advlje-blog

[advlje-blog]

♡: Our muses kiss under a mistletoe.

it is jonghyun, oh sweet jonghyun, who holds the mistletoe over the head of jieun and taekwoon that christmas eve. 

is she surprised, she should have guessed, if it were anyone, it would be him ( though she almost expected the plant to be placed over head of jonghyun and taekwoon, not herself ).

“what—”

she looks at the smug grin on jonghyun’s face as he points up at it, the damned plant. jieun wanted to rip the petals from it and never look at it again. or throw the little berries in jonghyun’s mouth so he could choke on them.

“you know the rules guys.” he beams, giving jieun a pat on the crown of her head before dashing off.

it leaves taekwoon, who has been silent until now, and jieun to themselves.

“i’m sorry,” taekwoon’s voice is soft, but the sound of it still sets jieun’s face ablaze. “ignore him.”

a small, small part of jieun is deflated at the idea. yes of course, she wanted to murder jonghyun but—her eyes find taekwoons face, more specifically his lips. mild curiosity, that’s what she deems it as. 

but she knows that is a lie—knows that her heart has taken root on him and it is stubborn and sturdy, unwilling to move.

and she knows a kiss from him would be more of a wish granted, rather than a burden.

“you’re right, it’s best to ignore him,” she nods, eyes pulling from the curve from his lips to catch glimpses at her shoes. “i’m sure you wouldn’t want to kiss me anyways.”

she holds up a hand, lets a small thorn sprout on the tip of her finger. it hurt, skin stinging as it splits, but its minimal. “i get a bit thorny.”

taekwoon’s chuckles at her and she feels better—more at ease. ( though the ache in the center of her chest is still there and she is still thinking of him, fingers in her hair and mouth against her own )

—and thats what shes thinking of when he grabs her. she is picturing him and her and their mouths and she barely registers the reality of it, barely feels his lips ghost her own. she almost misses it.

but it is there, and while the first kiss was fleeting, the second is not. he pulls from her for a moment, eyes meeting and the shock setting into her features. and then he is drawn into her again, mouth not as kind as it crashes against her own. his fingers find her face, cupping both sides of her cheeks and pulling her closer into him.

she can’t breathe—though her lungs were working fine.

she can only close her eyes and hope when they open, that is this not a trick or an illusion.

that it simply her christmas gift and when her eyes open he will be there, jung taekwoon and his beautifully broken smile. 

he pulls away, her eyes still shut ( because she’s so scared to open them now and find that this is not real ). his fingers drop from her cheeks, gracing her neck and finding her hair.

he plants another kiss against her cheek.

“merry christmas,”

[advlje-blog]

💮  ｐｌａｎｔｓ 🏵

[advlje-blog]

* DRABBLE PROMPTS 12/01

HELLO, DARLINGS! admin silk here– and i bring gifts! with the upcoming holiday season, your admin and moderator team thinks it is high time we spread a writing meme around to not only get some more activity and help smooth in some newcomers, BUT to also spread that holiday cheer! 

with the posting of this meme, however– postings of our prior meme will not be continued ( its been so long since the last one too)! take your time with these memes, there is no time limit on them currently. you have until the next meme is posted to reblog this and answer the prompts so don’t stress it! please ALSO BE SURE TO POST YOUR THREADS AS NORMAL. remember, memes and prompt responses do not count towards activity (unless you are using them as starters, etc.). we want to promote activity but we also want you to focus on the threads important for your character development!

be sure to reblog it if you’d like to participate! be kind enough to send out memes as well, not only receive! again, there is no cut off date, so do them at your own leisure. do not neglect your starters or current threads for this! :>

HAVE FUN KIDDOS and happy holidays from your admin team! we love you guys and keep up the fantastic work! hopefully you have a wonderful holiday season, and for those in school you get to enjoy a nice break soon!

read under the cut for the memes, as they’ve been cut to avoid cluttering the dash!

NOTE!  ALL credit for these lovely prompts go to ( @ccaceerps ), original post HERE if you’d like to spread the love and give it a like for some notes! we don’t own these prompts in any way, shape, or form!

