#.modern (bikmui)

[bikmui]

.they say there are worlds; dare i dream in another? | @unforgottcn

It must be the middle of the night when they wake, because the fluorescent light aches behind their eyes and they wrinkle their nose at the faint stench of sick before realising it is they that stinks of it and the knowledge almost makes them retch all over again.

They turn. Look back at the darkened room and that is where they find him - livid, but in that quiet-but-angry way that they know something is boiling under his skin. It's something in the way he looks at them, all mad-and-disappointed. A single look manages to chastise them better than any lecture (or "lecture") they've ever been given by the man that calls them a daughter.

In any other circumstance, it'd be hot, they think.

Yeah. They could look back at those eyes forever and ever and ever; get lost in how he looks at them, even if it's with that absolutely withering glare that makes them think he might kill them. That'd be hot, too.

And the way Yone's footsteps resound in the hollow hallway reverberate somewhere deep inside them; like he's found some kind of resonance, the kind that chimes with the scared little thing they only knew they had when they were a child. Like he'd reach inside them and pull out their beating, living heart, except they wouldn't be alive, then. Except they would die, well and truly, and not simply of the embarrassment.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Bikmui blinks. It isn't what they expect at all. Their body acts on instinct; shies away from the loudness and the horror and the expectation (they know, inside, that he would never. But the body is a funny thing, reacting to things it knows won't happen, the way their face always heats up a little when he walks past, the way they want to hold him and hold him and hold him and hold him) (they want to hold him so fucking bad, just once, just let them tell him the one time and they'll let it wither away, they promise).

There is horror in Yone's eyes, too, when they finally look back at him. He looks caught. Like he's on some prank show. Like he's on a precipice somewhere, high above the world and they are offering him the easy way out. And the realisation is as awful as the feeling of hiding; makes them want to scratch at it under their skin until it bleeds out and maybe offer it as penance. A sacrifice, if it'll please him.

"I don't- I didn't-" he looks two decades aged when he runs a hand over his face. Like he's speedrun past middle age and doesn't know what to do with himself except lie and wait to die.

It makes them want to die, too.

"...It's fine," they say quietly, if only it'll stop him from looking at them like that. If only he'll stop making their stomach feel queasy in the way that isn't alcohol and whatever is making their head feel all funny. They draw their knees up to their chest and look up at him with a pout, as if they aren't feeling dazed and funny. Like their arms don't feel like jelly.

He looks at them with that expression again, and they want to crawl inside themselves.

"No, it isn't fine." His voice is flat. Dark. They think they could die of consumption or attrition or one of those painful old timey diseases with funny names. "You don't even know how you got here, do you."

It isn't a question. They open their mouth to protest the accusation, but it isn't an accusation and it isn't a question and they just gape. Blink. Look down at their knees and nod quietly like a thoroughly chastised child.

Yone says something and they know they should be listening, but the blood is rushing to their head and it's loud and there's something about the way he looks, face all red and not at all how they expected him to look that makes a sob well up from deep under their chest. The thing inside them that wants to cry, starts to cry, but he doesn't let up. Not until he's run out of steam and his chest is heaving and they can't hear him over the someone who's crying who isn't them.

(It is them, they realise with a start).

"Yeah? Well you can't just run around and tell me what to do like you're my goddamn father, Yone. You can't- You can't- You-" and the bravery fizzles as quickly as it had appeared, born out of defiance and only as much air as they can hold in their lungs because they're blubbering again and they know they shouldn't. Fuck him for yelling at them, what the fuck! They're a fucking adult and they can damn well do as they please!

"Don't you understand? I was fucking worried!"

Oh.

Somehow that cuts through all the thoughts; all the 'fuck you's and all the 'damn you to hell's and all the 'I'm a fucking adult stop treating me like a kid (I want to kiss you, why won't you look at me the way I want you to)'s.

They're a lost child when they look at him again, eyes all red-rimmed and puffy and they know it'll be a hell lot of cucumbers to make the swelling go down. But they look at him. Really, really look at him and that's when they notice the way his brows furrow and there's something that looks like tears in the corners of his eyes and he's shaking the way a man yelling at someone who's more than a little drunk shouldn't be.

Oh.

"'m sorry," they mumble into their knees, afraid that they'll cry if they look at him looking like that. Like he might shatter if they move from where they are. Like he might shatter if they reach out and touch him, because they're fine (they think), and they know he just wants to protect them.

(He's always protected them, they think. Even when they were just a little doll for their mother to dress in pink and even when they grew up and skidded their knees and chased horses in the paddock to see if they'd fight back).

"You think you're so fucking untouchable, but what the fuck do you think will happen when some bastard gets their hands on you?" And Yone's chest is heaving and his breaths are distressingly quick and they know the feeling because they were there just moments ago and something primal inside them can't stand to see him like that, because their legs are all jelly but they still manage to reach over and hold his hand.

Yone's hand is oh so gentle on their cheek, rubbing familiar little circles on their cheek like they're still kids and like they're still crying (they still are, they realise with a hiccup. But that doesn't matter because Yone is crying and they can't stand to see him like that).

Suddenly, he leans over them, then against them, sagging like all his strings have been cut and it's alarming for more reasons than the mere fact he is both taller and bigger than they. He's always been untouchable; the one to stand between them and the world and here he is, sobbing into their shoulder because they fucked up and they can't comprehend what they fucked up.

The other, more immediate reason is because their legs won't obey them and they think they feel their tailbone crack when they fall into an ungainly heap of limbs and snot and tears. But it's more comfortable like this, because they can run their fingers through his hair and kiss the top of his head and his arms wrap around them, holding them close, and they don't understand why, but it's warm and they've always wanted this - always, always, always - just... not like this.

