#➳ • • i’m sorry i have claws ; and teeth and jaws ; glass shards and broken ribs; all these sharp things ⸢ fc ; main / violet sorrengail ⸥

[neverpeace]

violet sorrengail tags

[wildeophelia]

thank u for coming to my ted talk

[xneverpeacex]

( new ) ophelia tags

[rugbypolycule]

what more could you do

pairing: arisu ryouhei x karube daikichi

characters: karube daikichi, arisu ryouhei

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1788

summary: freshly dropped out of university and knee-deep in depression, arisu ryouhei breaks up with karube daikichi with no explanation. months later, unable to deal with the fallout, arisu goes to his apartment. wounds that have yet to fully scab over reopen.

ao3 link

Karube didn’t need Arisu. In spite of his poignant absence, the sun still rose every empty morning and set at frigid night. The cold still crept through the cramped apartment, through the creaking floorboards and in-between cracks in not quite sealed windows. The earth turned, it turned, and it turned without Arisu. In this, there was no argument.

So, Karube didn’t need Arisu. If the suffocating world outside his slowly encroaching walls continued its screaming persistence, then Karube too would refuse to bow out. He would grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders in his too-thin jacket, desperately not recalling an exasperatedly fond voice that would nag him to dress warmer. He would curse as he woke up to flecks of snow on his window pane and wrestle with his useless heater. He would not ache for the childlike wonder of someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, the snow would melt. The man who had left would take the rent money with him, and Karube would have to figure out where else he could take up space. Karube would go to work in a run-down bar in the sticky heat of the coming summer, cicadas filling the silence in his mind where a plan for the rest of his life should sit. Karube Daikichi would be, in all senses of the word, alive.

Even so, his chest was empty – so he filled it with tar. Karube was never particularly interested in smoking before the hole in his life abruptly dug itself. Now, the nicotine numbed the disquiet in his head, and his throat burned, and for a brilliant moment nothing felt real. For mere seconds, he could shed the sense of loss that hung around him like a bad smell. He tried his best to heave his heavy hurt out with every exhale, to no avail. He kept smoking, kept treading the smouldering ashes into the concrete beneath his boots outside his apartment building. Kept telling himself this was the last one, that this would be the last time he allowed himself to feel like this.

Eventually, the pack emptied. His hands trembled with it, fingers clenched around cool air. Pressure blossomed in the centres of his upturned palms, stomach knotted, the spaces between his ribs drawn tight.

He shoved his frostbitten fists in his pockets, steeled himself to face a space that was not his home. But as his eyes followed his cloud of exhale, they caught on a figure on the other side of the empty street.

Karube Daikichi realised he did not need a heart.

What was the point of a muscle which tore so easily? Which couldn’t regulate its sole function when it was confronted with such devastating eyes? His heart, this useless lead pump in his chest, that supplied blood to his forsaken limbs. To the legs that would halt for nothing tangible on this earth as they made their way towards Arisu. Like a pitiful asteroid in its hapless orbit around a star, Karube fell into place in front of the man who had left him.

‘Daikichi,’ was all it took to break him. To snap the thin wire that ran from head to heart, built to forbear embarrassment in times like these.

‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.’ His voice was abrasion in the quiet evening air. Arisu, tensed and taught, raised his hands in cautious surrender.

‘Sorry. Karube, then. Karube.’

There was always something wounding in the way Arisu said either of his names. As if it was something precious. As if he hadn’t swirled the taste of it in his mouth and resolutely spat it out at Karube’s feet. It made him feel untethered, strings cut all at once and without warning.

‘You kept paying the rent. You left, without telling why, and you never stopped paying the rent. Do you think I need your pity, Arisu? Do you think I need your father’s money?’

Part of Karube wanted to spit more poison at Arisu. To ask if living as a constant disappointment to his father was really so much better than living with Karube. To ask if he really did hate him that much, that he would run to someone who had never tried to understand him, who never tried to love him. Karube had given him so much love. Why did he throw it away?

‘It’s not pity. I would never pity you.’ Arisu’s speech was often soft and hesitant, but in this statement there was an unmistakable firmness.

‘So then fucking explain! You left, Arisu.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why do you keep apologising? If you’re really that sorry then just…’

‘Just what?’ And his eyes. Glassy with unshed tears and rimmed with red from many previous. Arisu was a man exhausted. That his spine was curled forward, that his shoulders almost grazed his ears made him seem smaller and more fragile than Karube had ever known him to be.

