#cw for self harm as metaphor

[goose-books]

new maxpoem dropped (transcript under the cut + in alt text)

2:35 grindstone // max franciscovich

there is a knife in my hand.

there is a knife i am holding in the palm of my hand.

i hold it by the blade. when i squeeze the blood runs down through the webbings of my fingers and the sting is hot.

if i uncurl my fingers i will let go of the knife and it will not hurt.

if i let go of the knife i will forget pain. suffering and fear will dull and scab over and my eyes will close. when i squeeze i remember it hurts. i remember i am dangerous. my eyes can close. i can cut with a touch. if i let go of the knife it will not hurt to make a fist. if i let go of the knife i will make a fist. if i let go of the knife in my hand i will forget there is a knife in my hand.

when i squeeze the sting whets my thoughts and i see the world in all its brutal glory and i touch nothing i could ruin.

there is a knife in my hand.

there is a knife i am holding in the palm of my hand.

[supersecretnerd]

Ok I know Haibane Renmei is a 2 decade old anime, but I'm still going this in underneath read more for the people that have yet to watch the anime yet.

There's something so depressingly beautiful and tender in the ways that Reki gives Raka the support that she herself needed but never got.

Like how she was there to tend to Raka while her body painfully transformed into something else.

While she was left all alone.

And how when Raka started trying to cut away her sin-bounded feathers, Reki immediately embraced her and gently took her scissors away.

While when Reki did the same thing, the person she cared for the most first response was to slap her before embracing her.

Something about giving another person the kindness you never got to experience; a painfully bittersweet sign of a gentle love and affection.

(In either a platonic or romantic sense, whichever you prefer) (I think both are interesting ways to view these characters' relationship and dynamics).

[schleckermaul]

( 🍭 five senses ) 👂, 🫱 and 👃!!!!!! — @nicawlette

my muse describes the way your muse sounds!

' IT'S, UHM, IT'S KIND OF IMPRESSIVE, isn't it? she has quite the range. i'm sure she'd make a good singer ... though, that would require that she show the softer version of her voice to more people than myself. i'm sure she's done that with a few select ones. '

   ' ... i'm getting sidetracked. nicolette sounds clear, like the sound a wine glass makes when you trace its rim. similarly, her pitch shifts, depending on how much water is in the glass. sometimes deeper, sometimes higher, but always the same tone. it's not exactly relaxing, but entertaining to listen to. draws attention. '

my muse describes the way your muse feels!

   ' there's something similar going on with the way she feels. her hair is very smooth, i know that much. it's ... long. i think she has bangs? which i also know takes a lot of maintenance. ' break pauses, temporarily forgetting about his own bangs, thinking of his ladies, instead. and then he remembers nicolette's hands, on his cheeks, tattered and scarred. ' i suppose ... while she could be very soft in theory, she feels quite sharp to the touch. a lot of edges you could cut your fingers on. at the same time, she knows how to move around without hurting anybody, if she so wishes. '

   ' ... i think she forgets not to hurt herself with those same edges, occasionally. '

my muse describes the way your muse smells!

   ' this one's gonna sound weird. iron-y. mostly. like when you bite your cheek and bleed a little bit? not much. reminds me of when i'd sit down after a fight and clean my sword. i'm sure she tastes a lot more like that, but the scent is there, as well, even if it's subtle. there's also some dark chocolate, which might not actually be dark chocolate. bitter and rich ... mellow. '

[blankticket]

Giving into the need for comfort, the younger Plant leans in to accept Vash's embrace. Soon enough his crying flags, fingers apologetically swiping away at the tears that had fallen onto the held prosthetic. It remains held, though - looser now, but the gesture is kept unmistakably protective.

A stray hiccup slips out of Vash's mouth before he can properly answer, his free hand briefly covering his mouth in sudden self-awareness. Then there's a muffled laugh. The hand goes to rub knuckles against the sides of his face.

"Aw, hey. I manage it fine myself," he jokingly whines, deliberately owning up to being the 'brat' the other claims he is. Eyes glance over the damage, then avert at further inspection of it. Felt a bit like the scars across flesh he hid away similarly—so embarrassing, something to brush off.

"…W-well, mostly." Now he's just sheepish.

"Brad's had every right to chew me out for only ever visiting Home when I've banged it up past my expertise. Lost tech's a miracle of material, though, y'know? Designed to take on ballistic n'collision damage both, and even after all this time, the sensory aspect hasn't dulled a bit. Can interface with anything just fine, same way my other arm works." Cue princess wave with aforementioned other arm.

It's not his most subtle diversion of a tangent, but really, the guy was owed credit! Brad's magnum opus was truly something remarkable—Vash has long felt this way, about the gifts of both his arm and his coat. No matter where he was, he brought Home along with him, and he was happy to represent them. It brought him all the more shame - to have retained this bad habit for so long, letting it out on a priceless gift made just for him.

"With this, though, um. Maybe I've been too good at playing it off?" Meaning that if Brad's ever noticed that the scratches have had to have been self-inflicted, he's never pointed it out. Not over the course of 150 years so far, at least. If he has noticed and brought it up with Luida, Vash has been none the wiser.

"I'm getting better about it," Vash insists, pathetically, despite knowing it's not going to convince either of them.

★ --;; There is something to be said about the shared propensities to be kind to everyone else but themselves. What happens then, when you are part of that everyone else? Even if it's not you, not really; so many infinitesimal differences adding up so wholly into grand designs that are unto themselves entirely different existences. The steady biting back and forth, words that had already echoed in his head and some that continue to do so when it's quiet enough or dark enough or they're shoved forward just so; hearing them from a mouth not quite his own, just different enough, makes him want to dig in his heels, stubborn as a mule. This time, at least, there's some give in the rope harnessed around them both, so tightly it's usually pulled between the two of them, so set in their ways.

Vash lets his false appendage be moved freely, loose and limp from where it had had the same properties in his own lap. There's a vulnerability there, from the both of them; something lost and then gained, a testament to what they've seen. What they've done.

Come to think of it, they never have properly shared those stories.

Maybe one day, but not now; for now Vash's eyes drift just as his counterpart had wanted them to, the glove covering his own metal hand to the cerulean glass of the other. Honed for detail, they easily pick up on the admission of what had been done. Far from the first time with is counterpart-- hell, even in this conversation-- Vash's heart lurches, aches, with that same old want to take the pain away.

Instead, his free arm returns to the position is had been in, wrapping itself around the younger's shoulders and squeezing. "You don't gotta thank me," Vash says quietly, just enough to be heard over quivering breaths. "You've helped me out more than you know."

Artificial fingers flex, curl slowly in on themselves one by one until relaxing again. "Who takes care of your maintenance?" he finally asks, after a few more moments of silence. "They're gonna be a whole lot more pissed at you than I could ever be."

[steviewashere]

The Belt Prong

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Past Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Depression (Vague Though) Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Slight Steve Harrington Character Study, Heavy Metaphors, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Protective Steve Harrington, Protective Eddie Munson, Self-Sacrificing Steve Harrington, Vaguely Depressed Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Self Esteem Issues, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Realizes He Matters, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Good Person Steve Harrington, Everybody Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug (And Gets One), Eddie Munson Comforts Steve Harrington, Happy Ending I honestly don't know where this came from. But it felt important, so I wrote it.

🫂—————🫂 There’s a piece of Steve’s belt buckle that’s missing.

It broke off when he went to thread it through one of the holes, after he had cinched the leather tight. He had struggled for a couple minutes already to get that little piece through. And it frustrated him, sure. Frustrated him beyond belief that the one thing he needed was now missing. That it fell into the carpet, that it could’ve slid underneath his bed, that it could’ve slipped away from him to somewhere it’ll never return from.

Yet, somewhere in his frustration, the emotion morphed. Went away from the ire and the red and the burning. Turning southward, mouth set, marveling. It took just the one piece to fling away from him—and now he’s really noticing the way that he can’t get his pants to stay on. They keep slipping down his hips, revealing a little slip of his underwear, he has to keep tugging on the belt loops, and the belt won’t close. Just one thing. One thing and now everything’s amuck.

He doesn’t have a shirt on quite yet. Still standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Face pointed towards his hips, to his groin, to the waistband of his jeans. That leather belt gaping open and loose in its confines. Never to close again.

There are pink swatches of skin in the corners of his vision. And so he looks, eyes drawn to them already. Big, previously puckered, softened scarring. Shiny and pink and healed. He steps so that he can view his profile, noting the marring on his back; on the b-sides of his biceps. White lines on his knuckles, in his hairline, at the edge of his bottom lip. If he were to tug his pants down in this moment, there’d be more scarring there, too. Not from the Upside Down, but something just as heavy and drastic and dangerous. From a time before; lonely and young and confused; lonely and young and craving; lonely and young and…tired.

His fingers absentmindedly trace the outlines of the swatches on his stomach. Where it tickles. And it doesn’t hurt. Where nothing hurts and life is finally just…just.

At one point, he had considered.

