12:03

are you sure that we are awake? it seems to me that yet we s l e e p, we dream.

[oncidivm]

ncvelteas:

(...)

pulling away, his eyes flutter shut. he presses his forehead against the moroi’s and lets out a ragged breath, exhausted. “jongdae,” yixing says, “you are the whole world to me.” and it’s silly but he can’t think of anything else to say. he doesn’t want to say anything else, maybe just kiss jongdae again and let him pierce whatever part of yixing’s body he wants.

because maybe, just maybe, zhang yixing loves his moroi charge in a way he shouldn’t.

Yixing catches Jongdae off guard, fingers clasping quickly onto the fabric of the other’s collar as he rocks back. A culmination of the best part of their lifetimes; Jongdae’s pining heart is so close to bursting as he willingly participates in what he shouldn’t. Girlfriend, disappointed mothers and societal taboo aside, the feeling that comes with the storm that has finally hit, is exhilarating. His pulse, already quick from stress, thrums loud in his ears as he reciprocates with a matched level of enthusiasm, no fear of inflicting pain as he tugs the other closer. 

      There’s a memory that comes to mind. Jongdae is sixteen and his mother has him near           convinced that girls are for him but his best friend doesn’t buy it. Flirty dares and                     liquor stolen from their parents’ cabinets results in his first kiss- with a boy. It's sloppy,             borderline awkward- but- enlightening for two reasons; 1) girls were definitely not                   Jongdae’s cup of tea and 2) as nice as his friend was, Yixing came to mind- and stayed            there. Naturally, the male had felt guilty for weeks for having such a thought about his              unaware friend, deep rooted crush growing with time despite how hard he tried to dispute it.

Well, if only sixteen year old Jongdae could see himself now. Engaging in a rough kiss with a man, laced with the taste of alcohol and blood— kissing Yixing, Would he perhaps have seen Yixing not as something unattainable but rather, a possibility? Knowing his habitual second-guessing, probably not. Even then as they sat with foreheads pressed, breathing uneven after the kiss and noses brushing, Jongdae’s mind already begins to spin with the intent of souring the experience. Yixing’s words, however, stop it short. His thoughts stutter to a stop- God, his name has never sounded better coming from the lips of another. It’s immature, but Jongdae has half a mind to ask Yixing to repeat it, but instead he grins to himself. Something small and satisfied just for him, accompanied with a barely-there-kiss, brief contact made, just shy of something sweet and affectionate.

“I needed to hear that.” Voice low, as though afraid to shatter whatever it is that’s happening, his grip upon the other’s collar loosens, hands instead resting upon Yixing’s broad chest. So warm beneath his fingers. “You...” What to say? Once again, words escape him at the most frustrating of times, despite the validation of physical contact from Yixing. You can’t rely on Yixing to make the decisions, take the blame and speak for you, forever, Jongdae. Rather than trying to finish his sentence with words, the male closes the gap, his first act of bravery that early morning. He may not have been the one to break the tension, but to ignore the urge to run, to deny, to do the right thing- Jongdae has never felt as emboldened as he does right then and there in Yixing’s lap, kiss lingering this time. There’s something vulnerable in the way that his lips chase the other’s, his need for Yixing exposed, desperate. 

I love you, is what sits on his tongue, but, I want you is more apparent in his actions; his fingers are knotted behind Yixing’s head, forearms resting upon his shoulders- so close. He’s missed the casual skinship that comes with his bestfriend. Missed having someone to ramble on to (Baekhyun never shuts up), missed his comforting presence when visited by his parents and missed seeing his cheek occasionally dimple thanks to something Jongdae had said.

“You don’t have to leave.” Is what Jongdae mumbles when he pulls away, space enough between the two that the male could duck his head, eyes cast down. The vulnerability (plus the denial present in his words), has hit him hard — regardless of currently transpiring actions, the parting of the two is inevitable. Jongdae knows. “Yixing, say that I’m your world again.” His voice is soft. Teeth dig into a thin lower lip. Don’t tremble. “Because you’re mine and I just- I need to hear that just one more time.”

[baekhyuntella]

you call me monster

[oncidivm]

RAIN DRABBLE ONE.

 Rain is symbolic. Peace, sadness, mellow piano songs and plush blankets; to wake up with arms around his waist should startle Jongdae. But it doesn't, chest warm with content and an airy sigh befitting being held by the one that he longs for the most. Yixing brings forth a sense of security, peace- sadness. His chest constricts, eyes fluttering open as a surge of panic rumbles through his sternum like thunder. Blurry eyes and a fluttering heart are glad to see a familiar strong jawline. He breaths out, a soft huff as slender fingers brush over Yixing's cheek. /He's there/, it's okay, Jongdae. This angle suits Yixing well. Eyes closed, dim lighting just enough to show the profile of his face and an arm wrapped around Jongdae's waist- a very nice view indeed. He wants this too much, enjoys being addled by sleep and the warmth of the other, to question the presence of the damphir. Yixing has been gone for two weeks, but this Yixing- he's here, as real as the raindrops drumming against his roof. This Yixing chose him. Chose his shortcomings, his lifestyle, his love. 

 The sky rumbles. Jongdae closes his eyes and moves closer. His hands come up empty, nails digging into nothing but wrinkled material. He refuses to open his eyes, foggy conscience clearing with the true reality slowly starting to shine through. In this half awake state, for just a few seconds longer, Jongdae can pretend. In the darkness, there is comfort,  a place to escape to and Yixing's face- the Yixing that he remembers before life went south.

 His friend hasn't smiled genuinely, in years. Dimple inducing, pulse quickening, so sweet you could get a cavity- inducing smiles- Yixing had them. Losing one's closest friends is a harsh reality check, enough to permanently dim youthful radiance. They weren't even twenty, fresh out of school and recently allocated to their miroi charge; Jongdae burrows further into his blankets, unwilling to face the memories flooding in. Three damphirs, three miroi- dead. Jongdae had never been close to the miroi, but the damphirs lost... He had known them. Knew what made them laugh, what made them mad, unhappy and excited. He knew bits of their lives before they came to his highschool, knew what hobbies they sought out in rare downtime from training. He knew their faces, baby fat nearly all gone, bodies lithe after years of training and eyes bright. They knew Yixing better than Jongdae could ever hope to know him- after all, a miroi can be as empathetic as they like to the sacrifice of a personal life that damphirs make, but they ultimately don't know the feeling of having their future stolen. They were taken too soon. A future death at the hands of a strigoi was spoken of, basically accepted by damphirs- but it always hits the community hard when the youngest in their ranks are killed. 

