norgodly

[norgodly]

ERIN MORIARTY as STARLIGHT THE BOYS (2019-) 1.02 "cherry"

[norgodly]

—      @contamenate : i wanted to kill him

a blink, slow and deliberate, let the words settle like ash in jordan’s chest–soft, almost weightless–until they clung to his ribs and refused to be dislodged.  there was no tremble for you to decipher, no remorse. just that brittle edge that came when someone thought fury could pass for conviction.  he didn’t look fragile now. he looked alive in that sharp-edged, glass-shard way.  chest heaving, mouth red at the corners, like violence had splayed him open and left its mark.   the way his fists still curled even now, not from fear–(no, you had carefully bled that out of him long ago)–but frustration. the kind that hummed in bones. the kind that came when instinct clashed with hesitation.  the worst kind of silence lived in the space between wanting and doing.   i wanted to kill him,  you repeat to yourself, as though turning it over would reveal something deeper beneath the surface.  no kill.  no follow-through. just the tremor of a moment that could’ve tipped the scale but instead left it balanced, miserably, between impulse and morality.  you hated balance. it meant someone was still fighting gravity.   you could still feel it in your own hands, that old hum of unfinished violence, a life between aching knuckles.  the way it felt to realise that mercy was just cowardice in costume; that clarity doesn’t come from the strike but from when you stop seeking permission.   so when you look at jordan now,  it’s not strength you see but pause. sentiment. that soft, failing rot that whispered of restraint.  you didn't see it as weakness, not quite. it showed potential. unrefined, but there. a blunt instrument waiting for a steady hand to shape it into something lethal.  you let the silence stretch, a tension wire between you,  and then you laughed; not loud enough to echo, more scoff than sound, a jagged ripple of amusement worn thin with contempt.      “oh?”   a drawl, like molasses over steel.     “you wanted to kill him?”    

there was no mercy in your tone. only study; dissection under fluorescents.  the way you might press a thumb into a bruise just to see how deep it runs.  each word was twisted with derision, but below that–interest. a flicker of genuine calculation.  you circle him like a vulture that still hadn’t decided if the prey was dead.  let your hand fall heavy atop his shoulder, just enough pressure to remind him who taught him how to aim with intent.   your voice lost its sneer only to drop into something worse: disappointment laced with mockery.    “so, why didn’t you?”

[norgodly]

EMMA MACKEY as MAEVE WILEY SEX EDUCATION (2019-2023) Season 4, Episode 3

[norgodly]

it was the jealousy that bit at tender flesh that led you to where you were now,  tucked away beneath the dim light that the alley offered: under only the moon and flickering neon that encapsulated flesh.  it’s the simple give and take, pushing and prodding, how nerves spark at a look lingering too long, in hands touching in the transfer of cash to palm–simple, everyday occurrences now gazed upon,  a fire underneath skin that cannot be extinguished.   the world shrinks into this moment, shrinks and blooms and breaks–all at once, collapsing in on itself like a dying star, folding its terrible brilliance into the hollow space between his mouth and your skin.  his words, those rough, unvarnished somethings he spells into the tender valley of your throat hums like wasps behind your ribs.  you can feel them there, flitting in their hive of bone and breathless pause.  it’s offerings, sacrifices he lays down like small, glittering organs upon the altar of your indifference, praying for mercy.   he whispers mine, unspoken, heard only in the fervour of his grip, in the tremor of his breath.  his fingers are desperate cartographers, tracing the territories of your waist like they might shift beneath him if not constant reaffirmed–as if muscle and bone might revolt, might slip from his possession and vanish into nothing.  the press of his body against yours is not just closeness but supplication. the way ivy begs the stone wall for purpose/the way shadows clutch at the feet of the living.    it’s a needy comedown, sweat slick across skin, body in dysregulation as the cold still raised hairs–watching him unravel, splintering at the joints and held together by the fragile wire of his need.  fever evident behind his touch, something more ruinous than whatever you’ve asked of him, heat of obsession slick and clammy, bleeding through his pores like a sickness that festers unseen.  your own thoughts wither slow and languid, serpents basking on sun-warmed stone–at first, regard him with an inward distance that tastes faintly of iron,  neck rolled back to match his every whim,  a willing sacrifice to whatever came next.

