seen from Austria
seen from Austria
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Austria
seen from T1
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Maldives
seen from Sweden
seen from Poland
seen from United States
BTW, I love writing sex-headcanons for my cis straight ships and even like, love talking about what they do, how they do it, what kinks and all this. I just don’t like playing it out. But I happily write anything leading up to sex and even more the after situations.
EDIT
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WHERE DID WE GO WRONG? | Chapter 1: things end.
Pairing; Jimin and Taehyung
Warnings; depression, strong language, use of alcohol, and maybe drugs. - Pairing: mxm | best friends, bandmates, Taehyung x Jimin. - Genre: angsty, depression - Rating: 18+
Description: Jimin and Taehyung are childhood best friends who got to achieve dreams together and debut in a group called BTS. the group got popular and it ended up effecting their health, the only choice they had left was to disband or to keep going until their knees gave up from underneath them. Taehyung and Jimin always promised to stick together no matter what happens. But the disband took a big toll on Taehyung, becoming depressed and pushing everyone away. one day, suddenly disappearing from Jimin’s life without a trait.
A HIDDEN SURPRISE PT. III
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The feedback has been amazing by the few that actually find this story interesting. I’ve decided that every three chapters, I’ll have a preview for the next chapter. Just a little sneak peek to what happens next in the story. Here’s Part III where Big Grayson finally meets Little Grayson.
Also I am so sorry this one took longer than the others did. It got longer than I intended. l
PART III: THE LITTLE GRAYSON MEET BIG GRAYSON
The week had gone by so quickly. You loved working with Lucius again and the kids absolutely loved school. The best thing about being in Gotham was that you had a ton of babysitters, so when Babs called you to have a girl’s day out with you and Bella, Damian jumped at the opportunity to watch John.
“You sure you can handle him, Damian?” you asked as you looked at the teen in front of you, “John can be a handful.”
“We’ll be fine, Y/N,” Damian tried to reassure you, “We’ll have to be at the manor though just in case the titans call me.”
“As long as someone is watching him, you’ll be fine.”
Damian nodded, “I assure you, he’ll be safe. Pennyworth will be there if anything goes wrong.”
John hugged your leg and you smiled at your boy. “I’ll be okay, mama. Uncle Dame is gonna be with me.”
“I’m sure Uncle Tim and Uncle Jay will be there at some point, John,” you laughed, “But you be sure to have fun with Uncle Dame okay?”
John nodded. You helped him into the car Damian had. You couldn’t believe this kid already had his license, but you weren’t surprised. The kid knew how to drive since he was 10 maybe even younger. Now he was 15 and driving himself to school and to any other place. You buckled John into the booster seat and closed the door.
“Drive safe, Damian. You have precious cargo.”
WHAT THE FLOWER SAYS OF DEATH COMES OUT TOMORROW
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A LETTER TO AMBROSIA’S MOTHER. THAT SHE WILL NEVER READ. inspired loosely.
By the time I was four I realized they handed her that same piece of paper every day. Sometimes they go through the task of laminating it, or color coding it in highlighters with tips that have been blended with other pens and for a moment it looks like the sky bleeds through the ink. But the paper is this: on a scale of one to ten, what is your level of pain? One is a smiling face. Ten is a crying cartoon. There isn’t any explanation, or a category of pain. If there are as many minds as there are heads, there must be as many pains as there are injuries, but I don’t question it. Natasha picks seven, always seven. She exists in a constant state of seven. I can almost answer for her. You look at me, push your red hair behind your ear, and nod. Mascara clings to your bottom lash-line, a residue lipstick to your upper-lip. All at once, I am convinced that I’m doing god’s work. When they hand me the paper, I push it away. None. Zero. I smile for good measure. I catch a glimpse of your nod out of the corner of my eye, and hum to myself. Your rumpled collar. Your knees propped against your chest, sandals hanging from your fingertips. There isn’t enough pain in this family for me to share in it.
