don’t we all wish we could approach our lovers with honesty and fearlessness. not cower in their feelings, horrified to desire someone that is close enough to touch their heart.
manipulative, too angry, desolate, ugly distortion, smashed mirrors, liar,
he won’t tell himself the truth. none of the truth, just dissociation. love is not pain, love is not betrayal, love is not lust, love is not torture, and so he will present it to her,
because,
he doesn’t love her.
greedy, low-life, scummy, he lives in the corners where rats hide to he is not to be loved. his soul wretched. his mind disgusting, manipulated and folded in an unrecognisable form, rich with rubble from a tragic disaster. his heart set on fire. there is nothing to love about himself. to villainize oneself is to let yourself hate the crummy scraps of sanity and will left in you by the devil. parasites like him devour even the most horrific spiders and snakes in this world. he isn’t made to love and that’s alright with him.
he smiles at the relishing thought of a hotel room revelry he danced in for some nights. girl after girl. fingers dug into thighs, backs of ears, waistlines, a slight noise. all this giving, so much feasting, mind run on an infinite loop of incessant selfish greed and tongues. his own brand of wrath.
what a rendezvous,
there are whispers of his false affections with his eyes shut in pleasures and a girl after girl. an endless hunger for damage, a moan to the phone, “yes,” a moan, “sweetheart?” heavy breathing. she sounds teary eyed, shaky, suffocated, “when are you coming back?” so awfully, heart wrenchingly sweet. she makes him fucking nauseous.
he doesn’t love her.
grinning, sick fuck, his hits hip a little harder, skin slapping. “soon” huff, “tomorrow may-” huff, “-be.” a moan.
-- call cut.
for what reason was that again? were he not happy with the sweetest heart in the land?
he supposes he shouldn’t be happy, after all, he doesn’t love her.
not that he was ever capable of loving anyone or thing. not that he wants to be happy in the first place.
but her flavour is irresistible and he must at least have a taste. because what villains do best is to tall the good from the world and leave it painted black.
because his mind, rotten as it may be, still yearns for the sweet kiss of purity, beauty and passion. and the parasitic rot is aggressively attacking this pocket of humanity left in this breed of man.
you would ask, what business does such an ugly, monstrous beast of a man can manage to step foot into the light of the good without being burnt alive? well, like all effective predators in the animal kingdom, this creature evolved too.
his face, a stretch of skin that wrinkles just right when he pulls his lips to smile. his eyes do glimmer, in projections of his love for despising himself. and his words, suave saccharine lines of poetic lies. no wonder why one could fall for this facade
“hello sweetheart.” he says, as the door opens, a vile grin on his face, body overcome with ruthless assertion.
she looks like exactly how he sees her in his dreams every night. sweet with her heart so warm in his hands.
stay malicious.
voice in a cold timbre. she doesn’t deserve this, but he also doesn’t deserve anything good.
so no one else should.
vultures propped up on his ribcage, eating at the remnants of his fleshy heart.
'things you said that made me feel real' x monster au
there were a lot of things he said that made it all feel real.
there were more than a lot of things said that made it all feel real.
a lot more suffocating, a lot more deadly things he has said to be rotating through his stratosphere. for it is because she doesn’t know better, and that is perfect for him for he likes them ignorant. and it is because she needs him to keep her heart beating, and that is perfect for him for he likes them malleable in his palm. for he is starving for power and to have his hands milky, pure and clean with venomous blood running under his skin. for his soul is damaged beyond belief with his mind desolate for any tender curl of warmth.
for he is a degenerate man, feeding on the abundance of beauty, of life and kindness to keep his heart black and wretched.