Yixing lost his closest friends, his naivety and his smile. Jongdae lost his ability to always know what to say. There are no words of comfort. He sighs into the fabric of his pillow. Reality hurts. Rolling onto his back, Jongdae’s eyes open. He’s alone. No Yixing. No warmth. Nothing beneath his fingers but linen. Just reality and his thoughts for company. 

Today is the day that Jongdae leaves without warning. His bag is already packed, escape from his temporarily assigned guardian planned. All he has to do is get up, but the intrusive thoughts of young faces now buried deep within the ground and the possible consequences of him going missing, weigh his body down like led. Balled fist rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he’s half convinced himself to reconsider his plan to leave when a message lights up his phone that sits on his night stand. A warning from his guardian is displayed in bold font:

OSH: Your mother is on her way over. I’ll see you in ten. Her guardian gave me the heads up that she intends to talk about marriage prospects. Brace yourself. 

Jongdae has never gotten out of bed so quick.

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

(…)

and then—

release.

a gasp inadvertently escapes his lips. sharp pain is dulled by the sudden high yixing has come to expect, but it’s… different. strange. more raw and furious, a heady sensation threatening to pull him under. teeth clenched, he forces himself to ease his breathing.

don’t lose yourself.

but you want to.

another gasp. his throat is parched, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. can’t breathe, can’t think, don’t, don’t stop—

and god, it’s jongdae, not sooyoung. jongdae, the one constant yixing has in his life, the one person he can count on to be there. the one person he was fine dedicating his life to until—

but there is no room for bitterness now, not when yixing’s fingers are winding themselves in jongde’s hair, pulling him closer. not when his back arches, offering him more, deeper, take it take me—

i’m yours anyway.

Yixing responds to his bite, with all too much familiarity. Giddy gasping and fingers that encourage Jongdae to keep going; he’s caught up in his irresponsible ways, teeth sunken in as far as they can reach, body instinctively pressing close. His eyes close and a groan broils up from the depths of an aching chest. She Sooyoung, has been in this position before. She knows how Yixing tastes and now so does he- Jongdae doesn’t want to think of her, would rather become wholly wrapped up in the rich taste of the other’s blood than think of the beautiful miroi with Yixings heart in her hands. He can smell her, traces of perfume causing his throat to constrict.

Jongdae wants to gag.

It hits him fast, teeth drawing out with ease. Jongdae’s heart thrums, the urge to run climbing through his ribs as though rungs on a ladder. Sitting up, he wipes at his mouth with a shaky inhale, his brain a mess of mixed signals. He’s attracted to the smear of crimson against his neck, to the delicate gasps, to the fluttering heart beneath him. He wants Yixing, needs Yixing, loves Yixing. Yet Sooyoung is there, on his skin, in his mind, in his bed, in his life- he is not Jongdae’s to mark, yet that’s all that Jongdae wants. 

“Are you-” A jittery thought process has always been a detrimental aspect of his personality; Jongdae grounds himself by zeroing in on Yixing’s undone top button- did I buy this for him? Even with traces of Sooyoung, he finds parts of himself too (his mind is too foggy to remember for certain if this was one of his purchases or not). He wants to ask if Yixing is okay, but the question doesn’t make it out, hunger still gnawing at him. Days without feeding- stupid Jongdae! "Yixing, can I-” Yet again, unable to finish his question as his thumb grazes over his guardian’s lip, blood already beginning to dry. Jongdae can’t finish what he’s started because he doesn’t actually know what that is. And it hurts. Can you what? Drink some more? Apologize? Love without fear of rejection or pressure? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

Jongdae is a messy mix of euphoric and sad. His gaze has a desperate quality, mirth-filled shine missing as he looks down at the other. Once again, Jongdae is spineless when faced with choosing what path to take, eyes imploring the other to do something... Anything.

Always so reliant on Yixing to make the decisions. 

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

(...)

“my blood would be sweeter than his.” it takes yixing a minute to realize the petulant statement came from him, slurred and needy in a way he’s never sounded before. but it’s too late to go back; he’s crossed a line. “what do you want me to say? would you have me begging on my knees?” laughing darkly, yixing pushes back and makes a show of sinking to his knees, head tilted back to expose his neck. “do you want me to groan out your name? i’m not offering to fuck you, just a snack to tide you over.”

a traitorous part of his brain says otherwise, but yixing refuses to acknowledge it. instead, he continues kneel, heart hammering in his chest. “want…” rolling the word around in his mouth, he sighs and sinks lower. “i want you to be safe.” he swallows past the lump in his throat. “i won’t be your guardian after tonight, but that does not mean i will stop caring about you.” locking eyes with jongdae, yixing digs his nails into his own neck with as much force as he can muster and comes away with fingers stained red. “do it.” a pause, and something in his eyes dims. “please.”

Maybe he is delirious. Dazed, hungry and upset; Jongdae sees jealousy in Yixing’s eyes, so clearly, he isn’t in his right mind. Yixing doesn’t get jealous when it comes to Jongdae. No, no, no. You’re not seeing things clearly. His eyes close, head dizzy as the other cages him in, frustration dully echoing off the walls. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ He doesn’t have the strength to reply, ‘Because I want you to care’. He craves his jealousy, his attention, his anything. Jongdae is starved in more than one way—

“Excuse you?” Hissed out, his eyes open at the suggestive words harshly thrown at him. ‘Sucking off your best friend’; Jongdae understands the sensual connotations of feeding between miroi, but Yixing’s words are so painfully hypocritical, judgemental even, as though he isn’t the one with a miroi girlfriend who uses him as her own personal blood bag (Jongdae’s chest tightens at the thought of finding her marks upon his guardian’s neck). Plus, acting as though the other deserves to be privy to his love life (or lack thereof). His retort dies in his throat, however, with Yixing’s unexpected statement.

Of course his blood would taste better- it’s a given. But yet again, the connotation behind his words has Jongdae thrown for a loop and his fist clenches at his side. ‘My blood would be sweeter’— Go to hell. He doesn’t speak, only watches as the sound of material rustling accompanies Yixing’s fluid movement, still so strong as he kneels. It should be a position of weakness, fragility, submission, yet it is anything but that. Everything is just one sarcastic punchline for the other. Jongdae is a sad joke, dishevelled locks falling into his eyes as he glares down.