Keep reading

[advlje-blog]

advtaek:

“jieun,” he pleads, voice quivering because he can’t look away at the macabre image. “jieun, please—what are you doing? why are you—“

he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t get it.  “stop it.”

it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—for a moment she is not there. not in her bathroom with a blade and ripping thorns from her bones. she is not bleeding against white linoleum and shedding in porcelain sinks. no, the pain traces her back to the rippling hallways. to laughter echoing and screams to match. she smells the copper, blood so thick it wafts and hangs in the air like a cloud. suffocating, like hands reaching to choke. it brings the bile up into the back of her throat.

it takes her back to him, scar covered face and dancing knives. blades that just so happen to find her skin like home. tracing and cutting and marring and it hurts. it burns when they cut, and if her skin could talk it would hiss and scream.

she does it for it.

and he laughs, a sound of glee. her stomach tightens but he, he enjoys. savors the way skin splits and rips apart. he drinks up her cries and her blood—a game. a pretty little game.

he is the only winner.

she thinks of him, fingers on her thorns as he saws away. chips at pieces of her to make her break. why, she will never be sure of. she only knows it contents him, only knows the way his eyes light and ignite at her pain.

the pain sends her back, but it is taekwoon that brings her forward. she is there, in her bathroom—bleeding and aching and screaming raw.

he is yelling at her, crying out to her and his eyes twist in a way that makes him seem unreal.

she thinks he isn’t there. a man made from her mind to cope with the waves of nauseating pain. but he’s grabbing her and the warmth of his hands confirms he is real. he is there.

it makes her feel sick.

“taekwoon?��� her lips are dry, and they split painfully when she goes to move them to his name. “what are you doing here? why are you—“

his voice quivers and breaks and she swears she’s reeling. no, no, no—he can’t be here. he can’t be here right now!

the knife drops from vice grip, finds home in the sink. her hands are finding his, reaching and grabbing and desperately trying to pull him away. “let go, you’ll hurt yourself.”

more than you already have—again she sees him, on her. sees her thorns piercing his skin.

she wants to throw up.

he can’t see her this way. there’s enough to recover from. there’s enough pain. she sees his leg, wounded and wrapped, and her stomach churns. she things of the knife that embedded the other, thinks of the blade in his hand. she sees red all over, blood that is not her but his. she’s so tired of seeing his blood—so tired of hearing his cries of pain in her dreams at night. she is still there, watching him struggle against knives.

she cannot send him back with her.

“you need to go. you can’t be here.” voice shaking like her knees. fingers grasping behind gloved hands. she tightens her hold on his fingers and rips them away.

he has paid more than enough in bargains he never asked for, atoned for sins that were never his own. she cannot have him burdening and shouldering her own.

“you need to leave, you need to leave.”

prick,

[advlje-blog]

hemlock,

@advxkangjoon

she spends her nights in hospital wings, eyes watching charts and blinking computer screens. sometimes, in the free moments when patients do not cry for her,  she is reading her texts, studying wistfully away in small moments of peace. but her life, the small fraction of it that is not spent hiding blooming flower petals in her hair or thorns under her gloves, revolves around this very wing. she may not remember the names of each patient or the stories they tell her but she is always aware of them when they are here.

so it grabs her interest when she sees them flooding in—children and men and women of all varied ages. all suffering from illness. some live, some do not, depending. but these rushes, theses nights spend rushing from room to room, carries vaccinations and a clip board of documents, they carry a similar variable.

where.

they all live in the same complex, or they all went to the same coffee shop at the same time, on the same day. things that could be coincidence,  but jieun knows they are not.

no, no—she lives in a world of painted monsters and beasts of every degree. she has seen me possess bodies and shift their shapes. she has seen bombs fall from fingertips and ice glide over skin. so these pandemics, the kind that leave her head reeling and have her rushing from room to room, she knows better to brush it aside. blame it on a “mold outbreak” or “flu season”. it is not cold weather.

she knows so much better.

and now, as she watches him from behind the frames of her glasses, she is sure it is him at fault.

it was, ironically, chance that brought her to the same area as him. the small garden tucked behind the foundation, with leaning rose towers and bushes of flowers popping from decorative vases. pretty, simple, and warm—she likes the sunlight here best. the air clear and the rays always finding a way through the shrubbery no matter what horizon the sun settles upon. he seemed to enjoy it too, because he is there. in her hide away.

it makes her interested and anxious.

rumors flutter, even among mutants. he’s withdrawn, the mutated boy and his disease like powers. he brings plague—and everyone steers clear. or he steers clear of them. she isn’t quite sure, perhaps it is both.

but that only enthralls her more—who is the boy, so young in face, that brings the sea of sick to her ward? she pictures twisted features, a smile that never reaches the eyes. a laugh that haunts like monsters she’s met in nightmares. she pictures a man who finds amusement behind the damage, who uses and tosses and disposes of instantly.

who else would send people to death and never come to check them? never come to ask, or offer flowers? does he visit the graves of the lives he steals?

she imagines not.

a pretty image she’s painted—oh he always wears the mask of a villain. perhaps it’s easier that way, to blame him. but it does not stop her from wanting to know more. her mind inquires and before she can stop it she is there, standing before him.

she has a book in her hands but it has gone unread. instead, she folds the page over, snaps it shut and tucks it under her arm.

and then she looks at him.

