#cw passive suicidal ideation

[mysteriouslyweepingasteria]

I want my father to be the first one too see my bloodied, bruised and wounded body adorned with a sinister smile on my pale face when he sees my dead body after I commit suicide. I want my mother to read all my letters written to her in secret and while she reads those letters her I want her soul to pierce open. I want my brother to get money, freedom and peace the day I die. I want my brother to get the love he wants in his life. I want the world to shudder when they see my dead eyes while I'm lifeless, my rage should be felt .i want everyone to see the monster i am as I want to haunt everyone. I want to haunt everyone. I want to haunt every human when I commit suicide

[moonstruckme]

hi!! if you’re up for it could i please request a poly marauders (or really any of the marauders) x passively depressed/apathetic reader. like reader being nervous about a doctors appointment and having health anxiety but then saying “oh i don’t even know why i’m scared because it’s not like i’ll care if i die,” and the boys just being like ??? just a lot of comfort pls!! love your work btw!! (sorry if that’s kinda confusing 😖 english isn’t my first language)

Thanks lovely <3

cw: depression, reader has some passive suicidal ideation but it's from an outside perspective

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 850 words

Remus rubs your shoulder after you get off the phone call confirming your doctor’s appointment. You sink into his side like dough softening at rest. “Would you like me to go with you?” he offers. 

You hum, quiet and complaisant. “You don’t have to.” 

“I don’t mind. It’s after I get off work anyway, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So what else would I be doing but being with you?” He says it with some levity, hoping to inspire a similar feeling in you, but you don’t crack a smile. 

Instead, you sink deeper into his side, the collar of your jumper rising up to bump your chin in the process. You look like a tortoise retreating into its shell. Remus kisses your hair. 

You’ve been rather in your own head lately. Quiet, passive, not really laughing. It tears at Remus’ heart to see you so upset with yourself, but he’s not very worried. You’ll come out of it. He’ll help you. And he’ll be here with you in the meantime. Even if it doesn’t always seem like you care for him to be. 

“Do you not want me to come?” he asks, trying not to let insecurity leak into his tone. 

“No.” You finally look up at him, your sweet eyes guilty. “No, I’d like you to come. If you want to. I just, I know it’s not fun, so if you’d rather stay home…” 

Remus makes a dismissive sound, relieved. “Don’t be silly, I always have fun with you. Sweetheart, you could make the doctor’s office fun.” 

This time you hear the humor in his tone and smile. It looks like it costs you some effort. “Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He shushes your thanks away, going back to rubbing your shoulder. “Are you nervous?” he asks. 

You sigh as though disappointed with yourself. “Yeah. I don’t know why.” 

“That’s alright, lovely. It’s not how anyone wants to spend their time. And you always worry that something awful’s going to be wrong, but it never is.” 

“I know,” you say dully. “But I don’t get why I’m worried. I don’t even really…” 

You trail off, your mouth wincing like you wish you hadn’t said anything at all. You won’t look at Remus. 

He knows what you wanted to say. 

I don’t even really care. 

You don’t care about much these days. What you eat for dinner, how long your commute from work takes, what film your friends want to see at the cinema. But Remus thought you still cared about some things. The important ones. A heavy, sick feeling takes form in his stomach. 

“Hey,” he says softly. It takes you a few moments to look at him, but you do. You look the tiniest bit afraid. Not in the same way he is; not for yourself, only for what you might’ve revealed. “Can I give you a hug?” 

You frown, nodding like of course. Remus uses the arm already around your shoulders to bring you into his lap, your knees folded on either side of his hips. When he rubs your back, you curl forward to put your face in his neck like you’ve been waiting years to do it. 

Your warm breaths tickle against his skin. He loves you so much he thinks he could collapse under the weight of it. 

“Thank you for making the appointment,” he says, making broad, sweeping circles on your back. “It matters to me that you’re healthy, and that you’re taking care of yourself. It’s important.” 

You deflate a bit against his front. He can nearly picture you shutting your eyes, brows pinched. “Remus…” 

“I love you,” he presses his lips to the side of your head, “so much. We’re going to be old and feeding birds in the park one day, you know? I need you to be able to come sit on our bench with me.” 

There’s a prolonged silence, wherein Remus begins to worry he’s frightened you into reticence, but then, “We already feed birds in the park.” 

He smiles. “We do. But it’ll be much more becoming when we’re all feeble and grey, won’t it?” 

“You’re feeble now.” 

“Oi,” he laughs. Utterly delighted with you. “When did you get so sharp?” 

“Sorry.” Your cold nose bumps his throat. 

“That’s alright.” Remus kisses your head again, not wanting you to begin feeling guilty. “I know you don’t mean it. My sweetheart.” 

You go quiet again after that. Remus tries again. 

“So, it’s a date then? Me, you, park on the corner in fifty years?” 

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” you mumble lazily. 

“Mm, do that. See if you can pencil me in.” He rubs your back. 

“Who knows if there’ll even still be birds then.” 

Remus hums. “God, yeah. I hope there are. We’ll still be there, at least, won’t we?” 

It’s transparent, this plea for reassurance. He cringes with the audaciousness of it, worries you’ll decide now to stop sharing anything with him at all, but after a beat of quiet you sit up. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, laying a simple kiss on his lips. “Course we will.”

[miiyochi]

simple touch cw. maybe hints of reader being depressed note. hi its been a minute ^_^;; heh... anyway simple comfort drabble w/e

Loneliness was a permeating, rotting, and ugly feeling that had existed within you for so long that you couldn’t even remember when it started. Even back in middle school, you remember how unseen you felt despite your friend group—maybe high school kicked off the feeling of desperately wanting connection while also fearing companionship.

Your adult years weren’t any easier. The numbing feeling of being alone could only be pushed back for so long. maybe the consistent feeling of always being unwanted was normal. Or the passive suicide ideation that would crawl into the back of your mind and linger for days, weeks, and months on end was normal. It was your normal and you’ve gotten more than just comfortable with the idea things simply weren’t going to get better for someone like you — if they were meant to, it simply would’ve happened by now.

The days were bearable nowadays. It was tolerable. You still felt yourself pushing them away till they stacked up and led to you crying and sobbing during your dreams. You’d never get nightmares, only dreams of being lulled to sleep, held, comforted, and loved. All of it felt like an impossible daunting task for anyone sane to love you and yet — the scene of you being wrapped up in the warm embrace of your now dearest friend, Solomon, was your new normal.

It took ages to get to the point of simple and casual affection between you two. It was never like he’d hated giving it to you— the hesitation came from your end. Receiving affection always felt as though it was from pity.. or that you didn’t deserve it. It was hard to believe someone could ever willingly love you as easily as Solomon does.

His hands were surprisingly soft as he lightly petted the top of your head. You lay on his chest, arms wrapped around his torso as his other hand traced patterns on your back. He hums— he always hums. Solomon’s voice was pretty and always put you to sleep when he’d sing soft melodies during his work.

Solomon is human. At some point, more human than how he is now. he was your best bet at having someone understand you — lucky you. Behind his amicable smile lay the same ugly, rotting loneliness you’ve kept to yourself for years.

Comfort. Touch. Affection.

Both of you were starved for it. Both of you seek for it within the other. It felt nice, it was almost perfect. Solomon would kiss your forehead and you’d kiss his knuckles. You weren’t together but the love was there. Neither of you wanted to label your weird mix of a relationship and friendship as anything beyond the simple fact you both needed each other. There wasn’t anything less to it.

Solomon was touchy. You liked that. Holding your hand in almost every setting he was allowed to do so. A finger wrapped around your pants belt loop to keep you close. A hand on your thigh when sitting next to you.

Simple touches that used to feel like hot lava. Now they feel like what it truly is — love.

m.list

[exquisink]

cw // yandere geto, depressed fem!reader (human, non sorcerer), passive suicide ideation kinda

yandere geto who meets a depressed darling. a disillusioned darling. can’t find a reason to keep fighting yet smiles through her job, her friendships, her day to day. but she’s slipped into a hellish mental trap years ago.

she’s lost any and all zest for life that when he finally takes her captive, she has no visceral reaction. nothing. zip. she accepts it. he finds it absolutely perplexing yet he is so curious to find out why she’s so calm about it. she’s not okay with it, he knows she’s not, yet she accepts everything he does.

he confronts her about this one day. she reminds him too much of himself, in some ways.

“why do you let me do this?”

