#(( THIS READS AS MORE OF A SELF-PARA. IM SO SORRY. ITS SUPPOSED TO BE AN OPENER I SWEAR. IM SORRY

[terragro]

when kai was a young child of only three, dance had been all he'd ever wanted to do. two wide, doe-like eyes had gazed up at a television while ballerinas danced across the screen, foreign and otherworldly like swans descending from the heavens. "i want to do that," he told his mother, jittery with excitement and stammering over his own words. and when has her little boy shown such interest in something? of course she enrolls him in classes.

the three fates—clotho the severe, lachesis the inflexible, and atropos the stern—gave him only two years of true peace before tearing it from his still-child-shaped hands. at five years old, the purity and joy of ballet and free-form was taken by those around him: scoldings by teachers and other parents in his dance group, that kai will require plastic surgery, that he is unfit for being a dancer given the color of his caramel body. he will need skin bleaching, he will need rhinoplasty. his mother removes him from classes, upset by the bullying of those he cannot even recognize are bullying him at all; too young, too naive, barely more than a toddler.

and when he hits puberty, he was forced to dance in secret, away from judgemental eyes and the cruel, taunting jeers of his peers, lest fighting break out and he be required to defend himself physically against the cruelty of others. alone, in his room, old gnarled atropos the stern watches him dance in the milky florescent light of his desk table, and the wrinkled fate continues watching him—as he at twelve years old—climbs into bed to tear at his skin, raising red, welting scores across his flesh, wishing he could pry off what others loathe so much.

in his early twenties, he grew too sick to expend energy through exertion in any way. kai is bound to a bed, nasal cannula in his nostrils, wondering when his last breath would be just that: the last.

after his change, he toyed with the idea of doing it again. it was his passion; his long, dancer's legs stretch to the sky, nimble and elegant movements begging to be placed. tiny, delicate steps, ginger and slow, a pirouette, a shift of weight that makes him look as fluid as the sea he is named for. he could do it. even if he never goes further than for enjoyment in his own living room, he could do it. something he'd long given up on, unfurling in his chest like a sickly little rose, that hope. maybe, after so much time, he could do it again.

yet clotho—beautiful, young clotho, seductive and enchanting with her angelic visage and her euphonious voice, a songstress oracle that could be aphrodite's likeness with her hourglass body and ample bosom—tore from him that thought until it was crippled into the sands. laughing that bell-like laugh, plush, succulent lips showing white teeth that may as well be jagged canines. come here, crooked the finger of the most severe of the three fates, a manicured nail coyly curling with intent and promise. come here, it is predestined. has yong ever been able to ignore a pretty face? he rises to her call.

two dragons fight, storm versus earth, locked in airborne combat. before kai was able to end his ugly, too-long life, yong—older, weaker, prideful—sank his conical teeth into kai's bird-like femur, shattering it beyond repair. it heals this way: shattered.

kai has rarely danced again. even walking causes pain, shifting his leg in bed, adjusting his weight when standing too long. pain lances through his hip and down to his knee, and he tolerates it with the stoic mask he has worn his whole life: what else can he do? he masks his limp with the skill of only the best actors.

kai is an exemplary actor.

as kai opens the door to the bar—black velvet, it is named, with its lustrous black and gold walls, its posh decor and expensive air—he walks (ever hiding the limp, steps even, faultless, weaknesses eternally concealed) through the pathways between chairs and tables, and toward an oft-empty booth by the wall. the bar veneers its seedy reputation in luxurious interiors and a sultry disposition. it is late, later than he likes to be out and about seoul. particularly because it is a near twenty-minute drive back to his district, but also because he has to leave sejun with a trusted friend if he needs night trips. it is nearing zero hour in south korea, though itaewon never rests, its neon lights illuminating a never-sleeping machine of activity. kai works the next day, and even though he values sleep more than his own life, he sits on the plush velvet stool and waves away a helpful waitress. not with any rudeness—while perfunct, his actions are never dismissive or careless—but he does not plan to linger, and he does not often drink, so her services are unnecessary.

why is he here, at such a late hour? because in only a few minutes, a certain jazz singer will be walking her dark, elegant silhouette upon the stage, returning from one of her breaks. she will be crooning soulful, alluring intonations from those plush, crimson lips. dark, full, airy melodies, a lustrous, velvety tone more marvelous than the bar itself echoing through the din, soaking into the walls like a sponge. if you told a patron of the bar that the bar was named for ilana's compelling voice, they'd likely believe you.

