#and i physically Could Not Cope with feeling ill all the time!!

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[mejomonster]

hate panic attacks think they’re possibly the worst experience inside

[imaginesig]

“Could someone give a message to the smallest man who ever lived”

pt2: "Ditch the clowns, get the crown / baby I'm the one to beat"

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

The reader is a singer-songwriter who just broke up with long term fiancé Lewis Hamilton. Of course she wrote a gut wrenching album to cope.

This is gonna be a lot of shitting on Lewis— absolutely no hate! I just love a good heartbreak and the Tortured Poets Department

Also dates aren’t accurate bc I don’t have time to worry abt all that and I totally stole all of this from real life- not an ounce of originality

yn_ln

Liked by lewishamilton, mercadesamgf1, user28, and 928,928 others

yn_ln: pinky promise to always by your side 🏎️

Tagged: lewishamilton

lewishamilton pinky promise to always be by YOUR side

yn_ln ♥️

mercadesamgf1 always a pleasure to host our pop princess!

yn_ln always a pleasure to be hosted!!

user1 looks always kill in the paddock

user2 ugh to be in the F1 paddock watching my driver fiancee on weekends I'n not touring

user3 stunning!!

user4 the pinky promise makes me physically ill😭

user5 fr WHEN WILL IT BE MY TURN

carmenmmundt gorgeous! Always a good time with you 🫶

yn_ln dinner soon?

carmenmmundt yes please!!

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lewishamilton

Liked by yn_ln, user2, mercadesamgf1, and 810,298 others

lewishamilton: could’ve been better but back to work for next week

Tagged: yn_ln

user1 being a Hamilton fan used to be fun, I used to be happy

user2 the second photo is so fanfic coded I can't

user3 omg yes!!

user4 maybe Ferrari will be championship #8

user5 hottest couple in the paddock

mercadesamgf1 watch out Australia 👊💥

yn_ln

Liked by lewishamilton, sabrinacarpender, user92, and 929,290 others

yn_ln: Argentina I’m so glad we were able to dance my best dress with you! Until next time 🫶🎇

tagged: no one

user1 BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE

user2 babe wake up a dancing Taylor post just dropped

sabrinacarpender such an electric crowd!!

yn_ln thank you for your hype work

lewishamilton: wonderful show once again!!

user3 best night ever

user4 AHHH STUNNING

user5 manifesting tickets so hard rn

lewishamilton posted a story

Caption: Help me hold on to you ♥️

ynupdates

Liked by user1, user5, user9, and 819,109 others

ynupdates: Superstar Y/n L/n and boyfriend Lewis Hamilton after her show in Argentina!!

tagged: lewishamilton, yn_ln

user1 LMAO the update account rlly said she's everything and he's just Ken

user2 the wine was iconic!!

user3 omg that's my photo!!

user4 we thank you for your service

user5 you know she was jumping with joy bc of those boots

user6 omg irl! I can't imagine how her feet feel after heels all show

user7 they are so sweet

user8 get yourself a man who takes you out after work

user9 my fav couple fr fr

Twitter—

yn_ln

liked by sabrinacarpender, carmenmmundt, user9, and 928,029 others

ln_yn: Round of applause for Brazil for their incredible rain show!!

tagged no one

user1 the first pic 😳

user2 chills, literal chills

user3 the entire vibes of the whole show was wow

user4 I agree and I was watching through a fuzzy live stream

user5 anybody else need illicit affairs (angry verson) on Spotify now

user6 me me me!!

user7 Y/n make it happen

user8 it kinda felt personal ngl

user9 best night ever!! I went as fearless in a gold dress and to say I danced in a storm in my “best dress” with Y/n was incredible!!

user10 omg that’s so lucky!!

yn_ln

liked by user92, sabrinacarpender, girlsinred, and 928,929 others

yn_ln: Thank you South America for welcoming me with open arms for this leg of the tour!! I will miss you all dearly over break but rest and relaxation is important for an awesome European leg!!

tagged: no one

user1 I’m gonna miss the fuzzy live streams 😭

user2 gets some rest Queen!!

user3 I can’t wait for the second leg!! Let’s go Europe🫶🫶

user4 it’s go time to get my Eras outfit

user8 I need ideas!!

user4 me and my boyfriend are going as Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince

user9 I’m dressing in a white dress with a small veil that says “fucked in the head” and messed up makeup bc champagne problems is one of my favs

user10 I love it!!

user5 anybody else sad Lewis wasn’t at these last few shows, nor was she at any races or seen near mercades home base

user6 they’ve been together for 6 years, I’m not worried abt them spending some time focused on their jobs without each other

user7 yea and they’re really private so I’m sure they’ll catch up plenty during her break

lewishamilton

liked by mercadesamgf1, user1, user8, and 928,292 others

lewishamilton: not the results we needed but that’s what growing is all about

tagged: no one

comments have been disabled

lewishamilton

liked by georgerussel, mercadesamgf1, user83, and 718,292 others

lewishamilton: that’s P2💪

tagged: no one

mercadesamgf1 that's our driver!!🏆

georgerussell congrats man! bloody good driving today

lewishamilton double point weekend

comments have been limited

Twitter—

yn_ln

liked by user4, user9, ynhq, and 918,918 others

yn_ln: All’s fair in love and poetry, April 4th

tagged: no one

comments have been limited

Twitter pre-album release—

Twitter post-album release—

yn_ln

liked by: user433, user94, user93, and 282,209 others

yn_ln: surprise!! "The Tortured Poets Department: Eros" out now!! This edition includes two new songs, "So High School" and "The Alchemy"

tagged: no one

comments have been disabled

[laurfilijames]

Wish You Were Here

Pairing: Will 'Ironhead' Miller x reader

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: Angst. Mentions of death and brief descriptions of war. Intimate flashbacks.

Summary: Sleep deprivation begins to take its toll on Will, leaving him distressed and emotional as he thinks about being back home with you.

A/N: This is sad and it hurt my heart to write but I needed to do it so I can go back to writing fluffy filth!

---

The numbers usually calmed him, gave him something sturdy and finite to focus on, but tonight they taunted him.

Each second that turned into a minute was a cruel reminder of all the ones he had spent awake, and no matter how exhausted he was and how physically ill he felt from the sleep he was being starved of, his mind and body refused it.

It had been days without more than a few minutes of rest at a time, only accumulating to a small number of hours that wasn’t enough to sustain anybody, and another wave of nausea set in as the effects of it all started to become too much.

It was moments like this that he missed you even more. The hurt in his heart turned physical, a relentless ache for you that the pains in his body couldn’t compare to.

Will sighed heavily, trying everything he could to cope with the insanity he felt over it, but it was growing to be unbearable, his limits tested like the few times they had before. He wondered as he took another deep inhale - his empty stomach filling with air - if he was waking anyone up in his distress, constantly shifting where he sat on the cold ground to try to feel even an ounce of comfort, his breathing louder than the wind howling around them, but it was stupid to think anyone else was able to slip into the solace of sleep at this point. No one was snoring and everyone was still, lacking the relaxed twitches that came when rest took control of your body, and he thought how the only members of their company who were resting peacefully were the ones going home to their families accompanied by a folded flag.

Home.

He blew out another shaky breath, closing his burning eyes so he was able to picture it in his tormented mind.

Your alarm would be about to go off, the early dawn still covering your bedroom in darkness right before the sun appeared to kiss your skin with its orange glow instead of his lips, your side of the bed cold as your body favoured his spot to be the one that was kept warm. You would no doubt have one of his t-shirts on and your head would be on his pillow, gripping it tightly as if it was him, trying to capture a bit of him that was left behind from the last time he was there with you.

Will found a little relief in these thoughts, knowing you were safe and out of harm's way, although he wasn’t naive enough to think you weren’t spending each moment worried and anxious for his safety.

Another inhale, slower this time, eyes still screwed shut as if the tighter he closed them the further he would be from this brutal reality.

He can hear the hum of the fan that sits on your dresser and is aimed at your bed, the sound ingrained in his mind from keeping both of you cool in the humidity night after night, and he can almost smell the scent of your heated skin, the familiarity of it making his mouth water, the desperation he feels to be able to hold you making him want to smile and scream all at once.

Fuck, he wished you were here.

Will flashed open his eyes. No. He couldn’t dream of placing you in this hell and exposing you to all the evil he had witnessed.

He shifted his legs, closing his eyes again as tears sprung up in them, the wet boots on his feet feeling more intolerable than usual.

Another inhale, then exhale.

He sighed again, imagining he’s back in your room, crawling into fresh sheets after showering, tangling his naked limbs with yours, your fingertips dancing up and down along his arm and back and softly over his face until his breathing continues to happen without him thinking about it and his mind is temporarily void of all he holds onto.

In the distance, the boom of an air raid sounds, rumbling and shaking the ground with a trembling force, bringing him out of his dream.

His muscles felt incredibly heavy, beyond tired and depleted of any strength, and he replaced the reasons why they were with how wonderful his body always felt after pouring every bit of energy he had into loving you, the satisfaction in expending all of his power into your pleasure comparable to nothing else.

A stray tear rolled down his cheek as his breathing grew quicker, thinking how he would do just about anything to be with you right now, even for the briefest of moments. Everything was more tolerable when he was with you, no demons too big to face, the strength you had admirable and extended over to him by simply being in your proximity. Sleep was something that never came easy to him, but at least when he was with you he was engulfed in a comforting embrace that gave him some rest and repose.

He brushed the wet away with his thumb, his heart clenching in his chest while his throat restricted, knowing if you were here you would kiss each tear away and sit quietly with him until his mind gave him some reprieve.

Will sunk his chin down into the collar of his jacket, rubbing his mouth back and forth on the material, the smell of sweat, rain and stale blood that he didn’t know was his or not filling his nostrils with a pungency he struggled to get used to.

A huff that bordered on being a laugh came from him, thinking how ironic it was that the night before he deployed he hadn’t slept either, choosing instead to spend every second he had making love to you over and over while the time was available to him, each time never enough, and he thought how he would sacrifice sleep for the rest of his life if it meant he could share nights like that with you again.

He licked his lips, trying to get some moisture onto them and rid them of the stinging, chapped feeling and then pressed them together, recalling how it felt to have them hydrated and wet from yours, imagining the sensation of your skin under them as he peppered countless kisses on your body, something he could only describe as being the closest he could ever get to heaven while he sat in the threshold of hell.

