#anyhow curse of having sensitive skin. never ends

[strixhaven]

i would be unstoppable and so sexy if i could wear jewelry for longer than ten seconds without me wanting to bite my skin off

[vanillasakura]

@magnoliacqffee and I were discussing some Sean and Karen headcanons last night, and they’re just so adorable I had to share them. They’re a bit of a mix between modern and canon-compliant, but these two are so great together who really cares, y’know? (Bonus NSFW at the end as well!)

Canon-Compliant (But everything is happy)

Sean would light his farts on fire and Karen would watch and laugh

Whenever Karen’s feeling down, she’d rest her head on Sean’s shoulder and just let herself exist with him. Doesn’t matter if John and Arthur are pissing each other off five feet away, in that moment, the only two people that exist are her and Sean

Sean is a huge swooner, and his favorite thing ever is kissing Karen. Not just in a passionate and intimate way, but specifically light, chaste kisses that he can give her again and again and again. Whenever she has enough, he’ll pout but let her have her way. He’s gonna kiss her again soon, anyhow

Nothing has the power to make Sean happy like resting his head on Karen’s chest and being held by her. He’s a total boob guy, and would often fall asleep with his head sandwiched between her boobs

Sean is a horrible dancer, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to take the lead when dancing with Karen. It never works out very well, and she ends up showing him how it’s done, and eventually, the two of them can waltz without Sean stepping on her toes

Sometimes, very rarely, Karen will sleep in one of Sean’s shirts. This only happens when the two of them are in his tent, but it doesn’t stop Sean from feeling himself fall in love with her all over again at the simple sight of it

They love doing each other’s hair

After the gang breaks up, they get a house not far from Beecher’s Hope, and host parties all the time. They have lots of open space and love having people over

Their house is by a field, and sometimes, Sean will stand in it, pretending to be a scarecrow to see how long it will take Karen to notice, claiming that he’s been cursed and needs a kiss to be able to move again. He’ll call her a crow if she refuses to come over

Their house is full of lots of little things they’ve found along the way, and isn’t dirty or messy at all, just seems a little cluttered. Sean in particular hates throwing things away, so they have little boxes of bottlecaps and cigarette cards stored all over the main room of the house

Sean would be paramount in helping Karen recover from her alcoholism. (Assuming that she starts drinking much heavier not because of his death, but because of mounting tensions in the gang.) He’d distract her whenever she feels the urge coming on, and if she did end up drinking, she’d feel horrible, crying because she “failed him.” Sean would hold her close and kiss her tears away and rock her side to side in his lap, telling her that he knows it’s hard, but he’s always here for her, and that they’re gonna get through this. He treats Karen’s problems like his own, and will do whatever it takes to help her

Both of them sleep hot, but unfortunately for them, Sean is a huge cuddle bug and will not sleep unless he is holding Karen or she is holding him. He’ll even reach out for her in his sleep, and pull her flush against him. It’s not very comfortable, downright miserable during the summer when they often wake up in a pool of sweat, but they learn to handle it. 

Modern

Their house would have whoppee cushions all over the place. Call it juvenile as much as you want, Grimshaw, but both of them are “farts are funny” people. The first time you go over all hell would break loose, but just because you’ve since learned to look before you sit doesn’t mean it would end. Karen would distract you with something while Sean would work on placing the cushion where you were sitting, and when you do sit on it they would both laugh and high-five

Going off of @ttuesday ‘s headcanon that Karen would be obsessed with GTA V, especially GTA Online, because it’s so accurate it hurts. Sean would love watching her play and would ask her to do completely random things. “Can you shoot a hooker for me” “Can you bomb a movie theatre” “Can you steal a helicopter” “Can you rob a convenience store” He’d be convinced Karen is the best at video games and nobody can surpass her, and anytime she shows him evidence that proves otherwise he would go “they just got lucky”

They’d both start playing Fortnite ironically but it would quickly become unironic. They’d talk each other out of buying skins and the battle pass. They’d also try and get Jack interested but Jack wouldn’t find the game fun and would end up reading while the two of them are getting, in Sean’s words “crispy dubs”

Sean has ADHD. This point is not up for debate as I also have it and can spot somebody with it a mile away. He would solely stim on Karen, his favorite thing would be tapping his fingers on her arms and playing with her curls. Every time he lightly pulls a curl he would go “boing” under his breath, and Karen would find it adorable. They’d literally be at Arthur’s place and Sean would be tapping away on Karen and Arthur would ask if it bothered her, but Karen would just shrug, she’s so used to it she hardly notices anymore, and she also secretly adores it

Sean would use Money Machine as a copy pasta and send it to Karen all the time. She’d send him a selfie or whatever and he would literally respond with the lyrics to Money Machine. He also uses it as a “verbal copy pasta”, where something happens and he just... says the lyrics to Money Machine

Sean and Karen would be the best at Just Dance. Javier would film their dance battles all the time and it would be epic to witness

They’d both play Smash to deal with stress, and have hosted some amazing Smash Parties in the past

Karen would affectionately refer to Sean as “her little sussy”

Their song would be Karen, You’re an Angel by Sleeping in the Aviary

Sean would have two ways of waking Karen up: A.) Kissing her face until she opens her eyes, him asking in a whisper how she slept, or B.) Airhorn. It’s usually always the first option, though

Sean would send Karen this image:

NSFW

Let’s get it out of the way: Sean is a quickshot, even when he’s sober. He always makes sure Karen gets hers though, he loves eating her out and if him finishing quickly is an excuse to do it, then it’s not that bad, right?

Sean could spend hours playing with Karen’s boobs. He can’t think of anything more attractive in the entire world

Speaking of, both of them have very sensitive nipples, and both of them use this to their advantage. They have 100% both come before just by rubbing their chests together

Neither of them are usually very serious during sex, and they almost always crack a joke or laugh during the do. It’s more fun that way, after all!