(you are apparently a man but you’ve morphed into this rabid monster. your fangs sharp or jagged, your claws reeking with the scent of crushed hearts, your tongue poisonous, and let us not get started on the vile corruptions of everything inside of you.
no, you are far worse than a monster.
have you no shame?
no, no not at all.)
this is how he likes his toys, placated, sweet, willing and painfully loving him. for he is selfish, our monster boy, and he craves for suffering in his control.
because, if he can’t find his chest to ring with raw, pure laughter, he’ll take it away from others. if he can’t find the muscles of his lips quirking into a semblance of a smile then no one can. if he is devoid of happiness, so must everyone else.
all he desires is to hold anything fresh to rot, anything real into the void.
and the wide eyed, sweet souled, sweet voiced, sweet heart he had stumbled upon was the truest, most chaste flower he could tear the petals off and set fire to.
and to his defence, we humans have self-destructive tendencies, and so did she if her heart skipped a beat in the faux glistening of the eyes and charming grins.
there are thousands of things he said that made her feel his cold, monstrous hell boy heart was real. but here are the three out of the thousands of things he has said that were truths of his wicked heart that made her think it was real.
one thing he said that was real, genuinely, honestly, purely real is how his tongue rolls almost subconsciously, automatically, for her sweet heart, “sweetheart”. and he knew, with the conviction in the moulded, charred space of his chest cavity that if he physically ripped her heart out, the fleshy muscle would manifest itself into all earthly artifacts purely sweet (see: flowers doused in honey, butterflies, the scent of magnolias, the taste of cherries).
the next truth he could muster his lying, devilish tongue to choke out is how she “is the best fuck” he has ever had. despite the crude cut in his voice as they waltz down from their highs, she has been the only woman who could kiss his mind into a state of tender, wanton vulnerability in their skin to skin tete-a-tete. eyes closed, he wants her sweet heart, sweet taste, sweet fuck.
she has been the only woman who could coax a tendril of warmth in the wet kisses she tenderly tucks under his jawline and to his clavicles. breathless, hot and raging for her in these thoughts.
“i love you” is the third truth.
though this third truth, this fickle little one, perceives itself to this monster boy as a bald faced lie.
but you see, don’t care about someone enough to hurt them like this, you don’t carefully craft the way your hands hold her, you don’t wrack your brain over and over to calculate how her heart will race when you glance at her like this, when you hold hear after a beat like this.
you love her monster boy thats why you want her in your hands so badly, so you can kiss her heart and bite into her sweetened pound of flesh, her saccharine, pounding vessel of her love. you’re selfish, greedy and starving and you will go to such ends, to such care to taste her sweet heart.
the late summer sun of south italy shines its last kisses onto the honeymooners as they stroll across the sicily beach. fresh love like the smell of blooming flowers and sea breeze swirl in the air between them. their eyes twinkling with promises, beaming bright with pure elation towards each other, the affection is thick in the gaps between their gazes. oh sehun and yang asha -- no, oh sua with their fingers intertwined soak in the last exhalations of the sun with their smiles as the sicilian waves crash unto the sand under their feet.
romance is very much not dead, this very moment suspended in time is the very visage of love.
this is how they spend most nights on their month long ventures into the pockets of europe, hand in hand, their vows locked within the cages of their ribs inside their beating, red hearts just looking into each others eyes (till death do them part).
this is how they spend most nights, staring each other down as the summer moon casts it’s pale kiss through the frame of their window to give sensual light to their own frames.
this is how they spend most nights, in bed, legs tangled together giggling like children as if they’ve pilfered something that was never theirs to begin with, laughing between kisses because they know its real, raw and theirs to begin with. love had always belonged to them believe it or not, yes, this elusive magic that was love was real, this unattainable goal was in their arms, encompassed in a band slipped on their fourth finger.
this is how they spend most nights, their skin slick with perspiration pressed wholly against each other, flushed chests in a wanton embrace, tongue on tongue, tongue on skin, tongue on...
the air is thick around them most nights.
his fingers cupping her face so his eyes peer into her needs to know what he should give, his fingers lightly dancing from her nape to her spine, his fingers slick with her aromatic ambrosia, his fingers slipping between her lips as she sucks in desperation, his fingers gripping her thighs almost bruising them has he spreads them wide, his fingers fisted in her hair to tame the fire that coils at his sex.
her fingers thread themselves through his hair as he kisses the soft skin of her pale thighs, her fingers grazing down along his chest as they hold impenetrable gazes of starving lovers, her fingers wrapped around his neck as they share sweet wet kisses, her fingers wrapped around his throbbing sex as her lips are dangerously close.
