#the scars on lucky were self inflicted

[hyptanyl]

strung up by metal strings

[evilvillain123456789]

. envision the warmth of an infected cut, feel its inviting redness upon the back of your hand as you lightly press against it there on your wrist in tenative investigation.

you never noticed this was here before.

now imagine the slight bruise around it, tender, the jaggedness of the cut itself, the show of exertion required to create such a thing. why did it take so much? was it not a knife? look deeper. imagine remembering how it was aquired- self inflicted? accidental, purposeful, but not your choice,

you victim.

what is it?

have you decided, or decided not to decide? you don't care. look at it. closer and closer. the pink central dampness, the dry red crumbs of scar around the edges. now lap at it, the serum, the slight amount of blood mixed in with a clear fluid, lacking pus, lucky bastard, taste the saline. press your lips against it,

feel its complex ridges in ways your fingertips can't, gauge the red heat radiating.

smell at it. scratch at it. why won't you just let it rest? why won't you leave it alone? it festers upon and within you, in a tampered state since before your awareness of it.

You could never leave it alone, could you?

you wish it were worse. you wish it were deeper, you wish more filth had gotten into it, you wish there were more of it to always touch, to always feel its burn, the proof and awareness, and force to keep gaping and dripping and letting god-knows-what in- into your system and onto your bed and into your blood and lungs and bowels, underneath your fingernails, in between folds of flesh, coating the scalp, the soles of the feet, between the breasts, behind the ears. the entire world as but a scar in one place, being cut over and over and over, a sore limb with a needle stuck into its crook in the same puncture hole, over and over and over, just over and over and over again, the dull thud of the axe, the most sensitive parts of the body repeatedly violated, injured, come to harm, for the sake of nothing at all.

You go think of that. I'll gotta e-mail tumblr staff. Just found out that #poop is in grave danger.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Mm would Yves enjoy taking baths with his darling or no? I’ve been thinking about this myself because I really am not sure myself, while it could be really romantic and intimate (without anything sexual happening) I also get the vibe that he’d be uncomfortable with undressing in-front of his darling or being naked probably because he just hates the feeling but also because of all of the scars that he may have and that might open up a whole other can of worms.

MM! Maybe that’s a part of the reason why he drugs the reader during sex, so they don’t notice certain parts of himself and just simply focuses on the pleasure 🤔 thoughts?

TW: Suicide mention, self harm, body mutilation

Yves doesn't like being naked to anyone. Not even you. He didn't like how his skin looked, but most horribly: wounds that changed into healed scars takes time, seeing them reminded him of his age which he despises.

It doesn't mean that you would never see him nude, though. At some point, you will "accidentally" walk in on him changing because Yves "forgot" to lock the door.

You will see a massive, hideous scar spanning over his chest and back. Of course, you would ask what it is. Yves would take this opportunity to educate you on the dangers of not protecting yourself against deadly UV radiation.

That is true, he was tormented by melanoma for many years due to his excessive tanning and recklessness regarding suncare. Bronze skin was all the rage back then, he was a young, dumb boy who wanted to follow the trends.

You rarely noticed the chaotic, wispy scars on his arms that were caused by whips. Deep scarring on his wrists and ankles from rusted metal chains. Cigarette burns, other cuts, iron branding, scars done in intricate shapes and wounds that are too violent, too manmade, too self inflicted to have been done by skin cancer.

It is no secret to you that his genitals were mutilated and the surrounding flesh is in similar conditions, they're perfectly functional, but anyone could tell that Yves has been through harrowing physical and mental trauma.

Yves's nagging lecture about how you should always wear sunscreen and avoid the rays would already drive you out of the room to question the other ones.

It's always a wonder how he keeps his face, hands and feet flawless. But once upon a time, he was just like anyone else, he had severe acne that would leave him in tears over how ugly he was and how painful the blistering could get. His assailants would ruin his beautiful countenance either due to jealousy or due to some other sick reasons. He had melanoma on his face, the aftermath was made up of tears and a plethora of failed suicide attempts.

Yves wasn't supposed to have his hands functional after how he would physically defend himself or fight with them. No one could count the number of times a blade has cleanly gone through from the front of his palm to the back. He was no stranger to the feeling of being burnt, he had his pinkie and ring finger fused together after being exposed to extreme heat. Yves survived a fire and an explosion in his lifetime.

His feet, goodness, his feet. He walked through broken glass regularly. It was bound together and flogged almost daily, he had nasty infections that cost him his toenails. For a while, he was limping due to how damaged it was. Yves was lucky that he managed to save them before he knew he had to amputate both.

But, they are all seemingly untouched. You wouldn't believe that these three parts of his body went through horrific situations, there isn't even a blemish!

Well, he valued his face, hands and feet more than any other part of his being. Yves placed his all into fixing them, countless reconstructive surgeries, drugs, diets and grafts, all thanks to thousands upon thousands of his innocent, unwilling victims. If it weren't for them "donating" their precious lives for research, transplants or otherwise, Yves would have been a gruesome sight to withhold.

He could eradicate the rest of his scarring if he wanted to. But he's a lot more mature now, anything can be covered by his tops, pants and dresses aren't worth the effort anymore. You and Yves think his smile is beautiful, his fingers feel nice massaging your scalp and he can walk without wincing in pain, that's enough for him.

But back to the main topic, Yves wouldn't take baths with you- He would gladly bathe you as your caregiver, he would be fully clothed as he scrubbed you from head to toe. You might find it strange that he would rather suffer from wet clothes than showing you what's under his turtleneck despite knowing how it looks already.

You can't just try and purposely intrude if you know he's changing clothes or taking a shower. Yves would scold you for being very rude for breaching his privacy, and he would drone on and on about the importance of consent for hours. Of course, he does this after he kicks you out of the room to get fully dressed.

If you want him to be present in the bathroom with you when you're showering, he will be there. Fully clothed. If you're insisting that he joins you, he will. Fully clothed.

When it comes to sex, yes, he drugs you to heighten the pleasure. And it was mentioned that a blanket must be draped over you and he at all times. But these also serve the purpose of blinding you towards the stories his skin could tell. Yves doesn't think you're ready to know, you're too emotionally immature. You couldn't handle the distress no matter how casually or carefully he would word it.

Yves had an entire lifetime to get over it, and he did, but you don't. And that is alright with him, you don't have to know. The past is in the past, Yves couldn't care less about what caused him to look so disgusting. He wants you to hold onto that priceless, priceless innocence and naivety as much as you can.

All he wants you to do now is to relax and have fun. Enjoy the climax and forget the insignificant world around you. To know that you are loved until the very end and beyond. He wants you to smile, to giggle and to take great delight in his tender, loving kisses.

That is what he wants to do as well.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Whoa there pretty boy — Lü Bu

• Sypnosis || Strongest man meets an estranged deity who descended from the heavens.

• Warnings || a buncha bullshit comprised of headcanons… oook.

• Note || estranged deity in question would be you! Used to be in the ROR fandom till I just up and deleted my ROR account on here. Don’t care how long it’s been, he’s pretty. The world’s been in very odd chaos, so this is how I cope anyway.

The general will admit, to coming to the consensus that he’s seen numerous strange bullshit. Comparable to all the things he’s seen, heard and experienced in his childhood..

This takes the CAKE.

Like how? How were you here in the first place? Lü Bu for all he knew, that gods were divine beings. Literal deities, sure he wanted to fight one of em.. he aims for the heavens.

He just didn’t expect to meet a deity this early.

Lü Bu was just kinda smacked on the head by your falling figure when he had been training tirelessly on the mountains one day. He was trying so hard to suppress his laugh as he had helped you get up, in a very uncharacteristically gentle way.

No one else was around to see that side, lucky him.

Once you had explained your situation and your status as a deity, it finally made sense to him now.

Straight up just gives you a very toothy smile and just sorta praises you for being so against your fellow deities. Doing shit like that makes you okay in his book, be your own strong self. Achieve and grow.

