#Trigger warning: lack of care for life or suicide ideation

[asherisawkward]

I've heard some say that Belos is a boring villain because he only relies on religion, his god complex, angst, and trauma to keep the audience invested and lacks development. Do you believe that to be true?

There are factors of this that I both agree with and disagree with.

Prepare for another essay, because you triggered:

I am so sorry for rambling like this.

Philip is a fairly static character throughout the series, as most of his development occurred off screen in the past. So, I can understand why some people think he’s boring, but I find it really interesting in the way his behaviors and even lies reveal information about him.

Let’s start with the religion. Philip is an extremely devout person. He spent almost four hundred in what he believed to be Hell to save humanity from evil. But the way he uses the Titan as a manner to control people is indicative of what his life was like back on Gravesfield.

Puritan beliefs could be more described as the following: humans are born sinful and impure, you must devote your life to a strict set of standards and rules to try to make God happy, everyone is born predetermined to go to Heaven or Hell but will not know until after death, and death is the ultimate punishment for Adam’ and Eve’s sin. They also took great care in analyzing everything around them for signs of God’s pleasure or displeasure.

How much are those beliefs echoed in the cult he created on the Isles?

Philip absolutely has a God Complex, made clear by his repeated creation and termination of the Grimwalkers in an attempt to create the “perfect” Caleb. By doing that, he is claiming that God himself made his brother wrong and that he can do better. If that isn’t ego, I don’t know what is.

However, I’ve noticed a certain amount of behavior that could come across as self loathing or even an inferiority complex. Often, these behaviors are seen together with god/superiority complexes masking the insecurities that lie beneath.

The first evidence of this occurs when we see his face for the first time. Not the scar, but his ears. Many noted (correctly) that they were too small to be witch ears and looked more like cropped human ears. As we later find out, Philip cut parts of his ears off to blend in more thoroughly with BI society. He likely didn’t even need to do this due to the t of illusion stones (like the Blight twins use) that can modify his appearance. Alternatively, he could have simply covered his ears with his hair. Some braids or a specific hairstyle could have done the trick, but he chose to permanently scar himself.

Later, when we confirm the connection of Belos being Philip, we also find out that he carved glyphs on his arms to utilize magic. Once again, he could have stuck with his staff, as it doesn’t require such measures to utilize (see: Hunter and the other Grimwalkers), but he still chose to do something permanent and harmful to himself.

We can see this come to a head in a particularly dangerous move: consuming Palismen. This was likely never done before due to the taboo on harming a witch’s bond with them. And Philip decided he would crack one open and absorb its magic. It could have killed him! It was part of the reason why he was cursed. Those are serious consequences, and yet he continued for centuries, making his curse worse and worse like an addiction to drugs.

Also, remember what he said at the end of Elsewhere and Elsewhen? “It doesn’t matter. I just need to live long enough to see this through.” Those are not the words of someone who values his life. In fact, that statement has led me to believe that he didn’t intend on living in the Human Realm after the Day of Unity. I think he intended to die there so he wouldn’t be trapped in the place he hated forever.

Now for the fun parts: angst and trauma.

I sometimes feel that he’s made more overtly cruel than he probably would be at times in order to drive home the point that he’s evil, and I can understand that. However, Philip’s behavior towards the Grimwalkers was likely based on a mixture of him being a shit person, displacement theory, and the standards of punishment/child rearing he was used to.

From a storytelling standpoint, he’s incredibly useful as a driving force for multiple characters, and that makes him intriguing.

But here’s another detail I noticed: Philip considered the making of his Grimwalkers one of his worst memories. In Kings Tide, we see the paintings of him meeting his brother with Evelyn, Caleb’s body after the fight, and the first Grimwalker being made. And it’s that last one where Philip finally loses it.

The process of making Grimwalkers was incredibly traumatic for him, and the fact that he engaged in this behavior continuously over more than three hundred years indicates some form of emotional self harm. He forces himself to go through the stress and effort of painstakingly making and raising these beings to be the way he wants them to be. And they fail every single time. He even begins branding them to show that he intends for them to die, no matter what.

So what is the point of that? Why would he do that?

He’s cultivating the emotions he experienced when he lost his brother—the event that drove him to hold the goal of genocide instead of simply getting Caleb home. He has to keep doing this or he’ll lose the ability to stay motivated and continue his goal.

It’s incredibly tragic, and it implies he’s tired, that he wants it to be over.

Then again, considering that most of this is my over-analysis and not actually stated in canon, I may just be falling into the exact trap you suggested.

To conclude, Philip Wittebane is a character whose motivations for his actions and beliefs are largely implied as opposed to outright stated, and it can make him difficult to enjoy as a character. The majority of those who like him tend to either like his surface attributes/aesthetic or the depth that could have been revealed through scrutinization.

[lostgirlmuseum]

Give Me A Sign

Made with photos from Pinterest ^

Word Count: 2.3k

Pairing: Bucky x f!reader

Summary: Bucky asks the universe for a reason to live. The universe delivers you.

Warnings: HUGE WARNING, please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable! Heavy suicidal ideation, but happy ending. Please be very careful in considering if this is triggering for you. It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t read, your mental health and safety comes first.

A/N: I’m really sorry if this isn’t great, I wanted to do more but I kept getting stuck, and tbh I just want to post it as is instead of stress about it.

(Dividers from @saradika)

The air was unusually crisp the night Bucky snuck into the gardens of Cornelia Park. He had a faint memory of visiting once, in another century, with Steve. But that was then, and this is now. Now, Steve is dead. Bucky feels the weight of his entire history on his scarred shoulders. He feels out of place in such a green and flourishing area of flora. It’s wrong for him to be among such a place of peace and beauty, he finds it almost funny. Almost. 

He followed the path of lavenders into the private area of the park, surrounded by tall hedges. At the center stood an old stone statue, one he remembered from the last time he visited. Only now it looked much more worn and weathered. The statue was of an angel, a woman with wings. Her eyes were kind, her features soft, despite the stone. She held her arms out, one hand holding a lantern, the other beckoning him to hold. Instead, Bucky sat on the bench in front of her. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, apologizing for his very presence. He dropped his head into his hands.

And then he started crying. And his cries evolved to sobbing. He let himself cry, a privilege he rarely allowed himself. He let the tears flow, and they didn’t stop for what felt like hours. After forcing himself to pull himself together, he wiped his final tears from his cheeks and looked up to the black sky.

“Give me a sign, God.” His voice wavered.

“If you’re real, give me a sign to keep going. I’ve been at this a really long time. Just gimme— gimme a sign to keep going. That it will be worth it. Because life feels pretty damn bleak. And I know I should keep going, but I…”

The words wouldn’t come.

“I… fuck.” He looked back down at his hands. He thought about how much he hated those hands. He thought about how he wished he could wash the memories from his head like he does the blood from his palms, and how he wished he wasn’t Bucky Barnes. He thought about how he wished he had died at the bottom of that cliff, and how everyone would be better off if—

“Hello?”

A small voice shook him from his thoughts. He hadn’t even heard someone approach. But there you were, standing in the entrance of the hedge garden.

“Oh, hi,” you smiled, once you saw him. At least he thinks you smiled. It was hard for him to see you in the shadows. 

“Sorry,” he quickly apologized, once he realized he hadn’t said anything yet. He had just stared. He looked away from you and back at his lap.

“No need to be sorry,” you said, walking up to the bench he sat on, “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” 

He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to say. He too thought he was the only person there.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” You kindly asked, wrapping your white cardigan a bit tighter. 

That was when he looked up and saw your face in the light of the lantern for the first time. The first thing he thought was that you looked like you belonged there in the garden, unlike him. You could replace the angel statue, and its meaning would stay the same. 

“Go ahead,” he simply said. Although what he really thought was to warn you. Are you sure you want to sit next to him?

You took your place on the bench silently. Neither of you spoke for the first couple minutes. Bucky tried to focus on the sound of crickets, and the lack of traffic. 

He wasn’t sure why he stayed. If anything, his first thought should be to get up, walk away, escape. But he didn’t.

“My name is Y/N.” You softly said.

Stunned by your confession, he let his guard down.

“Bucky.” He half whispered back.

You simply hummed in response.

He could sense your gaze on him. It wasn’t malicious or judgemental; it felt curious and gentle. 

“Are you okay?”

His throat started to constrict again. He didn’t like that question, because he didn’t like the answer. He knows he’s not okay. But he doesn’t know how to say it. After struggling for a response for many seconds, he conceded to shaking his head softly. No.

“I hope it gets easier soon.” 

He felt the dam begin to break again. 

“It will get better someday,” you continued, “maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, or month, but someday it will get better.”

“How can you be so sure?” He choked.

“Life is like a pendulum, have you ever heard that before?”

“No.”

“Well, it is. Right now you’re swinging into the bad, but eventually you’re gonna swing right back into the good. It’s just physics. And it sucks in a way, because what’s the point of swinging into the light if it’s just gonna cast that shadow you’ll fall back into? But it’s also comforting to me, because I know as long as I keep pushing, I’ll end up on the other side.”

Bucky let your words ring in his ears. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to open up to you, but he did.

“I just keep asking myself why should I stay?”

“The trick is to find a new reason when you can. I think of one everyday.”

“What’s yours?” 

“Today?” You sighed and looked up at the stars. “I want to see the next snow.”

“That won’t be for months,” he said.

“Guess I’ll have to stick around then.” You gave a knowing smile.

“What should mine be?”

He knew there should be a million things, but they were all just out of reach of his mind.

“That’s up to you.”

Bucky didn’t say it, but he quickly came up with his reason to stay.

You. 

He told himself that he had to see you again.

Bucky went back the next night. And the next. And he kept going back, because you met him every night for a week until you finally asked him if he wanted to meet you for lunch. That was the start of your relationship. Soon enough Sam started asking where Bucky had gone so often. He wasn’t in his room all day anymore, and he seemed lighter. He wasn’t ‘fixed’, obviously, but he was better. It started to get easier to breathe. 

The pendulum had begun to swing in Bucky’s favor, and it stayed that way for months. He still had his days, as did you, but you were happy together. You supported each other. 

And then came a very tough week.

The anniversary of Steve’s death. 

The wound had reopened, and Bucky spiraled. He was a mess, a total mess, and you were there to comfort him. 

But your kindness reminded him of Steve, and how he wasn’t enough for him. If Bucky was good enough for Steve, he wouldn’t have left, right? 

Although Bucky knew you wouldn’t leave him. That was the problem. He was an anchor, and you held on. 

For your own good, he convinced himself he had to let go, if you wouldn’t.

The absence of warmth next to you woke you up. 

“Bucky?” You whispered. The clock blinked 4:13 A.M. 

No reply. You figured maybe he was sleeping on the couch, so you carefully sat up and waited a couple seconds before letting your bare feet touch the cold ground. Pulling your robe on from where it had fallen on the floor, you wiped the sleep from your eyes and padded over to the living room.

It was dark, and your eyes were still adjusting, but you could tell that he wasn’t there. You felt the rise of panic in your chest just before you spotted him standing on the balcony. 

He didn’t turn around to look at you as the door slid open and shut. He remained staring over the ledge at some unknown point.

“Hey, honey,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, as you walk up behind him and wrap your arms around him, giving him a big hug.

You hear his whimper before you feel his body shake.

“Y/N, I—”

“What’s wrong honey?” You quickly let go, turning him to face you. You notice his puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. His cheeks were rosy; you could tell he had been crying for a while.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look you in the eyes.

“Sorry for what?” 

“I’m sorry for everything.” He starts. “I’m too much. I don’t deserve you, you deserve someone easier. Someone better, someone— someone good.”

“But I love you, and you are good. Bucky, where is this coming from?” The concern was thick in your voice. Sure, he had been a little down lately, but nothing alerted you to this level of distress.

“Sweetheart, all I do is bring hardship into your life. You deserve to live,” he looks into your eyes earnestly, “I know I shackle you to me. I know you give up things to be with me. But you don’t have to anymore. I’m letting you free.”

You hold back a shiver.

“What are you talking about? I want to be with you. You’re scaring me.”

“It’s not fair that I’ve lived this long, and it’s not fair that I’m dragging you down with me. I’m a fucking burden, Y/N. At first to Steve, then Sam, and now you. I can’t keep adding to the list of lives I ruin.”

“Honey, listen to me. I need you to take a deep breath.” You place your hand on his bicep, and try to speak with an appropriate mix of confidence and compassion.

“I’m doing it now!” He shakes his head vigorously, wiping away his tears as if evidence that he’s stopped crying will convince you to go. “You should be sleeping, please go back to sleep. You shouldn’t have to watch over me and make me feel better.”

“How long have you been feeling this way?” You whisper, fearing that if you spoke any louder your voice would break with your heart.

He took a while to answer, biting his lip and looking around before finally responding.

“Do you remember when we first met? In the garden?” He looks at you, eyebrows drawn. As if you could actually forget. You nod.

“I wanted to—” his voice breaks and he looks down— “I went… I was thinking about—” it cracks again, and his throat is constricting itself around the words he can’t say. “I was thinking I was really going to do it. I had basically decided. And then right as I was asking God for one more chance, one reason to stay alive—you appeared. I thought God sent me an Angel. A real Angel.” His eyes sparkle before dimming again. “I tarnish you. You waste your goodness on me, and the world needs it more.”

You don’t like where this is going. You know you need to reel him back in, and fast.

“Look at me, Bucky Barnes. Look at me.” You grab his face firmly and make sure he’s seeing you.

“I’m a burden.” He crumbles.

“Then be my burden!” You cry. “I want you to be my burden. Maybe without you, my life would be ‘easier.’ But I don’t want it to be if it means a life without you.” You search his blue watery eyes, wiping a tear that starts to leak from one. “I don’t fucking choose ‘easier.’ I choose you, Bucky. My choice is to be with the love of my life. And if that means skipping a couple hours of sleep to comfort you, and staying in on weekends, and crying with you, that doesn’t change the fact that I am the luckiest person on Earth. This is my choice too, Bucky. Do you hear me?” You place your hands on both of his arms.

He closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath, and nods.

“I choose you.” 

He nods again, and bites his bottom lip.

“I choose you.” You repeat, not once looking away from him.

He whimpers.

“Say it. Can you say it, please?” You don’t want to push him, but you need to know that your point has been made clear.

“You choose me.” He whispers, before falling into your embrace, and tucking his head into your neck.

“I do. I really do.” You say, holding back your own tears as you rub his back.

“I’m sorry.”

You know telling him he has nothing to be sorry for won’t work, so you instead answer by agreeing. 

“Me too. I’m sorry you’ve been feeling this way. I’m sorry you struggle to see how much I need you, too. But we are going to be okay, okay?”

He sobs harder, holding you tighter. You feel his warm tears start to stain your shirt under the thin robe. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you hum.

“Don’t leave me,”

“I’m not going anywhere.” You promise, bringing one hand up to the nape of his neck and start gently playing with his hair. “Are you ready to go back inside? Do you want to lay down with me?”

Without pulling away from you, he nods. You wait for him to let go of you before going to grab his hand and leading him to the bed, but he stops you. Instead of letting you show him the way, he decides to pick you up bridal style and carry you to your room, knowing he couldn’t wait until laying down to have your body pressed against his. 

Once you were both settled under the cozy blankets, your bodies facing each other, his head on your chest and your hand rubbing his back in circular motions, he spoke drowsily, exhausted from his breakdown.

“I love you.” He mumbled.

