#and then process to make bloody mess from your brain

[goldengrecha]

Today I'm thinking about manga versions of Maxie and Archie, because it's something... I even dont have words for it. Like. Holy fucking shit.

In the beginning, of course, they're confront each other - that's the classic, they're rivals after all, standing for different things and all that things. They're different. They're opposites. They're still strongly exist in each other lives, because of their conflict.

But then

This happens. And this IS beginning of the end, because of course they're working together - and at the moment it looks like it is only for benefits for their goals, nothing else. They will destroy each other when they will get to finish.

They're fucking irritating(/pos), it almost feels like they're drawn to each other, in any scenario, their destiny is to meet, to exist in each other lives. None of them exist alone (and when one of them do exist alone, it means that something went terribly wrong).

AND THEN THINGS JUST GO EVEN WORSE (/pos)

This panel. I don't know where to start.

Do I need start with that they're realizing they work together perfectly? Do I start with that this making them thinking they needed to work together from the beginning? Do I start with that two men, who, up until this point, was fighting with each other and conflicting, hating each other, founded in each other the best partner they ever could have? Do I start with that they're probably the best persons in each other lives?

It is already very emotional (at least for me), but with how story goes on, they're connecting more and more, becoming even more emotionally fucked up.

AND THEN THERE IS EMERALD ARC???? CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT EMERALD ARC???????

There is so much going on in emerald arc I barely can find words for describing my emotions.

This is the fucking tragedy. Because, what do you mean, they're put in situation where is only one of them can leave alive for some more time? (Remember how I said that if only ONE if them exist it means that some shit is going to happen something going to go really terrible. It either them both exist or them both don't).

What do you mean Archie is literally killed Maxie, just for chance of living a little longer?

And this is tragedy, because Archie, in the end, loses again. And now, not only he does lose in literal sense - he didn't achieve his goal, after all. He loses everything he had - his team, his life, and most importantly, he loses his only friend. He is all alone now.

Ah yeah can we talk about

This?

It's just one phrase. It has so much in it.

Not only he calls Maxie friend, not only he confess that Maxie probably the only one person which Archie was thinking as a friend, but also like.

Consider this: this isn't oras archie yet. This version of archie is cold, closed and gloomy, genuinely intimidating person. He doesn't care about his team members, it is kind of okay for him to use them as tools (which, ironically, shows even in this interaction with Maxie: after all, Archie still killed him for a chance of living a bit longer. And Archie acknowledging that he betrayed Maxie. He betrayed his only one friend). He is a cold person, but it almost seems like Maxie managed to warm him up a bit, just a little bit. This is actually incredible and, again, endlessly emotional, and I still can't stress this enough. Holy fucking shit.

Just imagine Archie at this point. Imagine, because, the best person in his life always was his rival. His rival, and maybe, even friend.

And I told about this before, but can we talk about that in distorted world they became one? It's just so symbolic. Like, Archie and Maxie from beginning were opposites, they was supporting opposite things, their goals was completely opposite. But they can't choose only one of this, because everything around them is a combination of different, sometimes opposite things. Like even the land and water in Hoenn! Exactly this combination of land and water create Hoenn as we know it, and how they know it. And they, people, who choosed only one of these things, in the end, became the one themselves - isn't this ironic? Isn't this funny? Isn't it symbolic in some way? (I also fucking love how this fusion explain in some way why when oras hits, Maxie is more like original Archie, and Archie more like original Maxie. They had explored each other minds I'm sure of it)

And finally, ORAS, part that I love the most.

Not only they both was given chance of living again, but this is literally their peak. They're working together again - and by that I mean they're working perfectly together.

They even acknowledge it themselves:

And this is so good in contrast with Ruby and Sapphire arc - back then, they too, realized and started to think they're work perfectly together, but it still was mixed with some evil fucked up shit, but here? They're working together because they (ironically), have the same goal. And they're helping each other.

They're working together perfectly, this is so good for them. And no evil bullshit this time! It's actually best versions of them in some way - because they're working together, for sake both of humanity and pokemon. They working towards happiness and safety for everyone, not choosing and prioritizing only one of them.

And they're talking to each other as if they was old friends, partners, every one of their interactions shines with this somewhat warm feeling. This is so good for them. I would even dare to say that ORAS part was the happiest moments in their lives.

And.. Then end of ORAS hits.

And, again, as classic already, it's a small panel, but how much here is.

First of all, can I point that Archie died two times, and both times he was thinking of Maxie in some way?

And both times is some kind of emotional moment for Archie: first time, he calls Maxie friend (he doesn't call him by name, but. He obviously talking about him COME ON), and second time he ask Maxie, if he would want to work together again, if they will have chance to do so. I just love seeing this progression, how Maxie became more and more dear person for Archie as time goes on, how he became more attached to him. And Maxie does too!

It is such an incredible moment filled with so much emotions, with so much sense. I love how Archie doesn't even say his question fully, but Maxie still understands him. Of course he does, because, I'm sure, even if Archie didn't ask this, Maxie still would think of it. I'm sure if none of them said this, they still would understand this wish to work together again that they both have. At this point, they are incredibly connected together, and they have only each other.

I also love this moment, because when Archie died first time, he was told that, if he will continue like this, he will end up all alone. And Archie agrees to that: he answer in the way that he is already accepted that he is alone now, and he doesn't even have Maxie by his side (I still can't get over that he really highlighted him in this speech holy fucking shit). BUT then, when he appears next time, he appears as ORAS self, and his ORAS self is very different from what he was, not only as a person, but his motivation is different, too.

He changed in some way. And he ISN'T alone, because now, Maxie is by his side again. And I can't stop thinking about how happy it probably made Archie.

And even dying, he is calm, because he isn't alone. He have Maxie by his side. His only friend.

[hemlock-reads]

Meeting Simon’s mother

Tw: death. Sadness and depression. Gravesite. Mentions of dead bodies and blood. 2009 ghost.

It was already hard enough for Simon to even explain to you the tragedy that happened to his family. He had sat you down on the couch. He was pacing back in forth in front of you, trying to regain his thoughts he lost the last few times he tried talking to you about it. This has been going on for the last hour. You…you ever so lovely self sat there patiently. You knew whatever it was he was about to tell you was something very important and well guarded in his head. You knew that what he was about to tell you was out of trust and love for you. This was a big step in this relationship. Something that would make the bond stronger. You were glad that he was finally breaking down some of his walls and telling you.

You knew that he had a lot of secrets. He had told you that you would be in danger if you knew some of these secrets. That’s why you stopped asking about his job. His job was highly classified. He wouldn’t even be able to tell you where he’s going when he gets deployed. All you ask of him in return is for him to always come back safe. Now with Simon…he can never truly promise that he’s “safe”. He thinks you and him have two definitions of the word “safe”. He could never tell you that though. So he promises that he will do his best to get back to you in one piece.

Simon couldn’t stop pacing. His mind racing through various thoughts and ways to start this conversation. The memories of that day still hold him down and suffocate him. The scattered bodies. Scattered bloody bodies. He shook his head and sat himself down on the couch. He tried to get a hold of his emotions and his body. He couldn’t control the shaking however. The unbearable uncontrollable shaking that had its grip on him. He didn’t look at you. He stared off into nothing. His mind cesspool of thoughts. Each thought beginning and ending in seconds. His hands gripping his knees. You slowly and steadily find one of his hands. Your hand soft and warm against his scarred and cold ones. He finally looks at you, all of his thoughts slowing. His brain being able to process them. He takes a deep breath and tells you.

It had been a few days since he told you about his family, what happened to them. A few days since you say him cry the first time in his life. Simon never cried but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have emotions. He had shown you one of the many things he had buried deep down. Simon had held you vowing he would never let that happen to you. Telling you that he is going to protect, through his tears and sobs. He won’t let you go, he will never have anyone touch you. Not even his mates knew of you. You were just his. Something to come home too. Something that made him hold on a little longer to this mess he called a life.

You woke up to Simon sitting on the bed. His back turned to you. The silence was eerie, nothing made noise except the buzzing of air that came from the air conditioner that was in the room. The shared bedroom of the apartment was illuminated by nothing more than the moon outside the window. Your eyes had to adjust just to see him.

“Simon?” Your voice was small, barely a whisper. You waited for a response. That’s if he even heard you.

His body turned with him as he turned towards you. His eyes that of softness. You didn’t know what to say, you wondered why he was up so early. Was he about ready to leave on another sudden deployment he just so happened to forget to mention to you? What was wrong? Did he have another nightmare about the atrocities he has seen? You would comfort him if that were the case. You started to scoot your way towards him, thinking that’s what must’ve happened.

He doesn’t stop you from sitting up in bed and wrapping your arms around him. He simply buries his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled softly. He hums a little before he faces you, taking your face into his hands. He stares into your eyes, rubbing your cheeks.

“Get dressed. We’re going to go on a little trip.” The cracking in his voice was apparent as he spoke. He was holding back his tears. He didn’t want to cry again, he needed to be strong for you. He needed to get this done. He was going to show you. He was going to show you something.

He felt like he was across an ocean with the way he was acting. Feeling so far away from you. He didn’t give you anything else to go on. You complied with what he asked of you. Once dressed you were out the door with him and getting in his truck. He drove you both a hour out to a desolate graveyard. It was mostly in ruins and it wasn’t well taken care of. It pulled on your heart a little to see the poor graves crumbling and being devoured by greenery. He had stopped suddenly, you hit him square in the back with your body. He hadn’t moved an inch. He held his ground as you recovered. He was standing at one of the graves. He ushered you to his side, holding your hand. His hands sweaty and cold. He had a dream, a dream about you meeting his family. A family that was still alive and well. A family that greeted you with open arms. They beckoned and pleaded to meet you. They needed to know that he had someone that he was taking…That he had someone that was taking care of him. He stared at the tombstone for a couple of seconds, working up the courage to speak clearly. Then he finally spoke. His voice sounding horse, a lump in his throat, that he swallowed.

