phantombs

[phantombs]

I'm still not able to roleplay Cuong at any capacity because I still wake up and think about the things that have happened. I'm just venting, but partly why I can't do anything about this blog save for remembering things, getting angry, getting stressed out, etc., is because of things like this.

I have censored names.

Just, Cuong was on CONSTANT watch from a particular person in my life that made me afraid to essentially talk to anyone in fear of sitting through and suffering their remarkably absurd insecurity attacks. Cuong had to prioritize some blogs or else face wrath. My archive was screenshotted and spat back in my face constantly here. It is simply needlessly nasty for a hobby they supposedly 'don't care much about'. It was just accusations upon accusations, hostility upon hostility, and my panic and my stress spiraling so nastily I spent so many days just feeling empty. It wasn't just over absurd things like roleplay either. In truth, this? This is one of our more INNOCUOUS 'discussions'. It was over everything, anything. I was argued with until my patience wore down or I gave up after CONSTANT fire, and then I get my reaction thrown at me as proof I'm some...manipulative liar that gaslights. I try explaining what was wrong, how I would like things asked as opposed to thrown and accused my way (which I was told to do, by the way, because I've told them multiple times before I often felt I was on trial with them), and it's all ignored and used as fuel to show how I dodge questions and focus on myself while neglecting everyone else's feelings.

Being on Cuong was just a living fucking hell. He simply became just another potential element to get attacked and interrogated over.

Whenever someone tells me 'I don't take RP seriously', I just get immediate red flags at once. Yeah, I was told that before, and yet I was argued with for an hour or hours at a time about quite literally nothing. I really have to wonder how anyone expected me to be well behaved and docile and gentle after every attack like this. I truly do.

[phantombs]

Dropping in to say I hope you're all doing well.

This indefinite hiatus is staying. To be quite honest, I have far too many traumas (honestly, that's the only word I can use to describe what I'm feeling) associated with this blog and Cường, and deleting everything associated to things that have transpired in my life has not made the thought of writing this character any easier. It's difficult even looking at him, thinking of him, and it makes my stomach turn and get twisted up if I even try and, quite frankly, I get sick. The fact that I've never felt something so disruptive before is enough of a flag for me to back away from here to process things longer. I don't know when if EVER I'll return to writing him. He means a lot to me, but for lack of a better word, he's practically been ruined, but with honesty, my ability to write on him has been chipped away at for a LONG time by outside forces. That it's come to this point is truthfully of no surprise to me.

I'm setting Cường to the side for a good while yet. Should I return, I do plan to keep this blog as opposed to moving to another because I genuinely love the other interactions I've made for Cường here, but for now, consider Cường's return a very steep tentative.

[phantombs]

Updated my carrd and will link more important lore posts to it soon.

Also, as my focus is currently stuck on Baldur's Gate, I will be taking a hiatus on Cường for a bit to write on my Gale blog. Be back later!

[phantombs]

Cường, for as long as he can remember, has always associated himself with the rivers and sea. He grew up by the ocean, his home in sweet Nha Trang, and beneath the sun one summer with its birdsong and chatter, he falls in love with a woman by the salty sea. She's the daughter of a fisherman, has a laugh that pulls like tides, and as pretty and pure as the nights are clear, he finds himself magnetized like the shores to moon. Yet, his association with the waters runs even deeper still, and not all stories are sweet like his love for Kiều -- in fact, some are sobering, filled dark with tragedy. Cường, wolf-shifter, as closely as he is tied to the moon, is also intrinsically intimate with all things death. Back in his earlier years, before the roads of Vietnam were paved or before its mighty thickets of jungle weeds were better tamed, he was the village's most notable healer. He lived by a river, had a hut with vases of oils and salves, and Vietnam, known for rain, would spit on and on its mighty, unending, and fledgling deluges. Often, in the midst of these deluges, he would hear a dull, dull churning in the river. And then yelling. And then pleas. Lighting a measly candle, Cường would often peer out into the dark of Nha Trang, its great bowers groaning to the winds, and find families in their shabby boats waiting in the waters. Beside them in their illness, there is often but a child, or perhaps a pale and fading spouse on their very last legs. Cường was -- well, a bit like a toll collector, he felt. They would stop by his home, and they would clutch to themselves scrapped together payments -- sometimes money, most times sugar cane or other offerings of other crops -- and ask for his healing. Vietnam, in those days, after all, was night-impossible to traverse, and often, people would boat for hours and offer anything for his services. He would never sleep those nights, allowing families entry to his humble hovel, and with a mat to the floor and candles lit about, he'd spend hours upon hours with these sickly souls. Sometimes, they'd live. Sometimes, they wouldn't. And even now to this day, he'll think of those nights when he walks by a river -- or hears the chorus of a deluge and the ripple of rain. Water, in all its forms, seem always very personal to him.