“And I love you,” You cooed, placing a small kiss on his forehead before drifting off into your dreamless sleeps.

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. I know life can be a fucking shit show, but please stay alive. If you know someone who is struggling, consider reaching out to them. And if you yourself are struggling, please reach out to someone. And if you feel like there is no one to talk to, my asks/dms are open. You are not alone.

I don’t want anyone to read this fic and their takeaway is that if they have no partner, they are on their own. I choose you. Do you hear me? I choose you, and I implore you to choose yourself. Stay alive for yourself. Be spiteful against your depression. And if you’re one of those people who can’t help but say “I hate you,” to the mirror, and feel like you mean it, know that there is hope for you too. Because I was once that person. And with help, and time, I am able to say that I don’t hate myself. I can look in the mirror and appreciate who I am. Of course I still have my moments, but my point is that if you told me when I was at my lowest, that I’d one day be able to say “I love you” to the mirror without bursting out in tears, I’d call you a liar. 

(Sorry for making this A/N so long, hopefully someone can find comfort in it. I’m still here. And you should be too.)

[lordsammichsilas]

Medical File DN-407P Paladin Danse Patient symptoms included inability to sleep and a "dull throbbing pain in head." All standard tests are negative. Evidence suggests post-traumatic stress disorder or similar issue. Until severity of issue increases, recommend voluntary removal from active duty. Patient was informed, but is currently in the field.

Do we know if Knight Captain Cade's terminal entry for Danse was made before or after he set out with Gladius?

I'm guessing he saw Cade before the mission thinking he was just going in for headaches and assumed it was lack of sleep. To his surprise it led to a PTSD diagnosis prompting Cade to recommend Danse take some time off. Danse probably refused to accept the diagnosis and went on the mission anyway, hence the “patient was informed, but is currently in the field”.

Later on during the mission, Haylen would again diagnose Danse with PTSD (although she called it 'Battle Fatigue' in her terminal entry) and would recommend bed rest, which Danse would also refuse.

(The next part is a content warning for suicide ideation)

I think Danse was suicidal. It kind of reminds me of Preston where he describes just not caring what happened to him. Danse wasn't going to take his life with his own hands but instead would just keep doing mission after mission until he was ground down and eventually died in battle.

He actually cares about his squad, though, and his feelings of responsibility towards them kept him from actually doing it.

Tangent

That would actually make Blind Betrayal more climactic and sad because you get to see this arc where he starts to understand that people care about him and he finally gets to enjoy being close to someone just to have his life turned upside down. Only this time he doesn't want to die. He feels like he has to because of duty, which is the exact same excuse he would have used anyway to end his life.

In fact in that context when Maxson confronts the two of you leaving the bunker, pretty much everything he says is basically a huge PTSD trigger.

Tangent: I have a lot of thoughts on Maxson and Danse's relationship in general, but also the face that Maxson had sent Cade a memo telling him to take mental health seriously. Danse was the only one who had any kind of mental illness diagnosed. They decided to wait until his symptoms worsened and let him go on that mission anyway and just marked his case as “treated”. I'll do a separate post about that, though. I've digressed enough.

[thepraetor]

when: cloe and kay's birthday, the night of september 22nd where: cloe's office trigger warnings: mild depictions of gore, references to all the shit that has been going on in senatus in the past year, self-worth issues, semi-suicidal ideation almost?? its not that but feels almost like that OK?? mentions: @emmawrxght @dhcmpirs @meryasek

Happy Birthday to You

Funny, how much can change in a year. Funny, how much can be lost to the flames. A year ago, Cloe’s star had been on the rise, her appointment to the Senate approaching, and with it the opportunity to make everything she had dreamed since her mother’s murder a reality. A year ago, Emma had still been alive, untouched by the ravages of a necromanced soul. A year ago, Meryasek had been alive and the fey still had their courts. A year ago, countless of halfblooded had been alive, ready to flock Rome in the hopes of a brighter future. 

A future that had been taken away from them in the blink of an eye. 

A year ago, there had been hope for a better, brighter future. But now? Now those hopes laid at her feet, turned to ashes as she discarded the hopes for something better in order to hope for survival. A hope for her people’s survival despite being embroiled in a fight between gods and monsters, between an immovable object and an unstoppable force.  

Happy Birthday to You

She is weary, the weight on her shoulders making her wish that she could bow her back and bend to the pressure. Making her wish that she could sink into the embrace of oblivion and forget her worries and fears. It is a terribly fantastical notion to have the hopes of other halfblooded resting on her shoulders. To know that they look at her and see someone worth admiration, see their own personal Atlas holding up their sky for them in order to allow them a glimpse of the heaven they had been barred from. 

It’s almost enough to drive her to the bottom of a bottle, to drive her to try the pills that had proven so much of a temptation for Kay throughout the years. 

Almost.

Cloe wants oblivion, desperately wishes for moments of peace like the ones she had found on the Midsommar’s Masquerade, non-consensual cannibalism aside, but rarely has she allowed herself to make her life about what she wants. 

She had been the perfect daughter for Victor to done affection when he found it convenient, the mature child for Liliana not to worry throughout her late night shifts, the supporting friend to ensure Kay always had a friend to lean on, the charismatic speaker for those who wanted a voice in the Senate but did not have the reckless lack of self-worth that she did. 

Her entire life, she had been defined by what she could do for others, by her worth in their eyes rather than her own. 

She is a halfblooded faiman, after all.

Lucky to be alive, lucky to be born, but not too lucky for she is still lesser than her father’s family. Lucky to touch the magic that humanity cannot, but not too lucky for it makes her an easier prey for the Eye. 

To the world, her worth is on her blood, on what her magic can do. Not on her herself, never on herself. 

Not until she made herself worth something by being too loud to ignore, too self-sacrificing to care about the target she painted on her back by demanding to be heard before the Senate. That made her worth something, her willingness to put herself in danger to help others, her willingness to draw the eyes of all those who prey on her kind in hopes of making it mean something. 

Well, she had done just that. Gone above and beyond expectations, and what she had gotten for her troubles?

The guilt sitting on her shoulders as she entered Mutat Domum after the wedding to find it devoid of life in its entirety, countless of halfblooded she had sworn to protect gone in the blink of her eyes. 

Dead friends, the memories haunting her every time she looked at the mirror. The nightmares of Emma’s embrace as she consumed her magic, the nightmares which reminded her that for a moment, she had thought she deserved to be ended by her friend’s hand because Cloe had failed her like she had failed many others. The images of Meryasek’s death imprinted in the back of her eyelids, burned into her memory so that she sees the light on his eyes fading as Ayi’ig pulled his heart out every time she blinked. 

A year ago, she had believed that things would only get better. And now? Now, she has never felt so alone. Not even after her mother’s death. At least then, Kay had only been a call away. 

At least then, she had known Kay would always be there by her side. 

Except. 

Except, she had managed to fuck up even that on her race to make herself be worth more than she was, hadn’t she?

Happy Birthday Dear Kay Happy Birthday to You.

She sits alone in her dark office, brown eyes focused on the single lit candle placed delicately on the cupcake before her. There had been supposed to be two of them, painfully planned to match and still demonstrate Kay and her respective personalities. There had been supposed to be two of them, sitting across the desk as they sang each other happy birthday as it had been every year. No matter how far apart, no matter the continents spanning between the two, Cloe had always called Kay on their birthday, they had always shared a laugh about their coincidence of their birth. 

They had always, since they met— since they found that they were not alone, that they were not the only halfblooded around, that they had someone who understood right by their side—, they had always sang happy birthday to each other. 

Except. Except she had taken that for granted, thrown Kay’s efforts away without realizing that she had. She had lost her brother because of her pride, and she didn’t know how to get him back.  

She had tried to find him that morning. Tried to ask him to share the cupcakes she had made with her, but she hadn’t been able to find him. 

Not in his room in Mutat Domum, not on the training grounds, not in his apartment. 

He had been avoiding her, and she understood. But for a moment— For a moment, she had hoped that they could set it all aside for their birthday. 

How stupidly naive of her.

From good friends and true, From old friends and new, May good luck go with you, And happiness too.

The candle burns dimly, the wax pooling over the cupcake’s icing as she watches it blankly, unable to muster the strength to blow it out before it ruins the sweets taste.

She doesn’t want a fucking cupcake.

She wants everything that had been lost in the past year to return.

She wants, and wants and wants, but it has never been about what she had wanted, it has always been about what she could do. 

And what she could do is prevent any more grief, even if it means she has to take more burdens upon herself. 

She is already Icarus, flying too close to the sun.Might as well make it so when she goes, she goes down swinging.

[aaronstveit]

suicide ideation tw

as someone who is actively suicidal, its always so...strange? hard? overwhelming? to see people that have lost someone to suicide.

i often wonder if anyone will miss me once im gone. and i wonder if all those people that died from it would be happier if they had kept going.

its strange bc those individuals meant so so so so so much to people but now they r just a statistic. and its conflicting. like i feel like by reducing it down to "this many people kill themselves every year" we r disrespecting all those human lives. and it makes me feel like people dont actually think human lives are precious and important, at least not as much as they make it sound like they believe.

its overwhelming to see someone who still remembers their friend or their birthday after so many years. it makes me feel guilty for wanting to die bc i dont want to hurt people that i love the most.

its just...conflicting and confusing. im so sorry for your friend. but i think he'd be overjoyed to know that u still remember him and his birthday <3

trigger warnings for suicide, suicidal ideation

i was suicidal for several years and for so much time, the only thing that kept me alive was not wanting to put other people through the pain that i had felt. so please believe me when i say that i understand what you’re saying, anon. for years of my life, i was so alone with my sadness because i felt like expressing it or asking for help would be to admit to this deep selfishness about me - like there is anything about wanting to die that is selfish. it wasn’t fair to me and it isn’t fair to you.

i don’t believe in guilt or shame as tactics of suicide prevention, so you aren’t going to find that here. i can’t convince you to want to live, and i wish that i could, but since i can’t, i have no need to make you feel worse. i want to thank you for sending me this message, though, because i know that it couldn’t have been easy but i do believe that we’re all a little better when we say these things and we come to understand them a little better.

i can’t say that every single person who dies by suicide would be happier if they were still alive. but, at the risk of sounding completely corny and unbearable, i can say that they’ll never know if it would have gotten better. I know that suicide is a systemic problem that will never be solved with blasé posts about “checking on your strong friends” and compilations of phone numbers. and i know, logically, that it isn’t really a choice that you make. i’m not going to give you the whole “it gets better” thing because i’m sick to fucking death of it and i can imagine you are, too. but i will tell you that i am 100% sure that people would miss you if you died. i don’t have to know you to know that. even when we feel like nobody cares about us, there is someone who does. every single time.

i also don’t like when deaths by suicide are reduced to statistics, but i will say that every time i see one of those statistics, i think of my friend, and i imagine my pain multiplied all of those times, all of those communities irreversibly changed. to me, and to a lot of people who have lost someone this way i bet, it’s never a jumble of numbers. it is physical, unyielding pain. i don’t believe that there is a lack of compassion or love for other people, i think there is a lack of understanding. it is hard to conceptualize any of it - suicidal ideation, suicide, or the aftermath - without experiencing it. even hard then, often enough.

for the record, i don’t believe suicide prevention is pointless or hokey. i just believe that a lot of people are doing it wrong. the whole “hell” thing, the “coward” thing, it’s all so awful and cruel to people who are already suffering. but again, i don’t need to convince you of this.

i’m sorry this response is so strange and wordy. i don’t want to say the wrong thing, but i’m also not sure there���s exactly a right thing to say. people rarely want to have these conversations and i’m rarely the person they want to go to with it - a lot of people seem to think that the word “suicide” is going to break me in half (it won’t, by the way). all i know is that it’s been nearly nine years and i don’t miss or love my best friend any less for it. i think of him on his birthday and the anniversary of his death and every day between the two. i still message him on facebook sometimes, and i can’t remember what his laugh sounded like, which really hurts me to admit. i don’t say this to make you feel guilty. it isn’t your fault and i don’t want you to feel bad because of something you didn’t ask for in the first place. it’s just the truth. not your fault, not mine, not anybody else’s.

i hope that one day you don’t have this guilt and that you will want to live just for the sake of living. i hope that it really does get better for you, corniness be damned. i hope that you understand that you really are loved, simply by the virtue of being a human being with inherent worth. i love you, and i don’t even know you. i love you because our paths have crossed, however unlikely, and you have had a real impact on my heart. i hope you believe me when i say that.

if you ever want to come back and talk more, about this or anything else, my ask and DMs are always open. come anonymously or not, to talk about grief or guilt or a tv show or anything else on the face of the earth. i am always here, and i mean that, from the bottom of my heart. other people are all we’ve got.

i apologize if i am overly sentimental or ridiculous but i do genuinely believe every word that i have typed here & i hope that they mean something to you 💛

[the-new-me-8]

Are you there god…it’s me.

(Warnings!!! Mentions of religious trauma, suicidal ideation (in the past tense), and some trauma. if that will trigger you feel free to scroll past.

I grew up with an absent God.

I only heard stories of his greatness.

Never seen and never heard.

But I was assured

That he he existed.

He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t just in my head.

He was real despite the fact that I couldn’t feel.

And when I cried and sobbed in the corner

Hoping that this pain would be a former…

Occurrence. He never showed up.

The yelling continued.

The crying continued.

The hatred ensued.

And I just wanted to be with you.

But you never came.

You never saved the day.

I remember when I realized that what I was asking was to die…

I remember I couldn’t do anything but laugh.

At school I was reminded why those that didn’t believe in you were separate.

I was slapped for swearing.

Praised for sharing.

Threatened for showing skin.

Because that would mean that I was something akin to sin.

I hated myself.

I hated my body.

I hated my thoughts my feelings.

Because everyone told me they were wrong.

And every year I waited for the end of the world.

I waited so long till I realized…

It wasn’t gonna happen

Not quickly at least.

No.

I learned that our world will most like erupt into a dangerous dystopia.

That we will bake beneath our sun.

Who use to be the only one that would bring us joy after a long winter.

While some with tsunami’s and earthquakes others will bake like an egg on the side of the road.

We will be our own demise.

And you have a plan or so I’m told.

And I hear it’s something to behold.

But everytime I get so scared.

And I wounder If you ever really cared.

Where do I give credit?

I was forced to believe in you and I did and I loved you with everything I had and now I realize…I didn’t know who or what you were.

Our relationship was built off of lies and lack of knowledge.

I was lazy and didn’t want to acknowledge that I didn’t fully believe in what the priest were preaching.

But how do you tell Christian’s that the love they were screeching made you hate yourself.

I don’t hate you. I do believe in you. I know there is a God there is a source.

Like of course.

But I don’t know much about you.

I found a practice I like a lot.

Sometimes I wonder if you lead me to it or not.

I am healing my relationship with you and with myself.

I am taking self love off the shelf, replacing it with humbleness, and stepping into a life full of bliss.

I will no longer hate myself.

I know it wasn’t because of you.

Humans can be nasty. Humans lie.

I still love you. But now I’m gonna learn to love me too.

- Ari Crooks

[futuremrscameron]

trigger warnings: implied suicidal ideation, mentions of depression

this could just be me projecting onto him but he’s empty here.

