#p0key's writing

[rnainframe]

“You’re right,” Dane laughs, pulling his tousled hair from his face, “this DOES feel fantastic!”

#p0key's art #p0key's ocs #daniel angels #rp stuff #kinda #the writing style is a lot looser and lazier than the caption implies

[malevolentmike]

Does anyone wanna check out my shitty writing It’s mostly weird spinoff fanfics of Dangan Ronpa and Pokemon involving OCs but there’s one original thing I’m vaguely proud of in there that’d be Willow Falls please read Willow Falls even though the original one w/ 23 chapters is shit

#p0key's stuff #p0key's writing #ao3

[supesu-and-co]

talentswap drabble made at school out of boredom

The redhead staggered, beginning to lose consciousness from blood loss.

Part of his right shoulder was a gaping wound, bleeding pretty badly. A few scrapes and bruises were scattered on his body, but the worst wound made him still wonder how he was alive - his neck was practically ripped open, a vital vein torn open a bit. If nobody helped him, he would die. He was thrown to the ground before the one attacking him was distracted by the other in the room, the impact of his head on the floor knocking him out and causing a concussion - as well as something else nobody expected.

~ ~ ~

Weakly, he cracked one eye open. He was laying down, bandages on his shoulder and loosely on his neck. Opening his mouth, he tried forming words. It hurt badly, but he still tried anyway.

"A-a... Da..." Cringing, he went silent, looking around. The somewhat shorter than he used to be, now-white-haired biker in another part of the room chased his tail - it was a very long story, but he was very slightly partly a dog - looking like a complete moron while doing so. Whoever that was, since he could barely remember anything beforehand, he did not like the one with white hair.

"Yᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴍᴇ... ʀɪɢʜᴛ?" The redhead frowned behind the held up notebook.

Sighing, Daiya nodded. "Course I do!"

Leon grinned, but it quickly faded.

"Really? Thank you, sir!"

"No, I--" The black-haired SHSL Despair member was cut off by another thing written in the notebook.

"l'm sorry l had no ldea yon dldn't love me" His handwriting looked gradually shakier.

Daiya was about to clarify what he was trying to say, but the redhead fled from the room.

~ ~ ~

Looking around, Daiya walked into the main room. That one swimmer kept nervously glancing at the red-haired one he was looking for, who was laying down, facing the inside of the couch. "Leon?" He was cut off by Komaeda nudging him and pointing at the notebook. Shrugging, he picked it up from next to Leon, opening it up. It was mostly just the things from earlier, at first. What was written in it after those, though, seemed to be why the swimmer was so shaken.

"You hate me dont you you hte me hate m hate me"

Glancing at Leon, he sighed.

"Why dnt you love me love me love me" The last two words kept repeating down the page until one phrase ended it. The tone of it had a bad feel to it. "lll make you love me Dalchan"

He huffed, crossing his arms and and nudging the redhead, frowning down at him. "C'mon, snap outta it."

"Out of what?" Leon sat up, looking back at him with a small, hopeless smile. "You don't love me. At least it's making me despair, right..? That's what you want." With a weak chuckle, he added, "I could help make you really love me, though."

Daiya would have said otherwise, but the mention of despair gave him second thoughts. "Uh, sure, yeah. How?"

The red-haired SHSL Despair pulled out the coin on a string, grinning. Something seemed off about it all.

He realized what was off when an unsettlingly childish giggle slipped from the redhead. This wasn't Leon.

"Er... Leon?"

He laughed again, a cheery tone paired with the giggles. It ended up as extremely creepy.

"You'll love me - only me - if I do this, riight, Dai-chaan~?" 

#talentswap #p0key's writing

[despairwata]

Corrupted AU Drabble - Six-Month Anniversary - How Wata Fell Into Despair

"Please, please no..!" You begged as you came to, strapped to an operation table type of surface, a man with monochrome hair looming over you. He held a syringe firmly in his hand, appearing to be black. The grin on his face was so wide the corners of his mouth rose above the top of the high collar of the labcoat he wore. Ignoring your desperate protesting, the needle was plunged into your left arm - right in the center of the top half.