(They are reminded, rather rudely, that they definitely stink of alcohol and vomit).

"Can you... tell me what happened?"

"You don't remember?"

That much is obvious, but they bite their tongue. Shake their head instead. They think they've worked it out - from the drink and the way nothing really makes sense in their head, except the way they love him; have always loved him. Maybe that's what's keeping all their thoughts together, because they think (they know) that they could be sitting in their own sick, staring at the fluorescent lighting, and not even know.

(They realise, that was precisely what they'd been doing. They think they remember being hauled up over a shoulder. They don't remember who brought them here).

Yone sighs, and he ages two decades again. Maybe three, this time.

"Let's talk when you're sober."

"Okay," they say, because their thoughts are fleeting, except the one that urges them to keep touching him. His hair feels nice under their hands - they hadn't really noticed how long it'd gotten before, and he's warm and solid under their hands, too.

They rest their head against his shoulder, feeling soft and boneless. But he's warm and he's safe and he'd stopped crying at some point. That's good. It aches something terrible when he's upset. Almost as much as it aches when they see him with his girlfriend, except they know she's probably better for him anyway, and they know they should lock up their love for him all neat and tidy.

They were never all that good at neat and tidy.

~~~

When they wake up, the sunlight is golden against Yone's skin and they smell suspiciously nice (like that cologne he likes - the one that smells like pines and something deep they don't know the name of). They're pressed against something warm. Something that breathes deep and that's when they dare lift their eyes and oh. He's so lovely. Doesn't he know how lovely he is?

Of course he does, but it's unfair that they're not allowed to tell him too! That he looks so beautiful - he's beautiful in the golden dawnlight, and he's beautiful when the sun is up high and he's even beautiful under unflattering fluorescent lights, when he cries because they did something stupid.

And maybe it's the alcohol that makes them stupid, because they lean forward and kiss his temple (somewhere safe, so that even if he wakes-)

Yone wakes and their heart feels like it's stopped.

Except he just smiles and the arm wrapped oh so comfortably around them pulls them closer and they can't help but breathe in deep. He smells so good. He smells like home, and love, and all of those sappy, soppy feelings that keep leaking between their fingers whenever they try to catch them and stop them from leaking everywhere.

Because they're leaking now. They're definitely leaking now, when they want it to stop, because they let themselves kiss him and it was just a chaste, little thing, like they're kids again, except they want to kiss him again and again and again and they're not allowed to.

Because he loves someone else and they can't even bring themselves to call her a bitch when they're crying.

"Oh Bikmui..." he hushes them gently wipes the tears from their cheeks with practiced kindness. Practiced. They remind themselves, he has always taken care of him, even when they were dumb kids who dared each other to run across a river and see if they'd slip (okay - they were the one doing the daring. And Yone was the one holding out his hand in case they slipped).

It means nothing to him, they tell themselves, and the soft little feeling inside them withers a little.

"What's wrong?"

They shake their head and keep their lips stubbornly pressed shut, because if they let themselves cry, that little lockbox they carefully poured every little bit of affection into will overflow and they've already cried once in front of him and they really can't do it again.

His hand is so warm on their cheek that their eyes close and they lean into the feeling. Somehow, it warms them deep inside, like hot tea on a cold night, except it's morning and he's beautiful with the morning light in his hair and that gentle look on his face like he would piece each part of them together with gold and glue and love them forever.

It's just delusion, they know.

It's just a fantasy.

"Please? Let me help?"

Their face crumples and they really need to get out of the habit of crying in front of him because they hate how they look, and they hate how Yone looks at them after, like they're fragile and he's picking up the pieces. They don't want to be shattered in front of him! They want to be strong! They want to be untouchable, so he'll never know the gross squirmy little butterflies inside them and the warmth that he alone lights and the want, the want, the want.

The want to ruin him. They want to be ruined. The want to love him and hold him so gently that he'll never shatter like them. They want to watch as every piece of him shatters; each soft shard for them to pick up and love and examine; put him together because he's perfect and tell him they love him, whether he's shattered or not.

"You can't." Their voice breaks at the finish line and they press their face, gross with tears and snot and feelings, against him because at least he can't look at them like this. Or, at least they can't see him looking at them.

His hands card through their hair like theirs had, last night. Plucks apart the braid he must have put their hair in, and gently plaits it again as they quietly cry into his shirt. Yone's voice is a gentle hum, a soft tune that they've memorised by heart because it's the song they wrote together when they were younger and they thought they'd conquer the world together, before his stupid girlfriend and their stupid whoring and they think they know what happened (bits and pieces come back to them; a fragmented shadow puppet show).

"That's never stopped me before. Can you tell me, please?" They taste the sick rising up their throat, not because they're sick, and not because he's offering, but because they've made him worry again. They can't do anything right, can they? They couldn't love him right and now they can't even keep away right.

"You'll hate me." Their voice becomes pitchy. Breathless. Desperate.

"I could never hate you."

They shake their head. He'll hate them if they say it, he just doesn't know it yet, because he doesn't know about the locked box inside them, where they pour every little bit of devotion. Every little touch, every little memory, every time he's ever looked at them or laughed at them or spoke to them. They looked at him a little too long yesterday, and they know because they've committed it to memory - the devastating way he looked right before he cried, and the way their heart broke in the aftermath.