“wdym by he’s empty?” okay so quick personal tangent i have depression and during particularly bad episodes of depression i feel empty

now i can’t speak for others with depression but when i say/feel “empty” i don’t mean numb because at least numb implies feeling or a lack thereof like yk it’s there you’re just not feeling it at the moment no “empty” is complete nothingness. i may cry but it’s not because i feel something it’s because i feel nothing like a hollow shell like i’ve given up on life and i know it and it’s scary cause feeling nothing will let you do anything. honestly best way i can describe it is the sunken place (i hope and pray y’all have seen get out), what the sunken place looks like that’s what being “empty” feels like

anyway enough about me, back to rafe; at first he freaks out and tells wars something’s wrong with him, he’s crying, he’s scared, he’s even a little frustrated that ward cares more about saving face to those around them then caring for him but after ward tells him to man up his face goes blank. it’s like he’s shit down he’s not numb to his feelings they’re all just gone, he realizes how truly alone he is and it’s like his heart’s dropped to his stomach. in this moment nothing matters anymore, no one matters, not him, not ward, not sarah. he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. if a tear fell down his stoic face i wouldn’t be surprised.

rafe’s fluoride stare is one of my favourite things about him. i am so desperate to know what goes on behind the veil.. let me in pls i can’t help u but i still need to know.

he’s usually so brutish but when this happens it’s like his soul retreats entirely, truly all the life leaves him.

[juvenalesque]

TRIGGER WARNING; CONTENT WARNING; unalive conversation.

There's an elephant in the room in the neurodivergent AND neurotypical communities to the point where many think everyone has one in their room. It is a feeling that we fear feeling, and we dare not say it exists aloud. We hold it in so tightly that we don't tell our counselors. For many, it is a reason to avoid counseling all together. The elephant's name is called "passive suicidal ideation," medically, and commonly called just "living the dream," because saying "I don't want to or care if I wake up tomorrow" isn't socially acceptable. 

It's "I can't think about that." It's "I accept that I don't care if I weren't alive, but I will also not do anything to make that happen." 

It's taboo. You can't tell anyone. You are afraid someone will tell. Even those of us on medications that make it easier to exist are afraid to tell. It's not allowed. You are very sick if you feel hopeless. Current life will just have to be bearable alone, we think. We just have to live with this heavy cloud, alone. We don't do anything to cause our lives to end, even if we don't really take very good care of ourselves. We just have apathy or displeasure, times of depression and times that lack joy. We call accepting it "staring into the void," because admitting we aren't afraid of death would scare some people. We don't care if we stop living, though. We can't tell anyone. We don't want to cause pain for people we care about. We aren't planning on death. We just don't care. Why does society make the only options to endure in silence or be, essentially, punished for feeling helpless? We should be allowed to feel every emotion, including the ones that hurt us. Is it really so wrong to admit that we aren't satisfied with our lives the way they are?

Maybe feeling deeply unsatisfied or hopeless about life is just something that is a side effect of our living conditions and the future of society we see coming. Maybe that hopelessness isn't rooted in mental illness for everyone. For some, Maybe it's something that if talked about, might be a reason to have hope after all. If we all were open about being unsatisfied with our living conditions, we might actually be able to change some of them together that we can't change alone, maybe even with very little effort. Who knows? Not us. We can't tell anyone. 

Isn't it more likely that even among the mentally ill, better living conditions would reduce feelings of displeasure and apathy? If struggle wasn't a constant state of being that everyone battles? That society is the issue sometimes, not always the individual? Why can't anyone say they don't mind death out loud? It's different from saying we will cause it deliberately, isn't it?

If you ask for help from a mental health professional, the solution is known to many as "A grippy-sock vacation." It is taking away your autonomy and forcing hospitalization, until you can convince a doctor you feel better: a place where they give you a hospital gown and non-slip socks, taking away all your possessions & contact to the outside world. A lot of people have been forced through that experience. It is incredibly taxing and costly. So, we are too scared to tell anybody. If we want help for our other issues, we cannot admit this feeling out loud. You can't fix a hole in the boat if nobody will admit it's there. Maybe we could find other ways to make each other a little less apathetic, life just a bit less stressful. Some small changes could make such big differences. Maybe he needs an extra hug and she just needs an extra $50. Maybe they just want a friend and xie just wants a few days to relax. Maybe he feels hopeless because he needs to spend more than 40 hours of his life in a place he hates so he has a roof over his head, transportation, & food. Everybody might need different help but when do we consider that help might not always be medical? Maybe they have a mental illness. Maybe they have a neurotype that the world isn't easily accessible for. Maybe it's medical, sure, but what about when it isn't? Shouldn't the conversation be allowed without the threat of losing autonomy? 

It's the elephant in the room.

Why don't we start talking about it? 

[voicefromthecorner]

Shoka’s Telewarp Essay (from YouTube)

I’ve been on a bit of a TWEWY binge since beating NEO and I came across a remarkably good essay in the YouTube comment section of NicoB’s NEO Playthrough ending, linked here.

Link to the specific comment here.

The essay is about Shoka and what her character’s ‘Telewarp’ power represents. It’s a really good essay in general that massively cracks open Shoka’s perspective and experiences that I just had to share it here. YouTube’s comment sections are often justifiably called a den of snakes, but there are some gems in there that some people type out just because they can.

I’ve tried my best to screencap it at a decent size and quality but Tumblr may make mincemeat out of it so there’s a transcript below.

Fair warning beforehand, the essay delves into Shoka’s “passive suicidal ideation”:

I can honestly say that “Shoka’s Telewarp ability allowing her to take her friends to out-of-reach and usually very high up places is indicative of her lack of regard for her own life and how her sole set of values are on other people around her” was not something on my NEO TWEWY bingo card, but special thanks to thebigchungus 451 for drawing so much attention to that and the plethora of other behind-the-scenes issues that Shoka was facing that make her an even more tragic character than she always seemed on the surface.

Even after the liveblog is done and I’ve finished the main story, I have a quota of “Poor Shoka” lines to meet!

Transcript:

 43:23 This entire segment [The scene between Shoka and Rindo after Shiba reveals that Shoka is going to be erased for leaving the Reapers] is so interesting to me because it reveals so many layers to Shoka’s character. Throughout NEO, the main cast are shown to have the ability to use unique kinds of Psychs and these tie into their character traits/arcs.

Rindo is indecisive and can’t be arsed to make decisions, to the point that he couldn’t even decide what to eat before he found out about An0ther and decided to live his life by teachings without understanding what they truly meant and thus, he has the ability to time travel and redo his mistakes.

Fret is shown to have PTSD regarding his inability to prevent his best friend from committing suicide and has trouble with being genuine to his true self, so his ability is to trigger people’s thoughts and memories and on the very final day, he’s able to remind the people of Shibuya of their true selves after being subjected to Shibuya Syndrome.

Nagi is highly empathetic, sometimes dangerously so and is shown to be reluctant when it comes to trying to understand certain types of people so she has the ability to dive into people’s hearts and get a feel for their true selves.

A consistent part of Beat’s characterization is his inability to be there in time for the people he cares about most and his frustration over said inability, such as when he failed to save Rhyme multiple times in the OG and his failure in saving Neku from getting shot by Coco in A New Day, so naturally he has super speed, with said ability being tied to his desire to never again be too late to protect his loved ones.

And finally, there’s Shoka and her Telewarp ability and how this ties into a core aspect of her character: her passive suicidal ideation.

Throughout the game, it is shown that she has little-to-no regard for her own life unless it concerns the people she cares about and even then, she’ll still toss it away for them if the stakes are high enough. Ayano is possessed and is about to attack the party? Shoka throws caution to the wind, ignoring Rindo’s warnings, and almost gets herself killed. Her reaction to her inevitable Erasure at the end of the week due to her not being a Reaper anymore? She’s more concerned about how it will effect Rindo rather than how she’s going to, well, fade away from existence. Hell, when Shiba offers her a chance to become a Reaper again, she refuses, not wanting spend another moment of her unlife watching life around her pass by.

And that’s not even getting into how Telewarp has the tendency to teleport her and the others to high places/ledges or how she tells Rindo that she preferred Erasure over going back to the RG when they talk before fighting Ayano.

She has the tendency to isolate and distance herself emotionally from others, even from those she’s closest to (such as Ayano and Rindo), is painfully bored with life (or afterlife, as the case may be) to the point of losing interest in things she once found enjoyment in, such as her Reaper duties and is oftentimes cynical and pessimistic, having a hard time mustering the willpower to fight for things she believes in, which is partially why it takes her until Week 3 to stand up to Shiba and the other Shinjuku Reapers for both Rindo’s and Shibuya’s sake.

And honestly it’s no wonder why when you consider the events that happened: the small new life you've created for yourself after escaping your depressive old one implodes because your boss has seemingly lost his mind and helped blow up your city, one of your friends (Tsugumi) gets lobotomized into a robot and your boss tells you to fuck off instead of telling you why, another friend (Susukichi) gets conscripted to be a fake player all day every day, the boss's best friend (Hishima) has pulled away since he went crazy, the woman who you see as your big sister and has been taking care of you this whole time (Ayano) has to take his place instead, and then there's the creepy old guy (Kubo) you always hated.

You then have to spend every day for years on end supervising a BS game where nothing matters because your boss will just declare his own secret team the winner every time anyway and all you do is supervise the players you've been assigned to and make sure they keep marching into the meat grinder day after day by upholding the lie that they could win the game and escape. Over time, you start to realize you are complicit in the murder of probably hundreds of people all so you can blow up a city and murder millions more. You then lose faith in the mission but have to keep going along with it because no one is willing to betray their old friend even if he's nuts now. Your honeymoon phase with your powers is over because what's even the point when you can only use it on small fry players that can't challenge you at all and your friends have all been pulled away from you and so you probably spend most of your evenings alone. And her one reprieve from all of this? Talking to the one online friend she has that she met through a PokemonGo Clone and giving them advice, which is no wonder why she cares so much for Rindo and would rather get Erased than go back to being a Reaper.

Her biggest sources of conflict with leaving the Shinjuku Reapers was leaving those she cared about, such as Ayano and Susukichi. Her own existence never really mattered to her; she never questioned once whether she was willing to give up her own life for Shibuya’s sake. Ayano did—Ayano fought to have Shoka rejoin the Reapers for that very reason. But Shoka herself didn’t care very much. You even see hints at this too on Week 3 Day 2 when the wall Reaper you talk to in Dogenzaka starts to talk about how he can’t blame Ayano for freaking out over Shoka because they all know what happens to former Reapers at the end of the week and Shoka is shown to be briefly saddened by this.

And finally, there’s about how she didn’t tell Rindo the truth about her identity until she was literally on the verge of dying in the second-to-last timeline: she didn’t want Rindo to go through the heartbreak of finding out that he got to be with his best friend before she inevitably dies at the end of the week and was content to die without him ever finding out. It was only when Erasure seemed inevitable for ALL of them (which isn’t helped by how the Noise gets stronger with each time jump) that she goes “fuck it” and tells him the truth.

This is honestly a part of why I love NEO’s character writing more than the original’s (which is still very strong, mind you). All of these little details are so subtle but when you put them all together, it paints a really strong and consistent picture of the characters that helps to flesh them out beyond what you see on the surface.

[wedreamedlove]

Untamable - Osborn Character Update

First, this is an update to Osborn in Love. Second, please put Lonely Warrior in the BGM—just kidding, although it is an amazingly apt song for Osborn.

Spoilers up to Chapter 13 and especially Osborn's [SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY]. Trigger warning for sensitive subjects such as suicidal ideation, rape, and physical and emotional abuse.

In my previous essay, I said "Osborn carved out his own space and views the world as something that just exists, like himself. To Osborn, the world isn’t something to be disappointed by or to rage at and blame, there are only setbacks you need to overcome, nothing more or less" but this couldn't be farther from the truth. Osborn's talent for flames is really too fitting because he is the epitome of wrath, cleansing and punishing flames, and endlessly burning vitality.

Where to begin? Perhaps the tragedy starts with how he was abandoned by his mother at 9 years old.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 14 Years Ago Early Spring]

To leave, the definition of that in the dictionary is to be separated from a person or place.

[...]

It turns out that the true meaning of "to leave" is called not being wanted.

[...]

I walked out in a daze. It's strange, but at the time I didn't feel particularly sad. I couldn't even cry, I just didn't know what to do next. As I walked I thought, from this moment on, I don't know anyone in this world and if I disappear, maybe no one would know.

[...]

[...] For a split second, I felt as if I was standing on the shore, waves hitting my face. I raised my head and shouted, I'll return my body to you.

I'm incomparably looking forward to the moment I kill myself. At least that proves that, at the very end, before the world abandons me, I severed my relationship with it first.

Okay, this requires some explanation. Nezha, a Chinese deity, is Osborn's thematic story. The important points to take away from this story is that, after defending his friends from the Dragon King, Nezha is pushed to commit suicide to save everyone — carving up his flesh and blood to give to his mother and dismembering his bones to return to his father. Later, he gets resurrected. He also has great enmity with his father, who felt that Nezha caused too much trouble to their family and viewed him as a demon.

Osborn views "returning his body" to his parents as cutting ties with them, because they abandoned him and so he has no obligation to them either. However, on the cusp of this despair, he meets one of the few lights in his life, Ye Chuan, who adopts him.

(Incidentally, this memory pretty much confirms that Osborn and Evan are half-brothers, but I will talk about this at the end of the essay because that isn't the focus.)

Despite being adopted, Osborn's scars from being abandoned were too fresh and he struggled with contradictory thoughts like hating his parents, but dreaming about them, but then waking up and hating himself for dreaming about them. He had no way of telling anyone these thoughts and so he became withdrawn, lonely, and wanted for a place where he could truly hide or reveal everything without fear. This is the basis of his pursuit for freedom.

Meanwhile, for four years, he lived on tenterhooks of not acknowledging Ye Chuan as his father because he felt that, sooner or later, Ye Chuan would abandon him too. But at the same time he knew that his lack of currying favor would make it so that Ye Chuan would never love him. The only thing he asked Ye Chuan for was to chase him out if Ye Chuan ever regretted adopting him, because Osborn never wanted to experience coming home to an empty house again.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 10 Years Ago Midsummer]

I never let Ye Chuan take care of anything for school and he also fulfilled his duties carefully and prudently, acting as a good transparent guardian. Even if I got into huge trouble, he wouldn't show up. That was an indescribable freedom and the more they called me a wild bastard, the happier I felt. It was as if I finally stopped being restrained by the world.

Whenever I sat on the wall of the school, looking at the sky where dusk and night met, the wandering on the streets with nowhere to go many years ago and the impulse of wanting to die together with everything could no longer control me. I broke free from them.

I thought that Osborn, while bitter, accepted his ostracization from the world and carved out his own space; however, he struggled a lot to reach his current outlook. He once hated the world so much he wanted to cut ties with it first, he wanted to take down everything with him, and it's honestly a miracle he escapes these thoughts on his own. There are way too many examples in real life of people being so disillusioned with the world that they go on to do school shootings, etc.

Now, we move onto what might easily be the most momentous moment of his life. In junior high school, Osborn discovered the Piano Room Game, where the principal raped girls in the piano room. Other students seemed to know about this, but they were either too afraid to do anything or covered their mouths and smiled lewdly.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 10 Years Ago Midsummer]

I told a teacher about this, but he looked at me with very calm eyes and told me that it was just tutoring. It wasn't until I stood in the office for a whole day that I suddenly realized this place was rotten to the core.

If you want to rot, then rot. I will never bow my head.

It's indescribable how Osborn has the courage to take immediate action when he perceives a wrong has happened. He was only 13 years old here and braver than anyone, although of course his methods can be called into question, but Osborn has never walked a road of pure light.