he has not seen ilana in quite some time; a couple months, at least, he believes. his schedule makes dipping into the area and reuniting with friends a few and far between escapade, but he has found himself craving connection and intimacy as of late, and what better time to scratch the particular itch of intimacy than through dancing (arguably, one of the more intimate of art forms)? he has not done it in a very long time, but like sex or riding a bike, it is something the body never forgets.

kai knows it will be painful. he knows tomorrow he will be in agony, and the typical effort he goes through to mask this detestable weakness will have to be further amplified. expedited healing will never be able to erase damage done by another god to a god's body, when he had been unable to shift back in order to recalibrate it. he will suffer this injury the remainder of his long, long life, but there are some exacerbations that are worth it.

finally, the curtain parts, and before she has even reached the mic stand ilana is releasing a musical hymn that forces an instinctual hush to wash over the crowd, and causes kai's dark, serpentine eyes to level upon her. crimson satin cradles her body like a second skin, a mermaid-cut rolling veils of red fabric to spill over a waxed stage, giving the appearance she may have bled upwards like an wound directly from the wooden surface. it's interesting, he notes, that she is wearing his favorite color tonight: as if perhaps the inflexible lachesis herself had ordained them meeting, and bid his friend to don a color that naturally draws the gaze. a well-formed, slender thigh shines in the lowlights from a high slit in the gown, betraying shapely calves strapped in ruby-toned heels that grant her height.

this pleases him, inwardly, he won't have to stoop to take her into his arms. not that the bar-famous songstress knows he is here, obscured in the dark as he is. kai waits until she has taken her place upon the stage and begun her next number before he rises in the darkness and slips behind the curtain as well.

he is not one for the limelight, not really. his daily life is ever-surveilled in the terrible ordeal of publicity, and he takes this as the much more appealing kind. surrounded by denizens who fill the booths and tables purely to see her perform, kai is simply an accompaniment to the crimson star; nothing but a tool to amplify her own resplendence. it suits him much more.

as ilana's velvety purr lilts into the microphone kai walks slowly onto the stage until his form is illuminated behind her by the stage lighting. his steps are silent, they always are, but they are further hidden under the croon of her lilac tones. she likely does not know he is there at all, until a broad hand extends to rest against the silken fabric of her gown, tracing along her waist until it settles against her belly to guide her backwards against him.

there is no one who would dared to hurt the prized singer of the black velvet bar. and given that her listeners do not immediately rush the stage, furious at the trespass, he knows she suspects who's touch is upon her. kai's other hand slides oh-so-slowly along the bare skin of her arm, tracing feather-light against her elbow until he's finally taken her dainty wrist within his grasp. the body never forgets, recall: he has done this many times. his nose gently traces against the black hair spilling past her temple, and he extends ilana's captured arm out, palm up to the heavens to cradle it from underneath, moving into place behind her until his chest and stomach is pressed along her back. with a slow shifting motion, he pulls her away from the metal stand, the mic itself safe in her grip, and the two of them begin.

finally, for the first time in many moons, he dances.

[jaehyunnieoppa-blog1]

+(self para

im placing the trigger warning here before, making it easier to find. please be wary of mention of the following, please read what you think you feel strong enough too and please stop reading if you feel uncomfortable: parent death, psychiatric wards, funerals, borderline personality disorder symptoms, slight mention of self harm(no cutting or anything graphic, just a mention of scratching a leg to the point of a slight drop of blood). if you feel uncomfortable reading this but you’d still like to know what happens PLEASE message me and i can give you a sfw rundown, i love you all so much and care for your mental health. -luke <3

jaehyun min, known to his family as dakota. that was a name he rarely like to use, it reminded him too much of how happy he was at home. well, before the shit storm that ruined his life happened.

dakota kim was born on may fourth nineteen ninety-four. he’d be the oldest of three boys. the two boys who would be supposed to love him unconditionally would end up hating him, loathing him. but their love would come back.

alyssa kim. born and raised in busan, south korea. she was born jeongi, but with the move to america she decided to go by the name alyssa. she moved to america for school, and she never expected to fall in love with a man she somehow never met in her eighteen years in busan.

