#brow things or complexion stuff? and its very freeing in a sense that it feels even more like playing with paint bc its just the fun colors

[xx-justsomeguy-xx]

thinking abt how much my makeup collection has minimized and shrunk down through the years bc for some reason youtube decided to show me some old t*ti w*stbrook videos while on autoplay

[moonstruckme]

hi mae !!! i’ve been resding ur stuff for forever & if this request doesnt strike ur fancy i just wanted to at least say that!!! but i would love love love anything you have to say about steve harrington comforting his s/o (maybe shy!reader?? but no pressure on that) after a very tough emotional few weeks? like yknow those weeks that just knock you down & then stomp on you a little & have you saying “it’ll get better if i can just get through the week” but then the next week comes and it’s just as 🕳️🤸 as the last ? idk if this makes sense but ik u wanted more requests w our other boyfriends !!

Hi lovely, thank you for requesting!

Steve Harrington x shy!reader ♡ 791 words

You’ve been trying not to cry for about a month now, and this stupid movie is going to do you in. Steve’s got his arm splayed across the top of the couch, his features lit in the colors of the TV screen and revealing only a vague sympathy for the characters in the movie as opposed to the steady crescendo of emotion that’s building behind your eyes. 

You turn from him so he won’t see your heating complexion and do your best to hold it in. You hold it until you can feel your heart beating in your sinuses. Steve’s fingers start toying with your hair, and it feels so ridiculously casual and tender that it only makes matters worse. 

You must make some sort of sound, because then he’s shifting beside you. His eyes burn into the side of your head. 

“Hey.” His voice is quiet, unsure. “You okay?” 

You breathe in through your nose, swallowing hard. “Yeah.” 

“Are you crying?” 

“No,” you say. But you are now, properly, and your denial is completely undermined by the wobble in its delivery. 

“You are,” Steve accuses, letting his hand drop onto your shoulder just as it gives its first great hitch. He tenses. “Hey, it’s okay. We can change the channel.” 

You let loose a horrid laugh, wet and pitchy. “No,” you tell him, finally breaking and wiping underneath your eyes. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t want to upset you.” He grabs the remote. His tone has gone serious and a bit panicky. “We’ll find something lighter to watch.” 

“It’s not the movie.” You turn towards him and he pauses, frozen like a rabbit in the forest. “It’s just…it’s a lot of things, you know?” 

Everything about Steve melts. His shoulder sag, the hand with the remote dropping into his lap, his lips part, he slouches towards you a bit, his eyebrows pull up and to the middle. “Yeah,” he says, soft and smooth as butter. “Yeah, I get that.” 

You try to smile, making fun of your own ill-timed meltdown, but another sob breaks free from you again. Steve slumps further. If you keep going like this, you’ll shatter into a million pieces and he’ll liquefy into a stain on the couch and that’s all Robin will find of either of you when she inevitably comes looking. 

“It’s okay.” Steve’s hand makes its way from his lap into yours, taking your hand and squeezing your fingers lightly. “You’re okay, you’re good.” 

And you know you are, but it feels nice to hear him say it. Your shoulders shake, and you tilt your head downwards, salty tears dripping off your nose. 

“Sorry,” you croak out, but he only brings his other hand to your face, angling you up where he can see you. 

“I don’t mind,” he promises. When his thumb sweeps an arc from the side of your nose nearly to your ear, you shudder. 

Steve’s brows twitch together, but he doesn’t alter his grip. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“No, what is it?” 

“It’s just…” Just that you short-circuit anytime he touches you, and right now your body doesn’t know where to put the excess emotion. You think if he pays you any more attention you’ll have a heart attack. Cause of death: Steve Harrington’s tender ministrations. “Sorry, nothing.” 

His forehead creases as his thumb brushes once more, feather light, under your eye, and then his expression clears. Because though intuitive Steve is not, he’s perceptive enough to catch your unintentional glance to where his hand rests upon your cheek. 

“Oh, sorry.” He stills, eyes flickering back to yours. “Hey, if you want me to stop, I’ll stop. Just say the word.” 

And you have to think, because it is torment, and it might actually kill you. But at least this way you’ll die happy. 

“That’s okay,” you murmur. “It’s nice.” 

A little smile curves Steve’s lips before he remembers you’re sad and tries to squash it. You feel something similar tugging at your mouth anyway. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

You sniffle. “I don’t think so. I’m just kind of tired of it, you know?” He looks like he does. “Maybe we could just keep watching the movie?” 

