#cw: suicidal ideation

[stil-lindigo]

lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)

if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.

--

no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.

I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.

I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.

If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.

[frudoo]

Husband Kyle has my heart

Warnings: Baby is sick (teething). Heavy topics: postpartum depression, allusions to self-harm/suicidal ideation (but none actually). Smut at the end—cunnilingus. Tagging as DDDNE although it’s not a dark!fic. Fem!Reader.

MDNI

Baby boy has not stopped screaming since he woke up at the crack of dawn this morning. The fever and runny nose are making him miserable, and you’re positive he’s trying to cut a tooth with how much he’s been gnawing on your fingers. Kyle, bless him, has been called away to the base since early yesterday, leaving you to care for the unwell infant in your arms all alone. It’s uncertain when he’ll return home. Usually, the work of being a stay-at-home-mom doesn’t bother you, but today just feels overwhelming.

Postpartum hasn’t been the best experience for you and without the usual support from your husband, it feels like your world is caving in and you and the baby you’re supposed to feel an abundance of empathy for are buried beneath the rubble. It makes you feel terrible, because you do love your baby, but every piercing little screech that leaves his tiny throat makes you want to rip your ears out. Setting him down only makes him fussier but your arms are exhausted and your head is pounding.

Defeatedly and with much guilt, you carefully set the fragile boy into his bassinet and shut the door to your bedroom. You turn on the baby monitor but lower the volume so you can make sure he’s alright without having to hear the shrieks. As you sit on the couch, the weight of your stress finally gets to you in the form of an ache in your chest and an abundance of tears bursting from your waterline. Burying your head in your hands, you can’t stop the sobs that escape you. In your grief you don’t hear the front door open or Kyle step inside.

“Fuck, dove, wha’ ‘appened?” Your husband is frantic, tossing aside his duffel bag and rushing to kneel where you sit on the couch.

The sound of his voice startles you, making you jump. Kyle steadies you with two strong hands on your waist, keeping you sat and encouraging you to explain the situation.

“I-I didn’t know what else to do,” you weep, and he cups your face with shaking palms.

“Baby, baby, talk t’me. Wha’s goin’ on?” You know your husband, and you know he’s thinking the absolute worst—it’s evident by the tremble in his voice and the way he yanks up your sleeves to check for injury.

“Did y’take summat? Dove, y’gotta tell me if y’did, now.”

You shake your head vigorously, trying to calm his nerves. It does little to help.

“N-no! The baby, Ky, he hates me!” You wail, grabbing the monitor and shoving it into Kyle’s hand. “I’ve tried- tried everything! Teething gel, Tylenol, d-decongestant salve… he just won’t calm down and I-I know it’s because I-I’m a- I’m a bad mom.”

Kyle’s heart aches at your words, and he makes sure to keep one of your hands in his as he looks down at the screen. The three-month-old is sleeping peacefully, sucking on his thumb without a care in the world. Your husband smiles a little, turning the monitor over to allow you to see the once screeching babe now at peace in his crib. Your eyebrows furrow and you take the device from his hand, raising the volume. Sure enough, tiny snores sound through the speaker and it makes you gasp slightly.

“H-he’s been…” you trail off, not wanting to seem crazy to the man you love. “I swear, he’s been inconsolable-”

“I believe ya, dove. Little guy was jus’ sleepy, yeah?” Kyle softly interrupts, stroking his thumb over the swell of your cheekbone. “He doesn’t hate ya, swee’heart, and you’re sure as hell no’ a bad mum.”

Your husband stands from the floor, carefully helping you off the couch so you stand as well. He nuzzles his nose against yours sweetly but lets you make the first move, chapped lips meeting full, pillowy ones. He allows you to take the lead, never going too far or holding back too much—just giving you the exact amount of comfort you need from him for as long as you desire. He massages your shoulders when you pull away from the kiss with a wet click, rich molasses eyes boring into yours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, but Kyle shakes his head, swiping your bottom lip with his thumb.

“None o’tha’. Bein’ a mum is ‘ard work and you’re doin’ a bloody brilliant job. M’jus’ sorry I can’t be ‘ere with ya f’all of it.” Kyle whispers, wiping away the fresh tears that spill down your cheeks. “I love y’so much. I don’t tell ya tha’ enough.”

“You do,” you assure him, leaning in for another tender kiss. “I love you, too, Ky.”

“I’m so proud o’ya, dove.”

A kiss…

“My strong, beautiful wife.”

And another.

“Fuckin’ hell of a woman.”

Kyle’s fingertips dance along the sides of your neck, dimpling the flesh just enough to make you gasp.

“Gonna le’ me show ya ‘ow much I appreciate ya?”

Wandering hands move down to grope your full breasts over the milk-stained jumper you wear. You can feel their warmth even through the fabric layer separating skin from skin, and it makes you shudder. His eyes scan your face for any signs of discomfort and you realize you never answered him. Nodding, your fingers tangle into the hem of his shirt, still smelling like heavy machinery and day-old sweat—to you, it smells like heaven. Kyle chuckles, the pads of his thumbs rubbing circles over your pebbled nipples.

“Back on the couch, dove,” he instructs with a grunt, walking you backwards until the insides of your knees hit the cushion.

Instantly he’s on his knees once more, taking his time to push up your sweatshirt and tug off your panties, biting his lip at the sight of your cunt already glistening. Your husband leans in to take a whiff before pressing a long kiss to your labia. His stubble is dewy with your arousal when he pulls back to look up at you.

“Poor thing, so stressed. M’gonna help y’relax, swee’heart.”

Dexterous thumbs spread you open for his enjoyment. At the first lick from your entrance to your throbbing clit the two of you moan in sync. Your fingernails scratch at his scalp as Kyle wraps his lips around your sensitive nub, suckling softly, but the feeling sends electric sparks shooting throughout your body. His hands travel to your thighs and hoist them over his shoulders so that he’s entirely surrounded by you.