“hello—“ her voice cracks, because of course these is fear. but she tries to swallow it like cold medicine.

awkward, she notes. curses herself for this. why is curiosity such a petty thing?

“i haven’t seen you here before.”

[advlje-blog]

prick,

@advtaek

( tw: gore, blood, self loathing, self mutilation, torture )

have her cheeks always been so shallow, her eyes always this dark? do others notice the tremble there, the quiver of fear and loathing behind the curve of her mouth?

she notes it all, picks and prods at every refraction of light against her skin. the reflection does no justice for her, nor does it tell any lies. it shows what she feels and what she is. a beaten and broken thing—she wears her nightmares on her skin.

that is, the pieces and bits of it that remain, uncoated and unbroken under the prick of her thorns.

they remain, as sturdy as ever, peaks breaking across her flesh like a rash. they ache, little tears against her skin that rip open when she moves too much, stretching wounds that fester and bleed. it hurts to do anything, really, her skin never healing quite enough before reopening again. it leaves stains of red against her clothes and her hands smother themselves in the thick padding of her gloves. but they are the only protection between the thorns and herself, or even others.

normally they would have wilted, withered and detached. no pain, no strings. maybe a few scars for the memories.

they have not.

she is unsure, looking at herself now—( how ugly, a rose stem with no petals ), why they are there. remaining and evident. but she thinks of the hallways from the horror house, thinks of the mind games behind the walls and the screams and the knife. oh how it sounds as it grates against her thorns and the waves of pain that burst behind her eyelids—

she almost throws up in memory, but instead swallows her bile. her brow breaks in sweat and she can only stare. only watch slowly as the days pass, the thorns remain, yet she, herself, withers.

she thinks of taekwoon—broken taekwoon who could not move or bend or hear. she thinks of the blood and how it colors the floor and his clothes and her clothes. and she thinks of herself. hands that cannot touch and heal. thinks of how he fell against her and how she was the one to hurt and maim. his blood coats her fangs. and she curses herself.

curses that he is worse off than how she met him because she was there. he hand throw himself before a knife and she—she could not touch him without pricking skin and painting the two of them in crimson.

she loathes these thorns. loathes herself—hot anger that swells up in the pit of her stomach and bubble up, up, up into her throat.

“how useless,”

she could not stop her sister from passing, and she could not aid taekwoon. he almost joined her that night—almost became a memory, a name rather whispered than spoken aloud. a name said with sorrow and a sad twist of the mouth.

she would have never been able to greet him again.

and it would have been her fault to the very end.

“coward,” her eyes are hot, angry. at the men who did this to them? at herself?

her fingers are reaching for it, glistening blade and sharpened edges. she had found it in the kitchen, thought of that night. the man with the knives—how cruel of him to not cut them all off.

she should finish it for him.

she is barely thinking when she grabs it, lifts it to skin. she doesn’t waver, and her fingers barely quiver as she drives it into the base of one of the larger of the thorns, purposed on her bicep. she digs it in, blade sinking deep, and fights back the yell that froths in the back of her throat. she jams hard, lets it hook under the root of the thorn, and pulls forward. like a lever, it pushes, popping the thorn from the base and pushing it out of the skin. there is pain, warm and seeping, and blood is flowing loosely from her arm. but she bites it back against her lips.

the thorn detaches and falls forward into the sink—once white. now red.

her fingers move the blade to another—and the process repeats.

she is on her third when she hears someone at the door. ignores it, if she stops now she will never continue. besides, no man should see her as she is now. a coward and a monster whose thorns only know how to prick.

she rips another thorn out and bites back a scream.

[advlje-blog]

IU featured in Sony MDR h.ear commercial

[advlje-blog]

advtaek:

        (tw: mental instability, blood, mutilation, violence)

closer and closer—and when the knife rips through flesh, taekwoon wrenches his hand out with a yell, and he’s struggling to his feet, staggering and stumbling on injured legs. he maneuvers forward, feet messy and swaying, but he’s swinging and once his fists hit the offender’s head, he feels relief.so he hits again. and agai

everything teeters, twisting with dark edges and black shadows. vaguely she wonders if this is where she’ll die—if they’ll even find her body. will she rot, withering petals and breaking stems? she hopes they bury her—so she can sprout into the something beautiful she could never achieve in her lifetime.

she bets taekwoon would sprout into dahlia, brightly colored and eye catching. it was her favourite, to be fair, but she would have liked to see him in color. not in the shackles of this drab horror house, or painted in crimson and strife.

she’s naming flowers when he grabs at her again, ripping at her hair and fingers pulling more of her petals. she cries, soft wails that come with shallow breaths, and for a brief moment she lets her eyes turn to find taekwoon.