A deep, saddening - despairing, you could say - feeling spread through you, gradually removing any drop of optimism of surviving this torture from your mentality. Without hesitation, the needle was removed, a second syringe taking its spot. Immediately, hot tears filled your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. Everything burned like hellfire. Biting your lip, you struggled to make your way through the pain and agony, trying to suck any tears left back into your eyes, which was impossible, but you tried.

"Upupupu, how does despair feel, hmmmm~?" The almost bear-like android giggled, discarding the two used syringes into a trash can before pulling out a third. "This one'll be the kicker~"

"Please..." Your voice was hoarse, tinged with extreme pain and tears.

"Please what? Give you more~? Of coooourse!" He disregarded your pleading as the third went into your arm. At that moment, something inside of you snapped.

At first, you were silent.

But then, a small smile took the place of your anguished and terrified expression. All this pain... it now seemed amusing to you. Perfect, even. It felt nice. Despairing. "Heh..." Little by little, quiet, eerie laughter echoed through the room, causing Monokuma's grin to only spread wider. "So... this is despair... I like it. Give me more." You already loved this feeling, despair. The love quickly turned into a craving. "Now."

"No." The surgeon mused, unhooking you from where you were bound. Immediately you got up and lunged, grabbing a scalpel and trying to attack him with it. The last thing you remembered was a sedative driving into your chest.

~~

Slowly, you woke up. You were tied to a chair in a dark room. The same man loomed over you until loud banging sounded from the door. A teen with unnaturally long hair stepped in and knocked out Monokuma, slashing your bindings with a knife. "Give me the knife, Kamu."

"What?"

"Give me the knife. I'll get rid of Monokuma." The other nodded, handing you the knife. A smirk spread on your face. "I lied." Before the other could regret his decision, the blade was driven through his neck and twisted. You pulled the pocket knife out of his flesh with a satisfied chuckle, folding it shut and stowing it into your pocket.

~~

You sent a pitied look at the girl. You were growing soft already, but her eyes and mouth were sowed shut, you couldn't help it. Just as you were about to unlock her cell door with keys you had pickpocketed from Monokuma, a burning sensation came to your attention. Reaching backwards, your hand brushed against a... needle.

Falling to your knees from intense pain, you clutched the bars of the cell in front of you as if it was the only thing keeping you alive. This hurts it hurts it hurts so much

But I like it now yes haha it feels so nice I want more more despair more

You rose to your feet, a sickening grin on your face as your hand reached into your pocket after you unlocked the cell door, exchanging keys for your knife.

The door was pushed open. Confused, the azure-haired girl edged forward, curious and wary. You walked up to her, your thumb flicking the sharp and shiny blade of the razor open. A quiet cackle slipped out. You grab her head, and then she begins to struggle, helpless.

Slowly, the sharp metal was dragged across her neck. You threw her aside to bleed out on the floor.

"Good, she was usele--" The monochrome surgeon was then caught off-guard by you grabbing him, thrusting him into the cell. With a click, the door was locked. "Wh..?! Let me out!" 

"Let me out!"

You laughed, honestly amused by the other's distress. "Hahaha, no. There's going to be a big change in who's in charge. Starting now."

Walking away and closing the pocket knife, you go into the office of the building, speaking into the microphone connected to the speakers of the building.

"Hello, everyone. You all know me as Leon, correct? I'm taking over, here. Monokuma is no longer in charge." Around the halls, relieved sighs echoed. "Of course, that means it's only going to get worse for the rest of you."

~~

You grabbed Tsumiki, dragging her into a large, vacant room, carrying a container in one arm, the collar of the struggling nurse's shirt in the other hand. You lock the door as soon as you get in. Pounding came from the other end after a while. They really thought they could stop you.

