#Pain inside

[christasmind]

“What You Deserve” — Seungmin Angst (Part 1)

🌺TW: Emotional neglect and cruelty; Verbal abuse (insults, belittling); Gaslighting and emotional manipulation; Toxic relationship dynamics; Psychological deterioration (feeling worthless); Onset of depression; Loneliness, emotional isolation

🌺Summary: In a love that once felt like home, words turn into weapons, and silence cuts deeper than any scream. As distance grows, and cruel indifference replaces affection, she begins to lose herself — piece by fragile piece.

————————

A harmless jab here.

A teasing insult there.

The kind of playful cruelty that used to make her laugh because it was Seungmin — and he never meant it, not really.

Except somewhere along the way, the jokes stopped sounding like jokes.

And the cruel words stopped being cushioned by affection.

He started snapping more often.

Rolling his eyes at things she said.

Dismissing her excitement with bored shrugs and muttered insults under his breath.

“You’re so damn clingy,” he scoffed once, when she reached for his hand across the couch.

“Can’t you survive without being attached to me for two seconds?”

It stung.

Of course it did.

But she told herself he didn’t mean it.

He was tired. Stressed. Something.

The excuses became their own kind of poison.

Because when someone you love hurts you, you find reasons to forgive them — until there’s nothing left of you to forgive with.

The worst part?

He barely even looked at her anymore.

When he did, it was usually with some flavor of disgust or annoyance curling at the corner of his mouth.

“You look exhausted,” he said once, without even glancing up from his phone.

“Maybe try actually taking care of yourself for once instead of whining all the time.”

The words sliced clean through her chest.

She felt the blood, invisible but burning, leak into her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

She started pulling away after that.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped asking him to spend time together.

But the more distance she tried to put between them, the crueler Seungmin became — like he could feel her slipping and hated her for it.

“You think you’re punishing me by acting cold?” he sneered one night when she didn’t immediately greet him at the door.

“Trust me, sweetheart, you’re not that important.”

She blinked at him, the weight of his words settling heavy and cold against her ribs.

Not that important.

Not worth staying up for.

Not worth holding onto.

It became a pattern.

A ritual.

He’d say something vile —

She’d flinch —

He’d pretend nothing happened.

And every time, she shrank smaller, quieter, until she barely recognized herself anymore.

The girl who used to glow when she smiled now barely lifted her head.

The girl who used to sing around the apartment now sat in silence, afraid even to breathe too loudly around him.

She stopped laughing.

Stopped dreaming.

Stopped believing she was worthy of love at all.

After all — if Seungmin, the boy who once said she was his whole world, could hate her this easily, maybe she was the problem.

Maybe she was too much.

Too needy.

Too annoying.

Too broken to love properly.

He didn’t have to scream at her to break her down.

He just had to stop caring.

And day by day, piece by piece, he carved away everything good she ever believed about herself — until there was nothing left but a hollowed-out girl staring blankly into a mirror she couldn’t bear to recognize.

One night, sitting alone on the cold bathroom floor with the lights off, she realized something terrifying:

She missed the old pain.

The pain of missing him when he was away.

The ache of loving him so much it hurt.

Because this new pain — this numb, heavy, endless despair — was so much worse.

This was the kind of pain you didn’t come back from.

And somehow, deep down, she knew:

Seungmin didn’t even notice he had killed the best parts of her.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe that was the point.

[n40kiu]

[mr-manson]

I've been searching for an exit, but l'm lost inside my head

Where I spend every waking moment, wishing I was dead

For a few minutes, get me away from here!!