He took a wooden gun, no different in appearance from a real gun, and confronted the principal to get him to confess his crimes. However, seeing the principal's fear, Osborn lowered the gun and thought that maybe the principal was just muddled and would change for the better. This costed him greatly and the principal attacked him.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 10 Years Ago Midsummer]

My back hurt from being stepped on, but it made me even more clear. If I had to say a regret, there was only this: I will not kill myself, I will lift my sword again and defeat him.

As I mentioned, Nezha is Osborn's thematic story and gets brought up again and again. Here, Osborn viewed the principal as the Dragon King and was planning to take him down and then kill himself. But this moment forms Osborn's untamable core and how he endlessly burns with vitality and personal principles in the face of people, society, and the world against him.

The whole matter escalated, with the principal staging a whole play about Osborn slandering and attacking him, so it was decided that Osborn needed to get sent to a youth detention center. Ye Chuan tried to beg for leniency but Osborn refused to bow his head to these people.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 10 Years Ago Late Autumn]

O: You want an apology? Sure.

O: I was wrong, if given another chance, I definitely wouldn't have grabbed a wooden gun.

I'm not going to lie, I was laughing and crying here because Osborn and I share similarities. The moment I heard a demand for an apology, my reaction was "Apologize? Sure. I'm sorry I didn't kill you then and there".

[CHAPTER 13-19]

O: [Ye Chuan] didn't send me in. Although, at the time, I almost thought he didn't want me and was very angry for a while.

O: But in fact, except for him, everyone else probably thought I should be sent in and "educated" well.

O: Even though they don't understand at all, they can casually make assertions about other people's lives.

O: Those students who were sent into Yuda Academy were like me, believed to be "hopeless".

Do you still remember the start of the game?

[CHAPTER 3-14]

Since he said I could sense things... I shot out my hand, covering Osborn's bone necklace.

A feeling of rage exploded in my heart followed by an icy sensation of not belonging anywhere, as if an innocent person was being blamed by the entire world.

At this point, Osborn believed that even Ye Chuan didn't believe him when he called the principal a rapist. (The truth is that Ye Chuan was thinking about Osborn's future and wanted to do anything to save Osborn from pain.)

By the way, the heroine touched his bone necklace to get those emotions and it has its own description.

[SKULL NECKLACE]

Death in the old past, reborn in the new future.

Hello!? Is this not another Nezha reference!? Returning his flesh, blood, and bones to his parents? Then getting resurrected again!? Metaphorically, of course.

Fast forwarding, Osborn entered juvie for a year and then immediately went after the principal again after he got out. Here, he explicitly thinks [SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 8 Years Ago Early Summer] "Evil intertwined with power cannot be defeated by justice alone. The past had taught him this deeply." So, he installed a camera in the piano room and got a recording of the rape to give to the board members of the school.

However, the principal was only removed from his position as a principal and then placed in another position. Another example of society failing its victims. Osborn then confronted the principal in an alley with a wooden bat. He lost... again. It's terribly sad that Osborn's conscience refused to let him use his flames on the principal because, even though the principal was an evildoer, he was an ordinary person doing evil.

Osborn got sent into juvie again, except then he got transferred even farther into Yuda Academy. It's suspected that this place is based off of Yuzhang Academy in real life. Please note the trigger warnings in that article. Unfortunately, Osborn fell into the misunderstanding that Ye Chuan finally abandoned him too, when the truth was just that the detention center people told Ye Chuan that Osborn didn't want to see him, which Ye Chuan thought was because he went to beg the school again.

Anyway, there's no other way to put this except calling Yuda Academy a literal hell on earth. Students had no right to say "no", they would be beaten for anything, they underwent electric shock torture, and had to destroy their self-esteem by reporting their faults, etc. Suicide was the only thing the students hoped for. (The supernatural game aspect for this was because it made it easier to remove their souls for the Blood Clan.)

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 8 Years Ago Early Summer]

After waking up, he climbed to the edge of the rooftop and looked at the rusty red marks on the concrete floor that couldn't be washed away, as if they were a silent accusation.

So long as he jumped, he could escape everything.

Will anyone grieve for me? Will anyone care about my death? Osborn blankly thought.

O: The person who cares most might be Principal Xu.

Osborn laughed self-derisively at himself twice but, when he thought about this, he took two steps back.

He had to live until those people were punished.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 8 Years Ago Early Summer]

Zhou Weicheng: Have you thought about what you want to do in the future

[...]

O: I'm going to be an evil person.

Osborn stared at the moon intently, as if something was about to ignite in his eyes.

O: I want to see with my own eyes that those people who commit crimes and sins get the punishment they deserve.

ZWC: Then why don't you be a police officer who punishes evil and upholds good?

O: Good people are limited by many things, but evil people aren't.

O: If it's possible, I don't want to have kindness or compassion at all, they'll just ruin me.

The cruel irony of these scenes is how Osborn's spite to live on and see the principal punished might have been what kept him going in this hell. There are also previous examples of how Osborn's "goodness" made him lower the gun and refuse to use his flames. However, even after literally getting half of his soul removed, it's impossible to call Osborn evil. The thesis of Chapter 13 and 14 is Charlie's question in the PV "What exactly is good and what is evil? Can you tell me?".

In the future, Osborn engineered a "car accident" to kill the director of Yuda Academy. That certainly isn't a good act. However, if justice was not served in this case, then isn't he delivering said justice to the victims?

Either way, I was in pain with the realization that every time Osborn tells the heroine he's "not a good person" he means that literally, because he wanted to grow up to be an evil person and removed the good half of his soul. LIGHT AND NIGHT!! WAY TO MAKE A CATCHPHRASE HURT LIKE HELL!! But would an evil person take in strays? Would an evil person carry out their dead friend's wish and take care of their friend's little brother?

Would an evil person take care of their adoptive father with Alzheimer's disease? After Osborn escaped Yuda Academy, the misunderstanding between him and Ye Chuan got cleared but it also led to the discovery of Ye Chuan having this disease, which Osborn blames himself for causing. Here we enter another incredibly sad story about how taxing it was for a 17 year old to support his sick father. Osborn would beg the neighbors to watch Ye Chuan in the morning while he went to school, then he would come back and work at a night club for money, and he would barely get any sleep for fear of Ye Chuan having an accident at night.

Once again, we see how people at Osborn's new school judged him as being a problem student because he was always sleeping in class. However, once the truth about his situation came out, everyone gave him pitying looks and were encouraged to "help" him out. (It's amazing how this made me feel just as bad, if not worse, than when he was being misunderstood.)

It was at this age that Osborn entered racing and the bounty hunter guild, because Merodach was the owner of a racing club and introduced him to both when he learned that Osborn needed a large amount of money and didn't care about the danger. This is another stab to my heart, because we know he's now genuinely passionate about racing and chooses bounty hunter missions that pique his curiosity but the origin of all that was this.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 6 Years Ago Early Autumn]

In the fierce wind, he tore through the track, brushing past death. The wind was strong to the point of making it hard for him to breathe, but he felt that the world he had been fighting for 17 years seemed to finally be unable to defeat him, at least this time they were evenly matched.

His body that had been heavy for so many years finally became a little lighter. He began to imagine that he was a dove or a spray of waves and the wind was so strong that he could easily follow the wind and soar up into the distant sky.

From childhood to adulthood, everything he did was to leave this place.

The world was a wasteland, but he could go far away and find some good scenery. Even just taking a look would be nice.

He even thought that, after earning money, he could buy better medicine and maybe Ye Chuan would gradually get better, and then he would take him to leave this place. The world was so big there had to be a place that belonged to them.

However, as if it were law, there was always something a little sweet before fate took a sharp turn. Ye Chuan's condition suddenly deteriorated.

Osborn decisively broke his wings, making it so that he could never leave this land.

Doesn't this really put into perspective his thoughts on pursuing freedom? [CHAPTER 3-03] "Everything in life requires me to endure and think, only racing tells me to go forward." It also explains why he's so flippant about death because he's practically brushed shoulders with it his entire life.

Anyway, I cannot emphasize enough how well-written this part was and how Osborn's exhaustion slowly built and built until, one day, he had the terribly dark thought of how easy things would be if Ye Chuan was gone. Of course, he felt guilt for these thoughts but the seed was planted.

[SSR The 400 Blows TRAJECTORY - 6 Years Ago Early Autumn]

—[Ye Chuan] was lost, just like that fleeting thought he had.

In this minute moment, [Osborn] felt a trace of lightness at being set free, but what followed immediately was a great panic.

He felt that it was hard for him to breathe, as if in the next second the world he had been working so hard to maintain would collapse.

O: Ye Chuan! YE CHUAN! WHERE ARE YOU? YE CHUAN!

Osborn pushed aside the crowd, searching desperately. He saw the exit of the street market and how dazzling light poured in from there. As long as he walked over, he could immediately seize his freedom.

The freedom he had worked hard for all these years, but could never grasp.

Osborn's steps paused and he glanced at that light-filled exit before he turned his head and walked in the opposite direction.

[...]

O: ... Dad.

His hand grasped him tightly and the two clasped hands were like a fragile string, tying two unrelated individuals together.

It turned out that the desire for freedom was just because there were no attachments.

Now, he decided to trade some freedom for another sort of freedom.

I can't stop thinking about how godly the writers are for fleshing out Osborn's pursuit of freedom this much. He inherently enjoys exploring the world and moving forward, but at the same time freedom is his escape and venting method. It's both his passion and his comfort. However, there really is no need to be afraid of him disappearing because he already knows how precious attachments are.

[SSR Within Reach DATE]

O: If you didn't point it out I wouldn't have noticed. Freedom and wandering are no longer my life's whole meaning.

O: Maybe life is like our trip today, needing to move forward without stopping.

O: After experiencing excitement, the rest area is especially warm but, after staying in a comfort zone for a long time, I want to explore the outside world again.

[SSR Flaming Smoke and Dust DATE]

MC: Actually, I'm really curious, are everyone's missions so dangerous...? Are you used to those kinds of scenes?

O: I don't have the same taste as Ni Dalong, so I rarely take these commissions.

O: He likes the well-paid ones, and I... just pick ones that interest me.

MC: Just the ones that interest you? What are you interested in then?

O: Things that pique my curiosity.

O: I want to see all kinds of people in this world and all kinds of way to live. Something like this.

MC: You really are different from everyone.

O: Really? Maybe everyone wants something different in this world.

[SSR Spring Tease DATE]

MC: I used to feel you were like a gust of unrestrained wind, going wherever you pleased, and not stopping for anyone.

O: I haven't been that now in a long time.

Osborn's pale green eyes twinkled with light as he bent down and embraced me, pressing our foreheads together.

MC: Mhm, I know. So I wanted to tell you that if you're a kite then I want to be the string that binds you.

MC: No matter where you go, I just need to gently pull the string in my hand and I can feel your presence.

MC: Even if one day everyone forgets you, I'll still remember you.

I will remember your appearance, your voice, and every little thing you experienced.

MC: So, you don't need to envy others anymore.

MC: In this world, you'll always have me thinking about you.

I confessed my thoughts completely, feeling my heart pound in my chest.

It wasn't out of nervousness, but rather the surge of overflowing emotions from within.

Osborn tightened his arms and pulled me entirely into his arms. I also reached out and hugged him back.

A hot breath fell on my neck and then, in the next second, became a warm touch.

O: Silly girl...

O: In the past, I was always used to deciding everything on my own.

O: Where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do, it was whatever I wanted.

O: You’re the only one who makes me willingly obedient.

Osborn's scorching voice landed in my ears and it also seemed to land in my heart.

O: It's a promise then. From now on, I'll be your kite.

O: But there's one condition, once you hold it, you're not allowed to let go.

Some part of Osborn still fears being abandoned and so the heroine truly is a light in his life, not only acknowledging that his flames don't make him a monster but also constantly providing him unconditional love and a home.

Extraneous Thoughts

Okay, so I wanted to bring up Osborn and Evan's relationship again because it's quite exquisite. One comment put it best: Osborn tries his hardest to live while Evan wants to die.

When they met each other, Evan was 12 years old and Osborn was 9 years old, so I'm pretty sure they remember each other. However, I don't think they're that antagonistic to each other and one behind the scenes episode described it best by calling them rivals, because they are opposites of each other. It wasn't like one person took love or resources away from the other person, they both had extremely shitty lives LOL.

Evan was actually the one who helped Osborn escape the castle by opening a secret door. Osborn also invited Evan to run away together with him. However, Evan refused and only looked on enviously as Osborn ran towards the light because Evan felt like he was committing an offense for having that longing.

Two boys, two different choices, two different outlooks. Excuse me as I sigh in admiration at how my biases ended up being foils of each other and related. I really know how to pick them. Makes me feel kind of bad for my feelings about them, since one of them is second best to the other (again)—just kidding.

[disenchantedif]

Hello dear author! If u still take prompts, can we get 49 from angst with Luci? (If it's not troubling, specifically with MC who is on a sad/self-destructive side)

"I wish we never met." for Luci.

Self-destructive MC and M!Luci.

Trigger Warning: Discussion of potential self-harm, suicidal ideation, and depression. You can keep reading under the cut.

"Why are you here?" You say, already pushing the door closed.

Lucien grabs it quickly, stopping you from closing it in his face, "Because I was worried."

"About who? Me?" You laugh, but it comes off more bitter than humorous, "Good joke."

"It's not a joke." He says earnestly, "I saw what happened in the cafeteria."

You bite your cheek so hard it bleeds. Forcing a smile isn't too hard; you've been doing it since you were sixteen.

"Well, I'm fine." You say, "You can leave. Now."

He seems unconvinced, dark eyes scanning your face as if to look for cracks in your mask. He must've found many.

"Please." He says quietly, "Let me in."

His words are gentle now but you're well aware of how cruel they can be. Still, you step back. You're unsure what possesses you to do so; maybe you just like the pain.

He seems just as surprised as you are, but takes the opening while it's available.

"Say what you want and then you should go." You turn away from him, heading towards the couch in your dorm's living room, "Theo's class ends at two."

He cringed, glancing at the clock. It's nearly a quarter till. You know he wouldn't want to be here when she gets back; last time they got in an argument, she nearly broke his nose.

"We don't have enough time for me to say all I want to." He purses his lips as he sits beside you, "I just want to know if you're okay?"

You stare at him, slightly stunned. Okay? You haven't been okay in four years.

"That's a really stupid question." He pinches his nose and sighs, "Listen, that was messed up of Bree-"

"Of course you know her." You raise your eyebrows.

"We're not friends." He defends, "We're just in a study group together. It was horrible either way."

"Please don't act like you give a shit about me." You say, avoiding his eyes, "I'm too tired to deal with whatever act this is."

"It's not an act." He insists, "I'm sorry. I...I know that doesn't fix anything but I do care."

"Why?" You ask, "Why do you care? Why can't you just stay out of my life for good? You seemed perfectly happy to before."

"I wasn't though! I know I told you before and it doesn't fix anything but I'm sorry." His voice seems to get thicker like he's speaking around his emotions, "I wasn't happy, watching you shoulder everything. I wanted to be there but I didn't deserve it."

"And you do now?"

He's quiet for a moment, "No...but I want to try anyway."

"What if I don't want you?" The words lack the venom you'd like them to have.

"Then tell me right now and I'll leave." He swears, his lips quivering in a way that told you he feared you might.

You don't.