[spn-rewrites]

01x15 (part 3)

Season One Episode Fifteen: The Benders

A/N: heeeeellooooo, :) please leave any and all feedback, it is much appreciated and let me know if you’d like to be tagged! it feels weird that season one is almost over :( 

SYNOPSIS: you get bitched by a girl and kathleen does you another favor

WORD COUNT: 2456

You wake up unable to move. Your hands are bound together by a rope, ripping tiny cuts into your skin as you try to free yourself. Your head is pounding and you can’t stretch out your feet but you smell Dean. His familiar scent is next to you and that seems to make you feel at least a little bit okay. 

You lift your head and groan out in pain. The little girl and three men stand before you. Just like the girl, the men look trashed. Distressed clothing, unkempt hair, and dirty face. They’re big. Like they wrestled in high school or something but something tells you they didn’t go to a real school. 

Dean’s breathing heavily beside you as he wakes up but you stare at the guy sitting in front. He must be the dad. The one that was cooking in the kitchen. He’s got white facial hair, a red hat sitting on top of his head and greasy clothes. One of the guys that jumped you earlier puts his hands on the dad’s shoulders and whispers. “Come on, let's hunt him!”

“Yeah, these two are fighters. Sure would be fun to hunt,” the other guy says. Hunt. The word brings you back to the photos you found earlier and you shiver. The older man laughs, actually, it sounds more like a wheeze than anything. 

“You guys gotta be kidding me. That’s what this is about? You yahoos hunt people?” Dean asks. You look over at him. He’s bleeding and you’re sure you are, too. And he’s dirty. But still, a sight to see. 

None of the men answer him. Instead, the dad leans forward on his knees and gives Dean a toothless grin. “You  ever killed before?” He asks. He was in charge, clearly. The ringleader of this mess, the brains behind the operation except none of them had any brains. 

“Yeah,” you tell him, unafraid. Maybe it’s not the best approach, seeing as you’re completely surrounded but you don’t care. “I’ll kill you too.” You spit on the floor the blood that was collecting in your mouth. 

The dad doesn’t care what your answer is, he just keeps talking anyhow. “I’ve hunted all my life. Just like my father, his before him. I’ve hunted deer and bear. I even got a cougar once. Huh, boys?” He looks over at his sons and grins. “But the best hunt is human.” You grimace as he gets closer to you and Dean. His breath becomes hot on your face and you crinkle your nose. “Oh, there’s nothing like it. Holding their life in your hands. Seeing the fear in their eyes just before they go dark. Makes you feel powerful alive.”

Dean keeps eye contact with him. He’s got a crazy look in his eyes, like just the idea of murder was getting him off. You look around at the others. The girl was the scariest looking of them all. A young girl with so much potential and an evil look in her eyes. 

“You’re a sick puppy,” Dean spits at the guy. His entire demeanor changes now. He went from chuckling at memories of killing to tense and stern. 

“Give him a weapon,” he says. “We give him a fighting chance. It’s kind of like….our tradition.” Your upper lip curls as he stands from his chair and walks to the side of you. His hand touches your shoulder and you pull it away as best as you can. “Passed down from father to son. Of course, only one or two a year. Never enough to bring the law down. We never been that sloppy.”

The entire family looks sick and demented and you think of your own father. He liked to hunt, too. Animals. He’d go for a weekend or two a year with his buddies and he always wished that you’d come with him one day. Or that he’d have a son. 

Then you think of your mom. Hunting demons just like John Winchester. What got you into this whole mess to begin with. 

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty sloppy,” Dean says. The dad bends his knees and puts his hands on them, getting in his face. 

“So what, you two with that pretty cop?” He asks. He looks over at you and you can see the cavities in his teeth as he talks. Neither of you answers but you turn your head away because his breath smells like death. “Are you a cop?” He asks. 

Dean laughs. “If I tell you, you promise not to make me into an ashtray?” He jokes, earning a punch in the face by face by his son. They were all wearing flannels, but his was a deep red. The grey shirt under it had grease stains all over and his face was cleanly shaved. You start kicking at your chair, cursing at him through your teeth. 

“Don’t fucking touch him!” You tell, getting your own kick to the shin with his steel toe boots. 

“Only reason I don’t let my boys take you right here is that there’s something I need to know,” the dad says. 

“Yeah, how about it’s not nice to marry your sister?” Dean snaps. You laugh out loud which wasn’t probably the best idea considering now that he was behind you, he was heating up a metal rod. 

“Tell me, any of the cops gonna come looking for you?” He asks. 

“Oh, eat me,” you mumble, rolling your neck around and hearing the joints crack. 

“Hey, they actually might,” Dean tells you, leaning into your side as much as he can. You laugh under your breath as the two men step closer to you and you feel the heat from the fireplace behind you being open. 

They pick on Dean instead of you. Grabbing his face as the dad holds the torch to his face. “You think this is funny?” He asks, glaring at you as a warning. “You brought this down on my family.” You look over and Dean’s face is shaking, his entire body is quivering but he doesn’t answer. “You wanna play games? We’ll play some games.” He looks up at his son, the one holding Dean’s head straight. The one with the greasy shirt. At any moment he could snap his neck and that thought isn’t lost on you. “Looks like we’re gonna have a hunt tonight after all, boys. And you,” he points the rod in Dean’s face, “get to pick the animal. The boy or the cop.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Nobody’s coming for us, alright? It’s just us.” Blood is running down his nose and he can barely move his mouth. 

“If you don’t choose, I will,” the man threatens. He puts the end of the rod to Dean’s chest, the fire sizzling against his skin. Dean groans out in pain, you cringe, desperate to cover your ears and the smell of burning flesh fills the room. 

“You son of a bitch,” Dean groans, pushing against the hands that restrain him but there is no use. The dad holds the rod up to Dean’s face. You can practically see it singeing off his lashes. 

“Next time I’ll take an eye,” he says calmly. 

“The guy, the guy. Take the boy,” you blurt. All the men look over at you. He drops the rod from Dean’s face and the man that was holding him back let’s go. All eyes are on you and you nod. “Take the boy.” 

