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nclgsticore · 14 days

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to know him is to love him, and i do | chapter one: do you not love me? like at all?

pairing(s): choi beomgyu x you, kang taehyun x you

summary: you love beomgyu more than anything. you just wish he loved you, too. or you finally break up with beomgyu and move on, but as for him? maybe he's starting to realize too little too late.

genre: romance, angst, angst with a happy ending (?)

word count: 2.1k

notes: hi friends! ... r u mad at me? be honest (*´ｪ｀*) i'm sorry i've been gone for so long, but i've had the worst writer's block with my other story. i decided to just post this because i couldn't get the idea of toxic!beomgyu out of my head. don't worry, he will suffer. anyway, i hope you like it!! if not, please don't hurt my feelings i beg.

"i told you it was nothing. why are you freaking out?"

"she was fucking you with her eyes, beomgyu!" you exclaim in frustration.

"and that's my fault how?"

"it's not your fault, but i'm sick of you entertaining women, let alone your actual fucking ex, while i'm standing right next to you!" his ex is just another fish in the barrel, or at least that's what he says, but the thought that they were intimate together at one point still makes you feel sick. truthfully, your boyfriend is handsome, so you've spent the better part of the past 10 months warding off the women who circle him like vultures. you wouldn't mind as much as you do if he seemed at all interested in helping you do so, especially when faced with his ex that you suspect he still has feelings for, but he does not. quite the opposite, actually. it's like he thrives off of the attention and god it hurts.

"i'm not entertaining anybody. i told her i have a girlfriend now," he, well, you would say argues, but it's said so nonchalantly it doesn't warrant the term.

"a girlfriend you proceeded to ignore while she hung off of your shoulders and laughed all night! i just don't understand how you don't understand how much it hurts my feelings. i'm a human too! how would you feel if my ex, who was very clearly interested in me, hung around me right in front of you?" and it's like you're explaining empathy to a child.

"me? i wouldn't give a fuck because it's not that serious," he replies with a slightly irritated shake of his head.

it's always like this. always. you're always the one who cares more between the two of you. you were the one who asked him out in the first place. you were the one who initiated your first kiss. your first fight. hell, even your first reconciliation. you're not stupid, you know he doesn't feel quite the same way you do, but he has to feel something, right? otherwise, why would he say yes to you when he's rejected so many other women? your brain hurts trying to wrap your head around it all.

"you're missing the point! if you were me, you would—" you begin frustratedly, but you cut yourself off. "you know what? i don't even have the energy to explain this to you. i don't understand why i have to explain basic human emotion to you and i really don't understand why i have to beg and plead for you to care about how i feel!" you all but shriek.

"you don't have to do shit, just leave if you're that fucking unhappy," he spits out angrily, which is the first real emotion — besides mild annoyance — you've seen out of him this entire conversation. he gets impatient when you're like this, which usually results in you relenting, but not tonight. you're far too hurt to let go so easily.

"you're right! i am unhappy! i just — why don't you care that i'm unhappy? what can i do to make you give a fuck about me?" you have a brave face on but you can feel your eyes getting hot and your voice trembling ever so slightly.

"you could try not being so damn needy, maybe that'd help."

your eyes redden even further and your lips unintentionally twist themselves into a sour frown. you hate it when he calls you needy because you do need a lot from him, it feels like. his time. his care. his attention and affection. yet you never seem to get it.

"do you not love me? like at all?" you ask. all of the venom in your tone has been sucked out mercilessly and you sound more helpless than angry.

"do you not realize how fucking crazy you sound?" he scoffs as if he can't fathom why you'd be upset. as if he's not watching you break down in real time.

"why won't you give me a straight answer?" you question, voice softer than it was before.

he does nothing but scowl and you know beomgyu well enough to know that he's avoiding your question. that's enough of an answer as it stands, really. he doesn't care. never has. probably never will.

"then why'd you even say yes to dating me?" you truly don't understand. you thought you were different. you thought he saw something in you he didn't see in his harem of other suitors, and trust that there were many.

