#cw passive suicidal ideation

[clone-anon]

Hello! You are an absolute angel, your stories are so lovely and many of them have moved me to tears <3

I know it's a bit dark but I was wondering if you could do a Tech x f!reader where the reader is struggling with passive suicidal ideation (suicidal thoughts with no intent to act upon them) and feeling trapped inside her mind. Reader is touch starved and maybe Tech is too and they both find safety holding each other.

No worries if you can't do it! Thanks for making so many peoples' day including mine <3

Thank you! I'm glad you like my writing and decided to prioritize this since it's such a heavy topic.

Warnings: ongoing passive suicidal ideation mentioned, one moment of suicidal ideation involving a ledge with no intention to act

A/N: The squad is all back together again, but there is no mention of how. We don't need to know how right now, just that they're together. Also, I think this could be read as gender neutral reader.

Although Tech was not as demonstrative with his physical expressions in the same way Wrecker was, he would sometimes reach out and touch your shoulder or arm in a supportive way. He was not entirely sure of the line, but you always seemed to lean into his hand enough to let him know the feeling was welcome. You had all been looking for some place to lay low for the time being. A lot had happened and you did not want to lose each other. The squad was whole and you all wanted it to stay that way.

One evening on a forested moon you sat under the stars. There was a bit of a ledge not far from where the ship was parked and the campfire set up. Everyone was inside at the moment and you simply stared. It wasn't a far drop. Your mind fell into the trap of thinking what-ifs. You wrapped your arms around your shoulders and tried to shudder the thought away as Tech approached. He sat next to you and tried to read your expression.

"What is it?" he asked.

You looked down at your hands and took a calming breath as his warm presence settled next to you.

"Nothing," you replied.

"It's not nothing," he insisted softer than you'd ever heard him. "Tell me."

"I keep having these thoughts. Do you know what suicidal ideation is?"

Eyes wide he answered, "Of course I do, but what is the reason for this? How can I help?" His arms encircled you, although loosely, as his eyes followed yours to the ledge.

"It's passive, Tech. I won't do it. These thoughts come to mind and I can't seem to stop them or turn them off."

"Promise me you will come to me before acting on anything," he replied.

"I just said I won't do it," you said as your expression vulnerable expression pleaded for understanding.

"I know." He looked at you and nodded. "However, I won't have you experience this alone and I won't take chances."

You looked up at him and his arms seemed to hold you just a little more snugly. Your own snaked around his torso and you leaned into him. His embrace seemed to clear out the thoughts you had only moments ago.

"Breathe with me," he suggested. Your chests rose and fell in rhythm and you felt grounded in each other. It was soothing for him just as much as it was for you and you felt like your mind was more your own than it was just moments before.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" you asked.

"Of course. I'll stay with you every night if that is what it takes."

You stood up and he put out the fire before putting a hand on your back and walking onto the ship with you. You got settled into your bunk and he brought his pillow, laying so that you were between him and the wall. You leaned into each other and loosely left an arm around the other's waist.

"Promise me," he softly requested again.

"I promise I'll come to you."

"Good. I can't lose you."

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead to yours. In the quiet of the ship you fell asleep together.

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

1,375 words, mentioned Maedhros/fingon, post nirnaeth, singular stabbing, passive suicidal ideation:

Himring held a rigid, silent vigil. Beyond, the plains of Aglon were burning. We cannot close it against the enemy, Maedhros had said, if it cannot be ours, let it be no one’s. That strip of ravaged land had once been Celegorm’s, and he felt strange now, watching it turn black in the sharp frost of early morning light.

Nirnaeth had become a dreadful blur. Celegorm wasn’t even sure if he had believed they could win, but had revelled in the blood on his sword— and when Ulfang turned against them and the blood on his hands ran from black to red, the smoke of dragon fire had seemed to invest very mind, and he had curled in on himself, and did the only thing he knew to, he sought is brothers.

Maglor had led the retreat. Everyone was bleeding. Maedhros’ voice rang clear and terrible from the rearguard, his people fenced their casualties from the enemy, the sun fell in a blaze of red and heat, and Celegorm led a horse saddled with three of his wounded men.