“those are just words–”    your heart,  that unreliable, glass-blown heart–dares to skip a beat at his promises,   a shaky breath that is exhaled through lips giving you away,   melts the indifference you had painted against skin the moment you met.   it now pulses with a quiet, biting satisfaction.  not joy,  and not cruelty, just the knowledge that you are the axis around which he spins himself into a dizzy ruin,  believing that bleeding for you buys sanctuary.    it turns now as you let yourself respond to his touch,  back arching into him as fingers slide to his jaw, nails scratching faint crescents across flushed skin to prompt his return attention back to you,  wide-eyed and staring,  almost a dare sitting across words.   “i want you to prove it.”

it falls quiet between them, and it takes everything in him not to still completely too obvious in the way it braces for onslaught, the quiet pickings of miscommunication she hacks into like a vulture might a corpse. there is a slight rustle of clothing as he draws her impossibly closer, palms pawing at nowhere in particular as though he really is trying to burrow under her skin like it will offer him anything other than blood and sinew. heat rises to his cheeks but for once, it doesn't stem from anger but something else entirely, and it crawls beneath the surface like a fever trying to break, pulsing against his flesh in a manner that he is truly unable to stand. as though he's been targeted by a spotlight and is burning beneath the heat of the bulb. within nam-gyu is not an inability to answer, but the brimming argument that he already has in all the ways that he did not feel required words to substantiate the meaning behind them. ‘do i not do enough for you, huh?’ words flow easy, the side-ways syrup bottle that oozes lazily, rich and tacky and unable to be washed clean for the way it lingers possessively upon every surface it touches. mine not said with words, but the evidence that is left behind; by the manner in which possession is fetched, the blood-dark bruise that mottles a collarbone, excessive marking that signals assertion and turns away the attention of others. warning labels made flesh. and of course, hands that are always touching, dipping, squeezing, claiming. clothes relinquished without transaction, the invisible stains of shampoo scents and the smudge of make-up on the inside of a collar. they need not touch the words to know love is there, right? the invisible threads woven into everyday interaction that can not and could never be replicated. arms circle her waist as if drawn by an unseen force, led by inseparable strings bidden by infatuation and the same for lips that tuck under her jaw, a kiss clumsy but forthright. then two more, planting over the stamp already made. ‘shit i'd die for you. fuckin' kill for you.’ he murmurs against her skin, the soft drag of his lips drawing a path to the hinge of her jaw, the poison he spills into her ear gold like honey, sweet and slow and sure to be sapped up because when had they ever traded affections normally? the words aren't romantic, never have been. they are raw, unpolished. but its theirs. arms cinch tighter to the circumference of her waist, tucking round sides and mapping out the shape beneath his palms to make muscle memory. he was devoted to knowing her, mouth an altar to a god wearing her flesh and there is an undeniable tremble to his breath as it ghosts over her throat because at present, nam-gyu feels as though he is barely put together fraying at the seams with only the thin threads of her attention to stop him from falling apart completely. looking as though he might just die if she pulled away. ‘you think i'd do that for just about anyone?’

@norgodly, if you love me, tell me.

[norgodly]

your laughter fades, a meteor turned to ash mid-descent. what remains is not its violence, but the tremble in the air where it should have struck. a sound so rich with history it coils in the hollows between your ribs, in the marrow of long-fought nights.  the weight of the blow, unthrown, sits heavy on your chest—an echo of what might have been, of what always has been.  this choreography, this collapse, always following a precise rhythm: provocation, recoil, impact.  but now, baekjin looks at you like that—wide-eyed, stunned, like you just rewrote the rules—and you falter.   fists were your preferred language, the only way you knew how to speak. but this was something else, the kind of silence that follows the collapse of something sacred. the kind that hums into the night.   this time, the violence clings to your edges, hollow and useless. the familiar hunger for domination doesn’t rise and what settles in its place is heavier. lonelier.  your chest feels tight, ribs drawn too close together, lungs fighting for space beneath the weight that coils inside you like smoke–a plume under the blossoming of bruises in the shape of his fist.  fingers lift, trembling, before they return in submission. seek purchase against the sharp line of his throat, finding pulse that flutters madly beneath skin.  your thumb presses, gently, not to threaten but to confirm that he is still there. that this isn’t some sick projection of your own obsession.  it’s just you—too close, too bare, too still.   it was as if you had been built for war–every sharp edge honed by a childhood with no refuge, every grin a blade, every word a ricochet.   but what stares back at you now, so close your breaths tangle like ivy, is not your opponent.  it’s him–a near silent witness, pale and haunted.   his question hangs between you like incense smoke: you want me to? and it is spoken with such trembling awe, such devastation, that it feels like it should have been asked in a damn cathedral.  your throat worked around a breath you could barely drag in. there was no performance left in you, no cruelty, no posturing. just the truth, raw and ugly, clawing its way out of your chest–never learning how to want gently. only to take. to command. but this isn’t that, not another demand, it’s permission. to stay, to stop.  seoul’s roar continues on, indifferent, the wind howling distantly beyond the alley walls. here, it is quiet. the kind of quiet born only in aftermaths. or beginnings.