“Yeah, sure honey.” The endearment slips out as if it’s something he says every day, and Steve’s demeanor doesn’t reflect anything different. For your part, you feel a buzzing in your chest so intense you wonder if you’ll disintegrate into tiny pieces. He scoots closer to you on the couch, settling an arm around your shoulders and leaning you into his side. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” he asks quietly, like it’s a secret. 

You rest your head on his shoulder and say nothing. 

[krisdreaming]

MASTERLIST | PART 2

˗`ˏ THIS IS PART 1 - READER POV ˎˊ˗

Pairing: Iwaizumi Hajime x Fem!Reader

Summary:  After the accident, you’re willing to give up anything so that Hajime can live. All things considered, your memories of him in exchange for his life seems like more than a fair trade. When it’s done, neither of you understands what’s happened, and it leaves you both hurting. Still, even without your memories, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. He still loves you more than anything. Your love will find a way… right?

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: Angst, Hospitals, Mentions of Character Injury / Death

A/N: I’m so excited to start this journey! This part is the only one that has any kind of supernatural / magical realism elements. It kinda just made the most sense to me as the vehicle for the entire rest of the plot so just... bear with me 😅 After this chapter, it’s all just normal canon-verse. 

Without further ado!!

The golden late-afternoon sunlight pours through the lone window in the hospital room and pools on the floor, not quite reaching the bed where Hajime is lying. The contrasting stringent white hospital lighting does nothing to improve his wan complexion. His cracked lips are turned slightly downward, and you wonder, with a sharp twinge in your chest, if even in this state, he can feel pain.

“I’m here, Hajime,” You say for what must be the hundredth time, reaching out again for his limp hand. The doctors have said that talking to him may help to comfort him, but you wonder if he can even recognize your voice. Even to you, it sounds small and foreign, hoarse from who knows how many hours of tears. The only response is the steady beeps and hums of the machines keeping him alive. You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

It’s been a week of this, now. A week since you got the call and rushed to the hospital as fast as you could. A week since you saw him lying too-still in that bed, a swath of bandages and a tangle of wires making his body look so, so small and helpless. A week since you sank to your knees the moment the doctor had left the room, clutching Hajime’s hand to your face until his skin was slick with your tears, only realizing afterwards that the strange, gasping sounds you’d been hearing had been coming from you all along.

You’ve spent every day here since. You’ve hardly eaten. What little sleep you can get is plagued by nightmares that wake you up in a cold sweat, reaching out desperately for a warm body that isn’t there. All that you know is this room, this chair, this bed, and the shallow rise and fall of Hajime’s chest.

A breath shudders out of you when you’re reminded, again, of what the doctor had said when you’d arrived this morning. “Y/N-san, the improvements we’ve been hoping to see haven’t been coming at the rate we’d expect. As it is now, the reality is that he may never wake up. The severity of the damage is becoming clearer as we continue with our testing. As difficult as this is to say, it may be the time to start preparing to say goodbye.”

You squeeze your free hand into a tight fist, feeling your nails dig into your palm. You run the thumb of the hand holding his gently across the backs of his fingers. “You know,” You begin, haltingly, trying to keep your voice as clear and normal-sounding as possible, “When this is all over, I’m going to make us a big picnic. I’ll make those onigiri you like so much, the ones with the pickled plum inside. You can eat as many as you want. I promise I won’t yell at you,” You pause to swallow back the thick feeling in your throat, “And we can have whatever else you want. Just say the word, and I’ll buy it. It’ll be the meal you’d never let any of your athletes eat in a million years,” You laugh softly.

“And by the time we’re done eating, well, the sun will probably be almost set. We can just lay back on the blanket and watch the stars come out, like we did that night last summer.” You pause, looking at him almost as though you expect him to answer, or at least nod. His expression doesn’t change.

“We can plan some more for the wedding. It’s going to be here in no time at all, you know,” Your thumb goes to the ring on your finger, twisting it back and forth in what’s become a familiar motion. “I know you don’t like the planning much, but we have to get it done.” You fall silent for a few moments, not wanting him to hear the way your voice has started to waver.

“Or maybe you’d rather just plan for the honeymoon,” You finally pick back up again, “We need to decide soon where we want to go. Hotels and plane tickets sell out fast, you know. What would be really fun is if we could visit Tooru in Argentina. I know you think it’s too far, but honestly, when else would we ever have the chance?