“S’fuckin’ sweet,” his voice rumbles against your pussy, the vibrations damn near making you wail.

His hot tongue dips into your clenching hole, gathering your slick to swallow down like honey. You’re already right on the precipice, grinding your hips against his pretty face, and it only encourages him to quicken his ministrations. Kyle drags his slippery tongue back up to your clit, giving it tight circles as he sucks it into his mouth once again. Chocolate eyes stare up at you in a silent plea to give him his fill, let him take you over the edge.

Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, violently, when you cum, heady rasps of pleasure leaving you as you squeeze your eyes shut. He works you through your high, licking and humming and savoring every little tremor that rocks through you. He only stops once your body goes limp, pressing a plethora of kisses along your spent seam as he gently removes your thighs from his shoulders. Kyle stands and carefully guides you to lay on the couch, your head resting on a pillow as he covers you with the blanket that was draped along the back of the furniture.

As if right on cue, the colicky infant starts to cry as soon as you get comfortable. Your heart races as you move to stand, but your husband stops you with a palm on your chest.

“No, dove, y’need ta get some sleep. Stay righ’ ‘ere, and I’ll take care o’the little guy,” Kyle leaves no room for argument, leaning down to press a prolonged kiss to your forehead. “I love ya.”

“I love you, Kyle.”

Sleep comes easy.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Prompt (it's okay if you ignore this one cos it's a bit dark/triggering): Lena, post S4 having just killed her brother & finding out about the SG secret, is suicidal, like seriously considering ending it once and for all. BUT she finds something that brings her back to wanting to live and be happy (a new goal or motivation?) Side reigncorp would be nice, having Sam there to support her etc and she's the only one she trusts right now plus she's the only one who never lied to/betrayed her. Thanks!

WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/INTENTIONS

----

Lena stares at the pill bottle in her hand. It would be so easy, she thinks. Just tip the bottle to her lips and swallow the lot with a chaser of bourbon. Let herself drift away into sleep. Maybe she'd get lucky and remain blissfully unaware of the vomit and foam that would likely follow. Perhaps her mind would block it out, allow her to sink peacefully into death while her body convulsed to reject the poison.

She considers who might find her. The cleaners perhaps, due to return in two days time. Or more likely Jess, when she fails to come to work or answer her phone. Certainly not Kara, who believes everything between them is fine-- that their friendship hasn't shattered into irrecoverable shards.

Kara. No, Supergirl. Fucking Supergirl.

Lena clenches her eyes shut, but the image of the hero simply projects against the backs of her eyelids. With her stupid hair and her stupid cape and her stupid, lying smile. But no. The truth is, Lena is the idiot. An idiot to think she'd made true friends, to think she could share the innermost parts of herself with someone who wouldn't turn around and use it against her.

They played you for a fool, Lex's voice echoes from beyond the grave.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Suddenly, an explosion of glass issues from her living room. Lena surges for her handgun, and carefully creeps from her bedroom. Her fingers clenches unnecessarily-- angrily-- against the trigger when she recognizes the caped figure that rises shakily from the floor. But she doesn't fire.

"Lena?" Kara croaks, cradling her middle as though her ribs are broken. Lena watches her scan the living room and kitchen before locating her outside the bedroom. "Lena..."

"What do you want?"

She means it to sound angry, or at the very least irritated. Instead, she just sounds tired, even to her own ears.

"Something's happened to Alex-- to everyone. The DEO is compromised. They--" The hero grimaces in pain. "They tried to kill me."

"So you came to me."

"I hoped you wouldn't be affected. Whatever it is... it's bad. It's really bad."

Lena tries to feel something. Concern, outrage, curiosity-- anything. But she can't. She feels flat, like the air has deflated from her, leaving her a sagging balloon, pressed down by the weight of the air around her.

"Kara..."

Lena sees the exact moment the name hits home, and its implication hits home. Her eyes close in resignation-- not apology, Lena notes distantly.

"You figured it out--?"

"No."

Kara nearly sighs. "Your mother?"

"Brother," Lena allows, "but interesting that you know Lillian knew."

Lex was right. Everyone in the world but her knew the truth. Even her mother. And Kara knows that Lillian knows. That she allowed Lena's family to know the truth, but not she herself.

Fuck her.

"And now you've come to the Luthor you've managed to keep in your pocket."

Like always, Lena notes. Every time she's been involved with Supergirl and her allies, it's been as a last resort. Not because they truly wanted her or her help. Because they had nowhere else to turn.

Her stomach turns, and again Lena's thoughts flicker back to the prescription bottle in her bedroom. She feels sick, and she doesn't want to. She'd rather feel nothing at all than feel this.

"Lena..." Kara straightens as best she can. "I'm not here because I have to be. I'm here because you're the only one I trust."

Their eyes lock for a long moment, and Lena hopes her gaze conveys her disbelief. The words mean nothing, and the fact Kara expects her to believe them is actually insulting.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"We need to know what's affected them and find a way to neutralize it."

"I'll need a current blood sample, and a sample from before the changes in behavior occurred for comparison."

Lena turns back towards her bedroom.

"Then I'll see what I can do."

---

What she can do, it would seem, is quite a lot. Per usual. She isolates a chemical signature in Agent Schott's blood that stands out as abnormal, and traces it back to readings taken from clothes that have arrived on several alien refugee ships. The chemical is alien in nature, but it's not long before Lena synthesizes a counteragent to render the chemical inert until it could be processed from the bloodstream on its own.

She does all this before it can spread further than the DEO. Kara looks at her with gratitude and relief and a little bit of patent awe, but Lena isn't impressed with herself or her results. Isn't this what she always does? Pulls a rabbit out of her ass and saves the day-- but never enough to breach that final circle of trust she never even knew existed.

Once she confirms all DEO employees are returned to their normal selves, Lena withdraws. She relinquishes her role at L-Corp to Sam with some easy bullshit about taking a sabbatical. She hoards her prescriptions, waiting for the moment to be right.