“because maybe i hope i might feel something, that i can fight for something,” she admits with an empty grin. her eyes have no shine to them, he notes. he pities her—it’s pathetic that even simple humans can’t find a purpose in their simple lives. “but i guess, not even something as dastardly as this can spring something to life in me, huh?”

geto frowns, deciding that he has a new goal: to bring that spark in you back, and perhaps, protect that flame with his life. because that’s another way to keep you wrapped around his finger. if you become dependent on him for some sliver of hope that it can get better.

only as long as you’re by his side.

[galacticgraffiti]

A Borrowing of Bones (4)

This work is a collaboration with my most beloved artist and friend of all time Blumi. All text was written by me, all illustrations were designed and painted by them ♡ A sidenote for this chapter: Soap's diary pages were actually drawn by me!

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Chapter Wordcount: 2.6k

MCD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat// Heed also the Masterlist for general warnings. CW: death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, postmortem invasion of privacy, confessions of love (postmortem), selfharm, blood, passive suicidal ideation.

A/N: The Chapter titles are taken from different poems. The poems will be hyperlinked for those interested! Blumi's artworks will be added to the end of each chapter.

Read on AO3 ✧ Taglist Signup for this fic ✧ Fic Masterlist

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Four: Nobody Heard Him, the Dead Man

Simon’s hand touches the page softly, like it will turn the ash the second anyone but Soap looks at it. Who knows? It just might.

Ghost doesn't even feel conflicted about opening Johnny’s diaries. Not as much as he probably should, anyways.

Just gathering information, is what he tells himself. Being thorough.

Simon hates it. Hates that this is all he has left, hates every word on the page for the fact that it won’t be enough. Won’t bring Soap back in the ways that matter. Will only be enough to crush his heart into sand and flood him with pain anew.

“Oh, Johnny,” he whispers, eyes barely making out the words on the page. All he knows it’s that it’s Soap’s familiar scrawl, letters tilted a little too much to the left, entangled with each other, too inconsistent to be pretty. Coffee stains and smudged ink and dried out scribbles entwined around the letters. And from between it all – there is Ghost. Over and over again, his body, his scars, his hands, his eyes, his mask. All of it Ghost. Ghost staring up at himself from between Johnny’s letters.

Ghost’s fingers shake when they touch the page.

“Johnny, what have you done?”

He let me call him Simon today. I don't know if he noticed- maybe he didn't realise. But I did, and he didn't correct me. Simon. I think maybe he didn't hear me. Helo’s loud as fuck, barely got the name from my lips either. Was scared he’d clock me in the face right then and there.  Simon. Caught a glimpse of his neck, too. Forbidden, that felt. How do you love someone like that? Never touched him, either. Never felt his skin on mine.

I hear him say my name and the whole world goes quiet. His voice in my ear and I know I’ll make it back alive. LT always got my six. Always watches out for me. Always makes sure I come back. He likes me alive, he says. I like him alive, too. Love him alive. Don't think death would stop that. Don’t think I could ever stop.

...

I shouldn't be saying this. Shouldn't be writing this down, for fuck’s sake. But I have to tell someone, and I can't tell anyone. Least of all him.  Simon. I never get to say his name the way he says mine. Can’t do it. Would break me clean in half.

...

Price says they found Makarov. We’re leaving today. I’ve been dreaming about Simon. Don’t know how to look him in the face. Don’t know how to stop. Barely function when he’s right there, and his hands his fucking hands. His finger on the trigger making sure I’m safe. How do I love him? It’s easy. Easier than breathing, even if it kills me. ________

With trembling fingers, Simon turns the page, goes backwards in Johnny’s life. Takes it all in, tries not to hate himself for it. Tries not to let his tears stain the yellowed paper. Stares and stares, and lets his heart go still and quiet.

He looks at what Johnny’s hands, his too large, too rough hands, have created. Each glimpse Johnny ever got of Simon’s bare skin banned onto paper. He stares at the words next to it, like the art is not enough to know what Johnny was feeling.

“Johnny,” he says, like it doesn’t kill me every time to hear him say it. “Johnny,” he says, and I feel like a fucking person again. I haven’t in so long. It was always the job, and that was fine. But when he calls me Johnny, I want to be more. I want to have more. Have a life, so I can have him in it. Fuck’s sake, is that stupid? It’s so stupid. _______

Back another page and another, and another. To the very first page. Simon is trembling all over, choking on air. Trying to hold in the sobs that make his chest shake. Ghost takes a steadying breath. Clenches his fist, digs his fingernails into the fresh wounds in his palm. Wants to light a fag and is glad he hasn’t any with him. He won’t stain the air in Johnny’s home with stale cigarette smoke. It has to stay as it is. Exactly as it is. An altar to lost love.

Johnny’s letters are rushed, even less legible than usual. The first entry. Ghost wonders distantly if this is the first notebook. If it’s the only one, or if there are others. Older ones. When did it start?

Did it start here?

I shouldn’t say this. Shouldn’t even be thinking this to be honest. If anyone finds this christ knows i’m fucked.

I can’t stop it though. Cannae stop thinking about him, and if I don’t write it out, if I don’t say it, don’t put it down somewhere I’ll go insane.

When he lets me touch him I don’t know how I could possibly be okay without more. How I’m ever supposed to stop. It’s never… it’s never anything. Not really. It’s a bump to the shoulder, a sliver of exposed wrist when we spar. His neck, one time, when someone put a knife to him. Killed that bastard. Took care of him. Dress the wound, Johnny. I nearly kissed him then. Over the mask, right then. Wouldn’t have cared for the fabric or that we were still under fire. Keep it tactical, Johnny. 

His bare skin- he’s so pale. Pale like a ghost. My own personal one. Scarred as shit. He’s perfect. I know I shouldn’t be feeling this. Not about anyone, least of all him. He would never- could never feel the same. Could never act on it even if he did. Which he doesn’t. But fucking Christ if I don’t want to.

Dress the wound. Keep it tactical. 

I think I’ll explode if I don’t tell him. Think I’ll die if I do. When did I get so soft? Fuckin hell. So sweet for him.

My Simon. My Ghost. ___________

Something wet drips onto the page, red and heavy. Ghost hisses when all of a sudden, feeling rushes back into his body.

He was floating, pleasantly detached from the world, floating in a world of Johnny’s making. One where he was so close to him he could fucking taste it. Pain brings him back, and he feels all of it: The softly pounding pain of his broken skin, the splinters of his heart slicing into his chest, ripping him apart from the inside out with every beat. The aching of his clenched jaw, biting down so hard he can taste blood.

“What the fuck, Johnny.” Ghost’s – Simon’s – chest shakes with heavy sobs. He can’t breathe, and the world blurs. “WHAT THE FUCK, JOHNNY?”

Told ye.

Simon’s voice breaks. The floor is sudden and hard beneath his knees.

“You didn’t tell me shit, Johnny. Didn’t open your fucking mouth even once, did ya? Fucking bastard, you are. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Are ye mad at me?

“You are not real.”

Aye, suddenly I’m not real, is it? Keep tellin’ yerself tha’.

Ghost pulls his knees to his chest. Lets his head rest on them. Tries to catch his breath even if there is no air in the room at all.

“You’re not real,” he mumbles to himself. “You’re not real, Johnny. You’re not. Not here, not real. Dead in the ground, you are. Buried. Fuckin’ rotting. ‘s why I came here in the first place, innit? Should never have come, should never have come…”

Ye missed me.

“Not enough to bear this.” The words are heavy and metallic on Ghost’s tongue. “Too much to bear this. Don’t you get it?”

Ye’ll never be alright withou’ me. Ye know tha’, Simon. You had tae come get me. Isn’t this what ye wanted? What ye needed? Thought ye were askin’ for mah permission.

“Not like this.” Simon is rocking back and forth, trying to calm himself, trying to catch his breath, because the room is still oddly fuzzy around the edges and he can’t seem to stop the sobs in his chest long enough to catch his breath. “Not like this, Johnny, not like this. I can’t- I can’t do it, not like this, why did you have to do that? Why did you have to go write it down? Had to go and compromise it all, didn’t you? Stupid cunt. Fuckin’- you bloody bastard. Did you hope they would find this? Tell me about it? Did Price know, that why he sent me here? Did you know back then? Did you know you wouldn’t be coming back from Makarov? Why else would you leave it out in the open like that, why else would you-”

Had mah reasons. Guess ye’ll never know, will ye?