“Mum…this is my partner”

[freestyle-crocodile-trashpile]

Sister

Summary: Sukuna walks in at the perfect time.

Type:Scenario:Gore/Horror: Sukuna & M!Reader

Version:Jjk

⚠️WARNING! it does get pretty graphic, and there's some cannibalism!⚠️

~

Sukuna kicked aside another useless body, dark chuckle coming from him as be crushes the head of a weak woman.

"Pathetic...I figured someone would put up a fight," Sukuna looked down at the now crushed head of the woma, shaking his head as he started walking again.

It was a wonder how Sukuna's yukata wasn't stained, even as he walked through the bloody field of the small village. Uraume walked close behind, looking out for any living being or a suitable corpse for Sukunas' next meal. Eventually, they walked by a small house, stopping at the sound of soft thuds and grunts.

"Sir." Uraume pointed, but Sukuna was already eyeing the door. The thuds sounded...wet almost.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes, walking over to the door. He had to dunk his head to step inside, now facing a much smaller form beating someone.

His four eyes stared into the back of your head as your fist came down repeatedly, some sobs and grunts coming from you. The body under you was of an unknown woman. She was unmoving, clearly dead for a hot second. Your tear fell down onto the mess of blood under you, your yukata soiled with blood and gore. Your arms ached, but you refused to stop. The face was already mangled, but somehow, your brain could still make out the face of her, of the bastard that caused all the pain.

This was revenge, and it was like feast for Sukuna. Every cry, every thrust of your fist, every snap, squish, and thud filled Sukunas senses. The smirk on his face on grew as he watched you.

Your fist were practically beating the ground at this point, her head so destroyed, beaten into the ground so much that it was a pile of mush and goo. Even her skull had been crushed under your fist.

Yet, you've never been strong. Always been the weaker one of your siblings, and your sister took advantage of it. She treated you like a servant, treating your weakness as a method to keep you under her. You were never strong enough to fight back. You'd only end up on the ground bloody by your father while your sister faked cried behind him. So when you found her terrified and hiding, sobbing for you to hide her, you took advantage. You've never moved so fast before, she tried to fight back, but her adrenaline didn't last long enough to fend you off her. The screams didn't process in your head as anyone else's but her own. You beat your sister while Sukuna massacred your village. Yet, you only registered those screams and crys as your sisters.

You palms landed on the mush of flesh under you, keeping your hands pressed against it as you breathed heavily. Loud breaths and gasps came from your mouth as you gained your breath. With trembling hands, you grasped your shoulders, leaning your head back and taking deep breaths. When you opened your eyes, you saw a knife, placed perfectly in reach from you. Leaning over your shaking fingers wrapped around the knife, pulling it to your chest before moving down on your sisters lifeless body. The knife dug into her neck, at the edge where her head used to sit. Slowly, you dragged the knife down, cutting it like the skin of a deer. When you had a nice tear in her skin, you grasped it, tearing the skin from her ribs. The knife dropped from your hands. Staring down at her exposed sternum, with a gulp you raised your hands, clasping your hands together before slamming them down on her sternum.

The sickening crack of bones was music to Sukunas ears, his smirk only growing as he watched you toss her broken sternum to the side.

Your shaky hands grasped her still and cold heart, yanking it out of chest.

"Your heart has always been cold...hasn't it...sister," Your voice surprised Sukuna, it sounded so broken yet sweet. But sweet in a soft way, no. Sweet in a dark and broken way, sweet in the way only a crazed person could see murder. Which is what he saw, a murder, a broken man in need of revenge.

And Sukuna was willing to help.

Your eyes stared at the heart, it spilled blood everywhere, dripping onto the ground. With a gulp you brought it to your face, hesitating before biting into the heart. You were so famished, the heart looked delicious. After a few chews you gagged, but swallowed. Keeping it down as you took another bite, you were so hungry it seemed right at the moment. When the heart was consumed you gasped, choking slightly before shakily standing up. Coughing out blood- blood that was not your own. Slowly and shakily walking backwards, suddenly your back hot a solid surface. Your eyes slowly moved to look up as a strong arm wrapped around your waist.

"Bravo..." A large hand grasped your face, tilting it up to look him in the eyes.

It wasn't every day someone looks the king of curses in the eyes, yet you held his gaze with a tired look. He tugged your head closer, making you stand on your tippy toes. The mouth on his hand licked at the blood on your face, as well as the mouth on his stomach, but licking at your soiled clothes. The blood all over you was delicious.

Uraume walked over to your sisters corpse, choosing her as Sukunas next meal.

Sukuna let go of your face, letting your feet hit the ground again. Not for long though, his arm easily picked you up, tossing you onto his shoulder. You were like nothing to him, so small you could be mistaken as a child.

"You'll do perfectly." Was the last thing you heard before passing out.

~

[A/N:Sorry for the cannibalism guys, I just wanted something wild in this. I hoped you enjoyed]

[laurentpark]

She — Yoo Jimin

pairing: yandere! karina x reader

summary: you just wanted to surprise your girlfriend for her hard work, but once you stepped foot at her home, you were the one surprised instead.

genre: dark romance

warnings: yandere themes, obsession, manipulation, mentions of blood, minor death, joe goldberg and amy dunne references because we love hot villains.

a/n: we honestly need more yandere content so i wrote this (this doesn't mean i condone this behavior in real life. its creepy and its weird, but keep in mind this is only fiction. just words. nothing real.)

"This is not what it looks like."

You just wanted to surprise her. You really did. She deserved it after working so hard and got a promotion of her job while still making time for you and your relationship.

So you bought her a cake and dozens of gifts before driving all the way to her neighborhood.

With a wide smile plastered on your face, you pulled out the spare key to her home.

She gave it to you as a gift on your anniversary, so you could come to her place at any time and be welcomed.

Once you heard the doorknob click, you opened the door and wasn't welcomed by your girlfriend but rather a scream.

Your eyes laid on your friend on the ground, bloody.

"P-please, Jimin! Have mercy on me!"

"You're taking so much of her time and attention and expect me to show you mercy? Don't be so stupid."

The cake that you held dropped to the ground once you witnessed one of your closest friend get stabbed to the death by none other than the love of your life.

Once Jimin heard a loud thud, she furrows her brows and looked up, to see her precious girlfriend look at her with a shock and scared expression.

She widens her eyes seeing your figure and stands up with her hands on the air.

"This is not what it looks like."

Your girlfriend, Jimin tries to tell you, dropping the bloody knife she once held in her hand but your brain couldn't even process the words she was saying as you become frozen in place.

Tears start to well up on your eyes and cover your mouth with your hand, shaking in fear.

"Sweetheart..." She cooes, slowly walking over to you but you take a step back.

"What...did you d-do?" Your voice cracks, still in utter disbelief on what your girlfriend did to your friend.

"Trust me when I say I didn't want to do it, sweetheart." She says rather softly. "But I couldn't help it. He was taking you away from me and I couldn't let that happen."

"So you killed him?!" You raise your voice at her out of anger. "He's dead Jimin! Why did you- What am I- You could go to jail for this!"

There were millions of things your brains was thinking of and you started to panic. Your body's starting to shake anymore as you bit your nails. However, your girlfriend shook her head and walks towards you before reaching out to you.

"No I'm won't, sweetheart." She holds you closely, gently stroking your hair as you continued to cry over her shoulder. "Shh, don't cry. I'll clean this up...aww, did you buy me a cake?"

She notices the cake on the ground, ruined, as well as other gifts you were supposed to give to her.

"I'm sorry for shocking you, sweetheart but I'll make it up to you." She grabs you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at her before wiping your tears away. "I'll clean this entire mess up while you can go to my bedroom and decide what movie we're going to watch, okay?"

You look at her in disbelief before pushing her away. Jimin stumbles and looks at you confused as you sniffled and wipe your tears away.

Jimin narrows her eyes before pinning you to the wall, grabbing you by the jaw with one hand while you struggled against her.

"Why did you push me?" Her tone was cold and demanded an answer.

You scoff at her, "You're crazy if you think if I can continue being with you after you just killed my friend Karina!"

Karina.

She despised you calling her that name and she knew, you knew that. Her name's Jimin. Only those who feared and didn't know her personally called her Karina.

Her jaw clenches and her grip on your jaw becomes much more stronger.

"Ow!"

"What do you mean?" She looks at you with a cold stare. "What do you mean you can't continue being with me?"

"You're insane, Karina! I can't-"

"Don't call me that name." She presses you harder agaist the wall and her grip on you becomes much more tighter making you wince in pain. "You can't call me that name. Not you."

"Just let me go." You begged her, tears rapidly flowing down your cheeks. "Just let me go and I'll forget this ever happened. Let me go and I won't ever report this to the police."

"Let you go?" She raises a brow. "You expect me to let you go? After everything I've done for you? I killed for you, who else can say that?"

"You killed my friend." You cry out. "I don't want that. You crossed the line and I'm leaving you because of it."

"There's not a line I wouldn't cross for you." She grits her teeth before softening her face. "Please Y/N. I love you."

She starts to press kisses on your neck. Your breathing starts to get heavier, fearing what she might do to you. You make eye contact with her and she has this soft yet insane look on her eyes.

"You drive me crazy, sweetheart. I can't let you go, never in a million years. I love you."

This moment. This was the moment where you realize there was nothing you could do but accept her love and apology or else she will do something to put you on your place without regret.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you..." She says continuesly, still pressing wet kisses on your neck. As you stood there. Frozen.

You were stuck with her for life and there is nothing you could do about it without getting hurt.

"Say it back."