“Fuck you.” Words contradicting his actions once more, although softly spoken as his knees find the tiles, he reaches for Yixing despite his mind telling him to turn away. Don’t do it. He’ll hate you more. “You can make whatever noises that you want. I won’t tell your girlfriend, won’t need to thanks to the mess you’ve made on your neck… ” Eyes stare pointedly at the shallow marks- so messy. Then again, the situation is far from conventional, so for it to end in a less-than clean cut way, is extremely fitting for the pair. Yixing’s anger is fading, he can tell because his words have gone from accusatory and frustrated to resigned, eyes dull as Jongdae’s hands find their way to his chest once more. His own eyes flicker, aggravated— “If you cared,” Lips with a natural upward quirk are missing their normal warmth as he bares his teeth, a perfectly broken smile just for Yixing, “You would’ve taken my advice, and left. But clearly, you can’t wait to be given a solid reason to leave.”

Fuck him. Fuck Yixing. Grip growing tighter, Yixing’s shirt crinkles beneath his fingers as, with a feral gleam in his eyes, Jongdae pushes his (soon to be ex) guardian backwards. He’d lie if he said the thud that comes with Yixing’s back hitting the tiles, wasn’t the tiniest bit satisfying (a thought laced with guilt, that’ll prove to be useful in the coming days when Jongdae has time to regret), over the other in an instant. “Don’t say you care… Just don’t.” He says, straddled over his waist and hands firmly planted on either side of Yixing’s head, not breaking eye contact despite the temptation of spilled blood calling to him. “It doesn’t count for anything. You can care as much as you want about a person, but that won’t stop them from fucking you over. Or you, from ruining them. Case and point.”

They’re both angry, destructive, born with expectations and parent issues. Perhaps him and Yixing were fucked from the beginning— the destruction of their friendship was always in the works.

Do it, don’t care anymore Jongdae.

“Fuck you, Zhang Yixing.”

It’s with a mixture of emotions that Jongdae finds his nose pressed against exposed skin, lips hovering over the pre-made puncture wounds, eyes closing as he struggles to keep his focus.  Cursing the other feels apt at the moment, mumbled into Yixing’s neck. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. SIX—

Teeth sink in. So easy. Of course it is, it shouldn’t surprise Jongdae that Yixing isn’t resistant to his fangs. Yet, it feels so jarring to break the skin of someone who, for as long as Jongdae could remember, has seemed indestructible. Impervious to taunts, to bullying, to long days full of hard work, and even longer nights spent training. Strong and unattainable; Yixing, it turns out, is made of glass and he too, can be broken.

Jongdae, you did that. 

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

(...)

yixing isn’t sure if he’s speaking for jongdae’s benefit or his own anymore. “you and baekhyun—it’s always been you and baekhyun right from the beginning. i feel like i’m pushing for something he already has and i never stood a chance.” there’s more threatening to spill out of his mouth, anger replaced by raw vulnerability pulled from the deepest depths of his mind. but all of that slams back inside, pushing yixing away from the verge of falling over. his girlfriend’s name on jongdae’s lips sounds wrong, as does everything he says about her. wrong, wrong, not—”stop,” he forces out. “stop.”

his hand reaches up to cup jongdae’s face, thumb running lightly over the moroi’s bottom lip. “you don’t know me,” he says again, voice low, his head pulsing, his mind churning, his neck hot. “you don’t know what i want. you don’t know what i need—don’t be arrogant enough to force your perceptions on me.” he gently probes deeper, contact with his canine breaking skin. yixing pulls his hand away to see a drop of blood beading on his thumb. “you’re hungry,” he says flatly. probably his fault—failure of zhang, failure of a guardian, failure of a friend.

“take me if you need to.”

“I shouldn’t. It’s my fault for letting work get in the way”

Even now, Yixing still puts Jongdae first, and he hates it. Hates how his pupils dilate at the scent of fresh blood mingling with the sharp bite of alcohol, his throat constricting, betraying him. Hates how he instinctively relaxed into the other’s touch, heart clenching as skin brushed against skin.

What Jongdae hates most of all, is that he wants to—

Let instinct take over, teeth aching at the thought of becoming acquainted with the thrumming pulse hidden within Yixing’s neck. Wants to so badly engage in something so personal after straying so far from the other. He wants it to mean something, anything.

Jongdae wants Yixing, yet Yixing doesn’t want him. He offered out of duty, out of pity, out of necessity. Not because he wants to experience the high that comes with feeding. Thrown into the open, his idea is a muddled mix of good intentions and something hurtful; they both know the connotations that come with a damphir allowing themselves to be fed upon by their charge… Plus, how would Yixing’s girlfriend take to seeing bite marks from someone else?

Not very well, he imagines. Still, his fingers reach up, longing thinly veiled beneath pursed lips and sad eyes. Smooth; Jongdae hates himself.

“You don’t want it.” Tumultuous mood ever present, he finds himself on an emotional upswing after his moment of self-pity. Bitterness swells in his chest, crooked grin finally showing itself for the first that early morning as elongated eye-teeth dig into his bottom lip. If he’s going to antagonize over the moment he let his closest companion go, may as well make a complete dick of yourself, right Jongdae?  Cupping the back of the other’s neck, his thumb brushed against where he normally feeds from as he adds, “Right Yixing? You’ve never been curious to know how it feels to have my sink my teeth into you, to feel that level of endearment for me... It sure is something else. I let Baekhyun feed from me once — it felt relieving to break something so taboo, but could I do that with you?” 

Well, that’s one cat out of the bag; Jongdae should be mortified to what he has just admitted, but his thoughts lay in disarray, ruined the moment that Yixing arrived at his doorstep. In fact, he’s proud for having been able to keep something like that from the other, a secret just for himself. “I’ve considered it before, but I never asked. “ His voice is soft, nails grazing gently against skin as he pulls his hand away. That’s the most physical contact he’s had in weeks and it hurts.  The reaction he’s certain he’ll get from mention Baekhyun’s name pettily soothes the sting of pulling away, however.

“I don’t think I can, though. Not unless you asked me to, and meant it. If you feel like well and truly destroying all that has happened between us, then ask. If not, then leave— I’ll sort myself out. Either way, you were right; you won’t be my guardian anymore.” Eyes search for anything to signify that this whole shitshow isn’t completely one sided, fist clenched by his side.

Please ask. 

[novelconcepts]

I want to see Greek gods in the modern era.

I want to see Zeus in a tailored suit and shaggy beard, a walking disparity of the loud, brash, post-graduate frat boy variety who can’t pass a woman on the street without catcalls, who has more one-night stands than he could possibly keep in his head, for whom adultery comes as naturally as the weather he predicts on the Channel 4 News—with startlingly accuracy, and an endless wealth of charisma.

I want to see Hera walking tall, six-inch heels and not a wrinkle in her skirt, knowing her boyfriend is cheating, and knowing with equal certainty that she is better, stronger, fiercer than he will ever be, a wedding planner with an eye of steel, spotting vulnerability, slicing it open, teaching every woman who crosses her path to value themselves over any mistake made in the name of men and love.