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.” Ghost presses his thumbs into his eyeballs until it hurts so much he can finally breathe again. “Just- fuckin’ hell.”

Soap’s voice is soft, is impossibly close. Like Ghost could feel his hand on his shoulder if he focused hard enough. Could remember how Johnny’s fingers touched his neck, way back when, on that stupid, fucked-to-hell mission he wrote about. Because of course he remembers. He remembers everything.

Remembers the glittering handle of his own knife  in Johnny’s hand, leaving a trail of red in its wake as Johnny stabs the man that tried to kill Ghost. Again. And again. And again.

Violence, that’s something they both know. Something they’ve always known. Ghost had thought, way back then, that maybe Soap had gotten lost in the blood frenzy of battle. It happens. Had happened to him before. But that wasn't all, apparently. It was for love. 

“What the fuck, Johnny- what the fuck- why did you never-”

Soap’s voice is gentle, like a parent calming their child. It buries itself deep, embeds itself in Ghost’s entire being, as if he hadn't been there before. Impossible to let go of. 

And why didn't ye tell me, then? Does it matter? Now ye know. Now ye can do what ye came here tae do, aye?

Simon stays quiet. Hates himself for it. Already knows what he is going to answer. Simon is weak. And because, when it comes to Johnny, Ghost is just as weak, Ghost says,

“Aye, Johnny. I’ll come get you.”

_________________

Simon dreams of Johnny that night, when he lays on the kitschy couch in his dusty living room, and buries himself in a blanket that still smells vaguely of Soap’s aftershave and sweat. He doesn't dare sleep in Johnny’s bed; is afraid he’ll wake up to a corpse rotting next to him, watching him sleep with Johnny’s dead eyes.

In Simon’s dream, Johnny is everything, is the sun itself. Is alive. He looks so happy out of gear, his nose speckled with faint freckles, his scars pale against his tan skin. Johnny smiles and Simon’s heart implodes.

“Ye goin’ soft on me now, Simon?”

“I think I deserve it,” Simon says, a light smile in his voice. “If anyone gets to see me soft, it should be you.”

“Ach, away an’ bile yer heid.”

Johnny is laughing, teeth shining white.

“English, Johnny.”

“Yer a smart lad, LT. Sure ye’ll figure it out.”

Simon hums and pulls Johnny closer. Soft lips meet his own, warm hands wrapping around him, caressing the scar tissue of his face, kissing the scars of his smile especially. Healing him one soft touch at a time, tearing at his heart until it’s fluttering in shreds. Simon doesn't care. Doesn't need it anymore. He’s got Johnny’s heart, that’ll keep him breathing. Keep him alive.

Johnny’s lips move against Simon’s when he speaks in ways that feel as familiar as the pain of a blade.

“I love ye, ye daft cunt.”

Simon smiles into the kiss, melts beneath Johnny’s hands.

Words rise up his own throat. Simon tries to push them down, tries to stay like this just a little longer, but it’s no use. Ghost takes his tongue, and all the light drains from Johnny’s eyes. Flesh pulls back to reveal bone, teeth knocking against Ghost’s flesh, blood running from Johnny’s empty eye sockets.

Ghost’s voice is thick with it, coppery salt on his tongue when he speaks.

“Why did you never tell me that when you were alive, Johnny?”

_________

It’s Ghost who wakes up from Simon’s dream, with cold fingers and sharp nails digging into old wounds. Ghost who breathes until the sobs in his chest calm down, who presses the heels of his palms into his eyeballs until he thinks his brain might explode. Ghost who tells himself that it’ll all be better once it’s done.

That he won’t feel so empty anymore. So alone.

It’ll all be better once he has Soap with him again. It’ll all be better once Johnny is warm again.

A familiar voice seeps through the ringing in Ghost’s ears. He can’t help it- looks up, sees Johnny sitting across from him, in the old, worn-out armchair, almost as pretty as he was in Simon’s dream. Almost. Soap’s eyes are hazy with decay, but Ghost can’t look away from him anyways.

Johnny’s voice is laced with fear, terrified and small when he speaks, so different from Simon’s dream that Ghost has to remind himself that this isn't real either. None of it is.

Will ye take something of mine with ye, Ghost?

"I will take you."

What if tha' ain't enough? Once they burn the flat, there'll be nothin' left. No' mah books, mah art, mah coffee, not even mah dirty fuckin' underwear.

Ghost pauses, hand pressed against his stomach. He feels sick. 

There’ll be nothing left.

Like a sleepwalker, he gets up, stalks the few steps down the dark corridor to Johnny’s bedroom. The wood of the doorframe  is warm beneath his palm, like it's been sitting in the sun all day, even though it's been nothing but rain since Ghost got here. Even though it’s the dead of night, and there is nothing here but ghosts and the agony of lost love.

Ghost closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Johnny's reflection stares back at him from the glass pane of the door, not bloody, not rotting, but pristine and cleaner than he ever was in life, with eyes so blue that Ghost's red ocean of pain turns cerulean for a moment.

Take somethin' of mine, Simon. The urgency in Soap's voice is palpable, thick and sweet. If yer takin' me for mah own sake, then take somethin' of mine fer yers. Ye know I wouldae wanted it like tha'.

"Do I know?" Ghost's hand shakes when he pulls away from the doorway, stuffs his useless fingers into his pocket to keep still. "How do I know?"

Ye knew me, LT. Ye've read mah bloody diary, haven't ya? Go on then. Take somethin'. A memento, a keepsake, a token of love, whatever makes ye feel good. Please. Do nae leave all these parts of me behind.

And Ghost gives in. Because it's Johnny asking, with his perfect bloody eyes, and his raspy brogue, and his dark brows drawn together and a strand of hair in his eyes because he hasn't cut his stupid mohawk in way too long.

Come on, LT. Fer me.

A sign of weakness, maybe. A sign of love. Same thing if you wait long enough. Always leads to misery and destruction.

Simon gathers Soap's diaries: Finds more of them in the desk. Three total. Wraps them in a shirt that still smells like him, and walks out the door without looking back, just leaves the house behind.

If he didn’t, his own blood would join Johnny's on the floor, where it's dripping from his head into a small puddle at the edge of the bed. If he didn't, his own blood would soak Johnny’s dusty sheets until nothing ties Ghost to this miserable life anymore and he can finally go.

Johnny never asks for it, but Simon can still hear the quiet whispers of the dead. He always has, even before the end of the world and the death of his sun, has always heard them whisper:

Come join us.

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Yeah Johnny. Why'd you never tell him when you were alive?

@ulchabhangorm @purgetrooperfox @captav @kimiheartblade @gibsalotdoodles @staygoldnimoy @blinca

[dandylovesturtles]

Leo & Donnie, trick (Please no character death, thank you!)

This will make more sense if you read the previous trick or treat (the Leo and Draxum trick)

Unfortunately this has become. a whole Thing. I didn't plan for it, it just happened. I'm currently calling it the Sidelined AU

CWs: Internalized ableism, light passive suicidal ideation

---

Here's what being stuck in a demonic suit of armor for two days gets you:

Brittle bones.

No mystic powers.

Hovering brothers.

A catatonically depressed dad.

A catastrophic decrease in muscle mass.

Chronic fatigue.

A concerning amount of brain fog.

A bedroom on the ground floor (under construction).

Sensitivity to light and smell.

And a wheelchair. Apparently.

Donnie brought it in ten minutes ago, and he's spent that long infodumping about all the features he's built into it. Leo hasn't really kept up, because of the whole brain fog situation, and because he doesn't normally listen to infodumps of this length, anyway.

Instead he's been focused on keeping his lunch down. Something about the wheelchair twists his gut in a sharp way. It just feels so... final. Like if he sits down in that, he's officially given up.

Donnie is still rattling on. He's been smiling the whole time. Leo doesn't know what about his situation invites smiling.

(Some part of his brain, the less bitter and angry part, notes that it's the same smile Donnie has whenever he shows off new tech. Leo ignores that part of his brain.)

"Any questions?" Donnie asks him suddenly, and Leo blinks his way out of his own thoughts. Donnie is looking at him expectantly. Still smiling, his hands gesturing at his creation. The wheelchair. Leo's gut twists again and he swallows forcefully. Reaches over and sucks down the last of the water from his water bottle, and even that simple motion takes Herculean effort.