“We don’t have to spend the whole time with him, of course,” Your voice drops lower, “We’d want some time to ourselves. I hear the beaches there are nice. Or we could find a really nice hotel with a Jacuzzi and fancy room service.”

It might be your imagination, but the expression on his face seems just a little bit softer. It’s not a smile, but his lips aren’t turned down quite as hard as they had been, so you take it as a sign that you should keep going. “Of course, you know that I don’t really care where we go. We could spend the whole week in a hotel on the other side of Tokyo and you wouldn’t hear me complain.” You can practically see his incredulous smirk at that, and you choke out an almost-convincing laugh. “Well, you know what I mean.” You fall silent again, still tracing your thumb against his fingers, lost in your thoughts now.

All the while you’d been talking, you hadn’t notice the slowing of the heart monitor. His breaths are coming slower too, the rising of his chest barely noticeable anymore. Outside, twilight has fallen, and there’s no longer any natural light coming in through the window. You notice all of this at once, but you suddenly feel so sluggish that you can’t bring yourself to move, much less press the call button for one of the nurses. Even as the beeps fade to a single, steady whine, you feel frozen in your seat, his hand still in yours. There’s an eerie sense of calm descending over you.

When the whine stops, it seems to shake you out of whatever stupor you’re in. Blinking, you look around and find that the two of you are no longer alone in the room. In the corner farthest from the door, a human-like figure stands shrouded in the faintest yellow glow, like the last remnants of the sunset outside. It has the face of an elderly man, but there is something decidedly un-human in the way it carries itself.

“Hello, Y/N,” The figure’s mouth moves, but it’s almost as though its words are projected directly into your mind rather than spoken into the room. There’s a tingling quality to them, almost like an electrical shock, but not something altogether unpleasant.

You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes, thinking that the lack of sleep must be affecting you more than you realize. When you finally lower your hands, the figure hasn’t moved. “Are you… Death?” You aren’t unaware of how preposterous the question sounds. You grip Hajime’s hand tighter, and the figure seems to smile.

“Hardly. The concept of death itself as an entity is little more than a construct of the human imagination.” There’s a pause and a sound you could almost consider a chuckle, then it continues. “More accurately, I suppose you could call me Life.” It looks at Hajime’s still body almost mournfully. You aren’t sure how much time passes, or if any has passed at all.

“This life is very precious to you. Yes?” Its attention is back on you now.

“More than anything,” You breathe out, “I – I love him. We’re getting married.” You hold out your hand so that the being can see the ring on your finger. As if it would care. For some reason, it does lean forward and inspect the ring carefully.

“Hm. These kinds of things… they aren’t so cut and dry, you know.” Assuming at this point that you must be dreaming, you nod dumbly, even though you don’t really know at all. “Still, all hope is not lost. With the right material, a repair could be made.”

“A repair?” You parrot back, feeling your heart catch in your chest. Is it even beating right now?

“It will require something made up of the same stuff as the existing soul. Something strong and plentiful. Do you understand?” Your brow furrows, and you shake your head. Dream or not, you can’t even pretend to know what this being is trying to say.

“Your memories,” It says gently, as though explaining something simple to a small child. “If I could use all of your memories of him, I can save his life.” It watches you intently for a few moments, but you feel frozen in place, trying to comprehend what it’s asking of you. “I would understand if you decline. Others have.”

“So he will live?” It nods. “But I won’t remember him. Not even a little.”

“Not one memory can be spared,” It confirms. “It’s the only way.”

“Will I fall in love with him again? Will he – will he stay with me?”

The being gives an almost imperceptible shrug. “It can’t be known. Your future – that’s something you will have to work out on your own. The only thing I can promise you is that his life will be spared.”

You’re already nodding. “Then I’ll do it. We’ll find a way to be together. He won’t give up on me.” The being’s lips twitch briefly, but it nods.

“If you’re certain,” It’s already reaching toward you, fingertips hovering near your forehead.

“I am.” You screw your eyes shut, clutching onto Hajime’s hand tightly with both hands. “Do it,” You prompt, when you don’t feel the being move. And just like that, you’re awash in a sea of light and warmth for a few blissful moments before being plunged into a deep nothingness.

Taglist ; Send an ask or PM to be added! 

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If your url is written without you actually being tagged, it means tumblr was giving me issues tagging you, but I’ll definitely try again next time!