"i dunno. i was just bored, i guess," he answers with a shrug and your world as you know it collapses. the man you love sees you as nothing more than a way to kill time. he's picking you up right now just to toss you away when the next shiny toy presents itself. and so far, you've let him drag you around because you love him. that's how much you love him. but looking at him now, at how unbothered he is, you wonder if you've even got anything left to give.

"i really do love you," you manage to squeeze out with a bitter smile. your poor heart is on display for the naked eye to see and it seems like he really couldn't care less, but that won't stop you from asking. "does that mean anything at all to you?"

"well, i'm sorry you feel that way," he says simply, "but that's not my fucking problem."

your heart sinks to your stomach and you feel like you're going to throw up. in this moment, as you watch the love of your life dismiss you like you're a fucking dog begging for scraps of food, you feel an overwhelming sense of clarity as you realize he doesn't love you. he doesn't even like you. he probably hates you, actually. like a mental montage, every moment in which he showed you that exact sentiment plays all at once in your head.

all those times you let him choose everything from movies to dinner because the idea of a compromise was inconceivable. all of those occasions, special and otherwise, where you were supposed to go out on a date, but he'd bail without a word and you'd forgive him with no apology. when you'd offer him your share of dessert because he ate all of his and you knew he wanted more, and he'd take it without so much as a thank you. how you'd sit and listen to him tell stories about how amazing his friends were, but he'd never even ask about your day. when those same friends would jokingly call you the perfect girlfriend and you thought it was an indication of how good your relationship was, but in reality, it was a way to tease him because the thought of actually being with you was so abhorrent and ridiculous that it must be a joke. all those times you told him you loved him and he'd just smile and kiss you deeper. memories like these flood your brain with a vengeance so cruel it makes your head ache, and in a way, you realize it's ridiculous to be surprised when there was so much proof of his feelings in the first place.

"oh. okay," you say with what you hope is a soft and unbothered laugh, but comes out more as a choked one. "i guess there's nothing left to say. i'll get my shit and go."

you hesitate for a few excruciatingly awkward moments before collecting yourself enough to start gathering your things, which are scattered haphazardly around his apartment from his bedroom to his bathroom. it's like a walk of shame, almost, and you feel even shittier when he plops down on the couch with a long suffering sigh as he begins to massage the bridge of his nose. you feel so small in this moment — like a petulant child who just got done throwing an unsuccessful tantrum — and you're now soaking in the sobering aftermath and sitting with the thought that he just watched you have a meltdown like he was watching a monkey putting on a show. how much more is he going to humiliate you? enough is enough, you think, so before you can actually finish collecting all of your belongings, you're scurrying out of the apartment. before you go, you glance back at him one last time. "beomgyu?" you ask tentatively, tears clouding your eyes.

"yeah?" he replies with a sigh. this is it, you think.

"i don't want to see you ever again," you say firmly. before he can reply, if he ever intended to in the first place, you slam the door.

there's a lot to love about beomgyu. for one, he's handsome, which is obvious, but he has a certain allure you could never help but be drawn in by. he's always been a charming man, but even more so when he's talking to a woman he's interested in. as interested as he could be, that is. he's funny and comically pompous when he wants to be, but still somehow down to earth despite it all.

he's been described as a mood-maker, and while he grew to resent that term, you thought it was at least partially true, if only in the context of your relationship. when he's sad, you're devastated. when he's happy, you're over the fucking moon. his feelings are your whole world. or were, you guess, since all that's over now.

it wasn't all bad all the time, you think. there were times where you thought he really might reciprocate even a fraction of what you felt for him, and most of the time, that was enough. you could work with that. love looks different for everyone, you would reason. maybe he just had a funny way of showing it.

