#breakable vases

[ghirahimbo]

hi, sorry, how is this on someone's list of playroom inspiration??

[qveenofthefullmoon]

When the blog says DNI but you are tempted to, you know, interact.

[bluedestinybluebird]

Outburst-y October

I really should set a timer for complaining, and then try to move on with my life, because the state-of-the-art of my emotional management right now is terrifying.

[lowkeyerror]

The Family Business Ch.1

WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Ch Notes: Minor character death, Near death experience, Parental Neglect/Abuse, Graphic descriptions of violence

Summary: The passing of your older brother forever changed your relationship with your parents. After a particularly brutal incident with your mother, the Maximoffs welcome you into their home.

An: It's been a minute, but I said I was coming back with a vengeance. I've already got multiple chapters of this drafted so be ready for weekly releases. Thanks for sticking around and I hope you enjoy this series!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Often the word delicate is used interchangeably with fragile. The only main difference is an obvious and inherent beauty that comes with something delicate. Something fragile on the other hand is viewed as predominantly breakable. Glass is fragile while a flower is delicate. Some items have a duality to them like a vase or feelings.

You were fragile.

Not entirely frail, there was some strength to your bones. It was more so from your unwillingness to be perceived as weak than anything else that kept you semi-strong. You were aware that life could be unkind, but also knew that it took pity on no one. There would be no exceptions made for you, no matter how much your mind craved it.

You were young when you learned the cruelty of life. The memory lives in your mind as clearly as the day it happened. It was summer, the sun was high in the sky, beaming down ferociously on your hometown. It was well over 90 degrees, the perfect weather for swimming. Your parents suggested that you and your brother get in the pool to cool off.

Lucas was wearing blue trunks while you had on a black and white one piece. He was 12 and you were 8, merely children. Left unsupervised, you played in water as you always had with each other.  You couldn’t swim so you always stayed on the shallow side of the pool.

After spending the majority of the day in the pool, you wanted to get out. You hoisted yourself out of the pool by the side, instead of going to the steps. You were successful in getting out of the pool. It was walking along the side of the pool that made you slip. Your head hit the cement and you felt your body hit the water.

You couldn’t recall much from there. The rest had been recounted to you more times than you could remember. You sank 12 feet to the bottom of the pool. Lucas hadn’t noticed immediately but once he did, he sprang into action.

He could swim, but he wasn’t a strong swimmer. Regardless he swam to the bottom of the pool to retrieve you. He found you there unconscious blood surrounding the water by your head. On the darkest days you speculated about the moment he knew that he was losing air.

He was only 12, but he used his strength to get you out of the water. You had laid on the cement unconscious, while your brother passed out in the pool water. By the time your parents decided to check on you, your head was resting in a puddle of its own blood on the concrete and your brother was face down in the pool.

They called 911 and by some miracle, you had survived. Lucas didn’t make it. You could never forget the look on your parents’ face when they told you. The pity in your father’s eyes and the hatred in your mother’s.

You could recall nearly every time your mother said you killed your brother. It was her favorite thing to throw in your face. She said it so much that it was hard not to believe it.

Your father would argue with her for talking to you this way. It never led to anything other than a screaming match between the two. It only took a few months for divorce papers to be filed. With the divorce papers came a nasty custody battle. The courts decided on 50/50 as your mother became the actress of the century claiming that she couldn't stand to lose another child.

Handling her cruelty forced you to toughen up. The words she spoke to you were nothing compared to the violence she inflicted against you. The bruises were endless with her. Even when you grew taller and stronger than her, she'd taken to throwing things at you.

When you were with your father things were calmer, but he worried a lot. So, you spent a lot of time alone when you stayed with him. It was better than your mother's and you were always grateful for that even though you wished he was more present.

The only thing that helped soften your reality was your friend Pietro. You met him in high school. He knew about everything. He was your only friend, the only person who had taken a liking to your semi-stoic personality. You were by no means an open book, but Pietro showed that he could be trusted. So, you found yourself telling him about your life.

He hated the way you lived. Any time he could, he’d invite you to his place to remove you from your situation. You gladly took his house as a safe haven. His family was affluent. He lived in a home with too many rooms to count. It was a stark difference from either of your parents homes. His family was also the most caring group of people you had ever known. It was evident after the first few visits that they had taken quite a liking to you.

It took you a long time to understand just how much the Maximoff’s cared for you. There was one instance that solidified how much you meant to them.

“Y/n, come over later tonight. Mama misses you, she said she'd make your favorite,” the then 16-year-old Pietro commented as you exited school grounds.

“I’ll try, but this is my mom’s week.”

Pietro frowned, “That just means you should come over earlier.”

You gave him a sad smile, “You know I want to, it’s just- you know how she is.”

His jaw clenched, “Abusive.”

Your gaze lingered on the floor. You heard him sigh loudly before you felt his arms wrapped securely around you. His chin rested on top of your head as he hugged you like you were going to disappear. You fight the urge to say that you were sorry, he hated when you apologized for no reason.

“I’m sorry, you know I just don't want you getting hurt,” he mumbles into your hair.

“I know,” your voice was smaller than you liked it to be. Pietro always found a way to show your more vulnerable side.

He released the hug and looked at you with soft eyes, “Be safe, Y/n.”

You nodded curtly, “I will.”

The walk home was as anxiety provoking as it always was. Dread filled your body as you approached the run-down apartment complex. You tried to be quiet as you entered your mother’s apartment.

“Well, where have you been all day?” You knew that tone indicated that your mother was already drunk.

“School,” you answered shortly, attempting to continue to your room.

“Don’t walk away when I'm talking to you,” her words made you freeze in your tracks.

There was venom in her glare as she looked at you, “Lucas would've been in his second year of college this year, if you weren't so fucking careless.”

You inhaled slowly, knowing there was nothing you could respond to her with.

“Probably would've been top of his class. He would've had friends and a girlfriend, but because of you he's been rotting in the ground for 8 years because of you.”

You balled up your hands into fists, digging your nails into the skin of your palm. You needed something to ground you, to keep you from crying as your mother continued to speak.

“If he could see you now, he would regret saving your life. You’re stupid, you’re ugly, and you’re disgusting. Still dressing like a little boy at your age, like the sinner I know you are.”

You couldn’t hold your tongue, “He wouldn't even recognize you, you drunk piece of shit.”

She slapped you, “Don’t you dare speak to me like that.”

Your cheek stung and your gaze hit the floor.

“You should've died instead. You’re hardly even a girl, we could've had another daughter.”

You couldn't take it anymore. Walking away from her, you went to your room.  She followed you, but that didn't deter you from throwing all of your things into a duffle bag.

“Where do you think you're going?”

You ignored her and continued to grab the things you cared for.  She screamed more as you packed but you didn't give her an answer. Once you were done, she was stood in your doorway with a wild look in her eyes.

“Leaving,” is all you said as you roughly pushed past her.

“Did you just put your hands on me?”

Her tone was hysterical. You kept moving through the apartment calmly.  It wasn’t until she threw a glass bottle at the wall near you that you flinched. It shattered right by your head. Glass shards flew towards your face, and you felt one slice through your cheek.

You weren’t stunned by her actions. She had done this before in her drunken rage. The glass shattering was just what she needed to get within arms reach of you. Her bony fingers wrapped around your wrist tightly. You hissed at the feeling, knowing there would be bruising.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” she attempted to pull you back, but you were stronger than her.

You pried her fingers off of your wrist. The freedom didn’t last for long as she grabbed a fistful of your hair, using it to slam you backwards onto the ground. While you were on the ground, she kept one hand wrapped in your hair as she started to stomp and kick you.

The pain was immense. You struggled against her, trying to find her hand that was holding your hair. When you found it, you grabbed her arm similarly to how she had grabbed yours. You squeezed as hard as you could, and you heard her shriek. Her grip on your hair dropped and as soon as it did you pushed the woman away from you.

“No one wants you; no one cares about you. You don’t even have anywhere to go, you worthless fucking murderer,” your mother stood still where you pushed her to. She tried to bluff you and you knew it.

“Anywhere is better than here,” you rushed for the door.

She threw one more bottle near the exit and you felt a sharp pain in your side, but you kept moving. Your entire body was burning, but you didn’t stop moving.

You let your feet carry you until you realized you were standing in front of the Maximoff’s house. Usually, you'd text Pietro and he'd get the door for you, but instead you rapidly knocked on the door before ringing the bell.

You didn't wait too long before the door swung open, revealing Pietro’s older sister, Wanda. She looked happy to see you until she noticed your state.  She gasped silently before gently pulling you into the house. You could hear the light family chatter happening in the dining room.

Wanda took your bag from you and led you to the rest of the family. Fear coursed through your veins as your heart started to pick up speed. You didn’t want them to see you like this. Wanda sensed this shift in you and spoke.

“We’re going to help, I promise,” her words were few but there was a conviction in them.

You took a deep breath and let her take you into the room with the others. When they saw you, the chatter stopped. Your eyes locked on to Pietro’s. There was a fire in his eyes as he looked at you.

His voice was shaky as he spoke, “She did this to you?”

That’s all it took for you to burst into tears. You collapsed into Wanda’s arms, and she held you upright.

“Wanda, Flora, take her upstairs get her cleaned up and prep a room for her. Pietro, come with me,” Dragos softly ordered his wife and kids.

Without much effort Wanda picked you up and carried you to the upstairs bathroom, her mother trailed behind her. Wanda sat you on the bathroom counter before rummaging through a few cabinets.

“Mama, I can patch her up while you get the room ready,” Wanda said, already prepping to help you.

Flora left the room, leaving just you and Wanda. You were hardly there; your eyes were cloudy as Wanda looked into them. She could tell you were far away.

“Y/n, I need to know where you’re hurt. I see you’ve got a cut on your face and some bruising on your arm, anything else sweetheart?”

You were hesitant and Wanda saw you fiddling with the end of your shirt. Her hands were delicate as they rested on top of yours, “You’re hurt under there?”

You nodded slightly.

“Can I take a look?” Her eyes looked into yours begging for permission.

You lifted the shirt up not only to reveal a bruise forming but a shard of glass sticking out of your side. It was like seeing the glass triggered something in you as more tears began flooding down your face.

“I’m going to fix it ok, sweetheart. You can trust me. It might hurt a little, but you’ll feel loads better after.”