Considered death, to put it bluntly. All the harm. All the overpasses and bridges and cliff edges. Thought of car crashes or drownings or his house burning down—the accidental ones. Of getting knocked a little too loose. Jumping into a line of action too overzealously. And he’s done that last one, knows he has; screaming at armed guards, nail bat twirling in hand, molotov cocktails, and strangulation.

A thousand possibilities, yet he’s never considered the thought of making it out alive.

With scars to show survival.

The hickeys on his neck to show the warmth he had been chasing.

And his eyes no longer wet or dim or petrified. Just two hazel eyes set in a face, awe in the irises, love in the pupils. Ones that dilate on their own accord, not from injuries. Eyes that see the world through eyeglass lenses, eyes that see the setting sun and the blue of dawn, eyes that see a handsome face laying next to him in bed; eyes that mourn, eyes that laugh, eyes that love.

He looks over his shoulder in the mirror to see Eddie in the doorway. To see him leaning into the doorjamb, arms crossed lax over his chest, a calm giddiness that’s resided and rooted.

“You know I love to look at you, baby, but we gotta get going. Don’t wanna miss that movie—though you gotta wear a shirt to get in,” Eddie lightly teases.

Steve’s fingers tense and flatten over the left bite mark scar. There are matching ones on Eddie’s torso. A million little ones littered all over him, ones that Steve applied pressure to and tourniquet with this same belt—a belt that won’t do that again because it’s missing that one little piece. He blows out a wet breath, something that could’ve been a chuckle if he weren’t so outside and so inside his own head—a simultaneous.

“Um,” he hums, voice all raspy and snotty. “I—I can’t close my belt.”

Eddie snorts, unbeknownst to what’s happening. “Don’t you have another one ‘round here?”

He shakes his head. “No,” Steve murmurs, “just the one.” His fingers now graze the cold, gold buckle. A buckle without a tongue, no way to speak, no way to chew. “Tried to close it and broke that little thin piece off. Guess I threaded it too hard?”

“Huh,” Eddie mutters, “could just do sweatpants. Or basketball shorts or…Or a”—his voice trails off. Mouth closing with a soft click. His eyes are bouncing, now, around Steve’s face in the mirror. “What’s wrong,” he asks, “is that a special belt or something?”

Something, he repeats inwardly. Something indeed.

“No…no I just—One small piece broke off and now the belt’s never going to close again,” he chokes out. Steve clears his throat, shuffles side to side, eyes darting over his scars. Dropping down to his thigh, too.

There were a lot of times where he felt he wasn’t needed. Wasn’t even wanted.

Times that he could get the hell out of dodge any moment and nobody would realize the absence he left. He’d be able to disappear without a trace, no friends to his left, no words to his name, no prospects for his future. At any point, he could’ve jumped into the driver’s side of his car.

Could’ve ran away from home—all the times when his parents were disappointed in him, where he embarrassed himself, those days and nights when standing up to his dad was the worst decision he could make; when he just made his parents’ life much, much worse. Could’ve stayed back with Tommy and Carol, never apologizing to anybody, saving face to protect a name. Could’ve drove into the sun and left Nancy and Jonathan to defend themselves against that demogorgon. Let Nancy drink herself to near death. Told Dustin ‘no.’ Kept those kids under Joyce and Hopper and Nancy’s watchful eyes. Turned Robin away. Never went after Eddie.

And yet…

Yet most of them are there because of his actions alone.

Had he not held that baseball bat, would Nancy and Jonathan have faced death? If he didn’t go with Dustin, would that twerp be left in his own mess, also possibly dead? And what about Lucas against Billy? The kids against the demodogs? He and Robin would’ve never become best friends; Robin would’ve never talked about her secret, never would’ve had a wingman, wouldn’t be dating Vickie right now. Eddie…Eddie wouldn’t even be looking at him.

Would’ve never resuscitated Eddie’s heart. Would’ve never helped apply pressure to his wounds. Or carry him out. Carry him to the hospital. Make a scene so he was taken care of. Got him cleared.

Would’ve never loved him.

And he wouldn’t be loved in return. Not the way he is. Deeply and unheard of.

Maybe his sacrifices were a lot stupid most of the time. Maybe they did initially come from a deep-seated want to just get away. Maybe he wasn’t just being protective, but also rather suicidal—though he doesn’t like to think like that, even if it’s the truth.

In the end, he did it anyway. And most of these people he’s met, they’re still in his life. Thanks in part to him, right? What would it have been otherwise? How much blood would’ve been spilled?

“Steve?”

Eddie’s beside him now. Hand on his right shoulder. Turning him away from the mirror so his concerned eyes can meet Steve’s crying ones. His thumb is pressing into the edge of Steve’s collarbone. And his eyebrows are furrowed. And his frown is lopsided from the scarring on his jaw. But he’s beautiful and he’s alive…god, he’s alive.

“I’m the piece,” Steve gets out, “the piece…the…that’s me.”

“I don’t—Sweetheart, I don’t think I under”—

“If I didn’t—If you”—he hiccups and gasps and sobs something on the edge of his next exhale. Steve brings both his hands up to Eddie’s face, cupping his cheeks gently, nails tracing where a dimple would indent, the silver edges of that scar. His jeans are slowly cascading down his legs, falling away too loose because his fucking belt is broken. “Had I not been there, you would’ve…would’ve died,” he breathes. He chuckles—a sound born from bewilderment. His fingers tighten, squishing Eddie’s very malleable, very warm, very in tact skin. “I was there. I was there to help save you.”

Concern and confusion is what Eddie shines with. It makes Steve laugh a little harder. At least it isn’t blankness. At least those eyes aren’t far away. “You were,” he says slowly, “what’s…where are you going with this?”

Steve bites his bottom lip and inhales, chest burbling and rasping, throat stinging and aching, eyebrows cinched. “I’ve been here from the beginning of that bullshit,” he rambles, “and…and because I was there, people didn’t die. Most people didn’t die. It wasn’t just me, I know that, but in part because of me. Had I just run away…had I gave up…had I—If I died! Imagine if I died? Where the hell would Dustin have gone? Who would be Robin’s best friend?

“Fuck…fuck. You’d be dead! I had to be there! What the fuck…I had to be there!” He pats his palms down Eddie’s face, down the sides of his neck. A pulse red hot and thrumming kisses his skin. A pulse he kept. A pulse he dreams about. “Just me. Just…just little me in the thick, bigness of it all. To think…to think.”

Eddie’s still confused. “To think?”

“To think that I actually matter,” Steve says in awe. “To think that I thought that I never mattered. That I was never needed. But now…now my belt won’t close because I lost one piece of it. Just one piece! Isn’t that fucking crazy?”

Eyebrows jump comically into Eddie’s hairline. His eyes are sweeping back and forth and back and forth. There’s horror there. Apprehension. Fear. Concern. “Of course you matter,” he softly exclaims, “Steve, you matter a whole fucking lot!”

“I know!” He responds at the same volume. Takes a deep breath, swipes his thumbs over Eddie’s pulse points. Exhales, “I know.” Steve sniffles back the last of his tears, the last of the snot burbled deep within him. “Jesus, I matter. I’m needed? What the hell.”

“Baby,” Eddie whispers, “you are always needed. No matter what.”

He swallows, eyes bouncing up from where they’ve drifted to Eddie’s collarbone. To his eyes. Those still concerned eyes. “Even if I’m an asshole sometimes?”

“Mhm.”

“When I…I feel like I can’t get out of bed?”

“Yup.”

He swallows again, this time around a lot of somethings, a lot of realizations too cosmically big for a mundane Wednesday afternoon. “Even as I am?”

“As you are,” Eddie breathes, “all of you. No matter what.” His hands land on Steve’s forearms, heavy and sure and squeezing. Comforting and warm. “You matter to a lot of people. And you are needed. And you are wanted. I want you, you understand that? People want you around, even when they don’t need a single damn thing from you.

“Even if you don’t function the way you normally do. Even if you can’t contain yourself. Even if you…you feel like you aren’t you. You will always matter. 

“We want you, Steve.

“We love you, Steve. We love you a lot.”

He proceeds that with silence. And gentle bewilderment. Fresh, crackling awe.

There is a pulse under his hands. And there is warmth in a body. There are pants ready to puddle to the floor. Here he is, here Eddie is—here the whole world is. And even if he’s one of billions, he still aided, he still put himself where he felt he could be. Where he ended up needed. Where he is now wanted.

Who would’a thought? Who would’a thought…

Steve presses himself closer into Eddie’s space. Hands gliding around his torso. Squeezing himself in tight, encompassing Eddie in all his warmth, and being embraced right back. He nestles his head on Eddie’s left shoulder, pulse loud in his ear. Tears beading in the corners of his eyes, to which he closes them. And he sinks into it.

To think it was a prong.

Just a silly little prong.

He’s finally got what he wants: a simple life—a boring, mundane life—with love, with care; to matter.

