Tw Violent Imagery - Tumblr Posts
TW!!
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Gore?
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Woohoo!!
Goretober but not in..October
But of my son :3
ha, cute for a discount atsushi, but no
Also why? Im trying to fix his hair not rip his head off
get over here your hair is atrocious (holding dry shampoo)
get away from me.
tw for effects make up ig? Bruised knuckles
I was taught how to make bruises with make up in my 8th grade drama class and I'm trying to bring it back now that I have a decent set of make up. I got people at school thinking I had healed frostbite, gotten into a fight, and punched my wall
Its make up guys
Literally red eyeshadow and some blush
Thats it
Only one person guessed it right lol
cw for violent imagery
I'd die for you is so boring
And honestly, so is I'd kill for you
No I'd commit war crimes and treason against every country I can for my partner
Id let myself be slowly torn apart by small spiders
Id let myself be slowly boiled alive
Id let someone rip off every limb and reattach it over and over again
Id commit mass murder
Id bomb literally anyone anywhere
Id slowly peel off my own skin
Id cry and scream and beg but it would be worth it for the one I love most
Rant time!
Warnings: weight, fat shaming (kinda), underweight, bullying ig?, oral retainers ig, thoughts of murder, violent thoughts, thinking of hurting others
looooove when my LITTLE sister decides it's a good idea to poke at literally every imperfection
Mimicking my lisp because I have metal retainers in as if her teeth don't look like shit (mine used to look worse but I have straight teeth now)
Getting on my case for having low grades when I have trouble remembering to pass things in due to a weird system
Badgering me for my messy room when I don't have the motivation nor energy to clean it because I'm tired after school
Shoving it in my face that I'm short when she knows I want to be taller than I am (she's taller)
Teasing me about looking fat all the time when in reality, I'm a perfectly healthy weight for my age, and my height (she looks like she doesn't eat and is very clearly underweight)
Telling me I look like shit and have poor taste in clothing when what I do is dress comfortably and put my hair up to keep it out of my face and off the back of my neck
Saying I'm stupid for not getting references and memes about things I haven't seen
Pestering me about not being able to see something when only her RED led lights are on when the walls are painted a DARK BLUE and the bunk bed frame is DARK BROWN (I couldn't find a cord she was trying to give me, the cord is black and it was in the shadows)
So anyways, I regret asking for her
Update from the next day, she's calling me slow again and making fun of my 'low intelligence'
I fucking hate her I'm having the stabby thoughts and I wish it was legal to kill her but it's not but I want to rip her fucking eyes out but jail and death row would suck
i think at the end of every war they should dump a cooler full of blood on the president
slip
Feitan x Reader drabble // word count 1.5k
In which you dream about someone you shouldn’t, and talk in your sleep.
Tags/Warnings: yandere, kidnapped reader, mention of blood and gore (past and imagined), knives, implied noncon, implied threat of death (to reader), implied murder (not reader), reader is gonna be fucked up over this forever
A/N: first time writing this man, not sure how I feel about it but it’s either post or stare at it forever
As always - 18+, read the tags, if you don’t like the tags then don’t go below the cut. Thank you and enjoy.
There is a knife against your throat, and you barely know how it got there, much less why. You didn’t do anything. Didn’t run, didn’t try to shove your tormentor away, didn’t tell him that you wished he was dead, or worse. You wouldn’t have had the time to do these things, even if you wanted to. You hadn't been awake for a second before his hand stirred from where it had lain on your waist. And now - the blade twitches, slightly. It doesn’t press quite hard enough to make you bleed, but certainly enough to make you picture what would happen if it did. If it kept going, long past the point where red rivulets stained the threadbare sheets beneath you.
A small noise escapes your mouth. You get nothing in response. It takes time for Feitan to speak, when there’s something on his mind.
It’s taking too long, even for him.
Last night, you thought you were safe. He kissed you, after meticulously washing a stranger’s blood out from beneath his nails. He watched you fall asleep, kept a hand on you until exhaustion finally forced you to nod off in the early hours of the morning. The strange affection he gives you is worse than any cruelty you could imagine, but not nearly as bad as the thought that somehow, you’ve managed to lose it. There are no words in your mind, now, only scattered images of what might happen, what you might become, the barely-recognizable thing strewn out across the floor -
“What were you dreaming about?” Feitan’s voice is dull and quiet, as always. Like he’s asking you this over breakfast, and not on what could be your deathbed.
You don’t remember, and you don’t answer. There is no air left for you to speak.