The most painful part was Wanda removing the glass. Your hands gripped the counter until your knuckles were turning white. The red head talked you through everything she was doing, which gave you a little comfort. She also praised you for being as still as possible as she knew how much this was hurting. Though she imagined it wasn’t worse than the wounds being inflicted.

Once she was done, you felt a lot better. You could tell that she wanted to ask you something by the way her eyes wouldn’t leave your figure.

“Y/n?”

Your eyes locked on to her eyes. They were a soft green tone; they held a certain warmth to them. It was easy to get lost in them.

You hummed in response to her.

“Can I ask, what happened?”

Your thumb tapped the pads of your fingers and you focused on them as you answered Wanda, “My mom got mad at me because I wanted to leave. “

You saw Wanda’s jaw clench and it was almost identical to Pietro’s from earlier in the day, “She’s never going to lay a finger on you again.  We’re going to protect you.”

Leaning forward slightly you rested your head on her shoulder. She smelled good and it calmed your nerves. She let you stay in that position until there was a knock on the door.

“I brought some pajamas and towels for a shower. Do you think you'll need help or can I steal this one for a moment,” Mrs.Maximoff peaks through the door.

Wanda looked at you for an answer, “I can do it myself.”

The older woman sent you a small smile, “Very good dear. Just holler if you need anything.”

Wanda paused before she exited the bathroom, “After your shower I'm going to bandage your torso, ok? Be gentle around the tender areas.”

“Thank you, Wanda,” she smiled at your words and left at that.

When you were finally alone with your thoughts, your tears began to fall again. You let the hot water of the shower cascade down your back. The stinging sensation felt good on your skin. The words your mom said were echoing through your head. You knew they wouldn't be going away any time soon.

While you showered Pietro gave his family some insight into your life. He had told them your brother died in an accident and your mother blamed you. He spoke briefly about your father’s busy working schedule but went into details about your mother’s abuse.

Even the short version of events was heartbreaking to the family.

Flora met her husband’s eyes, “She can’t go back there Dragos.”

He nodded his head in agreement, “She’s not.”

There was a dangerous look in Wanda’s gaze, “What’re we going to do about that bitch?”

Dragos looked at his daughter with a slight smile on his lips, “We’re going to take care of her. She’s not going to bother Y/n, ever again, unless she's got a death wish.”

“If she’s going to stay here, she needs to know the truth,” Pietro said looking down at the table.

“What good would that do her? She’s already had enough,” Wanda defended.

Pietro’s glare matched Wanda’s, “She’s my best friend and we all know there’s a danger that comes with being in this household. If she’s at risk to be hurt, then she deserves to know, and I will tell her.”

“We can keep her safe without her knowing,” Wanda argued back.

“I am not lying to her,” Pietro said with finality.

Wanda scoffs, “You have for all this time, what’s the difference?”

Pietro slammed his fist down on the table, “I would’ve told her from the start if it was an option. She has barred her soul to me, entrusted me with her deepest fears and secrets, you don’t know her like I do.”

“I know she came here barely able to talk, a piece of glass lodged in her side, a cut under her eye, her entire midsection is a bruise. “

“That doesn't mean she doesn’t deserve to know the truth.”

Neither of them was backing down.

“The truth about what?”

The family shifted their attention to you. Pietro crossed his arms over his chest while looking at his family expectantly. Wanda turned her attention to her father to see what he would do.

It was actually Flora who spoke, “Y/n if you’re going to be staying with us there is something we must tell you dear.”

Pietro started, “Remember when you saw my house for the first time and asked what my parents did?”

Wanda rolled her eyes at Pietro’s prolonging of the situation, “Y/n we’re a part of a crime syndicate.”

Dragos quickly corrected Wanda, “We aren’t just a part of it. I’m in charge of it. We aren't so bad either, we do a lot for the community.”

You wanted to laugh, but they looked so serious. They were waiting for your reaction, but you were still processing. This clearly wasn't a joke.

“Ok,” was all that you could muster up.

“Do you get what we’re saying dear?”

You nodded slowly. “You’re criminals,” your eyes cut over to your best friend, “All of you?”

Pietro tore his eyes away from you.

Wanda saw the hurt in her brother’s eyes and tried to take over, “Beyond criminals, Y/n we’re the same Maximoff family that you know. We care about you and your safety. We would never let any harm come to you.”

“Do I have to be involved with that stuff?” You questioned.

The family all eyed Dragos, seemingly searching for an answer of their own. His eyes met yours, “I will never make you do anything you don't want to do. However, if this is something you're interested in all you have to do is ask.”

You took in a deep breath, before exhaling, “Thank you for letting me stay.”

Flora shook her head, “You’re family Y/n.”

For once that night you held back the tears. You let Wanda redress your wounds and then went to bed. Sleep came easier than it should’ve, you believed the Maximoff's when they said you were safe. That was the first time in your life where you felt delicate and not fragile. However, things change consistently, and life moves fast, even faster when you’re entangled with the biggest crime family in New York City.

[multific]

At First Sight

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Requested by @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl

Summary: Aemond was angry when he heard of the news of his betrothal. He didn't want to marry, especially not someone he assumed to be a spoiled princess who only wanted his name. 

Aemond was absolutely furious. 

His mother would let him marry a princess who isn't even a Targaryen. 

Unheard of!

She must have gone insane!

"It is for the best. Her family has a great reputation and it will ensure a good future for you and for our family." Alicent argued. 

But Aemond didn't want to hear any of it. He was furious.

Every breakable object in his room was now completely destroyed.

No one dared to enter his room. 

He picked up another vase and threw it against the wall. The water in it and the flowers flying everywhere.

"A pureblood prince like me, marrying some Princess from a land... disgusting! How can Mother think this is a good idea?!" there was a knock on his door. "Who is it?!" he yelled, but as his mother came into his room, Aemond sank back into his chair.

"Aemond, throwing a tantrum will not change my or your father's mind. As I have explained, this marriage is important to the family. And it is final."

said Alicent before she left the room. Two servers arrived to clean the room while the Prince headed outside for some fresh air. 

---

Aemond knew you were in the castle.

His bride arrived and he refused to go meet her. 

Like a stubborn child he sat in his room. His mother had to make up an excuse about him wanting it to be a surprise to meet with his bride.

Aemond was still fuming. He couldn't be reasoned with. He knew his duties and he knew he should have expected this to happen, yet he was still extremely against this arranged marriage.

Knowing that tomorrow he would be married to this stranger, to this woman he didn't even want to see... it disgusted him.

You on the other hand were excited.

You heard many great things about House Targaryen, and you were thrilled to be handed to such a prince.

You were sad that upon your arrival, Prince Aemond wasn't present, but his brother was, and he was handsome enough. 

Of course, initially, when your mother informed you of this marriage, you weren't so happy, but you also knew your duties.

And tomorrow, you will be married to Prince Aemond.

---

The next day started off rather hectic. You were washed and dressed for what seemed like hours.

But the servants talked.

They always talked.

And you heard many things about Prince Aegon, and Prince Aemond. Their description of the family wasn't even close to how people saw the family outside the castle.

According to them, Aegon was nothing but a drunk who enjoyed women way too much. To the point where a young servant had to leave the castle. And Aemond was a cold person with only one eye. Aparently both princes were jealous of the other. Aegon wished for his mother's love as much as Aemond wished for the crown. 

As you heard the girls talk, you smirked, because of course they weren't as perfect as they made it out to be! Of course, Queen Alicient played her part.

You weren't sure what a family with Dragons would want from yours though. 

The only thing your Kingdom had were great soldiers, but surely dragons were better.

Your thought was cut short when your dress was finally on. You looked at yourself as one girl put the veil over your face.

"You look lovely Princess!" all of them said and you smiled and thanked them.

---

Aemond stood proud as he awaited his bride.

His anger was still not gone, but he managed to calm himself a little bit.

After his mother introduced him to the King and Queen, Aemond was ready to get this day over with.

Soon, his Princess was standing next to him as you both made your vows.

Aemond now moved to remove your veil and as he lifted it, his eye locked with yours. You had a smile on your face.

The first thought that ran through his head was how absolutely beautiful you were. Your bright smile seems to have filled the room.

He leaned down and placed a quick kiss on the corner of your lips before you were officially pronounced wife and husband.

Aemond's mind was filled with you. Your face, hair, dress, how soft your skin was, how amazing your lips felt against his, as he ran his finger over his lips, he could swear he still felt it.

And just how beautiful your eyes were, he nearly got lost in them for too long.

---

The entire Kingdom celebrated.

Aemond rolled his eyes at his brother who was already drunk. 

Aemond looked around the people, his mother speaking with yours but speaking of who. 

Where were you?

Did you already run away with another man?

No, you weren't the kind. 

Aemond decided to get some fresh air and he headed to the gardens where he knew it would be quiet. 

And to his surprise, after turning a corner, he found you.

Sitting on a bench in your nice dress.

Aemond had to be honest, you were absolutely stunning. 

But then, as you looked up, you noticed him.

"Oh, My Prince. I apologise for disappearing. I am, unfortunately, not a big fan of crowds and loud noises." you stood up as he watched you bow your head.

"I, myself, also came to get some peace and quiet." he admitted as he walked closer to you. "Please, sit down if you wish." and you did, while offering a small smile to him.

"I'm rather nervous, My Prince."

"Why?" Aemond sat down next to you on the stone bench.

"Oh, it's... I found you very charming and handsome." Aemond could see the slight embarrassment on your face.

"I also found you quite beautiful." Aemond surprised himself with his confession. But he didn't regret it.

Because as soon as he saw your eyes light up due to his compliment, a certain warmth filled him.

You smiled and looked away from him, slightly turning in your embarrassment. 

"You are too kind, Prince Aemond." the way you said his name, sent a shiver down his back. It made him feel so powerful yet so weak. He felt like he could fight a thousand battles and win. But he also felt like if you asked him so sweetly to do something, he would do it without hesitation. "I can only imagine how disappointing it is for a Prince of your status to marry someone like me."

"Why would you say that?" he asked rather confused but you still refused to look at him, he could see you playing with your fingers.

"All my family has is... a great coast and good soldiers. I'm no special like a Targaryen Princess. So, I would apologise for the disappointment." 

The words you spoke were the same he thought before he saw you.

