#clawedcrcwn

                 digits dig into the rough material of her jeans as she sits in the POLICE STATION, eyes darting to && fro at the officers that pass by. none of them stop && inform her she’s free to go, or even tell her where matt is. they’re being questioned, all of them who had successfully made it off the mountain, but at this point all emily wants is to go home, get in a warm bath, && erase all the impossible events of the night from her mind.

                 patience tested for long enough, emily goes to gain the attention of the nearest OFFICER && demand to be taken home when blonde tresses catch her eye. she turns her head, && lo and behold, there is the homecoming queen. despite the previous animosity between them, relief blossoms in her chest at the sight of her.

               ❝ Jess, you look so out of it right now.              You know that was fake blood, right? They didn't ACTUALLY stab a guy for 'realism' or anything. ❞

Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text.

[ text ; jess ]: New Halsey album is out.

[ text ; jess ]: I can reserve a copy for you, if you’d like.

( text: joshua )  ummmm are these for me ??? ( text: joshua )   ur looking good, washington ( text: joshua )   okok i’m just gonna delete them

hit me up 

Send “%” for a CURIOUS text. 

Send me ‘I want the K’ and I’ll generate a number

12: Chest Kiss (aka i want to fucking die)

      He could imagine how she felt. Not really, not entirely – he didn’t stagger half-naked through unforgiving wet, cold mines, all alone and afraid. Matt knew that he couldn’t ever really understand how horrifying it must have been, to be grabbed out a window and dragged through the forest like a slab of meat. (slab of – maybe he understood better than he thought.)

      But he had survived with her. They had been hunted like wild animals and they survived. She survived, and Matt needed her to know how important that was to him. 

      Scars were memories permanently written onto flesh. He had more than a few of his own. A bright red blotch were he burnt his arm as a six-year-old, a little boy who wanted to move and jump and dance, who danced until he fell against the oven door. An unrelentingly straight line on the side of his head, covered by brown locks and a messy crew-cut, where he was pushed and pressured into getting wasted by the same teammates who didn’t catch him when he fell on the house stairs. Scars made you remember, and often things you didn’t want to.

      So he knew why Jessica covered her chest. Why she suddenly changed from wearing low-cut tops to sweaters and jackets. Why even when they came together, she still tried so hard to cover her chest-bone with the edges of blankets. And of course he didn’t want to push her, he didn’t want her to be afraid (of anything, ever again) – 

      But he also had to let her know.

      So gently, oh so gently, he put his hands on top of hers where it clutched the sheets around her heart, and like wind blowing on the water, moved it aside so her skin could breathe free. Then slowly, while holding her shaking hand, he pressed his lips against the deep, jagged lines. He kissed it again and again, as if he could will the memories to seep from her and onto his shoulders if he did it enough. No monsters here, just them. Just him and her. He murmured those words into her chest, kissing her scars with something close to reverence.

      “You survived,” he whispered, “You survived.”

      Scars were memories, but memories could shift and change with enough time. They couldn’t be replaced, not completely, but maybe he could help her to not be ashamed or afraid of them. Maybe they could help each other. Maybe that’s what they have been doing this whole time.