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[tcphra-blog]

hyungwon:

hark! this is a tale of a toy soldier, carved from the wood of a forlorn oak tree. it grows solitary, roots outspread in every direction, seeking for something to grasp. and when our toy soldier suspires a babe’s breath, so does he thrust his charcoal stained fingers into the expanse to brush treen tips on whatever would let him. yea, he is found instead by a princess so compelling, his timber heart dared to beat in the crimson painted cavern he came to call a chest. duty chiselled into his constitution, with her pale, sylphlike appendages wrapped tightly around him, he promised not to splinter.

today our toy soldier fights forever more for a single cause.

like a rusted sword bayoneting through viscera, hyungwon takes every inch of her blade with resignation. she is inexorable; swathed in what is dusty pink and floral, the snow of her skin bare and the vicious curve of her lips reminiscent of the macabre. oh, as her perfectly sculpted chin meet with her bosom, did his soul cry out for redemption, for her body is a higher power, and he is so desperate to be saved.

though he had never set foot on a battlefield, it is with her our soldier is inevitably met with cannon fire.

he returns her request with a curt nod, too rigid in his doctrines to ever let them slip way. but not so, when it came to the intricacies of infatuation that consumes his composure. am i failing myself? the thought does dare to grace the forefront of his musings. to fall in love, is one thing but to fall in love with one’s employer… a territory so profound, it is only a matter of time before the varnish cracks, and our toy soldier is left scarred by the fragility of the human condition.

your areum? in many ways, i am yours. but are you truly mine?

“well then, my areum,” he pauses to savour the taste of the possessive and her name on his tongue, sweet as honeydew nectar. he would never tire from claiming her as his, even if it is a bittersweet fallacy. still, it’s a truth he clandestinely believed in. even when the time for her to be wed and become one’s other, she would still be his, as he would be hers. “i’m glad i’ve done something right by you.” the former blunder on his part still lingering in the recesses of his mind, he musters something close to a smile, the tilt of his lips ever so faint.

without hesitation to stop his limbs in their tracks, he moves his hand to connect with hers, gently taking it between thumb and calloused fingers. he’s almost embarrassed that a hand so soft should meet his own, rough and weathered from years of training. her skin seems to be threaded from the softest silk. he restrains himself from bringing it between his lips. instead he leads her along to the royal gardens, a trail of theirs most walked. his pace slows down into a promenade to accommodate his highness and soon he lends her the arch of his inner elbow, where he gently coaxes her arm to latch onto his.

“something seems strange, i feel as if you won’t be waiting any longer.” he reveals only so much as they are still in the confines of the open palace. areum fails not to be the cynosure of all eyes, Venus incarnate, thus, neither he or the rest of the world could take their eyes off of her. and so would the words that trickle from barely parted lips would be blown in the air like a papery leaf in the wind, into the ears of the unfavourable.

“i hear the peonies are starting to bloom, the brief sunshine has done us well.”

the japanese oft speak of their beloved kintsugi with the pride of their nation bursting from the chambers of their robust chest. the word details an art form presented cleverly in menial kitchenware, in which a potter is to dribble liquid gold between the cracks of dull clay to make what was once broken, now unbroken. no matter, the end result is both beautiful and profound in its stunning imagery. that is, through this do they justify the celebration of one’s flaws, that which is supposed to add flavour to one’s character.

her highness is quick to bring to mind a notable character, a princely suitor of japanese blood, gifted with a tongue to bring vitality to even the deadest of hearts and the handsomest jaw their nation has to offer. she remembers his elaborate presentation of one such artefact, passed from the delicate hands of a japanese handmaiden to that of her own, as he regaled her with the story of its origins, its significance, and finally, a bold request:

dear princess areum, will you not reveal yourself to me, to let me see past your perfection so i may be properly introduced to the woman beneath?

oh, the coy smile she had granted him in response is not unkind, for perhaps, it is this perfection he speaks of that turns even the bitterness of her smile into something pleasant. or perhaps, it is also this perfection that shields her wickedness from his gaze, that which includes the intelligence that pompous men often find unsightly on pretty damsels, that he would freely invite its attention, its terror.

for therein lies the fallacy in this art form. it is only made more beautiful when a substance of greater worth promises to replace its cracks. and is she not god’s greatest creation, that she would be made of the finest substance, that which is so divine, it has not yet been revealed to even man? is she not perfection, in its very essence, that no substance should exist, that which holds more value than the celestial strings woven to make up the material of her soul? for the art of kintsugi would not work if one were to fill its cracks with matter of lesser value, like the impracticality of metal staples, the duplicity of tungsten, or perhaps, the monstrosity of mutiny.

and there is no such thing as more perfect, is there? no, there is simply perfection, and then there is not.

and so, no prophet or prince could ever boast of breaking the illusion of her wondrous perfection, that which appears impenetrable to all.

