#TW: Suicide attempt

[sirserpentine]

"I can... um... I can recognise the signsss."

Pentious kept it at that. It may not be wise to go on a tangent about having gone through this situation with a more disastrous result once before.

Or to indulge in details of his own suicidal tendencies. Of the call of the void that lurked as he tinkers in the workshop with substances and weapons that can kill in an instant. Of the desire to give up and lie down on the ground as the exorcists swarm the air and fire and havoc fill Pride.

Of the distinct need to either destroy the mirror or destroy himself when he makes the mistake of looking at his own reflection for too long.

"Of course I did. How could I not?"

Pentious responded nothing to Angel's latter words. It was not that he wanted to be mean and deprive him of conversation, but he knew that these kinds of things may not end at one try. Or even two. He didn't want to reveal to Angel how he managed to track him, in case he tried this again.

"Everyone misses you. And wants you back at the- at home, Angel," he said, "Your pet... The Princess, Niffty, everyone. And me."

Pen reached a gentle hand over Angel's shoulder.

"I can't imagine what it would be like without you, dear. I don't want to imagine that."

Despite willingly handing over the gun, it was like he could feel its absence. Feel the official end of his plan. It wasn't exactly a permanent stop, because it wasn't like he could find something else. Valentino had plenty of angelic weapons. Most of the Overlords had some of Carmine's products. But for now, at least, he was safe. Relatively speaking.

But now he felt bare, like he had no way out if he needed it. It wasn't like Pentious was going to do anything to push him even further, but there was a bitter irony in feeling that his safety net had just been taken from him. At the serpent's question, Angel didn't turn to look at him, but instead simply nodded. He didn't mind if Pentious joined him, and even if he did mind, it wasn't like he could stop him. He had free will.

The silence was almost deafening, even to the point of driving Angel Dust crazy, so he decided to break it. His voice was so soft and gentle, so different from the over-confident stage persona that he put on. "Didn't think anyone would come lookin' f' me." Lips pursed together, tucking his face slightly into his knees. There were so many times that he hadn't come home after going to work, whether that be by his own choice, or because Valentino kept him overnight. No one ever questioned then.

"Ain't gonna lie, kinda surprised it's you. And not th' Princess." Charlie would certainly be the most worried, he was positive about that. But he could also understand that she most likely had a fear of interfering, especially after what happened last time she tried to help Angel out. "Also ain't too sure how yeh' found me."

[cuteguywhump]

Casualty - 38x30 - The Last Post

[brainrotcharacters]

What do you mean "Odysseus, get away from the ledge" 😃

[enqmind]

Well, this took a while. But we're here now and that's all that's important.

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 1.1k 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting, manipulation, Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt, ~*self indulgence*~

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, pale enough for noticable blushing (feel free to ignore), atheist (ffti)

One Man's Treasure II

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 He didn’t turn the big light on when he carried her into his living room. He didn’t need to, the floor clear of any clutter to trip him up.

 He didn’t turn it on after he lay her on the sofa and went to grab a towel. The light of his own bathroom spilling into the room was enough, he thought.

 Enough to wrap her in one of his big, barely used, towels.

 Enough to clean and bandage her wounds.

 Enough to blot the blood and water from her hair.

 She huddled into him for warmth and comfort and he did not deny her.

 How could he? For now he was her shepherd, guiding her until she went to the hereafter.

 In the dim and dinge, it would be easier for her to accept the reality of her situation.

 So he kept her in the dark.

---

 She stirred against him a few hours later. Wincing against the low light and putting a hand to her head.

 “Head hurt?” he rumbled.

 She froze and peered up at him. Blinking in confusion.

 “You’re… no. There’s no way.” She pulled away from him and rubbed at her face. “I keep fucking it up, there’s no way it worked this time.”

 “How many times?”

 “Four or five.” She looked ashamed, wrapping herself up in her arms, like she’d done in the bath. “Skill issue, I guess.”

 He watched her. He could see that forlorn hope dancing in her eyes that he was real. That she’d actually managed it this time.

 He put a hand on her shoulder.

 I am real.

 “I thought if I did it in the bath, maybe I’d drown if I fucked up again.”

 He tilted his head at her.

 She looked at him, eyes widening.

 Relief played on her face again, battling with misery.

 “I drowned?”

 “Was the bottle full when you started?”

 Relief won, a smile breaking out on her face.

 “I did it,” she whispered, a hand reaching out and grasping his jumper. “It’s over.”

 On some level he felt like he should be angry at that, like he’d been trained to be by an uncaring world, but it was hard when she started crying.

 “Thank you,” she sniffled, “I know it’s your… job? Or whatever, but thank you.” A watery smile. “I feel a lot better not being alone right now.”

 She removed her hand and pulled the towel tighter around herself, covering up her skin.

 Her head must still be throbbing from her hangover.

 He stood.

 “I’ll get you some water. Drink it, then sleep.”

 She nodded, resigned.

 “Some last solid rest before my trip to hell. That’s very kind of you.”

 Ghost turned to stare at her.

 “What?” he barked. “You're not going to hell.”

 Why would she? What could this small, sad looking woman possibly have done to deserve that.

 She frowned, “are you sure? I’m an atheist and I killed myself. You have to admit that it’s not looking good for me.”

 Both of those things were so desperately inconsequential that he found himself chuckling.

 “You’re not going to hell,” he repeated. A sly smile formed under his mask. “It’s so much worse. You’re stuck with me.”

 She stared back at him with wide eyes and a gently agape mouth.

 “Oh.”

 He turned away and went to the kitchen, leaving her to stew in that horror for a moment.

 It seemed to sink in as she took the glass from him and drank from it.

 He sat next to her again, arm stretched out on the back behind her. Watching her mouth as she drank.

 She had a pretty mouth.

 To her credit, she didn’t flinch away from him. Instead staring blankly into the middle distance as she drank.

 It was as she neared the end of the glass that the silence was broken.

 “Is- is that your face?”

 “It’s a mask. What people expect.”

 She nodded and finished her drink.

 “Okay.”

 He pulled the glass from her hands and put it on the floor.

 “Sleep now?” she asked, eyes wide as she looked at him. The towel pulled tightly around her again.

 He slipped his arms beneath her and pulled her up against his chest as he stood.

 Her eyes widened even more.

 Oh, he must be sc-

 “Gosh. You’re really strong.” She looked awed, mouth pulling up into a cute smile.

 Ghost found himself taken aback.

 “You’re not that heavy.”

 “At that angle I am.” She stared at her fingers, weaving them together, and was that a blush? “The mechanics being what they are, and all.”

 “You like strong men, huh?” he murmured as he carried her to the bedroom.

 Her blush deepened.

 “I admire the hard work and discipline.” A quiet protest, as she was placed on the bed.

 “‘Course you do.”

 “I do!”

 He dug around in his drawers, pulling out two sets of pyjamas. One with long bottoms and one with drawstring shorts.

 He put the shorts set on the bed.

 “Sure. You change into those and get under the duvet. I’ll be right back.”

 “Um.” Her meek call stopped him in the doorway.

 “Yeah?”

 “Are we going to share the bed?”

 Of course they were. There was only one in the flat.

 “Yeah.”

 “I could sleep on the sofa,” she offered.

 That was a stupid idea.

 “No. You need a proper night’s sleep.”

 Her nervous expression intensified.

 “It’s just, um-”

 “Sleep.” He walked over to her and crouched so they were eye to eye. “You need sleep, and that’s what you’ll get. Nothing else.”