"But I love you," they admit, defeated, and it's so soft they aren't even sure they said it. It's even more devastating, set out in the open.

There is silence in the aftermath and they know they've fucked up because he's gone quiet like he's angry at them and he should be angry at them, because he has a girlfriend and they've been sleeping around trying to forget him and they fought yesterday and it's still raw, even though they don't really remember yesterday. And their heart aches and they squirm from him before he can yell at them again, because everything aches, but especially their heart, and they'd like to cut it out now, please and thank you very much. Even a butter knife will do.

Except he doesn't yell at them or push them away. He's pulling them closer, actually, and there's that breathless laugh that they love to hear, but they don't understand how or why, because they said that thing they shouldn't say and he didn't get mad at them.

"Oh... you're a dumbass, you know?"

"I know." It hurts. Why can't he just let them go? Of course he's laughing at them, it's such a stupid thing to do, to fall in love and to admit it after putting everything into that stupid little box inside of them. It aches so deep they think they'll never be rid of it. Isn't that why they started?

"No, you- oh, honey," he says, and his hand is on their cheek and he won't let them look away, except his cheeks are all red and there's a grin on his face and they don't understa-

Yone's lips are soft.

Yone's lips are soft and he smells like watermelon chapstick and they want to know what he tastes like, too, except the kiss ends as abruptly as it began and they just stare at him like they've really lost all their brain cells. And he laughs in that breathless, endeared way that makes their chest go all warm and fuzzy and they'd be disgusted, except he kissed them.

He kissed them.

He kissed them.

What the fuck.

"What the fuck."

And he laughs. Laughs! And it's unfair because he sounds so good when he laughs, like, bells or something, they don't know! He just sounds so happy and they want to soak in it; hope they'll always feel like that so they can get high on the second hand joy that seeps deep into them, all warm and honey-like.

And he's kissing them again, soft lips and soft breaths and they still don't really understand and maybe they're asleep but they're not a kid anymore and they don't really get why they're dreaming of this again and they think that, at the very least, they deserve to dream of his hand going lower. You know. If they're going to be delusional and everything.

His forehead is hard against theirs and his hands are warm against their cheek and he feels real, so they cautiously reach out and put a hand on his shirt, like it'll somehow make him more real. More physical. Less the thing that makes them all breathless and unreal, you know?

And they're unmoored because he kissed them and he held them and they don't know how they're going to be normal after that. How do you live your life, knowing that the person you've always adored finally fucking kissed you, easy as fucking that, and now you'll have to go and live knowing he has his stupid girlfriend to go home to and you'd rather stare at fluorescent lights like they're the fucking moon, maybe jump off the fucking moon, even, because he's broken something inside of you that might have been sacred if you were younger, but now it just aches and aches and aches and he touched it and it aches.

The heels of their palm dig viciously against their eyes because maybe if they gouge them out, they can't cry anymore. Maybe they'll finally be drained and he'll let them go and they'll be fine.

Except his hands are that familiar kind-gentle-warm as he plucks their hands from their face and he's kissing them again and they really don't understand where he gets off being such a dick because they finally opened that stupid lockbox of theirs and he's just laughing at them, like, really.

Finally brave, they snarl, all wild and cornered as they push him back, and that dazed-happy-soft look in his eyes goes all shocked and they don't understand because it's fucking unfair, the way he looks at them like that. They want to lick whatever wound they've inflicted and they want to apologise and they want to tell him, they didn't mean it, except if they do that, he might keep kissing them and then there really will be nothing left of them.

"Oh baby love," he sighs; holds them like they're not pinning him down with shaking hand and the feral wildness of self-preservation. "I've always loved you."

The world shatters, except not the way it shatters on television when someone throws something at the screen. It shatters the way someone shatters glass for a mosaic - all careful and precise and they might be a mosaic, because he's breaking them but those long, lovely fingers of his are putting them back together all gentle and precise.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

Their face heats.

"Again."

"I love you."

He's looking at them, all fond and warm and soft and all those things they've denied themselves because they don't deserve them. They ran off with a thousand men and a thousand women and he found some perfect girlfriend for himself and now he's here, holding their hip, drawing familiar little circles like they're kids and they've done something stupid again.

And he's here, and he's looking at them like that, and they want to cry.

"Again."

They bury their face in the crook of his shoulder because then, at least, they won't have to acknowledge how red their face is and the way the blood is rushing to their face so hard they can hear it in their ears.

"I'll tell you as many times as you want. I love you."

And his hand is a familiar, gentle weight on the back of their head, and their tears burn bright and hot on their face, and he's holding them like they're the most precious thing in the world. Like they're made of the first dew on a spring petal; like they're the sweetest cup of ambrosia; like they'll whisper away if he holds them too rough.

(Maybe they will, just up and die just like that because there's no way he means any of it. No way at all, because he still has a girlfriend and they've loved him forever and he can't understand just how much they've always wanted him to just see them, all bright and sunny the way he looks) (except then he looks at them with that terribly fond smile that seems to be a recurring theme today and their heart lets them think that maybe, just maybe, they'll get a chance after all) (fuck her anyway).