Before his eye met yours. 

"I assumed, yesterday you didn't come to meet me and my family was due to your eyepatch, I thought you must have felt like I would be scared. I promise I'm not scared. I have seen worse injuries. But then I realized when the servants were talking that you might feel angry for having to marry me." Aemond stayed quiet but only for a moment as he didn't want to raise your insecurities further.

"I am not one to lie. I was rather angry when my mother told me the news. But then I saw you today, and now believe that I don't deserve an angel like you. You look so pure and kind, while I'm... the exact opposite."

"I don't know you enough to say no to that, I'm afraid. But my mother raised me to become a good wife for someone one day. And now that I'm your wife, I wish to show you love and care. I don't desire a cold marriage." you whispered the last part and it made Aemond grab your shoulder softly and turn you towards him.

Aemond was admittedly lost for words. All he could do was look into your eyes and with a simple kiss to your lips he promised to try his best to become the husband you deserve.

Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster @capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred  @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl​ @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline357 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak   @manduse​   @jacalineiscomingforyou  

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT STEAL, PLAGIARISE, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS  

[laenordeservedbetter]

For Samantha Carpenter x fem reader. (If you're doing requests, I'm not 100% sure if you are or not,please.)

Reader is Amber Freeman's half older sister (Sam Carpenter's age). Amber knows that Stu Macher is her sister's father, which she is jealous of. So after attacking Tara and luring Sam back to Woodsboro, Amber attacks Reader at Ambers and rs house. (Sam and Reader dated before Sam left, and once they've all moved to NYC, they get back together. R is also a little reliant on alcohol and weed after everything that happened.)

Holding On To You

Words: 3.3k (I think)

Relationships: Samantha Carpenter x Fem!Reader, Sibling!Amber Freeman x Fem!Reader, Implied/Referenced Tara Carpenter x Amber Freeman, Chad Meeks-Martin x Tara Carpenter, Mindy Meeks-Martin x Anika Kayoko

I wrote this this fic in bits, so the timeline is kinda jumbled. I only arranged which part should go where when I finished writing and decided to imply Tamber last minute because why not? Also, Amber's dad raised r as his own, which is why r refers to them as her parents.

The ' * * *' means a long period of time has passed.

Warnings: (18+) this is definitely not my best work, poorly written fight scene, angst, violence, cussing, grief, suggestive themes, reader has problems with alcohol. lmk if I missed any! (I don't remember if the core four were drinking alcohol in Sam and Tara's apartment, so I put something else here)

A/N: I didn't intend for half the fic to focus on reader's dynamic with Amber, but I felt like it's important to show how torn she is by how she feels with what happened. Sorry if I made it too angsty and not what you (anon) asked for 😭

not my gif. || masterlist || previous work

-

Your phone buzzed at the same time you were about to go up the stairway leading to your room. Determining that whoever is texting you is more important than sleep, you unlock the cellular device to read the message.

(1:49 a.m.)

Amber: Tara was attacked.

Three words. Fifteen letters.

Your body turns stiff as if there was a supernatural force compelling you to stay still. Tara was attacked. The first thought that went to your mind was ‘is she okay?’ but for some reason you can’t explain, your fingers typed in different words.

(1:50 a.m.)

You: Does Sam know?

Is Tara in the hospital?

How is she?

(1:51 a.m.)

Amber: Such dumb questions. What you should be asking yourself is ‘who’s next?’

Your brows furrow and you frown. She shouldn’t be saying that, you thought. Amber was peculiar but if there was one thing you were sure she’s best at, it was being there for Tara - protecting her. The person on the other side of the screen that you’re talking to feels different from the Amber you know. Something is off.

(1:55 a.m.)

You: Don’t say shit like that, Amber. Tara got hurt. This is serious.

(1:55 a.m.)

Amber: Oh, this isn’t Amber.

(1:56 a.m.)

You: Then who are you?

(1:56 a.m.)

Amber: You’ll find out soon enough.

The chances of being given ample interval to question the sender of the text who is definitely not Amber reduces to zero the second a masked figure creeps behind you and slashes your arm. “What the fuck?!” Blood trickles down your skin, the wound deep enough to nearly make you see your bones. You have to look away from your own body or else you might collapse from the mere sight of it.

You’re panting, looking into the mask of your attacker. He tilts his head at you tauntingly. “And here I thought that the daughter of Stu Macher would put up more of a fight.”

You don’t react, but you run for the kitchen, grabbing the first breakable object you can find: the floral vase.

When Ghostface attempts to lunge forward, you aim the vase at his head, but he dodges swiftly, leaving the vase to smash against the newly-painted wall. You grimace. Your parents were gonna kill you the moment they decide to hop on their plane and get home. “They’re going to be so mad at me.” You complain while grabbing a kitchen knife.

This will do.

“What are you planning to do with that knife?” Ghostface wonders mockingly.

You make a face at him, “No more talking.”

And just like that, you got into a knife fight. You manage to stab Ghostface in the abdomen. He rolls over, his hand going over his stomach to assess the damage. Smiling triumphantly, you let your guard down, which proved to be an error of yours as Ghostface recovers enough to dig his knife near your chest. You drop your weapon, feeling your eyes flutter shut. Your attacker slowly removes his mask, shocking you, yet it was like the time you fade out of consciousness was also planned since you pass out way before you can see what he looks like.

* * *

“We’re waiting for you downstairs.”

You stop what you were doing to look up at Tara. She sends you a sympathetic look and you shoot her one back. “I’ll finish up in 5 minutes.” You say, motioning to the clothes that are yet to be packed into your suitcase.

“Okay.” Tara’s attention is drawn to the picture frame on the nightstand. It was of you and Amber when you were children. She was wearing a pirate costume while you wore a witch’s. “Are you bringing that with you?”

“Yes.” You reply, taking the frame in your hands, fingers ghosting over the photograph. “It was one of our happiest memories together. She was such a sweet kid. I’d like to remember her that way instead of…” You trail off, taking a sharp intake of breath. A month has passed since your sister attacked you and murdered people. You’d never know why she did it nor do you want to. Some things are better left unsaid. Tara, however, felt the opposite. She knew Amber differently and you can understand how she feels, to an extent. “You can keep it if you want. I have other photos in this room stored somewhere.”

Even though Tara shakes her head ‘no’, she is appreciative. “No, it’s fine. I have pictures of my own too.”

The two of you bask in the silence. No other words needed to be shared. Tara leaves you alone after that, but the space she formerly occupied isn’t left empty for long when Sam appears by the doorway.

You grin when you see her, “Hi.” It’s the first time in days that you managed to smile authentically. Going through the worst thing imaginable can dim someone’s light and you were in no position to pretend that everything was okay when circumstances proved the opposite. Although it pained you to think about that night, seeing Sam made you feel that you weren’t alone.

“Hey.” She replies. “Ready to go?”

“Most definitely.” You answer with the truth as you zip up your last bag, ready to leave this place behind and start anew.

Sam holds out her hand, “Come on.”

You don’t take one last look back. You’d be lying if you said you would miss this house. Everything direful that happened in Woodsboro began here, so it is fitting that this is also where it should end.

Or at least, that’s what you thought.

* * *

The bottle in your hand weighs lighter than your grief. That’s what you keep telling yourself during these types of moments. It’s a remedy. Ephemeral, maybe, but it helps you forget. That’s the one thing you could ask for.

You nurse your wounds at a bar stool. The time is a bit early for a Saturday for you to be drinking, just how you like it. You take a sip, then another, and another, making you finish your drink earlier than you’d like. “Fucking hell.” A new bottle slides over in front of you before you can ask the bartender for one more drink. Turning your attention to your side, you note a woman staring right at you, a sly smirk on her lips.

Once you give her a nod as a ‘thank you’ for the booze, you go back to the bottle, indicating you want to be left alone. Unfortunately for you, the woman does not take the hint. She moves to the stool next to yours, hoping to shoot her shot.

“Hey.” She says, her bright blue eyes shining in the dim light of the bar. Although you cannot deny that she’s attractive, you’d rather be gazing into a different pair of eyes, preferably brown ones on the face of the only girl you’ve ever loved. “I’m Jolene.”

“Hi, Jolene.” Putting down the bottle, you purse your lips, hoping that this exchange would end soon. You tense when Jolene places a hand on your right shoulder.

Jolene chuckles, unbothered by the signs that you were uneasy, “You’re a little tense.” She pauses, gauging your reaction, “I can help you relax.”

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but, uh. . . I’m kind of waiting for someone, so if you don’t mind. . .” You pull your arm away, pretending to look at the entrance to the bar as if you were meeting one of your friends. Truthfully, it should be a lost cause since you haven’t told anybody that you would be here, including Sam.

“Well, let me keep you company while they arrive.”

You internally groan. “Respectfully, Jolene, and I mean this in the nicest way possible since you seem like a good person, leave me alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“A hundred percent.”

Jolene smiles understandingly, about to get up and turn away, but then her mouth drops open as if she’s seen a movie star, “Wait, you’re one of the survivors of the murders at that one house in Woodsboro! Your sister tried to kill you and your biological father was a killer too, right?! Stu Macher, that’s what his name was.”

Of course. That’s why she approached you. She only pretended not to know who you were until you tried to convince her to piss off. Great. “Bye now.” You throw a fifty dollar bill on the counter, hastily running out of the place as if you were brought back to those nights spent in that house trying so desperately to get away. The feeling of tightness takes place in your chest. You see a stranger pass by with hair that looks exactly like Amber’s and you turn lugubrious. No matter what she did, she was still your sister. You want to hate her for everything she did to you, to Tara, to everyone you thought she cared for. However, missing her triumphs all the other emotions you have. Though that may not be an excuse for her wrongdoings, it makes you mourn what has and what would have been.

You wanted her to go to college. You wanted to be the one on the front row cheering her on as she accepts her diploma. You wanted to be the person she turns to for relationship advice. You would have wanted her there when both you and Sam began getting harassed online just because your fathers were serial killers. Amber would have fought anyone who attempted to cross a line. Sometimes it felt like she was your big sister even though you are technically older.

And then it hits you.

You’d always be stuck in that goddamn stupid, cursed house, persistently wishing that things had been different. That you hadn’t moved there, that your sister never met Richie, that you have the same biological father as Amber. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, you realized that maybe you never left the place at all. You are in New York (You’re not deluded. You know that much.), but a piece of your heart would eternally be in Stu Macher’s house with Amber at the doorway while the other half is chasing after a love that might never be.