The dad takes a chain off from around his neck, a shiny key on the end of it and you huff. He hands it to one of his sons and they all disperse like cockroaches. Before the dad lets go of the key, he says, “Don’t let him out. You shoot him in the cage.”

“What?” You snap. “I thought you were gonna hunt him. Give him a chance.”

The man looks at you and chuckles. You feel your heart sink into your chest. The only reason you gave up Sam is because he could have won. He would have won. “Lee, when you’re done with the boy, shoot the bitch, too,” he says. It was the first time he’d addressed any of his kids by name. You’re surprised they even have names, really. 

You start to kick your legs and you can’t help the now steady stream of tears that are running down your face. “No, no. Don’t kill him!” You cry. You pull at your restraints and soon, you’re erratic. You can’t stop crying, begging them to spare him. You’re shushed by the intense pain of burning metal on your skin, making you cry in a different way. 

“I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll kill you all!” Dean sneers at the man and he chuckles, tossing the rod to the side. “You hear me? I will kill you!”

The man ignores him and starts calling out for Lee through the door but there’s no answer. He calls again but again, nothing. “Judd,” he addresses his other boy. “You come with me and Missy,” he turns to the little girl. “You watch them.” 

She nods her head and pulls out her knife again, looking at you and Dean with a crooked smile. Her neck looks permanently broken like someone snapped it a long time ago and she’s grown into it. That or her posture was noticeably bad. 

She puts the knife to your eyebrow. The tip of the blade grazes your skin gently. You hiss when it nicks your skin and you feel the warm blood drip down your face. “Get away from her,” Dean grumbles. The girl laughs and quickly rips the blade away from your face and points it to Dean’s chest. “You’re feisty for a little girl,” he comments. 

“Product of being raised by animals, I suppose,” you say. She kicks you with her bare feet and you don’t feel it. “Go on,” you taunt her. “Stab me. Kill me.” 

“Y/N,” Dean whispers, panic rising in his face. Missy pulls her blade away and spins it around in her fingers, missing her skin every time. 

“No. If they’re gonna kill Sam they may as well kill me too, so do it!” You yell. Your head is spinning and you’re unsure of what hurts worse. The concussion you probably have or the burn on your thigh. Missy points her blade down, slowly until the tip of it hits the now sensitive skin of your thigh. 

“Don’t touch her,” Dean warns. You keep your eye contact with Missy but you hear Dean shaking his chair. “Don’t you do that.” 

“She won’t,” you snap, tilting your head to the side just a little bit. She puts a little more pressure on your leg but you resist the urge to wince. “She’s too scared.” 

She grits her teeth as she attempts to put even more pressure against you, no doubt leaving a puncture wound, a gunshot goes off and her head spins around to the door. Your heart feels like it stops when Sam bursts through the door, a gun pointed at her. “Put the knife down,” he tells her. She doesn’t, but it’s no longer against your leg so instead of paying attention, you try to collect yourself. 

Whatever happens next is a blur of Sam fighting the girl for her knife, her kicking and screaming as grabs her and locks her in a closet and then your restraints being untied. The moment they are, you throw your hands around his neck and Sam catches you, hugging you back twice as hard. It only lasts a second until Dean speaks up. “We need to go find Kathleen.”

You pull away from Sam and he helps you out of the house. You’re a limping mess but with him being at least five inches taller than you, he’s a great crutch to lean on. 

Kathleen meets you outside, between the barn and the house. Blood all over her white shirt and face but she immediately asks about the girl. “Locked in the closer. What about the dad?” Dean asks. 

She takes a sharp intake of breath and swallows hard. “Shot. Trying to escape,” she says but you know she’s lying. “Are you okay?” She asks you, trying to change the subject. You nod and Kathleen gives you a soft smile. 

“They kept the cars over there,” Dean says, nodding toward a collection of stolen cars. Right in front is the cruiser. Sam sits you down on the steps as Kathleen rummages through her car looking for her radio. 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, pushing your hair out of your face to look at the cut on your eyebrow. “Dean is barely touched, what happened to you?” 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, avoiding the truth. The radio goes off a few feet away, taking your attention although you still feel Sam’s eyes on you. “Let’s go, okay?” You ask and he nods, helping you up. 

Dean watches your step carefully as the three of you walk down the path of the house. The Impala is still at the police station and you know you’re going to have to walk there because those dickheads rendered the cruiser useless. Kathleen stops you before you get too far. “The state police and the FBI are gonna be here within the hour. They’re gonna want to talk to you. I suggest that you’re all long gone by then,” she says. 

“Thanks,” Dean sighs. “I don’t mean to press our luck but we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere. And she’s practically crippled. Think we could catch a ride?” 

“Duck if you see a squad car,” Kathleen says. Sam’s grip on your side tightens as he keeps you steady. 

“Sounds good, thank you,” Sam says. He’s just grateful she’s letting you all off the hook and he helps you limp away. You don’t stay to eavesdrop on Dean and Kathleen’s conversation. “Are you going to be able to walk all that way?” Sam asks. 

“If not, I got two strong men to carry me, huh?” Sam chuckles and Dean jogs his way back up to you, which wasn’t very far because again: crippled. 

“I can’t believe you got kidnapped,” he scolds his younger brother now that you’re alone. “How stupid. You do that again, and I’m not looking for you.”

“Sure you will,” Sam says sarcastically. There’s a beat of silence, just your shoes against the gravel road. “You got sidelined by a 13-year-old girl, huh? Rusty much?” He teases Dean back. 

“Oh, shut up,” Dean groans. 

“She was clearly psychotic. We never stood a chance,” you snap back, defending Dean and yourself. “Can we go back to hunting ghosts now?”

tagged: @matchamendes @stuckupstucky @sillydecoy@kaelyn-lobrutto24@liztorr1212 @icanreadbookstoo @rachael-mae@jessewa26 @sundownridge@givemebooksorgivemedeath@alienemilyyyy @teenwaywardasgardian @mpmarypoppins  @mellowlandrunaway2

[edennohebi]

                                          「 BAD ✘ END 」

ATTEND TO YOUR SINS KANO “HIBIKI” SHUUYA &.  LET US MARCH TOWARDS THE 3RD TRAGEDY !