"Since when?" And it sounds more accusatory than they mean, but less than they feel, because he let them drown. He let them drown and drown and drown and drown and drown and never said a damned thing because he's stupid and he's silly and he's their's and they want to kiss him as much as they want to punch him right now (they would never, but the though eases their racing mind just a little).

"Since forever. Since we were kids. Since that promise. Since before then."

Stupid, stupid, stupid Yone! Their hand is a floppy, half-hearted punch to his shoulder and they don't bother to look up because they'll cry because he went and found a girlfriend and let them drown and never bothered to ask!

"You're stupid," they say, between sniffles and long, ugly sniffs to keep the snot from ruining his shirt any more.

"I know," he says.

"Really, really stupid," they insist.

"I know," he says, softer. His hand is a comfort against the back of their head and they find themselves whining because they've missed this. They've missed him. They've missed the nearness and the touching and the not being scared that he'll get tired of them.

They've missed the not being scared he'll one day look at them the way everyone else looks at them - stupid and used and better off dead.

But when they find the bravery to look at him, his face is all soft and fond and they can see all the squishy, warm feelings inside him because he's left them all on his face for everyone to see. Except no one else can see, because dawn's just breaking and they're alone in his room and this is the face that he makes, just for them.

And it's just for them.

"Say it again," they say softly, finally dragging themselves up by the forearms to breathe against his lips and look into his eyes. They feel him dragging them down beneath him and they let him, because they'd be soft and pliant for him, forever and ever and they'd never make him ask. They'd be marshmallows and honey and warm, sweet tea, forever and ever if only he'd stay. Oh, please stay.

"I love you, sweet love," he sighs against their lips. He doesn't smell like watermelon chapstick this time, and it's somehow better, because it's all just him, him, him, and everything they've ever, ever wanted. And maybe it should be more gross than it feels, because neither have brushed their teeth, but some part of them thinks they could do this forever.

Some part of them knows.

"You're still really stupid," they announce, as they lay beneath the warm blanket and his warm weight. "But you love me, so maybe you're a little less stupid."

He laughs, all soft and fond and warm and the squishy, gross feelings don't force themselves into that lockbox inside them (the lock's smashed open, anyway) and it doesn't feel like dying every time they look at him and it doesn't feel like dying every time they hear his breathy laugh and it doesn't feel like dying, where he's holding their hand.

It doesn't feel like dying.

"We still have to talk," they say, brows knitting all dramatic, because they can be an adult, too.

"About last night?"

"And other things."

"And other things," he agrees, all too reasonably.

"And you can't be stupid again."

"Okay, baby love," he says, and kisses them again.

[shuoshuzhe-a]

[ @bikmui​ / sc. ft. NAKAMURA ATSUKI ]

            he hated autumn...the falling leaves that decorated the path reminded him of those days. he hated summer....the bright sun reminded him of his smile. god, he hated a lot of things, doesn’t he ?? he could barely put off the look of loneliness that crosses his face as he’s staring out the window. in a daze, atsuki stares into the far distance, he doesn’t hear people approaching until the wood creaks heavily beneath people’s steps and he snaps from his reverie.            a smile that barely reaches, “ welcome, ” he greets, gesturing for them to take a seat as he straightens from his slouched position.

[dishengs]

[ seduce ] (face or wrist or smthing flirty)

nonverbal memes // @bikmui

PEOPLE HELD DESIRES, and for men, particularly, some were more transparent than others. Wei Wuxian, in particular, feels nearly half-dead, because, in his heart, there are no desires to be satiated, no goals to achieve, and with that, came the doubtfulness of whether he was alive or dead. A man who is living on borrowed time, waiting for days to tick by and his own light fading out gradually like a dying flame. There are days he convinces himself that he is actually waiting for an opportunity, but then he is reminded somehow, that that opportunity would never come. He was waiting for a person that had taken part of him with him and now he is unable to move on.

Until this particular young man whom he’d picked up on a case, seems to be stepping on thin ice since the first day they met. His eyes watching carefully at the gradual moving of fingers up his arms while simultaneously feeling a foot caressing his leg underneath the sheets. It has been years since Wei Wuxian lived alone, and he has no heart to ask his guest to sleep outside, so he had invited him to sleep on the same bed with him, but he has no intention to do anything other than…. sleep.

❝Talon.❞ the word slips out of his tongue like a whiff of smoke, ❝You are really different from me.❞ In other words, he meant: I have already given my heart to another. And even if those words should have hurt Talon’s pride more than his own, he could not help feeling a sense of sorrow swelling from his chest, a pain he’s come to grow numb to. But as often as Talon tends to flirt and seduce him, Wei Wuxian could not deny he’s gotten used to having someone by his side as he wallows in pointless self-pity. A companion that enjoyed drinking as much as he did, he sits up, blankets falling off his chest. ❝I want to drink.❞     

[eboyezreal]

♦ Ｓｏｎｇ - ＵＲＬ - ｍｅｍｅ ♦

RULES: spell out your url with song titles, and then tag 10 people

E - evil boy / Die Antwoord (nsfw warning? my fav group. very alt rap)

B - Beachboy / Mccafferty (i fkin lov mccaff. alt rock. Modern ez vibes!)

O - one kind of people / Amigo the Devil (banjo. country ish??)

Y - youre a hooligan / DJ paul elstak (hardcore. guilty pleasure)

E - excptionally unexceptional / Mccafferty  (moar mccaff)

Z - ziggy stardust / David Bowie (i always liked bowie. alt pop)

R - redrum - FREDDIE DREDD (freddie is all kinds of special. alt rap)

E - every baby needs a da da daddy - Marilyn Monroe (stan a queen)

A - amour plastique / VIDEOCLUB (french! aesthetic-- i LOVE this. More ez vibes)

L - love taste / Moe Shop (jap alt rap. i love moe shop smh)

EXTRA! - love taste remix / pure gem (plz dont bully me, Nagatoro. weebs) 

tagged by: @chronodriven & @hedonisticheartbreaker (ty but also fk u)

tagging: @heart-ofstones @death-from-below @bikmui @executingegotist and whoever else wants to do it

[bikmui]

