#june writes stuff

[junewritesstuff]

sleepy. ༊*·˚

pairing: leon kennedy x reader

cws/tws: none, just fluff! <3

prompt: “dont get up– i’ll do it.” or reader gets home late and just wants to go to bed.

a/n: first time writing for leon!!! also i think leon’s love language is acts of service and quality time (just for a little bit of context lol) this is an incredibly self indulgent and super short piece

“leon! i’m home!” you call into your shared apartment as you enter the front door. you lock the door behind you and start heading towards your bedroom, dropping your bag off on the kitchen counter.

“hi love,” leon says softly with a gentle smile, “you look exhausted.”

“i am,” you admit with a small giggle.

you quickly get ready to go to bed; taking a quick shower, changing into pjs, brushing your teeth, and your skincare routine (of course!!). you finally walk back into the bedroom and get cozy in bed, cuddling with your bf. 

all of a sudden, you let out a defeated groan, “i forgot to turn the fan onnn.” 

as you go to rip the covers off of you, leon stops you, “don’t get up– i’ll do it.” he gives you a small peck on the cheek and goes and quickly turns the fan on. you return the small peck onto his cheek and quietly thanking him before drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

© junewritesstuff , tumblr 2024. do not translate, copy, steal, repost my works on tumblr or any other platforms or claim them as your own.

[zan0tix]

ALPHA KIDS: Draw your best friends!

DIRK: I'd say I'm better at one on one character interaction work of the more intimate variety, but I think this piece came together nicely. DIRK: Fun for the whole family style wholesomeness, any motherfucker in the radius of a screen displaying this image will instantly get hit with a sore case of heartburn and their tear ducts will clock in overtime at the weeping factory.

ROXY: im so proud of these i think these are my best designs yet :3 but omg dirk callie and jake were SOOO peculiar about their damn designs over my shoulder. jake wanted me to clarify that even in pink pen form his little guy is BLUE. so there. sigh this is the one occasion they could take notes from janey.. JUST LET LE ARTIST WORK!

JANE: Boy! I don't draw often but I always was fond of calligraphy growing up. I was kind of inspired by all of the other's works, but especially Calliope's swirls she puts in her art. It's very fun to add!

JAKE: Im not quite the best with posing, but i find the head very fun to study! Especially skulls.. so good ole calliope makes for the perfect muse! (hehe)

CALLIOPE: i realized i hadn't ever made a piece with Us in the same place at once. u_u CALLIOPE: bUt since it's reality now here's all of Us together, United at last! ^u^

==->

[juneofdoom]

June of Doom 2025 💣

By popular vote, here be the 2025 June of Doom prompt list for your doomsday planning!

Please feel free to participate with original or fan works of any kind (writing, photos, gifs, mood boards, videos, songs, whatever creative medium your heart desires!). You can do one or all of the prompts on any given day, and if none are to your liking, check out the alternate prompts!

Angst, hurt/comfort, and lighter/ funnier forms of whump are also welcome! Torture takes many forms. :)

Rules/ FAQ!

Tag your stuff with appropriate warnings, plzkthnx.

AI-created content is highly discouraged and frowned upon. I have no way of "checking", but I respect the time and effort people put into their crafts and encourage everyone to do the same. This isn't a contest for best written or prettiest art — it's a challenge, so challenge yourself.

You can combine this challenge with other challenges!

You can start/ finish this challenge whenever the heck you want!

You can mix and match prompts from different days!

I'll post reminders and such the closer we get!

[Text List]

[AO3 Collection] - "JUNEOFDOOM2025"

And don't forget to tag @juneofdoom so I can reblog your awesome here! Have fun!

Previous Dooms: 2023 || 2024

[madmarsii]

Wolf and Little Goat

June of Doom 2025 | 9. Hammer

---

“You heard the story, right?” Whumper circled around Whumpee, swinging the hammer playfully. “About the baby goats?”

Whumpee sank deeper into the corner. He didn’t dare to breathe. Didn’t dare to look up.”

“Mother told them not to open the door to strangers. But they didn’t listen. Do you know who was waiting outside?”

Whumpee whimpered, curling in on himself, shoulders hunched like he could somehow disappear into his own body. Every beat of his heart slammed against his ribs, frantic, deafening—a terrified drumroll building toward a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. His breath caught in his throat as Whumper strode closer, his heart hammered faster and faster, so much so Whumpee hoped it might stop and spare him of what was about to come

“A wolf.”

Whumper smiled, his mouth full of sharp teeth. He moved closer to Whumpee, grabbed his wrist and yanked him to the middle of the shed.

Then came the blow, sudden and brutal. Whumpee didn’t even register the swing before agony exploded in his ankle. A white-hot burst of anguish shot through him, short-circuiting his senses. His vision blacked out, then flashed blindingly white as he screamed.

Pain.

This much pain will surely kill him.

“I told you not to run.”

Whumper’s words were in haze.

“I told you there would be consequences—but you had to be just like another baby goat, right?”

Whumpee couldn’t breathe. The pain was overwhelming. Monstrous.

“But we can play this game. Look,” Whumper grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head to the side. “Do you see that box? There’s wolf waiting inside.”

“Please,” Whumpee choked. “No.”

Whumper smiled again, his beastly teeth catching what little light there was . “You should run, little goat.”

---

I only took a little part of the prompt, but the story wanted it that way. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless <3

@juneofdoom

[junkuna]

°❀.ೃ࿔* ink me like one of your french girls - sukuna x reader

chapter 6 : saviour ˎˊ˗

─────────────────────

࿔ pairing - tattooartist!sukuna x tattooartist!fem!reader

I summary - mahito is here and he is a villain we dislike him, he is important ! ! just the usual banter but things start to get a little weirdddd with mahito

࿔ warnings - ok here we go, mahito being an asshole, as in making u uncomfortable while u tattoo him. mild violence, (pushing / shoving)

࿔ fic tags - they're both idiots so 0 communication, DEFO gets frustrating at times / shameless smut, mostly vanilla though for the chapters ive already written / megumi is ur apprentice which is cute / sukuna + yujir BROTHERS / mahito is an asshole, mentions of attempted sexual assault. / enemies (ish?) to lovers / trying 2 go 4 a slow burn but i fear it's not as slow as i wanted it to be. will add more as we progress probably be i suck at describing my work

࿔ wc - 4.5k

a/n - forgot 2 mention i’m making a few tweaks from the original version on ao3 to upload here, i wrote this when i was balls deep in exams and i defo rushed some things, so if u see some differences that’s why !!