He's already forgotten what the question was, so he says, "No," because he feels that sums up all his feelings about the situation.

"Excellent," says Donnie, because he can't read a room to save his life. "Then do you want to take it for a test run?"

Leo stares at him so he doesn't have to look at the chair.

"No," he says again.

Finally, Donnie's smile falls. It morphs into something concerned, and Leo isn't sure he likes that any better.

"You said you were feeling alright," he says.

Sure, he did say that, because all he ever says when they ask how he's feeling is "alright." Well, that's not true. Sometimes it's "okay." Or "fine." Or, "Jeez, Raph, stop worrying about me before that chasm gets any bigger."

The point is, he did say he was feeling alright, but alright isn't good enough for... whatever this is.

He struggles over his words for a bit before finally getting out, "I don't need a wheelchair," which is the main point, as far a he's concerned.

Now Donnie's expression turns more frustrated. "Yes you do."

"No, I don't."

He sighs. "Leo, we've been over this. Your legs aren't strong enough to carry your weight, and you can't risk a fall in your condition. Do you want to be healing from a broken pelvis on top of everything else?"

He doesn't. But he doesn't say that, just stares stubbornly at Donnie to avoid looking at the chair.

"The wheelchair is only for now," says Donnie. "Once you've recovered enough, a walker, then a cane, or crutches. We've been over this-"

"I don't need a cane," says Leo, cutting him off. "Canes are for old people."

"They are not," Donnie argues. "They're for whoever needs them. Which includes you."

"I don't need one."

Donnie grumbles something under his breath that Leo can't hear, because damaged hearing is another one of the things being trapped in a demonic suit of armor for two days gets you. "Alright. Is there something wrong with my engineering?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, is there something unsatisfactory about the chair that I can fix so you would be more willing to use it." He gestures at it. "It's okay if my design isn't to your liking. I have others."

Leo shakes his head. "This isn't about your engineering." This isn't about you.

"Well maybe if we make it about my engineering then you'll stop being so stubborn!" Donnie snaps, and Leo feels his hackles rising.

"Oh, screw you, Donnie."

"Screw me?" Donnie spits back. "Screw me for trying to help and not just watch while my brother lets himself waste away! Yeah, screw me."

"You don't have to watch anything," Leo snaps back. "The door's right there."

"What's your end game here?" Donnie demands, taking an angry step forward. "You complain about Raph carrying you everywhere, but you aren't doing anything to fix your situation. You won't exercise, you won't use the wheelchair - you're giving up!"

"I'm not giving up!" Leo lies.

"Yes you are and I'm sick of watching it!"

"Then leave!"

Donnie opens his mouth like he wants to argue further, but then he throws his hands up and turns on his heel. "I'm done," he says, then stalks out. He tries to slam the curtain behind him as he leaves, but because it's a curtain it just ends up swinging back and forth.

Which means Leo can clearly see as Raph and Mikey duck out of sight.

"Donnie, maybe you shouldn't have-" Raph begins, but gets cut off.

"I'm not treating him with kid gloves. If he wants to rot in bed then let him."

"He's having a rough time, so-"

"You can keep coddling him. But I'm done."

Leo hears retreating footsteps, then a heavy sigh. Raph is still right outside his room.

It takes him a moment, but he pokes his head in eventually.

"Heeey buddy," he says, adopting his baby voice, and Leo wants to scream but he doesn't have the energy. "Need anything?"

"No. I'm fine," he says instead.

"You sure? Because Raphie can-"

"I'm fine," he says again, tired, and lays down so he can stare at the ceiling. "I'm just gonna sleep."

"...Okay. Night Leo."

He's gone and doesn't come back. Mikey doesn't come, either.

Leo regrets his decision a few minutes later, because all that yelling made his throat dry and painful, but his water bottle is empty, and he doesn't have the energy to get to the kitchen, and if he uses the chair...

He groans, pulling his blanket over his head. Already, the brain fog is turning his thoughts to white noise, and the fatigue is pulling him down. Thirsty or not, sleep will come.

Another thing being trapped in demonic suit of armor for two days gets you: a cure for insomnia.

[guess-that-ship]

S11 Finals

Two Sides of the Same Coin

cw: major spoilers, suicidal ideation

Heads and Tails are the same person. Heads is the first, having been put in a situation they couldn't bear to be in anymore, and due to divine intervention is placed in a new body to guide Tails, who has been put in the same situation they were in. Tails does not know the real identity of Heads, and Heads intends to keep it that way. Due to their intense self-loathing, Heads passive-agressively lets it out at Tails, teasing him all the time, and yet they are the one person Tails can confide in about their situation, and both bond over it.

Eventually, everything is too much for Tails to bear, and they lash out at everyone, Heads included due to the secrets they've kept from him. The situation being all too familiar, in order to stop Tails from destroying themself like they did before, Heads, while never directly engaging with him, helps from a distance, guiding Tails towards his happy ending. And Heads hates it. It's not fair that fate wanted them to fail just so Tails could do what they couldn't.

When Tails returns, Heads explains everything about what happened to them, and forces Tails to fight them to see who gets to keep this happy ending. They hate Tails because they hate themself, and they hate themself because they hate Tails. But Tails doesn't feel the same way. When he wins, Heads just wants Tails to kill them and be done with it, but Tails refuses. It was thanks to them that Tails was able to get their happy ending, and it wouldn't be right to keep either of them from it. Heads fades away, their job done, but both promise to meet again.

The Moon and Stars

Star and Moon are childhood friends, always by eachothers side. Star is a quiet child, reserved and bookish, while Moon is loud and rough, often picking fights with the other kids. The two are inseparable, balancing eachothers worse tendencies while encouraging their best. During this time, Moon feels herself developing a crush on Star, but keeps it secret. However, as time goes on, circumstance pulls them apart, as Star's parents are killed in an accident and she is forced to leave her home. Now alone, Moon's more reckless tendencies are all she has left.

Life carries on for both of them. Star attunes herself to her magic potential, goes to college, and loses herself in her studies. Moon drops out of school, taking odd jobs and joining in criminal groups to get by. After many years, and by complete coincidence, Moon sees Star on TV one night, and all of those feelings from her childhood come rushing back. Moon drops everything and travels to where Star is, hoping to see her friend again.

When the two finally do reunite, Star is exhausted, both mentally and physically. While the sight of Moon brings her some comfort, the weight of the pressure she set upon herself is threatening to crush her completely. Moon gives her a chance to show her strength, offering to fight her. Moon wins the fight easily, with Star barely able to land a blow. Moon, deep in regret, tries to comfort her, only to find Star clutching a locket Moon had given her in their childhood. Moon, surprised she still had it, shows Star her own, which she had also kept all those years. Finally, the two decide to leave together, allowing themselves to rekindle the love and care they had for each other all those years ago.

[felinisnoctis]

Bonded Pairs: Gerhardt's story

Writer's note: Switching up the perspective a bit here! This occurs chronologically immediately before the first Bonded Pairs story

CW: Implied (past) abuse/torture, passive suicidal ideation, negative self-talk

Gerhardt was trying desperately to navigate the shifting hallways of his captor’s ship by sound and touch. He hoped Asariel was ok - but his beloved was far more capable of taking care of himself, and far less injured. He shuddered to think of the last time Shukura’s warband had found him by himself. Not that the emperor’s child sorceror-marine was much kinder, but at least he was more predictable. He turned a corner and felt snow with less surprise than he should have. The ship was warp-touched and stranger things had happened. What was more surprising was the sudden lack of echoes, as though the walls around him had simply fallen away.

The ground was uneven under his bare feet, but cold and rocky. He heard the swishing feathers of some small winged predator as he tried to get his bearings. As much as anyone could aboard the slaaneshi-tainted ship that rearranged itself as it liked to draw the unwary into traps. It felt like he was outside on a planet again - something he hadn’t been allowed much of since his last escape attempt. Old training shifted his steps to move downhill where it might be warmer, forcing his body to keep moving through the cold.

He didn’t remember when he passed out. Too injured, too many organs missing to survive well. He remembered thinking if this was the end, it was long overdue. Hopefully Shukura wouldn’t take it out on whatever innocents lived on this planet. Planet? He was still on a ship, he knew that. It was hard to think in the cold. Maybe he’d die here after all. That might be nice.

