#tw:implied suicide

[sirserpentine]

On Pentious' backstory.

//Hi lovelies! I've been thinking and developing Pentious for a short while now, and while I will likely accept whatever canon history we'll get for him in the future, I have a few current POSSIBLE ideas for what may have led him to Hell in life. This is one of such possibilities:

Short version: Pentious was a rich inventor in Victorian England. He served portions of time as an engineer in the army, working in the British Empire's colonies in Africa and Asia. (Hardcore colonialist. Very nasty, as they were.)

He had an amicable relationship with his wife who had been chosen by his parents. They wanted to have children very badly, but suffered from infertility for years with no improvement. Pentious grew bitter over his work overseas as well as depressed and hot-tempered from his repeated grief and disappointment when his family wouldn't grow.

Eventually, desperate Pentious decided to research dark magic and ask for the help from demons, as angels wouldn't answer his prayers. A deal was offered by a demon he managed to summon, a potion that would guarantee healthy children to its drinker. The catch? Pentious would automatically descend into Hell upon death. When promised his wife and future children would be safe from such a fate, Pentious took the leap and drank the potion at once.

But coming home that day, nobody answered his calls.

What followed was a grief-induced rampage, a desperate attempt to create an antidote, a bitter attempt to create poison, plans of calamity, plans to burn down the world that had forsaken him, toxic fumes spilling over his body by accident, red, red marks all over his skin, a study that burnt down in flames.

And a snake who entered Hell alone.

In detail:

He was born into a rich, aristocratic family in the late 1840s and had the privilege to study to his heart's content in London, his busy birth town. Being an engineer or an inventor was something he wanted to do since he was very young and his family accepted this, though a bit reluctantly. Following a degree in the university, he was engaged and married to a bride of his family's preference but didn't hate or outwardly disagree with the arrangement.

He and his gentle wife found common ground when it came to the enjoyment of music, art and the scoffed-upon, silly preference to usher house-intruding rats and mice outside without excessive violence. They also doted on all the children of their friends and relatives and eventually desired a big family of their own.

With no upcoming patent for an invention in sight, young Pentious instead found a job as an engineer for the army and travelled to the empire's faraway colonies in India and Africa to oversee and assist in the construction of windmills, vehicles and the maintenance of weaponry. Pentious received elementary level soldier training at this point and for the first time learned how to hold a firearm. He also got to enjoy the life in a true colonizer fashion; feel a false sense of superiority towards those their troops supervised and bossed around, eat exotic treats and send gifts back to his wife. Snakeskin purses, spices, jewellery, everything that could be ripped from their place of origin. He paid money for them, surely it couldn't count as stealing? They made his wife so happy, surely he wasn't greedy for hogging so much? He was a Britt, a civilised chap, certainly he was deserving of his share?

Though the reunion at home after his travels was a warm one, Pentious and his wife grew agitated when they weren't blessed with children after years of trying. They did their best, employing each home remedy, prayer and doctor's order they could afford, but the situation never improved. Pentious had to leave for more job contracts to fulfil and each time he returned to his grieving wife and empty nursery, the less he resembled the man he had been in the past. The idealistic, kind gentleman had become entitled and stressed, his smiles had turned into frowns, his passions into a hot temper.

And when he started shooting at the intruding rodents that disturbed his precious work in the study or tea in the parlour, his wife grew even more concerned. And when she mentioned this and all he could offer as consolation and apology was a concoction of rat poison to get rid of the problem instead, she wasn't sure if she even knew him anymore.

Pentious grew desperate enough to turn to dark magic to have his dreams come true. If Angels wouldn't listen to his wails, maybe demons would? Though doubting it would work until the very end, Pentious managed to summon a demon who offered him a deal; A potion that, once consumed, would guarantee him the conception and birth of healthy children. The catch? He would automatically descend into Hell at the moment of his death.

When promised his wife and future children would be spared from such a fate, Pentious wasted no time in swigging down the potion. Despite the prize he knew he would be paying, he felt more lighthearted than ever as he ran back home, desperate to tell his wife they could still try, they could fix things up, there was still time.

But once he was home, all that greeted him was silence.

The vial of rat poison was empty.