 She searched his eyes in the dinge.

 “Okay.”

 He nodded.

 He found her curled up under the duvet when he got back. Towel neatly folded on top of the chets of drawers, bra and knickers on top of it. She must have believed him.

 A gentle touch on her shoulder earned him nothing.

 Out like a light. Good.

 He moved to the other side of the bed and climbed in.

 Sharing a bed with another person wasn’t something he’d done in a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to sleep. That would be annoying, but he’d cope.

 He turned onto his side and looked at his bedmate’s sleeping face.

 She was smashing her face into the pillow, mouth locked in a grim line and eyebrows slightly furrowed.

 There was no way she was dreaming yet, her eyes remained stationary under their lids.

 Soon they’d start dancing, and he’d watch. Just in case she needed him again.

---

 Movement against his skin woke him.

 His eyes snapped open, hand reaching for a weapon.

 A head of messy hair filled his vision, and an arm around his chest stymied his reach.

 The light creeping under his blind illuminated the situation, his neighbour pressed up against him.

 It felt… quite nice, actually.

 She tilted her head to look up at him, the words on her lips falling away with shock.

 He looked curiously at her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

 “What’s the matter?”

 “You… look just like my neighbour.”

 Shit.

[avonne-writes]

After Gale's crisis (HS AU)

The lovely @freedomforthewin asked me if 1) Bucky gets nightmares of Gale not surviving after Broken Things and 2) if he wants to sleep in the same bed with Gale and cuddle him to keep him from slipping away. So I thought I'd expand on this a bit.

Original storyline (Gale doesn’t jump)

Although Gale didn’t jump off the bridge, Bucky gets nightmares of Gale dying. With varying frequency, he gets these well into his adult life. Each time, he has to wake Gale up to calm himself down, because Gale sleeping looks too much like death.

Bucky becomes clingy in general. He wants to be by Gale's side all the time. He’s even more physically affectionate than usual - holding hands, wrapping an arm around Gale, playing with his hair, he’s constantly trying to give Gale reassuring and loving touches.

Although affection feels nice most times, Bucky's clinginess clashes with Gale's need for personal space to process his emotions, so they have more fights than usual.

Related to this, Bucky does try to share a bed with Gale as often as Gale lets him, and always finds a position that allows him to embrace Gale.

Bucky initiates more deep conversations about feelings than before. He feels extremely guilty for not catching on how close to snapping Gale was, so he wants to encourage Gale to talk more about his feelings. This is really healing for Gale. He often ends up talking about his childhood, while before his crisis, he used to avoid the topic.

Bucky gets distracted at school, especially during the first few days after Broken Things, when he has to go back to school but Gale doesn’t. He texts Gale a lot and gets stressed if he doesn’t get a reply in a few minutes.

Alternate version (Gale jumps and survives)

Most of the above is also applicable for this version, just exacerbated by the severity of the situation.

But an important difference is that Gale sustained a spine injury from the jump, so he has to wear a back brace for months. His movement options are severely limited in the first few weeks, and he can’t lift anything. He’s not allowed to sleep with Bucky in the beginning because he shouldn't be jostled during the night. However, I can see Bucky choosing to sleep on an air mattress next to Gale's bed just to be with him.

Because of this spine injury, Bucky helps Gale with everything. He throws himself into caring for Gale. Helps him with getting dressed, moving, showering, everything. Georgia helps a lot too, of course, but Bucky gradually takes over.

Being helpless makes Gale feel awful. He’s cranky and frustrated all the time, hates himself, the world, everything. He doesn’t want to leave his bed due to his mental state, but Georgia and Bucky push him because he needs to try to increase his walking range.

In this alternate storyline, the long physical recovery and the severity of what happened put an extra strain on John and Gale’s relationship that might result in them breaking up eventually.

These are some of my thoughts about the aftermath of Gale's crisis. Do you guys have any additional ideas?

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Cornered

Pairing: Dark Peter Parker x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Peter can’t live without you and he’s not afraid to show it. 

WARNINGS: Fake Suicide Attempt; Manipulation.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

“Don’t! Please, Peter.” you cry out, watching as Peter pulls the knife closer to his wrist, the sharp edge pressing hard against his skin, dangerously close to his veins. 

You’re both crying after a huge discussion that started because you had decided that it was best to give your relation a small break. It’s getting draining to deal with Peter’s constant protectiveness with him always looking over your shoulder, trying to make your decisions for you. 

He’s overbearing and it’s sucking the life out of you. 

Nonetheless, Peter had always been a gentle boyfriend so you made the mistake of assuming that he’d be reasonable enough when you revealed what you had decided for your future. Apparently you were entirely wrong about him. 

“If you leave me, I’ll have no reason to live and then you can truly be free of me. Isn’t that what you want?” he practically chokes on his tears, a small gasp exiting his lips as he draws a cut into the skin. A few drops of blood paint this skin, dropping on the floor. 

“It’s not! Just… put down the knife, okay?” you beg, taking a step towards him. “We can talk this out, Peter.” 

“Why should I listen to you? You’re going to leave me, no matter what.” Peter gives you a sad smile, taking another step back as you try to get near him.

The knife digs again and he groans, the blood starting to roll down his wrist. 

“I-I won’t. I promise, Peter. I’ll stay with you, if that’s what you really want.” you panickly propose. His eyes light up at your offer, hope filling them as he loosens his grip on the knife.

“I want that. And we’ll be together and you’ll love me again? You promise?” he desperately asks, fingers clenching around the knife as he awaits for your answer.

You only hesitate for a brief moment, but you can’t allow Peter to do this. You have no other option but to take him back. 

“I promise. Now please get away from the -” you don’t even get to finish your sentence as Peter immediately drops the knife, which makes a loud noise as it falls down on the ground.

Before you can properly register what happened, Peter’s arms are around you. He lets out a shaky breath, pressing passionate kisses all over your scalp as you stand there, motionless in his arms.

You’re mortified by what just happened, but more so at the promise you’done to Peter. Now you’re never going to be able to leave him. 

Exactly what he wanted. 

[wyverningx]

jeremy's pretty darn good at exy, good enough to secure an athletic scholarship to the best D1 school in california. he doesn't even need to move away from his family to attend, which is a blessing and a curse. things have been somewhat uncomfortable since his mom remarried, but it's fine. he's a freshman at USC, now. he's more free and independent than ever before. the world is his oyster.

he's faced his fair share of sports injuries — who hasn't, given the nature of a contact sport — but the first time he deals with a soft tissue injury as a college athlete hurts more than it did in high school. not necessarily because of the pain, because jeremy's a quick striker but still deals with collisions on the regular, but because being benched for six weeks sucks. he wants to make a name for himself. he wants to shine on the gold court like its namesake.

he gets some vicodin to manage the pain, and it does help.

only —

it starts to help a little too much. it dulls the awkward edge to his family interactions, makes his day-to-day operations a bit more manageable. keeps him in a better mood, relaxed and chilled out, when he's so bored from lack of exercise and stimulation that he starts to go mad.

the doctor gave him a lot of pills. it's fine. he's hurt; he needs them. it's normal.

only —

it's way too easy to get a refill on the prescription. his PCP's been taking care of the knox family for decades, and their office understands jeremy's ambition. they know he's disciplined, given his health and physique. so what's another bottle, or two, for the star athlete of the family?

so it becomes a bit of a habit. it's not a problem, though. being high is just... easier. maybe he doesn't pop the pills for the pain so much anymore, but nobody seems to notice or judge him if he's a little spaced out. there's a lot of mounting pressure once he's back on the court, after all. he missed almost two months of practice. he has to make up for it, because this might be the year the trojans finally take championships and wouldn't it be great, perfect even, if jeremy was responsible for such an accomplishment?

surely nobody can blame him for wanting a little something to take the edge off. he's been to frat parties on campus — bingeing alcohol is so much more of a crutch than a tiny white pill or two.

only —

his family comes home one day after celebrating jeremy's first fall banquet and sees jeremy's brother passed out on the ground, his bottle of pills spilling out across the floor and nonono jeremy only has so many at least they're just on the floor and he can scoop them back into that orange bottle so that he has them for later just in case he needs the safety net but oh god what does it mean that jeremy thought of his stash before his brother's well-being in an obvious suicide attempt, but that's not jeremy's fault. it can't be. he isn't responsible.

right?