CONTENT WARNING:

Death

Paranoia

General mental instability

Gore

Knives

Dismemberment

Death of a minor

What a twist this had been. 

Kano had always been deemed that of the boy who had cried wolf, for every word that had spilled from his lips held even a dash of deceit, no matter how much he had cried out that it was the truth. People had regarded lies in a rather funny way -- for many hated those who withheld the truth with every fiber of their being. Their disgust towards them was scorching, an ever-burning flame that seized the skin, tore past the confines of the body and scarred the heart -- but did liars not do the same onto them, one would argue? Had the cheats and the cons not led people astray, into decisions that they would not have made without the sway and pull of carefully placed words? But had morality truly mattered in a case such as this? It was a matter of life or death -- kill or be killed. No one had wanted to die -- not most people within the proper mindset, anyhow. Human beings were cruel, treacherous things who would stop at no means for their survival -- for they, just like the snakes in this world, had been utter animals.

So who else had fit the bill better than the unfortunate soul who had been cursed with the snake of deception itself? 

It was funny -- or perhaps, funny to the point where nothing had been humorous at all. For this time, the Deceiver -- as he had been so uncomfortably branded -- had not lied. Falsehood failed to lace itself into his sentences, where it had once been interwoven like that of fate’s strings themselves -- instead, he had spat truth after truth. But despite his efforts, those in the courtroom had failed to be convinced: they regarded him warily, with accusations against his alibi and against what he knew had went on, as if he had been speaking utter nonsense in an entirely different language. Every defense of his had been shot down, scoffed at, and he had been sentenced to the curse of the scapegoat. It was a horrid one, really: for the scapegoat must endure, endure, endure.

And so he had. But who was to say that the scapegoat endured willingly? Who was to say that Shuuya Kano was one to simply lie there and take whatever onslaught had been done onto him without even a tremor in his composure? One who had grown up from an environment that had branded him with bruises and reasons for his mind to shatter and believe that the world’s heaviest of weighted burdens had been his fault surely hadn’t any reason to take it lightly. Much less at all to begin with, with the way that his expression, usually so perfectly contorted to match his face, brimming with joviality and mischief, melted into something far more foul. Golden brows knit together, and a crease etches itself into his forehead as his chest tightens: hands wrap around his heart and squeeze, dig their fingers into the ever-beating organ so that it picks up its pace and causes the body to react.

His chest burns, he realizes. It’s an uncomfortable warmth that floods through his ribs, one that has his lungs feeling trapped in its cage -- a term that feels disgustingly appropriate for once. Heat flashes across various parts of his body, flooding in his face and tingling in his fingertips as his hands ball up tightly. Blunted nails dare to dig into the sensitive, frail skin of his palms as the muscles in his jaws twist and tighten, and his heartbeat races against his chest and blares in his ears, which have too become warm with the swell of anger. His vocal chords twitch and fluctuate as he attempts to speak -- noises barely crackle out, and are lost between ragged breaths as his teeth grind and grit in irritation.

Is it anger, or is it the hurt of being so falsely accused? Is it pain from his childhood, or is simply feeling as if he, for once, has been wronged?

Shuuya finds himself unsure, for his mind is racing too much to think properly. In a split second, he sees double, and his vision blurs with the overwhelming amounts of rage that begins to pump through his veins. There remains the desire to argue: to bark against the accusations against him and prove himself innocent. But time is far from on his side, isn’t it? The clocks hands, despite this world being never-ending and time only flowing by the snake’s apparent will for it to, had moved past whatever final minutes would have secured his freedom. All the ballots had been cast, and his name was as good off as written in blood itself, and he had been sent to march to his death as if it were a fate he was willing to accept. 

But what more could one do when the metaphorical noose had been wrung around his neck, and he had been due for a hanging?

In the moment, his brain had been on the fritz -- if he were made of metal and not human, one would best describe it as malfunctioning, wires sparking and gears grating against one another. His eyes are widened, pupils trembling as his mind completely blanks for some kind of solution -- there remains nothing of possibility that he could muster. For that, his stomach drops to the lowest part of himself -- so much that he swears it would fall to the floor, if it were nothing more than a revolting metaphor for a feeling that felt just as terrible. He wonders, if he were Kousuke -- the same Kousuke he had accused over and over of being the murderer for far too many trials now -- would he weep? Would his eyes burn with tears, and leave them spilling over his heated face? Would he sob and cry out that he was innocent? 

What a taste of karma this had been -- was this how Seto may have felt? Karma, understandably, tasted bitter. Bitter as the cold, bitter as night, bitter as the lies upon his tongue and the “adulthood” that Deceiving Eyes had whispered in the back of his mind so long ago.

If he had been still possessed by the snake, he surely would have heard his whispers amount the flash flood of thoughts that had been filling his head. It was as if there had been a hole cracked into his mind, and endless subjects and emotions were leaking through, leaving it brimming with the dark waters of anxiety that sloshed around. But amidst the bubbling waters was a voice -- one that was far too familiar to even be that of a snake’s. It was feminine, not quite saccharine but for all the softness and faux comfort it held, it sought to persuade, to tempt. It was not that of his friends, or his siblings -- but that of family, of his birth mother who had left pieces of herself etched into his mind for all the following years to come.

Her whispers had proposed an idea -- one that, in a moment like this where he failed to think straight, had seemed like the only proper response. Genius, even -- a golden opportunity, what his blackened heart desired.

A final show before he goes out. Or was it an act of vengeance?

Neither mattered, not in the moment. It certainly hadn’t mattered when his eyes darted to the knife long disposed of on the floor, still fresh with Roxas’ blood. It hadn’t been his -- not like the so-called prosecutors claimed it was -- but he would be the last to wield it, in any case. Despite his short stature, Kano excelled in being agile -- quick to sprint in the direction of the knife, he leans his body down closer to the ground to swipe the blade up off of the stone flooring. Blood flicks with the sudden sweeping motion and splatters against his fingers and his cheek, his grip on the weapon knuckle-whiteningly tight. The tension releases from his forehead, and where a furrow had once held residence, his brows instead upturn, a wide grin splitting across his face. Surely it had to have been deranged on some level -- but who was to say that Kano had been perfectly well? Who in this place had been, if they had been sentenced to purgatory? 