The useless muscle in his chest constricted itself again. Karube’s veins throbbed with it. Had he ever really known Arisu? Had he ever meant anything to him? He bit his tongue to stifle the pathetic question he so miserably needed to ask. But brittle eyeteeth could only do so much against a brain on fire.

‘It’s not fair. None of this is… is fucking fair, Arisu,’ and he makes a fist around the urge to reach out, to touch his frost-reddened cheek, to gentle a thumb at the thin skin of his eyelids. He buried such bile once again in the pockets of his worn jeans, glared at the pavement like it would fix any of this. And he had to clench his diaphragm, swallow once, twice, to kill the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He could feel Arisu’s stare itching at his scalp.

‘I’m sorry. I’m- fuck I’m so sorry, Karube. Please,’ and the waver in his words stuck like needles in his skin, ‘you have to know that I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’

And all too suddenly, a hand cupped his cheek. It was the cruellest thing in the world, the warmth of it. How Karube’s neck arched towards its softness, how Arisu’s palm was moulded to fit his jaw like they were fired in the same kiln, forged in the same fire. Who was Karube to stop it, when the seam of his lips smoothed ever so slowly against the length of Arisu’s thumb? How could he have halted the splintered shudder that parted his lips against the tendon of an unfurled fist?

Small, like the first patter of rain on a cloudy day, Arisu begged.

‘Won’t you look at me?’

Could he have? Was it possible stare bare-faced and guileless into the sun without burning? Karube was willing to go blind with it, if it was Arisu asking.

Some of Arisu’s tears had spilt, shimmering rivulets grazing his cold-stung features. Karube’s treacherous thumb carved its home in the hollow of Arisu’s cheekbone. Ridiculous. Both men, all fragile lungs and wounded eyes, stood holding onto one another as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real. As if the other would stay for as long as he was held.

Like breathing, like the most natural thing in the world, Arisu closed what little distance remained between them.

He kissed him, a whimper leaking from between the searing heat of their mouths. It was torturous, and roiling up the arched column of Karube’s throat came a smouldering ire. Arisu always did this, always dealt the blow while looking like the most injured person in the room. It made Karube want to hurt. Thus the kiss became more teeth than lips, a grab for purchase on whatever chilled skin was exposed to him. Karube kissed to mark, kissed to plea, kissed to hollow out a space for himself that had long since closed.

The inside of Arisu’s mouth was hot, and Karube was a man starved for warmth. His other hand settled, curling against Arisu’s jaw, and all at once Karube was cradling Arisu’s face. He crushed their mouths together again and again, lips stinging and teeth too blunt to cut deep enough to make it right. Karube’s rage rose like steam out of him in the slick kiss, leaving a gentle simmer deep down in his belly.

Arisu cradled Karube’s jaw like one would hold a baby bird. His fingers gentled against his jugular, feeling the searing jackrabbit pulse of his blood under the goose-fleshed skin of his throat. His chapped fingers ran feather-light up and down, ever-so-slightly grazing the beginnings of karube’s hairline. In days gone by, Karube’s favourite thing to do was let Arisu run his fingers over his scalp, working through the tangles in his long hair until he was satisfied. This caress now was more of an echo, ringing hollow in Karube’s chest. His lungs burned with it as he gasped for air into Arisu’s mouth, gasped for what he no longer had.

It was like being crushed.

Pulling away was like pulling glass shards out of Karube’s tongue. His lips stung and his eyes burned and his heart hurt.

‘Why are you punishing me for loving you,’ he choked out, mouth filled with sawdust, ‘why can’t I have you?’

The moment shattered, red string of fate slashed to pieces. Arisu recoiled and almost snapped back, spine ramrod, eyes red-rimmed and wild. The spell broke as Arisu remembered what he came here for.

‘I’m just here to drop off my key,’ he said, voice broken but tone flat as he could muster. Arisu was a different man with the same face, a crude impression of the object of Karube’s tragic affection. Nothing felt right in the cold street, not in Karube’s palm where the cruel metal of Arisu’s key was pressed, fingers moulded over it into a fist by Arisu’s pitiless hand.

‘Just like that.’ It wasn’t a question anymore. The air that had so violently filled Karube’s chest as they kissed had seeped out and then some, leaving him deflated and exhausted. What little hope he had left had been dying a slow death since Arisu turned the corner onto his street.