[madman479r]

Jaune: *Relaxing and watching TV*

RWBYNROE: *Enters room*

Ruby: Hey, Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah, Rubes?

Ruby: Settle this for us. Emerald said she saw you buy a gun but I said that's ridiculous because you never wanted one before.

Emerald: I literally saw him go into a weapons store. Plus, he spent 20 years in that fairy tale land. Maybe he wised up and got something with range.

Jaune: Why the big deal? What is there a bet?

Ruby: Yep. Me, Weiss, Nora and Oscar said you didn't get a gun and Yang, Blake, Ren and Emerald say you did.

Jaune: Hope there wasn't money involved because I did I fact get a gun. *Pulls out revolver*

Nora: Aw crapbaskets! *Hands over lien*

Ruby: wow! Is that a Mateba model 6 unica Autorevolver?!

Jaune: Oh yeah. Looked good so I thought I'd get it.

Yang: But I kinda have to ask why?

Blake: And a revolver of all pistols. They take forever to reload.

Jaune: Well you see *Scroll alarm beeping* 3:30 already? Alright.

Weiss: What does 3:30 have to-?

Jaune: *Puts a bullet in revolver and spins the cylinder before putting it to his head and pulls trigger*

**CLICK**

Jaune: Welp, back to the show. *looks at gun* I'll see you tomorrow.

RWBYNROE:...

Jaune: What?

[ohtobeleah]

Self-flagellation // Tom Kazanksy

Summary: The death of Goose Bradshaw rocks the TopGun class. Iceman struggles with the ideology that his death could have been prevented if he wasn’t sure sure of himself.

Warnings: Suicide attempt. Suicidal tendencies. Depression. Mentions of pregnancy.

Word Count: 3.2k

Author Note: Day Five of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Self-harm. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The warm soapy water soothed Tom’s aching muscles as he let himself slide down the side of the bath till the only thing remaining above the water was his head. Notes of jasmine from your scented epsom salts he swore he never indulged in filled the bathroom as the drip from the leaky faucet filled the void, the silent but all consuming void of nothingness that had followed Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazanksy around ever since he saw Nick ‘Goose’ Bradshaw break his neck during a freak accident.

It could have been avoided, the death of Goose Bradshaw. If Tom hadn't been so arrogant, if he hadn't started the chain reaction of events that led to Goose's death by cutting Maverick off—perhaps it all could have been avoided. He was so arrogant and sure of himself that he could get that shot, it was just a training exercise, no one should have died. 

The more he thought about it as he sunk deeper and deeper into the water, he knew he should have moved. He knew that it was his fault, his actions, and every choice that led to the death of Goose Bradshaw. 

And that was something he couldn’t live with. 

“Tom!” Your voice cut through the water like a breath of fresh air as you pulled your fiancé up from under the water he’d sunk under. “Jesus Christ what the hell are you doing?” It was the shock of walking into the bathroom and seeing your fiancé completely submerged and not making any attempt to move or get up that was talking. “Tom?” You asked as you assessed his face with both your hands cupping his cheeks. “What are you doing? What’s gotten into you?” You were in search of an answer that perhaps would have been written in the lines on his face—but when Tom reached up to take your hand in his and kissed your knuckles a few times. You knew something was wrong, very wrong. It was the look of dismissal in his eyes. 

The very look you saw from your mother right before she was admitted into the loony bin. 

“I’m fine—“ Tom tried to reassure you as you tried to keep your composure. “Totally fine dear, just thought it was real quiet under the water.” Tom  wanted to tell you about the voices in his head that he’d been trying to silence. Or about the way the burn his lungs felt as he begun to run out of oxygen made him feel closer to Goose. He wanted to be under that water—if you hadn’t pulled him up he would have truly stayed there. It seemed like a peaceful way to go. 

He wanted to tell you that it was all his fault, he killed Nick Bradshaw and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t live with the guilt, he saw that little kid on his mothers hip at the funeral three days prior and ever since he made eye contact with little Bradley Bradshaw—Tom wanted nothing more than to trade places with the RIO he killed with negligent flying. 

But he didn’t tell you any of that. Tom Kazanksy wouldn’t let his walls come down for no one. Not even you—he didn’t want to be seen as weak minded. His father had instilled a great fear of being seen as less than man enough if he were to ever shed a single tear. So the idea of crumbling to his knees, holding you tight and telling you he wanted nothing more than to trade places with a dead man was far beyond the realm of comprehension. 

“I’m fine honey, I was just in my own world for a second there.” You were completely disinclined to believe what your fiancé was saying. The signs were all there. The warning signals had been popping up for weeks. But all you did to keep the peace was nod in simple silence as you sat on the edge of the bathtub. “I love you, I’m sorry for spookin you.” 

“You’d tell me—“ You cooed as you pushed Tom's hair from his forehead. “You’d tell me if you weren’t alright wouldn’t you baby?” The question packed a punch Tom wasn’t exactly ready for. He couldn’t tell you, you’d think he was certifiably insane for having such thoughts. He didn’t want you to worry about him, he was fine, he was totally and completely fine. 

So he lied right through those perfect teeth of his. He held your hand back up to his lips and pressed gentle kisses across your knuckles. His eyes told you a completely different story to the rhetoric he was spinning. Tom was going under, he was drowning in his own sorrow and guilt for a man he’d let down, that he’d killed. But he wouldn’t tell you that, he couldn’t bring himself to explain to the love of his life. 

So he lied. He lied and lied and lied, hoping that one day soon he’d believe himself. 

“Absolutely.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

He didn’t mean for it to happen, Tom Kazanksy never meant for his actions to result in his colleague and friends' untimely death. He didn’t mean to rip a family apart at the very seam. 

But he had. And he couldn’t cope with the guilt. 

“I’m worried about him, Carole.” You sighed as you walked with the newly widowed woman to her husband's grave. “He blames himself, much like Mav.” 

“It’s nobody's fault—“ Carole cooed as she held a bunch of roses in her hand and her sons in the other. Bradkey didn’t understand where his daddy had gone and it broke your heart. “It was just a freak accident—I know my husband wouldn't have put the blame on anyone, and I don’t either.” 

Carole Bradshaw was a beacon of hope to all the aviators who had lost a dear friend. She was the very reminder they needed to keep going, to keep her husband’s legacy alive by doing what he loved the most. 