“i didn’t hit you that hard.”    that familiar mocking tone was missing from your voice,  a normal jab felt like it was lost in translation and was now empty of meaning.  his disbelief caught, and you almost recoil from the touch entirely,  cover it up and blame it on injury–as if the moment could dissolve into nothing but blood.   you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment too long,  trying to trap the tableau inside you before it can break apart. the ache that has rooted spreads like poison. you want to fall into him, to press closer until there is no breath, no thought, no hesitation.  the proximity poisoned you. baekjin’s breath, warm and fragile, ghosted across your mouth, too close and still not enough. the smallest movement forward would close the distance entirely, but neither of you dared surrender to that gravity yet. instead, you stood suspended, two bodies held aloft by threads of restraint pulled so taut they sang with tension.  it didn’t snap cleanly. it tore–slow, uneven–fabric pulled too tight over splintering bone.   hand shifts, gentle, to the back of his neck,  fingers spasm as they ghost over hair as if they had never been there at all.  the grip tightens as if you could anchor yourself through that fragile touch alone, as if by holding tightly enough you could halt the quaking fault lines beneath them. the tremor that once lived in your fingertips had spread, crawling into your shoulders, your chest, your breath.  your body felt foreign, shaky with a desperation that hollowed you out.  how long had you done this? staring, half-lidded, watching a map of restraint and quiet ache. you barely notice the faint shiver in his throat, the tension carved into the sharp plane of his jaw.   it was a hunger neglected too long, a storm brewing that had no space left to rage inside your ribs.  and baekjin was still standing there. still not pulling away.  the breaking point came not like a decision but like drowning, inevitable and suffocating, slowly then suddenly.   you surge forward, breath shattering into his mouth, closing the space that had mocked you for years in one jagged, desperate collapse. it wasn’t a kiss–not at first. simply contact. friction. a collision of breath and heat and helpless, spiralling need.   he’s pulled impossibly closer from your hold on his neck, as though proximity could exorcise the thing clawing at your insides.  and it is only then it becomes a kiss–bruising and starved, pulling apart at the seams.  and your body trembles against his, as if the act of finally closing that distance cost you the last of your strength.

you would say something like that.  baku laughs,  and it cuts right through baekjin cannot help but flinch from it,  like the meteor strike of baku's closed fist is predicted to land after all.  it is a timeless choreography they play out, the laugh is the prelude to the wound, the snap of knuckles that repeat, repeat until they are left dizzy with it. feebly does baekjin's lips part around his teeth,  more grimace than smile;  the breathless laugh returned is a stiff mimicry of ease that does not light up the black in his eyes, too tense to pass as anything but reflex. because baku commanded laughter, so bright with his mirth that his company could do little else but join it, and thus burn themselves with his sun in trying to match it. baekjin was something more like the moon, silent. yearning. pulled by a sense of gravity he had long began pretending not to feel, orbiting to source a mere speck of the light to hoard as his own, never asking for more. his surface pale and reactive and cratered and fractured; he is just a mirror that catches the blaze of one park hu-min, and somehow he had made peace with that. he could ignore how it felt to have a friendly arm lock around his shoulders, his breath ghosting across the spike of his collarbone, if only to just be present where he was. he's pulled from his melancholy at the sound of his name. i'm saying..stay there. stunned, baekjin short-circuits, words on loop like a stuck record, timed to the pulse that thumps wildly inside his throat. he's unsure how to process it, how to receive it. with it brings more questions than answers, dragging him through years of self-inflicted torment that taught not to want. it disarms him more effectively than any punch delivered, no clear wound created that could be sutured shut. instead, it is a slow-moving poison needled directly into his veins seeping, settling into the most tender of tissue, the kind that is so deep within that it remains unavailable to the mere prod of fingers. it aches, aches until his ribs feel too narrow to take a breath and his spine lacks the sturdiness to keep him upright. he thinks he'd collapse if not for the hand shaped to his throat, or the talons clawed into baku's jacket and flesh, consciousness seems to flutter itself away for the dream that presents itself before him.

‘..you want me to?’ breathed, in awe like the words had been knocked out of him, a fist lodged in his diaphragm. the hand braced at the base of his neck begins to drift from their unplanned anchorage,  white knuckles unfurl like surrender baku's fist still drawn for the fight, a large part of baekjin anticipates the taunt and the triumph to follow.  i win.  and yet,  it drifts nonetheless,  navigating sacred ground territory that has perhaps been brushed by before in the heat of collision,  boyish roughhousing dragging knuckles across crown and drawing out surrender,  but never like this.  never with reverence,  never with intention.  inch by aching, agonising inch,  fingers lose their tips to dark locks,  swallowed by sweat-damp hair as they search as if to find something hidden,  or pressing a wound to feel its shape.  but just enough to singe the very tips,  graze the flame to get a taste of something holy just enough he can pull back from and feign ignorance,  like teeth skimming eden's apple.  he wonders if the black of his hair will stain like ink,  whether it will blot into him,  sit beneath his fingernails.  how much he longs for it to,  simply so that he can remember vividly how close he was to heaven before the skies plummet around him.  baekjin feels spent already,  words crowding the space in his ribs and he can't fucking breathe but his chest continues to rise and fall without him,  fanning shallow breaths against the other man's lips in the same way is returned,  tasting without touching.  foreheads still embrace, drawn impossibly closer by fingers steadied at nape,  warm in spite of everything. (can he feel the tremor in your fingertips?) it maps itself onto the thin layer of skin there like a bruise.  steeled,  kissed.  the moment both unravels and holds braced through clenched fingers, and yet spinning out of control with the words passed in the small distance between them. he doesn't blink, but scans almost imperceptibly, as if committing it all to memory, something to pour over mercilessly for the remainder of a lifetime.