‘I’m sorry, Karube,’ and Karube didn’t doubt that he was in the slightest, no matter how much it made his ears burn and his pulse ache.

He replied, ‘thanks,’ as devoid of emotion as he could muster. Karube didn’t need Arisu. Not his hands nor his kiss nor his apology. Crossing the street and unlocking the door to the apartment he resolved to move out of as quickly as possible was as easy as breathing glass without choking. Karube didn’t need Arisu.

He didn’t look back.

[xwasted-days]

𝖘𝖆𝖋𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 || 𝖇.𝖍.

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

A/N: It’s probably been done before, but I wanted to throw together a little song-fic based on Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars. I’m sappy and I like sad things. Also, this is my first tumblr fic, pls be nice. Requests are open and I have no tag-list, because it’s a new blog. 

Work Count: 2, 276

Complete Story Warnings: Major Character Death, Pure Angst, 10/10 sad. Also, probably language. 

The battle of Starcourt was turning in favor of the party and all therein, but war was never without casualty. 

Billy Hargrove had a questionable character and reputation among most in Hawkins. People wanted him as a friend or a fuck, and those that didn’t wanted him gone. Few succeeded in ever knowing Billy as more than the sad little king of his sad little hill, and even fewer knew the plights he faced at home. A minimal two: Max, the step sister, and Y/N, the girlfriend, who rushed into the center of the mall behind Mike Wheeler, unable to help as Billy threw himself in El’s path. Y/N moved before her mind could register: scrambling forward when Billy caught the mindflayer’s clawed gullet in his hands. Those beautiful, calloused hands with the feather-soft touch. She took another step forward, faltering as a tentacle dug into his left side, the sickening crunch of torn flesh and splintering ribs echoing in the building silence. The second hit came and she rushed forward again, slipping on fragments of broken glass. Y/N’s knees hit the ground hard, the sharp sting barely registering as the hits kept coming, clawing all around his torso. He screamed each time, every cry cutting off in a strangled garble at the sharp shock of another tentacle landing its blows. Billy screamed, daring the monster on, and Y/N screamed, begging it all to stop. 

The final blow landed in the center of Billy’s chest, silencing him. Max’s scream sounded somewhere behind her. 

As the mindflayer pulled away, thrashing, snarling, wailing in defeat, Y/N ran forward, slipping in rapidly pooling blood as she pulled Billy to her chest. 

I remember tears streaming down your face, when I said, “I’ll never let you go.”

The words, even as they left Y/N’s lips, felt like the deepest and most real thing she’d expressed since the moment he was taken by the mindflayer. 

Since the darkness had fallen over Hawkins, she’d felt vacant, plastic, unreal. She supposed the notion came first when Barb had gone missing; when the trio of sub-popular girls was first fractured. Everything seemed to fall apart until Y/N found out what really happened to Barb, what was haunting Will Byers, and what hunted the people of Hawkins.  

Life was a ceaseless ebb and flow of highs and lows; still, she never expected the tide to pull away as it was now. Nothing could compare to this feeling: her boyfriend tucked in her arms, fading away before her, was what would cause the tidal wave to break. 

Cool and fragile, the rapid thundering of his heart beneath Y/N’s palm, the salt of crystalline tears sliding off his angled pale, cheek, his hand gripping her arm as he clung to waning life. Billy opened his mouth, hoping for any words to form. None did. He felt the pain with each blow, but as the creature yanked itself away and Billy fell, there was no sensation. Nothing but an icy numbness. After his mom left, Billy prayed for nothing more than to lose his feeling, and now it was gone he wanted it back. 

He wanted it back because he wanted to stay with her. He’d always known he was a selfish bastard, but this instance wasn’t for himself. It was for her; his Y/N. The only girl he gave a shit about for longer than one night at a time. And now, he was going to lose her. “..I-” he struggled again, shivering in her arms. 

When all those shadows almost killed your light

“Shh,” Y/N cooed, bringing her hand up to brush sweaty, blonde curls off of his forehead, ignoring the scene that played out around them. Billy was never meant to get caught in this crossfire; he was meant to be as he always was: cocky, stupid, young and reckless. Seated atop his lifeguard seat, staring out over the crowds of Hawkins Community Pool as a king surveyed his kingdom. Instead, he was out there, vulnerable to to the upside down, taken as so many others had been.