I want to see Poseidon in Olympic prime, a gym rat who skives off class to shatter backstroke records, who spends his summers lifeguarding at the city pool, who keeps an ever-expanding aquarium in his bedroom and coaxes all the pretty girls up to visit his fish, his charm as impressive as the earth-rending temper he generally uses to fuel his competitive nature.

I want to see Hades, big, hulking, quieter than his brothers would ever think to be, who dresses in neat dark clothes, and polishes his boots, and spends more time reading than fighting, who debates eventuality and ethics, who stoically reminds everyone how enormous, how terrifying, how inescapable a thing like silent inevitability can be.

I want to see Hermes in a beanie, with watercolor splashes of tattoo crawling up his arms and holes in his Chucks, a bike messenger with no helmet, no regard for the rules of the road, all cataclysmic laughter, lock-pick tricks passed along to every kid who thinks to ask, thumbing through his iPhone without a care in the world.

I want to see Athena with reading glasses pushed high on her head, six books in her bag and a switchblade in her back pocket, her clothing as neatly ordered as her mind is feverish, brilliance and temper clashing and blending, doing her best to look dignified—even when her brain chemistry rockets ahead of her well-intentioned plans.

I want to see Apollo splattered with acrylics, board shorts and Monster headphones and a beautiful classic car, busking on street corners, not because he has no choice, but because the sunlight catching on a sticker-patterned acoustic is summer incarnate, because music is blood, because the act of creation is the ultimate in sublime.

I want to see Artemis in ripped jeans and haphazard topknot, star of the soccer team, the track team, the archery team, who rides a motorcycle, and keeps a tribe of girls around her at all times, and does not care for men, for expectation, for anything but volunteer hours down at the local animal shelter and falling asleep under the stars.

I want to see Aphrodite in sundress and scarf, homemade jewelry and lavish amounts of bright red lipstick, who is excellent at public speaking, at theater auditions, at soothing bruised egos and sparking epic fights, who kisses as easily as she breathes and scrawls poetry onto bathroom stalls.

I want to see Ares all but living in the boxing ring, cutoff shirts and sweats, red-faced under a crew cut as he punches, punches, punches until the noise in his head dims, a warrior with no war, all crude jokes and blind fury, totally incapable of understanding what it is to sit, think, plan before running screaming into the fray.

I want to see Demeter with the best garden you’ve seen in your life, with a lawn care business she runs out of her garage, a teenage prodigy grown into a joint-custody single mother, who teaches her carefree daughter all she knows while scaring off the hopeful neighborhood boys with the pet python draped across her shoulders.

I want to see Dionysus with a joint in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, baggy hoodies and three-week-old jeans, who brews his own beer in his basement and greets all visitors with a fresh pack of Oreos and half-stoned theories of the universe, of birth and death and partying mid-week, because why not, man?

I want to see Hephaestus with a workshop taking up the majority of his house, whose kitchen is overrun with blowtorches, whose bathrooms are home to all manner of hodge-podge invention, who walks with a cane and forgets his laundry for weeks at a time, and strings together the most beautiful steampunk costumes at any convention at the drop of a hat.

I want to see wood nymphs fighting against climate change, waving their signs and pushing for scientific progress. I want to see epic heroes sitting down to Magic: The Gathering tournaments, poker brawls, Call of Duty all-nighters with beer and snapbacks. I want to see Medusa working a women’s shelter, want to see Achilles training for deployment, want to see Prometheus serving endless community service stints for what he calls providing necessary welfare with stolen goods.

Give me modern mythology. I could play for hours in that sandbox.

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

(...)

a hair’s breadth between them, he stares into jongdae’s eyes and finds a myriad of emotions, idly wondering what the man sees in his expression. hurt? betrayal? anger? fear? a combination of all? yixing doesn’t know himself. “say anything else jongdae, anything else, but do not presume to speak of—of—” he breaks off, unable to even say the man’s name. “you want—but what? to hurt me? mission fucking accomplished.” a humorless bark of laughter escapes his mouth. “of all people, i never expected—but i don’t know you after all, do i? and you don’t know me.”

he’s never wanted to hurt someone more. the thought scares him and he recoils, pulling his arm away from jongdae’s throat. chest rising and falling with each laboured breath, yixing’s still too close but he can’t move away. how easy it would’ve been to crush jongdae’s throat. i am not my father. what did his father do but hurt someone he lo—

cared about.

good god. god.

Look at him. Look at what you’ve done Jongdae. Haggard breathing, alcohol tinged breath and raw emotion that he’s never truly seen Yixing display- Jongdae has done this. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight, doesn’t dare move as the stronger male pushes him more and more into the wall. Jongdae deserves a lot more than having his character questioned, almost wishes that the other would hit him or say something worse. Yixing could’ve brought up the fact that neither of his parents particularly care about him, just a necessity in a loveless marriage. He could’ve pointed out his father’s numerous affairs with damphir women, an unknown amount of damphir offspring existing who knows how close to home. Better yet, the fact that no one has ever loved Jongdae, the way that he has loved them, would’ve been an excellent place to start.

He doesn’t deserve to cry. Yet it happens, eyes welling up when Yixing backs off some. He accused Yixing of throwing himself a pity party, yet there Jongdae stands, a tear ghosting down his cheek as he turns his head to the side, prolonged eye contact with the other disrupted.

“I know you.” Don’t you dare Jongdae- “I know you, Zhang Yixing.” He mumbles.

“You don’t drink. You don’t shout. You never tell me to back off, when you should. You’ve worked hard to learn an entire other language and even now, you remain so articulate… You were quiet and studious during school. You’re an excellent guardian, always so aware and a quick learner. You’re nothing but good… You’ll never be him— that was cruel of me.” Teeth sinking into his lower lip to stop it from trembling, his hand pushes against Yixing’s chest, warm underneath cool bones. It gives him just enough space that he can breathe again.

“I need you to back up. I haven’t had time to feed for a few days now.” His hand doesn’t move, remaining in place in order to secure the distance between them. “You know me. I work until I drop. I’m an only child, selfish and entitled. I’m not close with either of my parents, nor did they like the fact that I didn’t try very hard to be popular in school. I’m loud and I cause all sorts of trouble for you, always have. Sneaking off with Baekhyun and ditching classes. Insisting on taking public transport because it’s more interesting than being confined in the back of a darkly tinted vehicle with guardians everywhere… Emotional and selfish- I’d say you know me well by now.”