The night she chooses is dark and rainy. But she manages to prod herself to going to the boutique liquor store beforehand-- might as well go out sipping something luxurious and expensive.

On her way back, she pauses on the sidewalk when she hears something moving beneath the car parked next to her along the curb. When it doesn't come again, she moves to resume her march home, but is stopped again by a new sound.

A whine.

Lena hesitates. She can keep walking, pretend she never heard it. But her feet remain rooted against her intentions to leave, until she finally relents and climbs down to her hands and knees. Pressing her cheek almost to the cement, she peers under the sedan and sees the soggy silhouette of a small quadruped.

A puppy. Or some sort of small breed. When it shifts, she sees disproportionately gangly limbs and a long tail curled around its trunk. Puppy.

Lena sighs. "C'mere," she mutters, reaching her arm under the car. The dog is far enough under that her shoulder feels like it nearly dislocates before she finally catches the sorry creature by the scruff of the neck.

It yelps when she drags it out into the rain, but makes no move to escape when she stares down at it appraisingly. Short brown fur darkened by rain, small half-flopped ears, and big brown eyes. It's certainly the picture of a creature any decent human being would cleave to.

"All right," she says heavily. "Let's get you somewhere dry."

She picks the pup up and tucks it into her coat. It curls into the warmth of her chest, shivering all the way back to her apartment. She snags a towel from the linen closet before removing her coat, and transfers the animal directly into it.

Once it's mostly dry, Lena sits back and stares at the beast as it stares at her. She glances at the bottle of liquor she'd set on the coffee table next to the pup.

Lena sighs.

"You chose a hell of a night to turn up," she says drily. Lena gives the dog's head a rub before picking it up to set it gently on the floor.

"Let's get you some food."

----

(Prompts are closed)

[zedif-y]

growing up suicidal feels like something you never quite grow out of. not fully.

i used to describe it like this— there's me, and there's the edge of a cliff. at my worst, the drop feels hypnotic, beckoning and sweet. it calls to me like a siren and threatens to pull me under, gravity's embrace like a dream.

at my worst, it's only fear that stops my jump.

but the feeling passes as the sun sets, blues diluted into pink and orange. and slowly but surely the pull of the cliff's edge fades into quiet, no tug that tells me go on, do it— for a few, blissful moments, it's silent.

and yet.

i don't leave the cliff, is the thing. i never do. i live and i sleep and i eat on that damn cliff, seconds from a drop. i try and maybe, sometimes, i inch further away— but i keep coming back. i keep coming back. i keep coming back.

i used to say i feel like i'm one bad day away from ending it for good. that no matter how hard i try i will always be on that cliff edge, ready to jump if things go wrong.

i scared myself with how easily i could get to that point. i scared myself by how sometimes, i didn't seem to care.

the cliff was comforting. the cliff was home.

the thing is, i'm at a good place now. i'm in college, and i've grown in ways i never thought possible. this is the most stable i've been in years.

it feels like i've packed up, grabbed my tent and my things and came down from that cliff. it doesn't feel real.

it's the furthest i've been from that drop.

but the thought lingers, the way back embedded in my mind.

i could come back, my mind whispers sometimes. i could come back anytime i want.

the cliff's edge still haunts me. like a phantom. like an old friend. i know the path, the winding road back.

these days, i don't lie to myself by saying one day i'll forget.

but at the very least, i know i won't jump.

[papermint-airplane]

I'm really not doing well guys. Tl;dr my life sucks a lot. That's all you need to know.

My job is still jerking us around on the layoffs. They started in October of last year with "we're selling the department and laying everyone off in February" then when March rolled around and nothing had happened yet, told everyone "lol just kidding the buyer dropped out". So a lot of people quit because this clown company just told everyone it was willing to sell their jobs out from under them and didn't give a shit who was affected or how.

My job is not a job that can function when short staffed. It was already short staffed before they pulled this fakeout layoff shit and now we're lucky to have two people scheduled at any given time. They're paying thousands in overtime, begging people to come in even for a couple of hours on their days off because we don't have enough people to cover one shift, let alone the three they need because the department is 24/7. Customers are rude and entitled. I've been threatened, I've been called horrible names, I've been told I'm a shit human being and don't deserve to live. I'm not allowed to hang up on them. I'm expected to sit there and just take it and not say anything. Most days, we're so busy that I can't take my daily fifteen minute break or even get up to go to the bathroom. And that's only scratching the surface of what goes on at my job.

I have had a history of overworking myself in that job and everyone knows it. I've had literally hundreds of public panic attacks, three full-on mental breakdowns where I was screaming and literally tearing handfuls of my hair out in front of my coworkers from stress, ended up in the hospital twice because I thought I was having a heart attack, and took off three months in 2020 to check myself into an inpatient mental healthcare facility all the way across the country. I have had countless meetings with my supervisors and their supervisors and HR about the toxic work environment and shitty management. I had to beg them to take me off my 8 day rotation (four days of ten hour shifts, four days of eight hour shifts, all in succession with no days off in between) because I started shaking and laughing uncontrollably around day 6 because I was having a literal fucking breakdown. I have literally had to be taken away from work in an ambulance before.

On top of my anxiety being the worst it's ever been (and that includes when I lived with my abusive father), my depression has gotten so bad that all I can do nowadays is work and sleep. Sometimes I don't even get fully in the house before I pass out because I'm so exhausted. I have woken up on my living room floor after work more than once. I told them that I could no longer work shifts like that nor could I take overtime for my own mental health. And they still act like I'm lazy because I don't work 14 hour shifts daily. Bitch, I'm barely holding it together with my weekly 40 hours, and I'm expected to work every Thanksgiving and Christmas but that's just not enough. Nothing I do is enough. And now I don't even have enough energy for the few things I have that I still enjoy. Want to know why my Sims story is on hiatus? Because I have to force myself to do literally anything other than sleep. My house looks like a disgusting hoarder's nest because I can barely move on my days off. I cry all the time. I can't stand to be touched. I shower excessively because I feel filthy when I come home from work in a way I can't adequately articulate. My eczema is so bad that my neck and face are literally covered in bloody red rashes. I look horrible. I feel worse. I have gained over 150 lbs since starting that job in 2006. My thyroid is busted. Some days, I truly believe that I died long ago and this is my own personal Hell.