a sound of choked horror bubbles up in the back of her throat when she watches him rip the knife from his skin. she gurgles, dry heaving at the blood, palm twitching at the thought of the pain.

but then he’s up and swinging, and the weight is lifted off her. a flash of red and taekwoon is there, fist hitting against the head of her attacker and knocking him away. again and again he swings and the monster doesn’t have the time to lift for defense before he meets another fist in the head.

jieun is yelling—small flashes of memory falling behind her eyes. she’s seen him like this only once, once upon a time—before she knew a name to his face. and she doesn’t need to look at him to know he is gone, lost behind waves of red and hot anger.

she takes the moment to breathe and gather herself, rolling away from the fight and finally pulling herself back onto her knees. she crouches for a minute, limbs shaking and everything is throbbing—it hurts, mom, it hurts. and she wants to cry out like a child, bury her face into her mother’s old sweater and lose herself in the smell. but she is surrounded by the stench of rot and the thick wafts of blood are like smoke around her. she chokes on it, throws up once, and then rises to a shaky stand. her fingers reach for her mouth, wiping away the salvia, eyes watching taekwoon.

he keeps hitting and each sound echoes with a thick crack—there’s blood and she isn’t sure who is belongs to, where taekwoon ends and the other begins. the attack is groaning and taekwoon is snarling and she can only stare at the blood that falls around them.

“taekwoon!” there’s so much blood, so much blood—it coats the floor and her clothes and thorns and she’s so tired of the color. so tired of the pull in her stomach and the ache that sets deep under her skin. “you can’t—“

for a minute his hits waiver. its all the attacker needs. he gets to his feet, hands reaching up and shoving taekwoon hard. then he takes off into a sprint, back into the shadow of the hallway where he came, an echo of a laugh on his lips.

jieun glances at his form before it goes, takes mind of the direction he leaves, before rushing over to taekwoon. her tears are stilled for the moment, but seeing them brings the threaten of their return, his face bloodied and his breathing hallow. she raises a thorny hand to his cheek, touches him lightly so she does not prick ( please, no more blood ).

“we have to get out of here,” she speaks slowly, loudly—with some hope he can make out something. her hand drops to her shirt, rips another piece of cloth and wraps it around her fingers and palm, concealing the thorns. she takes her newly wrapped hand and grabs at his, giving it a tight squeeze and wrapping his arm around her neck, dodging the thorns that sprout there. “lean on me, you need to rest your leg.”

wolfsbane.

[advlje-blog]

advtaek:

(tw: torture, vomit, blood, injury, mental instability. )

he moves away, tinkling feet as they direct their way back to jieun, and taekwoon kicks out, desperate. his foot knocks into the other, causing him to trip—and the flick of a hand has another knife sinking into taekwoon’s leg, his good one, knocking against bone.

sometimes pain reaches the point of being numb; and taekwoon can only growl and snarl in response.

there is a flicker of relief when his body lifts from her own—heart souring and pounding roughly against the cage of her chest. this is it, her chance. her body is screaming at her to run, lift herself up and please for the love of god run. her eyes fly to taekwoon, and she’s ready to scream for him to come to her—but the man stands over him, plants a knife in his hand and she’s screaming again, calling his name and crawling herself towards where he lays, snarling and snapping.

“no—“ the yell tears through her throat, leaves it burning in remembrance, a hoarse echo. and it is all she can do. “don’t hurt him, please—“

the vines sprout from the undercut of her hair line, small things—because her body is weak and protesting and screaming at her to stop. please, god, stop—and she reaches for him lamely. they whip at his face but he shrugs her away.

“seems he got jealous too,” his eyes find her and she wrenches, coughing and choking up salvia as her little vines try so desperately to pull him back to her. it works and he starts his journey back, discarding taekwoon without second mind. and she is thankful, briefly, even among the coughing and wheezing and the pain as her vines flail, she is so thankful. he’ll be okay, i’ll get him away from taekwoon and he’ll live—

taekwoon kicks at him, catches him and trips the man. he falls, gracefully, and smiles. it is wicked and chilling and jieun sees why.

his blade sinks into taekwoon’s leg.

jieun, in all that she is worth, launches to her feet and throws herself at the man. flings all her weight into her shoulder and buries it into his chest. it knocks him on his back, his hand free of knives for a single moment. they grab her upper arms, grab with twisting fingers and malice, and he growls at her. then flips her over, feet finding each side of her side and knees pinning into the palms of her hands. there’s thorns there, biting into his skin and he’s bleeding—but he pays no mind to it.

his eyes fall on her—and for a moment she can see the raw anger there. flickering heat waves that leave her skin crawling.  

im going to die here; the thought hits her like a truck. it knocks her breathless and leaves her heart hammering hard. the despair of it grips her, cold as it slides under her skin—and she wonders if she dies, how taekwoon will escape.

