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[mtsjung-blog]

mtshoseok:

⤑ @mtsjung

he is ever so intoxicated, which is not a new concept to either of them. 

them being he and soojung that is.  

it was also a known fact that when he was as out of his mind as he was, hoseok tended to be a lot more.. affectionate. less of a dick then usual. which is why he has his hands wound around soojung’s waist, pulling her toward the bathroom. “ oh come onnnn sooojjjj… ” he insists, words only surprisingly slightly slurred despite his current alcohol levels. 

“ it’ll be fun, i already have the water running- don’t you love spending time with me? i even have .. ” he trails off, leaning close with an uncharacteristic laugh. “ bubbles. extraordinary i know. ”

“ pretty please? ” 

it isn’t new, the scene unraveling before her, but soojung finds herself uncharacteristically flustered anyway.

if not just by the tiniest of bits.

it doesn’t help that she hasn’t ever associated this with jung hoseok in a lifetime—not even with a few instances of this situation (different, but still very much the same) occurring over the time they’ve spent together thus far. or perhaps it’s just that she hadn’t been used to the tender in his touch, the stirring in her chest signaling more than jung soojung had bargained for to begin with. 

“when did i ever say i loved spending time with you?” she arches a delicate brow, taking up a teasing lilt while her hands lift, ghosting up and over his arms and torso; finally settling one on his shoulder and another playing along his jaw. 

“i’m almost certain drunks shouldn’t get into tubs, hoseok—something about drowning...” she trails off thoughtfully, lips twitching in amusement as she drinks in the sight; jung hoseok with his flushed cheeks, begging. 

“you’ve got to offer something better than bubbles if you want me in there with you.”

» C A R P E  D I E M [ BT ]

[mtsjung-blog]

▻ 10CM THEORY

—@mtschrome

you’re safe. she repeats, mantra against her beating heart, bones shaking beneath pallid goose skin, breath shallow, chest heaving (up down up down up down) erratically. safe. desperation drives her to cling to the byword, sink weakened claws into the eluding pipe dream and pin her frail body against it—if only in attempt to piece together what’s left of her broken mind.

YOU’RE SAFE. her legs ache still, phantom tendrils still wrapped tight around them. YOU’RE SAFE. her lungs burned still, black water clawing at her insides. SAFE. SAFE. SAFE.  she never left still, head still underwater, still drowning.

( she’ll never leave. )

YOU’RE NOT. buried inside toned arms and a firm torso, her breathing hitches. YOU’RE NOT. bruises litter her body, soaked to the bone in obsidian waters, shaking, trembling.  NOT. NOT. NOT. ever so often her frame shakes, jerks, jolts, trapped in an unforgiving state of mind—thrown into a state of hyperventilation.

even with him here, she’s not safe. ( not when black waters linger everywhere; in her hair, long locks wrapped around her neck. in drenched attire, tight against skin. in her mind, fear taking root, seizing sanity at the helm and shaking—till she’s left battered, torn, teetering along unstable. )

it’s not safe. it’s not.

“s-s-se—hun,” she starts, lips blue and eyes unfocused. the grip she has on his shirt is pathetic with those trembling fingers, but soojung tries her best anyhow, despairing for the only modicum of something that makes sense. he makes sense. “i—i can’t—” what can’t she do? what can’t she do? everything. nothing. ( i can’t fucking hold it together. ) 

the telekinetic chokes on her words, unable to force them past cold lips—instead she conveys anguish in coughs, rasps, quiet sobs that rack her trembling frame as her features contorts into an expression as ugly as she feels inwardly—leaning forward to bury her face deeper into his chest.

they will die like this. soojung knows it, unable to shake off events of the lake—wasn’t she already halfway dead? almost there? wasn’t she?.

at her core, she wanted to apologize, guilt tying her tongue in incoherent knots — had it not been her fault that they were like this? stuck, trapped someplace hiding away from hollowgasts ( or anything else ) that lurked the hallways. thrown, driven insane with every tremble of heavy footsteps, growling that slips beneath the cracks, screams that can be heard further still. wasn’t it her fault? 

woudn’t he have escaped otherwise had it not been for her?

oh, but she can’t fucking think — jung soojung, incapable of piecing together a single articulate thought or sentence. jung soojung, an absolute train wreck. jung soojung, still frozen at the bottom of the lake while tears run on, fresh hot, down her cheeks. jung soojung, pathetic.

isn’t this all her fault? isn’t she cursed? isn’t she, now ( once again ), putting at risk the only person that matters to her?

“i’m sor—sorry...”

but you shouldn’t have saved me.