Lü Bu, whom will not admit it, likes people who can be so strong in a way that they will not let others disrespect them.

Though in your good-hearted nature and faith, you always wanted to make sure each and every person—be it mortal or immortal—was okay and treated.

So it goes the same for this man too, despite his protests.

Large feathery wings wrapped around his waist, warmth curling into his musculature. It felt.. foreign.

A strange indifference to the warmth he had felt a decade earlier, if he had even dared to want familiar love. Yet it was all the more that he felt so surprised, and deeply alone.

You healed the scars he inflicted upon himself during his training session, and the very sore wound on his head that you caused all with a smile, sometimes you had to ask for help.

Which is what you had omitted to the general, knowing of his position as an inept bastard. Though he had made that distinction himself very clearly when he had fought tooth and nail for his adoptive father during his childhood.

Lü Bu slowly learns to be better to himself, thanks to you.

Just catches people, especially Chen Gong who is initially adept to keeping an eye on his general—off guard when Lü Bu holds concerns for his people… in a way that is completely unexpected.

[zapreportsblog]

In Love With The Same Cat

➥ summary : There’s no Spider-Man without the Black Cat just like there’s no Black Cat without Spider-Man. But what if we had a multiverse dimensional traveling jewelry stealing burglar Black Cat (try saying that seven times fast aye) that traveled across dimensions not only stealing the worlds finest jewels but also the hearts of four unlucky, or lucky depending on how you see it Spider-Man’s and Spider-Women’s hearts.

➥ 3: Seeking Redemption, Not Revenge

Months of tireless training in martial arts and acrobatics had transformed (y/n) into a formidable force to be reckoned with. She had honed her skills and mastered her body, mentally preparing herself for a confrontation that would serve as the ultimate test of her newfound strength.

As (y/n) delved deeper into her mission, her initial mindset of seeking revenge began to shift. Revenge, she realized, was a dark path that could consume her soul and perpetuate a cycle of violence. Instead, she resolved to use this confrontation to reclaim her power and seek a form of redemption for the pain inflicted upon her.

After tirelessly scouring the city, (y/n) finally found a lead that would point her in the direction of Blake, the college guy who had assaulted her that fateful night. It was a trail speckled with danger, but she was no stranger to adversity. With her heart pounding and her determination unwavering, she embarked on this treacherous journey, armed not only with physical prowess but also the strength of her spirit.

When she finally located Blake, (y/n) discovered a man plagued by demons of his own, existing in a world of self-destruction and regret. It was a sobering sight, one that stirred empathy within her. As anger simmered within her veins, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sorrow for what he had become.

Drawing deep from the well of her newfound strength, she stepped out of the shadows to confront her assaulter. Blake's eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, time stood still. In that charged silence, (y/n) measured his every move, her training guiding her like an invisible hand.

But instead of lashing out with a fury fueled by revenge, (y/n) chose a different path. She embraced forgiveness, recognizing that it was not weakness, but rather a testament to her own strength.

She looked into Blake's eyes and spoke words that echoed with both pain and resilience. "I refuse to let your actions consume me any longer. I've come here not to take your life, but to claim back mine." Her voice trembled, yet carried an inescapable conviction.

Tears streamed down Blake's face as he finally comprehended the gravity of his actions. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to find redemption for the pain he had caused. But (y/n) knew that the burden he carried was his alone to bear.

With her head held high, (y/n) turned away from Blake, leaving him in the haunted labyrinth of his own remorse. Redemption, she realized, was a personal journey that required an individual to face their demons, seek amends, and make peace with their past—a journey in which she had no power to escort him.

As (y/n) walked away, she could feel the weight of her past beginning to lift. She wasn't just a survivor anymore; she was a warrior who had triumphed over darkness. The scars on her body were now a testament to her strength, resilience, and reclamation of her identity.

From that point forward, (y/n) dedicated herself to helping others navigate the complex path of healing after trauma. She became an advocate, breaking the cycle of sexual assault, and transforming her pain into a catalyst for change.

In the wake of that confrontation, (y/n) found peace within herself—a peace crafted from the shards of her shattered innocence. She understood that revenge would only breed more anguish, but by choosing forgiveness and reclaiming her power, she had transcended the confines of victimhood.

In the annals of (y/n)'s journey, Chapter 3 marked a significant turning point. It was a chapter that showcased not only her physical growth but, more importantly, her emotional evolution. She learned that true strength resided in rising above the urge for revenge, embracing forgiveness, and forging a new path filled with healing, understanding, and compassion.

[grapejuicestyless]

Night Shift

Harry Styles x Fem!ex best friend reader

Summery: the song Night Shift

The first time I tasted somebody else's spit, I had a coughing fit

I mistakenly called them by your name

I was let down it wasn't the same

“Shit, I’m sorry. Fuck.” I wiped my lips subconsciously, trying to dry the spit from the boy that vaguely resembled my best friend. Same color hair, same color eyes but somehow less beautiful on the random boy than the one I wanted.

I picked at my skin, my thumb scratching at my hangnails until they bled from the cuticles down my knuckles.

It was always like this. I convince myself I’m fine and go out for drinks. But as soon as I’m not fully sober, he comes back to me like a not as distant memory as I thought he was. I end up wiping my mouth and bleeding on my dress, leaving whoever was there in the bathroom as I make a b-line for the exit.

I'm doing fine, trying to derail my one track mind

Regaining my self-worth in record time

But I can't help but think of your other in the bed that was mine

So again, I walk the street way past my self set curfew and destroying any self respect I’d scraped up off the floor beneath my feet.

But how could I be angry at him for leaving? My best friend, who had such great opportunities ahead of him. A winding journey of riches and fame. A household name to be made. Such a bright star, why would he stay with his friend, who could barely make it past third period without running off to get lost in her head? Why would he tie himself down with someone who could make nothing of themselves.

I had dreams, I had aspirations that I got so damn close to reaching, but never quite there. Never quite confident enough to take the chances that everyone else was so easy to do. So while everyone grows up into who they want to be around me, I stay here and rott in my childish self pity and hopeless devotion to a man who calls once a month if I get lucky.

Maybe all these reasons could level out my anger issues and make me come up with a rational reason to his forgetfulness to check in with someone who never forgot to make sure he was okay. But they didn’t and instead I only grew more impatient and more irritable the larger he rose into a life we’d dreamed he’d get together. Call it jealousy, but I believe it’s just the bitter part of myself angry at the loss of him.

Am I a masochist, resisting urges to punch you in the teeth

Call you a bitch and leave?

When the phone hanging unevenly in the kitchen echoed through the late PM, I let my feet rush across the tile. I almost didn’t answer the phone, scared that if it was the one call I’d receive from him, I’d waste it. Maybe if I called back, by some miracle he’d answer. But I came up with fake scenario‘s to force myself to answer.

What if my mom was hurt?

What if someone needed help?

What if my grandma was dying?

“Hello..?” I rubbed at my eyes, tucking the strands of hair falling in front of my face behind my ears. I leaned into the wall, hip popped out and heal off my foot off the ground comfortably.

“Y/n, hey. How have you been?” His English accent felt like a warm blanket of home. It was his moms Sunday breakfast the morning after a sleepover. It was the dew on the grass we ran through every morning before school.

I bit my lip until my teeth were stained red and there were holes in the skin so deep it could scar.

“Oh. I’m good. How have you been?” He laughed, it was airy and light with the blissful ignorance to the hurt he inflicted on me every time with these damn calls.

“You don’t sound too excited to hear from me, y/n/n.” Mentally, I rolled my eyes.

On the outside I came off as rude and standoffish towards any sort of topic involving our situation, but inside I craved for him to chase me like he still wanted me in his life. Just for him to care enough that me not caring broke him into the same shards he’d shattered me into when he left.

“No, just a little tired is all. So, how have you been, Harry?” I tried again, brushing the tense muscles away like everything he said didn’t deeply bother me.

He sighed. I could imagine in that moment that he was pinching his brows and blinking rapidly like he did all those years ago whenever he got slightly out of sorts.