Now they're telling us that "we definitely have a buyer for the department and all the contracts have been signed". They said there'd be a transition period, after which we'd be laid off but we'd be told when the transition period begins. Now, we got an email telling us we're halfway through the transition period and are probably getting laid off in August "but we don't know when in August, so stay tuned." At this rate, I'm likely to show up one day and be told to go home. I have no idea when that will be and I have no way to know how to prepare.

The only reason I'm still putting up with this bullshit is because...well, to be honest, I've put in a lot of applications and got absolutely no replies. I'm an unemployable useless sack of shit. My company is at least giving us a really good severance package. I'm getting 17 weeks of pay (one week for every year I've worked there) plus another four weeks of pay, plus a $1000 bonus for staying through the transition period. I think I will also qualify for unemployment. I'm trying not to freak out but I don't know what I'm going to do when my severance runs out. I have only had two jobs in my entire life: a grocery store job when I was a teenager for 3 years and this job that I've had for nearly 18 years. My resumé is one page. I have no skills outside of this job. I'm never going to get hired anywhere that's going to pay me anywhere near what this hellhole of a job paid me.

I truly wish I were brave enough to kill myself but I'm not. I keep living and it keeps getting worse and I'm bombarded with hundreds of news articles and Tumblr posts every day telling me how the world is falling apart around me, so even if by some miracle I manage to find a job that pays me enough to fucking live, I don't have a future anyway. I'm almost 40 and I keep waiting for my life to begin but it never does. And it never will. I will never be happy. I will never be safe. I don't deserve happiness. I don't deserve safety. My own fucking parents hated me from the moment my mom read the lines on her pregnancy test. If my own parents can't love me, nobody can. I'm on medication and in therapy but sometimes, I wonder if it's doing anything at all. You can't fix what's wrong with me. I was just born wrong. And no matter where I go or what kind of job I end up in, the same shit will just keep repeating over and over and over because that's all I deserve. I'll just keep on hurting until global warming or war takes me out and I end up in real Hell.

In an hour, I'm going to regret writing any of this and probably delete this post. Because I'm supposed to take it and not say anything.

My Sims are the only thing that gives me any comfort anymore. Even then, I don't have the energy or attention span to do the things I want. I'm just as irrelevant on Simblr as I am in real life. If I disappeared tomorrow, nobody would notice.

[primamchorus]

Self-Inflicted Achromatic

Day after day I found my way, sleepwalking through Like this I’ll fade without a trace, it’s for the best I do

Just by living I’m nothing for another day Hundred lives, never knowing me or anything Nobody wanted me, no one there to need Why would I wanna live in the kind of world I see?

[corvidaearts]

epic gay sex ---

snippet from @definitelynotshouting‘s hunger au that really stuck in my mind

[ktempestbradford]

Cait Corrain and Mental Health as Excuse

A new interview with Corrain, the SFF author who review-bombed authors she saw as getting "more attention" than her, just dropped. It's at The Daily Beast; pause before you click that link.

There are CWs on the page for "severe mental illness and substance abuse" and I'd like to add one for Racist Nonsense.

If you already read Cait's "apology" then there's not much new here. It's a wordy expansion on the stuff she said before with even more I didn't mean to be racist it just ended up that way by happenstance! After she posted her initial apology I thought about making a post like this, then didn't (due to some of what I'll mention). After reading this interview, I'm even more upset and angry.

I know it's because of what I've been dealing with the past 10 months or so. I'm going through a mental health crisis that has had a huge impact on my ability to work and write. Some of this is internal to my brain, some exacerbated by life (multiple family deaths, severe weather messing up our rental house, ongoing fear of covid). I'm not okay, and it's a struggle to move every day toward being more okay. My mental health issues are not as severe as the ones Corrain details. For me, they are more severe than I have experienced previously.

Thus, I can grok on some levels the issues that impacted Cait. I am not qualified to judge if her diagnosis truly matches up with the actions she took. Whether she's telling the truth or not, it comes down to this:

None of that matters.

Not as concerns how her actions impacted the SFF community and especially BIPOC authors.

None of the details of her neurodiversity, her mental illness, or her destructive medication journey matter to the wider community. They matter to Cait, and Cait's loved ones, and the people in Cait's life.

She can say as many times as she likes that it's not an excuse and she takes full responsibility. I don't believe that she is taking responsibility.

She can also say that she's giving the public all these details in order to start a conversation about how hard it is to be a writer or a debut author who is ND or who struggles with mental health. I don't believe her. This is not about starting a conversation, or helping others, or calling attention to issues that I agree are important to discuss and highlight and support people through.

This is, in my view, about attempting to gain sympathy by oversharing and counting on this community to not push back. Because what monster would blame someone with mental illness?

In the end, what Corrain needs is healing and support and time to rebuild herself from the people who love and care for her.

Not from the community she damaged, regardless of why that happened.

Her healing needs to take place away from us, her struggles should not be foisted on us, and her redemption arc does not and should not involve us. Because this community needs to focus on the people she hurt, needs to be part of healing both the personal and the cultural matrix that contributed to that hurt, and we need to figure out together how we come out of this stronger and protect ourselves from it in the future.

Again I say: My view on this is 100% informed by my own struggles. It's also informed by the reasons I have been able to keep on moving forward even when everything is hard: My friends. My loved ones. The corners of the SFF community that always lift me up.

Which is why it's unfathomable to me how anyone could think that it's in any way appropriate to continue to try and push themselves on people like this. It's not okay.

[mouth-wash-ed]

Mouthwashing au where everyone (except jimmy) time traveled a month before the ship crash. And everyone believes that they are the only ones that time traveled and is trying (and failing miserably) to not be suspicious but also cope with the trauma they got from dying.