[norgodly]

rain had long since slicked the stone underfoot, a murky gloss painted over alley rot, turning the world into something more honest: slick, cold, and impossible to stand steady on.   the world itself trying to regain balance. you breathe rather than speak. it’s something short and stuttering like the end of a sprint, like you’ve just ran straight through hell and the only finish line worth crossing is standing in front of you know, bruised and blood-wet and shaking in the bones.  his voice, na baekjins–soft like a weapon left on the floor, dangerous in the wrong hands, trembling like it’s afraid of its own edge.   your hands, those traitorous hands, twitch against the line of his throat.  not to strangle. not anymore. maybe never. but just to feel. thumb is dragged slow across that pulse,  watching baekjin’s pupils dilate like the beat inside of him is synced to something cosmic–something too big for either of them to understand, but here you are anyway. in the dirt. in the rain. in each other’s skin.   and that thumb against your neck? it isn’t a touch, but a question. a challenge. a pressure test for the part of you that refuses to die quietly.   the weight of your foreheads together is a tether, a low-simmering gravity that refuses to let either of them drift too far. not that you ever could.    you know this rhythm, knows the bruised choreography of fists seeking understanding where words can’t reach.  you know it in the same way you know the shape of your own anger; reflexive, bone-deep.  baekjin is written into it all the same, etched into muscle memory.   look doesn’t soften but deepens, like you’re seeing something behind baekjin’s eyes that you’ve been trying not to look at for years.  there is recognition there, bitter and beautiful.  two magnets spinning wild and reckless, destined to crash together with just enough force to hurt but never enough to destroy.     you live inside me.   the words crack open something in you that you’ve held tight for too long–a pressure valve behind your molars and you swallow down the scream that comes from hearing that. that sentence doesn’t land. it implodes.  your thoughts were never safe from him. they moved like feral dogs through your mind–snapping, pacing, sleeping in the corners until called. and yet, somehow, welcome.  as if the chaos brought clarity. as if no one else could fit in the soft architecture of your violence so precisely.  built yourself out of silence and sharp edges, and rebuilt over that with the you recognisable to the world.  you tried to harden the soft marrow with fists and fractured bone but baekjin–he was the one mirror you couldn’t shatter. every hit was just glass rearranging, never breaking.  even now, in this hush between the latest collision, you didn’t feel victorious. 

“...fuck you,” but it comes out soft, breathy, syllables worn out by the time they make it past your teeth. you laugh without meaning to, the sound like gravel under tires.    spare fist not closed over his throat tightens at your side,   drawing back beside your own head before stopping. waiting.  like the wind might change and choose which direction you let this go.    “you would say something like that.”    your forehead is still pressed to baekjin’s, still warm despite the flash rain.  you’re close enough to blur together, close enough for memory to slip into the present, for anger to flirt with something uglier. older.   some part of you wanted to swing again, let your fist fly to meet jawbone–not to hurt, but to delay whatever this was threatening to become. talking was too honest and the silence was too loud. violence was the only dialect where you felt fluent and far away at the same time.   let your weight tip forward, not enough to break the balance but enough to hold, overtly aware of his hand like talons on the back of your neck just waiting to pierce.    “na baekjin–”   you taste the name like a bruise blooming on the inside of your cheek.    “you’re in my head, yeah?”   repeat yourself,  widen the silence as your brain scrambles to make sense of it all.   despite the storm behind your teeth and the warning sirens in your bones, you stayed.   if anyone has to haunt this house, let it be him.    “i’m saying—..stay there.”    

