[puncia]

　　⸻　I DO NOT DO MERCY. I DO NOT DO JUSTICE. I DO DAMAGE.

✱　　███　　#𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐀:　A plot-oriented portrayal of original muse 𝙻𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙳,　esteemed marksman of Project Durant.　Entwined deeply with leparct.　Highly adaptable for interactions ⅋ favorable toward complex,　nuanced dynamics.　Viewer discretion is advised.　❨⠀⠀…⠀⠀❩　Vivisecting　the cold sniper,　alexithymia,　child soldiers,　dehumanization,　female disposability,　coercive control,　and attachment theory.

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⌖ 𝚁𝚄𝙻𝙴𝚂,　⌖ 𝙻𝙾𝚁𝙴,　⌖ 𝙳𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙴𝚁,　⌖ 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴𝚂,　⌖ 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂,　⌖ 𝙸𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚈.

　　　　　　　　𝓗IT 𝕷IST:　　﹙♡﹚　　Seth Park.

[mechecolomar-archive]

Une balle, un mort.

[gloomglimmer]

›       TENSION   LINER   PROMPTS     

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

"What   are   you   doing   to   me?"

[puncia]

Guys look at this absolutely stunning icon border Stevie made for me 🥹💙

[rainystarters]

⭒˚｡🖁‧₊˚ 〖 down these mean streets . . . 〗 a collection of scene prompts inspired by n͟e͟o͟-n͟o͟i͟r͟, v͟i͟o͟l͟e͟n͟c͟e͟, c͟o͟n͟t͟r͟o͟l͟, e͟t͟c͟. some prompts usfw. add +reversed for the receiving muse to be "the sender" instead. adjust details as necessary.

dead end. there's nowhere left to run; the sender has cornered you at last. anonymous. disguising your voice, you call the sender to threaten/warn them. loose ends. you thought you killed them! but there's the sender, walking your way. ashtray. your cigarette smokes as you extinguish it on the sender's skin. deck. you lick the sender's blood from your knuckles, still stinging from the punch. backstab. end of the road, pal—you reveal you're double-crossing the sender. blunt. hidden in the shadows, you press your gun to the sender's back.

heel. you stare at the sender from across the room and beckon them to you. fix. not looking like that—disapproving, you fix the sender's appearance. tilt. you take the sender's chin in your hand and make them meet your gaze. staccato. irritated, the sender drums their fingers against you beneath the table. listen. the sender disobeys and you swat their curious hand away. fasten. just something i picked up—you clasp a necklace/tie/etc. on the sender. quiet. you press a finger to the sender's lips and tell them to be patient.

vomit. you can't handle this; you vomit as the sender groans about leaving evidence. wink. don't worry—you wink as you assure the sender you have no morals to offend. up front. the sender's job is a doozy; you demand half the payment now or you walk. hush. talk is cheap but you sure aren't. you accept the hush money from the sender. crossfire. you realize the sender asking you to put out a hit is your next target. gulp. hard to argue with a bullet; you agree to the sender's demands. jugular. you hold your breath as the sender uses you to demonstrate how the murder weapon was used to strangle the victim.

patron. you know the sender is hired to keep you spending but you linger anyway. last call. the sender has one final cigarette in their pack; you take it without asking. loose lips. the sender pours you another glass as you finally confess. bills. it's on me—you pay for the sender's meal. cozy. there aren't enough seats open; you pull the sender onto your lap with a grin. coffee. you look like hell—you press a cup of coffee to the sender's hands. waiting. you duck into the bus stop to escape the rain, intruding on the sender.

gutter. the trail of blood ends and you find the sender broken on the ground. speak up. you press the knife in deeper as the sender swears they didn't betray you. plaster. it's not pretty but it'll do; you wince as the sender patches your wounds. empty. you laugh at the sender as you throw your gun aside, finally out of bullets. rat. the sender falls to their knees and agrees to tell you everything they know. smother. you clasp a hand over the sender's mouth to keep from being heard. cut our losses. the sender won't make it; you leave them to die.

voyeur. you know the sender's watching; you open the blinds so they can watch. slip of the tongue. the sender whispers another's name against your skin. sign here. the sender traces a finger over [your choice], asking you to leave a mark. desk. your most enticing assignment yet: the sender bent over your desk. handcuffs. the sender dangles the key, teasing, but you hope they take their time. window. you press the sender against the glass, watching the city watching them. harsh light. what's worse? the hangover or that you can't recall the sender's name.