Daisuke tries to act normal by being TOO cheerful but flinches whenever he sees Swansea. Tries to follow the same events, like accidentally activating the emergency foam and getting stuck in it. But when he saw the axe in curly's hands he just panics and almost gets himself injured. He stayed in the medical for the whole day. He counts the days before the crash and thinks, how does he stop the captain from crashing the ship.

Swansea who feels immense guilt with failing to save daisuke or anya, and killing daisuke buries himself to work. He tries to act normal by making himself busy, and trying to fix the vent in cryo. But of course, daisuke activates the emergency foam and he calls for curly for the axe. When curly tries to give it to him, he rejects it and looks away. He cant bear to have the responsibility of having that anymore. He doesn't look at daisuke when the captain is chipping away the foam. He doesn't look when curly confirmed that daisuke is free. He gives daisuke the day off to get himself checked and stays at the cryo, once again, trying to fix the vent.

Anya tries to act normal too by staying quiet most of the time. She would linger at the med bay, or go to the kitchen. Most days, she would only talk to Swansea and daisuke. Some days, she looks at the painkillers in the cabinet, wondering if anything would change if she did it again. Before she knows it, she's been avoiding everyone.

Curly, well, he tries his best to act normal. He does his duties, buries himself to works, tries to talk to everyone. But when Jimmy pats him, he just freezes and expects everything to be in pain again. To choke when getting shoved down a painkiller to his throat. And he believes that despite constantly fleeing when Jimmy tries to talk to him or observing him when he's at the cockpit, that he's hidden it pretty well. Look, no one, besides Jimmy, had been suspicious of him. He does hide the gun though, rips up the code for the case, or keeping the key at him at all times.

Jimmy, who doesn't know what the fuck is up with everyone is becoming more paranoid that everyone knew what he had done. And after days of everyone ignoring or glaring at him, confirmed his suspicions and plans to 'fix' everything.

Summary: Daisuke plans on how to stop the captain from crashing the ship. Anya isolates herself mostly because she's given up. Swansea is trying to fix the vents and preparing the crash. Curly is trying his best to prevent Jimmy from crashing the ship. And Jimmy is going to crash the ship earlier than it should be.

[medra-gonbites]

Congratulations

Happy birthday to me. Hope you enjoy this piece.

Pairing: Gale x Fem!Tav

Words: 1059

CW- Suicide, Angst, Hurt no Comfort

It was the best day of Gale’s life.

He had woken up early to his wife vomiting.

She had always been moody and cranky in the morning, but this was different. She had been sick for more than a week and he had tried his best to soothe her and nurse her back to health. As her situation did not improve, he had taken her to a cleric. The old woman was now standing right in front of them and after a thorough examination was categorical:

‘Six weeks. Maybe seven... Congratulations!’

The news rang in Gale’s ear. A wave of bewilderment crashing into him before leaving room for excitement. He was ecstatic.

Sure, he had doubted his paternal instincts in the past. When she had asked two years ago, they were on the run, an illithid tadpole in their respective brains, and a bomb in his chest. Now they were married, tadpole and orb-free and they loved each other so much.

He was scared senseless. About the coming challenges, the responsibilities, the sleepless nights, the chaos. But he also saw the love, the joy, the new path that was expanding suddenly in front of them. He adored Tav and he was so happy to be able to share that experience with her.

He turned to her, his gaze full of wonder and passion but he froze before her expression. Panic, anxiety, fear etched on her face. Tears running down silently, and her body shaking like a leaf.

This was not good.

Gale took her home. He wanted her to rest and to process the news. She needed to lay down and calm down and sleep. She needed time. Time to see how much of a blessing this was. To get confidence in herself, a trust she often cruelly missed when it came to her own abilities.

She kept rambling and fidgeting and panting. Spiraling into a state of despair and self loathing. She did not want this. She was not ready. She would break it. Make it broken as she was. Her state of despair was growing wild and untamed and so venomous Gale flinched at the idea he could not convince her otherwise.

He gently took her in his arms. Rocking back and forth, murmuring sweet words to her ear in an attempt to comfort her.

‘You will be a wonderful mother.’

‘You don't need to know what to do, you will learn. I will learn. We will learn together.’

‘You can do this. You will not break it.’

‘It will be wonderful. It will be healthy and happy. It will be perfect. Like you.’

But his words were useless. She was giving in to frenzy and hysteria as her mind raced to darker and darker corners, reigniting memories, reopening old wounds and just telling herself that she could not do this.

After a few hours of tears, she finally fell asleep, exhausted and still so scared. But she looked so peaceful as she slept and Gale wanted to do something for her. He headed to town to gather some of her favorite things. He wanted to cheer her up: as saddened by her reaction to the news, he was himself euphoric and he wanted her to be too. He wanted her to see how good this was. He was sure he could turn this day around. Show how much he loved her and how much he would like to have more of her around.

He got her favorite pastry. The scented candles she liked so much. The last tome of the book series she was currently reading. A little black thing which she would look wonderful in (and with no waistband too, so that she could wear it throughout her pregnancy…).

Gale came back a few hours later. The tower was dark and inexplicably cold. Anguish sank in the pit of his stomach; an unexplained apprehension taking over. He called her. She did not answer. He searched their home but she was not to be found.

Making his way to the kitchen he found a note. Written in cursive, hastily. He recognized her writing. His chest tightened as he read it. His heart aching, his mouth dry, his eyes burning. Disbelief hung heavy in his head, before being replaced by horror. Time stretched as he scanned those words. And he felt the urge to scream. To run to her. To magically erase these words and what they meant. To find her and hold her tight so she might never write, say or think this way.

Before he could take action and fix it all, like he still believed he could, a knock on the door sent a jolt of renewed panic into his core. A member of the Griffon Watch asked him to sit. And he cried and cried and cried when he was given the abominable news he did not want to believe. His heart shattered in millions of shards.

