, except that it wasn’t the first demon that was telling her or her team about blue fire; this had been on-going for the past month and Hana had yet to find this boy. If it was even a boy. 

“Rest in peace.” The demon vanished, and she stood up, dragging her fingers through her wavy black hair. Endless questions were running through her mind: who was this person? Were they even a person? And if they were a demon, why did the territory not react at all? And if they were human, did it mean that they had a special ability? What were their goal? 

Frustration showed in the furrow of her brows and in the thin line of her lips. Hana huffed out a breath and readied herself to go back to the restaurant slash headquarters when a nearby commotion caught her attention. It was none of her business and, honestly, she couldn’t care less about other people engaged in fight. And it would have been that easy to walk away, if only the territory didn’t activate and surrounded the area in its bright colors, alerting her of the presence of a demon. A muttered curse slipped past her lips: there was no time to get the others. Without wasting any more second, Hana began to run in the limited area she was given and it wasn’t long before she found what she had been looking for, and even more than that: there was a demon indeed. But also, a young man, with blue flames in his hands. 

Cường, spotting them in the distance, sees them for the first time. Send 🖤 for his thoughts: No longer accepting.

Cường toils. His sores tear. He works, balm wafting fragrant with its drops of winter oil, and it nips and cools and crawls beneath his skin. How terrible. What a frankensteined patchwork of half-healing blisters. He’s a cut that’s weeping and a gash that seeps.

And a cold salve, the world reminds him, isn’t meant for open wounds like you, are they? But consider a fire. I can wick you one gentle. We can make it all sweet, a tender cauterizing.

And healing, too, of course, because that’s the point, isn’t it?

Cường's hands slow. Yes, he admits. His fingers curl achingly. I imagine it is. 

His gaze drifts, curious. Incense, suffusing about his too cramped aisles, perfumes his porcelain in a smell like temple. It’s intoxicating. Enchanting, too, surely, but marred with something so unbiddenly bitter – and, dear god, even sour. A phantom laughs. Or human, don’t you think, like cauterized skin? Muscle? Corpse? Cường...! Cường moves. A gust takes the windchimes, rattling like kindling. He looks out the window, and there! – the ghost seethes, words hissed as embers from coal – in a shade so blue you’re imagining rivers.

Cường blinks, veiled in the twinkle of the stars. And you like rivers. Love them! Want to take a plunge, then, ghost boy? Would you go out and dare it?

No. I really shouldn’t, I don’t think. 

The stranger looks. They stand across the street, lights flickering with moths above their heads, and their gaze sits heady and crushing in the dark.

No, because you’re no river at all. No ocean. You’re chemical. You’re burning. They’re butane, a caustic little drip eating at his skin and worming at his nerves. 

But Cường doesn’t burn. How doesn’t he? He lowers his spoon, tin still only half-way filled, and he moves, toddles over, passing the large window with its boxes of lavender. They watch him all the while. Their stares never abate, tethered and inexplicably, irrevocably twined, their eyes like sapphire and his earth-deep.

You... “You’re a swallowing man, I’ve decided,” Cường whispers. Smothering. I can feel you in my skin -- under it, too, nipping with the intent to gnaw my bones. Why?

They don’t know. Neither do. They watch, streetlights in the furl of their lashes, calm and motionless in the autumn midnight.

Swallowing. Burning, Wicking. Cường grabs to the doorframe, shirt blowing, sticking to the welts beneath his shirt. “Looking to burn in me an impression? Work harder. I make those things that help them feel more bearable, you know.”

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄: Still accepting. Belt loops: Pull Cường closer by the belt loops.

Tonight, Cường thinks with the sun setting bold about the cityscape, is blessedly quiet. That’s perfect. Wonderful, better yet. He’s hearing clearer, those odd phantoms now crackling among the aisles with the hand-painted porcelains, and he can make out their shouts like a wick off a candle. Their dead start to bellow, and his skin begins to flare, humming, pocked with the feeling of blisters and welts -- or burns, perhaps. It’s that stare, that scalding gaze...

Huh. Do you have to be so scalding? Cường gripes, passing them again. Dangerous? 

Should I be afraid? And anyway, you’re due to burn yourself out like that. I thought you’d be worried. I’d tell you to be careful, but-- No. Shut up. And maybe the quiet’s too heavy, thrusting those offensive thoughts bare into the shadows, because next time he passes them, he barely gets a step out. A tug pulls him backward, and he crumbles like a leaf, bowed, shoulder hitting a chest and a hand at the armrest.

Uh oh. Sleepy-eyed, near folded over their lap, he peers down to meet a glare one and two thousand degrees too ravaging. This is danger. This is a threat.

[Send 💮.] Cường looks at them. He's thinking of flowers. Status: No longer accepting.

"Do you like them?" that earthy voice stirs. Of course you do. How can't you, after all, with something so strong and loudly fierce?

And burning? And bold?

Well. Cường settles in the banking chair by the shelf stuffed with novels he's yet to finish, hasn't many designs to, and rifles through supplies. His scissors are found first. It gives Hyeokjae minutes to dawdle with, to soak in the ambience of this humble, moon-slithered apartment – suffused, perfumed ghostly with tufts of sage – as they patiently wait. Everywhere is homey, embered with little fires. The incense sits burning, and his cake sits sweet, hot, honey-licked in the oven as he grabs the gauze.

But of all these small things, blistering and baking both, it isn't them that the dreamer means. Nope. Not even close, he admits, as his bold, brave fingers take their hand.

Idiot. Don't you know not to dare a fire?

Doting dreamer bows his head. Of course I do. The firethorn at the bookshelf then creeps better into focus, rubied-up, leapt shamelessly like fire out of coal, and watches them in its vase. It's... Undeniable. Even when slipped in as an accent, it triumphs in its attention, thorny and witherless, bursting through the bunches of nameless flowers. Cường lets them stare at it. He takes their busted knuckles, fissured, bitten like with teeth and winking wet.

And he hums as he studies them, dizzyingly cruel as they seem. What did you go and do? His touch goes wonder-gentle. Do you like what you do? Do you like what they do?

Always aching man. These wounds just hurt, bleed you, and yet–

"You should. I like them, too, actually," Cường starts again, mending their wounds. They sit muted, maybe considering burning him to ashes, but Cường hasn't care enough to go and question. "They always steal my attention somehow–" glowing, bristling "–but hurt me, too. I always snag myself. I come back anyway, even though they burn. Cut. Every single time." Hm. He smears ointment onto them, nippingly pleasant, but his warm, not theirs, more candled-lit kitchen and less fire pit.