You press your face into your hands, not willing to look at him, not wanting to see the smug expression he probably had on his face.

"Are you okay?" He repeats lowly, scared to startle you.

Your shoulders shake, and you can't tell if you're crying or laughing. No. Your life went to shit and you've never wanted to die more, but you just keep on living. You're not okay.

"No."

He takes a shallow breath, "Have you-?"

"Fuck, Lucien, if you're about to ask me if I hurt myself-"

"It's important to know-"

"You can't just-just come in here expecting me to open up to you." You finally meet his eyes, "You don't know me anymore. You wouldn't want to know me anymore."

"That's a lie." He says, "I do. Want to know you again."

You sigh, "I just...fuck, I wish we never met."

He flinches back at the words, but you can't see his expression clearly around the tears gathering in your eyes. He reaches a tentative hand out, giving you plenty of time to move.

You don't.

He rests it on your knee, and the touch is enough to have the tears spilling over. He seems to panic but settles on inching closer, hovering with his hand still awkwardly perched on your leg.

You can feel the warmth through your jeans. You missed him. You hated it, but you missed him.

"I won't leave you again." He whispers, his tone practically begging you to listen.

"Even if Theo breaks your leg?" You whisper, miserable around hiccups and smothered cries.

"Even if Theo breaks my leg." He promises, a sad smile turning his lips up.

[sillyfanatic]

ahhhhh just tweaked my blog and I feel like it looks much better now!! the format was bothering me, it was like. hard to look at PFNSHS hopefully it’s much better now!!

I’m gonna include a small vent under the cut here!! vvv

right. trigger warnings before I begin; I’m gonna be talking about depression, mental illness in general, as well as some harmful traits that come along with them,, mentions of suicidal ideations (it’s small but I can never be too careful)

if any of this stuff triggers you, please don’t keep reading!

alright time to say way too much about my personal life to strangers on the internet

anywho,, yeah I’m sorry for the inactivity / lack of updates! I’m not apologizing to anyone in particular, no one’s really even bothered me for new chapters (to that I am VERY thankful, I’ve had / still have another ao3 account and uhh. sometimes people can be a little rude, demanding rather than asking and just weird stuff like that. don’t get me wrong though, that’s like 1% of people but it still doesn’t really encourage you, yknow?? I’m rambling, let me get back on track)

Anyway, I’m apologizing because I really w a n t to be writing :/ I crave it so desperately but I just can’t. It feels like I’m just constantly going through a depressive episode, like I emerge from one and I don’t have time to breathe before I get dunked under again,,

the fortunate thing is that when I do finally rid myself of this, I tend to get like really creative for a day?? last chapter of a strabge bond, I’d struggled to write the first few paragraphs over the course of a few days and then WHAM I wrote 7000 words in a fucking day like I’m some sort of magician??

I miss it, I miss having ideas and energy and a will to live and it’s just so fucking draining.

I’ve been consuming an inhuman amount of fanfic because all I seem to be able to do is like laying in bed.

Anyway, all is horrible and I’m inherently online and yet very very distant. That’s all I have to say, I didn’t really write this for anyone except myself, I don’t feel as though I have many to confide in. And I like oversharing online.

That being said, I’m going to turn off my lights and try to find the lord of the rings movies so that I can watch them in the dark (headache bound rn) (also I watched the hobbit two weeks ago because I was too depressed to think and wowowo I cry every fucking time)

until later my loves <3 (wish me out of this episode so that I can WRRRRIIIIIITE!!!!!)

[writefightandflightclub]

Sink then float (Poe Dameron x GN reader)

Summary: Poe comes back from a mission to find that reader is experiencing a depressive episode, and he does what he can to take care of them while they’re sick. Hurt / comfort. Angst / slight fluff.

Author’s note: Was feeling super crappy at the start of the week (I’m ok now!) and this angst-bomb came out of me. Pleased to have finally written something, though it tackles a tough topic. I’ve tried to be as sensitive as possible while writing about depression, and while it’s something I have experienced in the past, of course it manifests differently for everyone. I have drawn on some personal experience to write this, but it is a fic. Therefore, it is necessarily outside of my direct experience, which opens up the possibility I may have gotten something wrong. Therefore, if you think there’s anything I’ve handled in a way that is harmful (even honest mistakes can be mistakes) I’m happy for you to send me an ask outlining this so I can correct and do better.

Warnings: It deals with reader in a depressive episode, and it is from reader’s POV. As such, it is pretty angsty, ngl, as reader’s thought process is in a bad place. The piece grows more hopeful as it progresses, and ends on a hopeful note, however it may still be difficult reading. I’ve actively tried to acknowledge in the text where reader’s thought-process is skewed by being sick e.g. when they say they are worthless, I’ve tried to directly counter this as it’s not objectively true. The last thing I want is for anyone to feel worse reading this, so I’ve tried not to validate reader’s most difficult thoughts (though what they’re going through is valid and it is valid for reader to be experiencing those thoughts)! That said, please take care when reading, as some of the feelings and thoughts set out may be triggering. Also, whilst there is no direct mention or suicidal thoughts or ideation, I am also warning for that, as there is some crossover in thought patterns. Ultimately, this is a fic about Poe being there to comfort reader, but reader finding that shred of hope inside themseleves, amidst feelings of hopelessness. I didn’t want to suggest that Poe could “fix” reader, so yes, they are still depressed at the end, but more comforted and hopeful than at the start. Sorry for all the warnings, but I wanted to be clear so you can make an informed decision on whether to read. Please stay safe!

GIF by @twillight​. Yowzers, it’s PRETTY AF.

There’s no poetry any more.

There are only syllables. Vowels like an orange in your mouth. Consonants rattling between your teeth. You speak only of sleep. Your words hollow like a worn, sprung mattress; inviting rest but offering no comfort.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

There is no art any more.

Not even in a thousand burning suns. Not even as you tip your face up to the milky black. Not even in his face; that face you love. You look, and you feel numb.

Numb. Numb. 

No music.

Birds sing. It’s just noise, ringing in the hollow of your body.

Noise. 

You want to sleep. It is all you want, and you merely want it because you want nothing else.

No dance in your body. No motion; only stillness.

No fight left in you...

What is left, then?

Nothing?

Nothing left.

Yes.

Nothing but the robust pang of hunger.

Nothing but the parching thirst.

Nothing but this weight on your chest, pressing you to the bed.

Nothing but the refresher door taunting you because you can’t cross the chasm in five steps.

Nothing but the guilt and self-hatred, and false, invasive belief that you are worthless.

Guilt because you...

Can’t.

So much then? So much where there is “nothing”?

You are simply so full of empty that it has pushed everything good down. It has pushed you down until you are sunken. Until you are yelling at yourself from below water, sound muted.

Everything muted.

Colours. Feelings. Life. Love.

Worst of all, your love will be home soon.

Home and sleep is all you...

Home and you haven’t even...

You almost think about ...

You sigh.

You can’t.

You can’t complete the...

You feel nothing, and yet guilty tears fall to the pillow. A part of you understands you are not to blame for being sick, and still, there is this guilt.

You have him. 

Poe. Poe. Poe.

So, shouldn’t you be happy?

Why can’t you be happy?

Love shakes the inside of your chest, rattling against the bars of your ribs and wanting to be known. Reminding you of what you lack. It hurts. Everything hurts when it flexes, even love. Especially love. It flexes and it feels only restriction. It feels only weight on its chest. Such pain.

He will be home soon.

You love him. You know this, intellectually. And yet, you don’t want to see him. Don’t want think of him. Because you don’t want to be seen by him.

Not like this.

You don’t want to let him down. You don’t want to break his heart by meeting his loving gaze so hollow. As if he is not sunshine. As if he is not a thousand suns blazing; and yet, instead of poetry and art and music in your heart when you think of him, there are mere syllables, images, noise. There are those vowels again, large like an orange in your mouth, consonants rattling in between your teeth as you cry muffled sounds into the pillow.

He’ll be home soon. You don’t know how soon. You don’t know how long you have layed like this.

Still, all you can do is lie empty, where the room brims with mess and misery and shadow.

All you can do is lie in this empty room, where you brim full with sorrow.

It is enough. This is enough. You are enough, though you can’t see it.

And so, because you can’t see it, can’t feel it, you bring your hands to your face, despairing. Your fingers find your hair, and it’s dirty.

You just want to sleep. You want to tug the covers back over your head and disappear but..

There is a rap at the door.

He’s home now.

A soft knock, then inistent.

He’s back.

After a week apart he’ll be so...

...disappointed to see you. At least, that’s what you mind is telling you to believe.

You turn away and close your eyes as he pushes through into the dark room. You cannot look at his sunshine. It is too bright, like the round circle of sun at the mouth of a deep well. You cannot look, so your eyes scrunch closed as he flicks on a lamp, and you hear his feet deftly pick through the mess on your floor.

You try not to look.

You try not to hear.

You try not to exist.

How can feeling nothing still hurt? How can you wish to feel even less than this, just to blunt your pain?

Still, you do feel something. You feel his sturdy weight settle on to the bed beside you.

You do hear. You hear him sigh.

Yes, he sighs, but it’s gentle, concerned, and his hand finds your shoulder, his touch like warm sand on your cold, goosepimpled skin. Rough and full of sunshine.That blessed sunshine you cannot -at the present moment-comprehend.

“Honey?” he asks, and you hear his voice, soft and tender. You hear his love, but you can’t feel it. No, you can’t.

His voice should ignite you. There should be blood moving beneath your skin but...

There is nothing. There is nothing in your mouth. Nothing but bones in your body.

“Honey, look at me, please?”

You peel your eyes open, bracing yourself for the disappointment you expect to find carved into his face. His eyes examine you, assess you, eyes flitting around the room to understand how bad things are. The state of you, the state of the room. The half-filled bottle of meds at your bedside- at least you’ve been keeping those up. That’s something. Something where you would insist there is nothing.

That look. That look in your eyes, your pupils like bleak, empty wells he tips his sunlight into, and yet he can’t reach the depths of you. Can’t warm all the way through, even as his eyes brim with tears and love.

He doesn’t look surprised, at least. He ran into one of the others first, then; Leia or Finn or Rey. They warned him. Warned him that you are worthless, a burden. No, you are not those things, you try to remember. They will have warned him that you are sick.

Suddenly, looking at him, you have words.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, your mouth as dry as sandpaper. 

“Why in the hell are you sorry, baby?” he asks gently, surprised now, his eyes searching yours. How does he do that? How does he look at you as if you are beautiful, even like this? Perhaps you are beautiful, even like this. Yes, you are. He sees it when you can’t.

“Because I...” you look away from him and sigh, even these simple words taxing your energy,”...couldn’t....”

Couldn’t get out of bed.

Couldn’t want to.

Couldn’t be happy when he came home.

Couldn’t want to.

Poe doesn’t judge you though. Not for this.

He’s Poe. Of course he doesn’t. Poe knows that people are not to be judged on such blameless matters. People are not the sum of their illnesses and struggles. You are so much more to him. You are everything to him, in fact.

He loves you. He loves you. He loves you. Always will. That doesn’t change when you’re sick. Why would it? Why would it?

“You did just fine, honey,” he insists through a thin, watery smile. “I’m still proud of you. I’m still glad to see you.”

You look at him.

He looks back.

You know you should feel poetry in it, like all the other times he’s come home. When your skin and your heart and your breath and your words and your lips were alive. When your body danced with his. 

“It’s bad this time?” he asks. “Like before?”

“I guess,” you croak.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself even though you dont deserve that hate for a second. You hate yourself for what you believe Poe must think of you, but you try to remember that your brain lies, and that Poe tells the truth. You try to remember everything he tells you over and over. You try to remember hope. Rebellions are built on hope, after all, and you? You are a Rebel; therefore, you know you must fight this too. A small, vanishing part of you knows that you can fight it, even if a louder voice in your head tells you you can’t. A voice with bad intentions. This sickness.

Still, you always promise Poe you’ll try. You always try. Have been trying. Even the refresher door becomes something that taunts you, a chasm between you and it as you try to make it there. You always try. Regardless, Poe’s always proud of you.

“Can I hold you?” he asks, his warmth and his unsurpassed beauty evident to you even now, even if it you cannot muster any ready response to it.

You shake your head.

“I’m disgusting.”

“Kriff, me too,” he says, his tone natural and easy, and refusing to shrink away from your pain- from the temporarary reality of you, as some do. “Came straight here. Five days on a mission without a shower? We can stink together,” he adds, with a tentative, lopsided smile, hoping to tease one from you too.

Poe has no trouble being hopeful, where that has never come easily to you.

Still, he’s here. He’s here at your side, all warm, sandy voice and his soft, loving eyes. Even if you had been convinced he would never come back. He is here. His rough hand is swooping over your cheek. Caring for you, even though he must be so tired himself.

Your eyes grow watery and your lower lip trembles. “I should be caring for you, you shouldn’t have to come back to me like this, after fighting...”

“Hey,” he protests, his voice hushed but his tone insistent. “You’ve been fighting too, baby. We both got our missions, yeah? If you ask me, I think you got the raw end of the deal.”

He’s perfect. He’s so perfect. You will the blood to move under your skin. You will your heart to ignite, but there’s nothing.

Correction; there’s nothing yet. It will come. It will get better.

Poe’s voice and eyes soothe you as you contemplate this. “There’s nowhere else I wanna be. I just wanna hold you. Okay, baby? Missed your beautiful face. Missed you so much. I’m kriffin’ lucky to come back to you.” 

Missed your smile, he might have said. You missed it too. Misplaced it.

Forgot how to...

Your thought-spiral is interupted as Poe shifts slowly on the bed, and he curls his warm, sturdy body around yours, holding his beloved little spoon tightly.

He’s wrapped around you, but you wish you could feel him.

Still, as his arms wind around you to tug you into him, you clasp his forearms tightly against your chest. A part of you knows. A part of you feels. You know how important this is. That he is home.

“Mission go ok?” you ask in monotone.

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling a tired puff of air into the back of your neck.

You wish you could melt for him and comfort him in return. You try, at least.

You try, but you feel like a gargoyle carved from stone, sorrow frozen on you. Face locked in a grimace. What mason would be so cruel as this? To make this bitter emotion permanent as stone? However, as he squeezes you tighter, fits against you so naturally, so familiar... As he touches you, you remember you are, in fact, skin and bone. You remember, even though the memory may be distant, that although your heart is heavy now, it once was light.

If it once was light it can be that way again.

He kisses your hair, even though it is dirty. He breathes you in, even though you are not clean. He loves you, and even if you think you are broken, he thinks you are perfect.

You are perfect.

His body heat suffuses through you, and you hadn’t realised how cold you were, until he warmed you. Poe had noticed, though. Poe loves you.

“Have you eaten? Drank anything?” he whispers into your neck, after a moment of holding you in gratitude and breathing deep, relieved breaths.

“Finn made me eat something,” you say, almost embarrassed, even though you know Poe does not judge you. “Managed half a ration. It was... today? I think it was today, I don’t know...”

“That’s good, baby!” he praises, entirely genuine. You feel him shift on the bed behind you, sitting up with his back against the headboard.

“C’mere,” he encourages softly, bundling you into his chest, and producing a ration bar from the pocket of his flight suit. “Split this with me while I tell you about the mission, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, and Poe can hear that you sound a little sceptical. You doubt you have the energy to engage with him.

“I’ll tell you all the funny and horrific stories of your boyfriend’s heroics this past week. Shall I do The Thing as well?” he asks, and you swivel your head to look-up at him, seeing him tick up an eyebrow, slightly amused.