.on the virtues of seeking; a treatise on the sought | @unforgottcn

Rain and neon lights blink when a bone-soaked revenant makes its way, beneath golden chandeliers and bright electric lighting to a door. Along a bright corridor, gold and ceramic and the dark green of a fern bear solemn witness as the ghoul raises its hand and knocks.

And there is a moment of silence, then. The silence echoes; becomes the space between himself and the door; until finally, a click, and eyes peer round the heavy door.

Their feet are bare on cold wood and there are shadows beneath red eyes - but such mortal concerns seem to evaporate as recognition blooms; bright and vibrant and glad; as they leap towards the figure, backlit and darkened. Their front soaks with the rain; with the sopping shade in their arms; but they weep nonetheless, and between each shuddering breath and gladdened sigh, a whisper of a name:

"Yone," they breathe again, plucking soaked hair from his face, each hair a layer peeled back to reveal exhaustion; bone-deep; soul-chilled, and they almost cry again.

Almost.

Their fingers on his wrist are gentle, yet insistent, as they usher him inside. He is most certainly dripping onto their lovely wooden flooring as they pull him to the bathroom; find a stool; and seat him there as though a sick child. The floor can wait (they kick a rag that way as they find towels and blankets and something warm to hold), but never have they seen a man soaked down to the soul; soaked and haunted, and not simply in the rain.

And haunted eyes watch them - watch as they peel each layer from him; watch as they turn on the water and wait for it to come to temperature; watch as they throw his clothes into the wash and watch as they fuss over him are haunted. Haunted. A shade; a revenant.

The returned and the returning.

Their hands are gentle as the washcloth passes over his skin; and gentler still as they cup his face and wipe the sick from his face, too. Gentle too is the towel as they dry him down - warmer, now, though they cannot comment on what lays within.

(And were it any other day, perhaps their heart might have soared a little if they were to lean down; smell their shampoo on him and know he was theirs to love; theirs to care for).

But this is not any other day; and as the suds give way to the whine of a hairdryer; his clothes in the dryer; they cannot help but ache. Ache, that he is here, yet not. Ache, that he had sought them, yet not.

Pulling a warm, dry shirt over his head does not cure the ache, but it does soothe the sting a little. Knowing that he is breathing; that he is within reach.

Knowing that he is here. Knowing that he is alive.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything your size, Yone," they say softly, gentle smile and gentle hands, lest they breathe too hard and shatter the fragile man in their hands. Who knew ghosts were so liable to simply shatter? A billion fragments their hands could never piece back together. "But let's go shopping tomorrow, pick out some stuff for you, okay?"

They tuck his hair behind his ear, lead him to the bedroom once he's had something to eat; something to settle the stomach. And there is chilled cucumber water if he wants; and painkillers for later; and their heart sobs again as they pull the sheets over his still body; lean over to kiss his forehead and promise - in a whisper; to themselves; to never leave him.

The night settles deep; dark; rain-soaked and bone-chilled, but they lean their head upon their arm; watch as the revenant falls asleep, and softly; oh so softly; falls in love again.

[ncumenia-archived]

The one the only @bikmui

SEND A URL AND I WILL ANSWER THE FOLLOWING || Still accepting

Do I Follow Them?:  Yup! ♥

Why Did I Follow Them?:  I like both your aesthetic and how much effort you put to all your muses, especially ES!

Do We Role Play?: Sometimes!

Do I Want To Role Play With Them: Anytime you wish!

An AU Idea For Our Muses: A modern!au maybe?

A Song For Our Muses: I don’t know to be honest since my muse barely know yours (And also because I suck at picking a song for two or more muses)

Do I Ship Our Muses?: Nope

What I Think About The Mun: To be honest I don’t know you that well, but I love the aesthetic/musing of your blog, and it’s always pleasing to see on my dash. Not to mention your drawings, which I love! ♥

Overall Opinion: Awesome portrayal of the muse and kudos to the mun who has good tastes both as regards the whole blog’s aesthetic and writing style

Blog Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 |

[bikmui]

They laughed, gesturing; browing a kiss to their companion as his finger entangled with theirs, for they were not above a little tease (or indeed, something more than a little), though they would humour his discretion for now. (For they would have kissed him right there - or something even more - if only he would let them). What a shame indeed, that his eyes were on those bystanders and not solely upon them.

"I can think of something else I'd rather taste. A few other things, in fact." Their eyes wandered - he was a pretty man of course, but there were other things which drew their attention too, though they remained miffed that he would not shamelessly indulge right then and there. "But I'll settle for a G and T in the meanwhile."

They brought the hand entwined with his to their cheek with a sly smile and a wink. "I'll even let you take the first sip. Share a little... taste with me, hm?"

Too often, people were brazen enough to start flirts and too shy to finish them, like they had not expected to get as far as they had.  Their flustered stuttering was adorable, but this was a little better, someone confident, who knew what they were doing.

“Oh, I agree,” Simon said.  “Sight may be important, but you’re not really getting the most out of any one experience unless all your senses are engaged.”  He reached for their hand, hooking his index finger around their pinky, only the loosest of holds but a clear sign that he would not mind getting tangled up with them in a bit.

“Taste, for instance.”  The floor plan of the restaurant was very open, allowing for little privacy, so they had to play things a little coy for the time being.  Not that he expected his present company would mind.  “Have you had the drinks here yet?  And regardless of your answer, could I get you one?”

[modestmuses-a]

@bikmui​ | continued from here

Viktor presses the knife against their throat further.  It still isn’t enough to cut them, but the threat is there, the warning that he can and will do it if he is pressed another inch.  The other’s playful tone fills him with rage, even more than he already walked in here with.

