m333myselfandiii

[m333myselfandiii]

my hand was the one you reached for all throughout the great war.

[m333myselfandiii]

[ Trollhunters Guardian (Y/n) ]

TW: kissing and poisoning

The day where Angor Rot finally lets curiosity get over him and allows you to kiss him, you try not to get all giddy and excited because holy cow the love of your life just said he wants to indulge in your kind romantic custom a bit --

It starts off experimental and small, where you opted to press your lips to his knuckles. He thought that was done only by men of your kind. You laughed and brought both his hands to be kissed. He was rather tolerant of it, not disliking the gesture for a first timer.

You didn't kiss him often, only occasionally so he could warm up to it. You were always the one to beckon for a kiss; on hands, foreheads, cheeks, nose and once on his shoulder blade. That brought a grunt out of him and he waved you off dismissively despite the way his skin burnt under your touch.

Never on the lips. You had never kissed him there.

The two of you stumbled upon each other after three years of you becoming the Trollhunter's Guardian. You were too caught up with meeting him again after everything, too lost in your feeling to notice the constant glances he'd throw at the Trollhunter and the way his hands twitched by his side. You thought of his tighten squeeze around your body in the embrace to be a sign of his longing for you.

That night, you managed to get some alone time away from the other trolls with Angor. It wasn't like Deya would be helpless without you for a few hours.

That night, Angor pulled you in closer, his thumb brushing against your lower lips and he leaned down to kiss you. The gesture shocked you so much because that was the first for him, even if it was quick and soft and felt so...sad.

He pulled away and it suddenly occurred to you that his touch felt trembling against you.

Before you knew it, your body wasn't responding to your command and every limb of yours slumped down. Your voice sounded like chokes, eyes locking on Angor for a silent explanation as he rested your body against the trunk of a tree.

He didn't look at you anymore. He poisoned you, paralysing you to resemble a doll.

Angor Rot turned and left, his hands pulling out his blades as he disappeared into the darkness.

It wasn't until you were clawing your way on the dirt, trying to head back to Deya and the others, when you saw Blinky and Aaarrrgghh came running to you. Their voices joined in together, sounding muffled in your state, but you felt the pacifist giant carrying you and Blinky pouring something down your throat -- the antidote perhaps -- and finally FINALLY you felt your limbs functioning again.

It was at that moment where you could finally hear Blinky more clearly, of how Deya was fighting against Angor Rot.

You shot off towards where Deya was supposed to be, feeling the connection between you and the amulet. There were so many questions you wanted to ask Angor, so many emotions swirling in you.

Although a sudden thundering pain had you stopped halfway, your breath came out short and the prickling pain stabbing your senses informed you of the devastating news.

When you resumed your pace to the location, the battle was already over and Deya was no longer breathing. Angor Rot, on the other hand, stood still in front of the corpse he just killed, his eyes haunted.

He lied to you. Poisoned you. Used you to get to Deya.

His gaze snapped towards you, to the non stopping tears dripping from your eyes as you rushed over, of how you didn't even strike him and only asked him of what was going on.

You could still feel the faint, fake kiss of his on your lips, taunting you for your naivety and recklessness, for your mistake that sacrificed another life, for the way Angor Rot turned and fled and you could've done something anything but no no no you cradled the lifeless body of your friend Deya and wondered how didn't you noticed the lingering magic of Morgana's on your beloved troll.

[m333myselfandiii]

Troll Dating Aesthetics 🗡

Draal: The smell of earth, long nights by a campfire, gazing at the stars whispering stories, weapons being forged, sound bouncing off cave walls, never wanting to let go, armor being made, wars being raged, grunts of pain, bandaging each other, headbonks, gifts of gemstones, whining for kisses, nearly being knocked over from happy nuzzles, joyful stories loudly shared in a pub, laughter at odd hours in the night, drinking contests, playful sparring,

Bular: Biting longing kisses, rough grabbing and wanting, quiet moments stolen under the stars, warm furrs and feather filled pillows, a cold tender touch in the middle of the night when he thinks your sleeping, a fire in your heart, swords clanking, knowing love is war, battle cries echoing for miles, caring for cuts and scratches, being held close and fearing letting go, tracing scars, metal dragging against the ground, blood dripping, orders being barked, secrets being shared, quick kisses given before long absenses, laying in the grass listening to each others heart beats and feeling alive.