You lock eyes with her, her cold eyes staring to your soul, telling you to do it or suffer the consequences of your action

"I..." You pause as her nails dig on your skin, waiting for your answer.

"I love you too."

She smiles in victory after hearing your answer but still didn't let go of you, only loosening her grip.

"You're mine, sweetheart. You're never getting rid of me."

She declares before crashing her lips on yours, without a care in the world if she could taste the saltiness of your tears.

You were hers. Forever. Whether you liked or not.

[bihanspookies]

If you’re willing to do requests: MK1 Earthrealm Champions with a reader who’s a vigilante assassin?

Helll yeah bruudddeerrr, let’s get it

I’m writing it as them finding out what you do 🧐

Johnny Cage

• You saw how he reacted to Liu Kang, Bi Han and Kuai Liang showing up at his front step. He didn’t believe diddly squat until he saw magical shit up close and personal. You think he’d be a little more open to finding out you’re a vigilante assassin but—

• When he first finds out of course he’s in disbelief, he’s standing there with his hands on his hips and looking at you like 🤨

• He’s known you for YEARS how could he have not known this?

• Honestly though he finds it hot.

• Brains, beauty AND deadly?? Sign him tf up.

• Now he knows for sure to not mess with you.

“Wait wait wait so you’re saying that was you who took that guy out? Get outta here.” He waves a hand dismissively at you, using his other hand to take a sip of his drink. You both had been drinking the night away casually, swapping random stories when you had let it slip about your little ‘side job’.

“It’s true Johnny, not quite sure how I can prove it you but,” You shrug, downing the rest of your drink and popping one of the table snacks into your mouth. Johnny can only look at you, lips parted in suspicion as he tries to process the information you just told him.

“So the—?”

“Yeah.”

“And the guy—?”

“Mhm.”

“….Fucking amazing.”

Kenshi

• He isn’t quite sure how to handle it tbh. One on hand he understands wanting to punish those that deserve it but on the other he doesn’t like that you’re putting yourself in danger, no matter how good you say you are.

• He knew something was up with you the more he got to know you. How you’d seem more tired on certain days, bruises that were way too severe from just a simple sparring session, or how you’d suddenly take interest in someone from Kenshi’s past.

• He got extra worried when he saw you snooping through his office one day, filing through some old papers before claiming that you were ‘looking for something else’.

• He followed you one night, using Sento to guide him with ease throughout the city. It was late, raining, and he was starting to get frustrated the longer he tailed you.

• Finally he feels you stop, slipping quietly into a building from the fire escape. He’s not too far behind, climbing up and through the window just in time to see you slice open the neck of some poor unsuspecting man.

• He jumps down and makes his way to you, ready to tear you a new one until he sees that it’s someone from his yazuka days.

“The hell are you doing??” He hisses your name, Sento clutched tight in his tattooed hands as he approaches. He glances down at the bloody body on the floor, muffled gurgled sounds of his former enemy choking on his blood.

“The hell are you doing here?” You retort back, wiping your blade clean with your shirt and tucking it back into its sheath.

Kenshi doesn’t know what to say, too stunned at just witnessing you murder someone without even batting an eye. You can see the gears turning in his head and decide to let him in on your secret other life. You’ve known him for years, you can trust him.

“Vigilante… assassin?” He doesn’t like how the words taste on his tongue, grimacing at he tries to connect them and you together despite what he just witnessed.

You had walked and talked, disposing of the body as you did so and soon you find yourselves sitting on top of another building.

For the first time in a while you feel nervous, fiddling with your nails as you watch him soak in this new information.

“I just… be careful alright? I don’t like it but I can’t stop you.”

Kung Lao

• Like Johnny he also doesn’t believe you at first, claiming that you’re just making shit up to have a one up on him.

• You know that scene in the incredibles when Helen spins around in the chair waiting for Bob and she’s like “is this rubble 🤨.” That’s Kung Lao when you come home late one night covered in blood and debris.

• He’s immediately on you, asking where the hell you’ve been while also questioning why you look like you just came out of the Koliseum.

• Usually you’re so careful when coming back, slipping in and out like a snake but this particular job had nearly gone wrong so you’d been a little reckless when coming back inside your home.

• Knowing there was no way out of this one, you sat him down and started to explain everything. It’s a good thing Kung Lao didn’t play poker because his poker face was absolutely awful. His facial features showing exactly what he was feeling in the moment.

• When you finished, he was silent for a few moments before letting out a chuckle. He gave a look of ‘really?’ And you could only sit there and watch him try to soak up everything you said.

“So you’re a sort of crime fighting assassin? Please, you insult me.” He crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrow raised and a bit of a smug smirk on his lips. You can only huff, rolling your eyes and shaking your head at him.

“Lao it’s true, I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.”

His smile slowly dies off his lips, noticing your posture and the lack of humor in your voice. You’ve never been one to lie to him so why start now? It starts to lock into place when previous instances start to pop into head and suddenly he’s sitting up straighter in his chair.

“You’re… really going out and doing these things?”

Instead of answering you turn and lift your shirt up, showcasing the gash on your lower back that was caked with dry blood. He hisses, running his fingertips across the top before pulling back and lowering your shirt.

“Not quite sure I believe you yet but let’s get you cleaned up first.”

When he finally does accept what you do, he’s very excited to have you fight along his side, wanting to low key turn any fight you do into a competition even more now.

Raiden

• You know that face he did when Kitana said that she heard he has a crush on her. Yeah that’s him when he finds out.

• At first he’s stuck processing it, because he never thought that you of all people would do that.

• But the more he thinks about it the more he’s impressed and although he wishes that you would leave that stuff to the law, he knows what it’s like to having to take matters into your own hands.

• He admires you for being able to go out and just take someone out with no thoughts about it whatsoever.

• But also he can’t help but worry every time you disappear because now he knows what you’re truly up to. He knows you can take care of yourself but still.

• It’s late at night when he catches you slipping out, softly calling out your name to stop you.

“Another job?”

You nod, no expression whatsoever as you linger by the window. Your gloved hand taps silently against the frame, wanting to reassure Raiden that you’d be fine but truthfully these things could go either way and you didn’t want to give him the false hope.

He only gives a singular nod, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes in your appearance.

“May the Elder Gods protect you.”

And he bows and smiles, a barely noticeable one but it’s enough to have you feeling confident and excited to come back home to him.

“I will.”

He watches as you hop out the window, feeling a sense of odd pride swirl in his heart.

[lunarmoves]

Slcbsks its okay no worries I just wanted to know if there was a fic of it!! I’ve read your other works and gosh darn it they are so good!! Omg embarrassing that I also got the name of the bleeding wires au wrong km😭

Anyway, I hope you’re having a ✨fantastic✨ day!! I hope there will be another part to the drabble!! I wanna know what happens after ✨the kiss✨😩🤌

dw about getting the name wrong, ‘bloodied’ is basically the same as ‘bleeding’ LMAO. also thank you for reading my other works!! it means a lot that you enjoy them so much 💞💞 do u have a particular fav :3 (other than bleeding wires LOL)

im assuming youre talking about that suggestive obedience drabble that ended w a kiss. i wasn’t planning on writing a direct continuation for it tbh LMAO. buttttttt okay ill let you in on a secret on how i imagine it to go since ur so nice <3

sun kisses you and it’s like the entire world freezes. you don’t know how to react—don’t know how to process anything of what you’re feeling. the frigidity of the room along your bare skin. the way his hand grips at your side squeezing squeezing squeezing. the intensity with which he presses the lines of his static smile against your mouth.

it—you recognize faintly—is a bit like pressing your lips against a wall. immovable. there is no motion, no push and pull, give and take. there is only him, him him him. pressing down onto you. holding you. letting you feel the gentle vibrations in his chassis, the almost violent whirring of his fans. you feel like you’ve been coated in static, numb and distantly tingly. you have to suppress a shiver.

and beyond the buzzing emptiness of your brain, the shock and surprise of what is now happening—it clicks that sun is kissing you.

the same sun who makes jabs at humanity more often than is comfortable. who criticizes you from time or time or gives you backhanded compliments. who bothers you even if you don’t feel like talking. who tells you about all the nitty gritty thoughts he has. who looks down at all that you are and doesn’t really see you, you think, past your blood and flesh and bones. who has never shown an ounce of interest in you in this manner.

(you don’t realize that he has been showing interest, all this time. he just never realized it himself, never quite processed that certain actions he has taken is his way of showing he actually… likes you. more so than others.

and you were just too unused to his quirks and particulars to be able to properly read him.)

and you are so, so confused.

you’d just wanted to poke back at him, for his stupid experiment he said he was conducting. that’s what you tell yourself—incessantly in your mind, repeating it over and over until it seems less like a lie. you wanted to see if there was anything past that complex he wears like some kind of thick skin. you never.... you never imagined things would come to this. you are afraid of what it means, deep down.

and so, you reach your hands up to his chassis, and give him a gentle push back.

it's like he has to tear himself away, staring down at you with pupils that have dilated so much, it's like there are full moons in his eyes. your gaze flicks across his faceplate, analyzing.

"sun," you say quietly, your lips numb. that's all it takes.

he steps back—abrupt and sharp—the rays along his faceplate twitching and stuttering. his hand snaps away from your side like it has been burned, and you can see the way his gaze darts about. like he is a cornered animal, confused and startled.

"friend, i—" he starts, then forcefully stops. his hand clutches at the front of his chassis for a moment, scrambling for something you're not sure he has. he shakes his head, minute, then turns his back to you.

"your shift is over," he says, oddly stilted. something sinks, deep within your chest. "put your clothes back on and get out."

and then he leaves. you can only stand there, getting steadily colder and colder, your heart a jumbled mess.