“what pretty flowers you have,” the monster is talking again, a singsong voice with lips that twist at each word. “are they for me?”

he grabs a handful of her vines, reaches into his pocket and emerges a knife. her body is hissing with echoes of pain, and she is thrashing under him. her weight stands nothing against him, and she’s crying as the blade bites and cuts vines apart from her.

“sh, sh, don’t cry!” a laugh, he’s actually laughing at her, grinning as she thrashes against small waves of pain. “im helping you get rid of of these weeds.”

he finishes his hacking and she can feel each vine crying out, beheaded and limp. a screaming pain that sets the nerves under her skin on fire and makes her stomach twist.

her reaches for her hair again, fingers grasping onto the small petals that grow there. another smile.

“let’s play a game.”

he fingers the flowers, tips brushing against her petals and sending small chills down her spine. and she feels him grip at them and pull, another scream tasting her mouth.

“she loves him,” rip, a white petal flutters down beside her. soon, another joins it. “she loves him not.”

the pain is burning through her and she wants to vomit again. her legs are kicking, kicking, kicking—but they hit nothing. if anything it makes his giggles rise louder and his fingers rip harder, more petals fluttering to the ground around them. he continues for a moment more, bouncing against her and making her choke, on pain, on vomit—everything. she can barely breathe, barely see—vision clouding. it hurts, it hurts.

“taekwoon, help—“ it goes against everything she fought for. she should tell him to go, to find a way from his pin and leave her. but the agony is a cloud, a haze that grazes over her eyes and her mind and all she can think about is the pain. make it stop—“make it stop, please.”

her voice breaks with begging, and it earns another chuckle from her attacker.

“she loves him not.” he takes the last petal into his hands, doesn’t fling it like the others. cradles it instead. “sorry, pal—“ he’s speaking to taekwoon but his eyes do not leave her. “it appears you didn’t make the cut.”

she lets out a strangled sob, the tears welling and spilling over her face.

he blows the petal at him, and turns back to jieun. “i guess you don’t love him after all.”

wolfsbane.

[advlje-blog]

advtaek:

( tw: injury, blood, mental instability, dissociation, vomit)

he slams his body into jieun’s, shielding her from the knife as it embeds itself into his shoulder blade, gritting his teeth as it makes his head spin and throb, the urge to vomit strong. his leg burns and throbs with pain as he tugs it across the ground to shield her from something, anything.

he can’t let her die. he can’t let himself destroy someone else.

he holds fast to her hand and she lets him, because the pain isn’t registering—she can see that much in his eyes. no he is gone to her and the world, lost in panic and fear.

and in a way she stands beside him, her gut wrenching and twisting with anxiety, worry, terror. her stomach is an array of emotional fits and her body is crying out in pain. but she chokes on it, swallows hard and continues to help him sit up.

he rises and she watches his face twist, cries and broken calls catching in his throat. instead, he is gurgling noises at her and she can barely stand to watch as his face pales and the sweat breaks across his cheeks and forehead. she watches his leg, it’s limbness and takes note—wonders if the bone is shattered and battered like the rest of him. from how hes cradling it, she can only assume so.

the thought fills her with dismay and dread—if he can’t walk then will they have a standing chance of escape?

could she rest on the chance of rest and wait with him in hopes the villains of the horror house do not reveal? and should they chose to attack, can she really fend them off—her body is meek as it is. she is only as strong as a stem, and her powers are not like the others. she cannot conjure flame. cannot control the air around them to her will or bring nightmares to life to dance for her.

the dread sinks further into her chest, tightening and making it so hard to breathe. she feels choked, suffocated.

useless.

isn’t the ringleader of this show had called her before, as he pulled tricks behind her eyes and pushed the thorns from her skin? useless, useless, useless.

you let your sister die—and now you will let taekwoon die as well.

the thought haunts her and she has to swallow the urge to vomit again, instead she focuses on taekwoon, coos soft words he cannot hear.

his eyes meet her for a minute as he finally sits up in full, and she is thankful. worried, but thankful. he’s awake and responsive, good signs, she notes.

but his eyes drift and she cocks her head, wondering what shadows have caught his attention. she doesn’t think of the monsters that lurk there, not until his body meets her own and her back collides with the floor. she hears the knife cut through the air, hears the cry of his pain as it bites skin—matches it with one of her own.

his body weight presses against her and she can feel the thorns biting into him, tiny piercings against his skin. her blood is pooling over her, staining green with crimson and dying her clothes as it spills. and she can only stare for a moment, horror ripping at her features as she watches him impale himself upon her.