[heulwenflower]

Selkie ophelia

Tw:implied suicidal ideation and sa/abuse

They lay there on the shoreline

Arms spread

A small bunch of roses clenched in one hand

Blood dripping all over the sand

Tides go out and in

They're counting on one to carry them out

Let nature be the judge on what the sentence will be

They can't return to what they once were

What was once their skin is rotting

In some dusty back cupboard of some gentleman's Club

It was taken off them for sport

Just because

No other reason

The body will wash up

In some other beachside town

They don't know what she was before

[rr-sheep]

[Tw:implied-suicide/Blood/Self-Harm]-

-Suffacateing Emotions-

[royce2005]

TW:Implied/Referenced Suicide

so i try to do this animation, about the idea that what if R didn't wakes up

I haven't really learned how to animate this so it might be a bit chaotic and hasty

(just noticed that I was able to upload files directly, so i repost it

(and I also uploaded it to youtube)

[puff-yy]

okay okay i got a funnyish story

so i found this David rp account from Camp Camp on tiktok,and i was looking through their videos and i saw their was a mini rp going on with a Daniel rp account

so basically,in a nutshell,it was Daniel being sorry for what he did at the camp and wanted too commit toaster bath in a way,then while David is pleasing for him not to do so,fucking Harrison shows up and basically types "fucking finally"

it had no right too make me wheeze so loudly-

[lil-lite-in-the-darkness]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30668510

I’ve finally finished something in months. Woo Ig. Please read the tags I beg. I wrote this in like 3 hours and I just barley proofread I’m so sorry.

[fandom-drifters]

Protects - “Send for your muse to do one of the following to mine.” // @shouto-plusultra. As in Shouto protects them. You decide who you want him to protect and from what.

Grace is standing at the edge of the bridge, Staring down into the depths, Contimplating if it was all worth it in the end if her so called best friend hated her for telling the truth. Glancing at the sling around her arm she fights back tears. Was it truly worth it? She leaned over the edge eyeing bellow again. She never even got the chance to tell George why she even time traveled in the first place.

[authorgirl1111]

She used to go out and see them.

The people who didn't want to die, but saw no other options. People who wanted out of the life they were given, people who had everything they could possibly want and weren't happy and didn't know why.

She would bring them with her, and help them as best she could.

She'd sent quite a few girls to Artemis - girls who didn't want to get married, girls who had no interest in romance, or children.

For some it involved honestly thinking. A promise to get them to another town, a suggestion of priesthood.

Sometimes there were people who were content with the life they lead. Who had everything they could ever want and didn't know why they were so numb. They were her biggest problems, she would talk with them, feed them tea that was known for raising spirits but those wore off eventually and they would be back to where they started. It would be years before anti-depressants were discovered.

Some listened to her suggestions and went off to another town under her protection, and her vow that none would force them into anything they didn't want to do.

But some stayed. Some saw the good she tried to do and asked if they could help her with the people she finds. "A human perspective is always good when dealing with humans" Some would tell her. It was an argument that she found hard to disprove.

Now she still goes out to find them; she still finds so many who are hurting and don't see another way out. (There are too many every year, and every year she's to late to save someone.)

But more often then not, she get's a knock at the door and someone whose desperate and frantic (a parent, a sibling, an aunt, an uncle, a grandparent, a friend, a lover, a stranger who saw someone too close to edge), scared and frightened, and someone standing beside them with far to many scars. (After 3000 years you learn to see the scars the no one else sees, the ones hidden by long thick fabric, the one's hidden by a smile that is far to familiar after so many years)

Many of the people that drop off their loved ones, are people she once helped.

"You helped," they tell her, "you helped me, you gave me choices, you helped me realize their were other ways, help them too."

Artemis comes by too. Many hunters become burnt out and can't see another way, when the hunters become so tired, she takes them to her.

Some just needed time away, others are happy with the life they lead but want to try something else now, and others realize that the life of a hunter was never for them.

Artemis used to punish those who wanted to leave. Now she sends them to her, to get reacclimated to the world before heading back into it.

It's not enough. It never feels like enough. The obits always mention someone she failed.

But with every person she accepts into one of her many homes. She's grateful that at least that day, they have a chance of choosing differently tomorrow.

[bernard-the-rabbit]

And you know what's literally hilarius? the card had a picture of a cake on it.