[iztea]

How do you get the ideas for your backgrounds?

mmm ideas.... sometimes i draw the background directly from a photo reference (the happy case) so there's not a lot for me to change and i can have a rather peaceful painting process

othertimes, the BG is tied to the subject/concept/scene I'm thinking of, so it only makes sense that i have that as the background

for example, for this fem skk art, i knew i wanted to have chuu kneeling in a crater after destroying a city so drawing that background was just a logical follow-up because i already had the entire idea in mind

Here, I wanted to have Akiangel sit on a building, watching over the city. The ominous sign with "the day of salvation" and crow came later after I found this picture on Pinterest, so they helped further develop the concept, but the main idea was there and so on

The third background option happens when my painting doesn't depict a certain irl scene or landscape, nor do i have any particular references i can use. In that situation, I first and foremost think about the general composition, the shapes, how they flow with each other, how I can tie them to my main theme and what sort of symbolism or little easter eggs i can throw in there just to keep it fresh and interesting for the viewer ( aka the person reading this aha ;;) :-* )

For this piece, i started with a big circle for the background, and then I started breaking it up in pleasing, cloud-like shapes and swirls that constantly keep your eye moving around the picture (i mean hopefully lol). The composition was inspired by a) Dazai's Mayoi card ofc, that trad Eastern illustration style with the circle and then branches of trees, and also .. kazuha's splash art ok i admit it bshsj

for this one, the roses came much, much later. Again, I added that sort of golden arcade to better frame the focal point or the main subject of the scene which was ofc her face and/or outfit. Then, since it still felt rather empty, awkward, and directionless, I tried finding a pleasing, spiral line that would compliment the already existing shapes and that would, again, move your eye all around the composition. I figured since her outfit already had those small roses stuffed in her belt, those curvy lines could become some bloody, spikey roses and boom! here are the theme and elements for you: blacks-roses-blood-deadly-sharp-gold etc. I then had her crush some of those roses in her right (ik it's the left hand shut up) hand to balance out the busier left side

and a last example, sometimes I draw multiple character poses in one piece and they sort of become my background. Yet I still have some blank spaces left so i gotta figure out a way to fill them out. Here, since the pose where he's all curled up was inspired by the TDIPUD light novel, i drew him as a "corpse" in a pool of blood, and contrasted it with some nice flowery-ish patterns and swirls that sort of come from within that bloody mess ( someone also mentioned it looks like a womb which I found very interesting as well ). The cats also helped fill out the space. On the left side, i added that swirly black sun that drips into three squares that gradually fill up with straight blackness and raindrops falling below inspired by the "a conviction that the sun will never rise again" line. I don't think I should go into detail with the symbolism cause it's pretty obvious and not that deep so i won't but yeah, and that's my BG all filled up!

I do this with most of my BGs, it's mostly just abstract shapes; I'm very fixated on making the overall composition look okay and for the piece to send a message ( most of the time ), so i don't think of backgrounds as a separate entity, they are part of an already existing idea, generally speaking.

This kinda turned into a composition discussion midway......... sorry about that....... To be completely honest with you, I have plenty of BG ideas, they kinda just spawn in my brain so i'm not exactly lacking in that department. Having to draw them and finding refs is the hard part for me

[keis-slut]

harm|link

CW: SELF HARM, BLOOD

you sat quietly behind a tree, keeping watch as link slept soundly.

it was your turn to lookout so link could get some rest, and so you sat alone, watching and waiting.

the night was pretty uneventful, leaving you to your own head.

and a dangerous thing, that can be.

leading to things you later on might regret, especially if link had found out.

maybe providing you with such a sharp weapon was not the best idea, something better like a hammer or a boomerang could’ve been smarter.

but it’s not like anyone else but you really knew, so you kept your mouth shut.

you couldn’t even begin to describe the kind of things that went through your head, deciding it was best to let you deal with it in your own.

not that doing so was a good idea, but it was difficult.

opening up felt even harder then just carrying the burden yourself.

if you did tell him, you were afraid of his reaction, that reaction then possibly making you spiral even more, wanting to avoid that at all costs.

if you didn’t tell him, you’d be stuck at the bottom of this hole forever, alone.

and that confliction fought in your brain every single day.

no matter how vastly large this world seemed, it still felt as if it was closing in on you more and more, leaving you stuck,

claustrophobic,

you felt as if you couldn’t breath, the walls being so close, closing you into that madness, that despair.

crimson spilt from your skin as you were now numb to the sting, only focused on the uneven lines that had either just formed, or scarred your thighs.

how tightly your pants had bunched up against your legs hurt more than your damage.

it felt good, but was it?

no, absolutely not.

“y/n?”

you were startled, attempting to roll your pants back down to hide your destruction quickly.

but your blade had fell at hand, cutting you accidentally in the process.

ironic.

you winced at the gash on your calf, your leg now a bloody mess.

“what are you doing?”

concern and worry lingered in his voice as you couldn���t even look at him, you only stared at the red trickling from your thighs.

dont look.

don’t look at him.

“look at me”

your head immediately shot up, and you met his horrified blue eyes.

he looked tired, and disheveled.

i wonder what woke him up.

“i-i didn’t-it’s just-“

“-no, no, you must be terrified, stop”

he cut you off, leaning to the side to grab his pouch, where you kept bandages and such for when wounded.

he hurriedly rummaged through the bag, not a care in the world for the mess he’d made on the grass, spilling out everything like it was the end of the world.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

pain was heard in his voice, and it hurt you even more, it made you feel guilty.

but you had reason not to tell him.

you think.

you realized he was now putting pressure on the wound with some bandage, staring up at you with deep concern, and a slight glimpse of watery eyes.

all you could do was stare back, vision growing blurry from uninvited tears as well.

everything felt like a thick haze.

“i couldn’t-i didn’t-“

you tried to speak but your words got caught in your throat.

by now, you did feel the sting. you weren’t numb anymore as your leg throbbed, and so did your head.

“i didn’t know how to”

you sobbed, hiding your face in your hands as he sucked his teeth sadly.

you had no more words, you just sobbed, and wailed, and cried into your hands, before feeling his own wrap around you, crying with you.

“y/n, please, please-“

he begs, pulling your shoulders back and removing your hands from your puffy eyed face, cheeks glowing red and stained with tears.

suddenly his face grew more tense, and stern. he was serious.

but still soft.

and that was the thing about link.

he was personified courage, so mature, calm in stressful situations.

still able to push through any obstacle no matter how terrifying, or how much pain he might be in.

you’d think after the absolute horrors he’s been through, he would be terrifying himself, and tough as nails.

maybe even impolite or closed off,

but no.

he was very much so the opposite.

everything about him, aside from actually in battle, was so gentle.

one of the most kind, and gentle hylians you’d ever met.

so amiable and empathetic, he’s always there if anyone needs help, with anything.

loyal to the people he loves and cares for, he would never do anything to purposely hurt anyone.

so sweet, and soft, and so opposite of the horrific things he has gone through, despite it all.

and that you admired so much.

that you loved about him, so much.

“-dont you ever, ever, in the name of hylia, think you can’t tell me anything”

he held your wrists as he kneeled next to you, bandage on your thigh now soaked by a devilish color.

his eyes looked even more beautiful glistening with tears, his flushed face and redness from crying really bringing out his royal colored eyes.

you stared, unsure what to say as another tear fell from your pretty face.

pretty.

he thought you were the most beautiful in the whole world, he hated the fact you even slightly thought to mutilate your body.

for what reason did you deserve this? a heavenly being such as yourself, you deserve all the happiness in the world.

he couldn’t even think to bear a world without you and your charisma.

he wonders, such a charismatic person you are, yet your mind completely contradicts that.

inspiring others to do their best, but struggling yourself, and not saying a word.

he felt as if he should blame himself slightly, for not giving you enough, for not making you happy enough.

for not making you feel that life was worth living.

for not knowing sooner you had felt this way.

for being such an idiot not noticing it.

he didn’t want you to hurt, and only found himself blaming what he couldn’t do for you.

but he had no time to be sorry for himself, he was more worried about you and what to do next.

“i was so scared”

his face softened and and he sighed.

“i know”

he brought a hand back to your leg, removing the messy bandage, so he could get a new one to wrap your leg with.

but he paused, and looked back into your tired red eyes.

“but you never have to be scared, of anything, while i’m here”

“i was scared of you, what you’d do or say if i told you”

your voice was hoarse, but he watched your lips as you spoke.

you felt a droplet on your head, then on your nose, quickly glancing up to see the moon was now gone.

it started to rain, and the sky was sad too.

maybe this will help clean me up.

suddenly you felt hands on your cheeks roughly, pulling your head back down.

before realizing what was happening, you felt soft lips on your own.

not harsh or lewd, just lovingly lips dancing.

at first, at least.

the kiss grew a bit more hungry, and fast, but still not lustful, this was more of need for comfort.

you started to cry again as you kiss him, your hands finding way into his now wet and loose hair.

messy and soaked, you collapsed on each other into cold grass when he pulled away.

you sniffled as you watched him grab the rest of the bandage, watching him finish on your leg.

he held you like you were the most fragile thing in the world, even hands as scarred and calloused as his felt so gentle and kind.

but he knew you weren’t fragile, in fact, he admired just how durable of a person you were.

you are.

maybe that’s why he didn’t realize you were fighting internally, secretly punishing yourself.

you came off so bold and strong, determined and never backing down to anything.

especially when it came to protecting the ones you love and care for, you were so fierce.

it was almost terrifying crossing you in such a way, dare he say he was a little afraid of you.

the hero of hyrule.

he gave your leg one last soft pat, and smiled up at you.

“let’s wait for the rain to let up, then we’ll make our way back to hateno”

you shift closer to his touch, waiting for him to speak again.

“we’ll go home, get you cleaned up and some help. someone to talk to”

he leans closer, and then down to kiss your stinging leg.