"First..." It took you several days, but you finally found the stash of what was called Liquid Despair. You took one needle and poked it into your arm. God, how long had it been since you last felt the black liquid go through you? A couple days, probably. It felt so good, though.

"Now... ahahaha, you'll make a good assistant."

One. Two. Three. Four. She whined and cried, vomited a few times. Using liquid despair on yourself felt great, but using it on someone else took the cake!

--

"I don't want to do this anymore..." is what you would have said. Your limbs and bones ached with the pain of 1,000 hot knives. No more, no more, dear god….

"Come on, you’ll only need a couple minutes! It feels good, this despair, doesn’t it?" A crazed grin was on his face. The redhead truly crossed the line twice with what he was doing right now.

"It hurts, I’m gonna vomit…."

"You did that already! Ten times! It’s entertaining and all, but now you smell like shit, honestly…Do something else. Scream, cry, piss yourself, I don’t care, just entertain me before I make use of you!" The grin faded, replaced by a bored frown.

"Uhh….I-I can sing…" You took a deep breath before he could even object. "Um….A long long time ago, there was a kingdom of evil…and the kingdom’s tyrant ruler, was a little girl of age fourteen…She had a- ohCRAP-“

You hacked up a palmful of greyish bile, not even sure what it used to be.

"I guess that was a little better…" He sighed. "You’re boring. I’m gonna stick you one more time…" He pulled another injection filled with the same black substance, and jammed it in your arm before you had a time to object.

You let out a defeated sob, and bent over in your seat. Tears continued to stream down your face, anguished, despairing.

"N-no more, please, I’m begging you…."

"Now that’s the shit I like to hear!" He wiped the leftover vomit away from your chin and rubbed it off on your cheek, like some sort of artsy face paint, the smile returning.

You simply sat there. No more noise. Nothing.

"How does it feel?"

"It…it…." A line of drool ran down your chin, and you sat up straight. Your expression was dazed, asleep, as though you had just woken from bucketfuls of sedatives.

There was one more injection he gave you. A clear liquid he accidentally created, able to clear out any important memories, to his enjoyment. It went into your upper arm, and you leaned back, becoming even more dazed than before.

Only darkness and despair ran through your veins.

"…What’s going on….here? My arms sting…Who are you…"

He held out a hand to you. “The name’s Leon Kuwata. Your master, your boss, your creator, and your controller. Got it?”

You took his hand, shakily pulling yourself up out of the chair. "A-alright then….buuut…who am I?"

"Ehhh… your name’s Monomiki. Any more questions?" The name was thought up just then. Improv.

"N-nah..." Your mind was too foggy to think of anything to ask.

"How do you feel?" He traced a finger down a long, twisting, blackened vein on your arm.

"I feel…."

You looked him straight in the eye, your dazed expression switched off.

Switched with a grin, wide and mad, menacing, terrifying.

"I feel very good, sir. Anything you need me to do?"

He darkly laughed, smiling at you. "Yeah. Go to everyone. One by one. Get rid of their memories using this." The redhead handed you a container full of needles, each full of the same clear water-like liquid used on you before.

"We have a big day ahead of us."

#corrupted au #extremely long post #drabble #p0key's writing

[rnainframe]

Scalding

Drifting. 

With someone you're not compatible with, it's like briefly touching a hot stove. With someone you are compatible with, it's like slipping into the shower when it's the perfect temperature. 

With a Kaiju? It's like getting sprayed with a fire hose pumping scalding hot water into your face, and you're too busy being blinded by the flow to figure out how to turn it off. 

The water is also not really water. It's more like if you mixed together the strongest, punch-in-the-face level hallucinogenic street drugs and liquefied it. Sure, you see some really fucking cool and weird shit, but you're left foaming at the mouth and bleeding from the ears just inside the bathroom of a gas station after it wears off. 