there were days where you'd laugh together and end the night lying in each other's arms while you'd cradle him like he was the most precious thing in the whole world because, to you, he really was. he was normally so boisterous when with his friends, but while he would never admit it to anyone else, he'd tell you about some of his insecurities while you gently combed your fingers through his long, silky hair. he'd speak of regrets and longing for people to take him more seriously. he'd never say it, but he wanted people to see you like you saw him. the real him. you'd let him cry while your hands cupped his cheeks and you'd shush him while he fiddled mindlessly with your hair like a child. you'd kiss his the tip of his reddened nose until he laughed instead of cried. times like those, you'd really think you were someone special to him. but now you realize you were wrong. you were just an outlet for him, and anyone willing to be an emotional dumping ground would do the trick too.

after a few weeks of moping, your sadness has begun to morph into anger and resentment. you spent nearly a year of your life trying to make an emotionally stunted man care about you, and that's not even counting the years of pining over him before you finally worked up the courage to ask him out. it was difficult to see it in the moment, but after being away from him for so long, it's crystal clear that he was honestly just an asshole who didn't really like you. nothing more, nothing less. maybe he'd find someone to change for someday, maybe he'd even work things out with his ex, but for whatever reason, you weren't her. that's just the way it goes, you guess. what really bothers you are the "what if's" of the situation. what if you were prettier, or smarter, or kinder. would he have seen you for who you really are? would he have grown to appreciate you if you had given him more to appreciate?

either way, there's no use crying over spilled milk now. you won't be going back to him any time soon and he certainly won't come crawling back to you. you'll continue to think of him less and less until your time together fades into a distant (and unpleasant) memory. you smile at the thought.

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nclgsticore · 15 days

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Just wanted to share these little comics of my OC Eleonora and Lady Dimitrescu on here as well.

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

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nclgsticore · 15 days

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Just a thought…

Lady Dimitrescu x Brienne of Tarth

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nclgsticore · 25 days

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IF YOU WANT A HEART ATTACK, TURN ON YOUR SOUND!!!! (in private or with headphones)

Prada link

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nclgsticore · 29 days

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“Lost heart, unreturned”

angst 😗 my two moods as i wrote this 😇😈

she’s playing Ludovico Einaudi’s Experience

this is where i took reference from

The opening notes begin andante, sprinkled with a pinch of melancholy. Dexterous digits and a bow; together, they perform a wonderful dance of woe, giving birth to a soulful tune that, after a while, notably starts to crescendo.

The two of us have gotten into a fight. The reason of the fight itself has been paltry at best, nonsensical at worst, or so I have believed, and therefore, I have said so with a wry chuckle. You, on the other hand, think otherwise.

What follow thereupon are sharp-edged words and cutting retorts, juggled recklessly and thrown carelessly around. Now, I admit that some truths have been said, but back then, amidst the argument while caught up in the heat of the moment, my rationality has been clouded by misplaced anger.

Seldom sweet though truths are, they have not been too bitter to burn my throat. So understandably, or rather naively, I have brushed it aside. After all, it would not be our first disagreement. As far as discords are concerned, sooner or later, one of us would relent, and then, the two of us would wound up entwined in each other’s arms. So far, whatever damage has been left by our conflicts has never been something that a few kisses and reassurances cannot remedy.

Has it been so wrong of me to expect this time to be no different?

Suffice to say, the product of the fight has not been palatable. Our love has not been able to come out unscathed. Our love for each other, the one thing that is supposed to fix, not break, has sadly gone awry.

One little fall out. One tiny little fall out is what has brought about a colossal rift between the two of us.

It has been but a gentle flap of a dainty little butterfly’s wings, yet a storm has been set in motion.

You have left the house, our house.

“We can’t go on like this, Leonora. I think it’s best that we take some time apart to figure things out.”

Such have been your parting words, and incensed, I have dismissed you as though unruffled, “Whatever tickles your fancy.” and subsequently you walking out as your little act of petulance.

In my mind, it has been a given that your delicate body will be nestled against my side come morning, and the rest will be water under the bridge.

I should have known as soon as my full name has spilled forth your lips.