“I’ve been doing really good, recently. I’m touring with the boys.” I nodded, though he couldn’t see me, it felt instinct to get tight lipped and short with him.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it to the show, by the way. I really wanted to come.” I answered his next question before he could ask it. I knew he’d ask me if I was sure about not coming to his shows. It was a yearly occurrence.

At first I’d show up. Only to the first tour. The second one I had a work conflict with. My the third I had given up even checking my calendar, the embarrassment of my life being only a fraction of what his was worth too embarrassing for me, let alone how embarrassing it was to him. Even if he’d never admit that he found my life boring and undesirable, he’d shown it by leaving everything I worked for behind.

“About that, listen.” He started, I braced myself for what he was about to ask.

“I think it might be nice to catch up. Im in town, I wanted to see you tonight. You remember that cafe on the corner of Washington? The one we went to all the time when we were younger?”

“It closed last year, H.” I checked the clock. The line went silent.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” I bit at my nails in anticipation.

“How about the old coffee shop that sold sea salt taffy’s at the counter?” I hummed.

“Yeah, okay. What time?”

“How about eight? Does that work-“

“Yeah sounds great. See you then.” I hung up the phone harshly, ready to stab him in the heart for leading me on like he cared still or let him twist the knife he’d already put through mine. I knew why he’d called.

Every so often he’d get reminded by someone of me, then he’d get consumed with an insurmountable amount of guilt for not staying in touch. For letting himself drift away. He’d call like we had talked just the other day and go about his life forgetting me once again.

Why did I come here? To sit and watch you stare at your feet?

What was the plan? Absolve your guilt and shake hands?

I arrived at the shop first, finding a table situated near the back, where we always used to sit so we could talk as loud as we wanted and not get hushed.

I placed our coffees under the small napkins laid out to absorb the water rings that gathered occasionally. I ordered the same two black coffees Harry and I had always loved since we were young. Truthfully, I had no idea if he even liked it black anymore.

When the bell rang, my breath was caught in my throat. There he was. The same tall, tanned boy with the curly mop of soft brown locks and sparkling green eyes smiling softly at me. And my heart still raced the same way it did in elementary school.

“Y/n, oh my god you look great.” He reached out for a hug. I hesitated to return it. I was afraid to take in his scent. I was afraid to get attached to something that didn’t belong to me anymore. If I got attached it would only be harder to let it go again. I already lacked the supplies to patch my broken wings, how would I fix them if I allowed him to tear them straight off?

And when I did smell him, it was like a bubble of heaven surrounding my body. I could melt into his chest and just be fully vulnerable. It was the smell of my childhood and the promises of forever that we’d sworn on.

“I got us coffee. Black, like old times.” His lips pulled back and his teeth clenched.

“I actually don’t drink caffeine anymore.” Oh.

“Then why the coffee shop?” I almost laughed at his stupid choice of place. I almost let out a string of curses and begged for answers why I was even there. If not to drink until I’m up for days and pretend you miss me like I miss you, then why call me?

I feel no need to forgive but I might as well

“I just really like this place. Never really changed, so.” I nodded. Of course.

A silence covered us like a blanket that was rough and stuffy. The only sounds being those of the soft sipping of my coffee and the clink the cup made as it made contact with the table. Seconds of this turned to minutes, minutes feeling more like hours.

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s still out of her mind. Less than before but she’s still pretty sick so, I’m not expecting her to do much better.” The table between us was suddenly the most beautiful sight ever. The wood my eyes place to settle on to avoid his stare.

“What about your dad?” He pressed on, wanting more out of me.

“He’s doing the best he can. He’s needed a lot of help with mom so I’ve been helping. It’s been hard but it’s nice being all together again. I don’t mind it, it gets quiet over here.” I swallowed a lump in my throat, my tongue finding a home poking at the inside of my cheek.

“Shit, I had no idea it was that bad, babe. Why didn’t you say something?”

“You never asked.” Looking up to meet his face was like watching him process his lack of involvement in my life. It was watching him go through every stage of grief at once and every bit of it was doused in guilt.

But let me kiss your lips so I know how it felt

Silence consumed us again. From afar I bet we looked like we were on an awkward first date. You never would have guessed that we’d know each other in and out at some point. But life is funny like that. While I live with our memories together like it deserves to be protected, he tosses them out like a side quest leading him to his success without me.

The chair squeaked when I stood, my hand reaching in my back pocket to pull out a twenty.

“I hope your show goes well tomorrow, Harry.” I began to leave, only stopping once he shot up and blocked my path with his chest.

Pay for my coffee and leave before the sun goes down

Walk for hours in the dark feeling all hell

“What? You’re leaving? Why?”

“Harry, I can’t catch up with someone I don’t even know.”

“You know me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes!” He raised his voice slightly. His tone wavered, unsure of himself and hurt by my quickness in giving up on us.

“Okay, then you must not know me.”

“Of course I know you.” I laughed but he didn’t find it funny.

Don't hold your breath, forget you've ever saw me at my best

You don't deserve what you don't respect

Don't deserve what you say you love and then neglect

“I know you still like your coffee black. And I know that you stayed at home because you got too attached to the backroads here. I know you were obsessed with the idea of letting our children grow up in one of the nice houses up on the hill with the picket fences and becoming just as close as we are.”

“As we were.” I corrected.

“As we are.” He insisted.

“You can’t be close to someone you can’t even remember to call until everyone else is busy.” He shut up, tugging at the hair at his roots.

“Y/n.” The beg tumbled past his lips with no real request. Maybe to just stay in my presence for a moment longer, but that idea was shoved down with all my other fantasies of us still being close like he believed we were.

“I hope your show goes well tomorrow, Harry.” My shoulder brushed his. He reached out for me, but missed by a hair, I felt it. Yet, he made no further movement to come back to me. He didn’t chase what he didn’t want.

Now bite your tongue, it's too dangerous to fall so young

Take back what you said

Can't lose what you never had

Exiting that shop hurt more than a thousand cuts in the creases of my body. Each step was heavier and each street light I counted only hurt my head more to count.

The scream I let out by the park bench on the way home was guttural and obnoxious. I could only pray no one overheard my breakdown that came out in ugly sobs and a clawed at chest.

If he was gone, then so was my oxygen. Every time was harder to let go than the previous. All had been over the phone so this was a new kind of hurt. This was dying. This was the light draining and the body shutting down If always feared as a kid. This was me welcoming it.

I could only wish he could feel a fraction of what I felt letting him go like that.

I feel no need to forgive but I might as well

But let me kiss your lips so I know how it felt

Pay for my coffee and leave before the sun goes down

Walk for hours in the dark feeling all hell

I memorized his tour schedule for the next year. I knew when he would be in town and I knew when he would be leaving. I could predict when he would call, I could guess what he would ask about and I could accurately mouth the jokes he always said when things got awkward.

So I started helping over my parents help on nights when he was in town. If he wanted to call, I wouldn’t be there to contribute to his sudden remembrance to his humble beginnings.

I started avoiding my phone. I stopped walking through the kitchen. I started going to bed early when I was at home. I started to stop praying on his call to come and started to pray it wouldn’t.

You got a 9 to 5, so I'll take the night shift

And I'll never see you again if I can help it

In five years I hope the songs feel like covers

Dedicated to new lovers

Getting over him wasn’t an option, but I could distract myself with the people present in my life. My friends became my best friends and he slipped into a distant memory after some passing weeks. The mention of his name still had my heart racing at a speed that was pitiful for someone so mistreated, but I no longer longed for his constant presence.

You got a 9 to 5, so I'll take the night shift

And I'll never see you again if I can help it

In five years I hope the songs feel like covers

Dedicated to new lovers

It had been a year since that night that I walked out. It had been a few months since I developed my schedule to avoid his calls and pleas for my reassurance he hadn’t lost me. And it had been long enough for me to do the unbelievable.