“I think you should get him to talk to someone if you’re really concerned, even if he doesn’t think anything’s wrong—it always helps to talk it out.” Carole mentioned as she walked with you side by side. “I talk to a therapist about this new chapter twice a week.” She admitted tentatively. “Sometimes it feels all too much, then I remember I have Bradley.” She smiled softly, looking down at her husband’s surviving son. “He deserves to have a mother who’s as put together as can be.” That’s when Carole looked at you genuinely and wholeheartedly saw into your very soul as you held back tears. “Tom needs to be as put together as he can be, for the little one.” 

“I haven’t even told him yet.” You could feel your bottom lip wobbling as you spoke. “I don’t want to overwhelm him.” You were only a few weeks along and hadn’t worked up the courage to tell your fiancé yet. He wasn’t himself, between his need to be alone and his lack of attention to your relationship, you felt as if the news of a child would completely dismal Tom's very delicate mental state. “I’m not sure if he’s ready—“

“Maybe if he knew he’d helped create life then the idea he took it away wouldn’t be as overwhelming.” Carole always knew just what to say even when she was barely keeping herself together. After all, it was her husband's grace you were going to visit—not Toms. “Not that he had any involvement, because it was an accident.” 

“How many times have you told yourself that?”

You had to ask. “You know, before you started to believe it?” 

Carole let out a deep sigh that sounded like it came from her very soul. She squeezed her son's hand three consecutive times and did her best to keep her composure. 

“I tell myself that every day.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“Honey?” Days turned into weeks before you had even noticed that the weeks had long since turned into months. Tom was for the most part a shell of his former self. He wasn’t home when all the lights seemed to be on. “Tom baby, are you home?” 

You’d gotten a call from Viper halfway through your shift, he was concerned to say the very least about Tom and the fact he hadn’t shown up for work this morning really had him worried. He’d asked the pilot if he was doing okay a few times since the accident—but every time he pressed, Tom did what he did best and shut the very people who cared about him the most, out. 

“Tom? Honey it’s me baby—Viper called?” You cooed as you placed your keys in the little dish by the front door. The house was eerily quiet for the mid afternoon. Usually the offshore breeze would be blowing through the open windows, but when the air felt still, stale even. Like nothing had moved since you had left this morning. Like nobody had been home all day—yet your fiancés trunk was in the drive. A dead give away. “Honey?” 

It was all very ominous, the stillness of your humble apartment, the ground floor of a four story building on the outskirts of Fightertown. The usually warm and cozy living room felt as cold as ice when you walked on by. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing seemed different or misplaced—but the quiet hum, the bubbling anxiety inside your chest told you something was wrong. Something was off and something terrible was about to happen, or had happened. 

You remembered what your mother looked like the night your dad had taken her to the emergency room. Her night gown was soaked in crimson blood that would never wash out. You tried. 

“Tom? Honey, are you in there?” The bathroom door wasn’t locked, but it was closed shut. Your hand tightened around the doorknob as you let your forehead rest against the painted frame. “Please just answer me? I won’t come in if you don’t want me to.” You sighed to yourself as you closed your eyes and tried to will away the thoughts of your mother. 

You always thought it would be you, mental health instability ran in your family like nothing you had ever seen. But here you were, your fiancé had been suffering and he refused to let you in. He refused to be a burden on you and now? Now you were afraid to open the door, you were terrified beyond belief at what you might see. 

“Tom—“ Your feet felt frozen as you turned the door handle, the bathroom door slowly but surely creaked open. Time stood still as your eyes landed on the broad shouldered aviator lying in bloodied bath water that looked as thick as gelatin. “Oh god! TOM!” 

The shrill that left your body as you rushed over was a sound so painstakingly familiar that for a moment you swore you had heard your father scream behind you. History had a funny way of repeating itself. 

“Tom, honey—open your eyes baby look at me!” You tried to stay as calm as you could. “I’ve gotta call an ambulance.” That was the priority, call for help, stop the bleeding, save your fiancé’s life. You kept repeating it over and over like a mantra that would forever be embedded into your soul. Call for help, stop the bleeding, save Tom's life.”  

The home phone was down the hall and boy did it kill you every second you were gone, but when you came back to the bathroom, you brought bandages and gauze from the first aid kit you kept in the kitchen with you. 

“I’m here baby, I’m here.” Tom was unconscious but he still had a very weak, very faint, hardly there at all paulse. “Please don’t leave us, we’re right here, please please please don’t do this to us.” Twelve weeks, that’s how far along you were. For twelve weeks you had kept your pregnancy a secret from everyone except Carole Bradshaw. For twelve weeks your fiancé had been so distant and so closed off, disconnected even he hadn’t noticed the bouts of sickness, the fatigue, the way your stomach seemed a little more distended then it usually did. You weren’t showing all that much—but you thought the man you loved unconditionally, with your entire heart, with everything you had and more, would have noticed. 

But he didn’t. 

“Come on baby.” You tried to move him from the bathtub but the dead weight of Tom Kazanksys unconscious body was far too heavy for you to handle. “Stay with us, please.” Blood threatened to stain all aspects of the bathroom. The tiles, your clothes, even Tom's skin. But you did what you could with what you had to stop the bleeding coming from his wrists. Slashed deep. You had to hold back the nausea you felt as you wrapped both your fiancé’s wrists tight to stop them from bleeding any more, but judging by the amount of blood in the water and on the side of the bath—Tom had already lost a lot. 

This wasn’t a cry for help, this was so much more. This wasn’t just to feel something, this was to feel nothing at all. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more observant.” You cried as you kept Tom above the water, his head lulled to the side in your hands as you waited for the medics to arrive. “Honey, oh baby we love you so much, please don’t do this to us, please don’t leave.” You had to keep your fingers pressed against his neck, pressed against Tom’s pulse point to remind yourself he was still with you. “If you leave us so help me Christ Tom I’ll never forgive you—don’t you do this to me baby.” 

***~***~***~***~**

“No.” The last person Tom Kazanksy wanted to see was you, but here you were—sleeping in the small hospital chair beside his bed with your hand delicately intertwined with his. “No god no—“ He wasn’t supposed to be here with you. He was supposed to be dead, he wasn’t supposed to be alive where the burden was all too much and the guilt was all consuming. He couldn’t be here. “I’m alive?”

He couldn’t remember what happened after he’d sliced his wrists, but for what he could put together he assumed you would have been the one who found him. He left a letter on your pillow, he wondered if you’d found it. 

“A clinician is going to come in and speak with you soon.” Tom looked over at you as you spoke, your eyes were barely open, but when he finally met your gaze he saw the hurt he’d caused in them. “Tom—“

“You should have let me die.” Was all he said back to you. The words he spoke hurt more than he would ever know. “It’s my fault he died.” 

“Maverick said—“

“Forget what fucking Maverick said Y/n!” Tom snapped as you readjusted yourself in the chair you sat perched on. “I killed him! Goose died because I was flying recklessly and now I can’t live with the fucking guilt—you should have let me die!” 

“There are people who can help Tom.” You were a little more stirn than you would have liked to have been, but your fiancé had just tried to kill himself over his own deep rooted resentment for himself. “God why on earth do you think that killing yourself is the only option here?” 

“Because I don’t wanna go on living knowing I ruined someone else’s life!” He cried, Tom Kazanksy barely ever cried, in front of people anyway. But here he was, crying in front of you after he’d failed at taking his own life. You’d stopped him. “And if you hadn’t come home I’d be fucking dead! I wouldn’t have to live with myself and I wouldn’t have to look at you and wish you’d stop interfering!” 