[chilligyu]

info: platonic wonwoo/reader, teen, college au genre: angst | word ct: 1.5k warnings: implied past suicide summary: he was sick of being what everyone else wanted him to be, but he didn't even know how to be himself. she would be the one to finally teach him something worthwhile.

“You may begin.”

And thus began a unique symphony. The sound of test booklets being flipped, of pencils scratching down answers. Of students nervously tapping their fingers at their desks, of a tyrannical professor circling the class. Of seconds ticking by, and of one stubborn student snoring quietly in the corner.

Jeon Wonwoo.

He was sitting in the back of the class, headphones in his ears, his hoodie pulled over his eyes, and his arms crossed over his chest as he slept. His classmates offered him sparing glances, unsure if they should try to wake him. But—no one did. No one ever did. Everyone was completely content to let him fail the test. If he was so determined to throw his future away, who were they to stop him?

“Mr Jeon?” His professor asked with a coy smirk. “Care to join the rest of the class?”

Wonwoo didn’t even open his eyes. “Not really.”

“You do realize that you pay to go to school, right?” She questioned, smug amusement clear in her tone. “I get paid regardless of how well you do.”

“Good for you.” He snorted, pulling his hood down even further.

She shook her head at him in fake disappointment. “Such a waste of potential. To think, Jeon Wonwoo, the piano prodigy, can’t even pass a simple introduction to music theory class.”

“Fuck off.” He hissed through his teeth.

This woman makes my blood boil.

She snorted, feeling as though she’d won. “All this talk of Composer Jeon’s son attending our small university with absolutely nothing to show for it. Your parents must be proud.”

Without another word, Wonwoo grabbed his bag and stormed out of the room.

Fuck her. He swore to himself as he climbed the stairs to the roof. Fuck her, fuck my parents, fuck this place, fuck everything!

Throwing the door open, the cool autumn air swirled around him and he suddenly felt at ease. He was finally free. Free of the absurd expectations placed on him, free from the pressure that was crushing him, and free from the world that told him how to act, how to think, how to be. He closed his eyes, a small smile creasing his face. Then he fumbled through his pockets looking for his lighter.

“Jeon Wonwoo, what is this?”

“It’s a cigarette, mom.”

“You’re smoking? You have got to be kidding me.”

“Mom—it’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal? Not a big—you don’t get to decide what’s a big deal. No son of mine will be caught dead smoking a cigarette!”

“Mom—”

“You really don’t think about anyone other than yourself. What if the press got wind of this? Think of the scandal! You’re still in high school! Do you want me to look like a bad mother? Do you?”

“You already do.” He muttered to himself, lighting up a cigarette and inhaling deeply. “Fucking bitch.”

“Do you always talk to yourself?”

Wonwoo turned abruptly, startled by the sudden intrusion. At first, he thought it might be a teacher, but standing by the door was just some girl. Just another annoyance. Just someone else questioning everything he did. At least this one he could ignore, and he did. He turned up his music and headed over to the edge of the roof.

“Hey!” She laughed, jogging up to his side. “I was just kidding!”

He rolled his eyes, pulling out one of his ear buds. “Great, now leave me alone.”

She let loose a low whistle. “Yikes. Who put you in a bad mood?”

“A lot of people.” He continued, taking a drag. “Look, take a hint, I’m not in the mood to listen to you lecture me.”

“Okay…” She started with a smile. “Are you in the mood to talk? You look like you have a lot on your mind.”

Wonwoo stuffed one hand in his pocket. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It’s not.” She agreed easily. “But I can speak from experience, nothing good comes from bottling it all up inside.”

“Why the fuck do you care?” He practically growled at her, his frustration rising. “You don’t even know me.”

She shrugged. “What’s that got to do with anything? Can’t I care about someone I don’t know?”

A humourless chuckle bubbled past his lips. “In my experience, people who know me don’t even care about me.”

“Then a change of pace is just what the doctor ordered!” She exclaimed. “Just tell me what’s eating you, maybe I can help.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I doubt it.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “C’mon, try me. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Exhaling, he decided to give it a shot, because she had a point.

“All my life I’ve played the piano.” He started. “My mother is a famous cellist, my father’s a famous pianist, it was safe to assume that I had some sort of musical talent. And I do, I just—have you ever done something for so long that you just feel compelled to continue?”

She nodded. “Definitely. It’s the only thing you’ve known.”