There’s something calming about being able to feel Yixing’s heartbeat beneath his palm, a deeply pained frown creasing his brow as he looks at his hand. Still so reliant on him.

“Sooyoung is a good person. Well educated, nice family and nothing but friendly. Very mature. I know why you like her.” It hurts to speak the truth, having taken the easy route the past few weeks of nit-picking her reputation to shreds. He pulls his hand back with a soft sigh, all frustration leaving his body with it. Time to grow up. “She’s the sort of miroi that would ensure that any damphir child she sires, would be loved. Sooyoung’s not like the rest of us—It’s not a matter of you not knowing me, it’s that you shouldn’t know me anymore. I’ve known you since the moment your Aunt brought you here for a new life… Sooyoung is your proper fresh-start.”

[oncidivm]

“I was going to apologize but,”

If a challenge is what Yixing craves, Jongdae is prepared to give him one. Frustration radiates in his core, painfully warm as his friend’s eyes drill into his own;

“You have the hard-done by, woe is I, fuck all miroi, damphir voice down. Or is that a strigoi’s habitual thinking? Hard to tell- maybe you should ask your father?” He snips, the bottle he holds crinkling under the pressure of his grip as he stares the other down. Cocky, hateful, yet comfortable on Jongdae’s couch, waltzing right in- Yixing acts as though Jongdae was the one that put walls up first, yet he’s the one that pries at Yixing. Always the first to approach, to question, to smile, to welcome him close.

Yixing looks like a starved wolf, teeth barred, eyes livid and words spat, trying to get a shot at Jongdae’s throat. Far from a lap dog. He’s always been that way, back against a wall and hackles raised. Jongdae has rolled over time and time again (determined to show that he is no threat), but with the mention of strigoi, he’s bearing his own teeth.

“…That was fucked.” He exhales, eyes dropping once more to the floor, refusing to see the fallout of his words. If it were anyone else, it’d be a pinnacle moment of learning to stand up for one’s self, but there is nothing to stand up for with Yixing. He’s already deeply wounded, mentions of his father re-opening barely stitched together flesh.

“If you want to leave, then fine. Go. I want you here- my actions contradict it but I want you. I changed and you don’t like it, or maybe you haven’t liked me all long because really, I’m just as bad as the rest of them. So go. Forget about all of this. I shouldn’t have asked you here.”

Jongdae is not proud. This is not him- not them. He doesn’t fight Yixing, doesn’t chase him away- Jongdae does not hurt Yixing. Yet he mentioned his father. Disgusting. “Excuse me.” Jongdae feels grimy, eyes pricking (slender fingers quick to wipe away any trace of his heartache) as he turns away. Polished shoes scuff against tile in his haste to walk away, headed for the kitchen. No glance over the shoulder, he prays that the other doesn’t follow. Jongdae has cried enough in front of Yixing growing up- he needs no help in this circumstance to prove that he’s still the emotional, selfish miroi that Yixing grew up with.

Because that’s all that this is, Jongdae’s immaturity running rampant because Yixing dared to love someone other than him. Selfish and stupid- Jongdae’s speciality. Jongdae’s this, Jongdae’s that, Jongdae, Jongdae, Jongdae. His head aches as he comes to a halt in the entranceway to the kitchen, hand resting on the frame and head hung as he breathes out a shaky,

“Fuck.”

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

he feels—

ugly.

zhang yixing does not drink. alcohol pollutes the mind and dulls the senses, grandfather always says. as far as he knows, the elder has never touched a single drop of liquor in his life and expects the same discipline from his daughter and grandson. guardians from the zhang family are held up to a certain standard; the legacy of hundreds of years of exemplary service a heavy mantle on their shoulders. unfortunately, yixing is in no state to feel ashamed or regretful over trampling on generations of tradition. he cares only about one thing: getting home before his buzz wears off.

his phone beeps. fishing it out of his pocket, yixing stares at the notification on the bright screen, mind struggling to grasp its meaning. one missed call. one missed call from kjd—kim jongdae—and he fights the urge to hurl it at the wall. yixing is far, far too drunk and tired to continue this fight. whatever petty steam was fueling him earlier has long since dissipated—nothing left but regrets and the fleeting thought that grandfather is right, his mind is polluted. mind, heart, lungs, all.

against his better judgement, he brings the phone up to his ear and presses play. as much as he would like to, yixing knows he cannot avoid jongdae forever. they’re guardian and charge; in spite of this ‘vacation,’ he still has a responsibility towards the moroi. the fact is hard to remember hearing jongdae’s heated words, the worst of threats delivered in a clipped tone that belies his annoyance. and then the quiet addition (“this isn’t us”) at which yixing lets out a bark of laughter, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “you know nothing about me,” yixing mutters.  

but maybe jongdae is right and this isn’t them, but what is, then? he and jongdae haven’t even been a ‘them’ for weeks now. what can yixing possibly achieve by going to jongdae’s? will they spend the night sniping at each other? will they rehash the same arguments, driving their relationship further into the ground? what’s the point?

a couple of drinks later, yixing is warmer and bolder than before, standing in front of jongdae’s front door with cheeks red from the cold or drink or the effort of holding in a thousand things he wants to say—take your pick. brushing his hair out of his eyes, he gives the door a sharp knock and steps back. his key is lord knows where and—this place doesn’t feel like home anymore, regardless. he refuses to just waltz in.

the thought pains him.

waiting for yixing  makes jongdae’s skin scrawl with unease, akin to a million fingers dragging across a chalkboard. this is unknown territory— they don’t fight, they don’t fight, they don’t fight. guardian dismissed and a far too large apartment all to himself, silence worsens his growing headache as his ears strain for a tell-tale knock. jongdae dreads to think of the lecture he would receive if his mother knew how he’d been acting for the past month; uncalled for comments, dismissive attitude, clinging to one friend and pushing away help- that’s not how one survives in the upper-class miroi world. you need your connections, your family and more importantly, your guardian. yet, his one has all but run away from his unfair jealousy. although, quietly, he thinks, sometimes it’s fair to be short with zhang yixing. years of friendship, and jongdae had found out only through a friend of a friend that his guardian was seeing a miroi woman. what a guardian does in their downtime, is up to them. however, having someone who used to be so close, slowly slip away while you’re left in the dark—jongdae is hurt. she leaves him smelling of lavender and his smile lingers for hours; delicate fingers leaving marks on smooth skin.