🫂—————🫂

[luveline]

Would you be willing to write a little blurb of Steve comforting reader who is in recovery from self harm? I know this is a very no no subject for some writers so I understand if this is a no!

fem!reader !! cw self harm (mention of the self injury, no active graphic imagery, but some details that could be evocative)

You’ve taken to curling up in whatever space he leaves. In bed, you sidle close to his side with your ear to his stomach. On the couch, you’re laying on his lap, every breath a press of ribs against his thighs. If Steve’s on a sun lounger in the backyard, you’re sitting on the ground next to him with an arm hooked over his leg and your cheek bitten by metal.  

It’s sort of odd to see your arms without red cuts and welts. Curled again, you and Steve are sitting on the porch watching the sun dropping lazily to the horizon, the sky a funny shade of blue. You’re actually turned away from the sun and toward the house, Steve to the sun, like inverted commas interlinked. Your hand is on his leg, and your arm is bare and starkly uninjured. 

That’s too generous, maybe. Evidence of a bad habit long to kick tracks the length of you, white and purple and red scars criss-crossed through your skin. 

He’s seen them thick with dried blood and sore to the touch. Your skin aflame. Not because you’ve ever showed him of your own volition, you wouldn’t. You’ve always likened your self-injury to a contagion. “I don’t wanna put thoughts in your head,” you whispered. 

It was a nice concern for you to have, but Steve isn’t at any risk of hurting himself (purposefully, at least). He has no urges. He didn’t even know people did stuff like that until he met you. Maybe that’s why it breaks his heart so much. You hurt so much. You feel terrible and you take it out on yourself and Steve just doesn’t get it, ‘cos you’re aces. 

He never shied away from it, even if he didn’t like that you were doing it. He still remembers the first time he realised what you were doing, his confusion, the immediate internal recoil. How could you do that to yourself? Why would you? You’ve always been prone to that awful persisting sadness under the skin, but Steve knows a lot of sad people. He knows what it’s like to wish vehemently that you were a better version of yourself, or somebody else, or just gone. 

But you’re doing better now. He resists the urge to kiss your hands whenever he sees you and you act like you aren’t doing a brave thing. 

Steve’s stupid but he’s not stupid. (Or, at least he feels that way.) He knows you’re finding it hard to stop, like an addict. It’s a habit. A behaviour that takes conscious effort to break until it doesn’t. The worst bit is that you never even asked for help. 

Your hand twitches on his leg. 

Steve curls a hand behind your neck, kissing you softly, the silky press of your lips to his. You inhale and cut the quiet buzz of cicadas, your breath surprised but not tight. 

“Sorry,” he says, “was that okay? I was just thinking about you.” 

“It’s fine.” You laugh against his lips and take a kiss, evening the score. “It’s always okay. Kiss me whenever you want.” 

“You looked mopey,” he says. Foot in mouth disease forever. 

“I’m not mopey, just distracted.” 

“I know, it’s offensive. You come over here to hang out and spend the last hour in deep thought.” He makes it clear he’s joking through his light tone and his smile, your eyes met, his hand sliding down your shoulder and your arm. He’s especially careful as his fingers run down your forearm. You watch the path of his hand as it falls, twining your fingers weakly with his. “You can tell me anything.” 

“I do tell you anything.” 

“Well, just telling you again.” He kisses your cheek, then, less gentle, your lips. 

You have this aversion to saying the worst part out loud. There’s always a metaphor or an omission. You can’t say cut, it’s too much, but you’ve said hurt. You’ll admit to self injury but not the action. “It’s fine,” you say now. 

“I think you’re doing a good job.” 

You laugh softly through your nose. “Thank you.” 

“I’m not kidding.” He blows a breath up his face. “Look, can I just be honest with you?” 

Your smile turns uneasy at his bluntness. “Um. Are you breaking up with me?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Never,” he says, pushing your sleeve up your arm slowly, and then faster when you don’t resist. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you without them.” He doesn’t say cuts either, mostly for your sake. 

“Sorry.” 

He shakes his head again. “For what? I’m just saying. You’ve had them this whole time and I’ve never– they’ve never stopped me from wanting to kiss your face off.” He probably shouldn’t make jokes. He backtracks. “I mean, they don’t make a difference to me, I like you even if you can’t, uh… Even if the impulse is too much. But I’m thrilled you’re, you know, not doing it.” 

“I know,” you murmur. 

“I love you.” 

“I know.” Your voice is nearly inaudible, “That’s why it’s easier now.” 

His heart swells with pride and love and an unfightable want to hug you. He slides his arms around you from under your armpits, forcing you to hug his neck, stealing a kiss to the cheek as he squeezes you forward. “I just want you to know that I get it. Like, how hard you’re working to not do it.”

“Steve,” you admonish quietly. 

“Sorry, I’ll stop talking about it if you want.” 

“I mean… It's kinda nice to talk about it. It’s not in my head.” 

“It’s not in your head.” 

“But it feels weird ‘cos it’s like, something I should be doing anyways. It’s like getting praise for washing your hands.” 

Steve thinks there’s a pretty big difference between wanting to hurt yourself but resisting it and washing your hands, but he knows what you’re saying. Doesn’t agree, but doesn’t want to invalidate you either. However you need to think about it to get through it is up to you. “I can praise you for washing your hands. I want to.” 

Steve encourages you to turn into the sunshine. You lay your cheek against his shoulder. “Love you,” you say, your hand on his leg. 

He stares right at the sun and blinks hurriedly. “I love you too.” 

[touyas-multi-purpose-saline]

hihii!! could you write bluebell for setsuno? <33

cw: Yandere, Delusional Behaviors / Thoughts, Gore, Organs, Allusions to Kidnapping, Brief Mention of Past Cheating, Brief Allusion to Religion, Suicide / Accidental Suicide, Quirk Used in a Metaphorical Sense (Not Accurate), Unhealthy Relationships, General Dark Content Not Suitable for Immature Audiences, Gender-Neutral Reader. Reader discretion is advised. 18+ Only!

author's note: Sorry this took so long! I've just been so swamped with work that I haven't had a chance to get around to it, especially with Kinktober here. Hopefully you like this! It was very fun to write. This was a prompt from "Yandere Prompts Flower Language" and can be found here . REQUESTS ARE OPEN—check pinned post. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is strictly fiction! Do not force yourself to read if you're uncomfortable.

PROMPT: Bluebell (Humility, Gratitude): "I'll be your humble servant, if only you'd let me."

word count: Approximately 2k words.

Touya doesn’t understand.

It’s not quite computing in his brain, or perhaps he doesn’t want it to.

You were the perfect person for him—truly. You were there after his fall, you’d been the one to extend a loving and tender hand to him after he’d been saved by Master Overhaul. Trash to everyone but honored by Master Overhaul, then cherished by you. There’s no way that anything else could be possible.

He’d frozen his heart, turned it to sheer stone and ice. Touya didn’t ever want to fall in love again. He couldn’t risk it. If he did, he’d find himself perched on a balcony ready to jump again, only to be ensnared by the hands of a faux hero that only wanted to save his sorry self for the glory. He was just a story to everyone. He was just a bad case of the flu, just something that was important to draw attention to before he disappeared within the millions of cases flocking across the world. Touya knew it all was a lie, knew that he could still see that cheating bitch’s face in his mind.

She was pretty at one point, but it melded into clay and maggots the longer he thought about it, but those disgusting things melted away after a while until you were all Touya could think about.

If Master Overhaul had been his second chance at life, then you were his protestant calling. You were brought here for a reason that you don’t like to tell Touya, but he doesn’t mind if you never want to say it because he already knows the truth: Master Overhaul knew he’d one day need a beautiful lover like you, that he needed another person to offer him what he’d lost, what he’d deserve.

So why—why are you standing before him, a terrified expression plastered across those gorgeous apples of your face?

“P-Please stop. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Touya takes a step forward, but you quickly shuffle backwards. Why are you doing that? Stop it. Touya’s just trying to get closer so he can pull you into an embrace, can squeeze the small of your back to reassure you that he doesn’t mean any harm.

“Yes, you do. I’ve noticed it a lot recently. You’re growing distant from me, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Did I recently do something to upset you, sweetie?”

You blink rapidly, a dashing line dotting down your face until it reaches your suddenly agape mouth. There’s something unfamiliar flashing across your eyes, something that Touya’s never seen before. Or maybe he has. Is this what he saw looking in the mirror right before he tried to kill himself? Are you reflecting what he felt just so that he doesn’t have to feel isolated right now? Oh, surely you must. You’re so kind, and perfect, and dear, and just a little peach that he could rest in the palms of his hands and take a swift bite out of.

“I genuinely don’t understand what you’re saying. You haven’t done anything wrong, but I… I don’t think we’re on the same page. I don’t remember ever being close to you.”

Twitching. Are his eyes twitching? They can’t be. He could never be annoyed with you. No, of course not. He’s just annoyed at this set of circumstances. You’re trying to play it cool so that you don’t upset him. It’s because you’re just oh-so considerate of him. It makes Touya’s chest ache, makes him feel so special, so important, so remembered.

