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home-for-wayward-fawns · 6 months ago

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༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 9: 𝒩𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈, 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈

What should've been a simple game of role-play goes terribly wrong when Carla is thrust into a flash back of the past.

TW: Hi everyone, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos! I want to give a HEAVY trigger warning for this chapter. It contains heavy references to mental health problems, substance abuse, and references to a character overdosing.

Carla sat on her armchair in the lounge, sewing circle in her lap as she continued her floral design. Alastor stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder as he peered down at it. Carla had a soft smile plastered on her face as Charlie explained her latest little game to the residents who sat on the floor in a circle.

It reminded her of little Poppy dragging all her big brothers down to the living room for a tea party. Of course, they’d always indulged her, indulged the little miracle that blessed their lives.

Charlie started, clapping as she sang her little introduction, and the snake followed suit. Carla hummed to herself contentedly as Alastor tapped his fingers on her skin in a smooth rhythm.

“This is stupid,” Angel interrupted, rolling two of his eyes.

Carla looked down at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his hand. She’d seen that before, and it left a sour taste in her mouth. It was the struggle before the storm, the moment just before the walls came crashing down. Angel was after a fix, and this game wasn’t helping. Carla noticed Charlie’s eye twitch, and let out a cough for attention. She felt Alastor’s rhythmic tapping cease and didn’t need to look back to know he was doing that curious head tilt in her direction.

“You don’t have to play along, sweetheart,” She said gently, hoping her soft voice would coax him away from whatever demons plagued his mind.

It never did. It never worked. It never worked with Junior either.

“This–is–not–stupid!” Charlie interrupted, still clapping and Carla had to bite back a sigh. It wasn’t her fault; the poor naive thing just couldn’t see that this was not what Angel needed right now. “It’s just a game! Sir Pentious did it well, so now please try to do the same!”

“Charlie, that isn’t very kind. Angel, if you don’t like this game, what do you want to play?” Carla asked, keeping her tone soft and light.

She felt a sharp claw scratch along her collar as Angel got a sly smirk on his face. Husk groaned, apparently aware of something Carla was not.

“A productive game,” Vaggie interjected, her voice laced with suspicion.

Why was everyone so harsh on the boy? Husk got to drink himself into oblivion; Pentious got to build his dangerous contraptions; why was Angel looked upon so harshly?

“We could do some roleplay ,” Angel suggested, his eyebrows moving suggestively, specifically in Husk’s direction.

Husk rolled his eyes, but Charlie quickly jumped to her feet in excitement, oblivious to the obvious tension in the room. She pulled Vaggie up by her arm, with a surprising amount of strength for such a lanky young girl.

“Roleplay!” Charlie exclaimed, her entire body already shaking with anticipation, “I’ll go write the scripts!”

The tall blonde quickly dragged her girlfriend out of the room, and Carla chuckled at her enthusiasm.

“This oughta be fun,” Angel snickered, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to subside slightly.

“Thank you, Angel,” Carla said to him earnestly, “It means a lot to her that you’re trying,”

“Huh? Err, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, looking down at his phone, but the beginning of a blush had spread across his face.

Small steps, gentle steps; you didn’t change problems like this overnight. She couldn’t save Junior, didn’t see him slipping through the cracks of the family unit. She couldn’t save him in time, couldn’t make him feel seen before it was too late, but she could save Angel. He was a part of this little family they were building, and she’d keep him safe. She’d make sure he felt safe.

“Pet,” She heard Alastor purr in her ears and she turned her head to look at him. His smile was broad across his face as he spoke— he was beautiful. “I’m afraid I must take my leave to make arrangements for this evening. I’ve instructed Niffty to take care of dinner for the evening so you can focus on dolling yourself up for me tonight,”

Carla bit down on her lip in concern, that was a big task for one so small. “That’s a big meal for such a little one, are you sure we need to go out for dinner? I don’t mind cooking before we leave.”