He woke up on some sort of warm pad that smelled rather strongly of canid. There was a heavy blanket on top of him too, that also smelled like canid. Very carefully he reached out one hand and hit strong bars. Of course. He’d been recaptured. But the voices nearby weren’t ones he recognized and they spoke in a strange language. One was obviously astartes and also smelled like canid. The other was a mortal human with a pleasant voice that instinctively made him want to protect them.. Humans didn’t belong in a place like this. Not that he was any use for protecting anyone anymore, even if he wasn’t being held captive on a chaos-tainted warship. What use was a blind marine who had already failed at his duty?

He fell back asleep dreaming of the voice he heard and who it might belong to.

[katuary]

Time for some pre-relationship Rookanis Angst:

After choosing to protect Treviso over her home city, Rook returns to Minrathous for the first time since the blighted dragon attack.

CW: passive suicidal ideation, references to past parental death

[zagranismusic]

TRANS WOMAN FACING THREAT OF HOMELESSNESS

CW//Depression, suicide, and verbal abuse

Hello, my name is Serena Zagranis, I’m 20 years old, and I’m a trans woman living in New England. My mother is holding homelessness over my head, stealing my money from work, and emotionally abusing me and I need help bad.

Long story short, I don’t live in a good environment. I currently live in a house with my mom and my disabled little brother, we’ve been having financial troubles since I was born. We currently live off government checks and food stamps which is barely keeping our heads above water. My mom is physically and mentally unable to work due to her disabilities. As such, I have become the defacto “breadwinner” of the house, I’m the one with the job bringing in money and the one relied on to buy food.

I need to move out of my house, my mom has decided she is entitled to my money due to my existence under her roof and I simply don’t feel safe in the house due to her emotional outbursts, gaslighting, throwing out my furniture, manipulation and frequent use of her trauma and my housing as a weapon. I’ve been berated for getting food delivered for myself and when I ask her why, she’s “blown away” and “anyone with actual responsibilities would see how ridiculous it is to pay that much for food” when she is very painfully aware that I have no transportation, no constant savings and barely any food money, and no real choice over how my own finances get spent. This is on top of her asking me for monthly rent and taking money from my account whenever she feels she needs it. Now, I am very much aware, and I do not like ordering out but I need to eat. When I talk about how I feel judged she takes that as me painting her as a “fucking ogre” and I’m “not aware how good I have it”. I have tried numerous times to explain it to her but she will constantly give me the silent treatment, tell me to move, not be a reliable source of transportation for my job, or just be passive aggressive to further prod and instigate.

I’m posting this here because I am simply scared that if my mom finds any of this stuff she will threaten me into deleting it and silencing myself from the world, as she feels I am misleading people and spending their money on “useless shit” when I should just save up myself and take initiative which she knows is impossible with how she’s treating me. It’s hard to do that when I’m constantly losing money due to her stealing it and having no way of standing up for myself considering the threats and manipulation.

Linked below is my gofundme to help me move out along with my kofi for commissions. The situation is not life threatening but my mental state has been spiraling more and more over the past year and because of it I’ve had to seek external mental help for suicidal ideation and general c-ptsd after years of this treatment. Please help donate if you can, and if not, a simple reblog would be amazing. Thank you all for reading.

https://gofund.me/2ec89945 https://ko-fi.com/zagranis

[ultraviolet-cello]

Day 8 of the tristamp analysis marathon and jesus christ i am!!! really excited to do these now because people have been adding onto/being nice abt my stuff and that's super cool. Thank you again to @tristampparty for running this! I didn't manage to join in on the book club last year so it's nice to have a fun little event all the same

[But as for next book club,,,, well. I'm extremely transgender about trimax and would love to join in]

As always, spoilers for trigun stampede and trigun maximum! Also some CWs for Vash-typical passive suicidal tendencies and discussion of his psyche

So! Episode 8! I have.... mixed feelings, on how Tristamp portrays Knives. On one hand, I definitely think that we're being lead to believe that Vash has always been a peace-loving kid and that Knives has always had those tendencies, which would set up for season 2 to break that down. I hope.

The one thing I couldn't figure out, ofc, is the Knives not needing to eat thing - My friend millions-dykes theorized a black hole/white star dynamic a little while ago [as seen in the screenshot. I'm Organ, they are Nagito Malmonella]

aaaaaaaaanyway, we still get these little instances of knives just being a kid, and it's the funniest thing in the world to me. Vash is also apparently in tune with him enough to pick up on that and it's such twin behaviour.

There's also just a lot of cases of Knives smiling or being giggly around Rem, which,,,, he's such a mama's boy like we know this but it's so nice to have it reinforced. This theory of Knives having always been cold/standoffish just doesn't track - the only time he usually seems uncomfortable is when Rem touches him or when he talks about Plant stuff - particularly when he's talking about being different to Vash. Knives, to me at least, is a tad autism-coded :]

OKAY TO THE SCENE[TM]

So obviously this has changed from when we first saw Vash tell the story. Vash's sequence of events runs as follows:

Vash walks up to the little hill that Knives is laughing maniacally on top of -> Knives says "I finally did it! It worked! -> Vash confronts him with "How could you do that?" -> Knives reassures him with "Don't worry, I left the Plant ship" -> Knives says "I even got Rem killed!" -> Knives points out that Vash is his accomplice, but does not elaborate why. "Don't get mad. You're already my accomplice, isn't that right Vash?"

Now the sequence of events in this version is provably more accurate (the same audio is used in the black box recording discovered later), and goes as follows:

Vash wakes up from the escape pod and goes "Nai, where are you?" -> He spends some time following Knives' footsteps where he sees the crashed pods and fire and Knives laughing on the hill -> Knives says "I finally did it! It worked!" -> Vash says "I can't believe you killed Rem!" -> Knives says "Don't get mad. You're already my accomplice, it was you who told me the passcode - Am I right, Vash?"

So there are several inconsistencies in these two versions of events, most notably for me is that Vash is the one to bring up Rem. If the 1st telling was correct, it would imply that Knives wanted to kill Rem, but that part is conspicuously absent, because Vash is the one that brings her up.

Vash's retelling also omits the fact that he was the one to give Knives the passcode, shifting more blame onto Knives. It's very very interesting to me. Finally, Knives mostly has his back to Vash when he dissolves into laughter again. Which is a technique often used to hide if you've been crying or are having a hard time keeping some emotional responses down.

And I'm not even done with this flashback! The scene where Vash just lies down and wants to give up is,,, Well, in Trimax, ever since Tesla, Vash has struggled with suicidal ideation - he's the one that asks for Rem to just kill him, and that's heartbreaking, but we also see a bit of that leaking through here again, where he just wants to lie down and give up. It also gives me hope we're gonna see that Tesla aftermath scene in the next season, because that'll be breaking Vash down into his more complicated, messy parts.

Okay so I do think that the subtitles Aniwave uses are... a little bit Wack, I'm pretty sure that they're unofficial and probably a bit wonky, and I'm only slightly conversational in Japanese so I have 0 idea about this, but hey I think someone should inform Wolfwood, for no particular reas- [I am dragged away by security]

[I did check the dub, which referred to Plants giving birth which I think is much more likely to be accurate. But it'd still be funny for Wolfwood to have to sit through Plant sex ed so neither of them get pregnant]

Rem really was very, very young,,,,,

There are four photos here, but only one is given to Vash. I wonder why,,,, Possibly to gauge his recognition of Knives being in the photo, or keeping the other three to learn what they can about Knives.

The night/day progression cycle here doesn't really match up with Vash's little tally, so I don't think it's counting days. Given that he apparently went to say hello to everyone in cold sleep while on the ship, I think it's a little more likely that the tally marks are for them....

Do we ever actually get to hear Rem say the blank ticket thing in a flashback? I don't recall it, but it is said to Vash after the whole Stabbing Incident in Trimax, so that's possibly why they've kept it from us.

Theeee markings under this Plant's eyes match Elendira's, which. Obviously Elendira in tristamp is part plant there's just so many little details that lend themselves to it,,,

The HAIR COLOUR CHANGE AAAA

I like the little wall of Vash baby pics in the background here, but he still didn't get any of his 3 other ship pics back :(

Finally, Vash's line of "an Independent will make up for what an Independent has done" is interesting because his guilt complex really does spiral, huh. The reason Knives telling him "Oh, you just feel guilty for the Big Fall, huh?" in a later ep fucks him up so much is because like. That is kinda true to an extent. Vash is his own kind of self-deluding, but that only really starts spiraling at about this point in time.