— enjoy! reblogs r appreciated ty 4 all the luv <3

════════════════════════════

You woke up to the violent pounding of your own heart, your head stuffed full of cotton and regret.

Groaning, you flopped onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut against the cruel brightness leaking through the curtains. Your mouth felt like it had been stuffed with sandpaper. Every muscle in your body ached like you’d been trampled by a herd of elephants in steel-toed boots.

Never again, you thought bitterly, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might anchor you to the earth.

Your phone buzzed weakly on the nightstand. You cracked one eye open, grimacing as you fumbled for it.

No missed calls. No disasters. Just a reminder about your only client today—a small booking at noon. Praise be.

You sighed into your pillow, giving yourself exactly three more minutes of self-pity before you dragged your body upright. Every movement felt like a personal attack.

Shuffling into the kitchen, you went through the sacred hangover ritual: two painkillers, one giant glass of water, and the strongest coffee you could manage without your hands shaking too much.

The bitter taste slapped you awake a little. Just enough to stumble into the shower.

You let the water beat down on your head, trying to wash the nausea away, trying to scrub off the weird haze clinging to your memories of last night.

The bar. The drinks. The stupid giggling.

Yuji trying to say something and Sukuna cutting him off.

And—oh god—stumbling home with Sukuna, hanging off his arm like some drunk bimbo.

You squeezed shampoo into your palm with more force than necessary, scowling at yourself. It’s over. It’s fine. Move on.

By the time you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, you felt slightly more human. Still gross. Still achy. But upright.

You padded back into your room, grabbing a loose tank top and your old low-rise jeans from the chair by your bed. As you pulled them on, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror.

Your fingers hovered over the hem of your tank top.

Lower back, just above your jeans—there it was.

The stupid serpent Sukuna had inked on you. You stared at it for a long moment, memories flickering.

And then you remembered something else—a flash of his arm under the porch light.

The little flower. Still there.

You dropped onto the edge of your bed, staring at nothing.

Wait… did I actually see it?

Or was I drunk out of my mind and imagining shit?

You tugged your fingers through your damp hair in frustration. Everything about last night was a blur, soaked in alcohol and bad decisions.

Maybe it was real.

Maybe you wanted it to be.

You shook your head violently, standing up so fast your vision swam.

“Whatever,” you muttered to yourself, grabbing your bag off the chair. “I’ll check next time I see him.”

You yanked on your sneakers, ignoring the faint twist in your stomach that had nothing to do with the hangover, and slung your bag over your shoulder.

There were clients to tattoo.

You didn’t have the luxury of a man to pay your bills.

And you certainly didn’t have time to be daydreaming about some stupid little flower on Sukuna’s stupidly muscular arm.

You stumbled downstairs to the shop, every step sending a dull throb through your skull. The familiar scent of disinfectant and ink filled your nose—comforting, grounding. It helped. A little.

You flipped the sign on the door to Open, moving slower than usual as you went about the motions of setting up your station. Wiping surfaces, double-checking your machine, laying out fresh needles even though you already did it yesterday.

Muscle memory carried you through it, your brain still stuck somewhere between your bed and the half-formed memories of last night.

You were bent over the counter, sorting through ink caps, when a sharp knock rattled the door.

You blinked, confused.

You weren’t expecting your client for another half hour.

Straightening, you wiped your hands on your jeans and went to unlock it. The door creaked open, and you found yourself face-to-face with a man standing awkwardly on the threshold.

Tall. Skinny. Maybe mid-twenties. His eyes were a little too wide, his smile a little too eager. He had long, light blue hair. And stitches all over his face that seemed to hold him together.

Ew…Why did he look so weird?

“Uh, hey,” he said, voice jittery. “I’m here for the appointment?”

“Oh. Mahito?”

“That’s me!”

You frowned. “You’re early. Your booking’s at noon.”

He shrugged, stepping inside anyway. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, bouncing as he moved. “Yeah, I figured better early than late, right?”

You bit back a sigh. The logical part of your brain agreed—it was better than a no-show—but your pounding head deeply resented his existence right now.

“Fine,” you muttered, locking the door behind him. “Let’s just get you set up.”

He beamed like you’d handed him a medal.

You led him toward your station, mentally crossing out the ten minutes you were planning to spend mainlining coffee in peace. Whatever. The sooner you started, the sooner you could send him on his merry way.

As he settled into the chair, you stole a glance at the design he’d sent over when he booked.

A snake coiled around a dagger. Classic. Nothing too complicated. Nothing you couldn’t hammer out even half-dead from a hangover. But it wasn’t really your style, made you wonder why he didn’t take this hellish design to the epitome of hell across the street.

Still, there was something about the guy that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Maybe the way he kept tapping his foot. Maybe the way his eyes darted around the shop, like he was memorizing it. Maybe the weird too-long way he stared at your arms when you rolled up your sleeves.

You kept your head down, pretending not to notice, but the feeling crawled unpleasantly under your skin.

As you switched to a finer needle for the detail work, you broke the silence, letting your voice slice the tension in the room.

“You know,” you said, not looking up, “there’s a shop across the street that specializes in this kind of design. You probably would’ve been more at home there.”

The buzzing of your machine filled the room for a beat before he answered, you sit down at your station and begin sketching the stencil.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, his voice oddly light. “I know.”

You paused for half a second, glancing up at him under your lashes.

He was smiling again. That same stretched, too-wide smile. It was kinda gross, the way his stitches stretched taut over his cheeks.

You imagined what’d happen if they were to unravel, would he unravel?

“Just figured I’d come here,” he added, snapping you out of your thoughts. His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “More interesting artists over here.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, wiping a line of ink clean with a firm hand.

“Right,” you said dryly. “Because that’s why you booked.”

He chuckled, the sound skittering unpleasantly down your spine.

“Can’t blame a guy for wanting a pretty girl to put her hands on him, right?”

You stiffened instinctively, your hand pausing mid-motion.

Then you forced yourself to keep moving, burying the twitch of discomfort under a layer of professional detachment.

“Yeah, I can,” you muttered, keeping your tone clipped.

You worked in silence for a few more moments, the machine’s hum filling the air. It was almost soothing, if only the client weren’t so… strange.

