mokishine

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Poor boys

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He remembered that he was strong

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(In Mario’s voice) Babies!!!!!!

Originally I was gonna give Breadhead a face but I think it’s funnier if he started as a normal loaf lmao

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Don't be shy Leon!

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Something about James Sunderland's weepy face makes me want to slap him so hard that his head snaps to the side (especially knowing what he did), and then, while he still has that shocked, bulging eyes look, just grab him by the collar and kiss him violently, biting his lower lip until he whines.

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i never draw backgrounds and i think i hate it lol

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nobody could ever make me laugh harder then you can

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for a friend

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@aImalvo

[mokishine]

TW: Violence, gore, angst no comfort, body horror, death

Synopsis: Is he really in control?

A/N: I put off posting this for sooo long because I don’t normally write things this heavy and gory. But I wanted to explore the chaos and darkness that lives in his mind. The heaviness, the self-distrust, and the dark self image he has :( anywho so if you can’t stomach dark themes scroll away bestie

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

With a grunt, he shoves himself up in bed, body covered in sweat. His heart is hammering against his chest wall at a sickening pace, making him rub his chest and clutch at his shirt. In the dim moonlight he turns a forearm over, eye tracing anxiously down it for any trace left of those black veins that haunt his dreams.

Nothing.

Exhaling slowly, Leon’s shoulders slouch as he rubs his hand down his clammy face. It’s almost the same damn thing every night. He glances over at your sleeping form next to him, breathing peacefully in bed on your side. The subtle moonlight falls over the curve of your body under the blanket, and the sight alone is enough to bring him a small sliver of peace. It’s not enough, but it’s enough to make him take another steadying breath. Normally his jolting awake would make you stir too, and although a part of him ached for the comfort of your voice, the bigger part of him is glad he can protect you from this nightmare of his.

He’s careful as he sets aside the covers to stealthily sneak out of bed. He’d hate to wake you now. Each step to the bathroom feels like a tightrope walk that’s rigged against him. He grabs onto the edges of the sink once he’s inside with the door closed and the light on. He hangs his head over it, feeling uncharacteristically weak. He doesn’t like it.

It’s been more than a month, and still all he can hear in the restless hours of the night are Luis’ last breath and Ashley’s screams of his name. Screams of agony and terror as she’s forced to drink a cup she never asked for. And then gradually her screams distort into different ones.

Yours.

He can still hear them as he stares at the drain.

Leon!!!

He flinches, eyes squeezing shut. Sweat beads down his forehead.

Leon!!!!! More screaming. Help me!! Leon please!

It’s not real, it’s not real. He repeats the mantra in his head, hands shaking as they grip the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles turn chalky and pale.

He sees your face. He feels the hard, cold ground against his chest as he’s held down. It’s your mouth that’s forced open, it’s your choking and crying he hears as that black liquid trickles from the goblet down the sides of your mouth and down your neck.

It’s so fucking real. It’s-

LEONN!!!

His eyes snap open and his head jerks up with a grunt, and he’s met with his own reflection in the mirror. His own inky-veined, black-eyed, monstrous reflection. He hardly recognizes it. The veins, branching down his neck, his arms, choking the life of his blood out with its viscous poison.

He yanks up his shirt, watching the large pulsing veins net over his abdomen, slithering beneath his skin like a coiling snake. Like it’s getting ready to strike, but he doesn’t know from where, or when it will.

“Ngh!” He suppresses a grunt of pain as it suddenly rips through his entire body and he staggers, edge of the sink hitting his elbow as his hand slips from its death grip on it. He leans heavily on his forearm.

Breathe—fuck. Just breathe.

His ears ring as pain shoots through his skull. His brain fuzzes around the edges, and he clutches at his head, feeling like he’s losing it. He coughs into the sink, blood splattering on the porcelain and around the edges of his lips. Black, inky blood.

Oh God, if you even exist—

A soft knock sounds at the door. It’s like he can barely hear it, and your voice sounds so far away. It’s like he’s in a tunnel, and he stumbling around only partially deaf.