But... this isn't a gas station, and the blood isn't coming from your ears. It's coming from your nose and bubbling up in your eye, and instead of foam it's just a watered-down-by-saliva mix of more blood. And your head is pounding, and everything is spinning, and you can't see, you can't see, but you can see and you can and can't feel and hear it all screaming in your ears and in your head and--

--a button is pressed. Distant words reach your ears, muffled by the ringing and the roaring and the pain and it just hurts and you were such an idiot and now you're going to die in the most undignified- 

"Newton... Newton, can you hear me?" A worried, British-toned voice murmurs as you thrash and tremble in a familiar pair of twiggy arms. Your breaths come out as quickly as they go in, and all you can do is whimper and make vague attempts at choking noises in response. 

The lights are all too bright, and yet you can't see them through your twitching eyelids despite how it feels as if the sun is right up in your face, burning your skin so much that even your sweat is scalding, and everything spins and spins and spins and spins--

You come to, jiggling your leg rapid-fire against the support of a chair, a steady hand offering your quivering fingers a glass topped-off with cold water. 

You choke it down as three legs, two organic and one of carved wood, quickly make way out of the lab to return with two more on steadier ground. 

"...what did you see? Why did you do it alone?" You recall being asked. 

"...too much... too... t-t-too much...."

#pacific rim #pacrim #newton geiszler #hermann gottlieb #p0key's writing #one word prompt

[rnainframe]

Hurt

Newton Geiszler is hurt.

Not for any rational reason, of course. None of that. Not with his brain. 

The hurt isn't even caused by anyone in particular, unless you count himself as someone enough to be anyone. Even if sometimes he feels as if he is no one, only acknowledged by the seething counterattacks of Hermann Gottlieb in their heated debacles. Even if sometimes he feels as if he is everyone, in the sense that he can feel the pressure of the entire world on his shoulders, attuning his focus to be on his work and only his work and nothing but his work for if he makes a single mistake it could cost everyone. 

No, no, this hurt is on his own accord. 

Simply for the crime of thinking too much.

Maybe Hermann genuinely detests him, and the occasional moments of solace and agreement are merely facades in order to twist the knife further into his back when the time comes that he's no longer needed. Maybe Pentecost hired him out of pity, maybe all of his doctorates are just meaningless sheets of paper that hold no value in this world. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But maybe not. 

As he sits back in his room, thumbing one of his elastic wristbands and rearing it back with a fingertip, he simmers in his hurt. Not his pain, not his aches, his hurt. It's not real pain or sorrow, so it is simply... hurt. As he releases his grasp on the thin black band and feels the hurt of it rapidly reasserting itself as placed snugly against the skin of his wrist, he blinks and blinks and blinks until his vision is a strobing display of the ceiling and fuzzy afterimages of eyelids. 

A knock, a rapping, a fist against his door. He sucks in a deep breath and swallows his hurt, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor and pulling himself upright and ignoring all of the hurt hurt hurt until he's ignored his way to the door and unlocked the door and opened the door and Hermann. 

 "...are you quite alright, Newton? I was afraid we must have gone too far this time," the mathematician asks, a hint of concern about the hurt emanating from the biologist tinged in his accented voice. 

 "...yeah. Yeah, it's fine. I just wanna turn in early tonight. No hurt feelings," the biologist lies, his voice being shaken by his hurt and his eyes being strained by his hurt and oh my god does he feel so guilty so hurt for raising his voice just one bit and potentially causing Hermann to get hurt by his words and-- 

A hand on his shoulder, a stern look. "You are lying." 

He shakes it off. "...no, I'm fine." 

He closes the door, and continues to hurt.

#pacific rim #pacrim #newton geiszler #hermann gottlieb #newmann #sorta #self harm #sort of #one word prompt #p0key's writing

[rnainframe]

Monster

"Look at me, Herms..." The monster weeps, hidden and trapped in a hollowed-out cave, a cove people often sneak to in order to get up to no good in the water. A towering beast, barely able to fit himself into the space without risking ruining the natural structure shielding him from the view of those on the coast. 

