picspam: it's a wonderful lie

it's a wonderful lie.

Cheap carnival games and brightly lit Ferris wheels and popcorn and cotton candy and starless nights and rambunctious teenagers wasn’t how Donghae would usually describe his Friday evenings.

Usually his Friday evenings consisted of pretty faces and tangled limbs and red liquid spilling from wounds inflicted on pale skin by sharp teeth, nails dragging along his back, voices moaning his name, white sheets he’d leave in the morning, or before dawn even came. And sometimes they consisted of quiet round tables, swivel chairs, the silent hum of air conditioners in the background, flickering eyes and sharp gazes, or couches and carpets and talking, a lot of talking, about things that people considered ‘serious’–money and deals and secrets and just business as usual–none of which he really lived for.

And maybe he wouldn’t really be lying if he said that he’d much rather be in a quiet bar somewhere in Musa, sipping bourbon from a crystal glass, instead of where he was: standing beside the stall–a wildly popular carnival game where you had to pop balloons with darts to get a prize–where he said he’d meet her, leaning against white walls, just waiting. 

But it wasn’t like he was giving himself a choice–Donghae needed Jiyeon

or, rather, he needed something that she had.

Desperately.

So much so that he was willing to invest time into courting her, and effort into being a chivalrous suitor that was nothing short of the perfect gentleman, a protective lover, a perfect boyfriend who was so unafraid to show how chock-full of imperfections he was that the very wrongs he had became his own charms in their own respect–

it reminded him of the late 1800’s, the early 1900’s, when he was love drunk and awestruck with just how much of himself he could willingly and wholeheartedly give to another person.

Maybe that was why this had all been so easy so far, tricking Jiyeon’s mind, her soul, her heart, because all Donghae really had to do was channel some of his old self back into him and pretend that he had flicked a coupe of switches back on–and maybe he actually had–and he was good to go.

He snickered to himself at his own thoughts.

He wasn’t a big fan of long delusional trips down memory lane–no thanks to a certain vixen he may or may not have spent more than a hundred years chasing after–but when you’re a centuries-old vampire with a truckload of memories you can’t really forget no matter how much you want to, they tend to be in abundance.