“I must have. You don’t have to lie to me. I won’t get angry. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I got angry at you for being upset?”

Touya doesn’t understand what’s staring back at him. Why are you suddenly looking at him in terror? Why is your bottom lip trembling? Why have you started wringing your hands and slowly backing away from him? Why do you look like you’re on the verge of tears? Why? Why why why why why why whyre why heyw ehwy whey wywhy e

“Please. Um, leave me alone. I don’t. I didn’t even want to be here in the first place. I was k—kidnapped, um. Master Overhaul didn’t tell me I was here to… He… He just said I had to take care of… I don’t know you.”

Squeaking engines scratch like records in the back of his mind, Touya’s teeth clench, his fists ball, and he breathes out gently and heavily. The air whistles between his teeth whenever he cinches his eyes shut and tilts his head away.

“Baby. I… You’re hurting me. You don’t want to leave me, do you? And after all of the tender moments we’ve shared… after every time I saw that stunning smile spread across your face whenever you looked at me? All of your coy glances… your shy attempts to remain casual. I know that you wanted to take our relationship slow, that’s why you never hold my hand or kiss me, right?”

A genuine sob bursts forth from your throat, something hearty and something monstrous, and Touya’s eyes snap open again to see you fumbling away, crying fat crocodile tears and stuttering like you didn’t know what to say to him.

“I—I’m going to tell Master Overhaul that you’re—you’re keeping me from doing what he asked. I’ll tell him you’re harassing me.”

Why would you need to lie like that!? WHY would you need to tell Master Overhaul something like THAT!? DON’T YOU LOVE HIM!?

Touya starts to awkwardly chuckle, swaying, dizzy. He feels drunk, he feels like he’s on the verge of passing out, as if he’s on the verge of losing his mind, exploding into tiny molecules that will fade back into sand and stardust, that’ll be chemicals beginning their half-lives for the rest of eternity.

“Heh… Heheh… You… Why are you saying these things, baby? Why are you… Master Overhaul didn’t… He didn’t kidnap you. He brought you here for me. Yes. That’s why you’re here. Just… Just please stop lying to me, okay? I love you.”

A tiny wail leaves you, and your feet dance until you collapse backwards, until your body collides with the wall and you’re sliding down it with aghast features, with skin taut and pulled back, with bleary red eyes and sleepiness, with tremors shuddering through your body.

“No… No! No, I wasn’t. I’m here just to… to—take care of some old man and little girl! Please, stop. Stop. I don’t know you. You’re not my boyfriend. I don’t love you!”

He growls. He doesn’t mean to, but he growls. He pounces forward a few steps until he’s only a meter away from you. It’s just enough space between the two of you so you stop panicking and lying, and it’s just enough space for him to brace against one of his knees and clutch his claws against his chest. Touya pleads, his voice cracks and he can feel tears start to tingle within his own eyes.

“I need you to stop speaking like that. I’m yours. And I’ll be yours forever. Just stop saying such hurtful things. Can’t you see? I’ll be your humble servant, if only you’d let me!!!”

Your hands grip the side of your face, and you’re hyperventilating. Nothing's making sense. Touya doesn’t want you to look at him like that, never wanted to see that expression on your face—especially not whenever he’s the one receiving it! That makes him feel like such a bad bad baaaaaaaaaaaaad boyfriend!! Why can he never do anything right!?

Visceral, primal, animalistic fear and rage bite him back.

“Leave me alone, you creep!”

Shredding machines and gears right through his body, wood chippers eating him alive, gore and guts splattering like piñatas pouring stale candy and frothy eyeballs across yellow grass. Touya shatters, and his side rings with agony whenever it slams onto the hardwood floor. Maybe he’s crying also, but he’s chewing his tongue and gagging against the way it rolls behind his front teeth. Touya’s long nails nearly slice his skin open whenever he winces against the heartbreak and the machetes slicing through the underbrush of his calloused trauma.

“Baby… Baby… Don’t say that… Don’t call me that… I love you… I love you, I love you so much. You’re killing me, you’re killing me, baby. What do I have to do?”

How can he prove his devotion to you? How can he show you just how much he genuinely and totally loves you? He’d do whatever you needed, he’d do anything for you, he’d do everything that will make you love him. He’d fling himself down before your feet, would lick the bottoms of your shoes, would prostrate himself to let you do all of your heart’s desires to him. You could crush his back, could rip his sinuses out, could fracture his kidneys, could slurp up his ligaments—do it!! Do it!! DO IT, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

“I don’t want to be here! I just wanna go home! Stop reminding me that I—that I was—Please just shut up!”

“I’m always yours—always… from the moment I fell in love with you, I—”

Touya’s heart was thumping. It was beating against his sternum in ways that reminded him of wars, of airplanes humming and whirring their deadly fumes across the innocent plains, of the death rattle springing to life in its evil deeds, in throats, in limbic systems that don’t know just when to quit. It was so real, so painful, the pain. Touya could visualize it, could see it, could feel his own blood drumming within his fingertips, could tell that life was ending, could tell that you were yelling now, you were yelling for someone other than him and it was driving Touya insane. What could he do? Your heart’s a weapon to him, digging into him and twisting those fishy scales from his body, and Touya wanted to do the same to you, wanted to give you his heart, wanted to—

“Take it. Take my heart, let me show you how you’re hurting me—”

It was in his mind, so real, his heart is his only defense, his only backup, it was the only way to make you see just how much he absolutely adores you, he jerks forward, crawling, hands still over his lungs, breathing, seeing—

“Just. See, see how much I love you, I have to—to—”

It happens too fast. Something sharp and unbelievable, something that Touya never thought was possible. He blinked, and could feel the pressure against the pads of his fingers before he could even comprehend it. It tore right through his body, slicked through him like it was a wraith in the night, like it was metaphysical and wasn’t even truly a genuine organ. His eyes are vibrating whenever he slowly peels his hands away from his body, whenever everything starts eating away at the edges of his vision, flurries of gnats and fuzzy burnweeds, and Touya looks down.

There—there, his heart—his heart—

“I—”

Blood glurks from his mouth instead of words, but Touya doesn’t stop shambling closer. His hands fall, and he watches his heart hit the ground and bounce a few paces ahead of him. You’re shrieking, you’re staring at him with this abhorred expression, and he can hear Master Overhaul Master Overhaul Master Overhaul Master Overhaul over and over in his head. Jealousy begins to decorate his gasping breath, and begins to bleed onto his shirt. Why isn’t his name on your lips?

Touya focuses on his heart, everything is getting slurred into soupy rinds and he can’t help but beg that it works, that you’ll finally submit yourself to him in death, that you’ll see his love, that you’ll see that you ds ee waht it meens to jim if ouy wulde jusst

L o

V ee e

Me

[crayonverse]

details bout michael n eins dynamic. 2 me (cw physical/emotional abuse, cannibalism, suicide/suicidal idealizations, ableism, self-harm)

michael only refers to himself as eins father when he wants ein to do something, any other time hes just michael .

lets ein not refer to him as sir to make him feel more "special" .

after eins mom broke up w zack she sorta got a bit. out of it. she started neglecting ein and she became depressed. The First Step in ein distrusting others bc his mother stopped paying attention 2 him. michael used a small amount of his magic to control her and make her drown herself in the kitchen sink and then kidnapped ein, making it look like she had killed herself and ein had ran away. .

just as a small thing of me hcing ein as a transguy, michael named him ein bc the meaning of "ian" (which is what his name is just spelled weird) is "God is Gracious" as a constant reminder that michael "saved" ein. .

ein wasnt tested on w forever potions (in the early stages w the other kids) because michael absolutely could not let Zack know he had his other stupid kid. when ein found out about the testing he was extremely upset bc he wasnt "special enough" for it. picture ein 6 years old begging for medical malpractice to be used on him .

he was tested later but as a teen when michael got out, since he didnt have access to the other children. although he wasn't able to use the full potions since he didnt have access to emeralds at the moment, so he used diluted versions of the potions that weren't as powerful via syringes. ein gets a fear needles from it .

when michael n the other two idiots were locked in the pocket dimension ein went through a brief depressive period bc the One Guy he (thought) cared about him disappeared. when michael did get out he didnt tell ein immediately bc he . doesnt like ein but when he found out ein got arrested he told ein that he should stay in jail for a few months to "learn his lesson" .

slightly unrelated but when michael wanted him out of jail he also wanted ein to disappear off the radar so he faked eins death in jail. originally he wanted ein to die in like a riot but ein, sensing an opportunity, asked for it to say he killed himself instead. the opportunity being aphmau half way into her uni course looking up her old high school bullies to see what theyre up to and just finding out ein is Fucking Dead .

the potions michael uses on ein are mainly magic power related (like eins Green Laser) because he likes manipulating ein into doing things rather than using his magic because its "more fun" .

michael subconsciously views ein as his actual son (mcd travis) bc he feels like "this one is a better son" or whatever .

not a specific thing but mother knows best reprise from tangled is a Viewpoint on their dynamic 2 me .