[mtsjung-blog]

mtschrome:

god is not your friend. you do not look up to the skies with glittering eyes of prayer, you do not equate hope to blessings – god is not your friend. in this life time of yours, god has done nothing but step unto the crushed bones of your young self. all god does is crack the ribcage, puncture the lungs and let you dance into the heaving trials of strangulation. 

choking to your own devices, the heart is a fighting warriors to a constantly weak self. 

the heart is a bleeding, pounding force upon the image of jung soojung submerged. (panic, pure fear, heavy heart.) 

nights where souls thrive in the jolts of terror with the mystifying obtrusion of absolute evils, absolute horrors that god know no bounds. god cannot help you, he never has. this night in the increments of courage he salvaged he cannot die. not when half his heart, half of his lungs is swollen with fresh water. 

jung soojung a lifeline, the golden filament that pours herself into the dampening charnel chest. if her fine blood goes cold, what was oh sehun to be? more of a shell of a man who exists? a man who lived five years in her embrace, suffered many years without. 

would his chest even rise and fall? 

“soojung!” and instinctively, his muscles throw himself deep from the taunting lake by their home. (a lake where he’d grasp her hand a little tighter, reassure her a little better.) god is unkind if you saw how sehun would sever his arm, slit his arteries in display for the very physical pain jung soojung weighed upon him 

– you would understand that god was unkind. 

in into the water, into the black hateful elements that dare to crush their death ridden sentiments. arms gliding through the water, his chest alight in fury. fury and zeal, with the embers of soojung. the strings of his heart faltering at the calamity of the terrorising waters. 

don’t die. for his legs wouldn’t bear to stand, for his heart will find no pressure to pound. in this house it was always soojung with her hand out and him with a peeking smile. 

fingers reaching, stretched across the water to her wrenched body. 

jung soojung, don’t die. who was he to go to for a prayer? for a glance of hope?

or else what would become of him if her body falls limp? would he too see the abyss of these black waters as the golden sympathy she holds dies out? to leave him to simmer and seethe in rage? 

jung soojung, don’t die. don’t leave me crying again and again and again. fingers reaching, stretched across the water to her wrenched body. the touch of love. 

to think, when it was a dream, she’s welcomed it. ( open arms, hearth-less chest, shattered resolve to fold into fate’s hand, its unforgiving grip on the base of her spine; soojung has welcomed it since before she’s known. ) but reality spells a different story. 

reality is fear caught in her throat, yanking at the back of her tongue, fists balled tight, spine tense. a mouthful of water, a heartbeat of panic, nerves in civil unrest—synapses set alight in a sea of bone-chilling cold—tightening as her empty chest fills with water, as limbs flail uselessly against a faceless opponent.

reality is childhood’s fear making a comeback, demons swooping in to feast on her flesh, her decaying brain, for the last supper, a chance at her frenzied heart and pulsating veins. reality is death—a dear friend that stands on the brink of the lake, am apparition only seen whenever she kicks upward, whenever eyes manage to see past murky waters and her mouth parts for an intake of air—a cry for help—that does not make it through before she submerges once more, barely able to keep herself afloat in the face of unknown danger ( in the face of sins of the mother ). 

help. 

it is the strain that gets to her first—jung soojung’s sanity wears thin, a debilitating factor against troubling waters. it is every fiber in her being that keeps her head afloat, pulled toward the sky with telekinesis, yet everything from the neck below remains spelled, almost, difficult to maneuver—as much as she thrashes, she’s unable to escape whatever it was that held onto her lower body.

and as it was, her sanity ( concentration a vitality in keeping herself afloat; concentration she’s struggles to keep with the way her head runs wild, off her heaving body, and in laps around her ) ticks down, near hyperventilation as she struggles, water brushing ( tantalizing in its tease, its beckoning of her presence; the way it wants her ) against the lower half of her face. as her sanity begins to go, jung soojung wonders for a second and another and a couple more—exactly how much she didn’t want to die like this.

anything is better than this. tearing her own head off is better than this.

it isn’t to say she hadn’t thought about it, with each and every thrash and mouthful she chokes on—the water level rises over her nose and soojung stretches her neck further, straining under the pull of her muscles, tissues that threaten to tear if she pulls any harder with her peculiarity—yes, yes, it would be better like this, wouldn’t it?

if she were to rip off her own head. if her fate was doomed to be by her hand.

and she’ll die here—alone, abandoned in the broken loop of the happiest years of her skewed life—she’ll die here then, free, a coward, but free. 

wouldn’t it have been swell? wouldn’t it?

but the traitorous heart wants to live, it pounds incessantly, louder than its been in years, pumps roaring red and all encompassing panic through her being, it slams against her ribs, desperate for reprieve, it knocks whats left of air out of her quaking chest cavity—forces quivering lungs to work, work, you have to work, to form a desperate plea that slips past; begging, begging, the heart wants to live.