“What were you dreaming about?” he repeats. It’s almost the same voice, but there’s a hint of urgency, now. The barest hint - but you’ve grown used to interpreting the faint indications he gives you. “Talk.”
“I don’t”- You gasp, but seem to take in nothing. “-don’t remember”-
“You were talking when you were sleeping.”
Statements like these are dangerous. He expects you to understand what he means, always. He does not like to elaborate.
“I…” You screw your eyes shut, try to forget where you are just enough to remember where you were. “It was night. In the dream. And I was…” Oh. No. You can’t say that part out loud. Never, ever, ever. When you open your eyes, your vision is blurry. They close once more, of their own accord. “I was sitting with someone. Talking.” Someone. Someone has no face, no name - you pray that he’ll let you leave it at that. That he won’t ask for more.
“You said…” His face is close to the back of your neck, and yet, you cannot feel his breath on your skin. “When you were sleeping, you said I love you.”
Your stomach threatens to infringe upon your throat. You curse your sleeping mind for giving you something beautiful to dream of, and for letting it slip out of your mouth. Beautiful things do not survive here, and your mouth is always better kept shut.
“Who?”
You’d think, in your present situation, that you wouldn’t have enough room in your head to feel terrified for anyone else. But you do. Terrified enough to try something stupid.
You’re sure Feitan can feel the tension in your body, the instinctual way it readies itself for a fight (you would lose instantly) or an attempt at escape (you wouldn’t make it an inch). “It wasn’t about”- you choke on your own breath, try again. “It wasn’t about anyone real. Just a dream-person.”
“Bad liar,” he accuses. You do not protest. It was pointless to try.
And yet, you try again. You know that your answer matters. Enough for you to force more lies across the blade that still presses against your skin. “Someone I used to date. A long time ago.” Really, it was only a few weeks before Feitan….found you that things ended. But time is subjective - it certainly feels like a long time has passed since then.
“Oh.” If he suspects that you’re lying again, he doesn’t say it. But he does tend to leave a lot of things unsaid.
“He”- You suck in a breath as the knife twitches again. The movement is not an accident. It’s never an accident - his hands are unnaturally steady, when he wants them to be. “He ended things. I don’t think he thinks about me anymore.” This needs to be true. He needs to believe that it’s true, or-
“But you still think about him.”
Your stomach churns. “It was just a dream.” Technically not a lie, either. You’d have to say no for it to be a lie.
Feitan pauses for a moment. You’d have expected him to be furious, to take this out on you in some unimaginably awful way. Instead you hear a single sigh, feel it soft against your skin. “He let you go.” He sounds almost confused, his muted voice drawn out just enough to make his resentment clear. The knife turns slightly, and this time, you’re not sure if it was on purpose. “He must be stupid.”
You bite down on the inside of your lip, sharp and hard enough to tear a bit of the lining away. It’s awful when he says these things. Words that could be sweet, if you removed everything around them.
“I can’t control what I dream about,” you whisper, almost too quiet to be heard. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” He withdraws the blade, swings his feet off the bed - the floor, decrepit as it is, should creak when he stands, but it never does. “You don’t need to tell me anything else.”
You know better than to be relieved, so you turn over, to your other side, and fix your gaze on the floor. Watch him carefully, indirectly. You listen, your breath almost as silent as his, as he picks up his jacket from the end of your bed, puts it on.
And he smiles. His face is covered, but you see it in his eyes. “I can figure out the rest.”
The rest.
Your heart hammers, but your blood stands still. Frozen in your veins. You know why he’s put on his jacket. Why he’s leaving. Where he’s going.
The knife still dangling from Feitan’s hand catches a shard of your reflection, a smudged picture of a terrified eye that disappears before you can look any closer.
The rest. Name, face, address - all too easy. There are clues in your confiscated possessions, in the place where you used to live.
It’s as if the knife is still held to your throat. No. It’s as if your skin has already broken beneath it. You do not think in words. You think in gory pictures, infinitely clearer than the haze you see before forcing your eyes shut. Your blood, mixing with what you’re sure will be on that blade by day’s end. Skin-gushing-red-bones-out-something being buried, dirty hands returning to you, staining your face, your clothes, the things underneath, silent breath coming alive, painfully soft in your ear -
You open your eyes. You want to scream at him to stop, to stay. But your mouth stays shut.
“I won’t draw it out.” For a moment, he looks down, and you swear you see his face color. Like he’s said something overly sweet, and can barely stand it. “I promise.”