and he goes “oh, oh sua.” in his light drawn out voice, his head lolled back and exhaling loudly as if he had been holding his breath for that very moment.
he wants, he wants, he wants. no -- oh sehun needs her.
he needs her love fully, his and in every way he desires it.
this night is probably how most nights go because as the lovers walk back to their suite, having murmured conversations as the moon rises, sehun has his hands no longer at sua’s waist but at her hips, too touchy. his lips find hers hotly, desperately in the corner of their small elevator ride up. his hand grabbing hers so that they find themselves against the wall of their suite sua’s sundress lost in the dark.
for he is yearning, monstrous and in love, oh sehun must have her.
wet kisses trace down her jaw, purpling her neck so that when she wakes not only does the ring on her finger tell her that she is all his. his tongue swirling at her perky chest, his nose buried between so that he can almost hear the beating of her heart (his heart). the heat between them swirls, almost suffocating him as his lust, his choking need clouds over him.
“sua, princess...” he coos, his lips finding the shell of her hear, “i need you.”
❒ he blinked at least seven times before really understanding what she said. “ the fuck you mean you don’t have a place to live? ” he rose a brow and blinked.
they sat in his rather raggedy one-room apartment, just on the border of downtown where prices were cheap and air conditioning was done through an enormous electric fan. his living room bled into every other room, the only one that had a proper door was the bathroom. the thought sped through his mind, but he wanted explanation.
▲ five time my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did.
1. the first time was in a rush. he has to get somewhere and so does she and in a frenzy of leaving do they both reach the lobby door, bidding each other adieu and their faces almost touch. the stare holds for too long of a time, the romanticist in him says to go for it. (but no, like he’s always said there are lines and more lines to be drawn.) “good bye sehun/ asha.” (and they move separate ways, he hopes he has her cheeks pink like she does to him.)
2. the second time is when she climbs on bed on a stormy night and his old heart pounds with a youthful (almost disgustingly) hormonal thump. could you blame him she was on her bed? all sweet and vulnerable (just how he likes them). but perhaps he should fall into a deep quieter slumber instead.
3. the third time is when she leaves again after claiming another has found her heart, in another man’s hands. (he is always terribly afraid when she leaves, the house is lonely.) - it is desperation to keep her here and he thinks, perhaps, like in those hopeless romance tropes that he should take her wrist, drag her up against him and the rest is easy enough. but the door shuts again for the nth time and he swears his mastermind of a brain had a moment of faulty switch.
4. fourth time is when she comes back from the same incarnate man. her heart shattered (again), does she ever learn? he’s working on a translation of great expectations from english to korean before she stumbles back into her life.
loneliness evaporated, almost wanting to run up and have her. instead, he fetches the bottle of grey goose and two glasses with his words going “i told you so.”
5. the fifth is when she comes out of the bathroom, hair wet (and utterly fucking (mind his language,) delicious). he licks his lips, he hopes she doesn’t read his thoughts.
6. the time they it (finally) did happen was between sipping some old port his grandmother whom was terribly kind had written in her will to hand him a plethora of bottles to woo asha yang. (he goes in sloppily, the muscles around his face giggling in his determined ignorance to dismiss the pretty lips and lucky jeans of asha yang.) it was bound to happen, though sehun immediately pulls away cheeks flushed (of course from the intoxication and loss of one self’s sanity). “s-sorry asha.” and lips pursed and eyes wide with regret(?) to the re-run of reply 1997.
it was bound to happen anyway, can a boy and a girl simply coexist without a longing glance to the lips every once in a while?
☠ five times my muse thought about hitting yours, and the one time they did.
1. she says something about how boring botecelli’s venus paintings were and his chest almost rises. (he is almost in love with the renaissance beauty of venus, his lover.) asha is probably baiting him, but his arm almost jerks.
2. next is when she goes off about love, as if she knows what love is. look at her, in her blissful prancing ignorance, oh how it makes the bile in his stomach churn. that dreamy smile of hers like an idiot on little pills of hallucination and delusion. “what the fuck do you know?” she goes, almost shouting across the dining table. sehun, sits on his hands for the rest of dinner.