[techroninmonogatari]

Lost - Linkin Park (2023)

Just a scar somewhere down inside of me Something I can not repair Even though it will always be I pretend it isn't there (this is how it feel) I'm trapped in yesterday (this is how it will be) Where the pain is all I know (this is all I know)

And I'll never break away (can't break free) 'Cause when I'm alone

I'm lost in these memories Living behind my own illusion Lost all my dignity Living inside my own confusion

But I'm tired I will always be afraid Of the damage I've received Broken promises they made And how blindly I believed (this is all I know)

I will never break away (can't break free) 'Cause when I'm alone

I'm lost in these memories Living behind my own illusion Lost all my dignity Living inside my own confusion

I try to keep this pain inside But I will never be alright I try to keep this pain inside But I will never be alright I try to keep this pain inside (I'm lost) But I will never be alright I try to keep this pain inside (I'm lost) But I will never be alright

I'm lost in these memories Living behind my own illusion Lost all my dignity Living inside my own confusion

つづく ( To be continued... )

[cinnamon-st1ckz]

guess what i have to do. tomorrow

[rae-butter]

Honestly, I love it when characters relapse. When someone who’s gotten over their anger issues falls into a situation so out of their depth they fall back on their old habits. When someone who’s learned to open up becomes a recluse again in order to cope with something outside their control.

There’s just something so horrible, so toxic, about watching a character grow and then slip back into their old selves in order to cope, bc you know they still care, that they’re the same inside, but watching them hurt so hard they don’t know what else to do brings a sense of catharsis.

[stylistic-nightmare]

Obituary - Pain Inside

[ingravinoveritas]

"We've all got to be fighting that fight every day."

Happy Pride, everyone...

[anxi04]

kon ends up developing a pretty substantial kryptonite immunity and it’s purely cause supers are just…. weak ass motherfuckers with pain. yeah sure it dampens their powers and hurts like a motherfucker but with exposure and not just dealing with a large amount of pain very shortly and only once every so often kon just pushes through it.

he refuses to explain how though and that’s cause he let tim just poke him with a sharp kryptonite shard to get used to being around it so it’s not so jarring when it happens and then he stubbed his toe and sobbed like a bitch and he decided he needed to get higher pain tolerance.

kon refuses to explain how because he is not telling everyone he cried over a stubbed toe and that was the tipping point and tim refuses to explain cause he doesn’t need people think he’s going into supervillain territory again.

this does get revealed by kon getting stabbed with a very sharp shard once on a mission with clark and clark panicking while kon just takes it out and puts it in a container he keeps with him now. he then looks clark dead in his eyes and says “what you think that’s bad? you’re just weak. loser.” and then continues on as normal

there was also a period of time where kon had a kryptonite necklace so he could get piercings without messing the recovery process up. it was a very difficult time period cause he couldn’t take it off or else the piercings would heal way too quickly.

[allimili]

why is mr.eyes so adorable i wanna play with his ears aaaa more chibified mr.vanilla and mr.eyes pwease also how hugable is mr.vanilla compared to other pvs i need to know the rating and with mr.eyes...he'd probably eat me if i tried to hug him...im still hugging and playing with his ears....they're not sensitive rigght >;)

[cedric-k-rossignol]

[keferon]

Odds of Survival Part 3

Unstoppable forces meets immovable objects.

Or Prowl finds new reasons to be concerned.

———————————————————————

While Prowl had destroyed the bombers attacking their end of the bridge, the other side had no such saving grace.

The opposite end of the sky bridge had broken off from the Commerce Tower and was now swinging downwards, creating a miles long ramp to obliteration.

There was a 4% chance Prowl could technically survive the impact. However he’d almost certainly be reduced to a sputtering spark trapped in a compacted pile of scrap that had once been his frame. Without instantaneous medical intervention, he would most certainly perish even in the event of the 4% survival chance occurring.

4% halved to 2% when Tacnet registered Jazz magnetizing his hands to Prowls frame.

Tacnet spun wildly and without traction. Whatever actions Prowl could have taken to mitigate the incoming damage was removed by Jazz’s inescapable hold. Every possible strategy terminated instantly in a flurry of error messages as Tacnet tried to factor for the impossible.

Physically, Prowls servos moved on their own, driven by some core deep coding for self preservation that had him frantically clawing at Jazz’s back for either a hand hold or escape as Tacnet spat out a single coherent plan:

(Brace For Impact)

The Praxian briefly wondered if he’d crash before they crashed.

The mechs jolted as Jazz made contact with the bridge turned ramp. A fountain of sparks spraying from his pedes as Jazz hit the bridge upright and began skating down the buckling surface.