“Yes please,” you say, and you even manage the barest of smiles.

Poe proceeds to tell you all about his week as you nestle into his chest, his voice flowing through you like warm sand, pouring in and filling up just a little of the emptiness inside you. He also does The Thing, and he intersperses his animated storytelling with “your” part too, so that you don’t have to worry about upholding a conversation. So that you only have to listen, and you don’t have to worry that you aren’t able to react as you typically would. 

“That would be the bit right there you’d laugh,” he says as he recounts his finest dumbassery from the mission. A small smile inches over your face, as though you are rehearsing your own emotions. Trying them out. “Yeah, I think that one would be dumb enough to get a belly laugh from you.”

He continues.

“This would be the bit you would tear off my clothes because I’m a dashing badass,” he adds as he relays how he took down a ton of TIEs. “Yeah, definitely. You’d try to get steamy right about now.”  

It might be odd, but it is a comfort. It doesn’t remind you what you lack. You feel less of a deficit this way, as it reminds you what you’re capable of. That it is not always like this. That you do not always feel like this.

Will not, as soon as you’re better.

“And you, honey? Mission report?”  

You sigh, trying to think through what you have done, rather than what you haven’t. Even if the things to recount don’t sound as impressive as Poe’s, he always insists the battle is no less worthy. You are worth fighting for, after all.

“Well... I got a lot of sleep. Beebs made sure I took my meds.” It’s a short list, but what could be more important than that? The fact that you held on? Then, you have your first playful thought in days. “My love came home to me, and he thinks he’s all that, but he stinks pretty bad,” you tease, as if you weren’t in an entirely equal state.

“Kriff, you’re teasing me from your sick bed?” Poe’s chest shakes against you in gentle mirth. “Brutal, honey. Kriffin’ brutal.” You have a point though, he concedes. “We should both shower though, huh? Before someone catches a whiff and reports a possible herd of bantha in room z88?”

He clocks your trepidation as your eyes flick over to that taunting refresher door.

He squeezes your arm, and somehow manages to be encouraging without even a hint of being condescending. “Pretty far, huh? You can do it yourself tomorrow, but.. d’ya want your big strong man to carry you for now, baby?”

“Yes please,” you smile, and Poe shifts once again. First, he strips off his flight suit and tosses it aside, and then he peels back the covers and helps you to stand. Then, he helps you step out of your vest and pants, before swooping you up and carrying you the five paces to the refresher door, setting you down gently. You glance back at the rumpled bed, which still calls out to you, and although it is a short distance away, you feel like you have trekked across a damn galaxy.

Poe begins to run the water warm in the shower, casually handing you a fresh tumbler of water to sip on as he does so. Then, he takes your hand and eases you under the stream of water.

Poe’s broad hands lather up your body and your hair, feeling like an act of worship as he slowly, gently, washes days of rest away from you, without question. Without expecting anything from you in return except to let him- and even then, only if you want to. He then makes short work of rinsing off his own body, searching your eyes as he does so.

Water is a funny thing, you think- it can drown and it can cleanse. It can be gentle and forceful, deep and still or turbulent. After days of drowning, it feels good simply to be clean. To begin to rise to the surface.

You reach towards that circle of sunlight at the mouth of the well. You look a little deeper into his eyes. See a little further.

“A little better?” he asks.

You nod. A little better. 

You step out with him, and even though he’s tired -ragged from this mission- he dries you off.

He changes your sheets.

He picks your dirty laundry up from your floor and throws it in the basket. He throws away your trash.

He let the light in.

Literally.

Then figuratively.

Yes, you still feel so heavy. So, so heavy.

But you know. A part of you knows that lightness will come again, if you just hang on. You can see it. You can see that light at the surface, still out of reach, but not forever.

You watch him as he cares for you in all these small ways and suddenly there are vowels and consonants pushing out from beneath your ribs.

“I love you,” you say as you perch on the edge of the bed, right where he seated you, not thinking to move. 

He pauses, dropping what he’s doing and coming to kneel on the floor in front of you. Tenderly, ever so tenderly, he takes your face in his hands, and his warm eyes are as intense as you’ve ever seen him, as if he can’t believe that you fought hard enough to push this love out from the depths. For him. Even though you are so sunken. Even though you cannot do it for yourself yet.

“I love you too,” he promises, entirely earnest. 

You push a small smile on to your face, even though you know you need not wear masks for him.

Yes, it got bad again, but it will get better.

You hang on, and that’s enough. More than enough.

You have to hang on, because there will come a day you’ll be so glad you did.

When everything in your chest rises up and gasps for air and lets you breathe again. You will break the surface and come back strong and eager for this life.

“It scares me when you’re sick. I love you so much.”

“I’ll be okay again,” you nod. “Or, I’ll try.”

That’s all anyone could ask of you. That’s all you can ask of yourself.

That is enough. More than enough.

You are enough. You are more than enough for him.

You look at him. He looks back.

His face. His face is art. You feel all those things; poetry, art, music, dance. They’re there. They’re just sunken. Muted.

Poetry is in the pauses too. The blank lines and empty spaces; in the missed beats. You will come back to yourself, and you will make new art. Feel new things. Things more full and replete with joy. Joy can clamber from out of the deepest wells, given time. It will. It will again.

“Can I kiss you?” Poe asks shyly. “Been desperate to kiss you,” he admits, the corners of his plush lips tugging up into a smile. He is sunshine. He is beautiful. Perfect.

You nod, and his lips meet yours, chaste and gentle, and not expecting anything in return.

You try your best to feel him. To feel at all.

You close your eyes and hope you will open your heart. It has begun, with a crack to let the light in.

There is fight left in you, even if you can’t see it. Even when you can’t feel it.

“I’m so happy to be home with you,” Poe says, and his words are greeted with silence.

That’d be the bit you’d usually say... I’m so happy too. But Poe offers his words freely, and you know he doesn’t expect anything from you in return. He doesn’t expect your happiness. He simply wants to give you his.

This is not a warm story, but he is warm.

Correction; this is not a warm story, not yet.

But, oh. Oh, it will be.

It was so, in the chapter before, and it will be, in the chapter which is coming.

And you? You will thaw, I promise. Not because of him. But because of you. Because you’re a fighter. Because no matter how long you may be sunken, you will float.

Poetry takes a breath sometimes. Misses a beat. It is not a waste. It is not worthelss, this pause. Sometimes it is needed. The big breath hope takes before it floats to the surface. So, maybe there is hope.

Yes. There’s hope.

There is hope.

Hope is like the sun. If you only believe it when you see it you'll never make it through the night.  Isn’t that what Leia says?

You will make it through this night.

This is how you feel now but will not be how you feel forever. You are not carved from stone. You are a fluid thing; you are made of water. Sometimes, you can drown in yourself, and sometimes you can be cleansed. You are always moving and ebbing, even if it’s so far below the surface that you cannot detect the shift.

This will shift.

Love and life and light are straining, deep down, and after all that straining, pushing, trying, when they resurface they will be strong.

There’s a reason they say hope floats.

It cannot be drowned forever, even if it is is drowned right now. It is not set in stone. You will float, up beyond that circle of sunshine. You will heal, even though you are hurt.

Poe knows this. His eyes tell you all this, but most of all, you know it; no, you feel it, in the depths of you. This is truth.

Poe peels back the covers, and he tugs you to his bare body, warm flesh against yours.

He’s tired. All his body can speak of now is sleep.

You are both tired of fighting, so for now, you must rest, and try again tomorrow. You stroke his hair and he strokes your back, and for now, this is enough.

Yes, for now, this is more than enough.

You are enough.

[hoe-doroki]

Alright, friends, your local demi is going to take one last bow before ace week is up.

I’m going to talk about myself, because I the lived experience of ace and acespec people isn’t talked about enough and, well, this is the week to talk about it!

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s bring in a good ol’ frame of reference:

78% pure. For those who don’t know this is the rice purity test, where high scores mean you haven’t participated in many “racy” activities and low scores mean you have.

First, let’s state that I don’t want to put too much stock on this test. Only 3/4 of the questions are about sex and dating while the remaining 1/4 is about alcohol, drugs, and illegal activity. (Part of the reason my score is so high is because I, unrelated to being acespec, don’t drink or smoke.) But, like I said, it’s a place to start.

Stats. I’m a 24-year-old woman. I am cisgender, straight, and demisexual/demiromantic (not asexual or aromantic). I have never had a boyfriend, I have never enjoyed kissing, I have never had sex.

Oof, and right away, I’m embarrassed saying that.

And that’s the whole problem.

(This post clocks in at ~1.6k, so the rest is under the cut. Trigger warning for suicidal ideation.)

Well, not my whole problem, haha, but it is why I’m bothering to talk about this instead of keeping it secret, like I prefer to. I want to dispel some myths that harm the way I view myself and keep me from being honest with others. Because I fear that when people look at me and hear “24-year-old virgin” they assume things about me that just aren’t true.

First thing’s first. The fact that I’m a virgin means nothing except that I have not had sexual intercourse with another person. There are no other assumptions to be made.

It hurts when people are surprised by this. I happen to fall mostly into the barbed categories of American conventional attractiveness, so when people hear that I have never had a boyfriend or that I’m a virgin, they assume there’s something wrong with me. Or that past men I’ve been around have missed an opportunity or something.

This is shitty on two levels. One, the assumption that my stats are the way they are because of some failure sucks. All it should be is a reflection of my agency and the fact that I am the queen of saying no. (In fact, it was my first word.) But then people are assuaged by the fact that I have, in fact, been approached for sex, as though that confirms for them the value that they assumed I had. As though that’s where any of my worth should be coming from.

Two, these assumptions, when flipped, imply that it would “make sense” for me to have my stats if I looked different or was less neurotypical.

Media--as it does--has played a role in these assumptions. I think about the characters who are “later-in-life virgins” and I think of Emma Pillsberry from Glee, who deals with extreme OCD and germophobia. Or Sheldon and Amy from The Big Bang Theory, the former of whom might very well be acespec and is likely on the autism spectrum as well, but who is shown to be very antisocial with many difficulties forming interpersonal relationships and the latter of whom comes from a very conservative family and a mother who ensured she couldn’t learn social skills until well into her thirties. Or the “what if” episode of Friends that basically asserts that Monica would have been too fat to get laid. Or The 40-Year-Old Virgin, which I don’t wish to talk about. (Oof, all such problematic examples)

And yes, these characters are all white (I am not) and that’s a discussion for another post better made by someone who is more of a media expert than me.

These characters are all portrayed to have something that “explains” why they haven’t yet had the privilege of having sex. And we see in movies like The 40-Year-Old Virgin, or a whole host of teen movies, that virginity is something to conquer--especially for male characters.

I don’t look how people expect virginity to look. I’ll be real--I have high self esteem. I think I’m awesome inside and out and I don’t see any reason why I should be shy about that. I know that if I wanted to have sex with a stranger, I could do it tonight (covid notwithstanding--be safe, friends).

And even if I were a different person who had less self confidence or looked different or came from a different background, that wouldn’t mean that I “deserve” to be a virgin or whatever it is media is telling us. Virginity still wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with the other things that make up a person.

So, louder for the people in the back: being a virgin doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with me.

Next point. Being a virgin doesn’t mean that I’m innocent, a prude, or that I’m “waiting for marriage.”

Gosh, I’ve been asked if I’m waiting for marriage too many times. Two things. 1. No. I’d rather know my sexual compatibility with a partner before marriage and 2. I’m an atheist. So no.

Also, I am not innocent or a prude.

My lack of experience makes me feel infantilized. It does. That’s a personal issue of mine and, ya’ll, I don’t have many answers for how to overcome it. But I have done what I can to change that.

Guys, some of the best choices I’ve made in my adulthood are the things I’ve done to reclaim my sexuality (meaning sexualness not orientation) for myself. Not gonna get super nsfw here, but I’ve invested in about a dozen sex toys and I intend to buy more. They always makes me feel so much more adult and sexy. And I’ve done things with them that I feel pretty confident that many of my sexually active, allosexual friends haven’t done. This kind of thing isn’t for everyone acespec, but it helps me reclaim my worth as a sexual being, without needing a partner to validate that.

I’m also fully valid to write erotica! I love erotica and it’s another way I take back my sexuality. It is just as valid for me to write as it is for anyone else. I am capable of research--both on my own body and from resources, experts, and classes. I don’t need to have had sex for my opinion to matter.

Oh, and being acespec has nothing to do with my sex drive. It seems that I have a libido that is either average or slightly above average--I’m also a person that the more I’m engaging with my libido, the higher it gets.

This often feels like a curse. I, unlike many, but not all, acespec people, strongly desire sex. Like, I’ve bundled up a 35-pound weighted blanket on top of myself whilst engaging in self-pleasure just to try and make the activity feel more partnered (pro tip: that didn’t work.) The truth is that I’m really sick of having to take care of my libido by myself and would much rather have a partner.

But it’s not easy.

I’ve tried online dating, guys. Many times. I can’t do it. That’s not true of all acespec individuals, but it is for me, at least right now. For me, my demisexuality means that the idea and experience of going out, even on a casual date, with someone I’m not already interested in is nearly intolerable. And my current lifestyle, for many reasons, doesn’t lend itself well to me naturally forming crushes.

I’ve only had one major crush in my life. And it was 10 years ago. So you understand the difficulty.

I hate being demisexual, guys. I do. I wish that I could write this post with the intent of spreading pride and positivity, but I can’t. That’s not where I’m truthfully at yet. I’m lonely to the point of suicidal ideation. I’m too young for it, but I’m already making contingency plans for freezing my eggs or trying to imagine a future where I could be a single mother and...I can’t yet reconcile it. I know that part of this is my dreams being created in society’s image, but all I’ve ever wanted is to be a wife and a mother. And it’s hard to see that future when I can only look at my past and see images of silicone and sexual repulsion.

Remember when I said I’ve never enjoyed kissing? I’ve had more stage kisses than “real” kisses and, I have to say, the staged ones were more enjoyable because at least I wasn’t forcing myself to do them. Forcing myself to try to kiss someone so that I could feel “normal.” Forcing myself to kiss someone just because I was curious about what it was other people were talking about. My first “real” kiss was at 20 years old and it was a night where I forced myself to do a lot of things for the sake of catching up with my peers and I’ve been deeply uncomfortable with that experience ever since, and I can only be grateful that I stopped it as early in the evening as I did.

Everyone’s experience is so different, ya’ll. I haven’t heard a story like mine before, so in no way can I claim it to be an experience that widely represents demisexuality. It certainly doesn’t represent asexuality, nor how queerness (or many other things) intersects with either of those things.

But, at the same time, I’ve never heard a story like mine before. Do you know how helpful it would have been to have been able to see a story like this a few years ago? Ten years ago? It would have been life changing. Because even though, in the middle of all that self-confidence I spouted off about paragraphs ago, there’s this kernel of self-hatred stuck in my teeth, I would have felt validated. I would have felt seen. I would have been able to DM someone who could have told me, hey, it hurts and I know no one seems to understand you, but I do.

That’s to say, if anyone is going through something similar and wants to talk about it, my DMs are always open. I’m no expert, and I bet some of the things I’ve said here aren’t going to hit some people right, but this is my experience. This is the most intimate part of my life. It is a privilege that I’m sharing this with you all, so please, hold it with care. I hope this means something to someone.

Happy ace week, ya’ll.