ein is internally scared of michael but he never verbally says that and if anyone asks him if he is he denies it immediately bc he doesnt want pity. you can see it in his eyes though. elizabeth is really the only other person who mentions it but she mostly uses it to make fun of ein because she "doesnt think its that bad" (<- she is unaware) .

bc of michael ein absolutely hates unwarranted physical touch. he reacts violently if anyone grasps his shoulder from behind or touches his upper arms. the only touch he usually allows is people lightly touching his hair/head bc he still registers it as headpats (grabbing his hair usually results in him biting) .

michael usually physically threatens or abuses ein to reprimand him but sometimes he throws ein into the Metaphorical Torture Box for entertainment .

basically most of the things michael does to ein is for his own amusement .

he also heavily dehumanizes ein to convince him to do evil acts, rationalizing it to him as "you arent a person so is it really that bad??" ein does not view himself as an actual person at this point more so as a nameless soldier, a weapon, etc .

i used this for an old fic n stuff too but also michael makes ein commit cannibalism to forcibly dehumanize him more. he wants to make ein feel entirely disconnected from humanity (like michael feels for himself) so ein will basically be a "mini michael" .

ein also consciously copies michaels mannerisms/speech. only really elizabeth n zack notice it however and it just fucking freaks zack the hell out (elizabeth is also freaked out by it but mostly ignores it) .

theres just a general theme of a loss of control for ein in general. he gets a small allowance from michael and hes not allowed out overnight, all his communication is usually internally with the researchers or guardian forces. most of the time ein self isolates from them, viewing them as beneath him and michael. when they try to talk to him its a 50/50 whether he'll tell them to fuck off or he'll hiss at them .

another specific detail is pre s4 ein fucked up a potion and instead of his usual reprimand, michael used pliers to defang ein. in his head its the one thing ein can't rationalize about michaels actions (the one "seed of doubt" he has). he usually makes excuses for michael's actions towards him but being defanged is the only one he struggles with since he knows that michael knows how important his wolf side is to him .

pre s5 and just like at the end of s5 (when ein was seen on the bridge) he was going through another depressive episode bc he missed his ears and tail. he was mainly just going through the motions of his daily life but he was barely holding on. michael repeatedly discouraged ein from committing because the plan would be messed up because of it (michael said that directly to him) and he would imply that ein would be a traitor if he went through with it. .

michael actually flipped between discouraging and encouraging ein to commit to see what he would do. .

he's caught ein self-harming before, w ein attempting to either drown or smother himself. michael doesnt like doing this regularly but most of the time he lets ein hug him so he feels "comforted". other times michael just scolds him and tells him to not do it again. .

i also hc ein as a low empathy autistic (bc # me) and he used to stim very openly and loudly but michael disliked that part of him so he "trained" ein to not stim in public which just results in him being constantly overstimulated, a contributor to Ein being fucking mad all the time. hes like a hair trigger away from a meltdown at all times .

the only method of stimming ein can usually get away w is when he scratches his arms/scabs. unfortunately he doesn't trim his claws and it usually results in ein making himself bleed or reopening scars. michael has attempted to get him to stop doing this but its pretty much a compulsion for ein at this point.

[daytaker]

Satan Headcanons

cw: some self-harming tendencies

Some of these are actually anti-canons. I don't know if that's a phrase I've heard before or one that I just invented but I'm going to call things that explicitly oppose the canon because I think they make more sense or fit better "anti-canons".

General Headcanons

Satan doesn't try new things if he doesn't think he'll be good at them from the very beginning. He hates appearing weak or ridiculous, so he tends to absorb as much information about something as he can before ever attempting it, and even then he only acts if having that information is practically useful. As a consequence, he has never played a Sport.

Satan is Lucifer's favorite brother.

He would unironically like Linkin Park.

He can't stop thinking about cats. He can't stop talking about cats. He needs cat rehab. He can't even stop going on about cats long enough to sing us a serious and emotional love song without mentioning cats. Cats are a problem.

He and Levi share cursed memes.

Satan writes poetry sometimes.

Asmo treats him as both a big brother and a little brother.

He can play the piano because Lucifer can play the piano, but he won't do it.

Baby Satan (By Which I Mean Newly Made Satan)

When Satan is very "new", his connection to Lucifer is stronger to the extent that he can more or less gauge what Lucifer is thinking at any given time. He just instinctively knows. This wears off as time goes on and he develops a more distinct sense of self, and there's more time separating him and his creation, but at first, he can track Lucifer's thoughts so well that Lucifer is extremely uncomfortable with it. He'll be sitting there at dinner while everyone else is talking about screaming tomatoes and how terrifying Devildom produce is in general, and Lucifer is trying to figure out what to do about Diavolo and his weird enthusiasm for that demon that just woke up in the middle of the new school, wondering why they're suddenly a founding member of RAD, and Satan turns to him and says, "Lord Diavolo seems to like collecting strange demons with questionable loyalties and making them into his personal entourage. Also, fuck you."

Sensory

He has a lot of sensory difficulties, and the next few headcanons below are offshoots of this one. But basically... have you ever been in a blind rage and felt something touch you gently? Maybe this is just me, but that somehow makes everything worse. Basically, I'm picturing boy fresh from the metaphorical womb, an uncontrollable ball of fury, and SOFT stuff GENTLY touches him? On his BODY? What the ACTUAL FUCK?

His antidote to this discomfort is to have something rough and painful touch the spot that was affected, and this leads to a lot of scabs and sores. They're worst on his back and shoulders. This was a source of stress and conflict for him and Lucifer early on.

He hates clothes. Especially loose-fitting clothes, because of how they sit on his body. He refused to wear clothes at all for the first couple weeks he existed. He'd just roll around and tear them up with his tail. He often finds clothes uncomfortable enough to be considered painful, though that's not exactly what's happening.

He hates to get wet. I know, I know. Very "cat". Pretty basic. But being wet is uncomfortable. And kind of humiliating. And if you so much as smile at him when he's wet, he will interpret that as mockery and absolutely go the fuck off.

So baths and showers are tricky. Why the actual fuck would he subject himself to something like that? Just so other people don't have to smell him? Do they have any idea how little he cares about their disgust? He's born of wrath and shame* and hate! He eats disgust for breakfast.

*As the Avatar of Pride, Lucifer can no longer experience Pride's antithesis (shame) so when Satan was made, he ended up taking his shame as a little present. That's one reason why he hates Lucifer: he knows why Lucifer hates himself, even though Lucifer doesn't anymore.

[heartgold]

(incest cw)

sayo's one winged eagle thigh tattoo is something that afaik is never explained and it isn't even clear if it's something she had in real life or a visual metaphor within her narrative, but my personal headcanon for it is that sayo got it tattooed sometime soon after 11/29 while the hurt was very raw and she was trying to cope with the fresh trauma of everything that got dumped on her all at once.

i picture her doing it as a form of self destruction, to brand herself as furniture of the family in the most self loathing way possible after everything she learned about herself, and at the same time as a way to ground herself and gain just any control over her body after learning what was done to it. the controlled pain and act of modifying her body would reassure her that, despite everything, it's her own.

i've seen multiple new readers notice the tattoo and immediately comment wondering about kinzo's intentions getting the teenage servant tattooed with the family's crest right on the thigh and i think this impression is very much the point. kinzo is dead and left so much trauma behind to haunt her at all times, but she can be the one to turn him into a prop in her own narrative this time around. i think she would use genji's help arranging to get the tattoo done and then have him announce that it was kinzo's decision, much to the horror of his relatives. the tattoo would be proof of all of the violence he inflicted on all the beatrices, now housed within her body, for all to see. what would people assume when they see that tattoo? would they prove themselves to be as callous and cruel as they have always been and only feel anger and scorn towards a servant getting to display the family crest on her body? would anyone actually show concern for her? she's quietly crying for help and showing how she's been hurt while putting herself in harm's way. think doing this would feel cathartic yet selfdestructive. maybe seeing how they would react is another bet in her pattern of gambling with fate.

the symbolism also goes crazy. it's only half an eagle. a symbol of being incomplete, missing something, missing someone, missing its other half. a bird with one wing torn off can't fly through the sky and can't escape its cage. she's a bird that's been mutilated in a literal sense. the eagle is a symbol of fascism and all the violence contained in the legendary gold. feeling like her birth and blood are inherently cursed too, having her body branded just like another gold ingot in the pile. both originating from violence. branding is done to ascertain the gold's roots and display its purity value, and isn't that a perfect metaphor for how it displays her connection to the ushiromiyas in plain sight? familial connection in the most horrific sense, being reduced to that accursed bloodline, feeling it to be inescapable. beatrice having the same thigh tattoo but on the other leg is also perfect because she's literally her reflection like that. a mirrored image. both wings of the same bird, and yet like reflections across either side of the mirror they are still separated and incomplete. it calls back to the severed halves of the butterfly brooch. it was a big deal in ep2, the episode most charged with her sex trauma and where beatrice makes a point of wearing an outfit that puts the tattoo on her thigh matching shannon's on display! sayo thinks so deeply about how to present her life as a narrative, i have no doubt she would've thought about all these metaphors.