( ah, but there is always the one, is there not? and oh, it is always the knight. )

here is he, raised in a family with no known title, a man who lives beneath the heel of nobility and raises it dutifully, so his master need not apply so much effort into lifting his slothful foot. it is him who has come so close to the princess, as to see the fine network of hairline cracks that sit beneath the smooth glaze of her face, that which appears to be made of fine china. it is him who has come so close to the princess, that whilst others who gaze upon her had failed to spot a fracture in her gait, he, in turn, would feel the sudden stiffening of her otherwise delicate fingers around the curve of his elbow, as sudden urgency fills her slow-beating heart in response to his veiled message.

( perhaps it is pride, that her station is so far above his own that she cared not of his opinion.

perhaps it is human nature, for even the greatest magician would struggle to maintain even the simplest of illusions for all of eternity.

or perhaps it is something deeper, something more dire. something quite unfathomable, indeed. for there must be a reason why it is always the knight, is there not? why it is always, always him. )

her falter lasts for only a fraction of a second, but the joyous mood that had once seized her judgement, that which had been brought about by the rarity of his wonderful smile and teasing timbre that surely enticed a reddish hue to sit upon the apple of her pretty cheeks, is lost forever. whatever fraction of a smile that had once made its home in her cherry lips has since vacated, as she instinctively shifts her person closer to his own in an act of deriving comfort.

“is that so?” the question is carelessly muttered in a way that makes obvious the location of her thoughts, that which is far, far away, “i fear i may not be able to revel in its beauty, given that i am often stolen by my own slumber.”

she leaves him then, and so elegant is her tread that it appears like a ballet, as she glides away from him and towards the red roses that vie for her affection. careful fingers caress its delicate petals, and she spontaneously leans forward to catch its floral scent. her actions, to others, may appear insignificant; but to those who know her well, they would know that should there be one thing her highness would partake in without investing so much as the briefest contemplation, then it is to sleep, and only because it has been forced upon her. for such is her mind, that it stubbornly fails to cease even in the short span of the small infinities of time that exists between each passing millisecond. ah, even now, it is plagued with the fear of coming so close to her goal, only for it to wash over her like droplets of rain falling from a worthy petal down to the undeserving soil.

( and areum has never been fond of red roses, has she? no, she has always passed them by with so much as a curt description of their terrible banality. if she is to admire blossoms, then she would much rather be in the audience of her favoured peonies, that which finds itself in her company so often, it has become the foundation of the princess’s natural scent. )

“should i miss the flowers in its full bloom, i do not think there is much to appreciate in wilted petals come winter,” she drawls ambiguously, as unblemished fingers graze dangerously over the thorns adorning a rose’s stem. what she means to say: though her uncle’s time is coming to an end, she fears, so is her own, and surely, there is little value in dying monarchs. here, careful fingers turn purposefully reckless, and so she pricks her thumb against the flower’s violent spike. a hiss slips through the gaps of her poorly gritted teeth, and she turns to show him the repercussions of her time spent without his most careful attention.

“how foolish,” she whispers, eyelashes fluttering as she shifts her gaze from the pad of her injured thumb, that which she has lifted to present to him, to the depths of his chocolate eyes, “will you help me?”

and just as her soul is haunted by incessant slumber, so are her palace walls marred by that of prying eyes and wagging tongues. if so, then perhaps there no other alternative to this, to demand a more private audience with her loyal knight, with him leaning closer, and closer still.

ADAGIO OF DECAY.