Y/N glanced down at the gaping, bloody hole that forced the pale colored fabric of the shirt at Billy’s chest to dip inward, the rich, viscous, and sickly stain making her stomach churn. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek, a meager attempt at staunching her tears as she played strong for Billy’s sake. She felt his hand at her arm give a squeeze, her attentions drawing back toward the boy in her lap. Y/E/C eyes connecting to Billy’s steely blue ones again, she offered a shaky smile, her thumb smoothing along the arch of his cheek. 

I remember you said, "Don't leave me here alone…"

Billy’s voice was soft and hoarse, barely audible as the commotion of the party and the mindflayer fizzled on around them. The fair haired, beautiful boy Y/N had fallen so deeply for let out a soft grunt of protest at the ache, his body twitching involuntarily as pain coursed through him.

“Think you can get rid of me that easily, ya little shit?” Y/N asked with a gentle chuckle, keeping her shaky grin to ease Billy’s worry. Her tears flowed more freely now, slipping down her cheeks as she held him close. “Gotta try a whole helluva lot harder than that, Hargrove. You and me. California, remember?” 

The broken king of Hawkins High put on a woozy, pale-lipped smile and hiccupped on a sob, coughing after. A soft mist of blood peppered his lips and chin, staining his teeth crimson. California, their would-be paradise, far away from Indiana and all their worries. He’d sworn up and down that they would leave one day, go back to his home and flourish in ways unimaginable. His promise now seemed as broken as he was. He was fading. Y/N didn’t have enough time.

But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight.

The flutter of Billy’s heart was growing more and more faint, and the beats, which willed themselves with great difficulty, grew slower and slower in their efforts. 

Billy leaned his weight further into Y/N’s body, slack and woozy. All the coherency in his head fading. She had promised that wouldn’t leave, said she wouldn’t let go, but she had. Or hadn’t she? He could hardly tell, his vision fading in and out, gleams of purple and pink, the hazy sound of distant chatter. Billy felt his chest heave with a great gasp, and his jaw open and close with the effort of breath. It happened again, and again. He felt hands on his arms, squeezing, but he couldn’t register the effect of the sensation. He was cold, so cold. He wished so vehemently that he could ask Y/N what was going on, but Billy couldn’t seem to find his tongue. 

That’s a first, he thought, trying to squeeze back the person in his numbed fingers. Every bit of him was so cold, probably frozen from where he had been, lost in darkness with the delicate snowfall. He was sure another erratic breath would leave him in shards. His head lulled to the side, hardly-seeing eyes registering the plume of Y/H/C and a small streak of fiery red. He searched between them, hoping to register on either of the faces that peered down on him, but none came. He coughed, gagging on something oozing in his throat, feeling hands tighten and voices raise. 

Soft curls of blonde hair fell over her his forehead, even as Y/N pushed them away, shifting his weight so Billy’s head was more firmly pressed to her chest. He was growing more and more still, even as she and Max begged him to stay. The girl took a breath, fighting down the body-trembling sob that wedged in her throat. “Billy? Wake up, Billy, please?” She asked, watching a tear of her own fall down to slip against his cheek, rolling down onto his stubbled chin.

Billy took a deep, shuddering breath, so loud he scared himself. He'd forgotten to breathe, and the muted voices he heard in his haze kept him there. Her voice. The voice he listened to in the quiet solitude of a shared bedroom, or in the crowded halls of Hawkins High. The voice he grew to love before he could even remember what love felt like. The voice he wanted to hear for the rest of his life. 

He blinked, trying to clear the tears in his eyes, focusing on Y/N and Max hovering above him.

“....I’m sorry.” Billy shuddered as his eyes glossed over,  a sudden cloud overtaking his vision. The clarity of the world was fading into shapes, then shadows, and careening rapidly into darkness. There was a loud bang somewhere near him and had he retained the strength, he would have jumped. Another bang. And another. One, two. One, two. One. Two. One. Two, each pair of beats getting further and further apart. Billy breathed out, defeated, overcome by the realization that those noises were thuds of his heart stopping. He couldn't see, he couldn't feel, he couldn’t taste anything but the heavy black goop on his tongue, he could only smell the coppery, acrid stink of blood that clogged his sinuses. All that was left was hearing; Billy was caught listening to the terrible, awful rhythm of his once-small heart, stopping. He listened again, hoping to hear the voices, praying they would draw him out of it, but there was no sound. Nothing. Not even the beating of his heart. Just his remaining consciousness, slowly going black. Billy Hargrove was dead, he knew. He wanted to scream, to panic and cry, but nothing was there. 