Finally, you broke the silence, leaning back slightly as you checked the stencil. “Alright, so where do you want it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. You glanced up, expecting him to point to his arm or leg, or maybe even his chest. Instead, his gaze flicked toward his lower back, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“V-line,” he said, his voice low.

Your brow furrowed. Lower back? You could feel your professional instincts kicking in, the slight flare of irritation tightening your jaw. That’s an odd choice, you thought.

You gave him a skeptical glance. “That’s a pretty personal spot, you sure?”

He met your eyes, his expression too calm, too satisfied. “Yeah. I like it there. Thought it’d look good, you know, a bit more private… more intimate.”

A chill skittered up your spine as the weight of his words hit you. You cleared your throat, trying to mask the creeping discomfort crawling up your neck.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you sighed, exhaling slowly as you grabbed a fresh sheet of tracing paper. “Okay then. If you’re sure.”

He gave you an almost imperceptible nod, his lips curling into that too-soft smile again. “I’m sure.”

The next few minutes were awkwardly quiet. You focused on your work, trying to ignore the growing tension in the air. The spot he’d chosen—right at the curve of his V-line—made you feel strangely exposed. Not in a physical way, but in the subtle, unsettling way he watched you. His eyes never quite left you as you worked, the silence hanging heavy between each slow motion of your hand.

When you finally got the stencil placed, you checked it once more. “Alright, all set. You ready?”

He nodded. “Ready.”

You gave the machine a final test run, the needle buzzing sharply. And then, with one last deep breath, you set to work.

The tattooing felt… different. Even though you were in your element, you couldn’t shake the weird, uncomfortable energy surrounding this guy. He shifted every few minutes, tapping his foot again, and occasionally muttering under his breath as if talking to himself. He kept looking down at you while you worked, his beady eyes drilling holes into the top of your head.

You were just about done with the shading when he suddenly spoke.

“You ever think about getting one there?” He gestured vaguely toward the area you were tattooing.

You glanced up at him, your eyes narrowing.

“What?” you asked, not sure you heard him right.

“A tattoo there,” he repeated, his grin widening. “I think it’d look good on you. You’ve got the right body for it.”

Your stomach churned, but you ignored the discomfort, instead focusing on keeping your hands steady.

“I already have a tattoo, i don’t want another,” you said shortly, your voice sharp enough to slice through the uncomfortable haze in the room.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his smile twitched wider.

“Yeah?” he said, voice dripping with false casualness. “Really?”

You didn’t look up. You concentrated harder on the curve of the design, tracing the needle exactly where it needed to go.

“Just shut up,” you muttered.

He laughed—low, almost mocking. “C’mon. Not like it’s a big deal. Show me.”

The needle buzzed harder under your hand as your grip tightened. You forced yourself to finish the last line with precision before you sat back and switched off the machine, your heart thudding with an ugly pulse behind your ribs.

“No,” you said flatly, meeting his eyes for the first time. “I’m here to work, not entertain you.”

He held your gaze for a beat too long, the amusement on his face fading into something harder to read.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the discomfort show even though you felt like punching something.

After a second, he clicked his tongue and looked away, stretching leisurely like he hadn’t just made your skin crawl.

“Alright, alright,” he said, too easily. “No need to be so uptight.”

You said nothing. Just grabbed the wrap and the ointment, brisk and efficient, wrapping the fresh ink as fast as you could without being careless.

You peeled off your gloves with a snap and turned toward the counter.

“Aftercare instructions are there,” you said, voice cold. “Follow them. Or don’t. Up to you.”

He gave a low chuckle as he slid off the chair and collected his jacket.

He gave a low chuckle as he slid off the chair and collected his jacket. The tension in your shoulders only slightly eased—until he straightened, turned back to you, and asked, voice smooth as oil:

“Mind if I get your number? So I can follow up on the next one.”

You paused, gloved hands resting on the counter. Without thinking much, you shook your head.

“No,” you said flatly. “Not interested.”

His smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a flash of something dark. He took a step toward you—too close—and his fingers brushed the edge of the counter with enough force that the bottles rattled.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Don’t be like that.”

You recoiled, heart pounding. “I said no,” you repeated, voice cold and steady.

His jaw clenched. His eyes hardened. “Don’t be a bitch, you’re not even that pretty. I’m doing you a fucking favour.”

Before you could react, he lashed out, shoving his hand against your chest with unsettling strength. You stumbled back, nearly tripping over your stool.

“Hey!” you snapped, winded but furious.

He ignored you and lunged forward, slamming his jacket against the wall and knocking a framed print to the floor. It shattered against the tile in a spray of glass and splintered wood.

“Don’t test me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Anger flared through you, burning away your hangover haze. You grabbed your nearest tool—a small metal tube used for wrapping—and pressed it into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. He staggered, blinking, caught off-balance.

“Get the hell out,” you ordered, your tone deadly calm beneath the adrenaline.

He hesitated, chest heaving. The moment stretched before he shoved off the counter, sending a bottle of green soap skittering across the floor, and stormed toward the door. Before he left, he spat over his shoulder: “This isn’t over.” Then he slammed the door so hard the lock shuddered.

You stood frozen for a moment—heart racing, palms slick with ink and a slick sheen of sweat—before reality surged back in. You dumped out the chair and locked the door, the clack of the deadbolt echoing in the suddenly cavernous shop.

Glass crunched under your boots as you walked to the wreckage. You knelt and swept the largest pieces into a dustpan, hands moving methodically even though your blood still roiled. The small metal tube you’d wielded glittered on the floor; you stuffed it into a drawer as evidence—just in case.

The thought barely registered before the world tilted.

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow in your chest.

The edges of the room blurred, the neon colors of ink bottles bleeding together like melting wax.

You gripped the counter. Hard. Fingernails digging into the wood.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale—

No, too fast, too thin, like you couldn’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how wide you opened your mouth.

Your legs gave out and you sank to the floor, back pressed against the wall beneath the shelves. The coolness of the tiles seeped into your jeans, grounding you just enough to realize you were having a panic attack.

You pressed trembling hands against your thighs, trying to remember what you were supposed to do.

Count things. Focus on one thing. Breathe slow.

But your mind was a jumbled, chaotic mess—flashes of his hand pushing at your chest, the sound of glass breaking, the tone in his voice when he said “this wasnt over”?

What does that mean? Will he come back?

Your body shook, small tremors you couldn’t control, your skin cold and clammy.

You hated it. Hated feeling cornered. Hated feeling small.

You squeezed your eyes shut and dug your nails into your palms.