Jazz wasn’t just passively sliding along either. Prowl felt powerful legs tense and thrusters make quick adjustments to narrowly avoid lethal splinters of braking pipes and metal sheets.

Odds of Survival 5%

Odds of Survival 6%

Prowl watched the impossible as Tacnet slowly ticked upwards. Through some stroke of insanity, Jazz was controlling their descent. Analyzing the white mechs motions, Prowl concluded they were practiced. Unbelievably, Jazz somehow had previous experience with similar circumstances.

On what Fragging planet does somebody regularly go careening down incredibly steep slopes at high speeds with only their own athleticism to keep them alive?!

Skill alone wasn’t enough however, because Jazz was slowly loosing control. As the sky bridge swung inexorably downwards, their ramp was steadily becoming steeper. Prowl could feel one of Jazz’s legs beginning to involuntarily shudder under the continued strain. The obstacles kept coming faster and faster, the visored mech barely keeping pace.

If he dropped me, Jazz has a 23% chance at saving himself.

Prowl caught sight of a chunk of bridge breaking outwards that spanned the total width of it. No getting around it. The jagged edge lifted just high enough to bisect him just below the wings. Prowl turned away.

Jazz leapt.

The deafening vibrations of metal on metal grinding suddenly stopped. An instrumental segment filled the gap.

Gravity ended their short reprieve.

This time when they collided with bridge, Prowl felt Jazz land wrong and then suddenly the sky was whipping past his optics.

Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge.

Tacnet greedily took in their current velocity, rate of rotation, and angle of the sky bridges decent to inform Prowl that Jazz and his combined weight would land on his helm.

Thank you Tacnet, I hate you.

Jazz shifted and Prowls vision went white.

Despite Tacnets certainty to the contrary, Prowl was not unconscious or dead.

ERROR, moon, ERROR. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, ERROR, bridge, rubble. Stars, moon, bridge, rubble.

They were flipping through the air again.

Jazz landed on his feet this time but couldn’t stop their rolling. Prowl felt fast painful scrapes against his servos and peds.

Stars, bridge, rubble. Stars, bridge, rubble.

Tacnet took in their velocity and rotation again. Calculating their distance to the wreckage at the end of their fall.

Impact Survival 74%

Impact location Doorwings 87%

At least his doorwings were already offlined.

By then, the two mechs were no longer bouncing, but rolling fully across the remains of the bridge. Prowl locked himself around Jazz and braced for impact.

Collision was instant and deafening.

Prowls sense of balance was rubber banding. The instant stop after what felt like vorns of spinning out of control was just as disorientating as the fall itself.

In a lapse of memory, he onlined his doorwings.

Prowl remembered why he left them offline a click too late and sucked in a vent.

Except. They were functioning. The edges stung and the tip’s were badly chipped but both sensors were fully operational.

Blunt helm trauma. He must be having a severe processor malfunction. Prowl unlocked protesting joints and looked over his shoulders at his doorwings.

They were only lightly damaged, fully functional, and only a servos width from the pile of rubble he was being held above.

A black and white arm extended past his wings, buried wrist deep in the wreckage.

Jazz still had a death grip around his waist, visor pressed into Prowls shoulder.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried. If he put his vocalizer against his audial, the sound should carry. The music played out its final notes, leaving the silence of the moon in its wake.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried a little harder, pulling at the servo still magnetized to his back, unhooking his peds to kneel on the rubble. They had fallen into the 90 degree crook of the second cylindrical extension. The bridge had come to rest at last, kicking up enough moon dust to obscure their survival from any searching quintessons. For now.

Jazz slurred something in his native language, before repeating in common, “Gimme a click. I’m gonna throw up real quick.”

Prowl flared his wings, scanning the area. It was a relatively short drop to the moons surface. Once there, Prowl could transform and carry the both of them at speed to the outpost. Clearly, Jazz had no trouble holding onto him.

Speaking of, Jazz finally, slowly began to uncurl from Prowls frame.

He looked terrible. His visor had splintered crack’s across one side, the isolated fragments independently flickering. One horn was stuck pinned against his helm, sparking where shrapnel was jammed into the gap. He was visibly wobbling, and even with an em field Prowl could tell he was badly disoriented.