[tcphra-blog]

TRACKER 170318.

writing

@neurcxses​: minjun x hyemi ( university!au ), minjun x hyemi ( mutant!au )

@malvficvum​: areum x hyungwon ( cinderella phenomenon!au )

@xblackbirds​: hyejeong x yong ( fairytale!au )

@powertuffs​: junho x jungshin ( university!au )

@zanyara​: woojin x byeol ( university!au )

waiting

@spindleprick​: seongjae x nara ( slice of life!au )

@neurcxses​: cassian x hale ( hunger games!au ), hyunwoo x jiwon ( passengers!au )

plotting

Practically Everyone

i think... this is everyone so far?? im known to be forgetful, and i can’t shake the feeling i’ve forgotten someone, so please hmu if you realise it’s you!! i’d also like to apologise for how slow my replies are!! i’m sitting right in the middle of a huge assignment and the due date is fast approaching, so it’s likely my pace will be consistently slow until that’s done!! thank you so so much for your patience!! xo

[tcphra-blog]

im a sucker with a plot where muse a is in a band with his buddies and they’re making it pretty big right? they just bought a house for just the band, they have a new album coming out, just got back from tour, they have it all. except muse b. muse b is the long time best friend of the whole band that, while they were on tour and following their dreams, was going through school and working a job and doing regular young adult things. they keep in touch though because really muse b might as well be part of the band, knowing the rest of the members before it was really even created. and now, muse b has taken time off to come visit them! muse a can’t wait because they have literally always had the biggest heart eyes for muse b but they never really have found the right time to act on it. pls give me this with angst and long distance friendships and nervousness and love and arguing and pls!!!

[tcphra-blog]

hyungwon:

air desperate to infiltrate pale lungs, hyungwon’s fleshy temple did not know of rest. unceasingly screaming out in fervent anguish, it so desperately wants to fail him. to shut down to a stark nihility. however, cognisance struggles to rest on weakness. the male is a machine; he could do only as much as he feigned.

he is the great pretender, after all.

so here he is, heavy footfalls echoing murder throughout the palace halls, areum’s white knight with his heavy armour concealing his bloody turmoil. he arrives at her chamber door, sweeping a stray damp tendril into his neatly shaped coiffure. the guard stationed at her door betrays a glimpse of commiseration at this unusual gaffe. you’re always on time, the corners of his eyes seem to reveal. yet hyungwon let’s the irises roll over him like water over a drake’s feathers. he’s aware he’s a few minutes short of his station, time ever so evasive when he needs it not to be. but not being there as soon as she awakens only serves as another debacle on his very minute list of offences, a promise broken. he’ll make it up to her somehow, how could he not?

he had vowed to, before God.

heavy limbs rise in eternal wakefulness, his knuckles rapping firmly against wood, his heart singing back as if in song. seconds seep past, viscous like molasses, and finally the door opens to what is his princess still in the process of having opulent trappings envelop her frangible frame. she is still in her undergarments and hyungwon finds himself incapable of settling his dark orbs anywhere, aching desperately to devour her in his gaze, to reunite with her pulchritude once more. to sink himself in it.

he saunters in, opting to reconnoitre her quarters ( a safer alternative ) which in actuality is more of a habit. check for unnatural occurrences, the best way to discern a potential threat. he’s a paladin, an ancient enemy’s blood rusting his sword and heavy shield before he is a lover, so it is only natural that he finds palliation in routine. it is only when she addresses him, does he return his gaze to her and fold himself into a bow, perfunctory and precise.

“that you would have, your highness.” he agrees upon the straightening of his spine, without having to let the question marinate in his mental cavern of chaos. she is the only queen he would truly and wholeheartedly serve, the only woman worthy of ruling this kingdom. and oh, how she did rule over his every cell, every synapse, every chemical reaction in his being, evident in the way his heart beats like a poignant war song every time he nears her.

“you’re late.”

he’s taciturn, and void of any excuse suitable to be uttered into the air. it would only smoulder in a flame of insouciance formed by the supernovas in her eyes. he did well not to pique the princess, a plethora of experience under his belt, and so he parries and saves the riposte. his lips diverge, out comes a single, clear response of “my utmost apologies, your highness” and once again he forces his savage silhouette into another ninety degree bow, only this time his return is met with his princess’ own gaze. promptly suffocated by the sight, he could only wish she isn’t so riveting. his cool and frosty demeanour deliquesces, his corneas glimmering into her own with a soft warmth. he fails to stop them from venturing towards her lips, sanguine in hue and in his demise, lips that he once pilfered a chaste kiss from. he mourns the taste of her lips upon his, desire an anchor in his chest. even if the curse had siphoned her vibrancy, leaving her macilent and pale, she is still by far the most prepossessing being he has ever set his eyes on.