“I assure you I have never given her a task she cannot excel in. She enjoys cooking just as much as you do. You trust me don’t you, doe?”

She pressed a gentle kiss against his knuckles, and he raised an eyebrow but made no move to take his hand away from her. She felt a shift in the air, the usual soft thrum of static that surrounded them seemed to thicken for a moment before he tilted her head up to steal a soft kiss. She gasped in shock, and he took the opportunity to deepen it.

“You’re bad.” She whispered against his lips and he chuckled.

“You’re mine.” He whispered back, before pulling away.

She watched him as he took his leave, not able to hide the wistful expression on her face. She returned to her sewing circle, and she’d almost feel at peace if she wasn’t blatantly aware of Pentious’ eyes on her.

“Do you trust him?” He hissed, rolling his tongue on the s sound.

“We know our roles, and we play them well.” She replied, her tone clipped.

She had promised Charlie she would try, she would play along. That didn’t mean she owed him any more information than she was willing to give. It was hardly any of his business how she felt about Alastor. Or Kek.

“Forgive my intrusion, I was under the impression you were wed to another,”

Her head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes, her smile still firmly glued in place. The snake eyed her nervously, aware that he had just prodded at a particularly sore nerve. It was laughable, wed to another. Last time Carla checked, death do us part was very much still in her vows. She had waited her whole life to move on, how much time did she owe Clarence? How many tears, how much misery? How many dead kids?

“How interesting; I’m sure Alastor would be very interested in finding out you keep tabs on me.” She said evenly, keeping her smile gentle while she pleaded with her heart to calm itself down.

“Don’t Smiles got a problem with your and Vox’s whole,” Angel said, waving his hand in the air, “situationship,”

“Me and Vox do not have a situationship to discuss. I was never married to Vox ,” She hissed out his name like a curse, a disease.

“Damn, toots, you really hate him,”

She narrowed her eyes in Pentious’ direction, the rage bubbling beneath her skin, threatening to spill over. She was so much more than Clarence’s wife and the mother of his children. She had made a life for herself. She had built entire charities designed to help the needy, the desperate. She had created foundations to help men with mental health problems, and help the young with addictions they weren’t able to deal with on their own. The Gill name was so much more than the legacy he’d left them with. She had built something for her family, her children. He might’ve been the worst of her, but he was by no means all of her.

“I advise you to keep your comments on my love life to yourself in the future,” She said with a tight smile before standing up to dust off her skirt.

She had just about made it to the door, hand on the knob when she felt words that stabbed into her back like thousands of knives.

“I mean no offence, Mrs. Gill ; I just did not think you were that kind of woman,”

She stopped in her tracks, her grip impossibly tight on the handle. They didn’t know her, none of them did. They didn’t know what she’d gone through, what Vox had done to her, to their family, to their children.

She was not just the woman he left behind; she was the woman who survived him.

“You have no idea the kind of woman I am.” She bit back before gently closing the door behind her.

She pressed her back to the door, willing the black hole that had formed in her chest to cease and she began to count to seven, one for each of her beloved kids.

One for Harry, her perfect son.

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home.

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys.

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best.

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon.

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She was fine. She was safe. She had done it. She had raised them alone, and she had done a damned good job. She had never needed a man; she had never needed him . It wasn’t her fault what happened. It wasn’t her fault. She had spent an entire life alone, and she would not be told by anyone she didn’t deserve to be happy. Alastor was perfect and she wouldn’t be told otherwise. She lifted her necklace, pressing a gentle kiss to the charm.

Clarence had chosen for death to do them part; she didn’t owe him a damned thing.

She was going to bake a fucking pie.

Carla spent hours in the kitchen baking more than she’d ever know what to do with. Pies were simple, a recipe passed down through the generations of her family. You couldn’t get pie wrong, not when you’d made it so many times. She focused on the latticework, a separate intricate design for each one. They didn’t come out perfect—nothing did in Hell—but they sure were pretty.