It’s enough to make it real. Enough to unseal your lips. “Don’t…” You should be yelling. But it’s all you can do, finding enough strength to make a near-silent, desperate appeal. “Please. You don’t have to. I’m not going to - to run. To him or anyone else. I’m not gonna do anything. I don’t - it was just a dream…”
“Stop.” His smile drops, eyes narrow. Voice even quieter than usual, deathly calm.
You go silent. Perfectly still.
“If you keep trying to save him, I’ll break my word. I already want to.”
You forget how to breathe.
This can’t be a choice you have to make. This can’t be in your hands. There are words in your head, finally, and you can’t say them.
You have to say them.
“I’m sorry.”
"Okay." He stares at you for far too long, unblinking. For seconds, or maybe hours, or maybe days - they’re all the same, to you, now. “It’s okay.”
No. He is unforgivably wrong. Nothing will ever be okay again. You’re in some other world, in your mind, and it’s going to take more than you have to yank you out of it.
You can barely see him in front of you. His voice reverberates strangely in your head. But when he moves, it’s like your senses pull themselves together. You realize that your eyes are wet, that a tear is rolling down the bridge of your nose, that you can breathe after all, but only in ragged gasps…
“You look…nice…when you cry.” He drops his gaze once more, tugs up on the cloth that covers his face. His smile is back, creasing the corners of his eyes, and it is the ugliest thing you have ever seen. “Wonder if he thought that, too.”
How much force do we think it would take to stab a pair of scissors into my forehead?
Hmmmm but it would be soooooo painful and satisfying
How much force do we think it would take to stab a pair of scissors into my forehead?
Shit you're right I'll just bite myself
How much force do we think it would take to stab a pair of scissors into my forehead?
Paradox
I can hear you in silence. I can see you in the dark. I know you won’t be leaving, Or I’ll break your heart.
I can cool you in the heat. I can lift you when you fall. You’ll be coming back to me, So I’ll have it all.
I’ll bring you to depths at shore. I’ll help you breathe when you drown. You’ll be paying me back soon, Set alight to this town.
I bring you comfort in fear. I’m a bandage when you bleed. You are watching me closely, Like I’m all you need.
I would halt the tide for you. I would bring the rocks to move. You won’t be gone when I rise, A game you can’t lose.
Bring the distance here to me. Give me nothing and yourself. I’ll solve these contradictions, Your heart on my shelf.
Cut yourself to stitch it shut. Let the blood drip ‘til it dries. Just allow yourself to be Love where love has died.
Odaxelagnia
Teeth sink into flesh, It feels more like steel. I’ll grow sharper teeth, Give you wounds to heal.
Blood drips down your neck, It pools into rust. It’s also iron, Released in your lust.
Your body is warm. Your heart has gone cold. I see the machine Inside of your soul.
Your lips come to mine, Your hands on my breast, You like to pretend, You take ease in rest.
I can see your pain. The softness in steel. When I bare my teeth, I show you can feel.
Of your hardened heart, Can’t hide it from me. You should know by now, I know how to seek.
Incisors pierce skin, You’d never have guessed, That the punctures left, Would leave you a mess.
A woman so cold, Given women’s heat, You lean down in turn, To show me your teeth.
Our blood is dripping. Both fit to consume. Take your steel body, And have it exhumed.
Remove the layers, Both clothing and fright, To show me your core, At least for the night.
I will convince you, You’re not a machine. There’s too much carnage, For steel to be seen.
You are flesh and blood, It’s lapped up like wine. There are no robots, Who taste so divine.
Just hold me tighter, And ignore the cold. I will melt your shell, My fangs make you fold.
Happy Death Day V
A/N: Purge night.
-SKZ x reader, 18+.
mature content, violence etc. its the purge. skz lowkey yandere. descriptions of violence and injury.
(birthday post :/ im too old now pls)
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prev. - next.
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previously on happy death day;
You flinched with each hit of his spit against your tongue, your eyes closing as he shut your mouth roughly, teeth clacking together painfully as your eyebrows contorted in disgust. His gaze held firm as his hand shifted to pinch your nose closed, the action forcing you to open your mouth and drool everywhere or swallow and breathe normally again. Your choice was decided quite quickly for you as Hyunjin raised a single eyebrow, his free hand reaching into the waistband of his dark jeans to pull a pistol from within. Your eyes widened but you weren’t that surprised seeing he had one on him, all of them probably did. What caught you off guard was the click of the safety and the press of the gun against your throat.