When the phone rang in the kitchen I didn’t shuffle as quick as possible across the tile like I would. I didn’t rationalize with who it could be, what could be happening. I let my feet drag slowly to the wall with the same old phone on it and I answered.

I answered the phone, picking it up off the wall, and before he could get a word out about his relief that I’d answered, I set the phone back against the wall, ending the call before it began.

I did the unbelievable. I stopped caring.

You got a 9 to 5, so I'll take the night shift

And I'll never see you again if I can help it

In five years I hope the songs feel like covers

Dedicated to new lovers

[minniethemoocherda]

Iridescent: Chapter 27

A/N: GUESS WHO'S FINALLY SEEN TRANSFORMERS ONE??!!!!! Xxxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

"Mech I told you to bring her to us alive!" Jazz said, as Devcon dumped the grey husk of Silverstreak's body onto his office floor.

The bounty hunter shrugged.

"She was like that when I found her." He said, crossing his arms. "I'm still getting paid though right?"

"Since you did not complete the task you were hired to do, no." Prowl stated from where he was stood behind Jazz's chair, his voice vibrating against the sensor's of Jazz's neck.

Devcon's sharp eyes fixed onto the head of tactics' and Jazz was reminded that despite usually only taking jobs from the Autobots, at the end of the day, Devcon still killed people for money.

"Look I'll give you half." Jazz said trying to diffuse the situation. "But we're having a party tonight so you're welcome to stay and help yourself to energon there."

Devcon's eyes remained locked on Prowl for a moment before he nodded. Those sharp optics then turned to Jazz, stalking up and down the curves of his body.

"I might stick around for the after party too."

Jazz took a long look back.

Since Devcon was technically unaffiliated that meant that there wouldn't be any complications of sleeping with someone outside of his rank because Devcon was outside of having a rank at all.

And Jazz couldn't deny that there was something alluring about how those bright predatory eyes shined against that lightning blue of skin. Jazz imagined tracing said skin to find the red lights that flashed between the blue metal plates.

But thinking down that path only conjured images last night with Prowl. How the tactician had methodically discovered every pressure of pleasure in Jazz's body, touching him in such a complete way that Jazz wasn't sure he needed another's touch again.

"There is no after party." Prowl snapped startling Jazz from that rabbit hole. "And we will have to consult with Optimus Prime first to determine if you have permission to remain on board."

Jazz did have to admit that Prowl had a point.

Thankfully Devcon didn't appear too offended.

"Fair enough." The bounty hunter shrugged before once again turning the full weight of his gaze back to Jazz. "I'm sure the commander can ensure I don't make any trouble till the Prime makes his decision."

Jazz heard a crack of metal as Prowl clenched his fists.

"I shall go speak to Optimus now." Prowl said before marching out of the room.

Jazz had no idea what problem Prowl clearly had with Devcon. Maybe it was just his general lack of trust of people? Or maybe he was still upset about Bluestreak? Jazz had hoped that seeing Silverstreak's dead body might've helped the mech get out of his funk but clearly it had not. Oh well, hopefully the party would cheer Prowl up instead.

Jazz turned his attention back to the corpse currently leaking into his floor. A blaster bolt was scarred into her back where it appeared to have burnt straight through to her spark chamber. From that angle it was unlikely to be self inflicted. But with Ratchet still unconscious they wouldn't be able to perform a proper autopsy.

"Where did you find her again?" Jazz asked.

"By the rust sea." Devcon replied. "You're lucky it's the tides low season otherwise she would've dissolved away by the time I found her.'

Silverstreak's most recent mission had been near the sea so it was possible that this location had been where she had been meeting with whoever her Decepticon contracts were. Although that wouldn't explain how she got to the opposite side of the planet without a ship in less than a week. Something wasn't adding up.

But Jazz wasn't about to alert Devcon to his suspicions. No, instead he would wait to discuss them with Prowl.

[vodika-vibes]

I want to share with you my new/old AU. Soulmates.

Oh, I know. I know. Everyone had a soulmate au. And you're right! They do! And here's mine! 😃

So, how it works is that things that are willingly done to one part of the partnership show up on the other partner. For example, tattoos are shared, and hair dye is shared. But scars are not unless they're self-inflicted.

And the Clones, well, they were told from a young age that they don't have soulmates. Because they're clones.

(Jango doesn't live long enough to find out that Boba does have a soulmate, and things would have been different if he knew -)

So the clones carry on as they were, and they don't really think much about it, right?

A vod wakes up with a butterfly tattoo on his ankle, he throws a bitch fit at his batchmates for tattooing him without permission, but whatever, it happens.

Another vod wakes up with bleach blonde hair and he nearly has a heart attack on the spot. But he just blames his brothers.

None of them think anything weird about it.

Now, on the flipside. Clones get tattoo. That's part of their culture. It's how they express themselves.

So, one morning, someone wakes up and they have a 5 tattooed on their temple. And they take a deep breath, call their soulmate a damned idiot, and then style their hair to hide it. That person is lucky.

Another person starts the workday tattoo free, and by lunchtime her boss is comforting her because she had half a skull tattooed on her face and she's freaking out.

An employee at the Senate goes away for a long weekend tattoo free, and returns after their vacation with a republic cog tattooed on their face. They don't talk about it. Ever.

A college student wakes up one morning with a teardrop etched under their eye and as revenge goes to the tattoo parlor and has their entire arm covered in vines and flowers.

[starry-nights12]

Longing (For the one word timebomb requests)

One Word Prompt (Ekko's POV)

CW:Implied Se///xu@l Content

I told everyone in the sanctuary I would be back in three days.

I'm proud of the community I created and watched grow over the years. I provided everyone with a sense of safety from Silco's rein.

I loved everyone there. Jinx being there gave me an extra reason to stay.  But even I needed a break every now and then. Some 'me time' as Jinx puts it.

The sanctuary was my home away from home. I still lived in Benzo's shop. I grew up there and wouldn't dare abandon it.

I felt the familiar sense of her eyes watching me. I turned around to meet her gaze.

She was holding her arm behind her back as Scar grunted with effort; her frame was disappearing inch by inch behind the vault.

"Haven't you had enough of me?" I grinned crookedly.

Jinx rolled her eyes, chuckling while shaking her head.

Last night our clothes were strewn across my bedroom floor.

We panted softly, and she laid her head on top of my chest. She hummed in content, her magenta eyes glowed as she gazed at me with a sated smile.

She held my chin between her fingers and then proceeded to plant tender kisses across my face until her lips met mine.

Our lazy kiss steadily turned more heated and passionate. Our lust reignited and we had to have another round to extinguish it.

I flipped her over and pinned her hands above her head. She sunk her teeth into her lush, bottom lip then both moaned as we grinded against each other

I expected her to quip about how much of a self-absorbed asshole I was, she wanted me to get out, or that she 'hated' me.

Instead, she smiled at me. Her eyes softened and told me the three words she was too scared to tell me.

"Never." was the last thing she uttered before the vault closed completely.

I stood there for a good minute.

I understood why she hadn't said it. Yet my heart still ached for the words I've been longing to say.

"I love you too, Jinx," I murmured.

════

So,here I was. Sitting in a bar nursing my beer mug.

The place was small.

The jukebox was playing a vinyl with ukelele music. There were hardly any customers here but I wasn't complaining. The beer was cheap and decent.

I wondered what Vander's would taste like.

When I was a kid, sometimes me and Jinx used to pretend the juice Vander gave us was alcohol. We laughed when we pretended to get drunk and throw up.

For my twenty-first birthday, I imagined, Benzo, Vander, and my friends celebrating in The Last Drop.

The bar would be full of Vander and Benzo's friends to celebrate our birthdays. We were happy with what little gifts we were able to receive.

It's in four months. The Last Drop had been boarded up since Silco's death.

I would love to have Jinx and Vi with me to celebrate. I didn't care where. I just wanted us to be together but I knew it wasn't realistic.

The two people I love most couldn't even be in the same room together without being overwhelmed by the pain they inflicted on each other.