Will had vowed when he left that morning that he would never leave you again after this mission, and he would stay true to that promise, deeming it completely impossible to carry on like this while knowing everything he needed to live and survive was half the world away.

Until then, he would tick off every minute, hour and day, counting them down until he was holding you in his wearied arms again, and hoped he could at least pass some of them with sleep, the gravity of needing to be alert and focused in order to make it back to you sitting heavily on his shoulders.

He untucked his arms from across his chest, tugging up the sleeve on his left one to check his watch, feeling a little more hopeful that he was one hour closer to that goal.

---

Comments and reblogs are the lifeline of fanfic, so if you enjoyed reading this story, please consider sharing your thoughts with me and others! 💗

Taglist:

@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls

@littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90

@paintlavillered @casa-boiardi @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989

[ghostsvacuumcleaner]

Shades of Red

art in the cover by @ave661 and @shkretart !

chapter one | chapter two | ao3 | masterlist ✦ Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x civilian f! reader ✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you'll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won't. ✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn;

A/N: Hello girlies! This is the very first time I get the courage to actually post something I wrote. I've been reading y'all fics behind my screen for so much time now I figured I could start postingggg; so please be gentle with the feedbacks, but be also sincere ♥ also, English is not my first language and although I'm fluent, there might be a mistake or two along the way. Don't feel shy in pointing it out if you see any! Moreover, this will be a long ass one I'm pretty sure, but I might get myself some more courage to post my smut oneshots in some near future. Hope you enjoy! x

Chapter 1 - The Incident | 3.3k

There was ash in the air everywhere. That scenario didn’t frighten him – in fact, Ghost was absolutely sure that at that point in his life, almost nothing could fright him. He had seen much worse things before, he thought silently as he walked towards the building completely destroyed. There was debris everywhere – the building had not collapsed completely, but some parts did not survive the flames and now there seemed to be not even a little bit of life in that place. There were still small portions of flames spread through a few heaps of debris, a terrible smell of wood and burnt concrete; but nothing of that could be worse than the smells of dead, flattered human flesh that once or again invaded his nostrils.

His eyes rolled around in search of any record of life. In vain, he knew: there was no chance that any civilian had survived that. A cruel, dark bombing, a violent and destructive terrorist act. The only goal was to destroy any form of life that could inhabit there, and possibly it had been obtained without any further circumstances. When Price sent the radio search order to all members of the 141, he made it very clear that those efforts were in vain. They would find nothing. We lost today, he said. We could not foresee this, nor can we remedy it. It was a burden they had to cope with on a daily basis - the often inability to do something, to act, was a burden that a soldier should carry. It was part of the job.

Ghost pressed the point button in his ear. “Is anyone listening?” He asked, his eyes checking the entire perimeter of the building behind the skull mask that covered his face. “Have you found something, LT?” Soap answered, his voice hushed by the efforts. “No. I’m making an entrance, there’s nothing out here.” the lieutenant stated, kicking off a few remaining pieces of concrete from the front of his feet and laying the rifle in his hands. Ghost stood in front of the main entrance to the building – that place that should have looked like a reception at some point in the near past - and the movement of his boots against the ground caused the roof above his head to shake a little, and some ash particles fell onto his helmet. He observed the movement, standing still for a few seconds, only for warranty; he did not want to end up becoming one more of those burial victims. 

When the concrete whisper finally stopped stirring his ears, he entered. The lamp of his helmet lit up, and he looked around. His eagle eyes did not lose an inch of that entire perimeter, his ears attentive as those of a bat. He was looking for a sign, whatever it was: a presence, a scream, voices, calls for help. Anything. Anyone.

All he could hear were the sounds of the structure of the building, apparently ready to give in. Ghost tried to enter one of the apartments; his boots sole hit the semi-destroyed grinded surface of the door, and he broke in. He looked around. An enormous smashed chandelier rested violently against the bloody body of a child. 

Many people said Simon was the type of man to have no feelings anymore. That time, scars and trauma had taken from him all and every kind of humanity. He had become a soldier—one of the good, one of the invincible, but nothing aside from that. Nothing but a soldier.

Perhaps that sentence became so repetitive that at some point, he, himself began to believe it. His face remained motionless. The sound of the blood drops hanging on the floor filled his ears, and he snorted for a moment, pressing the point into his ear. “First floor, apartment 102,” he said, coordinating other operators to head to start collecting the bodies. 

His eyes went up to the ceiling, facing the huge blunt in the structure that caused the luster to fall. Maybe the parents' bodies were still there somewhere to be found, he thought. But that wasn’t his job, and unfortunately he didn’t have all the time in the world. He then traced his steps out of the apartment, looking around. As he kept going upstairs, the lantern lit up one hand or another thrown out of a pile of debris. Broken legs, the kinds of horrors that haunt the dreams of ordinary people. 

As Price had said and as he imagined to be fact, there were no survivors. Even when he reached the last floor, without any hope that he would find any movement that were not spasms of lifeless bodies, he tried. He tried to find someone, to do his job with all the mastery he could. His voice echoed through the entire floor, looking for anyone who could answer, but as expected, there was no response.

All that was left was the subsoil, the garage. When he came down the lobby again and found a portion of the staff dragging out some bodies, placing them in black bags, one of the doctors caught his attention. “Lieutenant. Have you finished checking around? Nothing up there?” The man asked, pulling his glasses from the tip of his nose. Ghost is negative. “No, nothing,” he said bluntly.

The doctor seemed to bite his own jaw with some strength, in disappointment. He has baffled. “You don’t even have to check down there. If those above didn’t survive...” he said, giving on his shoulders. Ghost watched him in silence for a few seconds, before finally answering, “Focus on your work, doc. I’ll finish my own.” He said in a nod before starting to push with his crude hands the stones that covered the entrance to the stairs that led to the garage.

His steps echoed. Ghost walked through the parking lot, passed pillar by pillar, checked every car. There were bursting pipes releasing hot steam, a gas leak as well he could tell – and he didn’t want to be there to see what would happen if some kind of ignition occurred. He hastened his steps. He took a deep breath; he was about to press his point and give up, claiming that there were no survivors, but a stifling sound interrupted his action. He looked around, looking for the source of the heavy breath and the little grumbling of pain he heard. His eyebrows cracked almost instantly and he turned around himself, looking around. All his senses were activated at that moment – he began to walk through among the few cars there, following the sound he had heard and then, a hand hitting the air dropped debris to the side of what seemed to be a body. He approached cautiously, throwing the light from his helmet’s lantern in the direction of the sound, and to his surprise, although not perceptible, there was the only survivor of the bombing: you.

A small, female frame shrunk from a pile of debris. Your hair was covered in ashes, your face - the dirty cheeks with the blackness of the material, your arms painted in the scarlet of your blood flowing freely to the ground, glass blades attached painfully to your soft skin. There was a cut down from the top of your forehead until the beginning of your left eyebrow. The completely messy strands of your hair fell against your face, opaque, bright. The expression of fear on your eyes turned into pure terror the moment they met his own, those small cold orbs inside the mask. You instinctively tried to move away from him, push your body away from those debris, away from that huge and frightening man.

When you threw your body to the side, all you could feel was your back against the cold floor, your left leg refused to work. You felt nauseous, stupid, your head turned. Your mouth trembled in a failed attempt to say something, the silence already lasted for seconds enough for you to fear his frame standing ever so tall and quiet. “Please don’t hurt me.” You managed to say, your voice engulfed in a cry that refused to go out. It wasn’t as if it was going to work; if he was one of the terrorists who caused this incident and really wanted to hurt you, then you were at his mercy and there was little you could do about it.

Maybe, if you were in a better mental and physical condition, you’d be able to identify that the rifle in the hands of the man in front of yourself was of a military model. That all his gear pointed out that he was an operator, someone willing to help. Your mind could not process all the necessary information about him at the given moment, although.

“I will not hurt you, lass.” He explained, and for a moment you felt your chest swell in air and it was hard to contain the immense desire to cry. The heavy steps of the man were made against your small, wounded body. He lowered himself, letting the rifle rest next to him quietly. You gulped in dry, still nervous with your eyes raised to his, now a little closer to you. He wasn’t looking at you — he was looking down, seeming to assess how hurt you were. “I’ll tell you what’s happening now. Okay?” He asked, slowly and calmly, his cold eyes now facing your own, visualizing your soul behind the cover of this hurt shell of yours. You stumbled, and he continued. “I’ll take that away from you, and I need you to help me helping you. Alright? You will be well. I just need you to hold your leg and when I push it over, you roll. Understood?” The man asked, his firm and deep voice being the first source of human contact you had since the lightning caused you to wipe out unconscious hours before. You came in for confirmation.

Ghost nodded back and raised his fingers, counting to three. Contrary to what you might have imagined, he didn’t need to do much to lift the huge concrete block that blocked his left leg from moving — he even had some ease in doing so. He held the concrete above his body, his arms backed over you, he sat down. “Roll.” he commanded, and you obeyed as you could. You leaned her hands on the ground and gave a boost; one of your hands instinctively went to the wounded leg, in an attempt to warm up the pain now felt by finally having released it from the rubble. You couldn’t hold a moan of pain, but he was quickly stifled by the sound of concrete hitting the ground when Ghost let it fall back.

You mentally begged that you could endure that. Your eyes were filled with tears, and a certain despair arose through your throat, your mouth. The anguish of finally feeling the unpleasant smell of the environment, the nervousness of realizing that very possibly, few other people survived that disaster, it was overwhelming your already troubled mind. 

Ghost didn’t lose a second in time; he finished positioning the rifle around his body and you felt his arms wrapping you by the waist and the folds of your knees, and he lifted it up with immense ease – it was as if you were featherweight. The gloves in his hands were rough against the sensitivity of your skin, but his touch was as cautious as possible. You could say without a doubt that this soldier of at least twice your height was doing his best not to hurt you any more than you’re already wounded.

“What is your name?” He finally asked, his rifle resting on his back, and you resting over his arms. He wasn’t looking at you – his eyes were fixed ahead, in the direction he was carrying you to, the exit. You answered, and he nodded in acknowledgement. “You can call me Ghost. I am a soldier, yes? We will take care of you.” He said in a clear tactical attempt to calm your nervousness down.

You sat down with your head. “Amelie Miller... Did you find her? My friend, she... did you find her?” You asked, your body trembled as you came to realize his eyes were now boring into yours.