andrew min. also born and raised in busan, but was somehow on the complete opposite side from the love of his life, he wouldn’t meet her till he was twenty-four.

he was a mechanic on campus, and the showers on her floor stopped working right before her final presentation. she could’ve swore he was a superhero for fixing her showers so quickly. andrew, being the suave man he was, asked alyssa on a date, and with her thick accent she giggled out a yes.

now, flash forward to nineteen ninety-four. andrew and alyssa had barely been married six months when they had their first son, alyssa swore that there was nothing more beautiful on this earth than her baby boy. the family of three lived in manhattan, alyssa was well on her way to becoming a well known makeup artist. the small family was happy as can be, and they were a small family of three for another five years.

the day after dakota’s birthday he was crushed with the news he was going to have a baby brother or sister, no one wants to lose their place at the top. the next kid was the second boy in the family, max is what they’d call him. max would grow up to be a teacher. the first time dakota saw max he sobbed, he wasn’t the only kid now and that killed his ego. even as a young child dakota had such a fond love for himself, a love so strong that it rarely wavered. but hell, when it did, that meant shit had really hit the fan. the next son would be called jordan and was born only a year after max, home life was chaos.

in school dakota had to draw his family, and he drew two little devils and himself crying. the teacher required a parent teacher conference and dakota clung to his mother, crying without sound, a talent he had already perfected. he didn’t want his parents to get in trouble because of his hatred for his brothers. the teacher understood that they were probably siblings but dakota had completely forgot to draw his parents. he couldn’t even think of them because all he heard was crying.

after that dakota’s parents started to care more for him, his mother especially. she began teaching him to speak and read korean, a talent she wanted him to be able to show off to his friends. The young boy learned quick, completely mastering the hangul alphabet in only a few days. but learning the words and actually putting meaning to them was a bit more difficult. by the time he was ten, he’d not only have three more truly happy years, but he had only a year or two before he’d completely grasp it and become fully fluent.

the times he spent in the synagogue with his family would be some of his fondest memories, he always felt so welcome there, no one judge him. he found serenity in his faith. he made friends in the synagogue, even though his brothers and father couldn’t be so easily immersed, dakota and alyssa were enchanted.

fast forward through the happy years, no one cares about slow happiness. alyssa had been getting slower and slower, cancer yaknow, and the fact that she had been so slow that she had to be hospitalized was dumbfounding to everyone in her family. dakota stayed nearly every night with her and only left because he had to go to school. a few weeks after the boys birthday his mother passed, her last breath being a simple i love you as dakota held her hand.

dakota was wrecked, his brothers picking got worse, his father ignored it, no one seemed to care. as soon as he turned eighteen he booked it and didn’t look back, but his family needed him now. his father was sick, in the hospital.

“ dakota… we bought you a plane ticket, you have to come home now. ” jordan rushed the words into the phone, pleading for jaehyun to come home. jae sat there dumbfounded, but he went, leaving his free vacation behind.

hospitals terrified jaehyun. as he walked into jis father’s room he nearly sobbed at the sight of the aging man. he looked dead. “ i’m sorry. i can’t be here. ” he ran, not looking back.

when his brothers found jae in his hotel room he hadn’t ate, slept, or showered. he was sat in the floor, holding a full bottle of rum that was warm from sitting with it for three days, but nothing had been drank.

“ dakota… we’ve arranged dads funeral… its tomorrow… can you go ? ” max asked delicately, seeing his older brother so broken causing a sharp pain in his chest. “ d-d-d-d-d… do i have to speak ? ” jaehyun spoke, he hadn’t stuttered that bad in ages… he was utterly gone.

the funeral was depressing to say the least, jae was so broken he couldn’t cry, he just looked at photos of mimi. after the funeral jae sat in the backseat of max’s car, clutching his knees to his chest. the years of not taking his medicine had finally caught up to him. he was gone. the drive was to the same hospital his mother had died in, the psych ward that he had come to know very well.

he was only in the ward for a day before they sent him home to greenville. he requested mimi but the nurses said no, helping him change into his hospital pants and shirt. he had been scratching at his legs so much to the point they were bleeding, but he didn’t care. his brothers had come to be his support group and to watch mimi for him. the memories of the menorah in the psych ward were coming back, and oh god his brain was more shot than he could ever imagine.