Alright, setting up for a Day of analysis tomorrow, because I have many thoughts and feelings surrounding Knives (I love him very dearly and I hate him a lot (affectionate)) and we Will spend some time talking about Trimax Flavour Knives because my understanding of him is fundamental to my understanding of Tristamp Flavour Knives.

Thank y'all for the fun comments and theory addons!!! I'm having a lot of fun and we're really getting into how [normal] I am about Trigun!

[fallenclan]

// cw • this fic contains discussions of grief, passive suicidal ideation (im probably exaggerating it a lot in the tags tbh but if its a sensitive topic b careful), dissociation, and nongraphic death. please take care of yourselves!! :3

me if cranking out fics of just me smashing characters with the angst hammer 18 consecutive times was a crime 🚔💁‍♀️

--

Brambletuft doesn't categorize herself as someone with an anger problem.

There are cats like Wormshade and Flyspots, straight up with their anger. If they are angry, they make it known.

There is Maplestar, his quiet fury. You'll never see him angry, it doesn't show as more than irritation, but the way his claws scratch on the floor beneath him, and his eyes hold the smallest hint of disdain. When you know what to look for, you can read him like Silverbelly does the stars.

Poppyfeather is similar; you'll never know how she feels unless she wants you to.

Yewberry is entirely silent in his anger. He doesn't scream, or shout, he endures. He puts his anger to good work.

Otterslip, so unlike his son, was incredibly angry. Grief driven and desparate and begging for vengeance that was never owed. So angry, paws driven by cold hard rage, he killed Stormsight with no remorse for his actions.

Brambletuft is not angry. She appreciates the world, she splashes in puddles and takes care of preserved poppies and lilacs and feathers. Brambletuft is a simple cat, who enjoys simple things.

But she can't say she's happy all the time. That would be a lie. But it's not anger. Anger has never suited her. Honestly, neither has sadness or anything else. She prefers to just ignore her feelings.

She floats.

--

It happens once, when she's an apprentice and she fails an assessment. Her legs shook themselves still and she floated away from the world.

She very easily decides floating is far superior to feeling, so she does that. She floats during battles, and patrols, and she floats through her ceremony. She only knows her name because her sister repeated it.

-

Henryclaw never hid who her mother was, not from her and Poppyfeather, at least. A sweet kittypet named Bun. A gorgeous calico, who lived in one of the small houses near the valley. She gave Bramblekit and Poppykit away to keep them safe, and that was that.

It never did stop the distant longing she sometimes felt, when Bluefern would curl into Jaggedstripe, or when she saw a new queen patiently sitting in the nursery.

That affection was something she wanted for herself. It makes her feel upset, and sad. It makes her float.

--

When she comes back from patrol, camp is in chaos.

It's a cold day for the season. A cool breeze drifts in and out of her ears, making her shiver.

When she'd left that twilight, cats were retiring to their nests. The ones who weren't sleeping or getting ready to were either on watch, about to leave for patrol, or finishing their prey.

There is a small circle of cats in the clearing, gathered around something.

"What's going on?" She asks, shooting a sideway glance to Pinefrost, who shrugs in response.

Then Silverbelly pushes past her, rosemary in her jaws. The clearing smells vaguely of mint and lavender. She recognizes the smells because once Hopepaw dragged her along to collect herbs. The cats part around her, and she hears a commanding yowl over all the noise.

Hailcrash, standing at the center of the fray. "Stars, give Silverbelly and Hopethistle some space to work. Shoo, all of you. You can come back out when we start the vigil."

The vigil?

Brambletuft stands and watches as the cats part. Some stare at her, pitiful expressions painting their faces.

It feels blue. Not the pretty blue, where the sky is bright and the lakes are still. It's the tormentful blue, of dreary blue clouds and pouring rain.

Poppyfeather, she's dully aware, is sobbing.

Why is she sobbing?

And Silverbelly and Hopethistle and Poppyfeather are the only ones standing there now.

She sees the dulled, gray speckled fur. Blood inbetween strands of fur, limbs stiff.

--

She sits the vigil. But she's not there.

She is hardly aware of Poppyfeather's wails, or her own tears trickling down her face. She can't bring herself to listen to Jaggedstripe's stories, or Applebranch's fond reminiscence.

Henryclaw is gone. Maplestar is exhausted, Hailcrash is grasping at the unwoven seams of the clan that are slowly unraveling, and Silverbelly is still fighting with her grief.

It sounds stupid, but her father is no longer there with her. Why do anything?

--

"Brambletuft," comes a gentle voice.

The moon shines bright. Normally, she would take a moment to appreciate it, but today she tucks her nose into her tail and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Brambletuft, the gathering is tomorrow. Would you like to go?"

That's Hailcrash, with her careful eyes and her twitching ear.

She shakes her head. No.

Archclan was at the gathering. She didn't want to see a single hair on any of their foxhearted pelts.

Henryclaw had a single wound to the back of his neck. Clearly meant to kill. His body was found near the Archclan border, and it reeked of them even with the rosemary clogging her senses.

"That's fine," Hailcrash says. "Rest, alright? Silverbelly will be here to check on everyone later," on Brambletuft, "and Yewberry is staying behind too. Poppyfeather's here as well. Take it easy."

Brambletuft has been taking it easy for a half moon. She's been floating since she saw the body in the clearing, with long dried blood soaking the rocks and a sharp pang of grief in her heart.

--

"Brambletuft, Hopethistle wants to see you."

"Tell her 'm busy," she snaps.

"Like, right now," the voice continues. She vaguely categorizes it as male.

Yewberry.

"Tell her I'm watching Waspkit."

"Wrong. Teddyfluff's watching Waspkit," Yewberry says. "Come on. You know how Hopethistle is. Trying to avoid her is like trying to dig through a stone wall. I'll go with you, if you want."

Stop inconveniencing him, her mind says. Yewberry has more important things to do than babysit you because you're sad.

"That's fine, I can go myself," Brambletuft mumbles, pushing herself to her paws. Her throat feels parched, her eyes unfocused and fixed on the ground.

One paw, two paw. One paw, two paw.

She thinks if she loses that rhythm, nothing will make sense. The world already feels jumbled and confusing.

One step, two step.

Yewberry is trailing behind her anyways, half hovering and half trying to give her space.

And then she's at the medicine den. There's a kit (Owlkit, she thinks) laying in a nest way too big for her.

"Brambletuft," Hopethistle greets. "How are you?"

Brambletuft dully blinks at her, silently urging her to make an inference. Based on her matted fur, dull eyes, and sluggish movement, she was obviously not doing well.

"Okay, that's fine. I just wanted to ask you some questions?"

Hopethistle says it like a question. Like she has a choice, because everyone in the room (even Owlkit with her two-moon brain) knows that Brambletuft has no choice in this. Not really.

"Okay."

"Do you want him to stay, or?" Hopethistle glances at Yewberry, who shifts his paws.

"I can go if you-"

"I don't care," Brambletuft says. It comes off a lot meaner than she wants it to, so she reclarifies. "If you have stuff to do, don't waste time with whatever this is."

Yewberry decidedly stays still.

"Okay," Hopethistle says. She looks at a tiny stack of herbs, like she's mentally recounting something. "So. A few questions."

"Yeah, okay."

"Have you been feeling sad, tired, or hopeless recently?"

Brambletuft glares at her with all the will she can muster. "My dad just died and you're asking if I'm sad."

Hopethistle blinks. "So yes?"

Brambletuft, with as much irritance as she can muster, stiffly nods.

"Okay," she continues. "Any feelings of despair? Like life isn't worth living?"

Her tail twitches. "Why am I doing this?"

"I'm sorry," Hopethistle says. And she does look upset, but not upset enough to stop. "I just need a yes or a no. Or a nod. Anything that gives me a solid answer."

Brambletuft blinks. "Repeat the question?"

"Do you ever have thoughts of despair or feelings that life isn't worth living?"

Brambletuft thinks of the weeks she's spent floating in her nest, practically dead to the world. Everything passed by in a blur of bleary sleep, nightmares, and pain.

She looks at her paws, and slowly nods.

Hopethistle's eyes briefly glisten. "Do you intend to act on those feelings?"

Brambletuft couldn't. Poppyfeather needed her, even if they hadn't spoken for a week. She mutely shakes her head.