[skyedestiny]

It’s High Noon (He’s Playing Overwatch)

I don’t know what specifically inspired this but I really enjoy writing for Taehyung.  He’s gotten himself into a bunch of my drabbles without any previous planning before.  So clearly, his muse is vocal (he’s just more polite about it than Jimin’s who literally breaks into other people’s narration so he can be in a thing xD).  And I’ve really wanted to write more of Kookie, since the only time I really wrote for him was in my very first Bangtan drabble.  I just adore the kid.  He’s a dork who loves comics and video games, I mean, come on.

(AO3 link)

It was one of those rare days where the group had free time.  And the two youngest members of Bangtan had chosen to spend the time relaxing in the truest way possible.

In the living room of the Bangtan dorm, Jungkook sat on the floor, a controller in his hands and his concentration intense on the TV screen ahead of him.  Behind him, lying upside down on the couch with half a candy straw sticking out of his mouth was Taehyung.

This provided the most interesting view of the television, Taehyung had reasoned.  It was what he’d told Jimin when the other boy had come into the room earlier in search of some articles of clothing that had apparently gone missing from his closet.  His eyes had landed on Tae and all speech had ceased until Taehyung answered the silent question.

Jungkook hadn’t even thought to ask about Taehyung’s position.  His hyung was strange - it was usually just best not to ask about these things.  However, in this case, Taehyung had been right.  The position did provide a very interesting view of the television screen.  (He may have tried it out himself at a separate time.)

So this was how they found themselves when Taehyung suddenly started voicing questions - probably out of some semi-boredom.

“Who would win in a fight?” he prompted.  His voice was made even deeper than normal by how his adam’s apple pressed right against his skin, his throat constrained.  “Iron Man or Spider-Man?”

It took a lot to break through Jungkook’s expression of deep focus, but this did manage to have him furrow his brows.  “Why are they fighting?” he asked.  “They’re both good guys.”

“I don’t know,” said Tae, removing the sour candy straw from his mouth and smacking his lips.  

It seemed like Jungkook wasn’t going to answer unless he got an explanation that he deemed logical for the proposed scenario.  Glance drifting upwards, Taehyung got to thinking.  

“He stole his pop-tart.”

Jungkook wrinkled his nose.  “Tony Stark doesn’t eat pop-tarts.”

A sharp snapping sound came from behind Jungkook.  He should have probably been concerned and looked back, but he wasn’t, and didn’t.  In reality, the maknae’s apathy was warranted - this sound was only due to Taehyung choosing to clamp his teeth on his candy and yank until it forcibly splintered off, instead of just simply biting or chewing a piece off.  “What does he eat then?”

The younger’s look switched so that one eyebrow was raised.  He was tempted to turn around and face Tae, his head almost turned towards the side.  In the end, he just took to shaking it it.  “I don’t know - he’s an American billionaire.  He eats whatever American billionaires eat.”

Tae turned to flip onto his stomach, then, legs pressed up against the back of the couch.  He yelped as some sour powder landed in his eye at the movement.  But this was the only audible indication given that he was under any sort of duress.  Taehyung rubbed at his eye with a balled fist.

Still, Jungkook jolted as if concerned, looking as if he was actually going to turn back this time.  It didn’t happen, though.  His head remained twisted, slightly, but his focus was still firmly on the game playing out on screen.

“You don’t know?” Taehyung continued.  It sounded like he was unaffected from it all - the powder burning his eyes and making his nose run and Jungkook’s seeming lack of care.

“Do I look like an American billionaire?” Though disrespectful, this wasn’t said with any malice.  In fact, the maknae’s tone was bone dry, any sharpness to his words only due to the frustration of focusing on two separate (but also equally frustrating) things at once.  

“So then how do you know he doesn’t have pop-tarts?” Taehyung’s voice was a casual challenge.  

And at the question, Jungkook felt heat rise to his cheeks.  Iron Man was his favorite superhero - of course he had an answer for this.  

But before he could bring himself to say anything, Taehyung continued.  “You don’t know.”  The nod he said it with was filled with a sense of finality, as if that was the end of the discussion.

Even having not seen it flustered the younger member of Bangtan.  “Yah.”  His voice was a disbelieving breath, his fingers freezing on the controller, his focus snapped.  The cessation of movement, of sound, from the younger was a betrayal to the fact that his blood had actually begun to boil.