“Shut up.  Keep your hands to yourself,” he warns, and it has more than one meaning.  He declines Ao Bimei’s sexual advances, but he also knows how much control they have over the city, and he knows that it isn’t a coincidence that one of Lackadaisy’s suppliers fell off the map.  With their influence, he can’t imagine they didn’t know what kind of impact their actions were going to have.

Mitzi would definitely not want him confronting this problem on his own, but that is something for him to deal with later.

“No more games.”  He snarls, all of his teeth bared.  “You know what you did.  Fix it.”

[mothticia]

❛  don't you stand there watching me, won't you? ❜ .modern noodle for kayn -@bikmui

Green eyes force themselves away from his touchscreen cell; a timid yet toothy grin spreads across Heartsteel's very own Shieda Kayn. The musician felt his eyes widen a bit; rosy red covering his nose and cheeks. The winter air is crisp and cooling 'pon his skin, but even so, he feels like he's burning alive.

" Sorry, I don't normally do this, " Despite being used to eyes upon himself, he had forgotten how uncomfortable it must be to others not quite used to the limelight. Even so, he approached them with a suggestive swing of the hips. Another grin graces his features and a catlike smile curling the corners of his rose petal lips. " but you're just so attractive, might I get your name? I'm sorry for staring, it was rude of me. " Kayn is so obviously infatuated, it's a mystery how he can keep calm despite possibly seen as a threat. " I won't watch anymore, if you want. " And dark eyebrows slowly knit together as he shrugs. " Just say the word, and I'll leave. Either way, I'll be on your mind. I guarantee it. "

[bikmui]

.noodle + himbofication kink. they're just a pretty, head empty little slut <3

[bikmui]

There's something that gets caught inside them when he takes their hand. Something that feels all warm and lovely and they think it might be the alcohol but they know it probably isn't, because Yone's holding their hand and they want to cry. Where's his girlfriend? Should they pretend to be less of a slut? Pretend like they haven't been making eyes at him since they were old enough to know what liking someone was?

Pretend like that didn't probably fall in love with him when they were children and he'd kissed them in the playground? That soft, tiny, chaste thing that they wouldn't really call a kiss, except that they were kids then.

They want to kiss him. Again and again and again and again.

Yone's voice is a shock through their fuzzy warm thoughts. They flinch - bite their lip and hope he doesn't notice, because they've been yelled at enough that the nerves are still raw and they're really not in the mood to be yelled at again and they'd always thought that he would understand, you know? Even if he didn't understand, they'd always thought he'd try.

Their eyes are wide and maybe it's the alcohol because for a moment, everything goes quiet except for their heart and their blood in their heart and the way they're hyperventilating, trying not to cry because how does he know? How does he know where the raw, bruised edges of their nerves are, and why does he grind his words into them anyway?

Fat teardrops fall from their face and they don't even realise except for the wetness on their hand and the way Yone goes all blurry and they're trying, really, really trying, because if they just suck in enough air maybe they'll stop hyperventilating and maybe they'll stop crying and maybe they can pretend this never happened at all. But it's Yone, and he said it, and the hurt makes their chest constrict even more and the air won't come so they cry.

"What the fuck, Yone?" Their voice is all wet and pathetic and they hate it. They hate crying in front of him because obviously, he'd hate it, they definitely look like a mess and maybe their secrets will all spill now and he'll cut the heart from them, beating and red and warm and in love, and then they'll really have nothing left.

They jerk their arm away, desperate to wipe away the tears, and they're trying, they're trying, the tears won't fucking stop. Fuck.

The cup clatters, hollow and plastic like them, and they kneel on the floor, crying like they're a kid and Yone is running to find them some bandaids. Except Yone is the one who made them cry and they don't think he's ever made them cry before. He's always been perfect in their head, the one who would always have a kind smile and a hand ready for them to hold and instead he's calling them a stupid, vacuous slut (in different words) and they know it's true because that's what they call themselves, you know?

When it's midnight and they're drinking because they're bored and it'll take the edge of off every little pain, they know. They'll call his stupid girlfriend a whore, but they're no better.

And it's like that, that they know, all of their secrets can't ever be spilt. He can't ever know, not about the boys (or girls - they're not picky) and not about the pills and not about the bruises, in their heart or elsewhere.

The shadows cast by the shitty outdoor lights look long, and they think they see a monster with gnashing teeth staring at them in the shadows. They wish they did, because they'd let it rip them apart right here and now and Yone would never know any of their secrets, and at least he could remember them as a stupid slut and not any of their other mistakes.

Not any of their other secrets would need to spill.

But there is no demon dog that will save them from the scrutiny, and their legs are jelly, and the cup has rolled away somewhere, and they are hollow, and their tears. Won't. Fucking. Stop.

"Don't look at me," they sniffle. He's mad at them, they know, and they don't ever look cute when they're crying. At least let them be cute while they're fighting! God is such a bitch for this. Their voice sounds every bit as miserable as they feel but they take a deep breath and muster every piece of them that they can find; put themselves together. Just for a few seconds.

"Just... Just leave me alone..."

@bikmui from here.

Yone watches them move across the room in some loser (Jake, of all people's) house; aloof expression resting upon otherwise ghostly gaunt cheeks. He bites his bottom lip piercing, stares dumbfounded- unaware of how stupid he feels until he's chasing his embarrassment with a shot of liquor. He stands there for a second as they leave; where their presence no longer lingers. The further they get, the more his throat closes up- swells up like he's going to die right then and there. He feels his eyes look around- feels stuck in place as the party moves on without him, not even paying no mind to his childhood friend trotting off like he wasn't about to cry. Yone doesn't ever get the chance to see the tears fall, because he's being forced to turn to face his older girlfriend- the one he had thought he loved. After all that younger drama happened when he moved away... After they grew up, and drifted apart in middle school- and thus, haven't been friends online since High School. Now was different, and Yone feels uncomfortable at the reminder of his girlfriend because once upon a time, Bikmui had been the one he so adored. Now she was leaving his arms for Jake- and god knows how much he hates him- the boy off Yone's sports team.