The letter remained on the kitchen floor, a silent apology from her.

“My love,

I'm sorry I am causing worry and ache. And I hope you can forgive me.

I would have been honoured to carry your child if I were anyone else. But I am me and as you know, it is something I have struggled with my whole life. I love you and I would see the world with more of you in it. But I wouldn't want more of me.

Every day, I fear when I wake up. Every night I fear when I go to sleep. I cannot fathom a future for myself as I do for you. I see you happy and thriving but I'm never at your side. I live in constant dread that you will wake from your dream, take these rose tinted glasses off and see that I am not special. Not important. Not loveable. That you'll realise that you can be happy without me. That something, someone, better is around the corner. For all your efforts, you could never convince me otherwise.

By the time you will be reading this I'll be gone. And you won't have to worry about me, care for me or carry me like you so often did.

I hope you can forgive me for the trouble I caused you.

Remember I love you more than anything.

I simply couldn't love myself…

Tav”

[officialbruciewayne]

you and the joker are great

He killed my son and shot my daughter. And I let him.

We both deserve to die.

[frudoo]

Mister Asylum — Simon “Ghost” Riley

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, hospitilization.

Patient!Simon Riley x Fem!Nurse!Reader

1 | 2

Simon always knew that his life would end this way—head pressed against the barrel of a waiting gun, emotionless eyes staring straight ahead, preparing. He never expected it to be by his own hand, though he couldn’t let himself be surprised, could he? Years of abuse, trauma, bloodshed, scorn. He’s hardly a saint. This ending is better than the one he expected, for himself, for the rest of the world. Maybe even more merciful than the death he truly deserves.

He sits with his legs criss-crossed in the middle of his living room that remains decorated with nothing more than a simple glass top coffee table and a sofa opposite of him. No rug or carpet that blood could soak into, no stains that the next homeowners would be plagued by having to deal with. Easy cleanup for the crime scene crew once the authorities would inevitably be called. It would be as if he never even lived there—a ghost resident whose demise would never be revealed even to those riddled with the most morbid curiosity.

Simon is so lost in his own calculations, that he doesn’t process the turn of a spare key in the lock of his front door as he digs the pistol further into his temple, jaw clenched so tightly that the tendon is sore. He didn’t anticipate that Johnny had decided to visit, and he surely didn’t expect the gun to be knocked out of his hand and his large body to be tackled to the floor by his sergeant. The weapon goes off but the bullet doesn’t blast through his skull like he’d planned—instead, it fires at the couch cushion and settles in the fuzzy depths, right where he would usually sit on a lazy afternoon.

He almost doesn’t process the way Johnny’s tears spill onto his pale, maskless face, the way the Scotsman holds his wrists down above his head and against the wooden tile with one hand as he calls Captain Price with the other. Not that Simon needed to be held down. He was far too weary and defeated to fight. His voice was stuck in his raw, aching throat until the sergeant cupped his face in his hands, desperation and anger written on his features.

“Shoulda let m’go, Johnny,” Simon rasps, blank brown eyes staring at the ceiling, unwilling to look his best mate in the eye.

“Ne’er, LT,” Johnny lightly smacks the lieutenant’s cheeks affectionately, once-bright blue eyes now tinged with worry as they dart between his friend and the door.

The captain eventually arrives and helps Johnny escort Simon outside, into his truck. The three men sit in silence in the driveway for a while until John speaks up.

“You understand we can’t let you be alone anymore,” his usual gruff voice softened with something akin to sadness—sympathy, maybe.

“Yes, sir,” Simon nods, hands clasped together, resting in his lap.

“Nor can we let you go on any missions. Protocol won’t allow it, and quite frankly, I’m worried you’d put yourself in harm’s way purposefully. I can’t have you or my other men getting hurt,” Price sighs, running a large hand down his face and covering his mouth, lost in thought.

“Understood, sir,” The lieutenant grunts, trying to ignore the sound of Johnny’s sniffles beside him.

“I’ve spoken with Laswell as well as my own superiors, and we’ve come to the conclusion that… institutionalization would be the best course of action.”

Simon falls silent. Take him out of the field, fine. Keep him company to make sure he’s alright, great. But being thrown into the looney bin feels more like retribution than treatment. His fists clench and he can feel the captain’s watchful eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

“Simon, this- I hope you know this wasn’t an easy decision for anyone to make. I’d much sooner call a missile strike than put you somewhere other than under my protection. But unfortunately my hands are tied.”

“Simon, ye ‘ave tae listen. Please,” Johnny rests his hand on top of one of Simon’s, trying not to let out a sob at the trembling he feels in his superior. “We need ye ‘ere.”

This isn’t right. None of this shit would have happened if he had just pulled the trigger sooner. Simon’s mind is nothing short of a maelstrom wreaking its havoc, screaming at him to jump out of this truck and book it to the nearest bridge to jump off of. He might have done just that if his body wasn’t vibrating with frustration and helplessness and blinding regret—or maybe it’s just the hot tears that blur his vision and render him unable to move or even breathe properly.

“You’re as good as a son to me, Simon. Let us do this for you. For us,” John sniffs, and if he didn’t know any better, Simon might have thought his captain was crying. “You don’t have another choice.”

Simon doesn’t speak again, rather gives a single nod to signal his compliance. An order is an order no matter how badly he wants to ignore it. All he wants to do is melt and allow the backseat of Price’s truck to absorb him. It all seems like far too much fuss just for him, an assassin, scum of the earth, a waste of precious space. He settles for blinking the tears out of his eyes and looking out the window, even allowing Johnny to keep a calloused hand on top of his own. John calls the hospital and lets them know they’ll be getting an intake.

The drive to Shadywood Hospital is a silent one save for the occasional sniffle or sigh, or the rattle of the truck’s tailgate on a particularly bumpy road. Nobody dares say anything out of fear that they’ll offend one of the other men. The last thing Price and Johnny want to do is make the situation worse, and Simon isn’t the kind to open up about his troubles, even more so now that his plan has been obliterated. He’s supposed to be a strong, unyielding leader—fearless, not this shell of a soldier who let his pain and misery take over. He used to be precisely that: an unstoppable, unbreakable force. He’s not sure when exactly that changed.