Boom.  Because of his freezing, his character in the game had been sniped.  And that was the final straw for the usually placid maknae.  “Yah!!” He jumped to his feet, whipping around to angrily face Tae.

First he’d called his knowledge of his favorite superhero into question and now he’d caused him to lose his game.  What the hell?

Immediately Taehyung scrambled into standing.  “Yah!” he yelled back, almost in mocking reverberation, offense littering his tone.  “Who are you saying ‘yah’ to?!” Jungkook could maybe get away with that disrespect with the others, him being their cute maknae, but Taehyung stood for it much less.

Even less so when he was, honestly, somewhat fed up from being ignored.

When it came to the members, though, (and especially when he was in a bad mood,) Jungkook didn’t care so much for that ‘age equals respect’ stuff.  He was a playful sort at the best of times, but he wasn’t beyond sticking up for himself, rudely if necessarily, when upset.  “I’m saying it to you,” he shouted, “because you see I’m trying to concentrate on something and then you ask me about Iron Man and then you insult me about Iron Man, you, who have never read a comic in your life, when I-!”

Something made his anger fizzle right away.  Color drained from Jungkook’s face as his complexion returned to normal, no longer fury red - perhaps even a little paler than normal.  There was concern in his expression and his breaths were shallow as his temper quickly cooled.

The whole atmosphere seemed to change.  Taehyung, too, had dropped his tension.  His mouth, which had been stretched into a hard line, relaxed into its usual resting droop, brows unknitting from how they’d been - arched in perturbation.  Blinking, confused, Taehyung rubbed again at his burning eye.

“What happened to your face?” Jungkook asked.

Confused silence.  Taehyung tilted his head.

“Your eye’s all red.”

Beat.  “Oh.  Something got into it.”  Absentmindedly, Tae lifted his hand with what remained of the candy straw and rubbed his affected eye once more.

Jungkook’s gaze went from the candy to Taehyung’s irritated face.  Realization sparked.  “Ah, jinjja!”

Red eye closed, Taehyung’s brows rose, and he tilted his head towards the other side, the sides of his mouth pulling down more in question.

If he weren’t concerned for his friend, Jungkook may have had the urge to roll his eyes.  “Come on, we gotta wash that out.”  He didn’t wait - he walked over and grabbed Taehyung by his elbow, pulling him along to the bathroom.

Taehyung’s eye did not look much better - not immediately.  But it stopped worsening at least.  

“What happened?” Jungkook asked, calmer now.

“I was eating candy while I was upside down.”  The elder said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Why?”

“Because I was upside down when I wanted candy.”

Of course.  Jungkook did roll his eyes this time.  “You have to be careful.”  It wasn’t said dismissively.  (He was struck, then, with the sudden, passing thought that this wouldn’t have mattered as much to him a few years back.  He’d cared for the other members, then, too, surely, but it was in a more casual way.  Things - these people, his brothers, had come to mean a lot more to him in time.)  

Then, there was guilt.  A feeling in his gut so sure that maybe he could’ve stopped Taehyung from hurting himself if only he’d been paying attention.  “I’m sorry I let you get so bored.”  

A moment passed and Taehyung’s gaze dropped.  He shook his head.  “You were only playing a game,” he said.  “I’m sorry I made you get so mad about Iron Man.”

Color returned, again, to Jungkook’s cheeks.  When Taehyung put it like that, it put things into perspective.  “No, it was stupid.”  It was a really dumb reason to have gotten so angry.

Tae didn’t seem to think so, though.  His eyes rose to meet Jungkook’s again.  “No, it’s something you like a lot.  It matters to you,” he said.  Then, a beat.  “I’ve never read any comics before.”

“I know.”

But there was something in the air now, floating there.  A shy, unspoken request.  

“Do you want to?”

Again, Taehyung’s head snapped up, eyes a bit wider this time.  “I don’t know where to start,” he said.  “Aren’t there like, hundreds and hundreds of them?”

For some reason, the fact that Taehyung was showing an interest in this had warmth spread from Jungkook’s chest.  “I can show you a good jumping-on point,” he offered easily.  “We could look at them together.”

“Oh, really?” There was shock in the older boy’s tone.  “What about your game?”

Jungkook waved a hand.  “There’ll be people playing later.”

Truthfully, they both knew he might not get the chance to hop back on any time soon.

But this, to Jungkook, was more important.