He seemed to look for words that would not hurt you as much as the ones he had to say, but he for one, was not good with words or comforting.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered, in a sigh. “there are no more survivors. You were the only one.”

~ x ~

Your head hurt. Everything hurt; body, arms. There was a blanket around your shoulders and a bottle of water still sealed in your hands. The look in your eyes was empty, blurred; there were a lot of people there. Many doctors, many operators - soldiers like Ghost. One of them wore a mohican, the other had thick eyebrows. The captain was talking to them in an isolated corner, the doctors were talking to each other about your condition, about what should be done from now on. There were agents from the British intelligence surrounding the site, and there were about hundreds of black bags stretched on the floor, closed. You still felt pain, although the healings now prevented blood from flowing freely through your forehead as before. The glass pieces had been removed from your arms, your face was clean now and even so, you never felt so dirty in your entire life.

Every time you dare to blink, you could swear that you would faint. Your hands were getting weaker, loosening around the bottle. The sudden sound of the bottle falling to the ground caught the attention of one of the men there – the captain. As far as you could realize, he called himself something Price.

“Miss.” He said, coming closer to you. Suddenly, there were eyes on you from every angle possible; all of the other soldiers turned to the ambulance where you were sitting now. You slowly raised your face to look back at Price, and he continued. “I’m not going to ask if it’s okay, this question is rhetorical. You need to be hydrated.” He was bowing down in front of you, taking the bottle he dropped and opening it, offering it to you. Your eyes checked at the bottle for a few seconds and your trembling hand finally grabbed it, drinking until the last drop you could - all at once. You could feel your throat burning, your skin seemed to be in living flesh. The appearance of your wounds was not as unpleasant as the feeling of having them, but you knew that all that would leave you some ugly scars.

You could not care about it now – in fact, couldn’t care about anything at all. Your mind was empty and you never felt so apathetic in such a distressful situation. 

“What am I going to do now?” You asked, in a whisper, your eyes completely lost. “I—what am I going to do...?,” you repeated, and there was nothing but an absolute feeling of raw pain and loss in your voice right at that moment, for as much as you tried to hide it.

Price swelled his chest, and his lips compressed into a line. “You don’t have to worry about anything now. We’ll take care of everything,” he assured. “The government has a great defense program for disasters like this, you won’t be without a roof,” he finished, trying to calm you down. You closed your eyes and shaken your head, but you did not respond. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; what could be done besides trusting that everything would go well? Trust that they would have a plan for you, a shelter, doctors, a chance of living after you were supposed to die in such a horrific way?

You didn’t even know if you wanted all that. Didn’t even knew if you wanted to be the only survivor. Surely not: at that time, you would rather have died among the other more than a hundred people who were now in black bags scattered on the floor in front of you. You felt so much - you felt gratitude for their work, for saving you, but at the same time you couldn’t help but to feel like a fraud for surviving while other died. Others that, somewhat, deserved more than you to live. There was so much in your mind now, but little that you could really synthesize and make sense of.

You drowned your face between your hands, unable to cry, but wanting so deeply to hide from them, from those men, from doctors, from the press, from everything. Wanting to be away from everything, wanting to be dead for once.

A little further away, Ghost observed you. His broad arms crossed, his posture relentlessly perfect as always. His eyes looked at your gestures, scanned your body —all those wounds, poor girl, he thought. Although he was sure there was no more of a heart in his chest, he felt comprehensive towards your emotions. The horrors you had lived in such a short space of time, the unbearable consequences that that meant for your poor mind. The trauma. The pain.

He could not help but think that he saw a bit of himself in you. Not a bit of Ghost – a little bit of Simon. A little bit of the little Simon who felt an immeasurable strain in his chest, a void that could not be filled. 

When the doctors finally helped you to get up in the ambulance and sit on one of the available chairs, your face turned over your own shoulder and you found his eyes stuck to yours. It felt intimidating in some way; perhaps the way his confidence didn’t allow him to look away while you stared at him, or something in the way he seemed capable of reading right through you like a good book of his. He was a savior to you, and somehow it still seemed his persona was conflicting with the one of a savior. He was something else, perhaps still a benefactor, but somehow, a very dangerous man.

There was not a single feeling in his eyes, quite the opposite. There was pure coldness, and yours on the other hand carried some gratitude and ingratitude at the same time. You felt grateful that he had saved you, but at the same time, felt angry at him for not having let you die. You entered the ambulance, and your eyes continued to lock a gaze against his until the moment someone closed the car door from outside.

Ghost turned his eyes at last, and saw Price approaching.

“Fuck.” The captain whispered, laying his hands on his waist, looking at all the misfortune that the incident had caused to that place. “How many bodies?” He asked, looking at Simon with the corner of his eyes.

“A hundred and two so far.” Ghost answered quietly.

“And have you found the bodies of the sons of bitches who did this?” Price said with some disgust and hatred attached to his voice. Ghost assented positively, which made Price crack the dust almost instantly into a distressed expression.

“Motherfuckers.” He grunted, turning to the rest of the team. Soap, who had been remaining in silence for thorough all the search, dared to finally speak.

“We have a lot to report, hm?” He raised his eyebrows, and received a Price assent in response.

“To the headquarters." The captain ordered, making his way to the helicopter that awaited for them, and they left.

[crownmemes]

Ill & Injured Sentences, Vol. 2

(Sentences for muses that don't feel so great, and for muses trying to take care of another. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"How bad can it be?"

"Getting stabbed is very demotivating."

"Sorry to miss our meeting, but I was a little busy getting shot."

"I think you're suffering from post-traumatic stress."

"I believe I've got a bullet in my arm."

"Listen, you're making terrible decisions right now because you're not thinking clearly!"

"You were about to make a medical comment?"

"Whatever is causing this, I think it needs immediate attention."

"Hang in there. I'm not going to let you die."

"All things considered, being shot is not as bad as I always thought it might be."

"I have no desire to damage my brain."

"That's going to leave a nasty scar."

"I don't think you ever get over something like that. It becomes a part of who you are."

"Your hand was shaking. That's not nothing."

"You look like you've paid a visit to the Devil himself."

"You don't look so good."

"I thought for sure you were dead."

"You've stitched yourself up before, I take it?"

"At a time like this, curiously, you begin to think of the things you regret or the things you might miss."

"Do you have any idea what you've been through?"

"How are you coping?"

"Talking doesn't cure anything."

"Where did you get those cuts?"

"Say something reassuring?"

"I'm concerned why you came back to work three months early."

"Why are men such babies when they get sick or injured?"

"I wake up sometimes and I think to myself 'how the hell am I still alive'."

"I've got three separate medical reports that all state you're physically and mentally unfit to work."

"Are you crazy? I just pulled a bullet out of you!"

"I'm taking you to a hospital. No arguments."

"You need to lie down."

"Do you feel strong enough to move out?"

"When I woke up, I was covered in blood."

"Guess what? It seems as though I've been in some sort of accident!"

"The doctor says you have a mild concussion."

"Doing okay? We're almost there."

"I know I'm not well, but I'm alright."

"Is this as bad as it seems?"

"Just so you know, the doctor said that kissing will speedrun my recovery."

"What the hell are you playing at?"

"I am calling an ambulance for you!"

"Here, this should help with the swelling."

"If I could get up, I'd kick your ass."

"No doctor in his right mind is going to sign you out!"

"I am perfectly capable of walking on my own!"

[wheelsup30]

"Burn." Preview (Rossi!Unsub!Reader Chapter 1)

preview under the cut (word count: 750)

chapter cws: graphic descriptions of: murder, general physical harm other cws for: disturbing thoughts, grief, parental trauma, mental illness, unreliable narrator, canon divergent plot (in terms of Krystall Richards), reader is Krystall's son, male!reader

(Note: I will post a series cw list once the first chapter is done along with individual ones for each chapter. Also if you think I need to add any cws please feel free to comment and I'll get them added!)

moodboard

It got easier, the more he did it.

Whether it was his strength improving, or muscle memory, he wasn’t sure. But still here he is now, a year into this endeavour. The first time was an accident, he’d told himself, but deep down he knew it wasn’t. Deep down he’d craved for years to get revenge on the man who had ruined him- who had left him with no chance because he wasn’t the one he wanted. He shouldn’t have survived, so he was going to make his life hell in return. 

The grave he’d stood at was small, kept in a garden with other tiny plaques and memorial pebbles- anything that could fit a name and one date on it. 28 years. An older brother that he never met, and yet for all 25 of those 28 years he’d lived through, he’d been reminded that brother was everything he’d never be-

“Richards.” A voice ripped him from his thoughts, a bored and uninterested tone accompanying the tired look on his coworker’s face. He stares blankly, clearly there was a question he hadn’t heard, and was about to hear again. “I asked how your weekend was.” 

A shrug is the only answer she gets. Not that that was anything new, he wasn’t the talkative type, which was precisely why he worked on a tech team. Less people, less interaction, less annoyance. In the time it had taken him to raise and drop his shoulders, the woman across from him had started up her daily rant about her husband and how he refused to pull his weight around the house, how she hated him but not enough to leave him because of the kids. Richards scoffed slightly, earning a pause from the unhappy wife. Fathers were a constant thought in his mind, something he both despised and craved, like picking open the same wound over and over again till it scars so deep you’re changed forever. Not some pigmented reminder of the past, but a deep, ragged fissure that goes almost to bone. Something that can’t be hidden. That’s what his father had done to him, and he wasn’t even there. 

So was it better to lose a father who was useless when he was there? Or never have one and live knowing you aren’t wanted? Does it hurt less to look him in the eye when he chooses to take no responsibility? 

Well, he thought it was better to save those kids the trouble. It was better to watch the panic in their eyes, watch the pain and tears and hear their pleading, suddenly so ready to be a father now it was life or death. They’d thank him one day, he was sure of it, and one day he’d get to see that panic in the eyes of the man who made him this in the first place- who had written so many times of sons scorned by fathers that turned to pain and death to cope, not once thinking of the baby boy he’d abandoned before he even got the chance to live happily. This was his fault. Those men could’ve lived, those kids would have had a chance too, but he was selfish. How unfortunate, truly.

The rest of the work day drags disgustingly slowly until finally he’s in his car, scanning the lot to watch his coworker get into her shitty beat up minivan. The licence plate was scribbled on a note in his pocket, having taken it down this morning, all he’d have to do is send it to one of his…friends…and they’d get him her address with the right payment. Soon enough that worthless piece of shit she’d married would be gone. If she knew his plans, she’d thank him. That’s what he told himself. Every single time.