Surely no one. They were all sinners, one would say. Dirtied souls, darkened hearts, all some form of wrong. In one way or another, they had all done something the snakes had deemed sinful by their twisted philosophy -- but thinking of philosophies and moralities hadn’t mattered now, had it?

Not when he could still remember the day his mother had been stabbed, not when he could still remember the piercing feeling through his skin when he was just a young boy. 

Protests had barged through the air, but none had managed to be heard, falling upon deaf ears. Instead, all Shuuya could hear was his own heartbeat -- it was a drum’s song that fueled his maddened march. He rushes forward, footwork sloppy and his weight careless as his arm swings with the force of his charge. He hadn’t cared for a target -- anyone, anyone at all would do. So long as he had taken someone down with him, so that he hadn’t been in vain, that was what had mattered. It was to spit upon the snake’s faces: after all, who were they to decide who should live, and who should die? They had known who had committed the crime, hadn’t they? They must have, so to just let the falsely accused such as him die--- he refused to go down without something.

Something’ is what he would receive, his arm raising with the blade pointed outward to impale Komaeda in the abdomen. He had hoped for it -- for that sickening sound of flesh being torn through, of muscle being cut apart, of blood and innards wrapping around the blade. It seemed that his wish had been granted -- for he can feel the warmth of blood splash and stain his shirt as Komaeda hacks out a wet cough of crimson. He had succeeded, the knife plunged straight into his stomach. A grotesque sense of glee washes over the teen -- it’s an elation that the voice in the back of his skull eggs on, clawing and itching in the back of his mind to hold the blade just a little tighter, dig it in a little further. After all, it coos, hadn’t they hurt him? Hadn’t they killed off an innocent, like himself? This was only returning the favor -- giving them a taste of their own medicine! So it was fine, wasn’t it? Further does he twist the blade, sinking it in further and further--

Until he’s forced to stop. His body freezes up, and alarm shoots through him like electricity as he finds he cannot move his limbs: not his arms, nor his legs, and attempting to move either is as if he was fighting against chains. Only one answer could be found for this, and whatever elation came from the thrill of the kill and the sweet taste of revenge had died upon his tongue. Instead, things tasted bitter, and it washed over him like a poison, forcing its way down his throat and into his core. Kano, by no means, was an idiot. 

Black-scaled serpents wrap around his arms and legs, rooting him in place where he stands. Their skin is cold, and they emit hisses as they coil around his limbs and glare their tiny red eyes at him, tongues flicking as if they were laughing at him, in a way. In one fell swoop, his body is jerked back -- harshly, forcefully, and plummets to the ground. Once again does the knife clatter to the floor, and a harsh sting flares over his back as it makes contact with the unforgiving stone beneath, sending shock waves through his bones as he releases a cry of pain, eyes squeezed shut. It only lasts for a moment before they re-open, staring up at Clearing Eyes himself, who bores an expression of total agitation, his eyes darkened and pupils mere slivers to accompany the scowl on his face. 

That was right -- he recalled a moment before, how out of his peripherals, he spotted the Queen and Clearing exchanging irate glances. Her lips had moved to say something to her fellow serpent, but Kano hadn’t caught it -- he hadn’t cared to. But from those actions alone -- then that had meant he had angered them, right? He had taken these all-powerful ‘game masters’ and broke down their pedestals that they so loved to sit on, hadn’t he? What a feat! Taking beings so powerful and to reduce them into tantrum throwing tyrants -- he had to be proud of that, hadn’t he? It was what he wanted. They deserved to feel the anger he had, too.

So Kano laughs, and laughs, and laughs until his lungs feel sore and his vocal chords spasm. Cackles bellow out of him as he writhes against the ground, whatever high this had been giving him crashing down as his laughter turns more manic. Snickers warble and falter as his voice crackles and crumbles -- and just as he had wondered earlier, tears begin to rise at the corner of his eyes. They fall and stream down his cheeks as he makes noises that are between maddened laughter and horrified sobs -- had the boy been crying before the wolf? Was it whatever fresh trauma had decided to dig its way up from his mind coming to haunt him and emotionally rock him? Who had known -- Kano hadn’t, for his mind had been an absolute disarray.

But it knew one thing, and that was the instinctive nature to toss his hand out to try and grab the knife once more. Clearing had been mortal now, hadn’t he? What had been a greater way to raise a middle finger to their captors than to kill one of them? The Queen had been off-limits -- there was no way to harm her, understandably, but like this -- Clearing had made himself a walking target. One that Kano would have no greater pleasure seeking one final act of personal revenge against: for he had been part of the reason for his misery. So his fingers pat along the ground before they skim over the handle, and trembling digits wrap to maintain a grip. His shoulder rolls, and he tries to quickly pull his arm back -- but it ends up being no use at all. 

Noises halt completely in the midst of his throat, and his eyes shoot open as they scramble to get a look at what had gone on. A white hand held an iron grip on his arm, and black nails dug into the skin beyond the fabric as Clearing glared at him. Before even a word could leave his lips, he felt his arm suddenly twist -- and twist, twist, twist so that it had bent unnaturally. A shrill, pained shout leaves him, and something akin to ‘stop it’ flees from his tongue, but they fall upon ears even more deaf than his own. Kano attempts to struggle, but in his efforts, he only ends up in a worse position than before. Clearing’s arm pulls back, and with the use of the modifications left in this body, the bone of the body is dislocated, sending more agony traveling throughout his nerves. It hadn’t stopped there, of course -- for the sound of ripping skin and tearing muscle soon fills the air as Kano’s arm is promptly torn off of his body as if it were nothing at all, as if the human body had structured itself so that this wasn’t meant to happen normally. 