@norgodly, park hu-min ‘you’re in my head. you are in here all the fucking time.’

fists tangle themselves in desperate conversation, a begging to be heard where words have long since tried and failed this was their message, their preferred mode of communication. best friends and worst enemies, fluent in the bruising silence and the tired ache of their knuckles. nothing so clean as an apology would ever grace their lips, and at this moment, baekjin's are painted with blood enough to coat the sharp points of his teeth, enough for him to taste every sour thing he has long kept inside of him. the rhythm stutters, falters, a split-second hesitation that he finds neither party at fault of. the back of his jacket scrapes the grime of the alley bricks, cold stone biting through the fabric despite the thickness of it, and they pause then, impossibly close, anchored to one another through balled fists that enclose and capture whatever is accessible to touch, not yet surrendering but simply breathing. the air shifts between them, heavier now thick with heat produced in proximity, the anticipation for violence that is braced in the way each of them are held, but everything else seems to fade into the periphery, immaterial when it it does not take the shape of baku. their foreheads collide with a dull, ringing thud not the sharp crack of a head-butt, but something slower, withheld. a pulled punch. a meteor caught in the drag of the atmosphere. they meet in the eye of it, still inside the centre of something that has propelled them towards this moment for months, years, lifetimes. orbiting one another like dying stars, coursed for collision that seems as probable as breathing, a magnetism that defies reason mutually drawn by some stubborn, transcendental inability to not let go of own recent pasts. gravity hauls them further inward, knuckles still throbbing with fists thrown that now choose to bunch into shirt collar for purchase, afraid of that inevitable brush of skin that threatens to undo them both. every inch closer is surrender dressed up as defiance; the tips of their noses brush, accidental fatal, a featherlight contact that causes his breath to catch inside of his throat, that breathing might send this moment aflutter. you're in my head. you are in here all the fucking time. he doesn't know who moves first, he only knows that the hand fisted in the other man's shirt once clenched tight with anger, with the weight of blows bestowed and wounds returned is now flat against the curve of his neck, hard and bracing, thumb lined up to his jugular, examining like braille as to whether or not he feels it too. the world seems to narrow, senses sharpen to the touch as the soft sounds of ragged breaths and rainfall pattering against the alley gutters dull to a pinprick. everything he knows and everything he has ever known seems to now centre on that small, searing contact of fingers pressed against his neck, and the comet trail of noses bumping against one another and thrown off its violent course. baekjin doesn't say anything for a long moment, chest undulating in tandem with that of hu-min's, as though each mimic the same drowning. his torso moves without him, because despite the motions that inhale-exhale, baekjin feels as though he cannot breathe.

‘you think you're not in mine?’ whispered, calling across the worlds that separate them in a language that only they two understand; no audience to hear but the tolerant observation of the shadows around them, the witness of their own beating hearts. trepidation continues to triumph nonetheless, folding around his words until they can barely be discerned above the drum of their pulse bone-deep in difference, in all the places forced to hide, baekjin learned quickly that truths in life could only be traded through murmurs, if at all. he could balance the weight of silence better than most, even when it presses most heavily on the cage of his ribs, his heart longing loud enough to be heard how it cinches around the things that baekjin thinks he could love but is forced to refrain from indulging, like a bird between a fist. digits press harder into the back of hu-min's neck, fortified by the fight that continues to echo inside baekjin's fingertips, the need to steady himself coupled with the need to pressurize; to turn back at the first sign of desertion, throw over his weight and resume. ‘every punch is made to your shape. you live inside me.’

[norgodly]

is it your enemy, or is it you? so you keep me close

[norgodly]

Baekjin. I'm sorry. But you should be sorry too. ᴬᴺ ᴵᴺᴰᴱᴾᴱᴺᴰᴱᴺᵀ ᵂᴿᴵᵀᴵᴺᴳ ᴮᴸᴼᴳ for 𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐊-𝐉𝐈𝐍 (나백진) of NETFLIX'S 𝘞𝘌𝘈𝘒 𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘖. by joseph [anypronouns]. 20+ only. completely unaffiliated with krp. unlikely to follow first. friends take priority. #OUTLIMB,

[norgodly]

nvm guys he woke up

s3 of desperate housewives man im so grateful for these mikeless episodes

[norgodly]

s3 of desperate housewives man im so grateful for these mikeless episodes

[norgodly]

Lee Jun Young as Geum Seong Je

Weak Hero Class 2 | 약한영웅 Class 2 (2025) | Episode. 04 

[norgodly]

the glass in your hand feels too clean, too light–like it doesn’t belong to you, like nothing here does.  the clink of long-stemmed glass, the slow drone of polite laughter all catch in your throat like splinters. you wished for the floor to open up and swallow you whole, not out of fear, nor boredom, but exhaustion. from the ache of being watched, studied, used. they all reminded you of him, the way they could smell weakness like blood in water.   madeline’s voice cuts through the murmur like a scalpel, and your eyes lift slowly, returning.  for a moment, you look younger than you are–a girl still trying to make herself small in places that feel too sharp around the edges. you’ve hesitated long enough, fingers brushing the edge of sleeve and eyes flickering, a deer poised between flight and submission.    “that obvious, huh?”   voice is low, almost careful. the kind of voice you learn to use when everything you say can be twisted.    “but i’m here. that counts for something.”

“you look like you'd rather be anywhere else.”