"What's up?" He momentarily looks to her, and listens carefully to the words that fall from rosy lips. She tells him her and Jake are going to the store, that they'll be buying more liquor before the store closes. Be back soon, she lies.

And that hurts him, but makes sure he doesn't acknowledge the way she looks at their former classmate a little too long. He forces dark russet eyes away to where Bikmui had been- and now some random freshman is waiting for their chance to shine. He simply ignores the ache in his chest- ignores the boy drunkenly singing to him right now- knowing deep down he will never be enough. No pretty voice would help that. If not for Bikmui- and not for this older woman in his college class, than... Yone fears he would never be enough. Had spent so long trying to fill the void in his own heart- now left in fractured state. The only remedy he had learned from Bikmui was this: alcohol.

Yone relied on validation- after all, you crave what you never get- and love is just that. A foreign object which sits in Yone's throat and threatens to spill on the floor to stain the carpet wine red. Even the burning of sapphire Bombay would hurt less than the feeling of guilt. Of envy, of every man who looked at them walking away.

By the time Yone starts to feel the anxiety slip through otherwise drunken state, he hesitates to look at them when he hears their shoes clack, and feels their presence in the room. They could make even the sun look away in fear of being seen. He can hear their voice- hears their cute giggle at some terrible joke for some nobody... and Yone snaps back to reality- finds himself moving towards the older guy grabbing onto their waist, gently knocks his hands off to replace him.

"Hey." He says calmly, but not before grabbing their hand, and dragging them gently outside. As soft as he can: so that if they desired and really wanted to- they could let go... they could let Yone go.

"What the hell, what do you think you are doing?" 'I was worried about you' but the man feels anger dust his cheeks in firey red.

"You made me look like a fool." He hisses as though it was the first time, and yeah, a little drunk. Regardless his brows forced together as he glares- the light catching his dark hair as he glares. "What's going on? Are you being stupid as a joke? It's not a cute look on you, Bikmui." when he knows damn well they could be asleep and still look so beautiful: without ever trying. But he's so mad- and it hurts his heart so bad to see what's become of them.

[bikmui]

❛   cook .   present  my  muse  with  home - cooked  food . ❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope . ❛   wrap .   wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s  [ shoulders  /  waist ] . ❛  shunt .   shove  my  muse  backwards . ;( ❛   surprise .   send  an  unexpected  nsfw  image  to  my  muse .

you know its from the boy!!!!!!!! -unforgottcn <3

.loud & deafening silence | @unforgottcn | accepting

❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope .

❛   wrap .   wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s  [ shoulders  /  waist ] .

Whoever convinced them that going to Jake-fucking-Johnson's party was a good idea had better look out for themselves tomorrow, because they're in a bad fucking mood and the shit goon is doing nothing to help.

They take another sip anyway. Glare at the blaring music and the half-naked bodies grinding downstairs.

That could've been them. That should've been them.

Guys wanted to fuck them, girls wanted to be them, and all is right in the world.

Yeah, they decide. All is right in the world. Tomorrow, they'll wake up with a shit fucking hangover and they'll 'forget' to do their homework and Yone will look at his stupid little girlfriend and hold hands or kiss or whatever barf-worthy thing they do and they...

...They'll find some pretty new boy to play with. Kiss him and whisper something stupid, and he'll believe that they're his. Maybe they'll shove him against the lockers by home time and make him regret thinking that.

They take another sip of their shitty goon and across the room, their eyes meet Yone's. They watch with mild distaste as he whispers something to that stupid eyecandy of his, and makes his way towards them.

Doesn't he know how much they ache? Maybe they're stupid. The really, really stupid kind, because they were kids when he'd kissed them, pinkies entwined, and honestly, it was stupid to pretend that a silly little promise like that meant anything; would mean anything, close to a decade later.

Of course it didn't mean anything, because he had gone and found some vapid little bitch to be his girlfriend and he'd never even looked at them like that, had he? They take another sip of their goon and wish it was something stronger. Jake-fucking-Johnson is a fucking cheapskate and they are suffering for it.

"Bikmui."

There's fingers around their wrist and a furrow between his brows and they want to scream. Stop looking at them like that! Stop looking at them like he can't tell that they're a stupid dirty fucking whore. Stop looking at them like the reason he doesn't love them isn't because there's nothing between their goddamn ears.

Isn't because they're dirty and used and a useless fucking whore.

They jerk their hand away and there is nothing in their cup. Nothing to drown into. Nothing to pretend they're busy with, because they'd drained their cup and now he's standing in front of them, making that face like he's worried about them and they want to just fucking shrink or run away or scream or something because he won't stop looking at them Like That and all their secrets will spill out and then he'll know and then he really won't like them the way they like him and-

Yone pulls them close, arm around their shoulder like nothing ever happened and like they don't hate his stupid little girlfriend and all their thoughts evaporate because he's close, he's close, he's right there and they want to kiss him. They want her to watch as they kiss him because he's theirs and she is nothing.

Isn't that right? they want to ask. He's only ever loved them, right?