The other man stands on a simple fishing vessel, supporting himself with an oar as if it was his cane. His hands are shaky, but his look is stable. "You are no such thing, Geiszler," he insists. 

"But... are you blind? Look at me..." 

"I'm not, and I can see you quite well, even without my glasses to make out the full picture better. You aren't rampaging wildly like some beast, are you?"

"...no..." 

Hermann paddles closer, resting a hand on the kaiju. "Then you're not a monster, I assure you that." 

#pacific rim #pacrim #newmann #newton geiszler #hermann gottlieb #kaiju newt au #p0key's writing #one word prompt

[rnainframe]

Vent Poems

Paranoia

A monster lurks behind my back at all times. I've named it Paranoia. 

It snaps at my heels as I plunge into the dark of my house in the dead of night. It roars down the street and towards me as I rush inside from fetching mail. It lurks within the toilet and inside the faucet when I'm in the bathroom. It buzzes in my ears when I try to sleep in the warm months. It murmurs my sins to the eardrums of friends when I sit alone. It acts as the eyes and ears of those that have hurt me when I am weak. 

It pursues me whenever I am down, and I just want to find some goddamn monster repellent.

Dermatillomania

my skin a 3D map a work of topography littered with red dashes and crosses promising a steely red treasure that my nails cannot resist when the snowy mountains have peaked

Restless Legs

my legs wish to run but my eyes seek to hide how can i dare to sleep when i'm a goose chase inside

Dysphoria / Dysmorphia

asymmetric lopsided flesh so lumpy and so strange a pair of eyes not matched in size that look in separate ways scarred and striped just like a flag if flags were more deranged why pearish not triangular postured like birds with mange too feminine unmasculine a voice that's out of range dysphoric boy so overweight sick of these wretched days

#vent #p0key's writing #poetry #kinda

[rnainframe]

Quick

Quick steps. Quick breaths. Quick movements. 

Run. 

  Run. 

    Run. 

The darkness around them is angry. Gnashing fangs, flailing claws, glaring eyes. The darkness, no, the Dark Matter, pools and overflows and surges in pursuit of the two beacons, the two heroes. 

Each tree is a limb, each root and branch a talon. Each creature is an eye, each marking and spot a pupil. The leaves are teeth and the canopy is a body embracing the ground. 

The flapping of fiery wings and the gestures of glowing hands keeps the shadows at bay as they flee to freedom. 

"Quick, do your thing!" 

"Gotcha." 

Hands let go of shoulders, feet drop to the forest floor. Wings curl around as a protective covering as fingers flicker with a glowing, rosy light. 

Pure and Wet. Ichor. 

It flows from his palms and floods into the depths, soon becoming a tidal wave of light. 

And just like that, it's over. 

Clammy hands grasp for leather and feather alike, trembling from the use of power. Strong, warm hands return the favor. 

Their quick embraces are a solace.

#p0key's writing #p0key's ocs #willow falls #milton travis #edward allens #poe #one word prompt

[rnainframe]

Storm

Static hums in the air as the duo crawl out of the debris. 

One can't take it anymore. 

He grasps at the collar around his neck and begins to focus. 

With a loud pop and the crackle of lightning, the mechanism bursts and frees his neck for the first time in years. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance. 

One by one, more shackles fall to mingle with the rubble. 

The other simply watches, his face grit with concern and anger. 

This place, all around them and at their feet, once was a prison. 

And now, it is no more. 

They take each other's hands, and with the coming of the storm, they disappear as energy.

#p0key's writing #friend's ocs #glen demetrius #p0key's ocs #amp #skyler demetrius #one word prompt #experimental #kinda

[rnainframe]

Poison

Dilikinesis. The production and manipulation of poison and venom. Oxy Alastor has known of his gift for what feels like his entire life by this point. He passes it off as a mere affinity with chemicals to avoid the scrutinizing eye of those who associate dangerous kinesis with dangerous people. 