@norgodly, ↻ dialogue starter call

[norgodly]

the fire had long since withered to ash–more memory than heat now,  the soft crumble of something that once roared.  it murmured low between you, not with passion, but with the brittle finality of something burned past recognition.   you sat opposite from him in its dim halo,  all shadow and solemnity,  shoulders squared like someone who came to confess.   your hand moved before your resolve did; it reached across the divide with the hesitancy of an old soldier crossing a minefield, slow and deliberate, fingers trembling beneath the burden of memory.   you didn’t touch him at first–you hovered, like the proximity alone might collapse you both.  but when your hand finally met the side of his face (half-guilt, half-ghost), it didn’t tremble. it stilled, like a prayer finding its altar.   the surprise was that he didn’t recoil,  not outwardly–a flicker, a shift behind the remaining eye, the faint twitch of a creature bred for survival that still expected pain from kindness.   thumb sourced the scar the way one might touch a grave marker, reverent, but afraid of what it confirms.  the one that started on brow bone and swept down across the hollow where an eye had once been—violent, raw, permanent—before your choices carved it out of him.  you don’t flinch at the contact,  and perhaps that in itself is a betrayal.   it’s not a new wound, time has long since sealed it. but time, you knew, was a poor architect.  it covered damage but didn’t undo it; it built around hurt, made homes out of it. and this scar, this hollow, had become his architecture.  it’s traced gently, like you might be able to read his pain through the braille of his skin, to take it back one groove at a time. but it was etched too deep. there was no reversion, only recognition.   he wore it like the bones of a city half-bombed, half-standing.   you had seen the aftermath before.  blood pooled under boots. dust settling in lungs. but he was the first ruin you’d ever had to look in the eye and admit fault.  inside you, something ached like a bone set wrong. guilt didn’t live in your heart, it lived deeper, coiled beneath your ribs like a buried wire, humming with electricity that never found ground.  it buzzed now, loud beneath your skin, louder than the silence between you.

“i didn’t mean it–”    the words left your mouth like smoke–slow, reluctant, incapable of undoing the fire it followed.  not a defence, not a plea. just the truth that comes too late. your voice was soft, almost too soft to carry, but the air seemed to hush around it, recognising a secret being born.   there is a slight red colour, like a bruise or a blush to his cheeks, the muscles of his face smoothing into angles: hard jaw and a nose that might have once been broken. you were losing yourself in the language of his subtle movements.  the quiet that follows your confession wasn’t empty–a tide pulling back from the shore, revealing wreckage that had always been there.  your lips part again, barely, as if a word might rise–but it didn’t, caught in your throat.   inside, your memory bloomed like bruises. the kind that came after training drills, from following orders of those that came before you.  you weren’t taught remorse, you were taught protocol.  kill if you must. leave if you must. survive. but you hadn’t survived this.  the part of you that once believed in softness was gone. the part that believed in him–fractured. and the part that still did was the worst of all–a reminder that you hadn’t buried jordan fully.  he lived in you like a splinter, deep beneath the scar tissue, too small to see but too sharp to forget.  you should pull away,  you meant to pull away.  but your hand stays.  it stays because this is the closest you’ve come to an apology in years–not in words, but in offering yourself to the reminder, in looking at the thing you tried so long not to see.   the dwindling fire does strange things to his silhouette—it softens the angles, makes him look younger, even when nothing about this feels untouched by time.  you’re expecting anger, resentment. that would be easier to deal with than the reality—meeting his stare full of restraint. full of ache.

@norgodly, clarke griffin — in the process of pushing the receiver's hair back from their face, the sender lets their hand rest against the receiver's cheek a moment longer.

embers of a dying fire spit up between them, or perhaps it is less impassioned than that something like a collection of ash swept beneath the locked door of an abandoned cabin; settling unforgettable, seeping into the floorboards and enduring the test of time. it settles there with the wistful almosts, the downtrodden what-ifs. a singular eye tracks the movement of her hand with the kind of trepidation a dog might deal to thunder, except there is no storm between them now just the silence of thereafter, a quiet that breathes like a wound, one that no longer bleeds. it is merely the aftermath, the wreckage of a youth that ran parallel and thus falls quiet in the years that divide but between it bridged the kind of understanding that could only transpire in meeting and then remeeting across another lifetime. digits move with a humanity that he does not know how to brace for, and he almost flinches muscle memory that reacts to any touch unrehearsed, no matter the perpetrator. she skims over the crease in his brow that seems to linger despite the slacken of skin, a mark not of age but of happenings; of experiencing far too much, too young. digits sweep aside a dark lock in its path, gentle and precise as though practiced lingering against the bump of his temple far longer than the gesture requires, and the shape of his fringe protests the movement nonetheless. his lips part, remain parted for an inexplicable length of time as though opening around a sound that will not come. there is something unguarded in the way it falters, as though a single syllable breathed between his lips might lay waste to this moment between them, the slow and sacred significance that neither dare shape with words. or is it still just that wanting to be understood, projected onto a single, inconsequential act? a dormant feeling flutters beneath featherlight contact, the roughened pad of her thumb catching on the soft plane of his forehead and that is all it takes for him to reach for a dream that he thought long-forgotten, the teenager in him rearing his head towards what he thought had been lost in the gutters lining the weathered streets of boston, walking out of sight with the rain catching in her hair.