[phantombs]

Most days, Cường's but a man. He smells autumn chase the summer breeze, scents the creep of these balmier nights, and he seems both mortal and innocent, so delicate in his skin, and can bleed and shatter like any man. Yet -- even then, he is far, far more. He shutters his store for the night, the moon sat voyeuring in the glittery clouds, and in the bellows of the dark where most are now slumbering, he feels it more keenly: the pulls of death. It is... Unmistakable. He, moth to a flame, is drawn to it. It escapes him utterly, really, but as of late in these odd, odd nights, a peculiar whisper has grown louder in his head. It's different from the others, more salient in a way, and tonight, right now, it's the realest it's ever felt -- palpable like a hand around his throat. Cường! Cường wanders. Enraptured, he chases it. He means to walk home, but he makes a right he shouldn't have, and suddenly, in an alley, he feels this death so keenly... It rattles at his marrow and sins his pulse.

You're so close, a ghost to his right whispers. We've been trying to get you out here. We've been trying to show you--

"You." Her. Surprise! There in the dark, the quiet notes of a whining violin, whimpering in its melody, begin to fade. Dark, he can tell a slumped fire, shadowy, is folded by her feet. What is he? He meets her eyes, sharp as daggers, and viscerally, he tastes the acrid, unmistakable taste of death. Agony. Despair. Who is she? "Walking alone in a time like this? You should really be more careful. There's always trouble around out in the dark." Like death. And in his bones, a monster snickers 'or wolves'.

@theyvefallen, ♡'d.

[phantombs]

And I can sense there's something entirely unacceptable lurking inside me.

Claire Dederer, from 'Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma'

[phantombs]

In his cadaver-swollen belly, the king feels butterflies — a swarm of whirring monarchs and swallowtails both. It's what fills him when danger, sharp and frighteningly encroaching, dares to flash him its bone-white fangs. And there, pale as snow, stands a girl with an umbrella, a girl trailed by horror and yowling ghosts. And He thinks — Death! Tragedy. Yes. A spirit whispers in his ear, voice warbled like bones warped to heat, and it tells Him those words wear this lady well. After all, she's the bringer of death, a thing drenched in blood, and you, wolvish king, know blood very well, don't you? He smiles half-wild and lifts his head. "A guest? My, my, my... And what a pretty one, too. I think I'm flattered," He starts, rising from the bushes. It's winter. The snow beneath his slipper's red-wet, and in his throat, there lurks the taste of swallowed flesh. He'd just, my goodness, eaten a man, hadn't he? Prettily, He tongues his gums, grey eyes a-twinkle. "You've come at a good time then, woman. I've put on my Sunday best, my very favorites just for you." Ha! He studies her, goads her, and in the breeze, the night asks her: why have you come? Run! Beast eyes her with daring. His bloody robes flow.

@thegreenswillcome.

[phantombs]

Ah. Again, there burns more of that intoxicating, bewildering twist of contradictions. And again, transfixed, Atieno's engaged.

They cannot — or, no, perhaps will not leave... And perhaps they shouldn't. Cường feels their focus cut him scalpel-like, oh so talonish in its ferocity, before it sinks deep, deep marrow deep far past his skin. As expected, the gardener allows it. The store falls muted, Cường as serene as ever, but out on the streets and there in their heads, there's the bustle of mopeds and a billion thoughts. There's peace and mayhem, tension and ease, and Cường and Atieno bask in the chaos... Cường works the flowers, ties them, and his company tsks.

Upset, Atieno?

"Did I say something wrong?"

Yes.

Gingerly, Cường offers them their bouquet. Well, his bouquet, but this star-filled, moon-dripped thing hasn't exactly given them to him yet. "You know, I like flowers and very, very pretty things, incredibly pretty, but I just make medicine, not poems to read." He blinks. His gaze stays on them, lingers, and it's as though he divines to read their mind. Maybe he will. "You have to be very plain with me. I'm apparently not just special, not just different. So, I wonder, what am I then?" To you? God, the unnamed tension coils, coils, whines— "Should I set the example? Should I tell you what you are?"

Something about that sense of balance, that combination of senses that draws them in. That keeps them there comfortable with the sweetness, the spice, the sharpness of it all. It's a blur - but one that they seemed very content to remained engaged with nevertheless.

They're waiting, watching as he wraps those flowers , for him, the things that they do ... for him at that. A part of them is shaking their head at themself. How absurd. And yet, they don't change their mind - they wouldn't want to now anyway.

"Here you go.." they mutter with a bit of an amused tone, knowing that he is going to be so silly with this. The description of their actions lay it out how much they seem to genuinely care for him and keep on caring despite all their odd misgivings about such care.