[inafieldofdaisies]

Squid Game / 오징어 게임 (2021—) | Season 2, Episode 3 "001" | Park Gyu-young as Kang No-eul

[puncia]

Just let yourself be happy for once.　⌖　@trashics,　Mouse.

Resolutions are everywhere to be found,　begging for the mundane caress of one more competent to call it into existence.　Like the scales of justice,　seeking a balance,　for every problem that crops up,　rears its ugly head as a villain or a miscreant to be dealt with.　Reach that desired resolution through any means possible　⸻　you are the means　⸻　you are the means.　Carry out the days in training,　set a precedent for your fellow recruits behavior.　They are your sisters.　You have come to learn this while simultaneously faring unconvinced of its authenticity.　To insist upon having a family implicates you in the notion that you are not alone.　You are,　and always have been.　All alone but never lost.　One by one,　stood in glass stalls penetrated by spindly beams of light,　you carry out strenuous training regimens.　Develop your bodies just enough that you can overtake any foe,　hand-in-hand with the strategy embedded into your cognizance,　but not in excess,　not so gratuitous that your distaff physiques broaden,　spread dense muscle through your limbs,　your backs.　The feminization of weaponry has always been an intentional thing,　and you are to embody that unfettered beauteousness without any true justification as to why.

Life,　now,　is markedly liminal,　trapping you betwixt who you were molded into and who you are supposed to be.　Professor’s abrupt passing has left the IRG in a state of disarray;　devoid of grief or a sense of loss,　you spent the subsequent weeks tipping your head at the window while rain cascaded down upon gray-stained city.　Missing him;　wrong word.　You do not miss,　nor your shots nor any presence in your life.　It is an incapability,　incapable of missing him,　incapable of missing his praises and instructions,　incapable of mourning your prior situation.　Twenty-six years spent as a love letter to brutality.　Your life is a hypothesis,　science experiment seeking an answer.　It is impossible to ache for what you’ve never had:　every casual viewing of a coming-of-age film struggles to supplant non-childhood in your memory.　First love,　romance,　sexual awakening;　friendship and peer pressure;　familial conflict;　social hierarchies;　rebellion against authority;　they do not and have never belonged to you.　Staring at yourself in the mirror and reciting cliched movie quotes only stirs unease in your chest,　neighboring that chemically-induced dysphoria expended onto you as a punishment.　You do not know how to be happy.

In hand,　a cotton candy milkshake,　made thick,　nestled for so long in your grip that your skin illuminates white from its gelid bite.　It doesn’t bother you.　Mouse,　sanguine Mouse,　has purchased it for you,　finding some strange delight in the vivid cerulean coloring.　Tilt of your chin,　adjusting to the artificial sugaring firing across your papillae.　Has he purchased it for you specifically because this flavor is blue?　Come to think of it,　you’ve never actually had a milkshake before.　It crosses some replicant line of decadence you never once thought to toe.　Soda or energy drinks,　sure　⸻　you don’t need the benefits they boast,　but expanding your worldview takes countless shapes and forms.　Trying new things with impassive expression,　never allowing your lips to pucker with disgust as your palate develops.　Melted ice-cream equivalent slurry sat in the bottom of your fast food cup　(that strange mélange of fibre pulp and plastic materials,　a half-step toward environmental preservation you know humanity is too selfish to wholly commit to)　is not that.　Over-sweet,　cloying and fighting to tear down every defense of your bland tastes.　It is a familiarity you prefer not to name.　It is there.