something inside him yearns, and it is a passive reminder that this vessel he resides in is hers had always been hers. unsaid, unclaimed, but stitched together by some inevitable truth that had needled under his skin long before he knew what it was to long for something. older and kinder now, years that reckon twenty-three and yet that single, lingering graze of fingers still manages to collapse his body inwards sends his breath scattering across the back of his teeth, the same silent undoing of years passed, an ancient tide that knows nothing except to ebb and flow to the gravitational pull of the sun. (when her hand lifted in class and the world stilled in anticipation of what her voice might offer it, his eyes fixed to the hollow of her wrist that seemed to swallow time and space because nothing mattered then but to hear what she might say; when her shoulder kissed the gym mat with some primal lack of grace and him, a foot above, suddenly empty of every thought ever raised in looking at her; when the cut of her shadow graced his lace-up boots during a morning drill, never more than a moment never more than an empty touch). he remains still, iris trained on her in the shape of a half-moon; lidded, both thoughtful and thoughtless as he watches, unblinking, anticipating. it burns almost, not to flicker in its worship, the fear bristling in his spine that a second closed might dissolve her from existence, like blinking away a reverie beneath the piercing light of a morning sun. jordan's scar is bare to her inquisition now, no longer shielded by a midnight lock that falls partway over his socket, but raised to the light to be observed either revered or repelled, he could not answer for sure. and him, silent, braced; knuckles white to his thigh, and to the armrest, distrusting of own movements that he seizes altogether.

[norgodly]

breath hitches, a caught hummingbird fluttering against the cage of your ribs.  everything is to be consumed,  every touch, every whisper–lost to the flames of want,  combined into a smokey memory you were sure you would relive over and over again.   movements,  your face buried in the crook of his neck,  the scent of him a heady mix of salt and metal;  patches of skin almost black from your earlier assault.   the contact is an anchor,  a grounding force against the dizzying precipice.   another sound,  ever increasing in volume,  a strangled whimper lost in flesh against flesh.   it betrays you,  a pathetic need,  but you can’t stop it—not after he asked so nicely.   you had drawn back,  meet his gaze just long enough for him to look back at you,  and the intensity in his eyes is a tangible thing,  a fire that threatens to consume you both,  and it is only now you are learning that maybe you want to be consumed.  maybe you want to burn.    there was nothing pure here,  nothing sacred.   rather; raw, visceral, a primal urge that had clawed its way to the surface with a demand to be sated.  a sacrifice,   a mutual offering of control and a certain vulnerability to be passed back and forth before any god could accept your devotion.   his touch was an exquisite form of torture,  a slow burn that was consuming you from the inside out.  the precision of his movements,  the way he anticipated your every desire,  was both terrifying and exhilarating.   you knew yourself you were unraveling,  defences crumbling under the relentless assault.    the question hangs in the air,  thick and heavy,  a promise and a question all rolled into one velvety murmur.   you don’t respond with words,  not yet,  if ever.  instead, your fingers clench together in the dark silk of his hair,  nails ghosting across the warm skin of his scalp;  a stubborn refusal to yield completely to his whim as if he didn’t already know the answer etched onto your skin,  in the frantic rhythm of your heart,  in the way your hips roll into his,  matching pace,  desperate for more.   subconsciously,  your muscles are your biggest betrayer,  low tone of his voice brushed against lips cause stomach to tighten,   a mere moan escaping your own throat.

the world narrows to the feel of his hands on your skin,  a possessive brand on your hip,  searing itself into your memory.   for a moment,  suspended in the space between pleasure and pain,  you forget everything.  you forget the game,  the secrets,  the carefully constructed lies.   the precise art of restraint you’ve been wielding cracking against the force of him—the want for the oblivion that awaits,  that promise of a temporary escape from the constant hum of your own anxieties.   you could feel him holding back in his own way,  prioritising your pleasure over his own,  and that selfless act was almost a sharper aphrodisiac than the physical sensations themselves.    there is only this. only him in this moment.    it’s then your eyes open as if to acknowledge him for the first time,   a half-lidded look through lashes,   glazed over and dripping in desire.   evidence of the night shone in the way liner has smudged below waterline,  charcoal glistening.   nam-gyu moved at your bidding,  a willing supplicant at your altar,   and yet it feels like he is the one brandishing the knife against own supple flesh–the coil tightening in your abdomen.   you already feel raw,  flayed open,  mind racing faster than you could ever dream of catching up to.    hips roll again,   your movement long overdue as your weight is pressed deeper against him,  matching the brutality of where fist lingers,   bruises ripening on hipbone.     “mm–you?”    except you don’t give him the opportunity to reply,   instead a kiss,  hot and heavy,   muffling further sounds that claw their way up your throat.    now you’re holding back.   it’s together or not at all.