The exterior of the hospital is about as dull and lifeless as Simon expected, mossy overgrowth clinging to the weathered brick structure. It looks like something straight out of an old horror film, he thinks. All it needs is some thunderstorm sound effects and perhaps a murder of crows to warn of his impending doom. No such luck. Maybe even the darkest of forces don’t deem him worthy of such caution. Maybe even the most heinous of monsters would ridicule and cast out the enigma that he is.

“Out ye get, LT,” Johnny pats him on one broad shoulder, trained eyes scanning the lieutenant’s face for any hint of emotion be it sadness or fury.

Simon remains stoic as he steps out of the truck, batting away Price and Johnny’s hands that try to usher him inside. Not a bloody child, he thinks, though the petulance with which he crosses his arms would suggest otherwise. When the rush of cold air hits his face, he’s suddenly aware of just how naked he is without his mask and he turns around with a shake of his head.

“Not goin’ in,” he mutters, scratching at the tattoos on his left forearm so hard that he peels the skin.

Johnny grabs Simon’s wrist to get him to stop, frowning at the sight of his nails, sharp and much longer than he usually keeps them. He’s unsure of how nobody noticed that their beloved Ghost had stopped taking care of himself. John sighs and runs a hand through his hair, contemplating before nodding firmly.

“I’m sure they have a mask in there. I’ll go grab one for you, yeah?” He grins softly, patting Simon’s back fondly before stepping inside.

“Ye’ll be alreit, ye ken,” Johnny steps in front of Simon, hands resting firmly on his biceps to get him to meet his eyes. “Ye ‘ave tae be. Ye’re Ghost. Ye’re me brother.”

Simon chokes back a sob, teary eyes fixed on the darkening clouds in the dreary sky to avoid showing his weakness. It breaks him to see his sergeant so worried about him. He doesn’t deserve his pity, his fear. Price comes back before Johnny can force Simon to say anything in response.

“Here you are,” John hums, handing Simon the flimsy mask and offering him a gentle chuckle. “Black, just for you.”

Simon nods again, adjusting the flexible metal in the surgical material to fit the crooked bridge of his nose. Feeling a little less exposed, he sucks in a deep breath and turns on his heel to trudge into the hospital. The fluorescent lights nearly blind him and he furrows his eyebrows, blinking through the pain before focusing his eyes on the receptionist.

“Simon Riley,” he breathes, and the lady nods with a soft smile.

“Yes, sir. If you’ll have a seat over there, the intake nurse will be right out. Would you like your mates to-”

“Yes,” he cuts her off, nodding towards Price and Johnny who stand beside him like bodyguards. “Sorry. Yes. I’d like them to be in there with me. Please.”

“Of course,” she nods once more, offering the three men another small grin.

Simon, Price, and Johnny all sit in the waiting area impatiently. The sergeant looks around nervously while the lieutenant stays still as a statue, eyes focused on the floor. John sniffs and rubs his clammy palms on his jeans. Simon can’t remember the last time he’s seen the captain this anxious, and knowing he caused it makes him feel even worse. He shouldn’t have hesitated; he should have just pulled the trigger immediately upon holding the gun to his head. There wouldn’t have been this much trouble for the team.

The sliding doors part with a mechanical whir and heavy footsteps rush in, boots squeaking against the linoleum floor. Simon wasn’t going to pay it any mind, but Johnny stands up and goes to greet the person with a hug. He only looks up when he feels a hand on his shoulder, eyes meeting deep brown ones much like his own. Kyle.

“Simon,” Kyle whispers, placing his other hand on the lieutenant’s opposite shoulder. “Price called.”

Another wave of shame washes over Simon and he suddenly can’t bring himself to maintain eye contact with his other sergeant. He doesn’t deserve this kind of support, especially not from the entire task force. His throat closes up and it gets hard to breathe. He’s trapped in his head, locked in place, and the walls are closing in. The tears threaten to spill despite his struggle to hold them back, burning at the brink of his waterline. It’s too much, he’s suffocating, he’s about to snap-

As if right on cue, the nurse comes in and calls his name. He jumps up, shoving past Kyle to follow the woman behind the protected doors without looking back. The other three follow close after and stand with their backs to the wall, intently listening to the questions Simon is asked. The lieutenant almost laughs—he’s usually on the other side of the interrogation table.

Simon fills out the countless pages of paperwork with a shaking hand, carefully sliding the clipboard back to the nurse. He feels so small, so pathetic, having this many people watch over him like he’s a sickly babe. In a way, he supposes he is—the only difference is that an infant is worth saving.

“With the information you’ve given me, Mr. Riley, we will be admitting you effective immediately. Your progress will determine the length of your stay. We’ll be monitoring you closely each day to see how you’re doing, alright?” The nurse tilts her head sympathetically, cusping her hand over one of Simon’s. “We’re gonna get you feeling better, sir.”

Simon nods slowly, nervous eyes flickering past the woman to look between his three mates. They all have the same solemn expression on their face, each fidgeting with a different finger or article of clothing. He thinks they’d rather be getting shot at in a foreign country than here, coddling this grown man who doesn’t know how to handle his emotions. He would, too.

“I’ll give the four of you a couple of minutes to chat while I go get your bracelet ready, yeah?” The nurse excuses herself, slipping past the two sergeants that stand on either side of the door.

The men are silent, none of them exactly sure of what to say or do until Simon finally breaks down, his head falling into his hands. Pesky tears he’d been trying so hard to fight off stream down his face and soak into his mask, his broad shoulders shaking with every raspy sob that dares rip from his throat. John immediately pushes himself off the wall and embraces his lieutenant who, for the first time this evening, doesn’t bother fighting him off. Price’s large hand cradles Simon’s head to his clothed midriff, the other patting his back like a father would calm a colicky baby.