* * *

Sam drops by in your shared room to ask what you want for dinner. On Saturdays when neither of you are working, you and Sam order food and watch a movie that is preferably a romcom or fantasy. The unspoken rule being: watching horror is out of the equation.

She notices your swollen eyes and discards her phone on the table to comfort you. Sam climbs into your bed, arms circling around your waist in order to ground you. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

You don’t speak, fearing that your voice might crack and that it might show that you are as weak as you think you are.

But of course, Sam notices. “I know you don’t want to talk right now, so I’ll just hold onto you. If or when you want to talk, you can squeeze my hand. Is that okay?”

You shake your head in affirmation, locking your fingers with Sam’s, granting yourself the permission to crumble in her arms.

Once your heartbeat slows to a calm rhythm and the heartache subsides to a low wave that stays at your feet, you squeeze her hand three times.

“I’m listening.” Sam says, sensing your hesitance. Understanding where your diffidence comes from (she sees it in herself too), she adds, “I won’t judge you. I’m here to listen and if you want advice, I’ll try to give one. If you don’t want me to say anything, that’s fine too. Whatever works best for you.”

She is giving you the space to feel. Not a lot of people can say that and still stay after you’ve poured your heart out. Sam is different from most people because she cares. You are each other’s anchor. That’s why it doesn't take much convincing for you speak of your feelings bit by bit without worrying about falling into a rabbit hole. Knowing that Sam is there with you, listening, holding your hand, is more than enough motivation to keep going.

“. . . Sam, is it wrong? To miss Amber? The whole world tells me what she is. A murderer. But I- I saw it in her eyes that night at the party. Hesitation. Remorse. She told me that she was jealous that I got to be the one whose father was a serial killer but when she pointed the gun at my head, I saw something else flicker in her eyes. I don’t know. It’s probably just my brain making things up to make me feel better. Maybe I should just accept that my sister was a killer and move on. I shouldn’t even be feeling like this when I know she murdered people in cold blood — people I used to know. Am I crazy?” Once you started talking, you couldn’t stop. It was like you’ve been bottling this up to release it at the right moment. The memories of that night resurfaced in the forefront of your mind, acknowledging them for the first time. By now, you were laying on your back while Sam had an arm wrapped around your shoulder and the other still on your waist. For less than a minute, you were scared that she would push you away in a literal sense.

She didn’t.

“It’s not wrong, Y/n. She was your sister, of course you have the right to miss her. Now, I still don’t understand her motive and I won’t try to because she hurt Tara and you. But you knew her better than me or the people calling her names. You knew the kid that she was. You know what’s real. You are allowed to have your own opinion of Amber even if it isn’t what others want you to think. You’re not crazy for feeling these things. I’d be scared if you didn’t feel anything at all. It’s normal. You’re human. Don’t be too hard on yourself because of something you can’t control.” Sam says, soft but stern.

You take this opportunity to gaze into her eyes, seeing reverence, sympathy, and devotion all in one. She took the parts of yourself that you hated and treated them as if they were something sacred. When you have a person like that in your life - one who helps you accept your flaws instead of turning them away -, you start to see flowers bloom in the pieces you considered damaged. She loved the things about you that you execrated.

Before Sam, you gave love a definition: it is a thing that enfeebles you - yet that’s not all that there is to it. Love can be a chain, it can be suffocating, and there is no doubt that it can shatter you until the only thing you have left is a piece of a broken mirror to prove that it existed; but it can also be a tune (like the song you sung as a kid that you never paid much thought to), a soft bed, a dance, or a simple look a person gives that sends your heart fluttering no matter how many times you have been on the receiving end of it.

“Sam?” You call out, realizing that you’ve spent a while not responding.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for listening,” You say quietly. “and for not becoming a stranger.”

She smiles gently.

Your heart flutters.

* * *

Tara lets out a deep breath. She’s laying down with a novel in her hand that became abandoned three minutes ago, her attention now focused on glaring at you and Sam from her position on the couch. “Just get back together already. I’m so tired of watching you two tiptoe around each other with your unresolved feelings!” She yells, roughly flipping a page of the book in order to prove her annoyance. Sam, who was currently on dish duty, dropped a plate upon hearing Tara’s comment. (It didn’t break, fortunately.)

“Are you talking about the book or…?” Of course, Chad would be the one to make the situation far more awkward than it needs to be. You don’t hate the kid, but he does get oblivious at times, which you normally wouldn’t mind if it doesn’t affect you. Mindy punches him in the shoulder. His mouth gapes. He looks at you, then at Sam. “Ohhhh.”

“Idiot.” Mindy mumbles.

“I agree with Tara though.” Anika comments, pointing her apple drink at Tara. (You and Sam don’t allow the kids to drink at the apartment, so the only beverages available are apple and orange juice boxes.)

“Me too, babe.” Mindy beams proudly as if Anika gave the answer to an unsolvable mathematical equation and gives her girlfriend a peck on the lips.

Chad makes gagging noises, averting his eyes away from the couple.

You see the scene unfold in front of you with a smile before you turn away to take the popcorn out of the microwave. “I think we’re driving Tara crazy with the suspense.” You joke, transferring the popcorn to a bowl and placing another bag inside the microwave. Sam shoots you a questioning glance, referring to the amount of popcorn bags that were already cooked. “I was thinking that each couple would have a bag or bowl each. Mindy and Anika, Chad and Tara. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to share with me, which is why I put another-”

Sam takes out the uncooked popcorn from the microwave, interrupting what would have been your rambling, “Of course I’d share with you. You’re my girlfriend.”

You look away, unable to keep a smile off your face. “I will never get tired of hearing that.” As you busy yourself with placing the popcorn on three separate bowls, Sam observes the group on the living room.

“I think we should tell them.”

“Huh?”

“About us. It’s time, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” You take Sam’s hands in your own, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m ready.” You look at her lovingly. “How should we do it?”

Sam sports a mischievous smirk, “I know just the right way.” She ‘accidentally’ drops another plate (which, amazingly, didn’t break as well), drawing the attention of Tara, Chad, Mindy, and Anika. She gives you the go signal and you kiss her, bringing your bodies closer.

“TARA, SOMETHING’S HAPPENING IN THE KITCHEN!”

“WHAT ARE YOU- OH MY GOD!” Tara exclaims.

“CHAD, GIVE ME THE CAMERA!” Anika flails her arms chaotically for Chad’s phone, instantly snapping pictures of you and Sam the moment the device is handed to her.

Chad grins, giving you a thumbs up.

When you pull away from Sam for air, Tara runs up to you with questions at the ready. Sam did most of the talking. You added a few things here and there, looking back at how far you’ve come. The grief never went away. It’s still lingering. Except this time, you don’t feel the panic. You focus on the memories - the good and the bad. Those things are the reason why you’re where you're at right now. Although you’d have liked some of it to turn out differently, you can’t change the past, hence why you don’t shy away from what happened as much as you used to. You hold on to the memories the way you’d want to hold on to the love of your life.

“You okay?” Sam asks, rubbing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

You realize that you’ve been crying. “Yeah, they’re happy tears. It’s just. . .” You breathe out, feeling the weight of hopelessness on your shoulders disappear.

It felt like finally coming home after a long journey.

[wannaeatramyeon]

HOWWW DO U WRITE SO FAST AND SO WELL I LITERALLY TAKE WEEKS TO WRITE ANYTHING WORTHWHILE YET U ARE ABLE TO CHURN THESE THINGS OUT IN A HEARTBEAT ITS SO IMPRESSIVE

this time could u maybe do jake kim with a childhood friends!lover? im just imagining him with someone whose dad is also from the pre-generation, sorta like jerry (he can have a cameo we love that bad boy <3)

I'm pretty impulsive as a person... and when something grips me then. I need to do it. Luckily I don't have too much going on irl lmao so I have a lotta free time.

Jake Kim x Reader: Childhood friends

G/N.

"Smile when you're spoken to. Stay silent and out of sight when you're not."

It's important. You must follow these two pieces of instruction at all cost.

You nod when your dad reminds you again, squatting down to adjust your collar and your hair.

"Come on then, little one," he says, smiling softly. He doesn't hold his hand out as he usually does, leaving you to trail behind. Almost tripping over your shoelaces in an effort to keep up with his large strides.

.

.

Gapryong Kim's house is impressive, much more impressive than your apartment.

It's big and spacious. Ample room to run around and play. Your eye passes over the expensive breakable vases and severe decor, instead focusing on the long corridors and small nooks and crannies perfect for hiding.

You're shuffled off into a corner, not before being introduced to the owners, your dad's boss, first. You remember to smile and say hello back with full honorifics when Gapryong and Minseon greets you. Bowing at a full ninety degrees just like you had practised.

You find it hard not to fidget as you sit by the doorway. Bored and eyes occasionally falling closed at whatever is happening, not understanding the words or sentences as the adults talk in the centre of the room.

A gangly boy pokes his head around, holds out his hand, and you startle at his appearance. "Come on. This is boring, let's go."

Stay silent and out of sight. This counts, right?

You look over at your dad and find him observing you two. He gives you a small smile and a nod and you take this boy's hand.

.

.

His name is Jake Kim.

His name is Jake Kim and he's Gapryong's son. He walks the corridors with a quiet confidence and self assured stride. Hands behind his head and chewing his gum loudly.

He asks for your name and you tell him. He repeats it back to you with a grin and says it's cool, then digs in his pocket to offer you a stick of gum.

You spend hours in his bedroom together. Reading through comics and talking about nothing in particular as children often do. Only occasionally interrupted by adults bringing in drinks and snacks. Until the sun sinks and sunset oranges and reds filter through his window.

"It's amazing here!" you say, cheeks stuffed with hotteok and spraying crumbs everywhere.

Jake only shrugs.

.

.

You see Jake regularly after that.

You ask to tag along, and at first your dad is reluctant. You plead and whine and promise to be on your best behaviour and he gives in.

Gapryong and Minseon are always pleased to see you. Jake is even more so.

.

.

Jake is sullen and reserved around his parents but he smiles and laughs a lot with you.

He teases and jokes when it's just the two of you and you think he might be the funniest boy you've ever met.