her fingertips leave ruin in their wake, even when they ghost away from his face there is an apparition of touch imprinted on the hollow of his cheek. why must you torture me so? his soul seems to yell within its prison but it is only the stony silence that perpetually assumes him, is what she gets in return.

her command is simple, succinct, but as if a commander had bellowed at the top of his ravaged lungs, hyungwon is quick to pivot on the spot and turn toward where she ambles. he walks a few paces behind her, adjusting to her pace. “i trust that you are well, your highness?” he asks, eyes burning into the back of her dress.

it is said that to hear the most riveting story of them all, you must first visit the desert sand come the hour of twilight. see, only then will you be gifted the opportunity to stumble upon wise men with heads lifted in awe, as blistered feet carry them, step by weary step, towards the gleam of the morning star.

offer water to their camels, perhaps some food to bring along their travels, and if you are lucky, they will regale you with the story of the girl who exists in colours not yet known to man.

they will tell you first that she is moulded by the hands of god himself, and certainly, they will also mention that like her mother, so is she god’s greatest creation, with shimmers of moonlight in her hair and lips that shame the red, red rose. she is divine, but so otherworldly was she, that she was often alone.

and so, while other royal children frolicked in a garden of vibrant green and sweetheart pink with not a care in mind, there did the child sit, in the scarlet heart of her ivory tower, as she balanced a paint brush between her pristine fingers. and with each careful stroke, so did she manipulate the vibrant greens and sweetheart pinks to give a painting that put the royal garden to shame.

behold, she who was made for more.

but alas, the child grew lonely without a companion, for though she was divine, she was still human, and so she possessed the poor qualities of human nature. there began her quest, in which she adopted a companion, wide-eyed and robust, and she locked him in this scarlet heart of hers and swallowed the key.

( this is not a story of a girl who fell in love. this is a story of a girl who was selfish, and the boy who let her. )

and so it became fated to be that here, they would exist, with his feet treading carefully, obediently along the trail left behind by her smaller footsteps. he is stiff, proper, with formalities spilling from his chiselled lips; and in turn, she twirls casually in her path, with dainty fingers expertly, elegantly sweeping the skirt of her pink ensemble aside.

“oh, please,” she rests her petite palm high above her décolletage, right above the scarlet heart in which he is held captive, as she graces him with a look that is pointed, almost nostalgic in the way that it is hardly shown since the genesis of her curse, “spare me the formalities, will you?”

she coyly tucks her chin towards her bosom, and on her lips rests a smile that is teasing, almost flirty in the way it deviously curls on one side. she comes to a complete halt then, as she waits for him to draw level with her person, and as he approaches, so too does her smile falter.

“i did not die, merely slept, and so i am still very much your areum,” this is said only when his person is a hair’s breadth away from hers, and her whisper is so quiet, it appears to only be capable of accommodating an audience of strictly two, “but yes, if you must ask: i am well, for you have made me so.”

another smile to replace the one she had left behind, this time genuine, lacking a secret. this smile is different, reserved only for him, her darling knight. she offers him a dainty hand.

“come, now. tell me what you have found out while i was carrying out my dreadful curse.”

ADAGIO OF DECAY.

[tcphra-blog]

pour up - dean ft zico

[tcphra-blog]

ADAGIO OF DECAY.

@malvficvum

perhaps she is a god.

for such is her strength, that the swaying motion of slim hands would steer the politics of man. that from her lips would come a still, small voice, whispered into the chill of the cold winter night, to breathe into life the prophesy of jongno’s next ruler. and such is her glare, that she only need stare into a sinner’s eyes for him to fall to his knees and confess, with lips brushing humbly against the regal ring she wears on her littlest finger.

hallelujah, they sigh in veneration as they watch the train of her sheer dress pull along the marble floor. amen, they repeat with palms held tightly together as words of wisdom tips from her pink tongue.

correction: perhaps she was once a god.

for now, they speak of her in vain; and so is her name balanced on the tip of man’s tongue as they mention her in passing. like her mother, she is reduced to nothing more than a porcelain statue, an insulting ideal, a conversational topic.

now, as she takes in the reflection of sunken cheeks and pale lips, she cannot deny this: she is positively and tragically human.