“I suggest you fucking swallow if you don’t want me to blast out your pretty throat with something other than my cock.”, Hyunjin was growling now, his voice surpassing Felix’s deepest tone as he cocked his eyebrow higher, a small mocking smirk curving his pretty lips, “That would be such a shame wouldn’t it? Yeah, I think it would.”
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Noises of agreement followed albeit muted ones, the other boys clearly hesitant to disrupt whatever Hyunjin had planned. The force of the weapon had you gulping quite loudly, Hyunjins pleased smirk causing you to glare his way. It should’ve been a given that it was a bad idea to glare at a man holding a gun very close to your body, but you don’t seem to learn. The wave of silence that flew around the room when your glare was caught sent chills across every bare appendage in the room. It was eerie, dark. Tense.
“Drop that look right fucking now.”
“Make me.”
Hyunjin’s eyes widened slightly, a thumb dragging across his bottom lip with a tilted head. In mere seconds, his anger was varnished with joy, laughter leaving him but causing you no happiness as the gun dragged up your throat to press against your jaw with a harsh push, your head jerking up to meet his dark stare head-on.
“Repeat that.”
You shook your head silently.
“I said,”, he growls, pressing the gun harder against the bone, “Repeat that, darling.”
You whimpered this time, his answering glare enough to make you struggle in your spot. A few lone tears tracked down your face as he scanned you for anything that may be a weakness. Your entire being was a weakness, he realized. You were weak. That’s why he was so quick to bring you to tears. You had been reduced to so little over the past hour or so that he didn’t even have to shoot you in the leg for fun. Pushing the head of the gun against your vulnerable spots did the trick perfectly. The cold metal sent goosebumps down your spine so his taunts didn’t and in all honesty, he was glad he didn’t have to work too hard to break you down further.
“Fuck you!”
Twah. Twah. Twah. Twah. Twah.
Heavy, anxious breaths filled the room, your own panicked and quick as you kept your eyes closed. The feeling of Hyunjin’s spit sliding over your nose slowly and dripping over your lips was enough to have you violently shaking as a few of them laughed near silently at your expense. Others cackled like hyenas, Minho’s face turning red from the consistent force of his laughter.
“Ohhhh you’re pushing it now!”, Minho was still wheezing, his hands waving about in front of him as he nudged Felix roughly.
“That was a horrible idea, puppy.”, Seungmin was stern, his fingers clicking the lighter as he stood slowly to take up position next to Hyunjin.
The rest of the boys were dead silent once more, your words sending what hope they had for Hyunjin going easy on you out the window within seconds. Too shocked by your own words to say anything else to sass him, you pressed your lips together, eyes squinting as you watched his face drop into the coldest look you had ever seen from such a pretty boy. The two stood in front of you with similar looks of disappointment with pure danger. It was putting you on the edge of begging them to just kill you like they did your parents. Somehow, they sensed that. Changbin walked over with a fresh bucket of water. Minho laughed obnoxiously as he walked past him, his sharp eyes meeting yours again with a mocking glint of concern.
A swift warmth trailed through your body in the next second before the burning followed. It was scalding. More shivers covered your beaten body as the heat wore off, the chill of the night hitting you in full as the rush left you shaking. Minho wasn’t the only one laughing this time, Hyunjin’s hysterical laugh shrinking you in on yourself until your legs were free in an instant, his large hands yanking you from your chair to send you flying face first on the floor, your hands supporting your upper body as your leg aches, a pained cry escaping you twice fold when Seungmin kicked it lightly.
“Stupid puppy couldn’t even remember basic manners. You should have just been good, hmm?”, Seungmins veiny hand gripping your matted hair in a harsh grip, your neck bending awkwardly as he whispered in your ear, “Maybe you should listen. Might get a treat instead of a punishment.”
Hyunjin was next to grip you, his hand covering the expanse of your reddened neck, as he growled. Not words. Not an emotion. Just a cold, heart stopping growl that echoed off the walls left standing. The pure anger behind a single noise had you breaking, tears streaming down your face in another continuous trail as you trembled in the holds on you and under the gazes directed at your pained expression. All was silent for the few moments it took your mind to go past the point of blank.
“Please…”, you whimpered, your eyes searching theirs for any sign of mercy, “Just kill me…”
Your last words came out as a mere whisper, Hyunjin and Seungmin not even being able to pick it up until you dropped forward as their grips dropped.
“JUST KILL ME… please.”
SIlence took over the room for the hundredth time.
“Please…”, your voice was desperate and the boys picked up on it clearly, some of their eyes watering as others were overcome with anger.
