norgodly

[norgodly]

the very idea settles into the marrow of your bones like cold iron, each syllable a bell toll that reverberates against the fragile scaffolding you’ve built inside yourself.   you look at her–not just at, through. through the fissures in her expression, through the veil of rehearsed calm into the storm. you were born into different cages but the bars creaked with the same voice.     “how do i really feel?”    your throat is a raw wound. not from screaming, not anymore. the rage has learned new shapes–quieter ones, sharpens itself into stillness. it condenses into silence, thick as oil, clinging to your lungs.  your mouth opens as if to start again, then stops, because what you want to say would spill out like shattered glass with too many jagged edges to hold without bleeding.  that’s the problem, isn’t it? the words don’t come easy, they never have. feelings for you have never sat in neat little boxes but tear through the packaging. they roar and bleed and choke, and sometimes when you speak, you’re not even sure who is doing the talking–yourself, or the ghosts of who they made you be.   but she deserves the truth. maybe she’s the only one who does. 

“i…i don’t think we have a choice.”    thought over feeling/the way it has to be. a half-smile ghosts your lips, not quite reaching your eyes. nothing has, not in weeks. because your body is still there, but your mind…it flickers between static-laced memories and polished nightmares. one second you’re at a dinner party in vought tower, silver cutlery and flattering interviews. you blink and you’re back in the dim hum of isolation, blood drying on your fists, a fluorescent light that never turned off. the smell of bleach. the sound of bones cracking.   that quiet, awful question.   it’s a wounded look, not fresh, older than all of this. it’s the look of someone who’s been tricked into believing he was free, only to find the leash invisible now, but still intact.  cate’s voice is a tether, steady in its shakiness. the one who dulled the noise with her digging, no longer a hurricane but a steady buzz, like a thousand tvs left on in the background. a lullaby made of static. progress; they call it. docile until called.    “not much has changed, huh?”

UNCERTAINTY WILL EAT YOU ALIVE, if you let it. the dead matter of indecision pools like cement around your ankles, stunted by the delay that comes with questioning each and every step forward. the liberation of the woods was meant to be a new beginning. THE RISE OF THE GUARDIANS OF GODOLKIN, so why have your latest victories left you feeling so. . . hollow? ❝ no, not that. it's just- ❞ lips twisting, these things are so often a pain for you to convey in words. bombarded by endless thoughts & feelings, it's ironic that you're incapable of expressing (EXPOSING) yourself the same way. YOUR CONTROL HAS IMPROVED in the past few months, under the guidance of vought and the seven. the constant roaring in your mind has dulled to a tiresome hum - tv static that never shuts off. but despite everything that's changed, the way you & sam have been elevated, welcomed to the inner circle, something nags at you still. the fear that PREVIOUSLY CUT STRINGS have been plucked up by a new puppeteer. ❝ how do you really feel about all of this? ❞ not exactly having heart to hearts on a regular basis, but you have toed around the conversation in recent weeks.

maybe you've been avoiding it, out of fear that you may have to face a difficult reality : THAT YOU LET HIM DOWN. all of them, really. if it's come down to trading one cage for another, then maybe it was all for nothing. ❝ i don't want us becoming pawns in another fight. ❞ one you're set up to lose, of all the supes in vought tower - you can sense the two of your are... dispensable. INDIRA WOULD CALL YOU PARANOID, if she were still here. convince you to enjoy the moment, the admiration, the attention. all of the things you thought you might desire, it's all so suffocating now.

[norgodly]

𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝚈 𝙳𝙴𝚅𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝚂 𝚅𝙸𝙾𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃— a study.

[norgodly]

random sentence prompts  ━ from various tv shows, part 23  

they’re so cute and innocent.

you think i know what i’m doing? no one knows what they’re doing.

you know you have this bad habit of taking away my money, right? 

if you let your guard down, anyone can win.

i’ll be right beside you.

you’re lucky. you still got somebody to save. that’s rare.

some things just can’t be replaced.

you saw me as someone worth saving. that’s who i wanna be.

guess it's up to me to prove i can be more like you.

we either get hurt, or we have to hurt them.

we all have parts that we want people to see and parts of us that we want to hide. it’s all real.

you take me for everything i’m worth. 

when we get there, we’ll be different. we’ll be ready.