he burns at the thought of how easy she has it, waltzing into yixing’s life as though it’s so damn easy to do. skin alight, it’s a jarring contrast to the cool marbled floor upon which he sits. waiting for yixing is bizarre, unused to prolonged silence with the ticking of a clock for company. top two buttons undone, bottled water, jongdae sits in the entranceway, burning, burning, burning. he’s jealous. but mostly hurt. hurt by the silence, by the distance— by yixing’s disinterest. disinterest may not be the right word, for the other has taken plenty of digs at his miroi charge since the disintegration of their friendship began… jongdae doesn’t know the right words for anything anymore, really. he uses the word friendship, but was it really one when jongdae has been always in love and yixing is just… yixing?

he needs to feed. that’s why he’s so out of skin, he tells himself. you’re not like this jongdae. jongdae is kind, generous and calm; knock, knock, knock.

jongdae is not calm.

it takes but a second for him to react, jumping to his feet and frustratingly desperate to open the door (he should let yixing sit outside for a bit, just to sate his bitterness somewhat). he wasn’t sure what he expected, nor why it hurts to see the other with his usual look of—

yet again, jongdae doesn’t know the correct words, nothing apt to say about a yixing that smells of alcohol with flushed skin and a bone to pick with him. throat dry, jongdae does what he does best and avoids yixing, eyes firm on the ground as he asks the other to come in. moving to the side with his jaw clenched, he holds out the bottle of water that he’s been clinging to for the past hour to the other.

“you took your time. i don’t remember it ever being this hard to get a hold of you before— sober up. take this and follow me to the living room. the neighbours don’t need to be privy to this shitshow.” his voice sounds foreign, so detached and monotone in his ears- Jongdae hates it.

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] To quote, “Ha.” [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I’m not [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I’m not jealous. I’m not trying to say anything. I simply [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] It’s fine.

📩 sent after fifteen minutes.

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Left the bar and on my way home. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I don’t know what we could possibly say to each other that would matter [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] But do as you wish

[ ✉  ➝ ignore ] Are you serious right now? Nothing to say? [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] Why are you so irate with me? Because I don’t like your girlfriend? [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] Shame that she’s obviously not around to keep your fragile ego intact.   [ ✉  ➝ ignore ]  If I was doing as I wished, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

The last text sends with an irritated scowl as Jongdae makes his way to an awaiting car, ushered into its protective confines by an awaiting guardian. When his back makes contact with smooth leather, his lithe form melts, exhausted bones swallowed up by comfort. It’s ridiculous- he and Yixing don’t fight, better yet, not by text. It’d be a lie to say that it’s not a situation of his making, although today’s fight hadn’t been picked by him. The scathing intent behind the other’s words, ties itself around his thoughts, phone gripped tightly by bony fingers, turning white from pressure.  Softly, he instructs the driver to take him home, eyes closing as the miroi forces himself to take a moment before he calls, greeted by not the focus of his frustration, but rather, an automated message bank.

“Good of you to pick up.” He should be the bigger person, but the surprise attack by an inebriated Yixing, has rubbed him the wrong way, sarcasm no longer being filtered out. “I’m heading back to mine.. Come in- I’m not asking nicely.  If you don’t make it before sunrise, I’ll personally search for you, with no guardian assistance. I hate texting, even more than I hate encouraging your pity party.” Terse, he goes to hang up but his conscience can’t rest easy, begrudgingly adding,

“This isn’t us.” 

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl:

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Maybe. Maybe not. Not everything nice in my life is a result of you, Jongdae. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I… see. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Were we ever best friends? Or even friends? At this point, I don’t remember.

📩 sent after twenty minutes.

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] You care enough to ask? Color me surprised.

📩 sent after six minutes.

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] That was uncalled for. I am sorry. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I don’t know. So much going on. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Perhaps I shouldn’t come back.

[ ✉  ➝ ignore ] I’ve always been your friend, although clearly that’s not a thing in your memory. [ ✉  ➝ ignore ]  Years of trying to get you to be comfortable and know that  you can trust me- but yeah, you’re right, why would I ever care about your wellbeing?? ha.  MSG DRAFTED [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] Get your head straight. Are you seriously trying to guilt trip me for saying I’m close with Baekhyun, as though that diminishes growing up with you as well??

📩 sent after ten minutes. 

[ ✉  ➝ ignore ] I’m out of my meeting and I’m not going to argue with you, like this. [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] Can I call? Clearly, you’ve got something to say.  [ ✉  ➝ ignore ]  Do you even want to talk to me? I don’t understand any of this.

[oncidivm]

apvcryphvl

for a drunk text ➝ accepting!

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Did you know it takes a lot of alcohol to get a dhampir drunk? [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] attached: img.png [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Did you also know I sometimes wish I could hate you? I used to think partnerships worked best if guardians and their charges were friends, but maybe I was wrong. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I want to hate you. [ ✉  ➝ kjd ] I want a lot of things I cannot have.

📩 sent after ten minutes.

[ ✉  ➝ kjd ] Does Baekhyun make you happy?

[ ✉  ➝ ignore ] nice lighting in your photo. did I get you that shirt? [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] clearly, you don’t believe that. you’re fucking a miroi woman- seems like a pretty ‘friendly’ partnership between a guardian and a possible future charge. :)   MSG DRAFTED [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] ?? Baekhyun is my best friend- you know that. Of course he does. 

📩 sent after twenty  minutes.

[ ✉  ➝ ignore ] it’s nearly daylight, what are you doing still up? [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] didn’t picture you as the sort who’d purposefully get drunk  nor a drunk texter... ㅋ [ ✉  ➝ ignore ]  we all want things, Yixing... maybe what you want is a lot more attainable than you’re willing to see. hating me is easy to do, maybe I can call you and give you a few pointers? although, I thought it’d be easy after recent events.  MSG DRAFTED [ ✉  ➝ ignore ] you don’t hate me? really? a week of silence is a new record. 

[oncidivm]

I want the K

10: Neck Kiss (building on this post)

It’s Friday and Jaebum is out at your run of the mill, hook-up culture encouraging nightclub thanks to Junmyeon. However, twenty minutes have passed since he’s seen his past co-worker whom had disappeared with a slurred mention of heading to the bathroom. He should probably go looking for his friend (Lord knows what trouble he’s getting into), uncomfortable without the company of a friend in a crowded place. It’s hard to switch off in his line of work, after all. Too many faces. Too many secrets. Drink clutched in hand, he goes to leave his post at the bar when a female with an all too familiar flirty grin catches his eye. Surrounded by friends, he hardly expects the waitress to notice him nor remember the out of place CCG investigator, outside of her work environment. Yet, like a sappy rom-com, their eyes meet; her gaze is strong and confident, widening ever so slightly in recognition- Jaebum’s is guarded and uncertain.