“help–” the drowning wrench splutters, half sob half plea—her legs kick uselessly, bound together by thick tendrils that pull and jerk—desperation mounting as fear clouds the better part of her conscious, and her grip slips—and her head dips beneath the water, resurfacing with a renewed sort of panic, barely able to hold herself up.

this is what she deserves. this is what she gets. this is her, cursed, this is her, suffering. this is what she gets.

it didn’t take long—to shatter the fragile psyche. pleas turned into sobs, turned into barely coherent sentences strung together—it is an ongoing torture, surfacing to be submerged once more, each time longer than the last. in between the last few seconds, she had cried for her father, cried for her life, cried for oh sehun—a now barren yet unforgettable piece of her heart—cried for finality.

by the time he makes his way over, there is little to save.

had she been in better shape, she would have recognized the touch to her skin, the toned arm that snakes beneath her arm and around to press fingertips into the back of her neck—bracing her head. ( had she been lucid, soojung would have known—from every knuckle, bone, ligament to the pads of his fingers—she would have known, exactly, what oh sehun’s touch felt like—her body dare not forget such a dear memory. ) but as she was now, she thrashed and kicked, whimpers pushing against her mouth while words escape in incoherent babble—help, stop, don’t—help me—fresh tears clear as day against droplets of black water accumulated on fair skin.

but of course she wasn’t. of course, maybe she’s never been. jung soojung had long died in the quarry and this? this, after years spent in aimlessly “living”—was the devil’s pity on his misfortunate child.

▻ BLACK WATER WINDED

[mtsjung-blog]

▻ BLACK WATER WINDED

WHO ARE WE? BLACK AND BARE AND HUNGRY AGAIN.  WHO ARE YOU? COLD AND PALE AND DROWNING AGAIN. 

—@mtschrome​

black. unfeeling obsidian stretched as far as the human eye can see, when soojung opens her eyes—strangely tranquil in sea of darkness—all she sees is black. all she feels is black. for a moment, she imagines this to be what death feels like. cold, unfeeling, black. for a moment, she imagines if it’s like this—if death is like this, it wouldn’t be too bad. it wouldn’t be too different from how she already felt. 

but a moment’s reprieve is all that goddess melinoe relents—sweet finality for a fleeting moment before she returns, armed phantoms in tow, readied to gnaw at her insides, her filthy rotten bits, till jung soojung is ready, tortured—mouth wide begging—for death.

strange was it all, to be back in a place like this, home of actual years of youth spent in contentment, in safety, in happiness—before it all came crashing down again. of course, people like her didn’t deserve stability. didn’t deserve five years of joy, clasped in the hands of another. oddly enough, she doesn’t find herself running through the doors of her former home—if not caught hesitant by the possibility of coming into empty beds (what lies the point in being back—if she was really back—if she was all alone?). 

instead soojung finds herself transfixed by the waters rippling across the lake near the home, illuminated by the moon’s light; a deep, dark, black, with no means to an end. 

in her youth, she had been afraid of the lake, wary of its intentions, of the nightmares it brings, the way it summons her demons. the image of its dark waters tormented her, and once upon a time, when she suffered from sleepless delirium, she’d look upon the ominous waters, remember the soft hands holding her head down under and make a run toward softer still, arms that envelop her frame with promises she’d hold against her weary heart for comfort. 

said lake now has her mesmerized, trapped in a stupor as she watches on, playing on the idea—the temptation—of taking the first step in. how easy would it be now to lose herself in its black waters, to be rejoined with her father—to die like god intended for witches, for bastards, for rotted souls like her. 

(how easy.)

but it’ll never be that easy—jung soojung will never be allowed a merciful death, a contented living, any sort of hope that hasn’t been crushed just yet. no, instead, lost in her daze, while she stands the black waters reaches for her, tendrils snaking out of its banks in the dark of the evening. 

when it grabs hold—long, sinewy digits sliding around her waist, tightening around her neck, pushing against the back of her head and dragging her into the waters—soojung jolts. shattered is the spell that held her still, had her befuddled—replaced inside with a choking panic that settles into her throat that pounds and pounds and pounds.

how easy was it for childhood fears to return, for cries to slip past as terror settles square into her empty chest and tosses strategy and months of training straight out of the window. 

her eyes burned, limbs thrashing wildly—weighed down, heavy—one thoughtless gulp and her throat is filled with water, water she chokes on between cries and wails and screams—water that tightens its hold on her despite her efforts (she’d part the waters with telekinesis, frantic, frenzied attempts to yank herself out, yet the grip around her pull her deeper still). 

fear, though long felt but never forgotten, has her bound tight, mind shaken and completely useless in this regard, heart threatening to pound out of its cage. she doesn’t want to die. she doesn’t want to die.  she doesn’t want to die.  not like this, never like this. doesn’t she deserve better than this?