Angor Rot: The smell of metal, the buzz of electricity, the sound of far away thunder, fangs against your lips, danger in his eyes, him humming in acknowledgement, old crinkling parchment and ancient spells, the crackle of a fire, languaes long dead, early golden light watched from the shadows, black roses, coins clinking, soft silks from far away lands, knifes shinking, dangling jewlery, the sound of carving rock, the lingering smell of spices and herbs, humming that takes you to a place far away and a time long ago, kissing old wounds, basking in the moonlight, hugs that squeeze until you can't breathe before a kiss that takes away the rest of your breath.

[m333myselfandiii]

[m333myselfandiii]

FINALLY A WHOLESOME FRONT MAN AND PINK SOLDIER CONTENT 🥹🤧

circle guard: “boss!!!!!!!!!!!! high-five high-five high-five!!!”

gi-hun is so proud of in-ho for finally being a kind boss to his guards for once (gi-hun spent 10 hours teaching in-ho how to be nice to people)

[m333myselfandiii]

i need someone to understand that i would genuinely, willingly, enthusiastically watch an entire series of inho doing nothing but mundane tasks. like no plot. no murder island. just 12 episodes of him existing in emotional repression and domestic stillness.

what brand of shampoo does he use?

what’s his morning routine?

how long does he sit in silence after waking up?

does he take morning or night showers?

what’s his go-to sleeping position?

does he ever hit snooze?

how many times a week does he do laundry?

does he fold his socks or roll them???

[m333myselfandiii]

has anyone written inho developing a bitter agonising complex that gihun has replaced him as junho’s hyung after the games end? he can’t say it, obviously, because he’s inho and emotional honesty is illegal, but it just eats him alive how easily gihun slides into the space he used to occupy in junho’s life.

like imagine being inho. your entire identity used to be “older brother/parental figure” and now you’re a trauma-riddled ex-frontman who can’t walk ten steps without pain and can’t look your brother in the eye without remembering what you became. and the guy who blew up your entire philosophy—gihun—is just… better at being a human than you. better at being a hyung than you.

and inho sees that and just quietly crumbles because it’s not even jealousy exactly—it’s more like this awful realisation that this is what junho always needed. gihun takes care of him, and he does it well. like it’s second nature. and junho leans into it without even realising he’s doing it. like this is the kind of care he’s been starving for.

inho’s just there. watching it happen. watching them fall into this rhythm where gihun becomes the emotional anchor, the person junho turns to first, the one he trusts with the scared parts.

and then it happens. the moment that breaks him. junho calls gihun “hyung.” like it’s nothing. like it hasn’t just knocked the fucking air out of inho’s chest. because that word used to mean something. it used to be the last piece of who he was. the only thing left that said, you were important to him. you mattered. you were his older brother.

and now it’s not his anymore.

it’s gihun’s.

and the worst part? gihun doesn’t even flinch when he hears it. he just answers. like it’s normal. like it’s fine. because to him, it is. but for inho, it’s shattering. because it makes everything real. this quiet little shift he’s been trying not to notice. the way junho doesn’t look at him the same. the way he flinches sometimes when inho comes close, not from fear, but from memory. the way he laughs freely with gihun, like the weight’s been lifted, like he can finally breathe.

and inho just stands there, heart in pieces, thinking: i was supposed to be that. i was supposed to be the one who kept him safe. but he wasn’t. he didn’t. he hurt him. and now someone else does it better. and without meaning to, without asking for it, gihun became the version of “hyung” that junho always deserved. it doesn’t belong to him. and the echo of it, floating casually from junho’s mouth in someone else’s direction, is worse than silence. it’s a replacement and it hurts like hell.

but he doesn’t say a word. because what could he even say? he lost the right to that name the moment he stopped being the man who earned it.

(side note it’s a complex for a reason. junho still loves him to pieces and inho is too blind and traumatised to see it)

[m333myselfandiii]

CRUSHING ORPHEUS UNDER A PLANE TREE IN BRIGHT WEATHER

you can only know a man through the way he removes his gloves. i saw his ruin behind the iris flicker (not the flower, the burning centrifuge that eats its own ancestry). the night bruised itself inside my shoes and i still walked. what else was there to do but abandon every limb that remembered his shadow's grammar? he left me a half-dead beetle with a citrine pinned to its back. i bled into the sink until i could see saturn's moons in the clotted patterns. there is nothing more vulgar than a man with a sincere apology.