“ok?” he choked, waiting for your reply.

you gave him a sheepish smile, and a small nod as he moved closer.

he leaned against your shoulder, and wrapped his arms around you.

“i’m here” he told you,

and you melted into his safety.

-

a/n:

happy mental health awareness month.

you are loved and you are enough.

your favorite loves you very, very much.

and so do i

<3

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

[mocha-moch4]

Hey!! Could you do Bloody Queen doing bondage to AFAB!GN!Reader if that's okay? I'm seeing so much male idv characters x reader and I need some wlw love...

A/n: annon I love you 😣 The girls of idv don’t get nearly as much love as they deserve. I’m so tired of ppl ignoring how pretty Mary is..

Pairing: Mary x AFAB!Reader

Summary: simple bondage with Mary

Warnings: being tied up/bondage duh, fingering, cunnilingus, French(“you look beautiful like this, dear”) this one is nasty guys

Mary always had considered herself a reserved and well respected woman, yet here she was face buried in between your legs; the sounds of her tongue lapping up against your soaked cunt filled the room.

The ropes confining your hands to her extravagant bed frame scraped against your wrist harshly. But bloody hell, you could not care less. Pitiful whimpers accompanied by whines escaped your mouth sinfully. Your back arched as well as it could with your restraints.

Your thighs trembled, hands itching to grab the back of her hair to somehow guide her head. It was probably for the best however, since she may have complained about it afterwards. But never in the moment; in the moment, the only thing Mary thinks about is watching your face unravel from in between your legs.

“Mmm, poor thing. Do you enjoy struggling like this, dear?” she sang, venom filled lust rang out in your head. You knew Mary had a power trip when it came to this but damn. She slowly lapped up the juices that seeped out of your puffy hole, wiping her mouth sophisticatedly; she’s a lady, after all.

She pulled away from your hot core, a string of saliva intermingled with your silk connecting the two. A whine danced off your tongue again, missing the feeling of her ravishing you like a woman starved. You didn’t want to take it for granted however, you did still appreciate her eating you out despite her hesitancy towards a big mess.

Feeling a cold hand come up to cup your breast sent a chill down your back. But any wiggles were stuffed by the feeling of her free hand gripping your ankles, snaking the red rope around them, tying the knot tightly. It may have seemed counterintuitive, but hey, your brain was already mush from the pleasure, so what did you know.

“Turn around for me, sweetheart.” she smiled sinisterly, feigning innocence. Panting like a dog, you agreed, flipping to sit up on your knees, using the high elevation from which your hands are tied to keep your body up whilst you bent over, giving her a perfect view of your drenched cunt. Your back arched from the position, having your arms tied above your head and your ankles stuck together you were helpless to resist her.

She took her middle and ring finger into her mouth, soaking them. Afterwards, a hand came up to cup your cheek, forcing you to look at her as she slipped her wetted fingers into you, finally giving you the pleasure that was stripped away from you. You cried out at the entry of her long boney fingers, taking her mouth into your own, tasting a bit of yourself from earlier.

You moaned and mewled into the kiss, eyes rolling back whenever she hit the spot she was oh so familiar with. And you could do nothing but take it, only being able to wiggle, as moving any of your limbs wasn’t an option. Despite how cruel your lover could be in bed, she did make it feel delicious in the process.

“tu es belle comme ça, chérie” she spoke lowly in your ear, watching you struggle and cry as you quickly approached your high.

Now, just how will you repay your queen?

Woah confession time guys but this is my first time writing actual smut 😣 sorry if it’s dookie I’m still learning trust! Also shout out to u if u caught my bloody hell pun. Yes ikik I’m so funny

[crimsonredfeathers]

Villains

Dabi x gn!Reader

Warnings: angst (blood, physical, and mental pain)

Word count: 1.3k

Notes: I'm sorry. My brain slipped.

🖤💙🖤💙🖤

🖤💙🖤💙🖤

You woke up to an empty bed, clattering and muffled noises could be heard from the adjacent bathroom. Of course, you knew exactly what was going on. You had experienced this countless times. Hastily sliding out of the sheets, your feet touched the wooden floorboards, the cool sensation against your warm skin sending a shiver down your spine. You made your way to the bathroom, not reveling in the unpleasant feeling for too long. Upon entering the tiled room, an all too familiar sight greeted you. There he was, sitting on the ground in only boxers, surrounded by leftover staples, tins and bottles of ointment still closed and opened alike, a few stray pain killers haphazardly scattered across the floor, bloody tissues all around him, muffled cries erupting from his throat. It was one of those nights filled with nightmares that would result in emotional and physical pain, making the staples that connected healthy and scarred skin hurt and itch to a point where he couldn't take it anymore. Pain, grief, and terror had him in a chokehold, his sleep deprived body slumped down, resting against the broken tiles on the wall. You knelt down in front of Touya, embracing his pitiful form in the comfort of your arms. Neither of you spoke a word, as you were holding his shivering figure.

He had tried to take care of himself on his own, to not wake you from your peaceful slumber and to be less of a burden to you. But everything he had accomplished was creating a mess because of his shaking hands and unfocused vision, loosening and even ripping a few staples from his skin in the process, waking you up once more, while hot blood was streaming down from underneath his scarred tissue below his eyes. No matter how often this had happened before, Touya hated being seen in that state of vulnerability by you, the only person he held dear in his life, the one thing he tried to protect at all cost. And in the end, it was you who protected him in these times of the night. It was you who would care for him, doing everything in your power to take his pain away. Touya leaned into you, his tired arms finding their way around your torso, clinging on to you like his life depended on it. And all you could do was cradle him in your arms, giving him some sense of security in those dark times. Only when his sobs and bloody tears had subsided, you carefully leaned back and kissed his temple before you let go of him, slowly, as not to scare him.

What followed had already developed into some sort of routine between the two of you. You hooked your arm around his torso, helping him to get up from the cold floor and sit on the edge of the bathtub. With some tissues that you grabbed from the counter, you wiped off the wet red tears and some leftover snot. You took a washcloth and dipped it under warm water so you could get rid of the already dried up remnants of sweat and blood on his face. Once his skin was clean, you gently dried his face off with a towel. You got a brand new bottle of painkillers from the cabinet, not daring to even consider the loose pills that lay discarded on the floor. After opening the container, you put a few of them into your hand. Touya slowly opened his mouth for you, a little wider than usual, thanks to a few missing staples around his lips. You placed the pills on his stitched tongue before reaching for the cup holding your toothbrush, putting the toothbrush aside, and filling the cup with some cold water. You placed the plastic cup against his lips, carefully lifting it as to make drinking easier for him. When he'd emptied the cup, a soft but nervous smile graced your lips. Both of you knew what was coming next, and neither of you liked it.

You gave him a small nod before your eyes roamed his face and body in search of any loose staples that he hadn't already ripped out of his skin in pure anger and despair. You went ahead and gently removed the excess metal, taking your time unhooking the pieces slowly and carefully from his skin. Then you grabbed the antiseptics from the counter, generously pouring the liquid over some of your cosmetic pads. Every time the soaked cotton made contact with his skin, you'd make sure to simultaneously lay your soft lips on his forehead in an attempt to soothe him and kiss his pain away. The ordeal had just begun, tho. You took the box of clean staples into your hand, fiddling around with it a moment longer than you had to, just to buy yourself some time to calm down your tense mind. Applying them was like your own personal nightmare, but you knew in this state he would never be able to do it himself. Touya tiredly lifted his hand to dig his fingers into the fabric of his shirt you were currently wearing, awaiting the pain, too exhausted to even consider flinching or pulling away. As for you, you tried to let your mind wander, thinking of every lovely memory you had of this man when you got to work.

A single tear that had slipped from your eye was wiped away with the back of your hand before you gave him a peck on top of his head as a reward, wordlessly praising him for being so brave once again. When you had checked his stapled skin for any other injury that might need some treatment or wrapping, you collected one of the containers of ointment from the floor. You scooped up a generous amount of the thick balm with your index and middle finger, coating both of your palms, before spreading it gently on his scarred and healthy skin. And then all that was left was cleaning up the chaos in the bathroom, while Touya sat there and waited patiently, his eyes lazily following your movement, feeling tired beyond belief. You picked up the mess from the tiled floor, tins and bottles going back into the cabinet or on the counter, dirty tissues, leftover staples, and stray pills right into the bin next to the sink. With an old cloth you kept for cleaning, you gave the blood-smeared tiles on the floor and wall a quick wipe down. You rinsed out the cloth, put it away, and washed your bloody hands before turning your attention back to him.

You assisted your weary boyfriend in getting up and led him out of the bathroom, over to your shared bed, where you aided him in slipping back into the sheets. Carefully laying down with him, you wrapped Touya in a loving embrace. His head was tucked underneath your chin, as your fingers combed through his soft, black-dyed hair until he was too exhausted to stay awake any longer, the repeating pattern of your fingers' motion slowly lulling him to sleep. The physical pain was long gone thanks to the pills you had fed him, the emotional one dulled by a delicate feeling of trust and being loved, something he'd longed for for so many years. And so Touya would fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep in your arms, no more nightmares interrupting his rest for the remainder of the night. Soon, your eyes felt droopy as well, your fingers ceasing their movement. You placed a gentle kiss on his hair and closed your eyes shut.

Nights like these left you to wonder how the world could call you villains when everyone else had failed Touya, when nobody else was there to help him ease his pain.

[that-one-weird-kid-from-school]

In this post from a few days ago, I made an eleven-part comment about a random, non-meaningful daydream about gore that the prospect of mousetraps really reminded me of, and now I'm putting them in a separate post so that I can easily look back to it.