“t-taekwoon—“

he is wrenched off her, and she tries to reach for him, to pull him back to her. but he is gone, warmth taken and blood sputtering from his new wounds. instead he is replaced by a familiar face—skin twisted with smiles and scars and a knife dancing in his hand.

“we meet again, little flower.”

she screams and her body jolts awake, thorns aching at remembrance. she turns onto her stomach and tries to fling herself away from him—far, far away from him.

instead he catches her, first by her ankle, ripping her towards him, the floor boards hissing under her weight and his pull. and then by her hair, gripping it between his fingers and yanking her face close to his. she is screaming, still, and barely stopping to calm the burn for air in her lungs.

“please please no—“ cries, sobs—she becomes one of the echoes. “please god no.”

he laughs in her ear, breath warm and disgusting against her cheek. already his blade touches her skin, first her cheek where it bites and leaves a small trail, then he brings it to her hair.

“i didn’t mean to interrupt, it just seemed you two were getting along too well,” his face finds her neck, nose nuzzling in the crook and inhaling. “i was getting jealous.”

wolfsbane.

[advlje-blog]

advtaek:

— (tw: blood, injury, insects, dissociation.)

“jieun.” he whispers, hoarse and croaking. drool slips from his mouth onto the ground. “i can’t—i can’t hear.” his fingers find purchase on her skin, on slippery skin that leaves his stained fingers a pretty red and prickle and cut his flesh. “i don’t know what’s going on. i don’t—i don’t what, i don’t know where. i’m—“ he’s panicking, hysteria tugging at his edges.

her breathing hitches when he responds, eyes peeking open and mouth moving to her name. she sees his face light with the recognition—jots small notes in her mind of his symptoms, dilated pupils, the stammer of his speech and line of sweat building across his skin. head injury? a small crease of concern forms across her forehead.

he struggles to speak, but she doubts he hears it—and even he admits it, voice loud and words slurred. she brief wonders if he’s gone deaf permanently. but the worry is choked down with all others and she fights to maintain her calm.

he reaches for her, fingers wrapping around her wrist and holding her. the thorns there prick and take his blood, a pretty stain on the green blades of her skin.  another to add to the collection of her own that have built home there, settling in the crevasses of the surface. she looks at him, all wide eyes and twisting fear. “no, don’t grab. i’ll prick you—“ she realizes he cannot hear and stops short. sighs and pulls her wrist gently from his hold, shaking her head at him in hopes he understands what she means.

i don’t want to hurt you.

and it is so hard, harder than she could imagine, to sit beside him and keep her hands at bay at her sides. he needs medical assistance, and all her training is there. flashing before her very eyes, all the steps and producers clear as day. a muscle memory. but she is bound, fingers immobile. she aches to touch him, not just for medical purposes. but for assurance, he is there. she is there. there is comfort between skin and she wants nothing more than to give him that.

the idea makes her stomach lurch and she sees the panic in his eyes—sees a reflection of her own fear in his.

and now, even her words fail her.

there is frustration and her mouth twists, marred by worry. twisted by frown.

“im sorry,” a small prick in the corner of her eyes. it takes a moment but the tears slide and she realizes she’s crying. “im so sorry.”

if only the man from before had cut off all the thorns—if she had known, if only she had known, then perhaps she would have left him. she would have let him saw them all off, let him yank them from her skin and her bone. she could have bit back the pain and swallowed her sobs and just—

she lets out another sob of frustration and slams an open fist against the ground.

the movement exhausts her and she wavers for a minute, legs unstable even beneath her. her balance tips, then catches, and she fixes herself upright. tries not to focus on her or the spinning walls around her. instead, focuses on him, eyes scanning over his battered form.

head injury, ears bleeding, his fists are bleeding and the skin is torn. nothing fatal at the moment, but it could be if left unattended—she wonders how long he’s been here. how long as the blood been collecting on the ground beneath them?

her fingers find the hem of her skirt and she tugs and pulls. it tears, loudly, the sound echoing against the hallways. it makes her cringe, and she fights away thoughts of men hiding in the dark with knives and grins.  the shirt tears easily under her fingers and she balls it up, puts enough cloth between her hand and his skin so she does not prick, and presses it against the large wound at the crown of his skull. she holds it there for a minute, and within seconds it stains the fabric ( it had once been pink, now it is grime in color ) as it seeps.  she puts her weight into it none the less, in some hope of stopping the bleeding.

“taekwoon, sit up.” she says, slowly, lips stretching the words so his eyes can capture what he cannot with his ears. her fingers are motioning him to her, motioning him to sit up so she may stop the bleeding.

there is so much fear it turns her blood to ice—so much fear it clouds her. she doesn’t hear the shadows move. doesn’t pay them any mind. little jieun with her eyes full of taekwoon.