He took a drag from his cigarette. “Exactly. So, I went to college to play the piano, like my dad. That was the big plan my parents had for me. But—it’s not what I want to do.”

“What do you want to do?” She asked. “Something other than music?”

He shrugged. “I mean, I love music, I’m just not big on the performing end of it. I’d much rather produce than be on stage.”

“Then why don’t you?” She continued, like it was that simple.

“My mom would probably disown me.” He chuckled. “All of those classes, all that money, she would see it as a waste. Some days I feel more like an investment to her and less like her son.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her wince. “Wow, that’s rough.”

“You’re telling me.” He agreed, finishing off his cigarette and flicking it off the roof. “Shit sucks.”

She nodded in understanding. “I feel you, I really do. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Doesn’t change the fact that I do.”

“Why settle for that?” She asked. “Why not do what you want? I say to hell with her plan! You’ve got your own dreams and desires, aspirations and what not, she’s got no business telling you what to do.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “You clearly haven’t met my mother.”

“That’s true.” She conceded. “But you haven’t met my father, sounds like they’d make quite the pair.”

“Did you ever rebel against him?” Wonwoo asked.

Sadly, she shook her head. “No, I never did. Wish I had though, my life would’ve been a lot different if I just mustered up the courage to say “dad, I want to be a singer, not a classic violinist, please support me”. Instead, I suffered in silence.”

“So you’ve really got no room to talk.” He scoffed. “You’re just as hopeless as me.”

It was barely noticeable, but a small yet sad smile creased her face. “That’s true. Only—there’s still hope for you. You’ve still got a chance.”

“What do you mean—”

He stopped suddenly, shocked to see her climbing up onto the ledge of the roof.

“What are you doing?” He asked in horror, reaching out for her. “Don’t—don’t do it. It’s not hopeless, I promise you, you can still be a singer. There’s still time.”

She offered him a look he couldn’t quite describe. “Sadly, my time’s up Wonwoo. Follow your dreams. Don’t be like me.”

Then, she jumped. It was so sudden, so unexpected, he hesitated for just a second. When he rushed to grab her, to save her from herself, she was gone. He was too late. Reluctantly, he looked out over the edge. He expected to see something that would haunt him for years to come—but she wasn’t there. There wasn’t a trace of her anywhere. Confused, he turned back around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, hoping that his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Sadly, my time’s up Wonwoo.”

He swore that he was going crazy, because for the life of him he was sure that he never told her his name.

“Follow your dreams.”

He clutched his heart in agony.

“Don’t be like me.”

[heulwenflower]

Mermaid

Tw:implied abuse and suicide

I grew up with a view of English Channel

It never really scared me

But I suppose when you live with a monster nothing really can

Don't get me wrong I had fears

Spiders

Darkness

Fire

But water never scared me

It felt like an escape

Weightless

Quiet

But also exciting with how two days were never the same

There was a beach nearby

Not very popular

It was hard to get onto

Rocky

Slippery

Perfect

And even though the channel felt bigger up close it wasn't scary at all

Maybe because it showed me there was a world outside of my monsters grasp

I was so obssesed with the water my first career aspiration was mermaid

I couldn't be argued with

My imaginary friend was a mermaid

She was beautiful

As I aged

And the monster grew stronger so did my desire to break free

I'd dream about joining her in the ocean

Away from the bullshit of my home life

Then I broke free

No ocean required

Just my sanity

I couldn't really explain why I felt drawn to the ocean

But as I aged a darker obsession formed

I still thought the water could free me

But by making me a spirit instead

I did become a mermaid if your wondering

A fake one

But then I became a real one

[surrealitykrp-blog]

hello listeners —

today we’ve received a notice about han iseul, the 22 year old busker and shareholder. you might have seen him around east iri sometimes. if you haven’t, fear not and stay tuned for the briefing.