"Right," Hopethistle says, her voice catching in her throat. "You have off from patrols for another half moon, until I or Silverbelly can talk to you again. Try not to isolate too much, okay?"

Hopethistle, in her own stupid stubborn way, cares. It's why she makes a good medicine cat. It's how she gets even the most prideful, stubborn cats to accept her help. She has an element of ferocity and sharpness to her that she most definitely inherited from her mother.

Brambletuft goes back to her nest, leaving Yewberry to stare at her with some expression she can't quite place.

--

She wakes up again, for the third time, restless and upset, and instead of trying a different sleeping position, she leaps over sleeping bodies and slips into the tiny hole behind the elder's den.

It's snowing.

Her paws take her across the territory, until she stops at the valley border.

--

She doesn't want to admit it, but since Henryclaw died, there has been something eating her from the inside.

Not some scary bug, or a bad piece of freshkill. It's something herbs can't fix, and it's something she can't walk off.

It's choking. It wraps around her lungs and it squeezes and it doesn't let go. It makes her throat dry, and her eyes burn, and her fur stand on her spine.

--

Brambletuft, entirely alone in the night, with a sloppily caught mouse in her paws, stares at them. Blankly.

She is stiffly aware of the cold biting into her, even through her thick fur.

She stands. Not proud or tall as she used to, but grief-stricken and tucked into herself.

"Brambletuft?"

Brambletuft whips around, hackles raised, claws unsheathed. Yewberry walks out, and promptly sits next to her, pointedly avoiding her (dull) claws and her puffed up fur. She probably looks crazy.

"How did you find me?"

"I wanted to follow you after Hopethistle's interrogation," Yewberry begins, "but it looked like you wanted to be left alone. So I waited, then I went on patrol and came back and you were sleeping. And then I kept waking up, and your tail brushed me when you were leaving, so I just decided to follow you. Sorry if that wasn't-"

"No, that's fine," she interrupts. Her heart pounds.

"You sure? If it wasn't, you can just say that."

"No, really. I don't mind. I don't want you to-"

Her lungs clench. Her mouth snaps shut.

--

Exactly one half moon after her first interrogation, Brambletuft is dragged to Hopethistle and she starts rapid firing questions again.

Brambletuft gives some half-hearted answers. Simple "okay", "no", "yes", the whole thing.

"Does it ever feel like you're living life on autopilot?"

"What?"

"Sorry, bad example. Caught it from a friend. I mean like, does it feel like you're just a cloud, drifting around without really feeling anything?"

"I guess," she answers.

--

Yewberry pauses. "Want me to what?"

"I don't.. ah..." Brambletuft fumbles with her words. Please, brain, work. Talk to the pretty boy! "I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. Is there anything you want me to do?"

--

"What?"

"I think you've been having severe dissociative episodes for most of your life. When did you say the first one was?"

"After my first assessment. I think I was, ah, seven moons?"

"Brambletuft, this has been going on for 25 moons and nobody ever figured it out until right now?"

--

"Just, stay here." Brambletuft pauses. "With me."

I don't want to be alone, passes through her mind. He would understand, talk to him.

The words die in her throat.

--

Dissociation is a mental process where someone feels a disconnect from their thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity.

Wildfang's word, then Sunwish's words. Silverbelly repeats them. Hopethistle repeats them again, with the same long winded definition.

Hopethistle listed symptoms like they were second nature. Knowing her, they probably were.

Some of the symptoms of dissociation include forgetting about certain time periods, events and personal information, feel disconnected from your own body or the world around you.

Brambletuft can't remember anything that happened over a year ago. She doesn't remember a single detail from whatever Poppyfeather was telling her about this morning (Wow she is a horrible sister-)

--

"I feel like I'm floating," Brambletuft murmurs. It's so late that the moon dips back over the horizon, the sun greedily soaking up every inch of spare dark skies and turning it to bright orange and pink.

"Oh?"

"Like I'm just floating through life, and I've been stuck in the trees so I don't fly off into the sky, but now I'm on the moors instead of in the forest so I'm just flying away."

"Oh," Yewberry softly says. "I don't want you to fly away. Can I be the rock holding you to the ground?"

Brambletuft laughs, the first time she's done so in at least a moon, and rests her head on his shoulder. He immediately tenses when she does so, but he doesn't try to move her (which he could easily do, if she was being honest).

They stay that way, then fall asleep when the sun shines right onto the creek.

--

"Screaming," Owlpaw says. Brambletuft whips her head around to stare at the apprentice.

Hopethistle called it therapy. Brambletuft called it, with passion, hell. Owlpaw calls it training.

"What?" Owlpaw tilts her head. "It's therapeutic. I always see you. You're so quiet when you're upset. Try being loud about your feelings, and maybe you'll recognize them."

And so, Owlpaw orders her to go to the Cliff, and scream out all her feelings. And yes, she said it in those exact words.

Stars, she's taking orders from a 8 moon old ball of rage. What's next, Salmonkit starts using her for climbing practice?

--

Brambletuft stands on the cliff. Wind whips at her face, she ignores it.

Yewberry is there, with his quiet support. He even offered to scream with her, if it made her feel better.

She humbly declines his offer.

--

Bramblepaw is quiet.

Poppypaw is the loud one. She makes enough noise for both of them. Bramblepaw is silent enough to stay behind her. Poppypaw talks to all the other apprentices, telling them elaborate stories of how Goldenstar saved her from eagles.

(It was so badass, she'd exclaimed. Bramblepaw had to admit. Yes, it was badass.)

--

The choking feeling doesn't go away. It never does.

But, she starts fighting it. She won't let it win. She gets up and she gets on patrol and she tackles a pheasant with Yewberry and brings it back, a Feather kept in her nest as a prize.

She goes to mark the border, and take Salmonpaw on badger rides even if she's a bit too big for them.

She climbs to the top of trees with Yewberry and they talk, and laugh (once they touched noses. Scandalous.)

--

She goes to the cliff, and she screams herself hoarse. And again, and again, until her throat burns and her face hurts from her mouth being open for so long.

Yewberry, with his not very silent support, bowls her over as soon as they're off the cliff and under a sparse tree, and she laughs and lets him even though she could definitely knock him on his ass if she wanted to.

--

"I should've been angry sooner," she murmurs.

"I think you deserve to be angry," Yewberry nods. His head finds a familiar place on her shoulder. "No, no wait. You deserve to be angry."

Brambletuft, in all her adrenaline fueled glory, nods, leaping to her paws once again. "I deserve to be angry."

"You deserve to be angry," Yewberry repeats, his eyes bright and happy.

Happy for her.

"I deserve to be angry!" She laughs (cackles. she definitely cackled). She catches her breath, and turns back to Yewberry. "I deserve to be angry. We deserve to be angry."

"Have I ever told you how much I love you when you do this?"

And, all her adrenaline dissapears, in favor of instead making her fur puff out with embarrassment and having her tuck into herself instead, with Yewberry's laughter in the background.

And the thorns constantly wrapped around her lungs seem to loosen.

--

-🍭 (the horrors (my organs) persist but so do i. )

i jhsut spent an hour and a half writing this HGELP

AUGH MY FUCKING HEART NOOO I LOVE THEM SMM.... crumbled on the floor holding my chest. i love them SO MUCH its unreal this just made me love them even more,, lollipop your writing is so fucking incredible i love it so so much

[sodalitealchemist]

Zandie's Spooky Adventure (11 - Death)

Access the chapter on AO3: LINK

Zandie is curious and full of energy. He’s the youngest one among Dottore’s segments and he hangs out alone a lot. Older versions of Dottore tend to dismiss him whenever he disturbs their work. He’s used to it. No one has time for him. After all, he’s just a small kid, the weakest among his kind. He always felt jealous of the adventures the older versions of him could endure anytime they wanted.

On October 1st morning the adventure found him on it’s own…

This is small series of short stories about the October adventures of the youngest segment of Dottore - Zandie, who's meant to preserve Dottore's perspective of the world at the age of ten. As intelligent as this young prodigy is, he's still just a kid…This is a part of Miracles Of The Whites Nights storyline, it just happens long before any events that are or will be mentioned in the main story and it's focused on canon Genshin Impact characters.

CW: passive suicidal ideations implied

Don't repost my artworks/writings please! I'll appreciate likes, comments and reblogs. I am the author of both text and signature illustration. ♡

[walkawaytall]

CW: frank discussion of suicidal ideation, OCD.