He didn't see the light that everyone blathered about, he didn't feel the peace. He was the hollow, lifeless shell of a boy who could have been more than a lifeguard with an attitude problem. And he was dead. And he left her behind. 

His beautiful Y/N, whose voice and smiles and touches were forfeit to the darkness that consumed. 

Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold onto this lullaby, even when the music's gone. 

Y/N  felt the final, sickening beat of Billy’s heart beneath her hand. Another tear fell onto Billy’s face, then another. And another. Max whispered, begging her step brother to wake, her small hands shaking his bloodied shoulders to no avail. A hard, broken, centuries old sob tore through Y/N’s chest and echoed through the mall; the cry of everyone who had lost someone they loved for good. The cry that begged death to return a loved one to the land of the living that always fell on deaf ears. 

“Billy, please,” she whimpered, trembling fingers soothing the lifeless skin of the boy she loved. Every thought, hope, wish, and dream connected to him was gone, dead as he was. 

Jagged orange patterns began to dance on the ground all around them, and offered the girl nothing but a ghastly illumination along her lost lover’s gaunt, pale face. It made him look hollow, as if no happiness, no mischief, no curiosity had once been lurking behind those coy, gorgeous eyelids. His once tanned, golden flesh was sickly and pale, the adonis within snuffed out forever. Y/N  snarled and sobbed hard, holding Billy closer, hiding him from the sickening yellowed light of the fire that grew.

She heard feet scramble around as the party gathered, their footfalls echoing like hard beat of the drums of war.

Villains never prevailed. Heroes never lived. No one was ever truly saved. Y/N’s shoulders caved and shook as she sobbed, broken and holding onto Billy’s body. Stifling a hiccup, she sighed sadly and started humming and rocking him back and forth; their song mumbled on tear-stained lips. She was chained to her place on the ground, lost. 

She didn’t see the others there, she couldn’t hear their words. She didn’t take notice when Max hid her face in El’s shoulder and sobbed for her lost brother.  

The world around her was crumbling into vacant nothingness and Y/N felt herself heave with another sob. She leaned back, her blood stained fingers gently brushing the infallible, pure flesh of Billy’s cold cheek, smoothing the tears she’d left there away with another broken whimper. “I love you…” She whispered longingly, her voice needy and raspy. 

A hand pressed to Y/N’s shoulder. It didn’t matter whose it was. It wasn’t his. And she hated that it pulled her back. The distant thrum of helicopters rattling in the skies, the sobs that left Max as she cried, the soft sniffles that sounded from El as she sat in mourning solidarity with her friend. Steve’s voice low as sirens began to wail in the streets. 

“Y/N. We gotta go,” Steve said, joined at her flank by Robin, whose thin hand came to rest on Y/N’s arm. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave him. Another sob leaving her, Robin leaned forward to rest her head on Y/N’s shoulder, rubbing her arm gently as she could, tears flooding her own eyes as she looked across to Steve’s battered face. 

Harrington hated Hargrove with all he had, but he didn’t deserve this. Y/N didn’t deserve this. Nostrils quivering as he fought to keep strong, he gave Robin a solemn nod. Together, they helped place Billy on the ground where he fell and pull Y/N back, consoling her as she cried. 

Just close your eyes. The sun is going down You'll be alright.  No one can hurt you now Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter xv. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  1900

chapter 15.  Bandaids

Instead, he regards you with the most unfathomable expression he’s ever given.  “So what?”

“What’re you sorry for?”  He sounds so confused, every word dredged in the word.  His brow furrows, following the question that tips off his teeth and crashes against you.  His fingers flex in his lap, furl and unfurl in unconscious motions that immediately catch your attention.

You watch the way the ink moves over his skin, stretched taut over his knuckles and disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt.  You think to reach out and bottle the nervous energy, tuck it among your hidden words of affection and cobweb-lined shelves.  Instead, you shrink further into the side of the couch, gaze bouncing around the room.  It finds his face – briefly, with guilt – and then darts to the painting of his hung on the far wall.  Off it goes to his hands again, the silver that glints around his wrist, and then the hangnail adorning your own thumb.