3. his father, satan and wife beater. perhaps has seeded something now ingrained in him. because when the slip of her pretty, creamy fingers drop the oldest bottle of grandmother’s will from the pantry does he seethe. satan’s son knows wrath second to his father and luckily, the striking difference is that satan doesn’t hold back.
4. sehun doesn’t usually have bad temper (which is a lie), but this time asha has just about fucking done it. “you touched my things after countless of times for me to say you’re not to?” if there is anyone who knows how to strike his body hot and blood running, it’s asha. “i fucking told you asha, stop being so stupid! so fucking useless–” and the words leave his mouth and his hand itches to strike her. (he apologises after, buying a box edition of the crude and unforgiving ‘harry potter’ discs for her.)
5. the scariest was when asha refused to comply, her lucky jeans looking luckier (more broken) than ever, he can’t have her going for jjigae in such dress. (not with lurking eyes and barbaric drools.) - it was the first time his arm raised behind his head.
they didn’t go out for jjigae and sehun was prepared for her to find another boyfriend.
6. once was when she takes up the whole duvet pretending its some ‘cute’ act. but it’s not in the fleeting winter season. “i’m going to hit you.” sehun mumbles into his pillow. it’s not like he can embrace her, drape his leg over her and have a prolonged whiff of her hair till morn, can he?
she doesn’t move a bit, instead buries her body in his cream sheets. so his hand goes to the back of her head, that fool.
a bare scrap of the duvet returns to him.
❤ five times my muse says they don’t love yours, and the one time they admit it.
1. it’s one of those little teenage girl whims where they go off in ignorant self- confidence that everyone is bound to like them (and their ever so unique and endearing quirks, oh give him a break). “no, i do not love you so don’t joke about it.” the first time is when asha assures him that deep-down, sehun loves her for all her mayhem stirring and continuous petty heartaches. sehun differs.
2. she’s relatively useful around the house and for some strange reason, her idea of a decent return is for the words ‘i love you’ to slip form his lips (but one knows better than that, don’t worry - he very much doesn’t love her).
3. they’re drunk wailing (when are they not?), they’re sloppy and giggling (every fortnight they spend together and drunk, when are they not?). legs wobbly along with their slurry words, it is some misstep that he has managed to have her music blaring from his speakers that should only know classics. but the way her body moves under his yellow lights he can’t dare say he doesn’t love her. but he doesn’t.
4. asha has done it again! bags packing and about to leave his apartment with her romance novels still on his bookshelf and her magazines still on the arm of the sofa. how does he tell her to stay - should he even? (it doesn’t matter now, she’s gone, now, there is nothing to say.)
5. she’s gone an awful long time, perhaps she’s settling. maybe after the millions she’s flicked through one had caught her eye and the magnetism doesn’t dare to stray. with a look at his bookshelf with the sappy titles and cop-out writers printed on the spines, he swears he doesn’t love miss her.
6. heartbroken again, does she slump back onto her sofa like they have done time and time again. “they don’t love you asha don’t be like this, not again…” it’s as if she thinks he’d never get tired from these little consolation sessions.
asha says a little “but you love me right?” or something along the lines. it was like the time where her mouth runs off like a teen girl’s, expecting her horrible quirks and too dumb of a smile to fester into love.
but maybe, she said it with a sweet voice and her timid eyes (could he dare be the millionth man to shatter her heart?)
with a sigh, “of course i do.” - but he’ll never have her heart in the first place.
♫ five times my muse swears it’s not a date, and the one time it maybe is.
1. at a coffee shop, as all cliched as it looks, with glances of unwavering attraction and lies of ignorance easily deceives. sehun finds it hard to believe they’re really roommates.
2. out for street food, which the scent that reeks of his despise. dates to him, in his romanticist ideals are not crude like this. asha yang insists, if anything she pays (though he knows she has perhaps gone through his books to steal his bookmarked cash). greasy, deep fried food is also, something shakespeare didn’t advise in sonnets - yet asha throws around the word “date” playfully.
3. this time he takes her to the museum, to culture her. but she’s in her lucky jeans and the little appointment turns into two hours of standing behind asha in discontent of the public show for leering men and correcting her artistic diction.
