#victem

Send me  “HC”  + a word and I’ll write a headcanon about it. 

he dreams of himself, back pressed against a rough wall. blood bubbles up in his mouth, trickles down his chin as he chokes. 

he wants to cry for help, for a hand to hold as the final moments of his life are taken from him. but he knows there cannot be any other way. he will die alone. just like before. 

and he wakes up, hand wrapped around a damp neck, taking in gulps of air. 

this is the third night in a row, and the sixtieth time this dream has occurred.

SEND ONE FOR MY MUSE’S REACTION TO YOURS: ACCEPTING

❂ = wiping blood off their face. 

it was foolish to think Kai would listen to him. but it was worse to accept help from them. 

he stiffens when he feels kai’s thumb graze across his cheek, wiping away the bloodied remnants that were left behind from earlier’s dance with the dead; the dead, but undead. taeyong’s almost reluctant to left his gaze, but when he musters enough courage to do so, midnight orbs imperceptibly meet those of a similar shade. it takes him ten, maybe fifteen, seconds to realize he’s staring, quietly observing the man before him with narrowed brows. watching, waiting, searching for some sort of underlying cause behind what had recently transgressed. concern was implied, although there was no way of knowing exactly what without asking. however, he does not bother asking because he’s already convinced himself that was false.  

someone’s worried about him? Impossible. 

refusal to believe such an absurd thing becomes the driving force that prompts him to reach forward and move Kai’s hand away from his countenance, holding onto the elder by their wrist. “i already told you, i’m capable of taking care of myself.” he starts, “i don’t need your help.” he finally releases them from his grip, before he presses his palms down onto the cushioned surface beneath him and pushes himself up, attempting to stand on his own. but was not successful, and consequently, he fell to his knees with a low, agonizing groan. 

what was perfectly clear to him is that he — one, wasn’t fine, and two, needed help. for years, taeyong has lived his life believing he could do just about everything and anything on his own; cutting ties and pushing people away. many have tried to help, most have failed; and kai was one of them. he wraps an around his chest, resting his hand over his wounded shoulder; the primary source of his pain. blood seeps through his shirt imbruing his porcelain-like skin with faint splotches of crimson. his fingers curl inwards, clenching a tight fist as he struggles to rise. every movement he makes hurts; his limbs ache, but he wants to leave; he needs to. 

as if nothing happened, he grabs his jacket and heads towards the door.

– @victem​ »

patience is a virtue, so they say.

patience is all he has at half-past ten, with numb knees and creaking elbows, head tucked beneath an elaborate mosaic of gum. cinnamon and wintergreen, the sickeningly sweet sisters of their dear cousin nicotine, crawl into the spaces beneath his nails and fester with every piece he scrapes from the bottom of the table. they cling to his fingers until a quarter to midnight, steadfast in their efforts but inevitably futile, as they’re swept away by the batallion of citrus and alkali. as the sister scents swirl down the drain in mournful masses, glistening porcelain and stainless steel squeal when met with their childhood friend, the wash cloth. her hair is unkempt, tangled from nervous fingers and never-ending nights, and gossamer wrinkles frame her wan smile. in the embrace of her friends, she can feel their sapphire-studded arms and gold-plated smiles digging into her calloused skin. they ask how she’s been; she says she’s been fine. priour engagements bring an end to their reunion, and as soon as the pair departs, another greets her just the same. with every friend she receives, her winkles deepen and another knot tangles in her hair, and they always leave with chipper it was nice to meet you’s and sparkling smiles. the night is almost over, she recites beneath her twentieth it’s so good see you. she is almost there.

patience is all kyungsoo has at seven minutes to two, scrubbing alcohol and stomach acid off the toilets and inhaling fumes of diluted bleach. there’s piss in the corner of the stall and a slew of numbers along the wall, all scrawled in permanent ink. he can’t imagine why anyone would bring a pen to a club, but he’s seen stranger things--like the pair of strangers clumsily stumbling into the stall beside him, failing to even shut the door before choking on each other’s tongues. patience. patience.

Send me a “hc” + a word and i’ll write a headcanon about it. 

status: not accepting.

Mihyun has thorns all over her body. Thorns reminded her of difficult times: the first time she had to introduce herself in front of a crowd, when she had to accept flowers die if you pick them from the ground, people leaving her. She grew up to be a patient young woman, accepting what life gives her. The cards always told her what to expect from life or at least, they try to.

Exhibit I: the musician.

 Mihyun is like a rose, her most painful thorns are the ones on her hands, caused by her harp. She doesn’t mind them, though, she cherishes them, the soft red marks that appear every time she plays music for hours without a single break. The music she produces is her petals, thus, her life is a meadow of wildflowers, harmony is the sunlight she needs to grow as the principal flower, ruling over her various melodies.

Exhibit II: the friend.

 People are thorns. They expect kindness and generosity without thinking they also play a part in her life. She is selfless but she does not consider that quality as the opposite of selfishness. It is a great gift to love and comfort everyone around you but, if they only need you to heal their wound, if they only talk to you when they remember your existence, these people become thorns. Occasional ones. A flower engraved with poisonous thorns, trying to make her bend as they sing for the rain to come. 

Exhibit III: the queen.

 She is the one wearing thorns, she is the fighter hiding behind a doll face. Fate is on her side as much as the universe is. She accepts the wounds they make on her body, whether it is music or people. They bruise her for a moment but they don’t know she owns them.