PLEASE HELP. PLEASE HELP. PLEASE HELP.

i don’t wanna die. 

[mtsjung-blog]

EVENT IDEAS / please message me if you’re interested in any of these! i will write up starters for all of them — but i would prefer plotting them out a bit before we take the plunge as the ideas are all a bit vague in terms of details/settings etc!! all ideas are also tagged in terms of the triggers that’ll be playing into in terms of threads. thank you.  note: everything happens in chronological order—if you’re interested in taking more than one, tbh i’d love that, please lmk! everything is first come first serve. 

*SOMETHING IN THE WATER — in the dark of the night, there is chaos in wait, there is evil lurking in anticipation. when you open your eyes, you are submerged six feet under in water, water that cradles your body, water that is black, chilling, warm, and all the same—water that wants you. in the center of it all is jung soojung, jung soojung frozen, jung soojung crippled by fear.    when you resurface, you make a move toward her, but something in the water pulls you deeper down. 

*TW: DROWNING

*ONE EYED KING — when fate knocks, you don’t ignore it. was it fate that put you there? late, dark, screams fill the sky, you stumble onto a grotesque scene, bone-chilling monstrous in all ways. when you knock aside the hollowgast—not fallen, only momentarily subdued—you find them, tears in one eye, blood in what used to be another. a newfound responsibility while the threat of hollowgasts still lurks nearby. what do you do now? *TW: GORE / VIOLENCE (could be either or — i just want someone to lose an eye l-lol)

10CM THEORY— in theory, all you need to do is hide. all you need to do is wait. but as you two stand, body to body, not alone in your peril yet all too aware of the happenings beyond the storage closet. voices you recognize, growls you don’t, sounds of flesh tearing and bones breaking. in theory, all you need to do is stay here. but will you? can you? with your peers perishing just outside? with your insides twisting up in fear, disgust, hate. can you? wanna play a hero?  wanna play it safe? (no tw—idt—but let’s break them~) *HUMAN BEHAVIOR — when it comes down to it, humanity is its own greatest adversary. basic human nature, human instinct, in which—everyone wants to live. no one can be trusted. when a wight talks to you, you don’t know it’s a trick, you don’t know you’re the fool, when it appears hurt, claims the other a berserker, you don’t know beyond what’s real and what’s not. but you know what you see. and you act on what you see. *TW: DEATH(?) / VIOLENCE (jung and i are hoping for death / also could be either or)

[mtsjung-blog]

@mtsluhan

“with love from Han :*”

(she is both of these rn)

[mtsjung-blog]

    AND IT SEEMS I’VE NEVER LEFT, THIS SACRIFICIAL BURIAL GROUND.                                                          tw: drowning

in her dreams, it’s always the same. 

the water in the quarry is black, abyssal and baleful in the way she stares, terrified, into it and it stares back—whispers taunts and snickers around her panic. soft hands pin her down, hands of a boy inexperienced, a boy young and reckless and cruel all at once. when he holds her underwater, she is screaming, voice garbled and gurgled and unheard.

( how was it then, that she hears nothing but everything at once? that she knows, deep within her heart, the reasons that call for this—the reasons behind such an execrable punishment.

witch. witch. witch.

they shout, exceeding in blind confidence—man’s foolish pride.

i’m not. i’m not. i’m not.

she cries, words distorted and tinny—foreign even to her own tongue as times past as dreams like this reoccur relentless as jung soojung effectively crumbles into herself. was she really not? )

of the times she’s relived true terror in her dreams, there was always people—faces she recognized, faces she’s never seen, faces blurred black and contorted—but none that reached out, none that bothered. and she knows, she realizes after years with her own demons, she knows not to beg—she knows not to bother. to not to stand in the way of divine punishment.

hasn’t she made things worse enough as it is?

but the human brain needs only seconds of hypoxia to hallucinate, less than minutes to begin to deteriorate—to rot. and her body is not hers in that moment, fractured thoughts barely strung in coherency, emotions none of her own; fear is an old friend barely felt through the tinnitus that encompasses her hollow body. the world is still and spinning all at once and she stands in the middle of it all—jung soojung with her head full of black water and empty chest.