[xerith-42]

Stop blaming characters for bad writers

Seriously, stop fucking doing this. While this is a post that could certainly be applicable to MANY fandoms, I'm mainly directing this whole rant at my target audience which is mentally ill minecraft obsessed freaks.

If a character is written badly, gets badly fumbled by the creator, or has the ball dropped in regards to their arc in some way, a lot of people will blame the character, as if they're a real conscious person making these decisions. When they aren't. They're a block man literally being controlled by two people who just aren't very good writers and one or both of them are incredibly sexist, kind of racist, ableist, and just bad writers in general.

Yeah, Laurance does some pretty shitty things through out Season 2 of MCD, actively crossing lines he wouldn't have previously crossed. We as fans can cope by saying something something calling, or just saying Laurance is a bad abusive person, but the reality is that the writers wanted to force the series to fit a specific vision and as a result were willing to do anything to get the series to that point. In order to make Aaron the most favorable suitor for Aphmau, her previous suitors need to be out of the picture, or clearly inferior options.

Garroth suffered the out of the picture, being mostly absent outside of a few cutscenes here and there until episode 81 of season 2, but episode 81 is the culmination of the writers goals to make Aarmau happen. By the time Garroth has returned to the series, the damage has already been done. He's not getting the life he wants. And Laurance is written out of the picture as well, but only after being shown to be inferior because Jesson were pushing an agenda.

Laurance didn't deteriorate as a person due to neglect of his physical and mental well being after a severely traumatic experience. He deteriorated as a character because the writers stopped giving as much of a shit about him and instead were using the series as self indulgent fanfiction of alternate versions of themselves. That's not Laurance's fault.

And this applies to any character who was completely fumbled in MyStreet due to this similar focus on wish fulfillment from the writers. Jess has stated that the relationship between Aphmau and Aaron in Phoenix Drop High is reflective of her relationship with Jason, we all know this. This means that any characters who come off as total fucking creeps in that series (namely Gene), are not actually acting on the whims of their own autonomy or desires as characters. They are acting in service of telling a predetermined story that they are retroactively being added into for author fulfillment.

In this regard I fully support fandom cope and say that you should rewrite your little guys to your hearts content. But if you're going to criticize these characters for their actions, don't criticize them. They didn't do anything wrong. All characters are just puppets in service of the story or themes a writer is trying to push. If a character acts in an objectively terrible way, especially a way that isn't in line with their previous characterizations, that is a failing of the writers, not the character.

And I feel like largely a lot of us can and frequently do this. We're actively criticizing Jesson for being terrible low-key bigoted writers all the god damn time, it's like half of the content here. But when we get into character discourse I feel like some people cling onto bad actions of the canon too closely and I've seen more than a few posts presume some pretty terrible interpretations of characters based on these actions. Obviously Laurance is a character I and a lot of others are fixated on so a lot of discourse revolves around him, and it was seeing some... interesting takes on him that prompted me to start writing this post.

But this happens to everyone. Quite personally based on the character I was shown in MyStreet, it feels really weird that Garroth would make an insensitive comment about his brother's weight. Yeah siblings poke fun at each other and often cross lines, but if that was something Zane was seriously insecure about (which it seems like he might be) then it does make Garroth come off as a really insensitive brother, which just doesn't gel with how hard he tries to bond with Zane despite their tense relationship. And I don't think Garroth should be criticized for making those comments.

Whoever wrote those lines (Jess and/or Jason) should be criticized for writing a scene where a character is mocked by their older sibling over a physical insecurity even if said sibling would not normally do that. It's not Travis' fault that Jesson never decided to give him more of a character beyond "funny pervy guy" that's not funny in every anime they've watched until Season 5 of MyStreet. It's unfair to try and say Travis should be scrutinized for his borderline sexual harassment of some characters when it's not his fault that happened, he was written by writers who don't think this sort of behavior isn't all that bad if they make it out for comedy and punch him in the face.

And god dammit it's not Laurance's fault that his jealousy became the most prevalent emotion he felt. Laurance has always been a character to give into his vices and yet fight against them at the same time, it's what makes him compelling. If they were going to pull on those vices in order to make him a less appealing love interest, he never had a chance to really be his own character after a certain point. Because at a certain point in Season 2, Jesson stopped caring about the character they had been writing for over a hundred episodes at that point. They just wanted to canonize their self insert ship and were willing to do anything to get it.

Laurance isn't an abusive angry person who would have killed Aphmau if they got together. He's a flawed character being handled by incredibly flawed writers who are prone to making some of the worst decisions you have ever seen a creator make in regards to their character writing. He was caught in the crossfire of the adoration he received from a very dedicated fanbase, and the creator who would rather pretend he and his previous arc didn't exist for the sake of her fun. It's not Laurance's fault his arc was stilted, jerked around, and ultimately ended with him completely face planting. And yet still reliably dragging his bloodied body up at just the slightest glimmer of hope (Void Paradox).

It's deeply poetic and tragic that I can describe his character in universe and in the meta-textual sense that way, but we should never blame Laurance, or Aaron, or any other characters for things being like this.

They didn't write the show. Jess and Jason did.

[kerubimcrepin]

Liveblog - Dofus, livre 1 : Julith [PART 11]

As I've mentioned, Kerubim and Julith have Beef.

As far as she is concerned, whether he was behind her framing (he wasn't) he is one of the people to blame. He defeated her that fateful day, and then she never saw her son again.

I've already went into detail, on the way "killing" her has affected him, (A mixture of horror and duty. Killing a mother and making a child an orphan for the sake of a city. Being grateful for her dying because it made him a father instead. Feeling awful for that thought.) but it is interesting, how he reacted to her turning out to be alive, when he killed her with his own hands.

Seething. Perhaps even coping.

This is chichala, which we had seen. I suppose he uses it to buff himself up before the boss fight. Drinking alcohol before a fight is very much RPG logic.

Sadly, there are no interesting buffs to it in-game:

I think a lot about the way Kerubim, Joris, and Atcham would be characterized in video game logic, by the way. I still have no working theory of how the hell their fighting styles would synergize. Would Joris be their buffer/debuffer? Their glass canon? Both? And do any of them take ranged weapons on missions...?

They probably do. It'd be kinda dumb not to. Personally, I like to imagine that Atcham would be the one using those, most of the time. He has that "skyrim stealth archer" vibe to him. (Though they're all melee users, through and through.)

Despite how smug he is at a couple of moments, he really was struggling during this fight.

My honest reaction whenever Kerubim does this fucking face is just:

This is very much a "deeply mentally ill adoptive father (who inadvertently ruined his child's life by adopting them to atone for his sins + because he was abused as a child) fighting through an army for his child before dying in their arms and saying they're the only good thing he ever had" look for him.

Another reason that one has to support both women's rights and wrongs when talking about Julith, is that, like.,.. what was she playing at, here? There are two possibilities:

That she would destroy whoever has the dragon's soul and set it free, giving her an advantage.

That Kerubim would shield that person.

Either one is good. :)

Either way she was perfectly willing to risk/attempt blowing up a random, innocent person, who was hiding from her.

My personal headcanon is that while Julith is physically stronger than Kerubim, she lost ten years prior because she couldn't stop thinking about The Baby. Where were they taking Joris? Did Bakara leave with him? Is Joris alright? Didn't Jahash give him to this cat man, who was now trying to kill her? What the fuck is going on, who did this, why, why, why?

I imagine seeing him lose for the exact same reason brings her great pleasure.

the nonbinary slay here was insane

Guys I think this might be bad for Joris's long term mental stability.

On a more serious note, I think there should be more content about Joris fucking hating Julith. During the movie? There's too much going on to work out what he feels.

But after? He has all the time in the world to hate her for everything she did.

I do think that he probably grew up and found whoever framed her to take revenge on/to get justice. But hating her, and wanting to clear her name of the crimes she DIDN'T commit so she could have some peace in death, so that people would stop smearing her name, — are two things that can coexist.

Like to slap his bald scaly head, reblog to slap his bald scaly head.

Kerubim never changed his stupid ass baka "George George the Farmer Farmer" name.

Though we've been knew.

BAD. I DON'T LIKE THIS.

AND she recognizes him by the blue eyes. AND, this implies that, for the entirety of the Dofus show, — and the entirety of Wakfu as well, since he, once again, has yellow eyes there, — he had dragon eyes.

Imagine being Simone, waking up at 3am, realizing because you forgot something in Joris and Kerubim's bedroom, sneaking in, and seeing this.

It also raises some questions about adult Joris, because we know he no longer has Grougalorasalar in him. The easiest explanation is that he spent so much time with the dragon, that after their final separation, his eyes couldn't change anymore.

After all, — the changes the dragon made to his height/skin/hair are permanent. It would make sense that, with time, even his eyes would be permanently altered.

I don't think it's a sad thing, by the way. Imagine going your whole life with beautiful brown eyes that look a bit like your adoptive father's. Then imagine suddenly having blue eyes (scary) and that they're your Dead Father's Who You Never Met but whom everyone misses. Like which pair of eyes would you choose? Because I think there IS a right answer to this riddle.

I think Julith has convinced herself that whoever took her and Jahash out wouldn't want loose ends, and that Joris was taken out as well, or something. Maybe that's why he wasn't really on her mind.

Mind you, this is a tinfoil hat headcanon.

This is so beautiful, to me... She was so emotionally stricken by seeing him again as his mother, that his father, who was both fatally wounded and stricken by seeing her perform deeply painful dark rituals on his son after traumatizing him, could land one last hit on her to save said son.

Julith has been a mother for a grand total of a few days to a month, while Kerubim has been for 10 years. Of course, her first concern is getting surprised it's him, and not that she hurt him. Because she couldn't even dream that she'd ever see him again.

There's a tragedy in that. She never even had a chance to learn how to be his mother, or who he is as a person, — she was the mother of an infant. Her love for him is far more theoretical than Kerubim's.

It's a love for Joris not as a person, but as a lost opportunity.

So she has no regrets about hurting him, — and she will hurt him as many times as it takes, if that's what it takes to get back her family.

[keischreiber]

Welcome Home

Reiner x Reader Genre: Angst TW: Depression | Guilt | Self-loathing

Just because the Rumbling is over, does it mean that Reiner's trauma goes away?