someone once told me that i’m brave. that i have to be.

some people make it look so easy. starting over.

you wanna leave, then leave. i got nothing left to lose.

i don’t ever want to be afraid again, but i know i probably will be.

once someone leaves, that’s it. that’s who they are.

hate to interrupt your little overreaction you’re having, but tick tock.

here’s the thing about violence. sometimes it is very much the answer.

you’re angry, but you love me. and i want you to keep loving me.

whining about your shit never helped anyone i know.

i want you to get everything you want. that can’t happen if i’m holding you back.

some nights it's so damn dark. and then they still manage to get darker.

history. that’s all you have with them. they are not your future.

power. power is what you felt out there. power is what we need. it’s what we eat. 

together, we can be unstoppable.

it felt so good to be safe. i’ve never felt that before. like i had a home.

your home is with me. okay?

i don’t want to be who everyone thinks i am here.

i do like that they consider me slightly dangerous.

yeah. because we don’t talk about stuff like that. not what went on, not what goes on.

why do you do what you do when you have what you have?

falling apart is for other people.

whatever choice i make, someone always dies.

i used to feel like i belonged here.

you thrive on the unglamorous because you’re still trying to prove yourself.

i have waited so long for you to see me.

it’s me. i’m on your side always, but you gotta tell me what’s going on.

thanks for listening to all my shit.

we’re over. i need you to accept that.

i just feel discarded.

if we fight, then we die.

our fight is not over.

we’ve been through a lot together, you and i.

either you lead us into battle or get the hell out of my way. 

you know, sometimes men just need to die.

you did nothing wrong. this is all my fault, and you did nothing wrong.

i have good news. it can’t get any worse.

you’re breaking my heart again.

just because it ended doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.

i’m not upset, i’m terrified. so tell me. tell me that you don’t want to be with me. 

the world sucks, but you are my favorite person.

don’t look at me like that, all accusatory like you don’t believe i’m fine.

you can judge me all you want, but i was there.

i don’t know if i’m a good person.

you’re just fine. you never fall apart. i wish i was like you.

you make sense to me. i’m not letting go of that.

sorry, you’re unlucky in love? 

you’re not terrible. i quite like you. sometimes.

i like reducing men to tears.

don’t pretend like you’re doing this for me, ‘cause i don’t want this. i don’t want this, i want you.

being loved takes work. i don’t have it in me to be loved right now.

i’m actually trying this new thing called staying in one place. 

i am there just waiting for you to let me in. when is that going to happen?

life is a game. and if you’re not playing, chances are, you’re the one getting played.

if you’re about to ask me how i’m doing, don’t.

i see you. i see how hungry you are. 

what do you want for yourself? when you close your eyes and you picture it, what do you see? what do you really want?

don’t get a nosebleed up there on your high horse.

you came up in here like a tornado, and now you’re just leaving.

the only thing you can trust in this world is that you can’t trust anyone.

you think you are so clever, but you are playing with fire.

scared of me? i’m scared of you. you can’t be trusted.

it’s getting harder to pretend that something’s not going on with you.

is it weird i think you might be one of my only friends?

i took all the darkness, and i ate it. i became it. 

you had the guts to do something big. something crazy, something that meant something. you should be proud.

i’ve had to change a lot. i’ve gotten good at it.

love is not giving up. it’s sticking around.

maybe we just grew apart a little bit. maybe that’s okay.

i feel safe with you. i feel more me. like… real me. 

i don’t want to hide things from you.

i can’t get what we did out of my head.

i’m so tired of running. i just wanna stand still.

i had a plan. you just destroyed it.

hope is what makes you willing to suffer.

i can’t go back.

so you’re not gonna sleep, and you’re not gonna tell me what’s up? great.

i wanted to be brave. i wanted to be more like you.

i’m not brave. i’m a shit person who does shit things because i don’t give a single shit about anything. 

bullshit. you never loved me.

i would laugh if i wasn’t so hungry.

you think it’s too late to reinvent myself?

i got second thoughts on my second thoughts. 

monumental shared experiences like this pretty much bonds you for life.

it’s always complicated shit with dads, you know? they have a funny way of showing they give a shit sometimes.

we still got a shot. i’m gonna take it.

i used to think that we were the same, but we are not. we are not the same.

you turned me into the worst possible version of myself because you are insidious. you poison good things.

i don’t hate you. i hate me, okay? i hate me.

you can be impressed with me later. 

i may not hate you anymore.

i belong nowhere.

why are you trying to save me?

me. i’m afraid of me.

think about what you want. they’re all counting on you.