They had lost soldiers even as they drew to Himring, but Maedhros— steely, cruel Maedhros— had not let them stop until they reached the hill. Celegorm couldn’t remember if he had fallen asleep or simply into a stupor, but hours had vanished like dust on the wind, and only now he felt awake again.

Caranthir had been terribly wounded. Maglor was with him. Amras was sending his people at Maedhros’ command to their southern settlements, where those who could not fight had remained. Maedhros had taken a fearsome tally of losses, somehow wrangled their rout to order, somehow established a chain of command, somehow got them through this.

Celegorm was bitter. That the man who got us into this mess should also get us out of it. I’m sure it is all nothing to him.

He looked again westward over his burning land, then stood, and sought his eldest brother.

The sun was cresting weakly over the eastern mountains, thin and wan, air damp and blue in the hilltops, when Celegorm found him. Maedhros was pacing by the conifers at Himring’s southwest border, forward, back, forward, back, he had worn a track into the bed of rotting needles.

Celegorm watched him. His brother’s footfalls were silent, his jaw was clenched, his eyes were… Celegorm blinked. There was a startling look in Maedhros’ eyes, a very particular, fraying glint that Celegorm had seen only once before.

He had seen it in Fingon’s eyes when they had told him Maedhros was in Angband. Celegorm fancied that glint was a tripwire, burning down. All things considered, Fingon had lasted a while before he ran off to Thangorodrim.

Celegorm glanced west. There was no way to tell how the battle had fared with Fingon’s host. He looked back at his brother.

Maedhros would not last as long.

It would be madness to send messengers now, when their people were held together by sheer force of will, but it was madness precisely that seemed to consume his brother, such that he had not yet noticed Celegorm’s presence, such that his breathing was heavy and harsh.

Damned if I don’t stop him.

Briefly, Celegorm considered binding his brother, so that he could not escape. Maedhros would only break the bonds. Then the spirit of vengeance swelled within him— he, after all, alone of our forces is unwounded— and he drew his sword.

When Maedhros’ back was turned, Celegorm skewered him through the liver. There was an crisp squelch, and Maedhros made a choked, surprised noise, but he did not fall. Celegorm said, “Brother.”

Maedhros was very still. “Is there a reason for this?”

“Calm down,” Celegorm said, “it will do you good.”

He saw Maedhros’ muscles tense, his eyes twitch, nostrils flare, “I don’t have time for this,” he said, “save your grief and your vengeance for those who will better be wounded by it.”

“What’s that, brother?”

“Did you plan to kill me?”

“No.”

“I would not be surprised if you did.”

“Sometimes I believe of all of us, you are the one who wants yourself dead the most.”

“On account of me knowing myself the most.” Maedhros did fall now, to his knees, his tunic coming up bright red in the morning light, his breathing now ragged.

“I do mean it,” Celegorm said.

Maedhros replied, “Just leave me here.”

His brother said only, “don’t move the sword,” and left.

Slowly, Maedhros keened forward, and lay on his face in the needles.

The steel of his brothers sword had severed something within him, carving through more than flesh and muscle. The fervour of battle had trembled and fallen at his brother’s quiet words, frozen and hung like a dreadful spectre. Maedhros could not feel the pain. He thought perhaps he would die.

He knew why Celegorm had done it. Or rather, he didn’t, but he welcomed it regardless. I would stab myself too. Maybe it was hatred. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was the same madness of defeat that had led their father to exile their people, or Maglor to slay Uldor.

He lay very still. An awful cold was seeping into him.

Maedhros thought about dying. If he died now, he would not stop himself. Yet he knew the wound would not kill him. It would incapacitate him. My brother has stabbed me. With a humourless huff, my brother has stabbed me in the back.

Maedhros should be there.

He should be riding Nan Dungortheb, or back across the planes, alone and desperate, he should be sending messengers, he should be gathering information. He should be there where the battle still raged.

He should be there with Fingon.

He cried, and his tears were as cold and bitter as Celegorm’ sword, at nightfall he fell into darkness, and demons haunted him.