I don’t know how to do that.　Or:　I can’t.　Or:　I don’t want to be happy.　Or　⸻　you don’t know,　you figure there has to be something going against this.　You want to be happy,　maybe,　if happy is the feeling permeating through you when you spend time with Family.　Or Seth.　Maybe even Rebecca,　too.　You want to be rid of these unnatural perversions,　imposing on how rigidly you have been raised up as a daughter,　a monster,　a violence.　You don’t have to be,　though.　Thick cylinder straw sat at the tip of your tongue,　you take another sip,　swirling it in your mouth before loudly swallowing.　❛❛　I’m trying.　❜❜　You don’t try,　you have never tried,　but fucking hell are you trying now.　Exposure,　then,　of your miserable features,　eyes cast in their permanent downturn and aided by the slopes of your brows,　scrunching up in play-by-play of vexation.　Juvenile declaration,　once,　twice,　as indicated by your viewings of choice,　they deign to call this sort of thing brain freeze,　don’t they?

[maikamonroesource]

Maika Monroe for V Magazine 2014

[eyeslye]

Most days, you’re up before dawn, leaning against kitchen counter while your fancy blender makes an obnoxious amount of noise working to make your overly sweet protein shake; you’re munching on a pear or strawberries you cut up the previous night, maybe stealing a slice of whatever cake or pie is leftover in the fridge. Some days you stay in bed a little longer, curled up under your red comforter, wide awake but too comfortable to get up ⸻ until you start thinking about the leftover cake or pie in the fridge, and you pull yourself up with a pep in your step to go get a slice and watch some documentary. Even as a kid, under the care of strangers and your older brother, you always woke to something sweet ⸻ a piece of hard candy, or your brother sitting and waiting to hang out with you or shaking your shoulders to show you something. This is sweet, too, you think, smaller and slender body slotted against you, in your arms not unlike how you used to hold Mr. Bear (who sits, watching, on the dresser at the foot of your bed; you think his smile gets a little bigger whenever Leigh is over, or maybe you’re just projecting).

This kind of sweetness, though, instead of lifting you up with too much energy to take on the day, has you basking in it; you get a similar feeling when you go tubing and just lay there, letting the calm water rock you into a welcome trance. Weight pressed against you has always had a calming affect, too, and in your still-half-asleep brain you wonder if it might have a little to do with touch starvation. Maybe this whole thing has to do with it. Leigh is just one of several partners that you’ve had, but she touches you in a way that fills something within you that you didn’t know could be filled. Perhaps it’s because it’s her ⸻ in all of her oddness, her similarity to your coldness that acts as more of a blanket for you than anyone else’s warmth.

And perhaps this is the truth behind this ⸻ to why you stick around, why you have her stick around. She’s convenient in more ways than just getting yourself off. It’s not difficult to be who you are, forging different yous for everyone you interact with; you take pride and joy in your perfect craft. However, it is nice to forgo fake pleasantries and be with someone who, maybe, actually understands you. Or, at least, understands you much better than anyone else. You think she does. You could be wrong, and it would be unfortunate, but things like this slide off your back easily. You like having her here, that’s all, but leaving her behind or being left behind by her wouldn’t break your soul, or anything. You did leave your brother, all those years ago, without a single tear, though you suppose whatever this is between you and Leigh is entirely different. Still.

Her shifting atop you finally pulls you from the gentle waves of your half-slumber. You keep your eyes closed, curious as to what she’s thinking, whether she’ll stay like this until you open your eyes or if she’ll leave. You’re almost 100% certain about the former. Your surprising domesticity between the two of you has been steadily rising ⸻ surprising in the way she doesn’t leave and never come back, anyway. You wonder how different this is for her, if it’s a little unsettling. You’re used to cooking for people in the morning if they haven’t left, of holding doors open for them, kissing their head, hugging them from behind as they sip on their coffee. Domesticity means nothing without the feeling behind it, which you have always lacked. It’s more routine for you, habits formed that you don’t care to shake off. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person with such soft habits: her coldness feels barred, caged, while yours is more like the open tundra. You wonder if being with you has rattled her bars at all. The many kisses she initiates give you an answer that makes you smile.