Oh, and the rice purity test doesn’t mean shit. It’s good fun if you want, but if it makes you feel any kind of way because your number is too low or too high, throw it away. That’s not where any part of your value comes from.

[breyito]

Breaking Point

TITLE: Breaking Point (read also on  AO3)

AUTHOR: @breyito

PROMPT DAY: Day 2 # Monster Hunt for @geraskierweek

SUMMARY: When Geralt first heard about the vicious wraith holding a whole town hostage it was the middle of spring, so he didn’t think about the fact that the last rumours that he had hear about the ‘Witcher’s bard’ before the winter placed him in that direction.

WORDCOUNT: 1.756

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/GAMES: Netflix with some Game/Book wikia knowledge mixed in.

TRIGGER/WARNINGS: Major Character Death. Violence. Gore. Blood. ANGST. Like, Heavy Angst. Hurt/No comfort. Suicidal Thoughts. Suicidal Ideation.

RATING: Mature

ADDITIONAL NOTES: I know I can write some pretty dark shit, guys, but...this shocked even me. I mean, I had wanted to write this idea since I sae Ep. 6; but holy molly; this is *dark* (I feel bad for Geralt now, which was not the idea lol). So, please, please, please be careful; don’t read if this is gonna make you feel bad. 

New style!!! The beautiful @hellstrider has this wonderful series Into You on a o3; and I fell in love with that writing style and just, wanted to try it out. I hope I did okay. 

Enjoy!

There was a Wraith in the East, in a non-important town except for the fact that it was a wealthy town; the Earl of those lands having his castle just a few miles from it;

and this spectre was threatening the castle’s comfortable way of living, enough that the knights were sent to other towns and counties, posting notices with the significant reward, never to be seen again after;

because the wraith would attack nobles, would attack soldiers, would attack villagers that tried to get into the woods to hunt game, in the daylight or the darkest hours;

but would shred to pieces any knight that dared to put a foot on the grass beyond the first row of thick trees;

and normally Geralt would laugh at the thought of the ‘elite’ being affected by a monster as much as peasants;

but the lack of enough game had driven the Earl to send his knights to steal meat from the village, on the form of ‘taxes’; and people were starving just so a fat nobleman and his knights could fill their guts;

so he put himself and Roach on course to the East.

When Geralt first heard about the vicious wraith holding a whole town hostage it was the middle of spring, so he didn’t think about the fact that the last rumours that he had hear about the ‘Witcher’s bard’ before the winter placed him in that direction,

he didn’t think about the fact that for a moon and a half he had not picked up any whispers of a colorful bard singing about white wolves,

had not overheard scandalized gossip of Ladies and Lords running a poet out of their lands for sleeping with their spouses.

He had not thought of that, because the Witcher had spent a whole winter licking his wounds (those inflicted upon him by a vicious djinn, and a lover he slighted so badly the scent of lilac and gooseberries would forever burn; and wounds he did to himself, the raw gaping hole on his center that refuses to close, that feels like he lost a limb, that feels like a heavy presence yet screams empy, empty, empty to all of his senses)

and his wounds had seemed more important in that moment, in all of those moments, because he was (will always be) a selfish creature at heart, had learned to be so; and at the most minimal sign that he could be injured he injured back,

so he didn’t pay attention, didn’t realize,

until it was too late to turn back,

to live in denial;

until it was just too late

too late to do anything but hunt, because that is all he had left, because when hunting he didn’t feel,

shouldn’t feel,

feel his lungs compress smaller than under the weight of a troll,

his troath close up in ways a thousand poisons can’t achieve

feel his shriveled up heart hurt.

The wife of the barkeep tells him the story in between tankards of ale (and she doesn’t even water it down now, seeing his pain) and nervous looks around the tavern;

because Jaskier didn’t just die, no, see, he was killed,

brutalized in the most awful of ways,

left in the woods behind the inn with his troath ripped open, his breaches and undergarments torn, his brilliant jade outfit coated in blood;

dumped among dirt and filth, left there to bleed out and perish , after his attacker had taken everything he had wanted from him;

all because the bard didn’t want to give him a ‘private concert’, wouldn’t respond to his insinuations,

because the bard was tired, had been singing all afternoon through the night,

and that’s when the Count’s knight had walked into to the tavern, high on spirits from hunting game to last the castle all through winter;

and one of them had seen Jaskier and had wanted,

wanted so badly he had not asked before pulling the artist on his lap, and his hands on his body;

but Jaskier had pushed him away, lighthearted at first, but then, when the man had followed his refusal with more unwanted touches and slurs had firmly told him no,

and the whole tavern had heard, and the whole town would know by the next morning that a lowly lark had refused bedding one of the knights of the Count, and the knight couldn’t have that, could he;

so he followed the bard when he walked to the inn,

dragged him behind the building,

and took , and broke and laughed while doing it,

walked away with blood on his teeth, loose breaches and a splintered lute on his hand, to hang besides the thropy heads on his state;

left the bard there so everyone would know not to mess with him.

The barkeep and his wife tried to help him; took him to his room and called the local healer, got him bandaged and stitched and cleaned up

and perhaps he would have survived;

perhaps he would have, if the knight had not also taken something more precious than his life, than his self,

because the bard had lost his voice; it had been ripped away, and a bird without wings can’t fly

and a bard without voice can’t sing, can’t really live

and so, when the healer told him this, he cried himself to sleep, with painful coughs and mourful whines,

and when he was left alone he ran, driven by the desire of revenge;

escaped far into the woods, where no one would find where he died and his corpse would remain untouched,

and when he couldn’t breathe anymore, from the pain and the exhaustion; he kneeled under a three, among old roots and the last leaves of autumm,

and teared at his stitches and his bandages, letting out a silent scream,

blooming red drops drenching the ground, mixing with the colors of the season,

and died.

(The barkeep’s wife didn’t tell him this last part, she couldn’t have; but Geralt can fill in the spaces in the story, can imagine it so vividly , hear the rustling of the trees, can smell the salt of Jaskier tears on the air, can see him clutching at his troath like so many years ago; when another foolish and cruel man attempted to steal his voice and kill him-)

When Geralt, from far away, sees the body of his friend, his companion, his bard;

curled tight into a little ball at the trunk of a tree;

he could trick himself into believing that the bard was just taking a nap;

because wraiths’ bodies aren’t touched by decay, rot or time;

and he looks the same,

he looks exactly the same, dark hair, pale skin, little wrinkles at the border of his eyes;

he even fucking smells the same,

the only difference is the cloying scent of blood, and it’s everywhere, the smell of Jaskier’s blood,

and Geralt feels his knees fail him, for the first time in a century, and he falls in front of his bard and weeps ;

because there’s blood on his bard’s lips, on his broken fingernails, on his neck and his shirt;

and he might be torturing himself but he thinks he still sees the track of tears across those pale perfect cheeks,

and he chokes back his apologies, his regrets, his useless words begging for forgiveness;

he is not worthy of uttering them in his presence,

not in front of this person who loved him with all his being and who he sent away with angry, cruel words,

and he wishes to grab his silver sword and impale himself on it, because silver is for monsters and presented with the handiwork his rash cruel actions caused he cannot think himself anything but the lowest kind of beast;

he longs for the only respite life could offer him now, to have his final resting place besides his bard (he would murmur apologies on his hair as the life left his body, would be selfish just one more time, would sully the bard’s grave with his own blood), to hug him in death like he didn’t do in life; curl around him in a parody of the protection he didn’t offer;

but people are still dying, still starving, and the only thing he has now, is the Path, the only thing he could ever  be (no more champion, no more friend, no more muse) now is a monstrous Witcher;

so he weeps as he stretches Jaskier body (whines at the still almost-warm temperature of him) on a patch of yellow wildflores,

weeps as he stakes him,

as he cuts his head and places it between his legs,

as he lits the body on fire and hears the piercing cry of his friend’s spectre,

and doesn’t move;

not when the smoke clogs his troath and the flames lick his knees,

not until there are only ashes left.  

He marches to the Earl’s castle only after learning the knights name, after sending a boy requesting that his reward be given by that knight on the castle gates;

and if any of the townspeople wondered why there were teartracks on the soot of his cheeks they didn’t ask;

because those eyes were pitch black and enraged,

and the Witcher barely stops to question the men waiting for him at the iron gates (on the chance that the wraith did manage to murder his killer) after dismounting;

but he is in luck, because the man answers a yes with a cocky smile,

and the Witcher revels in ripping it off when he sends him flying back with a kick, listening to the sounds of breaking ribs,

smiles when he chops off the knights’ hands with silver,

chuckles as the screams of the man are cut off at the same time as his tongue and become whimpers,

as he cuts off the man’s balls and cock,

and laughs when the knight vomits after Geralt shows them all his body parts in a little line to him,

considers leaving him there at the edge of the road; but decides that the most minimun chance of survival is too much mercy, so he spears him in the heart once he tires of the mans screams.

The Witcher mounted his mare and went on his way,

and if he cried until he had no more tears left no one saw it and it was no one’s problem,

because he felt no joy nor pain nor sadness,

and he had no heart.

Not anymore.

[obaewankenope]

TW FOR SELF HARM:. After reading your last writing I went feral over the idea of Crowley disappearing for periods of time and Az worrying about him so consider Crowley starts seeming more and more bedraggled and snippy every time they see each other, then doesn't show up to the bookstore for a few weeks. Az worries more and more until he gets hit with a train of pain and misery and realizes that Crowley is depressed and in danger. Az finds Crowley in his flat, feathers ripped out and eyes wild-

-wild, in a full blown panic attack. Crowley won’t let Az near him so he has to calm the demon down from afar. Eventually it comes out that all this is because Crowley hates what he is (demon/fallen angel) due to what Hell and Heaven have done and simply wants the pain and misery to end. He had hoped that with his ugly black feathers gone, he could find redemption or, at least, peace. ~fucker

You, you are a monster and I love it so much omg ps go and shout at iggysfanblog for this Angsty AF Fic lmao

Trigger warning: self-harm, mutilation, wing abuse, depression, suicidal ideation, suicidal apathy.

.

Angelof the crooked wings

Title comes from Antiphon forthe Angels by Hildegard VonBingen

Crowley has always hated his job. Not because he’sa bad demon—sort of the job description, being bad—but because he’s not alwaysin the mood to commit Evil Acts and Evil Acts only. He’s a good Tempter and an evenbetter Thinker Upper Of Plans but being a demon didn’t give him thoseskills or make him so good at them. Neither had being an angel. They were justpart of him; Crowley. The core personality so to speak. Everything else wasjust dressings and trimmings to make him look Fancier and Mightier and Holierand Unholier depending on the uniform required for the job.

Once upon a time he’d had white wings—to the humaneye at least; they were really every colour in existence because angels wereeverything too—and he’d found them to be both beautiful and very constrictingin a confusing way. It’s an absurd feeling when one has wings capable offlight, but one Crowley feels, nonetheless. For celestial and infernal beings,feeling trapped when possessing wings is about as crazy as defying heaven andhell to preserve one little mudball full of evolved monkeys. 

Naturally then, Crowley excels at it in the sameway he excels at saving humanity; disastrously.

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Fallinghad been an impulsive act by Crowley; sort of a “maybe this will change thisfeeling” kind of thinking. To be fair, it had. It’d changed a lot of otherthings—turning his wings black had been an aesthetic choice to hide the faintscarring from the ten-thousand-mile free-fall and the boiling sulphur he’d onlybriefly landed in [1]—butit didn’t really change the sense of feeling penned in all the time. In heavenit had been rules and regulations and expectations and not thinking or askingquestions. In hell it was the same just with a bit more give if you could liewell. 

Crowleylies exceptionally well [2].

Before the Fall, Crowley had felt like he’d beentrapped in a hamster cage that wasn’t designed for housing a rabbit. After theFall, it’d been like he’d been re-homed in a larger space that didn’t look likea cage but was. It’d just took him a little while to find the edges. Thetrapped feeling always returned. 

When Crowley had first met Aziraphale—just anotherangel in the Garden back then—he hadn’t expected the feeling of Relief that theangel had elicited in him. His wings had revealed themselves against hiswill—something he controlled ruthlessly from then on—and the angel had shieldedhim from the First Rain. The angel felt as trapped as Crowley to the demon’ssenses but, whereas Crowley was aware of his predicament, Aziraphale seemedinnocently unaware of how trapped he was. Crowley wasn’t sure such a situationwas a blessing or a curse. Six thousand years later and Crowley still isn’tsure.

The only changes from Falling for Crowley wereillusionary  at best. His eyes were aChoice He Made Himself and not a visual sign of punishment for rebelling.Crowley hadn’t rebelled, not really. He’d just taken the last train out ofheaven and hitched a free ride to hell. Desertion. That’s it. Crowley haddeserted heaven, not rebelled against it. Completely different. So he gained a new employer who was abitter ex-employee of their parent company, it was all the same in thelong-run.

From angel to demon, a simple enough transitionthat gave Crowley a little more rope with which to hang himself.

Whenever Crowley is with Aziraphale, his entirebeing is released, the trapped feeling fading away to a faint buzz rather thanthe constant klaxon sounding in his mind. Unfortunately, however, Crowley hasnever been able to just be around Aziraphale all the time.That’s why he’d come up with The Arrangement. Mutually beneficial—as it reducedtravel commitments and such—it offered Crowley the easy excuse to check in onAziraphale whenever the klaxon became Too Much. It worked fantastically enough,until 1862 when Crowley had asked the angel for holy water and set off anargument he hadn’t intended to start. Over sixty years of not seeing Aziraphalewould have been impossible for Crowley to endure had he not slept for most ofit. He’d needed the sleep to escape the klaxon that got louder and louder thelonger he didn’t see Aziraphale. But then the Blitz happened and the church andthat damned bomb and- it was like they’d never argued. It was there, of course,but it didn’t make it impossible to see each other and Crowley had dropped bythe bookshop like clockwork running on a decade chime instead of hourly. Eventhe 70s hadn’t caused more issues for them, even with the- the- what- theangel’s rebuke. Yeah…

Then it had all gone to shit when Crowley had beengiven the “honour” of delivering the End Of The World and for almost a decade,the demon had been in near constant contact with Aziraphale for an entiredecade. It had done something to him—weakened him in some inexplicable way—butit was the week before the world ended that broke him. Fightingwith Aziraphale, losing him to discorporation after threats from Hastur to killhim, facing down a wall of fire, and then his own boss—and ex-employer—didsomething that Crowley fears cannot be undone.

Something he knows cannot be undone.

Wings—now inky black by choice—itch and shiftrestlessly no matter what Crowley does. Whether he’s with Aziraphale or not,the blaring alarm of TRAPPED! TRAPPED! TRAPPED! sounds on a loop. Thesense of being caged rears its head every time a primary moves, a secondarytwitches. It’s suffocating him, leaves his heart pounding like it’s trying toescape his chest, his lungs tight and constricted by bands of steel evertightening and denying his body air.

Seeing Aziraphale makes him twitch and want to clawhis skin off, smash windows and cut into his chest and slice out his heart andjust be done with it. The urge is stronger and stronger the longer he’s aroundAziraphale after the Not End so he visits the bookshop less.

Part of it is fear, that much Crowley knows. Fearof what exactly eludes him however. Not knowing tightens the bandsacross his chest more and makes his skull feel like it’s crushing his brain asthough it was in a vice. Every time he sees his wings out of the corner of hiseye—whether they’re manifested on the physical plane or just there on theastral plane that humans aren’t really built to see or interact with—Crowleywants to hiss and swipe at them; lashing out at the one constant he’s ever hadin his life.