Especially since Vi's friend is with an Enforcer. After killing her mother, Caitlyn would want to be the first to capture her.

I snapped back to reality as the sound of giggling disrupted my thoughts. A couple was sitting near each other at the far end of the bar.

He had his arm around her shoulder and she had hers around his waist. They were both holding their beer mugs with their free hand.

He leaned in and whispered something in her ear that made her nearly spew her drink and cover her mouth.

"I should fuck you up. You're lucky you're so cute." they both laughed.

My lips twitched with a hint of a smile.

I knew what I was getting myself into when I allowed Jinx to stay. But I still got a little envious of couples I see on the streets.

If our lives had gone differently then that could have been us.

Life would be great.

I had a woman I knew loved me and would continue to love me when we turned old and gray.

Jinx had grown into the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen. I would be able to show everyone how lucky I was to have her around my arm.

I would ask Benzo for advice about dating and how to be a great boyfriend.

Vander has known me since I was little. There wouldn't be a need for me to be nervous about meeting her Dad for the first time. 

He would trust me to have good intentions with his daughter and knew I would treat her with the love and respect she deserves.

Mylo, Claggor, and Vi would tease us about being love birds and how we should get it over with.

They would have bragged about how they were right to tease us about our denial of our crushes on each other.

People can freely galavant their love while I had to keep mine a secret. I had to tuck her away or else we both would be thrown in Stillwater.

I knew fully well that Jinx didn't have an ounce of remorse for killing those assholes and shattering their ivory tower.

The Enforcers would probably kill us first to take revenge on their beloved fallen comrades.

"They were good people." They would say.

Good people don't terrorize the people they're supposed to help.

Good people don't work with drug lords. They don't accept their money and let people from the Undercity die from shimmer or by their own hands.

We were good people.

But look what happened to my family. Our lives were irrevocably fucked over because of something I did

I thought we could have gotten a huge amount of money from my tip on Jayce Talis-The future golden boy of Piltover turned most hated council member.

We wouldn't have to go through another night worried about what we were going to eat or when we'd be able to.

No.

Instead, I brought Silco's attention to us. My actions became a butterfly effect of our lives being ruined.

It's my fault.

It's all my fucking fault.

The self-loathing and anger raged in me like a fire that was ready to combust. I doused the flames by chugging down half my beer.

I slammed my glass on the counter and panted heavily. I wiped the alcohol from my mouth and trail down my chin.

I signaled the bartender for a refill. She gave me a curt nod and filled my beer mug to the brim.

I was going to go home and pass out until the next morning.

I was going to feel good after a few more.

I was going to feel fucking great.

[ravencromwell]

Ros Vortalis trans headcanons

There are some remarkable trans Holland fics and headcanons, but can we talk about Ros Vortalis, whom all of his friends simply call Vor? Who, even when he’s _dying Holland calls Vor, to be expected, but also Vortalis which’s so much longer than Ros.

A bit of googling informs me Ros is “protector” in German, which’s chef’s kiss one hundred/ten no notes V.E. But it’s also, more frequently, a diminutive of Rosalind. Disclaimer before I start these that I respect and love! the headcanons of Makt as fairly gender nonrestrictive, with power being more of a defining factor of treatment. My Makt, however, is more complicated, with gender and gender transitions being imperfect but still a site where joy can be created, much like the rest of White London existence. Putting the rest of these beneath a cut with that in mind because as a trans person, I know some days I can’t handle transness as careful complication to be navigated and don’t want to inflict it on anyone unprepared. (Though, I promise! there’re fluffy as fuck nsfw Vor/Holland and Vor/friends headcanons in here to cut the angst.)

Ros retains a shortened form of his given namefor business purposes within the Shal—we know Shal means “market” in Red London, and I tend to think it means the same in White, such that when Holland calls him a “thug from the Shal” he’s referring to Vor being in the merchant/smuggling business. When he transitions, he’s relatively young and honestly to flagrantly demand a name change would be seen by too many as blood in the water. His greatest focus, always, is Makt rather than his personal happiness and he’d rather be burdened with the “nickname” Ros and be capable of rising in the Shal in service of becoming king.

There’re two ways of transitioning: the easiest and least painful is utilizing a spell similar to Astrid’s with Lila and stealing a face and voice. But that spell fades with death and though Vor understands that his body is likely destined for desecration once he’s gone as Makt’s people drain its blood and magic, there’s still this stubborn demand that they destroy a body without the face that made him shudder every time his child self caught a glimpse (he is so grateful for a lack of mirrors in Makt for much of his young adulthood.)

So he chooses the harder, excruciating method: finds a bone magician to permanently reshape his body. Session after session, over months traveling abroad on a ship with only the open sea and crew to hear him scream himself hoarse.

The first time they share a bed, Holland strokes along the broadened shoulders, runs fingers along the scars on his chest—eyes fixed on Vor’s all the while— and murmurs: “If they did not believe you would hold the throne, they were fools.”

“I’m flattered.” He’s bright-eyed, with that deep, rolling-sea laugh.

“After this, very little would stop you.” Fools have marveled at the extent of spells across his body, and inwardly he howls in hysterical laughter because there is very little to dull pain in Makt, and the shipboard pain was so vast it made everything else feel like pinpricks by comparison. He’s never bedded someone who would know that as intimately as the man who had done his damndest to use that same magic in stopping Vor’s fist before it connected with his face, and the admiration uncoils something deep in his chest. “Sometimes I’m certain I can’t keep it. One moment it will be there and then not.” He manages a farse of a smile “Foolish, after all these decades, but such is the weakness of your future king, Holland.”

“Lucky you would have an Antari to put it back, then.”

By the time he returned to London, voice rumbling deep from an expanded chest, people understood quickly to use “Ros” with the proper pronouns or see just how effective the runes on his hands were. But well…Ros is an easier shirt than Rosalind to slip into, but it will never sit comfortably. As he develops allies, he finds that Vor and Vortalis fit easier. And it becomes a good gauge for trust. Those who understand implicitly how painful his given name is and respect that, are people worth keeping. It becomes easier, as fewer and fewer people survive who remember Rosalind.

There are far too many moments to count when former friends or lovers try to use “Ros” as a weapon, with a little smirk that says: “You never said we _couldn’t call you that.” And he’s deeply glad he made a relatively small name fuss and provided only a small chink in his armor. (Those sorts of people tend, inevitably, to cause the use of his knives. As though letting them close and showing kindness is an invitation for open season. But such are the risks in Makt, and he is a man who craves touch and closeness. What good to craft the ideal body only to never have it appreciated. The way Holland simply…withdrew from people after Talya is something almost unfathomable. Whether they’re the closest of friends or both king and night and! king and beloved—which’s pretty much always in my head—there’s a deep, profound ache that he could never touch Holland enough to make up for too many years alone.

It’s the dimmest flicker every time he sees the “knight” and “Antari” masks slip, when Holland leans against his shoulder or puts his head in Vor’s lap, eyes half-closing at fingers in his hair. But, simply because the task is nigh on impossible, doesn’t mean he won’t do his best. Vor touches Holland Vosijk a hundred thousand times in those two years of rule—and so, so many more if they both survive—and is so very, very grateful he could take the touches the best of his lovers and allies offered over the last thirty years. (On a slashy front, can we also just talk about how, as a couple, there’s an incomparable way arousal and awe intertwine for Vor _every time Holland reaches out and shows affection: a kiss against his temple as Vor lets their foreheads rest together; a hand moving slow and easy down his back. To be trusted enough for the most guarded man he’s ever met—it took Vor _months to convince him to kill Gorst and he’s never had to work so hard or wanted so desperately for someone to say yes in his life—to touch him is such a valuable thing that he has immense responsibility not to break.)