The first thing you see is her eyes peering back down at you, boring into you with that odd expression of hers. Your smile grows, develops into a chuckle as she leans forward. Weight upon lips is as welcome and delightful as weight upon chest and lap. She doesn’t devour you, you don’t devour her ⸻ this kiss is something sweeter. You squeeze your arms around her tiny waist, don’t dare to kiss her any deeper and sour that sweet. You instead retract, only to press another kiss to each corner of her lips, and another akin to the one she’d initiated, and another. You bring one hand up to cradle the back of her head and, maybe a little abruptly, bring her with you as you sit up. You hum against her lips, suck in her bottom lip, and pull back with your perpetually curious expression.

"Good morning to you, too.” You have one hand placed at the small of her back, having slid under your shirt she’s slept in, the other with its fingers brushing through her light hair. "You really like kissing, huh? You’re always initiating it." You rub your thumb in gentle circles at her back, just to be moving somehow. (You’re rearing to get up and find that piece of pie from your favorite bakery you left in the fridge a day ago, but Leigh is so sweet sitting in your lap, it’s not too difficult to stay seated.) You take a deep breath, turning your head to look at the sunlight just barely bleeding in through the edges of your curtains, twisting back further to read the old analog clock on your nightstand. You release her from your hold, using your hands to lean your weight back against them. You roll your neck, your shoulders. "It’s late. For you, anyway.” You tilt your head. "Hungry?"

[puncia]

Shutter of your eyelids down and then up again,　once again surveying the features on his face,　free of impulse to catalog.　To build of registry of details you’d recognize in a crowd,　even when peering through your rifle scope.　You want to know of Park because…　well.　In actuality,　there is no reason.　It is simply because it’s him,　because you want to know more of him,　because he unleashes this catastrophic curiosity in you.　What was his life like?　How did he behave as a kid?　What was his favorite subject in school?　What about his favorite color?　It’s stupid.　You’re mad with a desire for knowledge,　to hold some special part of him safe and sound,　guarded in your mind,　a sliver for you alone to hold onto.　You could plunge your hands into ice water to numb out the sensations,　but they always come back,　ugly and untamed like a flyaway hair.　Even when you stare him down,　nothing makes sense:　you figured,　somehow,　that a logical partition would kickstart,　an electric shock surging straight through you to punish,　an old favorite of the facility.　(They hurt,　those worthless memories.　Constantly thinking of how to be better,　to withstand more,　to endure the face of suffering without flinching.　It has to be why this feels so wrong,　like its the final stage of your testing,　resisting temptation as if anyone actually gives a fuck.　You just feel like you’re going to get hurt.)

He kisses you back　⸻　maybe your heartbeat has temporarily lulled from the surprise,　carrying out these feeble actions without any intent of reciprocation.　You never know what to expect from him,　in both the best and worst way possible.　A weakness,　a blindspot.　Then he speaks,　and the verbiages catches you completely off-guard.　No,　you wouldn’t say as much.　You don’t like anything,　you need to remember that,　and each ministration born of your origin is only a detached intrigue,　that’s all.　Alluring morbidity,　a car crash your can’t pull your black eyes away from.　Still,　he says it,　and you are living evidence to support the theory,　so it must be true.

(You can accept this.)