[m333myselfandiii]

Omg your works have such a visceral reaction in me— but then when i try to understand what really is going on it somehow makes absolutely no sense. Do you write with the intention of making it mean something or however your emotions lead you?

i think i just write the way i dream, or i dream the way that i cope. i have always had a painfully vivid imagination, & sometimes to survive i think my mind stitches unbearable things onto unrecognisable objects so it feels less like remembering and more like encryption. like if i write abt that mushroom i don’t have to say what he did. if i write abt the colour of dead wasps or how cordyceps eats ants from the inside, then maybe i can say pain without having to say pain. it is like building tiny ecosystems to keep the real thing caged. i write what i see when i close my eyes. i get obsessed with certain objects or strange biological phenomena and write about them for weeks before discarding them for the next fixation. i feel half in reality. i don’t mean to be cryptic or to write in symbols i am just writing how everything looks to me & how i experience existence

this did not answer ur question at all and i am half asleep but it is all i can think of to say. love u thank u for reading my things

[m333myselfandiii]

i know in canon that inho’s and junho’s mother (stepmother in inho’s case) would never find out about the Games but i’m actually screeching imagining this:

like imagine this woman. all she wanted was for her two boys to call her sometimes. maybe not disappear for months at a time without so much as a text. maybe come to dinner once a week. and then she finds out:

(1) inho?? the “golden child” who always brought her flowers on parents’ day and vacuumed without being asked?? ran off to play in a death game?? then still had the audacity to survive, climb the ranks, and then became the emo darth vader of the whole operation??

(2) and the other? junho. immediately endangers his life to chase after him. zero hesitation. zero explanation. just disappears the same way, like they’re doing some twisted sibling relay race into the abyss.

(3) then inho shoots him. shoots. him. off a cliff.

(4) and after all that, junho still decides, “i’m gonna go back. i’m gonna find him. i’m gonna rescue his murdery ass because i’m the only one allowed to beat him up.”

so now imagine their (step)mother, who thought both of them were dead, suddenly finds out that not only are they not dead, but they’ve both been playing emotional chicken with the reaper out of some self-destructive sense of sibling loyalty.

her slipper’s already in hand. her rage is generational.

she gets them both in the same room and it’s not yelling—it’s a reckoning. she doesn’t even ask questions. she just starts swinging.

“you!” slaps the older one on the back of the head “you don’t call! you don’t write! you don’t even have the decency to stay out of crime??”

“and you!” grabs the younger by the ear mid-escape attempt “YOU FOLLOW HIM?? INTO THAT?? ARE YOU STUPID OR IS THIS A PERFORMANCE??”

they try to explain. they stutter. they glance at each other like say something but neither does. because god forbid they communicate like normal people. at some point one of them probably mutters “it wasn’t his fault” and she just screams louder.

they’re both on the floor by the end. slipper marks. emotional damage. one of them maybe crying a little. and she’s just standing there going, “you could’ve died without even telling me why. you idiots. come eat.”

and they do. they sit at the table in total silence, still bleeding metaphorically and literally, and they eat. because no matter how far you run, no matter how cold you become, no matter how many times you almost kill each other—

you are NEVER too old to be slippered into submission by the woman who raised you.

[m333myselfandiii]

hear me out. i personally headcanon that inho’s mother died when he was a teenager, but what if she didn’t die: what if inho spent his entire life believing she had abandoned the family—abandoned him. he was told she ran. maybe his father said it bitterly. maybe it was half-truths and silence. maybe no one said anything at all and he filled in the blanks himself, which is somehow worse. years pass and the story hardens into fact. he stops asking. learns to live with that hollow.

and then—

his first year as the Front Man. the mask still feels foreign on his face. he’s still getting used to the silence of the control room, the weight of decision, and he’s watching the first game, hardly paying attention. just routine surveillance. crowd shots, distant screams.

and then he sees her.

frail. elderly. hair thinning. tiny under the green tracksuit. unmistakable. like a photograph yellowed with age—but still her. he tells himself it’s not possible. a trick of the angle. a cruel resemblance. but he checks the file anyway. ID number. Name. Birth year.

and it’s her.

his mother.

she didn’t leave because she didn’t love him.

she left because of debt.

and worst of all—she was scouted. not randomly, not coincidentally. scouted because of him. a test. a message. a quiet act of cruelty to see if he would break. and he wants to. he wants to stop it. he wants to scream. but he’s not allowed to do anything. he sits there, frozen behind the mask, the silence of the control room pressing in like water in his lungs. he can’t call it off. he can’t break protocol. there’s too much watching him—too many eyes, too many rules he helped enforce. if he says something now, it’s all over. and so he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. doesn’t save her.

later, he goes down to the incinerators. says it’s a systems check. no one questions him. she was shot early—too scared of the gunshots to keep still. red light, and she flinched. that was all it took.

her body’s cooling in a bag, already tagged for disposal.

he pulls her out. lies down over her like a child (think dongseok in our blues my fave lbh kdrama) arms wrapped tight, face pressed to her chest as if he can shake loose time, make it all un-happen.