Also in couple’s verse: If Vor has a small regret, it’s that the bone magicians are far more skilled with outward, above-the-waist presentation—because the best of them have not only done this for trans people, but for criminals etc. seeking a disguise. Thankfully, they had no trouble cutting him open to ensure he would never be with child—he doesn’t have the vocabulary for dysphoria, but the idea of his stomach rounded and heavy is one of the few things that can make him viciously soul-deep terrified. But the below the waist equipment well, it’s not a magic Makt has the luxury of learning.

By the time he meets Holland, it’s the very faintest of regrets: he has a collection of strap-ons for when he and a lover want to indulge in that particular fantasy—and is comfortable enough in his skin it’s an indulgence and not a requirement. It’s beautiful to watch lovers slide to their knees and take them in their hands or mouths or slide inside and watch them arch with pleasure. But oh, oh he wishes he could _feel it. It’s not a complaint worth voicing, and honestly after he becomes king, there’s very little time to indulge.

But one day, Holland comes back, smelling of flowers holding a box, tells the guards to wait at the end of the hall because he has crucial business from “the other London” for the king’s ears alone, which has Vor intrigued and concerned because he hasn’t come close to asking Holand to send a message. But before the concern can swell to anything beyond a flicker, he sees a flush so faint anyone would miss it who wasn’t watching. (Even before the Danes, Holland held his feelings and desires in an iron grip; Vor learned early in sharing a bed that Holland loathed the idea of being heard by those not his lovers when losing control: not merely a discomfort that could add spice to an evening, but viscerally, the way it would take everything Vor had to turn his back on an armed opponent.) This is pleasure, not business and he flicks his fingers in a silent command before they can even turn to look.

"Go get yourselves some dinner,“ he says for good measure, "If there is a foe Holland cannot protect me from, there’s little more bodies can do.”

When he opens the box…there are the usual straps but the cock. The cock feels like _skin. “The Arnesians-” and oh, there’s still so much contempt in those words “With their infinite supply of magic have learned to transmute. From earth to bone, and then something softer. There is an illusion for the Arnesians who want to forget the straps.” There were layers upon layers beneath that statement: neither of them wished, at least then, to go begging for scraps, but to _take a little of the bounty Arnes had hoarded,

“_Yes!”

Neither of them know how the illusion works: it is as mysterious as the fireworks Holland has seen that fool his eyes into certainty dragons fly across the unbearably vivid Arnesian sky. It does not matter; in those moments when Holland’s mouth is hot on skin, Vor is utterly, entirely certain Holland is swallowing down the cock he has always had.

It’s almost too much, leaves him speechless for the first time in decades, has Holland scrambling up and onto the bed even as his eyes are still glassy from watching the king come undone to wrap himself around Vor’s back until the world comes into focus again. “Is it only good once or-” he asks, finally and Holland’s smirk is wicked.

When he’s upending the Ost table and coughing up blood—, so much, too much kajt I hope Holland can take the throne because whoever these bastards are they can’t rule, the thing he clings to: more than “Stay with me"—though he _tries—, more than the raw panic in Holland _swearing—is the name. _Vortalis, he says when the table overturns—though it would be such a forgivable mistake to use Ros. Vor, he says while chanting stay and one of his blood spells. He will die as who he made himself, not as he was born.

The three threads of coherence for Holland are the blood spell. That Vor _has to stay. And that if he cannot be enough to stop this, he _will not let Vor die hearing him use the wrong name.

In verses where Vor lives, they both know the "thank you” when he wakes is not for the healing, though to be alive is a joy.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Olly for the ask game!

Headcanon A: What I Think Realistically

Riot Troopers have a very bad reputation among GAR clones because their job entails "assaulting civilians", a rather cowardly position to a clone's point of view. Even their use of shields is a point of mockery.

Olly being one of the highest ranking riot troopers prior to the Warehouse Incident made him a target for some rather... Unsavoury rumours. And considering he often helped break-up fights in 79s he definitely didn't make a good name for himself in the eyes of the GAR.

His very stoic and silent nature didn't help his case, and once Lich and PB weren't around to defend his name he just got used to being on the Frontliners's shitlist. It wasn't like he cared about their uninformed opinions anyway. He didn't have much time for baseless gossip.

Headcanon B: What I Think is Fucking Hilarious

Olly is a very needy cuddlebug once you get past his unflappable and unyielding exterior mask. He needs physical comfort and sometimes forgets he can't just randomly grab a vod to hold like a teddy bear.

He always apologizes if he oversteps any boundaries and is lucky most of the vode don't mind being manhandled or held like tooka kittens.

It's kind of funny seeing him drop the usual resting bitch face and taking on such a shy and sheepish look, considering just how gosh darn huge he is.

Headcanon C: What is Heart-crushing and Awful but Fun to Inflict on Friends

His chronic pain from Sulu Ra's enhancement serum experiment, and his struggle to deal with his grief and abandonment issues can lead to him becoming incredibly volatile and physically reactive. He's hurt at least three people he trusted dearly due to what happened on Umbara alone, and he's forever ashamed of the lasting scars (both physical a psychological) those moments of weakness caused his friends.

He usually has good composure and can compartmentalize his troubles. But Lichtenberg being supposedly KIA and Pretty Boy being MIA broke something in him. They were his rocks after all. His ori'vode. It's hard to deal with loss and personal betrayal like that...

Imagine the added agony and shame when they were all reunited on Epifania... He lashed out at his friends for NOTHING...

Headcanon D: What Would Never Work with Canon but the Canon is Shit so I Believe It Anyway

Olly's stature of 8'2". The Warehouse Incident altered his already abnormally tall height (canon says the clones are 6 feet tall, but she a goddamn liar they're 5'7") into something freakish for a human, and he's incredibly self-conscious about it.

It doesn't help that he was put on permanent Prison rotation and had to relocate to the prison barracks specifically to stay out of sight of civilians. Poor guy only sees his best friend or his boyfriend once a week if he's lucky...

Gets to know Boba a little better tho. He pities the kid a lot, but tries not to show it least Fett's little terror feel patronized and personally slighted.

[bitterarcs]

ONE.

Is this fun? Probably for anyone lucky enough to see him naked and to give y’all a wonderful visual  —  Reno has matching tattoos to those on his cheekbones. They’re identical in shape but slightly larger and are located in the area between his hips and groin . . the cum gutter area. Only those who have seen him naked know this.

TWO.

Low key still fleshing out this hc buuuut — the origin of his pseudo-crescent moon shaped markings on his cheekbones is a scar. While the the circumstances behind how he received the scar is long and complicated, Reno loathed the ugly scar; it was purposefully made to draw the eye and inflict self-hatred. The scar ended up healing almost completely in the long run, but at the time he and a fellow street kid ( someone Reno somewhat trusted more than anyone else ) took a needle and ink to it ( something between prison tattoo style and henna ). It wasn’t fantastic. When he gathered enough gil, he paid for the tattoo to be done professionally and had it mirrored on his other cheek in the same session.

THREE.

Reno doesn’t have a lot of hobbies truthfully . . or any really. Prior to ShinRa, everything in his life involved surviving. Gambling, pick-pocketing, and attending organized fights were fun and all, but Reno didn’t really do it for the hell of it as evidenced by his dropping of such extracurricular activities after joining the Turks. Reno works, he worksout, he drinks, and he sleeps. He really doesn’t have much time to do anything hobby wise, but he does wonder how it would be doing something for nothing in return. Is he good at art? Is he good at singing? Who knows.

            Give us three fun but lesser-known facts about Reno!  @poeticphoenix​    

                                   (   is this a love confession ??  )  

[pinkniz]

My young Freddy headcanons bc its 1am and Im insane

Tw for violence

His parents punished him by locking him up in a room and if he put too much resistence they would tie him up and leave him there for awhile with the lights off.

He has always been very hyperactive and violent, even before esperhood and his parents didnt like that.

After esperhood they started chaining him up as punishment since now he could easily break free.

When he first transformed he was still a child and didn't have control over his strength and one day when playing with another kid he accidentally hurted them VERY badly.

Some of his scars are self inflicted due to either him still not being used to his new body or because when he got locked up he would panic and scratch himself.