4. he is supposed to be buying furniture, he is supposed to go, he is supposed to make the decisions by himself (it is his flat). but of course, when it comes to asha, apparently he’s got to share (she doesn’t even pay rent). he ends up having to buy her scented candles, bathrobes and kitchen appliances he is sure they both don’t need to use.
5. the fifth is underwear shopping. sehun doesn’t like it when she wears his so he takes her to buy himself new pairs. asha is astonished that she isn’t getting a new pink thong herself. (sehun goes pink himself, he isn’t taking asha anywhere else anymore.)
6. how he had managed to convince to not wear something horrific or brazen is beyond him (sehun even applauds himself for it).
the flat they shared was crowded with drunk memories of nights befores and almost kisses.
surprisingly, the unorthodox pair do the orthodox of sharing lunch in a nice summer’s day. what makes it finally a ‘date’ is the sundress and the sun kissing their skin in the patio of the restaurant. it’s rather mundane for what he officially addresses is his first date with the handful asha yang exists is. and, it is rather pleasant, sharing a salad over book and movie adaptations.
☪ five times our muses almost hold hands, and the one time they do.
1. she’s short, the crowd begs to swallow her and seoul doesn’t provide mercy to those who can’t wade between the crowding of bodies. an almost “hold my hand” barks from his lips, but instead he tells her to hook her fingers from his belt loop.
2. “you should hold my hand.” he says, this time at least he was kind enough to give. “it’ll make you feel better.” and this time, she’s in his bed wincing with the clutch of the ‘demon’ abdomen of hers. - however, his kindness is not reciprocated in this careful week as she banishes him with an impolite “fuck off oh sehun.” this is the last time he gives her any mind on the monthly bloodbath.
3. “you should hold my hand.” she says, this time it’s sehun who has managed to get into an alleyway fumble with his ‘friend’(?), katsu, over spray cans and michelangelo again. “it’ll make you feel better.” this time the first aid kit is on her lap and he is on his bed, shamefully, sehun’s moment of weakness is the sting of her 99% sanitary alcohol to his masculinity “- no, i’m very fine asha.”
4. it’s a bad taxi ride, he can’t blame her for latching herself onto every surface she can to stay put (the taxis in seoul break incessantly, asha always ends up flying and squishing him to the side). this time, a hand flies to the handle by the door and the other clamped between his wrist and palm. (“asha release your claws.”)
5. sehun’s movie night is always a choice of horror movies with a need for gore, and very surprisingly and ‘un-admittedly’ (something of which asha only knows of,) overly cliched rom-coms. sick off asha’s taunts on his eager eyes and ‘dirty dancing’, putting on a family favourite of ‘scream’. - fright, a catalyst for screams and hand holding, such doesn’t come. almost though, considering all the jumping and arm clutching.
6. something asha is very much prone to is rallying the attention of men with hungry eyes and shameless glimpses. something he is very much unsatisfied with. it is only a matter of time before fingers graze (rather innocently for the son of satan himself).
“this is just to get those mutts off staring at you like raw meat.” he assures, head craned and lips buried in her hair, give the looking rabid men a run for their money.
such hand holding it is indeed short of tender comfort it supposedly should prove. but the stars of asha and sehun had never allowed such intimacy, he doesn’t think.
☁ five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it.
1. she is with another man, once again and it is his first time in a while doing groceries for one. as he places ingredients for pasta in his cart does he bitterly remember she is in residence with another. calling her for dinner, crosses and leaves his mind quickly.
2. he think about her as he showers. the water running through his scalp with the dance of his fingers and almost instinctively, the muscle of his throat jumps to hum a familiar tune asha herself was singing the other day. (little does he know what she does, back to the floor of his shower…) “kiss it, kiss it - fuck -”, he swears its only because she plays it so often.
not that sehun thinks about her as he showers. as he shan’t.