Jazz stared at Prowl for a while, before looking to his hand still buried in rubble. He tried pulling it free gently and when that didn’t work, got a completely ruined and mostly toe-less ped braced next to it and yanked

Jazz’s hand came free. At the same time something important looking snapped and fell out of his shoulder. The limb going limp.

Prowl didn’t have the bandwidth to process that at the moment.

Instead, he plucked up the chunk of shoulder into sub space. Tacking that onto the growing list of injuries they’d both needed tending to.

Cautiously, Prowl reached up to gingerly touch the back of his helm, fully expecting to feel exposed and crushed circuitry. Instead, he felt several dents, aligned in parallel. Very tender, but most certainly not as damaged as it should have been.

How?

Tacnet answered by mapping the contours of the dents, drawing Prowls optics to the back of Jazz’s obliterated servo.

The remains of the sky bridge shuttered.

Odds of Survival 45%

Prowl got Jazz’s attention and began pulling him towards the ledge they’d need to descend. Effectively deaf, probably blind, down an arm and forced to walk on two severely injured peds, Prowl only felt some relief when he finally wrangled Jazz to rest on top of his alt form.

Watching him struggle down the ledge was utterly disturbing to watch. Jazz limped along as if he was completely desensitized to pain, behaving as if he was more annoyed by his injuries than agonized.

Package secured, Prowl gunned it for the outpost. Even injured, he trusted Jazz to stay magnetized to his frame with whatever he had left to hold on with.

Out of the dust cloud, Prowl was intimately aware of how exposed they’d be. Confident he wouldn’t loose Jazz, Prowl focused entirely on plotting the most efficient route to the outpost.

The moment it came into view, Prowl pushed his engine past the redline as he registered sniper shots firing just past and above them.

Pursuing quintesson wreckers 78%.

Sure enough, a dead wrecker crashed into the moon dirt a short distance to their left.

Prowl managed a drifting slide past the out post gates, losing exactly enough momentum to match the speed of a running mech, then transformed back to root mode in the same maneuver. An exceedingly useful technique when chasing criminals and a damn effective way to shoulder someone on your roof through a door in the most efficient manner possible.

[Bluestreak, I’ve made it inside the outpost. I have an injured mech with me.]

[Heya Prowl! I saw you tearing it up out there with your backpack buddy! I’ve got a few more stragglers to take care of but you’re welcome to use the medic case I’ve got with me in here. I’ll ping the door for you.]

The primary medkit should be in the outpost storage closet. That is unless Bluestreak pulled it into his snipers nest to tend to his own injuries (22%). Or because Bluestreak pulled it there to force Prowl to bring his “backpack buddy” within conversational distance (92%).

He felt a tap at his shoulder, “Are we safe here?” Jazz yelled in the thin atmosphere. Visor flickering worse than before and visibly making an effort to stay balanced upright on eviscerated peds.

Priorities.

Prowl ignored his annoyance. He hit the trigger to pressurize the airlock and pulled Jazz’s good arm over his shoulders to stabilize the other mech. He had easily a dozen lines of questioning queued up in the backlog of his processor, every single one tagged with Jazz as the subject line. As much as Prowl itched to piece together the puzzle of why he was “Like that.” It’d have to wait until they were both in more stable condition. At least now his vents could actually do something to start cooling his overstressed processor.

“For now. We are somewhat safe.”

Prowl muttered quietly in addition, “Against all odds.”

———————————————————————

Bluestreak, seeing Prowl with some very obvious hand prints and very specific paint scratches: “What in the pit did he do to you?”

Bluestreak, seeing Jazz walk in after him with a broken arm, busted horn and an utterly torn up paint job across his back: “What in the pit did YOU do to him?!”

Either one or two parts left, next up Jazz pov.

-SSTP

OH HELL SSTP LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND REALQUICK THIS IS A FIVE STAR MEAL FOR MY SOUL FKKDJFG I JUST. I NEVER FUCKING GET TIRED OF THE WAY YOU WRITE I know I'm probably repeating myself at this point BUT IT'S JUST WHAT MY TRUTH LOOKS LIKE OKAY. EVERY TIME I SEE AN ASK FROM YOU AND START READING IT I GO "Oh M A N the author cooked so hard they should've made Ratatouille 2 about this way of placing words."