Look, I’m not a professional but I have been misdiagnosed by at least two, and I just want to point something out that I wish I’d had the words for a decade ago so I could avoid being put on the wrong medications for years.

If your suicidal thoughts look like: “I don’t want to be here any more”, yeah, they’re probably suicidal ideation.

If your suicidal thoughts look like: “I actually don’t want to die, but I keep having visions and thoughts of me harming myself or wondering what would happen if I did something entirely reckless that would undoubtedly end in my death and these thoughts will not stop even though, as I said, I have no desire to die”, bb, ask your doctor about OCD and abnormal intrusive thoughts, I beg you. And if they don’t know anything about it, ask if they can refer you to someone who does.

I have been passively suicidal in the past (“I don’t want to be the one to do it, but if I could just stop existing, that would be ideal”), but by the time I first went to therapy, that was no longer a thing for me. I didn’t want to not be here any more. But I did keep having repeating visions of me harming myself in a variety of ways that, on paper, looked very much like suicidal ideation. And I became convinced that I was going to hurt myself because I kept having the thoughts. And it took years for me to learn about OCD (specifically pure-O OCD for me at least, which means I don’t have obvious compulsions) and a few more years for a (new) therapist and a (new) psychiatrist to say, “Hey, that mood disorder you were diagnosed with sure does…not look like a mood disorder and actually looks a lot like a gnarly combination of ADHD and OCD with a sprinkling of social anxiety.”

(Also, if you’re like, “Well, I didn’t want to harm myself, but after having these thoughts fifty times in a row, I’m starting to think I will act on them”, that could still be intrusive thoughts. OCD is like…you know how there have been cases where cops have convinced innocent people that they committed a crime just by like…telling them they committed the crime for hours and hours? It’s like that. OCD is a crooked cop and it will try to convince you your intrusive thoughts are a realistic threat.)

Anyway, this isn’t meant to diagnose anybody with anything; it’s just information I wish I’d had years ago. If I’d known that what I was experiencing were intrusive thoughts rather than suicidal ideation, I think I might have been diagnosed earlier which would have meant more helpful treatment/learning coping skills earlier.

Please reach out for help if you experience any of the above — I want you here and I want you well. (Wikipedia of all places has a list of crisis hotlines by country if that’s something you might find helpful.)

[guess-that-ship]

S11 Round 3

Two Sides of the Same Coin

cw: major spoilers, suicidal ideation

Heads and Tails are the same person. Heads is the first, having been put in a situation they couldn't bear to be in anymore, and due to divine intervention is placed in a new body to guide Tails, who has been put in the same situation they were in. Tails does not know the real identity of Heads, and Heads intends to keep it that way. Due to their intense self-loathing, Heads passive-agressively lets it out at Tails, teasing him all the time, and yet they are the one person Tails can confide in about their situation, and both bond over it.

Eventually, everything is too much for Tails to bear, and they lash out at everyone, Heads included due to the secrets they've kept from him. The situation being all too familiar, in order to stop Tails from destroying themself like they did before, Heads, while never directly engaging with him, helps from a distance, guiding Tails towards his happy ending. And Heads hates it. It's not fair that fate wanted them to fail just so Tails could do what they couldn't.

When Tails returns, Heads explains everything about what happened to them, and forces Tails to fight them to see who gets to keep this happy ending. They hate Tails because they hate themself, and they hate themself because they hate Tails. But Tails doesn't feel the same way. When he wins, Heads just wants Tails to kill them and be done with it, but Tails refuses. It was thanks to them that Tails was able to get their happy ending, and it wouldn't be right to keep either of them from it. Heads fades away, their job done, but both promise to meet again.

The Woods

cw: violence, murder, spoilers

They love each other and they can't stop killing each other. It's never permanent, though they don't always seem to realize that. They just don't have much choice, and anyway, they're doing it to save the world. They're both helpless pawns in a bigger game, but they are also both literal gods. Also, one of them has up to a dozen voices in their head telling them what to do, and how to kill.

Even without knowing what's happening, they both want to escape the game they're trapped in together. They wind up bonding over their odd cat-and-mouse dynamic, connecting with literally the only other being that can understand what they're going through -- even if NOT killing each other might mean the end of the world.

Or maybe not. Maybe they can just escape. Or maybe they can just stay in the same time loop forever, enjoying each other's strange company while occasionally killing each other. That's the funny thing with time loops, they just keep on recurring.

[what-do-you-mean-you-ate-it]

Nine Lives

CW: discussions of suicide and suicidal ideation. The Sandman fanfic, Fix-it for the Wake, ergo cannon divergent. Dreamling feels, but Hob is at the ren-faire with Gwen, and Death of the Endless gives him a present. I have used up my whole year's supply of cuteness on this fic.

Read here on AO3; or here:

If Morpheus is the King of Cats surely he has Nine Lives

Hob sighs as he nurses his too good beer. He’s been morose, passive aggressive, superior, and short with Gwen. She deserves better, she deserves to be with the man she thinks she is dating, Robbie, educated, moderately wealthy, emotionally aware, attentive, and born in the 20th century. Hob clutches the pint mug with both hands and tries to scry its depths. He is nursing not only a pint of beer, but a case of despair, both of which—or at least the despair—he should set aside, and instead find Gwen and a fine old time. But if he goes out there he will need to not be an arse at a Ren-Faire that has little attachment to accuracy. No one believes him though. He is here for Gwen and she didn’t bring him here to make a fool of himself. Best to keep a handle on how much beer he drinks. The beer is better than it was those years ago. But while the beer is smooth and sweet his thoughts are bitter this evening, and lonely enough that he wishes for the piss that passed for ale that evening. There is a different Dream now, or so he thinks. It’s not the same. He’s not the same. Hob is lonely for his friend and homesick for 1389. He takes a swig of his too good beer, and then startles.

Death looks lovely. She always does, but more so this afternoon. He thinks of taking her hand, asking for a last dance, it would be a good way to go out, dancing with a beautiful woman. They would find his body here later, a tragedy, they would call it, dead at only thirty-two! That should raise a smile. It doesn’t.

Hob doesn’t remember Dream’s - Morpheus’ - wake clearly, but he knows that he damn well could have. He should have been told, properly, that Morpheus was gone. Morpheus should have told him about how bad it was getting. Hob knew something was up. He didn’t ask Morpheus, he didn’t want to cause spook him again, have him run off again. Morpheus should have told him what was happening. Hob should have said more, been direct, blunt, overly curious. There were an awful lot of things that should have been properly said. No one told him, he was left to his own suppositions. Could he ask her if Morpheus were as dead as he would be should he ask her for her hand? She looks lovely today

But he needs it confirmed. “It’s true? Isn’t it?” Hob says to Death, “he’s gone?” He can’t help the question in his voice. Hob knows Death, so he has said, he knows what she will say.

Instead, she rummages in her shoulder bag. Then her face lights up, and with two hands she reaches in, she smiles brightly and broadly, and she pulls a small black blob of fur from the depths of her bag, and hands it over to Hob. He doesn’t have time to refuse

It is soft, it is small, it is rumbling with purrs and life and Hob holds it gently cupped in large strong immortal hands. He raises it to his face, not kissing noses of new acquaintances be damned, he is over 650 years old, today his heart just won’t stop breaking, and he’s damned if he’s not going to give a little love to a little cat fluff. He has plenty of spare love, love that was meant for Morpheus, best that love find a new home now. Hob is looking at the soft new thing, knowing that he will keep and protect it for as long as it lives, and his heart is already trying to break again.

Then the little thing opens its eyes.

not the blue of seas nor the blue of skies, not the blue of cornflowers or topaz, or bluebells, nor lobelia, nor flax, nor hydrangeas, not bluebirds, or Lourie birds, or blue-tits, or blue jays or herons or swallows, or tanzanite or opal or sapphire

Hob runs a hand over the kitten’s little fuzzy black head, rubs a finger along its puffy cheek, he smiles at it, touches a finger to its nose briefly, and then plants a kiss on the top of it’s head. The kitten purrs, giant whirling purrs. Happy purrs.

blue of the night sky lit with hope

There is a moment in this world and Hob and a blue-eyed cat are in it.

Hob brings the kitten tight against his chest, hopes it will be comforted by his steady heart. He doesn’t know how long he has been standing there. He should go find Gwen, she will be looking for him. But for now he just holds the kitten tight. Forever, he thinks, forever.

Fin. Thanks for reading!