Five things you could feel: the rough denim of your jeans, the hard floor, the grain of the counter, your sticky skin, the cold air hitting your neck.

Four things you could see: the broken frame, the dustpan, the harsh fluorescent light, the scuff on your sneakers.

Three things you could hear: the hum of the fridge, the distant city traffic, the rush of blood in your ears.

Slow.

Focus.

Breathe.

You sat there for what felt like forever before the panic finally ebbed, leaving you drained and empty, like a sponge wrung out too tight.

You wiped your face with the back of your sleeve and slowly, carefully, pushed yourself up to your feet. Your legs wobbled, but you stayed standing.

The counter clock ticked forward. All this and the day hadn’t even properly started yet.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold together all the pieces that felt like they might fall apart at any second. You needed to finish cleaning. You needed to make that call. You needed to—

The soft vibration of your phone buzzed against your hip.

You flinched instinctively, heart hammering again, but when you glanced at the screen, it was just a text.

Sukuna [11:56]: Busy?

You stared at it. Blinking once. Twice. And for some reason, the oddest wave of relief washed over you, unwanted but warm.

You didn’t answer right away.

Fuck. I mean, you didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

But the buzzing fear in your chest dulled just a little. Just enough to make you breathe again.

You stared at Sukuna’s message for a moment longer, the words flickering in your mind. It was a small thing, but somehow it felt like a lifeline. You had been holding your breath for so long, trapped in your own thoughts, and the simple fact that he had reached out made you feel just a little less alone in the chaos.

You took a breath, tried to push aside the tight knot in your chest, and typed back:

You [12:00]: Not busy, just cleaning up. What’s up?

The reply was swift, almost immediate.

Sukuna [12:00]: I’m coming over. 😛

Sukuna [12:00]: Shit, wrong emoji.

Sukuna [12:00]: I meant 👍🏽

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, even though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Typical Sukuna, teasing as always, as if he didn’t know just how much you were dreading the silence after everything that had happened. It wasn’t as though you didn’t enjoy his company—it was more the fact that right now, you couldn’t quite trust your own emotions. Everything felt raw, like you were standing on the edge of something, and you didn’t know which way to fall.

But he wasn’t going to let you wallow alone, was he? Much to your disdain.

The sound of the doorbell broke your spiraling thoughts.

You straightened up quickly, straightening your cami top and brushing at the sleeve of your jeans like you could somehow erase the heavy feeling inside you. The door opened with a faint creak, and there he was, leaning against the frame with that smirk you had come to recognize too well. His eyes skimmed over you, studying the way your shoulders were tight and your expression too carefully neutral.

“Don’t tell me you actually tried to clean this place by yourself,” he teased, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he stepped inside.

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, trying to hide the knot in your throat. “I was doing fine until…” You trailed off, the words suddenly feeling heavy and unspoken.

Sukuna followed you to the back of the shop, raising an eyebrow as he took in the disarray, the subtle signs of chaos you hadn’t even realized were there. His gaze lingered on you, though, too sharp and perceptive for comfort.

“I was cleaning,” you muttered, turning away to grab your gloves. “What’s it to you?”

He clicked his tongue, and you could feel the shift in the air, like he was no longer just here to tease. His voice softened, just slightly, when he spoke next.

“I just came to steal more ink. Had a rough client?”

“Something like that.”

“Let me guess, they didn’t like your shitty minimalist stencils and walked out last minute.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m seriously not in the mood with your bullshit today, okay? So, wanna tell me why you’re here?”

He tilted his head at that.

“Something’s off with you. What happened?”

You paused, fingers freezing in midair as you worked the gloves on. It felt like the world was holding its breath, and for a second, you couldn’t find the words to speak. The truth was too heavy, too raw, and part of you still couldn’t shake the unease that crawled beneath your skin. You had already replayed the encounter with the client in your head a dozen times, trying to convince yourself it hadn’t been as bad as it had felt. But you knew it had been.

Taking a deep breath, you finally looked up, meeting his gaze.

“I had a client earlier today…” you began slowly. “He was… weird. Like, really weird.” You hesitated, swallowing. “He… He wasn’t okay with me saying no.”

Sukuna’s expression darkened immediately, his posture shifting as his eyes narrowed in concern. “What do you mean by that?”

You winced at the question, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “He asked for my number, kept pushing me after I said no. And when I wouldn’t give it to him…” You trailed off, biting your lip as the weight of it all hit you again. “It was so stupid, he just got mad and broke the stupid picture I had on the wall”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened even further, his brows furrowing. “Did he hurt you?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, your heart hammering in your chest. You shook your head quickly, the words escaping before you could stop them.

“…No. What do you care?”

But Sukuna wasn’t convinced. Without warning, he reached forward, his hand closing around your wrist with a gentleness that caught you off guard. His thumb traced the edge of your skin, and before you could pull away, he stopped, his gaze dropping to the first signs of a bruise on your wrist.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. His face softened, and the edge of his anger seemed to melt into something quieter, something more concerned.

His voice was barely a whisper as he asked, “Did he do this to you?”

You couldn’t speak. You just stood there, staring at the mark where his fingers had been, feeling the warmth of his touch against your skin. You had almost forgotten about the bruise in the whirlwind of everything else.

Sukuna’s thumb brushed against it again, and you felt your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the panic attack from earlier. The anger, the protectiveness in his eyes—it made something in you want to crumble. You didn’t want his pity, didn’t want to feel small. But in that moment, you felt something else—something you hadn’t expected.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, “That shouldn’t have happened.”

”Well, yeah. I know it shouldn’t have. But it did—”

”I should’ve been there.”

You were surprised by the softness in his tone. Surprised by how… genuine it sounded. Everything about him usually screamed confidence, maybe even arrogance. But now, there was something else. Something deeper.

You looked at him, still holding your wrist, and you saw it clearly in his face—an expression of quiet sadness mixed with anger, as if he wished he could’ve been there, could’ve done something to prevent it.

You shook your head, trying to mask the vulnerability that crept in, pushing yourself back into that usual armor of indifference. “It’s fine. It’s over.”

But Sukuna didn’t let go. His fingers were still wrapped gently around your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your bruise as if it physically pained him to see a mark on your body, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world outside didn’t exist—just the two of you standing there, the weight of everything in the silence between you.

“I’ll be here next time,” he said, his voice low, but firm. “If anything like this happens again, you call me.”

“Uh, sure.”