I’m in second grade when when my teacher, Ms Brandon, reads me a book. Fannie in the Kitchen – I think it was – but I can’t remember and it haunts me. In the story, the main character is listless. Her hair is red like mine and she’s ambitious like me. And her mother is a great baker, who guides her through the kitchen like a dancer on wheels. I was struck by it. My mother never baked, never pried open the oven, never taught me that knives were dangerous and a flame can burn. I learn this on my own. You weren’t a mother who baked. I complain, of course, and I’m pulled by the collar into the kitchen – Natasha is watching television on full blast – and I’m reprimanded for being selfish. You know how hard I’ve been working. How busy I’ve been with Natasha. I’m busy! When I started to cry, a torrent of apologies surging through my tears, you wrap me up in your arms and kiss my head. Be a good girl. I know you are. And I am. I can’t do anything but appease you.
I suppose I am accustomed to being treated with kid gloves. Delicate hands, sallow hearts. The teachers at school know my sister is sick. They forgive my absences. They know that my father is busy. My fatigue is permissible. They know that my mother, whose English steadily improves over the years, doesn’t know any one of them by name but picks me up at the same time every afternoon, and writes me notes in my lunchbox that I tuck into my pocket. I’m treated like a doll by nurses and doctors – they know me to be charming, enthused, an eager pupil. I answer all their questions, I follow them as they present patients. I know Natasha’s medical history by heart. Eight year old presenting with Wilms’ and acute myeloid leukemia, undergoing blood transfusion – it takes me a while to pronounce everything right, and when I do I am rewarded with a room full of smiles. Except you. How could they smile at that? And then I present myself. Because I’m a patient, too, and I’m reminded day in and day out that I’m a blessing. Not one of those ‘accidental babies’ that are born by virtue of whiskey or a quick fuck (you tell me not to say this). Ambrosia Reynolds. Donor. Blood type AB. So when I come home and you are fuming, and you yell at me, and I’m in tears, and you promise me that it isn’t your fault and mommy is just stressed, I react. I don’t know what it is to be treated like something disposable. But you make sure I learn. In the next breath, you tell me I’m blessed. That I’m saving Natasha.
For a few years, you stop picking me up regularly. I count the minutes. Four-thirty. Four thirty-five. The principal asks me where you are. I don’t know. Dad sweeps into the guidance counselor’s office at half past seven. Natasha was sick and had to be taken to the hospital and for a brief, brief moment, you forgot you had to pick me up. But daddy is charming, and he promises it will never happen again. But it does. He shelters my hand in his and braces me to his chest. I am only happy to be found. And then my birthday comes round and we’re in the hospital. Easter follows. Christmas comes and goes. A new year is among us and we’re still in the hospital. Every holiday, the same story. Natasha is always sick. I study at home now. I’m not allowed to have sleepovers at the house, because what if Natasha gets sick? I’m not allowed to play soccer. I play chess and cards, because those won’t mess with the kidney that’s going to Nat when she feels better. But she never feels better.
We’re not allowed to lock doors. In every room there is a sanitation station. You quit your job and Natasha becomes a full time workload and the ladies in the grocery store and daddy’s business associates and their wives snub you. They laugh at your pronunciation, your quick wit but dull grasp of English. Your own mother tells you to give it a rest. Natasha’s vocal chords are laden with the blood she spews out, and she’s pale and deathly. And maybe if it weren’t for you she’d be gone–– we’re not allowed to say dead. But you’re doing it all alone. And I’m lonely, too. For years. My pain doesn’t manifest, so when I cry your palm hits my cheek. My skin is imprinted with your ring.
We have to be stronger than this, Ambrosia. We have to work twice as hard to get what they have.
Pain management is the first thing a patient is taught. When I cry, you close the door to my room, turn out the lights in the hallway knowing I’d be too afraid to walk out. I hate the dark. I am accustomed to light, static and white noise. I sit on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest, and I learn to manage my pain. It works. I can never tell when you cry. Your nose is never red, your skin never blotchy. But sometimes you lock the door to your room, run a bath, and I can hear you heaving. And you walk out like nothing ever happened, grinning down at me and running your hands through my hair and God, I love you so, so much mommy. Please don’t ever go. And sometimes, just sometimes, when you let me slip between the sheets and cuddle up to you, you wake up in a cold sweat, gripping the rails of the bed like a gun. You never told me. You never told me what you had run from. Why you scream and lash out when I come behind you and hug you and yell boo! You wouldn’t tell me why I couldn’t play with GI-Jane. Why your voice sounds like a war-cry.