Of course it doesn't. He could be coping because people are more accepting now, but I can imagine how panic attacks plague him when he least expects it.

How when anxiety hits, it hits him hard. Part of him, feels like he's getting better… but the majority of him still believes that there's no getting better from who he was. Regardless of being one of the Peace Ambassadors, he still believed himself to be less than that.

"What a joke," He'd tell himself at times, wondering how he landed this role after all the things that he had done.

He was part of the crew who saved the world, but more than that, he was the perpetrator and instigator of war. Even now, he still thinks back to it… to when he forced Annie and Bertholdt to go along with his selfishness. Maybe if he hadn't been so desperate, something might have changed. Maybe the road to something this peaceful wouldn't have been stunted. Maybe things would have been better had someone else inherited the Armor if he had just gone back home when Annie said they should have.

Maybe Porco would have been the better choice…

… after all, it was always supposed to be Porco, right? Marcel revealed the truth. Not a day had passed since the thought didn't enter his head.

Bottom of the pack. Loser. Talentless. Liar. Psychopath.

— Murderer

He could go on and on about it; the many reasons why he didn't deserve to be who he was today.

Stolen so many lives, so many dreams, so many futures… so much, so much, so much so that he wanted to vomit every time he remembers it.

But when all was said and done, he still accepts this role. People were starting to forget his crimes, he was being regarded as one of the heroes who stopped the Rumbling. He smiled at them, at the capacity that he could. When he came back home, he was treated the same way. He was recognized and was regarded with respect, much like any hero would.

For those that couldn't, he never blamed them.

He was, after all, not blameless.

During this time, Reiner had purchased a house of his own. He had invited his mother to live with him, but she had opted to stay with her sister to allow him some freedom in case he wished to start a family of his own.

It had been some time since Karina had told him the truth. He held no ill-regard for her, after all, he wasn't that stupid to see the reality of everything. It had taken him quite some time to accept it; the time in Paradis helping, so digesting how she had used him for her own agendas… well, it got easier over time.

"I know," He remembered himself telling her; watching as his mother cried her apologies… saying how nothing she did now could ever make up for what she had done to him. Reiner never blamed her for anything, believing that part of her simply wanted their family to be reunited.

He wanted to keep it at that, after all, when it came to these matters, even he could be selfish.

Still, coming home to his own house was always a nightmare.

He didn't know what you continue to see in him, but he was always happy to know that you were there. That, despite everything, you had chosen to share a life with him. It meant days or months apart, but you were always so patient with him. Sometimes, he was concerned when you don't ask him for anything. No flowers, no souvenirs from Paradis, no nothing.

"Come back home safe," He would remember you say, and that was that. Sometimes, he wondered why the only thing you asked for was the hardest one to give. When you tell him to return safely, it wasn't just physically. When you tell him to return home safely, it meant with a sound mind intact. It meant with a little more forgiveness for himself. It meant, with a little more kindness to himself that he hardly ever afforded.

When you tell him to come back, he's always afraid that he's going to fail those expectations. That he'll come back an even bigger mess than when he left.

And the worse part of it all was…

"I'm home."

… was coming home to an empty house that greeted him with nothing but silence.

Today was one of those days.

One of the days when the silence haunted him in the same way that his past did.

Reiner dropped the suitcase that he carried, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Frantically he went from one room to the next, looking for any signs of life. Everything was clean, as if no one had been here for quite a while.

He didn't know if it was just his imagination, or if it was because he had been gone for far too long.

Many things plagued his mind. He was always away, not by choice… but he couldn't use that as an excuse. Even if he said he wanted to be around more, and no matter how patient you were… it was only a matter of time before you got fed up with him and his absence.

Fed up with him and his issues.

"Of course you'd leave… why would you stay with someone like me?" He asked, his body trembling. His lips curving itself to defeat as he ruffled his blonde hair unkempt.

He wanted to cry, knowing that this was his fault in the first place. He knew that he shouldn't be complaining or expecting too much. He knew that this was how it'd be; how it should be. But now that you weren't here, why did it hurt? Why did he want things to be different? Why did he want you there with him, along with the patience that you often showed; along with the kindness that you always ALWAYS showered him with.

For a moment, his eyes darkened, his demons consuming him once again. Until,

"Reiner, you're ho—me— R-reiner?"

… until he heard your voice. In an instant his head snapped to attention, seeing you by the door. He couldn't see anything but you; his strides fast and long. Before you knew it the bag of groceries that you held in your arms was replaced by his trembling frame.

It was tight.

The way he held you was suffocating, and you would have complained had you not heard his sobbing. You could feel it, his tears streaming down his face and onto your scalp as he began to cry against your hair. He buried himself there, and by the second, he simply continued to let it all out. You could hear him mumbling over and over: "You're here, you're here," as if those were the only words he knew.

Your eyes glossed over, you always felt like crying with him when he was like this.

"I missed you so much." Your voice was soft as you whispered. You don't know if he'll ever completely come to believe you... but regardless, you tell this to him every time he returns.

For now, you kept him close, letting him cry.

You pushed the door to a close with your foot, so that the both of you could simply be together in the privacy of each other's arms.

"Welcome home, Reiner."

[roseapprentice]

Look At It, It's Got Depression

Content Warnings: depression, ed, suicidal reasoning, ideas that could prod you toward fascism or the murder-y kind of socialism if you aren't thinking critically

I feel steadily more sure that depression evolved as a strategy to cope with times of famine & plague.

Source: I have depression and I've thought about this too much

Hear me out: What caused most premature deaths for most of history? Infectious disease. When did infections kill the most people? While we were starvation-weak.

We think of evolution as a process that refines survival skills, and that's mostly right. But the drive of natural selection is more precisely, "Make sure something with similar genes exists in the future." And our standard for similarity can get wonky.

Humans' top priority is usually offspring, and next up is a messy mashup of ourselves and whichever other humans we know and like best.

So imagine we're a group of early humans, trying to keep our loved ones alive in hungry plague times. What strategies will help? Eat rarely to keep food available. Scarf down calorie-dense food before it spoils, especially if there's a lot or there's no one around to share with. Be lethargic & pessimistic about adventures to conserve calories.

If we feel extra bad, shun the people we love for their protection. Distrust the outgroup because they're here to either spread disease or take our food. Reconcile ourselves to thoughts of death in case wandering off to die with our contagion/empty stomach becomes the best shot at survival for our friends.

What cues could our bodies rely on to trigger this response? Lack of plant life in our surroundings. Worrying mainly about how to manage limited resources. Lack of exercise because there's no food to hunt & gather. Shortage of contact with other humans because the ones that rely on us most are already dead or deathly ill.

If you're a human living in the 21st century, these cues are probably sounding awfully familiar.

Of course the strategies are useless now. Advances like motor equipment & modern fertilizer turned starvation into a purely political phenomenon; quietly fading away doesn't help your people survive politicial oppression. Cross-cultural cooperation gets more feasible and necessary with just about every new technology. Physical isolation can still block disease sometimes, but a lack of social support does the opposite. It's now possible to isolate with tools & careful timing instead of instinctive exile; and anyway medicine & sanitation have made that need a lot rarer.

If I'm right about the cause, modern human life contains a wild excess of depression triggers and a stark lack of uses for depression. It's an outmoded strategy with a stuck "on" button.

I've never seen scientific literature bring up this hypothesis (though it has to be out there somewhere). But here's why I want to tell people about my weird pet theory despite my having no research behind it:

In the worst part of my depression, I came across a post that helped me hugely. It said, "Depression is when your body wants to die but your heart wants to live."

I didn't feel at all like my heart wanted to live, but the words hit so hard that I started to wonder if it was true somewhere deep down under all the numb misery.

Any moments when I did want to live just fed directly into my desire to die; the wanting hurt so much that making it stop felt like the ultimate priority. The force of my survival instinct was twisting back on itself as if my brain was caught in some weird paper finger trap of death.

This illness was vast and insidious and frustrating and pointless.

But if depression is an adaptive trait, then my experience makes sense. My body is intermittently trying to incapacitate, starve, or kill me in order to protect the people I love. (In some cases that includes incapacitating/starving me short-term to provide for my long-term survival.)

That's a depression I can accept and outmaneuver.

I can say, "Yes, I want to protect us/them too! These people are my heart, and I want my heart to live. Thank you for also wanting that. But your methods stink."

Then I can use all possible cunning to remind my body that my presence is a blessing to my loved ones, that adventures can yeild satisfying rewards, and that there is more than enough food around for all of us to thrive if only some jerks weren't holding it hostage.

When I've laid out this idea in the past to other people with depression, they tend to eventually find it intuitive and empowering in a similar way. (Or else they start humoring me 😛)

So here's me offering it up to the internet in general to see what y'all make of it.

Final note: for the gazillionth time I'm linking to the interactive self-care website, You Feel Like Shit. I find it's an effective tool for precisely resisting this intricate self-sabatage contingency that's been stupidly built into my stupidly overcomplicated brain by stupid evolution.

(At least I think that's what happened)

[cosmicjoke]

Is Yashiro’s sexuality innate or his another coping mechanism with trauma, as if the trauma was too early (before he knew what affection was) and too severe that his brain restructures itself to survive? If he had never been raped, would he be heterosexual?

That's kind of an impossible question to answer, I think.

Yashiro's trauma runs incredibly deep, and the abuse he suffered as a child undoubtedly warped his understanding of his own, sexual proclivities. I think there's no question that Yashiro's perception of himself as a masochist is a result of the abuse he endured, and doesn't actually reflect on his genuine sexual desires. I don't think Yashiro is a masochist at all, or a sadist, but he convinced himself he was both of those things as a means of coping with his trauma. If he could frame it in his mind that he caused the abuse in some way, and wanted the abuse, then he wouldn't have to face up to his victimization. If he could convince himself he chose to be abused, he wouldn't have to deal with how powerless he's been his entire life. That's why, when we first meet Yashiro, he's so promiscuous, why he sleeps around and seeks out men who will mistreat him, because in his mind, each time that happens, it reaffirms this self-image he's built up of himself as being the instigator of that abuse, and so then, he can believe he's not actually a victim.

But of course, Yashiro is a victim. He's always been a victim. First of his stepfather, and then, later, of the men who willingly took advantage of him and his mental illness. Yashiro's sexual encounters, even as he gave his verbal consent, have always been, at best, dubious, because a man suffering from the types of mental issues Yashiro is suffering from isn't really capable of consenting, imo.