You swallowed hard, eyes dropping to where his fingers still cradled your wrist. It was almost too much, the way he was looking at you—like you were something fragile, something worth protecting. And maybe it was the adrenaline still crashing through your veins, or maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to you, but the words tumbled out before you could think better of them.

“He said…” You hesitated, hearing the weight of the memory pressing against your ribs. “Before he left, he said… ‘This isn’t over. No idea what that means, I think he was just being angsty and throwing empty threats at me.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking sharply beneath his skin. His whole body went rigid, as if barely holding back some primal instinct. He dropped your wrist carefully, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he took a slow breath, and when he spoke, his voice was low.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, firm, like it was a promise. “I’ve got it covered.”

You blinked at him, startled by the sheer certainty in his voice. Sukuna, with all his rough edges and infuriating arrogance, didn’t make empty promises. You could tell by the way he said it—the way his shoulders straightened, the way his hands curled into loose fists at his sides—that he meant it.

You hated how much that comforted you.

You laughed a little, but it came out shaky, brittle. “What, are you gonna beat him up?”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If I have to.”

You stared at him for a long moment, unsure what to say. Sukuna had never been the comforting type. His kindness was rare, almost accidental when it happened. But standing here now, seeing the unspoken promise written in the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, you realized he wasn’t joking. If that creep so much as breathed in your direction again, Sukuna would burn the world down without a second thought.

And somehow, that thought was steadier than anything else you’d clung to all day.

You stepped back, crossing your arms over your chest as you tried to gather yourself. “Thanks,” you muttered, staring down at the floor, embarrassed by how much you actually meant it.

He didn’t press you, didn’t ask for more. Instead, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged like it was no big deal. “It’s nothing. I’d prefer it if my only competition didn’t die on me, though. You’re the only one that challenges me.”

The words caught you off guard, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

You cleared your throat, desperate to lighten the thick, almost suffocating tension hanging between you. “Well. Only because you keep stealing all my blue ink.”

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You’re never gonna let that go, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

He smiled—really smiled—and for a moment, the anger and fear from earlier faded into something quieter, something almost easy. You realized, with a strange twist of your stomach, that this was starting to feel normal. Him barging into your life. You pretending you hated it.

Maybe you weren’t pretending as well as you thought.

Sukuna glanced toward the front door, then back at you. “You should get some rest. You look like shit.”

You flipped him off half-heartedly, but he just laughed, ruffling your hair on his way to the door like you were some grumpy cat he had decided to annoy.

As he disappeared into the night, the bell over the door jingling behind him, you finally allowed yourself to exhale.

The shop was silent again, but it wasn’t the same crushing loneliness from earlier. Somehow, it felt less empty.

And as you locked the door, flipped the CLOSED sign with a heavy sigh, and leaned your forehead against the glass, you noticed something.

You didn’t check if he still had the tattoo you did on him.

Fuck !!

————————

taglist : @beabamboo @snapcracklen

[bizarrelittlemew]

what people think being a phd student is like: groundbreaking research, cute academia outfits, lively classroom discussions during teaching, inspiring conferences, writing your thesis in film-worthy libraries and cute coffee shops

what being a phd student is actually like: imposter syndrome, forgetting that you even own nice clothes because you never use them, ending up on 3-4 more daily medications than when you started, trying to make your extremely niche research topic sound impactful on funding applications and getting rejected anyway, searching through 5 different calendars for a 25-minute window where all your supervisors can be there (2 of them won't make it anyway), doing multiple other projects before actually getting to the ones your thesis is about (at least you get your name on papers, which leads us to:), the whole soul-crushing publishing process, getting your patience tested by students who don't prepare for classes at all (but expect you to summarize and explain 3-4 lectures of stuff to them in 5 minutes during a hands-on tutorial), writing your thesis and putting together an assessment committee last minute, starting to feel nausea at the word "networking", experiencing levels of burnout you didn't know existed, university bureaucracy slowly but surely draining your will to live

[gamora-borealis]

incoming dangender thoughts: the more I read up/watch the stuff dan has said about gender after BIG + reflect on what he said in BIG I'm like. y'all she really has been explicitly trying to tell us his gender IS formless blob (without making it a huge deal in the mainstream public eye), but so many people haven't actually been taking him seriously! like. labels are made up, dan has pretty much said as much before. why do we have to have a specific approved™ term to consider them genderqueer/nonbinary/trans? those are descriptive labels and dan has been using a fun descriptive label they created that he defined for us in BIG, a definition that matches up with those other labels! and dan has said since 2019 that he is comfortable with any pronouns even though he still mainly uses he/him. like, lately dan has been using more she/her and they/them for herself and experimenting with being more femme and/or androgynous in various ways, and what is changing is not even necessarily gender (although maybe who knows), but probably that dan is finally feeling more comfortable with different kinds of gender presentation and pronouns than she typically uses. because low-key gender is kind of a performance and it's scary to switch it up sometimes but dan feels safe doing so especially with their audience and I think that's actually really special 🧡 but moral of the story, dangender has actually been out in the open since 2019 and I wish more people picked up on that!

[aran-morinorea]

found a thing from two years ago in a little notebook should i expand on it

An orc arrives in Ost-in-Edhil, bearing a courier flag and a thick sheaf of papers. The top one is a letter, addressed to Tyelperinquar of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, from Tar-Mairon, Lord of the East. Celebrimbor takes it with shaking hands before the assembled council. It reads:

--

Dearest.

I am no longer bound to any force above me. It is for me to decide my own priorities. I have decided, after some contemplation, that being someone you would not hate is a high priority. The messenger I have sent (who volunteered, even) will hopefully contribute to that aim.

You see, I have begun a project. I would like to alter the orcs, such that they are no longer bound to the Shadow but free to live as they will and hear the Doomsman when they die. I have had some success, but I often find myself wishing for your opinions.

Feel free to ask the messenger about the procedure; she has personal experience, and also copies of some of my more important notes. I am calling them the Unfettered. The current issues are:

The alteration to their souls is not always survivable.

Fixing them one at a time is tedious, and will take an Age or more at this rate.

Their children, even of two Unfettered orcs, are not always themselves Unfettered.

I would ask of you to read my notes, speak to my messenger, and form whatever opinion you like.

If you send her back with an answer, I will read it. If you visit, I will welcome you. If you summon me, I will arrive.

Yours,

Annatar

--

What the fuck.