You ask him who his favourite bands are and he doesn't know. When you tell him yours, he also doesn't know who they are. You gasp in shock and pull out your phone and headphones from your bag, pass him an earbud and listen to the sound of perky k-pop together.

"They're ok." Jake tells you with a grin, "I've heard better."

You give him a shove for that.

.

.

"Here," Jake gives you the last cookie and your greedy hands take it without a second thought.

He always gives you the last of everything. Watch you fervently fill your face in both disgust and awe.

"How do you eat so much!" he tries to give you a pinch, and you giggle, ducking out of the way. "You eat more than me!"

You smile, opening your mouth wide with half chewed food and he pretends to gag.

It never occurs to you how, whenever you visit, only your favourite snacks are served.

.

.

"This is Jerry,"

You look up at the boy next to Jake, and your neck seems to crane for a lifetime before finally resting on his face.

"You're huge!" You say, a little mean.

"Am not!" Jerry responds back to you, face flushing red. You give Jerry your half eaten snack as an apology and he accepts.

Jake grins, slinging his arm around the two of you, dragging you both out into the courtyard and away from the adults talking.

.

.

You sit shoulder to shoulder with Jake, Jerry on his other side. The house is filled with people dressed in black. Tears and sighs and subdued mutterings.

Jake doesn't cry today, neither does Minseon. He just stares at the portrait of his dad, not saying a word all day.

Your dad has smoked more today than you have ever seen in your life.

Eventually, when the alcohol is flowing and the adults get too rowdy, you sit with Jake in his bedroom. For hours and hours, just like the first time. Long after Jerry and most of the other adults have left. You hold him, tucking him into your side and he leans into your warmth.

His face is on your shoulder, so is a wetness. You don't say anything and keep holding him until your body is stiff and your knees hurt. You still don't move. You're there for as long as Jake needs you.

.

.

Jake's smile returns, after some time.

It doesn't quite feel the same though. You feel his childhood sweetness fading away and you don't know how to hold on to it.

.

.

There is a brief moment in time, during your friendship with Jake, where your growth spurt kicks in and you're taller than him.

You tiptoe and rest your elbow on his head. It's uncomfortable. He's still too tall, and you're not tall enough to make the pose work. Yet, you still do it every opportunity you get.

The opportunity does not last long.

Jake is gangly, grows ganglier still. He shoots up like bamboo and you think there's no stopping him.

You think he might be the tallest middle schooler in the world... until you see Jerry again and you think he is definitely the tallest middle schooler in the world.

.

.

Jake doesn't know when it hits him.

One day you're just you. His best friend that he has known forever. Goofy and silly. Snorts when they laugh, talks with their mouth full.

The next, your hair is shiny and your lashes are long. He thinks you smell nice and your smile makes him feel like he's dying in the best way possible.

Jerry catches him watching you and encourages him to confess.

Jake grimaces at the thought, at his transparency. His words come out indecipherable and muffled against his pillow.

Jerry doesn't say anything, just laments the fact he might be the third wheel forever.

.

.

It should be simple. Like you two becoming friends. Easy and uncomplicated.

Jake's natural charm is nowhere to be found. Having always been comfortable in his body, he now feels his legs are too long, his limbs too lanky around you. He stumbles over his feet more often than not. Finds himself tongue tied and red cheeked.

"What's wrong with you!" your hands grab onto his shirt, yanking him back upright as he trips for the third time in as many minutes.

.

.

Jake has always been cute. With his chubby cheeks and sharp eyes and kind smile.

Today, he tries out a wink on you (and you wonder where the hell he has picked that from), you can't help but think he's handsome too.

.

.

You and Jake still hang out frequently in his bedroom.

Minseon asks that he keeps the door open at all times, something she has never requested before, and you both burn crimson.

.

.

"Help me," Jake pouts, thrusting his school work at you. It's a Physics problem and he knows you suck at Physics.

You're both lying on your front on his bed, pressed at the shoulders.

"Burn it." You tell him and he laughs, sweeping all the books and stationery to the floor and turning onto his back.

"Sorry," you put down your phone and look at him. Has he always had those golden flecks in his eyes?

"Don't be." He sighs. "I think I'm gonna be held back a year."

"Aw Jake," You giggle, running your fingers through his hair, "You're definitely going to be the tallest in your class then."

He grabs your hand, stopping it mid-movement and rolls his eyes fondly. "You're a shit."

He doesn't let go. You forget how to breathe.

.

.

Jake has promised you ice cream, and you wait for him outside Gangseo Middle School.

He introduces you to Brad Lee and Jason Yoon and their eyes widen in recognition at your name.

"Oh, so that's-" Brad starts before receiving a sharp elbow in the stomach from Jason.

"Sorry Ma'am!" Ma'am?!

Jason gives you a bow, tells you it's nice to finally meet you and drags Brad away.

.

.

"What have you told them about me?"

Jake is shifty. Fidgety. He avoids your eyes and concentrates on his cone of ice-cream. Pretends he doesn't hear you even as you lean into his space.

"Jake Kim, I know you haven't suddenly gone deaf."

A bubble of laughter escapes his throat. He still doesn't say anything.

"Fine," You click your tongue in annoyance. "Be like that."

.

.

"I told them I like you." Jake catches you off guard a few weeks later. When you're lying on his floor watching a video on your phone, hand inside a bag of potato chips.

"Huh?"

"Brad and Jason," Jake rubs the back of his neck, "I told them that I like you."

Wait, what?!

You catch a glimpse of yourself in his full length mirror. You hair unbrushed and unwashed, dressed in your favourite, most comfortable thread bare outfit, potato chip crumbs around your mouth and down your front.

The most bizarre question grips you. "Even right now?"

Jake frowns, looks at you as if you're stupid. "Yeah?"

"Oh." It feels like a realisation, even though it's not. Not really. Not with the way you two are around each other.

You don't look at Jake as you return his affection, telling him you like him too, shy and cheeks flushed.

His response mirrors yours, "Oh."

You chance a peek at him and he looks as red as you feel. You don't think you've ever seen Jake blush before. It's deeply endearing and you sear the image into your heart forever.

"What now then?" you ask. Because if you both like each other then...

Jake plops down next to you, giving you a shrug accompanied with the sweetest smile you have ever seen. He takes your hand, greasy and food stained and all, and interwines your fingers together.

"I dunno. I should take you out on a proper date."

You nod, but it doesn't matter.

You look at your hand in his, think about taking his hand for the first time all those years ago and realise you've been each other's since the beginning.

[chaoticpuff17]

Amygdala

Masterlist

Chapter 11

“Mari-ah,” Yoongi approached with his hands held up in surrender. 

Margot hadn’t allowed Yoongi anywhere near her since he’d gotten her back to the apartment, with the majority of all breakable objects in the vicinity having been thrown at his head as soon as he tried. He was more than a little grateful for her poor aim. 

“Mari-ah, just let me get you out of all the glass before you hurt yourself.” he offered, glancing down at the shattered remains of a vase and two picture frames scattered across the floor and her very bare, very vulnerable feet.

“Get the fuck away from me.” she hissed, a pillow in hand ready to chuck at his head. She’d run out of breakables after the last picture frame. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” 

Margot stood there for a moment processing those words, with a look of absolute shocked confusion on her face. “You could have thought of that before you fucking kidnapped me!” 

“You’re going to get glass in your foot.” He warned her. 

“Fuck you!” Yoongi watched in silent horror as she stepped the wrong way and a shard of glass went directly into the heel of her foot. “Shit!” She cursed, lifting her foot away from the mess. 

Yoongi sighed, walking over to her and scooping her into his arms so she didn’t step onto anymore of the scattered debris. 

“Put me down!” She demanded, squirming in his hold as he walked her over to the bathroom. 

“You have glass in your foot. At least let me get it out.” 

Gently, Yoongi placed her down on the bathroom counter before starting to rummage around in search of the first aid kit he knew was in there somewhere. 

Margot sat there, watching him silently as her foot dripped blood onto the tile. She didn’t like it, but she knew that he would be better at extracting the glass and getting the appendage bandaged than she would. The glass was in her heel, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to see it as well as he would. 

It didn’t make her any happier about the situation, but she was tired. It was late, and now her foot hurt. If Yoongi was willing to help with those things, she was going to let him. 

Yoongi was surprisingly gentle as he dealt with her injury. Deft hands were quick to extract the shard still lodged in her heel and clean the injury off. He was just as quick to have the area bandaged. 

“Stay right here.” He ordered, straightening up from where he had been crouched to tend to her foot. “I’m going to clean up the glass.” 

She hummed in agreement, exhausted now that she’d allowed herself a minute to sit. All the adrenaline had left her system and left her more than ready to curl up and try to pretend this was all a bad dream. 

“Hey.” Yoongi gently slid a hand into her hair, cupping the back of her neck and tilting her head up to look at him. “Are you alright, jagi?” 

She nodded, looking away from his eyes which were watching her with too much care and concern for the situation they were in. They were too loving. “Just tired.” 

Yoongi chuckled, scooping her up from the counter. “Let’s get you to bed then.”

Margot wrapped her arms around his neck in an attempt to keep herself from falling. She knew that Yoongi wouldn’t drop her. He’d picked her up multiple times over the course of the evening with no issues, but there was still a voice in the back of her head that told her that she was too heavy for him to hold her like this. 

Very gently, Yoongi set her down on the large bed she’d been avoiding like the plague since Yoongi had released her into the room. 

“Yoongi,” she called, as he moved to step away. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Doing what, jagi?” 

She didn’t answer him, choosing instead to stare at him with large, tired eyes, pleading with him silently for an answer, for him to make sense of what had transpired that evening. 

His heart clenched painfully as she looked up at him with those large liquid eyes. He couldn’t stand when she looked at him like that. She should never have to look so lost, so broken. He hated that it was his fault. 

Yoongi brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, a pang of hope going through him as she leaned into the touch. 

“I can’t lose you, jagi.” he murmured, cupping her cheek in his hand. “I’m sorry.” He stepped back, letting his hand fall away. “Get some rest.” 

Margot didn’t argue. Instead, she turned away, curling into herself as she laid on the bed. There wasn’t anything she could do about the whole mess right then, and she was exhausted. If he wanted to clean up her mess, she wasn’t going to complain about it, especially if it meant he was going to leave her alone. 

