#norgodly

[taroet-archive]

@norgodly asked, from [ Rebekah ]:     “ I have a past too. In another place with another name. All I want is to be her again. ”

Bastian stilled. For a moment — just a fleeting one — his expression lost that carefully curated ease, the amusement always lurking behind his eyes like a blade hidden in silk. Then, as quickly as it had slipped, it was back, a slow, knowing smile stretching across his lips. There were many things he could say. Words, after all, were his most dangerous weapon. He could take this confession & wield it against her, press it into the softest parts of her until she bled for him, until she owed him. But something about the way she spoke — so quiet, so exposed — made him hesitate. Just for a moment.

His gaze traced over her, cataloging every detail: the tilt of her chin, the way her fingers curled as if bracing for impact, the flicker of something deep & painful in her eyes. He had seen that look before, over the centuries, in glimpses & half-formed confessions, but she had never said it quite like this. Not with this kind of longing. Another place. Another name.

A part of him, the cruelest part, wanted to laugh. As if she could ever be anything but what she was. As if she could ever be ordinary. But then— hadn’t he once believed the same of himself? The thought soured in his mind. He pushed it away before it could settle, before it could unravel something he had spent lifetimes keeping tightly wound. Instead, he exhaled slowly, shifting just enough to let his fingers ghost along the edge of his glass, the flickering candlelight catching in the amber liquid.

“ You speak as though the past is something one can simply step back into, ” he murmured. “ As though time is a door that can be reopened, its hinges unchanged. ” His eyes flicked to hers, sharp & searching. “ But tell me, my dear— if you were her again, what would that make you now? A ghost of a life long gone? ” He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, pressing into something more intimate. More dangerous. “ You want to be her again. But does she even exist anymore? ” It was not a taunt. Not entirely.

He understood what it was to long for something just beyond reach. To crave a version of yourself that had not yet been touched by blood, by ruin, by the choices that could never be undone . . . & yet, even if he held the power to give her what she wanted — to strip away the centuries, to sever her from the beast inside her — what then? Would she truly be the girl she once was, or just a fractured reflection, wearing a skin that no longer fit?

He could do it. He could make her human. He could press the weight of that promise against her ribs until she broke for him, until she clung to him in desperation, whispering all the things he already knew but wanted to hear again & again & yet . . . Bastian reached for his glass, swirling the contents idly. “ You forget, Rebekah, ” he said after a moment, voice laced with something too soft to be mocking, but too sharp to be comforting. “ I have known you for a very, very long time. ” He smiled, but there was something unreadable in it. “ And I have never met this girl you speak of. ”

He took a sip, savoring the burn. Because he was lying. He had seen her, once. Long ago. And she had been beautiful.

[contamenate]

@norgodly, clarke griffin ‘christ, is that your blood?’

nat had been gone far too long.  time crawled slow on its belly like a wounded animal, when he was bleeding and alone. every steady beat of his heart pulsed behind an eyelid swollen-shut as though it punctuated every cruel second spent without her comfort of company, a warning issued in code. stay awake. his legs are splayed over the side of his mattress, boots unlaced but still on, dusted with the underground scuffles that drew a direct path to where he attained such wounds. his body is curled into the cold plaster of the dormitory wall, the fraying army issue blankets cushioning the base of his spine poorly, and still he sinks like gravity has doubled for his suffering alone, head heavier than had ever previously been felt. he was ready to let sleep take him when he feels the door open, motion too tentative to be nat at the handle. he knows before he sees her, eye creaking to the left to confirm his suspicion, the air tense around her body like she'd wrapped it up inside her fists like a garrotte comprised to suffocate him. it was as jarring as having one of them in there with him, like natalie had ratted him out to the commander herself. he's gonna fucking kill her when he has the strength to. clarke steps inside with that air of superiority that he so despised, eyes sweeping the wreckage of the room like it is made better for her being in it. it is, it is, it is. he suddenly feels the ache of an ego pressed flat, conscious of his clothes stacked haphazardly high, the half-made bed he'd been thrown down upon and sun-bleached posters curling at the edges that are seeped in age, reminiscent of a time they had never belonged. the way his room carries a stale scent of nostalgia and bruised pride, clothes seeped in sweat and blood and he's grateful that he's sporting all-black. jordan can almost sense her disapproval and it feels like a stab wound, sharp to begin with but the real harm is in the after, that slow-oozing puncture she leaves behind that causes insecurity to pool at his feet. her, with all her clean edges and pressed uniforms, unwilling to dirty herself with blood she shed in cutting him. jordan attempts to sit up straighter in spite of himself, push aside his vulnerability if only to gain back his freedom, now cinched beneath the weight of her stare.