[mbirnsings-71]

Heavy is the head that wears the Watcher's Crown / But if I open up the door everybody's gonna drown / I can't have that on my conscience, I've already lost my mind / But I'll do anything to save you, you will not be left behind - Watcher's Crown (Demo) by Cloudkissed

anywho, tfw I finish a drawing in two days flat??? haven't done that in a hot minute okay- Anywho alternate versions of this drawing under the cut because I like all the versions of this tbh but this one was my most favorite-

The Variation is very subtle but I like them okay okay-

[ghostlysoaps]

A cradle for these weary bones

cw: canon typical violence, presumed death

It’s raining. Thick, heavy sheets of water that stick the clothes to his skin and transform the metal grating to a slick nightmare under his boots. The ship rocking underfoot doesn’t help his efforts of keeping himself upright. Not when it takes more than their short time aboard to find his sea legs. 

Ghost is a step ahead of him. The L403A1-AIW rifle in his hands held fast with its sight swivelling. No corner or crevice is left untouched by his deadened stare. Efficient in a way Soap is steadily catching up to. He has his callsign for a reason, but Ghost is a being near supernatural in his ability to find clusters of hidden hostiles. And he hunts best in the dark.

The cargo is what they’d been sent to secure and so far their approach had been swift and merciless – cradled by the black sky, its absent moon and equally as despondent sea. Gunfire rings loud over the torrent of rain hitting the deck where it does its best to drown out the distant thunder to the far west. Flashes of muzzles firing light up the night like pinpricks of fireworks. There’s traffic over comms as they sweep further towards the heart of the ship, where they’ll slink into its depths to find a treasure of illegal goods.

They make contact before then. 

Bullets smatter into the metal stairs they duck behind and Ghost relays the information calmly. A nod, a gesture, and then he engages, moving forward as Soap lays down cover. He gets one of the shadowed men before he’s forced to pull back. Saw them jerk and drop in a spray of red and grey. Ghost’s voice whispers in his ear and Soap advances at his hushed call, safe in the knowledge that his lieutenant has his back. 

Their advance continues in bursts of motion. One step, two, fourteen, until they’re the only ones left standing.

Soap breathes hard. With a nod and a grin, adrenaline flowing freely, they keep moving. Ghost taking point, his sleet-gray eyes sliding off of him like condensation down a glass.

It’s supposed to be clear by the time he’s able to take in a full breath. Their team of eight, Soap and Ghost alongside six men from the Portuguese Rapid Reaction Brigade, having combed through the inside of the metal hull twice over. Nothing but shipping containers and corpses left. Ghost is a little ways off, standing close to the ship’s bridge, while he reports on their progress. A crew of seasoned sailors are to be deployed. Bootnecks. As it stands, they’re stranded until the vessel is out of international waters and the dawning squall has died down.

In the time since drop-off, the winds have picked up significantly. The roiling waves hammer against rusted steel, kicking the ship to-and-fro as if it were a ball in the hands of overeager children. If they’re lucky, as is rarely the case, it’ll move on swiftly. The lighting has, at least, moved further down the horizon and the rumble of thunder is but a dull murmur.

Distracted by another slash of light bleeding into several more, he fails to see the creeping shadow in time. It drops from a level above them. Fast. Aiming to get close. The whites of their eyes are visible in the dull glow of the lanterns lining the ship’s walls. Opened wide and locked on target. By the time his rifle is up, a warning past his lips, the figure is upon him. Ghost.

Three consecutive, deafening bangs. The gun’s barrel wedged into the gaps between vest and soft, squishy bits of flesh. When Johnny squeezes the trigger, reactionary though aimed true, the momentum they’d had carries and Ghost, disoriented, stumbles back under the added weight, right up to, and over, a warped piece of railing.

Johnny shouts his name.

He hauls himself to the edge where nothing but darkness greets him. The creak of metal and pattering of rain had stolen the sound of splashing and the surface is absent of a pale mask. Of anything other than seafoam and thrashing waves.

Lieutenant Paredes yanks him back by his bitch strap. Away from the edge he might’ve thrown himself over had he possessed an inkling less sense. Wild-eyed he rips the satellite phone from its pouch and jabs his fingers into the buttons with more violence than the act requires. Paredes’ expression is grim. He sends three of his men away – too little, too late. Raw, animal instinct claws at him without an outlet and while this call isn’t his burden to make, Soap refuses to allow anyone else to interfere whether they’re of a higher rank or not.

Price listens to his clipped update. Laswell and him are overseeing this particular operation, as well as two more to be carried out simultaneously in order to cripple a supply line of Makarov’s. The truth drips bitter into his ear when his demands for them to send aerial support are met with callous truth. They can’t. Not with the winds as they are and Soap would merely doom himself to the same fate should he attempt a rescue for a man who, by his own admission, is likely out of more blood than he can spare.

Soap rages inside but nothing other than a void “copy,” is said.

Compartamentalising is a necessary skill for any keen soldier to have, and Soap is one of their best.

- - - - -

The rubber boat forges on. Catching every wave like a punch to the gut and each aftershock rattles through Soap’s bones. Unphased, he keeps his sights on the rapidly approaching shoreline. Bathed in the pale light of the moon since the clouds had cracked open an hour or so ago. Shattered the sky like glass for its light to shine on through. The rain has ceased for the moment and the wind, though it hasn’t sighed its last, is mellow in comparison. It’s as if the world itself is holding its breath. As if it is offering a moment’s silence for a man who’d given so much to it in hopes of making it better.

None of his fellow men speak. Stuck in their own heads, grappling with the reminder of mortality, or in solidarity with Johnny and the loss he’d suffered. He doesn’t know and has no intention of asking. The joking around from the previous evening is a distant memory. The morning is not a long way off but years must have passed between then and now.

He's tired.

Searching the rocky shores, Soap’s gaze catches on a pale visage. It glides leisurely, aethereal, along the water’s edge, illuminated by the moon. Featureless due to the distance.

“Tell me ah’m nae goin’ insane,” Soap says, the words sparking through the comms when he presses the button on them. 

Jannik, one of the squad’s many corporals, frowns at him but dutifully follows his hand when he points to the anomaly. Mila does too, and sucks in an audible breath which she lets out around a quiet; “Que porra é essa?”