[norgodly]

COURTNEY EATON as LOTTIE MATTHEWS Season 3, Episode 7: "Croak"

[norgodly]

the quiet that overtakes the apartment feels sacrificial, bitter and unholy. the kind that is only offered up after the slaughter.  his answer, meagre, defensive, much too late, does nothing to put the fire out in you.  you’re unnervingly still, every muscle pulled tight beneath golden threads, holding back fury in your mouth like communion you refuse to swallow. sharp, bitter. it coats your teeth like blood. the light you’re known for doesn’t quite reach your face now, a dimming halo scattered across the walls, sharp-edged and unforgiving.  vague, not a liar but someone editing the truth, slicing it into pieces and handing over only the cleanest bits. speaking of protection like it’s a gift and not a leash.   it felt like he didn’t trust you.   it’s what cuts deepest–not that he went–but the surprise. you would’ve understood, you would’ve helped to keep it quiet, tame the fire from inside the house, if he’d just said something, anything.  

“i don’t need your protection,  clark.”    your halo brightens with your laugh, breathless and bitter, glass shattering from within.  the oldest sin in the book. the serpent didn’t bring destruction, but a twisted kind of salvation. knowledge at the cost of paradise. that’s what this feels like. the raw bite of a fruit too ripe. a taste of truth that turns sweet to ash in your mouth.   it simmers into anxiety,  movement now only to pace the short length of the room; a storm bottled in a body, chaos in place of clarity.   beneath the anger, the disappointment, lies terror. pure and unrelenting–not for yourself, but for him. for what they’ll do to punish him for doing the right thing. he steps outside the narrative they’ve crafted, reminding the word that heroism doesn’t need a brand.    “i’m not angry you saved them. god, of course you saved them. that’s who you are.”    because trust doesn’t vanish in a single breath, rather it singes at the edges, burned like wings too close to the sun.     “but i need more than heroics. i need the truth.”    to protect him. @justiced

** ANSWERED: @norgodly (annie...) — " ARE YOU BEING INTENTIONALLY VAGUE? "

      ANDOR SEASON ONE ⇨ ACCEPTING!

SUPERMAN DOESN'T LIE.    not to anybody,  but certainly not to her.    but behind these brick walls,  inside the 871 square foot apartment situated in downtown manhattan,  he’s not superman.    he is clark kent,  journalist for the daily planet,  but at the evening —  does it make any difference?    red cape  /  no cape,  he will forever be who he is,  even whenever the name changes.    he hasn’t looked at annie since she asked her question  —  clark isn't entirely sure he can,  because he knows exactly what she’s talking about.    the oil rig fire off the gulf coast,  the one vought had quietly deemed "off-limits" due to an ongoing contract with globalwell.    (the one homelander was meant to respond to,  but chose not to.)    so clark did.    he showed up before the rig had collapsed,  pulling twenty-three workers from the impending wreckage,  and left before any helicopters arrived.    no interviews,  no camera crews  —  just blood-soaked hands,  oil in his lungs,  and the feeling he was exactly where he was supposed to be.    saving the day.    but nothing stays quiet about superman for very long.   

the press caught wind  /  someone leaked photos,  and now a media frenzy has begun over doing good in the world.    how did a non-vought cape beat them to the punch?    it’s not just an inconvenient;  it’s becoming too common of a problem.    superman is a problem.    not just for vought,  but for starlight.        ❝  i'm not trying to be vague.  ❞        he finally sighs,  chest aching before running a hand over his face,  rough with stubble he should've shaved.    (palms a little too calloused for a man who's supposed to type all day.)    the same hands that have caught all sorts of falling buildings,  pushed tectonic plates back into alignment,  held a man's heart in place while paramedics scrambled to the scene.    those same hands twitch uncontrollably now,  entirely unsure what to do with them before deciding to them raise in a surrender motion.        ❝  all i want is to protect you and your job, while i do my job. ❞

[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