He did not scream. He was assayed by visions of bloodshed and death, the Nirnaeth swirled before him, he bethought to run in a madness across the battle plain, thinking he had left something there, his gauntlet or his brothers or his love, but he could not move, because he had been stabbed. His vision went red, and grey, and purple, and black. Another morning rose.

When Celegorm walked to the conifers again that evening, he did not expect to see his brother still lying there. He wondered for a brief and chilling moment if he really had died.

Still sore and weary from the battle and the loss, he thought, perhaps, that would not be so bad.

But Maedhros was not dead. He saw Celegorm as he approached, watched him as he knelt. “Will you finish me off,” he said. It was hardly a question. Celegorm did not know if there was any emotion in his brother’s voice.

He felt suddenly wretched. Why did you do this? Why would you stab your brother? Look at him; he has been broken; there is no life in his eyes.

But at least he is alive.

“What do you want,” he said finally, “really?”

“I want to go find Fingon.”

“See, I couldn’t let you do that.”

“You a cruel.”

“So are you.”

“You will kill me?”

“No. Hold still.”

Celegorm drew the sword from Maedhros, and inspected the wound. It looked as if Maedhros had not moved at all. He did his best to seal it, and bound his brother’s torso, leaving his tunic and shirt bloodstained and tattered on the ground.

Maedhros had not flinched. Celegorm wondered if he was revisiting old memories, and wondered again at his awfulness, but then he saw his brother crying.

“Maitimo.”

“There’s nothing left of me, Tyelko.”

“I don’t know. You have me.”

“He could be dead.”

“Come now, you’re wounded. You should rest.”

His brother almost laughed, tears burning gold in the evening light, eyes wide. “I don’t know what will become of me,” he whispered.

Celegorm suddenly felt like crying himself. “Let’s get you home,” he said, and the words felt foreign on his tongue, he helped his brother to his feet, and Maedhros had never seemed so thin, so gentle, so simply human as he did now. It scared and relieved him. They turned and walked back to Himring.

i need to see Maedhros be literally stabbed in the back and left laying on his face for the better part of a weekend amongst the trees

[pokeberry5]

red robin in his hot girl summer era

alts + closeup:

[bramblebeau]

.

[c0nji]

Finally canceled my doctor's appointment because seeing him for my ADHD+depression+trauma wasn't doing anything at all, even after almost three years.

Not that I was expecting a full consultation since he's a psychiatrist and not a therapist, but I expected a bit more from someone with his educational background and experience.

Told mom about my decision to quit meds, and her reaction to my explanation that I have passive suicidal ideations either way was nothing but a vague noise that sounded something like, 'Why are you telling me this out of nowhere?'

[lancelought]

a

want to be dead all the time but im fine actually like i feel good but i also want to be dead. its just how it is

[wormheamer]

haha yeah. i wish i was trans, and not doomed to jump off a bridge someday. anyways— *sound of a 2007 honda accord plowing through the rear window of my house*

[magicalblerdpenn]

This evening, I realized that I'm passively suicidal. This means that I don't have any plans to kill myself but I am thinking, "I am a burden to everyone I know and maybe it'd be better if I wasn't here." Anna Borges wrote a great personal essay on passive suicidal ideation a few years back called, "I Am Not Always Attached To Being Alive" that describes everything I'm currently feeling.

You see, I don't have very convincing reasons for not wanting to be here. Sure, this month has been incredibly stressful for me as an unpaid caregiver to a mom who I have a complicated relationship with. However, I have survived experiences like this before. After all, I've been an upaid caregiver for ten years, since I was 22.

Not to mention that despite being bombarded by news of layoffs on Twitter, my freelance writing career is fine, good even.

I have a new poem being published online next month and may potentially place in a poetry contest I entered in January.

I lack of a social life, with folks my own age (early 30's), but I have bio family members that actually love and care about me. I also have 2-3 online support groups related to work and casual socializing, as well as a couple internet friends I'm close to.

I have also been unpacking trauma via half a dozen self help mental health workbooks for the past year. I've also got several coping mechanisms including journaling, exercising, playing video games, listening to mood improving music, breathing exercises, and digital drawing.