Soap doesn’t speak Portuguese, related to Spanish as it may be, so the lively debate flies mostly over his head. The boat shudders as it changes course and Soap tilts his head in question, desperate for a distraction and brimming with tense energy now that it seems he has one. Paredes frowns but when he catches sight of Soap’s inquisitive expression gives an apologetic grimace of a smile. “There shouldn’t be any civilians this far out. Nothing in the direction they’re walking but military property. And in case it’s a– hm–” he trails off. “Well… we should direct them towards the nearest town at least, if they’re sane enough to understand. Strange time of day for a walk, no?”

“Yeah,” Soap offers, readying himself to spring into action.

The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end by the time they’re close enough to see the person better. Sticking out against the drab colours of the evening like a pearlescent moth in a dark room. Pale as an exsanguined corpse. Tall and familiar. Treading easily through the swell lapping against the shore, each footprint erased with the ebb and flow of water – indistinguishable from a mirage or figment of Soap’s fractured mind.

Frantically, Soap searches for a stark scar he remembers seeing once. Lodged deep in the skin of his lower back – looping around to his hip. Twisted and gnarled like the bark of a fern. And it is there, the tail-end of it showing as the man turns towards them, his dark eyes following their progress with bloodless lips stretched in a slight smirk. Through them another recognisable scar, running from lower cheek to chin and bisecting thin lips in the process. Lips Soap could recognise from a lineup of five, ten, an infinite number of men given the time he’s spent staring at them.

He throws himself off the boat as soon as he’s able, rabidly thoughtless, nearly falling flat on his face tripping over his own feet, to the clamoring warnings of his team, their grasping hands failing to drag him back.

Soap barely halts before he slams into Ghost, skidding in the wet sand, waterclogged gloves slapping against his sternum, down to the left side of his chest where he remembers unyielding metal pressed. It’s unmarred by fresh injury. Lacks the bleeding punctures a bullet wound would cause and rivers of red weeping down his body to pool at his feet. “What in the bleedin’ fuck Lt?” he wheezes.

“Johnny,” Ghost rasps. His skin is somewhat damp, Soap realises once he has the wherewithal to yank his gloves off. Soap can feel his muscles jump, then settle, under the flat of his palms – surely unused to the touch of another. His hair, windswept and stiff from salt, is nearly as white as his anemic flesh. The scars on his body, keloids and hypertrophic alike, appear grey in the dim light of the moon. But he’s warm enough under Soap’s hands, his heart beats, his lungs expand with every drawn breath. Pupil-wide eyes sweep over John’s pathetic scrambling as if amused, as if he thinks Soap should have known better than to believe him dead, though they harden when Ghost’s chin rises to stare beyond Soap’s shoulder. It borders on the surreal, being granted the privilege to watch the way his jaw flexes as he grits his teeth uninhibited by fabric. “At ease, Lieutenant Paredes. I’d rather not have swimmed all the way here for nothing.”

Johnny hears a faint question in stuttered portuguese through the rush in his ears. He pays it no mind. The tips of his fingers dimple skin as his mind struggles to comprehend what it knows to be true and reconcile it with reality.

“You were shot.”

Ghost tilts his head down again. Blinks slowly. Sharklike gaze pinning him like a needle through a butterfly. “No,” he says, syllables drawn out. “You got him before that.”

“Ah kno’ damn well what I saw, ya dobber!”

“It’s not what you saw that matters, Soap. It’s what you heard. And from what I remember the thunder was loud back then.”

“Nae,” he denies. It hadn’t been, had it? He turns enough to catch the group’s eyes. Most of them look paler than Ghost. Rookie-green despite their combined years served falling just shy of a century.

“It happened very fast,” Jannik says, unsure, looking to his ilk for backup, too good a soldier to inch backwards though it looks like he wants to.

“What matters is you’re here, and alive,” Paredes says, motioning brusquely for them to return to the boat, his rifle lowered and loose in his grasp, thick brows pinched. “It is a miracle that you’re standing at all, and walking even more so. Come–” he beckons, “–the climate can’t be doing you any favours.”

Soap reluctantly detaches from his lieutenant. Nude as a new life thrust into the world with not so much as a bruise on him. The imprints of Soap's fingers are already fading. It doesn't make sense. None of it. His head spins alongside his thoughts and Ghost, the cunt, doesn't do anything but stare in silence.

“Trust me, Sergeant,” Ghost murmurs.

Soap nods. Averts his gaze to the horizon. To the ploy of a calm sea – fickle as memories can be. A nagging sensation eats away at him. It nestles and makes home for itself right at the back of his skull alongside too many questions left unanswered. Too many observations disregarded over their years together. Each and every one of them is the piece of a puzzle John cannot picture.

“Wha’ happened to yer clothes?” he asks absentmindedly, scratching the straps of his vest open so he can offer Ghost his pullover.

“Too heavy.” 

“Ah bet. Must've been yer knickers weighing ye doon,” Soap quips. Then, quieter, for no one's ears but his own and with a last stolen glance to where Ghost sweeps the sodden, black fabric around his hips for a modicum of modesty: “Surely wasnae tha’ weapon ye'r slinging aboot.”

“Sergeant.”

“Ah’m jus’ sayin’... if ye need someone t'help ye hold i–”

Ghost scuffs him in order to push him forward. “I'll chalk tha’ one up to shock,” he says magnanimously while Johnny cackles, borderline in hysterics. It wobbles precariously, the lilt of his laughter, and he hastily swallows it down before it can do a one-eighty degree turn. 

He ignores the shared glances in front of him and the way people toss weary looks his way. What good will he’d managed to garner is rapidly fizzling out under his unhinged unravelling. But Ghost’s warmth bleeds into him, his body an immovable rock in churning waters, and that is really all that matters to him. His lieutenant, his friend, safe. Alive and able to fight another day. 

- - - - -

When he gets the sweater back it smells of seaweed and brine and he realises, as he presses it tight to his nose, that it smells just like Ghost.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

werewolf neil...werewolf neil please...please werewolf neil...

OKAY!! >:3 Pluto you were first so... here's a little set up/ info.

Andrew is a best-selling author of middle grade fiction (like... imagine a Percy Jackson-esque series— target age wise, not plot wise) and he lives alone out in the woods.

He's been working on the latest book in his series but is also dying of writer's block. Everything he writes pisses him off. And he is SICK of it. (I think Renee is his editor/ hype woman, maybe. Not sure yet.)

Anyway, one night he goes out for his midnight cigarette— as one does. And he hears a really strange sound. He writes it off, since he's seen plenty of wildlife in his backyard in the last few years. But then... there's rustling in the trees and something huge bursts out of the underbrush and collapses in his yard.