The silence has stretched on, immeasurably long, but he doesn’t push you – as much as he wants to.

Not for your sake, but for his.  He’s walking on eggshells, terrified one false move might send a glass into his vein.  Shards of the home that’s been crumbling right before your eyes, reduced to ghost of its former glory.

“I’m sorry,”  you repeat as if it’s the only thing you can say – the only words you know how to speak.  Perhaps it is, because there doesn’t feel like there are any that can properly convey your emotion.

You owe it to him to try, though.  That much is clear.

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”  Unless being too good, too kind, too perfect, was a crime.  You knew it wasn’t and yet, with each offer of patience – of unconditional love – it felt like a cleave to the heart.  It wasn’t his fault you were bleeding out before him.

The reassurance only serves to confuse him more, the emotion heavy in the pretty dark brown of his irises.  You both love and hate when he’s like this – not your precious best friend but a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.  It doesn’t fit his boyish charm, the sunlight that spills out of every pore.  It’s too much.

“Then what’s going on?”  You’re both surprised by the hard edge and how it forces itself into the equation before he can even consider it.

Your eyes meet for the first time since you’ve sat down and you regret it immediately.

Because your dear sweet Jungkook has oceans in his eyes, moisture threatening to spill over like a crashing wave.  They’re so glassy you feel lost, trapped in the galaxy and the stars and unknown. 

How could you keep doing this?  Time after time, he’d sought you out and each time, you were nothing but a godforsaken mirage, promising him everything and stripping him bare.  When he needed you most, parched and on his last legs, you’d compelled and beguiled him only to leave him just as quickly.

When had you turned into this person?

The sound that escapes your chest isn’t human.  It’s hardly even a sound.  A breath that hasn’t quite formed and cracks itself in two, lodging one half in your lungs and the other over the threshold of your teeth.  How fitting – like a heart split in half.

You see the way he instinctively leans toward you, caught in your gravitational pull, but holds himself back at the last minute.  The movement almost reads like a flinch, as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt himself by getting too close.

That’s right, you think.  I’ll only hurt you.

Another sob comes, tearless and miserable.  You wish the burning behind your eyes would abate but they won’t come that easily.  The settle like poison and wine, corroding your insides.  They sink into every part of you, climbing each vertebrae and slotting into every crevice.  No part is left untouched by the miasma.

Except for the Jungkook-shaped hole in your chest, centered in the throbbing muscle of your heart.

His silhouette remains lily white and lovely – a silver lining.  A beacon in your darkest times, a lighthouse in the storm.  It calls to you and reminds you of better days, of unconditional love and soulmates.

“I love you.”  It’s meant to be an apology but to his ears, it’s the same three words you’ve repeated your whole life.  He doesn’t understand why you’re saying them now, on the precipice of coming apart at the seams, torn open by something you won’t share.

Regardless, he says it back.  Needs to.  “I love you, too.”   

“No!” 

Your rebuff explodes out of you, followed by another cry that lands like a bull’s eye between his ribs.  He thinks he might finally crack, feels the carefully constructed resolve splintering.  Was it so terrible to be loved by him?  He shrinks back, suddenly far smaller than he’s ever seemed.  He’s almost to his feet, blinded by the wetness gathered there.  He can’t be here right now.  He’d been an idiot to try.    

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.  Yours, and his, in tandem.

“I’m sorry.”  You’re across the couch in a single motion, fingers seeking his wildly.  “Please.  Don’t go.”  It’s the first time you’ve ever had to ask this of him, and it feels foreign coming from you.  That, and it’s barely coherent, spoken around tears that have suddenly made themselves very apparent.

You don’t miss the look he gives you, a mixture of exasperation and heartache.  You’ve never seen that specific combination and it cuts like a knife, severing your seeking hands with one fell swoop.

“Why, Soom?”  He’s begging for a reason to stay.  (A part of him thinks he shouldn’t, but he’s never been able to think straight when it comes to you.)

“Because I love you,”  you repeat, like that’s an answer.  He doesn’t say it back this time – too afraid of whatever explosion will shatter the remains of his ribcage and eviscerate his heart. 

Instead, he regards you with the most unfathomable expression he’s ever given.  “So what?”