A cold-hearted tsking filled the spaces between your sobs, your eyes widening dramatically as Minho had his own hand around your neck now. His eyes were dark as he watched you struggle to sob through his grip, a sort of satisfaction crossing his face as your own puffy one turned redder than it had previously.
“I don’t think you want that~ Tryna get away from us when we don’t allow it is unacceptable and must be punished. I'm sure you know that by now. Lixie is going to have some fun with Seungmin and you now, okay? so sit still like a good girl and it won’t be even worse for you.”
He was mocking you at this point, an echoing click of Seungmin’s lighter and the clack of Felix’s knife taking over your senses as you squirmed in Minho’s hold in a last ditch attempt to get away or even lessen the pain you were no doubt about to experience.
The sound of the lighter running at full force had shivers trailing across your body slowly as the two in question entered your field of vision, weapons in hand. Felix had his knife held with a gloved hand, Han now missing one of his from his pocket as Seungmin held the lighter to the blade.
The veined hand around your throat still seemed to mock you as you watched the blade slowly turn from a pale red to bright orange, the metal warping slightly as it heated. The smirk the two boys sent your way was enough to have you sobbing past Minho’s hand again, your eyes closing in preparation.
Nothing could have prepared you though, for the burning sting that pierced the skin of your shoulder, blood not even pooling as the blade rapidly cooled inside your flesh, tears tracking down your skin and burning the wound more than the residual heat of Felix’s knife. It was an indescribable pain, the burn, the sting of your skin tearing and being punctured as intense heat followed. From the reactions of the boys, the sensation of your skin attaching itself to the cooled blade before it was pulled from your shoulder was not incorrect, your blurry eyes registering the bits of your skin hanging on to the edges of the knife.
“What the fuck.”
“I didn’t agree to that much damage.”
“Woah, woah! Lixie, Minnie back down. Now!”
The world blurred around you as their voices became one as slowly as unconsciousness came to you again, concerned gazes surrounding you as you collapsed forward gently with the help of Minho. Chaos followed your departure from consciousness, voices yelling at each other and the two responsible for the missing skin on your shoulder, red faces mirroring back at each other on other members as they scrambled to do what they could to lessen the pain and help you heal better in the end. Felix was dragged away from your prone figure along with Seungmin by Jeongin and Changbin, their faces blank save for the lining of tears in their eyes.
“We said we would never let anything go in her! Are you two dumb?!”
“She could be so hurt by this in the long run. What if it gets infected?”
“Why?! She annoyed us all but you had no right to take that as a go ahead to stab her!”
“Get her on the couch, put something cool on the wound and get the first aid kit. She’ll need stitches. Minho, wash your hands. You’re up.”
Motion filled your house as Felix and Seungmin were dragged away from you and locked in a room, Minho washing up carefully as Hyunjin grabbed the first aid kit after moments of frantic searching. Changbin and Chan made sure you were comfortable in a position they could hold you down in for when the pain of the stitches woke you so abruptly.
Deep breaths were shared in the tense silence as they watched you in varying degrees of worry and anger at the two responsible. It wouldn’t be a purge night without twists and turns though, so they took in stride the best they could, Minho pulling gloves onto his hands before setting up the suture as the others gathered around in a small circle.
“Ready? Make sure you have a hold on her, yeah?”, Minho’s voice was as steady as his hands, his training kicking in and calming the group as you laid prone on the couch.
Nods answered his question, eyes trained on you as his hand closed in on your shoulder being dried by Han. The moment the suture pierced your skin, you were twitching in your sleep, movements pausing around you in case you woke up and panicked. Once you settled, Minho’s hand was moving smoothly. With their attention focused on your shoulder and not your face, no one noticed your eyes slowly blinking open with tears lining your lashes already. Minho was the one to notice when he glanced up at you to double check your passed out state, his eyes widening when they met yours.
“Hold her!”
His words startled the boys, their grip tightening as they took notice of your awakened state. You looked around drearily, the pain making you slightly dazed until your body lit up with the pain signals, your arms fighting the holds the boys had on them to try and tug out the suture. Being held still was a slight struggle but it was done successfully, Minho finishing your stitches with little to no struggle once numbing spray was applied to the area. The harsh grips on your body calmed once the stitches were tied off, your eyes flicking between them before you shook your head, eyes focused on the door rattling with the force of two men hitting it forcefully.
“What the actual fuck?”