“No, stay out!” He manages to snap, stumbling for the door to make sure you don’t open it. He can’t tell what he’ll do if you get close. It was bad once before, it could be worse now. He knows he’s not in control of his own body, and the last thing he needs is the guilt of your blood dripping from his hands.

He’s already held too much blood that wasn’t his own. Felt the stickiness on his own skin, watching it slip through his fingers like mucus. He didn’t need to be responsible for the blood of the one good thing this cruel life has allowed him.

But his body feels like it’s locking up, each muscle and joint no longer free to move at the dictates of his own will. He doesn’t reach the door in time, and watches with a sickening heart as the door opens. Your face, etched with concern comes into blurry view, reaching out to him. Everything in him wants to recoil, but he can’t.

His body isn’t his anymore.

It’s a horrifying feeling to hear the most precious thing in the world to you cry out in pain by your own hands, gripping her arms so tight they might break. It’s even more sickening to hear bone crackling as you throw her against the bathroom wall, like a mere spectator inside your own body, unable to control it. All you’re allowed to feel is anger at such an innocent, delicate creature that’s only ever been gentle and sweet with you. Who didn’t deserve your possessed hands around her neck, your body pinning her down to the bathroom floor.

He watches in abject horror as your hands tighten around his wrists, your face turning red before it grows ashy, as you’re deprived of the oxygen you need. You can’t scream, you can only choke and look in him the eye, rasping his name and pleading for him to let go and have mercy.

The confusion in your eyes is what stabs his heart over and over again. Your gentle, loving boyfriend with his hands murderously around your throat. For no reason other than bloodlust that doesn’t belong to him. It’s like he’s screaming inside his own head, but none of the mechanisms are listening to him anymore.

He watches with terrified desperation as he drains the light from your eyes bit by bit. As you gradually stop struggling. As your hands gradually loosen from around his wrists. The last thing you’ll know of him is violence. And he can’t even beg for understanding, for you to stay, for himself to stop.

Forgive me.

Just before the light completely fades, a surge of anger empowers his limbs, and the sickening snap of an innocent neck lays you still beneath him.

His body loosens and he falls forward, catching himself on the tile on either side of your lifeless body. He’s himself again, he’s in control, but the moment is too late.

“No no no no no…” He gathers you up, desperately trying to breathe life into your limp body as if it could be done by shaking you, by lifting you. Like he would will your autonomy back into your body again.

But he can’t. And his worst fear came true. He claws at your body, his voice breaking as he pulls you close, gripping you tightly like he can make you come back to him if it hurts enough. His cheek presses against yours, which already feels cold and lifeless against his hot skin.

“Baby— fuck, no!“

What has he d—

With a heavy grunt, he snaps up in bed, t-shirt and pillowcase drenched in sweat. Panting harshly, choking on his own spit, he grabs his chest tightly. The worst nightmare he’s ever had, just that: a nightmare. His heart is pounding against his chest wall at a sickening pace, his hand is gripping his shirt like he’ll rip it. In the dim moonlight he turns his forearm over, looking for the blood that had felt so real on his hands.

Nothing.

“Leon?” Your voice in the dark makes him jump, and he’s glad you can’t see his face or the sheen of sweat covering his skin. Your hand touches his damp shoulder, gently rubbing it, and he flinches, a part of him afraid that the dream was a bad omen. A warning of what he really is.

A murderer. A machine trained to kill, not to think or feel. Not to distinguish between innocence and guilt. They just all die anyway no matter what he does.

“I’m fine… Y/N. Go back to sleep.”

Afraid to even look at you, it takes all of his willpower to keep the contents of his stomach. But he can’t run from himself. No matter how many times he’s tried.

[mokishine]

Pull | Silent Hill 2

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"Confess. Repent. Suffer"

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mr may cry my gorgeous

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Home sweet home

I enjoyed doing this if you want to suggest more everyday scenarios for me to draw them 💕

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THE ART OF SILENT HILL 2 - James Sunderland Concept Art