While he can tell it must be injured, he can't even begin to identify this thing. It's large and furry, that much he can see from the porch light. He goes to grab his phone to call... somebody but as he dials animal control the thing morphs into a man. Right in front of his eyes.

He hangs up the phone and trudges down the steps (his back porch is elevated pretty high off the ground) to find a naked, bleeding dude conked out on his grass. He toes at him with his boot in attempt to wake him up, but it doesn't work.

He's not sure what the protocol is for the situation, but he's Andrew and this just got very interesting so he sorta just picks the dude up and carries him inside where he dumps him on the kitchen floor and tries to bandage him up.

When he's done he throws a blanket over him and goes to sit in the living room, where he doesn't sleep a wink.

Neil is, of course, on the run from his father. Because he's Neil. And he is not allowed to rest in any of my AUs ever. Lola and Co. are skulking around in the woods around Andrew's place... because of course they are...

And yeah! Andrew tells Neil he can stay with him for a while, just a little while, if he wants. And Neil takes him up on it. He sleeps on Andrew's couch in exchange for doing chores for him. And also he inspires a new character for Andrew to introduce in his books. And they fall in love. Eventually. :)

[junewritesstuff]

watching movies w/ hobie!! ✧.*

pairing: hobie brown x gn!reader

cw/tws: none!

a/n: headcanon style, established relationship, reader and hobie live in an apartment/flat/wherever u want together

he's very big on physical touch when watching something together. his favorite is when you have your head in his lap and he gently runs his fingers through your hair

he really enjoys horror movies!! if youre someone that gets scared easily he wont hesitate to hold you in his arms to ease your fear

if hes really into the movie/show, he will verbally react. he will laugh, gasp, yell, anything to show his opinion on what’s happening

if he comes home late at night to you watching something on tv, he’ll promptly join you until one or both of you fall asleep

might write a lil drabble on this idea in the future but this is it for now!! also my reqs are open :)

[juneofdoom]

What up, whump fam?!

June of Doom 2024 Prompts!

We've brought back some old favorites/ popular prompts from last year with a healthy dash of new!

Please feel free to participate with original or fan works of any kind (writing, photos, gifs, mood boards, videos, songs, whatever creative medium your heart desires!). You can do one or all of the prompts on any given day, and if none are to your liking, check out the alternate prompts!

Two rules this year!

As with last year, tag your stuff with appropriate warnings, plzkthnx.

AI-created content is highly discouraged and frowned upon. I have no way of "checking", but I respect the time and effort people put into their crafts and encourage everyone to do the same. This isn't a contest for best written or prettiest art — it's a challenge, so challenge yourself.

[AO3 Collection] - "JUNEOFDOOM2024"

Text list below the cut for easier crossings-off. And don't forget to tag @juneofdoom so I can reblog your awesome here! Have fun!

“Help me.”                                        | Failed Escape | On the Run | Fetal Position |

“It didn’t have to be this way.”             | Scream | Double Cross | Made to Watch |

“Well, well, well…”                            | Hiding | Ambushed | Stalking |

“Does that hurt?”                               | Impalement | Fracture | Punishment |

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”                 | Bite | Swelling | Disfiguration |

“They don’t care about you.”               | Flinch | Broken Promise | Abandoned |

“What happened?”                            | Nightmare | Isolation | Stumbling |

“This is your last chance.”                    | Drowning | Chair | Prisoner Trade |

“I made a mistake.”                            | Accident | Acceptance | Blame |

“Can you hear me?”                           | Fear | Smoke | Phone Call |

“We’re out of time.”                           | Bleeding Out | Collapse | Flatline |

“I can’t stand seeing you like this.”        | Dehydration | Grief | Coma |

“Wait!”                                             | Sacrifice | Adrenaline | Cornered |

“What were you thinking?”                  | Surrender | Human Shield | Outmatched |

“Get me out of here!”                         | Rescue | Chainsaw | Presumed Dead |

“At least it can’t get any worse.”           | Secret | Stranded | Setback |

“You don’t want to do that.”                | Struggle | Blackmail | Desperate Measures |

“I’m fine.”                                         | Self-defense | Allergies | Headache |

“This can’t be happening!”                  | Sobbing | Straitjacket | Dissociation |

“I can handle it.”                                | Scrape | Panic Attack | Neglect |

“Let’s play a game. “                           | Stairs | Pressure Points | Trap Door |

“What’s the bad news?”                      | Poison | Bedridden | Cauterization |

“You’re doing great.”                         | Trembling | Gaslighting | Rules |

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”                  | Blankets | Stitches | Bandages |

“I should have listened to you.”           | Guilt | Backseat | Failure |

“Don’t lie to me.”                               | Rage | Choke | Paranoia |

“Or what?”                                       | Defiance | Display | Last Resort |

“Say something.”                               | Numb | Cold Shoulder | Gag |

“I’m so cold.”                                    | Delirium | Fever | Exposure |

“Breathe, damn you!”                         | Shock | Asphyxiation | Emergency Room |

ALTERNATE PROMPTS

“Who did this to you?”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not okay.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“You poor thing.”

Attending Your Own Funeral

Broken Glass

Mask

Whip

Obedience

[turbo-tsundere]

Bit random, but thank you to the people who, even though they don't like ougoku, still not only follow me, but reblog, like, and comment so positively on those ship oriented drawings of mine.

You are all so incredibly kind and supportive, even though you have fully understandable and valid reasons to just avoid those kinds of posts completely, and I really appreciate and respect that.

I just wanted to say this. Thank you again.

[plaidos]

I believed you mentioned earlier something about how the transfem writers on hsbc are having to remain anonymous as to avoid harassment. Where did you hear that from? Is this just like a "through the grapevine"/"not at liberty to say" type thing? Not doubting your honesty, just that I was under the impression that there weren't really any transfems working on hsbc which made me a bit worried how they would handle some of the stuff with vriska and june, so it's a little reassuring to hear that there are some on the team.

it's a both "through the grapevine" and a "not at liberty to say" type thing. i heard from somebody who knows.

[tiktowafel]

do you ever think about how all you used to draw when you were 10 was ponies and that you should still know how to do that, then get an idea and proceed to draw something like these in nearly one sitting and it turns out better than any drawing you've done in the entire past month

sooo anyway does anyone have cutie mark or pony name ideas for them?? lol