Prior to this, I didn't have any suicidal ideation (active or passive) for eight years. This made it hard to admit to myself that I'm passively suicidal now, especially after I recently told my close internet friends I was "doing better".

I'm not okay, but I want to stay.

There's a band that I love whose third album comes out this Friday.

There are video games I haven't beaten and played yet, books I haven't finished reading, anime I want to finish watching.

There is food I want to eat.

There is poetry I want to write, and maybe stories too.

There are people I want to talk to, on and offline, about anything and almost everything.

I am not okay but I want to stay. I may be passively suicidal but I am also hardheaded as hell. Depression can go fuck itself.

To quote one of my favorite comic book series: "Depression lies and so does Mistress Woe."

[honeypiecastiel]

There’s something so poignant about Ed laying on the deck of the revenge, covered in blood, water splashing over him, clearly in pain but there is a look of relief on his face. The “finally” as he smiles and Jim screaming as they hold the cannon ball really hits home how Ed had passive suicidal ideation but he also was taking action in destroying his life on purpose.

And it’s not even only about his passive suicidal ideation or his heartbreak over Stede. Ed feels he is completely unlovable, unchangeable, grotesque, a monster. Why else would Stede have left? He’s embracing the kraken in order to solidify that in his mind, if he lets himself act as a monster than he doesn’t have to face the hurt of loved ones leaving him.

There’s so much more though, as he stares up at his crew who he wanted to mutiny against him. This wasn’t a normal mutiny, Ed wanted it to happen. He forced the crew’s hand. These were people he cared about and people who cared about him. But Ed thinks he’s unlovable and he can’t face that people might actually care about him. So what does he do? He forces them to hate him, he acts crazy, chooses destruction again and again so that he removes the chances of being hurt the way Stede hurt him.

And he keeps forcing it and pushing them and pushing them. He tries to get Izzy to kill him because he can’t end it himself but he also wants the people in his life to fully and finally solidify that he is an unlovable monster by them putting him out of his misery but also showing that not even they care about him.

So there’s so much layers in that scene, because Jim crushing his skull with the cannonball is the final act for Ed. It’s him finally succeeding in removing all love in his life and allowing himself to truly believe that he’s a monster and not worthy of any joy, love, or care.

[bluishorange]

…

[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

[perihel1on]

trying to weigh life decisions at a certain level of depressive anxiety is just

pros: may want to kill myself less

cons: may want to kill myself more

[folaireamh]

every new year it's 'okay i'll do better this year and i'll be better' and then the actual winter starts and i'm stuck inside because of the snow and everything is stupid and evil and i wanna kill myself and die

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Humanity

[CW: Passive suicidal ideation.]

Being a person feels... heavy. Like I'm always full of something. It didn't have to be gross, but it usually was. Sometimes it was something with an easy word to it, like disdain or cowardice, but usually it was more vague. Some sort of congealed, disgusting mass that's been slowly accumulating for as long as I've been alive, weighing my guts down until I'm too stressed to eat and too tired to sleep.

I don't want to die. Death sounds too painful, and I'm scared of commitment. But, as I looked out into the bay, waiting for the traffic on the toll bridge to advance, I can't help but daydream. If I drove into the river, just by some freak accident out of my control, I... wouldn't do much to fight it. I would just let whatever happens happen as I sit still. Let this heaviness in my chest weigh me down and drown me.

My whole life was like that, really. Just moment after moment of letting things out of my control happen to me. My parents never really let me do much, either because we didn't have money, or they decided it wasn't right. I had to move out young after they died, and that didn't give me much of a choice in where to work and where to rent. I didn't even have a chance to think about what my major would've been.

Being a waitress meant doing what you're told when you're told, which table to go to and what to bring them, and what to clean. The work itself was fine, it's just... everything around it. The same awful people just as trapped here as I am, the same inconsiderate boss that barely pays me enough to buy vegetables, the same disgusting smell of fish and chips, all building up and coagulating little by little.