Still most of his scars are from fights.

The scar on his eye is actually from the first time he fighted a gang and thats his favourite scar.

He actually enjoys getting scars, makes him feel stronger and looking at them fills him with pride.

As soon as he became a teenager he got arrested all the time for fighting others, property damage and harming others

His first kill was a gang leader he challenged to a fight and he got so carried away he did not only beat them up but also mauled them so badly the rest of the gang didnt put any resistence to his takeover.

If you were lucky he would let you go because you're too weak for him but theres the chance he "plays with his food" rather than actually lets you go. He keeps doing this as an adult.

He kept this up until Djoser found him and due to Djoser being so strong and actually treating him like a person, he quickly gained Freddy's respect.

[moonperished]

Hallelujah

A/N: Mentions of mental illness, idol life, implications of societal pressure, trauma, injuries (none self-inflicted), self-destructive behavior through addictive means (such as sex), and a suicide mention.There will be slight mentions of growing up as a child of a parent with a mental disorder that “severely affects everyday life” and what it looks like as a young adult in their twenties.

“You’re really predictable.”

The last time he’d been sitting here was after he left Two Star. A long-legged mess of limbs with just a torn-up suitcase and backpack, too afraid to go home. Despite the calls on his phone, despite the millions of texts, just trying to think of a way he could go home again and even face his uncles.

Of course, Seo Jinwoo found him then. Of course, Seo Jinwoo finds him now.

Sure, it’s been years, but there’s something still so boyish about his best friend’s features. Jinwoo has seen hell, he knows that. And hell, while being something that he feels is very different depending on the person, Jin has seen the worst in himself and drug himself up from the very depths of his despair.

There is still that boyish charm in the tall man, but there’s a weight to his friend’s shoulders.

Divorce will do that to you, he thinks.

There’s still a sparkle in his eye, one he sees less often but only sees sometimes. He sees it when Solbin says something witty, he sees it when he teases Taeho or Junseo, he sees it when Jinwoo knows he’s done something incredibly stupid with his time. Jinwoo can read him like a book.

“You’re just following me, dumbass.”

Mikey stretches his legs out in front of him, Jinwoo doing the same as he sits down next to him. They’d meet here when he was on his vacations during his enlistment, hung out here to just talk, hung out here when Mikey had even told Jinwoo for the first time that he was going to propose to Solbin. Then had been a better time, and Jinwoo had hugged him so tight.

Seven-year-old Jinwoo is different from twenty-six-year-old Jinwoo. Mikey remembers the athletic third grader awkwardly trying his best to help Mikey with learning sports or even just talking. It’s funny how that awkward lanky kid had become this man sitting next to him. He’s glad that fate didn’t take him a year ago. He doesn’t know where he’d be without him. Jinwoo, the only person who knew about everything when he left Two Star, consoled him and defended him and Solbin to this day.

He doesn’t even have to say anything. It’s silent before Jinwoo speaks. As if he knows that Mikey’s out here thinking because he ran his mouth. Again.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Hyungseo.”

He digs his heels into the ground, watching the way the dress shoes muddy at the heel and loosening his tie.

“Would you like to say anything else, wise ass? Think I get it.”

“I don’t even have to know what it’s about, but you come out here for two reasons. Shut up with the wisecracks.”

Jinwoo huffs, leaning on his knees. Mikey looks at him. He’s older. Maybe not by age, but it’s obvious with how his eyes seem distant. As if they’ve seen one too many things. It’s not like him, but he doesn’t know what happened behind closed doors in Jinwoo’s life. Watching his best friend sleep with anything with a pulse to find meaning, fall in love, deal with a divorce? Jinwoo is nothing but resilient, something that he’s almost jealous of.

Despite the fresh tattoos on his arms as scar coverups, he still feels like a child. He still feels as though he’s in over his head. Trying to stand up to some of these bigger names in the board room, to seem an equal, he’s nowhere near. He’s built Sky House from the ground up, eventually with help from people like Jinwoo and Solbin and the other members of Sky House.

If you were to ask him, however, he felt unmatched. Ignorant, even. He’s just the stupid kid that his uncle didn’t sue, he’s just lucky he’s even on the management team at all, even as a consultant. He takes a rock and tosses it, watches it sink.

“Why do you have to do that too, god...” He takes his jacket off, laying it behind him, and falling back on the grass. Grass stains be damned. He needed to think. The low rumble of a laugh reaches his ears and he looks over at Jinwoo. “What, asshole?”

The older shrugs. “You’re just funny when you get mad about things like a rock. Why do you care so much about a fuckin’ rock, Mikey? It sunk, it was probably not smooth enough to skip, you weirdo.”

Jinwoo’s stable, something else he noticed. Despite knowing that his best friend has self-esteem issues out the ass and a whole host of things, he’s still remarkably stable. He’s not sure if it’s a coping mechanism from years of dealing with the unknown when it came to his father or what. It might not be anything truly profound, he thinks. Jinwoo is so painfully himself, it’s hard to put up walls. While Mikey had struggled all his life with processing, it seemed to come so clear to his best friend, and maybe that’s why they were so close.

“Maybe the rock had feelings, you ever think of that?” He quips at Jinwoo, getting a full laugh from him. Everything is better, easier to think about, when Jinwoo or Solbin is with him.

[acrylicalchemy]

Talking About Mental Health And Suicide

EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING INCLUDING TOPICS RELATED TO MENTAL HEALTH AND SUICIDE/SUICIDE PREVENTION  

I don’t really want to have this conversation, but I feel like we need to and I have some things I need to get off my chest so I can feel like I can breathe again. I don’t really know where this is going, so let’s just call it a stream of consciousness exercise.

The suicide of tWitch hit me hard, and for a very particular reason. Over the past decade, there were a number of times I found myself in a particularly dark place. During those times, I have some pretty vivid memories of turning to “So You Think You Can Dance” and seeing tWitch. As a man with Tourette’s, I was bound to love a dude named tWitch. The way this guy moved, it reminded me, in many ways, of how I paint. Now I can tell you with certainty that I have absolutely zero rhythm when it comes to my body as it pertains to dancing, but I do have an incredible rhythm, strongly resembling dancing, when it comes to painting. This is why I am so often drawn to dance. One thing I specifically remember about tWitch, was his smile, and I couldn’t help but feel a little better when I looked at that smile and saw the joy that reverberated through the screen watching him dance. 

Learning of tWitch’s death is a sad and humbling reminder of the battles behind closed doors, and how sometimes the brightest lights are surrounded by the greatest darkness. This man was a treasure and an inspiration to so many…transcending way beyond dance but to all creatives and dreamers. I think that at times, creatives are able to hide these things more than others because we have learned how to paint a smile onto our faces while fighting our wars in silence. I think we also often feel it more, and this is one of the reasons I have had to isolate myself so much more as I have gotten older and fought my personal battles with my demons. 

I have always been pretty outspoken about mental health and suicide/suicide prevention. Although I knew my biological father died on my mother’s 21st Birthday, it wasn’t until I was 28 that I learned it was by suicide…something that I had already been battling with for over a decade. Just prior to learning about my father, I can recall a night with a pistol to my head and being a fraction of a second from never creating all of the things I have brought to life the past decade. As I type this, I can still see 20+ year old self-inflicted burn scars on my hands. I have been lucky and blessed that I have had art as an outlet for my pain and my darkness, but it’s not always as simple as that. 

I think that, for those that follow me, it was pretty evident this past year (for the first 3/4 really) that I was having some struggles. Though I am often candid in those struggles, I don’t think most know just how dark or serious it really was. I can look back now and say that there were many nights during the last year that I pushed and prayed for an overdose. There were many nights that I also gave myself about a 50/50 chance of waking up. I am thankful, today, that I am still here and able to share this with you, but it’s a very difficult reminder for me about a battle I have to face each and every day for the rest of my life…because this war does not end until it does.