But alas, it is only when a week has gone by with no signs of your returning that the gravity of the situation truly starts settling in.

The damage has been done, and by the time a week melts into two, I realise rather alarmingly that there is a high chance of it being irreparable.

I have, of course, searched for you.

I do find you, but you, my darling, seems to have had a change of heart.

“I’m not going with you.”

And just like that, my heart, too, is crushed into smithereens.

Emotions fuelled by evocations, determined digits dance in a fantastic frenzy, playing the most arrestingly powerful part of the piece agitato. It perfectly matches the one emotion that has been burning the hottest red. Agitation.

“I didn’t know you cared.”

The music comes not only from the instrument. It is born of her whole body; her head dances to the tune her hands create, hair a flurry of fiery red, as she loses herself altogether.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Leo. I don’t think I want to.”

Under the guidance of her hand, the bow moves frantically against the strings. Bottled up feelings that are seething just below the cap, words that she has been too big of a coward to say. Leonora has never been someone to wear her heart on her sleeve. And yet, presently, the exhaustion and agony is vividly discernible on the darkness beneath her eyes, the glistening rivulets trickling down her cheeks.

“I didn’t miss you as much as I thought I would.”

The raging tempest within her is channeled into the chords as the melody is released appassionato, intense emotions and feelings seeping into hollow crevices of her dark, lonely dwelling, as well as resonating down the bottomless abyss of her equally empty heart.

I have seen you with another.

The music concludes rallentando, a slow descent, that then kick-starts allegretto, sharper this time, more powerful. She continues to play the chords as loud and fierce as she can because she is in dire need of a reprieve from the voices inside her head. Day in, day out, she is forced into an endless circle of suffering by her very mind causing an absolute mayhem.

You have been laughing, wearing the most dazzling of smiles that will put even the stars to shame, encircled in the arms of someone who is not me.

The sound that the cello releases is wild, untamed, jumbled, messy, erratic, unpredictable, a howling hurricane of desperation and frustration, regret and remorse, as it is what she is going through.

I would have been doing myself a favour by trusting that you have not noticed me. It definitely would have been a more merciful torture to subject myself to. But alas, the fact that your eyes have not come towards my direction amid wandering around, not even once, not even accidentally, has been proof enough that you have, in fact, been actively neglecting me.

And oh, what a heart-wrenchingly splendid job you do.

The song cannot have come to an end, for the strings snap.

Pitter. Patter. Pitter. Patter.

Tears and blood fall to the floor.

The snapping of the strings has nipped her fingers.

The thick crimson liquid oozes out freely, unrestrained.

The salty droplets, too, are beyond her control.

They fall as they please, and she does not prevent them.

When the bow slips from within its home between her fingers, she lets it clatter to the floor.

Likewise, the cello that is cradled between her thighs, once freed from her grip, collapses.

Soon, she, too, joins her instrument.

Tears continue to slip down her nose, and through a haze, she sees the love of her life. But, it cannot be. Her foolishness has chased you away. Alas, even in her waking moments, she is being haunted by what could have been.

“You deserve it.”

She hears herself say, feeling herself slip and allowing it regardless, for what is there to lose anymore anyway now that she has experienced the greatest lost.

You, her very heart itself.

Lost. Unreturned.

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nclgsticore · 29 days

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“Dear stranger (Donna)”

cw :: smoking || mentions of self-h#rm || scars || unhealthy coping mechanisms’ more like it || height place phenomenon

howdy this gay is back in time for pride month (not really) just a little comfort fic i wrote for myself really. hugs from donna is not a want but a need rn 😭

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The cigarette smoke is bitter, leaving a pleasant burn on the back of your throat as you take a deep inhale. For a while, you hold your breath, allowing the chemicals to spread through your lungs before puffing it out of your lips eventually. Your neck, meanwhile, is bared to the sky, eyes lazily roaming over grey clouds of varying shades.