Not that he isn't dangerous. 

He remembers how he met his darling, his dear Darian. 

A younger boy back then, meeting another younger boy, being hurt by a younger boy for being different than this younger boy. "Whaddaya gonna do, huh? Make me asplode for bein' not so nicely to ya? Haha--" The younger boy taunts the different younger boy, and his words drip from his mouth as messily as poison would from a flask. 

"Maybe he will! Why d'you think you gotta be mean to him about it? Maybe you're makin' him wanna be extra mean back and make you extra asplode!" 

Sure, it was mere playground talk, but Oxy Alastor takes things to heart. 

He remembers. 

He lets it simmer and boil until it begins to steam in his chest and fill his lungs, much like a very simple, common chemical in life - water. 

"How have you been, lately?" Oxy purrs, eyeing the familiar face at a cafe. The other doesn't recognize him and rudely ignores, giving a roll of the eyes and a scowl over a cup of coffee. 

The creamer the other goes to pour into his drink comes out as cyanide, but he takes too long to notice.

#p0key's writing #p0key's ocs #oxy alastor #friend's ocs #darian kramer #one word prompt

[rnainframe]

Chill

"Is there a chill in here?" Achard shivers, pulling a coat on. With each passing day, it gets harder to mask what he's done to himself. His glasses have a thin layer of fog over them and each breath subtly puffs from his lips. 

"No. It's, uh... it’s the middle of summer." Peter eyes his love roommate, concern knitting together his brows. He lounges on the couch in a tee, sipping some water to keep cool. 

"...right... maybe I caught something." Achard murmurs, hiding his face and removing his glasses. He rubs his face, flinching at how icy his fingers feel. "So much for enjoying the heat..."  

"You never did like how hot it gets here, though." 

"...right. I'm... going to lay down." He blows a kiss - unaware of a small stream of cold air crossing over to Peter's cheek - and heads to his room.

#p0key's writing #p0key's ocs #achard caldwell #friend's ocs #peter owen #one word prompt

[rnainframe]

milo wasn’t always a seraph. he used to be a human on earth. but he died. and long, long after, he followed humanity to gaia and ended up being turned into a seraph after a god saw into how he had died and knew how badly he wanted to fly

A beautiful, yet blustery day. The sun is out, wisps of clouds dancing in the bright blue sky. A young boy, about 18 in age, eyes the big tree in his yard. A perfect day for climbing the tree, feeling the wind in his hair, maybe even flying. He doesn’t have wings, though. Just going back down the tree in such a way that gives him the rush and sensation of spreading a pair of wings and soaring.

One by one, he grabs branches and presses his feet to the trunk, repetitions of movements that he’s taken to heart by now. One by one, he gets higher and higher in the air, feeling the wind in his hair and whistling through his clothes.

Once he’s at the top, he holds his arms out, closing his eyes. He laughs, enjoying the feeling, imagining that he has wings carrying him through the air.

Crack.

Snap.

Boom.

The branches holding him up break from beneath him.

And finally, finally, he gets to fly - with a halo of blood and sanguine wings, alongside a flock of mourning doves.

#p0key's writing #p0key's ocs #milton travis

[rnainframe]

Amp's childhood at the Institute was... lacking, in proper parenting.

The young subject tugs on the lower hem of his caretaker's shirt. "Ms. |XXXXXX|?" He asks, his voice quiet. Curious. Innocent.

"Yes, Subject NEP-3?"

"Do I have a real name?" He asks, his eyes wide. Youthful. Pure.

The woman's face twists into a grimace once it's turned out of sight of the child. Her voice comes out condescending, laced with acid unnoticeable by such a young, trusting set of ears. "Why, of course you do, Subject NEP-3." She begins to walk away, not caring to properly answer.

Did he ever have a name? Did his parents hold him long enough to give him one? Did the nurse's pen even glance to paper before the power was cut, before the child was snatched away, replaced with a still-warm stillborn?