It hit you in that very moment that when you’d found Tom in the bath he had in fact not been alright, he was trying to drown himself. Only you’d pulled him to the surface. 

“I don’t want you around anymore.” You looked at your fiancé with pleading eyes. “I don’t love you enough to stay, I don’t love you enough to keep fighting the fight I know I’ll fucking lose because I’m not strong enough.” It hurt more than anything else in this world. “You don’t need me, you don’t deserve to have to babysit me wondering when I’ll try again, because I will. I’ll try again until I’m dead and gone and don’t have to live with the guilt.” 

“Tom—“ Tom Kazanksy was the love of your life. He was once the funny and charismatic man who swept you off your feet. But now as you sat by his hospital bed after saving his life, all he could say to you was why did you even bother. “I can’t leave you after this, you need someone—“ 

“If you stay I’ll just end up hating you—“ That was the nail in the coffin of your broken relationship. “I’ll hate you for saving me and I’ll hate you forever, so please, just leave, go.” Maverick stood by the door, he’d come to see if you needed anything. He had heard every word Ice spoke and his heart was broken for you. You didn’t see any of this. 

This was so much worse than he ever thought it was. Maverick watched as you got up out of your chair, crying hysterically as you held a protective hand over your small but there baby bump. He knew. He knew you were pregnant, Carole had slipped up one night when she was in her own head about the entire situation.

“And don’t think I don’t know either.” Tom added as your tears fell down your face. He watched as you stopped in your tracks. “That baby is better off never knowing me.” He hissed as you kept your back turned, he wasn’t the same man you loved. This was the shell of a man you once knew, a broken man who had pushed everyone, including you away. “If you had bothered to tell me I would have asked you to abort it, saved you the trouble of my burden.” You turned back to face your fiancé as he spiraled further into his psychotic break. “It’s one of the reasons I did it, I don’t deserve to be a father after what I did.” 

You took a deep breath as you wiggled your engagement ring off your ringer before you slowly moved back to the bedside. Tom watched you with teary eyes of his own. He couldn’t believe that he was giving up his entire world because he couldn’t handle the immense guilt, the shame, the fear he felt all for kissing one of his friends. 

“You were right.” You dropped the ring into his lap, deciding that if Tom Kazanksy had given up on living that he didn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve your support, your love, your energy or your child. This was different to what your mother went through, this wasn’t just depression, this was selfishness and cruel behaviour. 

And hell—two could play at that game, become why on god's green earth should you continue to try and save someone who didn’t want to be saved?”

“You weren’t worth saving.” You whispered as you turned on your heels to head out of the room as the clinician walked in. Loving Tom Kazanksy had turned into a losing game. But you had just one final thing to say over your shoulder. 

“Say hi to Goose when you see him, maybe you’ll believe him when he tells you it wasn’t ever your fault.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday

I've finally worked up the courage to post the opening of one of the Mysterious Lotus Casebook fics I'm writing (Li Lianhua/Di Feisheng/Fang Duobing), specifically, from my post-canon fic where LLH's shiniang tried to sacrifice herself to cure him.

Tw/cw: suicide attempt, mention of off-page non-consensual medical procedure, internalized ableism

***

Li Lianhua crashed to his hands and knees on the ground as the last trickle of his borrowed qi abandoned him, the densely-packed sand doing nothing to cushion the blow. The impact rattled through his spine and ribs, shaking loose a bout of coughing that forced him to swallow down the burning flare of copper trying to escape from his mouth. He couldn’t cough up blood now, not here, too many steps away from the water’s reach. It would leave evidence of his route, a trail that his shiniang would undoubtedly follow once she had broken free from the immobilization. He couldn’t let her find him until the job was done. 

He pushed himself to standing, his arms and legs shaking hard enough to nearly drop him back to his knees, and he blinked to will the dancing black spots from his eyes. The waves awaited him, and he refused to crawl to meet them. He took a staggering step toward the sound of crashing water ahead of him, far fainter now than it had any right to be, and squinted against the sunlight to get his bearings. 

A large gray lump on his left snagged his attention, disrupting the blur of gold and blue that filled up the rest of his view. Why did that look familiar? He took an unsteady step closer, pressing his palm against his chest to convince his lungs to hold back a cough one more time, and the gray lump resolved into a rock. 

A rock that had once served as a pillow that was soft only in comparison to how hard the rest of the day had been.

Of course. He’d landed at Donghai beach. He swallowed back tears with a bitter laugh. Never let it be said that the universe didn’t have a sense of humor.  

He’d returned after all: three months late for the duel and over a decade late for bringing his decrepit body back to the waves that had so decisively spat him out. But surely this time, with all the mysteries solved and no business left unfinished, the sea would accept the offering of his broken frame. Li Xiangyi was long dead and it was past time for Li Lianhua to follow his example. He was already a ghost in every way that mattered. And this was the only way to guarantee his shiniang would live.

She would be furious, of course, but wasn’t furious better than dead? How could it be unfilial to make sure she lived on? Too many people had died for him; he refused to let her join those ranks. Dying to save her was already a far better death than he deserved. 

As for the others, Xiaobao would have his teachings and would be too busy climbing the heights of the jianghu to miss the weak physician he once protected. 

And a-Fei—

—well, how could he still fixate on defeating a ghost with Xiaobao shining more brightly than Li Xiangyi ever had?

No, this end was far better for everyone, and best of all, no one would sacrifice their life or be forced to play caretaker to an empty husk of a man.

A familiar chill seared through his veins and meridians, despite the warmth of the fur of his outer layer, stealing away his breath and the amorphous blue blur before him. He took another stumbling step toward where it had been, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest. 

Not much longer now. It seemed his frenzied dash here and self-shattered heart meridian were more efficient for what he had in mind than the weight his waterlogged fur coat would have offered.

Perhaps he didn’t need the coat for this at all. His body would certainly float further without it. And not even his shiniang could save him now, so what harm could it do to leave some evidence behind? Xiaobao might not believe the beggar’s words, but surely this fur cloak at the water’s edge would put to rest any lingering futile hopes. And then Xiaobao would tell a-Fei.

And if it brought them peace, if it let them say goodbye, then how could he not leave it behind?

It was decided, then. 

He lifted his hands to the coat’s laces, then paused. Were those voices? For a moment, he could have sworn he heard—

—Ah, no, the hallucinations must have started again. 

He smiled. At least he had heard a-Fei and Xiabao one last time, if only in his mind.

He untied his laces with fumbling, stiff fingers, and let the coat fall behind him. 

His heart and lungs clenched with another spasm, and a wave of dizziness broke over him, threatening to drop him to his knees once more. 

He fought against it, muscles shaking as they never had during battles. He couldn’t surrender now; not until he reached the water. He could manage three more steps. He had to.

He tried to lift his foot again.

The world swam before him, and darkness dragged him under.

[sorio99]

So, I’ve pretty much entirely stayed out of the James Somerton discourse, because frankly, I just didn’t think I had anything that valuable to say. I wasn’t a fan of Somerton’s, I never watched his videos or fell for his lies, the first time I heard of the dude was in HBomberGuy’s video, and the most impact he’s had on my life is encouraging me to watch Todd in the Shadows.

That said, I did have thoughts as things developed, about his “apologies”, about his claims of depression, and even about the “suicide note” he posted to Twitter. But, I really didn’t feel like I had anything to add to the discussion that wasn’t already being said by at least 50 other people.