“I’ve got you, Simon. You’re gonna be alright,” John whispers, fighting back tears of his own.

The captain hasn’t seen Simon cry like this for what seems like centuries. He never wanted to witness it again, but the hidden memories come flooding back in as he presses his cheek to the top of the blond man’s head. He had sworn from the moment he met Simon that he’d never allow any harm to come to him. He’d keep every enemy away, train him perfectly so that he could protect himself. He never considered that his lieutenant’s own mind could be deemed an enemy.

Johnny can’t stand the sight any longer—he shoves the door open and books it out of the hospital, back sliding down against the cracked brick as he brings his knees to his chest. Kyle follows quickly after, sitting beside his fellow sergeant, silent and seething, angry at himself for being so clueless. How could none of them, not one, see that Simon was doing so poorly?

Simon notes their absence even in the comforting arms of the only father figure he’s ever known.

[jackinalex]

Under a cut because this post mentions depression, mental illness, and suicidal ideation.

Sometimes I get in the mood to listen to every single all time low song in their discography and today is one of those days. I’m going backwards and just started WUS. Now I’m thinking about how when SKOD was released and how I was in the worst depressive episode of my life. I was suicide and felt like I had nothing to live for. And maybe it sounds silly, but that song and the promise of a new atl era and album gave me something to live for. For that, I will always be thankful for All Time Low.

[aki-bara]

Got blocked for this 👍

[pentag0nglasses]

(CW: Scrapnik Island spoilers, Suicidical ideation)

Even if the mind transfer succeeded, without any awkward adjustment period, Mecha Sonic would not be able to escape from the island alive.

Sonic's ankle was busted. Mecha knew this. He saw that Sonic couldn't go fast for very long in that state. While the robot have never experienced pain the same way organics do, he can still expect it to be a hindrance, with how much Sonic was flinching every time he put his weight on it. This is the guy who are used to walk away from explosive fights while decorated with cuts and bruises on his body and a smug grin on his face. This injury must be worse than than usual.

Unfortunately, Mecha can't afford to wait for the leg to heal. It won't take long for the other Scrapniks & Tails to figure out what he did to Sonic and Mecha Knuckles, and try to stop him. While Sonic alone can (and did) easily beat up any badnik, there's no way he can take on every Scrapnik on this island, including Tails, with an injured body. There was no place for him to hide and wait it out either. The scrapniks have already scavenged every inch of this island to turn it into a home.

Therefore, Mecha would have to start running as soon the mind transfer is complete.

The thing is, can he maintain the speed needed to run across the ocean all the way to another landmass, with that ankle?

Mecha Sonic likely knew that Sonic can't swim. His fear of water is well-known and is not something Eggman would ignore. Even if it is technically possible, Sonic rarely ever run across water for a reason.

Maybe, deep down, Mecha Sonic is ok with one last failure. He wouldn't mind if he drowned on his way off the island, as long as he's not doing it as a rusted pile of trash, living together with other trash, who are all clinging on the false hope that a hunk of junk is going to fly them away from this island into some magical land filled with people who are not going to destroy these ex-badniks on sight.

He's going to put matters into his own hands, and die trying. Hopefully, before the guilt of his betrayal really sets in.

[questionablecuttlefish]

My reply to "The Big Jinx question" (Arcane Season Two spoilers)

Had some pretty serious Thoughts about this schnee video and thought I'd paste my reply here for posterity since YT tends to bury long comments like this'n.

Content Warning: Discussion of suicidal ideation/mental illness and negative tropes around the topic.

I fundamentally disagree with his final conclusion that Jinx's story would best be served with her actual death. (which we by now know is not what they did anyway, but I digress.)

Ending Jinx's story with redemption=death, as the only possible outcome for a character suffering from suicidal ideation, serious trauma, and unspecified mental illnesses, wouldn't only be a deeply disappointing return to tired tropes about mental illness and 'dark' characters like Jinx, it would be fundamentally irresponsible as a message to send to the many, many people struggling with depression and other forms of mental health crises who might identify with a character like Jinx.

Jinx has been throughout the series presented as a complex, relatable character who has proven again and again that she is NOT broken, she is NOT a monster, she is NOT irredeemable save by death - she is a product of circumstance and cycles of violence, some of them very much the product of her own choices, many of them beyond her control.

Isha proved that Jinx had room in her heart for love, for compassion, for growth, for healing, unprompted and on her own steam, she had the capacity to let violence go if she was just given a chance by someone who loved her unconditionally, without needing her to be "Powder" or to be "Jinx", for the whole entirety of her being, scars and all.

AU!Powder proved that it was circumstances that built Jinx - in another world, even with the tragedy of losing her sister, she would have been able to live a stable and MOSTLY healthy life if she was surrounded by a loving support network. 'Jinx' was built by tragedy after tragedy compounding on this girl until she felt SHE was somehow the cause, the curse at the heart of it all, but it wasn't true - and Ekko was able to return with that knowledge and prove that to her.

And 'Silco' in the cell scene showed her that for those cycles of violence to end, someone had to have the courage to "walk away". At first, lost in grief at Isha's death, Jinx chose the darkest interpretation of those words.

But after Ekko's return, helping her see that there was still hope for her, I believe Jinx started to see those words differently. It's why she tells Vi "I'm always with you, sis, even when I'm worlds apart."

She wanted to reassure Vi that even if she was far away from Vi's life, she'd always love her, even if deep down she knew that Vi, like Ekko, would never stop trying to "save" her, and for her loved ones to heal she had to be far away from them.

But she was no longer intending to die. She was intending to LEAVE, to literally walk away and find a new life, a new hope, and Warwick gave her the window to ensure Vi wouldn't hurt herself looking.

Maybe she'll find her path in the world and return to Ekko and Vi in her own time.

Maybe, somewhere out there, she might find a new Light on her horizon instead.

Time will tell, but I think her story is far from over.