Here it is:

To be honest, this is not so bad, getting killed by a trap-wise, our head gets hit by the metal bar and immediately gets crushed by the insane force, and before you even realize it, your brain has been pulverized by your own crushed skull.

That is if you're smart enough to put your head in there, it happened to me, like, a good five times, that my hand gets hit by the trap instead, when that happens, you don't die, your arm is unmistakably broken, and every second it hurts like it's in the process of being amputated, but you don't die.

And now you're trapped there, pinned by your arm underneath that metal pole, the shock from it all makes you too weak to lift this thing up to escape, so you just stay there and yell for anyone to help you, all the while a sadistic little bait sits right in front of you and watches you beg, after you calm down and finally accept your fate, he comes a little closer, and ends your suffering, because this mousetrap is supposed to be quick.

But like, that trap is a moment or a few hours long, it kinda depends on how stubborn you are, and people don't like the loud it makes and also the bloody mess it leaves behind, so they constantly give me, and I constantly fall for the glue mousetrap.

I make my way walking when I see Jevil standing over there, with a strange expression on his face and not touching the floor, but that's normal for Jevil; he is constantly flying, so I don't have any problem going to him to say hi.

But then, my foot steps on the glue and sticks to it, which causes me to lose balance and fall head-first into the glue, all my limbs are now impossible to lift up, no matter how much I try to move, I just can't do anything, and when I look up to Jevil for help, he just disappears, he doesn't want to involve himself in this, he doesn't want me to think that I have a single chance because this mousetrap is not supposed to be quick.

I try desperately to move, to wiggle my way out of this, because this is quite the uncomfortable pose to die in. Hours have passed with zero progress, and my body is plagued with exhaustion, but when there is nothing else to do, I might as well try a little bit more to see if anything happens.

Eventually, my body just can't take it any more, and I pass out, but the feeling of stickiness, the smell of glue, and the uncomfortable pose make my mind always think of that pesky mousetrap, so I can't have a moment of dream where I am somewhere else. But then, I wake up from an unpleasant feeling in my back; a bug has decided to use my blood as food, but this time, I can't shoo it away, so it keeps happily biting away at my flesh.

More time passes, and the number of bugs increases. The thing about bugs is that they mostly consume decay because the scent is quite strong and doesn't move or kill them; I am now one of those things.

The time keeps passing, the only thing I can think of is if maybe, at any moment, something will happen and I will be out of here, the stinging from the bites keeps me from having a restful sleep, and that weird feeling on a spot I scraped fore might be because someone played their larva in it.

The bug situation seems to be getting worse, but I'm not worried if they will become too painful because I will die of dehydration first, and I do; one day, I just don't realize that I closed my eyes, and I never bother to open them.

[itstheghostofmypast]

Hey babes, what's up? How you doing?

I'm... not that great actually. Grades are coming out, and I didn't do as well as I thought, so now my mom is calling me useless *family trauma go whee*. It's just that there is so much pressure to apply to foreign universities, which always involves having perfect grades, thousands of extracurriculars, fourteen start-ups, and a cure for cancer. I'm writing some fanfics right to kinda vent before I go back to studying...

BUT HOW ARE YOU? I MISSED YOU SMMM

Okay, so, I'm going to get straight to the point. It has been years. No, bloody generations and desi people ways are not going to change, so please don't let that get to you. Okay, so this is how it works, the older you get, the more complicated things become. Your personality, cognitive processing abilities and traits tend to lean towards whatever you are naturally good at- a thing most desi people do not understand (I am not hating on South Asian parents but it is a common trait). Though our parents are often like this because we come from deterministic countries where either being born rich or being smart enough to go abroad is considered as sucessful. Both these approaches are bullshit.

All my life I was the model A* kid of the entire family- you know what that got me in return? Cousins who hated me because their parents used me as an example for EVERYTHING and a childhood that is comprised of no hobbies, likes or dislikes, extracurriculars and actual friends. As I grew older, highschool came and even though I reached peak- my grades did not and boom: *Bloody useless* *God knows what happened to you* *You used to be a model student*.

To some extent I began to do everything to please others, since my grades weren't cutting it out for me anymore- hell I would even agree with what my 'friends' would say, only to be liked again. Gurl, I had people - my own friends- bully me for years, only because I thought, hey at least I have friends. My family wanted me to do engineering - yes, one of the three options all desi kids get. I could have, but at the end even though I got okayish grades enough to get me into an enginneeing college- my mental health was fked.

At the end, three brain docs later I was able to convince my parents how trivial these social pressures were- yes, I am grateful they agreed but even now, sometimes the desi vibes come out.

So, don't let your EXTENDED family or anyone else get to you. Hey, I came back on Tumblr bc writing makes me feel better, even if I PROCRASTINATE WITH THE REQUESTS.

Find a college/university that teaches what YOU WANNA DO- MOST UNIVERSITIES DGAF about what you got in subjects that aren't related to your degree, trust me.

Whatever happens, happens for the best, so- and try, just try to talk to your parents about chilling- or at least cooling down a bit- i know its risky but at least you'll know you tried and trust me, parents do think about things u say in the middle of the night. They are supposed to be your strength.

YOU NEED TO ENJOY THE MOMENT, MAKE IT ABOUT YOU, SCREW EVERYONE ELSE. IF YOU THINK YOU COULD'VE DONE BETTER, THEN YOU'LL DO BETTER NEXT TIME. BC SELF-REALISATION IS WHAT MATTERS. NOT STUPID ASS PAGAL PEOPLE LIKE BRO IM TELLING YOU PPL JUST EXIST TO PULL YOU DOWN AND YOU- Nah bruh you a whole ass bomb and YOU ARE ONE OF THE BRAVEST PEOPLE I HAVE EVER KNOWN. Do whatever you want- as long as it aint illegal or drugs, dont do that- But

F*** the haters

You deserve your peace of mind, everyone does. And family trauma is a part of you, a part that you will one day be able to supress and laugh at, because you know when you grow you wont be asking a kid named Salman or Ajay what grade he got in 4th grade math, you'll be more concered with if he's happy at school.

Ps: I love you, and missed you too and DONT BE SAD ABOUT STUPID IDIOTS- i messed up my last exam too but hey, as long as you and I are able to become GOOD, CIVIL AND USEFUL CITIZENS WHO CARE ABOUT OTHERS AND THE ENVIRONMENT, WHO CARES? NOBODY SHOULD CARE ABOUT WHAT THAT AUNTY OR UNCLE THINKS. PERIOD.

[jimothy-hopkins]

Meddling Kids. Part II.

WARNING! This contains mentions of heavy topics such as heavy drugs, EDs, and slut-shaming. This series is not intended for the faint of heart. Please read at your omen risk.

This is part II of Meddling Kids, I may make continuations in the future.

The suspicion ate away at Jimmy over the next few days. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d found. Questions kept piling up in his mind as he worked his brain for any possible answers.

Why did his bathroom smell like vomit?

Were the bloody tissues all just from the coke?

Why did he hate Alice/s girlfriend?

But above all, why did Edward Seymour II, of all people, have cocaine? And where did he get it?

That led Jimmy to where he was now, creeping into his best friend’s dorm in the middle of the night to steal his master key.

He laid low, bear crawling on the carpeted floor, slowly coming to a crouch and scanning the bed.

Pete was fast asleep.

Jimmy sighed in relief, carefully snatching the key to his nightstand before hurriedly shuffling out and closing the door behind him. He shuffled down the hall and out the front door. It was almost midnight, and the prefects didn’t stay out this late, especially with the freezing temperatures. He shivered as he jogged the distance to the dorms, stumbling to a halt at the front door.

Jimmy unlocked the door after nearly dropping the key, pushing his way in quietly but quickly shutting the door. He began to make his way down the hall. The cold darkness made him feel ghostly, weightless. Like he was in some sort of uncanny dream. His body followed the same path before it stopped at Edward’s bedroom door. Jimmy jeaned in, listening closely. Silence.

Carefully, Jimmy pulled the door open, closing it behind him as he looked around. The smell of vomit and expensive cologne came to torment him again. The lamp on Edward's bedside table was on, and the bed was empty and left a mess. Jimmy looked at the walls, trophies, and ribbons displayed with photographs. Edward was very accomplished, to say the least, especially in dressage, whatever that was.

Jimmy turned his attention to the bathroom. The door slowly opened to reveal a pale puffy-faced Edward in pajama bottoms. The pair made eye contact before their brains processed the situation.

“What the hell are you doing in my dorm Hopkins?” Edward demanded, standing upright and defensive.

“I want answers, glizzy gobbler,’ Jimmy growled.

“Excuse me?”

“What’d you do to Alice? Beat her up? Pay off someone to kill her? Or did you do something else, sick freak?” Jimmy interrogated, pacing around the older student like a lion.

“What? No!I would never lay my hands on a woman! Especially Alice!” Seymour yelled.

“Oh really? Cause it sounds like you decided if you couldn’t have her, no one else could.”

“Stop accusing me, Hopkins! I had nothing to do with her going missing.”

“Well, I need to know who does, and you’re gonna hack it up for me,” Jimmy ordered.

“You can’t make me do anything, Hopkins. I’m your prefect,” Edward argued.

“Is that so?” Jimmy raised a brow, storming to the dresser and yanking open the middle drawer, holding up the small bag of cocaine.

Edward locked eyes with Jimmy, mortified. The underclassman holding it up high above his head, furrowing his brows.

“It’s either the truth or I can let this whole damn town know that Edward Seymour the Ii is a fucking cokewhore,” Jimmy threatened.

Edward stumbled over his words a moment, unable to articulate a response.

“I’ll make this easy. Who’s your dealer?” Jimmy asked.

“I-I don’t know his name. He’s this sketchy guy with skeleton facepaint,”

“Has he been flaking out on you?”

“No, he’s always got it when I need it,” Edward answered.