Whatever noises Kano had made previously compared not to the sharp screams and howls that left him on command as his mind could only register how much everything hurt. There was warmth to be felt: spewing from his shoulder had been a waterfall of blood, surely pooling at the snake’s feet. Nerves, disconnected and completely destroyed by the mutilation, could barely feel it -- but it had been there, and seeing it out of the corner of his eyes left him nearly ready to retch, as does the sight of his arm being tossed aside like meager trash. But he wouldn’t be given the opportunity -- not when his torso had been boxed in by Clearing’s boots, effectively trapping him in his place. The snake utters something -- something Kano had trouble making out from the ringing in his ears -- that sounded akin to a hiss of ‘shitty brat’ before his hand reaches down for him once more.

A fist balls up his shirt and lifts his body from the ground -- but only barely. Clearing’s eyes narrow as his other hand swipes up the knife, flips it in his palm so that the blade points down towards Kano, and impales it into his throat. It sinks deep past the skin and muscle and slices through the vocal chords, leaving whatever wails of suffering to become choked gasps and gargles on his own blood. A corner of Kano’s mind notices that one of his arms had been released by the snakes that had previously bound it to be motionless. Why, he doesn’t question -- playing into Clearing’s game was the most likely answer, but he hadn’t held even half of a mind to process it properly. Instead, he reaches up to claw and scrape at his throat, to pull away the knife as sputtered noises leave it, desperate for some kind of relief of all this overwhelming pain.

Relief is what he would get, but the snakes had often chided that one must be careful with what they wish for.

Fingers and hands reroute their forceful grip to the top and bottom of his mouth, bracing around his teeth. Had it been his own fault for leaving his mouth agape with screams, he wonders briefly? Whether he had or not hadn’t mattered -- instead, instinct kicked in instead, attempts made to gnash his teeth against the intruding fingers and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He had succeeded, surely, when he had tasted rust and crimson upon his tongue and felt Clearing’s hands tremble, another hiss leaving the low of his chest -- but it hadn’t halted his task in any way at all. If anything, it seemed to have fed into aggression: it bleeds into the way his nails dig and scrape against the roof of his mouth and his tongue, and he bears his fangs down at Kano in a sneer.

It clicks in Kano’s mind then of what’s going on. But it was a moment too late -- for the moment it dawns upon him, he can feel Clearing’s hands begin to pull the two halves apart. A click of his jawbone is heard in his ear, and the splitting and snapping of muscle is even louder. Blood can be felt pushing up from his throat the farther and farther his jaw and pulled, and a muffled cry akin to begging for mercy and to stop is deadened both in blood and his fingers. It’s ironic, in a way -- this was not the exact way he died coming into the Haze, no, but once more he had died at Clearing’s hands. Was he, and the others of the Dan as well, simply fated to die by the snake’s will?

He feels like somewhere, perhaps, Clearing would most certainly say so -- but all thoughts are gone from his mind with one final, sickening crack. His head is spit in two with a jerk of Clearing’s arms, the top half of his skull brutally torn from the bottom half. As further blood leaves from the body, Clearing’s grip relaxes before releasing, bringing his bloodstained hands up to his face as he stands upright. Reddened fingers press to his pale skin, and it’s in that moment, he looks like a monster -- something Kano had called himself countless times, but hadn’t been. 

What a pity that he had been granted some clarity when long dead.

THE TRAGEDY OF CHAPTER III HAS ENDED.

LET US GO BACK TO HAPPIER TIMES .

[cravin-you]

On The Hotline

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Words: 1.8k

Summary: Anon requested phone sex with Jungkook. You got it. 

MASTERLIST

Jungkook let his leather shoes slide off smoothly and groaned at all the pressure that let’s go from around his feet. He had been traveling and walking all day, making his feet ache. Flying in from New York City and keeping busy with errands and having meetings all day was for sure exhausting. It was now two am and he was drained.

It’s Tuesday and Jungkook is in Daegu for meetings until the weekend. Then he’s taking the train to Busan to visit his parents for the first time in eight months since he moved to New York City with you.

He slips under the fluffy blanket and supports his back with two big pillows, sighing at his body relaxing into the fresh and soft sheets. It’s hot so he’s just wearing underwear for sleep. Jungkook leans his head to the side, looking at the big hotel bed. It feels weird sleeping without you by his side he thinks.

Just as if it happened telepathically, his phone vibrates loudly against the wooden nightstand and it’s you calling. A tired smile stretches across his face as he picks up the phone greeting you with a “hello baby.”

There’s silence, no “hello baby” back. Jungkook is just about to call your name for a response when there’s a raw, filthy moan heard from the other line. He breaks out in cold sweat and grips his phone tighter.

“Baby what are you-” he tries asking you with a careful voice. You had done this one time before, several weeks ago and he couldn’t decide if he loved phone sex or hated the frustration. Anyhow he wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding and tried thinking straight.

“Jungkook,” you moan into the phone.

No misunderstanding. 

A warm feeling licks down to the pit of Jungkooks’s belly and he clenches his jaw. You had noticed that his eyes rolled back when you’d moan his name and took advantage of his soft spot. (He had some moaning fetish really.) 

“Don’t do this to me,” he whines and you smile on the other side of the line, knowing you had him wrapped around your finger four seconds into this call. “It’s too frustrating; I can’t be there to touch you, taste you, smell you like I want.” he continues and squeezes his eyes shut in frustration and he feels his dick twitching already.

His hand subconsciously drops, him letting it fall in his lap.

“Pretending doesn’t hurt.” you whisper into the phone.

It’s about noon back at home where you are and it all began with you feeling a little lonely waking up with no Jungkook in bed, no arms wrapped around you. From there your mind wandered, how nice it would be to grip his thick hair, suck on his neck, feel his warm mouth on you. You worked yourself up to the point of calling him, - which you had only done one time before. He was out of town once and that occasion was that before that trip you hadn’t had time alone in almost two weeks. Either way, here you were. Jungkook basically speechless. Both of you horny on the phone.

You already started caressing your body a little bit, squeezing your breasts and moaning into the phone to rile him up - you know that your moans always sent a chill down his spine.