“it’ll be okay,” she tells him, though her heart beat is screaming otherwise.

run away, run away, run away. 

wolfsbane.

[advlje-blog]

wolfsbane.

@advtaek

long hallways with looming walls. the house creaks and moves and she swears it’s swaying, back and forth. taunting and mocking and twisting at her. and she’s reaching for something, anything. everything, fingers desperate for grab, the wall too flat. everything is blurry—and she’s not sure if its from the blood loss or absence of glasses.

but does she need to see? she hears well enough, muffled screams between wallpaper walls. they break into sobs, into pleas and for a moment it is all she can hear. help me, help me, help me. then there is silence for a moment before another scream echoes in its memory.

she stumbles, doubles over. her stomach lurches and she can only rest, knees against hard wood and fingers pressed against her abdomen as a dry heave rips down her spine. her muscles tighten, then relax, then lock again. it repeats, once, twice—salvia spilling from her mouth and down the corners of her cheeks. the third time she throws up, spits her the contents of her stomach against the wood. she lets out a cry, joins in on the chorus of screams and sobs for mercy. another wave passes, she vomits twice more—all water with no content. on a normal basis, it would concern her, throwing up her body’s precious water supply. but she is dizzy and tired and by the time she finishes she can all but fight to keep her eyes open.

the idea of them finding her again is what keeps her awake.

she stands, balance teetering and hands reaching back up the wall, and begins her slow limp down the hall.

the shadows leave her skin rigid and back tight—but it is all she can manage, too exhausted to react. if she were attacked, she’d mark herself as dead within seconds.

her fingers, once pretty and slender, are blood crusted and her fingernails worn raw. they reach and touch at her skin, play with the broken skin of her arm. there are her thorns, large chunks of harden plant that protrude from angry rips in her skin. she tries not to think of them, how they cover her body, how they burn when she touches and moves. everything, they cover everything—small ones against the skin of her palm and her fingers, growing into large pikes that stick from her arms and back and sides. even her face, pretty by nature, is twisted skin and bloodied barbs. her hair is knotted, mangled between wilting flowers and angry vines. all a part of her, all withering.

she remembers none of the illusions from before—only pain. searing, angry pain as her thorns sprout under her skin, then burst, ripping open wounds across the landscape of her body. she bleeds, paints the walls and floors with it as she goes to run. but her feet carry her into the arms of another of the attackers. he brandishes knives and when he catches her, she quickly discovers how well he wields them.

she staggers now at memory, and tries not to think of his face as he saws at her thorns, cutting tips off a few choice barbs. but the pain is still there, the lingering ache, the sound of his knife cutting away as she screams. she wonders how many had heard her then. heard her cries and ignored them, just as she does now.

the urge to vomit returns—but she chokes on it. swallows it down and moves forward.

it’s a long stretch, or so it feels, of time before she meets anyone again. and by the time she sees him her nerves are buzzing. the sight of him, a limp pill of man across the wood of the floor, gives her a shock. she stops her walk towards his direction and for a minute she stares. it’s hard to see, and her eyes catch crimson and she wonders if he is dead.

she moves towards him with caution, trying to strain her eyes for a glimpse of something. the closer she gets, the more the haze over her vision clears—and soon she is standing beside him, his name on her lips.

“taekwoon,”

she drops with urgency, fingers going to grab at his wrist. she stops, looks at the thorns that decorate them and lets it go limp by her side. still, she moves closer to him, sits against the floor and watches. when his chest expands she gives a small sigh of relief.

he bleeds—clothes covered in red and skin paling. his ears, she notes, bleed as well and the sight concerns her. she leans closer to him, does not touch or prick, but hovers and calls for him softly.

“taekwoon, please get up.” she thinks of the monsters, lingering around and the fear comes back with a crippling hold. “you need to get up.”

[advlje-blog]

this is jieun’s and sunggyu’s mun here! for those who know me, i am back. and for those who don’t i wanted to welcome all of you to advent! i haven’t been on due to personal conflicts but i’m here now.

for the threads i have i wanted to go ahead and officially DROP ALL THREADS because it’s been such a while since i’ve continued them and a majority of the users aren’t here anymore! if you’d like to replot or start plotting in general please like this post and i’ll drop into your messages so we can start something up!

thank you <:

also to add my aim is ra.vel@outlook.com if you’d like to plot there rather than here!

[advlje-blog]

What’s there behind a rainbow? It’s too far for us to see We’ll just have to imagine it’s something amazing

[advlje-blog]

evening primrose.

@advtaek

shoulder’s slumped, eyes down. look away, look away.