“Everyone is in the lounge doing this ‘roleplay’ bullshit,” Husk told her with a grumble.

Carla pulled her final pie out of the oven, a pretty little spider design on the top. She hoped Angel would like it, that it would at least appease a very different hunger deep within the boy.

“...You alright, love?” Husk asked, eyeing all the pies that covered the kitchen counters. She might have to ask Alastor if there was somewhere to donate them all. It wouldn’t do good to waste the ones that wouldn’t get eaten.

“Just a spot of baking,” She said dismissively, untying her apron to hang it on the back of the door.

Once upon a time, Clarence would’ve finished that sentence. ‘Does wonders for the soul, don’t you know?’

She followed Husk to the lounge, content to leave her pies to cool before she dusted them with sugar later. She sat down to join Charlie and Vaggie on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. She looked up at the scene before her, chewing nervously on her lip. She had a sudden urge to call for Alastor through the necklace.

This didn’t look good.

Angel stood in a dark trench coat reading from a terrible script. It was evident that their dear spider was playing the villain to Pentious’ childlike disguise. She felt her stomach drop as the words left the poor boy’s mouth. She clenched her fists in her lap, digging her nails into her palms as she tried to stay present. This was all wrong. This had never been how it went down. It was never a scary man in a dark alleyway; it was always so much closer to home. She could feel herself fading away, disappearing into nightmares that she’d never be free from. That was the true curse of motherhood; you never escaped the guilt of your mistakes.

She stood crouched by a large bed, damp cloth in her hand as she wiped her son’s sweaty brow. He panted heavily, his entire body shaking, and she cooed at him gently. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t his fault ; he just needed some help.

“I’m so sorry Mama, so sorry,” he panted, as she gently dabbed the cloth across his face.

It was hard for Junior, so hard. Clarence had given him everything he had. He got the name, the face, the problems . Carla couldn’t quiet the voices in his head, couldn’t save him from the guilt that plagued his heart. It wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen into the wrong crowd; it wasn’t his fault he just wanted the voices to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby boy. Just a little longer. We just need to get it out of your system, and then Harry’s going to take you to a doctor with Grandpa. Won’t that be good?” She said softly, holding back tears.

“I’m so cold, Mama; I’m freezing to death,”

“I know baby; I know. Mama’s here; I’ll be here all night.” She promised.

She knew Harry was outside the door, pacing angrily. He’d promised to let her do this bit; he meant well, but he was so rough, so angry. It wasn’t his fault either; he was just scared. They’d already lost Peter; already lost Mathew. Their numbers seemed to dwindle every year, and she knew he blamed himself. She couldn’t blame him; she blamed herself instead.

“What about when the voices come back, Mama? I can’t do to my kids what Dad did to us,” He sobbed, and she felt a pang of pain in her chest.

A dark thought crossed her mind, one she quickly flicked away to focus on her son.

I hate you, Clarence. I fucking hate you.

“Mama will be there then too. You just come home to Mama, and I’ll fix you right up. Nothing fairy kisses can’t fix, little champion,” she said quietly.

“I’m so sorry Mama,”

She was breathing heavily as she was unceremoniously dropped back into reality. Her hands were bleeding from where her nails had dug too deep into porcelain skin. That wasn’t the last time Carla had to do that with her Junior, not the last time Harry dragged him to her by the scruff of his neck. Harry was always red in the face; rage always swimming in his perfect blue eyes as he dropped Junior at her feet. Venom laced his voice as he spat at Junior that he didn’t deserve to be his brother, didn’t deserve to be her son, but Carla always calmed him down, sending Harry out to get her things she didn’t need just so he’d feel useful. She knew why he was really angry; he couldn’t fix Junior and he couldn’t stand it.