"I heard you weren't well last week. I was a little worried."

And they want to scream, they want to scream, they want to scream because he's so fucking close and why is he allowed to go around saying these things like they aren't knives every time? Like they aren't bleeding; like every fucking word doesn't cut deeper and deeper because he doesn't love them, he doesn't love them, he couldn't love them.

They hate to admit it, but sometimes their father is right. That they're a stupid little slut.

They know it.

"Yeah?" They say instead. "I'm fine now."

It had been a couple of pills and they were fine. They were fixed.

And a couple more days, but you can't fix their father's rage when he gets like that.

Yone gives them a funny look and they can't decide if it's better or worse, and they really want that drink, even if it's more shit, cheapass goon, because at least they'll be doing something other than looking at his pretty lips and wondering if he'd kiss them back. At least they wouldn't be looking like some stupid, lovestruck fool, standing on their tip-toes and wishing they could bridge the space between their faces.

At least their secrets would be safe, then.

"You know... you know you can always tell me? If things aren't fine?"

They don't look at him.

They don't look at him, because if they look at him, they might cry, and then everything will spill out and they won't be able to take any of it back. They don't look at him, because every little secret that they hold close to their chest is another secret that isn't ammo against them. That won't make him disgusted with them.

Because even if he doesn't like them, he's still here and they can pretend.

Sometimes, they accidentally call the guys they fuck, Yone, and no one's ever told, but that's because they give real good head and a few bribes here and there have kept those stupid assholes from spilling. But they know, you know? They know, that Yone wouldn't be all mean like those idiots get sometimes.

It makes them ache, every time.

But he doesn't like them. He likes that stupid vapid little bitch who's calling him over like she shouldn't be grovelling and begging and thankful that he would even look at her.

They want to scream.

"Your girlfriend wants you," they say instead, all poison and acid and cheap goon. "I'm fine."

They don't turn to see if he's looking at them when they get some more.

[bikmui]

.and in the aftermath, an empire razed to the ground and in its place all that they could have dreamt of, what is it that they are most proud of?

[bikmui]

.@experthiese finds, amidst the glitter and shine

For all that their name bought, was something that they never could buy. Gems and silks and fine cars and more brought little more tha a smile when knowing the next was but another whim away, and knowing that all the world would kneel if they asked was little more than mere amusement.

And perhaps that was precisely why they had escaped, from the party and watchful eyes, to darkened night and sharp air.

"The party's inside, you know."

[bikmui]

And they were lovely, and they knew it - how else would they have commanded the attention of those by whose hand the world spun? Politicians, news spinners, established and aspiring stars, and even those who dreamt themselves 'The Next Big Thing' all had once craved their attentions; would have fallen to their feet to beg for but a glance. And disgraced as now they were (their fall so thoroughly documented then that they could almost feel the cameras upon them with each step), neither had they grown less lovely, nor more humble for it.

Besides, would they not steal it back, eventually? Orchestrate a fall so thoroughly humiliating that there would be nothing for those who once derided them as naught but a pretty face; a slut squandering both money and good graces; that thought they were fit more for the back alleys common folk must take, than the Champs Elysees which once they graced twice-monthly?

But those thoughts would come later; thoughts more suited to the dark embrace of the night and away from prying eyes which might then cut open their dreams for all to see. And wasn't he lovely too, the man before them then, flushed with the cold (and flushed as he would be later that day, if they were to have their way with him).

A fur-lined sleeve raised, they could not help but giggle at his words - how lovely indeed, yet so too did that pride of his shine through (and in all fairness, he would indeed live rent free in their mind, honeyed words or otherwise). But to reveal one's hand was to concede, if not defeat, then its first step, so instead as painted lips curled in a devious smile, they closed the space between them, and, with a hand upon his lips, kissed the back of their hand.

A teasing, tantalising gesture, for though he was lovely, so too were they. And they would never concede defeat in even its smallest, most innocuous, forms.

"I'll forgive you for staring," they said as they pulled back, and their smile was again wicked, "but only if you make good on that promise."

And with the ball in his court, they pulled away, yet not so far that he could not simply take their hand and pull them to some forsaken hotel and learn of them all there was to know, as indeed they hoped. And not so far that they would not feel his eyes upon them; appreciating their lovely body and lovelier face. For conceding ground, too, would be defeat and attention, they would never concede (and most certainly never from one so pretty).

They hummed, amused by his surprising demeanour.

"Only then will I tell you my name."

❛  don't you stand there watching me, won't you? ❜ .modern noodle for kayn -@bikmui

Green eyes force themselves away from his touchscreen cell; a timid yet toothy grin spreads across Heartsteel's very own Shieda Kayn. The musician felt his eyes widen a bit; rosy red covering his nose and cheeks. The winter air is crisp and cooling 'pon his skin, but even so, he feels like he's burning alive.

" Sorry, I don't normally do this, " Despite being used to eyes upon himself, he had forgotten how uncomfortable it must be to others not quite used to the limelight. Even so, he approached them with a suggestive swing of the hips. Another grin graces his features and a catlike smile curling the corners of his rose petal lips. " but you're just so attractive, might I get your name? I'm sorry for staring, it was rude of me. " Kayn is so obviously infatuated, it's a mystery how he can keep calm despite possibly seen as a threat. " I won't watch anymore, if you want. " And dark eyebrows slowly knit together as he shrugs. " Just say the word, and I'll leave. Either way, I'll be on your mind. I guarantee it. "

[bikmui]

.the perfect heir