“i would’ve made a beautiful queen,” the whispered syllables of her words occupy the same breath as her wistful exhale, as a dainty finger critically traces the dip of her naked clavicle, in which missing constellations had once dwelled in sweet contentment. she glances at him then, first at his ineradicable reflection in her mirror, then again as she angles the tip of her small chin to catch him in her peripheral vision, “don’t you think?”

if not for her directed question, perhaps it would’ve been dubious as to whether she had ever noticed his entrance. but areum argues that she is cursed, not slow-witted, and so it would be uncharacteristic of her to have missed as big a cue as the presence of another.

( a presence like his. especially his. )

“you’re late.”

the way she advances towards the back of the folding screen is not unlike a gliding ghost, cursed to dwell on earth from having her heart shattered by a careless lover. from behind the screen, her servants fit a floral pink regalia over her silk slip. and so this is how she is presented to him, her knight: a shadow of her former self, but regardless, a vision to behold.

there is no flaw on her picturesque features, her slim nose; save, perhaps, the knitting of manicured brows as delicate fingers gently mould into the shape of his sturdy jaw. it is as though her extended slumber has caused her to miss the progression of his curse, and so, as she traces the tautness of his skin with solemn eyes, she absorbs its entirety with a sigh, the subtle shake of her head, and an unspoken question: how much more? how much longer for me?

oh, but she understands verbal concern and soft compliments only as tools of manipulation, so as quickly as her affection comes, so does it leave, with tender touch falling quickly from his skin and back to her side. gone is her uncharacteristic melancholia, and what supersedes is the gritting of teeth and a strengthened resolve.

“come.”

and so she exits, knowing, without an ounce of doubt, that he is soon to follow.

[tcphra-blog]

OLD WIVES’ TALE.

@neurcxses

once, there lived a man with liquid gold dripping from the tips of his fingers. he sat atop a glittering throne, and on his head was an ill-fitting crown. still, he declared himself king and he forced his rule over all, mayhap even the hands of fate.

this is a warning tale of how one should never challenge the great kismet.

see, the way the story goes is this: the man falls at the hands of those like him, every one greedy and desperate for his throne, every one reaching forth to pull back the hems of those above them. it is a race in which no one can win, a black hole in which one can only fall, but none can land.

in the end, an empty throne. around it, destruction, the evidence of greed.

and as for the man? why, here he stands, with an ugly scowl resting comfortably on his handsome features. to his adversaries, he pays them an enraged stare.

( oh, perhaps they’d teeter away and be reduced to whispers on earth. but here, there is no room for fear, not when they are already damned to die on this inglorious vessel. )

so he walks, lunch in his hand and a tight grit in his teeth. eyes scan for an empty table to sit in peace, but their occupants stare defiantly back. more whispers. hyunwoo, damns them all to hell.

but there, on his far right, a lone table filled with joyous laughter and occupants who don the same dull uniform. they do not care for him, not unlike the rest, and for that, he finds his peace.

and so he gravitates, albeit the look of uncertainty on his face grows with each passing step. from the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of their lunch trays, and so bland and boring are theirs in contrast to his own that he frowns at the perceived awful taste that must be sitting on their tongues. still, he marches.

the sound of his metal tray hitting their table must be little more than jarring, for they’re quick to shift their gaze towards the intruder. hyunwoo tries not to pay them any heed. simply, in this awkward silence, he sits and he eats.

a moment passes, and finally, he looks up to catch some of them still staring.

perhaps it would do him good not to enrage those who he seeks solace in, but hyunwoo has the blood of princes and wealth in his veins, and so proud is he that he is unable to keep the words from spilling—

“what?”

[tcphra-blog]

His eye smile<333  

[tcphra-blog]

hyemi:

he likes me, he likes me not – he definitely does.

she wore her baggiest supreme sweater, wearing it as a dress. “excuse me, excuse me.” bowing politely as she finds a vacant spot in the stands. a few recognizable faces looking her way, confused as to why song hyemi would ever be at a sporting event. she politely smiles, staring out into the field, trying to spot the person she came for.

will he see me if i sit here?

“minjun! minjun! minjun!” the stadium cheers. oh, but she definitely sees him.

this minjun is much different from the minjun she spends her free lunch periods with. much different from the one who she shares music with.

she sat on the edge of her seat in anticipation. watching as everyone else continues to cheer his name until he makes the final touchdown. the crowd went ballistic for their hero – for her lee minjun.