❛❛　I guess.　❜❜　You guess?　You guess?!　You haven’t guessed anything in your life.　You deal in certainty,　absolute and steadfast through every calculation.　You thereby do not act until you are blessed and burdened with a repository to guide your reticle.　Despite the precision to your aim,　you act best with context,　forever seeking the next mark to profile the behavior of.　After all that,　still,　you guess you like kissing.　It tracks physiologically,　an onslaught of endorphins manufactured for your brain to feel good,　promote bonding and attachment.　You really wish it wouldn’t,　but it’s not your call to make.　You really,　really wish it wouldn’t.　He touches you and it burns:　through this,　you know you are alive.　Barely,　but definitely alive.

❛❛　I should have been up hours ago.　❜❜　This much,　he has to know.　Initially,　you wouldn’t even stay the night,　shooing yourself away in an Uber before it could be a question or point of contention.　Dressed in record time and out the door without a word,　you almost fall into routine with this.　The release Park brings you is exactly what you need the same night as a mission’s successful execution,　a come-down from the adrenaline,　tying things off with being told exactly what to do.　Control or being controlled,　you covet both.　Ensuing progression is your agreement to stay over,　tuck under the covers with him and leech off his body heat where your own lacks.　Not like you were ever delusional enough to think you’d drift off to sleep.　You couldn’t trust him at first,　and probably still don’t.　But all those little things　⸻　trying to align your breathing with his,　planning the next films you’d leave running in the background while you stared at a blank wall in your own apartment,　weigh the differences between your respective homes and realize how empty you are　⸻　are intriguing enough to ruminate upon until the clock strikes four A.M.,　and you swallow down discomfort while sneaking out the door.　Look what happens when you stay.　Look how he’s there to hold you.　You should hate this.　You want to hate this.　You don’t,　you don’t,　you really don’t.　You wish he’d throw you to the wolves or massively and devastatingly betray you.　It would be easier.

Then he asks if you’re hungry,　and you must consciously intervene with your automated passive response.　You’re not,　as indicated by the lack of aching pangs rattling through your abdomen.　Yet another human characteristic deliberately trained out of you.　No good weapon should fall victim to such a simple base need,　something to distract the unworthy from their missions.　You have bigger,　better things to expend your energy on,　and what this leaves you with is a deadened appetite and no tangible cooking skills.　Park’s saying it,　so you’re inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.　It wouldn’t hurt,　and it’s a good enough excuse to spend more time with him,　partake in this strange pastiche of domesticity,　evade saying it out loud and ruining its charm.　You could observe him in the kitchen with your bulging eyes and mouth slightly agape,　and perhaps he’d meet your gaze and bring you to bashfully look away,　candied pink blooming across the peaks of your cheeks.　Every inch closer to normalcy you crawl makes you hate yourself more.

❛❛　Yes.　Are you?　…will you make something?　❜❜

[puncia]

SLEEPOVER :  for one muse to stay the night at the other’s place　+　INSOMNIA :  for one muse to find the other still awake at 3am.　⌖　@leparct　

It’s all wrong.　Somehow,　some way,　it shouldn’t be like this.　You are supposed to be at odds forever,　planning a swift and competent demise to befall her in retaliation for what she did to Professor.　It wouldn’t be easy　⸻　she knows you’re onto her,　that you’re the only asset making waves in reclaiming the IRG’s missing property,　and that’s the fun part,　like a cat taunting the vermin it’s taken as prey　⸻　but you’ve never been one for easy.　It fundamentally opposes the criteria for your existence.　How strange it is that the urge has entirely subsided,　slipped precariously through your fickle,　cost fingers.　You aren’t sure why.　You’ve never been sure of anything,　and have never found it in yourself to question.　Weapons do not think for themselves,　do not have the capacity for original thought,　so flash those sweet,　dead eyes,　and do what you’re commanded to.

Ah,　but you’re still not thinking for yourself,　now.　You have been parked in front of a full-body mirror,　staring to a blank mien that stares back without scrutiny.　A dress-up doll clad in whatever Rebecca proposes you try 　(Rebecca　⸻　the name will never get easier to use　/　you don’t understand the hype around names because Leopard has always suited you well enough,　and you’ve always buckled at the prospect of Professor using it on you,　affirming your very purpose with it)　while you blink at your reflection,　seeing if any emotion will stir.