[iampastelry]

CW: mentions of mental disorders, fictional murderers, mention of self-harm

So I just watched American Psycho, and oh gosh why have I never watched this movie before. I have a love for psychology, as well as horror movies, and gosh was this movie an experience.

The main thing I wanna talk about is Patrick's monologue at the end of the movie, showing that the world is continuing on despite what he's experienced internally, and that his "confession" (that may or may not have actually happened), didn't change anything.

Patrick associates himself with the worst of the worst. And he's a bad guy, definitely, given what he wants to do to people and what he did to those hookers, but he's not as diabolical as he thinks he is. Patrick Bateman is not a serial killer. And yet, he experienced all those things, went through all that turmoil, eventually actually hurt people, and did all of it in response to a crime he didn't commit.

Patrick feels a constant pain, and he seems to see it as his own punishment. But he also feels that he's gaining nothing from his punishment, that he's putting himself through all this for nothing, and/or that the pain he's going through is just pain- with no grand payoff and no deeper meaning.

A common symptom of OCD is feeling the need to confess, even when you've done nothing wrong. A common reason for self-harming, is a form of self-punishment. I believe that what Patrick is experiencing through the movie may a metaphor for OCD, and that his decline into breaking his mask, even a little bit, is his own attempt at self-sabotage- even when that self-sabotage causes people (the hookers) to actually get hurt.

[yall-hate-kids-tourney]

Shuuji Kayama (Digimon)

Y'all Hate Teens propaganda

cw: child abuse, suicide, getting eaten alive

"The reaction to Shuuji Kayama made me loose so much hope in this world it's not even funny. The story starts with the main cast all being spirited away to the Digimon (Called Kemonogami in Survive) World and getting separated from each other. Shuuji Kayama is the oldest of the cast and tries to act as their leader as the group comes to terms with their situation and new Kemonogami Partners.

The problem is Shuuji isn't a great leader, he's bossy but also nervous and unable to really direct the group when they really need him. He's distant from the others and the group will talk about him negatively and let out there annoyance and frustration at him when they can. 

Not to mention his treatment of his partner Lopmon. A shy, sweet Digimon who Shuuji yells at and acts unreasonably with, training the poor Digimon to be ""better"" through harsh ways and being unsympathetic to his cries. Shuuji Kayama Treats Lopmon Horribly that's an undeniable part of his characterization.

This all comes to a head at the start of Chapter 5 where we find out that Shuuji's Father is verbally abusive and has exceedingly harsh exceptions on Shuuji, we know due to side stories that Shuuji is a Fantastic Student actually and yet his father still acts this way with him. He fears being disowned by them, fears burdening him and his brother with his ""weakness"" and suddenly a lot of his treatment of Lopmon Makes Sense. We find out in Chapter 6 that the Digimon are reflections of the partner's heart. Making Lopmon a reflection of himself. They Tell Us This Directly.

At the end of Chapter 5 Shuuji Ends Up beating Lopmon (since Shuuji hates himself and is Self-Harming) and is talking all about how he'll beat up everyone who's ever hurt him. Causing Lopmon to Dark Digivolve into Wendimon and EAT HIM because it's a metaphor for his suicidality. 

And people's reactions to this were horrible! Wishing for this 16 year old to die, talking about how sad it is Lopmon has Him as a partner. I saw someone on Reddit talk about how Shuuji Kayama is Bad Writing because he's so ""unlikable"" There's a whole Game Rant Article about how he's so unlikable! No one is even Willing to even Read the Text of the GAME because Shuuji harmed the ""poor innocent"" Lopmon the literal manifestation of his SOUL! Shuuji Kayama is a Fantastic Character and people were so Horrid to him about *checks notes* dealing with trauma in a unappealing way. "

[sellenite]

summaries below the cut <333

Tempest:

cw: dark content, mental health (depression, schizophrenia—curses are seen by non-sorcerers/doctors as schizophrenia symptoms), unhealthy relationship dynamics, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, age-gap relationships, dubious consent, substance abuse, death, geto is an entire warning on his own

You were born with the ability to see curses, a "gift" you shared with your mother. She could see them too—or at least she used to before she began self-medicating with cheap bottles of whiskey. But the two of you were isolated by your burden, your mother shamed by the community, and you, as her daughter, an accessory of that shame. It was like that for as long as you could remember—a lonely childhood in which you grew up in the shadow of your mother's self-destruction—until a sudden tragedy left you truly alone.

Refusing to follow in your mother's footsteps, you seek solace in the whispered miracles of a local monk, Suguru Geto. However, instead of finding salvation, he reveals to you a truth that shatters your entire reality as you know it: the monsters you thought only lived inside of your head are very real, and beyond that, you are blessed, as he says, with an untamed curse technique tied to the power of storms.

Taken under Geto's wing, you begin to serve as his dedicated pupil and explore your latent abilities. However, you begin to discover that his kindness harbors a dark edge. As your bond deepens into something tangled and dangerous, you must confront the fine line between devotion and manipulation and decide how much you are willing to sacrifice to belong to Geto's cult.

Echoes of Infinity:

cw: mental health (derealization, PTSD, schizophrenia), death, angst, suicidal ideation, homicial ideation, came back wrong trope

Death was not what Satoru Gojo had anticipated. Instead of cold, dark nothingness, he was bound in the limbo of his Infinity. For the immeasurable time he was suspended between life and death, Satoru bore witness to the unfiltered chaos of every alternate reality of his battle with Sukuna Ryomen—forced to watch his own demise and the loss of everyone and everything he held dear over and over again. But then he awoke from his nightmare, dragged from the brink of death itself, alive but forever changed.

As Satoru wades through his waking reality, he is tormented by the haunting visions and memories of what his Limitless technique revealed. The world around him is no more than a haze of delusions, his psyche caught somewhere between the past, the present, and the future, some of which he is uncertain are even his own. And he can't shake the unnerving feeling that buried beneath the rubble of his memories lurks something dark and vengeful, hungry for the promise of blood.

The only constant is you—the closest thing Satoru has to a friend and a former lover—and your stubborn refusal to let him retreat into the abyss of his fractured mind. However, as the delicate state of Satoru's inner world continues to deteriorate, you must face an impossible question: has the Satoru Gojo you once knew already died?

Of Magic and Destiny:

cw: suicidal ideation/intention (Gale), confrontations with death (literally and metaphorically), violence, nerdy DND + Baldur's Gate lore, this one is overall more light-hearted than the other two though <3

Elowynn, a wild magic sorceress, was blessed with untamed powers by the goddess Chauntea at birth—a gift her mother revered but one that often felt more like a curse. Without guidance or formal training, Elly's magic became a source of chaos, its raw, volatile nature spiraling out of her control and leaving unintended harm in its wake. As her powers intensified with age, Elly was forced to make the painful decision to leave her home, determined to find a place where she could safely study her craft. Yet her path to self-discovery was quickly interrupted when she was abducted by the Illithid ship, the Nautaloid, and placed at the center of a fight for the fate of all of Faerûn.

Among the wreckage of their shared abduction, Elly meets a group of unlikely companions—each with their own dark secrets and desires. However, she finds a kindred spirit in the charismatic wizard, Gale. As they face impossible challenges together, Gale becomes her confidant, mentor, and the anchor she never knew she needed. He helps Elly refine her magic, teaching her to harness its wild nature and channel its power more effectively.

But their blossoming romance is threatened by the shadow of Gale’s own secret: the Netherese orb he harbors, a dangerous piece of dark magic that may ultimately destroy them both. As Elly and Gale grow closer, she must face the heart-wrenching question of whether their love can survive the weight of the magic they wield, or if the forces that bind them will tear them apart.