( not hers quite yet, but possibly soon )

a fond smile appears on her lips, watching as he interacts with the rest of his teammates. the crowd fades into background noise as she watches him drift into the stands. she blinks and then again, watching as he approaches her. a light shade of pink dusting her cheeks.

all eyes were now on them.

but her lips naturally curved into a smile, nodding toward his request, forgetting about the stares and the whispers, watching as he disappears again.

and so she does as he asked. crouching on the ground outside the main doors of the stadium, legs camped inside of her sweater, guarding it from the cold. mindlessly skimming through her instagram feed, waiting for him.

remember his overworked heart caught in the ridges of his throat?

well, here it is now, spat onto the hemmed sleeve of his muddied football jersey. oh, how blood pours from its major arteries and stains the fabric a pretty red.

that is, here he stands, restless fingers grasping the railings of metal stairs as he eagerly awaits her reply. now that he is silent, the vulgar barks from his teammates and the stares and whispers from the crowd are all the more amplified, but it appears as though the only fear that our captain has, at this very moment, is that he fears to blink lest he misses the entirety of her response.

and what of her response?

why, a pretty smile, a coy nod, and a resounding yes.

lee minjun is hardly the type of man to dabble in the art of bashfulness, and so he lightly smacks the metal railing in evident glee as a handsome smile curls at his lips.

“perfect!” he shouts as he pushes himself from the railing, “i’ll see you in fifteen!”

and off he races to the locker room, the first one both in and out in record time.

when he finally arrives at the stadium’s entrance, he catches sight of her close to the exit, just as he had asked. there she sits, her figure dwarfed by the sweater dress she wears. a smile instinctually tugs at the corners of his lips at the sight.

“hyemi!” footsteps quicken in their path until he reaches her, “hey, thanks for waiting.”

he offers a hand for her to pull herself up. minjun watches her from under furrowed brows then, chestnut eyes tracing the perceived shiver at the curve of her shoulders.

“you look cold—” he shrugs his jacket off instantaneously, “here.”

and here, he cautiously manoeuvres his arms to wrap his thick jacket around her small shoulders.

see this? this is the dance that they have willingly participated in. here, in their tango, they cradle: he takes a practiced step forward just as she takes a step back, and their palms hover a hair breadth’s distance from each other, but never touching.

the introduction of space.

he’s the first one to break it.

straying fingers cup the curve of her jaw, and he runs his thumb along the groove of her cheekbone. he watches her midnight eyes for a reaction, but regardless, just as quickly as he had touched her, so does he release her from his gentle hold.

“the boys are heading to the after party now; i told ‘em i’d come with my date,” he suggests through his golden smile, as though the previous moment had failed to exist. a hand moves to rest against the sleeve of his jacket, her wrist, and his grin widens to reveal pearly teeth.

“what d’you say?”

VICTORY LAP.

[tcphra-blog]

VICTORY LAP.

@neurcxses

behold our golden boy, as he rushes through the vibrant green field in his coat of gleaming sweat. here is his heart crawling quickly up his throat as he races towards the endzone, ball cradled protectively in his strong arms. importantly, from the stands are his adoring fans as they clap and chant his name in the form of deafening roars.

oh, do you see?

tonight is a night for victories.

correction: because he is lee minjun, he will win.

( oh, but that is not to say that lee minjun never loses; it is simply to imply that his loses are quickly rejected, spat from the grueling mouths of his watchful spectators before they request for more, better.

lee minjun is a spectator sport, and everyone has paid to watch him win. )

and true to his name, he hits touchdown, and he pays the crowd his blinding smile shortly before he is jostled and carried away by his burly teammates.

and this is how the game ends: stage lights dim, and chitter-chatter blankets the settling crowd. minjun’s name falls from a stranger’s lips every once and again, but he is otherwise forgotten. our star player and the rest of his team are escorted off the field, absent of an elaborate fanfare.

but pictured is our protagonist as he deviates from the script. here is his craning neck as he scans the vast crowd, and the same dazzling smile pulls at his lips once more when he finds her.

( her, with the curled lashes and the lock of hair she sweeps behind the shell of her ear and the crescents of her feline eyes when she shares with him a pretty smile and the— )

he pats the back of the teammate standing next to him in farewell before dashing off towards the crowd.

“song hyemi!” it leaves his lips in nothing short of a bellow, and it both invites and pierces through the vulgar howls of his teammates and the stares of curious bystanders, “meet me outside the stadium before you leave!”

tonight is a night for victories.