[unorthodork]

I don’t really like saying anything uber mega personal here, because I’m sorta just here to reblog relative stuff, and maybe write a little? However, I feel I need to get some stuff off my chest. Depression is perhaps the most devastating mental war there is. It is at moderate difficulty to enter such a war zone, although ridiculously easy to remain. You have no choice to vacate and return to your family, only to man the guns and arm yourself to endure this one soldier battle. The rivalry between joy and depression plays tug of war with your mental stability, a lone troop desperate to escape. Joy enrolls and deports you to the battlefield with little to no notice, a lingering presence of an infinite vast No Man’s Land. Tarnished terrain with jagged sharp branches that disperse from ash brown bark makes the land look like a filter. Not a single barricade in place, you trek onward with the assumption this first passage will be simple to cross. A few miles in, unsuspecting of such a disturbance, you fall into a trench. Luckily it isn’t very deep, minor as if it were unfinished. You dig your fingers into the Earth, flinching as you feel a rock attempt to slip beneath your nail. You check your flesh, unscathed as it has always been, many would compliment and envy your complexion and condition. Upon settling both feet onto the terrain, you step on a shard of glass that barely pricks the heel of your sneakers. “I may need a change of footwear more suitable,” you conclude, pulling out a pair of pristine combat boots. Your eyes dart between your current favorite pair of rainbow sneakers, and the midnight black combat boots. Reluctantly, you change pairs and stuff the favored item into your rucksack. Wiggling your toes and looking down, you realize you much preferred the saturated and colorful option over the grim, achromatic resort. The petal falls free from the rose, the first chip off the old block that is your happiness. The glass caught between the soles go unnoticed by your newly recruited self, properly suited for the rubble now. As your mind begins to wander and ramble, distracted you trip over a small sack barricade. A hand swats away dust and pebble nestled into the fabric of ocean blue denim jeans, yet again a favorite article of clothing. A light sigh slips between parted, plush lips as a set of leg pads jerk free from a small compartment. Strapped tight around plump thighs and durable knees, the color is a dim grey that instantly makes you miss the vibrancy of your trousers. Weeks fly by as quickly as the crows overhead, days of the week less monitored than prior. Was it Monday, or Wednesday? Perhaps it was a Friday or Sunday? The silver watch fastened around an overused wrist broke long ago, and so you lost your track of time. Barricades, debris, rivers and trenches have came your way and ultimately resulted in an entire change of your wardrobe. “I won’t be leaving this place with all intact.” Thought to be alone, the pistol within its holster is gripped firmly upon a shadowy figure approaching. “Hey friend, I’ll help you find your way about. It’s awfully lonely here, isn’t it?” spoke a scrawny civilian, decked in gear alike yourself which indicated they may have been a solider rather than common folk. You nod and accept the invitation of their company, friendship is a good thing after all; they appear wholly capable of surviving these harsh conditions, the battle will be easier together. What is it you’re looking for, pal?” “Um, it’s the guy who created all of this..destruction. The bodies,” You gesture your thumb towards one of the many surrounding piles of lifeless corpses, sided by various weapons. Their eyes widened in fear, taking a hasty few steps back before exclaiming in a shaky manner “Oh no, not it.” “You’re seeking it,” “Yes, I am? Who exactly are we talking about here?” They shook their head, retrieving a dull blade beside a body they for some reason took interest in. Aged blood the shade of rust was smeared by saliva coating a slim thumb, much to your surprise. “Not a who, a what. Maybe a who depending on how far gone you are.” You tilt your head in confusion. “It is a gastly demon you see, one I advise to steer clear of.” In a battle stance, you shake your head triumphantly, “I will act accordingly when I see it, then.” The following crackle of vocal cords startle you, this man hasn’t been so loud, every word spoken pillow soft. Anxiety racks your nerves and thought process, heart beat increasing. “You can’t see it, useless kid. Do you lack sense? It’s invisible or otherwise similar to dense smoke, kind too. It has to be to ensure the thoughts can get in, now let’s travel onwards.” You hadn’t thought much of the insult, as it’s been heard so many times you assume it’s likely correct, that you lack sense. Useless was a new one, however speaking up may not be quite beneficial, so you follow his lead now. A sickly crooked smile highlights already wrinkled features, skin crinkled even more so thanks to his expression as you begin to feel inferior in comparison to this solider. He knows more about this creature, after all. Months have sailed along in resemblance to the battleships that once littered the now