π’€π’π’–βœπ’… 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 π’”π’π’Žπ’†π’•π’‰π’Šπ’π’ˆ π’•π’π’™π’Šπ’„, 𝒔𝒐 π‘°βœπ’π’ π’‘π’π’Šπ’”π’π’ π’Žπ’šπ’”π’†π’π’‡ π’‚π’ˆπ’‚π’Šπ’ .

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Last Login:
February 27th, 2024



Gender: Male
Age: 28
Sign: Sagittarius
Signup Date:
May 16, 2023

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05/17/2023 12:15 PM 

α΄‹ΙͺΙ΄α΄›sᴜɒΙͺ.

           
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
kintsugi;


Blood. All he saw was blood. All he tasted was blood. All he felt was blood. All he heard was… screaming. Was he the one screaming? He lifted trembling fingertips to parted lips: blood. Breath? He was panting, maybe, or speaking enthusiastically, but then what about? What had happened to him between twisting his shop’s key in the lock and now? He was hurting. Did that pain mean he was injured? Pain. Pain. Pain. He was holding something, but that something was several times too heavy for him to lift skyward; where was he, anyway? Was he standing up? Lying down? Judging purely by the budding ache at his temples, he would’ve guessed upside down, but then… why would he hang himself upside down? How could he hang himself upside down? Was he really upside down if he was able to hold onto a something? Questions that couldn’t be answered by stillness. The hand that wasn’t gripping the something for dear, wretched life shifted, and with it shifted the entirety of his body—swinging. He was upside down.



He wiped his eyes of his mouth’s blood, squinting out through viscous lashes at the world around him. Across the way was the mom-and-pop shop that had made it their life’s work to feed him for the past three years; it’s a wonder you’ve filled out so nicely, came Mrs. Jeong’s trilling intonation, you’re always working, never eating. She’d watched him for a few weeks through his window walls before she’d had enough of his forgetfulness and took it upon herself to keep a regular feeding schedule for him—and, if it had been anyone else, he would’ve filed for a restraining order. Since it was Mrs. Jeong, he humbly accepted each meal with neatly wrapped gifts of house roasted coffee beans, house crafted syrups, and Mr. Jeong’s favorite: fresh pastries. His stomach gave a low rumble as he gazed out at the upside down ‘RESTAURANT’ sign. It wasn’t upside down, though… he was. A hard blink, another rub of finger pads against blood-soaked lids. This time, he tilted his head downwards to catch a glimpse of what it was that was holding him up. Nothingness that turned into somethingness when he swung with his body’s labored movements. A glint that implied fishing line. He was a trophy, then.



Pain. Grating of bone against flesh as he sucked in a breath and maneuvered the heavy something down—up?—towards his face. Three unsuccessful tries, and the fourth nearly cost him his grip. By the fifth, he could see pale blue numbers reading 12:42AM glaring back at him. His phone. Thumb wriggled into the crease, tremulous exertion made to flip the damn thing open—his battery, nearly dead. The ache in his forehead arrived at its crescendo, threatening to split his skull open and spill its contents onto the pavement below with each throb; another blink, this time in vain, and he pressed a mere two buttons: 1, CALL. Ring… ring… ring… ring…


Click. The sound of a job thoroughly completed echoed inside of stress-cluttered thoughts; he’d already missed a call from the exceptionally grumpy date of his, which meant he was on strike one before their time together had even begun. He twisted and tugged his key to remove it from its lock—whack. The breath knocked from his lungs with a singular, sickening crack of metal against ribs. Stumbling, half-collapsing against freshly-polished glass, he craned his head towards the source of whatever had struck him. One, two, three, four… all painfully recognizable faces; the men that had gotten the lesser deal during his last ‘babysitting’ job. A defensive hand rose to insist they scatter at once or suffer the consequences of beating down the Underground’s most reliable source for drop-offs, peace brokerage, and emergency medical care, but by the time he pushed the words onto the tip of his tongue, the metal pipe their instigator brandished connected with the side of his head. His body then connected with cement.



“How much could I make off you if I cut out your beady eyes and your bitch-ass tongue? Bet they’d pay a pretty penny for a color like yours, but… you been suckin’ Boss dick, don’t know that I’d catch a deal on your whore mouth. Might as well just rip the whole jaw off, save me the trouble of listenin’ to your yappin’ while I gut you like a fuckin’ pig.” Resounding laughter; apparently, that was humorous. He’d forgotten to laugh in the wake of his concussion. “Oh… I know what I’ll do.” He pressed knees into shoulders, straddling his chest and removing a secondary weapon from around his neck: a garrote. His mouth split into a revolting grin, but there was naught to be done but stare on in helpless terror; his ankles had long since been pinned to the sidewalk by two of the three, and the third had utilized the key hanging in its spot in the shop’s deadlock to enter his place of business and wreak havoc. Fishing line adorned slender throat, akin to a necklace borne of loathing, and wooden grips pulled in opposite directions to tighten down. “I’ll pop your head clean off and sell the whole thing for a cock sleeve, eh?” He broke into the first of many shrieks, writhing and slapping and gnashing teeth at his biggest threat, but still he pulled, and his resolve buckled beneath the weight of this new reality.