Nothing yet. You come to her with a dilemma,　and for reasons you cannot discern,　she wants to help.　There’s a boy,　a pesky boy,　turning up repeatedly in your automatic thought processes　⸻　what does it mean,　really?　You feel helpless,　what with your heart fighting to pry itself from your ribcage,　spread gore and crimson onto the floor like a gaping gunshot wound.　The embarrassment this liability floods you with is unprecedented,　a fracture,　another,　another,　cascading like spindly veins throughout your armature.　It’s stupid.　You want him to like what you wear,　to pay attention to the way you present yourself in the downtime,　even when it’s not about the sex or the midnight blue satin you’ve ensconced yourself in.　You want to kill him and you want to keep a watchful eye on him,　and that’s what makes this so dire.　Maybe Rebecca will understand you.

❛❛　This feels stupid.　❜❜　You speak flatly,　still fretting at the it in the mirror,　boring into you.　❛❛　I look stupid.　❜❜　Style,　to you,　is a fleeting afterthought.　Garments you’re most oft clad in are reminiscent of your training uniforms,　all stiff,　uncomfortable leather sculpted to your frame.　Another option would be divine,　for all those casual pursuits,　showing off shreds of personality the world demands you be in possession of.　❛❛　It shouldn’t matter what I wear.　It’s superficial.　❜❜　And here you are,　having sought the expertise of free-thinking butterfly regardless.

[puncia]

Happy birthday gay people… now where’s her complex strained repressed relationship with another woman 🔥

[puncia]

"Keep an eye on them." It wasn't spoken politely. In fact, Nam-Gyu never did speak politely when it comes to people like her, as he so clearly made it obvious he will be the one barking orders, despite keeping a hands off approach if he can really help it, "Those two I saw try and heckle one of the bartenders. If they start getting violent, tell someone." And yet the unspoken part was louder then the snide in his voice - because you wouldn't be able to handle them.　@plyr124

Come to work,　do as you are told,　and never,　ever think for yourself.　The criteria is easy enough to adhere to,　following through a bullet-point list,　remove the obnoxious and unsightly,　enforce club rules,　endure disparagement from snide coworkers.　Leopard can do it all.　Here lies attempted command spat from Nam-gyu’s helm:　the words were coated with thick toxin,　evidently,　though any pleas for a reaction are strangled out into a static hum.　This nothing inflammation,　he is a buzzing mosquito and nothing more,　dull ache of bite-turned-to-itch.　Brows etched above tree-bark eyes do not falter as she glares to the other.　❛❛　That’s my job,　❜❜　she flatly quips.　Of course it is her job　⸻　she cannot imagine he is any happier about entrusting the miscreants to her than she is.　Beneath the flicker of bruised lights,　thumping bass of some trite remix vibrating off the floor,　she looks exactly as she is.　Malicious and dead-eyed,　teeth grinding down into dust.　❛❛　I don’t care if you think I can’t handle it.　That isn’t your call to make.　❜❜　Tongue-tip traces softly,　a gentle graze,　over her bottom lip,　moistening dried skin gathered in cluttered patches.　❛❛　Have they been overserved?　❜❜　This enrages the patrons,　too,　bitch having the audacity to question.　If she is not being coddled,　then she is being hit or hit on,　stench of booze clouding permanently.　Just another day in an idyllic life.

[puncia]

Also #thinking about her watching a lot of movies to kill the time when she's not working, just to have something on (even though she could fare fine in silence) to study human behavior from. The Hot Chick, Mean Girls, Jawbreaker... yeah. Yeah.

[puncia]

Babygirl that hardly moves her eyebrows when she speaks. Deeply uncanny babygirl that puts no effort into emoting. 💙

[puncia]

Hi y’all. 💙 Busy day today so I will leave you all with the knowledge that Leopard really doesn’t like driving. One could almost say she is bad at it.