( and his affection for one song hyemi is a sport that no one has yet paid to watch. )

[tcphra-blog]

hey guys!! i’m so excited to be here ( been stalking this place since it first came up in the tags but alas, real life )!! yall prob already know, but im dree ( she/her ) && right off the bat i should prob warn you, i’m already one of the slower muns in this directory,, , didn’t wanna include that cause i didn’t want u guys to Not want to plot w me, but my conscience got the best of me so!!! anw pls don’t let that deter u i literally love plotting and rping and i guarantee, if we share a ship, im either a) thinking up scenarios of them tgt and giggling, b) scrolling through ur muse’s tag fc and swooning for my muses or c) both......

enough of my rambling tho!!! below the cut are some random plots that i think are p neat to get the ball rolling, but don’t hesitate to like this post even if none of them tickle ur fancy!! we can alw brainstorm!!

✨ A L T E R E D C A R B O N. YOU HEAR ME!!! technology exposed humanity as the biggest snake since taylor && muse a was poor but In Love, but then their lover died tragically and their sleeve is now used by muse b and muse a has to cope w that ( also fall in love w muse b xo )

✨ ROYAL AU!!! i’ve written a few princes and princesses in my time, but clearly not enough!!! i absolutely love royal historical au ( modern is also ok but im partial to historical tbh ) ( edit: bit more selective since i already have 2 royal plots rn!! granted one of them is modern and fantasy-like :x )

✨ mutant au?? not so much the “we’re running from the government” mutant au, but the “oh shit wtf i touched that mug and my hand literally just went through it??” beginning phases!! don’t think that’s explored enough in krp tbh

✨ zombie apocalypse au!! “we had a thing before the zombie apocalypse started and u REALLY fucked me up and now surprise i have to save ur ass bc im still not over u get moving or im rlly gna shoot u”

✨ idol au,, , im a trainee abt to debut and ur one of the dancers and ur rlly hot but im rlly not supposed to care

✨ mafia au!! “im a police spy and im p much a pawn rn so no one tells me anyth but im sleeping w u bc im hoping to get into the mafia inner circle and... wait wtf why are you in my department pretending to be the new detective.......” spyception

✨ rich kids au!!! “im rich, ur rich, our parents say we should get tgt, but ur actually vile”

✨ for slice of life.... maybe ballerinas in a rlly competitive, world renown ballet school?? young adults in love in a place where ur supposed to deem everyone as ur competitor && enemy? yep

✨ jocks,, , originally a fuckboy jock but he’s now pussy whipped by honor roll cheerleader...... ( prob the best time to say that the kinda cliche i write The Best are dumb jocks w an overactive sex drive )

✨ rich girl + boy next door ( varchie is my shit )

✨ “ive been in love w u forever but Anxiety anw i made some half-assed pact telling u we should get married when we’re still single by the time we hit 30,, anw we haven’t talked in 5 years but im 30 now so wyd”

✨ UNHEALTHY. RELATIONSHIPS. THAT. MAY. NOT. END. WITH. A. HAPPY. ENDING. 

✨ kim jisoo/nam joohyuk friendship PLEASE

✨ literally anything ( i mean it ),, i especially love aus based on books/movies/anime and even if i don’t know it, literally just give me a tl;dr of it and i will be into it i promise

[tcphra-blog]

an artist’s impression of the silver world is that of a handsome maiden, with eyes as wide as a doe’s and a high nose, pressed to perfection by the skilled fingers of michelangelo himself. they speak of her attractiveness in the kaleidoscope opal and pink pearls they sketch against the curve of her alabaster neck, and down, down, down do they cascade between the curve of her breasts. they colour her lips a scarlet red, paint smeared onto canvass as thick as the blood that fills the capillaries of that of their red servants. so different is this red from the liquid steel that sings within her veins, that which they include to portray her strength that is immovable, eternal.

and they say, within the cavity of her chest suspends an organ,

rotting, devastating, stubbornly beating.

that is to say, here our crown prince exists, in the heart of all that gleams silver. he stands tall and proud, with his elegant fiancée dangling on his arm like an invaluable accessory. like actors on a vast stage, they nod in tandem at an important lord’s ramblings, with practised smiles curving towards the apples of their cheeks.

oh, but with every calmness accompanies a calamity, so here lady inna enters in a whirlwind of black, gold and wondrous disasters.

as is expected of all kwons, she is captivating even in her catastrophe, so one by one do her audience’s eyes shift to gaze upon her beauty.