                                      and as always, welcome to iri

—  and now, the profile

faceclaim: kim jongin (kai) oc name: han iseul age: 22 positive traits: perspicuous, adaptive, astute neutral traits: skeptical, capricious, introverted negative traits: paranoid, stubborn, pessimistic occupation: busker, shareholder. housing: riverside affiliation: n/a

— and now, the development

THE MYSTERY OF IRI:

this story wavers into the reminiscences, located in the inglenooks of his childhood. just like other memories fractured by the trauma of losing a mother, this comes in shards. their ends sharp enough to draw blood, and when he is reminded, it drains colors of his life, leaving him with a hue of sepia that reminds him of where he’s from, what he’s from:

it was 0059 hour: from the distance he could hear the sound of the wind mimicking screeches, or maybe, just maybe, like howls instead. either way, there was a weight of unmistaken threnody, clinging to it like a secondhand light of dusk. its borrowed hand flitted into his thoughts, but he was just eleven, ripe enough to be startled by the blue glow that streamed through the blind gaps, but not ruined enough for skeptical resolutions. was on his way to the kitchen for a sip of late night water when he caught a glimpse of his mother — her night gown sweeping the floorboards, inflicting goose bumps along the length of his spine.

he swore she’d just disappeared from the corner of his eyes when she enveloped him, her warmth sinister.

( he cannot remember any of the words she whispered into his ears. )

THE DUALITY OF MANKIND:

when it reverberates in his mind, skepticism becomes encrypted like tattooed binary codes: a. ) it kills him at three am, when the moment turns into claustrophobic cusp of time; b. ) it smothers him in a song, midway, throat cluttered with unfinished afterthoughts; c. ) it engraves question marks on his bones, letter per letter, number per number, until everything transforms into nothing but bitter dust of wondering. — but sometimes, it saves him. it saves him from paranoia that would drill itself further in his thoughts by answering his own inquiries: a. ) the fortune teller across the street won’t tell him anything good, it speaks, and he listens; b. ) the man that preaches in church will provide him no fruit of forbidden knowledge, just general truth that might not be concrete; c. ) and in turn, he does not need to hang his hopes high for a man that might or might not come with the kingdom at the end of the road.

— and now, the biography

tw: horror, gore, mental illnesses, implied suicide, parental neglect.

the cartography of his veins spread before his eyes: here, where he bruised in metronomes — here, where he fractured his vertebra — here, where he digested his laments.    

against the riverbed where stories run in rivulets of red, in the stream of incongruence, lies the corpse of a manmade construct. called it death. named it fear. at the end of the day, its soot is ripe and ruined in his fisted palm, leaving inked teeth marks in shades of dying black.

the night sky thinks about a carnage that dreams: in this story, the sequence wears a reverse order.

( amidst the filaments of his youth, he scavenges tales, told between neurons’ antimatters; otherwise known as forgotten stories, like local urban legends that splinter, embedded in people’s weary minds. )

a seaside improvisation: a boy is not a boy when he does not tear a jugular open with his harrowing teeth — when he does not lick the residue clean with his devastating tongue. in the furl of the waves, he dissects his mind, & out of his flesh he finds a dichotomy, tiding in and out:

        i.

in his childhood, he finds that he is a pariah of his own dreams; succulent prime of his intents heads straight to the memories of a father. umma is a bloom amidst a field of opium, married to a manmade silhouette cast by nothing but accumulated shadows. appa is never home, and the boy trips over his own knobby knees trying to chase after the memory of calloused hands holding his hips and lifting him up high. in this case, he is baptized an orphan by empty lights, knuckles painted purple with the prayers heard by no one. in this case, he is alone.

        ii.

the color of decay is always beautiful, just like the ruins of his cathedral of sanity. it did not come away with a bang, the structure. instead, it chipped, brick by boring brick, before everything collapsed to the cracked ground, their viscera bleeding across the floor like tar. the filament of his constellation is still hung high, away from the midnight horizon, and from here he looks up while he blisters his feet on the tattered rubbles. its collarbones speak the telltale legends on the boy raised by his beasts, and eventually, he succumbs to the growth of their canines, perforating his skin with every inch of their bite.

in the sclera of the moment, a sight of an after dark lullaby is spotted. let’s say, the night is tinted with the siren wailing from afar, cicadas singing in corners. the memento: nothing in this silent murder comes out alive, not even the spectator. the killer never gets away with it, in this motel haunted by nothing but the naked syllable of sins; he is confined in the room with the peeling wallpapers, uncovering pairs of eyes eyes eyes too many eyes. the killer is him, bathed in the blood of the white outline on the crime scene. and on the floorboards, the victim is him, doused in the glucose of a sweet death. let’s say, my dear, you cannot run from them when ghosts in your bones hailed from your head.