Think of Junmyeon, dumbass. Reprimanding himself for being distracted, even if it were for just a second, he tears his eyes away. Remember, she’s a ghoul. A ghoul who works in neutral territory, but a ghoul nonetheless. Jaebum’s never been more thankful for poor lighting, cheeks flushed as he hurries off into the crowd, burying himself deep to keep her out of mind. This sort of a reaction over a woman is bad- DO NOT BE DISTRACTED. Ten minutes pass in a blur, half focused on finding Junmyeon and the other half focused on putting distance between him and her. 

It’s as he raises his arm to sip from his drink, when Jaebum realizes he’s accomplished neither. A hand wraps around the crook of his arm; she’s quick.  His mouth goes dry and the ghoul’s proximity is so close, hair tickling his cheek as she leans close to greet him with an amused ‘Hey’, loudly spoken so as to be heard above the music. Before he can pull away, the woman gives him space but her hand still lingers, maintaining a point of contact. Was she always so personable with strangers? (Memories of a certain cafe interaction threaten to make his cheeks flush once more). Turns out, for whatever reason, this  worn out half-ghoul has caught her interest, despite being in a place teeming with more (in Jaebum’s opinion) attractive and lively individuals. Yet, Hanbyul (Hana for short), wants the pleasure of his company. Invited to join her and her friends, the newly introduced waitress, ghoul, attractive, Hana wants his company.

Jaebum doesn’t get it but she doesn’t give a chance to doubt, fingers lacing with his in order to pull him back to where they’d had their first encounter for the night. After a round of awkward introductions (his face is burning), Jaebum is urged to sit and Hana settles into his side. It goes against the inner-working of a conditioned mind to sit complacently next to a ghoul and those that she keeps for company and quietly, he wonders why he stays put, not shirking away from her informal approach to interacting, bared thigh brushing against his. It was only a brief glance down but she catches it, eyebrow quirked and grinning when their eyes meet once more. Embarrassed but beginning to feel the effects of his drink, all Jaebum can do is give an embarrassed laugh and thankfully, she echoes it with her own charming one. He relaxes.Two hours of observing (and drinking), has Jaebum convinced that Hanbyul’s name is incredibly apt; she’s a stand out in her group, easy-going and beautiful under flickering lights. She suits the night, shining because she’s so in her element that he wants to forget what she is.

And that’s a first. Junmyeon has well and truly been pushed to the side. He’s not the only one who has been watching though, her own gaze burning into him when he turns his attention elsewhere. When she asks if he wants to go somewhere more quiet, it’s not nearly as much of a struggle as it had been earlier. She acts too human for him to be so uptight- too nice and personable. He says yes and she leads the way until they find a quiet corner fit just for them. Just as the place has been made for their fateful meeting, her waist beneath his hands feels distressingly good.

 Everything from the way her arms wrap around his neck, lithe frame pressed against a wall, nose brushing against his and music softly thudding in time with the tempo of their pulses- it feels too good. But he’s feeling uncharacteristically indulgent and so he claims her lips and he’s  met with a similar level of earnestness that leaves him breathless. They tell humans to watch out for the ravenous appetite of ghouls- but what of half-ghouls? A wandering hand grips her upper thigh, just above the hemline of her skirt and his lips move to a smooth expanse of neck. Fleeting kisses, although fast, change the heated atmosphere in a second. She laughs softly and he grins against skin. Terrifyingly nice. 

[oncidivm]

KISS ME HARD B4 U GO

4: Forehead Kiss

Distance is all he’s capable of giving. Yet Yiyang is terrifyingly close.

Curled into his side, her body shakes and struggles with the simple task of breathing. Yiyang is warm- anger to frustration to sad resignation and hot tears on flushed cheeks, shaky breaths against the bared skin of his neck as she tries to self-sooth because he can’t do anything besides look straight ahead. Openly expressed emotion, so raw and warm; Jaebum is cold- arm limp around her shoulders, composed features and silence. Whimpered hiccups claw at his chest. Why can’t he support her the way she wants him to?

She needs comfort and he needs space. Yet, as always, Jaebum can’t fully push her away. Delicate fingers crinkle the cloth off his shirt, digging in as though to anchor herself at his side. Breathe. Soft exhale; be there for her. There’ll be a time when the male needs to push her away completely, but, for now, what’s the harm in helping her?(She likes you. That’s the harm.)He tightens his grip and pulls her closer, encouraging her clinging despite his better judgement. Petite body sagging with relief, he bares the brunt of her weight against his chest and she quietens. Soft sniffles are better than body racking sobbing- when she apologizes and warns him that she’ll mess up his shirt, Jaebum is quick to murmur that it’s alright. He doesn’t mind. Yiyang, you’re okay. Please don’t cry anymore.  She goes to argue; lips make contact. Her skin is warm, yet she freezes up- although it was aimed at her temple and lingered for no more than a few seconds, her reaction suggests that this little act of comfort on Jaebum’s part, means something more significant to a girl infatuated. Surprise fades to quiet content. Yiyang settles, face burying into him with a softly spoken ‘thank you’. “It’s okay.” The uneasy knot in the pit of his stomach suggests otherwise. He shouldn’t encourage her, but Jaebum can’t let her down either. 

[oncidivm]

# 1 - ALONE [self para one: tw// ill, panic attack and blood] i. human- daughter  ii. roslyn- bon iver  iii. i’ll be good - jaymes young  iv. jesus christ - brand new v. constant muse - denison witmer  vi. resolution - matt corby  vii. valium - lisa mitchell  viii. i’m already gone - aces  ix. doing the right thing - daughter  x. luck now - big scary

Underneath this skin, there’s a human.

Jaebum is first and last. First born, last one standing. First to the scene, last to leave. First to push, last to pull. He finishes what he starts; humanity isn’t a commodity he can afford anymore. Nor is it a trait that humans consider he’s capable of possessing, unable to look past an ominously red eye that signifies different things to those that view it. Fear. Destruction. Abomination. A necessary evil. Ghoul. They want a monster, so he gives them that. Tears apart bodies like ripping paper, hunts down the perceived enemy and accepts the false praise sent his way, as though that’ll sate his own insecurities about what will happen when the CCG no longer have a need for their convenient monster.

An animal is what they want, what they see. So he buries his humanity far below because if he doesn’t, then he begins to question the validity of his destruction. A monster with a badge- his mind has been conditioned to believe that is his whole purpose. He is not human. He will never be human. He is a tool to be used. Behave, finish your missions. Behave, accept the terrified looks shot your way. Behave and be the last one standing. 