A few muted chuckles followed your statement, some more annoyed than relieved that you still had your attitude about you. Hyunjin opened his mouth to answer, his eyes catching yours through his hair before they flicked to the door holding back the two responsible for your stitched shoulder along with everyone’s.
Yours followed slowly, the resounding bang that had sounded sending chills through your body. Ragged breathing filled your ears as the boy’s angry shouts and protests were washed away by the gazes of Felix and Seungmin, both breathing heavily and standing tall just outside the now broken door, dark eyes trained on your body as you stared back at them with fear filled eyes.
“Y/n.”
You said nothing, eyes watching each slow step they took towards you until you launched yourself over the back of the couch, past Changbin and Jeongin to hobble as fast as you could out the hole in your house. They watched you with concern, but Jeongin watched you with darkening eyes, his tongue sweeping over his bottom lip as a smirk pulled at them. Minho shared a knowing glance with Han before Jeongin was walking slowly after you, a whistled tune following from his pretty lips as he tucked his hands in his pockets smoothly.
The crunch of the broken wall alerted you to someone following you, your head turning as you stumbled down the driveway. You made eye contact with him as he continued to follow you, his haunting whistle and smirk shooting pains from your shoulder to your leg at the pure danger in his eyes as he strolled after you casually, almost as if he was watching you walk through a field of flowers and not running away from him as gunshots and screams played as a soundtrack for his chase.
“Oh little bunny~”, his tone was condescending, mocking you as you stumbled away from him, “You’ll need to run faster if you don’t want me to catch you~”
Your steps stuttered, arms flailing to stop yourself from falling until you righted your steps, turning away from his dark eyes as he laughed, head thrown back and eyes closed until it snapped forward, eyes narrowed on your retreating figure.
“And believe me, you really don’t want that.”, Jeongin called after you, his steps slowing slightly as his whistling picked up again, the song burned into your brain as a source of fear.
Your fear increased ten-fold as he began singing, your heart stopping as his voice reached you. It caused conflicting emotions. The beauty of his voice made you want to stop and listen but as the lyrics registered, you wanted to simultaneously curl up in a ball and cry yourself to sleep and never wake up.
“Run, run for your life.”
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Tag list: @artisticbirb @extremechaoswarning @mixtape-racha
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next.
HE’S DIZZY AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME FROM RELIEF. Well, Michael thinks it’s relief. It could just be exhaustion, those long angry nights catching up with his emotions, or maybe surprise at having anyone (let alone his father!) on his side. But no matter, because tears nip at his eyes and Michael turns away to the cabinet indicated to hide them, scuffing roughly at his eyes with his bloodied cuffs. Any comfort, no matter how basic, is unfamiliar […] But in a situation like this, he could practically fall at his father’s feet in praise. A man of devout faith to a god.
“No, it was— it was slow,” he says, just as drawn out, like he’s not really there at all, “he— I didn’t even know him much, and I just heard him saying shi— STUFF ABOUT OUR FAMILY. Stuff about you and me. I just wanted to make him stop.”
The cabinet is opened, but his arms are occupied with dirty, bloodied rug. In this state — a little numb, a little dazed, Michael blindly copies his father, rolling up his already sullied sleeves and dropping the rug at the side of the room. Tunes out the repugnant tang of blood and the sight of the body. It’s the little things, the unthinking obedience, that helps him cope with the next words.
“I just… lost it, I guess. And I didn’t even realise ‘til halfway through, didn’t realise how bad I’d hurt him.”
Rug, discarded. Sleeves, pushed back. Michael falters briefly, and keeps his eyes firmly averted from the corpse as he opens the cabinet. He’d punched until the red mist cleared and the throbbing in his hands made him cry out, and then he’d panicked and floundered at the mess he’d made.
All of you Aftons, the boy had spat, you’re all monsters, and everybody knows it.
The queasiness returns at the memory, and Michael lurches over to his father with cleaning products like he’s forgotten how to walk. William is so nonchalant and vaguely pleased about the whole situation that he’s beginning to feel some of that sought-after delight of killing (alongside the disgust and dread).
Well. Of his father’s praise and attention. But he won’t realize the difference between the two for another couple of months.
William’s last words steady him. Breathe. His chest heaves up automatically, and it’s ridiculous how much easier it feels now that he’s been told to do it — breaths jerky, but less panicked, Michael shoots his father a look. It oozes more gratitude and more positive emotion than he’s aimed at the man in several years.
“Thank you. Thank you. I’m okay. I promise I’m okay. I just— didn’t know what to do, and I was so angry. It— It felt good.” A lie, but he’s seeking approval. It feels like the right thing to say. “To just… let it all out.” (Now that’s not a lie.)