Perhaps. It's long forgotten, though.

But the child, he is not satisfied. "What is it?" He asks, his hands at his sides. Soft. Unscathed.

"You are Subject NEP-3, dear. But your project is named Amp #3."

"Amp... I like that name!"

"Of course you do, Subject NEP-3."

Heel on tile.

A door's hinges.

Fastening locks.

The boy is alone, his room filled with the bare minimum. Essentials.

Himself, a cot, and a blanket.

#p0key's ocs #p0key's writing #amp

[rnainframe]

Snowfall - Drabble from the perspective of Windows before having to go off to the Outpost

  January first, 1982. Midnight. New York City, New York. Home.

  In the next few weeks, I'd be hauled off via plane to the coldest place on the entire goddamn planet to handle radio operations. It's no DJ work, but it's an escape from my parents; still clinging to their youngest daughter in ignorance of the fact that he's neither a woman nor a child. I lean on the railing of the balcony coming off our apartment, looking up at the fireworks doing their thing in the overcast sky. Rain nor snow could stop people from celebrating that they'd lived another year, and I sure as hell wasn't gonna stop 'em, either.

  The only thing I'd change would be separating the quiet snowfall of the night and the loud crashing of the fireworks; two things that feel odd when combined. One thing peaceful and serene, the other chaotic and triumphant. I take a sip of the bottle - cream soda, only mildly alcoholic for the occasion - in my hand and set it aside, digging in my pockets for a pack of matches. Next to me on a small table, next to the sort-of-hard soda, lays a pile of small bottle rockets.

  I set the matches next to them and finish off the soda, then immediately go back to them. I rip one teensy little redhead away from its wooden cousins and strike it against the cardboard, watching it bloom like a tiny, dangerous wildflower in my fingers. Freeing my hand from the task of holding the box of matches, I grab a rocket and slide it into the empty bottle. Flame meets fuse. A spark crackles to life, joining the cacophony in the unanimous celebration in the city's skies.

  It shoots out of the glass and bursts just barely shy of a neighbor across the street, its colors reflecting off my glasses lenses.

  I go through the rest, then lean on the rail as dozens of fireworks become few, and few to a couple, a couple to one, then one to nothing. The silence comes into the air, yet even my tinnitus can't interrupt the beauty of the night; as if the snowfall could muffle even the ringing of my ears.

  I sit like this for a good while, ignoring the cold seeping into my nose and my fingertips. I feel at peace. At ease.

  If only the snow in Antarctica was the same way.

#the thing 1982 #windows #p0key's writing

[rnainframe]

warning for mild self harm + triggering oneself as self harm

Amp sits in the shower, back against the wall, feeling the hot water run over his body, his scars. It stings, reminding him of the times he's been forced to go to his limit, of the times he dared to step out of line. But he lets it happen.

After all, if the Institute can't reach him to punish him for doing wrong anymore, who will? He's free physically, but not mentally. Never mentally. He told Saemair too much about the secrets of his past home, and now he has to pay the price.

Glen - the reality behind the name of Saemair, the civilian allowed to live outside of his powered life, the lucky bastard - had been concerned about his sudden panic, but a quick lie about what will make him feel better got him to back off real quick.

But Amp does not get the luxury of suffering in silence. He can't hold back his sobs, he can't muffle his repetitions of reprimands from caretakers.

"Amp?" The door gets unlocked by a key. Glen enters, worry on his face.

Amp curls up more under the steaming water, his distress making it electrified. He trembles and begins to hyperventilate with apologies and promises of getting better and doing better in the future. His hands dig into the electrical burns on his neck.

The water stops coming.

A towel is wrapped around him.

His hands are taken by another pair of hands.

"...Amp... look at me. You haven't done anything wrong. You're safe here."

#p0key's writing #P0key's ocs #amp #friend's ocs #glen saemair