Yoongi watched silently as Margot curled in on herself with a distinct feeling of being dismissed despite the fact that he had been the one to tell her to get some rest. He lingered for a few minutes, watching her settle before he moved to actually clean up the mess left behind by her rage. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to be upset by the carnage of what had previously been his bedroom. He couldn’t see any other outcome to the evening. He wasn’t willing to let her go, and she wasn’t willing to stay. It was an impossible situation for both of them. He could only hope that with time, she’d be able to forgive him. They’d be able to move on and be a normal couple. 

He’d seen the way she basked in the affection he would give her, how she’d lean into a sweet touch almost unconsciously. He knew that once they got past this, it would be wonderful. They were made for each other, but first they had to get past this and that would be the hard part.

All of his carefully laid plans to woo her had been thrown out the window the moment he’d seen that suitcase sitting on her bed. His mind had gone into survival mode, and all he could think about was keeping her with him. He didn’t regret the decision, but he regretted that it had come to this. He’d never wanted the transition to be this uneasy. 

Once the mess was off the floor and he was sure that she was asleep, Yoongi left for his office, texting Minwhan as he went. His trusted right hand informed him swiftly that Margot’s essentials were on their way. The rest of her apartment would be packed up, and all of her other belongings such as the rest of her wardrobe and her books would either be brought to his home or they’d be put into storage until Margot decided what she wanted to do with them. 

With a tired sigh, Yoongi sunk into his office chair, pushing his hair back as he slumped into the cool leather. Today had not at all gone according to plan, and it had taken a toll on both of them. Even before everything had so spectacularly fallen apart, he had been exhausted.

Yoongi had spent the better part of the night putting out fires when he’d intended to spend that time with Margot, his Margot. He’d had a whole evening planned for them, and they hadn’t gotten to do any of it. He’d at least gotten to pamper her a little with the nail appointment, but that had been the extent of it. 

Yoongi sighed again, wanting nothing more than to be with Margot, thinking back to their college days and their lazy days of studying together, of taking naps with his head in her lap as she’d continued with whatever reading she had been working on. With the ache of a long day settled firmly in his bones, Yoongi wished almost desperately for that comfort, for that easy intimacy, but they couldn’t have that. She was scared of him.

His heart had nearly shattered hearing those words. He had never wanted her to be frightened of him. Fear had its place in his line of work, but it had no business in their relationship. Looking down at the pictures he’d salvaged from her wreckage, his heart squeezed. They had been so happy then, so carefree. 

Margot had taken the picture that had captured his attention. The two of them were squished together in it, the biggest smiles on their faces. They had been at an amusement park when it was taken, an activity that was even then distinctly outside his normal comfort zone, but Margot had wanted to go, and he would have done anything for her. He still would. 

In the end it had been a wonderful day. Margot had a way of drawing him out and getting him to let go. She brought out his silly side, his softer side. She was home to him. He didn’t think he’d ever smiled so much in his life as when he was with her. 

It was that feeling of happiness, of belonging, that he wanted to get back to. He wanted to turn back the clock and go back to the way things were. Affection had come so naturally then. Trust had come so naturally. She was his shelter, his safe place, his perfect match. She was his everything, everything he had ever needed and would ever need, and he had been a fool to let her go back then. 

He had spent six long, miserable years without her, missing her. When Minhwan had  said her name that fateful night, his whole world had shifted. His heart had started beating again, and for the first time in a long time, he’d felt alive. For the first time in a long time, he had something to lose.

If she was frightened of him, Yoongi was at least twice as frightened of her. She was his everything even now. Losing her would break him. He was elated to have her back and yet terrified of the possibility of losing her again. There were so many things that threatened to tear them apart. His work was dangerous, and he was well aware that association with him would make her a target. Even with all the security he had placed around her, accidents could still happen. Even she was trying to tear them apart. 

Yoongi was beginning to realize how far removed the Margot in the picture was from the Margot currently asleep in his bed. Six years had created more of a divide than he was willing to admit. It wasn’t anything he couldn't overcome. He was confident of that. They were still soulmates no matter how time had distanced them and how they had changed, but he was still going to have to tread carefully. 

His Margot needed time and patience, and of course he would give it to her. He would give her anything she needed, but he had to admit that he found it incredibly hard to hold himself back at times. She was his everything, and his longing for her was a constant ache in his bones, a gnawing hunger that was always trying to claw its way to the surface and threatening to overwhelm him. 

Even now the only thing that Yoongi wanted to do was return to bed and be with her, but he knew she wouldn’t want him there, not now.

After much debate, Yoongi finally gave into his desire to be next to her and moved from his office to the bedroom where Margot was curled up dead to the world in his bed. 

Yoongi froze, simply watching as she slept, looking for the first time that night to be peaceful, and it was with no small amount of pleasure that Yoongi realized that she had achieved that peace in his bed. 

Her hair was slayed across the pillow, one of her arms tucked up under it while the other was curled close to her chest. One of her legs was tucked up by her chest as well while the other stuck straight out behind her. She looked comfortable, and she looked at home, an observation that made Yoongi’s heart melt.

He knew that she wasn’t pleased to be there, but that didn’t stop the immense relief and satisfaction that Yoongi felt having her home with him, having her in his bed. This was exactly where she belonged, exactly where she was always meant to be even if she wasn’t willing to admit that yet. 

Slowly, Yoongi approached the bed, careful not to disturb her. He’d been longing to have her in his arms for years. He longed for the comfort of it without her trying to fight him, and she was finally right there, within reach.

Carefully, Yoongi slipped into bed, gently pulling Margot into him, tucking her into his chest. 

Margot didn’t wake, and Yoongi let out a sigh of pure relief at the feel of her settled so sweetly in his embrace. 

She felt so right there. Her curves, soft and plush, felt as though they were made just for him, and Yoongi couldn’t help tightening his hold on her, his arm which was draped across her waist pulling her in just a little bit closer. It was possessive, and he knew that, but he needed to have her close almost as much as he needed to breathe. 

Margot sighed in her sleep, shifting in such a way that she curved further into his arms, pushing herself closer, and Yoongi nearly purred in satisfaction.  

This was right. This was exactly how things should be, and he would do anything to keep her safe in his arms like this. Anything.

Part twelve

[simplifiedemotions]

Roots

It started when they were forced to work together in a dingy office in the bowels of the Ministry. 

Hermione expected his surly attitude:

A flush appeared in the hollows of his cheeks when she’d tried to direct his position. “I don’t take orders from you, Granger.”

She had anticipated that he would argue with her about everything:

“It must kill you to be wrong, Granger.” His cruel smirk appeared, though it was more strained now than when they were children. “Now what Ogden meant in the briefing was that…”

What she hadn’t expected, what opened her heart to a vulnerability she thought she should run away from, only because feelings this delicate were softer and more breakable than petals, was the ways in which Draco Malfoy could love.

A burning kind of love. A love that lights your soul but is liable to destroy it if the fire catches too much.

Still, she leaned into the heat that started at her fingers resting on his cheek.

**

She hadn’t expected his loneliness and only saw it because it reflected her own.

“I’ll be alone at Christmas.” He looked more surprised than Hermione did to have admitted it out loud. He flushed, his jaw tight, but Hermione pressed on before he could shut himself away again. 

She admitted she felt lonely, too. More unbidden thoughts, spurting bitterly from her mouth like soured candy, that she preferred staying home alone on her sofa with some hot tea, over the tension that awaited her at a Weasley table that no longer felt welcoming once she acquired the title of ex-girlfriend.

He must have seen the pain shown on her face, because before she knew it he was drawing his wand from his robes and casting a spell.

“Orchideous.” A soft word under his breath as he motioned his wand in a circle. There was a flash of pink light, and then a single flower conjured from the tip of his wand.

Things she had not expected:

The soft, pink-petal flower beaming as if under the direct attention of the sun, uncaring if there was only one small window in the entire room.

He proffered the flower to her, and she took it, ignoring her trembling fingers as she brought the flower to her nose, her mouth quirking up without her permission when she took in the light fragrance.

There were several moments of quiet before Hermione said the only thing she could to disrupt the awkwardness: “I thought this spell was meant to conjure a whole bouquet.”

Things she had not expected: the way Draco Malfoy’s face softened when he gave someone a genuine smile.

“Funny thing about magic,” he drawled, arching an eyebrow and staring down his nose at her. “You can tweak any number of spells to suit your specific needs.” He leaned forward. “But if you prefer a bouquet, Granger, I can do that for you.”

Hermione frowned, flushing from her face up to the tips of her ears. “I didn’t say that.” She pushed from her desk, drawing her own wand, and she’d be a liar if she said it didn’t satisfy her to see Malfoy’s eyes narrow in apprehension.

She rolled her eyes and picked up one of her pens, pointing her wand at it and transfiguring the blue pen into a deep navy vase, then muttering a spell to fill it with water and putting the single flower inside. 

She looked up at Malfoy and gave him a shy grin. 

“Thank you.”

He looked away from her, clearing his throat before picking up his quill and continuing to work. 

The next day, a whole bouquet of pink flowers sat in their own vase at the corner of her desk.

**

Things Hermione Granger did not expect: for there to be such an array of flowers in existence. 

As well as the fact that it took her longer than she would’ve liked to guess that each of those flowers had special meanings.

A Black-Eyed Susan for justice, on the day she submitted her treatise on Werewolf rights.

A hoard of Bluebells on the day she’d been humbled by the Merfolk, who’d informed her that their fight for equal rights involved more than just raging at the system.

Butterfly weeds on the day she’d finally resigned to herself that she’d never get her parents their memories back. She’d cried in Draco’s arms when he’d told her how the weeds were slow to grow, but hard to die away once they rooted themselves to the earth.

That same evening, he’d handed her a bouquet of Edelweiss, a mountain flower meant to convey courage and devotion. She stared up from the furry white petals into Draco’s sad grey eyes, and resolved to keep looking at him for as long as she could.

This went on for at least a year. The amount of flowers he’d conjured was outrageous, but she’d be lying if she said she wanted him to stop.

She never was a good liar.

**

Hermione traced the delicate fold of the sunflower on her desk, wondering about a great many things close to her heart. 

Instead, she said, “Do you wonder how magic might know how to create certain aspects of an item? It can create a flower, but how does it know how that flower smells? Or how its petals fold or sway depending on the pace of wind?”