Hiswings may be black now but that had been an intentional choice onCrowley’s part. White was the colour of heaven. The opposite then would be forhell. White makes every colour there is, black is made of those colours; itdevours them. Perfectly fitting for a demon. But his wings are Divine and havealways been part of him; Crowley cannot remember a single moment where he didnot have them [3]. They’re a part of him thathe wants to hate because he doesn’t Belong Anywhere and they’re areminder of that fact. The once represented the Divine then Infernal and now…now they’re just There and he loathes them [4].

The first feather he tears out between moultselicits a wonderful feeling of power. It doesn’t hurt for more than amoment, feels more like a particularly sharp scratch on sensitive skin but itgrants him something Crowley hesitates to call relief. He doesn’t think there’sreally a word he can use to describe what he feels after. The second and thirdfeathers are coverts like the first, torn out after he flees the bookshop whenAziraphale gives him such an openly kind look it has Crowley’s heartpounding. It gives him just enough of a sharp slap to regain the control overhis body that slipped away. But pulling coverts is like trying to staunch anarterial wound with a tissue; it’s just Not Enough.

The first primary he plucks is… a lot more painful.Wonderfully painful. He feels like he’s torn off a fingernail with no warning.The rush of feeling that burns through him in time with the hot and coldnerve-destroying flashes is fantastical. His wing snaps close to his body,tucks itself up as small and close as it can as instinct draws the injured appendageclose to him. Crowley finds that he can tolerate his wings when they’retrembling and twitching from pain and not- not whatever they usually twitchfrom. But, all too soon, the pain fades away, magic soothing the pain andturning it to a pale, ever weakening echo of the blanked-out agony it beganas. And, just like with the coverts, he pulls more and more of them astime goes on.

Aziraphalenever comments on his state though Crowley knows he notices. It’s not hard tosee really, what with the way Crowley looks like a human that hasn’t slept in amonth; skin paler than usual and a muted grey, hair lank and messy in a waythat speaks of lack of care rather than an aesthetic choice, clothing looserand worn and frayed like they’ve never been before. Crowley also knowsthe angel can see how close to his body he tucks his wings—so tightly againsthim that it looks as though he doesn’t have them anymore when he’s stood or sata certain way. But, although the angel sees it he never directly comments,Aziraphale does make pointed comments here and there: “you look like you coulduse a drink dear, I’ll make some tea; have a new type to try that apparentlyworks wonders for when you’re feeling down”, and “well this quilt is quitewarm, too warm for myself really, why don’t you have it—I know the sofa is in adraughty spot after all” and so on. Aziraphale is unlike Crowley in regard tohis wings—the angel uses them often even if they’re not visible on the physicalplane [5].

Eventually the release he experiences from pullinga feather or two here and there isn’t enough. It’s never enough. He chased thepain that each feather results in, plucking more and more from muscle and boneand tender flesh until Crowley’s wings are wrecked and destroyed by his ownhands. Even though the pain becomes constant, his magic just not enough tocontend with the aching burn that is like an undercurrent to everything, it’snot enough. He needs more. He needs-

Bones are easy to break if you know how to go aboutit. Crowley—unfortunately—does.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Aziraphalefirst notices it about a month after the world failed to end—though it hadgiven it a good go what with the Kraken, fire and brimstone, the horsemenriding and all that stuff. Since then he’s become quite used to seeing Crowleyregularly—a new fixture in the bookshop, not unlike a particularly snippystatue that happens to walk, talk, and perform minor feats of evil for the sakeof it—compared to before the whole Influencing The Antichrist plan came about.The intermittent six thousand years of meetings here and there across the worldwere—for Aziraphale—quietly enjoyable. But when Crowley had suggested theyamend their Arrangement after the antichrist was born… Aziraphale admits nowthat he’d been tempted from the get-go [6].Throughout those eleven years Aziraphale saw Crowley regularly in the Dowlingresidence—tending to young Warlock with a surprisingly gentle manner—and thetwo immortal beings had retired to a shared cottage on the grounds; a sort oflodging house for full-time workers that had been miraculously occupied by onlythe two of them [7]. After all that,Aziraphale has to admit, he’s become quite used to Crowley always being around;so much so that when the demon starts to show up less and less, Aziraphalestarts to Worry with a capital W.

Hedoesn’t do anything about it at first, mostly because he’s not certain what he cando. Crowley is, after all, quite sensitive. Although Aziraphale will never saythat to the demon’s face—he values his books too much to offend thedemon to such a degree that Crowley would ruin several in recompense for theUnwanted Compliment—it is one of the attributes of Crowley thatAziraphale finds most appealing. That this demon is capable of committing greathorrors and instead chooses to petty temptings and chicanery to annoy humansinto choosing to sin; it is a far cry from the nature of other demonsAziraphale has met [8]. Crowley would deny itwith his last breath but the demon has a softer heart than Aziraphale everwill—the angel is quite aware that it was he and not Crowley who hadaimed a weapon at a child and hadn’t hesitated to fire after all; Aziraphale ismuch more capable of being ruthless than others would first believe [9].

Although Aziraphale doesn’t understand the appeal,he is aware that Crowley likes to sleep. Something about the lack ofconsciousness appeals to the demon just as much as drinking does—althoughAziraphale isn’t sure it’s for the same reasons. Aziraphale likes a drinkhimself—he doesn’t experience hangovers like humans, nor does his body start toshut down after too much alcohol as is the case for humans so mortifyingbehaviour is his only deterrent—but he knows Crowley uses alcohol todull his feelings. Considering how much kinder Crowley is than he should be fora demon, Aziraphale can at least comprehend why alcohol is such an appealingthing to the demon. Over the centuries, the angel has come across many a humanwho have lost themselves in their vices, trying to escape whatever haunts themin their waking hours. It is saddening to think that Crowley is like thosehumans with tortured souls.

Thedemon admitted to him once that he’d drank himself unconscious after receivinga commendation for the Spanish Inquisition [10].So it’s no surprise that Aziraphale is reasonably concerned that Crowley hasdrank himself into a stupor for some reason and that’s why he hasn’t been bythe bookshop [11]. He resolves to visit thedemon’s flat after closing the bookshop tonight—that he had never visitedbefore they averted Armageddon and he’d been homeless—and check up on Crowley.In a purely platonically friendly way of course.

However, when the wave of pain slams into him ashe’s sorting books on shelves that didn’t exist before Armageddon wascancelled, Aziraphale realises he should have acted much, much sooner.

Aziraphale is in the bookshop one moment and halfwayacross London in the next, appearing with a soft rustle of feathers in a darkflat he’s been in only once before. The pain washes through him, runs along hiswings and all the way down to the tips of his alulas, primaries and secondariesbefore it peters out in the coverts. He ignores it, rushing through the flattoward the sound of high-pitched, muffled keening that tears into the angelmore viciously than any pain ever has. The sight that greets him as he shovesthe bedroom door aside—possibly causing permanent damage to the hinges, notthat he particularly cares at that moment—is enough to stop Aziraphalein his tracks.

The sight- it would turn the stomachs of even themost soulless of demons.

There are few things that demons and angelsconsider to be sacred but wings are one of them. No angel touches anotherangel’s wings without permission. No demon harms another demon’s wings withoutpunishment. Between the two groups, injuries to wings are some of the mostserious taboo acts either side can commit in battle. Aziraphale has seen hardlymore than a dozen cases where wings have been harmed—and all of those wereduring the Rebellion led by Samael. Only She has every caused permanent harm tothe wings of her creations—the Fallen Ones—but even that harm pales incomparison to what Aziraphale sees now.

Like a bird, the wings of a Divine or Infernalcreature are delicate, designed for flight and do not take kindly tobeing injured. Although they’re delicate they can withstand a lot ofabuse—courtesy of them not being entirely physical or astral but a mixture ofthe two which enables a lot of leeway when it comes to injuries; also magic,but that’s a whole other explanation—but they do have their limits as towhat can and cannot be repaired without Divine Assistance.

Aziraphale fears that this is beyond even theDivine.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries out, voice soft andpained and bleeding worry. “Goodness Crowley, what happened?” 

The angel approaches the demon quickly, reachingout to gently touch him but freezes when Crowley’s entire body twitches andflinches away from him.

“Don- Don’t touch me,” Crowley weakly croaks, anarm blindly flinging itself out from his curled-up form in the corner of theroom, nails black with blood, hands stained and Aziraphale’s heart feels likeit’s breaking in two. “Don’t—please don’t.”

“Okay Crowley, okay,” Aziraphale assures the demon,carefully lowering himself onto his haunches as close to the demon as Crowleywill allow him. “Wh- what happened—if you don’t mind my asking?”

The demon chokes out a laughand it’s seven different kinds of wrong because it sounds so, so broken. Ithurts Aziraphale just to hear. “H- had a bit- bit of- well, I had a bad day,angel.”

Bad day is… well it’s anunderstatement to say the least. Aziraphale stares at the demon that’s hidingin the corner of his own bedroom, blood and feathers everywhere, and the angelwants to just Wish It All Away. The pain he can feel emanating from Crowley in palpablewaves. The suffering that underlies the pain. The blood and feathers andsalty tears Crowley has shed without consent.

He wants to just Make ItBetter but Aziraphale knows that some things cannot simply be Wished Well.

“Well then, bad daysare—well—they’re bad, as the phrase suggests,” Aziraphale says, longing toreach out and at least touch Crowley on the arm but he doesn’t. Not whenCrowley seems to barely handle his presence in the room. “But bad days doend, dear.”

Crowley’s head rises alittle from where it’s sort of tucked between knees and covered with armsadorned with torn sleeves. “What- what about bad millennia, angel? When do thoseend?”

The demon shifts and hissesin pain and Aziraphale doesn’t think, he doesn’t hesitate; he reaches out andcurls a hand around Crowley’s arm, feeling the moment the demon freezes at thecontact.

“I don’t know when thoseend, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, carefully, and he doesn’t remove hishand from Crowley’s arm even though he can feel the muscles twitching beneathhis fingers. He doesn’t back down because Crowley needs him now and there isNothing that will stop Aziraphale from doing what needs to be done for hisdemon.

Yes. His demon.

It’s about time Aziraphaleadmitted it to himself. Crowley is as much his as Aziraphale is Crowley’s.

“But I do know these pastsix thousand years have been a lot more tolerable when you’ve been beside me.”It’s a confession and an offering to the demon and Aziraphale feels like thescales have been tipped, the balance upset, because it’s him offeringthe reassurances and the temptings to Crowley.

But Aziraphale has alwaystempted Crowley, in his own way. He just hadn’t really noticed before.

“Whenever you weren’taround, I’d hide in my books so I could try and ignore the feeling in my chestthat clawed at me because you weren’t there to quieten it,” Aziraphalewhispers. “I felt such relief that night I saw you in the church even as Iworried over your safety because that- that ache faded away the moment I sawyou.”

The angel leans close to thedemon, resting his head on Crowley’s arm, his forehead touching torn cloth andheated skin. It draws a sound from Crowley that is so very broken in adifferent way to the keening of before. “I cannot imagine how it felt to- to nolonger know I was alive, to think I was dead,” Aziraphale continues and Crowleytrembles beneath his hand and head at the words. “To be so lost and alone andnot care anymore because- because your reason was gone. But Crowley—”Aziraphale lifts his head—noting absently that Crowley’s sunglasses weremissing—and looks the demon in the eye “—please don’t let me find out. Please.”

“I- I’m... I’m just so... tired,angel,” Crowley admits. “I’m tired of it all. I just- make it stop,” he begs,hands coming up and gripping at Aziraphale. “You used to make it stop.”The demon’s head falls forward, drops down against Aziraphale’s chest. “Pleasemake it stop.”

When angels cry the cosmoscry with them. Some angels affect the cosmos more than others. Archangels havebeen known to cause floods and water to form on planets where there once was nowater. Aziraphale has seldom cried in his life even though he has wished to attimes. Now- now Aziraphale cries [12].

The sky outside darkens andthunderclouds amass quicker than they have ever amassed. The BBC weather willcomment on how surprising it is for a thunderstorm to occur with so littlewarning but it’s just entering into September and the weather is always strangearound the end of summer. No human will know that the weather is the result ofa principality crying in pain and anguish for one who is Fallen and broken inways he has never before realised.

Aziraphale pulls Crowleyclose, carefully wrapping his arms around the demon in as gentle a way aspossible, avoiding the injuries he doesn’t quite know if he can Heal. He willtry regardless and put every ounce of will and love—it is love that he feels,why deny it now?—that Aziraphale has and He Will Heal The Fallen Angel.

Even if it ruins him to doso.

.

[1] It was still long enough to cause somesignificant damage to his body and wings but his core strength had remainedlargely untouched. A few cracks and gouges that he’d carefully repaired overthe years; nothing serious.

[2] So well, in fact, that he’s capable of lying to himself aboutImportant Things for eons.

[3] All six of them, in fact.

[4] They are a stain on him. A mark. Aconstant, unending reminder. Like scar tissue he can’t not see in the mirrorevery day, that he always feels and Knows is there.

[5]  Aziraphale has a habit of unconsciously drawing his wings aroundhimself on the astral plane when engrossed in a book or focused on somethingrequiring his attention. The angel draws those wings close when he’s disturbedand although humans do not see them they feel an unexplained Spiritual Breezewhen the wings move when Aziraphale is startled. It’s quite endearing even ifit makes Crowley’s skin crawl at the casual use of his wings by the angel.

[6] Of course, fear of punishment by heavenand hell—mostly hell with Crowley—had made him wary and it had taken Crowleyframing the amendment in a manner that befitted Thwarting Evil for Aziraphaleto finally agree, but the idea of sharing responsibility with Crowley forsomething… it had greatly appealed to the angel. Greatly.

[7]  They had spent most of their time initially comparingnotes on what they were Teaching young Warlock in order to try and make himneutral at least before their discussions had branched off into more friendlytopics and evenings were spent in a sort of enjoyable companionship neither hadexperienced before. Of course, in hindsight, the poor boy would likely needsome intensive therapy considering he wasn’t the subject of a divine prophecyand thus didn’t quite grasp some of the things Aziraphale or Crowley taughthim. Humans were frighteningly limited in that regard—but it made themwonderful at the same time; at least humans pushed their limits whilstangels and demons sort of wallowed within their constraints.

[8]  Witnessing Crowley sneak children aboard Noah’s shipjust as the flood began cemented in Aziraphale’s heart that the demon is farkinder than any other demon and does not commit Evil because he is evil but rather because it’s his job.If given the freedom to choose, Aziraphale is certain Crowley would performmiracles and temptings as and when he pleases. The Arrangement solidified thatbelief and after the world didn’t end, Aziraphale has watched and waited forCrowley to broach the subject himself. But the demon has remained quiet on thematter.

[9] He choose, however, to be nice andkind.

[10]  Crowley had been in the right place at the right time to receivepraise but the demon had simply been enjoying the sights. Infernal luck and allthat however had seen him credited with someone truly evil.

[11]  Even this is desperate thinking by the angel—something Aziraphalewell knows. He thinks it regardless, willfully ignorant and hopeful that he’sright when he knows full well he is not.

[12] As a cherubim, Aziraphale’s power is slightlyless than that of a saraph and archangel such as Gabriel in all things saveanything to do with his duties as a principality. Crowley hasn’t cried except theday he lost Aziraphale and on that day it rained for hours in London.