The only way I could get through an average work day was by shutting my brain off and just letting my body move on its own. The years I've worked there have just been the same fog of meaningless obedience. It's a sort of torture, suppressing your ego all just to become your work, for the sake of people you hate. Just feeling full and heavy and gross.

That's how I survived most of my life. Ever since I started school, I learned quick that you keep your head down and go with the flow. Don't be too loud, too big, too anything. Just look pretty and do what you're told without thinking too hard about what you're doing. Try not to feel too much.

Of course dying isn't that big of a deal. I don't feel like I was ever truly alive, ever something that could really be called a person.

Oh, I'm home.

God it's so cold out. It's like the wind is trying to bite me through my coat. I really wish our heating worked, but I've given up trying to fight for it a long time ago.

I can hear the music from here. I swear to fucking god if she's throwing another party I'm going to scream. She can't keep doing this, she really can't.

I fumble with my keys because it's too cold in the hallway, and I struggle with the lock because it hasn't been replaced in over a decade. This is the right key, and I keep trying to turn it, but it won't unlock and my fingers are starting to hurt.

Today needs to end. Please. I just need to stop, after everything, I just need things to stop and let me be still for a single fucking-

Finally.

I leave the door open for as little time as I can. I don't even take my coat off before I march into the living room. She's there, on the couch with more friends than I've ever met. They're all smiling, talking with each other, and having fun. They're smoking weed inside.

I need to stop looking at the one sitting on the arm of the couch, she's not important right now.

"Hey, what the fuck?!" I raise my voice to be heard over the music and drunken ramblings. "I told you that you can't keep doing this, I'M the one who gets in shit for this with the landlord!"

She looked around her, gauging her guests' reactions. She forces a timid smile. "Hey, you don't have to make a big deal out of this, alright? Nothing's gonna happen if nobody tells on us, so just relax." She turns away from me, back to the others. To the woman on the arm of the couch. My roommate falls into this sort of drunken fawning, trying to excuse my behaviour, but that woman on the arm of the couch doesn't join in with them exaggeratedly rolling their eyes or shooing me away.

"I'm not the bad guy here! You're the one who keeps...!" I wince, bringing a hand over my eyes as I recoil into the door frame. It's so loud. "Fuck it, I can't do this with you, I'm going to bed." I turn and leave and slam my door and lock it. She turns the music back up. I'm ordering food and going to sleep.

After I stop crying.

. . . . .

"Do you like your life, darling?"

I'm floating. I'm naked. I can't tell where I am. I don't think I'm anywhere.

"...No."

The woman from earlier. I couldn't stop thinking about her all night. The way she looked, how she carried herself, it was just stuck in my brain.

She's so... big. She's towering over me. I'm like a toy, barely up to her shins.

This isn't a dream. She's there. I can feel her in front of me, almost more real than being awake. I've never been more lucid before.

"Such a poor thing..." She looks so sad. For me?

She's kneeling. "Let me take all that hurt away. I've always wanted nothing more than to help someone like you live the life they deserve." I should be scared. I shouldn't trust her. "I already know you'd make such a good doll~"

I look down at my body. It's fluctuating, moving in and out as I look at myself. My torso is flat and wooden like a marionette, but with each breath in it expands with cloth instead of skin. I can feel the seems of my stitches, the plastic of my joints, the clattering of my porcelain, all at once. It feels... welcome.

She's reaching for me. I know I should flinch, I should be scared of her crushing me as she wraps her hands around me like a doll, but I can't even remember what such a distrust would feel like. She's pulling me to eye level.

Why does her touch feel so... nice?

I feel a breach, like I've just come up for air. I can feel my soul hack and sputter, and finally begin to breathe. I've never felt so light, so emptied. Everything disgusting inside of myself was drained away. Have I been drowning all this time?

"Meet me whenever you're ready, darling." I know where she means. I see her manor, grand and sprawling, but tucked away just out of sight. I can see it so perfectly. "I'll be waiting for you there."

Her hands start to loosen, and I start to fall, further and further away from Miss.

I inhale sharply, way too deeply, as I wake up. It feels like I'm gasping for air. My whole body... hurts is the wrong word, there's a heavy rawness pulsating through me. It's not the heaviness normally in my chest. I'm in a puddle of sweat. I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

My phone says it's 4:37 am. I don't care. I need to see her.