Junior spent his whole life like that, even when he was married, even when he became a father. Always Harry, always Harry dragging him back to her by the scruff of his neck. He fought so hard, her little soldier, fighting against his need for needles, powders and pills. It was never as simple as just saying no . Carla could feel tears begin to fall down her cheeks, staining her face. He was the same age as Clarence when Harry found him, cold and empty with the final needle in his arm. Her baby boy dragged home one last time, but she couldn’t help him down this time, and Harry held her when she cried. He held her tight and didn’t let go, and she wanted to scream at Charlie .

She wanted to grab her and shake her because she had no idea . She didn’t know what it was like to hold her grandchildren while they sobbed, to hold her daughter-in-law’s hand because she understood. She understood the pain, the tears; the rage . She wanted her son back; she wanted each and every one of them back. She wanted to laugh, to scream in Vox’s face because he wanted to give her the world, but he couldn’t give her back what he’d already stolen.

She looked up to see Charlie hugging Pentious, praising him , while Angel stalked away up the stairs looking dejected. She willed herself to be still, to be calm, to be present.

“You alright?” She heard Husk call out to her, but he sounded a hundred miles away.

One for Harry, her perfect son.

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home.

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys.

Four for Junior. Four for Junior. Four for Junior.

“I do not know who you think you are young lady ,” Carla hissed, unable to hide her anger, “but that was vile ,”

“But…” Charlie tried to say, but Carla interrupted her.

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You have no idea what it’s like to love an addict, and it shows. Have you ever stayed up multiple days to hold them when they come down, to remind them you’re still here; you’re real? Have you ever held your child as they burn but they swear they’re freezing, and they’re so sorry, and you forgive them, you always forgive them knowing they’re going to do it again, and again, and again? It was never as simple as just saying ‘no’. It isn’t some shady guy in an alley. It’s your best friend, your cousin, someone you trust,” Carla ranted, panting, “My Junior was not a bad boy, and he was not unloved. I gave him enough hugs; I drowned that boy in love.”

Her entire body was shaking with rage. Junior was good. Junior was her good boy, he’d just had a hard life. Angel was good too. He just needed help .

“Carla, I didn’t mean…” Charlie began, tears in her eyes, but Vaggie cut her off.

“Leave her alone; you’re upsetting her!”

“Perhaps you should’ve thought to suggest a warning for such content then, sweetheart ,” Carla hissed at Vaggie before turning to Charlie, “It doesn’t matter what you meant . It matters what you did. Angel is not bad because he needs help . You never should have considered having him play ‘the crackhead’.”

She took a deep breath, counting to seven as a cold, suffocating silence washed over them.

One for Harry, her perfect son.

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home.

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys.

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best.

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon.

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She’d go talk to Angel; she’d keep him here; he wouldn’t go out, and he didn’t need to go looking for that stuff. He had everything he needed right here.

“Now, I am going to take a pie up to your big brother’s room and see if I can get him to eat something. I advise you to write a very heartfelt apology,” Carla said, a smile back on her face before she left for the kitchen.

She was barely out of earshot as Charlie whispered to Vaggie.

“Did she just call Angel my big brother?”

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blackwood-library · 6 months ago

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Night Of: 7/20/24

Dream Type: Nightmare

Subject: Church, My Mother

Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, Referenced Abuse, Body Horror, Bugs

⊹₊ ㆍ✿ㆍ

I am sitting in the pews of a church I have not been to since I was seventeen. Beside me sits a woman who only recently died. I do not know what my mother looked like when she died, but the image of the woman at my side is how I remember her best.

Her hair is long, pin straight, and peppered with streaks of white and grey amongst her natural auburn. Her face is thin, her hands are frail, and her blue eyes hold no light in them. She looks so small beside me.

I should not be afraid of her.

My gaze falls to the heavy wooden cane at her left, and I have to stop myself from flinching when it shifts in her grip. There is a dull pain between my shoulders where I have been struck with it before.

I look up when I hear footsteps, and I see a priest at the altar. I recognize him. He died when I was young- twelve or thirteen, after drinking poisoned coffee.

The Priest’s face is decayed, his skin is loose on his body, falling off in places, riddled with holes where bone is exposed. A crown of blowflies circles his head like a halo, and maggots crawl from beneath his lower eyelid.

He starts his sermon and I cannot hear the words he speaks. I am trapped staring at him, my body trembling as black ichor bubbles and drops from his unmoving mouth.

Christ behind him is bleeding from his mouth.

God is not here.

Have I ruined everything in my own life? Have I caused this decay?

My mother grabs my arm and I can feel her turn to me. I do not want to look at her, but I have no choice.

Her face is just as decayed as The Priest’s is, with flesh falling from bone, melting away in liquid stage. Bugs crawl from her mouth, the hand on my arm is severed from her arm.

“You did this to me, [REDACTED],” she says.

The Priest’s voice mixes with hers, and suddenly his hands are on me as well.

“Repent. Repent. Repent.” They chant in unison.

My eyes are wild and I am shaking, panting and terrified.

My crimes can only be paid in blood. I should not have survived my childhood. I know this.

I can fix it.

There are so many ways I could fix this. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it before. Less, in recent times, but I briefly tell myself I should start thinking of all my options again.

I wonder how many of my preferred methods would work anymore.

Lasmiditan would be easy enough to get my hands on. I have easy enough access to Xanax too. I don’t know how well medication would work, though. I don’t know how much I would have to take.

I wouldn’t steal from Michael, though.

There are other avenues I could take.

Deep water, I think, would be the easiest, though. I can’t swim. There’s parks I could make my way to.

The Priest and my mother do not stop chanting.

Christ is soaked with blood on the cross.

I don’t want to die.

I wake up.

#Dream Journal: Entry Twenty Nine #dream journal #cw: referenced abuse #cw: suicidal ideation #cw: sui ideation #cw: bugs #cw: body horror #another archive #tma rp #tma rp blog

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woods-wolves · 2 years ago

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So when I was looking for post-canon Ogata fic last night I found this really wonderful fix-it by mceuropeskies on ao3, and there's this whole bit about how Ogata learns to play the violin as a way of like, getting on with his life and it means just so so much to me

#AAGH #golden kamuy #ogata hyakunosuke #golden kamuy spoilers #golden kamuy finale spoilers #referenced suicide cw #only sort of but. just in case #my art

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eggmuffinwaffles · 2 years ago

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AAAAAA

Hugo could still place exactly where that stupid blue streak flowed against the rest of his hair. He could still count the freckles that dusted the tip of his nose and the edges of his cheeks. He could just about remember how his lip would curl when he smiled. It was lopsided- the left side of his mouth always pushed up just a little bit more than the right.

He was a shadow, an echo of something he never deserved. He could still feel the rough calluses on his hands lightly scratch across his cheeks. His lips still tingled with the memory.

Or:

The bridge connecting the human kingdom of Ingvarr and the fairy kingdom of Corona has been shattered. After being forced into hiding after the events of last year, everything familiar to Hugo was now gone.

And yet somehow, ghosts from his past still manage to sneak their way back into the fragments of a life he had cobbled together. Who knows how much longer he can hold on.

Chapter 3: Returning

Things don't quite go according to plan

#fanfic #my fic #heehee #varigo #vat7k #hugo vat7k #varian and the 7 kingdoms #cw for implied/referenced suicidal thoughts #kind of?#it makes more sense in context but we definitely do not have the healthiest mindset goin on in here #cw for minor character death #teehee #collapses into a little puddle on the floor

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wouldhope · 6 months ago

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☆ @entomic / starter!

Haruka's not expecting any visitors - for the last few days ( how long has it been? ) the only person he's really seen is Shidou, who comes by to change the bandages on his head and make sure he hasn't managed to get loose and try something stupid again - he's been restrained to his bed when unsupervised, for the time being, so that he can't hurt himself again. It's infuriating, really - he needed to keep his promise to Muu. He needed to protect her - why can't they just let him finish the job? He hasn't seen her since, and he can only imagine how disappointed in him she is that he hadn't been able to change her verdict... Useless. Mahiru has stopped by a handful of times too; he enjoys her visits more - she says sweet things to him, sometimes even pets his hair, careful not to touch the wound - but it's not often. After all, she needs to spend more time taking care of herself, after what happened with Kotoko.

To say the least, when the cell door creaks open and his eyes snap to see who'd entered, Fuuta is not the person he expects to see. It's not like they were on bad terms or anything - Fuuta had been shockingly kind to him at times, actually. But the last few times they'd spoke, he had been saying odd things, speaking of some kind of salvation... To be honest, he really didn't know what to expect from him anymore. "Fuuta-kun..." He gives a weary half-smile, a joyless laugh escaping his throat despite himself. "You - you were right, heheh... This didn't s-save me, after all."

#☆ haruka / ic.#HI i hope its ok i wrote another one #i just had the thought of like.....#post trial 2 cult shenanigans ...#or fuuta's new savior complex or whatever he has going on #referencing their tl convo from his bday this year... YEAH #entomic #suicide cw

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fancytrinkets · 9 months ago

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Memento Mori

Tav dies. Astarion reacts. Two times: Vampire Ascendant and vampire spawn. (I wrote this because I love that these two divergent paths exist for Astarion. And this is the general direction where I see them each going.)

Anger was one word for it — the wrong word.

Why not try again?

What Astarion felt went so much deeper. He was seething with murderous outrage. He was slamming doors shut behind him, yanking open the drawers and cabinets of his desk, and sitting down. He was smashing the quill into its inkwell and fiercely attempting to write.

A letter was required of him, after all. Wasn't that how it worked in circumstances such as these? Words needed to be put in their place.

Astarion filled the page with scathing insults, born of his own insightful mind and his superior aptitude for every endeavor when compared to the lesser men who served him. But this morning he had been betrayed by a spawn whose loyalty and devotion he deserved. Attesting to Tav's misdeeds in writing was not enough to cool his wrath. How could it be?

Astarion's hands were shaking. His quill, tightly clenched between two fingers, dripped ink until the page was splattered. But it didn't matter. As hastily as he'd sat down to write, Astarion now threw up his hands and decided upon the opposite. There would be no letters, no couriers bound for the broadsheet press, no printed announcements or proclamations. The dustpan full of bone ash that sat on his desk would be disposed of without honor or ceremony.

Tav had died — disintegrated, never to be revived — and no one would hear of it. No one would know.

Astarion looked up from his ruined attempt at a scathing obituary letter. For a dizzying moment, the room in which he sat seemed different — contorted and changed — as though the lights had dimmed and his furnishings were absent, replaced by Cazador's grim and gaudy old things. He rubbed his eyes and the illusion disappeared. The study was his own again, with its sunlit windows, friendly sofas, and brightly painted walls.

Grief did strange things to a person, or so Astarion had heard. Not that he was grieving, of course. He was simply off kilter for a moment, and swiftly adjusting to the unexpected circumstances.

Tav had been doing so well lately. The sullen moods had all but disappeared. Conversations had been almost pleasant. There were fewer unfounded accusations, and much less wallowing in tired self-pity. Notably, it had been more than a year since he'd last tried to hurt himself. In all that time he'd been steadily earning back Astarion's trust — and the privileges that came with it.

But no. It had all been a ruse, hadn't it?

Astarion's only fault was that he'd been too trusting. Tav had been selfish, short-sighted, and deceptive. The palace was better off without him.

Astarion stood up. What he needed was a short walk to the ballroom. There, he would sit on his throne, a reminder of his power and influence, and he'd allow his rage to subside as he decided upon a plan to acquire a new and better consort. Tav had been a relic of the past, too sharp and unpleasant for building a happy life here. What Astarion truly needed was someone young and guileless and beautiful, someone who loved the world and valued their place within it.

He'd have to host a ball, of course, and invite all the handsomest noble houses to come with their marriagable daughters and sons. If they asked about his former consort, he'd tell them that the relationship had ended and Tav had left.

It wasn't a lie; after all, it was the truth from a certain perspective.

Could a corpse feel happy? At peace? Well pleased with the life it had left behind?

Astarion didn't think the dead could feel anything. But Tav's face looked so serene, so relaxed — not tensed and wincing from the pain that had lanced through his insides for the last two years of his illness.

"I know an awful lot about necromancy," Astarion said, still holding Tav's hand, then gently squeezing it. The warmth of his life hadn't left yet. "Shall we try to bring you back, old man?"

Astarion had tears in his eyes, but then he chuckled and wiped them with the back of his hand.

"No, don't give me that look; I was only joking! You've earned your rest."

Tav couldn't hear him, or speak in reply, but that didn't stop Astarion from continuing the conversation between them — one that had begun so many years ago, and changed both their lives for the better. He understood, of course, that Tav was dead and gone. But grief did strange things to a person. And what was this if not the deepest well of grief he'd ever known?

An ocean of it, more like.

He sat with Tav, in vigil, until the corpse grew stiff and cold. And then he got up, went to his desk in the study and began to write three letters — one to Halsin, one to Shadowheart, and one to Gale, whose short human lifespan had been extended through magical study. These three companions from the Nautiloid and the Grove — from all those daring escapades against the Absolute more than a century ago — had outlived Tav.

Astarion needed to see them again. He needed their joy and their memories, and a chance to be with them in their pain. Perhaps they'd look at him and notice the subtle signs of aging that had crept into his features since last they'd met. He'd explain it all as he sat outside with them in the sunlight and shared a light summer meal.

"Tav refused to die until we'd deciphered the notes we'd found and worked out the cure. Thanks to him, I'm not a vampire spawn any longer."

And if they didn't fully grasp the significance, he'd have to spell it out for them.

"That means I'm mortal, you idiots! I'll follow him someday. I'll die and perhaps I'll get to join him."

Astarion would laugh with them. He'd remind these dear friends how much Tav had loved them. And if they tried to deflect their feelings or look away from their grief, he wouldn't let them do it. He'd learned years ago how little that helped.

(link to read, comment, bookmark etc on ao3: Memento Mori)

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #vampire ascendant astarion #vampire spawn astarion #vampire ascendant #cw suicide referenced #cw terminal illness

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disbabeled · 10 months ago

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God I have an 8am class and its already past midnight but I can't sleep because everything hurts so fucking bad and my doctor said to stop taking advil because ill ruin my liver but then won't fucking give me anything else because I overdosed ONE TIME intentionally and he thinks I'm going to get addicted. I'm in so much pain right now and there's no other option. I don't even know what hurts its just everything.

#disabled #personal #suicide #suicide cw #<- referencing the overdose. im not going to so anything.#chronic pain

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pixelatedquarter · 3 months ago

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He was going THROUGH IT that night

4.4.11

#boy was going THROUGH IT. i say as if he hadn't been going through it all year #as always pro-tip: never look up that guy's tweets when the context is anywhere from 2009 to 2012 #also concertarchives and the official announcement of this through ahomeboyslife shows them playing el corazón on the 3rd #(4th by the time the pics were taken probably)#and cross referencing with vids from travie performing there confirms they were there the 3rd instead #this is to say those tweets are all from the same day as the concert before and after them playing probably #cw suicide #tw suicide #or at least heavily implied by that first tweet

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osamucide · 2 days ago

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⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right. He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality—the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe.

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there.

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water.

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile.

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake.

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him.

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope.

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck.

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.”

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.”

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it.

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding.

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.”

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.”

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now.

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean.

#osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #dazai fluff #with love—reid

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