( and he loves umma in ways that she haunts him. and appa, in ways that neglect becomes a norm. )

in this session of a blurry aftermath, he comes to become acquainted with the concept of destroying. living, and destroying. his re-entrance in iri ( back from seoul after years and years and years — but not to appa, never to appa. after all, what’s never gone can never come back ) after a stretch of endless terminals introduces him to the art of deliberate detonation, where he puts the grenade pin between his lonely lips, kissing it goodbye as the audience gathers for their mass suicide. lives under a stark ceiling to ruminate over his existence, but as neon lights wash it with their afterglow, he will be out, marking his territories. words travel from mouth to mouth, telling strangers about a boy that can be found on the end of a street smoking too many cigarettes, & singing a song too many.

horror, gore, mental illnesses, implied suicide, parental neglect.

the cartography of his veins spread before his eyes: here, where he bruised in metronomes — here, where he fractured his vertebra — here, where he digested his laments.    

against the riverbed where stories run in rivulets of red, in the stream of incongruence, lies the corpse of a manmade construct. called it death. named it fear. at the end of the day, its soot is ripe and ruined in his fisted palm, leaving inked teeth marks in shades of dying black.

the night sky thinks about a carnage that dreams: in this story, the sequence wears a reverse order.

( amidst the filaments of his youth, he scavenges tales, told between neurons’ antimatters; otherwise known as forgotten stories, like local urban legends that splinter, embedded in people’s weary minds. )

a seaside improvisation: a boy is not a boy when he does not tear a jugular open with his harrowing teeth — when he does not lick the residue clean with his devastating tongue. in the furl of the waves, he dissects his mind, & out of his flesh he finds a dichotomy, tiding in and out:

        i.

in his childhood, he finds that he is a pariah of his own dreams; succulent prime of his intents heads straight to the memories of a father. umma is a bloom amidst a field of opium, married to a manmade silhouette cast by nothing but accumulated shadows. appa is never home, and the boy trips over his own knobby knees trying to chase after the memory of calloused hands holding his hips and lifting him up high. in this case, he is baptized an orphan by empty lights, knuckles painted purple with the prayers heard by no one. in this case, he is alone.

        ii.

the color of decay is always beautiful, just like the ruins of his cathedral of sanity. it did not come away with a bang, the structure. instead, it chipped, brick by boring brick, before everything collapsed to the cracked ground, their viscera bleeding across the floor like tar. the filament of his constellation is still hung high, away from the midnight horizon, and from here he looks up while he blisters his feet on the tattered rubbles. its collarbones speak the telltale legends on the boy raised by his beasts, and eventually, he succumbs to the growth of their canines, perforating his skin with every inch of their bite.

in the sclera of the moment, a sight of an after dark lullaby is spotted. let’s say, the night is tinted with the siren wailing from afar, cicadas singing in corners. the memento: nothing in this silent murder comes out alive, not even the spectator. the killer never gets away with it, in this motel haunted by nothing but the naked syllable of sins; he is confined in the room with the peeling wallpapers, uncovering pairs of eyes eyes eyes too many eyes. the killer is him, bathed in the blood of the white outline on the crime scene. and on the floorboards, the victim is him, doused in the glucose of a sweet death. let’s say, my dear, you cannot run from them when ghosts in your bones hailed from your head.

( and he loves umma in ways that she haunts him. and appa, in ways that neglect becomes a norm. )

in this session of a blurry aftermath, he comes to become acquainted with the concept of destroying. living, and destroying. his re-entrance in iri ( back from seoul after years and years and years — but not to appa, never to appa. after all, what’s never gone can never come back ) after a stretch of endless terminals introduces him to the art of deliberate detonation, where he puts the grenade pin between his lonely lips, kissing it goodbye as the audience gathers for their mass suicide. lives under a stark ceiling to ruminate over his existence, but as neon lights wash it with their afterglow, he will be out, marking his territories. words travel from mouth to mouth, telling strangers about a boy that can be found on the end of a street smoking too many cigarettes, & singing a song too many.