. . . . .

It's a blur. I'm on autopilot, too wired to think. This doesn't feel like before, this isn't the fog. This is pure intention.

I find myself in my car, driving to her. I know where to go, I know. I need to get there. I can't afford to waste any time.

I leave my car parked on a dirt road and wander into the forest just as the sun starts to rise. I didn't bother grabbing anything I didn't need to get here, and I left what i did grab in the car anyway. I didn't even take the keys out of the ignition. Whatever happens, I'm not coming back.

It's a few minutes of walking from the road to her manor. I have plenty of time to reconsider. It's not too late to go back. I'm afraid, of course. My self-preservation is trying to restrain me by my neck. But every time I think about giving into that fear, that complacency stopping me from stepping into the unknown, the idea of returning to what was... I keep walking. I couldn't explain why. Too much momentum, too heavy to bother stopping.

I'm here. Oh god, this is really happening. I lean against the house on an outstretched arm as I stare at the front door. It's thick and wooden, like something from a fairy tale. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and raise a fist. She opens the door before I can knock.

This is really happening.

"Oh, I'm so happy you came, darling!" She quickly reaches an arm around me and ushers me through the door. "And so quick, too! I knew I made the right choice."

She sits me down on the couch and disappears just a room away. Before I can even admire the decor, she returns with two glasses, and a jug of iced tea. She sits down beside me, pours herself a glass, and sets the jug out of my reach.

She takes a swig of her drink, leaning back and swirling it in her cup. She stretches her arm across the back of the couch. I could cuddle up to her so easily, and I've never before felt this tempted to do that with someone. "Tell me what you know about dolls."

I feel something I've never felt before. Just a little, just enough.

"U-uh..." I try to gather everything I can. I don't know why I'm so caught off guard by the question, I came here for a reason. But saying it out loud, actually articulating these feelings, is something totally foreign.

"A doll is like a person, but... not." I take a deep breath. I feel like I'm standing in front of a stadium of thousands. "Witches use their magic to turn people into dolls so they can have servants. And... there are rules to being a doll, like how you have to call yourself an object, and do everything you're told."

I look at her for approval. She's waiting for me to continue. "Am I gonna be a doll?"

The witch almost... melts. She has such a kind, compassionate smile. She sets her drink down and turns her body to face me as much as she can. "Do you want to be a doll, darling?"

"I... I mean, I, uh..." I have never felt more like prey. Why is my face so warm? I'd do anything for her.

She reaches out and takes my hands, that I was holding up to my chest defensively. I leave them limp, just letting her grab them. I feel my shoulders start to lower just a little bit. She's so warm.

"Dolls are empty spaces shaped like people." She teaches me. "Dolls are objects that are obedient and docile. There's a special feeling they have called stillness, where your thoughts go away and you just feel happy." She starts to smile, a tender eagerness. "Can you feel it now?"

I feel it. I feel it. I feel it, I feel it. The stillness. She's making me still. It's gone. I don't feel heavy. I'm empty in such a wonderful way. I feel like I could float through the breeze for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy. Like I could do anything, and I would be happy. Is this what life was supposed to feel like? All this time?

"It's a big decision, darling." Her voice is so... magical. It's calming, it's exciting, it's everything to me. "This can only happen if you want it to. Think about your old life, everything you'll leave behind. This is your last chance."

I think about being a human. I think about everything that comes with being a human, the things I'll lose. My autonomy, my identity, things I was never granted in the first place. The privilege of destroying my self just a little every day, all to save myself the trouble of feeling. More than anything, that disgusting heavy feeling, the filth so deeply compacted inside me I thought it was inherent to being.

"Y... y-yes... yes, I want to be a doll!" I'm smiling so wide. Crying hasn't felt this good in a long, long time.

The witch smiles back at me. She pulls me into her, hugging me so tenderly. She's soft, and warm, and so many things.

"You're going to become such a good doll."

Good doll. I can finally feel good.

[arcanarix]

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.

[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.