CONTINUED. / @behindslaughter
HE HAS NOT BEEN ANYONE'S SON IN A LONG TIME. Hasn't been anyone to anyone in a long time: most people dead and gone or worse when Mike has been dragged back, unwillingly, once more from death to ruin his father's schemes. NO REST FOR THE WICKED, BOY: STAND UP STRAIGHT. DON'T SLOUCH NOW. MAKES YOU LOOK WEAK, A LITTLE KID. Draws blood with how hard his nails dig into his palm, hardly able to breathe even without the visage change from the other. His father. His own grey eyes not even widened, not even surprised, at the sight: glossy and dry with resignation. That's what you are, aren't you ? My son. " Maybe once, " he says, unwilling, blood run cold at the glitch's words; from forty to fourteen Mike will always be Michael, will never escape the role of the eager, reaching son.
Compared to the other's fluid, graceful movements, the man is robotic. Recognize his face anywhere, huh ? Mike hasn't known his reflection in decades. His body, stiff, lurches back when the creature that is his father learns, and suddenly, for all the noise and clamor of the Pizzaplex, he feels very alone. Eyes dart to the room opening, waiting for someone to come by, see the situation, save him from this: but there's nobody here but him. And his father. His father who looks like his father and for all his age and the own decaying decrepit form, Michael is a little boy again. Staring, helpless, at a role model a disappointment of a parent the bane of his existence a sad, unstable man who just can't let go Dad Michael feels something within him fracture. insides scooped out again, no sister to speak of. Is he proud of his son ? [...] Still standing after everything ?
Hey, he learned how to cling to life from the best.
" I have nothing to say to you. " The words come out with more fervor and less dignity than he'd hoped. A fox cornered. " Last time I checked, you're just a virus. Leftovers from an old man's overdue death. " His smile is flat and frozen, exposes chipped tooth from childhood and more scars from his scooping. " Yeah, last standing. And I'm gonna keep it that way. What is this? -- One more grab at immortality, huh ? Predictable. " Body creaks and groans when he stands straighter, squaring old, stitched shoulders. Make up for how small, how grotesque, he feels in the face of his father in prime life.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.” [hear me out: apprentice michael pulling away from his father’s clutches, only to be drawn back to spring/glitchtrap….]
🔧 @runeians !
"why?" is the faint answer of glitchtrap. arms raised, with palms upward on either side of widened grin. a grin which cocks to the side, jarringly. question sounding far too genuine even for his own liking. his wide, purple eyes blinking animatedly.
"that's what you are, aren't you? my son." his voice resembled springtrap's if not for the influence of his newfound digitization, now knock, knock, knocking at the door of his son's mind. inflected just so. all michael has ever wanted, was his approval. perhaps the big picture he had missed when withholding it too much as a flesh and bone man. but now, he sees all. hands gesticulating, and landing with a curious finger curled under his jaw.
hands flourish in to rest on one hip, the other finger extending to point with a sway. all fluid motions. "don't try and hide from it now, boy. you might have aged, but i'd recognize that face anywhere." he easily leans against a surface beside him, elbow propped with ankles crossed. nonchalant. "quite funny how things work out, isn't it?"
he glitches in and out. his form becoming more and more distorted, until the image of his old self appears stark before the man standing before him.
in the same position, teeth show in a lazily lidded-eyed grin. "the last afton standing." he says, chuckling lowly. foot bouncing as the image of the elder afton in his patriarchal prime stares back at the rotting visage of his boy.
Real Alex Suffering…pt.1
Paranoia and Trauma, with a slight helping hand
Finally reposted (and published to ao3). Might throw it on Wattpad. I don't know.
Sun at Night (夜に太陽)
@ayaisokay / Yoru Ni Taiyō / M.H
Short story for 1K word prompt challenge
Ishi awoke violently, escaping subconscious terrors, and grounding himself within vivid sensations of reality.
With arms involuntarily outstretched, Ishi breached the cold air. Incidentally, they moved with ample pace, enough to induce pain. His left arm had jerked out and hit the wall at the side of his bed.
The pain preceded the sound. "Yume!" He winced. His stutter was like an echo of the thud that reverberated throughout the small shelter.
"Sis?" He called out once more, finally sitting up and looking towards Yume’s rocking chair. It was empty.
With a shudder and a shiver, Ishi got to his feet and analysed the shelter. He took care to avoid long glances at the mirror. But he did notice a new crack, and a droplet of blood obscuring his image.