His legs received various mutilations in the form of cuts, stabs, and burns, but the worst of it was the grinding of nylon against flesh, shredding each individual skin cell as it dug into him. He could feel the initial pop, like a seam tearing open, then a nauseating lubricated friction as his blood assisted with the next several saws into his neck. He was sobbing, choking on his own bile and blood, suffocating under the strain of the brutalizing man’s poundage. His legs twitched involuntarily, eyes rolling into the back of his head—slapped back into awareness. “Don’t you fuckin’ die on me already, slut. I’ll cut right down to your spinal cord ‘n’ make you watch as I saw off the rest of your limbs first. You don’t get to die until I fuckin’ tell you to, dogshit.” A break in concentration, a small forward sway suggesting he’d been nudged. He whipped his head around with a roaring ‘what?’



“He just said to slit his throat and take his money, we’d get in trouble if we tried to sell—!”



“I know what he fucking said!” The loosened line suddenly burrowed deeper into its inflicted wounds, licking at the muscle and bathing itself in a fresh coat of blood. Chi-Woo couldn’t make heads or tails of the conversation by that point; all he knew was the relief he felt as that fishing line unwound itself from his throat, then a second round of dread when he felt the same sensation digging into his ankles. Coughing and sputtering, shoulders hunched and head angled downwards in a weak attempt at stemming the flow—then scraping blunt fingernails into the cement until they split and bled, too, as he was slowly, agonizingly hoisted up, up, up using his own shop sign to dangle his body. A gory piñata. Even that wasn’t enough; once they’d strung him up like a hunk of meat, they took turns battering him with the metal pipe they’d brought along with them until the fourth had stepped back onto the street with a takeout bag stuffed to the brim with cash: his life’s savings. He’d always been too paranoid to transport it from one place to the next. At the very least, dying meant not having to deal with the repercussions of essentially starting over again.




Leaving their job mostly finished, they abandoned Chi-Woo to bleed out on the sidewalk in favor of heading back to base and dividing their winnings; dipping in and out of awareness, slowly rotating in the gentle breeze of the night’s air, he scrounged together thought enough to search for his phone, mewling his agonies all the while. It was enough of an effort to get his hand to his belt but searching for the damn thing was near impossible; no matter how many times he thought back on how he’d gotten dressed that morning, he couldn’t remember in which pocket he’d stuffed his phone. On the third try, his back right pocket, he pulled away victorious, glancing at the soft blue reading 10:59PM—only to lose the last sliver of consciousness he’d clung to.
 

05/16/2023 11:46 PM 

Κœα΄€α΄˜Κœα΄‡α΄˜Κœα΄Κ™Ιͺα΄€.

         
   
 
haphephobia;

It was an evening just like any other; Chiwoo tailed after his troublemaker best friend and his group of friends as they all headed straight from school back to Jihyun’s vacant house. They sat in their usual order—panther curling around white rabbit, the rest dropping in whatever space was available—and, within minutes, drinks were flowing. Ever the mild-mannered boy, he refrained from touching all but the mug of tea he’d made for himself and his cell phone; this wasn’t his crowd, this wasn’t his scene, but it was because it was Jihyun’s, and so he sat pretty and waited for his chance to slip out with the rest of the bodies and fall into his own bed. So tired…

It was a night like any other; Jihyun had poured himself glass after glass of soju, slamming them back as though amid a competition of iron guts and steel resolve. Amber flickered from screen to glass a few times throughout the three or so hours since they’d sat down and gotten comfortable, but he’d held his tongue up until that point. It wasn’t unusual for the man to treat himself with a heavier hand than the rest, considering his size, but something was… off. There was a thickness in the air that coated the back of Chiwoo’s tongue no matter how many times he swallowed it down, and he found himself staring, unseeing, at the novel on his phone longer than he genuinely read the words. He was listening intently to the tone of each voice that rang out in succession, however deaf to the conversation itself—there was something amiss, and his primal instinct was picking up on it before his rational mind could identify, evaluate, and plan accordingly. It wasn’t until he counted four bottles piled in his shadow’s corner of the table that he stiffened and decided to speak up. A hand lifted and encircled the top of that tilting glass, willing it to level out—silently pleading with Jihyun to abandon the alcohol and swap to the unopened bottle of water beside him. He hadn’t intended to, but he lifted the drink out of his hand and drew it closer to himself to emphasize his stance.

“Hey, Jihyun. Stop drinking. You’ve had too much… and your face is really red. Aren’t you gonna go to school tomorrow?” Glass snatched right back, contents swallowed before the liquid even settled on his taste buds. A sharp inhale through his nostrils, startled by the unprovoked aggression—yet, still, he sat pretty and waited for his chance to slip out with the rest of the bodies and fall into his own bed. He was having one of his moody nights, he excused, likely due to their pop quiz earlier that day. Jihyun had never been academically inclined. “Do what you want, then; I tried to stop you.” He curled back around his phone, but every ounce of energy that remained inside of the listless was thrown into monitoring the beast from that point.

“… Chiwoo.”

“What? You don’t even listen to me.”

“… y’know I like you, right?” Icy tendrils curling themselves around the base of his spine, freezing the blood in his veins and injecting his nervous system with paralyzers. He tore his gaze from the same page he’d been skimming for the better part of half an hour and regarded that sculpted face with a mild scowl. One, two, three seconds—then his eyes dropped back to the security blanket that was his novel.

“… ugh, I know. How many times do I have to tell you?” Voice wavering, lithe frame trembling.

“… oh yeah? You know, do you?”

It was a night unlike any other; rather than accepting his attempts at brushing off his thousandth confession, rather than picking back up on the nonsensical conversation he’d previously held with the living props, rather than allowing Chiwoo escape from the suffocating reality of the impending expiration date of their friendship, he leaned right into it. The ‘friends’ were rounded up at once and kicked out without so much as a goodbye—and, the moment they left, the spark of Jihyun’s temper caught flame and incinerated all rational thought. Hand grasping slender wrist in a bruising grip, upper lip curling into a disgusted snarl, he demanded confrontation that time. He couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer; the time had come to pick a side, and he knew the side that he’d already inwardly chosen would ruin all they had built together.

“… are you gonna pretend you don’t know?”

“… what… are you talking about?”

“You fuckin’ know what I’m talkin’ about. You know that I like you… but you keep ignorin’ it.”

“… you’re drunk.”

“Ha… think whatever you want.” For the first time since they’d established their bond, Jihyun had crossed the physical boundary of their friendship into the heart-stuttering realm of something more—and kissed Chiwoo. What he got as reward for his boldness was a rough shove, a nauseated wipe of mouth against sleeve, a panicked squeal in the slur of ‘what are you doing?’ Panther poised over rabbit, fangs bared and claws embedded into hind legs. Trapped.

“You know. You know I like you. Why do you ignore my feelings every single day? How long are you gonna keep avoidin’ this? Forever?” Thick brows knitted together, stitching anxiety, confusion, discomfort into the delicate flesh between. He swallowed, but that thickened air had begun to wedge itself at the base of his throat and choke him.

“… I’ve never done that.” The back of his hand pressed against his violated mouth to mask the lie, to no avail.

“You’re doin’ it right now! … Don’t you like me?” Cold sweat began to bead at his forehead, and the tremors strengthened in intensity. He stared hard at his bent knees, hands folded in his lap and thumbs twiddling in self-soothing circles. Nothing was working.

“What are you saying...? Why would I not like you..?”

“What’s the fuckin’ problem, then!?” The rabbit flinched, and in doing so, exposed its fragile neck to the monstrosity looming overhead. The panther took the opportunity and pounced then and there, grasping and tugging and collapsing against him to break down those mental barriers and push through his affections. “Chiwoo… I like you, yeah? I really like you…” As he’d done so many countless times in their decade spent attached at the hip, a pale hand lifted to press into the small of his back and reassure him; there was no reassurance to be had, however, and it stopped just short before dropping uselessly back into his lap. How could he possibly worm his way out of losing their bond now?

“You’re confused… we’re just so comfortable around each other. After all, we’re always together… maybe you’re mistaking our friendship for—!”

“Don’t make me fuckin’ laugh! Stop treatin’ me like an idiot!” At once, Chiwoo was on his back on the couch, and that predator’s gaze was locked right on his jugular. “Does a friend turn you on? I can’t be friends with you anymore.” He leaned d o w n…

It was a night unlike any he would want to remember; he pleaded for mercy without conviction, squirmed beneath his disobedient hands without confidence, half-submitted to his new role as object, when the brash drunk slipped up under his shirt with intent to carry himself well beyond the boundary of platonic affection. A searing panic arose within the younger’s chest, and he struck him across the cheek with his first assertive stance since the beginning of their shared night: “I said, stop!” The resounding slap of skin-on-skin echoed within his mind’s walls, and he shrunk beneath the stunned, guilty despite his position. “Uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..!” The apology tapered and died off on his kiss-swollen lips as he met amber with ice and saw the humanity drain from angular features. He didn’t see the fist flying at his face until it made contact with his jaw in a sickening crack, jerking his head sideways and initiating an instinctive check to ensure that his neck hadn’t snapped from the force. The man that he had built sanctuary within, the friend he had confided in and placed trust in, had dissipated; in his stead knelt the man that insisted on ripping every last shred of peace and security from his pounding heart with bloody knuckles. He opened his mouth to cry out to him, to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, to remind him that he was wasted—and that’s when the second punch connected in the same spot. He thanked any and every higher being in that moment that his jaw hadn’t dislocated from the force, but that relief was short-lived; a left hook, then a right hook, then another left all made contact with his head, splitting flesh and coating themselves in a thin layer of spurting blood.

“For so many fuckin’ years, I’ve tried to control myself! For you!” A punch into his side, knuckles twisting deep into the muscle and grating rib bone against lung—threatening to pop it. He pinned his palm against nose and mouth, then, and began smothering him, shoving his swollen and hemorrhaging head into the couch cushions to keep him from struggling successfully. “I did everything you asked me to! So why’re you bein’ such an a**hole, huh!? Why the fuck do you keep ignorin’ how I feel, you bastard!?” Something snapped within that rabbit, and he pounced, breathless, right into the panther’s maw. He grasped onto broad shoulders and dug blunt fingernails into the clothed skin, forcing a roll and landing on top of him on the floor. “You son of a bitch! Get ahold of yourself! What the fuck am I supposed to do!? Is me ignoring your feelings such a big deal? You didn’t fucking think beyond that, did you?” He was openly sobbing by that point, fists clenched as though he intended to return those blows—Jihyun had long since restrained him at the wrists. He couldn’t have done anything to begin with. “And you can’t understand what was going through my mind as I stayed by your side, right? I—!” He sucked in a violent gasp as he was once again tossed like a ragdoll. This time, his landing zone was straight on top of the glass coffee table all their drinks and snacks sat neglected. The shatter burst his eardrums, and the proverbial stab in the back manifested into a thick shard of glass piercing and penetrating several inches deep into his shoulder blade. He shrieked, rolling as much as his shellshocked body would permit onto his side to relieve the overwhelming pressure at his wound site, exhaling a shuddering wail—peering out at the man stooped in front of him and staring down with lifeless eyes. He squeezed his own shut and fell into a fit of stifled sobs, bloody teeth clenched and tears cleaning wide streaks down ruddy cheeks.

Jihyun leaned forward, and Chiwoo could feel the animosity stuffing itself into his wounded mouth and cutting off his windpipe. Nostrils flared and elbow drove itself against the center of the other’s chest: useless. “… don’t do something you’ll regret,” he uttered his whimpering rejection. His response came in the form of an open-mouthed kiss at the nape of his neck, earning a wince from the smaller.

“… me? Never.”

It was a night that shattered illusions and crushed brittle bones beneath the weight of its reality; Chiwoo fit so snug beneath Jihyun, and Jihyun fit so snug inside of Chiwoo, it was as though their bodies were made for each other—or, that’s what the panther murmured into the rabbit’s torn ear over and over as he pinned and groped and ripped his former best friend in half. The viscous crimson of the unprepared begging acted as exceptional lubricant. No matter how rigid he remained beneath his touch, against his thrusts, Jihyun got his wicked way with relative ease. The screams were the worst of it, he’d convinced himself, tearing up his throat without his consent—revealing to the world around him of his agony and heartbreak as he was fucked into nothingness. It took mere minutes before even those died away, however; he’d lost too much blood by that point and fell limp against the shards of glass scraping noisily against the marble floor with every brutal rut, acting as some filthy baseline for the melody of skin slapping and primal snarls. He was halfway between dissociation and total blackout, but unconsciousness was winning out by the time his use as sleeve had come to a sticky end, denoted by a stuttering groan from the beast. Relief came in the form of Jihyun dropping onto the floor beside him and closing his eyes, fit for restful sleep among his carnage.

Not a sound came from Chiwoo as he rolled onto his hands and knees and pushed himself to stand. Not a sound came from Chiwoo as he limped towards his discarded clothes and squirmed his way back into them despite the gore. Not a sound came from Chiwoo until he’d hobbled from Jihyun’s back to his in black as pitch night—having to stop at various points to vomit what little contents remained in his churning stomach—and barricaded himself behind a locked door and propped chair—then, and only then, did the boy collapse face first into his bed. Then, and only then, did he permit himself the first of countless chest-heaving sobs into his death-gripped pillow.

 

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