I'm not even entirely convinced that Yashiro likes sex at all, from men or women. He doesn't like rough sex, despite convincing himself for years that he does, (I think one of the most powerful moments showing us this is the first time Inami rapes him, and Inami blithely comments to Doumeki about how Yashiro "passed out" when it got too rough, and how he isn't a true masochist), and while he responds to gentle sex, it simultaneously makes him feel physically ill, and that's all bound up, I think, in the fact that his stepfather, while sexually abusing him, would tell him he was really a woman. I think Yashiro is so repulsed by gentle treatment during sex because it reminds him of what his stepfather said, and in turn, reminds him of what his stepfather did. It brings the memories of that abuse to the forefront of Yashiro's mind, and it makes him sick when that happens. And I think Yashiro's deep fear in acknowledging that his body responds to gentle sex, and his inability to admit he wants and enjoys it, is because he thinks to do so would be to affirm his stepfathers words. Yashiro believes that women want gentle sex, and that its the proper way to treat women while having sex with them. Therefor, acknowledging his own body's response to gentle sex is, in a way, an acceptance of his stepfather's claims, that he's really a woman, and that in turn is an acknowledgment of the power his stepfather had, and continues to have, over him. It's an affirmation of Yashiro's own lack of agency and of his victimhood. A reminder of how he's never been allowed to choose or be anything for himself.

So the reason Yashiro throws himself into abusive sexual encounters with men, and the reason he convinced himself for so long that that was what he wanted, is because if he could believe that, then it would fly directly in the face of what his stepfather claimed, and prove his stepfather wrong. Yashiro could claim unequivocally to be a man because he liked to be treated roughly and cruelly by other men. It was a way for Yashiro to release himself from his stepfathers hold over him, and, again, a way to deny his victimhood.

What I think Yashiro really wants is to be treated kindly. I think he's turned on by kind treatment. But that doesn't necessarily involve actual sex, as in, sexual intercourse. He wants to be held and touched with soft and gentle hands. He wants to be kissed passionately. He wants to lay his head in Doumeki's lap and feel Doumeki run his hands through his hair. The sexual intercourse element of that still makes Yashiro feel unwell and induces a sense of panic in him. Maybe he can condition himself not to feel that way during sex. But maybe he can't. And if he can't, then the healthiest option for Yashiro would probably be not to have sex at all.

The question of Yashiro's sexuality in relation to his abuse maybe doesn't matter so much, then. Yashiro might very well be asexual. And maybe the abuse Yashiro suffered made him that way, and maybe it didn't. But I think, more than anything, Yashiro just wants somebody who's kind to him, somebody who treats him like an actual human being, and the only person who's ever treated him that way is Doumeki, and Doumeki just happens to be a man.

[toki-is-the-king]

Toki Mental Health Headcanons:

(No hate please, you can disagree with me on this it’s just a headcanon I have + our Toki has autism so it makes sense to us).

-Toki most likely has autism but it’s undiagnosed because he was so neglected as a child; he never went to the Dr for anything, not even when he’d get fevers so bad he hallucinated. His parents didn’t care and also didn’t believe in going to the dr as it went against their religious beliefs; only God could heal. Often times when Toki was displaying signs of autism along with being physically ill all the time from abuse and neglect, his parents just locked him in the punishment hole for even longer, saying he needed to resist the devil or that Toki was disobeying God and was being punished by evil spirits. Toki has a highly stressful response anytime he’s sick now but does nothing much about it. And now he sees no point in going to the Dr, let alone a therapist or psychiatrist. The only times he really goes to the dr for check ups are when Charles forces he and the other guys or if his diabetes gets out of whack. Sometimes he still tells himself he has to ‘pray away’ his mental or physical afflictions due to his parents strict teachings, but it doesn’t work and he sometimes worries he’s actually possessed or evil. It hurts him so badly inside. He still doesn’t understand why they insisted he was evil, he still loved them but was terrified of them.

-That being said because he doesn’t have his ptsd or autism diagnosed or even know he has it, it just lingers for years and Toki doesn’t understand why he always feels so different from everyone else. And why people think his interests are childish and dumb or why he has meltdowns when somethings overstimulates him like the time he ‘accidentally’ might’ve murdered that dude at the Snakes N Barrels concert. He knows he’s fucked up but he lies to himself that he’s okay because that’s what he always had to do. Never having anyone to comfort him expect his straw clown doll and his imagination, he often regresses to a younger age to cope with his trauma and overall stress. He has panic attacks frequently too as well as nightmares and had social anxiety when he was a teenager. He beats himself up a lot, feeling the most fucked up out of everyone and having undiagnosed autism just makes him feel like he can’t even handle life. He talks to Skwisgaar about his internal struggles, knowing that even if all Skwisgaar does is nod and make brief eye contact, seeming half distracted with his guitar practicing, that he does care. Skwisgaar has his own personal issues and an ego, but he really does care about Toki and the two have a very close bond.

“Why’s Toki gotta have so many stupid problems things…”

-Toki doesn’t ever end up getting diagnosed, his distrust of the American medical system is part of it, also he’s just anxious about Dr’s in general, but he’s learned to self soothe and calm himself down over time. He enjoys having quiet time alone, focusing on a project, like building model airplanes or coloring, he likes to keep his hands busy so his mind has something to focus on. sometimes he just sits alone on his bed and hugs himself tightly or rocks himself until he calms down. Deddybear always brings him some relief.

-When nothing else works sometimes Toki gets explosive bursts of anger and destroys things, but he doesn’t have to be angry to break shit, it’s fun to break shit. Like lamps! Sometimes Skwisgaar or Pickles find him sobbing with bloody knuckles outside after fist fighting a tree or breaking random shit in the yard. Pickles always takes a brother like approach and brings Toki inside to bandage his hands, while Skwisgaar just takes Toki by the arm silently and walks him to his bathroom. He awkwardly helps Toki clean himself up and doesn’t say much. He lets Toki cuddle with him afterwards and it always helps Toki calm down.

-While some people with autism dislike being touched as it over stimulates them, Toki is the opposite. He always feels under stimulated. It could be because he was isolated for so long that now he can’t handle being alone for extended periods of time. He always wants physical contact with those he cares about. It’s hard being in Dethklok sometimes because none of the guys are affectionate towards each other and none are very touchy unless it’s with a woman. It makes Toki sad because he wants hugs all the time or to hold hands or play with someone’s fingers while sitting together on the couch. It’s all platonic (except with Skwisgaar, they’re more than friends but it’s complicated). Toki needs constant stimulation or else he’s anxious, bored, or fidgety. Being neglected made him even more clingy and now if anyone shows him an ounce of affection he is overjoyed and doesn’t want it to end. He loves long tight hugs and snuggling close to someone, glued to their side. Over the years Skwisgaar has eased up a bit and lets Toki cuddle him or hug him, they hold hands a lot when the guys aren’t around. Skwisgaar likes to play with Toki’s hair and it makes Toki the happiest guy on earth. He loves the smell of Skwisgaar’s hair and always presses his nose against his head when the cuddle.

Feel free to share any other Toki headcanons!

[leeknowsintrusivethots]

Marked By Him

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

Pairings: Vampire!Lee Know/OC

Summary: Vampyres dominate the entertainment world with their otherworldly beauty and talent. It's a world you must be born into, but a few lucky ones are Marked. Stripped from her home and everything she knows, Minji's Marking means that she has to rely on the Devil himself, Lee Minho, to be her mentor. He's cute and sweet to the public, but behind closed doors the monster comes out to play.

Content: Angst, Slow burn, lotsa plot, eventual smut, vampires, dark themes, original characters, first person perspective, general 18+ content, alternate idol universe, asshole Lee Know, surprise love triangle, discussion of blood, discussions of death, discussion of illness, discussion and debate of fictional religions,

WC: 3848

Minors do not interact. Do not repost my content to other websites, this includes translations.

Notes: Random fun fact: fruit flies live an average of two months and I am prone to exaggeration.

Uncertainty. 

Dread. 

Abject horror. 

All of these could describe my feelings as my third meeting with Minho loomed near. I went through the motions: dance practice every night along with vocal lessons and days spent at the dorms with Maeri and Yoojin. The adjustment was hard, sometimes brutal, but I was coping the best I could.

Learning and absorbing information had always come easy to me, but dancing and singing were more physical than technical. Reading up on music theory and proper technique could only take you so far, and I was miles behind the other trainees in terms of skill and ability. Thankfully, Maeri was always happy to coach me through difficult dance moves and concepts while Yoojin politely helped me not sound like a dying animal in our vocal sessions. The vocal instructor still visibly cringed whenever I sang and I still tripped over my own feet during dance practice but it had only been two days. I was hoping progress would happen in time. 

During the wee hours of the morning when the dorm was silent, I studied 'Marked.' I quietly read by the light of a dim book lamp so as not to disturb my sleeping roommates, and I soaked in the knowledge like a sponge and took notes in my notebook like I was back in highschool all over again. I had already decided I couldn't rely on Minho to be my guide into Vampyrism, so the book was all I had and I intended to use it. 

Chapter Two was a detailed account of the earliest known history of Vampyres, and I found myself absorbed. It covered a lot of events that were not readily available public knowledge, including the First Coven: a group of ancient Egyptian Vampyres that banded together to create the first official Vampyric governing body. The First Coven would grow and shift over the years into the High Vampyre Association that was prominent in the modern day. Most of the Association could trace their ancestry back to the founders of the First Coven and a lot of the core ideology was still present even if adapted for the current times. 

There were ups and downs over the centuries as the First Coven grew in influence and power, spreading well across the world and overtaking smaller covens as they went. It was filled with battles of politics and principles. At times, it was bloody as beliefs grew and changed and opposition rose to contest the power structure. The First Coven always reigned victorious even as the humans around them were ignorant to the Vampyres they shared the world with and the battles raging right under their noses. 

I devoured the stories, the concepts of liberation from the darkness and cooperation with humans very much present in all of them. It was fascinating and far more than was shared with the general population. I was so intrigued that by the night of my next meeting with Minho, I had read well past my assigned chapter. 