surrounding body of water. During this journey you were fortunate enough to meet another survivor, and learn more about Sixten, the other occupant of your party. Anorexic and skeletal in result of such, he forcefully kept true to making his body reject all meals. You found this out the one night he’d stripped himself of his sweater and faced the dead trees, the only sound other than the roaring, luminescent fire being gagging and violent hacks. Sixten Davis, Luci Furr, and yourself. You and Luci have grown quite close, a relationship that blossomed gradually although now somewhat sketchy. Being with her, you've learned it's much to blame yourself over the latter; Hearing seemingly endless complaints and witnessing shed tears pool at the underside of her pointed chin. The loyalty established is as well questionable, as many a nights may you find hear her lilted giggling and Sixten's voice mingling in the distance. "We've met the end of land, sea is only ahead," You exclaim with a hint of sadness, the life and essence you once contained now in bottled amounts. "Make yourself useful then, and begin to craft a raft," Luci giggled at the intentional rhyme in his demand. "Perhaps you can help?" You inquire sharply, eyes narrowed and brows knitted together in irritation. Luci was quick to defend Sixten's honor, unlike yourself. "He's on watch for any more demons, don't be rude to him. We don't have to help you, you're luck to have us." Relax, the therapist once said it helps to breathe deeply. "This is why I must insult them, I don't get why they can't just learn." Your eye twitches, ire boiling in the pit of your stomach. Inhale. "It's their fault anyways, dragging us along on this trip," "Ungrateful as always." Exhale. "You both treat me like absolute trash! How is it my fault, when Luci is the one who ate all the rations? When you're the one who screwed the calculations and sent us on a run around in the forest?!" You soon regret this outburst, silence numbing your skin as it tingles and the palms of your hands grow clammy. A year has driven by now, and you've forgotten the type of car you'd once desired, otherwise you would compare the statements. Luci robbed you of your supplies and self esteem, whilst Sixten had vicked you of your prized physical attribute. A once clear complexion was now littered with scars from a sharpened blade, the same dull knife Sixten pocketed and spent time repairing afterwards. To spite you, he'd carved many insults into the flesh of your stomach and chest to remind you of who you are. Tired limbs swam through filthy waters to the next slice of land, fragile bones creaked and moaned like old wood from the constant maneuver of land not one bit level with the rest. Here you stand now, before the ghoul you've long searched for. It depressed you how many trials you'd suffered just to see it was exactly as Sixten described it, smoke. "Hello, it." "Please, call me friend." It's voice echoed and repeated as if someone played multiple audio clips at the same time from different tabs. It's tone was inviting, warmth enveloping you as it approached a single step closer. You shook my head hastily in rejection, fearing now what friendship's purpose was, and what it truly meant. It's hand was firm and constricting on your shoulder however, despite the vain attempt at warding it away. Physical contact has grown void in your life, it's hold served pleasant and home-like. "I cannot hurt you, my dear. Please, invite me in." It's request made little sense, nonetheless you accepted it. Everything sounded fuzzy and unclear with it's grasp growing uncomfortable now, the pain felt relieving though, you make no attempt to pull back. Slowly nodding, it smiles, "Good, very good." You realize it didn't smile, rather you visioned it. Charming little nothings were whispered softly and rotated about in your membrane, and the cold pressure of a pistol to your temple failed to wake you. "You've endured so much pain, why not join me, and lessen the amount of hurt you experience? You don't have to feel it any more." Hot tears streamed down cool blemmished cheeks, calloused fingers pressing tighter into the weapon. "Pull the trigger." For a mere moment you debated tugging it back, before your eyes widened upon seeing yourself stand upright before you. The curve of plush lips complemented untouched skin. A rainbow tie die t-shirt to match your rainbow sneakers, Converse brand just like you liked them. Ocean blue denim jeans. "The sooner you do, the quicker the pain will vanish." Beside that image was the current you, mirrored in horrific fashion. This wasn't the you everyone would recognize and remember, certainly not the one you'd wanted to be. Dusty combat boots that faded away from their once true color of midnight black, split from the now flat soles. Loosely hanging padding on your legs, arms, and chest. Greasy locks strewn about a grimey forehead, dandruff flakes caked onto your scalp. Ocean blue denims now faded to an ash color, a tiedie shirt near black and white. A trembling hand pulls up the shirt to reveal carved flesh, reading adjectives like "Stupid," "Useless," and "Weak." A violent scream echoes, and a bang follows. The trigger was pulled.