This one is pure self-indulgence. It essentially would just be a canon retelling of Baldur’s Gate, just with my own details/scenes added in. I really just want an excuse to write about Gale and my favorite Tav, I'm sorry 😭

[goose-books]

goose-books productions: a 2023 review

only [checks watch] two months late! view the image in higher quality here; read past years-in-review here; and thank you as always to my beloved @yvesdot for the template!

i shan't be dishonest; 2023 was not exactly the year of max. but i still got a lot of good writing done! transcripts + commentary under the cut, and, uh, take the godsong character roster again.

cws: animal death (february), pregnancy/miscarriage + body image issues (july), addiction (september), self-harm-as-metaphor (october)

january

what’s that? godsong ran away with me for another year? well, it does that. in the second of a plotted trilogy, anna (roughly: what if aeneas were a very sad lesbian?) and her lieutenants visit a soothsayer. ichari wants to kill for her, btw. anna please let them kill for you,

“Have we got to sacrifice an animal?” Sascha said, tilting his head. “Let you dig around in the entrails?” “If you’d like,” the Sibyl said, upper lip wrinkling. “But I’m haughty enough to believe I can make do with a bit of holy blood. Not you. Annadrijanna, if you would give me your hand.” Anna didn’t move. Her eyes widened, very slightly, as she stared at the hand the Sibyl had extended to her, palm up. Ichari’s hand was on their knife again before they could blink. Damn the gods and Avender’s Sibyl, and damn Anna’s quest, the moment she needed it they could have their blade in the prophet’s throat no matter what holy punishment tumbled down on their heels— “It won’t be like the other,” the Sibyl said, nodding to Anna’s right hand. “I keep my tools clean. Far less messy than entrails.” From their cloak pocket they drew a glinting silver pin, topped with a bead of pearl. “Just a prick, that’s all.” Ichari couldn’t tell if Anna’s chest was rising and falling beneath the robes, or if she had calcified entirely. “Anna,” they said, soft, warning. Almost pleading. Just give me the word, Anna. Just say the word. “You’ve a lot of ghosts clinging to your robes, Annadrijanna,” the Sibyl said softly. “I need a bit of life.”

february

while anna’s doing that, ambergris is causing problems. raised in regency patriarchyville, she recently befriended a dragon and received Powers; now she’s working toward 1. making it seem like her family’s manor is haunted 2. killing her parents and 3. having gay sex. not necessarily in that order.

Blood and yolk still stuck to her hands, gumming the webbing between thumb and forefinger. But it was a pretty picture, the mews desecrated, the falcons gone mad and tearing open their eggs. The duchy would whisper that Pyranimia had forsaken even the birds, that the Armindale fortune was suffocating in broken shells, and no one would consider that it was only nature, that rabbits and snakes and stable cats would swallow down their young if they got hungry. But not here, Ambergris thought, serene, picturing what her mother would say when she learned of the mews—the slight twitch of her mouth before her face settled back into glacial calm. Not you. You wish you could. You’re starving for it. But you won’t be rid of me now. You don’t know that yet. But I hold you in my hands now. If I were really a sorceress, I could twist up your body, ruin the organs that made me, the ones that hurt you. Or I could take them out and let you go free. She could sympathize. Abandoned by the goddess, she too might have withered and waned, and come to loathe the children sapping her strength as they grew inside her body. But her mother had made Ambergris too well for that—too cold to love a child or a husband, too cold to shrink from blood. You took the knife from your chest and put it in mine, Ambergris thought. But the gods have been watching. My god has been watching. The storm is building. And before I ever let you eat me, Mother, I will finish a daughter’s work and drain you dry. She raised her hand to her mouth, where her thumb met her forefinger, and licked away the blood.

march

in the spring i wrote a very long paper about antony and cleopatra (the shakespeare play, and also the people, and also the echoes of their story in the aeneid). which got me thinking about the deliberate narrative parallels between dido and cleopatra, which got me writing a ten-minute play where they have a one-night stand. happens to the best of us. i’m very proud of how this one came out, actually, but i have no idea what to do with it. target audience of weird lesbian classicists?

D: I want to be someone they don’t write tragedies about. C: (to the audience) Well. How charmingly ironic. D: If I could just—have—if I could just—just a life. Just someone who loves me. Just someone who won’t go away. Something boring. Something monotone. I don’t care how good I look burning. I want to stop being on fire. C: You have absolutely no sense of flair. D: I miss my sister. (A pause. She looks to C.) C: Can’t help you there. I had mine killed. D: (exhausted) Happens.

april

fans of the aeneid, please enjoy The Scene In Which The Protag Loses To A Tree. if godsong ever drops i will accept a 10-page double-spaced essay about how it is in conversation with the jason & medea myth.

Anna set his jaw. He braced his wooden hand against the trunk, then stepped up onto the coil and reached for the golden branch. It was slick and cold under his fingers, closer to stone than wood; Anna took hold and yanked. The branch slid from his fingers. Anna grabbed the trunk so he didn’t fall backward, ice jolting up his spine. The serpent hadn’t moved. Again he tried to snap the branch. A whisper of leaves as it bent, but there was no give; again his sweat-damp hand fell away. The word that slipped from his mouth startled him, because it was the sort of word no one used in a temple, something Caradorra had been scolded for saying in front of their mother. Another glance at Sascha. The serpent hadn’t stirred. Anna wiped his hand on his robes, straining up on his toes, and wrapped his hand around the base of the branch. If he could saw at it—but his sword lay gleaming and useless in the grass, his calves starting to ache, the branch warming under his touch. Please, Iv, please, please, please— He ignored the flicker in the corner of his eye: movement from the lakeside. But then came the hiss, rising like steam from the water thrown at the charred walls of a burning city, and his blood ran cold. Breaking from the lake, wet and shimmering, came an enormous frilled head. The second serpent, awake and alert, slitted yellow eyes fixed on Anna. It moved faster than thought—legs bunching, coils rippling, launching itself for the tree. “Sascha, down!” Ichari shouted from the treeline, and the gun went off, louder than godly thunder, and the branch beside Anna burst into splinters, and as he gave a last desperate yank the golden branch snapped cleanly into his hand.

may

while working on the actual plot of godsong, i was also fleshing out the backstory, and ended up stumbling into the personalities of anna’s parents (a t4t4t throuple! let’s go gay people). so here’s a bit of anna backstory from the perspective of his mother, who is wonderful and nervous. did you know anna was chosen for priesthood at age 11? probably had no long-term psychological effect on her at all.

It was a celebration for Eli’s records: three days and three nights of festival feasting, of singing and dancing and hymns, of the temple bells ringing a clangorous echo from dawn until dusk. In past years, after past Ivtouchings, the celebrations had been citywide but quieter, briefer—the ceremonial anointment before the temple doors, to mark the new priest as a new melody in Iv’s living voice, and then a song. But it had been three hundred years since Iv had plucked a child from the rings of Ivander to holiness. No simple ceremony would suffice. On the first day, the older Ivtouched helped Anna atop an oxcart, the horns of each ox wrapped in gold ribbon, and led him in cheering parade through the city’s spiraling roads to the temple. In the street, in the surging shouting crowds that followed on foot, Radi cheered her voice hoarse and tried to etch the picture into her memory: the brilliant blue of the sky, the loose tail of ribbon flapping from one oxhorn, the glint of the sun off the bronze-painted spokes of the cart’s wheels. All of those details she might have set to canvas, with a small enough brush and a steady enough hand. But she knew even then that she wouldn’t try. There was no replicating her son’s smile, so broad it must have ached, or the dazed look of joy in his eyes. As if he were dreaming and praying not to wake. As if some curtain had unveiled before him to show him the heavens in shining vivid color, the world created for him anew. Someone else’s hands would mark him holy; someone else’s hands had dressed him in the dark Ivtouched robes, billowing out behind him in the breeze. He wasn’t quite tall enough. The hem was pinned up so it didn’t drag. Every few minutes atop the cart, Anna’s hand drifted down to hike the fabric up, more twitchy than deliberate, each yank a quiet spear through Radi’s heart.

june

please refer to my february comments on that list of ambergris’s.

Ambergris regarded them coolly. She had pulled them around the back of the orchestra into a corner: curtained from the rest of the room by a clot of musicians, the strings near too loud to speak over, the lanterns throwing warped shadows over the floor. “I apologize,” she said, slow, ��if I startled you, Captain. I’d like a word.” Ichari’s heart still pattered at their ribs. Again they forced down the shaking need to wipe that faint smirk from her face. “You’ve had a few. You satisfied yet?” “Y-you’ve met my husband,” Ambergris said, “twice now.” So she had been watching, then, probably sunken into the shadows like a grotesque. “Twice too many times,” they said, curling their lip. “You aren’t impressed.” “Don’t let me offend your wifely sensibilities.” Ichari flashed their wickedest grin to see if she would squirm. “But you’re too pretty to go to waste on an ill-dressed fool’s limp cock.” Ambergris didn’t flinch, but her eyes widened slightly. Big innocent eyes, Sascha’s eyes, with all the guilelessness of a kitten. “Am I?” “Too good for him? I’m sorry you had to find out this way, duchess.” “Not duchess,” Ambergris said, “yet. I find—I know I’m too good. Am I pretty.”

july

more backstory, this time in second person about ambergris’s mother, who gets a POV in the book proper. not a very fun POV, but there's generational trauma to explore. creusa is the doctor that's been called in to help jonquilla through a miscarriage; she is gnc as fuck (jonquilla voice: you're insane).