‘some of it.’ a short stretch of time had passed between question and answer, her voice hung in the silence until she can no longer be ignored. long enough to make her wait for it. his throat burned in protest, her presence alone pushing in on the bruises like a cruel touch. the bitter taste of sarcasm had been reflexive, but buried beneath was a shade of mortification if it had been light out, clarke might've noticed how it pinches the skin of his cheekbones, peeking out underneath the swell of his injuries. jordan didn't want her to see him like this, sore and subdued, left bloody when he had emerged triumphant from a thousand fights prior. jordan wished then, as he had a thousand times, that he could just melt into the walls and disappear. ‘nat get you?’

[nectarot]

you might never come back home. / beth+maggie

it's faded wallpaper, traces left of horses in a field. at this time of day the sun it's a spot in particular and where she could make out the tail better. it's been on her wall ever since she could notice the walls and trace their manes as if they were real. she's trying to savor the moment, as if this could be the last few nights spent in her room forever. when beth speaks it's soft, wet eyed even after wiping lashes. she's suppose to leave for college in a week.

“ i'm comin' back, beth. it's just school. ” she reassured, has reassured for the tenth time this week. it's for herself too. she's never left her small town, let alone the fields she spent every summer in. but hershel insists on college. “ i'm comin' back for the holidays, daddy already said shawn's gonna come an' get me. ” maggie lays in her bed, @norgodly beside her. their boots hanging off the edge. she reaches beside her, fingers intertwining tight with her sisters. her thumb runs alongside the side of their palm. all attempts to be soothing. “ i ain't leavin' you just like that. ” her head turns, forehead bumping the freshly done braid in blonde. she wonders if she'll ask shawn to do it for her after she's gone. annette's hands ache from all the seam work more often these days. her grip tightens, “ i promise. ”

[lilsupe-arc]

@norgodly [polarity]: you're amazing. you know that, kiddo?

no, she doesn’t.  at night, when emma doomscrolls her youtube comments, they feed her the polar opposite narrative.  YOU’RE A WASTE OF SPACE  /  KILL YOURSELF  /  WHAT A FUCKING LOSER!  those are the words that stick with a nineteen-year-old; not the word amazing.  if she turns that word over in her head, the syllables feel completely foreign  —  heavy and dangerous.  it contradicts everything she’s ever been told by public opinion, by her mother, and even the executives at vought.  nobody calls her amazing unless they want something.  and polarity  —  andre’s dad, the man who’s somehow managed to wedge himself into the space her own father never has filled, doesn’t sound like he wants anything after saying it.  that’s what makes this all the worse. 

lips pressing themselves together, she goes to pat one of his shoulders awkwardly and slowly, unsure of how exactly to proceed forward.      ‘that’s, uh  …  really nice of you.’      she keeps patting his shoulder for a while, as if the motion will come up with another sentence besides thank you.  most people would say thank you.  [why is accepting the compliment so fucking difficult?]  clearing her throat and dropping her hand back to her side, emma forces a breath through her teeth  —  tries to make it sound synonymous with a laugh.      ‘i mean, i know you’re a professor now and everything.  i bet you’ve gotta say that to a lot of mentally ill college kids.’

[palmbled]

sometimes i really think you have a death wish . from @norgodly's robin

nancy rests her hands against her knees as she tries to catch her breath, mouth undecided between a grimace and a satisfied smirk while she continues to scan their surroundings. she reaches to wipe the last of the black goo off her cheek with a quiet sound of disgust, posture straightening just in time for her to offer robin a hand as she indelicately danced through the barely - there spots of safety among the writhing vines along the ground. she casts a glance behind them, at the other side of the field that was now littered with the battered remains of several demo - bats.

there's a small laugh in response to their words - half denial, half acceptance - as nancy's eyes find theirs in the dim light of a world not their own. "what, because of that?" a thumb juts over her shoulder, indicating the mass graveyard they'd left behind. "that was self defense." she gives herself a moments to grin before she's looking to the other with eyebrows raised. "besides, you're right here next to me, rob. so that makes two of us." she leans over until their shoulders bump lightly, careful not to knock either of them off - kilter. another moment of peace passes before she's clearing her throat, checking and rechecking the safety on her gun as her mood once again sobers.

"i mean - it's not like we have much of a choice. we either do this here, now, with the..." she pauses, expression reflecting her contemplation of her next words, "definite possibility of death, or we wait. then we die later, without trying." nancy shrugs, as if that's the beginning and end of it. to her, of course, it is. it has been since the night barb never came home. "we're not the only people who know about this... but we are the only people willing to put an end to it. i'd do anything to ensure that happens." after considering her words, nancy speaks again. "uh, not that i'm planning to die in a blaze of glory, or anything. i have plans for myself that reach far beyond becoming dinner for any of these demo - things."