nam-gyu acquiesces, and he wonders then if he could ever deny her anything the poison of her drips right into the marrow. muscles protest the offering, push up and into the fall despite the cage of her body, the beauty of her weight set across his hips that imposed dominion but trades places in that slow, remarkable unravelling. it surrenders in that one word, breathed out against his parted lip before it is sealed over with an open-mouthed kiss, want pushed inside his mouth and he catches it with his tongue. and with it do his touches grow firmer, driven by an instinct more ancient than thought. before time and gods themselves. she spells out her desire and he pours over it like scripture, his absolution drunk from the messy drag of her open mouth and he wonders then if this is the cure. or maybe, it is the punishment because there is nothing pure in the way he burns for her, nothing sacred in the sweat that collates in the dip of his collarbone. it feels a little more like sacrifice, and he the zealot that opens up the pillar of his throat and urges her to feast. fanatical, propelled only by the safe illusion of control because he continues to move solely to her bidding, breathes only because she allows him to. he hasn't forgotten the way her hands felt as they embraced his neck, the bite of her nails as they enclosed the soft hinge of his jaw. how he welcomed it as something deserving, laying against the altar as though the sharp edge of her touch could relieve him from the quiet guilt that crawls under the layers of his skin. that he could be forgiven in his complete and utter prosaicness, for every insipid day he spent unmoving against the ebbs of existence. how nothing he was, how utterly unremarkable his life turned out to be despite the gifts bestowed in birth-right. digit presses up a mite harder into the heat of her, a slick drag back and forth that marries his patient movements because it is not a race, not speed so much as it is exactitude, touches with precision and dexterity that is learned through feeling and reaction and the way her movements grow keen and messy tell him he's doing something right.

‘you gonna come?’ he murmurs against her lips reverent like he doesn't find the answer in the stutter of her breath, in every sound bitten off and swallowed down. he's never been a stranger to a colourful word, and in truth, he doesn't need her to say it just wants to hear how confirmation catches in her throat on the way out. his head tips back into her touch, digits still lost to jet-black locks, lips ovaling around a suppressed sound as he revels instead inside the visual of proximity hair falling like closing curtains across the stage of her cheeks, curiously wide eyes now hidden by the squeeze-shut of eyelids and he wonders how he'd never noticed how fucking beautiful she was before, but perhaps it is only when it is unguarded, breaking above him that he has been allowed to see it. and perhaps that it what urges hips to cant further into her unbidden; that want to see more, feel more, chasing with certainty that need to carve something perennial into her, the way she has carved it into him without intention( he assumes?). the slight increase of pace is paired with the hand clamped to her hip, that meet of movements synced to her gradual undoing. he can feel it, focused to her feeling instead of own because he can wait. his skin burns ever-hot with the brand of her touch, and knows where her fingers trail will leave a lasting effect, a scar that flares beneath scrutiny. a scar that remembers.

[norgodly]

Havana Rose Liu as Abby — Hal & Harper (2025)

[norgodly]

meme call <3

[norgodly]

@revnants     —      “it's hard to know when it's too late.”

her words land soft but heavy,  a quiet truth wrapped in guilt.   you don’t answer right away,  expression flickers between a flinch and a freeze.  like the words hit a nerve you didn’t know was still raw,  stitched together too fast and not deep enough.   the line of your jaw tightens,  then loosens,  like your chewing on the edges of something sharp–restless,  usual hum of agitation dulled by something slower.  a thought too big to say out loud.   you can see it in her,  too.   the weight of everything left unsaid,  everything she’s done,  everything she hasn’t done.  and under it all,  maybe the scariest of all,  the smallest flicker of hope–or fear.  sometimes you struggle to tell the difference.   the silence stretches,  and you breath in like you are going to speak before it loses itself in the cavern of chest.   (what would you even say?  that you’ve lived most of your life inside of too late?   the walls built around body were nothing compared to the ones built in your head?   that most days you don’t know if your memories are yours or were they stitched together by someone else?)    you have heard those words before,  a thousand different ways—behind glass,  under restraints,  in whispers that thought you weren't listening.

“too late for what,  cate?”      you step closer,  slow,  not threatening–just drawn.  to her.  to answers.  you don’t feel the need to tell her your thoughts,  of the hesitation in the curl of your fists.  she knows.  she somehow always knows.   you look at her like you are a man trying to recognise something familiar in the ruins of what you became.   there is nothing poetic in the way you say it,  rehearsed too many times–too many conversations that go nowhere.  you stopped hoping people mean what they say when they make promises with soft voices and nervous eyes.     “too late to fix it?”