#rarenight

send me “#” for cell phone headcanons about our muses including:

- what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone:  tesoro

- what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone: ( X )

- what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone: default ringtone

Send In A Word, And I’ll Write A Drabble Or Starter Based On It

@rarenight // let’sgo

someone make sense of this.

make sense of the bubble of chaos. of voices screaming and voices unheard. make sense of black eyes, paper white skin. black clothes and colder eyes. cold cold cold depths they sting like ice. someone make sense of ice in his throat, of screaming so shrill it sounds comforting. the welcome of an end.

someone make sense of the dreams, of the pain. it’s small but it aches and it burns low, constant and impure. it’s prickles of memory that seem to come when and wherever they please. someone please let the body know when it’s being convenient and when it’s not.

han is stressed. for whatever reason, these episodes happen when they wish and when they feel, ready. there’s no warning. there’s nothing he can do, sense to tell himself to hide. to run. to move move and move away from everyone. he’s in the middle of deliveries, hands holding carefully to the boxes and his breath training himself to be steady, to be normal. 

to act normal.

because the episodes strike when they want. the body reacts to what the mind has locked. it will always react. he’s barely making it through the door, b a r e l y maneuvering to set what he’s sure are expensive goddamn materials before his eyes land on the woman. they fixate, register and before the message can send to the brain; before he can think or guess, the headaches come and the images whizz by. excited. frantic, blinding into paper white confusion behind closed eyes.

the boxes crash on him but it’s nothing compared to this. the feeling of clawing coming from inside his throat, the feeling of being so full of something, the feeling of being heavy. the feeling of being willing and the body opposing. it’s something he can’t quite place. there are beady eyes and ocean blue skin. then there are brown eyes and paper white skin. there are figures above a watery surface and monsters beneath. 

han never makes sense of it all, he can only try to cling to the feeling of pain on his body. the pain that’s here and now, not in a past he can’t access.

his head spins and his skin turns a color of concern. sickly and off.

he’s going to hurl.

 meme ) things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

i had to put this under read more since this consists mainly of dialogue and it got long

@rarenight

bgm

the smoke around him turns yellow under the dim street lights. jimin’s cigarette dangles loosely between his lips, his head bowed by the weight of silence around him until he hears the soft scrape of the plastic chair pushed against the ground. 

the silence continues, and jimin wonders how long she’s capable of waiting. the dizziness from the alcohol makes his head swirl, tangling up his thoughts to the point that he gets himself lost in them. there are waves that crashes against each other inside him, and he flinches from each collision. he hasn’t eaten all day so he hopes that nothing would come out other than whatever that’s causing the storm inside him when the throws up. 

“어렸을때 한번 술 마신 아부지 한테 엄청 맞고 울면서 집에 나왔거든? 그날 지나가던 수녀님이 내꼴이 얼마나 구질했으면 머리 쓰담으면서 나한테 울지마레. 하늘이 대신 울어준다고 했거든. 지금 생각해보면 존나 빡쳐. 할머니가 뭘 안다고. 아부지 한테 맞아서 피멍까지 들었는데. 근데 그때는 위로가 됐어. 어린 마음에는 되더라. 그래서 안 울었어. 지금까지 안 울었어. 아무리 억울해도, 아무리 아파도, 아무리 슬퍼도, 안 울었어. 울면 자존심 상하고, 엄마가 알면 슬퍼하잖아. 안 울면 하늘이 날 인정해줄 것 같아서. 언젠가는 대신 참았던 만큼 울어줄 것 같아서. 그래서 안 울었어.”

...

“근데 비가 안 와.” 

하- he exhales, his hand crushing the empty paper cup. his voice cracks into a whisper, as if he’s having difficulty in speaking from all the unexplainable weight on his shoulders. 

“우리 엄마, 아파도 다 할수 있던 사람이었는데. 아팠다고 아프다고 안 한 사람인데. 아무리 아파도 쉽게 떠날 사람이 아니었는데. 그렇게 보면 안 아팠을수도 있었잖아? 전화로 소식듣고 의사가 착각한줄 알았어. 우리 엄마 아닌 것 같다고. 우리 엄마랑 약속했거든, 생일날에 오랜만에 내가 부산으로 내려가서 같이 케이크에 초 꽂고 미역국 먹기로 했거든? 아무리 아파도 약속은 지키는 사람이라서 내 생일날 까지는 살아있을줄 알았지.” 

he’s rambling, his words floating around him like cigarette smoke. he has to let it all out since he doesn’t know where to keep them, since he knows he’ll want to die as well if he forces them inside himself. 

“내가 너무 늦었나봐. 생일말고 설날에 내려갔을걸. 어떡해. 내가 너무 늦었어. 어떡, 하냐. 나. 나 진짜 어떡하지?”

the signs are all there; his throat feels constricted, his eyes burning with all the tears he’s holding in, the way how his hands curl into fists whenever he’s trying not to cry. 

@rarenight

sand and wind. songs and screams. violence and laughter. slumber and noise. wounds and salt. darkness and ghosts. jimin stands on the line between the crime scene and the rest of the world. he’s been called in an hour ago, a murder in a restaurant bathroom in the south end of seoul. the team has just started cleaning up all the blood after gathering enough evidence, and jimin turns his head to stare at the row of orange and brown maple trees, their leaves shaking with the wind as if they’re trembling from what they’ve witnessed from a street away. he stares at the group of kindergarteners walking beneath them, happily following a woman who he supposes is their teacher. he hears his name being called by one of his colleagues, and jimin shifts his attention back to the crime scene. suddenly he feels like he’s in two places at once. this goes against einstein’s theorem. he blinks. whatever. call it the zen of a sleep deprived cop. 

jimin decides to take a cigarette break, stepping out of the boundaries of yellow tape and lighting his bohem mojito double before taking a long drag from it. the group children he saw earlier had disappeared, and instead he sees a woman standing in the same spot. 

저 여자 또 왔네. he observes, standing still with his hands in his pockets with a cigarette hanging low in his mouth. 피해자랑 관련있는 사람인가. jimin drops the cigarette onto the ground before crushing it with his foot, killing the fire. 근데 표정은 존나 평혼하네. 

he blinks.

씨발 그럼 살인자?!