That of a pale, meek boy, with short bed-worn hair, puffy cheeks, and brown eyes that hastily avoided the sight of their face’s softness— a contrast to other boys his age. The subtlety of his chin was a sore spot, his visible bindings too.
With a forced smile, he concealed his body with rags.
Between the warning signs of mould setting in, and the cracks on the cold floorboards, Ishi was certain, the mess he called home hadn't notably changed.
Safe for additional discardings of hair, clumsily brushed to the corners of the room.
Ishi wished he could help Yume as much as she helped him. She cut his hair nice and short and helped him bind his chest with lace and leather. She'd been working to buy fabric so Ishi could enjoy some comfort. But, she wouldn't let him join her for any of her work— not even the jobs that hurt her.
She was bad at hiding new bruises and sore spots, or the redness in her eyes. Ishi didn't get why she didn't ask for help. Yume always told him he was strong.
But the thought vanished.
He spotted blood by the door that was left slightly ajar. It was softly illuminated by a mix of distant village lamps and the moonlight. It evoked great concern.
"I’ll help this time." ishi promised, hoping to finally be of use to his big sister.
His decision was in spite of Yume warning him against staying up. She’d told him a journey awaited them tomorrow.
Yet, Ishi quickly set about the door and got onto the stone path anyway.
He was used to walking barefoot. He outgrew his last pair of shoes. Unfortunately, nightly walks were new, and Ishi struggled to avoid sharp pebbles that prompted his small feet to rise with haste.
The dancing luminosity of fire light was not as reliable as it was beautiful.
Though Ishi couldn’t help but ponder the fire that guided him as walked the arching path, seeking the village’s closed off river. One encased by trees.
The fire was pleasant and warm with a gentle hum. There was safety. It reminded him of Yume. But, to get too close, well, even such beautiful things could cause harm. Maybe that’s why Yume never let him help, he assumed.
“You wouldn't hurt me.” Ishi thought aloud as he reached his destination, only to be halted at the foot of the river’s opening. A light thud, followed by hushed whispers, took him from his thoughts. For what they lacked in mutual tone they made up for in synchronised intensity. A lover’s spat? A fight? Ishi wasn't sure.
Slowly he drew nearer the river’s opening, sticking to the side opposite the whispers, about 10 metres away. He oriented himself around the tree slowly, using it to shield himself while I leaned out and peeked.
The tree was less comfortable than grass or smoothed stone on his bare feet. His hands were reddened from his hard grip on the tree. There was no salvation in its holes either— but Ishi was thankful for that. Disturbing a bird nest wouldn't have helped him right about now. Though he wasn't sure what could help. When the first figure came into view, Ishi’s breath grew short and his throat tight.
A bearded man, noble by the looks of his cloak and the silk of his shirt. He was leaning over someone, a hand placed towards them, and another stretched towards the river, holding Yume’s knife.
At that moment, Ishi couldn't help but wonder if Yume had been helping hurt people. He feared that's why they had to leave tomorrow. But, he couldn't accept that thought— “she wouldn't,” he decided silently. Finally turning enough to bring more of the scene into view.
A slender girl, flat at her chest with bruised skin that was otherwise pale. She stood adorned in rags, now freshly cut at the waist where a dampness had begun to form. Her face was obscured by a hand that forced her head against the tree opposite Ishi’s.
The man kept her turned away— leaving only slightly torn hair in view. “You help me enjoy the night, and I give you money to fill your rotten gob.” The man hissed, before lurching her towards him. Kneeing her gut, and twirling to toss her closer. She landed in the middle, by the edge of the river bank.
“Trying to use a toy like this? Well, you can forget about the deal… Boy.” The man snarled.
As he turned to look upon the girl, Ishi’s heart ceased its rapid rhythm. He became a candle, extinguished by grief.
The girl’s brown eyes met Ishi’s in mutual recognition. Her pain heightened by the man’s last words, and her defeat spelled by the presence of kin.
An innocent brother, and his defiled sister. But Yume wasn't the only one to spot her beloved brother.
“You shouldn't have come here; you have ruined us both.” She whispered, trying to get to her feet and position herself between Ishi and the man. But her steps were unsteady, and she was quickly knocked down. Wetness and blood trailing her legs.
“Well, perhaps you can keep the welp’s deal.”
Tearfully, Ishi remained in place, struggling for air, to compose himself, or command his limbs. He knew this man.
“D-dad?”
whos excited for today's episodeeee
traumatized yellow man variants under the cut:
