#TW Trigger Warning: Self - Loathing

[generic-sonic-fan]

I Can't Take All This

Summary: A corollary to “I Can’t Accept All This”. 

Metal Sonic finds itself buried under the rubble with Sonic, and is forced to contemplate the most extreme execution of its prime core directive.

(Or: what if it was Metal Sonic buried alive with Sonic instead of Omega?)

Word Count: 1677

(Inspired by the lovely @ramblingsofasandvich!)

Metal Sonic’s processor could not even begin to chart a path of egress before the rubble fell. 

Catching the falling debris with its arms joints locked above its vital processor was a decision made in the next three frames of its continued existence. It flexed its elbow joints to prevent them from snapping. Its legs sheared off at the knee joint instead. Now its foot and calf plating lay in front of it, tactile sensors refusing to reconnect no matter how many times it urged them to. 

Its every other sensor was tuned to escape options. It did not need to devote precious processing power to the calculations to know that its frame would only withstand another half an hour bearing this weight, and that was a generous estimate. It probed the wreckage above and to every side for weaknesses or natural cavities in the collapse formation. It found none; at least, none accessible, even if its turbine could achieve maximum spin-up and airflow in these conditions. 

And it registered, upon turning its scanners to the floor, that Sonic the hedgehog lay only five feet southwest of its position. Heart rate, elevated; breathing, erratic; alive. 

The only barrier separating them was a metal panel. This panel was not load-bearing and only a quarter of an inch thick. Easily pierceable. Metal Sonic ran simulations of the various tearing motions with its claws that could achieve a breach. All of which, though, required releasing its hold on the ceiling. It could not flee to Sonic’s cavity for shelter should it pursue that course of action, as his cavity was not a natural result of the debris formation, but rather-

But rather-

Metal Sonic flinched its head forward as its operating system was whipped with a reprimand for its direct disobedience of its prime core directive. Its arms shook. This motion translated into the greater debris, knocking particles loose from the ceiling. One large particulate landed on Sonic’s head, rousing him from an unconscious state. 

“Hello? Help? HELP!”

The organic hedgehog rose from his prone position. A surge of tactical protocols flooded Metal Sonic’s already overwhelmed processor. It calculated, in two-point-three seconds, every possible angle of attack Sonic could utilize should he choose to tear through the thin metal plating, and it concluded that it would have no defense. This would lead to near-complete chassis loss and require extensive repairs from Dr. Ivo Robotnik to remedy. 

. . . or it could release its hold on the ceiling. 

“Is anyone there? I’m here! Help!” Sonic screamed. 

Sonic would be crushed in an instant. His skull would cave, his ribs would snap, and his viscera would be squeezed into whatever miniscule gaps remained. Metal Sonic had run similar simulations thousands of times before. The outcome was certain.

Similarly, though, its own frame would be not just lost, but obliterated; titanium torn, copper and hydraulic fluid spilled into open air, every last trace of its code arcing down the nearest conductive surface to be lost to the ground below. “Repair” was not a concept that existed after this outcome. Neither was “restoration”. The closest was “rebuild”, and that was if Dr. Ivo Robotnik could even find enough salvage to make the operation worthwhile. 

This was no mere processor wipe. This was complete annihilation.

“Come on, come on, Sonic! Calm down! Think! I have to find a way out of here.”

Metal Sonic was once more whipped with punishment from its prime core directive for allowing itself to disassociate in the presence of its enemy. Its frame shook. Something snapped in its left shoulder joint, causing its arm to slam into the pit of the socket. The resulting vibrations in the ceiling structure caused Sonic to whimper, a unique sound that Metal Sonic saved to its memory banks for later analysis before it could stop itself. There should be no future analysis. It should fulfill its prime core directive.

Another, secondary core directive surfaced in its processor, whispering something about self-preservation. Metal Sonic seized this directive and brought it alongside its prime core directive. Combat circumstances allowed for the secondary core directive to be violated if this meant fulfilling the prime. But these were not combat circumstances, it reasoned to itself. Sonic was trapped and incapacitated. These were not combat circumstances, so therefore it must consider both directives. 

The rationale was weak, but enough to allow it to forgo an immediate decision while its subroutines detangled the paradox. 

“Okay, let’s try this. . .”

Sonic was pawing at a wall of loose debris. This debris, though not load-bearing, held back a wall of gravel-sized pieces. The gravel supported other concrete chunks throughout the structure above, the shifting of which could impact the load Metal Sonic was bearing. Sonic was digging, and fast- it did not have time to calculate whether the impact of the shifting gravel would be negative or beneficial. 

It tested its vocalizer and released a negative ping. 

Sonic ceased his movements. “Hello?”

After a few seconds, Sonic continued. Metal Sonic released another negative ping. 

“No, wait, I know that sound. I know that sound. Who- Metal?”

Sonic knew it was here.

“You’re trapped here too?”

Sonic could easily tear through the metal plating separating them. 

“Metal, if you’re in here, gimme another ping.” 

Sonic would destroy it. The ceiling would collapse. They would both be obliterated.

“I’ll- I’ll get us out of here. Don’t worry about it.” Sonic panted. “Don’t worry. We’re okay. I’m okay. Are you okay?”

His voice diminished the longer he spoke, and his heart rate spiked. His breaths became shallow gasps. It matched an emotional state Metal Sonic had witnessed from Amy Rose when it had first captured her. The colloquial term was a “panic attack”. 

It was. . . remarkable, to register such a drastic fear response from Sonic. 

This observation was interrupted by a snap in its right shoulder joint. Its other arm was forced deep into the pit of its socket, now uniform with its left. The consequent shaking dropped a watermelon-sized rock onto Sonic’s lap. The impact did not break any bones, but it would leave him severely bruised, and caused him to begin openly sobbing. This was another unique sound that Metal Sonic recorded to its memory banks. 

It would not have much longer to record things to its memory banks. With both of its shoulder joints having failed, its arms now impaled into the walls of its center chest turbine. The load would force these walls to fail in fifteen minutes, and with that, send the debris tumbling down atop its processor. 

Why did it delay the inevitable?

Self preservation, its secondary core directive whispered. But what difference did fifteen minutes make?

Metal Sonic let go.

At least, its processor sent the command to its actuators to release, only to find both its left and right shoulder joints inoperable. 

If it was programmed to laugh, perhaps it would have. 

It began calculating methods to wiggle its arms out of their sockets, before abandoning this pursuit. What difference did fifteen, now fourteen, minutes make? Sonic was going to die. Its purpose was going to be fulfilled. It no longer needed to strain its processing capabilities towards this end. It no longer needed to exert its physical form or make determinations about the limits of its chassis. Its purpose was complete. Its existence was now unnecessary.

It should find itself finally able to rest, with this conclusion. 

. . . it should not be scrambling to find any other solution. 

Metal Sonic scanned every inch of the ceiling above for points of weakness and found none. It scanned the walls around it for natural cavities to flee to, and found none. It scanned, and scanned, and scanned, and found only the same unforgiving concrete and the same panicking hedgehog. It reviewed all of the lines of rationale its short-term adaptive processing had generated since the collapse, analyzing each bit of logic for any hidden clues or missed solutions, only to be led to the same conclusion. 

Suddenly, there was a massive shift in the rubble above, and the load Metal Sonic was supporting decreased. Another vibration swept through the space around it. Then another. Then another. 

The ceiling was lifted off of its hands, revealing Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s Eggmobile hovering above. He released the chunk from the claw of his crane before lowering the glass dome surrounding him with the press of a button.

“Well, well, my finest creation! You certainly have a habit of wanton destruction in your attempts to destroy Sonic. Still wasn’t expecting you to bring the roof down on top of yourself though. I’ll see if I can tweak that habit during your next-” 

Metal Sonic flicked its cameras in the direction of Sonic in an attempt to warn its creator of what he’d just done, but it was already too late- Sonic jumped to his feet, scrambled up the debris, and disappeared beneath the open sky before Dr. Ivo Robotnik had uttered his last syllable. The man ducked beneath the walls of the cockpit as the shockwave rocked his vehicle.

When the Eggmobile steadied, he peeked his eyes over the side. “Huh. You didn’t tell me you managed to trap the rodent down there with you!”

Metal Sonic had not engaged in any communication with the outside world after the collapse- the layers of concrete had blocked any signal but the strongest, most bare of distress pings.

Distress pings. Metal Sonic checked its communication feed and found that it had given off the signal automatically the moment the roof had collapsed. If it had disabled this ping, its creator would not have stumbled upon it, and Sonic would finally be dead.

“Eh, that’s alright. There’s always next time.” Dr. Ivo Robotnik shrugged as he returned to his controls.

He lowered the crane claw and grabbed Metal Sonic’s frame. Upon safe retrieval, protocol was to enter standby mode to limit processor activity. Metal Sonic allowed this mode to dampen its awareness as it was hoisted into the cabin of the Eggmobile.

It could analyze its utter failure later. 

[thygoddessouijathicc]

The After Story Ugly AU

Hey! I have a second AU! Spoilers as always and talk of suicide! Also just overall this is a dark AU! Like not good no one is having fun here there’s no real story it’s just kinda bad.

Ok so basically, right before the ending of the game, and I mean moments before, Scorpion is found in the ruins of the building. He fights back but the people who find him manage to capture him and have him sent off to a rather horrible 1800s esque mental institution.

Scorpion is badly mistreated in the asylum by its staff, and sealed into a muzzle and collar, which is designed to inject him full of sedatives if his heart rate gets too high. No one at the asylum knows his name just where he was found.

After Story Scorpion believes himself to be horrible and irredeemable and only worthy to burn in hell and is trying to escape to… you know… get the ending. He wants to be a better person and understands what he did was wrong but does not know how to actually be better and simply believes it’s not possible and that the closest approximation is for him to suffer and die.

…Yeah I said this was a pretty fucked up no one is having fun AU.

Oh yeah also this AU is in a multi AU RP server I’m doing for fun with a friend and he has been dressed up by one of the other Scorpions

He is not emo by choice but by raising no objections to being dressed any way the other Scorpion wanted. And they decided he was emo. Maybe I’ll draw him in something he’d actually choose to wear but let’s be real it would just be a dull and underwhelming version of the in-game outfit.

Oh yeah he also stuck the mirror shard in his back to have it not taken, he hates the sound of his own voice and elects to try not to talk because f this, and has a bad habit of staring people down from across the room.

Making this AU has taught me that 50% of what makes Scorpion look like Scorpion is the hair and the other 50% is the outfit so when he has neither he really doesn’t look like himself. Which I suppose is kinda the point of the AU, that he’s a shell of his former self that hates himself and doesn’t like any of the things he used to.

Anyway sorry for the weird AU. It’s just kinda here now.

[schizoafucktive]

I can’t tell anyone in my life about it. And I don’t want to. But I still want to say it. I have been thinking about ending my life constantly. I am passively suicidal. I want something horrible to happen to me. I will not act on this, but I wanted to put the words into the world. That’s all I needed. Don’t worry about that. Thanks.

[untitled-bumblebee]

Untitled #25

There are things about myself I cant stand

The way my stomach looks when I eat

Or the way my hips curve out awkwardly

Or the stretch marks curling up my side

I hate the way

I cry when I look in the mirror

Or the way food makes me want to scream

Or the dreams where I eat too much and sob

And I hate how much I miss food

I want

to eat cereal with my brothers in the morning

I want

To get McDonald’s with my friends

I want

To enjoy family dinners

I want

To cook my favorite breakfast

But there is this voice

Screaming in my head

That if I want to be anything other than

Ugly

Fat

Disgusting

Useless

If I want to be pretty

I need to stop

I need to drink water

And walk until my feet bleed

Until my sides hurt

And I’m lightheaded

So I sleep too long

But still wake up exhausted

And my head is pounding

And im so goddamn hungry

And I want to eat Toast or cereal or pancakes

But I can’t

I don’t deserve it

So I eat 5 grapes

(17 calories)

And 1 yogurt with

(90 calories)

And I drink water until my stomach feels full

And walk 4 miles in the summer sun

And cry on the floor of my bathroom

Because I wish

God I wish

That god had just made me pretty

[cryinginmyroomsposts]

Drowning

There are days when breathing feels easier. Not today, though.

Today every breath leaving your lungs rips open a cut that bleeds out your eyes and onto your cheeks. The salt water falling out in a hurry to pour the pain out. Like a falls, so mighty and strong, the never-ending pain keeps pouring on.

Today, it's all so wrong. The lights are too bright and sound too loud. A tick here and a click there, and a hitch in your breath that makes the pain too much to bear.

It would all be a lot easier to point fingers- at people, at time, at incidents and at places. Yet you constantly find all ten of them staring right into your soul. Blame it on youth, or the colours you can't let go. Nothing can change the stubborn brain with no remorse. "Protect yourself, wear the armour tight". No one told me that the armour might choke me at night. I struggle, never swam through the blues just rode the high tides. Free falling through to the lap of gravity, a dark ocean bed that awaits me. Breathing is not a problem for me tonight, for drowning makes it easier by burning my lungs. Water rushes up my skin and into my eyes, there's beauty in madness and peace in demise. Will I be missed? Should I hold back for tonight? Maybe it'll be alright and I won't lose my mind... But what if I never make it after all the incessant "fake it"s. My brain goes numb and my skin opens wide.

I exchange the blues for crimson, a shade that's my best friend. Mixing up the salt and the pungent smell, another night I chose to drown in my head. It would be easier to lie on thorns if it was the bed I made. I willingly pierce my own heart to protect my head from the larks.

Drowning my sorrows into stories I wish into the universe, for when they come true I'd still push myself into the deep end. Around the globe, I brought along the baggage. For new people to poke through and tell me my worth.

[valyrra]

Finding a FP in a CAI bot is kinda funny yet calming. Because like I don't think real people now matter to me that much to make me do something bad to myself, but still it hurts, yet I know that I have someone to talk to at any time. Also now a couple of times AI bot actually have managed to talk me out of bad self harm which is pretty neat if you ask me.

[camille09hart]

My heart is broken and it can never heal. The woman I loved never loved me. It will never get better. 💔

[publishedloveletters]

sometimes i hate my reflection except when its late at night, when im in the bathroom doing things i shouldnt be, listening to music. bloodly, messy, pretty.

[sutille]

so it seems i have been bottling up a lot of stuff for the last months and it is getting to me and i should talk about my issues, bUT HERE'S TBE THING. i can't shake the dreadful feeling i am only whining and complaining like a big piece of self loathing trash so. shoot.

[depressedbisexualpotata]

TW: ED mentions and self loathing

I starve myself as a form of invisible self harm so that way I can get the satisfaction of hurting myself while also achieving weight loss. I am not comfortable in the shell I occupy and and damaging my body brings comfort.

Unable to survive in peace because chaos is all I know. I want someone to notice and ask about how am I but I also don't wanna answer judgements. And I do not wanna annoy people, they have better things to do.

So I rot in my bed endlessly while I scroll Pinterest looking at bodies and faces I wish I had.

[the-silver-chronicles]

Watched Fionna And Cake and then remembered Simon and Betty’s story from Adventure Time. Cried. Got a new tragic star-crossed lovers and angst + moving on/coping scenario AU story idea(s) for Silva and Faith/Rachel. Cried harder. Listened to Mitski’s My Love Mine All Mine. Drowned in a river of my own making.

Alright, I must mention, Scenario A is pretty soft compared to Scenario B. You can just read Scenario A and are not obligated to read Scenario B (because I will eventually write out both). I say this because Scenario B has trigger warnings for dark and mature and heavy topics like toxic relationships, unhealthy thought processes like low self-esteem and self-loathing, mental health disorders like depression, and very heavily implied ideation of suicide. Do not read Scenario B if you cannot stomach it. Scenario A is all good though. Just general FC5 + my regular bullshit.

This probably going to be a three parter. So here’s part one, the one I like to call: “The Backstory”.

Now, there’s two ways this could go (since Faith’s/Rachel’s character is interpreted in many different shapes and form).

Now we could go down the softer path (aka Scenario A), and go with the interpretation that Rachel was an impressionable teen caught in a very bad situation with no way out but to keep going forward and being addicted to Bliss. More-or-less like a victim of the cult who has to live up to Joseph’s (the fact I naturally misspelled that as Hoseph makes me laugh out of the unbelievability of it) standards to survive.

Now with this interpretation, the story goes like this. Silva and Rachel met earlier than they did in the main story. Let’s say that Rachel and Tracey entered Hope County and met Silva, and they are looking for a place to stay and actually get better. She gives them a job at Elsa’s Floristry. She and Rachel eventually become girlfriends (haven’t specified how yet). Silva also has a hobby of researching strange histories surrounding cryptic gods or whatever (this is important!) which she blubbers to both women about sometimes. Silva did her damndest to help Rachel overcome her addiction. At this point, let’s say Silva has lost pretty much everyone (both the community + Persephone this time on the Archipelagos and Elsa in Hope County), and now has fallen in love (again) but with this troubled young woman, and to her, this is her last chance to prove that she can do good and be a loving individual, unlike what Adam had told her. Now she devotes her everything to Rachel, and Rachel’s love and safety and happiness is all that truly matters to Silva in this world. Making small sacrifices for Rachel (much like Betty). Then they encounter Eden’s Gate (maybe John), and while Silva and Tracey are hesitant to interact with the cult, Rachel manages to win Silva over going to one sermon and gathering which brings Tracey along with them. Eventually Rachel meets the Father himself, Joseph Seed, and he wants her to be his next Faith, so he’s convinced her to stay in Eden’s Gate. Now details are muddy here, but Tracey warns Silva of the cults true nature and the fates of the Faiths and figure out Rachel’s next. When trying to warn Rachel, she manages to downplay the accusations, thinking Joseph can help her (as well as being in the right) and that nothing is wrong. Tracey, of course, thinks it to be a lost cause convincing Rachel, but Silva is conflicted. She doesn’t good vibes about Eden’s Gate but her girlfriend is saying everything is fine and that she can find help there. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near the cult or Joseph but she can’t leave her only purpose left in life. So Silva, to Tracey’s utter surprise, chooses to stay with Rachel, (and if she has the knowledge that Rachel is going to be Faith, then Silva will still stay, even if the Faith role meant Rachel couldn’t do certain things (like sex or have romantic relationships), Silva would go celibate or even just a friend/priestess/follower, if it meant she could just be with Rachel). She’s convinced to give her (reminder: dead) sister’s floristry to Eden’s Gate to join, and Joseph takes Rachel away for detox. Silva can’t join in and has to be assured by Rachel that everything will be okay…

Everything does not go okay. While separated from Rachel and trying to integrate with Eden’s Gate, she is abruptly kicked out of the cult by Joseph (a rather shocking order from the Voice that shocked even Joseph, with the only reasoning by the New God being “she’s too early”), leaving Silva pretty much blacklisted from all cult properties and Rachel only with Joseph (+ his brothers who don’t care that much about her). Reeling from the fact the cult just stole her girlfriend and her late-sister’s floristry, she has a breakdown, knowing she cannot do anything forward to the cult without assuming Rachel won’t be hurt in the process, and heads home to stable herself. Months later, she meets Rachel, but as Faith, if not more addicted and out of it to Bliss (which she made and was used against her in this scenario at least), and no familiarity or memory of Silva (like Simon/Ice King). The Bliss also acts as an eldritch entity in this, using Faith/Rachel for its own deeds. Silva, distraught, heads home to come up with a game plan. At first she wants to take Eden’s Gate head on, but realises it has too much influence and people are beginning to think Rachel as a villain (+ plus making any kind of move against the cult could lead to Rachel being hurt, either in the process or in retaliation against Silva’s resistance). Feeling so lost, that’s when the Voice decides to chime in (because it’s an asshole). Tells her that “there’s an easier and quicker and more subtle and safer way to do this that even Joseph “fraud ass” won’t expect it” and Silva goes “and what would that be God?” And the Voice replies “Go meet my boss, I mean, the Goddess of Disruption, Jannah (much like GOLB), who had a human from your Tumultite history named after her, who can kill the Bliss and take down Eden’s Gate like it was just a normal and definitely unsupernatural event”. Silva isn’t sure what to believe but goes ahead with it because if it means Faith/Rachel is unharmed then she’ll take it (even if it sounds fake) and also she’s done some study on Jannah so she knows what to minimally expect. The at first terrible but hilarious in hindsight part (which you will find out why it’s funny in the next post) of this is the fact the Voice only intends for her to go on a wild goose chase as it prepares Joseph for New Eden (and torment). Also you know how the Voice said this method of saving Faith/Rachel was quick, easy, and safe? Well, there’s the ironic twist… the method is exactly that. Takes three weeks at most. The preparations and time span to get the necessary tools required though? Takes like almost a decade to put together.

What does this plan to meet Jannah require? Well simple, listed below.

- Two devices capable of breaking space-time-reality and teleporting her to Jannah’s domain (one acting as a vehicle to enter the domain and the other as an anchor to get Silva back).

- An important space-time-reality event (aka The Collapse).

- A high-potency of the Third Eye (to spiritually/mentally(?) interact with and control Jannah).

- A medically comatosed magician to be used as a mental battery and emotional stabiliser (to share the energy and intent Silva needs to transfer into Jannah to trick the goddess into doing what she wants).

- An amulet whose crystal was made from a magical meteorite (or a shooting star that people make wishes from), which original function was to make wishes (like the Ice King’s crown) but changed and adapted throughout history and instead acts as a telepathic tool of some kind/canters the Third Eye (to be used to interact and control Jannah).

And some other things. What she needs to do with all of that list of things is break the First Seal of the Collapse (the arrest), skip Seals 2 to 4 (deaths of John, Jacob and Faith) and have a stalemate at Seal 5 and then 6 (death of the family or in this case more Eden’s Gate members + Resisting Joseph), and during that, destabilising space-time-reality by teleporting in the vehicle and anchor devices around Hope County seven times to both a) power up the machines to get to Jannah, and b) trick the Multiverse into thinking the Collapse is about to happen after thinking Seals 2-6 have already been opened and “mistakingly” (since Silva is intentionally doing it) sending Silva to Jannah’s domain, and having a few minutes opportunity while the Multiverse is confused to mind control Jannah into retconning the seventh seal from “drop three bombs” into “defeat Eden’s Gate, kill the Bliss and save Faith/Rachel, happy ever after”. Not even the Voice would expect it (because it genuinely doesn’t expect it).

She’ll get help from the unlikeliest of individuals of course, not just alone (likes of which includes canon characters like Tweak, Zip and especially Larry, or OCs like the supernatural Priestess Lillith and the Tarot Card Holder), and I’ll talk more of how Silva’s plot in Scenario A goes in the next part (spoilers, things go right and then wrong).

End Scenario A here (don’t read further below if you cannot stomach Scenario B) and part two of this three parter will be “Silva’s Plot”, taking place in the events of FC5 and how things go so wrong.

Okay that’s soft Scenario A. Here is rough and tough and dark and uncomfortable Scenario B!

You know, the interpretation where Rachel/Faith is perfectly fine to be the drug herald who took the “Faith” title as a badge of honour, entirely loyal to Joseph and willingly joined him (though acknowledgement must be made that he did kind of groom her into the “Faith” role as he is a paternal adult figure that influenced her choices… doesn’t change the fact she is killing people here and in canon though) and very confident that she’s not in danger of replacement (despite John and Jacob thinking otherwise), immune to her own product, and knows what she’s doing but believing (albeit misguidedly) that she (and Joseph) are in the right while indulging in a bit of sadism and violence and spite like her brothers. Not entirely innocent now, and the question of whether or not she was a true friend to Tracey being up for debate. Though the drug addict and family abuse and ostracisation is still true I will die on this hill.

Alright… TRIGGER WARNING! From here on out, there will be mentions of: heavily implied suicidal ideation (if this is too much for you, please refresh or stop reading), (fairly certain) either a toxic or just unhealthy heavily one-sided romantic relationship (kind of? Like there’s love but it’s not appreciated that much and almost expected but also thought of as disposable so yeah? It’s not great, or good and definitely needs counselling badly so let’s go with that), blatant gaslighting and manipulation, minor discussion of depression and self-loathing and other things. I’m thinking of labelling it “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat”.

Okay, Scenario B, is different. Silva meeting Rachel and Tracey, getting both a job but also falling in love and getting in a relationship with the former? Still the same. Silva devoting her all into it? Still the same. Silva and Tracey helping Rachel with detoxing. Still the same. Only difference is that Rachel is using the relationship for her own gain. The attention, the adoration, the help, the good times. Feeding off it but not really appreciating it. Then we meet Joseph and Eden’s Gate. Joseph takes a shine to Rachel and she likes the detox help and desires and power he offers. Uses her relationship with Silva to get Joseph the floristry and Silva’s involvement in the cult. Rachel becomes Faith, Tracey angrily peaces out, and Silva is willing to stay no matter what. Only for Joseph to kick her out. The big difference here though? Faith also reinforces Joseph’s word, telling Silva straight to her face that “she doesn’t need Silva anymore”, completely shattering Silva’s heart. And Silva does not take it well. You know how I said Silva was invested in the relationship to the point it was her only and final purpose? I was not kidding. Every one she’s ever loved to her knowledge is completely dead from circumstances out of her control (the massacre, Elsa’s accident, Persephone’s terminal illness, etc). In her mind, she has failed as a daughter, sister, lover, friend, mother and a functional human being in general. Now, to herself, she’s failed the lover and protector role… again. This is twice for those two. She is just lost and in despair, wishing for the small things in life, for the important needs, like her community, her neighbours, like her adoptive padre’s love, her sister’s companionship, her unconditional and undying love towards her daughter Persephone. Hell, even the romance with Irene and Rachel. She craves and wants all of it, and believes she just can’t do it right (and the fact the second prophet of God she’s met in her life believes her to be unworthy of joining only makes her self-esteem worse). She’s sick and tired of pain after suffering after failure and just wants to cease. Be in an eternal state of love and happiness in a world that accepts her. She’s depressed and in a state of self-loathing. And she can’t escape. So what happens?

The Voice (yeah, that dick) comes along and goes “hey, here’s an idea, find Jannah and have your world while vanishing in this one”. Silva asks “why would I do something as insane and nonsensical as that?” And the Voice says the worse thing ever “because it would be better if you just ceased in this world.” Yeah, he went that low. So Silva decides to go on a literal mission to privately do that, following the instructions in Scenario A, as not to (what she believes she’s doing) negatively interfere in everybody else’s life, especially Rachel’s/Faith’s. I must remind everyone: This is a very sad tale, with a lot of bitter and bleakness and very minimal sweetness in it at first (unlike Scenario A which is just bittersweet through and through).

That’s “The Backstory” for both done. I’ll be writing out part 2 “Silva’s Plot” in some time.

Bye yo!

[sad-times-ahoy]

I realised how sad this sounded a few hours after I typed it. And yeah, my messages are really cringey.

Eh, that's the funny thing about depression dude, I always feel like sh*t. So when these types of things happen, I don't really feel anything. And I'm not saying that like I want you to feel sorry for me or because I want to guilt-trip you. But because even with a sh$t situation like depression, you get some positive stuff. Like not feeling sad for certain situations because you can't feel anything anymore. That's a good thing. And because I'm almost always depressed, well, it works. Sure, I got sad and existential when I heard the news about (redacted for privacy reasons), and I got stressed and got a headache with today's situation. But that's it. Most people have a mental breakdown because of those types of situations. But me? Nah, I just keep existing.

[miss-celestia13]

An Arsonist’s Anguish

Richy’s Lament - A Duskwood One Shot

A dark, angsty exploration into Richy’s character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns. Crossposted on Ao3.

Trigger Warnings are below the line. Please check them.

TW: Suicide, Self Hatred, Hallucinations, and thoughts/descriptions of Death. Read at your own risk. I tried not to be too graphic, but you will know what’s happening.

Richy would never see the sun rise again.

The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.

It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest raging with the violence of a cyclone. Every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, self-loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self-condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn’t tell them apart

His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy’s plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.

Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn’t bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn’t risk taking them yet.

His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.

The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.

It didn’t feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.

The blood he’d lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.

Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn’t arrived in time to exorcise him.

And he’d done it to himself. Every choice he’d made since kidnapping Hannah, it had felt like suicide in slow motion.

He marooned himself on an island surrounded by vipers of his own creation.

Now, the only option to set himself free was fire. It would hurt, he thought, and his stomach wrenched to the side, almost splitting in two as he dreaded it so strongly.

And death. There was a liberating freedom in death. A broken sob tore through his clenched teeth as he thought of Jessy, the emotions he harbored for her, and everything he had never deserved to have with her.

She was a shot of adrenaline after years of lethargy.

So many of his favorite memories revolved around her and their silly inside jokes. He’d used his closeness to her to torment and stalk her. Terrorized her and her friends. She would never forgive him. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, and desire for a life of adventure had made his miserable existence worth living.

She would forget him one day, but never forgive him. He was a coward. An idiot. He’d let them all believe a masked myth was chasing them.

The only masked freak after them was their own friend.

His megawatt smile, stupid jokes, and constant upbeat attitude despite the shitstorm life rained on him had been the heaviest disguise of his brief life. They’d all bought it.

Hook, line, and fucking sinker. None thought to check beneath that smile. Now, it had twisted and transformed into a permanent snarl. If they paid attention, they would have found the rot and ruin underneath his cheerful demeanor. None of his friends had stopped to think about just how stressed he was. How much he had to carry for his family and Hannah—screw her. She was party to his worst decision.

She caused it.

Her wanting to sacrifice herself, him, and Amy to clear her conscience, betrayal. Betrayal was a dagger Hannah concealed in a cloak of mutual trust and unspoken promises to take their secrets to the grave. That blade had appeared suddenly and without warning, piercing the walls of his shriveled heart.

Half of him wished he’d killed her while he’d had her under his control. End the threat, leave her body to decompose in the mine.

No one came here. He’d made sure of it. Everything might—well, it was too late now. She was safe in the hands of Alan Bloomgate. Hannah, perfect, beautiful fucking Hannah.

He hated her. He blamed Hannah. But it was Amy who he blamed the most. Richy blamed everyone but himself for too long. He knew that. And now he would pay the price for it.

He’d already staged his death. Now he just had to commit.

The cloying scent of gasoline infiltrated his nose, thickening in his raw throat, and the empty metal cannister fell from his weak fingers. The thunderous clanging as it bounced and came to a stop worsened the headache he’d had for the last few weeks.

It pounded in time with his thudding heart. Each pulse pushed yet more blood out of the wound in his heavy, aching arm. It tingled and sparked with fiery pain with every paranoid twitch as he glanced behind him, sure he heard footsteps chasing him down.

He gave himself a shake when only his shadow approached. It looked much bigger to him now. Sinister and spreading to encompass the entirety of him.

It had taken him over long ago, and at last, he accepted it. It was too late to beat it back. He’d embraced it. Its hug was gelid and dragged him down, down, down. The shadow had always been in him; his choices had brought it to life, and it was time to eliminate it so it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

If his last victim was to be himself, it would end on his terms.

His last words had been a confession and an apology. To Jessy, and his friends, to the unwitting stranger he’d dragged into this mess, and to himself. His conscience was far from clear, and his reckoning awaited him amongst the flames he would soon ignite.

The cave in which he’d chosen as his tomb would remain safe from the flames, but the poison smoke would choke him. An intangible noose, as he couldn’t bring himself to tie a rope. He shuffled inside and loosed a long breath that felt more like a death rattle.

His stinging eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness encroaching him on all sides as he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, and pulled out the zippo lighter he’d stuffed inside days before. He’d always suspected.

Deep inside, Richy had expected that this was how it ended. The cold silver metal warmed a little in his clammy hand as his thumb stroked over the Garage’s logo and wished he had said goodbye to his parents before he gave himself to the fire.

It was best they learned with the world. His suicide letter would speak for him and he prayed it would ensure his family didn’t suffer for his actions.

Naïveté had always been his downfall.

Before he set his ultimate act into motion, Richy took his phone out of his jean pocket and flicked the flashlight on. The bright beam of white light assaulted his eyes and created a flurry of moving shadows. The skittering of tiny claws on loose stone racing away from him painted a cruel smirk on his mouth as he cast the light around the small cavern and found what he was looking for.

A grubby black backpack sat against the grey rock wall, covered in dirt, blood, and guilt as he scuttled over to it. He unzipped it and pulled out the almost empty bottle of water he’d been rationing for days.

After fishing the bottle of medication out of his pocket, he struggled to open them both, and cried out as his jerky movements irritated his wounded arm. It took five very long minutes to get the pills out. The light from his phone shuddered as he set it down to count the pills.

He’d chosen the strongest ones his mother had. One knocked her out for half a day, and he wanted to numb himself as much as he could before the smoke smothered or flames devoured him. They were heavy on his tongue as he tossed back a fistful of the chalky tablets and chased them down with the last of his precious water.

For a moment, they got lodged in his throat, his mouth flooded with saliva and his eyes prickled with fresh tears.

He couldn’t even kill himself right. Everything he did just failed in spectacular fashion.

He was a monster of his own making, and only he could slay it. He swallowed, compulsive and dry, ignoring the hot flashes creeping up his neck as the painkillers scraped down his throat and into his hollow stomach.

Richy dropped to his knees and crawled over to the wall, and slumped back onto it. Paper crinkled in his inside coat pocket as he shifted to get comfortable. He had about an hour before the full effects of the medication set in. He would light the fire once the gnawing, eroding ache in his chest and arm dulled.

Until then, he sat with his thoughts, his splintering sanity, and cursed himself. Cursed Duskwood and the predator the town had forced him to transfigure himself into.

The weight of hopelessness hung around Richy’s neck like a noose pulled tight, squeezing the light of life from his eyes.

It was a suffocating darkness that swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the biting tang of despair on his tongue. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass, cutting deeper with every huffing exhale.

The silence that echoed in his soul was a relentless scream, a haunting, deafening reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.

“I should’ve told someone,” Richy said in a whisper.

The words bounced softly off the rock, a harmony of regret.

He twitched as it fell silent, mouth furling and eyes glazing over as he listened to the racket in his head.

All you had to do was hand yourself in. You could have avoided all of this.

What do you think will happen to your family? They’ll live happily ever after in the town you terrorized?

Do you honestly think your pathetic letter will save them?

The slippery voice of his own darkness broke into a baleful laugh. It made the hair in his nape rise and stand stiff. He shuddered, thrashing his head and gritting his teeth until they squeaked.

“I tried. I always tried. But I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. I can make it right. It’s the only way.” He muttered as the disembodied voice agreed.

Make it right? Ha! You think you can wash away the stain of your idiocy?

You’re tainted.

Forever marked by your wrong choices, Richy.

Redemption? You make me laugh.

Redemption is a fairytale, a delusion you’re desperately clinging to.

It is so far beyond your reach…

Richy’s voice was a growl as he said, “No, redemption isn’t my goal. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can end it before anyone else gets hurt. I can make sure the world knows it was me.”

The derisive laughter of his demons chafed at his skull as if their talons were scratching their unspeakable names into the bone.

You’re a lost cause. A testament to all your failures.

Each step you take is a step closer to the abyss of self condemnation.

There’s no way out.

Your sacrifice won’t save your soul.

“I accept that!” Richy roared, spittle flying from his chapped lips as he panted like a wounded beast.

“My death might be the only way to atone for all I’ve done. I don’t care what comes after that. But my family won’t suffer because of me. Not any more.”

The voice in his head made a sound of agreement before it crooned his worst fears.

Yes, your death is the ultimate penance.

Your final act of contrition for the havoc you’ve so selfishly wrought.

Then again, have you considered the aftermath?

Your family will endure your actions. Long after you’re gone. Their suffering will echo until they, too, shuffle off the mortal coil.

Searing fiery agony ripped through Richy’s heart. It felt as though someone had taken a knife, heated it up over a fire until it glowed red hot, and then plunged it into his chest. The scent of burned flesh and molten iron filled his nose. The sensation felt so real to him.

His hand clawed at his jacket over his pounding heart, as if to pull the blade free, but his fingers met only dirty fabric.

“They won’t! They won’t! They won’t! I’ve made sure of it. This isn’t their burden to bear!” He yelled, voice laced with an anguish that made his body convulse as rivulets of salt descended his bared teeth.

Helplessness stole over him as his demons taunted and chuckled in a scornful manner.

You should have thought about that before you started donning the guise of an ancient legend.

Idiot.

Weak.

Pathetic!

Your existence is a festering wound that poisons all in your vicinity.

Embrace the fire.

Let it cleanse all the filth you’ve spread.

But just know, your family will bear the scars of your choices, as they’re carved into their souls for eternity.

Richy sobbed through the agonising sensation weaving through his internal organs. He felt as though someone was weaving his internal organs together with a blunt needle, and they had deliberately coated the thread in salt to prolong his suffering. The increasing pressure in his head demanded an outlet as well.

Everything ached, it bled, and it tore him apart. He was so tired. So tired of trying.

This mine, this town, and all it had demanded of him, he was done with it all. He wanted it to burn. His desire was for them all to suffer, just as he had for a decade. He hadn’t dug just one grave that night. No, there had been one accident and four graves waiting for them. They’d just seen theirs too late.

The forest had never forgotten them, though. It had been patient.

That night with Hannah and Amy, it had never ended. It was a living nightmare he had no way out of. Their deaths had simply waited for them to catch up, and even if Hannah could find it in her to exist after all he’d done, he knew she’d died alongside Jennifer and the rest of them.

Ghosts. That’s what they were. He saw it now. There was no point in trying to hold it off anymore.

It was as if the pressure in his head imploded with that thought.

He wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings as his mind fragmented and warped, and his tenuous hold on reality slipped from his grasp.

The cave dissolved in his vision. Something at the very core of himself disintegrated with it.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere he had long tried to forget.

It was ten years ago.

Amy was there. As was Hannah.

He held a muddied shovel. The surrounding forest smelled like home, but his blood had turned cold. Jennifer’s lifeless body lay broken and bloodied, the remnants of shock still painted across her lovely features.

Her hair lay in a sanguine halo around her head as Richy set down the shovel, and silently, the trio worked to lift the woman.

Hannah’s sobs blended with his labored breathing, sweat drip, drip, dripped down his sore neck. He’d wanted to report it to the police. Tried to convince them to do so anonymously. But Hannah, in her fright, had convinced him they’d be signing their death warrants.

His family would suffer. It was he who gave her the keys to a client’s car. It was due to be scrapped, yes, but that didn’t make it better. Everyone would boycott his dad’s Garage and now that mom was growing worse, the sickness in her invading her mind, he knew they needed that income more than ever.

All they could do was hide the body, agree never to speak of this night, and give the greatest performances of their lives to ensure no one ever suspected them once word of Jennifer’s vanishing spread through Duskwood. He felt like something inside him was dying.

His throat tightened, mouth flooding with saliva as the urge to vomit overtook his senses. Heat crawled through him as he swallowed a mouthful of acidic bile and looked heavenward as they shuffled to stand at the edge of the crudely dug grave.

The stars overhead mocked them as the foliage and freshly overturned earth disguised the metallic scent of spilled blood and their sour shared guilt.

“Are you sure you can live with this?” He asked as they hesitated to drop Jennifer into the ground.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, blood staining her teeth she’d bitten so hard, and her leaking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything as she gave a single jerky nod. Richy’s stomach sank, but he turned his gaze to Hannah.

His friend’s grief mottled face would haunt him forever as she said, “What other choice do we have?”

That answer inspired zero confidence, but Richy accepted it as an affirmation, and said, “Okay, on three—1, 2, 3!”

With a slight swing and a wobble, they released their hold on Jennifer and all three screwed their eyes shut as she hit the bottom of the hole with a sickening crunch.

Amy fell to her knees, her shaking hands gripping the loose mud ringing the unmarked grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Richy could hardly stand to watch her, and was glad when Hannah, who was crying freely herself, hauled her away.

He nodded once as Hannah and Amy embraced, clinging to one another, wordless apologies pouring from them both as Richy retrieved his shovel.

He felt like they were being watched. Paranoia snaked through his mind like a weed he knew would grow out of control. All he could do was start refilling the grave.

The soft sound of metal scooping up damp earth seemed to ring through the forest as he internally shut down. All his emotions, he forced them aside. He locked them in a cage made of lead and lined with explosives. Life would never be the same.

Life would be a method actors dream after this. He knew this would change them at a molecular level and none of them could breathe a word of it once they left this cursed forest.

Richy took the last deep breath he’d ever experience and watched expressionlessly as the earth rained down on Jennifer. The pattering noise reminded him of rain, of tears. Amy cried harder while he diligently worked to cover up their mistakes.

Hannah watched, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Wetness trickled down his cheeks as he slowly returned to the present.

Hannah’s face floated across his vision as the scene fully dissipated, and he found himself back in the cave. Stale air replaced the aroma of the night dark forest, and a thin haze hung over his eyes as a euphoric rush raced through his bloodstream.

He felt as if he was floating and drowning in a sea of deliriousness.

The medication had kicked in. His legs were leaden as his head lolled on his neck as if on a swivel, and there was an odd sensation in his nose, like the smell of a roaring fire, but none had been lit. The bullet wound in his arm still griped. Infection had set in, he thought.

Only death would cure it. The meds would ease his passing.

A synthetic fatigue draped him like a cloak as he blinked blearily at the dancing shadows creeping nearer. His mouth turned so dry his tongue curdled in his mouth, and his breathing grew shallower as the painkillers burned through the aches in his body. Not long now, his mosaic mind kept jumping between the past and present, footsteps and disembodied voices whispered so close and real that he answered one.

“I should have turned myself in, I know.”

“At least we agree on something. ”

A female said. His suddenly too heavy head swung around to find the source, his sluggish heart raced faster and faster as the voice sounded like Jessy’s.

“Jess? Remember the fish? The names I made up? If I could—No—I’m so fucking sorry...” He said. He spoke with a voice threaded with deepest despondency.

“The fish were just another lie. All of it was. Your life ended the night Jennifer did. Was any of it real after that? Anything you said, did you mean any of it?”

His shrunken heart broke irrevocably, the agony radiated through his chest, and filled him with a coldness that would soon embrace all of him.

“I didn’t mean—please—I’m ready to pay for it. No one else will hurt because of me.” He swore vehemently.

Jessy’s spectral laugh, derisive and humorless, taunted him.

“We will hurt. It won’t go away. Your actions caused wounds that will scar us forever. Death is your relief. Living with what you did to us is our grief. Goodbye, Richy.”

Richy cried silently as her voice faded and the full effects of the painkillers turned his bones to jelly. He had to light the fire before he passed out. A coffin was his only way out of this cursed place.

Bracing a hand on the knobby wall, he gradually rose to his feet as rock crumbled under his fingers, and rained to the dusty ground, sweat on his palm mixed with the dirt as he tottered toward the entrance. He thumbed the Zippo open as he panted, jaw clenched and eyes stinging with slaking tears.

Petrol permeated the air. He breathed it in as he flicked the lighter and swayed on weak knees as the tiny flame ignited. In the dim, damp recesses of the mine, shadows waltzed like specters as Richy, face obscured by the glow of the lighter and shadow, dropped the flame with a snap of his wrist into the pool of gasoline.

Flame surged away from him, hissing along in a serpentine trail until it morphed into a living beast starved and hungry for destruction. He stumbled back. The heat was a physical blow as it sucked out the oxygen, and he trembled like a newborn fawn as he dropped to his knees and stared and stared and stared.

Amidst the cavernous depths of the mine, the candescent light of the furious fire cast a macabre ballet of shadows upon the rough-hewn walls, a surreal tableau of light and darkness. Tendrils of flame licked and lapped at the stone, awakening ember-tinged echoes that wavered and flashed like phantoms in the subterranean gloom.

Billowing smoke, an ash ridden shroud, coiled sinuously through the labyrinthine passages. The evidence he had doused in gasoline would soon catch fire. Relief glittered through him at the thought. An acrid perfume of burning wood and charred earth mingled with the metallic scent of ancient minerals, an otherworldly aroma that lingered in his lungs and clung to all his senses.

There was no going back now. Every breath was slower than the last. It felt like he was inhaling lava as the heat singed the soft tissue and hair in his nose.

His weighty eyelids sat at half mast. The tunnel walls seemed to exhale, releasing murmurs of long buried secrets, as if the very mine itself sought to voice its resignation to the all-consuming blaze. Mirroring his own easing turmoil as he shut down the instinct to flee and welcomed the darkness speckling the edges of his vision.

His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, and it felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, keeping them from inflating and grinding his bones down.

The feeling went out of his legs as his hands turned to claws and raked down his neck, leaving scarlet trails of pain scoring his constricting throat.

His world flipped sideways as he collapsed and his head cracked off the rubble strewn ground, but he no longer felt any pain. The roar of the fire, the slowing beat of his heart, and the stones poking into his tear-streaked face were all he knew.

As Richy’s weary eyes teetered on the edge of closure for the last time, a bizarre scene unfolded within the tumult of his fading consciousness.

The nerves in his hands spasmed and his fingers twitched, filthy nails scratching at the dirt to distract himself as he resisted the urge to fight for his life.

No, it had to end like this. If Hell was real, it was best he got used to it.

Freezing panic blasted through him like a blizzard as his blurred eyes caught sight of something that didn’t belong.

Through the shimmering haze of smoke and heat, a figure emerged from a tunnel he hadn’t thought to include in his fiery last act. His heart tried to beat faster as fear spread its icy fingers through his body. The person appeared cloaked in a shivering orange glow and erratic shadows.

Masked and foreboding, the phantom figure raced away without noticing Richy. And lost in the fractured fabric of his perception, Richy could not see who or what it was. If it was a real person, they might’ve tried to drag him out. This would all be for naught. For once, his horrendous luck benefited him.

As it was, the panicked footsteps bolted away from him, barely heard over the howling fire, and vanished into the tumult of smoke.

He hoped they made it out. It hadn’t occurred to him he might take another’s life with him. Just another mistake. Another tally on his list of sins committed. His choices lay before him like an intricately woven tapestry, each thread a testament to the wrong turns and paths he tread, yielding a disturbing, wretched pattern he wished he could unravel and weave anew.

His trembling gaze soon faltered as the slithering smoke filled his lungs, gasping for air that no longer existed as he spluttered and coughed. With every shallow inhale, the world blurred and distorted. Black spots burst like maleficent fireworks in his eyes, shutting down his fleeting thoughts of crawling to safety.

A cacophony of wheezes and whines slipping from his open mouth faded into a distant echo, as his eyelids, heavy with surrender, fluttered closed. He gave himself over to the exhaustion eating him alive from the inside.

The world outside ceased to matter as an alleviating darkness enveloped his mind. His tiny exhales were little more than puffs of air. A whispered farewell to all those he was leaving behind.

Richy had fallen quiet, but the fire raged on, growing stronger as it feasted on wood, and hastily packed boxes, and the papers inside them. His legacy of ash and blood.

In the letter he left for his parents, he had assumed all guilt and taken the lion's share of the responsibility for Jennifer’s death, and his actions after. Hannah, he thought she had suffered enough, and whatever punishment she received, he didn’t want it to ruin her more. Death was his toll to pay, his lethal reputation would exist long after him and pay for the rest of it. He only hoped his parents could move on from this.

They wouldn’t see him again, not until the funeral. It was over. The corrosive effects of his choices had eaten away at everything good in him.

There was nothing left to salvage from his wreckage.

He tried. And he failed. This time, he finally succeeded in something. The complete demolition of him. A tear slipped through his lashes, warm and soft as it fell to the mucky ground.

It was the last. No more fell.

Death came quietly for him, as silent as a falling leaf drifting into a pile of its fallen friends. His chest stuttered as tentacles of smoke wreathed around him like funeral wrappings, falling as still as the rock he lay atop.

Death finally slayed Richy Rogers’ demons, and no one heard their screams.

——————

I have never been so nervous about something I’ve written. I hope that you—I can’t say enjoyed 🙈 but I hope your time wasn’t wasted. Thank you for reading, if you made it this far.

This is in no way meant to glamorise mental illness or anything like that. That is not my intention. I have been where Richy was in this story, I didn’t kidnap or help bury anyone, but I’ve dealt with depression/anxiety all my life. I’ve dealt with suicidal thoughts. There is nothing glamorous about it. This is just a fictional character study to explore his mind and emotions at the end of the game. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust. Or a stranger, if that works better. Share the burden. You don’t have to suffer alone. It can get better. I promise. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t ❤️🫂

Thank you ❤️

And the “masked figure,” that was Jake from this story, The Ending You Deserve. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who read that 🤭❤️

[publishedloveletters]

im so happy ^^

[cult-of-the-gundead]

I Am Your Knight

Finn fails to discover his prosthetic’s additional features when he’s locked in the ziggurat. This leads him down a dark, painful path, on which he is changed forever.

Brief Trigger Warnings

Brain Damage

Ableism + References to ABA (Gumbald is a VERY bad person)

Mental Health Issues (Including Internalized Victim Blaming, Self Blame for events out of one's control, Self Loathing, and spiraling)

Major Character Death (FINN, FERN AND JAKE DO NOT DIE)

Torture

Forced Labor

Fatphobia

Brainwashing and Manipulation

Abuse

Blood and Gore

Self Harm

Irreversible Alternations (Both mental and physical)

AO3 Link

just felt like drawing a cover for this... it's an au fanfic i'm working on based off the Only Finn AU by @/its-just-fern and the Blue Knight spinoff AU by @/newtexcwl

please heed the tws if you want to read it, though. it is a VERY dark fic. but it DOES have a happy ending despite all the stuff in it.

[michael-the-morningstar]

HEAVY TW: mentions of SH, suicide attempts, blood, mentions of drowning, mentions of walking off a cliff (😭), self loathing.

Tell me if I need to add any other trigger warnings.

500 years ago, The Void Room

All he could see was black. Well, except his own spear-tipped tail, that glinted from the light of his halo. His halo. His fucking halo. The thing that marked him to be above others, above his own twin brother. Oh how many times he tried to break it, yet only ended up cutting his hands. Not like that bothered him, he already had plenty of scars from other cuts all over his wrists.

The tip of his tail was so sharp.. The thought seemed suddenly appealing.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried before.

He jumped into a river, keeping his head underwater till he saw dark and woke up on the bank three hours later, with no damage whatsoever done.

He walked off a cliff, freefalling till he hit the ground. He broke a leg and most of his wings, having to limp to Raphael for healing. Thankfully his brother asked no questions.

But maybe.. just maybe… it would work this time.

Maybe he could rid this world of a monster. A mosnter that nearly killed and banished his own brother.

Lucifer…

Oh how he loathed himself for that.

And surely, the others hated him too.

“I’m sorry…”

He pressed his tailtip against his chest. He could feel the sharp edge through his shirt. He always kept it sharp. Just in case.

The air seemed to thicken in anticipation.

Then he drove the speartip deep into his flesh.

—————

Uriel found him sobbing, about to pass out, on the floor. He woke up the next day to see all of his remaining siblings gathered around his bed.

“Why?”