His conclusion about being that special is enough to have them give a noticeable 'tsk' in response.

"I mean, that's certainly an interpretation Cương but sure. Yeah. You're very, very special. "

[phantombs]

⁂ 4/100 days of min yoongi | he’s just so hot

[phantombs]

Cường calls her infinitely charming things. He says her hair's like nightfall, her eyes like stars, and when she rages to a slight that whittles at her patience, she's like comets and wormholes and solar flares. In other words: she is cosmic. And maybe, the world about them teases now, that is a great way to think of her. There, she stands like a miracle. She'd been shot at and lived, has superhero powers, and has seen a man that's a wolf with its thousand teeth. It'd come to her last night. Yes, it'd whispered sweet her name. It wants to play a game with her, make her ever stronger, and I'll help you trounce the fools that have wronged you, girl. Make a deal with the devil, now. The devil you already know. He looked like Cường but with hair all gold, and with a look in his eyes more hell than stars.

Yukako, you really are a vessel of strange improbabilites.

The girls eats. Its shell gives way to her bite, and a quiet delight fills his belly when the slightest glimmer of approval fills her eyes. It's true: she told them she loved taiyaki, and he'd mastered the recipe. For her. There, he can see the way her hand curls about the treat, and lingering on her knuckles, wonders where on earth she's getting at. "Huh. Me telling you you aren't eating enough and turning into skin and bones isn't being a jerk, you little drama queen," he answers. "I made some with matcha paste, too. I made every single one, yes, now, eat more while you complain." How curious. At this point, he knows of her every bruising fight. Yet, they aren't talking about some run-of-the-mill encounter today, are they? No. She looks to him, words, chosen with care, cautiously broaching, and in his bones, the monster inside them evilly laughs. They are talking about Him.

Cường, if alarmed, surprised, doesn't wear it on his face. He never does; he usually fancies sunshine instead, or the low glow of city lights as he gazes out the window. His memory? His memory's all dark. He tilts the tin of tea leaves around in circles, samples the aromatic scent of jasmine as he does, but it doesn't stir a single thought from that full moon night. Yet, in snatches and whispers, that beast in him says her name. He knows it's him, because her name sounds crueler. Big brother -- worries, maybe. He lowers the tin, makes his brew as usual, and speaks. "I worry about you walking around alone so late at night, you know. You're a magnet for trouble." For strange improbabilities. "There are things out there that are almost as bad as me being a 'jerk'." Like that golden haired, snakish, sinister thing! Cường, but different. Here, in the full boast of that creature's gray-cruel eyes, the kettle whines loud. Cường blinks, takes it off the stovetop, and pours. His welted hands split raw. Ow. Yukako... "Why would you ask me that?"

Do you remember being a jerk to me the other day?

He waits for the shoe to drop. (She's seen Him.)

The world has turned Yukako Yamagishi's flesh into its own personal cupboard⁽ ¹ ⁾, burying and twisting the butcher’s knife named extraordinary encounters into her skin as if it enjoys the way she writhes. She must enjoy the pain. She must get some kind of sick thrill in landing herself in situations where she wobbles between kicking ass and getting her ass kicked. Does her intrigue know no bounds? Or is it all the doing of gravity, pulling the one in a million’s of this planet closer to her? It is the latter, and her curiosity is satiated all the same.

Cường isn't the first person Yukako’s briefed on her eventful February 5th— involving an expert archer who nocked a golden arrow at her and shot it through her heart, but he is the only one who believed her when she said it. Their bond has greatened from that alone and the delinquent comes to fill his ears from thereon with her latest battles and encounters. A crazy chick and her robot; a set of twins and their older brother and later their uncle... all of which have been discovered in normal, odd places. There is only one confrontation that was unlike the rest, a recent one that sticks deeply to the forefront of her thoughts: it was Cường, but not really. He turned into a completely different person under the full moon down to even what he was wearing.

And he was a condescending dick.

“ You made all of these? Thank you. ” Yukako eyes the abundance of handmade taiyaki after watching him draw near from the gloomy outside. She knows they were meant to be brought home and then shared, but she can't resist eating one right now. (Can she be blamed? Cường knows they're her new favorites!) The fish-shaped cake is held by its sides and the delinquent, masking her eagerness as much as she can, takes a bite from its head. The insightful herbalist remains in the center of Yukako's vision as she eats, and she soon grows curious at watching him beat around the bush so obviously.