When you call me sweetheart and strap me in a car seat and tell me we’re going to get ice-cream I’m surprised. I am delighted that you love me. I am filled with an otherworldly joy. But when our destination is another operating table, I wonder if I’m only useful to you as a spare. I wonder how easy it is for you to trick me.
About as easy as it is for me to love you.
I do everything I can to please you. I paste my own certificates to the fridge, askew and ripped up at the edge where the heat of my own fingers tore at them. I ask daddy to hang up my medals and awards in my bedroom but all you do is purse your lips and nod, arms crossed over your chest. I can see your ribs through your camisole as you take in breath. You tell me to keep going, not to get lazy just because I’ve won. This is the soundest piece of advice you’ve ever given to me. And I carry it with me forever.
I’m a little bit older, stand a little bit firmer, and the trees are shedding and the wind is cold again when I wonder if I love you. I do. I need you. I don’t think I could survive without you. But when I wake up from anesthesia, you’re always at Natasha’s bedside. Daddy sits next to me. He’s on the phone. I turn, groan, and place a hand over the incision site. Five-thirty. Six-thirty. You breeze into my room, lock yourself in the bathroom, turn on the water and I can hear you heave. Did I do something wrong?
I imagine your youth – lately and intermittently. I like to kid myself and think you were happier then, that your emotions were never void, that you did not lock me out when you cried. You had not buried your first born in the cold September earth, you had not lost your husband and daughter in one fell-swoop.Armies had not bordered your town. Serbian infantry had not wrecked bombs on parishes and schoolyards and your father has not left your mother to do the same in Herzegovina. I imagine you sitting on the top of a hill. The swells of Marjan swallow you whole and the clouds tug at your red hair flowing like charred debris. You are unscathed, and you look up, and the sky is painted in your eyes as your mother cries out your name; Lucija, Lucija, in a language you know well. You can no longer fathom agony, and your thoughts float in clean, cool air. Your arms, which are steeped in lavender fabric, are, after so many conflagrations, fireproof.
That’s good to think of.
It’s so good.
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Where Did We Go Wrong? pt2
Chapter two : ONCE IN A BLUE MOON
- Pairing: mxm | best friends, bandmates, Taehyung x Jimin. - Genre: angsty, depression - Rating: 18+ — Warning: alcoholism, drunk!Taehyung, sickness, fighting.
Jimin sighs in frustration and worrisome as he grabs his coat, a hat, and a mask before heading down the hall, he softly knocks and waits until he gets permission to come in, he runs his fingers through his hair "can I borrow your car" he softly asks, the other raises an eyebrow but searches for the keys and throws them to Jimin "where are you going this late, Hyung? the younger one asks, Jimin shakes his head "to pick up taehyung, he's at a bar" the other ticks his head "a bar?" he hums "he doesn't drink." jimin nods as he rubs his face "the disbandment is taking a toll on him, ggukie." he begins to close the door "ill be back soon, ill call if need anything." Jungkook turns back to playing overwatch "please be careful, Hyung"
Jimin puts on his shoes and heads out, he shivers from the coldness as he rushes to the car and gets in quickly, he turns on the ignition and rushes off to the city of Seoul.
It was quiet, a silent night as everyone was asleep in their beds at home, the blinking red and green lights shining off the ground as Jimin speeds to bring home his best friend. A little drive and he makes it there, he parks in front and hurries out as he puts on his mask and hat, hearing the music becoming louder and louder as he gets inside, he looks around and sighs when he sees no sign of taehyung. he grabs his phone from his back pocket.
Endlessly,
I avoid eye contact with you,
Every time I look you in the eye a part of me dies with the empty stare looking back at me.
I told you, “forever and a day,”
And I meant it, I chose you.
But you could never choose yourself, let alone ever choose me.
Please don’t look me in the eye,
You’ll see through my empty soul.
I miss the person I thought you were,
But you never were who I needed you to be.
You are happy with our outcome and maybe some day I will be to, but for now
I’m helplessly drowning.
It’s for the better and I’m relieved,
But I chose you,
You never chose me.
Fake It.
Fake a smile,
Let it last a while.
Hide those memories,
Let them fade.
Trust no one,
But wish for love.
To feel wanted.
To feel needed.
To fake a life,
You never knew.
To act like you have it all,
While you slowly break.
Fake a smile,
Let it last a while.
No one to turn to,
No where to go.
Spiraling down.
Down so far,
Where you can never look up.