Time management had never been my strong suit and I realized with a start as I glanced up from the pages of the book that it was just a couple of hours till sunset. I hadn't slept but my new world was set to wake up the second the sky turned orange and the sun sank into the horizon. Being a creature of the night was a hard adjustment when you had spent a lifetime in the sun and my sleeping patterns had been torn up and tossed into the trash along with my humanity. My week as a trainee had seen me living off caffeine and cat naps in-between practices and it seemed as if the upcoming night would be no different. 

I glanced away from the clock and back to the book in my hand wistfully. The upcoming chapter would cover the medieval period from the perspective of Vampyres and I was excited to get into it. The time period was a favorite of mine, and I knew it would be even more entertaining through the lens of a Vampyre. From what I recalled of my limited Vampyre history, it was also the time where Marks were first made known to the Coven. They (we?) we're unknown until the Tudor Era of Europe. 

Despite my interest, I forced myself to close the book and set it on my nightstand. I settled back into the sheets of my bed and closed my eyes. I would only get a few hours of rest, but it would be much needed when it came the physical torture that was dance practice and the emotional thriller that was Lee Minho. 

It felt like the second my eyes closed, I was being shaken by a hurried hand. My eyes cracked open groggily to find Maeri's smiling face. Her hair was already styled straight and hanging loose around her chin. She was dressed and ready for practice. 

"Get up, Nerd. We leave in twenty," she informed me perkily. 

My body protested as I got out of the haven that was my bed. I got dressed hurriedly, throwing on a pair of sweats and an oversized band shirt over my sports bra. Too tired to bother with hair, I pulled the messy mop into a tie on top of my head. It took all of a few minutes and when I was done I headed to join Yoojin and Maeri in the common room. 

Our dorm contained multiple rooms, and we shared our common area with other trainees. They milled about, also getting ready for the day while awaiting their own transportation to reach their schedules. I hadn't interacted with them much but it wasn't really of my own choosing. I was a bug waiting to be squished or a novelty with no in-between and even living with them had not changed that mindset if the brief glares thrown in my direction were any indication. I ignored the looks as I had been doing so since my arrival and focused on my roommates. 

"Are you… ready?" Maeri asked as she looked at me with a curious confusion evident in her features. 

"Yes?" I answered back with a question. My body was up and moving, but my brain hadn't fully accepted that it needed to wake up as well. I glanced down at my choice of clothing, thinking maybe I had managed to put my pants on inside out in my sleepy haste. 

"You have your meeting with Minho today, right?" Maeri prodded. At the mention of my mentor, my brain woke up enough for the dread to seep back in. Our last meetings had erred on the short side, and I hoped that the upcoming one would as well if only for the sake of my sanity. 

"Yes," I answered after a moment's hesitation. "I have my books in my bag. I-"

"At least wear a cuter top, and brush your hair," Maeri interrupted in exasperation. 

"Put more delicately, she's implying you might want to put in an effort to look presentable for your meeting," Yoojin took over before things got out of hand. She had a tendency to do that. Even her voice alone seemed to calm those around her. 

"Why on Earth would I want to do that? It's not a date," I argued back, giving Maeri a withering side eye in the process. 

"No…" Maeri said in a singsong voice. She was smiling at me now, the cuteness washing away my irritation just as quickly as she caused it. "But I've seen some of the things you brought from home. Including photocards, stickers stuck to your laptop, and blah blah blah. Fairly certain I even saw a poster you haven't unpacked yet. You're a fangirl and no proper fangirl would waste such an opportunity. I wouldn't if I had the prospect of regular meetings with BamBam."

"A friend gave all that to me," I tried to deny. I really didn't want to get into the argument of how he was so much different in person than the image of him I thought I had known, and I definitely didn't want to get into how I still found him to be disgustingly beautiful despite his dual personality. 

"Sure," Maeri tsked. 

"It's true! I'm much more of a Bangchan kind of girl," I argued halfheartedly. 

"Regardless, Minho is an idol - a fairly prominent one. It would do you well to leave a good impression," Yoojin said with an air to her voice that strangely reminded me of my mother when she was giving me life advice. At the comparison, my arguments melted and my shoulders sunk. I turned without another word and went back to our shared room to change and primp. 

I quickly brushed my hair and pulled it back up into a ponytail. I let my bangs hang loose with the shorter fringe that framed my face. It was still messy, but with intent and style this time around. The band shirt I switched out for a nicer more form fitting one. In a small effort to feign nonchalance, I picked an old GOT7 shirt with Jackson Wang's face displayed front and center. I contemplated changing out my tried and true baggy sweatpants for shorts but thought better of it. Clothes could be armor, and I needed all the armor I could get when handling Lee Minho. 

To make my lovely roommates happy, I also swiped on a bit of concealer in key spots and put on a layer of mascara. To complete my low effort look, I topped it off with a small amount of clear bubblegum scented lip gloss. I wouldn't be walking a runway anytime soon, but at least I looked more humanoid than before. 

I headed back out to Maeri and Yoojin to present my efforts and get on with the day. At my reappearance, I could have sworn Maeri's eye twitched but she held her tongue. Yoojin gave a soft smile with a small shake of her head. 

"Remind me to take you shopping for some proper workout clothes," she said, not unkindly. Coming from other people, I might have taken her offer as an insult but I had quickly learned Yoojin was simply the type to care for people. She had an almost motherly aura which was mildly strange for a young Vampyre but it was still comforting. 

"As long as that offer comes with food, I am game," I agreed cheekily. 

"If food is involved, I am inviting myself along. Besides, Minji needs all the help she can get," Maeri chimed in. 

"You're ganna need help in a-" my threat was cut off by the timely intervention of Yoojin. 

"The car is here. Make sure to bring your bags," she instructed the both of us. Like good kids, we put the bickering aside and followed our unofficial leader after gathering all of our things.

The drive from the dorms was a short one. Yoojin stuck to her phone during the trip while Maeri and I continued our bickering. She only intervened when she thought it necessary so we were left to our argument about whether to get cream cheese or crab rangoons with our lunch. 

As we pulled up to the building that housed JYP Entertainment, Yoojin finally interrupted, "Why can't you guys just order both?"

"It's the principle-" Maeri and I started at exactly the same time. At our in sync answer, we all broke out into a chorus of hearty laughs. 

"You two are far too much alike," Yoojin said in-between bouts of musical laughter. Both Maeri and I reared up to rebuke the notion before the scene in front of our company's building caught our attention. 

It was 8:00pm on a hot summer night in Korea and the sun had set a couple of hours ago. Of course, in Seoul, the city never slept. Copious amounts of streetlights illuminated the street and walkways and an indistinct black van was pulled up to the curb directly in front of the car that had dropped us off. It would have been entirely unremarkable if it were not for the man that was climbing out of the backdoor to the awaiting security escort. 

Christopher Bang, also known as Bang Chan, could unintentionally make getting out of a car look like an ad for a high end fashion brand. He was dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, but he looked so good and confident that you would think he was wearing the latest runway looks. He smiled politely, dimples and all, to the security escort before turning his attention back to the van. Following him came the rest of the members of Stray Kids in all of their glory and I felt my heart rate increasing to hospitalization levels.

My stance on a higher power was variable on any given day, but looking at each of the members in turn had me praising whatever act of nature had led to the creation of these men. They were all so beautiful that I wouldn't even question it if someone told me it was an act of divine intervention. I found myself thinking of the teachings of the Church of Light. They didn't hide their anti-Vampyre sentiment and they claimed Vampyres were a blight upon man - a creation of an evil being sent to punish humanity for its sins. In their twisted world view, Vampyres were pure malignance with beautiful faces that would lure you to the darkest pits of hell. They would seduce and charm until the Light of your soul was extinguished and you were left a Husk of your former self. 

It was all bullshit, of course.

The scientific community from all across the world had been pushing back against the ideology that Vampirism had anything to do with the mythological creatures of lore. It was simply the mutation, and that was that. I knew that just as well as most open minded younger people did, but looking at the faces of one of the most prominent active male Kpop groups made me curious. If it simply was an act of nature and science, our reality was incredibly unfair and a very rare few took home all of the aesthetics and talent. 

I was so lost in thought that I didn't notice it until Maeri gave me a casual but mildly frantic elbow to the gut. It was becoming a trend with the two of us, apparently. I forced myself back to reality and realized with a start that the men in question were staring back. All eight pairs of eyes were trained in our direction, including the infuriatingly cold pair that belonged to Lee Minho. His held mine in a battle, but I wasn't even sure what we were fighting for. 

Yoojin, our most level-headed elder, smiled a coolly polite smile at the guys and herded me and Maeri to the doors. I could tell Maeri was chomping at the bit to crack a joke about me being ‘starstruck.’ It irritated me but what got to me even more was that she was right. It was a cliche right out of a badly written novel, but I was an ordinary girl who had something extraordinary happen to her. My only claim to fame or fortune was winning a few won from coming in second at a vocabulary competition in primary school. I was certainly not accustomed to rubbing shoulders or even being in the same location as the rich and the famous. 

In the life span of a fruitfly, I had gone from undecided incoming university sophomore to Marked Trainee. I could train for a lifetime and never be able to measure up to the world I was thrown into. I could debut and make millions, but it would still never change my background. I would realistically never reach the level of Lee Minho and his ilk. I knew that, but it didn't stop a fire that had begun to burn in my gut the moment I had first shared a space with him. 

I had started off life just like any other Jane Doe in the world, but the opportunity for a new destination was being handed to me on a silver platter. If I let it pass by and cowered behind an inferiority complex, I would wake up at sixty in my average house with my average husband to have lunch at an average restaurant with my average kids. I would collect my average pension from whatever run of the mill job I landed at with nothing but regret and resentment eating me alive. I knew myself well enough to know that I could never live with the knowledge that I had wasted an opportunity of a lifetime, but there was something more. 

I was a petty bitch, and I would never let Lee Minho and his demeaning stares and smirks win. 

I was already planning to thank him for pushing me to succeed when I accepted my first industry award. 

_______________________________________

“Minji!” My name being yelled across the practice room had the momentum of the dance moves I had been practicing come to an abrupt halt and my feet entwining under me and my face approaching the ground at lightning speed. I could see the scuff marks from tennis shoes getting closer and closer and yet I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I was lightheaded and had even reached a point of exhaustion where the muscle pain was simply no longer present. I had become a husk simply following the laws of physics. 

“Minji.” This was a different voice. It was almost serene, soothing. I tried with all the wits left in me to locate the sound, but I couldn’t. Everything was dark. 