Whatever you’d expected, it wasn’t that.  It’s a smack to the face, a backhand so severe you’re winded by the blow, staggering back on your haunches as you look up at him.  So what?  What did he mean, so what?  Even through your tears, you can see the flat line of his mouth, his teeth sucking his bottom lip into submission.  The beauty mark smack dab in the centre winks at you.

He’s tired of the dance you’re doing, exhausted by the choreography he hasn’t been taught and is expected to somehow know.  He’s done his very best, poured every ounce of himself into it.

“I’m always here.  I always come running.”  Gone is the golden maknae, replaced by the same, uncertain boy you’d met all those years ago.  “Even when I don’t know if you want me, I come.  I would do anything for you.”  The words are a searing brand straight into chest.  “But you can’t even talk to me.”  There’s something hidden amongst the sadness – resentment, maybe?  You’ve never heard it from him, so it rings unfamiliar and strange.  “I’m trying so fucking hard!”

The way he snaps, words ricocheting off one another, has you alarmed. 

All this time – you’d thought you would hurt him.  So you’d held yourself back for fear of doing so and yet, you’d already done it, torn him to shreds without even thinking.

The knowledge has you babbling, tripping over yourself.  If you’d already hurt him, what did it matter now?  The damage was done.  One more nail in the coffin wouldn’t make a difference.

“I love you!”  How many times you can say it, you’re honestly not sure.  Each time, it’s more agitated, more broken – only held together by the red string that’s connected you all your lives.  It’s barely hanging on though, frayed at the edges and in terrible disrepair.  “I’m so in love with you I don’t know what to do with myself!”  You don’t mean to shout but it comes nonetheless, clawing its way out of the cavity of bones and careening off your lips in a wet sob.  “I feel like I’m going crazy.  I’m so afraid of losing you and everything we have.” 

You’re like a meteor tearing through the upper atmosphere, hurtling toward your doom.  You can’t stop, speaking a mile a minute.  You’re not even looking at him, blinded so by the saltwater in your eyes.  “Being around you is so hard.  It’s impossible to act normal around you after—”  

The silence is deafening as you slam to a stop, beet red and embarrassed.

“After what?”  You hadn’t noticed he’d fallen back into his seat, his face mere inches from yours.

“What?”  You squeak out a hiccup and scramble back, though go nowhere.  A steady weight holds you in place, strong fingers curled around the dainty turn of your wrist while the other forms itself to the slope of your neck.

“After what,”  Jungkook repeats.  He’s so close you can count each individual lash, the way they shimmer with fallen tears.  Gone is the resentment, the anger, replaced by what closely resembles awe.  You don’t have time to consider the meaning behind that when he asks again, harder this time.

You answer without thought, compelled by the heat of his breath and the way his eyes twinkle.  “After I dreamt about you.”  Hesitation because you hadn’t expected the relief that washes over his every inch, releasing the tension in his jaw.  “About us.”

His mouth is on yours in an instant, swallowing the last word whole. 

It’s better than any dream.  Because he is real and he is home and every pass of his soft, dry lips is like sinking further into bliss.  It holds you up in the form of his hands and slots itself in the broken places you’d never fixed. 

You get lost in the sensation and the way he sparks electricity everywhere he touches.  You’ve finally got an outlet for the current that surges through your veins, standing the hairs on the back of your neck and thundering in your ears.  It’s far from perfect – too much clumsily knocking teeth – but the passion is there, years of love swept into the drag of his tongue and the sweet ache of his bite.   

“I love you so fucking much,”  he pants when he’s forced away, cursing the necessity of air and breathing and anything that isn’t you.  “I’ve wanted this since— forever.”

It’s music to your ears, sweeter than any song you’ve ever heard because it’s his voice.

“I love you, too.”  This time, it sounds different.  More.

But more doesn’t seem like enough to him, because he’s pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses across every inch of skin.  The corner of your lips, the line of your jaw, the column of your neck that he’s wanted to devour a million times before.  He dresses you in sweet nothings and affection, sucking his devotion into the sensitive point beneath your ear.  He likes the way red blooms beneath your skin – a reminder of his love – so he does it again and again, creating the prettiest mosaic.

It’s all for him, at first.  He’s waited his whole life for this and he takes his time.

When he hears your voice, the soft breathy calls of his name, he realizes he wants to give you more.  Needs it like he needs you.

notes.  here it is, people!  after fifteen excruciating chapters, the cat's out of the bag.  who knows if that's a good thing, tho.  kidding!