( please don’t look at me )

she walks with haste, fingers nervous and playing with a frayed edge to her shirt—pulling at string and rolling it between two slender fingertips. she’s fidgeting under her skin, nervous bones with nervous hands.

hurried, she stalks through the foundation hallways. too tight, too confined. there’s never enough sunlight even through open windows. it makes her shoulders tight, makes her skin itch. she feels twisted and—not right. not okay.

she needed air.

she’s practically running now, searching for the blaring red exit sigh. it takes a moment, but she finds it and her hands are reaching for the handle before she has a chance to collide with the door.

she yanks it open and steps outside, the metal structure of the door slamming behind her. lets it close and lock in the creatures inside. swears it feels more like prison than sanctuary.

jieun is inhaling the sweet summer air. it’s rich in her lungs, makes the hollow ache in her chest subside and her skin can finally breathe. even the warm sun is a blessing, in all its heat, as it brushes by her.

the breeze is nice and pulls her away from the walls of the foundation. she finds herself walking, wandering with her eyes and legs alike. she gets lost in herself, lost in small moments of memories and warm summer evenings. she thinks of a sister who’s face has begun to haze in her memory, who’s laugh no longer rings like it use to. she thinks of leaves and rose petals, thinks of the small flowers that the twins use to grow together. the garden, with a tower built for the roses and the vines. she thinks of the flowers and how they bloomed each year.

she thinks of winter, the cold the ice.

death.

she shivers, folding her arms across her chest and pulling into herself. smaller, warmer. she must get warmer ( though the sun is so hot and the air is muggy, it doesn’t fight the chill the memories leave behind ).

she wonders when she started living so far into the past.

it’s a crash—a loud and sudden noise against the shell of her ear—that pulls her back and roots her in place..

she looks up, finds him standing in the courtyard just around the corner. all broad shoulders and sharp features, with a twisted mouth. a frown, a sneer—she can’t tell. but there is pain, written well across his face, etched into eyes and cheeks and even the bottom of his lip. and immediately he frightens her.

he’s muttering to himself, pacing with hungry hands. they lash out, strike the wall and stain it red. he doesn’t flinch—and she stands aside, running over possible powers in her head. mutant, mutant—where does he fit in?

another sound, it’s so loud against the walls of the courtyard. he’s taken to a branch, ripped it straight from the tree ( an act that makes her wince, and she swears to come back and offer something to the poor thing later ) and began to beat it against the trunk.

she notes his hands, the knuckles busted open and swelling, pouring liquid life down the back of his hands. it’s adrenaline, she knows. and she knows when he comes down he’ll be in a world of hurt.

so she runs back to the damn foundation doors and rips them open. it doesn’t take long to find a mounted medical kit, and she all but rips it from its stand before dashing her way back to him. she’s gone a few minutes and by the time she returns, his hits still deliver but with less tenacity. his movements are slowing and she wonders if he’s feeling the ache from his wounds yet.

there is a certain fear she has of people—of what they are and what they can be. and while every kind part of her tells her to call out, stop him from further harm and bandage him herself, with careful hands and a kind smile. she will not. she does not.

in the end, she’d rather play coward.

she takes the plastic box and slowly brings herself closer to him. he’s still lost in his world, and either he doesn’t see her or doesn’t care to. he leaves her alone, even as she draws near him.

this close, she can smell him. sweat and musk and self hatred and all. and there is something pleasant about him, but something sad. and even as the tree receives his beating from hell, she can’t help but choke on the small pit of pity in her throat.

she can’t tell if its tears she sees in his eyes, this close, or a reflection of light. she doesn’t want to know, she doesn’t need to. it’s better not to get involved. so she takes a deep breath, carefully places the medical kit behind him on the patio stones and begins her retreat.

it is better this way, she chimes. it is better to pull far away. he was angered, he could hurt her. hit her like the tree, where even her thorns cannot protect her. yes yes, there is no reason for guilt. no reason for this shame.

but it is there, a wet blanket across her chest. it sticks to her skin, weighs her, and makes her throat tight and chest ache.

she wants to turn around, just for a moment. make sure he’s okay—

her foot catches on something, a plotted plant in a light orange vase. and she, in all her grace, tumbles and falls.

it crashes with her, scatters dry clay across the ground.

and it pulls his gaze to her.

[advlje-blog]

A BIT OF A LATE PLOT POST BUT

thank you to everyone who welcomed me! im not a first character, this is a second muse but i still appreciate warm welcomes <:

please like this post if you’d like to plot OR you can reach me on aim at ra.vel@outlook.com 

thank you guys and have a great day ily xoxo

[advlje-blog]

forgive me, for this silence will have to do; i am afraid that i have kept my voice swallowed down for too long that i have forgotten how to speak.

it’s quiet, do you hear? // f.r.