“Minji! Wake up right this second, or I will call 119 and ensure this lives in your head forever as one of the most traumatic and embarrassing moments of your life.” This voice was more insistent, and prodding. I could hear a whine in it. The words were humorous, but veering into pure panic. 

“Should we call?” Another voice.

“Who do we call? She’s Marked. Human services or the Vampyric ones?” It was yet another one. 

“Please, back up and give her some space.” The calming voice commanded the others. “Ms. Jung, our roommate passed out due to exhaustion and overexertion. She should really have more fitness training before joining us in the more intensive dance lessons.”

Ms. Jung? A surge of annoyance took root in my fuzzy brain. I didn’t like that name for some reason. It took a second for the wheels to turn back into place and start properly spinning in my mind. Ms. Jung was the dance instructor. I had been dancing and then suddenly I wasn’t. I had been at practice with my roommates and the rest of the trainees on our schedule. That thought had my eyes flying open immediately to take stock of the damage. The other trainees were not my fans - that was a certainty. If my resolve to use this opportunity was to be effective, I could show them no weakness. 

Despite the renewed determination in my brain, my body was slow to agree. My vision was blurry, making everyone surrounding me appear to have hazy edges of color enveloping them. Their faces blurred together, but the number of them had panic setting in. I was already a zoo exhibit thanks to the Mark on my forehead, but I had become the newest addition to the local freak show. I was sprawled out pathetically on the hard floor of the practice room for all to witness.

“She’s awake?” One of the unfamiliar voices stated dumbly. It wasn’t an exclamation of relief or excitement. It was like asking a passerby if it was going to rain on any given day - mundane and only mildly interested. 

“Thank goodness!” The insistent voice breathed out. The haziness of my vision was fading enough for me to make out the relieved looking face of Maeri. She had leaned in closer to examine me so her face was right in front of mine. 

“Maeri,” I croaked with a scratch in my throat.

“Yes?” She questioned quickly. “Do you need water? Some Tylenol? I can get it for you.”

“You’re too close, you brat,” I replied halfheartedly. 

“I think she’s fine,” she informed the others with a quick chuckle as she backed away to give me room to breathe. I realized too late that it would have been better for my emotional health had she stayed where she was. Everyone in the room - fifteen young and primarily Vampyric trainees - were staring at me. I felt my face heat up and my insides burn with embarrassment. 119 was certainly not needed for this experience to rank high on my list of most humiliating moments in my life.

“I think you should take a break from dance practices for a while,” Ms. Jung butted into my mortification. “We have a company gym in the building. Use the time in your schedule to improve your endurance.”

I saw and felt the withering look that Yoojin shot at her. I had been delirious, but I remembered bits of the conversation that surrounded me before. She was taking credit for Yoojin’s suggestion. I knew Yoojin likely had my health and wellbeing in mind, but Ms. Jung appeared to simply be saving face in front of her audience of trainees.

“Ms. Jung is right,” Yoojin said with a charming smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We certainly don’t want you dying of exhaustion on her watch.”

“Of course not. Your well being is of utmost importance,” Ms. Jung agreed eagerly. 

Yoojin never lost her smile and our instructor beamed back at her like the entire exchange wasn’t one of the strangest things I had ever witnessed in my life. It was eerily reminiscent of my quiet battle of wills with Lee Minho, only this was basically a student battling with their teacher and the subject of the battle was not pride but the safety of the students - of me in particular. 

A chill went up my spine and the fine hairs on my arms stood up like danger was imminent. His voice was in my head. His questions teased me, making fear spread its toxic wings from my heart to my mind. 

"Do you know of any active groups with a Mark as a member? Have you seen news of any Marks debuting? Switching companies? Getting kicked from their programs?"

Surely, I was being irrational. There was no way that I was in any danger. There was no way that the entire industry had some secret vendetta against Marks. It was ludicrous and I must have still been a bit loopy from fainting. The outline on my forehead was simply a product of genetics and not the design of some odd conspiracy. 

“It’s a target, and you will be surrounded by predators.”

Even when he wasn’t near, Lee Minho was filling my head with doubts.

[rebornologist]

Greetings!

I was wondering if u could write some headcanons of gokudera (khr) with a chronically ill s/o (struggling with exhaustion, migraines and joint/bone pains)?

Absolutely understandable though if you don't feel comfortable writing this though.

Regardless I wish you a day as wonderful as your writing! :)

Hii anon! Thank you for this idea, I love talking about Gokudera.. I honestly don't know too much about these chronic illness symptoms, aside from my experience with some friends.. so these are not super specific, but here are my thoughts!

♡ Hayato Gokudera & a chronically ill s/o ✧

no warnings this time, yippee!

༚✧⁺˳₊˚‿︵‿︵‿୨୧ · ˳ · ♡ · ˳ · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿˚₊˳⁺✧༚

Gokudera is our post-trauma stress-induced stomachache girlie, so he understands just a bit how hard it is to be hugely impacted by something that you cannot really control, but he’s fairly supportive of your management efforts and coping mechanisms.

He took a minute to be more mindful of his volume when his partner has a migraine, because he can be pretty loud, especially when he’s too excited about seeing them to check his volume. After he gets the hang of being quieter around his partner when they’re having migraines, he begins to expand that to anyone or anything else in the area. It’s a bit much.

He’s the type of person to enjoy lounging around with his s/o’s head in his lap, and him just silently reading a good book (his favourite creature feature of the time) until his partner feels a bit better. As he grew older, he learned to value quality time more as he got busier with more serious work stuff.

Physical touch is a big enough love language for him that he would be willing to help them massage whatever they need him to for comfort or easing the pain, though joint pain can be difficult to handle. His hands are calloused and rough, but he has a dedicated pocket where he quickly and quietly slips all his rings into, before stretching out his fingers and offering to apply pressure where it's needed.

He always offers help verbally or asks for his s/o’s confirmation before doing anything, even if it’s a routine thing that they do together, and even checking in to make sure that what he’s doing is helping at all. Some people would say that he should know what to do without asking, but he wants to be sure that it’s what they need in the moment, and he also.. just enjoys the exchange.

There are times when he may see his partner as too ailed by their chronic pain and might even be a little overbearing. How much is too much? It’s your call, but he’s probably gone there. Communication is key with Hayato, he’s prone to overthinking and shutting down if he feels that he’s done something wrong. It’s because he’s so full of love and care for the people that he’s dedicated himself to. It might weigh on him more than they'd like, because he just wants so badly for them to live comfortably.

He would feed his s/o better than he fed himself, probably. He’s only a little into the Eastern medicine thing but believes that there has to be some remedies to manage the symptoms and is fairly keen to try out more hollistic approaches. He feels all warm and fuzzy whenever his partner shares that they’re feeling generally better lately and will vehemently stick with whatever had the greatest positive effect, which can be a bit of overkill.

He'll go on walks with his s/o if it helps with their joint pain, and will make sure that they have the most peaceful and unbothered stroll, even if it means he has to mean mug everyone else that walks by. Enjoy the scary dog privilege :) If his partner does the thing where they lie on their back and elevate their legs, sometimes he'll walk in when they're doing it and use it as an opportunity to plant a few little kisses on their face. He will absolutely join if they requested, also. He's also not completely pain free as he ages and yknow.. puts his body through the wringer more, especially in his back, so it helps him too!

I love him, I think he would be the bitch wrapping his fingers in salonpas after he develops bomb-constructing induced RSI. He's too young to smell like an old man with his cigarettes and ointments... anyway, I'll stop projecting. many many love, ghostiee ♡♡

[suzukiblu]

Hello all, I am honestly not even sure how long it's been since I've really talked to anyone online and I'm very sorry for just straight-up ghosting so many of you, but I'm trying to work on resuming my life and reconnecting with people a bit and especially trying to start picking up all of the commitments I've let myself drop in the past year or two.

Full disclosure, I've been having a bad time mentally for quite a while and just haven't been available to anyone in my life, online or off. I'm really sorry to have stressed people out with that because I know I did worry a few of you. I'm just not all here, to be honest, and I haven't handled it well. I'm having some personal struggles and just not doing my best taking care of the resulting issues--it's not anything trauma-based/triggered, it's more along the lines of problems with in-built psychological issues stemming from chemical imbalances that I just don't always manage as effectively as I could. But I'm not physically ill and haven't been in an accident or anything like that, and I'm trying to re-engage with life now. Catching up with people I owe communication/commissions/explanations to is on my list, but I just haven't managed to make it very far into said list yet. I am, however, physically healthy and in stable housing, and if anything emergency-adjacent happens I do have local friends and non-local family members I could get help from, so I'm not in an "immediate crisis" situation.

I'm just also unemployed, out of money, and scraping by on food stamps and state-issued healthcare that doesn't cover my previous psychiatrist, and I haven't been able to find a new one in-network who's taking patients and actually, like . . . calls me back when I leave a message or email them in interest of making an appointment. I'm signed up with a program that can help me get a job, hopefully, but the process is taking a little while and I'm not sure how long it'll take in the end, so the future is very nebulous at the moment.

And like . . . VERY full disclosure, I'm just very depressed and stuck being off my meds for the forseeable future. My room is a mess I can't bring myself to clean up, I feel like I can't engage meaningfully with a lot of things, I don't feel hopeful or optimistic at all, my emotional responses are all heavily muted, my coping mechanisms are avoiding breakdowns but are not long-term helpful or productive, and I'm neglecting a lot of people and things in my life and my own best interests because I just . . . don't care.

I know my situation and my feelings are largely just because I'm going through a major depressive phase unmedicated and with limited personal resources, it's not an end of the world scenario or anything. It's just been difficult and upsetting trying to find ways and motivation to fix my life and get out of that phase when I'm already feeling sunk in a quagmire and like I did all this to myself with my own mistakes, and I'm just trying to take things one step at a time and build back up from where I'm at.

So long story short: I'm not doing great right now but I'm stable, and I greatly appreciate the concern and grace I've been given while being just entirely off radar and am going to be doing my best to make right or make up for the neglect. If anyone wants or needs to check in on anything I owe them, please feel free to message me and ask; I'll be trying to contact everyone I owe anything to but given the brain-fog I've been dealing with I don't trust myself not to miss anybody in there, so believe me, if you feel the need I will in no way be offended and you'd probably be doing me a favor anyway.

Thank you all, you've all been so good to me over the years. I'll hopefully be in touch soon. ❤