( in her dreams, in the very beginning of her dreams, she fought for her life, fought to cling onto the very real sensation of terror in vain attempts to thrive. but as time passes, as days turn into months and into years and self-numbing shifts from a coping mechanism into a lifestyle—a her her youth can no longer identify—she welcomes it in her dreams. death, that is. )

in truth, she never left the quarry. in truth, she wakes up every day with the same debilitating constriction in her chest and throat—like choking; head underwater, head submerged, head not quite there at all, thinking is difficult, feeling is impossible—jung soojung has lived till this day, still in the quarry, and without the sweet reprieve of death.

yet.

[mtsjung-blog]

when she was younger, petulant youth no doubt, she thought about love. mulled over the taste, the thought, under her dancing tongue. though her father never told her, she knew later, the circumstances of her birth, jung soojung birthed from passion, from burning love and careless youth. she knew later, that it was fleeting and it was encompassing and it was brief—but her father never loved another more. 

what she doesn’t know, now, budding at the age of twenty one two, is what to do with love.

aphrodite spurned from her first attempt, cherub eros carries out her bidding in the clumsiest of manners in terms of jung soojung, curses the telekinetic with the inability to love right. in terms of hoseok, in terms of feelings never touched and constantly berated, love is a tired term, foreign to their arrangement. had soojung felt it, even in the slightest lick, it paled in comparison to the onslaught of everything else that came with him — putrid reds, blacks, blues; numbing ache she feels all over, desperation awaiting a palliative touch in which he fully indulges (all too rough, all too hard) drags his mouth over, her wrist, her rib, the underside of her breast, mouthing want they refuse to address. 

mine. mine. mine.

resounding within her hollow chest is a hymn sung to the skies, the drumming song to the wicked, to the bastard children of the world—though it beats faint on most days, it beats firmly enough to keep her alive (hurt), head underwater, jung soojung’s skin burns hot with a despairing concoction of pain.

—and he’s brave enough to touch it.

the fingers around thin wrists registers as familiar, dominance she willingly offers up in the face of something better—no one touched her without her permission now—gleefulness she gnaws on, starving, for the ability to antagonize him as she’d like. for the swelling hunger in her that begs to devour, begs for pain, begs for a thing to call her own.

“i thought i’d save you from the pain of hearing to yourself talk.” response poised coy, the twitch that take to her lips is what she assumes to be infuriating, leaning forward slight to ghost her lips over his—a hitch of breath, a despondent flutter in her chest in grieving for normalcy she doesn’t deserve—soojung wonders how long then, till he casts away his favored mask for the masses entirely to face her. if she should push more.

“you realize, you look like a fool when you talk with your foot in your mouth like that, hoseok.”

» P O L T E R G E I S T

⤑ @mtsjung ( warning; nsfw mentions )

it is by some circumstance that their paths cross once again. the last time hoseok had seen soojung was two years ago as he slipped from her bed sheets, pulled on his jeans and decided to forget her and everything that had come as a a byproduct of their relationship.

a dick move, not doubt. 

he had found comfort in the intoxicating smell of her perfume perhaps, or maybe the way the quickly drawn breaths were always quick to whisper his name when his fingers trickled too far downward. she had been the host for his misery and he hers, but it had been clear from the start that nothing good would come of such endeavors.

though, he was sure that devouring her was akin to nothing else he had tasted in this life.

so when by some pure fucked sense of irony soojung comes waltzing into the mara-do loop where he had taken up residency, hoseok prays to some higher being to take him away, whether it be by death or another other cause.

since then, they had said very little, but their habits had not changed. no, it seemed hoseok’s mouth was better for other things than talking, and soojung didn’t seem to mind. of course there were the sentences hissed with a small tinge of hate, when his fingers were buried in the fine tendrils of her hair, lips leaving trails of fire where she would be sure to remember.

today, he was going to try his best to refrain. it was her birthday after all, a cause which he could surely contain the itch to silence whatever insult or complaint she might give him. though, it’s clear five minutes into their designated talk that this was simply- impossible.

digits encircle her wrists, locking her in his hold as he keeps her from running away this time, a firm enough pull inward so he can shove her against the brick of the building their arguing outside of.  “ do you ever shut up. ” he spits, free hand moving to take her chin in his grip so their eye to eye, and almost lips to lips. 

“ you should learn to. ”

[mtsjung-blog]

A witch is just a girl who knows her mind.

Catherynne M. Valente, from “The Bread We Eat in Dreams,” The Bread We Eat in Dreams