Jimmy stared, watching as Edward began to crack. Any minute he would spill it all out. Just as Jimmy opened his mouth to speak, Edward interrupted him.

“Fuck, fine! I’m a slut! A coke addict! Bulimic! My cousin’s a fucking serial killer! Say whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care. I didn't kill her!” Edward yelled, pulling on his hair.

Jimmy blinked, jaw open as he took a moment to what was said.

“His, his name is Daniel Lamb. He escaped recently.” Edward breathed.

“Uh, thanks..” Jimmy mumbled, dropping the bag of cocaine as he walked out.

As Jimmy left, he heard the door slam and a loud sob from Edward’s room.

[introsla]

Chapter One: 2521

2018. Summer.

Swimming is the closest one can come to death without the finality. 

Underwater, the world is quiet – even when, by all means, it technically really shouldn’t be. Sound moves at a more than four times faster speed in water than through air. Below the surface, soundwaves pass directly through the water and right into your head. So, for all intents and purposes, water is a good conductor for sound. And yet, an upset mother’s cries to get out of the water, please do not reach you below the surface. The screams, the cheers, the cutting words all lose their bloody grip on the meat of your shoulder the moment your body submerges into the water. 

Because it’s not the world that goes suddenly silent. It’s the mind.

(Is there a difference? Is our world and our mind not one and the same?)

The moment you’re underwater, you forcibly stop the unconscious muscle movements of your breathing pattern. You hold your breath back. Your brain commands your body to stop the intakes of air, this constant, restless fight for the chemical element of survival. Your chest stays flat, unmoving, from sheer will only. 

After depriving yourself of this natural bodily function for much more than two minutes, the oxygen flow to the brain slowly begins to decrease – in turn, it’s the levels of carbon dioxide that increase in the body, just like it does when you’re going through the process of dying. 

It’s dizzying, disorienting. It’s calm. It’s scary. 

And still, people swim. They get in the water to go willingly through this artificial fight in the water. It’s kind of beautiful, the way several muscle groups of your body work together to push you through the water, forward, to push you for air, upward, to make you be, just for another moment longer. 

And another, and another, and another. End.

Maybe that’s the most crucial part of dying, too – surely perishing, but still, this most important fight remains, a fight to be. Just like when you’re swimming.

Every time Jeon Jungkook swims, it’s a little death. 

His head breaks the surface to draw a breath, and life, living returns with all its loudness for the short period of time it takes for his arm to travel a round from his waist up and over his head and push, to supply air for his heavy lungs for the next few strokes. For that short moment, shorter than a blink of an eye. And then — the quiet is finally back again.

Every time Jeon Jungkook swims, it’s a rebirth. 

The shrill of a whistle is the first sound welcoming him back to the land of the living when he finishes his laps. His fingers tap the coping as Jungkook’s head emerges from the water, feet finding support to keep him afloat on the slippery side wall of the pool. 

Three breaths in quick succession inhaled, and exhaled. It’s over. He may breathe now. Breathe without thinking, breathe without restraint — it takes a bit to get used to after he spends so long in control.

“Jeon, 51.21,” a voice calls from somewhere above Jungkook on the poolside. A pair of black sneakers, untied and the laces tucked carelessly into the sides, contrast the pale blue tiles of the natatorium as they enter Jungkook’s field of vision. “Slow. Way too slow for you.”

Jungkook does the curtesy of giving a frustrated huff. Way too slow for him. It’s almost more maddening than being way too slow in general. 

Having gone through many coaches in his arguably short lifetime (Your perception of age gets a bit messed up when you’re an athlete — Jungkook’s only twenty-one, and his mother still treats him like a small child, his friends still invite him out to party like irresponsible high-schoolers without a perception of tomorrow, when career-wise, Jungkook statistically should’ve already entered his top-elite performance period of 5 years. He has those 5 years, then he’s old. Late. Despite barely having earned his civil right to vote, when he’s in the pool, Jungkook feels at least 40.) from the lady who taught him basic strokes at the age of 5 in the Busan suburbs, to the coach who signed him up for his first ever competition in elementary school, to the man he spent more time with during his high school years than actually sitting in classrooms studying, Jungkook knows all of his clues by heart now. 

Praise? A smile, but no too proud, never ever cocky — after all, he’s done what’s expected. Just be grateful for the verbal confirmation.

Constructive criticism? Respect, and an affirmation of understanding, but not too loud, not too confident, never defiant, he’s not the one with the expertise after all, not the one who knows better. A promise to deliver, to listen.

Negative feedback? Remorse and shame. Frustration, but only in your own shortcomings — never annoyance. No tears. No excuses. Just taking the words in a stride, no matter what phonemes they’re made up of, no matter their tone, welcoming the consequences of your own doing with open arms and determination to strive for better.

By now, Jungkook learned to not allow himself more than a grunt in the last situation. That’s expressive enough, non-confrontational enough.

“What’s going on with you? Huh?”

Words of a text message that has appeared on his cellphone screen this morning cross Jungkook’s mind. It doesn’t matter. Or: it does, it matters, it weights terribly heavy — but Jungkook can’t let it drag him down to the pool floor like a boulder of problems chained to his ankles. He shakes his head to regain some of that blissful, mind-clearing silence he was surrounded by less than a minute ago while underwater, but the voice has already continued:

“Your results are on their way of getting worse than when you got Taereung, Jungkook,” the voice sighs. Unpleasant to Jungkook’s ears, like a fork scratching on porcelain plates. Jungkook’s going to be sick. “A month. We leave for Jakarta in a month.”

“I know,” Jungkook mumbles.

When he feels like he can breathe again normally, when he doesn’t feel thirsty for it anymore, like a person who’s allowed the privilege of air, Jungkook removes his swimming goggles, tosses them next to the pair of black sneakers. Without the blue tint of the plastic covering his eyes, the fluorescent lights above the pools are almost blinding as they reflect from the surface of the water, from the blue tiles, as they shine down on him — he suddenly feels like he’s on a stage, like he’s naked to the soul, and he sinks a bit deeper into the water, submerged to the chin.

Jungkook doesn’t have to look up to know what he’s going to see. Regardless, his gaze lifts from the pair of black sneakers, skims over the navy sweatpants and the zip-up pullover, the yellow whistle like a beacon of light against them, until it lands on Coach Lee’s face. 

Jungkook finds exactly what he thought he’s going to. 

Coach Lee’s brows furrowed in a troubled frown. Disappointment, maybe? Definitely careworn. But Jungkook can take all of it as long as he doesn’t find regret. 

“What are your thoughts on that, Jungkook-ah?”

Jungkook cannot be truthful. That’s not in the cards for an athlete. 

If he admits his worry, it’s just another thing to hold against him. Worry is awareness. Awareness should be motivation, a paved road to fixing things. 

Jungkook is aware, standing idly around the corner. So why is he still so fucking slow?

What are your thoughts on that, Jungkook? Thoughts, he unfortunately has plenty. But his head is so full of them there’s no way to possibly dissect one thing from another, relation, cause-consequence, and it feels like the only thing that’s keeping all of them from spilling out or simply exploding is this stupid silicone cap on his head, and the strain of it is way too painfull — maybe he took an old one that has been too small for him for ages out of his drawer before practise by accident, and he wants to take it off. But uncovered hair is not allowed in the pools, and he can’t take it off anyways, because — 

He’s tired, isn’t he? Too anxious, too aware. That’s the problem. 

Why are you so slow? 

He’s tired. Tired of Junghoon. Tired of the shop. Tired of Shinhan. 

But these are answers that require too many steps to get for them to make sense, Jungkook’s not even sure they make sense at all, and the journey doesn’t matter, anyways, not here. 

Results matter. Numbers do. So—

“I’ll do better,” Jungkook, and he finds that he doesn’t know if he means it. If it were up to him only, maybe he would — Jungkook tries, he’s constantly trying. But it feels like this promise is not his to give anymore. “I’ll get better. By Jakarta, I’ll be better.”

Jungkook misses the entrance to the pool opening and closing as his eyes zero in on the tug in the corner of Coach Lee’s lips. Unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but Jungkook’s survival depends on being able to read every twitch and jerk of a coach’s body. It’s not a smile. It’s a tired curl, a bit self-deprecating and full of irony, if Jungkook’s not mistaken. And he rarely is.

All Coach Lee says is; “Right.”

One simple word, nothing more than an affirmation of understanding, but its message is clear. Faith, invested in him, is something Jungkook still had not completely lost yet. 

That is when Jungkook finally notices him in the corner of his eyes, but in his defence, it’s generally hard to do so these days. To notice him. A black mess of limbs, and hair, and pale, spotless skin, lingering behind Coach Lee a good fifteen steps, barely in the room. From this far, Jungkook can’t see if he’s even breathing. 

Wouldn’t be a surprise if he wasn’t. He has spent way too much time in water. Maybe he doesn’t know how to, anymore. Nowadays, this figure is most likened to a ghost, silently haunting the corridors of the Training Center — known, but never seen. Not anymore. 

Jungkook only knew he was here — the here in question being somewhere at Taereung. And of course he did, with the man’s return being the most buzzing gossip the swimming team had received throughout this entire spring season, every aspect of it discussed and analysed over and over again so many times in changing rooms, in cafeterias, during illicit get-togethers in somebody’s dorm room, that there’s nothing left of it by now but the gnawned bone. But if Jungkook thinks about it, and suddenly he is thinking about it, he hasn’t seen any of Min Yoongi since they got out of the pool in Rio, the summer before last. 

Bu the man standing before Jungkook now, half obstructed in his field of vision by Coach Lee’s legs because he still hasn’t moved an inch, is not one Jungkook recognises. All the evidence of this being who Jungkook thinks it is are the letters MIN, in a bold white, written above the flag over his right breast on the black zipper-up he’s wearing. 