“eomma,” he whispers. then again. and again.

it’s the only chance he gets to grieve before she’s turned to ash.

[m333myselfandiii]

THE ELEGANT FAILURE OF A BODY IN MOTION

there are insects in the sugar & i do not care / i stir them into my coffee / feel their legs break against my teeth / the taste of flight means nothing now / i know what it is to fall from something you loved / to hit the ground / i have spent my whole life orbiting the moment before impact / the slow inevitability of descent / every motion dictated by gravity & grace / & the grace is running thin /

you call it self-destruction but isn’t it just physics? / isn’t it just the body going where it must? / the velocity of a thought breaking the skin / the unbearable architecture of longing / oh, i know, i know, i know / let me explain in a language softer than collapse / tell me about the hummingbird / how it starves itself for movement / how it must keep going, always / you see, that is me / nothing still / nothing saved / just the quick, desperate flutter of staying alive /

in another version of this story i do not go through the windshield / i do not split open / i stay / i stay / i stay / but the insects drown in the sugar / & the coffee tastes like rust / & my hands are shaking again / & i do not know how to stop /

[m333myselfandiii]

GIRL, SALTED

they ask why the sea is undrinkable & i show them my hands, ridged with the memory of someone else’s weight. i have taken every name that did not belong to me & swallowed it whole. it does not dissolve. my tongue turns to paper. my throat, a dry riverbed, gasping. i have been kissed by men who left salt behind. i let them eat. i let them take. i say yes, because no sounds like a curse in the wrong room.

i have been told my voice is too much like a storm—so i keep it pressed between my teeth, let it weather my gums into something soft. i could have screamed, once. but the body is a clever thing; it learns when to be still. i learned when to be still. i learned how to salt my own wounds before anyone else could do it for me.

they ask why the sea is undrinkable & i open my mouth & let it flood. my ribs crack open like a fault line. a lesson in topography: i have been mapped & remapped & claimed & carved into something that fits. i ask if they are thirsty. they look at me like i am saying something awful.

i was not meant to be this body. i was meant to be water.

[m333myselfandiii]

if i could begin to be half of what you think of me... i could do about anything, i could even learn how to love like you - rebecca sugar

[m333myselfandiii]

in-ho is just as much a victim as gi-hun; but yall arent ready for that conversation

[m333myselfandiii]

gihun is confirmed to be a cat person in canon.

inho has the vibe of a disgruntled cat.

they are soulmates your honor.

[m333myselfandiii]

do you have any concrete thoughts about what Inho's game was like when he was a player?

oh god okay. concrete thoughts on inho’s game? yes. too many, actually. i think about this a lot. personally, i headcanon that the Games were even worse before inho took over. like viscerally more brutal. less structure. less surveillance.

il-nam was too old, too sentimental, too wrapped up in the “fun” of it all to properly supervise anything. he let the guards do what they wanted. there were no real rules, no real oversight—just let the chaos play out. and it did. horrifically.

bribery was everywhere. guards would take whatever they could get—information, favors, sometimes just for the thrill of it—and sell out other players. protection could be bought. deaths could be arranged. and some of the games? completely rigged. players who should’ve won got “eliminated” by convenient malfunctions.

and the food situation? deliberately cruel. not “one egg and a soda” cruel—like “you get nothing.” a couple crumbs thrown in just to watch people turn on each other. the whole game only lasts a few days, but by day three, people are starving. delirious. desperate.

and that’s when things go dark.

because when people are hungry and terrified and think no one’s watching? they stop acting like people. i headcanon that inho’s deepest trauma from his own game wasn’t even the mindless killing. it was what happened between the games.

it was watching players eat each other. not metaphorically. literally.

he watched one man carve up a body like it was meat. saw people whispering at night, hiding in corners, guarding whatever fresh source of protein they had like it was treasure. and the worst part? no one stopped it. the guards just stood there.

by the time inho realised what was happening, it was too late to stop it. the chewing. the tearing. he pressed his hands over his ears and still heard it.

he still hears it now.

so yeah. when he wins? he walks away with nothing intact. that’s why he drinks instead of eats. because food brings back the worst of it. the gnawing. the chewing. the hunger that made people monsters.