[willyhoos]

you, and what little remains of your brother.

[bamsara]

Also Covid update: I should be good to continue sending out keychain packages and patron stickers this coming Monday (Dec 2nd) since I should no longer be contagious after this weekend!

[the-nothing-maker]

"[...] It is assumed that the thieves took opportunity of a commotion at the Earl's estate later in the evening to commit their crime. Authorities have urged local nobility to keep festivities to a low during the summer so as not to attract attention from these infamous jewel thieves, to no avail: Earl M. is their eight victim of the season. [...]" (Mélisande and Lazuli, my D&D PC and my DM @luposlipaphobya's NPC!)

[jinmukangwrites]

I had a debate with my coworker about the Jedi not being crib robbers, regardless of the outcome of our argument, it has got me feeling ill about the parents who gave their children to the Jedi before or even during the Clone Wars. I'm watching Rebels and Kanan sounds so sad when he says he didn't know his parents. And then replaying Survivor, Cal has a conversation with Mosey about parents, and I remember that Cal is from Coruscant.

Like, imagine you're a parent. You probably live in the more poverty stricken levels of Coruscant. It's only a few years before the Clone Wars, but there's no way you could know that. All you know is that you have a baby in your arms, and there's Jedi in your home telling you that your baby is gifted, and that if you are willing, you can give your child up to a higher purpose. You'll probably never see your baby again, never see him grow, but... he'll grow up on the surface of Coruscant, in the Jedi Temple. He will not suffer poverty like you and your family, he will grow up to understand the mysteries of the Force and he'll become a peacekeeper of the galaxy and for whatever reason known only to you... it seems worth it.

You give your baby up.

And you wonder about him. Visiting the upper levels, you do the math in your head of how old he must be, and then you look out into the crowd made of trillions and wonder if you'll ever see a shock of red hair.

You never do, but that's fine. Your son is a Jedi, and maybe that's enough for you.

But then the Clone Wars come. And, not only do you see the Jedi join and lead their side of the war, but you begin to see the adult Jedi bring their young children with them on to the battle field.

Do you feel nothing? Do you feel anger? Acceptance? Do you think your baby is a hero? Do you go to the protests?

You watch the news, and perhaps you feel sick wondering if your baby will ever show up as a corpse.

But you never see him. And you're not sure if that's fine.

Years pass. The Jedi are branded traitors.

You hear about the masses of deaths, even the children are not spared from being branded as traitors and marked for execution from your new Emperor. Your baby is 12, or perhaps, was twelve. Perhaps 12 is the oldest he got, if he's lucky. That sticks with you.

You carry on.

Maybe you make a life for yourself within the Empire. Maybe you suppress the grief you must feel for the baby you gave to the Jedi all those years ago. Maybe you wallow in it. Maybe, on dark nights, surrounded by the never ending sounds of Coruscant, you think back to those simpler days, when there was no war, and you held your baby for the last time, and you think about what if. What if you held him tighter, and told the Jedi to leave. What if you worked harder to give him a better life yourself. What if you watched him grow, and he wasn't made a soldier, and he didn't die before he could become a teenager.

What if.

Years pass. You continue.

There's rumors of rebellion. You have your opinions on the Empire, on the rebels, some are deeply buried secrets, a bias you cannot escape, no one can know but that connection to the Jedi lingers.

Years pass. About a decade.

And you walk out one day, and you stop in your tracks, because you did not expect to see anything continue from your grief, the end of his story you told yourself.

A billboard shines in the darkness of the Coruscant lower levels, which isn't new, but this billboard stares at you.

A head full of red hair. Eyes that remind you of your partner. Scars scratch his features but his cheek bones remind you of your father.

Jedi terrorist.

About 22 years old.

Wanted by the Empire, and you don't know what to think but you know exactly what you're feeling.

And time moves on, and you're not in his life, but he's alive. Fighting against the Empire, while you continue to exist under the ruins of the Jedi Temple you gave him to, glancing up every once in a while, to see his face staring back in the light of wanted posters.