Draco looked up from a scroll he had been focusing on for the last several hours, and she resolved not to tell him about the small ink stain on his cheek. 

“I imagine magic is integral to imagination, in a lot of ways,” he said after a moment. “Take Muggles. They can’t see unicorns, and as far as they know, such creatures don’t exist. But that doesn’t mean they can’t conceive of them in their minds.”

Her heart picked up, and she could only smile wider when Draco scowled at her. Drawing closer to him, she put her hands on her hips and raised her nose in the air because she knew how much it annoyed him. “Well, according to Bateman’s theory…”

Things Hermione didn’t expect: for the evening to continue on. Their arguments about magical theory moved destinations. First, to the lift. The grates opened to a group of people waiting on the other side. Draco slid his palm against her lower back as they sidled inside. 

Then, to the Apothecary in the Ministry, because Draco needed a Pepper-up potion, citing a certain curly-haired witch and her constant jabbering affecting his poor, tired body. He only laughed when she slapped him on the arm.

Then, to a Muggle pub Hermione had wanted to visit, ignoring Draco’s unamused look when he realised it was a pub themed around witches and warlocks during Christmas.

He vehemently refused the wizard cape the hostess offered to him, his displeasure written in his glower, even as they were given a table near the back and Hermione teased him incessantly about not getting into a magical mood.

They sampled eggnog and spiced rum, and Hermione relished the way his cheekbones turned red at the tips the more alcohol he consumed.

She only moved closer when he put an arm over her shoulders, enjoying the catching heat against her cheek.

**

Two people, backlit by low bulbs in front of Hermione’s unimpressive flat.

It was silly, the way her heart started pounding as her focus narrowed on him. Something in her wanted to devour, to fill some lost and now found aching want. 

She wanted inside of him, through the hard marrow and narrow bones, past the veins that ensured blood pumped to his heart. The heart her hand laid on now, as she stepped closer and drew her face up; as she met his eyes and hoped to show the yearning in hers.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you, Granger?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, folding her arms across her chest and tilting her chin out. “Yes.” Smiling at his scowl, she added, “Please and thank you.”

She thought she knew the look currently simmering in his slate-grey eyes. It was the same look she held for him.

He grunted, clamping his jaw tight as if he could lock the words away, but he was about as adept at keeping his mouth shut as she was.

“Bloody witch, even the most mindless Weasley could see how I feel about you.” 

Hermione gave him her most piercing glare. “And how was I meant to know that? Also, stop making fun of Ron just because it makes you feel better than him.”

Draco glared at her as he always did when she defended Ron, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Hermione," he said, and his face wore an aggrieved look that would have offended her if he didn't seem so desperate. “You believe I gave you flowers every single day for several months just… because?”

She blushed and ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. “Well…”

“Don’t do that,” he whispered.

Her heart stuttered. “Do what?”

“Look at me… like you don’t know…”

He stepped closer to her. Nerves rushed up and she stepped back, but that only served to pin her between the door and Draco, whose body was so warm she was sure she was burning up on the inside.

He set both hands on either side of her head, before leaning down until they were nose to nose, forcing her to look up.

Amusement danced in his eyes. “Do you always expect such things of me, Granger? Is that all I am to you?” 

Expect? Oh, one day she should tell him about all the ways he was unexpected.

But for now, she was too busy pulling him closer and doing something unexpected of her own.

She caught fire, burning from the inside out but she only drew him closer. She trusted him not to leave her in cinders. 

She trusted that he saw her as a phoenix, his slender hands leaving dragon-fire in their wake. 

When she cut off to propose a theory of inherent elemental magic involving fire, he only told her to shut up and kissed her again, pushing her into her flat, kicking her door shut and herding her towards her bedroom.

She knew he’d listen the next morning, and perhaps even conjure a flower that would convey some related meaning to her words. And she’d smile again and let her warmed skin clear the air around her.

[i-need-a-slurpee]

You guys already know I love spreading my akekita besties agenda

I saw someone post a video about a little porcelain figure they found and it was a crow in a big straw hat and a sweater and behind the crow was several different easels. The person filming the video dubbed the porcelain figure 'vincent van crow' so you see where I'm going with this. (Btw this is an AU where Akechi lives and he works with the phantom thieves because they can see he needs help and they're going to give him that help whether he wants it or not. Canon be damned.)

Akechi and Yusuke walking around different shops because yusuke needs new art supplies and guess who they find sitting on a shelf tucked away behind some miscellaneous items like mason jars and small vases of different dull colors. Vincent Van Crow. Akechi saw him first and thought Yusuke would appreciate the little porcelain figure, unaware of the artist's terrible spending habits. Yusuke would feel the same connection to Vincent Van Crow that he did with his lobsters and abandon the original mission just to buy him, insisting it was destiny. A crow that was a fellow artist, the only one on the shell and who better to point it out to him but Akechi himself.

Despite Akechi's protests that Yusuke's funds are limited and he should focus on finding the supplies for whatever new piece he was working on (it was a watercolor painting, several paintings, of the various different places in the backstreets where lebanc resided) Yusuke insists on buying him. Akechi doesn't quite understand how Yusuke can have such a sentimental attachment to an object he doesn't own yet but he can't afford to argue any longer because he'll lose his cool.

It isn't until they've finished their shopping and are walking back to the train station that he starts to really get it. Not because he had given the porcelain crow any thought but because Yusuke declared that this small, breakable and frankly unimpressive (to akechi at least) figure was a sign of their bond. A representation of different facets of their personalities and how despite the fact that nobody really understood it, Yusuke and Akechi made sense together.

On paper it was strange, an aloof artist and the famous detective prince but looking past the surface gave a glimpse into why they worked so well together. Yusuke was honest, brutally honest he never censored himself because he didn't see the point in doing so, he looked for a deeper meaning in everything which made sense since all art has some meaning behind it. It's second nature for him to evaluate everything he saw on a deeper level. Akechi appreciated having someone like Yusuke in his life because he never worried that Yusuke was using him like everyone else had. Yusuke's unrelenting honestly was a breath of fresh air for akechi, and no matter how hard he tried to convince himself in the beginning he could never fully believe that Yusuke's honesty was an act. He was too genuine and his perceptive abilities made him see past the act Akechi would often put on.

In turn Akechi was very critical, he had to be as a detective, and he was constantly aware of his surroundings. He always kept a look out for any danger and covered all his bases to make sure he could keep himself safe. Which was something Yusuke appreciated because he would often get lost in thought and wander off to various different places because they piqued his interest, he couldn't stay on task like Akechi could.

They helped each other and the time they spent together was time well spent, numerous discussions of various topics being viewed from two different lens. But they still managed to consider the other's position in their discussions, Yusuke would consider the analytical mindset that Akechi had and Akechi would pay more attention to the finer details and emotional aspects of a situation like Yusuke did. It was an odd but wonderful friendship they had.

So on the train ride back to their homes, Akechi considered the porcelain crow and his porcelain easels, the shine of his feathers and the way his beak twisted into a sweet smile and he felt a small warmth fill his heart. Warmth at the thought that his friend, his real friend that he had made on his own, would keep that small crow on a shelf or a table and think of him whenever he saw it. Warmth because he wasn't alone anymore, he was wanted by the people around him. Wanted enough for his friend to buy an insignificant trinket that put an extra expense on his limit supply of money just because it reminded him of the detective. Warmth because he was loved.

Your honor that's their son, they coparent him for tax benefits

[woklaza]

Dazai seemed too focused on Chuuya’s side as Port Mafia instead of Chuuya. But to be fair, what is Chuuya? As a human. Dazai wanted to find out– no, he will find out.

“Turn around, Chuuya,” Dazai said into the wireless as the message transmitted to Chuuya’s receiver. Chuuya tutted but did as he was told, stealthily turning around to face the vase centring the floor of the closed museum.

“This one’s the baby we’re after– the vase is from the Qing Dynasty, Yongzhen Period. But make sure to see if it’s the real thing. The dragon should have no pupils–”

“–Yeah, okay. No need for the History lesson.” Chuuya patted the dusty porcelain vase as he confirmed the vase was real. It was. “It’s the real one.”

Double Black is currently doing a big job– stealing a vase from the thief market (British Museum) in the middle of the night. There is no need to ask why they are doing it with Chuuya as the robber and Dazai as the operator, it’s working out, so it isn’t the point. The point is, that the mission was done within ten minutes, no exaggeration. 

“Alright Chuuya, to your south-west direction, look up and what do you see?” Dazai was pretty clearly not taking his job as the operator seriously, almost as if it were child’s play (it was, but still).

“Absolutely nothing except from the fucking ceiling,” Chuuya said blankly.

“No, there should be a staircase. Wait sorry! I have miscalculated!” Dazai cheered without any signs of feeling sorry.

“What have you miscalculated?” Grunted Chuuya impatiently.

“Your height. I estimated your height as one metre, so you must look up! Okay, just look forward and you’ll see the staircase.”

“Fucker.” Chuuya found the staircase with the help of his torch and sprinted through it with ease. It was a one-way staircase to the roof, where a loud helicopter was waiting for him, rotor blades still buzzing. Dazai waved from the inside, a set of headphones still on his head. Chuuya hopped into the helicopter and the pilot droved it away, with London under it.

Dazai was squashed with Chuuya in the backseats of the helicopter (consider it a small one) and quickly snatched the vase away from the redhead to examine it.

“Hmm… breakable. What’s this, Chu-Chu?” Dazai pulled out a piece of irregularly shaped metal from the vase. 

It was an understatement to call the object a metal, even though it was one. It was entirely gold (Chuuya had later confirmed this with his experience of meddling with precious stones), and shaped like a rose. In other words

A golden rose.

“That’s mine!” Dazai announced happily as he rubbed the cold flower with his hands. Chuuya, noticing how he had let Dazai keep such a treasure, snatched it away immediately.

“I stole it!” Chuuya argued.

That sounded so wrong.

But the Port Mafia intended to steal the vase, and the flower seemed like a bonus the pair needed to learn how to split and share. Dazai seized the rose from Chuuya.

“Nah! I’m keeping it!” He laughed, “I’m the reason you made it out there unscathed.”