Your humanity does not matter. Don’t allow it to exist. Bones, blood and teeth erode. One day, this vessel will stop moving. Silenced for good. No more firsts, no more lasts. Will his employers give him a dignified send off, he wonders. Will they allow his ashes to rest with his family? Allow him to be just like any human, surrounded by his predecessors, at peace and perhaps, even respected? Would there be flowers and would people grieve? It’s fanciful thinking. Fanciful thinking hurts because Jaebum knows the ugly truth. He’ll be alone, even in his dying moments. They’ll give him an unmarked grave. As his body decomposes, so will the traces that he even existed. Files will be burned, people will forget and he will rot, all alone with worms entangled in his ribs. Maybe that’d bring him more peace than being surrounded by family? Alone to rot. Alone and unable to hurt anyone anymore. Red eye buried and unable to frighten those he cared about. Alone, just as he should be.

I thought I saw the Devil this morning. Grime on a reflective surface; mirrors always turn from shimmering brilliance to filthy blurred surfaces, if given the chance.  I should clean mine, I guess. Personal hygiene, pride in appearances, a clean environment in which to live are all factors that should be enough to encourage my hands to move but they stay still, lifeless hands hanging by my side. I don’t have pride. I have fear. I fear what will happen if I allow my gaze to linger too long on what I have become. It makes my head ache and memories rustle for attention, if I stare into my own eyes for too long. And what is there to see, really, other than a worn out young adult, scared of himself? It feels fitting to be unable to see myself clearly. Monsters in stories always had some sort of issue with their reflections being seen- so why shouldn’t I? Distorted features, fogged glass and barely distinguishable lines; it’s better to not be seen. If I can’t see, then I can still believe I’m good. If I can’t see my eye, then I am good. Well, Jesus Christ, I’m alone again. My threadbare couch causes my legs to itch and my ceiling fan emits a dull whir. Moments at home are excruciating. The silence eats me alive. My mind tells me that it enjoys being alone yet my body reacts otherwise; I’m alone and I’m tired. All I do is aimlessly stare, white noise playing on repeat in my skull. 

It’s alright when it’s like that, though. It’s when the tempo picks up that the emptiness of my space becomes intolerable. No longer an annoying, sad buzzing tapping on my skull, but rather sharp stabs of bitterness and longing for something more. A consistent ache, the white noise that is my thoughts turns from indiscernible to articulate jabs of insecurity, all jostling for my attention. My muscles tense; imagine having the high-pitched squeal  of a kettle on repeat in your mind. The only difference is I can’t switch it off when my mind has wandered this far.

Jaebum, please- I was just nineteen when all this started. Those that created Lee Jaebum, 1st Rank Investigator, always check into see if I remember the last night of my humanity. I give the answer they want- ghouls. But, as I sit here, unable to move and head seconds from exploding, I know that’s not inherently correct. And when I admit that to myself, it’s as though I’ve made it to the eye of the storm.  I’m able to move again. I sit up, taking a second to will myself forward and then I stand. Breathe in, exhale out. Ground myself by taking in the sensations around me. Soft carpet between my toes, stuffy air from having the windows closed and callouses on my palms. The fever has broken for now and it takes all I have to not shake. Hands pat at pockets- perhaps I should contact someone? If I can be of use, then perhaps I can avoid what always comes next; I don’t want to leave the eye of the storm. So who should I call? A fellow half-ghoul? Would it be selfish of me to use my subordinates in order to run from what my mind is trying to push to the surface? Or is it okay because I’m contacting them and offering them assistance? I’ve done it before. Cleaning apartments, helping them catch up on their washing, cooking meals and being a pack horse for their shopping expeditions. 

I’ve done it once, so why not again? Why not be the person I needed at nineteen, for them? This whole lie, this whole me. It’s selfish. I’m selfish. And cowardly. My hands freeze; indecision has immobilized me. I can’t call anyone, not like this, not for my own ease of mind. I’d have to lie, create my own truth as to why I’d call out of the blue. Sure, I’m a leader. But what does that mean? What does it mean? What does it mean? WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Calm down. Do it for them. For yourself. Enjoy the peace, breathe and pick up the phone. Getting help doesn’t make you weak- it makes you honest. All these lies, all this struggling- for what?  Tell them the truth, my heart urges. Don’t burden them, my mind reminds. Fuck. I’m shaking again- why can’t my hands ever stay still? The dull ache in my skull is making itself known again. My chest tightens and I want to heave. Deafening crashing; the disorientating wave of emotion makes me crumble. On my hands and knees- I leave the eye of the storm.  I must have done something so colossally fucked up in a past life to be such a broken shell in this current one.  And if I meet the maker of all the universe, I’ll ask him why we’re here and what we’re here for. Ding, ding,DING. My subconscious must be pleased with that thought because the clashing in my head eases. I still tremble and now my eyes water at the thought that even my mind is convinced that I’ve done something so inherently wrong to deserve being so weak. I deserve this. And I’m certain it’s to do with the lost events of that night. 

I think I really am going to be sick. Another nauseating wave crashes over me and my fingers claw at the carpet. All I can do is pathetically whimper and bite my tongue.  It passes Jaebum please- That voice, that same damn voice begging each time I have one of these episodes. I taste blood in my mouth. ‘Why did this happen?’ is the question I’ll keep asking until the truth rears its ugly head. When that day comes, the ghoul inside me will finally be sated. I bet it finds my pain delicious, lapping up every last drop of hurt.

I heave.  I’m already gone. Bile on the carpet is going to be a pain in the ass to clean up. A shaky hand wipes at chapped lips as I lay on my back, unable to support my drained limbs. That’s enough thinking for today. I can’t afford to dwell on the voice of my sister, calling out my name. Begging.

Begging me for what? Stop thinking. You’re not human anymore. You don’t need remorse nor family. You are gone- you are not human. You are not that nineteen year-old boy anymore. You are something much worse I just sit in silence.

The pressure is gone and finally, I can push myself up. I draw my knees close, forehead resting against the rough grain of ripped jeans. Breathe in and out. Ground yourself. Don’t wish for something more. Don’t wish for your dead mother to hold you close. Don’t wish for your dead father to pat you on the back. Don’t wish for your dead sister to laugh just one more time. You see that I’m losing more heart every day. My heart hurts. I wish it didn’t, but it does. It beats away, demanding to be felt, heard, remembered. I will it to hush. I can not have a heart. I do not deserve a heart. Monsters don’t have hearts. They don’t have reflections, friends- second chances. Eyes sting again and soon I taste salt on my lips. Once more, I am a frightened animal, whimpering in the dark, all alone as my body shakes.  Maybe even monsters have their moment of weakness.