[124player]

›      @norgodly said:   come to bed, don't make me sleep alone.

his ears prick up at the sound of myung-gi's voice, a faint twitch of animal instinct that hunts approval, though he is unsure whether he is the one being addressed or a phantom third had slipped into the apartment without him noticing. they hang in the open doorway, suspended, the gesture tilting towards him without ever fully reaching. myung-gi hesitates a second with eyes fixed ahead and decidedly not nam-gyu before he moves on, on towards his own room, and the moment wonders if he ever said anything at all. nam-gyu doesn't follow him immediately, caught in that limbo where own hesitation bluffs a morsel of self-respect as though there is really a choice in the matter at all. of course, there isn't. he wanted that pin-prick of intimacy much more than the orchestrator, but had met only with repeated rejection when those words took shape inside his own mouth. because it wasn't on myung-gi's time. it would be safer for nam-gyu to pretend not to hear, every endorsement of the other man's behaviour only exposing how soft his insides are, primed for the cut. nonetheless, nam-gyu has learned when and when not to ask questions the way a well-trained dog tucks its instincts behind its teeth in hopes for a treat, blinking away the urge to bark even when the saliva pools at the back of his teeth. he swallows instead, forcing obedience down like something tasteless and cruel. his body knows the ritual by now: stillness and then movement, inertia blooming wide enough between them to suggest something defiant without committing fully, before he decides to yield to the request. to make it look something like autonomy.

nam-gyu pushes onto the flats of his feet, pins prickling up his calves as they take the weight, too much time locked in one position. waiting for the next time he is beckoned. he knows stillness is not an option once summoned, and though reluctance hangs heavy in the drag of his steps toward the other man's room, his body obeys without his mind ever really catching up with the movement. the halls grow impatient in his lethargy, press in at his sides and squeeze him towards myung-gi's bedroom. the act of crossing the threshold is almost ceremonial, he expects applause: he doesn’t even notice his fingers lift to flick the landing light off, only that the room slips into shadow with that small, decisive click that signals turning in for the night. the single, accepting sound required that the invitation asks for. the bed exists as the centre of gravity now, his body drawn closer by invisible threads, a soft surrender. the mattress accepts him, a site where obedience crystallises into warmth and flesh. even then, in a space most intimate, he arranges himself with the care of someone who knows the limits to his residence. there is no sprawl or spread, only the sliding in at the other man's side with a decisive lack of touch. the angle of his shoulder a kind of compromise, hip dipping into the natural nooks of the mattress as if it knew how to make space for his sharp corners. small inhalations as though myung-gi began to sleep already and he's wary of disturbing him from a particularly nice dream, his eyes at half-mast as they gaze at him from across the pillow. he huffs suddenly, hand skimming beneath the pillow, settling into the knowledge that myung-gi has yet to change his mind about having nam-gyu as his company. ‘jeez how much fucking aftershave do you need to wear?’ he murmurs, nose wrinkling at the scent that drifts across the pillow, never once mentioning the comfort it brings him.

[springmournings]

the sun sets on jackson the same, shades of orange filtering through the trees in something pretty. converse tread the overgrowth behind developing houses. they're all blue prints that joel had pulled from paper. her palms touch the tall grass as she rounds the corner and the sight of dark curls hanging tight from an old hair tie bring an upturn to the corner of her mouth. “ hey. ” her greeting is simple, sweet toned. a red flush coming in through the freckles of her face.

she's purposeful in how she approaches, one arm lingering behind her back to keep something hidden. it hangs loose by curled fingers, an old tote bag with recycled bottles filled with boot legged beer. not the shitty kind from matt, but the kind she had to trade fresh dried jerky for. “ i got you a little something. ” before her now she opens it by the handles and allows them to see light. “ figured since it's so dry around here since eugune is gone, ” right shoulder rises in a brief shrug, her eyes looking elsewhere besides @norgodly. she's too pretty in this light. “ go on, you can say it. i'm your favorite. ” despite avoiding eyes her tone strums confidence.

[seapurses]

you  aren't  you  anymore.  a  mirage,  maybe,  a  figment,  certainly.  this  isn't  you,  but  you're  not  entirely  sure  you  get  to  control  that  anymore.  your  baby  brother's  mind  is  far  more  fragile  than  you  or  anyone  else  ever  realized  –  if  you  were  sentient,  you'd  know  it  was  too  late.  in  your  current  form,  there  is  little  better  than  seeing  @norgodly on  the  brink  of  self-perpetuated  madness.  “  how  d'you  think  this  all  ends,  huh  ?  "  lounging  across  the  couch,  looking  at  your  pride  and  joy  like  the  hero-hungry  sharks  vought  releases  into  their  waters.  preying  upon  the  weak  and  digging  as  deep  as  you  can,  “  and  where  do  you  think  you'll  fit  in  all  of  it  ?  can't  imagine  they'll  be  erecting  your  statues.  you  ever  get  scared  ?  ”  you  of  all  people  should  know  that  sam  is  intimately  aware  of  the  feeling.