[puncia]

I <3 freaks and depravity and nastiness. Amen

[unpr0mpted]

blood, blood, gallons of the stuff ! a collection of icky, bloody prompts for those who like to choose violence. actions are reversible. general warning for blood, violence, murder, death.

𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

" that's a lot of blood. "

" it isn't mine. "

" what did you do ? "

[ sigh ] " what did you do ? "

" come on. have a taste. "

" holy shit, are you okay ? "

" it looks worse than it feels. "

" you should see the other guy. "

" it's a good look on you. you should get covered in blood more often. "

" lean on me. "

" oh my god. oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck ? is that what i fucking think it is ? "

" . . . gross. "

[ standing over a body ] " oops. "

" is that a fucking body ? "

" look, i'm sorry, okay ? "

" what the hell happened ? "

" before you say anything, it wasn't me. "

" at least it wasn't me this time. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you pretend it isn't. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you wish it wasn't. "

" i'm not scared of you. "

" you don't scare me. "

" shut up and let me help you. "

" i got your shirt all bloody. "

" let's get you cleaned up. "

" that looks like it hurts. "

" i'm fine, just. . . give me a minute. "

" we are so fucked. "

" what the fuck is wrong with you ? "

" are you gonna help me clean it up or not ? "

" the fucker deserved it. "

" red looks good on you. "

" what the hell did you do ; tap - dance all over the body with ice - skates ? "

" what, did you run over the body with your car a couple times after ? "

" i. . . i didn't mean to. . . "

" sorry. fuck, i'm sorry. "

" this isn't what it looks like. "

" it was an accident. "

" motherfucker ran right into my knife, i swear. "

" people need to look both ways before crossing. . . bullets. "

" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "

" hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay ? "

" they deserved it, right ? please tell me they deserved it. "

" you're bleeding. "

" what the fuck happened to you ? "

" you're getting blood on the carpet. "

" sit down before you fall down. "

" that looks like a you problem. "

𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver's feet

sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver

receiver finds sender covered in blood

sender tries desperately to stop receiver's bleeding

sender helps receiver clean up after a kill

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with their thumb

sender licks receiver's blood off a knife

sender licks receiver's blood off their thumb

sender lights up a cigarette a foot away from someone they killed before offering one to receiver

receiver finds sender stood over a body

sender stitches up receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender digs their finger into receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender frantically checks receiver for injuries under all the blood

sender guides receiver's bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean

sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood

sender tilts receiver's head back to staunch a nosebleed

sender draws a smiley face out of the blood they spilled :)

receiver finds sender cleaning up a kill in a daze

sender looks receiver in the eye as they shoot / stab / kill someone

sender ruffles receiver's hair, getting blood all over their hand

sender gets some of receiver's blood on them and makes a face

sender flicks blood at receiver to annoy them

sender stomps in a pool of blood to splash it on receiver

sender slips in their victim's blood but receiver steadies them before they can fall

sender steadies receiver when they slip in the blood sender spilled

receiver comes home to sender covered in blood and waiting for them with all the lights off

sender spits out a tooth and it hits receiver

sender tries to wipe blood off receiver but the blood on their hands just makes it worse

sender takes an injury meant for receiver

sender shows up on receiver's doorstep covered in blood

sender sits down quietly next to receiver after receiver kills someone

sender punches receiver in the mouth

receiver watches sender lick the blood off their fingers like its cheeto dust

sender helps receiver bury a body

sender hugs receiver just to get their victim's blood all over them <3

sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3

sender leans on receiver for support

sender kills someone to protect receiver

receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they've already killed it

sender kills someone and the blood spatters on receiver

receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself

sender kisses receiver to taste the blood on their busted lip

sender shoots / stabs receiver non - fatally as a warning