A mindless fingertip is tracing the silver lines along the length of your forearm. Another drag of the cigarette brings a chuckle to your lips, and the sound is dry and deprecating even to your own ears. Smoking is an awful habit, that you fully understand. But at the same time, it is undeniably cathartic. It was either that or a blade to the flesh. In no way do you wish to die, although you would not terribly mind dying. You cannot deny however that you do revel in the sensation of blood blooming on your skin, and in pain, you find euphoria.

With another hearty inhale, the cigarette bud slips through your fingers to be reunited with its fellow friends that have already met their untimely demise beneath your well-worn boots. You are tired, so so tired. Tired of the strangers that call themselves your family, tired of yourself for being so emotionally weak, for actively ruining yourself under the guise of release, tired for your mother’s stead for she has to listen to her brother and sister nitpicking about her daughter on top of handling incessant chores.

In this god-forsaken world, you have learnt that no one else can be as caring and tolerating as your parents, and you appreciate them for it. At least, your parents are endlessly loving which in itself is a luxury that not everyone can afford. You love them, oh how you love them, but you also hate yourself, for their only child ends up being a damaged goods.

At the moment, you do not have a clue where in the world you are, having wandered wherever your feet have been carrying you. A glance around reveals nothing much obscured as it is by thick fog. There is a rush of water somewhere below, and you conclude you must be standing atop a cliff with a waterfall. Sighing, you kick the cigarette buds off the edge, and it looks tempting, liberating: the way they plummet down the misty abyss. A sudden urge to throw yourself off the cliff comes with a vengeance, and it does not help that nicotine has you slightly tipsy, the world around you spinning as you wobble on your legs.

And then, before you know it, you are being pulled into a body, held close to a chest by an encirclement of arms around your back. A delightful aroma journeys up your nose as soon as your cheek collides with black fabric. It is soft to the touch, and smells faintly of tea that is quickly overshadowed by a soothing blend of jasmine and sandalwood. You cannot help but steal a generous inhale. The smoothness of jasmine certainly is a lovely complement to the spiciness of sandalwood.

“Don’t, please. I can’t let you.”

The soft spoken words are uttered by a voice that is charmingly deep, carried to you by a gentle breeze that tickles your exposed nape. A hint of desperation is discernible in her quiet murmur, and the gentleness of it wildly contracts with the cage of arms whose tightness around you becomes nearly unbearable. It is oddly calming, freeing despite the confinement, and the realisation is as much a relief as it is a surprise.

What you have been needing after all is to be embraced, to be comforted, to feel wanted, and how ironic it is that your salvation is found within the arms of a stranger. No questions are asked. You find no strangeness in her actions. Nor does your mind feel stable enough to deem it necessary to compose yourself. The dam breaks, and you fall apart. Burying your face in the chest of this black-cladded stranger while hugging her close to yourself, you cry, oh how you cry, loud, miserable sobs spilling forth your lips as you grab fistful of her dress.

When the body in your arms tenses in an uncomfortable way, you are too far gone to notice, and so too when the arms around your body suddenly lose their bravado. Regardless of the hesitation, you are met with no hands that are forcing you away from her. Only after a moment or two when your tears do not cease does a kind hand find the crown of your head.

Tentatively, placatingly, gentle fingers stroke your hair. You adjust in the hold of your salvation only to be met with even more dark fabric. Through a haze of tears, you regard the veiled woman with curiosity, occasional bouts of hiccuping sobs accompanying your otherwise silent scrutiny.

“You-”

A calloused pad of a thumb that gingerly follows a tear track elicits a sigh from you, and then, the same palm is cradling your cheek, the coolness of which is desirable against your feverish skin. Along with a flex of her fingers on your back, the veil goes aflutter right beneath where her nose is supposed to be when you decide to rest your chin between the junction of her collarbones. No sooner does the hand on your cheek go to cover your eyes than you go boneless in her arms. Your nose meanwhile is tickled by a saccharinely sweet scent that smells both floral and vaguely herbal.

And then, you blink.

And suddenly, the world goes dark.

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