“Pretend that I’m wearing that set of red underwear you love so much on me.” you continue.

Jungkook is clenching his jaw. “You know I love your dark skin in contrast of that bright red color.”

You chuckle because you can hear how your words are affecting him only trough the phone.

“You’re in the beige armchair in the living room, you know, the one we bought at IKEA when we moved in?

Jungkook hums.

“I’ve asked you to sit down and wait for me like a good boy,” you continue into the blur that is arousal.

“Hey,” he mumbles, interrupting the sensual tone in the conversation.

“Yes,” you say back with a smile while rolling your eyes at how corny you two were because you can just tell from his tone that he is smiling too.

“Remember after that party at the company in December, when you got jealous of that catering waitress flirting with me? That night,” Jungkook chuckles and remembers.

You blush, remembering that was a great night with notsomuchsleep.

“I want you to pull my hair like you did that night,” he pants and the tension builds again. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, a cold sweat breaking out from the intense lust when he thinks about that night. Your soft palm, pulling roughly on his hair with a sweet smile on your face.

Oh, so hair pulling you think to yourself and smile before speaking.

“I walk up to you,” you continue, ”- you’re sitting with your head slightly down but I grip your hair, rough just like you want me to. Close your eyes and imagine me stretching out your neck and licking along it while I sit in your lap.” 

“It hurts so good,” Jungkook whimpers with wide eyes. “You know I love it when you grind down on me baby. You know I love your thighs.”

Jungkook is pressing the heel of his palm into his boxers, panting into the phone because he is throbbing right now.

“I know you’re hard for me now, I know your body,” you say in almost a whisper. “Imagine me stroking your hard cock, you know I love the feeling of it. Hot and heavy in my hand.”

Jungkook lets his hand inside his boxers and starts stroking himself slowly while he runs his tongue over his teeth, finishing with his bottom lip between them. 

In the everyday life you come off as a sweet girl but in bed you get vulgar and more dominant and you know that huge personality twist turns him on a lot.

“I just want to,” he swallows, “-want to rip that underwear off.” He’s teasing himself with slow strokes, exactly how he knows you would do it.

At this point you’re teasing yourself too, trough your underwear and playing with your nipples.

“Why don’t you?”

Jungkook lets go of his swollen lips between his teeth and lets a shaky moan slip.

“Sure, I’ll lay you down on the sheets and remove your bra. Your nipples are so cute and I kiss them both, suck on them.” he chuckles and you can’t believe even his light laugh turns you on in this situation.

You gasp as you press down on your clit, underwear wet already from all the massaging trough the fabric. Jungkook hears your whimper trough the phone and smirks for himself.

“Moan for me baby, I’m kissing down your belly, wet kisses all over your thighs and waist and hips. Everywhere except where you want me. Just because you look so pretty when you’re needy.” 

Both of you are losing yourselves into a conversation that flows like magic. Your roles had switched within seconds as you both enjoy dominance. 

“Jungkook baby,” you pant. “Please.”

“I want you to touch yourself and imagine that’s my tongue on your clit. Slowly rubbing while grabbing your thick thighs and digging my fingers into your skin.” 

Following his words and instructions make your eyes roll back and back arch in pleasure.

“Oh baby I am, I love it. Your tongue feels so good on me,” You gasp and put more pressure on your clit and rant on about how good it feels. “I love it.”

“You look so good like this, I can’t wait to fuck you,” Jungkook says roughly into the phone and the way he’s using those filthy words, in contrast to how he speaks otherwise, turns you on so much.

“Are you ready?” You gasp and let your hand squeeze your breast. “I’m going to ease down on your cock, let me know how good it feels,” you pant into the phone. 

Jungkook moans on the other end and you imagine him squeezing tightly around his cock with thorough strokes.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet ___, it feels amazing.” he grits through his teeth and you imagine him sweating, head thrown back. 

“I’m inserting two of my fingers slowly now,” you tell him trough the phone. “I’m imagining it’s your hard cock.” 

Jungkooks mumbles a fuck a what you just said, painting a pretty picture for him of you with your fingers in your pussy. You both build up a rhythm with grunts and sighs for the following two minutes, just to let yourselves relax. Going slow.

“Fuck me faster,” you beg him and you can hear Jungkook’s slick sounds on the other line more frequent. He starts panting and moaning into the phone while he tells you how he’s licking your nipples, softly biting, and you go faster too.

“I love it when you ride me, you look so beautiful.” Jungkook moans. “My Goddess.”

Him adoring you so much was the hottest thing ever. The love you felt for this man sent sparkles trough your core and down your legs to the tip of your toes.

“Can you feel me clenching down on your cock baby? Squeeze yourself in your hand and imagine it’s my pussy clenching down, I know you go crazy when I do that.”

At this point you’re so incredibly turned on you’re saying things you’d never think come out of your mouth. So vulgar, this side of you. The reaction from him is great, though, he chokes on his own moan and stammers some curse words. You know me so well, he whispers.

“It’s so hard holding back right now, let me come.” Jungkook pants into the phone. His bangs are sticking to his sweaty forehead and his mouth is hanging open, swollen from biting and sucking on his own lip.

“Of course, I’m getting close too.” You chuckle in the midst of a moan. You’re rubbing yourself faster and Jungkook can tell from your sounds.

Your toes curl and on the other side of the planet, Jungkook is throwing his head back, ignoring the pain when it bumps into the wall.

“I’m going to-” he chokes. Me too, you whisper back.

His deep moan calling your name pushes you over the edge as you clit throbs and you clench, heart beating in your ears and together you reach climax. He comes with a choked moan followed by panting and hissing from sensitivity and with your name falling from his lips like a mantra. 

For the following minutes, all that is heard on the line is heavy breathing, just listening to each other shuffling in the sheets.

“So,” Jungkook mumbles. “How’s the weather back at home?”