( and as is expected of the prince and his curious nature, so does he tilt his head as careful eyes study her otherwise impenetrable façade. )

there is something odd about her, that one, as though she is brittle where the rest of her family are malleable, and if one were to press her into the kwon mould, she is sure to shatter. see, jaewon is nothing if not thorough, and in his study of the kwon family, he had found her to don rumours like smooth silk draping along the length of her alabaster skin. though he cares not for romances, he cannot deny that through a critic’s eye, tragedy adorns her quite beautifully.

but such is the temporary allure of beauty, that her audience soon tires of her and turns their gaze away and onto the next item on the programme. jaewon, instead, is sure to keep her within his peripheral vision, and as documented in his studies of the kwon family, he soon witnesses the hostile encounter between lady inna and her father. in the corner, like magic, a sculpture comes to life and threatens to swing its iron sword into her unsuspecting audience, as though in retaliation of their faithlessness.

oh, what a delightful show. perhaps the time to meet his in-laws has come.

he promptly excuses himself from the pompous man, leaving his betrothed to fend for herself as he waltzes over to the rest of her family.

“good evening, lord kwon.” here, he slides his palm against the small of inna’s back, an act of comfort disguised as an apology for his intrusion. he fixates his gaze on the silver flecks of her irises, and a consoling smile nestles comfortably on his sculpted lips, “lady kwon.”

“i pray you find tonight’s festivities… suitable for your taste?” a pause, as though an unspoken dare. “if not, i’m sure i can be of some assistance. please, i insist; anything for family.”

oh, do be wary of the devil’s grin.

[tcphra-blog]

cold is the night, as it descends into an amalgamation of menacing black and murky waters. oh, do watch your step, for you do not wish for your ankles to be caught in midnight’s viscous ichor, as it bleeds into the narrow capillaries of jongno-gu. this is no place for children, who have only but pallid stars to guide them home.

and woe is she, whose mind is woven from the same thread as the cloth that drapes its tattered hem over the earth, to give the vicious hour past midnight. pity is the girl who succumbs to unkind slumber not unlike the way one drowns: with neck desperately stretched, lips parting to give way to pathetic gulps of air, and finally, the miserable descent of one’s head below the surface of water.

that is to say, she is robbed even of dull stars, and too often does she find her world so, so dark. that is to say, these days, she doesn’t dream.

no, she is caught in a cycle of only crippling sleep and grappling wakefulness, with nothing quite substantial enough to be defined and fitted in between. and so she sleeps, and she wakes, and she sleeps, and she wakes, and she sleeps, and she—

here, the parting of pretty lids as she takes in vague imagery of her chandelier, its crystals glimmering proudly, almost mockingly. her breathing is not unlike gasps of air, and she curls her fingers as she attempts to regain control of the still-sleeping muscles in her body.

she hears a voice then, muted, then blaring all at once, and it surprises her enough to jolt her awake.

and so she sits up, blanket held tightly against her chest as tired eyes widen to drink in the sight of her unwanted intruder.

“nightshade.”

as the day goes by, she will come to regret the way she had uttered his name. that is, a whisper below her breath, with noticeable stutters that make her look oh, so fragile. perhaps this is the true curse of the witch queen: that the vulnerability of her façade, one that she had smirked at and used to manipulate those around her, now makes up her very essence.

she bites her tongue as she rubs the sleep from her eyes with her white knuckles.

“if you’re here to kill me, i’m afraid you’d have to wait in line,” and so the princess finally arrives, with the corner of her lips curling upwards to assume a wicked smirk, “i hear it is quite long.”

her pale neck stretches in the dark as she throws her head back, and from her scarlet lips comes a laugh, as sinister and obnoxious as madness itself. she loosens her grip on her thick covers then, allows it to fall limp as its hem rolls off her silk slip and atop her porcelain thigh.

“to what do i owe the utter displeasure?” each syllable is balanced on her tongue before they carelessly roll off, and so her sentence is spoken slowly, deliberately. though she has only just woken up, areum has learnt, from a young age, to own perfection as one of her many traits; and so she doesn’t miss this chance to showcase her most excellent skill to vex, with head cheekily tilted as dainty hands settle smugly atop her blanket.