But uh, I have thoughts. About the latest developments.

One of the thoughts I shelved about Somerton in the past was that I wasn’t sure if the “note” being real or fake was the worse option. I really don’t have much sympathy for James, given some of the really heinous shit he’s said in the past, but I’ve never wanted him dead. I personally wanted him punished for his actions, and then removed from public view; I didn’t think anything he’d done deserved the death penalty.

While I do still think that, him posting a fake suicide note makes me VERY skeptical.

Here’s the thing: I’ve talked before about my struggles with my mental health, with Suicidal Ideation, and just general depression. There have been many times in my life where I have wanted to kill myself, and even one occasion a decade ago where I actively tried.

I’m also not a good person.

A few years ago, I did something bad to someone I cared about. I won’t go into details, for both selfish and non-selfish reasons, but suffice to say, it’s the kind of thing where I think most people would say I deserve some kind of punishment.

And I can say, based on that point in time, based on what I was feeling then, I could very easily believe that someone like James was actually suicidal.

I knew it could still be a manipulation tactic, I knew it probably was one. I even knew that, if it was real, it was still arguably a manipulation tactic. But I genuinely thought there was a chance, even a solid chance, that Somerton had wanted to commit suicide.

That chance has gone out the fucking window.

Let me be clear, also: the fact that James was horny posting on an alternate Twitter account, and engaging with media was not what convinced me that it was all bullshit. As someone who’s used the god damned Professor Layton games as a coping mechanism during depressive episodes, I’ve seen far weirder and worse responses to being suicidal.

It was how he talked about himself, responded to his defenders and accusers. The fact that while people were genuinely panicked at the thought that he might have tried to kill himself, he was purposefully stoking the flames and trying to make himself look better.

James Somerton is a fucking bastard, and I never want to hear from him, or ANY defenses of him, ever again.

[aftgficrec]

Can you please suggest fics where neil and bee have more interactions. Or even ones about andrew and bee talking about neil or anything else

Btw I really really appreciate everything yall do! God bless you.

Here is what we found for you. -A

Neil/andreil talk to Bee:

Neil goes to therapy here

‘we softly stir the violence’ and ‘Healing’ series parts 1 & 3 here

‘“I wish I'd never…”’ here

‘Andrew Minyards Crystal’ here

‘pain our brain has made’ here (updated)

‘not to blame for falling’ series and ‘sidelines’ here

‘on the tip of my tongue (say something)’ series here (completed)

‘Andrew and Neil's guide to getting better’ series here

‘True Love Waits’ series here

‘Cyberstalking’ here

‘Promises’ here

‘A Taste of Your Own Medicine’ here

‘The Massive Continuity of Ducks’ and ‘Ghost of You’ here

‘A collection of Andreil one-shots’ ch 3 here

‘I Don't Know’ here

‘The Destination Was Always Forever’ (updated), ‘Minyard-Josten Rivalry’ (updated), ‘sunrise, abram’ series, ‘and in a flash, it's gone.’ series part 2, and ‘Stay Where I Can Reach’ here

Andrew talks to Bee about Neil:

previous ask here

‘Unspoken’ here

‘AFTG Drabbles’ parts 1 & 8 here

‘Paper Cut Hearts’ here

‘the shuffling of cards’ here

‘words can't warm the windows of my soul’ here

‘The Hand That Needs Me’ here

‘Mother Mannequin’ here

‘Anything’ here

‘the icarus to your certainty’ here

‘No straighter path than to struggle’ here

‘Can we can pretend like we're (not) in love?’ here

Neil Josten is Not Fine by Anonymous [Rated T, 3362 Words, Complete, AFTG Then & Never 2024]

After weeks of nightmares and an embarrassing discovery, Neil finally decides to pay Betsy a visit.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: nightmares, tw: bedwetting

i'll take anything you have (if you could throw me a line) by ifitmeanslosingyou [Rated M, 923 Words, Complete, 2024]

the sunrise can be pretty, neil thinks, but instead of the pinks and oranges washing him with ease, neil can’t help the panic at the thought that he’s been up here for longer than he planned to he wonders if anyone has even realized he left the dorms in the first place, wonders if andrew even looked when neil left the bedroom, wonders if he gave up, wonders if he finally came to his senses and realized neil was more trouble than he’s worth wonders if the roof of the court is high enough that the fall would kill him day 31: asking for help | therapy | “i’m alive, i’m just not well”

tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm

help, I've lost myself again (but I remember you) by abitsillygoofy [Not Rated, 5320 Words, Complete, 2024]

“Neil we have to talk about it,” Betsy said “I don’t think so” Neil replied “Nope, not happening” He popped the p at the end trying to make the woman mad at him. “You just tried to kill yourself, so I think we have to have this talk” Betsy didn’t seem bothered by his act and kept her nice, neutral facial expression, but unlike on his session looked worried too. or Neil wakes up in the hospital after his suicide attempt and has to face what he did.

tw: suicide attempt, tw: self harm, tw: blood

keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?) by phan_taloon [Rated M, 15415 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

Previously recced here

AU where Neil never met the Foxes, with a little less mafia and a little more pain for Neil when he ends up captured by Nathan for months, and has to deal with the consequences by himself. He ends up in treatment for chronic pain with opioids, and let's just say opioid use is tricky when you're alone and in pain; one thing can lead to another more easily than it seems.

tw: drug addiction, tw: drug overdose, tw: withdrawal, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: vomit

an acquired taste the asbestos is lovely by cyanica [Rated M, 6617 Words, Complete, 2024, Locked]

“What did you take?” Andrew demands. Neil wonders if Andrew will taste all that is wrong with Neil when he kisses him. He wonders if Andrew will recognize it. Andrew knows what it is to hurt himself, and this must be familiar. It’s deja vu, Neil thinks, if only a little bit worse, a little more terrible. Neil shakes his head, groaning into the toilet, “I don’t want to tell you.” Andrew pulls out his phone, and Neil can already hear it dialling when he says, “You can tell the paramedics.” Or; “Cigarettes,” Neil says. “I ate your cigarettes.”

tw: self harm, tw: overdose, tw: pica, tw: eating disorders, tw: vomit, tw: blood, tw: mental breakdown, tw: implied/referenced abuse

If it means protecting you (I’ll pay my dues) by Intangibel (duskbutterfly) [Rated T, 125462 Words, Incomplete, Updated April 2023]

Previously recced here

What if the threat of Aaron being charged with murder was more significant and Neil found out that he could prevent Andrew from having to be at the trial if he were to testify. What would he be willing to sacrifice to achieve that? What if instead of refusing to testify for Aaron, Neil decides to make a deal with the FBI to become their witness against his father if they’ll backstop his current identity. He thinks it means signing his death warrant and losing the Foxes. Betsy, Aaron and the Foxes are determined to convince him it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, his father’s people are coming for him and that’s not even starting on what Andrew will have to say about Neil choosing to martyr himself.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: child abuse, tw: torture, tw: blood, tw: scars, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: homophobia, tw: conversion camp reference, tw: reenactment therapy with noncon

The Sun Still Rises by mordax [Rated E, 474451 Words, Incomplete, Updated Oct 2024]

Previously recced here

Somewhere on the road, Mary Hatford gets pregnant with her second child. When she passes, she leaves behind not only Neil, but his toddler brother. Survival is difficult without also raising a kid. Worn out and desperate, Neil still somehow ends up at Palmetto, only this time, he brings his four-year-old brother with him.

tw: violence, tw: anxiety, tw: panic attacks,  tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: drug use, tw: involuntary sedation, tw: reenactment therapy with noncon

NB: find fanart for this fic by @/elidanus on twitter here

Ain’t it fun by jemejem [Rated T (we say M) 30672 Words, Complete, 2018]

Neil can't sleep. Andrew can't feel. High school is going well for the both of them.

tw: homophobia, tw: mental breakdown, tw: anxiety, tw: depression, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: scars, tw: ptsd, tw: psychological trauma, tw: flashbacks

I been here all along (so why can't you see?) by alexcherry [Rated G, 8691 Words, Complete, 2021]

Andrew leans on the counter beside Neil's thigh. "Where do you want to go, Josten? What favor do you need from me?" Neil looked at Andrew and steeled himself. "I want you to come with me to the next therapy session with Betsy posing as my boyfriend." "Like one," Andrew thought for a moment. "Couple therapy?" Neil perked up. "Yes! Exactly, and then we see how long it takes her to find out we're not connected at all."