[airdev]

Season One - Episode Two

This wasn’t based off of anything, and I just wrote it last night. It took around five hours to get a little over thirteen hundred words (rip). Here I tried being fairly vague, half in order to seriously show not tell and half to capture the emotions of the narrator. I haven’t used first person in a while, so it was quite refreshing to start using ‘I’ and ‘me’ again, though I must admit I’m quite rusty.

It had been a long night, and it was only going to get longer with their arrival. I had everything laid out, like they asked me to hours ago when they called me at work. The papers were on the table, next to a pen I’d stolen from God-knows-where. My left leg was jackhammering into the floor as the clock chimed. It was eight already, they should be home soon. I occupied myself with twisting the ring on my finger, up and down, until it slipped off and hit the floor with a sickening clink. As though death were upon me, I quickly bent down to pick it up and return it to its place on my left hand. It was cold. Was that a premonition of what was to come?

“You’re being irrational,” I told myself, though it didn’t help much to calm me down. I felt like I was losing it, with the talking to myself and the pacing and the—

And the rambling. I just had to focus on something, and I’d be fine, right? What could I focus on, what could I focus on…

What about the wall decoration? Of course! I traced the curves of the plastic which swerved back and forth like a snake. It was hypnotizing, the gradual neverending-ness of it, until I was hit with the hard reality that it indeed did end. But endings were good. Some of them, anyhow.

I’d bought the thing with them. It was a couple of years ago, I couldn’t exactly remember when. No, wait, it was in 2015. September. Back when we first got our then new apartment. I didn’t want it, but it caught their eye as we traversed the store. I was eager to please then, and so we went to checkout with it hanging out of the cart.

Where had things gone wrong? What happened? Why—

I held my head in my hands, rubbing the exhausted skin in an attempt to wipe the questions from my mind. It didn’t work, but they were now joined with arguably worse answers. I can’t tell if this is guilt or not. Maybe everything was my fault, like they’d said. Maybe all of their voicemails that I listened to, silently sobbing so as to not wake them, were true. They were an excellent sleep soundtrack, the curt remarks and stinging words. It was funny, how those painful sounds could reduce me to tears. Even I knew I’d never been this sensitive. Was this all brought on by the time I spent with them, or by the desperation to hear them talk for longer than a few minutes?

I had to get up. I feel paralyzed sitting in the teetering chair, confined to my thoughts. Making my way to the fridge, I was followed by the thought of the pictures framed on my desk. I’d left them there against my own recent judgement, a memento to when we were young and smiling. With their eyes staring at me, watching my every move, I knew I had to take them down. I couldn’t bear one more night of accidentally glancing at them, illuminated by my laptop’s soft glow at four in the morning while I did work. Maybe that was it.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, holding it with two shaking hands as I nudged the door shut and sat back down. At this point would alcohol help to calm my nerves? Doubtful. A Xanax might be better. Or a gun. I don’t know which I’d prefer right about now. I forced myself to take a swig of the liquid, reminding myself that I hated beer, though it was quite difficult to pull away and set the bottle down on the table. Am I going to become an alcoholic?

No, that’s stupid. This is all stupid.

I still poured out the remainder into the sink. Would they smell it on my breath? Likely. I couldn’t have that. That’s really, really bad. What was I gonna do about it? What can I do? Damnit, they’ll kill me once they come home.

The sound of glass shattering startled me. Looking down, I saw the glass shards littering both the floor and my hand, the latter coming with trails of blood. I didn’t care much about it—it didn’t hurt yet—but I had to clean up what was on the ground so neither one of us would get injured later. Thankfully the broom was only a few feet away. I swept up the pieces in rather slow time, clutching onto the pole with whatever unscathed skin I had for the pain has started to set in. I also had to be careful not to get blood on the white tiles. I already had enough cleaning to do today.

After I made sure that everything had been properly cleaned and disposed of, I made my way to the bathroom, first opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. The first aid kit couldn’t fit in such a small space, so there were Band-aids scattered around the shelves. Twenty-seven of them, to be exact. Why had I counted? I’m not too sure. There wasn’t any gauze, thus leaving me with the sole choice of taking out the glass, cleaning off the wounds, and then using a ton of Band-aids. That isn’t too hard. I just needed to find the tweezers.

It turns out that picking out fragments of glass ranging from tiny to holy fuck that’s big how did that get in my hand isn’t as easy as it originally seemed. And I was also beginning to question how effective the last drops of a hand sanitizer bottle was on sterilizing tweezers that had several months to years worth of dust on them. The last thing I needed was to get an infection; that would prove to disappoint them more than they’d made clear.

The clock chimed to remind me that time was indeed a thing. It was now nine. How the Hell had an hour passed? Where were they? Were they okay?

What if they didn’t want me anymore? I knew the answer to that one already: they never wanted anything to do with me in the first place. I saw that in every aspect of them. The disengaged tone of voice. The burdened look they gave me when we locked eyes. And yet they pretended for so long? Why? That I didn’t know, and I have the slight suspicion that I don’t want to find out.

I was starting to get tired. The past few days left me exhausted with the amount of time I’d slept, or rather the amount of time I should’ve been sleeping. I could feel the solace of sleep grab at me, trying to lull me into deep slumber. Thank God it was Friday. I put on as few Band-aids as I could in an attempt to not be wasteful, though being barely able to keep my eyes open didn’t help much. In the end I used up ten: eight precariously hanging off the edges of my palms and two discarded. It’d be a good idea to pick up some more tomorrow.

Satisfied with what I’d done, I exited the bathroom and eventually collapsed onto the tiny sofa. I had the faintest recollection of building it with them, us taking hours to figure out the directions. By the time we’d finished, we both fell asleep on it. Those were the halcyon days. Now I was on it alone.

Within a few minutes, I found myself nodding off. I couldn’t sleep now! What if they came home? But my protests were to no avail. My surroundings were visible for brief moments before returning to the heavy darkness.

I shot up again at two in the morning. Curse my stupid mortal body. I checked my immediate field of vision for them. Nothing. Pushing off my blankets—

Wait, what? These weren’t here before. So they were home. And they’d been so nice as to dump the blankets from my bed onto me.

Maybe that was a sign that they did care after all.