Chuuya’s next reaction was not something Dazai predicted or considered. The redhead sulked and after a few seconds his face flushed crimson, and he jumped off the helicopter.

Dazai did not worry about Chuuya dying from the fall, he is a gravity manipulator after all. What he was feeling was confusion. Why was Chuuya so angry at him?

The pilot laughed at Dazai (Yes, at ). 

“Nakahara-kun’s just a kid. Why wouldn’t he want flowers? Snatching it away from him is just mean. You don’t have those emotions, but he’s like any teenager his age. He wants flowers, of course.”

Dazai blushed. Then felt ashamed. All the while, he never really thought Chuuya would care about flowers and love. Well then, even if he is good at martial arts and has some strong ass ability, it doesn’t make him less human. Dazai seemed too focused on Chuuya’s side as Port Mafia instead of Chuuya.

But to be fair, what is Chuuya? As a human.

Dazai wanted to find out– no, he will find out.

~

Continue reading here:

[analligatorr]

opinion on the porcelain Graves skin???? I don’t hate it but I’m mad it’ll take another year or more until we get another one and porcelain is such a boring theme. Stick him in an interesting skin line for once riot.

Sincerely? I tried to like this skin, I really tried, but.. :/

Well, on twitter I compared Porcelain Graves with the WR exclusive skin Dragon Lantern Graves (not the special edition) I'll transcribe it here.

Let's start with splasharts. Wild Rift's Splash arts are generally criticized, many times I don't agree, some of them are of even higher quality than those of League, which is the case of Dragon Lantern Graves. Even though it's not Graves' best splash, or the best skinline splash, it's pretty and pleasant, my only criticism is that it's a little too static, there's not much movement

the Graves porcelain splash has some problems, at first glance it is.. pretty, but whenever you look at it, there seems to be something wrong, it really is a strange splash, and it's not the fault of the artist who made it.

Porcelain Graves Splash Concepts by Santiago Parra

in the end, they(riot) decided to increase the proportions and add a lot of texture, to achieve this result, so... yeah, it's not the best splash. but it's pretty

Dragon Lantern: 1

Porcelain: 0

About the VFX, let's be honest, they tend to do something very mediocre with Graves when it comes to visual effects, apart from his legendary skin (which it would be stupid of them to do something too simple) Graves' recent epic skins haven't received as much love.

Even though the Dragon Lantern skin has basically the same sounds as the base skin (i guess) the quality of the VFX is absurdly good (better than his legendary if you allow me to say). The Porcelain one.. is... mediocre.. ofc they couldn't put something cool like Lux and Lissandra's skins, right?

I can't post more than one video in a post, so here are the links so you can see the difference between the VFX of Dragon Lantern Graves and Porcelain Graves.

Dragon Lantern: 2

Porcelain: 0

Ok, let's get to the part that irritated me the most. The narrative..

Yes, we agree that Graves is not a big "important" character in Runeterra, he is not there to be a protagonist. That doesn't mean he can't cause real chaos, and set Bilgewater on fire just in an attempt to get revenge on his current partner. Why did I bring this up? because it is absurd to portray Graves as a pathetic and irrelevant character.

With that in mind, read Porcelain Graves' bio:

Not long after gunpowder was invented, the Zodiac searched for a new protector of the Dragon Relic. Though ancient and wise, the gods struggled to find someone worthy, so they settled for Malcolm Graves. Eventually his expertise in firepower was pointed in the right direction (away from all the breakable vases)

It's ridiculous, don't you think?

They are so fond of abusing the fact that Graves is, in some ways, a comic relief, that they make him the real joke, to the exclusion of everything else about him, and making him "unworthy". It's like they're saying "ugh, should this guy really be here? Who called him?". Whoever wrote the narrative of porcelain skinline seems to hate him, for real..

Now let's go to Dragon Lantern Graves' bio:

Graves, a free-spirited mercenary from a foreign land, can hardly wait to join in the fun at the gala. For this burly maverick, harmless ol' lanterns are no more than impractical ornaments—he much prefers filling up massive dragonflame cannons and setting the night sky ablaze with 'em booming explosions and dazzling lights!

1000% better, right? It's almost a delight. It's fun, brings out a little of who he is, and doesn't degrade his image :D

Dragon Lantern: 3

Porcelain: 0

AND WE HAVE A WINNER

[0junemeatcleaver0]

okay so my brain apparently wants to focus solely on a shit post instead of outlining this fic, working on my novel, or finishing my substack post but here we go because my brain worms have decided to fixate on the boys playing with guns. cool.

𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖌 𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖞 𝖇𝖆𝖇𝖞 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙 𝖒𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓

but i just keep picturing armand deciding his latest fixation is now guns. pistols, specifically, and he's got quite a lovely collection going on. he probably finds it really meditative to take them apart and restore them, the ones that are worse for wear.

and so there are just a bunch of fucking hand guns out on a table when lestat comes over. some are already restored, some are being worked on. armand has a thin sheen of blood sweat coating his forehead from sheer concentration alone--the goal is always, for him, to make the gun operable but not to damage it in any way and never accidentally strip any of the patina off, which can lower the value of the gun drastically.

they're fussing at each other. it's mostly playful and the funniest part about this whole debacle is that it's not even the worst fight they've ever had. it's not even ugly for the forms their spats take in the modern era.

but lestat, as always, is feeling cheeky and in mock offense scoops a gun off the table and aims it squarely at armand's chest--laughing at the momentary look of shocked outrage that crosses his face.

"knock it off, lestat." armand scowls, picking up one of his many small tools to resume work on the pistol currently in his hands.

"why? scared?" he's smiling but the truth is, he is the one that is scared. something happened when he picked up the pistol--his heart beginning to trip over itself. the last time he pointed a gun at something, it mattered, it meant something. he's not had much reason to point a gun at anything since his turning but some near-human part of him (or an echo of his former humanity) is screaming and thrashing like a beast inside of him.

"please." armand rolls his eyes, spitting the word out as though the thought of ever being scared of lestat is the stupidest thing he can imagine. he doesn't even have the decency to look up to mock him, just keeps running a small, soft bottle brush inside the barrel of the gun in his hand.

anger momentarily flares in lestat and he's shocked to find his finger tightening on the trigger a fraction before he eases off the pressure.

"i could, you know." lestat sniffs haughtily. "i could shoot you."

"oh, and what a tragedy that would be." armand sounds bored of him already. he's hold a gun on the little shit and he's bored. "please, sir," he mocks, voice dripping sarcasm, "don't kill me. i'm too young to die!"

they both flinch when the gun goes off in lestat's hand. and while he doesn't remember telling his brain to pull the trigger he does recall the split second decision he made to aim just over armand's shoulder--bullet colliding with something breakable behind him. lestat doesn't know what he's just atomized into a fine powder that hangs in the air but armand doesn't even seem to need to turn to figure it out, chair legs scraping loudly over the floor as he rises to his feet like a VHS skipping --and isn't that an old reference! one he doubts his son would understand. but don't worry, viktor, i'm full of outdated references that would boggle the mind--

logically he cannot work out which he's aware of first--the sound of the shot or the bullet connecting with his shoulder. do bullets travel faster than the speed of sound? modern ones certainly, but these hunks of rust?

"--my damned Yongzheng vase!" armand is saying when he tunes back into what's being screamed at him.

it ultimately doesn't matter--the shot won't kill him but it certainly hurts and so that's the only bit of the tirade he catches before his attention is squarely on his shoulder and the searing pain radiating out from it, down his bicep and into his back.

"would you rather i had hit you?" lestat hisses through his teeth. his senses are a heady mixture of hot pain, the coppery-sweet smell of his blood, and the sensation of his body starting to knit itself together.

"yes!" it's one of the most ridiculous things lestat has heard in a minute but the seriousness with which its said sets him off into a fit of laughter again--guffawing harder and the look of irritation on aramnd's face.

"fine!" he proclaims between giggles, "have this, then."

he's not truly aiming when he squeezes the trigger this time, just points it vaguely at armand's form and fires. it grazes his side, sliding between the barely-there hollow between ribs. lestat's not certain if the bullet has even had time to settle into the wall behind armand before he's being shot at again--this time the bullet connecting with his hip.

it's worse than before, his leg buckling so that he must catch himself on the table before him. the pain is bad enough but his heightened senses means he can acutely hear the bone chipping and splintering where armand's shot has caught his pelvis.

his vision is red, the roaring in his head drowning out whatever thoughts he's having. whether he thinks to shoot again is lost on even him, his brain only coming on line quick enough to watch a large red stain spread stickily over the torso of armand's shirt, hearing himself finish whatever he was saying with a resounding, "--my fucking hip!"

it happens too quickly--he thinks perhaps he's feeling that tingling under his skin that feels so much like a million ants marching to duty to weave together the fibers of his muscle, cement his bone back in place. or it is merely the sensation of blood leaking carelessly from his body, trickling over his skin. he doesn't have time to puzzle it out before the gun goes off in armand's hand again.

the last thing he feels before momentary night engulfs him is the sensation--and sound, my god the sound!--of his lower jaw cracking, the right side parting from his face entirely. the indignity of feeling his mandible swinging like a barn door in a storm, marring the perfect beauty of his face.

the next thing he knows, he's staring up into the disapproving face of marius, shoving his open wrist into the red-gape of writhing pain where lestat's mouth used to be.

[llybraryofdrawngress]

always bring a vase in case you need to throw something breakable in anger

[sixty-silver-wishes]

eight and a half hour work shift and I found it’s way more entertaining if I make my internal monologue sound like characters from “arsenic and old lace”

(jonathan brewster voice) “make sure not to drop the box of hello kitty ramune onto the harvest artisan vase, dr. einstein, it’s breakable”

(dr. einstein voice) “oh yes, johnny…”

[etaleah]

Shadow the Hedgehog (2005) is great actually because it’s the only game where you can just break stuff. you can just run around breaking absolutely everything in sight no matter what it is. speed limit sign? break it and use it as a sword. pedestrian barriers? break them. walls of an ancient temple? break them into crumbs, historic preservation be damned. pots and vases? break them all.

there is so much breakable stuff in the game that you can get a chaos blast before you even pick up the first emerald in Westopolis, which is technically a continuity error since Shadow isn’t supposed to be able to do that without an emerald, but you know what, who gives a shit. go crazy and unleash your inner child by breaking everything in sight.