I have historically found that when I am trapped in my darkness, people are drawn to that, like a moth to a flame…but the exact opposite. The response increases, and likely because people can relate and because it’s something visceral and real…because it’s something a lot of us feel and face…but not many are willing to acknowledge it to ourselves, let alone publicly.  It can be a real challenge as an artist, because at times I felt like I had to stay there. My “Open Wounds” collection is about tearing myself open and exposing my wounds so they can heal. This past year I ripped myself completely open, and quite honestly, I didn’t know if I was coming back. There was a time that I truly believed there was no coming back. To further this, the increased reach in this time led to a heavy increase in trolling, nasty messages, and the all too familiar joke of “Your work is going to be worth so much more when you’re dead.” I remember hearing this as far back as high school when I was just a lost teen without direction and on the edge. 

When someone dies by suicide, the comments quickly follow…some of them absolutely nasty and without the slightest bit of compassion or understanding. I always see the comments about how if you’re struggling, you should reach out and talk to someone. If I’m being honest, and I can only speak for myself, that has never worked for me. In my experience, I found that people said things like this to feel like they were doing something and because, if you should do something like take your life, they wanted to avoid any possible sense of guilt or responsibility. I noticed the same exact thing with the disappearance of my friend and the woman I loved, Deanne Hastings. People close to her reached out like they wanted to help, but when it was time to help and actually do something, they faded into nothingness, much like Deanne.

 I will say, I understand that people can only communicate through the understanding and openness of their own experiences. I have accepted that. I do hope that others struggling can find someone to talk to, someone that can help. For me, I have found that this is a battle I truly do have to fight alone. I have been let down by too many to risk putting my life in the hands of another. I simply refuse. I have also not been blessed with the resources that some have in terms of having a place to go or even decent health coverage. There are a number of times this past year that, if I had the resources or option, I would have checked myself in somewhere. If you have those resources, I am very happy for you. If you do not, I feel your pain and your struggle. 

After my decades of life experience and learning a few lessons, I am well aware that my life is in my hands and that nobody can save me from myself. It is up to me and I am fighting. The reason I spend so much time training in the gym and on the road running is because I am training and conditioning for life. I am preparing myself to fight the devil on my worst day…because I have had to before and I likely will again. This war continues until my dying breath. I am blessed to have my art as a light with which to fight, but I have to remember that every light also has a darkness and every darkness a light. 

I apologize if this didn’t make any sense. I just had to say some things that have been weighing on me. I think that in the past couple years, we have been isolated, cornered, and pitted against each other. We have been pushed into scenarios where we don’t feel safe, or comfortable, or loved. We have been put in situations where we feel like it is fight or flight and we are fighting for our lives. When this is the case, it is very difficult to communicate or come together…and I think that’s where we are. It all starts with someone taking the step to truly open up the conversation…and I hope I could at least do that.

All my love and gratitude for giving me the strength to fight when I needed it on those dark nights tWitch,

Michael

[elianaxmulciber]

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Eliana Mulciber

AGE: 32

BIRTH DATE: 13th September

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

AFFILIATION: Death Eater

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis-female, she/her

SEXUALITY: Bisexual

OCCUPATION: Seer for the Dark Lord

WAND: 10”, Ebony Wood, Phoenix Core

PATRONUS: Occamy

BOGGART: Being without her gift. 

EDUCTATION:

SCHOOL: Hogwarts

HOUSE: Slytherin

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOUR: Green

HAIR COLOUR: Brown

HEIGHT: 5′8

SCARS: She has a scar that cuts across the palm of her left hand, self inflicted from when she was discovering her gift and learning what did and did not work. 

PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Intelligent, Charismatic, Honest, Ambitious

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Callous, Arrogant, Impulsive, Chaotic

MBTI: ENTP

*Please note-some of the bio with her interacting with the Dark Lord before he rose to power, timeline was taken from a rough timeline I found of Tom Riddle’s rise online and used that timeline in her story. Also please note that Eliana’s seer abilities are not widely known! Please do not assume your character knows that she is a seer unless we’ve spoke personally about it. 

Eliana was the first of two children born to the pureblood Mulciber couple, with her brother being born nearly ten years later. El grew up a rather doted upon child, as the Mulciber couple had been trying for a few years with no luck before she came along. And while her parents doted on her throughout her childhood, they also made sure to instill in her the importance of being a well behaved and proper pureblood daughter. Manners and education and proper decorum were instilled in her from a very young age. She spent her childhood attending all the proper events. It was as a child learning to socialize she seemed to flourish, she was a precocious and charming girl, whoever she came into contact with. Her parents couldn’t have been more pleased, believing they’d been rather lucky with a daughter who’d been easy to raise. 

It was after her brother was born, when Eliana was just 10 years old, that her abilities made itself known. While she does not recall the first claim she made, she easily remembered the look of horror on her parent’s face when she returned to herself. She had no control over what she saw or said, and there was never any knowing when they would happen. Her father, who had attended Hogwarts with Tom Riddle and considered him a friend, shared in the belief that the ministry was not to be trusted. It was for this reason that her parents decided that she would not be registered as a seer, They had no interest in having her report what she was seeing to the ministry or having those prophecies stored for the Ministry’s gain. Instead from a young age she was taught she needed to keep her abilities quiet, while at the same time attempting to learn and grow them. With only a year before it was expected for her to get her Hogwarts acceptance letter, both her parents and the Dark Lord worked with her on her gifts as she attempted to learn control and how to call the prophecies. 

When it came time to attend Hogwarts, Eliana was sorted into Slytherin and it was during that time she truly came into her own. While her abilities were still not completely in control, she had at least found a way to stay in the present moment, even as things came to her. All of it was written down and either sent via owl to her parents or kept written in a journal that she produced to them whenever she went home for holiday. In school she quickly made friends, she had always been a social butterfly and found it easy to make friends within her house. Many of whom she already knew from her childhood spent attending events. She was able to find the perfect balance of success in classes while also being chaotic in her free time. She was the sort to accept any challenge and have fun without thought, flashing her charming smile and dragging anyone she could into trouble with her. Some however thought Eliana may be crazy, as none knew of her gift, they found her quick shift in attitude at times to be disconcerting and weird. She always did her best to quickly come back to herself, dismissing that anything had happened and that she was fine. But some found it odd, found her odd when she had those quiet moments as if some place else. Thankfully it did not affect her studies much, though she didn’t care much for her classes she still put in at least the bare amount to make sure she passed. She was part of the Slug Club as well as the Divination Club while at Hogwarts. She excelled at Divination, though she always dismissed it as dumb luck to the professor. She knew it was a risk to be in the club to begin with, but knew it would be a way for her to learn and grow in her abilities. 

While she looked forward to her summers, it also came with more work than anything else. Her parents continued to ask about anything she had learned and continued to help her with her abilities. More often than not Tom Riddle was included in these discussions, he always assured her that her abilities were a gift that she should cherish. He always wanted to know about her prophecies and took a special interest in her abilities and the things she saw and sensed. It was only as the years went on and she got older that she fully understood what the man was planning and why he wanted to learn what she knew. However she had no qualms with sharing all she knew with the Dark Lord, like her parents before her, she was faithful to him and considered her one of his followers. She’d never known anything else, and her parents' beliefs as well as those of the Dark Lord made sense to her, she had likely devoted herself to the cause before she had even been old enough to know or understand. 

Upon finishing school she fully devoted herself to the Dark Lord’s cause and took the dark mark when it was asked of her. Her parent’s set her up with her own home and she continued to do what she did best, charm. While she knew and considered working, she found she had no interest, nor did she have the time. More often than not her schedule was busy with attending all the right events and making an appearance. Any free time she had aside from that was spent growing her abilities and doing whatever work the Dark Lord asked for her. She is dedicated to the cause, and has found herself willing and happy to do whatever is asked of her. She continues to push herself to her own limits in an attempt to learn her abilities, trying different things in an attempt to bring prophecies forward. She worries she is only as valuable to the cause as her prophecies to the Dark Lord, but she continues to work hard to prove herself worthy and useful.