[image-of-desire]

“i’m sorry oomfie, i never meant to love you; to love you like i do— like a hungry thing that’s always eating. and i’m sorry i have claws claws and teeth and jaws glass shards and broken ribs; all these sharp things that are craving you.”

an oomf love like starvation | m.a.w

[supercatburglar]

@monstricidal continued from x:

THE CREATURE IS HUNGRY.

It’s enormous– of course it is, carries itself with the haunted, hunched posture of a predator all the way up on its toes, sneaking and stooping and skulking in a way the Prince would never. AND IT IS HUNGRY. Those eyes are always Alana’s, the same vibrant moonlit knife-blade blue embossed into a skull that’s almost sewn to a face. When its mouth opens, teeth are shards of glass– needles, dripping its own blood– it lashes forward with the hateful speed of a viper–

And then there is a CRACK that elicits quite suddenly, a bony, stripped arm SNAPPED with a sharp, loud sound, and it can feel the force that did it recoil and the Creature slams to the floor HARD to drop LIKE A BAG OF BRICKS–

The ambiguous animal– breath hot and frantic– crawls upward on sharp knees to find the source of its pain, white hot blaring agony zipping up and down the arm that is not much more than bone and cartilage. BUT YOU ATE, YOU ATE, AND YOU THOUGHT YOU GOT RID OF IT, DIDN’T YOU? YOU DIDN’T. IT SAT IN YOUR BELLY HOURS LATER AND YOU REMEMBER WHAT IT TASTED LIKE TO BE FULL FOR ONCE, TO BE SATED OR SATISFIED, TO STOP BEING HUNGRY, TO HAVE EVERYTHING QUIET, TO MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY, AND YOU ATE, YOU ATE, AND YOU WERE GOING TO EAT THE REST OF HIM, THE MAN MISSING A RUINOUS HOLE IN HIS FACE BECAUSE OF YOUR TEETH–

The whip around stops the body now up on its knees– awful creature, dead antlers and a stag’s skull, mouth trickling red. That body is as black as the night that surrounds them, clawed fingertips dipped a sickening red, but that skull is SHOCKINGLY white, like bleached bone, and each sound Alana makes inside it sounds like she cannot breathe.

–Trish.

It recognizes her immediately, a mournful, low, pained sound– it’s hungry, please let it– it’s hungry–

Trish.

SHOCK.

It explodes in her belly and rockets up to her chest, kicking up debris along the way that catches her spine and her ribs and makes the cavities of her body feel unnaturally full and tight. Like there’s no room to breathe. It pushes at the bounds of her bones and the wrapping her skin sheathed in yellow kevlar and pushespushespushes until she thinks she might split at the seams with it.

Shock.

An unhinged jaw. A silent cry. Rounded eyes hidden behind a pointed cowl follow the line of double-plaited leather. 

( Go, go, go, go..! You have to stop her you have to stop her you have to stop her she’ll hate herself Trish go go gogogo! )

As much as she wants to let go, release the handle of the combat whip and let it clatter to the ground, she won’t. Not yet. She can’t--

Bile tickles at the back of her throat. Not out of disgust to really be face to face with Alana right now-- not out of being this close to what this curse has broken and rearranged and glued her love back together as. It’s a sickness sprung from revulsion at herself. That this is what they’ve been made to do-- made to be. That all they’ve ever wanted to do was LOVE together, and this is what she must do to save them both.

In every lifetime, Trish cries. For this pain now. That she’s done this. Caused this. 

“I’m SORRY.” Shaken in a way unbecoming of the Hellcat. 

A closer step. A loosened grip on the whip’s hand. Another step. Slowly. Reaching out. Mind-- open. There’s a wave of psychic sense-- gently pushing doors open-- closer and closer. And just as she tickles the link between them-- tests it’s boundaries with a nudge-- she tips her chin back. Hazel, circled in eyeblack, to chilly blue, circled by white bone. 

“I’m sorry. I love you.” Chin falls. Quietly. “I’m sorry.”

[movedtohisownanchor-blog]

AND I’M SORRY I HAVE CLAWS CLAWS AND TEETH AND JAWS GLASS SHARDS AND BROKEN RIBS; ALL THESE SHARP THINGS THAT ARE CRAVING YOU.     *  

isaac lahey moodboard for frzr.

[wildeophelia]

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