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced murder

If You Need Shelter by AfraidOfBananas [Rated M, 2642 Words, Complete, 2021]

“The boy is staring at Neil with a startled expression like he’s just seen a ghost. Well, maybe he has. Neil hasn’t felt alive for a very long time.” Or.....Neil meets Andrew while he’s on the run

Family by BlueJay26 [Not Rated, 9420 Words, Complete, 2021, Locked]

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Three adults who certainly proved this was true, and their (sort of) children who realised a family isn't always linked by blood. Also known as, how Abby, Bee and Wymack earned their family's love and trust.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: internalized homophobia

Art

Abby and Betsy art by @rainbowd00dles 

Betsy 💕💕 art by @neroholik

Mom and Dad and Mom art by @llstarcasterll

Betsy and Abby 💖 art by @jeannemaybedarc

Betsy Dobson cosplay by @/toobeetofunction on instagram

@drbetsydobson instagram account/moodboard

[enqmind]

Okay, more fic. This is the one I should have done first, but what can you do?

Will likely turn out to be a multipart. (Word to the wise, I'm very easily bribed with reblogs, follows and kind words -wink wink-)

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 831 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting(?), manipulation(?), Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, might turn out to be pale skinned later (haven't decided yet. If so, feel free to ignore. I'm not here to gatekeep.)

One Man's Treasure

Next

 The hallway was dingy, even with the lights popping on at the slightest movement. According to the landlord, the lights were dimmed at night to prevent their circadian rhythms from being disturbed.

 Sure.

 Nothing to do with the cost of living crisis. Ghost believed them, thousands wouldn’t.

 He trudged along, each door uniform and bland as he headed to his flat.

 He was almost at his own door as a pocket of shadow caught his attention.

 Door after door after door with the same shiny printed veneer seemed to oddly glow in the dim light. One next to his had a dark shadow lining one side.

 He stalked over.

 Ajar.

 Of course. Fuck he was tired.

 He was about to pull it closed when a scent wafted through his mask.

 Lavender, vetiver and the familiar base note of blood.

 Who lived here again?

 The image of a woman rose in his mind. Pretty, polite, always offering a greeting smile if they happened to run into each other. Sometimes she seemed like she wanted to ask him something, but nothing ever came of it.

 That’s all he knew. She kept to herself and never seemed to have guests over.

 A perfectly functional neighbour.

 He pushed the door open.

 The dim light in the hall let him adjust to the darkness of her flat quickly. It was messy and a certain staleness passed under the perfumed blood scent.

 A soft flickering glow caught his eye, emanating from under the bathroom door. A rectangle of white standing out in the dinge.

 He crept through the living room, eyes constantly moving through the gloom for signs of danger. Ears pricked for any noise.

 A sigh from the bathroom.

 Ghost hesitated, but the smell of blood was strong enough to get his hand on the door handle and swing it open. Ready for any threat.

 All he found was his neighbour in the bath. Wearing only bra and knickers and lying in orange tinted water. A stanley knife dropped on the floor in a pool of blood.

 There was a lot of blood.

 Another sigh.

 But not enough to kill. Not even enough to knock her out, really.

 He approached warily, seeing a mostly empty bottle of spirits sitting on the far side of the bath.

 That explained both her unconsciousness and all the blood.

 Carefully, he took her closest wrist and examined it.

 She hadn’t nicked anything important, despite her best efforts. The lines went vertically, tracing the likely paths of the veins down her forearms. She was clearly seeking results.

 No shit, Sherlock. She lives alone, who the hell could she even get attention from?

 Wasn’t that the point of leaving the front door ajar?

 In the middle of the night on a Tuesday?

 It wasn’t worth thinking too much about. He needed to get her awake and to A&E, not ruminate on her train of thought. That was the psych ward’s problem.

 He rose to his feet and went to pull the light cord.

 The square of white on the outside of the door was a piece of paper stuck to it with some patterned tape.

 ‘Do not enter. Corpse within. Call 999.’

 A sigh more like a gasp came from behind him, accompanied by a splash.

 He turned to see her hugging herself, almost snuggling into the lukewarm water as her head started to slip under.

 He grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into a sitting position.

 Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked at him, head clearly addled by alcohol and blood loss.

 Then she smiled at him. Lit by the candles that drew him to her in the first place, she looked radiant.

 “You came,” she whispered, eyes glittering with affection.

 She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek that felt like nothing at all.

 She drew back with a wry chuckle and shy smile.

 “I thought you’d be taller.” A giggle. “But not by much.”

 He could almost see it reflected in her eyes despite the low light of the scented candles.

 The white skull of his mask making him look like death incarnate.

 How happy she looked, how relieved to be face to face with the Grim Reaper…

 He wrapped his arms around her and she snuggled into his chest.

 “Thank you,” she murmured. “I was so scared I’d fail.”

 He felt something crack inside his mind.

 Hers was a life she didn’t want.

 Ghost moved an arm under her knees and picked her up out of the bath, blood tinged water sluicing off her and onto him and the floor.

 He didn’t know why she didn’t want it.

 She clung onto him, eyes widening.

 “Where are we going?”

 Frankly, he didn’t care.

 “For now, Purgatory,” he answered. “Later? Who knows.”

 He felt her relax into his arms.

 “Okay.”

 All he knew was that if she didn’t want this life, he’d be more than happy to make it his.