She follows the trail he’s made with his footprints on the ground like a hypocrite, even making sure that his indented soles on the dirt are deepened with her own. “ It sounds like you want me to say something in particular. Do you remember being a jerk to me the other day? ”

[phantombs]

"You might have seen a few more years than I have, old man," Cường murmurs, "but even little old me know things you don't." How — glib. Sliske, draped there in the winter-time shadows, has, in fact, seen some eons of lifetimes. This gardener's but a sprout, has just sampled a blink of three centuries, but he yet speaks with wisdom and an age-old confidence. And he wears it proudly. Quite comically so. There, Cường reveals his hand to them, and sat in his calloused palm, a flower gingerly bobs its hello. It's an ethereal shade of blue, its fronds glowing dimly like starshine, and having appeared out of nowhere as though conjured from some spell, a low, sweet fragrance takes the grove. This novel, unnamed flower — it's something new, beautiful. Cường looks. "Go ahead and gush. Ask me how I grew it. You've practically got doe eyes right now, don't you?"

@ohshadow.

[phantombs]

The dark is endless. The skies drip ink. It's late in the night, late enough that even the owls now sleep, and in the absence of their hooting and the chirrup of the crickets, there looms nothing but starlight and moons and trees. Here in this hour, only foul things don't sleep, and Cường, restless, hears Verin stir awake -- no, Verin jolt sudden. Another foul dream. "Nightmare, huh?" He knows. He's laid an arm's reach beside her, void-deep eyes twinkling to the stars. How shrewd, those eyes, sharp, keen, brilliant. "It's always one after the other with you these days. You really do have your way with choosing very poor bedmates, you know."

@bellecosebabe.

[phantombs]

I'm going to slowly work my way through some writing again. I do have some older drafts, and I will answer those, but if you'd like something new/fresh, or if we haven't write before, like this post and I'll whip up a starter.

[phantombs]

you’re here every night ,  aren’t you ?

𝑨 𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑬𝑹 𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑬: no longer accepting.

He is. "And that's not a complaint, is it?" Well, he wagers not. Again, as is his wont, Cường, gazing up unto her window, is caught entering through her sweet little garden. He wanders here often, peruses the beds with its April-growing sprouts, and he takes stock of the fragrance of early blooming daffodils and the vigorous growing of climbing trees. Here, he always, always finds it calming. The air saunters differently about her home, shimmery with the afterglow of the now-slumbering sun, and in its dark, shadowed wake, he feels the fingers of the stars. He feels held by the nighttime... And tenderly kissed. It's appropriate, he imagines, as he paces slowly toward her window: Sayuri, last he daydreamed, was always like the moon.

(And he can't keep away. After all, he's a wolvish thing, hasn't he?)

Cường hums. With her window drawn up, he can see the slow, slow shiver of the breeze through her curtains. Rifling quaint her hair, too, she, torched by the lamplight, sits in watch so gauzy. There's something ethereal here. Is he dreaming? "You should sound more grateful," he starts, plain as ever. What a nuisance! "I'm making old dreams you used to have after watching your soppy dramas come true. I'm here to remind you that it's okay to get lost in your head little. And to dream very boldly and boldly of me." How annoying -- and, still, comically familiar. He looks at her backdoor and waits. "I came to visit. I worked late." He always does.

[phantombs]

i am not okay

[phantombs]

Life's all about balance, he'd tell them in his pretty, rose-gentle way with words. Listen, Atieno, it's like night and day, really. It's like the thick sweet of honey and the great heat of spices; agitation and charm is a dizzying mix.

Him.

Cương, having nabbed this creature's total attention, wraps these pretty flowers with his calloused, soft hands.

"Huh. Well, what thoughts haven't you led me to think?" he asks, easy and calm as anything. About them both, joined with the muffled titter of the backroom Buddha shrines, the sound of the tissue paper prettily crimps. The air bobs soft and peony tender. "Now, you're playing with me. You come to a man through his window and you eat his homemade meals. You show up when there's trouble, and you show up when there's not. And you join him in the meadows when you think he's lonely, and now, you're here buying him flowers." Need he spell it out? Cương doesn't look to them, insinuations settling, and reaches for the twine to wrap those blooms. He ties. "You've looked at things like me for a really long time, Atieno." Humans. "There's only so many thoughts you could give a man doing this. ...I'm that special, am I?"

Atieno would have to agree that Cương, for all his ego also sports some serious charm. It's clearly a major reason why they seem to enjoy his company as agitating as he might otherwise be.

"Figured you would.. couldn't expect anything else from you." It was just his way. There was no possibility of them not hearing exactly how he was feeling.

They offered with a slight nod before watching him tend to the blooms, the delicacy that plays around with his shamelessness. Even in the midst of an ordinary.. transaction.

"As long as the flattering is clearly working, I'll keep doing so. Although now I'm curious.. what kind of thoughts have you been thinking?"

[phantombs]

All in black, pale but interesting, men find me...disturbing.

Angela Carter, Unicorn: The Poetry of Angela Carter; from 'Two Wives and a Widow'