Four weeks Creusa tends your bedside—four fuzzy weeks drifting in and out of fever, your thoughts racing like loosed horses, as you bleed out the last of your hoped-for heir. You loathe her for it, with a bright-hot intensity you can only grasp for moments at a time between unconsciousnesses. You loathe her for daring to pity you, for helping you sit up to drink down your pain relief; you loathe her for doing it well. You loathe her because she is fresh and young and rosy-cheeked and you are soft and lumpy and pathetic. You loathe her because she is beautiful despite all she does to destroy it, despite the way she prowls the manor in trousers, despite the fact that you have never once seen her suck in her stomach. Beautiful the way you were mere years ago. Beautiful enough to make breath catch when those worn fingers tuck her shorn hair behind her ears. What gives her the right to see you like this? What gives her the right to sprawl out in your home, in your chambers, in all her impropriety? What gives her the right to choose to be—this? Does she have a husband somewhere who lets her run free? Children she tends to with the same slight curve of a smile she gives you? Sisters? Brothers? Who does she fall into bed with at night? You want to step inside her skin, to pry it up, to take her apart and see how her heart beats. She’s had her hands in enough of your blood. You want to hold her organs. Your dreams come in tatters. Your stomach swollen to bursting again. The endless hallways. Dittany soaring away from you. Children squirming in your gut. Creusa stroking your hair. Sometimes those are not dreams, you think; sometimes your eyes flutter open and she is there, patient, quiet, calm. As she always is, except for the crease in her soft rose-petal lips, because when you are asleep she does not smile at you. She watches you as if she is afraid for you. She watches you as if she is guilty of something.  There are other dreams, too. Dreams you refuse to remember.

august

in august i had a Medical Experience. but first i finished the draft of godsong2, because i never fucking lose. this bit is from the very last scene, where no one is doing well.

Most days she shaved her face each day after morningsong, when she had the strength and a passable mirror. In Ivander she had not needed to, but she liked the look of it, the cleanness; in Armindale Manor she had been particularly careful. Sascha must have noticed, or picked it up from her face, because he scrambled wobbling back to his feet. “I’ll fetch a razor, eh?” “Sascha—” Ichari started, but Sascha waved a hand. “I’ll do it, Anna,” he said, earnest. Her twinge of warmth was faint; she inclined her head slightly. They had done something like this before, Sascha scrunching up next to her to wind his fingers through her hair—hair, Anna realized distantly, that was soot-choked and tangled now. He had spun her waves into a thick braid, then a number of tiny ones, chattering all the while; she had repaid him for it once with a spiraling swirl of mehndi across each of his fluttery hands. Now, though, when he held the razor up to her face, there was a new trepidation in the set of his lips. It took Anna too many sticky seconds to realize he was trying and failing to settle the terrible shake in his hands. “Sorry,” he said, blanching, when Anna looked at him. “Ah, I’m sorry, I…” “Armindale,” Ichari said, soft. Gentler than she had ever heard his name in their voice. They held out a palm. “S’okay.” Anna tilted her face toward them. Sascha scooted back to wrap his arms around his knees and watch Ichari sliver the hair from her chin, one hand braced against her cheek, their hands callused and cold and kind.

september

and we've reached the part of the year where school hit me like a Fucking Train. here's some carronash. that is, MILF julius caesar x neopronouns mark antony, in an extremely uneven borderline-religious-worship dynamic that has swallowed the latter's entire life (more about their deal here). you know, out of context here, they almost look sweet.

Ash shut xir eyes so xe wouldn’t see her hear it, and xe croaked, “I need a drink.” Her chest rose and fell beneath xim in silence. Somewhere beyond xir walls, a cart rattled over the streets. “I know,” Ash said, panic starting to rise cold in xir throat. “I know—I know, but it hurts, I need a drink, Julienne, it hurts, I think I’m going to die. I think I might fucking die.” I know you do, she had said the last time xe’d told her xe needed a drink. I know you do. I know you know why it’s a bad idea. And she had kissed xir forehead like an anointment and held xim when xe shook with frustrated sobs. Nothing now. Just her hand combing through xir curls. “Julienne,” Ash said, near a whine, the craving a spidery itch beneath xir skin. “Ash,” Julienne said. “Am I asking too much of you?” It didn’t sound like a condemnation. Xir insides curled anyway. “No,” xe said, small as a scolded child. “No, I just—I just…” “If it’s too much,” she said, soft. “If you can’t bear it. There’s no shame in that.”

october

i posted this poem here, but we’ll see it again! i think it’s kind of heavy-handed, but that's what happens when you try to articulate an insanity.

2:35 grindstone // max franciscovich there is a knife in my hand. there is a knife i am holding in the palm of my hand. i hold it by the blade. when i squeeze the blood runs down through the webbings of my fingers and the sting is hot. if i uncurl my fingers i will let go of the knife and it will not hurt. if i let go of the knife i will forget pain. suffering and fear will dull and scab over and my eyes will close. when i squeeze i remember it hurts. i remember i am dangerous. my eyes can close. i can cut with a touch. if i let go of the knife it will not hurt to make a fist. if i let go of the knife i will make a fist. if i let go of the knife in my hand i will forget there is a knife in my hand. when i squeeze the sting whets my thoughts and i see the world in all its brutal glory and i touch nothing i could ruin. there is a knife in my hand. there is a knife i am holding in the palm of my hand.

november

no nano this year :( i was being crushed by school and mentals, unfortunately. which sucks, because i've had a streak since 2018! but alas. next year. i did write a little more godsongverse backstory, set in anna's old city and starring the book's hector and andromache figures (ira and lucia, respectively; imi and nia are their twin toddlers).

Here was a part of the war that would not be told: that sometimes it would be late, very late, the sun sunken into the earth and the children in bed, before Ira came home. That Imi and Nia were asleep, Lucia suspected, was not an effect but a reason, because sometimes her heart-knit lover was nigh unrecognizable in the doorway, hunched and haggard, bathed in gore, and the twins would have been terrified. Blasphemous, maybe, for Lucia to see the dried blood cracking in rivulets on Ira’s skin and think of Iv’s shattered face. But even blasphemy was better than the other reason she shied from the thought—that likening Ira to the holiest of martyrs felt like giving up. Giving into what she suspected everyone else already thought inevitable. After the first night she had stopped fearing the worst. There would have been no missing the uproar in the city. Her fears were simpler: how much blood there might be, how many times Ira would wake in the night. But unless the wailing rose high enough to shake the temple down, the sixth wall of Ivander stood, and Lucia sat at home with the spinning and waited.

december

and… would you look at that, more godsong. i did write non-godsong things this year! but most of them are short stories i'm hoping to send out for publication, so i'm not keen on sharing yet. this, however, is literally a godsong x hadestown AU that i’ve been calling spadestown, and if i ever finish it i Will be posting it here. in a beautiful alternate world, godsong is an annaspades romcom. (it's not even that in this AU.)

Lying on the bed watching Anna write, Spades said, “You know xim. The queen.” Not an accusation, exactly. But a search for solid ground, an escape from the ice shifting under her. At the desk, Anna tapped the end of his pen against his lips. Distracting lips, unfairly plush. “Yes,” he said after an absent moment. “It is—natural. Xe returns every summer.” “Only here?” “As far back as I remember.” Anna blinked; Spades watched it sink in. “But not where you come from.” Spades shrugged. There were gods where she had come from, too. Not the sort one poured drinks for. “I suppose we can’t all be holy,” she said, reaching out across the narrow span of the room to his chair. Anna took her hand, his skin warm against hers, his pen calluses already familiar—the tip of his second finger, the inside of his third. When she closed her eyes, Ash’s grin flashed behind her lids. Xe must have known who she was. Gods always knew. “Sing it again,” she said, patting the bed beside her. Anna was staring at the page. He hummed another bar under his breath. Spades thought she might have to get up, to close the journal for him, to slip the pen from his hands and kiss him and hope he kissed back instead of dreaming louder. Then Anna said, “Sing what?” Spades tipped his chair back to hear him yelp. “What do you think, dipshit?” “My song?” Anna said, and there was his little winking smile. “Or our wedding hymn?” There was only one bed in the attic room, so they slept curled together. Invariably Spades woke with silky hair in her mouth. Not bad, she figured, for a night always warm.

and that's a wrap! i know i didn't post much this year, but i'm still hard at work at various odds and ends. thank you for sticking around, and i hope everyone reading this has a wonderful 2024!

[salty-an-disco]

Okay okay okay, if I can ask for a second voice... I love all of your thoughts on Voice of the Cold so... songs for Cold pls? 🥺

*grins mischievously*

The first I already mentioned before, but they’re still accurate–

Oh No by Marina

Fairly Local by TØP (especially the progression of “I’m evil to the core” to “I’m not evil to the core” makes me think of Cold’s progression of thinking he’s someone inherently dangerous and unable to help himself, to realizing that that’s not inherent to him and he can always choose to do better for himself and for others [if he will though, is another story])

The Outside by TØP (the song literally starts off with “I’m already bored. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this one before” if that’s not Cold-core, I don’t know what it is)

i’ll die anyway by girl in red (this song feels like Cold in a genuine depressive episode)

Sharpener by Cavetown (CW: this song is about self-harm, though it go about in a very metaphorical and non-explicit way; it makes me think about Cold’s relationship to pain, and the ending part, especially, tugs at my heart -> “You say ‘why am I like this.’ You mean ‘why am I stupid’.”)

[starswallowingsea]

if you like cannibalism as a metaphor for anything might i suggest iLe's canibal.... (cw for essentially self harm and self cannibalization)