[writing-in-sin]

UMEMIYA HAJIME HC: GUILT

Warning(s): PTSD, mention of past suicide attempts, unprocessed grief and guilt

-----

I think ever since the accident, Umemiya might've develop a habit on taking the blame for things that aren't his fault especially if its tied to him somehow. He has a great sense of responsibility and tends to carry a lot on his shoulders it seems

So I feel like now that the dust has settled with the Noroshi and he sees the damage that's been done to his home and family all because Endo wanted to trap him for Takiishi, he might feel responsible for the whole incident

So, yeah. I think he has a tendency to harbour guilt for things that are out his control especially when its connected to him somehow. Guilt, I think, is what tends to trigger things within Umemiya

Particularly, his fear and tightly chained rage

When that happens, Umemiya tends to find himself unable to take proper care in his daily life. His apetite tends to suffer first. Then his inability to take care of his plants

The worst is the steadily slipping control over his temper. Unlike others, his rage isnt something that burns everything in his path. But it is fierce and intense

Most of all, it's quiet and can be self-destructive

Unfortunately, his guilt can also trigger his PTSD and nightmares which worsens his control even more. This causes Umemiya to avoid people until he calms down, which admittedly, isn't very easy for him to do on his own

The people who can are usually his foster father Yuki, his sister Kotoha and as an UmeSaku fan, eventually Sakura as well

The 4 Kings try to help and their presence helped a lot but it unfortunately doesn't stop the nightmares. It comes to the point where the lack of sleep and PTSD makes him dazed and not completely lucid when he's awake

So much so that muscle memory made him wander on the rooftop during a meeting to where there's no fence. He's not even close to it yet before he's suddenly pulled back hard enough that he stumbles and falls back into a terrified Sakura

Of course this causes a ruckus especially from Sugishita but Hiiragi quiets them when he sees the raw terror on Sakura's face and the dawning lucidity in Umemiya. When Umemiya tries to stumble away but couldn't because of his weary body, Sakura takes advantage to lay Umemiya's head down onto his lap and hugs him

"Stop, Umemiya." Sakura's voice is rough and shaky, doing his damnest to keep it steady even when fear makes it wobbly. Makes it harder to hide how close to tears he's in. Whispers so that only Umemiya can hear. "Please."

Because even though his family knows his history and the 4 Kings have been with him for years, Sakura's the only one he's ever told of all the times he tried to kill himself before

Which makes the terror and worry in heterochromic eyes all the more devastating

So Umemiya slumps into an exhausted heap and reaches up to gently pats Sakura's head. "I'm sorry, Sakura. I wasn't trying to- I just....I'm sorry."

"...idiot."

Umemiya laughs, half hysterical and half exhausted before blacking out

All in all, it'll take awhile for him to break the habit of carrying such self-destructive guilt but he'll get there especially with his trustworthy Kings and very stubborn kouhai right by him

____

I'll stop here for now. But if possible, I'd like to write a fic of this HC one day. Thanks for reading this far!

[foxedthecards]

Echoes of the past (that way you can do one for each if you want :3)

((Of course!!! 83))

Another time, another place.

Evening sun passes through the stained glass windows above his head, patches of red and yellow scattering themselves across the stairwell landing. The older boy's sneer curls across his lip as he looks down at him. He in turn looks back up, amber eyes cold and unblinking.

He's just turned thirteen

" Move out of my way, toad..." says the older boy. He's seventeen, older, larger and stronger. Anyone else would have moved.

" Make me, " he replies evenly.

That comment gets him a vicious strike right in the face as he's pushed aside into the wall. His nose and lip is bleeding. He can smell the iron, taste it. He lifts his head and continues to stare with those cold amber eyes.

" You catarrh-vomiting dog, " The words drip venomously from his blood-smeared mouth. " You and those shite-brained white-livered friends of yours. You drove him to that. "

The older boy stops in his tracks. He turns around and an ugly grin crosses his face.

" Ohhhh wait. You're the friend of that soft boy right? The fat one who tried to hang himself? " he chuckles walking back to him. " You were the one they found bawling like a cow trying to hold his legs up to save him. Aren't you a grand hero, now? "

He leans down a little closer. " They've gone and tossed him in the nutter's palace, haven't they? For trying to off himself. Reckon he'll try it again? Hah-hah...ULKKK!"

His hand had grabbed his tie and in a flash twisted it up tighter and tighter against his throat with increasing viciousness, relishing watching the older boy's eyes bulge out as he slapped and clawed at his hands.

A cruel smile crossed his youthful face.

In another quick moment, his heel hooked around the other boy's ankle and with a savage yank on the tie, he slung him around and down the stone stairs behind him, tearing his tie from his neck with a contemptuous flourish. The sound of his skull cracking against the stone was satisfying indeed.

He stood at the top of the stairs, watching the red spreading out over the steps, the sun shining red and yellow across the lifeless body sprawled there. He held up the tie.

His amber eyes were cold and indifferent.

" No hero..." he hissed. He flicked the tie away.

He was thirteen. He'd just killed someone for the first time in his life. It wouldn’t be the last.

No hero. He was an irredeemable monster...

[ca1e70]

she hates him. in this exact moment, she hates him. with his fingers down her throat and his hand holding her hair back, his own prescription pills are dangerously close to touching her tongue once again, and she hates him because she thinks he hates her for what she did.

he doesn't. not yet, at least. right now he's just scared and worried and upset and a little angry at her insistence to keep his antipsychotics down. they're still in the grace period of ingestion she doesn't need to go to the hospital. the grace period where he can piece together what was scattered on the bathroom floor with what he pulls out of her vomit and avoid a psych phonecall of his own.

she bites his fingers. he pulls her hair and digs in deeper. she doesn't even remember why she did this. why she's fumbling despite the assault to find more pills, finger tips snagging and palming them for later. as if he will turn his back on her for long enough to dry swallow them.

"youre like a fucking dog, throw up"

maybe she is. she always thought of herself like a cat, if she had to be any animal. calculated and adamant about her boundaries. only accepting of affection when she wanted it, when it fit her curated checklist, when the other person deserved it, but he was right. she was like a dog. she begged and pleaded and got into the trash when her owner was gone because any attention, even bad attention, was attention. she overdoses on his medication so she can be the most important thing in his life right now. she drinks herself sick, stupid, stumbling into his arms when the event allows so she can feel what it's like to be cared for. she doesn't like the now bloody fingers in her mouth. she likes when he rubs her back and holds her close and uses a wet washcloth to wipe the wine-filled bile from her chin so it doesn't stain. she stops fighting and lets it come up in his lap and over his hand. he's relieved, rather than disgusted. he lets go of her and she can feel herself tumbling eight stories onto bedrock bottom.

"how much did you take"

"I don't know, I didn't count," she coughs it up, wiping her mouth with the heel of her palm. Everything burns. "A handful?"

"a handful. great. good measurement"

is he mad? he sounds mad. he's worried, maybe frustrated. focused as he tries to count out the white pills fizzling in her throw-up. she tries to help by counting out the seven she has in her palm, but he reaches out to grab them from her like they would burn a hole through her hand if she held them a second longer, so she moves to put herself back together. her nose is running and her eyes are watering and her face is flushed and that isn't attractive. no wonder he's focused more on the pills than her. this is just like when her mother was more upset with the damage to their silverware and the fact the electrician couldnt come by to fix the kitchen wiring until friday. she didn't care that her daughters fingers were blackened, that her veins felt electrified. that she waited for hours until the woman came downstairs to jab that fork into the socket just to ensure she was there for the whole performance.

he looks handsome when he's focused. he looks better when he's focused on her, but this is close enough, for now. this isn't the time to think about the way he looks at her when shes underneath him with her hands in his hair instead. has he looked at someone else like that? is she second-best? third? is she just the only girl disturbed enough to hike her skirt up for him, or is she just the easiest? she's hard to stomach, she knows that, so there must be something in her he can't live without. he wouldn't have manhandled her like that when he came home.

"I could be dead by now. I thought you were good at math."

his jaw sets the same way it does before he punches a stranger at the bar in the face. she almost wants him to do it. to hit her. to let her corrupt yet another subsection of people he knows in his mind. another opportunity for him to think of her.

he doesn't. he keeps counting, carefully peeling each tablet off his jeans and dropping them into the empty bottle from the bathroom floor. she watches him for a while and she steals the lid from next to the toilet, so when he's done, he has to ask her for it back.