3. katsu makes an offhanded comment, again, through their play on graffiti stencils and comparisons to the louvre does his ‘acquaintance’ ask of his ‘very female roommate’. “have you ever thought of kissing her?” a snicker follows, what he doesn’t know is best to keep that way. (the thought of drunken nights and accidental grazings of the lips and nuzzles of the noses is a thought best replaced.) “no you fool, i wouldn’t.“ except - well, he has thought of it, and it has happened.
4. wet dreams are common among the hormonal male, though he is godly and impeccably divine, he still falls a fool to the trick of the human mind for lust. and the trick sehun’s brain plays call for the ruffling of sheets, ringing his ears for sweet mewls and thighs that clench, that he swears taste like honey (not that he has any knowledge of). in this (very wet) dream he envisions dainty fingers and arched backs of dare he say, miss asha yang. (he wakes up, rather wet.)
5. his neighbour for one, asks him if asha is single and why he hasn’t gone for her, “because if not, i will.” his neighbour says. leaving sehun to sneer at the miscreant in his mid-thirties and a beer belly, dully noting to spit on his doorstep and thinking – well, why hasn’t he gone for her? (just about everyone else has asked the question.)
6. torrential downpour warning in most areas of seoul have sehun tapping his phone against his thigh impatiently. the night lives incredibly with slashes of light and shouts of clouds that even leave his windows ringing in hindsight. in a flurry, he assures that she has meandered her way under another man’s umbrella and doesn’t look for home for the next month, that perhaps she is snug under the sheets of another’s legs tangling under the seoul showers.
such thoughts warrant him not to fret but of course, the phone hitting his leg in repetition and the harrowing rain strikes the image of a drenched little asha in her lucky jeans.
though he says he doesn’t care, nor does he ever make the call – for once he does. and there is elation in hearing her trembling voice, void of a shelter and a man to swoon over, given the opportune to be what the is not, a knight in shining armour.
”Hey, stranger, I want you to catch me like a cold.” — ASHA
PANIC! AT THE DISCO LYRICS SENTENCE MEME - still open!
yes, he is a stranger -- he’ll give asha that. she’s giggling on his sofa/ asha’s bed over something terribly nonsequential and foolish like she always is. the words strike him as they relapse into silence; they say silence is golden, he’d agree.
he can’t quite believe he wasted a bottle of his grandmother’s well-aged port with her. (it’s a sign sehun, you need to draw the line right about now...)
the breaking of which are her slurred drunken words. her words always naive, tantalising his nerves unkindly. -- he wants to slap her silly (and so that it hurts a little for her), our oh sehun, unknown to human connection such as this, could you blame him?
and the thing is, asha will hit him, square and hard and knock him over before he knows what’ll happen.
give him a moment,
her words take a while to process. (they’re so childish it’s hard for him to comprehend, yes that’s it.)
in a sense he knows that, so he abstains from better connection (he knows better, he thinks, he swears.)
“catch you like a cold?” confusion along with pure disdain, are these modern advances between a man and a woman? sehun thinks for a short moment but doesn’t dare ponder on it - he’d never dare let asha be more than a pretty being residing on his furniture. (it’s not just asha though, just about every woman is stamped with a ‘no go’ sign in all red. maybe that’s why it’s a (really, really, really) bad idea to have her in his home.)
“ve--ery fu--nny asha,” his ‘very’ and ‘funny’ drawn out, slurring like asha’s words. “have you u-used that on your one in a million boyfriends?”
sehun sips his port, drawing one long, heavy sip. she’ll leave traces of herself here when she leaves like a fucking rotting infection and sehun will have to clean her out with bleach and burning detergent.
TRUTH BE TOLD, sitting together in the dismal jail cell wasn’t exactly his idea of “ bonding “, per say, but what more was there to do ( besides, of course, praying to the gods for your release to occur sooner than later ) when you were stuck behind columns of steel bars? a series of unfortunate events led to two people being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and instead of the police officers listening to their desperate pleas, they tossed the duo inside the cell while they defused the situation still at hand.
back pressed against the cement wall, only his sighs are echoed throughout the back room as he started up at the flickering, faint ceiling light that loomed above. “ this is fuckin’ bullshit, ” he cursed under his breath, honestly too tired from the whole fiasco to even know if that was a proper conversation starter or not.