“Yoongi-yah,” Coach Lee calls. As if on command, like that’s what he has been waiting for all this time, Min Yoongi steps forward, face impassive. Not controlled, just simply clear of anything. He shoots Jungkook a look as he walks up to the edge of the pool to stand in line with Coach Lee, but it lacks curiosity. It’s more like an acknowledgement — a greeting, if Jungkook wishes to delude himself a little. “You’re late.”

Min Yoongi stays quiet, but his lips flatten into a kind of awkward straight line for a momently, a mockery of a smile, but maybe that’s all the remorse expected from fallen stars. Coach Lee doesn’t look particularly shaken or interested.

“Okay. Well, I believe I don’t have to make introductions.” Coach Lee claps his to hands together, like a job well-done, like he does when practise is over and Jungkook feels something Pavlovian within himself to start pushing his body out of the water. If he were a priest, it might’ve even been prayer. He shoots a loaded look, first at Jungkook, then at Min Yoongi. “I also believe that this partnership will prove to be quite… mutually beneficial, let’s just say.”

As he’s sitting on the edge by the feet of those two, legs caressed by the soft waves due to the pool’s circulation system, Jungkook won’t pretend he’s not quite confused by the sudden situation at hand. But — not his call. 

///

Within the Korean swimming community, and maybe that’s somewhat downplaying its magnitude, Min Yoongi is known — under many codenames, as many things. 

The first thing he was known as, since the moment he took his first breath and cried out upon his souls arrival to this life, is being Kang Junghwa’s son. Eldest, only. Poseidon’s Daughter, Kang Junghwa was nicknamed by the press in her prime, a mere working-class girl married to the middle son of the chaebol Min family, though that’s definitely the least notable of her achievements when she’s a 23 times Olympic medalist, the youngest ever to win the Gold in 100m freestyle, a record that was broken only by own her son later down the line. 

So maybe it’s fate that Min Yoongi ended up a swimmer, a fucking great swimmer at that, but Jungkook wouldn’t know. Some people inherit the family business, a trucking company or a chicken shop downtown. Min Yoongi inherited the weight of medals around his neck. 

One could say that Min Yoongi spent more of his lifetime in water than on dry ground, and probably wouldn’t be too far off the bet. Coached by his own mother since infancy, he qualified for his first Asian Games — Busan 2002 — at the mere age of nine, and although he didn’t bring anything home that week, being the youngest athlete in the league was enough of a feat to make everyone glue their eyes right onto him. 

Jungkook remembers being five, and watching Min Yoongi on the telly after he got home from pre-school. It was that summer that he started going to swimming classes — and when asked if it was because he was mesmerised by the way a boy barely older than him was gliding through the water as if he was just another current traveling in it, well, Jungkook would say; only partly. He also remembers his mother shrieking as she put down the telephone behind the counter at the seafood shop that evening, because an order just came in under Kang Junghwa’s name to some fancy hotel in the city center. 

That evening, Min Yoongi became yet another thing. It was the birth of a legend, maybe. The Hope of Korean Swimming, the press said, and maybe that sounds a little bit dramatic, but at the end of the day, that’s the point of tabloid journalism. 

And for a while, Min Yoongi made good by that prophecy. 

His first Olympics, he finished within the final ten. His second, he shot straight to the center top of the podium, and from that point on his skin wasn’t touched by anything less worthy than gold. 

The Hope of Korean Swimming came and took over like a violent storm at sea, became a prevailing monarch at the scene, and the newspaper cut-out of the podium at Beijing 2008 became an intimate secret between Jungkook and his locker at his high-school’s swimming pool. 

Then, it happened 2 years ago, in Rio de Janeiro, when Min Yoongi became one another thing. 

It was the first Olympics Jungkook has qualified for. He has been training at the National Training Center for a little short of two years at that point, having been recruited for the national team the spring he started his final year in high school. His mother had called it simple stroke of good luck — the male swimmers in the top 30 of the national ranking were invited to train at Taereung. 

Jungkook ranked 31st. 

Then, the 18th was pulled out — a doping scandal, handled on the down-low, made the spots move, and in retrospect, maybe Jungkook should have started to count his blessings and hold onto his good luck at that point. 

Before Rio, the closest he came to Min Yoongi was sharing a wall with him at the dorms, though he doubts the older boy was aware. Of the shared wall, maybe even of Jungkook himself. Stars are hard to make contact with for those only existing in their axis, after all, and he rarely joined group trainings, retreating instead to a lane on the side with his mother. 

Jungkook swam three lanes away from him while they trained tirelessly in Seoul, and also while they fought through the waters of Rio. So close yet so far away for so long, and it’s a miracle that’s beyond him still that Jungkook somehow still happened to be the first one to get there to catch Min Yoongi’s unconscious body when he had collapsed after the race. Today, Jungkook remembers the weight of the older boy in his arms more than he does of the Bronze around his neck. 

Jungkook doesn’t know the full details. Sure, he knows Taereung gossip, but ultimately, he was no smarter than what the initial (and only) press release had disclosed: rotator cuff tendon tear. Career-ending injury. May never make full recovery. Announced immediate resignation from competitive sports. 

With that, it was as if Min Yoongi had vanished into thin air. Not as if he had never even existed at all — he was still present in the team photo that’s hung in the Training Center’s locker room, he was still the first suggestion when you start typing M-I-N Y- on Naver, his name was still uttered like a prayer by little boys and girls in swimming trunks who dare to dream or by patriotic ajusshis sitting over a bottle of soju on a Friday evening. You can’t disappear when you’re part of history.

But his room at Taereung was packed up by the time Jungkook’s flight home touched down at Incheon, locker pristine and empty, his usual lane now used by Jung Hoseok, Kang Junghwa resigned from training to continue tending to his son, and Coach Lee’s attention shifted on Jungkook, of all people. The one of the only two who had come home with a medal in his suitcase, and the only one who did that in one piece.

And just like that, Min Yoongi became a supernova, a star who was born, shined, and died an explosive death. And for a while, it seemed like that was the last title to be attached to his name, if you discount the absurd mockery of locker room gossip. 

Then dropped the newest, maybe the most unexpected one — Jeon Jungkook’s coach. 

(Jeon Jungkook himself can’t quite yet decide how exactly that makes him feel.)

Continue on Ao3

[bloody-rocks]

Hello! Hope is not disturbing you but could I request the Slashers (mainly Jason, Thomas, Vincent, and Michael) with a s/o that gets angry and lashes at them and after start crying and apologizes like "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you" or "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to tell at you!"

Please and thank you, sorry if it's a little confusing 💓🦋

Thank you for this new request <3! Also no worries you're not disturbing me

—————————————

Characters:Jason Voorhees,Thomas Hewitt,Vincent Sinclair,Michael Myers

The slashers with an s/o that gets angry at them but apologize after

Jason Voorhees

You probably started the day in a bad mood,and Jason leaving take care of tresspasers didnt make it better

Youd occupy yourself with some work around the cabin,maybe even outside but not too far incase you met a tresspaser

The day went on and Jason came leaving a mess due to all the dirt he had on his shoes

Thats when something just switched and you lashed out at him telling him that he couldve taken his shoes off before he entered

He tried gesturing in a way to apologize and turning to the door to leave his shoes there,but due to your anger you didnt realize his intention

Thinking hes gonna leave you apologized ,tears running down your cheeks

"I didnt mean to lash out I'm sorry" Hed turn around and let you wrap your arms around him,while you told him that you didn't start your day well

He'd forgive you fast understanding due to the fact that he himself wakes up from time to time with a bad mood

Thomas Hewitt

You we're in the kitchen cooking something,Luda Mae was in town Thomas was doing some work outside, it were only you and Hoyt

Hoyt started making some rude remarks randomly,but you didnt respond and just ignored him as usual until he said something that really upset you,something that was harsher than usual

He left you there at one point,going outside to do some work while Thomas was coming inside

He made his presence known by letting out a loud grunt

In the fit of anger you just let out a loud "What???" catching him off guard,and even scaring him a bit

When you turned around and realized It was Thomas you felt bad,even if you were upset that didnt mean you had to take it out on him out of all people

"God baby I'm sorry I didnt mean to yell at you"Youve said leaving on the counter whatever you were working on,approaching him with your arms open

He took you in a bear hug, both of you staying silent

Vincent Sinclair

You went in the house,nose bloody from a visitor escaping Bo's grasp and in the process of doing so they punched you

Vincent was in his workroom at the time it happened ,but now he was in front of you worried trying to wipe the blood off your face

"GOD Vincent I can do this myself" You let out before harshly grabbing the wet cloth from his hand, you sat down wiping all the blood off and keeping the cloth to your nose incase more came out

Vincent soon went back to his workroom,not wanting to bother you after his attempt to patching you up

You could hear him going down the stairs,until you heard nothing letting your brain process what happened

Soon standing up and walking down in the basement worried due to being harsh to Vincent despite him only wanting to help

"Vincey I'm sorry I didnt mean to scare you"You said approaching him,wrapping your arms around him from the back,he tensed at the touch

but shortly after continuing his work on the wax figure in front of him

Michael Myers

So,,,,,you're you're yelling at him? Oh boy just expect a ominous figure looming over your,He does not take this kind of behaviour even if you were upset at something

You're quick to apologize but you were met with a sigh from him ,and him leaving probably to hunt someone down to clear his mind

Once hes back he'd feel a bit bad for just leaving you there,but don't except him to come to you on his knees begging for you to forgive him.

Hed acknowledge that he didnt react 'maturely' by leaving you while you were trying to apologize so he'd probably make it up by letting you cuddle up to him more when youre going to sleep or sleep on the couch if youre still upset

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First attempt at writing Michael,still not pleased but not displeased?either