[pepper---chase]

💕

description of muse ( in love. )

there’s a moment of half-consciousness when she first wakes up-- before she’s totally aware of it, before her eyes are open, long before she actually gets out of bed. 

that little space of darkness used to be pointedly empty, a cavernous gap between a dream of a girl with dark brown eyes and darker hair, a laugh that reaches beneath her own hardened exterior, a kindness that knows just how to comfort her neglected, mistreated, broken parts-- and the reality that when she instinctively reaches for her, she’ll find no one. just lifeless mounds of sheets and blankets and pillows, cold-- she’s always fucking cold. she loved her and it never came out and she paid for that mistake with years of self-inflicted isolation and hatred and suffering. she loved her and it never came out and there was no way she was going to abandon her-- for sixteen years, all she’d known was abandonment but hanna stayed, and there was NO WAY she was going to turn around and just forget her. how could she forget the only person who’d ever wanted her? she loved her and it never came out, what kind of fucking idiot couldn’t say three words? she loved her and it never fucking came out-- and now she didn’t deserve to find that anywhere else, didn’t deserve to receive or give it, didn’t even deserve it from herself. when she opens her eyes and the bed is vacant ( save for her stupid body, fucking wasting space that’d be better spent on hanna ) she curls further into herself and decides to stay a little longer. 

now the space is-- not quite filled, considering the haze that surrounds her half-awake mind, but certainly not empty. she always finds the warmth first, notes the soft heat that’s stored between her body and the blankets and someone else-- someone else is there. then there’s sound: maybe a light snore, maybe a deep exhale, maybe even her name, softly, if she’s sleeping in and gina has something to tell her before she leaves. -- gina. finally, someone is there when her arm lazily stretches across the ( now smaller ) mound of blankets. someone she loves, fuck, and it came out when her walls finally fell and it’s still coming, it falls out of her mouth so often she’s afraid gina might forget how much each syllable means. and she even tries it on herself-- after she dropped the knife because ithinkmymomkilledherself and whataboutgina and whatabouteveryone whataboutyou knocked the fear back into her, she decided she wanted to live, shit, maybe she deserved to live, maybe she deserved more from herself. maybe it doesn’t jump out of her mouth when she sees herself in a mirror, but every trip to shake shack for bacon cheese fries is i love you, every deleted picture of a near-dead pepper is i love you, every decision to ask for help, talk about it is i love you. destroying her constant fear and sadness and internalized hate and thoughts of you don’t matter, you aren’t worth anything, you shouldn’t be here is i love you.

once she knows she’s awake, she opens her eyes to see the woman that’s always waiting, awake or asleep ( not dead. ) she smiles to herself, checks the time, then rolls back over. studies her face in whatever light she can use to carve out each contour, each peaceful curve, each already-memorized feature. she mouths an i love you then, a silent one, just as important as all the others. then she closes her eyes again, regardless of if it’s for two more minutes or two more hours, snuggles closer, savoring the warmth that comes from both their bodies ( acknowledges her own, finally able to do that for her ) and can’t still contain the smile. the inaudible i love you plays over and over in her mind. iloveyou iloveyou iloveyou i love you. and it’s for both of them.

[9597library]

Pluto

by annangst (E | 21/21 | 199,119)

Kim Taehyung has his life figured out. There's a simple plan to follow, a guaranteed path to a fulfilled life: Graduate high school. Volunteer. Get into the most prestigious university imaginable. Attend church. Never disappoint your parents, never veer off track. Maintain the perfect facade.

Taehyung is really good at following that plan.

Until.

Until, one cruel summer, his best friend drags him along to a sketchy underground club and introduces him to Jeon Jungkook – someone Taehyung vividly remembers riding a skateboard and folding paper airplanes with utmost precision back when they were kids.

And, well, Jungkook kind of fucks his whole plan up.

notes: READ THE TAGS. there is also a mention of violence from JK to tae in chapter 17. it’s addressed but was still pretty jarring to read.

[puff-yy]

me whenever I accidentally reblog a rp replie with my main blog

[best-scouts-in-teufort]

Tell Wrenne that you lost control of the situation. Tell her that you watched your friend turn that gun. This was partially your fault, Randall. You should have been here sooner. You should have protected him. Your father would be disappointed in you

“H-He didn’t even turn it on himself. He wouldn’t… I-I didn’t know what was going on! I woulda-I woulda been here sooner if I did!” He took a few steps back. “Leave m-my dad outta this…please…”